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Life aboard the Lost Light was stressful. Life as a Cybertronian was stressful, even before the war had happened and sent everything sideways for untold centuries to come.
And Tailgate, still adjusting to everything, always seemed on the teetering on the proverbial edge of falling off the cliff into a proper panic. It wasn’t something he could really help, he wasn’t as hardened as those on the ship who had grown accustomed to the “constant near death” lifestyle.
And it was embarrassing. He hated it. The way his systems would freeze up, in the sort seconds of tension before things kicked into a high gear where everything seemed to be channeling into a fear response. Because he was small and still so inexperienced and could do very little in comparison to the seasoned war veterans who had decided to sweep him into their adventure.
It was not that he was naive, or childish. He simply had the misfortune - or rather, the fortune, though on some occasions that did not feel to be the case - to miss out on the great civil war. He knew that others on board could react with much the same way he did to various stresses, but there was something that had settled into him that his own feelings were not as important or real as theirs. He had not seen the horrors that they had, after all.
Cyclonus, on the other hand, had come to see it differently. As had others on board, he knew with some degree of clarity that existed below the self doubt that had always - will probably always - lingered below the surface, but there was something about the stern way that Cyclonus carried himself as a warrior that colored Tailgate’s opinion. And that was before one took into account the affection, softer than anyone outside the crew would think Cyclonus possible of, that existed between the two of them.
Whatever personal feelings one had on the matter, they happened. And it usually did not matter what set them off, at least to Tailgate (though Rung, like Cyclonus, would argue the opposite). The result was near always the same: an overheating frame that sent rivets of coolant trailing down his face, that always left stains in the grooves of his plating; cooling fans that roared to life until they stuttered on the sheer ferocity of it all; and that was to say nothing of the tightness that overtook his chest. Fears and anxiety pulsed through his systems, pulling themselves along on claws that latched on to everything they could touch with a vice like grip.
His hands would flail in front of his chest and his plating shake as he resisted pulling it close to himself to appear smaller, defend himself from some unknown, unseen threat. And often the others on the ship would stare, unable to figure out how to respond or offer comfort. But as time drew on, and Cyclonus let down his walls little by little, the little bot often found assistance from the old warrior.
Cylconus placed a careful, light hand upon his back to smooth the bristling plating with a few soft and patient strokes. He would drop to the ground so that he may be eye level with Tailgate, placing his hands on either side of his face. Touch still light, not forcing him to look any which way.
Though Cyclonus did not find much reason to purr, something Tailgate had come to know and expect of him, he would let out a low thrumming hum that drew from his ancient engine. The noise would settle through Tailgate, and he knew it was a special thing to get to experience his comforting sounds. And though it would not chase away the tensions in his chest that may threaten to pull him apart at the seams, the presence still managed to chase away the fog that had taken hold of his mind, if only a little. And with the newfound clarity of mind he would reach up to take hold of Cyclonus’ arm, pressing his palm to Cyclonus cool metal, taking in the sensation of plating worn with age and scarred from battle and everything else that made Cyclonus Cyclonus.
And sometimes, when things were far more serious, Cyclonus would lead him away to their rooms. So that Tailgate could come down in peace, without possibility of anyone else finding him that way.
They would stay that way in silence for several minutes, until Tailgate grounded himself enough to slow his cooling fans and the temperature of his systems cooled by degrees as he slowed to a more manageable rate. And when it would get to that point, Cyclonus would lean his forehead against Tailgate’s, the base of his horns knocking against him in what could be called an affectionate gesture.
“Are you all right, little one?” he would ask in a soft voice, the timber of his purr latching onto his very words.
Tailgate in reply would only shrug, often with a reply of, “Could be better.” Because there was no reason to lie to Cyclonus in such a time; he would always know what Tailgate was like. And in that aftermath, Tailgate would feel the familiar flashes of embarrassment that would take over, aggravating what remained of his panic because he could not keep it under control. He would mutter a soft apology, turning his head away from Cyclonus’ gaze, just enough to not break physical contact, hand still pressed to his arm. With that embarrassed would later come the shame of having drawn Cyclonus to him like this.
And Cyclonus, always familiar and always something solid when everything else shifted around them like sad, would sigh in response. “Don’t be sorry.” The purr would deepen, and with it the distinct rattling of age and lingering injury from his brief stay in the Dead Universe. It was easy to ignore, when it was little more than a hum, but Tailgate always caught himself listening to it. Leaning into it, until his face was nuzzling against Cyclonus’ palm.
“Thanks, Cyclonus,” he mumbled, revving his engine in a weak attempt to match his purr. His circuits still sparked with excess energy and his hands still shook with it, and he knew it would for quite some time afterwards. He added in a soft voice, “Again.” As always.
Cyclonus did not verbally acknowledge the frustration that spiked his words, only continuing his hum. “Why don’t get go to our rooms for a bit,” he said. “Away from everyone else.”
“Yes,” Tailgate said, after a fashion. He turned to look at Cyclonus, at the gentle expression on his often so severe face. The rumble of his engine grew louder, grew a little more bold, as he allowed himself to take in this affection. “I’d like that.”