Work Text:
vox was always very clear about one thing: never disturb him when he’s working. anything and everything else could be unclear for all he cared other than that—and, well, that he was hot shit.
the hot shit, if you will. it’s imperative to know that. company rules and whatever.
but, oh, woe is the woman who loves! you were just a girl, standing in front of an enormous pair of office doors, yearning for some love and affection from the boy (man(child)) sitting behind them.
you totally did not steal that line from a movie.
sighing heavily, you furrow your brow as you pout up at the floor-to-ceiling doors, unintentionally scrunching up your nose as you do so. it was horrifically late into the night—way later than your husband had promised he’d be—and he was taking ages.
you’d been standing at the entryway for quite some time now, silk nightgown and all, and you can’t bring yourself to believe that there was possibly any chance that vox was absorbed enough in his emails and ratings to not notice the cameras. there was literally one pointed directly at the spot you were standing in!
“oh, damn it all to hell,” you curse, finally making up your mind. “i’m his wife for goodness’ sake.”
you firmly plant both hands on either door, over the horizontal lines that intersected into a V down the middle, and throw them open with a startling amount of strength.
vox’s reaction is immediate.
he turns around in his chair fast enough to give any other person whiplash, screen flickering with fury and completely ready to incinerate who dared to disturb him—until he realises that it’s you.
“oh, honey,” vox splutters, taken aback. “i–” he looks down at his watch, before his gaze flickers back up at you with an indignant flash. “i’m pretty sure i told you not to come in here when i’m working.”
“and i’m pretty sure you also told me that you’d be back at the penthouse by 9,” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest, where, predictably, his digital eyes zero in on.
“i–” he says again, scrambling for the right words. it’s funny, really, how the smooth-talking corporate media tycoon and the face of hell’s most successful business could be reduced to a stammering mess when presented with the threat of his wife’s inevitable wrath. “look, doll, it’s just a really busy season, you know–”
“neglectful little husband,” you interrupt him, clicking your tongue. your pout deepens. “i thought you loved me.”
vox visibly deflates from across the room. “oh, don’t be like that, baby,” he complains, “you know i do.”
“not enough to come home to me on time, apparently.”
his mouth falls open, disappearing into the border of his screen as it glitches. “it’– (szzt!) not like that!”
“i dunno, vinny, it seems an awful lot like that to me,” you say plainly, walking across the narrow platform and towards him. the double doors swing shut behind you. “i’ve been waiting for hours.”
“babydoll, sweetheart, honey,” vox coaxes, obviously trying to sweet-talk his way out of his predicament. he spreads his arms open as you draw closer. “c’mere. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, which was surprising, given that he was never one for apologising. his ego was too inflated for that.
you take your rightful seat on his lap, though you don’t immediately melt into his hold like you usually did—and you can feel vox tense behind you. oh, he knew you were pissed.
“i’m sorry,” he tries again. “i didn’t mean to.”
“we both know you absolutely meant to,” you huff, arms still crossed. vox nudges the part of his bezel that replaced his chin into the junction that connected your neck and shoulder, and his own arms circle your waist as he hugs you close.
“i just need to finish this one last email, i promise, and i’ll go to bed—”
you let out another disastrously heavy sigh that’s really just meant to toy with him at this point. “there are three of us in this marriage. me, you, and work. in life and in death, huh?”
“oh, no,” vox protests, “no, no, no, no, darling, i promise– oh, you cruel woman.” his screen falls against your shoulder in defeat.
“you terrible, awful man,” you shoot back. your husband is too caught up in his distress to realise that you’ve already begun to settle against him.
“my wicked, cruel, beautiful girl,” he lets out a long, drawn-out whine of despair. “i already told you m’ sorry.”
“look who’s talking,” you huff, turning around to look at him. he looks tired—can TVs even look tired?—and thoroughly disheveled. well, as disheveled as a man with a screen for a face could look. his bowtie is loosened, his top buttons hang open, and his usually pristine blazer is wrinkled way beyond his standards.
“let me make it up to you,” vox pleads, taking your hand in his and gently kissing up the skin of your wrist. “i’ll make you feel good, promise. just let me finish this.”
you roll your eyes, though you allow him to continue showering you in affection anyway. “hmph. i think not.”
“wh- (zzt!) what!?” he halts his ministrations, appalled. “why the fuck not!?”
“you’re exhausted, idiot,” you point out, flicking his forehead hard enough to make the screen distort. “there’s no way you’ll last more than two minutes before keeling over and passing out.”
vox bristles. “i wouldn’t–!”
“but that’s okay,” you finish, smoothing your thumbs over the sides of his frame. “i wasn’t looking for that tonight, anyway. i just wanted you.”
his indignation melts into confusion, and he blinks at you. “...seriously?”
“seriously,” you confirm, twisting around to tug one of his drawers open behind you. your fingers brush against a half-empty box of cigarettes and you pull one out, fishing into your dressing-gown pocket for the lighter velvette had gifted you a few sinsmases back—which was honestly just a blatant rip-off of vivienne westwood’s saturn orb.
you slip the cigarette in between his holographic lips as he continues to look up at you in disbelief, and you unhurriedly set about to lighting a smoke. once fire catches, vox begins to inhale the nicotine out of habit, but you take it away from him before he could take a proper hit.
“hey! what–”
the only response you give him is taking the cigarette into your own mouth and taking a deep, languid drag, before leisurely blowing it into his face. you weren’t much of a smoker, you knew that he knew that, so it doesn’t come across as a shock to you to realise it’s a surprise he’s anything but displeased about.
vox cracks a grin, tilting his head as his claws slide over the silk of your nightgown and settle above your hips. “thought you said you weren’t in the mood?” he says amusedly. “is this a threat or a challenge, sweetheart?”
you take another drag, this time blowing it to the side before putting it out on the armrest of his chair. “a smoke,” you coolly reply.
his expression falters. crumbles, even.
“though,” you continue lightly, “it is definitely an invitation to get into bed with me.”
your husband’s whole face brightens up again, and you hold a finger to his lips before he could say anything. “not like that.”
vox deflates again, mourning the lost promise of sex, though you can tell he deems your offer good enough for him. “i’ll take it,” he gives in, swiping a hand through the air to shut off all his screens and CPUs for the night.
when you give him a questioning look, he merely sighs and says, “ethan has access to the shit i was working on, anyway. i’ll let him handle it.” he then presses a small peck to your temple, standing up with an arm beneath your knees and another supporting your back. “my wife’s calling for me,” he says cheekily.
“as she has been for hours,” you remind him. nonetheless, a pleased smile spreads across your lips.
“yeah, well.” vox positions himself in front of the same security camera you’d stood in front of just earlier, static beginning to buzz around the two of you as he prepares to travel through the electrical system and back to your penthouse.
“i’ve got all night to make it up to her.”