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There are a lot of things about the world Silverbolt doesn't understand. Any worlds, really — he only remembers Cybertron in the faintest of tactical memories, in wind skimming over his wings and gravel scraping under his loading ramp, back when he was just an it. His understanding of holidays comprises solely of the knowledge that cargo transport picks up at certain times of the stellar cycle, and the scattered shards of anticipation and joy of the Cybertronian memories Vector Sigma had pieced his personality together from. Maybe the rest of the Aerialbots would know more, being closer, more personable vehicles. Between the five of them, Silverbolt thinks they might be able to piece together a proper image of Cybertron — but if the others hold any not-quite memories, they haven't been inclined to share. Which is almost surprising, given how vocal most of his wingmates are, but maybe they’d deemed such soft, distant thoughts too insignificant to put to words.
He’s getting off-path.
The point is, celebrations that took place on a dead planet weren't exactly on the priority list of knowledge to shove into freshly forged soldiers who were needed on the battlefield hours prior to their creation. The ones native to the planet the Aerialbots would then be ordered to protect weren't even a passing thought. Explaining those little rituals seems to have slipped the processor of the mechs older than Silverbolt (which is, in fact, nearly all of them), too.
He’s not sure if any of that really means anything. Do the Autobots of the Ark still celebrate the holidays of their lost world? Does culture persist through a war that's lasted longer than some mechanisms’ lifespans? Does it even count as Silverbolt’s culture, if he wasn't alive to experience it? He’s spoken leagues more English than any language native to Cybertron in his short life. The soft sounds of fleshy vocalizers are almost natural, now.
…Again, he digresses. (Jeez, maybe he needs to spend less time combined with Fireflight.)
In any case, all that means he has no frame of reference for the colorful nonsense everyone's decided to smother the Autobot base with. One of his early discoveries of the few humans the Autobots allowed to hang around the Ark was their inclination towards bright colors. They “spruced up the place,” as Carly had told him when he’d inquired about the arrangements of flora she sometimes brought to the medbay. (That, and they were a symbol of affection and hope. He appreciates now having a reason behind any anxious visits to the medbay when his wingmates frequently find themselves bedridden, though he does wish Fireflight would stop trying to ingest the petals.) Red is always their go-to, with the little decorative magnets and posters they hang up sometimes. To match the Autobot badge, no doubt. But within the last few days, their interest in color has greatly expanded its range.
The typical red and gold are apparent, yes, but now green and white have been thrown into the mix. Chains made of folded paper adorn doorways, long strings of lights wrap around support beams, and shiny clumps of shredded plastic seem to be a favorite for filling in any gaps.
He doesn't mind, per se. He's just confused.
On the other hand…
Slingshot gives his third annoyed grunt of the hour. He flicks his wings, and the shimmery banner he caught his nosecone on rips off the wall to fall right over his helm. Another frustrated sound comes soon after as he flails to get it off — a process only exacerbated by Air Raid laughing at his predicament.
With a heavy ex-vent, Silverbolt steps over. One hand grabs at Slingshot’s arm to still him, and the other deftly removes the fabric from his kibble. Silverbolt balls it up as he steps back, curiosity bleeding through his own indignation. As much as he's loath to admit it, not everything the rest of the Ark does is his favorite either, but at least his conflicts with the Autobots are usually over their harmless yet inexplicable habits than their war efforts.
“Autobots,” Slingshot hisses. Affronted, he ruffles his plating before settling his wings back where they belong.
“Humans,” Air Raid corrects with an irritated tilt of his own wings. He turns away, starting back down the hall toward the common area like they’d intended. “I saw the bigger one bringing this stuff in.”
“His name’s Sparkplug,” Silverbolt tosses out. “I think.”
His comment goes ignored. “Humans!” Slingshot agrees, throwing his hands up in the air. “Where do they think they get off, crawling all over our base?”
“They’re our friends,” Silverbolt says. He glares at Slingshot, then at the back of Air Raid’s helm for good measure.
“They're the friends of the ‘bots who matter,” Slingshot asserts. He crosses his arms. “We didn't really get a say in them.”
“They were here before us.” It's a common argument. At this point, Silverbolt isn't sure how much of it Slingshot still means or if he just argues on principle. “It’s their planet. They have a right to know what we're up to.”
A huff from Air Raid. “It’s not their ship! And besides—” Whatever probably-aggressive thought he had to share is lost as he steps into the common area. His wings lift in something like surprise. Silverbolt and Slingshot shuffle forward to peer over his shoulders to see what caught him off-guard.
It turns out, it’s just Bumblebee. And Jazz. And Fireflight, haphazardly dragging a whole fragging tree in from the outside.
“Little further,” Jazz goads, miming the movements of an air control officer. “Liiittle more… okay, stop!”
Fireflight does, but only because he collides aft-first into the wall. He doesn't look anything but proud despite it.
“The hell are you doing?” Slingshot finally questions. He pushes past Air Raid to move closer, apprehensive gaze sweeping over the tree and the sprigs of green caught in Fireflight’s seams.
Fireflight grins. “I knocked over a tree!”
“You do that a lot,” Air Raid quips, earning himself a flick to the back of the helm from Silverbolt.
“He’s pretty good at it,” tacks on Skydive. Slingshot startles — clearly he hadn't noticed him lurking in the corner.
Silverbolt’s wings twitch in amusement at the whirring of Slingshot’s defense systems coming half-online. He quickly folds his wings down, grasping for his responsible demeanor back to chastise Skydive. “Be nice.”
“Wasn't that a compliment?” Fireflight asks, head tilting to the side not unlike the dog Spike sometimes brings on base. No one corrects him.
Instead, Silverbolt turns his attention to Jazz, searching for direction from the only mech in the room who outranks him. “What’s with the tree?”
Bumblebee answers before Jazz can. “It’s for Spike!” He’s as chipper as always. He kneels and takes hold of the trunk of the tree. “Keep it steady, Fireflight.”
Silverbolt watches as Bumblebee fastens some sort of metal stand to the splintered base of the trunk. “Spike wants a tree?”
“Humans,” Slingshot mutters. Air Raid nods emphatically.
“Careful,” Jazz warns. He’d given the Aerialbots several lectures already, all with the same gist: they can think what they want, they just need to watch their words in company other than their own. Slingshot rolls his optics, but doesn't argue.
“Humans do like trees,” Bumblebee muses, “just in general. But, no, this is a specific tree. It’s for Christmas! Spike celebrates, and he’s always so happy to learn about us, so I wanted to surprise him with something of his.”
“Christmas,” Slingshot deadpans.
“It’s a human holiday,” Skydive says, snidely, as if that weren't knowledge they could all infer.
Slingshot glowers. “Anyone other than Air Commander Obvious wanna chime in?”
At least he's interested in hearing them out, Silverbolt thinks.
“Well, Skydive’s right.” Bumblebee shrugs. “And it’s the most widespread winter celebration in this area. It’s about… family and love, and stuff like that. They give each other presents, and usually put ‘em under a tree like this one.”
For once, Fireflight’s question of, “Why?” isn't unique.
“Uh,” Bumblebee says, eloquently. He looks to Jazz for help.
Jazz proceeds to be entirely unhelpful by saying, “you guys should ask Spike and Carly. I’m sure they’d be happy to fill you in on their customs.”
Silverbolt bristles. He doesn’t really care, but his gestalt does. Slingshot, Air Raid, and Skydive’s chagrin are palpable even to those not in their combiner. Fireflight seems vaguely interested for a moment before he catches the expressions of his stronger-willed wingmates and his own body language tightens in turn.
“What’s it matter, anyway?” Slingshot snaps. “It’s not our holiday. And even if it were, it doesn’t matter in wartime, does it? No need to be covering the base in all this— gaudy, glittery… shhhhh— stuff.” Silverbolt fully expects Jazz to reprimand Slingshot for his rudeness, but instead the officer just laughs.
“Y’know, the humans didn’t put most of it up,” Jazz drawls, leaning back against the wall. Bumblebee steps back from the now-standing tree and nods approvingly to Fireflight. “You have your brother-in-arms to thank for that.”
Fireflight freezes as all eyes turn to him. “What? Bee and Perceptor couldn’t reach the ceilings!”
Slingshot groans, helm falling into his hands. Air Raid breaks into a cackle. Skydive just makes a little ‘tsk’ noise and shakes his head. “Still a bit of a distraction,” he points out. “We have formations to learn.”
“Aw, but I hate flying in the cold…” Fireflight pouts.
Slingshot grumbles, “that’s not what you said when you divebombed into the snow.”
“The little orange things just looked like they were having so much fun!”
“You mean a fox?” Skydive sets a hand on his hip, incredulous. “You know what that’s called.”
“Right! They’re like, the long dogs…”
“What?”
Silverbolt rubs at his optics, weary. The day isn’t half over and already he longs for recharge. Or maybe the energon they’d originally come out here for. It’s always at least marginally easier to deal with his gestalt on a full tank. “Just because it's wartime doesn’t mean we aren’t allowed to have fun.” His confidence falters and he, again, looks to Jazz. “Right?”
Jazz gives an odd little laugh. He kicks a pede up to rest on the wall, further succumbing to his comfortable posture in the face of Silverbolt’s anxieties. “‘Course. Long as you ain’t havin’ too much fun.”
Ah, he was afraid of that. All the Aerialbots do is have too much fun. And destroy Decepticons. He thinks there’s some overlap there, at least for Slingshot. Silverbolt himself takes no pleasure in ending lives, but he can’t deny that such means are sometimes necessary for the intended ends. There’s little comfort in the knowledge that Cybertronians are incredibly hard to kill. And if nothing else, Vector Sigma will recycle their power. Silverbolt always swears he can feel his spark’s pulse a little louder when he thinks of it.
As if sensing the argument about to occur, Bumblebee speaks before anyone else can. “You know, Spike was telling me that one time, during one of the humans’ big wars—”
“Of which they’ve had many,” Jazz interjects, amused.
Bumblebee twitches in a way that implies he isn’t. Still, he continues, “one time, a bunch of guys stopped fighting during Christmas. They crossed the trenches to like, just chill for a while.”
“That’s stupid,” Air Raid says, immediately.
Silverbolt can’t help but agree. “I don’t think a bunch of colorful banners is gonna make the Decepticons… chill.”
Bumblebee shrugs. “I just thought it was a neat story. That’s how much power this holiday’s got.”
“Maybe over humans,” Slingshot says with a sigh. Despite his words, he and Fireflight are exchanging a look and— oh, Primus, Silverbolt prays they’re not getting any ideas.
“Can I not tell stories anymore?” Bumblebee throws his hands in the air with a frustrated sound. He stalks away from the group, but the effect is lessened when he stops only a few paces away to rifle through a crate. A crate that has… more of that shimmery plastic stuff, from what Silverbolt can tell.
Skydive scoffs. “You could at least make up something more interesting. I’ve read a lot about human wars and I haven’t seen anything about that.”
“Maybe it’s from before planes were as fancy as you,” Jazz suggests.
“No human plane is as fancy as me,” Skydive retorts, but he’s reaching for the datapad he’s left in his seat anyway. Jazz clocked him right — for as much reading as Skydive does on aircraft in battle, his studies end at just that: aircraft. If the history he stumbles across is old enough he can't apply any maneuvers to his own fights, he doesn't bother. Not for lack of interest. No, he spends far too much time listening to Blaster and his cassettes and feigning annoyance for that. Information that isn’t applicable simply isn’t relevant. It’s just hard to find the time to indulge in curiosity when you’re a soldier with a war to win.
Bumblebee laughs and Jazz just shakes his head. “Anyway, mechs. We’ll be havin’ a little party here in a couple days. With the humans and their tree.”
“A… party,” Silverbolt repeats.
“Yup. Music and mistletoe, the whole shebang.” Jazz folds his hands behind his head. “It'll be nice. Everyone can relax.”
Silverbolt imagines Slingshot trying to ‘relax’ around humans, and finds himself saying, “could we volunteer for patrol during that?”
Flight is an odd double-edged blade to Silverbolt. He loves it, he does. He loves the wind beneath his wings and clear skies before him. He gets antsy being grounded, contained, just as much as any flier. And still, as he ascends past the mountaintops, following his braver wingmates to the cruising altitude of aircraft made for war, he finds his plating clenched tight to itself.
It’s a little easier once he levels out. Once he has clear skies before him and is able to mostly avoid checking his altimeter. He can focus on the goal ahead and the presence of his team flanking him. He’s fine, he has to remind himself. He’s not going to fall off his own wings. (And if he did, they’d catch him.)
Air Raid drifts closer in silent reassurance before banking upwards to take his place in their scouting formation. He levels off above Silverbolt, just a few wing-lengths from Slingshot. Fireflight and Skydive trail just behind, between them and Silverbolt. It also helps, Silverbolt supposes, that his gestalt is his gestalt, regardless of all their arguments and conflict. Their bond is one of unspoken trust, a completeness that only forms when they’re all together. Between his calming nerves and the blessedly clear airway, Silverbolt can almost consider himself at peace.
Once they’re settled, Skydive opens the comms channel between the five of them. ::I did some research,:: he says, the same phrase he opens most conversations they have in-air with, ::on that thing Bumblebee was talking about.::
::Christmas?:: Fireflight questions.
::Sort of. The truce thing.:: He performs a lazy, yet impressively clean, double barrel roll as he and Air Raid begin to fan out. ::Turns out it wasn't much of a truce at all. Most people kept fighting.::
::Oh.:: Fireflight's disappointment is expected, but no less tangible.
::Most?:: Silverbolt prompts. The patrol thus far has been quiet enough for him to indulge his curiosity.
Skydive is quiet for a moment, then admits, ::some of them did. In particular locations. They were tired and there were already cordial ceasefires to allow both sides to retrieve their injured and dead. It wasn't much different than one of those, just with… what I assume to be holiday traditions. Games and caroling.::
::Cordial ceasefire,:: Slingshot echoes with a flare of his vents. ::Imagine that::
It is hard to. The battles the Aerialbots have experienced are brief things. The trenches of drawn-out conflicts that Skydive describes from his research aren’t something that followed the war to Earth. Something to do with limited soldiers and meager resources, Silverbolt suspects. Battle has to be quick and effective. Neither side can afford to have forces on the field for prolonged periods of time. Can't afford the casualties.
But Silverbolt has to imagine that, in the bigger battles the older mechs talk about, the Decepticons held no such cordiality. When death happened — as it surely did — a corpse would be nothing more than bait.
Silverbolt doesn't like to think about it.
He lets himself drift a little lower. Fireflight zips up into his slipstream, mirroring Air Raid’s earlier act of reassurance, but it’s a little more disconcerting given it's Fireflight and his depth perception leaves something to be desired. He goes back to his own position soon enough and Silverbolt tries to relax, listening to the idle chatter between his wingmates as they weave between topics. Something about music, cobbled together from what Jazz has mentioned to Fireflight and what Skydive has wheedled out of Blaster and his cassettes.
The patrol remains quiet. Until it doesn't.
Silverbolt hadn't really been expecting to find anything. When he picks up on energon signatures he tenses, expecting to find himself flying straight into a battle. That’s just how his luck always runs. Too many times their patrol of the skies has run right into Starscream's. But no, these signatures are far lower than any seeker would care to fly. Grounders. Which vastly lowers the options, especially this far from both the Decepticons base and any human civilizations. Soundwave’s cassettes cloak themselves better than this, and there’s only one group of wheeled Decepticons who travel in a pack without someone to mind them.
Silverbolt sends a ping to his team and they close in on him as he leads them lower. The comm line falls silent, buzzing in anticipation as they all come to the same conclusion.
The Stunticons come into view soon enough, and they’re…
Racing?
Silverbolt's not sure why he’s surprised. He banks gently to the right, easing into a circle over them. They’re all in their vehicle modes and they haven't thought to look up yet, apparently, because even from here Silverbolt can see their full attention is on squabbling with each other. They’ve set up some sort of track in the desert, the edges drawn into the snow with tire tracks, using the natural slopes and cliffs of the mesa to form the obstacles. Dead End is in the middle of doing some impressively tight donuts while Wildrider zips back and forth, jumping over him in every which direction. Breakdown is the only one using the track properly, supposedly testing it for use, while Motormaster and Drag Strip are circling each other exchanging occasional collisions as they argue about something Silverbolt can’t quite pick up from his height.
::Fan out,:: Silverbolt commands. ::See if there’s anyone else lurking around.::
The jets shoot off like darts in each cardinal direction, leaving Silverbolt circling alone. Motormaster takes a particularly hard turn and has to half-transform to right himself. Drag Strip springs into root mode cackling, and Motormaster follows him through the transformation to grab him, the interaction devolving into a poorly choreographed wrestling match. Breakdown skids into a dead stop to watch, as does Wildrider — midjump, leaving him to fall directly onto Dead End. Dead End transforms immediately and grabs Wildrider by the spoiler to berate him, and then all five of them are in root mode to better enact their petty squabbling.
It’s a little too familiar of a sight. The Aerialbots act much the same way when their flight practices go awry, albeit with less actual harm done. Although…
::I think,:: Silverbolt says, carefully, as his team returns to him with no findings, ::they’re getting along.::
Air Raid outright laughs. Fireflight argues, ::but they’re fighting!::
::They’re Decepticons,:: Slingshot says, tone laced with hypocritical disgust. ::They're always fighting.::
Silverbolt observes a moment longer before he makes any further comments. Motormaster stands up straight and calls something, and the rest of the Stunticons fall reluctantly out of their squabbles. They’re still pushing and shoving as he corrals them, but there's no fire in it. Wildrider breaks away from the group in a smooth transformation, overly eager to get back on his tires.
::Do we call this in?:: Silverbolt wonders aloud.
::They’re Decepticons!:: Slingshot reaffirms. ::Duh!::
::I think they’re just playing, though,:: Fireflight says, uncertainly. ::We get mad when the seekers harass us off-duty…::
::Them shooting at us because we barely clipped their airspace on a joyride is not the same thing,:: Air Raid retorts.
Silverbolt tunes out the argument, debating. Protocol says he really should let high command know — these are Decepticons somewhere they weren't expected to be. On the other hand… they really do look like they’re just playing. They don't really seem like they’re doing anything dangerous, and Silverbolt wouldn't want to interrupt the festivities back at base…
He makes a decision and drops down. The rest of his gestalt follows a second later, mirroring his mid-air transformation and touching down behind him, right by the starting line of the Stunticons’ makeshift racetrack.
Collectively, the Stunticons whirl about to face them, engines revving with displeasure and weapons systems coming to life. “Wait,” Silverbolt says, holding out his hands before he’s really registered what he’s doing. “Wait, we don’t want any trouble.”
“We don’t?” Air Raid questions.
“No, we don’t.” For whatever reason, the Stunticons aren’t taking this as an opportunity to get in any easy hits, so slowly Silverbolt lowers his hands. “We were just trying to figure out what you’re doing.”
“What’s it look like, genius?” Wildrider laughs, still spinning in circles around his gestalt. “We got a—”
“Nothing,” Motormaster growls. He snatches at Wildrider’s spoiler to grab him much like Dead End had done earlier, but Wildrider jerks in the other direction at the last second, narrowly avoiding capture. “None of you Auto-jerks business.” It’s such a stupid insult, Silverbolt almost laughs at the way it still makes Slingshot’s wings hike. “Leave us alone and we’ll do you the honor of not siccing Menasor on you.”
Slingshot starts to say something. Silverbolt grabs his wing to stop him. “You tell us what you’re doing and we won’t report you to Autobot HQ,” Silverbolt responds, coolly. “We really don’t want any trouble, we just need to make sure you’re not…”
“Plotting?” Dead End sighs. “I wish.”
“Aren’t Decepticons always plotting?” Fireflight asks. It sounds more like a genuine question than an admonishment. Wildrider breaks from his pathing to loop around Fireflight. The Aerialbot gives a startled yelp, stumbling despite not having been touched.
Skydive completes the insult for him, sending a glare down at Wildrider. “Not these ones.”
“Oi!”
The supposed rivalry between the Aerialbots and Stunticons has never made much sense to Silverbolt. Sure, it’s mostly a matter of Superion being the answer to Menasor, but outside of combination, it’s rare the groups run into each other on the battlefield. The Stunticons were made as cars to combat the majority of the other Autobot troops, after all, and vice versa. In all honesty — and he would never say this out loud, not to anyone — Silverbolt harbors a sort of sympathy for the Stunticons. Who else could understand the experience of being born out of necessity, given no other choice than being a combining soldier, better than the team who was made specifically in response to the Decepticons doing it? And, still honestly, Silverbolt knows the Aerialbots don’t so much hate the Decepticons as they do Megatron. (Everyone’s seen the way the Aerialbots occasionally freeze in awe watching Starscream lead his fleet through maneuvers.) Most Decepticons do fall into the realm of being guilty by association, yes, but the Stunticons? Silverbolt can’t help but remember, every so often, that they never had a choice.
(They probably would’ve been Decepticons anyway, with their propensity towards violence. But does that matter?)
“Please don’t call anyone,” Breakdown says suddenly, shoving past Motormaster to address the Aerialbots. “We just wanted to stretch our axels, okay? We don’t really get to, back at base—”
“Not that His Majesty has the wiring for competition anyway,” Drag Strip drawls. He makes a show of checking his finger joints, then shakes his head.
“This seems a little friendly for competition,” Air Raid says, crossing his arms.
“It’s a, um, thing we do sometimes,” Breakdown squeaks. He shrinks under the glare of his team, but none of them stop him from explaining, “we just — call a truce. Between the five of us for a little bit. Find somewhere to make a track and put our alts to use.”
Silverbolt can’t help but be a little surprised. It’s a surprisingly mature conclusion for a team as impulsive and prone to infighting as the Stunticons. And, again, that traitorous sympathy twists in his spark. There’s so few fliers amongst the Autobot ranks; the Aerialbots know well the disconnect of their needs not being understood. The Stunticons must feel a similar way. They’d even have to get someone else to take them to land before they could get ground beneath their wheels…
“We didn’t know we were in your patrol range, honest,” Breakdown is continuing. He shifts his weight between his feet, looking around nervously like the Autobot special operations team will pop out of the snowbanks any moment now.
Motormaster revs his engine, silencing Breakdown and drawing everyone’s attention. “Are you going to leave us alone?” he asks, each syllable deliberately articulated. “Or are we gonna have to make you?”
Silverbolt pauses. Looks to his team. Slingshot looks upset, of course, but he still has yet to shoot. Air Raid’s examining the track with poorly-hidden interest.
Fireflight leans into Silverbolt’s audial. “I kinda wanna race,” he says, not quietly enough to not be overheard. Drag Strip lifts his helm like he heard his name, but remains tense.
“A plane against any ground vehicle would be unfair,” Skydive puts in, moving closer as well.
Drag Strip scoffs. “I could outmaneuver you on land or sky.”
Skydive’s wings twitch. Silverbolt can sense the exclamation of prove it dying on his tongue. Fireflight’s wing brushes against Silverbolt’s, rife with anticipation.
“Okay,” Silverbolt says, finally.
“What?” Motormaster demands, booming voice carrying even over Fireflight’s squeal of delight.
Silverbolt shrugs. “We, uh, we’ve been learning about some human customs. They celebrate this big holiday around now, and apparently back during one of their wars, a bunch of them stopped fighting to… play.” That gets a chorus of amused responses from the Stunticons. Embarrassment burns up Silverbolt’s plating, but he goes on, “so, how about it? A Christmas truce? We won’t tell our guys we found you and vice versa. If you let us play.”
Silence rings for a tense microsecond as his words are considered. Motormaster looks like he’s about to call Silverbolt stupid, but Wildrider transforms and jams a finger into Air Raid’s chest. “You! How low can you fly?”
Air Raid stumbles back, startled, but when he processes what’s being asked of him, he straightens. Rising to the implied challenge, no doubt. “Low enough.”
That answer is apparently satisfactory to Wildrider, because he slings an arm over Air Raid’s shoulder and calls to Motormaster, “I wanna jump over some jets!”
“A scavenger hunt would work,” Drag Strip says, optics darting calculatingly over the Aerialbots. “A test of skill and speed.”
“Oh, I’m great at finding things!” Fireflight lies.
Breakdown taps his chin. “If you’re with us, then we’ll know for sure we’re not gonna get got by any Autobot patrols. Because, uh, you are the Autobot patrol.”
“And likewise,” Skydive notes. “If you’re all the way out here, I doubt any other Decepticons will be.”
“It doesn’t matter either way,” Dead End grumbles. “Whether we call each other in or not, the other team will just escape with plenty of warning and it’ll be a waste of time.”
“So we don’t call anybody in,” Silverbolt reaffirms. He looks to Slingshot, who shrugs.
“I guess,” Slingshot says, eventually, “I could use practice sparring out of formation.”
His agreement is all it takes. The Stunticons and Aerialbots are quickly swept into their babbling, half-formed plans of games. Motormaster ignores them, glaring at Silverbolt.
Over the din, he says, “don’t think we’ll go soft on you just because of this. Next time we see each other, this truce will not be upheld.”
“Of course not,” Silverbolt agrees. “Just for Christmas.”
“Happy fraggin’ holidays!” Wildrider crows, and speeds off into the distance with Air Raid on his tail.
When they finally get back to base, Silverbolt is exhausted. The struts from spine to wingtip ache, and he knows it’ll only be worse in a few hours. He’s not used to the sprints of the games they’d played, much less with Stunticons jumping and grabbing onto him, using him as a hang glider from one point to another. (Though, Silverbolt takes a certain amount of pride in that he managed it — and now he knows it’s something to work on. Primus forbid they use their new knowledge of his exterior’s handholds to get the jump on him in a real battle.)
His gestalt is quiet for once, equally tired, but he can see the satisfaction in their faces. They aren’t arguing, for once, as they take their turns on the meager flat land that constitutes a landing strip outside the Ark.
The inside of the ship certainly looks like there had been a party. The decor is even more scattered than before, and across the floor is the wreckage of wrapping paper and cardboard. A few mechs still linger, chatting over their rations like it’s high grade. Skydive leads the team in a calculated path around the main areas, avoiding any interrogation. Silverbolt is grateful. They had been out long past patrol end, and though he’d already verified with high command they were allowed to, he’s still nervous about being questioned.
Which means his spark sinks when he sees Jazz waiting outside their quarters.
“You have a fun vacation?” Jazz asks. Is Silverbolt projecting, or is his tone knowing? The Aerialbots exchange glances and quiet affirmatives. Jazz’s visor flickers with amused light. “Good, good. I’ll let you ‘bots get to your recharge, but I was asked to give y’ something.”
It’s only now Silverbolt acknowledges the little box Jazz is holding. It’s wrapped in red paper peppered with printed white snowflakes, complete with a white bow stuck on the top. “Right,” Silverbolt says as he takes it delicately. His gestalt crowds him to peer at the box as he turns it over in his hands. “Christmas is a gift-giving holiday, you said.”
“Yeah, and Carly loves gifts. Apparently one of you left an impression on her, so she found something you all might like.”
Everyone looks to Fireflight, who shrugs. “She wanted to see the clouds.”
Jazz shakes his helm, good-natured, and steps away to allow the Aerialbots access to their room. “Have a good night, you five. And sleep in tomorrow! Skyfire volunteered himself for your shift.”
“He did?” Silverbolt holds the present a little tighter. His gestalt isn’t particularly close with the older flier, but his status as just that does mean they look up to him a little. And he’s one of the very few other options for air support. “That’s nice of him.”
“He said you deserved some rest. Happy holidays!”
Silverbolt watches him go with a smile. One of the others keys open the door, and with various chatter of relief and curiosity they spill into their quarters. Silverbolt’s spark feels lighter than it has in a long time.
Maybe there’s some merit to this Christmas thing after all. With a little laugh, he ushers his team closer to open their present together.