Chapter Text
Midnight.
Stretching his stiffened body after hours of work, Tenna's gaze fell upon Spamton, who was still scribbling away with a pen on a sheet of white paper. Since Tenna had allowed this puppet demon to help with paperwork at the corner of his desk, productivity had improved slightly, or so it seemed.
However, if it were up to Tenna, he would prefer the creature to busy itself elsewhere rather than chattering away at the desk with its utterly pointless, unbearably irritating remarks. But this TV Darkner couldn't bear the thought of leaving his former partner — well, in the current circumstances, one could arguably call him his "present partner" — out on his own to run amok. It wasn't that he feared Spamton might be captured and abused by others; rather, he dreaded the puppet tormenting his staff, leaving him to clean up the mess afterwards.
…Well, he did worry that Spamton might meet his end out there. The number of TV World employees coveting Spamton's 'personal secretary' status was significant, not to mention the grudges Spamton had accumulated in Cyber City. No matter how many excuses he made, Tenna had to admit it: he liked keeping Spamton close. More accurately, he liked Spamton being close to him.
On the bright side, this little devil required no more than a corner of the desk, yet he proved remarkably useful. “Spamton.” Tenna called, “Send me a coffee.”
Overcome by drowsiness, this little man nodded off bit by bit, muttering indistinct words under his breath. He jumped down from his high chair and shuffled over to the specially fitted bar counter with steps for his use.
Since this desktop ornament was employed by Tenna, the office has been specifically arranged for remodelling into a more "Spamton-friendly" environment, which was gladly accepted by the other party. After delegating tasks to him, CRT grew increasingly uncomfortable watching the puppet twist his body with his legs dangling over the edge of the desk, propping himself up with his elbows while he wrote, or simply kneeling on the table with his face so close to the paper that even Tenna found it unsettling. So CRT bought him a chair. Though he solemnly declared, ‘This is a professional high chair specially designed for short people like you,’ any observant soul could see it was nothing more than a regular baby seat can found in every restaurant — heaven knows how much effort Tenna had expended to procure a chair Spamton could actually sit in.
Then this ungrateful scamp began mimicking infant cries while wearing his usual smug grin, clearly wanting Tenna to treat him like a child. The TV Darkner therefore casually pulled out several tissues, crumpled them into a ball and stuffed them into the puppet's mouth to silence him.
After a day's work, Spamton finally managed to dislodge the wad of tissue. His parched mouth kept triggering his gag reflex, and even his rigid wooden face contorted into a grimace of discomfort. It was only when Tenna poured him a glass of water that he finally recovered.
Spamton finally returned with Tenna's coffee, sipping his own from a mug that was far too big for his hands. Tenna took both cups, placed them on the desk and watched as Spamton climbed into his chair.
The work remained undone. Strictly speaking, they didn't require sleep. Nevertheless, mental fatigue was inevitable, and a good night's rest was the best remedy for weariness. Tenna rubbed his shoulders uncomfortably and met Spamton's gaze to indicate that he didn't need assistance. Then they both buried themselves once more in the white ocean of documents.
Another half hour passed, and the caffeine had worn off, leaving them both exhausted. Tenna heard a thud on the desk and turned to find Spamton, as expected, sprawled across it, still clutching his pen.
If he wished, Tenna could fling Spamton against the wall for a moment's amusement to rouse them both — a simple flick of the wrist would suffice. The wall behind the puppet had been patched up several times, and not without good reason.
But he didn't. It really was too late now, and he had other commitments the next day. No, it wasn't out of concern, absolutely not. It was simply because he was tired. So he simply put the pen down, picked Spamton up and carried him back to his room.
Spamton had his own room — one Tenna had arranged for him long ago, and which had been naturally reactivated upon his return. Yet every morning, Tenna found him curled up in his embrace, looking as though he'd spent the entire night there. Since he was bound to appear anyway, putting Spamton directly into his own bed was simply more efficient.
...Probably. Tenna couldn't think of any better excuses.
After all, whether it was finding him irritating or his constant touching, what was truly dreaded most by Tenna was Spamton's silence, as still as a statue. It was only when he started making a lot of noise that Tenna felt any better.
The slight dip in work efficiency this entailed... well, it really wasn't such a big deal. Spamton's professional standards remained impeccable, and the underhand tactics that Tenna had secretly copied were best executed by the master himself. In fact, this made things easier.
Come to think of it, did Spamton the desk ornament truly have any flaws? Tenna stroked the base of Spamton's wings, watching the other's tense, curled body gradually relax as his own consciousness began to drift uncontrollably.
Don't think about the other matters today. They had plenty of tomorrows ahead.