Acee-- Of your fav gays <3

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They're laying together, cuddling. They both needed it. There's been a report of decepticon activity, after so long of peace. He knew it wouldn't last of course, but seeing the distressed look on his love's face still stabbed through his spark.

They didn't leave the base today. Even if the island was safe, it's still better safe than sorry.

Barricade was the most insistent on staying inside. Sometimes he wonders if his protectiveness is too overbearing, too insistent, if he's becoming suffocating to them, just a bit too much like-

...

The day was shitty anyways, the clouds saying 'It's gonna rain and it's gonna rain hard' so clearly that even the dumbest of humans would've gotten the message.

So here they were, in their room. Together. Close. Safe.

Bumblebee was with the triplets, playing. Not having him with them admittedly gave him way more stress than it should've (overbearing, overshadowing-), but at least he knew he was safe with the other sparkling's parent close (not like his own, he could trust Ironhide).

Ironhide became something of a safe space for him. Another parent, experienced one, that he could rely on for advice. (Of course he needs advice, he'd never do it on his own.)

Life was good. Stressful, sure. But good.

(You'll destroy them soon, just like you destroy everything around you.)

(Remember, why is it that Bumblebee doesn't have a grandcarrier again?-)

He hates the quiet. It makes his thoughts way too loud.

He glanced around. Steve's hands are unoccupied, holding him close (they could be doing so much better things than staying busy with him-), so he reaches out and squeezes.

Steve's hands are warm. He feels it against the coldness of his own ones. But besides that, there's one more thing.

"Your hands are soft."

He's not sure why he even mentions it. Why all of a sudden the thought comes to his mind. But once it does, Barricade can't get it out of his head.

Steve's hands are soft. So unlike his own.

His are calloused, mangled. Scarred. The skin is hard and raspy from years of use, of pulling the trigger and gripping blades. Of years of hard training, of having it scratched off again and again.

His fingers are ugly, nails weak and untaken care of. There's white, sickly blotches on them that definitely mean he's got some kind of deficiency in his systems in bot mode that he doesn't even care to find out right now. One of his joints is broken and regrown incorrectly, leaving the whole thing a disgusting, disfigured mess.

Honestly, his hands should be in a museum somewhere, an example of how healthy limbs shouldn't look like.

Steve's meanwhile? His are just so. So not like his own. So-

So soft, Barricade muses again, his ugly, scarred, hardened from years of war fingers ghostly touching the other's.

There's no scars, not even the littlest of ones upon his partner's skin. It's nice, pretty. For some reason, the beantoes the base cats have come to mind as Barricade softly kneads the inside of Steve's hand, how soft and squishy it is.

It's nice. It gives him comfort that his love, no matter how hard his life was before, at least had the luxury of not having his hands destroyed too.

"...I like it." He does indeed like that fact. Love it even. "...I love ya, Steve."

"Mmh." Steve hummed, unaware of the turmoil currently plaguing his partner, but all the same happy to be close to him. "I love you too."

What did he do to deserve him again?

"....your hand is cold, thou." Steve speaks again, squeezing Barricade's hand gently. "Are you cold?"

"Hm?- No, no, 'm not, don't worry baby. My hands are just... they've always been cold."

Now that he thinks about it, he is a little cold. But there's no need to worry Steve about it.

"Mh." Steve just hums again, and before Barricade knows it, suddenly he's on his side, cuddled close to the other's chest while Steve grabs the blanket and covers them both, taking great care to tuck him in.

"Wha- Oh come on!" He struggles but not really, perfectly content against the other's warm embrace. "Why ask me at all if ya won't listen?"

"Because you never say when you need something." Steve states like it's a matter of fact which, first of all, rude, second, when did the other figure him out so well?

"...little fragger..." Barricade grumbles quietly, despite his actions telling a different story as he cuddles closer to the other, and as said other only laughs, embracing him closer.

Steve is warm. Not like laserfire of his weapons, not the flames of his cigarrettes. He's not overwhelming, suffocating. He's a gentle warmth, like the fire in a fireplace, like the water in their bathtub, like a hot beverage on a cold day. Soft, like the skin on his hands. Loving despite all of Barricade's flaws.

Barricade is broken and cold. He's bitter and rough, destroyed beyond repair. Some days, he still doesn't understand what Steve sees in him for him to care so much. Deep down, he knows Steve is much stronger than he'll ever be. Softness against his harshness. Warmth against his chill.

Though right now, he's not as cold. Maybe, he could say he's warm, even.

He smiles, just a little. Gentle, like Steve is. Soft, like how Steve is.

Warm. Just like Steve is warm.

He much prefers the warmth over his own harsh cold.

(He doesn't even realize in which moment exactly he's stopped talking about the temperature. Maybe it's for the better.)

(The nice, warm feeling in his spark, felt even while in holoform, certainly says as much.)