Chapter Text
Tarn runs hotter than his smelter. Well, not really, as something like that would’ve incinerated their commander’s frame from the inside and fried all his circuits, but Helex still knows that this temperature isn’t normal. It is with Kaon’s approval and Tarn’s insistence that he does not make a detour to Nickel’s medbay and instead makes a beeline for Tarn’s personal quarters.
On their way there, he loosely secures Tarn in all four of his arms, holding the sizable but smaller mech against the glass of his smelter and expels cool air from his auxiliaries in an attempt to soothe Tarn’s condition best he can. Unlike Nickel, Helex may not have an idea of what it is he is supposed to do in situations like these, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. Though the other members of their team are replaceable, Megatron has stressed time and time again that Tarn isn’t.
(There might be some personal bias too that Helex isn’t at all worried about admitting to. He likes the mech, because Tarn allows him to play with his victims as much as he wants.)
Tarn keys in the access code to his quarters from where he’s suspended in Helex’s arms and he walks them inside, carefully lowering his commander down onto his sizable berth.
When Tarn succumbs to the demand of his systems and recharges, Helex briefly debates on whether he should leave the mask on or remove it— didn't Tarn usually recharge without?
Uncertainty wins out and he leaves it on. Nickel awaits him in the corridor to drag him to her medbay, ranting at him about Tarn’s apparent audacity all the way through. Helex takes note of her obscenities and gestures. He’ll relay them to Tarn later. Ask him what some of them are even supposed to mean.
Tarn onlines to a throbbing ache in his processor.
On his processor is a more suitable term as when he reaches to soothe it by rubbing his temples, his digits brush at the edges of his mask instead. Tarn clumsily fumbles with them, mask tucked in the safety of his subspace when he succeeds.
Tarn’s optics blink online. It takes a klik longer than usual for him to realize that he isn't alone and he boots upright, only to be urged back down with a smaller servo pressing against his golden insignia.
“Calm down,” Kaon—Tarn realizes his identity after bothering to look up—says. He sits by Tarn’s berthside, not an unusual thing for them, but it does give rise to concern when Tarn vaguely recalls details of their conversation prior.
“Why are you here?” He asks. Realizing his demanding tone, Tarn quickly rephrases. “You mentioned uncertainty in my condition.”
“It isn't contagious,” Kaon replies easily, quick to retract his servo. Tarn nods and pings his internal systems for a status report. Irregularities in his temperature; his cooling fans have been online for cycles, working overtime and almost uselessly so without sufficient coolant to back this up. He faintly recalls Helex sharing in some of his own air to soothe Tarn’s overworked frame, and feels a pulse of gratitude at this.
Externally, his joints ache. Moving feels not unlike trying to lift a mech his own weight or worse so he makes an effort to stay down.
Perhaps… he had been too dismissive of Nickel’s advice. His condition proves more severe than he initially thought.
“Sir?” Kaon snaps him from his thoughts. Without his mask, Tarn’s emotions can be read like an open book. Not to mention, with this heat, he does not doubt that there is a significant blush on his cheeks. He scowls at the thought of this. That is entirely unbecoming of a mech like him.
He dismisses the feeling in favor of chasing his curiosity. “Please, Kaon, there is no need for such formalities.” Not in the sanctity of his quarters. It is unusual for Kaon to address him so politely in their off-time, so…
Kaon inclines his helm. Tarn arches an orbital ridge, but his response comes in the form of Vos’s screeching catching his attention from elsewhere in his room.
Ah, so Kaon is not alone. Tarn looks at the mech in query.
“Nickel deemed it safe to be around you after a thorough inspection of Helex. They wanted to check on you,” Kaon explains. They. Tarn heightens the sensitivity of his audial receptors and catches Helex’s and Tesarus’s voices like that. They seem to be otherwise occupied, discussing the volume of their game.
Game. Tarn ex-vents wearily. “That is not what those screens are for,” he grouses but is without the energy to actually reprimand them.
Kaon offers a sympathetic smile. “Helex realized your holo-screens and couch are positioned perfectly for their activities. While keeping an optic out for your condition.”
Tarn… buys it. Or rather, he doesn’t have to consider it as a lie. Perhaps he’ll let them, for now. “Fine then,” he concedes, folding his arms over his chest and offlines his optics to give more of his processing power to his cooling fans. “I will allow it this once. The cleaning schedule will be adjusted accordingly.”
“Shall I write it down, sir?” Kaon offers.
“No,” Tarn says. He catches Kaon’s scheme immediately and turns his helm to the mech. “You remain first in line for the next shift. We all must exercise discipline by applying ourselves to set rules and schedules as they are, without leniency.”
Tarn doesn’t see Kaon’s wistful smile.
Yes, perhaps he is being a little lenient now, and considers lessening their sentence when Vos comes to him with a generous amount of coolant, refilling Tarn’s cache.
There is no harm in it. Not now, he reasons for this sudden surge of… affection for each individual member of his team.
Even Nickel stops by to check on his condition every now and then, thrusting a cube of medical-grade into his servos.
Tarn supposes he can cut them some slack for these cycles in favor of rewarding them for good care and halfway decent behavior.