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3 - Silly - Ironhide n LennoxThe clatter of body armor and weaponry was almost unheard over the deafening roar of the engine of the Autobot the soldiers rode upon. Ironhide didn't mind being used for transport, after all. He was the largest, most open-bodied of the bots that were not kept for more severe situations Optimus, during these sorts of missions, was usually resigned to a transport aircraft high above whatever city they were heading to.
Nearest to the cab rode Major Will Lennox, his hand always resting in the same spot against the big black truck's frame. For the both of them, it was a sign of the friendship they shared... one most humans would never have the opportunity to experience. Smell 'im yet, Ironhide? he questioned. We're getting' restless back here.
Ironhide snorted a response through the smokestacks at his sides, giving his huge body a shake so much like the big bloodhound Sgt. Robert Epps had nick
Lullaby for RatchetCybertron pre-Movies, still fairly early in the war. Ironhide/Ratchet comfortyness.
The door between the medbay and recovery slid aside with a soft hiss.
Ironhide was pulled out of recharge once again, blinking momentarily in the dim light. The weapons specialist was attempting to shake off the aftereffects of a mortar round to the chest, which had also left shrapnel imbedded in his neck and shoulder. Once the plating and underlying components had been mended and the foreign scrap removed, he had been laid out in recovery to let his self-repair systems finish the job. Recharge cycles post-op were always restless and fraught with breaks; pain, some error or alert, system demands for energon or the rounds from the medics.
Other recently repaired warriors had slowly been brought in, filling the room. The black mech had come to when most of them were escorted in and settled onto a berth by the unassuming figure of F
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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