Chapter Text
No Subject
Mike
to me
Spamton G. Spamton,
Congratulations. My contact has completed negotiations. You should be receiving an email from the Queen's Network shortly.
As for your end of the deal-- stop calling me to talk about how attractive Paletta is and we'll call it even.
M.
Spamton fidgeted with his interlocking plastic finger joints. He wasn't particularly anxious, really, he just hated waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for a deal to go through, waiting for his friends to come back and tell him everything will be alright… and especially waiting for the sound of the Queen's goddamn clack-clacky girlboss heels.
He'd arrived early, as is polite for professional meetings, and was greeted by the Queen for approximately 5 minutes before she left him in the middle of the hallway to take a "battery-acid induced bathroom break".
Clop clop clop clop.
Goddamnit. That sound was going to drive Spamton insane. Resisting the urge to tell the Queen she sounded like a horse, he put on a polite smile and waved to her.
"DIDN'T [how was the fall] IN THEN, I TAKE IT?"
A robotic giggle left the Queen's voice box as she reached him.
"Saptom, You Are Just A Joy To Have Around Lol, Wanna Be One Of My Permanent TV Hosts?"
"ERM, IT'S ACTUALLY [SPAMTON]-"
"Haha Ok Then Ready To Meet Swatch?"
Hell yeah, he was ready to meet Swatch! Finally, the illusion would be broken and he'd be free from their editing-manufactured seductive wiles!
<<Ghghvhhh,<# Swatch is hotter in person.
Spamton tears his eyes off their smart button-up, stretched tantalizingly over the broad expanse of their chest. Oh, what he'd do to be that shirt, pressed close to Swatch and so-
"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Spamton. Let me assist you with that immediately."
What? What was going on?
Spamton blinks, pulling himself back into the moment. Oh. His blazer is soaking wet.
Before he can think to reply, Swatch pulls him through a nearby doorway into an empty restroom.
"I will request a new outfit for you from costuming posthaste. Again, my sincerest, sincerest apologies. There is a dry cleaners nearby, I will phone my chauffeur to take your soiled clothing there immediately-"
Spamton shrugs the blazer off and begins blotting liquid out of his polo shirt with the practiced ease of a messy eater.
"HAHAHA, NO WORRIES! [Accidents happen- always carry [copyrighted] paper towels]! THOUGH I WILL ADMIT> THIS IS THE [quickest way] SOMEONE HAS GOTTEN ME OUT OF MY [New Clothes] DURING OUR FIRST MEETING!"
WHY THE FUCK DID HE SAY THAT. UNDO BUTTON, BACKSPACE, SOMETHING, HOLY FUCK.
Both darkners freeze in silence, leaving the joke hanging between them for a few painstakingly stressful moments.
"Hah…" Swatch huffed out an awkward chuckle. "You really are just like how you act on TV."
Oh?
"YOU'RE [familiar] WITH MY WORK?"
"Ah, yes, of course. I like to familiarize myself with my guests before we begin work together." A boldfaced lie, but Spamton is none the wiser. "Mr. Spamton-"
"PLEASE, CALL ME [SPAMTON]!"
"Well then, Spamton, I wasn't aware that you had an interest in cooking."
"HAHAHA! BEFORE I BECAME A [[BIG SHOT]], I SOLD [quick and easy meal preparation kits!] IN PARTNERSHIP WITH MY FRIEND'S CAFE!"
Emphasis on. Sold. Past tense. Spamton loved Blue like a brother, really, but after what happened with the Cyber Cafe, he decided that he would never help them with any business prospects ever again.
"Fantastic. We so rarely have guests who are experienced in both visual arts and cooking, you know." Swatch starts to fold up his blazer, taking care to work every wrinkle out of it. It's incredibly… endearing, really. It's an incredibly pathetic thought to have, but there was no doubt Spamton would replay memories of this moment while doing his laundry alone in his apartment for the foreseeable future.
"GOOD TO HEAR YOU'RE [pleased with your service? Leave a review below!] WITH MY SKILL SET! WAIT, BUT HOW DID YOU KNOW I HAVE A [background] IN A-"
"It seems that your shirt has finished drying, Spamton. Shall we head back to the conference room? I'm sure the rest of the attendees will forgive our keeping them waiting."
Hngh. Hearing Swatch's voice say his name in real life was. Certainly an experience. "AH, YES! [Come on, vámonos]!"
Auughh. Spamton is cuter in person.
Swatch steals one last look at his folded blazer before handing it off to the chauffeur. Spamton is so small that it fit perfectly into the palm of their hand… it was really inappropriate to be thinking about a- a coworker, now, like this. But Swatch couldn't help it… his enthusiasm when he brought up his meal preparation kits, the stretch of his shirt sleeves as he shrugged his blazer off… a bird could only handle so much, really.
They'd managed to get a breath of fresh air and calm down by sending him off to the conference room while they sorted out his clothing, but now that that was done…
"Hey, are you done here or not? This traffic is pissing me off."
God do they wish they could still drive themselves.
"I'm done. Have a safe drive, Starwalker." Pain in the ass.
They sigh and walk back through the door, torn between being unprepared to see Spamton again and not wanting to keep the producers waiting for any longer.
"WELCOME BACK, [BOSS]!"
Well. They guess that eliminated one half of the conundrum.
"Spamton? I thought you planned to wait in the conference room."
"I UH- GOT [Lost]?"
Actually quite understandable. For whatever reason, the Queen was put in charge of all the construction for the building, and as such it had several nonsensical areas and other features clearly not up to code.
"We'll walk together, then." They try their best to keep their eyes from straying to him, stuck on the line between breaking the awkward silence and not wanting to risk saying something foolish. "So- you've been debriefed on this first episode's themes, correct?" Nice going! That was a safe conversation topic.
"[YEP]!! FIRST [Nighthawks: Edward Hopper, 1942, oil on canvas], THEN [The Boulevard Montmartre at Night: Camille Pissarro, 1897, oil on canvas], ENDING WITH [Nocturne in Black and Gold - The Falling Rocket: James Abbott McNeill Whistler, 1875, oil on canvas], RIGHT? A GREAT [variety tray] ON THE PRODUCERS' PART, I'D SAY!"
"Ah, thank you. Actually, I'm the one who selects the artwork for each episode."
"AH!! [really]! A WONDERFUL SELECTION, TRULY!! CLEARLY [you were in possession of] THINKING ABOUT A NIGHT THEME, RIGHT?" Spamton's voice softens and begins to quicken. He's visibly calling on a deep passion within him as he continues, a bit lost in his thoughts, "ALL Of the paintings are truly thought-provoking! Most of the contestants will probably base the [Nighthawks] appetizer around diner food, but I'm interested to see how they'll interpret the others! A [Nocturne] dessert… my first thought is something dark and chocolatey, like a truffle speckled with gold, but depending on the contestant, they could dig more into the meaning of the painting and create some kind of [dessert for dessert's sake]!.." With that, Spamton trips a bit on an uneven tile and is brought out of his reverie.
"AH! I'M [Sorry!] FOR RAMBLING, HAHA!" He flashes them a broad grin and reaches to scratch the back of his head coyly. "WHAT I WAS TRYING TO SAY WAS.. you have incredible taste." He ends softly, hoping they don't see the warmth he's beginning to feel in his cheeks.
Meanwhile, Swatch hasn't had a coherent thought outside of "Spamton cute" for a solid minute. Incredible taste, their ass.
"Spamton" Swatch said in their deep voice multicolored orbs scanning over me like I was [oil on canvas]. "I cannto help getting lost in youre eyes as vast as [Starry Night: Picasso], will you be the other half to my diptych " "YES! YES!! I THOUGHT YOUD NEVER ASK!" I scremed, jumping into their big feathered arms as they pressed me into theuir soft chest . I lookede up into their eyebals and they looked into mine and ducked down to press their beak to my mouth passionately and
"HOLY CUNGADERO I'M GOING TO BE LATE FOR WORK"
Spamton smacks his stupid alarm clock off its stupid stand, throwing his sheets back onto the bed haphazardly as he ran to change. Shit! Just like old pathetic Spamton to have a single meeting with his crush and instantly fall head over heels. His plan really backfired stupendously.
He allowed himself a single glance in the mirror before snatching up his wallet and keys in one swift motion and sprinting to his car. Luckily, he was an experienced enough driver to easily dodge traffic, executing some perhaps… dubiously legal movies to do so. But it was all worth it when, in the end, he makes it to the Network building with 5 minutes to spare.
Not too shabby! Not too shabby at all! Spamton parks a reasonable distance away, not wanting to risk idling around the crowded parking lot for too long, and made his way inside. He'd survived one day in extended contact with Swatch- it was perfectly plausible that he could survive another!
Swatch couldn't survive another day working with Spamton. It wasn't that he was an awful coworker, no- the exact opposite, in fact. Spamton on set was witty and insightful, expertly finding ways to bounce off of the regular judges and contestants while also not holding back on criticisms. His personality truly leant itself to connecting with everyone, and his infectious enthusiasm permeated through even the looming slog of a full work week. Swatch really was, as the Queen might say, "down bad" for Spamton.
"And, scene. I think we're about ready to wrap up filming for today." One of the plugboys claps, signaling the finale of a long, tough day.
The cameras begin to turn away as Swatch lightly rolls their shoulders. As the host, they were expected to be on camera for nearly the entirety of filming and had little time to sit down. Being well into their 30s, the few break times they had often were dedicated to doing small stretches to keep their joint pain at bay.
"GREAT WORK TODAY [sugarplum]!"
"The same to you."
"AWW! YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME [new buttery blush formula]!"
The same to you, Swatch deliberately did not say. Luckily, a "ping!" from their phone conveniently interrupts before they need to think of an appropriate reply.
"Heavy acid rain starting soon." They read off their screen.
"OH." Spamton's mouth forms a perfect circle, eyes flashing with panic for a second. "I [forgotten] MY UMBRELLA."
Swatch blinks at him with an expression of genuine concern.
"How far away are you parked? Do you need me to walk you to your car?"
"AH THAT'S..! IT'S ON THE CORNER OF [[HYPERLINK BLOCKED]].. BUT IT'S [fine and dandy]!! I'VE SURVIVED WORSE!!" Spamton puffs out his chest, bravado betrayed by the anxious pitch of his voice.
"No, this is no condition to be stuck in without an umbrella. I'm worried for your safety." Swatch firmly states. They hesitate for only a second before their mothering instinct takes over their distant work persona. "If you'd like, you can ride home with me. Forgive me if this is crossing any boundaries, but I cannot leave you out in this weather alone in good conscience."
Spamton is momentarily at a loss for words, gazing up at them with a wonder in his eyes that does something to the butterflies in their stomach.
"Y-YEAH. SOUNDS [a-ok] WITH ME!"
