Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vox wakes to quiet. 

Not the uneasy, buzzing half rest he’s grown used to, but something steadier his systems balanced, his core humming at a tolerable frequency. Well rested, for once. Clear headed in a way that feels almost cruel, because clarity leaves nowhere to hide. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and lets the realization settle. 

He’s on a timer. 

Not a dramatic one. No ticking clock echoing through the room. Just a finite stretch of time that he can feel now, coiled tight beneath his ribs, measuring his movements whether he acknowledges it or not. Lessened. Borrowed. Enough to make choices matter in a way they never quite did before. 

He decides, quietly, that if this is how it’s going to be, then he will be present. 

Not too present nothing that would raise suspicion, nothing that would make people look at him like they’re counting his breaths but present enough that when the time comes, there won’t be loose ends clawing at the living. 

He moves quickly after that. 

Calls. Emails. Secure files opened and closed with practiced efficiency. Vox doesn’t dramatize it; he never has. He lists Velvette as beneficiary across the board controlling interest, executive authority, contingencies layered on contingencies so no one can undermine her when he’s gone. He triple checks everything, reroutes permissions, makes sure there’s no ambiguity. 

She’ll be furious if she ever sees this. 

Good. Fury will keep her alive. 

He makes a mental list next. Names, faces, unfinished conversations. Some are logistical. Some are personal. Some sit heavy enough in his chest that he must pause and breathe through the static before moving on. 

He starts with Angel. 

Angel answers like he always does flippant, loud, half a joke already in progress and then stalls when he sees Vox standing there in person, posture unusually still. 

“Well damn,” Angel says, blinking. “Didn’t expect a morning visit from corporate.” 

Vox exhales slowly. “I’m not here as corporate.” 

That gets Angel’s attention. 

They sit. Talk. Carefully at first, then less so. Vox doesn’t soften the truth, and he doesn’t dress it up as absolution. He tells Angel exactly what he was: a willing bystander. He never stopped Valentino. He never dismantled the system that kept Angel trapped. He benefited from it, passively and actively, and that stain doesn’t come off just because he’s sorry now. 

“I don’t want forgiveness,” Vox says, voice steady even as the words scrape something raw. “There’s nothing I can do to take it back.” 

Angel’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true,” he snaps. “You did stuff.” 

Vox shakes his head. “Not enough.” 

“You gave me water when he wouldn’t,” Angel insists. “You made Val give me days off when I was wrecked. You-” 

“That doesn’t erase it,” Vox cuts in. “It mitigates harm. It doesn’t undo it.” 

Silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and real. 

Angel looks at him for a long moment, then scoffs softly. “You’re an asshole, y’know that?” 

Vox almost smiles. 

Angel continues, quieter now. “But you’re not wrong. And… for what it’s worth?” He shrugs. “I don’t regret you being there. Even if you couldn’t do more.” 

That’s when Vox freezes. 

Not physically- not yet but something inside him locks, alarms flaring sharp and sudden. He feels it before he understands it: the chain tightening, the wrong words brushing too close to truths he isn’t allowed to carry forward. 

Angel’s still talking when Vox vanishes. 

Static snaps through the room, air folding in on itself, and then Vox is gone teleporting out in an instant, leaving behind a confused Angel staring at empty space. 

“…Well,” Angel mutters after a beat, oddly pleased. “That was dramatic.” 

Vox reappears somewhere far less forgiving. 

Valentino’s space smells like excess and rot dressed up as glamour. Vox doesn’t bother announcing himself. He simply appears, presence sharp and undeniable, static humming just beneath his skin. 

Val looks up, grin already forming. “Well, I’ll be damned. To what do I owe the pleasure, sweetheart?” 

Vox doesn’t sit. 

“I want to play a game,” he says evenly. 

Valentino’s smile widens. “Oh?” 

“One soul,” Vox continues. “Of my choosing. For me to own.” 

Val’s eyes narrow just a fraction. “And in return?” 

Vox meets his gaze, unflinching. “The entire company.” 

The room goes very still. 

Valentino laughs first, loud and indulgent. “You’re joking.” 

“I’m not.” 

Val studies him now, really looks and something about Vox’s posture, the way his voice doesn’t waver, gives him pause. 

“One soul,” Val repeats slowly. “For everything?” 

Vox nods once. “You walk away with my empire. I walk away with one person who never should’ve belonged to you.” 

The implication hangs thick in the air. 

Val’s smile turns sharp, predatory. “You’re desperate.” 

Vox’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m precise.” 

Silence stretches, electric and dangerous. 

Somewhere deep in Vox’s core, the timer ticks on. 

And he waits, perfectly still, to see whether Valentino is arrogant enough to think he’s already won or smart enough to realize that Vox never plays games he hasn’t already planned to finish. 

Valentino doesn’t answer right away. 

He circles Vox instead, slow and indulgent, heels clicking against the floor like a metronome counting down something neither of them says out loud. Smoke curls between them, heavy with perfume and rot, and Val’s grin never quite reaches his eyes. 

“A whole company,” he muses. “For one soul.” He tilts his head. “You’re either lying… or you’re running out of time.” 

Vox doesn’t rise to it. He doesn’t blink. He simply waits. 

Finally, Valentino snaps his fingers. 

“Alright,” he says brightly. “Let’s make it fun.” 

He gestures, and a table is dragged between them black glass, reflective enough that Vox can see his own screen staring back at him, too calm, too composed. Val reaches into his coat and produces a deck of cards, edges worn, backs marked with sigils that crawl when you look too long. 

“Game’s simple,” Val says. “Old favourite. High Card.” 

Vox’s eyes narrow. “Explain.” 

“We draw,” Val says, shuffling with lazy expertise. “One card each. Highest card wins the round. Best of five.” He smiles wider. “But every round comes with a forfeit.” 

The cards whisper as they slide together. 

“For me,” Val continues, “the forfeit is easy. Lose a round, and I sign over one fifth of the company’s controlling shares to you immediately. No loopholes. No takebacks.” 

“And for me,” Vox says evenly. 

Val’s gaze sharpens, delighted. “You don’t lose shares,” he purrs. “You lose stability.” 

Vox stiffens almost imperceptibly. 

“Little glitches,” Val explains. “Power dips. Processing lag. Just enough to make things… interesting. You’re a big, strong system, Voxxy. You can take it.” 

The chain at Vox’s neck hums faintly, warning, calculating. 

“And the soul?” Vox asks. 

Val chuckles. “Winner of the final round decides. You win, you take them and I walk away rich as sin. I win...” He shrugs. “I take your empire, and the soul stays exactly where it is.” 

Vox considers the math. 

Five rounds. High variance. Escalating instability. 

Close. Dangerous. 

He sits. 

“Deal.” 

Val’s laugh is sharp and delighted. “Knew you were fun.” 

The deck hits the table. 

Val draws first, flipping his card with theatrical flair. 

King of Spades. 

“Strong start,” Val hums, voice smooth as poison. 

Vox draws. 

Queen of Hearts. 

Lower. 

For half a second, nothing happens and then the table shudders, a deep, resonant tremor that runs up through Vox’s knees and into his core like a misfired surge. The sigils carved into the glass flare a violent red before snapping dim again. 

Vox’s vision fractures. 

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. 

Just a dropped frame - reality skipping like damaged footage. The edges of the room smear, light doubling and misaligning for a breathless instant. His internal clock stutters. His auditory feed lags half a second behind his sight. 

It hurts. 

Not sharp pain - worse. The grinding, destabilizing ache of forcing a system to compensate when it doesn’t have the overhead to do so. Vox’s jaw locks as power reroutes under strain, static screaming through channels he hasn’t had to manually override in decades. 

He keeps his posture steady anyway. 

Keeps his expression neutral. 

Keeps his hands still on the table instead of curling them into fists. 

Somewhere far away; miles, districts, layers of Hell removed a transformer hiccups. Lights flicker. A block goes dark for a breath before emergency systems kick in. Vox feels it all like phantom pain, every microfailure echoing back to him through the grid. 

Valentino watches him closely now. 

Not smiling. 

Listening. 

“You felt that,” Val says softly, pleased. 

Vox meets his gaze without blinking, forcing his processors back into alignment through sheer will. “Barely.” 

Val’s grin creeps back, slow and sharp. “Don’t lie to me, Voxxy. I know what it costs you to hold a glitch like that together.” He taps the table with one claw. “You’re forcing stability. That’s not free.” 

Static crackles faintly along Vox’s jawline before he crushes it down. The chain at his throat hums, taut, warning, complicit. 

Val leans back in his chair, satisfied. “Four more.” 

Vox inhales, measured, controlled, while the ache settles deeper, spreading like a fault line through his systems. He files it away with cold precision. 

Noted. Escalation confirmed. Val is watching for weakness. 

Good. 

Let him watch. 

Vox straightens, fingers steady as he reaches for the deck again, every movement deliberate not because he isn’t hurting, but because he refuses to let pain be the thing that gives him away. 

If Val wants to see him break, he’s going to have to push harder. 

Val flips. 

Seven of Diamonds. 

Low. 

Vox draws. 

Eight of Clubs. 

Higher. 

The table hums again, this time in Vox’s favour. Val’s smile tightens as a contract manifests midair, burning itself into existence before snapping away one fifth of the company rerouted, locked. 

“Lucky,” Val mutters. 

The tension sharpens. 

Val flips. 

Ace of Spades. 

Highest possible. 

Vox feels his systems brace automatically. He draws anyway. 

Ace of Hearts. 

The table freezes. 

A beat. 

Then the sigils crawl, recalibrate. 

Tie. 

“No forfeit,” the table declares, voice flat and inhuman. 

Val’s eyes flash. “Cheap.” 

Vox exhales, slow. His core hums unevenly now. Two rounds in, one loss already taxing him more than it should. 

Val doesn’t grin this time. 

He flips. 

Ten of Clubs. 

Vox’s processors whir, fast and hot. He draws. 

Jack of Diamonds. 

Higher. 

Another contract burns into existence. Another fifth of the company slides back under Vox’s control. 

Val’s jaw tightens. “Last round,” he says softly. “Winner takes all.” 

The room is silent now. 

No music. No laughter. Even the smoke seems to pause. 

Val draws first. 

He hesitates just a fraction too long before flipping his card. 

Queen of Spades. 

Strong. Not unbeatable. 

Vox’s turn. 

The chain tightens, humming like it’s holding its breath. Vox can feel the strain everywhere now latency creeping in, power routing thinner than he’d like. One wrong pull and something vital will snap. 

He reaches for the deck. 

Draws. 

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t flip it. 

Val leans forward. “What’s wrong, Voxxy? Afraid?” 

Vox meets his eyes. “No.” 

He turns the card. 

King of Hearts. 

The table roars. 

Contracts ignite all at once, sigils screaming as ownership tears itself free from Valentino’s grasp. Val staggers back, cursing, hands clawing uselessly at the air as the system finalizes. 

Then silence. 

The table speaks one last time. 

“Winner decides.” 

Vox stands slowly, every movement deliberate despite the static screaming behind his eyes. 

“One soul,” he says. “To me. Now.” 

Val’s face twists, fury and disbelief warring across it. For a moment Vox thinks he might try something stupid. 

Then Val laughs high, broken, furious. 

“Fine,” he snarls. “Take them. See if it makes you feel better.” 

A contract snaps into place. 

Somewhere in Hell, a chain moves to him. 

Valentino freezes. 

Not mid laugh. Not mid taunt. 

Mid breath. 

His grin falters, then sharpens into something ugly as the contract finishes sealing, infernal ink burning itself into reality with a sound like tearing silk. He looks from the empty space where the soul chain was to Vox really looks at him now and something feral flashes behind his eyes. 

“…Angel?” Val says slowly. 

Vox doesn’t flinch. He’s still standing, posture rigid, static snapping faintly along his shoulders where the strain hasn’t quite settled. “I said one soul,” he replies evenly. “I didn’t say I’d make it comfortable for you.” 

Valentino laughs once, loud and incredulous. “Oh, you absolute bastard.” His eyes narrow. “You took Angel Dust.” 

“I said any soul,” Vox repeats. “You agreed.” 

“That’s my star,” Val snarls. “That’s my investment. That’s-” 

“That’s a person,” Vox cuts in, voice sharpening for the first time since the game ended. “And you lost him.” 

For a split second, the room is deathly quiet. 

Then Valentino moves. 

The air buckles as he lunges, magic flaring violent and hot, fingers tipped with smoke and venom. Vox barely has time to react he throws up a crackling electromagnetic shield on instinct, the impact ringing through him like a struck bell as Val slams into it. 

“YOU THINK THIS IS OVER?” Val roars, slamming both hands against the barrier. “You think you just walk out with my crown jewel?” 

Vox staggers back a step, teeth grinding as his systems scream under the pressure. “I think,” he snaps, “that you should’ve read the terms more carefully.” 

The shield fractures. 

Val shoves through, claws raking sparks off Vox’s chestplate as they crash into the table, glass exploding outward. Vox retaliates with a burst of compressed static that sends Val skidding across the floor, smoke trailing from his coat. 

Val laughs again, manic. “You’re breaking,” he taunts. “I can hear it. You don’t have the juice for this anymore, Voxxy.” 

Vox straightens slowly, screen flickering once before stabilizing. “You’re right,” he says calmly. “I don’t.” 

He snaps his fingers. 

The contracts ignite. 

Ownership sigils blaze across the walls, systems responding instantly to Vox’s authority. Security protocols slam down, lights strobing as automated defenses spool up Valentino’s own infrastructure turning against him. 

“But I don’t need to,” Vox continues, voice cold and precise. “Because this isn’t a fair fight. It’s an eviction.” 

Chains of hard light erupt from the floor, snapping around Val’s wrists and ankles, slamming him to his knees with bone jarring force. He snarls, thrashing, smoke boiling off him in waves. 

“You can’t keep him,” Vox says, stepping closer despite the pain screaming through his core. “You can’t touch him. You can’t retaliate.” His eyes burn bright. “Try, and I’ll dismantle what’s left of you piece by piece.” 

Valentino glares up at him, breathing hard, fury curdling into something poisonous. “You think he’ll thank you?” he spits. “You think you’re the hero?” 

Vox pauses. 

For just a moment. 

“I don’t care,” he says quietly. “This wasn’t about thanks.” 

The chains tighten once more, then retract, dumping Val unceremoniously on the floor. Vox turns away without another word, static flaring as he teleports out vanishing before Val can gather himself for another strike. 

Left behind, Valentino slams a fist into the shattered floor, screaming in rage as the reality finally settles in. 

He didn’t just lose a game. 

He lost Angel. 

And Vox fried, exhausted, running out of time walked away having taken something Valentino can never get back. 

Somewhere else in Hell, a soul breathes freer air for the first time in a long, long while. 

And Vox pays the price gladly. 

Vox comes through the wiring like he’s been thrown. 

The lights in the hotel lobby surge hard enough to flicker white, every screen popping at once before snapping back into place. There’s a sharp crack of static, the smell of ozone and Vox stumbles out of the current mid step, boots skidding across the floor. 

He doesn’t catch himself in time. 

He drops to one knee directly in front of Angel, one hand braced on the tiles, the other shaking hard enough that sparks jump between his fingers. He’s laughing breathless, fractured, half hysterical like something inside him finally snapped loose. 

Angel freezes. 

So does everyone else. 

“Uh,” Angel says carefully, looking around at the stunned room. “Is this… like… a bit?” 

Charlie is already moving. “Vox? Vox, are you okay?” 

Vox lifts his head slowly, screen flickering, grin wild and unpolished. “Yeah,” he pants. “Yeah, I give me a sec.” 

He pushes himself upright just enough to snap his fingers. 

Reality answers. 

A contract manifests in the air between him and Angel thick, infernal parchment wrapped in glowing sigils, Valentino’s mark burned into it so deeply it hurts to look at. The chains embedded in the text hum low and hungry, stretching out instinctively toward Angel like they recognize their owner. 

Angel’s breath leaves him in a sharp, broken sound. 

“No,” he whispers. 

Husk’s bottle slips from his fingers. Velvette goes utterly still. Charlie’s hand flies to her mouth. 

Angel doesn’t move. 

He just stares at the contract like it might bite him. 

Vox reaches up, grabs it with both hands and for the first time since he arrived, the laughter dies. 

“This,” Vox says, voice rough but steady, “is yours.” 

Angel looks at him, eyes blown wide. “Vox what did you-” 

Vox doesn’t let him finish. 

He rips it. 

Not ceremoniously. Not cleanly. 

He tears straight through the centre of the contract like its paper instead of a binding older than most of the demons in the hell. The sigils scream, flaring violently and then shatter into sparks that rain down and evaporate before they can hit the floor. 

The chains snap. 

The sound is deafening. 

Angel gasps like he’s been punched in the lungs, staggering back a step as something invisible but immense lets go. He clutches at his chest, then his throat, breath coming fast and uneven. 

“Oh- oh my-” He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “What the fuck?” 

He straightens. 

And then he realizes. 

There’s no pull. 

No pressure. 

No invisible leash yanking him back into line. 

For the first time in decades - decades his soul is quiet. 

Angel lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, hands shaking as he presses them to his face. “I-I don’t feel him,” he says, voice cracking. “I don’t he’s not-” 

Charlie is crying openly now. 

Velvette swears viciously under her breath, eyes blazing as she looks at Vox like she might throttle him and hug him in the same breath. Husk just stares, stunned, something painfully close to hope flickering in his eyes. 

Angel looks at Vox again, really looks at him this time. 

“You did that,” he says softly. “You actually holy shit, you did that.” 

Vox sways. 

The laughter comes back, weaker now, threaded with static and exhaustion. “Yeah,” he says. “Turns out Val’s bad at reading the fine print.” 

Angel crosses the distance in two steps and grabs him by the front of his coat, not rough anchoring. 

“You didn’t have to,” Angel says, voice wrecked. “You didn’t have to do that for me.” 

Vox meets his gaze, expression gentler than anyone in the room has ever seen it. “I know.” 

Angel’s grip tightens. 

“…Thank you,” he whispers. 

Vox’s knees finally give. 

Charlie and Husk catch him just in time, lowering him carefully as his systems sputter, lights dimming, static crackling uncontrollably along his arms. He’s smiling even as he slumps, even as the room spins. 

Worth it. 

Angel stands there shaking, free and breathing and alive in a way he hasn’t been since before Hell, clutching the last fading sparks of a contract that no longer owns him. 

And for the first time in a very long time, the hotel lobby isn’t loud with fear or desperation. 

It’s loud with hope. 

Vox closes his eyes, laughter fading into a quiet, satisfied hum. 

Timer still running. 

Vox is still laughing when the weight of it all finally settles. 

He’s back on his knees in the centre of the lobby, one hand braced against the floor, shoulders shaking as static crackles weakly along his arms. The laugh isn’t manic now it’s loose, unguarded, like something he’s been holding in for years finally got permission to exist. 

Angel watches him for a long moment. 

Then he snorts, wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, and points at Vox accusingly. “Yeah, no,” he says, voice still rough but steadier now. “I don’t care what you think you’re forgiven.” 

Vox blinks up at him, laughter stuttering. “That’s… not how that works.” 

“Too bad,” Angel shoots back. “You were a bystander, sure. But you were also the only one who ever made the cage rattle.” His mouth twists. “And whether you like it or not, that counts.” 

Vox shrugs weakly, a helpless, almost embarrassed little motion. “I’m not really in the market for absolution.” 

“Well, you’re getting it anyway,” Angel says firmly. “Non-refundable.” 

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly as another thought clicks into place. “Wait.” His gaze sharpens. “Is this why you disappeared mid conversation earlier?” 

Vox’s laughter softens into something quieter, breathier. He nods once. “Yeah.” 

Angel lets out a short laugh of his own, disbelief and fondness tangled together. “You teleported out because you were about to save my soul?” 

“I was about to say something I wasn’t allowed to finish,” Vox replies honestly. “This was… faster.” 

Angel stares at him, then shakes his head with a crooked grin. “You are the most dramatic bastard I have ever met.” 

Vox smirks faintly. “High praise.” 

Angel crouches in front of him, close enough now that Vox can feel the warmth of him free, unbound, real. “Next time,” Angel says softly, “try not to vanish mid-sentence. Kinda screws with a guy.” 

Vox meets his eyes, static humming low and satisfied in his chest. “I’ll put it on the list.” 

Angel snorts, then pulls him into a brief, fierce hug that Vox doesn’t have the strength or the will to resist. 

Around them, the hotel breathes, alive with stunned murmurs and something fragile and bright taking root. 

And Vox, laughing quietly on his knees with a timer still ticking somewhere deep inside him, decides that if this is what his borrowed time can buy then he’s going to spend every second of it. 

A little while later, Vox feels… good. 

Not fine that would imply stability but good in the loose, buoyant way that comes from doing something undeniably right and realizing the universe didn’t immediately punish him for it. He rolls the feeling around in his chest, mildly suspicious. 

Huh. Doing things for other people. Weird. Apparently, it makes them like you more. Who knew? 

He’s still riding that strange high when his gaze drifts across the hotel lobby and lands on Husk and Niffty at the same time. 

“…Yeah,” Vox murmurs to himself. “You two.” 

Husk barely has time to register the static spike before Vox is there, hands firm and unapologetic. In one smooth, absolutely unhinged motion, he scoops them both up Husk slung over one shoulder with a startled yelp, Niffty over the other, delighted shriek already echoing through the lobby. 

“HEY!” Husk shouts. “Put me down, you freak!” 

“UPPIES!” Niffty cheers, clapping her hands. “Where are we going? Is this a surprise? I love surprises!” 

“Correct,” Vox says calmly, already walking toward the door. “And also, yes.” 

Charlie blinks from the couch. “Vox?” 

“Borrowing them,” Vox calls back over his shoulder. “For morale.” 

The door swings shut behind them before anyone can object. 

They reappear a moment later outside a bar Vox hasn’t stepped into in a long time the old haunt. Familiar neon. Familiar hum. The kind of place where nothing life altering is supposed to happen. 

Vox drops Husk unceremoniously onto his feet and gently sets Niffty down like she’s fragile china, which only confuses Husk further. 

“What the hell was that?” Husk growls, straightening his coat. “You don’t just abduct people and-” 

“Drinks are on me!” Vox announces brightly, throwing the bar door open. 

Niffty gasps. “OHHHH, he’s doing a nice thing!” 

Husk squints at Vox. “You’re doing a nice thing?” 

“Don’t make it weird,” Vox replies. “I’m experimenting.” 

Inside, the bar hasn’t changed much. Same low lighting. Same sticky floors. Same bartender who looks at Vox like he’s just walked in from a headline. 

They take a booth. Vox orders without looking at the menu. Husk orders like he’s bracing for disappointment. Niffty orders everything and promises to help clean later. 

Time… passes. 

They drink. They talk. Husk complains about cards, and fate, and demons who don’t know when to quit. Niffty tells stories that make absolutely no sense but are delivered with such enthusiasm they somehow work anyway. Vox listens more than he speaks, laughing when he forgets not to. 

At some point Husk eyes him over the rim of his glass. “You’re different tonight.” 

Vox shrugs. “Yeah.” 

“That’s not an explanation.” 

“Didn’t say it was.” 

Niffty leans across the table, smiling brightly. “I like this version! He kidnaps people politely.” 

Husk snorts despite himself. “Don’t get used to it.” 

Vox lifts his glass in a small, quiet toast. “No promises.” 

They drink. The kind of drink that burns going down and regrets nothing about it. 

For a little while just a little while there’s no war, no chains, no ticking clock loud enough to hear. Just a bar with sticky floors and bad lighting, the low murmur of other demons minding their own business, and the strange, unfamiliar warmth of choosing to be here, with people, instead of above them. 

It’s Niffty who breaks the silence first, swinging her legs on the barstool like she hasn’t a care in the world. “So!” she chirps. “Favourite crime! When you were alive. Go!” 

Husk chokes on his drink. “Jesus-” 

“What?” Niffty grins. “Everyone’s got one.” 

Vox hums thoughtfully, tapping the rim of his glass. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that in a casual setting.” 

“See?” Niffty beams. “Bonding.” 

Husk eyes Vox sidelong. “You first, then. Since you dragged us out here.” 

Vox leans back, screen dimming just a fraction as he scrolls through memory instead of data. “Alright,” he says slowly. “Favourite crime… probably securities fraud. Large scale. Elegant. No one realizes what’s happening until it’s far too late.” 

Husk stares at him. “That’s the least fun answer you could’ve given.” 

“It ruined several powerful men and one government,” Vox adds mildly. “Overnight.” 

Husk considers that, then lifts his glass. “Okay. Respect.” 

Vox laughs softly “However, if you want something more risqué. Then probably the time i killed a man through piercing my thumbs through his eyes.” 

Husk stares at him disappointed. Niffty claps. “Ooooh, I like that one! Mine was arson.” 

Neither of them are surprised. 

“I liked watching how fast things changed,” she continues cheerfully. “One minute everything’s neat and tidy, the next it’s whoosh all your problems are gone!” 

Husk snorts. “Yeah, that tracks.” 

They drink again. 

Husk stares into his glass for a moment, ears flicking back as if he’s listening to something far away. “I was a cardsharp,” he says finally. “Cheated bastards who thought they were smarter than me. Best night of my life was taking a mob boss for everything he had without him realizing until morning.” 

Vox smiles, faint but genuine. “Let me guess. You didn’t survive the realization.” 

Husk’s mouth twists. “Nah. I survived that part. Didn’t survive the rematch.” 

Niffty gasps dramatically. “That’s romantic!” 

“It was murder,” Husk mutters. 

“Same thing sometimes, plus you were super old, so you lived enough.” Vox says, lifting his glass again. 

The conversation drifts after that, loosening with every round. They talk about places that don’t exist anymore, scams that wouldn’t work today, people they miss despite themselves. Old friends they haven’t spoken to properly in decades, laughing like time didn’t matter as much as they once thought it did. 

Husk complains about how much worse liquor tastes in Hell. Vox argues it’s actually improved, statistically speaking. Niffty declares both of them wrong and steals olives off everyone’s plates. 

At one point Husk squints at Vox, studying him with the wary familiarity of someone who’s known you long enough to notice when something’s changed. “You know,” he says, not unkindly, “you used to talk like you were always ten steps ahead of everyone else.” 

Vox shrugs. “Still am.” 

“Yeah,” Husk replies. “But you’re actually sitting at the table now.” 

That lands quieter than anything else said all night. 

Vox doesn’t deflect it. He just takes a sip and lets the silence sit where it wants. 

And he thinks dangerously, foolishly that maybe this is what being present is supposed to feel like. 

Next on the list: Charlie and Vaggie. 

Vox realizes it with a quiet, surprised sort of clarity while he’s walking back toward the hotel, static still warm in his veins from the bar. He’s spoken to Charlie plenty strategies, ideals, apologies wrapped in professionalism but Vaggie? Not really. Not properly. They’ve orbited each other for a few months now, but they've never interacted on a personal level. 

Plus, he admits it with a snort, making Charlie happy feels… good. 

He pauses outside the hotel doors and laughs softly to himself. God, he sounds like her father. 

Too bad he’s already got a kid, and Velvette is more than enough of a handful without him picking up any more strays. 

Still. 

He finds them in the common area, Charlie mid-sentence, hands moving as she explains something with her whole body, Vaggie leaning in like a sentry who never clocks off duty. Vox doesn’t interrupt. He waits until Charlie notices him and lights up, until Vaggie’s eyes flick to him with that sharp, assessing focus. 

“Walk?” Vox offers, casual. “Food. Fresh air. Pride at night’s… tolerable, sometimes.” 

Charlie beams immediately. “Yes! Oh my gosh, yes Vaggie?” 

Vaggie hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Alright.” 

They step out into Pride together, neon reflecting off cracked pavement, the city loud but less hostile when you’re not walking it alone. Vox sets an easy pace, hands in his pockets, deliberately not leading the conversation like he would in a boardroom. 

“So,” he says after a moment, glancing at Vaggie. “I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked. Not beyond logistics and crisis management.” 

Vaggie snorts. “You mean I’ve glared at you, and you’ve pretended not to notice.” 

“Correct,” Vox replies smoothly. “I respect a woman who commits to the bit.” 

Charlie laughs, linking her arm through Vaggie’s. “He’s not wrong.” 

They stop at a food stall nothing fancy, just something warm and greasy and comforting. Vox pays without comment, hands the bags over like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

As they eat, the conversation deepens almost despite itself. 

Vaggie doesn’t waste time. “Why are you doing this?” she asks quietly, not accusatory, just direct. “You’ve spent the day going round spreading cheer.” 

Vox considers her for a moment, then answers honestly carefully, but honestly. “Because I realized I don’t have to be useful to be present. And because Charlie cares. Which means it’s worth the effort.” 

Charlie’s eyes soften, but it’s Vaggie who watches him closely, parsing every word for hidden angles. 

“You don’t owe us anything,” Vaggie says. 

“I know,” Vox replies. “That’s kind of the point.” 

They walk again, the city unfolding around them. Vox asks Vaggie about her time before the hotel not the war stories everyone assumes she wants to tell, but the quieter things. What she misses. What still surprises her. She answers cautiously at first, then more freely when she realizes he’s actually listening, not cataloguing. 

Charlie talks about her dreams, the hotel, the fear she never quite voices out loud that she might be wrong. Vox doesn’t reassure her with empty certainty. He tells her that doubt means she’s paying attention. That systems fail when they stop questioning themselves. 

“That’s… actually really comforting,” Charlie says softly. 

Vox smiles, small and fond. “Good. That means I didn’t overstep.” 

Vaggie watches the exchange, something easing in her posture. “You’re not what I expected,” she admits. 

Vox chuckles. “I get that a lot.” 

They finish their food, standing under a flickering sign, Pride humming around them like a living thing. For once, Vox doesn’t feel above it. Or beneath it. 

Just in it. 

As they turn back toward the hotel, Charlie slips her hand into Vox’s arm for a second, impulsive and warm. “Thanks,” she says. “For… being here.” 

Vox nods. “Anytime.” 

Vaggie meets his gaze, serious. “You make her happy. That counts for something.” 

He inclines his head, accepting the verdict like the rare honour it is. 

As they walk home together, Vox thinks quietly, resolutely that if this is what his remaining time can be used for, then he’ll keep going down the list. 

Carefully. Intentionally. 

Present. 

Velvette is mid complaint when Vox grabs her. 

Not roughly never that but decisively, one hand around her wrist, static humming just enough to announce don’t fight this. She squawks anyway out of pure principle. 

“Hey! Excuse you? I am busy-” 

“Come on,” Vox says, already moving. “Trust me.” 

“That’s never comforting,” she mutters, but she goes with him. 

They don’t teleport. That’s the first thing that makes her nervous. 

They walk. 

The city thins out as they move farther from the loud, curated parts of Pride, neon softening into something dimmer and older. Velvette notices the way Vox’s pace slows the closer they get, how his shoulders ease like he’s stepping into a memory rather than a location. 

And then she sees it. 

The place they met. 

It hasn’t changed. 

The same cracked concrete. The same half broken light flickering overhead. The same hum in the air that feels more like a held breath than electricity. Nothing has been renovated, repurposed, or swallowed by someone else’s ambition. No new signage. No new scars. 

Except for one thing. 

A bench. 

Simple. Metal. Bolted into the ground right where they first sat together all those years ago, knees angled toward each other because there hadn’t been enough space for anything else. 

Velvette stops walking. 

Her chest tightens before she can stop it. 

“…You didn’t,” she says quietly. 

“I did,” Vox replies, equally quiet. 

She turns on him then, eyes sharp, guard snapping back into place. “Why?” There’s a tremor beneath the word that annoys her immediately. “Why are you doing this, Vox? First Angel, then Husk, then Charlie and Vaggie, and now-” She gestures helplessly around them. “This. What is this?” 

He studies her for a moment, really studies her, like he’s deciding how much truth the moment can hold without breaking. 

Then he laughs. 

Soft. Warm. Almost fond. 

“You’re acting like this is out of character,” he says. “Which is wild, considering you’ve known me longer than most.” 

Velvette scoffs, folding her arms. “You are not sentimental.” 

Vox tilts his head. “I absolutely am.” 

She opens her mouth to argue and then stops. 

Because he’s smiling the way he only does when no one else is watching. Not sharp. Not performative. Just… real. 

“You just don’t notice it,” he continues gently, “because I don’t advertise it. I archive it.” 

That hits harder than she expects. 

They sit on the bench together, the metal cool beneath them. Vox doesn’t crowd her. Doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it exist, thick and calm and oddly safe. 

“I kept this place intact,” he says after a while. “Even when it would’ve been profitable to tear it down. Even when it made no strategic sense.” He glances at her. “This is where you decided I wasn’t completely insufferable.” 

Velvette snorts despite herself. “Debatable.” 

“You stayed,” Vox replies. “That’s the important part.” 

She picks at the hem of her sleeve; eyes fixed on the ground. “You’ve been weird lately,” she says quietly. “Like you’re… closing tabs.” 

He doesn’t deny it. 

Instead, he leans back slightly, looking up at the broken light overhead. “You may not know this,” he says, voice low, “but I’ve always been quietly sentimental. I just learned early on that people mistake sentiment for weakness.” 

Velvette swallows. 

“And you?” he adds. “You never did. You just made fun of it.” 

Her laugh is breathy and unsteady. “Someone had to.” 

She looks at him then really looks at him and sees the tiredness he’s been hiding, the careful way he’s rationing himself. Fear flares sharp and immediate, but she shoves it down with practiced force. 

“…You’re not going anywhere,” she says, more command than question. 

Vox turns to her, expression softening in a way that makes her chest ache. “I’m here,” he says. “Right now.” 

She hates how much that answer scares her. 

So, she does the only thing she knows how to do when emotions get too big, she leans into him, shoulder knocking against his. 

“You’re a pain in my ass,” she mutters. 

Vox smiles, resting his arm along the back of the bench behind her. “You met me here anyway.” 

They sit like that for a long time. 

No neon screaming. No contracts. No ticking clock loud enough to hear. 

Just the place where it all started, untouched by time, holding two people who found each other before they knew how much that would matter. 

Alastor is halfway through reorganizing a shelf that does not need reorganizing when Vox appears in his doorway. 

No static flourish. No dramatic entrance. Just Vox, leaning casually against the frame like he belongs there and that alone sets Alastor on edge. 

“What do you want?” Alastor asks pleasantly, smile already in place. 

“I have a surprise,” Vox says. 

Alastor’s smile tightens. “I don’t like surprises.” 

Vox shrugs. “I don’t care.” 

That earns him a sharp look. 

“I am busy,” Alastor adds, gesturing vaguely at the shelf, which is now objectively worse than it was before. “And after the day we’ve had, I’d prefer-” 

“Put on your coat,” Vox says lightly. “Or don’t. It’s not far.” 

Alastor straightens slowly, eyes narrowing. “You’re being suspiciously casual about this.” 

“That’s because if I explain it, you’ll talk yourself out of coming,” Vox replies. “And I’m not in the mood to argue.” 

The radio static in Alastor’s voice hums low. “You never aren’t in the mood to argue.” 

Vox smiles faintly. “Indulge me.” 

The word lands oddly. 

Not dare. Not challenge. Not you won’t. 

Indulge. 

Alastor studies him for a long moment, searching for the angle, the trick, the leverage and finds none. Vox looks… intent. Focused in a way that feels almost vulnerable. 

“That’s going to cost you,” Alastor says finally. 

“Everything costs me,” Vox replies easily. “Come on.” 

They walk. 

Not teleporting. Not cutting corners through current or shadow. Just walking, side by side, through Pride as the city shifts from loud neon excess into something quieter, older. Vox doesn’t rush. Alastor notices, irritably, that his own pace adjusts without conscious thought. 

“You’re quiet,” Alastor remarks. 

“So are you.” 

“I’m always quiet.” 

Vox snorts. “You broadcast on multiple frequencies at all times.” 

Alastor bristles. “Rude.” 

“Accurate.” 

They stop in front of an unassuming building. 

Brick façade. Tall windows. No signage. 

Alastor’s brow furrows before he can stop it. 

“…This place,” he murmurs. 

Vox’s hand closes gently around his wrist. Not tight. Not possessive. Just enough to anchor. 

“Close your eyes,” Vox says. 

Alastor stiffens. “Absolutely not.” 

“Alastor.” 

“No.” 

“Al Please.” 

The word is quiet. Unarmoured. Accompanied by a nickname hes missed. 

Alastor exhales through his nose, irritated at Vox, at himself, at the fact that this is working. 

“…If this is a trap,” he mutters, closing his eyes anyway, “I will haunt you creatively.” 

Vox’s grip tightens just a fraction. “Duly noted.” 

Then  

Music. 

Soft at first. Vinyl warm. A slow swell of sound that brushes against memory - like fingers over old scars. Big band. Brass and strings, easy and bright, the kind of music that belongs to laughter and polished floors and a time before Hell learned how to scream. 

Alastor’s breath catches. 

He doesn’t open his eyes yet. He doesn’t trust himself to. 

“I told you,” Vox says quietly, close now. “No surprises.” 

Alastor swallows. “You are a liar.” 

“Open your eyes.” 

He does. 

The dancing hall stretches out before him, bathed in warm golden light. Polished wood floors. Tall arched windows. Chandeliers restored to gentle glow. The air smells faintly of wax and time. 

It’s the hall. 

The one Vox had dragged him to decades ago back when “bonding exercises” were excuses and vulnerability was something they tripped into by accident. The abandoned place Vox had found and cleaned just enough to be usable, where they’d danced badly and laughed harder than either of them had meant to. 

“You said,” Alastor whispers, stunned, “you said this place was condemned.” 

“It was,” Vox says. 

Alastor turns slowly. “You said it’d be torn down.” 

Vox scratches the back of his neck, suddenly less smooth. “It would have been.” 

Silence stretches. 

“You bought it,” Alastor says. 

“Yes.” 

“And restored it.” 

“Mostly.” 

“And kept it.” 

Vox meets his eyes. “Completely.” 

Alastor laughs a soft, disbelieving sound that cracks his composure clean through. “You absolute-” He stops, emotion surging too fast to mock. “You said that night was insignificant.” 

Vox’s smile is gentle. “You said it was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for you.” 

The words echo between them, uncomfortably intimate. 

Alastor looks away. 

“I didn’t think you remembered,” he admits. 

“I remember everything,” Vox says quietly. “Especially when it mattered.” 

The music swells. 

Vox offers his hand. 

Alastor hesitates. 

Not because he doesn’t want to but because he wants to too much. 

“Dance with me,” Vox says. Not a command. Not a challenge. 

A request. 

Alastor takes his hand. 

The first steps are careful, tentative, like they’re relearning each other’s gravity. Vox leads not aggressively, not possessively just steady, confident. Alastor follows, surprised by how natural it feels, by how his body remembers this even if his pride pretends not to. 

They circle slowly. 

“You never told me,” Alastor murmurs, “that you kept this.” 

“You never asked.” 

“I assumed you’d moved on.” 

Vox’s grip tightens slightly at his waist. “I assumed you’d hate it if I hadn’t.” 

That earns a soft, bitter laugh. “We are terrible at communication.” 

“Yes.” 

They spin. 

The movement is smooth, practiced in a way neither of them consciously remembers learning, but their bodies do. Alastor’s coat flares out in a familiar arc, fabric whispering as it cuts through the air. Vox laughs quiet, unguarded, real and the sound lands somewhere soft and dangerous in Alastor’s chest. 

For a moment just a moment it feels like the 1960s again. 

Like the world is smaller. Kinder. Like the future isn’t a looming shape full of teeth, but something distant enough to ignore. Like their biggest problem is whose foot just got stepped on and how loudly the other is going to complain about it afterward. 

The music slows. 

Their steps do too, naturally, instinctively, until the dance stops being about motion and becomes about proximity. 

They come close. 

Too close. 

The space between them thins until it’s barely there at all, until Alastor is acutely aware of Vox’s hand at his waist steady, warm, grounding. Vox’s thumb shifts, just slightly, an unconscious adjustment that sends a sharp, electric awareness up Alastor’s spine. 

Their foreheads nearly touch. 

Alastor can feel Vox’s breath now, warm against his cheek, charged with static and something softer beneath it. Vox smells faintly of ozone and old vinyl and familiarity. His gaze flickers just once downward, to Alastor’s mouth, then back up again, as if catching himself in the act of wanting. 

The moment stretches. 

Fragile. Charged. Balanced on a knife’s edge where one breath, one lean, one unguarded impulse would tip it irrevocably forward. 

Alastor’s radio static hums low, uneven, struggling to settle. His heart stupid, treacherous thing beats too fast for a man who prides himself on composure. He wants this. He wants it in a way that feels reckless and ill-timed and achingly sincere. 

Almost  

Alastor pulls back first. 

Not sharply. Not cruelly. Just enough to break the spell, to put the barest sliver of space between them again. 

Not because he doesn’t want it. 

Because he’s terrified of wanting it now. 

Terrified of how much it would mean, of how deeply it would cut if this moment this fragile, reclaimed tenderness were all they ever got. Afraid that if he lets himself lean in, he won’t know how to survive stepping back. 

Vox doesn’t chase the movement. 

He stills instead, eyes searching Alastor’s face with a gentleness that makes the restraint hurt worse. His hand remains at Alastor’s waist, not pulling, not releasing leaving the choice exactly where it belongs. 

They stand there, close enough to feel each other’s warmth, far enough to ache. 

The music carries on around them, patient, forgiving. 

And for all the things they don’t say for all the want humming between them like a live wire they stay exactly where they are. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That our afterlives… went the way they did.” 

Vox studies him, thumb brushing unconsciously against the back of Alastor’s hand. “So am I.” 

“I wish,” Alastor continues, voice low, “that we hadn’t learned how to hurt each other so well.” 

Vox exhales. “I wish we’d learned how to stop sooner.” 

They sway again, slower now, like the music itself has decided to give them space to breathe. 

“No more,” Alastor says suddenly, the words quiet but absolute, like a line drawn not in defiance but in self-preservation. “No plans. No chains. No futures we can’t touch.” His voice softens, just enough to betray him. “Just this.” 

Vox doesn’t hesitate. He never does with this. 

“Just us,” he replies, equally quiet. 

The agreement settles between them not a promise, not a solution, just a shared decision to stop fighting the moment they’re standing in. 

They drift closer again, bodies aligning with a familiarity that feels earned rather than assumed. Vox’s hand at Alastor’s waist shifts, thumb brushing fabric and heat beneath it, grounding and tentative all at once. Alastor’s fingers curl lightly into Vox’s coat, not pulling, not pushing anchoring. 

They are close enough now that the air between them feels charged, tight, like it might spark if either of them exhales wrong. 

Their lips almost brush. 

The tension is unbearable sweet and sharp and aching, the kind that doesn’t rush because it knows rushing would ruin it. Vox’s gaze betrays him for half a second, flicking to Alastor’s mouth with naked want before lifting again, eyes searching, asking without speaking. 

Your move. 

Alastor feels it every unsaid thing, every almost they’ve carried for decades pressing against his ribs. He wants to close the distance. Wants to end the question entirely. 

He doesn’t. 

Not yet. 

Instead, he leans forward just enough to rest his forehead against Vox’s. 

The contact is soft. Intimate. Devastating. 

Their noses nearly brush. Vox’s breath ghosts over Alastor’s lips, close enough to feel, not enough to steal. Alastor closes his eyes, radio static finally quieting into something like a hum of contentment rather than noise. 

For a moment, there is nothing else. 

Not Heaven. Not Hell. Not regret or timing or consequences. 

Just warmth. Just shared breath. Just the unspoken understanding that this this restraint is its own kind of devotion. 

Vox exhales slowly, forehead still pressed to Alastor’s, and his voice comes out barely above a whisper. “We’re getting better at this.” 

Alastor smiles faintly, eyes still closed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” 

But he doesn’t pull away. 

They remain like that as the music carries on around them, swaying not quite apart, not quite together balanced on the edge of something fragile and real, choosing, for once, not to break it by demanding more than the moment is ready to give. 

“…Thank you,” he whispers. 

Vox closes his eyes. “Anytime.” 

They keep dancing. 

No audience. No masks. No future guarantees. 

Just music, memory, and two souls moving together in a space that was saved quietly, patiently because someone once decided that one kind night was worth preserving forever. 

And for now that is enough.