#lizardtakesflight

Of all the things Lord Megatron could have gifted him with, he would have expected something more… practical. His lord is quite utilitarian himself; in fact, he finds it strange that Megatron would have kept something like this in his possession for so long, and what made him decide to give it to Soundwave after so long. It had been presented with a terse speech about honoring his dedication to the cause, which in itself was out of place. Soundwave needs no thanks for his service, this is where he is meant to be.

~~~

It’s something that haunts the edges of his processor in the days following. While the vast majority of his processing power is dedicated to his numerous tasks, some small partition replays memories of the quiet chime the fabric makes when he unfolds it, of how it looked as insubstantial as mist in Megatron’s hands as he held it out to him. He does not question his lord’s motives. He does not need to know.

He wants to know.

~~~

Lord Megatron agrees to speak to him in his lord’s private quarters. That is not unusual; he often meets the warlord to deliver briefings and mission statuses. What is unusual is the unease in his circuits. He is not afraid of Megatron, and he is not afraid of the answer, but not knowing is driving him to distraction. (Not that anyone save his symbionts would ever be able to tell.)

“What is it you wished to ask me, Soundwave?”

His lord is to the point, as always. Soundwave does not answer, instead pulling the length of fabric from his subspace, holding it draped before him and tilting his head towards the larger mech in silent question.

Megatron snorts and reaches out to pluck it from his fingers. As strong as the material is, his strong claws could probably shred it in an instant. “I did not expect you to recognize the gesture. It is an old military-class tradition, for war heroes presented with a mantle to represent honor of their service.” He steps in closer to Soundwave, unfolding the fabric to its full length. “It was often worn as a cape or cloak. Or in some circles, they wore it like so..”

He’s close enough for Soundwave to feel the silken brush of his energy field. It is calm, nothing of his lord’s emotions bleeding through, but he feels comfort from its strength nonetheless as Megatron reaches out and gently drapes the fabric over the sharp angles of the spy’s frame. Soundwave holds still, lifting his arms only when his lord directs, and Megatron wraps and winds the material around him. It is soft, delicate where it slides against his plating; it binds him without feeling constricting.

His vents stall when Megatron moves behind him, the enormous presence looming above him, engulfing him as completely as the fabric against his armor. Megatron’s fingers slide across his slim waist, and Soundwave lets out a soft, involuntary ripple of sound.

They both still where they are for a long moment. He doesn’t want to pull away, and his lord’s hands on him feel heavy, grounding. He doesn’t want to think about where Megatron learned about this, about whom taught him to wear it, about whom meant for Megatron to wear this as a conquering hero.