This entire one shot was inspired by this art on Tumblr amateur-flamingo / 763555897126633472 / also-i-really-in-love-with-stunticons-have-many
Transformers © Hasbro
"Drag Strip!"
Smoke, and the acrid stench of burned metal, clogged his vents. An immense weight pinned him to the ground.
Error.
Heat washed over him.
Reboot sequence in 5… 4…
He couldn't move.
Reboot sequence begun.
"You think they're dead?"
Critical damage to—
"Not sure."
Reboot sequence in 5… 4…
"Bolt took out the idiot's forcefield." Metal creaked as if from hydraulics moving before weight pressed down further onto his chassis. That same voice sneered, its coldness unfamiliar. Nothing made sense. "I wasn't even aiming for him. Didn't think he'd dive in front of our missiles like that."
Forcefield offline.
"I'm not getting any lifesigns off his spark." The second voice wavered as they spoke. They were… upset.
That didn't make sense.
Initiating self repairs.
"Dive. Buddy. He's our enemy. Be glad we offed him."
Audial processing receptors repaired.
"We are rivals, yes, but I never thought we'd kill one of them. Or… or two." Again, the second voice wavered.
Audial recognition initiated.
A laugh, more shocked than amused, exploded from the first voice. "We're enemies, Skydive. They'd celebrate if they were in our position and they'd deactivated two of us. Don't get down because of them."
Audial recognition repaired.
A sigh hissed from the second voice — Skydive. The vocal patterns were those of Skydive. Aerialbot. Enemy. Oh, scrap — before a hiss of pistons announced the sudden tug of sharp, jet claws against his plating. A hiss of pain escaped from the car as he felt Skydive's digits fuss around his frame and then—
Enemy signatures detected.
No shit.
A digit tapped against his visor.
"Hey? You alright?"
Skydive's vocal pattern fluttered within his audial receptors. It was wrong.
It was worried.
"Drag Strip?" Another rap of Skydive's clawed digits against his visor.
Optical array repaired.
"Leave him, Dive. We need to return to Bolt."
Optical array activated.
Light burned at his optical array as Drag Strip opened his optics behind his visor. A pained growl escaped him as he tried to move his arms to block the sunlight—
"Easy, whoa, easy!"
Shade, in the form of Skydive's helm hovering over Drag Strip's faceplate, blocked the sun as quickly as Drag Strip realized that his arms weren't responding to his commands. All he received from his systems was a damage warning along his elbow joints, and another blaring "enemy detected" warning.
Drag Strip vented, and gave up.
He glared through his visor up at Skydive as the Aerialbot slowly came into full focus now that his optics weren't flooded with the afternoon light. Standing behind Skydive's shoulder was Slingshot, his expression murderous, but it was Skydive who Drag Strip watched.
He was closest.
Barely a few inches from Drag Strip as Skydive lowered his servos to Drag Strip's arm. Fear shot through Drag Strip as he bared his denta in a snarl as Skydive's digits wrapped around his left wrist.
As Skydive pulled Drag Strip's arm up off the ground.
As Skydive pressed two digits against his wrist panel and made it open, exposing his external comms array.
Another snarl from the Tyrrell was cut off by a snappish "shut up" from Slingshot, just as Drag Strip noticed Skydive press the mic on his comms array.
Static crackled loudly — painfully loudly — before Skydive leaned close to Drag Strip's comm array and, with a poor attempt at Drag Strip's deep drawl (how utterly embarrassing, the least Skydive could do was try), said, "Victory, this is Drag Strip, come in. Motormaster and I need an immediate medical evacuation to our location—"
Motormaster?
Drag Strip ignored Skydive as the Aerialbot continued to try and call the Victory, his helm shifting to the side as much as he could move it. His optics scanned for—
Motormaster's frame lay a few feet from his own. Smoke billowed from his chassis, where torn plating and gaping holes in the K100's chest plate and lower body belched fire. Horror hit Drag Strip before he could think. Before he could stop it. Before he could recognize that he was feeling this for Motormaster.
His—
"Your faction is on their way." Skydive's voice sounded far away even as Drag Strip registered the weight of the Aerialbot's servo on his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
Bewilderment shot through Drag Strip as he snapped his gaze to the Aerialbots. His mouth opened to snap at Skydive, but the F-16 was already blasting away from his location alongside Slingshot.
Drag Strip blinked after the two Aerialbots, aware of a voice shouting at him from his comms array as he, once more, turned to look at Motormaster.
"Boss?" The words were out of Drag Strip's mouth before he could stop them.
Motormaster didn't respond.
Shit.
A soft brush of metal digits against plating ripped Drag Strip from the memories coursing through his processor as if from a hurricane's storm surge. Drag Strip jumped.
He jerked his arm away from whoever had touched him and whirled on his pedes, denta bared, servos raised to—
Breakdown's pleading faceplate greeted the Tyrrell.
Drag Strip's clawed digits froze inches from tearing at Breakdown's imploring optics.
"What do you want?" He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice, even as Drag Strip lowered his servos and let them hang at his side.
It was just Breakdown.
Just Breakdown.
Breakdown fidgeted underneath Drag Strip's piercing stare. His servos were tucked close to Breakdown's chest plate, where he prodded his index digits together. Anxiety bubbled off Breakdown in sickening waves.
It reminded Drag Strip of the stench of Motormaster burning.
Drag Strip staggered forward, into Breakdown.
His tank surged.
It took every ounce of self control for Drag Strip to fight back the urge to purge his tanks, made even harder when he felt Breakdown's servos grab him and steady him. Drag Strip shook as Breakdown pulled him close, his arms encircling Drag Strip in a hug.
"What do you want?" Drag Strip repeated, aware of how distant from himself he felt at that moment.
His chassis ached where Scrapper had repaired his many injuries. Injuries he'd sustained when Motormaster had been blasted on top of him by Slingshot and Skydive's missiles. His forcefield had been offlined by the sheer force of Motormaster's chassis crushing him, and his frame still ached even after he had been repaired. But it was that pain and Breakdown's presence that kept Drag Strip himself present.
Drag Strip couldn't stamp down the tumult of shame that surged through his fuel lines as his tank fought against his reflexes.
Breakdown's whisper was small. Almost imperceptible above Drag Strip's surging tank and roiling memories. "You're hurt."
No shit.
Every Decepticon had seen the five Constructicons dragging Motormaster's nearly deactivated corpse through the Victory's boarding chute at the same time that Scrapper had been carrying Drag Strip in his arms like he was a newspark. Everyone had seen the obvious tell that the two Stunticons had failed another mission. Everyone had laughed at them in their sorry state.
The simplest of missions and Drag Strip had failed. In front of the entire faction.
His brothers had seen him being carried by Scrapper.
Primus, how much they had to have laughed about him.
Embarrassment ripped through Drag Strip before he suddenly shoved Breakdown away from him. Breakdown stumbled backwards as Drag Strip scrambled backwards himself, seeking distance between himself and the white Countach. Blind anger slammed into Drag Strip, extinguishing his desire to purge as he glared venom at Breakdown.
"Going to laugh at me again? I saw the way you looked at me. I—"
Breakdown shook his helm. He reached out with one servo to Drag Strip, the sorrow in his optics making Drag Strip jerk away with a snarl.
"Don't touch me!"
He did not need Breakdown's pathetic simpering.
Breakdown froze. Pain flickered through his optics before Breakdown tucked his servos to his chest plate and wrung his servos together. The gestalt bond stirred awake inside Drag Strip where he'd attempted to stifle it after Scrapper had so carefully picked him up when the six Constructicons arrived to his and Motormaster's location.
After he'd felt Motormaster's agony scythe through his entire chassis as if Drag Strip had been the one, not Motormaster, with more holes blown in his frame than Motormaster had his frame intact.
After Scrapper had whispered reassurances to him and covered Drag Strip with a cloak of comfort from his field.
After he heard the drop of worry in Hook's voice as the crane commanded his team to get Motormaster to the Victory's medbay immediately.
Drag Strip had watched out of the corner of his optics as the Constructicons doused the flames belching from Motormaster's frame. As they rushed to repair his countless injuries. Even when Scrapper had turned the Tyrrell's helm away and told him to rest, Drag Strip stared. Haunted the gestalt bond to feel when Motormaster passed.
But the semi hadn't.
Not yet.
Not with Hook's servos shoved deep inside Motormaster to patch up his damaged fuel lines.
Not with Breakdown pleading to Scrapper to let them stay with Motormaster as the Constructicon tried to push the three uninjured Stunticons out of the medical bay.
Not with Drag Strip's spark unable to process why Motormaster had saved him.
The gentlest, briefest touch to his wrist pulled Drag Strip's gaze to Breakdown's once again. Soft, yellow optics peered at him as Breakdown stepped closer to Drag Strip, his hold on the Tyrrell's wrist tightening ever so slightly.
"Your paint," Breakdown whispered as Drag Strip instinctively tried to pull away from his younger brother, "it's scratched. I can buff it."
Drag Strip narrowed his optics at Breakdown. He didn't need pity. He didn't need to be babied. He was ashamed enough of the mission they'd failed. He didn't need pity. "Why?"
The bite in his question made Breakdown squeak. The Lamborghini released Drag Strip and tucked his servos back to his chest plate. His helm fell and Drag Strip could practically feel Breakdown staring holes into his own pedes. "I… I just want to help. I know Scrapper didn't have the chance to… buff… your welds after he repaired you. It will make you feel better."
Drag Strip stared down at Breakdown (though Breakdown was hardly any shorter than him) coldly. The only expression he could see from Breakdown was concern. Worry. Anxiety. There was no judgment or mocking. Simply Breakdown being… Breakdown.
"Alright," Drag Strip finally relented as he gave up.
He slid down the wall of the Stunticons' front room until he was seated on the floor, legs extended out from himself. His vents spooled out heat as Drag Strip rubbed at his upper torso, right behind his engine, where Motormaster had crushed in his engine when he'd been flung onto the Tyrrell. Scrapper had repaired every part of him, but Scrapper had dismissed him quickly when Hook had barked for Scrapper's assistance with Motormaster.
Drag Strip had been moping in his team's quarters since he'd been released. Wildrider had tried to talk to him, but after Drag Strip had sullenly ignored the Ferrari, he had left their quarters. Dead End was off with the Decepticon high command (Drag Strip still didn't know why Dead End had been picked as second in command over him, but in this case, he was glad. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now) and hadn't been back since he'd checked in on Drag Strip and Motormaster in the medical bay.
A quiet little hum greeted Drag Strip as Breakdown bent down next to him, buffer in one servo. Breakdown reached a servo out to him, then tapped his chest plate carefully. "I'll start with your chest plating. Tell me if you need me to stop."
"Sure," Drag Strip grumbled, his optics rolling behind his visor as he kept his arms loose for Breakdown to reach his outer plating with ease.
Breakdown hummed a wordless tune as he raised the buffer to Drag Strip's chest plate, the smooth buzz of the buffer releasing some of the tension from Drag Strip's frame. He felt Breakdown's giddiness through the bond as the Countach moved closer to him and worked the buffer over his left torso plating. A yawn slipped from Drag Strip as the buffer thrummed and yawed over his plating.
Breakdown was right.
This did make him feel better.
Time passed as Breakdown worked methodically. Each rotation of the buffer released a hint of the pent up anger inside Drag Strip. Even his embarrassment faded under Breakdown's care, until Breakdown finally stopped and stepped back, his shy smile softening over the rest of Drag Strip's edges. With a soft chuff, Drag Strip raised his left servo and lightly ruffled the top of Breakdown's helm.
"Thanks."
That same shy smile flashed across Breakdown's faceplate before he ducked his helm and moved to sit next to Drag Strip, the buffer placed to Breakdown's side. Drag Strip felt a flustered heat surge through his fuel lines when Breakdown nudged his helm underneath the Tyrrell's left arm and leaned fully against his side.
Drag Strip blinked down at his brother then placed his servo on Breakdown's shoulder plate carefully. To his surprise, Breakdown's engine immediately rumbled to life with a deeply pleased purr. A soft laugh escaped Drag Strip before he could stop himself.
Breakdown was right.
"Feeling better?" Breakdown asked.
Drag Strip didn't respond outright. He shifted beside Breakdown as he closed his optics and analyzed every part of himself. Shame still lingered inside his plating from the failed mission, but his anger had long dissipated.
Thanks to Breakdown.
He wasn't alright, but he felt better.
Breakdown hummed beneath his arm. "That's alright. I'm just glad you are okay. That mission…"
Pain flashed through the gestalt bond.
Drag Strip moved his arm away from Breakdown and hugged himself, optics shuttered closed. The gestalt bond continued to ache through his chassis. The ache hadn't ceased since Motormaster had been shot. Drag Strip hated it.
A nudge from Breakdown preceded the other Stunticon placing a servo over Drag Strip's knee. Reassurance blazed off the Countach in stifling waves.
"You should go see him."
Drag Strip scowled, his helm snapping to glare at Breakdown, only to meet a seriousness in Breakdown's gaze that silenced him.
"He's our brother—"
"Tell him that!" Drag Strip snarled, his engine coughing until it revved alive as he shot to his pedes and glared down at Breakdown.
Breakdown narrowed his optics at Drag Strip's reaction. He didn't flinch. Breakdown didn't even seem bothered by Drag Strip's anger. Not when Breakdown reached out a servo and grabbed Drag Strip's arm. "I too wish he treated us better than he does, but he's still our sibling. He protected you—"
An offended snort escaped from Drag Strip but, before he could lash out (unfairly, he knew, deep down) at Breakdown, his brother stood up. Breakdown glared Drag Strip down, his plating flaring. Drag Strip slammed his mouth shut and shrunk down, ever so slightly. He could swear Breakdown was channeling Menasor, for a heavy presence was weighing on Drag Strip where Breakdown's field touched him.
"Motormaster is gestalt," Breakdown reiterated, "whether you or I dislike how he treats us does not take away from the fact our sibling is gestalt. Gestalt sticks together, no matter what. You're worried for him. Go see him."
Drag Strip rolled his optics but, with a disgusted sound, waved off Breakdown. "Fine. Only so you shut up."
As Drag Strip left the Stunticons' quarters he swore he heard Breakdown let out a pleased, smug little rumble from his engine.
Brat.
It took a few minutes to reach the medical bay, for Drag Strip drug his pedes reluctantly the entire way there. Only when he saw Astrotrain stalking down the hallway towards him did Drag Strip pick up his pedes and move to the side, avoiding the massive triple changer. Astrotrain didn't even care to look at Drag Strip as he brushed past him, much to his relief.
Finally, with reluctance still sharp in the Tyrrell's movements, Drag Strip moved into the medical bay. The doors whooshed open quietly. Drag Strip shuddered, then crossed the door's threshold, gaze turning to where Motormaster's unconscious frame lay on one of the larger medberths. Hook was nowhere to be seen, nor the rest of his team.
Good, this would be easy without Drag Strip being watched.
"Don't touch anything," Hook warned from a corner of the medbay Drag Strip hadn't even noticed him in. Hook was washing down tools with soapy water, his crane hook collecting and moving each tool that sat on a table beside the small sink. Drag Strip could not help but stare at the energon soaked tools for a long moment before he swallowed and looked up at Hook.
Fear shot through Drag Strip as the surgeon's fire red visor stared him down in return, but the Tyrrell did everything he could to straighten and smile at Hook. "No worries, Hook. I won't."
A snort of disbelief came from the crane as he continued to wash his surgical tools off but he did not pay mind to Drag Strip. With a stutter from his engine, Drag Strip approached Motormaster's berth, then drug a chair over to sit in beside his leader's prone frame.
He could swear he still smelled burning metal and energon wafting off Motormaster's frame. It made him want to purge.
The Tyrrell P34 shook himself. His arms tucked tighter around his chest plate as he burrowed his chin against his knees and looked over at Motormaster's medberth. The semi had been repaired as best as Hook could afford with their scarce resources, but he didn't look right. There was no anger spouting off the black semi, nor did he remotely look strong.
"Why did you jump in front of Slingshot's missiles, you idiot. I had a forcefield, you didn't. What were you thinking?"
"That he was gestalt."
Hook's voice growled from directly above Drag Strip.
With a squeak, Drag Strip fell backwards out off the chair, arms flailing—
Hook caught him.
Drag Strip blinked. His gaze turned to where Hook's servo had latched around his upper forearm, then turned to stare up at the medic.
Hook's visor gave no hint of his emotions as he rightened Drag Strip, then the chair. Not even when Drag Strip felt Hook's gaze turn to examining him.
"I'm fine," Drag Strip blurted out when Hook's servo suddenly touched his engine housing.
Which hurt.
Which Hook noticed, judging by the sharp look he sent Drag Strip through the medic's visor.
"I will be the judge of your wellness, Drag Strip," Hook growled.
Before he knew what was happening, the Tyrrell was lying prone on an unoccupied medberth with Hook examining him with his usual snobbish perfectionism. It was embarrassing to have Hook poking around in his engine over and over, the crane's muttered comments clearly not meant for Drag Strip himself as he worked.
At one point, when Hook was poking around in Drag Strip's internal array on his chest, underneath his engine, the Tyrrell coughed and squirmed. "Scrapper took care of me. I'm good."
That made Hook pause, but only long enough to give Drag Strip an unamused look before he returned to checking over Drag Strip. Only when Hook closed his chest panel and returned to staring at Drag Strip's engine did the yellow Stunticon relax. But only slightly.
"Scrapper knows what he is doing on basic repairs to the structure of his fellow Decepticons, but he is not trained as I am. I am ensuring every repair was done properly," Hook commented, flatly. His digits moved away from Drag Strip's engine and to a datapad he'd carried over earlier, quiet little "hmms" and growls from his engine punctuating the silent tension between the crane and Drag Strip.
"Is Motormaster going to be okay?"
Drag Strip slammed his servos over his mouth as the question slipped from his mouth. He couldn't let Hook know how worried he was. Breakdown, of course, had been right. Drag Strip's anxiety buzzed underneath his plating as Hook turned his helm to look towards him, his datapad forgotten.
"He will, eventually. Motormaster was lucky to have you call for a medical evacuation as soon as you did," Hook continued to talk but Drag Strip didn't hear it.
Not when he remembered Skydive calling for help for Drag Strip and Motormaster.
The Aerialbots were his enemies.
The Stunticons' sparks pulled them towards the Aerialbots every single time they met in combat. They were enemies. Why had Skydive not shot him and Motormaster when he'd found them injured?
"Skydive called for the medevac," Drag Strip whispered, barely loud enough for Hook to hear.
But Hook did, and his expression was unreadable for it.
"Skydive and Slingshot were the ones who nearly killed Motormaster, but they called for medevac. I…" Drag Strip crossed his arms, covering his chest plate anxiously, "don't know why they helped."
Hook didn't speak. Not for a long second before he gave a tired vent. "The Aerialbots are young. Their ideals have not been trampled by war. They don't know any better."
"But he…"
"Be glad he did," Hook growled, "for Motormaster would have been deactivated if we had been alerted any later."
Drag Strip sunk into the berth. Part of him urged him to be mad and wish Motormaster had been deactivated by the fleet of Aerialbots, but something much further down agonized at the prospect.
Motormaster is gestalt.
Breakdown and Hook's words stung. Drag Strip had been furious at Motormaster on their mission. He'd yelled at his leader constantly as they reached their target (a hydroelectric dam Megatron wanted them to steal a generator from), and constantly on the way back after they'd destroyed much of the dam in their seizure of the generator. Motormaster had hardly returned Drag Strip's venom but for a building, stewing rage inside the gestalt bond.
A rage that had been diverted when the Aerialbots struck. Silverbolt had been the first to attack, with his alt mode covered with lightning as he rammed Motormaster. Motormaster's forcefield had died out but that hadn't stopped him from slamming Silverbolt into the ground, or from crushing the Concorde's arms as they fought. Though Motormaster had not been able to transform for the generator stuck in his trailer, he'd still fought in alt mode with the semi's usual venom.
Drag Strip had done his best against the four limbs of Superion, until Motormaster had charged into the thick of his outnumbered fight, flung Air Raid off the yellow Stunticon with the cab of his alt mode and roared for Drag Strip to retreat.
So they'd fled, the generator haphazardly stored in Motormaster's trail as the Aerialbots chased them down.
Silverbolt had not pursued them for his injuries, but Slingshot and Skydive had.
Motormaster had ordered Drag Strip to provide cover fire as they fled. He'd tried, but the Aerialbots were annoyingly persistent. He couldn't remember much after a point when one of Skydive's missiles threw him across the highway and onto his side in alt mode. Nothing much but for Motormaster yelling his name.
"Drag Strip."
Hook's cold voice pulled Drag Strip from his patchy memories, and to the fiery glare Hook was giving him. At least, he thought Hook was glaring at him. Drag Strip wasn't an expert in reading the tells of the cold medic enough to know whether the flicker in Hook's visor was a good thing or a bad thing.
Before he could ponder any further, Hook stood up, gave him a genuine order to rest for the night in the medbay, covered his small frame with a medical tarp for "warmth" and "moisture prevention", reminded Drag Strip to call him should "anything go amiss", then left.
Drag Strip lay awkwardly on his medberth, his gaze darting towards Motormaster. The semi's prone form unnerved him.
With an anxious growl, Drag Strip turned on his side and tucked the medical tarp over his frame.
The sound of pained, dark growls and the rapidly growing level of noise within the medbay startled Drag Strip awake. The tarp fell off his frame as Drag Strip turned to the source of his disturbance—
The air around Motormaster's frame was hot. His left servo was clenched as the semi thrashed on his medberth. The twitch of the K100's digits reminded Drag Strip of the way Motormaster always held his ionizer sword in combat.
Was he having a nightmare?
Drag Strip grumbled, annoyed at the disturbance. Stupid Motormaster always keeping him up.
Grumbling to himself, Drag Strip picked up his medical tarp, laid down on his medberth and—
A sound like a sob broke from Motormaster.
Shock froze Drag Strip in place as he gawked at his leader.
Motormaster continued to thrash. Continued to snarl and… He was crying.
Where was Breakdown when Drag Strip needed him.
Breakdown dealt with all that mushy affectionate stuff Drag Strip (pretended) hated. Breakdown would know how to calm down Motormaster so Drag Strip could sleep peacefully. Yes, just so he could sleep peacefully.
No other reason.
::. Breakdown. How do you calm down our glorious leader when he's having a nightmare. .:: Drag Strip didn't hesitate to bother his brother, who he felt stir awake with a startled sound through the bond.
::. Motormaster? .:: Breakdown's bond voice sounded foggy, though a hint of his awareness sparked through the bond.
::. Duh. Who else would I be talking about, .:: Drag Strip growled, the roll of his optics a feeling he sent to Breakdown intentionally.
Breakdown vented, irritated, before he answered. ::. Megatron, for one. You said 'glorious leader', after all. .::
::. And I'm not stupid enough to invade his privacy. It's our idiot. .::
An unimpressed growl escaped Breakdown before Drag Strip felt his brother's bond flame with a seriousness that even made him straighten his backstrut and listen. ::. Motormaster isn't an idiot. Your best option is to climb up with him and cuddle him. He will calm down with physical contact. I would— .::
::. I am not cuddling him, .:: Drag Strip snarled before Breakdown could continue.
He knew how defensive Motormaster was. The only outcome he could see was the semi punching him for cuddling up with him, no matter the reason why Drag Strip had to. Drag Strip was not going to risk his own chassis for the obnoxious semi.
::. He is our brother. You will. .:: Breakdown's response was cold. Venomous even. It made Drag Strip flinch.
::. I don't want to— .::
::. You will. .::
Drag Strip gulped.
::. I don't want to be punched. .::
Breakdown's bond flickered, for a moment, with understanding as the Countach vented. ::. He won't. Talk to him and get close to him, and he will calm down. Just don't use the gestalt bond. He… doesn't like that. .::
Drag Strip looked towards Motormaster, watching his leader as the semi continued to fight his nightmare. If the semi punched him for this, he was going to kill Breakdown.
::. He won't, .:: Breakdown reassured, again.
The Lamborghini's conviction finally bested Drag Strip's pride.
Carefully, he snuck over to Motormaster's berth, close enough he could extend out a servo and touch him, but not that close. Hesitation made Drag Strip freeze for a long moment before he vented and steeled himself.
"Boss?" Drag Strip whispered, his servo hovering over the semi's right servo as he hesitated to touch Motormaster.
The K100 didn't hear him.
Dammit.
With a deep inhale of air through his vents and fans, Drag Strip climbed up onto Motormaster's berth and tucked himself against the semi's chest plate.
A snort of shock billowed hot steam all over Drag Strip as he instinctively flinched at Motormaster's growl, but nothing happened. The semi's fist didn't strike him. The semi didn't even wake.
Drag Strip tucked himself closer to Motormaster's broad chest, his servos moving to grab onto the semi's right arm. He expanded his field somewhat, allowing an attempt at comfort to carefully wash over Motormaster.
Motormaster slowly stilled.
The heat pouring from his fans and vents faded as Drag Strip continued to press against Motormaster's chest. His snarls became mute, low growls. His frame stopped shaking, as Drag Strip patted his arm and whispered quiet reassurances to his leader.
Breakdown was right.
Drag Strip had calmed Motormaster down.
Now he could—
Motormaster's engine changed its pitch, seconds before Drag Strip felt the semi's right arm wrap around him and pulled him on top of Motormaster's chest plate. Drag Strip didn't dare move. Didn't dare look at Motormaster to see if the semi was awake. He froze on top of his brother's chest as Motormaster held him close. As Motormaster's engine adjusted and—
Motormaster purred.
The heavy rumble of his Detroit turbocharged engine was an unmistakable purr.
It was a sound Drag Strip had never heard before.
Not from Motormaster.
Never from Motormaster.
Maybe this was all instinct.
Maybe he was still in recharge.
Maybe Motormaster wouldn't wake up and kill him.
Maybe.
Uncertainty held Drag Strip captive as he shifted on Motormaster's chest until he was able to position himself more comfortably (he hated laying on top of his engine). Motormaster's grip on him never wavered, not even as Drag Strip felt his optics closing behind his visor. He tried to fight recharge. He didn't want to be found snuggled up with his brother when Motormaster did wake up.
Motormaster would punch him then.
But Motormaster's engine continued to purr. The vibration through the semi's plating of his engine had Drag Strip's optics closing faster than he could keep them open.
He'd… wake up before Motormaster.
What Motormaster didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Drag Strip hadn't asked his leader to hug him, after all.
Not that he disliked this. He felt safe in Motormaster's arms. With the semi's engine rumbling beneath him. This was alright.
Breakdown was going to rub being right in his face for a while, wasn't he?
A trace of a smile flickered across Drag Strip's faceplate before he leaned his helm under Motormaster's left servo, his own engine finally starting a purr of the Tyrrell's own, and nodded off.
Drag Strip did not notice the purple optics that watched him thoughtfully.