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Little Wings

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Sharing a berth is an activity Cyclonus has never participated in before. It was not something he would have ever participated in if it was not for Tailgate, the tenacious minibot who had somehow become a permanent fixture in his life. It was because of Tailgate that he now lay on his side, arm draped protectively, claws dangling loosely off the side of the bed. It was because of Tailgate that sleep came easier now, his thoughts raged less, and his spark burned more steadily. It was also because of Tailgate that the sharp little fangs of his open-cheek jowls were bent in, crushed by the minibot's erratic sleep. The surprise kick hadn't hurt but it had jerked him from his slumber. Tailgate, however, was oblivious to what he brought to transpire.

The little 'bot could sleep through anything except his own dreams.

Sighing, Cyclonus sat up against the wall of their berth, red optics shining dimly onto his partner. His wings twitched, flaring out to show wakefulness-- a sign that he would not sleep again easily. No matter. If he couldn't sleep, neither could Tailgate. With a mindful palm he rocked the minibot's shoulder, growling low in his throat.

"It is time to get up, Tailgate."

It was not time to get up, of course, and he suppressed a smile as Tailgate's optics lit up. Gentle blue hue washed over their berth. With a stretch and slight grinding of servos, Tailgate was twisting around to look up at Cyclonus. His optical visor narrowed suspiciously only a few seconds later.

"Isn't it a bit early, Cyclonus? Why are we awake? ...What's wrong with your face?"

Cyclonus stared hard at him, willing him to understand.

"I... I kicked you again! I'm so sorry!"

Little hands grabbed his narrow lower jaw, little fingers feeling around the damaged fangs. It wasn't difficult to push the metal back into place, though Tailgate quickly withdrew when hot air began to be vented through the purple mech's throat as opposed to his exhausts. He peered at his minibot with some wonder.

"...Let us sleep at the right end of the berth."

Tailgate lay curled up over Cyclonus' chest now, his limbs securely fastened by the most nimble of claws. His arms were wrapped loosely around his neck, optics focused on his purple mech's little wings, twitching and turning every which way. They hadn't been doing that before-- and it wasn't the first time Tailgate had noticed such a behavior.

It usually meant there was a draft. Or, dare one say it, Cyclonus was happy.

"You're not mad, you big weenie."

"Tailgate, did you think I was angry at you?"

The little bot shook his head.

"Then do try to sleep."