Out of the elevator, Mirage stepped into a kitchen. Half of one, at least. Renovations were clearly ongoing with a dozen projects in progress. A long battered table circled with odd chairs served as dining facilities. Empty cubes littered every level surface. The energon dispenser was new, and the only clean thing in the room.

The noble noticed when he was being hustled. Soundwave chivied him at a march through the mess then across a sanitation barrier into laundry/washracks/cleaning parlour. There were no walls, only reinforced pillars and impromptu solvent resistant curtains. The floor had been resurfaced recently but not sealed. It showed ped prints from everyone who had used the 'racks in the last orn.

"Walking through the fuelling area filthy is unsanitary." Mirage remarked while he eyed the bare pipes, a mix of old and new, then the shiny white faucets, all new and a welcome relief from industrial metal. The Ark's washracks had been adequate before slowly deteriorating into antiquated, remaining ugly throughout.

"Domestic access through kitchen. Exterior access for the filthy." Soundwave removed a collapsible tub from a hook on the wall, unfolded it under a tap and stared pointedly at Mirage. The noble heard a multitude of layers on the glyph 'filthy' shading from gentle rebuke that a guest would think their host so lax, through confirmation to a caregiver that the problem had been considered and solved, all the way to sharp class-critical commentary on the high caste assumption their inferiors were unclean.

"You are a master glyph-smith." It wasn't an apology. Even if it had been, Mirage doubted it would be accepted.

"Communication Specialist." The Decepticon reminded him with the mild snub of personal rank signifiers attached to the job title. The difference between being able to doctor and being a Doctor.

Mirage was aware the conversational registry of Autobots and Decepticons had diverged over the course of the war. The factions had been disparate even before that with regional dialects, occupational jargon, and caste slang. Different planetary postings and alien contact had thrown more ore into the foundry, leaving two very different alloys.

"I amend: I am surprised at the layout of the rooms as I know you to be competent in logistics so I query the incongruity of the transit of perceived/possible unhygienic personnel through a sensibly mandatory hygienic zone." This time, the Towerling used more neutral language. If he'd said his first comment to anyone on the Ark, the worst reaction would have been to call him a priss. Most of his fellow 'Bots would have agreed without offence.

"Solvent controls." Soundwave indicated a long panel with manual inputs at average mech and cassette heights. A ping to Mirage's HUD showed confirmation of proximity access so he could adjust his personal shower without dripping all the way to the panel. The spy presumed the manual option was for when the space was eventually physically divided into more private cubicles. There were installation points of oil baths. Oil baths!

"Thank you." He made an attempt to salvage some courtesy after his gaffe.

"Clean cloths." Soundwave pulled open a curtain on his way out, revealing a stack of miscellaneous textiles. A few moments later Mirage heard the elevator doors close.

He vented slowly. His suave clearly needed polish. Irking high ranking Decepticons was not the path to functional success. Mirage turned on the solvent to fill the tub, fiddling with temperature and filtration and the limited range of additives. Mostly effervescents for therapeutic use. Tempest was still very new for anything exotic. Next time he was at the market, he would look for sparkling-safe bubbles.

"Now, let's see how splashy you are, bitlet." Mirage eased the wrap, putting it aside for later laundering. He might as well make himself useful while Thundercracker recuperated. "I was a very splashy sparkling. My creators hired a bathing nanny with an aquatic alt-mode." The racer explained in a placid tone as he scooped solvent in his palm to pour over Tempest's peds. "My everyday nanny complained after I flooded his vents."

The seekerling kicked at the strange sensation, vocalising loudly but not in alarm. Mirage wet his hand again then dripped over Tempest's cockpit. He wasn't in a hurry and would rather have to refill a cooled tub then soothe an upset sparkling. Besides, he found the little jet rather cute when he wasn't hissing or biting; a datum he was not going to share with anyone.

Coaxing patiently, Mirage eventually got Tempest into the tub. There was considerable splashing. Being wet didn't seem to bother him but the little bit was absolutely against the first wash cloth. And the second one. He was not pleased with any sort of scrubbing. He did graciously allow himself to be softly wiped down with a chamois.

"I think next time I will take you under the shower with me." Mirage chatted as he swaddled Tempest in a towel garishly patterned with fish. Once his fosterling was secured and tucked into a corner on a pad of cloths, he would need to buy some proper bathing accessories, the noble rinsed himself with the solvent from the tub. The frugality was ingrained. Hot solvent had been at a premium, first because of the expense of heating then once they had the geothermal node the necessity of conserving solvent.

Mirage timed his shower even as he luxuriated in washing. The decontamination at the hospital was not the same. Here, the slide of liquid over his plates was sensuous. His wires tingled at the pressure of the cloth. He could turn his face into the cascade, shutter his optics, and enjoy the act of being cleansed. No more mud. No more insects. No more greasy hydrocarbons or the organic micro-contaminants.

He hadn't minded Earth but Primus did it get everywhere.

His timer went off, and he complied with the rude buzz because he was a guest. When he had his own washracks, he could linger as he liked. There would be a polishing bench and a heated drying room with soft vents not an improvised shanty made from repurposed engine turbines. He would decorate it with artisanal ceramic tiles in a tasteful palette, crafted new not scavenged. There were few artists left among them but Mirage intended to support those he could.

Drying off thoroughly, he put all the used cloths into a hamper then carried Tempest up to Thundercracker's room. The Seeker was still in recharge, which was not an inconvenience to Mirage. He settled on the padded chair with the sparkling and a datapad. Quite a civilised way to pass the time even if he had to defend the literature from inquisitive little digits.

The noble read aloud, which entertained Tempest although the glyphs were beyond his comprehension at the moment. Sparklings learned intonation and cadence by mimicking their caregivers, filtering their lexicons through the vernacular. One could if one was very particular ensure one's creation spoke a certain way and most Towerlings had a distinct accent drilled in deep. Mirage had kept his as a matter of pride.

"The slice arc of Luna-1 as perfect in gloss as it was in symmetry rose above the horizon." He read and realised he hadn't noticed if Cybertron had retained its moons during its relocation. They were artificial satellites launched by the ancients then augmented throughout history as ports and surveillance bases. However prosaic their use, they had looked beautiful in the night sky. It would be a pity if they had been left behind.

"A horizon replete with something bright hope of something distant dreams." Thundercracker muttered into his pillow, optics unlit.

"Have you memories the whole chant?" Mirage asked, fully expecting to be answered only by engine noise. The Seeker's wings fluttered and Tempest trilled.

Thundercracker was off the bed and vertical the instant his sparkling vocalised. He blinked, venting as he stumbled over a trailing tarp. Mirage stayed still where he was as the jet orientated himself. Optics brightened to a rose red not harsh combat-routine crimson. He remained as placidly as he could in the chair until he was sure the Decepticon knew where he was and with whom.

"Oh, you are a shiny bit!" Thundercracker cooed after he had untangled himself from the bedding. He shuffled closer tentatively both so he could draw back the moment his sparkling flinched and to not alarm the 'Bot.

Tempest chirred, flapping his wing buds. He grabbed his carrier's finger when the blue jet caressed it over his dark helm. Thundercracker cycled his optics to keep a little dignity as he eased his field just to brush the sparkling's, mindful not to grope Mirage with an unwanted teek. They couldn't not feel each other at this range but a bland presence was polite enough.

At the electromagnetic touch, Tempest let go of Thundercracker's digit and shrank back against his foster-carrier. He didn't cry or vocalise distress. He seemed to not be sure. The Seeker stayed where he was, pulling back his field. This was the calmest his sparkling had been ever.

"How does he feel? Is he scared? Uncomfortable?" Thundercracker didn't want to jinx this by mentioning the clinic though they would need scans to confirm if Tempest's spark had stabilised. It was probably too early to tell. He'd barely left Mirage's proximity since they'd conjunxed.

"I can feel some agitation." The spy answered matter-of-fact. He was not going to promise more than he could deliver. "There is definitely a discordant reaction to your field." Said field shrank back further, locking down. Mirage was adept enough to catch the wisp of agony in the retreat. "No one knows what they're doing. I wouldn't be surprised if part of the issue is lingering shock. Sparklings don't communicate pain well. It must be very frightening for him to feel disconnected."

"That's tactful of you to say so." Thundercracker slunk back to the berth. He was disappointed. He couldn't lie to himself. This was still the best Tempest had been. He'd accept that. "It'll take time." The glyphs soothed somewhat. "He's bound to get used to me eventually, now he's more stable."

Their optics met as Mirage heard the question. He put the datapad down and stood, cradling the bitlet high against his chest so their sparks were as close as they could be. A few diffident paces took him to the edge of the berth. With an imperious jerk of his chin, the noble conveyed Thundercracker should move over. He did.

"We must all make adjustments." Mirage remarked as he lay down on the berth, the sparkling close against him. "You may lie next to me." He granted permission. His vents were steady as the Seeker stretched out facing him so they shielded Tempest together. "I will stay here while you rest. You will rest." That was an order. "We have time."