Five Things People Dropped To Cuddle With Roddy, And One Thing They Cuddled Him All The Way Throughr
Title: Five Things People Dropped To Cuddle With Roddy . . . And One Thing They Cuddled Him All The Way Through.
Author: Kyra Neko-Rei.
Rating: PG-13/T
Characters: Hot Rod/Rodimus Prime, Optimus, Galvatron, Springer, Ultra Magnus, Kup.
Various hinted pairings.
Warnings: Hints of relationships, violence, the described effects of torture.
Summary: Six significant cuddles in the life of Rodimus Prime.
Kup.
Kup was cleaning his rifle, letting his processor drift as he stroked the polishing cloth along the outside of the barrel, removing the dust of this planet that seemed to get everywhere, especially when it was kicked up by a battle. The rifle had saved his life more times than he'd bothered to count, and he made sure to treat it well. Sixteen newer models had come out; his was as old as he was, but it still worked.
A chirp sounded down by his knee.
Kup leaned forward and looked down, already knowing what he would see. Two bright blue optics looked up at him, surrounded by a small red and gold sparkling. One of the numerous little ones orphaned or separated by the war, disdained by the Decepticons as too young to fight and whom the Autobots had taken in and fed; one of several that Kup's squad had more or less adopted. This one was the youngest of that lot, and the only one too young to understand why his creators had gone.
For some reason, he'd latched onto Kup.
Kup was already setting his rifle aside, sliding it back into its case half-cleaned, something that in any other situation save an emergency he would never have considered doing, but the little mechlet they'd named Hot Rod was already lifting his arms up, begging to be picked up and held. And Kup, fearless against anything the 'Cons could throw at him, was utterly helpless in the face of those tiny, hopeful hands reaching up to him.
He scooped up the little one in his hands, spark warming at the lit-up faceplates, the trill of delight, the hands delicately patting his forearm plating, the beaming smile---but more than any of that, at the bright pair of optics which, as he drew the sparkling into his arms and cuddled him there, looked back up at him, a little less lost.
Springer.
The flash was first, a brilliant flare of red light rising above the barren desert in the twilight. Then came the loud, muffled BANG as the sound caught up. Finally came the shock wave, and Springer took a step back to brace himself as it hit. Felt it echo through him, and let out a whoop.
And stroked the weapon, purring.
"Wow."
Springer froze in mid-caress of the launcher, and turned. Behind him stood Hot Rod, staring at the remnants of the explosion with big optics.
Springer turned and grinned. "Whaddaya think, Roddy?" Before he'd finished speaking, Hot Rod was up against him, fingertips examining the weapon with a purring sound, but Springer couldn't help but notice that it was Springer himself whose plating the rest of him was pressing into.
The Wrecker grinned knowingly, and wrapped his free arm around Roddy; the smaller mech relaxed as if comforted, and asked a question about the tech specs of the new gun.
Springer answered him by rote, more aware of the bright pulse of Roddy's energy field against his own than of what he was saying. The younger mech almost hesitantly wrapped an arm around his waist, and Springer returned the hug with his free arm, purring lightly as Hot Rod settled there like joints settling into place at the end of a transformation sequence.
"How does it make the, ah, plume?" It took Springer a few moments to realize what Hot Rod was asking; he dragged his processor back to the lovely explosion he'd just caused, surprised at how quickly it had receded from his attention. "Ummm, potassium permanganate," he said absently, squeezing Roddy and feeling Roddy squeeze back. His spark purred away in his chest, a sensation not unlike the one it had produced when he'd fired the weapon and watched the results, only somehow more resonant, and deeper.
"Mmmm," Roddy said, obviously just as distracted as Springer was. Springer chuckled and patted the plating under his hands.
Doubtless they'd go over the tech specs in detail later; they'd fire the weapon dozens of times, admiring every explosion; they'd admire and praise it until the Decepticons attacked, and then they'd probably praise it some more while roasting 'Con tailfins. Right now, however, Springer detached the weapon from his arm and set it carefully on the ground, in order to better wrap his other arm around Roddy.
Optimus.
The talks were going well. A colonized planet of Cybertronian emigrants had been discovered and Optimus, along with a team of other deligates, had gotten them to consider opening trade routes with the Autobots. They were currently in negotiations to hammer out the details, and when they broke for energon consumption, Optimus stepped out. He hadn't seen Rodimus for more than a day now, and thought he'd best see how his erstwhile successor was handling things.
Of all his soldiers, Rodimus had taken his death the hardest, and even now, after his resurrection, the mech was unsure and needy, and prone to fits of self-recrimination. No amount of reassurances could convince him that he'd done a satisfactory job as Prime, and Optimus had long since given up trying to suggest that Rodimus didn't really need him. He quite obviously did, in a way that went far deeper than Rodimus' perceived deficiencies as Prime.
Sure enough, Rodimus was off on his own, staring out the windows and pacing as if caged. Optimus had neglected to ascertain this planet's views on speed limits; he didn't know if Roddy was refraining from tearing off across the countryside out of not wanting to reflect badly on Optimus, or whether he just hadn't progressed to the point where he needed to run. Either was possible.
Roddy looked up happily, though, when Optimus entered the room. "Optimus! Hi . . . how're things going?"
Optimus suspected that the question came from a need for attention, rather than from any interest in the negotiations---he'd practically begged to be excused from taking part in them. "Fairly well," he said, and opened his arms.
Rodimus was in them almost instantly, squeezing tight and gazing up at Optimus with the sort of worshipful gaze he'd used to find uncomfortable. Somehow it had managed to become a welcome expression of Roddy's regard for him, and Optimus carefully wrapped him up in an only slightly lighter embrace, letting his jaw rest against Roddy's helm.
Neither moved for a long moment; neither spoke. There was only their own energy fields, flowing together, giving and receiving love and support, and the sunlight that streamed in through the windows slowly edging its way across the floor.
//Optimus? The negotiations are set to reopen.//
That was Magnus, sounding a little concerned, and Optimus considered his words---for all of a second, after which Roddy, relaxed and content in Optimus' arms, began to purr softly.
//I apologize, Magnus, but another issue has come up. Please continue without me, and tell our guests that I should be there sometime within the next joor.//
He hugged Roddy tighter.
Magnus.
It was a quiet day so far, and Magnus was sitting at his desk, getting caught up on paperwork.
At least, that was the theory. In practice, his audials caught the door sliding open and familiar, hesitant footsteps pausing in front of him.
Magnus looked up from his desk full of paperwork, and met the pair of vivid blue optics that stared at him from across the desk. "Roddy. Hi."
"Hi." The Autobot leader shifted from pede to pede, almost as if feeling guilty of wrongdoing---something that seemed wrong in the mech who had nearly always been cheerfully defiant, and Magnus set the datapad aside, pushing the seat back and standing up. Rodimus took the excuse to step around the desk toward him, and Magnus stepped out to greet him. The Prime moved closer almost skittishly, as though embarrassed, and Magnus again felt the surreality of the way Rodimus was acting.
No one had been hit harder by Optimus' death, and Hot Rod had been given the additional burden of bearing the Matrix---of being the replacement of a mech who was irreplaceable. Magnus had often been glad that the burden hadn't fallen to him, but as always, he looked at Rodimus and felt guilty for his relief. The current Prime was a skilled, inventive, and compassionate leader, but had no faith in himself, and Magnus knew it wore at him. Enough to turn joyful, overconfident Hot Rod into this diffident, tormented mech who approached Magnus hesitantly, in fear of rejection for the weakness of need.
Magnus' spark keened for him as he opened his arms.
Still Rodimus stood there, need and longing warring with whatever notion of proper Primely strength he thought he was failing at, and Magnus stepped closer, gathering the Prime into his arms; Rodimus, with something that looked like relief, melted slowly against him with an expression of dawning joy as though he couldn't believe his good fortune, wrapping arms around him tightly and bending down to bury his face against Magnus' shoulder.
Magnus was once again struck by the size of him as he guided them back to his chair. Hot Rod had been able to sit on his lap easily, but with Rodimus it took some doing. Magnus arranged them on the chair, bending the Prime's head down and covering the side of his face with one hand to make him feel smaller, and was rewarded with a soft croon from Roddy which made Magnus' spark tingle. There was more happiness in it than distress, and Magnus smiled, relieved that he was doing his job well.
The paperwork sat on his desk, as urgent as it had been a minute ago.
Ultra Magnus ignored it.
Galvatron.
Galvatron roared into battle, a monstrous force of nature, practically a demigod, whom none could hope to challenge.
Well, almost none. Hope was something the Autobots were abnormally well-stocked with. Rodimus Prime stood before him: his enemy, his rival, his opposite . . . his sometimes-lover. Galvatron did not bother calling out a challenge today: his foe was worthy of him in terms of courage and would not back down anyway. Instead he charged, and Rodimus met him, a great clash of metal on metal that would have damaged or even destroyed lesser mechs, but they were both warriors---Galvatron would trouble himself with nothing less---and after only a moment's recovery time they were grappling and punching and struggling against each other.
Galvatron gloried in it. This was what he was built for: battle and conquest. He would defeat Rodimus, not quickly but after a great and glorious battle.
But the Prime was not fighting gloriously.
It took some time for Galvatron to become aware of it, but it was clear in a multitude of subtle hints. The way he failed to react to the blows Galvatron rained down on him, simply taking them, enduring them. The expression on his face, the one he wore when he was hiding pain, hiding vulnerability. The way his own blows lacked spirit. The way he wouldn't meet Galvatron's optics.
Galvatron growled. Foolish Prime. He was supposed to take care of himself. He was supposed to pour everything he had into battle with Galvatron, to give him a worthy fight.
Rodimus twitched a little at the growl. Galvatron smiled. "Fight me, Rodimus!"
"I am fighting you," came the quiet reply, something all wrong with the tenor of his voice, and Galvatron bristled.
"Fight me properly, Prime! Look at me and fight! This is unworthy of me!"
Rodimus flinched at the insult. It was an utterly contemptable reaction in a warrior who stood against Galvatron, and Galvatron was about to bellow at him when Rodimus softly said, "Sorry to be such a disappointment to you, then."
The words didn't hold enough fire to be sarcastic. They held pain, and they held contempt, and the contempt was not for Galvatron. Rodimus threw another half-afted punch, and then reflexively reached up to block a blow which did not come.
Galvatron, Lord of the Decepicons, Terror of the Universe, grabbed his adversary and dragged him close, clutching him to his own chestplates in what was too strut-cracking to be called an embrace, yet too ardent to be anything else.
Rodimus let out a low keening sound and pressed against him with all the spirit that had been absent from his fighting, and Galvatron knelt, bringing Rodimus down with him, still clutching the Prime tightly to him. The battle might have raged around them, or it might have ended; Galvatron knew not and, for the first time in his life, cared not.
He held his tense and pain-wracked Prime close against him, Rodimus' helm resting against his shoulder as if Galvatron were a refuge, one hand sliding up to stroke the bright red plating with a tenderness he'd never felt before, a strange mix of contentment and pride stealing through his spark as Rodimus began, slowly, to relax.
Rodimus, and all of them.
He was hurting and they had come for him.
That was all Rodimus knew, all Rodimus could fit in his mind right now. The physical pain was nothing; the emotional pain had been blasted through with love and hope and joy, but they were proportional---his captors had told him that his loves thought him dead. That they had stopped looking. That they would never find him, would mourn for eons while Rodimus still lived, imprisoned and tortured just a few short light-years away, and they would never know.
But they had known, and they had found him, and the joy was great and terrible, the beauty of their love for him and their reunion with him burning like an unshielded star held against his spark, and Rodimus could not speak, could not move, could only whimper with near-mute happiness and beg with his optics to be held and loved, to feel loving sparks near his own and know that they were all right.
Magnus carried him, arms wrapped tight around his plating, painful and wet and slippery. Magnus' spark was next to him, bright behind its shielding, and Rodimus nuzzled at it, his movements jerky and disjointed. Magnus looked down at him for a bare second, murmuring something that Rodimus couldn't understand, couldn't focus on. Magnus' arm seemed to buzz beneath his legs, and he kept twisting, the world flying by too fast to process.
Bright sounds. Bright lights flashing. Rodimus tried to make sense of it, wondering why Magnus was so distracted. Was there something he was supposed to help with? Abruptly someone collided with them, and Magnus was gone and he was being held tight against another familiar spark. Green plating. Springer! Rodimus tried to form the name, but nothing came from his vocalizer. Bright optics burned down against him, though, and Rodimus writhed in joy.
Springer said something, and Rodimus couldn't understand him. He focused, trying to sort all the sounds into what they meant. He had stopped doing that, hadn't he? Made himself stop understanding sounds, because they hurt so bad---Springer and the others mourning and lost, never coming for him, never available for him to comfort and help. He clenched his denta, focusing on the memory of sound and meaning of words Springer had said before. Springer wouldn't say things that caused pain.
He nuzzled Springer's spark, and Springer spoke, and meaning filtered through Rodimus' processor in bits and pieces. Love. All right. Home. Rodimus tried to smile, and Springer squeezed. It was painful, and Rodimus shuttered his optics in bliss.
"My turn with him!" His optics flew online again, still making no sense. But that was Galvatron. "Share, frag you!" Demanding. Always demanding, selfish, capricious, short-tempered . . . and wonderful. Rodimus stroked at Springer's spark and then reached in the direction of Galvatron's voice. He heard Springer say something that sounded hopeful, and then he was in Galvatron's arms, squeezed tight. "My Prime," Galvatron rumbled, and Rodimus could not form words of agreement but burrowed against him, mouth forming prayers of devotion against the plating above his spark.
Galvatron shifted him, carrying him with one arm, and he caught a glimpse of someone---alien, a face of nightmares not through appearance but through memory, and a brutal edged weapon coming up at Galvatron. Rodimus stuck his pede out to block it, and didn't even come close. Galvatron whirled, his free arm and its cannon striking the being in the face, then the light hit it and it was gone, and Rodimus smiled.
More shouts, more running, more flashes of bright light. More alien faces, and Rodimus' processor put a name to them. Pirates . . . the ones they'd been fighting, horrible, vicious. Then Galvatron turned, and there was Optimus, wrapping his arms around Rodimus, squeezing until plating threatened to buckle, but under the wonderful strength, shaking. Rodimus' lips formed his name. Optimus. Love. And Optimus shook, and carried him, as unable to speak as Rodimus was, and Rodimus kissed whatever plating he could reach and Optimus purred aloud and Rodimus cuddled close with his limbs that wouldn't quite work right, and was content.
More laserfire, more of the menacing alien faces and sharp weapons; Rodimus reached his arm up to block them, too slow, and Optimus turned away, shielding him from them, falling to his knees, and then Galvatron was there, roaring, and someone pulled Rodimus up.
"Here, lad. I got ya." Roddy began to cry then, silently, his vocalizer grating on a strangled chirp, beaming with unspeakable delight. Kup knew he was alive. They all knew. They had gotten him back. He wanted to bounce with joy, to leap and dance; he wanted to bury himself in Kup's lap and only come out to get in someone else's; he settled for helping to move forward in the direction they were all going. His pedes stumbled unsteadily up the shuttle ramp, and he collapsed just inside the airlock, Kup on top of him, clinging.
"We got ya, lad. We got ya." Rodimus' optics tracked four more figures, firing out the door until the ship's engines hummed to life, and then clustering around him, touching and stroking and letting him bask in their presence, their closeness, their buzzing, joyful energy fields. Kup, closest against him, murmured, "Don' worry, we'll repair ya. Everything's gonna be all right."
Rodimus couldn't say a word, and his arms worked badly and had no strength, but he clung to whatever plating he could find, and his lips shaped the words, "It already is."
Author: Kyra Neko-Rei.
Rating: PG-13/T
Characters: Hot Rod/Rodimus Prime, Optimus, Galvatron, Springer, Ultra Magnus, Kup.
Various hinted pairings.
Warnings: Hints of relationships, violence, the described effects of torture.
Summary: Six significant cuddles in the life of Rodimus Prime.
Kup.
Kup was cleaning his rifle, letting his processor drift as he stroked the polishing cloth along the outside of the barrel, removing the dust of this planet that seemed to get everywhere, especially when it was kicked up by a battle. The rifle had saved his life more times than he'd bothered to count, and he made sure to treat it well. Sixteen newer models had come out; his was as old as he was, but it still worked.
A chirp sounded down by his knee.
Kup leaned forward and looked down, already knowing what he would see. Two bright blue optics looked up at him, surrounded by a small red and gold sparkling. One of the numerous little ones orphaned or separated by the war, disdained by the Decepticons as too young to fight and whom the Autobots had taken in and fed; one of several that Kup's squad had more or less adopted. This one was the youngest of that lot, and the only one too young to understand why his creators had gone.
For some reason, he'd latched onto Kup.
Kup was already setting his rifle aside, sliding it back into its case half-cleaned, something that in any other situation save an emergency he would never have considered doing, but the little mechlet they'd named Hot Rod was already lifting his arms up, begging to be picked up and held. And Kup, fearless against anything the 'Cons could throw at him, was utterly helpless in the face of those tiny, hopeful hands reaching up to him.
He scooped up the little one in his hands, spark warming at the lit-up faceplates, the trill of delight, the hands delicately patting his forearm plating, the beaming smile---but more than any of that, at the bright pair of optics which, as he drew the sparkling into his arms and cuddled him there, looked back up at him, a little less lost.
Springer.
The flash was first, a brilliant flare of red light rising above the barren desert in the twilight. Then came the loud, muffled BANG as the sound caught up. Finally came the shock wave, and Springer took a step back to brace himself as it hit. Felt it echo through him, and let out a whoop.
And stroked the weapon, purring.
"Wow."
Springer froze in mid-caress of the launcher, and turned. Behind him stood Hot Rod, staring at the remnants of the explosion with big optics.
Springer turned and grinned. "Whaddaya think, Roddy?" Before he'd finished speaking, Hot Rod was up against him, fingertips examining the weapon with a purring sound, but Springer couldn't help but notice that it was Springer himself whose plating the rest of him was pressing into.
The Wrecker grinned knowingly, and wrapped his free arm around Roddy; the smaller mech relaxed as if comforted, and asked a question about the tech specs of the new gun.
Springer answered him by rote, more aware of the bright pulse of Roddy's energy field against his own than of what he was saying. The younger mech almost hesitantly wrapped an arm around his waist, and Springer returned the hug with his free arm, purring lightly as Hot Rod settled there like joints settling into place at the end of a transformation sequence.
"How does it make the, ah, plume?" It took Springer a few moments to realize what Hot Rod was asking; he dragged his processor back to the lovely explosion he'd just caused, surprised at how quickly it had receded from his attention. "Ummm, potassium permanganate," he said absently, squeezing Roddy and feeling Roddy squeeze back. His spark purred away in his chest, a sensation not unlike the one it had produced when he'd fired the weapon and watched the results, only somehow more resonant, and deeper.
"Mmmm," Roddy said, obviously just as distracted as Springer was. Springer chuckled and patted the plating under his hands.
Doubtless they'd go over the tech specs in detail later; they'd fire the weapon dozens of times, admiring every explosion; they'd admire and praise it until the Decepticons attacked, and then they'd probably praise it some more while roasting 'Con tailfins. Right now, however, Springer detached the weapon from his arm and set it carefully on the ground, in order to better wrap his other arm around Roddy.
Optimus.
The talks were going well. A colonized planet of Cybertronian emigrants had been discovered and Optimus, along with a team of other deligates, had gotten them to consider opening trade routes with the Autobots. They were currently in negotiations to hammer out the details, and when they broke for energon consumption, Optimus stepped out. He hadn't seen Rodimus for more than a day now, and thought he'd best see how his erstwhile successor was handling things.
Of all his soldiers, Rodimus had taken his death the hardest, and even now, after his resurrection, the mech was unsure and needy, and prone to fits of self-recrimination. No amount of reassurances could convince him that he'd done a satisfactory job as Prime, and Optimus had long since given up trying to suggest that Rodimus didn't really need him. He quite obviously did, in a way that went far deeper than Rodimus' perceived deficiencies as Prime.
Sure enough, Rodimus was off on his own, staring out the windows and pacing as if caged. Optimus had neglected to ascertain this planet's views on speed limits; he didn't know if Roddy was refraining from tearing off across the countryside out of not wanting to reflect badly on Optimus, or whether he just hadn't progressed to the point where he needed to run. Either was possible.
Roddy looked up happily, though, when Optimus entered the room. "Optimus! Hi . . . how're things going?"
Optimus suspected that the question came from a need for attention, rather than from any interest in the negotiations---he'd practically begged to be excused from taking part in them. "Fairly well," he said, and opened his arms.
Rodimus was in them almost instantly, squeezing tight and gazing up at Optimus with the sort of worshipful gaze he'd used to find uncomfortable. Somehow it had managed to become a welcome expression of Roddy's regard for him, and Optimus carefully wrapped him up in an only slightly lighter embrace, letting his jaw rest against Roddy's helm.
Neither moved for a long moment; neither spoke. There was only their own energy fields, flowing together, giving and receiving love and support, and the sunlight that streamed in through the windows slowly edging its way across the floor.
//Optimus? The negotiations are set to reopen.//
That was Magnus, sounding a little concerned, and Optimus considered his words---for all of a second, after which Roddy, relaxed and content in Optimus' arms, began to purr softly.
//I apologize, Magnus, but another issue has come up. Please continue without me, and tell our guests that I should be there sometime within the next joor.//
He hugged Roddy tighter.
Magnus.
It was a quiet day so far, and Magnus was sitting at his desk, getting caught up on paperwork.
At least, that was the theory. In practice, his audials caught the door sliding open and familiar, hesitant footsteps pausing in front of him.
Magnus looked up from his desk full of paperwork, and met the pair of vivid blue optics that stared at him from across the desk. "Roddy. Hi."
"Hi." The Autobot leader shifted from pede to pede, almost as if feeling guilty of wrongdoing---something that seemed wrong in the mech who had nearly always been cheerfully defiant, and Magnus set the datapad aside, pushing the seat back and standing up. Rodimus took the excuse to step around the desk toward him, and Magnus stepped out to greet him. The Prime moved closer almost skittishly, as though embarrassed, and Magnus again felt the surreality of the way Rodimus was acting.
No one had been hit harder by Optimus' death, and Hot Rod had been given the additional burden of bearing the Matrix---of being the replacement of a mech who was irreplaceable. Magnus had often been glad that the burden hadn't fallen to him, but as always, he looked at Rodimus and felt guilty for his relief. The current Prime was a skilled, inventive, and compassionate leader, but had no faith in himself, and Magnus knew it wore at him. Enough to turn joyful, overconfident Hot Rod into this diffident, tormented mech who approached Magnus hesitantly, in fear of rejection for the weakness of need.
Magnus' spark keened for him as he opened his arms.
Still Rodimus stood there, need and longing warring with whatever notion of proper Primely strength he thought he was failing at, and Magnus stepped closer, gathering the Prime into his arms; Rodimus, with something that looked like relief, melted slowly against him with an expression of dawning joy as though he couldn't believe his good fortune, wrapping arms around him tightly and bending down to bury his face against Magnus' shoulder.
Magnus was once again struck by the size of him as he guided them back to his chair. Hot Rod had been able to sit on his lap easily, but with Rodimus it took some doing. Magnus arranged them on the chair, bending the Prime's head down and covering the side of his face with one hand to make him feel smaller, and was rewarded with a soft croon from Roddy which made Magnus' spark tingle. There was more happiness in it than distress, and Magnus smiled, relieved that he was doing his job well.
The paperwork sat on his desk, as urgent as it had been a minute ago.
Ultra Magnus ignored it.
Galvatron.
Galvatron roared into battle, a monstrous force of nature, practically a demigod, whom none could hope to challenge.
Well, almost none. Hope was something the Autobots were abnormally well-stocked with. Rodimus Prime stood before him: his enemy, his rival, his opposite . . . his sometimes-lover. Galvatron did not bother calling out a challenge today: his foe was worthy of him in terms of courage and would not back down anyway. Instead he charged, and Rodimus met him, a great clash of metal on metal that would have damaged or even destroyed lesser mechs, but they were both warriors---Galvatron would trouble himself with nothing less---and after only a moment's recovery time they were grappling and punching and struggling against each other.
Galvatron gloried in it. This was what he was built for: battle and conquest. He would defeat Rodimus, not quickly but after a great and glorious battle.
But the Prime was not fighting gloriously.
It took some time for Galvatron to become aware of it, but it was clear in a multitude of subtle hints. The way he failed to react to the blows Galvatron rained down on him, simply taking them, enduring them. The expression on his face, the one he wore when he was hiding pain, hiding vulnerability. The way his own blows lacked spirit. The way he wouldn't meet Galvatron's optics.
Galvatron growled. Foolish Prime. He was supposed to take care of himself. He was supposed to pour everything he had into battle with Galvatron, to give him a worthy fight.
Rodimus twitched a little at the growl. Galvatron smiled. "Fight me, Rodimus!"
"I am fighting you," came the quiet reply, something all wrong with the tenor of his voice, and Galvatron bristled.
"Fight me properly, Prime! Look at me and fight! This is unworthy of me!"
Rodimus flinched at the insult. It was an utterly contemptable reaction in a warrior who stood against Galvatron, and Galvatron was about to bellow at him when Rodimus softly said, "Sorry to be such a disappointment to you, then."
The words didn't hold enough fire to be sarcastic. They held pain, and they held contempt, and the contempt was not for Galvatron. Rodimus threw another half-afted punch, and then reflexively reached up to block a blow which did not come.
Galvatron, Lord of the Decepicons, Terror of the Universe, grabbed his adversary and dragged him close, clutching him to his own chestplates in what was too strut-cracking to be called an embrace, yet too ardent to be anything else.
Rodimus let out a low keening sound and pressed against him with all the spirit that had been absent from his fighting, and Galvatron knelt, bringing Rodimus down with him, still clutching the Prime tightly to him. The battle might have raged around them, or it might have ended; Galvatron knew not and, for the first time in his life, cared not.
He held his tense and pain-wracked Prime close against him, Rodimus' helm resting against his shoulder as if Galvatron were a refuge, one hand sliding up to stroke the bright red plating with a tenderness he'd never felt before, a strange mix of contentment and pride stealing through his spark as Rodimus began, slowly, to relax.
Rodimus, and all of them.
He was hurting and they had come for him.
That was all Rodimus knew, all Rodimus could fit in his mind right now. The physical pain was nothing; the emotional pain had been blasted through with love and hope and joy, but they were proportional---his captors had told him that his loves thought him dead. That they had stopped looking. That they would never find him, would mourn for eons while Rodimus still lived, imprisoned and tortured just a few short light-years away, and they would never know.
But they had known, and they had found him, and the joy was great and terrible, the beauty of their love for him and their reunion with him burning like an unshielded star held against his spark, and Rodimus could not speak, could not move, could only whimper with near-mute happiness and beg with his optics to be held and loved, to feel loving sparks near his own and know that they were all right.
Magnus carried him, arms wrapped tight around his plating, painful and wet and slippery. Magnus' spark was next to him, bright behind its shielding, and Rodimus nuzzled at it, his movements jerky and disjointed. Magnus looked down at him for a bare second, murmuring something that Rodimus couldn't understand, couldn't focus on. Magnus' arm seemed to buzz beneath his legs, and he kept twisting, the world flying by too fast to process.
Bright sounds. Bright lights flashing. Rodimus tried to make sense of it, wondering why Magnus was so distracted. Was there something he was supposed to help with? Abruptly someone collided with them, and Magnus was gone and he was being held tight against another familiar spark. Green plating. Springer! Rodimus tried to form the name, but nothing came from his vocalizer. Bright optics burned down against him, though, and Rodimus writhed in joy.
Springer said something, and Rodimus couldn't understand him. He focused, trying to sort all the sounds into what they meant. He had stopped doing that, hadn't he? Made himself stop understanding sounds, because they hurt so bad---Springer and the others mourning and lost, never coming for him, never available for him to comfort and help. He clenched his denta, focusing on the memory of sound and meaning of words Springer had said before. Springer wouldn't say things that caused pain.
He nuzzled Springer's spark, and Springer spoke, and meaning filtered through Rodimus' processor in bits and pieces. Love. All right. Home. Rodimus tried to smile, and Springer squeezed. It was painful, and Rodimus shuttered his optics in bliss.
"My turn with him!" His optics flew online again, still making no sense. But that was Galvatron. "Share, frag you!" Demanding. Always demanding, selfish, capricious, short-tempered . . . and wonderful. Rodimus stroked at Springer's spark and then reached in the direction of Galvatron's voice. He heard Springer say something that sounded hopeful, and then he was in Galvatron's arms, squeezed tight. "My Prime," Galvatron rumbled, and Rodimus could not form words of agreement but burrowed against him, mouth forming prayers of devotion against the plating above his spark.
Galvatron shifted him, carrying him with one arm, and he caught a glimpse of someone---alien, a face of nightmares not through appearance but through memory, and a brutal edged weapon coming up at Galvatron. Rodimus stuck his pede out to block it, and didn't even come close. Galvatron whirled, his free arm and its cannon striking the being in the face, then the light hit it and it was gone, and Rodimus smiled.
More shouts, more running, more flashes of bright light. More alien faces, and Rodimus' processor put a name to them. Pirates . . . the ones they'd been fighting, horrible, vicious. Then Galvatron turned, and there was Optimus, wrapping his arms around Rodimus, squeezing until plating threatened to buckle, but under the wonderful strength, shaking. Rodimus' lips formed his name. Optimus. Love. And Optimus shook, and carried him, as unable to speak as Rodimus was, and Rodimus kissed whatever plating he could reach and Optimus purred aloud and Rodimus cuddled close with his limbs that wouldn't quite work right, and was content.
More laserfire, more of the menacing alien faces and sharp weapons; Rodimus reached his arm up to block them, too slow, and Optimus turned away, shielding him from them, falling to his knees, and then Galvatron was there, roaring, and someone pulled Rodimus up.
"Here, lad. I got ya." Roddy began to cry then, silently, his vocalizer grating on a strangled chirp, beaming with unspeakable delight. Kup knew he was alive. They all knew. They had gotten him back. He wanted to bounce with joy, to leap and dance; he wanted to bury himself in Kup's lap and only come out to get in someone else's; he settled for helping to move forward in the direction they were all going. His pedes stumbled unsteadily up the shuttle ramp, and he collapsed just inside the airlock, Kup on top of him, clinging.
"We got ya, lad. We got ya." Rodimus' optics tracked four more figures, firing out the door until the ship's engines hummed to life, and then clustering around him, touching and stroking and letting him bask in their presence, their closeness, their buzzing, joyful energy fields. Kup, closest against him, murmured, "Don' worry, we'll repair ya. Everything's gonna be all right."
Rodimus couldn't say a word, and his arms worked badly and had no strength, but he clung to whatever plating he could find, and his lips shaped the words, "It already is."