Chapter Text
Somehow, the war ended with both a bang and a whimper. Megatron finally, finally got what was coming to him—defeat, humiliating and painful—and everyone packed up and left Earth after cleaning up their mess. That was it. Maybe there was more to it, but Swindle, being a now-former Decepticon in a ship full of Autobots, was not privy to it. The journey back to what remained of Cybertron was… not long, in the grand scheme of things. But it was tense, and the anticipation made a year feel like a century.
Swindle knew he wasn’t going to prison. Blurr made that very clear, in what had escalated into a shouting match with Prowl before the Ark even took off. Truth be told, Swindle hated being in the middle of that, having needed to leave the office to sit outside because his spark was pounding so hard it made him feel ill. He stayed out in the hall until Blurr came out, looking tired and frustrated but with a victorious grin. “Soft parole for five years,” he’d said, and Swindle had tackled him in a hug that lifted him right off his pedes.
Not only that, but his gestalt would be getting much lighter sentences than most, because they’d defected before the millionth year and kept to themselves. The biggest complaint they had about it was Blast Off mourning the fact that he wouldn’t be able to get a decent wax for a few decades. Truly, there wasn’t anything to worry about; all of them have been in prison before, for one thing or another. They would be fine.
It still made Swindle’s spark twist painfully, because even though it was in their best interest, he’s never seen his gestalt go so quietly. Maybe their self-imposed exile softened them up, but… that thought only made it hurt more.
There wasn’t much home to come back to. Every major city-state had been leveled, save for Iacon, which even then was looking more like Rodion. Pre-war Rodion. At first, they were stuck with the Ark and Nemesis for shelter, but before long some off-world neutral colonies got word that the war was over and decided to lend a servo or ten thousand to help rebuild. Within months, Iacon started to look like a city again.
Nice as it is, though, it’s Iacon. Rodimus had split soon after landing, Drift had gone with him when he came back for a better shuttle, and neither Blurr nor Swindle want this to be their permanent residence. Swindle never lived here, but he’s spent enough time here to not want to stick around and see if it goes right back to how it was. Blurr did live here, for his entire life before the war, and he’s been open enough about it for Swindle to know that their sentiments are shared.
Still, they don’t have much of a choice. It’s either this or camp out in the wastes until another city comes back up.
“It just reminds me of everything I hated,” Blurr mumbles, engine growling in his frustration. Swindle had been woken up by his spark giving him trouble, only to open his optics and see his partner’s back silhouetted by the lights of the city’s night life coming in through the window of their temporary apartment. “Everyone thought Iacon was perfect, but everyone was selfish, and fake, and arrogant, and that includes me.”
“You ain’t that person anymore,” Swindle croaks, shifting to take some of the pressure off his chassis. “An’ you ain’t gonna become ‘im if I can help it.” Reaching over, he trails the tips of his digits along Blurr’s hip in an attempt to coax him into laying back down. It’s a lazy attempt, but he’s tired and cold and his partner is very, very warm.
Blurr doesn’t lay back down. He just slumps forward a bit more, almost defeated, and whispers, “You can’t promise that. What if I become someone you don’t love anymore?”
The breath Swindle cycles is deep, as patient as he can manage when he can barely keep his optics open. “If, by some insane chance, that happens, then you’ll be the first to know.” This time, he reaches for Blurr’s arm, grazing his elbow. “C’mon, doll, I don’t got the energy for a conversation like this right now. You might feel better if you sleep, an’ we can talk about it more in the mornin’ if you’re still worried.”
After a moment more of hesitance, Blurr nods, turns his back on the window, and shuffles in under Swindle’s arm. He gently bumps his helm up against his partner’s chin in a silent request for comfort, and Swindle responds by squeezing him close and nuzzling into the top of his helm with a content sigh. He hears Blurr sniffle and feels his chassis hitch, but no apology follows, which is good. Blurr has an awful habit of apologizing for things out of his control, one that Swindle has been fighting to encourage out of him.
One thing is certain, though: they’re moving out of Iacon as soon as possible.
In an uncharacteristic manifestation of good luck, with the morning comes an announcement that Crystal City’s rebuilding is underway, effective immediately. Swindle eagerly relays it when Blurr stumbles out of their berth, and finds himself grinning when the speedster’s sleepy optics flash brighter than they have in months.
They prepare to leave immediately, but find a roadblock in the form of Prowl’s parole, which introduces a whole process they have to go through. It’s one that Swindle has always slipped out from under, but he can’t this time, because the slightest infraction means that he’ll be ripped away from Blurr. With his gestalt in prison, that’s something he can’t afford, so… legalese it is.
It goes about as well as that initial meeting on the Ark. Swindle takes more of an active role this time, pulling out all the stops in trying to convince Prowl that he won’t be any trouble, that they only want to move for peace of mind, that he isn’t doing anything illegal, for frag’s sake! But Prowl is unfazed, simply pushing more and more paperwork at them that Swindle has to read in its entirety or his processor will start producing errors. It’s tedious and aggravating, but it’s better than sitting in a hallway trying not to cry or purge.
And while he’s poring through every datapad Prowl shoves into his servos, Blurr is once again arguing on his behalf, even if doesn’t get him anywhere. By this point Swindle has accepted that this is less of a personal slight against them and more just the fact that he’s already getting special treatment by not serving prison time. And, truth be told, he’d rather spend hours upon hours in this stuffy office reading until his optics burn out than make more enemies of former ‘Cons.
Because he knows how to handle them, but he’ll die before putting that pressure on Blurr.
By the time the paperwork is finished and their request is approved, another day has passed, but they get moving as soon as the star begins peeking over the horizon. It’s a few days’ trip—it’d be much shorter if it were just Blurr, but he insisted upon keeping pace with Swindle. Swindle tries to go as fast as he can, but he wasn’t forged for endurance and he ends up burning himself out, forcing them to stop so they can address a searing pain in his chassis. It’s probably just his engine overheating, but with the fragile state of his spark, they don’t want to risk anything; technically, he’s still on recovery for another six months. “‘M okay,” he wheezes unconvincingly. “We can keep… keep goin’.” They have to keep going, if they don’t want to spend the night out in the open.
“I could haul you,” Blurr offers, insistent and confident because he could. His frame isn’t ideal for hauling, but his strength makes up for it.
Swindle smirks at the idea, though it looks more like a grimace as he clutches his chassis, vents burning with every inhale. He shakes his helm, “An’ all our stuff?” They don’t have much, and only a few things wouldn’t fit in their subspaces, but he’d still feel guilty. “Not gonna make you do that. Jus’ gimme a sec.”
But Blurr leans down to look him in the optic, expression deathly serious. “I’m offering. You’re not making me do anything.” Softening, he plants a kiss on the top of Swindle’s helm and murmurs, “Let me take care of you. Please.”
Lacking the energy for proper defiance, Swindle deflates with a sigh. He doesn’t need to be strong anymore. He’s allowed to let Blurr take the reins, allowed to rest while his partner does the hard work because Swindle has a damn crack in his spark crystal. It’s still hard to admit defeat, but he pulls a towing line from his subspace nonetheless. “Alright, let’s figure this out.”
It’s awkward, since they’re setting up for a task that should have them placed in the opposite roles, but they make it work and Swindle promises to rest for the remainder of the trip. Any guilt he feels is whisked away by the wind as Blurr guns his engine for maximum speed because he relishes in the ache of his chassis. He checks in every half hour or so, until Swindle decides to take a nap, soothed by the roar of his partner’s engine and the gentle slopes of the wasteland.
By the time he wakes up, the star is rising and Blurr is sleeping draped over his roof, a knife clutched in one servo. Most would probably be put off by this, but the weight and presence of a weapon are comforting for Swindle.
Then his sensors give a languid stretch beyond the immediate vicinity, and he realizes with a jolt that they’ve made it to Crystal City. In his shock, he transforms, sending both him and Blurr crashing to the ground. On account of sleeping like a damn brick, Blurr simply groans and shifts onto his side, slipping off of Swindle in the process. He awakens with a grunt upon hitting the dirt, optics dim and tired as he reorients himself. “You drove through the night, didn’t you?” Swindle demands, and Blurr just grins listlessly and snickers.
“Only a li’l,” he mumbles like he’s not struggling to make his tongue cooperate like it should; not surprising, it always takes him a while to wake up properly. Still, Swindle’s optic twitches as bad memories prickle at the edge of his processor. He manages to keep his servos from trembling as he sits up, pulls a cube of energon from his subspace, and wordlessly hands it to his partner. Blurr pushes himself to sit as well—struggling a bit in a way that makes Swindle’s spark twinge—and takes it with a murmured thanks. After a long, slow sip, he reaches out to cup Swindle’s cheek. “I’m not starving, just low. I had three cubes before we left, remember?” Reluctantly, Swindle grunts in affirmative. He doesn’t want to play along with this, he wants his partner to take care of himself for once. “I slowed down a bit after you fell asleep–”
Digits twitching, Swindle cuts him off, “And how much did you sleep?”
Blurr’s soft, reassuring expression turns sheepish. “About an hour?” Swindle sighs and pinches his optics shut against the rising frustration. He’s not… he can’t say he’s upset with Blurr, but his partner really needs to let himself be selfish sometimes. Half the time, his ‘selfish’ thoughts are just his processor urging him to take better care of himself. “I’ll take a nap later or go to berth early tonight, I promise.”
“I’m holdin’ you to that,” Swindle grumbles, but there’s very little heat in it. He’ll make sure Blurr sticks to it. He snags a cube for himself, downing the whole thing in one go. Blurr gives him a look, and he looks back. “What?”
“Not supposed to do that,” Blurr mutters into his cube, a smirk playing on his lips. Swindle splutters and smacks him on the shoulder, earning a laugh.
They finish their breakfast with minimal bickering before deciding to survey the work that’s been done on the city so far. It’s not much, but it’s a very solid start; Swindle is willing to bet that a small group of mechs was working on it before officials decided to start in a formal capacity. Crystal City was never anywhere near as big as Iacon, or even Kaon. It wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t huge. It’s already been cleaned up, the rubble cleared away and replaced with neatly-stacked construction materials. It’s odd to see, considering that Swindle has been to Crystal City after its destruction more times than he’s been before.
Blurr, though, wanted to retire here. He’s been here enough to form such a strong attachment, one that persisted long after Crystal City was gone. He doesn’t talk about it much, so Swindle doesn’t know any specifics, but he knew that it was inevitable that they’d end up living here. Blurr’s expression is conflicted as he looks around, brows furrowed and lips pursed in something akin to concern, but optics wide and bright and sparkling with hope. Swindle takes his servo, jolting him out of his reverie, and Blurr gives him a slightly shaky smile. “Sorry, it’s just…” He trails off, face pinching further as he searches for the right words. “It’s just so weird. Is is crazy to say I’m kinda scared?” With his free servo, he wipes at his optics, a wet laugh escaping his vocalizer. “I dunno why. I feel like… Primus, this sounds insane. I feel like I’m looking at my own grave, y’know?”
Swindle… can’t say he does. Then again, he doesn’t think he’s ever found himself so attached to a place, considering how much he’s had to move around in his life. “Is that… in a good way or a bad way?” He winces as soon as the words come out of his mouth, but doesn’t take them back.
“I don’t know,” Blurr answers, sniffling a bit. “I never thought I’d get to see it whole again, and part of me doesn’t want to. I think I’ve seen its ruins more than I’ve seen it standing and I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to feel about that.” Seemingly unconsciously, he hunches in on himself, and that’s when Swindle recognizes what’s happening. He takes Blurr’s other servo. “I’m really excited, but ‘m also sad and scared and maybe a little angry? I don’t know.” He’s fully crying now, squeezing Swindle’s servos so hard they creak, but he’s still keeping it bottled up. Chassis heaving, he hiccups, and it sounds like it hurts. “‘M sorry, I dunno why I’m like this.”
It always breaks Swindle’s spark to see Blurr like this, drowning in his unruly motions and apologizing for it. Gently tugging on his partner’s servos, he murmurs, “D’you wanna take a li’l break?” Lip trembling, Blurr nods and lets himself be led over to a decimated alleyway, shaded from both the star and prying optics. Swindle sits him down with his back against a crumbling wall, where he curls up with his face in his knees. Kneeling next to him—ignoring the creaking of his joints—Swindle loops an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in.
With a hearty shudder, Blurr gives in and twists to cling to his partner, muffling his sobs in his plating. He continues to choke out apologies, all of them resolutely ignored. By the time he gets it all out—and Swindle makes sure he does, rather than try and swallow it back down—Blurr has slumped into Swindle’s chassis and is looking a little woozy. He scrubs at his cheeks and mumbles, “I d’nno what that was about. Sorry, I think I’m good now.”
“Doll, you got nothin’ to apologize for,” Swindle insists gently, taking Blurr’s face in his servos and wiping at the tear tracks himself. “You feelin’ alright?”
Relaxing into the hold and shuttering his optics, Blurr nods. “Little lightheaded, ‘s all. Think I just got overwhelmed. I’m okay.” His optics are clearer when he reopens them to lean forward and kiss Swindle’s cheek. “Thank you. You’re too good to me.”
He says that a lot, and it never fails to make Swindle feel… strange. Cold, uncomfortable, off-kilter. “Just doin’ the bare minimum, sweetspark.”
“The bare minimum of putting up with my outbursts?” There it is. The self-hatred that rears its ugly head every once in a while, that never fails to make Swindle angrier than it probably should. Spoken with a hollow smile and tired optics, like Blurr isn’t the light of his damn life, the reason he’s still alive.
“The bare minimum of carin’ for you.” Swindle doesn’t mean to snap, but the words come out harsher than he meant them to. “I know for a fact you don’t want no one to see you cryin’ like that, so I’m makin’ sure no one does.” His servos squish Blurr’s cheeks. “‘Cause that’s what a good partner does, Blurr. ‘Cause I love you, ‘outbursts’ included.”
That’s the thing about Blurr. Whenever he gets into these ruts, he needs to be yanked out of them. Soft words and gentle touches don’t work for him; they only make him feel condescended to. Swindle doesn’t necessarily like being rough, but he can relate, and he can’t deny that he prefers this tactic as well. It’s more familiar, closer to his default. And, lucky for both of them, it’s what works best.
Case in point, the way Blurr sits up a little straighter as he nods. “Right, right. S–” And the way he cuts himself off before he can finish his apology, instead murmuring, “Thank you. I love you, too.”
Even these little changes make Swindle smile, crooked and a little dopey. “There’s my mech. Now c’mon.” He grunts as he pushes himself to stand, servos held out to help Blurr up. “I dunno if it’s finders-keepers or what, but I wanna get my pede in the door before the rest of the low-lives show up and take all the prime real estate.” Blurr chuckles, warm and soft and genuine, and lets himself be pulled to his pedes.
Swindle’s chassis still aches from yesterday, but he finds that he doesn’t mind leaning against his partner as they continue down the road. Especially when Blurr’s optics sparkle when he spots a run-down bar, the broken sign propped up in front of the door reading:
Maccadam’s Old Oil House.