Now's Your Chance!!! Spamton x Reader

Virus Alert! [[SFW]]

Spamton's glasses explode with color and he lets out a pitiful whimper, dropping his head to your chest. He clings to your shoulders desperately, his fingers digging under the straps of your breastplate and burrowing into the fabric beneath. He gasps as another glitch sparks through him, sending him pressing further into you.

"Spam, what's wrong?" You run your fingers through his sweaty hair, trying to soothe him. Electricity shoots through your fingers, leaving your skin feeling singed.

He tries to talk, but only static comes out, ending with a violent cough. He hacks and wheezes into your chest. 

"Hey, are you okay? Ah, shit-" 

He whines, sliding down to your lap pitifully. He curls into a ball, clutching his stomach as coughs wrack his body. 

"I brought you lunch-?" You start to offer, but he cuts you off.

"IT [[Hur tZZ_-ss]]," he groans. "I-t [[ouch ouCh 0ouc euch uuch]] [E-E-E-E-E]]" His voice crackles and jumps, worsened by his heavy, violent breaths.

Watching Spamton squirm in your lap, you realize the Hacker was right. This isn't at all how you imagined this going. Newton's an Addison too, so he should have known better, right? He told you to do this, and it should have worked, it should have made Spamton better- Was it on purpose? Was Newton just as malicious as the others? Oh, you never should have trusted him--

 ...But you know it's not really Newton's fault. You ignored the Hacker's advice outright. Newton clearly didn't know any better than you, and you definitely knew nothing about the situation. You're not even a monster, let alone a Darkner! You don't have the anatomy to know on principle what's good and what's bad! You should have listened!

You're in this mess now, though, and Spamton's clearly not well enough to take care of himself. 

If you can't take care of him the Darkner way, you're going to take care of him the Lightner way.

"Tilt your head back for me," you say, drawing him up against your chest. As he leans into you in glitching obedience, you test his forehead with your hand.

He's damp with sweat, but it's a clammy chill. He's ice-cold. He's never been particularly warm- at least, not until he started borrowing your magic- but now, it's less a room-temperature chill and more like he's been sitting in a refrigerator for a day. 

"Wh@-t's[ZZ] th[a] [***i3k%Jn]] [Eh, Wha//t's Up Doc?]]?" 

"You're freezing." You stroke his hair back, attempting to fix the unfixable mess his hair has become. He leans into your touch, electric though the contact may be for you both.

"YE[ah]? W3-W3-we''ll [u]'re [Fourcast 98.6^degr.ees]," he laughs, entire body vibrating.

"Shh. Can you eat?"

"I [Canned] do muc--h of [I Can Do Any-Any-Anything] like thi,,s," he chuckles miserably. "[[Ouch It Burns Help Me Help Me It Hurts]]!"

You cringe at the clip he uses, but try not to think about it too much. Now's not the time for acid trauma talk.

Instead, you reach for the bag of food. It crinkles as you pull out the cup of soup and a plastic spoon.

"Let me help you," you murmur, already popping the lid off of the soup. Wisps of steam drift off the surface, making lazy shapes in the air.

Spamton eyes it nervously.

"I-I-I don't [[not s0re]] if I can [k33p yur ASSETS] [no $$$ Down!!!]," he chatters. 

"Maybe not, but then again, it might make you feel better," you insist, thinking about it's healing properties. "Can you try for me?"

He mutters nasty nonsense, but starts to reach for the spoon- But he stops short with his arms extended. Seeing them tremble and knowing he sees it too, well...