[IDW] The Rule of Three 01
Jan. 21st, 2019 06:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: The Rule of Three
Universe: IDW, MTMTE
Characters: Whirl/Cyclonus/Tailgate, Swerve
Rating: T
Enticements: Fluff, Angst, Romance, Getting Together
Description: Whirl had a plan. It was a good plan. By the end of it, he’d be rich, Cyclonus and Tailgate would be together, and all would be well. And then the plan went awry. Because Whirl? He fell in love, too.
Commission for an Anonymous Person.
Prologue
This wasn’t part of the plan.
Falling in love. It was never part of the plan.
No. Scratch that. Falling in love, that was inevitable. Except those feelings? Were supposed to be between Cyclonus and Tailgate. And they are!
Whirl knew to the depths of his angry spark, Cyclonus and Tailgate loved each other. They were just… awful at saying so. And showing so. And pretty much everything around the way normal mechs were supposed to behave when feelings were mutual.
Helping them get together was practically a public service.
Except, the kicker, was the awkward part of the plan.
The part where Whirl fell in love with them, too.
Part One
It started with Swerve.
He’d made some offhand comment about how aggravating it was to watch Cyclonus and Tailgate dance around their feelings, because Tailgate was kind of a coward and Cyclonus didn’t know how to use his words. It was exhausting and nauseating and aggravating and the betting pool around the Lost Light was starting to reach historical proportions.
Something had to be done, Swerve reasoned.
So Whirl got to thinking. He clacked his claws together, eyed the significant amount of creds he’d already laid on Tailgate being the first to polish his bearings and stand his ground, and decided that if something had to be done, Whirl was going to be the one to do it.
That wasn’t technically interfering with the situation. He’d argue semantics later.
Whirl chugged the rest of his drink, shoved the empty cube across the counter toward Swerve, and leveraged himself out of the stool. He pondered where to start first, and then almost smacked himself because duh.
Easier targets first.
It took some searching. He had to ask more than a few crewmates, some of whom didn’t want to be helpful, but eventually they pointed him in Tailgate’s direction.
Tailgate was in the washracks, in the stall furthest from the entrance, the one mechs tended to use for a little fun with semi-privacy. But Cyclonus was on duty, so Whirl knew Tailgate was in there alone.
“Tailgate!” he sang as he strode down the otherwise empty rows. His voice rang through the tiled walls, echoing back to him.
“I’m busy,” came the reply, a bit softer in volume than what Whirl had used, and tremulous at that. Sharp, also, sharp enough to echo as Whirl’s had.
Was he not alone after all? Had Tailgate found a bit of fun on the side? Good for him!
“Too busy for your best friend Whirl?” He jogged up to the divide and peered around the corner, only to find Tailgate was alone, though he was hunched forward, one hand braced on the wall.
“Too busy period!” Tailgate said, sounding more panicked now. He glanced over his shoulder, his visor streaked white. “Whirl! Go away!”
Oh, he was busy all right. Handling some important tasks, yeah? Something Cyclonus should have been helping him with because he was dumb and stubborn.
If Whirl could grin, he would have. “Yeah, you look like you got your hands full.” He shifted back around the wall, but peeked around the corner anyway. “Need some help?”
“Go!” Tailgate’s vocals crackled.
Whirl chuckled and ducked out of sight. He leaned against the wall, arms folded under his cockpit, and waited.
He didn’t pretend he wasn’t listening. He tilted his head and dialed up his audials and drank in the quiet gasps, the engine revs, the barely audible slide of fingers around a spike. Tailgate’s stuttered moan echoed under the fall of the solvent, and a shiver wracked Whirl’s spinal strut.
He wished he could have been able to watch, at least. He’d bet a hundred creds Tailgate looked very cute when overloading.
A few moments later, the solvent cut off, the head drip-dripping to the floor. Tailgate peered around the corner, dripping also, and Whirl handed him a meshcloth without a word.
Tailgate didn’t have a mouth. Even so, Whirl knew he was scowling.
“You’re so rude,” he complained.
“It’s a public space, Legs,” Whirl said with a chuckle. He gleefully watched as Tailgate toweled himself off with quick wipes of the mesh. “If you didn’t want an audience, you should have gone somewhere private. Like your berthroom.”
“That would’ve been worse!” Tailgate spluttered as he tossed the wet towel at Whirl, who snapped up and caught it before it could strike him in the face.
Tailgate was adorable when he was flustered.
“Why’s that?” Whirl asked as he fell in step beside the minibot, who left little wet tracks behind him. Tiny ones for tiny feet.
Ultra Magnus would have a fit if he saw those.
“What if Cyclonus had walked in on me?” Tailgate asked, aghast.
Whirl lobbed the damp towel toward the laundry bin. “Then maybe he would’ve joined in.” He followed Tailgate out of the communal washracks and into the hall.
“No, he wouldn’t have,” Tailgate replied with such finality in his tone, Whirl was taken aback. His field flattened with misery, and Whirl got the sense it had happened before.
Oh.
“Well, Cyclonus fancies himself a gentleman. He probably thought he was being respectful by not even offering,” Whirl said, trying to keep his tone light and dismissive. It’s not a big deal, not at all.
Tailgate’s visor streaked a rainbow of color, as if he couldn’t settle on a reaction. “I don’t want him to be a gentleman,” he wailed. “I want him to frag me.”
Whirl would have gaped, if he had a mouth. “Uh.” He scratched at the underside of his optic. “Have you tried, I dunno, telling him that?”
Tailgate’s field flared. He looked scandalized. “Are you kidding? He’d reject me!”
Whirl was just about one-hundred percent sure rejection was nowhere in Cyclonus’ catalog of responses to anything Tailgate would ask of him. Though he understood why Tailgate might think so. Their relationship had a history of being, er, tumultuous.
Still.
“I’m starting to think you don’t understand him at all,” Whirl said, and patted Tailgate on the head with a little sigh. “But hey, that reminds me. I went looking for you for a reason.”
Tailgate peered up at him, the light behind his visor narrowed and suspicious. “I’m not playing another prank on Skids. The last time didn’t go so well for me.”
“Yeah, but it was pretty hilarious.” Whirl would grin, if he could. “No, it’s not a prank. Just thought you and me could have a little conversation about you and Cyclonus.”
Tailgate’s field flickered around the edges, betraying the mix of longing and affection that tended to swirl around him whenever Cyclonus was mentioned favorably. “What kind of conversation?”
“The helpful kind.” Whirl steered Tailgate toward Swerve’s, because the best conversational lubricant came in the form of engex. Plus, this was half Swerve’s idea and no doubt he wanted some input. “I’m going to do you a solid, Legs. I’m going to help you snag the big horned idiot.”
Tailgate’s fingers twisted and tangled together. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I am kind and generous at spark.” Whirl pressed one of his claws to his cockpit, over his spark. “And I could really use the good karma.”
“Your motivation sounds suspicious,” Tailgate replied with a squint.
Whirl chuckled. “Okay. You caught me.” He tapped on the underside of Tailgate’s chin. “Honestly, we’re all tired of watching the endless circle. It’s time for a change.”
Tailgate’s engine stuttered. “What do you mean ‘all’?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He guided Tailgate into Swerve’s, already buzzing with business despite the mid-shift hour. There’s just enough room at the bar for he and Tailgate both to snag a seat, so they did, Whirl bodily lifting Tailgate up into the stool before the minibot could scurry away or out of reach. They had plans to make. No escaping Legs.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t two of some of my favorite people on the Lost Light,” Swerve said as he noticed them and came over as quick as he could. “What can I offer you on this fine mid-afternoon?”
“Whatever’s cheap but still tastes good,” Whirl said and climbed into his own stool. “First round’s on me.”
Swerve whistled. “Look who’s being generous. What’s the special occasion?”
“Whirl thinks he has some elaborate plan to make Cyclonus fall in love with me,” Tailgate declared, a bit too happily for Whirl’s liking, and a bit too loud for it to count as the least bit secretive.
Swerve’s visor blinked. He chuckled, “Okay, but isn’t Cyclonus already--”
“Just bring the drinks, Mouth,” Whirl interrupted. He gave Swerve a hard look.
Both Tailgate and Cyclonus were oblivious and blind. The entire crew could shout the obvious at them until their vents wheezed and their sparks burnt out, but it wouldn’t work. No, this was going to take a more delicate touch. The fine details of a former watch-maker, if you will.
“Sure, sure,” Swerve said, dismissive. “I’ll just get right on that.” He gave Whirl an equally hard look and scurried off.
“You can be really rude sometimes, you know that?” Tailgate said. He sat demure on the stool, hands folded on the counter in front of him, fingers threaded together. His feet kicked out, adorable and innocent.
Small wonder Cyclonus couldn’t bear to bring himself to admit his feelings.
“It’s a rude world.” Whirl leaned an elbow on the counter and faced Tailgate. “Listen, Legs. Truth is, this little game of pining and chasing isn’t working. You wanna score Cyclonus? You gotta start being more proactive.”
Tailgate peered up at him, visor bright and focused, looking so damned cute Whirl didn’t know how Cyclonus hadn’t scooped him up and berthed him already. What kind of saint did he think he was?
“Okay,” Tailgate said, and his field perked with interest. “How?”
“Ask him out,” Whirl said, blunt.
Tailgate’s visor flared. His stool rocked beneath him. “I can’t do that,” he said, vents wheezing, as if Whirl had just suggested he should open his panels, spread his legs, and give his aft a wiggle. “He’d say no. He’d turn me down. He’d--”
“Calm down,” Whirl said with a patting motion at the near-frantic minibot. “I didn’t mean on a date, I just meant, you know. Ask him out. For fun. Spend time with him. Be friendly.”
“We’re friends,” Tailgate insisted. His fingers tangled together again, and Whirl worried they’d work themselves into knots.
“Didn’t say ya weren’t,” Whirl replied as Swerve appeared, pushing two bubbling cups of engex their way, swirly straws cheerfully bobbing around the rims.
“Sweet and Sultry, just for you,” Swerve said in a tone far too cheerful to be genuine. More bubbles rose to the surface of the engex. “I expect a big tip this time.”
“I never tip you.” Whirl snorted and tugged his engex closer, claws inexpertly slipping around the slick glass.
Aft. Swerve knew better than to give him a cup without a handle.
“Well, maybe you should start,” Swerve drawled. He leaned on the edge of the counter, hands clasped in front of him, eying Tailgate speculatively. “You sure you want his help? Because I think maybe I’ve got a few ideas that’ll be better.”
Tailgate tugged his engex closer and popped open his mouthguard, guiding the straw to his intake. “I remember the last idea. No thanks.”
Whirl remembered it, too. He had to swallow his guffaw.
Swerve chuffed a vent. “Talk about ungrateful,” he muttered, and pushed off from the counter. “Fine. Good luck with nutjob then.”
“I’m all the luck he needs,” Whirl called out after him, but Swerve was already hurrying to the other end of the counter, where Skids had appeared out of nowhere.
Skids was unfairly attractive to everyone aboard the ship. Whirl wanted to lodge a complaint with management. And then, possibly, see if he could get into Skids’ berth as well. It was only fair.
“Anyway,” Whirl continued as he pulled out his injector cable and slipped the other end into the engex, “Talking. Conversation. You and Cyclonus need to learn what those two words mean.”
Tailgate stared at him. “We talk.”
Whirl leaned closer and popped a claw right in the middle of Tailgate’s forehead. “No, you babble, he broods. You stammer, he stares at you in useless adoration. You ogle, he goes on and on about boring history stuff no one cares about.”
It was so painful to watch honestly.
“Conversation,” Whirl continued with a wave of his claw. “Is give and take. Reciprocation. Get me?”
“I know how conversation works,” Tailgate replied, his field flaring with exasperation. He sucked at his engex, draining it in one long pull.
Whirl squinted at him. “Do you though? Because honestly, you and Cyclonus suck at it.”
Sluuuuurp.
Tailgate finished off the engex. His legs kicked. He looked a bit crestfallen, and it simply wasn’t fair. How could Cyclonus look into that limpid, blue visor and not want to cuddle Tailgate into happiness? Mech had bearings of duryllium.
“But that’s okay,” Whirl said with forced brightness. “Because I am here to help. Today. At this very moment.” He made a broad gesture, nearly yanking his injector cable free of the engex. “You and me, Legs, are going to practice.”
“What does that even mean?” Tailgate wailed, sounding exasperated and annoyed and hopeless somehow all at once.
Whirl’s spark clenched in sympathy. “Roleplay,” he declared. “And not the fun kind. We’ll save that for later.”
“I don’t need any practice in the berth, Whirl,” Tailgate said, indignant. His engine revved pointedly.
“Good to know.” Whirl laughed and leaned in closer. “But for future reference, if you ever need a hand or claw--” He paused to click said claw pointedly, and flicked his optic in the closest thing he’d managed to devise for a wink, “You know where to find me.”
Tailgate’s field flushed a fluorescent pink. “Whirl!”
~
Convincing Cyclonus to go anywhere with Whirl took significantly more effort.
First, he had to make sure Tailgate was otherwise occupied, so as not to spoil the plan. Whilst Cyclonus might brood out the window while Tailgate went somewhere without him, Tailgate had no compunctions about following Cyclonus around like a lost turbofox. So. Distractions had to be arranged.
Whirl went through a gamut of options, considering and dismissing each of them, before he finally settled on Rung. Then, of course, he had to sit through a lecture.
“I don’t particularly approve of such underhanded methods of creating a relationship,” Rung said while he adjusted his spectacles and gave Whirl several flavors of disapproving looks. “They need time to figure it out on their own.”
“They’ve had time,” Whirl said, exasperated, throwing up his claws in despair. He’d pace around the office, if Rung’s office wasn’t so annoyingly small. “They’re getting nowhere.”
“To be fair, the Lost Light has encountered more than its fair share of distractions,” Rung said with a pointed look out his window, his attention drifting. He got like this now and again, as if his processor was floating along on some distant shore.
Whirl patiently waited for Rung to drift back.
“Anyway, they’ll figure it out on their own,” Rung said, after a few minutes had passed.
“No, they won’t, Eyebrows,” Whirl insisted and planted himself in front of Rung’s desk, looming a bit over it. “You gonna help me or not?”
Rung gave him a long, incisive look. Whirl didn’t particularly like those looks. It was like Rung could peel open his armor, crack apart the layers of his spark, and examine every little flare and flicker to see what he was really about.
“I’ll help,” he said, at length. “What do you want me to do?”
Whirl would’ve grinned, if he could.
Once Rung was recruited, he got the therapist to go distract Tailgate. He didn’t care how Rung did it, he just wanted Tailgate in the opposite direction of wherever Whirl decided to convince Cyclonus to join him. Which, in this case, would be Swerve’s because free drinks.
Free engex was Swerve’s contribution to Whirl’s venture, and if he slyly put his name in the betting pot because of this new knowledge, well, Whirl kept that information to himself.
The hardest part was luring Cyclonus out of his den of brooding and self-flagellation. Whirl pressed the door panel until Cyclonus couldn’t ignore it any longer and flung the door open, pinning Whirl with a glare that was somehow both ice-cold and lava-hot at the same time.
“What do you want?” Cyclonus asked.
“A drink,” Whirl said as he bobbed on his heels. “And I don’t want to go alone. So you’re coming with me.”
“That sounds less like an invitation and more like a demand,” Cyclonus replied, his dour face shifting downward into an even more dour frown.
Honestly, if the mech wasn’t so damned handsome, his perpetual moodiness would be an immediate turn-off. But then, Whirl supposed that’s why Cyclonus and Tailgate complemented each other so well. Cyclonus kept Tailgate grounded, and Tailgate encouraged Cyclonus to let go a lot.
“Then it’s a demand.” Whirl shrugged and snatched at Cyclonus’ arm, his claw wrapping around the other mech’s wrist. “Come on. No more brooding. There’s nothing you can’t learn from the window that you can’t also learn from a drink or two or three.”
Cyclonus’ vents audibly huffed with irritation. “I can acquire meditation and quiet, to name two, by avoiding drinking ventures.”
He stumbled out after Whirl anyway, with the barest of protests. Aw. Someone was lonely and didn’t want to admit it. Kind of cute, if Whirl thought about it. He knew that tough mech act was more theater than reality. Cyclonus was just as desperate for real connections with other mechs as… well… as Whirl himself.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Whirl towed Cyclonus up the hall, until Cyclonus finally caught up with him and Whirl felt it was safe to let him go. “You need to learn what it means to kick back and relax, Hornhead. No wonder you’ve got Tailgate stressed all the time.”
Cyclonus’ lips twitched toward a frown. “Tailgate is not stressed.”
Whirl paused in the middle of the hall, moving in close enough that his face was inches apart from Cyclonus’. He peered at him. He flexed his field, pushed it against Cyclonus’, seeing if he could get the warrior to relent.
“What are you doing?” Cyclonus demanded, the edge of a growl hitting his voice, his field flexing back with agitation and challenge.
“Huh,” Whirl said. “You don’t look blind to me.” He leaned back and tapped a claw against the bottom edge of his eyestalk. “Must just be that you don’t pay attention enough. Poor, poor Tailgate.”
He sighed with exaggerated puffs of his vents and turned, striding down the hall. He wondered if he’d managed to scare Cyclonus away, but sure enough, the nearly-silent footsteps hurried to catch up to him.
“What do you mean by such a statement?” Cyclonus asked, frowning now. His armor had puffed from his frame as if he were dancing around aggression.
“Come on, Con,” Whirl said, throwing his arms into the air. “You and me and the entire universe know how you feel about the cute little Panic Legs. What we don’t know is why you keep pushing him away.”
Cyclonus folded his arms. “I fail to see how that is any business of yours.”
“I’m a very generous mech who believes in the beauty of true love,” Whirl replied with a grandiose air. He nudged Cyclonus in the direction of Swerve’s, and braced himself for the expected blow.
It never came.
Instead, Cyclonus gave him a long, speculative look. It wasn’t as incisive as Rung’s, but it still made Whirl feel like Cyclonus was trying to peel back layers to divine Whirl’s true intentions. Had to be the ancientness in him. Something about old, near-rusted mechs made them weird.
“Plus,” Whirl continued, “you and me could stand to be a bit more friendlier, right? Since we’re on the same side now and all.”
Cyclonus’ optics narrowed further. He stared for another longer moment, and just when Whirl felt antsy enough to reach for a weapon, Cyclonus snorted and dropped his arms.
“Friends,” he echoed as he moved past Whirl, striding up the hallway with purpose. “We shall see.”
Whirl squinted at him. He wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a concession, but either way, Cyclonus went in the direction Whirl wanted him to go, so it was a victory.
“Does that mean you don’t want to kill me anymore?” Whirl asked as he jogged to catch up and followed Cyclonus right into Swerve’s, where the other mech made a beeline for one of the more secluded booths.
So anti-social Cyclonus was. He really needed to get out more.
“The night is yet young,” Cyclonus replied, droll.
Whirl skidded to a halt in front of the booth, blinking rapidly as Cyclonus slid into the seat and waited, fingers tapping the top impatiently.
“Did you just make a joke?” Whirl asked.
“Did who make a joke?” Swerve asked, appearing out of fragging-nowhere because that was apparently a skill all bartenders magically learned two seconds after they stepped behind a bar. “Cyclonus? Because that’s impossible.”
Cyclonus sighed.
Whirl dropped down into the opposite side of the booth, making the whole thing rattle. “I think I need my audials checked. Because I could have sworn I heard a joke.”
Cyclonus buried his face behind his palm.
Swerve grinned, gaze darting between the two of them. “Should’ve recorded it. For posterity’s sake.” He tucked a serving tray under his arm. “Hey, where’s Tailgate? Shouldn’t he be here for--”
He cut off as Whirl sliced through the air with a claw and hissed in Swerve’s direction. Ix-nay on the Tailgate-ey? Part of the plan, dumbaft.
Luckily, Swerve was much quicker on the uptake. “I meant,” Swerve said loudly, cycling his vocalizer. “What can I get you to drink?”
“It’s on me,” Whirl said, by which he meant, it’s on Swerve, but Cyclonus didn’t need to know that. “In celebration of us now being friends.”
Cyclonus lowered his hand, and his face had gone back to stern brooding. It was unfair, how attractive such a sulky look could be. Sometimes, Whirl wondered what Tailgate saw in such a dour mech. And then the light hit him a certain way, or that dry wit peeked out, and Whirl realized, ahhh. This was it right here.
Lucky, lucky Tailgate.
“Tell you what,” Swerve said, either oblivious to or in spite of the brooding aura now forming a cloud over their table, “I picked up a bottle of that wine you like when we stopped at that outpost. How ‘bout I bring you a glass or two of that?”
Cyclonus leveled a look at Swerve and visibly swallowed a sigh. “It’s worth sampling,” he allowed, though grudgingly. It was almost nice of him, not to be one-hundred percent an aft about it.
“You already know what I want,” Whirl said.
“Coming right up!” Swerve scurried away, leaving Cyclonus and Whirl to stare at each other.
Well.
Whirl stared. Cyclonus’ gaze wandered past Whirl’s shoulder and off to the left, where a portside window offered a boring view of space rushing past. Seriously. What was so entertaining about getting lost in the maze of one’s thoughts? What if he never found his way out again?
“So,” Whirl said, leaning on the table, his limbs akimbo. “What’s your favorite color?”
Blue, the same shade as Tailgate’s paint, or Tailgate’s visor, Whirl guessed.
Cyclonus blinked. His gaze dragged back to Whirl. “What?” He sounded honestly confused, lost, and Whirl had to swallow a laugh because he tasted the confusion in Cyclonus’ field, and it was so genuine. Charming even.
“Color. Your favorite.” Whirl clicked his right claw together, making an awful noise of it. “That’s the kind of thing friends should know. I don’t have one, personally. It seems final to outright choose.”
Cyclonus’ orbital ridge drew down. He cycled his optics again. “You’re serious,” he observed.
“Cyc, I’m always serious,” Whirl said with an elaborate crossing of one claw in front of his spark. “We got a lot in common, you know.”
“Like?” Cyclonus lifted one orbital ridge.
Whirl’s rotors went through a minor rotation. “Uh.” He couldn’t, suddenly, think of a single blessed thing.
“Drinks!”
Thank Primus for Swerve, who swooped in and set their drinks in front of them like they were gifts from the Allspark. A tall, sparkling glass filled with a jewel-like liquid was sat in front of Cyclonus. A heavy tumbler frothing at the brim with engex was plunked in front of Whirl, straw dancing around the bubbles.
Swerve tucked the serving tray under his arm, gaze darting between Cyclonus and Whirl alike. “So what’re you two talking about today, hm? A certain adorable minibot, I’ll bet. And no, I’m not talking about me.” He chuckled.
Cyclonus sighed.
Whirl carefully pinched the straw with his claw and swirled it around the engex. “Swerve, buddy, pal. You simultaneously have the worst and the best timing.”
Swerve tipped his head. “… Thanks?”
Cyclonus cupped his glass and rose to his feet. He braced one hand on the table and leaned forward. “I suggest, in the future, conversation is not our forte. Perhaps sparring would be better received,” he said.
Whirl’s field fluttered through a melange of emotions, because he couldn’t settle on one. “Hey, if anyone’s no good at talking, it’s you, Mr. Stares Out The Window.”
Cyclonus’ lips twitched. It might have been out of amusement. Or fury. Whirl never could tell. “Thank you for the drink,” he said with a grateful dip of his head.
He left.
Both Swerve and Whirl watched him go, to a lone table in the opposite corner, where he tucked himself in and had a great view of the absolutely nothing that was outside the window.
“So,” Swerve said as he slid into Cyclonus’ abandoned seat, “Want to tell me how that helps Tailgate?”
Whirl plunked his auto-injector into the engex. “He left the room without being dragged. And without Tailgate wagging his cute aft suggestively. I call that a win.”
Swerve snorted.
***
a/n: Feedback, as always, is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.
Universe: IDW, MTMTE
Characters: Whirl/Cyclonus/Tailgate, Swerve
Rating: T
Enticements: Fluff, Angst, Romance, Getting Together
Description: Whirl had a plan. It was a good plan. By the end of it, he’d be rich, Cyclonus and Tailgate would be together, and all would be well. And then the plan went awry. Because Whirl? He fell in love, too.
Commission for an Anonymous Person.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
Falling in love. It was never part of the plan.
No. Scratch that. Falling in love, that was inevitable. Except those feelings? Were supposed to be between Cyclonus and Tailgate. And they are!
Whirl knew to the depths of his angry spark, Cyclonus and Tailgate loved each other. They were just… awful at saying so. And showing so. And pretty much everything around the way normal mechs were supposed to behave when feelings were mutual.
Helping them get together was practically a public service.
Except, the kicker, was the awkward part of the plan.
The part where Whirl fell in love with them, too.
It started with Swerve.
He’d made some offhand comment about how aggravating it was to watch Cyclonus and Tailgate dance around their feelings, because Tailgate was kind of a coward and Cyclonus didn’t know how to use his words. It was exhausting and nauseating and aggravating and the betting pool around the Lost Light was starting to reach historical proportions.
Something had to be done, Swerve reasoned.
So Whirl got to thinking. He clacked his claws together, eyed the significant amount of creds he’d already laid on Tailgate being the first to polish his bearings and stand his ground, and decided that if something had to be done, Whirl was going to be the one to do it.
That wasn’t technically interfering with the situation. He’d argue semantics later.
Whirl chugged the rest of his drink, shoved the empty cube across the counter toward Swerve, and leveraged himself out of the stool. He pondered where to start first, and then almost smacked himself because duh.
Easier targets first.
It took some searching. He had to ask more than a few crewmates, some of whom didn’t want to be helpful, but eventually they pointed him in Tailgate’s direction.
Tailgate was in the washracks, in the stall furthest from the entrance, the one mechs tended to use for a little fun with semi-privacy. But Cyclonus was on duty, so Whirl knew Tailgate was in there alone.
“Tailgate!” he sang as he strode down the otherwise empty rows. His voice rang through the tiled walls, echoing back to him.
“I’m busy,” came the reply, a bit softer in volume than what Whirl had used, and tremulous at that. Sharp, also, sharp enough to echo as Whirl’s had.
Was he not alone after all? Had Tailgate found a bit of fun on the side? Good for him!
“Too busy for your best friend Whirl?” He jogged up to the divide and peered around the corner, only to find Tailgate was alone, though he was hunched forward, one hand braced on the wall.
“Too busy period!” Tailgate said, sounding more panicked now. He glanced over his shoulder, his visor streaked white. “Whirl! Go away!”
Oh, he was busy all right. Handling some important tasks, yeah? Something Cyclonus should have been helping him with because he was dumb and stubborn.
If Whirl could grin, he would have. “Yeah, you look like you got your hands full.” He shifted back around the wall, but peeked around the corner anyway. “Need some help?”
“Go!” Tailgate’s vocals crackled.
Whirl chuckled and ducked out of sight. He leaned against the wall, arms folded under his cockpit, and waited.
He didn’t pretend he wasn’t listening. He tilted his head and dialed up his audials and drank in the quiet gasps, the engine revs, the barely audible slide of fingers around a spike. Tailgate’s stuttered moan echoed under the fall of the solvent, and a shiver wracked Whirl’s spinal strut.
He wished he could have been able to watch, at least. He’d bet a hundred creds Tailgate looked very cute when overloading.
A few moments later, the solvent cut off, the head drip-dripping to the floor. Tailgate peered around the corner, dripping also, and Whirl handed him a meshcloth without a word.
Tailgate didn’t have a mouth. Even so, Whirl knew he was scowling.
“You’re so rude,” he complained.
“It’s a public space, Legs,” Whirl said with a chuckle. He gleefully watched as Tailgate toweled himself off with quick wipes of the mesh. “If you didn’t want an audience, you should have gone somewhere private. Like your berthroom.”
“That would’ve been worse!” Tailgate spluttered as he tossed the wet towel at Whirl, who snapped up and caught it before it could strike him in the face.
Tailgate was adorable when he was flustered.
“Why’s that?” Whirl asked as he fell in step beside the minibot, who left little wet tracks behind him. Tiny ones for tiny feet.
Ultra Magnus would have a fit if he saw those.
“What if Cyclonus had walked in on me?” Tailgate asked, aghast.
Whirl lobbed the damp towel toward the laundry bin. “Then maybe he would’ve joined in.” He followed Tailgate out of the communal washracks and into the hall.
“No, he wouldn’t have,” Tailgate replied with such finality in his tone, Whirl was taken aback. His field flattened with misery, and Whirl got the sense it had happened before.
Oh.
“Well, Cyclonus fancies himself a gentleman. He probably thought he was being respectful by not even offering,” Whirl said, trying to keep his tone light and dismissive. It’s not a big deal, not at all.
Tailgate’s visor streaked a rainbow of color, as if he couldn’t settle on a reaction. “I don’t want him to be a gentleman,” he wailed. “I want him to frag me.”
Whirl would have gaped, if he had a mouth. “Uh.” He scratched at the underside of his optic. “Have you tried, I dunno, telling him that?”
Tailgate’s field flared. He looked scandalized. “Are you kidding? He’d reject me!”
Whirl was just about one-hundred percent sure rejection was nowhere in Cyclonus’ catalog of responses to anything Tailgate would ask of him. Though he understood why Tailgate might think so. Their relationship had a history of being, er, tumultuous.
Still.
“I’m starting to think you don’t understand him at all,” Whirl said, and patted Tailgate on the head with a little sigh. “But hey, that reminds me. I went looking for you for a reason.”
Tailgate peered up at him, the light behind his visor narrowed and suspicious. “I’m not playing another prank on Skids. The last time didn’t go so well for me.”
“Yeah, but it was pretty hilarious.” Whirl would grin, if he could. “No, it’s not a prank. Just thought you and me could have a little conversation about you and Cyclonus.”
Tailgate’s field flickered around the edges, betraying the mix of longing and affection that tended to swirl around him whenever Cyclonus was mentioned favorably. “What kind of conversation?”
“The helpful kind.” Whirl steered Tailgate toward Swerve’s, because the best conversational lubricant came in the form of engex. Plus, this was half Swerve’s idea and no doubt he wanted some input. “I’m going to do you a solid, Legs. I’m going to help you snag the big horned idiot.”
Tailgate’s fingers twisted and tangled together. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I am kind and generous at spark.” Whirl pressed one of his claws to his cockpit, over his spark. “And I could really use the good karma.”
“Your motivation sounds suspicious,” Tailgate replied with a squint.
Whirl chuckled. “Okay. You caught me.” He tapped on the underside of Tailgate’s chin. “Honestly, we’re all tired of watching the endless circle. It’s time for a change.”
Tailgate’s engine stuttered. “What do you mean ‘all’?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He guided Tailgate into Swerve’s, already buzzing with business despite the mid-shift hour. There’s just enough room at the bar for he and Tailgate both to snag a seat, so they did, Whirl bodily lifting Tailgate up into the stool before the minibot could scurry away or out of reach. They had plans to make. No escaping Legs.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t two of some of my favorite people on the Lost Light,” Swerve said as he noticed them and came over as quick as he could. “What can I offer you on this fine mid-afternoon?”
“Whatever’s cheap but still tastes good,” Whirl said and climbed into his own stool. “First round’s on me.”
Swerve whistled. “Look who’s being generous. What’s the special occasion?”
“Whirl thinks he has some elaborate plan to make Cyclonus fall in love with me,” Tailgate declared, a bit too happily for Whirl’s liking, and a bit too loud for it to count as the least bit secretive.
Swerve’s visor blinked. He chuckled, “Okay, but isn’t Cyclonus already--”
“Just bring the drinks, Mouth,” Whirl interrupted. He gave Swerve a hard look.
Both Tailgate and Cyclonus were oblivious and blind. The entire crew could shout the obvious at them until their vents wheezed and their sparks burnt out, but it wouldn’t work. No, this was going to take a more delicate touch. The fine details of a former watch-maker, if you will.
“Sure, sure,” Swerve said, dismissive. “I’ll just get right on that.” He gave Whirl an equally hard look and scurried off.
“You can be really rude sometimes, you know that?” Tailgate said. He sat demure on the stool, hands folded on the counter in front of him, fingers threaded together. His feet kicked out, adorable and innocent.
Small wonder Cyclonus couldn’t bear to bring himself to admit his feelings.
“It’s a rude world.” Whirl leaned an elbow on the counter and faced Tailgate. “Listen, Legs. Truth is, this little game of pining and chasing isn’t working. You wanna score Cyclonus? You gotta start being more proactive.”
Tailgate peered up at him, visor bright and focused, looking so damned cute Whirl didn’t know how Cyclonus hadn’t scooped him up and berthed him already. What kind of saint did he think he was?
“Okay,” Tailgate said, and his field perked with interest. “How?”
“Ask him out,” Whirl said, blunt.
Tailgate’s visor flared. His stool rocked beneath him. “I can’t do that,” he said, vents wheezing, as if Whirl had just suggested he should open his panels, spread his legs, and give his aft a wiggle. “He’d say no. He’d turn me down. He’d--”
“Calm down,” Whirl said with a patting motion at the near-frantic minibot. “I didn’t mean on a date, I just meant, you know. Ask him out. For fun. Spend time with him. Be friendly.”
“We’re friends,” Tailgate insisted. His fingers tangled together again, and Whirl worried they’d work themselves into knots.
“Didn’t say ya weren’t,” Whirl replied as Swerve appeared, pushing two bubbling cups of engex their way, swirly straws cheerfully bobbing around the rims.
“Sweet and Sultry, just for you,” Swerve said in a tone far too cheerful to be genuine. More bubbles rose to the surface of the engex. “I expect a big tip this time.”
“I never tip you.” Whirl snorted and tugged his engex closer, claws inexpertly slipping around the slick glass.
Aft. Swerve knew better than to give him a cup without a handle.
“Well, maybe you should start,” Swerve drawled. He leaned on the edge of the counter, hands clasped in front of him, eying Tailgate speculatively. “You sure you want his help? Because I think maybe I’ve got a few ideas that’ll be better.”
Tailgate tugged his engex closer and popped open his mouthguard, guiding the straw to his intake. “I remember the last idea. No thanks.”
Whirl remembered it, too. He had to swallow his guffaw.
Swerve chuffed a vent. “Talk about ungrateful,” he muttered, and pushed off from the counter. “Fine. Good luck with nutjob then.”
“I’m all the luck he needs,” Whirl called out after him, but Swerve was already hurrying to the other end of the counter, where Skids had appeared out of nowhere.
Skids was unfairly attractive to everyone aboard the ship. Whirl wanted to lodge a complaint with management. And then, possibly, see if he could get into Skids’ berth as well. It was only fair.
“Anyway,” Whirl continued as he pulled out his injector cable and slipped the other end into the engex, “Talking. Conversation. You and Cyclonus need to learn what those two words mean.”
Tailgate stared at him. “We talk.”
Whirl leaned closer and popped a claw right in the middle of Tailgate’s forehead. “No, you babble, he broods. You stammer, he stares at you in useless adoration. You ogle, he goes on and on about boring history stuff no one cares about.”
It was so painful to watch honestly.
“Conversation,” Whirl continued with a wave of his claw. “Is give and take. Reciprocation. Get me?”
“I know how conversation works,” Tailgate replied, his field flaring with exasperation. He sucked at his engex, draining it in one long pull.
Whirl squinted at him. “Do you though? Because honestly, you and Cyclonus suck at it.”
Sluuuuurp.
Tailgate finished off the engex. His legs kicked. He looked a bit crestfallen, and it simply wasn’t fair. How could Cyclonus look into that limpid, blue visor and not want to cuddle Tailgate into happiness? Mech had bearings of duryllium.
“But that’s okay,” Whirl said with forced brightness. “Because I am here to help. Today. At this very moment.” He made a broad gesture, nearly yanking his injector cable free of the engex. “You and me, Legs, are going to practice.”
“What does that even mean?” Tailgate wailed, sounding exasperated and annoyed and hopeless somehow all at once.
Whirl’s spark clenched in sympathy. “Roleplay,” he declared. “And not the fun kind. We’ll save that for later.”
“I don’t need any practice in the berth, Whirl,” Tailgate said, indignant. His engine revved pointedly.
“Good to know.” Whirl laughed and leaned in closer. “But for future reference, if you ever need a hand or claw--” He paused to click said claw pointedly, and flicked his optic in the closest thing he’d managed to devise for a wink, “You know where to find me.”
Tailgate’s field flushed a fluorescent pink. “Whirl!”
Convincing Cyclonus to go anywhere with Whirl took significantly more effort.
First, he had to make sure Tailgate was otherwise occupied, so as not to spoil the plan. Whilst Cyclonus might brood out the window while Tailgate went somewhere without him, Tailgate had no compunctions about following Cyclonus around like a lost turbofox. So. Distractions had to be arranged.
Whirl went through a gamut of options, considering and dismissing each of them, before he finally settled on Rung. Then, of course, he had to sit through a lecture.
“I don’t particularly approve of such underhanded methods of creating a relationship,” Rung said while he adjusted his spectacles and gave Whirl several flavors of disapproving looks. “They need time to figure it out on their own.”
“They’ve had time,” Whirl said, exasperated, throwing up his claws in despair. He’d pace around the office, if Rung’s office wasn’t so annoyingly small. “They’re getting nowhere.”
“To be fair, the Lost Light has encountered more than its fair share of distractions,” Rung said with a pointed look out his window, his attention drifting. He got like this now and again, as if his processor was floating along on some distant shore.
Whirl patiently waited for Rung to drift back.
“Anyway, they’ll figure it out on their own,” Rung said, after a few minutes had passed.
“No, they won’t, Eyebrows,” Whirl insisted and planted himself in front of Rung’s desk, looming a bit over it. “You gonna help me or not?”
Rung gave him a long, incisive look. Whirl didn’t particularly like those looks. It was like Rung could peel open his armor, crack apart the layers of his spark, and examine every little flare and flicker to see what he was really about.
“I’ll help,” he said, at length. “What do you want me to do?”
Whirl would’ve grinned, if he could.
Once Rung was recruited, he got the therapist to go distract Tailgate. He didn’t care how Rung did it, he just wanted Tailgate in the opposite direction of wherever Whirl decided to convince Cyclonus to join him. Which, in this case, would be Swerve’s because free drinks.
Free engex was Swerve’s contribution to Whirl’s venture, and if he slyly put his name in the betting pot because of this new knowledge, well, Whirl kept that information to himself.
The hardest part was luring Cyclonus out of his den of brooding and self-flagellation. Whirl pressed the door panel until Cyclonus couldn’t ignore it any longer and flung the door open, pinning Whirl with a glare that was somehow both ice-cold and lava-hot at the same time.
“What do you want?” Cyclonus asked.
“A drink,” Whirl said as he bobbed on his heels. “And I don’t want to go alone. So you’re coming with me.”
“That sounds less like an invitation and more like a demand,” Cyclonus replied, his dour face shifting downward into an even more dour frown.
Honestly, if the mech wasn’t so damned handsome, his perpetual moodiness would be an immediate turn-off. But then, Whirl supposed that’s why Cyclonus and Tailgate complemented each other so well. Cyclonus kept Tailgate grounded, and Tailgate encouraged Cyclonus to let go a lot.
“Then it’s a demand.” Whirl shrugged and snatched at Cyclonus’ arm, his claw wrapping around the other mech’s wrist. “Come on. No more brooding. There’s nothing you can’t learn from the window that you can’t also learn from a drink or two or three.”
Cyclonus’ vents audibly huffed with irritation. “I can acquire meditation and quiet, to name two, by avoiding drinking ventures.”
He stumbled out after Whirl anyway, with the barest of protests. Aw. Someone was lonely and didn’t want to admit it. Kind of cute, if Whirl thought about it. He knew that tough mech act was more theater than reality. Cyclonus was just as desperate for real connections with other mechs as… well… as Whirl himself.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Whirl towed Cyclonus up the hall, until Cyclonus finally caught up with him and Whirl felt it was safe to let him go. “You need to learn what it means to kick back and relax, Hornhead. No wonder you’ve got Tailgate stressed all the time.”
Cyclonus’ lips twitched toward a frown. “Tailgate is not stressed.”
Whirl paused in the middle of the hall, moving in close enough that his face was inches apart from Cyclonus’. He peered at him. He flexed his field, pushed it against Cyclonus’, seeing if he could get the warrior to relent.
“What are you doing?” Cyclonus demanded, the edge of a growl hitting his voice, his field flexing back with agitation and challenge.
“Huh,” Whirl said. “You don’t look blind to me.” He leaned back and tapped a claw against the bottom edge of his eyestalk. “Must just be that you don’t pay attention enough. Poor, poor Tailgate.”
He sighed with exaggerated puffs of his vents and turned, striding down the hall. He wondered if he’d managed to scare Cyclonus away, but sure enough, the nearly-silent footsteps hurried to catch up to him.
“What do you mean by such a statement?” Cyclonus asked, frowning now. His armor had puffed from his frame as if he were dancing around aggression.
“Come on, Con,” Whirl said, throwing his arms into the air. “You and me and the entire universe know how you feel about the cute little Panic Legs. What we don’t know is why you keep pushing him away.”
Cyclonus folded his arms. “I fail to see how that is any business of yours.”
“I’m a very generous mech who believes in the beauty of true love,” Whirl replied with a grandiose air. He nudged Cyclonus in the direction of Swerve’s, and braced himself for the expected blow.
It never came.
Instead, Cyclonus gave him a long, speculative look. It wasn’t as incisive as Rung’s, but it still made Whirl feel like Cyclonus was trying to peel back layers to divine Whirl’s true intentions. Had to be the ancientness in him. Something about old, near-rusted mechs made them weird.
“Plus,” Whirl continued, “you and me could stand to be a bit more friendlier, right? Since we’re on the same side now and all.”
Cyclonus’ optics narrowed further. He stared for another longer moment, and just when Whirl felt antsy enough to reach for a weapon, Cyclonus snorted and dropped his arms.
“Friends,” he echoed as he moved past Whirl, striding up the hallway with purpose. “We shall see.”
Whirl squinted at him. He wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a concession, but either way, Cyclonus went in the direction Whirl wanted him to go, so it was a victory.
“Does that mean you don’t want to kill me anymore?” Whirl asked as he jogged to catch up and followed Cyclonus right into Swerve’s, where the other mech made a beeline for one of the more secluded booths.
So anti-social Cyclonus was. He really needed to get out more.
“The night is yet young,” Cyclonus replied, droll.
Whirl skidded to a halt in front of the booth, blinking rapidly as Cyclonus slid into the seat and waited, fingers tapping the top impatiently.
“Did you just make a joke?” Whirl asked.
“Did who make a joke?” Swerve asked, appearing out of fragging-nowhere because that was apparently a skill all bartenders magically learned two seconds after they stepped behind a bar. “Cyclonus? Because that’s impossible.”
Cyclonus sighed.
Whirl dropped down into the opposite side of the booth, making the whole thing rattle. “I think I need my audials checked. Because I could have sworn I heard a joke.”
Cyclonus buried his face behind his palm.
Swerve grinned, gaze darting between the two of them. “Should’ve recorded it. For posterity’s sake.” He tucked a serving tray under his arm. “Hey, where’s Tailgate? Shouldn’t he be here for--”
He cut off as Whirl sliced through the air with a claw and hissed in Swerve’s direction. Ix-nay on the Tailgate-ey? Part of the plan, dumbaft.
Luckily, Swerve was much quicker on the uptake. “I meant,” Swerve said loudly, cycling his vocalizer. “What can I get you to drink?”
“It’s on me,” Whirl said, by which he meant, it’s on Swerve, but Cyclonus didn’t need to know that. “In celebration of us now being friends.”
Cyclonus lowered his hand, and his face had gone back to stern brooding. It was unfair, how attractive such a sulky look could be. Sometimes, Whirl wondered what Tailgate saw in such a dour mech. And then the light hit him a certain way, or that dry wit peeked out, and Whirl realized, ahhh. This was it right here.
Lucky, lucky Tailgate.
“Tell you what,” Swerve said, either oblivious to or in spite of the brooding aura now forming a cloud over their table, “I picked up a bottle of that wine you like when we stopped at that outpost. How ‘bout I bring you a glass or two of that?”
Cyclonus leveled a look at Swerve and visibly swallowed a sigh. “It’s worth sampling,” he allowed, though grudgingly. It was almost nice of him, not to be one-hundred percent an aft about it.
“You already know what I want,” Whirl said.
“Coming right up!” Swerve scurried away, leaving Cyclonus and Whirl to stare at each other.
Well.
Whirl stared. Cyclonus’ gaze wandered past Whirl’s shoulder and off to the left, where a portside window offered a boring view of space rushing past. Seriously. What was so entertaining about getting lost in the maze of one’s thoughts? What if he never found his way out again?
“So,” Whirl said, leaning on the table, his limbs akimbo. “What’s your favorite color?”
Blue, the same shade as Tailgate’s paint, or Tailgate’s visor, Whirl guessed.
Cyclonus blinked. His gaze dragged back to Whirl. “What?” He sounded honestly confused, lost, and Whirl had to swallow a laugh because he tasted the confusion in Cyclonus’ field, and it was so genuine. Charming even.
“Color. Your favorite.” Whirl clicked his right claw together, making an awful noise of it. “That’s the kind of thing friends should know. I don’t have one, personally. It seems final to outright choose.”
Cyclonus’ orbital ridge drew down. He cycled his optics again. “You’re serious,” he observed.
“Cyc, I’m always serious,” Whirl said with an elaborate crossing of one claw in front of his spark. “We got a lot in common, you know.”
“Like?” Cyclonus lifted one orbital ridge.
Whirl’s rotors went through a minor rotation. “Uh.” He couldn’t, suddenly, think of a single blessed thing.
“Drinks!”
Thank Primus for Swerve, who swooped in and set their drinks in front of them like they were gifts from the Allspark. A tall, sparkling glass filled with a jewel-like liquid was sat in front of Cyclonus. A heavy tumbler frothing at the brim with engex was plunked in front of Whirl, straw dancing around the bubbles.
Swerve tucked the serving tray under his arm, gaze darting between Cyclonus and Whirl alike. “So what’re you two talking about today, hm? A certain adorable minibot, I’ll bet. And no, I’m not talking about me.” He chuckled.
Cyclonus sighed.
Whirl carefully pinched the straw with his claw and swirled it around the engex. “Swerve, buddy, pal. You simultaneously have the worst and the best timing.”
Swerve tipped his head. “… Thanks?”
Cyclonus cupped his glass and rose to his feet. He braced one hand on the table and leaned forward. “I suggest, in the future, conversation is not our forte. Perhaps sparring would be better received,” he said.
Whirl’s field fluttered through a melange of emotions, because he couldn’t settle on one. “Hey, if anyone’s no good at talking, it’s you, Mr. Stares Out The Window.”
Cyclonus’ lips twitched. It might have been out of amusement. Or fury. Whirl never could tell. “Thank you for the drink,” he said with a grateful dip of his head.
He left.
Both Swerve and Whirl watched him go, to a lone table in the opposite corner, where he tucked himself in and had a great view of the absolutely nothing that was outside the window.
“So,” Swerve said as he slid into Cyclonus’ abandoned seat, “Want to tell me how that helps Tailgate?”
Whirl plunked his auto-injector into the engex. “He left the room without being dragged. And without Tailgate wagging his cute aft suggestively. I call that a win.”
Swerve snorted.
a/n: Feedback, as always, is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.
no subject
Date: 2019-04-06 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-04-08 10:23 am (UTC)Swerve can be so much fun to write sometimes. Especially when interacting with Whirl. :D
no subject
Date: 2019-04-12 10:07 pm (UTC)