Work Text:
Turmoil created a scrapbook for all the photos he’s taken. Rather than a holographic journal, or a datapad, he opted for a book, bound and printed in wondrous flexible materials not known on Earth. The cover is sturdy: a brass metal frame and a reinforced black skin, a folder that completely seals shut to protect the contents. If an earthling were to evaluate it, it would come of as “art deco”. Drift and Rodimus brighten it up the pages with decorative stars and moons.
Inside it are photos of Drift and Rodimus: running, playing, sleeping together. Turmoil, with his gigantic hands, printed out his comments on each of the photos and pasted the paper bits to the pages. Trinkets are scattered here and there: cut out flowers, shed feathers, candy wrappers. Blurry photos fill the pages, showing other kept mechs sniffing and jumping all over the two racecars.
Photos of Drift’s previous pups are framed with glittery spark-shaped cutouts. Drift hand-wrote comments for each of them in bright glitter pen: names and exact birth dates, first words. Drift is smiling as he lies down to let them nurse.
Conspicuously missing from many of these shots is Turmoil. Some photos have a glimpse of Turmoil’s hand: a blurry thumb too close to the lens, or a jagged piece of knee armor taken when his pets lay down in his lap. But never did they show his face.
“Why can’t I see you in any of these pictures?” Drift asks, thumbing through photos.
“I am in several of them,” he replies, pointing out the ones where his hands or legs are off-center, or his cut-off reflection is visible on a shiny surface.
“But I can’t see your face,” Drift objects.
“It’s hard to take a self-portrait with my communicator,” Turmoil says. “My hands are quite large.”
In truth the two of his pets were so delicate and pretty, he felt so drab and dull in comparison. He was huge, intimidating tank, built to be terrifying even by Decepticon standards. Rodimus and Drift’s world was beautiful and bright and filled with round, delicate, non-threatening beings. He was a living wall. Delicate-ness did not come easily. He knew what he looked like, so what was the point in constantly recording it?
“We can use the autotimer. Come on Turmoil, you do so much for us, we can’t leave you out of the book!” Drift says.
In the end they pose for a group photos, Turmoil holding the two of them in their living room, crouching to get into the picture. His perpetually expressionless face is the same as always, but a little bit of shyness shows in his pose as they kiss him on the faceplate. Drift wraps his arms around Turmoil's chest as Turmoil holds his pups. Rodimus peeks out from Turmoil's shoulder as the two of them pose playfully around their master.