Work Text:
Deadlock loved battle. Most mechs would say he lived for it, and they wouldn’t be wrong. He was untouchable on the field, so long as he had a gun in his hand, and every mech on both sides knew it. The stunts he pulled in battle didn’t come without cost though, and as Medical started conserving their dwindling supplies he was starting to feel it. Nothing he couldn’t work through, nothing that would slow him down in the field, but the persistent knots of tension in his cables and the grit in his joints made him very glad that his rank afforded him a private berthroom.
“Hey, ‘Lock.”
Well, theoretically private. Hot Rod was alright though, he trusted his little spitfire not to take advantage of his aches and pains the way most of their peers would. “Hey, Hot Rod.” he stretched his arms up over his helm with a grimace, doing his best to ignore the persistent itch under his plating. His stash was dwindling, and with Medical as skint as it was he’d get more than just a talking-to if he dipped into their supplies.
“Check out what I got.” Hot Rod boosted himself up onto the edge of the berth and pulled a minicon-sized scrub brush from his subspace.
“What, did you scam some poor mini at cards?” he snorted.
“No!” Hot Rod pouted at him, crossing his arms indignantly. “Well, yes but that’s beside the point. C’mere.” he uncrossed his arms to pat the berth next to him, and Deadlock acquiesced easily. Hot Rod wasn’t the type to be pointlessly cruel. Really, it was a small miracle he’d gotten as far as he had, with such a soft spark tucked under his firey plating.
“What brilliant idea have you gotten in your processor this time?” he asked, letting Hot Rod take one of his hands and guide it to rest on his friend’s lap.
“Well, I asked the medics how to clean out joints, and Hook said you need a detailing brush to do it properly.” he turned Deadlock’s hand over to rest palm down on one warm thigh, and Deadlock reflexively ran his thumb over the scuffed up plating. “But no sane mech is gonna bet their detailing brush, so I got Rumble to bet me his scrubber instead.” he flourished the brush in question, then took one of Deadlock’s fingers and carefully curled it to expose the as much of his joints as possible. “It’s not perfect, but anything’s gotta be better than nothing, right?” he glanced up at Deadlock with a bright, earnest smile.
“You really are somethin’ else, Rod.” he chuckled, letting his hand rest limp on Hot Rod’s thigh as his friend set to scrubbing, occasionally dripping a few drops of oil in to help loosen up the mix of dust and soot and energon which made it so hard to uncurl his fingers from around the grips of his guns, once the rush of battle faded.
“You’d do the same for me.” Hot Rod said, his field so open and trusting Deadlock found himself agreeing. “And you can’t shoot if your hands are all full of gunk, now can you?”
“Frag you, I’ve been shooting just fine this whole campaign.” he retorted automatically.
“Suuuure.” Hot Rod drawled, the glyph lilting out of his vocaliser much like Hook and Scorponok’s did when they were stressed or distracted. “Lie down, tough mech. I’ll take care of your hands, and then you can pay me back by getting these lovely claws in my spoiler hub.”
Deadlock found himself doing as Hot Rod asked without thinking, spark swelling at the implicit trust woven into Hot Rod’s request. Spoilers were almost as sensitive as Praxian doorwings, and his claws were far from harmless. He could ruin Hot Rod so easily, and yet... Hot Rod wasn’t the slightest bit afraid.
He just hoped that trust wasn’t misplaced.