Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a slow day at the Breaker Box. No show until after six—if Miranda and her band didn’t cancel for the fifth time this week. The only sound was the royalty-free jazz bleeding from the ceiling speakers, which was so faint it might as well have been a ghost humming in the walls. There were not many patrons either, at this hour, most of them were doing their own stuff around the house: working, hanging out on the first floor, mingling about on the hallways, doing their own projects, anything and everything. The few who were around weren’t paying much attention to the bar.

Tuesdays were always like this before five.

And Eddie liked it that way.

Not because he hated bar shifts—he could sling drinks fine when he had to. But crowds were never his thing. Not before the incident, not after. He wasn’t the kind of person people gravitated towards; he had never been an object-magnet. He didn’t start conversations, got too eager to finish them, and he sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s idea of “the life of the party.” Small talk short-circuited him when he was not interested, which was almost all the time.

If given the choice, he’d rather be on the floor with a mop or elbow-deep in some busted speaker than shaking hands with strangers.

And that was fine. Because that was Volt’s job; he excelled at it, loved it, thrived on it. He would smile at the entrance of the door, all charm and captivating, with the kind of presence that could make anyone feel at ease. And he looked maddeningly good doing it, too.

But no show meant no crowd. No crowd meant no Volt at the door, being his loud, charming, impossible-to-ignore self. And no Volt meant no entertainment for Eddie while he sanded down and rubbed alcohol on that damn speaker with the corroded terminal. Unfortunately, Volt had decided—again—to do inventory at the back for the third time in a few days. And with the host gone, someone had to mind the club, so Eddie was stuck. 

Good thing it was a slow day. Any busier and Eddie would’ve been popping one of his cables already.

Not that he had much juice left to do that anyway. These past months, he’d been running on low: sluggish, distracted, barely able to keep pace with maintenance. His hands did the tasks, but his mind lagged. Even the daily maintenance dragged on, becoming too much for him to finish quickly like he used to. And he knew why—of course he did—but, as always, he shoved the thought into the furthest, darkest corner of his mind.

“Ah, shit.” He might have shoved it too far this time. While forcing the thought down, the glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the floor. “Shit. Fuck.”

That was all he managed to say before fetching a rag. At the corner table, he saw Cam hunched over, nursing his usual swamp-colored cocktail. Eddie had once, against all reason, sampled the thing and thanked every power in existence for being made of circuits and wires that dulled his sense of flavor. Because whatever Cam almost always ordered tasted like someone wrung out a compost bin and poured it over battery acid, and that was as far as his metaphorical taste buds could pick up.

Eddie’s curiosity about “trying new things” died right there that day.

Cam was one of the quieter regulars at the club. Kept to himself, mostly. Muttered now and then, never once raised his voice. Eddie was pretty sure he’d never even heard him laugh. Which was fine, he was an easy customer, really. The only trouble came from his… habits. More often than not, he had something in his hands he always fiddled with: Splinters of broken objects, tissues that were most likely from the human, food wraps, etc. Fine—his business. But sometimes that “something” was rank, or rotten, or unmistakably dead. Those nights, patrons squirmed in their seats. Eddie had even caught Volt grimace once, which was saying something.

Only once had it gone too far. Cam had hauled in the carcass of a fish, half-pickled, half-putrid, that the human had tossed into him. He sat there taking it apart piece by piece, like it was some puzzle, and Eddie even saw him eating the spines. The problem was the stench and the visuals of it all. That had been a little too on the nose for the clientele.

They’d had to throw him out that night.

Eddie half-expected Cam to vanish after that. But the trash can showed up the next day as if nothing had happened. Since then, he’d kept the fiddling “appropriate.”

So when he finished sweeping up the shards, he didn’t think twice before walking over where the can was, the rag bundled in his hand with the shards of the glass he’d just broken. Cam was busy ripping open a crinkled Petito’s chip bag, and actually startled when Eddie set the rag down on his table.

“Uhh.” Cam glanced at the rag, then at Eddie, then back again. His voice was flat, and his expression showed that he was unimpressed. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me to leave? By placing a rag to clean the table?” He looked at Eddie with a scowl on his face. "Last I checked, thrown chip bags don't smell that bad."

Cam always sounded like that—terse, clipped, laconic, and permanently annoyed. He had the kind of voice that made you feel you’d offended him somehow, and the only reason he bothered replying was because there was an invisible gun pointed at his head. Truth was, he just had a world-class resting bitch face, and Eddie did not take his comments that personally.

“No,” Eddie said. “Just figured I’d give them to you now instead of boxing them up for downstairs, like always.”

Cam stared at him for a long moment before finally reaching for the rag. His shoulders eased when he saw the glint of glass. “Huh.”

“What?”

Cam slid the chip bag into his oversized trash-bag jacket, then plucked one shard between his fingers, turning it like a jeweler might a cut gem. “Nothing. Just… Normally, I get these because someone else breaks them.”

"Meaning?"

"That I didn’t have you pegged as clumsy." Cam’s tone was mild, almost bored. “But I’ll take 'em. No complaints here.” 

Eddie shrugged and walked back to the bar. Hearing behind him the faintest crunch of glass being eaten.

Eddie went back behind the bar with a low huff. Clumsy. He hated the word. It didn’t just mean careless; it suggested incompetence, lacking, or being less than reliable. And Eddie couldn’t afford to be “lacking.” Not him. If he failed, the electricity faltered, and every appliance that depended on him faltered too. And if that were to happen, then Volt would…

“Eddie.” A sultry, eager voice cut his thoughts clean in half.

Volt.

He was prancing toward the bar with his oversized suit jacket draped rakishly across his shoulders, hips swaying in time with the faint jazz leaking from the speakers. And a grin bright enough to burn through the dim of the club.

“Good news,” Volt announced, sliding onto a barstool, beaming as he locked eyes with him.

Eddie exhaled as his shoulders loosened despite the tired look on his face. Not just because Volt was back—though that meant boredom wouldn’t eat him alive anymore—but because Volt’s presence always steadied the hum inside him. 

He muttered in a flat monotone, “Let me guess. I can finally go sand that speaker while you take over here.”

Volt scoffed, following with a solitary “Ha” that carried both amusement and endearment. “Not even close, my Spark.”

Eddie leaned forward on the counter, with his face all wearied exasperation, though both of them knew he wasn’t. “Spit it out already, then. Can’t you see I’ve got a line of thirsty patrons?” He gestured at the empty bar.

Volt gave a theatrical sigh. “Seeing how swamped you are…” He slid off the stool, rounded the bar, and without hesitation took Eddie’s hand in his own before plucking two glasses and a few bottles from the shelf.  “Miranda isn’t canceling.”

“Good,” Eddie said simply.

“And-” Volt was already measuring, pouring, spinning liquor and mixers with efortlessness before pouring them neatly into the glasses. He slid one across to Eddie. “I happened to bump into our dear Mayor.”

That earned a raised brow. “So, in the hour and a half I’ve been here, bored out of my circuits, cleaning the same three glasses in rotation, you were outside, cozying up to Mayor Celia.” His unimpressed look was met with Volt’s unrepentant hum. “And?”

“Dear Eddie,” Volt said with mock-injury, before sipping his own drink, “you wouldn’t accuse me of shirking duty to hobnob with the upper crust, would you?”

“I’m tempted,” Eddie replied. “But… I know you wouldn't”

“Of course you do.” Their link—intangible yet undeniable—buzzed between them, not mind-reading, but a tether of feeling. Eddie could sense Volt’s sly amusement as easily as Volt felt his mild irritation. “Truth is, I ran into her after doing inventory, on the way to the kitchen. And, for the record, we’re low on motor oil.”

“Mitchell’ll need an order, then.”

“Yes. And before you ask, I’ll handle it. After Miranda’s set.” Volt’s tone had that finality Eddie knew better than to challenge. He just grunted and drained his glass.

“The Mayor. You were saying?”

“Ah, yes.” Volt tipped back his own drink and set the empty glass down. “She was attending one of Chairemi’s plays and in a very good mood. It took little effort to convince her to greenlight my idea for a House Talent Show.” His grin was luminous, almost childlike in its excitement. Eddie couldn’t help but let a small smile slip.

Volt clapped his hands together, eyes alight. “I’ll see to everything. Rules, logistics, promotion. It’ll be magnificent.”

“Volt-”

“Of course, we’ll need guidelines on what can or can’t be performed…”

“Volt.”

“But that won’t be much trouble-”

Eddie loved his voice. It was second on his mental list of reasons he loved him. But right now, with Volt’s excitement buzzing so loudly it drowned him out, Eddie knew he wasn’t forgetting to let him speak. He was preventing him from doing so on purpose.

Well, too bad for him.

Eddie reached over, grabbed one of the cords attached to Volt’s suit lapel, and pulled. The taller man shut up instantly, the cut-off so abrupt it was almost comical as he let out the softest whine in protest. He, half a head taller than Eddie, was gently forced to lean down until their eyes were level. A faint blush colored his pale cheeks, the heat of it almost startling against his usual calm composure. For a flicker of a second, Eddie felt the tug of Volt’s desire, how much being pulled down by that cord had rattled him in an oddly enticing way. But that was something to put aside until after hours.

They held each other’s gaze in a silent standoff until Volt sighed in surrender.

“I just don’t want you burning yourself out,” he murmured, worry softening his usual spark.

Eddie answered with a sigh of his own, letting go of the cord. “And yet someone’s got to keep patching this place together.”

“I can-”

“I know you’d throw yourself at it,” Eddie cut in, voice flat but not unkind.

“Eddie-” Volt’s tone dipped into pleading.

“But this is our job.” Eddie’s words landed firmly. “And my part of it is in the back, waiting to be sanded.”

Volt’s expression shifted into something pitiful; those electric-blue eyes held his, aching with that kicked-puppy look Eddie always had trouble ignoring. They were pleading silently for him to rest.

“I already got an hour and a half of rest,” Eddie reminded him, in a monotone that could rival  Cam's. “Rest I didn’t ask for, by the way.” Volt’s gaze flicked aside, caught. Eddie pressed on. “You dragged your feet on inventory, then to the kitchen, knowing the club was dead, just to keep me idle.”

“Well, inventory is part of my job,” Volt countered, his attempt at nonchalance undercut by the way his mouth twisted.

“I’ll be fine,” Eddie said. “Just the speaker, then the wiring on the lights. After that, I rest.”

“You… promise?”

“I promise.”

Volt lingered a moment longer, studying him. Then the door creaked open and Cam shuffled out, pulling Volt’s attention away for a second before changing his attention to Eddie once more, tucking one of his black wires behind his ear. After that, Volt straightened, then drifted off to mingle with the patrons—Tyrell at one table, Dasha at another, Hoove in the corner. Always the host, always shining. Always perfect.

Eddie turned to get his tools, busying himself with the pesky speaker and the lights.

It took all of his willpower not to wince at the lie and keep a hold of the guilt out. It pressed against him anyway, humming faintly and dangerously close to the link he shared with Volt. And Eddie could not let him know that he was planning on pulling an all-nighter behind his other half's back.

Chapter Text

Cam was enjoying himself.

The homeowner had tossed out a fresh batch of chip bags, and he was savoring the spoils—greasy crumbs, powdered salt, and stale oil with a hint of garlic powder. And what better place to enjoy them than the Breaker Box on a Tuesday at four in the afternoon? Sure, he could’ve stayed in the kitchen where his main body was, but he also wanted to drink something that was not the whiskey or absinthe bottles that he had stashed somewhere in his collection. He was getting tired of those and also did not feel like getting too drunk today.

Besides, he knew this place well enough now to time his visits like clockwork. He’d been coming at random times to map out the patterns: which hours were tolerable, which days best avoided, and when the place was blissfully empty. Not because crowds rattled him—he didn’t give a damn about them—but because the bare metal walls here bounced sound like a ricochet. Especially when Miranda’s band played. The bass would slam into him, rattling his whole body until he twitched like a bug frying on a lamp. Sometimes he wished his main body were made of plastic instead of metal. But no, he had to adapt. And adaptation meant months of showing up at odd hours, mapping out when the place was blissfully quiet.

He was licking the last of the crumbs from his third Petito’s bag when Dasha strutted past his table. The wooden floor groaned under her weight, a sound so strained it could have made Floorence grimace if she’d heard it.

That’s not good, he thought, tearing the bag apart with idle fingers. Once he actually looked around, he noticed that the rest of the place didn’t look too healthy either, as it had two months ago. The walls wore streaks of rust, little bites of corrosion spreading like that rash that the human had been pestered by a month ago. The wires, even the ones that made the curtains of the main stage, sagged with their insulation peeling off in sickly strips. Which meant either the heat wasn’t being vented properly…

Or-

He was halfway through the thought when a dull thump on the table snapped him out of it. A bundled brown rag sat there, dropped without a word by Edd.

"Uhh," Cam blinked at it, then at Edd, then back at it again, trying to piece together why the club’s bartender/maintenance guy/former owner was suddenly setting rags in front of him.

Unless…

“Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me to leave? By placing a rag to clean the table?” he asked, voice flat with the effort of not sounding completely exasperated. If Edd was here to kick him out again…

The last time he booted him, Cam'd been furious for hours after, sulking in his own space until reason caught up; the logic was hard to deny. He knew his hobbies weren’t exactly… palatable to the others. He had a taste for things the rest of the house found vile. The first few times he came here, it was kept tame: wrappers, cans, balls of lint, nothing gruesome. Then, when nobody complained, he’d tested the limits. Pushed. Prodded. Until the night he dragged in the fish.

That was the limit, apparently.

By the time he dragged himself back the next day, he half-expected Edd's boy-toy to toss him out on sight. But there was only Edd at the bar, and he said nothing. So Cam had taken that silence as a second chance. There were no apologies, just a new unspoken agreement. And from then on, he’d left his really interesting stuff back in the kitchen. Which was why Edd showing up now with a rag felt less like a shock and more like an insult. Patronizing even. Cam hadn’t pegged him as unreasonable, but you could never fully know anyone.

Of that, he knew very well.

Cam tightened his grip on the wrinkled chip bag, bracing himself. “Last I checked, thrown chip bags don’t smell that bad,” he muttered, already gearing up for an argument he didn’t want to have.

“No,” said Edd, calmer than Cam expected. “Just figured I’d give them to you now instead of boxing them up for downstairs, like always.”

He stared at the wired man for a long beat before finally reaching for the rag, unwrapping it slowly with suspicion, and then taken aback when the shards of glass glinted up at him. “Huh.”

He hadn’t expected Edd to hand this over. Usually, he would leave a box outside every two or three days, full of trash for Cam to pick through at leisure. When something broke—and it always did, usually because Kristoff or the Hanks got carried away, Barry being Barry, or Tina stirring up drama back when she was still allowed to lurk around—Edd would sweep up the wreckage and hoard it until it was time to pack the box.

This was the first time Edd had brought him something directly. Hand to hand. And that was… well. Weird.

“What?” Edd asked, voice flat as ever.

Cam stuffed the wrinkled chip bag into his jacket and leaned in to inspect the shards with excitement. He pinched the smallest one between his fingers: a jagged triangle with one corner catching the light like a sliver of ice.

“Nothing,” Cam replied. “Just… Normally, I get these because someone else breaks them.”

“Meaning?”

Cam almost huffed. He hated explaining himself. If people didn’t get what he meant, that was their problem. Still, he figured he owed Edd a sliver of courtesy. He’d been ready to tear him a new one for being “unjust,” and instead, the guy had just handed him a gift.

“That I didn’t have you pegged as clumsy,” he said at last. Nothing wrong with being clumsy, Cam broke shits on the daily, usually on purpose. “But I’ll take ’em. No complaints here.”

Edd only shrugged and walked away, leaving Cam to his little treasure.

He didn’t waste time and decided to dig in, slipping the shard into his mouth, biting down, and savoring the faint crunch; the brittle sweetness of dusted glass was like candy to him. All got washed down with a sip of his drink, muttering a little “Score.” before taking his sweet time with the rest, sprinkling chip crumbs over the glass shards like garnish. And ten minutes or so later, the table was bare with all the shards gone, leaving only the empty glass of the drink he almost always asked Edd to make.

It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, the guy only had to mix rum with a can of car oil and three squirts of a brand of drink called "B-azid" which had 3 different kinds of acids, all safe to consume for objects made of tin like he was. And it tasted good.

He left the money for his drink, stood, passed next to the wooden bar where Eddie and Volt were talking, and walked out of the club without a word, satisfied. But when he reached the hallway, Cam hesitated where to go next—office or kitchen? Both had their perks, especially now.

On one hand, the office was probably quiet at this hour. Dasha wasn’t there doing her endless push-sets, he’d seen her going about in the Breaker Box earlier; and Penelope, well, she was off somewhere with Shelley, what was important was that she wasn’t in her place reciting the 'Quote of the hour', though, he’d never admit it, but a few of those quotes had lodged themselves in the back of his mind longer than they deserved. And he knew Chance was busy planning one of his roleplay games. Good for him, Cam thought. The guy was starting to get very under the weather already, with no one to play with.

At least the human managed to do some good by agreeing to roll the dice in Chance’s silly little stories. Cam could practically feel the D20 tossing sheets of paper in him already. Hell! He was doing it right now.

On the other hand, the kitchen meant food. Freddy and Daisuke each ran their own little restaurants out of there, and Stefan was usually up to his elbows in prep work at this hour. Food scraps galore. It was not top-shelf like what the human gave him. Overworld waste always tasted better than anything the objects cooked up, but it was still worth the haul.

He was halfway down the stairs when the decision was made for him: the obnoxious, nasal laughter of Curt and Rod spilling from the office.

“…Kitchen it is.”

Cam liked to think of himself as a live-and-let-live sort of guy. He didn’t give a damn what anyone else did—all that sentimental mumble he’d never be caught dead spouting. But when some objects lived their lives loud enough to rattle the floorboards above his spot in the kitchen? That was different. Those curtains and the damn rod never shut up, tossing commentary and banter at each other like it was a competitive sport. They’d comment on everything under the sun: what passed outside the windows, what dragged itself inside the house, anything and on everything.

One time, they’d even made him the topic of their smack talk: Rod mocking the banana peel on his hat.

Cam hadn’t taken that lightly. He had bitten back at them, pointing out how pathetic it was to harass others for fun. Really mature. That exchange had nearly spiraled into a brawl if Cabrizzio and Abel hadn’t dragged them apart.

So yes. Kitchen.

He slipped into his corner by the window and busied himself with sorting his wares. Handling them, arranging, rearranging. The simple act steadied him. It stripped the noise from his head.

The evening got better, too. Stefan handed over a turkey carcass, there was almost no meat on it and the bones were slick with grease, plus he got a pile of potato skins. A few minutes later, Daisuke—after flinching because Cam nearly smeared one of his pristine dishes with grease (honestly, what did the guy expect? dishes exist to get dirty)—reluctantly dropped a fistful of burnt rice into his palm.

“Nice,” he said aloud, almost purring.

For two hours, scraps trickled in. Holly dumped a bundle of posters she couldn’t hand out. Chairemi contributed lintballs. Mitchell tossed him rice paper sheets, and not just any sheets. Love letters. Written, as Cam quickly discovered, to Dorian. The words were neat, aching, romantic in a way that caught him off guard.

Cam blinked down at them, half-skeptical. Mitchell, the food critic, writing like that?

“I always thought he had a thing for Koa and Freddy… oh well.” Cam shrugged, tore into the letters, and ate them first. Rice paper always went down smooth.

All through the night, Cam was smiling. Not that anyone would notice, his face never really expressed a lot, but damn it, he was happy. Peachy, even. Today was one for the books, very productive. And he carried that smug satisfaction back into his space while dragging his loot to be sorted.

There was always work to do after getting a new haul, and tonight's project was all about rearranging the mold section by texture and making more space. Velvet fuzz to the left, crusty bloom to the right, the gelatinous splotches in their own row at the center, and the boring smooth ones at the right upper corner, all curated by hand. It was tedious, sure, but the good kind of tedious—the kind that made the hours slip by. It was all… soothing. Even the difficult part of choosing which cultures would have to be evicted to make space was enjoyable.

The eternal problem of space. His collection had grown a lot over the years, his little kingdom of refuse was sprawling, but not infinite. Hard choices had to be made. Some molds, and other stuff, would have to go.

“Welp,” he muttered to himself, eyeing a fuzzy green colony that had grown a little too ambitious outside their respective moldy bread zone. “I’m sure the bins at the garbage site will appreciate these babies-”

And that’s when the universe, in its jackass humor, ruined his night.

“Ey! Ey! What the fuck!?”

There was no warning, no preamble, just a fzzztshhhh. The sudden, icy assault of carbonation poured straight down his bag, traveling through all his body. And oh, he was pissed. So, just to see who was the asshole responsible for that, Cam got out of his place to come face-to-face with the human. The homeowner was finishing dumping half a can of fizzy water straight into him. He wouldn't have minded if the liquid was inside the damn can and thrown inside, but if the human wanted to throw some water out, that's what Sinclair was for, not him. This made a mess that the trash can was not happy about, which was saying a lot considering he liked messes.

And what was worse, the sensation was not a welcome one. He convulsed as carbonation bubbled up on and in places where carbonation had no business bubbling. He jolted, sputtered, seethed, and cursed. This wasn’t just unpleasant; it was invasive. He practically had bubbles up his ass now, and the human was none the wiser.

Cam was not enjoying himself anymore. Of course. Couldn’t have too much happiness. Not in this house.

Chapter Text

Eddie had to rest.

Volt could see it in the way his spark dragged itself thinner and thinner with every passing hour. His words sometimes slurred now, just a fraction too slow. The way his gaze would glaze over mid-conversation, like he was here and not here all at once. And worst of all, his wires—ah, his beautiful wires—sometimes cracked with stray discharges after a day of patching and hammering. Those little sparks were worrying. They meant imbalance. They meant the power wasn’t being regulated properly. They meant Eddie still was burning himself out. And Volt would not, could not, let that slide. He was supposed to be the one keeping the flow smooth, making sure his partner could finally breathe easy.

That was his role. His joy. His burden, too, but gladly carried. Eddie had done his part, carried this club on his back, but alas, even if Volt said he would take care of it, his dear partner, his spark, his other very stubborn half, always insisted on working on something at the club, despite Volt's worries.

Yes, this was Eddie’s club too, but that was the point: “too.” It was Volt’s to run now, and Eddie’s to enjoy. To rest. To not drive himself to collapse over a faulty speaker that Volt was already planning to replace the second he could.

So Volt had decided—no, sworn—that if something broke, it would be replaced and with one of better quality. No patchwork, no jury-rigged repairs to drag Eddie into late nights. Chairs full of splinters? Gone. Wobbly table? Out. Leaky pipes, the rotten wooden bar, filters full of dust? All replaced. Volt wasn’t handy with a wrench and a hammer the way Eddie was, true, but that never stopped him from trying, and oh, how he tried. Because every nail driven in, every replacement ordered, every hour spent cross-referencing inventories was another weight lifted from Eddie’s shoulders. That was his job. His purpose. To make Eddie’s life lighter, smoother, easier.

And if that meant dragging out inventory until kingdom come to keep Eddie out of the workshop for just one evening, then fine. Let Eddie sigh and roll his eyes. Volt would take the blame for dawdling, happily. He’d take it all, so long as his spark went to bed without fresh callouses on his palms.

“Maybe… I should ask Tony to teach me how to fix a speaker…” The thought slipped out of him, absurd and yet… tempting.

Tony the toolbox, he had the brain of a brick. He was not stupid, no,—Volt would never insult him like that—but very much dumb of ass. Obtuse. A little too prone to chaos. Resourceful, yes, competent when it counted, but gods above and below, he was not built for finesse, nor did he know when to shut up.

The one and only time Eddie had begrudgingly accepted and tolerated his help, Tony had tripped on the bar and nearly baptized the entire shelf in their alcohol reserve. Eddie’s fury that night had been volcanic and kind of sexy. Tony wasn’t banned, not exactly, but his hammer-happy hands were banned from its maintenance.

Volt had opinions about that, oh yes. He thought Eddie’s standards could be a touch tyrannical, and Tony, for all his clumsiness, didn’t deserve permanent exile from the workbench. But Volt would never say so aloud. He’d never contradict his spark on that. Not when he knew how particular Eddie could be about how things should be done, and when.

And if Eddie wasn’t comfortable, if Eddie didn’t want Tony anywhere near his wires and speakers, then Volt would smile, nod, and let it be. Eddie came first.

Always.

As Volt pondered what else he might do to keep his spark off the tool bench and from frying himself into exhaustion, his attention snagged on the shelves of the storage room. Even if he was doing his tasks as slow as possible, Volt would never slack in his responsibilities, now one of them being restocking on the two brands of Motor Oil that they used.

He tilted his head, humming and considering his options.

“Hm.” He tapped a finger against his jaw. Now, he could, of course, tell Eddie. But if he did, Eddie would insist on trudging down to Mitchell himself, place the order, grumble about prices, pick at labels, and definitely try to carry half a crate back to the club, that will result in him putting more strain on his back.

Or...

“I could just go there myself,” Volt murmured aloud, savoring the idea. This was a trivial errand, a simple order, and utterly beneath Eddie. Why should his lover bother with such things? Volt would glide into the kitchen, charm Mitchell into filling a new order, lower the price, ask about his latest food review, then wander over to Daisuke to check on the new cups and plates order he put in last week. And maybe poke his head into Bev’s bar to check on how her twelfth rebranding was going, he had offered to help with the marketing, but she insisted on doing it all herself—again. Bless her stubborn little heart.

And while Volt would be busy tending to all these “urgent matters,” Eddie would be forced—oh so tragically forced—to mind the club during the slowest hours of the day, and would have no choice but to sit still. Perfect.

Volt hummed a tune as he slipped into the current, traveling through one of the outlets of the storage room, traveling along the current that was himself, until he spilled out again through the socket of the second-floor bathroom—first floor, technically, if you let Dorian win that particular argument.

This bathroom was quieter than its downstairs twin, or so Tyrell swore, though he never elaborated, and Volt had no desire to press him. The bathrooms rarely held his interest anyway. And he had his reasons to avoid it, one was because water and electricity don’t dance well together, and the other, the most important one, was: because Rebel lived here.

And Volt had no desire to cross paths with that rubber menace.

They had managed to piss him off like no one else had ever before during the anual house meeting last February. All it had taken was one snide remark about Eddie—his Eddie—who had been worn thin from too many sleepless nights, jumpy as live wire, and Bathsheba had brushed against him too suddenly. The shock wasn’t malicious, barely a harmless spark.  Bathsheba brushed it off, saying that it woke her up completely, even laughed about it once Volt smoothed things over with a few well-placed words and his charming smile.

But Rebel?

“Watch your defective ass, you dick!” they had said about Eddie.

The room went cold.

Volt’s hand twitched, remembering. He had learned something that day: that rubber was a most infuriatingly effective insulator.

Luckily, the duck was absent now. The room was occupied only by Amir, dozing handsomely against his sleek black frame, and Dorian, who, of course, was here. The man was the doors, after all. He never shirked his post.

“Took the wrong turn in the current, I see,” Dorian quipped as Volt strode toward him. This Dorian, he learned, did not look at him with leery, cautious eyes like the Dorian at the utility closed, which was a breath of fresh oxygen… or something like that. He has never been outside, and the only "fresh" air around here was Airyn.

“Happens to the best of us." Volt gave him a smile that could have sold sins to saints. "More than two decades here, and I still get lost in the wiring. How careless of me.”

Dorian hummed in approval? Dismissal? Who could say? And slipped aside to let Volt pass. He stepped through the frame and down the stairs, humming to himself until another song reached his ears as he veered left toward the living room. He passed one of Chairemi’s productions in full swing. Ah, yes, Tuesdays meant musicals, and sure enough, the chair and the homeowner were halfway through a duet. Volt walked past them with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, with the thought that maybe he should invite Chairemi to give a show at the club sometimes, and she would be paid, of course, and the human too-

Wait. The human.

Volt stopped, mid-step.

Few things in this house truly caught his interest. Yes, he enjoyed mingling, he felt at ease with crowds, and he always lent an ear to whispered complaints or bashful confessions. He, besides being the host and co-owner, was the Breaker Box’s confidant, after all. And he liked people, adored their company, thrived in it. But not every story lit him up. Not every face drew him in. It wasn’t that he was disinterested in the house—hardly, he was just selective on what to put his concentration on, and even more selective if that meant putting in the effort of giving something or someone his undivided attention.

And the day Skylar came? Well, just as a lot of folks in the house, he had been very interested in what she had to offer, in what she was: a pair of "dateviator" glasses, able to bridge their world with the human's. She even offered to shape their 'animus'?, was that what she called their consciences, into a more human-like form. Some of the other objects were skeptical at first, but Volt was not one of them; he had no objection in the slightest, especially because of how damn good Eddie ended up looking after Skylar changed his shape. And after closing the Breaker Box earlier that day, Volt had very nearly shorted his own circuits from how fast he dragged his lover to bed.

And then, there was the human, who now could see them, interact with them, commune, and touch them. And what a silly, little creature they were, charming in their own way, eager to meet them and to help—or so he’d heard from the other objects. Volt hadn’t yet made their acquaintance. Perhaps this was his chance. He had time to kill, after all.

He smoothed his jacket, put on his best smile, and tilted his head just so, ready to finally introduce himself. But by the time he stepped back into the living room, they were gone.

“What a pity,” he murmured to himself. He would have to stick with his original plan after all

Or he would have, if Mayor Celia hadn’t been there too.

Their dear Mayor, the ceiling, stemmed and stately as ever. And—Volt narrowed his gaze just slightly—she was in rare spirits. Her posture was composed, as always, but her shoulders had loosened, and her gaze had softened. It was no secret that she liked to watch Chairemi's plays, but it seems like whatever this musical was, it had moved her deeply.

An opportunity.

"Well. If it isn't our stemmed Mayor." Volt said in the same charming voice he used when he was buttering up the patrons at the Breaker Box. "Here to regale us lower objects with your presence."

“Charming as always, Volt.” She said. For the briefest heartbeat, though, her voice betrayed her, a minuscule crack in her usual impeccable poise. She hid it almost instantly. “I imagine you’re on your way to the kitchen?”

But Volt already caught the slip.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Since it is quiet this hour, I’m running a few errands while Eddie minds the club." His tone implied leisure, but in truth, Volt was weighing the moment, deciding how much to press as his eyes studied her body language: shoulders were looser than usual, her left fingers were brushing her pearl ring, and he caught the faintest trace of tears in her eyes. The Mayor was moved.

This would be short, of that, he knew—Celia excelled at little pleasantries and quick small talk, like any other politician. Which was fine. Volt had no need for convincing her of his idea today.

An idea that he had ruminated on for weeks in his mind: Talent Show. A spectacle for the house, an amusement for the Breaker Box, and—most crucial of all—over the top enough to keep Eddie still. Too many patrons meant Eddie couldn’t wander the club and couldn’t overwork himself too much.

But Volt wasn’t going to pitch it here and try to convince her right away. No. But planting the thought in her mind? That, he could do.

“Miranda and her band will be playing in a few hours,” Volt said, tilting his head at just the right angle, adding a sparkle of admiration into his voice. “The place will be packed by then. That toaster knows how to draw a crowd.”

“Hm.” Celia’s lips pressed together, the faintest smile tugging. Approval, measured, but it was something he was willing to take for his plan to continue. “They’ve been busy, that is what I have heard.”

Volt’s grin brightened. “With performances like theirs? I’m proud to say we’re lucky they spared a night for us. They are a talented sort.”

“Indeed.” Her tone was already shifting toward finality, and Volt wasn’t about to let her end it so easily.

“I was considering letting Chairemi stage one of her plays at the Breaker Box,” he said smoothly, as though the thought had just now strolled into his mind. “Paid, of course. And seeing as you are one of her most loyal patrons, I’d like your opinion on which piece might be best.”

That lit something in her eyes; it was small, but enough. Exactly what he wanted.

“I would ask her myself,” Volt added smoothly, “but it seems I just missed her. And I won’t be free until after midnight.”

"Oh, my. How could I choose?" She fiddled with the pearl ring on her middle finger, something he seldom saw her doing, as she was deep in thought. “I suppose, since you enjoy having Miranda’s band so often, one of Chairemi’s musicals would be the better fit. Though…” She allowed herself the faintest indulgence. “Her science-fiction plays are delightful as well. But she only stages those on Thursdays.”

"Hmn. What about the musical that she just did with the human?"

That gave her pause. Celia weighed her words, long seconds before she spoke. “It was very moving. Chairemi called it ‘modern.’ About a school bully in love with her peer, tormenting her until the final ballad, where she confesses her feelings in secret. That is the most concise summary I can give.”

He nodded, thoughtful, though his eyes sparkled. “Not the sort of story I’d expect you to gravitate toward.”

“I thought so too,” she admitted, a tad softer. “But branching out is always a good idea. Now and then.”

“If it bears your seal of approval, then I see no reason it shouldn’t grace our stage. I caught a few notes of the finale myself, and I must say, Chairemi has a gift for belting those high notes.”

“She does. Though I think it was because she was comfortable performing beside our human.”

There. Another opening. Volt leaned into it. “I wouldn’t have guessed our human had a knack for acting.”

“Oh, you should have seen them,” Celia said, with a flicker of warmth she didn’t quite hide. “It was very convincing.”

Volt smiled, pleased. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How many hidden talents might the others be keeping under wraps?” He didn’t let the silence step long enough for her to add anything else. “Just like how Wallace utterly annihilated me last year at our annual dance competition.”

The memory pulled a grin out of him despite himself. The embodiment of the wall, eight Caipirinhas deep, somehow light on his feet—Volt had been floored that night. Literally.

And the memory seemed for the Mayor too, because she let out an airy, but short, laugh. “Oh, it was one of the most interesting competitions I had witnessed. He told me he would enter, but I did not expect him to move so…”

“Nimble?” Volt teased.

“Precisely.” A pause, as though she were tasting the thought before letting it out. “Maybe, if the house organizes a talent show in the near future…”

That was it. Plan accomplished.

“A most excellent idea, Miss Mayor. The Breaker Box would be delighted to host such an event.” His grin turned into one of genuine excitement, too bright and too eager.

And then she looked at him, arched brow, squinted her eyes, looking like she had just discovered a child red-handed mid-mischief, and, in a flash, Volt felt his current dip. The hum that his hair always did hushed.

Oh, no.

“So, that is what this was.” Calm, sharp, her tone made him swallow in axiety. “You made it seem like this was my idea.”

Oh shit.

“I am impressed, Volt. Truly. You’ve grown more sly than when I first met you three decades ago.” She stepped closer, and for a flicker of a second, he remembered why even the boldest objects lowered their voices around her.

Double shit.

"Uh… I- um…"

She sighed, seemingly a little disappointed. “Alright. Have it your way. Your idea of a Talent Show,”—she punctuated the 'your' by raising a finger—“does seem interesting. And since you are clearly so eager to pull this off, I expect a formal proposal tomorrow at my desk. In detail.” Her eyes sharpened. “Because it seems to me this idea has been marinating in your head for quite some time.”

Volt’s grin thinned. “Yes… Ah… of course, Miss Mayor. I won’t let you down.”

“Hmn.” A scoff, amused, dismissive. “Use that charisma for the greater good. Are we clear?”

“I wouldn’t dream of upsetting you.”

With that, she turned and left.

Volt felt the hum in him return, steadier now. He’d been outmaneuvered, yes. But he had the Talent Show. Which meant Eddie would rest. Which, in Volt’s book, was victory enough.

Chapter Text

"-I'm Cam, I'm a trash can. I don't like talking to people; you're starting to get on my nerves. And since we’re bonding-” he added, though his usual flat drawl had a little bit of oomph, “-I slept like shit last night because someone tossed a half-full can of fizzy water in me and I had bubbles tickling my ass until two a.m.”

Safe to say, Cam was not in the best of spirits. He could’ve been — yesterday had been a good day. A haul of the good stuff from the other inanimates: good textures, good smells, good crunch. It had been cool. He’d been halfway to bliss tending to his molds until the human showed up and ruined it by pouring that can on him. The phantom bubbling still fizzed in the metal of his rear, and no matter what he did, it refused to fade.

Worst of all, some of his mold got damaged!

"Tee hee. Tickly bubbles." The human chuckled.

“Oh, now you’re a comedian.” He pursed his lips, looking to the side. He’d been irritated enough already, and this little show was not helping. It'd have been fine if the human had just handed him that nice-looking, gooey, sticky substance they’d found in their underwear drawer, and ended the transaction like any normal day. Simple. No talking required. Like it has always been.

He hadn’t cared much when that bubbly pink pair of magic glasses came into the house—the Dateviators, Skylar, whatever—and started shaping everyone’s animus into humanoid forms. He had refused, at first, because that woman said she was doing this so the human could form relationships with everyone. Cam had no interest in changing himself to appeal to anyone, but, in the end, Abel —somehow — managed to convince him, and thus he was one of the last ones to give it a go, but he made it clear that he would allow her under his own terms.  If she was going to mold him like clay, fine, but he had demanded the banana peel on his hat. A man needed standards.

He figured the human wouldn't bother with him anyway. He was trash—literally, not like there was anything wrong with that. Most others just dropped off their unwanted bits and walked off, and that suited him. He didn’t need small talk, didn’t crave attention, just what they had to offer for him to keep.

But then they had gone and made that dishwasher, which, according to Windolyn, looked like he had committed a murder of some sort; fall in love with them right after wooing the air fryer too. Even Freddy was still whispering about that one. The kitchen’s two newest additions, both not-so-toreable in their own right: Dishy had that deranged obsession with being connected to the internet, which he managed to do in the end; and Errol, the self-proclaimed Apostle of The Heavenly… Culinary something (Cam did not pay much attention when that guy opened his mouth). He remembers that the first thing that man did after being plugged in was to start preaching about the “purity of convection.”  Demonizing the way Stefan and Luke cooked, talked about how oil and grease were sinful, and how he could cleanse all of the house's sins if they just converted to his ways.

The air fryer was the kind of zealot who thought other people’s way of life was a moral failing. Cam loathed that type: the holier-than-thou jerks who thought everyone else was doing it wrong. Errol was firmly pinned on his "Do Not Interact Unless the House Is Literally Burning Down" list.

Yet the human got into a relationship with him… and Dishy. Figures. Which said something about their taste in appliances — not that Cam cared who they slept with.

So, now there was a possibility that they were actually going to talk to him at some point, and when they finally approached him, well… he didn’t think much of it at first. Did not even notice the human was in front of him, just felt a tug, a strange vibration that turned out to be his and the human’s animus vibrating in sync (whatever that meant). But all he’d really noticed was the human’s dumb grin pointed squarely in his direction. They wanted to talk. And he did not.

And talk about what? Trash? He doubted it.

Still, they’d handed him a half-eaten pinto burrito and a packet of spicy sauce. That exchange was not as unpleasant as he thought. But Cam didn’t think much of that interaction after that, in fact. Whatever this was, it was clearly a novelty for them; they were curious, giddy, and insistent on talking to everyone. He figured he was just another stop on the novelty tour, and of the lucky few they’d lose interest in. The only relationship they needed with him was transactional: they gave him garbage; he kept it. End of story.

So yes, it surprised him when the human came to talk to him again after—what, three days? And the first thing out of their mouth was calling him salty.

Which, sure, fine. He was salty, sue him. Salt adds flavor.

Then they kept going on about how they liked his company. Totally normal. Second conversation ever and they were already declaring an emotional bond. Sure, buddy, very believable. Truly touching.

"Oh, come on. You can't really take this crap seriously," the human sputtered.

And in that instant, Cam pinpointed the offhand, brassy tone of someone dismissing what mattered to him.

“Watch your mouth,” he snapped.

“Oh. I- sorry. Uh...”

Cam grunted, grabbed the unidentified goo from their hands, and pocketed it without another word.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Yeah, as a matter of fact. “I don’t feel like explaining myself,” he muttered instead, and turned to leave.

He did, in fact, take his crap seriously. Literally, even. He dealt with everything the human discarded: used toilet paper, tissues, rotten food, debris, and even expired products. Every scrap, every wrapper, every sticky, pungent, forgotten thing thrown in was meant for him to keep—until the garbage truck came. And he liked it. He sorted, arranged, and catalogued everything that came his way, sometimes using those items to build stuff in his free time or to decorate his space. The house would look like a landfill without him. Which was something a lot of the onjects forget about.

This — this right here — was why he didn’t like talking to the others unless they had something for him. Because every conversation, no matter how well it started, always turned into this.

Cam seethed all the way to the office, mumbling under his breath and fidgeting with his new piece of goo in his pocket like it was a stress ball. Luckily, when he shoved open the door, the place was free of Curt and Rod. Only Chance and Lyric were there. Well, Dorian and Jerry were technically present too, but they seldom moved out of the office.

“Oh! Hey-  eh… Cam,” came Chance’s voice the moment he stepped inside.

The red die was all cheer, practically rolling in delight as he gathered up his materials from the desk. Probably because he had just finished that campaign with the human. And then that idiot most likely came to talk to me after, he thought, trying to imagine the timeline of events.

“I was debating whether to put these in you or wait for you to come take them.”

Cam’s mood flickered mid-growl before looking at the plastic bag the die was holding. Chance, as much of a happy and chatty inanimate as he was, did kept to himself. Cam had come to consider him “friendly-tolerable,” which, for him, was basically sainthood. The die was always sketching out game ideas, building worlds, crafting stories that left behind exactly one of the kinds of remnants Cam adored: craft scraps.

“What?” Cam grunted.

Chance simply blinked and lifted the bag higher. Of what he could see, there were paper scraps, empty snack wraps, broken pencils, and torn, crumpled character sheets, the good stuff.

“Well,” he said, reaching for it, “don’t mind if I do.”

Cam started sorting through the good Chance had given him as he made his way toward his smaller body, the plastic one he used when he wanted peace. He’d planned to nap there for a few hours, far from the human’s noise, but the idea of sorting new loot was far more appealing. Especially those new snack wrappers — he’d been meaning to redo a section of his wallpaper, and the glossy ones with the blue foil might look good near the lid hinge. By the time he reached his corner, the bitterness from earlier had thinned. Nothing steadied him like a fresh haul.

Then he stepped on something.

He looked down. A stray sheet of paper had escaped. The bag didn’t seem torn, but a lost scrap was a lost scrap, and in his book, that made it fair game. He bent down to pick it up. It wasn’t a character sheet, though; it looked like part of a dialogue script.

“Tiger A- a what? Amup? Tiger Amup?” he read under his breath, a little confused.

“Hey! That’s mine!” A nasal, jittery voice snapped his attention up.

Jerry.

He was… complicated. Cam liked that they shared an appreciation for what everyone else dismissed as refuse, but the guy took it to extremes. The drawer collected everything that fell into his reach, from buttons to screws to chewed-up erasers, cords, pamphlets, receipts. Everything. He never returned anything he borrowed, no matter how small or how many times people asked for their stuff back. And the mere idea of giving away any of his loot, as far as Cam has seen, was unfathomable.

He had once peeked inside his museum, as he liked to call it, purely to satisfy his curiosity, while the guy was busy yapping about extension cords to his pet moth; the sight inside had been something between confusion and awe. A hoard of tangled cords, paperclips fused into rusted lumps, a box of Penelope's tacks, some rags bundled up together, pieces of broken wood and toys, broken pieces of other objects, nails bent like crooked teeth amongst other bits and pieces that he could not point out, and mold, a lot of nice-looking mold. Even Jerry’s own nails — the literal ones holding his body together — were dull and corroded, and he yelped every time one jabbed him.

After hearing him scream in pain a few other times because of them, Cam had offered to take the nails off his hands, telling him that Tony had a bunch of them that were not rusted, but Jerry looked at him like he’d offered to commit murder. Then launched into a ten-minute sermon about how the nails had history and very delicate personalities, how they’d only get grumpy if moved to a place with the wrong humidity, how they liked the company of thumbtacks but not screws like Tony had…

Now, Cam wasn’t one to judge people’s lifestyle choices, nor was he qualified to be anyone’s therapist, but as he stood there and listened, he realized, for the first time, that he might actually be worried about someone’s mental state. And that was saying something. Because nails, as far as Cam knew, didn’t have animus. Neither did wires. Nor buttons. Nor broken wood splinters.

Yet Jerry spoke of them like old drinking buddies.

He couldn’t bring himself to get too sassy at the jumpy guy; he pitied him a little. And maybe envied him some, too. After all, Jerry had that disembodied baby doll head tucked away in his drawer. A pristine find. Cam still couldn’t believe the human had tossed that treasure into Jerry and not into him.

“Oh yeah?” he arched a brow, holding the script just out of reach as Jerry jittered in place.

“As a matter of fact, yes!” Jerry raised his voice. “Chance gave it to me after we finished his campaign!”

“He gave it to you-” Cam slowly turned toward Chance, who suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.

“Well, before the human and he fought the BBG… Jerry, uh, asked if he could have it after I was done,” the D20 said, fiddling nervously with the charm hanging from his neck.

Cam grunted and placed the page on the desk, where Jerry snatched it like a starving raccoon. What could he do? The paper technically qualified as trash, yes, but dibs were dibs.

“Aight'. Whatever.”

He spent the better half of the day doing what he did best: keeping his little trashy kingdom in order and ready for when his trash bag would inevitably be snatched up from him the next day. Arranging his new wares, doing damage control on the mold cultures that the human’s fizzy water had decimated, putting the new blue foil to good use as wallpaper, and working a few hours on his log cabin project. It had started as an idle thing to do to kill time two weeks ago, but then somehow it turned into an actual thing he wanted to finish, made entirely out of chopsticks. He was running low on supplies. The human better order takeout soon—preferably noodles—or construction will halt indefinitely.

Then he napped.

The morning’s chaos had already shrunk to the size of a dust mote in his mind as he got comfortable on the couch he made of two old car tires and a few rags, letting himself sink into the slumber he was robbed of thanks to the fizzy water incident, until a particularly loud conversation yanked him out of it.

"Ngh…"  He groaned, reaching for two moldy loofahs to press over his ears. They did nothing. The voices punched right through.

"Fucking- can't even sleep properly now." He peered out, spotting Penelope, Chance, and the human. From the little he caught, it was something about a LARPing date and a charisma modifier. He couldn’t care less. Cam wasn’t as grumpy as before, but being woken up mid-nap was pretty annoying. He considered telling those three to shut it; that would definitely work on Penelope, maybe Chance, but he realized that the human would just want to talk to him instead. And he was still feeling a little sleepy, and also snappy at them.

The only way to get some peace was to get out of the office, but there was no way he was walking past the human. There was a possibility that they could not see him anyway since their animus were not… vibrating' in sync, given Skylar’s glasses were apparently selective about who showed up in her spectrum. Then, again, he has seen the human talking with more than one object at the same time, like right now, and he was not risking it.

So, he did the next best thing: materialized across the house and into his main metal body. It wasn’t something he did often; hopping vessels always made him feel like he was shedding his own skin. But at least the kitchen would be quieter.

"…well, fuck me, I guess."

The kitchen was no better.

Mitchell and Errol were in a verbal shoutout, and for what little attention Cam could pay, Errol was losing the match. And Freddy was about to lose his patience in trying to calm those two down.

"Plan C, then."

To the Breaker Box it was, not before looking at the cat clock on the wall that marked 10:45. Enough time for a quick drink before Eddie’s boy-toy herded everyone out. On Wednesdays, the club closed early, 11:20 sharp. And, if the club was in a ruckus too, then he would have to go to the attic to pay Memoria a visit.

Cam didn’t waste a second. Up the stairs, right turn, and past the gym room.

“Cameron,” Dorian greeted.

“Woody,” Cam replied without missing a beat, pushing past him and into the club.

He was met with jazz music at a low volume, with the usual white and amber lights dimmed, and not a lot of patrons present. Score. If there were a god for objects, Cam could kiss them right now.

He headed straight for the bar, where Edd was drying a glass. Dirk and Washford were drinking at one corner of the counter; the washing machine was looking even more depressed than usual, and Dirk... he always looked miserable, nothing new there.

Cam just shrugged and went to sit on a stool that was far away from those two.

“The usual?” Edd  asked in a tone so flat it could iron shirts

“Nah. Just rum with grape syrup this time,” Cam said, equally lifeless.

“Taking it easy on me now? How merciful of you.” Edd responded as he grabbed two bottles, half a lemon, and a glass, then poured, squished, mixed, and stirred. In under two minutes, the order hit the counter.

“Hmn. Take it as a thank-you for the broken glass from yesterday.”

“Oh, right. Forgot to charge you for it,” Edd said with a tone so dead it looped back around to funny.

Cam took a sip, deciding to follow in on the joke a little. “Do you accept screws as payment?”

“Not anymore,” Edd replied without blinking. Then, after a pause, he added: “Ah. I’ll… give you the box in a few minutes.”

Cam nodded once. “Sure.”

And that was that.

He ordered two more drinks over the next twenty-five minutes. The rum made his head feel lighter, and his eyelid dropped as the music had slowed to a lazy crawl. He was half a blink from dozing off when the door burst open.

“Well, good night, everyone!" It was Volt. "I know my absence has been nothing short of a tragedy, but I had some urgent matters to attend to with our lovely Mayor in her office.”

Windolyn and Bathsheba perked up immediately from their table, even Edd’s counter-cleaning slowed, if only fractionally, to look at him.

Volt, glowing faintly from hair to smile, sauntered to the small stage, opting to just leap on it instead of using the small steps at its side. He adjusted the jacket draped on his shoulders and took the lightbulb-microphone in his hand as he spoke.

“My sincerest apologies,” he continued. “We are about to close in ten minutes, but before you all vanish into your gloomy corners of the house once more, I have an announcement.”

“Ngh…” Cam’s head lolled forward.

Volt spread his arms, palms open to his captive audience. “You all know how much we adore Miranda and her lovely band when they grace us with their music.”

A chorus of voices cheered in agreement.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Volt smiled. “But after witnessing one of Chairemi’s exquisite performances yesterday, I found myself wondering-” he pressed a hand to his chest theatrically, “-how much more hidden talent is scattered within this household?”

Cam’s thoughts drifted, sluggishly, then exhaled a heavy breath through his nose. “Weird… ’m not a lightweight,” he muttered, slurring a little. Maybe the day’s work had caught up to him. He normally ran on six to nine hours of good sleep, unless he consciously decided to get plastered, but with the bubbly incident and the amount of work he did today, well, he felt tired. It did not help that Volt’s low voice lulled him further, making it difficult to pay attention to the rest of his speech.

Sleep soon slipped over him as his head found the support of his hand against the bar.

It was unknown to him how much he had spent sleeping there. But that quickly got interrupted by a sudden crack of static biting through his neck, awaking him with a jolt. He blinked. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was until the periphery of his vision caught a white glow, and he heard the clearing of a throat.

“Cam, you scamp,” Volt said. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave for the night. We’re closing, and unless you’d like to stay and sweep the floorboards, I must play the villain here.”

Cam blinked, groggy, glancing down the bar. His glasses were gone. Edd had probably whisked them away at some point.

He turned back to Volt.

“That depends,” he said. “Do I get free refills if I mop the floors?”

Volt let out an airy laugh. “Hah. No.”

“Bummer.” Cam slid off the stool, joints creaking faintly, and set moneys on the counter. “G’night.”

He passed through the door, walked past Dorian —still standing there with the same exact posture as before, looking like he did not need to sleep, at least this Dorian did not seem to —and kept walking. Past the gym. Down the stairs and turning right. The house was quiet again, mercifully so. Even the kitchen’s earlier ruckus had cooled to silence. Maybe this time, sleep would come easily.

Unless the human decided to pour soda and Mentos into him in the middle of the damn night.

“…They wouldn’t dare,” he muttered, though a flicker of paranoia crawled up his bag. Humans did dumb things, always.

Just in case, he rotated his metallic body, turning the pedal that opened his lid toward the wall. If the human wanted to drop something in him tonight, they’d have to turn him around first, and by then, Cam would already be gone to his other body.

He would still feel it, but it won't be as prominent.

It was a good plan. So he went to sleep, for real this time.

…

… … …

… … … … … …

… … … … … … … …

… … … … … … … … …

"Shit. My fucking box!"