Dial T for Tenna (PART 5)
'Ant' Tenna/Reader
PART 1 --PART 6 -- AO3
Summary: After a calmer broadcast, Tenna is pulled into a surprise meeting with the higher-ups. Tension rises, but the reader helps him stay grounded. Despite everything, they choose to stay by his side through the rest of the day.
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The next day carried the weight of something unspoken—like the echo after a broadcast that had ended too abruptly. The studio didn't feel loud, exactly, but it wasn’t quiet either. There was a tension in the air that no amount of lighting gels or laugh tracks could dispel. The incident from yesterday—the contestant, the knife, the panic—had slipped into every crack between cables and clipboards. No one said anything outright, of course. They were professionals. But there was a new tightness in the way stagehands moved, how producers huddled behind headsets a little longer than necessary. Every time someone glanced toward the main hallway or the editing bay, it was like they were bracing for a surge of static that never came.
And then, Tenna arrived.
He didn’t enter with a bang. No signature catchphrase. No arms thrown wide, demanding attention like a spotlight come to life. Just the soft tap of his shoes on tile, the hum of his frame as he walked through the lobby like someone who had simply never left. His screen was calm—still glowing white, not flickering or glitching, no sharp color shifts or sound distortions. Just… steady. Even his antennae, usually twitching with some unreadable broadcast tension, were unusually still, rising in slow, measured angles instead of jittering through thoughts he couldn’t say out loud. And his mouth—tight-lipped, flat—didn’t try to form a smirk or a grimace. No theatrics. No false charm. Just a thin line of quiet resolve.
You watched him from the break room doorway as he passed by, barely registering the crew around him. He moved like a weathered professional might walk through a set after a bomb scare—no panic, no collapse, just checking the walls to see what was still standing. When he saw you, he didn’t stop, but his head turned slightly in your direction. A twitch of his antennae. A subtle parting of his lips. Not quite a smile—more like an acknowledgment. The broadcast version of, “You okay?” without ever asking it out loud.
He didn’t ask how you were. And you didn’t ask him either.
That was the strange thing about yesterday’s chaos—it hadn’t broken something between you. If anything, it clarified it. You weren’t just background anymore. Not just the network’s last-ditch “liaison” plastered into place to keep him from melting down on air. He’d looked at you yesterday like you weren’t part of the noise. Like you were the one piece of signal he could tune into when everything else was screaming.
Tenna moved through the building like a presence now, not just a performance. People didn’t flinch when he walked by—not because the fear was gone, but because he wasn’t wearing the same razor-edged energy anymore. He wasn’t performing for them. Not today. He walked into the control room before anyone else could, leaned over the shoulder of a technician still finalizing transitions for the day’s recording, and quietly pointed at a glitch in the lower-third overlay. His antennae dipped as he murmured something under his breath—some note about timing, or color, or spacing. The tech nodded, fixed it, and Tenna stepped back without fanfare.
No booming critique. No tantrum. No static pulse of fury.
Just... work.
Later, in the side hall near the loading bay, you found him again. He was leaned up against a metal case full of cables, coat slightly wrinkled, one antenna bent where it had snagged on a scaffolding pipe earlier. You caught him mid-thought, staring off into some corner of the ceiling like there was an old episode of himself rerunning up there that only he could see. You approached slowly—no clipboard this time, no notes, no rehearsed lines. Just you. Just him.
“You alright?” you asked softly, the air between you still thick with yesterday’s memory.
His mouth pulled into a lopsided shape—something close to a grimace, but lacking any real bite. “You think if I say yes, the sponsors’ll start sending fruit baskets again?”
You gave a dry laugh, stepping beside him. “Depends. You want apples or apologies?”
Tenna snorted, a sharp burst of static through his chest that fizzled just as quickly. “I’ll pass on both. Apples rot, and apologies come with paperwork.” He tilted his head slightly, antennae flicking to one side like a shrug he hadn’t fully committed to. “Not like any of them meant for her to go off like that. They just wanted a wildcard. Something unstable. Something marketable.”
You didn’t correct him. He wasn’t wrong.
“She didn’t belong on that stage,” you said. “You knew it before anyone.”
“I didn’t know,” he muttered, voice low and mechanical, “I felt it. The timing was off. The pacing. The rhythm of the segment just... cracked.” His mouth pressed into a deeper frown. “Used to be, I could fix anything. Tanked jokes, busted lights, even dead crowds. All it took was volume. Flash. I’d pump the feed so full of noise they wouldn’t even remember the glitch. But yesterday...”
He didn’t finish.
You didn’t push.
The silence that followed was long and stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It just sat with you both, like something earned. Tenna’s antennae drooped slightly—not with exhaustion, exactly, but like someone powering down just enough to feel the air around them. You watched his screen quietly, waiting for the static that usually crawled at the edges to return. It didn’t.
Eventually, he turned his head toward you, mouth parting like he had to chew on the thought before letting it out. “You remember what she said? That she didn’t sign up for this?” His shoulders flexed slightly. “Neither did I.”
You looked at him then—really looked. Not as a star, not as the network’s unbreakable showman, not as the suit who screamed catchphrases into the void because it was safer than silence. Just Tenna. Broadcast burnout in a humanoid frame. Not crying for help. Not begging for pity. Just… there.
“I know,” you said softly. “But you stayed anyway.”
He stared forward, then nodded once—mouth twitching downward in what might’ve been the beginning of a real, weary smile. His antennae perked slightly, not all the way up, just enough to register the motion. A signal that said I heard you.
The crew started buzzing again down the hall. Lights warming up. Producers barking over comms. Another episode to prep. Another thirty minutes of structured chaos and camera-ready reactions to build. The world was waking up again. But for now—for this one moment—it was just the two of you tucked between shadows and silence.
“You coming to stage?” he asked finally.
“I’ll be there.”
“...Don’t let them throw another knife girl at me.” he muttered, antennae dipping in the closest thing to a comedic wince.
You gave him a crooked grin. “No promises.”
And with that, he straightened his coat, cracked his knuckles, and rolled his shoulders like he was rebooting a long-lost file from deep in his system. His mouth curled—not quite into a grin, but something that suggested he still knew how to wear one if the moment called for it.
“Alright then,” he murmured, voice steady but still tinged with something tender. “Let’s give them a show.”
Then he turned and walked back toward the stage, his antennae bouncing slightly with each step—lighter now. Less like a man trying to outrun collapse, and more like someone beginning to trust the silence wouldn’t swallow him whole.
—
The show went off without a hitch.
No fog machines breaking down mid-round. No stagehands tripping over wires. No rogue contestants with twitching hands and knives tucked into jacket linings. Tenna was sharp, electric in all the right ways, never overloading. His timing was crisp, his jokes hit their beats, and the audience—blessedly—stayed on their side of the stage. The buzz in the control room leaned toward cautious optimism, like everyone had been holding their breath for forty-five minutes and now weren’t quite sure how to let it out.
You watched him carefully from the wings the entire time. He didn’t know you were tracking his every move—not directly—but you could feel it in how your eyes wouldn’t leave his screen. You weren’t watching the host. You were watching the tilt of his mouth when a segment didn’t land quite right, the brief flex of his shoulders when the audience clapped too late, the flicker across his antennae whenever someone called a cue half a beat early. He didn’t falter. Not once. But the little signs were there, if you knew what to look for. And you did.
Then came the wrap. The sign-off. The "Thanks for tuning in!" delivered with just enough static to sound spontaneous, but clean enough for broadcast. The music swelled. The lights faded.
And Tenna… exhaled.
You caught the way his shoulders dipped—not in defeat, but in release. His mouth slackened slightly, no longer pinched with performance. The glint of white on his screen dimmed to a gentler glow. Not tired, not smug. Just done. It was the kind of ending that usually bought you at least fifteen minutes of peace before someone barged in yelling about numbers.
But then came the voice.
"Mr. Tenna, please report to Conference Room 1-A. Immediately."
It blared in from the overhead speaker with all the warmth of a dial tone. Your stomach twisted. The tone of that announcement was never good. Not neutral. Not casual. Immediate was code for bad. And calling him in right after the show? That was blood in the water.
Tenna didn’t speak. His antennae twitched once, sharply. His mouth pressed into a tight, unreadable shape. Still, he didn’t argue. He just stepped offstage with the same quiet grace he’d worn all day, like someone walking into a spotlight they didn’t ask for.
You moved before he could say anything.
They’re calling him in alone? After that week? After what happened? That’s not just a red flag, that’s a broadcast emergency test pattern. You caught up to him halfway down the hallway, shoes clicking against tile, clipboard forgotten somewhere on a prop cart behind you. He didn’t look at you, but when you fell in beside him, his hand brushed yours in a tiny motion. Not a grip. Not an ask. Just… a reminder that you were there.
“I’m coming with you,” you said softly, more a statement than an offer.
He didn’t argue. Just gave a tiny, affirming twitch of his antennae. His mouth was set straight again, expression unreadable—but you knew better. That was his defensive mode. Screen bright, posture tight, antennae alert. Like a live wire trying not to short.
Conference Room 1-A. Of course it was that one.
That room still held the ghost of every shouted memo and every impersonal “We love you, but…” ever aimed his way. You’d been in there with him during that first meeting. The one with the paper rattling, the light flickering, the static roaring behind his words like a barely leashed storm. You knew exactly how quickly this place could dig its claws into his frame and twist.
He reached for the door handle like it might shock him.
Announcing you that a meeting is about to take place, your thoughts quipped bitterly. Hmm. You should go with him. The higher-ups calling a meeting out of nowhere might bring trouble. And you were right. The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.
The lights in the conference room were always too bright. The walls sterile white, like a blank screen trying to blind you. The suits were already seated in their tidy little rows around the glass table, tablets and styluses at the ready like they were prepping to dissect someone instead of talk. Kairos was already standing, arms crossed tightly, her nametag catching the light in that frustrating, self-righteous way. She didn’t smile. She didn’t welcome him.
She jumped straight into it.
“Tenna. Sit down.”
His mouth curled slightly—not into a smile. It was the kind of twist his lips made when something was being forced out of him. Restraint. Disgust. Tired showbiz tolerance. His antennae twitched again, more sharply this time, but he obeyed. You sat beside him, hand near his on the table but not touching.
Kairos didn’t waste a second.
“Do you want to tell us,” she said, voice dangerously calm, “how that girl—a completely unverified, unscheduled individual—ended up on your stage with a weapon?”
Tenna’s screen didn’t flash. Not yet. His mouth stayed in that tight line. But his antennae tilted back, defensive.
“I didn’t bring her on,” he said, voice flat.
“She was introduced as a contestant on your segment.”
“I wasn’t given a choice,” he snapped back, and the sharpness of it made his antennae flick forward again. “They slotted her in last minute. I didn’t even get a name until I was already live.”
The other suits muttered, tapped their screens like they were scrolling for excuses. Kairos leaned forward slightly.
“You lost control,” she said. “You were supposed to maintain the broadcast. Instead, we had an emergency feed cut halfway through a round. Sponsors are calling. PR is—”
“I handled it,” Tenna said. A bite in his voice now. “No one got hurt.”
“But it was close,” she snapped, louder now. “And if the footage leaks? We’ve got optics to consider. Damage control. Headlines. People saw your screen glitch, Tenna. You think no one noticed that panic loop in the audio?”
His hand twitched on the table. You noticed it. The same way you noticed his screen beginning to brighten, not with light, but tension. The static wasn’t visible yet, but you could feel it. Building.
Too bright. Too fast. Too many voices talking at him instead of to him.
You looked at him. His mouth was tense. Antennae stiff. The glow behind the glass of his screen was becoming just a little too sharp.
You had to step in.
“I was there,” you said, calmly, clearly. The suits turned. Kairos didn’t, but you knew she was listening. “Mr Tenna did everything he could with a chaotic situation he didn’t create. He got everyone out. He kept it from going to black. That was him. Not you. Him.”
Tenna blinked—figuratively—and you felt the tiniest release of tension at your side. His antennae lowered a notch. His hand flexed once on the table and stayed flat. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t explode either.
You could work with that.
Kairos didn’t flinch at your words. She didn’t scold you for speaking. But the flick of her pen against the table—measured, slow, deliberate—spoke louder than her voice ever could. Her expression remained professionally neutral, but her posture screamed frustration barely caged behind a clipboard and a polished blouse. Across the table, the other suits whispered behind their tablets, muttering about liability and news cycles, ignoring the actual person seated inches from them like he was just another broadcast machine that needed tuning.
And Tenna?
He was slipping.
You could feel it—see it—in every detail they ignored. His screen, still a dull white, had begun to hum. Not loud, not chaotic, but enough to rattle the air near him. The kind of quiet pre-static that came before one of his episodes. His antennae were twitching again, sharper now, not in rhythm with his usual controlled theatrics. One of them ticked down and then jerked upright again, like it couldn’t decide whether to brace for impact or send out a distress signal.
But it was his hands that gave it away.
He dropped them to his knees under the table, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants like they were the only thing keeping him tethered. The grip was tight—too tight. The kind of white-knuckle pressure you knew from watching people try to anchor themselves to reality before something inside them cracked. His mouth tightened, clenched at one corner like he was physically holding something back. Words. Static. Rage. Fear. You couldn’t tell which. Maybe all of it.
The suits kept talking.
Kairos was still reciting PR nightmares like it was a weather report.
And Tenna was unraveling in real time right next to you.
Don’t wait. Your brain barked it before you could overthink it. Don’t let him drop here. Not in this room. Not in front of them. You shifted slightly in your seat, slow enough not to draw attention. The hem of the tablecloth grazed the top of your hand as you reached beneath it—careful, cautious—and found his arm where it rested against his thigh.
His forearm was tense, cables and synthetic tendons pulled taut beneath his coat sleeve. You slid your hand over it gently—steady, warm, grounding. No sudden movement. No demand. Just there. You pressed your palm down just enough for him to feel it.
And then, soft—just for him—you whispered: “Hey… you’re here. With me. Not them.”
There was a beat.
Then another.
Tenna’s mouth twitched—not open, not closed. Just… shifted. Like he was processing the words before his mind could reboot fast enough to shut them out. His antennae flicked, then slowly lowered—not limp, but calmer. Less signal lost. More signal stabilized.
His hand didn’t release the grip on his pant leg.
But it stopped tightening.
The hum in his screen softened—not gone, but muted now, like the volume had been turned down. You didn’t let go of his arm. Not yet. Not until he leaned into your touch just slightly—barely noticeable to anyone not watching for it.
But you were.
And then Kairos spoke again, this time louder, with that tired finality of someone wrapping up an unpleasant job.
“We’ll be monitoring the next few episodes closely. If there’s even a hint of instability on-air—emotional or otherwise—there will be consequences.”
She straightened her clipboard with a snap.
“The meeting is adjourned.”
The sound of chairs scraping against the floor rang too loud in the silence that followed. Styluses tapped off, tablets clicked shut. The suits moved in their usual rehearsed rhythm—brisk, indifferent, unaffected. A few tossed tired glances Tenna’s way, but no one lingered. No one said anything to him. Not even Kairos, who simply pivoted on one heel and strode toward the door with the grace of someone who had never once questioned her authority. Just another day at the network.
But Tenna didn’t move.
He stayed seated, hands still resting on his knees. His mouth had drawn into a thin, brittle line. One antenna sagged halfway down, like the energy had drained right out of it. His screen glowed with a dull white pulse—not dangerous, not angry… just empty. Faint interference ghosted along the edge of it, like the image wouldn’t quite finish rendering. He hadn’t looked at you since you touched his arm, but he hadn’t pulled away either.
You let the quiet stretch.
Let the suits walk out first. Let the echo of their footsteps fade behind the conference room doors.
Only then did you slide your chair a little closer, hand still resting on his sleeve. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away. His mouth twitched once—like he was trying to form a sentence and the wires just wouldn’t cooperate. His jaw flexed. His antennae slowly started to rise again, unsure, shaky.
“I didn’t lose it,” he muttered finally, voice rough. The sound of static barely touched the words, but you could hear the strain behind them. “I didn’t break. Not really.”
“No,” you said gently. “You didn’t.”
“I wanted to,” he added, quieter now. “I wanted to yell. Scream. Fry the table and walk out and tell Kairos she can stuff her clipboard through a CRT.” He inhaled, and his shoulders lifted sharply with it. “But I didn’t. I sat here. I let them talk to me like I’m not even—like I’m just some busted set piece they can wheel out and dress up and scream at when the ratings dip.”
You hesitated, then leaned in a little closer. “You’re more than that.”
He turned his head just slightly. Not enough to face you fully. But enough to let you know he was hearing it.
“You held it together,” you said. “That’s not nothing.”
Tenna finally let out a long breath—half-static, half-exhaustion. He peeled one hand off his leg slowly, the fabric of his pants creased where his fingers had clutched so hard you were surprised the stitching hadn’t snapped. He stared at his hand for a second, like he didn’t quite recognize it, then rubbed at the side of his screen where the edge flickered faintly, like a headache trying to bloom behind his face.
“I hate this room,” he muttered.
You glanced around. The cold lighting. The clinical table. The emptiness that always buzzed around the walls even when it was full of people.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Me too.”
He finally looked at you—his screen flickering to a faint, washed-out tone. No color. Just the suggestion of something trying to stabilize. His mouth softened—not quite a smile, but no longer pulled so tight. His antennae drooped toward you a little, a quiet motion of… trust, maybe. Or just relief.
You stood first, motioning subtly toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
He nodded, slow and deliberate. Didn’t say anything else as he rose, but when he moved to follow you out, his shoulder brushed against yours and didn’t pull away.
You didn’t need to fill the silence between the two of you.
Because this time, he wasn’t filling it either.
He was just walking beside you. Still lit. Still broadcasting.
Still here.
The hallway felt quieter after the conference room.
Not sterile like before—just… soft. Like the building was exhaling after holding its breath too long. No more shouting. No more accusations. Just the hum of distant machinery and the low shuffle of crew breaking down the last of the day’s sets. Your footsteps echoed beside Tenna’s as you made your way toward his dressing room, neither of you rushing, neither of you speaking. You kept a comfortable pace, close enough that your sleeve brushed his every few strides. He didn’t comment on it.
He didn’t pull away, either.
When you reached the door, he unlocked it with the familiar hiss of an old magnetic reader and pushed it open without fanfare. Inside, the space was as you remembered it—overly lit, lived-in, faintly cluttered with cue cards, old wardrobe notes, and a half-drunk cup of black coffee that had gone cold on the shelf. Tenna stepped inside like muscle memory, tossing his coat onto the side couch and immediately heading toward the small desk in the corner.
“Of course,” he muttered, antennae twitching in resignation, “they left me a pile of incident reports to review.”
You blinked. “Already?”
Tenna made a sharp static noise in the back of his throat—a noise you’d come to recognize as the mechanical equivalent of a bitter laugh. “Oh, they waste no time when they think I’ve embarrassed them.” He plucked a small stack of digital printouts from the desk and dropped into the swivel chair like he was collapsing into it. “Look at this. Eight pages. Eight. On how I may have agitated a potentially unstable contestant by existing too loudly on live television.”
He spun the chair halfheartedly, antennae drooping forward in exasperation. His mouth twisted—not angry, not sad. Just exhausted.
You stepped inside and leaned against the wall near the coat rack. “Need help?”
Tenna looked at you, screen flickering faintly.
Then, he shook his head. “Nah.” His voice lowered into something dry, familiar. “I’ve got this. Paper cuts and PR lies. I’m used to it.”
You nodded slowly. You could tell he meant it. He’d shifted back into function mode—not performing, exactly, but retreating into the safe rhythm of things he could control. You watched him reach for a stylus and begin scanning the first document with quick, deliberate flicks of his hand.
After a moment, he spoke again—quieter now. “You don’t have to stick around. Really. It’s boring from here on out.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. His screen glowed soft white again, blank. “You should take the rest of the day off. I know they didn’t assign you to babysit paperwork.”
There it was. The graceful exit. The dismissal that wasn’t unkind, just routine. Something he could say without having to admit anything.
You didn’t move.
Didn’t reach for the doorknob. Didn’t make an excuse.
Instead, you smiled—quietly—and stepped toward the little armchair near the far wall, dragging it just close enough that you could see the top of the report stack but not read any of it. You sat down, folding your hands in your lap. “I don’t mind boring.”
Tenna paused, stylus hovering mid-mark.
His antennae twitched once.
Then again.
His mouth didn’t smile. But it didn’t argue either.
He let out a soft, static-laced sigh, so faint it could’ve been mistaken for the white noise of the room’s old AC vent. “You’re strange,” he said, not unkindly. “Sticking around for the boring parts.”
“Maybe,” you said, watching the way his antennae finally settled, relaxed, no longer sharp with stress. “Or maybe I just know when someone shouldn’t be alone.”
He didn’t reply.
But he didn’t ask you to leave again.
For the next hour, the only sounds in the dressing room were the quiet hum of electronics, the occasional scribble of Tenna’s stylus on paper, and the soft shift of your breathing as you leaned back in the chair. He worked. You watched. You didn’t fill the silence with conversation. You didn’t reach for your phone. You didn’t feel the need to. He didn’t need a speech. Just a presence.
Eventually, he glanced your way—not a full turn, just the tilt of his head, a subtle shift in the direction of his screen. “Still not leaving?”
You met the glow of his screen with a calm look. “Nope.”
Tenna was quiet a long moment.
Then: “Good.”
And with that, he returned to his paperwork, the tension slowly unwinding from his frame with every page he signed, every breath he took.
You stayed until the lights dimmed and the office was quiet enough to hear the soft flick of his antennae with every subtle movement.
Not because you had to.
Because he let you.
Because he wanted you there.
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