A Scene Worth Waking Up For
By Amphitrite II / morethansky
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Summary: Tailgate wakes up. Set after the Dark Cybertron finale and before the Season 2 six-month jump.
Notes: Wrote this back before Dark Cybertron ended and totally forgot to post it here. Enjoy!
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"What do you mean the world almost ended while I was asleep?!"
"Shhhh!"
Tailgate glanced to his left, where Ratchet was checking up on a bot recovering a few berths away. "Sorry, Ratchet," he said, lowering his voice. Swerve laughed.
"I kid you not," he said. "Shockwave went all crazy and tried to destroy the world. I'm pretty fuzzy on the details, but at one point there was a swarm of seventy billion Ammonites. Metroplex stomped on a bunch of them. And Prowl combined with the Constructicons!"
"Is everyone okay?" Tailgate asked. "Is Cyclonus?"
"Not everyone, but everyone you know survived. Cyclonus wasn't looking so hot when he came back from the Dead Universe, but Brainstorm fixed him and the others up."
"Where is he now?" Tailgate had to admit that he was a little disappointed to find that it was Swerve at his bedside, not Cyclonus. Not that Swerve's company didn't make him happy, but he was eager to see his roommate. The last they had been together, Cyclonus had been so sad.
"He tried to come see you the moment the fighting was over," Swerve said.
"Really?"
"Really. But Ratchet threatened to knock him out himself if he didn't go recharge. He's been out for a while. I think all that Dead Universe stuff really wore him out."
"What was he doing there?" Tailgate asked. "It sounds scary."
"Rodimus made him go," Swerve explained. "Since he's the expert on that stuff and all. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be by soon."
"I hope so," Tailgate said. As much as he wanted to see Cyclonus, he trusted that Ratchet knew best. "Now, tell me what happened—slowly, this time."
The next time he awoke, it was to a familiar sight. Cyclonus sat at his bedside, a data pad in hand.
The moment Tailgate uttered his name with a staticky vocalizer, Cyclonus's head jerked up so fast it looked like it would fly off his neck.
"Tailgate," Cyclonus said, relief evident in every syllable. "You're awake."
"Hi," Tailgate said, suddenly feeling shy. "I hear I missed out on a lot."
"Nothing important," Cyclonus said dismissively. Tailgate laughed. Swerve had made it sound like the showdown of the century.
When it didn't look like Cyclonus had gotten any better at making conversation while he had been recovering, Tailgate asked, "How are you?"
"Thankful," Cyclonus said easily. "The medics say you're making a fast recovery."
"Ratchet said you saved me," Tailgate said. If he didn't know better, he would say Cyclonus looked embarrassed at his regard. Tailgate reached for his hand, squeezing it with what little strength he could gather. "Thank you."
"It was nothing," Cyclonus said, but they both knew that that wasn't true.
Tailgate looked at his friend. He looked different, the mysterious scratches on his faceplate repaired and . . .
Tailgate beamed. "You're wearing it," he said. Cyclonus followed his gaze and reached a hand up to touch his new horn. The sight filled Tailgate with a fierce sense of satisfaction. He had worked hard on that gift, determined to give something back to the mech who had given him so much.
"Yes," he said. "I never had a chance to thank you. . . ."
"I'm glad you like it," Tailgate said. "I wanted it to be perfect."
"It is," Cyclonus said. Tailgate quivered with pride. He grabbed for Cyclonus's hand, pulling onto the berth and closing the large fingers around his own. Without remarking on the sentimental gesture, Cyclonus squeezed his hand gently, making Tailgate's spark burn warmly for a moment.
"Are you feeling better?" Tailgate said. "Swerve said you were dragged to the Dead Universe."
As if on cue, Cyclonus let out a wet cough that sounded painful. Tailgate's visor flared in worry, but Cyclonus assured him with another squeeze.
"I have survived far worse than a few megacycles in the Dead Universe," he said. "There is no need for concern."
"Okay . . ." Tailgate said, knowing better than to argue. He made a promise to himself that he would make sure Cyclonus got as much as rest as he could. "I wish I had been there for the fight!"
Frowning, Cyclonus said, "I am relieved you weren't. You've been through enough, and you have no combat experience."
Tailgate bowed his head, remembering the burst of panic and energy he had felt fighting Tyrest. In that moment, he had realized that sacrificing one's life didn't feel as heroic and glorious as he had imagined—instead, it had simply been terrifying. "Yeah, I guess so. I just feel useless for being in recharge while bots were out there risking their lives."
"You risked your life, too, back on Luna 1," Cyclonus reassured him. "Nobody has forgotten that."
Looking down, Tailgate nodded. Absently, he noted that he enjoyed the sight of his servos and Cyclonus's together. The fingers entwined with his were thick and powerful, and he liked the thought that Cyclonus wouldn't do this with just anyone. What lay between them was special, and though Cyclonus would probably never bring it up himself, Tailgate knew he had been incredibly distressed when he had found out that it was too late to cure the cybercrosis. Without thinking, Tailgate stroked the back of the hand in his.
Cyclonus jolted in surprise, his optics flickering briefly. Nervous, Tailgate withdrew his hand and was about to apologize for his impulsive action when Cyclonus huffed and caught his fingers in midair. Almost hesitantly, Cyclonus pulled them toward him and leaned in to press the servos to his mouth reverently.
Plating running hot and spark stuttering with anxiety, Tailgate blurted out, "Cyclonus, what . . ."
"Hush," Cyclonus said, and leaned in to kiss him.
Tailgate squeaked in surprise, his arms instinctually flying up to encircle Cyclonus's neck as his friend pressed closer and cradled Tailgate's head in his enormous hands. Tailgate had never been kissed, but the electric sensation was wonderful and left him feeling pleasantly dizzy and overwhelmed. He may or may not have let out an embarrassing whine when Cyclonus pulled away after a moment.
"Is this acceptable?"
In his excitement, Tailgate could barely get his voice box to work properly. He meant to say, "Of course it is, but thank you for asking," like a level-headed bot who hadn't just been left speechless by a kiss, but instead it came out as, "Yespleasemore?"
Cyclonus chuckled lowly, humming in content as he cupped the side of Tailgate's helm gently. Tailgate basked in the protective gesture. "Maybe when you're better."
"Cyclonus!"
Smiling slightly, Cyclonus shifted closer so he could kiss Tailgate again. And all of a sudden, Tailgate wanted nothing more than to be fully recovered and climbing on top of Cyclonus to explore that handsome plating—to have his friend at the mercy of his enthusiastic touch. The two weeks of medibay rest Ratchet had prescribed that morning suddenly seemed like eons.
"Once your spark regains its full strength," Cyclonus murmured, still close, "I will take you down to the surface. Though it is but a shadow of the Cybertron I knew, it is still our home, and I wish to share it with you."
"Okay," Tailgate agreed. "I'd like that."
A content silence settled over them, but Cyclonus didn't go back to his data pad. Tailgate was bursting with questions, but he didn't know how to voice them, and he was afraid to shatter this delicate thing between them.
"You should rest," Cyclonus said at last. Tailgate hesitated. He was exhausted, but he was worried that his friend would leave if he fell into recharge. Knowing Cyclonus was there just made him feel better. . . . As if he knew what was going through Tailgate's mind, Cyclonus said, "I won't leave you."
Tailgate grabbed for one of Cyclonus's hands with both of his own and squeezed it in sheepish gratitude. Gently, he laid it on his own chassis.
Pleased and happy, he blurted out, "Cyclonus, does this mean we're—"
Cyclonus held a hand up to stop him. "Not now," he said. "I don't want you to agree to anything while your processor is still in repair. We'll talk once you're recovered." At the sight of Tailgate's drooping shoulders and petulant pout, he added, "I promise."
Tailgate vented softly. "Fine, but I'm holding you to it!" he said in what he hoped was an authoritative voice.
Cyclonus smiled ever-so-slightly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
He rubbed a thumb over Tailgate's chassis but didn't say any more. Around them, First Aid and some other medics Tailgate didn't recognize checked up on the patients, talked quietly among themselves, and generally steered clear of Cyclonus. Normally this would make Tailgate indignant, but right now he was grateful for the privacy. He really was tired. He had barely moved all day, but everything ached. Though he was reluctant to miss out on any time with Cyclonus, his systems were begging for rest.
"Will you sing to me?" Tailgate asked.
"Of course," Cyclonus said, and he began quietly humming the first measures of Tailgate's favorite song.
Dimming his visor, Tailgate basked in the comforting and familiar sound of deep, rumbling Old Cybertronian as he drifted into recharge.