Title: Considering

Fandom: Beast Wars Transformers

Author: Sanjuno Shori Niko

Rating: Mmm... PG, maybe. For two sentient beings who use a male identifier sleeping in the same bed. Mwaha.

Pairing: Dinobot/Rattrap

Warnings: Snarky sentient androgynous transforming machines are making with teh snuggles.

Summary: A warrior ponders how circumstances lead to change, a rogue sleeps, and the impossible has predictably come to pass.

XD - XP

CONSIDERING

XD - XP

It is dark.

In the first days of the Beast Wars the residents of the Axalon kept to their accustomed living habits. Considering the fact that Cybertron had no sun there was no real reason for them to pay heed to the disorienting short day-night rotation of the planet they had found themselves stranded on. No real reason, at first, to change their old habits because of a new environment. Gradually though, they began to adapt to the planets natural rhythms as the reasons for the adaptation quickly became apparent.

After deleting the program the held back their beast mode instincts – keeping the animal mind separate from the robot mind – it was the natural dispositions of their animal forms that began to dictate their recharge cycles. Hawks for example were exclusively diurnal, and so Airazor was rarely seen after dark unless there was an emergency.

Perhaps the same was true for the Predacons. Tarantulus was certainly in touch with his beast modes instincts, but then again the spider had always been strange and rather disgusting in his chosen activities, even before becoming a spider. It was difficult to tell how much of the scientists oddity was the result of natural animal desire and how much was a result of the Predacon's own twisted perversion.

Of course, on such a primitive planet there was a distinct lack of anything resembling Cybertron's city-lights. As well, in such technologically deprived situations like theirs it was not prudent to waste what little spare equipment they had building unnecessary devices. A few unremarkable instances involving Predacon plots and bright lights seen where bright light should not be during the night time had lead to the foiling of said plots, and Megatron had soon decided that acting at night was more trouble than it was worth. So now the Maximal's nights were usually relaxingly Predacon free.

The Axalon's crew eventually adopted a diurnal-nocturnal recharge cycle. Now the wrecked starship grew quiet soon after the sun went down and the moons rose. At times like now – a little past midway through the planet's night cycle – all but the one assigned to monitor watch had retired to their quarters. Leaving the residence bereft of the companionable chaos that filled the daylight hours.

So.

It is dark, and it is silent.

Rather surprisingly silent, considering.

Considering that a certain pair for whom argument with everyone, but most especially arguing with each other, was a result of functioning as natural as moving, refuelling, feeling the energy pulse from their spark in its chamber. Considering that these two beings are in the same ship, in the same room, in the same berth.

Or maybe it is not so surprising, considering.

Considering how the smaller being lies draped over the bulk of the others torso. Considering how the smaller mechs head is resting on the upper edge of the others chest-plate, sarcastic red optics dark in recharge. Considering how clever, nimble hands rest in sleep-stillness, anchored by thief-quick slender fingers curling around the edges and joins of heavy fighters armour. Considering how the smaller form lies so close to the other, the rogue holding tight to the warrior in an unspoken, unconscious statement known on an immediate level without need for vocalization.

No need at all to speak, considering.

Considering how strong arms fashioned to deliver brutal blows to an enemy cage the smaller form of the rogue in possessive protection never overtly shown outside such quiet, un-witnessed private moments. Considering how large, dangerous hands are firmly gentle where they come to rest on the thinner armour of the quiescent thief. Considering how sharp, deadly claws trace with contradicting delicacy over the smaller form during a lazy shift, drawing contently irritated mutters from the rogue at the mixing of their energy fields. Considering how harsh moulded features relax in amusement as the spy never bothers to wake fully but just flexes his grip once on the warriors plating before settling down again. Considering how dimly lit optics were filled with an ironic acknowledgement of the situation as they studied the oddly placid expression on the usually active face of the rogue.

The situation is rife with irony, considering.

Considering the pairing of a prideful, honour-bound warrior with the defiant, tricky spy-thief. One is too stubborn to bend, but too strong to break, the other a gorgons knot of sidestepped rules and manipulated odds. Both have long since decided on their own rules. Both are distrustful and set in their ways.

One would think that they could never coexist, considering.

Considering that the rogue prefers to set traps so to take the enemy by surprise, from behind, unawares, tilting the odds in his favour. Considering that the warrior prefers to declare a challenge, to meet the enemy face-to-face on an open field. It should be an impossible partnership, considering their differences.

Or perhaps it is simply an improbable pairing, rather than impossible, considering.

Considering that they complemented each other's skills sets perfectly. Considering that where one first resorts to force, the other uses guile. Considering that both were soldiers, each with their own method of fighting. The warrior taking his battles as they came, sometimes actively seeking them out. The rogue planning ahead and avoiding direct confrontation if at all possible. Sword and laser paired with tripwire and mine.

With their differences seen as a strength, rather than a weakness, the partnership is a good choice, considering.

Considering that while the warrior could crush the rogue in a contest of strength and battle-skill, the rogue would win in a contest of intrigue and trickery. Both of them know, and acknowledge these facts.

They balance each other well, considering.

Considering that there is one battlefield where they meet as equals. Where sharp-edged words are wielded with an assassin's skill. The exchange of cutting insults a duel between equals, circling, searching for an opening in the others guard before attacking. Voices clashing like blades off shields, searching for the moment of weakness in which to land a finishing blow to win the match. Considering the enjoyment obvious in flaring optics, bright with excitement. Considering the comfort they found in the familiar steps of the sword dance of their verbal jousting. The well-worn pattern of their fighting-play has the comfort of consistency in situation prone to change without prior warning.

It is easy to forget what they mean in favour of what they say, considering.

Considering how they constantly besiege each other with invective when it is what is unsaid that holds the most meaning. It is easy to forget sometimes, in the heat of the moment, how much the silence means. It is easy to forget when the air between them is full of words let loose like a flurry of bolts at an opposing battle line, that they are prepared to die for each other. It is easy to forget that they are prepared to take hits and hit in turn, moving side-by-side through the waking nightmare of war crying insult all the way. It is easy to forget they are even on the same side of the war until they turn away from their favourite fight, turning their ire on less favoured foes, and the connection between them shines like mono-wire under firelight.

All things considered, they are inevitably drawn to each other. Each and every encounter between them driven by a fury, a passion underlining every heated exchange, so they can be nothing so tame as friends, nothing so bland as team mates. Rivals. Comrades-in-arms. Shield mates. Companions. Theirs is a relationship that exists without definition, without declaration, and thrives in the silence between clashes.

Yes, considering who they are, considering what they are; they must either come together or destroy one another.

And the silence breaks.

"Nngh. Chopperface?"

"… What is it, Vermin?"

"Stop thinkin' so slaggin' loud and go into recharge already, Scalebelly."

"I will recharge when I feel the need, Rodent."

"You should feel the need now, Rust-for-brains. Or do I not satisfy you anymore?"

"That is by far the most idiotic question you have ever asked, and the answer is obvious, you simpleton. I shall recharge in my own time."

"Aw, yer such a sweet-talker. Not. Now listen you stubborn saurian, we've got patrol in a few cycles and I fer one, don't feel like getting my aft shot off because someone was too busy philosophizing to get a decent recharge. So would you, pretty please, shut down already!"

"Hrr… Why do you not take your own advice, Cheese Breath."

"Because your thinkin' is keepin' me awake, Needle Maw."

"I was not aware you were a telepath, Garbage Eater."

"Shaddup… what was so fraggin' interestin' it kept you up this long anyway?"

"… I was thinking about silence."

"Oh-kay… Yer a freak, you know that, right?"

"Shut up and let me rest, you squeaking annoyance."

"Heh. Love you too, lizard lips."

The silence says quite a lot, honestly.

Considering.

THE END

XD - XP

End Notes:

So yeah. I'm actually pretty proud of this fic, for all that it's my first attempt at Beast Wars, I like to think I did a pretty good job of staying true to the characters. Well, to Dinobot at any rate. I mean come on, the guy quotes Shakespeare while making life or death decisions. He just strikes me as the type to philosophize on life's little ironies in the afterglow. And really, this is how I always saw the relationship between Rattrap and Dinobot. They'd slaughter each other on their respective playing fields, but they're evenly matched intellectually. And I find my favourite moments are when the two of them just look at each other and don't speak, but somehow know exactly what the other is thinking.

So tell me what you think. Beast Wars always struck me as having a more spiritual bent than the other Transformers series. I'd like to know if anyone other than me thinks this fic is pretty.

And yes, the imagery and fancy words are important. It is Dinobot thinking after all, and he likes big words. Yet, ironically enough, my favourite part to write was the ending bit where Rattrap wakes up.

… I'm such a hypocrite. XD

Comment and criticism please!