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Euphor IV's moon was in a better shape than the planet, but not by much.
Unlike the bombed out husk that remains of Euphor IV, the bases on the moon were not hit from orbital weapons, instead raided one by one by a ground force. This much was obvious with the first mining outpost Hardhead's team visited and supported with each new location. The groundforces are always more vicious, more personal, more thorough. The periodic sandstorms have destroyed most of the evidence of the carnage, but not all. Enough stayed to paint a grim picture of the last kliks of the locals caught in the raids. If that wasn’t enough, the lack of corpses indicates it was late enough in the war to reuse enemy fallen for parts, and yet the resources left behind tell that it wasn't yet a necessity.
But Hardhead has seen many planets that met the same fate, all of them have, and no matter what they tell, the materials left behind are still a stroke of luck that the autobots have been sorely lacking recently. Teams have been dispatched all over the surface to scout promising locations and if at all possible strip the most critical materials straight away.
The probes they left along their way indicate enemy forces are far enough behind that risk of ambush is minimal, but it would not be the first time this belief would prove false, and every mech feels the need to hoard up on the needed materials together as fast as possible. If even a fraction is recoverable, it would be a great relief for their mechanics, never mind the potentional medicinal uses.
The neurite sand typical for the moon caused a bit of trouble to the units Hardhead has been monitoring, the sharp crystals dangerous even when disturbed by their deconstruction. But his own excursion went smoothly for once, and he has begun to feel cautiously optimistic.
The feeling carries with him through cataloging and storing the refiner fragments, but once he makes his way back to the ship's bridge to sign off from duty he steps into tension and quiet, and the bubble of light feeling pops.
The mechs assigned to monitor away teams are dutifully sifting through their data, but every other screen is filled with the racing form of Blurr, and the dark roiling maelstrom of the neurite cloud chasing after him.
Hardhead hurries over to get a closer look, but the sole visual is from far off and Blurr's familiar colours are only a speck against the hungry mountain behind him.
"How fast is it?" he asks, but already deduce the answer for himself. Hardhead knows Blurr’s top speed, and as much as it is a source of wonder, it is not enough to outrun a storm.
"Faster than him."
With nothing else to be said, he joins the grim vigil. They watch as he picks up speed in a desperate bid to outrun it, but still, too slow, too far away from safety.
Hardhead was there when Blurr failed to outrun a rock avalanche, but that was a long time ago. He grew much faster since then, but Hardhead also spent a significant amout of time with him. It was grueling the first time, all of them removing rocks one by one, hoping to find his teammate alive. This time, with less manpower and dare he say friendship, he dreads to imagine it.
"Can't we send a transporter out?"
"It wouldn't make it."
“Then disrupt it somehow? Fire into it?”
Ultra Magnus shakes his helm. His questions are redundant, and he knows it, but Ultra Magnus doesn’t admonish him. He indolves him, stating the obvious anyway: “We’ve run the simulations. Our weapons are too depleted.”
Hardhead grips the edge of the desk hard enough to send strain reports pinging over his vision. It is always unbearable, when the need to act, to offer his help, his strength is near physical in its intensity, but instead he stands still. He curses his uselessness, locked away while Blurr fights for his life.
There are only a few kilometers left behind him when he suddenly gives a burst of speed, then another. Only a few kliks at a time, but in regular periods. A surprised murmur spreads through the room, rapid calculations get thrown out and then: relief.
“He’ll make it. He’s getting away, if he keeps it up he’ll get back before it hits us.”
The gathered crowd thins with the good news, mechs peeling away assured the natural phenomenon won’t steal one of their own. Far too often, increasingly as the war continues, similar situations ended in quiet regret, an acknowledgment of tragedy, and then the resuming of work. They do not have time to mourn each loss, nor to celebrate each win.
But this particular instance Hardhead waits, watching even as the distance tips back over into the safe zone, and then as the feed switches to their own sensors, tracking Blurr until he is safely inside the ship. He eavesdrops on Blurr’s assigned support as he announces the end of the mission and directs Blurr to the storage to catalogue his find.
Which means Blurr almost wasn’t quick enough, and still he hasn’t dropped whatever it is. The lingering fear turns into breathless admiration, delayed but familiar from the other times he has watched him perform a feat of impossibility. He sends the message before he can second guess himself, and leaves quickly, catching the last of the conversation: “Actually, just leave it there. Someone else volunteered to come to put it in the system, you go get some rest.”
The crystals are of remarkable clarity, and Hardhead isn’t surprised Blurr was unwilling to part with them. Not worth his life, no, and the recklessness grates along lines long treaded, but nevertheless they are extremely useful to have. Hardhead has no doubt someone will use them to upgrade their power production even before they leave the planet.
It’s boring work, but it goes by quickly with the knowledge that it allows for Blurr to get rest. By the time he finishes, the halls of the ship are hushed and empty, most of the mechs retired to use the cover of the storm raging over them to catch up on recharge.
He idly checks the mission roster as he walks, somewhat disappointed to see he is being sent underground to scout the tunnels. The past few missions he has been put on larger teams, and the chaos the younger mechs especially bring was entertaining. But they are more work to keep track of, no matter the comedy, and a smaller work up will be something of a break.
He stops. He tilts his head at the sound echoing through the hall, surprised to hear wash racks in use. The rest of the corridor is dark, and as he moves closer so is the room. Someone was probably called away in the middle of washing, and forgot to turn off the faucet. Wastefull, but hardly noteworthy.
Hardhead waves in front of the door’s sensor, and goes in. He takes a step and halts, surprise flowing through his processors.
It is not empty as he had thought. Worse for wear, Blurr sits collapsed on the bench, folded against the wall in an uncomfortable position, no doubt straining the struts of his neck. The spray of liquid is seemingly not bothering him in the slightest, optics shuttered and dead to the world.
Hardhead hesitates.
After the distance he covered, Blurr doubtlessly needs his rest. But leaving him like this tugs on Harheads wires. There’s cracks all over his plating, abrasions from the sand and a bigger wound on his chest. Not something that needs to bother the medics, but numerous enough that Harhead cannot just leave him alone. Waking him, though… They have worked together, they are what could be described as friends, but Hardhead is not sure if their relationship is close enough that Blurr would not be embarrassed to be found by Hardhead like this. Maybe he can go find someone else to wake Blurr up?
In the end, his deliberation takes too long. Blurr is a soldier, and his instincts are no doubt honed enough to notice someone standing over him and staring for this long.
At first he only moves a little, picking up his head and raising his optics, but as he catches sight of harhead he bursts into motion, flailing to stand up.
But his limbs are heavy and motions uncoordinated, and he knocks off the cleaning product perched on the bench. He leans heavily against the wall for support and air hisses through his vents in an attempt to shake out the accumulated liquid. Grains of neurite shake loose, washing away down the drain.
Picking up the bottle, Hardhead just looks at him in concern.
“Hardhead, uh, what a surprise to meet you here!” Blurr blurts out. He doesn’t seem to notice the way his legs shake from supporting his weight.
“Well, would you look at the time! Must’ve dozed off, haha, I’ll be on my way now!”
He takes a step, stumbles, and crumples back down on the bench, legs giving up mid motion. He grips the edge in frustration, but when he glaces up at Hardhead he’s smiling. “Just a bit overworked. Had to pick up speed today, and I really wasn’t sure stunning my energon driver was gonna work but it did and it all worked out! But it’s fine, of course it worked out, I do it all the time! Speed is kind of my thing if you haven’t noticed.”
Hardhead shakes his head. “You don’t sustain it for that long.”
Something wry twists around his words, “You’ve seen that?”
He nods, and doesn’t know what to say. If he was better with words, he would tell him about the fear he felt when he thought Blurr would be ripped from the universe, just like that. Accidentally, cruelly, snuffed out by the forces of nature when the war tried so many times and failed.
“Yeah, well. Paying the price!”
Hardhead didn’t know there was a price. He thinks back to the other times he has seen Blurr do impossible feats, breaking his own limits again and again. Thinks of Blurr, alone, shaking so much he cannot hold a bottle.
Neurite is painful and stubborn at the best of times, but now, that Blurr cannot even grasp a brush properly, it must be aggravating.
Hardhead may not know what words to say, but this much he can help with.
He kneels, and picks up the brush Blurr dropped. He pours more product over the soft bristles, and rubs a thumb over it to work up lather.
“Hardhead? What are you doing?”
Blurr’s plating trembles against his when he rests a hand on the side of his chest. The hydraulics spasm inside, jerking and shaking from the exerted strain. Hardhead firms his grip, and passes the brush along a seam in the metal.
Blurr stutters out a protest: “I can still-”
“Let me.”
Maybe it’s the firm tone, maybe it’s the bristles slipping in and finally dislodging the debri- either way Blurr falls silent.
“You need to clean all of the particles out, or they will continue to cause more damage. I’m here, let me.”
Blurr nods, once, still suprised into silence.
Hardhead nods, satisfied, and then feels a brief moment of anxiety when he realizes what he’s doing, what he’s being allowed. He shakes it off. If there is no one else to do it for Blurr, he will take the honor. He never thought they would become close enough for this, but it is not a displeasing thought.
The metal of his outer chest plating has splintered, caving inward, but there is fortunately only superficial damage under it. An impact, probably a larger chunk of rock caught in the winds and turned projectile.
It is a simple task to remove the shards, but a delicate one, necessitating a steady grip and some patience. At first, Blurr keeps his face turned away in embarrassment, tense and uncomfortable, but as the metal splinters plink against the floor one after another, and no doubt his damage reports finally stop blaring about the piercing potential, he eases up.
He can’t do anything about the scratches and dents he uncovered, but he can make sure no debris makes it inside. He angles the bristles to catch every granule, teases it out and lets it be swept off in the flow of liquid.
The injury clean and sand-free, Hardhead continues on lower, takes his time. Slow and thorough, keeps the pressure firm but takes care around the more sensitive receptors. The neurite sand catches in places, stubborn, and he loses himself in his focus until a pop and a his alerts him to Blurr’s vents being opened.
When he looks up he’s surprised to see his head tilted back against the wall, loose limbed and slumped in his seat.
His optics move to flick open and Hardhead goes back to work, not allowing a smile to take place on his features. The damage isn’t extensive here, and a bit of relaxation is only earned after his mission today. And from the buildup of dirt in the harder to reach spots, he hasn’t taken the time for any similar detailing in a long time. If he can find any sense of pleasure from this now, it is a silver lining.
“It truly is not a lot of damage.” Blurr mumbles into the quiet, low and relaxed. “Really, I don’t even have to bother a medic about it, and soon as my hydraulics reconfigure I’ll be able to repair myself without too much trouble. And even that shouldn’t take that long, by the next shit I’m sure they will be reconfig’d back to normal! It only takes longer when the temperature is low enough. Oh, like on that mission with Ultra Magnus, remember? That asteroid was a nightmare to work on.”
The chatter continues in the background as Hardhead works, and a bundle of tension relaxes in the back of his processor. He hasn’t consciously realized he was tracking the number of words Blurr has said, but as it ticks up he is able to accept that yes, he is fine. Danger has passed, and they are both still here.
By the time he gets to the complex lines of the ankle joint, Blurr has moved on to three more topics, currently wondering at one of Perceptor’s experiments. As Hardhead angles the bristles to slip in along the air input, the flow of words cuts off with a startled: “Ah!”
Hardhead freezes, worried he damaged something, but then Blurr just laughs it off. “Sorry, sorry, that really tickles! I generally just use the jets to rinse off, this sensation is not something I am used to! The jets are much quicker, you see, despite all the reactions with the paints, and -”
And so it goes.
He finishes the one leg, then the other, and then tugs on Blurr’s hip strut until he takes the hint and heaves up to his feet, not stopping the verbal torrent once. The tremble grows more pronounced, mechanics refusing to lock to hold him steady, so Hardhead pushes him back until he can press against the wall for purchase.
Blurr stutters. “Ah, um, right, as I was saying, I- What was I saying?”
“Ultra Magnus’ artillery deconstruction training.”
“Oh, you were listening? I thought you were too focused. ”
“Of course,” Hardhead says simply. “I always do.”
It takes a moment for Blurr to start again, but when Hardhead reaches to tease sand out of the hip plates he stumbles over his words and hurries to continue his train of thought. He repeats himself, but Hardhead doesn’t point it out.
The neurite has been ground into the hip strut by movement, and it is tricky to remove without causing more scratches. Hardhead pokes them around ineffectually, then stands up, reaches over Blurr’s head for the nozzle of the shower and tugs it down so he can use the spray of solvent. Blurr’s vents let out a huff of warm air, so Hardhead tests the temperature of the spray but it’s well within normal ranges.
It goes quicker then, and soon he moves on to the delicate plates of his sides. Except for the impact damage, there is little trouble to be found on the chassis. He fishes out a stubborn clump from behind the lower chest strut and nods in satisfaction when he cannot detect more. His optics flick up, and he stills, surprised to find Blurr’s face so close.
Blurr takes no notice of him, optics shuttered and helm tipped back against the wall, neck bared for free access. Hardhead notes his own vents try to cycle more air and he admonishes himself. This is not about him, this is about providing assistance. And, yes, he could’ve provided it in a quicker, more detached way, certainly, but unlike Blurr he is not about speed. He will take as much care with him as he is allowed, and Blurr doesn’t seem like he will stop him anytime soon.
In fact, he hasn’t said a word about Hardhead’s action so far. He comments about all the other topics that pop up in his processor, but he hasn’t tried to hurry Hardhead up once. Hasn’t even called him a slowpoke , as he tends to when he gets impatient.
Hardhead smiles, slightly, and takes solace in the fact that Blurr cannot see the smugness in it.
Tempting as it is to continue upwards, he instead focuses on the shoulders next. Buyouned by Blurr’s lack of complaints so far, he uses more pressure than strictly necessary, pressing in on strategic places until Blurr is a heap of melted metal plastered against the wall. His words slur together, and a thought pops up in his processor of just what it would take for him to lose them completely. Hardhead buries it down under a layer of calculations, modulating the flow of solvent for optimized pressure over effectiveness.
“And it’s not like there is a deadline on the reports, and everytime I do submit them Ultra Magnus just sends them back telling me to keep the briefing brief, but when I do remove things then there is just not enough context, and- Oh, Hardhead, you should be a medic.”
At the sound of his name, Hardhead fumbles the brush against his wrist, surprised by the switch in topics.
“Truly! Have you ever thought about training? A sensor line in my vambrace plating has been bothering me for forever with latency, but a couple minutes in your hands and it sings like a high-speed cable!”
Hardhead huffs, “You haven’t been maintaining properly.”
Blurr doesn’t bother disagreeing. “It just takes SO long.”
“You can’t push yourself so often and not take care of your systems properly. You’ll burn something out.”
Blurr’s helm tilts down, and he gives him a guilty shrug in response.
Hardhead rolls his eyes.
“You know, the last time I saw First Aid, it didn’t exactly go over well. He threw me out of the medbay before my internal struts even finished setting.”
“I’m sure you did nothing to deserve it.”
“Well, I only asked him a couple of questions! Who else am I supposed to ask but a medic??”
Blurr’s hand, obediently relaxed in Hardhead’s own as he works, spasms closed when he catches on a receptor. “Ah!” he gasps, flexing his fingers repeatedly to work out the sensation. "Now that is not pleasant."
“That’s what happens when you don’t do this more often.” Hardhead can’t help admonishing. Still, he gentles his hold.
The hands are one of the most complex parts, but they have far less debris than feet joints, higher off the ground. Even if it is easier, it does feel more… intimate. They are, for all sense of the phrase, holding hands.
“Your paint is uneven.” He blurts out, surprising even himself.
Blurr pouts, and starts on a defense but Hardhead interrupts him. “I could… You’re supposed to apply toner on cleaned plates, and you’re clean already.”
“I am well aware there are mechs who could not go a day without their paints looking in tip top shape, and I have to agree they do look very shiny indeed, even if some of them could go suck an exhaust, seriously, what is Sunny’s proble-”
Hardhead reads the point out of the barrage of words, even if Blurr hasn’t gotten to it. “I want to.”
That stops him short. “You do?” he asks, then answers himself, “Of course you do, you wouldn’t offer if you haven’t meant it, you are honest like that. Just- Well- Why do you?”
Hardhead keeps his optics trained down on his work. Uncharacteristically, Blurr waits him out.
“You’re… special.” he mumbles, gruff. “Someone should make sure you’re taken care of.”
“Oh.” Blurr says. “Well. In that case.” He doesn't finish, seemingly out of words to say. An event that rarely occurs.
Blurr breaks the stillness with a full body shudder. He grimaces, and Hardhead grips his hand in sympathy.
“Ugh,” he groans. “I hate reconfig’s. It feels like there’s a million tiny fingers all up in my wires.”
“Sit down. I’m almost finished.”
Blurr drops down, grateful. Unfortunately needing to drop his hand, Hardhead circles around so he can have access to his dorsal plates.
The quiet is unnatural where Blurr is involved, so Harhead tries to nudge him back into conversation.
“Are you… on the mission roster?”
It takes a beat for Blurr to reply. “Actually, Ultra Magnus pulled me for a whole shift cycle. Can you believe him? We have so much stuff to do! I’m the fastest, I should be going out more, not less.”
“Are you saying if he put you on a mission right now, you would be able to keep up?”
Blurr pouts, recognising his point. Still, he tilts his head back to squint at him upside down. “Are you calling me slow?”
“Can you even walk right now?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
All the neurite washed away down the drain, Harhead turns off the faucet and walks over to fetch Blurr a cloth. Blurr rubs it on himself quickly, rough against his scuffed paint, and Hardhead has half a mind to take over.
In the end, he just waits until he’s done and bends to pick him up.
“Whoa!” Blurr cries out, “Hardhead! What in Primus’s- Put me down, that’s so embarrassing.”
Hardhead tightens his grip against the flailing, making his way through the doors. “It would be more embarrassing if you fell on the way and cracked a processing chip.”
“What if someone sees? Oh Primus, what if Ultra Magus sees, I will never live it down. Or-”
“No one will see. And if they do, they will just think you’re hurt and I’m taking you to the medbay.”
“Ugh, fine.” Blurr slumps in his hold, pliant for moment, then shoots up again. “Wait, you’re not, though, right? I know it looks bad, but I’m really fine.”
“I wouldn’t say that. But no, I’m not. Just your berth.”
Holding him up, carrying him, it doesn’t pose an issue for Hardhead. Still, he is careful. Blurr is strong, he knows this, and yet he feels he should take care with his movements, as if there was precious material in his arms.
Blurr makes a sound not unlike a squeek when he shifts his hold, but its quickly disguised and hidden under the loud assertion that "Wow, Hardhead! You're so strong! No wonder they keep sending you on retrievals! I could’ve certainly used someone like you today. There was a carbon alternator I had to leave behind and you know I can’t remember the last time I saw one in use-"
They start making their way. Hardhead doesn't rush, and Blurr continues not complaining about it. This conversation might make a new record for how long Blurr can go without calling him a slowpoke.
"Did you ever visit Euphor V?" Blurr tilts his head, curious. "I've been to the races once, I think. It was so long ago I don't remember much about it. I wish I knew to appreciate it back then."
Hardhead shakes his head, and Blurr hms in sympathy.
"Where did you go, then? Asteria? Symphony Nox? You don't strike me as someone who watched the thirteen-cycle plays."
Hardhead shrugs. He's cultured.
"Oh come on! You're not telling me you never traveled, are you?"
"Hm. I traveled."
Blurr makes to lean up, forgetting his position for a moment and almost unbalancing them. "Then tell me! Where did you go?"
Hardhead humms, content to keep the mystery going, but then he trails off at the sound of foot steps. Blurr follows his gaze, and stiffens.
They both fall silent, resolutely keeping their heads down and not meeting optics of the passing mech.
"Hey, Hardhead," he nods, "It's good to see you still in one piece, Blurr."
"Yes. Quite so!"
The silence stretches as footsteps fade, then longer still.
At last, Blurr groans. '"That'll spread to all corners of the ship." He tips his head back dramatically, going limp in his hold.
"What, that I'm helping you to your berth?"
Blurr chuckles. Then rises to squint at him doubtfully. "Do you really not know what this looks like? Us, alone, while most of the ship is in recharge, me in your arms?"
Hardhead doesn't reply. But his vents pop open with a treacherous hiss.
Blurr laughs at him, but his shoulders stay slumped.
“I’m sure it’ll pass quickly. We aren’t stuck in space with too much time on our hands, everyone is busy for once.”
“If that was enough to stop the mill we wouldn’t have half the rumours flying around,” Blurr says with a roll of optics. “Remember when First Aid slipped on a rock and slapped Ultra Magnus in the face?”
Of course Hardhead remembers when First Aid slipped on a rock and slapped Ultra Magnus in the face. Everyone knows about that time First Aid slipped on a rock and slapped Ultra Magnus in the face. He wasn't present when it happened, but he saw that visual feed clip. It quickly spread off their ship, and he wouldn't be surprised if Decepticons saw it as well.
“I once had to bribe Sunstreaker with my last energon star fizzler to keep his mouth shut. I don't think that will work as well this time.”
Bribe him? To keep quiet?
Blurr delves into the wonders that used to be star fizzlers, a topic that Hardhead can’t add to, having never tasted one. Instead the same thought process keeps resuming no matter how many times he terminates it.
What did Sunstreaker see? It’s not any of his business. He tends to ignore the rumours that spread by word of mouth, even as he appreciates the social lubricant. But, their current situation reminded him of it? Does that mean it was a similar one…?
“Why did you have to bribe him?” he blurts out.
Blurr stops in the middle of a sentence, blinking in surprise. “Oh, Sunstreaker?” he waves him off, “Stupid thing, really. Not worth bringing up, forget I said anything.”
“Stupid?”
Blurr grimaces. “Let’s just say that as much as I adore the energon star fizzlers, the price was worth it. I have not done such a thing in ages. You learn to not make those kind of mistakes once you spend more time on a ship.”
Hardhead doesn’t catch his faceplates quickly enough, and Blurr frowns at him. “What’s with that look? We were all young once. Except Ultra Magnus, of course.”
“Nothing. I was just- surprised.”
Blurr’s head tilts. “Did you never see anyone forget to latch the anterior fuzix valve? I never made the same mistake again, the sound alone is burned into my memory banks-”
“You forgot to latch the fuzix valve?
“Well, you don’t have to sound so incredulous! It’s a common enough error to make!” Blurr defends himself. “The latch is slippery. The fault is clearly in manufacturing, if you ask me.”
Hardhead listens to his defense for the rest of the way, reaching their destination well before Blurr can run out of complains.
Blurr reaches to press his hand against the door scanner, palming it open. Guiltlessly snooping, his room is not what Hardhead would expect- for one, it is surprisingly tidy. For the ways his attention drifts quicker than the air currents outside, there is little mess to be found.
After taking a moment to take it in, Hardhead crosses the small space to the bed, carefully laying Blurr down.
Blurr melts into the give of the material, groaning in relief.
Hardhead dithers around. “Will you be alright? Do you need anything else?”
Blurr rolls to his side, looking up at him with a soft expression, halfway gone already. “I just need a recharge or two and I’ll be better than ever, don’t worry.”
His optics shutter, then pry open, then shutter again. Hardhead takes his que, and turns to leave.
“Hardhead?”
He looks back, “Yes, Blurr?”
“Thank you. I owe you one. If you ever need a hand in the washing racks I'm your mech.”
Hardhead shakes his head, “Go to sleep, Blurr.”
And again, as he turns: “Hardhead?”
“Yes, Blurr?”
He hesitates. “There’s… I saw a datareel about the Euphor V races in the permanent storage archives. Would you like to watch it together? To repay you?”
Harhead is so surprised he almost forgets to answer, then blurts: "Yes."
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I would like that.”
“That’s- good. Great. I think you will like the bit about the preparations. There’s twenty four different-”
Hardhead huffs out a quiet laugh.“Blurr?”
“Oh, yes?”
“You’ll tell me later. Go to sleep.”
Blurr blinks. “Ah. Good night, Hardhead.”
Hardhead follows everyone’s lead and retires to his own berth to recharge, but instead only stares at the ceiling, unable to suspend his thoughts. The day went in a direction far different than he expected, his processor is still reeling a little.
They’re going to watch a datareel.
Together.
He’s probably not entering recharge anytime soon.