Dial T for Tenna (PART 6)
Part 1 -- Part 7 -- Ao3 link
Summary: Patch buys more than one coffee. They and Tenna talk about old shows and share feelings. :D
When you got home that night, the silence felt⊠heavy. Not in a dramatic, storm-cloud way, but in the weird, sticky kind. The kind that clings to your skin and makes you hyper-aware of everything â the click of your keys on the counter, the faint hum of the fridge, even the way your coat rustled as you shrugged it off. You didnât even bother to turn on the big light. Just let the soft, orange glow from the kitchen nightlight lead the way as you toed off your shoes and dumped your bag on the floor like a dropped anchor.
There was a stack of unopened mail on the counter, bent slightly at the corner like itâd been waiting too long. The top envelope had a red stamp on it â not the scary kind, but definitely not a friendly one either. You picked it up with two fingers like it might bite you, peeled it open, read the number, and promptly slapped it back down like it had offended you personally.
âUghhhhh. I hate the adult life...â you muttered to no one, rubbing your eyes like that might erase the numbers.
Instead of doing the responsible thing â like opening the rest of the mail or logging into your bank account to see if you were about to spiral into financial doom â you tossed the envelope toward the corner of the counter and beelined straight for the couch. You kicked your feet up, grabbed the remote, and flopped over sideways like you were trying to melt into the cushions. Bills could wait. Your back couldnât.
A few button presses later and your comfort show filled the screen, all warm tones and predictable jokes. The kind of thing youâd watched so many times you didnât even need to pay attention â just let it wash over you like a blanket. You could hear the old laugh track echoing through the room, distant and familiar, even if your eyes were already starting to flutter shut. You didnât even realize when you fell asleep.
But the ache in your neck told you exactly when you woke up.
You groaned as the morning light dragged itself through your curtains, way too rude and way too early for how late youâd passed out. Your body felt like it had been folded into a suitcase overnight. Groggy, grumpy, you shoved yourself off the couch and rubbed the heel of your palm into your temple, already dreading the walk to work. Your TV was still glowing faintly behind you. You glanced at it once â and thought, weirdly, of Tenna.
You hadnât meant to. But the thought just sort of landed. That faint white screen glow⊠it reminded you of him. Or, maybe not him exactly. Maybe the version of him that lingered after the show was over. The one with slouched shoulders and slow steps. The one who didnât yell. The one who sat in silence with you, sipping a drink and forgetting to perform. That Tenna.
As you pulled on your shoes and started the walk to the studio, you couldnât stop thinking about it. About him. Not the host. Not the brand. Just⊠Tenna. And somehow â somehow â you realized youâd started to care. Like, really care. He wasnât just a job anymore. Not a âsubjectâ to monitor or a âcaseâ to manage. He was loud, exhausting, impossible â and deeply, unmistakably, real. And that realization settled in your chest like something warm and weighty, something that made your steps feel lighter even as the city buzzed around you.
The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but you found yourself smiling faintly as you passed by the coffee shop near the corner â the one with the chipped sign and the barista who always looked like she knew too much. On impulse, you pushed open the door.
The smell hit you first â roasted beans, steamed milk, and a hint of cinnamon. Comfort in olfactory form. You ordered your usual, rattled off the details without thinking. But then your gaze drifted over the menu again⊠and you ordered a second drink. Specific. With that extra splash of sweetener. The same way he always barked it at the cafeteria guy on set like he was placing a military order. You didnât even hesitate.
You stepped back onto the sidewalk with both cups in hand, the paper sleeves warming your palms. You didnât know if heâd drink it. Hell, you didnât even know if he liked you enough to accept it without suspicion. But youâd noticed. And for some reason, that felt worth something.
You were halfway through the studio lobby when the chaos began.
From around the corner came a flurry of footsteps and a voice â a very Lanino voice â shrieking like a poetic train wreck.
âOh, woe! The thunder cracks in my chest, and the clouds part only to mock me!â
You barely had time to blink before Lanino himself skidded into view, dramatically throwing one hand across his forehead like he was in an opera, the other clutched tightly around a crumpled script. His makeup was only halfway done, and his collar was askew, but the emotional distress was on full display.
âShe said my metaphors were stale!â he gasped. âStale! Like day-old toast in a lonely bakery window!â
You blinked. â...Elnina?â
âShe spat it like a dagger of ice,â he continued, completely ignoring your question. âMy twin soul, my tempestuous co-anchor! Our very segment â the Morning Weather Duet! â has fallen into a cyclone of bitterness!â
You opened your mouth to say something, realized you had no idea how to translate his dramatics into sense, and tried again. âSo⊠you two had a fight.â
âOh!â He staggered back a step, as if the word itself had stabbed him. âCall it not a fight, but a symphony of screaming hearts! She says I steal her thunder â her thunder, when I am clearly the lightning!â
You gave him a look. The kind of look that said âI have not had coffee yet and youâre lucky I didnât spill it.â
He paused, halfway through flinging himself against the wall like a dying Victorian poet.
âHave you tried⊠talking to her?â
He stared at you, horrified. âCommunicating?â
âYeah. You know. Words. Calm tones. Maybe listening instead of reciting poetry like youâre dying of heartbreak in a castle.â
Then: âOh my stars. Youâre right. How could I have been so blind? So selfish? My metaphors have clouded my meaning! My world isnât complete without my cloudy twin soul!â He spun in place with a dramatic gasp and bolted down the hallway.
ââŠYouâre welcome,â you muttered, and finally turned toward the hallway that led to Tennaâs office.
Still carrying both cups of coffee. Still thinking about the quiet glow from last night.
And still wondering how the hell you got tangled up in this weird, buzzing, theatrical world where meteorologists had existential breakdowns and show hosts crackled with static when they were sad.
But⊠weirdly? You werenât complaining.
You nudged the door open without knocking.
That wasnât really breaking any rules. Tennaâs door was almost never fully shut. Not because he was particularly welcoming, but because the hinges stuck halfway and the frame didnât line up quite right anymore, thanks to a previous tantrum involving a metal clipboard and a ratings report. So you eased it open with your shoulder, balancing both coffees in your hands like you were on the worldâs slowest tightrope walk.
The first thing you heard was his voice â loud, flat, annoyed.
âNo, you listen to me, Danaâif you want your sponsors on this program, they donât get to slap a coupon code across my intro segment like itâs a shopping channel for washed-up celebrities!â A beat. âI am the segment! I am the face!â
Tenna stood near the window, rotary phone on the desk, hand gesturing wildly even though the person on the other end couldnât see it. His other hand was pressed flat on the desk like he was physically holding himself back from crawling through the phone line and shaking someone.
His antennae twitched like they had minds of their own â sharp, erratic flicks that only made his irritation more obvious. His mouth was tight. And his screen? Flickering. Static around the edges, a low dull gray creeping across it. Not quite overwhelmed. But getting there.
He turned his head slightly and spotted you near the door. His whole body jolted like someone had just flipped a switch.
âOhâPatch! Hehâexcuse me for a momentâŠâ His voice pitched into something almost polite, though the static on his screen didnât back him up.
He turned away from you, clutching the phone again. âListen, Dana, I donât care how many decimal points you throw at me, if you overlay another ad for flavored protein sludge during TV Timeâs cold open, Iâll staple your logo to a meteor and launch it into the sun.â A beat. âYes, thatâs a promise.â Then, without waiting for a response, he slammed the receiver down onto its cradle so hard the whole desk shuddered.
He stood there for a second, one hand still on the phone, his mouth twisted in a grimace. Then he exhaled hard â not dramatic, not showy. Just tired. The kind of tired you felt in your shoulders. His screen cleared slowly to white.
Then he turned to face you, shoulders relaxing maybe one percent.
âGOOD MORNING!â he said, trying to sound bright, but there was a lag in the delivery. His voice cracked slightly at the end, like it hadnât quite gotten the memo that this was supposed to be cheerful.
His mouth opened again, about to say something else â but his screen flickered again, this time pink, faint and fleeting, when he caught sight of your hands.
ââŠEhem. Two cups of coffee?â he asked, brow quirking behind the glass. âBit of a gamble, isnât it? Thatâs gonna give you a headache, no? I need you in top-notch condition.â
You shifted the cups in your grip, one eyebrow raised. âRelax. One of themâs for you.â
You swore you could actually see the gears in his head seize up. His antennae, which had been slowly rising back to normal, drooped a bit in surprise. Not sagging like sadness â more like someone had tugged them downward from behind. His mouth parted slightly. Not for show. Just⊠real confusion.
âFor⊠me?â he asked, like youâd told him a ghost just handed you a sandwich.
You stepped forward and offered him the cup. âYeah. Black, splash of hazelnut syrup, one sugar, no foam.â
He reached out slowly, like he wasnât sure it wouldnât vanish. His fingers brushed the cardboard sleeve and stilled. For a second, he just stared down at it. Then he took the cup from you, cautiously, and lifted it like it might explode. He brought it to his mouth and took a small sip.
You saw it immediately â the stillness. His screen didnât flicker. His mouth didnât move. He just⊠held the cup, staring into it like he was looking down a tunnel to his past life. A strange quiet washed over him, not heavy, but not light either. Just there. He blinked slowly â or, well, you could tell he would have, if he had the eyes to do it. The faintest blush of pink edged back into his screen again.
He turned his head toward you, lips parted slightly. âThis is the exact coffee I always order.â
You shrugged. Tried not to look too proud of yourself. âI noticed.â
ââŠYou noticed?â he echoed.
A small smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth. âYouâre not exactly subtle. You always scream your order at the poor cafeteria guy like heâs a PA announcing your entrance.â
That got him. A weird, glitched little chuckle slipped out of him, half-laugh, half-garbled audio glitch. His antennae flicked again, this time upward â bashful but pleased. He looked away, turning slightly as if that would keep you from seeing the faint static that fuzzed across his screen for a second.
âYou didnât have to do that..â he mumbled, still not looking at you.
âYeah, I know,â you said. âBut I wanted to.â
Another beat of silence passed. Not awkward. Just⊠still. Like both of you had paused the script for a moment to sit in something unspoken.
Your gaze drifted to the clutter on his desk. Pages stacked haphazardly. Production notes, maybe. Probably approvals and sponsor nonsense. One sheet was half-crumpled, like heâd squeezed it too hard. You tilted your head slightly.
âYou need help with any of this?â
He didnât answer at first. Just took another long sip of coffee. His mouth stayed pressed to the lid for a few seconds, like he was hiding behind it. When he finally lowered it, he was staring into the cup again.
ââŠItâs just right,â he said quietly. Then he shook his head once, snapping out of it. âNo. I got it.â
You nodded and grabbed one of the spare chairs from against the wall. Dragged it across the carpet with the wheels squeaking in protest. You plopped into it and leaned back slightly, stretching your legs out a little. Close to his desk, but not hovering. Just⊠there. Nearby.
âYou sure?â you asked.
âPositive,â he said. Then, a little softer, âBut you can stay.â
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. His antennae stood straighter now, flicking faintly like they were tuning into something small and good.
You took a sip of your own coffee. Let the silence settle in the space between you.
The quiet stretched on for a while, but it wasnât stiff or cold. Just easy. The kind of silence that could only come from two people whoâd run out of reasons to be guarded. You didnât fidget. Tenna didnât perform. It was strange, really â sitting in his office without the usual undercurrent of tension, like static under your skin.Â
The lights above gave off a low hum, and the clock on the wall ticked with annoying determination, but neither of you seemed in any rush to break the moment. The coffee was still warm in your hands. You could hear the faint clatter of crew boots in the hallway, the occasional distant call over a headset. But here, in this space, it felt like the world had hit pause for just a few frames.
Tenna leaned back in his chair with a soft creak, his fingers curling loosely around his paper cup. His antennae flicked, then slowly relaxed into a lazy curve, like they couldnât quite decide whether to stay alert or let go completely. His screen was still white, dimmed a bit by the office light filtering in through the blinds. No static. No flicker. His mouth had softened too â not smiling, not tense â just neutral, but in that rare, resting kind of way that didnât come easy to him. You could tell. Youâd seen the way his shoulders tightened when he was anxious. The way his lips curled back when he got defensive. Right now? His shoulders were low, his fingers werenât twitching, and the little lines at the corners of his mouth â yes, he had those â looked soft. Like he was actually resting for once.
You let your eyes drift toward his desk again. Still a mess. You didnât press the offer to help â heâd already said no â but something about the sight of the chaos made you want to nudge your coffee aside and sort through it anyway. Not because it was your job. Just because it felt⊠natural. Familiar. That weird human impulse to tidy someone elseâs mess not out of duty, but affection. You didnât even realize the thought had taken root until you found yourself smiling into your cup.
Tenna noticed. His screen flickered faintly pink.
You blinked out of your daydream and looked up at him. âHm?â
âYouâre smiling like youâve got a secret.â he said, and took another sip. His tone wasnât accusing. More curious. Like maybe he was hoping youâd say something ridiculous and weird, just to make the morning a little less dull.
You swirled the last of the coffee in your cup. âItâs nothing. Just thinking.â
âThat sounds dangerous.â he deadpanned, his antennae giving a little twitch.
You rolled your eyes. âI watched something last night,â you said, setting the cup down. âThat dumb sitcom I always come back to. The one with the talking fridge?â
Tenna tilted his head slightly. His screen didnât flicker, but you could almost feel his focus sharpen.
âOh, I know that one,â he said, suddenly animated. âThat was on cable syndication for like, twenty years. Network practically ran the reruns into the ground. But people loved it.â He shifted forward, resting one elbow on his desk. âThereâs that one episode â the one with the haunted blender â absolutely kills me.â
You snorted. âThat oneâs a classic. The actor couldnât keep a straight face for half the shoot. You can actually see them laughing in the background.â
âExactly!â Tenna pointed at you, grinning now â really grinning, lips pulled back into something boyish and earnest. âThatâs the stuff that hits. Not the perfect shots. The human garbage. The mess-ups.â
You felt a quiet warmth settle between your ribs. It wasnât even the conversation that did it â not really. It was the way he was reacting. Like the two of you werenât just coworkers in some spiraling media empire, but actual people. Sharing stories. Laughing over the same dumb blender gag. Like all the static and screaming and stage lights werenât between you anymore.
Tenna leaned back again, his chair creaking softly as he exhaled through his mouth. He stared up at the ceiling for a second, mouth slightly open in that way that meant his mind was drifting. His antennae twitched once, then eased into a droop, soft and slow. It didnât look sad â just peaceful. Settled. A rare stillness from someone who was always, always in motion.
âYou ever wonder if thatâs what people want more of?â he asked after a beat, his voice quieter now. âNot the glitz. Not the games. Just... weird little moments like that. The kind that arenât trying too hard to mean something.â
You glanced at him. âYeah,â you said. âSometimes.â
He nodded slowly, then tilted his head just a bit, screen catching a glint of the overhead light.
âI donât think Iâve ever really had that,â he said. âJust dumb background noise. Everythingâs always gotta be bold. Loud. Memorable.â A pause. âSometimes I think if I stop being those things, I just... disappear.â
You wanted to say something â something comforting, something smart â but your words didnât come fast enough. So instead, you leaned forward a little in your seat, resting your arms on your knees. The silence stretched, but not in a bad way.
Then, quietly, you said, âYouâre still here, arenât you?â
And though his screen didnât show eyes â never did â you could feel it. The weight of his attention. The subtle shift in his posture. The way his antennae froze, like they didnât want to break the moment.
ââŠYeah,â he said, voice soft. âI guess I am.â
The moment lingered, suspended like a single frame before a commercial break. But no camera cut. No ad jingle. Just stillness. Just Tenna sitting across from you with a coffee cup half-full and his screen glowing low and even â no static, no flicker, not even that theatrical buzz he usually carried like armor. His mouth was slack now, not tired, just⊠soft. Unmasked. For someone so built for spotlight, so wired for attention, it was strange to see how naturally he fit into this kind of quiet â like maybe, despite everything he claimed, heâd been starving for it.
You leaned back in your chair again, slow, thoughtful. The cushion squeaked under your weight, and the sound seemed to bring Tenna out of his stillness. He blinked â or whatever the Tenna version of blinking was â and glanced toward the desk again, one finger tapping against the side of his cup in a rhythm that didnât match the second hand on the clock.
âYâknow,â he started, his voice light but unsure, âI used to think if I ever got a day off, Iâd just rot on my floor. Like, full reset. No broadcast, no people. Just silence.â
You huffed a laugh, tilting your head toward him. âAnd now?â
He hesitated. His mouth twitched â not into a smile, not quite â but into something like contemplation. Like he was tasting the words before speaking them aloud.
ââŠNow I think Iâd want someone to rot with.â he said.
It was simple. Casual, even. But it hit somewhere you didnât expect.
You didnât say anything right away. You just nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the window behind his desk where the blinds were only half-closed. The morning sun had shifted since you came in. The light cut differently now â across his screen, across your face. Warm. Mellow.
For a moment you let yourself sink into it, into the softness of the hour and the strangeness of it all. How the most chaotic person youâd ever met â this unstable, screen-faced, spotlight-addicted chaos gremlin â could sit here with you like this. Quiet. Real. Flickering with something like vulnerability.
âYou ever actually get one of those days off?â you asked eventually.
Tenna chuckled under his breath. It crackled a little, unpolished. âNot really. I donât think I know how.â
You turned your cup between your hands, letting your fingers soak up the last of the warmth. âI could show you,â you said. âI mean, if you ever want to try it. Doing nothing. Being no one.â
You werenât sure if heâd take you up on it. He probably wouldnât. At least not soon. But the offer hung in the air anyway, soft and unspoken, like a light left on in the hallway just in case someone came home late.
Tenna looked down at his coffee again. Then, slowly, he brought it back to his mouth and took another sip. His mouth lingered on the lid this time, and when he finally set the cup down, he leaned forward slightly, folding his hands in front of him like he was anchoring himself to the desk.
âI think people forget,â he said after a pause, âthat I didnât start out like this.â
You blinked. âLike what?â
âBig. Loud. Broadcast-ready.â His mouth twisted into a crooked half-smile, but there wasnât much humor behind it. âI wasnât always⊠Tenna. Not the way they know me now.â
You didnât interrupt. You just waited, breathing quiet.
âI used to stammer,â he said. âAll the time. Couldnât even order takeout without choking on my own words. Nobody wanted to listen to me back then. Hell, I didnât want to listen to me. And then one day I realized â if I shouted loud enough, no one could tell if I was scared.â
He looked at you again â or turned toward you, at least. His screen dimmed slightly, not in a negative way, just reflective. Soft static fizzled at the corners like his memory was reaching too far back.
âAnd then it stuck,â he said. âThe voice. The show. The noise. I kept turning it up until no one asked what I was like when the cameras were off. Not even me.â
Your chest tightened a little. Youâd known there was more to him â of course you had â but hearing him admit it like this? Without the act? Without a smirk or a flashy soundbite? That was something else.
You reached for your coffee again, just to have something in your hands. âYouâre still you,â you said. âEven when itâs quiet. Even when the showâs off.â
His mouth twitched again. But this time, it leaned into a real smile. Small, tired, but real. His antennae perked a little â one of them twitching to the side like it didnât know what to do with itself.
ââŠThanks, Patch.â he murmured.
Another stretch of silence. Another wave of soft sunlight spilling across the floor between you. And something inside your chest â something tight, something old â finally let go.
This was the kind of quiet you didnât get on accident. This was the kind of quiet that had to be earned.
You leaned back in your chair again, arms crossed loosely, your empty coffee cup resting on your knee. He hadnât spoken in a few minutes, but that wasnât unusual. Sometimes Tenna got stuck in his own head â not in a scary way, just⊠caught. Like an old tape looping something personal.
His antennae gave him away more than anything else; theyâd droop when his thoughts turned inward, when he was remembering things he didnât quite know how to talk about yet. And they were doing that now â slowly angling down, like they were listening to something only he could hear. His mouth was relaxed, but there was a little crease at the edge of it, like he was chewing on some memory too big to swallow.
You didnât push. You didnât have to.
Instead, you tapped your cup with a finger, thinking about last night again. The comfort show. The haunted blender episode. And for whatever reason, you heard yourself speak before you could think better of it.
âDo you ever watch anything for fun?â
Tenna blinked â metaphorically â and his head tilted, screen flickering slightly with confusion.
âYou mean like⊠TV?â
âYeah. Something not part of your job. Just to enjoy it.â
He looked genuinely baffled. Like youâd asked him whether he sleeps inside the transmission tower or not. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, shaping around the words like he had to warm up to the concept.
ââŠI used to,â he said finally. âBack when the noise didnât follow me home.â
You nodded a little, letting your thumb rub absently along the cup sleeve. âWhat did you watch?â
Tenna leaned back slowly, resting the coffee cup on the armrest of his chair. His antennae perked up â just slightly â as he thought.
âThere was this old science fiction serial,â he said. âPre-color. Cheap props. Everyone had those weird plastic ray guns that made the same three sound effects.â A soft laugh slipped out of him, static-muted but honest. âIt was awful. Completely unwatchable by todayâs standards.â
âAnd you loved it,â you guessed.
He turned his head toward you. âI devoured it,â he said. âI taped over my own segments just to make room for reruns. I used to mouth along with the lines. The villain had this ridiculous cape made of tinsel. My favorite episode was the one where they landed on a planet made entirely of recycled film reels. You could see the camera crew in the background.â
You snorted. âSounds like a mess.â
âIt was,â he said, smiling now. âBut it felt like someone made it just because they wanted to. Not to sell anything. Not to trend. Just⊠because it was fun. Silly. Meaningless.â
ââŠDo you miss it?â you asked.
Tenna didnât answer right away. He looked down into his cup again, quiet. His screen dimmed â not sad, just thoughtful. Like memory was heavier than he expected.
ââŠYeah,â he said softly. âSometimes I do.â
And something about the way he said that made your chest ache just a little. Because this wasnât the Tenna people saw on screen â not the one who barked jokes and screamed at sponsors and cracked like lightning just to fill the silence. This was the version of him no one got to see. The version who used to tape over his own broadcasts just to make room for bad science fiction and tinsel capes.
You didnât say anything more. Just offered a small, quiet nod and let the silence return â respectful this time. Reverent.
And he didnât look away.
And something about the way he said that made your chest ache just a little. Because this wasnât the Tenna people saw on screen â not the one who barked jokes and screamed at sponsors and cracked like lightning just to fill the silence. This was the version of him no one got to see. The version who used to tape over his own broadcasts just to make room for bad science fiction and tinsel capes.
You didnât say anything more. Just offered a small, quiet nod and let the silence return â respectful this time. Reverent.
And he didnât look away.
He stayed like that, half-turned toward you, the coffee cup balanced delicately between his fingers. You could still see the faint curl of his mouth â small, soft, thoughtful. His antennae shifted slightly, perking up just a little from their previously drooped state. It was like watching a storm finally start to pass, the air still damp but a little warmer. You werenât used to seeing him this way, and honestly, you werenât sure he was used to it either.
âYâknow,â you said, breaking the silence gently, âif you ever find the name of that old sci-fi show again... Iâd watch it with you.â
Tennaâs fingers stilled on the coffee cup. The silence between your words and his answer stretched just long enough for you to wonder if youâd overstepped somehow. But then his antennae twitched â not sharply, not in alarm â just a small, surprised lift. His screen flickered faintly at the edges, and for a split second, you couldâve sworn there was a blush forming. Not bright. Barely even there. But pink enough.
His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. Not strained, not filtered through that classic Tenna-brand bravado. Just⊠honest. âI think Iâd like that.â
You smiled, and you didnât even try to hide it. Something in your chest settled â something that had been oddly tense since the moment you first met him. Maybe since before that, even. Like your body had just now gotten permission to stop bracing itself.
âI used to think those shows were dumb,â you admitted, leaning back in the chair. âToo cheap. Too over-the-top. But I donât know. Last night I put it on, and... it felt safe. Familiar. Like it wasnât trying to be anything except what it was.â
Tenna gave a low hum of agreement, resting his chin briefly on his fist. âMaybe thatâs why we remember them. Because theyâre not trying to impress anyone. Theyâre just⊠being.â
You glanced at him, eyebrows raised a little. âAre we still talking about TV shows?â
He huffed. A quiet sound. But amused. âMaybe.â
There was another pause. Softer now. The kind that doesnât demand to be filled.
You looked around the room â the messy desk, the blinds letting stripes of sun cut across the carpet, the half-dead plant in the corner someone had definitely forgotten to water. And then back to him.
âI like this,â you said. âJust sitting here. Talking.â
He didnât say anything back. But his screen stayed warm, still. His antennae stood tall. And his coffee never left his hand.
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