A writing session between myself and Hillside Dancing On saved and published. All of this was improv'd so don't expect any deep storyline, at all.

Nevertheless, enjoy!

It wasn't the reprimands that got to her — Optimus's gentle insistence that she notify them before any future evening drives, or Ratchet's not-so gentle reminder that she could have been ambushed — though they certainly didn't help her prickling conscience.

There was just a time and a place for humoring Smokescreen. This morning, when all she wanted was a long, hot rinse beneath the wash racks followed by whatever recharge could be claimed before her turn on patrol, was not one of those times.

"Sooo. How many was it?"

"…Come again?"

"You know!" His voice dropped conspiratorially. "Vehicons! Getting the drop on you and all that? Fought 'em without backup?" And then, when she stared blankly, "I swear, you can tell me — I've totally been there before! I know you're tough enough to handle it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Smokescreen. It's like I said; I was out near the mountains and my signal cut off. Just a mistake."

"Aww, come on, Arcee. It's kind of obvious." He ushered her near; leaned in close. "You've got paint all over you."

Confusion gave way to realization.

Realization gave way to horror.

Horror gave way to wondering how Smokescreen, who could barely be expected to see a point, could somehow manage to see those minuscule flecks of black and blue-gray paint, dotted like evening stars across her hips and thighs.

"Now that I think about it..Vheicons usually aren't that color. That almost looks like..." Smokescreen leaned in closer to Arcee to further inspect the paint. Of all the times for Smokescreen to use the advice he learned from watching the children play detective games, it had to be after the femme's little date with a Decepticon officer.

Arcee took a half step back with the weight of her pedes shifting every couple of seconds; figuring that if Smokescreen couldn't get a decent view of the paint, he wouldn't jump to any accurate conclusions.

The cadet's optics soon widened.

"That looks...kinda like...Soundwave's paint. WOAH! you fought SOUNDWAVE!?" The booming voice of the excitable mech turned some heads of the children.

"Soundwave? You took him on yourself?" Jack queried with a raised eyebrow.

Arcee raised a servo up in objection. "No, I didn't. Some of the paint colours just mixed with some energon or something."

"Are you SURE? I mean, beating down the slenderbot? That would've been pretty boss!" Miko chimed in with a slight bob to the head.

"No, I didn't even see Soundwave, much less fight him." The femme corrected. The mention of the Communications officer triggered flashback after flashback.

Metal against metal.

frame against frame.

The radiating heat from such a dark slender body. And the pleasure, oh the pleasure-filled night was one she would not soon forget.

"Did he get you with his tentacles?"

That jarred her from her thoughts in record time.

"W-what?!"

"You know!" Smokescreen flapped both hands; a swift, erratic gesture which resembled absolutely nothing. "Plug into you! Try and get into your processor?"

…What to even say to that? He hadn't — well, technically he'd gotten her several times. Wrapped her up in those feelers and plugged into an ancillary port, looping a charge that had felt like a thousand tiny glossa descending on her all at once. She'd been on the edge before they'd even began.

It was ridiculous, the ease with which he could get her going.

…Not that anyone ever needed to know that.

"Smokescreen, think about it for a nanoklik. If I had met Soundwave and he'd patched into my processor, do you really think I'd be walking in here with just a few paint scuffs?"

Thank the Allspark.

An argument that actually seemed to pacify them.

"Alright? Does everyone believe me now?"

A few scattered murmurs, all some variation of agreement.

Miko sulked against the railing and sighed several times louder than was needed. "Man, that would have been the baddest thing! Arcee and Soundwave going down together, knocking fenders out in the woods at night…"

…

Wash racks. Of course.

That's where she'd been going, and exactly what she needed right now. Hot water and stream, something other than Soundwave and needle-filled almost-smile, the stroke of his eager EM field over her own, or the way he'd felt inside her…

"Hey, Arcee?"

"…Jack."

"Are your fans supposed to turn on like that?"

"What?"

"Your fans. I can hear them from here, you alright?"

Arcee's shifting stopped, she stood still, realizing that her fans were indeed working harder to cool her interior than usual.

Arcee's optics darted slightly from side to side, thinking of a valid excuse that could pass her off. "Oh it's nothing, probably just a little hot in here."

It wasn't exactly a /lie/, it was rather warm inside of the base; or was it just her...?

"Hot? in the dead of winter? Arcee what's up with you? Every time we mention Soundwave you get more nervous than Jack." Miko retorted as she slouched in her sofa, grabbing the TV remote and casually flicking through the stations without spending a second's worth of time to check what the network was on; ignoring Raf's mutter of "Miko, just pick something".

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" The teenager turned slightly in his seat to face the asian girl. Arcee took this time to slip out of the main room to get to the wash racks while the kids were busy bickering away.

* * *
The water was hot, exactly the way she liked it; Arcee leaned back to relax further, soon jumping slightly as she heard a familiar voice speak out at her.

"...Hey 'Cee? Just...where do you go exactly?" The voice of Bulkhead questioned.

"I mean, we know you like to drive a lot, but when you come back you're tired, and you have paint on you. And When Smokescreen said it looked like Soundwave's paint I just...I'm just worried 'bout you is all. You sure you don't need any...help or anything?"

For a brief instant, Arcee almost wished she had fought Soundwave.

It would have been so much easier to explain.

But deflecting Bulkhead's concern was a world away from dealing with Smokescreen. Bulkhead was Bulkhead, all earnestness and straightforwardness and understanding her history all too well. Ofcourse he was going to make the logical connection, remembering the last time she'd been so solitary, those first precarious days following…

…

Not that she could blame him.

If she'd caught herself sneaking out all night and then returning in a state of total exhaustion, she'd worry about her too.

"…'Cee?"

And so she did the only thing that seemed acceptable when confronted with a query like that.

"I know, I know. Maybe I'll cut back on the drives a little. But I swear, getting out has been good for me. Something about the night air."

She didn't outright lie.

Bulkhead frowned. "And the paint pieces?"

No longer visible, at least. The thought was so reassuring, she could almost feel her shoulder plates relaxing.

"Bulkhead, come on. It's Smokescreen."

The former Wrecker continued to survey her carefully, quizzically and still a tad anxious, as though he thought he'd seen her slip something behind her back out of the corner of his optic. It was only when she began to really worry that he broke into a knowing chuckle.

"Heh, okay. Yeah, I see what you mean."

And just like that, they were both reassured for the time being; relieved laughter rising along with the steam. But as the last of the paint flecks rinsed clean, Arcee couldn't stop that last stray thought from darting across her neural net.

She wondered if Soundwave was missing those steel blue specks he'd left her with. If the lost pieces were gleaming silver around his pelvic plating right now.

She wondered if anyone had noticed.