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Of the Spark; Open thread. [Complete]
Topic Started: 28 Feb 2016, 03:52 AM (299 Views)
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Letting the fire of his growl die in his throat, Cyclonus made his way to Swerve’s, weaving his way through a crowd of mechs who’d likely been drunk since the moment the Sunder incident had cleared up—all laughing and singing, linked arms and hands and horribly out of tune.

He wasn’t exactly in the best of moods, processor still trying to wind itself around what Getaway had done. Unable to recharge, even with knowing that Tailgate was okay, functioning, and more powerful than ever, Cyclonus was still not at ease, pacing the shared habsuite silently, red optics flicking to Tailgate periodically for any signs of rousing. He was not comforted by any of this, and with Whirl’s words still weighing heavy on his conscience, the old mech had left the room, unwilling to deal with himself anymore.

At least not without a little give.

Seeing how animated everyone was within the bar seemed to help soothe the spark, at least for a while. A familiar atmosphere, he supposed, being quite the barhop in his younger years. Sitting down in his favourite spot— which was free of course, many still feared him and refused his company, keeping an eye on his haunts within the ship and often steered clear— and calling Swerve’s attention, he requested some engex, good and strong, even passing a few extra shanix to make sure it was of some quality. Swerve was one to water down the drinks of course, everyone knew, but he always had a stronger sort, if you were willing to pay.

Swerve bustled off, and Cyclonus watched as Whirl and Nightbeat seemed to be engaged in a glass-stacking contest, with the group surrounding them cheering one or the other on. Swerve approached a few minutes later, placing Cyclonus’ glass on the counter, and Cyclonus nodded his thanks, taking a sip from the straw. He directed his optics over to the other side of the bar, where Nautica and Rung seemed to be processor deep in a card game, but it was not one the old warrior recognized. looking back to Whirl and Nightbeat, it seemed that Whirl’s claw was inching precariously close to Nightbeat’s tower as the two of them had devolved into a laughing fit. A soft sigh slipping from Cyclonus’ intake, the old warrior relaxed, not minding that he himself was one of the few alone here tonight as his thoughts and worries regrouped themselves.
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The halls were full - laughter, joyful shouts as mechs reunited with friends, snatches of song. It was a stark contrast from hours ago, when the Lost Light had been bathed in darkness and silence, while Sunder had roamed the halls looking for prey and scrawling on the walls.

Tailgate ducked under the linked arms of two mechs stumbling from the direction of Swerve's, one of them tossing out a slurred apology and waving a free arm. They'd forgone their hoverboard in place of walking - using it would get them to the bar too quickly, and they needed time to think. After Velocity's examinations, the return to the habsuite, confirming Cyclonus was alive ...the warrior had listened carefully to Tailgate's halting explanation of what had happened since Sunder came aboard, nodded once, and then went back to staring out the window as if nothing had happened. Sometimes he paced around, glancing at the minibot, but there hadn't been any discussion yet; not of the outlier stuff, not of Getaway, not of the vial still hanging from Tailgate's neck.

Not that Tailgate blamed him, really. That had all been their fault - Cyclonus was probably mad at them for listening to Getaway, believing his lies, getting Cyclonus so badly hurt. The minibot dodged Crosscut and his shovel with a weak greeting, waving the ex-Senator off and coming to a stop outside the entrance to Swerve's.

A few mechs jostled their shoulders as patrons came and went, the mini steeling themselves. Even if- even if their friend was upset, they should talk. Even if Cyclonus was embarrassed of being seen with them. He'd still come to save Tailgate, hadn't he?

Taking a deep invent, Tailgate strode forward, ignoring Whirl's raucous synthesized laughter as Nightbeat's glass tower fell with a crash, and approached Cyclonus' table.

"Hey."
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Shaken from his reverie mid-sip by the sight of the minibot making their way over, Cyclonus gestured to the seat across from him, welcoming his smaller friend. A soft “Hello.” slipping from lips that abandoned the straw between them, the old warrior could see the vial of his innermost energon still hung from Tailgate’s neck, softly glowing, even in the light of the bar. The minibot seemed a little meek, almost. Quiet.

Tense.

And perhaps they were. Much had happened, but the old warrior was not about to scold them. Knowing the absolute truth now, and if he was being honest, even in the moment of fleeing, of subduing Megatron—the co-Captain— himself, of whisking Tailgate away, servos clasped, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to, nor did he believe it was necessary. He’d been absolutely willing to trade in his entire plan of action, his safety on this ship and place in the universe just to keep Tailgate safe, and it had taken until that one crucial moment for him to truly realize how far he was willing to go to make sure they were. Cyclonus was silent for a few more moments, feeling, wondering that… perhaps Tailgate was expecting him to be angry. Waiting for it. There was an unease in them both, and he elected to break the silence, giving them a soft look, spark swelling in it's chamber.

“You aren’t at fault.”

And it was true. Getaway had manipulated them, sunken his way into Tailgate’s processor and plucked away at strings and connections until he could make the minibot do his bidding, and even the fact that Cyclonus could not lay his servos upon the escapologist himself, that he had been simply subdued and arrested —and not jettisoned out of the nearest airlock in pieces— and was to be tried, had made a growl boil within his chest, deep and primal.

As for his words, well. He could only hope that unlike so many of his other attempts at consoling his friend, that they were not entirely too late.
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Tailgate dropped into the seat heavily, reigning in the sudden buzz of their field so they wouldn't broadcast their relief to the entire bar. Cyclonus hadn't turned them away - not that they'd really expected him to, but a little voice at the back of their processor - one with a sly, whispered voice that sounded hatefully like him - had insisted it was going to happen. That, or shouting.

Honestly, they doubted Cyclonus would start yelling in the middle of a crowded bar, regardless of how upset he was. But low, seething anger? Or worse, disappointment; narrowed red optics and mouth set in a grim line. Tailgate deserved it, they'd run off without thinking and nearly gotten the both of them killed, yet again, but the thought still made their spark ache.

The mini shrunk in on themselves, just a little, as they glanced up at Cyclonus, and- oh. That wasn't an angry look. The last time they'd seen that look...

“You aren’t at fault.”

Tailgate's vents spluttered for a moment, thoughts derailing spectacularly as they parsed Cyclonus' quiet words. Not at fault? Not at fault?

"I- what? Of course it's my fault!" Small white servos gripped the edge of the table, squeezing lightly. "I tried to kill Megatron! I, I- you almost died!" Their vision fritzed out for a second, emotion blanking out the optical feed. "If I hadn't listened to Getaway, none of this would've happened. How can you just...just sit there and say it's not my fault when it is?" They finished miserably, unclamping their servos from the table - the metal was slightly warped, dents in the shape of fingers clearly visible. Tailgate stared blankly at the marks before sighing, slumping and putting their head in their hands.

"...I'm sorry."
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“I- what? Of course it's my fault! I tried to kill Megatron! I, I- you almost died! If I hadn't listened to Getaway, none of this would've happened. How can you just...just sit there and say it's not my fault when it is?”

Cyclonus’ expression softened even moreso, spark aching and clenching terribly as he watched the minibot quite nearly tear themself apart over this. The idea of reaching a hand forward and laying it upon one of Tailgate’s had crossed the warrior’s mind briefly, but he dismissed the idea, thinking better of it, and deciding instead to lean in a bit closer, speaking quietly to his friend.

“While your actions are your own, we are all aware that he had an influence on you. He manipulated you. That is not your fault, and the Captains realize this. ”

The old warrior paused, waving away a curious Swerve. Everything would be fine. He pushed the glass towards the wall, finished with his drink for the moment. He looked at the dents on the edge of the table, reaching idly forward and dragging a careful servo-tip along the grooves, minding his talons and using his own strength in an attempt to smooth them over somewhat. While he knew there was worse damage in the bar, he was not one to leave it alone with no care.

“…I’m sorry.”

“No one holds this against you.” Not Megatron, not him. His voice was soft, gentle. He returned his gaze to them, slowly letting his field expand around the minibot, washing over them in soft waves of comfort and security. Cyclonus was there, Tailgate was not in trouble. They were fine. Both of them were.

At the least, it could express what his words would fail to.
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The table creaked lightly as Cyclonus leaned across it and spoke. The jet's words were soft, almost inaudible over the loud babble of the bar, but Tailgate could hear him almost as clearly as if the two were back in their silent hab. The mini slowly pulled their servos away from their head, hesitating over the new dents on the table before lowering them neatly to their lap. The gentle buzz of Cyclonus' field against theirs was unexpected yet soothing, and Tailgate felt the tumult of confusion and anxiety begin to fade as they let it brush against their own.

“No one holds this against you.”

Tailgate bit back a dejected "How do you know?" and opted to cycle their vents instead. Cyclonus' tone and the reassuring pulse of his field held no anger - only sincerity. For now, they would let the matter drop., thought this definitely wasn't the end of the matter - they could feel the sullen, heavy weight of their guilt weighing down their spark still, despite the gentle rumble of their friend's voice.

Something else had been on Tailgate's processor, though. "Cyclonus?" they reset their voxcoder nervously, raising a servo to place it gingerly back on the table. The minibot scrabbled over the dents they'd made for a moment, the tips pausing on the grooves Cyclonus had attempted smoothing over. "Did...were you really going to drop everything and go on the run with me?" We like it here. "After you found me."
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He could tell the the situation still weighed hard and heavy over his friend’s head, but he retracted his field as others of the crew approached and seated not too far away. He didn’t enjoy others getting involved in his private matters, especially matters that did not concern them, and made it a point to keep his problems his own. His optics fell to the vial of his innermost energon laced around Tailgate’s neck, mind drifting to the prayers he’d whispered softly as he’d made the offering, optics closed and head bowed and hoping Tailgate would online soon.

“Cyclonus?” He nodded for them to continue, fiddling with the straw in his unfinished drink, swirling the engex around idly. ”Did...were you really going to drop everything and go on the run with me? After you found me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, (Yes.) but the answer died before it could leave his vocalizer. He in-vented softly, rethinking his response.

Cyclonus had always had his plan in the back of his mind, in case anything went awry and Tailgate was put in danger; get out, fly them to a nearby planet to stock up on fuel, fly out of there as soon as possible and put as much distance as they could between them and the Lost Light, and find their way to a safer place to bunker down for a little while before someone came searching. They wouldn’t have returned, and hopefully, would not be seen again by any of the crew.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the Lost Light, he rather enjoyed it, aside from having scornful accusations of Decepticonism and Deception apologism hanging over his head, and the scathing looks some crew members gave him. The bustling and camaraderie of the crew sometimes did wonders for an old spark. But he was not the type of mech to not have a secondary plan of action in case things did not go as planned. There was a reason he knew every exit on the ship and where exactly it lead, and wether it was either a shuttle bay or straight outside the ship itself.

Cyclonus, in all honesty, had very little left. He had himself, of course, but even that seemed to have grown hard and sullen and brutish over time. He had his beliefs, all but forgotten and barely practised on the shell of the planet he once loved so. He had a god who made mistakes, who let good people suffer and who seemed to have abandoned him for six million years, leaving his spark and energon to rot and fester in a dead universe. He had his songs, one of the few ways left that he could truly use to express himself. He had his fellow crewmates, some of whom wished to cast him out the nearest airlock for his past actions. He had this new lease on life, given to him by Vector Sigma.

And he had his small, blue and white friend, the one who captured his spark so and had the old warrior carefully laced around a servo. And Cyclonus... didn't mind.

Tailgate's presence felt more like home to to him than returning to Cybertron did.

“I was willing to do what I had to.”

I can't bear to lose you.
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The calming field retreated, and for a split second Tailgate was seized with the surety that they had said the wrong thing - no, someone was just sitting down nearby. Tailgate cautiously let their plating unclamp, following Cyclonus' optics and closing a servo around the softly glowing vial, pink light emanating from between each finger. Turning it into a necklace had been a spur-of-the-moment thing - waking up in darkness, alone, with the offering the only sign that their friend still lived; the first few kliks between waking and spotting the vial had been full of panic and sharp, keening loss.

“I was willing to do what I had to.”

Tailgate startled out of their thoughts, visor snapping back up to Cyclonus. That cycle had been tainted by a sick, churning feeling that had gone spark-deep; the silhouette of needles (fake fake fake lies what else was a lie?) over Megatron's head, the blessedly short but intense violence Cyclonus had wrought in that room, the frantic, processor-scrambling sprint through the hallways where the pounding of their pedes against the floor matched the pounding of their spark. Cyclonus had attacked Megatron and Ravage. Planned an escape over handing Tailgate over to the crew for justice, at the expense of the lives they knew. Shielded the minibot with his own body when the security crew caught up with them. I was willing to do what I had to.

And it wasn't even the first time, they knew - Temptoria, Hedonia, the sword plunging into their spark and giving them a second chance at life. Every single time Tailgate wandered to the edge of danger, Cyclonus was there to gently herd them back, at the expense of his own safety or dignity. This time had almost cost him his life, but he had still come to Tailgate's aid without hesitation, ready to throw everything away for a waste disposal bot that just wouldn't learn.

Have you heard of the Four Acts?

Tailgate ex-vented, slowly, putting both servos on the table and curling them around each other. "Just...don't do that again, okay? I was so scared. I thought you were dead." I thought I'd lost you, they didn't say. "And, uh. I'd really miss the ship. And Rewind and Swerve, y'know? I can't go to movie night if we're on a shuttle on the other side of the galaxy." The weak joke seemed to fall flat the moment it left Tailgate's voxcoder, and nervousness flared in their field again. They could remember a time when Cyclonus had looked past them, through them; his optics held only fondness and gentle understanding, now. The minibot wondered, exactly, when that had changed, when the idea of losing their friend and that gaze was more terrible than losing their place on the ship, their only home.

They drummed their fingers against the tabletop, steeling themself; this was likely something best discussed in the true privacy of their hab, but the niggling worry of returning to that stiff silence and that gentle look in Cyclonus' optics spurred them on.

"About what I said while we were running..."
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“Just...don't do that again, okay? I was so scared. I thought you were dead. And, uh. I'd really miss the ship. And Rewind and Swerve, y'know? I can't go to movie night if we're on a shuttle on the other side of the galaxy."

Cyclonus grew quiet with a twitch of his lips, an almost-smile, letting them know he understood their little joke at least. However, he couldn’t make any promises, and made no move to. The future itself had been proven to be rather turbulent and hard to have a steady plan in place for when it came to life on this ship, from sparkeaters and phase sixers, to time travel and even Megatron himself walking the halls. Nothing ever truly seemed to be set in stone, and while that was not unexpected at the least, some stability would certainly be nice.

He was brought forth from this thoughts once more, feeling the edge of Tailgate’s anxiety in their field. Cyclonus silently urged them to ask what seemed to be troubling them, his expression softening.

“About what I said while we were running…”

He in-vented, air rolling softly into his ventilation systems as his processor searched for any sort of mention of ‘the Four Acts’. Eventually finding nothing, he supposed perhaps it was a new thing. There were many young cybertronians on the ship, and after spending a good six million years or so in the Dead Universe, Cyclonus was out of touch with what Cybertronian Culture had become over time. Very out of touch.

“…I haven’t heard of the Four Acts.” He finally admitted, voice a soft rumble. Why had these acts been so important to bring up while they were fleeing? In between trying to get them both to safety, and then hoping, praying Tailgate would online soon, alive and well, he hadn't had much time to ask others what his friend could have possibly meant.

He urged Tailgate on to explain, ignoring the whooping from a table not far from them as yet another tower of glasses came tumbling down.

"What are they for?"
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“…I haven’t heard of the Four Acts. What are they for?"

Tailgate sucked in a quick vent, the sound lost in the cacophony from nearby. Was this better or worse than Cyclonus already knowing? They took another deep in-vent, turning their servos over and curling their fingers in and out, in and out; a soothing repetitive motion that distracted somewhat from the sudden surging feeling in their tanks.

"Uh. This is. Getaway told me this, so it might not be true," the minibot warned quietly, barely audible over the buzz of merriment in the bar. The memory of that conversation was painfully clear, and for a second Tailgate could almost feel Getaway's servo on their own. They repressed the shudder that rose up at the phantom feeling and began carefully reworking the escapologist's words, extending a finger to tick the Acts off as they went. "...The Four Acts. First one is Intimacy, that's...y'know. Being close. Holding servos for a while. The Act of Disclosure, you tell them something really personal that makes you look kinda bad. Er, to show you trust them. The Act of Profference is just giving them a gift. Something meaningful. The Act of Devotion..."

They have to do something spectacular to demonstrate their, um...their-

Their love.

What do you want me to do?


Tailgate stared blankly at their servos, now curled into tight fists. "I should've asked Rewind first," they blurted, feeling their visor begin to heat. "I, he kept pouring me more drinks, and then he said he had a present for me back in his hab and I didn't know we were almost all the way through the Ritus, he- he said if I took care of Megatron it would impress you." Ribbons of light began streaming from the edges of their visor and their field flared bright, regret and guilt and anxiety building into a chaotic swirl of emotion. "It was all a lie, though, 'cos, 'cos I would've died, he didn't care about me at all, and-"

A tiny in-vent cut off the rest, followed by the clik of an antiquated voxcoder resetting. Moments passed as they calmed themself down,the sound slow deep in-vents drowned out under a burst of cheers from the other side of the bar. Tailgate looked back up at Cyclonus, the tangle of their field beginning to fade as they pulled it in close to their frame.

"...Sorry," they muttered, shrinking in on themself a little. A thin streak of light was still hanging from the visor and Tailgate reached up to wave it away, blue-white particles fading into the air; the minibot's servo paused at their neck and began to fiddle with the vial there. "The, um, Four Acts are the Conjunx Ritus. It's how you become Conjunx Endurae with someone."
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”Uh. This is. Getaway told me this, so it might not be true,”

Cyclonus nodded in understanding, not terribly keen on relying solely on Getaway’s words when it came to anything, especially if it involved his friend. It took Tailgate a little while to pull their words together, but Cyclonus was in no rush, choosing to lean back in his seat to get more comfortable.

“…The Four Acts. First one is Intimacy, that's...y'know. Being close. Holding servos for a while. The Act of Disclosure, you tell them something really personal that makes you look kinda bad. Er, to show you trust them. The Act of Profference is just giving them a gift. Something meaningful. The Act of Devotion…”

During the brief pause, he noticed their hands, how they’d balled into fists. The idea to reach forward and take their servos in his own returned, stronger than before. It was left ignored once more, in fear that it would only add to their distress and allow it to become too much for Tailgate to deal with at the moment.

He chose instead, to let his field brush against Tailgate’s for a moment, a soft thrum of encouragement.

"I should've asked Rewind first, I, he kept pouring me more drinks, and then he said he had a present for me back in his hab and I didn't know we were almost all the way through the Ritus, he- he said if I took care of Megatron it would impress you.”

Feeling the emotions in their field reach a tumultuous peak, Cyclonus fought back his anger towards Getaway’s actions, his biolights slowly cooling and returning to their usual glow. He allowed his field to expand again, but only after he banished the harsh spikes of rage and his own sickening, bitter regret for what he had let happen. No longer caring of who was nearby, he focussed instead on trying to comfort Tailgate, sending gentle waves of reassurance and safety to the minibot.

“It was all a lie, though, 'cos, 'cos I would've died, he didn't care about me at all, and-“

They paused, recollecting themself. He felt their field withdraw towards their frame, and he slowly pulled his own back as well.

“…Sorry,”

He wanted to tell them it was alright, that they were fine and safe, that it was okay for them feel angry and hurt over this, but all he could bring himself to do was shake his head with a simple reply, "Don't be."

Tailgate's hands found the vial once more, as well as their bearings. "The, um, Four Acts are the Conjunx Ritus. It's how you become Conjunx Endurae with someone.”

Seeing it all from Tailgate's perspective had made Getaway's actions so much more vile, playing with the little one's spark so, using their want to impress others, to prove themself, to mean something in this universe... He pulled air into his vents again, to calm his raging spark. He was glad now, with this knowledge, that Getaway had been arrested and locked up for the time being, that he himself hadn't been allotted a chance to toss him out an airlock. No, what he was going to do was much, much worse, Cyclonus decided. He kept his anger in check, in-venting and ex-venting deeply. Now was not the time. Letting his thoughts return, he collected himself, picking up the glass to his side, sipping from the straw to help calm his nerves.

"But why bring it up while we were fleeing?"
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Seeing the flare of Cyclonus' biolights, the sharp narrowing of his gaze and heavily regulated venting - even knowing, logically, that it wasn't aimed at them, Tailgate felt themself lean back in their seat, hood scoop bumping against the backrest. They were angry, too; a quiet, simmering rage that lingered just under the anxiety, something too large and powerful that they didn't want to act on. Slamming their fist into the door and watching the glass rain down around them hadn't seemed like enough, in the moment, but now they just wanted Getaway off the ship and out of their processor for good.

I hope you get the life you deserve.

"But why bring it up while we were fleeing?"

Suddenly Tailgate couldn't meet their friend's optics, visor dropping to fix on Cyclonus' drink. "Ri-ight," they muttered, drawing the word out. "I asked, 'cos. I think we might've done them - the Acts, I mean - back when I was dying. Of cybercrosis." They shifted a little on their seat, leaning back forward and waving their arms a little for emphasis. "N-not on purpose, of course! Neither of us knew. I don't even know if it counts." Or if you'd even want to spend the rest of your life with me, and that thought shouldn't have made Tailgate's spark clench as painfully as it did. The warrior had been willing to drop his new life to save them, after all; but that wasn't the same thing as being their Conjunx.

Thoughts drifted, briefly, to Rewind and Chromedome. Inseparable, even with their arguments and little differences, fate keeping them together despite everything. Envy, Tailgate decided, wasn't a nice colour on them.

Cyclonus' drink sure was interesting, but also almost gone, and they couldn't avoid looking at him forever. Tailgate missed the comfort of his field on the edge of theirs and wished they could hold hands, sit on the same side of the table, some kind of contact to make this less difficult, though with what they were currently discussing it could loop right back round to awkward instead. Tailgate fought the urge to apologise for absolutely nothing and forced themself to look back up, trying to guess from how the jet held his plating how he was taking the news.

"I asked 'cos I really like you," they finally said, flaring their field out with warmth and a little bit of anxiety, still, and that last thing Tailgate was still a bit worried to say aloud. "I think it just took 'til then for me to, to really understand."
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It was hard not to notice how Tailgate avoided his gaze, fixating their own upon Cyclonus’ near-finished drink. Cyclonus reserved judgement until his friend spoke, however. Though… he already had an inkling of what Tailgate was going to tell him.

“Ri-ight, I asked, 'cos. I think we might've done them - the Acts, I mean - back when I was dying. Of cybercrosis. N-not on purpose, of course! Neither of us knew. I don't even know if it counts.”

He remained silent, staring at his own hands. He wasn’t sure if their actions from so long ago counted either. Perhaps he would ask another sometime. But as for now, he took notice of Tailgate finally looking back up at him, field blooming as they spoke.

“I asked 'cos I really like you, I think it just took 'til then for me to, to really understand.”

He was not going to lie, he’d entertained the idea occasionally. But the reality of it was a little more serious, and when he truly thought of it, he knew it in his spark that it wasn’t right. Not now. Not with Tailgate having so little experience in life (A few years compared to his millions), not so soon after what Getaway had done. It would be insensitive, and likely cause more harm than good, especially with how volatile the future proved to be. Especially with whatever else Getaway might have manipulated them into believing.

And certainly not with himself, unable to face his feelings without some sort of violence involved. Not with him having hurt them so often with his choices, and his inability to say what they needed to hear until the moment had long, long past.

It took him a while to really form his words, and he did so slowly. Carefully. He did not wish to cause more harm than what had already been done.

"Tailgate," He paused, looking around the bar. This was certainly not the best place to be having this discussion, but at the least, others would not be paying attention, and instead would focus on the antics of the other patrons. "Even if, by some odd circumstance, completed these Acts in the past, and even if they are truly the Conjunx Ritus..." Another pause, longer this time. Collecting his words.

"I don't believe either of us are ready for this kind of step." It wouldn't be fair to you. I have been too harsh, too rough with you.

You deserve better.
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Conversation from the other patrons seemed to fade into a low buzz, Tailgate's focus narrowing in on Cyclonus. Every second the silence stretched on made them wish that they couldv'e grabbed one of Brainstorm's briefcases, folded back time and snatched this whole awkward mess away-

Cyclonus was speaking.

"Even if, by some odd circumstance, completed these Acts in the past, and even if they are truly the Conjunx Ritus...I don't believe either of us are ready for this kind of step."

Tailgate kept the sharp pang of disappointment out of their field through sheer willpower, and after a moment of deliberation decided to leave it brushing hesitantly against the jet's, slightly muted now. "You're probably right," was offered. Cyclonus was usually right; Tailgate tended to run headlong into situations without thinking ahead to the consequences - the incident with Getaway was proof enough of that fact. If Cyclonus really thought this wasn't for the best, they weren't for the best...

You're embarrassed of me.

Firmly banishing that thought, Tailgate straightened a little and clasped their hands together on the table's surface. If Cyclonus was truly so embarrassed of them, he wouldn't be sitting here, with them, talking about this, no matter what the sting in their spark said otherwise.

"What d'you think I...we should do, now?" Tailgate questioned. They hoped thier voice didn't sound as pleading as they thought. "I can go ask Rewind about the Acts, see if it counted." Shoulders moved in what they hoped looked like a casual shrug. "I should go see how he and Chromedome are doing, anyway, after that whole Sunder thing." They still didn't know how to feel about the mnemosurgeon poking around in their processor while they were out - sure, it meant Getaway got caught and Cyclonus wasn't punished for attacking Megatron, but the thought of someone - even a friend like Chromedome - sifting through their memories made them uneasy. Especially after what they'd nearly done to Megatron.
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”You're probably right,"

Cyclonus felt their field brush against his once more before pulling away. If his friend had been hurt, there was no sign of it, but there was a nagging feeling in his spark, that perhaps Tailgate had expected something else. But that was something Cyclonus knew he couldn’t provide. Not now. He could protect them, he could watch over them, but he could barely comfort them, let alone do so when they needed it.

“What d'you think I...we should do, now?"

He wasn’t sure himself. After so much had happened recently, Cyclonus was just glad to have some time to wind down, at least until the next issue arose. Taking a last sip of his drink, he slid it back towards the wall again, glass empty.

"I can go ask Rewind about the Acts, see if it counted. I should go see how he and Chromedome are doing, anyway, after that whole Sunder thing."

Cyclonus nodded. He did hope they were alright. The pair had been through a lot, and the alternate Rewind had only recently been found. Drunken singing had started up on the other side of the bar, mechs giggling and leaning on one another for support. Cyclonus gestured a clawed hand at the group as he spoke.

“What we can do is enjoy the downtime while it lasts. You, especially." He paused in time for another round of whooping to start. "Much has happened, give yourself time to process it."
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