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Hot Rod threw his armful of firewood down in the pile, then flopped next to it with a groan.
“Are all command-level Autobots like you?” Deadlock asked. Hot Rod shrugged. “Pit, how have we not won this war yet?”
“Cuz your leader’s a slag-sucking moron.” he fired back reflexively.
“And yours is a self-righteous sanctimonious cracked axel.” Deadlock retorted.
“Ooh, big words from the merc.” Hot Rod pushed himself up on his forearms, leveling a glare at Deadlock. It was easier to pretend they hated each other than to talk about the fragile trust which had grown between them since their stranding here, the way they found themselves drifting together even before the fading daylight brought system-stalling cold temperatures down over their little camp and forced them to huddle together or freeze. Hot Rod ran plenty warm, but his plating wasn’t heavy enough to keep that warmth in. Deadlock’s armour was sturdy enough to overcome the inherent weather-sensitivity of their frametype, but he didn’t run warm enough to both recharge and survive the night. It was an arrangement of mutual need, nothing more.
At least, that was what they told themselves.
“The crystals are running a bit thin in that cave we found.” Deadlock said after a moment of heavy silence. “We’ll have to move camp soon if we can’t find another source.”
“Oh no, however will I survive the loss of all this comfort.” Hot Rod deadpanned, sweeping an arm around to indicate the bare rock which made up their camp. A single recharge mat was rucked up in the deepest part of the shallow cave which sheltered them from the wind, with Hot Rod’s ironfleece blanket heaped untidily on top and a small pile of fuel crystals heaped at one end. Aside from that, the only marks of their presence were the tally marks on the wall and the scorched circle of their fire pit.
“Seriously, how did you get to be one of the highest ranking Autobots?” Deadlock asked, adding another piece of wood to the fire. The night would force them back into their cave soon enough, but Hot Rod enjoyed sitting out under the stars while he could. Even if it ached somewhere deep in his internals to do so across the fire from Deadlock instead of snuggled up warm against his side.
“Luck, mostly.” he shrugged. “Right place, right time. Managed to not get killed.” he stuck his hands in the fire and lifted one of the crystals set in its center, examining the colour with a critical optic. “This one’s done, I think.” he lobbed it over to Deadlock, who hissed and bounced it between his hands for a moment before it cooled enough to hold. “How ‘bout you?”
“Ground floor entry.” Deadlock grinned, his fangs glinting in the firelight before he brought the crystal up to his mouth and started gnawing. “I heard about the Cons early, figured it couldn’t be any worse than where I was at the time.” he snapped the tip off and tilted the crystal to pour the molten energy inside straight into his mouth, finials perking up as he drank deeply.
“So you got lucky too.” Hot Rod chuckled, flashing Deadlock a smirk when the mech lowered his crystal to glare at him. “Right place, right time, managed not to die.”
“I am where I am because I showed initiative.”
“If initiative gets a mech stranded on a slagheap like this, I think I can live without it.” Hot Rod said flippantly, reaching in again and grabbing the next smallest crystal buried in the embers. A narrow flame from his fingertip sliced the tip off cleanly, and his engine settled into a satisfied purr as he tipped the fuel into his mouth. It tasted weird as all slag, and its energy content was roughly equal to the lowgrade medics liked to prescribe after operations, but it was a damn sight better than starving to death. And it was hot, which was a bonus in Hot Rod’s opinion. Proper energon was hard to get this warm without blowing something up or starting a fire.
They worked through the rest of the crystals in silence, until the sky overhead shone with stars and the wind began to pick up, cutting straight through Hot Rod’s armour and chilling him straight to his spark. Deadlock shivered, and Hot Rod stood when the Decepticon did, the two of them moving silently to their makeshift berth. Hot Rod laid down first, tucking himself close to the wall, and Deadlock curled around him as a living wind block, hogging Hot Rod’s blanket for what little extra protection it offered. Ironfleece was great for warmth, but it did jack squat against a stiff breeze.
Luckily, Deadlock was a far better wind block than his blanket, and Hot Rod cuddled back against the Decepticon’s chest with a soft engine purr. Deadlock’s own engine rumbled in contentment, and when Hot Rod offlined his optics he could almost pretend it was one of his squadmates wrapping an arm around his middle, and not one of the most dangerous Decepticons on record. He laced his fingers with Deadlock’s, and as he drifted towards recharge allowed himself to pretend that this was something more than a temporary necessity.