[TF] Anamnesis - 06

[dracoqueen22]

Anamnesis
Chapter Six

Hot Rod wakes under Megs and can’t remember the last time he felt so content. There’s a delicious ache in his valve, the thrum of satisfaction through his lines, and the urge to squirm with happiness.

Right now, he feels he can take on the world.

Even if he does have to get up and go to the clinic. He’s supposed to work for Hook today, though he might end up loaned out to Mixmaster.

Megs’ field nudges against his, warm and playful. “I know you’re awake,” he rumbles, one digitip tracing the length of a spoiler.

“It always betrays me,” Hot Rod grumbles. He snuggles closer to Megs, soaking up the other mech’s excess heat. “Five more minutes?”

A soft chuckle vibrates in Megs’ chassis. “Don’t you have to work today?”

“Technically,” Hot Rod sighs. He aches in places that have nothing to do with their activities from the previous night, and he knows he looks like he went a few rounds in a gladiator ring. Hook’s gonna fuss over him, and Hot Rod doesn’t want to deal with it.

Megs strokes his back, gentle with the flat of his claws, and Hot Rod arches into the strokes. “What about the Enforcers?”

Hot Rod hums and burrows into Megs, tingles coiling in his array. “I know how to be sneaky. Besides, I can’t hide here forever.” He throws a leg over Megs’, his bared valve twitching as a wisp of cooler air teases his still-slick derma. “Once I’m at the clinic, I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Are you leaving anytime soon?”

Hot Rod looks up at him with a grin, rolling his hips to grind his valve along Megs’ thigh. “I think I can be a little late. Why? Did you have something in mind?”

Megs’ engine purrs, his field layering over Hot Rod’s with desire. “I find myself unable to resist you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hot Rod slides his hand along Megs’ arm until he curls his finger around one of Megs’ digit, pulling it up toward his mouth. “Prove it.”

“Didn’t I just do that last night?”

Hot Rod presses a kiss to the tip of Megs’ manipulator. “I could use a little more convincing.” He cants his hips upward, lubricant glistening in the shadows of his valve. “Touch me.”

Megs hesitates, unease infecting his field. “I am not adequately equipped--”

“They’re not razor-sharp, Megs, just a little unwieldy. You won’t hurt me.” Hot Rod licks his lips and guides Megs’ claw down between his thighs. “Promise.”

Megs’ single optic spirals wide, darkening with arousal, and his vents catch. “You will tell me if I do,” he says as one of the three manipulators nudges at Hot Rod’s valve. It slides a little in his copious slick.

Hot Rod shivers. He keeps his spike sealed, focusing instead on the exquisite care Megs is taking with him. “I trust you.” He cants his hips, making it easier for Megs to ease the tip of one of his curved digits inside.

It’s tapered, but widens the deeper Megs goes. Hot Rod moans as his valve cycles down on it, the nodes in his sensory net lighting up one after another. He clutches Megs, rocking his hips in minute motions, until the very tip of Megs’ digit nudges his ceiling node, sending bursts of ecstasy through his sensory net.

Hot Rod moans again, louder.

“This is enough?” Megs asks, his voice rich with awe.

Hot Rod cycles a deep ventilation, fingers curving into claws as he continues to rock. His valve cycling harder and faster, nodes exchanging charge against the unyielding metal of Megs’ digit.

“Frag yeah,” he pants, peeling back his optical shutters to see Megs looking down at him, his single optic bright and intent. “Just let me…” He cuts himself off as he clamps his thighs around Megs’ arm and rolls his hips, riding the length of Megs’ digit. “Primus.”

“Whatever you want,” Megs says and his engine purrs, vibrating Hot Rod’s frame, making him tremble.

Oh, the promise in his vocals sends pleasure streaking through Hot Rod’s lines. It’s not the most stimulating in a purely physical sense, but the fact that it’s Megs, that he’s trusting himself to do this, that he’s trusting in Hot Rod to know himself, only serves to ratchet Hot Rod’s arousal higher. It’s the care in Megs’ touch, how his digit feels inside Hot Rod, making his valve quiver and slick.

Overload doesn’t come for him swiftly; it’s a slow, building thing. Increasingly large swells that roll over his frame, his motions urgent and hungry. Lubricant puddles beneath his aft, slicking his thighs, sticking tacky to Megs’ digit. It’s the sound of Megs’ fans, a quiet whirr and then a hungry roar, his field thick and heavy with want.

Hot Rod’s still quivering from his overload when Megs withdraws his digit, achingly slow, lubricant dripping from it. Hot Rod is swollen and sensitive, engine purring his satisfaction. His only regret is that he can’t kiss Megs.

But he can do the next best thing.

“You’re not hurt?” Megs asks, carefully stroking the plump lips of Hot Rod’s valve with the back of his claw. “No pain?”

“None at all,” Hot Rod hums and gives Megs a wicked look. “Your turn!”

Megs’ engine revs. “It doesn’t have to be a transaction, Hot Rod. I quite enjoyed pleasuring you.”

Hot Rod plants both hands on Megs’ chest and shoves, pushing him onto his back, leaving room for Hot Rod to straddle his hips, dripping lubricant as he goes. “And I’m going to enjoy putting my mouth on you.” He circles his hips against Megs’ panel. “So open up.”

A strangled sound vibrates in Megs’ intake. His panel snicks aside, spike immediately jutting free, and Hot Rod grins as he wraps his hand around the thick shaft. His valve twinges in memory of the stretch. He’s always had a thing for bigger mechs, and Megs is no exception.

He licks his lips, thumb scrubbing over the rounded head. “You don’t mind if I put my mouth on you, do you?” he asks, head cocked.

Megs’ claws find his hips again, though one leaves a smear of tacky-drying lubricant behind. “Whatever you are comfortable doing,” he says. “I will beg if I must.”

“Nah. I’m not that cruel.” Hot Rod shimmies down, straddling Megs’ thighs, curving forward to ex-vent hot and moist over the head of Megs’ spike.

Megs twitches in his grip. He groans, hips bucking up in an aborted motion before he visibly masters himself. Pre-fluid seeps from his transfluid slit, his spike throbbing.

Hot Rod grins. “So eager for me already, hm? I feel complimented.”

“You should,” Megs grits out, his tone hinting of urgency though it’s clear he’s not going to force Hot Rod into anything.

It’s beautiful and sexy of him to be so patient. He absolutely deserves a reward.

Hot Rod laps up the splurt of pre-fluid and presses a kiss to the head of Megs’ spike. When Megs makes another one of those yummy strangled noises, Hot Rod takes pity on him and sucks Megs into his mouth, lips stretched wide by the girth of him.

Megs is heavy and thick on his glossa, his spike hot and pulsing with need. Megs’ engine roars, the berth trembling from the force of it, and Hot Rod can tell he’s not going to last long. There’s a hot metal smell to him, the push of his arousal an eager weight over Hot Rod’s field.

It’s been a while, but Hot Rod clearly hasn’t lost his touch. He takes Megs as deep as he can -- not to the root, Megs is too big for that -- and he swallows around the head of Megs’ spike. Megs trembles beneath him. His spike throbs, leaking more pre-fluid, coating Hot Rod’s glossa and intake.

The scent of lubricant rises up, and Hot Rod grins around his mouthful. He shifts his weight, gets a hand between Megs’ thighs, and finds the hot, slippery anterior node, swollen with arousal. The sound Megs makes is beautiful, and he trembles from the effort of keeping himself still, claws leaving Hot Rod’s waist to tangle in the berth covers. They rip under his restless clicking.

It’s a special kind of power to have a mech in your mouth, desperate to overload, but held back by your whims.

Fortunately, Hot Rod is in a merciful mood. He strokes Megs in counterpoint to his mouth, glossa lashing around the sensitive head, fingers pinching the swollen anterior node. He looks up and Megs stares down at him, optic full of awe and hunger.

Hot Rod can’t help himself. He winks. He sucks Megs down, and that’s all it takes because Megs jerks beneath him. His spike throbs and transfluid floods Hot Rod’s mouth. He swallows as quickly as he can, the alkaline taste of transfluid coating the inside of his mouth.

The last tremors wreck Megs’ frame before he sinks into the berth, fans spinning wildly. He awkwardly struggles to disentangle his claws from the berthcovers.

Hot Rod suckles him through the last few twitches before he lets Megs slip from his mouth, idly wiping away a few escaping drops. He slides up Megs’ frame, straddling his waist so that he can lean down and feather kisses along Megs’ helm.

“Thanks for the treat,” Hot Rod says.

“I think I should be the one thanking you,” Megs breathes. He grasps at Hot Rod, trying to pull him into a nuzzle. “That was incredible.”

Hot Rod beams. “I aim to please.” He lets himself indulge in the cuddle before the beeping of his chronometer starts to annoy him. “But I do have to go now. Have you ever heard one of Hook’s lectures? Because I want to avoid it.”

Megs chuckles. “Fair. Don’t let me keep you.”

“And you’ll be here when I get back?” Hot Rod asks, trying to hide the brief flare of panic in his spark. He imagines Megs fleeing while Hot Rod is gone, all out of some vain attempt to protect Hot Rod.

Megs carefully grasps his wrist and presses his helm to the underside of it gently. “I will be here.”

“Good.”

Hot Rod reluctantly drags himself from the berth and gives Megs another wink. “I’ll leave some energon out for you,” he says as he backs out of the habsuite. If he stays, he’ll climb back up there with Megs for more snuggling, and then he’ll never leave.

As it is, slipping out of his apartment and away from Megs is the last thing he wants to do, but Hot Rod has responsibilities, and he’s never been one to shirk them before. Megs had promised to be there when he gets back, and Hot Rod is going to take him at his word.

He fully intends to sneak into the clinic washrack before anyone sees him, since visiting the public rack is out of the question, but he’s immediately beset by Scavenger, who’s an anxiety-ridden wreck of fluttering hands and worried noises.

“There you are!” he exclaims as he grabs Hot Rod’s wrist and starts towing him through the hallways, straight to Hook’s office in the back.

It does Hot Rod no good to dig in his heels. Scavenger lifts him right off the ground.

“Was I missing?” Hot Rod asks.

“You’re late,” Scavenger points out, digging out a chronometer to shake it in his face, too fast for Hot Rod to read the time. “And you know how Hook gets when anything ruins his schedule.”

Hot Rod sighs. “So why are you the fetch mech?”

“I happened to see you first,” Scavenger says, looking at Hot Rod over his shoulder, only to do a double-take, like it’s the first time he’s gotten a genuine look at Hot Rod.

He skids to a halt and whirls on Hot Rod, his hands on Hot Rod’s shoulders as he looks up and down. “Wait. What the frag happened to you? You’re covered in dents!”

“It’s a long story,” Hot Rod says as Scavenger takes his chin in a gentle hold, tipping his face up, visor narrowing at the bruising on Hot Rod’s face.

A low growl rattles through Scavenger’s engine. “Who did this?”

“A few of the Senate Enforcers caught me yesterday, and they didn’t take I don’t know for an acceptable answer,” Hot Rod says. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“You’re covered in dents,” Scavenger growls. “That’s not the definition of fine. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you.”

Hot Rod lifts his chin out of Scavenger’s grip, managing a playful smile. “I’m too charming to be killed.” He pats Scavenger’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Take me to Hook before he starts yelling. I at least want to get these dents pulled out before the lecture starts.”

Scavenger gives him a long look before he pats Hot Rod’s shoulder and starts back up the hall, pushing Hot Rod ahead of him. “Oh yeah. He’s gonna let you have it,” he says with a chortle. “Mind if I stick around to watch?”

Hot Rod rolls his optics.

He wonders though. Scavenger is right. He is lucky the Enforcers hadn’t killed him for the fun of it. And he’s pretty sure they’d left all three of the goons alive. They know who Hot Rod is. They know where he lives.

Why hadn’t more of them shown up on his doorstep to arrest him or enact revenge? Why aren’t they waiting at the clinic to snatch him, or at least make the attempt? Have they already gone to his apartment and found Megs?

He’d been so caught up in finally embracing Megs that he’d let the reality of the situation pass him by.

Hot Rod comes to a dead stop in the hallway and immediately pings Megs. “It might not be safe at the apartment. You need to go somewhere else,” he says, all in a rush.

“I am fine,” Megs replies, and his tone is liquid warmth, sending a wave of calm through Hot Rod’s frame. “I’ll explain later, but rest assured, the both of us are safe.”

Hot Rod vents his relief, though now curiosity wars with suspicion. “Let me guess, your friend took care of things?”

“Indeed.”

Hot Rod scrubs his forehelm. “I’ll see you when I get home. Just please. Be careful.”

“At present, you are in more danger than I. Please have one of the brothers escort you home,” Megs says. The genuine concern in his voice makes Hot Rod’s spark throb all over again.

“I will.” He smiles, unable to help himself. “See you soon.” And he ends the comm before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. Scavenger looms over him, leaning into his space, nosily eavesdropping on the conversation.

“You’ve fragged him, haven’t you?” Scavenger asks. “I mean, not that it isn’t obvious by those dents on your hips and the paint scrapes you haven’t washed, but still.”

Hot Rod arches an orbital ridge and plants his feet. “So what if I did? I like him, Scav. And he likes me, too.”

“Roddy, you are in over your head with this one.” Scavenger squeezes his shoulder, and uses that grip to nudge Hot Rod back up the hall. “But the spark wants what the spark wants. I’m in your corner.”

“Thanks, Scav.”

“Hook on the other hand…” Scavenger laughs, his scoop-tail twitching with his delight. “You’d think he spawned you himself the way he fusses. It’s kind of cute.”

Hot Rod sighs. “Then to my doom I go.”

Scavenger laughs.

~

Megs ends the comm with an ache building in his processor. It has nothing to do with Hot Rod, and everything to do with the increasingly complicated circumstances of his functioning.

“Say thank you,” Ravage says. On anyone else, his tone might be smug.

Megs stares at him. “Haven’t I done so already?”

Ravage tilts his head. “Making your little problem with the Senate’s Enforcers disappear was no easy task, true. But we’ve also ensured they’re no longer interested in questioning your pretty berthmate. That’s two favors.”

“Favors I did not ask for,” Megs points out.

“You would prefer we didn’t intervene?”

Megs cycles a ventilation, the ache growing at the back of his mind, where the dark mass of missing memories continues to taunt him. “I am grateful you did. I wish I understood why.”

“For all the reasons I’ve given you before.” Ravage places a datapad on the table in front of him with a dull thud, nudging it closer. “Because we believe in you.”

Megs immediately recognizes it as the third datapad he’s been avoiding. “I am one mech. There is nothing special about me.”

“That is where you are wrong. Once you remember, it’ll all be clear.” Ravage slips down from the chair, his feet making not so much as a whisper of sound on the floor. “The time has come. Read the datapad. We’ll be waiting.”

“It will tell me who I am?” Megs asks as he pulls the datapad closer. It feels much heavier than it ought.

There’s no answer.

He looks where Ravage had been standing and sees no one and nothing. Once again, Ravage has vanished.

It no longer surprises him.

Megs’ engine sets into a discordant idle. If Ravage is correct, then this datapad will probably answer all his questions. It will no doubt trigger the last of the buried memories.

He does not know if he’s ready for the answers. He’s afraid of what the past will reveal, what it will mean for his relationship with Hot Rod.

Megs raps his claw on the table in a light staccato. The datapad stares back at him, screen grey and unassuming. He picks it up, and it’s heavier than it should be. Or maybe that’s the weight of the answers it carries.

He tucks it in his subspace for now. It will be there when he’s ready, and no amount of pressure from Ravage and his master will push him.

For several days, that’s where it stays.

Megs ignores its existence, and dedicates himself to Hot Rod instead. They work on Hot Rod’s reading and writing, both of which improve by leaps and bounds. They cuddle, watching nonsense movies on the vidscreen. They share a berth, learning one another’s frames, the things they like, the things they don’t.

Every one of Hot Rod’s smiles feels like a gift Megs doesn’t deserve.

He considers making this his life, and it isn’t an unwelcome thought. He could be content like this, spending his days beside Hot Rod, eking out a living here in Nyon. He could ask Hot Rod to help him find a job, perhaps in the mines, perhaps elsewhere. There’s work here, menial though it is.

Maybe it’s not the most visionary of lives, but it would be a decent one.

It would be based on a lie, albeit one of omission. Megs doesn’t have to know his past, does he?

Except that his past puts both himself and Hot Rod in danger. His past is the reason Hot Rod was attacked by the Senate’s Enforcers. And if he ignores his past, whatever protection Ravage and his patron are offering, will likely go away. Hot Rod’s life will be at risk once more.

Megs can’t run away from his past forever. He has to accept it before he can consider his future. He can’t have what he has with Hot Rod be built on a lie.

A week after the datapad was given to him, Megs sits at the table in the main room, energon pouch within reach, and pulls the datapad from his subspace. He sets it down in front of him, spark an anxious whirl trying to escape from its chamber.

The datapad is an older model. It’s different than all the others Ravage left. It’s worn, nicked from continuous use, the screen faded and the buttons having lost their identifiers. It’s heavier, built to last, built to stand heavy-duty use.

He cycles a ventilation and powers it on. Where the others had been encyclopedic, had been dry reading of statistics and articles, the difference in this one is immediately clear. It’s a personal pad.

It’s a collection of thoughts, musings, rough drafts, poems, and most of all, journal entries arranged by date. Records of a mech’s innermost feelings, not on a daily basis, but often enough a reader might easily learn about said mech’s entire life.

It feels like an invasion to read this, but it had been given to him for a reason. Perhaps because it is his by right. Perhaps because it belongs to him, despite not having fingers to grasp it, and only claws.

It feels right.

Megs starts at the most recent entry, intending to work his way backward. The prose is thoughtful, considerate, emotional...

Familiar.

It reads like something Megs himself would write. It sounds like the very same things he’s said to Hot Rod, to the brothers, to the others at the mine.

His spark pounds harder in his chassis. Megs does what he should have from the beginning -- he checks the registration tag. His vents stall in an emotion that is somehow both surprise and not.

Megatron of Tarn, identified by a miner-tag unique to every miner who has ever been built and sparked. Every mech in Cybertron has a profession-tag if they are sparked for a specific use, and miners are no exception. It denotes their birthplace, their assigned mine, their ranking. It’s unique to the individual.

D-16-012.

Megatron of Tarn was sparked in Kaon, in the first cycle, on the twelfth day. He was assigned the mines of Tarn. He was a digger.

He has the same ident code as Megs.

His claws tremble. The datapad rattles in his grip. His vents come in shallow bursts, and a pulse of pain lances through his head. Megs groans, optic dimming, as the dark mass of memory ripples and pulses, spreading outward like a disease.

Lights shine through the cracks.

Megs has the same ident code as Megatron of Tarn. His words are achingly familiar. Megatron of Tarn vanished, and in his place, Megs rose from the Heap in Nyon, all thanks to the extended hand of Hot Rod.

Agony lances through Megs’ cranium. He sucks air through his denta, the datapad clattering from his grip.

The darkness bursts, and when it does, memories flood Megs’ cortex, filling up the empty spaces where who he was taunted him. Thousands of years of experiences, conversations, long days and longer nights, slot neatly into place, with more recent memories painfully vivid.

He remembers the Senate coming for him. Impactor tried to stop them, tried to fight, and they’d taken him, too. They dragged him in one direction, and Megs another. He never saw Impactor again, only the laboratory where they fastened him to a berth, where a mech with a too large grin leaned over him, utterly delighted.

“You’re the first of your kind I’m trying this on,” he said with glee thick in his tone, his long, long fingers clicking excitedly. “I think it a waste of course, but for science. Oh, for science, I am happy to see what we can do with you.”

“Try to make him useful,” says one of the Enforcers, the Senate’s face glaring down at him, crimson and arrogant. “If he dies, dispose of him.”

The scientist pets Megatron’s helm like one might a lover, and the sensation makes his armor crawl. “It will be a shame to waste such a specimen. I’ll see what I can do.”

And then his world goes dark until he wakes to Hot Rod leaning over him, genuinely worried, his hands gentle, and his field a welcome comfort.

They tried to silence him.

And yet.

Megatron of Tarn lives.

He shudders, claws braced on the edge of the table, his frame thrumming, and his fans spinning at a frantic rate. His head aches, like too much knowledge has been shoved into a space to small to contain it, but the truth is there, wrapping around his spark.

He is Megatron.

And they will not get away with this.

He ventilates through the rage, through the fury, through the despair. He mourns his face, his hands, but they are superficial things. He can still write. He can still compose. They tried to break him, and they failed.

Megatron does not know how he survived or how he ended up in Nyon. He should, at the very least, have ended up in a smelting pit outside the laboratory, not in Nyon’s Heap. Those are questions his restored memories cannot answer, but perhaps Ravage may have some context.

He grasps the datapad once more, running the tip of a digit over the scarred surface. He would have thought they destroyed this, but clearly, it was rescued. Perhaps by Ravage and his mysterious host.

Their faith in him still does not make sense. He is a writer, a poet. He encourages others to think for themselves, to stand up against the Senate. He’s hardly irreplaceable. There have always been voices, and Megatron is not surprised his luck finally abandoned him. He’s joined the ranks of those like Pious Maximus in the Senate’s attempt to silence a revolution.

He supposes he should be flattered they considered him a threat. Instead, there’s mostly rage.

And worry.

Hot Rod is in more danger than either of them understand.

The Senate’s Enforcers must be here looking for him, for the Megatron who should not have been disposed of in Nyon. His survival here is a mistake they did not intend, one they want to fix. They can’t know what he does and doesn’t remember, but that won’t matter. They’ll want to silence him for good this time.

They will not stop until they receive definitive proof Megatron of Tarn is no longer a threat.

Megatron doesn’t know what happened to Impactor, but he can’t imagine the Senate being kind. Perhaps they attempted Empurata on him. Perhaps they transferred him to one of the more dangerous mines. Perhaps they executed him to make things easier.

Primus only knows what they would do to Hot Rod.

Megatron sits back in the chair, dread growing around his spark. Would it be better to leave now? To take his belongings and vanish into Nyon, seek passage elsewhere? Would that keep Hot Rod safe? Or is it too late? Perhaps Hot Rod is already on the Senate’s radar, and it’s only a matter of time before they come for him. If Megatron leaves, whatever meager protection is being offered might go with him.

No. It is too late for Megatron to leave.

Besides, it would be cruel beyond measure. At the very least, he owes Hot Rod an explanation. He owes Hot Rod the choice. It is, after all, something so few of the working class actually have. Megatron would be no better than the Senate if he took this choice from Hot Rod as well.

Best that Hot Rod makes it with all the information they have. Best he knows who Megatron is, and if that means he wishes for them to part ways…

It will hurt. Megatron cannot deny this.

He is Megs. He is Megatron. The truth of this does not change how he feels about Hot Rod. The dreams of making a future, a life, with Hot Rod are no less appealing for the revelation.

They are, however, dreams he cannot pursue on his own.

All he can do is wait for Hot Rod to return and let him make the choice.

Megatron lifts his datapad once more, running his digitip over the scarred surface.

Until then, he has much writing to do.

~

The streets are awfully quiet this week.

Hot Rod doesn’t have to duck into as many alleys and shadowed corners as he usually does. The Enforcers are still around, on their usual patrols, but there are far fewer than he’s used to avoiding. In fact, it’s business as usual, which is both weird and a relief.

It’s as weird as the fact no one ever came around to ask Hot Rod more about the Empurates. Megs says Ravage took care of their little fight in the square, but that gives more questions than answers.

Just how much power does Ravage’s patron have?

Worry for another day maybe. Right now, Hot Rod has a cube of rare energon Mixmaster was kind enough to trade him for, and he wants to share it with Megs in front of the vidscreen again, all cuddled up as they watch another stupid movie. And then he’s going to get his mouth on Megs again, because there’s nothing quite so sexy as having Megs squirming beneath him.

A mech that large and imposing shouldn’t be so adorable, but he damn well is.

Hot Rod doesn’t whistle, but it’s a near thing. As it is, he’s in a joyous mood as he clambers up the back rampwell and beelines for his apartment. He fumbles his key in the lock, juggling the energon out of his subspace, and slides into the apartment.

The buoyant cry of “I’m home” dies in his intake. There’s a heaviness in the air, and it hits Hot Rod like a slap to the face. It mutes his enthusiasm considerably.

Megs sits at the table in the main room, a battered datapad resting in front of him, and there’s something different in the way he looks back at Hot Rod. His shoulders are straighter, his head held higher, and his optic focuses on Hot Rod with an intent he’s never had before.

Hot Rod works his intake, anxiety strumming a line along his sensory suite. “What’s going on, Megs?”

There’s a soft click, a quieter cycle of ventilation, and then Megs says, “It’s remarkable to me how close the name you chose and my actual designation are.”

Hot Rod blinks. “Wait. You remember?” He fumbles for the other stool, pulling it out so he can drop into it. “Since when?”

Megs taps the battered datapad with a single digit. “Last week, Ravage gifted me this. It took me that long to work up the courage to read it.”

“Why so long?” Hot Rod leans over, peering at the datapad, not that it offers any clues to Megs’ identity.

“I was afraid of the answer, and afraid of what changes the knowledge would bring me.” Megs cycles another ventilation. “I am Megatron of Tarn, Hot Rod, and knowing me puts you in greater danger than either of us could have possibly imagined.”

Hot Rod looks up at Megs -- Megatron -- and words fly out of his processor. He stares at a mech who has become a hero and a revolutionary to countless Cybertronians. It’s not even hard to believe. There’s something captivating about Megs, an innate charisma that lingers despite the Empurata.

“I am sorry I have put this burden on you,” Megatron continues, meeting Hot Rod’s gaze with a steadiness Megs never fully managed. “You are linked to me now, no matter what we choose to do. I regret inadvertently putting you in harm’s way though I remain grateful you were kind enough to pull me from the Heap.”

“I… It was the right thing to do,” Hot Rod says quietly, his spark aching in his chassis. This sounds too much like a goodbye.

Megatron’s digit idly sweeps over the dark screen of the battered datapad. “There are few mechs who would have done the right thing. You are very special, Hot Rod.”

“Am I?” Hot Rod huffs a laugh, scrubbing a hand around his face. “You’re Megatron of Tarn. You’ve inspired millions of mechs. I’m just....” He waves a hand, encompassing everything -- the apartment, Nyon, his job, himself. “I’m a Scrounger in Nyon who’s too scared to fight back.”

Megatron makes a noise Hot Rod doesn’t recognize, but his optic flashes. A tremble of anger runs through his field before he reins it in. “You put yourself at risk in ways that are equally courageous. Not all battles are meant to be fought with fists.” He pauses and cycles a ventilation. “I should be dead, or at the very last, a puppet to the Senate’s machinations. How I escaped that fate, I don’t know, but I lived because of you.”

Hot Rod’s spark quivers, the stupid thing, daring to grasp on a thread of hope. “I had a feeling,” he admits, idly drawing nonsense symbols on the table. “Well, Scavenger did anyway. We thought you might be Megatron, but Hook said it was better to let you remember on your own.”

“As is often the case with memory ailments,” Megatron says.

Hot Rod nods, still staring at the nonsense glyphs he’s tracing -- not so much nonsense but actual words now, because Megatron had taught him. “I would’ve helped you no matter who you were.”

“And that’s why you’re special.” Megatron shifts, causing Hot Rod to look up at him, his claw twitching as if he’s going to reach out but then thinks better of it. “Still, suspicions are not confirmations. I understand if this changes things.”

Oh, it aches.

Hot Rod doesn’t know if Megatron is trying to gracefully give Hot Rod an out so he doesn’t have to say it or what, but damn it, Hot Rod’s going to say his piece and mean it. If Megatron’s going to walk away, he’s going to be the one to say it.

Hot Rod looks up, squares his jaw, his shoulders. “It doesn’t. I meant it when I said I wanted to be with you no matter who you were.”

“Are,” Megatron corrects, and his tone is softer, gentler, too. “I am both Megs and Megatron, and I intend to continue my pursuit of social justice. My current condition is proof that something is rotten in Cybertron, and I can’t walk away from it.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to either.” Hot Rod cycles a ventilation, tucking his hands in his lap to hide their trembling. “I’m not afraid of the Senate, and I don’t want to spend my life hiding. I’m tired of watching things happen, wishing I could do something about it. So wherever you are, that’s where I want to be, too.”

Surprise ripples in Megatron’s field, only to be immediately overwhelmed by a cautious surge of affection. “Are you sure?” he asks. “It will neither be easy nor safe.”

“Living isn’t easy or safe,” Hot Rod says with a crooked smile, and the hope rises up in his intake, sitting heavy on his glossa. “I’d rather die knowing I took the chance on something I really wanted, then survive stewing in my regret.”

A small laugh huffs out of Megatron’s vents, and his severe look vanishes, softening. He spreads his claws with invitation. “I would be the luckiest mech this side of Cybertron if you’d have me, Hot Rod.”

His jaw drops before he can stop it. “If I’ll have you? Seriously?” He has to reset his audials to be sure he actually heard Megatron. “You remember who you are, right?” Hot Rod waves a wild hand. “I’m the one sitting here trying to figure out how to put on a brave face when you start telling me how we’re over.”

Megatron’s optic oscillates in and out. “Why would I do that?” he asks, and his vents audibly stall. “Did you think my feelings for you would change because my memories are back? If you’re worried there’s something else, rest assured there’s not.”

Hot Rod stands, the need to pace rattling through his legs. “Because!” The words rush out, fast and full of too many emotions he’s never dared name. “You’re a hero to millions of mechs, and I’m a scrounger mech from Nyon. What could you possibly see in me?”

“I’m a miner from Tarn,” Megatron says. “My words have caught the audials of millions because they are an honest truth many share, not because I am particularly special.”

He stands and intercepts Hot Rod in the middle of his route, his claws laying gently on Hot Rod’s shoulders. Hot Rod’s staring at his broad chest, at the nicks and scrapes of a mech who’s suffered so much, and still manages to think of a better future.

“What I see in you is a kind mech who deserves far more than Nyon has given him,” Megatron continues, his field layering over Hot Rod’s, and if he’d have any doubt, the feel of Megatron’s field matches perfectly with Megs’. “You are brave and generous and stubborn. You are smart and passionate.” A small chuckle rises from his intake. “And yes, you are absolutely beautiful, too.”

Beautiful.

Hot Rod swallows over a lump in his intake and lifts his gaze. “You could do better than me.”

“On the contrary.” Megatron’s digitip gently brushes Hot Rod’s cheek. “You could find a much better partner than I.”

“Agree to disagree,” Hot Rod says with a quiet laugh. He hesitates for a fraction of a vent before wrapping his arms around Megatron. “If you want me, you can have me.”

Hot Rod’s spark does a twirl of delight when Megatron returns the embrace, his arms encircling Hot Rod, his claws laying gently against Hot Rod’s back below his spoiler mount.

Megatron’s engine purrs, warming the space around them. “It sounds to me that we are on the same wavelength then.”

“Sure does.” Hot Rod buries a laugh against Megatron’s chassis. “So what now?”

Megatron gently strokes his back. “I don’t know. The memories are still settling. I haven’t thought about what to do next.”

“Whenever you do figure it out, don’t leave me in the dark.” Hot Rod pulls back, looking up at Megatron. “I don’t want to be left behind again.”

Megatron’s optic flickers before he nods. “I can promise that much. For now…”

“For now Mixmaster gave me some fairly decent engex, and I think we should share it.” Hot Rod curls a hand around one of Megatron’s wrists, attempting to tow him toward Megatron’s berthroom.

Megatron does not resist.

“I think For All The Mechs Who Loved Me is on a rerun tonight. We should watch it,” Hot Rod adds.

“Is this going to be another insipid yet completely engrossing romance?” Megatron asks, sounding amused.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

With the movie playing, Hot Rod snuggled in Megatron’s arms as they split the share of engex between them -- Megatron with his pouch and Hot Rod with his cube -- Hot Rod doesn’t think about tomorrow. He thinks about right now.

He doesn’t know how long he’ll have Megatron. He doesn’t know where Megatron’s plans will take him, or even if Hot Rod can be involved.

All he has is this moment, so he’s going to enjoy every second of it.

~

The ping is the only possible sound which could have roused Soundwave . He shifts, joints creaking, protesting the change in his posture. He has spent too long bent over his work, and his frame has no compunctions about offering the protest.

“I told you,” Laserbeak sings. She hops back and forth on the ridge behind the monitor, her optics full of victory. “You should have taken a break hours ago.”

Soundwave ignores her. He focuses instead on the notification popping up in the corner of the screen.

Megatron has finally accessed the datapad, which means in all likelihood, he has gained the entirety of his memories if the little mneumosurgeon they’d interrogated had not been lying. Mechs will say a lot to save their sparks, but there are some things worse than death. The promise of Soundwave’s return if he should be dishonest would be enough to ensure accuracy.

Ergo, Megs has become Megatron once more.

“It took him a week,” Ravage says from the shadows, irritation thick in his tone.

“You hush.” Laserbeak flicks a wing at her feline sibling. “Megatron has gone through a severe trauma. You can’t blame him for being cautious.”

“Why would anyone prefer to live in ignorance?” Ravage retorts.

Laserbeak clicks her glossa. “Because sometimes not knowing is less scary. Don’t be stupid, Rav. You know what world we live in.”

“Hesitation anticipated,” Soundwave says before Ravage can reply and their bickering resume. It is best to cut such things as quickly as possible. “Still within expected parameters.”

Ravage huffs. “You’ve been comfortable in this hole the entire time. Don’t talk to me about expected parameters.”

Laserbeak snaps her beak at Ravage before tilting her head at Soundwave, directing the force of her stare at him. “Do you think Hot Rod will be a problem?”

“Negative.” Soundwave straightens, shifting to ease the kinks in his joints and cables. “Hot Rod likely to encourage Megatron.”

“You think so?” Laserbeak’s head cocks in a way she uses to be charming with those who don’t know any better, who can’t see to the clever, contrary spark she truly is.

Soundwave nods.

He’s done his due diligence as a matter of course, from the moment they tracked Megatron to Hot Rod’s care. There is little in Hot Rod’s existence that is a secret. The mech lives an achingly open life, though he’s completely unaware of what’s become of so many of his former roommates. Likely he doesn’t know what drove Hook and his brothers to Nyon either.

How Megatron had managed to find one of the most infuriatingly pure sparks in all of Cybertron, Soundwave can only guess. Perhaps there is a touch of fate to it.

Either way, he’s seen the injustice in Nyon as surely as Hot Rod has. Soundwave can’t imagine Hot Rod being anything but supportive of Megatron’s intentions to tear down the Senate and the strictures binding the classes of Cybertron. It helps, also, that he’s head over heels for Megatron.

Affection has made many a mech do stupid, foolish things.

Ravage eases out of the shadows. “What are we going to do? Continue to watch and wait or is it finally time for action?”

Soundwave shuts down the console and drags the carry case closer so that he can pack up the equipment. He cannot afford to leave any trace of their presence here in Nyon. They’ve been gone too long already and their master has begun making a nuisance of himself.

“We approach Megatron tomorrow,” Soundwave says, his gaze flicking to Laserbeak. “Observe and report until then.”

Laserbeak lifts her wings, twitching the tessellated plates. “Fine, but if they start ‘facing again, I reserve the right to record it with commentary later.” She alights from the back of the monitor, and leaves through the open window, casting a brief shadow behind her.

Soundwave sighs.

“We’re risking a lot for this Megatron,” Ravage says in her absence, his gaze locked on the open window. “Are you certain he’s worth it?”

“Affirmative.” Soundwave touches the badge on his shoulder, seared there without his permission, remaining until he has the power to walk away. “Cybertron must change.”

“Oh, I’m not doubting that.” Ravage moves closer, watching him with his peripherals, his optics a scarlet glow in the dim of their hiding space. “I’m just not sure he’s the one who’s going to do it.”

Soundwave cycles a ventilation. “He will. He must.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” Ravage arches into a stretch, an action so nonchalant the casual observer might be fooled. “Still. Never thought I’d see the day that you of all mechs would have a little hope.”

Soundwave can’t argue differently.

Because he does hope.

It’s the whole reason he risked everything to save Megatron, to watch over him, to guide him back to himself. Cybertron must change, and Soundwave is certain Megatron is who their planet needs.

He’ll stake his spark on it.

***