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The thing was, Alastor had no desire for a servant, particularly where Vox was concerned. Yes, yes—owning souls was, to the masses, considered part and parcel of being an overlord; nothing special here, move along! No doubt Vox had thought the same; assumed it would be an easy sell, that Alastor wouldn't even hesitate to think about it.
Alastor, though, was not just any overlord.
His power was not—and never had been—derived from owning souls. Truth be told he found the entire concept a repulsive, ugly thing that set his teeth on edge. That slavery should be essential for anyone hoping to thrive in Hell was—well. Suitably Hellish, he supposed.
But he, at least, had washed his hands of it. As much as it chafed being under Rosie's thumb, it did grant him the freedom of not needing anyone; his power was his own, unmatched in all Hell, and signing on some pathetic sinner's soul wouldn't serve to increase it one bit!
So he hadn't. Instead he'd cultivated an endless stock of something that was actually useful to him: favours. Some things just couldn't be obtained by sheer power alone—or if they could, it was often simply easier and more entertaining to have another take care of it for him. To accomplish what he needed all while publicly demonstrating the extent of his influence on other powerful sinners!
All this to say—he'd neither needed nor wanted Vox's soul.
He'd taken it anyway.
After that whole desperate song and dance, how could he refuse?
The first—and only—soul in Alastor's possession, and he had no intention of ever letting Vox figure out that was the case. Why, it'd probably go straight to his boxy head! Not to mention the damage it might cause to Alastor's reputation were that fact to ever get out.
Part of him resented Vox for it. So close to being his equal, rising in power with visionary ideas that had real potential only to throw it all away. And for what? He still didn't really understand.
But what he had known in that moment, as hot and visceral and savage as ripping a beating heart from a struggling chest, was that if he didn't accept, someday Vox might find someone else who would.
And that was unthinkable.
How dare Vox force his hand in this way.
"Hey, Al?"
Alastor still hadn't sent him away. He should; he couldn't stand the way Vox had been looking at him ever since he'd accepted the deal. Expectantly. Hopefully. Like he thought Alastor was actually going to give him what he wanted, when he'd already given more than he ever thought he could.
"What?" he asked flatly, drumming his claws against the worn wood of the fireplace mantel as he watched the flickering flames spark and crackle. He didn't need to look up; could feel the heat of Vox's attention on his back hotter than the fire before him.
"I told you, right? I can—I can help you. Just tell me what you need me to do."
Alastor's jaw tightened bitterly. He didn't need Vox to do anything. What he'd wanted was Vox being ambitious for his own sake, as when they'd first met.
"Fine," Alastor said curtly, gaze drifting sideways to linger on the drinks cabinet that Vox was more than passingly familiar with due to countless evenings spent here whiling away the late night hours together, phonograph playing softly on. There was no music now, though, only the persistent hum and fritz of Vox trying and failing to hide his increasing agitation at the cold response. Vox'd never had much of a knack for making drinks—the proportions were always off, the mixing and temperature barely adequate, but he was still looking at Alastor, wanting and needing and silently begging not to be sent away, and Alastor—"Fine," he said again, stomach tightening as Vox's eyes widened. "Make me a sazerac."
And it tasted...
Uncomfortably like home.