#dtt update

Part 1 - Part 10 - Ao3

Summary: Patch gets handsy!

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The silence that followed wasn't empty.

It was full of everything unspoken. The faint fizz of Tenna’s screen, still tinged pink like a held breath. The way your hand still felt the echo of contact, even after you'd stuffed it deep into your pocket like that might erase what happened. It didn’t.

Neither of you said anything.

Instead, you bent down and picked up a discarded tie — yellow, crushed, and twisted like it had tried to slither away from the awkwardness in the room. It still had the tag on it. You didn’t even look at Tenna as you set it on the couch, like pretending it was just part of the job might settle your heart back into place.

Across from you, Tenna shifted. His limbs moved with a practiced theatricality, but the usual flair was gone — replaced with something stilted, mechanical, almost nervous. His antennae twitched as he bent to retrieve a shoe from under the wardrobe. He turned it over in his hand like he didn’t quite know what shoes were supposed to do.

You reached for another hanger — this one bent like someone had thrown it on the ground with great force. It caught on the edge of a blazer and clattered as you yanked it free. The sound was loud in the stillness, sharp and sudden, and both of you flinched like someone had shouted.

Then silence again.

You grabbed a button-up from the floor next, smoothing it out with your hands before folding it over your arm. It was warm — not from the lights, but from him. Everything in here still felt like him. 

Across the room, Tenna crouched to pick up a bowtie. His screen was dimmer now, the pink fading to a white fuzz.

You risked a glance.

And so did he.

Your eyes met — or rather, your gaze locked with the flat of his screen. But somehow, it felt like eye contact. His whole frame froze, his hand mid-reach for a shoe he clearly forgot was there. His screen flickered once and his antennae twitched upward in sharp alarm before snapping back down like someone had yanked them with a remote.

Your throat went dry.

His mouth parted slightly, a small stammer of static glitching through the speakers. Nothing formed. Your own breath caught in your chest, eyes wide for a split-second too long. Your fingers curled tighter around the wrinkled shirt in your hand, suddenly all too aware of your posture, your expression, your everything.

Then, at exactly the same time, you both looked away — hard. You turned toward a coat half-hanging off a drawer. He pivoted toward the tipped-over wardrobe like it had just caught fire.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then the rustle of clothes filled the space again — both of you diving back into the mess, suddenly extra determined to clean up whatever was closest. A tie. A hanger. A crushed program sheet from a past episode. It didn’t matter. It was an excuse to not talk. An excuse to not address whatever had just surged between you like a rogue signal with no station.

Tenna’s antennae didn’t lift again for a while. They stayed drooped at that odd, stiff angle — a mix of embarrassment and over-processing. His screen glowed a soft white now, but the kind of white that looked like it was trying too hard to stay neutral. Like he was holding it there.

Eventually, the room started to look less like a breakdown and more like a dressing room again. The chair was righted. The wardrobe, while still tipped on its side, had been cleared of its disorder. Most of the ties had been draped over hangers.

You folded the last blazer, set it neatly across the couch cushion, and gave the room one final once-over.

Quiet.

Tenna stood by the mirror now, one foot tapping idly on the floor — not rhythmically, just nervously. His arms were crossed, fingers twitching at the hem of his coat sleeve. His mouth opened once, then closed again.

Then, finally—

“W-Well!” he blurted, louder than necessary. His voice cracked halfway through the word like a skipping VHS. “Um. Thank you! For the—uh—the hand! The—help. With the, y’know. The wardrobe. Situation.”

He made a vague gesture toward the fallen furniture like it had personally wronged him.

You stared at him.

He stared at the ceiling.

“I-I would’ve gotten it eventually,” he added quickly. “Probably. Maybe. I was… just about to start organizing it. When you came in. Totally had it under control.”

He looked back at you then — not directly, but in your general vicinity. His antennae twitched once, then slowly lowered like wilted branches.

“…But thanks. Really.”

It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t loud.

It was just real.

And in the quiet that followed, you let yourself smile — just a little.

You opened your mouth to respond — a soft, automatic “you’re welcome” waiting on your tongue — but your eyes drifted for half a second.

Something caught your attention on the wall behind him. Big block letters, vintage and bold, slapped across a crooked poster you’d never really stopped to read before:

“A real Ant Tenna fan? Here’s your chance to meet him! Join the competition—win the prize!”

The font looked like it had been ripped from an old game show title card — loud, gaudy, all-caps and full of false enthusiasm. Gold sparkles glittered around his name in exaggerated spirals, and a little cartoony version of Tenna was printed in the corner, mid-pose, with a spotlight graphic slapped on top of him like a sticker.

Your gaze lingered on the top line.

“Ant Tenna.”

Huh.

You tilted your head slightly. "Ant" didn’t exactly scream towering bundle of wires and melodrama. Not that you’d ever say it out loud — oh wait, you absolutely would.

You turned back to him, and your grin came easy this time — not from fluster or reflex, but something lighter. Something teasing, just enough to pull the weight out of the air that had grown heavy between you.

You looked right at him.

“Anytime… Ant.”

It was so casual, so deliberately lighthearted, that for a second, he didn’t process it.

Then he froze.

His screen buzzed — a few flickers that bloomed and fizzled almost instantly. His mouth stayed open a fraction too long. His shoulders went stiff. Both antennae shot straight upward in hard, vertical alarm before jerking downward again like someone had yanked his soul.

“…Don’t,” he said.

His voice was flat. But not angry. More like horrified. Maybe flustered?

You couldn’t help the little laugh that broke through your chest — soft, bright, genuine.

“What, too soon?” you teased.

Tenna’s mouth worked silently for a moment before he huffed — a strange, whirring noise that sounded like a cross between an old modem booting and a deflating balloon.

“Don’t call me that.” he muttered again, quieter this time, antennae twitching like they didn’t know whether to rise in defense or curl up in shame.

You held up both hands innocently. “Alright, alright. I’ll shelve it... for now.”

Then he turned back toward the mirror, muttering under his breath. Something about branding and verbal sabotage.

But the tension? It was gone. Not completely. But enough.

You watched the way his frame shifted — posture relaxing, just slightly. Antennae no longer pulled tight with nervous charge. His screen wasn’t pink anymore, but it wasn’t cold either. It was something soft and white, the kind of glow you only noticed when you weren’t looking for it.

And even if he didn’t say it out loud, you could feel it.

He appreciated the effort.

He appreciated you.

The quiet between you now wasn’t strained. It just was.

You bent down to grab the last tie — somehow this one had ended up slung over a lampshade — and tossed it gently onto the couch with the others. Behind you, Tenna fiddled with his coat sleeve like it had personally wronged him.

You didn’t press him. Not yet.

But maybe… maybe later.

For now, “Ant” could wait

You were about to grab one last hanger when Tenna shifted behind you — sharper this time, more erratic. His limbs moved in stiff, nervous jerks as he paced a tight little line in front of the mirror, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.

Then, louder—

“—I don’t have time for this, oh no-no-no, absolutely not—!”

You turned. His antennae were twitching at full volume now, his mouth moving fast with half-formed words. And worst of all — his screen had gone completely black. No fuzz, no shimmer, no soft glow. Just blank. Off. 

He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t looking at anything. He was too busy fiddling with the sleeve of his coat, yanking it down, then scrunching it back up, like it was personally betraying him. His posture had shrunk a little, hunched and tense — the kind of small that wasn’t physical, but mental. Emotional.

“Tenna,” you said gently.

No response.

“I know you’ve got the show soon, but—”

“That’s the problem!” he snapped, not at you, but at the room, at the coat, at himself. “I’ve got—seven minutes?! Eight?! I don’t even know what I’m wearing! Most usual coat’s wrinkled, and the lapels look like someone ran ‘em through a blender, and the backup blazer—don't even get me started on that disaster—I can’t—I can’t walk out there looking like this!”

His voice was pitching higher now, climbing fast toward panic. His mouth kept moving, breath stuttering at the edges, panic leaking through the speakers in short bursts like he couldn’t keep up with himself. His antennae did a strange half-fold, unsure if they were supposed to flee or freeze. And his screen — still black.

You took a step closer.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your voice low, steady. “It’s alright. You’re not alone here.”

He didn’t look up. But his hands stilled.

You reached slowly toward the nearest jacket — a black one,, rumpled from being stuffed under a chair earlier — and held it up for inspection. The fabric was nice, actually. Heavy. Stylish. It’d look great on him once it was sorted out.

“I can help,” you said, without thinking. “I’ll just… smooth it over for you.”

There was a pause.

A beat of silence where your words floated between you, unclaimed.

And then it hit.

Your own eyes widened a touch as the phrase turned over in your head a second time — the way you said it, how close you were standing, what that might sound like to him. You didn’t even mean it like that—okay, maybe half-meant—but it was too late now.

Your fingers tightened slightly on the jacket.

Tenna, very slowly, turned his head toward you.

His screen was still black, but the silence said everything. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. Then a single flicker sparked to life in the top corner of the glass — faint, hesitant. The pink spread gradually, blooming across the screen like he was trying to hide it and failing completely.

“I—uh,” he managed, his tone skipping like a stuck tape. “YOU—you want to—smooth me over.”

You could hear yourself breathing now. Why did it suddenly feel warm in here?

“I meant the—” you gestured vaguely at the blazer, as if that clarified anything. “The jacket. Just the… yeah.”

“RIGHT. Right, of course,” he said quickly, antennae jolting upward in alarm before curling back toward each other in a flustered manner. “Th-the jacket. The… sleeves. Not me. Why would you—hah—haha…”

You stared at him. He stared at a completely unrelated section of wall. His mouth opened again, then closed. Then opened. Then—

“I’d appreciate that,” he said in a small voice, pink still painting his screen. “If you’re offering. T-to, uh. Smooth it. The jacket. Not me. Just. Yes. That.”

You gave a single nod, trying not to smile too much.

“Of course,” you said, voice calm — except for the tiny hitch that snuck in at the end. “Strictly professional...”

His shoulders jerked once like a spooked marionette, and his hands flew up in a little fluttery gesture of confirmation.

“PROFESSIONAL!” he agreed, a little too fast. “Totally. Absolutely. No funny business. Just—blazer smoothing. Like friends do. Probably.”

You took another step toward him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t back away.

His screen was still pink.

And you weren’t breathing quite as steady anymore.

You didn’t say anything else. Just turned, slowly, toward the pile of clothes still slumped over the arm of the couch, your fingers scanning the edges of fabric until you found it — a crisp black blazer, still relatively unscathed despite the mess that had swallowed the rest of the dressing room. It wasn’t flashy like some of Tenna’s usual outfits, but the cut was sharp, and it had just enough sheen under the lights to catch the eye. Simple, clean. It suited him.

You held it up by the shoulders and gave it a quick shake, letting the folds fall loose before stepping back toward him. Tenna stood perfectly still now, antennae twitching slightly like they didn’t know if they should stay up or hide. His screen was still glowing pink, but softer now, dulled to the shade of a held breath — like someone trying very hard to play it cool despite every system inside buzzing at high alert.

“This one’s clean,” you offered. “No glitter, no mystery food stains. I think it’s safe.”

Tenna reached out to take it from you. His fingers brushed yours — brief, but enough — and you both pretended not to notice. Or at least tried. His movements were unusually careful as he slipped the blazer over his arms, adjusting it with small, robotic motions, like he wasn’t sure how sleeves worked today. He didn’t look at you. Not directly. But you could feel his attention pinging toward you like a signal waiting to be caught.

The blazer hung lopsided.

One lapel was slightly flipped inward, and the shoulders bunched just a little near the seam. Wrinkled, mostly along the back, with a few folds along the hem where it had been pressed against the couch.

You stepped closer.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

And he did.

You reached up and tugged gently at one sleeve, smoothing it down with your hand. The fabric was still cool from disuse, but warming under your touch. You slid your palm along the outer edge, fingers brushing against his elbow as you worked out a stubborn crease near the cuff. Tenna didn’t move. Not even an inch. 

You moved to the front next, fingers adjusting the collar and then flattening the lapels with both hands, one side at a time. You could feel the tension underneath — not in the jacket, but in him. His frame had gone stiff, locked in place, but his antennae betrayed him. They jolted up at first, startled, then dipped slightly as you moved your hands down, tracing along the fabric until everything lay smooth.

“There,” you said softly. “Better.”

Tenna swallowed a sound. It wasn’t a word, exactly — more like a noise caught between embarrassment and overclocking. His screen was still pink, but deeper now... Not shy. More like flustered, and holding on for dear life.

You stepped back an inch. Not far. Just enough to give him space to pretend he hadn’t just melted a little.

He looked down at himself — or tried to. His screen flicked briefly toward his sleeve like he needed something else to focus on. His mouth opened, then closed again, and for a second, it seemed like he was buffering — stuck halfway between gratitude and short-circuit.

“…You’re good at that,” he said finally, voice a little uneven, like it had tripped over its own tone. “The, uh. Straightening. And smoothing. And… making me not look like a total catastrophe.”

“Glad I could help,” you said, half-grinning. “You clean up nice.”

That one made his antennae snap upright again — rigid with surprise before trembling slightly at the tips like they wanted to curl inward but couldn’t commit.

“I—UH—Y-YOU DO TOO,” he blurted, then froze. “I MEAN—not that you need to be cleaned. Up. Or, well—not that you’re messy. NOT THAT I LOOK AT YOU. I mean—I do—sometimes. Casually. Professionally. Normal—”

You raised both brows.

His screen flashed pink-pink-white-pink again like a warning light. He slapped a hand over his mouth.

“...FORGET I SAID ANYTHING.” he muttered through his fingers, voice muffled and horrified.

You chuckled — low, genuine — and took another step back to let him recalibrate. But the air between you wasn’t heavy anymore. Not awkward, not brittle. Just… charged. Light, and maybe a little dangerous in the way a new feeling always is. The kind of quiet that made your chest hum.

“Alright,” you said, letting your hands drop to your sides with a final once-over of the blazer. “Looking better already. Way less… tragic.”

Tenna let out a soft, wobbly laugh. “Tragic is my brand, I’ll have you know.”

You grinned at that but didn’t respond right away. Your eyes lingered on him. Not in a way that was overtly intense or uncomfortable — at least, not intentionally — but in that squinting, assessing kind of way. Like you were mentally holding up paint swatches next to him and trying to figure out what didn’t match.

Tenna stood still for a second, then shifted under your gaze. His screen flickered — not glitching, just… fidgeting. His shoulders twitched.

“What?” he asked, trying for casual and landing somewhere between anxious and five-seconds-from-self-destruct. “Why are you—? You're doing a thing. With your face. You’re… you’re scanning me.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s missing,” you said, head tilting slightly as you took a half-step to the side. “You’ve got the blazer. Pants look okay. Shoes are fine. Something’s just not… clicking.”

Tenna raised both hands. “OKAY, WELL, NOW IM PANICKING!”

“No, no — hold still. I got it.”

You turned, scanning the room like the missing piece might suddenly materialize from the carpet. And then you saw it — a narrow strip of black fabric draped carelessly over the back of a chair, nearly blending into the upholstery. You moved quickly, fingers closing around it like it had been waiting just for this moment.

“This,” you said, holding it up. “This is what you need. A tie. Not one of the weird glittery ones, just—classic. Pulls it all together.”

You extended it toward him. Tenna took it delicately, like it might bite.

“I, uh—thanks,” he muttered, voice quieter now. He stared at the tie in his hands like it had come with a math problem attached. “I can—yeah. I’ll just…”

He turned it over, then around, then looped it once — maybe twice — then paused again. His fingers moved in slow, uncertain knots, and after a few seconds, the result dangled off-center and twisted like it was trying to escape.

You gave it a long look.

Tenna looked back at you sheepishly. “...Fashion is subjective, right?”

“C’mere.”

You stepped forward before he could object. His whole body stiffened as you reached for the undone tie — your fingers brushing against his as you gently took it back. You didn’t say anything, didn’t tease him, just started looping the fabric with practiced ease.

Your focus narrowed to the task, brow slightly furrowed as you adjusted the length and drew the ends tight. One hand at his collar, the other smoothing the knot into place.

You didn’t notice at first — the way he froze. The way his antennae jolted straight up, then wavered like they didn’t know whether to signal distress or faint. His screen was glowing so pink it was almost rosy.

His mouth was set in a wobbly, helpless smile, teeth gritted ever-so-slightly in what could only be described as emotional freefall. His hands — poor things — were twitching slightly at his sides like they didn’t know where to rest or how to behave. A nervous stutter shook through his fingers.

“There,” you said, satisfied. “Much better. See? Simple, classic. Ties the look together.”

You stepped back a half-pace — not all the way, just enough to give him breathing room — your gaze still fixed on the knot you’d made, admiring the way it sat crisp and centered now against the dark fabric.

And without even thinking about it — without any plan or forethought or cosmic reason — your hand lifted and gave two gentle, absentminded pats to the side of his head.

Not hard. Not playful. Just soft. Instinctive. The kind of gesture you might give a tired friend. A quiet little there you go that came out of your body before your brain could stop it.

It wasn’t until you heard it — a sound halfway between a hiccup and a strangled whimper — that you froze.

Your eyes snapped up.

Tenna was staring at you. Or rather, through you. His mouth hung open just slightly before closing, the nervous grin frozen in place like it had been struck mid-frame.

A soft, embarrassed haze of color, blooming around the edges of his screen like he’d been caught doing something far more scandalous than standing very still while you touched his neck and then… casually patted his head.

“OH MY STARS,” Tenna blurted suddenly, his voice climbing an octave. “Sorry. SORRY. That was—” he winced, hands coming up to cover his screen halfway, like he could hide behind his own fingers. “I DIDN’T MEAN TO MAKE THAT NOISE! I just—your hand—the pats—that was—UGH, SO EMBERASSING—!”

He groaned and turned half away from you, antennate drooping in shame. He hissed under his breath, clawed fingers running over the top of his monitor in helpless little scrapes. “That wasn’t even—what was that?!”

You stood there, lips parting with a silent breath, caught somewhere between horrified and wildly intrigued. Not that you’d ever admit the second one aloud.

You cleared your throat, once, and took a small step closer. “Tenna,” you started, trying to ease the sharp edges in your voice, “hey—Tenna, it’s okay. It happens. That was just—uh…” You scratched your cheek, eyes flicking down for a split second. “I didn’t realize you were, um. That pent-up— I mean!—sensitive—!”

You immediately regretted saying anything at all. He was panicking again. Shoulders rising like he wanted to retract directly into the walls. His screen flared a brighter, more unstable shade of pink, and his antennae twitched in a way that could only be described as nervous.

“Tenna,” you said again, gently, raising a hand in an attempt to rescue the moment. “It’s really okay, I’m not—”

A knock.

Sharp. Two short raps, muffled through the dressing room door.

Both of you flinched at the same time like someone had fired a starting gun.

“Tenna?” a voice called — Mike’s voice, muffled but urgent. “You’ve got ten minutes. They want you in mic check, like, yesterday. You decent in there?”

Tenna whirled toward the door as if it had personally insulted him. His arms flailed once, then snapped to his sides like he was trying to stand at attention. “YES!!” he barked, voice cracking up an octave. “I’M—YES! Decent!! I am so decent! Nobody’s indecent here!!”

You had to turn away for a second — had to — just to bite the inside of your cheek and keep from laughing. That tiny, flustered bark of his had gone straight to your stomach.

“Okayyy…” the voice outside said, clearly unconvinced, but leaving. The shuffle of footsteps faded down the hallway.

You slowly turned back toward Tenna.

He was still standing ramrod-straight, hands balled into anxious fists at his sides, antennae slowly curling downward in abject humiliation. His screen had dropped to a pale rose-pink. Like he’d been caught in the most intimate act imaginable — despite the fact that all you’d done was dress him and accidentally discover that his version of emotional intimacy was apparently located somewhere between “hand brushing” and “casual head pat.”

“…I should, um,” he said weakly, his voice the softest it had been all day, “probably… go. Right? Before he comes back in here with a mic cable to strangle me with.”

You nodded, lips twitching into a half-smile despite yourself. “Yeah. You probably should.”

But neither of you moved.

You blinked. Watched him. The way his screen had dimmed to a softer, gentler pink now — almost white. His mouth, still in that frazzled little half-smile, twitched once more before going still.

And that’s when it hit you.

He wasn’t stuck. He wasn’t frozen. He was… waiting.

For something you hadn’t given him yet.

Something like reassurance. Like grounding. Like a little signal that said you did good or I’m here or you’re not alone in this, even if he couldn’t ask for it.

Your chest ached a little with how obvious it was now.

You gave him the smallest, most genuine smile you could manage — something just for him — and said, softly, “I’ll be watching from backstage.”

Tenna’s shoulders dropped with a full-body exhale, the tension bleeding out of him all at once. Not a dramatic sigh, not exaggerated or loud — just a quiet, shuddery breath like something important had finally clicked back into place.

“Oh,” he said, voice tiny, almost sheepish. “OKAY. GOOD...”

Another little beat passed, and then he nodded — mostly to himself — and turned toward the door.

He didn’t say anything else.

You let out a long sigh the second the door clicked shut. Hand dragging down your face, you groaned, "Oh my God."

This was so unprofessional.

What even was professional anymore? You used to think it was staying out of the spotlight, keeping things neat and neutral. But now? Apparently it meant tying a sentient CRT’s tie while he trembled like a kicked puppy and practically moaned at two pats on the head.

You exhaled again. Embarrassed. Flustered. Maybe a little doomed.

But… he looked happy. Nervous, yes — but happy. And that counted for something.

"As long as he’s happy," you muttered, "I’m happy."

You glanced around the dressing room one last time — then slipped out the door and headed for backstage, where the lights were warming up and the real show was about to start.

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Notes:

Guys… I know it’s not as spicy as some of you were hoping for… But… it’s better than no spice at all, right? Right??????

They'll kiss... evenetually!

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Guys wake up, they updated DTT ver. 0.6.3 yea

Dare To Think by femmequixotic  (Tales from the Special Branch series)

Fic summary: After recent events in New York, Seven-Four-Alpha are set to return back to London. They’ve captured their primary target, but by no means settled their case. They’ve still got rogue Dementors at Azkaban, prying investigators from Luxembourg, and a far larger Death Eater threat to manage, not to mention pressure from their own higher ups. Draco is reeling from his loss, and Harry is trying to be the best boyfriend he can, which may mean not being Draco’s guv any longer. Harry’s uncertain what his team’ll find as they press deeper in the investigation, but he knows they will all be tested, perhaps more than they can bear. But they haven’t a choice, have they? It’s the bloody Death Eaters, after all, and the political integrity of Wizarding Britain and their magical allies hangs in the balance.

Rating: Very. Very. VERY NC-17. You’ve been warned.

Pairings: Drarry, Blaise Zabini/Jake Durant

(Prequel is here, ~15K; Book One is here, ~258K; Book Two is here, ~358K)

Okay, you guys, Chapter Seventeen of Dare To Think has just been posted, which means the entire book is now complete. (So any of you waiting to read it until it was done can start here at the beginning!) 

It’s been eight months writing this book. Eight months that have been filled with a lot of ups and downs. I especially want to say thank you to those of you who were so patient with this chapter being late. @noeeon and I have gone through an enormous life change recently which will be good in the end but which has been ridiculously stressful and frustrating. Thank you so much for accepting my flakiness. It means the world to me that you guys have been so kind and supportive and understanding. So much love to you all. Seriously.

With the end of Dare To Think, the Tales from the Special Branch series has now reached 1,018,224 words since the first story went up in February 2017. I am stunned by this, and thrilled, and to all of you who’ve come along for this wild and bumpy ride--you are the best readers I could ever ask for. Thank you, thank you, thank you; while I started writing this series for my own enjoyment, I keep writing it because of the love and excitement all of you have for these wonderful, amazing, infuriating characters. I hope you’ll join me as we start the final descent in this story--it’s going to be so much fun to write. 

The last book in the Tales from the Special Branch series will be called Set Me Free, and I’ll post the first chapter of it on Sunday, May 13. (You can follow me here on Tumblr for updates or subscribe to the series on AO3.) I’m going to take a few weeks off to regroup, to give @noeeon and @sassy-cissa a chance to rest, and to let myself have an opportunity to reread the series from the beginning so I don’t fuck up my own canon as I start to weave threads together. In the meantime, if you’re bored, I recommend looking over @daysundercover‘s Special Branch Murder Board--there are some definite plot points on there that may be in the process of being addressed. :D :D :D

Again, so much love to all of you--you really are the best. And to @noeeon and @sassy-cissa, you both know you mean the world to me. This story would not be anywhere near what it is without all of your help and love and support. I love you both so damn much, I can’t even tell you. Thank you for always being there when I’m freaking out, and for always telling me to shut up and get back to writing. You are the most amazing team; I couldn’t do this without you. With great affection, Femme

Previous stories in the Tales from the Special Branch series:

Can’t Get You Out of My Head (15K)

Lost In Your Arms (258K)

Ant Tenna/Reader

PART 1 -- PART 9 -- AO3

Summary: Patch starts realising some things...

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The first thing you noticed was the ceiling.

Still there. Cracked in the corner from the last time your upstairs neighbor tried to mount a TV directly into drywall, but it held. You lay there a bit longer than you should’ve, arm half-draped over your eyes, the blanket tangled awkwardly around your legs like a clingy cat.

The morning sunlight tried to worm its way through the blinds but didn’t quite commit—lazy light, like it couldn’t decide whether to fully wake the world or let it linger in that half-dream state. Just like you, apparently.

You blinked up at the ceiling, watching a tiny shadow creep slowly across one of the cracks. The silence settled in around you, quiet but not empty. You could hear the faint hum of the city outside—somewhere a car was starting, a bird squawked lazily, someone a few floors down was probably already complaining about their morning coffee. None of it mattered. For a moment, the world felt like it had paused just for you.

Then the memory kicked in—soft, stupid, warm.

Tenna’s screen tinged pink at the corners, soft and barely there. The moment in the hallway, that weird, crackly edge to his voice after you told him you weren’t going anywhere. The way his antennas twitched like he was nervous, but not in the usual jittery way. More like he was checking if you were still there, still real, like a broadcast signal you never wanted to lose.

You smiled without really meaning to. The kind of smile that sneaks up on you when you least expect it—quiet, a little embarrassed, but full of something honest.

The blanket shifted as you finally peeled your arm off your face and sat up slowly, legs still tangled. You stared at the window for a moment, watching the light stretch a little further across the floorboards. Another quiet breath in, then out.

You weren’t in any hurry. Not yet.

But the day was waiting.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cool floor with a soft thud. The world outside was calling, all clatter and noise and the kind of commotion that was somehow comforting when it involved people and purpose.

The routine was the same: throw on clothes that didn’t need much thought, grab a quick bite of breakfast that somehow always tasted better when you weren’t rushing, and head out the door with the familiar weight of anticipation sitting heavy but steady in your chest.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, Tenna was already there—his nervous energy, the soft glow of his screen, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the mess.

You shook your head, trying to push the warmth away before it got too distracting.

Not yet. You had work to do.

------------------------

You stepped outside and the city was already stirring. The air smelled faintly of rain and exhaust, a mix you’d come to accept as normal. The streets felt oddly peaceful this early, the usual morning rush still hiding behind closed doors. 

The studio wasn’t far, a short walk through streets that had begun to fill with life—people shuffling in little clusters, the distant clang of construction, the occasional honk of a car horn. Your steps fell into the rhythm of the morning as you pushed open the studio doors and stepped in.

Inside was its own kind of controlled commotion: the hum of equipment being checked, the low murmur of voices—familiar faces moving with practiced ease, already caught in their own little orbits. You exchanged greetings with a few of the crew. Lanino gave you a nod, eyes sparkling as always with that quiet kind of passion he carried like a secret. Elnina was nearby, leaning against a table and flipping through some papers, her laugh ringing softly when she caught your eye.

You made your way toward Tenna’s dressing room next—where he was supposed to be this morning, gearing up for the show that was just hours away. The corridor smelled faintly of stale coffee and leather, a quiet contrast to the vibrant energy just beyond the walls.

But when you reached the door, the bodyguard was there, broad and unmoving like a stone statue. He looked up as you approached, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Good morning,” you said, expecting a quick nod or a step aside.

…

“Can i… go in?”

The bodyguard gave you a slow shake of his head.

You blinked, trying to keep your tone neutral. “Is he in there?”

“Yes.”

“…And?”

There was a brief pause, just enough to make you think he was about to elaborate. But all he did was clear his throat, the sound deep and gravelly enough to rattle the hallway walls.

“Mr. Tenna said not to be distracted,” he said at last. “Said no one goes in.”

That gave you pause. You stared at the closed dressing room door behind him, then back at the man blocking it. Something about the way he stood—arms crossed, planted like a tree with no intention of moving—told you this wasn’t a misunderstanding.

You tilted your head slightly, squinting like maybe the angle of your neck could help the logic come into focus. “I am the person who’s supposed to deal with him being distracted.”

It wasn’t a power trip. It was just… protocol. Emotional liaisons were made for moments like this—moments when he got overwhelmed or weird or cagey. It was part of the deal. You had a job, and Tenna had a habit of needing someone to make sure he didn’t spiral off into some cartoonishly tragic disaster right before showtime.

But the bodyguard didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He didn’t even give you the satisfaction of a full sentence.

“He said no one goes in.” 

And then he looked away.

Just like that. As if you were one of the lighting crew who got too close to a “Do Not Enter” sign, and not the person specifically assigned to make sure Mr. Tenna didn’t end up  accidentally crushing one of the employees out of frustration.

You stared at him for another second or two, waiting for a crack in the wall—some flicker of sympathy, or even just a grunt of understanding. But nothing. Not even a muscle twitch.

The concern started as a small buzz in the back of your head. Not quite panic, not yet. Just a quiet pressure—like a warning signal being ignored.

Something was off.

Tenna had a show coming up. This wasn’t the time to start building walls, especially not between the two of you. You didn’t know what was going on in there, but whatever it was, it wasn’t just about not wanting to be “distracted.”

You rubbed a hand over your face, exhaling through your nose. Fine. You’d wait. Let him come out on his own time, if that’s what this was. But you weren’t leaving.

You turned around without another word and made your way toward the green room, jaw tight, brain spinning just a little faster than it had five minutes ago.

------------------------

You pushed open the green room door with your shoulder, still chewing on the tension from the hallway like it was a piece of gristle you couldn’t quite swallow. The room met you with a wash of warm light and soft sound—a slow, lazy sort of energy that contrasted sharply with the tight coil in your chest. It smelled faintly of velvet curtains, brass polish, and someone’s too-early lunch—probably someone’s fish sandwich again.

You took one step inside, letting the door swing gently closed behind you, and immediately spotted them: Lanino and Elnina, tangled together on the soft blue couch like some kind of living romantic sculpture.

Elnina had her hands pressed against Lanino’s cheeks, her fingers feather-light and reverent, like she was afraid he might shatter if she wasn’t gentle enough. Lanino, for his part, had one arm slung around her waist and the other held theatrically over his chest, as if reciting sonnets drained the life directly from his ribcage.

The two of them were locked in some saccharine, syrupy verbal exchange that you quickly identified as poetry—sweet, florid nonsense being whispered not so much into each other’s ears as around them.

“Thy voice,” Lanino breathed, “doth flutter 'cross my heart like a moth to flame—”“And thine eyes,” Elnina sighed, loud enough to rattle a light fixture, “sparkle like starlight in a sky of desire—”You blinked. Okay.

They weren’t exactly trying to keep it private. Anyone with ears—maybe even those without—could make out every word if they strained even a little. But neither of them seemed to care. The whole couch might as well have been an opera stage, and they, the tragic leads in a love story with too many semicolons. You didn’t interrupt, just gave them a nod in passing, one eyebrow raised, and moved further into the room.

Near the far wall, a trio of Shadowmen had gathered in their usual little half-circle, instruments in hand. One had a brass saxophone tucked under his arm, fingers already dancing through warm-up scales while another tapped rhythm lightly against his thigh.

They didn’t talk—Shadowmen rarely did—but they played, and what they played now was a smooth, slow-burn jazz line that curled through the air like smoke. It made everything feel just a little softer. You caught the eye of one of them and offered a small wave. He nodded back once, like the downbeat of a tune you hadn’t heard yet.

And there, behind the bar, stood Ramb.

“Well now,” he said as you approached, accent clipped and warm. “You’ve got that look about you again—like someone swapped your coffee for existential dread.”

You chuckled under your breath and slid onto the barstool. “That obvious, huh?”

He set the glass down gently, then reached for something behind the counter. “You’re not the first to wear it, luv. Not here. Not when he’s got a show coming up.” He poured something light into a small glass—nonalcoholic, sharp with citrus, the kind of drink that jolted your tongue awake without making promises it couldn’t keep.

You took it with a quiet nod, fingers curling around the cool glass. “Thanks, Ramb.”

“Anytime, hon.” he said, then leaned in slightly, his tone dipping just enough to feel like a secret. “He’s in one of his moods, I take it?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just sipped and let the taste ground you a little.

“…Yeah,” you murmured finally. “He told the guard not to let anyone in. Even me.”

Ramb made a small, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, then turned back to polishing another glass. “Well. Some wardrobes have more skeletons than clothes. Give him a minute.”

You nodded, staring into the drink for a beat longer, the music from the Shadowmen filling the space behind your thoughts. You were trying not to worry. But it was Tenna. And when he locked the door, it usually meant something inside had already broken.

You stayed at the bar longer than you meant to. Ramb was easy to talk to—had one of those faces that made you want to spill your guts without really noticing until the words were already halfway out. He leaned on the counter with both elbows, listening with the practiced attentiveness of someone who’d heard every brand of personal crisis and never once made it weird. 

You didn’t even tell him much—just vague frustrations, little sighs, a few glances toward the hallway where Tenna’s dressing room sat with its door closed and an unmoving ‘wall’ standing in front of it. Still, Ramb nodded along like he understood the whole story anyway. Maybe he did.

He slid another drink across the bar. Something fizzy, pale gold, with a wedge of orange on the rim. The bubbles fizzed against your lip as you took a sip, and the sharp citrus cut through the last remnants of the morning fog in your head.

“A bit of sparkle for a dull day,” Ramb said with a wink, wiping his hands on a white cloth. “If it doesn’t brighten your mood, it’ll at least confuse your tastebuds.”

You let out a small laugh, shoulders loosening. For a second, it felt like maybe the morning would level out. Maybe Tenna just needed some space, and everything would be back to normal in ten minutes. He’d strut out of his dressing room with a new suit and a dumb joke, and you’d roll your eyes and pretend like you weren’t relieved.

Then you heard it.

A thud.

No—a crash. Something heavy, sharp, sudden. The kind of noise that didn’t just happen. It came from somewhere down the hall—his hallway. The sound cut clean through the background jazz and dropped like a stone into your stomach.

You were on your feet before your brain even finished piecing it together. The barstool clattered lightly as you shoved it back, the drink forgotten.

“Hey—!” Ramb started, but you were already halfway across the room. You pushed past the couch—Lanino and Elnina briefly looking up from their poetic trance—and stormed back into the corridor where the bodyguard still stood, stiff and silent, right in front of Tenna’s door like a fridge with opinions.

“I heard something,” you said, breath catching up to your voice. “Something fell. Something loud. Let me in.”

He blinked at you slowly.

“I heard it,” you said again, voice firmer now. “I’m going in.”

The bodyguard didn’t respond right away. Just stared at you. His face didn’t change. No sigh, no frown. You couldn’t tell if he was assessing the situation or waiting to be told what to think about it.

“I have to check on him,” you pushed. “This is literally my job. Emotional. Liaison. Ring a bell?” You tapped your temple. “If something happened in there—if he’s upset, or hurt, or melting down—I need to be with him.”

A pause.

The bodyguard’s expression didn’t soften, but he moved. One slow step to the side. Then another. He settled beside the door and put both hands behind his back, posture like a soldier guarding a castle that just got permission to fall.

He said nothing. Didn’t have to.

You exhaled through your nose and grabbed the handle. The metal was warm beneath your palm. Your heartbeat ticked up.

And then you opened the door.

“Tenna? You alri—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

The moment the door creaked open, the air shifted. Like stepping into a room mid-argument, or walking in right after something had broken—literally and otherwise. Your foot barely cleared the threshold when you spotted the mess: a wardrobe tipped fully onto its side, one door hanging off its hinge like a jaw that had given up. 

The floor around it looked like a storm had passed through. Hangers were everywhere—some bent, some snapped, some still clinging stubbornly to empty jackets that had been halfway pulled down and never made it back up. 

Fabric was draped over the arms of chairs, puddled around the vanity, crumpled in limp little heaps that definitely didn’t look “pre-show ready.” Half a necktie dangled from the overhead light like it had tried to escape and gotten stuck.

And in the middle of it all, breathing just a little too fast, was Tenna.

His back was to you at first, shoulders hunched like a kid caught cheating on a test. You heard the wheeze before you even saw him—sharp, static-filled, like his breath couldn’t decide whether to come out as air or white noise. He flinched slightly at the sound of your voice and turned halfway, his antennae flicking up like he’d only just realized the door was open.

“Oh—uh. Hey!” His voice crackled unnaturally bright, like someone slapping a smile onto a voicemail after they already started recording. “HEY! How are you?”

He turned fully now, moving fast—too fast. One foot subtly nudged a hanger out of the way behind him. Then another shuffled awkwardly over a heap of crushed velvet pants, trying to angle his frame just enough to block out the worst of the mess. Which was hilarious, really, because the mess was everywhere. There wasn’t a single direction you could look that wasn’t covered in wrinkled suits, shiny shoes, spare bowties, and at least one top hat that looked like it had been stepped on and then politely re-fluffed.

You stood there in the doorway for a beat, not moving. Just taking it all in. Your gaze ping-ponged from the heap of clothes, to the sideways wardrobe, to Tenna’s twitchy body language, and then back to him. He was still trying to shift his feet like he could... maybe herd the mess away from your line of sight. One hanger caught on the rubber of his foot and dragged along with him. He didn’t notice.

“…What happened?” you asked finally, brows drawing in. “Are you alright? I heard a crash—was it the wardrobe falling down?”

Tenna paused. Screen flickering faintly, maybe from static, maybe from thought. His mouth opened slightly, and you watched his whole system seem to buffer.

“The wardrobe?” he echoed, too casually. “Um. Yeah! Yeah, it just... fell down! Out of nowhere! Boom! You know how wardrobes are. Always... sneaking up on you and doing that.”

You blinked.

He blinked too, or—well, he would’ve if he had eyes. Instead, one of his antennae twitched sharply and then dropped a little.

Silence hung between you, heavy and wrinkled like the jacket currently crumpled on the nearest lampshade.

He was lying. You could see it in the way his antennae twitched again—too sharp, too high-strung — His mouth wobbled nervously, curling into a shaky grin that didn’t reach his screen. There was no way the wardrobe had just decided to fling itself sideways at eight in the morning for no reason. You didn’t even bother pretending to buy it.

You stepped fully into the room, nudging the door closed behind you, and gave him that look—the one you’d honed over the last few weeks working with him. The one that said cut the act, Tenna, I’m not some intern you can flimflam with excuses. You folded your arms and waited. He stared back for a second, then glanced to the side. Then the other side. Then down.

You tilted your head. “You gonna tell me the truth now, or do I need to get the polygraph from props?” 

You didn’t even know if it would work on him, but it was worth a try.

He let out a mechanical wheeze and slumped just enough to admit defeat.

“I—okay, okay, fine!” His voice glitched mid-word, jumping an octave before flattening out again. He swept one of his gangly arms toward the wreckage like he was introducing a game show prize. “I was trying to find a suit. The suit. For the show. And everything was too—too wrong, or weird, or creased, and then the wardrobe caught on one of the hinges and I pulled and—and it—!” He threw both arms up like gravity had personally attacked him. “It collapsed. It attacked me. The wardrobe betrayed me!”

You blinked. “You’ve been doing this for thirty minutes?”

“Thirty-seven, technically.” He straightened up and dusted off his screen with the corner of a nearby tie. “But time is subjective when you're having an artistic crisis!”

You scanned the room again. All of the suits did sort of look the same—mostly dark colors, glitzy lapels, a few pops of red or gold, but otherwise... distinctly Tenna-shaped. Still, you’d never seen him like this before a show. Frazzled, sure. Needy, obviously. But wreck-the-room panicked? That was new.

You crouched and picked up a fallen blazer, brushing it off with your hand. “This one looks fine. What’s wrong with it?”

He turned sharply toward you, static flaring across his screen. “Look at the lapel!” he shrieked. “There’s a stain! Right there—just under the edge!”

You squinted. “...Where?”

“There!”

“Where?”

He stomped over and pointed furiously at a spot so tiny you weren’t sure it even qualified as a stain. It looked more like a speck of lint. Maybe.

“It’s barely visible, Tenna.”

He recoiled like you’d just told him his entire personality was built on a lie. “It’s a blemish, Patch! And it’s going to ruin the whole performance. People notice these things!”

You stood up slowly, brushing your hands on your pants. “Tenna. C’mon. We talked about this, remember?” You stepped closer, keeping your voice steady. “The show doesn’t have to be perfect. The show being imperfect makes it better. That’s the whole point. That’s you. The mess is part of the charm.”

He made a low, electronic sputter in response, crossing his arms and looking away like a scolded child.

“And even if some people don’t enjoy it?” you added gently, “Let them not enjoy it. They’re fake fans anyway. They’re watching for the wrong reasons.”

A pause.

You looked at him for a long second, taking in the still glow of his screen, the faint tilt of his body as he tried to hold himself upright under the pressure of his own expectations. Your hand moved before you could second-guess it.

You rested it lightly on his forearm.

“You’ll still have a dozen people who’ll enjoy watching you,” you said, voice a little quieter now. “Me included.”

Another long pause.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared ahead at nothing, as if processing was taking up too much of his CPU to respond out loud.

Another long pause. 

He let out a sound somewhere between a dial-up screech and a wheeze, static fuzzing like dust in a CRT corner. His antennae jittered slightly before both drooped down in a stiff diagonal line—and looked away. Not dramatically, not like he was offended or embarrassed in the classic sense. More like someone who had just short-circuited in real time and was trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t happening.

His screen, already flickering with soft static, pulsed once—then slowly glowed a faint pink behind the haze. Not enough to be glaring. Not enough to be unmistakable. But there. Definitely there. You caught it in your peripheral vision, and something inside your ribcage did a slow, awkward somersault.

You immediately looked away, pulling your hand back like it had been hovering over a stovetop and you’d just realized how close you were to heat. You stuffed it into your pocket like it was safer there, like maybe the fabric would absorb the tension you were suddenly too aware of.

The silence hung between you both for a second too long, thick enough to stretch like taffy, and you found yourself desperately pretending to be invested in a very crooked tie that had fallen near your foot.

He cleared his throat. Then he busied himself scooping up a hanger like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t touched him. Like his screen wasn’t still ever-so-slightly pink.

You swallowed, trying to push the warm flush out of your face, but your body had already made up its mind. Your cheeks were burning, and you were not going to win this one. You stared at the floor and tried to will your thoughts into submission.

This is fine. This is normal. You’re his liaison, you’re supposed to comfort him, this is part of the job. Touching his arm? Not weird. Definitely not weird. YOU’RE making it weird. It’s not a thing. It’s not—

(Ughhh. Feelings.)

This was still platonic. This was definitely still platonic.

...Right?

Right???

-----

Hello!

Small announcement about my fanfic Dial T for Tenna. Yes, I know I haven’t updated the fic in a while… SORRY!!! AHGRHGGHRHGR...I’ve been having some trouble with college work, and I really want to do my best this year, so I couldn’t fully focus on writing. Either I didn’t have the time, or college completely drained all my writing juice 😭!!!

I have a lot of exams and tests during these weeks, so I won’t be able to work on anything for now.. sorry!!! :((

Also, don’t worry, I’ve read all the messages you’ve sent to my inbox. Thank you so much for all the support and love you’ve shown for DTT :))). When I start writing again, I’ll definitely make a little announcement post here.

BUT THE BEST NEWS: you’re gonna get the chapter in like… 30 minutes?! MAXIMUM 1 HOUR if I don’t get distracted (fingers crossed)! it’s coming!!..... straight to your house.

-

ALSO, GUH, MY BACK IS KILLING ME… I ought to fix my posture while writing...

Hi everyone! I'm currently taking a break from writing since things have been pretty busy for me lately. :(

I'm not sure when I'll have the time or energy to continue working on Dial T for Tenna, but I'll do my best to update it when I can. Thank you all so much for your support - it really means a lot! :D