I'm frozen where I stand. My feet won't move, my hands are shaking, and it feels like I've been put on a rollercoaster that is never going to end.

The lights in here are even hotter than the lights in the corridor, and I feel a cold sweat clam up on my neck. I take a deep breath. In through my nose, out through the mouth. They are both still staring at me. I should say something. Tell them why I'm here. Say I need Ratchet. But it's like words are new to me and I haven't spoken a day in my life.

Ironhide says, "Is everything alright?"

He looks scared. I don't know if it's because I'm seeing him as he is now or if it's because I'm in the hangar this late at night.

His voice is different from his human disguise. There's a metallic echo in it, the same way that Barricade and Starscream talked. His doesn't lack warmth though--doesn't send chills down my spine.

I can only nod. Dread has encased me. I never thought about what I would do if I saw him.

Ratchet was supposed to be in here, and I was supposed to tell him everything, but he's off somewhere else, and now the purple Cybertronian is wheeling herself over to me, looming above me, not as tall as Ironhide's form, but still towering.

Her eyes are bright and hardened, but she does not look mean. She grins, in the way I assume that Cybertronians grin, and says, "Of course, everything is well. 'Hide, you're so tense. Calm down."

"Why else would she be visiting?" Ironhide grunts, and that feels familiar, the sound pushing itself out of his chest the way it normally does. "If not to inform us of worries. Eleanor, what has happened?"

His question is lost on me. I am starstruck from the giant female bot in front of me. There's a blossoming in my chest, like lava running down a volcano, and I can hear Cliffjumper muttering in Cybertronian in my head.

Not an apparition. She's alive.

His longing claws at my throat until my left eye is crying tears, but no sobs escape me. I am just crying out of one eye, staring at her with wonder and amazement, perhaps so dumbstruck that she must think me ill.

". . . should get Ratchet in here," her silky voice says, and Cliffjumper hangs onto that, forces memory after memory upon me until I want to take her into my own arms despite being half her size.

"Please don't," I plead, clenching my hands together until the blunt of my nails digs into my flesh, grounding me. I inhale sharply, pushing Cliffjumper away until he's faint, until I can focus on my heartbeat rather than his river of memories. "I'm fine. I'm okay. I just--"

"Need a moment?" she asks, a bit harshly, like seeing her is disgusting. Like I'm crying from hatred.

But how do I tell her that's not it? How do I tell her that I'm crying because Cliffjumper has so much love in him that it's leaking into me? That I find her beautiful like a piece of amber reflecting in the sunlight? That the memories of her are so pronounced that I crave a life--a love--so consuming that it follows me even in the most perilous times?

The only thing I can say is, "You are as beautiful as the brightest sun, my spark, and I'm beside myself because of it."

And that's wrong because she's not my spark. The words aren't even said in English, and it shows on her face, the way the metal slates harden, her eyes closing off.

Still beautiful, Cliffjumper says, but I shut him off completely because his slip up, his overindulging has probably cost us everything.

"What did you just say to me?" she asks, coming close. Her voice is hard, but there's a hint of desperation in it, longing like Cliffjumper's voice. "Repeat it. Now."

I swallow. I can't repeat it, even if it means she might hurt me. I won't. I will not give them any reason to suspect anything until I speak with Ratchet. I will get the truth from Cliffjumper and give it to Ratchet, and then this will all be over and hopefully my mind will be my own again.

"Repeat it!" she snaps, bending down, meeting my eyes, a fire burning in hers. "What did you say, you foolish human?"

"Chromia." Ironhide's footsteps are loud, echoing across the room. He is in his Cybertronian form still, and he towers over Chromia. My neck hurts looking up at him. "Enough. Now." The deep baritone of it snaps Chromia out of her stupor, her eyes dimming as she flinches slightly.

"I had not meant," she starts, glancing at me, but I shy away because I am guilty and embarrassed, and I just want to go back to my room. "My apologies. Perhaps you did not understand what words escaped your mouth. That is my mistake, to think otherwise."

"Yes. It is," Ironhide says sharply. Chromia turns to look at him, and there's a moment of heaviness where they just stare at one another, before Chromia looks away, her eyes rolling. Her eyes are still sad, and my heart breaks for her because if Cliffjumper thought she was gone, then that must mean that she thinks he's dead as well. "I think our conversation can be saved for another time. You need to get some rest, anyway. Leave us."

"Your wish is my command."

The expression on her face when she bids me a goodnight is condemning, and I bite my lip so hard that I draw blood to refrain from telling her that her concerns are correct--that Cliffjumper is alive. I can only nod once, saying a quiet farewell, before she rushes past me. The noise that she makes when she transforms is different from Starscream's, but it makes me flinch anyway. I do not look back to see where she went.

A moment passes before Ironhide says, "I am positive you did not come here to see me, so what are your concerns, Eleanor? Do you not require Ratchet?"

It is hard to look at him and see him as who he is rather than what I thought he was. He wasn't a person who showed his emotions, not at first, but it got easier to read him over time. To see the cracks in the cement. Now, it's like staring at a different person. I don't know how to read this Ron--this Ironhide robot. I don't know if that's sadness or worry on his face. Apprehension or concern.

"I--where is Ratchet?" I ask.

Ironhide--it's easier to address him by Ironhide when he's wearing the face of him--says, "He is currently recharging. Or as the humans call it--"

"Sleeping," I reply, nodding. "I see. What are you doing?" I glance at the giant table where he was working, then back up at him, wishing there was a way I could be eye level with him.

"Working on a new weapon," he responds, then pauses. "Would you like to join me?"

I wouldn't. Not really. But the longing from earlier still resides in me, burrowing so deep into me that I know it can't be Cliffjumper, especially since he's not present. I have missed Ron and Ironhide is Ron in every sense of the word. He is the human Ron. And he is the Cybertronian Ironhide, and he is extending a form of peace when I have been nothing but vengeful towards him.

"Won't it be dangerous?" I ask, feeling warm with anticipation.

Ironhide stares down at me, then bends down, holding his giant hand out for me. His tone is the calmest, yet it feels like electricity as he says, "I would never hurt you, Eleanor."

The not intentionally is unspoken, but it's said in the softness of his robotic eyes. When he breaks off the handcuffs with a swipe of a finger, I shakily climb into his palm, the metal smooth against my hands.

"Are you okay?" he questions as I get settled.

"Y-Yeah." I nod, swallowing, and I try to be optimistic. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt because he has never hurt me. Not intentionally.

Ironhide lifts his palm, slowly so as not to rattle me, and I hold onto his finger, feeling hopeful for the first time since I was rescued.

✦

The space between Ironhide and I does not shrink the unease swirling in me. Graciously, Ironhide helped me onto a ledge where I sat with my legs dangling off. From this point, I can see where the light hits every point of the weapon--can see the dents and chipped paint. I can watch Ironhide's hands move deftly over it, holding tools that look like the weapons we have on Earth, but feel so separate. Different.

It is quiet.

Has been, for the past few minutes.

I don't really know what to say. What can someone say to someone who they thought was human but isn't? What can be done? There's a giant elephant in the room, and it's sitting on my lungs, making it harder to breathe, harder to form a thought or a sentence.

I want to say something. Mainly, I would like to know why. Why did he do what he did? Why keep it from me? If I had known from the beginning, would I have gotten close with him? Would I have let him consume my every waking moment? Would I still have felt secure when I was with him?

The problem is I don't know. My mind says that I wouldn't have gotten close. It tells me that there was no way I would care for something that ruined my life, that was part of the problem despite not being there when my world turned upside down.

But if I follow that path, if I let myself resent Ron--Ironhide--for what he did, something grows inside. It's big and black and hollow, and it's bigger than the hole Theo's death left behind.

I sigh. My eyes trail over his face. He's concentrated, the metal slabs that he might call eyebrows pinched together as he hammers something into the gun. His body is painted black with silver chrome whirring as gears on him turn. His hands are big enough to carry me, and for a moment, they remind me of Starcream's giant palm, but I shake the thought away, swallowing thickly.

"Is there something troubling you?" Ironhide asks. When he glances at me, I flinch away from him without thinking. There's a frown on his metal face when I get the courage to look at him again. "I was merely curious. You keep sighing."

"Sorry," I say, running a hand through my head. In my mind, I beg for Cliffjumper's input, for anything that might help me with this conversation. He knew Ratchet, so he must know Ironhide, too. How am I supposed to act? Even though I know Ron is Ironhide and Ironhide is Ron, it feels like I'm meeting a new person. "Just have a lot on my mind, I guess. Sorry."

"You needn't apologize," he says quietly, and I watch him speak, bewitched. Words from Cybertronians are not said with grace but shouted and screamed. Hissed. The softness is new. "Perhaps I should have allowed you to retire to your room. You seemed preoccupied when you entered. Do you still require Ratchet's help?"

"Ah." I had completely forgotten about needing to talk to the medic. I shake my head. There's no point if Cliffjumper's silent. "Not right now. Maybe when he wakes up."

Ironhide nods with a grunt, peering at me for a moment. I stare at the blue optics--Starscream calls them optics--and there's that swoop, almost as though I've fallen off the edge of the platform. I press the heels of my hands into my thighs, swatting the emotion away. There's no way.

But it taunts me. The nagging, aching feeling of comfort and warmth and warm lips on mine taunts me. It wraps itself around my heart, presses forward until it's banging against my mind and it's the only thing I can think of. Ron's lips which aren't Ron's lips but Ironhide the Cybertronian's.

"If you are certain," he says, then it is silent once more. He clanks away on his weapon, and I think and worry and wonder how I can tell him what I need to.

I pick at my nails. Moments later, with as much nonchalance that I can muster, I say, "Starscream mentioned something, when I was with him and Barricade. When they were doing--whatever."

"Did he?" Ironhide asks shortly. He does not glance at me nor prompt any further, like he's not too sure if him doing so will result in reprimands or information.

"Yeah. He said that your names meant something." I press my hand into the cool metal underneath me, clenching my eyes closed. The memory is not a fond one, but it is one that I held onto and I suppose it is for this very reason. "He said that they are picked for you at a. . . at a certain age? I think. I think he said that. Or he said that they were given to you by your Creator? Creator--" I think back on it, testing the word in my mind. "Parent?"

"No, you are correct," Ironhide agrees, and when I turn to him, his gaze is surprised if a bit scared. "It is Creator. We are not born with separate parents, usually. Cybertronians tend to have one Creator."

"Oh." I tuck my head between my knees. My eyes are locked onto his expression, the openly surprised--almost curious gaze. He turns first, so I continue, "That's--well, that's birth, I guess."

"Creation, one would call it," he replies, and his mouth (or what I suspect would be his mouth) tilts a fraction. "Why did Starscream divulge this information to you?"

I shrug. "Boredom. I don't know. He talked a lot. I mean like monologuing all the time. Twenty-four seven. He would not take a break. I think Cade--Barricade, I mean--got tired of him most of the time, but I had to endure him going into detail constantly." Ugh. Thinking about it makes my head ache. Most of it I have no recollection of, and I doubt I ever will, but the sensation of being suspended with his grating voice the only thing to keep me company is enough to give me shivers. "He liked to talk about all the ways that Cybertronians--Decepticons in his case--were superior to humans and one of those ways is because their names had meanings."

We are more advanced than you will ever be. Do you even know what the name Starscream means?

Starscream would ask it like there was an answer, like I knew their culture just because they burned my insides out and opened up my skull and put something funny in it. Like because he forced the language into my mind that I would know everything else.

But I thought about it, when I wasn't unconscious or dazed or shaking or screaming. When there was a moment of peace, of silence, I thought of the name Starscream, and then I kept thinking, and I didn't think of it then, the meaning behind what he said, but I remember it now--remember when I told Ironhide to his face that his name was foolish, meaningless.

"Because certain names have more meaning than others does not dictate whether a species is stronger than another," Ironhide says swiftly, shaking his head. "Starscream is obsessed with humans simply for the fact that he feels entitled--superior, especially since his leader was killed by Prime."

"Oh, Megatron?" Moments of Starscream and him together fleet through my memory, shaded in silver and gold like they were the most important. Loyalty and power, Starscream showed me. It could have been mine. It would have been mine. "Yeah, Starscream showed me that death. I was. . . sad, for a little bit." I ponder over it, running a hand through my hair. "But that was probably Starscream. I think there's--" I swallow, "--I think there's a lot of Starscream in me."

And that terrifies me.

"No," Ironhide denies swiftly with the conviction of someone who doesn't want to see the truth. He stares at me once more, and it's hard looking into his robotic eyes, seeing them reflect back at me like a pool of opal. They're as hard as the gem, and he shakes his head, slamming something down on the weapon. "You are nothing like that Seeker. You are human."

"I--" I cut myself off from saying, I don't feel like that. Not anymore. There's no way to explain it, how I am teetering on edges, how I am too much but not enough. I am on the line, walking carefully, but I will teeter to one side inevitably. "There's a lot--I think he put memories in me. I don't know how, but that's not what I wanted to talk about. We're getting off topic--" I wave a hand through the air. "I wanted to say sorry, for saying that your name was like--meaningless. I didn't--they're important to you, aren't they?"

At this, Ironhide pauses, staring pensively at me before turning his head down and sighing. I scratch my arms, feeling unsure and off-center again. It's still a slap in the face to see this new face resemble the old face so easily. To be something else entirely from the human I thought I knew.

"When we are created," he says quietly, "we do not receive names. No, perhaps that is wrong--some of us do receive names from our Creators if they form a bond with their sparkling, but the majority of us do not. We are rewarded names--whether it be from bootcamp or from comrades. I did not think them to be important, but. . ." Then he glances at me again, and I feel so small under his gaze. "But I think they ground us, in their own, simple way. I have come to cherish the name that was given to me."

There it is again. Heat blooms from my sternum, spreading through my body as I stare at him. My hands fall to the metal underneath me, and I clench it, prickling with something. Something feral, wild, and familiar. Comforting. It rushes through quickly but stays there, burrowed in the most visceral parts of me, like a bear burrowing itself to hibernate for the winter.

I want to separate them--Ironhide and Ron. I want to say that it can't be true, that Ron can't be Ironhide, a human can't be a robot, but it's in the movements. It's in the gestures and the gaze that he sends me, the guarded but cracked expressions on his face that show me he's trusting me with this information. It's in the cracks in his armor, in the dents in his paint, the mannerisms. The way he shifts from one foot to the other ever so often the same way Ron does, like his legs aren't balanced or they ache or something.

It's in the way he still swims through me, a current wrapping around every part of me, like he did before. Like it doesn't matter what form he's in--he's still important to me, still warm and kind and my best friend. And it's like my body, like my heart focuses on that, on the openness in his eyes, and can only think about that.

"So, your name," I breathe out, hoping that everything I feel comes out with the breath, "what does it mean? Literally."

He thinks about it for a moment. "In simple terms, I was rewarded it because I am able to use armor that is stronger than usual Cybertronian metal. It is an incredible help on the battlefield, so I was given the name."

"By whom?"

A wry twist of his lips. He puffs a breath through the holes where his nose is supposed to be.

"Ratchet, if you will believe it," he says, placing the weapon down fully, focused intently on the conversation. The next sound he makes is a tiny, tinny laugh that shoots through every part of me like a bullet. "At first, it was mocking. We were practicing in bootcamp and while he was a great warrior, he wished to be a bot of peace rather than action. He never wished for the war. He ran into a mine, and perhaps I foolishly laughed at him; times were different, after all. He told me, 'You're the one with the Hide of Iron, you step on the mines.' After that, it just became permanent. A designation to remember me by."

"Permanent." And I mocked it. "I apologize, then. For my insults."

A giant hand waves in the air, so fast that I can feel the wind of it. "Think nothing of it, Eleanor. You were cautious, and I was unfair. I thought we had agreed to leave grievances in the past."

He levels me with a look, and I cough. "Yeah."

I don't say, What about this grievance? This lie?

It's not his fault, I try to reason. He was supposed to tell me when I returned from my trip, but