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Hidden away in the backrooms of TV World, mixed in with dust and the clutter of overused props, rests Toriel. Nestled in a mockery of her chair back home, sleeping peacefully. Undisturbed. And Tenna, for the first time that night, is able to actually look at her. Forced to see, be close enough to touch, the consequences of the erratic decisions he's made.
The fun gang is busy in the green room, and he knows he doesn't have too much time - the final stage is close to finished, and who knows when some of his employees will stumble in here - but ... He's finally able to see how soft her fur might be. How her horns are dulled with age, lines etched under her eyes, smile lines by her mouth.
He knows he should compose himself for the next round - what kind of a host would be be if he wasn't on his A game? - but instead he slowly sits down beside her. Letting himself stare at her sleeping in the chair he picked for her. (Purple, fabric - as close as he could manage to the shades he remembered seeing her in.)
There was always a size difference between the two of them. Tenna was used to her, others, filling up the corners of his screen with their brief presence. The kids pressing their noses against him, giggling at the static, the way she would chide them and gently tug them away. (It was the closest he ever got to a hug, truly.)
Now, even sitting he towers above her. And it feels wrong. It reminds him of how light she felt when they first had to move her, how easy it would have been to grasp just a little too hard in his stressed mindset, and it all turn to naught.
A glance away at the scratched up floorboards (he can remember when they used to be shiny, despite only holding storage), and Tenna sighs, feels himself shrink down. And down. Until he's able to be at her height, not daring to go any lower.
"... It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know."
The words leave his mouth quietly, a direct contradiction to the way they've been overlapping in his thoughts, crowding over any others. They feel ill, like a line never considered had been crossed.
"You shouldn't be here," more muttering. He can feel his screen dim the longer he tries to speak, cooling down in ways that keep his guard up and up, "I-I shouldn't be here. This shouldn't be happening. But..."
There's a stray thought that catches in his wires, itching to lash out - none of this would be happening if she just left him plugged in! If he just had more time, a proper chance to show he was still plenty of use! Plenty of fun! Plenty of reason to be kept.
But the idea of his first conversation with her being laced with anger, violence, things she always avoided yet kept coming in contact with...
He spares another glance, and lingers. Watching how her chest rises and falls softly, idly thinking how the blue of the dress they picked didn't suit her. A defeated calm settling over him.
"I thought we were family," saying it brings a dreadful sense of relief, twisted with watching how she doesn't even stir at the admission, "I saw the four of you every day. I-I remember the first time I was plugged in, getting a screen full of Asgore's shoulder, with you frowning behind him, holding my manual."
Claws dig into his blazer, knees tight against his chest, "the mornings, you making breakfast while Asgore sang his s-silly songs, trying to make the kids laugh... how you sometimes hummed infomercial tunes as you cleaned, a-annoyed at how catchy they were.
"I know so many special days... moments.... I even recorded a few," he takes in a sharp breath, struggling to breathe past the constricting he feels, as he taps his casing, "I-I'd watch them when I felt lonely. When S-Spa.... that little mailman left. When you... unplugged me... Over and over. Repeating to myself that I could always record more later, w-when you'd plug me back in."
Dimmed, blurry, his screen has streaks of faint color as tears trail down. Wetting his suit, dripping onto the floor. His chest rises almost rapidly as he struggles to maintain himself watching her lack of...anything. Just breathing. Sleeping. Like he didn't exist.
It's difficult, but he lets himself change his view; staring at his cuff links, shoes, anything else.
"You... you were a savior to me. He told me not to look at you like that, b-but how could I not? You picked me! At the store, saying I'd be just perfect. Asgore wanted something bigger, but you refused. You'd include me in decorations, tell the kids to tell me goodnight when they had to go to bed after shows. I-I thought I had a place to belong.
"But you... you probably don't even remember when you first picked me, do you? You remember Kris and Azzy's reaction more... I wasn't a part of those memories for you. I was... just in the background. While you all were my whole world."
The admittance feels empty. Exhausting from all the ways he previously denied it, void of the relief he should feel. Instead, he numbly wipes at his face, a shuddering sigh falling out. When he's composed himself enough, he clears his voice, tapping his button to radio the others, settling in the finer details of where she's to be kept.
When he stands, he can't feel it. He's on autopilot mentally - changing his channels, so to speak - to get back into being the host of the show. He won't allow himself to question the broad statements the Knight made, or the way Kris looks at him blankly now, the way he's been off his game for years.
But he lets himself look at her once more, "I can't let you abandon me too."