Chapter Text
in·ter·fer·ence: noun; the combination of two or more electromagnetic waveforms to form a resultant wave in which the displacement is either reinforced or canceled.
Hell hums if you know how to listen.
Most hear chaos — the endless laughter, the crack of glass, the sound of sinners forgetting themselves. The din of the entertainment district drowns out everything else.
But Alastor?
He’s always heard the rhythm beneath the noise.
Tonight, that beat brings him to Mimzy’s.
The little speakeasy glows like a secret in the dark, tucked between two crumbling casinos. Smoke curls through the air, glittering under old bulbs. The piano drifts through lazy jazz, worn and wanting. It’s the first time he’s dropped by since his return. Seven long years away.
Alastor leans at the bar, all sharp teeth and polite disinterest. The air tastes of whiskey and bad decisions — familiar, dull. Patrons of the lounge flitter around him, all giving him a wide berth. Even if they don’t recognize them, their subconscious clearly warns them to stay away.
Then the music changes.
The lights dim to a single golden halo. A new voice rises from the stage.
Low. Slow. Velvety smooth and dangerous.
It slides through the haze, soft but heavy enough to make the room still.
‘There's a fire in my brain, and I'm burning up
Oh my, oh my
Keep running for the sink, but the well is dry
Oh my, oh my’
She stands under the spotlight — petite, poised, pink curls catching the light like spun sugar. Little seems supernatural about her, just long lashes and gold eyes that catch fire when she sings. Bare hooves tap quietly against the floor, matching the rhythm of the upright bass.
The sound of her is impossible to ignore. There’s a tremor in it — honey-smooth with a rasp underneath, mountain-born but dressed in jazz. A little ache, a little power, with something old in the phrasing — church hymns, broken radios, a promise she doesn’t plan to keep.
Her voice doesn’t plead; it pulls. Even the smoke seems to listen.
‘All my aching bones are trembling
And I may yet fall apart
Won't you stay with me, my darling
When the war starts in my heart?
When the war starts in my heart’
Alastor’s grin falters.
He feels it before he understands it — the faint hum under his skin, the static bending toward her tone. A resonance. His. Hers. Both.
And she feels it, too. He knows because her gaze lifts, gold meeting crimson across the haze.
For a heartbeat, they’re the only two creatures in the room.
She smiles — small, knowing, almost teasing — and the sound in his chest spikes like feedback.
‘Oh, ashes, ashes, dust to dust
The devil's after both of us
Ooh, lay my curses out to rest
Make a mercy out of me
Oh, ashes, ashes, dust to dust
Tell me I am good enough
Ooh, lay my curses out to rest
Make a mercy out of’
He laughs under his breath, radio dial eyes honing in on the little doe taking another round of applause.
“Now that,” he murmurs, tipping an invisible hat toward the stage, “was unexpected.”
The song ends, and she bows one last time— not humble, but deliberate.
The applause rises again, and he watches her leave the stage like smoke from a blown out candle.
The hum between them dies slowly. The silence after feels too still.
Alastor drains what’s left of his drink, his grin finding its way back — thinner now, thoughtful.
Then he stands, brushing imaginary dust from his coat.
He doesn’t usually chase voices.
But, then, he’s never heard one sing back.