Protectobot Snippets #11
Yesterday I had blood drawn for some routine medical tests - from experience I know this wipes me out for the day, which is why I did it on my day off. I'm normally totally fine while they're taking the blood (a couple dinky vials! Not like I'm giving liters or anything), but usually a few hours later I'll find myself having to sit down very suddenly in the middle of the grocery store or something. This time, though, I got massively dizzy and nauseated, and spent a very miserable 15 minutes while the nurses told me comforting stories about big, burly dudes that also nearly passed out from getting blood taken. And then I was mostly fine, just kind of...icky, the rest of the day. Head rush every time I stood up and random dizzy spells, and it felt like I had lead weights attached to my arms and legs. I'm fine today, but sheesh! Such a delicate beastie I seem to be, lol. Anyway, the upshot of all of this is since I was lolling about most of the day and not getting much else accomplished - more snippets! :D
1.
Hot Spot couldn't quite put his finger on it, exactly when it was that Groove had stopped laughing. It had happened so gradually over the long vorns they had been gone. Now, hearing it again, the deep and unhurried, but still merry chuckle that was always so surprising coming from such a slender-framed mech, Hot Spot felt as if he had opened a door in his processor to find something familiar and precious, something forgotten and returned to him like an unexpected sparkday gift. Of course. Of course Groove had always laughed so.
2.
A glint of motion caught his optic, and Sideswipe leaned over to look down at the medbay floor. “What on Cybertron is that little weirdo doing now?”
His legs might be underpowered and he didn’t have an alt mode yet, but that didn’t stop Roller from getting where he wanted to go. First Aid smiled as he watched the little mech move at a surprisingly fast clip across the floor, and then shrugged and turned back to working on Sideswipe’s shoulder.
“He’s rolling, of course.”
3. (This is an expanded version of a snippet from Snippets #1, so bits might seem familiar.)
"Everyone is so different now," First Aid said, meaning the way they were all drawn sharp, rigid, no fun or smiles quirking the set of their wings. Grieving as First Aid was not, Silverbolt wanted to say, but did not, knowing it would be cruel, and untrue, no matter how he seemed on the surface.
"How can he just forget them like that?" Slingshot had stomped around their quarters, his anger a thin shield against the roil of fear and sorrow beneath. "And he smiles, that little smile, how can he-" and cut off abruptly at the sight of First Aid standing still and expressionless at their door. "Slaggit." Slingshot had gone over and taken Aid into his arms, and First Aid had rested his helm against Slingshot's chestplates, his hands balled in tight fists at his sides.
"I’m sorry," First Aid had tried to say, but Slingshot had growled and hugged him tighter, and dedicated himself fiercely to guarding the medic as well as any stupid, annoying helicopter ever could. It was after that that First Aid had started keeping his battle mask closed almost all the time, and only Silverbolt felt the cascade of self-recrimination from Slingshot every time he saw it.
Looking down at the little medic, Silverbolt's own emotions still felt as fragile as a fresh weld seam, barely healed over, ready to tear open and ache at every memory. And First Aid, through no fault of his own, was a constant reminder. Aid's optic ridges drew together a little in a combination of worry and determined concentration as he looked up at the Aerialbot commander, trying, as always, to find a way to fix things. He felt, in Silverbolt's grip, unyielding and immovable as a law of physics. Hot Spot would have known how to find a way around those walls, but Silverbolt was afraid to tamper, disturb this solid peace and find he'd shattered a fragile, irretrievable balance. First Aid recharged with them, allowing them to find comfort in the thought that they could comfort him, but he was always gone long before any of them awoke. Silverbolt wondered if he truly recharged at all.
"It makes you sad to see me," First Aid said, voice soft but still clear through the face mask.
"Yes, it does," Silverbolt answered, drawing him closer. There was no lying to those optics. Defensor’s optics, he thought with a pang, deep blue and steady behind the visor. "It would make us sadder not to see you, though." First Aid let himself relax and lean in to the larger jet, and at the conscious, deliberate surrender of the gesture Silverbolt felt something in his spark finally accede the truth of his own words, some interior ache easing at last.
"You know we’d adopt you in a sparkbeat, right?”
First Aid tilted his head, as if considering. “Hmmm, I’ve always thought Superion could use a tail,” he said, and there it was, that little smile, heard if no longer seen. Honest and gentle and completely inexplicable. Silverbolt let himself accept it, and take comfort.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a nice helmet, myself,” Silverbolt said, smiling back. He found, to his surprise, that it didn't tear at his spark to do so.
4.
“Pah!” Streetwise spit out the little bits of hair that had strayed into his mouth and shoved the mass away from his face in frustration. “Aid, can you cut this stuff off for me?”
“No! Don’t cut it off,” Hot Spot protested, looking alarmed.
“It’s just keratin,” Streetwise countered. “It’s not like it has nerve endings or anything. And it’s really annoying.
“But I like your fuzzy top.” Hot Spot reached over and carefully touched Streetwise on the head with one finger. “Besides, it kind of covers your stitches.” Not that they would ever lie to the very nice CPS people, but if they didn’t notice the stitches on Streetwise’s forehead, no need to point them out. It wasn’t like it was anyone’s fault that he’d managed to slip and gash his head open while climbing up Air Raid’s armor. After that, everyone had agreed that First Aid, having the most experience with small, breakable lifeforms, was in charge of carrying Streetwise around and making sure he didn't hurt himself, much to his dismay. Jet climbing had been fun! He had the hang of this human body now, but everyone insisted on treating him like a four-year-old child.
“That’s because you are a four-year-old child, loop head.” Blades crossed his arms, scowling down. Trying not to think about it, how terribly vulnerable his brother was now. No armor or weapons (his pulse rifle was nearly as big as Streetwise now, and the humans frowned on giving four-year-olds guns, for some reason). About a vorn, on average, the human lifespan, and if they couldn’t figure out how to change him back…yeah, he wasn’t going to let himself even consider it. Streetwise stuck out his tongue at him.
I think I can help.” Miles came over from where he had been watching them all in amusement, leaning in the doorway. “C’mere, Streets, hop up.” He patted the top of the human-sized desk in the corner of the room. Streetwise clambered up easily, and Miles produced a comb from somewhere and carefully parted out a section of the dense, curly hair. He then began deftly weaving the section together into a braid, tying the end off with one of the rubber bands he found in the desk.
First Aid leaned in to watch intently as Miles gathered more sections and continued to braid Streetwise's hair. //Yep, I could do that. I’d probably make them a little more symmetrical though// The braids Miles was making were tightly woven and looked like they’d hold together, but First Aid thought the arrangement was a little more…eclectic…than he usually saw in human children.
“So how come you’re a girl?” Miles asked, as he started on another section. “I thought you guys were, well, all guys. And why are you so young?”
“No idea.” Streetwise shrugged. “I’m nowhere near old enough to be a girl yet.”
“Huh?” Miles blinked, stopping his hair weaving for a moment.
“Four years would be about the human equivalent of our ages in Cybertronian terms, I suppose, although our life cycles don’t really correlate exactly,” First Aid said.
“Wait a minute, you’re all, like, little robot kids? And what does being old enough have to do with being a girl?”
Streetwise laughed at Miles’ bamboozled tone, and then rolled his optics at the fond, fuzzy feelings from his other four brothers across the gestalt bond.
//Can’t help it, bro// Groove sent, grinning. //You’re just so damn adorable when you laugh//
“We are still children, by Cybertronian standards,” First Aid explained, “although things are a little different because of the war. And yes, we don’t get to be females normally until we’re much much older. Except for Optimus, but he’s not really the usual case.”
“Optimus is a chick?” Miles boggled.
“…sort of?” First Aid looked at his brothers for input, but they just shrugged. “But not like you’re thinking, exactly. It’s…kind of hard to explain.”
Miles let out a whoosh of air in amazement, gathering the final section of Streetwise’s hair. “So how old is Optimus, then, if he were a human?”
“Oh…fourteen, fifteen maybe. If he wasn’t Prime, and there wasn’t the war, he’d just be starting his first real profession on Cybertron.”
“Optimus Prime is a teenage chick. That is completely awesome.” Miles laughed. “Wait ‘til I tell Sam. There, how’s that?” he added, finishing off the last braid. Streetwise shook his head a little, letting the braids swing around his face.
“Much better. Thanks, Miles!”
“Hey, no problem. You can tie ‘em all back, too, if you want them even more out of the way.” Miles held his own longish hair behind his neck in demonstration.
Streetwise peered up at First Aid. “Now, can we go find Air Raid so I can tell him to stop being stupid?” Horrified by the impressive leaking of Streetwise’s head wound and the new fragility of his friend, Air Raid had refused to come within twenty paces since the injury, afraid he would somehow manage to cause some new damage.
Hot Spot crossed his arms. “No more trying to climb him. And that cute look won’t work on me, so don’t even try.”
“Aw, you’re no fun, Spot.”
“And no flying either.”
Streetwise gave Hot Spot his best pleading expression, looking up with his human optics wide and earnest and clasping his hands together under his chin as he had seen other human children do when they especially wanted something. “Please, Hot Spot? He’s taken a gazillion kids flying and none of them ever got hurt. I’ll stay in the cockpit. And I’ll even wear a seat belt!”
Hot Spot sighed. Streetwise turned up the pleading a few more notches, leaning on the gestalt bond as well. He was a dinky little human, for Pit’s sake! He’d been totally traumatized! Couldn’t he at least have a little fun to make up for it?
Hot Spot made a valiant effort, but Streetwise was wiggling his human feet and legs from where he sat on the table in a very Streetwise-like action, and something about those little legs swinging made his spark melt into a helpless puddle. “Seat belt,” he said, trying to sound stern.
Streetwise tilted his…her…braid-covered head up at him and grinned, not fooled for a nanoklik.
“C’mon, I know where Air Raid’s been moping.” Miles took Streetwise by the hands and swung her up on his shoulders. Streetwise laughed from her new perch, and Blades facepalmed, but Hot Spot hadn’t said anything about climbing on other humans.
“One hour,” First Aid said, following them out. “And then it’ll be time for a snack and a nap.”
“But, Aiid-” Blades and Hot Spot and Groove all exchanged smirks at Streetwise’s piteous entreaty.
“Won’t work on him, Streets,” Groove called after them. “First Aid’s still lots cuter than you are.”