Chapter Text
The jingling of keys was hardly audible with the thundering of the nearby waterfall, but the noise still makes Spamton flinch, tense his sagging jaw and try to speed up his shaking hands. The left side of his face is numb, musty air trying to fog up his glasses as he mutters up a garbled curse and finally, finally grabs the correct key and jams it into the lock.
He wants to slam the door shut after slipping inside, wants to bang it closed, announce himself as loudly, as violently as possible - but Spamton doesn't, and instead shuts it quietly behind him, locking away the sounds of Waterfall, muffled into the background noise of their sad excuse of a home.
His jaw stayed popped loose, the rest of him sagging as he dropped his heavy pack down with the thud of ill-gotten objects and goods. Dust obscures over his vision as he kneels, the tremor in his hands cold and uncontrollable, wooden fingers stiff and clawed, but he's able to pull the zipper, able to dig around and drag out some of his loot - a pair of Crab Apples, a Sea Tea, some Nice Creams, even a Cinnamon Bunny. Besides food, he had been able to stuff it with all sorts of ransacked materials - with the Hotland lab abandoned it had been easy to sneak in.
The hard part had been sneaking back out while trying to avoid meeting any other hooligans wandering around, which…he had failed, this time, but not as drastically as it could have gone. For all his lackluster spark of magic in him, Spamton knew some tricks to get out of bad situations, and he knew how to fight dirty.
…The joints of his fingers creaked with each twitch, pinching and grinding sandy and gritty before he finally garbled a curse and shook his hands out a few times, trying and failing to loosen the dust. Scrapping them together, spitting up bullets that felt stronger than before, have felt stronger ever since word had gone down the pipe that the King was dead, that anyone with any power to their name was dead, that everything felt so much emptier with so many dead - it wasn't surprising, that he's racked up some EXP lately.
The thought, reminder made him want to gag, but it was only bullets and dust and Spamton had to stay in his kneel, grab at his face as the world went blurry and gritty and his head fogged up numb, black and gray and white, muffled shuddering as he weathered through it and swallowed down the need to scream.
The Underground was in complete and utter [-chaos!chaos!-] now, after the human had passed through. The fact that they had come here, came into his home and bought from his shop, stood and watched and silently interacted with him, with them both - the kid had been here, had left without violence, and then taken down the entire backbone of monster society without a single glance back-
He had to scramble away, press up against a wall, under the bar counter of their now forever closed shop, and shiver, shaking his hanging jaw when it was there and fuzz and spit through the dust that kept coughing up his throat when it wasn't. He was able to tear his hat off his head, toss it somewhere with a muffled yell and curse, tug at his hair and try to forget the fact that total state of anarchy meant that, sometimes, he had to fight back now with everything he had, because everyone else was doing the same.
No King, no Queen, no Royal Scientist, no Royal Guard, no MTT CEO, no Lord of the Screens-
A harsh gargle of a laugh barked out of him, and Spamton found himself curled up on the dusty ground, shivering as the numb pins and needles receded and his vision cleared. When he slowly dragged himself into a sit, huffing and panting and so [$!X$]ing nauseous, he didn't attempt to snap his broken jaw back into place - a Whimsalot was to thank for that, but the monster had looked just as desperate as him, what with those Whimsuns in tow.
That had happened a few days ago. What the lot had been thinking, heading to the Ruins, he could never guess, but he supposed he should be grateful they SPARED him afterwards and only took one of his bags instead of both.
Spamton sat there, letting the dust settle in his head as he breathed. He ended up staring at what he had scavenged, and even though it was far, far more than he had ever found before all the [$!$$] had hit the fan, it felt…wrong, to see it all here. To have good fortune, as the world ended around him.
He had never been above thievery, a monster had to do what a monster had to do to survive on the dregs of a society that would rather forget he existed in the first place - but this?
It all felt…felt like something had gone wrong. And this time it hadn't even been his fault.
Hands curling into fists, Spamton finally got back to his feet and went about on autopilot to stow away the food, organize and stuff tools and materials he'd once dreamed of ever getting his hands on and now had aplenty, and when that was done he grabbed a pair of Nice Creams and continued to the back of the house.
It made his hands ache, and his throat and jaw too, when he glanced down at the stupid wrappers. After the human had visited them, had bought from their store, after Spamton had finished up on some last minute things and hoped to high [-heaven-] that maybe they'd follow up on his favor and look for a high quality cane of some sort, his partner had revealed that the kid had given him a Nice Cream way earlier. Forgotten and half melted in his jacket pocket, forgetful [@$$], but they had shared the treat and it had made that tense, borderline nightmarish day end all the sweeter.
…Spamton had to force his hands to not snap these ones in half, wanting to grind his teeth but unable to do anything but gargle malformed bullets and let his aching pinchy jaw hang. Damn that kid - he hoped that, wherever they were now past the barrier, that it was just as bad for them as it was for him.
Halting at the doorway and rapping his knuckles against the wall, Spamton cleared his throat as he hesitantly peered in.
“H H HEY H3Y HE Y, C A T H O D E, I'M HoME!”
Besides the box fans running at full power, and the low hum of passing electricity, he was greeted with silence.
That didn't matter though! In he hopped, heading over to show off the desserts with a hanging swing of a smile, eyes squinted and voice pitching as dust fluttered around his edges.
The dull glow of a screen washed over him, static laden, sometimes offset by colored impressions and silhouettes, and Spamton hummed up a few spat bullets worth of letters, waving his goods about before setting them to the side of the bed.
“G0T LU CKY TO D4Y, R3AL LUcKY. NOT T OO MANY F0LkS @ TH3 L A B, SSO I GR4BbED A LL I I CO UL D STuFF IN A A B4G AND B0OKeD IT HOME.”
He tore his gaze away, bending down to run his hands gently down the hanging wire tail, delicate as could be as he checked where the plug met adaptor, then examined the car battery thoroughly for any signs of damage. He ended up crouching and dragging up another one from under the bed, muttering here and there as he went about unhooking the old battery and replacing it, right and proper. The light up above flickered a moment, but then brightened up and the breath he exhaled afterwards pulled something from his chest, pulled something that made his shoulders untense and the dust to come back into his vision.
As Spamton took the old battery and dropped it heavily by the doorframe, knowing he'll dump it outside sometime later, his voice lost some strength and grew thin and shaky, not daring to look over at the bed just yet.
“...mIGHT HAVE EV3N, 3VEN G0T SoME NEW P4RTS FOR YY Y U, EAHAHA HHHHAAAaaaa…”
The bark weakened, lost its giggle, and Spamton squeezed his eyes shut a moment, hands curled into fists, palms still gritty with dust.
“I CAN, II I C4N W0RK ON DO I NG S0ME REP LAC E MENT W1RES FOR Y OU, EV3N PUT TO GETH3R THAT O TH ER 4RM 0F YYYO URS T0O! OR, 0R, O R, M4Y B3, MAYBEE E, I I III C4N F1X UP TH 4T SCReeN OF URS S! YU YU YO U'D LIkE TH4T RR R1GHT, ANT?”
Tenna gave him no response.
Which was fine! Spamton didn't always need an immediate answer, he knew the Boss Monster sometimes had slow days, bad days where even getting the channels dialing took everything he had-
So it was fine!
“....EAHAHA HA HA HAAAAAHHHH, NN N0 WORR13SS, C A T H O D E, T4KE YY YOUR TIME!” He wandered back over, shook out his arms, then swat at his uniform, trying to pat out the dust that had settled into the fibers as he chattered on mindlessly. “D0N'T NNE3D AN AN SW3R ImM EDI4T ELY, I I I KN0W U R SEN T1M ENTaL AB0UT TH3S3 SSS ORTSS 0F F THINGS SSS-”
He absently tried to snap his jaw back up, forgetting the damage, and cut himself off with a sharp squawk of a curse, blurting out the bullet to splat on the dusty floor into even more dust as he nursed his jawbone, hanging by threads from his face.
The silence after, as he winced and cringed from the throbbing pains that hardly let up even after the failed fix, made his gut twist and a lump rise up in his throat, choke up whatever words he had next as Spamton squeezed his eyes shut and hugged his arms around himself for a trembling minute.
He…he still sort of expected at least something, right then. Even just a, just a little movement, a little acknowledgement - had he…had he really failed just that badly?
Silence, besides low energy hum and the fans, filled the room.
And then Spamton heaved a haggard sigh, the lump almost making it border a sob, eyes glassy and glasses numbing with fuzzing buildup - and he went back, moved aside the Nice Creams to a nearby shelf cubby, and crawled into bed with his husband.
The bedding was a bit torn up now, but he had been able to wrap them over the Boss Monsters overlarge form back then and there they stayed, peaks of metal and wires and old hanging cloths underneath the thick comforter fabric. Spamton had to stay out atop the blankets, had to shift about as he adjusted into a familiar position, gingerly crawling over a large limp arm and tucking himself against side, facing the screen in parallel but opposite directions. He lay his head down, cheek to Tenna's blanket covered body, wiggling into a comfortable position as he reached out and took one of his husband's hands and curled his fingers together with old gloved ones. Exhausted as he was, still shivery and maybe still a bit scared, Spamton's eyes did eventually gaze up and into the screen he had imagined he'd be watched by for the rest of his life.
Turns out that, in the end, only he would be the one doing the watching.
Tenna's screen, drooping copper antenna not quite obscuring the view, was usually all static snow and vague impressions of color. Sometimes there was more than that, visual clearing, and Spamton would find himself watching from his partner's point of view of times long past, places he only vaguely remembered, people he didn't quite know.
Flowers, trees, gardens, sunlight - cozy kitchen, white fur in the sink trap, children's hands scribbling art on papers scattered about the floor, folding laundry embroidered with the insignia of royalty.
These Spamton had seen before, many times - his husband's dreams had shown on his face, embarrassed him at times even, though Spamton himself had found it both a comfort and an endearing part of who Tenna was. It was familiar, and it helped him when he had woken from nightmares back before this, a cozy distraction - if he rose Tenna’s volume ever so slightly, sometimes he'd even get snippets and bits and pieces of conversation, of spoken aloud thought.
He didn't do this now, however.
The feed on screen changed, subtly, and the static was replaced with crystal clear snowfall. There were no trees, nothing to make it look like Snowdin - in the far distance, something dark, darker than dark spouted high into the sky, pulsing with energy and smoke, and it was obvious by the angle that the visual was being taken while on the side, on the ground, collapsed.
Then the static, lines and bars flickering here and there, and fuzzy memories came back in a relieved trickle of time passing.
A door with the royal insignia carved into it opening, an all too familiar exasperated face glancing up, then down, then taking a double take in shock, surprise, stumbling on his sales pitch - standing by the royal tree, seasons falling leaves, the angle nodding along as papers were shoved up and gestures thrown about in animated talk - a nervous expression glancing over as the static enshrouded visage of the then Royal Scientist passed by to talk to the nearby King - waving away blown smoke that rose from the monster in the frame, unheard words exchanged before a cigarette was passed over, then lighter - the bright neon lights of a bar in the backstreets of New Home, visual nervous but faking steady, drinks raised to each other in congratulations - the darkness of a hotel room, just the impression of movement, motion, expression-
Spamton sat still, quiet, and watched as the channels switched and changed and melded together, so similar to a dreaming state that he could almost trick himself into believing it so.
But Tenna was silent, still, and their home was quite cold now without a constant source of outputting heat. Dust leaked from his vents, drifted down from the cracks of his screen, easing from wires and tubing in a slow, ever so slow trickle.
He wasn't…dead. Spamton knew enough, knew that much to be able to tell. Boss Monsters were tough, had tough SOULS, could withstand so much in their long, very long lives - Tenna was tough, no matter how badly he had been falling apart. Their situation sort of made things rough, made things hard to weather out, and Spamton had always done his best to try and alleviate the pressure of that as best as he could, bring some HOPE of the future into their lives no matter what.
He had thought he'd been doing a good job. He had really thought he had been able to make sure they'd both keep pretending things would get better.
His wooden jointed hand squeezed with unresponsive metal ones, cold to the touch as he curled closer to his husbands fallen down body. His other hand went to his own chest, to twine necklace - his palm cupped about the metal ring hung about his neck, and the lump in his throat tightened enough to make something more than dust fall from under his glasses.
The air in their home was still humid, had grown stagnant and stuffy even, and only the hum of electrical feed and uselessly blowing fans broke the silence, the background muffling of the roaring waterfall.
If he pretended hard enough, Spamton thought as he tiredly watched the change in the screen light with dust like a forever tide come and gone over and over on his own face, Tenna's screen would clear up into a vast blue sky and fluffy white clouds, a high, bright point of the sun risen and afloat in the distance above the two of them, together.