Work Text:
Vox hadn’t slept.
Not properly. Not the kind of sleep that rewired you and put you back together. Not the kind that made your thoughts stop scraping at the inside of your casing like a loose screw.
He’d closed his eyes - rendered them, anyway - let his display dim to something softer, tried to lie still in the dark of his penthouse and let the tower’s low hum convince him everything was fine.
Every time, his mind filled the silence with laughter.
Not Valentino’s. Not Velvette’s.
A bright, radio-clean laugh that didn’t belong in his home and never had.
So Vox stopped trying.
It was easier to work. Easier to drown the memory in a barrage of tasks, meetings, projections, charts. Easier to let the tower run through him the way electricity did: constant, necessary, too loud to hear anything else.
The tower obeyed him. The tower always obeyed him.
People didn’t.
That was the lesson, wasn’t it?
Vox stood in the middle of his main control suite with a mug in one hand and his stylus in the other, bright holographic panels stacked in the air around him like translucent screens in a storm. His display was too bright. His audio came out too crisp, too quick, overcompensation he’d perfected into an art.
He ticked off numbers with practiced calm.
Revenue. Viewer metrics. Syndication rights. Broadcast reach.
CAFFEINE INTAKE: HIGH flashed in the corner of his HUD like an insult.
He flicked the alert away.
His assistant, some trembling, overly polite demon who had the misfortune of being scheduled for the graveyard shift, hovered at the door with a tablet hugged to their chest.
“Sir?” they ventured.
Vox didn’t turn. “If it’s not on fire, schedule it. If it is on fire, put it out and then schedule it.”
The assistant swallowed. “It’s… about the shoot tomorrow.”
Vox’s stylus tapped through the air. “Move it up an hour.”
“It’s already at-”
“Move it,” Vox repeated, voice sharpening like the edge of a credit card. “And tell the lighting crew if I see one blown fuse again I’m-”
His audio hiccuped. A tiny crackle slipped through the speakers in his throat.
Vox went still for half a second.
The assistant looked like they’d seen a god bleed.
Vox’s display brightened another notch, aggressive. “Get out.”
They fled.
Vox stood alone with his floating panels and the tower’s obedient hum. He stared at the clean lines of his data until the numbers started swimming at the edges.
Sleep deprivation did that. Made everything bend a little. Like the world was buffering and only Vox could see the lag.
A door opened behind him with no announcement.
Vox knew the sound. He knew the particular cadence of someone who never knocked because the word permission didn’t apply to him.
“Baaabyyyy,” Valentino called, drawn-out and syrupy. “You’ve been ghosting me.”
Vox didn’t turn. “Busy.”
Val’s footsteps came closer, slow and deliberate, like he wanted Vox to hear every one. “You’ve been ‘busy’ for three days.”
“Good,” Vox said. “Then you can practice independence.”
Val laughed once, short and sharp. “Oh, cute. You’re being cold. Is this you trying something new?”
Vox finally pivoted, stylus still in hand like a weapon. His screen rendered a smile that was all angles.
“I’m trying something efficient,” Vox replied. “What do you want.”
Val was dressed like he’d stepped out of a magazine and decided the tower should feel honored. Eyes half-lidded with the kind of confidence that normally made Vox want to bite back.
Right now, it just made him tired.
Val’s gaze flicked over Vox’s too-bright display, the quickness of his movements, the way his fingers didn’t stop twitching even when he stood still.
Something in Val’s face shifted. Not softness - Valentino wasn’t built for softness - but focus. The kind a predator got when it noticed a crack.
“You look like shit,” Val said, almost conversational.
Vox’s smile sharpened. “And you look overdressed. Congrats. We’re both suffering.”
Val stepped closer anyway, close enough that Vox could smell his cologne, sweet, expensive, cloying. He tilted his head, studying Vox’s screen like he could read the pixel grain the way he read people.
“When did you last sleep?” Val asked.
Vox’s voice came too fast. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Val said. “I’m asking.”
Vox turned away again, already pulling up another panel like a shield. “Then ask someone who cares.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Val’s voice - lower now - cut through the hum. “You don’t get to say that to me.”
Vox’s stylus paused. “Watch me.”
Val scoffed, but it didn’t sound amused. “You’ve barely talked to Velvette. You skipped the meeting yesterday. You didn’t answer when I-”
“Because I was working,” Vox snapped, and the volume came out wrong. Too loud, too raw.
The tower’s lights, synced to Vox’s presence, pulsed faintly and then steadied, as if correcting itself.
Vox hated that his body betrayed him even in hardware.
Val’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not working,” he said. “You’re hiding.”
Vox’s display flared. “I’m not-”
Val cut him off with a sharp, dismissive flick of his hand. “Don’t. I know what hiding looks like.”
That was rich. That was hysterical. Valentino, a walking closet full of costumes and teeth, lecturing Vox about masks.
Vox’s laugh came out brittle. “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it, Val? Give me a hug? Read me a bedtime story?”
Val’s expression twisted like he wanted to bite. “I’m gonna tell you to stop being stupid.”
“Add it to the list,” Vox said.
Val leaned in, close enough that Vox’s speakers picked up the heat of his breath. “Baby,” he said, voice soft in the way that usually meant danger, “if you keep pushing like this, you’re gonna crash. And I am not cleaning you off the floor.”
Vox’s chest tightened. He shoved the feeling down where he kept everything else.
“I’m fine,” Vox said, and made himself look bored. “If you’re done with the concern cosplay, I have work.”
Val stared at him for a long second, eyes bright with something Vox didn’t want to name.
Then Val straightened, smile snapping back into place like a mask of his own.
“Fine,” Val said lightly. “Work. Whatever. But if you keep ignoring me, I’m gonna start being annoying on purpose.”
Vox’s display flickered. “As opposed to-”
Val winked. “Love you, too.”
He turned and walked out like he hadn’t just stood in Vox’s control suite and tried to drag him into reality by the collar.
The door shut.
The tower hummed.
Vox stared at the space Val had been in until his panels blurred again. His hands shook.
He hated that Val had noticed.
He hated that Val had been right.
He hated that none of it mattered, because sleep meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant-
A bright laugh in the back of his mind, clean as a broadcast, sharp as rejection.
Vox swallowed hard, opened three more panels, and kept working until the clock stopped being meaningful.
Night came in Hell the way it always did: not with stars, but with neon. The city outside Vox’s windows glowed like bruised light, too saturated to be called pretty.
Vox stood at the edge of his penthouse living room, staring down at the streets far below. His reflection in the glass was a flat rectangle of bright color and sharp shapes, his face whatever he chose to render.
Right now, it looked composed.
It was a lie. Everything under the screen was shaking.
His coffee mug sat abandoned on the counter, half-finished and cold. There were five others in the sink.
His tower kept whispering status updates into his awareness like a lover that never shut up.
SECURITY: STABLE
NETWORK LOAD: ACCEPTABLE
ELEVATOR TRAFFIC: LOW
Vox could’ve muted it.
He didn’t.
He needed the noise.
The silence had teeth.
By the time the clock hit something obscene, one a.m., two, three- it didn’t matter, Vox’s thoughts were running in loops. His display flickered at the edges if he held one expression too long. His audio crackled when he breathed.
He needed air. Real air. Not filtered tower air.
Not the hum.
Not the screens.
Just… five minutes where nothing belonged to him.
So Vox did something he hadn’t done in months.
He left.
He didn’t take the main elevator. He took the service one, the forgotten shaft that ran down the spine of the building like a vein. He disabled the cameras for sixty seconds with a thought, set the tower to log it as routine maintenance.
The tower complied. It always complied.
The service door let him out into a narrow back corridor that smelled like oil and old rain. Beyond it, an alley split between buildings, wet pavement, dumpsters, graffiti-tagged brick.
Vox stepped into it like he was stepping out of his own skin.
The city noise hit him first: distant sirens, a thump of bass from some club, muffled laughter. It was messy. Alive.
He leaned back against the cold brick wall, exhaled, and realized he’d been holding his breath for hours.
His hand fumbled into his pocket.
He hadn’t even thought about the pack until now. Just muscle memory, something he kept for emergencies, for when his systems felt too tight, for when he needed a ritual that wasn’t made of screens.
The cigarette looked pathetic between his fingers. Small. Human.
He tapped it once against the pack. Twice. His hand trembled so badly it almost slipped.
“Get it together,” Vox muttered, voice thin in the open air.
He lit it on the third try. The flame wavered. His fingers shook. When the cigarette finally caught, the ember flared orange like a tiny, defiant star.
Vox raised it to where his mouth would be.
His display rendered lips automatically - habit - and he drew in a drag like he still had lungs that mattered.
The smoke curled up over the edge of his bezel, ghosting across his casing. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t even taste good.
But it was something he could hold that didn’t have a screen.
Vox slid down the wall until he was sitting on the wet pavement, knees drawn up, shoulders tight. He stared at the ember like it was the only point of light he could trust.
Five minutes.
Just five.
He took another drag. His hand trembled around it.
He didn’t hear the footsteps until they were close.
That was the thing about exhaustion: it made your senses sloppy. Vox, who could track a hundred feeds at once, didn’t notice one idiot walking into his alley until the idiot spoke.
“Well,” Valentino drawled, voice rich with disbelief, “this is depressing.”
Vox’s head snapped up. His display flared bright in instinctive defense. “Jesus-”
Val stood at the mouth of the alley like he owned it. No entourage, no assistants. Just him, eyes sharp, wings tucked tight like he’d come out into the city without wanting to be seen either.
His gaze locked on the cigarette.
Then on Vox’s trembling hand.
Then on Vox’s too-bright screen, jittering at the edges like a bad signal.
Val’s mouth curled. Not into a grin. Into something ugly with concern.
“What the hell are you doing,” Val said, quieter than his usual performance.
Vox swallowed, forced his voice into a dismissive drawl. “Taking a break.”
Val stepped closer, boots splashing through a shallow puddle. “You don’t take breaks.”
Vox flicked ash too hard, it scattered. “Congrats. You’re observant.”
Val stopped in front of him, close enough that Vox could see the tiny shimmer of glitter at the corner of his eye. He looked down at Vox like he didn’t know what to do with the image.
Vox tried to stand.
His legs didn’t cooperate. The world tilted, just a fraction, and Vox’s display stuttered, lines of static skating across his face before he slammed the image back into place.
Val’s hand shot out automatically, catching Vox by the upper arm.
“Hey,” Val snapped, voice sharp with alarm. “No. Sit down.”
Vox jerked away on instinct. “Don’t touch-”
Val’s grip tightened. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to stop Vox from tipping over.
“Baby,” Val said, and the word came out less like a taunt and more like a warning, “you are shaking.”
Vox laughed, thin, brittle. “It’s cold.”
Val looked around at the neon glow, the damp pavement, the warm steam rising from a nearby vent. “It is not cold enough for this.”
Vox took another drag and forced his expression into smugness. “What, are you my doctor now?”
Val’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
He reached up and plucked the cigarette out of Vox’s fingers in one smooth motion.
Vox’s hand snapped up, furious. “Val-”
Val crushed the ember against the brick beside Vox’s head, killing it dead. His voice dropped, dangerous. “Don’t.”
Vox stared at his empty fingers, something raw twisting in his chest.
His mask surged up like a reflex. Sarcasm, cruelty, distance, anything but the truth.
“You stalking me now?” Vox spat. “You that bored?”
Val’s jaw flexed. He looked angry - furious, even - and Vox braced for it, welcomed it, because anger was familiar.
Instead, Val exhaled hard through his nose and said, “I came looking because you vanished.”
Vox scoffed. “I’m allowed to leave my own building.”
“You didn’t tell anyone,” Val snapped.
Vox’s laugh came out sharp. “I don’t have to.”
Val’s eyes flashed. “You do when you’re like this.”
Vox froze.
Val’s hand lifted, hovered for a second like he wanted to touch Vox’s screen and didn’t know if he was allowed.
When Val spoke again, his voice was low and unsteady in a way Vox had never heard from him.
“How long have you been awake?” Val asked.
Vox’s display flickered.
He could lie. He could deflect. He could throw a joke like a knife and watch Val bleed instead of himself.
But the alley was too quiet. His tower was too far. The hum wasn’t in his bones here.
And Val was looking at him like he’d found something he wasn’t prepared to hold.
Vox swallowed. His voice came out smaller than he wanted.
“…Does it matter.”
Val’s mouth tightened. “Yeah.”
Vox tried to scoff. It sounded weak. “Since when.”
Val stared at him. Then he crouched down in front of Vox so they were eye level, so Vox couldn’t look away without it being obvious.
“Since you started acting like you’re gonna break,” Val said.
Vox’s display flashed, defensive. “I’m not.”
Val’s gaze didn’t move. “Baby. You’re sitting in an alley. You’re smoking like a washed-up extra. Your hands are shaking. Your screen keeps-” He cut himself off, jaw working, like he hated saying it. “You look… wrong.”
Vox hated the heat behind his eyes. He hated the way his audio threatened to crackle when he spoke.
He forced a laugh. “Aw. You care.”
Val’s expression twisted. “Don’t make it a joke.”
That landed harder than Vox expected.
For a beat, Vox just stared. Then his laugh died in his speakers, and the space it left behind was terrifyingly empty.
“I’m fine,” Vox whispered, and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Val’s eyes narrowed, softening at the edges in spite of himself. “No, you’re not.”
Vox’s fingers curled around nothing. “So what. You gonna drag me upstairs? Put me in bed? Tuck me in?”
Val’s lips curled, half sneer, half something else. “If I have to.”
Vox’s display flared, and the anger finally broke through. “Why.” His voice spiked, sharp with panic. “Why do you even want to-”
Because Vox didn’t understand.
Because the last time Vox had reached out, offered something real, he’d gotten laughed at and left standing there with his hand in the air like an idiot.
Because Vox had learned that wanting anyone was humiliating.
Val’s gaze sharpened like he’d heard the thought Vox didn’t say.
He leaned closer, voice low and vicious with sincerity.
“Because I like you,” Val said, like it was an accusation. “Because you’re mine, you stubborn bastard, and if you crash, it’s my problem.”
Vox flinched on reflex at the possessive phrasing,and then hated himself for the way it made something in his chest loosen anyway.
Val straightened. “Come on.”
Vox didn’t move.
Val sighed, exasperated, and held out his hand. “Don’t make me carry you. I will, but I’m gonna complain the whole time.”
Vox stared at the hand.
Taking it would mean letting Val help. Letting Val see. Letting Val touch him while he was… like this.
Vox’s display dimmed a fraction, involuntary.
Val noticed and softened his voice, just a shade. “Baby. Please.”
The word please from Valentino felt like the world turning inside out.
Vox swallowed. His fingers shook as he lifted his hand.
He put it in Val’s.
Val’s grip was warm, firm, steady.
He pulled Vox up carefully, like Vox was something that might shatter if handled wrong.
Vox hated that it felt good.
They made it out of the alley without Vox falling. Barely. Vox leaned too heavily into Val’s side, and Val didn’t comment. He just adjusted, bracing Vox against his body like it was natural.
“Don’t tell Velvette,” Vox muttered automatically.
Val snorted. “She already knows you’re a mess. She just doesn’t have proof.”
Vox’s display flickered weakly. “Great.”
Val guided him through the service entrance. Vox’s tower recognized him instantly, locks slid open, lights adjusted. Not alive. Just controlled. Just Vox’s code responding to Vox’s presence.
Right now, Vox’s presence was unstable.
The elevator doors opened before Vox even fully thought the command.
Val glanced up at the camera tucked in the corner and raised his hand, middle finger extended in a very deliberate gesture.
The camera feed went black.
Val blinked, then looked at Vox. “Did you-”
Vox’s voice came out faint. “Tower listens to me.”
Val’s expression sharpened with a weird mix of admiration and irritation. “Of course it does.”
The elevator started upward.
The ride should’ve been fast. It felt endless.
Vox tried to stand on his own. His balance wavered with every tiny motion of the elevator. His display kept wanting to dim.
Val’s arm stayed around his waist, solid. His wings shifted slightly, creating a shield of warmth and privacy even in the cramped metal box.
Vox hated that his body relaxed into it.
“Look at you,” Val muttered, more to himself than Vox. “All this control, and you can’t even-”
He stopped.
His voice softened, grudging. “Just… stop fighting me.”
Vox’s laugh was a whisper of static. “You love when I fight you.”
Val’s eyes flicked to Vox’s screen. “Not like this.”
The words hit Vox in the chest like a shove.
His mask wavered.
For the first time in days, Vox felt the full weight of how tired he was. Not a cute tired. Not a dramatic tired. The kind that made your thoughts slow and your pride heavy.
The kind that made you realize you’d been running from something that had already caught you.
Vox’s voice dropped. “If you see me like this,” he murmured, “you’re gonna use it.”
Val went still.
The elevator hummed. The tower rose around them like a cage made of luxury.
Val looked at Vox for a long second, expression unreadable.
Then he scoffed, quiet, almost bitter.
“If I wanted to break you,” Val said, low and sharp, “I wouldn’t wait for you to do it to yourself.”
Vox’s display flickered.
Val’s hand tightened at Vox’s waist. Not rough. Grounding.
“I’m not,” Val added, voice rougher now, “gonna let you ruin you.”
Vox didn’t know what to say to that.
He didn’t know how to hold it.
So he did the only thing he could:
He stopped talking.
His screen dimmed, slow and inevitable, like his systems were finally overriding his stubbornness. His eyelids - rendered, but real enough - lowered.
Val noticed instantly.
“Hey,” Val murmured, gentler than he probably wanted to be. “Stay with me.”
Vox’s voice came out soft, unguarded.
“I’m… here.”
His head tipped - just slightly - and rested against Val’s shoulder.
Val froze like he’d been struck.
Then, carefully, like he was holding something precious without admitting it, Val shifted his stance to support Vox better.
The elevator chimed.
Penthouse level.
The doors slid open.
Vox barely registered it.
Val guided him out, one arm around his waist, another steadying the side of Vox’s screen casing with a tenderness that didn’t match his usual violence.
Vox’s security panel lit up.
His hand lifted to input the code and missed the pad by an inch.
His fingers trembled worse now.
Val clicked his tongue, annoyed - at Vox, at the world, at himself - and reached around him.
“Move,” Val muttered, and pressed Vox’s palm flat to the scanner.
The system recognized Vox. The lock released with a soft click.
The door opened.
Warm light spilled out across polished floors.
Vox stumbled inside like he’d been dragged into a different life.
Val kicked the door shut behind them and looked around Vox’s penthouse with a quick, assessing sweep.
“It’s too clean,” Val muttered, as if the apartment itself had personally offended him.
Vox tried to laugh. It came out as a soft crackle.
Val’s gaze snapped back to Vox, sharp with alarm.
“Okay,” Val said, voice turning brisk with decision. “Couch. Now.”
Vox opened his mouth to argue.
Nothing came out.
His audio cut for half a second, an ugly, silent gap.
Val’s expression hardened. “Don’t.”
Vox shut his mouth.
Val half-walked, half-guided Vox to the couch and eased him down like Vox was made of glass. Vox’s body slumped immediately, control leaking out of him in a way that felt mortifying.
Val hovered for a second, like he didn’t know where to put his hands.
Then he grabbed the throw blanket off the couch and tossed it over Vox with aggressive gentleness.
“There,” Val muttered. “Princess.”
Vox’s screen flickered faintly, a tired attempt at annoyance. “Fuck you.”
Val’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, yeah.”
He crouched in front of Vox again, eyes scanning Vox’s face like he was looking for fractures.
Vox’s display was dim now, colors muted. His eyelids drooped. The edges of his image wavered like a signal losing strength.
Val’s voice dropped. “How many days.”
Vox tried to lift his screen.
It was too heavy.
“…I don’t know,” Vox admitted.
Val’s eyes flashed with anger - pure, sharp - and Vox braced for it.
Instead, Val swallowed it down like poison.
“Okay,” Val said, too calm. “Okay. You’re gonna sleep.”
Vox’s laugh was barely there. “Can’t.”
Val leaned in, close enough that Vox could feel the warmth of him. “You can,” Val said. “You’re just stubborn.”
Vox’s eyelids fluttered. “What if…”
His voice trailed off.
Val’s gaze sharpened. “What if what.”
Vox’s audio crackled, and when he spoke again, his voice was stripped down to something real.
“What if you see me like this and you… don’t want me anymore.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Val stared at Vox like he’d never expected him to say something that honest.
Then Val’s mouth curled, not into a smile. Into something almost pained.
“Baby,” Val said softly, like it hurt to say it, “I don’t want you because you’re perfect.”
Vox’s screen flickered, confused.
Val’s voice turned sharper, defensive, like he was covering the softness with teeth. “I want you because you’re you. Loud. Terrible. Controlling. Annoying.”
Vox made a small sound, half laugh, half static.
Val’s hand lifted again, hovered at the edge of Vox’s casing, and this time he let his knuckles brush the side seam, careful contact, permission asked through gentleness instead of words.
“And because,” Val added, quieter, “you don’t get to disappear on me.”
Vox’s display dimmed even more.
His breath - mechanical, subtle - hitched.
Then, with a softness that felt like surrender, Vox let his eyes close.
His screen went dark in stages: first the expression, then the glow, then the tiny standby line that meant his systems were finally, finally dropping into something like rest.
Vox’s shoulders sagged. His hands unclenched.
His mask - so carefully rendered, so aggressively held - slid off in the quiet like it had never fit right to begin with.
Val stayed crouched there, staring at Vox’s darkened faceplate like he was afraid the moment he moved, Vox would vanish.
He swallowed, jaw tight.
Then he sat on the edge of the couch and kept one hand near Vox’s screen casing, not touching this time, just there. A presence. A guardrail.