Chapter Text
Spamton couldn’t say he loved the stage.
Sure, he could memorize lines, hit his marks, and ad-lib when needed. He put on a damn good performance, thank you very much.
But he could never command the attention of an entire studio audience. He didn’t have a dazzling smile or booming laugh that shook you right down to your core. He couldn’t pull witty comebacks or clever jokes out of his ass like it was nothing. He didn’t come alive under the lights, like it was his entire purpose in life to entertain.
He wasn’t Tenna. Watching the star up-close and personal over the last year had made that abundantly clear.
And that was fine. Tenna was literally made for TV, and Spamton had a different, no less important, job to do. He was a salesman; the moneymaker, the wallet behind all of Tenna’s bright ideas. That was what he was good at, and he wouldn’t trade places for all the kromer in the world. He was perfectly happy to watch Tenna perform from backstage, and slot in pre-recorded ad-reads where needed.
Even if Tenna pouted every time Spamton crossed himself out of an upcoming script. Even if Tenna kept coming to him with ideas for some kind of “sweepstakes” special, with Spamton as the lead. Even if Tenna looked at him with that pathetic wet dog expression and begged, “Please, Spammy? The stage misses you!”
The stage had no such feelings. While the jury was still out on where exactly Spamton stood, the stage made itself perfectly clear: it hated Spamton.
Something always seemed to go wrong whenever Spamton agreed to be part of a live broadcast. One of the cameras would die, or a spotlight would burn out, or someone would spill coffee all down his front right before his call time. Always something that could be explained away as coincidence, but after a while, it started to add up. Though Tenna always played it off without missing a beat, convincing the audience it was all part of the show, Spamton knew the truth.
Spamton was not made for the stage, not the way Tenna was. He was an interloper from far away, and the TV World seemed to know it. Though he was here with its ruler’s blessing, some ethereal force still conspired to let him know he didn’t belong in the spotlight.
So he did the bare minimum to keep Tenna satisfied. He’d only go out there for special occasions: holidays, new segments, important sponsor deals. And only because their ratings spiked whenever Spamton agreed to stand alongside Tenna — Not because Tenna somehow sparkled even brighter when they performed together.
It was one of those special performances that brought Spamton to the stage today. Some yearly movie-marathon was coming up, and Tenna begged Spamton to be part of the surrounding show. Literally begged, on his knees and everything (which definitely wasn’t the deciding factor that made Spamton fold).
Whatever, not like it was a difficult gig. Just a few segues to the commercial breaks, some banter between movies. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
Spamton rifled through his red-lined script, waiting on his mark for Tenna to finish conversing with one of the PAs just off stage. The star of the show was in an especially good mood; smiling at everyone, gesturing wildly with his hands while he explained whatever big ideas he had for the show. Spamton couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, watching the back of Tenna’s tailcoat strain as he flailed around. This was only their first dry-run of the script, and Tenna was already pulling out all the stops.
He really never slows down, Spamton thought fondly, before he could bury the feeling. Big shot material, for sure.
Tenna’s excitement was contagious. Around them the rest of the crew buzzed as they went about their work. Everyone was completely focused on checking cameras, testing the microphones, cracking jokes as they ran cables to and from the stage. Someone brought Spamton a last-minute coffee, and managed not to trip and throw it in his face. He thanked them with a wink and sent them scurrying, red-faced, back behind the curtains.
Still talking to the PA, Tenna made a grand, sweeping gesture to the stage. He caught Spamton’s eye, beaming like Spamton hung all the stars in the sky just for him, and lifted a hand in a little wave.
Spamton quirked an eyebrow at him. He raised his hand as well, but to tap at his watch. We were supposed to start ten minutes ago, moron, he tried to psychically project into that big empty TV head.
Tenna’s mouth formed into a shocked little “Oh!” and he covered it with one hand. Then his smile turned apologetic, and he held up two fingers. Two more minutes, please! Was the obvious meaning.
Rolling his eyes, Spamton waved him off. He turned back to watch the crew again, sipping his coffee while his mind wandered.
Maybe this would be the only thing to go wrong today. They’d just run a little behind and throw off the whole schedule. All because Tenna couldn’t help but treat every rehearsal like the most important performance of his life.
Spamton had already resigned himself to a late night at the studio. Tenna would want to go over the whole script again after rehearsal, marking down every tweak and change he thought of. They’d probably be here past midnight, workshopping the show until it met Tenna’s impossible standards. Then they’d pass out on the couch in Tenna’s dressing room, notes scattered everywhere, empty whisky glasses leaving rings on the battered old coffee table.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
It was starting to become familiar, this late-night routine they fell into after rehearsal days. Spamton couldn’t bring himself to hate it. There were worse ways to spend an evening, after all. It was far better than the days where Tenna’s insecurities caught up with him, and Spamton was the one who had to talk him down from the edge.
And it sure as hell beat out the nights he spent penniless in the gutter, barely scraping by, getting dragged around by the nose to listen to some good-for-nothing traitor brag about all the sales they were getting—
Caught up in his own thoughts, Spamton didn’t hear the first creak. It was a loud crack that got him to look up, to the scaffolding and lights overhead. His eyes found one massive spotlight, already broken off its track and swinging free, just as the last cord holding it aloft snapped. The whole world slowed to a crawl as it plummeted—
right
toward
him.
Did he have time to run? The light was huge, and he was so, so small — could his little legs get him away in time? Could he catch it? Could he do it all without spilling his coffee? What a stupid thought, just move, idiot!
Someone screamed his name from far, far away.
Then something slammed into him — not the light from above, but the side. It knocked him flat on his back, air punched from his lungs as he hit the hardwood floor. A loud crash rattled his eardrums, and he found himself pressed up against something solid and unyielding. There was a thud, then a chilling, static buzz.
Dazed from the fall, Spamton couldn’t quite figure out what was pinning him to the ground. He reached out blindly, finding soft velvet under his hands, instead of twisted metal and broken glass. When he cracked an eye open, he found his vision full of gaudy red and yellow.
The familiar scent of sharp cologne brought some of his senses back. Sure enough, the wide body crouched over him was Tenna, his silky tie spilling onto Spamton’s face. Stuttering breaths warmed the air between them.
Spamton’s head swam with the realization. “What — What the hell—?” he wheezed.
Joints creaking, Tenna curled around him. Huge hands cradled Spamton’s head, wrapped around his back, trembling beneath silk gloves.
“Spa-am-t-t-ton…” Tenna’s voice shuddered out of him like it hurt, every syllable a strain on his speakers. “Are—Are—you—okaa-ay?”
Something was wrong. Spamton pushed against Tenna’s chest, trying to squirm out of his grasp, but it only made Tenna cling tighter. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, despite the splitting headache he could already feel coming on. “You can let me go now!”
Finally, Tenna planted his hands on either side of Spamton to push himself up. Just a few inches, enough for Spamton to get a look at his face. Tenna’s screen flickered with static snow, warbling at the edges. His arms shook, antennae drooped low over his head, fans whirring loudly.
“Th-Tha-ank good-n—ss,” Tenna said, in that same horrible, crackling pitch. “Got he-e-re… In ti-i-i-me…”
The last word trailed off and his screen cut to a colorful test pattern. Then it went dark, pitch black, with just the slightest fuzz of lingering static. His arms gave out and he crashed down on top of Spamton again. There was a hollow thunk as his head hit the floor, and he lay still.
Not just still — Silent.
Spamton had noticed during their time together that Tenna was never truly quiet. Even when he wasn’t talking or moving, the gentle buzz of the fans in his mechanical body always filled the silence. When he slept, Spamton could hear the pulse of an electric heartbeat in his chest. His screen emitted a high-pitched sound you could only hear when everything else was quiet, and his joints clicked when he moved. There was always something in Tenna making some kind of noise.
But not now. The star of TV Time lay silent as the grave.
“Hey…” Spamton smacked his hand against the side of Tenna’s head. “Hey, ya still with me, big guy?”
No response.
“Ant, c’mon, wake up,” Spamton’s voice started to rise with the panic creeping up his throat. He shoved more insistently at Tenna’s chest, but the guy must have weighed a ton. He didn’t even budge, and Spamton couldn’t find an opening to wriggle out from under him. “This isn’t funny, you hunk o’ junk — Tenna, get up!”
Tenna didn’t move an inch.
No, no, this can’t be happening. Spamton’s mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. Not here — not now!
We're supposed to have more time!
No, he couldn’t let himself think like that. Tenna would be fine, he had to be. Even if Spamton had to piece him back together with his own two hands.
Teeth grit and determined, Spamton twisted his body as far as he could. For all that effort, he managed to pop one arm free. Scrabbling at the scuffed floor, he pulled himself just a few inches out from under Tenna’s dead weight. Fresh air reached him, and he finally got a look at the crowd around them. The whole crew, standing like statues, watching their two hosts with abject horror.
Spamton filled his lungs as much as possible, and screamed, “Can I get some fucking help over here?!”
The crew sprang to life like he’d just delivered an electric shock. Several Shadowguys came running, while one Pippins started barking orders to the others. With some saxophone squeaks and a lot of swearing on Spamton’s part, they managed to lift Tenna enough for Spamton to pull himself free. He stood on shaky legs, clutching his lapels as he surveyed the damage.
The first thing his eyes landed on was the massive tear in the back of Tenna’s coat. It started just between his shoulders and reached down to the small of his back. Crumpled red velvet fell away from the frayed edges in clumps as the Shadowguys fussed over him. Spamton couldn’t help but imagine thick, dripping blood.
Next to him the broken spotlight lay in a mangled heap, where it must have hit Tenna and bounced off to the floor. The glass lens and bulb were both shattered, broken shards scattered across the stage. A few sharp fragments were wedged into Tenna’s coat, leaving even more holes in the fabric.
Spamton’s brain felt like sludge in his head, but he could still put two and two together. The light fell. He couldn’t get away. It would have crushed him, if not for Tenna. Tenna protected him.
Hell, Tenna probably saved his life.
While he stood frozen and dumbfounded, the group of Pippinses returned with a huge roll of duct tape, scissors, and a few other tools. One of them directed the others to pull Tenna’s tailcoat off. They tossed the ruined velvet aside, then went at his dress shirt with the scissors. The fabric fell away, revealing enough of Tenna’s bare back to survey the damage.
Spamton sucked in a painful breath. A gaping crack opened across Tenna's upper back. The plastic casing between his shoulders was bent inwards, split open. It just barely missed what looked like a metal spine, but that was of little comfort when Tenna was still completely out cold.
He had often been curious about what Tenna was hiding under all those layers (hell, he rarely even saw the guy’s elbows), but he never wished to see him like this.
The lead Pippins grimaced. “Yeah, that’s gonna sting,” they said, and gestured for another to hand them a pair of rubber-tipped pliers. They poked around at the jagged edges of the injury, carefully bending some of the plastic back together. When they’d done the best they could, they sat back with a huff. “Alrighty, let’s get the big guy closed up.”
The Pippinses many little hands worked with practiced speed, covering the crack with a thick layer of duct tape. They smoothed it down against Tenna’s plastic casing, and sat back to admire their work.
“Is — Is that gonna fix him?” Spamton asked, peering over Tenna’s massive shoulder.
“Should do,” the lead Pippins replied. “Once he’s patched up, his magic will take care of the rest. Probably gonna have to take it easy for a few days, though.”
Yeah, ‘taking it easy’ really wasn’t something Tenna knew how to do. Especially not with a big movie marathon coming up, an event he already poured his heart and soul into. Getting him to sit still long enough for his back to heal would be an endless argument, Spamton could just feel it.
But that was a headache he could save for later. Right now, however…
“So, why isn’t he wakin’ up?”
The Pippins exchanged a look with a Shadowguy, still hovering nearby. They walked around Tenna’s head, still face-down on the floor, and rapped their knuckles against the vents on the side. When he still didn’t stir, they heaved a frustrated sigh. “He probably needs a full reset.”
“What,” Spamton started, stopped when his voice came out an octave higher than usual, and tried again, “What does that mean? Reset — is that something you can do?”
“Yeah, it’s just a pain in the ass,” the Pippins said. They gestured to the Shadowguys, who hooked their arms under Tenna again. Straining with the effort, they heaved him onto his back. Spamton threw out his hands to catch Tenna’s head as they rolled him over, hoping to soften the landing at least a little.
Then the Pippins hopped up onto Tenna’s chest and ripped the front of his shirt open.
Blood rushed to Spamton’s face — out of anger, obviously. “Wh-What the hell are you doing?!” he shouted. Unconscious or not, Tenna was still their boss. He deserved some respect!
The Pippins rolled their eye at him. “Just get up here. Gonna need your help with this.”
Spamton couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less than follow this asshole’s orders. He didn’t seem to have much choice though, since no one else stepped up with alternatives. So he climbed onto Tenna’s chest, trying not to think too hard about how he was balancing on his hands and knees on top of his business partner. He held on to the torn edges of Tenna’s dress shirt to steady himself, and fixed the Pippins with a death glare.
It didn’t have much effect. The Pippins was as lackadaisical as ever as they pointed down to a latch in the center of Tenna’s chest. “See that? Press it and he’ll open up.”
Spamton hovered his fingers over the indent of the latch. Next to it, printed on the plastic that formed Tenna’s left pectoral, was a warning label. A bright yellow exclamation point next to the words, ‘Warning! High Voltage!’
That seemed like something Spamton should be concerned about. But the whole crew was watching him, and he didn’t want to look like a pussy…
He pressed down on the latch, and the whole left side of Tenna’s plastic casing popped up like it was on a spring. Inside, wires ran this way and that all around some sort of metal endoskeleton. Somehow, Spamton expected it to be a mess, but the wires were pretty well organized. Some were even zip-tied together to keep them in their proper places. Whether Tenna took care of them himself or he had some sort of dedicated mechanic, Spamton had no idea. Tenna was pretty secretive about his own inner workings.
“Alright, you see that thing?” The Pippins pointed past all the wires, deeper into Tenna’s chest.
Nestled between the wires and other components was a hefty black box with a white heart painted on it. It sat just off center in his chest, securely bolted in place. Many of the wires connected back into it, their rubber casing peeled back so the central copper could hook right into the box.
Spamton swallowed hard and nodded.
“That’s his primary power source,” the Pippins explained. “There’s a switch on the side of it. You’re gonna have to reach in and turn it off and on again.”
“Turn it off?” Spamton repeated, alarmed.
The Pippins sighed again. “Yeah, that’s how you reset him,” they said, like they were explaining this to an especially stupid child. “He probably went into emergency shut-down, so you gotta give him a little kick to get him up and runnin’ again.”
“Wait — Isn’t this your job?” Spamton asked, waving a frantic hand between them. “Why don’t you do it?” This Pippins seemed to know a lot about it, so surely they had done this before, right? They should be the one doing this, not him!
(So if something went wrong, it wouldn’t be Spamton’s fault.)
The Pippins raised their arms and flexed their three stubby little fingers. “Nah, my arms are too short, I can’t reach!” they said, with a grin Spamton didn’t trust for a second.
Now that was definitely bullshit. If something like this happened before Spamton’s time at the studio, someone else must have been able to reset him. Like one of the Shadowguys, or Zappers, or any of the other idiots standing around gawking at him like this was some kind of circus performance—
When Spamton still didn’t move, the Pippins tapped their foot impatiently against the other side of Tenna’s chest. “Any day now, bud.”
Spamton was going to remember this guy’s face and make his life a living hell once this was all over.
But, fine, fine! He could do this. It couldn’t be much different than fixing a car, right? If he could hot wire an engine (to test it with the ignition removed, of course, definitely nothing nefarious) without breaking a sweat, he could flip one measly switch. All Spamton had to do was reach his entire fucking arm into his business partner’s open chest…
Better me than one of these incompetent losers, he thought, with one last glance at the gathered audience before he took the plunge.
Tenna’s insides were still warm. He shouldn’t have been surprised; Tenna had only been unconscious for what, ten, fifteen minutes? Still, feeling the heat seep into the sleeve of his jacket, Spamton had to suppress a shudder. He carefully brushed the bundles of wires aside and rested his hand against the black box at Tenna’s core.
Oh, God, Spamton realized, feeling over the heated plastic. This is his heart. I’m holding his heart right now.
And I didn’t even get to take him out to dinner first.
For fuck’s sake, focus!
He ran his fingers along the four sides until he felt a switch on the left. Spamton couldn’t see if it was labeled ‘on’ or ‘off’ from here, so he’d just have to do as he was told. Taking another deep breath, he flicked the switch down, then back up again.
Immediately, the power source whirred to life right under Spamton’s fingertips. He drew his hand back sharply, as if it might bite him if he lingered too long. Bit by bit, pieces of Tenna started to move; pistons in the right side of his chest began pumping, and his wires crackled with electricity. After a few seconds his whole body spasmed, almost sending Spamton flying. The Pippins took that as their cue to jump down and vanish back into the crowd of onlookers.
A loud twang echoed across the stage as Tenna’s screen lit up. It took a moment to reach full brightness, fading in as his antennae twitched this way and that, searching for a signal. The vents on his head blasted hot air for a moment, settling him back at his usual temperature.
“Ant?” Spamton scooted forward, lifting up on his knees to peer at his screen. “C’mon, tell me you can hear me.”
Tenna made a garbled noise like a groan. “Spam… ton…?” he managed.
Spamton heaved a sigh of relief. He’s still in there, he’s alright. “Yeah, that’s my name,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Don’t wear it out, big guy!”
With a soft click, Tenna’s face popped back onto his screen. His nose nearly poked Spamton’s eye out, right before it wrinkled at the base in a way Spamton knew all too well.
“Oh, Spamton,” Tenna sniffled. “Spamton!”
Those massive arms wrapped around him before Spamton could get away. Tenna sat up way too quickly, swaying as he crushed Spamton against his chest. Spamton tried to shove him off, hands catching on the open hatch, but Tenna squeezed him like a vice.
“You’re okay, you’re okay!” Tenna sobbed against him, fat tears rolling down his screen and into Spamton’s carefully gelled hair. “Thank g-goodness, I was so — so scared I wouldn’t be fast enough!”
“Yeah, we’re all glad I’m alive, now just—” Spamton tried to pry his fingers off, to no avail.
“I d-don’t know what I’d do if — if something happened to you—”
“Okay, that’s enough now—”
“If you got h-hurt, right here on my own set! Stars, I’d n-never forgive myself—”
“Fucking hell Tenna, pull yourself together!!”
The swearing, if nothing else, got through to him. Tenna gasped, scandalized, and loosened his grip enough for Spamton to slip free. Spamton jumped back out of arm’s reach before Tenna could decide to grab him again. His whole body felt like a live wire, charged and trembling with leftover adrenaline. It suddenly felt way too hot on this stage.
Tenna stared after him, hands loose in his lap. His brow pinched with confusion, chest still hanging open for everyone to see. He seemed completely lost, as he looked around and noticed the rest of the crew, staring slack-jawed, for the first time.
“Wh-What happened, exactly?” he asked, sheepishly.
Spamton found the remains of his tailcoat and shook it out, scattering bits of broken glass. He turned and whipped it at Tenna’s head, just so he didn’t have to look at that poor sad-puppy face anymore. “You got knocked out cold, that’s what,” he snapped, glaring at Tenna while he struggled to untangle the coat from his antennae.
“Well, that’s not good!” Tenna gasped, reemerging from the crumpled velvet.
“No shit,” Spamton said, earning himself another disapproving frown. “But you’re back now, so — cover yourself up, you look ridiculous.”
Tenna glanced down at himself for the first time. His screen flooded with a deep shade of crimson, and he slapped his chest hatch closed. “Oh, oh geez,” he mumbled, trying to pull the front of his dress shirt closed and wincing as the motion tugged at the injury on his back. “Boy, that’s embarrassing, good thing we aren’t rolling—”
His gaze landed on the busted light next to him. The nervous grin fell away and he stopped rambling, screen going blank. Slowly, Tenna got to his feet and lifted himself to his full height, wrinkled tailcoat draped over one arm. He raised his head to look at the scaffolding overhead, lined with matching spotlights over the length of the stage. He looked down at the broken light again.
A smile spread over his face, but this was nothing like his usual cheerful stage persona.
This one made Spamton’s blood run cold.
Tenna turned that too-bright, pasted-on smile toward the crew. More than one of them flinched at the sight. “I’d like a word with the lighting crew,” he said, painfully chipper. “Right now, if you don’t mind.”
Several members of the crew exchanged uneasy glances. After a few tense heartbeats, someone stepped forward. He was a lanky Darkner with fairy lights in his hair and eyes that glowed faintly. The lanyard around his neck read 'Stage Crew — Lighting/Electrical'.
Tenna loomed over him with that same frozen smile. “When was the last time all of the light fixtures were checked for damage?” he asked.
“W-Woulda been… Sometime last month, sir,” the trembling crew member replied.
“‘Sometime’,” Tenna repeated. “So you don’t know?”
“Well, we do our scheduled maintenance for the stage lights on the third Friday of the month—”
“What I’m hearing is,” Tenna cut him off. “The spotlight that just fell and almost killed my partner hasn’t been serviced in almost a month. Do I have that right?”
A bead of sweat rolled down the guy's temple. “That’s right, sir. B-But, the schedule is—”
“Oh, the schedule!” Tenna clapped his hands together, grin stretched just a little bit wider. “How could I forget? Of course, your arbitrary maintenance schedule is so much more important than the safety of everyone on set!”
“N-No, that’s not what I—”
“Actually, the last time I checked, it was your job to keep all the lights in working order every time we step on stage. Not just when it fits into your precious schedule.” With each word, Tenna’s height grew. He went from around eight feet tall to ten in a matter of seconds. The corners of his smile took on a jagged edge, pointed fangs peeking through.
The lighting guy shook like a leaf in Tenna’s shadow, face ghostly pale, wringing his wrists. Spamton couldn’t help but pity the poor bastard, even if it was his fault he almost got squished by a spotlight.
“I — I’m sorry, Mr. Tenna, sir,” he stammered out. “It won’t happen again!”
“You’re goddamn right it won’t,” Tenna growled, and shot up another foot or so. He leaned down to explode right in the man’s face, “YOU’RE FIRED!”
A gasp went up from the onlookers. The lighting guy let out a wail like he’d been shot and fell to his knees, hands clasped in desperation. “No — No, please! I can fix it, please give me a chance to fix it!”
His pleas fell on deaf ears. “You had your chance!” Tenna screamed, swelling to the largest size Spamton had ever seen. The smile was long gone now, replaced by a vicious snarl, all razor-sharp fangs and rage. “You and your entire crew are done, do you hear me?! DONE!!”
Shit, this was getting out of hand. As entertaining as it was to watch Tenna blow his lid at the crew sometimes, they didn’t have time to replace the entire electrical team before Tenna’s next broadcast. Spamton should probably step in before things really got ugly—
The crewmember threw himself down at Tenna’s feet before Spamton could make a move. He sobbed and blubbered incoherent apologies, something about his family, begging for mercy that anyone could see wasn’t coming.
At this pitiful sight, Tenna’s face twisted into something truly demented. He snapped his fingers once. Electricity arced between his thumb and forefinger.
“If you don’t get out of my sight in the next ten seconds, I’ll—”
Spamton finally leaped into action. “Heeeeeyy whoa whoa hey!!” He slid in just behind the cowering lighting guy, close enough that Tenna couldn’t do anything without hitting Spamton as well. “Let’s cool it with the special effects there, partner! You’ve made your point!”
Tenna froze, his hand still raised, but the sparks fizzled out. His screen went dark, expressionless.
Spamton swallowed hard around the fear bubbling up inside him. “C'mon on now Ant, buddy, superstar, you and I both know this was just a — a freak accident!” Spamton said, waving his hands frantically as he spoke. “It’s not really anyone’s fault, right? In showbiz, you just gotta roll with the punches, isn’t that what you always say?”
Tenna said nothing. With his screen blacked out, Spamton could only hope he had his undivided attention.
So he kept trying. “Now, to calm your nerves, we’ll get everything checked out before your next broadcast. You guys can handle that, right?” He glanced down at the lighting guy, who nodded like a bobblehead in an earthquake. “Great! But, see, we’re gonna need all hands on deck to get the job done, so… Why don’t we cut them some slack, eh? For the good of the show!”
The silence that stretched between them once Spamton stopped talking was deep enough to hear the high-pitched whine from Tenna’s screen. Spamton’s own pulse hammered in his ears, and he prayed the cracks wouldn’t show through in his smile. Though he didn’t think Tenna would lash out at him, he was definitely putting a lot of his goodwill on the line here.
Finally, at long last, Tenna folded his arms behind his back and straightened up. “... Fine,” he said, and Spamton barely suppressed a sigh of relief. He took a step back from him and the lighting guy and went on, “Count your lucky stars that Mr. Spamton is a lot more forgiving than I am.”
The lighting guy sobbed, still crumpled in a heap on the floor.
Forgiving’s a strong word, Spamton thought, though he kept it to himself. He just didn’t want to be the one scrambling to hire a whole new lighting crew in a matter of days.
Tenna raised his head to address the rest of the onlookers, “We’ll resume this rehearsal in one hour. In that time, I want every piece of equipment in this studio double — no, triple checked for malfunctions.”
Okay, that was a lot more extreme (and probably impossible) than the suggestion Spamton gave. He tried to interject again, “Ant—”
“And I want this mess cleaned up, pronto!” Tenna went on like he didn’t hear Spamton. He jabbed a clawed finger at the broken spotlight. “I’d better be able to see my reflection in these floors by the time I get back!”
A chorus of terrified, “Yes sir!”s went up from the crowd.
“Good.” With that last word, Tenna spun on his heel and stormed off the set. The sound of the stage door slamming shut behind him echoed around the room.
Spamton deflated, finally heaving a massive sigh. That was far and away the worst meltdown he’d seen since he started working with Tenna. But it wasn’t even directed at him — why did it leave him so shaken up?
A pathetic noise drew his attention downwards, where the lighting guy had sat up to look at him like he was some sort of saint. “Th-Thank you, thank you, sir,” he blubbered, taking Spamton’s hand in both of his own.
Spamton tried not to cringe away. “Do not think this means you’re off the hook,” he hissed, yanking his hand back. “You ever step one little toe outta line, and I'll throw you out myself. Capiche?”
The man nodded again, shrinking back.
“That goes for all’a you, so listen up!” Spamton rounded on the crew, chest puffed out in anger. “This is the last time you’ll ever see me stick my neck out for some sad sack who can’t even do their goddamn job!” He glared at each of them, letting his words sink in, before he barked out, “Now what’re you all standin’ around for?! You heard the boss, get back to work!”
The crew scrambled to get away from him as fast as possible. They scattered to every corner of the set, immediately taking inventory of all the equipment with frenetic haste. A little trill of satisfaction went through Spamton seeing how quickly they obeyed. Good to know Tenna wasn’t the only one who could rule with fear around here.
Now then, on to the next crisis: finding wherever that idiot box ran off to, and convincing him to actually rest.
The first part wasn’t hard. He found the door to Tenna’s private dressing room cracked open. An invitation; an expectation that Spamton would come after him. Spamton took a deep breath and straightened his bowtie before he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Tenna paced back and forth behind the large leather couch in the middle of the room. He glanced over when Spamton came in, before hanging his head in shame. Hands clasped in front of him, screen dark, antennae drooping. It made Spamton anxious just looking at him. All that extra height and intimidation drained away behind closed doors.
God, I need a cigarette.
“Alright big guy, take a seat,” Spamton said, already heaving himself onto the couch.
(An irritatingly difficult task; the cushions were at Spamton’s eye level, and the leather was polished and slippery. It was always a degrading scramble to get himself up there. Damn Tenna and his huge furniture.)
Tenna turned away, gripping the edge of his vanity. The wood splintered under his fingers. “I’ll stay standing, thanks,” he murmured to the mirror, rather than Spamton.
He always made this so goddamn difficult. “I wasn’t askin’.” Spamton kicked the arm of the couch, watching Tenna’s shoulders jump at the sound. “Get over here, cathode.”
Considerably smaller than he was just a second ago, Tenna slouched over to the couch and plopped himself down beside Spamton. He held his ruined dress shirt together with one hand, screen still black, hiding any sort of expression. Only the brow of his casing pinched in the middle gave away his inner turmoil.
Spamton balanced on the uneven cushions and scanned his eyes over Tenna. He didn’t look too roughed up, aside from the injury on his back. His clothes were absolutely wrecked, but that was an easy fix. Tenna kept plenty of identical suits on hand. They were damn lucky his screen didn’t crack, or worse.
Just to make sure, he asked, “Are you hurtin’ real bad?”
Tenna still wouldn’t look at him. “No,” he said, voice clipped. When Spamton gave him a narrowed glare, he added, “My plastic casing doesn’t have much feeling,” and tapped his knuckles against his chest.
“Good,” Spamton sighed. “That’s good. It means we’re both fine. You got a little banged up, but it all turned out fine, right?”
Tenna hunched over further, burying his screen in his hands. “It was too close. Way too close,” he whispered. “You were almost — You could’ve—”
“Hey, hey!” Spamton reached out to set a steady hand on Tenna’s shoulder. “Look at me, Tens. I’m right here, I’m alright.”
That, at last, got Tenna to raise his head. His screen flickered back on, glowing with concern. “Are you sure?” he asked, leaning closer. “I didn’t hurt you when I pushed you down, did I?”
Spamton thought about the dull throb at the back of his head, but decided not to mention it. “Nope! Not a scratch on me!”
Tenna moved even closer, hovering like he wanted to pull Spamton into a hug again. Instead he settled with placing one large hand on Spamton’s head. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that,” he said, gently petting down Spamton’s hair. “I really don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you…”
Heat rushed to Spamton’s face and he shoved Tenna's hand away. “Yeah yeah, you said that already!” he snapped, smoothing back his hair to hide the deep flush on his cheeks. He almost preferred the screaming tantrums over this sappy shit.
Still, maybe Tenna had earned a bit of sincerity. It was never Spamton’s strong suit, but he had to at least try. The poor bastard deserved that much.
Spamton drew in a deep breath. “... Listen, Tenna,” he said, and those antennae twitched at his serious tone. “You really saved my ass today, y’know? I-I won’t forget that.” His gaze dropped, unable to face Tenna while he spoke. “I owe you one, big time.”
Tenna was quiet for a long moment. Long enough for Spamton to peek up through the fringe of his hair to gauge his reaction. To his surprise, he found Tenna with a soft smile on his face.
“Is that so?” Tenna steepled his fingers under his head, smile tilting toward mischievous. “A big favor from the big shot himself, hm?”
Spamton wanted to take it all back. He shut down that habitual urge to run, forcing a confident smirk instead. “Sure, buddy. Anything you need,” he said through his teeth.
The couch creaked under them as Tenna grew a few inches. “Anything? Really?” He leaned further into Spamton’s personal space, his grin taking up the whole width of his screen. “You’ll do aaaaanything for me?”
“Something reasonable!” Spamton scrambled up onto the arm of the sofa, to keep some distance between them. “So whatever you’re planning right now, forget it!”
“Who, me? Planning?” Tenna clasped his hands in the picture of innocence. “I’m not planning anything!”
This fucking guy. The headache he’d been trying to ignore throbbed at the back of his skull. Still, it was good to see Tenna smile again. A real smile, not the twisted imitation from earlier.
Tenna bounced up from the couch. He was back to the height he usually maintained backstage, giggling as he considered the best way to Spamton’s life. “What should I have you do for me?” he sing-songed, twirling in place. “A special program, maybe? Or a guest spot on the game show? Oh, I’ve really gotta knock it out of the park with this one—”
Spamton caught hold of his loose tie as it sailed past. One hard yank had Tenna stumbling, forced down to Spamton’s eye level with an undignified squeak. “We gotta finish this marathon thing first!” he snapped in Tenna’s face. “Did you forget already?”
A light pink flush lit Tenna’s screen, bent awkwardly at the waist with his tie still in Spamton’s death-grip. “N-No, I remember! We—” He faltered, antennae falling back. “We have to go back and rehearse.”
Spamton released Tenna’s tie to look at his watch. They had about forty minutes, give or take. Unless Spamton convinced him to change his mind, of course.
Tenna covered his screen with both hands. “I have to go back out there,” he mumbled into his fingers. “After I tried to fire the whole electrical crew. Oh no, no no no what is wrong with me?!”
Yikes, this was taking a bad turn all of a sudden. “C’mon, it wasn’t that bad!” he lied. “Nothin’ we aren’t used to!”
He winced as the words left his mouth, already knowing it was the wrong thing to say. Tenna started to shrink again.
“Look, these were extreme circumstances today. Who could blame you for freakin’ out a little?” Spamton went on. “Besides, I woulda fired the guy myself if we didn’t have this big event comin’ up. So don’t beat yourself up about it, alright?”
Tenna didn’t lift his head. His hands shook where they clenched against his dark screen. “I don’t like yelling at them,” he said, quietly. “It just makes them h-hate me.”
Sighing, Spamton reached up to rub the side of Tenna’s head. “No one hates you, big guy,” he reassured. “Everyone just wants you to take care of yourself. You took a pretty big fall today, after all.”
“I’m fine,” Tenna snipped out. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Sure it doesn’t.” Spamton hopped down from the couch. “Tell ya what, why don’t I pour you a drink?” He made his way over to the cabinet where Tenna kept his expensive liquor, polished shoes clicking against the tile floor. Throwing open the door, he added, “We’ll see how you feel about rehearsal once you’ve had some time to relax.”
Tenna trailed after Spamton with a stern look. “We can’t start drinking, we have to be back on stage soon!”
“So?” Spamton snickered. Tenna’s frown deepened, and he hurried on, “Aw, don’t give me that look! Just one glass, enough to take the edge off!” He selected the bottle of Tenna’s favorite whiskey, offering it up like a prize.
Tenna’s resolve lasted another five seconds before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Alright, one glass. But then we’re going back out there to get this show on the road!”
It’s just a rehearsal! Spamton wanted to scream. He bit his tongue and plucked up one of Tenna’s fancy crystal glasses. “Sure thing, superstar,” he said, shepherding Tenna back to the couch.
One glass quickly became two, and two became three. Tenna let Spamton refill his glass without much argument. The more the whiskey loosened him up, the further Tenna sank into the couch cushions. Whatever burst of energy kept him going after his reboot must have run out, leaving him drained.
“Don’t understand… Why ‘m so tired,” Tenna slurred out, head resting against the back of the couch. He wasn’t drunk (it took a lot to get him truly sloshed), just exhausted.
“Healin’ takes a lot outta ya,” Spamton said with a shrug. He screwed the cap back on the whiskey bottle, pleased that it did its job. “With an injury like that, you gotta rest when you can.”
Tenna groaned and slung an arm over his screen. “Dammit, we gotta get back out there…”
“Yeah, about that — This rehearsal ain't happenin' today.” Spamton hopped onto the coffee table, where he could give Tenna’s knee a comforting pat. “The crew will understand. And this gives them more time to finish checkin’ all the equipment, like you wanted.”
A sound like a sob shuddered through Tenna’s body. “I-I need this show to be perfect… It has to be perfect…”
“Shh, I know, big guy, I know.” Spamton rubbed circles against Tenna’s leg, tracing the seam of his casing through his tight pants. “Let me take care of everything today, alright? I’ll talk to the crew, tell ‘em to be ready to rehearse first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll fit it in before your regular broadcast — how’s that sound?”
“That could work…” Tenna sniffled, rubbing at his face. He looked down at Spamton, screen dark save for the faint outline of his frown. “Y-You’d really talk to the crew for me?”
“Of course!” Spamton puffed out his chest. “Just leave it to your number one salesman! I’ll sort everything out, so you just worry about gettin’ better.”
Tenna brightened with a meek, wobbly smile. “Thanks, Spam,” he said. “I… I’m really glad I can rely on you.”
Warmth blossomed in Spamton’s chest. He turned away quickly, feeling it spread to his cheeks. “That’s me, reliable ol’ Spamton G. Spamton, that’s what they call me,” he rambled, heading for the door. “You just lay your pretty head down and let me handle everything.”
He heard the couch groan and crack as Tenna made himself more comfortable. “Honestly, Spam,” Tenna’s sleepy voice drifted across the room. “Sometimes I think this whole place would fall apart without you.”
Spamton froze with his hand on the doorknob. He waited a beat before he shot a glance back over his shoulder. Tenna had stretched out across the length of the couch, head propped against the armrest and long legs dangling off the other side. His screen was dim, already dozing off.
Spamton released a heavy breath. Great. No pressure.
With those words in mind, Spamton slipped out of the dressing room, smoothed out his suit one last time, and marched back to the stage. He would personally see to it that everything was perfect by the time Tenna woke up tomorrow.