Notes: As some of you know, Speech Therapy has been stalled for some time. Grapple only recently started talking to me again and this one-shot is the result.

It takes place when both of them are very young and the war was just becoming a big issue.

Sometimes, the simplest circumstances can drastically change a life.

A chance encounter. A casual conversation. Being in the right -or wrong- place at the right -or wrong- time. Who you know. What you know. Where you live. What you were born in to. Something so commonplace and normal, you would never suspect it.

In Grapple and Hoist's case, the events that altered the course of their life forever began with the simple sound of the door chiming.

Their entryway was a constant source of activity, with people coming and going and looking for Hoist, who was then serving as chief medic at a free clinic serving the less fortunate. He was a popular mech, liked by those he treated, respected by those in the medical and scientific fields. It wasn't uncommon, in those days, for patients to stop by with questions, for other medical staff to drop in and discuss work, for other colleagues to pop in to chat about research.

The door chime was always going off, and it was always for Hoist.

Grapple was content with that; he didn't need company. He was happy with his work, and when he wasn't working, he was happy spending time with Hoist. He spent most of his time in his workspace, creating, designing, blissful and in his own little world, emerging periodically to share his designs with others of a like mind, or discuss an idea with Hoist, or simply to enjoy some quiet time with the other mech.

And life was good.

Until that one day, when the doorbell rang and everything changed.

Hoist, as he often did, answered it. Grapple was lost in a world of schematics and blueprints, solder and scrap metal, and very rarely did he even notice when the doorbell rang. It was hardly ever for him -he wasn't the most social of mechs- and on the rare occasion that he answered it, he had to fetch Hoist anyway, so Grapple was wont to simply remain where he was and let Hoist go about the business of answering the door.

A comfortable routine, one they were both used to.

But that day, something was different, and the call hadn't been a social one.

Grapple knew that when he felt some one watching him; when he looked up and saw Hoist standing in the doorway, a data pad in his hand, worried look on his face.

Hoist only wore his mask at work back then; there was really no reason to keep his face covered at home. His expression -solemn, troubled, frightened- was enough to make Grapple drop his stylus on his too-cluttered desk and rise from his chair.

"What's wrong?" He started forward, then hesitated, taking a moment to simply regard his companion.

Hoist was an easy-going individual, compassionate and kind. He was quick to smile, to lend a hand, to help others. He didn't ruffle easily, didn't panic in difficult situations or emergencies, didn't fold under pressure. These were all things Grapple loved about him; things that made him himself.

And at that moment…He looked to be any one but himself.

It was rare that Grapple ever saw Hoist looking uncertain. It was rare that Hoist ever felt uncertain. But there, with Grapple staring at him, waiting for him to say something…Hoist found himself almost unable to speak.

"I've been drafted." He finally managed, the unfamiliar and unsettling worried look still spread across his face.

"…Drafted?" Grapple frowned, taking another step forward, still not quite sure what to do. This was the last thing he ever would have expected his partner to say; the look on Hoist's face spoke more of bad news about a patient or cuts to funding or something else mundane and common.

Hoist simply nodded, his voice seemingly gone, and offered him the data pad he'd been holding all this time.

Grapple took it, scanning over the text on the screen, worry seeping through his body and wrapping icy fingers around his spark. Hoist was indeed being conscripted; he'd been hand-picked to serve as medic on an out-bound military ship.

He glanced up, and for a moment, they both just stared at one another, optics wide.

"How…" Grapple's voice faltered mid-sentence, and he found himself taking a step forwards, reaching for Hoist's arm to pull him close. This was…It wasn't right at all, and the architect found himself seized by an unusual desire to be close to his partner. "You're not a field medic. You have no military training. How could this happen?"

Hoist just stood there, seemingly stuck, frozen and rooted in place.

Then…

"It was Perceptor."

"What do you mean?"

"That ship, the Epsilon? It's a military ship, yes. But it's also equipped with an impressive lab. Perceptor is heading up their research team. You already know that he feels I could be doing more with my skills than working at the clinic; that I could be involved in research and development. He is brilliant, but lacking in the medical training I've received. Thanks to him, I was hand-picked for this assignment. He wants the opportunity to pick my processor."

"That's not fair!" Though he knew he sounded like a whiny brat, Grapple couldn't help the words from slipping out. Hoist had worked too hard to establish himself where they were. He was making a difference here and helping those who would otherwise be unable to obtain medical aid when they required it. His patients needed him; what would they do if he was gone?

What would Grapple do if he was gone?

Hoist just looked at him for a moment, smiling sadly. "It's war, Grapple. When is it ever fair?" He paused, looking contemplative, confused, even. "They want the best. I don't know what they would want with me."

He was genuinely bewildered; Hoist had no idea of his own brilliance and that was one of the things Grapple found most endearing about him. "You are the best." He couldn't help smiling, despite the seriousness of the situation. Hoist would always be Hoist, no matter what.

And what would Grapple do without him?

He couldn't really recall much of his life before Hoist; they'd been companions as long as Grapple could remember. And Hoist had always looked out for him, always made sure he didn't get too caught up in his work. Grapple was prone to starting a project and getting so distracted by it that he forgot about basic necessities, like fueling and recharging. Hoist took care of him, dragged him out of their quarters, reminded him that there was life outside the world he crafted.

"What are you going to do?"

Hoist took a step away, sinking heavily in to Grapple's chair, shoulders slumping, head lowering. He suddenly looked very old, and very tired. "What can I do?" The words came out on a sigh, "It's not as if they merely requested my presence. I've been drafted."

Grapple felt his spark sinking even more.

Hoist was right, of course.

With the war on, there was no way any one could ignore or get out of a draft summons. Every able-bodied Autobot was being called upon to aid in the war effort, especially those with unique or important skills, such as medics and arms makers and educators and scientists. Almost all of their neighbors with a skill deemed crucial to winning the seemingly unending battle with the Decepticons had already been called upon. Hoist had known it was inevitable, though he'd been hoping the powers that be would decide what he was doing in the city was important enough to leave him alone.

He didn't agree with the war. They were all Cybertronians; they were all equal. There should have been no lesser citizens based solely on faction. There should never have been any factions to begin with! How could he go on that ship, and help soldiers who were being trained to slaughter others simply based on their faction? How could he help the research team look for new ways to harm their enemy, when he didn't even see them as enemies? They were people –mechs, femmes, younglings- all with different beliefs and ideals, but people nonetheless.

Hoist didn't understand how this whole disagreement between the factions had blown up into an all-out war.

He also hadn't wanted to get involved, but it seemed he was, whether he liked it or not.

He glanced up. Grapple was still there, standing where he'd been, the data pad held loosely in a hand. The architect had seemingly shut down, a blank look Hoist recognized as his thoughtful expression crossing his face. Where had he gone and what was he thinking? The medic had no idea. Grapple was just like that sometimes; gone to Primus-only-knows-where and deep in thought.

Who would take care of Grapple –clueless, absent-minded Grapple- if Hoist left on that ship?

It was an unsettling thought.

It wasn't that Grapple wasn't a capable, mature mech. It was more that he got so absorbed in what he was doing that he forgot there was life outside of work. He lived in a world of blueprints and schematics, designs and chicken scratch notes, scale models and scrap metal. And he loved that world; he loved creating, working his magic and building his masterpieces.

Hoist knew that Grapple lived for his work. He also knew that his partner needed that gentle nudge from time to time to get him out of the building and in to the world. Grapple –though somewhat socially clueless- was a friendly, affable mech, who got on with almost any one, lest they insult his profession. He genuinely enjoyed socializing, though he didn't initiate it often.

It was Hoist's self-appointed task to get the other mech out in to the world.

If he was gone…Would any one ever see Grapple?

The door chime sounded again.

They both remained frozen, still staring wordlessly at one another.

Then -"I'd better get that"- Hoist rose, heading for the entranceway. He paused for a moment as he passed Grapple, their fingers brushing, lingering. Everything will be okay. He had no way of knowing that his own worried expression was mirrored on the architect's face; no way of knowing what his partner was thinking.

And then, for the moment, life resumed its normal pace.

"I'm coming with you."

It was much later, when the day was drawing to a close, and Hoist was settling wearily in to the couch –how had it been such a long day, when he hadn't even left home?- when Grapple appeared in the room, uttering those words.

Hoist looked up, taking in the face of his partner; the earnest expression, some sliver of hope lighting bright blue optics. Grapple was tenacious. He would find a way to make it happen, a way to ensure that they would both be on the Epsilon when it left the spaceport; Hoist didn't doubt that. When did Grapple ever let a little thing like the word "no" stop him? He was constantly having building permits denied or having people shoot down his ideas or hearing things like "that's impractical" or "what are you thinking?" and that never got him down.

That thought was terrifying.

It was bad enough that he had to go off to war. But at least Grapple would have been here, where it was relatively safe. The military wouldn't want anything with an architect who only erected fancy high-rises. Grapple's buildings were whimsical, high class. They had few practical applications. He would stay under the radar and no one would bother him if he stayed put. "But…" How was Hoist supposed to tell him no, though? His intentions were good. "What about all of your projects? You can't give up those dreams…"

"None of the things I want to construct are practical with a war on." Grapple flopped down beside Hoist on the couch, casually –but meaningfully- placing an arm around his shoulders. "I might as well build things I know will keep you safe." There was a lot of knowledge –not that any one knew it- stored in his processor that would be helpful in the war effort. All he would have to do was offer, tell them a few ideas…And they'd be begging him to go with them.

And he could keep an optic on Hoist until they could both come home.

"Are you sure?" There was no stopping him once his mind was set, and Hoist knew it. Sighing, he settled in to his companion's side, willing to accept the inevitable.

Grapple was quiet for a moment, brow knit, mouth a thin slash across his face as he thought about the question. "I would rather go to the Pit with you," He finally said, quiet and serious, "Than stay here without you."

At that, Hoist smiled a little, turning to hug Grapple, who pulled him closer and reached up to touch his cheek, ready to say it would all be okay, when the door chime peeled, signaling some one's unsolicited arrival.

This time, they both ignored it.