Why yes, I'll take your soul

Charlie took a deep breath, eyes sweeping over the flyer she’d been perfecting for the last three days. She’d pulled out every trick. Rainbow markers, glitter, even a pinch of magic to make it shimmer just right. It sparkled gloriously under the light.

This was it. The final test.

She squared her shoulders and strode into the lounge, doing her best to project confidence she definitely didn’t feel, and made a beeline for Alastor. He was seated at the bar, one elbow on the counter, drink in hand. Probably whiskey, judging by the amber color and the way he swirled it in the glass instead of actually drinking.

It’s a bit uncharacteristic, Alastor drinking this early. Odd, maybe? But it didn’t matter. Not right now.

Charlie tightened her grip on the flyer. She was nervous, sure, but backing out wasn’t an option. Not with Alastor already watching her, eyes sharp and expectant

“I rewrote the tagline!” Charlie said brightly, forcing her voice up a notch as she held out the sheet between them. “‘Hazbin Hotel! Hell won’t change, but you can!’ Better than before?

Alastor glanced down, scanning the page in a single, lazy flick of his eyes.

“Marginally.”

Her shoulders dipped, just a little. That wasn’t… entirely unexpected. Still stung more than she wanted to admit.

“Is it the slogan?” she asked, trying to sound curious instead of wounded.

“No. The font.”

Of course it was the font. She’d redrawn the header twice.

She bit back a sigh. “Okay. What about the image placement?”

“Low.”

“Too low?”

“No. Move it low.”

She frowned, brows knitting. “Right. What about the layout? I wanted the eye to land on the name first—” 

“It doesn’t,” he cut in. “Name’s lost. Image dominates. Bad balance.” 

“Okay, well, what would you change?” She asked, trying very hard to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Most of it.” 

Of course. Of course he would.

Vaggie, who’d been hovering nearby with her arms crossed and an increasingly murderous frown, finally stepped in.

“Hey,” she snapped. “If you’re gonna be a shitass, maybe just don’t answer.”

“Ok.”

Charlie raised a calming hand. “It’s fine, Vaggie.” She turned back to Alastor, forcing a sunny smile. “So… just hypothetically… if you were making this, what would you do?” 

She kept her tone light, even as her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the flyer. He was being more frustrating than usual. Curt. Dismissive.

There was a pause. “I wouldn’t.”

“you wouldn’t what?” she asked, frowning in confusion.

“I wouldn’t make one,” he clarified, voice clipped. “No one worth saving reads them.” 

Charlie flinched like he’d hit her. The words sank in fast and hard, knocking the cheer out of her smile. Beside her, Vaggie stepped forward again, shoulders squared, hands balling into fists like she was one second from starting a fight.

But before either could speak, Alastor gave a stiff bow of his head. 

“Excuse me. Broadcasting to do.” 

He spun on his heel and walked off, posture rigid, that low, distorted static hum following in his wake. 

“What the Hell is wrong with him?” Vaggie muttered.

Charlie didn’t answer. She just stared down at the flyer in her hands, the enthusiasm bleeding from her face, leaving her expression flat and tight.

What just happened?

Alastor being a dick wasn’t anything new. But usually… it was different. He reveled in it. Took pride in his assholery. There was flair, smugness, showmanship. He liked rubbing it in, liked making a scene out of it.

This time, though, he just seemed... pissed off. Like talking to her was some great task he detested.

Did she do something?

Did she piss him off somehow?

Is he ok?

Her mind scrambled for explanations, for any excuse that made this feel less personal. Maybe someone had gotten under his skin. Maybe Vox had pulled some stunt and Alastor was just seething about that instead.

The thought didn’t really make her feel any better.

It was evening. Charlie had spent most of the day holed up in her room after the flyer incident.

She was supposed to be planning this amazing trip for everyone. An unforgettable bonding experience where they’d all get to chase something important to them, check something off their own little wish lists. That’s what she was supposed to be doing. She had a half-finished itinerary spread out on the bed, little notes in the margins, arrows pointing to circled ideas.

Instead, she was just… staring at her itinerary. Thinking about Alastor.

Her pen tapped against the paper in a nervous rhythm.

Should she do something?

She should do something.

He was clearly upset. That much was obvious. He wasn’t just being annoying for fun. This was different. He’d been snappish, withdrawn, and… off. Clearly he needed someone to talk to. Someone to vent to.

A friend.

Before she even realized it, Charlie was on her feet, itinerary forgotten on the bed as she marched down the hallway toward Alastor’s radio tower.

Every step seemed to tighten something in her chest, but stopping wasn’t an option. If she stopped, she’d turn around.

Even if he did technically own her soul, that didn’t change the fact that she cared about him. He’d fought for them. Bled for them. Helped her when no one else would. And if he was hurting, (even if he was being a jerk about it) she was going to help.

Or at least… try to.

She stopped outside his trapdoor, hand raised.

‘Just knock.’ That was all she had to do. One quick rap on the door, wait for his cheerful little “Come in, my dear,” and then… what? Ask him why he’d been so short with her? Ask if he was okay? Ask if she’d done something wrong?

She swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

Knuckles hovered a hair’s breadth from door.

…And then she slowly let her hand fall back to her side.

Alastor wasn’t exactly a sociable demon. If something was bothering him, barging in probably wasn’t the way to help. And if he's not upset... well. It's probably nothing. She's just overthinking things.

He wants to be left alone.

So she left.

Later that day, Charlie sat at the lounge bar, not so much drinking as nudging a glass of something sugary in lazy circles. Behind her, Angel and Pentious lounged on the couch arguing about something.

“Gold isss the choice of champions,” Pentious declared, turning his chin up with pride. “It demonstrates wealth, power, and presssstige.”

“No wonder you like it, Sir Pretentious.” Angel scoffed. “Bone’s classy. It shows refinement. And let’s be honest, nothing feels better than gripping some nice, hard, bone.” He gave a lewd tugging gesture for emphasis.

“You ssslut!” Pentious screeched, scandalized.

Angel burst into laughter, tossing his head back with glee. The sound made Charlie smile, just a little. As crude as it was, it was nice, seeing them get along.

Angel’s laughter tapered off. He glanced over and caught her eye. The sound died fully in his chest, shoulders easing down as his expression shifted. Something more thoughtful flickered across his face, just for a second.

Then he said, blunt as ever, “Jeez. Who fucked you in the ass?”

Charlie blinked. “Classy,” she muttered, aiming for dry and landing just shy of it. Her voice came out a little thinner than she wanted.

Angel shrugged, leaning back on the couch, one arm thrown across the backrest. “I’m just sayin’. You’ve been all quiet and twitchy. You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

Charlie stared into her drink. “It’s nothing.”

Angel didn’t look convinced, but he let it go with a click of his tongue and a little eye-roll.

“Anyway,” Pentious drawled, tail coiling idly, “What’sss with Alastor lately? He’s been quieter. Not in the regal way. In the ‘I might kill sssomeone and hide the body’ way.”

Charlie blinked. “You noticed that too?”

Angel snorted, leaning back on his stool. “Maybe the deer’s in a rut. You’d know, Princess.” He winked, unbothered by her flat glare.

“I’m serious,” Charlie said, fingers tightening slightly on her glass. The ice clinked against the side. “He hasn’t really been himself.”

“Great,” Angel muttered. “Moody, murderous, and probably horny. Just what we need.”

Charlie tried to laugh. She really did. A little sound escaped her, but it died fast, swallowed by the ache in her chest. The weight sitting there hadn’t lifted at all.

She turned slightly toward the bar. “Husk?” she asked, raising her voice just enough. “You’ve known him the longest. Do you think he’s... okay?”

The old cat demon didn’t look up. He swirled his drink lazily, eyes half-lidded. “Nope. Not happening.”

Charlie waited, brows drawing together, expecting more.

Husk sighed through his nose. “Not getting involved. His business is his business.”

Charlie sighed, shoulders slumping as the tension bled out of her posture and settled into something tired. Her drink remained untouched.