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“So. You did a fuck up.”
Oh no.
He can't exactly hide, because he's mobile enough to sit at the dining room table, now, and he can't let her know he's embarrassed about it.
...probably a good thing he didn't take a sip of the hot oil immediately.
"Good morning to you too, mama. I'm glad to see you. Did you want some of the shocked chip pancakes?"
She grabs him by the hips and lifts him with a soft grunt, settling Scourge over a shoulder. He can hold onto her tailsight if he wants to.
Oop-! He squeaked when she picked him up, but went limp when lifted, wings tucked tightly to his side.
"Oh, well, I suppose we're going.. wherever we're going, now." Goodbye, embroidery, he'll pick you up another time.
“I will always love you in all of the ways I can love you.”
"Some call the howl of the wind against the side of a mountain erosion."
Terminus turns towards her with a lopsided smile. "But I call it a lover's caress. For the wind so loved the mountain to wrap herself around him, reshaping him. And the mountain so loved the wind, he gave her something to break against, to rest against, so she would not go on forever. And so it shall be."
“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me!”
Cyclonus bows his helm to her in acquiescence. “Of course not, my Lord. I was merely setting the record straight.” He gives her a small, sharp smile. “Surely I am not remiss in correcting Hot Rod… or is that reserved for you alone?”
“Thank you.” Blink blink. “Wait, do I know you? You’re not a Decepticon, right? Got in trouble for that one before.”
“...did anyone tell Ultra Magnus about the pet Hot Rod didn’t keep?”
Galvatron’s morbidly curious about how that particular critter is working out for his alternate, honestly. A scraplet that doesn’t eat living metal might still eat things like, oh, walls.
“On the berth. Now.”
"Oh is that the mood we're in," he teases, but he's more than happy enough to amble on over-
But he knows he's about to test her patience when he bends over the way he does, servos pressed flat to the berth and he dips his back in an arch, stretching. "Mmph!" From there, he makes a show of crawling up and into the middle of it, and then sitting sideways, a knee tucked under him.
:: STOP LISTENING TO MY COMM CALLS. BRAT. ::
Scourge squeaks over the line, and there's the sound of something fumbling, and then hitting the ground and Scourge's flustered apologies, and then, bratty as ever-
"...but, my Lord. Wet Socket?"
