[TF] Research and Development

Rumor has it there’s a new recruit, which in itself, isn’t that unusual. The Decepticon resistance has swelled its ranks exponentially these cycles as more and more mechs realize Cybertron isn’t going to change anytime soon. Not unless they rise up and do something about it.

This new mech though. Scuttlebutt is that Megatron recruited him personally, and that’s the kind of mech Skywarp has to meet. Anyone who’s caught Megatron’s attention has to be worth knowing. More than that, though, they must be worth testing. Tasting. That sort of thing.

Skywarp’s particularly good at testing. Which is why he’s currently in the section of the old, abandoned factory they’ve partitioned for use for the scientists. The new recruit is supposed to be some hotshot physicist who’s finally going to give that stodgy old Shockwave some competition. They might even get some fancy new weapons to show that Senate who they really should fear.

Skywarp only gets lost two or three times while he’s in the science warehouse. Usually, he’s only here for Keystroke to run one of many, many tests in a desperate attempt to duplicate Skywarp’s warping capabilities. But Keystroke’s lab is not the same as the new Seeker’s lab, and Skywarp has a map, but somehow, he keeps making wrong turns.

Getting distracted is what Thundercracker would say. Feh.

Skywarp pauses at a T-intersection, consults his map, and turns to the left. He’s pretty sure Starscream – that’s the new recruit’s designation – has his laboratory in this direction. Skywarp hasn’t laid optics on Starscream yet, but he’s heard the new Seeker is absolutely gorgeous, not to mention brilliant. And well, how can Skywarp resist that kind of package?

He’s got to see for himself. Starscream sounds like the kind of mech Skywarp absolutely has to taste. Thus wandering around the research center. Only getting lost twice.

Skywarp finds himself at a dead-end, frowns, and looks at his map again.

Okay. Three times.

A course correction later, Skywarp finally stands outside the laboratory with the shiny new nameplate on the outside – Starscream. He’s in the right place. Yes! He pumps a fist into the air and palms the door open.

It refuses with a blat.

Well. A locked door isn’t going to stop Skywarp. He’s one of the few mechs in the entirety of the Decepticon resistance that it can’t stop.

Vorrrp.

Skywarp pops past the door and pretends to dust himself off. Ah, that never gets old. Tingly all over, a feeling like the world pulls sideways, and then he’s wherever he imagined himself to be. Luckily, he finally got the hang of warping to the other side of doors. Most of them are the same thickness but some of them.

Some of them aren’t and owww.

Anyway. This is a small lab compared to the one Keystroke haunts, and there’s only one mech visible at the massive console that takes up half the limited space in here. He’s a Seeker all right, with those pretty, pretty wings and his thruster-heels. He’s shiny all over, like fresh off the assembly line, and his armor is a lovely mix of gray and red and blue.

Mmm. Skywarp really wants to lick those blue stripes and his red hip assembly practically screams ‘frag me’. It’s begging for attention.

“Wow. You’re gorgeous,” Skywarp says before his processor catches up with his mouth and realizes, oops, maybe he should introduce himself first? He did kind of invite himself inside.

Most mechs here would greet that kind of thing with a blaster. Skywarp’s been shot a few times, much to Thundercracker’s exasperation and Hook’s glee.

Starscream, however, only gives him a brief glance with some coal-fire crimson optics before he says, “I was informed I’d get an assistant. Is that you?”

Oh, his voice. His voice is this sharp raspy thing, like he’s used his vocalizer past the point of no return one too many times, but it’s tone that’s the thing. This tone of absolute confidence that makes Skywarp shiver all over.

Then Skywarp rewinds and replays what Starscream actually said.

“Wait. Your assistant? No way.” Skywarp shakes his hands and his head. “I’m not allowed near this stuff.” He tucks his hands behind his back and inches closer. “I’m Skywarp.”

“I’ve heard of you.” Starscream turns his full attention back to the console, images popping up all over the massive monitor. “Keystroke’s project, right? The teleporter.”

Skywarp beams. “That’s me!” He peers up at the screen, but he can’t make sense of the equations and glyphs flashing across it. Whatever Starscream’s working on, it’s advanced stuff. He at least kind of understand’s Keystroke’s babble.

Skywarp can calculate vertices and physics faster than most mechs can add and subtract. He kind of needs to in order to warp places without blowing himself to bits. But that stuff on the screen is beyond him. It’s not physics. It’s something else. Though he does recognize the schematics for some kind of a weapon – a really powerful blaster maybe.

“He hasn’t asked my advice yet. But he will,” Starscream says as if it’s a foregone conclusion. There’s a touch of a smirk in the corner of his lips and frag yeah, Skywarp loves him a mech with confidence.

“You want to do experiments on me?” Skywarp asks. Maybe bind him down, strap him up, immobilize him? Oh, that sounds kind of nice actually. Especially if Starscream then climbs on top of him, rides him, too?

Starscream’s wings flick up and then down. “Eventually. Though I’m far too busy for it right now.” He shifts his weight, hips cocking to one side. Skywarp only notices because he can’t drag his gaze away from those hips.

“Doing what?”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t understand,” Starscream says with a sniff and a twitch of his wings that raises them up – proud and arrogant.

He hasn’t so much as turned and given Skywarp a second look. His hands haven’t stopped moving across the input system, and how he’s managing to keep up a conversation plus those equations on the screen is fragging amazing. He’s some kind of genius.

Still. Skywarp came here for a reason, and a little bit of a cold shoulder isn’t enough to deter him. Starscream’s standoffish, but he hasn’t told Skywarp to leave, and Decepticons tend to be real slagging firm when they want to be left alone. Skywarp has a few dents and paint-gouges to prove it.

“Well, I think you ought to take a break,” he says as he leans in close, reaching out with warm, inviting tendrils of his field. Just a tentative touch. Testing the jetstream, so to speak.

“I’m fine,” Starscream says in a tone so flat it has to be practiced.

Skywarp nudges a little harder, gets his first taste of Starscream’s field, which is as chilly and indifferent as the mech himself. “Are you sure? I’d love to welcome you to the Decepticons properly. If you get my drift.” He winks and sends a shiver through his field.

Subtlety? This is as much as Skywarp can manage. It worked on Thundercracker, for all that he complains Skywarp has all the nuance of a brick to the head.

Starscream, however, doesn’t bite. “I’m too busy to indulge you,” he sniffs, but oh-ho, what’s this?

Starscream’s field reaches back out, warm and just a bit buzzy on the edges. Like he’s interested but doesn’t want to say it. Like he’s laying out a challenge.

Skywarp can never resist a good challenge.

“You should find someone else to bother,” Starscream says aloud, but his field says stay, stay, stay.

Delicious.

“Awww.” Skywarp leans closer, gets a whiff of the sweet-tangy polish Starscream laved all over his armor, and heat stirs in his belly. It’s like Starscream wants to be licked. “You shouldn’t work so hard. There’s time to have fun, too. You know?”

Starscream’s head tilts away from him, just so, his gaze locked on the screen. “Mmm,” he hums, dismissive, disinterested. His field, however, doesn’t withdraw. The curliest edges wrap around Skywarp’s seeking tendrils and tug.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, friends.

Skywarp sidles closer and gives in to the urge to drag a fingertip along the leading edge of Starscream’s wing – a sensitive spot for most Seekers. He feels the resulting shiver in Starscream’s field and sees the tiniest twitch in the tessellated plates along the back of Starscream’s wing.

“Gorgeous,” Skywarp murmurs and licks his lips to hide the fact he’s this close to drooling. Starscream’s field is five flavors of heat, his polish smells too damn good, and Skywarp swears those painted lines are done to deliberately draw the optic to multiple erogenous zones.

Starscream, however, says, “Do I look like I want to be bothered?” in a waspish tone, even as his wing tilts and pushes toward Skywarp’s hand.

Such a contrary mech, he is.

“You look like you need to be bothered,” Skywarp says.

He’s never been great at resisting temptation, so he leans in and takes a nip at the very tip of Starscream’s wing, at the end of a thick red line.

“Why don’t you let me?” Skywarp purrs as the sweet tang of the polish dances on his tongue “I’m told I’m pretty good at it.”

“This job is important,” Starscream says, but his ventilations hitch, and even to Skywarp, it’s a weak argument. His wing has gone still under Skywarp’s mouth, and his armor has lifted away from his substructure as if to vent heat.

So it’s like that, is it?

Delight floods Skywarp’s spark. He embraces Starscream from behind, and his grin widens when he realizes he’s just a touch broader, a touch taller, a touch bigger in every way. His hands fit perfectly on the new Seeker’s hips, and the tiny thrum of Starscream’s engine vibrates through his whole frame.

“Come on,” he cajoles as his fingers slide along armor seams. “Lemme eat you out at least. Bet you taste good.”

Starscream cycles a vent. “I… I am very busy,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

More importantly! He’s not saying no. He’s not pushing Skywarp away. He’s not powering up either of those cute little blasters on his lower arms. Fascinating.

Skywarp presses up against him, their armor coming into delicious contact, and Starscream shivers in his arms. Skywarp grins, ex-venting over the back of Starscream’s audial as he murmurs, “Don’t let me stop you from working then. Just open right up and I’ll take care of everything.”

A sigh gusts out of Starscream’s vents as if he’s been beset by a very irritating kremzeek, but what Skywarp hears next isn’t Starscream demanding he leave. It’s the distinct click of a valve panel opening, and Skywarp knows it’s not his own. He slips one hand between Starscream’s thighs and purrs when his fingers find plump valve folds and slide into sticky heat.

Oh, he’s too busy, is he? But this sweet little valve of his wants to take a break, doesn’t it? Skywarp grins and curves his fingers into Starscream, seeking out every charged node to say hello. Starscream shivers and sags, thighs inching apart to make more room. The clickity-clack of his fingers on the board have all but stopped.

Skywarp gives in and licks the back of Starscream’s wing, tasting the thin blue stripe and mmm. He nibbles on the edge of an aileron, and Starscream’s engine purrs at him. Yummy.

“Enough,” Starscream hisses as his hands slam onto the desk, fingers curving, talons scraping a thin furrow into the surface. “Stop wasting time and frag me already.” He pitches forward, aft tilted up, like he’s presenting himself.

“Well,” Skywarp purrs as he flicks his fingers over Starscream’s anterior node. “If you insist.” He grinds against Starscream’s aft and sighs as his spike extends, the head tasting Starscream’s valve.

Starscream huffs and shoves his aft back, impatient and hungry. He’s still staring at the screen, but the steady scrawl of calculations have stopped. Skywarp grins and rolls his hips, sinking to the hilt in Starscream. He groans as he’s eclipsed by molten heat, and Starscream tightens down around him, calipers twitching hungrily.

Skywarp licks his lips and plants a hand on Starscream’s back, between his wing mounts. “You’re busy,” he teases as he pumps his hips into Starscream’s delicious valve. “I’ll make it quick.” He pushes down, flattening Starscream across his desk, and Starscream goes willingly.

Well, mostly.

Starscream hisses, and his wings twitch as he snarls, “Irritating pest,” but it’s immediately followed by a moan and a clench and a shudder, so Skywarp’s having a hard time believing the insult.

Especially when Starscream digs his talons into the desk and pushes back against Skywarp, shoving Skywarp’s spike deeper. There’s a secondary click as Starscream’s spike emerges, though Skywarp can’t see it, and the head of it must be grinding against the desk. Nice.

“Harder!” Starscream demands as his valve spirals tighter and clutches eagerly at Skywarp’s spike, his field an electric pulse of want, want, want.

Skywarp is delighted to oblige. He grabs Starscream by the hips and increases his pace, slamming harder and harder into Starscream with each thrust. The other Seeker gasps and cants his hips so Skywarp can go deeper, and his wing plates shiver. Blue charge licks out from beneath his armor.

“Shouldn’t you be – hnggh – working?” Skywarp can’t help but tease as he slams into Starscream and then circles his hips, grinding deep against Starscream’s ceiling node.

“Shut up!” Starscream pants and pushes back into each thrust, lubricant squeezing out around Skywarp’s spike to slick his thighs. “Harder, damn it.”

Skywarp grins and licks his lips. “I can do that.” He increases his pace, long and deep strokes designed to make all those nodes sing.

Ohh, it makes Starscream sing, too. He tosses his head back, moans, and his valve cycles hungrily around Skywarp’s spike. He’s hot and twitchy, field wrapping tight around Skywarp and refusing to let him be. Clearly, Starscream hasn’t been fragged enough if he’s this hungry.

Skywarp shudders and sinks into Starscream, again and again, Starscream’s nodes feeding his spike sensors charge burst after charge burst. It twists and turns inside Skywarp, making his lines thrum and his internals tighten. It feels too damn good, and Starscream’s too damn pretty.

Frag.

Skywarp shudders and blats out static as he shoves deep and spurts into Starscream’s valve, the overload sending streaks across his vision. Oh, damn that’s good. He rolls his hips, drawing out the waves of ecstasy, feeding Starscream every drop. He presses deep and lingers, twitching.

“You’re not done!” Starscream snarls with impatient bucks of his hips. “Are you as selfish as you are irritating?”

“Sheesh, do you ever stop complaining?” Skywarp asks, purely rhetorical, as he withdraws and pulls Starscream a few inches away from the console. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

“You had better!” Starscream hisses.

Skywarp rolls his optics, grabs Starscream and spins him around. Starscream stumbles at the unexpected show of strength – Skywarp’s way stronger than he lets people know about – and his aft bumps the edge of the console as Skywarp drops to his knees. Oh, Starscream’s spike is as pretty as he is, and Skywarp licks his lips and presses a kiss to the tip.

Starscream makes a strangled noise. No smart remark? Skywarp looks up and sees Starscream’s optics dark and hungry.

Skywarp winks and sucks Starscream down, all the way to the root, in a single swallow. Starscream’s grip on the edge of the console crumples the metal. He gasps, tosses his head back, tries to buck, but Skywarp’s holding him in place. He manages two, three squeezes of his intake and then Starscream’s helplessly spilling into his mouth, spurt after spurt of transfluid.

Yup.

Still got it.

Skywarp suckles at Starscream a little longer, until Starscream squirms from the overstimulation. Only then does Skywarp let Starscream slip from his mouth with a parting kiss to the softening length.

Skywarp stands, licking his lips clean. “Good?” he asks as he gets his hands on those pretty hips and between Starscream’s thighs, nuzzling into Starscream’s intake. He inhales and brushes his lips over Starscream’s cables.

Starscream huffs and turns his head away, nose turned up. “I’m now behind in my work.” He spins away from Skywarp, nearly slapping him with a wing, and turns his attention back to his console.

Such a contrary Seeker. Fortunately, Skywarp likes a challenge.

“My sincere apologies,” Skywarp lies as he thumbs a small drop of escaped transfluid from the corner of his mouth. He wonders if he can convince Starscream for a second round. He still really wants to get his mouth on Starscream’s valve.

The monitor flashes. Glyphs and calculations scroll across the screen. Starscream’s wings twitch, and then he says, “Well?”

Skywarp cycles his optics. “Well what?” Is Starscream after an apology? Praise?

“Did I pass your ridiculous test?” Starscream demands with a brief glance over his shoulder. “Is that not why you bothered me?”

It takes Skywarp a fraction of a second too long to understand what the frag Starscream is talking about, and then he can’t help but laugh. “Wait, did you take that seriously?”

Embarrassment screams in Starscream’s field, but his mouth sets itself into a fierce scowl. “Of course not!” he snaps. “I was recruited by Megatron personally. Your opinion doesn’t matter to me at all.” He whips back around to face his computer, his field a mix of offended and embarrassed, his wings all twitchy.

Adorable.

Skywarp drags a finger along the edge of the wing he hasn’t tasted yet and grins as Starscream visibly shivers. “You definitely pass,” he says. “Wanna grab some engex later? My treat.”

Starscream sniffs, but his wing twitches nearer to Skywarp’s hand. “It’s the least you can do to make up for your rude behavior. Now go. I’m busy.” He stares extra hard at his computer and plucks at the board with extra slow precision.

Oh, ho. That attitude might fool someone else, but it’s too late. Skywarp has gotten a taste and now he wants more. He’s seen Starscream melt on his spike and beg for it faster, harder, and more.

No way is he letting Starscream slip through his fingers. He can’t wait to tell Thundercracker about this.

Skywarp grins and sees himself out.

This time, he only gets lost once.

***

[TF] Idle Hands

“I’m bored,” Jazz complained as he let himself into Prowl’s locked office and threw his frame onto the only piece of furniture not covered in datapads and actual, paper documents.

“Hi, bored. I’m Prowl,” Prowl replied without missing a beat or looking up from the datapad that occupied both his attention and his frown. It was his thinking frown, however, so Jazz wasn’t too concerned.

Yet.

Jazz groaned and tipped his head back against the high-backed chair. “You’re spending too much time with Sparkplug.”

“He is a comforting spot of urbanity in a chaotic storm of treaty negotiations,” Prowl said with a twitch of his sensory panels. He looked tired. He felt tired.

Who knew that trying to negotiate some kind of cease-fire and peace treaty with the Decepticons would actually be more exhausting than the war itself? But needs must. Needs like a lack of resources, dwindling motivations, and the realization that if they didn’t pull their heads out of their afts, Cybertron’s already ruined landscape would become an uninhabitable wasteland that could never be restored.

“Give me something to do,” Jazz demanded, and it wasn’t a whine. “I’m going out of my mind with boredom here. I’m getting itchy fingers, if you know what I mean.”

Prowl’s panels twitched again, and he moved from one datapad to another without missing a beat. “You’re not allowed to kill any Decepticons. We are in a cease-fire.”

“Mildly maim?”

“No.”

Jazz sighed. “I’m bored.” He kicked toward the desk and glared mulishly at Prowl. “And I swear to Primus if you hit me with another dad joke, I’m going to take out my twitchy fingers on you.”

The corner of Prowl’s mouth curved toward the slightest smirk as his shoulders relaxed by a smidgen. “There is plenty of work to be found. Why don’t you see if Ratchet has something for you to do?”

Oh, frack no. Jazz might be bored, but he wasn’t desperate. Ratchet had a list the size of Metrotitan of things he wanted done, and Jazz wanted to be nowhere near that list. Ratchet was a gleeful maniac right now, so delighted by the cease-fire, that he was hunting down unsuspecting Autobots and trapping them in the medbay for a long-awaited full maintenance.

Jazz hadn’t been able to rescue Bluestreak in time, and now his favorite berth-buddy was in Ratchet’s clutches for at least a week. He had to have a flush.

Poor mech.

“No, thanks. I’ll never escape,” Jazz said with a theatrical shudder.

Prowl snorted and finally looked up from his work. “Perhaps Optimus has a task for you. Unless you want to help me with this.” He gestured to the mountains of datapads that surrounded him like a paperwork cage.

“That’s a very slow death. I’m good.” Jazz launched himself out of the chair and headed for the door, waving farewell over his shoulder. “Call me if you find a use for my twitchy fingers.”

“Unlikely,” came Prowl’s response, floating out after him.

Jazz moved on, keeping a wide berth from Ratchet’s territory, and ignoring Red Alert in the surveillance room — another mech who was having a hard time with the ceasefire. Negotiations were currently at a pause while both sides licked their wounds and reconsidered their terms. The battles were being fought with words and legalities and litigation, not blasters and bombs and vibro knives.

These were battles in which Jazz had no use. He was not designed to be clever in documentation. He was built to find weaknesses, the best places to strike. He had nothing to do, here in this cease-fire, and the boredom was breeding restlessness.

Unlike Prowl’s, the door to Optimus’ office was not locked. Optimus had more of an open-door policy than Prowl, mostly because one would have to get through Ironhide first. Optimus’ weapons specialist and ostensibly his bodyguard, currently lounged in a chair outside of Optimus’ door, cleaning a massive blaster that would give Megatron’s fusion cannon a run for its creds.

“What’cha bothering with that for?” Jazz asked as he lounged against Ironhide’s side, folding his arms over the massive soldier’s shoulder. “Dont’cha know the war is over?”

“Paused,” Ironhide grunted as he raised a part to his optic and examined it intently. “Could start back any moment. Decepticons, ya know?”

Jazz hummed. “It’s in the name.” He playfully flicked Ironhide’s audial. “I’m bored.”

“Get off with that nonsense.” Ironhide lifted an elbow, jostling Jazz from his perch. “You ain’t gonna find entertainment with me. Go play with Blaster.”

“He’s busy.” Jazz chuffed but gave Ironhide his space. Sometimes, ‘Hide was fun to bother, and sometimes he was in a mood. Seemed like today was a mood, probably because Optimus was stressed, and when Optimus was stressed, Ironhide shared it. “What about Optimus?”

Ironhide gave him the side-eye before he went back to polishing his gun, sadly without any euphemism involved. “Busy,” he grunted. “But I know better than to stop ya.” He waved toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, ‘Hide.” Jazz snuck under Ironhide’s guard to pop a kiss to the soldier’s cheek, and Ironhide smacked his aft as he went by.

Fair enough.

Jazz pushed into Optimus’ office and found Optimus in much the same position as Prowl — buried behind stacks of datapads, but with the addition of several monitors set up on a nearby wall, each showing something different –most of them news stations. Optimus, at least, had the decency to look up from his work and acknowledge Jazz’s arrival.

Then again, Jazz didn’t give him much choice about it.

“I’m bored,” he complained as he threw himself into Optimus’ lap in a dramatic, but languorous sprawl that put him between Optimus and his paperwork.

Optimus chuckled and dropped his stylus, his hand resting on Jazz’s hip instead. “And you assumed I would solve that problem for you?”

Jazz leaned back, elbows on the edge of the desk. “Give me something to do since apparently I’m not allowed to kill any Decepticons.” He curled his fingers into air quotes. “Or maim them.”

“Or sneak into their berths and frighten them for your own entertainment,” Optimus added with an arched orbital ridge.

“I did that once.” Jazz rolled his optics behind his visor. “Besides, I doubt Soundwave complained. It’s part of that game we play.” He flicked his fingers.

“Just Soundwave?” Optimus asked with a tone that suggested he already knew the answer, and was only asking to make a point.

Jazz lifted his chin. “No one else could’ve caught me.”

Optimus hummed and reached around him for the datapad, lifting it into view. “I am currently reviewing proposal seven for the treaty–”

“Nope. Something that suits my skills,” Jazz cut in before Optimus could finish suggesting he proofread or such slag. Jazz was a mech of action, not grammar.

“–and Megatron is being particularly stubborn about it,” Optimus continued as if Jazz had not spoken at all. “Perhaps you might find it in you to provide him with a distraction.”

Jazz squinted at Optimus. “What exactly are you suggestin’ I do about that, boss bot?”

“I am sure you can come up with a method that would cause him no harm, but encourage him to be more malleable to our requests,” Optimus said with another hum as if he hadn’t delicately hinted that Jazz go pay Megatron a visit.

“I knew there was a reason I loved you,” Jazz declared as he sat up and stole a kiss before he hopped out of Optimus’ lap, though he didn’t go far. “What’re my limits?”

Optimus’ attention went back to his work, or so it seemed, save that his field lingered against Jazz’s with a warm buzz. “You cannot hurt him. You cannot do anything that would risk the cease-fire.”

Jazz gasped and leaned against Optimus’ side, nosing into Optimus’ intake. “I would never do such a thing.” One palm slid over Optimus’ abdomen, toying with the slats of his grill-kibble. “I know how to be creative.”

There was a flash of resigned disappointment before Optimus grasped his wandering hand by the wrist and lifted it away. “I am well aware. Perhaps later you can show me.”

“It’s a date,” Jazz purred as he flicked Optimus’ audial and spun away before Optimus could retaliate.

At last. A mission. Something to do.

“Behave!” Optimus called after him, but Jazz didn’t bother with a reply.

Behave? Jazz snorted. He was pretty sure Optimus intended for him to be very, very naughty. In a completely legal, cease-fire sort of way.

Jazz hummed and strutted out of Optimus’ office, giving Ironhide a distracted wave as he passed. Ideas were already brewing. Last time he’d taken a stroll around the Nemesis, the Decepticon leadership team – though leadership was a strong word – had been ensconced in their private quarters, licking their proverbial wounds.

Soundwave was the closest one to actually doing his job, while Starscream bitched at an indifferent Thundercracker about how Megatron never listened to him. Shockwave had been in his lab, doing frightening Shockwave things, and Megatron had been frowning so severely over Version 2.6 of the treaty Jazz worried it was because Megatron legitimately couldn’t read standard Cybertronian.

Hmm.

Jazz might need a few supplies. He swung by his quarters first, dug out his tool box, and rifled through the fun side. There were a couple toys in here that would be perfect for Megatron if he could manip– convince the Decepticon leader into using them.

After that, it was only a short drive, a strut, and a stroll to where the Nemesis had been docked. As a gesture of good faith, the Autobots had assisted the Decepticons with hauling their ship-slash-home from the depths of the Pacific, and making it buoyant enough to be docked above the surface. With easier access to solar power for energon, the Decepticons were much more inclined to discuss the terms of a treaty.

Of course, easier access to the Decepticons meant easier access for Jazz, too. Oh, it had been fun to swim down to the Nemesis anytime he wanted to have a look-see, but now, Jazz could just take a casual stroll past the cameras and invite himself wherever he pleased without the nasty side effect of getting seawater in his vents.

The usual buzz of Decepticon activity was muted here toward sunset. Most mechs were in their rooms or hanging out in common areas, grumbling to each other about the lack of fighting and/or entertainment. Jazz hummed to himself as he danced from shadow to shadow, keeping to the blind spots in the security array. He’d memorized them by now.

Megatron wasn’t in his office, so Jazz took up a perch in the comfy chair, and leaned back to wait, feet propped up on the desk. He amused himself with whatever datapads were within reach, taking a peek at the revisions the Decepticons planned to submit, and what other reports waited for Megatron’s attention.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The door slid open, and Megatron strolled inside, clutching a cube of energon in one hand and a datapad in the other. He spotted Jazz immediately and stopped mid-stride with a scowl. The datapad vanished in a flash, no doubt stowed in subspace as if Jazz couldn’t access it if he wanted to. Pfft.

“Out,” Megatron snapped.

“I ain’t here to cause problems,” Jazz lied. “I have a proposition for ya.”

“This is a violation of Prime’s precious cease-fire!” Megatron snarled, his optics getting all coal-fire dark, and his field prickly with both agitation and glee. At last, a return to war, he must be thinking. “If you don’t–”

Jazz held up his hands and wriggled his fingers. “Look, Megs. No knives. I come in peace.” He dropped his feet from the desk and stood, planting his hands on the desk. “Like I said. Proposition. You. Me. A berth. What do ya say?”

“I don’t have a death wish,” Megatron said with a snort. He looked all around his office as if expecting to encounter a trap. “Did Prime send you here?”

“Nope!” Jazz lied cheerfully. “Also, I don’t typically kill the mechs I proposition. I’d rather have fun.” He flicked his glossa over his lips. “Ain’t you a little bit curious? Or are ya too scared?”

Megatron went still. Hook, line, and–

“I’m not afraid of you,” he snarled.

–sinker.

Jazz vaulted over the desk and sauntered toward Megatron, putting a little sway in his hips that Megatron watched with evident wariness. “Prove it,” he purred, and stepped close enough to share venting space, looking up at Megatron with a tilt of his head. “I’ll even let you brag about it later.”

“Idiot. Why would I brag about that?” Megatron demanded, but it was with less force than his first attempt to make Jazz leave. “What do you want?”

Jazz put his palm on Megatron’s chassis, and while Megatron tensed beneath him, he didn’t immediately swat Jazz aside. Progress! “Thought that was pretty clear. Been a long war, Megs. Wouldn’t it be nice to do somethin’ a lot more fun than tryin’ to kill each other?”

Megatron snorted. “That depends on what it’ll cost me. I’m well aware of your reputation.”

“You wound me, Megs. Truly.” Jazz feigned offense and walked his fingers up Megatron’s chassis, delighted to find the Decepticon warlord’s armor crawling with static. He was definitely intrigued. “Think of it as solidifying the treaty, hm? Promoting good relations between Bots and Cons.”

A hand wrapped around Jazz’s wrist, not enough to cause pain, but enough to make sure Jazz didn’t slide a blade into Megatron’s spark. Not that he was thinking about it or anything.

“You want me to frag you for the sake of peace?” Megatron asked, sounding more bewildered than angry. He was so easy to set off balance.

“Better than fighting, right?” Jazz asked.

Megatron’s vents puffed out in a scoff. “That depends on my opponent.”

Ah, and there it was. The perfect moment to slide in under Megatron’s guard. This was almost too easy.

“Yeah and if you want Optimus, you’ll have to go through me first,” Jazz purred as he dragged his field along the edges of Megatron’s with warm intent. “That’s how we work.”

Megatron went still, and then he flushed all over, heat venting loudly from his fans. “That’s not– I didn’t– Who says–” Spluttered embarassment meant Megatron couldn’t hold on to his indignation long enough to properly deny it.

“You want time with my mech, you gotta prove you know what you’re doing,” Jazz challenged as he tucked his hands behind his back and circled Megatron, looking him up and down as if assessing his capabilities.

Megatron’s armor ruffled, indignation flickering across the plating. His engine rumbled, field wavering between pride and centuries worth of unrequited lust.

“Then again, if you’re not confident in your ability, I guess I came to the wrong place,” Jazz said with a casual shrug. He sighed dramatically, scratching the side of his nose. “I’ll see if Starscream is more interested.”

He turned to leave, and Megatron moved faster than a mech of his bulk should be capable, but then Jazz sparred with Ironhide frequently — another massive mech who was far more nimble than physics suggested he should be.

Megatron intercepted him. “Starscream?” he repeated with a snarl, optics flaring coal-fire crimson. “That fool peacock wouldn’t know what to do with his own spike much less someone else’s.”

“Are you takin’ me up on my offer then?” Jazz asked.

Crimson optics narrowed as if Megatron finally realized he’d fallen into Jazz’s trap, though his pride wouldn’t let him back out. He squared his jaw. “Not in my office,” he said, and palmed the door open behind him. “Let’s go.”

Jazz grinned. “After you.”

Megatron turned to leave, and Jazz couldn’t resist the target presented to him. His palm skidded over Megatron’s aft plate before he could think twice about it, and Megatron startled, whirling around toward Jazz with such a look of audacity on his face, Jazz snapped a pic for posterity’s sake.

“You—”

“—can hit much harder than that if ya want,” Jazz offered with a winking flick of his visor.

Megatron growled and stalked out of his office, but with a sideways shuffle that protected his aft from wayward strikes. Oh, Primus.

This was going to be so much fun.

~

Megatron refused the magna cuffs, the restraints, even the thick cabling that Jazz was sure he could snap if he put his mind to it. Megatron wouldn’t accept any form of bondage which, disappointing, but nothing Jazz couldn’t handle.

“I am not binding myself around Prime’s pet assassin no matter what reassurances he gives me,” Megatron growled as he reclined on the berth, Jazz perched atop him, king of a mountain he hadn’t yet decided how to dominate.

“Fine,” Jazz sighed as he coiled his rope and tucked it back away. “Guess I’ll have to trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

Megatron curled his upper lip. “How am I supposed to frag you if I can’t touch you?”

Jazz dragged a palm down his own chassis. “Never said you couldn’t touch me. I just want you to keep your hands where I can see them.” He cupped his interface array, and his valve panel slid aside. Arousal had already swelled his folds, and he brushed his fingers over them. “I’m gonna sit on your face.”

He waited, expecting Megatron to protest about indignities and whatnot, but instead Megatron focused on Jazz’s fingers and didn’t protest at all. He licked his lips, frame rumbling beneath Jazz, as his field spiked with lust.

“Fine,” he gritted out like it was a great concession. “What do I get out of it?”

“A lesson in patience,” Jazz said, and slipped his second-favorite toy out of subspace, holding it up for Megatron to admire. “And a challenge if you think you’re up for it.” He gave the toy a few turns, letting Megatron measure the girth of it with his optics, taking in the well-placed ridges and nubs.

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“It vibrates,” Jazz said as he thumbed his anterior nub and let a shiver run across his frame. A few drops of his lubricant splattered Megatron’s chassis, and yet, not a single word of protest. Interesting. “In case you were wondering.”

“Very well,” Megatron conceded as if he were doing Jazz a favor. He folded his hands behind his head like a good mech.

So he could be taught after all. Good information to have!

“Do your worst,” Megatron said, his tone bored, but his field telling another story. If it got any more hungry, it would set Jazz on fire.

“This one is nothing but a good time, I promise,” Jazz said as he scooted down and settled himself between Megatron’s thighs. “Open up for me, Megs.”

A crackle of blue static erupted in the gaps of Megatron’s plating, a flicker in his thigh armor preceding the slow spiral of his interface array. His valve came into view, biolights brimming with arousal, and his valve pleats plump and juicy.

Jazz was tempted to give him a taste, but then he’d get distracted, and lose sight of his mission. Maybe next time. For now, he thumbed Megatron’s anterior node, and was rewarded with a trickle of lubricant from Megatron’s valve. Oh, ho. Someone was a lot more aroused than he seemed to be.

“Hurry up,” Megatron snarled, but his hips rolled up against Jazz’s thumb, seeking more pressure, and his thighs scooted further apart.

Jazz clicked his glossa and slid two fingers into Megatron’s valve, giving them a few curious curves as he searched for a cluster of nodes that should be right about – Megatron made a sound Jazz was absolutely going to call a squeak – there.

“I think you’re forgettin’ the part where I said ya had to be patient,” Jazz purred as he stroked that cluster again and again, more slick seeping out over his fingers, Megatron twitching and writhing beneath him.

“Your fingers are not that contraption,” Megatron gritted out.

Jazz swallowed a laugh. “Eager to try it, I see. I can’t blame you. This is one of Wheeljack’s best.” He removed his fingers and replaced them with the toy, which was a bit too much of a stretch for Jazz, but would be perfect for Megatron.

It slid into him with remarkable ease, and Megatron shuddered as Jazz nudged it deeper and deeper, until the head rested against his ceiling node and the wide base sat flat against Megatron’s valve rim. A tap to a button on the base and the toy buzzed as tiny magnetics powered on to make sure it stayed in place.

Megatron groaned, his heels digging into the berth, but his hands stayed firmly folded behind his head like a good mech.

“And that’s just the teaser,” Jazz said as he climbed back up Megatron’s frame, perching on Megatron’s chassis once again. He wiggled the remote pointedly. “Do a good job and you get a reward.”

He flicked the switch, dialing the vibrator up to the lowest setting, a nice thrum that tantalized and made the sensors sing. Megatron’s engine vibrated the berth as he rolled beneath Jazz, probably clenching all sweetly down on those nubs and ridges.

“Got it?” Jazz asked as he flicked the vibrator back off.

Megatron’s optics darkened. “Don’t patronize me,” he growled and licked his lips, his gaze focusing at the apex of Jazz’s thighs. “Get up here.”

Jazz barely concealed his shiver. He had to admit, this was perhaps one of the most dangerous things he’d done, playing this game with Megatron, and now putting his intimate bits in reach of those sharp denta. But Megatron’s threatening aura had shifted to one of lust, and who knew that buried beneath the anger was a mech desperate to submit?

Primus, Jazz was tempted to keep him. It was definitely something to think about. For now, however, he scooted forward until he was in the perfect position to bracket Megatron’s head with his thighs, to feel Megatron’s ex-vents over his valve.

“Come on then,” Megatron growled, the vibrations of his vocals buzzing against Jazz’s anterior node. “Don’t tell me you’re shy.”

“Hah. Picture that.” Jazz shimmied closer until he was right where he wanted to be, perched over that dangerous mouth. “Get to work, Megs.”

Megatron’s engine rumbled, oh-but-he-was perfectly obedient. Jazz made a strangled sound as Megatron licked at him, one long and deep swipe of his glossa, like he wanted a good taste before he truly got started.

Oh, frag.

Jazz was in for it now.

“Good start,” he said as he flicked the vibrator on to his lowest setting. “Keep that up and you’ll earn rewards.”

Megatron’s response was to latch onto his anterior node and give it a hearty suck, one that made Jazz’s thighs shake. He gasped and ground down, riding the pressure of Megatron’s lips and glossa, and oooo, there it was. Just a bit of denta, not enough to cause harm, but enough to remind him they were there. A tiny scrape, a hint of danger.

Jazz stopped being so careful. He sunk the rest of the way down, letting his weight rest on Megatron, and an approving rumble rose in Megatron’s intake. He licked and sucked harder, making little happy noises that were unfairly arousing. Such a good mech he was, his arms twitching, but he kept himself from grabbing at Jazz.

Who knew?

“So far so good,” Jazz gasped as he rocked his hips down and shivered when Megatron lapped at him, again and again, flicking over his node with the perfect pressure.

It was deserving of an award so Jazz flicked the vibrator up to the next setting, which made it audible now. Megatron groaned against his valve, frame jerking, and his field lashing out with sizzling need. His engine roared and the vibrations of it rattled up into Jazz’s frame, his valve clenching down on nothing as lubricant seeped out, dripping onto Megatron’s face.

Click.

Jazz straightened and glanced over his shoulder, one orbital ridge arching. Megatron’s spike had popped, fully pressurized and already oozing pre-fluid. The grey and red banded length made Jazz’s valve twitch with appreciation.

“Oh? What’s this?” Jazz asked as he rose up on his knees, lifting his valve away from Megatron’s mouth. “Someone’s feeling hopeful.”

“It’s an involuntary response,” Megatron growled, but his vocals were heavy with static, and his field clung to Jazz with tendrils of want, want, want.

“Is it?” Jazz asked as his valve clenched and dripped a pearl of lubricant onto Megatron’s cheek. “So you’re saying you don’t want me to scoot down there and give it a ride?”

Megatron’s spike visibly jerked and another dribble of pre-fluid seeped from the tip, which was a ‘frag yeah, get down here’ if Jazz ever saw one.

“I thought you wanted my mouth,” Megatron growled as his hips shifted restlessly, the vibrator ceaselessly doing its work.

Jazz hummed. “Good point.” He sank back down, letting his weight settle directly on Megatron’s face. Good thing Cybertronians didn’t need to breathe. “Back to work, Megs.”

He flicked the vibrator up another notch just because he could. This one activated a set of tiny rings within the shaft which rippled up and down, grinding sweetly against interior node clusters.

Megatron made a muffled noise against his valve before he dove into Jazz’s valve with desperate licks and sucks. Jazz moaned as flashes of ecstasy danced up his spinal strut, curling in his lines. Megatron was too damned good at this, like he was made to have his face ridden, his mouth buried in someone’s valve.

Jazz said as much, and Megatron growled, nipping at his anterior node. The light slide of his denta made Jazz hiss, entire frame twitching at the sharp burst of pleasure.

“Naughty mech,” Jazz gasped as he dropped the vibrator back down to the lowest setting which was, at best, a teasing hum. “No biting.”

Megatron licked over his node as if in apology and treated Jazz’s valve to long, delicate laps, sweetly sucking at the swollen pleats. Jazz groaned and cupped Megatron’s head with one hand as he rode that talented glossa, sparks of want twisting and tightening in his abdomen. He ex-vented heat as he ground down against Megatron’s mouth, and Megatron’s field burst in a dizzying blast of yes, yes, more.

Frag, it wasn’t fair.

Jazz panted, half-dizzy, and then Megatron scraped his denta over Jazz’s anterior cluster once more, that perfect sharp edge of too-much, and Jazz shattered. His valve clenched on nothing, liberally drooling across Megatron’s face. He curved forward, shaking as he overloaded, chanting swears in at least a half-dozen languages.

He rose up on his knees to get away from Megatron’s hungry mouth, sucking air through his vents.

“Damn Megs,” Jazz breathed. “That’s a good first showing. Maybe I’ll let you have a taste of my mech after all.”

He looked down, and Megatron was licking his lips, optics burning hot with need, but a hazy look in them, too. His face was smeared with Jazz’s lubricant, and Jazz half-expected a scowl, some kind of rude remark.

“You’re not done,” was what he said instead, vocals thick and syrupy.

“No, I’m not,” Jazz agreed and planted his aft on Megatron’s chassis, smearing his lubricant across gunmetal gray armor. “But that spike of yours ain’t bad lookin’ if you know what I mean.”

Megatron’s arms lifted as though he were going to reach for Jazz, but Jazz scooted back another few inches, leaving a healthy scrape and smear of fluid behind. “Ah, ah. No touching.”

Megatron’s arms snapped into place so fast, Jazz couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Good mech,” he purred and raised his hand, making a show of dialing the toy back up to the third setting, with the heavy vibrations and the rippling rings.

A shudder ran visibly over Megatron’s frame. He radiated heat like a furnace, little nips of charging slipping free of his seams. But he hadn’t overloaded. He was holding back. Why? Because he preferred spike overloads?

Or was he waiting for permission?

“Do not play with me, Autobot,” Megatron said, like he was trying to be threatening, but it sounded more like a desperate plea to Jazz.

“Who’s playing?” Jazz asked as he inched backward, delighted by the way Megatron eagerly watched him, frame heaving with heavy vents.

Jazz didn’t stop until he was kneeling over Megatron’s hips, thighs spread wide, valve hovering inches above Megatron’s spike. He planted his palms on Megatron’s abdomen to keep himself just out of reach, teasing Megatron with every tiny drip of lubricant onto Megatron’s spike, the vibrator buzzing merrily away.

“Do ya want my valve, Megs?” Jazz purred as he dipped his hips down, kissing Megatron’s spike with his valve before lifting up again. “Ask for it.”

Megatron’s jaw clenched. He planted his feet on the berth and rolled his hips upward, chasing Jazz’s valve, but it took only a wiggle for Jazz to move out of range.

“That’s not asking.” Jazz clicked his glossa and grabbed the vibrator remote, switching the toy into idle. “Naughty, naughty.”

“I am not here to be humiliated,” Megatron snarled as his vents rattled, and his fans sucked in desperate gulps of air. He shook with restrained pleasure, the berth beneath him probably soaked with lubricant.

Jazz arched an orbital ridge, tightening his knees on Megatron’s hips. “Good, cause I ain’t here to humiliate,” he said. “But how do I know you want something if you don’t tell me? Hm?” He rolled his hips back, dragged his valve up the length of Megatron’s spike.

They both groaned. Frag, Megatron radiated heat like a furnace and those tiny nubs on his spike were going to feel amazing once Jazz got him inside.

Megatron snarled a curse that was purely Decepticon in origin, and his hands snapped up, fingers curling against the top of the berth, making the metal creak. “Give me your valve!” he snapped.

Jazz rolled his hips again, teasing himself with Megatron’s spike. “That sounded more like a demand, not a request.”

Megatron’s engine roared, and the berthframe rattled ominously. “Please,” he gritted out through clenched denta, side vents flicking open to vent a furious heat.

That was probably as close as Jazz was going to get without threats of bodily harm. He wanted to see how far he could push Megatron, but he also wanted to keep his arms attached to his frame, which wouldn’t technically violate the terms of the cease-fire.

“That’ll do,” Jazz said with a sigh. “We can work on that.”

Megatron growled, but if he had anything to say, he swallowed it because Jazz canted his hips, caught the head of Megatron’s spike against the damp pleats of his valve, and sank down – slow and steady. Jazz’s backstrut arched and he moaned as Megatron’s spike stretched him wide, the good kind of stretch, a shade too much, making his calipers strain and protest the lack of preparation.

“Frag,” Jazz breathed as he rolled down and down and down, until Megatron nudged up against his ceiling node, and Jazz’s valve clenched lovingly on all those little nubs. “Ohh, I wanna keep this spike.”

Megatron made a strangled noise, but he kept his hands where they belonged, so Jazz rewarded him with the toy. He flicked the switch back up to the third stage as he started to move, riding Megatron’s spike with long and slow pumps of his hips, tasting every one of those ridges against his sensory nodes.

Megatron’s engine roared loud enough to rattle the berth, and the vibrations of the toy reverberated through his frame, through his spike, up into Jazz as well. It was such a great idea, Jazz flicked the toy up to the fourth stage.

The berthframe made an ominous noise as Megatron’s backstrut arched. and he yelped, though his field clung with sticky-hot want to Jazz’s.

“Too much?” Jazz panted as he braced himself on Megatron’s abdomen and kept moving, harder, faster, valve sloppy wet and frame twitching with every grind against his nodes. He wasn’t going to last long, not like this.

“F-frag y-you,” Megatron stuttered as he dragged up his feet, braced himself on the berth, and thrust up against Jazz, hard enough to bounce him.

The head of his spike slammed against Jazz’s ceiling node, and his visual feed briefly striped with static as the pleasure radiated through his frame, stealing his vents. Jazz would have chastened Megatron, had he the words for it. All he could think was more.

He must have said it, because Megatron did it again, and again. Jazz slammed down to meet the rough thrusts, and his fingers scraped furrows into Megatron’s armor. He tilted forward, just a smidge, and his anterior cluster must have caught on some kind of rise in Megatron’s armor, because the scraping pressure sent him right over the edge.

Jazz spasmed, clamping down hard on Megatron as he overloaded, valve squeezing tight and lines spitting wave after wave of electric ecstasy through his frame. Distantly, he heard Megatron hiss and moan through his clenched jaw. The berthframe groaned and then there was a sharp snap before the hot splash of transfluid jetted up into Jazz, the charged fluid making Jazz’s oversensitive nodes sing.

He collapsed on top of Megatron’s frame, dragging desperate vents, his valve clinging tight to Megatron’s spike. Megatron went equally limp beneath him, entire frame thrumming in post-overload stupor.

“The t-toy,” Megatron managed through a vocalizer stripped with static.

Oh, frag.

Jazz patted around for the remote that he must have dropped and managed to hit the button to deactivate the whole thing. A dull click disengaged the magnetics and tension bled out of Megatron’s frame immediately.

“My bad,” Jazz panted as he patted Megatron’s chassis with shaking fingers. His thighs trembled and he sprawled back over Megatron’s chest.

“Nnngh,” Megatron said, dragging in several ragged ventilations. He thrummed beneath Jazz as though he still had charge to spare.

Jazz would get to taking care of that eventually. Once he put his thoughts back into his processor where they belonged.

Wait. Hadn’t he heard something snap?

Jazz tilted his head from where it was pillowed on Megatron’s chestplate and peered above Megatron’s head. The berthframe looked like something had crashed into it, and Jazz cycled his optics.

Holy Primus.

Megatron had broken his berthframe. Thank Primus Jazz had the good sense to tell Megatron to keep his hands to himself. That could have been Jazz, however accidentally.

Jazz forced himself upright, perched on Megatron’s abdomen, as he stared dumbly at the broken furniture. “You broke your berth.”

“I noticed,” Megatron rasped.

Jazz looked down at Megatron with something akin to pride in his visor. “I made you break your berth.” He grinned and planted his palms on Megatron’s chestplate. “That was me. I did that.” He could barely contain his glee.

Megatron rolled his optics and lowered his arms to his side, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders to ease what had to be cramped cables. “Congratulations.”

“Who knew we were so compatible,” Jazz hummed as he traced his fingers along Megatron’s seams while Megatron watched him warily – he was rather close to Megatron’s central seam after all. “The night’s young.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Am I still auditioning?”

“Oh, you definitely passed,” Jazz purred as he gave his hips a little circle and clenched down on the semi-pressurized spike taking residence in his valve. “Do you have somewhere better to be?”

Megatron flexed his fingers with several pop-pop-pop’s of his joints. “That depends on what you have in mind.”

Jazz grinned. “My mech, those are some magic words.” He pushed himself upright once more, and Megatron shivered as Jazz settled into place. “There are three more settings you haven’t experienced on that toy. Interested?”

“You are a menace,” Megatron growled, but his spike was starting to firm up within Jazz and his hands had found Jazz’s thighs, lightly palming them up and down, thumbs sweeping teasingly toward Jazz’s interface array with each upward stroke.

“It’s part of my charm.” Jazz laughed and licked his lips. He held up the remote. “Ready for round two?”

Megatron’s optics darkened back to coal-fire crimson. “Try and keep up.”

***

[G1] Just a Taste

Maintaining an active connection with Ravage was always a risk, but there were times it worked to their benefit – namely being able to beat the Autobots to the punch, or knowing the best time to strike, without the delay of waiting for Ravage to return and upload the surveillance he’d collected.

Soundwave trusted Ravage to know when to activate the live-feed and when to not bother Soundwave with the minutiae of creeping into the Autobot base. Petty arguments were boring. Revelations about personal relationships were of little use as they changed from week to week. Most of the Autobots interested in permanent partners had settled by now. The rest were merely passing time.

They lived as did their favorite human show ‘As the Kitchen Sinks’.

Soundwave occupied himself with reviewing the daily footage of the goings on about the Nemesis while he waited for Ravage to ping in. There was nothing to be found today either, but it never hurt to be careful: Starscream was scheming, Hook was complaining, and Onslaught was breaking up a tussle between Brawl and Vortex.

Ravage pinged in.

Soundwave switched to Ravage’s active feed, prepared to take notes on whatever the Autobots were discussing at present.

He was not prepared for what came through the screen. Ravage was not staked out in the ventilation shaft of the Autobot command center. Neither was he crouched over Prowl’s office where the perennially working second-in-command tended to linger. No, Ravage had somehow found his way to Optimus Prime’s personal quarters, where Optimus Prime was currently engaged in an intimate encounter with Soundwave’s mortal enemy.

Jazz.

His engine rumbled with distaste. Soundwave reached out, fully intent on ordering Ravage to investigate elsewhere, when he took a closer look at the image.

Optimus Prime was bound, wrists to ankles, and fully spread on his berth. Jazz perched across his massive chassis and was feeding his spike into the Prime’s mouth with slow, careful rocks of his hips. There was a haziness to the Prime’s optics that suggested not only was he delighted to be in his predicament, but he’d been at it for some time. There was a pool of lubricant beneath his aft, his spike rigid and dripping, his valve bared but untouched.

There was audio.

“–slowly now,” Jazz drawled in an authoritative tone Soundwave had never heard his nemesis use before. Jazz tended to prefer a sort of playful pretend that irritated Soundwave because of its falsity. “Little tastes, Optimus. Don’t be greedy.”

The Prime’s engine rumbled loud enough to vibrate through the air vent. His spike twitched, another fat drop of pre-fluid beading at the tip.

“That’s not behaving,” Jazz clucked as he rolled his hips back, his spike popping out of Optimus’ mouth. “I said a taste, not a whole gulp. You in some kind of hurry?”

The Prime’s tongue swept over his lips. “No,” he said, his vocalizer raspy as though from disuse, or perhaps due to previous activities. “Please allow me–”

“I dunno,” Jazz said as he shifted back, spike out of reach and Optimus Prime strained in his bonds, a noise of dismay rising from his intake. “Seems to me like ya can’t follow directions too well, right now.” His fist squeezed slick over his own spike, a short pant of want brimming from his vents. “Spose I better take care of myself.”

Optimus Prime made a wounded noise. “No, please. I apologize. I can behave.”

“Can ya?” Jazz kept stroking himself, and the sound Optimus Prime made could only be described as a whimper. “Maybe I should keep my pleasure to myself, eh?”

The Prime squirmed on the berth, straining noisily against the bonds. They creaked but did not give, and his optics glowed with hunger. “Sir.”

“But tell ya what, I’m a forgiving sort,” Jazz said as he inched back forward, achingly slow. “Open your mouth. Give me your tongue.”

Optimus Prime parted his lips obediently, and Jazz sat the head of his spike on the Prime’s tongue, not to thrust, but to linger.

“Mmm, that’s better,” Jazz purred, and the Prime’s engine rumbled again. His optics flickered back toward that hazy state of satisfaction. “Ya just sit right there and let me have what I want when I want it.”

The Prime said nothing, but then, Soundwave supposed he couldn’t.

“Because you’re mine, right Optimus? All mine. I might loan ya out to others now and again, might even let ‘em get a peek if I’m feeling generous, but in the end, you’re mine,” Jazz said, matter-of-fact, and he shifted, a bare bit of motion, the gleam of his visor flashing in the direction of the air vent. “Shouldn’t nobody make a mistake about that.”

“Abort!” Soundwave hissed through the connection. “Now.” But it was unnecessary because Ravage had already shut down the live feed and was no doubt scurrying backward, out of the Autobot base as quickly as he could.

Damn it.

Soundwave hated Jazz.

He sat back from the monitors and hated even more the heavy heat now throbbing through his lines. He had no idea if it was because Optimus was so beautiful in his submission, or because Jazz had sounded so damned possessive and powerful about it.

Damn it all the Pit.

Jazz was the worst.

***

[G1] Indulgences

Adorable was not a word often used for Sunstreaker.

But then, few mechs were lucky enough to see Sunstreaker like this – cuddly and pliant, sleepy-opticked and satisfied as he knelt at Ratchet’s feet, head laid on his thigh, making little humming noises with every treat Ratchet urged into his mouth. His field was quiescent and – dare Ratchet say it – happy.

This was the calmest Ratchet had ever seen Sunstreaker, and it softened all of his jagged edges. It was impossible to resist the gentle kneading of Sunstreaker’s fingers around his ankles, the quiet brush of Sunstreaker’s cheek on his thigh plating.

Ratchet selected another goody from the box, brushing it lightly over Sunstreaker’s lips. “Open,” he murmured, and Sunstreaker obeyed, letting Ratchet rest the goodie on his tongue. “Close.”

Sunstreaker hummed and closed his mouth around the treat. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, savoring the sweetness while Ratchet’s thumb stroked his bottom lip with gentle motions. He didn’t make noises for Ratchet to hurry it along. He was quite content for Ratchet to set the pace, to soak in Ratchet’s field and let Ratchet spoil him treat by treat.

Sunstreaker was quite unlike the other one.

Ratchet did his best to ignore the whining noise from the corner, but it was quite pitiful and pinged on something in his old spark that couldn’t resist either twin.

“No,” Ratchet said in his firmest, no-nonsense tone. “You stay there until you learn not to bite.”

“I’ve learned it!” Sideswipe said, his voice echoing thanks to his nose pressed to the corner. It was an odd sort of punishment, but for some reason, it was one Sideswipe had chosen from a list of potential punishments ahead of time, and so Ratchet utilized it.

Apparently, it was quite popular with the humans? Trust Sideswipe to get his ideas from the humans. There was no end to what he was willing to try.

“That’s what you said last time, and yet my thumb has a dent in it,” Ratchet grunted as Sunstreaker pressed the gentlest of kisses to said thumb. Perhaps apologizing for his mischievous twin.

“Two dents now!” Ratchet added. “You stand there until you learn some patience, which clearly you haven’t yet.”

He waited.

Silence.

Well, save for the pitiful whine of an engine.

Ratchet sighed.

Sunstreaker nuzzled his palm.

“Why can’t he be good like you?” Ratchet asked as he plucked another treat, and they repeated the process. Open. Close. Stroke.

Sunstreaker hummed and draped along his leg, limp-strutted and satisfied, the perfect picture of ease. If only he could be like this all the time. If only others could see him so cute, but then, it wouldn’t be Ratchet’s little secret, would it? He didn’t want to share this Sunstreaker with everyone else. He wanted to keep the cute, cuddling Sunstreaker for himself.

Sunstreaker’s engine purred. His field vibrated with arousal, but it was a quiet thing. It could be ignored, or it could be satisfied. Ratchet was leaning toward the latter, but sometimes, it wasn’t what Sunstreaker wanted.

“I can be good,” Sideswipe said with a petulant tone.

“You’re not behaving right now,” Ratchet retorted. “I said stand there and be quiet. It’s not even been five minutes and you’re already talking.”

Silence.

“Well?” Ratchet demanded.

“You said to be quiet,” Sideswipe wailed.

A huff of laughter escaped Sunstreaker’s mouth, puffing over Ratchet’s thumb. He pressed a kiss to the pad of the digit, and finally lifted his gaze to Ratchet, optics a little clearer than earlier. If Sideswipe’s antics had disturbed his cozy state, he’d get worse than the corner, mark Ratchet’s words…

“I’m up for more,” Sunstreaker murmured with a slow drag of his tongue over his lips. “If you wanted to punish him further.”

Oh.

Ratchet grinned and patted his lap. “Up you get then,” he said, making room for Sunstreaker to straddle him. And once he did, Ratchet rewarded him with another treat, delighted to see Sunstreaker’s optics going hazy again.

“We’ll show him the benefits of good behavior, hm?” Ratchet suggested with raised optical ridges. He palmed Sunstreaker’s scorching panel, and was rewarded with a noise of want, thick and heavy in Sunstreaker’s intake.

“Mm-hmm,” Sunstreaker purred.

“That’s so not fair,” Sideswipe grumbled barely loud enough for Ratchet to hear.

Well. It wasn’t about being fair. It was about Ratchet getting to spoil his twins in the way they wanted best, even if Sideswipe liked being a brat about it, and Ratchet got to see both of them the way no one else could.

Win-win-win.

***

[Dear Lies] Collateral Damage

They forget, sometimes, that Ratchet is not the only one Jazz hurt.

Wheeljack wakes with a sense that something is wrong, and knows immediately what it is because the berth is cold. It was cold when he lay down, and he suspects it’s been cold all night.

He rubs his hands over his face and sighs. Months later, and Jazz’s actions continue to ripple their consequences through the Ark. Jazz is gone right now, on his own two-week sabbatical, doing whatever it is he’s doing. Wheeljack hadn’t asked; Prowl hadn’t offered.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s gone until Prowl’s anger cools. He’s been gone long enough Prowl’s anger has skewed into regret and sadness and resignation. Shame, also. He still blames himself, still thinks he could have done something to save two of the most important mechs in his life.

Wheeljack rises from the berth, and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t find Prowl in the central room. He’d partially hoped that Prowl had at least come home, but he hadn’t.

Wheeljack exits their shared suite and turns toward the offices. It’s late, and he’s tired, but someone has to be the reasonable mech here. Someone has to be the support. Prowl lets so few people in, and he can’t go to Optimus, so instead he buries it, and punishes himself where he thinks so one can see.

Sometimes, Wheeljack swears Prowl forgets they are bonded.

The Ark is quiet. Night-time is always a special kind of quiet. There are few mechs in the halls, even fewer on third-shift. It’s been something of an unspoken neutrality. The Decepticons rarely conduct their treachery at night.

The war’s been going on long enough, there’s a rhythm to it, an expectation. It’s become the status quo, and there’s something particularly sad about that. No wonder Jazz is a little broken.

They all are.

Jazz isn’t the one Wheeljack expected to break first, but he supposes it had to come eventually. Who’ll be next, he wonders.

Not Prowl, if Wheeljack has anything to say about it.

Wheeljack swings by the mess long enough to grab a cube of energon and some coolant before he finds Prowl’s office and lets himself in. It was locked, but that’s no deterrent to Wheeljack, who wheedled his partner’s code out of him a long time ago.

As expected, Prowl’s at his desk, staring blankly at a datapad, like he’s probably been doing for the past hour or so. He’s here to do work as a distraction, or so he’ll claim, but more likely, he’s been wallowing and re-running calculations and not doing what he’s supposed to be doing.

Namely, coming to berth with Wheeljack so they can recharge together.

“Thought I might find you here,” Wheeljack says as he comes around the desk, setting both energon and coolant on top of a datapad that has gone into sleep mode.

Prowl’s shoulders sink, his door wings drifting lower. “You should be recharging.”

“As should you,” Wheeljack says. He nudges both fluids closer before shifting to Prowl’s back, resting his hands on Prowl’s dorsal plate between the mounts for his panels. The amount of tension here must be excruciating.

“Mmm,” Prowl says, debating both fluids before settling on the coolant. He ex-vents quietly, armor relaxing enough beneath Wheeljack’s palms that he can get his fingers on those tense cables through the seams.

Wheeljack swallows his sigh. “What’s bothering you?”

“You ask as though you don’t already know the answer,” Prowl says.

“Specifically,” Wheeljack clarifies.

It’s only been a week since Prowl was forced to sit Jazz down and show him the truth of his actions, and it had been no easier for Prowl than it had been for Jazz. To stand there and watch the horror creep over Jazz’s face, knowing Prowl was responsible for putting it there, to try and be steadfast while he punishes a mech who had been as close to him as a brother, all for something Jazz can’t remember.

“… Have we done the right thing?” Prowl asks.

“In what context?”

Prowl sighs quietly, head dipping, finger rubbing along the bottle of coolant. “At which point does it become torture? Do we punish him only to satisfy our own sense of justice?”

“It’s been an impossible situation from the beginning,” Wheeljack says as he digs his fingers into those knotted cables. He will defeat them. It’s about the only thing he’s sure he can do. “I think we’re doing the best we can.”

Prowl makes a non-committal noise, and his field pushes at Wheeljack, thick with uncertainty. “I fear we’ve been among humans too long. We’ve forgotten that beyond punishment is rehabilitation.”

“I think that is something we could consider,” Wheeljack says delicately. “Though we should ask Ratchet’s opinion first.”

Prowl pushes aside his coolant and taps the datapad in front of him. “Ratchet is the one who thought I needed the reminder.”

Wheeljack sighs. “That sounds about right.” He rests his hands on Prowl’s shoulders and leans forward, resting the warmth and weight of himself against Prowl’s back. “Come to berth. Tomorrow, I’ll help you present a rehabilitation plan to Optimus.”

Relief surges through Prowl’s field, almost immediately followed by guilt, as though he should be ashamed of even considering forgiveness. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Wheeljack kisses the crown of his head. “If we can’t move forward, we’ll never heal. Ratchet’s the one who taught me that.”

“He’s the wisest of us all,” Prowl says.

Wheeljack can’t disagree.

***

[G1] Writing on the Wall

Orion is still unconscious.

No, not Orion.

He’s Optimus Prime now.

Jazz peers through the slats of the ventilation cover, at his unconscious partner on the berth, surrounded by monitoring equipment, with far too many cameras pointed at his helpless frame. The priests have gone. The “important” members of the Senate have left.

The Chief Medical Officer is something of a terror, and when Wrench put his foot down, even the haughtiest of mechs obeyed. Optimus Prime is to be left to recover in peace, Wrench says. It’s hard to adapt to the Matrix, he reminds them. He’s lucky to be alive, Wrench growls.

He’s lucky.

Jazz’s fingers curl in the slants of the vent cover. It rattles beneath his grip, so he ex-vents, in-vents, masters himself until he’s calm, until the rage is buried oh so deep.

He extracts the screws silently, all save one, which he leaves in place so the vent cover can swing down without hitting the ground.

Jazz slides out of the vent, drops silently to the ground, pressed between two cabinets of medical supplies. He glances at the cameras and hacks their feed without thought. The security in this place is pathetic. Are they trying to get their new Prime killed?

Jazz creeps to the door, peers out through the viewing window. Wrench, he knows, is in his office, sleeping in his chair, snores rattling out of his vents. The night shift has gathered around the main desk, arguing over the possible results of tonight’s race. Perhaps one of them has their optic on the readouts monitoring their recovering Prime.

There’s a guard outside the door, a member of the Prime’s personal security. He’s emblazoned with the Senate’s badge, the familiar and blocky red face. The same symbol now adorns Orion’s shoulders — his much broader shoulders.

Jazz withdraws a magnalock from subspace and attaches it to the door. It won’t stop them forever, but it’ll stop them long enough. Besides, if all goes to plan, no one will know he’s been here.

No one but Optimus and that living relic in his chassis.

Jazz dims the viewing window before he turns to the berth and the recharging Prime upon it. His Orion. His sweet, passionate, generous, and empathic Orion. Of course the Matrix has accepted him. Jazz can’t think of anyone more worthy.

He’s still not happy about it.

Jazz climbs onto the berth, careful of the cords, and straddles Optimus’ hips. His broader hips, and fortunately, Jazz is flexible. Everything about his Orion is different now. He’s taller, heavier, stronger. He’s armed, where he’s never been before. His sweet face is gone, replaced by something sterner, more like the ancient reliefs of Primus himself.

Jazz cups his face, presses his forehead to Optimus’, feels the warmth of him, the vibrations of proof he’s alive and functioning. “I’m still here,” he murmurs. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Yer still mine.” He presses a kiss to Optimus’ forehead and leans back.

“There’s just somethin’ I gotta do real quick, love,” Jazz says as his hands flutter over Optimus’ chassis, searching for the quick-release he’d seen Wrench utilize earlier. It’s not in the same place it used to be.

He finds the catch, and with a click, Optimus’ chassis opens, sliding to the side, the beautiful spill of his spark shimmering back up at Jazz. This, at least, is familiar and unchanged. He’s still the same gorgeous blue, the same warmth, and Jazz would weep for this.

If not for the Matrix hugging his Orion’s spark like a parasite, encircling what should be free and unburdened.

It flashes when Jazz looks at it, and Jazz shudders. Quiescent artifact his aft. This damn thing is sentient and knows exactly what it’s doing.

That’s fine. Jazz does, too.

He cycles a ventilation and glares down at the Matrix. “I know you know I’m here,” he says. “Just like I know you know who I am. If you think I’m lettin’ him go just ‘cause of your say-so, you’re wrong. I’ll kill ‘im before I let ya ruin him.”

Another flash dances across the Matrix’s surface.

“That’s what I thought,” Jazz says, and he steels himself, one hand grabbing Optimus’ and linking their fingers together.

“Now you and me,” Jazz says as sets his jaw and rests his other palm over the Matrix, right over the pulsing blue of Optimus’ trapped spark. “We’re going to talk.”

***

[G1] One More Night 02

Part Two

For all that the Ark wasn’t meant to house so many mechs, or that it was a small place, it was quite large. Hot Rod dreaded the day he would see Tracks, even in passing, but it didn’t happen.

He didn’t pass his former lover in the halls, didn’t meet optics with him over the rec room, didn’t accidentally bump into him in the washracks or the monitor room or on any sort of duty. It was as if Tracks had completely disappeared and if it weren’t for the fact Hot Rod could clearly see his designation on the public schedule, Hot Rod would be worried.

He caught Blaster giving him several dirty looks when the comms mech thought he wasn’t looking. Sunstreaker didn’t bother to hide his disdain. And Mirage was epic at hiding his emotions. Their scorn didn’t bother Hot Rod as he hadn’t particularly been friends with them in the first place, but it was a bit… annoying. Like it was all Hot Rod’s fault and Tracks had never started any of those arguments or been partly to blame either.

Ultra Magnus never brought it up. When Hot Rod started showing up on time for all of his lessons, Magnus complimented his punctuality but never asked about Tracks or the rumors or anything. It was a small favor.

Springer didn’t exactly apologize. Hot Rod didn’t either. But one day, Hot Rod was sitting in the rec room, Springer handed him a cube of ultra high grade, and the matter was settled.

Springer didn’t talk about Tracks either. In fact, all of Hot Rod’s closest confidantes were careful not to make mention of him or their relationship. It was as if it had never happened, never existed. Swept under some proverbial rug.

None of it made the emptiness in Hot Rod’s chassis easier to bear. He couldn’t explain it, put it into words, but he felt something was missing.

His quarters were empty and cold. He stopped using them, choosing instead to bunk back in his old quarters or in the rec room or wherever he managed to finally drop into recharge. He couldn’t shut down properly anymore. The recharge purges were too vibrant, too real. As if some unknown entity were punishing him for reasons beyond Hot Rod’s understanding.

He missed Tracks. Not that he understood why. All they ever did was fight. Tracks wanted more from him than Hot Rod could give. They wanted different things. They weren’t compatible.

None of those truths stopped Hot Rod from missing him.

It was hard not to miss someone who’d been a constant part of his life from the moment he’d first arrived on the Ark. Well, maybe not that long. It had been at least a year or so before they’d first tumbled into a berth together. But since then… yeah.

On and off at first. It was a casual thing, Hot Rod and Tracks warming each other’s berths, a mutual attraction. Hot Rod didn’t hop happily from berth to berth, but Tracks was a charmer. He liked variety. But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped chasing aft and committed to groping Hot Rod’s and only Hot Rod’s.

The discovery about Hot Rod’s Primely future hadn’t changed that. It hadn’t changed much at all in fact. Tracks still whined when he didn’t get his way, eagerly tackled Hot Rod to the nearest surface, and didn’t treat him like a sacred treasure. At least, no more than he usually did since Tracks was quite the thorough lover.

It was, initially, one of the reasons Hot Rod never could quite stay away. Tracks wanted him for him, not because he was the Prime-heir. Tracks wanted Hot Rod, not Rodimus, and since all Hot Rod wanted was to be himself and not Rodimus, it was a relief.

It was also part of the problem. Tracks wanted Hot Rod and couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that Hot Rod would eventually be Rodimus. Pits, Hot Rod hadn’t really registered it either, but it was like fighting a battle on two fronts, one with himself and one with his lover. It was exhausting.

It was for the best, Hot Rod told himself. He was only going to get busier and busier as time went on and Prime assigned him more responsibility. Better to end things now as opposed to later when it would be that much harder. Not that it felt any easier at this moment.

Hot Rod frowned, shoulders slumping. The noise of the rec room washed over and around him. The energon cube in front of him needed to be consumed, but he felt only a passing interest in it. Regular old grade wasn’t appealing. He could really use some high grade, honestly, but he had a shift with Magnus in the morning.

There was movement in his peripherals. Someone slid into the chair across from him, making it screech across the floor.

Not again.

Hot Rod sighed, snatching his cube. “Springer, for the last time, I’m not interested,” he said, and lifted his helm, only for his optics to round in surprise, spark skipping a happy beat. “Kup!”

Sure enough, his old mentor had claimed the seat at the table, looking a little dingier than the last time Hot Rod saw him months ago, but otherwise none the worse for wear. “Have to say, Roddy-mech, that’s the first time I’ve ever been mistaken for Springer.”

Hot Rod straightened, his spoiler flicking in excitement. “When did you get back?”

Kup waved a dismissing servo. “Hour or so ago. Between Ultra Magnus and Prowl, I barely escaped with my spark. They wanted my report in triplicate.” The old mech shuddered with horror.

Hot Rod’s lips lifted in a half-smile, the least he could spare for his mentor. “Separate, they are annoying. Together they are a force bent on taking over the world. Megatron would tremble in fear.”

Kup snorted a ventilation. “So I’ve learned.” He pulled a cygar from subspace, propping it between his lipplates. “Looking a big grubby there, Rod. Magnus been working you too hard?”

Hot Rod rolled his optics. “Of course he has. But I can handle it.”

Kup arched an orbital ridge, and then promptly leaned across the table, swiping Hot Rod’s energon cube.

“Hey!”

“You weren’t even drinking it,” Kup retorted, and tossed back the entire cube in one fell swoop, energy field radiating satisfaction. “So it’s not Magnus that’s got ya down. Or Springer, though I heard about the little tussle you two had.”

It ought not feel like being scolded, but it did. Hot Rod’s faceplates heated. “You know how it is. A little bit of high grade. Springer’s ego gets bruised. Happens sometimes.” Primus, Kup had only been here for a few hours and he’d already heard about that?

Ratchet. Hot Rod was certain Ratchet was behind this.

Kup stared at him, disbelief etched into his features. “Right. So it’s not Magnus, and it’s not Springer despite how much of an aft he was. I’d hazard a guess and say it’s not Prime either.” One finger scratched over the tabletop. “How’s that mech of yours?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Hot Rod’s gaze skittered away. Kup always knew just how to get under his plating to the protomass of the matter. He suddenly wished Kup hadn’t stolen his energon; at least he could hide behind the cube.

“Ahhhh.” Understanding burst from Kup’s energy field.

Hot Rod slunk in his chair. “Kup, don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Something tells me you need to, mechlet,” Kup said, his vocals gentled, the way he used to talk when Hot Rod was younger and scared of the dark like all sparklings. “It’s eatin’ ya up.”

Hot Rod sunk further, frowning. He didn’t want to dignify that with an answer.

The chair screeched as Kup pushed it back and rose to his pedes. “Come on.”

“You just got back,” Hot Rod pointed out, all without lifting his optics. “You should be getting some rest, old timer.”

“Can’t. Not when you got that pathetic look on your face.” A cloud of smoke filtered from Kup’s mouth as he puffed on the cygar. “Come on.”

He didn’t move. He was exercising his infamous mulishness.

Unfortunately, Kup had him beat when it came to being stubborn. “Roddy, don’t make me make you. You’ll just embarrass yourself in front of all these mechs.”

There were a lot of Autobots in the rec room. Many of them were staring, as bots usually did when there was live entertainment to be had.

Kup had no qualms about humiliating Hot Rod either, future Prime or no.

Hot Rod leveraged himself to his pedes, spreading his servos. “Fine,” he conceded, spoiler sinking in defeat. “Where are we going?”

“Your quarters,” Kup said as he turned away from the table, leading Hot Rod from the room.

Hot Rod hesitated. He hadn’t spent much time there as of late. It had been easier, more convenient, less lonely to recharge elsewhere. He hadn’t packed up Tracks’ stuff like he said he would either.

“Something wrong with that?” Kup asked, giving him one of those long, penetrating looks.

Hot Rod shook his helm, pushing past the old mech and giving the impression that he was the one in charge. “No. Why? You planning on taking advantage of me?”

Kup barked a laugh, following him out of the rec room and out of sight of the curious optics of multiple Autobots. “Don’t tempt me, brat.”

The familiar teasing pulled a small smile to Hot Rod’s lipplates. “Glad to see nothing’s changed with you, old mech,” he said, leading Kup through the corridors toward the officer’s hall and by proxy, his newly assigned quarters.

Kup’s armor lifted and flattened, a rattling that told Hot Rod all he needed to know. “Nah, it looks to me like all the change is happening around here.”

Hot Rod punched in his code, the door sliding open, a whuff of somewhat stale air smacking him in the face. He winced, but Kup didn’t seem bothered by it, entering ahead of him.

“What have you been hearing?” Hot Rod asked.

Kup stood for a moment, taking in the sights, though there still wasn’t much to see. Hot Rod still hadn’t managed to decorate much and the very faint layer of dust was a testament to how often he’d been here as of late. It told Kup more than Hot Rod wished for the old mech to know.

“A lot of something about nothing,” Kup said and made for the desk chair, pulling it out and settling his creaking frame atop it. “I was hoping I could come to the source, get the truth.”

Hot Rod slumped onto his berth. Not talking was not an option. He had Kup’s undivided attention and well, Hot Rod had to admit that he was glad for it. If there was anyone who could help him make sense of the mess his functioning had become, it was Kup. Optimus tried but… he was Prime. He was busy.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Hot Rod finally admitted.

“Do?” Kup sounded perplexed. “Since when is there a rulebook?”

Hot Rod huffed a ventilation, rolling his optics. “Since they figured out I’m supposed to be a Prime someday?”

Kup shifted on the chair with a creak of rusty gears. “Who said?”

“Everybody.” Hot Rod waved a hand in vague gesture, only to drag it across his helm. “If it’s not Springer poking at him, it’s Ultra Magnus looking disappointed or Optimus reminding me that I have responsibilities now.”

A soft laugh escaped the old mech. “Lad, don’t any of them have any room to talk,” Kup said, waggling a digit at Hot Rod. “Ask Optimus about Elita some day. And then ask Magnus about a mech named Dion. It’ll shut both of ’em up real fast.”

Hot Rod shook his helm. “That’s not going to help me now.”

“Then what would?”

Hot Rod’s shoulders dipped. At least Kup wasn’t patting him on the back for getting rid of an unsuitable consort. The old mech was probably the only one who ever really rooted for them, to be honest.

“I don’t know,” he replied, servos pulling to his lap. “I just…” His engine released a pathetic whine before Hot Rod could wind it back. “I thought I made the right choice.”

“Pah. You’re so miserable it’s leaking into my field and it ain’t just the shiny new things you get to do as future Prime,” Kup retorted and puffed a billow of exhaust from his cygar. “I’m thinking you’re strut deep in regret.”

Hot Rod straightened, fighting back an indignant swell. “We fought all the time,” he insisted, memory core gladly bringing up instance after instance, infecting him with the anger and irritation he had felt at the time. “About everything.”

“Then I guess there’s no reason to miss him,” Kup stated, arching an orbital ridge.

Hot Rod slumped again. “Yeah, I guess.” He frowned, optics shifting away, thought patterns dancing around the melange of memories. “I mean, we’re no good for each other. He’s just as miserable. It’s better for both of us this way.”

Kup made a noise he had to have picked up from the humans, Hot Rod had heard Spike use it often enough, usually in response to one of Huffer’s diatribes. “Just who are you trying to convince?”

“Myself,” he said before he let himself properly formulate a response. The bitterness in his tone hadn’t been planned either, but it was there.

Hot Rod pressed the heel of a servo against his optics, shuttering them.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on the point of view, Kup didn’t get a chance to call Hot Rod out on his lies. The alarms burst to life, loud and right, announcing a Decepticon attack, and apparently, Megatron had spared no expense.

The peaceful interlude had been broken at last.

o0o0o

The war had a different feel to it, battles a different taste. As a grunt and a soldier, Hot Rod had different responsibilities. He was told what to do and he did it. He was deployed, he guarded Springer’s back on more than one occasion, and he freely plunged into battle with whatever Decepticon was dumb enough to wander into his sights.

Rodimus could not be so reckless. Which seemed a bit of a double-standard to him considering that Optimus was always the first to plunge into the masses, and the first to tackle Megatron at the best opportunity. Granted, there were few among the Autobots capable of standing pede to pede with the Slagmaker himself. But still…

To be fair, Ironhide put up a fair amount of protest every time Optimus broke the lines to go after his archenemy. And Ironhide was always there, mere feet behind Optimus, ready to lend a servo or guard him from treacherous, backstabbing Cons. Literally. Hot Rod had seen Starscream take a nosedive at an unsuspecting Optimus once, and gotten a cannon to his undercarriage for the effort, courtesy of Ironhide.

Rodimus could not be so lucky.

He was given a team, so chosen to be willing to follow his orders and battle-experienced enough to not get themselves killed.

But while his team was skilled, Hot Rod himself was no tactician or ancient warrior. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing, save what he’d picked up from watching the masters at work: namely Ultra Magnus, Prowl, and Springer to a lesser extent. He listened to his teammates, took their advice, but when it came down to it, Hot Rod had the final word.

He wasn’t ready. And this battle only proved it.

Hot Rod didn’t know what crawled up Megatron’s aft this time. Maybe old buckethead was just tired of skulking about in his rusting, leaking spaceship under the sea. Maybe he really was losing it in the processor. Who the frag knew?

Whatever had slagged off Megatron had him exacting vengeance in a sloppily brutal manner. It was pointless and bloody and Hot Rod just wanted to shout his frustration to the heavens, not that anyone, god or mech, would have listened.

Megatron had bellowed at Optimus, in a furious wroth, and it seemed every Decepticon planet-side had shown up. Seekers were strafing, Command Trine and Coneheads alike, peppering the ground with heated bursts of fire. The Aerialbots struggled to stay apace of them, but they were outnumbered, outgunned, and distracted when Menasor stopped harassing the fleeing humans to give its full attention to Superion.

The battlefield was a confusing melange of smoke and fire and churned up Earth and bits of metal from a clash between titans. Injured Autobots either limped to safety or were dragged by their comrades.

Devastator and Defensor barreled into each other, a loud enough crash that echoed in the air, metal buckling as the two gestalt’s grappled with each other. As for Defensor’s usual foe, well, Bruticus was too busy giving Hot Rod’s team a run for the creds.

It was wholly unfair, Hot Rod thought as he dodged swipes from Bruticus and blasterfire from Astrotrain and Blitzwing.

They were cut off from the main line, a ferocious combiner between them and the majority of Autobot forces. Blurr was down, alive if the grousing about his leg was anything to go by, but he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. He was taking potshots at Astrotrain, but the massive triple-changer’s armor was built for space-travel. He was only getting scorched.

Smokescreen and Skids were back to back beside Blurr, barely holding off Blitzwing, energon pulsing sluggishly from several minor blows.

That left Hot Rod and Wheeljack looking up at Bruticus with nothing but their wits and a stash of experimental grenades in the engineer’s subspace.

Ultra Magnus was going tear his helm off. Prowl was going to lecture him for weeks. Optimus would probably understand, Jazz would laugh until his intakes wheezed, and Red Alert would fritz.

Hot Rod gave the order anyway. And prayed.

Wheeljack didn’t hesitate.

“Bombs away!”

Autobots scattered. As did a fair number of Decepticons. They usually did when Wheeljack shouted any kind of warning.

Hot Rod whirled on his heels and fled, hoping he hadn’t killed them all. Smokescreen and Skids scooped up Blurr, heading for the hills. The triple-changers snapped into alt-mode, peeling for the sky.

Wheeljack outpaced them all.

Bruticus was slow, cumbersome. He had no hopes of escaping before the grenades detonated. He roared, letting loose an angry swipe.

Hot Rod never saw the palm that swept him off his pedes, sent him flying into the air, crashing through several trees before slamming him into the ground. But he sure felt it afterward before the damage readings sent him careening into darkness.

o0o0o

Jazz was the one who invited him. Though Hot Rod used the term loosely. Jazz hadn’t so much as invited him as he’d hacked the lock to Hot Rod’s quarters, grabbed him by his good arm, and dragged him out of his self-enforced solitude.

The bright gleam of overcharge in the commander’s visor might have had something to do with it. The lingering ache of his struts, the weariness in his frame, and the emotional fatigue were why Hot Rod didn’t protest. Much.

“After a battle like that, ya gotta kick back somehow,” Jazz said as he hooked an arm through Hot Rod’s, dragging him further up the corridor, toward what appeared to be Jazz’s own quarters. “And sittin’ by yourself in yer quarters ain’t the way to do it.”

Hot Rod’s arm ached. He resisted the urge to rub over the fresh welds. “I’m really not up for socializing, Jazz.”

The TiC flashed him a grin that few mechs could resist. “Think of it as a bitchfest rather than socializing. It ain’t a party. Just a mutual sharin’ of misery.”

Jazz, like Bumblebee, had adopted so many of the human phrases and mannerisms that it was rather frightening.

Hot Rod’s spoiler flattened against his back. “One cube.”

“Whatever you say,” Jazz all but sang and then keyed in his door code and pushed Hot Rod ahead of him.

He stumbled, tripping over his own pedes, but quickly caught himself. Jazz’s quarters were only a fraction larger than his own, but it was packed with mechs. Hot Rod immediately picked out Blurr and Smokescreen and Bluestreak. Blaster and Sunstreaker were crammed into a dark corner, surprising since Hot Rod knew Sideswipe was in stasis in the medbay and it usually took an act of Optimus to get Sunstreaker to leave his brother’s side.

An act of Optimus or, perhaps, an understanding wheedle from Blaster.

When Hot Rod’s optics fell on the berth and the two mechs occupying it; however, he immediately turned on a pede. Jazz was there, grabbing his shoulders.

“Ya promised me a cube,” he said, still with that infuriating smile, his energy field buzzing with placating pulses.

Hot Rod looked past him, staring hopefully at the door. “Doesn’t seem to be much room for me.”

“We’ll make room,” Jazz purred, whirling him back around. “See? Right there.” He gave Hot Rod a little shove in the direction of the couch, already occupied by Smokescreen and Blurr.

Smokescreen grinned, lurching a little as he tried to shuffle over. “Yeah, c’mon, Roddy. Join the party.”

Blurr’s systems hiccuped which meant he was already soused six ways to Moonbase. Blurr only went non-verbal when he was doused in high grade.

Ultra Magnus would have probably spouted something about high grade being a restricted substance and possession of it in one’s private quarters was a brig-worthy offense. But Ultra Magnus wasn’t here and though Hot Rod still wanted to turn around and walk back through the door, Jazz was guarding it.

So he sat, wedging himself between the two mechs, and accepting the cube of near-violet energon that Blurr handed to him. He got a whiff of the stuff and his ventilations stalled. Primus, it was powerful. Was it even safe to consume?

Hot Rod pondered his energon and resolutely did not look to his right, at the berth, where Tracks and Mirage were sitting. It helped that Mirage was giving him distinctly unfriendly looks, the noble radiating vibes of an unpleasant nature.

At least Jazz was right. This could hardly be termed a party. No one was laughing or dancing or anything of the like. Hot Rod figured that the Autobots had taken too much of a pounding today. Oh, they’d driven away the Decepticons, but it hadn’t been easy and no one had emerged unscathed.

Wheeljack’s grenades had done the trick apparently. But Hot Rod was fragging lucky he hadn’t hurt any Autobots in the process, or so Prowl had told him in the post-battle briefing. Well, berated him more like. For hours.

Jazz was favoring his left hip as he leaned against Bluestreak who had several visible weld lines on his chassis. Smokescreen had a patch on his right doorwing. Blurr’s paint was a rash of scorch marks. Sunstreaker didn’t even have his left arm. Mirage looked untouched but exhausted; he’d probably worked his electro-disruptor to the maximum again. And Tracks…

Hot Rod buried his faceplate in his energon cube, ignoring the idle burn of its scent on his chemoreceptors.

Tracks looked beautiful, as always, probably the only one of them who had taken the time to visit the washracks and touch up his paint. The only exception was the temp plating on one of his wings, purposefully left bare or he’d have to face the wrath of the medic.

It was, Hot Rod reflected, probably the first time he’d really seen his former lover since he’d ended things.

He suspected that Jazz was trying to play peacemaker. It was a futile goal.

“They finally let you loose, I see,” Smokescreen said, optics cycling in and out as though they were struggling to focus.

“Yeah.” Hot Rod stared into his cube. If he looked up, he might look at Tracks. He was hyperaware of his ex-partner’s presence.

Blurr giggled and leaned heavily on Hot Rod’s side, thankfully the one opposite his injured arm. “Was a close one, boss,” he slurred and hiccuped, falling silent again.

Hot Rod vented a sigh. “Yeah,” he agreed, shoulders slumping.

Smokescreen patted him on the thigh, something meant to be comforting but felt a bit condescending. Or maybe Hot Rod’s just overly sensitive right now.

“It’s all right,” the diversionary specialist said, taking a long drag of his own energon. “Could’ve been worse. Have been in worse.” He paused, swiping at a loose drop of energon on his lip. “Have survived worse.”

Hot Rod shook his helm. “That hardly inspires confidence.”

Fingers rapped over his helm and Hot Rod startled, swinging up to look at Jazz, who was leaning over the back of the couch. “Cons are beat. We’re alive. Smokey’s right, ya know. Can’t just focus on the bad,” Jazz said.

Except the bad was all Hot Rod could see right now.

His gaze wandered over the berth and he flinched when he caught optics with Tracks, hastily looking away. He had no words, he’d already said his piece.

Hot Rod fumbled his cube and quickly drained it, shuddering as the potent brew hit his tanks with a surge and hiss. He crushed the empty cube with his fist, feeling it crackle around his fingers before it vanished.

“Have another!” Jazz said, pushing a cube into his hands before turning to pay his full attention to Bluestreak. Hopefully, that meant he’d be leaving Hot Rod alone.

He stared into the cube, which was much darker than his first one. Were they only getting more potent as the night dragged on?

“I think he’s trying to get me overcharged,” Hot Rod muttered, thinking balefully about Ultra Magnus, who would not be impressed if Hot Rod arrived in the morning, stumbling and aching from overindulgence.

“It can only help,” Blurr said with a hiccup of his vents, frame dumping excessive amounts of heat into the open air. He snuggled closer to Hot Rod, which was now getting downright uncomfortable.

Smokescreen shot the speedster a wry look. “Sadly, overcharge tends to cause more problems than it solves.” He shifted his attention to Hot Rod. “As you would know.”

Hot Rod buried his attention in his energon, taking small sips of it, trying to enjoy the bursts of spastic energy it gave him when it dropped into his tanks. “You’re going to have be less vague, ‘Screen. I’m not up for picking up subtleties.”

An arm slung itself across his shoulders, Smokescreen leaning in with the sort of wobbly grace that the overcharged had master. “I’m saying,” he said, lowering his tone in an attempt to be discreet. “That instead of acting like a skittish bot with a first crush, you

should get up off your aft and talk to him.”

Hot Rod’s tank lurched and he arched an orbital ridge. “Is that my friend talking or my psychologist?”

Laughter rumbled up from Smokescreen’s chassis. “Can’t I be both?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Blurr’s helm nuzzled against his shoulder, field radiating overcharge and affection. “So don’t talk. Do what you do best.”

“I think that’s part of the problem, Blurr,” Smokescreen said with a loud laugh, one that had no place in the party and drew everyone’s attention.

Hot Rod made himself very small, reliving his recent attempts to sink through the floor and out the other side. “Neither of you are helping.”

“Drink up!” Blurr chirped, one finger pressed to the bottom of Hot Rod’s cube and tilting it toward his mouth. “It’ll at least dull the pain.” He sucked down his own cube with a loud slurp, engine giving a hard, heated rev.

Hot Rod heard Mirage’s sigh from across the room. He turned his helm, watching as the noblemech slid off the berth, setting his half-finished cube behind him. His faceplate was pinched with aggravation as he approached the couch and Hot Rod half-expected a diatribe toward his treatment of Tracks.

Well, he got a diatribe. But it wasn’t about Tracks.

“Hey, Mirage,” Smokescreen said with an audible leer and a salute with his energon. “What brings ya to our side of the room?”

The noble’s olfactory sensor lifted up by a few more degrees. “The fact that you two are so irresponsible as to allow Blurr to consume beyond his frame type’s capability to handle.”

Hot Rod frowned, offended. “He’s an adult. I think he can make his own choices.”

Blurr giggled. Which wasn’t helping matters in the slightest. “You’re so sweet,” he said, and pushed harder against Hot Rod’s side, making a vain attempt to climb into his lap.

Slaaaag. Mirage was right, too. When Blurr started to get touchy-feely, it meant that Blurr was a few swallows away from purging the contents of his tank. And Hot Rod meant the entire contents, not just a few cube’s worth.

Hot Rod pushed an elbow into Blurr’s chestplate, trying to forestall the suddenly grabby hands.

Mirage arched an orbital ridge. “My point is made.” He hooked a hand around Blurr’s elbow, tugging the lighter racer to his pedes. “You, at the very least, should know better, Rodimus.”

“Not yet,” Smokescreen said before Hot Rod could get out the words. “Right now, he’s just Roddy-mech. Let a mech have his peace and quiet for once, Mirage.”

“Pretty,” Blurr purred, all too happy to drape himself against Mirage, one hand petting at the spy’s nosecone.

An exasperated noise escaped Mirage.

Smokescreen laughed. “You look like you got your hands full. Need some help?”

A game of keepaway ensued in which Mirage tried to capture Blurr’s wandering hand and the speedster deftly escaped his attempts. It would have been hilarious to watch if Hot Rod wasn’t in such a fragging awful mood to begin with.

“Blurr, that is enough!” Mirage snapped, but Blurr only giggled and snuggled further into Mirage’s side, as though he wished to meld himself plating to plating with the noble.

Then again, an overcharged Blurr wasn’t a particularly picky one. He would take any warm frame over recharging alone.

Still chuckling, Smokescreen patted Hot Rod on the leg and then levered himself off the couch, less unsteady on his pedes than he ought to be, but more than capable of getting himself to his quarters and aiding Blurr as well.

“Come on, buddy,” he said, effortlessly capturing a wandering hand, earning a glare from Mirage. “Let’s get ya to a berth.”

Blurr purred. “You going to stay in it with me?”

“Of course not,” Mirage snarled, sounding personally offended.

Hot Rod decided it was in his best interest to keep his silence and let them work it out between themselves. Whatever had crawled up Mirage’s exhaust was probably his fault but Smokescreen seemed to take it in stride.

“Not this time,” Smokescreen said, gentler than Hot Rod would have expected, as he slung Blurr’s other arm over his shoulders, propping the racer between himself and Mirage. “I like my partners a bit more sober.”

Mirage arched an orbital ridge. “Since when?”

“Primus, Mirage. What kind of glitch do you take me for?” Insult arched Smokescreen’s doorwings in a formation more similar to Prowl’s.

“The annoying kind.” Mirage scowled and ducked out from under Blurr’s arm. “He’s all yours. Good luck.”

The noble stalked away, even as Smokescreen dipped at the unexpected extra weight. Mirage didn’t respond to Jazz calling his name and somehow managed to make the door swish sulkily open and slam shut behind him.

Smokescreen’s exasperated hiss was a loud ventilation. “Towerlings,” he muttered, and adjusted Blurr’s weight before turning to shutter an optic at Hot Rod. “Night, Roddy. We’ll catch up later. And remember what I said.”

He turned his attention back to Blurr, who was starting to look a little pale in the faceplate. “Here’s hoping I can get you back before your intake turns into an outtake, buddy.”

They left, and Hot Rod wished them luck. Blurr’s tanks were making a decidedly unhappy noise.

Hot Rod fiddled with his energon cube, turning it over and over in his digits, knowing that the last of the second cube would be his undoing. But at this point, it might be worth it. Bluestreak and Jazz were cuddling up together, the latter purring his form of disgusting endearments. Sunstreaker had all but offlined half in Blaster’s lap, one of the carrier’s hands softly stroking his helm vents.

The couch felt mighty large with only himself to occupy it.

His optics slid more often to Tracks, alone now, contemplating his own energon with the distinct shade to his optics that spoke of a building overcharge. Hot Rod should recognize that look well enough by now.

You should talk to him, Smokescreen had said. He made it sound so simple.

Hot Rod’s frame hummed from the high grade. He felt warm and pleasant all over, even his arm which had been so sore earlier.

Primus, he missed Tracks. That ache in his spark returned anew. Isolation wasn’t a new concept for Hot Rod, but he had felt it more keenly as of late.

He was on his pedes before he knew entirely what he was going to do. Or say.

No one paid much attention to him, too soaked in the high grade. For that, Hot Rod was grateful. The last thing he wanted was to become a spectacle. Again.

Hot Rod steeled himself and plopped down on the berth beside Tracks. “Hey,” he said, and cursed himself inwardly.

Tracks looked up, cycling his optics in surprise. “… Hey.”

With such a lackluster response, Hot Rod twitched. “You want me to leave?” he asked, halfway rising back to his pedes.

“No, I just…” Tracks’ expression went through a range of emotions before he settled on something perfectly neutral and he ex-vented softly. “How’s the arm?”

Hot Rod wriggled it experimentally. “Sore,” he confirmed, wincing as he pulled too sharply on a healing cable. “Ratchet assures me I’ll live.”

Tracks laughed. Hot Rod did, too. But it was the awkward sort of laugh that dictated the discomfort of all parties involved.

Immediately thereafter came the unwieldy silence. Hot Rod shifted on the berth, wanting to say a million things and his vocalizer refusing to speak any of them. He could feel the weight of Tracks’ gaze.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

Hot Rod’s spark gave a little clench. “Yeah,” he said and waved his good servo through the air. “Doesn’t make the results any less of a failure.”

The soft touch on his arm nearly made him jump, the light contact of their energy fields ridiculously warm. “You’re not. A failure, I mean.”

“At least someone has confidence in me,” Hot Rod muttered and he looked down, staring at the blue servo laying on his arm.

Tracks’ chuckle this time was warmer, more genuine. “Well, I have the dubious honor of knowing you before the revelation.”

“That just means you already know how much of a screw-up I am,” Hot Rod retorted and took a calculated risk, leaning microns closer to Tracks. The scent of his ex-partner’s expensive wax floated to his olfactory sensors, tapping his pleasure centers with warm memories. His spark gave another one of those skipping throbs.

Tracks’ expression shifted, still unreadable, but not as hesitant as earlier. “Perhaps. Because the Roddy I knew is much more confident than this.”

“Arrogant, too.”

Blue digits stroked a light path across Hot Rod’s arm. “I prefer to call it confidence.”

This. This right here.

Sometimes, in all the arguing and the fighting and the snits and the names and all that Pit-slagged nonsense, it was hard to remember why Hot Rod had taken up with Tracks in the first place. But then Tracks talked like this and Hot Rod was reminded of all the things that really did matter.

A bitter chuckle escaped Hot Rod before he could stop it.

“Hot Rod–”

“I miss you.” The admission was barely above a whisper, as he’d choked it from a static-laden vocalizer. Regret made his processor lock up until he forced action through. He turned his helm, olfactory sensor pushing against Tracks’ shoulder.

The soft, soothing touch on his arm abruptly stopped as the owner of said appendage retracted his servo. “Well, whose fault is that?”

It was just like before, an invisible wall slamming down between them. Hot Rod flinched like he’d been struck and pulled away from Tracks, feeling the distance between them.

There was high grade on the berth behind him, probably Mirage’s leftovers. He didn’t care. He grabbed it and chugged it, tank gurgling on the influx of charge. He was going to regret the morning but right now, he could not care less.

“It’s mine, of course,” Hot Rod said, and yeah, he sounded bitter. He wasn’t angry at Tracks. How could it be? Tracks wasn’t the one who’d ended things. Though he’d hardly put up a protest at the time.

He slid off the berth, wobbling on his pedes. That was a dismissal if he ever heard one. The floor tilted beneath him and Hot Rod sent a command to reset his gyros.

“You’re leaving?”

“I think I’d better,” Hot Rod said, and reset his optics for good measure. Everything was leaning a little to the left.

A servo grabbed his elbow firmly, Tracks hopping off the berth as well. “Still overindulging, I see,” he said, but his tone lacked the usual disapproval.

Hot Rod gave a token tug to his arm, but had to concede defeat. He needed the support. “Desperate times and all that,” he said, to quote Spike who said it often enough.

There wasn’t a trace of amusement in Tracks’ energy field, not that Hot Rod could detect much of it. Tracks was keeping himself tightly contained, a clear contrast to Hot Rod’s own, which he controlled little better than his own balance.

“Hardly behavior befitting a future Prime,” Tracks said.

Ice trickled through Hot Rod’s lines. “Quoting Magnus now, are you?” he asked as Tracks half-carried, half-dragged him from Jazz’s quarters and the somber quote-unquote party. “Or maybe you got that one from Prowl.”

Tracks gave him a sidelong look. “You have responsibilities, Roddy. Or isn’t that what you told me?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then clarify.”

He huffed a ventilation, pedes stumbling over each other and forcing Tracks to tighten his grip. “Primus, Tracks, I don’t want to argue again.”

“This is a discussion.”

“It’s fragging semantics!” Hot Rod snapped and sagged against Tracks’ embrace, irritation spent. He really didn’t want to fight.

Luckily, Tracks seemed to be of the same mind. He didn’t push the issue and they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

They arrived at Hot Rod’s quarters. He tried to stir himself to input his code, but Tracks beat him to the punch. He’d always known it, of course, politeness keeping him from barging in on Hot Rod all the time.

Tracks half-dragged Hot Rod into the cold quiet of his room, the lights flicking on as they sensed the motion. The air carried a distinct, stale odor and Hot Rod winced. He tried to get his pedes beneath him, but they didn’t want to cooperate.

With a grunt of effort, Tracks unceremoniously tossed Hot Rod onto his berth, his limbs flopping in all awkward directions. Hot Rod groaned, trying to right himself, to stop his processor from spinning so wildly. The last cube had not been a good idea.

“Primus, Hot Rod,” Tracks exclaimed, turning in a slow circle. “It’s a mess in here.”

“So?”

His ex-partner forced a ventilation, giving Hot Rod a long look. “You can be such a glitch sometimes, you know that?”

Hot Rod flopped to his side, bending his spoiler at an unnatural angle before he flicked it into a different position. “You’ve told me often enough.”

Tracks rolled his optics. “And it still hasn’t managed to soak in.”

Hot Rod worked his jaw for a moment. “There are a lot of things I seem to miss.” His words fell heavily into a following silence.

Tracks stared at him; Hot Rod matched his wordless look. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, what he wanted. Except, apparently, to not watch Tracks walk out the door.

His ex-partner half-turned, however. “I have to go,” he said.

Hot Rod lurched, one servo shooting through the air, snagging Tracks’ arm. “No, you don’t,” he said, digits hooking around Tracks’ wrist, his energy field rising up and reaching out for Tracks as well.

Something like defeat slumped Tracks’ shoulders. “Roddy…”

He sat up, pulling Tracks closer, until his thighs bracketed Tracks’ hips with a soft brush of metal on metal. “I miss you,” Hot Rod said, leaning forward to press his lips against Tracks’ chestplate and the prominent Autobot symbol.

“This is a bad idea,” Tracks murmured, but his digits twitched at his sides. His energy field reached out for Hot Rod’s own.

“From day one,” Hot Rod agreed, warmth suffusing his circuits, even more so when Tracks lifted his servos, resting them on Hot Rod’s shoulders.

“You’re slagged.” Tracks leaned forward, pressing his forehelm against Hot Rod’s, optics bright. “Overcharged.”

“Only a little.” He could feel his ex-partner’s ex-vents ghosting over his faceplate, arousal coiling inside of him. His servos rested on Tracks’ hips, fingers drawing a light charge over the elastic plating. “But you’re not leaving.”

Tracks gave an exasperated huff. “Because I missed you, too, you brat.”

Hot Rod’s spark throbbed in want, his knees pressing harder against Tracks’ hips, if only to keep him here. “Stay tonight.” It wasn’t quite a beg, but it was definitely a hopeful request.

Tracks rolled his helm, lips pressing against Hot Rod’s forehelm. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Servos slid from Hot Rod’s shoulders, down his arms, to his wrists and back up again, curls of static rising in his wake. “Guess we’ll find out,” Tracks replied.

That, Hot Rod knew, was a concession. Tracks would stay.

o0o0o

Hot Rod woke to the relentless pings of three – no, four – waiting messages. All of them were from different senders and he wasn’t surprised at any of their identities: Ultra Magnus, Prowl, Optimus, and Springer.

His processor ached, his chronometer pinged him a time which loudly proclaimed how very late he was for his shift, and his tanks were quite unsettled.

Groaning, Hot Rod rolled over, or he attempted to. But a weight on his right side pinned him down, along with the arm strung across his chassis. He onlined his optics, though he already knew who would be beside him.

Tracks.

Last night was a hazy memory, but he distinctly recalled going to Jazz’s quarters, drinking high grade until he felt numb, and then Tracks bringing him home because apparently he couldn’t make it on his own. He remembered begging Tracks to stay and that would have caused a frisson of eternal embarrassment, save that Tracks had agreed to do so.

His systems pinged him again. He was so fragging late. Ultra Magnus was going to be furious.

Stirring himself, Hot Rod carefully extracted himself from beneath Tracks, sliding out from under the other mech. He was low on energy but the thought of consuming a cube made his sensitive tanks give another ominous rumble. He wasn’t in the danger zone yet so he could wait until his systems settled.

Hot Rod dragged a palm down his faceplate, triggering one of the messages to open. He picked Prowl’s first as it was probably the least offensive. And it was. He wanted to go over the most recent battle against the Decepticons with Hot Rod, with an emphasis on tactics.

Hot Rod stared warily at the other three. Springer’s he would save for last. Ultra Magnus probably intended to yell at him over his tardiness. Optimus… he selected that one next, not knowing what the Prime wanted.

Behind him, Tracks stirred.

Hot Rod put the message on hold and turned toward his ex-partner. “Morning.”

“Is that what it is?” Tracks’ optics onlined as he dragged himself up, energy field rising up and seeking Hot Rod’s own. They met with a soft buzz of greeting.

Amusement trickled into Hot Rod’s field. “Yeah. And I’m late.”

Tracks swung his legs over the side of the berth, hopping down to the floor. “Magnus shouting?”

“I assume so. I haven’t opened the message yet.” Awkward crept into the room on swift wings. “Tracks…”

“You don’t have to tell me. I know what to expect from last night.”

Hot Rod released a sigh of exasperation. “No, you don’t,” he corrected, and winced when his chronometer – and Ultra Magnus – pinged him again. “I really don’t have time to talk about this right now. Meet me after-shift?”

“You’ll be there?” Suspicion leaked into Tracks’ energy field.

“I said I would.” Another ping made Hot Rod startle and he backed toward his door, feeling Magnus’ anger through the ping. “I really have to go.”

Tracks flicked his digits. “Go.”

Not that Hot Rod needed permission. He hurried out of his quarters. He glanced at his finish, relieved that transference of paint had been minimal.

Optimus’ message still waited in queue. Hot Rod opened it up next and scanned it quickly.

Frag. Double-frag.

Optimus had intended for him to observe the weekly command review, attended by the officers of every aspect of the Autobot Army. The same meeting that ended roughly half a joor ago. Hot Rod wouldn’t have missed it if he’d been on time for his shift with Magnus.

This was turning out to be a fine morning. Dear Primus.

Ignoring the unpleasant gurgle in his tanks, Hot Rod hurried to Ultra Magnus’ office. He didn’t bother to open the flashing message from his current instructor. It was, in all likelihood, a chastisement for his tardiness. Springer’s, too, would have to wait.

Girding his metaphorical loins, Hot Rod prepared to enter the den of disappointment.

“Look,” he said, an explanation and an apology on the tip of his glossa. “Before you start with the lecture, I swear it won’t happen again,” Hot Rod said, his words preceding his entrance into Magnus’ office.

He was met with a heavy sigh, a stylus set aside on the desk top, and a steely, blue-opticked stare. “It is nearly mid-shift, Rodimus,” Magnus said, with heavy emphasis on his future designation, obviously to prove a point. “Optimus and Prowl have both contacted me because of your absence.”

Hot Rod hung his helm. “I’m sorry,” he said, dragging his uninjured hand down his faceplate as he sunk into the uncomfortable chair. “Yesterday was… bad.”

Ultra Magnus shook his helm. “There are other ways to handle such situations without resorting to high grade and irresponsible behavior.”

Somehow, Hot Rod didn’t think meditation was going to cut it. And he’d been forbidden from racing so that was out of the picture as well. As for interfacing, well, that was part of the problem.

He doubted Ultra Magnus wanted to hear any of that.

“Yeah, I know,” Hot Rod said and skimmed Magnus’ desk, desperate to change the subject. “What are you going to drill into my processor today?”

Ultra Magnus gave him a long, hard look, one that spoke volumes. He was probably debating the merits of giving Hot Rod another lecture, before he audibly performed a systems check and reached for a datapad.

“First, we’ll go over what was discussed at the meeting you missed,” Ultra Magnus said. “I will save the battle tactics for Prowl.”

Hot Rod winced. It was going to be a long day.

He forgot about Springer’s message. In the wake of all the information Magnus tossed at him, and the stack of datapads, it had fallen to the distant reaches of Hot Rod’s memory.

Ultra Magnus was relentless, determined to make up for Hot Rod’s tardiness. It was probably half-punishment, too. Compounded by the fact his tanks were still uneasy and his processor ached, Hot Rod wanted nothing more than to beg a sick day and retreat to the quiet of his quarters.

Ultra Magnus was having none of it though.

“There are consequences for over-indulgence,” Ultra Magnus reminded him everytime Hot Rod offered him his best, pleading look. He learned it from Bluestreak and that mech could get anything he wanted.

Unfortunately, Ultra Magnus was immune to such cuteness.

“As a future Prime, you must be held accountable for your actions,” Ultra Magnus chastised, pushing another datapad across the desk to him.

Hot Rod made a sound best described as a whimper, staring balefully at the lit screen and the lines of text on it.

Ultra Magnus sighed and pinched his olfactory sensor. He produced a cube of energon from some magical place that he seemed to keep them and pushed it across the table toward Hot Rod.

“Take a break,” he said. “Refuel. Ten minutes. Go.” He flicked his fingers in dismissal.

Hot Rod shot out of his chair so fast he probably left skidmarks on the floor. He couldn’t go far, not if he only had ten minutes, but at least leaving Magnus’ office was a start.

He sucked in deep ventilations in the corridor, tasting freedom that was oh-so-brief, and sipped at the energon. Per usual, it was bland and lacking in exciting textures, but it worked to soothe his still-churning tanks. Never again. He should have known better than to drink Jazz’s high grade.

Hot Rod braced himself on the wall, trying to calm his overheated processor. Too much information too fast and it felt like his helm was going to explode.

Or was it the pinging?

He tilted his helm, contemplating. There was a message blinking in his systems. Oh, frag He’d totally forgot about whatever Springer wanted to say and now the the pings were relentless, like a buzzing in his audials and his sensitive-processor. Groaning aloud, Hot Rod offlined his optics and leaned his helm back against the wall. Clearly, it couldn’t wait.

—What?–

–Primus, could you sound any more pissy?–

Hot Rod wasn’t at all feeling gracious. –You’ve been irritating the slag out of me for two hours. What’s so important, Springer?–

Indignation rolled across the comm. –Jazz told me you and the pansy got nice and chummy last night.–

Hot Rod was glad he’d already laid his helm back. It prevented him from banging his helm against a wall from sheer frustration.

–Don’t call him that.– Irritation coiled within him. Springer better be glad this was a comm and not a face-to-face conversation because Hot Rod was starting to think his best friend needed another punch to the faceplate.

–Word is he took you home,– Springer added, dismissing Hot Rod’s request.

Hot Rod cycled a loud ventilation. –Springer, drop it. I mean it. Drop. It.–

Why did it seem that every time he turned around someone else wanted to fight with him? Or yell at him?

–I thought you two were done.–

–It’s none of your fragging business if we are or not!– Hot Rod hissed across the comm, his servos forming fists.

Springer scoffed. –Defensive, aren’t you? What’d you do, frag him?–

Hot Rod didn’t dignify that with a response. He could lie and pacify Springer or he could tell the truth and end up arguing with his best friend further. But Hot Rod was tired of fighting and tired of defending himself to Springer. He shouldn’t have to.

–You did! Primus, Roddy.–

–Springer,– Hot Rod began, and then shook his helm, not that Springer could see it. –Shut the frag up.–

He ended the comm before Springer could respond. Of course, his best friend immediately pinged back but Hot Rod ignored it. He set up a subroutine to shuttle all of Springer’s messages to queue that he would answer at his leisure. When he felt like talking to Springer again, he would. But for now, no.

Besides, his ten minutes were up.

o0o0o

Hot Rod begged. He pleaded. He promised.

But he wasn’t Rodimus yet, no matter how often Ultra Magnus called him by the title, and in the end, he had no choice but to obey Ultra Magnus. Leaving for his shift on time was not an option. He had to make up for his lateness. He had to complete his work.

Ultra Magnus was done cutting him any slack. Frag him to the Pit!

Hot Rod muttered very uncharitable things about his commanding officer. Whether or not Ultra Magnus heard him, he didn’t care. This was unfair punishment and Hot Rod wanted his so-called instructor to know that.

He’d behaved for three months! Surely one slip-up could be overlooked.

But no. Ultra Magnus was being a hard-aft as usual. How convenient that he was Rodimus when there was work to be done, but Hot Rod when he needed a little leniency.

So it was well into the beginning stages of third shift before Hot Rod was freed from his instructional prison. He’d had more data shoved into his processor than he could possibly assimilate in a single day’s work.

More importantly, he’d missed his meeting with Tracks. By now, his former partner was probably already in recharge. Or…

Hot Rod frowned, checking the public schedule. No, Tracks was on shift. He had patrol with Trailbreaker.

Confusion settled. Hot Rod turned his communications back to active and found two messages from Springer but none from Tracks. He would have thought Tracks to have at least attempted to contact him, if only to bitch about the fact Hot Rod was late.

Nothing.

Tracks was on patrol so Hot Rod couldn’t apologize in person, but he could at least get the ball rolling. He composed an apology and an explanation and dialed Tracks’ personal comm.

Unsurprisingly, Tracks didn’t answer. Hot Rod left a message.

And again the next day.

And the day after that.

And on and on until two weeks had passed. Tracks didn’t return his attempts at contact, didn’t respond no matter what time of the day or shift it was, and Hot Rod hadn’t seen so much as a single paint fleck from his former partner. It was as though Tracks had vanished off the face of the Ark all over again.

Anger warred with confusion warred with disappointment and Hot Rod wasn’t sure how he was supposed to take this. Tracks was sulking, that much was obvious. But Hot Rod couldn’t well apologize if Tracks wouldn’t let him. He couldn’t explain himself or make things right and the words he carried weren’t words he intended to give over the impersonal nature of a private message. He wanted to say them in person.

He would, too, if only Tracks would answer him. Or respond to him.

There was nothing but silence. Hot Rod was forced to take matters into his own hands. He traded shifts, asking for a chance to study with Prowl for awhile instead of Ultra Magnus. This put him on a different rotation, with a different crew of Autobots.

It also answered the question of how easily Tracks had evaded him before. He’d gone to Prowl and asked to be assigned to a different crew. No wonder they had not crossed paths before Jazz’s impromptu not-party.

After letting Prowl stuff his helm with enough tactics to make his optics spin, Hot Rod was freed for a much-needed break. He stumbled off to the rec room for a cube and maybe someone to share a casual conversation with. Arcee’s supposed to be on this shift and he could always count on her to give him some reasonable advice.

When he arrived, all thoughts of energon evacuated his processor. His optics were drawn to a table in a corner, where Tracks sat with Mirage and Hound. They hadn’t noticed Hot Rod yet, especially since Tracks had his back to the door.

This was his chance. Tracks couldn’t avoid him now. Hot Rod was tired of this game. He wanted answers. He wanted closure or something. He was tired of this half-sparked zone of wondering he’d occupied as of late.

Hot Rod strode across the rec room, empty compared to how packed it was in the middle of first shift, and circled around the table, until his presence announced itself to the table. Whatever happy conversation the three mechs had ended when they spotted him.

“Hot Rod,” Hound greeted with a smile and a raised cube. He was spattered with mud, fresh by the looks of it. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

Hot Rod managed a grin. “Around. You know how it is when Prowl has a new victim to torment.”

The scout laughed, good-natured to the spark. No matter what drama floated around the Ark, Hound never took sides and never made anyone unwelcome. It was one of the reasons he was unanimously well-liked.

“Funny you should mention that,” Mirage said, and there was nothing warm or teasing in his words. His tone was glacial, the look he gave Hot Rod even more so, and his entire frame had gone rigid.

Hound looked at the spy, nudging him with his shoulder. “Mirage, be nice.”

The noble didn’t dignify the request with a response, which was fine with Hot Rod because he hadn’t come here to exchange niceties with Hound or Mirage. He only wanted to talk to Tracks, who was looking everywhere but at him, one servo toying with a half-empty cube.

“Why are you ignoring my comms?” Hot Rod asked. He didn’t think there was a need to be tactful. Tracks knew why he was here.

The other mech didn’t so much as twitch. “I’ve been busy.”

Hot Rod snorted. “Slag and you know it.”

Tracks stirred, helm turning to face Hot Rod directly. “I do have a functioning outside of your existence,” he replied, and his tone matched Mirage’s in temperature if not temperament.

Primus, Tracks was fragged. The flatness of his vocals were unfortunately familiar, and Hot Rod’s own anger wasn’t going to help things. He cycled a ventilation, hoping to calm himself, not make a scene that would find its way back to Magnus and Optimus.

“We need to talk,” Hot Rod said, purposefully gentling his tone and adding a modifier of request to it.

Tracks’ fingers twitch around the cube. “Seems to me you said all you needed to say.”

“I was late. I had to work past shift.” Despite his efforts, a thread of irritation worked into his tone. “If you’d answered my comms, you would have known that.”

“Personally, I don’t see where Tracks is required to do anything,” Mirage said, every word dripping with disdain. “If I recall, the relationship has ended.” He directed a glare at Hot Rod, despite Hound’s attempts to calm him.

Hot Rod chose to ignore Mirage. Last he checked, the noble wasn’t part of the pairing. If he wasn’t going to listen to Springer, he sure as slag wasn’t going to take Mirage’s advice.

“Can we talk, please?” Hot Rod asked, and his optics slid briefly to Mirage and Hound before returning to Tracks. “Alone?” He was careful to phrase it as a request, not a demand, gentling his tone once more.

It was like he was suddenly drawing on a well of patience he didn’t know he possessed. Maybe it was part and parcel to the whole Prime business.

“Tracks,” Mirage urged, laying a hand on the warrior’s arm. “Don’t.”

There was no answer. Tracks’ gaze had fallen to the table, his fingers toying with his cube but he made no effort to drink it.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Mirage added, and the urge to reach across the table and slag the daylights out of the noble rose up within Hot Rod.

Could he take two minutes and get his aristocratic olfactory sensor out of their business? It’s not Hot Rod’s fault he had to make this conversation halfway public.

“No, I don’t,” Tracks finally said, but he snatched up his cube and drained the contents in a single motion, setting it on the counter with a deliberate motion.

Mirage sighed, a look of defeat crossing his faceplate.

Tracks pushed away from the table, getting up. “Five minutes,” he said, not waiting for Hot Rod to circle around the table before he started toward the door.

That Primely patience wore off. And Hot Rod wasn’t feeling generous. He tossed Mirage a look of loathing and hurried to catch up to Tracks, unwilling to waste this chance.

“Why were you ignoring my comms?” Hot Rod asked as soon as they cleared the prying optics and audials of the rec room.

Tracks didn’t slow his pace. “I’m not obligated to answer them.”

Hot Rod huffed a ventilation. Tracks was being difficult on purpose. “Frag it, Tracks. I meant what I said!”

“You’ve said a lot of things.” Tracks gave him a sidelong look. “Including the fact that our relationship was untenable.”

“Yeah, but–”

“Imagine my surprise,” Tracks interrupted, much to Hot Rod’s own astonishment,“when you approach me at Jazz’s party. And because I’m a nice mech, I helped you home.”

Hot Rod lapsed into silence. There was an edge to Tracks’ tone, of tight fury, one that he’d not heard before and it was a bit alarming.

This was not the usual offended and dramatic anger that usually comprised their arguments. This was exhausted and empty and Hot Rod did not enjoy the feel of it at all.

It felt rather familiar.

“I told you then that it was a bad idea but you were insistent and I was a fragging idiot. Like usual.” Here, the color of Tracks’ anger changed, self-chastising. “Come morning, you tell me things are different. You wanted to talk then, too.”

Tracks suddenly halted, whirling toward Hot Rod. It was a quiet corner of the Ark, near the storage decks, and this late they were unlikely to be disturbed.

“I don’t know why I bothered to be disappointed when you failed to show up,” Tracks said, and some of his control faltered, pain leaking from his energy field and winding through Hot Rod’s own. “But I was.”

Tracks cycled a ventilation, his optics distant, focused on the hallway past Hot Rod. “And yet you asked me why I ignored your comms afterward. Do you come by that selfishness honestly or is it something new thanks to your promotion?”

Hot Rod wasn’t even sure which statement he needed to tackle first. Anger warred with shame and disappointment and guilt and all of the emotions balled themselves up tightly in his spark.

“You never gave me the opportunity to apologize,” he started to say.

“I am tired of apologies,” Tracks said, cutting in again, but the anger was gone. He looked directly at Hot Rod. “I have made mistakes, too. I am also at fault. I get it now, why you said we are no good for each other. Because we aren’t.”

Hot Rod ached to do something, anything. Words weren’t working and actions seemed more suitable, but his servo dropped before he managed to do anything with it. “I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t.” Tracks ventilated and rubbed a hand down his faceplate. “I want more than you can give me and you… you don’t even know what it is you want. Or what you’re allowed to have.”

His mouth opened, closed, opened again, frustrated with both his own inability to explain himself and Tracks’ inability to fragging listen. “Tracks, that’s not fair.”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing for his vocalizer to produce.

Tracks’ hand dropped, his optics flaring with the fury of a glare. “Don’t talk to me about fair,” he all but spat. “Not when I’ve spent countless shifts waiting for a comm that doesn’t come. When I’ve got your friends giving me looks like I’m something they’ve scraped off the bottom of their pede. And when I’m the bottom of a very long priority tree. I deserve better than that.”

Hot Rod inhaled a sharp ventilation, anger spiking before he could stop it, even though he knew it wasn’t going to help. Yelling never helped and here he was, raising his vocals, letting his irritation speak for him.

“None of this is a surprise!” he argued, hands waving through the air. “I can’t help what’s happened. I didn’t choose any of this.”

“No, you did not,” Tracks said, and his tone went flat, much like his optics. “And that’s the problem.”

Confusion sent deep fluctuations through Hot Rod’s field. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Tracks huffed and shook his helm, pushing past Hot Rod as though he considered this conversation complete. “I’m not waiting for you to figure out what it is you want, Rodimus. I’m not going to be the last resort.”

Hot Rod turned, watching him go, words fighting against each other in his vocalizer. Anger rose in a tidal wave, drowning out the guilt and shame, because anger was easier, anger meant he wasn’t the one to blame.

A curse spilled out of his vocalizer, Hot Rod’s hands drawing into fists. He whirled on a heelstrut, storming the opposite direction from Tracks.

He should have known better than to try.

o0o0o

Recharge was impossible.

Battle tactics wouldn’t give him the distraction he needed.

The rec room was filled to the brim with laughing, chatting bots and Hot Rod wanted nothing to do with them either. Springer was right in the midst of them, flirting madly with First Aid, oblivious to the stares of four disapproving brothers.

Hot Rod would find no solace there either.

Smokescreen was present, too, but the last time Hot Rod listened to his advice, he’d only made things worse.

He had a shift in the morning, so speeding out of the Ark and heading for wherever his wheels would take him wasn’t an option either. Prowl was even less forgiving of tardiness than Ultra Magnus.

He found himself in the training room, for once empty of other mechs. Hot Rod activated one of the drones for a heavy sparring session. He couldn’t take out his frustration on the root cause, so beating the slag out of this combat drone would have to do.

He keyed in a training regime that Sideswipe had programmed for him, only he activated a level higher than one he had mastered. Hot Rod needed the challenge, needed to give it all he got, needed to take a few hits. He wanted to hit the floor, feel the dents, and strike back with all the force his frame could produce.

Anger burned in him, hot and bright, fueling each blow. Heat flooded his systems, condensation gathering on his armor. The sharp staccato of metal impacting metal echoed around the ring, a pulsing beat in his audials. He ducked and dodged and weaved and kicked and punched and got hit in return, jarring blows to his cheek arch, his chestplate, a solid strike against his abdominal array.

Hot Rod hissed a ventilation, gritted his denta, and forced himself to move faster. He tried to blank his processor, focus only on battle protocols, but Tracks’ words kept ringing in the back of his helm, over and over.

The drone stared back at him with empty optics, a dull glow behind them. It was taller than Hot Rod by a helm, bulky, and basic in construction. He didn’t have enough imagination to plant someone else’s faceplate on the drone. He wasn’t entirely sure who deserved the majority of his wrath. Or what for that matter.

This was his fault. Or Optimus’. Or the Matrix.

Fragging Primus Himself.

A growl built in Hot Rod’s engine. He threw himself to the side, avoiding an uppercut, and lashed out with his fist, putting all the force he could behind it. He struck the drone’s helm with a sickening crack, but not of the sturdy drone’s frame. Shooting pain jabbed through Hot Rod’s hand, metal bent and fractured, and he howled.

Weakness sensed, the drone whirled to strike, much like Sideswipe when a Decepticon dared falter in optic-view.

He saw the fist coming, dodged it, but didn’t expect the follow-up elbow to the faceplate. Hot Rod hit the ground, landing on his spoilers with another lance of pain, cheek arch throbbing, probably cracked, too.

“End program!” he shouted, curling around his throbbing hand, gritting his denta against the heat blossoming in his faceplate.

The drone powered down, limbs going slack at its sides.

Hot Rod heaved out a ventilation. Pathetic. Thank Primus Sideswipe wasn’t here. He would have laughed his aft off and taken great glee in pointing out everything Hot Rod had done wrong. It would be faster to identify what he’d actually done right.

The floor vibrated as someone approached him. “I’d ask what inspired that particular bit of self-recrimination, but I have a good guess already.”

Hot Rod pushed himself to his pedes, letting his injured servo dangle at his side. “I was practicing.”

Kup snorted, giving him an arched look. “Right. I wasn’t sparked yesterday, mechlet.” He stomped up to Hot Rod, reaching for his servo. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

All it took was a single look and Hot Rod gave up. There was no individual more stubborn or patient on this planet or any other than Kup.

The old mech looked over his servo with a practiced optic borne of millennium of experience. “Hmph,” he said, cygar swiveling from one side of his mouth to the other. “Punched at an angle again, didn’t ya? Thought we trained that out of ya.”

Hot Rod twitched from helm to pede. “Lost my focus.”

“Among other things.” Kup shook his helm. “Bent this one. Fractured that one. I’ll give ya a choice. Ratchet’s on shift in the bay tonight. Or ya can come back to my quarters and talk.”

His shoulders sank, spoiler drifting downward as far as the hinges would allow. It really wasn’t much of a choice at all, was it?

He followed Kup back to the rustbucket’s quarters, certain that being prodded to talk was far better than getting a Ratchet lecture about stupid injuries.

Kup, being the ancient well of unfathomable wisdom that he was, had quarters on the officers hall, across from Ironhide and snug between Ultra Magnus and Prowl. The room was small but adequate, obviously meant for a single mech. That it was retrofitted from a storage closet amused Hot Rod to no end.

Another part of him couldn’t wait for Metroplex’s construction to finish. The Ark was getting more and more cramped which only worsened the tension and made high-strung Autobots more prone to petty squabbles.

Kup pointed Hot Rod to a chair and dragged a second one up beside him, portable med-kit in servo. “So,” said the old mech, spitting out his cygar to focus on Hot Rod’s injured digits. “Talk to me, Roddy-mech.”

Feeling like a rebellious teenage human, Hot Rod slumped against the back of the chair, throwing his helm back. “My hand hurts.”

Kup harrumphed. “Don’t play stupid. Why were ya tryin’ to beat the scrap out of a practice drone?”

“Trying?” Hot Rod arched an orbital ridge and then hissed as Kup applied pressure to his bent digit-strut, forcing it back into alignment.

“And failin’.” Kup offered a crooked smile.

Hot Rod rolled his optics, pinching his mouth closed. How in the Pit was he supposed to talk about something like this? It didn’t make sense in his own helm enough for him to put it into audible words.

“Do I gotta call Ratchet?” Kup asked, giving his injured digit a wiggle.

Hot Rod huffed a ventilation. “It’s better that I beat on a practice drone than the mech who pissed me off.”

“Ah. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. Who’s the mech in question? Not Springer, I’ll guess, since ya never hold back when it comes to him. Not Arcee. You’ve learned better than that”

He offlined his optics. He supposed it was easier that way, especially to hide his flinching from Kup’s repairs.

“So I am going to guess that it’s your mech.” Kup grunted, swapping the cygar from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Former mech,” Hot Rod corrected.

“Ah,” Kup replied, with the air of a mech who had lived hundreds of centuries.

Hot Rod cycled a ventilation. “Don’t,” he started but couldn’t finish because he wasn’t entirely sure what he didn’t want Kup to do. Except offer him pity because Hot Rod sure as frag didn’t need pity. He needed a solution.

“I take it the decision wasn’t mutual?” Kup asked as pain spiked in Hot Rod’s hand. He bit back a cry as Kup jerked the one joint back into place.

“Depends on your definition of mutual,” Hot Rod muttered. It was impossible not to focus on the throbbing in his fingers. His HUD kept throwing up damage reports at him and he dismissed them just as quickly. He knew he was damaged. He didn’t need automatic systems to keep informing him.

And no, sending a status report to Ratchet was not an option either, frag you very much.

Kup slapped a static bandage around his fingers, keeping them immobile while his self-repair did the rest of the fiddly work. It would probably cause Ultra Magnus to be several shades of curious tomorrow, but Hot Rod figured if he diligently applied himself to his work, Magnus would be suitably impressed and not ask questions.

“We agreed,” Hot Rod clarified, because Kup’s silence spoke volumes. “We’re no good for each other.”

“Doesn’t sound like it was what ya wanted, though,” Kup said.

Hot Rod tipped his helm back, covering his optics with his other arm. “In case you haven’t noticed, what I want hasn’t been a factor for a long time now.” Because if anyone had asked, he would have said ‘no thank you, I don’t want to be a Prime.’

But no one asked. Apparently, it was non-negotiable. Optimus hadn’t had much of a choice either. By much, Hot Rod meant none. Fragging Primus.

Kup finished his work on Hot Rod’s fingers but he didn’t let go of his hand, a soft ventilation escaping the old mech. “I know it sucks. I know it’s not fair. But you can’t ignore this or run away from it. You’ll be Rodimus eventually, whether you like it or not. You have to accept that.”

“You think I haven’t?”

“I think you’re grudgingly going along with whatever they tell you to, but you haven’t accepted it.” Kup’s free hand tapped his chestplate, prompting Hot Rod to unshield his optics. “Not here.”

Hot Rod lapsed into silence, a frown on his lips. He retrieved his hand from Kup, pretending a great interest in the repairs his mentor had given him. He knew Kup was right and he was aware that he hadn’t accepted this news with any sort of grace. But all this Rodimus business had done was frag up his life. Wasn’t it bad enough that there was this unending war?

What business did the matrix have in choosing Hot Rod anyway? Weren’t there far more qualified mechs out there? Autobots who knew what they were doing and had more experience and weren’t immature. Autobots who weren’t Hot Rod.

He had to admit there was a part of him that desperately hoped the Matrix would realize it had made a mistake and Hot Rod would be released from this unwanted burden. He knew it would never happen but he’d clung to that tiny, tiny hope. He wanted things to go back to normal.

“I know,” Hot Rod finally said and he offered Kup a thin smile. “I’m working on it.”

“I know ya are.” Kup leaned back in his chair, still assessing Hot Rod with that eons-old knowledge. “And as for your mech, maybe this is the way things ought to be. And maybe it isn’t. But I don’t think you can figure out what you want from him, until you settle what you want from yourself.”

Which, if Hot Rod thought about it, was kind of what Tracks had been saying in that video room.

He slumped, resting his chin on his recently repaired knuckles. Kup made it sound like the solution was easy, but it really wasn’t. He still didn’t want the matrix nestled next to his spark and he didn’t want to be Rodimus. He wasn’t ready, for lack of a better term, to grow up. But that particular choice had been taken from him.

He supposed he could keep on the way he had been. He could keep reluctantly attending his lessons and snapping at everyone around him and bemoaning his situation. He could be a sparkling about it or he could mech up and deal.

Maybe a talk with Optimus was in order. How in the world did Orion Pax accept the burden of Optimus Prime? How much choice had he been given? Hot Rod suspected that Orion had been given as much as Hot Rod, which was to say none.

“I hate it when you’re right,” Hot Rod said, as much admission as he was going to give Kup. It was enough that he’d conceded.

Kup grinned, rising to his pedes and clapping Hot Rod on the shoulder. “So does Optimus. At least ya have that in common.” His field pushed against Hot Rod’s with affection. “Get some recharge, lad. It only feels like the end of the world.”

Hot Rod rolled his optics. He hadn’t been that dramatic. But Kup had a point. Hot Rod needed recharge. He needed to get his helm out of his aft and he needed to grow up.

“I’ll try,” Hot Rod conceded.

Kup patted him a final time and let himself out, the door clicking shut behind him. Hot Rod cycled a ventilation, briefly shuttering his optics.

There was a dull ache in his fingertips, reminding him of his failed attempt to dismantle the combat drone. If he was distracted enough that even a drone could have harmed him, he was worse off than he thought. He did need to focus. He couldn’t keep straddling the line.

He needed to make a choice, the only choice that was left.

Hot Rod sighed and pushed up from his chair. First, a night of recharge, and if necessary, he would use the inhibitor that Hoist had pressed into his hand a week ago when he commented on Hot Rod’s fatigued state. If that was what it took to keep the memories and thoughts at bay, so be it.

0o0o0

“Hot Rod.”

He looked up from his datapad, one he was supposed to be assimilating but was only staring at the same page for the past ten minutes.

Prowl, his current instructor, was giving him a scrutinizing look. Prowl was just as much of a hardaft about attendance, punctuality, and hard work as Ultra Magnus. But he also never called Hot Rod ‘Rodimus’ and for that, Hot Rod had come to like learning from Prowl just a smidge more.

Too bad he would have to return to Ultra Magnus’ not-so-tender mercies by the end of the month. There was only so much tactics that Hot Rod could be taught. The rest would have to be experienced.

“Are you unwell?” Prowl asked.

Hot Rod rolled his shoulders. “No. Why?”

“Because you’ve been staring at the same maneuver for twenty minutes and it is not that complicated,” Prowl replied, and his scrutinizing look turned into a quick, if not rude, scan of Hot Rod’s frame. “You appear to be in full repair and energized. Is the matter of a personal nature?”

Primus. Hot Rod needed to get his act together. If even Prowl was noticing the state of his depression, clearly he was bad off. This was ridiculous.

Still, the last thing he wanted to do was spill his romantic woes to Prowl. The tactician wouldn’t understand the complicated intricacies of his failure of a relationship with Tracks and it would probably send him into a crash. Then Ratchet would yell and Hot Rod would feel guilty and in the end, no one would be happy.

“I’m fine,” Hot Rod reiterated, and tried for a smile. “It might be that tactics just aren’t my thing. No offense.”

“We are all built for different purposes,” Prowl said. “To take offense over that would be counterproductive.” He sat back in his chair, contemplative. “So long as you understand the importance of what I am attempting to teach you.”

Hot Rod nodded, some of his unease settling. “I do. But long-term plans have never been my strongest suit.”

“Neither, I notice, are short-term plans,” Prowl said.

It took longer than it should have for Hot Rod to realize that was a joke. He blinked. Prowl was not a mech who often laughed. He never seemed to have a sense a humor. There was a certain distance he kept from the Autobots and Hot Rod had never seen him truly open to anyone. He kept a lonely existence, much like other members of Optimus’ command staff, Hot Rod realized. Mechs like Red Alert and Ratchet, the former who was paranoid and the latter who partied when the situation called for it, but always went back to his quarters alone, only to take out his overcharge on everyone the next morning.

Hot Rod managed a small smile, too late to laugh but just in time to acknowledge that he was reckless and impetuous, something he’d never denied. “I’ve always been a leap first, look later type. And I guess I’m a bit lucky, too, since I’m still online.” It helped, too, that he had one Pit of a team looking out for him. Springer and Arcee and Kup helped keep him alive, kept his plating intact and his spark spinning.

“True. I hope to change that. Or at least, supplement it.” Prowl offered something like a smile, the corners of his lips tilting upward. “Perhaps more at a later date, however. Your concentration is lacking.”

Hot Rod ducked his helm. “I’m sorry.”

“Might I suggest you speak with the medics? Ratchet, I know, can be a bit harsh but Hoist and First Aid are always willing to lend an audial, so to speak.” Prowl’s gaze turned contemplative again. “I could arrange a conversation with Rung, if you prefer.”

“No!” Hot Rod said, perhaps too hastily, and hurried to amend himself. “I mean, no thank you.” Primus, he didn’t need a psychotherapist analyzing him or telling him what he already knew. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“If you insist.” Prowl didn’t sound as though he believed Hot Rod. He sat forward in his chair, bending over his own datapads. “You’re dismissed for today, Hot Rod. Your work will be waiting for you next shift.”

“But…” He trailed off. Ultra Magnus never let him leave a shift early, whether he was paying attention or not. That would have been tantamount to dereliction of duty!

“Go.” Prowl had the nerve to shoo him, his door panels twitching behind him, though Hot Rod had no idea what that meant. He didn’t know Praxian frame language yet.

Hot Rod put down his datapad and pushed himself to his pedes, slowly though, in case Prowl changed his mind. But the tactician didn’t, returning his attention to his own work and saying nothing as Hot Rod backed to the door. He was silent as the door slid open as Hot Rod stepped past it, and didn’t so much as raise his helm as the door slid shut again.

Free. Without so much as a glare.

Hot Rod had no idea what to do with himself.

He checked his chronometer. This time of the day, most mechs would be on shift or out on patrol. He toyed with the idea of slipping in extra recharge but that sounded far too much like a nap and Hot Rod wasn’t a sparkling.

His knuckles were still healing so Hot Rod couldn’t go to the training room. It couldn’t hurt for him to go to the practice range, he supposed. He’d never beat Bluestreak or Mirage or Perceptor, but unless he started carrying around Optimus’ cannon, he could stand to be a better shot.

Might as well. Hot Rod turned toward the dispensary. He’d grab a cube for later and hit the range. Better to do something useful with this time than waste it.

Or a drive, he considered as he headed down the hall. He couldn’t remember the last time he took a leisurely drive through the countryside. The only time he’d been in alt-mode was on his rare, rare patrols. Maybe that was why his processor was stalling. He was a race car. He needed to race!

Hot Rod stepped into the dispensary, steps a little lighter. He was excited now, and it probably showed.

“Roddy!”

He cycled his optics, confused, and looked around the dispensary, surprised to see Springer and Sideswipe off in one of the corners. It was the middle of a shift? Weren’t they supposed to be on duty?

Hot Rod altered course. “Shouldn’t you two be on duty somewhere?”

“Not if we’re off-shift,” Sideswipe retorted with a smirk. “Did you learn that suspicious look from Prowl?”

“Oh, ha, ha.”

Springer tapped the table and shoved a chair toward Hot Rod with his pede. “And shouldn’t you be attached to said Praxian right now?”

“He gave me a break. I wasn’t paying enough attention apparently,” Hot Rod said, sliding into the offered seat and blinking when Sideswipe pushed a cube his direction, one that sloshed an eerie shade of orange. “Is that safe enough to drink?”

“Never know until you try it,” Sideswipe said with a wink.

Hot Rod gave it a tentative sniff, his olfactory sensors registering several additives that he was certain weren’t suitable for a Cybertronian’s system. The equivalent, he supposed, of saturated fats, mercury, and sodium for humans. But, oh, did they smell inviting. His tank gurgled. Junk food. His glossa moistened.

Prowl had all but ordered him to relax, right? Hot Rod took a careful sip, the taste sharp on his glossa and oily as it slid down his glossa.

“It goes down easy,” Springer said with a grunt. “But it sticks around a bit too long.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Sideswipe half-sang, shrugging. “That’s why I need test subjects. Thanks for volunteering.”

Hot Rod shuddered as the high grade hit his tanks. He all but felt it splash, combining with the dregs of his earlier cube and leaving a churning warmth behind. Hmm. It felt heavy, uncomfortable.

He put the cube down. “I think I’ll stop there,” he said, pushing it back toward Sideswipe with his finger.

“Suit yourself.” Sideswipe scooped up the cube with a laugh, put a cover on it, and the cube vanished into subspace, sure to be inflicted on another unsuspecting Autobot.

“So,” Springer said, nudging Hot Rod with his pede. “Why would Prowl, notorious for working through his own breaks, give you one?”

“Because I needed it?”

Sideswipe laughed out loud. Even Springer didn’t look convinced.

“I wasn’t paying attention apparently,” Hot Rod added and left it there. A whole slew of details were his to keep. If even Prowl noticed he was out of character, well, that said a lot.

Motion from the corner of his optic had Hot Rod turning his attention to the doorway, but it was only a small gaggle of minibots. No familiar blue and red frame. Not that he’d seen said familiar frame in a while. For all he knew, Tracks had transferred off-Earth or gone on another long-range patrol.

How long had it been? Two weeks? More? Less? The fact that he couldn’t remember exactly, what did that say? Was he a bad lover for not marking the date and time in his processor? Did it mean something that he couldn’t dictate the exact moment he and Tracks had parted?

Or did it prove a point? That Hot Rod hadn’t given it his all, that he couldn’t, and outside distractions had been their downfall. Even now, Hot Rod couldn’t give his full attention to the mess his personal life had become. Because there were Decepticons and Prime training and recharge occasionally broken by strange memory purges. Memories of the future and not the past, which made them even more disturbing.

Pain radiated from his left shin. Hot Rod hissed, startled, his gaze swinging back to Springer.

“You kicked me.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve been ignoring me,” Springer retorted, leaning back in his chair with some difficulty. His Earth alt-mode had decidedly more kibble than the Cybertronian version. “I’ve called your name three times.”

And, Hot Rod noticed, Sideswipe had left the table at some point.

Hot Rod sighed, rubbing his faceplate. “Sorry. Was thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Springer said, but the shared joke between them fell flat. He shifted, field radiating discomfort. “You all right?”

This… was not really a conversation Hot Rod wanted to have right now. Especially with Springer who had not once been supportive.

“Fine. Just tired.” He lowered his hand, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “More than ready to be done with this Prime slag and let everything go back to normal.”

“Except that it’s not just going to go back to normal,” Springer said. “Roddy, I don’t think the Matrix is going to, uh, change it’s mind.”

Hot Rod rolled his optics. “Duh.” It was a juvenile response but it was the only one that fit in his opinion. How stupid did Springer think he was?

His best friend shifted again before releasing a rattling ventilation. “This is about the stupid towerling, isn’t it?”

Hot Rod pushed back from the table. “I need to recharge.”

Springer’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm and keeping him from rising. “Oversensitive wimp. It was just a fragging question.”

Hot Rod jerked his arm free. “With you, it’s never just a question. Not that it matters since we’re through. Which should make you happy.”

“I do think it’s for the best,” Springer conceded, and his frown looked out of place as did the rest of his expression.

Hot Rod suddenly wished that he hadn’t given Sideswipe back the volatile high grade. At least then it would be something else to focus on, for all that the single sip still sat in his tanks like a lump of lead. “Of course you would. You never liked Tracks.”

“No, I didn’t,” Springer replied with that blunt honesty that Hot Rod had both loved and hated about his best friend. “But you’re pretty fragging miserable now and I don’t much like that either.”

Hot Rod cut his optics at Springer. “Careful. You’re dangerously close to admitting you were wrong.”

“Well, maybe I was.”

His jaw moved without making a sound. Hot Rod stared at his best friend, words failing him.

Springer fidgeted, another first. “Look,” he says, gaze slipping and sliding away. “I still say he’s a vain false towerling who doesn’t have two circuits to rub together. And he grinds my gears worse’n Blurr on a good day.” He sighed, rubbing his servo over his forehelm. “He’s not suitable for a Prime either, but that’s not my choice, is it?”

Stunned didn’t begin to cover the roil of emotion in Hot Rod’s energy field. “You…”

Springer shrugged and clapped a hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder, his energy field fuzzing with exasperated affection. “I just want you to be happy, Roddy. And this isn’t happy.”

“Happiness is a matter of opinion,” Hot Rod said, but he soaked in the affection. It was always better when he and Springer weren’t at odds. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. We’re over. There’s no saving us.”

“You’re sure?”

Hot Rod cycled a careful ventilation. “Yeah. Which is good because I need to focus on other things. We all have to grow up sometime and I suppose this is Primus telling me it’s time.”

Springer blinked at him. “Maybe. Because that certainly sounds like an older Roddy to me.”

“Oh, shut up.” Hot Rod offered a thin smile.

It felt, not good, but relieving to have it out in the open. To say aloud what he hadn’t wanted to admit to himself.

He and Tracks were over. There was nothing to salvage and there was no point in trying. Hot Rod did need to focus on other things. There were still in the midst of a war, for Primus’ sake. His relationship drama was an unnecessary distraction.

“I really do need to recharge though,” Hot Rod said, and he pushed himself to his pedes, glad that leaving this time was without anger.

Springer opted to stay longer. Hot Rod was too exhausted to even consider it. Besides all that, he had an early morning and more training than his tired processor could absorb. Not that it would stop any of his mentors from trying.

He bid Springer farewell, promised to be less of a stranger, and took his leave from the rec room. It was starting to get loud and boisterous behind him as though gearing up for another one of the Ark’s famous parties. Strange how Hot Rod didn’t regret that he was going to miss it.

Maybe something was changing within him after all.

In the doorway, Hot Rod nearly had a collision with another mech. He quickly sidestepped Smokescreen, tossing an apology over his shoulder, only to come face to face with Tracks. Everything within him stalled as their optics met.

Tracks said nothing, only stepped around Hot Rod to enter the recreation room and Hot Rod spoke before he thoroughly considered what to say.

“Hey,” he called out, and expected Tracks to keep going, to ignore him, but his former lover didn’t.

Tracks paused, half-turned, giving him a moment’s attention.

“I just…” He shifted his weight, brushing a hand over his helm. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. For everything.” For what was his fault, what wasn’t his fault, the things he could change, and the things he couldn’t. “And… that’s all.”

Silence swept between them, broken only by the sounds of revelry from the rec room and the gathered mechs within. Tracks stared at him, expression devoid of any telling emotion.

“I am as well,” Tracks finally said before he walked through the door, leaving Hot Rod in the hallway, staring at the after-image of his presence.

It was for the best. It was better this way.

Hot Rod turned and walked away, too.

****

[G1] One More Night 01

Part One

Hot Rod was in ecstasy, or as close to it as he could get without an overload, though he was certainly tiptoeing on the edge of one.

“More,” he demanded as Tracks’ nimble glossa swirled over his helm, flicking the very tip of his crest.

Energy crackled between them, heat swinging over Hot Rod’s circuits. His engine rumbled and Tracks’ echoed him, rattling the berth. Tracks chuckled, a sound that tickled at Hot Rod’s audials, and his hand buried itself in Hot Rod’s frame, stroking heated cables with deft flicks of his fingers.

There was certainly something to be said about experience, of which Tracks had in spades and was more than willing to demonstrate to Hot Rod. He arched beneath his older lover, hands scrabbling at the blue chestplate, thighs sliding against Tracks’ hips with a burr of metal resonation.

“So sexy,” Tracks murmured, rolling his frame, their plating scraping together as charge licked across it visibly. “So hot. Want to see you overload.”

Hot Rod panted, vents working furiously to chase away the heat brimming in his circuits. “Nnn. So close. Just a little – ah!”

He arched, helm tossing back, as Tracks’ hand worked beneath him, stroking the join of his spoiler and his dorsal armor. Sensitive components vibrated with pleasure. Charge flashed through him and he writhed, a sharp cry escaping his vocalizer.

Tracks hummed with satisfaction, rubbing his helm along Hot Rod’s, his weight pressing hot and heavy against Hot Rod’s frame. He moaned, not sure why he enjoyed that brief sensation of entrapment, only knowing it made a surge pass through his spark.

“Lovely,” Tracks said, nuzzling Hot Rod’s helm, his lips trekking a searing path down to Hot Rod’s lips, capturing them for a kiss. He’d been hanging around the humans too long, adopting some of their interfacing habits, but this was one Hot Rod had learned to enjoy.

Hot Rod moaned, burying his hand beneath Tracks’ plating, manipulating the circuitry wherein, determined to drag his lover into overload as well. Tracks’ glossa stroked against his, pleasure curling tight in his circuits. And then those deft fingers pinched the edge of his spoiler and Hot Rod lost it, catapulting straight into overload.

He shouted, something sharp and unintelligible, frame bucking up against his partner’s. His engine revved loudly, vibrating the berth, legs pressing tight against Tracks’ hips. His field flickered and caught on Tracks’ own, feeding the sweet ecstasy of his own overload into Tracks’ systems.

With a shudder and blue fire crackling over his armor, Tracks overloaded, a low-toned moan spilling from his vocalizer. He didn’t bother to hold himself up, letting his frame rest upon Hot Rod’s, heat pulsing outward, engine rumbling.

Hot Rod chuckled and withdrew his hands from under Tracks’ armor, letting them sweep lightly across over-sensitized plating. “Good?”

“Mmm. Always.” Tracks rubbed his helm along Hot Rod’s chestplate, not unlike a cat. “Could go for another.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Part of my charm, darling.” Tracks shifted just enough that he was no longer half-smothering Hot Rod, though one hand continued to pet Hot Rod’s spoiler. “Don’t pretend to hate it.”

Hot Rod’s lips quirked with a wry grin. “Never said that I did.” Engine purring, he threw a leg over Tracks, rolling his hips invitingly.

“Didn’t have to,” Tracks said in turn, and his helm dipped, fingers flexing against Hot Rod’s spoiler, building up a lazy charge.

A purr spilled from Hot Rod’s vocalizer, the warmth in his systems pulsing a sluggish need through his circuits. It wouldn’t take much to get him going again.

Tracks mouth wandered down, nipping at Hot Rod’s throat cables. He shivered, helm tossing back, eager for more. Tracks hummed approval but didn’t pause to nibble and tease as he usually would. His lips danced over Hot Rod’s collar fairing and continued downward, ex-venting heat on his chestplate.

Hot Rod moaned, arching up toward Tracks, tingles racing through his sensor net. “Tease.”

“Not quite,” Tracks promised and his glossa traced the center divide of Hot Rod’s chestplate, tickling over the narrow seam. “Come on, Roddy. Open up for me. Let me taste that pretty spark.”

A chill washed over Hot Rod. Not this again.

He groaned, the wet heat of his partner’s glossa startling good on his chest-seams. “Tracks…” Energy crackled through his frame, making him arch in pleasure, biting off his protest.

“Want to make you feel good,” Tracks insisted, hand flattening on Hot Rod’s ventral armor, tracing the flex of his abdominal plating. “Make you scream for me. Come on, sweetspark.”

Torn between pleasure and annoyance, Hot Rod lifted his hands, bracing them on his lover’s shoulders. “Tracks, no.” They’d had this discussion before, frag it. Did he have to spoil things this time?

“Just give it a chance,” Tracks insisted, pulling back so that Hot Rod could see that he’d already cracked his own chestplates, a sliver of pale sparklight seeping through. “You’ll enjoy it. I know you will.”

Energy spilled free, radiating against Hot Rod’s chassis, encouraging with delectable bursts of teasing pleasure.

“Tracks!” Hot Rod snapped, hands pushing at his lovers shoulder, shoving him back. “I said no, frag it!”

All at once, Tracks’ indulgent expression morphed into one of sheer irritation. He pulled back, clambering off the berth with less grace than usual, chestplate snapping closed with an audible noise that had to be intentional.

“Stop pushing me,” Hot Rod added, scooting back on the berth, effecting a distance between them all the more tangible by the heat still dancing over his circuits. His frame craved to pull Tracks back, let the charge build into a spectacular overload.

“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” Tracks frowned, folding his arm over his chestplate. “It’s just pleasure for Primus’ sake.”

“It’s more than that and you know it,” Hot Rod retorted and threw himself off the berth as well. “I’ve said it before. I’m not ready.”

Tracks rolled his optics. “It’s not a slagging spark bond. You act like I’m going to taint your spark or something.”

Hot Rod’s engine revved. “I never said anything like that.” Anger spiked through him before he could tamp it down.

“You don’t have to.” Tracks waved a dismissing hand through the air, winglets twitching. “Not when you turn colder than the Arctic the moment I touch your seams. Primus, Roddy, you act like such a mechlet sometimes.”

Hot Rod felt his faceplate flush with heat. Embarrassment warred with anger battled against guilt and clashed with the overwhelming burst of inadequacy. He didn’t know where to settle himself. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I’ve been an adult for ten vorn.”

“You don’t act like it.” Tracks squared his shoulders. “You’re such a fragging prude I can’t even touch you without you getting all huffy.”

This again? Seriously?

It was the same stupid argument over and over. Hot Rod felt like they were both broken records, spinning and skipping over the same jagged grooves.

“We were in the middle of the Command Center for Primus’ sake!” His voice was louder now, closer to a shout, and Hot Rod struggled to put himself back under control. He didn’t want another talk with Optimus Prime.

“I brushed your spoiler,” Tracks snapped with an irritated burst of his energy field, bathing the room with discontent. “It’s not like I demanded a free-for-all.”

Hot Rod gritted his denta. “It doesn’t matter what it was. That kind of behavior is inappropriate.”

“Ah, I see.” Inclining his helm, Tracks gave the impression of looking down his olfactory sensor. “Quoting Ultra Magnus are we?”

“You know that I have certain responsibilities now.”

Tracks’ optics narrowed. “I am not dull-witted. My processor runs just fine.”

The urge to shout in aggravation was quickly swallowed down. But Smelter’s Pit! Tracks had the worst tendency to be a drama queen, as the humans would say, sometimes.

“Then you understand why I have to behave a certain way,” Hot Rod said, drawing several deep ventilations. One optical ridge twitched, betraying his inner annoyance.

Anger flashed again, bursting from Tracks’ energy field, a slap to the faceplate. “I understand that you’re ashamed of me.”

Of all the…

“I never said that!”

“Actions speak louder.” Tracks’ hands snapped down from his chestplate, balling into fists. “Why else won’t you touch sparks with me?”

Hot Rod’s hand whipped over his helm as he whirled away from Tracks, trying to force down the anger that kept cropping up despite himself. “Smelter’s Pit! Why can’t you leave that alone?”

“Why can’t you give me a straight slagging answer?” Tracks’ voice rung through Hot Rod’s quarters, echoing over the empty walls and probably quite clear in the hallway outside Hot Rod’s door.

Again.

Fingers curling into furious fists, Hot Rod whipped around again. “Argh,” he growled, one arm whipping out, hand flung toward the door. “Just get out.”

Tracks’ helm jerked back in affront. “What?”

“You heard me,” Hot Rod snapped. “Get the frag out! I can’t deal with you tonight.” Especially not with charge still zapping through his circuits, heightened by the strength of his emotions and enticed by the gleam of Tracks’ pristine armor.

Tracks huffed, winglets jerking upright behind him, not unlike a Praxian. “I don’t have time for a Pit-spawned tease either,” he snarled, whirling on a heel and storming toward the door.

How he managed to slam a sliding door was beyond Hot Rod’s understanding, but somehow the melodramatic fighter managed to do so. Hot Rod could all but hear Tracks’ stomping pedesteps as they fled down the hall.

By the Allspark!

Heaving a great ventilation, Hot Rod shook his helm, palming his faceplate. This was… what? The fifth time this month? To be fair, it wasn’t the same argument, but the fact that they’d had it out in one way or another so much recently was telling.

Maybe Springer was right.

Hot Rod dropped his hand, rolling his optics. Yeah, that’s what he was going to do. Tell the arrogant fragger that he was right. Springer wouldn’t know what to do if Ultra Magnus drew him a map and Prowl provided detailed directions!

Audials aching, Hot Rod checked his chronometer. Hours to go until his shift. He supposed he could do with a quick recharge. Anything to chase away the irritation simmering inside of him.

But first, he would require a trip to the washracks, if only to dispel the heated charge zipping through his frame. Tracks had left him in quite a state, as was his usual form of petty revenge, and Hot Rod didn’t have the energy to take care of it himself. Nor the wherewithal.

His new quarters, empty and devoid of personality as they were, came equipped with a private washrack, much to his pleasure. It was small, only large enough for a single mech, but, if pressed, he could squeeze in here with Tracks. They had taken advantage of that on more than one occasion.

Best not to think of that right now. It certainly wouldn’t help him cool down.

He settled for a temperature just above chilly and started to scrub down, the cold, cleanser seeping through the gaps in his armor and chasing away the heat. It wasn’t until the majority of the suds washed away that he noticed the marks, scrapes of dark blue paint that were a stark contrast to his own bright colors.

Hot Rod gritted his denta. Why was he not surprised? Tracks could emerge pristine no matter how often they interfaced, yet somehow managed to leave evidence of himself behind. Like some kind of claim. Were Hot Rod less irritated, he might have been flattered. He’d have to cut his recharge short, just to fix this before his shift.

Frag Tracks to the Pit and back.

Slamming his palm over the washrack controls, Hot Rod cut off the water flow and quickly toweled himself off. The soothing caress of the water had lost its calming effect.

Back in his quarters, Hot Rod cut off the lights and climbed onto his berth, still rumpled and carrying the faint scent of charged circuits. He tossed the padding onto the floor, resolved to laying on the unadorned surface, and stared blankly across the dark space of his quarters. Emergency lights provided a dim illumination, reminding him of the unfamiliarity of the room.

Once upon a time, he’d shared quarters only slightly larger than this with two other mechs. He’d bunked with Springer while Blurr got the single berth and their room had been organized chaos, tolerable only because their shifts varied so frequently. Hot Rod used to fall into recharge counting the ventilations of his roommates, or the incessant ticking of Blurr’s annoying human-made clock.

And then came a bitter clash with the Decepticons. Hot Rod had gotten the brutal end of Bruticus’ fist, not that there were any tender ends, and ended up flat on his back in Ratchet’s care, chestplate crushed and pressing in on his spark chamber. The medic had been forced to cut through his frontal armor to get to his spark chamber, which had been breached but not crushed, a twist of fate that had saved Hot Rod’s life.

It had also exposed his spark to the room at large, the first time any mech had seen Hot Rod’s spark since it reached maturity. Optimus had been on servo, ready to help with welding when the time came as he often did when there were more damaged than there were medics to handle. Hot Rod had found himself wielding a roll of duct tape and line sealant on more than one occasion.

Both Ratchet and Optimus had gotten a good, hard look at Hot Rod’s spark, but it was Optimus who had the greatest reaction. He’d stumbled, nearly taken out a worried, hovering Springer, and clutched at his chestplates as though they pained him. Hot Rod, unconscious at the time, hadn’t felt a fragged thing, but mechs told him later that his spark had flared brightly as though in recognition.

When he woke a couple days later, stiff and sore and covered in temp plating, Optimus had been sitting at his berthside, ready to deliver the good news. Well, good in Optimus’ opinion. Hot Rod had only seen it as a curse.

Apparently, Hot Rod was a Prime. Or would eventually be a Prime. His spark resonance was eerily similar to Optimus’ and the Matrix had reacted the moment Hot Rod’s spark had been bared. It called to the future Prime, not that Hot Rod had been aware enough to sense it.

Optimus had been overjoyed. Hot Rod had wanted to keep it a secret, pretend it never happened, but secrets didn’t last in the Ark. Many mechs had witnessed the interaction in the medbay and once the Autobots got to whispering, the truth had to come out, because it was better than the wild, operatic stories.

Besides, Ultra Magnus told him, Hot Rod couldn’t ignore his destiny.

After that, everything changed. No one looked at him the same anymore. He was still Hot Rod, but he was also Rodimus, a designation they claimed was his due, and he would use once he’d finished his “training.” Now he had responsibilities he didn’t want, a heavy weight on his shoulders, and dozens of optics looking to him for answers.

Optimus, too, had seemed relieved that there was finally someone with whom he should share his burden.

Hot Rod still wasn’t sure himself if he was happy with the revelation. Sometimes, he just wanted to be his ignorant, arrogant self again. He wanted no responsibilities. To be nothing more than a foot soldier in the Autobot army. Becoming a Prime was a hindrance, an annoyance. It complicated everything.

Especially his relationships.

Oh, Springer looked at him the same. Hot Rod could probably singlehandedly end the war and Springer would still treat him like a youngling and for that, Hot Rod was grateful.

Tracks was… complicated. While he didn’t instantly see Hot Rod with a new tint to his optics, there was still a noticeable alteration to his behavior. He didn’t much like all the time Hot Rod’s new responsibilities required. But they’d been together before the truth came out, and that was what mattered to Hot Rod.

Difficult, however, did not even begin to describe his life now.

He didn’t have patrols anymore. He was always cloistered in one office or another, being trained in all aspects of leading the Autobots. He met daily with Optimus or Ultra Magnus or Prowl. He trained with Ironhide and Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. He studied security with Red Alert and endured processor-numbing lessons on communications with Blaster. At least Jazz’s meetings were fascinating, but they were few and far between. He attended diplomatic events and glared at mounds of paperwork and found his free-time drastically reduced.

His fellow Autobots didn’t know how to react around him anymore. Some had chosen to flee the other direction. Others treated him with an uneasy and distant respect. Some had sneered at his back, unflaggingly loyal to Optimus as though Hot Rod had planned to steal the Primacy and the Matrix. Some acted liked he was made of glass. Some reacted poorly to his newly given authority.

Springer took it in stride. Arcee, too. Kup treated him the same because he treated Optimus like a youngling, but Kup wasn’t here right now and Hot Rod craved that normalcy.

And Tracks…

Tracks still saw him as Hot Rod, but the new responsibilities were definitely putting a strain on things. Hot Rod didn’t have the time he used to, their schedules often conflicted, and Tracks didn’t understand that sometimes, Hot Rod didn’t have a choice.

Hot Rod sighed, throwing an arm over his optics, trying to will himself to recharge. He had to be at Ultra Magnus’ office bright and early, literally before the dawn, and his old commander didn’t tolerate lateness. Not even from a future Prime.

He would have to save endlessly chewing on the unfortunate turn his functioning had taken for another time. Recharge was a long time in coming.

~

Hot Rod emerged from recharge the following morning feeling as though he hadn’t managed to defrag for a single astrosecond, his intakes wheezing, and his systems pinging him for energon. He wasn’t low on fuel yet, but over the years, his tanks had grown accustomed to a certain level of fullness and they were obnoxious, demanding portions of his internals.

He groaned and rolled out of the berth, nearly clattering to the floor. He rubbed his palms over his optics, which rebooted several times in an effort to clear post-recharge static. He wasn’t operating on all cylinders. At all.

Something was blinking in the corner of his HUD. Hot Rod straightened, trying to drag out a measure of focus. He had things to do today, first and foremost fixing the scratches in his paint. Tracks-caused scratched.

Hot Rod scowled and some of the fog in his processor cleared. He peered at his HUD, only for his optics to cycle wider.

Frag. Frag! Frag! Gragh!

Fuel pump reacting to his agitation, energon coursed through his lines. Hot Rod ran around his quarters, trying to find the datapad Magnus had given him yesterday. He was going to be late. He must have recharged through both of his internal alarms. This was all Tracks’ fault, frag it!

Datapads and gametracks scattered to the floor as Hot Rod swept his hands over his desk, still unable to find the one he needed. If Tracks hadn’t tackled him the minute they came back to their quarters, maybe he wouldn’t have disorganized the pile!

Frustrated, Hot Rod gave up on his search. Ultra Magnus would give him that annoyingly disappointed look again, but showing up late would be a worse offense.

Tamping down on several growls of his engine, Hot Rod all but pelted out of his quarters, narrowly missing a collision with Ironhide.

“Hot–”

“Sorry, ‘Hide. I’ll be more careful!” Hot Rod threw over his shoulder but couldn’t pause any longer than that.

He wouldn’t even have time to go to the rec room or fix his scratches. Could this day possibly get any worse?

Time ticked down on his HUD. Hot Rod debated, for a fraction of a second, utilizing his alt-mode, but Red Alert’s last lecture still echoed in his audials. That, combined with Prowl’s infamously cold disappointed look was enough to keep him firmly on two pedes.

Hot Rod all but ran down the halls, barely avoiding collisions with two other Autobots, before he skidded to a halt in front of Magnus’ office, vents working up a furious lather. He pinged for entrance, the door sliding open almost immediately after, and Hot Rod sliding inside, utilizing a more sedate, dignified pace.

No, Magnus, I wasn’t just running through the halls like a misbehaving sparkling, why do you ask?

“You are three minutes and twenty-one seconds late,” Ultra Magnus said as the door slid shut behind Hot Rod.

Hot Rod’s shoulders sagged. “You never cut me any slack.”

“Not anymore.” Magnus’ optics flicked up, measuring and dismissing Hot Rod’s appearance all in the space of a glance. “Sit.”

Hot Rod slouched into the only available chair, trying not to grimace at the hard edges and straight-back. He swore to Primus that Ultra Magnus had either acquired or requested the most uncomfortable chair in all of Cybertron. And then, embarrassingly, his tank gurgled.

Ultra Magnus’ optics had returned to his datapads, but one servo lifted from his work, stylus pushing an energon cube on his desk in Hot Rod’s direction. “I thought you might need this.”

“How do you always know?” Hot Rod wrapped his servo around the energon, gratitude flickering through his energy field.

The stylus returned to the datapad with measured, rhythmic scritching across the surface. “I am sure there a few Ark mechs who did not hear your… discussion last night. I am not one of them.”

Hot Rod slouched further, feeling his faceplates heat. He was uncomfortably aware of the paint streaks on his frame, the incriminating bold blue and less obvious dark grey. He lifted his cube, if only to hide his faceplate behind it. “Oh.”

A moment of silence permeated the office.

Ultra Magnus set down his stylus with a defining click, giving Hot Rod the full extent of his attention. “Rodimus–”

He jerked upright. “Not yet!” Primus, not yet. Hot Rod wasn’t even sure he wanted the designation to ever be used for real.

The future city commander’s energy field fluctuated, vents expelling a long exhaust. “Hot Rod,” Magnus conceded, one servo lifting to rub his nasal ridge. “It is not my place to choose your partners for you. But you are also no longer in a position to be so indiscreet either.”

Hot Rod scowled, toying with his energon. He hadn’t brought himself to drink it yet. “It was an argument.”

“And if it was the first one, the first incident, I would not find a need to make mention of it.”

He groaned, tossing his helm back to stare up at the ceiling, which didn’t feel the need to give him a disappointed or chastising look. “Are you telling me to end it?”

Ultra Magnus’ chair creaked. “I am not here to regulate your personal affairs. I am simply reminding you of your position.”

“I know what my position is. I know it all too fragging well.” Hot Rod’s helm snapped down and he focused on his energon, sucking down half of it in one gulp. It was low-grade, utterly flavorless, and Hot Rod couldn’t be surprised. There wasn’t a flavored strut in Magnus’ whole frame. “Everyone’s doing their slagged best to remind me of it as often as possible.”

Another breathy ex-vent left Magnus’ frame, a sigh of dissatisfaction. “Watch your language,” he chastised as though Hot Rod were a unruly sparkling playing around Kup’s pedes again. “It is a mark of an uncultured processor.”

Hot Rod barely resisted the urge to roll his optics. Clearly Magnus had never seen Optimus and Ironhide get into it. The only mech who cursed better than those two was Ratchet and his expletives could peel the paint off a mech’s frame.

“Can you change the subject?” Hot Rod asked.

“Very well. Since you insist.” Ultra Magnus leaned back in his chair, giving Hot Rod a level look. “Have you finished the datapad I gave you?”

“Most of it,” Hot Rod hedged. And by most of it, he meant none of it. Could he help that the reading was dry, tedious, and full of calculations only someone like Perceptor could comprehend.

Magnus’ look could have been a picture in the dictionary next to disbelief. “Good,” he said flatly. “Then you will have no problem following along with today’s lesson.”

Hot Rod couldn’t possibly sink any lower in his chair, though he gave it a good try. He never thought he’d see the day where he’d miss monitor day. But the prospect of spending all morning and afternoon listening to Ultra Magnus lecture him on energon usage, consumption, and refining, made Hot Rod long for a regularly boring patrol or a double-shift of staring at monitors.

Today was going to last forever.

~

By the time Ultra Magnus felt he had done his civic duty in stuffing Hot Rod’s processor with as much Prime-worthy data as possible, the first shift had long since ended, the second shift was about to do so, and Hot Rod was so tired he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have a hard time falling into recharge. He felt like he was running on fumes, both energetically and processor-capacity wise.

All he wanted was to crawl into his berth and recharge for a week. Only he couldn’t because Ultra Magnus wanted to see him bright and early tomorrow, too.

Hot Rod dragged his pedes, wiping a palm down his faceplate. He felt like his fatigue must have been visible or something. As he rounded the curve of the hallway, his spark dropped into his tanks.

Tracks was waiting outside his door. Hot Rod really wasn’t up for this. He’d blocked off his personal comm both because Ultra Magnus demanded his full attention and because he didn’t want to hear the relentless pings Tracks would have no doubt sent.

Hot Rod’s shoulders sagged, along with everything else. “Tracks–”

The other mech held up a servo. “You’re exhausted,” he said bluntly, pushing himself off the wall where he’d been leaning, perfectly posed. “And I don’t want to fight.”

Well, that was a relief. Hot Rod didn’t much want to fight either.

“Good,” Hot Rod said, striding to his door with more confidence than he felt. “Because I’m still furious at you.”

Tracks twitched, lipplates pressing together, but Hot Rod could appreciate the effort he expended in restraining himself. “Granted,” Tracks allowed and his optics leisurely traced Hot Rod’s frame. “Can I come in?”

Servo raised to the panel, Hot Rod barely repressed a sigh. “You said it yourself. I’m too exhausted.”

“Not for that,” Tracks huffed a ventilation, indignation warming his energy field. “Let me take care of you.”

Hot Rod’s helm dipped. He really didn’t have the processing-capacity to give this the serious thought it required.

“Please, brightspark,” Tracks urged, one servo lifting, the back of it lightly dragging down Hot Rod’s faceplate in the lightest of caresses that always turned Hot Rod to mush. “Let me make it up to you.”

If he said no, Tracks would leave. He’d get that rolling disappointment in his energy field that always made Hot Rod feel sparkbroken, and he’d trudge down the hall, but he’d leave.

His berth had been cold last night. Hot Rod didn’t want to listen to his quarters tick all over again.

“Fine,” he acquiesced, fingers tapping in his code. Tracks knew it, but Towers-raised politeness dictated he be given an invitation first. His long-standing one expired with every argument. “Come on in.”

His door slid open and Hot Rod entered, Tracks right behind him. Strange how his quarters felt less cold and empty already. Hot Rod honestly wasn’t sure the implications of that.

His door slid back shut with a quiet click and that was when the servos landed on his shoulders, resting there with warm, obvious intent.

“Tracks…”

“You need a quick wax,” Tracks said before Hot Rod could get out a single protest. “and I have a cube for you, too.”

Hot Rod felt the brush of lips across the back of his helm and then, to his surprise, the hands lifted from his shoulders and Tracks stepped away.

He cycled his optics in surprise. “Thanks.”

Hot Rod watched, more than a little flabbergasted, as Tracks moved around his quarters with ease, cleaning up the mess they’d made yesterday and pulling out a few items from his subspace.

Another wave of fatigue hit and Hot Rod shook his helm, stumbling toward the berth. Recharge sounded impossibly good right now.

He climbed up, braced his back against the corner, and accepted the cube that Tracks offered him. It was a pale shade, not low-grade, but a more refined mid-grade. He sniffed it cautiously, olfactory sensors detecting whiffs of some finely sourced additives.

If this was an apology, so far it was a damn good one.

Hot Rod drank and watched Tracks, who poked around Hot Rod’s quarters as though the disarray of it offended him in some manner. Sometimes, Tracks could be finicky. Over the years, Hot Rod had gotten used to it.

The energon hit his tanks, giving him a suffusion of energy. His internals warmed, systems humming in relief.

“Allright,” Tracks announced, startling Hot Rod who had gotten used to the soft quiet of his quarters. “Lay flat.”

Hot Rod drank the rest of the cube and dispersed it. “Who’d you have to bribe for the energon?” he asked as he obeyed, laying on his ventral surface and folding his arms beneath his helm.

“Sideswipe owed me a favor,” Tracks replied, approaching the berth with cloth and wax in hand, his own plating gleaming per the usual.

Hot Rod chuckled, offlining his optics. “I should have guessed.”

Tracks was nothing but efficient and professional as he attended to Hot Rod’s armor. The soft, steady swipes of the cloth were soothing, sending a low purr through Hot Rod’s systems. It felt a lot like being spoiled, not that Hot Rod minded.

This was definitely an apology he approved of. Receiving a Tracks-approved wax meant he’d have a finish many Autobots would envy for weeks.

Hot Rod completely relaxed under the attention, the careful stroking of the wax making his backstrut tingle. It was unintentional on Tracks’ part, Hot Rod knew, but that didn’t stop it from feeling exceptionally nice. Hot Rod’s engine began to purr, a low tone, but audible nonetheless. His energy field quivered, all but purring with pleasure.

“I can stop,” Tracks said quietly, servos pausing where they were currently rubbing delicious circles on Hot Rod’s spoiler.

“No,” Hot Rod was quick to say, and he purposefully loosed his plating, an obvious invitation. “I don’t mind.”

His fatigue was still present, though his energy levels at a more adequate level. But now his processor wouldn’t stop running. It was still chomping on all the data Ultra Magnus had forced him to download, and then the relentless grilling afterward to ensure he had absorbed the information. He could still hear Magnus’ vocals ringing in his audials, repeating certain phrases over and over and over…

“Even if I do this?” Tracks replied, definite teasing in his tone as he dropped his servos, thumbs sweeping into a gap at Hot Rod’s pelvic array, tracing the bundle of cables usually hidden beneath.

He shivered from helm to pede, heat blooming at the bare touch. It was one of his erogenous zones and Tracks well knew it. He pushed toward the other mech’s digits, shamelessly demanding more.

“Primus, that’s sexy,” Tracks murmured and the temperature in the room definitely ticked up a notch, his engine giving off a quiet rev. “But I still maintain this wasn’t my intention.” And his servos returned to the brisk, efficient polishing.

“Tease,” Hot Rod muttered, a light charge already humming through his systems. His spark was a happy throb in his chassis.

Perhaps an overload or two couldn’t hurt.

“The terms, I believe, were initially set by you,” Tracks said, vocals rich with humor. Hot Rod did not miss, however, the teasing slide of Tracks’ fingers against his transformation seams.

His engine gave a rumble of exasperation.

“There,” Tracks announced with a pat to Hot Rod’s aft. “Shined to perfection.”

Hot Rod turned on his side, albeit awkwardly thanks to the span of his spoiler, and snagged Tracks’ servo before his lover could turn away. He pulled it close, pressing a kiss to Tracks’ knuckles. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Tracks replied, his vocals turned soft and silky. “It’s hardly a trial to put my servos on your lovely frame.”

He had such a way with words.

Hot Rod smiled as he nipped at the tips of Tracks’ fingers, noticing the tell-tale shiver that ruffled Tracks’ plating. “Join me on the berth?”

The wax and cloth vanished into subspace. “Have I earned your forgiveness?”

Hot Rod ex-vented a burst of warm, hot air over Tracks’ hand and the haptic sensors that were particularly responsive. “We’ll talk about that later.”

“Something to look forward to I suppose,” Tracks said dryly.

Hot Rod smirked and gave Tracks a tug, pulling his lover onto the berth. It took a moment of clambering and stumbling and much cursing on both their parts before Hot Rod managed to get Tracks right where he wanted him: on the bottom. He straddled Tracks’ frame, his inner thigh plating feeling the heat of Tracks’ pelvic armor.

Their energy fields were already pulsing, Hot Rod’s with eager intent and Tracks’ with delighted surprise.

Blue servos found their way to Hot Rod’s hips, holding him firmly in place. Not that he had any plans to escape. Not with Tracks looking up at him, optics gradually darkening, his glossa sliding over his lipplate. Primus, he really was gorgeous.

Hot Rod leaned forward, servos sliding up Tracks’ chassis until their chestplates brushed. The faint pull of metal on metal made charge dance across his circuits. It felt like Tracks had been teasing him all night.

Blue servos worked their way upward, sliding along Hot Rod’s lateral seams, making him shiver. His hips danced, grinding against Tracks, and static crawled across their frames, the scent of hot metal filling the air. Desire pulsed in Tracks’ energy field, wrapping around Hot Rod and enticing him.

“Hey,” Tracks murmured as Hot Rod leaned down and nuzzled into his throat. “Connect with me?”

He didn’t even have to think about it. “Second tier only,” Hot Rod whispered in return, spark pulsing an excited rhythm.

“That’s fair,” Tracks replied, but his vocals crackled on the edge.

Hot Rod smiled, a panel on his thigh popping open invitingly. Sparks leapt into the air from his interface, betraying his arousal.

In vengeance, Hot Rod leaned down, glossa slicking over Tracks’ audial. His lover groaned, fingers clenching down on Hot Rod’s hips.

“You going to connect some time today?” Hot Rod teased, denta dragging over Tracks’ audial in a light scrape of metal.

Tracks rolled his optics. “Can you blame me for taking my time to savor a little?” he retorted, fingers dipping into the seams of Hot Rod’s abdominal array. But the panel popping open on his own abdomen betrayed his desire.

“You take too much time and I might fall into recharge,” Hot Rod retorted, but it lacked heat as he swirled his glossa around Tracks’ audial, eliciting a moan from his partner.

Tracks chuckled, connecting them with brisk efficiency, all too familiar with Hot Rod’s frame. A rolling purr emerged from Hot Rod’s vocalizer as their cables clicked home, systems syncing with near-immediate speed.

He rolled his hips, the slide of metal on metal a heady sensation, only absently remembering to set his permissions. Tracks had yet to pry, but Hot Rod still didn’t want his partner diving into his memories. But that was a bit too close to spark-sharing for Hot Rod’s liking and he maintained he wasn’t ready for that level of intimacy.

But exchanging bright bursts of pleasure and desire and ecstasy? That Hot Rod could do. And he enjoyed it immensely.

Desire flooded the connection, Tracks’ thick with want and apology and admiration for the sleek curves of Hot Rod’s frame. His hands roamed with eager intent, drawing lines of charge all over Hot Rod’s plating, sweeping down his arms, his thighs, over his abdominal armor.

Hot Rod moaned, pulsing a sense-memory of Tracks’ earlier polishing session across the link. The soft sweep of the cloth. The teasing tickle of it when it slipped between seams, caressing his cables. He felt Tracks moving beneath him, frame surging and sinking like the ebb and flow of the ocean.

Tracks surged upward, vents bursting, his arms wrapping around Hot Rod. He crushed their chassis together, and Hot Rod far from minded, his mouth seeking out Tracks’. Their glossas tangled as Hot Rod wrapped his arms over Tracks’ shoulders, one hand cupping the back of the flier’s helm.

Pleasure burst like bright lightning across their connection. Hot Rod’s cooling fans kicked on with a roar, and he rocked his hips against Tracks, loving the slide of hot metal against hot metal.

A string of nonsense words poured through the link, Tracks pouring compliments on Hot Rod. Murmuring about the shade of his plating, the curve of his aft, the lift of his spoiler. It was designed entirely to seduce and by Primus, but it was working.

Hot Rod shivered, frame moving in constant rhythm against Tracks’, balling up the pleasure dancing through his circuits and throwing it across their connection. Tracks moaned into his mouth, field rising up and crashing down on Hot Rod, blanketing them both in liquid hot desire.

Hot Rod shuddered as the charge licked over his circuits, dancing like blue lightning across their connection. His free hand pressed against Tracks’ backplate then reached for his right shoulder tire, fingers wriggling into the narrow gaps and pressing against the sensitive joints.

Tracks’ sharp intake betrayed his arousal, as did the arch of his backstrut, the stutter of pleasure coming across the link before it roared into sheer ecstasy. The overload seemed to take him by surprise, crackling like fire over his frame, charge spilling out form his substructure.

Hot Rod purred, enjoying the view and the sheer sensory bliss that overflowed across their connection. His cables felt hot, connectors throbbing, and Tracks pawed at his back with desperate fingers, gripping and squeezing the base of Hot Rod’s spoiler.

Liquid electricity snapped through his sensor-net. Hot Rod shouted, bucking sharply against Tracks, overload slamming into his systems. His ventilations skipped a cycle, spark pulsing in its chamber, and his grip on Tracks’ armor tightened to the point of creaking. He panted, tilting forward, forehelm resting on Tracks’ shoulder as the aftershocks made him tremble.

“That was a good one,” Tracks purred, hands stroking up and down Hot Rod’s backplate lightly, meant to soothe rather than arouse.

“You’re telling me.”

The datastream was a sluggish flow between them now, transmitting soft waves of content and satisfaction and, in Hot Rod’s case, complete and utter fatigue. Lack of recharge the night prior and a long day spent in Magnus’ care only contributed to his exhaustion.

Hot Rod’s shoulder sank, frame sagging in Tracks’ arms. “Primus, I’m exhausted,” he muttered, arms sagging as well.

Tracks chuckled, gently disengaging their cables and helping stow them away. “I can tell.”

He lay back, Hot Rod adjusting his weight as he moved, until they were lying on the berth, Hot Rod all but sprawled over Tracks’ frame. For once, the vain Autobot wasn’t griping about the risk to his paint. He was instead content to wrap his arms around Hot Rod, one hand stroking his spoiler.

This was very nice indeed. He sent a command to dim the lights.

“Gonna recharge now,” Hot Rod said, hearing the drowsiness in his voice, the soft purring of his engine as it cycled down into idle. He could feel recharge pulling at him, within reach instead of absent as it had been the previous night.

“Want me to stay?” Tracks asked.

“Don’t want you to leave,” Hot Rod murmured, optics shuttering and cooling fans dropping to a soft whirr.

If Tracks said anything else, Hot Rod didn’t hear him. He shifted into recharge and was out within seconds.

o0o0o

No more was said about their argument. It was as if it never happened.

Hot Rod left the berth before Tracks, who always recharged as late as possible, the hedonist. He wanted to be on time for his meeting with Magnus for once, instead of having to endure another hour of bitching about his time management skills.

A quick trip to the washracks and the rec room and then Hot Rod turned himself over to Ultra Magnus’ not-so-tender mercies. Magnus was a merciless taskmaster, drilling Hot Rod endlessly on trade agreements and policy and equations and governing efficiency.

It was a long and grueling day, but good behavior prompted Hot Rod an early release and he all but left skid marks on the floor of Ultra Magnus’ office in his haste to escape. He couldn’t risk Magnus changing his mind and shoving more datapads to study at him.

It was also the perfect opportunity to comm Springer. He hadn’t spoken to his best friend in days and after yesterday, Hot Rod could use the opportunity to unwind.

‘The prodigal son returns!’ Springer announced before Hot Rod could so much as complete the comm alert.

Hot Rod rolled his optics. ‘Very funny, Spring. You on shift?’

‘Just got off. Why? You finally break the bonds of Prime-dom?’

‘Something like that. I need a break before my processor melts.’

Springer’s rich, baritone rolled across the comm with a burst of laughter. ‘Come to the rec room then. Sides is starting up a game and offering the stakes.’

It was tempting. Sideswipe always had the good stuff and being surrounded by that much noise and chatter was just the cure Hot Rod needed for all of the official business taking up space in his memory banks.

‘I’ll be there,’ Hot Rod replied and cut the comm before Springer could say anything else. He loved the triple-changer like the brother he never had, but it was a well-known fact that Springer could be kind of an aft.

He hurried to the rec room, which had been expanded over the years to make room for the newer arrivals. It was nearly twice the size as before, but it still seemed too small, what with all the mechs and femmes currently crammed into it. Standing in the doorway, Hot Rod wondered if anyone was even on-shift. There was barely room to move.

He rose on the tips of his pedes, trying to peer above the sea of helms, many taller than him. He spotted Springer instantly, the triple-changer’s mass and coloration making it easy. Of Tracks, he saw no sign. Which was strange because Tracks never missed a gathering if he could help it.

Unless…

Hot Rod checked the publicly posted schedule. Tracks was on a long-range patrol with Blurr. Come to think of it, Hot Rod did seem to remember his partner saying something about that a couple of orns ago. Must be why he’d been so quick to apologize.

Working his way through the crowd, Hot Rod made his way to the table where he’d located Springer. There were half a dozen others there as well, including Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Inferno, Trailbreaker, and Windcharger. A full house.

Springer noticed him first of course. “Roddy!” he half-yelled over the pulsing beat of the music and the dull roar of a dozen conversations going on at once. “You actually made it.”

“I said I would,” Hot Rod replied, and his tone might have been a little curt. Just a smidge.

“Pull up a seat,” Sideswipe said with an open-palmed smack to Hot Rod’s back. “The fun’s just getting started.”

“I saved you a cube,” Springer added, pulling out the empty chair next to him with a barely audible screech of metal on metal.

“Thanks,” Hot Rod said and plopped down into his seat, spoiler visibly relaxing against his dorsal plating. “What’re we playing?”

Sideswipe smirked. “Five card draw. Overall winner gets sole discretion of my latest batch.”

“Big word,” Smokescreen teased.

“Prowl gave him a dictionary for his last punishment,” Trailbreaker drawled, amusement rich in his tones. “Made him study it until his processor melted.”

Windcharger giggled, clearly having imbibed a great deal of Sideswipe’s stock already. “What? You mean it wasn’t already?”

“Oh, ha ha. Shut the frag up you two.” Sideswipe pointed at Hot Rod with a card. “You in, Roddy?”

“Yeah, deal me in.” He peered at the energon Springer shoved at him. It was a rather vivid shade of orange, not unlike his own paint, and Hot Rod sniffed it cautiously. It didn’t smell like poison but one couldn’t be sure with Sideswipe.

Might as well take a chance. Primus only knew when Hot Rod would get another opportunity to just be a normal mech like this.

He took a cautious sip, only for his optics to spiral outward in surprise. It was delicious, spicy with a bite that made his glossa tingle. Frag, he wished he had a chance in the Pit to win more, but he didn’t. Not with Smokescreen and Inferno here.

Oh, well.

The cards were dealt, and Hot Rod sipped at his energon some more, hoping to savor it, while soaking in the noise and haste of his fellow Autobots.

“So,” Springer said, leaning in close and probably peeking at Hot Rod’s cards all at the same time. “You gonna tell me what happened between you and the preening fop?” The latter, Hot Rod noticed, was spoken with a tone that both mocked and mimicked Tracks’ distinctive accent.

Hot Rod worked his jaw, expelling a heavy ventilation. “Don’t call him that.”

“It’s the nicest thing I have in my arsenal.”

Discarding two cards, Hot Rod shot his best friend an annoyed look. This was a continued sore topic between them. “You could use his designation.”

“He’s your partner, not mine.” Springer rolled his shoulders, unapologetic. “I’m not obligated to like him.”

The good mood that Hot Rod had threatened to evaporate. “Really, Springer? Now?”

“Hey, you’re the one arguing with him loud enough for the whole Ark to hear.”

Hot Rod folded, throwing his cards down to the table as he turned to give Springer his full attention. “Look, I already heard it from Magnus. Don’t you start, too.”

“I’m just saying. Take a hint.”

Firming his lipplates, Hot Rod ignored his best friend, choosing instead to concentrate on the card game. Their fellow players were doing an excellent job of pretending not to eavesdrop, though it was obvious they were. Windcharger loved gossip and Sideswipe loved drama.

“You have to admit,” Springer continued, forever unperturbed by the fact he might be slagging someone off. “I’ve been saying it all along. He’s a high maintenance idiot with a flashy paintjob. I still don’t know what you see in him.”

Hot Rod’s spoiler jerked hard against his backstrut, anger seeping to the fore. “I didn’t ask you,” he hissed, jerking an elbow toward Springer. “And stop insulting him. Primus, you’re such an aft!”

Springer rolled his optics, leaning back to get more comfortable in his chair. “Do you honestly think he’s suitable for a Prime consort?”

“Since when have you cared?” Hot Rod demanded, completely forgetting about the game now. His concentration was shot anyway.

“Well?” Springer prompted, raising both orbital ridges. “Do you?”

Conversation around the table continued without their input, but Hot Rod knew their friends were listening. He lowered his tone, debating just getting up from the table and leaving now, but then that would just invite Springer to poke harder.

“He’s a Towers brat. How much more suitable can you get?”

Springer huffed in disgust. “No. Mirage is a Tower’s brat. Tracks is a Towers reject.”

It wasn’t really a thought or a logical progression. Mild annoyance shifted to fury within a sparkbeat and Hot Rod lurched to his pedes, fist swinging out and slamming into the hard edge of Springer’s shoulder.

“You shut the frag up,” he snarled, because he’d heard it enough from others that he didn’t need to hear it from his best friend, too. “You don’t have a fragging clue about anything!”

Springer glared, swiping at the dent on his shoulder with his thumb. “That,” he said, optics cycling down, “was uncalled for.”

“And you need to learn when to keep your mouth shut.”

Springer stood slowly, highlighting the size difference between them, and the fact that they were now attracting a sizable amount of attention. “Truth hurts, is that it? Don’t want to admit he’s a–”

Hot Rod’s fist slammed against Springer’s mouthplate, cutting off whatever insult his so-called best friend intended to spew. Springer didn’t have time to dodge, the punch knocking his helm back. But like a good little soldier, he could take a hit.

And Springer had just enough high grade in him to take it as an insult.

“That’s it!” he roared above the stunned silence sweeping through the crowd, and he sprang at Hot Rod, sending them both crashing to the floor.

Chaos erupted. Bots started to yell. The music cut off with an audial-splitting shriek, leaving the sounds of their scrapping to echo in the rec room. The dull thuds of fists impacting against metal.

Hot Rod’s helm hit first, jarring his optical units. Springer was both larger and heavier than him, and though it pained Hot Rod to admit, he was also more martially inclined. But Hot Rod was wily and flexible and his insulted fury gave him a special sort of strength.

It felt good to have an outlet for everything boiling inside of him. Yeah, maybe Springer didn’t deserve it but at least he could take it.

He slammed an elbow into Springer’s neck, jerking a knee up toward his best friend’s midsection. The heat of Springer’s frame poured over him like lava, but this was better than words. This, at least, Hot Rod understood. The exchange of blows were painful and jarring, but they were honest.

A fist sunk into Hot Rod’s midsection, making him buckle. His helm slammed against the floor. He retaliated by grabbing a rotor and twisting, hearing Springer howl in pain.

“Fragging brat!” Springer snarled. “That’s a low blow!”

“Shouldn’t have insulted him then!” Hot Rod shouted back, shoving upward with all his strength, trying to gain the upper hand.

Servos landed on their frames, the others in the rec room finally taking it upon themselves to do more than gape. Hot Rod felt himself being jerked away by no less than three pairs and twice that were grasping at Springer, struggling to restrain the massive triple-changer.

“What in Primus’ name is going on here?” A voice bellowed, striking fear into the sparks of all mechs present.

Prowl had a talent for that. Along with making grand entrances. Hot Rod wondered if there was a class for that for all members of Autobot Command. If that were true, it was probably on his learning docket eventually.

The Praxian stormed into the center of the madness, sensory panels flicked and rigid. “I want an explanation,” he said in clipped tones, optics darting from Springer to Hot Rod. “Now.”

Hot Rod huffed a ventilation, one servo wiping at his face. His cheek throbbed and he honestly didn’t remember Springer getting in a hit. “Just a little discussion between friends.”

“Yeah.” Springer’s glare could have lased through a glacier. “A discussion.” He spat up a clump of energon, the glob coming to a splash at Hot Rod’s pedes.

“It looks like a brawl to me,” Prowl said. “And you are both aware of the penalty for (in-fighting). Hot Rod, you in particular should know better.”

Why? Because he was going to be the next Prime? How fragging unfair was that?

If Prowl thought such a chastisement was going to make Hot Rod feel guilty, it didn’t work. Instead, it made him angrier. It was like they all expected him to instantly become Optimus Junior the minute his destiny became known.

Hot Rod pressed his lipplates together and said nothing. It was either that or he dug himself a deeper hole. He and Prowl did not get along and he had the feeling nothing would ever change that.

“Yeah, Roddy,” Springer goaded, all but sneering. “Oh, excuse me, Rodimus. We all expect better of you.”

Hot Rod’s engine growled, reading the insult beneath as surely as the ones Springer had shouted earlier.

“Enough!” Prowl’s sharp demand cut between them, the mech himself planting his frame firmly between the two combatants. “You are both going to the brig. And I will not hear another word from either of you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Springer muttered, with significantly less respect than Prowl’s position demanded.

Hot Rod forced his engine into stillness. “Crystal.”

He didn’t look at Springer as they were escorted to the brig by a very irritated Prowl. And he was doubly glad when Prowl arranged them in cells that were neither side by side or across from each other.

Hot Rod sighed and slunk down onto the pitiful cot, tilting his helm back against the wall, as the dim and silence wrapped around him. He simply couldn’t wait for the news of this to get back to Ultra Magnus. Or, Primus forbid, Optimus.

Was it too late to go back and ask for a different spark?

~

Neither of them talked, which extended Prowl’s ire. Usual punishment for infighting was three nights in the brig. Prowl gave them twice that and by the time Hot Rod was released, he vowed to somehow make Prowl less of a tight-aft by the time he took over as Prime. If he ever took over as Prime, that was.

The brig, at least, was quiet. So long as Hot Rod ignored Springer’s muttering from across the way. His best friend could hold a grudge like no other sometimes.

Hot Rod had plenty of time to think, not that he really wanted to. He lay on the berth, stared at the cracked ceiling blended into solid rock of the volcano, and wondered his life had gone to the Pit.

No, wondered was the wrong term. Hot Rod knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, everything had taken a turn for the worse when his destiny revealed itself. It didn’t take a genius to see that much.

But he and Tracks were on a downward spiral now and Hot Rod felt it was his impending Primeship that was to blame, too. Though Springer hadn’t liked Tracks even from the beginning. Felt he was an insult to warriors everywhere and that he had nothing to offer Hot Rod but irritation and misery.

Until lately, that hadn’t been the case.

Six days was a fragging long time to spend in the brig, chewing on problems that he hadn’t managed to solve in the past six months, much less in a six day stint in the brig. It felt like it crawled by, exacerbated by the fact Springer wasn’t talking to him.

Prowl wasn’t satisfied with mere brig-time. Oh, no. He had been unhappy with Springer’s less than respectful address and had assigned them both unpleasant cleaning duties to distill upon them a sense of “respect for authority” or some nonsense. The only relief was that they were given opposite ends of the Ark to scrub.

No one even used these hallways, frag it.

Now, on top of his normal duties with Ultra Magnus – double to make up for the time he missed while he was in the brig – Hot Rod had to spend a quarter of each cycle scrubbing corridors that no one ever saw, except Red Alert. What little free time he had was spent guzzling down energon and crashing on his berth in a strutless heap.

He supposed it was a good thing he and Springer weren’t talking. His best friend couldn’t nag him about being unavailable.

So Springer didn’t bother to contact him. Unfortunately, Hot Rod was not such a solitary mech that he had only one friend.

When his personal comm chimed him at what was considered the usual end of his shift with Ultra Magnus, Hot Rod knew who it was. He contemplated ignoring it. Here he was, on hands and knees, scrubbing at the floor in front of storage bay epsilon, which wasn’t even in use because eighty percent of it was crushed and covered in volcanic rock. He still had a week left in Prowl’s punishment, and the SIC’s usual retaliation for slackery doubled remaining hours owed.

Hot Rod had seen it happen to Sideswipe on more than one occasion. Of course, he strongly suspected that Sideswipe was fragging off Prowl on purpose. To each his own.

Still. His comm chimed. Hot Rod didn’t need to examine the ident code to know who it was. The thought to ignore it came and went.

This was not going to be pretty.

He accepted the ping. –Hot Rod here.–

Warm chuckling flowed over the comm. –I’ve received warmer welcomes from some Decepticons, sweetspark. I’ve been gone for two weeks, Roddy.–

Hot Rod ventilated, trying to focus on his scrubbing, keeping himself calm. –I’m exhausted, Tracks. I’m sorry.–

–No need to apologize.– Hot Rod knew, of course, that Tracks’ indulgence would be short-lived. –I’m back, clean, and fueled. I can come by, chase away that fatigue.–

And here it comes.

–I can’t,– Hot Rod said, his spoiler twitching and backstrut crawling. He swore he could feel Prowl watching over his shoulders, making certain he didn’t falter. –I’m cleaning the south corridor right now.–

–What? Why?–

–Fight. Springer. Not important.–

Tracks made a contemplate noise. –I get the feeling it is, but I’ll get the story from you later. That’s fine. When will you be done?–

–Late.– The smell of cleanser was bitter, stinging at his filters. Hot Rod loathed it. –Too late.–

Silence. Hot Rod expected it.

–I’m sorry,– Hot Rod repeated, and cursed himself for how quick he was to offer up an apology. –I can’t help…–

Tracks didn’t give him the opportunity to finish. –Yes, so I’ve learned.– His tones were frosty, packets of displeased and disappointed glyphs coming along with the words. –Rodimus Prime has a priority list and I’m beginning to discover my place on it.–

Dear Primus.

Hot Rod stopped scrubbing, hanging his helm. The urge to screech in frustration came and went. –Tracks.–

The comm went dead.

Well, never let it be said that Tracks didn’t have a flair for the dramatic. The urge to throw himself to the floor and roll around in a fit of aggravation flared up in his spark. Hot Rod wanted to growl his frustration to the heavens. But he didn’t. Instead, he clenched his fingers on the scrub brush and cycled several ventilations. Magnus would be proud at this level of self-control.

What a fragging mess.

–Hot Rod,– Prowl pinged, bypassing the polite request for connection and barreling into his comm systems. –You are slacking. That will be an additional day.–

Of all the–

Hot Rod lost the battle against his frustration. He chucked the scrub brush at the wall, watching with small satisfaction as it dented the wall.

–And another,– Prowl added and Hot Rod knew, just knew, that the annoying tactician had been watching him. Sneaky fragger! His caretakers had named him well.

–Yes, sir,– Hot Rod gritted out and shoved himself to his pedes, claiming his scrub brush and throwing himself back to the floor.

He scrubbed with a vengeance, imagining Prowl’s image beneath him. And, just for good measure, he alternated it with Tracks’.

It was going to be a long fragging week.

~

Hot Rod onlined to a blinking message on his HUD, marked non-urgent but obligatory. Optimus wanted to speak with him at his convenience. Which pretty much meant as soon as he dragged himself off the berth and if he was feeling brave, grab a cube before he faced the firing squad.

Somehow, Hot Rod suspected Optimus didn’t want to trade armor-polishing techniques.

No doubt word of Hot Rod’s recent escapades had reached the current Prime’s audials. And Optimus was far better at the “son, I am disappoint” expression than Magnus could ever hope to be.

Was it too late to roll over, offline his optics, and pretend to be someone else? Just for the orn?

His comm pinged. –Rodimus.–

He ex-vented noisily, though Ultra Magnus could not hear it. –Not yet,– Hot Rod replied tersely. –What do you want?– He wasn’t in the mood to be charitable.

–I have been informed of your meeting with Optimus this morning. Our discussion of diplomatic procedure will be postponed until this afternoon.–

Which meant Hot Rod’s “shift” would end much later than he had originally planned. Tracks wasn’t going to like that either. Frag, Hot Rod didn’t much like it himself. Was this what the rest of his functioning was going to be like?

–Oh, goody,– Hot Rod said and dragged his frame from the berth. Clearly, he wouldn’t be allowed to pretend ignorance. –I can’t wait.–

–Your sarcasm is noted,– Ultra Magnus droned, without an ounce of inflection in his tone. One of these days, Hot Rod was going to figure out what broke his composure and inflict it upon him mercilessly. –But also unappreciated. I will expect you at mid-shift.–

The comm ended without giving Hot Rod the opportunity to respond in his favorite fashion.

Nothing left to do but face the music, as Jazz would say.

Hot Rod rolled out of the berth, deemed himself suitable for public consumption, and ghosted in and out of the rec room before anyone could drag him in for conversation. Not that there were many Autobots present. Hot Rod’s wonderful new schedule meant he onlined before the grave shift ended and the morning shift began so the only mechs wandering around were stragglers or early birds like Prowl and Bluestreak.

Optimus’ door was already open and Hot Rod would admit to a small dose of trepidation as he approached. Primus only knew which specific incident Optimus wanted to address. Or Pit, it could be all of them.

Hot Rod rapped his knuckles over the frame to announce himself. “You wanted to see me?” he asked, hovering in the frame.

Optimus, looking quite buried behind a veritable mountain of datapads, didn’t even look up. “Yes, Rodimus–”

“Hot Rod.”

“Hot Rod,” Optimus conceded with his usual patience. “Come on in. Have a seat.” The door beeped, letting Hot Rod know to get in or out, either way, it was shutting.

He scooted inside, claiming one of the only chairs crammed into the tiny office. Grapple had offered to move Optimus to a bigger one, but he’d declined. Said he liked the cramped, intimate nature of his current one.

Behind Hot Rod, Optimus’ door closed. They wouldn’t be disturbed. Hot Rod didn’t know if this was a blessing or a curse.

He slunk a little lower in his chair.

Optimus was still scribbling on a datapad. “I apologize,” he said, helm bowed over his desk. “I just need to – ah. Done.” He put down the stylus with a defining click, tucked the datapad onto one teetering stack and then sat back in his chair.

And then Hot Rod had Optimus’ full attention and he resisted the urge to squirm like a newly sparked mechling.

“It wasn’t my fault,” he blurted and wow, way to sound innocent there, Hot Rod.

Optimus arched an optical ridge, his energy field reaching out with soft amusement. “And just what are you innocent of?”

“Whatever you think it is I did,” Hot Rod edged, and rubbed his palms down the length of his thighs, accompanying the motion with a heavy ex-vent. “Never mind. You wanted me for something?”

Optimus’ optics wrinkled at the edges, a sure sign he was smiling though his mouthplate didn’t show it. “Not for the reasons you suspect.” His amusement flattened around the edges. “I was more concerned that there was something I can do for you. Is everything all right, Hot Rod?”

He had a few inches to spare; Hot Rod sunk further in the chair. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Jazz and Prowl ensure that I do not,” Optimus agreed with a tilt of his helm. “And whatever they leave out, Ratchet fills in.”

Because Ratchet was a gossip-whore and pretty much everyone on the planet – mech and human alike – knew it.

Hot Rod rolled his helm, looking everywhere but at the Autobot leader. “Is it too late to turn in my Prime membership card?”

“I apologize but it is non-refundable and non-transferable,” Optimus replied, and there was a creak-creak of gears as he made himself more comfortable. “It is an honor and a curse that you will despise every moment and yet, never be willing to let go.”

Yeah. That about summed it up.

A soft whuff of ventilation escaped the Prime. “And there are times when it becomes a burden, especially in regards to your peers.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Optimus’ energy field reached out with consolation. “Prowl tells me that he brigged you and Springer for infighting. Do you want to talk about it?”

Oh, dear Primus. It was not possible to slide any further down in his chair without slinking to the floor but Hot Rod wished he could.

“No.”

Optimus stared at him. Patiently waiting. Hot Rod could feel the current Prime’s optics like sympathetic lasers scoring his battle armor.

A whuff of resignation escaped from his vents. “We had a difference of opinion,” Hot Rod admitted, one pede scuffing against the floor. “On the matter of suitable consorts for me.”

“I take it he does not approve of Tracks?”

A twitch raced down Hot Rod’s backstrut. It should feel weird to talk about his partner with Optimus, but it’s not. Maybe that should have been his first clue, way back when, the ease he had always felt around a mech who was a complete stranger to him.

“You could say that.” Hot Rod rolled his shoulders in semblance of a shrug. “Springer likes to communicate with his fists. He’s always been like that.” And Hot Rod frag well got the message, too. Glitch.

“And Tracks?”

Hot Rod’s helm lifted sharply, lipplates pursing into a frown. “What about him?” That came across a bit defensive.

Optimus folded his servos in his lap, his gaze unwavering. “Springer is not the only mech with whom you are disagreeing.”

Why were the Autobots, as a whole, such slagging gossips? Sometimes, Hot Rod just wanted to grab them all by the intakes and disable their vocalizers.

He whuffed a ventilation. “You going to tell me to end it, too? Because that seems to be the general consensus around here.”

“It’s not my place to dictate your personal affairs.”

“That’s what Magnus said, too,” Hot Rod retorted with a laugh, but it lacked any attempt at humor. “But it’s pretty obvious what he wants me to do.” He leveled at stare at Optimus, daring the Prime to agree with his brother-in-arms.

But of course, Optimus didn’t. He was too fragging tactful for that.

“What do you want to do?”

“Frag, if I know.” Hot Rod’s plating clamped tightly to his frame. He reached up, rubbing at his forehelm, hiding behind his servo. “It would be easier, I think, to just end things. All we do is fragging fight. But every time I try, I just end up back where I started.”

Optimus made a sympathetic sound in his chassis, engine rumbling a harmonious tremble. “Have you spoken with him?”

“When would I have had time?” Hot Rod flicked his fingers, another exasperated ex-vent escaping him. “I’m always busy now and when I’m not, well, there’s other things to do.” His faceplate flushed with heat.

Optimus was hardly a prude and neither was Hot Rod, but it still felt awkward to talk about his berth activities with his commanding officer. His only ranking officer, truth be told, once Hot Rod became a fully-fledged Prime.

Amusement brightened Optimus’ optics and Hot Rod just knew he was smiling behind that facemask. “Yes, well, perhaps you might consider a conversation in lieu of exchanging cables as the latter is only exacerbating the matter and the former might solve your problems.”

“Noted,” Hot Rod replied dryly and lowered his servo. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Nothing in particular.” Optimus sat up, reaching for a stylus with one servo and a datapad with another. “Just know that if you need someone to speak with, my door is always open.”

Hot Rod leveraged himself to his pedes. “Thanks for the offer,” he said, stretching his arms above his helm, feeling the fatigue of weeks piling on his shoulders. “And the advice.”

“You are welcome. We are two of a kind, in spark and spirit,” Optimus said, and there was clear affection in his tone this time. “I am determined to ensure you receive more consideration than I had been given.”

He paused in the midst of the turn, giving Optimus a long look. “I know. And I’m grateful for that.”

Hot Rod was not such a fool that he couldn’t recognize how very lucky he was. Optimus could have just thrown him straight into the Rodimus role without any help or training. He could have forced Hot Rod to take on Rodimus, shed Hot Rod without a second glance. Instead, Optimus had chosen to allow Hot Rod to gradually come to terms with his destiny, only accepting the new designation when he was ready.

“Get some rest, Hot Rod,” Optimus said, optics crinkling at the edges again. “You look as though you could use it.”

“I’ll try.” He turned back around, waving a servo over his shoulder. “Good luck with your paperwork.”

The door closed behind him on Optimus’ chuckle.

Optimus hadn’t given him the answers. Hot Rod hadn’t expected him, too, but it would have been nice. It wasn’t Optimus’ way though. He liked for his soldiers to figure things out for themselves. He led, but he didn’t command. Hot Rod like that about him.

Hot Rod didn’t know what to do. But his pedes took him to Tracks’ quarters as though answering some unstated resolution. Hot Rod found himself staring at Tracks’ door, the ping lingering on the edge of his systems. It was as though he’d already made up his mind.

He sent the request through, got a response near immediately, and waited for the door to open. He tried not to shift from pede to pede like an anxious sparkling, but his spark was an unsteady tremor in his chassis, feeling both tight and over-large all at once.

The door slid aside, Tracks appearing in the aperture, freshly polished with a smile on his faceplate that nearly broke Hot Rod’s resolve.

“Hey,” he said, all lazy sensuality and invitation. “What brings you here?”

Hot Rod worked his intake, ignoring the flush of heat the mere sound of Tracks’ vocals produced. “We need to talk.”

It was as though a wall came down between them, invisible but impenetrable. The smile wiped away, the graceful slouch vanished, and the gentle buzz of Tracks’ energy field was sucked into a vacuum, leaving Hot Rod feeling oddly chilled.

Tracks sighed. “I am not surprised.”

“What?”

“I knew this was coming.” Tracks edged out of the doorway, letting it slide closed behind him, beeping as it locked. He started up the hallway without another word.

Hot Rod stared after him, frowning. “Where are you going?”

Tracks paused, half-turning, his expression unreadable. “Can you blame me for wanting a little privacy for when you rip out of spark?”

And so it began.

Hot Rod rolled his optics. “Do you have to jump to conclusions like that?” And make it a drama-fest all at the same time? But then again, this was Tracks. The mech ventilated drama like it was gaseous energon.

“When a mech says a phrase like that, it’s never good,” Tracks replied and starting walking again. “I’ve been on the receiving end of it enough times to know what’s coming.”

Without knowing what else to do, Hot Rod fell into step behind him. “Tracks, it’s not–”

“Do me a favor, Roddy,” Tracks interrupted without so much as looking at him, tone deceptively mild and contained. “Don’t sugarcoat it, okay? Don’t feed me some slag that isn’t the truth. Just get it over with.”

Hot Rod’s spoiler twitched against his back. “Yeah,” he replied, vocals equally soft. “Okay.”

Tracks’ destination became clear as they rounded a corner and one of the Ark’s private video rooms came into sight. There were a few of them scattered here and there, located in rooms too small to house mechs but too ruined to be of much else use. In an effort to prevent boredom and irreverent pranking, Prowl had authorized the rooms to be supplied with vidscreens and an ample selection of entertainment.

Tracks keyed it open, entering ahead of Hot Rod, and he followed the other mech inside. Locking the door with his new codes no common Autobot could override, Hot Rod leaned against it, trying to calm the frantic whirl of his spark.

The silence was unnerving.

Tracks claimed one of the chairs, clasping his servos together before he looked up at Hot Rod, expression as unreadable as his energy field. “Well?”

Hot Rod palmed his faceplate, ex-venting a stuttered whuff of air. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, rebooting his vocalizer to clear the static trying to creep into his words. “All we do is fight. Fight and frag. That’s hardly a good basis for a relationship.”

Tracks ground several gears together, derision wafting off of him. “That’s been the status quo from berth one but all of the sudden it’s an issue? Oh, right. It’s not proper behavior for a Prime. How did that slip my processor?”

He did not miss the bitterness in Tracks’ vocals, or the way it seeped free from Tracks’ control of his energy field.

Hot Rod dropped his servo. “You know I can’t help that.”

“Never said I blamed you for it either.” Tracks focused on him, optics unusually sharp. “But if you’re going to give me that excuse than I have every right to disdain it.”

“It’s not an excuse!”

Even to himself, it sounded like a lie. Overly defensive. No wonder Tracks didn’t believe him.

Tracks abruptly rose to his pedes, but Hot Rod didn’t read violence in the action. In fact, he wasn’t sure what to classify it.

There wasn’t much room to move in here, so it only took a couple steps before Tracks was close enough for Hot Rod to feel the ambient heat from his frame. Tracks lifted a servo and Hot Rod flinched, but Tracks was gentle, painfully so, as he cupped Hot Rod’s faceplate. His thumb brushed the dent on Hot Rod’s cheekplate, still subject to self-repair since Ratchet had refused to fix it.

A lesson, the medic had claimed, about engaging in stupid things like a scout-class soldier trying to take on a brute-class warrior. Like Hot Rod had planned to have an all out tussle with Springer.

“It is,” Tracks said, his voice soft, but the pain in it audible.

They were touching but Hot Rod couldn’t feel so much as a whisper of Tracks’ energy field. It was completely closed to him, not a speck of emotion decipherable. As though Tracks had locked himself away from Hot Rod.

“If you don’t want me anymore, that’s one thing,” Tracks continued, his ventilations so quiet they might have been stalled. “But if I’m not good enough for you, all you had to do was say so.”

Hot Rod jittered like he’d been struck, something cold passing through his spark. “It’s not about you.”

Except, of course, where it was.

Tracks rolled his optics. “Please. Don’t feed me that slag, too. You think I don’t know what other mechs say about me?”

Hot Rod backpedaled, batting Tracks’ servo away from his face. “Don’t put words through my vocalizer. We fight all the time, Tracks. Kind of like we’re doing now.” And wasn’t that just the bolt in the bracket? “That’s not healthy!”

“Newsflash, Roddy.” Tracks spread out his hands, a dramatic display better suited for the stage. “We’ve been fighting a war for vorns. That’s not exactly healthy either. What do any of us know about what’s healthy anymore?”

A scowl twisted Hot Rod’s lipplates. See this? Right here? It was why this had to come to an end. He was so fragging tired of arguing!

“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” Hot Rod hissed. “I’m not talking about the stupid war. I’m talking about us.”

Tracks worked his jaw, the distance between them increasing, cold seeping in where warmth had been. “There is no us. Isn’t that what you came to tell me?”

No turning back.

Hot Rod ex-vented heavily. “… Yes.”

It was as though a wall slammed between them. Tracks jerked like he’d taken a blow to the faceplate, belying his earlier claims about expectations. He’d guessed it, but he wasn’t ready for it. Honestly, Hot Rod wasn’t sure he was either.

“That’s it then.” Tracks’ cooling fans kicked on, but it had nothing to do with arousal, and his vocal tones were unusually rough. “I suppose we have nothing else to say to each other.”

Hot Rod expected more. More theatrics. More arguing. Tracks, for all his conceited attitude, never liked to back down and would stand his ground to the bitter end.

This cold acceptance was disturbing.

“I’ll bring your stuff to you by the end of the week,” Hot Rod said, and it sounded both lame and sparkless, words to fill an empty silence, meaningless in the end.

Tracks’ optics cycled in and out before he shook his helm. “Don’t bother,” he all but spat, and made for the door, Hot Rod moving to get out of the way. “Keep the slag for all I care.” His digits jabbed at the panel. “Throw it away. You’re pretty good at that.”

The door slid open, despite Hot Rod’s overrides, and Tracks took his leave.

He should say something. Anything.

The words died on Hot Rod’s glossa. He wasn’t going to apologize. He wasn’t going to beg for Tracks to come back. He wasn’t going to plea for understanding. What was there left to say?

Tracks didn’t look back. Hot Rod wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much.

The door slid closed, as automatic doors were supposed to do, cutting off Hot Rod’s view of the other mech.

Hot Rod cycled several ventilations, one servo clenching and unclenching. A light tremor raced across his plating, like coming down from an overload only without the effusive stream of post-facing bliss.

There was a chair behind him. He sank down into it, palming his faceplate. He felt simultaneously hot and cold all at once. He pressed his free servo to his chestplate, feeling the involuntary contractions of his spark.

He’d made the right choice. It was for the best, for everyone involved.

So why the frag did it hurt so much?

***

[G1] Bend the Knee

Kneeling to anyone was something of an unknown concept to Grimlock.

He did not kneel. Not to Optimus, not to Megatron, not to any human. He was powerful and dangerous, and far more intelligent than his corrupted speech chip gave him credit.

Bluestreak, however, was not just anyone.

He was a mech who had looked at Grimlock and found a kindred spark. He recognized the intelligence in Grimlock’s optics. He discovered comfort in Grimlock’s arms. He found desire in the shape of Grimlock’s frame. He found understanding in two mechs who spoke in ways others didn’t understand, and which made them an outlier.

And Grimlock stumbled upon a peace he hadn’t known was possible, the first time Bluestreak looked at him and gave a command, his tone soft but unyielding, and Grimlock dropped as if he’d been struck, spark pounding in his intake and frame alight with a bright and urgent need.

He hadn’t known the hunger was in him until that moment. And there wasn’t a mech in the universe Grimlock would trust to explore that hunger save Bluestreak alone.

He looked at Grimlock and saw a mech, not a beast, even when Grimlock knelt and tilted his head back for Bluestreak to click the collar around his intake, and slide the leash into the sturdy, metal ring.

“Comfortable?” Bluestreak asked, slipping a finger beneath the collar to see if it would fit and allow him some movement.

Grimlock shivered at the press of Bluestreak’s knuckles against a fluid line. “Make tighter,” he grunted. Even kneeling, he looked down at Bluestreak, who stood in front of him.

Their size difference somehow made this act of submission all the more intoxicating.

Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge, finger hooked around the thick collar. He gave it a gentle tug, and the pressure around Grimlock’s intake made his field spike, and charge crackle through his lines.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Positive.”

Bluestreak’s knuckle rubbed over his intake again. “I’m thinking that’s a reward for pets who behave very well,” he said. “So we’ll have to see if you do.”

The other end of the leash was wrapped around his other hand. He twisted his wrist, drawing the length of it taut between them.

Grimlock’s engine whined. His hands clenched on his thighs, and heat pooled southward, gathering in his interfacing array. Need clawed at his internals, but he trusted Bluestreak to tend to it before he felt the urge to beg.

Begging was not part of this equation.

“Understand?” Bluestreak asked, finger still curled around the collar, a pressure at the back of Grimlock’s neck that bent him forward ever so slightly.

It was as close to bowing Grimlock would ever allow. And only for Bluestreak.

“Yes,” Grimlock rasped, and his fans spun up eagerly, trying to cool the rampant heat in his lines.

Bluestreak smiled at him, optics bright and hungry, field approving and eager. “Good boy,” he purred, and such nearly-demeaning words should not make Grimlock groan.

He should not melt into his frame, claw at his thighs with the flood of want that attacked him, but he did, and for Bluestreak alone.

“Now,” Bluestreak said, coiling the end of the leash around his wrist once more, pulling Grimlock toward him, “We’re ready to start, I think. Don’t you?”

Grimlock’s ventilations quickened. He met Bluestreak’s optics, and dipped his head a fraction lower. “Yes.”

“Good,” Bluestreak purred, and the sound of it was enough to drop Grimlock into that hazy space he adored.

Only for Bluestreak would he kneel.

***

[G1] Serendipity

Rodimus can’t sleep.

Can’t recharge either, but he likes the term sleep. Likes the shape of it in his mouth and on his glossa, likes the organic sound of it, the way Spike talks about sleeping and beds and pillows and comfort and sweet, sweet dreams.

Rodimus dreams now.

Hot Rod never dreamed, but Rodimus Prime dreams every time he shutters his optics and tries to sleep. Recharge. Drift into a stasis nap. He doesn’t know the things he sees in his dreams. He doesn’t know the mechs, but they are all talking to him, shouting with dozens of voices too indistinct to make out.

Sometimes, he swears he sees Optimus Prime in the crowd, and that’s a voice Rodimus Prime reaches for, but a voice he never hears. Optimus is gone in a wisp, in a blink — a cycle of his optics, and Rodimus Prime onlines on his bed, his berth, feeling the weight of his own inadequacy clinging to his shoulders.

Rodimus Prime can’t recharge. The Matrix is restless, shifting in its mounts, tugging at his spark chamber, alternating between hot and cold, and it sets his denta on edge.

He gets out of his berth, too-large feet hitting the floor. He hunches his shoulders, ducking his head from a ceiling that’s too low now. He stumbles to the door, taking longer to gain his balance than he used to, and palms it open.

The corridor is quiet.

He used to share a hab with two other mechs, on a hallway lined with doors with other habs, all shared by at least two mechs, and with that many mechs packed into such a small space, noise is inevitable. He used to fall asleep to the sound of bickering next door — Sideswipe and Sunstreaker — and Springer’s vents rattling in the bunk on the other side of the room, and Drift tossing and turning on the bunk above him.

Rodimus Prime recharges alone, in a solitary room, at the end of the corridor housing a good third of the Autobot’s command structure. It used to belong to Optimus Prime, and the echoes of a mech who isn’t Rodimus and who Rodimus can never be, clings to every surface, in every shadow of prior furniture and frames on the wall. In the keys rubbed blank by far too much typing, and a console chair that’s a fraction too small even with Rodimus’ upgrades, and a lingering odor of diesel and energon stains from wounds Optimus had been too full of pride to admit.

Rodimus glances up at the security camera, tapping into Teletraan to see who’s on shift this evening.

It’s no one who’ll question him.

Rodimus heads for the nearest exit, the Matrix shifting and shifting, like it can’t get comfortable within his chassis. He grimaces, resisting the urge to rub at his seam, the walls of the Ark pressing in on him, like a cage.

It’s only when he’s outside, in the cool, salty Oregon air that he feels he can ventilate normally. Night hangs over him, dotted by stars, and the land stretches out below him, a dark and still forest clinging stubbornly to the peaks and valleys of the rolling hills.

His tires hit the road before he fully commits to the idea of it, and Rodimus Prime heads south, away from the Ark, away from the Autobots, just away. Mainframe, on shift, sends him a curious ping. Rodimus offers reassurance, but not an explanation, and then he firmly sets his comm to ‘busy’.

Ultra Magnus can reach him if there’s an emergency, but right now, Rodimus wants the solitude. As alone as he can be with a dozen Primes clamoring for attention at the back of his processor, with the Matrix squirming and rattling, hot and cold and burning again.

He drives for an hour, keeping the shore to his right, heading south and south, sticking to back roads where possible. If he gets lost, he gets lost. The Autobots will find him, if only because they like to know where their Matrix is.

Maybe Rodimus isn’t giving them enough credit. Maybe he’s too bitter. Maybe he feels like a vehicle for the Matrix, and not a person, because when they look at him, they see the shadow of Optimus Prime and a dull replacement who will never measure up.

Something pings on the edge of his sensors.

Rodimus slows, curious and wary. He’s not sure how to identify the ping — not human, but Cybertronian, and there isn’t a faction identifier in the ping.

It could be a trap. It could just as easily be a lost Cybertronian, who followed an old signal back to Earth, and doesn’t quite know what to do with themselves now.

Rodimus is feeling just reckless enough to check it out. Optimus Prime would have done it, right? He would have barged straight into the face of a mech in potential need, damn the consequences.

He veers onto a side road, unpaved, rocks pinging against his undercarriage. It stings, but it’s a good sting, a welcome sting. Before the upgrade, he’d have had trouble on this road, but post-Matrix, he’s built sturdier, his tires can take it.

The forest thickens and grows around him, dark and imposing. The air is wetter, harsh against his paint — he’s getting closer to the coast. Sand joins the rocks, and Rodimus cringes, the sting no longer welcome. First Aid is going to fuss, and that’s the only high point.

First Aid fussing is a good thing. Maybe he’ll start to sound like his old self. Not that any of them can really go back to their old selves.

Rodimus hears the Cybertronian long before he sees the mech — cursing and anger floating on the wind, a fiercely revving engine growling displeasure, and the roil of an energy field he can’t read, too chaotic are the electrical impulses.

Chaotic and familiar.

Rodimus reverts to root-mode and proceeds further on foot. Logic dictates he should call for backup. Curiosity compels him.

Galvatron and Megatron are not the same mech, and Rodimus does not feel the consuming need to attack his foes that Optimus Prime seemed to always carry, not that any of his fans would ever admit to Optimus’ lust for violence. He is their leader, their paragon, his fight against the Decepticons necessary and relentless.

Rodimus is just tired.

He isn’t bothering with stealth, not that it matters. Galvatron is making enough noise to cover his approach. Rodimus’ path takes him on a steep descent to a sheltered cove, and there Galvatron is, rage in his vocals, stomping up and down the sandy shore as he snarls at nothing visible.

There are pockmarks in the beach, scorchmarks in the rocky incline, as if Galvatron has been firing into the landscape without a target to soak up his rage. He paces, gesturing in wild motions, his lips twisted into a snarl, spitting fury to no one.

“–don’t care, because it’s mine. Mine now! You can’t tell me otherwise. I am here. You are not, and it is mine!”

What on Cybertron…?

Galvatron jerks to a halt, whirls, and slams a fist into the side of the ravine. “Shut up!” he snarls, and the high-pitch of his engine is audible even to Rodimus across the distance. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Each growl is punctuated by a punch into the rock. It splinters beneath his fist, and the sickening snap of a finger strut echoes above the chaos. Rodimus flinches; Galvatron doesn’t.

He’s heaving vents, shoulders rising and falling, energon streaking over his knuckles.

“I don’t share!” Galvatron howls, only for his frame to jerk away from the ravine wall, staggering backward, like a puppet controlled by drunken fingers. “I don’t–“

He cuts off and sinks to his knees, field flaring with a nauseating burst of anger and hatred and loathing and despair.

One of Galvatron’s hands goes limp at his side, but the other rises to his face, fingers pressing in, digging hard, piercing the dermal layer. Thin trickles of energon seep free. His free hand forms a trembling fist that bumps against the grip of his blaster.

“Get out of my head!” Galvatron howls and scrapes his talons down his face, ripping furrows in the dermal layers, energon pouring free.

Primus.

Rodimus leaps down before he entirely knows what he’s doing, spark hammering in his chassis, a tightness in his vents he can’t explain. Galvatron’s field is a wild, feral thing, and it lashes at him with physical weight. Rodimus’ knees wobble, but he races across the rocky sand and tackles Galvatron, knocking his hand from his face.

And his other hand from the firm grip it had taken on the blaster.

Galvatron’s head slams into the ground, hard enough to dent, and Rodimus winces, but it can’t be any worse than whatever damage Galvatron has inflicted on himself. The Decepticon thrashes beneath him, bucking up against Rodimus’ weight, but his internal struggle must have weakened him. Rodimus pins Galvatron’s hands down by the wrist, using his body weight to keep the Decepticon in place.

“Whatever you’re doing, stop,” Rodimus says.

“Get off me!” Galvatron snarls, energon trickling out of the wounds on his face, his field lashing out like a trapped animal.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Rodimus snaps. “I’m trying to get you to stop hurting yourself for Primus’ sake.”

Galvatron’s vents roar before he abruptly sags and goes limp. “I’m not trying to hurt myself,” he mutters, like a chastened sparkling. “I’m trying to hurt him.”

Him?

It takes a moment for the dots to connect, and when they do, Rodimus sighs. “You can’t hurt the thing sharing space in your head. Believe me, I’ve tried.” He lets Galvatron go and clambers to his feet, only to offer a hand to the prone Decepticon. “Come on. Get up.”

Galvatron stares at the offer as though it’s a Sharkticon waiting to strike. “What trickery is this?”

“A weird Autobot thing called kindness.” Rodimus wriggles his fingers. “You want to lie in the dirt, or do you want to get up so I can do something about the mess you’ve made of your face?”

Galvatron sneers at him, ignores Rodimus’ hand, and rolls to his feet, ineffectually brushing bits of rocky sand from his armor. “I don’t want your kindness. We are enemies.”

“Why?” Rodimus asks.

It’s a question he’s asked himself. Galvatron fights because Unicron made him from Megatron, and Megatron fought for reasons no one remembers anymore. Rodimus fights because Galvatron fights, and no matter how he peels back the layers, Rodimus can’t figure out why he’s fighting anymore, save that Optimus has fought, and so Rodimus should, too.

He’s tired of acting only because of the ghosts in his spark. Surely Galvatron is as well?

Galvatron’s optics cycle. “What do you mean why?” he demands as he rocks back a pace, spluttering, “You’re an Autobot. I’m a Decepticon! I–” He breaks off and touches his head. “I am Galvatron.”

“That’s enough reason to fight?” Rodimus asks, folding his arms over his chassis. Galvatron’s energon is tacky on his fingers, and it makes a weird unease settle in his tanks.

“Of course it is!” Galvatron snaps, but he doesn’t reach for his blaster, and now he’s frowning at the ground, wounds still seeping energon he probably can’t afford to lose. “What else is there?”

Rodimus shrugs. “You tell me.”

Silence.

Galvatron’s orbital ridge furrows. He sneers at the sand, drips energon down his armor, and his vents rattle.

At length, he says, “I was built to fight.” Each word sounds carefully chosen as he looks down at his hands, spattered and dented, his fingers bent and broken, his talons frayed and chipped. “Everything I am is a battle. What else is there?”

“That’s a good question.” Rodimus drops his arms and retreats a step or two, plopping down on a convenient boulder heavily encrusted with shells and drying seaweed. “Dunno the answer myself. I’ve got too many voices telling me what I’m supposed to be. I’m guessing you do, too.”

Galvatron’s frown deepens. “Too many.” He nods and his fingers curl into awkward fists as he looks at Rodimus. “There is a voice that tells me to rip out your spark right now. You’re defenseless and vulnerable and–” He pauses, his field rippling with disgust. “–weak.”

“Maybe I am. And maybe I’m just tired.” Rodimus leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky, clouds moving at a glacial pace above him. “I fight because it’s what Optimus did, and I’m pretty tired of being what Optimus was. It’s what everyone wants though.”

Galvatron clicks his glossa. “Who cares what everyone wants?” He thumps his own chassis. “I do what I want.” He thumps it again, harder. “In spite of this voice.”

Rodimus looks at him with a wry grin. “So you’re not going to kill me?”

“Not today.” Galvatron smiles, baring his denta, fangs and all. “If you die, it will be in battle. I’ll defeat you and stand triumphant over your greying corpse where all can see it.”

Rodimus laughs. “Fair enough.” He sits up and digs into his subspace, producing a small medkit. “Then in the interest of our tentative truce, will you let me do something about your face?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my face,” Galvatron snaps.

“Except for the seeping furrows you clawed into it.”

Galvatron rolls his optics and crosses his arms, looking less like the fearsome Decepticon lord and more like a petulant sparkling. “It’ll heal. It always does.”

Ouch.

Rodimus’ spark gives a sympathetic twinge. He might not take his own discomfort into the realm of self-harm, but he understands a bit of where Galvatron is coming from. Rodimus is lucky enough he only has Optimus and the preceding Primes occasionally rising from the depths of the Matrix. He can’t imagine sharing his headspace with someone like Megatron.

“It’ll heal faster with a bit of nanite spray,” Rodimus points out. Do the Decepticons even have decent medical care right now?

Galvatron glares, but he stomps over and holds out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“Take the whole thing. First Aid will give me another.”

Galvatron snatches it from him and plops down on the rock next to Rodimus as he rummages through the kit. “Your kindness won’t sway me, Prime. I’ll still kill you the next time we meet on the battlefield.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to make sure that every time I see you, it won’t be because we’re fighting,” Rodimus says.

Galvatron’s field, which has been slowly calming, abruptly flares with surprised confusion. “That’s ridiculous!” he splutters. “How am I to kill you if you avoid the battlefield?”

Rodimus shrugs. “Maybe you don’t kill me at all.”

Galvatron stares at him. The look of blank, incomprehension on his face might have been amusing in any other circumstance. Right now, it just fills Rodimus with pity.

“Maybe we find another way,” Rodimus says, trying to keep his voice light so it doesn’t show the hope building in the depths of his spark, far from the influence of the Matrix. “Something we choose that has nothing to do with the other voices in our head.”

Galvatron fiddles with the medkit. “Choose,” he repeats, and his field flickers, his face going through a riot of emotions — some of which Rodimus suggests are not all his own until finally, he grunts a wry laugh. “That’ll be a first.”

“First time for everything,” Rodimus says. He shifts, debates, then rummages in his arm panel, producing a comm chip. “Here.”

Galvatron looks at the chip, optics narrowing. “Explain.”

“It’s my comm code. My personal one.” Rodimus holds it out, but doesn’t push. Galvatron’s moods can be mercurial, and the last thing he wants is to push this unspoken truce back into violence. “For when you want that first.”

“Want,” Galvatron echoes like he’s tasting the word. He takes the chip between his thumb and forefinger, squinting his optics at it. “You are a strange Prime.”

Rodimus snorts. “I get that a lot.”

“I will take your comm code. Maybe I will use it.” Galvatron tucks the chip away, and the medkit with it. His face is still a mess, but at least his nanites have gotten to work, scabbing up the wounds.

He’ll probably have Cyclonus fix it for him later. They have some weird relationship Rodimus doesn’t want to think about, and he’s a bit surprised Galvatron is here on his own, when Cyclonus is usually stuck to him like glue.

“You should go,” Galvatron says.

Rodimus cycles his optics. “Because…?”

“Cyclonus is on his way.” Galvatron grins with far too much denta, a hint of mischief in his gaze. “He’ll be jealous.”

Rodimus hops off the stone, turning to scan the sky for the aforementioned Decepticon. “Of you or me?”

“Why don’t you stay and find out?” Galvatron asks, and this slyness must be entirely him, because Rodimus can’t imagine Unicron or Megatron being this blatantly playful.

There’s a riotous argument inside Rodimus. The Matrix shifts in its mounts, tugging at his spark, and Rodimus hides his wince in an equally playful grin.

“Not this time.” He backs away, slow enough that Galvatron won’t take it as a threat, but fast enough that he can get away before Cyclonus arrives. He soothes over his refusal with a wink. “But use that comm and maybe we can set a date.”

Galvatron throws his head back and laughs. “A date,” he repeats, genuine joy in his field. “You would not survive me, Prime.”

“Call me Rodimus,” he says as a glint in the distance catches his optic. Maybe a trick of the light, maybe Cyclonus.

He’s not sticking around to find out.

He shifts to alt-mode and hauls aft, spraying rocky sand in his wake as he speeds up the incline and dives into the dubious cover of the beach-side vegetation. His spark in his intake, he keeps one optic on the rough road and the other on his sensors, watching for Cyclonus’ approach.

By the time he makes it to the main road, tires firm on asphalt, Rodimus is reasonably sure neither of them are giving him chase. He turns back toward the Ark, suddenly feeling a need to be a bit more protected than his current circumstances.

The Matrix — and the Primes within — continue to voice their displeasure, as if peace is anathema and only violence acceptable. Optimus’ voice, if there at all, is drowned out by the others, who prefer complete annihilation to a meaningful truce, and Rodimus hates them all.

How had Optimus maintained his sanity when presented with this continuous onslaught of unwanted opinion? Had he agreed with them? Is that why the war had continued in the manner it had?

The questions are enough to drive Rodimus mad.

He is not Optimus Prime. The others want him to be Optimus Prime, but if embracing that expectation means Rodimus must fight, will he defy what they want of him? Or will their voices disturb him in the same way Galvatron is wracked by the echoes of Unicron and Megatron?

Rodimus never anticipated finding a kindred spark in Galvatron, but here is, driving home while leaving behind a private comm code, secretly hoping Galvatron will use it.

He’s tired of fighting. He wants to do the one thing Optimus never could. He wants to end the war.

His comm beeps.

Rodimus slows to offer it attention, confused by the code that pops up. “Rodimus here.”

“So you weren’t lying.” Galvatron’s voice purrs through his speakers, echoing around his interior. “You may regret offering me such access, Rodimus Prime.”

Rodimus’ spark grins where his mouth can’t. “Is Cyclonus taking good care of you?”

“He offers his thanks for the medkit,” Galvatron says, amusement rich in his voice. “For other things, too, but since it’s none of your business or his, I’m not passing it along.”

Okay. Bit confusing, but then, Galvatron has confused Rodimus from the moment they met across the battlefield.

“Is that the only reason you called?” Rodimus asks.

Galvatron’s chuckle vibrates through his interior. “Time will tell, little Prime. So run on home to your Autobots, and we’ll see if I call again.”

“I told you to use my name,” Rodimus reminds him.

“Goodbye, Rodimus,” Galvatron says before the comm goes silent, and Rodimus is left with the dead air of a severed connection.

Glee rolls through Rodimus’ spark before he can rein it in, and the Primes wail their dissatisfaction. Rodimus, however, ignores them this time.

Let them complain. If Primus disapproves, he’d have never given Rodimus the Matrix in the first place.

He’s going to end this stupid war if it’s the thing that kills him, and reaching out to Galvatron is the first step. Maybe it won’t work. But at least he’ll have tried. At least he’ll be doing things his own way.

He’s Rodimus Prime goddamnit.

It’s time they all learn what that means.

***