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sylphidine · 1 year

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[Fic] Call Signs, Chapter 27

Yup, for real this time.

Fandom: Deltarune

‘Verse: Human AU

Pairing: Swatch/Spamton [Swatchton]

Characters: Spamton Addison, Swatch Paletta

Rating: Mature

Chapter title: The Wrong Way On The Escalator

Chapter summary: Spamton borrows trouble.

Author notes:

I've rewritten this chapter six times. Hopefully this version will be worth the wait, dear readers. Kudos and comments definitely welcome, since I've second-guessed myself on the flow of this tale for months.

Content warning for alcohol mention.

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The host and the guest sat in matching leather wingback chairs flanking a fireplace, brandy glasses in hand, listening as sleet hit the windows. The guest sat ramrod stiff, while the host’s foot tapped the floor in agitation.

The words burst out of the host’s mouth, without a trace of his usual stutter.

“Why did I do it? Why did I just walk out? How are they going to react when I say, ‘So sorry, Swatch, I couldn’t handle your good news and decided to go out on the town with an old drinking buddy, and we ended up in bed together along with my drinking buddy’s ex. Such a pity you couldn’t join us.’ That’s going to go over really, really well. Swatch is going to think I'm the worst kind of idiot."

T.M. glared at Spamton, her face hard, her eyes cold behind diamond-shaped eyeglasses, one lens plum, one turquoise. "You're right about being thought an idiot, but not for the reasons you think. Wake up, little worm."

Her response stopped his babble in its tracks and shocked him into silence. That phrase - "little worm” - had always been Mike’s most overused insult for him.

It wasn't Mike saying such horrible things, though. It was T.M., his friend, someone who was as dear to him as… well, anyone. Why was she being so cruel?

She raised her now-empty hand, and sickly green tendrils shot out from her fingers across the room towards him.

His mouth opened and closed, but he couldn't make a sound no matter how hard he tried.

He could still move, though. He wouldn't become a puppet again. Not for T.M., not for Mike.

Not for…

Not for anyone.

He launched himself at her, striking at her wildly, trying to shake off the strings even as she repeated, "Wake up. Wake up. Wake—"

“--- Wake up, Spamton. Wake up, please. Please, my dear.”

It was the “my dear” that pulled Spamton out of the dream and stopped him flailing his arms. He heard a ragged edge in Swatch’s voice that made it sound as though they had been trying to rouse him for longer than a few minutes. His heart continued to pound, but gradually he recognized that he was awake, he was in his and Swatch’s bed, and that he was safe.

For the moment, anyway.

Swatch was propped up on one elbow and leaning over him, their hand extended as though to shake him. Spamton shifted away from them so he could roll over onto his back. He muttered in his own sleep-roughened voice, “It was j-j-j-just a dream. Just a bad dream. J-just like all - all the others I have.”

Spamton meant his words to be reassuring, but Swatch's worried look didn't lessen in the least. "This one seemed worse than most," they replied. "You don't usually sock me in the jaw when you're dreaming."

That woke Spamton up completely. "Oh my god, I did? I'm s-s-so sorry!" He sat up and gently rubbed his face against his partner's. "I didn't - didn't mean to."

"Hmmmmph. Are you sure about that? Considering how you snuck out of the house and were gone for hours, I'm pretty sure you're still upset about what we talked about over dinner."

So much for Spamton thinking his absence had gone unnoticed. Sometimes Swatch's keen skills of observation were endearing. Other times they were downright annoying. Like now.

Spamton's indecision as to how to answer them must have shown on his face, because Swatch's expression changed from worried to knowing. They confirmed it by adding, "I'm right, aren't I?"

There was a smile in their voice, with a silent undercurrent of understanding and forgiveness. Spamton couldn't stay annoyed.

"Yes, you're right," he admitted. "But I wasn't slugging - slugging YOU in m-m-m-my dream. I was slugging T.M.”

At that, Swatch let out a half laugh, half snort, lying back down and pulling Spamton onto their chest. "And why would you have reason to slug her?" they asked. "In your dream, anyway. I must admit sometimes Moggy can be a bit overbearing and demanding, but I'm far too much of a gentleman to slug her." "I tried t-t-to slug her b-because she was ch-channeling Mike."

"Ah. that explains it."

Spamton growled in frustration, his breath stirring a curl hanging loose from Swatch's nighttime ponytail. "Why does EVERYTHING always have to - have to c-come back to Mike? The bastard w-w-won't leave me alone, even in his g-grave."

"I know, I know." Swatch kissed the top of Spamton's head. "So… since we're both awake, how about we get up and finish off the macarons? And," as they suited action to words, sliding their long body out of bed, "you can tell me what's really on your mind. Don't think I don't know 'Angel of the Morning' when I hear it."

“C-c-can’t get away with nuthin' around you, can I? I’m going to - going to st-start calling you ‘Columbo’, especially if you do the ‘just one more thing’ b-bit.” Spamton tossed back the covers, wincing as his sore feet hit the floor, which also did not go unnoticed. He interrupted Swatch as they opened their mouth to comment, “To answer your next ques-question, I w-w-walked a little longer than I planned.”

"Hmmmm. Macarons and milk first, then I'll give you a foot rub. Alright?"

"Okay."

Earlier that night...Spamton had just stepped onto the front path when Swatch pulled into the townhouse’s driveway. He rushed up the stoop stairs to put the porch light on.

“S-sorry, I didn’t know you were going to be home l-later than me,” he apologized as he dug through his messenger bag for his house keys. Swatch laughed warmly, answered, “Not to worry, I’m not holding it against you”, and followed him indoors. They both hung their outerwear on the coat tree in the foyer before turning to each other and embracing. Spamton dropped his bag and stretched upwards on the tips of his toes; Swatch leaned down and rubbed their nose against Spamton’s cheek. “Still very glad to have you to come back to after a long day,” they added.

“A v-very long day here t-too. Two digital lab sessions in a row. B-b-but at least I’m f-finally getting into coursework that has some m-m-meat to it.”

“Mmmmmm, meat.” Swatch led the way to the kitchen. “That reminds me, any problem if we use up the leftovers from the party? The meatballs and stuff.”

“M-meatballs are never a problem for me. Ever.”

“Ye gods, you are so easy to please. Food-wise, anyway.”

Spamton moved over to the cabinets to get dishes out while Swatch rummaged in the fridge. “You g-get a lot less p-p-picky about food when you’re picking food out of - out of a dumpster.”

“I can imagine. Ah ha! We’ve got extra shredded mozzarella, too.”

Swatch pulled out the disposable chafing pan covered with foil, walked it over to the counter, and went back for the cheese.

"Nice d-d-deflection," commented Spamton as he collected serving utensils and silverware. "You used to g-gasp in horror any time I brought up my - my street p-person days."

"Hmmm. I don't think I actually GASPED. That would be beneath my dignity." Swatch slid the foil pan onto a baking sheet and slid them both into the oven. "But funny you should bring up your 'bad old days' again."

"Oh?"

"Yes, because those bad old days were a matter of discussion a few hours ago."

Spamton thought of any number of replies he could give, but decided against the first two sharp retorts that came to mind. Instead, he finished setting the kitchen island with the plates that Swatch handed him, poured them each a large glass of Dr Pepper [a shared weakness], and then clambered onto a stool. He could be patient; this was Swatch, after all. Swatch didn’t tend to leave conversations hanging, or to be swept under rugs, the way conversations in the Addison household often were.

And Swatch didn’t disappoint. The food came out of the oven and they each helped themselves to the appropriate portion sizes. About halfway through the meal, Swatch casually said, “I had a meeting with your brother Ballew today about a possible internship at Addison Cybernetics.”

"Oh? That's… good, I g-guess?"

"Hmmm. It could be good. It could also be a huge mistake. I had just planned to ask for career advice, but then he brought up internships. And the talk just went on from there."

The expression on Swatch’s face was thoughtful, but their eyes were bright with excitement and hope, and he could almost feel that hope and excitement in waves on the air. Swatch's next words, however, sounded like they'd rehearsed them many times, "May and June are right around the corner. For you, that means the end of the semester. For me, it means graduation and the end of any financial safety net I have as a college student. I’ve got to get a job and a new place to live, since our lease here ends when Mrs. Anselmo gets back from Italy. I have all the respect in the world for you as a person, Spamton, but you're not familiar with what I'm studying, either the programming stuff or the engineering. Ballew is, or at least he works with people who are. I can't help it if he's your brother, can I?"

Spamton took his time answering, cutting one of the big meatballs into tiny pieces with his knife and fork, then scooping mozzarella up with each piece. This was a lot to unpack, in his mind at least. He ruthlessly shoved down the noise his heart was making as it shattered.

Finally he managed to say, "It sounds like - like a p-perfect match for your skill set."

"it does, doesn't it?"

And that would have to do until Spamton could be alone in his head to chew this over.

His normal coping mechanism when he needed to do deep thinking was to take a long walk. His body’s exhaustion sang another tune. And at this point Swatch was trying to hide a yawn, despite it not even being 8pm yet.

“D-do you want to c-c-call it an early night?” he asked hopefully, and was relieved when Swatch nodded. They got up to put their plates and utensils in the wash basin in the sink, running hot water and adding dish soap before saying “I’ll do these in the morning. I’m beat.”

“Okay.”

Spamton went and sat at the piano, resting his hands in his lap until Swatch could join him on the bench. Tired as he was, he didn’t want to skip the nightly music ritual. After all, who knew how much longer it would last.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when his fingers were ahead of his conscious thoughts and picked out a melancholy tune. He felt Swatch’s bodily warmth at his side, but it couldn’t completely banish his inner cold.

He didn't sing tonight, but the words of the first verse and the concluding chorus played in his mind anyway as the notes flowed out of his hands onto the keyboard.

There'll be no strings to bind your hands/Not if my love can't bind your heart/ And there's no need to take a stand/For it was I who chose to start

Just call me angel of the morning, then slowly turn away/ I won't beg you to stay with me through the tears of the day, of the years

Spamton leaned against Swatch’s shoulder when he came to the end of the song, and Swatch wrapped an arm around him in silence.

Neither spoke as they got into bed, Swatch drifting off almost immediately.

But of course Spamton couldn't sleep, busy brain overruling tired body. After more than an hour of forcing himself to stay in one position, he gave up, got dressed quickly and quietly, and slipped out the front door feeling like a mournful ghost.

He didn't feel much better when he let himself back into the house around 3am, but he dropped off to sleep almost immediately once he returned to Swatch's side in bed.

And he dreamed.

Now Spamton was back on the familiar breakfast stool with an empty milk glass and the crumbs from two tiramisu macarons in front of him. He didn't dissemble when he talked about going to T.M.'s dorm to vent about Swatch, nor about her metaphorically handing his head to him when she pointed out, quite rightly, that sometimes it wasn't all about him and it might be nice for someone to listen to her problems for a change instead of bringing their problems to her. He didn't try to hide that, after leaving T.M.'s dorm, he'd run into his lab partner Seam Docherty and they'd gone to the Green Leaf for a few beers.

"Huh, small world. I didn't know you knew Seam. Do they still have the eyepatch and the orange-and-purple mohawk?"

"Almost. it's - It's st-still orange and p-purple, but it's m-m-more of a mix between a bihawk and a fauxhawk now." Spamton couldn't hold back a giggle as he leaned forward and half-whispered, "They have it shaped into k-k-k-kitty ears this year. Goes great with - with all the leather and ch-ch-ch-ch-chains."

That sweet smile that Spamton loved so much bloomed across Swatch's face at that comment, and he wanted to dare to hope that the two of them could surmount this crisis.

But first he had to address the elephant in the room.

"D-do you WANT to work for Addison Cybernetics? Or do - do you just think it's something you SHOULD do?"

Swatch finished what was on their plate, then answered Spamton's question with a question of their own, "Is this going to be weird for you? If I do end up working there, I mean."

“Of c-c-course it's going to be weird. But I c-can't be the one to say WHY it's going to be weird. That's gotta be on you, Swatch.”

"Okay, then. Cards on the table." Swatch took a deep breath, looked Spamton in the eye, and said, "I don't want you thinking I'm just another Mike."

And hearing that made the elephant far more manageable, in Spamton's mind.

“I d-d-don’t think you could BE another Mike if you tried,” he said finally. “But I’ll be honest. I didn’t know wh-what to feel about it. You asking - asking my brother for advice. Before asking me, I mean.”

Swatch's voice took on a pleading tone. "I’m doing my best to avoid a conflict of interest. Please tell me this isn't going to mess things up with us."

Spamton felt a physical pang in his chest as he looked back at Swatch. His hand shot out to grab theirs across the island counter, coming perilously close to knocking dishes onto the floor. "Never," he hissed. "I won't - won’t let it."

He looked down at his and Swatch's clasped hands and said more quietly, "You’ve said b-b-before that you don’t want things handed to you. And you’re right… I’m n-not an engineer or any k-kind of math or design whiz. I’m still playing c-c-catchup from everything I missed in m-my life from chasing Mike’s pipe dream. B-but I think I’m a pretty good - pretty good sounding b-board, and I will always listen to you, as long as you want me to.”

He could feel their big hand tremble in his as Swatch replied, "And the same goes for you. Did you really think telling you about my laying groundwork for the future was my way of breaking up with you?"

"Well... y-yes."

"Well, wrong."

The cuckoo clock in the living room sang out that it was now five a.m.

"C-c-can you skip classes today?" Spamton asked, letting go of Swatch's hand, sliding off the stool and stretching.

After a minute's reflection, Swatch answered, "Probably. But why?"

"B-b-because after we both get some sleep, I need to t-tell you everything about Mike. EVERYTHING. From the- the very b-beginning."

#swatchton #deltarune chapter 2 #spamton addison #swatch paletta #swatchton au #sylph writes #fic: call signs

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