A/N: Please send in prompts as I now only have one left to write.

This was requested as mild/implied slash, but you're okay to read up until the scene/section-break.

Bath-Time.

"How is he Prime? Is he alright?" Smokescreen unconsciously swayed from side to side, his body unable to keep still despite the strange inner calm his mind had found.

"Ratchet is still looking him over, Smokescreen." Prime placed a hand on Smokescreen's shoulder. "But… he doesn't think that Bluestreak will survive." The words passed over Smokescreen's head.

"Oh," he said at last. "It's good that you came when you did, Prime. It's good that you came when you did." Smokescreen vaguely remembered these words being spoken before. It all seemed so distant now. Hours had passed; hours. No one had asked him what he had intended to do with Motormaster's sword; even the brashest minibots had refused to judge him, unsure what they would have done in such a position. Watching Prowl and Jazz, Hound, Mirage and Trailbreaker and even the Lamborghini twins squatting on the floor, waiting for news, it all seemed so surreal.

He'll be mentally scarred for life, the psychological part of Smokescreen thought. We'll never see that same, smiling Bluestreak again. It may take decades – possibly centuries – before he can bury the memory long enough to function like this again.

Ratchet came out of the med-bay, his chassis heaving with the effort of ventilation. He made no attempt to look refined and collapsed, his back hitting the wall. Dour optics stared at Prime.

"What's the news?" The soft and hesitant tone of Prime's voice did not hide the truth that he expected the worst. Ratchet steadied himself against the wall a moment longer, his mouth working in silence.

"He's…he's stabilised." There were audible cries of relief. "And… I can't believe it, but he's conscious. He shouldn't be conscious…" Ratchet muttered to himself. "He just shouldn't be."

"I have to see him," Smokescreen said.

"Now is not the time."

"I have to see him," Smokescreen insisted. Ratchet eyed him up and down, knowing that Smokescreen probably blamed himself for what had transpired.

"You and Prime, and only you and Prime," the CMO responded, his body shaking unsteadily as he went back into the med-bay.

"I'll go get Ratchet something to drink," Mirage whispered, passing his hand on Trailbreaker's shoulder as he moved by. The other Autobots tried to peek inside the med-bay, but the low-level lighting and Prime's large shape prevented them from seeing the 'bot of their concerns.

"Bluestreak?" The form of the Datsun gunner lay on the furthest side of the room, pale topaz eyes staring at the ceiling. His head turned slowly and a haggard face softened into a gleaming smile.

"Oh, hey Smokescreen!"

"Bluestreak? Are you okay?"

"Ah, don't you worry about me! I'm tough I am! Heh-heh. Sorry for all that worry I put you through – I didn't mean to cause you any trouble and…" Bluestreak babbled on. Prime looked relieved that the same old Blue had returned to them, but Smokescreen felt confused; Bluestreak should be mentally damaged – he should be psychologically scarred. There was no way that this would not have hurt him – he should not be his normal happy self…

It occurred to Smokescreen then – a shattering revelation: Bluestreak had been damaged before… and had never recovered. Bluestreak had been scarred from the start, and so everything would carry on as 'normal'.

"…lost a lot of internals, but Ratchet did a great job of putting me all back together again, don't you think?" Bluestreak carried on grinning, waiting for a response. Smokescreen fell to his knees. He began shaking, and then he wept. Uncontrollably, he wept. The others misbelieved he cried with relief.

Almost a month had passed before Bluestreak was allowed out of Ratchet's tender care. Everyone in the base had visited him at one time or another, many of them bringing gifts. He had amassed such a collection that Ratchet had to clear it away to get to one of his cabinets. Ah, that had made him chuckle. The pistons in his legs moved with a stiffness that had come from not using them in such a long while. He wondered if he had used them at all, in fact, considering how much of his body was now new.

Bluestreak paused in the dim, lifeless corridor. The voices from the main recreational rooms did not carry here. He had not slept well recently – the scene with the Stunticons played over in his head, sometimes warped or carried further by his imagination. He had dreamt that Smokescreen had tried to fight the gestalt team and got killed, with Bluestreak dying moments later. He had dreamt that Smokescreen had killed him, or left him to suffer out of sadistic pleasure. In amongst these warped memories, another also usually arose; the fall of his lost city. It had left him manic at night, his will refusing the weight of his body's cry for sleep. Perhaps tonight, if he bathed or performed some other winding-down ritual, his processor would not search for memories in the darkest sections of his spark.

Bluestreak decided that he would not bother with the wash-racks tonight – there would be too many mechs to stare at him and he did not feel like talking. He would try the bathing pools: he had not been there in a while and they were usually quiet. He began to hum tunelessly to keep out stray thoughts as his legs carried him to the bathing chambers. He could not see or hear another mech anywhere. Had there been a battle? Had he missed something? Had they all abandoned him? Encroaching paranoia fled as Bluestreak opened the door and beheld Sunstreaker, already in the tub.

"Ah, Blue Boy! Good to see you! Come join me." The mighty yellow warrior looked clean enough already – Bluestreak was sure that those were fresh water droplets from the wash racks that were on Sunstreaker's shoulders. The young gunner obliged him and settled into the container at the opposite end. He could not understand how modern western humans had such a problem with bathing with their own gender – it had been done in the past and was acceptable in spas and other such places.

"Do you have the wax I gave you?" Sunstreaker asked, polishing his left forearm with a rag as he spoke.

"Ah, not with me. I left it in my quarters." Sunstreaker shrugged.

"Perhaps I'll let you use a little of my own stuff, then."

"Um, thanks." To Bluestreak's relief, Sunstreaker did not try to solicit many words from him. The two mechs lay in the oil-like substance, cleaning their own selves in silence. Bluestreak still could not find it within himself to relax. He studied the new armour on his hand: the body work was exactly the same as his old armour – exactly the same. He was surprised – he had expected a few differences. Bluestreak squeezed the liquid soap into his hands and reached for his back. His arm abruptly came to a halt with a worn and bruised sensation. "Ah!"

"Still not completely functional again yet, I see?" Sunstreaker intoned. "Look – let me help you." Sunstreaker waded over and took the soap from the younger mech's hands before Bluestreak could protest. He roughly turned Bluestreak around and began applying pressure in massaging circles on Bluestreak's back. "You got a bit dusty from waiting around Blue. You'd never see me get like this." Sunstreaker held out his hand as if gesturing to some form of dirt. Bluestreak could see nothing. "Keep still and I'll add a wax coating to your roof after this."

In the company of another, Bluestreak felt that he could at last find peace. He relaxed into Sunstreaker's grip and felt his eyes slowly closing shut.

"You're not drifting off on me, are you, Blue Boy?" Sunstreaker enquired, a sliver of warm mirth in his voice.

"No! No, no… not at all." The yawn was barely hidden. Bluestreak's optics did not fight to stay open and his head began to loll to one side as he finally eased into restfulness. In the company of a friend, there were no nightmares.

End.

A/N: And it is 2:50 in the morning here now, so I shall be off to sleep too.