Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ultra Magnus does not exist. His feelings on this matter vary from cycle to cycle, but most of the time, he’s aware. There is no longer any such mech as Ultra Magnus, there hasn’t been for millennia, and Minimus Ambus should not need the shield of a name and suit. So he’s been told.

But when one’s primary worth has been presented in terms of what one can do for others, for one specific other, one has trouble creating a self from the scraps left behind after Luna 1.

He retains the armor. There is a new Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, but there will never be another Ultra Magnus, and so the armor that was lent to him becomes his own. It takes him some time to adjust to that state of being, the ability to modify the armor he had always known would pass on after he had fulfilled his purpose.

Ultra Magnus does not exist, but his armor belongs to Minimus in a way it never had, even when it served as his name, and Minimus does not know who does exist, if Ultra Magnus doesn’t.

Comfort does not come easily. Forced into displaying not only his own armor but his core, Minimus reverts to the Magnus armor as soon as it leaves Tyrest’s possession, because to be seen as Minimus is bad enough without making that name the one everyone on the Lost Light associates with him. He knows he’s being mocked behind his back, moreso even than usual, but the best he can do for the good of the ship is to continue as though nothing has happened, as though Ultra Magnus exists and his authority has never been compromised. He is still Rodimus’ second-in-command, and he can’t fulfill the responsibilities that entails if no one respects him, so he resolves to act as if he still deserves their respect and hopes the reality will follow.

Rodimus tells him he doesn’t mind, but Minimus knows Rodimus is biased.

It isn’t until Ratchet leaves, a series of settling actions in his wake, that Minimus realizes that at least one assumed mockery was in reality a gesture of friendship. It’s possible, therefore, that he isn’t being insulted as much as he had assumed (though Whirl’s antagonism will not vary based on his size, and he accepts this), and that someone might actually exist.

It falls to him to inquire, he supposes, but he’s so busy. Finding time to go to Swerve’s with Ten is much easier than interrogating the crew to ascertain his identity, but even that is a distraction from the reports each new incident incurs, and this ship encounters more “incidents” than any other Minimus has ever been stationed on. Except that Minimus has never been stationed anywhere, has he?

Gradually - at first on a set schedule, then on something resembling a whim, were that a thing he possessed - Minimus emerges into the cyclical life of the ship without any external armor. He’s cautious, and keeps a cog from the Magnus armor transformed inside him at first to keep from feeling detached, but the reactions, after near-universal initial surprise, are generally positive.

In time, Rodimus calls him Minimus without stuttering on the first vowel, and eventually admits to himself that he has, in fact, been dating a minibot all this time. This admission doesn’t come without protest and denial, but he eventually seems at peace with it.

Minimus doesn’t particularly like being thought of as a minibot, but - as Whirl points out - it’s right in his name. If names mean anything, and for Cybertronians they generally do, perhaps accepting the name he’s no longer used to hearing will help him accept that everyone in his immediate sphere of influence is taller than he is. Even Tailgate has a few cubits on him if he stands up straight.

For all that, Minimus still isn’t completely secure in his role as a mech who exists when the mutiny comes, and Brainstorm presents him with a new suit of armor. It’s… phenomenal. He’s taller, broader, and more powerful than he was even in the Magnus armor, and when he enters the battle as Maximus Ambus he feels a surge of confidence that nothing can equal.

He doesn’t need to be Maximus for long, but that doesn’t make a difference at this point, not when he’s missed embodying the power he knows his spark is capable of.

He can’t go from the Maximus Ambus armor to being Minimus again, it’s too much of a loss. He has respect again, he has stature both literal and metaphorical, and that’s enough to make him ignore his dislike of metaphor. He knows he can’t remain in this over-large battle armor indefinitely, but it’s such a comfort that it’s hard to relinquish.

Rodimus tells him he’s worried about him, but Maximus knows Rodimus is biased.

No recharge slab in the ship is large enough for this new armor, and that’s for the best. He’d had to recharge in the Magnus armor to keep both parts of himself up and running, but being forced to dismantle the Maximus armor before curfew helps him distance himself from it, because it’s clear that it’s separate from him. He still wears it, maybe once a fortnight, but Rodimus looks at him so strangely, as if they’re meeting for the first time every time they see each other. That’s when it occurs to him that the distance the Magnus armor had enforced is not… strictly required. Now that Ultra Magnus no longer exists.

Rung helps. Maximus doesn’t precisely trust him, because the people he trusts are few and far between, but he knows that Rung doesn’t actively wish him harm, and that’s a start. Also a start: Maximus can’t fit into Rung’s office unless he adopts a smaller set of armor.

He’s compensating, Rung says, for the lack of connection he’s grown used to, because he feels he doesn’t have a role if he isn’t in additional armor.

Magnus knows this, Rung is not telling him anything new. What is a loadbearer who isn’t making use of that ability, he asks, and Rung tells him that it’s up to him to figure that out. That he has an opportunity, and he shouldn’t hide from it.

Rung might be biased, might just want Minimus out of his office, but he has a point. Magnus returns to his hab suite and removes his armor, methodical and precise, then assembles it against the wall and sits. He pages Rodimus.

---

“I’ll have to leave the Maximus armor in Brainstorm’s lab,” he tells Rodimus after he’s explained the situation, pacing through his crowded room. “I don’t go there unless absolutely required, so I won’t have regular access to it anymore.” Unless it’s needed again, and then he’ll go through this again, but he’ll deal with that when it comes.

Rodimus is sitting on Minimus’ slab, swinging his legs restlessly, and Minimus knows better than to assume he can help it. “I was right,” he says, and he’s preening a little, but not to excess. Minimus has seen Rodimus preen to excess, and this is absolutely restrained in comparison. “I mean, I don’t want to say I told you so, but I did very definitely tell you so, and look at that, I had the right idea.”

Minimus stops pacing so that he’s standing in front of Rodimus, and he doesn’t smile - he never smiles - but he tilts his head in a way that can, by Rodimus and no one else, be interpreted as fondness. “You were right, yes. I admit it. I should never have worn that armor on my own time, it’s simply too large.”

“Right, but more than that,” Rodimus presses. “It’s bad for you, staying in something that big, it keeps you away from everyone. I mean, you’re safer, sure, but we don’t have explosions every day, and you’re plenty strong anyway. Plus,” he shrugs, looking away like this is an afterthought, “that Maximus thing just isn’t as cute. There’s too much of it to look at, my eyes get blurry trying to take it all in! I like it better when you’re smaller, I can see more of you that way.”

Minimus vents and shakes his head, because that makes no sense, but trying to arrive at the same point Rodimus has arrived at will make them both frustrated for no real purpose. Instead, he grips the edge of the slab and heaves himself up so that he’s sitting next to Rodimus.

“Is the Magnus armor too much to see all of, too? I seem to recall you weren’t objecting to it before you found out I was inside.”

Now Rodimus frowns, looking down and tapping his fingers on the edge of the slab. “It’s not too big, but it’s not you, either. When I thought it was you, it was fine - hah, it was great - but I’d rather see you the way you really are. I mean, I don’t mind the Magnus armor, it has a lot of perks, trust me, but you’re my-- I don’t know, I don’t like seeing you shut yourself off now that I actually know that’s what you’re doing.” He laughs, and it’s not quite as bitter a laugh as Minimus would have expected, but it’s not Rodimus’ usual affected carelessness, either.

They’ve been close since before Luna 1, of course, but they’ve never really talked about what’s different now. Forcing the issue after all this time is unsettling, and makes Minimus - not a demonstrative mech at the best of times - hesitant to reach out to Rodimus, or even to lean against him. Luckily, Rodimus is demonstrative enough for both of them, and wraps an arm around Minimus to pull him closer.

“I’m glad you’re doing this,” Rodimus says, with uncharacteristic weight in his tone. “All this thinking, I mean. Trying to figure out who you are. You don’t have to be the big bad enforcer all the time, it’s not gonna change how people feel about you.” He pauses. “Plus, I like being able to carry you around on my shoulders. Keep letting me do that, and we’re good.”

“I can’t promise that if you keep sweeping me up without asking,” Minimus warns, but they both know he could stop Rodimus if he actually minded. Even without external armor, he’s still a loadbearer. So it’s entirely voluntary that he doesn’t resist when Rodimus scoots him back on the slab, away from the edge, so that he can lie down and put his head in Minimus’ lap.

Neither Minimus nor Rodimus are masters of expressing their feelings, one preferring silent gestures and the other preferring loud, awkward avoidance of the subject entirely, but they each know how the other feels nevertheless. Minimus sets a hand on Rodimus’ shoulder, brushes his thumb over the join in his captain’s plating, and sits quietly until Rodimus speaks again.

“I miss sitting on your lap,” he mumbles, and he sounds so plaintive that Minimus wonders for a moment if he didn’t mishear him. That tone belongs to a statement of magnitude, someone deleting all of Rodimus’ holovideos perhaps, but here it is attached to mere nostalgia. Rodimus never ceases to astound.

It doesn’t escape Minimus, either, that this sounds remarkably like nostalgia for his larger sets of armor, which is entirely at odds with the discussion they’d been having only a few moments ago. It’s never quite safe to assume he knows what Rodimus is thinking, though, so he tries his best not to jump to conclusions. He leans down instead, presses a kiss to Rodimus’ shoulder.

“I could sit on your lap instead, you know.”

“That isn’t the same at all!” Rodimus wails, stretching out over the slab. “You don’t understand me at all, do you?”

Minimus has no choice but to admit that no, generally he doesn’t.

---

A few cycles later, Rodimus approaches Minimus and hands him a datapad. This alone is rare enough that Minimus stops in his tracks, making a minute calculation to remind himself of where his security patrol will resume when this conversation ends.

“Here,” Rodimus announces, pointing to the first page of the - is it a report? - displaying on the screen. “Don’t say I never do paperwork, huh?”

Minimus looks down, and his optics cycle wide in disbelief.

(Minimus isn’t sure what “Esq” means, and he’s not convinced Rodimus does either, but he carefully files that separately from the bulk of the issue.)

“You’re serious.” He looks back up, never quite sure how far Rodimus will be willing to take his latest whim. Once, he had campaigned for a week to make Swerve start serving appletinis. The number of apples it would have taken to produce a single drink sufficient for someone of his size had not occurred to him, and neither had the fact that alcohol intended for organics was sure to have unexpected and unpleasant effects on mechanical beings. Minimus hadn’t even needed to intervene; the concept was - in Swerve’s unique phrasing - stalled out of the gate. This is a much simpler proposition, but Minimus still doesn’t understand.

“Of course I’m serious!” Rodimus looks torn between excitement regarding his idea and hurt that Minimus isn’t considering it. “It’s not fair that I’m being deprived just because you’re small, that’s definitely reverse sizeism. I can’t believe you’re supporting reverse sizeism, Minimus, I thought you’d know better.”

“You--” Minimus pauses. He likes to construct his sentences within his mind before they emerge, to eliminate the risk of misunderstanding or imprecision, but he has no real idea what to say to this. He cycles air in, vents it out, and starts over. “You’re not being deprived, Rodimus. I still have the Ultra Magnus armor, I can suit up again and you can sit on my lap then, if that’s--”

“That’s not your lap, and you know it!” Rodimus points at Minimus accusatorily, to which Minimus can only respond with blank confusion. “OK, so, I didn’t expect to have this whole conversation right now, I kind of thought I’d give you the datapad, you’d go off to read it because you love reading stuff, and then we’d talk about it when you were done. But since you’re being all focused… what I said in the very well-structured report you’re ignoring is that I want to sit on your lap. The Minimus one, not the Magnus or Maximus one. Yours.”

Oh.

This needs a reaction.

There’s a pulsing in his spark suddenly, something he wishes Rodimus could feel, and he knows that he and Rodimus would both be completely taken aback if he hugged him in the middle of the hallway, so that isn’t an option. Nothing else seems appropriate except to look at Rodimus, a long and steady look, and stutter his optics in something resembling an organic blink.

“I understand,” he finally says, and tucks the datapad under his arm. “I’ll read your report and get back to you with my impressions. You understand I’ll have to take weight and size differentials into consideration, of course.”

Rodimus throws his head back in exasperation, but he’s smiling, so Minimus knows he understands. “You’re stronger than almost anyone on this ship, don’t give me that. You could lift me right over your head right now if you wanted to.”

“That’s… probably true, but I don’t know how comfortable that would be. For one thing, your legs are longer than my arms, so you would probably still reach the ground unless I took a very specific angle.”

Not the point, that’s not the point. True, but irrelevant. Minimus shakes his head and stands up straight, indicating that he intends to continue his patrol now. Rodimus claps him on the shoulder as he passes, and as Minimus walks down the corridor he hears Rodimus - not quite yelling, but certainly not using an on-ship voice - call after him:

“If we pull this off, we’ll be more of a power couple than Tailgate and Cyclonus, just keep that in mind!”

Minimus turns, baffled, and Rodimus adds:

“Cyclonus won’t sit on Tailgate’s lap, because he’s a coward, so we’d come out ahead. Is what I mean.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Minimus responds, as patiently as he knows how, and resumes his patrol.

---

True to his word, Minimus devotes a sizeable chunk of his free time for the next few cycles to analyzing the possibility of letting Rodimus sit on his lap. In theory, it’s a simple action, but in practice, Rodimus is larger, heavier, and less compact than he is, so he could end up pinned to the berth or - worse - with joints out of place. It’s unlikely, certainly, but he wouldn’t be Minimus Ambus if he weren’t prepared to examine every variable. And since Rodimus is so determined that he is Minimus, he feels a certain need to live up to the patterns he’s established for himself.

Whenever he thinks he’s overreacting, he reminds himself that Rodimus wants him, his core self, not a set of armor layered on top, and that spurs him on. As a point-one-percenter, as a loadbearer, he’s spent most of his life trying to fill a role the parameters of which have never been clear. Even before Tyrest found him, he had donned various temporary suits for whatever jobs required them, because he could, and the house of Ambus had always been clear that those who could had a duty to those who couldn’t. So he helped, and in the process he became his ability rather than his identity.

What Rung and Rodimus have set him on the path to accepting, he realizes, is that he can be a loadbearer and also be himself. Even if no one asks him to don a suit for a given task, he can be Minimus, and Minimus has traits that define him. Minimus can lift, can endure, can calculate probabilities and remember tens of millions of bylaws. Minimus can even love, although he’d never expected to. This is who he can be if he allows himself. He decides that’s worth dwelling on.

In the end, the actual calculations don’t take very long. Once he’s compared their weights, their volumes, and their respective lifting capabilities, he decides it can be done. It may take some finessing in the moment, because he’s fairly certain that his lap is smaller than Rodimus’ aft, but Rodimus is nothing if not experimental, and Minimus temporarily trusts in that.

He does, however, take the time to ask Tailgate if it’s true that Cyclonus refuses to sit on his lap.

“It’s not like he makes a point of not doing it,” Tailgate muses, “but now that you mention it, I might have to ask him.” He pops an engex snack into his mouth and sits up straight. “Wait, did Rodimus really call us a power couple? That’s so exciting, what does it mean?”

“I… didn’t really ask,” Minimus admits, “but I assume it means you’re very good at being a couple. Devotion, affection, and so forth. Apparently, sitting on laps is part of it. He may or may not have made that part up, of course.”

“No, no, that sounds legit! I sit on Cyclonus’ lap a lot, so that must be right. But if we’re a power couple, we’ll have to up our game, don’t you think? Ooh! Are we in competition now? You have to tell me, or it’s not fair.”

Minimus doesn’t know where to go from there, because he doesn’t even know what would be involved in such a hypothetical competition, but Tailgate seems enthusiastic, so he lets him theorize aloud until his patrol shift starts.

Now, however, his shift is over, and he knows that Rodimus doesn’t have any meetings at the moment, so he sends him a memo and waits in his hab suite. To pass the time - it’s often hours before Rodimus notices, much less replies to, his memos - Minimus continues organizing his various editions of the Autobot Code. Logic might seem to dictate chronological order, but some editions were released while previous versions were still being amended, so it’s not as simple as all that, and he’s barely a third of the way through when Rodimus, in lieu of comming him or otherwise responding to the memo, knocks on his door.

Minimus shouldn’t be worried, and so he’s not. He is, admittedly, incredibly alert, attentive to potential changes in Rodimus’ usual expressions or demeanor, but that isn’t unreasonable. There’s absolutely no reason this event should merit the seriousness with which it’s been approached, and he’s trying to remind himself of that as he lets Rodimus in.

“I assume the answer to my question was no, then?”

“You mean ‘Are you currently engaged in activities that would prevent your meeting me in my hab suite at your convenience?’” Rodimus rattles the question off with a grin and rolling optics. “Yeah, the answer to that is always gonna be no, when don’t I want to meet you in your hab suite?” He sits down on Minimus’ desk, then moves to the chair when Minimus makes desperate shooing motions at him. “So what’s up? Is this about a certain report I’m informed you’ve been looking into?”

Minimus makes a small noise, an approximation of a laugh, and sits in his other chair. “It is, yes. I’ve determined that your premise is viable, and we can begin experimentation.”

Rodimus works that one out in his head for a second. “So you mean I was right. I totally can sit on your lap, and you’ve sneakily invited me here to try it. I’m surprised you didn’t schedule a time!”

“Well, I would have, except that you showed up instead of answering my scheduling questions,” Minimus points out, but he had halfway expected that in any case. “It seems absurd to approach sitting on my lap like a set of experiments, but to be fair, you started it. Is now a good time?”

“Oh, you bet it is!” Rodimus crows, scrambling out of his chair and moving to stand in front of Minimus’. “Prepare yourself for some quality sits.”

He’s even taller when Minimus is sitting down, and he seems to realize that for a moment before shrugging and settling himself in Minimus’ lap. He’s chosen what Minimus had assumed would be the easier option: facing Minimus, with his legs extending out behind the chair. Sitting cross-legged in his lap simply isn’t physically possible the way it was in the armor, but Rodimus is determined; he wriggles down, wrapping his arms around Minimus’ neck, and crows in triumph when he’s fully seated.

“I knew it! I toooold you, I knew it would work.” The delighted grin on his face is something Minimus usually only sees when one of Rodimus’ improbable plans has, against all odds, come through, and… he supposes that’s the case here, as well. Lower stakes, but still a victory. And regardless of the circumstances - some of Rodimus’ victories are peculiar at best - it’s an expression Minimus loves seeing.

With that in mind, he refrains from pointing out that Rodimus didn’t know it would work, he just had a personal certainty; the two are very different, but he’s never really gotten through to Rodimus on the distinction between probability and sheer luck. It is, he has to admit, part of Rodimus’ charm that he retains his enthusiasm nevertheless.

Instead, he nods, curling his arms around Rodimus’ midsection to keep him steady. “You did tell me, it’s true. And here we are.”

It… it’s a comforting feeling. Rodimus wanting to be close to him, with no armor in the way. Whoever he is, he’s someone Rodimus wants to be near to, and he’ll let that stand.

“Was this the end-point of your hypothesis, then? The sitting?”

“Ohoho no, of course not.” Rodimus dances a little, which is cute when he’s sitting on a chair but downright distracting when he’s sitting on Minimus. “After the sitting comes… the kissing.”

And with that, he dips his head and presses his mouth to Minimus’, making a little pleased noise in his voicebox as he does so. Minimus tightens his grip on Rodimus’ midsection and shutters his optics as he returns the kiss, noting distantly - though still precisely, and in a format compatible with data storage - that having to lean up rather than down to kiss Rodimus is not at all unpleasant.

“I love you,” Rodimus mumbles against his mouth, his hands drawing strange patterns on Minimus’ shoulders. “You. The things you wear are great, but they’re not you.”

Minimus doesn’t respond audibly, but he pulls away from the kiss to press his mouth against Rodimus’ Autobot brand. This is simple, they’re just sitting, but he’s overwhelmed. Rodimus isn’t one for gestures, or even direct words, so the combination makes Minimus feel a little bit like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. It’s a strange feeling, not least because it requires the use of figurative language to convey, but without his armor, there will be less of an impact if he does fall. And even so, he knows Rodimus will catch him.