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Pt. 4: "Protective cuddles"
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They weren't exactly the cuddly type. Sunstreaker had the Look, Don't Touch of an expensive art piece down pat, and Sideswipe was a walking arsenal. Literally. That was his job. People didn't cuddle walking arsenals. They didn't cuddle stationary arsenals. Unless they were Cliffjumper, but he was a special case of proportions in direct contrast to his size.
Anyway, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe weren't fluffy supportive types, but there were times they were the correct tools for the job. Not often, but sometimes, and when it happened, they came running on the double because usually the one making the call was Ratchet. Nobody with half a functioning brain module pissed a medic off. And if they didn't agree with his assessment of their abilities, hey, they didn't argue. In their opinion, it didn't matter if they were square pegs. Ratchet could make any shape imaginable fit into a round hole when push came to shove. It was for the best that pegs and hole didn't quibble and just let him get on with it.
Which was how Sunstreaker and Sideswiipe came to be spending the night in Ironhide's bunk. Ratchet prescribed frontliners, so frontliners were what the old armsmaster got. Ironhide grumbled but took his prescription back to the barracks with him.
Sideswipe grimaced uncomfortably from where he was squeezed tight, spooned with his back to Ironhide's chest. "Ugh."
"Shh," Ironhide said, curt and hard, and Sideswipe stilled. He was still uncomfortable, still frowning, but this wasn't about him. It was about the anger running underneath the steady rumble of Ironhide's engine and the suspicious snap of cold blue optics toward every shifting shadow in the barracks. Ironhide was running hairtrigger-tense.
Pressed between the wall and Ironhide's back, every move Sunstreaker made could be felt by the old mech. The golden frontliner deliberately cocked his sidearm, loaded and safety off despite safety regulations explicitly forbidding it, and Ironhide stiffened to a statue as hard as his namesake. Suspicion radiated off him.
Sunstreaker ignored the hard-edged, prickly tension aimed at him and instead draped his arm over both Ironhide and Sideswipe, the muzzle of his blaster pointed vaguely at whatever might come at them. "Recharge," he growled, even deeper than Ironhide's rusty drawl.
Sideswipe held himself motionless, but the discomfort of lying this way suddenly didn't matter. He was in a poor position to recharge but in an excellent defensive position. The deep, full pockets of his subspace were in the forefront of his mind, the meticulously organized contents a constantly scrolling list down one side of his HUD. Sunstreaker's hand held the blaster tight. The two of them could blow half this base to bits before anyone got near the mech sandwiched between them.
They weren't the cuddly sort, but maybe that's what soothed Ironhide to sleep at last.
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