#zoinks!

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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and I’m a mother of two