There are five-hundred-and-seventy-six ceiling tiles in the rec room, and crossing the room from the door to the table at the far side takes thirty-eight paces. It's the twins' favourite table: Sunstreaker because he can sit with his back to the wall, and Sideswipe because he can see everything going on in the room, and watch the door for who's coming and going. The table has eight screws holding the top to the base - counting those with questing fingers had been more difficult, and that had taken up a good few minutes.
Bluestreak is mind-numbingly bored.
In the absence of enough resources, time, commanding officers, or surplus of fighters to be able to justify a court martial, Prowl has the twins pulling morning and night patrols, double guard duty, and - crowbarred into what few hours might be called "free time" between those rotas - the classically favoured punishment detail. Bluestreak has barely caught a servo-full of minutes with either of them in the last week; each time a snatched few words over an energon cube before the inevitable rush to make the next duty rota, Sideswipe with decreasingly cheery promises of, "Sorry Blue, catch ya later!" and Sunstreaker with scowled grunts of distaste for the second in command that don't seem to weary.
The reminder that rest and downtime are a luxury easily snatched away by an incensed commanding officer has the whole base cautiously walking on eggshells, mechs turning up extra early to shifts and the usually rowdy buzz of the common areas muted.
Bluestreak hadn't realised just how much of a habit it had become to seek out one or both of the warriors in his off-duty hours, and their absence feels like the lurch of taking a step only to find nothing below his pede. He even misses the sparring practice Sunstreaker favours, as much as any bout ends up with him flat on the floor. At least it's something to do, rather than sit alone idling away the time until his next duty shift.
Today, in the weird liminal time between afternoon shift changes and newly off-duty mechs coming for their daily rations, he sits at the beloved corner table and entertains his sniper software by seeing how fast he can count the dust motes floating hazily in the harsh electric lights, hoping with a wavering optimism that this might be the precious time when Sideswipe or Sunstreaker has an extra couple of minutes to snag an energon cube between duties.
Across the rec room, the Protectobots cluster in a companionable huddle, a whispered conversation snatching between them in the half-spoken-half-wordless flow of chatter that Bluestreak is beginning to recognise as a sign of the strange gestalt bond that ties them together.
Disappointment buzzes in his spark when the rec room doors slide open and the flash of red he sees resolves into the diminutive frame of Cliffjumper, but Bluestreak's interest perks up to see the red minibot followed by Smokescreen and Tracks. Mid-conversation, Cliffjumper and Tracks jostle at Smokescreen, lightheartedly making attempts to snatch the datapad the Praxian holds up just out of reach.
"Blue!" Smokescreen calls in greeting, raising his free hand in a wave.
The small group bustles over to join Bluestreak in the corner, and the sniper's interest perks further at the buzz of excitement that hums through their EM fields. He's only halfway through a cheery hello, pleased to have some company, when Cliffjumper, slotting neatly into the chair next to his, gives him a companionable nudge and indicates Smokescreen's datapad with a tilted helm.
"Smokescreen says he's got something good," the minibot grins in a conspiratorial stage whisper.
"Come on Smokes, spill!" Tracks adds, folding his arms and leaning back into his own chair. "Some of us have other things to do today."
"Oh yeah, like waxing your finish?" Smokescreen shoots back, his good-natured smile softening the jibe.
Tracks huffs, pointing a disdainful finger at a scuff across Scokescreen's bright red chestplate, "At least some of us take pride in our appearances."
Bluestreak lets the friendly bickering wash over him, casting curious optics to the datapad clutched in Smokescreen's servos. It looks like a standard 'pad, screen dark in standby mode.
"Are you taking odds again for the combat training matchups?" Bluestreak asks, once a momentary pause in the mechs' bantering presents itself. "Only Prowl has been in such a mood this week and I've seen him watching the sparring matches like a hawk, and I don't think you could take bets without him seeing and you know he thinks betting is undisciplined behaviour and don't you remember that time when he caught you with the -"
"Woah, cool your jets, Blue!" Smokescreen bumps a friendly fist into Bluestreak's pauldron, interrupting his recounting of the time Prowl caught the blue and red mech in the act of taking energon ration bets. "Betting pool'll be back up once the Iron-Sparked Menace goes back to his lair, but for now I've got something better."
With a flourish, Smokescreen sets the datapad down on the table, the screen coming to life at his command. Bluestreak, Tracks, and Cliffjumper all crane over to look at the small screen, taking in the familiar bright orange of the Ark's corridors and -
"Is this a security feed?" Cliffjumper whispers, glancing around the rec room to make sure none of the other mechs slowly trickling in are close enough to overhear. "How the frag did you get access to a security feed?"
Smokescreen gives the minibot a smug smile, waving a servo vaguely, "Oh, I have my ways."
Bluestreak though, is focussed on the tiny, frozen figures that blur across the paused video, red and yellow streaking in muted pixels. He shifts with a slight unease, glancing at Smokescreen.
"Is that -"
Smokescreen mistakes his query for interest, grinning widely and unpausing the video. "Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's little tiff? Yeah. Pit fighter vids used to go for a week's wages but for you mechs? Free."
Four sets of optics focus on the small video feed as the miniature figures tumble across the screen, a whirl of primary colours that clash, separate for just a moment, then clash again, twisting together as each warrior tries to gain the upper hand. At the edges of the feed the shapes of other Autobots cluster, and then there's the red and white figure of First Aid as the medic rushes in.
A collective wince rises around the table when Sunstreaker knocks the Protectobot out of the combat zone so hard the smaller mech bounces off a wall.
"How can spark-brothers fight like that?" Cliffjumper shakes his head, but doesn't take his eyes off the video, "Tearing lumps out of each other?"
Bluestreak frowns at the comment, optics tracking each figure on the datapad and memory banks offering up past experiences of the twins in battle.
"They aren't really hurting each other, though," the words are out of his vocoder before his processor catches up. Three sets of optics move from the datapad to look at him with varying degrees of disbelief. "No, look," he protests, pointing to the once again entwined figures on the video, "See? Sideswipe has his fingers right into the transformation seam on Sunstreaker's pauldron, but he's just hitting him with his other servo."
He flushes as the others' expressions move through several stages of questioning his sanity. Huffing a steadying vent, he explains, "I've seen Sideswipe use that same move when he was fighting Thundercracker, but in real battle he used both servos to tear at the seam and try and pull his arm off, look: he's just let go now and Sunstreaker's trying to pin him instead of getting his arm up under his armour to grab any vitals."
Four sets of thoughtful optics squint at the tussling shapes, until the imposing figure of Optimus Prime finally strides into view and the video ends.
Cliffjumper leans back in his chair, doubtfully looking at Bluestreak with a questioning, "Are you really sure, Blue? Looked like they were damn near trying to kill each other to me," even as Tracks turns to Smokescreen and hisses, "How did you get this off Red Alert?"
Smokescreen slaps a servo down on the datapad, and Bluestreak realises the tactician has carefully placed his body so that his wide frame and doors block the table's surface from the view of the room's security camera.
"Red Alert doesn't need to hear anything about this," Smokescreen says firmly.
Tracks shrugs, apparently not as interested in the base's security as he is in the topic of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's fight. Bluestreak finds himself once again the focus of three pairs of optics as he stammers an answer to Cliffjumper.
"I mean - well, it just didn't look the same as a real battle," he explains weakly, waving a servo in the direction of the datapad. "And, well, I mean they're fighting of course but I think they were probably just arguing about something and it got physical - you know what frontliners are like - and they didn't even hurt each other that badly and -"
"But if they're going to fight each other like that, what're they going to do to an ally that isn't their spark brother!" Cliffjumper protests.
"Wouldn't catch me in a disagreement with either of the twins," Tracks shakes his head, folding arms tightly across his chestplate. "My finish is too delicate to be going to blows with those brutes."
"But they're not -" Bluestreak starts to protest, even as Smokescreen cuts him off.
"I'll give you eight to one odds on the twins getting into another fight within the month," the tactician offers with a mischievous gleam in his optics.
"I'll take that," Cliffjumper leans forward, "troops like that, with no self control?"
"They don't have no self control -" Bluestreak protests again, but the conversation at the table is already dissolving into the good-natured taunts and banter that seem to follow Smokescreen wherever he goes. Bluestreak stutters, flushing at the implication that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are less than ideal Autobot warriors, but before he can mount a proper defence they're all interrupted by the sound of a chair clanging into the floor.
Across the rec room Hot Spot has jolted out of his chair, tipping it up in his rush to stand. The Protectobot leader's amber optics burn with fury, and he takes a couple of strides across the floor, the other Protectobots hurriedly grouping to follow him. Bluestreak's spark sinks as he sees the mech raise an accusatory finger to point at his group.
Their overexcited discussion had gotten quite loud…
"Those psychopaths are no better than a pair of 'Cons!" Hot Spot rages, waving off Groove's attempt to place a pacifying hand on his arm. Behind their leader, the gestalt clusters, and Bluestreak's spark sinks even more as he sees Blades stepping up next to Hot Spot, both mechs looking ready to go to blows themselves.
The accusation hits like a wave, sending a hush over the whole rec room. Both groups find themselves the focus of a crowd of shocked optics.
"Woah, Hot Spot," Smokescreen's servos are extended in a pacifying gesture, and he stays calmly seated in his chair, not rising to Hot Spot's escalation. "That's a hell of an accusation to throw out."
Hot Spot's passion, though, won't be pacified. He takes another step forward, servos curling to fists, and his gestalt bristles with the transferred fury of their leader.
"What kind of Autobot lays servos on a medic?" he snaps. At the back of the bristling group of Protectobots, a faint protest arises from First Aid, but Hot Spot ignores him. "I don't care what slagging argument they have, but hurting my - hurting our medic -" he stops short, too incensed to continue.
A ripple of unease spreads across the gathered Autobots, mechs shifting in their seats and exchanging glances. Bluestreak's mouth drops open, but before he can vocalise a counterargument Smokescreen rises smoothly from his seat, servos still raised placatingly and turning fully towards the Protectobot gathering.
"Come on, Hot Spot," he soothes, "your argument's not with any mech here, let's just sit down -"
The calming tone only serves to rile Hot Spot further, the unified shift among the Protectobots conveying their leader's rising anger.
"Don't tell me to calm down, Smokescreen," he growls, "not after those fraggers sent my medic in for repairs." He punctuates his fury with a slicing white servo. "You lot might think it's funny, but I'm not waiting to get shot in the back."
"I'm sure Sunstreaker didn't mean to hurt First Aid," Bluestreak anxiously fills the shocked silence. "Hot Spot, you know how frontliners get when they rile each other up and yeah Sunstreaker and Sideswipe shouldn't have been fighting in the Ark but First Aid was okay and they just -"
"Shut up, Bluestreak," Hot Spot roars, earning a shocked gasp from the onlookers. Bluestreak's mouth snaps closed, shame curling through his fuel lines in a hot flood. "Those two are a defection waiting to happen, and maybe you should stop palling around with them if you don't want your loyalty called into ques -"
Fury bursts through Bluestreak's shame, the strength of it snapping him out of his chair fast enough to knock the table to the side. The datapad slides, but Bluestreak's lightning reflexes are already moving his servo to snatch, and even as Cliffjumper realises - nanoseconds too late - and tries to make a grab for Bluestreak's arm, he's already winding back.
Battle protocols fizzing in his processor, rage sending his fuel pump into a frenzied pounding, and sniper software feeding off the rush of energon, the rec room seems to Bluestreak to be moving in slow motion. Worried optics spread around the two groups, Hot Spot tensing forward to move into an offensive stance, Blades at his side readying to fight for his leader, First Aid's white arm reaching forward vainly as he pushes through his gestalt to try and calm the bristling Hot Spot. The table tumbles away, freeing up space for him to move properly, even as Smokescreen turns horrified optics back towards his fellow Praxian and Cliffjumper moves too slow, too slow.
The datapad leaves Bluestreak's servo in a twirling, turning throw and arcs with pinpoint accuracy across the rec room. It smashes into Hot Spot's faceplate, cracking into pieces and sending the Protectobot stumbling back a step. A collective gasp goes up.
"Bluestreak!"
As one single-minded beast, the gathered Autobots whip to face the rec room doors in horror. The fury pumping through Bluestreak's fuel lines drains away in one awful moment of clarity, replaced by the realisation of what a terrible mistake he's just made.
In the open doorway, Prowl's figure forms a dark silhouette, broken by two incandescent blue optics.
"My office," the commander snaps. "Now."
-o0o-
Prowl's office is sparse, undecorated, and without the usual build up of clutter that accompanies a space being used frequently. Unlike the friendly office of Optimus Prime, walls hung with newspaper headlines and images of the Ark's troops, or Jazz's chaotic clutter of interesting earth items, instruments, and scattered datapads, Prowl's domain is austere, furnished only with a large desk and two chairs. Sitting behind the empty expanse of his desk, the Autobot second in command pins Bluestreak with an unreadable stare.
Bluestreak tries to sit upright, to a respectful and proper attention, but as the seconds drag out and Prowl's gaze isn't diverted or softened, he begins to wither and feel the urge to squirm like a naughty newspark.
Finally, mercifully, Prowl speaks. "Why did you throw a datapad at Hot Spot's face?"
The query is delivered flatly, devoid of accusation or the astonished weariness that the childish action probably deserves.
Bluestreak resets his vocaliser, agonisingly torn between the truth demanded by the cold blue staredown and the wretched code of honour imposed on all soldiers everywhere, best summarised as don't grass to the brass.
"He… said something…" he replies pathetically, the smallness of his voice embarrassing to his own audials.
Prowl doesn't so much as blink, as still as a statue save for a single finger that taps twice - only twice - on the desk. After a silence that feels like another age, he prompts, "And that was?"
Bluestreak glances away, flushing with embarrassment at the unwavering attention. Sideswipe or Smokescreen would have a believable excuse ready, one that rolled off the tongue with ease. Sunstreaker or Brawn would simply refuse to say anything and accept the additional punishment that silence would merit.
Bluestreak croaks out, "I… don't remember."
Prowl neatly steeples his fingers together, setting both servos onto the desk and, to Bluestreak's surprise, giving a pointed ex-vent.
"You don't remember what Hot Spot said that angered you enough to throw a datapad at his face?"
Willing himself to bring his nerves under control, Bluestreak grits his denta and meets the commander's icy optics. He tries to smooth his own faceplates to match Prowl's controlled mask.
"Nosir."
"Or, I suppose, why you and Hot Spot might have been exchanging heated words in the first place?"
"Nosir."
"I see," Prowl nods. He produces a datapad - as featureless and common as the one Smokescreen had shown them the video on, what felt like hours ago - and taps a few brief notes onto the screen. Then he focuses again on the younger Praxian, quirking an optic ridge, voice as light as if asking Bluestreak's thoughts on the weather. "And this datapad… the one that Smokescreen was hiding from the security cameras," ice plunges through Bluestreak's spark chamber, "what was on that?"
With a force of will that deserves to be a point of pride, Bluestreak doesn't so much as tremble. He resets his vocaliser again, then delivers the reply in his best attempt at returning the commander's own cool tones. "Human television."
Something flickers, for the merest fraction of a nanosecond, in Prowl's optics.
"Human television isn't banned on base," Prowl notes just as lightly as before, the smallest tilt of his helm emphasising the question implied in his observation. "Why would Smokescreen try to hide that from the cameras?"
Bluestreak forces himself not to break optic contact, trying to look through the commander and focus on a spot on the wall somewhere behind the red-crested helm.
"I don't think he was," he lies, fuel pump pounding, then hastily adds, "sir."
The desire to slump in relief when Prowl breaks their staring match, tapping again to enter something into his datapad, is strong enough that it feels like a physical force pulling on Bluestreak's very struts. He resists.
With a deliberate click, Prowl sets the datapad down on the desk, the emptiness of the surface somehow emphasised by the addition of the single small pad.
"Do you think the discipline of the base is lacking, Bluestreak?"
The question is a right hook out of nowhere, catching Bluestreak's racing processor by surprise and sending his thoughts scrambling frantically down a new line of defence.
"Nosir!" he squeaks, servos clenching in his lap.
Prowl rolls his helm slowly from side to side, the movement startling in contrast to his former statuesque stillness.
"Perhaps the Autobots find themselves bored, with too much free time and not enough duties to occupy idle servos and processors?"
"Nosir!"
"I see."
Bluestreak holds himself in an attentive half flinch, barely daring to vent for fear it might tilt him into a precipice of disciplinary vengeance. Apparently unaware of his subordinate's terror, Prowl opens a desk drawer, pulling out a new datapad and casting his optics down to its glyphs.
"If you feel the need for target practice, go report to Ironhide at the training hangar for the rest of the day," those cool optics flicker momentarily back to Bluestreak's rictus face. "I'll tell him to expect you. And see Hoist for maintenance this week, in case your memory banks are corrupted."
"Yessir!"
Prowl nods, indicating the door with a motion of his servo, already disinterested in the other mech. "Dismissed."
Jolting out of the chair like the metal is suddenly burning hot, Bluestreak makes for the exit before the commander has a sudden change of spark. As the doors whoosh open in response to his shaking servo on the access panel, Prowl's voice catches him in the back like cannonfire.
"Oh, and Bluestreak?"
Trembling with suppressed terror, Bluestreak forces himself to turn back on the brink of freedom, optics meeting Prowl's eternally expressionless countenance.
"Try not to tense your doors back so much when you lie."
-o0o-
Bluestreak blinks back to awareness. He isn't sure how long he's been sitting on a bench in the otherwise-empty training hangar, but it's long enough that the lights have dropped to a dim half-darkness, conserving energy in an abandoned room. After the stress of the day's encounters, and the curdling worry that he might run into a still-angry Hot Spot, he's spent the evening perched in a corner of the training hangar, watching the dwindling numbers of sparring matches and pretending to clean his rifle, until the silence of the abandoned hangar let him drift off to an anxious dissociation.
It's a noise that's pulled him out of his waking dream; a whining air vent overhead that, in the eerie silence of the deserted hangar sounds - sounds - sounds like -
Bombs falling.
His conscious mind processing the true source of the sound doesn't matter, because fear is already dumping into his spark chamber and flooding through his chassis like a freezing tide. He can feel it, a physical cold that crashes from the centre of his being and sends a numb rush tingling down his arms and legs. His body isn't under his control, fuel pump pounding into frenzied rhythm despite his attempts to vent in slow and hard.
No no no no no no no -
With an iron-clad will he forces his optics to focus on the grille, sniper sights picking out every painstaking detail; a tiny missing screw, the grille hanging slightly loose, thick with dust. He wills his audials to register the source of the sound: Just a vent. Just a vent. But the terror already has hold of him in crushing claws, defying rational thought. He stumbles to his pedes and the lights flicker to full brightness in response to the movement, a sudden wash of stark illumination.
Like the flash of a missile striking -
The light sears his optics and he can't vent in, he can't vent in. He tries to make himself choke in air but it's like he doesn't remember how. His engine stutters and stalls. Too much energon is pumping through his chest and his processor is awash with hot fuel and cold fear and dizzying sickness and he can hear them now, the drone of the seekers and the whine of the falling bombs.
For a few moments, nanoseconds that stretch out in an agonising age, Bluestreak hunches in the middle of the hangar. He presses his servos to his face, shutters his optics, shudderingly vents through the terror pounding through his frame like a beating drum.
"They aren't here," he whispers to himself through hot tears, "they aren't here, they aren't here."
But even with his optics covered he can see the flickering light of missile strikes. The whine of Decepticon jets is inside his mind and no matter how hard he squeezes his helm they won't stop.
Bluestreak runs.
Out of the too-open vastness of the hangar, into darkened corridors and as he dashes past motion sensors the lights flicker on, flashes that mingle with the memory of the fires that took Praxus. The terror has him fully under its spell now and he is a crying, fleeing civilian as his home burns to rubble all around. His vision narrows to a vague awareness of the bright orange walls ahead of him, and he tears half-blind through the Ark's corridors.
There's a tiny, tiny part of his consciousness that peers out through the fear, sees the orange walls of the arc for what they are. That fragment of self tells the base animal that's taken over his mind to find the medbay, where it's safe and quiet and Ratchet or First Aid will -
As he hurtles blindly around a corner he collides with someone coming the other way, the larger, heavier frame staggering back as Bluestreak clangs into a pile on the floor.
An exclamation of surprise is cut short. Bluestreak's optics vaguely register brilliant yellow plate as the mech reaches down to help haul him to his pedes. Through the haze of pounding energon and the phantom roar of jet engines in his audials, Bluestreak's fragment of rational self floods with shame even as the gibbering wreck that currently controls his body and mind flushes with relief at seeing the solid, safe frames of the twins.
"Hey, Blue! Where's the fire -" Sideswipe's familiar, friendly voice hesitates as his optics track across the trembling Praxian's frame. "Dude, are you okay?"
Bluestreak can't make himself let go of Sunstreaker. He clings to the familiar forearms like they're a liferaft. Like letting go will send him plunging into a deadly chasm of darkness. He's holding too tight, fingers crushing into Sunstreaker's plate, but he can't make himself let go. Sideswipe's optics flicker down the corridor, back the way Bluestreak came, looking for some threat, but Sunstreaker's cool blue gaze is fixed firmly on the grey mech's stricken face.
Bluestreak opens his mouth and finds only static. He resets his vocaliser over and over, trying to muster an explanation. But how can he tell them how scared he is of an event so long gone it's just a blip in the hundreds of atrocities of the war?
"Prax-s-s-us," he manages to stammer out through the static, hoping with a desperation that hurts that the twins won't laugh, or shrug him off, or realise how cracked his processor must be.
The twins exchange a single glance.
"Should we get somewhere safe?" Sunstreaker asks quietly.
Bluestreak gulps in a sob, heaving shuddering vents as he nods hard enough to make himself want to throw up.
He's barely aware of the short journey they make, of Sunstreaker's arm wrapped around him as the warrior half-carries him through the Ark's corridors. His optics only half-register Sideswipe's shape ahead, leading them to a room, through a door.
It's dim and quiet, and Sunstreaker is carefully guiding Bluestreak as he sinks to the floor, letting him slowly sit instead of crashing into a limp heap. When Bluestreak still clings frantically to Sunstreaker's arm, the warrior crouches down in front of him, blue optics steady and calm.
There's no space in Bluestreak's awareness for shame now, the fear still racking through his body in freezing waves and the roar of engines in his audials. He reaches his free servo out blindly, looking for an anchor to the real world, and yellow fingers clasp his own.
"The seekers," he gasps, trying to convey his terror.
Sunstreaker doesn't ask what he's talking about, or tell him there's nothing to be afraid of, or irritably snap that he should pull himself together, and maybe once his wits return Bluestreak will be grateful for that.
The warrior's helm dips in a nod. "We're safe in here," he says softly, servo squeezing Bluestreak's own. "And Sideswipe is watching the door."
At the corner of Bluestreak's awareness he vaguely understands the red form of Sideswipe leaning in the doorway, a bastion of protection against the outside world.
He shutters his optics hard, nods, wills the droning engines in his audials to stop.
He feels Sunstreaker shifting in front of him, slowly, and then the electric tingle of their EM fields meeting as the mech carefully moves closer. Sunstreaker's field is a steady pulse of calm, and Bluestreak drinks in the sensation, willing it to override the panic that surges, still out of control, through his spark.
Slowly, gently, as though holding something immeasurably fragile, Bluestreak feels Sunstreaker guide his servo to meet the warm metal of the warrior's chest plate, up towards his pauldron, to where the seam of the Lamborghini hood tapers away to the protoform underneath. Bluestreak blinks his optics on in surprise when Sunstreaker presses his servo flat to the open, delicate cabling below his armour.
"We're safe in here," the yellow mech says again.
Beneath his servo Bluestreak can feel the steady, calm pulse of Sunstreaker's fuel pump, and the edge of his panic blurs against the reassuring buzz of the warrior's steady EM field. Venting hard, he tries to focus on the feel of living metal beneath his fingers and wills the drone of jet engines to stop.
Time slides by, and Bluestreak doesn't know how long it is until he can stop shaking and sobbing, until his processor stops replaying the sound of a city burning. Until he can finally let numb fingers release their crushing hold on his liferaft of living plate.
It's like waking up from a nightmare; the real world trickles in, information making its way sluggishly into his awareness. A two-berth habsuite, scattered cleaning products and bullet shells, an empty energon cube and a bottle of contraband high grade. He's slumped on his knees in the middle of the floor, Sunstreaker's motionless form crouched like a guardian angel before him. In the doorway, Sideswipe stands an easy guard, now turning concerned blue optics back towards the room.
Bluestreak shudders an ex-vent, feeling dull and slow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, embarrassment is trying to pick its way to the fore but he's too exhausted for the emotion to find any purchase.
He wishes he could quell the darkness that lives in the pit of his spark, drowning him at the slightest provocation.
He wishes for Praxus.
"You alright, Blue?" Sideswipe's voice is unusually lacking its usual humour, the warrior taking a small step into the room, craning past the bulk of his twin to look at the huddled lump that Bluestreak has become.
No.
But instead of telling the truth, Bluestreak decides to lie again today. He pushes the darkness, and the memories, and the thoughts of Praxus deep to the bottom of his being. His optics sweep over the steady form of Sunstreaker, still unmoving but now watching him with an unreadable expression, and finds some resolve that lets him stiffly nod in reply.
Sideswipe is next to him now, leaning past his brother to offer a servo, which Bluestreak gratefully takes and heaves himself up. A familiar, friendly smile plays across Sideswipe's mouth.
"Why don't you stay here tonight, Blue?" he offers, gesturing grandly as though the room were a sumptuous hotel. Before Bluestreak can protest, the red warrior raps Sunstreaker's helm with a knuckle, earning an irritated growl. "You can have Sunny's berth."
"Oh no, I couldn't - I'd better -" Bluestreak finds the denials falling from his lips, despite the surge in his spark that he'd much rather stay in the safe, warm company of his friends.
Sunstreaker pushes against Sideswipe's thigh, rising to stand with his usual glower for his twin.
"Sunstreaker," he corrects Sideswipe, jostling the red mech none too gently as he stands. Despite their larger, heavier frames, Bluestreak feels like there's nowhere safer in the cosmos for him to be. Before he can make a half-hearted protest, again, Sunstreaker's optics are turning from his twin, focusing more softly on the smaller grey mech. "Get some recharge, Bluestreak, I'll watch the door."
The half-hearted fight leaves Bluestreak's spark, pride overridden by his exhaustion and need to feel some safe companionship. He allows Sideswipe to take his elbow, gently guide him to a berth, and give him an equally gentle push to settle down. Hazily, Bluestreak notes Sunstreaker's name glyph carved into the wall, and a small side table overflowing with meticulously folded cleaning cloths and carefully arranged bottles.
The last thing he sees as he initiates his recharge cycle is a dim silhouette against the room's soft darkness, sitting at an easy rest with optics glowing brilliant points of blue, as Sunstreaker keeps watch through the night.