A/N: One shot set pre-DOTM. I, of course, recognize that Annabelle's age is slightly off and that she is older here than what she would really be in the movies. But, hey, just an brief idea that insisted on being worked out. So, here we have it, Annabelle being older and hanging out with two of everyone's favorite 'bots. Also, I'm not entirely familiar with the regulations for family visiting military bases, but, again, hoping its a nuance that you, dear reader, will forgive me along with Annabelle's incorrect age. Hope you enjoy! Please R & R! ~~~Epsilon
Disclaimer: I own nothing, lucky ducks at Hasbro own all that is Transformers.
Like moths to a flame, they were drawn to her.
Major William Lennox looked down on what had become the ordinary in his life: his exuberant daughter, all the more vivacious in her bright sundress, bobbed up and down on her heels as she craned her neck back to look up at the comparatively monstrous silhouette of the alien, robotic being. Even from the distance between them in the hanger, Lennox was still able to discern the higher, sweeter notes of his daughter's voice as they rang in harmony with the basso rumble of Ironhide's. Through the sharply contrasting cadence of their conversation, Lennox looked on at his daughter, so tiny, so fragile juxtaposed with the tangle of harsh unyielding angles and black edges that was Ironhide. Not far from where the two spoke—Lennox hadn't the slightest idea as to what either could talk about in such an absorbing manner—lingered Optimus, another polite participant in whatever verbal whirlwind Annabelle had stirred up in her childish charm.
Her tidy blonde ponytail bounced with her movements, swinging her rapidly tanning arms in what her Uncle Epps dubbed a 'windmill' fashion, she tossed her favorite one word question at the hulking Autobot weapons specialist.
"Why?" The monosyllabic word carried on her dainty voice echoed over to Lennox.
Ironhide blew air out of his vents, and shuffled backward half a human pace. Lennox had long since learned that such a rush of air coming from an Autobot could function as either a sigh or a sound of annoyance, depending on who did it. When heard from Ratchet, Bumblebee or even Sideswipe, it often equated to annoyance. When heard from Prowl or Optimus it was indubitably a sigh. But when it came from Ironhide it tended to either be a sound of frustration or a signal that the hulking weapons specialist was uncomfortable.
"Why?" Annabelle stubbornly repeated.
Caught off guard, Ironhide blew more air out of his vents, "B-because…"
"Because, why?" Like the sound of a babbling brook, the little girl giggled, at what, Lennox could only imagine. Confidently she waved a slender arm at Optimus in some form of indication or signal, not a demand, but neither was it hesitant; she wasn't afraid of the titan that knelt before her.
Obligingly, Prime held out one massive hand to her, palm up. Soft and pliable, still developing human fingertips reached out to the cool and ancient metal. Though Lennox stood halfway across the hanger, he knew the sensations his daughter was experiencing as her fingertips touched Optimus': there would be the butterfly velvet of the human skin, warmed by the consistent supply of blood, rich and red, as it flowed beneath and through her paper thin skin, pumped forward by her heart, such a diminutive knot of muscle. Then there would be a stark awareness of otherness, a knowledge of that irreconcilable difference which her very human tissues, glowing with warmth and life, touched. For what her fleeting fingers playfully touched would be gravely cold, a cold perhaps retained from an immortal existence spent within the depths of space, a realm that was lightless and limitless as it was without warmth. Those mechanical digits she tapped with such exuberance and amusement were latent with unbridled strength; all Optimus had to do was to relax his hand, let it come to rest even lightly upon the cool packed concrete, and Annabelle would be crushed under its size and weight. How could she know—as she now moved to climb directly into the Autobot Leader's palm and promptly began to trace the flames upon Prime's wrist—the very limb she clambered over was a weapon that the human race could never hope to counter or match. She couldn't understand that the colorful flame decals she so calmly rested her small hands on were nothing more than a sheathe for a blade that was twice as long as she was tall. Again, all Prime had to do was idly shift what amounted to a token amount of his armor to bring such a cruelly honed blade to bear with similarly devastating results. He could cut her to ribbons with just the smallest of malfunctions within his servos.
As if sensing his growing disquiet, Optimus looked over to Lennox, his steady optics, cold and electronic, locking with those of the human. Gingerly, every movement carefully measured, Prime curled the tips of his fingers inward, not to crush, but rather to protect the flicker of human life and warmth that balanced within his palm. Unbidden, the rolling velvet thunder of Prime's voice rose within Lennox's memory, incited by Prime's uncanny gaze, once more repeating the Autobot Leader's personal mantra, his very programming: to defend, to protect. Lennox couldn't recall precisely when or where Prime had told him such sentiments, but the human could never forget how. Those words, spoken in a voice, an enthralling timber that had the strength to move mountains and vibrated with the will of an antiquated god, had been said not just distinctly, poignantly, but with conviction. It had been a promise, a pledge and a commitment: we defend, we protect you, no matter the cost. That was the dividing line between an unfeeling, remorseless machine and the Autobots; it was why, even though Prime was more than capable of great violence, he was also capable of great compassion, devotion and loyalty. It was, in short, why Annabelle would never have anything to fear, at least not from them.