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After Whirl came to live with Cyclonus and Tailgate, he adjusted surprisingly well. Which was to say that over the course of the first six months, he only quit and disappeared without a word to anyone twice.
( Little victories, Cyclonus remembered an old comrade saying on a video screen a lifetime ago. Little victories. )
The first time, they’d tracked him to an asteroid field the Lost Light had once passed through, on a detour to allow Rodimus to compete in the meteoroid-surfing championships. (He’d taken home the silver.) The last Cyclonus had heard, Rodimus had been scoping out the area with a view to reviving the annual competition. Rodimus had actually smiled when describing his plans, in a way that reached his optics; some spark of what he had once been seemed to have rekindled once Drift and Magnus had managed to coax him off the Exitus and convinced him to try his hand at something he loved again, instead of something he merely thought would make him useful enough to justify his continued existence. Cyclonus had been heartily glad to see that light in him again.
When they’d touched down, though, the championships had still been months away, and the field had been deserted. Well. Almost deserted.
Whirl had been sitting on the edge of an asteroid, spindly legs dangling into space. He’d been idly skimming stones, balancing them on the edge of his claw and then whipping his arm forward, as if trying to see whether he could throw any of them far enough to escape the asteroid’s gravity. He hadn’t turned around at their approach, which meant he knew very well who was walking towards him.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. and Mr. Cyclonus of Trixylix.”
“Whirl?” Tailgate had slipped his hand out of Cyclonus’s and rushed forward. “We’ve been worried –”
“Hey, don’t waste your worry on me. I’m fine .” Whirl’s voice had been strange. What venom should have been in it had sounded hollow – just a show, like some harmless, brightly-coloured organic mimicking its more dangerous kin. “Time I moved on, is all.”
“But I thought you wanted to live with us?”
“I’m not saying I don’t –
appreciate –
” Cyclonus and Tailgate had exchanged a single, horrified glance at the tremour creeping into Whirl’s voice, and Whirl had noticed; narrowing his optic, he’d viciously bitten off the sentence mid-flow. After a moment, he’d said only, “No more trying to shove in where I don’t belong, pipsqueak. And somewhere perfect? That’s not where I belong. We all know that. No worries,” he’d continued, picking himself up
and bracing to transform. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to say goodbye and mean –”
Tailgate had planted himself squarely in Whirl’s path. “No.”
Whirl had boggled slightly at the miniscule bundle of metal and blue optics trying to block his way – an endeavour that would have been futile even without Whirl’s VTOL capability. “The frag do you think you’re doing?”
“Look, if you want to leave, that’s fine. It’s your life, and you need to do what makes you happy. Cyclonus and I, we really, really want you to stay, though. And I think you want to stay, too.”
Whirl had fallen silent, and Cyclonus had seen an opportunity. “We’re far from perfect,” he’d murmured, closing the distance. “I know there are times when I frustrate Tailgate.”
“I can get on Cyclonus’s nerves sometimes.”
“He does have a habit of shoving half the mess in a closet when he cleans, and assuming I’m not going to open it,” Cyclonus had mused.
“He insists on listening to New Cybertronian opera all the time, and then he spends the whole broadcast nitpicking it.”
“Tailgate still hasn’t figured out how to steer his hoverboard.”
“Cyclonus snores.”
“I do not – ”
Tailgate had given him a Look that indicated now was the time to get on board with the improvisation.
“I snore,” Cyclonus had unrepentantly blasphemed, “ constantly .”
“You see? We’re not perfect,” Tailgate had said, stretching up to pat Whirl’s claw – which, miraculously, the copter left within reach. “We’re people. We’re your people. And you fit right in with us.”
Whirl had visibly wavered.
Cyclonus had said, “Please.”
And that had been that.
***
Afterwards, Tailgate and Cyclonus had made a point of not putting up a front for Whirl. Indeed, they’d been careful to let him see the everyday flaws and frustrations of a marriage, making sure that if they bickered, they did it in full view.
They may have overdone it slightly, given that Whirl had vanished again two months after that.
(“You’re fighting more since I moved in,” Whirl had said to Cyclonus, once they’d caught up with him yet again – this time, outside a long-abandoned prison on a distant planet. “Aren’t you?”
“You overestimate your disruptive capabilities,” Cyclonus had said placidly, to hide the worried whirr of his spark.
“I’ll disrupt my claws up your –”
“You can certainly try. After you come home.”
When they had finally returned to the shuttle, Cyclonus had dropped a casual kiss on Tailgate’s head where the latter sat in the pilot’s seat, as if Whirl weren’t there – and he could have sworn, he’d seen Whirl’s shoulders ease down just a touch, the yellow of his optic warm.)
***
Whirl eventually seemed to settle. Tailgate and Cyclonus had held a whispered conversation long into the night on their return, and the upshot had been no more stage-managing, no more trying : as nerve-wracking as it could be, they had to simply let Whirl see what their life together was like, and decide for himself whether he wanted to be a part of it. And the answer, it appeared, was yes.
Life with Whirl had its own ebb and flow. Some days, he was a huge presence, gangly limbs sprawled everywhere, that rasping laugh filling whole rooms. Other days, he’d retreat to his bedroom-cum-workshop and they might not see him for a week. Cyclonus and Tailgate grew used to simply going with Whirl’s erratic rhythms. As time went on, it became harder and harder to picture their home without him.
Which was why it was a near-physical wrench to wake up one day, five years down the line, and find him gone.
***
“This is definitely the right star system.” Tailgate squinted at the nav panel in their shuttle, its display overlaid with the map he and Cyclonus had found, discarded, on Whirl’s desk. “Now we just have to find him on that station.”
There was a sober silence, and then Cyclonus said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Tailgate twisted in his seat to look at him. “For what?”
“For all of this. For the fact that we’re spending our anniversary chasing down the mech I invited into our lives, yet again. I can’t imagine this is what you wanted.”
Tailgate’s hand reached past Cyclonus, switching the controls to autopilot. Then he perched on the edge of the console so he could face Cyclonus in the pilot’s chair. “Hey.” Small white fingers closed over longer claws. “I love you. And we will have more anniversaries, I promise.” He reached to cup Cyclonus’s face as the latter smiled ruefully. “Don’t start blaming yourself. We agreed together that we wanted Whirl to live with us, and I still do. I’m just – I’m worried about our friend, is all.”
“We’ve always been able to bring him back before,” said Cyclonus, trying to quiet the bit of his mind that felt exactly the same.
“I know, but don’t you think this feels weird? Since when does Whirl leave a note when he runs away? Not that I could figure out what it was at first, since his handwriting is still so bad – took me ages to realise that ‘yoooh mimed truck nee cloud’ was ‘you’ll never track me down’ – but that’s not the point! And he charted his route out on a map that he just happened to leave lying around? And – well, does this look like the kind of place Whirl usually tries to hide out?”
The Utopia – the galaxy’s largest non-planet-based resort and pleasure palace – loomed up ahead of them. Its titanic, gleaming frame was strung with more lights than Cyclonus could remember even in Crystal City under Nova Prime. This close, their shuttle started picking up the station’s automated broadcast, which was an unbroken string of breathless advertisements for casinos, theatres, spas catering to beings of every chemical composition. It was, Cyclonus had to admit, as far from a deserted asteroid field or abandoned prison as he could imagine.
He ruthlessly pushed away the sense of unease that had started to gather in the base of his throat. “Let’s just find him.”
***
Finding Whirl, it turned out, was easier than either of them would have supposed. Just past station security at the main entrance was one of Utopia’s flagship cocktail lounges, a sleekly understated space with moody lighting. And there at the bar –
Tailgate grabbed Cyclonus’s arm.
An unmistakable figure sat on a stool, slurping down a brightly-coloured drink with single-minded intensity through a curly straw.
Cyclonus moved towards Whirl, but Tailgate tugged at his hand. “Let me.”
“All right.”
Tailgate strolled across the lounge floor, sidestepping gyrating organics on the dancefloor, and slipped onto the stool next to Whirl. He studiously didn’t look at him. “Hey, Nutjob.”
“Hiya, squirt,” Whirl returned evenly. “Want something?”
“Sure. I’ll have an energon spritzer, please, if you’re buying.”
Whirl’s neck was practically bent into a question mark as he regarded Tailgate, but he didn’t object. Instead, he flagged down the bartender and relayed the order. “Was that… all you wanted?” he asked Tailgate casually.
“Well, there is one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Can I have a curly straw?”
Whirl’s head reared back, and his optic narrowed. Tailgate beamed.
And then Whirl bent forward and began to laugh softly.
Tailgate waited until he quieted again, and then asked gently, “Think you’re ready to come home?”
“Yup.”
"Um. Wow. Okay, that was easy."
“What can I say? You’ve convinced me. Only one problem.” Whirl drew a keycard from his subspace and started idly flipping it between his claws. “See, I booked this fancy hotel suite to run away to, with fuel included and
everything.
No refunds. And I’d hate for it go to waste.” He looked up at Tailgate slyly.
“Oh! If you wanted a holiday, you could have said! We can come pick you up in a few days if you’d rather.”
“Nah. Not my speed, really.” Whirl tossed the keycard at Tailgate, who fumbled it to his chest. “For a start, it’s a suite for two people.”
Tailgate frowned, and started to say, “Whirl...” but he was interrupted by the opening bars of a very familiar song.
“And now, we have a real treat for you!” the DJ proclaimed from the stage. “Music all the way from the exotic world of...” She squinted at what appeared to be a piece of paper in her hand. “From the exotic world of Eahhhh. Well, how exciting is that? This comes courtesy of one of our guests tonight, who’s asked me to dedicate this song to two very special people.” She held the paper even closer, tilting it this way and that. “So, this one’s for you… Cycles… and… Tall Git!”
The sound system started blasting out The Power of Love .
“Whirl,” said Tailgate slowly. “Did you… did you plan this? For my and Cyclonus’s anniversary?”
“Why would I ever give a frag when your anniversary is?” Whirl slow-blinked his single optic in what Tailgate, after all these years, recognised as his version of a wink. “See you back at home, losers.”
Cyclonus, who had been hovering just within earshot, drew near as Whirl loped out of the bar. “Wow,” Tailgate whispered. “I… do you realise what this means? He must have gone to so much trouble.”
“It means more than that, I believe.” Cyclonus looped his arms around Tailgate from behind, swaying a little in time with the music. “Whirl’s whole plan was predicated on our tracking him down immediately.”
Tailgate thought for a moment, then craned his neck to look up at his conjunx. “He trusted us to come get him.”
“Mmmmm.” Cyclonus smiled.
“And do you know what else it means?”
“What’s that?”
Tailgate held out a hand. “We’ve still got our whole anniversary weekend, and there’s a dance floor over there with our names on it.”
“Indeed.” Cyclonus made a show of craning his head to look. “It
is
all but emblazoned with Cycles and Tall Git.”
“Come on and dance with me, Cycles.”
***
The first night, they didn’t even get as far as the fancy hotel. En route, Tailgate discovered another bar with a karaoke machine, and that was it: the station’s simulated dawn found them still there, Cyclonus onstage offering a third reprise of “Glory to Cybertron, Glinting In The Heavens”, to the scattered but enthusiastic applause of the few patrons who remained (who knew resortgoers were such suckers for ancient hymns?), while Tailgate propped his chin on his folded arms and watched his husband through misted optics.
As the pair of them finally stumbled out and made their way towards the hotel, Tailgate murmured, “Gotta remember to bring Whirl back just – the biggest box of energon goodies – say thank you properly. This place is amazing. We really owe him.”
Cyclonus shook his head. “I imagine he thought he owed us. I’d let it alone.”
“Where to next?”
“Where would you like?”
“Anywhere in the universe, as long as you’re there with me.” Tailgate’s tanks growled, and he amended, “But if you and breakfast could both be with me, that would be my top choice.”
“As you wish.”