Chapter Text
I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve seen Tailgate and his conjunx! They’ve just popped into the bar to visit! Cyclonus just walked away to talk with some friend from work, but didn’t leave without giving his lovey a kiss! They’re so cute!
Anyway, now I have Tailgate, Blurr, Drift, and Perceptor at my counter. Blurr is complaining about something to do with work {which doesn’t surprise me at all}.
Perceptor just looks so bored. Poor Perceptor :c Though, he always kind of looks bored, so I can’t really tell if he’s upset-bored, or bored-bored. His conjunx dropped him off at the counter before taking off to hang out with some buddies, but I know it was Perceptor’s request because I’ve seen him scooch over here by himself pretty much every time he comes in.
Blurr doesn’t seem bothered that he’s talking to pretty much a brick wall, but hey! More power to ya! The poor mech is wasted. He just runs through his drinks so fast! That really scary conjunx of his looks over every now and again to check on him, but I hope he knows I’m taking the best care of him that I can! The problems pop up when he runs off somewhere! Like, one blink and shvoop! He’s gone!!
I try to keep him entertained enough so he won’t do that. I can talk so fast now!! Shame I can’t put it into words.
This poor Drift guy, though! He’s so quiet! He seems so shy, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He probably doesn’t. He came in with Tailgate and Cyclonus. I wonder who his conjunx is {if he has one}. He keeps looking around, then looking back at his drink all upset xc I’m gonna talk to him!
…
“Hey! Can I get you something else?” Swerve chirps.
“Um, no thank you. I’m-I’m good.” Drift smiles disarmingly, his audial fins drooping slightly.
“Oh, but your glass is almost empty! Lemme top you up!” Without waiting for an answer, Swerve swipes the glass and replaces it with a fresh one in the span of three nano clicks.
“Oh. Um… Ok then…” Drift hums, slumping over the counter slightly.
“Wow! I think that was your fastest yet!” Tailgate whistles.
“Nah!He’sbeenfatster!” Blurr chimes is, draping his upper half over Drift’s portion of the counter to point a crooked digit at the smallest of the bunch on the mech’s opposite side. Drift attempts to right the mech in his seat, having to keep his servos up just in case the racer should fall. Drift eventually just allowed him to slump back onto the counter. It was the safest option.
“Oh, you guys! I just love my job! So-!” Swerve returns his attention to Drift, who has been watching Blurr twitch with a grimace on his dermas. When he realizes he’s being spoken to, his gaze snaps back to Swerve with a look very much like a sparkling with their servo stuck in the cookie jar. Swerve opts to ignore it. He doesn’t want to spook the new mech away.
“How do you know Tailgate here?” Swerve tosses a thumb in Tailgate’s direction. Drift blinks, then offers a small smile.
“Cyclonus and I work at the same company. Cyclonus is a plant operator, while I am a CR representative.” Drift explains.
“Ooh! Fancy! So you get to talk to a lot of people?” Swerve flutters his optic lids and leans forward against the counter. No one else pays him much mind; they all knew he loved the gossip.
“Somewhat, yes. I mostly just get complaints.” Drift chuckles nervously, startling Blurr and making the speeder jolt upright.
Unfortunately, he tilts too far backward and begins to tip. Drift tries to stop him, his pede getting caught on the rung of his own seat and causing him to twist awkwardly. Drift, in a surprising act of self preservation considering his recent fuelings, grabs onto the counter with one servo while the other snatches Blurr up into his chassis. His knees hit the ground, the stool pulled down along with. A loud clattering follows its every bounce.
The noise in the building noticeably quiets down around them. Drift’s audials perk up at the drop, only to fall back into submission very quickly. A mono-opticked mech stands threateningly over him, that blood red orb seemingly glaring straight into his very spark. With three incredibly sharp talons on each servo instead of digits along with war frame’s height, it’s easy to be intimidated if you didn’t know who he was. It was so much worse when you did.
Due to Drift’s shorter stature as a war frame, it was easy to forget that he was one himself.
“E-excuse me. Um… Here. He… Fell…” Drift stutters, clumsily shifting a now recharging Blurr in his arms to comfortably hand him over. Shockwave silently fumes at the mech half his size, his field not even attempting to hide it. Drift eventually just holds Blurr out like a cyber-cat, the tiny mech in his servos limp and dangling.
Shockwave hisses lowly, tenderly scooping up his conjunx into the crook of his arm and holding him close. Drift wisely drops his gaze and takes a few steps back. When he looks back up, the giant creepy mech is gone.
“Woah… You’re lucky! Last time someone touched Blurr, Shockwave cracked their optic!” Swerve gasps. Drift shivers, righting his seat slowly and sitting back down. He hunches over his glass, refusing to make any more contact. Silence reigns over the group for some time, the air growing awkward and stale.
Before it separated them all on their way, Perceptor finally pipes up.
“What does it mean when a mech asks you for more ways to trick their conjunx into consuming things without appearing as though they are tricking them? What does that make you?” The scientist muses, his optics squinted as he stares off into nothing.
“What?” Swerve hums.
“Ooh! Did you make a friend?” Tailgate beams.
“Friend? No. Perhaps an amiable acquaintance. That seems more likely.” Perceptor huffs.
“What did you tell him?” Tailgate questions.
“I just told him to be blunt. Do not hide behind falsifications; it will only delay the inevitable.” Perceptor states matter-of-factly.
“Wow. Uh- No…? I guess it depends on the situation.” Tailgate smirks.
“Ooh! Like today! When I tricked Cyclonus into eating one of his favorite sweets! I gave him a germanium roll from a real bakery instead of those boxed kind- AGH! He loved it! Oh! Oh! You all should totally do it too!” Tailgate claps happily. Perceptor stares blankly at him while Drift watches the race car from the corner of his optic. Swerve raises an optic ridge.
“You tricked Cyclonus into eating his favorite sweet?” He asks, more as a statement than a question.
“Well, yeah. He usually eats the ones from the box at the convenience store, but I got him one from an actual bakery. And yesterday, I got him rhenium noodles at work because I know he works so darn hard. And the day before that, I got him tantalum rust sticks. I don’t know; it’s a couple thing, I think. I got the idea from the Prime.” Tailgate hums importantly, taking a sip from his straw with a flourish.
“‘Prime?’ Like, the Optimus Prime? The only conjunxed Prime in history? That Prime?!” Swerve balks.
“The one and only!” Tailgate boasts.
“Does it work?” Drift asks, nearly a whisper.
“What do you mean?” Tailgate returns.
“Does it work. What’s the point? Does Cyclonus appreciate you more? Does he take advantage of it? What?” Drift elaborates.
“What? No! Cyclonus doesn’t take advantage of me!” Tailgate scoffs, “He’s only gotten closer since I’ve started this whole thing! Yesterday, he let me hang out at work with him! He never used to even let me in the door! Then, he showed me off to all his buddies at work! And the way we all talked with one another, it sounded like he would talk about me with them. He’s so sweet!” Tailgate swoons. Drift gains a far off expression staring through the race car and into his own little world.
“So who’s your conjunx?” Swerve nudges Drift’s elbow. The former assassin blinks back into reality, but his resolve is already made up.
“Excuse me, I have to go. Thank you.” He pays his tab and rushes out without another word.
“Geez. What’s got into him?” A pink seeker immediately plops into Drift’s now vacant seat, leaning back against the counter as he eats a bag of snacks.
“I don’t know- Are those my bismuth kernels?” Swerve snaps. The new mech pauses mid chew to give the bartender a sheepish grin. He holds out the bag for the smaller mech.
“Want some?” He laughs nervously.
“Misfire!” Swerve chastises lightly, batting at the mech’s shoulder from across the counter with his cleaning rag. With his other servo, he dips his digits into the bag of kernels and shoves a few into his intake. Misfire laughs obnoxiously as he purposefully fails to dodge the half-sparked ‘weapon.’