[TF] Anamnesis - 05

[dracoqueen22]

Anamnesis
Chapter Five

The ping of his comm rouses Hot Rod from his recharge. He groans, rolling out of both the berth and Megs’ embrace, fumbling to answer the comm before it kicks over from internal to external. He has a half-klik to recognize Hook’s ident code before his voice spills into Hot Rod’s internal receivers.

“Stay home.”

Hot Rod leans against the edge of the berth. “What? Why?” He fights off a yawn, scrubbing sleep from his optics.

“I’ll explain later, just don’t leave your apartment,” Hook snaps.

Click.

Hot Rod blinks at the abrupt end of the conversation. Hook can be terse sometimes, but even for him, that was downright rude.

It’s too strange for Hot Rod’s recharge-heavy mind to parse. It’s not the first time Hook’s commed him not to come in. Back then, there was an outbreak of miner’s rust, and Hook didn’t want him anywhere near it. He’d taken the time to explain it though.

This feels different.

Hot Rod frowns and pushes off the berth, muddled thoughts demanding a sip of energon or two before he can start to properly process his unexpected day off. A shower of dried filth flakes off his frame, and Hot Rod wrinkles his nasal ridge. In all the worry about Megs, he’d completely forgotten how dirty he was.

Scrubbing first, energon later. Too bad he can’t leave his apartment. He needs a real rinse.

Hot Rod tiptoes out of the berthroom so as not to wake Megs, and comes to an abrupt halt in the doorway. There’s a feline cassette sitting at the table. He’s perched on the stool Megs had knocked over – which he must have righted – and there’s a datapad sitting in front of him, as if he’s reading it.

Hot Rod stares for longer than is polite, processor still misfiring, until tangled memories drag out a designation.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You’re Ravage.”

Megs is right about one thing. Ravage is way out of their league. Hot Rod knows his security isn’t the best, but it’s still startling as frag to realize someone’s let themself into his home.

“How is your guest?” Ravage asks. He hasn’t even looked at Hot Rod. He’s still staring at the datapad.

Hot Rod sighs and leans against the door jamb, folding his arms over his chassis. “His memories are coming back little by little. We’re trying not to push. The last one had a bad backlash.” He glares hard between Ravage’s shoulderblades, not that the felinoid notices.

“Yes, that was part of the point.” Ravage glances over at Hot Rod. “He is not supposed to remember, but there is much those in power do not know about their pet Institute.”

Hot Rod’s frown deepens. He’s in so far over his head, he doesn’t see a way out. “You know who he is.”

“It’s not my secret to tell.” Ravage slips down from the stool without making a sound. “It is up to him what he chooses to share.”

It sounds and feels like chastisement. Where does this mech get off judging Hot Rod? “I wasn’t trying to get you to tell me. But at least you could tell him.”

“There is a datapad and more supplements on the table,” Ravage says, ignoring Hot Rod’s actual words yet again. He’s not sure he likes Ravage. “Perhaps the two of you could try watching the newsfeeds. There is a world beyond Nyon.”

Hot Rod wrinkles his nasal ridge. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

Ravage stares at him. “I strongly suggest you don’t leave your apartment today.”

“Yeah, I know. Hook tole me as much,” Hot Rod says.

The berth creaks behind Hot Rod, and Megs’ vents whuff. Hot Rod glances over his shoulder to see Megs’ biolights flickering as he starts to rise from recharge. Good. He’ll want to be a part of this conversation, too.

“Believe it or not, I can take care of...” Hot Rod’s words die on his lips.

Ravage is gone. There’s not so much as a flicker of movement to indicate where either. It had only been the span of a few seconds, but in that time, he’d vanished without activating Hot Rod’s peripheral sensors.

What. The. Frag.

Maybe Hook has a point.

Hot Rod sighs, gathers up the datapad, supplements, and a morning allotment of energon, before he joins Megs in the berthroom. “Your pet brought you more gifts.”.

Megs’ optic cycles at him in confusion before he notices the items in Hot Rod’s hands. “I see.”

“I’d really like to know how he just shows up and leaves without making a sound,” Hot Rod grumbles as he hands over the items. “I don’t like knowing it’s that easy to get in here.”

“I suspect it’s not a matter of ease, but that Ravage’s skills are beyond the average mech,” Megs says as he accepts the offerings of energon, datapad, and supplements. “What did he have to say this time?”

“Nothing revealing.” Hot Rod picks at his chassis, where a clump of grit clings stubbornly to one of the seams in his chassis. “Except he thinks we should be watching the newscasts more.”

Megs idly taps the datapad with a manipulator. “Then there must be something in the news which I’ll find relevant.”

“Maybe.” A few flakes of dirt flutter to the floor. “He also told me – and you by proxy – to stay home today, which is especially weird because Hook had just commed me saying the same thing.”

“Why?”

Hot Rod shrugs. “My guess? The Enforcers are out, and it’s best I stay under their radar.” He looks up at Megs. “What do you say? We can hang out, play games, that sort of thing?”

Megs tilts his head. “After you wash.”

“Are you saying I’m dirty?” Hot Rod plants his hands on his hips, spoiler flicking and causing dirt to puff from his seams. It showers the floor.

A small laugh rattles out of Megs’ intake. “Will it offend you if I say ‘yes’?”

“No, it’s true.” Hot Rod grins and waves off the worry rising in Megs’ field. “I’ll go wipe myself down. We can watch a movie or something when I’m done.”

“I would like that.”

Yeah, Hot Rod likes the sound of it, too. He scuttles off to his own hab for solvent and a rag, scrubbing himself down as quickly as possible. One day, he’s absolutely gonna splurge and move to an apartment that has an in-unit washrack, but for now, this will have to do until he can safely walk out the door. Dirt swirls down the drain, and Hot Rod focuses on it rather than the dozens of questions bubbling up inside him.

It’s not like Megs has the answers anyway. All Hot Rod can do is wait.

Hot Rod tosses the dirtied rags into the collection bin – they’re going to need to be scrubbed and dried later. Yet another domestic task to add to the list. Megs could probably use a good wipedown, too. Hot Rod’s not sure if he’s had one since Hook gave him a wash after fixing him up.

The vidscreen is on in the main room, the volume lowered to half, with a newscast scrolling along in the background. Megs is perched at the table, intake pouch dutifully pushing supplemented energon into his tanks. He’s got three datapads arranged in front of him – one of which is the one Ravage had brought this morning – and he’s staring at them as if he can’t bring himself to power them on.

“Megs?”

The amber optic flickers before Megs looks up at him, and his armor flutters over his substructure, subtly losing tension. “Ah, so that’s the color you are supposed to be.”

Hot Rod rolls his optics. “Haha. Funny.” He drags a stool over and plops down next to Megs, leaning in to peer at the datapads himself. “Can’t decide where to start?”

“More that I am afraid of what they contain.” Megs touches each one in turn as though weighing the weight of the answers they carry. “My last experience was not pleasant.”

Hot Rod braces his arms on the edge of the table. “You want me to try and read them first? Maybe I can figure out what they’re about and warn you.”

“That would be the coward’s way out.” Megs leans back, head tilted toward the vidscreen on the wall. “I have a choice. I can ignore my past and these datapads, or I can brace myself for the eventuality of truth.”

“Doesn’t really sound like much of a choice,” Hot Rod says.

“It’s not. Either way, I can’t ignore the mech I was...” Megs trails off, staring harder the screen, only to lurch from his stool. He fumbles at the wall controls, increasing the volume.

Hot Rod swivels around on the stool to watch whatever it was that had caught Megs’ attention. The ticker along the bottom spouts the headlines of the day, but the broadcaster is babbling about a different story.

“—disappearance has sparked many questions, both from those who supported his writings, and those who cast aspersions upon them,” says the newsbot as the image behind him shows the shadow of a mech, a question mark over the shadow.

Where is Megatron of Tarn? asks the image.

“His words have spread throughout the intranet faster than any before him. He has gained the adoration and attention of the common Cybertronian, sparking conversations across the planet,” the newsbot continues. “His writings on the supposed inequalities of Cybertron are often said to be the cause of the unrest in many cities. They have been accused of inciting mechs to violence.”

The screen cuts away to an interview with a mech identified as Senator Highbrow. “Of course he has vanished,” says the Senator, his nasally voice instantly grating on Hot Rod’s audials. “Now that he’s spouted a lot of nonsense to stir the pot, this Megatron has ducked back into obscurity, hiding from the consequences of his actions. He doesn’t have any interest in the true needs of the people, only anarchy.”

Another screen cut reveals a different mech, lower in class judging by the state of his armor and the slump of his shoulders, a mech who’s not given the respect of having his designation on the screen. “Megatron’s a hero to us. He’s saying the things we’re all thinking. Or at least, the stuff we should be thinking. It’s made me realize, you know, that this isn’t all there has to be. That we can be more, yeah?”

The newsbot takes back over, tone perfectly bland and neutral. “Whether he is a hero or a villain is up to the individual to decide, but there is no denying the effect Megatron’s treatise has had on Cybertron. But now that he has vanished, one must wonder if his legacy will linger, or if it, too, will evaporate.”

A dull clatter drags Hot Rod’s attention away from the screen. Megs is groping for his stool, trying to find it with shaking manipulators. Hot Rod leaps to his feet, tucking himself under Megs’ other arm before his friend can collapse.

“What is it?” Hot Rod asks as Megs sags onto the stool, pressing the heel of his free claw to his head. Pain flickers through his field in nauseating bursts.

Megs groans, his engine screeching distress. “Off,” he rasps. “Turn it.. off. Please.”

Hot Rod spins back around and slams the button for the vidscreen, immediately filling the apartment with silence. Well, except for the clatter of Megs’ armor, the wheezing of his vents, the riotous push of his field as it extends, further and further.

Worry wraps around Hot Rod’s spark. He gently cups Megs’ head, looking into the dim flicker of his optic. “It’s off,” he murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

“It is the same as last night.” Megs’ vocalizer clicks a few times before he continues, “My processor feels too large for my head. The memories are there, behind the wall, just out of reach, and the need to view them consumes me.”

Hot Rod strokes a thumb over Megs’ intake gently. “Because of the newscast?”

“That is likely.” Megs vents again, hot and dry, the reek of rapidly cycled coolant hissing out. “I need only consider evolution, about standing against the Senate, and the thought becomes knives in my spark.”

Hot Rod winces. “Well, that makes sense. It’s the kind of thing the Senate would try to punish. It’s like the number one reason mechs get dragged off for Empurata. But hey, you can look on the bright side, right?”

Megs’ optic flickers toward him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re probably not an actual criminal,” Hot Rod says with a crooked grin. “Probably not a murderer or crime boss or master thief or anything like that. Just a mech who dared to think for himself.”

A sound rattles out of Megs’ chassis. “Would you be less interested in me were that the case?”

“No,” Hot Rod says, and he doesn’t have to think about it. Nyon gets all kinds, and Hot Rod’s not one to judge. Also, he’s pretty sure Hook or his brothers have committed some crime at some point. “I believe in second chances. Even if you had been a criminal, if you tell me you want to be different, that’s all I need to hear.”

Megs’ gaze drops, his manipulators click-clicking where they rest across his thighs. “It is that simple for you?”

“Yes.” Hot Rod slides his hands to Megs’ wrists, fingers gentle on the ridged scars of the surgery. “But if you get your memories back, and it turns out you liked being a criminal and you want to keep doing that, well, that’d be your choice, too. Just like it would be mine to walk away because I’m not down with that.”

“And that would be fair of you.” Megs cycles another ventilation. “Criminal or not, do you see me differently?”

Hot Rod smiles and squeezes Megs’ wrists carefully. “You’re still the same mech I rescued from the Heap. The same mech who has been kind and protective and patient while trying to teach me to read and write.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to the ridge of Megs’ orbital arch. “The same mech I wanted last night.”

A small tremble races across Megs’ armor before it settles around his frame, his field relaxed and warm around him. “You are too good for Nyon, Hot Rod. You deserve so much better than the hand that has been dealt to you.”

Hot Rod flushes. “I’m just doing what I think is right. That’s all.” He pecks a chaste kiss on the ridge of Megs’ orbital arch and draws back to a more respectable distance. “Why don’t we leave the screen off for a bit and work on some reading? I still have a huge stack of those stupid romance datanovels.”

“Did you have a specific one in mind?” Megs asks.

Hot Rod taps his chin and grins. “How about Poetry of my Spark?”

Megs groans and despite only having a single optic, the look he gives Hot Rod can only be called pleading. “Are there no better options?”

“Prime Charming?”

“No.”

“E is for Endurae?”

Megs gives him a playful push as Hot Rod dances out of reach. “Fine. Go get Poetry of my Spark. It is the least offensive of my options.”

Hot Rod laughs.

~

Three datapads stare back at him, taunting him with their answers. Megs knows of the mines in Tarn, of Impactor and other mechs he had likely worked beside. This is the second of the three datapads he’s received. The first holds the words of Megatron of Tarn, his calls for action, for equality, for standing up in search of what’s right.

The third is still a mystery.

Megs is not unwilling to admit he’s afraid of the contents. He fears the truth of his past more than he did before, now that he has something to lose. Someone to lose.

At least the possibility of being a political revolutionary is better than that of a violent criminal.

The pieces fit. The puzzle hasn’t made a cohesive whole, but all the individual clues paint a clear picture of the mech he was.

Though how a miner from Tarn had come to be as educated as Megs appears to be is as confusing as how Megs in his current state had ended up in Nyon in the first place. Tarn and Nyon are on opposite sides of Cybertron, and while it’s common for Empurata mechs to be dumped in Nyon’s Heap, it is odd the Senate would go to such lengths.

Surely there are closer slagpiles to Tarn. After all, Megs was not meant to survive. If Hot Rod had not found him, Megs would have offlined there in the Heap.

The Senate would not have gone to such trouble for a common criminal. No, they’d have tossed his former self in a prison and deleted away the keycode. Or they’d have publicly executed him.

Why had they opted for Empurata instead of imprisonment or execution? Surely either would have been more effective and less costly. Perhaps they hoped the Empurata would keep him useful. The Senate did so hate to lose their toys.

He huffs.

Yes, political revolutionary is the likeliest of the answers. There’s a deep-seated disdain for the government in his spark, more than it could be for a mech who’s only been online for a month, and relearning his place in the world.

Megs lifts the newest datapad and contemplates the weight of it. Compared to the others, this is a newer model. Shiny. Rarely-used. Will it tell him outright who he was, or will it be more clues, more hints to guide him toward the truth?

He offlines his optic. He stares at the mass of memories in the corner, smaller than it had been, not quite as dark and seething, but still foreboding. He pokes the mass; it ripples and writhes. A dull ache spreads through his processor, incoherent whispers of a life that was.

It still hurts, but it’s bearable this time. Perhaps if he’s patient enough, the answers will come, but his patience wears thin. If he were alone, he could be as patient as he liked. If he had only himself to consider, he might go on functioning without paying much attention to those lost memories, content enough to have the life fate had seen fit to give him.

He is not alone. There is Hot Rod to consider.

The mere thought of the mech sends waves of warmth through Megs’ frame. His spark skips several oscillations. Heat gathers in the depth of his internals before it begins to pool southward.

He adores Hot Rod. The mech is charming and brave and kind and eager to learn. He’s ferocious in his defense of others, but gentle when needed, and he looks at Megs not as if he’s broken or monstrous, but as if he’s a mech like any other. He does not flinch from the awkward claws, the lack of a face, or the shadows of Megs’ past.

The hardest part of hearing Hot Rod’s confession had been not taking Hot Rod into his arms in that very moment, confessing his own affection, and letting their mutual attraction come to its natural conclusion.

Megs’ hesitation was borne of caution and rationale.

He does not know his past. He doesn’t think he left a romantic partner behind, though it is a legitimate concern. His memories are shadows, but the truth of his spark remains strong. He came online knowing he hated the Senate. It stands to reason he’d have awoken feeling the loss in his spark if he’d had a romantic partner. There’d be an intense sensation of missing someone, even if he couldn’t remember them.

Megs has none of this. He’s rather confident he’d not been romantically involved with anyone prior to his capture by the Senate.

Hot Rod’s safety is paramount to him. Can he allow himself to pursue Hot Rod while knowing danger lurks in his memories? Is he so selfish a mech he’d accept Hot Rod’s comfort at the risk of putting Hot Rod in harm’s way?

He is not so arrogant to take the choice from Hot Rod, but could he live with himself in the aftermath? Is the potential for romance between them enough to take that risk?

Megs does not know. The indecision gnaws at him, in the same way the unread datapad nags at him, demanding he reveal the contents.

But not tonight.

Megs stacks the datapads together and rises from the table. Hot Rod is curled in the berth Megs had abandoned, and Megs’ spark tugs him to the empty space. Climbing in beside Hot Rod, tucking himself back around the smaller mech, is the easiest decision he’s made this evening.

Hot Rod makes a quiet noise and curls into Megs, hand slipping around his frame, tugging him close, notching their armor together. His field wraps around Megs as surely as his arms, and relief hits Megs in a warm, soothing wave.

This is where he wants to be.

He recharges.

~

Hot Rod onlines to a curt message from Hook informing him that he’s expected at the clinic first thing this morning, and oh, he needs to bring Megs because Megs is due for a check-up. Apparently, it’s safe now. Hot Rod doesn’t know why Hook hadn’t just looked Megs over when he was there a couple of days ago, but he also knows better than to question Hook.

So he doesn’t.

Instead, Hot Rod reluctantly nudges Megs out of the berth, stumbles after him, and puts the both of their exhausted frames through a quick morning routine. Energon, paint spot-check, and yes, seeing what Ravage had left for them overnight.

There’s a piece of transsteel tacked on the door, a single phrase scrawled across the thin sheet. Read the datapad, it says, and then in miner’s cant below, Be careful.

“Pushy,” Hot Rod mutters as he crunches the sheeting and tosses it in the overflowing recycle crate. He’ll have to haul that out to the collection bin when he gets back tonight. And probably also do that laundry he’s been ignoring.

“I suspect he and his master are putting a lot of resources into my recovery,” Megs muses. He glances at the stacked datapads. “I will move at my own pace or none at all.”

Hot Rod grins and playfully taps Megs’ shoulder with his knuckles. “That’s what I like to hear. I, however, have no choice but to bow to the whims of my master.” He tips forward in a sweeping bow. “Off to the clinic with us.”

Megs’ quiet chuckle is worth the terrible joke.

Hot Rod does not bother with any of the main streets. He sticks to the back alleys, to the secret routes he’s created over the decades. He chooses them at random on the off-chance they’re being followed, or someone’s set up a trap. He takes his preferred route through the back of Gleam’s Gildings and glances through the front window.

The streets are swarming with Enforcers. They wander in packs of twos and threes, and no mech passes without direct scrutiny from them, fumbling to produce work passes and identification badges.

It sends a chill up his spinal strut.

Hot Rod curves his fingers around Megs’ wrist and silently encourages haste. There’s a tension in Megs as well -- he’d probably noticed the Enforcers, too. And with their new knowledge of Megs’ potential past, they both have reason to be wary.

They take the back entrance into the clinic, Hot Rod urging Megs in ahead of him as he scans the alley and street in their wake, double-checking to be sure they haven’t been noticed or followed. There’s an itch of worry beneath his armor that he can’t seem to shake, like they’re being watched.

Hopefully, their stalkers are only Ravage and his master.

“There you are!” Bonecrusher’s booming voice pours out of the doorway, immediately followed by Long Haul’s, “It’s about time!”

“I beg your pardon?” Megs asks as Hot Rod slips inside, the door sliding shut behind him, only to see his roommate being led away by the two brothers, each with a firm grip on his arm.

“You used to be a miner, didn’t you?” Long Haul asks with only a parting glance over his shoulder, a flutter of his visor that suggests a wink. “We could use another pair of hands.”

“Or claws. Manipulators. Whatever. Someone who knows their stuff,” Bonecrusher continues and much less skilled at subtlety, half-turns to wave over his shoulder and add, “Hook’s looking for you.”

Hot Rod stares after them, unsure if he should give chase or not. “This better not be some stupid hazing ritual!”

“It’s not!” Long Haul and Bonecrusher chime in tandem. “Don’t worry, we’ll bring him back safe and sound,” Long Haul adds.

“Or at least in one piece,” Bonecrusher grunts. “Time for someone to earn their keep around here.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Hot Rod turns at Hook’s dull comment, and plants his hands on his hips. “Why did your brothers kidnap my roommate?”

“Because your pet project needs to be out of the way, and neither of you can be in the apartment right now,” Hook says in clipped tones. He starts down the hallway, and Hot Rod assumes he’s meant to follow. “The Enforcers were out in full force yesterday, and I have reliable information they’ll be conducting door-to-door interviews in the residential complexes today.”

Hot Rod’s spark races, his vents tight. “Frag,” he breathes, and hurries to catch up to Hook, who’s heading back to his office.

Hot Rod has to do a double take when he realizes the clinic is closed. The reception is dim, the doors are shut and locked, and the old, chipped sign Hook uses hangs in the window. Was that by choice or had the Enforcers demanded Hook lock the doors today?

“Who are they looking for?” Hot Rod asks.

“I suspect you would know that answer better than me.” Hook drops down behind his desk and rubs his face, exhaustion settling around his shoulders. “It can’t be a coincidence that this madness started not long after you rescued him from the Heap.”

Hot Rod sinks into the available chair and frowns. “Everyone knows Nyon is a place mechs go when they want to disappear. It doesn’t have to be because of Megs.”

“Right.” Hook’s visor flickers, and he gives Hot Rod a sour look. “Has he remembered anything?”

“Bits and pieces.” Hot Rod plants his chin on his knuckles and leans against the arm of the chair, taking the weight off his spoiler. Hook has terrible taste in comfy office furniture. This thing could be used as a torture device. “He knows he’s from Tarn.”

Hook’s armor flutters and re-settles around his frame, tightening his seams. “Tarn is a long way from here.”

“So? We’ve had mechs show up here from the nearer colonies.” Hot Rod shrugs. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Hook sighs, but before he can open his mouth to speak again, his door whooshes open, Scrapper inviting himself inside whilst pulling Scavenger along in his wake.

“I told you I’d handle this,” Hook snaps.

“And I said we'll handle it. Like the team we are,” Scrapper says, fingers firmly locked around Scavenger who’s looking forlornly at the door, the grit and grime of a day spent in the Heap still clinging to his frame.

Hook and Scrapper glare at each other, the air sizzling with tension between them, and Hot Rod exchanges a glance with Scavenger. He wonders if either of them have a chance to make a break for it, but then Hook sighs, and the tension shatters.

“Fine,” Hook says.

“Good.” Scrapper pulls Scavenger out in front of him, pointing to the low stool. “Sit.”

Scavenger obeys, scoop tail curling around his legs. He’s clutching a datapad now, Hot Rod notices, and this office is really not big enough for the four of them. On a good day, it might fit both Scrapper and Hook comfortably, and that’s if one ignores the clashing of their egos.

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Hot Rod says. Though getting their attention might be a stupid idea, considering the battle of wills that seems to be going on right in front of him.

Scrapper turns the full force of his stare on Hot Rod, and Hot Rod shrinks into his seat. “We have our suspicions as to the identity of the mech you rescued from the Heap.”

“What?” Hot Rod straightens just as quickly. “You think you know who Megs is?”

“Megatron,” Scavenger pipes up, and now he’s more animated, no longer staring longingly at the door. “I would bet my whole collection on it. He’s Megatron from Tarn.”

Hot Rod cycles his optics, then his audials, then his whole damn sensory suite. “Wait a minute. Are you serious? You think Megs is the writer everyone loves?”

“To be fair, he’s equally loathed by those in any position of power,” Hook says dryly. He raps his fingers on the desk, frown deepening into sharp lines on his face. “There is much about Scavenger’s theory that fit the circumstances.”

“Like what?” Hot Rod asks, folding his arms.

Scavenger holds up a hand and starts to tic off his fingers, “He’s the right build. He’s a miner. He’s educated. He’s from Tarn. And Megatron went missing one week before you found Megs in the Heap. Plus, you call him Megs.”

“I call him Megs because he grunted at me when we were trying to figure out a name for him,” Hot Rod bites out, but doubt gnaws at the edge of his processor.

There’s coincidence, and then there’s correlation, and he hates that it makes so much fragging sense. Why else would Ravage and his master be interested? Why would they claim Megs is important to the future of Cybertron?

“Megatron is a political revolutionary who’s gained more traction than any outspoken individual in the past several centuries,” Scrapper says. “Punishing him with Empurata would make sense. It would show everyone he’s a criminal and not to be trusted.”

“Then why would they dump him in the Heap?” Hot Rod asks.

Hook examines his fingers, idly tightening a joint-bolt with one of the fine manipulators of his other hand. “Because less-skilled medics botched the operation and he would have offlined.”

“But…” Hot Rod’s protests die in his intake. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not stupid. He can see the clear lines drawing to a conclusion.

Of course, they won’t know for sure until Megs’ -- Megatron’s? -- memories return.

“I’ll just ask him, and we’ll see who he really is,” Hot Rod says.

“That’s the worst thing you could do.” Hook looks up to the ceiling as if he’s begging for patience from Primus. “You could fracture his sanity if you try to force the memories on him.”

Scrapper agrees with a nod, staring at Hot Rod, but failing to notice Scavenger creep behind him, trying for the door. One large palm lands on his brother’s shoulder, pinning Scavenger back onto the stool. In any other situation, it would have been amusing.

“You have to be patient,” Scrapper says, and Hot Rod’s almost not sure if he means it for Hot Rod or Scavenger or both. “And you must seriously consider the possibility that the mech you have invited into your home is perhaps the most dangerous mech in Nyon.”

Hot Rod glares at all three of them. “Megs wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Yes, that’s likely. Megatron is not violent by nature,” Scavenger says, his scoop-tail thumping against the floor. “But if the Enforcers are looking for him, they won’t particularly care what happens to you in the process.”

“You need to tell him to leave,” Scrapper says. “Or give him the apartment and come stay with us. Either way, it is not safe for you to be around him.”

Hot Rod narrows his optics and folds his arms over his chassis. “Okay, first of all, nope. Not gonna do that. I know the risks every time I rescue someone from the Heap, so I’m not about to stop now.” He sucks in a deep ventilation. “And second of all, I don’t know why any of you think you can tell me what to do.”

“We’re just worried,” Scavenger says, but on the tail end of his concern Hook blurts out, “We’ve been looking after your aft for years, I think it’s our right,” and Scrapper overrides both of them with, “It was a logical suggestion. Kindly use the processor Primus gave you and think about it.”

Hot Rod scrubs his aching forehead. “I hate it when you guys do that,” he mutters. Thank Primus the others aren’t here, or the near-sync shouting would have been incomprehensible. He swears they all share one processor sometimes. “My answer is still no.”

Scrapper tosses his hands into the air. “I’ll not argue with a fool.” He spins on his heel and struts out of the room, the door clattering open ahead of him as if in deference to his agitated state.

“Finally.” Scavenger leaps to his feet, tail nearly toppling a stack of datapads. “Do whatever ya wanna do, Roddy. I got your back.” He offers a thumbs-up and then he’s gone, too.

Hot Rod is left staring at Hook in challenge.

Hook, used to defying Scrapper, stares back without blinking. “You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

Hot Rod doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Mostly because it’s true, and because he isn’t interested in a lecture.

Hook scrubs his forehead again, muttering a subvocal curse. “It is the one thing I specifically warned you not to do,” he sighs before waving his other hand. “Fine. Go. There’s a stack of parts in need of scrubbing.”

Hot Rod is not too ashamed to take the escape.

He’s said his piece. All that’s left is to see what the memories shake out of Megs.

~

Megs aches.

He has spent far too long at ease. A day’s worth of physical exertion has taken it’s toll on him, his joints gritty with the dust of the mines, his cables aching from the strain, his system pinging a need for energon and those supplements Ravage has been providing. It is, however, a good ache.

He feels much less like a burden now that he can adequately contribute. Being within the mines had felt like home, despite having never dug in this particular site.

Still.

Megs is more than ready to wash, energize, and collapse on a berth for some much needed recharge, preferably with Hot Rod cuddled up beside him. Unfortunately, they have to get back to the apartment first, a task made more difficult by the fact Hot Rod insists they take it even more slow and careful than they had on their venture out. Something has spooked him.

“You’ll understand when you get your memories back,” he’d said in an urgent whisper. “For now, just trust me.”

“I do,” Megs had replied, and it wasn’t a lie. It is astonishing how much he actually trusts the young mech, as if they’ve known each other for far longer.

Hot Rod insists on preceding Megs to ensure the way is clear, sending back a signal when it is time to follow. While Megs is not keen on having the younger mech protect him, he’s keen on not arguing with the mech who saved his life. It’ll take longer for them to get home, but it’s much safer.

Home.

Megs hadn’t realized he thought of their shared apartment as such, but he supposes he does, and has from the moment he first woke in his borrowed berth. Hot Rod has done everything to make him feel normal and welcome.

He’s a good mech all the way down to his core.

A good mech who hasn’t signaled to Megs yet. He’d frown if he had the mouth, but since he doesn’t, he checks his chronometer. More than a minute has passed.

“It might take a little longer. This is the trickiest part,” Hot Rod had said.

Megs shifts, worried. The seconds tick by, another minute passes, and Megs is all set to call out to Hot Rod when the ping finally comes through.

Wait.

Megs stalls, leaning back against the wall. Hot Rod wants him to wait, and he knows he should listen, but unease cramps his tanks. A sense of wrongness perches on his shoulders. Perhaps the over-caution is getting to him.

Or maybe Longhaul and Bonecrusher’s subtle and not-so-subtle warnings have left their mark on his subconscious.

Sure, they’d hauled him off to work, but Megs knows a shovel-talk when he hears one, and the fact both mechs had been wielding shovels really drove their point home. Bonecrusher had been a mech of glares and snide comments; Long Haul slightly more polite, his words pointed.

“You’re dangerous,” Long Haul said. “And you’re putting Hot Rod in danger.”

“Yeah, we know it’s his choice,” Bonecrusher muttered, and a massive rock splintered under his massive fists. “Don’t mean we gotta like it.”

“Or that we think it’s a good idea,” Long Haul said, and his shovel swept away Bonecrusher’s detritus without a missed vent. “But if he gets hurt because of you, we’re gonna rip your limbs off.”

“We aren’t letting Hook put them back on neither,” Bonecrusher added with another slam of his fists into the wall of the tunnel, causing chunks to rain down on them, pinging the metal of their armor. “Got it?”

Megs, standing there and feeling smaller than he ought, in the dark and dim of the mineshaft, nodded. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he said. “I don’t want him to be hurt.”

“Good,” Bonecrusher muttered.

“Then we won’t have a problem,” Long Haul said, and thrust a shovel in Megs’ direction. “Now get to work and earn your keep.”

Megs took the shovel without arguing.

Their warning was not taken likely. They care for Hot Rod. All of the brothers care for Hot Rod. They only want to see him safe. Megs can relate.

No. He cannot wait. He must know.

Megs would like to keep Hot Rod unharmed. He also likes his limbs.

He rounds the corner and immediately catches a whisper of sound, originally blocked by the dimensions of the alley where he’d been hiding. Voices, low and mocking, their words indistinguishable. Impacts, low thuds of metal on metal. Laughter. Gasps. Hot Rod pinging him again.

Wait.

Megs steps fully onto the sidewalk, out of the shadows of the alley, as a familiar voice floats to his audials, Hot Rod’s voice.

“--know anything,” Hot Rod’s saying, fast and urgent. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know!” His engine revs, a distinct pitch, and maybe they spend too much time in proximity, because Megs can feel the fright in his field, hear the pain in his voice.

Because there he is, surrounded by a handful of Enforcers, one of them pinning Hot Rod to the wall by his intake, dents in flame-emblazoned armor where said ruffians have already laid their fists and feet upon the helpless mech. Energon coats Hot Rod’s lips, dribbles from the corner of his mouth, his vents wheezing.

Megs storms across the courtyard without a conscious choice to do so. He’s bigger than the Senate’s lackeys, there are only three of them, and it doesn’t matter that they are armed, and better trained.

They’re hurting Hot Rod.

They don’t see him coming. The first goes down with a clatter, hitting the ground beneath the bulk of Megs’ weight. He sees shades of red around his vision, anger and outrage crackling, his spark surging with the injustice of it all.

Shouting buzzes in his audials. There are hands on his armor, impacts, but the face beneath him crumples beneath the onslaught of his elbows because of his useless, useless claws. A harsh jerk on his shoulder pulls Megs away from the first mech, and he whirls toward the others, rage in his spark.

Hot Rod is afraid, in pain, and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s a kind mech, a good mech, and these so-called protectors of the common folk are nothing but bullies. Sound roars through Megs’ audials, but the world is a smear of color, the face of the Senate’s oppression staring back at him as he rounds on the other two Enforcers.

They don’t have time to go for their weapons. Or perhaps it’s been so long since they actually encountered resistance, they don’t think to draw them. It doesn’t matter. Megs is bigger, heavier, and has fury on his side. He’s on them, swinging, kicking, tearing with his claws – useful here for violence when they are useless for anything else.

It’s not fair, it’s not right, and he won’t stand here watching it anymore. He won’t--

A light touch on his shoulder and Megs whirls, expecting another opponent, but it’s just Hot Rod, his voice a low drone in the chaos, his optics wide, his hands raised to show he’s not a threat.

“They’re down. We have to go, Megs. We have to go now before others come,” Hot Rod chants, hurried and desperate.

Megs blinks, staggers, straightens. He looks at Hot Rod’s touch on his arm, gentle but coaxing, tugging him away from the bleeding, battered Enforcers. Still alive, Megs can hear their rattling vents, their low groans, feel three distinct energy fields.

“We have to go,” Hot Rod repeats, pulling on Megs, not strong enough to tug him away, but the urgency in his voice calling to some part of Megs’ processor that gets his feet moving.

He stumbles, one step then another, legs shaky, but steadying with each foot of distance between himself and the Enforcers. Hot Rod grips him, fingers wrapped around his wrist, heedless of the energon spattered there. Megs follows, matching Hot Rod’s pace. They don’t bother with the secret routes, but head straight for the apartment in a direct line. Hot Rod fumbles with the lock, his field a discordant riot of emotion.

Hot Rod plants Megs in a chair, locks the door, and comes back, cupping Megs’ head in his hands. Energon is tacky on his fingertips. “You with me?”.

Megs drags in a shuddering vent. “I am.” His manipulators twitch, drying energon flaking from the hinges. “I apologize.”

“Don’t. They absolutely had it coming.” Hot Rod gives him a wry grin. “Just wish I could’ve done it myself.” He pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Too bad we don’t have a washrack here. I’ll just have to make do.”

Megs looks down at himself. He’s dented, dirty, covered in splatters of energon and other fluids. He’s a disgusting mess. How can Hot Rod bear to touch him?

Hot Rod walks away, but comes back just as quickly with an armful of cleaning cloths and spray cleanser, a crooked smile on his lips. The derma around his right optical socket is swollen, his lower lip split, energon drying in a smear over his cheek. He’s still the most beautiful mech Megs has ever seen.

He takes Meg’s right claw, gives it a spritz, and starts to gently wipe it clean. “Did I say thank you? Because I should. I mean, it might end up making things worse for us but…” He pauses and looks up at Megs with affection in his optics. “No one’s stood up for me like that before so I can’t help but be a little pleased.”

“I could not see you hurt,” Megs says, quietly, vocalizer crackling in his intake. He watches Hot Rod wipe him clean, ignoring his own injuries. “Did they even have a reason?”

Hot Rod rolls his shoulders. “Depends on your point of view, I guess. Someone told them I have a habit of rescuing Empurates from the Heap so it turns out, they’ve been looking for me specifically.”

“And perhaps me by proxy,” Megs says, the guilt rising up to clog his intake, squeezing on his spark.

“Well, we don’t know that for sure.” Hot Rod moves to Megs’ other claw, wiping it clean and examining the manipulators for damage. “Besides, they weren’t going to kill me, just rough me up. I can handle a few dents and bruises.”

Megs shakes his head. “I don’t like the idea of you being hurt for my sake. Or being injured at all. It is a thing that should not happen.”

A sharp bark of laughter escapes Hot Rod. “That’s life in Nyon, Megs. You get used to it.” His smile is crooked, cracked at the edges where the dried energon paints a pattern of pain. “Still, it’s nice when someone cares enough to be outraged about it.”

“I care,” Megs says, without hesitation this time, because it’s true. He may not have his memory, but he knows there is no feeling quite like the one which overtook his spark when he saw Hot Rod surrounded by those bullies.

He lays a claw over Hot Rod’s hand, gently taking one of the mesh cloths from him. Thankfully, it has already been dampened with cleanser or he would have been more awkward about it. With all the gentleness he is capable, he dabs at the blot of energon on Hot Rod’s face.

Long Haul and Bonecrusher will rip off his limbs and bury him in the Heap, and Megs is not sure he doesn’t deserve it.

“We’re friends. Of course you care.” Hot Rod chuckles through a vocalizer riddled with static. He obligingly tilts his head into Megs’ touch.

Guilt clogs Megs’ intake. He cycles a ventilation. It’s his own hesitation causing the unease in Hot Rod’s field.

“I mean to say that I care for you beyond friendship,” Megs admits, the confession sitting heavy in his chest, squeezing around his spark. “I want to hold you close, keep you in my arms, but cowardice stays my… err, hand.”

“You’re afraid of me?” Hot Rod asks, optics wide and confused, and so very, very blue.

“No. I am afraid that who I used to be is putting you in danger.” He gently dabs at Hot Rod’s swollen facial derma, energon coming away to reveal bruising beneath. “It’s already caused you harm.”

Hot Rod squares his shoulders. “I’ve already told you that I don’t care about all that. It’s my choice to make.” He grabs Megs’ wrist, thumb a soft sweep over the inner derma. “Stop trying to make it for me.”

“You say that while looking at me with a swollen optic and countless dents.” A tremble radiates up Megs’ spinal strut. His claw looks like a weapon in Hot Rod’s hand -- he’s not made for gentleness, for romance, not anymore. They’ve turned him into a monster.

Hot Rod lets go of Megs’ wrist – much to his dismay – but then he does something much more unexpected. He grasps Megs’ claw instead, fingers tangling with the three digits. Megs can barely feel the warmth of his touch because of the primitive design of the cursed things.

“You’re not the one who caused them,” Hot Rod murmurs. He pulls Megs’ claw toward his mouth, planting a kiss on the tip of his primary manipulator.

“I only want to know if you want me. That’s all I care about.” His ex-vents puff over the barely sensitive plating of Megs’ digits. “Do you?”

He looks up at Megs, optics bright and open and wanting, and Megs last bit of resolve crumbles. He knows the answer.

He wishes he could kiss Hot Rod, but that has been taken from him, so instead he gently lifts the dented mech into his lap, pressing his optic into the curve of Hot Rod’s intake. He holds Hot Rod close, draws in the scent of Hot Rod’s polish and cleanser, soaking in the warmth of him.

“I do,” Megs says, a confession escaping from the depths of his spark. “I want you very much.”

Hot Rod’s engine purrs, vibrating against Megs’ armor, his hand sliding along Megs’ shoulders, teasing into his seams. He squirms, his field hot and throbbing, eager as it rucks up against Megs’ and asks for more.

“Oh yeah?” He taps on the bottom of Megs’ optic, urging him to look up. “Prove it.” His tone is stern, but his smile, the waggle of his optical ridges, betrays the playfulness.

Primus, he’s beautiful.

Megs laughs softly. How did he get so lucky? “It would be my pleasure.”

His claws click where they flex around Hot Rod’s waist. He hates the loss of his fingers even more so now. He cannot touch Hot Rod the way he desires. He can’t stroke the soft, polished lines of Hot Rod’s armor.

“I find myself inadequate to worship you the way you deserve,” Megs laments. “These claws of mine are worthless.”

Hot Rod’s field turns warm and sultry. “You think I’m something to be worshiped?” he asks, vocals breathy. He squirms closer, better placing himself in Megs’ lap.

“You are the most beautiful mech I have ever seen.” Megs gently brushes the tip of one of his claws over a seam. There is next to no sensation in the digit, and he mourns that loss. He can register the pressure, that he is touching something solid, but the tactile joy of it is gone.

Hot Rod groans and shifts until he’s straddling Megs, his thighs splayed wide around Megs’ much broader hips. “For someone who doesn’t have a glossa, you speak with silvered words,” he murmurs.

Megs hums, slipping the tip of his manipulator into the seam, brushing the cables hidden within. “It is the truth.”

“I know. And it’s pretty sexy of you to tell me how sexy I am.” Hot Rod’s palms splay over Megs’ chestplate, one sliding up to cup Megs’ tracheal mount. “You might not be able to touch me properly, but if you think I can’t tell how much you want me, you’re not paying attention.”

Megs wants to kiss him so badly, he aches with it. He watches the flick of Hot Rod’s glossa over his lips, and wants to chase it with his own mouth. He can vaguely remember the sensation of a kiss, and the need to experience it again burns within him.

“There is so much I would do if only I had the proper tools.” Megs lets his field fully unfurl, unveiling the hot spice of need and want.

Hot Rod moans, optics flickering, the tips of his fingers scratching against Megs’ armor. His own flutters, gaps lengthening along his seams, a small crackle of charge sparkling blue along his protoform.

The quietest of clicks precedes the distinct scent of lubricant, and Megs looks down with no small amount of surprise. Both of Hot Rod’s panels have popped, a beautifully painted spike rising from the apex of his thighs, while Megs can only glimpse the glittering biolights of Hot Rod’s valve.

Hot Rod slips a hand between their frames, curling his fingers around his own spike, shamelessly stroking himself in a manner Megs only wishes he could duplicate. He imagines spending hours savoring Hot Rod, laying him out upon a berth as he lavishes Hot Rod with pleasure, tasting both spike and valve, again and again, pulling multiple overloads out of the lovely mech.

He can do neither, and it takes all Megs has to bury the anger deep, before it can taint the moment.

“Pretty sure you still have some of the more useful ‘tools’,” Hot Rod says cheekily, all big grins and winks. He’s too charming to be real. “So show me what you got, Megs.”

Honestly, he hasn’t much thought about his interfacing equipment. He assumes it’s all there. It hadn’t occurred to him, until this moment, that he might be mistaken.

Megs concentrates and allows the relentless pinging of his systems take charge, freeing his spike to the air. It surges upward, utilitarian grey and unadorned, but satisfactory if the low moan Hot Rod offers is proof enough. He squirms, releasing his own spike to wrap his fingers around Megs’.

“Oh, you’re going to feel so good,” he breathes, glossa flicking over his lips as he squeezes on an upstroke, and Megs’ vents stutter.

He grips Hot Rod’s hips as gently as he can, claws twitching, as the pleasure surges through his system. Everywhere else sensation has been blunted for him, as if in removing his hands and face, they’d also blinded his sensory suites.

But not here. Not for his spike. Here Hot Rod’s touch is perfection, and Megs groans, spike spilling pre-fluid over Hot Rod’s fingers as Hot Rod expertly strokes him.

“Am I?” Megs asks, but his focus is pulled in two directions, both on pleasuring Hot Rod, and seeking not to disturb the wonderful hand on his spike.

Hot Rod hums agreement. “Just big enough for the perfect stretch.” He licks his lips again and looks up at Megs. “Mind if I hop on this or are you a valve mech?”

Megs’ optic spirals in and out. He hadn’t thought of his valve, but surely enough, it had bared itself as well. He can feel the hot clench of it, the swelling of his valve lips, the light trickle of lubricant from the interior.

“I don’t know if I have a preference,” Megs admits, and he shivers as Hot Rod flicks his wrist, thumb scrubbing over the sensitive crest of his spike. More pre-fluid seeps free. “I defer to your expertise.”

Hot Rod chuckles and gives him a saucy grin. “Then I’m going to be selfish because I really want to get your spike in me right now.”

“I’m not going to object,” Megs says. If anything, he’s going to let Hot Rod set the pace because Megs is awkward and useless with his new extremities.

“Good.” Hot Rod strokes him again before he shifts, and the tip of Megs’ spike presses against the soft, damp, heat of Hot Rod’s valve opening.

He rocks his hips as if taunting both of them, and Megs groans, claws skittering along Hot Rod’s sides in a way he hopes doesn’t leave scratches. His spike throbs, missing Hot Rod’s grip, desperate to sink deeper.

Hot Rod ex-vents shakily, hooking an arm around Megs’ neck, the other braced on Megs’ shoulder. “I was going to be slow and teasing, but that’s not gonna work for me,” he says before he starts to lower himself down, swallowing Megs’ spike inch by delicious inch.

They moan in unison, and a shiver rattles through Megs’ frame, his vents roaring out heat. A tremble takes root in his armor, and charge crackles through his substructure the moment Hot Rod fully seats himself, valve flexing and cycling around his spike.

“Primus, you feel good,” Hot Rod groans, his forehead pressing to Megs’ clavicular strut. His hips dance in small circles, his thighs pressing in on Megs’ hips. “I don’t think I’m going to last long.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Megs says, though frankly his own restraint is sorely lacking. Hot Rod is perfect around him, and it’s been so long since he’s had real sensation, he finds himself struggling for control.

Hot, slick, squeezy -- Hot Rod’s valve is snug on his spike, and Megs’ sensory net goes haywire from the unexpected stimulation. His spike throbs desperately, frame straining with the effort to not simply lift Hot Rod and slam into him. He is not a monster or a rutting beast.

Hot Rod laughs, but it’s a breathy sound as he starts to roll his hips, powerful thighs lifting him up and down in the tiniest of riding motions. “Oh, you should,” he moans, his ex-vents moist and hot on Megs’ intake. “You really should.”

His lips skate across Megs’ intake cables, and Megs shudders. This he feels like a shock to his sensory net, and he groans as he clutches Hot Rod closer, unconsciously thrusting up with another crackle of blue fire across his protoform.

Hot Rod drops down, meeting the thrust, only to rise up and do it again, faster and faster, rolling his hips forward, the head of his spike grinding on Megs’ abdomen. He’s audibly panting, one hand squeezing the nape of Megs’ neck, the other restlessly winnowing into Megs’ shoulder seams in a firm grip.

“You’re exquisite,” Megs gasps out, his thoughts short-circuiting. His awareness narrows down to the writhing, squirming mech on his spike. Hot Rod’s field is molten against his, crackling with need and desire, his valve clamping down harder, calipers cycling tight and hungry.

“Oh, the things you say,” Hot Rod breathes, and his voice catches on a gasp, his rhythm faltering before it picks up in earnest. He presses harder against Megs, rutting his spike on Megs’ belly as he rolls his hips on Megs’ spike. “I’m gonna-- I’m gonna make a mess here, Megs.”

Megs pulls him closer and rocks up as best he can, pushing deeper, grinding into Hot Rod. “I want you to,” he urges, the ache to kiss and stroke overwhelming.

A garbled noise crackles out of Hot Rod’s intake. His fingers press hard against Megs’ cables, his entire frame going taut and molten. His spoiler flicks up and down in a sharp motion, and then he’s writing in Megs’ arms, transfluid splattering across Megs’ belly. His valve spirals down, impossibly tight. If there had been thought for restraint, it flies out the window.

Hot Rod is simply too intoxicating, too lovely, the sensation too bright and consuming. Megs groans as he pulls Hot Rod down on his spike, thrusts up, and grinds out his overload, splashing transfluid over Hot Rod’s ceiling node. Hot Rod jerks, a cry escaping his mouth as a second, smaller overload roars through his frame.

He gasps and sags forward, limp against Megs’ chassis, little twitches racing over his armor. “Primus,” Hot Rod moans. “That was worth the wait.”

Megs tries to focus on ventilating as his entire frame thrums with satisfaction, his sensory net at once desperate for more. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the simple needs: that of being touched and touching in return.

He loosens his grip on Hot Rod’s waist once he realizes how tightly he’s holding his claws, and he’s too afraid to look and see how much damage has been done.

“Thank you,” Megs murmurs, stroking Hot Rod with his field instead.

Hot Rod tiredly chuckles. “I should be thanking you. We can thank each other.” He rises up a little, Megs still depressurizing within him, and plants a kiss on the bottom ridge of Megs’ optic. “Round two in the berth?”

Megs’ spike twitches at the implication, and Hot Rod huffs a little sound, stroking Megs’ armor with deliberate intent.

“Feels like you like that idea.” He wiggles his aft, not enough for Megs to slip free of him, his calipers cycling tight around Megs’ spike. “Carry me to berth, Megs. I know you can.” His knees press in on Megs’ hips, his arms hooking over Megs’ shoulders.

Megs can no more deny Hot Rod than he can stop ventilating. He rises, carefully lifting Hot Rod as he does, and Hot Rod makes a quiet sound of delight.

“Your berth,” Hot Rod says. “It’s bigger.”

Megs obeys, and Hot Rod squirms wonderfully, his back hitting the berth. Before Megs can withdraw and join him, Hot Rod’s legs lock around his waist, and he rolls his hips. Megs groans, claws bracing on the berth, spike plumping within Hot Rod so quickly it almost aches.

“Like some other things that are bigger,” Hot Rod adds with a waggle of his orbital ridges.

Megs chuckles. “Is that so?”

“It is.” Hot Rod grins and licks his lips.

“Tell me what you want.” Megs shifts his weight, carefully stroking the flats of his manipulators along Hot Rod’s armor. If had fingers, he would stroke the eager rise of Hot Rod’s repressurizing spike.

Hot Rod’s spoiler flutters. He grins, derma flushed with arousal, and his thighs press in on Megs’ hips as he says, “You. Just you.”

Megs’ spark swells. It will be too easy to love this mech, to fall for his bright smiles and his enthusiasm and his genuine spark. If he can keep this, Megs thinks he’ll be a happy mech, his past bedamned.

“I’m already yours,” Megs murmurs and leans down to nuzzle Hot Rod as best as he is capable, affection surging through him.

The moment he says it, Megs knows it’s the truth.

***