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Condensation trickles down the back of June's neck, dampening the collar of her scrubs. She shifts her weight against the doorframe. Adjusts the ice pack.
"Get some sleep." In the hazy light of dawn, Arcee gleams. "You're no good to anyone loopy."
There's a fresh scratch on her gas tank. June squints at it and thinks of stray sparks and explosions. She thinks of the rough-and-ready military hospital and the men burnt to cinders, still packaged neatly in their flame-retardant uniforms. The smell of scorched hair and charbroiled flesh still lingers in the back of her mouth, where no amount of coffee will wash it away.
"Right back at you," says June. As she tilts her head, a muscle in her shoulder protests. She has no energy left even to swear.
A month ago, Jasper, Nevada burned like the aftermath of a ten-car pileup. If June closes her eyes, she sees it: the houses stripped down to their skeletons, all connective tissue burned away by the heat of the fusion cannon; her garden, carbonized black--
So June tries to keep her eyes open.
Arcee pulls up to the trailer steps. There's fresh black soil in her seams; June can smell it on her, loamy and sweet. She's just back from a mission up north, then. "Autobots don't sleep much."
A biological fact, perhaps, or a statement of bravado. June's unsure whether to scoff--
But Arcee winces as she drops her kickstand. June knows pain; after fifteen years as an ER nurse, June's got a sixth sense for pain, for that slantwise look that says something bad inside.
"There's your problem," says June, almost gently. "You're all sleep-deprived. I tell Jack every night: eight hours, no less."
Arcee snorts. "Never miss an opportunity for some motherly love, do you?" And then, more somberly: "You're holding up pretty well."
June looks out at the base: at the rows of hastily-procured trailers, lined up like neat military caskets; at the shabby barracks; at the hangars that squat on the inhospitable land like low-slung thugs, defending their territory; at the security checkpoints--
She looks away: at the dismal-looking potted plants propped on her windowsill, courtesy of Rafael; at Arcee's long shadow in the dust; at her own hands.
"I'm fried to a crisp," says June. "I'd worry about anyone who wasn't."
"Sorry," says Arcee. It could mean anything.
"I didn't," says June, "ask for any of this." She tries to keep her tone light. "I know, you probably didn't either. You were minding your own business, and the war found you."
"You tell yourself it's a just war." Arcee's mirrors twitch, reflecting spots of dazzling light onto the dust. "You tell yourself whatever you have to. Say it's for Cliff--say it's for humanity--"
"Well," says June mildly, "this human thanks you, I guess." She feels a smile like a spasm pull at her lips.
"Don't mention it."
They sit in the silence of exhaustion.
"You brought us into this," says June. "I haven't quite forgiven you for that."
"And I didn't ask," says Arcee. Again her tone is unreadable. "Don't get yourself shot. That's the only thing I want from you."
Another moment's silence, punctuated by the soft whine of Arcee's motor and a muttered Cybertronian curse.
"You're hurting?" says June after what seems a respectful interval.
"I'll live." But Arcee's voice is flat with strain. "I had worse from Airachnid--and so did you--"
But June is already unwrapping the damp towel from her ice pack. She lays it on Arcee's fuel tank, wiping away the earth. "Rest. Recharge. Whatever Cybertronians do, you need to do it."
"Is that medical advice?" says Arcee.
"You're a soldier," says June, and her own bones ache. "It's an order."
