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“Please?” Tailgate repeated, voice inching closer to begging this time. His hands were clasped pleadingly in front of his face, optics bright in the dimmed lights of the room. “Just for a little bit! I promise I won’t hurt them!”
“The problem isn’t hurting them, it’s you getting your grimy paws all over my chassis,” Whirl said from her spot splayed out on the berth. She pressed a single claw onto Tailgate’s clasped hands, pushing them downward. “I don’t know where those have been. Who’s to say they haven’t been all up in Cyclonus’s v—“
“Whirl,” Cyclonus warned.
“Vicinity. I was gonna say vicinity.” Whirl scoffed. “Where was your brain module going, Cyclonus?” His only reply was rolling his optics.
She turned back to Tailgate, who was trying his hardest to look like a kicked turbofox. “You really hang around this pervert?” she muttered with a jab in said pervert’s direction.
Tailgate ignored the comment and was still. His EM field, while controlled, prickled with sadness. In the close quarters of the habsuite, fields were difficult to ignore — that, and Tailgate was inching closer to Whirl’s chassis the longer the conversation went on. “I just wanna feel them!” he protested. “I’m all excited to meet them and you’re being a priss about it.”
“Congratulations! That is the first time anyone has ever accused me of being a priss.”
“My paws are all clean,” Tailgate said with a tone of voice that could almost pass as pouty. He held up his servos in front of Whirl’s optic, which narrowed. “Let me.”
The two mecha stared each other down for a moment before Cyclonus’s ex-vent from the workstation at the foot of the berth broke the silence. “You realize Tailgate will simply continue to ask until he’s worn you down enough to allow him to touch you,” he said.
“Oh, I know,” Whirl said, refusing to break the stare. “But I like how whiny he gets.”
Cyclonus‘s face was particularly stony as he tried to stifle a smile. Tailgate shook his servos in Whirl’s non-face. “Let me!” he repeated.
“What’s the magic word?” Whirl asked sweetly.
“Frag you?” the reply came, similarly saccharine.
Whirl’s optic didn’t waver, but she broke the stare and flopped her head onto the surface of the berth to stare at the ceiling. “Wow, first guess.”
“Really?”
“No, but I’m in the red for recharge and you cursing in that little voice of yours cracks me up.”
Finally, she lifted herself up and turned her chassis towards Tailgate so her middle was within reach of the white servos. “Alright, fine. Feel me up, squirt.” She gestured at her stomach with a claw. “Not the weirdest way I’ve seen mecha get their jollies.”
The carriage was a little over halfway through, and the swell of Whirl’s stomach plating was distinct. Though he’d seen it over the course of the carriage, Whirl’s touch-skittishness had made it impossible for Tailgate to indulge his more hands-on fascination; until tonight, that is. Tailgate’s joy was unrestrained as he let out a small squeal and pressed a servo ever so gently to the bump.
Warmth blossomed under Tailgate’s palm. He could feel the subsonic hum of the sparklings’ systems coming ever-so-slowly to function underneath the layers of metal. Both mecha were uncharacteristically silent as Tailgate drew his servos down the curve and cupped it in both palms, staring intently. Fingers drummed an uneven beat on Whirl’s segmented plating, gaps of lighter protoform peeking through as it separated.
The two laid there like that for a klik, simply reveling in the feeling.
“You little fragger,” Whirl sighed. Her voice was quiet. “Weaponizing cute in order to get your servos all over me. What will your conjunx think?”
“His conjunx is alright with it,” Cyclonus said from his seat before Tailgate could reply. He sat with his chin propped heavily on one servo, elbow resting on the armrest, watching the proceedings.
Whirl craned her helm upwards to peer at Cyclonus over her cockpit. She would have smirked, if she’d had the hardware. “Oh, so you get off on it too.”
“When it’s you? Not at all,” Cyclonus shot back easily. His eyes stayed on Tailgate.
“Hey, easy on the carrying mech, here,” Whirl said, optic curved upwards. “Bruising the ego is bad for the—“
“Will both of you shush?” Tailgate demanded. At some point during the banter, he had pressed his helm to the apex of Whirl’s bump, audial to the metal. “Trying to listen to more important things than you two flirting.”
“Ew,” Whirl said, but it lacked venom. She plunked her helm back onto the berth. It took a few nanokliks before she spoke up again. “You... hear anything?” Her voice held a tinge of an emotion neither Tailgate nor Cyclonus could quite identify.
“Nothing,” Tailgate said, but his voice sounded pleased anyways. “You’re nice and warm, though.” He snuggled minutely into Whirl’s stomach.
“Ooo-kay,” Whirl said, tapping Tailgate’s helm gently with a claw. “Weird tender moment over. Space barnacle off the chassis.”
Tailgate removed his helm from the bump with much hesitation. Another few nanokliks passed before his servos did, leaving a final caress to the swell as he drew them back to himself.
“Get your kicks?” Whirl asked, helm tilted questioningly as she looked at Tailgate knelt next to her on the berth. She shot a look at Cyclonus for good measure.
“Was that nice?” Tailgate asked back instead of answering.
Whirl’s kibble jerked upwards in an approximation of a shrug. “It was... fine. I mean it—“ Tailgate’s fixed gaze cut her off. “It was. Alright. I guess.” There was an edge to her voice that implied recharge was imminent.
Tailgate laid down next to her on the berth on his back, servos crossed on his chassis. “So I should keep my paws to myself next time you wander into our habsuite, demanding I scootch over on my own berth?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Tailgate said nothing, but his field dripped with smugness.
Cyclonus turned away from the two mecha lounging on the berth and returned to his work, keeping them both in his periphery as the kliks ticked by without a sound from either of them. When he powered the workstation down, Whirl was deep in recharge, her flight engines powered off and venting deep.
I’ve never touched a carrying mech before, Tailgate sent Cyclonus silently over their commlink. He laid online, staring at the helicopter who’d annexed his berth.
I have, Cyclonus replied, sitting on the edge of his own berth primly. Tailgate looked over at him with interest. Millions of years ago, when that kind of thing was... done.
It was really nice.
Cyclonus didn’t reply.
Tailgate shifted to look at his conjunx. Why do you think she came in here and fell into recharge? I would say just to annoy you, but...
Carrying mecha as I knew them sought out touch, Cyclonus said. It was thought to be code-instinctive, meant to help them affirm social bonds.
The recharging?
Sparklings are energy sinks. She’s been requiring much more recharge ever since the carriage began.
She’s not really the “social bond” type...
No, she isn’t. Cyclonus looked over at the prone form of Whirl in deep, dark recharge on the berth. A mech he’d promised to kill again and again when she least expected it; and there she was, dead to the world, lying there utterly vulnerable, trusting him and Tailgate not only with her life but the lives nestled close to her spark. He smiled. But then again, neither am I.
Tailgate’s field went alight with amusement as he rolled back to turn towards Whirl. Guess we’re an exception to the rule.
Perhaps.
The two contemplated the idea for a moment.
Tailgate reached out hesitantly towards the rise of Whirl’s chassis again. I probably shouldn’t, he said.
Cyclonus almost laughed. I wouldn’t, if you’re particularly attached to that servo. I know I am.
Tailgate drew his hand away from Whirl, but his optics stayed on the bump the sparklings made. His field drew closer to him, but before Cyclonus could not read it anymore, he felt a gentle bit of hope. The minibot turned away from Whirl and laid his optics on him, tilting his helm.
Cyclonus met his gaze. That is a conversation for another time.
Tailgate paused, but nodded slowly.
After a klik, he got up onto his pedes and made his way onto Cyclonus’s berth. Cyclonus sent him an amused/questioning ping as Tailgate moved behind him.
She’s big enough normally to take over my entire berth, but she’s carrying too, and I don’t feel mean enough to steal berth space from sparklings.
Cyclonus smiled, dipping his head in acknowledgement. He swung his pedes onto the berth, arranging himself as best he could to allow Tailgate to lie on his wing and snuggle into his side, hooking fingers into his plating and letting his engine hum in contentment. They each laid there enjoying the other’s touch for a long while.
Tailgate spoke up just as Cyclonus made to switch into recharge. That comment earlier... what is the weirdest way she’s seen mecha get their jollies, you think?
In her experience? Cyclonus grimaced. I don’t want to know.