Archive of Our Own ^beta

Usually, when Spamton wakes up in the middle of the night, it’s in the throes of seizing, sharp-breathed panic. It’s in the old phantom feeling of strings twisting tighter, of burning coursing through his limbs, of pain shooting through his face—accompanied, of course, by the distant, false ringing of that black rotary phone. 

Nightmares yank him from his sleep all too often—several nights a week, he jolts upright in a cold sweat, reaching out instinctively and finding, where previously there was cold, putrid garbage, the warm, strong embrace of his partner. There’s a few soft, whispered words, limbs wrapped tightly around him, large hands running gently over his head, clawed fingertips combing through his hair. Most times, it’s enough to reassure him, remind him of where he really is, convince him that he’s safe, that nobody is coming for him—that that infernal phone isn’t ringing, that he never has to answer again. Before long, he’s relaxed, and headed back to sleep. Over the few months since him and Tenna’s reunion, the period of waking has drawn shorter and shorter. 

But tonight, he’s been disturbed from an entirely peaceful, dreamless slumber, and he’s not sure why. 

Honestly, his first instinct is irritation. Spamton treasures his hours of successful rest, desperate to make them stretch for as long as his mind and body will allow—or at least until Tenna wakes up. He doesn’t appreciate them being cut short, especially for no apparent reason. No real sound seems to have roused him, no disturbance, and he feels a small scowl cross his face, letting out a huff of agitation, shutting his eyes and beginning to turn over onto his side—

When he notices he’s not pressed up against his partner’s much-larger form. His eyes fly open at once, alert. Flipping onto his side, he goes to inspect the empty half of their shared bed—

Only, Tenna’s half isn’t empty. It’s occupied by a teeny-tiny version of his boyfriend, about the size of a mouse, light radiating out from his miniature screen. 

Immediately, Spamton is concerned. Tenna never really shrinks in the middle of the night, especially not in his sleep. The only time it’s ever happened was when Spamton had slipped out of bed for a glass of water, and Tenna had woken up for a moment, alone, unsure of where Spamton was or if he was coming back. That had been a real ordeal. Usually, though, the CRT sleeps like a rock, only roused by Spamton’s movements or distress. 

The puppet leans down towards his partner, whispering, “ANT? [10% off]?”

The television doesn’t respond, immobile. He’s still asleep, Spamton thinks, confused—but then he makes it out. There’s something…playing on Tenna’s screen, small enough that he has to squint his beady eyes to discern the scene properly. A dream. There’s no volume, just a bright light. He stares intently. This must be the cause of the shrinking. So, perhaps a nightmare. 

As he watches, Tenna’s screen begins to blur with tears, and his tiny body begins to twitch, tossing slightly back and forth on the mattress. 

Spamton’s stomach drops when he sees himself in the glass, seated on that familiar old couch in Tenna’s dressing room, looking younger and sharper—though his eyes are ringed with shadows, and his face looks sallow and haunted. As the screen’s view pans back to Tenna, he notices his partner looks rather haggard as well, and he’s wringing his hands with anxiety, his face desperate and pleading. 

Oh, shit, Spamton thinks, recognizing the miniature scene, oh, fuck. He body tenses, his jaw creaking as he watches, transfixed, as their conversation plays out. He stares, horrified, while his past self’s face goes from tense to relieved, and then—

Ringgg—Ringgg. Ringgg—Ringgg. The sound starts up, and he sucks in a sharp breath, but when the screen flicks back towards Tenna’s face—pained, tear-stained, heartbreaking, terrified—his mouth still moves soundlessly. There’s no volume—only the ringing. 

It’s not real, Spamton tells himself, frozen in fear, It’s not really ringing. Nobody is calling. It’s all in your head. 

He wills himself to be rational as his past self shuffles like a zombie towards the black landline, trembling hand reaching out for it—

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. He can practically hear Tenna’s voice, high-pitched, pleading, desperate—‘P-Please. Please, Spamton. Let it ring.’

His mouth moves in time with his past self’s as he gazes at his own petrified, frozen face, at his blown-wide, shiny black eyes. It’s for me. 

It’s for me it’s for me it’s for me. Heaven is calling, answer the phone—it’s not real—calling, calling, calling for you—it’s in my head, it’s all in my head it’s all in my head it’s not really ringing, there’s no phone here—

“ANT,” Spamton whispers helplessly, his voice coming out hoarse. It’s too soft to wake him up, but it’s all he can make himself say, in the throes of his panic. “ANT.”

Past-Spamton’s pale, and he’s dropping the phone, and he’s running, and Tenna’s panicked and his head is whipping between the landline and the door, and just as he reaches out for that black plastic receiver—

Smash cut. A blurry vision of a bathroom stall. Present-Spamton winces. The night with the coke. The dressing room again, Spamton on the floor in front of Tenna, large hands shaking in a first-person view. That fight—The TV building. Spamton and Battat are brawling. Oh, shit.

Then—then Tenna’s pressed into the corner of a darkened room, curling into a ball, sinking to the floor. The screen pulls back,—and, to his horror, there’s dozens of Spamtons. Their faces are contorted in loveless, cold anger, and the real Spamton can read the occasional word from the ones whose lips move normally, the ones he can discern through the blur of tears—

—Worthless!—

He’s screaming at his partner—he’s shouting horrible things at the love of his life—

—Garbage— 

Dream-Tenna’s trembling, face confused and scared and hurt, so hurt—

—Whore!—

A false-Spamton hand clenches a dress shirt collar. Real-Spamton shudders.

—Useless—

Each insult strikes the puppet like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of him, memories of those exact words flying out of his own mouth in blind rage assaulting him, pitching up the ringing in his ears, making him cower, hands cradling his head, eyes still inexplicably locked onto the screen. Puppet-hands have come up to grab at Tenna in droves, now, drawing him into the crowd, tossing projectiles at him, landing blows, mouths still moving, shouting. 

The CRT begins to writhe in his sleep, tears making the image harder and harder to decipher, a tiny whine slipping from his mouth. 

I have to wake him up, Spamton thinks. I have to get him out of there. But the fear is a viscous, sticky substance, trapping him, making him unable to move or speak as it slides down and coats his throat. The ringing in his mind is deafening. He feels himself shake. Several of the Spamtons on screen hold thick, grey plugs now, brandishing them, blurry mouths moving indecipherably. He feels sick. These are the memories that haunt him, Spamton’s mind whispers, You haunt him. You’ve done this to him. You’ve made him afraid. He’s lightheaded, mind reeling, spinning. His cheeks are wet. 

“ANT,” he croaks, a bit louder. “TENNA. [Pleas].” He leans forward, as if in slow motion. 

Tenna sits in the snow, underneath a blazing spotlight, suddenly, still surrounded by those vacant-eyed copies of his partner. The very setting practically cuts off Spamton’s air. His partner’s screen captures himself there, looking lifeless, dead, arms lopped off heartlessly—and versions of Spamton are crawling around him, yanking at splintered wires, tearing his boyfriend to scrap metal while a shrunken, evil little puppet laughs—

He can’t take any more. Spamton thrusts his hand forward, grasping his partner’s shoulder, and shouts, voice cracking—“ANT! PLEASE!”

His tiny boyfriend sits bolt upright, letting out a high-pitched scream. Spamton’s heart thuds in his chest, and immediately, he’s jolting towards him, picking the hamster-sized television up in his hands, cupping them around him securely—

Another yelp, and limbs are scrambling across his palms, pushing against his fingers, vying for escape from plasticky prison—

“[Hay]! HEY! [it’s me]! IT’S [No. 1 Rated Salesman 1997]!” Spamton shouts hastily, realizing suddenly that Tenna must not recognize where he is—that he had just been surrounded by Spamtons, lost and hurting and confused—

“No! No! N-no more, please!” Tenna pants in his hold, voice thick with tears, breathing quick and wheezy. On instinct, Spamton leans away, placing him down on the bed gingerly, cowering back. The CRT scrambles away from him immediately, limbs wrapping around himself in protection, sniffling as tears run down his face.

“P-please, please, I know, I know I—” Tenna’s babbling, panicked and sobbing, his tiny chest heaving with the force of his cries. “Y-You don’t have to say it, please, stop—”

Spamton wants to throw up. The guilt is boiling in his stomach, even though, of course, he wasn’t the perpetrator in the dream. It’s threatening to explode from him, like soda from a shaken bottle. He exhales shakily. Focus on him. Don’t think about yourself for once. 

“IT’S OKAY,” he whispers, trying to keep his grating voice soft, “IT WAS JUST A DREAM. NONE OF THEM WERE [Reel], ANGEL.” Something catches in his throat. “YOU’RE HERE WITH [Mii] NOW. THE [100% Authentic] ME.” His hands shake as he reaches them out on instinct, and he practically feels the heart in his chest cracking as the CRT flinches away, looking up at him warily. “P-PLEASE,” he murmurs, voice trembling, “DON’T [Cri].”

Slowly, Tenna looks around him, really taking in the room for the first time since he’s woken up. His antennae straighten, and he brings his hands up to scrub at his screen, shaking his head, then staring into Spamton’s eyes in the low light. Something on his face gleams with recognition. 

“THAT’S RIGHT. JUST A DREAM. A [Nightmare]. THEY WEREN’T [Real Deal]. I’M REAL.” 

It sounds painfully like the things Tenna whispers to him after his own nightmares—only his voice is far less soothing, more pleading. He grits his teeth, then forces his face to relax. 

“I-it was a dream,” Tenna mumbles, his voice hoarse. “J-just a dream.” He’s still wary-looking. 

“YES, [Deer]. JUST A DREAM, I’M HERE NOW.” He extends his hand once more, bringing his fingers up to Tenna’s screen, brushing them against the side of his head. The CRT almost pulls away—but then he leans into the touch, bringing a hand up to wrap around his thumb. “NOTHING THEY SAID WAS [Tru].”

“D-did you see—” Tenna asks, going red suddenly, jerking back, “Did—did I wake you up? Did you wake me up? Oh, don’t tell me you saw—”

Spamton nods slowly, expression regretful, not wanting to lie and worsen the situation, to create an unnecessary secret. Tenna doesn’t like when there’s secrets between them. 

His partner immediately begins to panic. “Oh—Spam, I-I’m sorry! I—that probably upset you, I don’t—I didn’t—I swear I don’t think of you that way, i-it was just—my stupid screen just shows it, and—I, I couldn’t control it, I—I just dream about that day sometimes, a-and then it just morphed i-into—don’t think I hate you, please, I-I love you—” He’s red-faced, distressed, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks in earnest once more as he wrings his tiny, clawed hands. 

“ANT.” Spamton says, cutting him off. Tenna’s mouth snaps shut. 

In lieu of speaking more, the puppet just…slowly, carefully, gathers the shrunken television in his hands again, picking him up gingerly in his palms, and drawing Tenna in close to his chest, by his heart. Instead of panicking, this time the CRT just curls up, hands wrapped around two of Spamton’s fingers, face pressed against where they meet his palm. 

“I’m sorry,” his partner whispers, muffled against the plastic. 

Spamton lets out an affectionate little huff. “WHAT IN THE [World Wide Web] ARE YOU [Apolochizing] FOR? I’M THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE [So Sorry].”

Tenna moves to speak, to deny this assertion, no doubt, but the puppet just pulls him in closer, the television’s head pressed against his chest now. “JUST…JUST [Breath]. CALM DOWN. IT’S [A-Okay], BABY. RELAX.” 

Two small claws grab handfuls of the fabric of his shirt. They’re shaking. 

“I—I don’t know if you could hear them,” his boyfriend whispers, “b-but the things they were saying—s-stuff you didn’t mean, stuff you didn’t say, w-would never think of saying—th-that you hated me, that I-I trapped you here, that you never—never cared if I—” A ragged, breathy sob, and Spamton shushes him gently. 

“NONE OF THAT IS TRUE,” Spamton whispers. “I LOVE YOU. THERE IS [Nowhere] I WOULD RATHER [Bee]. I [Promis].” He takes a deep breath. “A-AND AS FOR THE THINGS I DID SAY—ANT, I—”

Tenna shakes his head. “Spammy, you don’t have to—”

“NO. NO, I [Due].” Spamton’s tone is solemn, but, per usual, he struggles to articulate himself, especially after the panic of the last few minutes. “I—I SAID A LOT OF STUFF, BACK THEN. AND. AND [Recently]. I WAS [Anger Management Courses, Free Now On—] FUCK! I WAS ANGRY. ALL THE [Thyme]. I WAS [Lost Control of Your Life?]. I SHOULD NEVER HAVE SHOUTED AT YOU [Liek] THAT. I-I KNOW IT SOUNDS [Stupid], BUT REALLY, I DIDN’T MEAN [Anything] OF IT, I SWEAR. I—I DIDN’T REALLY [Feel] THAT WAY, I JUST—I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO FEEL. I WAS…[Scared]. STUPID. [Stubborn Stains]. IT—” He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “[It hurts! It burns!] ME. SO MUCH. THAT THOSE THINGS ARE [In Your Head]. AND. I HAVE [Nobody, Nobody] 2 BLAME BUT [Me, Myself, and I].”

A small, warm screen burrows further into his chest, and Tenna protests, muffled, “Spammy…it wasn’t just you who said awful things. Besides, you had a lot g-going on. You were being—the phone was…” Tenna exhales. “It was hard for you. I-I don’t blame you. Plus, I wasn’t perfect, either. I made a lot of mistakes. I did…I did some bad things, too. Hurt you. L-Let you go.” His voice is watery, and he’s on the verge of sobbing again as he finishes his sentiment. 

The puppet shakes his head doggedly. “I WAS [Worse]. I DID WORSE. I LEFT. I COULD—COULD HAVE COME BACK, AND I—”

“It isn’t a competition,” Tenna replies softly. 

“IF IT [Were], I’D BE [Winning]!” Spamton shoots back, frustrated.

A shrug of tiny shoulders. “Well, then good thing it’s not.” 

A long moment of silence, and he takes a deep breath. “I WISH I COULD [Take It All] BACK,” Spamton whispers. “BUT I CAN’T.”

“I can’t either,” Tenna sniffles. “But we started o-over, didn’t we? When things were good back then, they were so good. A-and now they’re always good. A-and even if they get bad for a second, we’re different. We’re trying.”

“THAT WE ARE,” the puppet murmurs.

“I think we’re doing pretty good,” Tenna says warmly, growing six inches in Spamton’s arms. 

“ME TOO,” he agrees, then pauses. “BUT I’M STILL [Sorry]. I LOVE YOU. YOU [Know] THAT, [Rite]? FOREVER.”

Suddenly, the form in his arms is shooting upwards, expanding, growing until it's twice his size, giant arms wrapping around him now, the way he’s used to. Tenna’s back at his usual stature—he’s warm, as he envelops Spamton, and the puppet finds himself leaning into that warmth on instinct. 

“Forever,” the CRT whispers, voice glowing a bit. “I love you too, Spammy. You’re forgiven. You’ve been forgiven for a long time, angel. Memory is different from feeling. More fickle.”

Spamton curls into his partner’s arms. “WHEN DID YOU BECOME SUCH A [Wise Guy]?”

Tenna chuckles softly. “Comes with age, I guess.”

“THEN WE’VE BOTH GOT IT IN [Spades],” he replies easily. 

Another moment passes in silence—but Spamton finds his past words still creeping back into his mind, itching at his skull, making him squirm a bit and squeeze his eyes shut. 

He’d like to pretend, certainly, that the venom he’d felt course through him during those tirades is used up, that volcano of metal-melting acid rage gone dormant for good—but he can’t. He feels the heat of it under his skin still, and it’s starting to–well, it’s starting to burn. It’s a familiar sensation, and an unpleasant one. Tenna’s admission of his own faults, their mutual blame, feels weak in the face of his words, his actions—certianly, his ever-present love for his partner and frequent disdain for himself contributes to this, but—if he’s going to invoke a little of that old-age wisdom—knowing that is different from truly feeling it. He can’t help the way their faults seem…incomparable. So, he squirms. 

Tenna’s arms tighten around him a bit, attempting gently to still him. “Babe,” he chides softly. “I’m over it, really. I swear. I-It was just a dream.” His tone is confident until his last sentence, and his voice slips a bit, stammering. He feels Tenna tense in that way he does when he’s trying not to shrink. 

His boyfriend’s voice is tinged with regret, anxiety, and insecurity when he adds, “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, Spam. I’m sorry.” His last word comes out in a whine, like–like he doesn’t want Spamton to be angry with him. The puppet swallows the lump in his throat. A pulse of frustration–but not at Tenna. 

“I–I WAS AN ASSHOLE!” He spits, flipping over to look into Tenna’s screen, his eyebrows lowering. Tenna’s face display flicks back on, his mouth turned down. “I–I WAS [Shellfish], AND MEAN, AND–AND–HORRIBLE! THE THINGS I SAID–” He feels that anger rushing in him, sick and familiar, and he wants to slam his head into the wall.

Perhaps sensing this, Tenna cups a large hand around the side of his face, stroking his hair back with a thumb, expression worried. 

“Hey. Don’t be so mean to past Spamton. I loved him too, you know.”

Spamton huffs. “WHY DID YOU [Bother]?” As if cross at the mere idea, he moves to roll over, to look away—but Tenna holds him in place, not letting him break eye contact. He fights the instinct to feel trapped–the hold isn’t tight, just firm. Plus, his boyfriend’s antennae are pointed down at him sympathetically, as if sensing his distress, and his bottom lip juts out in that concerned way, his face warm and worried. He finds his eyes, as they so often are, drawn towards the screen, and meets Tenna’s gaze. 

“Because you were lots of good things, too. You’re still all of those good things, to me.” Tenna explains. “You were charming and smart and witty and funny, just like now. Y-you were so handsome, same as today.”

“PFF-” Spamton tries, but he’s not allowed to speak. 

“Don’t try to say otherwise, dear, you won’t convince me. I’m hopeless, really—it was doomed a decade ago.” The hand brushes his hair back again, his partner laughing softly, smiling. “Now, where was I–oh, just starting on the handsome thing. You’ve always had such a bright smile–your real smile, the one where the corners of your eyes crinkle up behind your glasses, and a cute nose, and, of course, your hair, when it escaped that shell you used to gel it into and fell into your face. But–but it’s more than those things, Spam.” Tenna pauses. “You’ve always…gotten me. You’ve seen me for myself—not for the version I wanted everyone to see, back then, but…the real me. Y-you showed me who the real me is, frankly, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to do it. Oh, you’ve never been perfect, but…gosh, it’s cheesy, but….you’re perfect to me! And I’m not always a peach, that’s for certain–but you’ve never seemed to mind. Not really. Not when it counted.” The CRT sounds satisfied as he concludes his ramble, but adds, “Need I go on?”

Spamton is blushing, despite himself. He swears under his breath. “NO. [Quit Program], PLS. I BELIEVE YOU.” 

Tenna presses his face into him, warmth spreading across the crook of his neck. “Good. All of the bad is in the past, baby. Things are better now. Things are going to be better, from now on. We’re better. I promise you that.”

Spamton sighs, caught up in the embrace, the words slipping out despite his desire to simply terminate this subject of conversation. 

“DOESNT CHANGE THE [Passed].”

A beat, then a nod. “Guess that’s true.” Tenna tilts his head up, looking him in the eye once more. “So, if you can’t change it, how are you gonna live with it?”

I-I’m going to do better, Spamton thinks, I’m trying to do better—but does that really make it hurt less? Does it really take the guilt away? Does it make me forgive past-me? “I DUNNO,” he murmurs, hapless. 

Tenna’s warm against him, pulling him impossibly closer, lowering his lips into his hair, kissing the top of his head, then replying, slightly muffled, “Well, I’m here to help you find out! I’m here to learn, too. So, you’re not doing it alone. You won’t have to be alone ever again. You have me. All of me.” Certainly, the CRT’s concluding sentences are directed in part towards himself—it’s a reassurance he needs often—but Spamton’s comforted by it regardless, buoyed by how certain his partner sounds. 

Maybe it’s never going to not hurt, the puppet thinks, but he makes it better. He makes it easier. He’s always made the pain seem…distant. 

It’s true. In the days of the phone, time with Tenna had been the only time when he hadn’t been constantly plagued by anxiety about it, the fear of what he’d entered himself into. And Angel knows the years where he couldn’t get to Tenna had been plagued with innumerable fears and distresses, the pain ever-present, only ameliorated by dreams or memories. Surely, now that he’s here, now that they can really be together, Spamton can conquer any mental hurdle, can contend with any kind of guilt—especially when Tenna’s here to prove that he’s okay, that he doesn’t hate or resent his puppet partner, that he’s loved every version of him—no matter how flawed he might have been, or still might be. Surely, his tight holds, warm body, and soft, cheesy, too-wise words can drive those sick, sticky feelings away. 

It’s worked this time, after all. Spamton feels his body relaxing, that throbbing pain in his jaw, brought about by clenching his teeth, easing as he melts into Tenna’s arms, feeling his eyes begin to blink slowly with exhaustion. 

“YEAH,” he whispers, tucking his head up underneath Tenna’s, “YEAH, OKAY. WE’LL FIGURE IT OUT TOGETHER.” 

“Mmhm,” his partner hums, sleep creeping into his tone as well. A warm, clawed hand slips beneath the fabric of his undershirt, finding purchase on his lower back. Spamton draws his head back, tilting Tenna’s screen down a bit, then plants a soft, gentle, kiss onto his lips. 

The CRT’s staticky mouth curls up into a sleepy grin as he reciprocates the gesture. They revel in this blissful, drawn-out moment, mouths locked onto each other, for a while, before Spamton’s exhaustion pulls him back, tucking him back into his place in Tenna’s arms, head snuggled into the crook of his shoulder.

“I love you,” Tenna mumbles, his display flicking off as sleep draws him in. 

Spamton shuts his eyes, completely slack, savoring the precious feeling of complete safety. “LOVE YOU TOO,” he murmurs.

Then, wrapped up in each other, fundamentally entangled, they’re both asleep.