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It starts with a comment from Sunstreaker, one that he insists was made entirely out of the goodness of his spark. If you ask Bumblebee it was to stir the pot and try to knock Tracks down a peg or six. But regardless of why the comment was made, the fact remains that Sunstreaker had so helpfully pointed out to Tracks that the paint on his arm was beginning to fade after the blood from something particularly disgusting had splattered on it last chord, and five groons later here they are.
Wheeljack pries open the most recent barrel Swoop and Sludge dug out of long term storage and before the lid is even up they can all tell it’s the wrong color, unless Tracks is really feeling Arcee’s pink all of a sudden.
“Tracks, are you sure–”
“Yes, Sideswipe, I am sure I still had paint left,” Tracks interrupts with an irritated huff, “It's only the one barrel which is why I've been so careful with my personal maintenance.”
“Why your human has been, you mean,” Sunstreaker huffs, scrubbing at his arms where he'd accidentally gotten some of Bumblebee's yellow on him rather than his own. Serves him right for trying to do touch-ups instead of fixing the problem he caused.
Tracks tosses his helm and cocks a hip, the absolute picture of melodrama. “You're just jealous that you don't have your own Raoul.”
“And I would want a useless little human because?”
Bumblebee pushes off the wall and trudges forward, planting themselves firmly between the two just as Tracks shrieks “USELESS?!” right in their audials. Despite the majority of mechs expectations given Tracks' everything, he's one pit of a fighter when he kicks off, and taking a swing at Sunstreaker means starting a fight with Sideswipe and Bumblebee is not dealing with that today.
“Mechs, mechs, you're both pretty ᵃⁿⁿᵒʸᶦⁿᵍ, let's just find the paint and then we can all go to our separate little corners and work out our feelings, okay?” Bumblebee grins as they say it, daring either of them to keep going.
If they have to get involved then they're getting involved, and then it'll be three mechs to medbay instead of just two. With the dinobots helping them look through the paint…no one wants Ratchet that angry. Hopefully.
Sunstreaker squints at him like he's running the audio back through his processor and trying to figure out where Bumblebee insulted him, which means he's definitely damaged his audials chasing the seekers again; they make a note, forward it to Ratchet, and return to the matter at hand. Tracks tosses his helm with an affronted rev of his engine and stalks further into the storage area. Fine by them so long as they don't have to deescalate another fight this chord.
Bumblebee watches until Tracks is fully caught up in checking the other paint –interrupted only by Swoop flapping over to help and landing on his shoulder, pulling a squawk of warning from Tracks’ intake– before turning back to Sunstreaker and making a ‘universal gesture’ that means back the frag off you slagpit, you started this. Sideswipe starts to puff up in indignation for his brother before a very ominous sort of rumble fills the room.
Good sign.
“Hey, bitties, don’t climb that-!” Wheeljack shouts, running across the store room.
Great sign.
Bumblebee turns from the petty puffed up display in front of them to see Slag and Grimlock wrestling over who gets to grab the next barrel of paint, shaking an entire tower of barrels in the process; Snarl is pressed against the base of the tower, and it’s usually a pretty bad sign when he’s the dinobot looking panicked.
They see the oncoming fallout just a klik too late. Swoop launches himself from Tracks’ shoulder, eliciting another panicked yelp about scratched paint, and tries to land on the tower as a counterbalance, which only sends worrying wobbles throughout the entire haphazard thing. Bumblebee takes a moment to think that maybe Mirage had been right and they should’ve organized paint storage better, and then they’re skittering up the nearest barrel to try and stabilize the center of the barrel tower.
For a long moment it looks like all of them will be getting snazzy new hideously clashing paint jobs that’ll make the Constructicons look like fashion plates as the tower bows and shakes and does its absolute best to fall; then all of a sudden Sludge is there with his massive, inconvenient neck nearly wrapping around the tower –and squishing Bumblebee in the process, thanks so much– and stopping the shaking one barrel at a time.
The top of the tower is less forgiving, and Swoop barely keeps his perch as the top five barrels threaten to tip, his wings straining against gravity until he has to give in and let go. Sludge moves to cover his space a nanoklik later, catching and bracing the five barrels as they fall. Only one barrel hits the ground, Bumblebee huffing a vent of relief as the last three stay trapped by Sludge’s neck– up until he sees the vivid blue paint spilling out across the floor. Tracks’ vivid blue paint. Tracks' last barrel of vivid blue paint, cracked and crumpled and rapidly pouring out.
Great.
Tracks stares at his blue paint splattered all over the workshop floor and takes in a deep vent, immediately followed by five more, his servos clenching in fists so tight that his digits creak. Well. Trying to choke out his vents and crushing his servos isn’t the most healthy reaction, but–
The scream is so loud that Bumblebee’s optics shatter.
At the bottom of the ocean aboard the Nemesis Megatron, proud leader of the Decepticon army, swears a blue streak, stomping his way to the bridge. A mere klik prior Ravage had sent in a report of a scream upwards of 180 decibels emanating from the Ark, which can only mean his fool of a second got captured trying to perform recon, again.
He slams his fist against the command center without pausing the nanoklik he reaches the bridge. Soundwave immediately brings up a direct line to Teletraan I that rings for half a klik before it’s answered.
“PRIME!” Megatron roars, “RETURN STARSCREAM TO THE NEMESIS AT ONCE!”
“EXCUSE ME?!” a painfully familiar voice screeches just behind him, audial-splitting in its level of offense; Megatron turns and sees Starscream seething at one of the command stations, which can’t be–
“Ravage detected a scream of at least 180 decibels–”
“WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU SAYING?!” Starscream shrieks, and the bulkheads around them groan in warning.
“Well CLEARLY it was my mistake to presume your screams could ever be so QUIET!” Megatron roars back, just in time for Starscream to lunge across his command station and slice for his intake.
Prime, helm in his servos as screeching echoes throughout both of their ships, doesn’t say a word as Soundwave quietly cuts the call.
It’s been a bad week. From what Bumblebee’s been saying, the bad week might turn into a bad month or a bad year or, if Chip’s calculations are correct, multiple bad human lifetimes. Spike gets it at least a little bit; he’s ruined his fair share of his favorite outfits by working in his dad’s garage, but somehow he doesn’t think it would help Tracks to hear that comparison.
Of course, he didn’t also have the entire school running up to him and throwing clothes in his face every time they saw him either, while reminding him that his favorite outfit is gone forever and there’s no point in trying to fix it. Spike winces as Powerglide rushes up to Tracks as one of the Aerialbots –Slingshot, maybe– keeps him distracted long enough for Powerglide to spray just a bit of a vivid red on Tracks’ currently very colorful arm. They’re both transformed and flying off in a blink before Tracks can do much but gesture furiously after them, unwilling to interrupt the meeting further. And then he’s staring down in horror at the latest of what he’s been calling ‘atrocities against his form’.
Sideswipe started it with a purple that didn’t match anyone in the Ark, Sunstreaker had followed it with yellow, and suddenly every single mech on the ship had an opinion, a paint gun, and zero respect for personal space. It’s probably why him, Carly, and Chip are the only ones who’ve seen him lately, and even that is only rarely. But unfortunately ‘emergency meeting’ means all hands on deck, and poor Tracks can’t seem to get away from anyone’s hands today.
Spike’s only been watching for about five minutes and outside of Powerglide three other mechs have also gotten paint on his arm somewhere; right as he thinks it, Arcee sneaks just a little bit of pink on him, and Tracks visibly fights to stay calm. Spike’s a little scared for what’s gonna happen when he runs out of patience, and turns back to his friends to see if he’s the only one noticing the volcano about to explode.
Carly huffs something under her breath, going from glaring at the meeting table back to working at his dad’s side, building some sorta Decepticon-detector that they can deploy in residential areas after the ‘Bots nearly lost the last battle over human hostages. And Chip…Chip is looking thoughtful, the sorta look he gets before really messing up the ‘Cons.
“We should call Raoul.” On second thought maybe he’s been working too hard with Prowl today and that look is exhaustion.
“Not so sure that’s a great idea, son,” Spike’s dad calls from his worktable, frowning just a bit, “if Tracks sees him it might not go over well.”
“We’ll be careful!” Chip promises, and then Teletraan I is already reaching out to locate the communicator they left with Raoul after a recent attack in Times Square had nearly leveled the whole area without the ‘Bots even knowing. So much for a team vote.
Raoul picks up after just a few rings, wrench in hand and oil on his face like usual. “Hey, Chip! You need something?"
“Just a quick opinion,” Chip says, and then Tracks of all mechs ducks into their side room, looking harangued; he scrambles back an instant later and goes pale as soon as he sees who, exactly, is on the monitor.
Spike has to give it to Raoul; he doesn’t so much as blink at Tracks covered in messy swatches of test colors. Which is good because if Raoul so much as says a word about it he’s pretty sure Tracks might just cry after the week he’s had. He doesn’t even seem to react at all even though Spike knows he had to have seen it- all he does is lean a little bit further back with a smile and a little wave.
“Hey, there’s my main machine! Been quiet over there?” he asks, and Tracks almost seems to shrink in on himself as he steps closer.
“Don’t act like you can’t see it, Raoul,” he huffs, passing up all of the niceties he usually insists on and trying for irritable but it just comes out sad. “I look like an absolute mess, and everyone keeps– keeps accosting me, I can’t even get a moment’s peace anymore!”
“Man, you think that’s a mess, you shoulda seen way back when.” Raoul says, waving Tracks’ concern aside and kicking back, relaxing, showing him that everything is okay. Tracks' shoulders go down another few inches. “My littlest primo, he got all up in his sister’s nail polish, and man. Carpet, bed, vanity, walls– everything got painted. Himself too of course.”
He shakes his head like it’s fond now, just a distant memory, and Spike lets out a breath as Tracks finally just…lets all of his tension go. “My prima called me all panicked about it because she’d been watchin’ him, so I went over to help. Took us hours to clean it all up, and some of that shit just didn’t come out. Kid was on track to be some kinda science hotshot last time I called.”
“...I still say it’s a mess,” Tracks mumbles, but he's less upset now, calmer for the most part, and Spike sees Raoul calm down a bit too. “I look like a sparkling accosted me with a spray gun. Half of these colors don’t match my other colors and I just know they’re doing it on purpose.” Raoul nods along, sympathetic and just…listening. Spike wonders when someone last just listened to all of Tracks' grievances instead of tapping out at the first hour.
“Y’know,” Raoul begins, a thoughtful look on his face, “I’ve been working on trying to formulate paints that’d work on you guys, and I’ve been trying to perfect your blue.”
What.
“You…what?” Tracks asks, startled out of his agonizing for the first time since The Incident. “Why– you have a paint that would work on Cybertronians? How–?”
When Spike turns back to Teletraan Raoul’s scrubbing the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed. “Well first off, Chip’n Carly’ve been doin’ the heavy lifting with the science and the polymers and all that shit.” That’s the first Spike’s heard of it, but it’s not like he knows about everything that his friends work on. “And, well. You’re my main mech. ‘Course I tried to get your colors right first.”
It’s kinda sweet how flustered Raoul looks, a thought that Spike is absolutely going to keep to himself so that Raoul doesn’t pay him back tenfold in front of Chip and Carly whenever they’re all back together. He’s done his best all week not to look at Tracks with how miserable he’s been, but when he glances at him out of the corner of his eye, the mech looks almost startled– and he definitely just heard his fans click on.
“It’s not gonna be perfect,” Raoul mumbles after a minute of silence, tugging a frustrated hand through his hair, “but it probably wouldn’t hurt anything if I drove some over there to try, huh? If you want to try, of course.”
“If I want to try? Of course I do, Raoul, just look at me, I am hideous.” Tracks gestures with his hands at all the test swatches and Spike doesn’t really feel like it’s that bad. All of them were nice colors with his red, at least.
“You aren’t hideous!” Raoul snaps, all of a sudden sitting up and looking like he might try and climb through Teletraan’s screen if it’d let him, “You just look like you’re maybe wanting to try something new and none of them look bad on you, hell I don’t think anything could look bad on you.” He stops for a moment, flushing so dark that it actually starts to show before pushing right along even though he clearly wants to hang up. “They just…don’t look like you, and you don’t look happy, so I wanted to offer.”
Spike turns all of his attention back to Raoul, because even glancing at Tracks feels kinda like he’s invading his privacy with the way that he’s looking at the screen. At Raoul. Chip is smiling in that unfairly sweet self-satisfied way, like he knew this would happen, and Carly just seems relieved.
“That would be…wonderful, Raoul. Thank you.”
“‘Course. I’ll round up my crew to help me get the paint packed up and get on the road.”
The call hangs up after a few quick goodbyes, Tracks immediately makes himself sparse, and Chip smiles all smug and handsome while Carly cheers. Spike’s so gone for them.
“That’s that.”
Typically ‘get on the road’ tends to give Tracks close to an Earth week to prepare himself before seeing Raoul face to face. A coast to coast drive is close to two Earth days long, usually stretched between several more to avoid accidents out of exhaustion; a plane or the train would be faster or perhaps safer, given the lack of sleep-induced peril, but Raoul can hardly take public transport with the amount of paint he’s likely (hopefully) bringing. The distance is aggravating at times, especially when all the other mechs’ humans are so close by– excepting Prince Jumal, of course, but then he is royalty.
And unlike other mechs, Tracks can't just go blitzing off whenever he likes and not be missed, which is to say nothing of the fact that Earth cars cannot typically fly at 200mph, giving away his identity immediately. So while Bumblebee and Prowl have their friends quite close and Powerglide can swoop up Astoria whenever he pleases, Tracks is far more stuck in regards to Raoul.
Which isn’t always a bad thing; he’s more than aware that he tends to act with little restraint when he’s with Raoul, but it’s difficult not to give in to the urge. He feels like a bitlet with a first crush which is utterly embarrassing, he is far too old to have vocalizer stalls over a cute organic. Their distance helps in those moments when Tracks wants to do something foolish like pick Raoul up and never let him go and let him drive, if– if he wants to. He can wave off processor blips as a fuzzy signal between Teletraan I and the communicator he gave him, and Raoul always buys it even though Sparkplug’s never malfunctions once no matter where he is in the country.
It’s not as if he can just work his affection out either, not after Huffer caught him doing donuts in a parking lot like a youngling with a crush and wouldn’t let it go until Tracks had sent him to the medbay for some shiny new denta. That had been a pleasant meeting with the Prime, followed by a near intolerable chord after. At least until Brawn and Gears had gone to Ratchet with one or two extraneous pieces in their arms and Jazz had firmly reminded Tracks that sparring was to be kept in training rooms only. Even if it had been deserved. Then Bumblebee had seen fit to walk into the Ark with red, silver, and blue transfer marks all over their chassis the next cycle, sending him a wink as they did, and the gossip machine had moved along.
Tracks still hadn’t been stupid enough to do anything that would bring all that attention screaming right back into focus, which meant lately Raoul had been running circles in his processor day and night with no outlet. And ‘get on the road’ means he has very little time to come to terms with all of it amidst trying to cope with how hideous he looks and trying to stay out of the Ark and away from everyone as much as possible. He’s done more errands for their reclusive little scientists in the past chord than in his entire functioning, but at least it keeps him busy and everyone else satisfied.
Which brings him back to his present problem, namely preparing himself to act entirely normal when Raoul arrives, like a good friend should. So when Sparkplug’s truck pulls up at the Ark roughly two Earth days after their conversation and Raoul tumbles out of the passenger seat, more asleep than awake, Tracks can certainly be forgiven for panicking. Spike is out like a shot, catching his father in a tight hug while Raoul hups himself into the back of the truck.
For a moment his processor threatens to meltdown at the mere thought of going out into the sun looking as hideous as he does, but it’s not as if Raoul can lift it all by himself. Then Beachcomber is there, rolling out of a transform covered in debris and organics, just like always, and it’s enough to encourage him out of the door, ready to face the music.
Raoul turns to him, lit up by the sun and perfectly rumpled, soft and tired and Tracks just wants to scoop him up and tuck him away which is an entirely normal reaction to have about one's friends. “Help me get this to the workshop, huh big guy?”
The workshop is, in a word, chaotic, just like any space that Wheeljack is allowed to run rampant in. It’s not ideal for delicate detail work, but– Tracks glances at his arm and suppresses a shudder, if only because Raoul would feel it. There’s nothing delicate about the absolute abomination that is the current state of his arm. Still, with a ridiculous mix of chemicals, scrap metal, and explosives littering the room, he’s loath to set Raoul down.
Instead he winds up with his hum– friend sitting in his servo, looking up at him with a calculating look on his face. Technically there’s a perfectly serviceable table in the corner, but Tracks doesn’t want to put him down whatsoever. After all, the table is crowded with the containers of paint he brought, and who even knows what all Wheeljack has spilled on there that could be deadly to humans! It’s safer to just keep holding Raoul, certainly. But as for the implications, implications that he has been trying to avoid…
Raoul seems entirely unaware of his internal struggle, looking around before shrugging and pulling out his tools. “Yeah, alright, this works. You wanna bring me over to your arm, big guy?”
Well, slag. Thoroughly stuck in a prison of his own making, Tracks does as he’s told, carefully tucking his arm up against his chassis to get Raoul close enough to reach the absolute atrocity of an entire chord of taking suggestions. Never again. Not a single optic for beauty and the fine things in life out of the entire army, honestly, not even Mirage– Tracks shakes himself out of his thought process as soon as he feels Raoul’s hands tracing over his plating.
There’s an out-of-focus, foggy sort of look to his eyes that worries him. “Raoul, do you need to rest before this? It’s hardly an emergency,” –so long as he can avoid everyone in the Ark for another cycle or so– “so please, if you need to rest..?”
He shakes his head, still looking distant as he flicks a hand in irritation. “I ain’t gonna mess up your finish just ‘cause I’m tired, Big Blue, I promise.”
“That’s not my worry–”
“–I’ll need to sand down your arm in a few places ‘cause of the corrosion,” Raoul huffs, plowing right through Tracks’ concerns, “may as well sand down the whole area so it’s even, I know that matters to you.”
Not wrong, but also not the much more concerning matter at hand. “All of which you can do after a nap at the very least.”
A power sander flicks on, loud enough that he won’t be able to hear Raoul over it and it shouldn’t be anything but irritating that his concerns are being so ignored, but Tracks can’t deny how nice it feels to be the sole focus of his human’s attention. Even if his human ought to be resting. Regretfully it’s far too easy for that to fall out of Tracks’ processor as Raoul sands down the old, corroded paint and the mess the others had made of his arm, following it up with a careful wipe-down and a quick buffing that is entirely unnecessary but…very nice. All of it feels nice, to be cared for and made to look his best after the absolute nightmare of a chord he's had. He loses himself to the pleasant sensation and gentle care easily up until everything stops.
Raoul is staring off into the distance, different tools in his hands and a little bit ruddy in the cheeks, and that is it, Tracks is about to insist he rest in a bed until he speaks. “Guess I shoulda had you sit on the floor and I coulda sat on the table,” he mumbles, looking more and more embarrassed by the klik, “but it seemed fucked up to make you sit on the floor.”
You, he stressed, like there was something wrong specifically about the idea of Tracks on the ground over anyone else.
“This works better, I think,” Tracks offers, hurling all of his concerns out the window because the thought of putting Raoul down is far too much right now. It’s selfish, but– “It gives you a better angle to work from.”
His human nods along, running a hand over his face before picking up his paint gun and fiddling with the canisters. “I brought my brush set along too, but I didn’t think you’d like brush marks. Still, if this is too much tell me, yeah?”
No matter how much he trusts Raoul –with his finish, his detailing, his interior, his very frame– Tracks can’t keep himself from sucking in a quick vent, fighting not to flinch as paint is slowly, carefully applied to his arm. It’s a sensation that he never thought he could come to dread, but after the chord he’s had– he’s over it, at least a bit.
“Whaddya think?”
Tracks gives himself another few nanokliks before looking back down at his arm, bracing for disappointment that he will absolutely not let Raoul see. But what he finds is like nothing he’s ever seen on any planet other than Cybertron. Just the right depth of color, a subtle sheen to it that will look dazzling in the light, a blue neither too cold nor too warm. It’s– “Perfect.”
Raoul shoves a hand through his hair, looking to the side and going just barely visibly pink. “It’s not there just yet, I still need to work on the pigments–”
“Raoul. It’s perfect.”
His human is staring at him, mouth agape –not the most attractive expression in general, but on him– and looking just a little bit vulnerable. Then he huffs, rolls his shoulders, and ducks his head.
“Okay,” he grumbles, the voice he puts on when he’s trying to act tough and unbothered which is just unfairly adorable, “good thing I brought the rest of it with me then, huh?”
This is fine. It’s all totally fine. Tracks loves the paint, called it perfect, Tracks is holding him while he paints over whatever the hell slop job someone else laid down, he can fit in one of Tracks’ hands and it’s fine, everything is fine, Raoul is fine. He can be normal about this. Fuck, he hasn’t even been spraying paint for at least a minute straight now and he needs to get back to it, but he can’t get ‘it’s perfect’ out of his damn head for long enough to act right. It’s impossible not to glance at Tracks' face, looking at flawless metal skin and a gorgeous deep red and it’s unfair for someone to look that hot while being so entirely out of his league.
Big gold eyes suddenly fill his vision and Raoul almost jerks back hard enough to topple out of Tracks’ hand. Fuck, fuck, he absolutely caught him staring like an absolute creep–
“What are you looking at, Raoul?” Tracks asks, voice quick and panicked, “Is there something wrong with my face?! Did that disgusting creature discolor me there too?!?”
Dammit all. Tracks’s had a shittyass week and here he is just making it worse. All he needs to do is tell him no, his face looks just as gorgeous as always, but instead Raoul finds himself reaching out and resting a hand against Tracks’ cheek. The look of surprise in those gorgeous eyes almost makes him do something very stupid.
“Raoul..?”
Reassure him. Let him go. “Sorry, lemme just– turn your head, lemme make sure.” Dammit.
Tracks tilts his head without even questioning it and this was a mistake, this was such a fucking mistake, he’s so goddamn pretty and Raoul’s got no clue how he’s gonna get through the rest of this fix with him being so gorgeous and right next to him. Tracks bites his lower lip, looking nervous, and he damn near jumps out of his hand to kiss him.
Raoul probably would’ve done it too if he hadn’t started talking. “So? Do you see anything? Do you think it’s permanent damage?”
The only thing he can see right now is the way Tracks’ teeth dig into his lip, the only thought in his mind figuring out how the hell he could kiss those lips before just getting tossed for being a creep. Then all of a sudden he’s moving closer, bracing his hands on Tracks’ fingers as he’s brought in tight enough against his frame to feel his spark turn.
They're inches from each other's faces and Tracks is looking at him with his pretty golden eyes gone all molten and soft and Raoul's still not sure how a kiss would work between them but he's more than eager to find out even if he gets tossed or dropped or sent away. Just one kiss, just one. A light touch brushes against his cheek, Tracks pulling his hand back so carefully and looking at him all gentle concern.
Fuck but Raoul could get lost in him and never once regret it. “Tracks, I…”
Something slams through the door and Raoul jerks back with a startled curse, overbalances, and falls. Tracks catches him before he can hit the floor, Raoul's back hitting his hand with a solid impact that's gonna ache tomorrow, but it's better than landing on the floor and breaking something. Like his neck.
One of the dinobots is upside down in front of them, looking almost apologetic. “Me sorry ruin you moment.”
Raoul rests his head on Tracks' shoulder and tries to calm down his pounding heart, which feels impossible with all the adrenaline racing through his system. A large finger gently strokes up and down his back, a grounding touch, and he leans back into it. There's a bit of a shake to it, like Tracks was just as scared as he was, and Raoul squeezes the finger nearest to him in a way he hopes is comforting.
“Wasn’t a moment,” he manages to spit out, his voice cracking an embarrassing amount of times but dammit his heart’s still trying to beat out of his ribs, “just…trying to concentrate on getting the paint right.”
Even upside-down Raoul can tell the ‘bot –Slag he’s pretty sure– is looking between the paint gun with its blue-filled cartridge and Tracks’ very red and not blue face. “Okay.”
He’s not gonna yell at a kid even if that kid is a giant metal dinosaur that probably weighs twenty tons at least and sounds more skeptical than even the Doc himself would’ve managed. He’s also not gonna yell at him as Tracks finally sets him down on the table, even though he immediately misses the warmth of his hands.
“Let me guess,” Tracks sighs, already rubbing his forehead in frustration, “you were charging with your brothers, miscalculated, and now you’re stuck.”
The dinobot kicks his legs in frustration, huffing and snorting like a bull. “Me Slag no stuck.”
“Oh no?”
“No. Me Slag just…” Slag trails off, kicking his feet again and wriggling as hard as he can before giving up with a sigh. “stuck.”
Tracks huffs a quiet laugh, and then just like that he’s lifting an entire massive fucking dinosaur out of the floor like it's nothing, carefully righting him with a brief shake of his helm. “Try not to turn the Ark into a race track next time.”
From his spot on the table and only half paying attention to what the mechs in the room are doing, he notices a bit of Tracks' paint on his back that's barely even discolored, but just different enough that Raoul can tell. Most mechs wouldn't bother with how barely visible it is, but Tracks…
“Hey Big Blue, once we're done with your arm I see a spot on your back that might need touching up too.”
Tracks immediately tries to turn and see it as Slag lumbers off, Raoul helpfully holding up his mirror as he does. “Can I trust no one?!” his main machine wails, absolutely distraught, “How long has that been discolored for?”
Raoul means to reassure him, wants to point out that he didn’t see it on his most recent visit, so at least it hasn’t been months, but it’s like all the words have left his head. Instead he collapses back on the table and drags an arm over his eyes because who paints a ceiling that color orange, even if it is on a spaceship. He's just suddenly so tired.
Footsteps cross the room, as quiet as they can be while also being metal on metal. “Raoul..?”
He pushes himself right back up, slapping his cheeks as he goes. “Yep, I’m good. C’mere, I’ll finish that last bit on your arm and then we can go to your back while that first coat dries.”
Tracks carefully picks him up with both hands, cradling him close to his chest like he wants to put him in that weird pocket thing he has and Raoul should probably take an issue that, any normal person would, but fuck it sounds nice. “That can wait. You need rest.”
Figures this’d be the one time his main machine decides he cares more about something other than his paint job. “S’not like I have a room here, Tracks.”
He does according to Sparkplug, a nice room in the human quarters near the end of the Ark, but that's not the point. Tracks is uncomfortable and he's gonna stay uncomfortable until he looks perfect again and that bothers Raoul more than anything else but it’s not like he can just say it. Tracks makes some kinda noise back at him, an engine rev or a disgruntled crackle in his vocalizer, he can’t really pay attention to the difference in sound quality running on maybe five hours of sleep in the last forty-two.
Whatever it is, what it means is Tracks simply transforming around him in a way that's almost dizzying, until suddenly Raoul is tucked comfortably inside his interior. The seats move into something far more bed shaped, the fabric going from luxurious leather to something almost ridiculously soft which really isn’t fair.
“Tracks,” he mumbles, trying to sound irritated instead of just exhausted, “c’mon man, gotta finish touching you up.”
“Later,” Tracks murmurs, chiding and just a little worried. “Sleep now.”
Raoul rolls over, intending to keep arguing, and is out like a light.