Chapter Text
“Decepticons I would have fragged? Oh yeah,” Rodimus sat back, looking up over the helms across the table, as though his gaze were summoned by the open panels of the Con in question, “just one, though. I woulda given him head… I bet the spike was insane. It’s probably for the best that I never had the chance, though, ‘cause I would have died doing it.”
The assortment of drunk bots around the table waited for him to continue, but it seemed that Rodimus had nothing more to add. Absently, he took a sip from his drink, still eyeing something that was present only to him.
After a few kliks, Nautica continued, unfazed, “what about Slipstream?”
“I don’t know her very well,” Velocity frowned.
“Neither do I,” Nautica pointed out. “I’ve only met her once and she growled at me.”
“Can this be anyone? I would frag myself,” Misfire chimed in.
“That’s not inter-faction,” Krok corrected him.
“Okay, but what if I was a double agent and I didn’t know?”
“No.”
“No, I think we should hear him out,” Rewind piped up.
“He’s a little confused, but he’s got the spirit,” Chromedome agreed.
The conversation rolled on. Rodimus eventually rejoined, looking on cheerfully and providing the occasional interjection, for better or for worse. Though this was not before ruminating on the captivating Con for an impressively long time.
Eventually, the question begged to be asked, and Drift could contain it no longer. “I’m sorry, who does Rodimus want to die giving head to?”
Megatron, who seemed not to have expected to speak to Drift, let alone find himself queried on such a topic, nearly choked on his own drink. “Primus only knows,” he managed. They had both gently opted out of the inter-faction fragging talk that seemed to have gripped Swerve’s that evening, along with Ultra Magnus, who was already fragging Megatron and didn’t want it to come up. They’d ended up in a small cluster near the bar, but Drift was managing with an excessive amount of engex.
Through the fog of overcharge, he tried to imagine any Con he’d ever known possessing the charm and allure necessary to encourage Rodimus to say head like that in front of a dozen of his closest friends – especially given his aggressive penchant for topping. Actually, he tried to imagine any of his ex-comrades possessing the basic hygiene or decency to be considered an acceptable berth partner at all. Nothing was coming up. He couldn’t think of a single Decepticon that he could imagine wanting to shake hands with, let alone suck spike for.
Starscream came to mind, but that was just because he had a reputation for captivating curious cars, not because he passed for a decent frag. “You don’t think…” He could barely even bring himself to say it. He liked to think that Rodimus had either enough class or enough dignity to avoid falling into such a trap, but experience had taught him better. High-grade silenced the remaining scrap of self-preservation that might have stopped him from saying it anyway. “You don’t think he’s talking about Starscream?”
At this, Megatron had to stop trying to drink his engex altogether, for his own safety. He put the glass down. “I’m glad that we suddenly seem to be on speaking terms,” he spoke stiffly, “but that is truly the last thing that I would like to talk about. If you are going to speak to me, perhaps you could be kind enough to say something else.”
Drift did not feel so kind. Instead, he returned to silence. He leaned back against the bar and tried not to think of his amica lusting after some troubled madmech’s spike. Sometimes Rodimus needed so much help, it was painful.