Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The mines rattled with the sound of drills and clattering metal, every strike echoing off the cavern walls like a punishment. Overseer Darkwing’s voice cut sharper than the tools themselves, barking down the line of exhausted workers.

“Pick up the pace! You’re slower than rusting drones—do you want me to turn you all into scrap?”

Orion leaned on his tool for just a beat too long, helm tilted toward D-16 with a sly grin.

“Turn all of us into scrap? At once? He’s ambitious today.”

Despite himself, a short static laugh buzzed in D-16’s vents. Orion always made it sound so easy to mock authority, as if Darkwing were nothing more than a loud glitch in the system. Orion gave him a nudge, waiting for another spark of amusement, but D-16’s optics shifted back toward the overseer, his jaw tight. The laugh died too quickly, replaced with the familiar weight of caution.

D-16 shook his head, clicking his glossa like a weary mentor.

“Careful, Pax. If Darkwing hears you, you’ll be on scrap duty for a megacycle.”

Orion smirked, straightening up just enough to look like he was working again.

“And if he hears you scolding me like you're the boss around here, he’ll put you on double shifts. Which I suppose makes us even.”

That earned him a look—half amused, half exasperated—with a quiet whir passing for a chuckle escaping D-16's vents. He let the smallest grin tug at his faceplates, but it didn’t last. His joints ached from more than overwork, energon sluggish in his lines, and the air around him felt too hot despite the cold seeping from the rock walls. He brushed it off as fatigue, forcing himself to move faster, to look sharp.

Orion nudged him again, whispering just loud enough to be heard over the drills.

“See? At least I make you laugh.”

“I’m laughing at how foolish you sound,” D-16 shot back, tone dry but warm. 

Orion ignored his friend's remark and leaned over, inspecting the jagged seam of rock they were chiseling. “You know, Dee, if you focused as much on breaking rock as you do scolding me, we’d have finished this wall twice over already.”

D-16 rolled his optics at him. “And if you focused on listening once in a while, Pax, you might actually get directions right.”

“Directions?” Orion echoed, feigning offense, “I follow directions better than anyone in this pit. Better than Darkwing, even.”

“Better than Darkwing?” D-16 muttered, almost to himself, before straightening and masking it with a shake of his helm and a weary smile. “Don’t flatter yourself. Just...try not to slow me down, yeah?”

Orion grinned, nudging him again. “Relax. I make your job more entertaining. Admit it.”

“Entertaining, huh?” D-16 repeated, his voice betraying a tiny spark of amusement. “Fine. But—” He trailed off, tapping his tool against the wall with more force than necessary. “—let’s just finish this wall. No more distractions.”

Orion shrugged, smirking, but fell into rhythm beside him, letting their silence do the work for a while. The hum of drills and clanking of metal filled the cavern, punctuated only by occasional jabs and murmurs between them.  

~  

By the time they took a short break, the cavern was quieter. Orion sprawled against a rock, wiping grit from his frame, while D-16 leaned back slightly, though his movements felt stiffer than usual.

He reached for the energon pack they shared but paused, a strange hollowness tugging at his tanks. He shrugged it off, pretending he wasn’t hungry, though the taste of energon seemed...off. Metallic, too sweet, almost sour.

“Not eating today?” Orion asked casually, tilting his helm toward him. “You’ve barely touched it.”

D-16 waved him off with a flick of his servo. “I...I’m not hungry.” His voice was calm, but inside, his energon circuits hummed unevenly, something twisting tight around his lower chassis that wasn’t quite pain, not quite nausea—just wrong.

Orion hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t press. He’d seen D-16 shrug off worse. Still, something about the way he looked off-balance, sluggish, and just a fraction slower than usual tugged at Orion’s instincts.

D-16 forced a tight grin, pretending to take a slow sip of energon and setting the pack aside. “We should get back soon,” he murmured, tone casual, even as a tiny spark of unease flickered through his system.

Orion nodded, but the crease between his optics didn’t fully relax. He didn’t say anything, just stayed beside him a moment longer, the hum of the mine like a soft background lull.

Once their break was over, the rest of their shift passed in the steady rhythm of drills and chisels, the clatter of stone echoing through the cavern. Orion kept up his side of the work, occasionally tossing in a quiet quip just to see the faint twitch of amusement at D-16’s intake. But the more he watched, the more he noticed little things—how D-16’s movements lagged, how his vents cycled just a fraction too fast, how his grip slipped once before he caught himself.

Orion didn’t say anything. Not yet. 

He'd hoped that once the cycle was over his imagination would stop playing tricks on him.  

~  

Unfortunately for Orion, over the next few cycles, it became harder to ignore. D-16 brushed off energon during breaks more often than not, claiming he wasn’t hungry. His once-fluid precision in the mines had dulled into stiffness, every strike of his tool just slightly less sharp. Even his temper—usually quick to flare—had waned, leaving behind a quieter sort of exhaustion that worried Orion more than anger ever had.

Orion told himself he was imagining it. That it was just the mines wearing them all down. But in the quieter moments, when he caught D-16’s frame shuddering as though fighting an unseen current, or saw the dim flicker of his optics when he thought no one was watching, Orion couldn’t convince himself anymore.

He needed to say something, as soon as he had the chance.  

~  

The next cycle, Orion walked into the mines to the low thrum of drills and the sharper sound of murmurs threading through the workers. Conversations cut off too quickly when he passed, optics flicking between one another before settling on a single point farther down the cavern.

He followed their stares, and his spark lurched.

D-16 stood at his station, tool braced against the rock, but his frame sagged like it was too heavy for him. His vents hitched in shallow bursts, optics dimmed and unfocused, and every strike came a klik slower than it should have. His servos trembled trying to hold onto his drill, his plating was oddly dull, and every hit of his tool against the rock came a little too close to his frame for comfort. Even Darkwing, for once, had stopped barking, arms folded as though waiting to see whether his top miner could keep upright.

Orion moved before he realized it, the crowd parting instinctively without a word, clearing a path as he strode forward. He didn’t have to ask. They knew. They all knew the bond the two shared, unspoken though it was, and gave him the space to reach him as though this was something only he was allowed to touch.

“Dee,” Orion called lowly, not wanting Darkwing’s ears on them. He set his servo on D-16’s arm, feeling the tremor through the plating. “You’ve been off for cycles now. You can’t just keep pretending.”

“I'm not pretending,” D-16 rasped, sharper than he meant to, though his voice faltered under its own weight. He pulled slightly away, trying to brace himself against the wall instead. “Get back to your station, Pax, you're already late.” His vents heaved between each word as he tried to press on. “It’s nothing. Just...fatigue.”

“Fatigue doesn’t make you sway like you’re about to fall over,” Orion countered, stepping closer, voice softening. “You’ve barely been fueling. You’re overheating. Look at you, Dee. This isn’t nothing.”

D-16’s jaw locked, pride sparking stubborn in his optics even as they flickered. “I don’t need coddling, Orion. Not from you, not from anyone.”

Orion wanted to argue, to shake sense into him, but before he could find the words, D-16’s frame shuddered violently. His tool clattered against the rock, slipping from numb digits.

“Dee—”

D-16 staggered, vents choking on static, and his knees buckled. For a second, Orion thought he might recover, steady himself the way he always did. But then the tremor overtook him fully, and his optics flickered.

Orion lunged forward just in time to catch him as his optics guttered out, systems dropping into an unresponsive hush. He pulled him up against his chassis, shouting over his shoulder for help.

No one dared to move. The mine erupted in alarmed whispers, but Orion barely heard them. He shifted D-16 onto his back, hooking his servos under and heaving his weight up with a grunt.

“Out of the way!” he barked, voice carrying sharp across the cavern. Miners scattered, clearing a path without hesitation.

Orion adjusted his grip, spark pounding against his chestplate, and glanced once at the dim face pressed against his shoulder. “Hang on, Dee. You’re not leaving me to deal with this pit alone,” he muttered, more to himself than to the unconscious mech. His vents rasped as he pushed toward the exit. “Ratchet’ll fix you. Just...just hold on.”

He shifted D-16 higher against his back, plating straining with the weight, when a shadow fell across his path. Darkwing blocked the way with a sneer, servos outstretched like a gate.

“And where do you think you’re dragging him? He still owes me a full cycle’s quota.”

Orion’s optics blazed, sharper than any drill in the mine. “He owes you nothing.” His voice cut across the cavern, low but dangerous, sending a ripple through the watching crowd. He took a step forward, shoulders squared, D-16’s limp weight cradled against him like something fragile and sacred. “Move, Darkwing. Now. Or I swear you’ll have to be scraped off the walls.”

For the first time, the overseer hesitated. The fire in Orion’s tone left no room for argument. With a scoff, Darkwing stepped aside, but not without a glare. “Whatever. You get a pass only because your buddy over here is actually useful.”

Orion didn’t bother to waste another klik with him—he pushed past, protective and unyielding, every stride carrying D-16 closer to help.

“You’ll be okay, Dee,” he murmured, the vow rough in his vocalizer. “I promise.”

The cavern’s shadows gave way to the pale glow of the upper tunnels, and all that was left was that promise hanging heavy in the air.  

~  

D-16’s optics flickered open, slowly at first, a jagged rhythm that made the world tilt and spin. 

Ugh...my helm...what—why does everything hurt so much? 

His vents rasped involuntarily as a sharp ache tunneled through his cranial plating. Each vent of air felt heavy, metallic, and wrong. He blinked against the blur of light, trying to sort the shapes from the shadows.

Where...am I? What happened...?

A shape loomed closer, impossibly close, almost inside his line of vision. D-16’s spark jolted in panic as he screamed. “ORION?!” he rasped, voice cracking like sparks over a frayed wire, and he twisted backward, but his helm slammed into the wall behind him with a harsh clang. Pain flared again, dizzying, sharp.

“Whoa! Easy, Dee—” Orion’s voice was a hot puff of air against his faceplates, frantic, relief bleeding through every syllable. The mech was practically pressed into his optics, chassis brushing his frame, servos tense like coiled springs. D-16’s circuits hummed wildly, disoriented, trying to process the closeness, the chaos, the sharp ache, and the sudden, dizzying heat that wasn’t from his systems straining but from being too aware of Orion pressed up against him in a way he hated himself for in that moment.

Orion shifted, settling back on his pedes, letting a fraction of space breathe between them. “Primus! You’re awake! Thank Primus, thank Primus...” His voice repeated in too fast bursts. “You scared me half to scrap, Dee. I—just, please don’t do that again!”

D-16’s optics fluttered, trying to focus, to make sense of the warmth, the panic, the press of Orion’s presence. His frame shivered, still weak. Words came out jagged, tentative. “I... what...?”

“Slow down, both of you,” Ratchet’s voice cut in, sharp and grating as always, though it carried a note of relief under the bark. “Deep vents, D-16. You’re okay, but you’re not going anywhere yet. Sit still.”

The medic stepped forward, servos clicking with authority, and D-16 felt the world shift slightly again—the panic dulled by Ratchet’s familiar, grumpy steadiness. Orion stayed close, vigilant, but finally gave just enough space for D-16 to process the fact that he was alive...and for now, safe.

He blinked again, forcing his optics to move as he became aware of the cold, hard surface beneath him. He flexed his servos carefully, testing the strange support under his frame. The metal chilled against his backplating, a sharp contrast to the lingering heat in his circuits, and it felt oddly comforting, steadying the chaos in his processor. 

Slowly, his vision started taking in the details of the room: sleek metal panels, softly glowing consoles, the hum of machinery, and racks of tools and monitors lining the walls.

His optics flicked between the two figures nearby. Orion was still close, hovering on top of D-16 as if he couldn’t leave his side, looking frantic yet strangely steady. Ratchet stood beside them, arms crossed, vents flickering with his usual patience.

“What...what happened?” D-16 rasped, his glossa flicking nervously. “Where...why am I here?”

Orion opened his intake, but Ratchet’s glare made him bite his glossa. “Slow down, D-16. One thing at a time.” He stepped closer, inspecting D-16’s frame, servos clicking as he adjusted a few panels and monitors. “You’ve been infected with a mild cyber-viral strain. Not deadly, but it’s affecting your energon metabolism and system coordination. Overworking yourself in the mines certainly hasn't been helping.”

D-16’s vents twitched. “A virus? But...I—”

“You pushed yourself too hard before you collapsed,” Ratchet continued, tone clipped but factual. “It’s not highly contagious in its current stage, but you’re going to stay here until your systems stabilize. No mining. No strenuous activity. Orion Pax,” he added, eyes flicking to Orion, “keep him calm and out of trouble. Well, if you can manage that somehow.”

Orion nodded dutifully, feeling a bit more relieved, and leaned just a fraction closer. “I’ve got you, Dee. No one’s touching you while I’m here. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

D-16’s faceplates twitched and twisted, still processing the information, still feeling the aftershocks of the virus and the heat of proximity. He flexed his servos slowly, letting himself absorb the cold, steadying metal beneath him, and tried to reconcile the relief and frustration twisting through his system. 

A weak smile tugged at his dermas as he took in Orion's words that warmed his spark. 

“I appreciate it, Pax, but you really don't have to keep an eye on me. That's usually my job.” 

He teasingly muttered, vocalizer still strained, while slowly moving to straighten up against the wall. His teasing didn't last long before getting interrupted by a whirring fit, his chassis rumbling as his entire frame shook with each cough.

Orion immediately moved to lean closer onto him, servos gently pushing D-16 back down onto the berth. His plating brushed against D-16’s, snug and firm, closeness so palpable it made the air feel heavier.

“Well, clearly, it's my job now. Don't move too much, I don't want you to get hurt even more.”

His tone was so soft, so unreasonably caring and sweet. D-16 hoped the sudden rush of heat and energon creeping up his body wasn't visible on his face.

He pushed back any strange thoughts that came to invade his processor and shook his helm. Orion was just being his usual nice and friendly self, always caring about everyone and trying to help whoever he could.

Yeah...everyone... 

D-16 pretended not to notice the unease he felt each time he thought about it and tried to act normal. He really was normal after all, wasn't he?

“I'm not even that hurt to begin with, it's alright mech.”

“In any case, I'm sure he won't be able to move much, if at all, with you straddling him like this Orion.” Ratchet shot at the pair with a judgemental glower, mostly berating Orion silently with his optics.

D-16’s optics were suddenly all too wide and aware, mouth hanging slightly open as he tried to hide the raging blush overheating his faceplates.

Orion, oblivious as to what Ratchet was really scolding him for, flushed a bright blue in embarrassment and quickly moved away from D-16 to settle on the edge of the berth.

“Sorry, doc.” He said sheepishly before turning to Dee again. “I hope I didn't hurt you somehow.”

A weak ex-vent slipped past D-16’s intake, his optics narrowing at Orion as he tried to wrestle down the heat crawling up his frame.

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” he managed, vocalizer glitching slightly. “But if you keep hovering like that, I might start thinking you’re trying to.”

It came out more flustered than teasing, and he cursed himself immediately for how fragile his tone sounded.

Orion blinked at him, helm tilting in that endlessly guileless way, like a confused cyberpuppy trying to parse out a new command. His bright optics carried so much worry, so much softness, that D-16 had to look away. If he kept staring, he’d melt down entirely.

“Hmph.” Ratchet’s sharp ex-vent cut through the tension, the medic muttering under his breath while prepping an injector. “Youngsters. Always tangled in each other’s plating and making my job twice as hard…”

D-16’s helm jerked back toward him in disbelief. “Huh?! What was that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Ratchet replied flatly, though the smirk tugging faintly at his mouthplate betrayed him. He gestured to D-16’s arm, firm but not unkind. “Hold still. Your systems aren’t ready to process consumed Energon yet. I’ll be injecting a refined, diluted supply into your lines until you stabilize. Once your filtration nodes reset, you’ll be able to refuel on your own again.”

The prick of the injector made D-16 flinch, but it was gone as quick as it came. A faint hum coursed through his lines, steady and warm.

“There.” Ratchet set the tool aside with a decisive click. “That’ll keep you from bottoming out. I'll come back to check in on you, but for now I’ve got other patients who need me, so—” his optics flicked between the pair of them, one sharp brow raised—“I’ll leave you two to...whatever this is.”

With that, he stalked out of their room of the medbay, muttering something about “mechs catching feelings instead of viruses” as the doors hissed shut behind him.

Silence followed, heavy and awkward at first, until Orion leaned in again, closer than he needed to, his servos folding carefully in his lap as he watched D-16.

Cute. Dee thought, internally smiling at Orion's inability to stay put and constant need for closeness.

“How long...” D-16 started, his voice rougher than intended. He cleared his vocalizer and tried again. “How long was I out?”

Orion’s mouthplates quirked in a bright smile. “Just a couple joors, although it felt like eons." He let out a faint sigh. "But Primus, Dee...I was really worried. I'm glad you're okay.”

There it was again—that look. Open and raw and too much all at once. Optics wide, earnest, shining with all the unspoken things Orion never seemed afraid to feel. It made D-16’s spark hitch, the edges of his vision swimming a little from the fever still gripping him.

He hated that it made him feel...soft. Silly. Like some freshly forged sparkling dizzy from a little too much heat. But with Orion gazing at him like that, all sweet smiles and gentle touches and kind words, he couldn’t stop the giddy pulse rushing through his lines.

D-16 blinked slowly, trying to cool the ridiculous warmth bubbling in his systems. Focus. 

Normal. Just be normal.

“So,” he rasped, optics flicking toward Orion again. “If I’ve been out for a couple joors...you didn’t stay here the entire time, did you? Because if Darkwing finds out, or even worse, Elita-1, they're going to fry your circuits for skipping your rounds.”

Orion chuckled. “Darkwing and Elita will survive without me for a few shifts. Besides...” His smile widened, “I couldn’t exactly leave you, could I?”

That answer made D-16’s plating flush hotter than he wanted to admit. He scoffed, turning his helm away. He just so happened to discover a newly found love for architecture, definitely not a distraction.

Wow, the ceiling looks great here. Very white.

He then waved a servo in the air dismissively, still admiring the ceiling. 

“Tch. You’re going to give their brain modules an aneurysm. And then the poor doc will have two mechs in here—one from a virus, and one from being an idiot too stubborn to leave.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Orion’s tone was teasing now, optics bright as he leaned just slightly closer, like he couldn’t help himself. “Besides, I'd make a great patient, he'd love to have me here! And I'm great company for you. Trust me, with me around? You'll be healed in no time!”

D-16 snorted, a small glitch of static slipping into the sound. “I doubt that. You’re probably just saying that so I don’t bite your servos off.”

“See? You’re already feeling better if you can threaten me again.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Pax.” Dee chuckled. “You're just lucky I'm too fried to actually do anything right now.”

Orion beamed at him still, letting a beat of silence pass between them before he broke it again.

“Still,” he murmured, softer now, “I’m glad you’re awake. I was starting to miss you, you know.”

And Primus help him, D-16 almost wanted to say something sappy back. Almost.

Instead, he vented sharply through his intake and muttered, “Mhm, don’t worry, you won't get a chance to get used to me lying around like this. I’m not gonna make a habit of collapsing just to give you free time off.”

Orion’s optics brightened with mischief. “Well, maybe you should. It's a great way to relax and buy us more time together out of the mines.”

D-16 squinted at him. “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’d get rest, I’d get to keep an eye on you and have a good reason to skip out on my shifts, Ratchet gets to show off his very awesome skills and save the day—it’s a win for everyone!”

“You forgot the part where I lose my dignity.” Dee leaned back against the wall again, crossing his arms with as much drama as he could muster. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to pass out in front of an entire work crew? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Orion grinned. “Don’t worry, I told them you fainted because you were overcome with how handsome I am.”

D-16’s jaw almost unhinged. “You—” He broke off into a coughing fit halfway through his outrage, vents rattling.

“See? Can’t even argue with me without shorting yourself out,” Orion teased, reaching out like he might steady him but pulling back last second. “Guess that means it’s true.”

Dee groaned, helm thunking back against the wall. “Primus, just...take me now. Put me out of my misery before I have to hear another word.”

“Sorry,” Orion said lightly, leaning closer again, “you’re stuck with me.”

Before D-16’s mouth betrayed him and spilled out his mushy thoughts about being stuck with Orion, he tilted his helm, optics narrowing again. “You know what, Pax? I think I just realized something.”

Orion perked up immediately. “Oh? What’s that?”

“That you’re way too close.”

Before Orion could react, D-16 gave him a weak but decisive shove. Orion yelped pathetically as he toppled sideways off the berth and hit the floor with a clatter loud enough to rattle the nearby tools.

D-16 smirked, optics half-lidded with amusement. “Huh. Guess I still have some strength left in me after all.”

Orion groaned from the floor, sprawled out like a squashed scraplet. “...Primus, Dee. Guess this is how I die, flattened by my amica.”

That set D-16 off—he actually laughed, a short, startled sound that cracked into a cough halfway through, but it was laughter nonetheless. Orion’s optics brightened at the sound, even as he dragged himself back up to sit cross-legged on the floor.

“Don’t make me laugh when my vents are fried, drama queen,” Dee muttered, though he couldn’t stop the small grin tugging at his dermas.

“Not my fault you’ve got a terrible sense of humor,” Orion shot back, smiling so wide his faceplates might crack.

“Not my fault you’re so easy to throw around.”

“Oh, please,” Orion scoffed, leaning back on his elbows on the freezing ground like it was suddenly the most comfortable chair in Iacon. “If you weren’t running hot and half-fried, I’d have you pinned in a breem.”

D-16’s optic ridge twitched. The words pinned in a breem tangled somewhere in his overheated processor, forming an image he absolutely did not need right now. His spark gave a weird little stutter, and before he could stop himself, the words slipped out on a half-breath, half-giggle.

“Bet I could have you pinned right this instant.”

The silence that followed lasted a fraction too long. Dee froze, optics flicking wide as realization hit him like a live wire. 

Ooooh frag. Frag frag frag I said that out loud, didn’t I—

His intake snapped shut so fast the metal clang rung inside his helm. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, Orion wouldn’t—

Orion laughed. A bright, easy sound, as if D-16 had just said the funniest joke in all of Cybertronian history. “You could try.”

The heat crawling up D-16’s faceplates flared again, and he shoved his helm against the berth as he slid down, trying to hide it. “Primus, you’re insufferable.”

“Correction,” Orion grinned, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “I’m very loveable, and I'm winning.”

Dee groaned, dragging a servo down his face. “What exactly are you winning, Pax?"

“Getting you to admit you like having me around. C’mon, I make you laugh!”

D-16 scoffed, shaking his helm. “Keep dreaming.”

Before Orion could retort, a loud clank echoed, signaling the room's doors flying wide open, followed by Ratchet’s unmistakable growl. “Primus save me from kids with too much time and not enough processor power.” He marched closer, scowling at the pair. “That’s enough chatter. He needs rest, not your endless babbling, Pax. I told you to keep an eye on him, not cause a ruckus.”

Orion immediately jumped up, straightening his stance. “Right. Sorry, doc.”

Ratchet jabbed a finger at him. “Out. Let him recharge. Unless you want to be my next patient.”

Orion hesitated, glancing back at D-16 with a look that made D's spark flutter in ways he refused to acknowledge. “I’ll come by first thing tomorrow. Don’t go anywhere without me, alright?”

D-16 rolled his optics. “Trust me, I couldn’t if I tried.”

Orion’s grin lingered until Ratchet physically herded him out. The doors slid shut with a hiss, leaving D-16 alone in the quiet hum of the machines, his spark still thrumming far too fast for rest.

The medbay felt cavernous without Orion’s laughter filling it. For the first time all night, D-16 had silence—and Primus, he almost hated it.

He let his helm tip back against a soft, mesh pillow, vents cycling slow, but his processor refused to idle. Instead, it kept spitting out moments from the evening like static on a comm line. Orion leaning over the berth with that stupid grin. The way his optics crinkled when he laughed. The warmth in his voice when he said he’d be back tomorrow.

And then—worse—his processor started wandering. Daydreams bleeding into thought. He could almost see it: Orion leaning on him, running his mouth while Dee pretended to be annoyed but secretly liked it. The two of them sparring, shoving each other around until one of them ended up pinned—his spark jolted at that one, heat boiling back up to his faceplates. Or Orion just...staying close, so close D-16 wouldn’t have to fill in the quiet himself.

His digits twitched against the berth. Primus, what was he even thinking? He pressed a servo over his face, groaning under his breath. “Get a hold of yourself.”

The quiet hum of the monitors didn’t argue, didn’t laugh, didn’t tease him the way Orion would have. It left him to stew in his own processor, embarrassed at the way he’d let those thoughts slip earlier, mortified at the way his spark seemed to like it.

With an aggravated huff, he rolled onto his side and pulled the nearest thermal blanket up over his frame. Enough. If he kept this up, he’d never recharge at all.

Still, as his systems slowly began to cycle down, the last thought that refused to let go was Orion’s voice, bright and infuriating and warm. 

“ 'Don’t go anywhere without me, alright?' ”

D-16 grumbled into the blanket. “Fragging menace.”

Sleep took him anyway. 

Chapter Text

“EXCUSE ME—SORRY! COMING THROOOOUuuughohdear—”

Another shining day in Iacon, another train's roof now indented with Orion Pax's pedesteps as he crash landed on it before jumping back off.

“Ugh, there he goes again...”

“Seriously, Orion?”

The passengers grumbled, already used to the miner's almost daily theatrics but exasperated regardless.

Orion didn't have time to turn back with an apologetic smile as he was still running away from the authorities as usual, servos full of stolen energon goodies and a few ancient looking datapads hidden in-between.

After jumping from the train, he found himself rapidly sliding down a moving and rotating platform, falling from one to the other as he descended further and further down.

On the bright side, it helped him escape his hunters.

On the downside, he had no idea how to stop his fall without getting flattened into a metal sheet for Darkwing to use as a blanket. 

Not that he'd use one, he probably recharges with his optics wide open too.

Orion shook his helm. Now was definitely not the time to think about the consequences of his actions, when he wasn't even sure he'd live long enough to find out. 

His optics scanned his surroundings frantically in search of something to hang on to or break his fall with, but his efforts were futile. 

Just when he was about to accept his fate to be scraped off the road, a cart full of seemingly soft and bouncy material appeared from the far entrance of the tunnel leading to the road. The figure carrying it was too blurry and far for Orion to recognize just yet, but he hoped it was someone kind enough to do him this one favor.

“MOVE. THE CART.” He shouted as loud as he could, hoping that it wouldn't alarm anyone who might be after him still.

The mech, still dragging the cart along, suddenly looked up and shouted back.

“HUH?”

“I SAID. MOOOOVE. THE CART.” 

Orion gestured with his servos wildly at the cart.

The mech finally understood and sprinted to try and position it under him, hoping to catch him.

Primus please let this work please please pleasepleaseplease...

Orion braced himself for impact and miraculously landed straight into the cart, spilling out a few of its contents and probably breaking a few things, energel leaking a little everywhere as some of the packets busted open. 

It definitely hurt, more than he'd like to admit, but at least he wasn't turned into Darkwing’s breakfast.

...Yet.

His helm was spinning with dizziness, his optics slowly trying to refocus and process everything as he straightened up.

When his vision finally cleared, he was so relieved to see a familiar face he almost jumped right into his arms.

“Jazz! Jazz, phew, thank Primus! You saved my tailpipe, mech.”

He stumbled out of the cart clumsily, his newly acquired—or rather, stolen—goods still in one servo while he hugged his friend with the other.

Jazz rolled his optics, returning the gesture and patting his back.

“Uh-huh, sure thing, buddy. I'm hoping you can return the favor.”

Orion pulled back and shot Jazz his brightest smile. “Yeah, anytime! Just ask and I'll do whatever you need me to. I really owe it to you.” 

“Great, because now would be the perfect time.” 

Jazz motioned with a glance of his optics to the cart—now in much poorer shape than before—with its contents half emptied out and partially crushed.

Orion's smile turned sheepish. “Oh. My bad.”

He laughed nervously and began helping Jazz put everything back together—as much as possible, at least.

Once they salvaged what they could from the cart, they exchanged a few pats on the back and went on their separate ways.

At least, that's what they thought.  

~  

“Uhh, Jazz…” Orion tilted his helm, turning to look back at his friend behind him, still carrying his cargo from earlier down the hallway.

He'd noticed that for the past 10 kliks or so, there wasn't a single turn he'd made without Jazz following either closely behind or in front. Their every move seemed to be synced.

Orion cleared his vocalizer and took a few steps closer to Jazz.

“Why are you following me? You’re creeping me out.”

“Me?!” Jazz barked a laugh, servo flying to his chassis. “Buddy, you’re the one who was trailing me earlier.”

“I was just making my way to medbay,” Orion defended, jabbing a digit toward the long hall stretching behind him.

“Yeah? Well, same here. I got a delivery for Ratchet.” Jazz jerked his chin at the battered cart.

“Ohhh, so that’s what the cart is for?”

Jazz snorted, tapping the side of the dented frame. “Correction: was for.”

Orion rolled his optics, throwing his servos up. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad. Besides, trust me, I was doing something important!”

“Uh-huh. Sure, pal,” Jazz drawled, voice dripping sarcasm. “You just contaminated most of the—” He waved a hand vaguely at the ruined contents, looking for the right word. “—thingamajigs, crushed the rest, and totaled the cart, by the way. Nice work, fataft.”

Orion slapped a dramatic hand over his chestplate, staggering back a step. “Ouch. Right in the spark. You wound me.”

Jazz ignored him with a cheeky grin and turned back to the hall, dragging the dented cart in front. “And now I’m late. All that chaos over what, huh?”

Orion jogged to catch up, still juggling his stolen datapads and energon cubes. “You wouldn’t understand. Very official miner business.”

“Official miner business,” Jazz repeated flatly. “Yeah? That’ll sound real good when Ratchet asks why half his shipment looks like roadkill.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t get flattened. I was just improvising a landing strategy! Ratchet will thank me for not ending up on his operation table.”

“Yeah, genius,” Jazz shot back, smirking over his shoulder. “You should teach classes on how to wreck deliveries and live to brag about it.”

“Don’t tempt me, I’d make a great instructor.” Orion replied proudly.

Jazz snorted. “Sure thing, Professor Disaster.”

That earned him a light shove from his friend, followed by their shared laughter echoing down the empty hallway.

Orion held the datapads against his chassis still, his optics lighting with excitement as he flipped one over. “Okay, but seriously, look at this one, Jazz! These aren’t just datapads—these are ancient. See the engravings? The way the glyphs are pressed into the casing?”

“Mhmm,” Jazz drawled without looking, still dragging the poor cart along. “Fascinatin’. Meanwhile, Ratchet’s gonna engrave my aft into the wall if this cart doesn’t make it there in one piece...what's left of it, anyway.”

Orion blinked, venting out a laugh. “You’ve got no appreciation for craftsmanship, do you?”

“Buddy, I got appreciation for a lot of things,” Jazz smirked over his shoulder. “Not one of ‘em is bein’ late to medbay with a busted shipment.”

“Well, worst case scenario,” Orion said with a shrug, carefully fishing out one of the less torn up synth-organic pads, “Ratchet can just…get more of these, right?”

Jazz stopped mid-step and slowly turned his helm. “Get more? These are sterilized medical supplies, mech. You don’t just grab ‘em up from a random store between shifts.”

Orion winced, still trying to look casual. “Okay, fair point. But at least some of them survived!” He held up another tattered medfoam canister—already half emptied out from when it helped break his fall—optimistically.

Jazz snorted. “Congratulations—you just volunteered to hand Ratchet the shredded ones yourself, that's assuming he doesn’t kill us before you get the chance to do so.”

“Technically, he’d be killing you. You’re the one delivering it.”

“Oh, no no no.” Jazz wagged a digit at him, grin sharp. “You’re in this wreck with me, data boy. We’re partners in crime now.”

Orion rolled his optics with a smile. “Sure thing, partner.”

The two of them kept bickering all the way down the hall, Jazz dragging the wrecked cart like it weighed a ton, Orion bouncing along beside him like it was just another normal day, both blissfully unaware of what awaited them.  

~  

“By the Allspark, WHAT did you do?! I needed those!” Ratchet’s voice cracked like thunder through the medbay, rattling every tool on his workbench.

Jazz froze mid-step, one pede still in the doorway. “Eh—uh—well, y’see—”

“You destroyed ALL of my new supplies—”

“Not all of them!” Orion chirped in from behind Jazz.

Ratchet only spared him a single, deadly glare that sent shivers down his lines, rattling his plating before he turned back to Jazz.

“—Didn't even spare the CART, and just waltzed in here with this—this—” Ratchet pointed an angry servo at Orion, rocking back and forth on his pedes. “—this utter BUFFOON as if nothing happened!” Ratchet jabbed a wrench in Jazz’s direction, vents flaring hot enough to fog the glass behind him.

While Jazz stammered, Orion ducked past, bee-lining for the berth he came looking for.

“Dee—” His spark dropped as he saw how pale the mech looked, plating clammy, optics unfocused as he tried looking up at him.

“...Oh, heyyy Orion,” D mumbled, vents hitching with fever, every syllable drawn out and amused as if he hadn’t noticed Ratchet’s tirade. His words slurred together, interrupted by short hiccups, tone dreamy. “You’re back! Did you—hic—did you get a new polish? You look—hic—so shinyyy!”

Orion huffed, torn between panic and a laugh. “No, I didn't. You really need rest, mech.”

Jazz threw up his servos defensively. “Hey, don’t pin this on me! Kid told me to move and try to catch him and I—”

“Catch him? Catch him??” Ratchet’s optics flared. “Catch him from where?! What were you idiots doing! I swear, you two are going to slag me into an early deactivation—”

D-16 sluggishly turned his helm toward Jazz, squinting like he was trying to recognize him. “That one’s loud,” he whispered to Orion, conspiratorial. “Why’d you bring him?”

Orion bit back a smile. “He brought me.”

“Mm.” D blinked slowly, then frowned, vents hitching. “Don’t like him. Too noisy. Tell him to shut up.”

Offended, Jazz blinked, overhearing the couple over Ratchet’s tedious vitriol. “What’d I do?!”

Ratchet slammed the wrench onto the counter with a clang. “Everything!”

Jazz jolted, servos shooting up again. “Wait—hey—I didn’t mean you! I meant—uh—I meant—”

“Quiet!” Ratchet snapped, not sparing him another glance as he turned and rounded on Orion. His optics burned like weldfire. “And as for you—”

Orion immediately ducked lower, hands braced on the side of the berth as if it could shield him. When Ratchet took one sharp step forward, Orion shuffled the other way, crouched like a sparkling caught sneaking treats.

“Don’t think hiding will save you!” Ratchet growled, stalking around the berth.

“Uh—technically I’m not hiding,” Orion muttered, edging in the opposite direction. “More like...repositioning.”

“Reposition this—!” Ratchet jabbed a digit, closing the gap with another step.

Orion scuttled to the other side, hunched low. “Now, now, let’s not—”

From the berth, D’s foggy voice drifted out between hiccups. “Are we—are we playin’ tag? Mmm. I wanna play. Orion’s it!”

Orion smacked a palm over his faceplates. “Not helping, Dee.”

“Not my fault,” D slurred, optics half-lidded as he giggled at his own joke. “The doc’s just mad ‘cause his head’s red. Red head. Heh.”

Jazz slapped a servo to his own mouth to choke back a laugh already escaping his intake, then thought better of it when Ratchet whipped his helm around to glare.

“You! Silence!” Ratchet barked at him, then swung back to Orion, who had already inched another pace around the berth. “And you—stop moving!”

“Can’t,” Orion said quickly, ducking again as Ratchet lunged. “I really like staying alive and not getting dissected.”

Ratchet finally pounced faster than Orion could dip, clamping a firm servo onto his shoulder and hauling him upright.

“Got you,” Ratchet snarled, giving him a little shake for good measure. “Now—explain why you put my supplies in a demolition derby before I weld your feet to the floor!”

Orion winced, plating cramping under the grip. “Alright, alright! No need for floor-welding. That’s—uh—that’s very permanent.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed into slits. “Talk.”

Orion sighed, shoulders sagging as if he were the most tragically misunderstood mech in Iacon. “Look, it’s not as bad as it looks. I was just—running. You know, harmless running, from nothing in particular. And Jazz happened to be there—”

“‘Happened to be,’” Jazz muttered from the corner.

“—and he had this cart, and it was right there, and I thought, hey, why not multitask? Lessen the weight he's carrying, y'know? Maybe help him move faster like that, save us both some time—”

Ratchet’s vents flared like a forge. “Save time. You flattened half my shipment!”

Orion spread his servos helplessly. “Creative efficiency?”

Jazz snorted. “More like creative gravity.”

Before Ratchet could snap again, a slurred voice drifted from the berth.

“Orionnnn,” D-16 mumbled, optics hazy as he fixed them on Jazz. “Why’re you blabberin' about him so much? Who cares?! You're supposed to be my amica.”

Orion blinked, caught mid-sputter. “...What?”

D-16 scrunched his faceplates into a frown, vents hiccuping. “You went runnin’ around all morning with that one—” his claw wobbled vaguely toward Jazz, “—and now he’s here taking up our time together. And he's too flashy. Go away.”

Jazz raised both servos innocently. “Hey, he dragged me into—”

“Shut up, noisy,” D mumbled, then buried his face against the berth frame with a dramatic groan. “Mine.”

Orion flushed so fast his plating practically pinged. “Dee—”

Ratchet pinched his nasal ridge. He was definitely just seconds from throwing them all out of his medbay.

“Enough! Primus, I can’t process all three of you jabberin’ at once. Jazz—”

Jazz straightened, almost saluting out of reflex. “Yeah, doc?”

“You’re going to finish your shift. After that, I’ll contact First Aid for replacements. You’ll pick up the resupply and haul it straight back here. No detours, no acrobatics, no jesters dropping out of the sky. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Jazz said quickly, throwing a sharp grin in Orion’s direction as if to say see what you got me into?

Ratchet jabbed a digit toward the door. “Out. The faster you get to it, the better.”

Jazz nodded and started to leave, but paused at the threshold, turning back toward Orion. “You comin’ with, or what? You’re still on shift too, y’know. Elita-1 is not gonna be happy.”

Orion opened his intake, but a low, warning growl rose from the berth. D-16’s dim optics glared through the haze of heat, focus hazy but expression dark enough to freeze Jazz in place. His vents rasped, and he lifted his clawed servo just enough to make his displeasure known.

Jazz blinked. “...Okay then. Never mind. Message received.” He held both servos up in surrender and backed out the door. “Catch ya later, buddy.”

“Later,” Orion said, giving a small wave after him before glancing down at D-16. The feverish mech was already sinking back into the berth, but his optics still tracked Jazz until the door slid shut.

Ratchet sighed heavily and bent down to pick up a few tools that had fallen during this whole ordeal.

After a few kliks, he set the last tool back into its tray with a sharp clink that made Orion flinch.

“Primus, Orion,” the medic muttered, turning back to Orion now, “you’ve got a talent for shaving vorns off my spark. Sneaking around illegally, ruining my equipment, distracting my patients, entangling Jazz into your mess...you’ll get yourself—or worse, someone else—scrapped if you keep it up.”

Orion shifted guiltily but managed a crooked grin. “Right, right. Lesson learned. No more sneaking, no more running off. At least...not without asking permission first?”

Ratchet shot him a look so flat it could’ve sanded down steel plating. Orion lowered his head with a low vent.

“Fine, fine. No more running off ever again. Promise.”

The medic huffed, but his expression softened. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

When Orion didn’t move for the door, Ratchet sighed, already guessing why he lingered. “All right. Make it quick. I know you’re not here to watch me reorganize my instruments.”

Orion’s optics flicked toward the berth. D-16 lay sprawled out, vents hitching faintly, optics half-lidded. He was muttering something incoherent under his vents, optics occasionally darting like he was caught halfway in a dream.

“How’s he doing?” Orion asked quietly.

Ratchet’s shoulders slumped. “Still running hotter than I’d like. The fever should’ve broken after yesterday—his core temperature dipped just enough to give me hope. But it’s spiked again today, and that’s not...typical.” He tapped something into his datapad, frowning. “I’m narrowing it down, but until I run a few more scans, I can’t pin the strain exactly. I know it’s cyberviral, but not which subtype. Some of them burn out quick, some like to linger, and some...” His optics narrowed. “Well. I’ll know soon enough.”

Orion chewed at his dermas. “So it’s not...dangerous?”

“For now?” Ratchet blew out a long vent. “No. He’s stable, and I’ve got him monitored. Just...odd. Feels like the infection’s fighting back when it should’ve been tapering off.”

From the berth, D-16 groaned and flung an arm over his face. “Not...fighting. I'm winning,” he slurred, then let out a low, delirious chuckle.

Orion smothered a laugh with his servo. Ratchet ran a servo down his face again, grumbling.

“See what I’m dealing with? He's more mouthy fevered than half the elites on a high-grade binge.”

Orion’s grin widened as he edged closer to D-16’s side, keeping his voice light. “Don’t worry, Ratchet. I’ll keep him distracted while you do the real work.”

He stayed near the berth a moment longer, watching D-16’s vents hitch softly as he mumbled. Ratchet, having finished his scanning and monitoring routines, glanced at Orion with a mild, impatient sigh.

“Don’t take too long, Orion. You still have your shift waiting. I’ll allow a few more minutes, but that’s it,” Ratchet said, already moving toward the edge of the workbench to give them some space.

Orion gave a small nod and quickly activated his subspace compartment, carefully extracting part of the small cache of energon cubes he’d acquired earlier. His optics lit up as he gently placed them near his friend.

“Look what I got for you,” Orion murmured, holding one in front of D-16’s half-lidded optics. Dee shuttered, then reached lazily, knocking it slightly off course before settling it into his palm.

“It's...shiny...” D-16 slurred, tugging the cube closer, vents giving off a faint chuckle.

Orion grinned and leaned closer, careful not to disturb him too much. “Here, you can have some now. Don’t worry, I asked Ratchet first.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed, scrutinizing the cubes with precise calculation. “Hmph. Normally, I’d administer this via injection to ensure proper absorption and controlled dosage, especially since his filtration systems still need to fully reset. Orally, there’s a slight risk of uneven metabolization and—” He stopped, noticing D-16’s gentle, amused expression, and softened a bit. “...Fine. A few cubes should be safe for now, just monitor his reaction. Don’t overdo it. He’s still recovering.”

D blinked up at Ratchet, then at Orion, clearly delighted by both the gesture and the tiny rebellion.

Orion chuckled softly and picked one up. “See? Doctor-approved...mostly,” he teased, eyes flicking to Ratchet for the slightest acknowledgment. Ratchet merely gave a tight nod, already busying himself with the instruments, but the hint of approval was there.

Orion settled on the berth near D-16’s side, watching him happily nibble on the cube, vents gently flaring in delight. Dee yawned, hiccuping softly, then suddenly stopped for a moment and lifted the half-eaten cube up to the side of Orion's face, positioning it right next to his left optic.

Dee’s small, lazy movement caught Orion’s optics again. He tilted his head slightly, still half-lying back on the berth, and held the half-eaten energon cube closer. “You know…” His voice was soft, almost dreamy, hiccups punctuating his words, “Energon...it's—it's the same color as your optics. It almost has the same shine. The same taste."

He paused, looking deeply, fiercely, into Orion's optics. 

“They're beautiful.” he whispered the word, as if it were too private, too sacred to be spoken aloud.

Orion froze for a fraction of a beat, a strange little spark of warmth he wasn’t used to noticing flickering in his spark chamber. He wasn’t used to hearing something like that directed at him, not like this, not so gentle. A small, private smile tugged at his faceplates as he blinked down at D-16, trying—failing—to hide the faint tingle in his spark.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he murmured, leaning a little closer. He carefully took the cube from Dee’s digits, now half-melted from the feverish energy, and lifted it toward his intake. “Come on, I’ll help you finish it.”

D's optics flickered, vents hitching in soft amusement as Orion leaned over him, just above him on the berth. His servos gently supported the cube as D-16 leaned back, trusting, letting Orion guide it to him. Orion’s plating nearly brushed against D’s as he focused on the simple act of helping him eat, a quiet, tender intimacy settling in the small space between them.

In the background, Ratchet muttered with disdain, clearly disgusted by how close the two of them were. “Just...hurry up. You still have your shift, Orion. And I don’t need a repeat performance of yesterday’s antics,” he grumbled, hands fidgeting with instruments to occupy himself.

Orion’s optics flicked to him, sheepishly aware of the minor scolding, and whispered, “Right...yeah. Sorry, doc.” He straightened just enough to leave a few more cubes within easy reach of Dee, who watched his every move with the curiosity of a newly forged sparkling.

“I hope you enjoy these,” Orion said quietly, a soft smile lingering on his faceplates. “I’ll...see you again soon, yeah?”

Dee hiccuped softly as he let out a contented sigh, a small, fond smile forming under the feverish haze. “Mmm...thank you, Orion, you're so—you're so...sweet.” His voice was warm, lazy, but sincere, carrying a quiet comfort that made Orion’s spark skip again.

With one last glance, Orion straightened fully, giving D-16 space, and stepped back toward the door, the warmth of the moment still lingering in his chassis as Ratchet’s grumbling echoed faintly behind him.  

~  

The mines always hummed with a steady rhythm—mech and machine moving in sync, energon veins pulsing faintly in the rock as drills chewed through stone. Orion had always found it grounding, but today it felt almost too loud, too distracting, a grating reminder that his mind wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

He sank his drill into the rockface, sparks scattering, only to realize he’d missed the vein by a good margin. Again.

“Wow, kid,” Jazz chuckled from his station a few paces away, tossing a glowing shard of energon from one servo to the other like it was a juggling prop. “At this rate, you’re gonna dig us a tunnel to Primus himself.”

Orion shuttered, shook his helm, and tried to focus. “Sorry, I’m just—uh—thinking.”

“Thinkin’, huh?” Jazz smirked. “Well, your thinkin’ looks a whole lot like starin’ off into space.”

“ORION PAX!” Elita’s voice cracked through the cavern like a whip. She stood near the far end, arms crossed, her field sharp enough to slice steel. “If you have time to daydream, you have time to work. That vein isn’t going to mine itself!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Orion yelped, fumbling to steady his grip on the drill. He pushed again, a little too hard this time, and nearly toppled forward when the tool dug awkwardly.

Jazz bit back a laugh, optics dancing with amusement. “Smooth.”

Orion shot him a look, but the flush of heat rising under his plating wasn’t entirely from embarrassment. His spark kept pulling him elsewhere—to the quiet berth back in the medbay, to Dee’s intense gaze as he’d compared his optics to energon. Beautiful, he’d called them. The word lingered, replaying every time he blinked.

He shook himself again, muttering, “Focus, Orion. Focus.”

Jazz leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’re thinkin’ about him, aren’t ya?”

Orion’s servo slipped, nearly dropping the machine. “Wh—what? No! I—I’m just—uh—focused on the task!”

“Sure ya are.” Jazz grinned wide, spinning the shard in his servo. “Focused on the wrong task.”

From across the cavern, Elita barked again. “Jazz! Quit chatting and keep your partner in line!”

Jazz tossed Orion a wink. “She's talking about you.”

Orion groaned and bent back over the rockface, only offering Jazz a tight smile as a response.

The next drill landed better—clean, precise—but Orion’s movements felt mechanical, like his frame was going through the motions without him. The energon vein splintered with a satisfying crack, yet it barely registered. His thoughts trailed elsewhere, circling the same orbit.

D-16’s optics, that sly smile. The weight of a servo brushing his own. The warmth of words that hadn’t sounded like a joke, not really. His silly, soft laughter. The word Mine. 

Jazz whistled low. “See? You can hit somethin’ when you try. Miracles do happen.”

Orion managed a faint laugh, but it came out thin. Usually, he’d fire back—some clever retort, some half-joke about Jazz’s aim being worse than his. But not today. His processor was too cluttered, every joke swallowed before it could leave his intake.

Jazz noticed. He always noticed. His grin tilted into something softer, but he didn’t push it. Just let the silence hang between them, filled only by the steady clatter of machinery and the faint hum of energon pulsing beneath the rock.

Break came, the shift whistle echoing sharp across the cavern. Mechs sat in clusters, trading rations, laughing, venting about supervisors. Orion sat too, ration cube untouched in his servo, optics fixed on the jagged ceiling high above.

“You okay, Orion?” Jazz asked eventually, lowering his own cube.

Orion blinked. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

“Mm.” Jazz didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press either. “Tired’ll do that.”

The rest of the break passed in quiet. Orion caught fragments of conversations, the ripple of laughter, but they felt far away, like he was listening through glass.

When the whistle blew again, he returned to his station. The joors blurred. Drill, crack, collect. Drill, crack, collect. He barely noticed the ache settling into his joints, the dust clinging to his plating. He barely noticed the light outside shifting from gold to dull blue as the cycle drew on.

His mind wandered constantly. Back to the medbay. Back to Dee. Back to those words—Beautiful. Mine. They threaded themselves into everything, stubborn and unyielding.

By the time Elita called the end of shift, Orion startled like he’d only just woken. His servos ached more than usual, his frame heavy with exhaustion, though he couldn’t say he’d truly worked harder. Just...carried more inside.

The march back to the barracks was quiet. Even Jazz didn’t tease him this time. Orion caught himself grateful for that.

When at last he lay back in his pod, the hum of recharge slowly pulling at him, he let his optics shutter. The mines, the chatter, the ache—they all faded. Only D-16’s voice lingered, steady and warm, replaying in his spark until sleep claimed him.

The ground buzzed faintly beneath him, the barracks dim and still save for the quiet shuffle of others settling into recharge. Orion’s systems wound down piece by piece, his spark pulse evening out, the world dimming to a low thrum.

Sleep came quickly.

And with it, a dream.

He was standing in a wide, open plain—no mines, no walls, no heavy ceilings pressing down. The sky stretched endless above him, painted with soft light, and the air carried the faint hum of energon streams flowing somewhere just out of sight.

When he looked down, a cube gleamed faintly in his servos. Its surface shimmered the same way it had in the medbay, rich and alive. For a moment, he thought he was alone, until he felt a presence at his side.

D-16 stood there—not sick, not weary, but steady, optics bright and calm. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Orion met his gaze, ponds of blue melting into golden amber.

Warmth swelled inside him, soft and startling, like the first flicker of fire catching.

He smiled without meaning to.

Then the dream blurred at the edges, dissolving as deeper recharge pulled him under, but the warmth lingered. Even as the plane faded, even as D-16’s figure dissolved into light, that spark-deep glow remained.

Peaceful. 

Steady. 

Beautiful.

“Just like your optics.”

The dream faded away.  

~  

The medbay was quiet again.

Ratchet sat hunched at his workstation, a stylus tapping idly against the edge of a datapad as he scrolled through patient logs. The low thrum of the equipment filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional beep of a monitor syncing its readings. He’d run the checks twice already, but his processor refused to settle—habit demanded a third.

The door hissed open.

“Delivery for the doc.”

Jazz strolled in, cart rolling in before him, his grin faint but present despite the late cycle. He stopped near Ratchet and leaned on the cart's handle, casting him a sidelong look. “Cargo came in clean this time. Not a single item crushed.”

Ratchet snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Small miracle.”

Jazz chuckled, stretching his arms overhead. “Anyway, I’m clockin’ out. Gotta catch some sleep before Elita wrings my neck for dragging in late tomorrow. You holding up okay, mech?”

“Define ‘okay,’” Ratchet muttered, already cataloguing the delivery. But his tone lacked bite.

Jazz flashed him a salute and backed toward the door. “Don’t burn out your servos. Night.”

The medbay door slid closed, leaving Ratchet alone with the dim glow of the monitors and the soft whirr of circulating air.

He ex-vented, pulling up D-16’s file again. Lines of data scrolled across the display: core temperature charts, filtration readouts, energon density analyses. All things he’d expect to see after a viral hit of this type. And yet—

Ratchet frowned. Zoomed in. Highlighted a line of coding from the virus strain itself.

There it was again. A faint irregularity, almost too subtle to notice if one wasn’t looking for it: a repeating sequence embedded in the viral signature. Not random, not naturally occurring.

A pattern.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed. Cybertronian viruses weren’t supposed to look... designed.

He sat back in his chair, jaw tight. This wasn’t behaving like the standard viral strains he’d seen before. The irregularity repeated too neatly to dismiss. 

For a moment, the thought of intentional engineering crossed his mind, but he pushed it aside—paranoia wouldn’t help his patient. More likely, this was some kind of anomaly, a mutation that had slipped past the usual safeguards of Cybertronian physiology and the patterns he knew by spark. Unfamiliar, unpredictable. And that, in its own way, was almost more concerning.

Ratchet rubbed a servo over his faceplates, the weight of it pressing heavy on his shoulders. He glanced toward the berth where his patient recharged, oblivious.

“Primus help us,” he muttered under his breath. “This might be trouble.”

The monitors hummed on, unwavering and indifferent, as Ratchet began cross-referencing the anomaly against every database he had access to, the silence of the medbay suddenly more deafening than usual.

The joors slipped by unnoticed as Ratchet sifted through one databank after another, layering results, comparing, eliminating, starting again. The anomaly remained stubbornly opaque, refusing to fit into any pattern he knew. For every lead, three more contradictions surfaced.

At last, he pushed back from the console, vents cycling a tired gust. It was late—later than he’d intended—and his optics burned from the strain. The mystery would have to wait. There were still reams of data to parse, and tomorrow would bring fresh readings.

With one last glance at the quiet berth where D-16 recharged, Ratchet dimmed the monitors and let the medbay fall into its usual hush.

Tonight, there would be no answers.