Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘Fucking, fuck, fuck...’.

Nope. Nopety goddamn nope, he could not for the love of anything holy, tie this goddamn motherfucking tie. He fumbled it off from around his neck and threw it with as much stroppy vehemence as he could manage across the room.

Fuck.

Ok.

He went back to his and Fulcrum’s suitcase and rifled through for something clip on. At least it’d still look good. Even if it was fake. The fucking priest would know it was a fake. He pulled out a bow tie, kind of a deep claret colour, sort of dignified. It’d work with the colours he had on. He’d still have to tie the goddamn thing though.

The door went, heavy footsteps creaked the ancient floor boards of the cheap B&B they’d all lodged in and a hand as big as a shovel palmed his freshly buzzed scalp. A heavy pat, then a stroke, front to back that snapped his head back.

‘Hey Grimmy’.

A bearded chin was propped on his head and huge arms drew him into a squeeze. He was remorselessly nuzzled and breathed all over and had decided a while ago that going limp and accepting Grim’s rough affection was a way to go. He meant well. He patted his Amica’s arm in return and gave his rough cheek a quick peck of affection.

‘You ok Grimmy?’

He grunted, an affirmative, and turned his gaze Misfire’s reflection with a look at that returned the question.

‘Can’t tie a tie apparently. You any good?’

He held up the bow tie hopefully. Grimlock shock his head gravely, gave his tiny amica another death squeeze and departed.

‘Helpful. Great’.

He tugged his waist coat back down where Grimlock had rumpled it. He inspected his outfit again in the mirror and wondered if it’d pass muster. He didn’t own a suit. No surprises there. And he wasn’t going to hire a suit just for a few hours standing around with his dead friend in a box, whilst a priest told him what he already knew about Flywheels and said a load of other bullshit.

He figured muted colours and had gone for his black drain pipe jeans, a black shirt and a snazzy grey paisley waist coat. He tugged the waist coast again where it was a little snug, and damned Fulcrum to the pits for being such a good cook. He was still very slim, but on the healthy side of slim, rather than the rail thin, probably blow over in a gust of strong wind, strung out on coke and MDMA, energy drinks and foods with less nutritional value than cardboard thin.

In the last year in particular his medication had begun to bed in, withdrawal had tapered and the initial grinding nausea had past. Fulcrum had been there whenever Misfire had a low day, a day when it would have been just so easy to drop a hit and put paid to everything he’d worked for in the last 18 months. Fulcrum made sure he slept and plied him with good things to eat and cooed over the tiny pot belly Misfire now had, with a sort of pride that his Conjunx was now of a healthy enough weight to even have a pot belly. Weirdo.

Talk of the devil.

‘Grim says you can’t tie your tie’. Misfire found his scalp being palmed again and leaned into Fulcrum’s touch. He was defo going with a full buzz cut again if this was how many strokes he got. As his eye’s refocused he saw that Fulcrum was wearing a suit.

Shit. Sigh.

‘You’re wearing a suit’.

Fulcrum smiled. ‘Yes. I am’. He held his hand out for the bow tie. ‘You want to wear this one?’

Misfire frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘I’m…it’s just a question, just checking before I tie it’.

Misfire crossed his arms.

‘Misfire… what? What’s up?’

‘Besides the obvious’, he ground out.

‘Besides the obvious’.

Fulcrum waited patiently. His conjunx was ever mercurial.

‘I didn’t think we were wearing suits. And now you’re wearing one’.

Fulcrum raised an eyebrow. ‘Does it matter?’

Misfire grabbed the bow tie out of Fulcrum’s hand and threw it at the bed. ‘I’m going to look like a dick with you guys all in suits!’

‘No one cares what you wear’.

‘The priest will! The other people there will!! They’ll be all… judgey. Fucking judgey people!’

Fulcrum retrieved the bow tie from the bed with a sigh and circled round so he was behind is Conjunx. They were of a height, though Fulcrum was broader, very much the gym bunny. He held up the bow tie with one last look of query. Misfire turned his head away.

‘Missy, it’s fine, you’re fine. Do you think Flywheels cares?’

Misfire shot him a hurt look.

‘Wow Fulcrum, that’s low’.

‘But he doesn’t. So neither should you’.

He came back around the front and collared Misfire with the bow tie. ‘Flywheels would have cared that you’re coming along even though you hate all that religious stuff, that you’re healthy and sober, that you care enough about his wake that you’re worried you’ll upset the other people there, even though you won’t’.

He stepped away so Misfire could see the finished result. The colour worked really well with the waist coat. Misfire smiled, smugly and patted his conjunx on the shoulder. Fulcrum rolled his eyes.

‘Ok. Sorted?’

Misfire tugged his waist coat down one more time. ‘Let’s get this shit show on the road’.

*

Misfire plonked himself down with a huff of effort a few hours after the service on a bench in the park, next to Crankcase just to piss him off, unscrewed the lid of the bottle he’d procured for himself from the OneStop shop up from the temple and downed a long swig.

Crankcase eyed him.

‘What the fuck is that? Is that pinot grigio?’

‘Fuck off’

Krok laughed and threw away the dog end of the roll up he’d just cough his way through. He really wasn’t a smoker, but Fulcrum was rolling and after a funeral seemed like the time people smoked.

Crankcase huffed. ‘You gonna share?’

Misfire took another long pull on the wine, giving Crankcase the side eye. He swallowed and sighed contentedly, eyes watering only a little bit at the acrid cheapness left on his palette.

‘Not with you’.

Fulcrum held out the bottle of dark, sickly sweet rum he’d been quaffing. Crankcase made a face.

‘Primus no, doesn’t anyone have a decent drink?’

Misfire twitched a foot, irritated. ‘Go buy your own and stop fucking moaning about our choice of drinks’.

Crankcase rounded on him.

‘Are you even meant to be drinking?’

Fulcrum nearly spat out his rum and reached over Crankcase’s lap to keep Misfire from lurching off the bench to round on him.

‘Holy fucking Primus, are you THICK?

‘Missy…’

‘Crankcase’. Krok’s sharp bark caused them all to jump, the clip of teeth coming together audible as the sour mech closed his mouth against any further outburst.
‘Crankcase, go to the shop and see how Grimlock is getting on, and get your own alcohol’. It wasn’t a request.

Crankcase rubbed at the scaring on the side of his head irritably and then stalked off muttering.

Misfire gave a little wriggle of triumph and another long swig and patted the seat next to him, smirking at Fulcrum.

Fulcrum clapped Krok on the shoulder as he passed and ran his hand over Misfire’s freshly buzzed hair as he sat on the bench next to his conjunx (It was ridiculously strokeable hair, even Krok had hovered a hand in Misfire’s general direction before remembering himself).

‘Be nice Missy, this is not the day for it’.

‘He’s a git’.

‘And so are you’.

Misfire stuck his tongue out. ‘But I’m your git’. He grabbed Fulcrum by the lapel into a deep, sloppy snog. They ran out of breath eventually, much to Krok’s relief, Fulcrum wiping his mouth on his suit sleeve, Misfire downing his wine and reaching for the rum.

‘Tastes good, give us some’. He winked at Fulcrum and slid the bottle out of his hand.

*

Misfire lay sprawled on their bed, fully clothed, spread-eagled and out for the count. For a relatively small person, he took up a lot of space. In so many ways. He was snoring gently, the sort of drunk whistling inhale/exhale that was cute to start with but would become grating after several hours of it.

Fulcrum pulled off his suit, stumbling occasionally, using the bed post to balance his rum and wine-soaked self. They hadn’t gone to the official wake at all in the end, just stayed in the park drinking until it got too dark to see. Fulcrum was quietly relieved. As much as he loved his merry band of doofuses, they were an acquired taste; throw in copious amounts of alcohol and it was 100% better for everyone that they stayed in the park and out of polite, Neo Primalist company.

Stumbling back to the OneStop to get more alcohol, they’d passed the temple. A small group of folks where just leaving from a service, and a woman at the front of the group recognised them from Flywheel’s funeral (Fulcrum wondered which of them she’d recognised first; 6 foot 8 Grimlock, ol’ grumpy Scarface, Queen Missy, Or Mr I Not With Them.) (Mr What Am I reacting to and is Anger Appropriate hadn’t come along) (Fulcrum knew Misfire was biased when he’d called his conjunx ‘The One With the Improbably Heroic Chin’.) (Fulcrum didn’t tell Misfire that he secretly liked being thought of as heroic.) (Misfire had recognised his dreamy eyed expression and told him his chin was heroic. Fulcrum himself was a fucking coward of the first degree.) (Thanks Missy).

Anyway.

She’d recognised them and stopped them and had attempted to engage them in conversation for about 5 minutes before Fulcrum had found it increasingly difficult to not list slowly to the side whilst standing still and Misfire had thrown the parameters of conversational norms out of the window and was just talking in a wildly animated way at everyone at volume and a pace of knots. Fulcrum needed to remember that alcohol was just sugar. He added it to the list of things to steer his conjunx away from. One person in the group looked vaguely alarmed but the others seemed non-plused and Fulcrum remembered they had been friend’s of Flywheels, whose conversion to Neo Primalism had brought out an increasingly eccentric side to him, that those in his congregation were probably as ofay with as the Scavs were.

They’d ended up all going back to her house for a meal, which went far better than Fulcrum had initially feared. She’d hadn’t really cooked enough to cater for them all, but they’d each had a portion of the stew she’d made and more wine. They’d traded stories about Flywheels in return and Fulcrum became aware of a warm, fuzzy glowy feeling, that was mostly alcohol, but also the knowledge that they were seeing off their friend in a manner that the gentle, terrified soul would possibly approve of.

They’d staggered out of her house at some point after 1am and gone back to the B&B via a kebab shop so Grimlock could get more food. Misfire bought chips and ate the lot in three seconds flat, licking salt and grease off his fingers like a cat. Crankcase hadn’t asked to share.

They’d half stood, half leant in a sodden heap outside the front door to the B&B whilst Krok had tried to find the owner’s number on his phone and in the end, didn’t need to. She wasn’t best pleased at being woken up, and told them so, but Krok had explained to her the reason for their visit as they’d checked in and she held the worst of the comments.

Fulcrum stumbled to the bed and shoved Misfire over so he could crawl under the covers. His conjunx grumbled incoherently in an affronted manner and rolled over, before once again settling into the deep whistling snore of before.

*

Ok. What the frag?

Misfire assessed the situation with a critical (if still inebriated) eye.

He was naked. Hello junk.

Fulcrum was next to him, bundled up in the duvet, so that was good.

He didn’t think he wanted to throw his guts up, but the more he lay there with the hot, room spinny, something fucking died in his mouth feeling, the more he wasn’t so sure.
Where the fuck were they again?

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. OK.

He heaved himself up and staggered for the door, clipping the frame as he weaved through and the down the hall to the bathroom.

Fulcrum woke up alone and sat up bolt upright in alarm before his hangover caught up with him. Primus, wine and rum were a bad mix. He dragged his sorry ass out of bed and fumbled about for pants. Primus only knew where Misfire had gone. He rounded the bed and saw his conjunx’s clothes in a heap next to the bed. Ok. So wherever he was, he was naked. He heard the door down the corridor go, and a feet padding towards the room. Misfire rounded the door frame, naked as the day he was born and looking rough as slag.

‘What? That's a worried look you got there’.

Fulcrum wondered what. ‘I… wasn’t sure where you were’.

Misfire snorted and crossed the room to throw himself face down on the bed. ‘Pinot grigio is a shit drink. It’s fucking vile coming back up’.

At least that’s what Fulcrum thought he said, through the pillow Misfire’s face was planted in. He sat back down with a huff and crawled back under the duvet. He poked Misfire in the side.

‘Get into bed properly’.

‘Nah, I’ll be up again in a bit to continue throwing my guts up’.

Fulcrum was nearly knocked out my the waft of alcohol fumes with an undertone of mint that permeated the air around them as Misfire spoke. He turned to eye Fulcrum, face half squashed in the pillow.

‘I should have let Crankcase drink my wine’.

Fulcrum snorted. It was quiet for a bit, just the sounds of their breathing and the morning traffic. It didn’t last. He was just dropping off when Misfire launched off of the bed. Fulcrum started awake and called after Misfire as he darted out of the room again butt naked.

‘Yep, yep, all good, I’ll be fine!’

Fulcrum lay back for a moment before all hell broke loose in the corridor and the combined voices of all the Scavs bar Grimlock came together in a cacophony of hungover irritability. (Fulcrum was glad Spinister had finally made it, even if he’d missed the service. It was probably for the best; if Spin wasn’t having a lucid day, the whole event would have been horribly frightening and confusing, and they already had one 150kg liability in Grimlock, without adding Spinister to the mix).

‘SPIN! When did you get here?’

‘WHY ARE YOU NAKED?? Crankcase! Why is Misfire naked?!

‘Fucking.. It’s ok Spin. Why are you like this?? KROK! Tell Misfire to put on some pants!!’

‘…nng Fuck off Crankcase.’

‘Why is it always fuck off Crankcase? Why does the skinny little junkie get let off every fucking time??’

‘…Ex junkie, you cunt’

‘OY! FULCRUM, YOUR BOYFRIEND CALLED ME A CUNT!’

‘You are a cunt.’

‘WHY IS EVERYONE SHOUTING?’

Fulcrum buried his head under the pillow as a final voice joined the nonsense and all was suddenly very mumbly and apologetic in the face of the wrath of the B&B owner. Multiple doors were slammed and in the ensuing silence, Fulcrum was treated to the sounds of Misfire retching up the dregs of the rum and pino grigio.

A door went at the end of the corridor and heavy footsteps heralded their Amica’s arrival. The bed dipped on Misfire’s side and Fulcrum was joined by a very large, very warm Grimlock. He curled himself around Fulcrum, dug his nose into Fulcrum’s neck and huffed a sigh.

‘I know. They’re a noisy lot huh’.

Grimlock rumbled in reply. It wasn’t long before the enveloping warmth of Grimlock’s massive body and the haze of his hangover had Fulcrum drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

The priest had been kind. No one had mocked them. All of them had cried.

The workings of the service were alien to them, but when they came to the final hymn, the devotion of the deceased into Primus’ care, they all knew the words; it was something you grew up with, even if nothing else.

As the congregation raised their voices, and sang of the final journey to the Well, Fulcrum sought out his Conjunx’s hand, and Misfire took it with both of his, grip trembling as he drew Fulcrum’s hands to his chest, where Fulcrum could feel the pounding of his grieving heart.

They said their goodbyes.

And went on with their lives, as best they could.