Archive of Our Own

The ceiling of the recovery room had exactly forty-seven cracks in it.

Tenna knew this because he had counted them. Twice. He was considering a third pass, just to be certain, when the door creaked open and his vitals jumped.

Spamton.

The puppet figure—Tenna had learned to recognize him now, though every visit still felt like a glitch in the broadcast, part of him still expecting an Addison—stood in the doorway, hands at his sides. Spamton was a puppet, because Tenna had made him sign the contract. His benefactor had punished him. Tenna knew this now, because of an earlier visit from Spamton.

Spamton’s lenses swept the room, the medical equipment, the bandages where Tenna's arms should have been healing faster.

"YOU LOOK LIKE [[Garbage]]."

Tenna's screen flickered. Not with offense. With exhaustion.

"I survived the Knight's attack," he said, and even his voice sounded thin, reruns of a rerun. "That's more than some could say."

Spamton stepped inside. His footsteps were too loud. It was the wood of his form, different from the soft feather-fluff Tenna remembered from their shared past.

"[[SURVIVED]]." Spamton repeated the word like he was tasting it, finding it lacking. "YET YOU DON'T HAVE [[BIG SHOT]] EN3RGY."

"I'm aware."

Tenna's arms ached. The wounds had closed, but the regeneration was sluggish, crawling through his chassis like a worm through concrete. He knew what it would take to speed the process. He simply couldn't bring himself to manufacture the necessary morale. With everything that happened, he was too glooby.

Spamton circled the bed, his puppet joints making soft clacking sounds. "REMEMBER THAT TIME. YOU WERE [Running a Fever]? [[Big Time]]? RIGHT BEFORE THAT [Chocolate and Flowers] [[Big Day]]?"

Tenna's screen brightened. Spamton had recalled that time Tenna had gotten ill shortly before Valentine's Day. Although he was very unwell, with the power of positive thinking he'd accelerated his healing. And someone had been there to kiss him, make him happy. "That was a different time..." Tenna said, looking at that someone, wondering how much more of Spamton's words he could draw out.

"[[DIFFERENT]]?" Spamton stopped at the foot of the bed, tilting his head. "YOU COUGHED UP [[Static]] FOR A DAY. [[2-Day Delivery]] LATER YOU WERE [[Dancing]]."

"That was—"

"HAPPY." Spamton's voice crackled, emphatic. "YOU WERE HAPPY. AND [[Happy = Healing]]."

Tenna couldn't argue with the mechanics. His own architecture, his own self, was wired that way. Joy accelerated recovery. Gloom stalled it. He was currently stalled in a ditch on an empty highway.

"Your point?" Tenna asked.

Spamton crossed his arms. "[POINT] IS. THIS [Sad Sack] DOESN'T MATCH [[My Precious Memories]]." He gestured at Tenna.

Something in Tenna's chest—some old, archived feed—skipped at the words. Spamton's acknowledgment that he still bothered to think of Tenna at all, of their shared past.

"So give me a reason to be happy, then," Tenna muttered, more bitter than he intended. "Since you're so invested."

He expected a retort. A glitched rant. Maybe Spamton would leave, and Tenna could go back to counting ceiling cracks and feeling sorry for himself in peace.

Instead, Spamton turned toward the closet. The closet that held Tenna's clothes.

"What are you—"

Spamton opened the door. Disappeared inside. The closet wasn't that big. Tenna heard fabric shifting, something being pulled from a hanger.

Then Spamton stepped back out.

And Tenna's feed went briefly, gloriously, static.

Spamton was wearing nothing but one of Tenna's white dress shirts.

The shirt. The one he'd been wearing when the Knight attacked. The sleeves were gone—cleanly severed, just like Tenna's arms had been. The raw edges were visible, soft now from washing. Spamton's puppet arms emerged from the gaping armholes, ball-jointed and white, matching the crisp white cotton.

The fabric pooled around his puppet frame, too large in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves—had the sleeves been there. It hung past his hips, covering—just barely—what Tenna had wondered about. The Addison form had a cloaca. But the puppet form? He hadn't known.

Now he did. Was this the silver-lining Spamton had mentioned? A benefit to his transformation punishment.

The shirt didn't hide everything. The front tented, unmistakably. Stiff. Interested.

The interest was a balm. That Spamton even wanted someone like him, old and broken. Tenna's own body responded before his brain could catch up. His cock stirred against his sweatpants.

Spamton held the pose. Five seconds. Long enough for the image to burn into Tenna's screen.

Then he turned and walked back into the closet.

More fabric sounds. When he emerged again, he was dressed in his usual black and white clothes, having changed out of Tenna's dress shirt.

Tenna's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Spamton approached the bedside. Leaned in close. His breath smelled like ozone and old cables.

"HERE’S [[The Deal]]." His voice was low, almost gentle. "YOU [[Get Well Soon]] FASTER. AND WHEN YOU'RE [The Picture of Health] AGAIN..."

He paused.

"YOU CAN [[$#%^ Me]] WHILE I'M WEARING [[Nothing But Your Dress Shirt]]."

Tenna closed his mouth.

"[[DEAL]]?"

The word came out before Tenna could stop it.

"Deal."

"LET'S [[Seal With A Kiss]]," Spamton said, and did just that, pressing the smooth, hard plane of his face against the smooth, hard plane of Tenna's face. He fled immediately afterwards, but Tenna knew he would return.

—

Now that Tenna had motivation, his healing speed increased by 400% within the hour.

—

Two Days Later

—

The day Tenna was declared fully healed, he didn't wait for Spamton to come to him.

He went to Spamton.

The puppet was in Tenna's bedroom—already there, as if he'd been waiting. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, lenses fixed on the door.

Tenna closed it behind him. The lock clicked.

No words. Just a look.

Spamton raised a brow. Then he stood. And slowly, deliberately, began to undress.

He folded each piece of his usual attire with care—the jacket, the shirt, the pants. Each fold was a countdown.

Finally, Spamton reached into the closet. Pulled out the shirt. Spamton had taken it out of the hospital before Tenna was even discharged. He had claimed a right to Tenna’s belongings, as his partner, like they had never broken up—and they hadn’t, ten years ago Spamton had simply fled.

He put on the shirt.

The missing sleeves gaped. The raw edges brushed against his puppet arms, the ball joints visible, the white wood shining—he had bathed, prepared himself. The shirt fell past his hips, tented in the front, white cotton against puppet-white skin.

Spamton looked at Tenna. His lenses gleamed.

"WELL?" he said. "[[CLAIM YOUR PRIZE]]."

—

Tenna crossed the room.

His hands—his repaired hands—reached out. He gripped Spamton's hips. The shirt fabric was soft beneath his palms, worn thin from washing. Beneath it, Spamton's body was warm, the wood smooth, the joints moving under his touch.

Spamton's breath hitched. A tiny, staticky sound.

Tenna squeezed. His fingers pressed into the curve of Spamton's ass, feeling the heat, the solidity, the realness of him. His ass was smaller now, but still shaped the same—very round.

"YOUR HANDS?" Spamton asked.

"They're fine," Tenna replied. "They work."

"THEN [[Use the Equipment]]." Spamton's voice was thick. "THEY DID A [[Decent Job]] ON THE [Repairs]."

Permission. A command wrapped in a challenge.

Tenna guided Spamton onto the bed.

—

Spamton straddled him, knees on either side of Tenna's hips, the white shirt pooling around his thighs. The raw edges of the severed sleeves framed his puppet joints—the punishment he'd received, his transformed body, made visible.

Tenna looked up at him.

The shirt was open at the collar, revealing Spamton's throat, the strong hinges of his jaw. The white cloth was tented at the front, the fabric straining with every small movement.

"Mine," Tenna said.

Spamton's grin was sharp, but his voice was soft. "[[Prove It]]."

—

Spamton rode him.

Slow at first, testing, finding the rhythm. His hands braced on Tenna's chest, the white shirt billowing around his wrists. His head fell back, his throat exposed, the hinges of his jaw catching the low light.

Tenna watched.

His hands gripped Spamton's hips. He felt the flex of muscle beneath the cotton. He felt the heat, the weight, the life of him.

The shirt rode up with each movement, revealing Spamton's thighs, the junction of his hips, the place where they were joined. Then it fell back, hiding, teasing.

Tenna's grip tightened. He thrust upward, meeting Spamton's rhythm, and Spamton made a sound—high, staticky.

"THERE." Spamton's voice cracked. "[[Right There]]."

Tenna's screen glowed. He was healthy enough to take over the movements, to thrust into Spamton's ass as he bounced it on him. He watched the shirt cling to Spamton's chest, damp with sweat, becoming translucent. He watched the fabric strain over his arousal. He watched Spamton's expression twist with pleasure.

"," Tenna said, as he followed Spamton to the peak, finishing inside of him. He smiled from the sticky nostalgia.

—

Later—much later—they lay tangled together. The shirt was ruined. Sweat-soaked, stretched, torn at one seam. Spamton was grumbling about dry cleaning bills he'd never pay.

Tenna was quiet. His screen glowed pink—a post-coital blush.

Spamton looked at him. Something in his rigid posture softened.

"[[I Told You So]]." Spamton said smugly. "[[HYPERLINK BLOCKED]] ACCELERATES [All Processes]."

" does help," Tenna smiled.