Chapter Text
The first clue that the ride home was going to be painful was Spamton awakening to the tinny sound of a golf cart horn tuned to “La Cucaracha.” Except someone was slamming down on the horn repeatedly, causing the first five notes to play over and over.
The good news was that neither of them had frozen to death while waiting for someone to come and find them, but the bad news was that Spamton could barely move his limbs, Tenna’s dick was still out, and there were high beams blaring in through the window. Tenna was sleeping. Spamton slapped him on the stomach as hard as he could manage – not very – and his screen blared to life. He sat up like he’d been woken by a foghorn's blast.
“Tenna!” Spamton hissed. “Put your [home goods] away!”
“Whuh?” Tenna saw the light coming in from outside and bristled, reaching past Spamton to stuff his junk back in his pants. He leaned over, holding Spamton in place, and yanked his tailcoat from the crack in the window, tossing it over the both of them like a blanket. The golf cart pulled around to the passenger side. In the front row of seats were a happy-looking Shadowguy and a shellshocked-looking Pippins. Tenna waved at them.
“Hide me,” Spamton said, slinking fully underneath the coat.
Tenna frowned down at him. “How exactly am I supposed to hide a four-foot tall – “
“Just [test your luck]!” Spamton whispered, curling into a ball. He heard the car door pop open, the sound of footsteps on snow. The jacket was a flimsy barrier, but being somewhere dark, warm, and out of sight made him feel the slightest bit safer.
“Ah! You seem to have caught me red-handed – in the midst of getting away from it all!” Tenna laughed. Spamton’s faith waivered. “I won’t be any trouble, officers. Let me gather my things, and you can take me back.”
The muffled sound of a confused sax riff came from Spamton’s left. “What happened to the car?” the Pippins translated.
“Battery trouble.” Tenna’s voice was flat. “But! Now that you’re here, I appear to be saved! One moment, please.” Tenna balled Spamton up in the coat like it was a sack, tossed him into the backseat, and covered him in a second layer with the shirt. He was picked up and carried out of the cabin, wrapped in large arms that held him tight against a chest. There was the feeling of moving down into the back of the cart, and then Tenna curled his arms and knees closer around the the bundle of fabric that held him.
“Aren’t you chilly at all?” the Pippins asked from ahead of them. The engine whirred loud as the golf cart accelerated forward. The Shadowguy must’ve been driving, because the first five notes of “La Cucaracha” resumed once again.
Spamton could feel Tenna shivering around him. “Of course, but I’d be an absolute fool to let myself heat back up in this weather. Haven’t you heard of a little phenomenon called ‘condensation’? A dire threat to a Darkner like me!”
“I know what condensation is, boss,” the Pippins said. “I live in the same wing of the studio as the Weather Duo.” They didn’t elaborate further, but in the relative silence (the horn continued to play), Spamton felt they were reliving a horrible, horrible memory.
The Shadowguy let out another saxophone riff and the Pippins translated for them again. “So what’s in the sack? The holidays aren’t for another few months, aren’t they?”
“The Holidays will be over sooner than that, I’m sure,” Tenna said. “But if you mean Christmas, Hanukkah, etcetera, no, this is unrelated. Though it is a gift.”
“Uh-huh?” The Pippins’s curiosity was, quite reasonably, piqued. “For who?”
“An…individual…back at the studio,” Tenna said. He gave Spamton – or, to onlookers, the bundle in his arms – an affectionate pat. “I’ll have to ask you to refrain from prying into your employer’s personal life any more than that, alright?”
Spamton hoped desperately that Tenna wasn’t thinking of his name, and if he couldn’t be so lucky, that the Pippins wasn’t turned to face Tenna’s screen. He felt the possessive weight of Tenna’s arm lie across him as if to help shield him from view, but that would mean nothing if Tenna couldn’t control his thoughts on the way back, and knowing him, that would be one tough battle. Spamton could only pray it would be a short trip.
“Understood. But, uh, speaking of folks back at the studio, do you know where the ad guy went? We kept an eye out for him on the way here, but we didn’t see anything.”
“He said he had some business back in Cyber City.” Tenna huddled closer around Spamton as if to draw warmth out from him. Spamton silently willed the Shadowguy to put less energy into wailing on the horn and to wail on the gas pedal instead.
The Pippins sighed. “Ah, good.”
“What do you mean ‘ah, good’?” Tenna asked.
“Nothing, boss, just that it’ll be nice to – ow!” The Pippins was cut off by a dull thud and the sound of a reproachful saxophone. “…Nevermind. We’ll all miss him.”
“He’s not dead,” Tenna said, “he’s out of town for work.”
“And he’ll be in our hearts every waking moment, yeah,” the Pippins replied. There was a slapping sound and the rest of “La Cucaracha” played on the horn for the first time since the golf cart had found them. “Will you give that thing a rest already? We’ve been out here for two hours and you’re still going!”
The frequency of the horn-blasting increased from once every five notes to once every three notes. The golf cart swerved suddenly. “Yowch! Be careful!” Tenna shouted. “Are you trying to send us all into the drink?!” There was another swerve, and Spamton felt air around him, the wind intensifying, before he was grabbed harshly and held so tightly that he had trouble breathing. The grip relaxed as the golf cart straightened out and stopped swerving. The Shadowguy in front let out a downright mournful riff and let the horn play out one last time before, apart from the rumble of the cart, the trip fell silent.
***
Spamton woke up on the chaise in Tenna’s dressing room. The tailcoat was gone, but it had been replaced with a soft wool throw blanket instead. Nobody was around.
Moving was easier now than it had been before, and Spamton was able to reach out to the coffee table, picking up a note that had Tenna’s name signed on it in flowery cursive.
Spamton! it read. I’ll cover for you during the ad slot this morning, so don’t worry about that. I brought you a muffin. There was a muffin sitting on the table as well, no plate underneath, crumbs getting everywhere. If you need anything, please call for me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m free.
Spamton set the note down, ignored the muffin, and with some effort stood up, holding the blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He saw in the mirror that his face had been washed, but he was in the same outfit as before. Tenna hadn't removed his clothes while he was passed out. Spamton couldn't help but silently thank him for that, even if it meant he was a bit stinky now, smelling like soot and sex.
Briefly, he pictured Tenna tilting his chin up as he slept, wiping down his forehead and cheeks with a cool, moist rag. He exited the dressing room and headed for his own.
The phone didn’t go off as soon as he entered this time, so he used the opportunity to take a brief shower instead. He had just put on a towel when the ringing started, and he was out of the bathroom and across the floor in only a few long steps, nearly leaping to reach it sooner. He toweled a bit of dripping water off the end of his nose as he reached to pick up the receiver, but he hesitated for a moment, a sudden sense of dread twisting through his gut. The feeling arrived as if it had been building for some time, but Spamton could never have traced it back to its origin; it landed upon him too swiftly, like a bird of prey.
He’d done something wrong, back in the car. He didn’t need to be told. He could hear it in the ringing tone, smell it lingering on his skin, despite the best efforts of the hot water and soap.
But he had to answer it. To leave them hanging, to avoid accountability for his actions – that would be the greater sin. He had no choice but to pick up the receiver.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Spamton!” the voice on the other end said. “I can’t believe you actually answered. How long has it been since you took a call from me, huh? I was sure you’d found a way to block my number, get me off your back for good, but it looks like you just didn’t bother to pick up.”
Oh.
…
Ugh.
“Pink,” Spamton said through gritted teeth. “It’s [nice cream] to hear from you.”
“Is it? Or are you trying to cover your ass before I make fun of you for forgetting about us?” Laughter. “No, no, no worries. I’m kidding. How have you been? How’s that big lug you call your boss – sorry, business partner? You guys bringing in lots of revenue? Or are you going to come crawling back to us in a week without a cent to your name?”
“Give that to me,” another voice said. “Hey, Spamton, are you doing okay? Pink’s joking, of course. They have such a, uh, special sense of humor.” It was Yellow.
“I know,” Spamton said. “Why are you calling? You know I need to keep this line [[open]].”
There was the sound of a tussle on the other end. Pink yanking the phone back. “Well, Spam, we were going to surprise you, but Yellow insisted we call ahead of time and let you know,” they said. “We’re planning a little business trip of our own up to TV World.”
“Really.” Spamton was holding onto the phone cord. He had to repress the urge to rip it out of the receiver. It had to happen eventually, he told himself, but he didn’t have to be remotely happy about it. “Amazing.”
“One-word answers. You’re cute as ever,” Pink said. “Don’t worry, we’ll be polite houseguests. Bring some free samples up with us to get in good with the CRT. You can watch us and make sure we stay on our best behavior the whole time.”
“Where are you [stain]?”
“With you, silly! I know you wouldn’t leave us out in the cold,” Pink said. “We’ve got some deals to close tomorrow, and then we’re going to come up to see you on Wednesday.”
“I’ll [get my chequebook],” Spamton grimaced.
“Come on, Spamton.” Pink sighed on the other end. Saying things like that was a reliable way to get under their skin, which was a small win. “Give us a little more credit than that. You know I can make my own money.”
“Sure.” Spamton decided to change the subject. He’d give it another minute and then end the conversation altogether. “Who all is coming?”
“Just me, Yellow, and Blue,” Pink said. “Orange is staying behind to hold down the fort. We offered to take them but they didn’t seem interested. We’ve got some great products we’re bringing with us to show off to the locals, so you’d better get the welcoming committee ready for us, alright?”
“[Yes, definitely, absolutely],” Spamton said. “And, uh, it’s all set in stone?”
“You bet,” Pink answered.
“Great,” Spamton said. “See you Wednesday.” He slammed the receiver back onto its hook, flinching as he heard plastic crack against plastic. He checked that the phone itself wasn’t damaged and then set about getting dressed. He dropped his dirty clothes into the laundry chute and picked out a clean set from his closet. He wanted to at least try to get himself on camera today; Tenna had only said he would be able to cover the morning slot in his note, and besides that, it would be bad to waste the time he was given. His muscles ached and his movements were slightly clumsier than usual, but Spamton was able to pull himself together without taking too long, and he made for the green room once he had checked himself a final time in the mirror.
The cameras were live but the segment was nearly over, the schedule on the wall reading five hours until they went on air again. Spamton hung back from the entrance to the stage, leaning up against the wall rather than sitting on one of the couches. Tenna was waving goodbye to the audience on the monitor, a huge smile on his face. The captions appeared small from this distance, but Spamton could make out >> I wonder if he’s awake yet?
The notion struck Spamton that Tenna might have thought about him while live, but the crew members shuffled around him in the same manner as they normally did, occasionally waving hello, mostly ignoring him. He’d have to assume Tenna’d had innocuous thoughts about him or none at all up to this point, at least until proven otherwise.
The cameras went off, but Tenna didn’t come through the door. Spamton decided to move out and wait for him there, slipping past assistants and security into the hall that opened out into the stage. He made his way to the edge, where the red curtains cut him off from the cameras’ point of view. Tenna was discussing something with a Zapper, nodding and shaking his head as he spoke, just out of earshot. Spamton wanted to step out and grab his attention, but he found himself watching, instead.
Tenna reacted to something the Zapper said and put his hand up to his mouth in thought. It reminded Spamton of last night, when Tenna had taken his own hand up to his face and –
Ah. No. Not the time to think of that.
Spamton observed the rest of Tenna’s conversation with the Zapper in silence, holding the fabric of the curtain as if to shield himself from view. Not enough that he was actually obscured at all. He wanted to look at Tenna. No, he held the curtain over himself just enough to feel less…oddly exposed.
He was about to turn around and leave, find someone else to get his directions for the day from, when Tenna spotted him and pirouetted over. “Spamton!” he called. “Are you feeling okay? Did you sleep well? All good dreams?”
Spamton wasn’t sure which question he was supposed to answer. “I – “
Tenna cocked his head to the side. >> Oh, I can’t wait to see what he looks like naked!
The audacity of it heated Spamton’s face to an instant boil, and the words he was going to say died in his throat. He'd been hoping Tenna wouldn't think of him like that again after yesterday, that it'd be one and done, that he'd forget about their little ‘deal’ and focus on more important matters, or at least more appropriate ones. No such luck.
Spamton coughed into his fist a couple times as he tried to regain his composure. “I [sharing a bed in] – I mean, [sleep problems? No problem!]. Uh.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I feel fine. I slept…good.”
Tenna nodded. “Glad to hear it!” >> He's so tiny, but I might be able to fit inside if I sized down…no, I'd probably just get bigger halfway through and hurt him. Tenna’s expression flickered. >> But…would he let me try…?
Spamton worked his jaw, letting out a squeak instead of the coherent sentence he'd been aiming for. “Tenna,” he finally managed. “You seem like you’re [wired?] this morning.”
“Oh, I am, I am,” Tenna said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Feeling fresh as a daisy!” >> Thanks to a certain someone.
They couldn't have this conversation in public. Spamton yanked Tenna by the tie off-stage. “Come on,” he spat out, perhaps sounding harsher than he'd meant to. But it was Tenna's fault! Who launched into that line of thought immediately, after a single instance of casual sex?! This CRT was deranged, Spamton told himself. Out of his wits.
And no, he would not let him top.