#galvarod

The sun shone in through the windows of Rodimus’s private quarters. Well, not solely his, the ones he shared these days with Galvatron, who was out at the moment. He had no clue when his partner would come back.

The light formed an accusing spotlight on the back of his head.

Worse, the chronometer on the wall flashed the time, indicating that it was only early afternoon.

Yet Rodimus already felt so exhausted, his limbs heavy and his mind sluggish.

After finishing with his morning meetings, he had rolled home… and promptly flopped prone onto the ground.

He turned his head away from the wall as though not looking could negate the reality of linear time.

Rodimus had, over time, gotten used to the idea that, to some extent, he would always be involved in keeping a fractured, nearly barren Cybertron together, despite having tried to separate himself from the burden of the Matrix whenever possible. It had been difficult to accept the immense, inescapable responsibility that he had never wanted in the first place.

If only that were all of it.

After the wisdom in the relic had been drained to push back against the Hate-Plague, the added task of refilling it with new wisdom also weighed him down. Only a small seed of light had been restored to the chamber.

Most days were an uphill battle, but that was hardly new for Rodimus. Life just tended to be a Sisyphean task.

At least these days, that task tended to involve fewer battles and more administrative pressure. He could do without the tedium and public appearances and approvals and interviews and blah blah blah—If only he could liquefy and saturate the floor.

Then again, given that the floor was solid, Ultra Magnus would likely just come by and mop him up, wring the resulting Rodimus juice out into a bucket, and then prop that bucket up in the chair in Rodimus’s office. He would probably even tape a light-pen to the rim of the bucket for Rodimus’s “convenience.”

An absolutely terrible way to go, he thought, pressing the side of his face into the cold, metal floor.

And they’d write it on his epitaph: “Forever Dedicated To The Betterment of Cybertron”

The bust, of course, just to rub salt into the wound of his exhaustion, would be a lovingly sculpted damned bucket, in beautiful black granite, with a faithfully rendered taped-on pen.

He heard a door slide open behind him. It was probably the front door, but he couldn’t be sure without looking. Looking would require moving and he had little to no interest in doing that at the moment.

However, just in case whoever had walked in thought him dead, Rodimus groaned horribly to dispel any worries about having stumbled upon the corpse of the vaunted leader of the Autobots. He wasn’t dead, not yet anyway.

“I have returned from the day’s battles!”

It was just Galvatron then; that was fine. He had never been one to fear a half-dead body. Or a full-dead body. Any body, actually.

Rodimus managed to slide one arm over his head to give his partner a tired thumbs up.

“Welcome back,” he mumbled into the ground. “Good job.”

With the reintegration of the Decepticons into mainstream society, Galvatron’s role these days was more ceremonial than practical. Rodimus was often envious of how little paperwork he had to do. Public appearances were the mainstay of his duties. At least Galvatron, being a blowhard, liked the sound of his own voice. That would make it a less tedious duty for him personally.

“Rodimus, why are you on the ground?” Rodimus, still not able to see Galvatron, could hear the heavy stomp of his footfalls as he approached… and then the creak of his old joints as he squatted down. “Where is your dignity?”

“Uh… Misplaced it this morning.” Assuming Rodimus had had any dignity to start with was very generous of he, so he decided to humor Galvatron a little.

“I shall graciously help you locate it—“

He probably ought to intervene before Galvatron’s sometimes tenuous grasp on reality slipped. He did better these days, but best not to chance it.

“Galvatron, I was joking. It was a joke—”

“Perhaps it has been stolen then.” A strong hand pressed into his shoulder, as though to comfort him, to assure him that all was not lost in the course of some grand quest. “I shall sally forth and reclaim it for you from the smoldering corpse of the would-be thief.”

How, uh, valorous.

“No,” Rodimus said, “you really don’t need to do that.”

“But why?”

“You’re being incredibly literal again—Look, I’m just tired. It’s fine. Really, it’s fine.”

Said a mech lying prone on the floor and having spent untold minutes wishing to ooze into it. Totally fine and normal behavior and goals.

He could hear Galvatron humming with doubt.

“Are you dying?”

Before Rodimus could say anything in protest, a heavy weight pressed along his side before arms rolled him over. The next thing he knew, he was both cradled into a tight embrace and also pressed into the floor. Good thing he had never been claustrophobic.

“This is hardly a warrior’s death!”

Despite being a somewhat squished, he was comforted by the embrace, as though the hug would keep the worst of the exhaustion at bay. If anyone could intimidate a sensation, it would be Galvatron.

“No, Galvatron, it’s… it’s an accountant’s death and I’ve always hated math.”

Galvatron’s grip around his torso tightened, but not uncomfortably so. Not yet anyway. It happened sometimes when he got a little too… enthusiastic in his affections. The guy never did anything by half-measures, both a blessing and a curse depending on the day.

“I forbid you to fall to such a pathetic enemy.”

There was no winning any complaint otherwise; he knew that by now. Best to just give up and let Galvatron have his… whatever this was. Victory, maybe? That didn’t seem quite right, but it didn’t really matter.

Rodimus relaxed into the sense of safety and concern.

“Alright, alright; I won’t. You’ve convinced me,” he conceded.

Galvatron scoffed, as though the very idea of an alternative was laughable.

“Of course, I did.”