ep-1.5 - Clear as Mud

The sound from the door made Ironhide's grip slip, the cleaning rod he was threading through a blaster barrel scraping unpleasantly against the side. He scowled and tossed the parts down to the table, letting them roll into one of the fist shaped divots that had collected across the surface, along with the crushed remains of smaller projects. He had broken out his larger blasters simply because the thicker components were less likely to break when he threw them at the walls.

Bluestreak. Pit, scrap, rust and bolts. In all of the Primus forsaken mess he had... not forgotten, no, but there hadn't been time or opportunity to talk to his first bitlet, and that... scrap. There was a Pit-load of things Bluestreak needed to know, and no good or even halfway palatable way to communicate it.

And Shadow was still... Ironhide balled his hands into fists before he could throw yet another thing at the pock marked wall across the room. Frag. "Come in if yer comin'," he growled.

Instinct - draw in, tuck close, keep safe - warred with temper and for a long moment Ironhide didn't respond, cycling slow ventilations. Finally, he reached out, looping one arm around Bluestreak and pulling hir close, his optics still focused on the table in front of him.

"Pit load of slag, that's what," he huffed at last. "Pit load of Primus forsaken slag, an' then some. Don't know where t' start, Blue." Another vent cycle before he finally looked up, meeting his first youngling's wide and worried optics. "Shadow... we don't know where she is. Africa, maybe, likely, but we don't know for sure, an' she ain't answerin'."

The growl that filtered up through Ironhide's engine was low and tight, snarling through him before he cut it off. He made himself throttle it down, checked and doublechecked pressure sensors to be certain he wasn't holding Blue tighter than was comfortable for the smaller sniper, and funneled the spiking tension in his hydraulics into a joint creaking clench of his free fist.

"Ah," he ground out, "ain't lookin' because Prahm ain't lettin' meh off th' base. House arrest. Yer damned right Ah'd be out there otherwise." Another growl, more subdued but still vibrating through his plates. "Fragger." The word was bitten off and hissed, not even a glyph flicker of the affectionate exasperation that usually accompanied it, drowned under a deep boiling rage.

Cycling another vent, Ironhide shook his head, gathering Bluestreak in a little closer. "DMZ was a complete clusterfrag. Megatron - he took a hit durin' th' raid." The weapon specialist vented a sharp sound, like a snort. "Weren't any of US that hit him, that's for sure, but kudos t' whoever did. Fragged half his processor, knocked him clear back t' before th' war. Didn't know who any of us were." Ironhide grimaced. "'Cept for Optimus. An'... Cleaver. She was his medic, back before everythin' started. Didn't know that. He went runnin' t' her for a fix."

There was the root cluster of it, and no good way to tell it. Ironhide shuttered his optics and twisted, pulling Bluestreak into a full hug, his arms wrapped around the smaller sniper. "We didn't know," he started, voice faltering. "None of us knew. Ah'm sorry, bitlet. We didn't none of us know."

Bluestreak was making soft sounds of distress, noises which cut straight through Ironhide's spark. He held tighter, tucking the youngling's head beneath his chin, and tried not to think of how recently he had held Shadow in the same way - and how useless of a protection it had been against what had been coming. "We didn't know, an' Cleaver, she didn't know when she'd done it - it was before she met us. How an' why don't matter no more, but bitlet... Barricade's alive."

Ironhide held Bluestreak close and tight, plates flared around his youngling in a heavy shield. His engine, dropped deep into bass register, rumbled a constant thrum on a frequency he had used since Bluestreak had been small enough to fit into his hand, steady vibrations humming through them both. "Shhh... shhh, bitlet, he won't. Never again. We won't let him, not ever again. Slagger won't dare, not knowin' what we'd do, an' Ah ain't ever pullin' mah punches again with that Pit spawn. Promise."

Closing his optics, Ironhide concentrated on safety, on cohort-kin-together and protection. It was easier than he would have thought it could be, easier to slip into that then maintain the seething anger, comfortable and familiar and so much a part of his function that he did it without thinking, tucking his youngling close and humming a steady line of comfort and safety. "He comes in a hundred miles of us an' Ah will damned well make sure he is well an' truly dead next time, regardless of orders."

Ironhide ran a thumb along the ridge of Bluestreak's helm, dropping a kiss on the bright chevron. "That's th' way t' look at it," he told his youngling, and if it lacked some conviction he didn't think he could be blamed. "An' we catch him again, we're doin' it right. No more second chances."

His voice dropped low, the growl rougher, sharper, with nothing to do with comfort. "Ah don't fraggin' care what Prahm says. That 'Con's a danger t' be put down, an' Ah get mah hands on him an' that's right where he'll be. If Prahm wants mah bars an' mah 'signia for it, he can have 'em. I'll give it up t' have Shadow home safe an' that fragger dead an' gray."

The offer, macabre and sincere all at once, drew the echo of a short laugh from Ironhide. He let himself hold his sparkling closer for a moment, nuzzling against Bluestreak's helm. "Doubt th' slippery fragger could get past yeh an' Jazz if yeh put yer helms together."

He stilled his own ventilations for a long moment, optics shuttered, and found that he was rocking slightly, his bitlet cradled against his chassis, in a back and forth rhythm that was as old as Bluestreak was. The youngling wasn't protesting, however, so he didn't stop himself, the motion familiar and soothing to them both.

"The Prahm," he said at last, and the glyphs were crisper and far less personal than his normal half affectionate half exasperated mix, "don't like us going into stuff for revenge. At this point Ah ain't callin' it revenge, Ah'm callin' it takin' out an active threat. You get a clear shot at th' fragger, yeh take it."