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All bets were on to answer a question that had very suddenly consumed the interest of all personnel on base: was Ironhide a cuddler?
A few too many drinks had jogged Lennox’s memory to a night he witnessed Ironhide passed out in his driveway. He was curled into himself with arms tucked tightly to his chest as though he were holding someone. Lennox was lying, the others claimed, but the wonder sparked a debate that continued from the beach that night to the mess hall and soon everyone was talking.
‘I would pay to see that’ became literal when actual money was offered up for even a glance of the walking munitions factory spooning a pillow or bot. It was a fascination with imagining their strongest at his most vulnerable.
Then again, snapping a photo would require some unlucky bastard to sacrifice themselves to Ironhide’s mercy. The fear was that they’d end up hanging upside down from a flagpole, inside out.
And that was why in the meantime all betting was conducted in secret. Names and wagers were scrawled on a blackboard in some out-of-the-way meeting room. There were two main columns: ‘Cuddler’ and ‘Not Ever’. Most bets were waged that Ironhide was not a snuggler, but those saying ‘yes’ pretty much agreed it was ‘too fucking cute not to imagine’, even if it remained only imagination.
Even if Ironhide was a cuddler, he couldn’t be anything other than the big spoon. Right? That hulking mass was enough to dwarf most anyone and comfortably envelope them. Ratchet disagreed. Even the surly soldier could make a convincing little spoon, no? No one listened, however. Ratchet just shrugged it off, put his name down for ‘cuddler’ and tossed a ‘free ride with the sirens on’ into the pot.
Time seemed to crawl by the night the truth was to be revealed. Personnel paced the rec room and their bunks, anxious with phones at the ready to receive the incriminating photo. Some people were going to wake up a few hundred dollars richer, alongside the numerous other bets put up by the bots. Sideswipe had thrown in sparring lessons. Wheeljack was willing to provide science lessons (everyone had been forced to sign a waiver in the probability of their winning and eventual death).
The text was to arrive any minute now. That was if the unlucky bastards survived long enough to hit ‘send’.
“Why do I have to do this?” Lennox, unlucky bastard number one.
“Because Ironhide is less likely to kill you. Who else’s barn will he call home off base? Besides, you have to do this because I have six mouths to live to feed.” Epps, unlucky bastard number two.
“And what about my family?!”
“Your wife wouldn’t dig up your corpse just to tear you a new one for having the audacity to die. Horribly.”
Lennox shook his head and thumbed the access panel to Ironhide’s quarters.
“Sarah would too. But, dude. No. Ironhide’s kill would be clean. But if we live and win…”
Epps visibly shuddered.
“They’ll be picking us out of every corner of Wheeljack’s lab.
The lock disengaged and both men braced themselves. At least at first glance, Ironhide was asleep. His room was dimmed and silent save for some rumbling machinery. Off to the side they found Ironhide on his recharge slab.
They needed solid evidence- a pillow, person, anything in the soldier’s embrace. But with Ironhide turned away from them it meant creeping closer to death in its dormant state.
Lennox and Epps exchanged a glance of ‘it was nice knowing you, brother’ before advancing.
There, at the foot of the bed, was the perfect shot.
Chartreuse seemed to blend into black, miniscule movements revealing that what looked like one being was two. Toecaps brushed and legs slid together so gently, almost sensually that it shouldn’t have been possible for beings of their make and proportions.
Ratchet looked so small, curled up like a cat seeking warmth into Ironhide’s core. The ‘thupping’ and whisper of working components blurred together to sound like a convincing purr. Ironhide too curled forward around his medic. While his head rested on his upper arm, his free hand cupped the back of Ratchet’s own helm. Ratchet’s head fit almost perfectly in the warrior’s palm.
The camera app came online and Lennox aimed his phone up.
“Fuck,” he whispered a little too loud for his liking. Epps peered over his shoulder, noticing how dark the shot would be. There wasn’t enough natural light for a decent shot.
Both men knew what they had to do and dreaded it.
Lennox activated the flash, aimed, and took the picture.
They didn’t dare to move, let alone flinch, waiting for death to wake up. When Ironhide remained dead to the world, they breathed a sigh of relief.
Then Lennox’s phone alarmed with a catchy little jingle.
‘Where’s the pic?!’ the text read with several less that pleasant emojis.
The look on Epps face read ‘if my wife doesn’t dig me out of the ground first, I’m gonna tear my way out and kill your dead ass again.’
Lennox couldn’t even breathe an apology when Ironhide’s engine roared to life and armor bristled.
The two were running for their lives before Ironhide could even rise from the slab, trying to trip the other on their way out to give themselves more time.
“You’re mean.”
Ironhide launched into a hearty laugh. Beside him Ratchet stretched and was content to only open one sleepy eye. It was meant to be a ruse, but Ratchet had fallen into a fitful nap for a few minutes beforehand.
“Are you sure it’s alright? Them taking the picture?”
The soldier struggled to find words again, pausing to laugh now and again.
“It’s fine. Besides,” a chuckle. “No one would dare to joke about it. They’re all terrified of what I might do.”
“If only they knew their impenetrable warrior was hardened on the outside. Work under your armor and you’re a pushover.
“There’s only one bot I’ve ever let under my armor.”
Ratchet snorted and slapped Ironhide on the shoulder.
“C’mon now.”
He added a little shove and Ironhide rolled over effortlessly so that now his back was to the medic. Ratchet sidled up close and took up the vacancy at the warrior’s spine.
“Too bad money is of no use to us. You would have won.”
“I have a far better prize right here.” Ratchet pressed a few fleeting kisses along the back of Ironhide’s skull and up a finial, earning him a delighted little shiver.
“Speaking of prizes, are you still offering free rides?” Ironhide turned his head just far enough to capture Ratchet’s lips.
The medic’s hand trailed low, petting over pelvic plating.
“I am. Would you like to go for one?”
Ironhide hummed, Ratchet’s fingers playing lower.
“Yes. With the sirens on.”