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It was unnervingly quiet on the Lost Light ship.
Really! Swerve's was (begrudgingly) temporarily shut down, as per Rung's request, Brainstorm was closed off in the lab, and the halls were scarce in people. Even Whirl was uncharacteristically quiet!
That, of course, meant all hell soon would break loose. A crew full of bored bots like the ones on the Lost Light demanded some chaos to keep things running smoothly, no matter how much Ultra Magnus would argue otherwise.
—
It started out simple, with a gathering of mecha in the training room.
Cyclonus and Drift twirled around each other in a dance of swords. Skids stood off to the side with Chromedome, guiding him through the inner workings of his 'Binary Gun' while Tailgate and Swerve, in a conjoined effort, tried wrestling with Whirl, with Trailcutter watching in amusement.
It was, all in all, a rather controlled environment, or, as controlled as things could be with this particular mix and match of bots.
Until Rodimus burst in.
The captain looked even more cheerful than usual, grinning from audinal to audinal as he made his way towards the center of the room, where the two swordsmech were butting heads.
Cyclonus had just managed to pin Drift, holding the tip of the great sword to his sparring partner's neck cables, moving away once he was satisfied with his win, leaving a pouting Drift behind.
It didn't last much longer, though, once Rodimus tackled him, servos gripping his shoulder plates as he leaned over, grinning widely at his third-in-command. It brought a fond, indulging smile to his lips.
"Driiift.." He singsonged happily, optics shining brightly. "I've got news!" Rodimus pulled back to stand with his servos on his hips, allowing Drift to turn and face him, arms crossed and an optic ridge raised playfully.
That exclamation alone had some optics turning towards the two, namely Swerve's and Whirl’s, who, in his distraction, sent all three tumbling awkwardly to the ground after a particularly hard punch from Tailgate. The gangly mech grunted indignantly but didn't avert his attention from the sight before him, leaving them tangled together.
"Do you?" Drift encouraged in a much lower tone, more amused than anything.
These days, the ex-'Con was much more accepted than he was during the war, even if there was still some lingering unease for the more stubborn of bots, but nothing managed to beat how comfortable Rodimus acted around him from the get-go.
Still, a general cloud of surprise fell over the room once all response from Rodimus was animated nodding, followed by him taking Drift's servo in his, intertwining their digits and promptly tugging him out of the door.
Silence fell over the training room for a klik before Swerve piped up, ever the motormouth. "Did.. Did the captain just do that?" The minibot looked around, still sprawled out on the ground under Whirl.
"Well, they're Amica, aren't they?" Skids responded with a hesitant edge, looking up from his quiet conversation with Chromedome, his gun dangling absentmindedly on the menmosurgeon's fingers, an odd glint to the mech's orange visor.
Technically, no one was quite sure if that was true. They sure acted like it, but no person on the crew had ever heard them say it. Rewind didn't even have anything on his database!
Swerve's visor flickered with mischief. "Oh, c'mon! That's not how Amica act!" He huffed back, straining his helm to look up from the still unmoving Whirl. "Is it not?" Tailgate asked, successfully worming his way out.
"It is, Swerve just doesn't have friends!" Trailcutter laughed, mouth splitting into a large smirk, taunting, as he pushed off of the wall, preparing to head back to his hab.
The bartender squeaked indignantly, and the room soon dissolved into loud chatter and bickering, dropping the topic.
Whirl stayed with his optic narrowed towards the doorway.
—
The "news" Rodimus seemed so excited about was a new shooting range.
It was big and shiny, not as worn out as most of the inhabitated places on the ship, spacious enough to fit a good chunk of the crew with relative ease, inaugurated a few cycles after Rodimus' excited announcement.
If Ultra Magnus' long, drawn-out opening speech conveyed something—before at least 70 bots went idle—it was that this new shooting range used to be some sort of storage room, found by a bored Hoist and built by a not-so-eager Perceptor, not before cycles of infighting between the heads of the ship.
The more surprising occupants of the newly opened range were, undoubtedly, First Aid and Ratchet, by insistence of the former CMO. 'The last thing we need in active battle is a dead medic.' He reasoned before dragging the smaller bot from the medbay.
Other than the commanders and the two doctors, a few other bots seemed happy to linger. Perceptor, Red Alert, Blades, Hound, and Smokescreen were the most interested, if the readiness to slide into a booth and pick up a gun to practice was any tell.
For a species that had, more or less, just gone through 4 million years of war, it was hard to lose the habit of needing to always be in top shape for combat.
Most mecha were quietly going about their own routine practice, the sound of rounds being shot into improvised targets filling the room. Drift stood off to the side with Ultra Magnus, going over relevant files for the grand opening, much to the captain's dismay.
Said captain was rooted in place between where, to his right, First Aid was engrossed in a long, theorical lesson that Rodimus swore he hadn't heard since he first undergone training. The speedsters had to suppress a shudder at the thought.
To his left, Perceptor stood in all his composed, icy glory, rolling his shoulder plates and stretching. The scientist exuded an air of satisfaction. It had been a long while since any of them had the chance to shoot outside of a battlefield.
Red Alert, on the far corner, couldn't help but let his gaze wander, skittish. His optics bounced from one bot to the other, taking note of the little mannerisms each one exhibited.
Pausing on Rodimus, the head of security had to take a klik to assimilate what he saw.
Rodimus. Rodimus Prime.
Rodimus Prime of Nyon, reassembling his gun the good ol' Decepticon way.
Horror clawed up to his intake, immediately fumbling with his weapon. It clattered to the ground, drawing the attention of Hound, who considered him with a concerned edge.
"You good there, Red?" The green bot raised an optic ridge. Red Alert was known for being.. peculiar, but it was still a worrying display.
Red Alert stayed frozen for a passing moment, stuck on the gun resting comfortably on his captain's servos.
The adjustment was subtle, but it was there, and it made the Chief of Security's processor screech to a halt.
Autobots were taught not to alter their guns, if not to clean or amplify their power. Autobots didn't rearrange their weapons to be quicker, at the risk of having the circuitry glitch and blow up in their faceplate.
"Just dandy." He grunted, promptly spinning on his heel and storming off. If Hound called out after him, he didn't hear, too preoccupied with the theories of a traitorous captain.
And if Drift exchanged an amused look with Ratchet over the shoulders of a pair of concentrated Rodimus and disgruntled First Aid? Well, that was on them.
—
Whirl was not having a good time.
You'd think that would be a given, considering all he'd been through. After all, the Lost Light's local homicidal helicopter was nothing if not troubled, if you were one to listen to Rung's analysis.
The thing hammering at his circuits behind his single optic, though, had nothing to do with whatever he's gone through. It was, rather, a simple question.
What the frag was up with Drift and the captain?
Don't get him wrong, he did not care what went on in anybody's private life if it wasn't something he could use against them (Tailgate and Cyclonus were a different circumstance, eyebrows, go away.) But, he did consider himself remarkably good at reading mechs like those two, and his interest was piqued.
It led him straight to the purple mech's door.
Admittedly, it wasn't a very busy night cycle, with most of the crew divided between the reopening of Swerve's and their own habsuites, save for the few unlucky bots on shift.
Whirl, although, was none of the options above, and neither was Cyclonus, if his hunch was right.
He'd planned on taking it easy tonight, maybe aggravate Ultra Magnus a little, annoy Rewind, and then go work on some clocks back in the safety of his hab. The burning question about Rodimus and Drift's connections seemed to have other plans.
It took some long moments of nagging the swordsmech to get the door to open, but Whirl could be patient when he (really) wanted to be.
The helicopter was immediately met with Cyclonus' unamused expression, arms crossed in an annoyed gesture, sharp red optics narrowed in all their intimidating glory.
Unfortunately, the one they were focused on paid little mind to the imposing quality, pushing past Cyclonus to step inside and flop down over the flat surface of his berth, legs dangling in the air as he propped an arm on his knee joint and leaned his helm on one of his claws.
"So," Whirl chirped, not looking very threatened by Cyclonus' general gloomy aura. "So." Cyclonus drawled, slowly closing the door and turning around, optic ridges drawn low.
He took a few measured steps towards Whirl, servos resting on his hips. "You know three cycles back? In the training room?" Whirl continued, swaying his long legs without a care in the world.
Cyclonus huffed. He should've guessed it would be gossip that would've made Whirl come here. "Whirl. The nature of our commanding officers' relationship is of little interest to me." The purple mech glared sharply.
Whirl only let out a sharp 'Ha!', hopping out of the berth to point a claw at Cyclonus'—fairly unimpressed—faceplate. "Even you know that there's something there! And I didn't even mention them!"
Rude.
Holding back from twisting his expression into a much more undignified one, Cyclonus grabbed his crewmate by the back of his long neck, dragging Whirl out of the room with ease.
For all his kicking and growling (he didn't yelp, thank you very much), Whirl was entirely too giddy.
He wasn't wrong! There definitely was something there!
—
The bridge was quiet, the soothing kind of quiet.
Ultra Magnus worked in silence, happy to allow himself to actually get something done for a change. He loved his comrades, no matter how little he expressed so, but the constant chaos and disorder was a little too much to handle on a good day.
Thankfully, Primus seemed to have taken mercy on him.
It was just Ultra Magnus and his datapad on the bridge, focused on his latest report while sparing a glance at the various cameras stationed around the ship once in a while.
He'd cleared Red Alert from duty earlier in the cycle, taking notice of how unusually twitchy he was around the others, even for him. Rodimus, in specific, seemed to be putting him on edge.
Weird.
The rest of the bots called it a cycle some time ago, bidding their farewells to the Duty Appointed Officer politely, with the occasional warning to not stay up too late before disappearing into the halls.
The gesture was sweet, but Magnus paid them no mind. There was a lot to do, and regardless of what Drift and Ratchet might have to say about it, he genuinely enjoyed doing it.
It was relieving, in a way, the logical and steady flow of words and numbers against the clashing personalities and loud arguing he endured most of the time. He really needed to get better at dealing with people.
Running his gaze over the cameras, he relaxed a little when all that really drew his attention was the feed from a hallway of Whirl entering Cyclonus' room, only to be almost immediately thrown out.
Well, no fight broke out, so he'd let it go. The big bot was working on letting things slide once in a while.
With a nod of approval, he turned his attention back to his work, suppressing an exasperated shak of his head when the first thing that popped up was an incident involving Skids, Rung, and a hell of a lot of turbofoxes.
Primus help him.
Ultra Magnus was content to get lost in his own little bubble from them on, categorizing, writing, taking stock of their list of supplies. It did wonders for his processor, even if the light strained his optics.
He only snapped out of it when a comm from Tailgate popped up on his HUD.
<<TG: Hey Megs!!>>
<<TG: Ambulon told me he heard something in the oil reservoir.>>
<<TG: Thought you'd like to know!>>
Why was it always the oil reservoir?
Ultra Magnus held back a groan, steeling himself to whatever nonsense was to come. He just hoped it wasn't another dead body. They really couldn't keep doing that.
Joints creaking and sliding into place, the second-in-command stood up, straightening his armor with a sigh. Minimus was getting too old to handle the strain.
Regardless, duty was sacred, so he was quick to type back.
<<UM: Thank you for the heads-up, Tailgate. I will make sure the matter is dealt with.>>
His optics flickered to the monitor displaying the cameras, flipping through each one. Of course, the one in the oil reservoir was broken. Thank you, Brainstorm.
Not paying much mind to the minibot's response, Ultra Magnus made his way towards the reservoir with porpuseful, yet surprisingly quiet, strides, sparring a glance or two to the peaceful rows of closed doors, inhabitants by recharging bots.
Just as it had been reported to him, the open archway that led to the commonly bare and melancholic room was filled with a constant flow of noise.
Pausing, Magnus tilted his helm, considering the sound. Upon closer inspection, he'd heard something like it before. Many times, in fact.
Music.
It was distinguished—no doubt of human origin—with the low rumbling of an old, human male, voice rugged and rough yet persistently soft-spoken, slow and steady.
The melodic instrumentals on the background, which got clearer and clearer the closer Magnus got to the reservoir, sealed it as some for of love song, or at least charged with longing and adoration.
It was better than a dead body, he supposed.
All other thoughts soon fled from his processor as soon as he stood by the doorway, optics widening to an almost comical degree. The 'Minimus' part of him half wondered if they would fall from the faceplate of his armor.
Seemingly disconnected from everything else around them, bathed in the simmering lights along the walls, dimmed and bouncing off of the vastness of oil beyond the deck, Drift and Rodimus cradled each other in some really poor excuse for a dance.
The Lost Light's third-in-command had a servo splayed on the small of Rodimus' back strut, holding them close together, while his other servo intertwined his digits with the captain's own.
Gripping Drift's shoulder, he stepped forward along with the gentle rhythm, allowing for his partner to sway them around in small circles in the somewhat enclosed space they occupied on the deck.
The two shared quiet, content smiles with one another, the kind that spoke of intimacy and comradery shared throughout a number of struggles and adversity.
Magnus wasn't quite sure how long he spent there, stuck somewhere between exasperated and genuinely entranced by the sheer connection between the two of them.
It wasn't something he was used to seeing. Not during the war, not even before that.
The enchantment was broken when, in one of the final sways of the song, Drift supported the back of Rodimus' legs and swept him up into a kiss, muffling the captain's boisterous laugh with his mouth.
Wincing, Ultra Magnus pulled away from the door, files on insubordination and public indecency popping up before his optics entirely out of habit.
Well, that explained the weird tension Rodimus had with their third-in-command.
Good thing he was starting to work on all that "letting stuff slide" business.
—
The rumors ended in the same way they started, in a crowded room with a pair of speedsters being all too unaware of the attention being paid to them.
It was, admittedly, one of the bigger events.
A hangar had been temporarily rearranged to fit more or less the entire crew in a sort of makeshift saloon after much insistence from Rewind and Tailgate.
The whole idea was born out of one of their movie nights, inspired by an old film from Earth. The sight of the shimmering lights and dancing organics had wormed itself deep into the processors of both minibots, and then backed by a group of mecha.
Ultra Magnus' reservations about it were swiftly overriden by Rodimus' enthusiasm, and here they were.
Tailgate had somehow managed to drag Cyclonus into a dance, Brainstorm stood blabbing something to Chromedome, half leaned over the menmosurgeon. Rung had been roped into it too, though he seemed content to watch Skids and Whirl compete on who could drink more, throwing in a concerned comment or two.
All these auras swirling around one another, these sparks singing in a single harmony. They had Drift freezing in awe, optics offlining so he could feel his own being join in on the parade of souls around him.
His servos found the solid surface of Swerve's improvised counter, sliding over it before steadying so the swordsmech could lean back into it, helm slightly tipped backward.
Like clockwork, most of Drift's non-essential systems idled. He wanted to enjoy the moment of vulnerability, something he rarely allowed himself to, always too burdened by something.
The war. The Decepticons. Wing. Switching sides. Peace.
Most importantly, though..
Rodimus.
He sensed the former Prime slide in by his side, spoiler brushing against his arm. They backed in the presence of both each other and their comrades silently.
A quiet Rodimus wasn't new. Not to Drift. The early cycles of the war, just after becoming an Autobot, had been spent besides Hot Rod. Sometimes it was uncomfortable. Sometimes it was soothing, and sometimes it was so charged with guilt from both sides that it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. But it was always silent.
When Drift dared to get his sight back online, he found his Prime fiddling with his Autobrand. Rodimus hadn't shuttered his optics, but he had dimmed them, gazing over the various bots having fun together.
The third-in-command took half a step closer, watching the captain do the same. Rodimus leaned his helm into Drift's, both their crests sliding into place, almost as if locking them together.
Everything seemed to zero in on that moment alone. Rodimus' servo cuped the side of Drift's faceplate while the swordsmech let his own gently squeeze his captain's arm. Inch by inch, their faceplates moved closer and closer, until..
"Called it!"
Whirl howled, startling both the speedsters out of their enamored daze. Rodimus snapped his head to the Wrecker, scowling at him in annoyance. Drift had to hold back a cackle.
Whirl had almost brought the table with him in how abrupt his turn towards the two had been. Rung and Skids both shared a look, staring at each other blankly for a klik.
The therapist had to will himself not to smirk in amusement, making sense of the situation rather quickly. He just shook his helm softly at the inebriated Skids. Turns out handling his engex wasn't something the outlier could simply learn from observation.
A somewhat less inebriated Whirl stumbled closer. "I knew it! 'Little interest' my aft, Hornhead!" He all but yelled, altered enough to have little control over his vocalizer.
Said scandalous vocalizer did nothing but call the attention of the incredibly nosey crew that inhabitated their Primus forsaken ship. Whispers broke the light atmosphere, curiosity once again rising amongst them.
It saddened Drift a bit, that the peace he'd been basking in wasn't quite there anymore, but his own confusion spoke louder.
He tilted his helm to Rodimus, raising an optic ridge. The speedster shrugged, just as puzzled.
"Have you never seen two sparkmates before, people?" He huffed, golden spoiler hitching up as he puffed his chassis, a little bitter at the interruption.
The whispering gave way to surprised banter. The couple's attention, however, was brought to Ratchet, fixing them with an unamused look. "Has it occurred to you they don't know you're sparkmates?" The medic wordlessly took a seat besides Rung, sliding him a cube of engex.
"But they do," Drift narrowed his optics, gaze wandering to the gathering of bots. "Don't they?" He turned to Rodimus, hesitant. They couldn't have possibly forgotten to say anything about it, right?
One look at Brainstorm sliding Perceptor a handful of Shanix, defeated, while Swerve pointed at Trailcutter's faceplate with a victorious grin and Red Alert halted by his assigned corner™ told him what he needed to know.
"Oops.." Rodimus grimaced, smiling bashfully, finally pulling away a bit just to put his hands on his hips, facing the crew. Drift pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge, grumbling something unintelligible to himself.
—
While the recently discovered Conjunx were swarmed with bots (Rewind seemed particularly eager in getting an interview), Rung nursed his cube and Ratched nursed a mostly passed out Skids. "You knew?"
The question is soft-spoken, with no accusation, just cautious inquiry. Ratchet took a break from idly analyzing Skids to watch Rung, expression impassive, if not a little tired. He wasn't one for social events.
"I did." The medic conceded, throwing back his own engex. "They weren't as good at being subtle back then." He grunted, a hint of fondness making the corner of his mouth tug upwards.
Both their gazes landed on the circle of bots that formed around Rodimus and Drift. Rung didn't ask about when then had been, nor about the barely-there tightening of Ratchet's digits around his cube.
That was a secret he'd keep from gossiping mouths.
—
In the end, after answering most questions thrown their way, Drift and Rodimus ended up in the captain's quarters, curled up together. Rodimus' legs were tangled together, his helm resting on Drift's shoulder as he played with the seams in the plating of his waist.
Drift, in turn, traced Rodimus' spoiler tenderly, optics dimmed and nearly closed, just watching it flutter and twitch by his lover's back. "Remind me why it took us so long to tell 'em about us again?" Rodimus was careful to keep his voice low, not in the mood to ruin their peace.
He could almost hear Drift's gears humming as he thought, still tracing some sort of sigil on the captain's spoiler. Something to do with protection, that much he learned over the years.
"Hard to explain why Rodimus and Drift are conjunxed when the ones responsible are Hot Rod and Deadlock." The spectralist shrugged lightly, jostling Rodimus' helm slightly, making him glare at Drift, who only offered a playful grin.
For a long moment, the former Prime wasn't quite sure what to say.
It wasn't like he enjoyed keeping secrets, especially when he had to keep them from his own people. He blamed it on the lingering ghost of the Matrix inside his chest.
Still, regardless of the amount of bots preaching that 'peacetime was more important than factions', recounting the tale of an Autobot that most would glady say belonged more to their enemies than to his chosen faction and a Decepticon that had to hide in the shadow of violence to make up for the gawning hunger in his tanks was a lot more troublesome than just casually forgetting to tell them the tale of two honorary Wreckers who found solance in each other.
Resetting his intake, Rodimus ex-vented, running his glossa over his dentae thoughtfully. "At least Ratchet knows." He looked up with a hopeful grin. Drift joined their forehelms together, just like they'd done earlier, gaze adoring.
The medic had witnessed quite a lot of their mess over the decades. It soothed the need for both of them to explain the whole story, to show everybody that, no matter how much they wished to forget it, Deadlock and Hot Rod were there, once. Or maybe it was a bit more complicated than that.
"Yeah. At least Ratchet knows."