Chapter Text
See the motley crew advance
Led by Folly in the dance.
- Vauxhall Ballad
No one falls in love in a moment. That's fairy-tale stuff: the shared glance, the unspoken understanding passing from one to the other, both struck at once, as if love were lightning. No.
But there was a moment of realisation – or rather, two.
Rodimus probably would have figured it out sooner, if he hadn't been so distracted. After all, he'd felt the hitch in his engine when he'd discovered that the (tiny, cute, oh, Primus) bot sharing their cell was really Magnus; he'd screamed himself hoarse when Magnus had gone haring off to confront Tyrest; and he'd felt his fuel turn to acid in his lines when he'd spotted Magnus's headless body, left on the floor where he'd fallen, as if he were a – a thing. A tripping hazard, Tyrest had called him. Right before Rodimus had shoved a blaster under Tyrest's chin, and had fought down the urge to simply pull the trigger by reminding himself of what Magnus would do, what Magnus would have wanted.
But Rodimus didn't actually realise how he felt until he looked past the smouldering hulk of Tyrest's body, and saw Magnus – Minimus Ambus – standing over him, gun still smoking.
“Ambus?” he demanded, the new name unfamiliar and desperate on his glossa, and, in spite of his confusion, he felt a rush of relief and warmth that made him want to scoop this even tinier Minimus up and never let him go.
Oh, thought Rodimus, with the easy acceptance of a child; of a soldier; of a mech who was probably about to die. That explains a lot.
***
Ultra Magnus's moment came a little later, and not all at once. It crept up on him, like smoke.
He'd been trying not to look at Rodimus as Perceptor wired him into the killswitch – whether out of Magnus's own shame, or to avoid seeing Rodimus strung up like some primitive living sacrifice from the days before the Golden Age. He'd been expecting Rodimus's anger from the moment he'd made the decision to draw the Lost Light to Luna-1, but it was only in this moment that he really felt he deserved it.
But, to his surprise, Rodimus's rage flared and immediately burned out. Instead, he dimmed his optics, bent his head, and made a confession of his own.
About Overlord.
Magnus would berate himself later, but the first thought that came into his shocked mind was, Rodimus knew more about what was going on onboard the ship than I did? For months?
And then, out of nowhere, as he stared at the captain: It must have been eating him alive.
He should have been angry. Rodimus had imperilled the entire ship out of a childish desperation to prove himself. Magnus's own transgression was serious, but it was born out of a sense of duty –
– wasn't it? The thought had troubled him, if he was honest, since long before his return to Tyrest.
Not just duty. Fear. Fear that you were slipping, and that you liked it too much.
He made himself look at Rodimus, that ludicrously flashy armour, the wreath of wires like a crown.
That you liked him too much.
“Self-sacrifice is cheap, Magnus,” Rodimus told him in a voice that Magnus had never heard from him – low, flat, and far older than it had any right to be. “It's a cheap way out.” And his optics met Magnus's.
Oh, thought Magnus, as a part of his processor so disused he almost didn't recognise it – almost, but not quite – lit up. Oh, no. Oh, no.