Work Text:
The sound of screaming rain fills your ears. You gently close the blinds before packing up your suitcase, the dull throbbing behind your temples a sharp reminder to take your medication when you get home. Honestly, a glass of whiskey sounds far better—especially after a day spent dealing with the egotistical, narcissistic Sinners who pass through your office. You don't know why you put yourself through this. It's a rinky-dink, hole-in-the-wall place—somewhere almost no Overlord would think to find you.
“Oh, Doctor…” A static-laced voice purred through the quiet room.
You sigh heavily, a sudden twitch in your ear as your muscle memory forces your body to seize up. Right. Almost no Overlord. Straightening your back, you turn on your heel.
There stands the Radio Demon in all his terrifying glory—that wide, uncanny Cheshire smile fixed across his face, clad in a sharp, tailored red suit. A monocle rests over his right eye, and his shadow-draped hands casually rest behind his back, loosely holding his microphone staff.
“We’re closed, Alastor. If you want a therapy session, you can call tomorrow and schedule one,” you say, forcing confidence into your voice—though a slight waver betrays you at the end.
“Now, where is the fun in that?” Alastor purrs. “How else am I to surprise my favorite therapist in Hell?”
You snort. Favorite, right. The only reason you’re his favorite is because you actually understand how his mind works. Alastor is a narcissist—just like half of Hell, and just like your own diagnosis. But you’ve also pegged him for psychopathy, or what the clinical world calls Antisocial Personality Disorder, laced with heavy Machiavellianism. It’s why he so effortlessly pulls everyone’s strings.
Even yours, if you aren't careful.
“And yet my statement stands, Alastor. Make an appointment tomorrow,” you say, picking up your suitcase.
“Now, Doc. You can’t just turn away a patient in need. Is that part of your morals?” Alastor taunts, tilting his head.
Your eyebrow twitches with irritation. The faster I deal with him, the faster I can go home, you reason, rubbing your temples as the throbbing headache turns excruciating.
“Fine,” you yield, setting the suitcase back down with a weary breath. “Follow me.”
You lead the way toward the door to your therapy room. You’ve always kept your administrative office and your actual clinical space separate; you don’t like people digging into your life or trying to unearth the secrets of your past. Information is too much leverage to lose in Hell—and if you ever want your own secrets buried or returned, it usually costs a soul-binding contract that doesn't end until the owner says so.
You sit down in your chair, watching as Alastor seamlessly morphs through the shadows into the seat across from you. Crossing your legs, you fold your hands neatly in your lap.
“So, Alastor. What are we talking about today? Vox? Rosie? Charlie?” you ask, keeping your voice even.
“Hmm…” Alastor hums, tapping a clawed finger against his chin. “How about we talk about you, Doc?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Me? There’s nothing to know about me.”
“Nonsense! There are plenty of things to know about you!” Alastor beams, leaning forward with a flash of red eyes. “For example, how you’ve built this delightfully quaint sanctuary of secrets. How do you do it, Doc? How do you get those fascinating, broken little creatures to confess to you?”
“Similar to how we conduct our sessions, Alastor—except I know when a man wants something,” you answer, leaning back into your chair.
“And what, pray tell, do you think I want?” Alastor’s smile tightens slightly, the static in the room swelling into a sharp, low hum.
“You want leverage over me,” you say, uncrossing and recrossing your legs with deliberate calm. “You know every Sinner’s—and likely every Overlord’s—deepest secrets. But when it comes to me, you’re left in the dark. And that bothers you, doesn’t it, Alastor?”
You watch as his eyes narrow, the crimson gleam darkening. That’s how you know you’ve hit the nail on the head. Despite the overwhelming weight of his aura and the subtle tremble running through your body, you keep your chin up. You know what he is: a predator waiting for his prey to slip up.
“Now, I wouldn’t go that far, Doc,” Alastor says smoothly, looking down at his microphone staff and idly flicking a speck of dust off the wood. “I’m simply a man of curiosity, and I’m sure you can understand wanting to know a bit more about my host.”
You hum softly, resting your chin on your hand. “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing.”
“Is it always, Doc? Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.”
“…And satisfaction brought it back,” you finish, meeting his grin head-on. “Would it satisfy you to know more about me, Alastor?”
“Who wouldn’t want to know about you, Doc!” Alastor exclaims, throwing a hand wide in theatrical delight. “A Sinner making a living by holding therapy sessions in Hell! Why, I know Charlie would practically beam to have you at her hotel!”
You track his movement, unbothered by the sudden burst of volume. “And what do you think about Charlie’s hotel?”
“It’s a place of failure, which provides me with endless entertainment. But after yesterday, I quit!”
“Why did you quit, Alastor?” you ask, keeping your voice casual despite your rising interest.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Alastor wags a clawed finger in playful disapproval. “If you want to know the reason, you have to provide me with information about your past, Doc.”
The two of you sit in silence, the quiet broken only by the sharp, distant echoing of the screaming rain outside. You can feel the sharp teeth of the trap closing in. Every single time he comes here, there’s always a trap. Usually, you maneuver around them with ease, but this one feels tighter—more calculated.
You know the risk. Once you get inside Alastor’s head, you can never truly turn back. You used to find it easy to profile a criminal’s mind, but dive too deep here, and the line between reality and imagination completely dissolves.
“I used to work for the FBI,” you admit, watching him closely.
“Oh, Doc was Uncle Sam’s little bloodhound!” Alastor chuckles, delighted by the revelation.
“I suppose it’s my turn, then,” he continues smoothly. “The reason I quit is simple: I found the hotel entirely too boring, and I need to expand my wings a bit more.”
A lie sits right beneath those words. You can feel it. He’s hiding something, but the question is: do you really want to indulge your curiosity? This man disappeared for seven years, suddenly resurfaced to work at the Princess of Hell’s redemption project, and now he just walks away? There is far more to it.
“I find that hard to believe,” you say, resting your chin on your hand.
“How so, Doc? Please, do explain.”
A man like you wouldn’t quit—not without a reason,” you explain smoothly. “You enjoy entertainment, and as you admitted, the hotel provides plenty of it. But disappearing for seven years, helping the Princess with her project, only to suddenly walk away? What are you really planning, Alastor?”
“Well, if you want an answer, you know what the cost is,” Alastor smirks, leaning forward.
You trade another piece of your past. “I was working on a cold case for Louisiana—specifically one from the 1920s and ’30s.”
A flash of genuine satisfaction gleams in Alastor’s eyes as he absorbs the detail.
“Fair enough,” he purrs. “I quit because I don’t have power anymore. Rosie promised I would be the strongest Sinner in Hell, and I can’t achieve that without my precious microphone.”
“Ah, yes—your microphone. The one that was damaged when you attacked Adam, right? I assume you need Rosie to fix it for you.”
“Precisely. However, she isn’t feeling up to it at the moment, so I need to take matters into my own hands,” Alastor explains, his smile remaining fixed.
“And how do you plan to do that?” you ask.
Alastor simply raises an eyebrow, silently waiting.
Right. The damn information exchange.
You sigh, leaning back. “Fine. I was looking into records on the Bayou Butcher and his sudden disappearance—specifically how the Bureau believed a local radio host was involved. Yet, no matter where I looked, his name seemed to be completely erased from existence.”
“I plan to leverage Charlie’s deal alongside Vox,” Alastor answers smoothly.
“Kill two deals in one.”
“I see tactical manipulation,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Why come to me, Alastor? Why confess what you’re about to do?”
“Confess?” His head tilts sharply to the side with a faint, wooden snap. “I thought we were simply exchanging information, Doc.”
“Fine,” you agree, leaning forward. “If we’re just exchanging information, why share your plans at all? What’s in it for you?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Alastor purrs, his smile widening. “You.”
You furrow your brow in confusion, but you keep quiet, letting him elaborate.
“You see, Doc, you offer true utility. You gather secrets from the Sinners of Hell while they try to relieve the guilt they inflict upon themselves—and others,” Alastor says, leaning in slightly. “You could be used in far more helpful ways.”
“No, Alastor,” you stop him cold.
You know exactly what he’s about to say. This is the third time he’s tried to recruit you, and you’ve made it glaringly clear every single time that you have no intention of joining his games.
“Need I remind you what happened the last time you tried to recruit me?” you say, voice hardening. “Vox showed up at my front door and vented his wrath on me just to get to you. That’s why I keep my sessions with you brief. I don’t need a repeat performance on my doorstep.”
“And he won’t—so long as you’re working for me—”
“NO!” you snap, rising sharply from your seat. The sudden movement sends a fresh spike of agony pounding through your skull. “I’m done. Our session is over.”
You turn to walk toward the exit, but a towering shadow lunges across the floor and blocks the door. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you turn around—only to find Alastor right behind you. The usual warmth in his eyes has flattened into dark, ticking radio dials as he stares down at you.
“I am not done, chère,” Alastor’s voice drops, a dangerous static edge rasping through his vintage transatlantic accent.
“I am,” you say, keeping your voice low and deliberate. “Now let me go.”
Alastor’s fingers clasp tightly around your chin, tilting your head up toward him. “I think you forgot—I own you, Doc,” he purrs. “I let you play with your freedom for as long as you like. I try to be gentle, but you’re testing my patience.”
His gaze shifts downward, fixing on the faded scar running along your neck. With agonizing slowness, his claws brush your hair back, exposing the mark completely. “It was my fault for not protecting you back then. That is on me. I’m sorry, Doc.”
“Your sorry doesn’t mean shit,” you say, though a slight tremor in your voice betrays you.
“Maybe not,” Alastor whispers, his claws lightly tracing the curve of your collarbone before coming to rest firmly at your waist. “But I know what does.”
A cold shudder runs straight down your spine.
“Get off,” you mumble, staring straight ahead.
“Hmm? I can’t hear you. Say it louder—where’s all that fire, chère?”
“Get off!” You shove him back hard, catching him off guard. A sharp grunt escapes his throat as your hands press directly against the tender site of his unhealed wound.
Your eyes soften for a split second at his reaction, but you harden your gaze just as quickly.
Alastor doesn't miss it.
“You still have a soft spot for me,” Alastor teases, his smile widening as he recovers his composure.
“Why are you really here, Alastor? Tell me the truth and stop bullshitting me!”
Alastor steps back into your personal space, closing the distance until the rich, heavy scents of woodsmoke and bourbon fill your lungs—that familiar, strangely comforting aroma that used to lull you to sleep.
“I’m here because I truly wanted to tell you what I’m about to do, chère,” Alastor explains, his voice dropping into an unsettlingly soft register. “Vox will become powerful, and he will try to use you as leverage against me. I just need you to know what I am planning so you stay out of sight. I suggest heading to Rosie’s Cannibal Town to lay low. She’ll protect you.”
Don’t fall for it.
You simply nod, keeping your expression locked tight. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Alastor.”
“You know I always do, chère. After all, you understand me better than anyone—Detective Bennett,” Alastor purrs, stepping around you with his hand settling on the brass door handle. “I’ll see you around, chère.”
The sharp click of the door opening and closing leaves you standing alone in the heavy quiet of your office. You look up at the ceiling, your fingers trailing slowly over the old scar on your neck.
You realize then how completely curiosity had killed you. And this time, no satisfaction came back.