Work Text:
The common hall on sublevel four was loud, warm, and running low on low-grade, which meant the low-grade had already gone where low-grade goes: into miners. It was one of those late-joor nights when bots from crews across the mines gathered to hang out and celebrate the simple fact that they could — that they weren't pulling another double.
These gatherings happened about one rotation or two per quartex, if they were lucky — or motivated enough, and somebot had managed to accrue, or rather smuggle, enough low-grade to last the night. Debatable decisions, questionable memories — the kind that kept you going when the shifts ran long, or when the system you'd been born into started to feel less like a life and more like a sentence.
Nonetheless, Jazz had commandeered a half-functioning sound system. Brawn was arm-wrestling anything with an arm. And Orion Pax — beloved, earnest, chronically enthusiastic Orion Pax — was three cubes deep and had achieved a state of being that could only be described as ambient.
"D," Pax said, for the fourth time in two clicks, draped over D-16's shoulder like a decorative banner. "D. Dee. My best mech. M’best — you're so sturdy, d’you know that? Structurally. You're like… like a load-bearing wall. But a friend."
"Mm," D hummed. He had been nursing the same cube for a joor and was, against every instinct in his frame, having a wonderful time.
Maybe it was the brutal double shift their mine crew had just pulled, or the near-death experience Pax had impulsively, selflessly hauled Sunstreaker through — multiple times — yanking him clear of several falling boulders during the last eleven joors of that same double shift in shaft thirteen. Sunstreaker had a rough recharge the night prior and hadn't been charged enough to stay awake or aware, but quotas were quotas.
Elita-1 was leading the crew that rotation, a promotion on the brink for her, but Darkwing — with his consistent uptight attitude and authority complex — wouldn’t relent or care that some low-class miner was running on empty. Energon was energon, and it was a miner's job to mine it.
"Deeeee," Pax slurred, now poking D's faceplate with a digit. "Did'ja know that Prima enjoyed dancing here'n'there?"
"Stop poking me," D huffed, batting Pax's servo away.
"But Deeee, you're not listening to meeee," Pax whined, his blue optics wide and pouting.
"I am," D sighed. "You've been talking about Prima Prime for the past ten clicks."
Pax giggled, "Yeeeeah, he's th' coolest, y'know? I know Megatronus is your favorite, bu' like Prima—"
The rest of Pax's sentence was unintelligible. A mixture of sounds and vowels that D could not decipher, but at least Pax had stopped poking him in the faceplate and just continued to settle on being a messy half-bot blanket upon D's left shoulder.
"—found records of'im in th’archives," Pax continued, now with discernible words.
"Of course you did," D replied, humoring him, taking a sip of his own low-grade cube.
"Ahuh," Pax grinned. "Nobot believes me though—but you do, right, Dee?" Pax was poking D's faceplate again.
"Pax—"
"We can switch places if you want, D-16," Ironhide offered from D's right, nursing his own cube at a respectable distance down the shared table.
"No, it's fine." D sighed. "He's always like this when he drinks too much."
"Are you sure?" Ironhide asked, with a tilt of his helm. "I heard you're not a fan of physical contact for the most part."
And Ironhide was right — everybot in the mines knew D-16 did not do contact. D had a personal perimeter of at least the width of a mine cart between himself and most bots, in most situations. Bots who wandered into it uninvited got The Look, and for the most part were sensible enough to step back and respect the distance.
But here was the thing everybot in the mines also knew: Orion Pax was the exception to the rule. Orion Pax could drape himself over D-16 like a banner, pat his chassis, steal sips of his cube, and lean his full weight into his side, and D-16 would simply — allow it. Absorb it. Adjust his stance to carry it better.
It wasn't always like this. D could still recall the first cycle he and Pax became friends — how Pax, always physically affectionate with everybot, had quickly caught on to D's discomfort and toned it down around him specifically.
Fist bumps were okay — but that was that.
And D had appreciated it, for a while. It was nice that his bestfriend was respectful and honored his boundaries. While Pax was still a troublemaker in every other regard, for the most part he was observant, and D appreciated that as well.
But as the quartexes and cycles went by, friendship solidifying each rotation, each cyber-week, and quartex onwards, D found he didn't exactly mind Pax's habit of close proximity and touch around him.
One thing led to another over the cycles, and here they were.
Pax's frame, always cool where D ran hot, pressed against him and didn't bother him. In fact, it became a constant — it would feel rather strange if things went back to the way they were at the start. The data in his files had been rewritten around a certain red and blue mech, and D was not going to look further into it.
"Yeah, it's fine," D replied, giving Ironhide a half shrug — the shoulder that Pax wasn't draped on moved upward.
"Alright," Ironhide replied. The red-framed mech had drifted his optics to Pax, who was still giggling and mumbling something that was getting increasingly undiscernible again as the music rose in volume.
Pax suddenly perked up, his helm snapping up from D's shoulder. "D," Pax said, patting his chassis solemnly. "M’gonna go dance."
D gave him a sidelong look, servo on Pax's arm.
"You're not."
"But Deeeee," Pax pouted.
D sighed, his other servo rising to rub the bridge of his enstril. "The last time you 'danced' this drunk, you smacked your knee joint against a bench — so hard it dented, and you ended up in the medical bay."
"The bench was in th'way—"
"You were the one who was moving," D said, rolling his optics.
"Was worth it," Pax giggled. "So'm still gonna—" He grinned, already listing toward the crowd with the doomed momentum of a mine cart on a bad rail. "Go dance—"
“Pax—”
D was out of options and out of patience — trying to prevent his bestfriend from another injury that would land him in the medical bay with a grumpy medic, he reached out and wrapped both servos around Pax's waist to reel him back.
…Pax went limp.
Not stumbled. Not paused. Limp. Instantly. Completely. Every strut in his frame powered down at once, his whole chassis going soft and pliant in D's grip. His helm lolled back and he sagged into D's shoulder with a small contented sound that D definitely did not file — and if he did, it was because he was surprised at this turn of events, and that was it.
D stood there, servos nearly spanning that narrow waist, holding the full boneless weight of his bestfriend. Ironhide had paused, cube halfway to his intake, optic ridges raised in shock.
"Orion," D said carefully.
"Mm?" Pax hummed, optics closed, his entire frame draped against D's own.
"...Are you okay?" D asked, concerned.
"'m being carried," Pax mumbled, as though this settled the matter, as though being held in place three inches off his intended trajectory constituted transportation, and nuzzled — nuzzled — back against D's chassis.
D's fans clicked on.
Ironhide was giving them both a look that didn't help the heat rising to D's faceplates. He told himself it was the crowded hall.
"...Interesting," was all Ironhide offered at the sight in front of him. He took a casual sip of his energon.
"I… I'm going to take him back to the habsuites," D replied, as neutrally as he could.
It was rather hard when Pax kept pushing himself closer to D's frame, his faceplates rubbing against D's chassis, as if seeking warmth.
Ironhide nodded, trying and failing not to smile. "You go do that, big mech."
D shifted his hold — removing his servos from Pax's waist and pulling one of Pax's arms around his own shoulders instead, letting him lean his weight there. Pax began to stir again.
"Mm? Where're we goin'?" Pax mumbled.
"The habsuites, Pax."
"But—"
"You've had enough to drink," D sighed.
"I didn't getta dance though," Pax pouted, trying to disentangle himself from D's grasp.
Yeah, D was not going to let that happen.
Sweeping Pax's legs from under him, causing the red and blue mech to yelp, D slipped one arm under Pax's knee joint and the other around Pax's waist to support him.
Pax went limp again, slumping against D like liquid, resting his helm on D's chassis.
I'm out of options, this was the easiest way, D told himself as he began to make his way out of the common hall, his spark hammering. It's just because I'm worried he'll be a pain tomorrow with a splintering helmache.
Jazz watched them from across the room as they left. D chose to ignore that too.
If D had walked a bit slower than necessary to the habsuites, it was only because he was exhausted and in need of recharge after a double shift.
…And if Pax happened to be humming a tuneless melody that sounded a lot like one of the songs from the communal room, D definitely did not hold Pax closer to confirm that fact.
Orion Pax woke the next rotation with a helmache, a vague sense of having been very happy about something, and no memory whatsoever of the previous evening past cube number three.
This was, in hindsight, a mercy for a pair of mechs and a tragedy for everybot else.
"So," Jazz said at first fuel break, sliding onto the bench beside Pax with the elaborate casualness of a mech conducting field research. "Pax. Buddy. Sleep well?"
"Wonderfully, actually." Pax frowned faintly. "Which is strange, because I don't entirely remember getting to my berth."
"Uh-huh." Jazz's arm settled around Pax's shoulders, friendly, testing. And Pax, being Pax, leaned amiably into it and kept eating. Nothing. No limpness. Standard Pax friendliness, warm and fully powered. Jazz's optics narrowed a fraction. "Interesting."
"What's interesting?"
"Nothing. Ore quotas. Fascinating stuff. Oh, and you're paired up with me for the shifts today," Jazz grinned, shaking Pax's shoulder. "Ready to roll out?"
Pax grinned back — shifts with Jazz were always fun, and it was good to see his friend in high spirits already.
"Absolutely, let's go!"
And thus, for the next joor, a conspiracy took shape. Several miners — those who had witnessed the iconic night firsthand, and those who'd been told in detail what had occurred, because news traveled fast in the mines, especially the juicy kind — set out to test a hypothesis of their own.
The hypothesis, whispered along fuel lines and down shaft elevators: physical contact with Orion Pax's waist region induces total systems surrender in said red and blue mech.
The experiments were subtle, as mining crews measure subtle.
Which was barely subtle at all — but Primus was shining on them, because Pax seemed entirely oblivious to what was really going on.
During their shift, Brawn made his way over, jubilant and grinning. He had heard the report from an excitable Jazz and a more neutrally amused Ironhide, and had set out to be one of the first bots in the experimental group for the target subject at hand.
"Orion Pax!" Brawn's voice echoed through the halls of the mine, a salute of his digits accompanying it.
"Brawn! Hey, what's up? What brings you all the way to shaft seven?" Pax grinned.
"Just making my rounds. I heard you went pretty hard last night," Brawn chuckled. "How's your helm feeling?"
"Much better after the first fuel break," Pax replied. "It takes more than that to take me out," he added, dermas curving into a smile.
Brawn grinned. "Fair enough, mech." He clapped a big servo on Pax's back, playful. "You're tougher than you look."
"Thanks, I think." Pax chuckled.
"Oh, actually — do you have a spare drill bit? Mine's a bit scuffed, back in shaft two," Brawn asked.
"Yeah, sure thing." Pax passed the green and yellow mech his extra drill bit. "It's Dee's, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
Brawn grinned, catching the bit and pulling Pax into a side hug, arms wrapping around the other mech's back. "Thanks, Pax — I'll have it back to you by the end of the rotation."
Pax smiled, bright, returning the side hug. "No problem, anytime. You know where to find me!"
"If you're not doing a field trip to the archives, that is," Jazz laughed.
Pax rolled his optics, a grin on his faceplates. "Okay, touché, you got me on that one."
Brawn chuckled. "Well, I'll be seeing you mechs later then!" He gave Pax one last side-hug squeeze, arm firm against his back, and headed off.
Pax was already back to mining another vein of ore, so he missed the look Brawn sent to Jazz — a shrug conveying nothing, no result — to which Jazz nodded. They both filed it, for their next round of testing.
The next field of tests was brought on by Arcee — because she was observant, and Jazz could not keep his intake shut. Jazz had found her first thing in the morning.
"That is interesting," Arcee had agreed, her dermas curving into a smile.
"Right!? That's why, at mid-fuel break, I need you to do the thing!" Jazz grinned.
"I really don't think—"
"C'mon, just test it out for me, okay? For us, for our hypothesis — aren't you curious as well?" Jazz smirked.
"Oh, I'm in," Arcee clarified. "I just don't think it's where that matters," she chuckled.
"We'll only know if we try!"
And that's what brought them to mid-day refuel. Arcee had intercepted Pax mid-conversation with D-16 — the two mechs finding one another despite not sharing the morning shift — and bumped Pax playfully on the hip with her own in greeting.
"Hey Orion, how was your first shift?" Arcee smiled.
"Oh hey! I was just telling D about it," Pax grinned. "It was good! Jazz and I just met the morning quota, and I got to spot him using this new drilling technique where you lift yourself up by the drill handles and push downward with extra force! He did nearly go helm-first into a rock, but that's why I was spotting in the first place," Pax chuckled.
"I'm just surprised you didn't end up using the mine like a climbing wall like last time," D-16 drawled, an amused smile on his dermas.
"Hey! That was technically Jazz's idea, and it was because I saw a good deposit up there!" Pax scoffed.
"And you thought it was a good idea to have him throw your drill—"
"—tossed with care, actually," Pax corrected.
"Right, right. And that's definitely not what caused a chunk of ore to smack you right in your left optic, sending you to the medical bay."
"It wasn't that bad—"
"Pax, you walked into a support beam on the way over."
"Well, you were the one guiding me!"
"And I told you left, and you went right—"
"Directions are HARD, Dee!"
"...You're impossible," D-16 sighed.
Arcee watched them with amusement. Then she remembered she had a job to do.
"Well, make sure you remember your way back when you're on another history trip," Arcee chuckled.
"Don't encourage him," D-16 grumbled.
"Oh! Speaking of! Arcee, do you remember how we were talking about the Original Prime Tower Architecture last time?" Pax's optics gleamed brightly as he went to fill his cube.
"Of course, how could I forget? You showed me some pretty cool awnings from your logs," Arcee smiled. She lightly bumped Pax's hip with hers again.
She didn't miss the way D-16 was staring at her — and then at Pax, who was still bright-optic'd and pulling up a few new files, sending them her way.
"Well, the awnings actually served a double purpose," Pax grinned. Arcee tilted her helm curiously. The red and blue mech continued talking all the way to the table where Jazz was waiting for them.
Pax slid into the bench, D-16 taking the spot in front of him, like always. Arcee slotted herself next to Pax, and Jazz in front of her.
The blue visor gleamed, helm tilted down slightly, asking her about the results. Arcee shook her head with a smile. Jazz nodded.
"—And then, if it ever rained, the water flowed through the makeshift gaps at just the right amount, so the more delicate plants wouldn't drown from the harder storms!" Pax explained.
D-16 hummed, taking a sip of his energon cube. "So, like a filter, basically."
"Exactly! Sort of like what we have in our energon refineries — but not only for function, for aesthetics too," Pax beamed.
"If only the mines were as glorious," Arcee chuckled.
"As soon as the Matrix is found, we'll all get out of here," Pax smiled, an encouraging blue servo on her pink shoulder. "We can even make this place a memorial or something," Pax added, chuckling.
"That's an if, but I appreciate your hope in it, Orion," Arcee smiled.
She looked over to D-16, whose golden optics had gone all soft in a way she knew the grey mech would never admit.
She took a sip of her own energon to mask her own growing smile.
Orion Pax held enough hope for all of them — that, she knew without any hypothesis to be tested.
Now it was once again time for Jazz to take things into his own servos. While Brawn's and Arcee's tests had yielded no results, Jazz figured it was time to test out his magnum opus.
It certainly wasn't because Ironhide had politely declined his offer, despite having had a direct, up-close, full view of the events that had sparked this whole hypothesis. And it certainly wasn't because Prowl had refused too — with less politeness, more dryness, and a faceplate expression that conveyed I'm not dealing with those two idiots. You're on your own.
So here Jazz was.
Jazz figured this last test would work best — and most naturally — if he performed it himself. If you didn't count D, Jazz was Pax's closest friend and confidant, so a real, true hug, arms around Orion Pax's waist, coming from him, would read as nothing unusual — nothing that would flag Pax's processor.
Especially since everybot seemed to be very physically touchy with him today anyway.
So, when the larger crew went off for their evening shift, Jazz — having previously, conveniently tossed a couple of spare drill handles on top of his locker — convinced Pax without much effort to climb up and get them for him. Pax, ever the selfless mech, wouldn't say no to helping a bot in need.
Pax pulled a bench over, and Jazz, committing fully to the scientific method, executed a textbook both-servos waist-grab under cover of "steadying" other mech off the bench. Pax blinked at him, said, "Oh — thank you, Jazz, that bench is wobbly, I've tried to get it fixed twice because it's really off balance—" and continued about his rotation, fully rigid, fully oblivious, fully operational.
"Okay, it's not the waist," Jazz reported to the fuel-line committee that evening, mystified. "I had his waist. I had optimal waist coverage. Nothing."
"Maybe it only works when he's overcharged," Brawn offered, overhearing, before moving off to push another cart of ore.
"I told you, Jazz — I don't think it's the waist at all," Arcee huffed, a smile on her dermas.
"Ugh, maybe you're right…" Jazz conceded. "But I mean, it worked for D–" Jazz paused. His processor ran the events of that night again, rearranging his hypothesis into something much, much better. "Ooooh," Jazz grinned. "I think I know what you mean now, Arcee."
Arcee continued to smile. The pair looked over to the red and blue mech — the subject — now across the shaft, talking avidly with a certain grey mech, who was, at that very moment, being quietly added to the study as the other subject of their new hypothesis.
"Funny how Pax probably doesn't even know it himself," Jazz chuckled.
"Cut the mech some slack," Arcee giggled. "He seems to be having a good rotation."
And indeed he was. Pax was having a lovely rotation, actually, full of unusually affectionate coworkers — and had concluded that last night, though he had little to no recollection of most of it, must have simply put everybot in high spirits.
D-16 was not jealous.
He wanted to be extremely clear about this, in the privacy of his own processor, where the clarification was somehow needed more and more often. He was not jealous, because jealousy would imply a claim, and he had no claim, because Orion Pax was his bestfriend, and bestfriends did not have claims, they had — proximity. Seniority. A mutually understood arrangement of standing next to each other for the rest of their functional existence.
Those were normal things.
Pax was a great mech. The best mech. Reckless, sure, and incapable of walking backward without incident — but the best mech. Of course other bots liked him. Of course they wanted to clap his backplates and bump his hip and hug him — Pax hugged back like it was a calling, that was just math, affection in, affection out.
Pax was allowed to have friends other than D. In fact, D wanted him to have them. It was healthy.
D was completely, thoroughly, structurally fine with the recent and statistically improbable spike in bots putting their servos on Orion Pax's frame.
D had also watched every single instance from across the shaft floor with the fixed, unblinking attention of a security turret.
Brawn, Arcee, Jazz — anybot in their regular crew, for that matter — was fine. It was good that Pax was cared for, because he cared so much about everybot else, in all the big and small ways: whether it was falling behind to save another bot's life from the dangers of the mines, or simply offering an audial to listen without needing to be asked, or, at the bare minimum, sharing his equipment with bots whose equipment seemed to have offended Primus himself that shift.
Things were good. Things were fine.
Wildflight, however — D decided, by the clench and curl of his tank — was not fine.
Wildflight, a newer miner, worked haul-line six. The dark purple mech with orange accents had spoken to Pax perhaps four times in as many quartexes, none of them memorable, which made it very interesting — interesting, D told himself, that was the word, a neutral word — that Wildflight had lately developed the habit of greeting Pax with both servos.
On his sides.
Sliding.
Down the taper of him, casual as you please, like Pax's waist was a handrail, like that dip in his plating was public infrastructure, like Wildflight had any right at all to a region that D himself touched only under strict emergency protocols with full internal paperwork —
The drill bit in D's grip creaked.
He looked down. He had bent it. Slightly. A four-inch tempered bit, bowed like a crowbar.
"Hey, you good?" Ironhide asked, from a careful distance.
"Fine," said D, in a voice that came from somewhere beneath the planet's crust.
He was not jealous. He was not possessive. He simply had opinions about workplace safety, and Wildflight's servos were a workplace hazard, and if D spent the rest of that shift positioned between haul-line six and Pax's station like a load-bearing wall — well. Pax had said he was a load-bearing wall. He was just being consistent with the assessment.
Pax, for his part, had frozen politely under Wildflight's greeting, endured it with a slightly fixed smile, and given him the abbreviated one-arm hug — the courtesy hug, the economy model — which D catalogued with a satisfaction he refused to name.
"You could tell him to stop doing that, you know," D pointed out, drilling an ore vein next to where Pax was filling his cart.
"I guess, but it's not that bad. Wildflight doesn't mean any harm," Pax shrugged.
"You look uncomfortable, though. And that's saying a lot." D frowned.
Pax pursed his dermas.
"I don't want him to take it the wrong way…"
"He won't," D assured. "And if he does, I'll deal with him for you."
Pax chuckled. "You don't need to defend my honor, D." Pax stopped shoveling ore to place a servo on D's shoulder. "But thanks. I'll talk to him about it." His bestfriend smiled, softly, and D forced himself to look away.
"Always got your back," he supplied, instead.
"And I've got yours," Pax replied — D could hear the grin on his dermas — as Pax fist-bumped his shoulder.
D's shoulder plating was warm for a little while after. He didn't look into what that meant.
The shift went on without much of a hitch — but of course, it was right around final refuel that it all went to slag.
Well, okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. But as usual, the mine seriously had it out for Orion Pax: there he was, walking backward, mid-sentence, gesturing with both servos about the Iacon 5000 — and there was the parked drill rig, exactly where it had been parked for fifty cycles, patient, inevitable.
The clang of Pax's leg meeting the drill housing rang down the shaft like a shift bell.
"—OW."
"Pax!" D was there before the echo finished. He was always there before the echo finished; his frame had stopped asking permission for that particular reflex cycles ago. His servos closed on Pax's arm, his side, taking his weight as Pax hopped, hissing, clutching at his cadulen where the plating had crumpled in an angry dent.
"I'm fine—"
"I can see your cables."
"It's a scratch, it's barely— okay, it's a medium scratch," Pax amended, at D's look. "It's an ambitious scratch. Ratchet's going to lecture me again."
"He'll grumble either way. Walk."
Pax took one step. His leg buckled. D caught him — of course D caught him.
"I can walk," Pax announced.
"You can't."
"I can walk mostly. It's, what, four levels? I'll pace myself." He patted D's arm in dismissal — patted it, like you'd pat a wall you were done leaning on — and set off toward the lifts in a determined, lopsided hop-and-drag that was genuinely painful to witness. Hop. Drag. Hop. Wince. Hop.
D-16 watched this for exactly three hops.
Then he vented once — long, slow, the vent of a mech accepting his lot in life — closed the distance in two strides, wrapped one servo clean around Orion Pax's waist, and hoisted him off the ground and under his arm like a misbehaving toolkit. Sideways. Horizontal. Pedes dangling. Zero warning, zero ceremony, zero negotiation.
"D — WH — put me DOWN, I am a grown mech, I am fully capable of —"
The servo settled, firm and warm, right at the dip of his waist.
Orion Pax went limp.
Mid-flail. Mid-sentence. Mid-outrage. Every strut of resistance in his frame resolved at once, like a knot coming undone, and he simply — hung there, draped over D's forearm, pliant as a sack of wiring, staring at the corridor with an expression of profound betrayal.
And then, because he was still Orion Pax, and Orion Pax had principles, he crossed his arms.
That was it. That was the entire protest. Arms crossed, dermas pressed into a magnificent frown, dangling sideways under his bestfriend's arm at a comfortable cruising altitude, making not one single move — not a twitch, not a wriggle, not a token squirm — toward escape.
"This is undignified," Pax huffed.
"You seriously need to watch where you're walking," D replied, unfazed.
"I want it noted that I do—"
"This is the third time in the past cyber-week."
"The first two weren't that bad!"
"So you admit it. This one's bad."
"...Ugh, whatever. Take me to the medical bay," Pax grumbled.
"Mhm," D hummed, amused, adjusting his grip on Pax's waist. Thumb trailing absently across a couple of seams. Pax continued to allow himself to be carried, plating relaxed under D's arm, legs bent and hanging in the air.
Then — a click-whir, soft, from somewhere under D's forearm.
Pax's vents kicking on.
Pax said nothing. Pax was staring at the corridor wall with tremendous concentration.
D felt it: a slow curl of satisfaction unfurling through his spark, warm and deep and profoundly smug, wholly inappropriate for a medical transport situation.
So it does work when he's sober.
He'd keep that in his files for another time.
From across the shaft, Jazz was shaking Prowl's arm aggressively, staring at the pair heading to the medical bay.
Prowl rolled his optics. "Let go of me," he said, trying to pull his arm free of Jazz's servo.
"I will, but LOOK—" Jazz whisper-yelled.
"Yes, I have optics, Jazz."
"Is that why you didn't help me before, because you KNEW—"
"—Again. I have optics. I'm not blind."
"Arcee! LOOK—" Jazz had sauntered over to the pink femme, now shaking her arm instead.
"Told you," she laughed.
Well, it seemed Jazz's hypothesis had concluded.
Holding Orion Pax's waist region induces total systems surrender — only when it comes to D-16.