Chapter Text
Knockout was deep in recharge by the time Arcee made it to their shared quarters.
He always was.
The former Decepticon ran on Kaon cycles, which meant he treated recharge like a sacred ritual—early, uninterrupted, and preferably dramatic. Arcee, on the other servo, functioned best when Iacon’s nights were already bleeding into morning. Somewhere in the middle, they had decided sharing a berth was a good idea.
Most of the time, it was.
Tonight, she eased the door shut behind her and slipped inside with practiced stealth. Helm low, steps light, vents quiet. The berth lights were dimmed to a soft glow, and Knockout lay sprawled across far more space than any single mech reasonably needed—on his back, one arm flung over her side of the berth like he’d claimed it in his sleep.
Typical.
Arcee paused, optic narrowed. She debated shoving his arm away.
She decided against it.
Instead, she climbed onto the berth carefully, maneuvering around his long limbs and settling beside him with minimal disturbance. The mattress barely dipped.
Barely.
Two crimson optics cracked open immediately.
She froze.
“…You’re joking,” she muttered under her breath.
Knockout blinked once. Slowly. Dramatically. Then smiled.
“You breathe too loudly,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “I sensed a disturbance.”
Arcee snorted. “You were out cold.”
“I was resting my optics,” he corrected, shifting closer without even opening them fully. “There’s a difference.”
She rolled onto her side, facing him. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he replied, curling an arm around her waist, “you climbed in anyway.”
He nuzzled closer, helm brushing hers, servo warm against her plating. Arcee huffed but didn’t pull away. Her winglets relaxed as his thumb traced lazy, absent-minded circles against her side.
For a few quiet breems, they just lay there—soft servos, gentle touches, the low hum of shared recharge cycles syncing without effort.
Then Knockout shifted again.
And again.
And again.
Arcee cracked one optic open. “What are you doing?”
“Adjusting,” he said vaguely.
“You’ve adjusted four times.”
“Yes, well,” he sighed, settling his helm more firmly against her shoulder. “You’re very pointy.”
She stared at him. “I am not.”
“Darling, your winglets are actively threatening my finish.”
“They are folded.”
“One false twitch and I’ll wake up with a scratch.”
She pushed lightly at his chest. “You’re a medic. You can buff it out.”
“That’s not the point,” he said, affronted. “Preventative care.”
Arcee laughed quietly, shaking her helm. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And still,” he murmured, tightening his hold, “you haven’t moved.”
She didn’t answer—mostly because he was right.
She shifted just enough to tuck herself more comfortably against him, her helm resting beneath his chin. His vents hitched for half a klik before evening out again, optics finally closing for real this time.
“Better?” she asked softly.
“Mmm,” he hummed. “Much.”
Silence settled again—comfortable, warm, familiar.
Then—
“Arcee.”
She sighed. “What.”
“If you hog the blanket again,” he mumbled, half-asleep, “I will file a formal complaint.”
“You’re the one lying diagonally.”
“I sprawl artistically.”
She laughed, burying her face briefly against his chest plating. “Go to recharge, Knockout.”
“I am,” he said faintly. “With supervision.”
His grip loosened as sleep finally claimed him, frame relaxing fully. Arcee watched him for a moment—peaceful, ridiculous, entirely too dramatic even unconscious.
She tugged the blanket back over both of them, deliberately stealing more of it.
He didn’t wake.
Smiling to herself, she settled in, vents slowing, spark warm.
Flawless plan.