Dumbfuck Extraordinaire©

Last he knew, he'd appealed to the Crowfather's lingering soul, asking the Old One to return you safely to the Forge Lands and the makers who were likely waiting to envelope you into their fold with open arms.

Would you still be there? How much time had passed? And what of Earth?

All questions, he realised, that would sadly have to wait. Because War was suddenly looming over him, gauntlet outstretched, inviting their eldest to stand.

As Death grasped his brother's hand and used it to haul himself from the ground, he made a silent promise.

He'd find you, wherever you were. He didn't yet know how time had moved around him while he was 'dead,' but if you were out there, if your soul still remembered him, he'd find you and keep you as close as he had before the Well was opened.

It is, as you'd told him many times, what friends are for.

--------------------------------------------------

You couldn't rightly say you know if the years have been kind to you or not. It's hard to gauge when you see yourself change so slowly, every day, little by little. More hairs growing in around your jaw, more wrinkles settling beneath your eyelids, the one at the corner of your mouth that betrays the side of your face you tend to favour when you smile.

You don't think you've changed that much. Not really. You're still the same human who made friends with a race of giants. You're still the same human who helped a dead man feel alive again. Who forced an angel to live with his crimes rather than die without ever getting the chance to mend them. Who looked a Prince of Hell in the eye and thanked him for the Demon Key.

Who called an ancient, eldritch Horseman 'friend.'

You still miss him.

It's been years... decades even, and there isn't a day goes by that you don't think of Death in some capacity.

So, it's no surprise that you're thinking about him today as you doze in your favourite chair, the one you'd lugged here from several streets over so you could position it to face the setting sun, casting golden light in through glass panes and warming you where you sit amongst the tartan cushions.

You're tired now. More tired than you were when you young. Tired of rebuilding, tired of being Humanity's mouthpiece when there's tension between the races. Tired of being dragged from pillar to post by cold politicians who think that they still have power just because they used to enjoy it in the Old World.

You're not tired of waiting though, not for Death. Perhaps because you know, sooner or later, in some unknowable way, you'll be seeing him again when your clock ticks over.

Your head begins to nod, your lap sun-warmed and comfortable, when there's a sudden commotion at the door to your home. You flinch at the loud 'slam,' like someone has just thrown it open and let the handle crash brazenly into the adjacent wall.

Your eyes fly open at the same time as your hand flies to the knife in your pocket, gifted to you by your Horseman all those years ago.

'In case of an emergency,' he'd said as he pressed the beautifully crafted dagger into your palm, it's blade borrowed from one of Harvester's jagged edges.

It's the cold that reaches you first, a bone-deep chill that sweeps into the room ahead of any entity. At first, you think it's just the autumn wind blowing through the open door... but then there's a dark shape slinking into the entryway, a pair of embers glowing side by side in the air as they duck beneath the wooden frame.

... And then you're dropping your knife to the carpet and letting out a loud, wet gasp, both hands shooting up to cup around your mouth.

You'd never seen Death without his mask before, but you'd recognise the Horseman in front of you whether he were wearing it or not. The translucence of his skin like that of a fresh corpse... The cold that rolls off his bulging shoulders in waves, as if warmth itself is trying to escape his presence... Long, matted hair pitched darker than oil... And his face, until this point, completely unknown to you, is as sallow and sunken as you always imagined it would be.

The bone-mask he used to wear now sits safely on your bedside table, entrusted to you that day he gave himself to the Well in exchange for the souls of humanity.

He's the most beautiful sight you've ever laid eyes on.

"Y/n...?" his gentle voice wafts uncertainly into the space between you, sending tears over the edge of your lashes to cascade down your cheeks and dip between your fingertips.

It strikes you that, of course he'd be uncertain...

You've... changed.

He's still him. Still Death, with all his wonderful imperfections that were always there from the moment you first met him.

Yours, however, are new. A different body, a different face, similar of course, yet... it isn't the You that he knew. Suddenly, inexplicably, you find yourself feeling just a little self-conscious as his golden eyes rake over you from head to toe, and you move a hand away from your mouth to scrape some hair behind your ear. It shouldn't matter to you, you scold yourself sternly. Your friend is alive. He's alive, and he's here and -

Death doesn't even wait for you to confirm that it is you. He'd know your soul even if you changed so much that you couldn't recognise yourself.

In two short strides, he's crossed the room and flung his sinewy arms out wide, swinging them around your back and wrenching you forwards into his chest with such ferocity, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

"I... I-!" You can't find the words as he buries his face - his real face - into the side of your neck. You can feel the hard ridge of his nose sweep back and forth over your skin, pressing firmly against you as if he can't get close enough even with his massive hands clinging feverishly to the back of your jumper, anchoring himself to you like he expects you to disappear at any moment.

"Too long," he whispers harshly into your ear, "It's been too long..."

It's far more of a firm and unyielding statement than any kind of pleasantry. It has been too long. So, to remediate the error, Death is holding onto you like he never plans on letting any more time pass without you by his side again.

You try not to let that go to your head.

And then he's pulling his head away from you, and his fingers untangle themselves from your jumper to slide from your back and ghost shakily up your arms until he's clasping the sides of your neck and tucking his thumbs beneath your jawline, tilting your head backwards so he can stare down at you, starstruck.

For several, long moments, you're caught there, peering into his eyes as he lets his travel the new contours of your face. Only this time, you can see his thin lips, dark like a purpled bruise, stretch into a blindingly fond smile.

"Look at you..." he croaks thickly as a calloused thumb scrubs at the tear-stained skin below your eye, "I... I wasn't sure I'd be lucky enough to see this face again..."

Huffing out a wet laugh, you give your head a tiny shake and reply, "That's my line." And as you speak, you raise your own hands, guiding them around his wrists and edging them towards his exposed face.

You still have enough forethought to pause though, letting your trembling fingers hover just above the hollows of his cheeks before you ask, "Could I....?"

The Horseman only snorts, his grin inching wider as if he'd expected nothing less of you, and then he tips his head sideways, seeking out the warmth of your fingertips until you're cupping his head in one palm and using the other to carefully brush his hair away from his face.

In an instant, Death melts against you with a contented rumble from deep inside his chest, which really goes to show just how badly he's been missing you because there was a time you'd risk losing a finger if they wandered too close to his mouth.

"You stayed..." he whispers drunkenly, and for the first time, you have to wonder how long he's been looking for you.... You don't think you've ever seen the Horseman look this haggard.

"Stayed?" you ask.

"You're still here," he says, "You're still alive... I thought..." Heaving a sigh that you feel against your skin for the first time, he leans his pockmarked cheek more heavily against your hand and admits, "I thought I might have been too late..."

Bemused, you scoff, "I'm know I'm old, but I'm not that old."

"Hah," he chuckles breathlessly, his eyes hooded and admiring, "You could live to be a hundred, and I'd hardly consider you 'old."

"Well, no. But this is coming from the oldest man in the Universe."

For your cheek, you're rewarded with the soft bump of his chin where it knocks against your forehead.

The heart in your chest squeezes furiously, and your face crumples as you tip forwards into the Horseman, slinging your arms around his emaciated waist whilst he slides his hands down to the small of your back, unwilling to let any bit of him part from you for even a second.

"You haven't changed a bit," you tell him, voice muffled against his cold chest.

You feel the rumble under the Horseman's sternum travel up his throat before you hear him say, "Neither have you."

Admittedly, you blurt out a laugh. "Oh, are you kidding? I'm aging like leftovers."

Death’s abdomen jumps beneath you as he chuckles fondly and adds, “And what a privilege that is.”

“To age badly?”

Last he knew, he'd appealed to the Crowfather's lingering soul, asking the Old One to return you safely to the Forge Lands and the makers who were likely waiting to envelope you into their fold with open arms.

Would you still be there? How much time had passed? And what of Earth?

All questions, he realised, that would sadly have to wait. Because War was suddenly looming over him, gauntlet outstretched, inviting their eldest to stand.

As Death grasped his brother's hand and used it to haul himself from the ground, he made a silent promise.

He'd find you, wherever you were. He didn't yet know how time had moved around him while he was 'dead,' but if you were out there, if your soul still remembered him, he'd find you and keep you as close as he had before the Well was opened.

It is, as you'd told him many times, what friends are for.

--------------------------------------------------

You couldn't rightly say you know if the years have been kind to you or not. It's hard to gauge when you see yourself change so slowly, every day, little by little. More hairs growing in around your jaw, more wrinkles settling beneath your eyelids, the one at the corner of your mouth that betrays the side of your face you tend to favour when you smile.

You don't think you've changed that much. Not really. You're still the same human who made friends with a race of giants. You're still the same human who helped a dead man feel alive again. Who forced an angel to live with his crimes rather than die without ever getting the chance to mend them. Who looked a Prince of Hell in the eye and thanked him for the Demon Key.

Who called an ancient, eldritch Horseman 'friend.'

You still miss him.

It's been years... decades even, and there isn't a day goes by that you don't think of Death in some capacity.

So, it's no surprise that you're thinking about him today as you doze in your favourite chair, the one you'd lugged here from several streets over so you could position it to face the setting sun, casting golden light in through glass panes and warming you where you sit amongst the tartan cushions.

You're tired now. More tired than you were when you young. Tired of rebuilding, tired of being Humanity's mouthpiece when there's tension between the races. Tired of being dragged from pillar to post by cold politicians who think that they still have power just because they used to enjoy it in the Old World.

You're not tired of waiting though, not for Death. Perhaps because you know, sooner or later, in some unknowable way, you'll be seeing him again when your clock ticks over.

Your head begins to nod, your lap sun-warmed and comfortable, when there's a sudden commotion at the door to your home. You flinch at the loud 'slam,' like someone has just thrown it open and let the handle crash brazenly into the adjacent wall.

Your eyes fly open at the same time as your hand flies to the knife in your pocket, gifted to you by your Horseman all those years ago.

'In case of an emergency,' he'd said as he pressed the beautifully crafted dagger into your palm, it's blade borrowed from one of Harvester's jagged edges.

It's the cold that reaches you first, a bone-deep chill that sweeps into the room ahead of any entity. At first, you think it's just the autumn wind blowing through the open door... but then there's a dark shape slinking into the entryway, a pair of embers glowing side by side in the air as they duck beneath the wooden frame.

... And then you're dropping your knife to the carpet and letting out a loud, wet gasp, both hands shooting up to cup around your mouth.

You'd never seen Death without his mask before, but you'd recognise the Horseman in front of you whether he were wearing it or not. The translucence of his skin like that of a fresh corpse... The cold that rolls off his bulging shoulders in waves, as if warmth itself is trying to escape his presence... Long, matted hair pitched darker than oil... And his face, until this point, completely unknown to you, is as sallow and sunken as you always imagined it would be.

The bone-mask he used to wear now sits safely on your bedside table, entrusted to you that day he gave himself to the Well in exchange for the souls of humanity.

He's the most beautiful sight you've ever laid eyes on.

"Y/n...?" his gentle voice wafts uncertainly into the space between you, sending tears over the edge of your lashes to cascade down your cheeks and dip between your fingertips.

It strikes you that, of course he'd be uncertain...

You've... changed.

He's still him. Still Death, with all his wonderful imperfections that were always there from the moment you first met him.

Yours, however, are new. A different body, a different face, similar of course, yet... it isn't the You that he knew. Suddenly, inexplicably, you find yourself feeling just a little self-conscious as his golden eyes rake over you from head to toe, and you move a hand away from your mouth to scrape some hair behind your ear. It shouldn't matter to you, you scold yourself sternly. Your friend is alive. He's alive, and he's here and -

Death doesn't even wait for you to confirm that it is you. He'd know your soul even if you changed so much that you couldn't recognise yourself.

In two short strides, he's crossed the room and flung his sinewy arms out wide, swinging them around your back and wrenching you forwards into his chest with such ferocity, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.

"I... I-!" You can't find the words as he buries his face - his real face - into the side of your neck. You can feel the hard ridge of his nose sweep back and forth over your skin, pressing firmly against you as if he can't get close enough even with his massive hands clinging feverishly to the back of your jumper, anchoring himself to you like he expects you to disappear at any moment.

"Too long," he whispers harshly into your ear, "It's been too long..."

It's far more of a firm and unyielding statement than any kind of pleasantry. It has been too long. So, to remediate the error, Death is holding onto you like he never plans on letting any more time pass without you by his side again.

You try not to let that go to your head.

And then he's pulling his head away from you, and his fingers untangle themselves from your jumper to slide from your back and ghost shakily up your arms until he's clasping the sides of your neck and tucking his thumbs beneath your jawline, tilting your head backwards so he can stare down at you, starstruck.

For several, long moments, you're caught there, peering into his eyes as he lets his travel the new contours of your face. Only this time, you can see his thin lips, dark like a purpled bruise, stretch into a blindingly fond smile.

"Look at you..." he croaks thickly as a calloused thumb scrubs at the tear-stained skin below your eye, "I... I wasn't sure I'd be lucky enough to see this face again..."

Huffing out a wet laugh, you give your head a tiny shake and reply, "That's my line." And as you speak, you raise your own hands, guiding them around his wrists and edging them towards his exposed face.

You still have enough forethought to pause though, letting your trembling fingers hover just above the hollows of his cheeks before you ask, "Could I....?"

The Horseman only snorts, his grin inching wider as if he'd expected nothing less of you, and then he tips his head sideways, seeking out the warmth of your fingertips until you're cupping his head in one palm and using the other to carefully brush his hair away from his face.

In an instant, Death melts against you with a contented rumble from deep inside his chest, which really goes to show just how badly he's been missing you because there was a time you'd risk losing a finger if they wandered too close to his mouth.

"You stayed..." he whispers drunkenly, and for the first time, you have to wonder how long he's been looking for you.... You don't think you've ever seen the Horseman look this haggard.

"Stayed?" you ask.

"You're still here," he says, "You're still alive... I thought..." Heaving a sigh that you feel against your skin for the first time, he leans his pockmarked cheek more heavily against your hand and admits, "I thought I might have been too late..."

Bemused, you scoff, "I'm know I'm old, but I'm not that old."

"Hah," he chuckles breathlessly, his eyes hooded and admiring, "You could live to be a hundred, and I'd hardly consider you 'old."

"Well, no. But this is coming from the oldest man in the Universe."

For your cheek, you're rewarded with the soft bump of his chin where it knocks against your forehead.

The heart in your chest squeezes furiously, and your face crumples as you tip forwards into the Horseman, slinging your arms around his emaciated waist whilst he slides his hands down to the small of your back, unwilling to let any bit of him part from you for even a second.

"You haven't changed a bit," you tell him, voice muffled against his cold chest.

You feel the rumble under the Horseman's sternum travel up his throat before you hear him say, "Neither have you."

Admittedly, you blurt out a laugh. "Oh, are you kidding? I'm aging like leftovers."

Death’s abdomen jumps beneath you as he chuckles fondly and adds, “And what a privilege that is.”

“To age badly?”

Ratchet: With absolute, unabashed incredulity. He has done his utmost to be unapproachable at best and downright caustic at worst. So it is totally beyond him why you’d feel comfortable enough sleeping in the same room as him, let alone falling asleep on his shoulder whilst he's busy trying to ignore your presence.

But when you topple sideways and crash softly against his helm with a dull 'thunk,' Ratchet's processor promptly ceases to function for a few moments.

Did you just...?

Well. Now that's just... What a preposterous thing to-! He's not a Pit-forsaken berth for Primus's-...

... Ornery as he may be, even Ratchet doesn't have the spark to wake you up again just to scold you for the crime of... what? Falling asleep? It's a mark of trust, isn't it? But why in the Universe would you trust-...?

Oh... fine.

It's with a begrudging, private fondness that Ratchet slows his movements, easing one servo up to hover tentatively over you as he works at his computer with the other, ensuring you don't slip and fall from the honoured perch you've decided is safe enough to be at your most vulnerable.

Arcee: She does her best to appear nonplussed about it, claiming she hadn’t even noticed that you’d fallen fast asleep against her side, your face squashed up against the plating of her thigh and an arm slung haphazardly over it.

But the spark in her chamber gives a violent lurch when she glances down and sees you there, and she has to clench her servos into fists to keep them from wandering down towards you and stroking affectionately down your spine.

She knows how badly you need the rest, and becomes a little possessive over you while you sleep.

Arcee herself is pretty slow to trust others, so to see someone - a human who's been so reticent around the team, no less - comfortable enough to fall asleep at her side is... optic-opening, to say the least.

If anyone makes a sound that might disturb you, they're immediately subjected to her withering, ferocious glare, promising severe repercussions if they dare wake you up and ruin your precious tranquillity.

Bulkhead: He worries his spark might just leap out of his chassis and smother you right then and there.

The absolute elation that strikes him like a blow from Breakdown's hammer is almost enough to bring the sturdy Wrecker to his knees.

You'd made mention to the others that the Perseid meteor shower would be peaking during the night, and while the kids had managed to stay up for a few hours to watch, they'd eventually been ushered one by one back into the base by their respective bots when they couldn't stay awake, leaving you alone on the base's roof, gazing up at the night sky. Bullhead was only too eager in hurrying back to you after he made sure Miko was settled for the night.

He shyly asked if you minded him being there. You told him of course you didn't mind, and he looked at you like you were a goddess. Eventually, he even worked up the courage to say, "Y'know, the... view's even better if you can get up higher..."

And by some miracle, that line worked, and you ended up on his shoulder, spine pressed to his neck struts as you quietly agreed that the sky did look clearer from up there, though he's sure you were only saying that to be kind.

He was just coming to terms with the fact that you felt comfortable enough with him to willingly clamber onto his shoulder when he noticed you snoring softly away in his audial. He tried... very hard to keep still, fighting the sudden urge to pump his fist and leap to his pedes in triumph.

Instead, the Wrecker's excitement was kept stoutly under wraps in favour of simply basking in the contentment of being with you beneath the Earthen sky.

Bumblebee: Bee finds it very difficult to sit still when you fall asleep in his lap during the horror movie marathon Miko insisted on watching a little too late in the evening.

Raf translates the Scout's frantic buzzing as he reaches for you, telling you that Bee is essentially asking to use you as a security blanket. 'I think you make him feel safe,' the boy shrugs, much to Bumblebee's startled, half-hearted denials.

Either way, though you're still enormously wary of the bot's energetic nature, you allow yourself to be cradled against his tanks as you all watch the movie.

Only Bee notices that you've fallen asleep on him two thirds of the way through, and all of a sudden, he's less invested in the film and far more fixated on the human in his lap. He keeps making soft, crooning noises that earn him a few 'shushes' from Miko, but he can hardly be expected to help it, can he?