Now's Your Chance!!! Spamton x Reader

Heart-To-Heart

Spamton is under your shared bed, hissing and chomping at the air any time you try to pull him out. You've tried everything short of outright swiping at him, but he only wriggles deeper into the darkness. 

There is no protocol for this.

"Pss pss pss. Ps-ps-ps-ps-psp," you force out, beckoning exasperatedly. It's a last ditch effort, and it's definitely not working. 

You flop down on your back with a great sigh.

You peer into the crevice between the bed and the floor. All you see are staticked glasses- did he grab them in his dash to his hidey-hole?- and the reflection of said static on a small patch of carpet.

"Spamton. Buddy. Pal. I know you're distressed, even if I don't know why, but I'm really trying here. I don't know what you want from me. But I'm sure we can figure things out, right? Just talk to me." 

Silence.

"I promise I won't be mad, no matter what it is," you offer, not for the first time.

More silence.

"I... I'm getting tired, bud," you say with a slightly exaggerated yawn."I'm either sleeping up on that bed with you or right here on the floor. Up to you."

You hear the smallest whimper and take that as a good sign.

"You care about my health, right? Gotta keep the customer happy and healthy! Best, uh, best deals you got?" 

You see the hint of a long nose poking out from under the bed.

It's your last shot. Your ace-in-the-hole. Your nail in his coffin.

"Wanna make a deal over it? You come out and tell me what's up, and we both get a good night's sleep?"

He doesn't move, but you can practically smell his interest.

You'll have to sweeten the pot.

"Fine. That. and... I dunno what you'd want that I have, Spam. I'm just as broke as you-" He recoils a bit at this, "-and I don't exactly have any services that I can offer. I'm just... I dunno. Me, I guess."

He mutters something. You can't hear what he says, but you know that it's in real people words instead of the strange garbled mess he's been spewing for the last however-long.

In other words, you get the feeling it's important.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," you say in the gentlest voice you can muster up. "Can you repeat that?"

"...W@rm," He whispers. 

The single word seems to have been enough to break whatever spell he was under, because now he's spilling like his life depends on it.

"Y04 w3r3 [[I'll be s0]] [[I'LL bes8]] [[I'll be 5o]] w@rm, so n1c3,, I co6ldn'y [HELP] it, I--" He army-crawls out until his whole head is next to yours. From what you can see, his hair is a mess. Somehow despite his many years living in alleyways and dumpsters without a bath, this is the most disheveled you've ever seen him. Tear tracks paint his face, just barely reflecting the almost constant static in his glasses. In the brief moments where his glasses do shift back to color, though, you see the most genuine, heartbreaking care and fear in his eyes.

He grips at the carpet below him with desperate, shameful hands.

"I... I jjust... w4nntT3d. 2 be..." 

"...Warm?" You hold the word out like a peace offering. 

He flinches as if you were about to hit him. When instead you offer your confused olive branch, he breaks into a sob that sounds more like relief than sorrow. He clings to you, suddenly overwhelmingly close. The smell of oil and rubber is overpowering. Still, you wrap your arms around him, ushering him closer to the crook of your neck and shoulder.