Megatron loses, the D.J.D. can't turn down a drink, How To Train Your Tank, Prowl goes straight to the point, and Chromedome's emotions break through.

Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 26

Warning: slavery, drunk and disorderly massacre, pacification points, spoilers for MTMTE

Rating: R

Continuity: MTMTE, TFP

Characters: D.J.D., Pharma, Trailbreaker/cutter, Prowl, Scrapper, Rewind, Chromedome

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

Motivation (Prompt): Various weird prompt, a comic from a fun artist.

[* * * * *]

TF:Prime - comic by Herzspalter ( post/95224599575/yknow-when-i-was-7-years-old-i-didnt-expect-to)

[* * * * *]

The frustrating part is that he can't even blame Soundwave for switching loyalties. He was, according to everything Knock Out and Soundwave's efforts could discern, completely mind-dead. With the rightful leader of the Decepticons in a coma without hope of recovery, Soundwave switched loyalty to someone that even Megatron had acknowledged as his successor. The rest of the faction had already done so. Soundwave was a hold-out.

It would have been a touching gesture of loyalty if Soundwave returned to supporting Megatron upon the tyrant's miraculous recovery. Switching loyalties is understandable; refusing to go back on his new oaths of loyalty when Megatron recovered isn't. That, Megatron can and does blame Soundwave for.

The truly humiliating part is that Soundwave still doesn't speak. When Megatron's glares and growls finally get an answer, it's in the form of an illustrated argument for why Starscream is the better Decepticon leader, and how Starscream has driven the last of the Autobots into full retreat.

Words are easy to argue. Stark images of success are more difficult to muster convincing arguments against, especially when they're followed up by a montage of videos and report clips that Soundwave apparently collected the entire course of the war, all pointing out how half the war could have been avoided if - as Soundwave concluded - Megatron wasn't absolutely obsessed with Optimus Prime.

Starscream will end the war, so Soundwave is supporting Starscream. He followed his ex-gladiator compatriot for lack of options and sentimentality for long enough. All hail the new Decepticon leader.

Leaving Megatron at the mercy of said new leader.

Waking up disoriented and chained down on a repair berth was a bad experience. It went downhill from there.

He grimaces when the distinctive clicking of Starscream's heels approaches the area designated his pen. The Vehicons are too used to his chained presence to react to his various snarling noises anymore, but they prudently clear that half of the bridge as their new leader makes for the limits of Megatron's reach. Not that Megatron can really do much with inhibitor claws welded directly into his motor control centers and sense enough to know the consequences of treading on Starscream's temper while so hobbled will only bring the Decepticons down on his helm. Still, as much as the limits of the heavy chain attached to his collar are his pen, they're also his territory.

Megatron is grudgingly adjusting to his position as some kind of strange pet, prisoner, and trophy. That doesn't mean he has to be gracious about it.

Yet Starscream's smirk is broad as anything as he sits on the lead block serving to keep Megatron down. The only time the chain on his collar unhooks from it is when he pleases this blasted Seeker, and he knows it. That didn't stop him from biting Starscream's foot the last time it was shoved in his face like this.

The fool never learns. Megatron glowers from under his helm and controls himself while the dainty heel scratches gently down his face.

Starscream smiles, sweet and menacing. Rather than waiting for the order they both know is coming, Megatron growls and grabs for the foot, intending to give it the same treatment as last time. Starscream wants his foot kissed? Fine. It'll come with a deep set of teethmarks again, then.

"Ah-ah-ah," comes from over his head as Megatron presses his mouth to that impossibly delicate foot. "I think my attack dog best learn from last time, or I'll need to have the good doctor train him not to bite the hand - or any other body part, you fragger - of his owner." The aloof warning lost a little something from the muttered clarification in the middle, but Megatron glances across the bridge warily.

Knock Out looks put-upon to be dragged into anything, at any time, but he's brandishing a pair of clippers at Breakdown like they're the most exasperating thing he's ever held. Breakdown just looks bored.

Clippers?

Megatron doesn't immediately get it, because he's already muzzled. Soundwave disabled his vocalizer on Starscream's orders.

But Starscream reaches down and taps a pointed claw under his optic. When Megatron tilts his head to look up, suspicious, that claw trails down to click across his teeth. "Misuse those teeth again, and you won't get another chance to use them," the Seeker says.

Ah. So Starscream did learn.

Megatron's lip curls in a snarl, but he obediently pulls his mouth back without delivering the sharp bite he intended to. Starscream leans back on his hands and smiles, arrogantly confident in his power.

Inhibitors or not, Megatron's hands are strong enough to bend the prongs of Starscream's heel into a single point.

"OW! Stop that!"

[* * * * *]

"Trailbreaker was probably drunk when the D.J.D. showed up"

[* * * * *]

"Ah, Kaon?"

Against the backdrop of battlecries and screams, Tarn's voice held a strange note that made the D.J.D. as a whole pause. "Yeah?"

"Autobot. Just less than two-thirds my height. Seems to have an impenetrable forcefield."

Kaon ran the description through the Peaceful Tyranny's database and came up with a name. "Trailbreaker. He'll run out of energy eventually, but otherwise don't waste your time trying to break it."

"Yes, well, you see, he's put the forcefield around the bar."

"There goes the schedule," Helex muttered, slugging somebody aside. "I don't see Overlord yet, either."

"That'll take a while to drain," Kaon agreed. "See if he'll overexert himself trying to protect his friends?"

"I would, but he's apparently too drunk to even notice I have the bartender hostage." Tarn hesitated, voice going a little high and odd. "He's rather insistent about buying me a drink."

This time, the pause came with a break in the fighting. There were certain rules Decepticons adhered to: 1. obey the Decepticon Cause above all, 2. don't trust Starscream, and 3. never turn down a free drink. Never. No, seriously. Don't ever do it. More mechs kicked it after refusing a free drink — 'it could be your last' — than science could ever adequately explain.

The D.J.D. wasn't superstitious, but they certainly weren't stupid. There were legitimate reasons that the only place Autobots and Decepticons could even remotely communicate was in bars.

"He's trying to buy 'you and your friends' a round," Tarn said numbly. He sounded like he had no idea what to do, which he didn't, because what the frag. What the ever-lovin' holy frag was this, some kind of Autobot SpecOps move done drunkenly in a bar?

It wouldn't have stopped a serious assault, but technically, they'd only attacked this ship because Overlord was detected onboard. What else was a killer Decepticon death squad do? Obvious solution: attack and destroy. But they hadn't actually seen any evidence that Overlord was free, which made it a prisoner-exchange situation if they had to back off, which they would because now there was an Autobot drunkenly insisting Tarn pull up a chair and be his new best bud, and there. Were. Rules.

Fragging Pitslag cogsucking clever Autobot glitches.

Vos facepalmed, snapping his mask back into place. Kaon just put his face in his hands. Tesarus dropped the Autobot he'd been about to stuff into his torso, and Helex reluctantly let go of the mech he'd been about to crumple like tinfoil.

"…I'll take a Sheet Metal with a twist."

"The bartender says they have Nightmare Fuel."

"Dibs!" All reluctance fled, and the only Autobot injuries inflicted after that announcement was when Pipes didn't get out of the way of the stampede fast enough.

Off in the background, a shaking white Autobot vanished, never to be seen or mentioned until the attackers-turned-drinking buddies went away again, slightly more inebriated than they'd arrived.

And they lived happily ever after.

(Except for Overlord, but none of the Autobots cared about him.)

[* * * * *]

"blink and miss it"

[* * * * *]

"You got what you came for," Pharma said curtly. He turned away, giving Tarn a shoulder colder than Messatine itself. "Good day."

"You don't seem very grateful, Pharma." The Decepticon examined his box of harvested T-cogs, but most of his attention was on the surgeon's stiff wings. "I would think someone in your, hmm, position would show more appreciation lest I reconsider our deal."

Blue optics glared off into the middle distance. Pharma's jaw worked, and he cycled a deep ventilation, counting to 300 to disperse the first ten immediate, unforgivably rude responses to that leapt to his lips. They wouldn't do. His arrangement with the D.J.D. worked because of their mutually beneficial agreement. Both sides got what they wanted, and adhering to a gentlemech's agreement meant that the rest of their respective factions remained ignorant that tank and jet met monthly.

Pharma didn't question what Tarn told his mechs about why the Delphi Clinic stayed operational. He certainly didn't go out of his own way to inform Ambulon that the ward manager's everyday terror was unnecessary. The deal was a silent ceasefire between their bases, a deal only between the leaders. The mines, of course, were fair game, but the mines were why Pharma headed the clinic and the miners were how Tarn kept getting fresh T-cogs.

Blowing up their little arrangement by telling Tarn to frag off wouldn't do.

"You do this every time," Pharma bit out. "I am not grateful, just as you are not grateful for that box. It's a trade. We both get what we want. Now we go our separate ways. That's how this works."

"Oh, but I think you owe me a word of gratitude on top of this box," Tarn said in his silkiest voice as his feet squeaked in the snow. Pharma turned his head to glare up at him as he walked around to look down at the surgeon. "I could destroy your pitiful little clinic, after all. Perhaps I should."

Pharma glowered resentfully. Every single time. Tarn fished for thanks the way some mechs fished for compliments, wanting Pharma to humble himself again and again despite the fact that depriving the morph-addicted mech of his fix would devastate him on a far more personal level than merely wiping out the clinic would affect Pharma. The clinic had been destroyed before; it would probably be again. The medics and nurses just retreated to the more defensible mines to wait out the destruction, picked a new location, and rebuilt. It was Ambulon's transfer that had spurred Pharma to seek a deal, because people were harder to replace than buildings and medical equipment.

Then Tarn pulled slag like this, and Pharma wondered if one ward manager was worth it.

Ambulon provided a solution for today's version of the same old situation, however. One too many miners had questioned the ex-Decepticon's background, and Ambulon had snapped. His imitation of a stereotypical Autobot had left the miners unable to reply, slapped in the face by their own expectations. Pharma would have reprimanded him, but he'd been doing his best to hide laughter under cool professionalism at the time.

Tarn blinked under his mask as the Autobot melted. Sparkling blue optics widened, and Pharma stepped up close to him wearing a sappy sweet smile. "My hero! Such a good mech you are, yes, oh yes. A big strong Decepticon," cooed up at the bigger mech, who backpedaled in surprise.

But Pharma stuck to him as he recoiled, reaching up to flutter his fingers under Tarn's chin. "Who's my protector? Ohhhh, my savior! However shall I show my gratitude to the big bad Decepticon protecting me? I have no idea what I'd do without my dearest Tarn. My lovely tank," he crooned, curling his fingers to scratch under Tarn's chin among the cables and conduits. "Such a sweetspark!"

To both their shock, the sputter of a massive ground engine turning over was clearly audible. Tarn's mouth worked in silent protest, but his optics dimmed to a flickering burgundy as his chin lifted to offer more of the underside. Blinking rapidly, Pharma skritched around the weldmarks, and Tarn's engine purred roughly. As if mesmerized, the huge tank leaned forward to follow the tickle of deft fingers working into the cables.

"There's a good mech," Pharma whispered, disbelieving, and Tarn hummed in vague, hypnotized panic. Barely daring, driven by curiosity, Pharma dropped his hand. The Decepticon followed, neck stretching out. "Down…down, yes, like that. Oh, very good. My, you look nice like that. Shh, shh, good mech. Big, strong leader of the Justice Division, on his knees. My hero." He slowed his fingers, rubbing harder, and couldn't resist petting his other hand over Tarn's helm.

Tarn's optics shut off, and he pushed into Pharma's hands, mouth going slack under the mask.

The surgeon smiled. "I do appreciate what you do for me, Tarn. Perhaps, however, you should be thanking me?"

"Mmm?" A faint, not-really-there hum answered him. Pharma pet him again, and it turned into a soft moan. "Mmhmmmm."

Well, Ratchet had always said he had magic fingers.

[* * * * *]

"How to Train Your Tank"

[* * * * *]

Those jet engines were good for speed. Pharma, when he eventually left, left in a hurry, justifiably afraid of the backlash.

Fortunately for his tailfins, it took a while for Tarn to shake off the daze. Five minutes after Pharma disappeared back toward Delphi, Tarn wanted to raze the whole mine and bury himself in it.

He didn't. That would be admitting something happened, that he'd lost control. It'd have been a big blaring sign that Pharma had won whatever had just happened.

Tarn went back to the D.J.D. base and retreated to his quarters. He wasn't hiding, no. It was a strategic withdrawal to shore up defenses. Not that they'd helped in the slightest when Pharma's bizarre attack happened, but he examined them critically - not worriedly, he wasn't worried about a repeat at all - in a search for what had crashed them.

He found nothing. They'd just gone down. There hadn't been a second of resistance. One moment he'd been blinking at Pharma's strange behavior, and the next he'd gone down in a limp, contented pile of purring engines and humming. He'd hummed, for booting up cold! In front of Pharma!

In front of anyone else, it would have been embarrassing and bewildering. In front of that particular Autobot…

He sat there rubbing under his own chin and wondering if there was some secret spot. It felt nice, in a way he hadn't stopped to think about, but he wondered if he was missing something. He wondered what the frag had happened. Wondered if it could be done again. Under more controlled circumstances, perhaps, so he could observe it happening and regain control over his strange reaction.

How could he test it with someone? All his options were subordinates. Decepticon subordinates, at that, making the manipulative, scheming surgeon a better option simply by contrast.

It still tempted him.

He didn't do it in the end, too conscious of his image in front of subordinates, but he hesitated a long time over wanting to try.

The bargain dragged him back to the meeting place. Pharma's deal had come at a good time, as the previous Vos' death had dried up a few avenues of acquisition for the T-cogs. Tarn needed those.

He didn't want to go this time. Reluctance constricted his treads on their wheels.

Equally strong, an overwhelming curiosity made him go. He wanted and dreaded what he suspected would happen, and despite his forcibly calm aloofness, he knew Pharma could read him like a bookfile. The surgeon kept smiling. But he didn't say anything, because Pharma's latent sadism was admirable and far more under control than any Decepticon's. Tarn could almost admire the way the jet held him on tenterhooks throughout the polite, stilted conversation over the T-cog box.

And then suddenly there it was.

"Oh, but Tarn, I should show my gratitude."

"Ah, no, that's fine."

"No? Strange. You seem to have changed your tune quite a bit."

"Pharma, truly, this isn't ahahhhnnnn. Necessuuuh. Neccessaryyyymmmm."

"That's a good tank."

Oh, fragging Pit, it wasn't a fluke. Pharma's smug grin was wide enough it registered even through the delicious warm haze of pleasure and odd, indefinable contentment that radiated through him. Tarn couldn't manage to care. He slumped to his knees, head in the surgeon's lap, and in some distant, smothered part of his mind, he realized he didn't care as long as those fingers keep massaging just like that. Panic ran through his wires, hot and cold in turns, but he had no control over his body. He shuddered, whimpered low, and pushed into Pharma's hands.

Sickeningly sweet praise trickles through the fog in his mind, sweeping his feet right out from under him because - well, he wasn't even sure why. It felt like a gunshot at an already weak point. Bam. Finished. Down and out. That moaning sound was coming from his vocalizer, and the vibrating purr of his engine shook it into a hum.

Glazed-over optics dimmed offline, mind absently aware he should feel humiliated but totally not able to give a slag at the moment.

Pharma chortled.

[* * * * *]

"Third Time's the Charm"

[* * * * *]

The first time was a shock.

The second time was a suspicion.

The third time was nothing but shame.

It almost didn't happen at all. He went back and forth the whole month about canceling the deal.

Cancel their meetings. Go back to destroying the clinic between raids on the mines for shipments of nucleon to send back to the Decepticons on Cybertron. Deliberately target the Autobot medical personnel this time, and wipe out any witnesses to his humiliation.

Don't cancel the meetings. Keep his T-cog source and allow the Autobot to live. Accept the embarrassment of Pharma's cackling glee as the price he'd just have to learn to pay in return for that long, blurry period of strut-melting pleasure in his hands.

Cancel the meetings. Find another source for his T-cogs and have the short-term pleasure of ripping Pharma to pieces for discovering this alarming weakness in his defenses. End the threat before it could spread and damage his reputation.

Don't cancel the meetings. Rely on Pharma's controlling nature to keep the strange pacification point as secret as their deal.

Cancel the meetings. Keep his dignity.

Don't cancel the meetings. Admit he might have another addiction, this one with an extremely limited number of sources. One source, at the moment.

Tarn was a very conflicted mech that month. It put him a foul mood like none other. He spent a lot of time staring off into the distance outside the base, elbow in one hand while the other hand rubbed slowly under his chin. He looked like he was thinking dire thoughts.

The rest of the Justice Division put it down to Overlord's continued evasion of their searches. They redoubled their efforts and rushed about the base like Tarn would strip them of their names and pitch them out into the snow for being disgraces to the Cause. Which was unfair. It took more than a bad mood for Tarn to do that. He only thought about it once or twice, tops.

Helex started getting really nervous about Tarn kept looking at him while in that thoughtful pose, however. There was just something weird about it. Tarn's fingers worked in the cables and conduits under his chin, and his optics were narrow, not quite a threat but Helex didn't know what else it could be. He found an excuse to hunker down in the maintenance bay for a while, hiding from that considering gaze.

Meanwhile, Tarn's thoughts had been ping-ponging between 'extra hands' and 'but subordinate.'

It was a relief to both of them when Helex was out of sight.

The end of the month came too soon. Tarn felt like he hadn't decided a fragging thing, yet the time for the meeting crept up on him.

He opened up a commline a dozen times, determined to cancel the meeting and frag the consequences, but.

But.

The was the problem with addictions: a mech could always justify them to himself.

Tarn rolled out onto the snow.

The first time, Pharma took him by surprise.

The second time, Pharma took advantage of a weak spot.

The third time, Pharma didn't lay a hand on him.

"Thank you for agreeing to this deal. I don't know what I would do without it," the surgeon said sweetly as he handed over the box of T-cogs. "So kind of you. Now if you'll excuse me, duty calls." He turned on a turbine heel, ready to go.

Tarn nearly fumbled the box. "I…" Resetting his vocalizer, he straightened as Pharma tossed a coy look back at him. "That's - unexpected of you."

A smirk flirted around the edges of the Autobot's mouth. "I don't know what you mean. I'm always conscious of duty. Aren't you?"

It was sinking in what Pharma was doing, and it wasn't a good feeling at all. "Of course."

"Hmm, yes. Now, unless there's something else you require..?" Pointed hinting and mischievous optics just waiting for him to ask for what they were both aware he'd come here expecting Pharma to do for him. Because otherwise Tarn would have canceled the meeting, or set up a drop-point, or something other than transform and stand there uneasily shifting from foot to foot as Pharma landed and approached.

That sneaky, smug, sadistic surgeon. Clever Autobot with the clever fingers.

"No, that will be all," Tarn forced out, and Pharma tossed him a cheery two-finger salute before launching back into the clear Messatine sky.

The tank stomped down the urge to call him back. He ground his heel on it. He tried to forget its existence.

It didn't die.

That was the other problem with addictions: the craving persisted until a mech justified another fix.

Oh, this wasn't going to be a pleasant month in any way, shape, or form.

[* * * * *]

"Prowl walkedinto a bar..."

[* * * * *]

If Scrapper had a mouth, he'd have spat his drink out.

The black-and-white surveyed the room coolly, optics passing over the various Decepticons gaping at him. While technically there was no particular reason why an Autobot couldn't be present on the supply depot at the same time as the Decepticons, factually speaking, it'd never happened. The Galactic Council had bans against Cybertronians in place. This supply depot still sold to Cybertron, but they were pretty on the fence about it. The Decepticons tried not to push them.

Getting both factions here at once was pushing it. It meant that the Autobots were aware this was a Decepticon resource, and/or the supply depot was also selling to the Autobots. Either way, things on this asteroid had just gotten a whole lot tenser.

Nobody was going to make the first move, however. Scrapper's supply order was stuck in processing while a funding glitch got sorted. He couldn't build without it. He certainly wasn't going to go back to the main formation and report failure to acquire supplies.

That left tolerating the Autobot.

It could be a difficult task, considering the fact that Prowl headed right for his spot at the bar. It might be the three drinks talking, but Scrapper couldn't summon any moral outrage over that fact. The Autobot was polished to a fair-thee-well and looked like a floor model ready for display. It took a cold look and a biting comment to shut down the two overcharged Decepticons who made a pass at him on the way to the bar. The sole sober pass at him got a curt dismissal followed by a baffled look as the flirting warrior persisted in handing over his commcode.

There was tolerating the enemy, and then there was appreciating a fine piece of aft when it walked into the bar. Hey, if a mech couldn't beat the Autobot, there was always joining him - in a bed, in the alleyway out back, pressed up against a wall somewhere in a dark corner…

Primus, those headlights. It was enough to give a mech ideas.

Scrapper turned back to his drink and sucked it down to shore up his decaying moral fiber. Mission: acquire supplies. Return to the main formation. Build.

A small body inserted itself into the thin space between Scrapper and the nameless grunt Scrapper no longer gave a bolt about unless he moved, because moving would mean Prowl wasn't pressed up against his side that way. The Constructicon leader concentrated firmly on his empty drink. The bartender, optics wide, sidled over to ease another one into his tensed hands.

Prowl gave a wriggle that had to be illegal. "I admit that I'm unfamiliar with the protocol, but typically this would be the point that you offer to buy me a drink."

"I…what?" Scrapper's visor reset. Had he heard that right? Dumbfounded, he looked down at the delicious bit of shiny glued to his hip. And thigh. And - okay, Prowl was definitely pressing closer than required. The other Decepticons were giving them a discreet buffer zone, most of them looking into it with the resigned faces of envious lesser beings.

"A drink." An elegant hand waved at the waiting bartender. "Buy it for me."

Scrapper looked at the bartender. He looked at the Autobot. "Why would I do that?" Something wasn't quite processing right about this situation. He didn't know what was happening, but he had a feeling that he'd been outmaneuvered already.

Prowl sighed. "I was voted the most able to pump you for information on your project. I'm here to do exactly that." Scrapper made a little muted sound of utter shock. "In the interests of cutting out the inefficient portion of the evening where I flirt until your processors are overridden your interfacing hardware, I propose we skip directly to a quick drink and finding a relatively private place to consummate the deal."

He almost asked 'what deal?' but then it hit him what exactly Prowl was proposing.

Blunt, to the point, and Scrapper's interfacing hardware came online in an embarrassing whirr. This pretty, polished Autobot was here to do everything and anything his depraved imagination had been dreaming. All Scrapper had to do was accept that the mech wanted information in return. A transaction, as it were.

It…it wouldn't be the first time a Decepticon had been seduced like this. Popular theory was that Autobot SpecOps dedicated entire training seminars to how to frag a mech to talking. This was the first time Scrapper had ever heard of someone being this open about it, but he was having a hard time being offended or getting defensive over it.

The efficiency turned his engine something fierce, to be honest.

"Shouldn't you be buying me a drink?" he said somewhat feebly, still trying to wrap his head around it. Which wasn't in any way a refusal of the deal, no no. It was a very appealing deal.

Prowl smiled slow and burning. "I don't see why. I'm the one who's going to be doing most of the work." He gestured at Scrapper's untouched drink. "Drink up. You're going to need the energy."

[* * * * *]

"the Constructicons never figured out why they found Prowl so attractive"

[* * * * *]

He should have woken up cold, groggy, and full of regrets for the night previously.

Instead, he woke up ready for another round.

Scrapper's plight was helped along substantially by the hot body laying over him in a relaxed drape of limbs. Those limbs were beautifully flexible, as he well remembered. They were also black, white, and eminently gropeable. His hands were sliding down a sleek back before his sad defenses had more than a chance to register the missed opportunity to activate.

He hadn't expected the Autobot to still be here. He hadn't expected the Autobot to be studying him through drowsy optics, half-asleep and languid.

Prowl stretched. He didn't hurry. Scrapper occupied himself filling his hands with bits of chassis exposed by the widened gaps in the armor. There was something terribly fascinating about knowing this sweet bundle of black-and-white was scheming his way into Scrapper's plans.

He sincerely hoped the rest of his gestalt wasn't impacted by this fling.

[* * * * *]

"Belated"

[* * * * *]

Eventually, they had to go inside.

Megatron granted him a kindness, although it boggled Rewind's mind to look back at it. He'd been ready to die. All he'd wanted in that last moment before death was the distant, comforting thought that when reality edited itself, the final footage had Chromedome still living in it. After everything he'd witnessed, after everything that'd happened, it was Chromedome's death that'd killed him. He'd only wanted a good thing to die for.

"You're inseparable," Megatron had said, easy and smirking like it was a joke. Like they were so close even he thought it was amusing.

That was a version of reality worth being erased for.

Then Rewind hadn't died, and Skids hadn't explained anything - he was excellent at skimming through things without actually explaining them - except that Megatron had lied. In the reality the quantum engine decided to keep, Rewind had died when Overlord got loose. That was the extent of Skids' explanation.

People started appearing in the Rod Pod, and Rewind had needed a moment to himself. The first wide-opticked look of shock rasped him raw, and Ratchet's dropped jaw had him dodging out of sight before Swerve and Tailgate recovered enough to see him. The others had slid their gazes past him as he stumbled for the ladder to the outside. He'd just needed some time to recover.

He didn't know whose kindness sent Chromedome out to him. He doubted it was Megatron's, but the mech had surprised him that way already.

They sat together for a while. They sat closer and closer out in the cold of space until the only warm spots were where their armor pressed into one another, and even then they weren't close enough, couldn't be close enough. Rewind felt cold. He felt frozen. The arm around him wasn't enough. The side pressed to his didn't grant enough surface area.

They did have to go inside, however. Reluctant, he started to stand.

Chromedome pulled him into his lap. Rewind didn't even get a chance to see the flash of panic pass through his visor before the arm around him tightened and he was swept off his feet to straddle Chromedome's legs. The magna-clamps engaged, feet tamping to the Rod Pod's roof, and Rewind blinked as he was enfolded in a hug that would put a compactor to shame.

"Don't," Chromedome whispered hoarsely over shortwave comm. frequency. "Don't leave me again. Don't ever leave me again." Arms tight around him, his hands came around to close on Rewind's battered shoulder paldrons, fingers rubbing and slipping over the damage as if trying desperately to absorb the feel of him. The side of his mask nudged and rubbed just as urgently against the side of Rewind's helm. "Don't ever do that to me again. Please, don't ever do that. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Surprised, Rewind pushed his hands against Chromedome's shoulder tires. "Domey, no - "

If anything, Chromedome's grip tightened. His helm turned, pulling back until he could nuzzle at Rewind's mask. Frantic, paint-scraping nuzzles as he kissed all over his miracle's face. "Re-Rewind," he stumbled over the name like he didn't dare say it aloud, "oh, Primus. Rewind!"

That distance back was enough for Rewind to see Chromedome's face, and the wide look of near-terror in the yellow visor lurched a sick memory among the fresh footage in his databanks. His hands stopped pushing at tires and instead spread gentle fingers over pristine glass. No cracks, no reflections but stars behind his own distorted reflection. Smooth, flawless glass, warm and alive. "Domey…"

"I love you," Chromedome blurted. "I love you! I didn't say it, I was so stupid, I didn't say it. I didn't say it, and you - you - I love you. I love you. Please don't leave me again. I love you. I love you I love you I love you I love you," it settled into a steady chant, a sparksick mantra as he held Rewind close, rocking them back and forth.

Rewind's hands stroked over his face, disbelieving but wanting to believe. When those little hand pulled him close to nuzzle and kiss in matching neediness, Chromedome met him halfway.

They could go inside later.

[* * * * *]