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Cyclonus is not supposed to be here.
As far as that relates to his current temporal, dimensional location, such concerns have been out of his hands for a good while now. He fell through a portal, found himself somewhere new - or old , as the case may be - and has no way of returning to his rightful place in the multiverse. Future events, and the goal he had been working towards before this displacement, are beyond his influence, given the far-too-many variables he’d have to bear in mind if he decided to actively meddle. All he can do now is sit and wait; whether for an opportunity, or for a degree of certainty that no opportunity will present itself, he does not know.
His exact, geographical location is something that he has far more power to change, yet still he finds himself… here . Drawn in, just like every time before this one.
“... we might need to change our meeting spot though, y’know. I’m pretty sure Scalp saw me leaving through the - Cyclonus? Are you okay?”
A digit has lifted, quite without its owner’s permission, to cup the side of the little Autobot’s face. The two shapes seem entirely at odds with each other. Cyclonus’ elegant claw finds no real purchase, with which to slot comfortably into place against Tailgate’s factory-finished blockiness; this fact is incongruously disconcerting. Any sudden slip, and the lethal potential contained in a single one of his fingers - a quality Cyclonus takes pride in everywhere else save here - could become apparent in disastrous ways.
Tailgate gazes up at Cyclonus from his lap, faintly puzzled, mostly concerned, and pays the barb resting next to his optic band no mind whatsoever.
“Seriously, you looked like you were miles away. What’s wrong? Is it anything I can help with?”
The minibot moves suddenly, pushing himself to his feet, and Cyclonus snatches his hand out of the way so fast that Tailgate utters a startled noise in response. Again, the action had been almost involuntary - and alarming, therefore, to a warrior such as Cyclonus, trained since creation to exercise supreme discipline, to control the weapon that is his body. To override the self-preservation protocols buried deep in his coding, directing them as strategic advantage, rather than mere survival, dictates.
He frowns, inspecting and flexing his digits. He tries and fails not to dwell overmuch on the clawtips he sharpened just this morning, which usually move on instinct only if he is staring down an enemy’s weapon. But when two smaller, blunter hands reach for his own face, gently tipping his chin downwards until red optics meet blue, Cyclonus does not so much as flinch.
“You’re twitchy today, huh.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Tailgate huffs, visor flickering - Cyclonus imagines that if he had separate optics, he’d be rolling them. “Helpful. I guess this is some super important, top-secret Decepticon plan you’re thinking so hard about, then?”
The idea that he’d waste time going over battle strategies while they’re together - that Tailgate apparently thinks it’s believable of him, no less - is mortifying. Cyclonus’ frown deepens. Tailgate, on the other hand, dissolves into giggles.
“Primus, you look so offended!” He leans into the jet’s shoulder, wheezing, and Cyclonus wraps an arm around him in a slightly bemused fashion.
His frown has melted away in the wake of Tailgate’s mirth, and he has a creeping suspicion that the expression that’s replaced it is incriminatingly fond. For the moment, at least, he’s lucky that Tailgate’s face is tucked against his own neck.
“I was… worrying.”
He would rather Tailgate was left in no doubt that his attention has been wholly focused on the minibot - in one way or another. That much, he can admit aloud.
Tailgate sobers up at his words, but doesn’t move away. “So there is something wrong. Is it the cave? Sweep said once how flightframes get claustrophobic”-
“I was worrying about you,” Cyclonus clarifies.
“Oh, well, that’s alright then.” Though he may not be able to see Tailgate’s face, he can hear the sarcasm that has wrung his voice dry.
A hand drifts across Cyclonus’ chest.
“... Why?” asks Tailgate. “You’re the one who’s snuck into enemy territory, you’re the one who risks his life in combat every other day. I’m a janitor. The biggest threat I usually have to face up to is my superior if he’s feeling cranky.”
Cyclonus allows himself some wryness, in turn. “Because you’re currently in the arms of an enemy, who takes lives in combat every other day. And you’re just a janitor.”
“Hey, now. It takes all sorts.”
“A janitor who’s devalued by the government and equipped with only cheap armour plating.”
“Wait.” Tailgate freezes, then squirms out of Cyclonus’ arms so he can look into his eyes again. “You’re worried about hurting me?”
Cyclonus blinks. To say he’s surprised would be an understatement.
“You’re not?”
“Well, maybe I was the first time we bumped into each other,” Tailgate admits, remarkably nonchalantly, considering he’s talking about an incident where he, travelling alone, happened across a crashed, injured and desperate Decepticon seeker. “But I figured even then, if you were gonna hurt me, you would have taken the first chance you got.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Cyclonus genuinely doesn’t mean to sound so brusque. If anything, he’s more alarmed now than a moment ago. The idea that Tailgate’s been letting his guard down almost since they met…!
Tailgate sighs. “Look, I know I’ve talked a lot about trying out for the Academy someday, wanting to join the Elite Guard… but like you said, really, I’m just a janitor.”
“I didn’t mean”-
“I know you didn’t.” The minibot settles his servos on either side of Cyclonus’ helm, his visor curved in a small smile. “But it does help me figure things out, you know. I don’t see how I could give a tactical advantage to any of those top-secret Decepticon plots. I’m expendable. And you didn’t - well - expend me. So why should I be scared of you?”
“Little One,” says Cyclonus, “I am built to do harm.”
So much so, he thinks, that it may happen without his own foreknowledge.
“Cyclonus,” says Tailgate - mimicking his serious tone, and clearly not thinking it necessary -“I trust you.”
He seems perfectly content to leave it at that.