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Charlie liked Vox.
Sure, he wasn't the best bartender—Angel complained his cocktails didn't taste quite right—but he listened to her troubles, made her laugh with stupid deadpan jokes, and always put a little slice of real apple in her juice. So it had never occurred to her until tonight that… maybe he'd rather not be here at all.
Right now, Vox was refusing to look at her, and Alastor was watching the horrified realisation dawn on her face with mild interest.
"I thought you'd just called in a favour, but you…" she trailed off, smile fading a little. "You own Vox, don't you?"
He blinked at her, eyes wide and neck snapping to the side. "I'm an overlord, sweetheart, or had you somehow forgotten?"
It was so obvious when he put it like that, with pitying condescension that made her feel like a stupid little girl again. But, no—his tone had been fond rather than cruel, curiously amused.
"I just—I don't think it's appropriate for hotel staff, you know?" She paused, trying to find the right words. It's not that she was ungrateful—Alastor had been trying to help! He just didn't understand. "It's—I mean, it's not okay if Vox is here against his will," she finished firmly, only for Alastor to immediately burst into peals of gasping laughter as he thumped a fist on the bar.
"Oh, don't you worry about him," he said breathlessly, wiping a tear from one eye as his grin widened. "Vox is exactly where he wants to be—aren't you, dear?"
Vox set down the glass he'd been cleaning with a dull thunk and rolled his eyes before shooting Alastor a long-suffering look that said—well, Charlie wasn't sure, actually, except that it suddenly felt as though she were intruding. When she glanced sideways at Angel he gave a half-shrug and raised one eyebrow.
"Not exactly," Vox muttered pointedly and Alastor giggled again, eyes half-lidded as his gaze lingered on Vox for a moment longer before he whirled around and clapped so suddenly Charlie almost jumped out of her skin and Angel spilled his drink onto his lap with a yelp.
"Al, what the fuck—" Angel complained, shaking off his dripping fingers and patting uselessly at his leggings as Alastor completely ignored him.
"Bar's closed, chums!" It was only eight pm, but Charlie was hardly going to object even if Angel looked mortally offended, already opening his mouth to protest while Alastor was wiggled his fingers smugly in farewell, dissolving into shadows without another word.
And Vox looked—well, she wouldn't go so far as to say happy, but something in his dour expression flickered and softened before he turned away.
"Un-fuckin'-believable," Angel muttered, and knocked back the dregs of his drink. "Hey, Vox, does that mean you're off the clock? Wanna head out for once, find someplace else?"
"Nah," came the immediate answer, and Charlie watched quietly as he finished methodically cleaning the bar up and setting everything back in its place. "I've got somewhere to be." Vox straightened his hat as he emerged from behind the bar and headed towards the stairs with a casual wave. "You two have fun, though."
"Sure," Angel said absently, watching him go, and the look on his face was strangely conflicted, shadowed by a reluctant understanding.
"Everything okay?" Charlie reached hesitantly out to squeeze his hand, feeling faintly lost. "I can discuss it with Vox again tomorrow, make it clear he really doesn't have to—"
"It ain't always that simple," Angel interrupted softly. "I don't think Alastor was lyin' when he said Vox is where he wants to be."
But that was—Charlie frowned, biting at her lower lip. It was still wrong. "Souls aren't for taking," she bit out, and Angel shot her a faint, sick smile.
"Yeah," he murmured, and looked away to watch the shadowed staircase where Vox had vanished out of sight. "But how about giving?"
What? But that didn't make any—
Oh.