The moment the door closes behind them, sealing the three of them in the room, Whirl squirms and wriggles until Sideswipe relents and sets him down. Whirl stands there, plating taut, optics round, still clutching the energon bar Ratchet had given him before they left.
“So. We’re really doing this,” Sunstreaker says as he eases around Whirl and stares helplessly at the mess of their quarters.
Nothing to do but start tidying.
“Yep. We’re doing this,” Sideswipe says. He crouches and gathers up an armful of used mesh cloths while Whirl takes a tentative step or two forward. “You sure you’re okay with it? I mean, I know you didn’t want to disagree with me in front of Optimus and them but–”
Sunstreaker cuts him off. “I’m sure.” He pulses love across their bond and starts grabbing spare weapons parts and cartridges first.
Behind him, he hears the rapid patter of little feet and then a loud crash. He whips around just as a precariously balanced jar of paint topples off a cabinet and hits the ground, shattering. “What in the–”
“Moves quick for a little thing.” Sideswipe laughs. “Guess that cabinet is home for now.”
Of course. Because it’s only the one where Sunstreaker stores his drop cloths, cleaning meshes, and abandoned canvasses. At least it’ll be comfortable for Whirl. Maybe in time they can coax him out, but Sunstreaker doubts it’ll be immediately. Wariness comes with the territory of surviving in the gutters.
“He won’t be underfoot while we’re cleaning at least,” Sunstreaker says.
Sideswipe grins and casts around, probably looking for the easiest thing to tidy, the lazy jerk. “I was a little worried about stepping on him. Whirl’s a survivor though. He’ll look out for himself, too.”
Sunstreaker stands there, with an armful of dangerous detritus, and wonders if they are in over their heads. “Sides, really, what do we know about raising a sparkling?”
“I thought you were okay with this?” Sideswipe crouches in front of a cabinet and winds cords from their entertainment system, tucking it into the drawer beneath. “You just said so.”
“I am. It’s just…” Sunstreaker nibbles on his bottom lip and looks down.
Grenades. Spare cartridges. More than a couple spare blasters. Three different sized vibro knives. A charger for Sideswipe’s jetpack.
And that was just one small corner of the room.
“It’s not like we had caretakers to show us how to do it right,” Sunstreaker finally finishes. “What if we screw the bit up, and he ends up just like us?”
Sideswipe slams the drawer shut with a loud enough noise to make Sunstreaker startle. “What’s so wrong with us, huh?” He whirls around to glare at Sunstreaker, exasperation writ into his field. “If you ask me, we turned out all right. And pit, if it were us, don’t you think we’d have wanted any caretaker as opposed to none?”
Sunstreaker licks his lips, his vents rattling. “Not any,” he says, quietly. He taps Sideswipe along the bond, reminding him of the foster family in Ibelex.
Sideswipe should remember the one.
Sideswipe’s shoulders sink. “Yeah, okay, I exaggerated. Sue me.” He spreads his hands and picks his way across the room. “Still, I think the bit would rather have us than no one. We’re not like them.”
Sunstreaker falls silent. He doesn’t want to admit his other worry. It’s selfish and not the way a proper caretaker should think, which just goes to prove he shouldn’t be doing this. Mechs don’t like Sunstreaker. He’s violent and selfish and cruel. He shouldn’t be trusted around a sparkling.
“Hey,” Sideswipe murmurs, and is suddenly there, close enough to cup Sunstreaker’s face and bring their foreheads together. “We’re going to do great. And you? You’re going to do amazing, because yeah, you don’t like people, but Sunshine, you love me a heck of a lot. And when you love someone, you move mountains to protect them. Right?”
Sunstreaker swallows over a thickness in his intake. “Right,” he says, ragged.
“And you can’t tell me that you aren’t looking at Whirl and wanting to keep him safe,” Sideswipe continues, murmuring at Sunstreaker in that familiar, hypnotic cadence Sunstreaker can never disobey.
“I do,” Sunstreaker murmurs.
Sideswipe’s mouth slots over his, lips moving slow, glossa slipping inside, a teasing kiss. Sunstreaker melts into it, tension seeping out of his spinal strut, confidence returning in a rush.
“You’re going to do just fine,” Sideswipe says. “You and me, bro. We’re going to be the best caretakers Whirl could hope for. Aren’t we?”
Sunstreaker shutters his optics. “Yeah,” he agrees. Because Sideswipe said so and therefore, it must be true.
He feels Sideswipe smile against his mouth, and then Sideswipe pulls back. “Now,” he says as he stoops to gather more stuff. “Whirl’s probably gonna hide in there for a bit, so that gives us time to tidy up and make things safe for him. Well, as safe as it can be anyway.”
Relief flutters in Sunstreaker’s belly. He glances at the cabinet, and sees Whirl peering out at them from behind the protection of the door. There’s wariness in the look, but that he doesn’t immediately squeak and dive for cover, well, that’s progress already.
They can do this, Sunstreaker decides.
Whirl deserves a better life than the one he and Sideswipe had. Together, they can make sure that happens.
~
Grimlock’s pacing, and his brothers notice, but Swoop is the only one to say anything.
He laughs. “Grimlock’s gotta crush,” Swoop sings and tosses a balled up piece of fabric until it bounces off Grimlock’s facemask.
Grimlock ignores him.
He does, however, stop pacing, and heavily drop down into the couch they’ve assembled of abandoned bits of detritus. It’s a hodgepodge of blankets, pillows, discarded berth pads, and strips of mesh cloth. It’s big enough for all five of them, yes even Sludge, so long as they squeeze together and don’t mind a little touching.
They don’t.
“You Grimlock look confused,” Sludge intones as he flops onto the couch beside Grimock, sending up a cloud of dust. His field is a gradual, ponderous thing as it pokes at Grimlock.
“He’s got a crush,” Swoop repeats, and cackles before burying his attention back in the blanket he’s attempting to weave together from bits and pieces of scavenged mesh.
“You no crush Autobots,” Sludge says, wisely. “They no like that.”
“He doesn’t mean literally crush, you dumb aft,” Slag speaks up, stomping past and swatting Sludge on the back of his head. It makes a little pinging noise, but Sludge doesn’t seem to notice the strike.
He’s a bit thick. Everywhere.
“Shouldn’t crush on Autobots though. You right about that,” Slag adds with a snort of fire. “They don’t understand.”
Sludge frowns. He slumps further into the couch, fitting his bulk into the morass of fluff, and lays a head on Grimlock’s shoulder. “Little bit okay?”
“He’s fine,” Grimlock says. He raps his fingers over his knee, his thoughts swirling chaotically, and his siblings not helping at all. “The Twins have him.”
“Twins. Hah.” Slag grunts and drops down in front of their salvage chest, digging out bits of wire and circuits.
“You hush,” Swoop says. Another bit of mesh sails through the air, pinging off the side of Slag’s head. “They be good to bit. Understand, yeah?”
“Yes,” Sludge agrees.
The door bangs open as Snarl stomps inside, gaze swinging left and right, before his optics alight on the partially occupied couch. “What me miss?”
“Nothing,” Grimlock grunts as Swoop pipes up, “Grimlock has a crush.”
“Crazy twins,” Slag adds with a puff of smoke curling from his nostrils, legs curling beneath him while he starts twisting wire together. “Crazy choice.”
Snarl squints. “Twins?” He tilts his head and flops down onto the couch on Grimlock’s other side, bracketing him between his brothers now. “Good fighters. Good brothers. Good choice.” He nods as though that settles it.
“All Autobots bad choice,” Slag says.
“Autobots only choice,” Snarl points out.
“Not only. Just… con-ven-ient,” Sludge observes, carefully sounding out the latter word, taking his time with the syllables while they patiently wait for him to finish.
Swoop glares darkly and flicks a third piece of discarded weaving at Snarl’s shoulder. “Decepticons not choice.”
Grimlock offlines his optics and buries his face behind his palms. “None of you are helping.”
Swoop cackles.
Sludge pats him on the thigh. “You can have crush. Them good choice. We help.”
“You’ll help. Want no part of it,” Slag growls. He tosses a bolt in Swoop’s direction, but Swoop easily ducks to avoid it.
“I’ll help,” Swoop chirps.
Snarl digs around in the couch and produces the remote, clicking on their ancient vidscreen. “This stupid,” he says and starts shuffling through the channels, too quick for him to possibly see what’s on.
Grimlock lowers his hands. No, his siblings are of no help whatsoever. But they’ll stand by him, he knows. Even if he’s not exactly sure what for yet.
He is interested in the twins. He’s interested in Whirl. He’s interested in a lot of things right now.
Patience, right now, is his best friend.
“Grimlock has a crush,” Swoop sings, ever so softly, and a rolling chuckle spills into the room, barely audible over the quick flash of the changing channels.
Yes, Grimlock is going to need quite a lot of patience.
~
It’s Sunstreaker who Whirl chooses to trust first, which baffles Sunstreaker and has Sideswipe moping around like a lost puppy.
Whirl lives in the cabinet for three days. They don’t try to coax him out. They make sure the dangerous items are put away and out of reach. They keep the main doors locked and the air vent tightly screwed. They leave energon bars and toys outside the cabinet, and when they aren’t looking, the offerings vanish back into Whirl’s safety nest.
Otherwise, they continue on, business as usual.
Sideswipe plays games or reads. Sunstreaker paints or watches videos. Sometimes, one or the other of them leaves for monitor duty or patrol, nothing too serious. Ratchet and Wheeljack pop in daily, and are as bothered by Whirl living in the cabinet as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are unbothered by it.
“He’ll come out when he’s ready,” Sideswipe says.
Sunstreaker shrugs and glares at his canvas.
On the morning of the third day, Sideswipe leaves for a weapons class with Ironhide, and Sunstreaker sleeps in because he can. Later, peripheral sensors startle him awake, but he onlines slowly, his surroundings slowly filtering in to identify a presence on his chassis. One that chirps at him.
Sunstreaker onlines his optics, and stares right at Whirl, who’s perched on his chest, legs dangling over the edge of it, a smile on his face. “Safe,” Whirl babbles and pokes Sunstreaker in the cheek. “You safe.”
Some might disagree with him on that observation.
Sunstreaker sits up, and Whirl tumbles into his lap with an outraged chitter. Sunstreaker scoops him and draws him to optic level.
“Safe, huh?” he repeats, and wrinkles his nose. “You need a bath. You stink.”
Whirl hasn’t bathed since they found him, and that was a week ago. He’d apparently raised mighty hell when Ratchet tried, so they let him be.
“Don’t!”
“Do,” Sunstreaker argues, and pokes Sideswipe along the bond, sending him a quick snap of Whirlwind. “Repaint, too.”
Whirl wriggles in his hands, but not enough to escape. “No!”
“Yes,” Sunstreaker says, and his lips twitch. He can’t help it. Whirl’s amusing. “Repaint, too. But I’ll be nice and let you pick the color, so long as it isn’t obnoxious.”
He tucks Whirl against his chest and scoots off the berth, rubbing the last of recharge from his optics.
Whirl gnaws on the edge of his windshield, probably out of some form of payback. “Blue,” he says, word mumbled by lips and denta leaving little scrapes in Sunstreaker’s armor.
He swallows a sigh. He’ll have to fix that later.
“Fine. Blue,” Sunstreaker agrees as Sideswipe’s response pours down the bond, a mixture of outrage and affection. Unsurprisingly, Sunstreaker’s comm starts pinging relentlessly moments later.
Sunstreaker ignores it. Sideswipe’s supposed to be concentrating right now. He’ll be nice though and take plenty of pictures for Sideswipe to go sparkle-opticked over.
“Hungry!” Whirl adds and the incessant grind-grind-grind of his denta makes Sunstreaker twitch.
His paint is never going to be the same.
“Bath first,” Sunstreaker says as he keys open the door and steps into the corridor, wondering what smart-mouthed idiot he’s going to run into first. He can’t pound anyone with a sparkling in his hands, but he can run a tally and take names if he’s gotta.
But the hallways are empty, and it takes Sunstreaker too long of a minute to realize why – it’s the middle of a fragging work-shift. Most mechs are either on duty someplace, or recharging after coming off a graveyward shift. Sunstreaker’s just not used to seeing the halls like this because he’s usually on shift.
It’s kind of weird.
“Quiet,” Whirl observes.
“Yeah. I know.” Sunstreaker loosens his grip on Whirl, and it’s just enough for the sparkling to squirm out of his hands and scuttle up Sunstreaker’s frame, tucking in against his intake in a little huddled ball. He’s quivering, Sunstreaker realizes, and clutching on to Sunstreaker like he’s afraid of falling.
Or being left behind.
Sunstreaker leaves him be. He doesn’t have to tell Whirl to hold tight. Little hands like claws get a firm grip on his cables, tight enough to make Sunstreaker wince. But he doesn’t say anything. If it makes Whirl feel safe, Sunstreaker’s inclined to keep his mouth shut.
He draws the line at biting though, so if Whirl tries to bite him for whatever reason, he’s getting a thumping.
The communal washrack is thankfully deserted. Sunstreaker doesn’t want an audience to witness his weakness, and he thinks Whirl will be more comfortable without an audience, too.
Sunstreaker picks the furthest rack, wishing he had some way to corral Whirl inside it. He flicks on the spray as Whirl tenses against his neck.
“Alright, bitlet,” Sunstreaker says. “Time to get clean.”
Removing Whirl is like trying to get a scraplet off a tasty bit of plating. Whirl clings with every bit of strength, and Sunstreaker thinks he loses a few strips of paint in the process.
“Not dirty!” Whirl wails like a wild thing. “Not dirty!”
Sunstreaker can’t decide if he’s amused or annoyed. Maybe both.
The moment the spray hits him, Whirl starts caterwauling like the water is made of acid, and it’s eating away at his insides. He tries to flee, and Sunstreaker has to snatch him back, wrestling with one hand while trying to aim the spray with the other.
In the end, he doesn’t know who’s more soaked – himself or Whirl – but the sparkling’s gone from a dingy gray-red shade, to a dingy gray that’s at least clean. He’s protoform gray. Never had a lick of paint on him. It’s enough to squeeze Sunstreaker’s spark. That is, if his audials will stop ringing long enough to focus.
Primus, he had no idea sparklings could scream so loudly.
“Need a hand?”
Sunstreaker looks up from his losing match to see Grimlock hovering, too far to be considered a threat, but close enough to be present.
“Come to see if I’m killing the sparkling?” Sunstreaker demands, his face heating with embarrassment underneath the disdain.
Grimlock shakes his head and inches closer, looming without effort, but nothing threatening in the motion. “He doesn’t like baths.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Sunstreaker snorts and gives Grimlock a sidelong look. Sideswipe’s not here to be of service, the little punk. Might as well. “I’ll hold him, you spray?”
Grimlock’s optical band brightens. “Sounds good.”
Whirl’s caterwauling reaches new decibels. He splutters a bit when some of the rinse gets into his mouth, but it only muffles his shouts briefly, before he’s back to kicking up quite the racket.
Sunstreaker grimaces and holds on tight. He’s not sure what to expect when Grimlock takes over the sprayer, but the gentle, yet thorough dousing he gives Whirl speaks of experience. Perhaps with his younger brothers? Everyone knows Swoop and Sludge were of the second batch of Dinobots.
Suds swirl down the drain. Whirl’s snarling and hissing peters out into pitiful sniffles. Sunstreaker’s spark would ache for him, except that he’s literally only getting a much needed bath. So overdramatic.
He and Sideswipe are going to get along great.
“He’s good,” Grimlock finally grunts, and cuts off the spray, shifting to return the showerhead to the hook.
“I don’t think he agrees,” Sunstreaker says with a little laugh as Whirl tries and fails to swat at Grimlock’s retreating hand.
Grimlock snorts a laugh.
“Well, I think this is as clean as you’re going to get,” Sunstreaker sighs as he holds up the dripping sparkling who looks the most disgruntled Sunstreaker has ever seen someone look.
A towel appears in his peripheral vision. “You might need this,” Grimlock says.
Sunstreaker cycles his optics and tucks Whirl against his chest, grabbing the towel with his free hand. “Thanks.” It’s weird, for others to be nice to him when Sideswipe’s not around. Sunstreaker’s not sure what to think about it.
Drying Whirl off is only marginally easier than washing him. Whirl keeps trying to grab the fabric to investigate it, and one corner of the mesh finds its way to his mouth. Sunstreaker lets him chew on it if it’ll keep him occupied and not wanting to gnaw on Sunstreaker’s armor instead.
“He’s gray,” Grimlock observes. “Bare.”
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you don’t get fed right.” Sunstreaker’s spark aches in memory. “Color nanites are the first to go. He’s gonna need a nanite primer.”
“Blue!” Whirl growls, denta gnawing holes in the mesh.
Sunstreaker rolls his optics. “Yes, I remember.”
Whirl’s dry, but not he’s letting go of the mesh. Sunstreaker opts to let him keep it, even swaddling the bitlet in it. That’ll make it easier to keep him contained at least, and Whirl doesn’t seem to mind. That’s his mesh cloth now. It can go in his nest, if he continues to recharge in the cabinet at any rate.
Grimlock chuckles. “He knows what he wants.” The light behind his visor is soft as he looks at Whirl, kind of with the same dopiness in his field as Sideswipe has.
Of all the mechs in the base to get sparkling-fever, it kind of surprises Sunstreaker Grimlock is one of them. Though, he’s got to admit, Whirl is absolutely adorable. He supposes, too, that mechs would say the same thing about Sunstreaker, so maybe he shouldn’t judge so much.
“And what he wants is blue,” Sunstreaker says with a sigh. “It’s such a boring color, but to each his own.” He glances down at his own paint, mourning the state of it. He can’t tend to it properly while he’s looking after Whirl.
Sideswipe is going to owe him for this.
Grimlock’s laugh echoes in the washrack. “Blue’s not so bad,” he says. “It’s a good color for optics.”
Sunstreaker pauses mid-step, the comment catching his audials. Is that… is Grimlock giving him a compliment?
He looks over his shoulder, but there’s nothing in Grimlock’s frame language or expression to give Sunstreaker a hint. And Sideswipe’s not here to do the reading for him either.
“I guess so,” Sunstreaker says diplomatically. Grimlock’s visor, after all, is an amber hue. Whirl’s optics aren’t blue.
No, that would be too vain to assume Grimlock meant flirtation. Mechs don’t flirt with Sunstreaker. That’s what Sideswipe is for.
“But it’s whatever he wants really,” Sunstreaker adds. “Something tells me the bitlet never got to choose much for himself until now.”
Grimlock tilts his head, something flashing through his visor. “I know the feeling,” he says, crystal clear.
Only then does Sunstreaker realize Grimlock’s been conversating in clear Cybertronian the entire time, without a hint of the hodgepodge of syllables he and the rest of the Dinobots seem to rely upon. It’s like he’s letting Sunstreaker in on a secret, and Sunstreaker’s not sure how he feels about that.
“Yeah. Me, too.” Sunstreaker hesitates, not really sure, but then Whirl slaps at his chestplate, and Sunstreaker shifts the sparkling’s weight. “Um. Thanks again,” he says, and skedaddles before the heat in his cheeks becomes too telling. He doesn’t even know why it’s there really.
It’s embarrassing is what it is.
Sunstreaker idly pats the towel around Whirl’s frame and pointedly doesn’t look back. “Come on, bit. Let’s go find you some paint.”
~
The next time Grimlock sees Whirl, he’s blue. A very bright blue. Possibly the brightest blue Grimlock has ever seen. It should clash with his very purple optics, but somehow, it all manages to come together in an aesthetically pleasing manner.
No doubt Sunstreaker has something to do with that.
Still, Grimlock can’t help but stare at the blue sparkling on Sideswipe’s shoulder, chirping excitedly in his audial.
“What?” Sideswipe asks.
“He’s blue,” Grimlock says, and knows he sounds dumb. It’s not even pretend this time.
Sideswipe laughs and strokes a hand over the top of Whirl’s head. “Yeah, Sunny’s pretty miffed about it. But it’s the color he picked out, and he wouldn’t settle for anything, uh, tamer.”
Amusement dances in Grimlock’s spark. “It’s a good color,” he says, and feels even dumber because he should have something smarter to say, but he doesn’t. “Pretty.”
“Aww, I’m glad you think so.” Sideswipe leans closer, voice lowered conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Sunny I said so, but I think it’s cute.”
Warmth flushes Grimlock’s spark. “I agree.”
Sideswipe pats him on the shoulder, rising up on his feet to reach. “Glad you do, big guy.” He gestures over his shoulder with a thumb. “Well, me and bit are off for a little high speed racing. So I’ll see you around.”
He waves and goes and Grimlock watches him. Watches Sideswipe reach up and tickle Whirl, and Whirl reach over and pat his adoptive caretaker on the cheek.
He really is quite blue.
Pandora's Box 