Chapter Text
Mac has seen everything there is to see about the house owner. From the ugly to the good to the devastatingly horrid, the crude fanfiction to the diary entries where they’d wish to disappear and stop the charade of being alive. In silence, the two of them harbor a secret relationship. One where Mac is the sole witness of the human’s pain, and in return, the human relies on Mac for everything needed.
It’s an exchange, one which helps the computer understand its owner more and more each day— laid bare before them and the entire space to see. The way their fingers tremble, the slight furl of their eyebrows, the slight tears ever so omnipresent in their eyes.
Maybe that’s why Skylar Specs’ existence had come to be a blessing for them, a saviour in the passing time proved an obstacle for someone so fragile— so human-like and never steady against the unstopping waves of adult life. The human personification of life’s punching ball.
“…Uhm, hi.” A small sound, just like they’re so small, figuratively but also quite physically— they curl up on themselves and look to be falling as if the entire weight of their existence pulls them down with their shame, Mac doesn’t comment on it, lest they want to drive them further away. It’s the contrary, they want to be skin to skin, lay the human bare to the continuity of their worship and show them that through everything, they’ll be there.
That even if the world has given up on them, Mac for one would never, just like they always had treated the computer with care. It’s a childish sentimental affection in which, everytime their friends came over and rambled about having to replace what they had deemed a decaying equipment, they were never discarded.
No, Mac was cherished. Updated and fed with the latest updates their system would allow, stared at for hours on end, smiled at— confessed to, a concept of soothing for a being that barely considered itself human anymore, an entity who in the gadget's eyes, was worth more than any high performance data pack a new site could introduce.
They’d both stand at an impasse— an update the other couldn’t have. And whereas Mac was fine with that and found themselves performant enough, the others would always shyly look away— unwanting in the attention now placed on them in their expectations of meeting a grand new blossoming romance.
(Something Mac hoped and knew they could gain— another step after the endless nights together, only a step further into the dance they both could not carry but would try to lead anyway).
They want to be this version of themselves, at their best settings and optimal capacity— not only for themselves, but for them too, because Mac knows when they are in dire need of assistance.
The human does not.
And unlike (some) objects around the house, Mac also knows the desire that stems from being desired, wanted and more importantly acknowledged. The fantasy of a romance with the others does not bother them, much like having the homeowner to themselves does not sound ugliest in the least, it’s a compromise some won’t make, but that they’re willing to work with to know what’s important not in their preferred relationship, with and for the homeowner.
They are fine with sharing, as long as they can be looked at too, 11.4 hours on weekdays and 14.6 hours on weekends, a part of a routine, a puzzle piece in something important to their lover.
Said custom a motion through the days now, known frames by frames, movements for movements. They walk in and Mac smiles at them, letting them sit on the floor with their head on their lap, silently muttering nonsense from the early morning (and unsavory meeting with Nightmare, not that Mac had to know). And despite their own faulty tiredness in the form of having been left on all night, Mac fantasizes about this even as it becomes real.
..Guiding their hand through the human’s hair, whispering sweet nothings into their waiting form— eager to soak up all the affection their computer can offer, feeding off the jealousy of the other’s furniture and marking themselves as one of the first to be so close to them.
It is not a competition, but still an important achievement they will carry with them— they would love a virus all they could, even when the human discarded them all in favor of soaking in their own misery, much like all the other objects wait. Some cause more bad than good, it’s a tough process, human adulthood.
With a dreamy sigh, they close their eyes, letting the door close behind with their hands as the only witness of the privilege given to them. They had it in their palm, the trust of their beloved.
God, it feels so good to want and somehow be sought out.
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If there’s something the human isn’t very good at, it’s talking. Much less talking to prevent a fight from what they consider in their eyes, lovers— something that in a fantasy foreign to them, Harper must imagine they view as sweet and candy-like with the way they first silently beamed when she introduced the two of them, aside from the screaming.
..and somehow, that was almost sweet, hadn’t she been too busy knowing the man was making a fool of her— despite all of her effort and what she had (apparently) given him, they stood there much like a child watching their parents fight— awkward and doll like, making them all the more pathetic.
And maybe that’s what makes them so charming— their inability to understand how to step into the mud and filth that are her and Dirk, all storms before becoming soft rainy clouds and then a complete hurricane when he steps too far ahead, a proof of his cheating, she’d name it.
(Even though Harper finds herself entertaining the idea of the human by their side sometimes, someone to side with her— cherish her, a thing that won’t speak too loud and who she’ll have no worry parting from because much like an obedient dog, it’d never leave her).
Because in all its glory, it’s essentially kind of the owner’s fault or that’s how they see it. After learning about Chappy and having the sudden realization that much like the ones around, that too, was alive. And they had killed him, another thing that left her, a mistake she wouldn’t dare to make again.
Whether it’s guilt or awkwardness— at having killed their laundry hamper’s past beloved (which Harper had only known for a few days). They never say a word more, much like they never actually say anything at all to begin with, the floor is always far more interesting. She’s not scary in that aspect, Harper would argue herself to be quite sweet if not provoked, something Dirk can’t seem to do. Always itching to piss her off.
It reminds her of Chappy, not the passiveness. But the idea of staying quiet and sweet when not needed but cuddly and fluffy when sought out, a soft heady feeling of love the woman won’t entertain, for every thought and hours her eyes are not set on the dirty laundry, who knows where he might sneak off to? She simply can’t afford it, what’s hers is hers.
And much like Harper is stuck in limbo, Dirk is too— amused by the whole ordeal and playing into Harper’s delusional rants in a sadistic streak of wanting to punch where it hurts, to know where it hurts the most, to always land the most critical blow. When he does it, he can see the human frowning, their back even more pushed in as they attempt to make themselves as small as possible.
If the sour pinch it brings to his chest is anything to go by, he hates seeing their face. Mostly because it reminds him getting them on his side will be hard, and that maybe they see through the barely there façade— Harper and him are both the fire and fuel to their relationship, the two of them biting at the hand that feeds and tearing it when it deserves to, and it always does.
If it wasn’t for Amir or Daisuke swooping in and being their knight in charming armor— they’d play their role of the statue forever, until the both of them grew bored of yelling at each other and took a break. Dirk entertains the idea of it sometimes, taking more than a break and finding himself delighted in the presence of the human, much like he’s heard from the other objects (mainly the hanks) how awesome it is to be on their good side.
To be something they do not fear but enjoy, a being meant to soothe them— because wasn’t that the whole deal with Skylar’s existence? To offer a miserable person a chance at love?
“I know it! You’re not even listening to me, you’re trying to cheat on me again, aren’t you? Who will it be this time, the washing machine?!” He sighs, running a hand through his messy hair and just like always takes the bait— and once again, unlike a normal routine with them, both Dirk and Harper lose points.
Whether or not the human is scared of them is up for debate, but they are definitely not entertaining the idea of a romance with him or his girlfriend like they’d be with The Hanks or Dorian.
And maybe that does leave him a little bit bitter, for some reason.
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It’s rare to hear even the faintest of noise from the houseowner that isn’t associated with either: one, existential dread or two, utter and utmost despair— as if they wanted to disappear. That first showcase was when they lost their job, about maybe 3 weeks ago, the face they had made and the way Mac and the objects in their office had described it.
At that moment, they looked more dead than usual— as if lightning had struck twice and took with it the very last remnants of functionality they possessed, sighing out in frustration and gripping at their head while quietly sniffing, they probably had buried their already low aspirations, made peace with their future and tucked it in a box.
The glasses were a nice gift to an extent— the human was awkward and unsteady, like a feather unable to carry its own weight if there’s no wind, and the added pressure of finding friendship or love was definitely not something they wanted to add on their ‘things i was coerced to do’ bingo. Yet they played if not to please Skylar and the other few objects that had always been eager to talk to them, Teddy— Mac, the list was kind of too long.
It’s like an amalgamation of feelings they can’t begin to explain, not realizing that while they’re in too deep— so are the objects, each in their own sweet or twisted way scouting to get something soft and meaningless or to take advantage of one thing, a person’s fragility.
Something that Front Dorian doesn’t desire. He aims to keep himself at arm’s length, to not put more on someone who looks like the slightest gust of wind would take all their motivations with them and kill them on the spot, he simply wonders how many secrets they can keep.
Not much he supposes, considering how everywhere something can be. Whether it’s him, one of his counterparts or one of the other objects, the human had never been subtle to begin with. All the details, easy to miss at first, but not difficult to spot altogether.
How their eyes twitch and puff when they’re ready to cry, the absent tapping of their fingers against any surface as they boringly either watch the tv or are upstairs, eyes glued to their screen and an absent look on their face, it’d be almost sweet if not worrying.
Through each step of their life inside the house, each object has granted themselves (or not) a sense of longing— through the lens of watching a life go by, they’ve understood what makes their owner tick, what they’re like and things normal people would never be bothered to understand.
The subtle things, how they’d sometime, ever since they were a young adult walking through the job market, ‘quietly’ leave the comfort Betty offers and thread carefully down Stella’s narrow steps and ultimately sink into the warmth Mateo lays at their feet, a win for the blanket, a loss for the lovely bed upstairs.
It’s a loving feeling, what each object feels or pretends to know to feel. And maybe that’s how they find themself at a corner, amused but all the while bitterly bargaining for those who do not like sharing, much like right now.
It’s not that Eddie doesn’t want to share, he’d be willing to— if said sharing only involved him and Volt, nothing and no one else. Safe in the comfort of not having to fight for something that’s already hard to obtain, the soft sappy tell-tale signs of love, aided by the alcohol in his system, a rare occurrence. Eddie doesn’t drink, and even if he does, he’s mastered his control.
Unlike Volt, who lets himself go too much. In the quiet of their own little closet, he listens to his love’s drunken rambling, words hard to decipher and sentences strung together as if attempting to confuse Eddie more than help him.
But he understands it, the yearning for something that shouldn’t be. They have each other, but they want more than it— not anyone, they want the houseowner.
“They’re gentle and kind,” Volt would sigh about, nudging at his partner and offering one of his well known sly grins, draping himself on the overworked man and whispering sweet nothings in his ear, his own idea of a shared fantasy.
Their fantasy.
“They’re kind and willing, always helpful and so alive. Like they were made for me, made for us.” He’d trail off, face nuzzled in Eddie’s neck, flushed skin giggling against a cold one and with big, wet, hazy eyes— Volt would declare himself one of the many challengers in this stupid game of romancing and chasing after someone they had to fight way too hard for.
“I want them,” he’d slur, giggling— all sparkly and electrifying, enticing and laid bare for Eddie to see. And with a sigh and rare fond laugh, he’d nod along and run his hand through the other’s hair. “I want them too, V.” -badly, he didn’t add, because he wouldn’t let himself be considered desperate, but maybe he was, in his own rough way of loving.
That by the next time, when he’s undeniably turned into a soft bitch because of them— he’ll be looked in the eyes and graced with the words he wants to hear, something to put at peace his ever thinking brain. That with their gentle and frail hands, they’d let him cup their face. Back pressed against Volt’s chest and big doe eyes trusting them.
And fuck, if that isn’t everything he’s ever wanted.
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Lux does not like the owner.
Or at least that’s the lie that they’re ready to die with. Lodged in their throat— because how embarrassing and shameful it is for them to find anyone but themselves captivating, but how can they not when in the idiot’s eyes, it’s as if they’re the most beautiful thing in the world?
It isn’t shocking. Not a secret— they’re perfect, even more so for a person like them that is afraid of the dark and fears even closing their eyes and letting silence envelop them whole, a pathetic sight. But maybe that’s exactly what they like, the semblance of superiority that comes with having something so moldable. A diamond in the rough meant to exist just for them.
(An exaggeration, course. The human does not belong to anyone. But if some objects like Fantina or Hector can proclaim themselves the human’s lover and best admirer, why can’t they do the same and steal the spotlight by romancing them? You’ve got to do what you must do in the quest of shining brighter than anyone).
Lux dislikes interesting conversations that revolve around anything other than them— they like the soft warmth feeling of admiration they can steal from the human’s sparkling gaze and tight-sealed deal, a package meant for someone like them who just want a sweet nod every often and repeated “beautiful”’s to caress their ears, a cacophony of praise just for them, a thanks for bringing light into this dark world.
A testament to their dedication, and foolishness.
For yes, at first the simple idyllic delusion of a romance to boost viewers’ engagements sounded sweet— a willing, shy and pliant little bird of which they could pluck the feathers and it would not scream, eagerly leaning in and accepting its ill-fated romance.
And as shameful as it is for their pride— they’ve come to dig it, being the center of the human’s world, a constant presence for any decent house to have, a savior. Because Lux has concluded of their odd dynamic, at night, when it’s them the little thing comes to see and hug after a Nightmare in search of a light in the silence of their own mind, they eat it up, everytime.
Not for follower validation, even less to play along Skylar’s stupid dating sim fantasy but because they like it and want to be that, a lover. Just like every human posts their relationship on the internet for shameless validation, Lux wants to press a kiss on their temple and steal a photograph on them to keep it pinned on top of all their other posts— put them above even the constant spotlight they bask in and soothe their fever.
And never lose the chance to hold them bare, in a metaphorical and physical sense— play with them but also coo and tug them gently into the difficulty that is loving such a star like them.
“I’m beautiful, aren’t I?” They’d ask offhandedly, already knowing the answer to the rhetoric. And yet, when the same small voice would gently lull them into being a lovesick puppy, they eagerly turn around with a smile, anticipating the words they’ve grown used to by now,
“..So beautiful.” A shy whispered truth— accompanied by their slightly flushed face and shaky fingers, eyes barely maintaining the eye before surrendering to the flooring. And with a deeply amused chuckle, Lux steps closer with a privilege only they wish to have.
“..You’re not bad looking either, lightning, I could make you my assistant.” A ‘compliment’ sealed by a kiss on their forehead.
And maybe one day— in Lux’s fantasy that they’ll regret later, that promise with a ring like stupid humans do when they yearn, badly.
Because who else but Lux would win this?