Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Tenna had first spoken to Spamton, all thinly veiled desperation hiding behind extravagant bouts of egoism and narcissism, Spamton’s first thought was that Mr. Ant Tenna, despite being a household name, was a washed-up has-been, yesterday’s news, and entirely too full of himself to adequately comprehend how close he really was to obsolescence. In a way, he felt sorry for him. Darkners with a physical form like Tenna were different from the denizens of Cyber City. Even when he was nothing more than a failed Addison (ancient history, he’d scoff if anyone dared mention that to him), he knew that his own obsolescence ended in the gutter, not in the junkyard; next to Tenna’s dinosaur analogue form, Spamton was all sleek digitization and coding, functionally immortal provided that the grand highway of information was still at his fingertips. He’d watched a few episodes of TV Time before meeting him and came away from it feeling distinctly underwhelmed. There was no zip, no pizzazz. Tenna stayed on one topic for what felt like ages, asking whoever was invited on his show stupid, milquetoast questions before playing stupid, milquetoast games, a formula that had worn out its welcome years and years ago. That wasn’t Spamton’s thing at all, who treasured stimulation and excitement above all else, even the truth. Especially the truth.

Even after their partnership had begun in earnest and he got to know the big guy a little better, started to like him as much as Spamton liked anyone, started to actually get invested in keeping TV Time a hit production, he maintained that he still didn’t like it much. The game shows were rote and dull, the weather incapable of jazzing up the truth a little (how many days in a row could you really keep someone’s attention with ‘a light drizzle’?) Tenna insisted on what he called ‘journalistic integrity’ for the increasingly repetitive five o’clock news, and watching Tenna stand there, mindlessly guiding a gaggle of tykes through pixelated adventures was an absolute snoozefest.

Not that Spamton was present for most of the actual recordings. He usually watched them back at double-speed afterwards while he worked on other things. It wasn’t as though he spent a whole lot of time at the studio anyhow, opting instead to keep an eye on things from his cushy mahogany desk back at Big Shot Autos (Tenna had gotten him a goddamn particle board desk in TV World. Him! Spamton G. Spamton! Particle board!) and from his room at Queen’s Mansion, far nicer than the frankly rundown studio with its trampled, cigarette stained low pile carpets and its peeling green wallpaper.

“Listen,” Spamton told Tenna on one of the rare occasions he managed to convince the big lug to visit the city proper, squirreled away in the corner of one of Spamton’s favourite clubs, music thrumming frantically underneath his rubber soles “You hired me to help you. So why the hell aren’t you letting me?”

Tenna shifted uncomfortably in his tiny chair, pointy knees (Spamton would know; his head had gotten clocked by one of those knees at least half a dozen times) practically pressed into the sides of his head and antennae drooping. He had spent the bulk of the evening apologizing to nearly every person in the room after knocking into damn well everything. “I asked you to help me, not to change everything altogether.”

“As it stands, I’m changing nothing except the ad breaks. And as great as my ads are – don’t you make that face at me, asshole, everyone loves my ads – we’re not gonna reel in the audiences with ads alone.”

“I can’t just lie,” Tenna protested. “The Lightners count on me to tell them what’s what! I’m reliable!”

“Reliable is dull! Reliable isn’t what the people want!”

“I still haven’t lived down the hurricane incident!”

Spamton paused mid-sip. “Okay,” he said begrudgingly. “You have a point there. Your sappy weather duo can stay boring.”

“Don’t talk like that about them.” Tenna’s lower lip was beginning to jut out dangerously. He could be just like a kid sometimes, Spamton thought, half exasperated, half fond. “They’re my friends.”

Spamton raised a brow. From what he was able to glean, Tenna didn’t have friends. He had peons. The man couldn’t even muster the same sort of excitement around his presence that Queen had; at least she threw ragers in her big fancy mansion with dancers and entertainment and booze, a far cry from the pokey little parties Tenna held with no entertainment other than a single gaming console and humdrum old Ramb behind the bar. “No they’re not.”

“Well, they’ve been around for a long time.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Spamton was beginning to lose him. Time to switch things up. He nestled his hand in the crook of Tenna’s elbow. “I’m not here because I have to be. I don’t know if you’ve caught on yet, but I’m a real –”

“Big shot, I know, I know.”

“--big shot, yeah, and that’s why you came to me! I’m not one of your little employees. If I wanted to, I could leave right now.”

Tenna’s countenance darkened further, the corner of his lip rising in a fetching snarl.

“Which I won’t, because you and me, we’re friends.”

Just like that, all of Tenna’s malaise fell away, antenna flattening against the flat plane of his head, screen lit up in cheerful rosy hues. Pathetic, thought Spamton, who incidentally, also happened not to have a single friend to his name. “We are?”

“Sure we are! You seriously think I hit the town with all my colleagues? I’m here because I want to be, and that’s the long and the short of it. All I need is for you to let me help you, Ant. Can I call you Ant?”

It was a calculated gamble, and one that anyone from Cyber City could see through. Everyone around these parts had resentfully acknowledged that Spamton was a massive success now and kissed his ass accordingly, but that didn’t mean they liked or trusted him. Not his constant upselling, not his wild shifts in attitude and behaviour, and certainly not the grin he was wearing now which never changed alongside his success, a horrible rictus grimace, strained and stretched, jaw gurning and face damp with sweat. Somehow, Tenna still looked at him as though the expression was nothing more than a winsome smile. In all of their partnership, he’d never once heard anyone call Tenna Ant. It seemed to be a first name he had for show alone.

“Sure you can,” Tenna demurred. “Can I call you – wait, no fair, your first name and last name are the same! Maybe I can use your middle name? What does the G stand for?”

“Trade secret,” Spamton said, who had given himself a middle initial and a last name because his jingle required more consonants. He winked at Tenna. “Just be grateful I let you call me by one of them.”

“Spamton G. Spamton, mark my words, I’m going to kill you one of these days,” Tenna said fondly, and that was that.

They didn’t talk business much more that day and just ambled around Cyber City with Tenna occasionally exclaiming “Wowzers!” or “Golly!” or in one instance, “The cars with legs are so stinking cute! I want to take one home with me!” But when they finally got around to it, Tenna finally managed to find a compromise with his new friend, agreeing that he could utilize speedier cuts, update his jokes, make things quicker and snappier and sharper, make TV faster and more exciting and more risky for an increasingly fast-paced world – all within Tenna’s sponsors’ purview, of course, and the pain in the ass that were his parental controls.

“But,” Tenna had said firmly, “I still need you to have some respect for the classics. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you, and I know what works.” (No you don’t, Spamton thought privately, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.) “We run a tight ship over at TV Time, and I need you to understand what’s made us so great all of these years – the glitz! The glamour! More than that, the artistry.”

Not that Tenna cared about artistry. As was increasingly apparent, Tenna only really cared about his Lightners’ opinions. But Tenna had charged onwards, a glint to his screen that betrayed the fact that if Spamton dared disagree, he would get well and truly angry. “I know you’re a busy man, but we have a special in two weeks’ time. And I want YOU there to see the magic happen.” He jabbed one finger at Spamton, clicked his tongue like some sort of mob boss he was copying from Asgore’s shitty taste in movies. “Capsice?”

Without any other choice in the matter, he had agreed.

Which was how he found himself here, bearing the others’ disgruntled stares as he was undoubtedly in the way on one of the busiest nights of the year that didn’t fall on a holiday. Tori had an old affection for musical theatre and charity rallies, Tenna explained to him, briefly getting caught up in a gushing re-enactment of little Kris and Asriel’s home videos and the glimpses he’d seen of Toriel’s Kindergarten class performing Rough-Rock-Life at some pokey little assembly. She usually spent all evening glued to the TV for this yearly occasion, hemming and hawing about whether or not this was the year she should donate, which she never did. This sacred day of all days, he had told him, was to be untouched by Spamton’s updates and specific brand of razzle dazzle, which was solely devoted to retaining the kids’ attention.

Tenna rushed up to Spamton as though he hadn’t just spent the day barking at employees and loudly berating one poor Shadowguy after he accidentally shoved his saxophone through a set piece during an overly enthusiastic flourish, who had run off with loud, honking sobs. Tenna’s employees were as dramatic as the man himself was, and Spamton had grown accustomed to there being at least one crying staff member (or one Tenna clearly on the verge of tears and locking himself in the closet) present at all times. “Spam!” He reached out to vigorously shake Spamton’s hand and effectively lifted Spamton into the air and sent him crashing down upon the floor again. “You made it!”

“Hey, a business man’s only as good as his word,” Spamton said absently, allowing himself to take in Tenna’s new look as he tuned out the other man’s veritable torrent of conversation. This was a black tie occasion, and Tenna had dressed the part in a sleek black suit that clung to his surprisingly narrow waist, no coattails flapping comically behind him to camouflage what happened to be a round rear and enticingly thick thighs. It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise considering the relative bulk of the man, but he was a lankier man than he first appeared, almost a little too skinny for Spamton’s liking - according to the staff, he consistently skipped meals, too worked up to do silly little things like sit down for a decent meal - and so he had no idea he was hiding an entirely new avenue of revenue.

Which was what it was, Spamton told himself; far be it for him to be ogling Tenna like some floozy dancer at a club, but nothing like a spam e-mail understood the commercial value of sex appeal. How could they fail to capitalize on those big, broad shoulders, that vicious grin that Tenna consistently tried to smother, that ass wherein if Spamton was a larger man, he’d reach out with both hands and squeeze--

“...Spam? Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good,” Spamton said, flapping a hand at him. “I was just thinking that the black shoes work for you. Those yellow things look like a pair of damn clown shoes.”

Tenna visibly deflated. If he deflated a little more, then he really would be the right size for Spamton to – okay, it had officially been too long since he’d gotten laid if he was thinking all that. Besides. Spamton could be callous, even a little cruel, but he didn’t actually want to hurt the guy. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.” This time, Spamton’s smile didn’t tug as harshly at the corners of his mouth. It felt strange. “I was thinking you look good.”

“Really?”

“Like a million bucks. Knock ‘em dead out there, big guy.”

Tenna kneeled in front of him, glancing hurriedly around to make sure nobody else was in their vicinity - thankfully everyone had taken the opportunity to steer clear of their mercurial boss - and pulled Spamton into a quick embrace. Gentle, so gentle, the sign of a man who had never been able to grip anyone with his full strength, warm and smelling faintly of ozone.

“I’m really excited we’re doing this,” Tenna whispered, voice a low buzz of static in Spamton’s ear before he pulled away and stood, fussily brushing dirt off his trousers. “I think we’re going to have a really beautiful partnership.”

“A lucrative partnership.”

“That’s what I said.” Tenna lingered for a moment, looking excited and awkward all at the same time and then stiffened, screen gone black and antennae standing at attention, a zap of electricity rippling between them. He raced off, floor thumping and warping wildly underneath the sheer weight of him, the whole set awash in light. “She’s here! She’s got her cup of hot cocoa ready and everything! Places, people, places! I don’t want to see any loitering! I don’t want to see any lollygagging! And, god forbid, I don’t want to see any LAGGING BEHIND! Come on, on the double, iiiiiiiiiit’s SHOWTIME!”

Spamton settled backstage in the uncomfortable folding chair that Tenna had set up for him and resigned himself to a dull evening of corny jokes and unbearably sappy ballads, only to be greeted with the most surprising fact of all.

Tenna was good.

Better than good. Tenna was fucking magical. The man had been relegated to reruns and game shows and subpar cooking programs for so long that Spamton hadn’t thought he still had anything left in him. But watching him perform, really perform, felt like he was watching a different performer entirely. Every single move Tenna made was studied and deliberate, the way he carried himself so that he looked confident and extravagant, even as Spamton could tell that the way he held himself was meant to make him look smaller, more approachable, fangs hidden somewhere in that winsome smile, laughter earnest but less boisterous, claws cleverly hidden beneath his thick black gloves. His voice, high and nasally despite his stature, mellowed out as he crooned song after song, moving his bulk nimbly across the stage and – god, Spamton didn’t know the man could kick that high. Here in his element, he was a shining star, even his corniest of jokes getting a full-bellied laugh from the live audience, his skillfully structured yarns about the challenges of public television resulting in a torrent of phone calls for the Pippins to answer (though a couple of them appeared to direct their would-be donors to their own accounts), every lighting cue and blast of the horns and whispered aside landing just on time. He had everyone eating right out of the palm of his hand.

The problem really wasn’t with Tenna, Spamton realized with a start. The problem was that he was absolutely wasted on this bullshit happy little nuclear family of his, who couldn’t even recognize a good thing in front of their fuzzy noses. When Tenna was allowed to perform, really perform, do precisely what he was made for… this could work. Imagine what he’d be capable of if he wasn’t beholden to the dullest, most saccharine family in all of Hometown. They could make it big. With all of Tenna’s talent and resources at their fingertips, coupled with Spamton’s –

Tenna’s booming voice brought him back to reality.

“Now, my lovely, darling, perfect audience of mine, there’s someone special here I’d really love for you to meet. I’m sure you’ve noticed how absolutely STUPENDOUS our ads have been lately – they make you laugh! They make you cry! They make you want to buy a new car for the low, low price of nine-nine-nine-nine-nine! (It sounds like a smaller number when you break it up like that, don’t you think, Mike?)”

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no…

“I’d like you all to meet the one, the only, the man with the plan and the world in his hand, the Cungadero extraordinaire here all the way from Cyber World, the inimitable and second rate to only yours truly… Spamton G. Spamton!”

This was what Tenna was trying to tell him, Spamton thought with a start, dread climbing through his chest and clawing up his throat as a Shuttah mindlessly powdered his face and pushed him, stumbling, upon the stage. The lights overhead were brighter and hotter than they seemed from his safe, dark haven backstage, the crowd a series of looming figures and watchful eyes, a roar of unearned applause accompanying the brightly flashing APPLAUSE banner directly above Tenna’s head.

Spamton was no stranger to the limelight by now. But he flourished in individual sales, where he could get to know the other person and cater to their whims, or in prerecorded advertisements where he could have as many takes as he liked, where he could blame the cameraman or the lights guy or the musicians for any and all flubs. He could feel all of that carefully manufactured egoism, falling apart around him. Every single thing he’d done, every dark dollar to his name, his business, his home, even this very partnership with Tenna was thanks to his benefactor and a desperation to claw through the artificial sickly green-grid of Cyber World’s sky to freedom.

The benefactor didn’t predict this. Couldn’t predict this, because what showman in his right mind would purposefully share the stage? And who was Spamton, without that nagging voice in his ear?

For the first time in a long time, Spamton didn’t feel like the version of him he actually liked. Not Spamton G. Spamton, rubbing elbows with the monarch of his world and running his own lucrative business, but just... Spam. Weak and pale and small, just begging for anyone to give him a second glance, the sort of person Tenna would have walked right past. He thought about his brothers back home, watching the program and jeering about him stumbling over his words, how the sweat gleamed on his brow, how he’d finally taken a bite bigger than he could chew. It made him want to scale up Tenna’s big body and throttle him to death. It made him want to flee. Fresh hair dye trickled down the side of his face along a bead of sweat, hands clenched behind his back beginning to tremble.

Above him, Tenna’s expression changed for just a split second, concern and confusion furrowing his brow. With an elegant sweep of his arm, his thumb brushed intimately down Spamton’s temple, brushing away the dark liquid, and settled on his shoulder, hand so large that he was able to fan his fingers out to rub his back comfortingly while he continued to vamp. Typically, Spamton would resent that - did resent it - but in the moment clung onto the grounding sensation of mechanisms whirring against the small of his back, the steady pressure reminding him that despite Tenna’s foolishness in bringing him on in the first place, he wasn’t going to leave him to flounder alone out here. He wasn’t like his brothers, happy to sit back and let Spamton’s failures make them feel better about themselves – Tenna needed the both of them to succeed.

“Now, now, ladies, settle down, settle down! You might think that our friend’s handsome face is what’s really selling all those cars, and – hah – while it certainly doesn’t hurt…”

And on and on for what felt like an agonizingly long time, but was really only a minute or so, until Spamton finally got his bearings. He was Spamton, damn it, and benefactor or no, he was just as good as some rambling CRT. Talent or not talent, Tenna was from the same slimy breed, he frantically convinced himself, which meant that he could perform just as well.

“Hey!” He interrupted. “They’ve been hearing your voice all night long, you big lug! Try giving someone else a chance to speak!”

A titter rippled through the crowd. Tenna’s hand thumped him between his shoulder blades once, twice, before falling away, relief palpable even in his eyeless gaze. Spamton hopped onto one of the desks, shoving the phone out of the way (“hey,” the Zapper at the desk quietly objected), and crossing his legs, pretending to preen and primp underneath the heavy weight of the audience’s attention.

“Nice to meet you, ladies and gents.” He winked at the camera, wiggled his fingers coyly at the audience. “As your doting host mentioned, the name’s Spamton G. Spamton, and don’t you forget it. And to my brothers, who I just know are watching back home… wish you were here!”

A little banter here, a few digs at the big guy there all as a part of their ordinary rapport there, an excited Tenna announcing that they were entering a new and improved era of TV Time and it was over in the blink of an eye. The audience had seemed receptive, or at least obedient to Tenna’s pointed cues, and Spamton was free to simply collapse backstage as adrenaline had its way with him.

Instead of lingering on-stage and basking in the afterglow of a well-received show and rubbing elbows with the lucky audience members, Spamton saw Tenna rush towards him with his big, blundering footsteps, so different from the nimble soft-shoed dancing and feats of athleticism he displayed all night. It wasn’t that Spamton forgave him immediately - some sort of lingering anger still ached in his bones, a slight to be tucked away and used in a future argument - but everything was made soft and fuzzy now that his moment of pristine panic was over, replaced with something else, strange and complicated, dread and joy all at the same time.

“Spamton! Are you –” Tenna fidgeted, guilty, undoubtedly rethinking his words in front of someone who infamously loathes being asked if he’s all right. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you right before the show. I only just thought of it, and you know how impulsive I can get - which is usually very whimsical and fun, I think - and I thought wow, what better time to get it done, and – please say you don’t hate me.”

He heaved a sigh and said, dutifully, “I don’t hate you.”

Tenna sniffed despondently. “I don’t believe you.”

“What, you need me to say it three times?”

“Yes, please.”

Spamton looked at Tenna in utter disbelief. “Seriously?” A sullen nod. “Okay. I don’t hate you, I don’t hate you, I don’t hate you – provided we never speak of this again.”

“I think they really liked you out there, though.”

“I think they really liked you,” Spamton said, too exhausted not to be honest. “I gotta admit, you put on one hell of a show when you have half a chance. Just tell me one thing, and I’ll drop it. Why’d you even want to bring me out there in the first place? This is supposed to be your big night.”

“We’ve already been making all these big changes behind the scenes. And, you know, the audience has been noticing – and liking it! Our ratings are higher than they’ve been in months! So I thought, why not introduce the reason for all those changes on-screen too? This was the climactic moment to do it! Not just another game show or pie-making contest, but something special. Something special besides the holidays, I mean. Those are sacred.” Tenna kneeled in front of Spamton again. All those cheering crowds out there, all that buzz, and he was here, staring beseechingly at him. “And I was thinking, maybe it’s time we… switch things up a little.”

“Yeah?”

“Instead of just cutting to the ads, I was thinking maybe you’d like to, I don’t know… come on the show and do them live from now on. At least a couple times a week. Nothing gets people going like real-life demonstrations, a free doo-dad underneath every seat. And,” Tenna coughed. “Maybe that way you wouldn’t feel like you have to make that long drive back to Cyber City every time you swing by. You could just… stay here for a little while.”

Discomfort buzzed underneath Spamton’s skin. He didn’t want to remain in this staid old place forevermore, trapped like everyone else who had the fortune, good or bad, of stumbling into TV World. Tenna wanted him underneath one of those massive hands, his to have and to hold. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t realize that much. But he’d also be an idiot not to recognize the incredible offer he was being given. This was just the start; a popular guest star would always become a regular if they got big enough. And there was something to it, all of this star power kneeling before him, wanting him even after he’d choked. He couldn’t help but reach out, hand smoothing down Tenna’s head, nail digging into the grimy grooves there, something quiet and fraught in this moment. The big man himself had watched him choke and still wanted him. Still believed in him. Didn’t want him relegated to the commercials, not really, but on stage with him, standing toe to toe as though they were partners in more than name alone. He could wait until he could speak next with his benefactor, sort out whether or not this is what they had in mind when they’d sent him here in the first place but, for some reason, decided against it.

“Okay. Sure. I mean, why not, right?”

It was clearly less than the resounding agreement that Tenna was hoping for, but more than the resounding scolding he’d been expecting. He didn’t jump up and burst at the seams with joy like Spamton expected. Just tilted his head into Spamton’s touch with a fond smile, one massive hand attempting to rest upon his knee and instead encompassing the entirety of his lap. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“I’m not the kinda guy who has things like regrets.”

Tenna nodded, humouring him and whispered, “I’m really glad we’re friends now.”

Is that what this is supposed to be? Spamton thought, looking down at Tenna, an odd warmth unfurling in his chest. The cheers of the crowd echoed in his mind, not cheering Tenna’s name alone, but Spamton’s too. “Yeah, yeah, you sap. I am too. But we’re gonna be more than just friends, big guy.” He leaned forward, nose-to-nose, relishing the way the buzz of Tenna’s processors went silent, the behemoth having gone still and watchful, waiting. “We’re gonna be stars.”