Archive of Our Own ^beta

Spamton shoved away his paperwork in frustration, barely avoiding throwing it to the floor entirely. He and Tenna had been gnawing on this script for over an hour, and were no closer to the finish line. Tenna wanted to keep it lighthearted, Spamton wanted to add a little raunchy humor (“the kids aren’t the only ones watching, Tenns!”), Tenna wanted to add more and more, Spamton wanted it clean and simple. The only common ground they had at all was that the concept was worth turning into a new segment of their show at all. Both co-stars were slumped over in their seats like puppets with their strings cut, the constant back-and-forth wearing them into exhaustion. 

God, why wouldn’t Tenna just trust him here? It was Spamton’s idea to begin with! Hell, now that he thought about it, Cathode had been acting off all week. He was distracted, stubborn, bitchy… what, was he on his period or something?

Tenna started to suggest yet another stupid change, but suddenly jolted upright as his stomach let out a loud, desperate snarl, shifting to press a fist hard against it to try to hide the sound. That was the third time Tenna’s belly had cried out in the last ten minutes. Spamton glanced up at the CRT, noting Tenna wasn’t meeting his gaze. The smaller man narrowed his eyes at his business partner, his analytical Addison instincts kicking in. Was Tenna trying to hide that he was hungry? Why? Is this why he was so damn annoying lately? 

Now that Spamton was looking closer, Tenna did seem a bit skinnier…

Under the facade of annoyance, Spamton felt concern bubbling up despite himself. Tenna used to be a scarecrow of a man, overwork and a tendency to rely on coffee instead of food for energy leaving him looking unhealthily lean underneath his tailcoat. Since he and Spamton started working together (and Spamton started dragging him to real lunch and dinner breaks), the CRT had been steadily filling out, his mood improving along with his weight. The Addison wasn’t exactly eager to see his partner slip back into looking like a bag of bones again, and he wasn’t going to sit back and watch it happen. 

“God, I can’t think of anything on an empty stomach. Let’s order lunch and figure this out after.” Spamton was fine, actually; he’d had a large breakfast during a morning business meeting in Cyber City. But he was betting Tenna wouldn’t protest as much if he thought Spamton was hungry too. 

The CRT visibly flinched at the mention of ordering food.  “You can, uh, order something if you need to! But I’m good! To keep going!”

Nope, not going to let him squirm out of eating that easily. “Big Screen, I just heard your stomach growling.” Tenna shrunk down slightly, and Spamton had to hide a smirk despite his concern. The big guy was a god-awful liar. “We both need a break, man, come on. I’m buying.” 

“But, I? Uh…” Tenna shook his head hard, then flipped into his plastic TV Host voice. “Alright, long as you’re footing the bill! Thank you Spammy~!" 

Spamton scoffed at the cutesy nickname, deciding not to tell off Tenna for calling him ‘Spammy’. This time. He pulled out his phone from his suit jacket. “I’m gonna order from that one burger place in Cyber City.” One of Tenna’s favorites, his business partner had a real soft spot for greasy diner food. “You want your normal order?” Spamton was only asking out of routine, he knew Tenna’s usual like the back of his hand: Double Darkburger, large fry, large strawberry milkshake. CRT was a man of habit. 

“Actually! Spammy! Could I get a salad instead?” 

Spamton stopped dead in his tracks, thumb hovering over the ‘call’ button. He had to blink hard a few times to shake the shock before finally looking at Tenna in open disgust. “What are you, a Rabbick?” 

Tenna’s screen cutting out and rapid height loss let Spamton know that maybe, perhaps, that was the wrong thing to say. Fuck. He cleared his throat and tried to string together something sappier. 

“You gotta actually eat, man, you’re gonna be running around nonstop tonight. I don’t want you passing out because you’re trying to watch your figure or whatever, capiche?” 

Spamton wasn’t exaggerating; there was a reason (a particularly embarrassing blooper for a certain juice commercial) that Spamton started making sure Tenna actually ate properly at his meal breaks. 

Tenna’s screen stayed dark, and his stature stayed tiny (okay, not that tiny; he was currently the same size as Spamton, but tiny for the behemoth of a man), but Tenna gave Spamton a clearly reluctant nod. 

“Good boy.” Spamton ignored the way Tenna flinched, his screen instantly snapping back on to display a solid red. Watching how easily his business partner got flustered was fun, but right now wasn’t the time to tease him about it. “Now again: your normal order?”

“Ex-! Excuse me?!” Tenna’s face blinked back on, and he shot up a few feet taller as he spluttered. The Addison fixed him with a firm look, shutting down the topic of conversation. The CRT shrunk back down a foot, screen dimming. “Uh. Yeah, normal order. I guess?”

Spamton finally hit the call button, and quickly relayed his order to the employee on the other side of the line. He still ordered his usual despite not feeling particularly hungry; can’t let on that he’s doing this just to get Tenna to eat. Worst case scenario, he could push his leftovers onto the CRT. Angel knows he could use it. 

“Alright, it’ll be here in ten minutes.” Spamton announced, then looked over the table and huffed, fighting the urge to return to arguing about the script tooth and nail. “Let’s get this stupid mess cleaned up.”

——-

After ten minutes of pushing papers around (and Spamton deciding to quietly relent on a few of his ideas by tossing some of his notes in the trash when Tenna wasn’t looking), a knock sounded at the door. 

“Ey bosses, ya food’s here!”

Tenna stood and went to answer the door. After a quick exchange with the Zapper outside, Tenna returned with a large, greasy bag and drink carrier with one big milkshake and one small cola. 

Tenna sorted out the bag, handing over Spamton’s darkburger and a fry as large as his head, then sat down in front of his own food. While Spamton immediately unwrapped his burger and tore in (what can he say? Good food is good food, even if he’s not that hungry), the CRT set out a small plate and started slicing up his own large fry like a loaf of bread. 

The Addison squinted at Tenna in suspicion. Tenna always, always started with his double darkburger first; the man hated when his food got cold, and the fry always stayed warmer than the burgers from this joint. 

“Hey, Cathode. Don’t forget your burger while it’s still warm.” Spamton pressured, trying to subtly steer his business partner into acting normal. 

Tenna’s antennas scrunched down, laying against the back of his head in clear discomfort. “Right! Uh, of course!” He put down his knife and fork and started gingerly unwrapping his burger, wincing like the damn thing was a feral Tasque about to lunge out and attack him. 

Spamton kept a half eye on Tenna as the larger man started reluctantly eating, but let his clear hesitation slide for the moment. They were absolutely going to talk about this, but not until Tenna got some food in him. Spamton had an inkling that Tenna would get spooked out of eating if he broached the topic now. 

As he and Tenna both finished off their burgers at the same time (Huh, Tenna was usually a slow eater. When was the last time he’d had a proper meal?) and turned to their fries, Spamton decided to break up the awkward silence by having a little fun with his CRT partner. He picked up his fry at the middle with both hands, then started sliding the whole thing down his throat. Tenna’s antennas flicked up at the sudden movement, his face following, then his whole screen flickered to a bright red. 

“Spamton, What?! Are you doing?!” 

The Addison started to laugh at Tenna’s reaction, then suddenly gagged, dropping half the fry back onto the table. 

“Spammy!” Spamton felt the whole table shudder as he coughed, fighting to swallow down the fry half currently lodged in his throat. He felt a large hand gently rubbing his back, and a cool cylinder pressed against his hand. He immediately tore off the lid of his soda and tilted back, taking large, desperate gulps to force the offending fry down where it belonged. After a minute of struggling and downing half his drink, he finally felt sweet relief as the stupid giant French fry slid down into his stomach. 

Well, that was fucking embarrassing. 

Tenna kept rubbing Spamton’s back, accomplishing nothing but rubbing in the humiliation. “You alright, Spammy?” 

“Don’t call me that. I’m fine.” Spamton grumbled, waving away Tenna and leaning against the back of his chair. “You want the rest of my fry? I think I’m done with French fries for today.” He deflected, trying to change the subject. 

Tenna shuffled nervously, not making a move back towards his seat. “Sorry… I don’t need it, I’m fine.” 

Spamton whipped his head upwards to fix Tenna with a death glare, his patience for the CRT’s weirdness exhausted from nearly choking. “I didn’t ask you if you needed it, I asked if you wanted it.”

“Uh… I, um…?” 

“Save it.” This game of pretending Tenna was fine was pissing him off. “Sit back down and eat. And you’re going to eat the rest of this too.” 

Tenna flustered, his screen turning pink from embarrassment. “Spamton, no, I said-“

“Sit!” No more fucking games! “And as soon as you’re done, you’re gonna tell me why you aren’t fucking eating!”

The CRT froze for a second, then whimpered, tears forming on his screen. He trudged back to his seat and started monotonously taking bites of his fry. Spamton pushed his leftover fry half across to Tenna, trying not to make eye contact. Despite his best efforts to stay angry, the soft whines that verged on the edge of sobs chipped away at his facade. Damn it. He took a slow, steadying breath, still not looking at his business partner. 

“Cathode, I’m just worried. Why the hell aren’t you eating? You’re clearly hungry, so it’s not like you’re sick or something.”

Tenna swallowed audibly, then answered with a shaky voice. “Uh… I’m uh. I’ve been gaining weight.”

Spamton finally looked up at Tenna, cocking an incredulous eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, you are. That’s kinda what happens when you actually eat.”

Tenna’s screen was still wobbly, tears running down from where eyes would be. The Addison noticed his CRT partner had finished most of the fries in the minute he spent trying to ignore him. “But I-“ Tenna started, then winced back like he was expecting to be cut off again. But Spamton simply waited to hear him out instead. Tenna took a deep, shaky breath, then kept going. “I. I’m getting kinda. Soft, though. I need to look good on TV, the camera adds ten pounds.”

“Tenna.” Spamton propped his elbows on the table and leaned in towards his business partner. “You look fine. Hell, if anything you look better, you looked like a damn skeleton before.” 

“No, you don’t get it-“

“Cathode, I’m literally looking at you right now, what’s there not to get-?”

“Just look!” Tenna shot to his feet, opening up his dress shirt with one smooth flick of his thumb against the buttons, then yanked it open to expose his torso to Spamton. 

A girdle. 

The idiot box was wearing a damn girdle. 

The offending garment was black, standing out sharply against Tenna’s white fur, and boned like a corset, with strings tied around the front. Probably laced up in the back, if Spamton had to guess. 

“The fuck? Take that stupid thing off, what are you thinking?!” Spamton clambered up onto the table, taking a swipe at the top edge of the girdle, but Tenna flinched away. 

“No, I need it! This shirt doesn’t fit without it!” Tenna argued back, hugging the open halves of his shirt around his stomach defensively. 

“No you don’t! What you need is a new shirt!” Spamton grabbed ahold of Tenna’s wrist and pulled him closer. “Not a stupid diet, not a stupid girdle, a new shirt!” He shoved Tenna away, hard enough to make him stumble. “I’m calling your tailor. You’re getting measured today. Without the girdle. So take. It. Off.”

Tenna started to stutter another argument, then whined and stared down at his feet, his tail wrapping around his legs. “But my pants, uh, don’t fit without it either…”

“Then take them off too.” Spamton looked away, ignoring how telling the CRT to take his pants off made his cheeks go hot. “I’ll have someone bring some clothes until you get your new suit.” 

“I, but, that’s…. Okay.” The Addison turned all the way around to stare holes into the far wall, busting himself with his phone call as Tenna started undressing. Before Tenna could even get fully undressed, a knock sounded from the door. 

“Ey, got the outfit ya ordered!”

“Leave them at the door, Jongler!” Spamton yelled out. 

“You know their names?” Tenna asked from behind him, clearly perplexed. 

Spamton shoved his phone away, scrambling down off the table to go fetch Tenna’s change of clothes. “Just that one. Jongler’s good at being discreet, that’s why I always have them on door duty. Have you never noticed?”  

“Uh… no, I guess not? Jeez, maybe I don’t pay enough attention…” Tenna mumbled. 

“That’s why you got me, Big Screen.” Spamton asserted as he opened the door just enough to grab the t-shirt and sweatpants outside. Bright red and yellow and covered with TV logos, just as annoying as his business partner. “Now anyway, get dre-“ Spamton stopped dead in his tracks, mouth still stuck open. 

Tenna was standing right above him in just his bright red heart-covered boxers, furry hand outstretched to take the new outfit. He was long and lanky under his suit, covered neck to toe in soft, fluffy white fur. His chest was cut across with two pale scars, perfectly placed to give him the illusion of muscles. The weight he was so worried about amounted to just a bit of pudge around his middle, just enough to make him look healthy and well fed. 

And handsome. 

Spamton wanted to dig his fingers into those slightly softened hips. Sink his teeth into that paunch. Bend that idiot box over and fu-

“Spammy? You okay?” 

“I uh… I. Get dressed.” Spamton shoved the clothes into Tenna’s waiting hand and turned around, desperately rubbing his hands against his face to try and exorcise his thoughts. 

Tenna tried to ask him something again as he pulled on his clothes, but Spamton couldn’t hear him over his attempts to internally shout down whatever devious nightmare had wormed its way from his subconscious. After a solid moment of silence, he finally worked up the nerve to speak. “You decent?”

“Uh, yeah. I have been for a while now.” Tenna answered, a question hanging at the end of his sentence, waiting to be asked. Spamton didn’t give him a chance. 

“Good, let’s get this damn script figured out already then.” Spamton shot back, a little too quickly. He scrambled back into his seat, pushing away the remains of his lunch and grabbing a stack of papers in a (hopefully) nonchalant fashion. “And finish your stupid milkshake.”