Edited 4/18/13. More of the same; just cleaning up.

In which there are painful truths and not-so-painful hair pullng

She is fourteen and headstrong and pissed off. For the past two hours she's been sitting on the curb in front of the school, waiting for 'Hide, her dad, for God's sake anyone to come pick her up, but she hasn't gotten so much as a text from her mom saying they're going to be late. Teachers have come and gone, concern and consternation in their questions, but she laughs and shrugs them off, assuring them with her confident smile. She doesn't let on that she's coming to a slow boil inside - her teenager's ire has been raised considerably.

She's finished all her homework, as any good bookworm will, and tries to start on next week's reading assignment for The Red Badge of Courage, but she gives up after she realizes that she's been looking at the same paragraph for the past ten minutes. Also, that idiot protagonist is reminding her of things she'd rather not think of - it hasn't even been three years since the incident in Texas, and sometimes when her eyes are closed she can still smell the charred air, hear the screams. With an irritated growl, she shoves the offending object back into her satchel, and settles it on her lap.

A few mind-numbing minutes later, she's pulling her phone out of her jacket pocket and checking it for what feels like the one-thousandth time. Still nothing, like she knew there would be. She tries calling her mom's cell again, as well, but it goes straight to voicemail. 'Hide's comm. is next, followed by her dad's number. Nobody picks up.

She's seriously contemplating just walking home – it's eleven miles out, but she might see someone she knows on the way and catch a ride. If she really wants, she could ask one of the few remaining teachers – but she has her pride, and it's telling her quite rationally that if it gets around that a teacher drove her home, she'll never hear the end of it from her classmates. Sasha Benton got a ride home last year from Coach Wrede, and by the next school day she was known as the new teacher's pet, along with some other, nastier choice names. With a small shake of her head, she wonders why it has to be that way, but things are the way they are, as 'Hide would say.

So obviously, a ride home is out.

It's not two seconds after that cheerful thought that her phone belts out an old Lady Antebellum tune, signaling the end of her exile. Gritting her teeth, she picks up the call, noting that it's her dad, and prepares to give him a piece of her mind.

She never gets a chance to. As she inhales to make a sarcastic remark, her dad's voice cuts in. "Are you alright?"

The cutting words die on her lips before they're ever spoken, and she unconsciously grips the phone tighter. Something in her father's voice sends a warning chill through her, and Houston is suddenly very close and very loud; a ringing starts in her ears. Her heart is in her throat as she responds. "Yeah…yeah, I'm good. What's going on, Dad? Is everything okay?"

There's a tension-filled pause, and she can't help but bite her lips in worry. Then her father finally replies, and something inside shifts, lurches. "I'm…alright. Baby…

I'm here with your mom, at the hospital. She just got out of surgery. There was an accident on the way up to the school, and – "

"Surgery?! What the slag is going on? Why didn't you call me before? Why did mom need surgery? Where's 'Hide, is he okay?"

"Annie, honey, Mom was driving the Chevy to get you; 'Hide was with me at the house, helping me finish up the tool shed. He wasn't there, but your mom's okay now – I am so sorry that we never called you before, but I wanted to make sure she was going to be alright before I told you anything."

The world is teetering, and she feels sick. "What happened, Daddy? How did she get hurt?"

"It was at the light on Broome Street – you know it; it's got the pharmacy on the corner – some glitch ran the red light, hit your mom on her side of the car. One of the pharmacy employees called 9-1-1…she was out cold when they got there. There was a concussion, some internal bleeding – " She must have made a noise, because her dad interrupts himself, "Annie, she's okay now, I swear. It was touch-and-go for a bit, but they said she's going to be just fine now. They stopped the bleeding – that's why she was in surgery. They still have to run a few more tests, do another CAT scan, and she'll have to wear a neck brace for a while – but she'll be fine."

She realizes she is crying when she licks her lips and tastes salt. "Okay…okay. Daddy, please, I want to be there. Is she awake? Can I see her?"

"She's not totally lucid right now, but by the time 'Hide gets back with you, she might be able to talk. Just remember, she needs her rest, 'kay, Baby?"

"Yeah, that's…okay. I just want to see her. Are you sure it's going to be alright?"

"I promise, baby. She's past the worst, now, and she's tough. So are you. We gotta be brave for her, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir. I hear you."

"That's my girl. 'Hide should be there in a couple of minutes, so make sure you got your stuff together. I - We'll see you in just a bit, 'kay?"

"Okay. I love you, Daddy. Tell Mamma I love her, too."

"Sure, baby. I love you, too."

She hangs up then, and puts her face in her hands to hold back the tears.

She tries hard not to be angry, when 'Hide finally gets there. It's not his fault, she knows that, but all the same can't help but think that if he'd just been there, her mom would be fine, they'd all be at home, and her dad wouldn't sound like his heart had just been ripped out.

So she doesn't quite meet his eyes when she clambers up the passenger side, and focuses instead on getting herself settled in, keeping her backpack in her lap for something solid to hang on to. When his hand comes into her line of vision to pop open the glove compartment and rummage around for a Kleenex, she grunts a terse thanks, and proceeds to ignore him. Morosely she wonders if this is how her mom felt, when she got the call that she was needed in Texas to see her baby in the hospital. It's a gut-wrenching thought, and she pushes it away forcibly.

Neither say a word for the next few minutes. She watches the twilight-stained streets and signs go by through the tinted windows, and feels his eyes on her from time to time. Resolutely she clutches her bag closer, determined not to look back, trying desperately not to think about where they're going. But the ground has already started shifting beneath her; she feels change coming on like a storm. Breathing deep, she concentrates on the view outside, the warm-leather-and-grease smell of the cab inside – but that's no good; it smells like him, and she doesn't want to think about him, or anything for that matter.

A noise finally pricks her ears, and despite herself, she turns just enough to glance at him from the corner of one eye.

His shoulders are taut, hunched almost defensively. Callused hands grip the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, and he stares straight ahead at the road, jaw tight and brow furrowed. He releases another hissing breath between his teeth, and readjusts his hold on the wheel. With a sick, knotted feeling in her stomach she realizes that she's never seen him look quite this miserable - not even at her fifth birthday party when she'd insisted that he wear a party hat.

He shoots her an inscrutable look from out the corner of his eye, and she jumps when he catches her watching him. Their eyes meet, and a crippling wave of guilt threatens to overwhelm her when she sees the abject misery there. To her horror, she feels her face begin to crumple and tears prick behind her eyes. Before she realizes he's doing it, he's parked the Topkick – himself – whatever; it gives her a headache to think about it too much – on the shoulder of the street, and she dumps her bag on the floorboard, scrambling to get herself unbuckled.

Tan, weathered hands push hers away, and he pops the catch easily. With a wet sob, she lunges at him, and he catches her with a breathless grunt as she knocks the wind out of him. Warm, solid arms wrap around her, and she drags herself into his lap the best she can, as he's still mostly in the driver's seat, with a steering wheel in the way.

She twists trembling hands in his shirt, and buries her face in his neck to try and stem the flood of tears. She hates crying, she loathes it, and in front of him it feels like the worst sort of taboo. But he's shaking too, and he grips her to him just as tightly, hiding his own face in her hair. She is afraid to know if he is crying, as well.

He mutters something under his breath, and tightens his hold until she can't breathe properly – even in their bio-matter forms, the Cybertronians are least five times stronger than the average human. Sniffing and wiping her eyes discreetly on his shoulder, she tugs on the back of his t-shirt to get his attention. "Can't breathe, 'Hide."

The arms loosen immediately, but he doesn't completely let go, instead shifting to wrap an arm around her shoulders so that she leans into him a little sideways. He lets out a quiet breath, stirring the hair at her temple, and she presses further into him, listening to the solid, rhythmic pulse of his human heart. When he finally speaks, his voice reverberates in his chest, humming in her ears.

"You know I'd change things if I could, right?"

She bites her lips and nods, squeezing him. "It's okay, you know. It's not your fault."

There's a pause, an unsteady breath. "I know that. Don't stop me from thinkin' I coulda done somethin', though."

She scrubs at her eyes and finally leans back to look at him. To her vast relief, his eyes are dry, but there's an emotion in there she's seen all too often, and it almost breaks her. "'Hide, you can do lots of stuff nobody else can, but not even you can be everywhere at once. Y'know?"

The corners of his mouth quirk, but it's not really a smile. "Doesn't mean I won't try." The not-smile drops, and his eyes turn distant, like he's somewhere else for a minute – in two different places at once, really.

Then he's back, and when he looks at her again, she knows it's her he sees. She leans back into him, tucking her head beneath his chin, and he shifts around until his back is up against the door. They stay like that for the next few minutes, the silence unbroken save for the muted purr of the engine. When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and rough.

"Y'know the stories you like so much? The ones about Cybertron?"

She murmurs an affirmative, and he continues. "They're always about how I swoop in just in time to save the day. Like I'm some sorta hero."

She can't help it – she rolls her eyes. "You are." And she squeezes him for good measure. She doesn't realize it, but the sheer conviction in her voice, the statement of a universally-acknowledged truth, nearly undoes him, and it's all he can do not to snarl back that he's not, slag it all, he's just a simple mech, one more prone to bad luck than anything else. But he doesn't – he just wishes she wouldn't trust him so damn much. It's unnerving, and undeserving of him for someone like her to have so much faith in him. It scares him.

This is why his tone is surlier than she expects when he responds. "I won't always be around, y'know. I got obligations to look after, a war to win. I can't just sit on my aft all day to play babysitter to a bunch a' squishies."

The anger in his voice pricks at her, and she pulls away from him, snapping, "You know I know that. You didn't come whatever-million light years across the galaxy to play house with us humans. You fight the bad guys, and I'm the one that sits around on my aft all day, waiting to hear if you've been made into scrap. You've got more important things to do."

He gives her his best glare, but it doesn't do a thing – she's learned to give as good as she gets. "You don't get it, Belle. I can't. Don't mean I don't want to." And he gives her braid a tug to emphasize his point.

Long habit makes her swing her hair away from him, and she bites back the angry words, things not worth mentioning. She opts for a more tactful response, and asks, "Why would you? It's not like there's anything great about doing nothing every day."

When he smiles, it's slow and bittersweet around the edges. "When you've been doin' what I do for thousands of vorns, you get to appreciate 'doin' nothin' every day.'" And as abruptly as it came, his strange mood is gone, and a subtle spark of humor glints in his eyes. He takes a moment to glance out the windshield, before leaning forward. Despite herself, she mirrors him. "You tell anyone this, and I'll skin you alive: I don't particularly enjoy fightin' Deceptiscum every single day of the week. Makes it kinda hard to catch a recharge, y'know?"

She narrows her eyes at him, considering. Her only response to that dubious remark is a muttered "I'd rather be fighting Deceptiscum every single day of the week. You give me a gun – "

"- we've been over, under, and through that, and until you can learn not to flinch before you even pull the trigger – "

" - It's loud."

"War is loud. D'you remember Houston? Lots of slag gettin' blown up, in a very noisy and very violent way? Most of it around you? Huh. Cons ain't gonna put silencers on those cannons and concussion grenades of theirs. 'Sides, I thought you liked explosion."

He actually sounds a bit hurt then. She makes sure to pat his shoulder in a comforting way, and grins up at him, the argument all but forgotten. "When they're not right in my ear, I do."

"Hmph. Guess I'm gonna have ta give back all those fireworks I was gonna set loose right outside your bedroom window. Was gonna be a surprise for your birthday, but - "

"Mom would slaughter you," is her gleeful response.

"'S'that mean I should hang onto 'em, then?"

"Hell, yes!"

"Your mamma will slaughter me if she hears you talkin' like that, darlin'."

She pretends to give that a bit of thought. "So how come it's always your fault whenever I do something stupid?"

"Default. Your dad's been trained to know better than to be a bad influence. I'm the only one left."

She smirks, and he gives her one back, fingers absently searching for her braid to pull again. "I don't know that it counts if I'm corrupted willingly." He's found the end of her waist-length hair, and gives it a yank backwards, almost tipping her over onto the seat behind her. She sputters and grabs for his shirtfront, scowling up at him as she anchors herself back in his lap. He just laughs at her, even as his arms pull her close again.

She'd almost forgotten about her momma, but as their earlier words come back to her, she feels her gut clench painfully. With an unsteady sigh, she presses into him, and asks in a trembling voice that she despises, "She's gonna be okay, right?"

Like before, his hold tightens, and one hand secures itself at the nape of her neck, twisting the loose strands of hair there between callused fingers. "You know she will be. Your dad wouldn't lie to you 'bout somethin' like that."

She swallows painfully, and nods into his chest. Listens to his heartbeat, his breath. His warm hand is still on her neck, and she can feel his heat seeping into her skin. It's at once familiar and strange, like how she knows it's him, but not really. The heart, the heat is all made up, a fabrication meant to both deceive and reassure. But he's still real, as authentic as she is, and she isn't sure which reality she prefers, if she does at all. He's just himself, flesh or metal, blood or energon, and it's enough to know that he's here.

He pulls away from her, eventually, and she scoots back to her side of the cab. He doesn't say anything for a minute, just watches her, and she watches him back. He looks far too serious, and she fishes for something to break the silence. She finds a smile in her somewhere, and throws it out to him. It's met with a crooked grin, the one that does funny things to her insides. Suddenly the nape of her neck, her back, where his arms and hands have been, are too warm. The ground's sliding away again, and something inside her quakes. It renders her incapable of looking at him anymore; she turns instead to glance out the window.

She feels him pull away from the curb, and they're back on the street, headed for the hospital. He coughs, and she finally she sneaks a glance back at him. His eyes are on the road, but one hand reaches out to tweak her braid affectionately. "What do ya say we get you an' your dad some fuel? There's a fast food joint just down the block, if yer interested."

For him to offer to stop at a drive-through…he must be feeling like slag. He hates doing that, and never passes up an opportunity to let the general public know. Sunstreaker is the same way, much to the amusement of everyone who knows him. She shoots him a suspicious look, but lets it pass. It's his way of making things up to her, and she won't get on his case…too much.

The quaking has subsided a little, so she pulls her smile back out, just for him.