#whirlcee

Arcee considers this. She knows Whirl is a good liar, but only because he’s impossible to believe when he is telling the truth. She takes a swig of her beer and offers him the bottle.

“Did you get any groceries?” she finally asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “They were out of waffle fries, too, so I just got regular.”

Arcee sniffs and Whirl knocks back the beer before handing it back. She’ll eat a Whopper she found on a park bench and is Drift’s preferred “smoothie” tester, but she’s particular about her potatoes.

“It’s about the sauce to fry ratio,” she’s explained on many, many occasions. It’s her default drunk rant, unless someone’s mentioned Prowl in the last hour.

“Cyclonus texted me,” she says out of nowhere. Whirl doesn’t want to stiffen, so he laughs instead.

“Cyclonus texts?” he asks. “I can’t even imagine it. Oh, let me guess, does she sign them all? Last name, first initial?”

Arcee shoves him again; gentler, this time, playful.

“You would know, if you ever talked to them,” she says.

“Cyclonus and I talk!”

“Outside of work,” Arcee says. She’s back on her phone again, and Whirl can see her scrolling through her messages out of the corner of his eye. “She and Tailgate want us to come over for dinner.”

Anyone who’s only briefly met the couple would assume it was Tailgate pressuring Cyclonus to do the nice thing, but Whirl knows them better than that. If Cyclonus is inviting, then she wants Arcee and Whirl to come over. Which is…

“Eugh,” he says and snags the beer again. “A dinner party?”

“Just the four of us,” Arcee says. “She said they’re taking care of the cooking, but you can make your enchiladas, if you want.”

That’s for Tailgate’s sake, Whirl knows. Cyclonus herself is immiscible with anything with a visible oily sheen.

“Maybe they finally got engaged,” he muses, instead of trying to answer the unasked question.

“Didn’t they elope?” Arcee goes along with it for now, because she loves him and is perfect.

“Did they?” He plays with his hook, wrapping his index finger around the blunt metal. “Tailgate was talking about it, but I thought Cyclonus wanted more pizzazz. She doesn’t seem like a ‘basement of city hall’ kind of bride.”

“They call each other ‘my wife.’”

“Yeah, and?” Whirl drops his hand back to his stomach. “Drift and Ratchet getting married hasn’t stopped Rodimus from calling Drift his husband.”

“You know that was for the drink special.” She squirms, finally submitting to their configuration, and ends up resting her head on Whirl’s forehead.

“You think—” he stops to blow ginger hair out of his mouth, “—you think that makes a difference to Rodimus?”

She doesn’t answer, which means she’s not sure, which means Whirl wins. He celebrates by breathing her in: familiar and a little spicy.

“You forgot to shower again.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.” She swats him and gets comfier. “How was your day?”

Neither of them are good at remembering to ask that, but they’re trying. Usually Whirl’s better at it.

“Normal,” he says. “Boring. I want to quit.”

“I know.” Her hand comes back to his shoulder, but this time it’s gentle, a comforting rub. “Kill your boss yet?”

“Only in my dreams,” he sighs. Arcee’s touch grows firm and she twists so she can kiss his forehead.

“Should I tell Cyclonus we’re coming?” she asks, her lips still pressed to his skin.

“You didn’t give her an answer?” That’s surprising. Arcee’s normally the speak first, think later type. It’s what got them talking to each other in that shitty group a couple years ago and Whirl considers it among her best qualities.

“They’re your friends,” Arcee says.

“Yours, too,” Whirl says. “How many contacts do you imagine Cyclonus keeps?”

His vision’s all hair; he can’t see her expression.

“I don’t—“

Whirl, ever a dramatic motherfucker, shoots up, and his head collides with Arcee’s nose. She yelps; he hisses. He whips around, horrified, but she’s already laughing, and he sags against her once he realizes it’s okay.

“So anyway,” he says once she’s calmed down, “they’re your friends too and we’re going just so Tailgate can prove that to you.” Tailgate… has a way with people like them. That Whirl is willing to forgive her for it says everything.

“Deal,” Arcee says with a smile that shows off her crooked incisors. She takes the beer back—Whirl’s splashed himself, he only realizes now—and finishes it before standing up. “Saturday night.”

He leans back into the couch as she disappears into the kitchen, feeling his shirt stick to him. He should probably shower.

“Babe, you forgot to put away the fries,” Arcee calls.

“What—are you taking my beer?”

Silence, followed by the sound of a bottle opening.