[IDW] The Rule of Three 02/03
Jan. 28th, 2019 06:14 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.
Part Two
Stage one progressed swimmingly.
Getting Tailgate alone for a conversation was easy. Whirl had to put up with intense looks of longing toward doors where Cyclonus wasn’t, but still. Tailgate was easy to talk to, easy to convince, and he was on board with anything Whirl had planned, so long as it meant he would someday have his spark’s desire.
Well, provided Whirl’s plans were legal and non-manipulative.
What the cute little marshmallow didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Whirl would wink, if he had the capability.
And sure, that meant he had to endure countless hours where Tailgate waxed poetically about Cyclonus’ many, many fine qualities, it was kind of cute to listen to Tailgate gush. At least Tailgate wasn’t completely blind. A bit naive, painfully obsessed with the idea of love, but he wasn’t a fool.
He knew Cyclonus wasn’t perfect.
He ranted about Cyclonus as much as he praised the not-quite-Decepticon. So Whirl gave him that much credit.
Cyclonus though.
He was a different story.
Cyclonus didn’t talk. He seemed allergic to words and speaking them aloud, and preferred to communicate with intense stares, especially ones which tended to get Whirl’s hackles raised. Whirl quickly realized that conversations over drinks at Swerve’s were not the way to get through to Cyclonus.
Sparring, however. That was another kettle altogether.
All it took was a little goading, a little prying, a little teasing, and he got his alone-time with Cyclonus. Granted, he spent most of it either getting thrown around the practice room, or being the one doing the tossing, but what were a few dents and paint scrapes between friends, eh?
Frag, Whirl might even admit he was having fun.
After a good aft-kicking, Cyclonus unbent long enough to stop glaring at Whirl and participate in conversation. He appreciated a good sparring session.
With Cyclonus, Whirl learned the value of silence. Cyclonus was chattier if you gave him time to speak. So Whirl practiced the art of patience and patted himself on the back when he was rewarded with little drops of insight into the complicated and tangled mind that was Cyclonus of Tetrahex.
Friendship accomplished, the second stage of his plot could begin.
He invited them separately, and inwardly crowed when they arrived at nearly the same time, staring at each other in surprise, then in synchronous suspicion as they turned to look at Whirl.
“What a coincidence,” Whirl said, with his arms thrown into the air. “Who knew I was so bad at remembering my own schedule?” He was so glad his face couldn’t betray his glee. “Oh, well. I guess we’ll have to spend this time together, all three of us.”
“You are painfully transparent,” Cyclonus said.
Tailgate giggled. “Even as old as I am, I know that trick, Whirl. You could have just said you wanted to spend time with both of us at once.”
Okay, but that wasn’t even the goal? He wanted them to spend time together. He was just the Whirl-shaped social lubricant to ensure it happened.
“But that would be a lie, Tailgate,” Whirl insisted as he rested a hand on the minibot’s shoulder and tucked Tailgate against his side. “And I am not a liar. I am a wholesome, honest, and forthright rotary.”
Cyclonus snorted.
“I feel like I should step away from you, lest Primus strike us all dead for that utter lie you just said,” Tailgate said with a laugh. But he didn’t move from under Whirl’s arm. Instead, he peered up at Whirl. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan? Plan? There’s no plan. I scoff at the idea of a plan.” Whirl reached out and snagged Cyclonus by the arm, tugging him close enough for Whirl to drape an arm over Cyclonus’ shoulders. “Do I look like a mech who has a plan?”
“No,” Cyclonus and Tailgate answered in an eerie tandem that sent a shiver down Whirl’s spinal strut.
His head swung from one mech to the other. “Please don’t do that again,” Whirl said. “Even if you are both right. I do not have a plan. I have a coincidence.” He started down the hall, leading them with him. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” Tailgate said. He patted Whirl’s claw resting on his shoulder and beamed brightly.
Cyclonus moving with him and not ducking out from under Whirl’s arm was concession enough, but he granted them a verbal answer as well. “What did you have in mind?”
Whirl would have grinned, if he could.
“Shooting range,” Whirl declared. “Tailgate could use the practice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fire a blaster, and it’s about time I got to strut my stuff.” He blasted his field with amusement and pride, and was delighted when Tailgate responded with a blush of affection, and even Cyclonus managed a smidgen of grudging acceptance.
“Sounds good to me!” Tailgate said.
Cyclonus grunted.
As it turned out, Cyclonus was perhaps one of the worst marksmechs Whirl had ever seen. He held a blaster as though he’d only ever learned how to do so from watching terribly rated action films, and his shots only landed in the vicinity of the target. Tailgate was better at it than him, but then, he must have had more practice.
It was kind of reassuring, though, to know there was at least one thing in the universe Cyclonus didn’t excel at. Everything else seemed to come so effortless to him, including hand-to-hand combat. Whirl felt a stirring of glee that there was one thing he easily outpaced Cyclonus with.
“Wow,” Whirl said as Cyclonus fired and managed to clip the shoulder of the target on the nearest row. “I see why you rely on a sword.” He peered at the purple mech. “Do we need to get you a pair of spectacles, too?”
Tailgate giggled.
Cyclonus gave him a baleful look. “There is nothing wrong with my vision.” He glared down at the blaster as though it was to blame for his poor aim. “My targeting software must be out of date.”
“Like really out of date. Have you ever used it? Sheesh.” Whirl moved closer and tapped Cyclonus’ left foot. “Your stances are slag, too. What kind of military training they give you back in the old days?”
“Apparently, not the correct kind.” Cyclonus’ mouth twisted in a grimace. His field flushed embarrassment beneath the stoic acceptance.
Too cute.
Whirl graciously decided not to comment on it, though he filed that away for later. Cyclonus, not perfect, so adorable! He wanted to pinch Cyclonus’ non-cheeks and tease him about it forever. Except that would probably make Cyclonus storm off in a huff, and Cyclonus needed to be here for Whirl’s plan to work.
Speaking of…
“Meanwhile, Tailgate over here is a star pupil,” Whirl observed as he peered over Tailgate’s shoulder in the next stall and nodded approvingly at the neat blastershots in a tight cluster on the target’s chest. “Don’t tell Swerve. He’ll be so jealous you’re better than he is at this.”
Tailgate beamed up at him. “I’ve been practicing.”
“I’ll bet you have!” Whirl teasingly socked him on the shoulder, and Tailgate rocked in place. He leaned down, whispered conspiratorially. “Maybe take Cyclonus out for a few private lessons, eh?” He’d wink, if he could.
Tailgate’s field blushed that soft pink again. “Give him hands-on instruction, you mean?” he asked, equally soft, but definitely sly.
Whirl chortled and straightened. “You’re not as shy as you pretend you are,” he declared and leaned back over to peer into Cyclonus’ stall.
Cyclonus was focusing very hard on his blaster, glaring at it truthfully, as though he could force it into making him a better shot. “I much prefer the honor of killing an opponent at close range,” he muttered.
“There’s no honor in killing at all,” Whirl commented. He leaned against the panel separating the two stalls, so he could easily peek into one and then the other. “It’s just killing.”
Cyclonus slanted him a look. “How remarkably philosophical of you.”
Whirl squinted. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to insult me or not.”
“That was actually a compliment,” Tailgate said before the distinct sound of a blaster firing echoed from his stall.
Whirl leaned over to watch as three rapid-fire shots took out the head of a target in the furthest row. Tailgate stood there, both hands gripping the blaster, feet spread and braced, determined and fierce, and probably Whirl shouldn’t find him adorable like this, but he did.
Cyclonus leaned around Whirl, oddly close, enough Whirl felt the heat of Cyclonus’ armor against his back, and peered at Tailgate’s progress.
“There is something wrong with the universe,” Cyclonus said.
Whirl snorted. “You can’t be good at everything,” he said.
“Then you find me to be skilled at some things,” Cyclonus replied, and his voice was an amused, appreciative hum behind Whirl’s shoulder. “Good to know.”
He stepped back into his stall, leaving Whirl to squint at him. What in the universe was that about? He would have asked aloud, but Cyclonus chose that moment to lift his blaster and fire, stance incorrect, and shots wildly inaccurate.
Whirl sighed.
“I think I should get a bigger gun now,” Tailgate declared as his score flashed on the console in front of him – a new personal best. “Don’t you?” He turned to peer up at Whirl with a bright visor and lowered his voice. “And Cyclonus should probably stick to swords.”
“You are not as quiet as you think you are, Tailgate,” Cyclonus said.
Tailgate laughed. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t care if you heard me or not.”
Whirl’s spark grew three sizes. Because his plan was working. They were talking, bantering, flirting, and it was thanks to him.
Was this what it felt like to be an evil genius?
~
“Oh no, it happened again,” Whirl said with a dramatic flail of his arms as Cyclonus and Tailgate arrived in the oil reservoir at the same time. He started to wonder if they planned it this way.
Cyclonus folded his arms.
Tailgate laughed and flung his arms around Whirl in an impromptu hug that made Whirl freeze out of surprise. He lowered his arms and gamely patted Tailgate on the shoulder, his field stickily clinging to the warm affection offered by Tailgate.
“Your subtlety has not improved,” Cyclonus said.
“I think it’s sweet,” Tailgate said.
“I swear it was an accident,” Whirl declared without a single stutter. “I really need a personal assistant. Know anyone up for the job, Legs?”
Tailgate tilted his head and pretended to think, one finger tapping at the corner of his facemask. “I don’t know. Does it come with benefits?”
Whirl would have leered, if he could. Instead, he leaned closer and fluttered his optic in a wink. “Depends on the kind you’re looking for, sweetspark.”
Tailgate grabbed his hand by the wrist and drew it closer, examining Whirl’s claw with an odd intensity. “Hmm,” he said, humming contemplatively. “You did offer to help me out the next time I needed it.”
“Uh.” Whirl looked at Cyclonus warily, but the other mech had his arms folded and watched them with an unreadable expression. His field gave away nothing. “But uh, then you never called, and you know, I can take a hint.”
Whirl chuckled, playful, and extricated his wrist before either of them got the wrong idea. “So you’re here, you and Cyclonus both, so why don’t we just spend the time together?”
Phew. That was just weird.
Tailgate nodded and bounced on his heels. “Sounds good to me.” He paused and glanced up at Cyclonus. “You don’t mind, right, Cyclonus?” His voice canted upward at the end, hopeful and wanting.
Whirl waited, like Tailgate, silently promising pain to Cyclonus if he took that hope and crushed it beneath his stoic feet.
There was a long, grave moment before Cyclonus tipped his head in the tiniest of nods. “I have no plans otherwise.” He dropped his arms, gaze assessing as it traveled over Whirl from top to bottom. “What form of entertainment did you devise this time around?”
Whirl swallowed over a lump in his intake and gestured behind him, to the oil reservoir at large. “Picnic,” he declared. “Under the stars.”
It was suitably romantic. He’d get them settled, get them sitting close, treats and engex between them, and then he’d make his escape. Swerve was supposed to ping him with some kind of emergency only Whirl could assist with, and then he’d leave and watch from afar with a handily arranged camcorder courtesy of Rewind. Just to make sure they didn’t implode in his absence.
That was the plan.
“Sounds wonderful,” Tailgate said.
“Interesting,” Cyclonus said.
Whirl squinted at him. “Is that a slight on my activity planning?”
Cyclonus arched one orbital ridge at him. “Not at all. Only that you’ve chosen an activity better suited for romantic endeavors than friendly ones.”
“How narrow-minded of you Cyclonus!” Whirl declared with grandiose gestures. He walked backward, leading them toward the set-up he’d put into place while waiting for them to arrive. “Platonic friendship can be expressed in numerous ways.”
Cyclonus gave him a steady look.
Tailgate chuckled warmly and squeezed Whirl’s wrist. “You learned that from Rung, didn’t you?”
“I am brilliant all on my own.” Whirl plopped down on a corner of the mat he’d dragged in here, awkwardly bending his legs in front of him. “Come on. Sit down. I put a lot of work into this, you know.”
“And it shows,” Tailgate said as he sat down also, leaving space next to him for Cyclonus to join them. “Thank you, Whirl. This was very sweet of you.”
“Damn straight.” Whirl’s rotors clicked and spun.
Whirl grabbed the small container he’d lugged down here and started pulling out little bottles of engex – handily supplied by Swerve – and a box of treat sticks for Tailgate and some of those little chewy things Cyclonus liked. There was also a small speaker and he’d uploaded some suitably romantic tunes to set a proper mood.
“All this from a mech who doesn’t plan,” Cyclonus lifted one of the chewy treats, giving it a tentative sniff before popping it into his mouth. His face betrayed nothing, but the flutter of delight in his field happened too quickly for him to hide it.
“That’s him saying thank you,” Tailgate said.
Whirl chortled. “It’s a good thing he has you around to translate for him.”
Cyclonus sniffed imperiously and snagged another treat from the plate. “I can speak for myself.” Clawed fingers fiddled with the springy energon chew before he slipped it into his mouth.
“Except you don’t,” Whirl pointed out with a claw. “You brood out the window and make all these vague comments that no one can interpret. Except, apparently, Tailgate.” He huffed a laugh. “The Cyclonus-whisperer, eh?” He nudged Tailgate with an elbow.
Tailgate popped one of the treat sticks into his intake. “It’s an important service I provide.”
Cyclonus sighed. But the look he gave Tailgate was inordinately fond. He sat close enough to Tailgate that their knees touched, and their fields entangled at the furthest edges. They exchanged a glance, one that was warm and affectionate, and seriously, how could they not realize how much they loved each other already?
Whirl’s comm chirped right on time.
“It’s your friendly bartender get-out-of-awkward-situations call,” Swerve sang cheerily into the comm.
Whirl held up a hand, swiveled his upper torso away from the two lovebirds, and made a show of replying. “And not a moment too soon,” he replied internally because he was the mech with a plan, and he didn’t need the two suspicious not-yet-lovers to call him out on it just yet. “What fake emergency do you have for me?”
“What? I actually have to come up with something? You didn’t tell me that part!” Swerve complained, and before Whirl could retort, he continued in a rush, “Besides, our captain is here and he’s causing a ruckus, and I don’t really have time for this.”
Oh. Well. If Rodimus was there, clearly he took precedence. Whirl wished he had two optics just so he could roll both of them.
“You’re not being helpful,” Whirl retorted.
“I’m helping!”
“Only the bare minimum!”
Swerve huffed into the comm. “It’s not like you’re paying me. I’ve got a business to run, I’ve got customers, and for crying out loud someone get him off the table!”
The comm went dead.
Well.
Whirl coughed a ventilation and turned back to Cyconus and Tailgate, processor whirring in an attempt to come up with a good lie. They looked at him with matching stares of confusion and curiosity, leaning in toward each other like the adorable set of star-crossed lovers they were.
“Oh dear,” Whirl said, in the patented tone of Dramatic Disappointment he’d been practicing for days. “Swerve needs my help with something. I need to--”
Tailgate snorted. “Whatever it is, he can handle it,” he interrupted and scooted closer to Whirl, patting Whirl’s knee with one hand while offering one of the small containers of engex with the other, a straw sticking jauntily from the opening. “You went to all the trouble to arrange this. You should stay and enjoy it.” His field reached out as well, warm and inviting, and Whirl’s own responded in kind, completely without his permission.
It tangled with the threads of Tailgate’s allure. It pulsed a soft wave of heat through Whirl’s frame, and honestly, it was completely unfair how adorable Tailgate was. How he’d started out a liar, but everything about the way he interacted with others was so completely genuine, it was at odds to Whirl’s past experience. The war hadn’t tainted him yet.
The tiniest kernel of hope nestled deep within Whirl’s spark wished that it never did.
The warmth of Tailgate’s field, however, was not for Whirl. It was for Cyclonus, and if Whirl didn’t vamoose, he worried Tailgate might forget that.
“I really should--”
“Stay right where you are,” Cyclonus interrupted with an almost serene look as he sipped at the engex, head tilted with contemplation. “This is an interesting blend. Familiar almost.” His mouth curved into a frown, not one of anger, but reflection. “I wonder if Swerve has been reading up on old recipes.”
“He did say he was!” Tailgate answered, perking. His hand remained on Whirl’s knee, however, as if trying to keep him in place. “He said Bluestreak brought a whole bunch of datapads and stuff with him, and they’ve been going through them together, trying to recreate stuff from before, you know, the war and all.”
Cyclonus nodded slowly. “That’s thoughtful of him. I feel I’ve underestimated Swerve.”
Tailgate giggled. “You underestimate everyone.”
“Perhaps you’re not wrong,” Cyclonus allowed, slowly. His optics shifted to Whirl, and there was something in the shade of them that pinned Whirl in place. “There’s not a single emergency I can imagine where Swerve could possibly need your presence.”
Whirl groped for a response to contradict Cyclonus, but his well of deviousness ran dry. He… really hadn’t thought this through, had he?
“So stay,” Tailgate said. “Please?”
He looked up at Whirl with a bright, pleading visor, and all of Whirl’s protests crumpled like they were made of paper.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. He didn’t want their disappointment to ruin his carefully crafted plans, after all.
He’d just make sure they were alone together next time was all.
~
Next time would have to wait, Whirl reflected, because then there was a planet with a weird half-metal, half-organic monster creature thing that tried to eat them, and Megatron blamed Rodimus, and Rodimus laughed about it, because they all got a work out in the end, and no one died, what was the big deal, sheesh.
No one died but Whirl got a fair sized dent and one of the creature’s mini-mes took a bite out of Cyclonus’ leg, so the both of them were cradled up together in the medbay with Tailgate fretting and hovering like the cute little nurse he was sometimes.
“Just a plate wound,” Whirl declared, feeling droopy and floaty because First Aid always offered the good pain chips where Ratchet tended to be stingy.
“I’ve had worse,” Cyclonus agreed.
“You’re both masochists,” Tailgate wailed, fingers tangled together.
Cyclonus and Whirl shared a commiserating, understanding look. Civilians. Honestly.
“We’ll be fine,” Whirl slurred as the world spun a little around him, but that was alright because Tailgate had a grip on one of his claws, holding him in place. Giving him a center-point to focus on.
Cyclonus held out a hand, and Tailgate sitting between their medberths, reached out with his other and clasped his fingers with Cyclonus’. “It’s alright, little one,” he said, voice painfully gentle and making Whirl’s spark squeeze.
Primus, they were so damn cute.
~
Later Whirl paced around his quarters, racking his processor for another step in stage two of the plan.
Cyclonus and Tailgate progressed smoothly, but they were still distant to one another, as far as Whirl could tell. No love confessions had been made. They weren’t soppily hanging on each other like newly-bonded should. They needed more of a push.
And Whirl needed another idea.
Someone pinged his door.
That was unusual enough. No one came to visit Whirl. No one actively sought him out. It threw him off a little, this ping at his door. He hadn’t broken any of the important rules lately. No way it was Ultra Magnus.
Whirl opened the door.
It was Cyclonus.
Whirl squinted. “Did I set up a sparring session and forget?”
“No.” Cyclonus stood there, parade-rest, hands clasped behind his back. “Though if you’re interested in one, that makes this a lot easier.”
What the frag was ‘this’?
Whirl scratched the back of his head. “Well, I mean, I’m always up for a fight.” He twitched his front cannons, set the barrels to spinning. “If you know what I mean.”
“You make it fairly obvious.” Cyclonus’ lips twitched, almost like a smile. He half-turned like an invitation. “But if not sparring, a drink?”
Whirl’s fans stalled, and he had to manually restart them. He peered at Cyclonus, wondering if he’d fallen into recharge at some point and was now dreaming. “You’re asking me to join you for a social occasion?”
“We are friends, are we not?” Cyclonus asked, saying ‘friends’ slowly and carefully as though tasting the word to see if he liked the shape of it or not.
“True,” Whirl admitted, and he leaned into the hallway, looking it up and down. “No Tailgate?” He wasn’t disappointed or confused, but an odd mix of both.
Cyclonus arched an orbital ridge. “We do come separately, you know.”
“Pity,” Whirl replied, only half-joking. He stepped out of his room, letting the door shut behind him. “Alright. I’ll bite. What’s on your mind, Cyclonus?” It’s kind of weird, but maybe Cyclonus wanted advice or something. Not like Whirl was the kind of mech anyone would come to for advice, but to each his own.
They were friends of a flavor. Maybe Cyclonus didn’t think he could trust anyone else. Which meant this was probably about Tailgate.
Claws crossed.
“What did you do?” Cyclonus asked as he tucked his hands back behind his back and started down the corridor, leaving Whirl to fall in step behind him. “Before the war?”
Whirl blinked. “Uh, you mean before these?” He lifted his claws for reference. “Or you know, the thing I did that kind of sort of started the war before the war? Because those are two separate things, and also, why?” What in the universe did this have to do with Tailgate?
Cyclonus hummed in his intake. “Whichever you feel more comfortable discussing. My past is relatively common knowledge, but I’ve come to realize I don’t know much about you.”
“And that matters why?”
Cyclonus gave him a steadying look. Whirl got the feeling it spoke something like ‘duh’ except Whirl honestly didn’t know the answer to that question.
“Because I would like to know,” Cyclonus said.
Whirl tilted his head to the left and the right. He moved closer, peering down at Cyclonus, tentatively poking at his field. Yeah, this was definitely Cyclonus. He was definitely awake. And Cyclonus felt genuine.
“I made chronos,” Whirl answered slowly, carefully. Odd, though, that his first instinct had been to honest. He hadn’t once considered a lie. “And if you think you don’t like me now, you really wouldn’t have liked me then.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I was an aft,” Whirl said, blunt. He could say it now, because he could recognize it, and yeah, he might not have been a good mech. But that didn’t give anyone the right to take his life from him.
He was who he was, and now he is who he is, and that was just the way things were. He could be honest about who he was because then it was that much easier to accept who he is.
Whirl could, theoretically, get ‘fixed’ to quote Swerve. Without a war, with a lot of down time, he could go to Ratchet and get ‘fixed’. But Whirl wasn’t broken, this was who he was, and getting ‘fixed’ wouldn’t actually fix him. It wouldn’t make anything better, it wouldn’t change the past.
He was who he was. And if mechs didn’t want him as he was, then they didn’t deserve what he could be. Plain and simple.
Cyclonus lifted both orbital ridges. “Then that is something we have in common.”
Whirl chuckled. “Except we’re still afts now.”
“That as well.”
They paused in front of Visages. Trust Cyclonus to pick the quieter, more intimate of the two bars on the Lost Light.
“And did you enjoy it?” Cyclonus asked as he pushed through the door and Whirl followed him, still curious despite himself.
“Enjoy what? Being an aft? Because yeah, that was kind of fun.”
“No. Your prior occupation.”
Whirl’s spark squeezed into a tiny knot. He lapsed into silence and trailed Cyclonus to a table in the far corner, isolated from the other, smaller groups of mechs conversing in low, quiet tones. Soft music floated from surrounding speakers, tinny and lacking in lyrics. Not completely unappealing, but no words left the music a bit bland in Whirl’s point of view.
They sat.
Cyclonus perched across from Whirl, hands folded on the table in front of him, face a mask of patience.
Whirl fidgeted on the cushions. He admired the décor, so muted compared to Swerve’s, and a bit snobbish. Just like Mirage, come to think of it.
A serving bot came by, took their order, and returned with it, by the time Whirl finally managed to put his thoughts in some semblance of order. The service here was so much better. Whirl debated for all of a half-second mentioning as much to Swerve, but then, that would be cruel for no reason, and Whirl had stopped being cruel for the sake of it.
“It was what I chose for myself,” Whirl finally answered, once he’d had a long pull of the strong engex Cyclonus so graciously bought for him with the apparently endless amount of creds he had. “Before Megatron and the Decepticons started their little revolution, that was a thing that didn’t happen much. But I wanted to make chronos, so they let me make chronos, until they decided they wouldn’t anymore.”
He cycled a ventilation and took another long pull of the engex, draining the cup until it was near empty. The engex sat hot and light in his tanks, but it emboldened him.
Cyclonus’ even stare was only mildly perturbing. “You were lucky, for a time.”
“Until I wasn’t.” Whirl snorted. He hunched his shoulders. He squinted at Cyclonus. “What’s with the spark to spark anyway? What’s it matter?”
Cyclonus curled a hand around his cup and leaned forward, his field reaching out, warm and tentative, and Whirl leaned into it before he realized what he was doing.
“Because we are friends,” he said. “And the more I know about you, the less likely I am to want to kill you.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before Whirl burst into laughter. Because it took him that long to realize Cyclonus had made a joke, a playful one, and there was a disconnect in his reasoning. Cyclonus? Did not joke. Specifically, Cyclonus did not joke with him, and yet, he just had.
It was wild.
So wild.
Whirl laughed and laughed and downed the rest of his engex. “Okay,” he said, once he’d gathered himself, amusement fluttering through his field like the spiraling rays of starlight. “Then ask away, friend.”
Cyclonus smiled, and though it was a small thing, it made Whirl’s spark lurch in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries.
Oh.
Well.
That was unfortunate.
~
Fate didn’t give him much time to recover from that unexpected epiphany. The one that told him he didn’t hate Cyclonus or despise him or loathe him or dislike him. Instead, he found he rather liked the sullen purple mech, and that like probably extended beyond the realm of friendship and into a different domain. One that wondered what it would feel like to have those clawed hands on his frame.
It was absurd.
Cyclonus clearly loved Tailgate and vice versa. Whirl had no business harboring any kind of interest in either of them. So he tucked away his sudden and random attraction, buried it deep, and resolved to not let it affect him at all.
Should’ve been easy. He was a master at concealing his emotions.
Until Tailgate waylaid him right outside the door of the washracks, Whirl’s armor still a bit damp and dripping because it was not the easiest thing in the universe, to dry oneself with hands that weren’t hands, but instead barely manipulated claws. He did the best he could and frag anyone who complained otherwise.
Yes, that meant you Ultra Magnus.
“Good, you’re not busy,” Tailgate said as Whirl blinked at him dumbly. He grabbed Whirl’s claw by the wrist and started towing him down the corridor. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Whirl asked, stumbling in the minibot’s wake. Tailgate was… abnormally strong, and Whirl wasn’t sure what to think about that.
“Swerve’s,” Tailgate chirped, his field playfully tickling Whirl’s, bright swirls of color that spoke of frivolity and affection.
“Why?”
“Because I want you to come with me, and you’re not busy,” Tailgate replied, his tone implying the ‘duh’ as though this should have been obvious to Whirl. He’d been learning from Cyclonus apparently.
Whirl peered up the hall and over his shoulder. It was oddly deserted. “Where’s Cyclonus?”
“I don’t know. Meditating maybe.” Tailgate shrugged, dismissive but not upset. Usually, this would be the point where he moped because Cyclonus was disinterested in spending time with him. “Did you know Rewind has all kinds of vids stored in his memory banks? I just spent half a day watching old commercials.”
Whirl’s processor spun. “Rewind stores everything.”
“Yeah, but commercials?” Tailgate laughed and slowed his pace a little, taking them down to a casual stroll, though his fingers remained linked around Whirl’s wrist. “Why would anyone want to remember those?”
“Nostalgia?” Whirl hazarded a guess.
Tailgate hummed. “You might have a point.” He looked up at Whirl, sidelong, almost sly. “Did you have any shows you liked to watch? Before the war, I mean?”
“Uh. Probably.” Whirl scratched at the underside of his head. “Can’t really remember though. This thing don’t store as well as it ought.” He tapped his head for emphasis.
Tailgate slowed even further, until they walked step in step, and he could nudge Whirl’s hip with a shoulder. “That’s okay. I can borrow some vidfiles from Rewind and maybe we can find some old stuff you used to like or old stuff you can like now.”
“Wouldn’t you rather do that with Cyclonus?”
“I can do it with you, too, can’t I?” Tailgate asked with a little huff. “My world doesn’t begin and end with Cyclonus, you know.”
Whirl flickered his optics. “Really? Cause that’s news to me.” And possibly the whole crew of the Lost Light. The little romantic sidestep those two have been doing was the stuff of legend at this point.
“I have other friends!” Tailgate said, indignant. “Besides, I like spending time with you.”
Whirl’s spark performed that odd flutter it wasn’t supposed to know. “I thought the sole purpose of that was to help you catch Cyclonus?”
Tailgate’s visor went flat. “I’m not that selfish! Do you think I’m that selfish? Do I come across as that selfish?” Panic flared in his visor, and he squeezed Whirl’s wrist, field suddenly flush with apology. “I’m so sorry if that’s what you thought. I mean, you’re weird and dangerous, but I still like you anyway.”
“… Thanks?” Honestly, he didn’t know who sucked more at giving compliments, Tailgate or Cyclonus. They were made for each other.
“You’re welcome!” Tailgate beamed and tugged Whirl into Swerve’s, towing him right to the bar where they took two stools, Whirl once again having to lift Tailgate into his.
The minibot giggled, legs kicking in an unfairly cute manner.
“You know, we could solve this problem by sitting in a booth,” Whirl pointed out as he slid into the stool beside Tailgate, lowering it a little so they were on an even keel.
Tailgate propped his elbow on the bar counter and his head on his hand. “But then I’d lose the excuse to let you touch me.”
Whirl would have gaped, had he a mouth. Instead, his vocalizer spat static, and Tailgate’s rolling chuckle filled the silence between them.
“Drinks are on me this time,” he said as he straightened and tried to lean over the counter, waving a hand wildly to get Swerve’s attention.
Good luck that. Skids was on the far end of the counter, and so long as he was there, they weren’t getting anything to drink anytime soon. Maybe they’d get lucky and spy Bluestreak somewhere around here.
“If you insist,” Whirl said.
Tailgate sagged back into his stool, shoulders slumped. “I think you need a new project, Whirl. Swerve is clearly in more need of your help than I am.”
Whirl chuckled. “Not even I’m talented enough to solve that crisis.” Poor Swerve. Poor Skids. Both of them oblivious. Whirl didn’t even know if Swerve’s interest was returned or genuine.
Swerve tended to fall for the charismatic ones. But his crushes also tended to leap from one pretty face to another. He liked to flirt, Swerve did. Whirl just wasn’t sure Swerve liked to settle down.
“Oh well.” Tailgate sighed. “At least we get to have some fun soon, right?”
“Right.” Whirl didn’t know how Rodimus had convinced both Megatron and Ultra Magnus to make a much needed and welcome pitstop at the waystation Quartex, but the whole crew was abuzz with delight about it.
Quartex was huge, full of fun and games and utterly welcoming to not only mechanicals, but Cybertronians as well. It was the closest thing to paradise they’d found since Hedonia.
“I’m dragging Cyclonus out with me. You’re coming, too,” Tailgate said, almost offhand.
“Right,” Whirl said, half-distracted by thoughts of what weapons stores he might stumble across. He paused, rewound the conversation, and swiveled toward Tailgate. “Wait. What? Shouldn’t you and Hornhead be able to go on your own dates now?”
Tailgate leaned against the counter, but his head tilted toward Whirl. “Why would we when we can go with you?”
“Uh, you don’t need a chaperone. You two seem to be getting along just fine to me,” Whirl pointed out, because as far as he could tell, the biggest problem the two of them had was that they were too love in with each other to realize that they were, in fact, in love with each other.
Tailgate laughed, his visor sparkling. “You’re not a chaperone,” he said. “Besides, we want you there. It’s always more fun when you’re there.”
Whirl squinted. He poked Tailgate in the shoulder. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Is that a no?” Tailgate asked, and his field flowed with hope, and he looked so earnest and excited.
Whirl sighed. “Look, Legs, if you want me there, I’ll be there.” Somehow, he would learn how to say no to Tailgate. Today was not that day. “But sooner or later, you two gotta figure this out on your own.”
“Oh, we will.” Tailgate beamed. “But we still like it with you.”
“Boy, that’s a confession if I ever heard one,” Swerve interjected as he sidled up, perfectly timed to distract Tailgate from what had been a stunned burst in Whirl’s field, followed by a surge of affectionate warmth.
“I think you’re projecting,” Tailgate said with a pointed look toward the other end of the counter, where Skids was departing with Brainstorm and Nautica.
Swerve chuckled. “I’m making progress,” he said and leaned on the counter, closer to Tailgate, conspiratorial. “As are you with Cyclonus, I hear. Congratulations.”
Tailgate’s field flushed. “We’ve been talking,” he said, almost shy, except Whirl knew far better. Tailgate was not shy. At all.
He was just a really, really good actor.
Whirl had to give him points for that.
“Good for you.” Swerve clapped his hands and leaned back. “Drinks on me then. The usual I presume.” His visor slid to Whirl, who nodded agreement.
Words, it seemed, were still beyond him. Because his spark kept wanting to do this twirly-dance around Tailgate, and that wouldn’t do.
That wouldn’t do at all.
***
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.
Stage one progressed swimmingly.
Getting Tailgate alone for a conversation was easy. Whirl had to put up with intense looks of longing toward doors where Cyclonus wasn’t, but still. Tailgate was easy to talk to, easy to convince, and he was on board with anything Whirl had planned, so long as it meant he would someday have his spark’s desire.
Well, provided Whirl’s plans were legal and non-manipulative.
What the cute little marshmallow didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Whirl would wink, if he had the capability.
And sure, that meant he had to endure countless hours where Tailgate waxed poetically about Cyclonus’ many, many fine qualities, it was kind of cute to listen to Tailgate gush. At least Tailgate wasn’t completely blind. A bit naive, painfully obsessed with the idea of love, but he wasn’t a fool.
He knew Cyclonus wasn’t perfect.
He ranted about Cyclonus as much as he praised the not-quite-Decepticon. So Whirl gave him that much credit.
Cyclonus though.
He was a different story.
Cyclonus didn’t talk. He seemed allergic to words and speaking them aloud, and preferred to communicate with intense stares, especially ones which tended to get Whirl’s hackles raised. Whirl quickly realized that conversations over drinks at Swerve’s were not the way to get through to Cyclonus.
Sparring, however. That was another kettle altogether.
All it took was a little goading, a little prying, a little teasing, and he got his alone-time with Cyclonus. Granted, he spent most of it either getting thrown around the practice room, or being the one doing the tossing, but what were a few dents and paint scrapes between friends, eh?
Frag, Whirl might even admit he was having fun.
After a good aft-kicking, Cyclonus unbent long enough to stop glaring at Whirl and participate in conversation. He appreciated a good sparring session.
With Cyclonus, Whirl learned the value of silence. Cyclonus was chattier if you gave him time to speak. So Whirl practiced the art of patience and patted himself on the back when he was rewarded with little drops of insight into the complicated and tangled mind that was Cyclonus of Tetrahex.
Friendship accomplished, the second stage of his plot could begin.
He invited them separately, and inwardly crowed when they arrived at nearly the same time, staring at each other in surprise, then in synchronous suspicion as they turned to look at Whirl.
“What a coincidence,” Whirl said, with his arms thrown into the air. “Who knew I was so bad at remembering my own schedule?” He was so glad his face couldn’t betray his glee. “Oh, well. I guess we’ll have to spend this time together, all three of us.”
“You are painfully transparent,” Cyclonus said.
Tailgate giggled. “Even as old as I am, I know that trick, Whirl. You could have just said you wanted to spend time with both of us at once.”
Okay, but that wasn’t even the goal? He wanted them to spend time together. He was just the Whirl-shaped social lubricant to ensure it happened.
“But that would be a lie, Tailgate,” Whirl insisted as he rested a hand on the minibot’s shoulder and tucked Tailgate against his side. “And I am not a liar. I am a wholesome, honest, and forthright rotary.”
Cyclonus snorted.
“I feel like I should step away from you, lest Primus strike us all dead for that utter lie you just said,” Tailgate said with a laugh. But he didn’t move from under Whirl’s arm. Instead, he peered up at Whirl. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan? Plan? There’s no plan. I scoff at the idea of a plan.” Whirl reached out and snagged Cyclonus by the arm, tugging him close enough for Whirl to drape an arm over Cyclonus’ shoulders. “Do I look like a mech who has a plan?”
“No,” Cyclonus and Tailgate answered in an eerie tandem that sent a shiver down Whirl’s spinal strut.
His head swung from one mech to the other. “Please don’t do that again,” Whirl said. “Even if you are both right. I do not have a plan. I have a coincidence.” He started down the hall, leading them with him. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” Tailgate said. He patted Whirl’s claw resting on his shoulder and beamed brightly.
Cyclonus moving with him and not ducking out from under Whirl’s arm was concession enough, but he granted them a verbal answer as well. “What did you have in mind?”
Whirl would have grinned, if he could.
“Shooting range,” Whirl declared. “Tailgate could use the practice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fire a blaster, and it’s about time I got to strut my stuff.” He blasted his field with amusement and pride, and was delighted when Tailgate responded with a blush of affection, and even Cyclonus managed a smidgen of grudging acceptance.
“Sounds good to me!” Tailgate said.
Cyclonus grunted.
As it turned out, Cyclonus was perhaps one of the worst marksmechs Whirl had ever seen. He held a blaster as though he’d only ever learned how to do so from watching terribly rated action films, and his shots only landed in the vicinity of the target. Tailgate was better at it than him, but then, he must have had more practice.
It was kind of reassuring, though, to know there was at least one thing in the universe Cyclonus didn’t excel at. Everything else seemed to come so effortless to him, including hand-to-hand combat. Whirl felt a stirring of glee that there was one thing he easily outpaced Cyclonus with.
“Wow,” Whirl said as Cyclonus fired and managed to clip the shoulder of the target on the nearest row. “I see why you rely on a sword.” He peered at the purple mech. “Do we need to get you a pair of spectacles, too?”
Tailgate giggled.
Cyclonus gave him a baleful look. “There is nothing wrong with my vision.” He glared down at the blaster as though it was to blame for his poor aim. “My targeting software must be out of date.”
“Like really out of date. Have you ever used it? Sheesh.” Whirl moved closer and tapped Cyclonus’ left foot. “Your stances are slag, too. What kind of military training they give you back in the old days?”
“Apparently, not the correct kind.” Cyclonus’ mouth twisted in a grimace. His field flushed embarrassment beneath the stoic acceptance.
Too cute.
Whirl graciously decided not to comment on it, though he filed that away for later. Cyclonus, not perfect, so adorable! He wanted to pinch Cyclonus’ non-cheeks and tease him about it forever. Except that would probably make Cyclonus storm off in a huff, and Cyclonus needed to be here for Whirl’s plan to work.
Speaking of…
“Meanwhile, Tailgate over here is a star pupil,” Whirl observed as he peered over Tailgate’s shoulder in the next stall and nodded approvingly at the neat blastershots in a tight cluster on the target’s chest. “Don’t tell Swerve. He’ll be so jealous you’re better than he is at this.”
Tailgate beamed up at him. “I’ve been practicing.”
“I’ll bet you have!” Whirl teasingly socked him on the shoulder, and Tailgate rocked in place. He leaned down, whispered conspiratorially. “Maybe take Cyclonus out for a few private lessons, eh?” He’d wink, if he could.
Tailgate’s field blushed that soft pink again. “Give him hands-on instruction, you mean?” he asked, equally soft, but definitely sly.
Whirl chortled and straightened. “You’re not as shy as you pretend you are,” he declared and leaned back over to peer into Cyclonus’ stall.
Cyclonus was focusing very hard on his blaster, glaring at it truthfully, as though he could force it into making him a better shot. “I much prefer the honor of killing an opponent at close range,” he muttered.
“There’s no honor in killing at all,” Whirl commented. He leaned against the panel separating the two stalls, so he could easily peek into one and then the other. “It’s just killing.”
Cyclonus slanted him a look. “How remarkably philosophical of you.”
Whirl squinted. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to insult me or not.”
“That was actually a compliment,” Tailgate said before the distinct sound of a blaster firing echoed from his stall.
Whirl leaned over to watch as three rapid-fire shots took out the head of a target in the furthest row. Tailgate stood there, both hands gripping the blaster, feet spread and braced, determined and fierce, and probably Whirl shouldn’t find him adorable like this, but he did.
Cyclonus leaned around Whirl, oddly close, enough Whirl felt the heat of Cyclonus’ armor against his back, and peered at Tailgate’s progress.
“There is something wrong with the universe,” Cyclonus said.
Whirl snorted. “You can’t be good at everything,” he said.
“Then you find me to be skilled at some things,” Cyclonus replied, and his voice was an amused, appreciative hum behind Whirl’s shoulder. “Good to know.”
He stepped back into his stall, leaving Whirl to squint at him. What in the universe was that about? He would have asked aloud, but Cyclonus chose that moment to lift his blaster and fire, stance incorrect, and shots wildly inaccurate.
Whirl sighed.
“I think I should get a bigger gun now,” Tailgate declared as his score flashed on the console in front of him – a new personal best. “Don’t you?” He turned to peer up at Whirl with a bright visor and lowered his voice. “And Cyclonus should probably stick to swords.”
“You are not as quiet as you think you are, Tailgate,” Cyclonus said.
Tailgate laughed. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t care if you heard me or not.”
Whirl’s spark grew three sizes. Because his plan was working. They were talking, bantering, flirting, and it was thanks to him.
Was this what it felt like to be an evil genius?
“Oh no, it happened again,” Whirl said with a dramatic flail of his arms as Cyclonus and Tailgate arrived in the oil reservoir at the same time. He started to wonder if they planned it this way.
Cyclonus folded his arms.
Tailgate laughed and flung his arms around Whirl in an impromptu hug that made Whirl freeze out of surprise. He lowered his arms and gamely patted Tailgate on the shoulder, his field stickily clinging to the warm affection offered by Tailgate.
“Your subtlety has not improved,” Cyclonus said.
“I think it’s sweet,” Tailgate said.
“I swear it was an accident,” Whirl declared without a single stutter. “I really need a personal assistant. Know anyone up for the job, Legs?”
Tailgate tilted his head and pretended to think, one finger tapping at the corner of his facemask. “I don’t know. Does it come with benefits?”
Whirl would have leered, if he could. Instead, he leaned closer and fluttered his optic in a wink. “Depends on the kind you’re looking for, sweetspark.”
Tailgate grabbed his hand by the wrist and drew it closer, examining Whirl’s claw with an odd intensity. “Hmm,” he said, humming contemplatively. “You did offer to help me out the next time I needed it.”
“Uh.” Whirl looked at Cyclonus warily, but the other mech had his arms folded and watched them with an unreadable expression. His field gave away nothing. “But uh, then you never called, and you know, I can take a hint.”
Whirl chuckled, playful, and extricated his wrist before either of them got the wrong idea. “So you’re here, you and Cyclonus both, so why don’t we just spend the time together?”
Phew. That was just weird.
Tailgate nodded and bounced on his heels. “Sounds good to me.” He paused and glanced up at Cyclonus. “You don’t mind, right, Cyclonus?” His voice canted upward at the end, hopeful and wanting.
Whirl waited, like Tailgate, silently promising pain to Cyclonus if he took that hope and crushed it beneath his stoic feet.
There was a long, grave moment before Cyclonus tipped his head in the tiniest of nods. “I have no plans otherwise.” He dropped his arms, gaze assessing as it traveled over Whirl from top to bottom. “What form of entertainment did you devise this time around?”
Whirl swallowed over a lump in his intake and gestured behind him, to the oil reservoir at large. “Picnic,” he declared. “Under the stars.”
It was suitably romantic. He’d get them settled, get them sitting close, treats and engex between them, and then he’d make his escape. Swerve was supposed to ping him with some kind of emergency only Whirl could assist with, and then he’d leave and watch from afar with a handily arranged camcorder courtesy of Rewind. Just to make sure they didn’t implode in his absence.
That was the plan.
“Sounds wonderful,” Tailgate said.
“Interesting,” Cyclonus said.
Whirl squinted at him. “Is that a slight on my activity planning?”
Cyclonus arched one orbital ridge at him. “Not at all. Only that you’ve chosen an activity better suited for romantic endeavors than friendly ones.”
“How narrow-minded of you Cyclonus!” Whirl declared with grandiose gestures. He walked backward, leading them toward the set-up he’d put into place while waiting for them to arrive. “Platonic friendship can be expressed in numerous ways.”
Cyclonus gave him a steady look.
Tailgate chuckled warmly and squeezed Whirl’s wrist. “You learned that from Rung, didn’t you?”
“I am brilliant all on my own.” Whirl plopped down on a corner of the mat he’d dragged in here, awkwardly bending his legs in front of him. “Come on. Sit down. I put a lot of work into this, you know.”
“And it shows,” Tailgate said as he sat down also, leaving space next to him for Cyclonus to join them. “Thank you, Whirl. This was very sweet of you.”
“Damn straight.” Whirl’s rotors clicked and spun.
Whirl grabbed the small container he’d lugged down here and started pulling out little bottles of engex – handily supplied by Swerve – and a box of treat sticks for Tailgate and some of those little chewy things Cyclonus liked. There was also a small speaker and he’d uploaded some suitably romantic tunes to set a proper mood.
“All this from a mech who doesn’t plan,” Cyclonus lifted one of the chewy treats, giving it a tentative sniff before popping it into his mouth. His face betrayed nothing, but the flutter of delight in his field happened too quickly for him to hide it.
“That’s him saying thank you,” Tailgate said.
Whirl chortled. “It’s a good thing he has you around to translate for him.”
Cyclonus sniffed imperiously and snagged another treat from the plate. “I can speak for myself.” Clawed fingers fiddled with the springy energon chew before he slipped it into his mouth.
“Except you don’t,” Whirl pointed out with a claw. “You brood out the window and make all these vague comments that no one can interpret. Except, apparently, Tailgate.” He huffed a laugh. “The Cyclonus-whisperer, eh?” He nudged Tailgate with an elbow.
Tailgate popped one of the treat sticks into his intake. “It’s an important service I provide.”
Cyclonus sighed. But the look he gave Tailgate was inordinately fond. He sat close enough to Tailgate that their knees touched, and their fields entangled at the furthest edges. They exchanged a glance, one that was warm and affectionate, and seriously, how could they not realize how much they loved each other already?
Whirl’s comm chirped right on time.
“It’s your friendly bartender get-out-of-awkward-situations call,” Swerve sang cheerily into the comm.
Whirl held up a hand, swiveled his upper torso away from the two lovebirds, and made a show of replying. “And not a moment too soon,” he replied internally because he was the mech with a plan, and he didn’t need the two suspicious not-yet-lovers to call him out on it just yet. “What fake emergency do you have for me?”
“What? I actually have to come up with something? You didn’t tell me that part!” Swerve complained, and before Whirl could retort, he continued in a rush, “Besides, our captain is here and he’s causing a ruckus, and I don’t really have time for this.”
Oh. Well. If Rodimus was there, clearly he took precedence. Whirl wished he had two optics just so he could roll both of them.
“You’re not being helpful,” Whirl retorted.
“I’m helping!”
“Only the bare minimum!”
Swerve huffed into the comm. “It’s not like you’re paying me. I’ve got a business to run, I’ve got customers, and for crying out loud someone get him off the table!”
The comm went dead.
Well.
Whirl coughed a ventilation and turned back to Cyconus and Tailgate, processor whirring in an attempt to come up with a good lie. They looked at him with matching stares of confusion and curiosity, leaning in toward each other like the adorable set of star-crossed lovers they were.
“Oh dear,” Whirl said, in the patented tone of Dramatic Disappointment he’d been practicing for days. “Swerve needs my help with something. I need to--”
Tailgate snorted. “Whatever it is, he can handle it,” he interrupted and scooted closer to Whirl, patting Whirl’s knee with one hand while offering one of the small containers of engex with the other, a straw sticking jauntily from the opening. “You went to all the trouble to arrange this. You should stay and enjoy it.” His field reached out as well, warm and inviting, and Whirl’s own responded in kind, completely without his permission.
It tangled with the threads of Tailgate’s allure. It pulsed a soft wave of heat through Whirl’s frame, and honestly, it was completely unfair how adorable Tailgate was. How he’d started out a liar, but everything about the way he interacted with others was so completely genuine, it was at odds to Whirl’s past experience. The war hadn’t tainted him yet.
The tiniest kernel of hope nestled deep within Whirl’s spark wished that it never did.
The warmth of Tailgate’s field, however, was not for Whirl. It was for Cyclonus, and if Whirl didn’t vamoose, he worried Tailgate might forget that.
“I really should--”
“Stay right where you are,” Cyclonus interrupted with an almost serene look as he sipped at the engex, head tilted with contemplation. “This is an interesting blend. Familiar almost.” His mouth curved into a frown, not one of anger, but reflection. “I wonder if Swerve has been reading up on old recipes.”
“He did say he was!” Tailgate answered, perking. His hand remained on Whirl’s knee, however, as if trying to keep him in place. “He said Bluestreak brought a whole bunch of datapads and stuff with him, and they’ve been going through them together, trying to recreate stuff from before, you know, the war and all.”
Cyclonus nodded slowly. “That’s thoughtful of him. I feel I’ve underestimated Swerve.”
Tailgate giggled. “You underestimate everyone.”
“Perhaps you’re not wrong,” Cyclonus allowed, slowly. His optics shifted to Whirl, and there was something in the shade of them that pinned Whirl in place. “There’s not a single emergency I can imagine where Swerve could possibly need your presence.”
Whirl groped for a response to contradict Cyclonus, but his well of deviousness ran dry. He… really hadn’t thought this through, had he?
“So stay,” Tailgate said. “Please?”
He looked up at Whirl with a bright, pleading visor, and all of Whirl’s protests crumpled like they were made of paper.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. He didn’t want their disappointment to ruin his carefully crafted plans, after all.
He’d just make sure they were alone together next time was all.
Next time would have to wait, Whirl reflected, because then there was a planet with a weird half-metal, half-organic monster creature thing that tried to eat them, and Megatron blamed Rodimus, and Rodimus laughed about it, because they all got a work out in the end, and no one died, what was the big deal, sheesh.
No one died but Whirl got a fair sized dent and one of the creature’s mini-mes took a bite out of Cyclonus’ leg, so the both of them were cradled up together in the medbay with Tailgate fretting and hovering like the cute little nurse he was sometimes.
“Just a plate wound,” Whirl declared, feeling droopy and floaty because First Aid always offered the good pain chips where Ratchet tended to be stingy.
“I’ve had worse,” Cyclonus agreed.
“You’re both masochists,” Tailgate wailed, fingers tangled together.
Cyclonus and Whirl shared a commiserating, understanding look. Civilians. Honestly.
“We’ll be fine,” Whirl slurred as the world spun a little around him, but that was alright because Tailgate had a grip on one of his claws, holding him in place. Giving him a center-point to focus on.
Cyclonus held out a hand, and Tailgate sitting between their medberths, reached out with his other and clasped his fingers with Cyclonus’. “It’s alright, little one,” he said, voice painfully gentle and making Whirl’s spark squeeze.
Primus, they were so damn cute.
Later Whirl paced around his quarters, racking his processor for another step in stage two of the plan.
Cyclonus and Tailgate progressed smoothly, but they were still distant to one another, as far as Whirl could tell. No love confessions had been made. They weren’t soppily hanging on each other like newly-bonded should. They needed more of a push.
And Whirl needed another idea.
Someone pinged his door.
That was unusual enough. No one came to visit Whirl. No one actively sought him out. It threw him off a little, this ping at his door. He hadn’t broken any of the important rules lately. No way it was Ultra Magnus.
Whirl opened the door.
It was Cyclonus.
Whirl squinted. “Did I set up a sparring session and forget?”
“No.” Cyclonus stood there, parade-rest, hands clasped behind his back. “Though if you’re interested in one, that makes this a lot easier.”
What the frag was ‘this’?
Whirl scratched the back of his head. “Well, I mean, I’m always up for a fight.” He twitched his front cannons, set the barrels to spinning. “If you know what I mean.”
“You make it fairly obvious.” Cyclonus’ lips twitched, almost like a smile. He half-turned like an invitation. “But if not sparring, a drink?”
Whirl’s fans stalled, and he had to manually restart them. He peered at Cyclonus, wondering if he’d fallen into recharge at some point and was now dreaming. “You’re asking me to join you for a social occasion?”
“We are friends, are we not?” Cyclonus asked, saying ‘friends’ slowly and carefully as though tasting the word to see if he liked the shape of it or not.
“True,” Whirl admitted, and he leaned into the hallway, looking it up and down. “No Tailgate?” He wasn’t disappointed or confused, but an odd mix of both.
Cyclonus arched an orbital ridge. “We do come separately, you know.”
“Pity,” Whirl replied, only half-joking. He stepped out of his room, letting the door shut behind him. “Alright. I’ll bite. What’s on your mind, Cyclonus?” It’s kind of weird, but maybe Cyclonus wanted advice or something. Not like Whirl was the kind of mech anyone would come to for advice, but to each his own.
They were friends of a flavor. Maybe Cyclonus didn’t think he could trust anyone else. Which meant this was probably about Tailgate.
Claws crossed.
“What did you do?” Cyclonus asked as he tucked his hands back behind his back and started down the corridor, leaving Whirl to fall in step behind him. “Before the war?”
Whirl blinked. “Uh, you mean before these?” He lifted his claws for reference. “Or you know, the thing I did that kind of sort of started the war before the war? Because those are two separate things, and also, why?” What in the universe did this have to do with Tailgate?
Cyclonus hummed in his intake. “Whichever you feel more comfortable discussing. My past is relatively common knowledge, but I’ve come to realize I don’t know much about you.”
“And that matters why?”
Cyclonus gave him a steadying look. Whirl got the feeling it spoke something like ‘duh’ except Whirl honestly didn’t know the answer to that question.
“Because I would like to know,” Cyclonus said.
Whirl tilted his head to the left and the right. He moved closer, peering down at Cyclonus, tentatively poking at his field. Yeah, this was definitely Cyclonus. He was definitely awake. And Cyclonus felt genuine.
“I made chronos,” Whirl answered slowly, carefully. Odd, though, that his first instinct had been to honest. He hadn’t once considered a lie. “And if you think you don’t like me now, you really wouldn’t have liked me then.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I was an aft,” Whirl said, blunt. He could say it now, because he could recognize it, and yeah, he might not have been a good mech. But that didn’t give anyone the right to take his life from him.
He was who he was, and now he is who he is, and that was just the way things were. He could be honest about who he was because then it was that much easier to accept who he is.
Whirl could, theoretically, get ‘fixed’ to quote Swerve. Without a war, with a lot of down time, he could go to Ratchet and get ‘fixed’. But Whirl wasn’t broken, this was who he was, and getting ‘fixed’ wouldn’t actually fix him. It wouldn’t make anything better, it wouldn’t change the past.
He was who he was. And if mechs didn’t want him as he was, then they didn’t deserve what he could be. Plain and simple.
Cyclonus lifted both orbital ridges. “Then that is something we have in common.”
Whirl chuckled. “Except we’re still afts now.”
“That as well.”
They paused in front of Visages. Trust Cyclonus to pick the quieter, more intimate of the two bars on the Lost Light.
“And did you enjoy it?” Cyclonus asked as he pushed through the door and Whirl followed him, still curious despite himself.
“Enjoy what? Being an aft? Because yeah, that was kind of fun.”
“No. Your prior occupation.”
Whirl’s spark squeezed into a tiny knot. He lapsed into silence and trailed Cyclonus to a table in the far corner, isolated from the other, smaller groups of mechs conversing in low, quiet tones. Soft music floated from surrounding speakers, tinny and lacking in lyrics. Not completely unappealing, but no words left the music a bit bland in Whirl’s point of view.
They sat.
Cyclonus perched across from Whirl, hands folded on the table in front of him, face a mask of patience.
Whirl fidgeted on the cushions. He admired the décor, so muted compared to Swerve’s, and a bit snobbish. Just like Mirage, come to think of it.
A serving bot came by, took their order, and returned with it, by the time Whirl finally managed to put his thoughts in some semblance of order. The service here was so much better. Whirl debated for all of a half-second mentioning as much to Swerve, but then, that would be cruel for no reason, and Whirl had stopped being cruel for the sake of it.
“It was what I chose for myself,” Whirl finally answered, once he’d had a long pull of the strong engex Cyclonus so graciously bought for him with the apparently endless amount of creds he had. “Before Megatron and the Decepticons started their little revolution, that was a thing that didn’t happen much. But I wanted to make chronos, so they let me make chronos, until they decided they wouldn’t anymore.”
He cycled a ventilation and took another long pull of the engex, draining the cup until it was near empty. The engex sat hot and light in his tanks, but it emboldened him.
Cyclonus’ even stare was only mildly perturbing. “You were lucky, for a time.”
“Until I wasn’t.” Whirl snorted. He hunched his shoulders. He squinted at Cyclonus. “What’s with the spark to spark anyway? What’s it matter?”
Cyclonus curled a hand around his cup and leaned forward, his field reaching out, warm and tentative, and Whirl leaned into it before he realized what he was doing.
“Because we are friends,” he said. “And the more I know about you, the less likely I am to want to kill you.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before Whirl burst into laughter. Because it took him that long to realize Cyclonus had made a joke, a playful one, and there was a disconnect in his reasoning. Cyclonus? Did not joke. Specifically, Cyclonus did not joke with him, and yet, he just had.
It was wild.
So wild.
Whirl laughed and laughed and downed the rest of his engex. “Okay,” he said, once he’d gathered himself, amusement fluttering through his field like the spiraling rays of starlight. “Then ask away, friend.”
Cyclonus smiled, and though it was a small thing, it made Whirl’s spark lurch in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries.
Oh.
Well.
That was unfortunate.
Fate didn’t give him much time to recover from that unexpected epiphany. The one that told him he didn’t hate Cyclonus or despise him or loathe him or dislike him. Instead, he found he rather liked the sullen purple mech, and that like probably extended beyond the realm of friendship and into a different domain. One that wondered what it would feel like to have those clawed hands on his frame.
It was absurd.
Cyclonus clearly loved Tailgate and vice versa. Whirl had no business harboring any kind of interest in either of them. So he tucked away his sudden and random attraction, buried it deep, and resolved to not let it affect him at all.
Should’ve been easy. He was a master at concealing his emotions.
Until Tailgate waylaid him right outside the door of the washracks, Whirl’s armor still a bit damp and dripping because it was not the easiest thing in the universe, to dry oneself with hands that weren’t hands, but instead barely manipulated claws. He did the best he could and frag anyone who complained otherwise.
Yes, that meant you Ultra Magnus.
“Good, you’re not busy,” Tailgate said as Whirl blinked at him dumbly. He grabbed Whirl’s claw by the wrist and started towing him down the corridor. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Whirl asked, stumbling in the minibot’s wake. Tailgate was… abnormally strong, and Whirl wasn’t sure what to think about that.
“Swerve’s,” Tailgate chirped, his field playfully tickling Whirl’s, bright swirls of color that spoke of frivolity and affection.
“Why?”
“Because I want you to come with me, and you’re not busy,” Tailgate replied, his tone implying the ‘duh’ as though this should have been obvious to Whirl. He’d been learning from Cyclonus apparently.
Whirl peered up the hall and over his shoulder. It was oddly deserted. “Where’s Cyclonus?”
“I don’t know. Meditating maybe.” Tailgate shrugged, dismissive but not upset. Usually, this would be the point where he moped because Cyclonus was disinterested in spending time with him. “Did you know Rewind has all kinds of vids stored in his memory banks? I just spent half a day watching old commercials.”
Whirl’s processor spun. “Rewind stores everything.”
“Yeah, but commercials?” Tailgate laughed and slowed his pace a little, taking them down to a casual stroll, though his fingers remained linked around Whirl’s wrist. “Why would anyone want to remember those?”
“Nostalgia?” Whirl hazarded a guess.
Tailgate hummed. “You might have a point.” He looked up at Whirl, sidelong, almost sly. “Did you have any shows you liked to watch? Before the war, I mean?”
“Uh. Probably.” Whirl scratched at the underside of his head. “Can’t really remember though. This thing don’t store as well as it ought.” He tapped his head for emphasis.
Tailgate slowed even further, until they walked step in step, and he could nudge Whirl’s hip with a shoulder. “That’s okay. I can borrow some vidfiles from Rewind and maybe we can find some old stuff you used to like or old stuff you can like now.”
“Wouldn’t you rather do that with Cyclonus?”
“I can do it with you, too, can’t I?” Tailgate asked with a little huff. “My world doesn’t begin and end with Cyclonus, you know.”
Whirl flickered his optics. “Really? Cause that’s news to me.” And possibly the whole crew of the Lost Light. The little romantic sidestep those two have been doing was the stuff of legend at this point.
“I have other friends!” Tailgate said, indignant. “Besides, I like spending time with you.”
Whirl’s spark performed that odd flutter it wasn’t supposed to know. “I thought the sole purpose of that was to help you catch Cyclonus?”
Tailgate’s visor went flat. “I’m not that selfish! Do you think I’m that selfish? Do I come across as that selfish?” Panic flared in his visor, and he squeezed Whirl’s wrist, field suddenly flush with apology. “I’m so sorry if that’s what you thought. I mean, you’re weird and dangerous, but I still like you anyway.”
“… Thanks?” Honestly, he didn’t know who sucked more at giving compliments, Tailgate or Cyclonus. They were made for each other.
“You’re welcome!” Tailgate beamed and tugged Whirl into Swerve’s, towing him right to the bar where they took two stools, Whirl once again having to lift Tailgate into his.
The minibot giggled, legs kicking in an unfairly cute manner.
“You know, we could solve this problem by sitting in a booth,” Whirl pointed out as he slid into the stool beside Tailgate, lowering it a little so they were on an even keel.
Tailgate propped his elbow on the bar counter and his head on his hand. “But then I’d lose the excuse to let you touch me.”
Whirl would have gaped, had he a mouth. Instead, his vocalizer spat static, and Tailgate’s rolling chuckle filled the silence between them.
“Drinks are on me this time,” he said as he straightened and tried to lean over the counter, waving a hand wildly to get Swerve’s attention.
Good luck that. Skids was on the far end of the counter, and so long as he was there, they weren’t getting anything to drink anytime soon. Maybe they’d get lucky and spy Bluestreak somewhere around here.
“If you insist,” Whirl said.
Tailgate sagged back into his stool, shoulders slumped. “I think you need a new project, Whirl. Swerve is clearly in more need of your help than I am.”
Whirl chuckled. “Not even I’m talented enough to solve that crisis.” Poor Swerve. Poor Skids. Both of them oblivious. Whirl didn’t even know if Swerve’s interest was returned or genuine.
Swerve tended to fall for the charismatic ones. But his crushes also tended to leap from one pretty face to another. He liked to flirt, Swerve did. Whirl just wasn’t sure Swerve liked to settle down.
“Oh well.” Tailgate sighed. “At least we get to have some fun soon, right?”
“Right.” Whirl didn’t know how Rodimus had convinced both Megatron and Ultra Magnus to make a much needed and welcome pitstop at the waystation Quartex, but the whole crew was abuzz with delight about it.
Quartex was huge, full of fun and games and utterly welcoming to not only mechanicals, but Cybertronians as well. It was the closest thing to paradise they’d found since Hedonia.
“I’m dragging Cyclonus out with me. You’re coming, too,” Tailgate said, almost offhand.
“Right,” Whirl said, half-distracted by thoughts of what weapons stores he might stumble across. He paused, rewound the conversation, and swiveled toward Tailgate. “Wait. What? Shouldn’t you and Hornhead be able to go on your own dates now?”
Tailgate leaned against the counter, but his head tilted toward Whirl. “Why would we when we can go with you?”
“Uh, you don’t need a chaperone. You two seem to be getting along just fine to me,” Whirl pointed out, because as far as he could tell, the biggest problem the two of them had was that they were too love in with each other to realize that they were, in fact, in love with each other.
Tailgate laughed, his visor sparkling. “You’re not a chaperone,” he said. “Besides, we want you there. It’s always more fun when you’re there.”
Whirl squinted. He poked Tailgate in the shoulder. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Is that a no?” Tailgate asked, and his field flowed with hope, and he looked so earnest and excited.
Whirl sighed. “Look, Legs, if you want me there, I’ll be there.” Somehow, he would learn how to say no to Tailgate. Today was not that day. “But sooner or later, you two gotta figure this out on your own.”
“Oh, we will.” Tailgate beamed. “But we still like it with you.”
“Boy, that’s a confession if I ever heard one,” Swerve interjected as he sidled up, perfectly timed to distract Tailgate from what had been a stunned burst in Whirl’s field, followed by a surge of affectionate warmth.
“I think you’re projecting,” Tailgate said with a pointed look toward the other end of the counter, where Skids was departing with Brainstorm and Nautica.
Swerve chuckled. “I’m making progress,” he said and leaned on the counter, closer to Tailgate, conspiratorial. “As are you with Cyclonus, I hear. Congratulations.”
Tailgate’s field flushed. “We’ve been talking,” he said, almost shy, except Whirl knew far better. Tailgate was not shy. At all.
He was just a really, really good actor.
Whirl had to give him points for that.
“Good for you.” Swerve clapped his hands and leaned back. “Drinks on me then. The usual I presume.” His visor slid to Whirl, who nodded agreement.
Words, it seemed, were still beyond him. Because his spark kept wanting to do this twirly-dance around Tailgate, and that wouldn’t do.
That wouldn’t do at all.
