Chapter Text
Life could be a dream, sweetheart.
With each gentle dark morning breeze drifting inside, carrying the spring warmth with it, anything could be a dream right now. It was rare for the season to come in like a quiet sheep, rather than a roaring lion.
Even the storm from the night before had calmed. The sky was partly cloudy, but the humidity had finally broken, so it didn’t seem like it would rain again anytime soon.
The birds weren’t even awake this early. Not a single stray sound came from within or outside the house, aside from the commotion happening in the bathroom. It wasn’t frantic, rushed or loud.
There was only the sound of a shower pouring hot water down tiles.
The slow water swirled down the drain in a faint shade of pink, with darker red mixing in every so often. The shower curtains jerked open for a second as a dark arm popped out to snag something on the counter. He had to be careful not to drop the needle this time.
It was his last one for now, and he’d be screwed if this one went down the drain too.
Alastor was careful to turn his back to the rushing water from the shower head. He did his best to clean the gash in his chest. It was larger than he would have liked and needed some kind of treatment. Going to the hospital wasn’t an option.
It never was.
Learning new skills wasn’t hard for him, stitching a wound here, stopping some bleeding there. Medical treatment was just better when he could do it himself. Plus, Alastor couldn’t stand the thought of another person touching him, let alone trying to heal him.
He was lucky he wasn’t outright stabbed. A twist of the ankle was all it took, a misstep. Alastor stared down hard, seeing failure, a critical error. Soft, silky blood slipped down his bare chest, tugged free by warm water. He traced his finger along the outline of the lifted skin and delicate dermis between the finger-sized slit.
The memory of last night's failures came and went. He had to get ready for work.
With one hand, Alastor pinched the two edges of torn skin together. Then, with the other, he used the needle to start the baseball stitch. The needle point cut in, poking hole after hole, tugging the stringy cord along.
Over, then over, then under and through the loop, he tugged each time until his skin was touching again.
Alastor barely flinched at the pain; he gritted his teeth and chewed it out. He had felt worse before this. He was certain it wouldn’t be the last either.
He could only be thankful he didn’t see bone.
A total of seven stitches. It wasn’t his best work either; there would definitely be a scar. Alastor tugged the string tightly a few times, tightening the last knot. He quickly snapped the loose end with a yank of his wrist.
Maybe he was just getting older, and his age was finally catching up to him. His 40s were slipping away, and his 50s were fast approaching. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be. The grey hairs at his roots called him out as well. It was getting harder to defend himself from those who would do him harm.
Squeaky knobs turned, and the water stopped. Alastor reached for the fully offset pink towels hanging from the wall that naturally had to match the ceiling to floor ties. One foot after the other left the shower, leading over to the sink. A darkly tanned hand whipped away the built-up steam, and Alastor saw his reflection.
He smiled back at himself, ignoring the obvious cut on his cheek. It was shallow enough that it’d certainly heal in a few days. Even with that, he’d merely only glanced at the new addition of stitches to his chest, or the free-flowing blood that had yet to properly clot.
It didn’t matter.
No, Alastor smiled to himself as if he saw nothing at all. It didn’t bother him. With a towel snug around his waist, catching stray drops of water that fell from his skin, Alastor walked out of the bathroom.
Every light was on in the house, not that it needed to be. Nor was he afraid of the dark. Alastor just had a terrible habit of leaving them on, proof shown in every month’s electrical bill. Why turn them off if he’d only be passing through the room again?
There was still plenty of time to get to work. The floor boards creaked under each footstep, especially when Alastor shifted his weight back and forth to get into a pair of light brown pants.
He took his time making sure the wrinkles were smoothed out from his shirt, too. Perfection, and every moment spent working towards it was his brand.
Nothing could be out of order. Not even the loose strand of thread that teased the corner shoulder seams of his coat could be allowed. He plucked it with ease.
Two steps were taken at a time, passing by dozens and dozens of family photos stuck to the wall. They were all dead and gone, uncles, aunts, grandmas, and more. Alastor never bothered to take them down when his mother passed.
He sat down on the little shoe seat at the end of the large front hallway. Alastor slipped on his shoes, ignoring the photos, forgetting the lights, and only double-checking his face in the mirror before he grabbed the door.
The old paint of the front porch was chipped and desperately in need of a new coating. Other than that, the front yard was tidy, clean, with fresh grass cutting still from yesterday. The roses had just started to bud, and Alastor could already smell them on the breeze. He was more excited for the orchids to come in; however, they’d cover the foul smell of the bayou waters out back far better than roses could.
Alastor took in the dark dawn sky, without a sign of sun in sight. He loved it more than sunrises, being able to wake up and still see the stars.
With time for the scenic route, Alastor took a few slow winding roads through the swamps before finally getting on the highway. Trees passed in thick clumps, with only his dim yellow headlights to guide his way. He didn’t need the lights, not really. Alastor grew up here and knew these roads like the back of his hand, and no one knew them better than him.
Switching over to the highway, Alastor still cursed along. No one else was there with him, so he enjoyed watching the city grow closer without having to share a three-lane road.
His job was a bloody hard gift; most things were to him. It took him almost 30 years to become a household name in radio. As a man of mixed color, doing anything was incredibly more difficult than it had to be. So to get where he had, it took everything in him, every second and ounce of patience when foolish old white men doubted him, or set him up to fail.
Yet he made it, despite their stupid little odds. A media broadcasting king. “The Voice of New Orleans” is what they called him.
Alastor LaFleur; It was his name all over the billboards.
The president and general manager of the New Orleans Radio Broadcasting Company. Him. A mixed man from the bayou. Something he couldn’t be prouder of.
The ride to the broadcasting station was easy, much shorter than the ride home. Quiet, silent. With only the white nose of an open window. It was perfect; no one else was awake yet, and traffic was nonexistent. Alastor always thought silence was the best music one could ask for.
While most of the lights coming from the city were from street lamps or the occasional gas station, there was one place that seemed alive still.
The radio station was one of the only buildings towering in the heart of the city, with all its lights on. The parking lot was packed, but Alastor’s spot was empty and waiting for him. The hum from inside traveled past thick concrete walls and sang its tune to the streets.
Alastor nodded to the security guard posted out front.
The older man nodded back, no smile. The man never did, not that Alastor knew of. Nor could you barely even call the passing nod a form of acknowledgment with the way he slowly lifted and lowered his head.
But it was familiar, and that’s all it really needed to be.
Alastor made his way quickly through the lobby. He was still sure to smile at the woman at the front desk. Once the elevator doors opened, though, the peaceful dark dawn was met by loud, bright chaos.
Just another morning at the radio station.
Phones rang off the hook. Voices mingled with the clacking of typewriters. Someone was even losing their ledger book, papers, and news articles to the floor. And the smoke from cigarettes was already clouding the air thick, making Alastor itch for one he had in his pocket.
It was perfect.
He took a few steps into the chaos while making sure his wristwatch matched the analog world clocks on the wall.
4:55 am, March 12th, 1951.
He honestly could have been here a little earlier; it was Monday after all.
Alastor checked for the “ON AIR” sign’s red glow and saw it leak from the back of the studio. The overnight program was still running. Good. All prerecorded shows are between soft current music. His station and all its channels ran 24/7.
There wasn’t a single person in New Orleans or damn near the whole south that didn’t tune into one of his radio channels.
“Mr. LaFleur! Perfect timing!”
It was the executive floor receptionist, Elena. A plump and kind little woman, with tight curly brown hair always tied with those ribbons the ladies seemed to enjoy these days.
She smiled brightly at him. The one dimple she had was profound, but still complemented her features. Her bright and cheerful expression dropped ever so slightly, though.
“Oh! Are you alright, sir?” Elena asked, then gestured to her own cheek, “You seem to have…?”
Alastor gave a simple wave of his hand, a smile, and a reassuring tone, “Ah, nothing to worry about, just a little cut from working in the basement last night, it’ll be fine.”
“Ah, okay then!” She then reached over her desk and held a folder, “Today’s run schedule just got off the press, it’s still warm!”
He felt the heat from the folder, soft and comforting, “Thank you, dear,” He smiled.
Alastor began to make his way to the back of the station, but Elena’s voice stopped him.
“Oh! And before I forgot,” She dug around in her filing cabinet, then produced a small letter, “You’ve been invited to the National Entertainment Gala again! Congratulations, sir!”
Ah, the Entertainment Gala. It wasn’t his favorite party; he didn’t even go last year. But it was something of a special treat to be invited; it meant you had status amongst the elite.
Alastor took the invitation with a small nod, his smile still ever present. He pushed the gala to the back of his mind, just as he shoved the envelope into his coat pocket and forgot about it.
His office was directly across the hall from the recording booths. Something he insisted on when renovating. He knew he had probably about two minutes before any one of the news editors started knocking at his door.
Alastor turned on the lights, threw his coat onto a couch in the corner, and went to lean on his desk. It was slightly messy in his office. He was in a rush last night and didn’t have time to tidy up the odd ends of papers or files.
Not a second later, a knock on the door frame.
“Good morning, sir,”
Alastor looked up and saw probably the only employee he actually cared for, “Markus,” He greeted the news editor.
The young man welcomed himself in while at the same time Alastor went from leaning on his desk to getting comfortable in his chair. Markus was tall and lanky, with the shine of something great in his eyes. His youth could be seen even in the way he dressed, fresh, dapper, with suspenders out and a tie covered in flashy colors.
“Elena gave you the schedule?” When Alastor nodded, Markus went on, “Okay, good. We got some national headlines last night over tensions with the soviets. But locally, there was another stabbing in downtown; we just got the police reports in.”
“What’s the status?” Alastor asked, and he also started to finger through the papers he was given.
Markus told him, “No deaths, but the victims are in critical condition. Only two. No leads on the suspect either,”
“Any new missing persons reports?”
“No, sir, not today,”
Alastor nodded his head, still reading over his notes and scripts. He had a few weather reports to go over and some sponsor notes, too.
He then checked his watch. 5:00 am. Only 20 minutes until he was needed in the studio to start microphone checks.
“If you hear anything, let me know,” Alastor finally said, while also dismissing Markus at the same time. He left quickly after that, even shutting the door without being asked. It was all routine.
The same as every day.
Alastor enjoyed the little moments of sitting comfortably that he’d get. They were few and far between. Not that he’d ever complained.
He spent the rest of his time editing the script by hand with a pencil. Its soft scraping was the only sound that filled the room.
Let’s move this for later, he thought, as he scratched out an unnecessary ad break from the opening show.
I could probably fit in one other segment before the pre-recordings for today as well…
And this too- I’d rather go over the national segments, local police reports are pretty mundane today.
Alastor turned to his next page while his index finger graced the corners of a page, only for him to hiss and pull back quickly, “Dammit!”
A paper cut. Its fresh blood started to swell between the skin and sinews. The sting traveled from his arm right to the soft throbbing of the larger wound in his chest.
It was as if the blood pressure and beat of his heart could be felt in each different injury.
A tough smile, Alastor knitted his brows with a low growl, muttering to himself, “Of course I need one more.”
He shook his hand softly to move on from the pain. Alastor then took his index finger and brought it to his lips. There wasn’t much blood, barely even a proper flow. A laughable example of a gushing wound.
But there was still that tangy taste of iron traveling to the back of his tongue. He lapped at the tiny cut, drawing out any little droplets that may have leaked free. That familiar taste of his, the metallic and sour combination of blood.
Somewhere on the other side of a wall, a loud bell rang, followed by someone calling, “Five to air!”
Alastor plucked his finger from his mouth before giving it another shake. His finger barely bled now, as if he licked the wound closed and cleaned with just his tongue.
He got up from his desk, pushed his glasses up his nose, and bore a larger-than-average smile. The hustle and bustle outside his office roared back in as he swung open his door.
It was show time.