Author's Notes (Eowyn77): If you missed it, I recently posted a companion fic for this story titled "Transformers for Christmas." Enjoy! :)

When the door to the Autobot barracks closed behind us, Dad slung his arm around my shoulder. "I'm proud of you, young lady."

"Told you she'd come around," Mom said with a satisfied smile. "After all, who wouldn't want to hang out with Autobots?"

"Someone who knew Skids and Mudflap?" I shot back, but then I frowned at myself. In a roundabout way, they were part of Ironhide surviving today, too. Even those immature punks deserved an apology from me.

Dad scanned his badge and the door to the main hanger swished open. Someone up on the communications center hollered down to Dad, so Mom and I continued over toward the only Autobot we could see. Wheeljack was now cleaned up and sitting up, holding an oil-drum similar to Ratchet's in one hand. In the other, he held a cell phone, upon which he was apparently reading a text message. His shoulders were shaking.

"What's the joke?" Mom asked.

'Jack jerked his thumb down the wide corridor to the med-bay. "I'd forward it to you," he sniggered, "but it might burn your ears."

We rounded the corner to see two dumpy little Autobots – one orange and one green. Johnston was working on the green one, but the orange one leapt to his feet at the sight of us. Mom's and my phones chimed simultaneously. Mom sighed. "Ah, boys. What are we going to do with you?"

"Use their parts to repair Ironhide?" Johnston hopefully asked in his charming British lilt.

"You know Prime would never go for that," Wheeljack said, sounding almost regretful. "We could use some more spare parts, too."

"You turned their vocal processors off again?" Mom scolded Johnston.

"And kept their pain sensors on," he answered. "Ratchet's orders. And if they keep it up, I'm allowed to turn off their comms, too."

All three phones – mine, Mom's, and Wheeljack's – chimed and Wheeljack sniggered again as he read it.

Johnston whacked Orange over the head in a lightning-quick wrench-strike. "I heard that."

"Amazing," Wheeljack said.

I felt like they were talking in some kind of code just to annoy me. "What?!"

Mom chuckled. "Johnston has the preternatural ability to tell when the twins are bad-mouthing him while he's working on them. Even when it's just over their comms."

Twins. These must be Skids and Mudflap. That explained everything.

"I've scanned all six of the mechanics dozens of times," Wheeljack said enthusiastically. "I don't know how they do it!"

Johnston grunted. "Fourteen years of mucking about in their guts, and it's a miracle I'm not some kind of mutant Autobot myself."

"Quinn learned it first and teaches it to the new recruits at the year mark," Mom murmured. "It's a repair-team thing. They won't tell anyone how they do it."

"Except Ratchet," Wheeljack grumped.

"So how'd you guys get hurt?" I asked the twins.

Only my cell-phone chimed this time, and I pulled it out of my pocket.

The first text was from Skids. //It's da Spits! We's saved!//

The Spits? Okay, that was a hundred times worse than 'Spitlet,' and not just because it was also insulting my mother.

The second one really was from Mudflap. How did Johnston know that? I opened the text. //Prime-fragging mechanic! Dis is slaggin' TORTURE! He a slaggin' CON! DEY'S ALL CONS!//

The third and fourth texts had arrived at the same time and were from Mudflap and Skids respectively. They both said, //He started it!//

Yep. That was Skids and Mudflap for you. Just like Sunny and Sides, they were almost transparently the same knuckleheads I knew from the football games. I chuckled, thinking my life must be really insane when the twins (both sets) were my anchors to reality.

"Don't listen to their sniveling, ladies," Johnston said almost casually. "They were duly warned. Ratchet said that if there was any infighting today we were to repair the perpetrators mercilessly. And if a merciless repair didn't teach them a little respect for us and the things the Autobots put us through, then we could repair them brutally. And if a brutal repair didn't cut it, then we could even escalate to a savage repair. We've only had to do that once, though today I'm tempted to try another go-round."

Catching me staring at him horrorstruck, Johnston winked. My phone chimed with a text, this time from Wheeljack. //Merciless = no voice. Brutal = Pain-sensors on. Savage = no comm. Vicious = no motor relays. Ratchet repair = involuntary stasis. Primus repair = medically-defensible offlining. The code is also on display in the med bay on a poster the Vette twins made for Ratchet.//

My shoulders shook with silent laughter. That was so mean, but then again, Skids and Mudflap probably deserved a 'brutal' repair on a good day. "If it's any consolation guys, all my repairs have been brutal ones. Be grateful you can turn the pain sensors off."

"THANK YOU, Spitlet!" Johnston said appreciatively.

"Annabelle," I corrected.

With an apologetic sidelong glance, he said, "Annabelle." To the twins he said, "That little femme's got more circuits and steel to her than the both of you put together. If you could take it like a girl, we'd let you keep your voices!"

I wasn't sure if I should feel flattered or insulted.

"She's the one who figured out the pellets," Wheeljack interjected, sounding amused. "With a little help from you twins."

Skids looked at me hopefully. //We hepped?//

Johnston tapped him lightly on the head but didn't make any overt threats. Wheeljack pushed a couple of folding chairs our direction.

"Yeah," I said, settling into the chair with a grateful smile at 'Jack. "I remembered all the stories you guys told me about booby traps and thought that destroying one of the pellets might be a good way to spring a trap if there was one. Turned out I was right. Guess you two and whats-his-face think alike."

"Shockwave," Wheeljack growled, his engine revving in a way that was disturbingly similar to Sunstreaker's. The sound made the hairs on my arm stand up just because it was so shocking coming from him. He may be one of the most easy-going of the Autobots, but I remembered with sudden respect that he'd willingly taken that blast in the lab. For being so likeable, he was damn tough.

//We's as smart as Shockwave?// Skids broadcast, beaming.

//'Course we is!// Mudflap sent, jumping up and gyrating exultantly.

Wheeljack read both texts out loud for Johnston, and I realized belatedly that it must be the mechanic's phone.

"I think it's more that you're both so slow that you all shared a thought when he lapped you," Johnston shot back, chucking a bolt as thick as my wrist at the still-dancing Mudflap. "You're distracting me."

"Why does he need Wheeljack to read it for him?" I whispered to Mom.

"Because they weren't insulting him," Wheeljack said. "He'd have heard it otherwise."

It was like a sleight of hand magic trick. Of course Johnston would know if a text was insulting if Wheeljack only read the non-insulting ones. "But…"

"Later," Mom said with a wink. "Boys," she said to the twins, "if you promise to behave like gentlemen, I could probably persuade Johnston to let you tell us another tall tale or two."

//We's always good fo' Will's ladies!// Skids sent. Mudflap clasped his hands in a praying, pleading gesture and fell to his knees next to Johnston's step-ladder. Wheeljack read the text out loud for Johnston.

"Primus, I'm going soft!" the mechanic exclaimed, climbing down and retrieving what looked suspiciously like a TV remote. "I'm giving you your voices back, but only if you're as tough as Spitl…Annabelle." Johnston pointed the device at Mudflap and punched in a series of codes, releasing the Autobot's voice.

"Spitfire!" He walked across to us on his knees and caught Mom's hand up in his, pressing her palm to his cheek. "Primus sent yas two, I swear!"

"Ya so full of slag, Spitlet," Skids said when Johnston turned his voice back on. "I knows Ratchet gives ya pain killers."

"Annabelle," I hissed at him.

"That's not the same," Mom said authoritatively, ignoring me. "That diminishes the pain, but it doesn't actually remove it. At best, it'd be like having your pain sensors operating at 20% capacity. For anything more serious than a dent or scrape, we have to power down the systems in the area or go into stasis. And we don't pop pills for everything."

"I'd say Johnston's humoring you," Wheeljack added. "He might just go vicious on you if you don't toe the line."

"Right!" Mudflap cut in, clearly not wanting his voice shut down again. "Will's liddlest lady wants a story."

…

Dad had rejoined us, both the twins were fully repaired and we were into our third story of the evening when the med bay doors opened. Arcee stopped in her tracks seeing us there, and I launched myself at her. It was proof of just how much the twins and Wheeljack had set me at ease that I didn't even think twice. I grabbed her around the waist (she was almost exactly twice as tall as me), making her stagger back.

"OH!" I stepped away. "You're wounded, too, aren't you!"

Arcee stooped and caught me up in a hug. I sat on her overlapping arms just like I did when I was little and she was carrying me in her holoform, and I wrapped my arms around her neck, even more comfortable here than I was with Ratchet. "It was just my spark," she said gently, "and you healed it. Chromia said you were talking to us again."

My eyes squeezed tight against the tears. "I'm sorry, Arcee. So sorry. Whether you're River or an alien robot warrior, I…"

She softly sang, "A part of me, yet all your own, mine until you're grown. You have nothing to apologize for, Spitlet."

"Aw," Mudflap said sarcastically before I could correct her on my name, "now ain't dat sweet."

Skids added, "I didn know ya was such a softy, femme!"

Arcee shifted ever so slightly, supporting my weight with one arm, and something clicked into place on her free hand. The twins started screaming and scampering out of her way.

"You break it," Johnston drawled, "you fix it!"

Arcee sighed and put away what I could only assume was a weapon. "Both your names are mud!" she shouted after them and then grumbled under her breath, "Ruining the moment for me."

I grinned and she set me back on my feet, rumpling my hair a little. "And don't worry about me. One of my bikes got smashed – again – but I'm fine to just use one component for now."

My brow furrowed. "You lost me."

Arcee sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged with her back to the wall. (She often sat like that at home and I had to wonder if it was a gesture she'd picked up while acting human or an Autobot thing that she'd done in her holoform.) "I'm a base-form triple-changer." At my blank expression, she explained, "Most 'bots have a single vehicle form and a single robot mode. Your typical triple changer has a base mode and two alt-modes, usually a ground vehicle and a flyer. You follow?"

"Not really," I admitted.

"Okay, for example, Megatron can change into either a tank or a plane, depending on what he wants."

"Okay?"

"That's your typical triple-changer. For me, I only have one alt-form, but I have two robot modes. My alt-form is three motorcycles. I can transform myself into three little bike-sized robots or the three components can combine into one larger 'bot. But it's always me."

I blinked for a second, trying to imagine it. "Wow!"

She chuckled. "So yeah, one of my bikes got smashed and the other one's pretty banged up. I pulled my consciousness out of the other two and am just using my one component right now. When we get around to fixing the other two, I'll use all three components again."

"Wow," I repeated. "So how come I've only ever seen the one bike?"

She smiled at me. "Because it raises a lot fewer questions if there aren't three of us wandering around talking in the plural all the time."

I laughed. "Yeah, that would get you some attention." And just like with Dad, it was almost like Arcee and I were back to normal.

She looked at the rest of us. "So why are you all hanging out here?"

"The pellets were drones," Dad explained. "They attacked Wheeljack before he took out half of them, so he came here for repairs. The rest of us were just waiting for official word about 'Hide."

Arcee nodded, acknowledging Dad. "Ratchet says Ironhide will come around in forty-eight hours. I'd give the tough old slagger thirty-six, but we'll see. This was a new weapon with a new pattern of damage, so it's difficult to know exactly what kind of recovery we're talking about."

"But he'll be okay eventually?" I said, not quite able to keep the worry and pleading out of my voice.

"Yes," she gravely assured me. "Eventually."

Relieved, I took a deep breath, knowing she wouldn't lie to me about this. "Thanks."

"Sure thing, Spitlet."

"Would you please stop calling me that!"

Arcee looked uncertainly at first Mom and then Wheeljack before turning her intense blue optics on me. "Okay…Annabelle."

Mom and Dad shared a meaningful look, and then all business-like, Mom said, "So who's staying overnight with Ironhide?"

"I am," I firmly declared.

"You have school tomorrow," Mom pointed out.

"All the more reason for me to be here now," I answered.

"The med bay's only equipped with one cot," she argued.

"We can get another one," Dad offered, trying to diffuse us.

Johnston cleared his throat, getting all our attention. "That's why the twins were fighting – they were arguing over who got to play hotel room for whichever of Lennox women would be staying over."

"It would help keep the peace if you both stayed," Wheeljack added.

"And peace is something we could use a little of right now," Arcee said under her breath.

Mom looked at me, a question in her eyes, and I nodded. Yes, we would both stay. "Get the twins back here, then," Mom said. "And we'll need a ride home to pack overnight bags. Annabelle will need to pick up her homework for tomorrow, too."

"I can give you a lift," Wheeljack offered.

"You sure? I could just borrow a car."

He chuckled as he transformed. "Positive."

…

Mom packed her bag more quickly than I did, and so she joined me in my bedroom. "Annabelle?"

"Yeah?"

"Spitlet is your Autobot designation."

I froze. "My what?"

"Your Autobot name," she said in quiet reproof, "to make you part of the tribe. Bumblebee named your father Iron Will, and Arcee gave me the designation of Spitfire. Mudflap designated you Spitlet. Every time you tell them to not call you that, it's a slap in the face."

I sank down to sit on the bed, putting my face in my hands. "But the name sucks."

She chuckled. "I guess it doesn't suit you anymore. I'll discretely suggest to Optimus that they should come up with a new one. But in the meantime, they think you're rejecting your place with them."

Is that what they really thought, that I was rejecting them? Of course, that's what I'd been doing for the last two and a half weeks, so I could kind of see where they were coming from. Great, another reason to feel guilty.

Mom put her arm around my shoulder and hugged me to her side for a second. "Come on. Actions will speak louder than words, and we'll keep watch over 'Hide. Just…don't do it again."

I heaved a sigh and then picked up my duffle. "I won't. I promise."