Title: Without a Map
Author: Tiamat's Child
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word count: 2,001
Summary: Silverbolt wakes up alone. This does not make him happy.
A/N: Written for springkink, for the prompt: 'Hot Spot/Silverbolt: Morning after – "Oops. Sorry, Silverbolt."' (Silverbolt is not always the most reliable narrator.)
Without a Map
It was still the middle of the night when Silverbolt slowly booted up again. The big industrial windows showed only the dull, distinctly yellow glow of tungsten street lamps and the thin, slit skylights were gray with light pollution, not dawn.
It took him a moment to place where he was – city lights? Windows in the roof? In all his short life he'd never… But this was the Protectobots' headquarters, when they bothered to use it. He had it on good authority that Streetwise caught flashes of recharge in alleys, and Groove had been known to coast into restways to doze. "I think we settle down better in our vehicle modes," Hot Spot had told him, stretched out on his back with Silverbolt comfortably sprawled on top of him. Silverbolt had listened to Hot Spot talk, telling him about inconsequentialities as Silverbolt's systems shut down to conserve and refresh power.
Hot Spot was definitely not here now, though. At some point Silverbolt had worked himself around to lie mostly on his back, and so now he turned his head, lagging, to see if possibly Hot Spot just hadn't been able to rest in robot mode. But there was no fire engine next to him.
Silverbolt did not like to admit even to himself the way that made him feel, the sharp jolt of worry and hurt it sent through him, leaping from pathway to pathway through his body. Where was Hot Spot? He was on medical leave, that was why he wasn't in Belize with his team, he couldn't have decided to try to get there, First Aid would go quiet in that way he had that always seemed to make Hot Spot nervous. And that was presuming Hot Spot could make the distance, which seemed unlikely, since much of the terrain was rough going and Silverbolt was sure he wasn't up to that sort of marathon drive yet. Besides, Hot Spot was a truck. Getting there on his own would take him longer than waiting and getting a lift. The trouble was, it wouldn't be unlike him to try –
It was a relief to hear a soft clink from the main part of the garage, where most of the work got done.
He gathered himself to his feet, muzzy still from an interrupted defragmentation cycle, and passed beyond the shaky steel screen. Hot Spot was there, leaning over First Aid's drafting table, the distinctive flimsy paper of daily human government spread across it instead of the rolls of thicker paper First Aid usually used. Silverbolt took a step toward him, and he looked up at the sound.
"Oh!" he said, "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I don't think you did, exactly," Silverbolt told him, as he crossed the rest of the room to take a look at the papers on the table. Hot Spot sounded exactly like he always did, brisk and warm and straightforward, with something old fashioned about the way he put his words together. It settled the worry down a little. If Hot Spot was just being Hot Spot than they must be all right – he hadn't thought they wouldn't be, but Hot Spot's vanishing act had made him wonder. "I just came back online and you weren't there."
Hot Spot's hands had gone still when he saw Silverbolt. Now they twitched – one of the little expressive tells you could read if you knew him well enough, which Silverbolt did. He was uncomfortable, embarrassed, which set Silverbolt back on edge too. "Oops," he said ruefully, "I'm sorry, Silverbolt. I just couldn't get – well, I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to keep you up too, with my restlessness. Did you think I'd gone to Belize?"
"It crossed my mind," Silverbolt said, "It's the sort of thing you do."
That little jerk of Hot Spot's head would have been a wince, if he'd had a mouth, which he didn't, not that that stopped him, exactly.
"I should hope you don't think I'm that careless of people!" Hot Spot said indignantly, "I thought you knew me better – I mean, we're friends, aren't we? I thought we were or I wouldn't -" He cut himself off and stepped back, away from the table.
Silverbolt jerked back and then stepped forward, or tried to. The table was in the way. "I didn't say that!" he snapped, and fought his voice back down to a range better suited to rational conversation. "I meant you don't like to leave your team alone."
Hot Spot looked down. "I'm sorry," he said, after a long moment. "I over reacted. It was unjust of me. I know I was the one who suggested it."
"It was," Silverbolt agreed, unable to resist striking back that little bit, even though he regretted it the moment Hot Spot stiffened. He didn't really like hurting people, he didn't think, he didn't want to be a person who took out his temper on his friends, but he kept doing it, even if it was just in small ways. It upset him. He wanted to be better than that, he wanted to be like Optimus, and he lifted his chin, gathering himself to apologize.
"I am sorry," Hot Spot said, looking back up to meet Silverbolt's gaze. "I know we're friends. It's good of you to stay with me, instead of your team, and here I am saying things like that. If Streetwise were here, he'd smack me."
Silverbolt laughed in startled relief. "He might. Look," he said, hastily, "I'm sorry, too. You're not the only one bristling, it's not fair to let you take all the blame."
Hot Spot watched him steadily for a moment, then nodded. "All right," he said, "I forgive you. Let's forget it."
"Yes, let's," Silverbolt said gratefully, "Not worth thinking about, right? Just being tired."
"Exactly," Hot Spot said, "And nerves." Which was one of those things you could expect from Hot Spot and his team. A metaphor might not make any sense for a transformer, but they'd probably use it anyway. It always sounded strange to Silverbolt, but he didn't mind it. It was the way Hot Spot talked, that was all.
"What're you working on?" Silverbolt asked, skirting around the edges of the drafting table.
Hot Spot shrugged, and took a step to the side so Silverbolt could take his place in front of the papers. Silverbolt took the implied offer and pressed it just a little further, sliding as close as he could manage, unpracticed as he was at getting into the personal space of anyone who wasn't a team mate. The leading edge of his wing settled against Hot Spot's leg. Hot Spot shifted, almost startled, and tapped against his wing incidentally. Silverbolt's hand twitched as he reached forward to settle down the corner of a page. He was intensely conscious of Hot Spot's shoulder next to his, of his elbow nearly touching Hot Spot's, of how he was between Hot Spot and the open room.
The papers were supply requisitions. Silverbolt read a few paragraphs, but while the words were undeniably words, they were mixed in with codes he didn't understand and constructed in that peculiar way official documents tended to have that was simultaneously flat and barely comprehensible.
He spared a moment to be grateful he didn't generally have to deal with the vast organism of human bureaucracy. It was nice to be able to leave that to Hot Spot, who was actually good at it. "What's it for?"
"A project of Groove's. We've got to get permission."
"Through all the proper channels, right?"
"Yes," Hot Spot said, "There's the deadlines to deal with, so Groove asked me."
Silverbolt nodded. It was hard not to be jealous of Hot Spot, sometimes. Silverbolt wasn't sure if any of his team would even bother to tell him if they had a project. Maybe Skydive would. But none of them would ask for his help. Hot Spot's team adored him, looked to him, didn't really need him, but all leaned on him just as if they did. Silverbolt's team tolerated him, when they weren't ignoring him in favor of chasing Slingshot's latest bright idea. Sometimes the difference hurt.
He didn't say so, of course. He had no intention of complaining, particularly not to Hot Spot, who regarded complaining as at least a venial sin worthy of rebuke, but might try to comfort him anyway, which would be awkward all around. "Deadlines coming up?" he asked instead.
"Not really," Hot Spot said, "That is, they are, but not quickly. Anyhow, I'm almost done, but like I said, I was restless…"
"And didn't want to bother me." Silverbolt wasn't entirely sure why this annoyed him, but it did. He wanted Hot Spot to have woken him. That would have been all right, Silverbolt was certain it would have been all right with him, and he wanted Hot Spot to have done that, instead of thinking waking him would bother Silverbolt, and sneaking away.
"Well. No. I didn't – you got knocked around a bit yourself, day before yesterday."
Silverbolt shook his head. "I'm thinking that I'm not the one who needs looking after." His central processor caught up with his vocalizer, and he realized that this was the second thing he'd said in less than half an hour that was likely to cause Hot Spot, competent, aggressively practical, self-contained Hot Spot, to take offense.
"But you'd like to look after me?" Hot Spot asked, almost laughing, just before Silverbolt could find a way to clarify.
"Um," said Silverbolt, because it was a surprise not to hear annoyance. Hot Spot leaned into him, all the places where they were almost touching dissolving into contact, and the part of his mind where he kept language went white.
"I think I might like that," Hot Spot said, "If you'll let me take my turn looking after you."
Silverbolt grinned as he realized that he'd been wrong, like he'd been wrong earlier, when Hot Spot touched his mouth and asked if that was good, and he'd thought he'd never be able to answer. The language was still there. "I can do that," he said, feeling almost like he'd been stripped open and left without any outer armor at all, except that that would hurt and this didn't at all, this felt wild and light and exhilarating. That was the wonderful thing about Hot Spot, the reason Silverbolt liked him so much. Whatever he asked of you seemed reasonable, perfectly plausible, but new and exciting too. Nothing was routine, everything was an adventure, one you could deal with, no matter what obstacles turned up. "I'd be glad to."
"Good," Hot Spot said, and chuckled. "I'm being a lousy host. Keeping you up, doing paperwork…"
"Hey, I'm not all that interesting when I'm in recharge," Silverbolt said, "But I think you should get some too."
"I should," Hot Spot said, "I know."
"Then why not?" Silverbolt asked, "Settle back down with me? I'd like that." It was amazing, the way he felt, pressed against Hot Spot, between him and the room – between him and the world, he felt, fiercely and irrationally.
Hot Spot hummed, and Silverbolt felt it. "All right, you're right. I'd like that too."
Hot Spot put his hand on Silverbolt's shoulder, turning into him. Silverbolt turned – it wasn't hard to read the message in that careful, steady pressure – and reached up to put his hand over Hot Spot's. "Hey," he said, which was an inane thing to say, but the only thing that came to mind that fit with the thrum in his body and the bright, clear current of happiness he was riding. He said it warmly, at least.
"Hey," Hot Spot said, warm and self assured again, and not so brisk as usual.
Maybe, Silverbolt thought, as he caught Hot Spot's fingers in his and stepped away from the table, he could even get Hot Spot to lean on him this time.
After all, anything was possible.