Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Anode is riding the escalator when she sees her again. Her hand rests on the railing, itching with anticipation, pedes going from still to tapping, desperate to finish her descent, but there’s people in front of her on the stairway, the spaceport is abuzz with energy but it’s her, she’s here, she came after all-

“Lug!” Anode calls, and the mech in front of her tilts his head in a way that makes it clear he’s annoyed but there’s nothing in her that cares.

“Anode!!” Lug calls back, waving her little arms above her head, and her optics are filled with the same excitement that fills Anode’s chest, light and breezy and frantic. She hasn’t seen her in ages. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss her until she didn’t have her anymore.

The mech in front of her stepped out of the way, anticipating her sudden surge forward as she grabbed her friend in a hug, vaulting her into the air. For a backpack, Lug was not a particular fan of being carried, but she made no move to get down, laughing and clinging to Anode’s neck, the sound a tinkle of bells and joy.

“I missed you so much!” Lug says, into her neck, and Anode shivers under her plating.

“I missed you more!” Anode tells her, and Lug pulls back, still giggling.

“Nope,” she asserts, sticking her tongue out, “I missed you most, for sure.”

It’s something about the motion, the cheeky little gesture but it draws Anode’s optics to her lips and without thinking she leans forward and kisses her, even though her tongue is in the way. She pulls back immediately, mortified, faceplate heating, babbling an apology that does get past senseless sounds, but before she can try to put her down, Lug has grabbed her by the face and pulled her in proper, mouth soft and warm against hers, all that electric energy in her chest passing between them.

“Maybe we both missed each other equal,” Anode says, softly, reverently, when she finally pulls away

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“You know, I think you are terrifically hard on yourself, I really do,” Blurr tutted, running his hands over Waspinator’s antennae, head laid in his lap over crossed legs. Waspinator chirped something noncommittal in response and Blurr gave and exaggerated sigh, running his fingers up his antennae again, gently stroking them to lay flat. “You don’t have anything to prove, we’ve fully exonerated you of the crimes for which you were unjustly condemned, no one will begrudge you the right to at least some privacy, you know.”

“Waspinator know this. Waspinator like to try anyway.”

“You don’t need to overstimulate yourself,” Blurr moved his hands to petting down Waspinstor’s neck instead, smoothing his palms across carapace plating, warm beneath the surface, “It’s okay to know your limits. You’re doing your best and that’s all anyone can expect of you. And if they expect anymore I assure you, they can certainly expect a response from me.”

Waspinator laughed, a sound like a cricket chirping through a megaphone, the rumble passing through Blurr’s chassis.

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“Come on, come on!” Tailgate laughed, tugging at his claw, one handed, pulling Whirl along through the corridor.

“What?” Whirl asked, trying to focus on his step pattern- his legs were longer than Tailgate’s, but he was jogging, so he had to recalculate his gait to stay steady, “What is it you want to show me so badly?”

“If you’d stop dragging your feet you would see!” Tailgate teased, and then let go of his claw to push open a door at the end of the hall. Whirl immediately felt the loss and needily grabbed for his hand back when it was free again.

“Okay, so what is it out here that’s so- oh.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Tailgate, the smile in his voice apparent even without a mouth behind his faceplate, “the stars are perfect here, by Rivet’s Field. No light pollution.”

Whirl heard the door shut behind them, but his optic was fixed on the sky, the galaxy cracked open like spilled energon, speckled with half-remembered stars.

“Wow,” he croaked, eventually, voice hoarse, and Tailgate tightened his grip on his his claw, leaning against his side.

“I know you missed the stars, Birdy,” he said, softly, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Whirl pulled his optic away from the sky and looked down at the minibot at his side, one hand on his claw, visor bright as it gazed up at him with undisguised adoration, reflecting the galaxy back at him.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Beautiful.”

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“You’re going to catch it,” Whirl said, pulling tighter into himself, optic on the wall, “Just leave me alone.”

“No,” said Tailgate, working baking soda grit into the seam lines of Whirl’s back where he couldn’t reach, the flakes of rust creeping out of the joints like grasping hands.

“Seriously,” Whirl continued, “It’s contagious.”

“I know,” said Tailgate. He pulled at abdominal plating, working the rag in beneath the plating overlap.

“Stop being nice to me,” Whirl whispered, hiking his shoulders together, “It won’t bring him back. It won’t make you for real junxies just because you were nice to me. I’m not him. I won’t ever be him.”

Tailgate didn’t pause in his work, scrubbing at corrosion before it could get worse, beating back the ride of rust that threatened to consume the helicopter in his berth. “He would have liked you, you know. You managed to stay on the least wrong side of the war until the end. I think he would have liked that.”

“I started the damn war.”

“I think you’re projecting.”

Whirl looked away from the wall down toward his own claws, clenching and unclenching against the berth. Behind him, Tailgate changed out the rag for a new one and resumed his work. He was probably saving his life, again.

“Thank you,” he said, hoarse, strained. Tailgate paused, and then leaned forward, his forehead pressed against the back of Whirl’s helm.

“You deserve it,” he said, softly, “You’ll believe me eventually.”

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“Rodimus, what are you doing?” Drift laughed, as Rodimus clambered up onto the bar counter.

“I’m telling you, I know how to do this!” Rodimus insisted, hitting his drink with his foot and knocking it over the side. Drift grabbed it with muscle memory and stared at it in surprised delight that he’d managed to catch it.

“Rodimus, get off the bar!” Swerve yelled.

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m gonna- I’m gonna do a strip tease, like the organics-” Rodimus giggled, wobbling.

“Wh- how?”

“Sh, sh, I’ve got this-” Rodimus stood up and posed and Drift clapped, manically, huffing with laughter.

Rodimus paused a moment uncertainly, and then put both hands on his chest plate, thumbs under the transformation seam, and neatly dislodged it with a click, then swung it to the side. Drift whistled.

“Is this doing anything for anyone?” Rodimus called, twirling his hood plating coyly.

“A little bit!” Whirl yelled back.

“You see, Drift? Whirl’s into it.”

“Only a little bit!”

“Only a little bit,” Drift giggled, and made grabby hands for Rodimus to sink down to his knees and kiss him, laughing into his mouth.

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“Hey!” Brainstorm called over the din of conversation in the room, leaning across the bar, “Can I get our regulars then, eh?”

“What even is your regular?” Chromedome asked, “You spent two years bringing your own engex to a bar. What does he think your regular is?”

Swerve waved back, distracted, but confirming, surrounded by a swarm of his serving drones like a queen bee, a mental image Brainstorm found amusing. He wondered what Swerve would look like in yellow.

“I don’t know,” Brainstorm chuckled, “He gives me something different every time.”

“Where’s Rewind, anyway?” Chromedome turned, scanning the packed room, “Think he’s running late?”

“I’m sure he’s just passing time with Tailgate while they wait for their boyfriends to show up,” Brainstorm turned and tapped an audial, pinging the minibot in question a location request.

“Oh- huh,” said Chromedome, “There he is.”

Rewind was leaned on the corner table, hands carded over his faceplate, visor dim. Across from him sat Drift, gesturing as he spoke.

Brainstorm frowned, then pushed away from the bar and crossed to their table, feet losing speed in confusion at the look Rewind have him when he looked up, visor lighting up candy-apple red.

“What’s- ah,” said Drift, turning, optics falling on chromedome and Brainstorm, “I should go.”

“No, you should stay,” Rewind said harshly.

“I’m lost,” said Brainstorm, uncomfortable.

“Rewind is mad,” said Chromedome, shifting his stance, as if he was considering running, “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t sorry if you don’t know what you did,” Rewind snapped, “And why do you think I’m just mad at you?”

“Rewind-”

“Did it occur to you maybe I’m justified in being upset?” Rewind put both his hands palms flat on the table, leaning forward, “You lied to me!”

“What? About what?!”

“About Overlord!”

“What?” Chromedome stalled, “I told you about Overlord.”

“You didn’t tell me Brainstorm was involved!”

Brainstorm’s wings flattened, sharp and sunk. “Ah.”

“I really should go,” Drift repeated, awkwardly.

“Well this was- I mean this was before, you already didn’t like him, I didn’t think-”

“You didn’t and you never do!” Rewind snapped, fingers curling into fists, “Why do I always have to pry the truth out of you? Why do I always hear things like this from someone else? Why do you treat me like this?!”

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Whirl woke bleary, visual feed hazy through his cracked optic, a whirlwind of shapes and colours that didn’t make sense, all movement and form without meaning, and at the center of it, him. Tailgate was a pillar to focus on, something real, a rock in a storm.

Both of them were bloodied and beaten but alive even still, a sight for sore optics each, though Whirl was probably worse off, even if Tailgate’s sore optics lacked sight. Even on his side in the rebel medibay he felt dizzy, only semi-lucid, uncertain if it was the disassociation or the bloodloss making him feel that way, but he reached out, claw trembling, to touch his faceplate, as gently as he could.

Tailgate startled at the touch, still blind, and Whirl nearly yanked his pincer away again before Tailgate grabbed it in his hands and held it like something precious, breakable, leaning his cheek against it.

“I think you saved my life,” Whirl rasped, voice hoarse.

“Yeah,” said Tailgate, his own voice strained with emotion, “I think I did.”

“What’d you go and do that for?” Whirl said, trying to chuckle, “I already owed you big time. Now I owe you again.”

Tailgate laughed in a way that came close to a sob, pushing his faceplate harder against Whirl’s claw. “You do. You owe me. You know what you owe me?”

“Everything?” Whirl asked, hesitantly.

“You owe me a kiss,” Tailgate whispered, softly, into his plating.

Whirl took a shaky invent and released it, plating rattling weakly. “I can’t,” he said, finally, “I ain’t equipped. I can’t kiss you. I can barely touch you,” he moved his claw to stroke Tailgate’s face, a jerky, off-kilter motion that betrayed his own substandard joints, “…without hurting you.”

“Hush,” Tailgate said, softly, and then reached blindly forward, toward Whirl’s face, and unable to resist the request, he leaned up on one elbow and pushed his helm into the minibot’s searching palm. He leaned forward, careful, slow, black visor reflecting the yellow glow of Whirl’s optic back at him, and he shut it off, focusing on the feeling, as Tailgate’s mouthplate touched the lip of his helm casing, static passing between them, soft and silent.

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“How did you get in here?!” Whirl scoffed, looking up from his datapad.

“I used the password,” Animus said, smugly, keying the door to their room shut behind him.

“Oh, come on, I just changed it!”

“you changed it to Aniwhirl, which I already told you sounded terrible,” Animus laughed.

“Oh, come on, it’s better than Whirlimus,” Whirl huffed, sitting up.

“No way! Whirlimus follows the prime naming scheme! You know, Nominus, Optimus? Rodimus? Is he a real prime? I’m honestly not sure.”

“I don’t think he is. I think he’s just a really good con artist.”

“Has to be. I mean, we’re here, aren’t we?”

“True. But I’m telling you,” Whirl rolled his optic, making grabby claws for his roommate-turned-boyfriend to join him on the berth, “Whirlimus is my theoretical prime name, not our ship name. I won’t have it.”

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Chromedome picked up a set of old, unlabeled vid discs and set them into the box with the rest of Rewind’s things with an amount of gentleness and care that was inconsistent with his intentions for the items therein. Brainstorm eyed him from the doorway passively for awhile as he continued his work, methodically, calmly, like it was normal. He waited for Chromedome to acknowledge his presence, but as usual, the mnemosurgeon’s willingness to ignore him outlasted Brainstorm’s patience.

“If you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this,” he said, eventually, voice thick with unspoken grief. To his credit, Chromedome paused, at least.

“You’re going to leave me the job of remembering, again,” Brainstorm continued, voice barely above a whisper, hoarse and strained, “Force me to do the mourning for two, like always.”

“What are you talking about?” Chromedome asked, still packing, “You never even liked Rewind.”

“No?” Brainstorm asked, with a strangled laugh, “Didn’t I? He cared about you. How could I not like anyone who made you happy? I always think it will hurt less if I don’t get attached, but maybe I’m just as bad at that as you are.”

Chromedome finally paused and turned back toward him, “Seriously. What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not to you. You’re happy to leave me with all your suffering, and I’m still going to follow you to the end of the universe and just take it,” Brainstorm spat. “I wish I wondered what you would do if you knew. But I do know. You’d forget.” He leaned off of the doorframe and left.

Chromedome stood, blinking, running through the conversation in his head, back and forward, as if that might make it make sense. He considered comming Brainstorm to come back and elaborate, but instead, he turned away, shut the flaps on top of the box, and unfolded a new one to finish packing.

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"Whirl!" Tailgate whined from Cyclonus's lap, "Come here!" 

Whirl didn't look up from what he was doing, legs crossed in his seat, bent over the desk with the focus of a mech possessed, "In a minute!"

"You've been saying 'in a minute' for over an hourrrrr ," Tailgate groused, dragging out the word and flopping backwards dramatically. Cyclonus pulled one hand away from the datapad he was reading to pet his conjunx's helm consolingly. 

"It's not nearly been that long," Whirl scoffed, gently setting a piece of circular gearwork into the housing with a set of tweezers, "I'm almost done!" 

"You've not even picked the hands for it yet," Tailgate pouted, "You're not nearly close to finishing."

"Nnn," Whirl said, intelligently, "I'm on a roll, though." 

"You're going to be up all night on a feverish clockmaking bender again," Tailgate sighed, "and I'm never going to get my Whirlibird cuddles."

Whirl turned his optic toward his partner's where they rested on their shared berth across the room, "Not true!" 

"Am I not enough for you, little one?" Cyclonus teased, tilting his head away from the book he was reading. 

"I have been cuddling you all night, and I want my Whirlibird now," Tailgate huffed. 

"So needy," Cyclonus rumbled.

"Well, I am pretty irresistible," Whirl nodded sagely, "Come here. I've got legs for days, you can just sit in my lap."

"Yes!" Tailgate cheered, skittering out of Cyclonus's lap, onto the floor, across the room and into Whirl's, immediately curling up like a particularly snuggly cat. 

"You're insatiable," Whirl snorted. 

"Yes," said Tailgate, primly.

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