Thunderclash slips into his habsuite and locks the door behind him. “I’m home!” he calls out into the bowels of his hab. There’s a high-pitched squeal that follows. A little red and yellow blur comes jolting into the entryway and his leg is enveloped in a warm, and somewhat sticky, hug.
“Didi! Didi!” the little ball of energy screeches.
Thunderclash stoops down to gently pat his helm in greeting. “Hey there, my little firework,” he croons.
Hot Shot giggles at the nickname. “Come see what me an’ Sisi hab been doin’!” he insists, grabbing hold of his servo and tugging him along. Thunderclash relents, having to walk in a rather odd, hunched-over fashion so his bitlet can even reach him.
He’s steered from the entryway into the living space, where Rodimus is seated at their fueling table. The speedster sports an assortment of glitter and stickers all across his plating, and when Hot Shot lets go of him, Thunderclash realizes he too is covered in glitter.
“Hey,” Rodimus greets, a wide grin stretching across his faceplate at the sight of his conjunx.
“Hello, my love~” He dips down to deposit a kiss to the crest of his helm.
“Where’s my kiss?!” Hot Shot demands with a little stomp of his pede before Thunderclash even has a chance to pull away. The convoy chuckles fondly at his sparkling and leans over to press one to his forehelm as well.
“And what is it my two lovely speedsters have been up to today?” he prompts as he settles into the chair beside Rodimus.
“Aats and cwafts!” their bittie chirps. He’s quick to clamber up into Rodimus’s lap and wave his tiny servos at the mess on the table. Piles of glitter, globs of glue, a knot of strings, and sheets of tin foil covered in streaks of paint crowd every inch of its surface.
“Oh, I see,” he hums thoughtfully, appraising the messy work with the love only a carrier could have. “Can you explain to me what some of this is?”
Hot Shot nods his helm eagerly and reaches for one of the aluminum sheets. “This are us!” he proudly declares, pointing to the big blue blob surrounded by two smaller red ones. “Is... what’s da word, Sisi?”
“A family portrait,” Rodimus explains with no small amount of glee.
“Yeah, that! An’ this-” he grunts as he stretches as far as his little arms can reach, attempting to grab at the pile of string. Thunderclash nudges it into his awaiting servos and he beams back at the convoy. “This is a wreckwace!”
“A necklace,” Rodimus corrects. “I helped put most of it together,” he comments quietly to Thunderclash.
“Liar! He only cut da string, says I too small for scissahs,” Hot Shot accuses with a pout. He holds it out to Thunderclash, and announces, “We made it for you!”
The piece of red twine is donned with a smattering of charms. They consist of an assortment of painted nuts and bolts, a couple crystals, and, most importantly, a little image capture of Rodimus and Hot Shot glued into a shell as the centerpiece. They must’ve collected it on the ocean planet they’d just visited.
“Awww,” Thunderclash coos, his field practically glowing at such a sparkfelt gift, “It’s perfect!” He plucks it from Hot Shot’s tiny digits and attempts to don it immediately. The string gets caught on his finials and the charms clatter haphazardly in a halo around his helm. Hot Shot hoots and giggles, finding the sight quite amusing.
Rodimus chuckles softly to himself, before offering to help, “Here, let me.”
Thunderclash turns so he can properly tie it around his neck, and as the charms fall against his chestplates, he smiles adoringly at the array of colors. Turning back around, Thunderclash strikes a pose. “What do you think?”
“Gorgeous,” Rodimus sighs, casting fawning optics at Thunderclash. The convoy’s cheekplates tint with color at the sincerity in his conjunx’s voice.
“Yeah, gerges!” Hot Shot readily agrees, prompting both his creators to laugh.
“Now who’s going to clean all of this up?” Thunderclash wonders after a moment. He’s never seen his speedsters exit a room so fast, leaving a trail of sparkles in their wake.
“How the frag am I supposed to stick this piece into this part? It doesn’t fit!”
“Did you read the directions?”
“Yeah I read the fragging directions!”
Rodimus chucks the assembly piece in his rage, and it clatters haphazardly against the wall on the other side of the room. He collapses to the ground in a huff and groans his frustrations, “How am I supposed to raise a whole aft sparkling when I can’t even put this fragging crib together?!”
“Oh, darling… the skills are hardly connected,” Thunderclash sighs, coming to his conjunx’s side. “Do you need any help?”
“No!” Rodimus is quick to protest, “You-you’re carrying, you should be resting.”
Thunderclash settles down beside him anyways. “I can still help,” he offers, “even if it is just reading the steps to you.”
“Well, I said I was gonna do this, so I’m gonna do it.” Rodimus sits up and wrestles the half-built furniture into an accessible position. “I’m the sire. I should be able to.”
“The sparkling won’t care whether or not you can build them a crib.”
“Yeah, well I care,” Rodimus pouts. “What if they ask me to build them a treehouse one day? I gotta… I gotta practice.”
Thunderclash blinks back his confusion, not entirely sure what a “treehouse” is, and rubs a servo soothingly along his conjunx’s backplating. “You know, you do realize we’re supposed to be a team in this, right? Whatever we do for our sparkling, we do it together.”
Rodimus makes a noncommittal grunt in reply, field steaming with frustration.
The convoy clucks his glossa and searches for the guidebook in the array of assorted parts scattered about the floor. Once he’s plucked it from the mess, he suggests, “Why don’t you go get that piece you just threw, and I’ll scroll through this?” It’ll give him a moment to calm down.
“Ugh, fine.” Rodimus hauls himself to his pedes and trudges off.
As Thunderclash flips through the directions, he can understand why the Prime got so confused. While relatively straightforward, the pictures exemplifying the steps are bogged down by weird arrows and random closeups. Knowing Rodimus, he likely couldn’t focus on the black and white of the linework. Still, he has a feeling this isn’t the direct cause of his love’s frustration.
When Rodimus finally makes his way back, Thunderclash asks as gently as he can muster, “Do you want to tell me the real reason why you’re upset?”
The speedster frowns and flops down beside him. “Not really,” he mumbles as he proffers the stray piece.
Thunderclash takes it and sets it beside the others, before pointing to the directions. “It needs to go in this way. I believe you were putting it in backwards.”
“Oh.” He sets about fixing it the right way and Thunderclash lists off a few more directions as Rodimus continues to assemble.
When they’re nearly finished, the colorful mech exclaims cheerfully, “See! We make a good team, you and I.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rodimus dismisses with a wave of his servo. “Thanks for the help, I guess.” He screws in a few bolts before flipping it over to administer them to the other side.
“You know, I meant what I said earlier,” Thunderclash pipes up while he watches him work, “about doing things together. You don’t have to shoulder these kinds of things on your own.”
“I guess not,” Rodimus sighs. He ceases his work and gives the convoy a somewhat pleading expression. “But I feel like I have to. I mean, I can’t help you carry. You’re doing that all on your own. This is… this is the least I can do right now.”
“Oh, my fiery sun, is that what you’re so worried about?” Thunderclash smiles sympathetically.
“Yeah! And I can’t even do it right.” Rodimus crosses his arms over his chestplates and gives the nearly assembled crib a glare straight from the Pits.
His petulance is disrupted when he’s suddenly drawn into the big arms of his conjunx. Thunderclash croons a soft, adoring note, and nuzzles his cheek. “You’ll be a wonderful sire,” he assures, “Our bitlet couldn’t ask for a better mech than you.”
Rodimus flushes and buries his helm in Thunderclash’s chestplates. “How can you be so sure?” he murmurs against the steady whirr of his spark. If he focuses enough on where the warm plating meets his cheek, he can detect the faint pulse of a second beat beneath Thunderclash’s. His own spark glows in recognition.
“You’re already helping me so much,” he insists, “And no one could love them as fiercely as I know you do.”
“But how do I help? I’m not-”
Thundercalsh cuts him off before he can even finish that thought. “Who just put this together?”
“Well, I suppose I did, but you read me the directions-”
“And who brings me a warm cube of energon whenever I ask?”
“Me…”
“And who massages my pedes every night?”
“Also me.”
“And who-”
“Alright, alright, I get it!”
“Do you, though?” Thunderclash quirks an optical ridge at him. “You do so much for me already. You are helping. And when the sparkling comes around, you’ll help with them too.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right…” Rodimus lets out a nervous, tearful giggle and noses Thunderclash’s chestplates. “Our little Hot Sauce~”
The convoy snorts in amusement. “I thought we agreed that wouldn’t be their name.”
“I know, I know, but until we come up with something better...” he trails off, flashing innocent optics up at him.
Thunderclash rolls his own before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the crest of Rodimus’s helm. “Now why don’t we finish this thing?”
Thunderclash sips on his Bitrexian Bubbler and tunes out the din of the party. He’s managed to escape his neverending entourage for a moment to catch some air, and the crystal gardens outside the venue are a wonderful place to do so. The bench he’s seated at is right beside a lovely specimen of star sapphire. It glistens a sparkling azure beneath the distant lamplight of this starless night. The convoy sighs as he glances away, suddenly reminded of the old friend they’ve all gathered here to celebrate.
“This seat taken?”
Thunderclash stiffens in surprise. The smooth tenor is easily recognizable to anyone who pays attention in such things. How he managed to sneak up on him is another matter entirely. The convoy offers up a weak but welcoming smile to their former captain and shakes his helm.
“No, it’s all yours,” he admisses. Rodimus takes the invitation with his usual swagger, and perches on the bench beside him.
“I hadn’t expected you to be out here,” the speedster says after a tense moment of silence.
“Oh?” Thunderclash prompts before taking a sip of his drink. He hasn’t the commitment to question further.
“It’s just, you know…” Rodimus shrugs. As if to explain, he adds, “You’re so… you.”
Thunderclash’s expression quirks and he can’t keep the tinge of amusement from his field. The former captain scrunches up his features in his struggle to explain.
“You’re just… You’re always in the thick of it, always talking to everyone. I would’ve thought you’d be the last person to brood alone over Ratchet’s…” Rodimus frowns, stopping himself. He glances down at his servos and starts picking the paint there, field suddenly heavy. After a moment of thought, he ponders aloud, “Then again, I guess you knew him longest out of any of us, didn’t you?”
“Certainly not the longest,” Thunderclash defers, “but a long time, yes.” His spark gives a weary tug at the mention of the mech they’re in mourning for.
“Are you sad?” Rodimus blurts before he can stop himself. His optics cycle wide and he grimaces. “I’m sorry, that was rude, you don’t have to answer that,” he rambles, moving to stand, “I should go, this was stupid-”
Thunderclash reaches out to grab his elbow, halting him before he can escape. “It’s fine,” he insists, “and to answer your question, yes. I am… sad.” To put it in simplest terms.
Rodimus sits back down and the convoy quickly lets him go. He nearly jolts in surprise when the former captain offers him a pat of consolation. “You… you wanna talk about it?”
“No,” he sighs, but noticing Rodimus’s deflation he quickly adds, “but thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” The speedster shrugs and the two settle into another uncomfortable silence.
To fill the gap, Rodimus pipes up, “You know, the first time I ever met Ratchet, it was shortly after I, uh… after I first joined the Autobots. I was… pretty torn up about my home, you know, getting destroyed and all. Everyone I had met up until that point either pitied me for what had happened, or they went on and on about how it was my duty to avenge my fallen city.’
“Not Ratchet, though. When we first met, he put me straight to work helping him haul medical supplies.” Rodimus chuckles softly at the memory. “It was the first -- dare I say, normal interaction I’d had since Nyon.”
“Ratchet certainly has his way with that sort of thing,” Thunderclash hums in thought. He sets his emptied cube down on the little stand beside the bench. “There were always jokes at the academy about how dreadful his bedside manner was, but… Well, I think he’s more real than any of us understood.”
“You two used to be real party kings, didn’t you? Back in your academy days?”
Thunderclash lets out a soft chuff in amusement. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
Rodimus grins. “It’s hard to picture either of you going hard on the dance floor.”
“We did more than just dance,” Thunderclash banters back playfully, “We flew.”
“Oh yeah? Then why don’t you show me?” the speedster challenges. He throws a teasing expression coyly over his shoulder plating. “Because I don’t believe you.”
Thunderclash hesitates, his spark clenching in trepidation. “I don’t know…” he mumbles.
“I mean… What would Ratchet want? For us to sit on our afts all day and mope about? If you two were really all that, then you gotta show all these other phonies how it’s done.” With that he stands up and offers a servo to help Thunderclash up. “Unless you’re scared~” Rodimus prods, a smirk flirting across his derma.
“Perhaps your right…” Thunderclash finally acquicises. The speedster’s smile more than his words prompts him to reach out and take his servo. Rodimus hoists him off the bench with his remarkable Primely strength and drives them forward, towards the party and glittering lights.
Thunderclash gives the garden one last look over his shoulder, and as his gaze flits over the sapphire near their previous occupancy, he’s almost sure it winks at him.
