Outside the Lennox family house sits a formidable guard, occupying himself with the important task of weaponry maintenance. Every now and then his focus shifts to the bedroom window closest to him, peeking inside to check on the little girl who rests so peacefully.
The brisk evening air dances around Ironhide's frame, the nip of winters chill teasing at his frame. It provides a familiar comfort to him, yet at the same time it only deepens the ache of sorrow and longing in his spark. A feeling he is desperately trying to push to the back of his mind yet it grows increasingly difficult to do so, no matter how hard he tries to focus on accessing the core of his plasma cannon. The stars in the sky are covered by a thick blanket of cloud, heavy and threatening to let go of their cargo at any moment.
It isn’t very often the weaponsmith has to change out the cores of his cannons, but every time he does it’s always the plasma cannon that gives him grief and at this present moment it is very much not appreciated. Especially when part of the latching mechanism slices open his pointer digit as it comes undone. It takes all of Ironhide's might not to throw the spent core into the nearest empty field as he removes it from the cannon. Frustrated growl rumbling deep from within his frame as bead of energon drip down his servo. Yet he perseveres, inserting the new core and latching it in place, his energon smearing over the mechanisms as everything locks into place.
It’s not the first time he's injured himself while maintaining a weapon, in fact he's lost count of how many times its happened. But he will never get used to the fact there isn't a tiny medic rushing over to chastise him for hurting himself or to fuss over him even at the most insignificant of injuries. Her not being here hurts him far more than any injury ever could. At least the pain for wounds go away as they heal, yet this never fades in fact it only hurts more as time goes on.
If she were here right now she wouldn't of hesitated grabbing a hold of his injured servo. No matter how many times she did so, he would always marvel at the strength those little servos of hers possessed as he watched her inspect the wound. But then she'd get that little excited look on her face, her optics unable to hide her joy and instantly he'd know she'd have to give him stitches. He's still not certain as to why that always got her so excited but then again he couldn't help but fall more in love with her as he watched her become so deeply engrossed in sewing his wounds shut.
But the thing he has to miss the most about her taking care of him isn't her looking after his wounds, nor her being completely engrossed in taking care of him. It’s the way she would always habitually kiss him once she finished patching him up. Primus how he missed her kisses, how the cold from them always lingered long after she had pulled away.
Reaching into his subspace, the weaponsmith rummages around trying to find a clean rag to clean himself up with, the wound being nothing more than a simple nick on a minor fuel lines, his self-repair system would take care of the rest. However it isn't the only item that he retrieves, the rag being caught on a long metal rod. At first the weaponsmith doesn't notice, too occupied with mopping up the energon from his servo. But then the pole drops to the ground below, clanging against the gravel.
Ironhide winces, peeking into Annabelle's room to see her still firmly asleep in her bed. Thank Primus that noise didn't wake the youngster up. His attention quickly turns to the metal rod on the ground, picking it up and inspecting it to make sure it hadn’t received any damage. Large digits run across the grooves within the metal, he remembers vividly carving out each and every one of them, taking his time to make sure the patterns matched and were equally spaced. It was one of his favourite projects, one that he poured countless hours and rechargeless nights into because it had to be perfect. And it was. This was more than just a weapon; more than just an intricately designed staff. It was the beginning of the courting process between him and Wild.
At the time it was meant to be purely decorative, yet functional. But when the war started and she got relocated to Uraya it was her method of defence should she need it and it served her well, she’d even saved his life multiple times while wielding it.
The weaponsmith had hoped by keeping the weapon with him, he’d one day be reunited with her; being able to return the gift to her possession and continue their courting process. But as the years turned to millennia his hope of being reunited with Wild began to dwindle. With the dying of Cybertron and the search for the Allspark sending them from galaxy to galaxy Ironhide had to come to terms with the harsh reality that Wild had become one of the many billions of Cybertronians that had been killed in action. The feeling of dread and pain he felt the day he found the staff amongst the charred remains of what was her hospital unit haunts him even now. It is an ache that resonates within his spark along with many different scenarios and ‘what ifs’.
What if he had been there with her? Would he have been able to keep her safe? Why did he have to follow the order and send her away? Was it his fault she was killed?
Yet it wasn’t until he finally had chance to take reprieve from the war, settling down and living with the Lennox’s that he truly had time to think about the grief he had so desperately pushed to the back of his mind. The seeds of them had been planted long ago, slowly growing and spreading until the day they finally came to fruit but now he could no longer ignore them.
The weaponsmith is so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't hear the car pull up beside him. Nor does he hear the people inside it get out and approach him, calling his designation. “Ironhide.”
No answer.
The couple call out again. “Ironhide.”
Still no answer.
Will and Sarah look at one another, confused as to what has the weaponsmith so engrossed. “Go check on Anna.” Sarah instructs to her husband before walking over to the Autobot. Gently she pats him on the leg, calling out to him again. “Ironhide? Something on your mind?”
Something feels off, there is an aura of melancholy that fills the air. So much of it that its tangible.
Ironhide remains silent, now aware that Sarah is there yet unsure as to whether he wants to answer her question.
Sarah moves to take a seat on the ground close to the weaponsmith. She doesn't push him for an answer, instead simply opting to give him some company. After many years being married to Will she's learnt that when a soldier is resting; not actively thinking about how to survive a warzone their mind has time to truly wonder, for the heavy burdens they carry on the conscience to finally take its toll. It seems that also applies to soldiers of alien races too.
When Will first brought Ironhide home, Sarah wasn't sure what to think. Who in their right mind would when their husband brings home a giant transforming alien robot? But now Ironhide isn't simply just an alien robot who guards their home and family. He is family.
Sarah is happy to admit she's grown rather fond of the big grump and he absolutely dotes on Annabelle as if she were his own flesh and blood so to speak. So with him being more grumpy than usual and by more she means downright miserable it makes her heart ache. She cannot comprehend what burdens weight heavily on the shoulders of a 17 million year old soldier, but she'll be damned if she doesn't try.
Sarah's gaze moves to look at where Ironhide's is fixated, looking over the staff in his servos. It’s pretty, the intricate patterns must have taken a lot of patience to create. This is definitely not something she’s seen before and she can’t help but note the size of it doesn’t really seem to match Ironhide; it’s too small, too dainty almost feminine.
Ironhide turns his helm slightly to look down at Sarah, taking note of her seeing the staff.
For a few moments he simply runs his digits over the patterned grooves. Until finally he answers. "Someone."
“Hmm?” Sarah hums, having been lost in thought herself.
"You asked me if I was thinking about something. Not something. Someone." Ironhide quietly admits. Part of him can't believe he even admitted that, he's never broached the topic to anyone, not even those he's closest too. The weaponsmith isn't even sure how to talk about it, he doesn't know what words to say. Instead his mind races with 5 million years of thoughts, the burden he has been tasked to bear and it has never felt heavier.
But for the first time since he lost her, he finally feels safe enough to talk about her. Yet he knows by doing so he has to accept the fact she’s really gone. The look that he gives Sarah is enough to tell her just how much this someone means to the weaponsmith. It’s a look she herself felt when she thought Will had been killed in the SOCCENT attack last year.
Sarah moves closer to him so she can reassuringly rub at part of his leg. it's not quite the same as rubbing someone's back when they're upset. But it’s a sentiment that Ironhide appreciates none the less.
"Tell me about them. Your someone." Sarah prompts, knowing that by sharing the burden she may be able to atleast lift some of that weight of Ironhide’s shoulders.
"Where do I even begin?" Ironhide asks, his voice threatening to break.
“At the beginning. Tell me everything?”
As if by divine intervention the clouds open as the chill in the air grows. One by one snowflakes begin their descent, dancing in the wind.
Sarah lets out a little gasp, snow certainly wasn’t forecast. It was supposed to rain.
Snowflake after snowflake comes to settle on Ironhide’s frame. Any other time and he would have quickly shook them off and headed for the comfort of warmth, but not tonight. He remains firmly planted on the ground outside, letting them find home on his frame. It seems even now Wild is looking after him. He takes that as his sign that everything will be ok.
Sarah can’t help but notice the small smile on Ironhide’s face.
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