Archive of Our Own

Spamton wasn’t really sure what to expect when he was told--more like ordered--to look after a city slicker for the day. But it wasn’t this.

This impossibly tall man with a CRT for a head.

The stranger’s car rolled up to the ranch’s office and the occupant stepped out through the dust in his shiny boots. Too shiny, Spamton thought. Like he hadn’t worked a day in his life. 

Clickson had been very firm with Spamton for this one. Smile big. Polite guidance. Spamton informed him he had the wrong Addison, he needed one far more patient and perhaps bluer than him but he’d been promptly told that Banner was still recovering from a virus. So Spamton had to cover for the day.

Mr Ant Tenna was a big name on TV, Spamton knew that much. But the TV star had insisted on ‘experiencing real ranch life’ and had picked Clickson’s ranch to do it. He wanted to see the sights and do the real work Clickson told him.

“And he’s paying handsomely to do it,” Clickson stressed.

Spamton called it ‘playing pretend’. One look at him and he could tell the guy had never touched a ranch. 

He stepped out in shiny leather cowboy boots, lined with intricate stitching and other crimson leather details that made them pop. He had the full get-up, including ridiculous leather chaps over top of his bright blue jeans. A massive gold buckle on his belt had a matching TV head, and his plaid shirt was a garish red. A leather vest laid over top, with a bright yellow bandana around his neck and a pair of shiny leather gloves that matched the details of his boots to complete the look.

Oh, and the hat. How could Spamton forget it as he tipped up the massive red thing with a finger to smirk at him with a flickering screen.

Spamton spat the last of his tobacco with a ‘humph’. His horse, Angel, nickered softly underneath him, as if to say ‘tell me about it.’

This was going to be a long day.

Clickson frantically motioned for him to dismount and meet with the TV on foot. He had already pasted on his sickly sweet, welcoming smile. Spamton groaned, but obliged. They had regular tours at the ranch, but this whole to-do was a bit different than guiding some giddy children around the barns and warehouses. The tour guide schtick was more of Banner’s speed anyways.

Spamton preferred the quieter grunt work. Working the few fields they had. Caring for the horses. No one around to criticize his work that way. 

But today he found himself struggling to match Clickson’s enthusiasm as they greeted the TV star.

“Howdy Mr Tenna, welcome to Clickson & Clickson Ranch!” Clickson greeted loudly, tipping his own crisp white hat. Always fresh-looking, bright colors to draw out his pink, with a flashy teal bolo tie to add a splash of contrast.

The TV grinned at him. “Oh, just Tenna is fine. Partner!” 

He chuckled at his own attempt at sounding more ‘country’. All Spamton could hear was a soft lisp and some kind of accent. Transatlantic? Chicago? Maybe Boston? A city slicker’s accent all the same.

Spamton wanted to groan again, but stayed quiet as Clickson started his orientation spiel. 

“Normally, I would have Banner show you the ropes but he's… indisposed. So today, my ranch hand Spamton here will be showing you around.”

Spamton nodded curtly as the TV beamed at him. 

“Splendid! I mean… darn tootin’! Hee hee.”

Every word the TV spoke was accompanied with some sort of embellishing motion. Like he was leading a themed ho down and not working on an actual farm.

Clickson gave Spamton one last glare as he turned away from Tenna. “Behave,” he hissed.

Clickson and Tenna bid farewell to each other as Spamton trudged back towards Angel. She was a fine Blood Bay, but not big enough to support ten feet of CRT man. So he grabbed her reins and led her alongside them as they set off towards the stables.

“So… Spamton was it?” the CRT pressed brightly, “Looks like we’ll be working together for a while. Looking forward to it, partner!”

Spamton hummed a noncommittal agreement.

The TV took a deep breath. “Mmmm good to be out here in this country air, huh? I’m really looking forward to unplugging… er, metaphorically. Enjoying the great outdoors! Getting away from it all!”

Spamton sniffed. All he could smell were the cowpies in the nearby pasture. He grunted in some form of vague agreement.

“Is… is that why you work here?”

I work here because my idiot friend begged me to and I had nowhere else to go, is what Spamton could say if he wanted to tell the truth. But instead he tried to come up with something socially acceptable.

“Something like that,” he said.

Tenna’s smile widened, rubbing his hands together. “Great! That’s what I’m here for! Say, when do we get to ride off into the sunset?”

Spamton once again had to bite back his initial response. That, no, they did NOT get to ride off into the sunset and that this is a job and not a game. That Spamton broke his back every day and didn’t have a Hollywood mansion to retreat to when he got bored of it.

Instead of saying any of that he silently cocked his head towards the stable they had just walked up to.

“Need to get you mounted up first,” Spamton told him, “Easiest way to get around the ranch.”

He may as well have told a child Santa stood on the other side of the rough wood doors. Tenna wiggled and clapped his hands. 

“A real horse!”

Spamton turned towards the stable door so he could roll his eyes freely. Angel whipped her mane in impatience. 

“Steady girl,” he whispered to her.

The wheeled door slid open, letting them pad across the hay scattered all around the floor.

“This here’s the stable. Our horses go back here every night, got that? They need a rest, too.”

Tenna nodded so hard, his hat teetered on his head. “Right! Got it!”

Spamton jabbed an accusing finger at him. “I mean it. I better not catch one of ‘em running wild at night.”

Tenna suddenly flicked to a serious expression, posture springing straight as he gave an exaggerated salute. “Got it!”

Spamton bit back another groan. 

This was going to be a long long day. Banner better be thanking him. Profusely. 

He grabbed a set of reins from the row of carefully labeled tacks hanging by the door. Spamton padded straight to a large horse, an American Cream Draft, that nickered softly at his approach. He started unlocking the stable door, tip-toeing to slip the bit into her soft mouth. She huffed happily, always easily pleased.

“This here’s Butterscotch,” Spamton said, leading her out, “You’re a bit big for our Bays, so she’s gonna be haulin’ you around. She usually tows our sled for the kiddos in winter.”

“Oh a sleigh horse!” Tenna exclaimed, clasping his hands in delight. He tipped his hat at the horse. “How do you do, Miss Butterscotch?”

The easy-going Butterscotch whinnied back. Tenna grinned, way too cutely and way too excited for a grown man about to do hard labor. 

Spamton carefully explained each part of Butterscotch’s tack, emphasizing each strap that needed to be carefully tightened. The CRT spoke far too much, chattering and laughing about each little bit. It took everything Spamton had not to snap at him to pipe down. 

When they finally got Butterscotch tacked up, he showed Tenna how to lead them out. Tenna surprised him by doing it without much instruction. Apparently the surprise showed on his face.

“You already did such a good job with Angel,” the TV explained.

Spamton huffed. Huh. The TV star had been paying attention. 

“You’re gonna wanna be cautious mounting up. Butterscotch is real nice, but she ain’t used to saddling. Best to take it slow.”

“Don’t worry! I know how to mount up at least,” the TV demonstrated by slipping a shiny boot into one of the stirrups, stretching a long leg over the saddle. He patted Butterscotch’s neck. “Just like the movies!”

Spamton rolled his eyes as he leapt up onto Angel, who shuddered right away. “You’re gonna wanna be more careful than your movies, big shot.”

Tenna chuckled back, nudging the Draft horse slightly to pull up closer to Spamton and Angel. “It’s ok. I’ve got a good teacher!”

Spamton shook his head. He was goading him. He had to be. Trying to make him snap. He didn’t have time for this.

They had work to do.

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Spamton guided them through the land, cringing harder and harder at Tenna’s overreaction to every little mundane detail. 

First they trotted through the horse field. Just a simple field with an attached paddock for when Clickson wanted to show off their trained horses. Tenna insisted he wanted to run Butterscotch through the simple course they had set up. Spamton gritted his teeth around a fresh chew as he explained that Butterscotch was not trained for such a course and was not the kind of horse you would want to bring through this anyways. She was a sleigh horse. Tenna still managed to get excited at the reminder of what he called ‘winter wonder’. Spamton spat his tobacco.

Next, he led them by a few mid-sized crop fields.

“Ooo what do you grow? Tomatoes? Potatoes?” he smirked, eyeing Spamton as he spat into the field, “Tobacco?”

“Usually just oats or wheat. For feed mostly.”

“Oats! That sounds nice, doesn’t it, Butterscotch?”

Butterscotch whinied. Spamton spat his tobacco.

He took them to what composed the bulk of the farm; huge barns and large pastures, inhabited by all sorts of animals. Chickens, goats, rabbits. But mostly cows.

“Coop is over there,” Spamton tipped his hat towards the smaller structure adjacent to the treeline. “We’ll be in charge of collectin’ eggs starting tomorrow.”

Collecting eggs was usually a Banner task. Of course Spamton got landed with most of those. He grumbled at the thought. His tall companion, on the other hand, clapped his hands in delight.

“Farm fresh eggs! Sounds lovely.”

Spamton spat his tobacco. “Sure.”

He nudged Angel forward without waiting to see if the TV followed. They skirted along the nearest pasture.

“Most of the ranch is dairy cows,” Spamton explained, “We gotta feed ‘em. Water ‘em. Keep ‘em clean. Take ‘em out to pasture. We rotate through the field. Right now we’re taken ‘em up on the western end just over that hill.”

He nodded at the grassy hill, verdant grasses billowing in the wind. The TV shaded his non-existent eyes. 

“You take them all the way out there and then back every day?”

“Yep,” Spamton confirmed, “Keeps the fields fresh. We got a lot of cows.”

He dismounted to open a gate, allowing the horses to slip through. Spamton leapt back onto Angel as she passed, trotting along the edge of the fence to the western pasture. Angel--feeling the familiar open range--picked up the pace, trot shifting to a gallop. Spamton eased her down as they approached a ledge smack in the middle of the field.

“Ease up,” Spamton called back.

Tenna scrambled, nearly dropping Butterscotch’s reins but scooping them up in time to pull her to a stop. The easy-going horse neighed, while the high-strung Angel flipped her mane impatiently.

“Easy girl,” Spamton cooed. He slid off her saddle again to lead her to the dirt ledge. “This here ridge runs the field.” He pointed, tracing it off into the distance. “Mind the drop. It ain’t big, but a horse could tumble. We gotta lead ‘em down.”

Tenna tilted his head as he dropped down. “How do you get the cows over?”

“Climb it. We sometimes hafta pull ‘em over. But they usually get their footing.”

Spamton stilled his tongue after that. He complained about that ridge at least once a day to Clickson. The cheap bastard refused to spring for the landscaping needed to smooth a few slopes into it. Conveniently, there were always a few urgent repairs he had to budget for. Instead, for a good portion of the summer they had to haul the herd over it. Not that Clickson came out to witness it. Spamton couldn’t remember the last time the pink miser walked this far away from his fancy big house with his big fancy office.

After some gentle tugging, the stubborn Angel followed Spamton down the ledge. Tenna was tall enough that it was a simple step down for him. Butterscotch paused at the edge, tail swishing nervously. The TV tugged weakly, grin turning tense. Spamton frowned.

“Go on, tug her harder. She’ll get it,” Spamton nudged. He felt the patience in his voice rapidly leaking out.

Tenna’s smile tilted this way and that, firmly pulling on the reins. Butterscotch finally got the hint and teetered down, one hoof at a time. 

“There we go!” Tenna said, brightness returning.

Spamton thought he had finally been rid of that annoyingly misplaced optimism and frowned as it returned. He spat his tobacco.

They remounted and trotted over the rolling hill, spotting the herd as they crested. Tenna whooped as he pulled up next to him.

“You weren’t kidding. That’s a lot of cows.”

Spamton shrugged. “Yep.”

They rode over to the two cowpokes skirting the herd’s edge, sitting on a rock as they took a break from corralling. Both Addisons--one bright yellow with a lopsided grin, the other a burnt orange with cheeks full of his own chew. They tipped their hats at Spamton’s approach, before straightening as they spotted Spamton’s obnoxious companion.

“Good morning!” Tenna greeted.

“M-mornin’ Mr Tenna,” the yellow Linkson chirped back, “hope you’re enjoying CnC Ranch.”

“Oh, I am, thank you. Spamton and Butterscotch have been showing me the place.”

Marketon straightened his orange face into a pleasant smile. “Welcome aboard Mr Tenna. I’m Marketon, this here’s Linkson. You just let us know if we can help at all, y’hear?”

“Good to meet you fellas!” Tenna replied, plastering on a bad Texas accent again with a giggle.

Marketon and Linkson’s smiles strained. Spamton spat his tobacco. 

“Marketon and Linkson work the herd most days. They head out before us. You ‘n Banner will start at the coop, but they might need help some days.”

Tenna’s antennae shifted ever so slightly before perking back up. “Oh. Banner is…”

“The one you’ll be working with tomorrow,” Spamton replied dryly. 

“I see…”

The pair of Addisons waved cheerily as Spamton dragged Tenna away before he could ask any more increasingly ridiculous cow questions (his last being “does chocolate milk come from the brown ones?”).

Angel shuddered restlessly underneath him. He patted her twitching flank, feeling that she desperately wanted to sprint back to the pasture gate like they typically did. But the laid-back Butterscotch and inexperienced TV trailing behind wouldn't be unable to keep up.

Spamton spat his tobacco, feeling just as restless as Angel.

They sluggishly exited the pasture, veering past the main barn and to the pair of sheds.

“This here is where we keep most of our equipment. Plows and seeders, things like that.”

“Will I get to drive a tractor?” Tenna asked.

Lord willing, never, Spamton thought to himself. He chewed harshly on a better response instead.

“No. Special license. Hafta to talk to the big guy in the main house if you really wanna do it,” he chewed more on what little remained in his cheek. “Don’t recommend it, though. Tough work. Boring. Out in the field by myself most of the time.”

“So you usually do the plowing, partner?”

Spamton grunted at the repeated use of the word ‘partner’. Like they were any sort of equals. Like Spamton wasn’t busting his ass everyday while this TV was getting princess carried through life.

“Yep,” was all he said.

They passed by the second shed, doors already propped open and bales of hay piled high.

“Shit,” Spamton cursed under his breath. 

This was the task he was supposed to be completing today; moving these bales to the barn and stables. He expected to be done by now with this idiot, but here he was, still dragging the CRT along. And knowing Clickson, he still expected Spamton to complete this. The stable--down to its last bale--badly needed it. Spamton chewed at the predicament. Daylight was short. 

Tenna pulled up beside him with a smirk. “What’s up?”

Spamton glanced the CRT up and down. He hadn’t done anything today except marvel at every mundane animal or structure in the vicinity. But he had long legs and long arms, grasping at the reins of a draft horse. Spamton shifted course.

“New plan; we gotta get this hay moved.”

Tenna perked up. “Okey dokey! I mean… darn tootin’! Hee hee…”

Spamton gritted his teeth to keep from snapping at Tenna. He dismounted and beckoned Tenna to follow him. The TV thudded to the ground to stride after, but Spamton stopped him with a glare.

“Lead Butterscotch in. We have a hay rack in here somewhere… since she’s joining us anyway, she’s gonna help us out.”

Tenna beamed. Of course he was excited by this prospect. 

Spamton shuffled through the shed, throwing a tarp off the hay rack. He indicated Tenna should tie off the horse for now and come help him haul this out. One clumsy knot later and the CRT weakly tugged on the rack. Spamton strained as his side made more progress, hay rack rolling out uneven.

“Put some elbow grease in, damn it!” Spamton spat.

“Oh! Uh…” 

Tenna strained harder, finally digging those shiny heels into the dirt floor and rolling his side out. Spamton nodded, pointing back to the draft horse.

“Get her tack off, just like I showed you. I’ll get the hitching harness ready and we can load ‘er up.”

“Ok! C’mere Butterscotch…” 

Tenna cooed at the animal while Spamton breathed a sigh of relief at getting some distance from him. For unclear reasons, but the TV wound him up something awful. Probably some combination of his effortless yet out-of-place charm and the dead weight of dragging him around a man’s job. He concentrated on the hitching harness before turning and pondering the hay bales. The TV was taking awhile, so he could get started on these.

His muscles strained as he lugged the giant block of hay onto the rack, pushing it all the way to the back. He heaved the next one, slotting it into the beginnings of a neat row. He wiped his dripping brow. Only a dozen more.

He glanced at the CRT. He still chattered with the horse.

“What’s takin’ you so long?”

His antennae sprang straight and he turned back to him. Spamton could see he was feeding Butterscotch something straight from his hand.

“What are you…?”

“Just thanking Butterscotch for showing me around this morning,” he held his cupped hand up, showing Spamton a pile of sugarcubes.

Spamton balked. “Where’d you get that?”

“My pocket.”

“W--” Spamton grabbed his hat to shake his head, shaking the incredulousness away. “Just lead her over here. Ain’t got all day.”

Spamton felt his patience had fully slipped away, circling the drain. He shoved his hat back in place as he stomped over to pull Butterscotch’s saddle off.

“Do I hafta do everything ‘round here?” he mumbled to himself.

Spamton could tack a horse with his eyes closed, so he quickly had the draft horse free and backing up between the hitch shafts. Tenna hovered over him as he pulled the leather straps gently over her muzzle. 

Spamton nodded his head towards the hay. “Those all need to get loaded up.” He dusted his hands, Butterscotch now properly hitched. “Let’s get a move on.”

“Right!” Tenna chirped back, tone less bright than before. Great. Spamton would surely be hearing about this from Clickson later.

He couldn’t find it in him to care.

The CRT clumsily lifted a bale into the back. He was tall, making it a bit easier for him to load it in than Spamton, who had to half chuck it over his head. Still, as Spamton expected, the TV wasn’t exactly fast or precise. Spamton constantly clambered up into the hay rack to straighten his bales with a grumble. 

Rack loaded, Spamton motioned for Tenna to climb up onto the rack’s front seat with him. Tenna’s fallen expression brightened again, a new pep in his step as he hopped up next to him. He grinned at Spamton expectantly, like he'd give some sort of positive affirmation. He would be waiting a while for it.

Spamton raised a brow at the CRT’s lips. He had slid a piece of hay in his mouth to chew.

Tenna must have noticed him staring. “What, this? Just thought I should look the part! I pull it off pretty nice, dontcha think?”

Spamton elected not to answer, urging Butterscotch forward. She towed them and the hay out with a few clops of her hooves.

“What about your horse?”

Spamton shrugged. “She’ll follow. Angel always follows me, someway, somehow.”

“Oh yeah?” Tenna looked like he wanted to press, but hesitated as he took in Spamton’s expression. 

Spamton spat the last of his chew out. A glance at the sun told him it was past lunch time. Past when Spamton was supposed to drag the CRT's ass back to Clickson's schmancy office for a catered lunch and schmoozing time.

What schmoozing?? Spamton thought to himself bitterly, He's an airhead lollygagging around the ranch…

A whinny beside him confirmed that Angel had indeed followed, ears pinned as she trotted. Just as annoyed as he was, it seemed.

“Well, I'll be. She did follow,” Tenna remarked, lounging on the bench. “Does she like working on the ranch?”

“No,” Spamton said. But he didn’t bother elaborating.

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Half an hour later--and after excruciatingly guiding Tenna through simple unloading procedures--they rolled to a stop at the stables. Tenna lackadaisically untacked Butterscotch as Spamton bit his cheek until it bled.

“Phew! Good work Butterscotch,” Tenna extracted more sugarcubes for the horse to munch.

“Why do you have sugarcubes in your pocket?” Spamton finally asked.

“For the horses!”

Spamton huffed, but couldn't really find it in himself to get angry. So he shook his head as he turned to call Angel.

“Spamton!” He heard a sharp voice approaching accompanied by stomping boots.

Spamton had just enough time to wipe his brow and whistle Angel over before Clickson arrived to glare at him.

“Spamton,” he snapped again, voice tighter as he realized Tenna still stood in earshot. “I told you to have Mr Tenna back in my office for luncheon.”

Spamton adjusted his hat. “We’re headin’ that way.”

“Oh really,” Clickson hissed, barely restraining the bubbling rage, “Last I checked, lunch time was an hour ago. Looks to me like you’re still yanking our guest around.”

“Clicks, you said to haul the hay today. ‘Or else’ was your exact phrasing,” Spamton spat back, “I wouldn’t have had time if I brought him to the big house ‘n stabled his horse ‘n then went all the way back.”

Clickson put a hand on his hip with a huff. “I know you ain’t dumb. I also said Mr Tenna takes top priority. Then your ranch hand duties.”

Spamton opened his mouth to protest--priming a few choice words to let Clickson know exactly how he’d prefer to handle Mr Tenna--but the pink Addison waved him off.

“I don’t wanna hear nothing else, ‘cept ‘yes Mr Clickson’. Figure it out. I have bigger things to think about.”

Spamton shoved his hat back on. “I ain’t callin’ you ‘Mr’.”

Clickson flailed another dismissive hand behind him before at last strolling to Tenna, still cooing at Butterscotch. Spamton growled after, softening as Angel nudged him. He led her back out of the stables.

“Oh!” Tenna chirped as they passed him by, “Is Spamton not joining us for lunch?”

“I’m afraid my ranch hand has work to attend to,” Clickson explained brightly, eyes strained as they urged Spamton out of the way. 

Spamton had had enough of Clickson’s vile management style; everything from his trim white boots, the false grin and the ‘special’ lectures saved for Spamton alone. Spamton huffed one last time before leaping onto Angel. He nudged her, letting her finally shift into the gallop she’d been craving all day. 

He let her lead, winding back towards the fields and along the pasture, veering onto a western path that led them over the hills behind the ranch.

Spamton stood in his stirrups, still keeping his thighs in contact with the horse, feeling her muscles twitch, her lungs fill, legs blur faster and faster. He nudged her one last time and she picked up as she crested the hill. They encountered the old lopsided fence that marked the property line but Angel simply leapt over it, little more than a bump in the road to the headstrong Bay. 

At last, she slowed near a lonesome oak that stared out at the sunsoaked mountains in the distance. She huffed as she trotted to a stop in its shade. Spamton leapt down, running a hand along her sweaty side and up to her muzzle. She nudged back, nearly tipping his hat off with a nicker. Spamton chuckled.

He left her to graze as he sauntered to the oak, plopping down in its shade to gaze out over the mountains. They shined an emerald green with summer brush, always tinged with a halo of yellow from the intense sun. It didn't hit quite the same as the sunset though. Maybe Spamton could ride back in the evening and catch the display.

He shoved a plug angrily into his cheek. Not like he'd have time, with all the extra chores Banner’s absence landed him. He hadn’t even touched the coop yet. He chewed mindlessly, quickly spitting as Clickson crossed his mind again.

Yapping it up with his hip popped, not lifting a finger all day until that TV star showed up. 

Admittedly that's how Spamton preferred it. He and Angel, finishing their tasks in solitude. Clickson didn’t hover over him much anymore. That suited them just fine. They didn’t need his obnoxious commentary on all the work they did. 

Spamton scowled even harder as he thought of the dead weight of a TV he had lugged around. Annoying comments at every little aspect of ranch life. Clumsily following Spamton’s instructions, barely pulling his own, very massive weight. Fawning over the horses. 

Well. Spamton didn’t mind that last one too much. The horses put in their fair share, too.

Spamton chuckled as he remembered the sugar cube pocket. What a crusty mess that must be to clean later. All to maybe please any potential horses he encountered.

Spamton sighed as he spit away the thought. He forced himself back to his feet. 

They had work to do.

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Clickson & Clickson Ranch was a former campground, equipped to host full summer camps loaded with children in some past life. Clickson had retrofitted the land for his needs, but some old vestiges from that time still stood.

Spamton’s own room and board was in one of those vestiges, because of course there was ‘no room’ in either of the property’s farmhouses. Instead he stayed in an old camp counselor quarters stuffed full of bunks and containing barely functional plumbing, a microwave and a broken coffee machine. Spamton had taken to lighting the fire pit outside just to brew coffee. He threw on pants that morning to venture out and get it started.

He stared at the beat up kettle on its rack as he brushed his teeth, counting his lucky stars he likely wouldn't have to skip lunch again to get his work done that day. The coffee steamed and he poured a splash into his tin cup. A sip and swish of coffee in his mouth took care of the toothpaste he spat into the grass.

The sun already felt hot on Spamton's bare shoulders. He turned to finish getting dressed when his morning was interrupted by thundering hooves. Angel cantered up, tail thrashing and no saddle to speak of. She nudged into Spamton's hair with a huffing snout.

“Angel…” he sighed, patting her, “Did you escape your pen again?”

She whinnied. Spamton chuckled. 

“One sec, stand here girl,” he positioned her between himself and the main house. “I need to piss.”

Angel stood dutifully over him as he peed into the fire to douse it. A quick shake and he slid his jeans back on, ducking into his quarters to quickly finish getting dressed. 

He had no tack there, so he climbed onto Angel bareback. She didn't seem to mind, quickly taking off back towards the stables without further fuss.

Marketon was there to roll his eyes at Spamton’s approach. 

“Showoff. That horse won't give us the time ‘o day.”

Spamton sneered. “She’s just got good taste is all.” 

“I agree!” A far brighter voice pierced the quiet morning. 

Spamton tried not to cringe at the CRT's continued presence. Right. Even if he wasn’t the one dragging him from place to place, he would still have to deal with Tenna for a couple of weeks. A smaller dose was still an improvement. 

Marketon seemed to read his mind. He sneered back as Spamton dismounted. 

“Banner’s still sick. Clickson wants you to take him ‘round with you again.”

Spamton balked. “You're kidding.”

“I know, isn’t that lucky?” Tenna replied, “Looks like we will be partners again today after all.”

So, here he was.

Wrangling a rambunctious CRT as he reverently held every chicken they happened upon while feeding.

Spamton gazed off at where they’d hitched their horses, silently begging for Angel to escape again so he’d have some excuse to leave the TV's orbit.

“I’ve seen chickens before of course,” he prattled, petting the hen he had scooped, “They used to have some at the county fair back where I grew up. But well… usually a handful of chicks, never this many. Boy they sure are chaotic! But that’s what’s kinda funny about them. And the rooster!”

As if on cue, the red rooster crowed.

“Just like a real farm!”

WE ARE ON A REAL FARM YOU NINCOMPOOP Spamton held back from screaming. He dusted his hands in lieu of any venomous replies and motioned them over to the coop. 

“Gotta get the eggs. Grab a crate.”

“Yippee!”

Spamton tried to walk him through the routine. Tried to show him what a bad egg looked and felt like. Tried to show him where they stowed them for later transport. He wasn’t sure how much got through all of Tenna’s chattering of egg cooking methods if he used these eggs.

Spamton sighed. “How ‘bout we send a carton to where you're stayin’?”

The TV’s antennae sprang in delight. “Is that ok?”

Spamton thought about Clickson’s emphasis on treating ‘the guest’ right.

“Sure, bud, I’ll getcha some.”

“Thanks, Spam.”

Spamton huffed at the nickname. ‘Spam’. The CRT was already acting so familiar.

“I missed you at dinner yesterday, partner,” he said as they trekked back to the horses, “Maybe we can hang out today? I was uh. Also thinking about hiking through the area. Know any good landscapes?”

Spamton stuffed a fresh plug of tobacco, buying himself time to reply. Because how could he really answer all of that? How could he break the bright CRT’s heart and tell him he was just a job, an obligation that he tolerated through the day and dropped as soon as he could? How could he say ‘I don’t like you’ without upsetting him? ‘I don’t care about the fantasy you’re living, I just want to keep my head down, and do my job’. 

So he simply shrugged as he chewed at the snuff in his cheek. 

“C’mon! Spammy must know this place like the back of his hand.”

Spamton nearly choked on his chew. Spammy. They certainly weren’t familiar enough to use a nickname like that.

Tenna giggled. Spamton turned to spit something snarky at him but was met with a finger poking into his cheek. 

“That got you to react,” Tenna teased.

Spamton felt his cheeks heat as he took in the grinning TV. Cute. The thought came unbidden. Certainly far too cute for all the trouble he was causing.

Spamton cursed as he wrenched Angel’s reins free. “Let’s go. We got work to do…”

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Clickson had instructed them all to humor the TV star. 

A specific request that required them to ‘gather ‘round the campfire’ or however Clickson had half-assedly delivered what were clearly the CRT’s words originally. Banner was still struggling with his virus, so it fell to Linkson to arrange the little event. Spamton dragged Tenna to the old firepit, intending on quickly making his leave. Marketon’s orange hand was too quick on the draw however, snatching him before he could leap back onto Angel and sprint away.

“You’re joining,” Marketon stated. 

So Spamton was stuck, staring into the dancing flames so he didn’t have to think about whatever new method of torture Tenna had in store for him.

Somehow he had procured a guitar. Spamton wasn’t sure whether Tenna had brought it or Linkson had somehow provided it for him. He ought to strangle both just to be sure. While Spamton plotted this, Tenna strummed and swayed as he addressed the group.

“I think this will be one that everyone knows! Join in if you do.”

He strummed a simple tune, projecting loudly through the haze of summer crickets sounding off all around them. Linkson and Marketon half-heartedly joined in, glancing at each other for reassurance. Spamton glared in silence at the perky TV leading them. 

“Spam, maybe you can lead the next one, partner,” Tenna said.

“Pass.”

Tenna huffed. “C’mooon, I wanna play one that you know, so you can join in.”

Spamton’s scowl intensified. “I don’t want to join in.”

Linkson looked strained and Marketon shot his own glare. A you’re pushing it sort of glare. Spamton ignored them both to stay locked on the TV.

The TV only seemed to thrive in the attention. His smile turned sharper.

“Why not?”

Spamton scoffed at him. “Do I seem like the type to do this sorta thing?”

Tenna swayed as he played a few more chords. “You seem like someone who would like it but hasn’t tried it yet.”

“I know myself,” he spat back, “I know I wouldn’t like it.”

“Try it anyways?” Tenna hummed, “For me?”

Spamton felt the tense looks darting between him and Tenna, but he ignored them. He remained focused on the TV as he worked up his retort.

“Why would I do anything for you?”

Linkson audibly gasped. Marketon stood.

Tenna didn’t flinch. He smiled back calmly.

“Cuz we’re partners,” he said simply. In that horrid Texas drawl.

Spamton smiled. He couldn’t help it. It was just so outrageously infuriating he had to laugh. He slapped a knee.

“Lordy. You’re a brat, you know that?”

Tenna’s smile turned smarmy as he adjusted his hat. “So I’ve been told.”

It made Spamton laugh harder, bending low enough that his hat nearly teetered off. The other Addisons sat back on their stumps, posture loosened. That relaxed state didn’t last long as a pink man stomped his way into the circle of light. 

Any sign of good mood died as Clickson appraised them with his too-tight smile. He was clad in navy blues today, the darker shade making him look like he was disappearing into the inky blackness around them.

“Evenin’ gentleman. I trust… everything is going well?”

He put a squeezing hand on Spamton. Spamton’s brief good mood died as he turned to glare.

“I was just about to head in for the night. ‘Nother busy day tomorrow,” he told Clickson with a false brightness. “Say… why don’t you join in for one of Mr Tenna’s campfire songs?”

Clickson’s relentless faux pleasantries tripped at the suggestion. “Who me? Y’all don’t wanna hear me hollerin’...”

“It’s not about the skill. It's about the fun!” Tenna pressed.

Spamton stood to slap Clickson’s back. “There ya go Clicks. Fun.”

Clickson's teeth looked like they might break from the pressure with which he grit them.

Spamton trotted off into the night, in a considerably lighter mood despite his hatred for the TV in general. Sicking him onto Clickson was one of those simple joys he didn’t get enough of on the ranch.

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Another hot day. Another long day. Another day Angel escaped and found Spamton while he pissed out his coffee fire again. It seemed even she grew exhausted from the song and dance and wanted to get away from the rest of the inhabitants of the ranch.

“Soon girl. Soon.”

He assured her as much as himself.

To his surprise, the day went smoother. Tenna was already tacking up Butterscotch when he arrived, screen lighting up at his approach. He had ditched the chaps and vest today, stripped down to the bright blue jeans and red shirt. He still had the ostentatious boots though. And that ridiculous belt buckle. 

Tacked up and ready, he and Tenna rode off to their tasks. Tenna prattled about the eggs he had for breakfast that morning, the very same they had hand plucked the day before.

“Really good, Spam. Thanks for sending them to me.”

‘Send’ was a strong word. Spamton had been saddled with delivering them himself, up to the old farmhouse on the hill that Tenna was staying in. 

Perhaps this was why he flushed at the direct gratitude. 

“You’re welcome,” Spamton muttered.

The day involved a lot of cleaning. Spamton was surprised Clickson hadn’t headed him off of these tasks--a lot of shit shoveling in the barn, not at all the glamorous ranch tasks that he wanted to flaunt at Tenna--and perhaps even more surprised that Tenna did them without complaint. 

After a brief parting for lunch, they milked a few cows that Linkson couldn’t get to that day. This was, of course, the best thing that had ever happened to Tenna. He leaned incredibly close as Spamton showed him how to hook them up to the humble two-cow milking machine they had attached to the barn. Spamton swatted at him to back off.

It was far, far too hot to be that close.

This task took longer than Spamton would have liked, considering Linkson had left them with the most stubborn girls in the herd. He couldn’t even coax the last one into the milking stall at all. The heifer was their oldest, frequently the last to move and the first to protest. Spamton sighed and grabbed the milking stool and bucket with a huff.

“We’re gonna hafta hand milk this ole girl.”

It was as if he’d just announced the Easter Bunny was arriving shortly to the CRT. Fine by Spamton. He would let the TV get his pristine gloves dirty for once. Tenna happily plopped on the stool.

“You gotta be slow ‘n firm with this one,” he explained as he guided Tenna’s hands to the cow’s nipples, “She’s old ‘n angry. The most stubborn in the herd, y’hear?”

Tenna nodded, grin tweaking. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

Spamton slapped him with his hat. “Just milk the damn cow.”

The reaction just made Tenna smile wider as he got a handle on the milking. “Fresh milk sounds good.”

At the comment, Spamton snaked a hand back under, angling a stream straight at the TV’s screen. He yelped in surprise before shoving a cackling Spamton away.

The day felt like it wrapped up rather quickly afterwards.

Spamton quickly parted from Tenna, dropping him off for dinner with the rest of the ranch at the main house. He still had to prep some fields for seeding and also wanted to let Angel blow off some steam.

It was odd, doing his work in the quiet. Without a prattling CRT beside him, cracking jokes every few minutes and making asinine observations. Normally he craved this solitude. Now it felt…

Empty.

He dusted off his muddy knees and turned to grab Angel. 

A certain CRT already stood beside her, letting her nibble on sugar cubes.

Huh. Angel actually liked him.

He held his usual brightness, perhaps a little more haggard underneath. He stroked Angel’s neck, jostling a basket hooked around his arm. 

“What’re you doin’ CRT, aren’t you late for the dinner bell?”

Tenna jumped in surprise, but quickly turned his smile onto Spamton.

“I thought we could have dinner together. I packed a few things I’ve been picking up around the ranch…” he raised the basket back into view. “Know any good vistas to eat at?”

Spamton huffed. “You shoulda brought Butterscotch. Best view on the ranch is quite a ways on foot. Don’t think Angel can carry your ass.”

He flicked his eyes up and down the taller man, who simply waved a theatrical hand.

“That’s ok! I can shrink.”

Spamton raised an eyebrow. “You can…shrink?”

“Sure! I just don’t like doing it a lot. I usually don’t shrink unless I’m… sad.”

Spamton scoffed. “I ain’t ever seen you an inch under huge. Guess you really do love this shitty ranch.”

Tenna chuckled. “Yeah, I’m having a great time with you, Spam.”

He sucked in a breath and sure enough, dwindled down a few feet. Still towering over Spamton, but a reasonable size. Spamton gave a brief nod of approval before climbing onto Angel. He reached a hand back down.

“C’mon CRT. We’re wastin’ daylight.”

Tenna glanced at the offered hand, smile faltering. Spamton thought he imagined the thoughtful look as it quickly vanished with the return of the TV's grin. He grabbed his hand, swinging a leg over the saddle behind him.

Spamton didn’t expect the overwhelming warmth from Tenna behind him, running the entire length of his body and beyond. It eased through the back pain he had long since grown accustomed to ignoring. His willpower dug in against the urge to melt backwards into Tenna. 

He shook the thought away. Get it together, he chided himself.

Angel pawed at the ground impatiently, so with one final glance they were both in the saddle, Spamton set her off. She already knew where to go, and surged into a gallop on the path along the pasture.

Tenna yelped in surprise, reflexively wrapping an arm around Spamton’s waist. Spamton tried to ignore how the added warmth paradoxically sent a shiver down his spine. He focused on Angel’s body surging underneath.

She slowed at their usual oak tree, its shadow stretching from the sinking sun. Spamton slid off and offered a hand to help Tenna back down. He returned to his typical height as his gaze drifted towards the mountains.

“Woah… You weren’t kidding,” Tenna gaped, “Look at that sunset.”

Spamton gazed out with him, taking in the rolling hills, their typical greens muted by the oranges and golds of the setting sun. Purples tinged the very furthest reaches of the sky and seeped into the deepest parts of the valley.

Spamton glanced at the CRT; somehow the golds ringed him as well, perfectly matching the reds he favored. And yet his screen still flickered brightly even as the rest of him was also shaded by the fading sunlight. 

Spamton shook his head. “C’mon, I’m starving. Whatcha got to eat?”

Tenna finally tore his gaze away from the mountains and towards the old oak Spamton flopped under. He unfurled a picnic blanket and smoothed it out in one motion, sinking to the ground next to Spamton and making a show of extracting every item.

“I made some egg salad from some of the things I’ve been given. That yellow fellow gave me fresh mayonnaise, too,” he spread a tray of trim sandwiches and pulled out a tin after, “I also made some oat muffins… not sure how they turned out.”

Spamton peered curiously into the tin, eyeing the perfectly baked muffins. “When the fuck did you have time for fucking southern kitchen?”

“Well, while you’re off galavanting at night, I’ve been using my evenings for this,” Tenna said, antennae tilting towards him and jostling his hat.

Spamton chuckled as he sank his teeth into a muffin, eyes immediately widening at the moist baked good. It tasted vaguely of cinnamon.

“Damn,” he said through a mouthful, “This is pretty darn good.”

Tenna adjusted his hat smugly. “I run the cooking show myself, ya know.”

Spamton scoffed. Right. The guy was a TV star.

The TV star continued. “I’m getting a lot of ideas around here, let me tell ya.”

Spamton chewed thoughtfully. “Is that why you came here?”

Tenna bit into a sandwich. “Sorta. Been feeling a little… listless, I guess. Wanted to live a different life for a little while. See if that rekindled my…” he waved a hand around. “Spark!”

Spamton gripped his muffin a little too hard. On one hand, it drove him to madness that Tenna wanted to wear his career like a costume. On the other hand, he couldn’t disagree that the change of pace was affecting his outlook as well.

He grunted back. “Doing anything for ya?”

Tenna hummed in thought. “Mmmmm,” he chewed a moment longer. “Maybe.”

Spamton shoved the rest of the muffin down and dusted his hands. “Pain in the ass for me and Angel, and you ain’t even got the courtesy to be inspired!”

Tenna laughed. “What’s the deal with you and that horse, anyways?”

Spamton took a delaying bite of sandwich. Just the right amount of zesty flavor between the soft slices of bread. 

“Nothin’ special. She’s my horse.”

“Smells like a story there to me.”

Spamton shrugged. “Well. Clicks got her when she was a foal. Stubborn lil thing, that’s for damn sure. I had just started helping out part time. She wouldn’t listen to Clicks or Marketon. For one reason or ‘nother… she listened to me.”

Tenna wiggled next to him. “Awww. She respects you!”

Spamton shrugged again.

“I’ll bet she only lets you ride her,” Tenna pressed.

Spamton nodded. “She hates everyone else. Other horses, other people…she’ll unlatch her own door most days to get to me in the morning.”

“Awww,” Tenna cooed again.

Spamton tugged his hat over his reddening face. “I s’pose… she’s always got my back and I got hers.”

“Maybe she sees a kindred spirit,” Tenna pondered. “Both a little unruly and stubborn. Free spirits.”

Tenna flicked an antennae at him, almost like a wink. Spamton nudged him back with the tip of his boot.

“You’re makin’ shit up.”

“I’m not making up shit!”

The pair shoved at each other a moment longer before munching on a few more sandwiches and muffins. The light had long faded by the time they finally decided to head back. Angel nudged at Spamton impatiently.

“Ok girl, ok. Time for bed.”

Tenna slipped the basket over his arm and took another sharp breath, shrinking again and poised to climb onto Angel with him.

“Ready to turn in, partner?”

Spamton clambered up, feeling the CRT’s body join behind him. “Yeah, let’s turn in,” he elbowed him lightly, “Partner.”

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Spamton had perhaps forgotten that the CRT was a TV star. And everything that entailed.

That the height and theatricality probably drew a lot of eyes onto the screen. That the sharp wit had probably been honed in interviews and comedic skits. That every pose he made that looked like it belonged on the cover of a country magazine probably did.

The TV stayed pristine-looking even after a morning spent shoveling dirt with Spamton. Spamton was going slow and easy on him, he reminded himself. Still, rather than the continued heartiness being a result of Tenna’s lack of work ethic, Spamton started to realize Tenna always looked put-together, bright and handsome.

His brain stumbled over that last word. Handsome.

Instead of dwelling, he busied his hands with his tin of chew, snapping at the TV to get a move on to lunch for good measure.

“Storm’s coming tonight. We still got a lot to storm-proof,” Spamton pressed.

Tenna, in reply, somehow produced a lunch box from somewhere on his person. Loaded with sausage, pretzels and some of the ranch’s fresh cheese he had probably sweettalked out of Clickson. He wondered how indignant the pink Addison was over all the free stuff Tenna had squeezed out of him. Spamton chuckled at the thought as he munched on a pretzel. 

They leaned in the shade of the barn, finishing their lunch when Marketon marched up to them. 

He tipped an orange hat. “Afternoon Mr Tenna.” He turned to Spamont, face pinching a bit more than it had at Tenna. “We lost a few of the younger cattle over the ledge. Can you round ‘em up? Just take ‘em to the barn, I’ll deal with it later. Just don’t want ‘em caught out in the rain.”

Spamton grunted. “Yep.”

Marketon would sometimes push a more committed response from Spamton, but appeared satisfied. At the very least, he was on his best behavior in front of Tenna, who waved jauntily to Marketon’s retreating form.

Spamton motioned to Tenna, brushing his hands on his faded jeans as he stood to march over to their grazing horses. Tenna sprung up to follow, mounting up next to him. They headed off.

It took a few circles around the northern end of the pasture, but they eventually found the three stragglers, grazing absentmindedly in a fresh corner of the field they hadn’t rotated to yet. Spamton wasted no time trying to herd them, instead pulling out the rope attached to Angel’s saddlebag and tying the trio together, hitching them to Angel to guide back. 

“Ride on their flank,” he called to Tenna, “It’ll keep ‘em moving.”

“Sure thing, partner!”

The cattle shuffled nervously forward, stumbling at the accursed ledge running the pasture. Spamton dismounted with a grumble, yanking on the rope to coax them up. Tenna gingerly led Butterscotch up in the time it took Spamton to yank each cow over the top of the ledge. He tried not to snap at the TV. He fed him lunch, after all.

The rest of the ride was an orderly trot back, pausing only to pry the barn door open and run the cows into their pens. Once settled, Spamton led Tenna back out, mentally running through what prep remained.

Just as they remounted on the pasture, the wind picked up and nearly picked Spamton’s hat up with it. He squinted at the dark clouds suddenly materializing on the horizon.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself, “That storm wasn’t s’posed to be here for hours…”

His eyes scanned the horizon. He could just make out Linkson and Marketon driving the cattle over the hills. Still far from the barn and struggling to get over that blasted ledge.

“Sorry, Cathode, looks like we gotta cut our lil frolic short. Can you mount up and head back to the stable on your own? I gotta go make sure the girls make it in ‘fore the storm.”

Tenna slung himself into his saddle, gently pulling the cream horse around. “I’ll come, I can help.”

Spamton grit his teeth. “This ain’t just piddlin’ around like we’ve been doing! This is real work and we gotta get these cows in now.”

Spamton leapt up onto the Bay and nudged her, immediately setting them off towards the herd. Angel had them there in no time, and sure enough, Linkson and Marketon struggled to drag the herd over the ledge. Some of the younger girls made it over, but the older, bigger cows had to be roped and heaved up, one at a time. Linkson yanked frantically while Marketon scooped up her calf to heave over the ledge himself.

“The fuck are you fussing ‘round for?” Spamton snapped.

Marketon huffed even as he continued to the next calf. “What does it look like we’re doing? We’re shovin’ the herd as fast as we can.”

As they argued, rain pattered down, turning the already crumbling ledge into a slick, muddy mess. Spamton hopped down to grab the rope with Linkson, tugging as the cow struggled to find purchase to pull herself up. She gave a frustrated bray as they tugged again. At last, she hooked a hoof up and clambered over top to join the nervous herd. Already they were wandering around. 

“Marketon, you need to start corralling ‘em,” Spamton spat.

“Who’s gonna drag the calves? ‘Sides, we only got your horse here, she ain’t letting me on easy.”

Spamton groaned, leaving as Linkson slid unsteadily to tie the next cow. He called Angel over again, mounting up again and shouting through the steadily increasing rain. 

“I’ll get them going, you two keep hauling.”

Linkson could only grunt as he tugged on the next cow. Marketon nodded, quickly turning to help. 

A nudge from Spamton’s heel and Angel took off across the pasture, letting him whoop to spook the cattle back in line. They trudged somewhat urgently towards the barn, but Spamton circled once more to make sure it stayed that way. He pulled his reins back towards Linkson and Marketon to see that they had barely made progress. Linkson pulled futilely at the next cow and Marketon chased one that had gotten away from the pack in her panic. 

Spamton leapt down to help Linkson again, stumbling through the mud and barely staying steady. The two Addisons tugged, but the cow was stubborn and panicked, nostrils flared and eyes manic. She yanked back and Spamton felt them tip forward.

A massive hand swooped in and snatched the rope from yanking them over the ledge. Spamton glanced back at the owner, far larger than any of the Addisons.

A familiar CRT sneered back. “Need a hand, partner?”

He grasped with his other hand and suddenly the tugging became much easier.

“C’mon old girl!” Tenna urged, digging his heels deep into the mud and managing to pull the cow over. She trotted off to join the herd.

“I can pull if you rope,” Tenna said to them.

Spamton prodded Linkson. “Rope ‘em, I’m doing another round up. Marketon! Take Butterscotch!”

Marketon looked bewildered, calf still struggling in his arms. He hauled her over and nodded, dashing to the huge cream-colored horse and taking off alongside Spamton. It only took one more round to reassemble the herd. 

“I’ll get the barn,” Marketon shouted, already trotting off towards the doors.

Spamton turned back to Tenna and Linkson, slowly but surely hauling the herd over. Spamton only counted three more cows and two more calves, one of which flailed in Linkson’s grip, mother bellowing after. Nearly there.

He dismounted just in time for Tenna to lose ground to the mud, boots sliding through the grass even as he desperately dug his heels in. Spamton grabbed him by the belt just in time to stop him from tumbling over.

“I gotcha Cathode, keep pulling.”

Tenna adjusted his footing as Spamton reached his other hand to grasp the rope. It landed right next to Tenna’s and he shifted his other hand to join, pulling with all his might. The cow finally dug her hooves into even ground and scampered off the minute Spamton pulled the rope free. 

“Linkson! Get the last calf! We got this one!”

Spamton clambered down to rope the last cow, cursing to himself as he realized it was only the old heifer left. Of course. Their biggest herd member. She stubbornly jerked away as he tried to slip the rope over her head, but he managed to capture her on the second try.

“C’mon ole girl,” he pleaded her with a slap to her flank.

She teetered forward a few steps and Tenna pulled, boots sliding through the deep divots they had carved out in their efforts, running his long legs practically parallel to the ground. Those bright blue jeans were caked in mud and his garish hat hung soggy from the downpour. Even under the sagging brim, Spamton could see his flickering screen and the hint of gritted fangs. All decorum dropped as his metal muscles strained. Yet even still he looked like the sleek, attractive country magazine model in spite of the muck. 

Or perhaps because of it.

“Spam,” he managed through his effort, “Could use some help, partner!”

Spamton shook the thoughts away, climbing back up to rejoin Tenna on the rope. His muscles ached as they pulled, the cow stubbornly yanking in the opposite direction. 

“YOU OLD HEIFER, STEP UP,” Spamton screamed, feeling his feet slip out from under him and leaving him on his ass. He scrambled upright again to give another tug.

Finally the cow relented, front hooves sliding through the muck as she strained to mount the ledge. Slowly, Spamton felt them gain ground, stepping back inch by inch until the protesting cow pulled herself up and shot away across the field towards the others in the distance. Spamton and Tenna tumbled backwards in a heap.

If not for the pouring rain and muddy mess they sat in, Spamton might have laid there a moment longer to give his aching muscles a break. Instead, he sprang back up, pushing off the CRT.

“C’mon, Tenna, we ain’t done yet.”

Tenna panted without reply. Spamton reached for his hand, giving what was hopefully his last tug of the night to pull his partner upright. As he rose, Angel trotted up, still lingering near Spamton even amid the downpour. He grasped at her reins.

“Think you can shrink, Cathode? I’ll ride us back.”

Tenna nodded, gritting his teeth again for a moment as he lost some inches. Spamton nodded back and mounted Angel, reaching a hand back down to help Tenna climb behind him. Even shrunken, Tenna felt massive and warm at Spamton’s back, his heart pounding where it pressed against him. 

Spamton once again had to push his stray thoughts aside as he steered them back toward the barn. Luckily, Marketon and Linkson seemed to be locking up the door already so they veered to join Marketon on his way to the stables.

At last, they exited the rain, soaked to their bones and shivering, ungracefully sliding off of Angel’s back. Spamton set to unsaddling her right away, attempting to towel her off as best he could.

“Good work, girl,” he murmured to her. She huffed softly back with a flick of her dripping tail.

The stable was quiet outside of the smooth sound of leather on leather, the soft swishing of idle horse tails and the storm rumbling overhead. Spamton had just hung Angel’s saddle when the door burst open, cracking through the silence.

Clickson frowned in the doorway, hat dripping but otherwise still wearing his pristine tight jeans and half-open floral button-up. No gloves or any other indication that he had lifted a finger in the wake of the raging storm outside. 

“Spamton,” he spat, “Office. Now.”

Spamton scowled, but finished latching Angel’s stall, giving her a final pat of thanks before trudging after Clickson into the adjoined stable office. It was a cramped, dusty space, with bare wood walls, rows of hardly touched filing cabinets and a high, thin window. It really ought to be Spamton’s office, but Clickson had claimed it as his second office, when he needed to be deeper in the ranch. Spamton couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been in it.

Clickson shut the door and quickly rounded on him. “I specifically told you NOT to push our special guest too hard. And yet, I see you coming back from emergency storm work, muddier ‘n all hell, cooing at that damn horse. Meanwhile, Mr Tenna is exhausted from your bullshit!”

Spamton frowned. “I told him to stay behind--”

“Bull,” Clickson cut in, finger jabbing and one hand on his hip, “You been looking for a chance to shame him the second he stepped on property. God heard your prayers, Spam! He sent a storm for you to send him out in, hallelujah.”

“Jackass,” Spamton hissed.

Clickson grabbed his shirt to better glare down at Spamton. “You’re toeing a line with this, jackass. I shoulda thrown you offa this ranch ages ago when you broke that horse to only tolerate you. I warned you that if you pulled skeezy shit like that again, I’d--”

The door burst open, Tenna marching in with two Addisons tumbled in front of him; they’d clearly been eavesdropping through the door.

“It was me!” Tenna shouted, “He told me to stay and I came out to help anyways. They needed help. I hardly call that skeezy shit.”

Tenna tried to lock gazes with Spamton but he glanced away with heated cheeks. He didn’t think he could take the shame of the city slicker, of all people, standing up for him.

Clickson faltered. “Mr Tenna, it's really not appropriate--”

“I asked to work a real ranch, I want to do real work, so that’s exactly what I did,” he waved his arms around in that animated way of his, “Spam’s been showing me the ropes and everything!”

Clickson glanced at each of them--the towering Tenna, Marketon and Linkson stumbling to their feet to stare ashamedly at the floor, Spamton still flushed and frowning--before huffing and adjusting his hat.

“Alright, Mr Tenna. Spamton… show our guest back to his accommodations. You can take the truck. I left the keys in when I pulled up.”

Spamton mulled over his reply. He thought he’d be upset that Tenna butted in, but he found the hot feeling in his chest lifting rather than sinking. He settled for a quick nod and shuffled out, hearing Tenna follow quietly after.

Outside of the dim glow of the stables, it was dark, with only a periodic strike of lightning showing their path. Spamton and Tenna climbed into the beat pick-up truck silently, leaving the roar of the rain the only thing filling their ears. The truck turned over one too many times but still rumbled to life, flickering headlights barely lighting their muddy path. Spamton brought them forward.

“Thanks,” Spamton muttered.

Tenna gave a light laugh. “I’m not just going to leave my partner out to dry. Although you look like you could use some drying.”

Spamton shoved at the TV with a smirk. “Hadda go and ruin it, Cathode. Can’t leave a punchline unpunched.”

Tenna giggled as he adjusted his soggy sleeves. “What can I say? I’ve got good comedic timing.”

“Oh that’s good?” Spamton sneered, “I’d hate to see the bad shit.”

It was Tenna’s turn to shove Spamton, still giggling too much to form a proper reply. Spamton grinned even as he kept his eyes on the mud road ahead, drenched in darkness.

The old truck finally trundled up to Tenna’s farmhouse. Spamton shifted into park, letting the pounding rain fill the silence again. They both sat motionless. Spamton opened his mouth at least three times before any words came.

“Would you--” “Will--”

They cut the other off. Tenna cleared his throat. “Sorry Spammy, go ahead.”

Spamton dragged his hat off as he regrouped. “You'll… you're leaving after next week, ain't ya?”

Tenna nodded, his screen light scattering the shadows. “Afraid so. Back to my whirlwind Hollywood life. I have a lot of projects to work on…”

Spamton glanced at him--his screen sparkling like a star--before immediately glancing back down. “Do you think…”

Spamton bit his tongue. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say in the first place, all he knew was that the burning in his gut was going to kill him.

And the burning told him he would miss Tenna when he left the ranch.

He felt a hand slide onto his thigh. 

“Hey,” Tenna said softly, “I'll still call. Come visit. You're not getting rid of me that easy.”

Spamton hummed as he patted the hand on his lap. “Thanks for your help.”

Tenna scoffed. “Of course! I wasn’t going to miss the chance to do real cowboy work, are you kidding? I'm paying good money for this!”

Spamton chortled. “You're a loon.”

“...am I a pretty loon at least?”

Spamton locked eyes on that sparkling screen again.

“You're beautiful.”

The TVs face flushed a full set of color bars. Spamton didn’t know it could do that.

“Spam, do you want to… come in? We can have a drink, see if the rain slows down?”

Spamton’s body reacted on its own, heating up and down at the thought of being sequestered away from the terrible storm with the tall, handsome screen flickering gently at him. Suddenly the touch on his leg felt searing.

“I'll pass tonight, Cathode,” he managed in spite of the heat. 

Tenna’s smile tweaked. “Ok. See ya bright and early Spam!”

Spamton grunted back, but still held a fond smile even as the TV sprinted through the rain and away into the dark farmhouse.

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Something had changed within Spamton. He wasn't certain what. The warmth in his core lingered even long after he parted with Tenna and finally settled down in bed. It took ages to be free of the caked-on mud, and he sighed with relief at his now dry body. 

Even still, his mind buzzed with thoughts of Tenna. The windows rattled and he wondered if Tenna knew the farmhouse did that on occasion. If he was someone to wring his hands and worry over the animals in the storm like Spamton was. Did his screen turn off when he slept? 

Would his body--warm as it pressed against Spamton's back while they rode together--heat Spamton's bed that much?

Did his ass look just as good outside the jeans as in them?

Spamton inevitably grew hard at that last thought. He palmed his dick through his boxers before pulling it free, precum already dangling off the tip. He grasped it with a lazy pump.

He couldn’t summon anyone outside of Tenna to his mind's eye. Tenna and his ridiculous campfire songs, forcing the Addisons to join in. Maybe a campfire with only him and Spamton wouldn't be so bad, they could sing all he wanted. Maybe Spamton could get Tenna to sing a different tune.

Although Tenna wasn’t much like a songbird or even the aforementioned loon. A peacock was more accurate. Strutting around in his ridiculous cowboy getup. The full outfit was a bit much, but Spamton had to admit, he worked the hat well. Spamton imagined knocking it off his boxy head. Maybe while they were grabbing each other.

Spamton thought of Tenna in the storm mere hours ago. Muscles fully strained, goofy screen screwed into something intense but no less compelling. Muddy and dirty and drenched but somehow still looking like a sparkling star. Spamton wanted those legs straining alongside his. Under his. Maybe they could wrap around him.

Tenna's hand slid on his lap, clutched under his own hand. Wandering somewhere it shouldn't as his screen leaned in closer. Maybe he should have gone in for that drink. Maybe they could have waited out the storm together. All night long.

Spamton’s dick unloaded as he gasped.

Heaven, he didn't know how he would face Tenna tomorrow. 

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Spamton had no choice but to face Tenna. For some reason, the idiot wanted to do farm work so badly. So Spamton grumbled and tried not to stare at Tenna too long as he hooked up the seeder to the ranch’s tiny tractor. 

At least it looked tiny sitting next to a ten foot CRT. Tenna smiled brightly despite Spamton’s grumbling. 

“The storm made a mess of the field. You're gonna walk ahead of me and clear any debris,” Spamton explained, “We ain’t really got the time to clear it beforehand.”

Tenna nodded, antennae bouncing like enthusiastic puppy ears. He tilted his head. “Why don't we have time?”

“Wanna beat the heat, for one,” Spamton replied, “Also wanna make time to give Angel and Butterscotch a bath. They're still muddy from last night.”

“Oh right! They deserve it, they worked hard,” Tenna agreed.

“Right…” Spamton mumbled back.

“So while I do all this labor, what are you gonna do? Sit on this thing?”

Spamton sneered back. “I’m gonna plant the actual fucking seeds. And make sure I don’t run your ass over.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Tenna replied as he adjusted his gloves. “I’ll walk ahead and start clearing. Start whenever you’re ready. Partner.”

Something about Tenna’s playful tone left Spamton’s mouth dry. He didn’t put a voice to the butterflies in his stomach, just grunted his usual grunt. Tenna strode ahead in the field and Spamton clambered up into the tractor seat.

The two took on a steady rhythm. Spamton urged the tractor slowly ahead while Tenna flitted to and fro, scooping up stray branches and debris. He glanced behind him on occasion, usually to gauge the tractor’s berth so he knew where to toss the pile in his arms away. Once or twice he slipped his gaze up to Spamton with a sly grin.

Spamton chewed his tobacco harder, pulling his hat lower over his face. Damn TV was too sexy for his own good.

Made worse by his constant bending to pick up the sticks. He’d long abandoned the chaps, just the bright blue jeans again, stretching over his plump backside, a bit dustier than the day he’d arrived. Spamton chewed harder.

The field wasn’t large, so it only took a few circuits back and forth to seed the whole thing. One more row left. Tenna had jogged ahead to clear the rest of the way while Spamton turned the tractor. Already he jogged back, hopping up on the tractor as Spamton pulled past.

“Got room for lil ole me?”

Spamton scoffed as he scootched slightly on the beat up seat. “Prolly not, but you can try to squeeze your big ass on.”

The seat was indeed too small, but Tenna tried anyway, wiggling his butt far too much in the process. He was practically on Spamton’s lap when he settled. Spamton tried not to think too hard about it as he kept the tractor steady.

“Got my first blister last night!” Tenna chatted brightly.

Spamton grunted as he spat to the side. “You’re way too excited about that. Paying to get blisters. Lord have mercy.”

Tenna leaned back, stretching an arm over the back of the seat behind them. “You don’t love your job?”

“Hell no. It’s work. Hard labor.”

“Well,” he tilted his antennae, “If you could do anything for a living, what would you do?”

Spamton chewed in thought. “If it were just me and the horses, I wouldn’t mind ranch life so much.”

Tenna chuckled. “That’s such a ‘you’ answer. Horses are easier than people, huh?”

Spamton shrugged. “S’pose so. They don’t talk back. They don’t shove their way onto my tractor.”

Spamton elbowed Tenna. This only seemed to encourage him to slide further onto Spamton’s lap. Spamton tried to focus on his grip on the steering wheel. Otherwise he probably would have yanked those long legs the rest of the way over his lap. Then where would they be?

Clickson would have his head for sure.

But glancing up at Tenna’s screen--glowing cheerfully forward, his grin adorned with a grass stalk again--he thought perhaps Tenna wouldn’t mind too much. 

He shut the seeder off as they pulled to the end of the last row. Spamton wheeled them back towards the shed.

He nudged Tenna. “You’re gonna hafta pull the shed door open for me when we get there.”

Tenna tipped his hat. “No problemo compadre!”

Spamton rolled his eyes with a chuckle. The TV leapt into action, striding ahead to pull open the sliding door. Spamton spat out the last of his chew before he motored in slowly, carefully parking the seeder before slipping to the ground to finish detaching it.

Tenna leaned against the tractor as he watched him, fanning his hat over his face. 

“If I wasn’t on TV,” Tenna continued, as if they’d never stopped talking, “I’d probably do this.”

Spamton shook his head without looking up from the seeder. “You like this shit that much?”

“Yeah! I could be a ranch hand on your horse farm!”

“You’d work for me?”

“Course I would, partner,” he replied in that faux Texas drawl. 

Spamton slapped his side as rebuttal. “You’re full o’ horseshit, maybe you do belong on a horse farm.”

The seeder now properly stowed away, Spamton and Tenna shoved the tractor to its own spot in the shed. Task finally complete, Spamton dusted his hands before slumping against the tractor next to Tenna.

“Well, if I ever start any new business ventures, I’ll let you know,” Spamton said.

Tenna returned to fanning himself, pulling at his loose shirt, several buttons already pulled free. Spamton’s eyes lingered longer than he'd like to admit on the peek of metal chest. Dusty from the work but still a sheen of sweat despite his robotic nature. 

Tenna didn’t seem to notice as he continued. “I could invest in your horse ranch.”

Spamton scoffed. “Yeah sure.”

“Really!”

Spamton wished he still had his snuff to chew on. Anything to prevent himself from gaping back at Tenna.

“My horse,” he managed, “I ain’t starting a ranch without her and I’d have to buy her off of Clickson. He’s a cutthroat son of a gun with his business deals, to say the least.”

“Of course, can’t forget Angel.”

Spamton gaped again. “You’re serious?”

Tenna smiled at him. Not the conniving sneer or the playful smirk. Something soft and glowing.

“I’m serious if you want me to be.”

Spamton suddenly realized how close they were. They stood waist to shoulder as the TV hung his screen low over Spamton. Spamton looked up at it, their noses almost touching. He couldn’t stop staring at Tenna’s lips, working at that grass stalk.

“D-do you… want to, Spam?”

Spamton shuddered. The question was the last push he needed to let his body take over for him. He tugged at the CRT’s shirt, yanking him lower and closing the last free inches of space between them.

They kissed, grass stalk tumbling away as Spamton greedily pushed into his lips. The bright screen tingled across his lips, making him want more. Tenna pushed back, whining at every tiny separation Spamton made to gasp for air and re-deepen the kiss. 

Spamton’s free hand floated up to yank on an antenna, pulling him closer. Tenna’s hands also scrambled to pull up more of Spamton, grabbing at his back and head as he moaned even louder into their lips. Spamton finally peeled away from their frenzy to murmur at his lips.

“Tenna will you--”

“Yes,” Tenna breathed back before Spamton could finish.

The excited reaction set Spamton’s heart off, pumping life straight into his pants. He kissed the CRT again for good measure, letting his hands wander under Tenna’s shirt. The CRT’s stomach and chest were almost too hot to touch, machine muscles still radiating heat from the effort of the morning. Spamton slid his hands lower, over those bright jeans to grab a handful of the ass he’d been eyeing. Taut with just enough give for his fingers to sink in as he squeezed. Tenna moaned into their kiss.

Tenna whined as Spamton parted again. His eyes darted over the taller man’s form, letting himself drink it up after an entire day avoiding it. Tenna’s shirt buttons had come loose, the last few barely dangling together over his bare chest. His flushed screen flickered as a fang sank into his lip. 

“Spammy…” he breathed, “God you’re so hot.”

Spamton balked. “Yeah?”

Tenna pursed his lips. “Yeah. You have no idea how jealous of Angel I’ve been...”

Spamton chuckled. Petty jealousy of the attention he gave his horse. Or perhaps that she was the one straining between his legs and not Tenna. Spamton’s heart raced. He’d just have to fix that. Give the TV the focus he’d been craving.

“Turn around,” Spamton ordered.

Tenna complied, sliding within Spamton’s arms to face his ass to him. Spamton's hands instantly fell back on him, wandering around the front of Tenna’s chest again, peppering kisses into his back. Tenna whined, impatiently pressing his backside into Spamton’s waist.

“I’ll getcha, partner,” Spamton murmured between kisses, “I gotta appraise all this beautiful land first.”

He dragged his hands back down to Tenna’s hips, sliding a finger under his waistband. Tenna bucked back against the motion. Spamton slid to his belt, tugging at it until he pulled it free, ridiculous TV buckle flopping aside. He fumbled for the jean’s button and zipper, feeling the behemoth underneath bulging against his hands. One swift tug and both pants and boxers slid aside to let it spring free. Tenna shuddered against him.

Spamton couldn’t help the grin growing on his face as he palmed Tenna’s penis. Already the tip leaked, quickly moistening the entire shaft as Spamton rubbed into it. Tenna moaned, gripping the tractor in front of him as he struggled not to squirm more. Spamton could barely wrap a hand around the thick dick. He didn’t think he could get any harder but as he felt Tenna pulse at each pump, he felt his pants become uncomfortable.

He licked his lips as his eyes roamed over the squirming Tenna again, gaze lingering on his ass and confirming that it wasn’t just the jeans making him look good. His free hand roamed over it, Tenna thrusting harder into his other hand in response. Spamton’s finger--sliding teasingly between Tenna’s cheeks--paused at an unexpected protrusion. He raised a brow, quickly shifting his grip to pull apart each cheek.

Something already poked from Tenna’s ass. Spamton tugged at it experimentally, getting a moaning reply from the TV.

“I-I wanted to be ready…” Tenna stuttered breathily. “Just in case…” 

Spamton chuckled incredulously as he gave another light pull on the plug. Tenna moaned again.

Spamton sneered. “I love city slickers.”

Gently, he pulled harder, savoring Tenna’s long hums of pleasure, holding his stare intently on the stretch of Tenna’s hole. Whatever Tenna had used to insert it quickly coated the region with slick. He pushed it back in, waggling it around amid Tenna’s moans until the TV gave a sharper cry, grinding backwards into Spamton.

Bingo.

The TV was so big, even just the gentle pushes back into Spamton threatened to topple him. Spamton finally pulled the plug free, tossing it carelessly as he focused back on the man in front of him. He urged him up onto the seat of the tractor so Tenna didn’t have to hold himself up and Spamton could plant himself more properly behind him. He pumped a hand back onto the massive dick as he hurriedly struggled to free his own. 

One last fumble with his belt and he shook his hips free from his pants and boxers, wasting no time rubbing into Tenna’s rear. Tenna pushed back again with a whine, matching Spamton as he grinded at his opening.

“S-Spammy…”

Spamton was trying to savor it. He really was. But when you have a bucking ass under you and a gorgeous screen calling your name, it proved difficult to remain a gentleman. In fact, it seemed to wipe his mind clean, commanding him to mount this wild stallion now, especially after he’s waited so patiently for you. 

He pushed the tip in, again trying to take his time. But Tenna was just as impatient as he was and had been stimulated for far longer. The tight hole shoved backwards around Spamton, swallowing up another inch. He groaned.

“Ah… Tenna,” he pulled back then pushed forward to give another inch, “You feel so good.”

Tenna whined back, pushing back one more time. Spamton met him with one last snap of his hips, fully sheathing himself in the thick ass with a moan. 

He took a moment to enjoy the tightness around him, Tenna’s own weeping dick twitching from the sensation and his hole throbbing around Spamton. Spamton had time to sink his fingers into Tenna’s hips before the CRT bucked back against him once again, urging him to keep going.

Spamton obliged, pumping into Tenna with reckless abandon. Tenna humped back, quickly causing Spamton to lose ground, sliding backwards across the dirt floor. He hooked his boots onto the tractor, stepping up a bit higher and bearing down. Tenna howled at the new angle, burying his face into his arms in a failed attempt to muffle the racket he was making. It was useless. Anyone who wandered by would hear him screaming Spamton’s name, and short of that they would hear the slap slap slap of their hurried lovemaking.

A minute longer and Spamton lost himself to the rush racing through the back of his skull and down through his groin. A few more clumsy thrusts and he released, shoving his load deep into Tenna. He pawed back around Tenna’s stomach, grasping at that huge dick again to give a few more pumps and feel the TV’s load pulse out onto the tractor seat.

Spamton slumped over Tenna, still gasping for air, letting himself savor Tenna’s insides for a moment longer. Tenna didn’t rush him, still sprawled as he was over the tractor, catching his own breath. Eventually, having gone soft, he pulled free and climbed off of Tenna, frowning at the mess that followed.

“Ah, um… one sec, darling,” he said, placing a steadying hand on Tenna.

He whistled, and of course Angel trotted in, never one to let something like a building she wasn’t allowed in keep her from from coming to his call. He fumbled at her saddle bag, extracting a sloshing water bottle and a clean rag he usually used on particularly sweaty days. He clumsily wet the rag.

“Might be a little cold, Cathode.”

Tenna gave a little yelp at the rag as Spamton wiped his mess. Tenna flipped over mid-cleaning, screen still flushed with rainbows and chest now completely bare.

“Y-you don’t have to do that Spam…”

“I want to. ‘Sides,” he nodded at the tractor, “Can’t leave the farm equipment a mess.”

Tenna’s grin returned. “Sure you’re not talking about me?”

Spamton kicked a red boot in retaliation, slotting himself back between Tenna’s legs to lean over and get a kiss. 

“True. I need my ranch hand ship-shape if we’re opening this thing together.

Tenna giggled, grabbing Spamton again for another kiss. Even Spamton had to smile.

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞

Mike rolled down the dusty driveway at a painstakingly slow pace. Tenna grew impatient. The day’s television obligations had been a pair of obnoxious interviews promoting his new cowboy flick (seriously, is there no respect for cowboys anymore??) and the long flight had worn his patience even thinner. Now his assistant decided today was the day he was going to drive safely. Or perhaps Tenna had just been hustling so much the pace felt slow that lazy afternoon.

Tenna fiddled with his suspenders nervously, until finally, the car rolled to a stop. He leapt out immediately, already making long strides to the farmhouse door as he called back.

“Don’t wait up, Mike! I’m good for the day!”

“But sir, your bags--”

Tenna slammed the door shut behind him, rushing into the kitchen. Empty. He frowned, peeling his jacket and tie off to toss onto a chair before heading back outside via the back door.

This time he scanned the fields. He could just make out a Blood Bay hovering by one of the barns. He smirked as he marched towards her. 

Angel didn’t even have her saddle on, just a bit and bridle. She whinnied at his approach, flipping her mane at the barn as if to say ‘can you believe this guy?’ Tenna was already smiling at what he’d find inside, likely passed out on piles of hay.

He paused. Tenna expected the sleeping Addison, just not for him to be half-naked. He still had his familiar black hat, tilted low over his face, teetering with each gentle snore. His limbs splayed out across the hay. He had his black boots, but no shirt--leaving his alabaster color on full display--and his pants barely clung to his hips. They sat low enough that Tenna could tell he also didn’t bother with underwear.

He sighed, shaking his head at the sight. Not like he could be too angry. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want Spamton in some state of undress now that he had arrived for the week. 

Tenna still couldn’t believe his chance meeting with Spamton. He had wanted a change of pace, something entirely different from his breakneck life of showbiz. He loved it--still did--but something had gone stale. He longed for a nostalgia he never had, of simple work on a simple ranch, of sweat on his brow and a country kitchen filled with the fruits of his labor. Just like he’d seen in some of his old favorite cowboy shows. 

Mike had done some research and settled on CnC Ranch, a farm willing to accommodate his eccentric requests. He got what he was looking for, but it was what he wasn’t looking for that really changed things. 

The second he stepped out of his car, the very moment his gaze fell onto the cowboy clad in all black, glowering at him from a beautiful rust red horse, he had to know more. He had to learn about this loner among yesmen. About Spamton. He felt he was just the kind of character Tenna needed to reinvigorate his showman’s life.

And if he got his number… well, that was just a nice bonus.

He ended up with so much more than that.

Tenna was serious when he offered to fund a ranch of Spamton’s own, and after some hesitation, Spamton took the offer. He trained some of the finest horses in the region, though Angel still remained his primary faithful steed. The ranch gave Tenna his own little slice of Heaven to retreat to as well. While the farm was the primary aim, the cowboy taking care of it was a pleasant and welcome surprise. Arguably the most important ingredient to this entire endeavor, in the end.

He nudged his partner, boot-to-boot. He got a lazy grunt in reply.

“C’moooon, Spam. I thought you were showing the paint mare to that human couple down the road. One of them was looking for a horse? The one in blue?”

“Y’mean Blue?” Spamton chuckled from under his hat, “They cancelled.”

Tenna flopped in the hay next to him, jostling Spamton with a light ‘oof’. He finally peeked out from under his brim. That dark, piercing eye with the wicked eyebrow creased overtop. Tenna smiled wider at the scowl. 

“So you’ve got time, is what you’re saying?” Tenna asked.

Spamton rolled to face him, hooking a finger under one of his suspenders and tugging. “Got other ideas for our time, big shot?”

Tenna bit his lip. “Yeah, got something in mind.”

They leaned in for a kiss, but were interrupted with a sharp huff before they could get much further. The horse leaned in to huff at them with her muzzle.

Spamton groaned. “Alright, alright, girl, I owe you a run.”

“I’ll make dinner,” Tenna offered, “If you promise to come back… a little lighter.”

Spamton stood, brushing hay off his barely clinging jeans. “A lil lighter, huh? Feel like I’m already travellin’ pretty light.”

“You could be lighter.”

Spamton sneered. “Yeah I could. If there was pie involved.”

“Deal,” Tenna sprung back to his feet. “See you soon, country boy?”

Spamton grinned as he leapt onto Angel. “See you soon, city slicker.”

♞.°˖⋆ ℧ ⋆.°˖♞