Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Nor do I get paid money for writing fanfiction. Would be lovely though. ;)
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The aftermath of a battle was never a pleasant sight. Mech fluids snaked through the hallways, groans of pain echoed from the med bay, and tempers changed drastically; on good days there were tired cheers and on bad days, silence.
In prospective, it wasn't a horrifying battle, yet it still weighed heavily on the processors. Vorns of war, repetitive loss, starvation, and fear had caused the most normal of mechs to warp into strange figments of themselves.
He was in the rec room, shakily holding the energon cube, attempting at replenishing fluid lost in the battle. Most of the wounds were minor, and would be healed by his self repair systems, for the exception of a portion of his right arm armor that was missing and had been hastily welded shut. And throughout the time in the rec room, Bluestreak was silent.
It was neither a loss nor a win for the Autobots. Both sides had met on the battlefield, skirmished, and drew apart. The twins, as always, were among the damaged, Hound (who had pulled a double shift right before the battle), had fallen into an exhausted stasis lock urged on by Hatchet, and most the mechs left within the rec room were sullen. The battle replayed in silent slowness.
Sniping, covering the twins' afts and other frontliners was his job. It was preferred. Battle made him edgy, cons rattled his senses, and noise, shouts, weapons, blasters…it was overpowering. His cube was almost empty, and the rec room was slowly emptying.
His next shift wasn't for awhile. He had time enough to recharge, and then see if the med bay was available. Bluestreak was just rising when he saw the once bright yellow mech stop in the large doorway, still and quiet. The yellow twin was as empty gazed as Bluestreak, though missing his right arm, and more gray and blackened than yellow. Nervous, Bluestreak opened his mouth, and nothing came out.
In silence, the yellow twin sat next to the normally boisterous gray mech. Was there anyone left in the room? Bluestreak didn't turn his head to see, only sat still as Sunstreaker's vents rattled, and his remaining hand tightened to a clenched grip. Sideswipe, was he alright? Quickly, Bluestreak broke from his dreamlike trance, struggling to remember the hazy battle. The last he had seen the red twin was near the end, still in one piece and only moderately damaged, taunting Reflector.
Blue was still struggling to remember the battle when Sunstreaker began to speak. "The slagger messed with Motormaster." It was simple, brief, and Bluestreak got the point. While the twins were formidable, especially when paired in battle, there were five stunticons, with unique powerful force fields and nasty tempers.
Oddly, Bluestreak remained soundless. Not that he didn't want to talk, he did. If given the slightest hint of encouragement, he would prattle on every miniscule or amusing subject his processor could gleam. But the look in Sunstreaker's eyes, leveling, tired, pained look told him to remain silent.
"Did Ratchet see your arm yet? I bet he wasn't happy." There went Bluestreak's resolve to be mute. No real movement from the yellow mech. "I can't remember the last time you've had an entire arm ripped off. Kinda looks like an explosion. Wheeljack's work?"
"Shut up Blue."
Silence again. The gunner and the frontliner sat motionless for about a breem, before Bluestreak fidgeted. Slowly, partially because of his injury and a bit of fear, his hand inched over until it touched warm metal. It was just a touch, yet Sunstreaker fidgeted, a barely perceivable jerk that froze Bluestreak's…well, everything.
The frontliner settled, suddenly slouching. And then he did a very Un-Sunstreaker thing. He smiled. A tiny one, worn out, yet not a smirk, even with Sides being in the Med Bay, missing most an arm, and looking like a fragged up mess.
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Aw…Sunstreaker and Blue. Just a drabble of my two favorite characters.