fateandfortune

His teasing earns him a scrunched nose in faux disgruntlement; really, she's amused by his impression of her, and admittedly it isn't far from the truth. She and Hux had been similar in that way, the both of them requiring coffee for the well-being of others, and the thought makes her miss her friend dearly. The pang of loss isn't as brutal as others have been though; she'd always known that eventually they would be parted and she'd prepared for it in her own way. Perhaps he'd found her letter by now, or maybe that was still yet days away. Either way, she was glad she'd left it for him, and she feels guilty for not having done the same for KO.

Except it turns out she hadn't needed to.

The way he fails to answer her question does not go unnoticed but she doesn't bring it up again just yet. Maybe later, when they've settled things, and if it comes up in conversation. Her own answer to it isn't something she'd like to share, so best to leave it alone for now.

She sips at her coffee for a moment, contemplating the screen and weighing options before speaking. "Are there any unused industrial areas nearby? If we could find a large enough warehouse away from populated areas, you could stretch out for a while."

It's something she's been contemplating, remembering the early days of the way when they'd stayed in abandoned warehouses outside of major cities. Close enough for supply runs but far enough away that no one noticed the people squatting within.

A stretch sounds absolutely divine at this point, and Knock Out hums his agreement. "Let's see what we can find."

The dash screen changes, flicking through information pages at a dizzying rate of speed as he searches the area. Unbeknownst to Rogue, those type of locations were something he was also familiar with seeking out, so he knows what to look for. News articles, property receipts, land surveys, company letterheads all go scrolling past until he eventually he settles on a choice.

Some twenty minutes later has found them at the fenced gate of an old factory, the painted name on the side too weathered to read. Several sets of old train tracks run in front of the silent brick behemoth, but they've long since grown over with weeds, unused. It looks as appropriately abandoned as they could hope for. Knock Out rolls forward gently until his fender presses against the locked gate, applying a steady pressure -- carefully, so as not to scratch his paint! -- until the padlock gives and the gate swings open. He reverses just briefly enough to push it shut again behind them.

It's not hard to find them an open bay door to enter through, and Knock Out drives them into the main building. Inside, the air is speckled with dust and particulate where it catches the morning sunlight streaming through the high windows and down from the skylights, some of which are broken. Though it's not immediately obvious what kind of factory this had been, it had almost certainly been something for manufacturing, and the skeletons of stripped-down conveyor belts and other machinery sit quietly in the main space. There's an expected amount of graffiti decorating the walls and the support braces, but not a lot of loose debris on the floor. It can't rightly be called clean, but there are definitely worse states it could have been in.

Once Rogue steps out, he reverts back to root mode with a long, grateful ex-vent. Arms raised above his head, he works out the tightness built there in startlingly similar motions to human stretching, though with the added audible sounds of coils twanging and springs decompressing to go with it. He fusses with his front of his chassis for a few moments, making sure that the fence hadn't scratched his wax too much, and flashes her an artful grin. "Much better."

Only then does he notice that there are still shreds of corn chaff caught in the armor seams of his legs. Had Iowa really only been two days ago? Grumbling, he begins to pull them loose.

Looking the place over, she decides it wouldn't be a bad spot to spend the day — and the night. She's slept in far worse conditions before, and at least here they're out of sight and he can be himself for a while. It's clear from watching him move around that he's enjoying being in this form again, and she'd much rather consider his comfort over her own. After all, so long as they're together, she'll be just fine.

After thirty seconds of watching Knock Out try and fail to remove the reminders of their time in the cornfield, she sets down her backpack and waves her hands at his, shooing them away.

"You're just making it worse, sugar, let me do that," she instructs with fondness, tugging off her gloves and tucking them into pockets so they won't get dirty as she works. Her small hands easily grasp hold of the chaff and pull the pieces loose where he'd only managed to shred them further. With deliberate care, she tugs one piece free and then another, concentrating on not letting her skin touch him while she works.

Knock Out lets his hands fall to his sides with a huff, but obediently stands still so Rogue can work loose the pieces. Up close, it is more evident that the large sections of armor plating on his body actually weren't - they are comprised of dozens of smaller pieces, all interlocked with such impeccable precision that their seams are nigh invisible until the light strikes them.

But he seems to have a fine motor control over each piece as he followed her movements, each section of plating lifting slightly to expose a darker grey metallic underneath that gleams with an almost iridescent sheen. The movements also reveal delicate traceries of wires and gear mechanisms, but it gives her enough clearance for her fingers to grasp the corn tassel strings and pull them free.

"Mmph," he jolts just a little as she works at a stubborn piece of stalk that was pinched between two segments, and his plating flares out reflexively. "So that's what's been itching up against my protoform for two days."

It's beyond fascinating to get such a close view of his body and the intricate ways it works. She'd always wondered how his form managed to change so easily and now she can see how it would be possible, those smaller pieces able to rearrange much more easily than the larger sections they appear to be. And every time she gets a glimpse of the wires and gears and that metallic surfaces beneath... He's beautiful in ways she'd never before understand.

Not that she would tell him that. Knock Out might mean the world to her but he does not need any additional boost to his vanity.

When he suddenly moves, it takes her by surprise, his plating shifting faster than it has before that moment. One hand instinctively raises to press against the plating that seemed to come so very close to hitting her in the face, her adrenaline spiking from how the movement startled her— And then she's jerking away, almost throwing herself backward away from him, clutching her hands to her chest and staring up at him in fear. One second passes, two, and she's sending a prayer of thanks to whatever deity might be listening that her powers hadn't had time to activate.

"Knock Out, you have to stand still," she tells him firmly, struggling to keep her tone even and not shout at him as she had on the road. He doesn't deserve that but he doesn't understand what's at stake. "I don't wanna hurt you."

Rogue flings herself back from him so suddenly that his first reaction is something close to panic himself, thinking that he'd somehow closed an armor plate on her fingers and hurt her. The way she's holding her hands close to her chest only seems to confirm it, and his spark-rate falters until she speaks.

But not in pain. Fear, that's plainly evident, but the chastisement is not what he was expecting at all.

"I... hurt-- me?" he repeats, incredulously.

She doesn't think about how it might appear to him, the notion to consider it never even occurring to her as she battles against her racing heart to calm down and explain what he doesn't understand. It's hard, so very hard when she's so terrified of causing him harm, but she tries.

"My mutation is in my skin," she says, not moving one step closer and keeping her hands right where he can see them tight against her chest. "That's why I'm always covered up."

That much he did know -- that was why he could touch her with the holoform, but why she was so careful never to let her skin come into contact with him when they drove. But he hadn't realized it would be so instant, enough that the casual brush would frighten her so badly.

"All right," he cedes, and his plating has tucked down tight, apologetic. "I didn't realize. Nothing happened when you touched my handle the other night, or just now, so I thought it required something... more deliberate. I can get the rest of the corn bits, if you'd prefer."

"When I—" She'd forgotten about her slip-up, the brief lapse in caution that had been erased by everything that had followed. Of course, he'd be confused about the parameters that governed her abilities, anyone would be in this circumstance. Taking a deep breath, she releases her hands from their death-grip on each other and folds her arms over her chest.

With an apologetic tone, she explains, "No, I'll still help, I can wear my gloves in case it happens again. I'm sorry, sugar, I should have taken the time to explain, especially when we've been so close the past few days."

"I'll hold more still," he promises, though he thinks she'll likely wear the gloves anyway after a scare like that. His plating relaxes again from its held position, letting her resume working, and he does indeed keep nearly immobile save for the very slight flex of his torso where his vents are located.

"Although I admit, I'm surprised your ability would work on me, given how different we are. Even the healer imPorts said their powers would have no effect."

Not that he'd ever been seriously injured in that world to require urgent healing, but the topic had come up with a few people in passing.

She does put her gloves on before stepping close again, carefully removing each pesky piece of chaff that's still stuck in his seams. There's so much of it, she's sure he must have been uncomfortable the past two days from it all.

"I've never met anyone it doesn't work on," she says as she tugs on an especially long strip. "Even mutants who could turn their skin to metal." After a moment, she hesitantly adds, "But I've never actually tested on it on someone like you. I didn't have to before, the nanites gave me control of my powers."

And now the nanites were gone, along with the rest of the Porter world. Knock Out falls silent, platelets opening and closing for Rogue's now-gloved hands. He hadn't realized quite how much debris he'd picked up during their short trek through the cornfield until it was starting to make a small pile at her feet. What he wouldn't give for a washrack right about now...

"Is that something you can do? Test it?" he finally inquired. He wasn't overly thrilled about the prospect, but it bore relevance. As Rogue had said, they'd been inextricably close the past few days, and that was unlikely to change any time soon based on their predicament. It would be a smart thing to have confirmation on, if they could get it.

She pauses in her work, reaching up on tiptoe to grasp another piece between her fingers. Test it. Just the idea makes her nervous, but she has to admit that it would be better to know for certain. If for some reason her powers don't work on him...

"Yes," she says simply, tugging that piece and settling back on her heels. "All it takes is a few seconds of contact with my skin. Just two or three and I'd start absorbing you. Your energy, thoughts, memories. I'd end up with a whole copy of your psyche in my head that would never go away."

There's a clinical air to her words as if she's given this explanation a hundred times before.

Knock Out realizes only now that he's had a very incomplete understanding of the way Rogue's powers worked this whole time. They had never discussed them in detail as imPorts, the topic never moving much beyond a cursory explanation of why she frequently wore gloves, and he'd thought it limited to absorbing others' powers.

"I see," he says slowly, and the smile he gives her is something somber and rueful both. "Perhaps we'd better not, then. The last thing you need is to go through everything I've seen and done, to say nothing of inflicting my psyche on you."

It's rare for her to so fully explain her powers anymore, the necessity of it no longer an issue thanks to the nanites. But now... She hasn't missed this conversation in the slightest.

Examining the strip of chaff in her hands, she pointedly doesn't look up at him, not sure she can keep her warring emotions out of her expression. "I only get bits and pieces, just a memory of two when it's a brief touch like that. And I've got hundreds of psyches in my head already, sugar. One more wouldn't bother me any."

It would only take one, Knock Out thinks. And while she might get something innocuous -- a snippet of daily life aboard the Nemesis, some random space world on a routine mission, a drive-in movie that he'd particularly liked -- she could just as easily see something heinous. The experimentations in Shockwave's labs. The grisly aftermath of a pink alchemy attempt. Silas, in his medbay, cut apart and screaming.

Knock Out can live with those memories. He views them through a particular sort of indifferent lens that only comes from existing with them for so long, and an inherent selfishness that protects his own interests at the expense of others. For the most part, he never gives them a second thought. It's not like he's ashamed of them.

But the idea of Rogue knowing, and the possibility of seeing that unconditional trust in she looks at him with turn to fear or revulsion, sets his spark clenching nonetheless. Not shame, but dread. What if she wanted nothing to do with him once she knew what he was really like? It's not like he'd blame her for it.

"You can't know that."

She can practically see the proverbial and literal gears turning in his head, cycling through thoughts she knows others have had when faced with knowledge of what her powers can do. It's one thing to just have your energy drained or powers copied, but your memories? Copies of yourself locked away in someone else's mind? That's a hard concept for anyone to accept.

Especially if they've been through even a fraction of the things she knows he's endured in his life.

Looking up at him now, she gives a little shake of her head. "Armitage Hux is the best friend I've ever had and he killed billions of people before we met, thinking it was the right thing to do. I didn't judge him on his past and I wouldn't judge you either, Knock Out. But if you don't wanna take that risk, I understand. Believe me, I do, and I don't blame you for a second for wanting your privacy. We'll just have to be extra careful from now on to make sure any accidents don't happen."

He ex-vents softly, but Rogue's words evidently have some effect on him. She acts like the risk is his, as always putting others before herself even at the cost of her own comfort. And that is why he takes her claim that she won't judge him at face value, when from anyone else he'd scoff it aside as mere platitude.

It's not a guarantee - fear is an irrational, wicked, pervasive thing - but it's as close as anyone can reasonably get.

And he owes her, at least to try.

It feels unseemly to tower over her for this, so Knock Out bends down into a crouch, balancing easily on wide pedes so that he's closer to her. "All right," he consents. "We'll try. Go ahead."

She hadn't realized how much she been hoping he would say yes until he actually did. In an incredibly short time, she'd been overwhelmed by holding on to the tiniest glimmer of hope that maybe she'd been wrong, that things could be different between them. He owed her nothing and she felt so much in his debt for his agreement to this crazy plan.

It's a relief when he crouches down, his usual towering height worrisome if she did accidentally took too much. Being crushed by a toppling mountain of metal isn't exactly the way she wants to go out, you know? And it makes this more personal, letting her be close enough to watch his expression as she tugs off one glove and reaches out. Her hand hovers over the beautiful rich red of his chest plate, just an inch of space between them, and with a steadying breath, she presses her skin against him.

One. Two. Three. That spark grows brighter as she strains to feel any stirring of her power where it would usually be kicking in full force by now. Four. Five. Her fingers spread out and she presses harder against his metal. Six. Seven.

"Nothing's happening," she says in a hushed voice, eyes wide and expression etched with wonder.

There are still faint traces of unease in his expression despite his agreement, but he obediently holds steady so she can proceed at her own pace, working herself up to the actual motion. Under her hand, the metal of his frame is (perhaps surprisingly to her) not cool to the touch. Rather, the metal has a sun-warmed feel, diffuse and gentle.

Seconds pass, and Knock Out feels her increase the pressure of her touch against him, but whatever she's waiting for has yet to manifest.

Cybertronian physiology strikes again, he almost says, but seeing the awe in her expression stalls his frivolous quip.

"Nothing's happening," he agrees instead, but beyond that he's waiting for her cues.

Nothing's happening. It's like she's in a dream, the best dream of all where she can touch her dear friend without her powers ruining everything. Their shared world had spoiled her by granting her control over her powers and she'd been terrified upon learning the nanites were gone from their bodies. But now... It doesn't mean a thing for the billions of humans in this world, but she can touch him and that means everything to her.

A wavering smile breaks out across her face, giving only the briefest notice before she's launching herself at him, leaning up as much as she can to try wrapping her arms around him in a hug. She laughing and crying at the same time, overcome by a swell of happiness as she presses her bare cheek against the warm metal of his body.

"I won't hurt you," she murmurs, the words both a fact and a promise, and holds on to him just a little tighter.

He definitely isn't expecting that and his gyros shift to compensate, but then Rogue is reaching up, her arms wrapping around his neck and clinging there. Her mixture of laughs and cries is a strange chorus, but she radiates joy and pure relief, resting her face against his chassis and he has no inclination to move her. Instead, very carefully, he folds one arm behind her. Not too tight, not enough to pin her, just a slight pressure.

It is, Knock Out thinks, the most he's been touched in quite a while. He doesn't necessarily disapprove.

(He is, inappropriately opposite of her happiness, glad her powers did not work and that he remains kept to himself.)

But for the moment, he just appreciates the affection as it's given. "No, you won't."

It feels so good to hold on to someone. She'd hugged people in their shared world, of course she had, but things are different now. Everything is different... but not all of it in a bad way. This is the very best kind of different.

Giving him one last squeeze, she loosens her hold and leans back, staying close but wanting to be able to look at him properly. She reaches up with her bare hand to gently touch the side of his face and says with an affectionate, grateful smile, "Thank you for trusting me."

The reaction is instinctive and ingrained: when Rogue touches him, he tips his head down and against, pressing into the touch. Though his faceplates are smooth, they don't feel metallic like the rest of him, but rather instead porcelain-like. His reflex only lasts a few seconds before he seems to catch himself doing it, and stops.

"You're welcome," he answers after a beat, looking oddly ruffled by his impulse. "I'm glad it will be one less thing for us to worry about."

Though he does wonder, academically, what constitutes a viable target for her ability...

That immediate reaction to her touch does not go unnoticed but she doesn't say anything about it. He'd stopped like he was catching himself, and she decides not to bring attention to it right now.

"Me too," she agrees, smile still firmly in place, before stepping back out of his way and letting her hands fall. He's been cooped up in his other form for so long, she doesn't want to keep him crouched down like this now that he's finally able to stretch out properly. "Is there anything still stuck in your seams? It'll be a lot easier for me to get out now that I don't have to be so careful."

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