It's a sight that sends sporadic alerts across a doddery processor, warning the mech that if he got himself all riled up, he'd be susceptible to damage-worthy overheating. Tense, he clenches his already aching digits further around the arm of the chair, warping the metal slightly as he continues to stare.
"Not that I particularly care," Crankcase appears at his left, leaning against the side of the chair with his arms crossed haphazardly. "But why do you look like you're gonna kill someone?"
There is remotely little that would properly articulate his indignation, instead, he never even spares a look Crankcase's way and mulls it over. Not out of ignorance, more so that he can't tear his optics away from the side of your face, an unfamiliar feeling twinging the casing of his spark.
"I might," Spinister grumbles eventually, wracking his mind to find a solution to the unscratched itch, brow narrowing even further. "It's not a matter of if, but when,"
You'd perched yourself initially on the dash to chat with Krok, before Spinister had even checked the cockpit to see where you had wandered off to. He'd scoured the small ship, attempting to seem nonchalant and not at all in a panic, though it would present obvious regarding the latter in his hurried steps. When he'd ultimately entered the head of the ship, you'd sweetly waved his way, greeting him as he sunk himself in the chair at the rear, sending a short motion in hello right back.
Then, Misfire announced himself down the hall, before he'd even been remotely anywhere near the room, repeating your name over and over until you had erupted in a fit of laughter. Once he grandly and annoyingly does, you beckon the pink mech over, delighted to see what he had in his servos. Krok had rolled his optics and returned to his work, every now and then casting a glance your way to ensure Misfire wasn't being careless.
""Cause Misfire's all saddled up with y/n?" He'd fleetingly forgotten that Crankcase was there, interrupting his recollection with the snap of a finger. "That's actually pretty valid for you, Spin. I approve,"
And with that, he disappears, leaving the medic with his own bemused thoughts once more. You appeared vastly content, all smiles as you tucked stray locks of hair behind your ear, hovering over the item that Misfire had gifted you. Though only ten steps away or so, he can hear clearly when you tip your head backward to laugh, cheeks twinged red due to mild hysterics.
Then, Misfire puts his servo at your back, not quite touching you, but it rests just close enough on the dash that Spinister can no longer see you, blocked entirely by the mech's arm. At that, the metal of the chair actually groans in his grip, as he stands abruptly, but he is unsure as to why.
At the sudden movement, all three bodies turn to the noise, equally perplexed expressions across the board. "Something the matter?" Krok asks, but all Spinister can stare at is your face, the way the happiness is snuffed out and laced with concern instead.
"No." He answers stiffly, before turning to leave the room, the panel closing over behind him with an undignified thump.
"Sure seems like it," Misfire hums, hand on his hip, still studying the door he'd all but stormed out of. Slowly, his gaze drifts over to the chair he was previously sat in, annoyance flooding his tone effortlessly. "Son of a glitch broke the chair,"
Looking past him, you are surprised to find the clinched metal of the armrest. Scrunching your nose in thought, you precariously slide the gift from Misfire off your lap, the heavy book hitting the dash with a thud. "Is he okay?" You ask, looking toward Krok, feeling apologetic that he was so troubled, even if it was seemingly for no reason.
"He's fine." He waves you off, hardly ever moving his optics from the map, too enthralled and not entertaining the impending fight. "I think so, anyways."
Spinister doesn't reappear for a good hour or so, posture rigid as he enters the cockpit once more, immediately scanning the area for your form. He begrudgingly only finds Fulcrum and Krok, arguing about a potential job when they both pause, as if sensing his arrival.
"Are you done breaking shit?" The leader nods towards the chair, Spinister following his gesture, unimpressed. "S'not like this ship is already running on fumes,"
"Yeah, I'm good," He answers casually, hands defiantly coming to rest on his hips, blowing off the incoming interrogation. "Where's y/n?"
Fulcrum shrugs, uncertain. "Dunno. Haven't seen them for a while,"
He doesn't particularly wait for a definitive response, pivoting on one foot and heading straight out the door, trying his best to remember all of your so-called hiding spots amongst the borrowed cargo. You liked your solitude sometimes, he's come to recognize, previously fretting for cycles when he could not find you until you'd re-emerge randomly as if like you knew he was searching for you.
Your habits, while at first were inadvertently strange, the five of them adapted to you as much as you had to adjust to them. Affectionate in displaying friendliness or overall thankfulness, Spinister was the one who took the touchy mannerisms in stride. In more unfortunate scenarios, it was he you sought out for a hug because you were not feeling up to par, appreciating his contact.
But this time around, it was he who was looking for attention from you, frustrated by his earlier actions. They were mostly subconscious, he hadn't even realized how much he'd compressed the metal until it was far too late, and the unsolicited approval from Crankcase wasn't doing him any favors.
Spinister finds you in the fourth spot he typically looks, curled up against one of the windows in the bay, knees drawn to your chest with your cheek smushed against the glass. You don't necessarily look downhearted, more on the tired side, yet as he approaches closer you pull back to meet his moderately defeated countenance.
"Is this a good spot to hide from Krok?" He asks, doing something he often does, mimicking your pose as he lowers himself to the ground at your front. His chin hits his crossed arms with a familiar clank, crimson eyes meeting yours indolently, tolerantly awaiting your reply.
"It's a good spot to hide from anybody except you, apparently," You laugh, shuffling a little closer to his legs, implicating you did not mean the jest. "Y'okay? You seemed mad before,"
"I'm fine," Spinister declares, but you cannot find any insistence nor a convincing tone within it.
But you won't pry, certainly not when everything about this moment was so peaceful and comforting, and you hope it's felt both ways. You'd known him long enough that he'd eventually come around when he was ready to talk it over, and not a moment sooner.
"Alright," You reply, head tilting against the window once more, though eye contact was maintained with minor difficulty. Deciding to switch the subject so silence doesn't resound throughout the barren storage, you ask: "Are we still watching ER later?"
Spinister nods, but he isn't listening as intently as he normally does, usually hanging on every single one of your words like they were a lifeline, a beautiful smile hidden behind his face-shield. He wants to ask something of you but feels awkward doing so, even if you approach him so impassively about it.
"I think we've made it to the season finale, but I might have to fight Crankcase for the Hulu account-" You start to ramble to fill the rapidly incoming quietness, unsure if he wants the silence or wants you to fill it. To mild surprise, mostly because you hadn't expected it, he interjects.
"Can I...?" He easily crosses the small gap between the two of you, servos sitting on either side of clothed legs but not quite meeting your skin. Wordlessly, he's asking permission to touch you, and while you aren't entirely sure what he wants, you have an inkling of what it might be.
Happily, your hands find his, patting them affectionately as you nod your head in compliance, smile brimming on your lips. "Of course,"
Without any hesitation or wasting a second longer, he scoops you into his hold, cautiously raising you to his face and embracing you there, an improvised hug. His optics close, and before you can ask if he's good, he mumbles thanks.
"For what?" You whisper, appreciating his warm touch while trying to run your fingers fondly across his helm.
"Needed this." Spoken slurred, but you understand that he isn't about to crash out. He's trying to be soft-spoken, because you're so close and he knows how sensitive your hearing can be at times, a indication that goes noticed and not unrecognized.
"They're good, right?" His thumb runs up and down you're spine, gentle but unrelenting.
"Very." Spinister replies, leaning back against the wall so he could remain there as long as you'd have him, entirely in a state of solace and easement.
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