Archive of Our Own ^beta

Short Stock hadn’t thought about doing this for a while. The pen felt strange in his servo as he adjusted his grip to move more freely from his shoulder. He took a breath and closed his optics, tracing lines he’d done a million times before, the shape present in his helm so long as he didn’t lift his writing utensil. Around him, the bar patrons made excited noises as he drew. When he was finished, he opened his optics to see a perfectly drawn Optimus, straddling a rocket. He signed the bottom out of habit, and handed the napkin drawing over the bar, “Here, one Optimus as ordered.”

Swerve grabbed at it with shocked servos, looking over the pen lines with obvious excitement, “Oh wow! This is really good!”

A few gathered around Swerve, peering over shoulders to very various degrees of appreciation.

“What other ones can you draw like that?” Whirl asked from Short Stock’s left.

The hovercraft turned slowly, sipping his drink, “Optimus, Ratchet, um, Springer, Drift, really any of the wreckers and,” one other, “That’s about it.”

“So, you’ve drawn me spreading it?”

Short Stock couldn’t tell if it was excitement or mania in Whirl’s voice. He took a scooch back in his seat regardless, “I’m not drawing porn, it’s pin up. And, once or twice. You didn’t get a ton of requests.”

“Who?” Whirl interrogated, “Was it one guy who requested or two different guys? What did they ask for? Were they sexy?”

Short Stock’s boggled at all the questions. He had to lean backwards as Whirl got closer and closer to his face with each question, until all Short Stock could see was his yellow optic. A servo reached between them, pushing Whirl back until Short Stock could see something else of the helicopter’s face.

“Alright, cut it out.” Nightbeat said good naturedly, separating the pair, “Does it really matter who asked for posters of you?”

“You’d want to know if you had posters made of you.”  Whirl argued back.

“There is one of you Nightbeat,” Short Stock confirmed.

The self declared detective lifted his eyebrow ridge in flattered surprise, “Really?”

“See?”

Short Stock’s fan was tugged, pulling him back towards Swerve and his counter, a piece of paper and pen held out for him, “Draw another one for me.” Swerve requested.

 Short Stock made an obvious face over the lip of his cocktail that was slowly growing warmer, “Who do you want?”

Their digits briefly touch over the paper and Short Stock had to fight the urge to jerk away. There’s still a small jump he couldn’t control, his fins pinning back for a second.

“I don’t know, make it whoever.” Swerve shrugged.

Short Stock sighed but closed his optics anyways. He let his mind drift, to the times he was alone in a shuttle with nothing but his memory and a sketch pad to pass the time, tracing details of a mech who barely spoke to him. When he opened his optics, he knew what would be staring down at him.

Their helms almost bumped as Swerve leaned over to get a better view of his scribble. The barkeeps mouth took on a strange twist as he looked at Short Stock’s work, “Huh, that’s Fort Max.”

Short Stock covered his embarrassment with another sip of his drink. He held the cube there even when he wasn’t drinking, just for something to cover his mouth and stop him from speaking.

“Did he have secret fans or something?” Whirl inquired, “Why is he so well drawn?”

A brief tug of war ensued when Whirl attempted to snatch the drawing up. Short Stock won by virtue of having digits instead of claws. He pulled the fort Max drawing closer to his chassis, giving Whirl the stink eye, “That’s not for you,” Short Stock growled.

Whirl narrowed his optic at Short Stock, following Short Stock’s servos as he handed the drawing over to Swerve.

“Here,” Short Stock said, his digits sticking to the paper in a noticeable grip.

“You can keep that one,” Swerve responded, pushing a new drink towards the hovercraft, “Not really my speed.”

Short Stock’s arm hesitated, drawing back just enough to hover over his spark. The new drink sat between them, the engex swirling in its typical fluorescent pinks. Short Stock swallowed sharply, his fins pinning back close to his helm, “I didn’t order anything.”  

“It’s for the Optimus drawing.” Swerve explained.

“Oh, then,” Short Stock scanned the open bar, looking from table to table. His optics stopped at random corner booth; the occupant hidden in shadow with a half a cube sweating on the tabletop. “He can have mine.”

Swerve looked at where Short Stock was pointing and made another funny face, “Uh sure? You want me to say it’s from you?”

 “It doesn’t really matter.” Short Stock waived away, finally finishing his drink. It tasted mostly like the ice in the cube than anything else. He dug around his drink briefly for the last little scraps of liquor, crunching a few of the ice cubes between his dente.

Nightbeat propped his helm up in his servo, leaning closer to Short Stock, “You didn’t go down to Delphi’s surface did you.”

Short Stock shook his helm, “No, me and cold don’t go well together, so I elected to stay back on the ship. From what I’ve heard, it was the right call.”

Nightbeat nodded his helm along, the light behind his optics changing, “Then when did you meet Fort Max?”

“Excuse me?”

Nightbeat shrugged, grabbing his own engex, “Well, you weren’t on Delphi, so I just wondered how you met him. Since drawings like that take usually require study of a reference.”

The grip Short Stock had on the paper tightened marginally, the edge denting with the pressure, “I used to run resupply to Garrus-9, before Overlord happened. I know Fort Max from then.”

The chatter around Short Stock instantly died. Noise shrivelled up and withered away as more helms turned towards him. Anxiety and dread piled higher in Short Stock’s chest cavity, making his spark spin in an irregular ellipse.

“You were there for Garrus-9?” Whirl said in disbelief, his voice tinging with laughter.

“Not planet side, I got lucky and was on a run when Overlord attacked.” Short Stock clarified, a strange tension pulling at his frame, “I volunteered for the Wreckers mission but got turned down due to the nature and my lack of active combat experience.”

“How did you even find out about it?” Nightbeat brow ridge crinkled in confusion.

Short Stock’s field began to prickle, his body going stiff, “It’s not like they could hide it from me; I worked there. Can we talk about something else please?”

“When you tried to volunteer, did you start with wanting to get ripped apart by Overlord or?” Whirl needled.

Short Stock’s discomfort grew, his blood boiling as anger took over. They were all laughing at him. He should have never left his quarters and tried to socialise.

“I think it’s noble that you would try and save your crush.” Swerve teased.

 Short Stock slammed a fist against the bar countertop, peeling back his lips in an ugly snarl, “I do not have a crush!”

“Am I interrupting something?” A remarkably familiar voice said from behind Short Stock. 

It was like a horror movie. The energon drained from Short Stock’s face as he slowly turned around, pin up art of the warden of Garrus-9 clutched to his chest, peaks of the pen lines just visible. His optics got wide in fear, his fan stilling on his back as condensation began to bead at the top of his faceplate. He looked up, slowly, to Fortress Maximus’ face.

The giant’s expression was neutral as he gazed down at Short Stock. The hovercraft wondered briefly if Fort max still remembered him. It wasn’t that long ago, but he’d heard about the coma, and there were rumors he’d forgotten a lot of Garrus-9, it was possible he forgot about the one annoying logistics officer that kept staring at him.

There was a flicker of something in Fort Max’s optics as he gazed at Short Stock. An emotion strong enough, it sent a small shard of heat into Short Stock’s spark. The hovercraft could feel the energon rushing to his cheeks, his fins giving stupid little flutters of panic.

“Nope, not at all,” Nightbeat helpfully answered for Short Stock.

His nerves felt on fire, even the lazy extension of Fort Max’s field felt too much for him. He willed himself not to shake or fidget, sitting perfectly statue still as he kept his unblinking stare into Fort Max’s optics. Completely missing when the paper bent and Fort Max caught a peak of the drawing of himself, sexually tightening a bolt.

“I just wanted to get a-“ Fort Max cut himself off, leaning closer to Short Stock to get a better look at the drawing, “Is that me?”

“I can explain.”

“Why is it so detailed?”

Short Stock couldn’t explain.

Behind the bar, Swerve slid Fort Max Short Stock’s free drink.

*

The surface of the reserve was like a pane of glass, refracting light in mirror spots around the observatory decks walls. The semi translucent colours that rainbowed across the inky surface occasionally swirled, and Short Stock watched them with detached interest.

The mercury sea had always been more violent. The waves never rolled in the same patterns, even if Short Stock thought he had seen every current and tide he could, a new one would appear and break him out of his spell. He missed those waves now with all their dangers and darkness lurking beneath them.

He resisted the urge to punch himself in the helm, the feelings of shame and guilt becoming overwhelming. His mind kept replaying the moment he rushed out of Swerve’s in an embarrassed huff. The look on Fort Max’s face as he came to some strange conclusion about Short Stock. Probably thought he was a stalker.

He hadn’t even explained himself, just ran away.

He was so stupid.

Short Stock gave in, slamming his servo into the side of his helm a few times until the pain in his processor stopped the spiralling thoughts. He pushed off the ground, feeling settled enough to try for his quarters.

This whole night had been a mess, maybe he just needed to recharge. Wash his frame until the paint threatened to peel. Stay behind a door that actually locked.

He took the elevator up to his floor, watching the numbers count up. The little display bugged him, with its one burnt out light, ruining the form of the numbers. Short Stock wrinkled his nose, a frown tugging on his lips. He leaned against the elevator railing, feeling the force of the cables pull him up.

His pedes still felt light when he walked off, going down the long quiet hallways of the Lost Light. In the floor, Short Stock could hear the quantum energy running parallel to the electrical currents that buzzed in sharper tones. The generator was struggling again; Brainstorm was probably close to blowing a fuse.

The sounds drove him nuts sometimes in the night cycle, as much of a ‘night cycle’ they could keep in the depths of space.

He dodged around a few mechs, keeping his helm down, maximizing his speed with his fan. He blew past everything, only settling when he was firmly inside his quarters again.

Short Stock threw himself face down onto his berth, groaning as the cables in his back loosened. He could feel his plating start to relax and open up again, relieving the heavy feeling that had been following Short Stock since he planned to enter Swerve’s that evening.

‘Well,’ Short Stock thought to himself, ‘It wasn’t the worst night.’

He’d certainly experienced worse. Nobody died, so that already was a positive.

Short Stock took out the drawing of Fortress Maximus and stared at it longingly. Why hadn’t he just drawn him normally? It would have at least been easier to explain. Short Stock needed to apologize, properly. Not just squeak and run off like last time. He pinned the drawing up on his wall next to the poster he’d made years ago… of Fort Max. He needed to take that down before it got him in trouble. Short Stock sighed as he stared at his work, tracing the sensual way Fort Max was fondling his chest panels, showing a hint of that green spark light in a teasing display.

It truly was good work.

A knock at his habsuite door tore Short Stock’s optics away from admiring Fort Max’s helm ornaments.

 Out of habit, he reached for a blaster that wasn’t there, feeling the empty space it’d normally sit. he cursed softly, pulling his servo out before he could awkwardly fumble with nothing. He cracked the door open slightly to see cherry red and flame decals. Great.

“Howdy!” Rodimus greeted, “I have one roommate for a grumpy Short Stock? Does anyone here meet that description?”

 Short Stock flung the door open, almost clipping the speedster with the edge of it, “I can’t have a roommate. I have a note on my profile from Magnus and Rung saying I can’t have a roommate, you said to my face ‘it was fine’ to not have a roommate, what do you mean I have a roommate?” Short Stock demanded.

“Woah, okay, this is not going the way I thought it would. I thought this guy could maybe, be the exception to you not having a roommate? We’re running out of rooms on the ship.” Rodimus shrugged.

Short Stock looked at the captain in disbelief, “This isn’t a personal preference thing, it’s a health issue. I can’t have a roommate. Period. I’m sorry but he’ll have to bunk with someone else.”

“Could you at least talk to him before you reject him?” Rodimus whined, “He might not be so bad.”

Short Stock was unamused, “What part of ‘No’ are you not getting?”

“Okay okay!” Rodimus held up his servos in defense, catching the door ‘s edge before Short Stock could close it, “I got it. No roommate. He still needs a place for a couple of days, just until I can work something out with Magnus and get him moved, okay? Would you be willing then?”

Short Stock’s brow ridge furrowed, another biting retort on his lips.

“It’s fine Rodimus, if it’s going to be an issue, we can find a different room.”

His voice was enough to make Short Stock’s tank sink. The hovercraft took a step outside his habsuite to look around the corner, instantly seeing him.

Fortress Maximus was leaning up against the adjacent wall, arms crossed, a similarly sour look on his face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How was it every time he ran into Fort Max he was showing his whole aft?

“No! No, it’s okay!” Short Stock shouted, practically tripping over himself. “We can talk!”

The speedster had the nerve to smile, a mischievous curl to his lips, “You sure? I mean, it was such a big deal…”

“Rodimus, it’s fine. You’re right I was too hasty. Let’s sit down and talk about it. I apologize for my earlier actions.”

His optics were begging with the Prime, to not drag this out and humiliate him further.

Rodimus flicked his helm towards Fort Max, the smile dropping as a more considerate expression took its place, “This deck is close to both the medbay and Rung’s office. It would be a good floor for you to live.”

Short Stock’s vents stalled in the silence between Fort Max’s answer. He could feel his frame shaking, nerves eating away at him. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted Fort Max to accept, Short Stock just needed to talk to him. 

Fort Max sighed, pushing off the ship’s wall, “I’ll at least see the room, I’m not agreeing to anything else.”  

Relief washed over Short Stock, his shoulders sagging from the tensed position they’d climbed to. Short Stock stepped aside and let the pair in, optics catching on the posters on his back wall. Scrap. Short Stock did some quick math and made a rushed move after Fort Max entered to the back of his room, placing his frame over the artwork.

“Yeah, just. Make yourselves at home.” Short Stock said dismissively, straightening his frame to look as natural as it could, hiding his shame.

Fort Max glanced at the two locks on Short Stock’s door with a skeptical optic but made no commit on their heavy-duty nature. Rodimus wasted no time entering Short Stock’s hab and plopping down on his couch, fluffing his pillows.

Short Stock’s servo twitched. He’d need to wash those now. Same with the couch cushions. He added it onto his list of things to do after his shower, which he still needed to take.

“This place is pretty cozy Short Stock,” Rodimus complimented, “It might be a tight squeeze, but I think it’s doable. Just get rid of a few things here and there, and bam, enough space for the two of you. What do you think?”

“I only need a berth, anything more is a waste of time.” Fort Max dismissed.

Rodimus visibly deflated at comment. His smile dropped as the happy light in his optics died a quiet death. “Right. Okay,” He said, trying to salvage some of the mood, “Do you think you could at least recharge here?”

Fort Max turned his helm away from Rodimus to lock optics with Short Stock, “That’s up to him.”

Short Stok swallowed the spit in the back of his throat. The poster burned into his plating. He stayed quiet, afraid a word would upset things further. He hoped he didn’t look as afraid as he felt.

Rodimus sighed, beating one of Short Stock’s pillows again. “Clearly you two have a lot to talk about. How about I leave you to it, huh? Maxie you have my comm?”

Fort Max inclined his helm slightly; optics still stuck on Short Stock.

Rodimus waited a second for Short Stock to reply, when none came, he stood up from his couch, leaving the cushions in disarray, “Great, I’m gonna go. If you feel like killing each other, give me a call first.”

He waved glibly, miming good humor as he slammed Short Stock’s door behind. Both of their frames jumped at the sound, reflexes triggering from a lifetime of war. The orange glow of Short Stock’s lamps casted sickly brown shadows across his green paint. They splashed across his walls, taller than him to meet Fort Max’s eyeline. The silence stretched thin between them, Short Stock’s servos going clammy from where he had them pressed against his wall. He’s sure if he lifted them now little imprints would be left behind. Its clear Fort Max is waiting for him to speak, but Short Stock isn’t sure what’s the first thing he should say.

“I guess I should introduce myself properly,” Short Stock mumbled, “I’m not sure if you remember me or not-“

“-I remember you Short Stock,” Fort Max cut him off.

The words dried up. The inside of Short Stock’s mouth tasted like ash as he tried to swallow around the knots in throat.

“You ran the resupply.”

“I did,” Short Stock confirmed, “We only talked a few times back then.” Not close enough to be mentioned outside of work or missed. Only enough for Short Stock to become one-sidedly attached. “I wasn’t sure if- you get what I’m trying to say.”

Fort Max nodded slowly.

“I can explain the pinup from last night. I used to draw them, sort of like art therapy. Anyways, I got really good, so a couple buddies said I could do commissions and, well, you get so many requests for Optimus, I joked I could draw him with my optics closed.”

“So why did you draw me?”

Short Stock froze, petrified by Fort Max’s voice. The tones were so low, like the flow of magma through rock as it bubbled to the surface, threatening to erupt. It mixed with the squeal of the electrical lines, creating a discordance that had Short Stock’s helm ringing. “Because- you were the thing I always drew.”

“What are you standing in front of?”

“Nothing,” Short Stock lied.

He didn’t need to speak, just moved two fingers and Short Stock shamefully shuffled aside, revealing the bar drawing. He ducked his helm, afraid of the face Fort Max would make.

“Couple more steps.” Fort Max instructed, and Short Stock complied, revealing the poster, “Care to explain yourself?”

“Not really. I kind of already did. It’s not a sexual thing, I promise.” Short Stock collected his thoughts, speaking again when it was clear Fort Max was not going to interrupt him. “When I first saw you, it’s going to sound so dumb, but I thought you looked strong and that you’d crush anyone who’d say anything against you, but you treated everyone fairly, and I kind of admired that. It made me want to be like you, and it just sort of, took on a life of its own.”

“But why pin up?”

Short Stock’s lips split into a lopsided grin, “Honestly? It started as a joke.”

Fort Max huffed lightly, a stifled chuckle that made Short Stock’s fins and spark flutter. “I should have expected that. You always had an odd sense of humor. I’m not going to force you to room with me. But, it’s as Rodimus said, this floor is close to the medbay and Rung’s office, it would be nice to be near the resources I need.”

“I think if it’s you, I’ll be okay, but I’m not sure, you might want to have an exit strategy.”

“I have a safety plan set up. I’ve gone through the steps with Rung and Magnus; everything should be fine on my end.”

Short Stock’s fan began to spin in little excited bursts, “Same here.”

“So, it’s settled? We’ll at least trial it?”

Short Stock nodded, taking a step away from the wall behind him. “I guess so. We’ll be rooming together.”

“I’ll let Rodimus know,” Fort Max said, composing the comm before pausing and looking at the poster again, “And you might want to take that poster down, before it gets you in trouble.”

Oh, Short Stock planned to, right after his shower, and his pillow washing.

*

They lasted a week.

There wasn’t one single thing, but a collection of tiny things that stacked on top of each other. Short Stock couldn’t recharge unless the door was locked, and Fort Max was in recharge. Fort Max would stay awake staring at the ceiling, unable to recharge because the feeling of being watched. Fort Max could turn his helm at any given point in the night and see Short Stock’s teal optics staring into his soul. The bot not moving from his spot on the berth, curled up in a ball as he waited patiently for Fort Max to fall into recharge. Fort Max had offered to take a walk until Short Stock went into recharge and that only resulted in Fort Max getting locked out for the night.

It left them feeling miserable and snappish in the morning, with Short Stock retreating into the room for the entire day, recharging when he knew he could keep Fort Max out.

That wasn’t to bring up the paranoia that Short Stock constantly seemed to have. Checking, rechecking, moving behind Fort Max and adjusting everything after he’d touched it. Needing Fort Max back at a certain time, or Short Stock would begin to panic and look for him. Only doing specific things in specific areas or times and getting upset if Fort Max interrupted or occupied the space. It was suffocating.

Fort Max might have screamed at him a couple times to leave him alone. Shutting down or threatening to get violent if Short Stock didn’t listen to his demands. These moods were often met with fierce resistance. Short Stock puffing up and returning the violence with shouts of his own, or pestering further, trying to sus out how to break Fort Max’s silent treatment. There was a day Fort Max had to leave and walk the ship unless he wanted to shove Short Stock through the habsuite wall. When he got back, Short Stock had panicked and went back to trying to appease him, crowding Fort Max all over again.

It was a vicious cycle.

Their fights were spilling out into the halls in ugly explosive things. It was getting to the point the neighbors were beginning to involve themselves. Whirl had set up lawns chairs outside his door to sit and watch the carnage. A few others had gently approached them and suggested a break, or even a trip to Rung. Both ideas were dismissed.

It had only been a week. These were just growing pains. Things couldn’t possibly get worse.

Except they almost did.

Fortress Maximus couldn’t even remember why he’d been mad. It had been for a stupid reason that much, he was sure. Fort Max couldn’t remember anything besides the rage that had him almost blacked out. It was like he was back, fighting for his life, and Short Stock had the misfortune of taking Overlord’s place in his mind. It was only when his fist collided with the wall, did the pain snap him out of it. He blinked owlishly into Short Stock’s frightened optics, piecing together what had happened, and then Short Stock was gone, dodging under his arms and out of his habsuite.

The door slammed behind him, and Fort Max was stuck staring at his own servo in fear. He felt hollowed out and empty as looked at the dent in the wall. Intellectually, Fort Max understood it wasn’t a normal healthy thing to put dents in walls or try to cave your roommates’ helm in. But emotionally, he couldn’t deny the small curl of pleasure at seeing what he’d done.

Was that the kind of mech he was becoming?

Fort Max felt directionless. He wanted answers for why he’d been left for so long. He wanted the unresolved hole in his spark to be answered for. He’d been an Autobot. He had risked his life, going out of his way to help others, to hide Prowl’s mistakes, keep things in check. They couldn’t have at least tried to rescue him sooner? Was he nothing to them?

That night, Fortress Maximus couldn’t recharge. He just laid in his berth, staring at the ceiling, remembering. Waiting, for Short Stock to come back.

It wasn’t until the morning when their habsuite door cracked open and Short Stock slunk in. He froze in the doorway when he saw Fort Max sit up from his berth, taking the time to softly close the door behind him, doing up both latches. The clicks echoed in an unholy calm, the tensions from last night not fully faded away. The hovercraft looked disheveled and worn out upon his return, smelling of engex from Swerve’s. There was still a bottle half full hanging in his grasp.

Somehow that just made Fort Max angry again.

“We need to figure something out, because this isn’t working.” Short Stock stated plainly.

“Clearly,” Fort Max growled.

“I don’t want to give up on you. I’ve been where you are right now, and I know how hard it is to get out of that hole you dig yourself into. I want to help you, like you helped me.”

Fort Max wanted to sneer, demand to know what Short Stock knew about his pain. His body wasn’t even scarred. He’d spent the war in the back of shuttles, delivery supplies, staying off the frontlines, watching others die. They had to piece him back together from nothing.

“We can think of things to redirect you so you’re not trying to crack me open like a geode.”  

“Like what? Drawing a pinup?”

“Would that help?”

Fort Max rolled his optics.

“You need to take this seriously. What would help you? What do you need from me to make this work for you Fort Max?” Short Stock pleaded.

“I don’t know. I feel angry. Everyday, I’m just angry and it never stops. Even when I’m feeling joy, somewhere underneath it, I’m still angry.” Like a poison tainting everything inside of him, consuming and melting his insides. Turning him into nothing but anger.

 Short Stock screwed the top off the bottle, chugging the contents. Fort Max watched as his face scrunched with the burn and uncomfortable taste of straight engex. When he pulled off the lip of the bottle, he coughed, shaking his helm and shivering for a second. He handed the bottle over to Fort Max, his optics shining with the slight haze of overcharge. “Have you tried interfacing when you get like that?”

Suddenly the engex made sense. Fort Max was entirely too sober for this conversation. He took his own swig, draining the bottle.

“I know it’s weird but that genuinely helped me sometimes.”

Fort Max scraped around the bottle’s edges, holding it upside down so every pearl would land on his glossa. There wasn’t enough to get him tipsy, not enough for even a pleasant buzz. His mouth tasted like the glass, the memory of a full drink.

“It’s less destructive and it gets the energy out. You feel better at the end too.”

“Stop talking,” Fort Max pleaded, “I get your point.”  

Short Stock took back the empty bottle, holding it at his side, his grip not unlike what you’d have around the handle of a knife. “If you’re afraid of hurting someone, you can take it out on me. I’m built for it.”

“Short Stock.” Fort Max snapped, “Let me think for a moment.”

The hovercraft clamped his mouth shut. His optics like twin suns, shining down on Fort Max with nothing but hope. He was barely half his size. A single servo could close cleaning around his waist, lifting him up like a feather. Fort Max could break him, easily. He dragged a servo down his face, feeling heavy.

Short Stock fidgeted in place, the silence grinding him down. The passing seconds drained the hope, filling Short Stock back up with that achy desperation that used to control his every action. The need was becoming physical and almost violent in Short Stock’s chassis. He wanted to reach across the space and show Fort Max, how he’d spent years in this role, and he’d take it up again if it made him better.

“We have to try something,” Short Stock reminded him.

“What do we do if I hurt you, Short Stock? It’d only take one time for me to lose control, and I’d kill you.”

“That’s what the plans are for. We won’t let it get that far.”  

Fort Max turned the offer over in his helm. Short Stock wasn’t unattractive, in fact, quite the opposite. His frame was small and held such delicate properties, like a set of gears suspended in midair, held together only by their own tension. And in the same appeal held the problem. It would be extremely easy for Fort Max to overpower and hurt him, even if he hadn’t meant to.

 ‘At some point, you’ll have to trust yourself,’ Fort Max thought, ‘You can’t live believing you’ll hurt everyone you touch.’

 “We’ll try it.”

“Okay,” Short Stock agreed, “We’ll try it.”

They were making a mistake; Fort Max’s mind screamed at him. He didn’t know how to stop now that they were on this ride together. Clutching the emergency break in both their servos, unwilling to pull back on the lever, convinced the wall careening towards them would simply disappear. It was going to be fine.

They were going to pull through.

*

It had been such an impersonal thing. The war had been a stabilizing force for him, something to throw his mind and body into. He’d spent years in survival mode; the war felt like a natural extension. There was little he was living for except the spite of his own survival in the face of others who would have wanted him dead.

It’s why he volunteered to run the more dangerous routese . He spent his nights dreaming of killing in an endless loop. He was becoming a shell that only knew how to pilot shuttles, stack crates, and shoot a gun.

He had been ready to give up.

Garrus-9 was just another station added to his list at first. Short Stock had been drawn to the prison for his own personal reasons, a vendetta he couldn’t fulfill. He’d stalk the halls, moving between cell blocks and shifts, just to see. He scanned the prisoners for faces he knew but always came away empty. He’d take the long way; just encase he missed something.

It wasn’t a surprise he’d run into the warden at some point. The first time, quite literally.

He’d been rushing, running behind on a delivery due to a conflict blocking a section of their route. They had to go around, adding extra time and that meant every station was getting supplies on a delayed timer. Short Stock needed to be quick, so he hadn’t been checking when he rounded a corner and ran right into Fortress Maximus’ hip.

He’d bounced once before hitting the ground on his aft. A growled warning was already on his lips when a hand reached down to help him up.

“You alright?”

The servo was large enough to encircle Short Stock’s entire helm. The size alone was enough to shock him, but the gentle field had him reeling. It rolled against him, smoothing down some of the rougher edges of Short Stock’s emotions. It left a part of himself longing for a similar hand, for a similar friend.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He eventually managed to say, getting off the ground himself, “Just look where you’re walking next time.”

Short Stock dusted himself off when the servo was back, hanging in front of his face with a rust stick dangling between the large digits. Short Stock crossed his optics to get a look at the treat. It shook a few times in temptation, dragging Short Stock’s optics up to the mech’s face.

Brilliant red optics looked down at him with serene grace. A small, half-moon of a smile matched the mech’s handsome features. A strong jawline, chiselled, squared his faceplate into his helm perfectly. “Here, reimbursement for damages.”

“Normally it’s a digit, but I guess a rust stick will do.” He snapped the rust stick in half with his dente, swallowing it down with a smile.

The mech brought the broken half to his mouth, biting over Short Stock’s dente marks. He fished another out of the bag, holding it in the air as he gestured, “A digit seems like a high price to pay for a little bump. I’m Fort Max by the way, I’m not sure we’ve ever formally met.”

“Short Stock, and no, I’m always hiding in the back of the shuttle but we’re running a bit behind today so I’m helping move crates.”

“Did you want another rust stick then?”

Short Stock blinked, his fins wiggling, “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Fort Max held the bag out and Short Stock delicately dipped his servo inside, grabbing the first rust stick he touched.

“You pilot the shuttle?”

“Oh no,” Short Stock corrected, “I’m the logistics officer. Though sometimes I take over as copilot on the longer flights. Later,” Short Stock said, breezing past with a spin of his fan.

He’d completely missed the stunned way Fort Max looked at him.

The rest of the day, Short Stock kept tasting the remnants of a rust stick in his mouth. A cascade of complicated memories reigniting something Short Stock thought he’d lost. When he got back to the shuttle, he found himself looking forward to the next time he’d be by Garrus-9.

*

They laid out some ground rules. No feelings, no kissing. If Fort Max wanted to stop, it’d end, no questions asked. The only thing Short Stock asked for was a warning. They settled on Fort Max saying ‘Garrus’ to let Short Stock know.

It changed the atmosphere of the room to know there was an option for de-escalation. They found themselves fighting less. Short Stock occasionally pausing and checking in on Fort Max’s moods before going back to whatever task he was doing. In return, Fort Max tried to better accommodate Short Stock’s needs and schedule.

They were falling into a routine, and it was nice. Fort Max had been skeptical of the suggestion, but living in the reality, he could see how it was working. They still lacked recharge, but they were slower to snap at each other, and quicker to back down and take a breather. They were beginning to spend time talking instead of screaming.

Fort Max learned that Short Stock enjoyed hot showers and quiet classical ballads. He’d picked up art as a hobby at the suggestion of a crew mate. At first, he had no idea what to draw until that same crew mate suggested portraits. From there, Short Stock’s pin up empire expanded as more crew mates demanded art, and Short Stock retaliated by drawing them sexy, not realising he’d tapped into a secret market.

“You get involved in the most bizarre things,” Fort Max remarked.

All Short Stock did was shrug, “I’ve experienced weirder.”

“Like what?” Fort Max asked, curious.

Short Stock’s expression fell slightly, the orange light at his drawing desk putting little spotlights on his cheeks. “There was that time I ended up sneaking into a gladiator match with a friend. She pretended to be one of the fighters and I was her manager. We managed to convince the bouncers and slipped all the way up to the VIP booths. We watched the whole match from the reserved seats.”

“Did you get caught?”

“Oh yeah, but she didn’t care. She just laughed when they tried to drag us out. We ended up banned for life, and that pissed her off.”  His smile took on a bitter edge as he finished the story, his pen making the final lines of his new sketch.

Fort Max took a small peak at the drawing over Short Stock’s shoulder, catching his own frame in profile.

“How are you feeling?” Short Stock suddenly asked, “Do you need to use the word?”

Fort Max shook his helm, “Not yet. I think that outburst took most of my energy.”

“That’s good.” Short Stock scrubbed his eraser across the drawings surface, lifting an arrent line from his page.

Fort Max watched him draw for a moment, staying still in Short Stock’s periphery as his face was sketched again, “I’m still not sure why you proposed this solution,” Fort Max admitted.

Short Stock whipped his helm toward him, a look of utter confusion on his face, “Are you stupid?” He asked, gesturing to his page full of Fort Max, “If anything I’m surprised you accepted.”

Fort Max felt himself getting defensive, his tone taking on a hasher edge than intended, “There were a couple different factors that effected my decision.”

“Like what?”

“Wanting to prove I didn’t need to resort to such measures.”

“I’m a deterrent.”

“No, it’s about showing I have self-control Short Stock.”

“Of course, because you always have excellent self control.”  Short Stock flicked his optics away, dismissing Fort Max.

A frown tugged at Fort Max’s mouth as the mood soured, “What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem. Its good you feel like you have a lot of self-control.” Short Stock replied defensively, “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“So why are you upset?”

“I’m not,” Short Stock denied.

Fort Max blinked, an idea coming to him that was so ridiculous it must have been the truth, “Are you mad I haven’t interfaced with you?”

Short Stock gave him a glare that could have peeled paint.

“You are, aren’t you. You’re mad at me because I haven’t tried to interface with you.” Fort Max pushed back, stepping into Short Stock’s space.

The hovercraft recoiled, leaning as far as he could in his chair to avoid brushing his em field with Fort Max’s. His fins pinned back to the sides of helm, shoulders tensing, “Fort Max get out of my face before I hit you.”

The giant stepped closer, until his breath was hitting Short Stock’s faceplates. He could see the cornered panic in Short Stock’s optics. He was a horrible liar, “You told me the drawings weren’t a sexual thing.”

“They aren’t!” Short Stock shouted, getting out of his desk chair to escape Fort Max, “It’s not a sexual desire I have for you! I’m not drawing them thinking about interfacing with you! I can like you in a nonsexual way and still draw pin up of you! These are not connected things!”

Now Fort Max was yelling, matching Short Stock’s tone beat for beat, “You brought up interfacing, you said-“

“-I asked if you tried! I said, ‘have you tried interfacing when you’re like this’ I didn’t say ‘You should interface with me!’ I offered because you seemed ready to jump out of your plates, and I knew I could take you!”

“Really, you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes! What would I gain from lying to you? What could I possibly gain from it?”

 This was the stupidest possible fight they could have. Fort Max was going to get riled up, then they’d be forced to interface. The idea had Short Stock whining in the back of his throat slightly.

“I’m leaving. Clearly you need some time to yourself and I’m more than happy to give it.” Short Stock declared.

He got two steps when Fort Max’s servo reached out and grabbed his arm. Fort Max didn’t get the chance to speak before he was swiftly hit.

There was a shocking amount of force behind the blow, Short Stock using his fan to propel the fist faster. He aimed for the elbow joint, crimping the cables there and forcing Fort Max to let go.

Fort Max cried out in surprise, pulling his arm closer to his chassis. He cradled his elbow, feeling the numbing shots of pain race up and down his nerves. He looked at Short Stock in surprised hurt, “You hit me.”

“Don’t grab me.”

The door slammed closed a minute later, Short Stock now on the single-minded mission to drink until he was sick.

*

Rodimus couldn’t be more pleased with himself. He was happier than a pig rolling in shit, his smile smug as he recounted to Drift his ingenious plan that positioned himself as the Lost Light’s, or should he say, the Love Light’s primo matchmaker. It was a golden opportunity to build favor and do some good in between adventures. There was no way to hate the guy who brought together the best romance in Cybertronian history.

Drift just raised an eyebrow ridge skeptically. “You sure it’s a romance you’re building?” he asked over the lip of his drink. Infront of him sat a half-finished side of rust sticks, picked over and at as their conversation had gone on.

Swerve’s was loud again tonight, with mechs chatting and drinking at almost every table. The pair had taken up a wall booth, sandwiching themselves in between Cyclonus and Trailbreaker.

Rodimus pouted, stealing a rust stick from Drift, crunching it loudly between his dente. “What else would it be? I mean come on, mechs practically obsessed with the guy, I basically delivered him heaven.”

“Ratchet has been crankier than usual lately, and when I ask him about it, he says he can’t get any recharge because Short Stock and Fort Max are always fighting.”

“Well, I mean, every relationship has it’s problems,” Rodimus sputtered, sipping his drink to hide his concern, “All the time?”

Drift nodded.

Scrap.

“But it’s just yelling right?”

Drift shook his helm.

Double scrap.

“This sucks. I really thought I had something when I paired them up together,” Rodimus lamented. “I’ll let Magnus know we should start looking for a new room to house Fort Max.”

“You might have to do it sooner than you think,” Drift remarked pointing to a spot over Rodimus’ shoulder, “They’re about to start fighting again.”

Rodimus turned around so fast, he put a crimp in his neck cables.

The bar had always been loud, but Rodimus had no idea how he’d missed the way Fort Max was shouting at Short Stock. His voice cut over the music and other chatter, drowning out any pleasant conversation. Swerve stood off to the side, servos raised as he tried his best to defuse the situation.

Short Stock sat at the bar, with his back purposely turned to Fort Max. The warden was forced to yell his demands into Short Stock’s spinning fan, distorting voice. The more Fort Max tried to get Short Stock’s attention, the faster the fan would spin. It made it a little hard to take the fight seriously if Rodimus was being honest.

“I’m trying to make this work!” Fort Max shouted, his voice chopped into little pieces, “I’m putting in effort to accommodate you, but you’ve done absolutely nothing to help me!”

Short Stock clutched his drink to his chassis, sucking it up with a swirly straw. The delightful colours of the fuel layers raced into Short Stock’s mouth. His silence was stony, and every part of his body was screaming for Fort Max to leave him alone.

Swerve looked around helplessly, wringing his servos in worry. “Hey mech, I don’t think he wants to talk to you right now. Why don’t you step away and take a breather?” his voice warbled.

“I’ve put up with your obsession with me-“

“-I’m not obsessed with you!” Short Stock finally snapped, “I’ve told you this, but you never listen to me!”

“Then how would you describe it?”

“I already have! Multiple times, to your face! I have told you; I want to help you!”  

“Start actually helping me then!”

“YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT YOU NEED!” Short Stock screamed.

The bar jumped. ABBA blasted over the speakers, sending Rodimus’ processor into a tailspin.

“I try! Time and time again to get you to tell me what you need and all you do is shut down and yell at me to stop pestering you! You’ve never once brought up a solution, it’s always been me! I’ve been trying all on my own to make this work because you refuse to do anything but pout and threaten to hit me! I’m sorry I’m not big enough to throw a tantrum and get my own way, so I have to talk to you!”  

Fort Max’s face went from pink to purple. Rodimus could see how Fort Max was shaking from restraint, his servos clenched into tight balls.

“Rodimus…” Drift subtly warned.

“I’m calling Magnus right now,” Rodimus assured, pulling up his comms, marking it as urgent. Condensation beaded on Rodimus’ forehead as he watched the scene.

“I’m working on that,” Fort Max growled out through gritted dente, “I have complex PTSD, it’s not easy.”

“And you know what Fort Max?” Short Stock said, “So do I, but you don’t see me throwing punches.”

Fort Max sneered, “You?” Fort Max laughed, a hurt ugly sound, “The only thing wrong with you is that you’re a defective glitch.”

The drink in Short Stock’s servo splashed against Fort Max’s chest, the ice bouncing off to land at Fort Max’s pedes. Short Stock’s face was a controlled line of fury, his optics cold as he held on to the cube.

“Did it feel nice when he called you his favorite?”

The tension snapped and Fort Max was reaching for Short Stock. The hovercraft was lifted and the rest of the room sprung into action.

“Rodimus!” Drift called, launching from their spot at the booth, sprinting across the open space, great sword drawn.

Rodimus was quick to follow his amica, running to grab Trailbreaker from a nearby table, “Make a forcefield around Short Stock!” He ordered, shoving the gas guzzler forward, “Get them separated before Fort Max can do any damage!”

Swerve dived behind the bar, ducking under the lip as glass rained down from above. A horrific scraping sound covered the shattering glass as Fort Max dragged Short Stock across the bar top, slamming him into the stools.

Short Stock cried in pain, kicking out when Fort Max tried to grab him again. He hit Fort Max’s knee, crippling the former warden for a moment. He scrambled to his feet, getting low in a fighting stance as Fort Max made a move against him.

Fort Max screamed in rage, winding up a punch.

Short Stock took the opening and landed a stunning amount of body blows. The hits bounced off Fort Max like droplets of rain against a windowpane. Short Stock’s own rage got the better of him, raining blow after blow into Fort Max’s armored midsection, missing Fort Max’s punch.

Fort Max’s fist crushed Short Stock’s chassis with ease, denting the side and sending a collection of spiderwebs across Short Stock’s glass cockpit. The force had Short Stock on the ground, clutching his side with both servos.

Short Stock gasped, his optics going pale with pain. Servos found their way under his armpits, dragging him out of the way as Fort Max’s pede tried to pulverize him into the flooring. A second later, warm orange light took over his vision as Trailbreaker’s force field went up, cutting off Fort Max from Short Stock.

The bar breathed a sigh of relief as Fort Max circled the orange barrier, fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to think of a way to get inside.

Trailbreaker’s servos gently checked over Short Stock’s injured side, feeling around the dent. He sliced the tip of his digit on the split metal, the crack running halfway up the casing. Short Stock’s vents were coming out in weak rasps; his mouth was hung open as he struggled to pull in enough air to cool down his internals.

“Get up! You said you could take me, so get up and fight!” Fort Max barked. The battle haze was still hot in his optics, fanning up imaginary flames. His mouth was pulled back into a permanent snarl, showing off pointed canine teeth as he patrolled them like a starving wolf.

The patrons were keeping a wide circle around Fort Max, holding back but steady. Swerve stayed in his hiding spot behind the bar, quietly praying. Short Stock’s optics followed Fort Max’s pedes, looking at the path he was wearing into the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Trailbreaker admonished, “You crumpled his midsection!”

Fort Max stuttered, his frame jolting in surprise as if he just realised himself what he’d done.

Short Stock shifted in his hold, rolling onto his knees. Short Stock’s servo gripped onto Trailbreaker’s forearm as he attempted to haul himself upright. A sharp pop sounded from inside of Short Stock and his attempt froze. Energon began spilling out of the split, coating Short Stock’s side in a sea of pink. In a daze, Short Stock touched the wound, holding the slick digits up to his face.

“Scrap,” Trailbreaker swore, looking around the room frantically, “Medic! We need a medic in here!”

Fort Max’s face dropped, regret plastering itself across his frame. He watched as Trailbreaker attempted to stem the tide of energon, placing pressure over the wound site. He shuffled forward a half step, servos that had been raised in anger, were now coming forward in concern. “Is he alright?” Fort Max quietly asked.

His view was blocked by Ultra Magnus’ shoulder, the enforcer arriving just a few moments too late, “Why don’t we take a step back Fortress Maximus.” He suggested, leading the bot backwards and out of Swerve’s.

Fort Max kept peering over Ultra Magnus’ shoulder, watching the forcefield drop and First Aid rush in. His processor caught snippets of words, not understanding the context. “Is he going to be alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” Ultra Magnus replied, pushing Fort Max a little harder towards the exit, “Put your servos behind your back Fortress Maximus, I’m arresting you for aggravated assault against a crew member.”

Fort Max turned around, feeling the bite of stasis cuffs as they slid over his wrists. He half listened as Ultra Magnus read out his rights, paying more attention to the worried conversation First Aid was having with Trailbreaker.

“His frame isn’t the typical build, it’s- it’s like I’m not even looking at Cybertronian’s insides. It’s all wrong, the fuel lines, the internal placements, it’s all jumbled.” First Aid stressed, “We need to get him to the medbay, I have no idea how to work on a frame like his.”

“You got it. Lead the way,” Trailbreaker said.

The last time Fort Max saw Short Stock; his helm was hanging limply in Trailbreaker’s arms, optics barely flickering with life.

*

“Out of the five of you that made it into war, one of you survived a trip to the medbay, and that only happened because your designer was around.” Ratchet stated, sealing down the last edge of the temporary patch, “You’re incredibly lucky Redline had the wherewithal to upload your schematics before he died.”

Short Stock flinched, his fins twitching in time with Ratchet’s em field. “We were his life’s work, that doesn’t surprise me.” So long as Redline believed at least one of them was alive, he’d probably be happy. It was just Short Stock’s usual bad luck that had him as the sole survivor.

“Yeah well, he should have looked at a reference when he made you. Your frame is incredibly fragile and difficult to repair, and I can’t help but think it’s all because of hubris. If Fort Max wasn’t holding back, he would have split you in half.” Ratchet stated matter-of-factly.

Short Stock looked down at his patch sardonically, “Lucky me.”

Ratchet harrumphed, patting over the spot a little harder than he needed to. Short Stock figured it was probably deserved for all the trouble he put the medic through. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll be catching up on my recharge since some mechs can’t fight anymore.”

Short Stock flinched again, a new sliver of shame piercing his spark, “Do you know how long Fort Max will be in the brig for?” Short Stock asked Ratchet as he packed away his tools.

The old medic glanced towards the ceiling in recollection, “I can’t remember. That’s more of an Ultra Magnus question.”

Short Stock settled back into his medical berth. He futzed with the pillows up by his helm, pulling them down until they could properly cradle his sore side. He leaned over as best he could, stealing pillows from the other berths before Ratchet grew tired of his straining and handed him his prize. By the time he was done, Short Stock was in a nest with only his helm sticking out.  

“Did you want more pillows?” Ratchet asked sarcastically.

Short Stock turning his helm side to side, looking over his nest, “Maybe a couple more,” he answered, snuggling in deeper.

Ratchet rolled his optics, marching off without so much as a backwards glance. “I’ll get some for you,” came his tired reply.

Short Stock watched Ratchet leave, relaxing fully when it became clear he was alone in the medbay. The hovercraft sighed to himself, melting into his pillow fortress.

‘What a mess,’ He thought to himself, ‘One punch and I’m down.’ He thought he’d be able to take a couple more hits than that. He did when he was with Submerge. It just meant she was playing with him. She really could have killed him at any time.

 It was a sobering thought from a life that felt miles away.

He almost reenacted it with Fortress Maximus.

It was the same set up, the same power dynamics. Maybe a little less and that’s what allowed it to implode as it did. Short Stock really had gotten lucky Fort Max wasn’t the type to see that gap and knowingly abuse it. But Short Stock had known that since Garrus-9. All Fort Max ever did was treat him with respect. He was so gentle then.

The ship hummed from all sides, the quantum mixing with the electrical in a small harmony. It tinkled like bells inside Short Stock’s helm and soon the sound was luring him to recharge. He fought it bravely, but the pull was too strong, and the restless weeks had caught up to him. Short Stock was under in a matter of minutes, missing the Fort Max he once knew and the friend he reminded him of.

*

The robust body of a blaster made its way into Short Stock’s servos as he expertly disassembled it down to its energy pack. He held it up for the bot to see, ignoring the small smattering of applause. Short Stock rolled his optics, putting the pack down, “There, do you see how you do it now?”

“One more time?” his crewmate begged, “You did it too fast for me to see.”

Short Stock sighed heavily, slowing down his pace again. “Last time,” He swore, taking apart a different blaster. “There, do you see how to do it? Dissemble them and separate out the damaged parts and then clean the rest.” Short Stock ordered, walking away before the sight gave him a conniption.

He was going to do it wrong, and the gun was going to explode. He was going to explode his servos. Short Stock needed to tap the shuttle wall for good luck or that MTO was going to explode and it was going to be his fault and-

Short Stock’s knuckles wrapped against shuttle four times in a little tune. The crew mate looked up in confusion but said nothing about it. He must have been told about Short Stock’s habits. They were whispering about him. Lying about him, calling him a charge receptacle behind his back.

A slam against the side of his helm silenced that line of thought. Short Stock shook out the snow from his vision, correcting the slight disorientation as his gyros reconfigured. He must have hit himself harder than he thought. He shook himself out again, sending the anxiety out through the tips of his digits. He looked around the empty docking bay and froze, his entire tantrum witnessed by Fort Max.

The warden blinked at him, the giant having wedged himself in between the high shelves on a little stool, like a mechling waiting for their progenitor to return with their yearling upgrades to try on. A smattering of rust stick dust covered his handsome face from his impromptu feast, the bag crumpled closed in his grip. He held out a stick to Short Stock with a pleasant smile on his face, waving it up and down in a come-hither motion.

“Want one?”

Short Stock sighed, taking the bait. He trudged over, dodging through the tight spots, twisting sideways at points. He stood in front of Fort Max, feeling annoyed they weren’t even eye level when the giant was sitting on a stool. Short Stock obediently opened his mouth and waited for Fort Max to feed it to him. Fort Max placed it on his glossa gently, and Short Stock got another caress of his calming em field, “Thanks,” he grumbled, chewing around the treat until the taste lightened his spirits.

Fort Max watched the way Short Stock’s helm fins twitched in delight, the little silver panels sending tiny hot spots of light around him. ‘Cute,’ Fort Max thought privately, “Rough day?”

Short Stock wiped the corners of his mouth, sucking the dust off the ends and tasting the gun oil left on his digits. “MTO got thrown at us since our routes expanding. It’s been a lot training him up.”

“You’re quite serious about your job.”

“It’s important. If we don’t get supplies out, fronts fall. We’re the backbone of every operation and it sucks how often we’re reduced to delivery drivers.”

Fort Max nodded along, opening his bag of rust sticks and offering a few more to Short Stock.

Short Stock declined, “My servos are dirty. What about you? Hiding?”

“Needed a moment to think.”

“Should I go?”

“No, I spend too much time in my own helm as is. It’s hard not to think sometimes.” Hard not to become stuck in the same place, watching the dates pass, standing guard like the Autobots personal Cerberus and war machine wondering when they’re going to call you back to the front lines to perform another needless massacre.

“It feels endless, doesn’t it? It’s weird, but I’m almost afraid of peace. I don’t know what I’d do.”

Fort Max looked at Short Stock’s frame up and down. He didn’t look like an MTO, his frame was far too unique for it. In fact, Fort Max had only ever seen one hovercraft besides Short Stock and Seaspray was built with completely different body lines. 

 “Were you war forged?” Fort Max innocently asked.

Short Stock tilted his helm to the side in amusement, “Do I look war forged?”

Fort Max stuttered, “I mean, your frame is rather unique I thought maybe-“

“-I’m just teasing you. I’m cold constructed from before the war. My frame type got discontinued early on in its factory run so only 10 of us were ever made. I’m the last one left.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Was it before the war?”

“Some of them. A couple died in the early bombings. I think only half of us ended up enlisting. Now it’s just me.”

“I’m glad it was you who made it,” Fort Max said.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“It’s nice to talk to you.” Fort Max smiled, and Short Stock’s spark almost split in half.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Short Stock suddenly asked.

Fort Max blinked, a little shocked by the line of questioning, “Like sparks returning from the well?”

Short Stock nodded, “I had a buddy who did. He claimed it was real. Said he’d had a friend who died, and they’d always joke that if reincarnation was real, he’d come back and tell him what it was like. The friend died, and a few years went by, he ended up befriending this new forge and the first time they got overcharged, he leaned over and said ‘It’s not as hot as the pit, but the engex there isn’t half bad’. You remind me sometimes of that friend.”

Fort Max stared at Short Stock, a little lost for words. “Do you think I’m him returned?”

Short Stock’s face immediately went red, his plating puffing in embarrassment, “No of course not! You just remind me of him. Besides, he wouldn’t come back as someone so tall to piss me off.”

Fort Max smiled again and that same ache returned in full force in Short Stock’s chest, “I’m honoured you see him in me.”

“You would have liked him. He was a funny guy.”

Short Stock tried to stop the sinking feeling, his body aching as he remembered how he was at the bottom of the mercury sea. His helm separated from his body with black kisses plastered across his face.

‘He would have laughed at me,’ Short Stock thought, ‘If he heard how I thought you were sent by him.’

Reincarnation wasn’t real, but sometimes Short Stock wished it was. He missed Retrograde.

*

When Short Stock woke up, a mini council had formed at the bottom of his medical berth. Rodimus and Rung were talking quietly as Drift and Ultra Magnus hung around the outskirts, keeping a close eye on the patient in the berth and the ships captain. The chatter quieted almost instantly the moment Drift noticed Short Stock’s optics, peering out from his pillow nest.

 Rung moved around the berth to stand more directly at Short Stock’s side, resting a servo on the berth railing, “How are you feeling Short Stock?”

“Like my side got caved in,” he snarked.

Rung blinked his owlish optics behind his glasses, adjusting the frames slightly, “I should have expected that. How are you feeling emotionally Short Stock?”

Short Stock shrugged, “Fine? Should I feel a different way?”

“No Short Stock, no one here is trying to tell you how to feel about the situation, we are just making sure you are alright.”

“Okay.”

Rodimus tapped his pede impatiently, crossing his arms across his chassis, “Can we get to the point already? Short Stock, I’m sorry I heavily suggested you and Fort Max room together. That was a mistake I take partial responsibility for.”

“Okay.”

A look of anger flashed across Rodimus’ face at Short Stock’s reply. The Prime barely managed to school his features back into a manageable pout.

Short Stock resisted the urge to roll his optics. Sparkling.

“We understand you might have a lot of questions and anxieties about what’s going to happen next,” Rung said, pulling Short Stock’s attention away from Rodimus, “Especially considering your previous status as roommates.”

“We are looking into alternative accommodation as we speak,” Ultra Magnus piped up, his shoulders so square they aligned with the ceiling tiles.

“Does he know I’m out of surgery?” Short Stock asked, his mind flicking back to Fort Max.

There were a few flinches and exchanged glances between them. Drift glances to Rodimus, Rodimus glancing to Magnus, and then Magnus glanced at Rung.

“Nobodies spoken to him yet. We were waiting to get your input on the situation,” Rung explained.

“Good,” Short Stock said, “Let him think he killed me for a couple more days and then we can break the news after I’ve moved all my stuff out.”

Rodimus made an aborted noise in his throat, his face twisting up in discomfort, “That’s a bit extreme.”

“Perhaps you need a moment to think on your decisions and not have them clouded by anger,” Drift conferred.

Now it was Short Stock’s turn to make a face.

“Short Stock, are you afraid of another confrontation with Fort Max?” Rung questioned, switching fully into therapist mode.

Short Stock turned his helm to face Rung, “He doesn’t like me; I got the message loud and clear at the bar. He hates rooming with me; I don’t want to end up in the medbay again. If I get out while he’s still in the brig, we can avoid another blow up. Maybe he’ll smarten up from the whole experience.”

“Oh, so this is punishment.” Rodimus chimed in.

“Rodimus!” Drift admonished, “He is right though,” Drift said to Short Stock, “This is clearly an act of punishment, and I don’t think it’s very productive.”

“Besides, I don’t think he knew your torso would do that.” Rodimus said.

“If punishment was ineffective, we wouldn’t have prisons.” Short Stock protested.

Ultra Magnus twitched, his servo raising slightly, “Actually, the stats on reoffences are quite interesting. It’s shockingly high.”

“Why don’t we move on from the topic of prisons,” Rung gently suggested, “Short Stock, I think you might be a bit confused. We’re not asking you to move out of your room and give it up to Fort Max. We’re trying to ask if you would help us work with him so he could safely be reintroduced to the crew.” Rung explained.

“No,” Short Stock flatly responded, “He had his chance with me, and he botched it.”

Rodimus squinted his optics, leaning forward slightly, his expression becoming quizzical. “Hm,” was all he said, deciding to keep his mouth shut for this one.

The phrasing wasn’t lost on Rung either, who felt the whole situation get a degree more complicated. The psychiatrist sighed, his shoulders sinking. “It would be helpful for Fort Max’s recovery, but I understand your perspective. We will be informing him of your condition as he is quite distressed by it. He was rather concerned about you.”

A small tremor of guilt rattled Short Stock’s conviction, putting subtle cracks through its foundation. “Yeah, if he’s so concerned, he can say it to my face when he gets out.”

Rung nodded, feeling the conversation becoming a loss. He turned to his counsel, and they funneled out of the room, Short Stock catching Rodimus mumbling ‘yeesh’ under his breath.

Another pang of guilt had Short Stock receding into his pillow nest, burying his helm fins until the electrical ache lessened. The tiles in the ceiling became an interesting subject to focus on as Short Stock battled back the feeling he’d done something wrong.

This wasn’t his fault. Right?

Short Stock sighed, grabbing one of the pillows, pulling it over his face to scream into. He did it until his processor was throwing up errors, calming down slightly. He kept the pillow over his face, taking calming breaths, engaging in another bout of screaming when the urge took him until he was exhausted by it all. He threw the pillow back in its place, patting it down until it slid under his injured side.

Short Stock wasn’t a hundred percent sure what to do, but he wasn’t going to wait around for their idiot Captain to shove Fort Max and him back in a room together. He could sleep in the brig for all Short Stock cared, anywhere was better than staying with Fort Max.

And that was final.

*

He shouldn’t have said anything. Fort Max couldn’t lift his helm from his servos; bent double listening to the hum of the energon bars.

His big mouth. He couldn’t take a second to stop and breathe and not insult a mech who didn’t deserve it. Then, he had to lose control, publicly. They had a word, a system. He knew Short Stock would have respected it. They had worked together, Fort Max trusted him.

Looking at Short Stock was like looking at the past through a glass ball, bent and distorted lines that left a familiar nostalgia for something Fort Max couldn’t quite recognize.  There were so many conflicting feelings that couldn’t be separated from Garrus-9. Short Stock was the physical manifestation of everything Fort Max couldn’t protect and fail to protect again. It felt unfair to compare him and place those feelings upon him, but Fort Max never knew him outside of the context of work. They were coworkers, and though Fort Max was at a point intrigued and passively interested, that time had long passed. Even Short Stock admitted, he wasn’t interested in Fort Max.

‘He hates me,’ Fort Max thought to himself, ‘He’s going to hate me.’

‘You deserve every part of this,’ a sickly voice whispered to him. Why did he have to chase after him?

Steps thundered down the short hallway as the mechs marched their way up to Fort Max’s cell. Fort Max barely lifted his helm to peak at their toe pedes, flicking his optics between the unique shades of blue and red of Rodimus and Ultra Magnus. He could almost guess what the pair wanted to talk to him about.

“Fort Max, we need to talk to you,” Rodimus said, “Short Stock isn’t listening to anything we say, and he’s tearing his entire room apart.”

Fort Max blinked, straightening his frame out almost completely, “What’s going on with Short Stock?”

Rodimus harrumphed, as if remembering the event was enough to annoy him, “What isn’t going on with him? He thinks we’re gonna force you two to room together so he’s packing all his stuff up. I keep telling him we’re not, so I need you to say it to him.”

Fort Max stared at Rodimus for a minute, trying to work his mind around the conundrum, “Why would he listen to me?”

“I don’t know,” Rodimus said in an exasperated tone, “You worked with him, maybe you know the Short Stock secret to getting him to listen when you tell him things.”

Fort Max gritted his dente, groaning slightly under his breath, “I can try, but he’s…” Fort Max paused, searching for the right word, “Stubborn.”

“I’ll take it,” Rodimus declared, “Mags the cuffs if you will.” He said turning to Ultra Magnus.

Ultra Magnus produced the stasis cuffs from behind his back, holding them out towards Fort Max, “Hands between the bars please?”

Fort Max stepped up, his wrists ready. He felt the cuffs clip around his plating, the sharp of burst of static that left his cables feeling numb.

Ultra Magnus subtly adjusted them before dropping the energon bars, “Just a safety measure,” the enforcer assured Fort Max.

Fort Max grimaced, “I know,” he said, staring at the restraints, “Let’s get this over with.”

Rodimus frowned, his field pulling in a weird flux, shaking his helm slightly, “Seriously, what is up with you two? I can’t tell if you like each other or hate each other.”

Fort Max mulled the words over in his mouth, rolling his glossa around as he tried to settle on phrasing that would satisfy the Prime, “Short Stock is, a complicated topic. He’s someone I knew and that in itself is complicated.”

“Therapy, seriously,” Rodimus said, stomping towards the exit, “The both of you need to go.”

Fort Max blinked.

“I can get appointments set up with Rung,” Ultra Magnus offered, echoing his Captain’s suggestion, “I think he does couple’s therapy if you’d like.”

“I’ll consider it,” Fort Max said, noncommittally. Right now, he was more focused on getting the chance to apologize.

*

The tape ripped the delicate corners as Short Stock took down his Fort Max Poster. He folded the drawing up, placing it in the bottom of his ‘incineration’ box, ignoring the stab of hurt in his spark as he did. He tore down the one beside it, and then went to his collection of old sketchbooks and began going through them, gently ripping out all the pages of Fort Max. He went through the ten, fifteen he had, flicking through each dated drawing with a sense of nostalgia. He removed any trace of his fixation with meticulous precision. Even a mention in the margins had the whole page removed. By the time he was done, his sketchbooks had their width cut in half.

‘Now he doesn’t have to put up with it,’ Short Stock thought to himself, bundling away what was left of his sketchbooks. ‘Because I’m over it.’

He tossed his remaining art supplies into the box vindictively, sending his pencils, erasers, and soft pastels to the incinerator with his drawings. Short Stock didn’t need them, didn’t want them anymore. All drawing ever did was cause him grief and embarrassment.

He ignored the tear stains that were appearing on the box’s lid as he taped it up, tucking it under his arms.

His room was completely packed now. His sketch books the last items to be put in boxes. Every trinket, cushion, personal effect was taken down and stored away. What couldn’t be, was thrown out, dumped into ship’s incinerator to burn away into nothing. 

It didn’t hurt.

He rubbed at his optics, keeping his helm down as he exited his habsuite, walking straight into someone’s hip. He bounced off them, landing on his aft with an ‘oof’.

He growled, pulling his lips back in irritation, “Watch where you’re going!” He snapped, pushing himself off the ground.

“Sorry,” Fort Max mumbled, “Are you alright?” 

The servo was large enough to encircle his helm, the field muted and unsure as he reached down to offer a servo up, wrists bound with stasis cuffs.

Short Stock looked at the offer and hesitated. His fins flattened and he finished standing up on his own, craning his helm to glare into Fort Max’s optics. “What do you want?” Short Stock sneered.

Fort Max held his servos out awkwardly, slowly retracting them back to rest neutrally in front of him, over his shoulder, Ultra Magnus observed quietly. “I came to apologize and see if you were alright.”

Short Stock rolled his optics, grabbing the box he’d dropped, “Yeah, never been better. Almost bled to death in a bar, but who hasn’t right? Wouldn’t even be the first time for me.” Short Stock spat bitterly.

Fort Max’s face fell, his shoulder’s hunching in on themselves, “I’m sorry.” He mumbled.

“You already said that. The room’s yours the minute I get my stuff out.” Short Stock wasted no time elbowing past, bumping his fan into Fort Max’s side, anything to get a knock in. It didn’t feel satisfying; it just left Short Stock with a taste of that sad field against his. He kept his pace quick, walking as fast as he could without running, hearing Fort Max’s steps always just behind him.

“What room are you moving to?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I heard Swerve has an empty berth.” 

“Do you need help?”

“Nope, got it covered.”

“Where are you headed now?”

“The incinerator. Have a bunch of junk to burn.” Short Stock said, shaking his box, “Finally following through on your advice.”

“Please don’t burn your art.”

Short Stock stumbled slightly, clutching the box tighter to his chest, “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Those drawings are important to you. I didn’t want you to throw them away, ever. But you know how easy it is to get the wrong idea from them. I was trying to look out for you, but I didn’t communicate that clearly.”

“So, you ‘putting up with my obsession’ was you not communicating clearly? Got it, good to know. I’ll log the next time you insult me as you just looking out for me.” Short Stock snarked, his hurt leaking into his voice.

Fort Max flinched, “You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that. Short Stock, I treated you poorly, and I wanted to apologize, not just for the bar. I should have tried harder, as hard as you were, to making rooming together work. I don’t want you to give your room to me. Frankly, I don’t think I deserve to leave the brig. I’m sorry Short Stock.”

Short Stock’s steps slowed and then stopped. His back was still turned, but at least Fort Max knew now he was willing to listen.

“If you honestly don’t want your art anymore, I’ll take it from you, just, please don’t destroy it.” Fort Max begged.

He held out his servos, projecting as much as of a gentle field as he could. Coaxing what little memory he had of their interactions to the surface. He always seemed to find Short Stock at the worst times, but still Stort Stock would take the time to talk to him. ‘Please, turn around and say something to me,’ Fort Max silently begged.

The box was practically shoved into his grasp. Fort Max fumbled around its edges, crumpling it slightly. It was heavier than he’d expected, he was afraid he’d drop it. Their fields barely grazed, and from just that brush, Fort Max felt a thousand years of pain against his plating.

“Do what you want with it,” was Short Stock’s sharp answer, and then the mech was gone.

Fort Max looked down at the taped-up lid, the cardboard folds aligning perfectly, the tape crisply folded from years of packing up and shipping boxes. He thumbed over the tear stains; some still wet to his touch.

Nervously, Fort Max looked over his shoulder to where Ultra Magnus was trailing silently, a passive observer to the whole interaction.

“I’ll comm Rung.” Ultra Magnus said, offering his field up in comfort.

Fort Max nodded, feeling his spark twist. He plucked at the serrated edges, pulling and resealing the tape, stuck on what exactly to do with it. He carried the box carefully back into his cell, knowing there was a lot more than just Short Stock’s art inside.

*

It had been a long time since he cried. The last time must have been when it hit Short Stock he’d gotten out. That first night, waking up in an abandoned warehouse on the cold concrete instead of in a berth in an upper-class neighborhood of Tesarus with cream-coloured walls and a killer across the hall from him. He’d cried for hours straight in relief, and then in grief.

It had felt close to dying, his entire being rung out and emptied from everything he’d been through.

He didn’t feel too dissimilar to then, nursing a bottle of engex, too strung out to bother with a glass. His insides felt like a mess, and the engex wasn’t helping like he thought it would. The numb wasn’t coming, just the tears.

He cried until his tears began to flavor his liquor, kissing the glass rim of his bottle and flowing into his mouth. The orange lamps hummed their electrical song to Short Stock, his door staying double latched as he sat on his room’s floor.

At least in some small way, Short Stock had managed to get his feelings across.

He choked on his next mouthful of engex, coughing it up across his front in a sob. He dabbed at the mess sadly with his servos, spreading it around his cockpit glass. He brought the bottle back to his lips, spilling more down his front. The engex made a sticky line down his throat, resting in his collar faring in a cool trail down his metal. He drank until his throat burned and his tanks felt bloated, his body thoroughly poisoned.

“Retrograde…” Short Stock cried, “I’m sorry I’m so messed up. I’m sorry I can’t do it.”

He couldn’t kill Submerge. Couldn’t take a punch. Couldn’t keep a roommate for more than two weeks. Short Stock couldn’t do anything right.

He didn’t want to be alive anymore.

Short Stock rubbed at his optics, smearing engex and tears across his faceplate. He leaned into the boxes around him, pulling open their tops until he found his towels and cleaning supplies again. He threw everything into a basket, hiding the engex under his polishing rags. He stifled his sobs as he made his way to his floors communal wash racks.

He was lucky when he got in, the late night driving the crew to their berths kept the little cubbies and cubicle shower stalls empty. It was a simple to chore to walk in and lock the main door behind him, granting Short Stock a private bath house. He started the hot solvent, letting it pelt against his servo until it felt hot enough to strip paint. He set his little basket aside, glancing at himself in the mirror before it steamed up. His optics looked empty, just glass with a light behind them. He breathed in the steam, watching his reflection disappear with the fog, and stepped under the stream.

He gasped, his plating flaring involuntarily. The solvent bore into him, prickling against his sensor net in violent waves. There was nothing for the solvent to wash clear. Short Stock never allowed himself to sit in filth. He took another minute to burn, before grabbing the first cloths out of his basket. 

When he was done, Short Stock would be gleaming, and not a single mark will remain, inside or out.

He repeated this to himself with every swipe of the cloth until his plating hurt, and the steam and long left him. He repeated it until he believed it.

*

Short Stock was aware his frame held a very specific kind of appeal. the round shapes, the squishy rubber, even his faceplate, though factory stock, had slight customizations that made his cheeks rounder, more cherub like. The softness was a novelty, a design choice that wanted to appeal to both functionality and aesthetics.

Short Stock had paid dearly for it. He knew what his frame’s appeal was.

He probably shouldn’t have been sitting in Swerve’s. But he was, and he was too deep in to go back to his habsuite and start crying again. The heavy frames always liked him. The good ones acted flustered under his false attention. He didn’t mind when they were shy, or nervous around him. It felt nice sometimes to have servos that didn’t know how to touch him. He sat beside one of the security officers and complimented his blaster. It was easy from there.

Short Stock just had to smile and act pretty. Sit pretty, look cute, keep your back straight, yeah that’s good. You look so fucking good like that. Okay, now tilt your helm, say what I taught ya, “Do you want to take me for a test drive?”

Short Stock was yanked out of his seat; an angry servo wrapped around his fan. He stumbled to his pedes, drunkenly walking backwards.

“Get up, you’re done.” Drift growled, dragging Short Stock towards the bar’s restroom.

Short Stock craned his helm backwards, wobbling from side to side in confusion that didn’t end when the restroom door slammed shut behind them. Drift trapped him against the sink, slamming his servos on the countertop. Short Stock arched his back, bending as far away as he could from the angry swords mech.  

“What the pit is your problem?” Short Stock yelled out, “Did you lose mind or something?”

“If you want to play Buy Mech, you can do it somewhere else.” Drift spat.

Short Stock’s face dropped, the anger draining from his frame. “No- that wasn’t what I was doing.”

“You didn’t think I would recognise it? Thought you could just slip it in without anyone catching on? Test drive? You know where they offer those? At Syk bars where the junkies get to line up and offer ‘test drives’ to get their next fix. And you making fun of that?”

“No! Stop it! Let me explain!” Short Stock yelled, pushing Drift back.

 Drift resisted, pushing right back, “Then Explain!” He bared his pointed fangs, and Short Stock was reminded of Drift’s past as a Decepticon. He wasn’t talking to Drift right now, this was all Deadlocke.

Short Stock swallowed, his nerves threatening to eat him alive. His optics couldn’t leave Drift’s no matter how hard he tried. The pandora’s box with its lid cracked a smidge open, its rancid insides spilling out a bit more for the world to see.

“Not here.”

“No, here. You talk, or I drag this out to a much more public space.” Every word was punctuated with a sharp poke to Short Stock’s chassis.

He wasn’t joking. Short Stock knew he had the power behind his frame to make that threat come true. “Before the war I- there was someone I knew who liked it when I acted like that, okay?”

Deadlocke’s optics squinted in suspicion, “Who?”

“Does it matter? I’m not-” Short Stock hadn’t finished his sentence when Deadlocke flipped him over and pinned him to counter.

“What are you doing? HELP! HELP! He’s assaulting me!” Short Stock yelled. He fruitlessly kicked his legs, struggling against Deadlocke’s arm restraint, crying and screaming as he felt a servo grab onto his helm and push down into the sink’s basin.

“Shut up,” Deadlocke growled, “I want a name, who was it?”

The stopper plunged down, plugging the sink. Not a second later, the faucet turned on. Short Stock watched the basin fill up, splashing the tip of his nasal ridge. “Submerge! Okay? It was a mech named Submerge!” Short Stock yelled, “She was a small-time gang banger in Tesarus and she liked to drag me to Syk bars and have me pretend to be her little junkie. Are you happy now?”

The taps flow turned down from its roaring stream to something more manageable, but the threat was still there.

“She said it looked good for business deals. You know the types, forged mechs with some kind of cold constructed arm candy. I needed to be convincing since I wasn’t about to do something stupid like get myself addicted to circuit boosters.”

“Why were you making business deals in Syk bars?” Deadlocke demanded.

Short Stock’s nose was forced closer to the water, the tip just breaking its surface.

“Because we were selling weapons to Decepticons. We worked for a shipyard that was already tied to the black market, it wasn’t a hard swap in clientele when the civil war started brewing. I was the logistics coordinator, but it was easier to play the dumb arm candy. Sometimes that meant having to proposition them.” Short Stock bitterly admitted.

The tap turned off with a squeak and the pressure on the back of Short Stock’s neck lessened. Short Stock breathed a sigh of relief when he was allowed to stand up again.

His servos were all over the back of his neck, on his wrists. He needed to wash himself again, get clean. He needed to strip the paint, reapply the polish.

Short Stock wet his servos in the drawn basin, dabbing the water over his wrists, rubbing it over the back of his helm until his mind calmed down. He watched the water drain with a loud suck. He stared at the swirling water, purposely avoiding Drift in the restroom mirror.

“Don’t use that kind of language around me again.” Drift said in leu of an apology.

Short Stock flicked the water from his servos, drying them off with a towel, “Noted. Can I leave now?”

“No,” Drift said, crossing his arms over his chassis, “You’ll be going to Rung tomorrow, or I tell Ultra Magnus about the conversation we just had.”

Short Stock turned his helm in disbelief, his mouth hanging open, “You’re blackmailing me to go to therapy?”

Drift didn’t move, keeping his defensive stance in front of Short Stock’s only exit, “Would you go if I didn’t?”

“I don’t need therapy.”

“You are one of the most mentally damaged mechs I ever met. You need therapy.”

Short Stock sneered at that, baring his dente in frustration and insult, “Fine, I’ll go, but only once.”

“You’ll go twice. Once by yourself, and then with Fort Max.”

“That’s not fair. You can’t force me to reconcile with him; he almost punched me in half.” Short Stock snapped, gesturing to the repair seam.

“Those are my terms.” Drift held firm.

Short Stock growled, “Fine. Deal.”

Drift forced him to book the first session there in the restroom, having Short Stock forward the calendar event to Drift’s personal terminal. In three days, he was set to speak with Rung. Short Stock looked at the date and swallowed nervously, feeling the dread come barrelling into him.

Three days, he’d have to speak about himself, and then, he’d be forced to speak about Fort Max. Maybe it wasn’t too late to kill himself.

*

There was something… different about the new logistics officer that Fort Max couldn’t put his digit on. He felt, weathered, was the best word Fort Max could come up with. His jokes always came off a bit strange, and the conversations stilted when he’d add in a personal anecdote or story. There was always a fake quality to them, like he was telling just enough of the truth to keep it acceptable. Sometimes he’d slip up and a disturbing detail would make it through, and he’d go quiet, watching you with wide shell-shocked optics until you moved on.

He could disassemble and reassemble a blaster faster than any mech Fort Max had seen. Could name all the parts, makes, models, even a few of the manufacturing years and origins.

He also enjoyed the taste of rust sticks.

Fort Max had caught Short Stock looking for him, checking the spots he went to think. It made Fort Max think of him every time he had one. He’d take a bite and see twitching fins in his mind, Short Stock’s face lighting up as he ate. He’d never seen someone like rust sticks so much. It was cute. Short Stock was very cute to him.

“What do you think of Short Stock?” Fort Max asked Kick-Off one day.

The security officer made a face, shrugging, “He seems fine. Don’t really talk to him.”

“He thinks I’m his dead friend reincarnated.”

“Seriously? Damn.”

“I think it’s flattering.”

“Of course you would.”

Fort Max smiled. He wondered if Short Stock would enjoy an oil cake. Fort Max decided on the next shipment; he’d put in an order for one and see if he could share it with Short Stock and get his helm fins to flutter.

Next time, he’d see if he could get a different flavor of rust sticks, something sweeter to share.

*

“So, where am I supposed to start?” His back was painfully straight in his chair. Short Stock kept his servos clasped together in his lap, occasionally tapping the tips of his digits together.

The clock ticked away on the wall above Rung’s desk. He’d come out from around it to sit across from Short Stock, a small notepad balanced on one knee. Rung tapped the stylus on the notepad, Short Stock tapping along with it, adding an extra tap when Rung left it at an odd number.

“Well, there are a couple of places you could start. We could talk about Fort Max, or we could start with yourself, your plans, whatever you’re comfortable with.” Rung smiled, recrossing his legs.

“What if I want to talk about none of it?”

“That’s okay too, but you will get more out of the session if you do.” Rung answered.

Short Stock leaned back, feeling his tense shoulders relax slightly, the petulant attitude he entered with, leaving for a second. He sighed deeply, turning his helm to dissect the model ships. There was dust in all their cracks, sitting in glass bottles unable to be thoroughly cleaned due to their delicate nature. A swab held between the ends of a tweezers as it drifted over brittle plastic, threatening to break off a gun mount. It would only take the slightest amount of pressure for it to happen.

“There was something I wished to say, if that was alright with you Short Stock,” Rung said, little pen stilling.

Short Stock kept his gaze on the ships, physically bracing himself, “Shoot.”

“I would like to apologize. When I heard from Rodimus you had accepted a roommate, I had been apprehensive about the arrangement but thought this was a step towards overcoming some of your trauma. I didn’t recognise how similar it had been to that previous relationship you talked about. I should have checked in with you and made sure things were okay.”

“It’s fine, there wasn’t any way to predict it” Short Stock dismissed, “Nobody forced me to room with Fort Max.”

“No, but I know you have a history of struggling to assert yourself with authority figures, and I’m guessing Rodimus wasn’t exactly taking no for an answer.”

Short Stock huffed, remembering the encounter, “You could say that.”

“He means well, but sometimes he doesn’t think through all the consequences. I think you did well to try regardless. How was that experience?”

 “You saw the result; it didn’t end very well.”

“Well, what do you think happened?” Rung asked.

Short Stock shifted in his seat, staring down the clock on the wall. That first night, Fort Max had tried to sit on Short Stock’s couch, but the wrong pillows had been on it, so he’d rushed to replace them, bumping into Fort Max. Then he’d touched the remote, and when he put it down, it wasn’t in the right spot, so Short Stock had to move it, and on and on, until the night cycle where Short Stock was posted up like a gargoyle, watching Fort Max until the mech could go into recharge, but that time never seemed to come, and they stayed staring at each other all night.  

“I don’t know, I think it’s an incompatibility issue. I need things done a certain way, and that annoys Fort Max.”

Rung nodded, making a note. “Do you have an example you’d be willing to share?”

“It was all dumb scrap. Like, I have a specific time I use the washracks. I need my caddy with my cloths in it. Fort Max would use my cloths, and I’d have to go wash them so I didn’t contaminate my wax with his wax, and then my shower time would pass, and I’d have to go late and then everything else would be off.” Short Stock explained, “And then I’d get upset and he’d start getting upset until we were fighting.”

“Did you ever explain this to Fort Max?” Rung asked.

“He’s bigger than me, it doesn’t matter what I have to say, if he wants to do something he’ll do it.”

“Has he done that to you before?”

Short Stock hesitated, “No, but it’s not hard for him to do.”

“If you told him, do you think he’d change for you?” Rung asked.

Short Stock tried to imagine it, piecing together how a fragment of that conversation would sound. Fort Max had always been kind. He would have understood him or tried to understand him. The Fort Max he knew would have at least tried and listened. The Fort Max from the past would have told Short Stock he was safe with him. “Maybe. He doesn’t really care about me.”

Rung frowned as he listened, writing another note, “Why do you say that?”

“Because he doesn’t.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s true Short Stock,” Rung interrupted, “Fort Max cares rather deeply for you, but he, like yourself, has a tough time expressing it in healthy ways. I’m sure you’re aware, but Fort Max was deathly afraid of hurting you.”

“He would have been scared regardless of who was in that room, I’m not special.”  

“Perhaps,” Rung agreed, “But that doesn’t change how Fort Max talks about you specifically. I know he is deeply remorseful for what he did and wants to reconcile with you. Those aren’t the actions of a mech who doesn’t care about you.”

“Give it a week, and he’ll be back to normal without even thinking twice about me.”

Rung sighed softly, wondering how much he was allowed to talk about from Fort Max’s session to Short Stock. There was so much the hovercraft didn’t know that wasn’t Rung’s right to tell. If only they knew how their thoughts circled around each other. ‘This would be a lot easier if they just talked to each other,’ Rung thought not for the first time. “Are you okay with that? Is that how you want it to be?”

Short Stock flinched, his fins pressing against the sides of helm, “…no, but I can’t change how he feels about me.”

“What’s the relationship you want to have with Fort Max, Short Stock?” Rung’s voice was quiet, careening towards sad empathy with every syllable.

“I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to save me. I wanted him to at least like me.” Short Stock said, softly breaking down in tears.

Rung reached over, handing a box of tissues Short Stock took eagerly. He wiped his optics with the corners, absorbing the tears as they came.

Rung waited them out patiently, clearing his throat when the crying had stabilized a little bit, “Maybe it’s time you finally talked to Fort Max about this.”

“Yeah,” Short Stock agreed, sniffling through the last of his emotional outburst.

The open wound in his side gushed more blood, bleeding constantly for Fort Max. There were so many patches and welds covering up the problem, it felt impossible to peel it all back. The tiny injury from his birth, carried and widened, shrunk and partially mended, needed to finally be closed, and Short Stock needed to do it if he had any chance at fixing things with Fort Max.

*

It felt like a butchering when Short Stock went back to Rung’s office. He was still raw and bloodied from the last time he’d stepped inside. His spark ached at the sight of Fort Max, sitting across from Rung, servos still in cuffs. He inclined his massive helm and Short Stock nodded back, finding his way to his own chair. He adjusted himself, lifting his fan slightly so he wasn’t sitting directly on the ring and looked up to Rung for confirmation this was okay.

Rung smiled, giving a little nod of his own.

“I’m not late, am I?” Short Stock asked, fidgeting in his seat.

“No, Short Stock, you came right on time. Fort Max is just a little early,” Rung clarified.

Short Stock let out a shaky breath, forcing some of the tension to leave his body. War was easier to get through than this. He felt like he was about to shake apart, his tanks threatening to upheave at the slightest provocation. He swallowed down his panic, steeling his nerves.

The clock ticked, and Rung reached over to his desk radio, clicking it on until the soft sounds of classical music could just be heard. “Now,” Rung started, “Why don’t we go over what everyone wants to get out of this session?”

The pair sat silently, Rung waited patiently, looking expectantly between them.

“Do we have to say it out loud?” Fort Max asked shyly.

Rung perked up, “No, we can write it down. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

He quickly passed out a small batch of notebooks. Short Stock took his tentatively, keeping his pencil perfectly still on the first line of the page. He glanced at Fort Max nervously, watching for when Fort Max would move his own pen.

Rung smiled, “How about we focus on two or three goals for today. They don’t have to be big things either.”

Their pencils scratched across the paper surface, their gazes attempting to catch a word or two off the others page. When they done, they handed their papers to Rung and sat in silence again.

Rung read over the list of goals and made a few notes of his own. “Well, these are both very good goals. Do I have permission to read them out loud?”

Short Stock nodded, gathering his courage around him. He kept his helm straight, avoiding looking over at Fort Max as he physically braced his arms against the seat cushion.

Fort Max gave Short Stock a quizzical look, but did not interrupt. He nodded his own helm, giving Rung the go ahead.

“I want to tell Fort Max how I feel. I want to find a way to eventually live with others.” Rung let the goals sit before speaking again, “I think we can definitely do the first goal, and we can work towards the second.” Rung said with a hopeful tone.

“Now, Fort Max, you wrote, ‘I would like to make amends with Short Stock,’ ‘I want to learn how to manage my anger’, and ‘I want to stop being afraid I’ll hurt someone.’ Once again good goals, though in your case Fort Max, might be longer term.”

Fort Max coughed into his servo lightly in embarrassment.

Short Stock’s face was a light shade of pink, his gaze still stuck forward and frozen like a rabbit in the grass.

It would have been cute if the silence hadn’t taken over again. Rung could feel it now, but the session was going to be nothing but pulling teeth to get them to open up. That was alright, Rung had blocked off two hours for a reason, and he had a feeling he was going to use all of it.

“Why don’t we do a couple exercises?”

*

It had never felt so impossible to speak before. he had practiced what he wanted to say so many times, and looking down at Short Stock, all those words seemed to evaporate. He couldn’t eloquently articulate how Short Stock made him feel, how looking at him was like looking at the open face of hell and seeing a small glimmer at the bottom. He was a good thing in Fort Max’s life, the last remanent of a time he couldn’t think about without experiencing profound loss. And that wasn’t fair. Short Stock wasn’t Garrus-9, he shouldn’t be something defined by his attachment to Fort Max’s trauma, and he wanted to say this, and tell Short Stock he was sorry for all the hurtful things he did.  Instead, he stared open mouthed, fighting with his vocalizer to even say half of it.

“You make me upset sometimes, and it’s not your fault.”

Short Stock blinked up at him. He was doing well holding back his questions, letting Fort Max speak and explain. Rung had set the rule up early and it was helping, but still, they both struggled to speak.

“It’s- you remind me so much of Overlord, you trigger the memories of him, and it makes it hard sometimes to be near you. But I want to be near you, because, I want to have you in my life. As a good thing. It’s complicated because, I feel you have these expectations for me I can’t meet anymore because I’m damaged, and that makes me upset. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Short Stock nodded slowly, his wide optics never breaking contact from Fort Max’s. Somehow, that intense focus was not calming him down. “Yeah. You have the same issues as me. I can’t recharge at night with you in the room because you remind me of my ex, I know you’re not him, but I can’t help it, it’s ingrained into me.”

Rung paused in his notes, biting his lip.

“What did your ex do to you?”

Short Stock tensed, his jaw locking up in fear. “He- um.”

 “Short Stock, you don’t have to disclose that if you don’t feel comfortable,” Rung stepped in.

The hovercraft immediately dropped the tension, breathing out a sigh of relief, “Yeah, I’m not comfortable. He was my Overlord to put it lightly.” Short Stock admitted.

“I understand, thank you for telling me no.”

Short Stock smiled shyly, feeling his chest heat. Fort Max returned it, and Short Stock almost passed out.

“Short Stock, how do you feel about Fort Max’s statement about him not meeting your expectations?” Rung asked.

Short Stock swallowed, keeping his gaze on Fort Max, “I’m- scrap like Overlord changes you. It can kill you if you’re not careful. My own frustration is that I can’t get you to heal faster, and I shouldn’t expect a timeline for these kinds of things. I wanted to save you, and be this big important figure on your journey, but I didn’t know how to properly support you and instead, ended up hurting both of us. I put us in an unsafe dynamic. So um, I’m sorry I put that burden on you.”

Short Stock looked over to Rung for approval, the therapist nodding along with Short Stock.

The pair took a deep breath, refocusing their attentions back on each other.

“I find the art you draw, uncomfortable. I would like it to stop. I don’t want you getting rid of what you have, but I am not alright with you continuing to draw me.”

“Done,” Short Stock agreed, “If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t do it anymore.”

“Okay,” Fort Max said, feeling a bit more relieved, “Glad we could agree.”  

“I wish you’d told me sooner; I think half our fights were about the art. I thought you were fine with it after I explained my reasoning and you didn’t say anything about the sketches.”

“I-yes. I wasn’t sure how to broach it since you said it helped you. I was worried you would take it as me trying to stop you from doing it all together.”

“That’s fair,” Short Stock admitted, “I tend to be defensive so I can see how talking to me can be hard.”

The desk timer went off and the pair jumped.

Rung quickly silenced the device, pressing down its snooze button. He double checked the time on his watch and tsk’d softly, “Well, it seems that’s time,” Rung announced softly, “Do you two think you were able to get everything you wanted out this session?”

Short Stock hesitated in his seat, giving Fort Max an unsure glance.

The warden returned it, looking from Short Stock to the desk timer. “No, but I think we can talk about it between ourselves.”

Rung smiled, pleased they’d made so much progress. “I’m glad to hear it. Therapy doesn’t have to be a one-time thing for either of you. If you ever feel the need to talk, don’t be afraid to book something with me.” Rung offered.

Short Stock smiled, his fan giving a half rotation, “Will do, thank you Rung.” He bowed, getting up from his seat, and heading towards the office door.

“Thank you Rung,” Fort Max echoed.

The giant waited patiently behind Short Stock, catching the edge of the door with his massive palm. Rung didn’t miss the way Short Stock’s fans span up at the casual show of strength, a strong pink tint appearing on his cheeks. Rung chuckled softly to himself, checking his schedule and seeing Rodimus was next. ‘He must want the gossip,’ Rung thought. He was just going to have to be disappointed, though maybe slightly vindicated his matchmaking effort didn’t go completely to waste.

In the hall Fort Max hung around Short Stock’s back, following along at a respectable distance. He watched Short Stock’s fan go in nervous circles as Short Stock slowly led him back to what used to be their shared habsuite. The cuffs still sat on his wrists with Ultra Magnus nowhere in sight. ‘Maybe this was a strange test,’ Fort Max thought to himself, ‘Either that or they forgot about me.’

 “If you wanted, I could remove the stasis cuffs for you,” Short Stock offered.

“Do you have the key?” Fort Max asked.

Short Stock glanced backwards at him, his mouth a tight line. His optics pleaded with Fort Max to drop the subject, and Fort Max realised it was just another one of those bizarre things Short Stock could do.

“You have such a wide array of talents, I’m honestly a bit impressed by it all.”

“Thanks. You pick up bits and pieces of everything when you’ve been around for five million plus years.”

“I forget sometimes you’re older than me. It’s strange to think about when you’re so much smaller.”

Short Stock scowled at him good naturedly, recognising the humor for what it was.

“Before the session ended, I had one more thing to ask you,” Short Stock said, changing the subject, “Why didn’t you want to interface with me? Was it because the drawings made you that uncomfortable? Or are you not attracted to me? I just want to know. No hard feelings if you think I’m ugly.”

Fort Max figured the question would be coming, it had been weighing on his mind as well, unable to find a place to be discussed in Rung’s office. “It was more, how do I put this? I didn’t want to waste my opportunity. If I was going to interface with you, it was going to be because we both wanted to, not because I couldn’t control myself.”

Short Stock jolted in surprise, “Oh, I thought- I mean, you have so many options. So, the no feelings thing was a lie?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of your crush on me.”

 “And no kissing?” Short Stock said, his tone broaching on hopeful.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to stop.” Fort Max admitted.

Their faces were aflame, shy in the wake of the delicate new balance they’d struck. It felt like miles, but really it was only meters before they got to Short Stock’s door. Rodimus hadn’t been lying about it being near Rung’s office. Fort Max was making a pointed effort to look anywhere but at Short Stock, keeping his cuffed servos down. He heard the door open, and then felt Short Stock linger in its doorway.

The hovercraft’s field slowly reached out to his, tangling in tiny tendrils of excitement. “Would you be interested in hanging out for a bit?” Short Stock offered, “No pressure if you don’t.”

Fort Max lifted his cuffs, “I’d love to but I’m a little tied up at the moment.” He told the pun with such corny delight, Fort Max grinned when Short Stock let out a long-suffering groan.

Still, the hovercraft smiled, his fins wiggling in delight, “That was terrible. C’mon, I’ll bust you out of those and we can pick something to watch,” Short Stock casually offered again, stepping into his habsuite, “Sorry about the boxes, I’m still in the process of unpacking.”

Fort Max stepped around the boxes, looking down at their open tops to spy some of the contents, “Decided against living with Swerve?”

Short Stock maneuvered himself to the back of the room, stretching to grab a smaller box from a stack, “I thought about how he’d force to watch Friends, and I passed.”

“Not a fan of Earth media?” Fort Max asked, finding himself a spot to sit on Short Stock’s sofa. The cushions dipped below him, the springs groaning softly.

“Half this ship is just obsessed with the place, and I don’t get it. Like, what’s so good about it, you know?” Short Stock shrugged. He balanced his small lockpicking kit in his servos as he pushed the box back into place. It took no time to stand in front of Fort Max and press the pick into the stasis cuffs.

 “I was on Earth for a bit.”

The cuffs came off with a click, Short Stock smugly swinging the empty cuffs around his pointer digit. “Yeah? Was it any good?”

Fort Max rubbed at his wrists, feeling a bit of heat watching the way Short Stock handled the cuffs. His processor sprung together a couple instances of the restraints being used in other, more sensual ways, “It’s not a place I want to visit again.”

Short Stock hummed in the back of his throat, tossing the cuffs aside. He fell backwards into the couch, catching himself against Fort Max’s side. He wriggled around, getting comfortable while he dug in the cushions for his blanket to wrap around himself. Fort Max let his servos hover over the back of the couch before placing them down, his digits just able to brush the top of Short Stock’s fan if he stretched out. “Is this, okay?” Fort Max asked, conscious of every vent he took.

“Yeah,” Short Stock said, burrowing closer, “This is good.”

The fan slid into Fort Max’s servo, his field brushing up against Short Stock’s, the nervous anticipation lighting a small ember in his chassis. He stroked the plating, feeling the warmth radiating off that seafoam frame. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for a relationship.” Fort Max admitted.

“Me either to be honest.”

“I’ve never dated before. It was all just war, all the time. But now, I can take it slow, experience things.”

 Short Stock stared ahead, feeling around blindly for the remote.  “So do you want to just be friends?”

“For now.” Fort Max said, squeezing Short Stock’s fan lightly, “I want to do it right, start by learning about you, what you like to do, your thoughts and feelings.” Stop them from being intimate strangers.

“Okay, I can do that. We can be friends,” Short Stock agreed. “What do you want to learn about me?”

“What’s your favorite colour?” Fort Max asked.

Short Stock snorted, looking into Fort Max’s optics, smiling, “Red. What’s yours?”

Fort Max felt his mouth go dry, “Teal.” He almost asked if he could kiss him now. He looked so beautiful, his smile full and easy. Fort Max felt his spark ache at the sight; he wanted to keep it in a bottle and carry it around with him wherever he went.

‘Remember,’ Fort Max reminded himself, ‘We’re just friends.’

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Rust sticks.”

Just friends.

“Do you like sweets?”

Short Stock’s helm fins gave an embarrassed wiggle, his cheeks filling with pink, “Yeah, love them.”

Just. Friends.

“Have you ever had an oil cake before?” He had to stop his digits from stretching out, to keep things platonic.

“No, but I always wanted to try one.” Short Stock admitted.

Just, friends.

“Would you like to get some with me at Visage’s?”

“Sure, I’d like that- as friends.” Short Stock added.

“As friends,” Fort Max confirmed even as his spark sang.

Just friends huh? Why did Fort Max have to say that?

End.