Anyway shout-out to people who still enjoy Swatchton in 2025. And extra shout-out to people who ship Swatch/Spamton/Tenna all together; it's a criminally underrated ship considering it offers the best of Swatchton (fluff) and the best of Spamtenna (angst)
Do you think you could make more jaw dropping bargains art with tenna? If that’s ok
This is a doodle I’ve had in my head for a while and this was just the excuse I needed to sit down and draw it! As Swatch is an artist and builder, and Spamton has some degree of mechanic knowledge (plus is good at dumpster diving) the two of them end up working together to craft Tenna a new pair of arms! They’re mismatched but they’re made with love and he is beyond ecstatic to have arms back! (While they were able to replace the glass on his screen so he didn’t have his inners exposed, they weren’t able to get his screen actually functioning again so he’s still blind)
imagining a beautiful world where swatch and tasque manager are roommates or something and have a vaguely queerplatonic relationship . because they are wlw mlm solidarity
Chapter notes: Content warning for alcohol and mentioned sexual content.
Chapter summary: Seemingly shifting sands underfoot solidify into stronger pillars of support.
===================
“So.”
“S-So?”
“So. It’s just you, me, and the elephant in the room.”
Swatch took a bite of nacho, swallowed, and continued. “Shall we toss a coin to see who goes first?”
“Oh.” Spamton stuck a fork into one of the chicken fingers, dropped it onto his plate, and proceeded to cut it into tiny pieces. Eventually he looked up into Swatch’s eyes and said, “You m-m-mean about last night.”
“Indeed. You spent time with your siblings, and I was with Moggy.” Swatch looked directly back into Spamton’s eyes and repeated, with a particular emphasis, “I was with Moggy.” They were surprised to feel blood rushing away from their head as they said the words. Some part of their mind thought that they should have been blushing, instead.
And of course Spamton noticed; his eyes widened and his fork clattered out of his hand. “And that’s a b-b-bad thing?” he asked after a minute. “You seem - seem really c-c-conflicted.”
Swatch snorted. “You could say that. And I guess I’m going first, after all.”
“Only if - if you want to. I c-c-can talk about my night instead.”
“No, I should probably get this out of the way.” They picked up the tray of sliders, put two on their plate and slid the last one onto Spamton’s plate without touching it. Then they picked up their Bellini glass and looked into it, as though it held answers. Finally they sighed and said, “It felt like… I don’t know if this is the right way to say this, but anyway. It felt like the right thing for the wrong reasons? I liked it, but I was doing it more for Moggy than for me, and she definitely picked up on that.” They took a big sip and muttered, “It couldn’t have been more obvious that she regretted it.”
“Huh.”
“Indeed.”
Spamton picked up his fork again, ate a few bites of chicken, and had a sip of his own Bellini. He seemed to be carefully pondering what to say next. What came out was, “Have you t-talked to her at all today?”
“Nope. I was too much of a coward.”
“Huh.”
Swatch felt their lips firmly curving downwards into an involuntary grimace. They didn’t want to sour the night, but there was no way they were going to keep anything from their partner. “I know I’m going to have to talk to Moggy about this, but I was kind of hoping you’d be around for a talk like that. If I had had half a brain, the three of us should have talked this out before it came to this.”
They lowered their head and devoted their attention to their food. Spamton did the same with his slider and nachos. Almost ten minutes went by before a text ping from Swatch’s cellphone broke the silence.
“Speak of the devil herself. Do you mind if I check this?”
“G-Go right ahead.”
Swatchpulled out the phone and swiped to get their message. After reading it, they squinched their eyes shut and pushed the phone across the table so Spamton could see the one line “my new place” and the attached photos. They answered Spamton’s questioning look by answering, “T.M. has lost her marbles. She’s about to move into a broom closet.”
“She WHAT.”
“She went and rented an apartment. Not even an apartment, a bloody studio. It’s smaller than our dining room.”
They both looked at each other, trying to let this sink in. Finally Spamton said, “Um, n-not for me to - to judge, b-but that seems like she’s trying to run away from us.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I think we three really n-need to talk. In person. Fast. Like n-no later than t-tomorrow.”
Swatch leaned over and kissed the top of Spamton’s head. “You’re a smart fella.”
“That’s what they c-call me. M-M-Mister Smartfella.”
Spamton was not being very subtle about keeping an eye on the decreasing level of the Bellini pitcher. He’d matched Swatch drink for drink, and there was maybe enough left for each of them to have three-quarters of a glass.
Swatch was enjoying having someone reining in what had been an unusual impulse for them. They were waiting to feel the effects of the alcohol; they had a sense of all-over physical relaxation, but that could have been the food and the company as well. But their mind still seemed clear, and they didn’t think they were slurring their speech.
They couldn’t tell how affected Spamton was. He’d mentioned blaming sangria for something that happened last night, but had he consumed more alcohol last night than he had tonight, or was it just that the Bellinis were weaker?
Hmmm. Maybe Swatch WAS starting to feel a bit tipsy, since they were starting to get more hyperfocused on petty details.
Two nachos remained; the sliders and chicken fingers were long gone. Spamton seemed to know what Swatch was thinking, because he scraped one onto his own plate, the other onto Swatch’s, and then split the rest of the drinks between their two glasses. “Bon appetit," he said in an exaggerated accent.
“Tres bon, tres bon,” Swatch replied.
A thought was starting to form in their mind as they finished eating.
“Is that bathroom as private as this lounge is?” They waved their hand towards the door Metthias had pointed out.
Spamton almost looked alarmed at the question, which gave Swatch the answer they’d been expecting. He asked a question in return, “Are you asking m-me what I - I think you’re asking?”
“Yes, if you are asking whether I want to ravish your lovely body. More accurately, I’m asking if you want to ravish me.”
“Is - is that the Bellinis t-talking?”
“No. This is what I want. I want you. Here. Now.”
Swatch twirled the ridiculously ornate bathroom key on the end of one finger. “You yourself said that sometime in the last few years, this place changed from a corporate hangout to something queer-friendly. No one’s going to even notice.”
They stood up, saying more quietly, “Knock five times, and I’ll knock back twice.”
They heard Spamton make a comment about “Shave and a haircut” when they were already halfway across the floor. They looked back quickly, just in time to see Spamton pull out some twenties from his wallet, and two more.
That apparently caught Metthias’ eye, and the dark-haired waiter hurried over. Without even letting Spamton speak, he plucked the bills from Spamton’s hand. Swatch imagined Metthias was saying something like, “Go catch up with that big beauty, sweet thing. I’ll make sure no one takes your table”, and they grinned as they turned the key in the door handle.
Ten minutes later, in probably THE fanciest bathroom outside a private home that either of them had ever seen, Swatch found themself lying flat on a padded bench with their chambray shirt pulled out of their jeans and completely unbuttoned, Spamton kneeling above them and pinning both of Swatch’s hands above their head.
On the subway ride home, Swatch listened while Spamton haltingly outlined his siblings' plan for him to split the summer between them. "If I hate it, I c-c-can crash with you, right? Wherever you end up living when - when you start work in June."
"You most certainly can, my dear. Or maybe Ratfink Freddie will let you move back into Overlook early." By hook or by crook, Catechu had managed to get Spamton added back as his and Indigo's roommate for the upcoming Fall semester.
"That c-c-could work."
Back at Tibbetts Avenue, Swatch made a point of drinking almost a liter of seltzer as they were looking over what they’d need for classes tomorrow, and they put a full glass of seltzer on Spamton’s night table by his side of the bed.
They didn’t think they were going to have a hangover tomorrow, but they didn’t want to risk it after their first actual drinking experience.
They could faintly hear music from upstairs, where Spamton was showering… something jazzy. Swatch nipped into the downstairs bathroom, stripped and threw their clothes into the hamper. They gave themself a quick sponge bath and ran some dry shampoo through their hair with their fingers. Good enough for tonight, but tomorrow better be wash day.
Swatch would miss a lot of things about this house… the way everything in it seemed to be suited for one short person and one tall person to live in harmony.
Could they find someplace like it elsewhere?
And if so, could they make it into a place for three people, equally comfortably? Swatch remembered the text exchange before Easter, about one enormous bed…
They went back to the bedroom and had just finished pulling on clean sweatpants when Spamton came in, one towel wrapped around his head, another one wrapped around his waist. The lower towel was almost big enough to use as a toga. He took off the head towel first, tousling his hair, and then pulled out a t-shirt and boxers from the dresser drawer before dropping the other towel.
Such a difference from the modest fellow who used to change into full pajamas somewhere out of sight!
Swatch, smirking to themself, lay back on the bed and spread their arms out wide, and Spamton clambered up to lie next to them.
A drop of water ran down Swatch’s shoulder, from Spamton’s still-damp hair. “I’m g-g-getting your chest all wet,” their partner murmured apologetically.
Swatch laughed at that, shivering overdramatically, and hugged Spamton tight. “Like you didn’t get me all wet at the bar? With that delicious tongue of yours?”
Despite the locked bathroom door at The Cathode Ray, neither of them had felt comfortable enough in such a public place to do anything more than a prolonged makeout session. Both pairs of jeans had stayed firmly and regrettably on.
“Hey, you know what I m-mean,” Spamton protested. “And I’m t-too tired to do anything except - except lie here.”
“Sounds good to me. Come under the covers, though.”
“You d-don’t need to ask me twice.”
Suiting action to words, they both wrapped themselves in sheets and blankets and huddled closer. As nice as the evening temperatures had been downtown, now that night had fallen it was chilly with the window open a crack. A few weeks ago, Swatch had figured out how to pull down the screens that had been slid between the old-fashioned wooden frames with the double glazing. They’d come to appreciate over the winter how much the thicker glass cut down on street noise; there was a difference now in both air and sound quality in full-blown springtime.
I wonder what this house is like in the summertime. Or a house like this.
They decided to shelve that thought for a later time, and asked Spamton a different question. “So, successful date night? I’d give it two thumbs up.”
Swatch could feel Spamton’s smile against their bare arm. “D-definitely better than our first - our first date. Although there were a f-f-few similarities.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Like visiting m-m-my old stomping grounds and laying old ghosts t-to rest.”
“Huh. You’re right.”
“Thank God we d-d-didn’t have a staircase incident, though.”
“Amen to that.”
Spamton kissed Swatch’s shoulder. “I m-m-meant what I said back there, though. About talking m-more about your mom and your grandmother. T-Talking more about how and - and where you grew up. I’m n-not the only one who’s got ghosts to d-d-defeat. I want to hear your stories.”
Swatch felt a warmth in their chest that had nothing and everything to do with the man curled up in their arms. “You’ve got a deal,” they replied.
T.M. found herself grateful that she didn’t have to make the first move in setting up a time and place for her to meet up with the other two. She’d felt cowardly enough when she had sent the photos of her new studio apartment to Swatch and had worried when she hadn’t gotten an immediate reply. She’d been sure that they’d be avoiding her for a few days at least. And she had no idea how Spamton would feel, no matter what Swatch might have said to him, before or after she’d jumped Swatch.
But first Spamton had texted her this morning, and then Swatch had called her in the afternoon when they knew she’d be between classes, and both had asked her to come over tonight. Swatch had even said, “I can hear your self-blame from a mile away, Moggy. And there’s no reason for it.”
God, talk about reading me like a book!, T.M. had thought to herself. She’d laughed and answered that she’d be there.
Now the three of them were seated at the kitchen table at the townhouse, splitting several chicken-and avocado-on takeout entrees - chicken and avocado on flatbread - from Tin Marin. Because she’d committed herself to staying overnight at their place, T.M. had indulged herself in a six-pack of Presidente. Swatch had their usual flavored seltzers stockpiled in the fridge, and Spamton had a bottle of port wine in front of him, although he was still only on his second glass.
T.M. made a mental note to ask Swatch later about Swatch relaxing their personal rules about alcohol in the house. But for now she needed to pay attention to the matter currently under discussion.
Namely, living arrangements.
Spamton got the ball rolling. “Your n-new place looks - uh, c-cozy.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Don’t mince words, Short Stuff. You can say it’s tiny. I know it’s tiny. But the price is right, the neighborhood is right. I can move in anytime after the first of May. GiGi’s already moved in with Leroux, so there’s not much keeping me on campus between now and graduation.”
Too late, she realized how that sounded… as if Swatch and Spamton weren’t good enough reasons to stay around for.
Her bestie, however, swooped in before she could stick her foot further into her mouth. Cutting to the chase in time-honored Swatch fashion, they asked, “Does the timing of this have anything to do with Tuesday night?”
Damn. Busted.
Deciding it was better to tell the truth, she said, “Well, yes and no. I did really have appointments to see apartments this week… Desiree set those up. But I might have moved a leeeeeeetle bit quickly on grabbing one of them because I didn’t want to deal with you. Okay, let’s be honest. I didn’t want to have to deal with either of you.”
T.M. knew Swatch well enough to see, from the momentary way they stiffened up, that they were trying not to feel hurt. They disguised it well, but her heart sank a bit.
And Spamton’s next question didn’t help.
“D-d-did you think I’d condemn you? F-for spending a n-night with Swatch?”
She had to give that one a few minutes to sink in before she answered.
"If the shoe were on the other foot? Yeah, probably. Like if you'd jumped into bed with… I dunno, Catechu maybe? Or GiGi? Anyway, you jumping into bed with someone else without talking to me first. I mean, there’s no exact parallel—"
"Oh, Trez."
T.M. forged ahead. "I don't even know what you and I have, Spamton. Sure, I know what you and Swatch have. But I don't know where I fit in, other than being everyone's good time girl—"
"You were never that–"
"Oh, Moggy…"
Now all three of them were talking at once.
But the sentence that came out clearest was T.M.'s, after everyone else finished their protests.
"Can I move in here? With both of you two? At least for the rest of the semester?"
Swatch’s jaw actually snapped shut at hearing that.
She’d surprised herself with the request, but suddenly it felt like the most right thing she’d said or thought in ages. She kept gong. “Because I am excited about the new place, but I also am scared shitless of what it’s gonna mean when I can’t see either of you every day.”
Her bestie got up from their end of the table, walked to where she was tearing pieces of flatbread into shreds with her fingers, and pulled her into a standing, wordless hug.
"D-Did you think we’d try to t-t-t-talk you out of it?” was Spamton’s reply. “The new apartment, I m-mean.”
T.M. leaned forward so that she could rest her head on Swatch’s chest. “Kinda,” she muttered.
“Well, don’t. And I c-can’t speak f-for Swatch, but I’ve been wanting you to m-move in with us for a hell of a long t-time.”
Spamton got up and wrapped himself against her back, saying, “So. You’re staying here t-t-tonight. That’s a start. Right, Swatch?”
“Indeed,” Swatch’s voice was a rumble, since they had ducked their chin to rest on top of her head.
And somehow everything was alright again.
While the three of them finished eating, T.M. laid out plans for what she’d need from storage in Queens, versus what she planned to thrift in her new neighborhood. Spamton actually had some recommendations, based on what he called “local knowledge from a bygone time”, doing his best Robert Carlyle imitation.
Swatch commented that they had checked with the HR department at Addison Cybernetics and, apparently, they would cover either a short-term rental or an extended-stay hotel for the first thirty days of Swatch’s internship, if their aunt Desiree couldn’t network something in Westchester County. They looked meaningfully at Spamton while they were talking, but T.M. didn’t feel like following that yarn trail tonight.
The rest of the evening went by in a pleasant haze of beer, wine, couch cuddles, and Brendan Fraser, seasoned with delicious sprinkles of Oded Fehr, as the three of them watched the first two MUMMY movies.
When it was time to call it a night, T.M. headed upstairs to the Eyrie, where Swatch had put her overnight bag. She’d half-expected Spamton to follow her, but it wasn’t until almost an hour after she’d crawled into bed that she heard a knock on the half-closed door.
“C’mon in, Short Stuff.”
She moved over and patted the covers next to her, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. He took her hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. With an effort, she waited for him to speak first, because he looked like he had a lot on his mind, even after the strides they’d all made in regaining their usual ease with each other.
Finally Spamton said, “I n-never wanted you to ever f-feel like you were ‘lesser’ to me than what I f-feel for Swatch. If I have, then I’m so, so sorry.”
That was something T.M. had been feeling for a long time, and she said so now. “But how do we fix this? Especially this late in the semester.”
He made a thoughtful noise before answering. “Well, something I - I realized that may be p-p-part of the problem is that you and I haven’t g-g-gone out on a date. We spend a lot of t-time together, but we haven’t d-done the usual couple things.”
“Hey, you might have a point. And I’m sorry, too, if I ever made YOU feel that I only wanted you around for sex.”
“You never d-did.”
“Good.”
Spamton shifted his sitting position, and T.M. felt a new wave of fondness. “C’mere,” she said as she pulled the blankets out from under his butt. “Stay with me tonight.”
She was rewarded with a smile and the words, “Thought you’d - you’d n-never ask.”
When he’d settled in the crook of her arm and put his hand on her hip in his usual way, he asked, “So where would you like to g-go on our date?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Is - is that okay?”
“Hell yeah that’s okay! I usually get told, not asked.”
“Huh.”
“Let me think about it, hon. I’m really, really tired. But thank you.” She kissed his forehead and closed her eyes, feeling better than she had for weeks. It wasn’t too long until they both fell asleep.
Whoopsies 😬 Considering Tenna can’t see, and Spamton can’t speak, the identity of his “little buddy” was conveniently not worth the effort it would take to explain. Spamton was sorta enjoying being this just unknown Good Samaritan, oopsies!
One is mute, and the other is blind, neither is having a very good time. My fic may be abandoned but that doesn’t mean I can’t play with the concept still haha!
Bonus doodle under the cut
Now Swatch has TWO garbage boys sleeping on their couch
Chapter title: Interface Screw - Afternoon Into Night, Part One
Chapter summary: "Some dance to remember, some dance to forget." Isn't that how the song goes?
Our dancers and their loved ones have a lot to go through before this day is over.
Author notes:
SIGNIFICANT contributions towards plot and dialogue made by beta-reader @jaimistoryteller Read their stuff!
Some Hometown folks making their first appearance in this fic. Wave hello to Undyne and Napstablook, everyone!
Content warnings are the same as have been for the last few chapters [stalkerish behavior, implied harm/danger to a child]. We're in murky waters here despite the brightness of the day.
===================
9:47PM, April 9th
"Hey, Dynah?"
"Yeah, Blooky?"
“Why were we given this assignment, anyway?” Detective Knapp grumbled. “We aren't the Health Department."
"Because Chief Flowers asked us to. He gets a little… dogged… when we get any kind of investigation having to do with a college. Since his oldest kid… you know.” Detective Unwin momentarily took one hand off the steering wheel to make a vague wave in the air.
One could almost hear the puzzle pieces snapping into place in Knapp’s mind. "Yeah,” they sighed, understanding clear in their eyes as Unwin snuck a quick look at them. “That makes sense. What's he expecting us to find here?"
"Eh,” Unwin shrugged, returning her attention to the road and marking off the mileage until the expected time of arrival at the hospital. “Could be anything. Petty stuff would be that somebody was selling food without a license. Let's hope we don't need to get into serious stuff."
"Cheers to that," said Knapp. "Anyway, it gets us out of the office."
Unwin showed all her sharp teeth to her patrol partner as she replied, "Let's hope for no incidents and no paperwork."
2:30AM, April 10th
There ended up being a LOT of paperwork.
12:30PM, April 9th
Kirov leaned against the empty table as he glanced at the time again, his foot tapped rapidly against the ground. Half-past noon. Umar Benton should have been here already with their supplies. They should have been all set up ages ago.
The longer he had to think about his encounter with Stanton a few hours ago, the more time he had to doubt himself. Even up to last night… no, even when he had woken up this morning… he’d had a plan, a goal.
But was it the right thing to do?
He had been so certain that the three of them… Stanton, the bartender, and the blonde… had been taunting him that night at Plato’s. That they looked down on him.
And when he’d gone over to listen to the music a little while ago, to kill time while waiting for his tardy roommate, the songs seemed to mock him.
Yet with how kind Stanton was at all other times.. maybe Kirov had been mistaken?
He hated second-guessing himself. It made him feel like his brain was full of bees.
Huffing, he finally caught sight of Umar and waved at him to draw his attention.
His stocky roommate was pulling a wagon behind him loaded up with everything for the table. A cooler full of ice, a plastic punchbowl, some smaller bowls where people could drop their monetary donations, a ladle, disposable cups, thirty-six half-pint mason jars thankfully wrapped with brown paper to keep them from breaking against each other, and a large box with a dozen two-liter bottles of kvass with corrugated dividers holding the bottles steady .
At least none of the jars are broken , he thought as he straightened up and pasted a fake smile on his face. For that, he could be grateful, even if he was frustrated from having to wait so long.
“Sorry I’m late,” Umar panted, wiping the sweat and drizzle from his brown forehead with an even browner hand.
“Not to worry, friend,” Kirov replied, mentally gritting his teeth. “We still have plenty of time!”
He propped a sign that read KVASS AND KOMPOT FOR UKRAINE against the front-side of the punchbowl. Then he set up the cups and wrote the word “donations” in curly print on the donation bowls, for all to see.
Beside him, Umar carefully set a few of the jars on the table, closer to the middle, so there was little risk of them getting knocked over and broken. At Kirov’s direction, he put some of the kvass bottles on ice in the cooler and rolled the wagon behind the table to be out of the way.
The vendor in the booth across from them glanced between the overcast sky and their table. Squinting, the vendor took notice of their sign and commented, “Yes, take your time. Ain’t like it’s better spent.”
Kirov bit back a sigh as he also looked at the sky that was threatening rain again. Today wasn’t going how he wanted. Hopefully that wasn’t a sign he needed to pay attention to.
He wanted to be as sure now as he’d been last night. He hated this feeling of uncertainty.
The first two jars of kompot were poured into the punchbowl. Kirov tried to keep smiling, but it was getting more difficult by the minute.
1:10PM, April 9th
As the three of them finished lunch, Spamton knew that he hadn’t fooled Swatch.
His beautiful, clever lover had watched him don The Suit this morning, with no more reaction than a raised eyebrow. Spamton had almost hoped that Swatch would ask him why he was wearing it today.
He was wearing it to expiate his sins. As a way to atone.
Instead of bilking people out of money for a smart home system that didn’t work, targeting the elderly for something they didn’t need and couldn’t afford, he was raising money to help people escape from horrors.
He needed to be able to look at The Suit and not think of Mike. To create new memories tied to it. Positive ones. Hopeful ones.
He needed to channel whatever positive energy there had EVER been in being a Big Shot, and use that energy to get people to feel like they could actually make a difference in the world.
Which is why, when he had run into Kirov Rouvin at the coffee stall in the morning, he had felt compelled to return the younger man’s cheerful greeting and to praise him when he heard that Kirov had a vendor booth at the Festival. It had been good to see Kirov finding a purpose, a cause to get behind. Perhaps even help him find his place in life.
If Trez had been with him then, Spamton didn’t doubt that she’d have made a not-too-subtle face when Kirov insisted on paying for the three coffees, including the one for Swatch.
He didn’t doubt that Swatch, and Trez as well for that matter, were right to be suspicious. He had surprised himself by going on the offensive with his song selections when he had noticed Kirov hovering at the edges of the dance floor earlier.
Hopefully the message had been taken. He really wanted to just enjoy today, and tonight, with his lovers.
But for now, he had another set of records to spin.
1:40PM, April 9th
T.M. knew exactly how she wanted to kill the next couple of hours, and had no trouble convincing Swatch to join her. The coast was clear at her dorm suite, since Her Majesty and Mister Wormyhead were committed to the 2pm dance session.
How many more opportunities was she going to get to just cuddle with her bestie, neither of them needing to talk? Graduation would be upon them both in a matter of weeks.
So she set her phone alarm for 3:15pm as Swatch stretched out on her bed. She lay down and curled herself into their arms.
If some tears leaked from her eyes and soaked into the shoulder of their shirt, as she fell asleep, Swatch was too much of a gentleman to tell her.
2:01PM, April 9th
Back in his booth, Spamton was pleasantly surprised at the turnout for the Medieval, Baroque, Georgian & Regency Dance hour. He’d expected maybe ten people to show up. He did a quick head count of thirty, as Leroux did the top-of-the-hour intro. Spamton regretted that he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to borrow some kind of Shakespearean costume from the theater department, the way most of the dancers probably had. It looked like the casts of THE TUDORS and BRIDGERTON were having a “take no prisoners” dance-off.
Oh, well. He could pretend he was a time traveler who’d gone back too far.
He kept his hands busy segueing between two different albums of Scottish jigs and reels that Eos had lent him, before switching in Handel’s Water Music and the Istanpitta recordings, to keep everyone guessing.
The group on the dance floor definitely having the most fun, though, were Leroux, GiGi, and Leroux's son Lance. Leroux was in his element, guiding the steps of the other two through the movements, making their own little circle. Several of the other couples and groups around them were audibly cheering them on. The little boy was grinning wider and laughing harder with every new song that Spamton queued up.
Lance could have been a doppelganger of himself, a young’un who just HAD to respond to music by kicking up his heels and throwing his whole soul into it.
Spamton prayed under his breath, if there WAS a Heaven listening, that this particular little boy would never have his joy stifled by anyone.
In terms of sheer professional satisfaction, this was going to be a hard music set to beat. But Spamton had his own reasons to be looking forward to the Pajama Party set he was planning for later in the afternoon.
2:40PM, April 9th
“‘Tis a pity I could not arrangeth something more formal,” Leroux said in an apologetic tone when he was near enough to be heard. “Country dancing doth hold a special place in my heart.”
GiGi looked into his face as he passed in front of her and then to the side. She noticed the sparkle in his eyes, and she felt a rush of warmth shoot up her spine. She had Lance’s hands clasped in both of hers, while she tried to keep up with the kick-step jig that the boy was making up as he went along. Leroux, in his turn, was doing some very fancy and stylized footwork, making a circle of his own around GiGi’s and Lance’s two-person circle.
“This is so much fun!” She heard different versions of that from nearly every side of the pavilion that their threesome’s dance steps took them. She hadn’t noticed all the people gathering to watch the dancers, but this WAS a festival, after all. And even if the weather wasn’t the greatest, Garlic Park usually had a crowd of fresh-air fanatics and health nuts strolling its paths on Saturdays.
Either way, she couldn’t imagine being happier than she was at this moment.
Well, maybe she COULD, but she highly doubted she was getting a proposal today. No need to take the spotlight away from Leroux’s son.
The last notes of what the strange robotic DJ had called “Party Mix 1350 CE” faded out, and there was a loud burst of applause from dancers and spectators alike.
GiGi squeezed Lance’s hands affectionately and then leaned down to give him a hug. She asked, “Are You Having A Good Birthday, Little Man?”
“The best, girldad!” He then wiggled out of her grasp, letting Leroux pick him up and swoop him through the air like a chubby little airplane.
It was nearing three o’clock. A delicious smell of grilled chicken wafted through the air.
“Who would like to taketh a stroll with me and purchase some kebabs?” Leroux asked, with his arms full of wiggly child.
“Oh, boy, I would!” Lance shouted happily. “Can we?”
“May We, You Mean?” GiGi interjected before her brain caught up with her mouth, and she winced. It wasn’t her place… yet… to correct Leroux’s son’s grammar.
Fortunately, her boyfriend didn’t seem to mind, as he replied for both himself and his little boy, “Yes, we both can and may.” He shifted Lance to a one-armed carry and extended the other arm to GiGi. “Let’s!”
She moved to wrap her own arm around his waist as they walked towards the food stalls.
5PM, April 9th
It was gone.
He couldn’t find the jar he had fully intended earlier that day to set aside and dump into a Port-a-Potty, rather than to use as an instrument of revenge.
Now he couldn’t believe what Umar had just told him.
“You what!” Kirov snarled as he lost all semblance of patience. He must have misheard. That had to be it. There was no way that he heard right. He should have taken the weather as a sign. Today had definitely gone wrong. “Oxuš ällarg oruš kariyna,” he muttered under his breath, a phrase he hadn’t heard in years but was completely fitting for the situation at hand.
“I didn’t know!” Umar’s eyes were wide with panic. “I thought they were supposed to be mixed together!” One brown hand waved at the now-empty jars. “There were only two jars left, and one of them just said ‘berry’, and you were adding all kinds of other berries last night.” He was breathless as he rapidly explained it. “And since it looked like you were running out, I thought this would help things go a little further. At least people seem to like it, there’s barely any kompot left, just kvass .”
No, no, no. Kirov chanted the words to himself like a litany.
Chest tightening, each breath more labored than the previous as he considered the implications. If Umar had poured the whole jar of "special juice" into the punchbowl when he refilled it…
His eyes darted around the area, over the gathering, pausing on those that he knew had stopped at their booth.
That meant…
Forcing himself to take a calming breath, he tried to figure out how to fix this. There had to be a way. He just had to think it through. Quickly. He wrestled his expression away from the fury and panic, into something a bit more amused and pleasant. Some would even call it playful, if not for the edge to it.
“Ah, well, what’s done is done, friend!” He chuckled dryly, even almost sounded normal. “No one has asked for their donation back, so they must have liked the taste, no?”
He hoped no one noticed his prior outburst. That would be a real problem later, when it came out that there had been food tampering, if they’d heard his tone. With so many people having drunk the kompot now, instead of the three for which the fellonwort juice had been intended, there’s no way the poisoning wouldn’t be investigated. He had to make sure that the suspicion didn't fall on him.
Umar gave a relieved smile. “If the reaction of the last group is anything to go by, they loved it!” He nodded excitedly, “They even came back and bought a couple more glasses to bring to one of the DJs!”
To one of the DJs? To Stanton? Now that I’d made up my mind to call the whole thing off? Universe, why do you hate me?.
He mused for a few more , working on coming up with a plan. I’d better do something.
Kirov chuckled again, struck by a dangerous idea. It should keep him free of suspicion. “That’s good!” He exclaimed as he reached for a cup, “And I am going to claim the privilege of the last glass!”
He could only hope that the fellonwort mixed in was diluted enough as he suited action to words, ladled the dregs of the kompot, and downed it in one go. It was surprisingly sweet, even as his nerves caused a bitter aftertaste.
“Please take one of the kvass bottles for yourself!” He smiled and motioned to the cooler with its melting ice. “We have raised much in donations!”
4PM, April 9th
Hard to believe that the accident ending their basketball career had been five months ago. Swatch felt as limber and loose on the dance floor as they ever had doing a full-court press or a banana cut against an opposing team. The impact on their ankles and knees wasn’t nearly as ferocious, for starters.
Their nap with Moggy had definitely recharged their batteries. And their current outfit certainly added to the mobility and freedom they felt. It was a pajama party, after all.
Swatch had donned their Christmas onesie, decorated with candy canes and holly leaves, for this timeslot. Moggy wore her double-zero football jersey nightgown.
Both of them sensibly wore sneakers instead of slippers. There was only so far either of them wanted to go along with the theme, and for this session, “DJ Dreamweaver” seemed to be pulling out all the stops. No need to break yet another leg by sliding dangerously on a slick floor.
Moggy and Swatch had skipped across the dance floor towards each other as the opening drumbeats, hand-claps, and guitar chords of “Dancing With Myself” rang out. The energy didn’t show any signs of letting up with any of the next few tunes.
And then Spamton, sly devil that he was, faded out “Into The Groove” and faded in “All Night”. Swatch couldn’t see it, but they didn’t doubt that their boyfriend was smirking behind that ridiculous helmet. That particular Parov Stelar song HAD to be the equivalent of a thrown-down gauntlet.
Oh, it was ON! Challenge accepted. They grinned and rolled their shoulders.
If Spamton wanted a bird-of-paradise courtship display, Spamton was going to GET a bird-of-paradise courtship display.
“You might want to back up, Moggy,” they warned in a gentle tone.
The grin on T.M.’s face widened, and she asked as she moved out of wingspan range, “Gonna bust some Sven Otten moves?”
“Damn straight.” They agreed, their smile turned nearly manic.
Praying that their knee wouldn’t pop back out, Swatch waggled their hips and built up their footwork from a slow swaying to a faster crossed-ankle tap dancing style, their arms alternately held close to their body and fully splayed out.
Thank goodness this song was only two and a half minutes long.
And there were still more than thirty minutes of this set to get through.
They were definitely going to need to rehydrate when this was all over.
As if Spamton had read Swatch’s mind from across the dance floor, the next song that flowed off the turntables was “Red Rain”. A slower tempo, which was most welcome.
T.M. reached out a hand to Swatch to pull them back into the new rhythm, but there was a slight frown on her face.
They asked, “Anything the matter?” when the steps brought them close enough to hear each other.
“Kinda a grim song to play at a fundraiser for peace,” she replied.
They considered it, then asked, “You think he’s doing the ‘secret code’ thing again?”
She shook her head, “Nah. Probably just liked the percussion. But he’s definitely acting weird today.”
“Glad you noticed, and that it’s not just me.”
The two spun away from one another in their impromptu foxtrot. When they faced one another again, Swatch said. “I’ve got an idea as to why, but I want to talk to him before I jump to conclusions.”
“Uh huh. It’s almost like he’s high or something.”
The whispered words of one song segued into the jazzy opening bars of “Safe and Sound”, and Swatch and T.M. concentrated on picking up the pace.
Solving the mystery would have to wait until after this set. This was Spamton’s last obligation for the day, and then the three of them could go back to Tibbetts Avenue and unwind with a movie.
After getting something to drink. Replacing fluids after all this exercise was a priority.
10:02PM, April 9th
T.M. sat on the hard plastic chair in the waiting room next to GiGi. She had no idea how long the two of them had been holding hands.
How had this wonderful day turned into such a disastrous one?
11:12PM, April 9th
Pain radiated from his stomach outward. Muscles tightened and cramped. No matter how much water he drank, he couldn’t rid himself of the thirst that built up. When it got to be too much to handle, he had joined the others at the hospital, where a triage center had been set up for those who were suffering from "food poisoning".
It was there, in the examination room he’d finally been shown to, that he was confronted by the severity of the situation. Why hadn’t he made certain the poison was not able to be added? Why hadn’t he thought this through better? He should have gotten rid of the berries and their juice as soon as he started having doubts.
“I know why you did it,” a friendly voice stated, drawing him from his pain-filled musing and reminding him that he was no longer alone in the room. And why.
“I did something like it in grammar school when I was a Girl Scout. I was jealous over some other girl’s badges…” She paused, sliding her chair closer to the gurney he was lying on, until he met her gaze. “Seemed like all she had to do was breathe, and she’d get a new Scout badge. So one afternoon on a Scout camping weekend, I picked some berries and did a switcheroo with the troop leaders' berry stash when we were all making our ‘wilderness survival’ dinner.”
Swallowing harshly, he listened to the plainclothes detective who was speaking quietly and thoughtfully. Keen eyes watched him as she spoke, observing each of his reactions. She sported an aquamarine mohawk with shaved sides and a black eye patch studded with silver rivets, which set off her sharp cheekbones and predator-toothy smile.
If Kirov had not been feeling so ill, he would have been attracted to her despite her gender.
As it was, the terror of discovery made the rolling in his stomach so much worse.
That was before considering the horror he felt when he discovered that at least one child had accidentally gotten the fellonwort mixture. He had never wanted to hurt someone innocent. Only those he thought were being cruel to him. Each moment of the last several days flashed through his mind. Every choice. Each fork in the road that led to this moment. All the thoughts and feelings that prompted and drove him.
It took every ounce of control to keep the bile down as Detective Unwin’s next words confirmed his fear. “Smart of you to poison yourself. That’s what I did, too, to avoid suspicion.”
Suddenly light-headed, he couldn’t tell if he was relieved that the detective knew or terrified that she knew. Now what was going to happen?
