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Cyclonus is an aft.
He is moody, never takes or dishes out a joke, sulks in broad daylight, and fixes you with a gaze that bores straight through your spark. He oozes arrogance and his solemn nature makes it a chore for any to engage in light conversation.
(When he speaks, it doesn't help either.)
Cyclonus is an aft, but he is none of those other things people accuse him of being.
Whirl knows. Loathes to admit he's come to care for the great purple idiot to the point every scratch on Cyclonus’ finish brings unease to Whirl’s spark. It makes him want to rage and shoot something because Primus forbid he shows any emotion that could be interpreted as positive. Repulsive.
It evolves.
It evolves until Whirl stands with Cyclonus in his hab-suite. It is dark and empty with only the faintest flicker of stars casting an ominous glow on the barren slabs, faintly illuminating the vague outline of Cyclonus’ figure. Whirl collides with something on his way over and curses, kicking the object for good measure. He draws Cyclonus out of his musings and the purple bot freezes, slow to turn his head.
“Whirl.”
“Cyclonus.”
Cyclonus shifts again. Whirl’s optic narrows suspiciously.
“You're miserable,” Whirl deduces. He stalks close with greatly exaggerated steps until they're side by side, Cyclonus’ gaze back on the vast expanse of space and Whirl’s on him. The shadow conveniently hides Cyclonus’ face from Whirl’s prying eye. Not that it deters him.
He catches how Cyclonus’ servo drops to hang by his side, residue of scrap metal shining under his claws. Whirl draws an in-vent and lays a claw on Cyclonus’s shoulder. The subsequent squeeze is both a warning and an offer of reassurance.
“Don't,” Whirl says. Cylonus’ jaw clenches and trembles but Whirl gives him no time to excuse his actions. He's heard it countless times before, enough to figure out the inner workings behind Cyclonus’ rather unfortunate and downright harmful tendencies. “If you're gonna give me that slag about feeling things rather than speaking them, save your breath.”
For once in his functioning (to Whirl’s knowledge), Cyclonus does the smart thing and obliges Whirl’s… request. He sets his jaw. His armor rattles and creaks from sheer tension. “Whirl, I–”
Whirl shoves his claw up in Cyclonus’ face. Though he misses the purple bot’s lips by a few inches, the effect works as intended. “Do you see this?” Whirl points at his optics. The yellow light is narrowed in a squint. “ This is my ‘shut the hell up before I change my mind and send you over to Ratchet’ face.”
Cyclonus arches a brow. “Strange. You led me to believe it was your 'furious death-glare’,” he intones.
“No, that's this,” Whirl’s optic changes minutely. It's hardly visible. He thinks Cyclonus pretends to see, giving confirmation with a single nod of his head. Whirl elects to ignore that.
He bullies the jet backward onto one of the slabs and sends a ping for the lights. They come online with a low buzz, giving Whirl a full view of the damage to Cyclonus’ face. His optic takes on the form of a scowl.
Claw-marks run from directly beneath Cyclonus’ optics to his jawline, exposing the delicate wiring underneath. Cyclonus pointedly averts his gaze and chews the inside of his cheek, appearing equal amounts dejected and frustrated.
“ Unless you've got some freak-accident or ability that does cause this, would it kill you to– you know– talk?” Whirl’s own frustration bubbles to the surface, intertwining with his concern and outed in the slight tremble to his vocals. Slaggit. He resets his treacherous vocalizer and clears his throat. “We have a Rung.” The word is therapist. Whirl considers it a forbidden word.
“But–”
“Nah, nuh-uh,” Whirl shushes him again. He retrieves the medical kit he smuggled into Cyclonus’ hab-suite specifically for this reason from a compartment underneath the slab. He applies a fluorescent substance to some gauze and dabs at Cyclonus’ wounds with practiced skill. Cyclonus settles a little and his shoulders sag. The familiarity of this pattern of theirs brings Cyclonus more comfort than words ever could. Whirl understands but loathes what brings them here in the first place.
Whirl continues, “ Megatron goes to see him. I go. Where's your excuse, huh? Lemme hear it, so I can laugh, and tell you how stupid it is.”
“It’s a waste of my time,” Cyclonus says through grit denta. Whirl finishes up with the substance, drawing back and watches Cyclonus’ nanomachines make quicker work of his repairs, slowly but surely closing up the gaps. Whirl leans back on his heels and crosses his arms… crossly. He's trying to make a point. Get through that stupid, thick, horned helm of his partner.
(Wait. When has he started thinking of Cyclonus as—)
“Waste of your time?” Whirl repeats with a scoff. “ What time? You're just sitting here, sulking, sending anyone that tries to contact you on their way with a death-glare and carving up your own fragging finish!” Whirl’s voice raises in pitch and he speaks faster nearing the end of his sentence. Rage takes a backseat, and concern drives.
Cyclonus asks the million-dollar question. “What do you care?”
Whirl makes a dramatic gesture to counter Cyclonus’ scowl. “Uh, hello? We’re a good team. Remember, the times we’ve fought side by side? I thought we came to an understanding, Cy–” Cyclonus glares . “–clonus,” Whirl adds. No nickname-basis yet, then. Whirl thinks they're at least beyond the whole ‘killing’ thing, so that's a positive development.
Rung’s mind games (once again, therapy ) aside, Whirl doesn't wait for an invitation that'll never come and sits down by Cyclonus’ unoccupied side. The slab creaks under their combined weight but it holds. “You gonna tell me that's not enough? That I need some… deeper reason to stick around? Look, I’ll bolt the second I think you're too much to deal with. Count on that.”
Something unfamiliar flashes in Cyclonus’ optics. He turns his head to look at Whirl and for a change, he isn't scowling.
“I… will consider it,” he says. Whirl thinks it's enough. They sit together in relative silence for a while, watching the stars together.
When Whirl sneaks another glance at Cyclonus, he swears he catches him smiling.
“So,” Whirl lounges on Cyclonus’ – and his, by default – berth, his proper berth, arms behind his optic casing and legs splayed out in an incredibly unflattering position. “How long did it take for you to consider it?”
Cyclonus huffs amusedly. He’s been anticipating the day of Whirl’s release ever since they parted with the promise of properly settling down together when everything was said and done. Cyclonus’ gentle expression is a far cry from the scowling menace of a bot Whirl had gotten so intimately familiar with. Part of him feared that Whirl would lose interest in this… new him, but Cyclonus’ worries prove to be just that.
Worries.
“A little while,” he confesses, sitting down on the edge of the berth. He looks at his partner. Whirl’s optic changes to what Cyclonus has come to recognize as ‘incredulous’.
“Seriously, Cyclonus, that’s vague as hell,” Whirl scolds. Rightfully so, but the helicopter doesn't continue to pry. Cyclonus feels grateful for it but he'd also been wholly prepared to give him the answers he seeks. Or doesn't, apparently. “But did you, again, you know–” he makes a gesture with his claws.
Cyclonus offlines his optics for the briefest of moments. He graces Whirl with an answer after a few seconds, just in time before the other's patience reaches its end. “No,” he says resolutely.
“So talking helped?” Whirl asks. He pushes himself to sit up and tilts his head inquisitively. Cyclonus nods. “Oh, good. You know, my first suggestion would have been to inflict it on another mech, but I went Rung’s route, in case you decided that mech would be me.” Whirl shrugs nonchalantly.
Cyclonus vents in exasperation but his amusement is only thinly veiled. “Talking… helped. Sometimes,” Cyclonus admits.
“Sometimes?” Whirl echoes. “What did you do in the times that it didn't? Cut some poor bastard in half?”
“No. I thought of you. Of coming home.” And he adds, just to even it out; “and I sang.”
Whirl’s bravado falters a little under Cyclonus’ genuine admission. The jet seizes the opportunity to lean in and kisses the side of Whirl’s optic casing.
“Thank you,” he speaks in a vulnerable whisper. “And welcome home.”