Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 4

Warnings: Overlord is the opposite of Tailgate, and there's a heat virus loosed on the Lost Light. Don't read if that's going to scandalize you.

Rating: R

Continuity: IDW

Characters: Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Tailgate, Cyclonus, Trailbreaker, Pipes, Ultra Magnus, Swerve, Skids, Overlord, Chromedome, Rewind

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): It's all Shibara, this round. And she wants a continuation of the first set, so I guess the next round starts with her as well. Yes, oh artist, I bend to thy whims, oh artist… Anyone else have a request?

Wherein the crew of the Lost Light is having too much of a good time, leaving Whirl and a confused Fortress Maximus to save them; Overlord trains his pet to obey; Tailgate thanks some people the old-fashioned way.

[* * * * *]

"In heat"

[* * * * *]

Warning: here there be heavy implied acts of sexual nature.

Fortress Maximus had been dutifully putting in requests to see Rung for weeks. There wasn't much else he could do, what with being locked in the brig, but he tried what he could. Of all the confusion that'd come out of what'd happened, one thing he knew for certain was that he owed Rung an apology. So he put in the requests.

Just as dutifully, Ultra Magnus had been denying his requests. Fort Max had followed the proper procedures, but the request of an incarcerated, dangerous combatant to see the noncombatant he'd harmed had to be approved by a superior officer and jury of three involved peers. The vote hadn't been kept anonymous. Ultra Magnus and Ratchet had both voted approval under strict stipulations; Whirl and Rodimus had both voted denial with a few expletives attached. Fortress Maximus had gritted his teeth on an angry tirade against the denials, swallowed his well-deserved portion of humble pie, and put in another request.

After weeks of denial, the last person he expected to come skidding into the brig shouting, "Request granted, now get your skidplate moving!" was Whirl.

"What the…" He straightened on the berth and stared.

The shorter Autobot rebounded off the empty duty station - no guard had shown up this shift, oddly - and flung a pair of statis cuffs through the cell bars. "Here! Take these, and be prepared to use them!" The faceless head turned toward to the station console, and Whirl's pincers went to work typing in the passcodes. "Blah dee blah blah. Yeah, yeah, authorization code this, verify that, I should have just started shooting." He glanced up and did a double-take. "No, not on you! Frag, now I have to - " A pincer slapped down on the console, and Whirl bustled around the station as the bars powered down. "Yo, U.M.!" he called back toward the console's comm. mike. "I need your cuff code!"

Fort Max just held his cuffed wrists out and blinked, wondering when he'd gone mad. "Why give me cuffs if you didn't want me to use them?" He'd thought it was just part of Whirl's endless refusal to comply with regulations that the cuffs had been flung into the cell instead of put on him. Apparently not, if the frustrated huff was anything to go by. Whirl raised the bars and nabbed him by the cuffs to pull him out. Well, not that anybody Whirl's size could actually pull him around, but Fort Max knew prison procedures inside-out and backward. Prisoner compliance was the only thing that garnered leniency on behavioral reports that, in turn, affected parole or requests. He'd comply with Whirl pulling him around until he could pound the annoying glitch into tinfoil.

*"Why are you making that inquiry of me?"* Ultra Magnus sounded strangely harried to Fort Max's experienced audios.

"Because Roddy gave me your cuffs, and then dumbaft here put them on instead of holding onto them like he was supposed to." How could one optic glare so effectively? Fortress Maximus gazed back, unimpressed by Whirl's ire.

*"Whirl. You're not making any sense."*

"He claims my request has been passed," Fort Max said, deciding to cut off whatever blathering the rotary mech would spout next. This was sounding more and more like a prank instead of anything official, and he wasn't about to let the idiot get him in trouble by proxy. "He had the codes to open the cell, but he's objecting to me being cuffed. What's going on, Ultra Magnus?"

There was a long pause, and Whirl glared up at him. If this got the bastard into trouble, Fort Max was going to feel very smug.

*"…Whirl."* Ultra Magnus was a mech of few words, but he used those words effectively. He packed castigation and a demand for explanation into one word.

"I changed my vote, alright?" Whirl snapped, pincers still on the cuffs. "I got Roddy to change his, too, so we're all agreed that Fort DumbMax here can go visit the guy who's head he blew off, and I need the slagging cuff codes!"

*"Rodimus hasn't spoken to me about - "*

"Then go ask him!"

The harried note in the Executive Officer's voice became more pronounced. *"That is not possible at this time. If I might ask, what did you say to convince him to change his mind? He seemed rather set on his vote upon the last request."

"Yeah, I bet it's not possible," Whirl muttered. "I told him it was a good fragging reason. He agreed." His tone turned snide. "You gonna tell me you disagree?"

The pause this time was odd. Then again, Whirl's bizarrely pointed swearing at the ship's Executive Officer was odd as well. Fortress Maximus was staring at the rotary mech as if he'd grown a sense of responsibility. Not only had Whirl outright sworn at Ultra Magnus, he's actually gone out of his way to emphasize the word. What was going on here?

*"I…see. Yes. I can see the logic in that reason."* There was a strange sound in the background of the transmission. Fort Max's frown transferred to the console. That sounded like an engine revving. And what reason were they talking about?! *"Bring Fortress Maximus to me immediately."* There was a short pause, and another deep grumble of overworked engines. *"Leave the cuffs on. I will take them off myself."*

"Yeah, I just bet you will," Whirl muttered as the transmission cut. "Rust my life. Didn't need any more complications." After sucking in a huge in-vent as if to calm himself, he blew it out in a supremely rude sound. "Fraggit! You!" He pointed a pincer up at Fort Max aggressively. Considering the ex-Wrecker's gangly build compared to the prison warden's, it was like watching a construct made of toothpicks face off with a brick. "You come with me, and no funny business! We've got to get from here," he pointed at the floor at their feet, "to nerd-bot's lab," he pointed to the left and downward, "and then all the way up to the bridge." The pincer swung upward and to the right. "At least, I think that's where Roddy was last." That single-optic head cocked to the side. "Huh. He's not answering comm.-calls. This's gonna be…huh. Well, whatever. We'll deal with finding him when we get around to it."

Typical Wrecker thinking. Planning ahead was for lesser mechs, in their logic. Fortress Maximus continued to be completely unimpressed by Whirl's gesticulations and yammering. "Ultra Magnus did just tell you to bring me," he sneered the words, because despite Whirl being far tougher than his build appeared, they both knew the warden was letting himself be pulled toward the door, "to him. We should be reporting directly to him, not detouring to visit…" His optics flickered as he tried to narrow down exactly who qualified as a nerd in Whirl's very large book of inane appendages to mechs' proper designations.

"Perceptor," the rotary mech said curtly, still determinedly towing the bigger Autobot toward the door. "We need to grab Perceptor. Rodimus' orders," he snidely countered Fort Max's sneer. "The captain of a ship is ranked higher than X.O., last I checked. We need to bring Perceptor to the walking sharp object," the warden thought that meant Drift, "pry Roddy off his aft," wait, off his own aft or off of Drift's aft? Whirl didn't elaborate as he continued, "bring Roddy to Ultra Fragnus, and get the slagging cuffs unlocked before they get too busy so we can actually do something."

That had been entirely too confusing. Busy doing what? "What?" Not that he wanted to feed Whirl's idiocy, but seriously. What?

Whirl smacked the door open, and Trailbreaker and Pipes fell through to land on the floor in a tangled, writhing bundle of limbs stuck in entirely too private areas for a public setting. "Is the brig free?" Trailbreaker gasped from the bottom, middle, and at least one foot on top.

"Sure," Whirl said blandly, not ruffled in the slightest. "Since, y'know, he's out, now." He jerked his head at Fortress Maximus, who was trying not to gape at the pornographic display, and Pipes glanced up.

And screamed.

"Hey - oof! Ow." Trailbreaker flopped back to the floor as Pipes disappeared out the door. "Well, so much for that."

Fort Max stared at the empty doorway. "Did I..?"

"Shoot him, up close and personal? Yep." Whirl abandoned his handcuffed prisoner in favor of hauling Trailbreaker upright and briskly prodding him. "What're your fuel levels?"

The warden's staring transferred to the two smaller Autobots as Trailbreaker leaned into Whirl, purring his motor. "Not low enough to not be still interested in using that brig cell," the black truck leered suggestively. His hands wandered down toward slender hips Fort Max could have done without noticing.

That "fragging" reason Whirl had given Rodimus and Ultra Magnus was starting to take on an ominously literal meaning.

"Has the whole ship gone mad?" the cuffed mech asked loudly, taking a step back.

"Got it in one," Whirl snapped back. "You! Hands off the goods, and drink this." He'd popped his cockpit and taken out a small cube of energon. "Ratchet's orders. Come on," that was addressed at Fort Max, "let's get out of here before he's done!"

The bigger mech let himself be led hurriedly past Trailbreaker, who seemed preoccupied chugging the cube. Preoccupied, that was, until he evidently spotted opportunity and grabbed it with his free hand.

"Yiipe!"

Whirl paused in the hallway after the door closed to tilt his head and give Fortress Maximus a quizzical look. "Did you really just…?"

"He pinched my aft," the warden defended himself, trying not to show exactly how flustered he suddenly was. He was allowed to be startled by that! "What is going on here?!"

The demand was met with a resigned shrug. "Walk and talk, come on." The pull on the cuffs was lackluster, and Whirl dropped his hold on the cuffs to trot ahead of the larger Autobot. His head swung from side to side, and he looked like a reconnaissance mech scouting unknown territory. Which was ridiculous, because Whirl had been onboard this ship longer than Fortress Maximus had. "So, you know all the fluffy feel-good stuff Roddy spouts? Peace, love, getting along with other races, all that slag. Well, yeah, could'a called this one, but that came around to bite us." They came to an intersection, and the ex-Wrecker crept up the wall like the intersecting corridor was full of rabid sparkeaters waiting to tear him apart. Bemused, Fort Max just stood there with his cuffed hands in front of himself, watching. Whirl ducked out to quickly check both ways before waving them onward. "Some kind of virus. Got into the ship's comm. suite, and suddenly everyone's interface drives are going overclocked. Nobody can think straight, nobody can walk straight." He chuckled cruelly, apparently at some perverse memory. "I've seen things in the last two days that'll get me free drinks for years in any bar I care to walk in to."

"That doesn't make any sense," the warden said, unconsciously lowering his voice to match Whirl's low tone. "Ratchet could counter any virus. He's famous for his ability to manufacture cures for the impossible." After watching Ratchet synthesis a cure for the Red Rust from a tiny vial of countervirus while the medic's optics bled rust and his hands fell apart, Fortress Maximus sort of believed every rumor about the doctor's miraculous abilities. "If nothing else, just shutting down the communication suite - "

"In order, he's fragged up, too, and it was too late by the time anybody figured out how everyone got infected." Whirl's optic had a great emotional expression range. It gave the impression of grimacing as the rotary mech crept up on another intersection. "Look, you aren't my first choice. Not even in the top ten. Frag, I'd have taken the Decepticon over you. Buuuuuut," he peered around the corner, "I've been pulling emergency medical duty for a day and half. Ratchet's just barely got it together enough to give me orders about, y'know, savin' lives." He popped his cockpit again and reached in to take out two small, potent energon cubes. Fort Max started to step forward, eyeing them and wondering what was around the corner, but Whirl tick-tocked his free pincer at the cuffed mech. "Don't. You don't want to see these two like this." He glanced around the corner and took out another cube. "Whoa. Three." That just increased curiosity all around, but the warden was still playing a good prisoner. He stopped obediently. Whirl put the cubes on the floor and scooted them around the corner with his foot. "Fuel up!"

"Come join us!"

"No!" Whirl took another peek and went stiff right before whipping around and sprinting past Fortress Maximus, hauling the big Autobot after him by the cuffs. "Run for it!"

His sense of urgency was real enough. The warden humored him for two more hallways. "Who was that?" he asked when they finally slowed back down to Whirl's long-legged lope. "I don't know many mechs by their voices alone on this ship."

Whirl looked back. "You sure you want to know?"

Fortress Maximus scowled. "Why would I ask otherwise?"

"It was Steeljaw and Sunstreaker." The ex-Wrecker hesitated oddly. "And Bob."

The gold, vain frontliner and, er, Blaster's technimal Cassette? Awkward physical compatibility at best. The last mech's name, however, he didn't recognize. "Who?"

"Uh…find out later. Mission first." Suddenly all business, Whirl trotted faster. Fortress Maximus frowned and strode after him. "So, right, where was I…oh. Okay, so everyone's so busy 'facing each other into the floors and walls that they're not remembering to refuel. I've been molested so many times trying to save these ungrateful smelt-waste gearsticks' lives," the smaller Autobot muttered as he trotted along. "I can't keep doing this. You're gonna help me put a stop to it."

The warden squinted suspiciously at Whirl. This sounded far too insane to be real life. An interfacing virus? Whirl forcibly fueling everyone? Whirl trying to save the day?

They came up on another intersection. Whirl didn't slow this time. He just hopped over the entwined pair snogging in the middle, stopping just long enough to nudge a couple of cubes into otherwise-occupied hands. Fortress Maximus uncomfortably looked away as Rewind and Chromedome immediately began feeding each other, still cooing and affectionately staring visor-to-visor. The hardline links were a bit hard to miss, since Chromedome was stroking Rewind's cables with his long injector-needles and Rewind was actually wrapped in Chromedome's main cable.

One or the other of them managed to free a hand to stroke Fort Max's ankle as he carefully stepped over them. His stride hitched for just a second.

"They're probably the least pushy couple onboard," Whirl grumped, still loping forward. "Beware of threesome or moresomes. They're grabby, and they've got far too many hands to get you with."

…right. Probably good advice.

Good advice from Whirl. The world had gone mad.

"Two questions," Fort Max grunted, lengthening his stride to catch up. "One, why me? And two, what am I supposed to help you with?"

"Two answers," the ex-Wrecker snarked back. "One, duh. You're the one who's supposed to be the prison warden. What's the first thing disabled after weapons' systems when a mech's thrown into a cell?"

Ah. "Interface drive."

"Whole piece of hardware gets shut off," Whirl agreed. "You're just as infected as everyone else, but the virus is dormant."

"But why aren't you - "

"Not that it's any of your business," the ex-Wrecker's voice sizzled with acid, "but I never bothered to get my interface drive switched back on after Garrus-1."

It was such a non-surprise that Whirl had been incarcerated on Garrus-1 that Fort Max only snorted contempt. Then the rest of the statement caught up with him, and the warden stopped short. "You what? That's insane!" Short term, deactivating an interface drive prevented a shipload of prisoner problems. On a longer-term scale for longer sentences, there were steps that had to be taken to prevent psychological damage. Interface drives weren't just for sex. They were physical pressure valves and social interaction on an intimate level that every Cybertronian needed, even the only release a mech got was self-service. It was still an integral part of a living being that couldn't just be cut out. Choosing not to use an active array was one thing, but to leave it deactivated for millions of years?!

Of all the things to leap to mind, the first thing out of the warden's mouth was, "Does Rung know?"

The ex-Wrecker reached back and yanked on the cuffs impatiently. "Not your business."

"This explains so slagging much about you." He reluctantly started walking again. So much. No wonder the ex-Wrecker was a walking nutjob.

"Still not your business." Whirl shook his head and started jogging. "It's not like I miss it, anyway. You want insane? You'll see insane, trust me." He laughed bitterly. "Never seen mechs go so crazy as they do when they're desperate for a frag. It's killing them, now, and they're still so busy gettin' it on that they can't care. So you're gonna help me by holding down mechs while I figure out how to shut off their hardware, too."

That almost made sense. Something was definitely wrong. "You don't know how to do it?"

"Not a clue." Whirl shrugged and skittered across an intersection quickly. Fortress Maximus looked down the hallway and wished he hadn't. That looked like a Minibot pileup on top of someone who seemed very happy. The sounds kind of echoed down the corridor, but yeah. That sounded happy. "Thing is, I lost Ratchet about a joor ago, and Ambulon was ordering First Aid, Swerve, and Brainstorm around before I got the slag out of there."

"But - "

"Not those kind of orders. Those kind of orders. I had to short out some restraints of my own to get loose." The ex-Wrecker's stabilizers shivered. "Mech's got organizational skills comin' out his ports, and now he's got other things, too." Another shiver, and then Whirl visibly dismissed the memory. "See, I could knock out mechs left and right, but whenever I think I'm safe, somebody finds me and starts feeling me up. They've got numbers on their side. Nobody's around to repair anybody I crack upside the head too hard. And I'm still trying to keep everybody fueled up, which is the most thankless job I've ever had. That includes the time - "

"I'll take your word for it," Fort Max interrupted rudely, too shaken up to care much about the obnoxious twit's ramblings. The information he was pulling from Whirl's scrambled mess of a debriefing was disturbing, to say the least. "You want me to hold down mechs so you can shut down their interface drives."

"And guard my back, and deliver cubes, and oh shove Primus in the Pit, you are the randiest one of the bunch!" Whirl came to a dead stop, glaring down the hall at…really?

There was a tiny Minibot was kneeling in the middle of the corridor. Fort Max stopped behind his, er, escort and blinked. The little 'bot was white and blue and curvy in places the warden was used to seeing sharp edges and blocky altmode kibble. It was an usual sight, maybe even an exotic one. The mech was, dare he say it, rather adorable. Perhaps especially because of the way he was on his knees, hands demurely folded together on those luxuriously rounded thighs. They just didn't make models with class like that anymore.

He was in a vulnerable, submissive position only enhanced by the way he blinked that wide blue visor up at the two Autobots looming over him. "Who, me?"

"Yes, you!" Whirl edged backward, putting Fortress Maximus between him and the plushly curved Minibot. "You can't fool me!" His voice dropped to a resentful mutter. "More than once, anyway."

A small engine hummed softly, and the kneeling Autobot looked all the way up at Fort Max. "Oh. Hello. Have I met you?"

"Only in passing," the warden answered roughly, taking a cautious step forward. As much as he knew better than to believe appearances, this little mech was far too harmlessly cute to inspire fear in him. For pity's sake, Fortress Maximus could likely pick him up and hold him in his cupped hands. It was kind of tempting, honestly. He sort of wanted to pick the innocent Minibot up, cuddle him, and protect him against the rest of the clearly insane ship's crew. There was just something about the way that visor sparkled and…and the way those smooth thighs were parting, and those teensy hands were sliding down to dip into gaps and do obscene things to the wires and cables lewdly exposed underneath…

"I'm - uh. I'm Fortress Maximus. You're Tailgate, correct?" he finished somewhat weaker than he'd started.

Whirl poked him in the tread. "Keep walking!"

"Yes," Tailgate said breathily, fingers twisting deftly as he rocked into his own hands. "Oh, yes. I'm Tailgate, and you're just the right size for what I'm thinking a name like Fortress Maximus implies about a mech. Come here and show me what you're the maximum of." He rose up on his knees, hands dragging up the inside of his thighs to come up and fondle his chest. "I'll show you what my name means."

One of Fort Max's optics twitched wider than the other. What.

"Ack!"

The warden stumbled forward and turned, suddenly shoved from behind. Whirl flailed again, but Cyclonus had him well and truly pinned.

In a hug. "Whirl," the Decepticon rasped, biting at the rotary mech's antenna hard enough to scrape peels of metal off. "Hate sex appeals to me. If I happen to kill you, it would be a better fate than what I originally planned for you."

Whirl's expressive optic conveyed horror deeper than mere words could say. "Do. Not. Want!"

"Do not care," Cyclonus snarled back, claws scraping across his enemy's body to violate sensitive areas in most unwelcome ways.

Fort Max jumped, startled by an unwelcome touch on his own body. Slightly wild-opticked, he looked down to see Tailgate all but plastered against his leg, molesting as best he can considering their height difference. The Minibot looked ready to start climbing him, however. "Ah. Tailgate? I would prefer that you not…your attentions are flattering but not something I'm interested in."

"Reason doesn't work with a virus!" Whirl barked, struggling with all four limbs and not getting anywhere. His rotary assemblies were creating enough of a windstorm to send Cyclonus staggering back against the wall for balance, and Tailgate might have been in trouble if he weren't vacuum-sealed to Fortress Maximus' lower leg. "Leggo! Do not want! Help! Rape!...oh, Primus, I can't believe I have to say this slag…"

"That's a - no! Please don't touch that!" Fort Max hesitated warily before bending down and plucking Tailgate from his leg with his cuffed hands. It was the obvious solution. The Minibot let go easily, which should have been a warning sign.

"Off! Off off off off ack no off! Not the cockpit! Claws off the glass!" There were screeching, scratchy noises indicating that Cyclonus was not listening to Whirl's protests at all.

The warden suddenly had a ball of richly, almost erotically curved Autobot absolutely wrapped around his hands, writhing through his palms like he'd been greased as the sleek curves gave no purchase for a good grip. The mech's whole frame shimmied as he rubbed and wriggled, burring that small engine in rampant arousal. Tiny white hands manipulated one of Fort Max's much larger fingers into a hot, electricity-spitting gap that just dripped charge. Tailgate revved harder and worked that finger in and out, visor bright as he reveled in the sensation.

"Whirl!" Well, that was a thoroughly undignified bleat for help.

But what else was he supposed to do? Throw the Minibot down? Whirl had already said the medics were indisposed. Tailgate clearly wasn't in control of his own actions. Anything more than self-defense would get put down on his record and count toward his brig sentence. Fortress Maximus couldn't do more than try to push the determined little mech away, but with his hands cuffed like this, it was stupidly ineffectual. It also made Tailgate cry out loudly and arch in ways that would usually grab the intense interest of a certain piece of every mech's anatomy. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Tailgate's target didn't currently have that piece activated.

Right, no more pushing.

"Hold gah!" Whirl yelped. "Hold on. If this doesn't work, I'm going to have no leverage whatsoever, so I hope you're prepared for how loud I can shriek in disgust." There were clanks and grunts, and suddenly there was a kicking mass of blue and purple tumbling across the floor. "Cyc! Look at the pretty Minibot! Hot 'bot alert! Look at him! He's ready to go and everything!"

Fort Max felt like a dirty slagger for helpfully holding out his double handful of Tailgate, but it did catch the deep red pits of Cyclonus' optics. The Decepticon looked up like a hunter catching the scent of willing prey. It probably helped that Tailgate's present position was showing off a quite delectable tiny aft that bobbed and weaved as the warden kept trying to free his finger. Cyclonus' attention visibly fixated on the Minibot. Twin flares of red light reflected off that shiny white aft.

"Here, have him!" the warden urged, voice high-pitched and funny as his captured fingertip brushed against something he was going to have trouble forgetting.

"Yesssss," Cyclonus growled. "Tailgate."

Miracle of miracles, the lusty little Autobot actually paused and looked up. He reset his visor, and Fortress Maximus was surprised when the giddy brightness dimmed to a downright sultry glow. "Cyclonus." Letting go with one hand, the small mech leaned toward his habitation suitemate and made a come hither curl with his fingers. "Come here, Cyclonus."

Whirl surged up from the floor, grabbed Tailgate in one pincer and Cyclonus' remaining helm-horn with the other, and shoved them together. "Psycho Decepticon, meet tiny ancient guy. Tiny ancient guy, frag him until he's sane again. I am holding this over your head forever," he informed his assailant.

Cyclonus had dismissed him from his world the moment a better interface came into it, it seemed. Whirl was ignored in favor of a far more enthusiastic playmate. Tailgate got thrown down to the floor and explored with wide palms and sharp claws.

Right up until Tailgate planted his feet against the Decepticon's midriff and flipped him up over his head to land with a terrible clatter. Quick as Blurr, the randy Minibot rolled upright and pounced the larger mech. There was a brief struggle, but it seemed Tailgate could hold his own at hand-to-hand, at least when his opponent was completely distracted by what exactly those hands were holding. After a flurry of moves and counter-moves, they just moved together.

Fort Max gaped, backing away. It wasn't so much that Tailgate was topping a notorious Decepticon. It was just the cumulative strangeness kicking him in the cortex all at once.

"See why I wanted the cuffs free?" Whirl spat, pulling at the warden's arm as he slid down the wall past the enthusiastic interface happening right then and there. Foreplay was a thing of the past. "Come on, before they decide we should join them."

Red optics and a blue visor flared and looked up.

Fortress Maximus and Whirl exchanged a panicked look and ran for it.

[* * * * *]

Fortress Maximus - "First time"

[* * * * *]

Warning: here there be the continuation of the Overlord-leaves-Garrus-9 AU.

Not the expander. He couldn't take the expander again, not so soon after last time. His jaw still ached from being unlocked. Overlord had been in no hurry to pop the joints back into place when his pet learned so quickly from physical demonstrations. Fortress Maximus had learned very quickly with his jaw unhinged and hanging open, oral fluid dribbling off his chin and Overlord taking suggestions from the nearest Decepticon base for what should be shoved down his intake next. The gross distortion of his intake valve had been bad enough, the popped joint painful, but the real lesson had been taught by the laughter broadcast around the small ship. Overlord had let the nearest bases watch the ex-warden helplessly drool, and the shame had ground the lesson in deep.

So Fortress Maximus parted his lips and tried to relax his intake. He kept his optics downcast, not wanting to see the cruel smile he knew was curving Overlord's lips. He was broken, not masochistic.

A swallow worked his throat tubing as thick fingers came up to stroke his chin. "Oh ho. Now you'll obey?" Overlord leaned down, forcing the Autobot's head up with a hard pinch to the chin. "No, Maxy," he said in the ex-warden's face, tone mild but optics flinty. "That's not how this works. I give an order, and you obey it. No hesitation, no repetitions, no second chances. You didn't obey, and now you'll face the consequences." His other hand held up the small set of hydraulics that'd fit in the back of his pet's jaw if forced.

The big Autobot cringed. Not the expander!

He whimpered, hating the weak sound but knowing it pleased Overlord immensely to hear it. He even tipped his head to the side, pushing the side of his face against the larger mech's hand in a sick parody of affection. He rubbed and nudged, begging without words because his mouth was still open, he'd obeyed, he'd obeyed!

Hope hurt the worst, but it always did when Overlord retaught a lesson. Fortress Maximus knew better than to hold onto even a smidgeon of it, but there had been just a few times when amusement motivated the Decepticon to show a fraction of mercy. Perhaps those instances were just calculated to add to the terrible pressure stomping his pet's will flat. Knowing Overlord? Almost certainly so.

But yet Fort Max couldn't stop himself from offering his open mouth, whining eagerly when Overlord's unoccupied hand slipped in. The fingers touching every surface in his mouth weren't new. They prodded the sensors lining the roof of his mouth, attempted to wiggle his denta in their sockets, and pressed down on his glossa. That hands-on glossa depressor was the only thing that stopped him from continuing to lap and lick and chase those fingers with his glossa. He still closed his lips to suck hard on the two fingers and the thumb holding his glossa down.

This, he'd been well-trained to do. He was thoroughly degraded by how routine it seemed at this point, but at least he wasn't punished for reluctance anymore.

It was the swipe of a finger over the back of his mouth that was new. His intake aperture spasmed, but he made it relax. He could do this. He could take it.

Frag him, he wanted it. He opened his mouth wider and whined again, pushing his face forward into the fingers tracing over the thin metal of the valve itself. He wanted it. Really, he did. Please, he did. He'd obeyed. He'd be obedient. He could take it.

Overlord's hand withdrew, and a tiny sound of fear and despair leaked out after it.

"Now, let's see just who's in range." Overlord smiled benignly as his pet shuddered but kept that naughty mouth open. Too little, too late. "It's about time I gave your personal cheerleader a call. What word of encouragement will he entertain me with today?" Wide optics shot to his face and away again as Fort Max wrestled himself back into stoic surrender. "Springer should take notes. He's promised to reenact on me every torment I've inflicted on you, but, hmm." He pretended to think that over. "I believe he's missed seeing quite a few. I'll have to think of a new one just for him this time."

The massive Phase Sixer leaned down and tenderly took Fortress Maximus' willingly opened mouth in a slow kiss. The Autobot's intakes convulsed, trying not to retch, and Overlord took from his mouth directly the sobbed, involuntary noises of a mech's destroyed pride. His mouth tasted like terror.

Overlord chuckled as he drew away. "Now, as for the expander…"

The Autobot whimpered again and kept his mouth open.

[* * * * *]

Tailgate - "gifts"

[* * * * *]

It started with a free drink.

Well, technically all drinks for Tailgate were free. Rodimus had granted him a small allowance, hiring him as the "Ship's Antique" out of a fit of generosity tempered by pity and his questionable sense of humor. Rung, who'd been behind their young captain at the time, had put a hand over his mouth until he could control his expression . Tailgate still wasn't sure if the older mech had been smothering irritation or amusement. He himself wobbled between annoyance and gratitude.

For a mech his age, he really wasn't that old Being called an antique by Ratchet had stung a little, but being officially labeled that by Rodimus was kind of mean. Seriously, he'd been in and out of consciousness for a few million years; he hadn't actually lived all that time. Cyclonus was as old as he was physically, but the grouchy purple warrior had actually lived the time.

Anyway, he didn't say anything to Rodimus about it because he kind of needed the tiny credit allowance the, uh, 'job' gave him. He hadn't exactly been poor when he'd signed on to the original Ark mission, but that'd been before civil war collapsed the bank system and economy in one long, terrible go. His credits were long gone.

Tailgate limited himself, saving what he could. It seemed like reasonable money management was a rarity - he was looking at half the crew on that one - but apparently the 'live as if you won't see tomorrow' war mentality was still in place. Well, he intended to see tomorrow. Therefore, he saved his credits. He gave them to Ultra Magnus to invest, as the Duly Appointed Enforcer had access to the Enforcer Fund. The investment's total gain would be slow, but steady. Apparently, the Enforcer Fund was one of the few Cybertronian investments the galactic community as a whole would trade on.

The blue mech didn't like to think on that. He clearly remembered a time when the galactic community had fought for access to Cybertronian credits.

In any case, having his credits invested meant that he was limited to one drink at Swerve's bar when he did go. The money he had just wasn't enough for more. He was fine with that! Really! He hadn't been one for much drinking before waking up, and the heavy-duty energon everyone else was used to by now tasted, er…no offense to Swerve or anything, but even distilled, the resulting engex still tasted like swill. One glass was about all Tailgate could stand before it felt like the stuff started to scour his intake tubing.

So to take it beyond the free drink, it really started with Cyclonus. Because like that was news?

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Tailgate asked, trying to project warmth toward his hab suite's sullen co-occupant. "Just for a while?"

"I do not wish to accompany you anywhere," Cyclonus stated coldly.

The warmth faltered a bit. "O-oh."

The purple warrior looked up from the desk where he was sharpening his claws. The pinpricks of red optical light skewered Tailgate with a contemptuous glare. "Why do you persist in asking me about such inanities? I have not, nor will I ever agree to voluntarily be in your company. Cease your pestering and leave me in peace."

Red optics looked back to their work, and maybe if Tailgate had been anyone else, he'd have been offended and hurt enough to 'take a hint,' as Whirl so charmingly put it. But Tailgate was only Tailgate, and Tailgate saw things in the Lost Light as no one else could. The history attached to every single person he met didn't warp his vision one way or another.

He looked across the habitation suite at the proud warrior whom the whole Primal Vanguard had regarded as a hero of Cybertron, and he saw loneliness, bitterness, and anger wrapped around an unbroken spark. He saw power and control never misused, and an honor code from times he'd freshly woken up from himself. Sure, Cyclonus was a Decepticon and older than Tailgate really was, impatient with the Bomb Disposal expert's naiveté and constant attempts to draw him into the company of Autobots. That didn't change the fact that he hadn't moved out of the hab suite he shared with the little mech.

Cyclonus was a bluntly honest mech when he cared to be. Probably the only lie he told himself was that he didn't want Tailgate's company.

And usually Tailgate would cheerfully pop up by his elbow, say something that'd dig that point in, and skedaddle off to Swerve's bar before the warrior could muster more than a furious huff. By the time he'd get back, Cyclonus would have rationalized his grumpy dismissal of all things Tailgate all over again, and they'd repeat the cycle the next time.

This time, however, Tailgate just looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet before turning to leave. He didn't say anything, and he didn't turn back to see the red optics look up suddenly as the door began to close. He just walked slowly way down the corridor.

It was something Rung had said to him, in that gentle conversational tone he took with his patients. Tailgate didn't feel like he needed psychotherapy, but he did need some history lessons. He was catching up on millions of years of his planet and people combusting in civil war. As much fun as movie nights with Rewind were, the information he got from scheduling sessions with Rung tended to be more reliable. It helped that Rung had been a respected therapist long before his time. It made him kind of intimidating in that scarily-smart way some mechs had, but Tailgate liked him anyway.

Unfortunately, Rung had a habit of getting to the heart of matters that the blue Bomb Disposal expert had been trying to not think about.

"You do realize almost every friend you had is long dead?" the psychotherapist had asked, kind and sad. "I can count on both hands the number of mechs from my generation that survived the war." His absurd optical ridges lowered slightly. "I don't know how many made it from yours, but statistically speaking…the likelihood of any of your circle of acquaintances surviving approaches zero."

Urk.

Tailgate had found himself in sudden, urgent need of a stiff drink or five.

Getting rejected by Cyclonus - again - had only made the need more pressing. He was going to go to Swerve's bar, and he was going to drown sorrows deeper than any Ultra Magnus' horrid regulations had inspired.

So he hopped up on a stool and sucked down his first drink. And that's about when he actually checked his credit balance.

Fraaaaaaag.

"Here," Swerve said, sliding a mug of engex to knock against the top of Tailgate's helm. That was currently the only part of him available, as the blue Minibot's face was planted firmly on the bar. "End of the paycheck, eh?" He'd had customers in the whole cycle sourly muttering about having to cut out early. Half the bar was nursing their drinks to make them last.

A dim blue visor peeked upward. "Yes," Tailgate muttered, and the bartender had never heard the perpetually-upbeat mech sound so miserable. "I'm broke. Sorry." He poked a finger at the mug, sliding it back across the bartop. "I can't pay."

Swerve firmly pushed it back. "It's on the house. Mech, you look like you need it!"

That got Tailgate's head off the bar real quick. "B-but I can't pay!" He tried to push it back, looking a little flustered. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just, um, feeling my age. Swerve!" The mug had been pushed back in front of him. Swerve was pretending to polish things, studiously ignoring any and all attempts to give him back the drink. Sometimes a mech knew when talking was merely a delaying tactic. "But…" Tailgate looked between bartender and drink. "But I can't…I haven't the money."

"It's already mixed," Swerved proclaimed. "Can't put it back in the tanks, so drink up."

Putting it that way really just made Tailgate feel guilty. Both for refusing the free drink and not paying in the first place, which made him feel terribly conflicted. He turned the mug around in his hands and gave a tiny nod. "Okay. But, um, if you're giving me something, then I have to give you something back."

"What?" Swerve's moment of triumph over the surprisingly stubborn "Ship's Antique" became confusion. "Why would you do that?"

Tailgate blinked at him, taken aback by his surprise. "You mean that's not a custom anymore? Every gift must be reciprocated, or it puts the gift-taker in the gift-giver's debt. I mean, it's only a ritual. It doesn't actually have to be a big expensive return gift, but it's the symbolism that - " The big blue visor blinked again as Swerve put his hands up. "That's really not done anymore?"

"Is this another 'back in my day' custom?" The bartender leaned on the bartop, sweeping the room with an automatic customer-check. Nope, everyone was still miserly nursing along their drinks. "Because I don't think I get this one. If I give you a present, I give you a present. No strings attached, Tailgate."

The Bomb Disposal expert looked down into his mug and took a sip from the ridiculously curly straw, but Swerve still heard him mumble something. It sounded like, "There are always strings attached."

"No, seriously." He propped an arm in front of Tailgate and pointed a finger at the drink. "It's just a drink. I own the place, y'know? You don't have to pay me anything for it if I say you don't."

That got a sigh. "It's a social transaction. Every interaction between two mechs can be broken down into give and take. I just don't like having the transaction scale weighted toward debt." Tailgate shrugged when Swerve's face screwed up in a revolted expression. "I know, I know. It's not a popular social theory, but it's the one I was taught when it comes to material gifts. I can't just cast off everything from the past overnight!"

Ah. That had been a tad bit…loud. Inappropriately so.

Tailgate sank low on his stool, well aware that the whole bar was now staring at him.

"O-kaaaay," Swerve said warily, palms flat on the bartop as he leaned away from the unexpectedly feisty old-timer. "Uh. So. If you want to give me something, I, uh, guess I'm okay with that."

The little blue 'bot seized on the offer, relieved. "Great! What do you want?"

"Whatever you want to give me?"

Tailgate just looked at him. That had been the singularly most unhelpful answer possible. Swerve beamed back, oblivious. It made the blue mech want to bean him with the mug. Which was empty, now. Huh. When had he finished it? Oh well. It'd been very nice of Swerve to give him the free drink, and now Tailgate had to think of something to reciprocate with.

Oh! Of course. Well, if he was giving free lessons about old customs tonight, he might as well make them hands-on.

"It's not really traditional, per se," Tailgate said softly, pushing himself up until he was kneeling on his stool, "but I used to exchange these with my friends when we gave each other gifts. Come here, Swerve." He beckoned the loudmouth closer.

"What, are you gonna punch me one?" Swerve was far too good-natured to hold a grudge if that were true. He'd probably earned it somehow. He grinned widely and leaned across the counter to meet his friend halfway. "Don't hit the mouth, eh? I like my smile. It's my best feat-ahh? Oh."

Tailgate's hands reached him first, parting to hold his jawline tenderly between them. Gratitude and a faint overtone of amusement soaked into Swerve's metal from them, projected strongly as Tailgate touched his face mask to the side of the small Autobot's wide mouth. He nuzzled sweetly before turning his head slightly to brush cheeks with him. Their helms clanged together quietly. The blue mech's fingertips were cradling Swerve's chin, and the dim-visored mech obediently turned his head where they gently pushed. His shock-slackened mouth got another nuzzle on the opposite side, and another brush of the cheek. Then Tailgate turned his face back forward to press the top of his mask to Swerve's nose first and forehelm second.

"Thank you for the gift," he whispered to his friend, slurring just slightly as the engex started to hit his tanks. Woo, that was stronger than usual stuff. His tubes were going to be stripped to the rubber. He carefully sat back down in his stool, folded his hands on the bar, and blinked innocently at Swerve. "Was that okay?"

It took a moment for Swerve to remember where he'd left his jaw. It seemed to have relocated itself to the bartop.

"Y-yeah," he sputtered when he recovered enough, hands flailing a bit. "Just fine! More than okay! Uh. You want another drink?"

The empty mug got a considering look. "Um, no. I'm good for now, I think." The bright blue visor went a little dark, and a ripple of guilt went through the pleasantly light shimmer of Tailgate's electromagnetic field. He avoided looking at Swerve. He felt bad taking advantage of Swerve's pity. He felt a little better now, anyway. He didn't need another drink, not really. "Thank you again, Swerve."

"My pleasure," the bartender said on automatic. The server drone buzzed for his attention, but he hesitated a second to reach over the bar to give his buddy a pat on the shoulder. "Feel better, right? You let me know when you're ready for another round."

"Alright." He kept his visor down as the cheerful Autobot went to the other end of the bar to fill the drone's collected drink orders and chat with other customers. Notably Skids, who was looking in Tailgate's direction speculatively. The small blue mech looked away, ashamed that he'd been caught staring at anyone. He went back to doodling pictures on the bartop with a tiny bit of spilled engex. He felt better, yeah, but that wasn't saying much. Primus, all his friends were dead. That was a lot of people.

He'd gone through the Iaconian University three times. He'd come out each time with another degree and a whole crop of new friends and contacts. The university faculty in six different departments had greeted him by name. He'd been a guest lecturer more than once. Now, the students, faculty, and university were gone. Obliterated.

He'd been part of the physical arena, competing in the inter-guard matches for placement in the Primal Vanguard's championship rankings. Sure, he'd picked a less physically strenuous combat specialty, but everyone had respected him for choosing to go into Bomb Disposal. There were no survivors of failure in Bomb Disposal; mechs either succeeded or died. Mechs in Bomb Disposal had ball bearing diameters that the medibay had to special-order, they were so large. It'd made every mech in the division closer than spark-twins. He suddenly missed them so much it ached.

He'd counseled Nova Prime. He'd been included in some of the greatest scientific and philosophical breakthroughs of his time. He'd dropped his entire life to join the Ark crew, and that'd been an act of selfless courage back in his day.

'Of his time' and 'back in his day' being the key phrases, there. These times weren't his time, and weren't the times of anyone of his time. Just look at Cyclonus. It seemed all the mech could remember were better times long past. Even Rung seemed isolated, forever waiting in his timeless office for those who needed him.

Tailgate heaved a painfully huge sigh and shifted over to prop his helm up on one hand. He discovered that he'd been absentmindedly doodling frowny faces. So much for feeling better.

A glowing blue drink abruptly slid onto his drawing space. "What the..? Swerve, no!" he protested, looking up. The protest was half-sparked, however.

Swerve's deceptively guileless visor took in the bleak expression on his friend's masked face and threw said half-sparked protest out the nearest window. Mech needed about three more drinks before the bartender would start believing that he didn't actually want another. "Too late," he informed the blue 'bot. "See Skids over there?" He pointed, and Tailgate turned to look. Skids lazily saluted with two fingers. "Skids there bought you a drink. So drink."

"But I - oh dear." White hands fussed at nothing, patting down his thigh compartments for credits he no longer had. "Oh, I can't!"

"I told him about you little gift custom," Swerve went on, ruthlessly cutting off that angle of retreat. Of course he had. He couldn't have stopped himself even if Skids hadn't specifically asked about it. "He's okay with it. He just thought you'd appreciate a free drink right now."

"I do, but - " Tailgate floundered for words. "I mean, does he really know what I - no, it's not that I don't appreciate it, but he didn't need to - I - " Thoroughly flustered, the blue Minibot's scattered thoughts finally slid to a jumbled halt. "…do I really look that bad?" he asked after sitting quietly for a moment stewing in embarrassment and the tiniest hint of gratification that anyone had noticed his mood.

"Weeeeell," Swerve drew out, "I wasn't going to say anything," he totally was, "but yeah, you look kinda rough tonight. You wanna talk about it?" Him, hoping for gossip? Perish the thought. He was mostly hoping to help his friend out, with the possibility of gossip lurking on the side.

Actually, he was really just looking for an excuse to hang out around the smaller Autobot right now. Because of reasons. Yeah.

Tailgate's visor flushed brilliant blue, and the little Bomb Disposal expert looked down into the drink as if looking for a polite way to excuse himself from life. "No. I mean, well, I mean no. But it's not because of you. I just…no, okay?" He helplessly looked back up at Swerve, pleading with him to understand. This was hard for him to deal with on his own. As much as he liked Swerve, however, the mech wasn't exactly the most tactful of friends when it came to life advice.

Swerve blinked back at him. Tailgate decided retreat was the better part of valor and slid out of his stool hurriedly, taking the drink with him. "I'll just go thank Skids, shall I?"

The bartender continued to watch him, struck a little dumb by how fragging cute he suddenly found the small blue mech's…everything. Everything sounded about right. Although as he watched those rounded thighs and pert aft hustle down the bar, 'cute' wasn't the only description he found himself applying to his friend. Huh.

"Where's my head been at?" he asked himself, crossing his arms and furrowing his brows as he watched Skids lean down to collect the universe's sweetest little nuzzles and cheek-rubs from Tailgate. How had he not noticed how absolutely lovable his friend was?

"On your shoulders, I'd say," Whirl said from behind him, and Swerve just about jumped over the bar in surprise. "Hey, what's with the snuggling?"

Skids had scooped the little Bomb Disposal expert up onto the closest barstool, stealing a hug on the way. Tailgate seemed embarrassed by the attention and bent over his drink. At the rate he was sucking it down, Swerve would have to bring him another right quick. Then again, from the way Skids was hovering near him as they talked, Tailgate probably wouldn't be the one ordering it.

"Tailgate's got this old-style gift-giving ritual thing he insists on doing," Swerve explained to Whirl, not really caring if the ex-Wrecker followed what he meant. "Skids bought him a drink. He's just, y'know, paying him back, I guess."

"Heh. Hey, old-timer!" Whirl bellowed across the bar, and everyone who'd been covertly eyeing the adorable sight of Tailgate getting steadily more uninhibited and responsive to Skids' attention turned to scowl at the crude behavior. The rotary mech blithely ignored their disapproval. "What's a mech got to give you to get that ritual into his berth?"

Tailgate turned on his stool and shot back, utterly deadpan, "His hab suite number."

Dead silence filled the bar. Even Whirl was struck speechless.

"And that," the 'tiny ancient dude' (as Skids had once dubbed him) announced after a second of intense concentration, "probably means I've met my limit for the night. I think I just propositioned Whirl," he said as an aside to Skids. "Have I been drinking too fast?" He looked into his third drink, which was considerably larger than his first but just as empty. "I've been drinking far too fast. You'd think I'd know better after the time I took apart a cycled-nitrogen engine and put it back together as the idealized heat engine. I mean, only as a prototype," he admitted frankly as if he needed to tack on a warning to future scientists that building in an inebriated state wasn't wise. Public service announcement Tailgate. "I didn't invent it by myself, and I certainly couldn't have finished it while overcharged, but slaggit, the company was excellent and the conversation better and it seemed like a good idea at the time and - well, you're not Nova Prime," his visor glittered up at Skids as the bar murmured, "but I like you anyway. I think I need to leave before I build something. Or proposition you, too."

He slid from his barstool and turned to see Whirl advancing down the bar toward him. The big ex-Wrecker was ignoring whatever Swerve was trying to hiss at him. "I'm really not interested, honestly," Tailgate decided firmly, stomping his foot down and folding his arms. "As everyone on this blasted ship has delighted in telling me again and again and again," the bar murmured louder, and mechs avoided each others' optics as that hit home, "I am old. Therefore, allow me my old-fashioned values. I am not," the little blue mech held up a finger and hiccupped his vents. "Right. I am not looking for my conjunx endura. I am not looking for best friends. I'm really not looking for single-frag flings. What this 'old timer' is looking for," in the first aggressive move anyone in the bar had ever seen him make, Tailgate jerked a thumb at his own chest, "is a few mechs as good at giving and taking as they used to be back in my day!"

His voice had gone high and nasal on the last four words, as if he were mocking the sheer number of times he'd had to tack that on to what he said since waking up.

He held the edge-of-angry pose for a moment, but the moment passed. The small, old-but-not mech slumped, looking tired. "But I guess that's just not how it is these days," he uttered in the direction of the floor before turning and walking steadily for the door. "Everyone have a good night."

"Tailgate..?" Later, nobody was sure if it were Swerve or Skids who'd spoken, but it didn't matter much. Skids had jumped up from his stool to get a hold on Whirl and stop the ex-Wrecker. Whirl wasn't fighting him. Swerve was standing behind the bar looking a little bewildered.

Tailgate stopped in the doorway, one hand holding the door open. "It's okay," he said softly without turning back. "My beliefs have always been stronger than the truth. It just takes a while for me to find how they intersect." He shook his head and let go of the door, and it slid closed behind him.

By the time somebody followed him out, he had turned the first available corner and was gone.

He wandered for a while, head down as he thought. Old values and beliefs up against the current truths deserved some hard thinking. It wasn't something he'd wanted to do, but between Rung and Ultra Magnus, he was facing some difficult conflicts of thought. Rung wasn't letting him take the unhealthy route and try to bury his past. Instead, he was trying to help the time-displaced mech settle into the present without discarding everything he'd been before. Rung saw value in the past. Ultra Magnus, on the other wheel, had attempted to remake him in the image of Autobot Code. It wasn't that Ultra Magnus was deliberately dismissing Tailgate's past or railroading him into changing everything he'd been, but the ship's executive officer had also made it clear that the Duly Appointed Enforcer saw no room for disagreement with any of the 10,000 pages of the Autobot Code. The Code, like the Tyrest Accord, was Law. Arguing with the Law was not permitted.

Tailgate was more than a bit uneasy with some of the things in the Code, but he hadn't felt comfortable bringing it up with anyone who was actually an Autobot. And he really wanted to belong.

As Rung had pointed out, all the people he'd belonged with before were long dead. Tailgate was alone.

He usually wasn't one for moping, but he was in a black mood composed of sad thoughts and drunken logic when he finally meandered back to his habitation suite. He keyed the door open and walked in wearily, not expecting and not receiving any form of a greeting.

Cyclonus was still at the desk. Tailgate stared at the warrior's broad back for a minute, wanting to do…something. Say something. Anything. Nothing came to mind. He shook his head and went to lie down on the nearest berth. They never had talked about who got the berth closest to the window. Tailgate had decided to just not say anything and leave it for Cyclonus. The purple mech had gotten far too few kindnesses in return for his bravery, in the little mech's opinion.

In fact, that was something he should do. Yes. That was a good idea.

He struggled back upright and staggered only slightly as he rounded the berth to approach the desk. His tanks sloshed, unhappily processing highly-distilled engex. "Um, Cyclonus?"

"I did not think you would return tonight," Cyclonus' dry voice rasped back as the smaller mech stopped at his elbow. Not that he'd cared, of course. "Swerve's slagpit of a bar must have been quite full. I am doubly glad I did not visit it tonight." Not that he'd been tempted. He sniffed and paused in his sharpening. "The drinks must have been potent. You reek of them."

Did he smell? "Sorry," Tailgate apologized. "Um, can you look at me? I want to give you something."

"I want nothing from you."

"I know. But I owe you."

"You owe me nothing."

"I do," Tailgate insisted, raising a hand to not-quite touch the warrior's large arm. "We all do. All of Cybertron. So I'm gonna…gonna give you something to help pay down the debt we owe you."

For once, he managed to catch Cyclonus' interest, if only because the Decepticon couldn't follow his line of reasoning at all. The purple warrior turned his head toward him impatiently, optics flaring. "What are you blathering on about?"

Small white fingertips ventured up to touch his jaw, paralyzing him with the tentative flow and ebb of gratitude glimmering over his own EM field. The red pinpricks widened to glowing embers of surprise. "What - "

"Shhh," Tailgate crooned, stroking under his jaw with sensitive fingertips as he would an unfamiliar bomb, just getting the feel of what he was doing before starting in. His forefingers made small circles up the side of Cyclonus' mandible, eventually dipping into the empty space. They hooked over the edge to pull the larger mech's face down toward him. Not yanking or trying to force Cyclonus down; just persuading him with gentle tugs and pushes of appreciation through his hands. "Let me thank you for fighting for us. Fighting for me."

Cyclonus was leaning sideways almost without realizing it, face to face with the comparatively tiny Minibot. "I fought for Galvatron."

"Yes," Tailgate said simply, without any of the condemnation the rest of the ship would have displayed toward that one statement. He continued to pulse open, pure gratitude through his hands, letting it flow up the sides of Cyclonus' face and drift into the warrior's mouth to settle like the finest high grade over his tongue. "You also fought for Cybertron. I never got the chance to thank you in my time - our time?" His very circuitry throbbed a sudden pulse of sadness, and Cyclonus frowned, unable to understand it. "My time. But I have time now, so I'm going to thank you for giving us your services as one of our warriors. Please," he whispered, dimming his visor and stretching his neck upward to nuzzle his face mask against the pointed side of Cyclonus' mouth, "let me give you this in return."

After a moment, Cyclonus surrendered to the fingers playing in and out of the empty sides of his face, the nuzzle and slide of Tailgate's mask against his mouth. He surrendered, and for a while in that hab suite on that lost ship, the past became the present as if it'd never abandoned them.

[* * * * *]