Got a fic 'ere fer ya robot lovers

[swordage]

I forget how to post, bear with me here as I try to get back into DW...

Title: Shower with the lights off (can't stand my own skin)
Series: Transformers IDW/Lost Light
Rating: PG
Warnings: Trauma, self-hate, dysmorphia, therapy (I know that's a trigger for some folks but I based this on GOOD therapy I've had)
Wordcount: 2373

Honestly, bathing is hard when you can't stand to remember you exist in your own horrible body. Might as well be as disgusting on the outside as you feel on the inside.

***

Whirl hated Mandated Therapy. MT time was time that the Wreckers were cooling their heels instead of killing Cons, waiting impatiently for their latest casualty to get patched up enough to be thrown back on the field. MT time was not the same as downtime, oh no - it was always the most inconvenient, annoying, and unfortunately mandated timing. And lately it was usually Whirl.

"Your unit leader is concerned," the little orange guy said, squinting a bit at his tablet. He usually had something on his face, was it a visor? Some kinda corrective lenses. "He says he's spoken with you several times about your hygiene. Does that sound right, Whirl?"

Whirl leaned a little farther back, just to make the cheap chair creak a bit more. It might have been rated for his weight class when it was manufactured, but that time was loooooong gone. "Mmm, does calling me Axlegrease count? Because otherwise it just makes no sense, I don't even have an axle."

The shrink sighed, long-suffering, and for once it wasn't at Whirl. "I will speak with Springer about appropriate callsigns. Again. But Whirl, regular maintenance is very important. Old oil in the joints can carry particulate metal that wears-"

Whirl snapped his chair forward, rocking it into a skid that brought him uncomfortably close, making the shrink's jaw shut with a satisfying snap. "Don't," Whirl said, "lecture me."

The optic contact wasn't comfortable. Never was, really, but intimidation wasn't about comfort, now was it? The little therapist was so very breakable and Whirl was so very not. It was only a moment before the guy carefully set his stylus aside and said, "I apologize."

"I accept," Whirl said breezily, leaning back again to stare at the clock. Ten more minutes and he could leave without Springer sending him right back again. "Good talk. Same time next year?"

It was never that easy. The doc was staring at him instead of the tablet now. "Do you want to injure yourself?"

Wait, what? "That's a heck of a jump." Whirl squinted at him warily. It was also one of the Whirl Is About To Be Locked Up For A While questions that came with mental sirens and flashing lights.

"Well," the doc said, squinting back (glasses, that was it, he usually had glasses), "you are clearly aware of the reasons for regular maintenance but continue to avoid it, risking chronic injury and removal from the battlefield."

Wait, WHAT? "No one said anything about..." But they had, hadn't they? Mandated Therapy was the last call before getting kicked out for having a broken head. No one really said that, but they all knew it. "Fraggit. No. I'm not trying to hurt myself." Whirl let the chair drop back to all fours, let himself still and look serious. He knew how to sell this one. "I didn't even think of it that way. I'll work on it. I didn't realize it was this big a deal, figured it was just the usual ribbing."

Doc ate it up, nodding seriously. "I'm afraid it can be serious, and I'm concerned about the level of neglect that's been described. Is it difficult for you to bathe yourself?" Oh didn't that hit like a punch to the not-face, though the shrink had the decency to follow up with, "Many soldiers find their mods an unexpected obstacle in the washrack."

"Yeah, Impactor's left pit fraggin' stinks," Whirl had to agree. "Don't think he's ever scrubbed it in his life."

The doc made a quick note. Ha, take that, Impactor. "Is there a similar problem for you?"

"What, these?" Whirl held up his clippers, punctuating the punchline with a click or two. "You wouldn't believe the places these babies can fit." A quick Whirl Leer really drove the point home.

Little orange dude didn't even blink. "Are you able to find time to visit the washracks? If your commander is keeping you too busy, I can speak with him about your schedule."

Whirl balked a little at that. This little guy, telling Springer to be easy on Whirl? The only way that would end would be with raucous laughter and double shifts. "I got time, I guess."

"When?" The questions were just gonna keep going forever, weren't they? "Is there a typical time of day the facilities are available for you, or is it difficult to predict?"

Whirl shifted a little in his seat, uncomfortable. It creaked. "After shift change, I guess, usually. Unless there's a fight and then after that. Gotta wash all the energon off, you know?"

Nope, intimidation just wasn't doing it with this guy. Another quick note on the tablet. Whirl hated that thing. "Thank you, Whirl. I know this is a lot of prying but it helps to narrow down what barriers you're facing. Since you're willing to work on this I won't need to take you off duty -" oh he had better not, the tiny guy would absolutely not like what happened after that "- but I do have some things for you to try before I see you next."

Whirl slouched. Ugh. The homework. "Lay it on me, doc."

Little orange hands folded together neatly on top of the tablet. No more notes. Good, they were almost done, FINALLY. "I'd like you to try to bathe twice a week, but once is acceptable." Once, got it. "You may find that washing in the dark or with reduced lighting helps." ...wait, what? "Waiting for a time you know you'll be alone - mid-shift instead of immediately after shift, for example - may also help. You also don't have to do everything at once. You can try detailing one limb one day, another the next." The shrink smiled at Whirl, soft, like he thought Whirl needed reassurance. "I'll speak to Springer about the callsigns. Thank you for being so open, Whirl. I'll follow up in a month if I don't hear from you before then, alright?"

Whirl shrugged. He didn't make the schedule.

A month later, the Wreckers were waist-deep in Cons and didn't have time for any slagging follow up. But Whirl detailed once a week (at most), in the dark, mid-shift, a bit at a time, and didn't feel quite as much like tearing off his own screaming plating as he had under bright lights with half a dozen Wreckers brawling in the spray.

So it was another million years, give or take, before it really came up again as anything more than a Whirly Quirk.

Cyclonus wasn't the type to really ask if Whirl wanted to hit the washracks after a good spar, he just walked and assumed Whirl would get swept along in his wake and, well, it was a really good spar. There were definitely a few dents to pop and some scrapes where claws or horns had dug in a bit. So Whirl got swept up, and it wasn't even a thing until they stepped into the quiet echo-y mid-shift washrack and Whirl automatically reached over and smacked the lights off.

It had just been habit, so when Cyclonus snapped a quick wary look at him (fair, Whirl had definitely done the "never let your guard down" thing before, heh) Whirl bristled. Literally and figuratively, lifting his shoulder-blades and dropping his head a bit to make a bigger figure but smaller target. The say a single word I fragging dare you posture.

Cyclonus blinked, then turned away. Went over to the faucets and turned two on. In the dark.

...It was weird, having someone else there without the lights on. Felt more private. Intimate-with-an-eyebrow-waggle. Exposed, which was - that was the exact opposite of the point, great.

He slumped into the spray next to Cyclonus anyway, perfunctorily wiping still-wet energon off his stinging scrapes. Fine, he was a weirdo who washed with the lights off and now Professor Broody knew about it - who cared? The guy wasn't a gossip. It would never come up. It wasn't even a big thing. No one wanted to see Whirl all lathered with half his bearings out to get greased up, no surprise that Whirl himself wouldn't want to-

"May I wash your back?" Cyclonus said.

Whirl may have panicked slightly there, which was definitely why he just about gasped, "No!" but it was Cyclonus and the guy didn't know the meaning of backstabbing when he could do it to your face so "Yes?" but it was WHIRL'S OWN BACK so "No?"

He'd whipped around to face Cyclonus, he realized, stepped back so he was only half under his own showerhead. Stupid, vulnerable, exposed, this was DUMB. Cyclonus hadn't reacted to the sudden movement - had expected it - frag it all, Whirl really was that predictable, wasn't he? But Cyclonus just kept wiping down his own neck cables, head tilted back to let the solvent hit his throat, leaving himself wide open so that Whirl would feel better about his own vulnerability. Fucker. It was an obvious trick and it kinda worked. Whirl couldn't quite un-hunch, but he did shuffle back under the spray where it was warm.

That must have been permission to press more or something, because Cyclonus said, "I would very much like to exchange similar efforts. I spent more time on the mat than usual today."

Fine, sure, butter Whirl up with slick little compliments. He preened a little anyway, letting his neck arch proudly. He kinda had kicked Cyclonus' butt. "I see how it is, you just want your own detailing."

"I am transparent before your keen gaze," Cyclonus said, dry as a desert.

"Yeah, whatever, turn around," Whirl told him, because at least he could do that much.

Cyclonus' back was broad and flat, not much to grab onto in a fight (ask Whirl how he knew) and it really didn't need the kind of attention Whirl turned on it, but he was realizing that he'd probably just fucked up and didn't really know how to get out of it without causing an explosion. So he soaped up that purple back real good, ignored Cyclonus' rumble of appreciation, and managed to not drop the fiddly seam brush inside Cyclonus' wing or something. And then there was no more purple back to scrub and he... Well, Whirl just kinda stared at Cyclonus' back and tried to think of anywhere else but here.

Purple talons took the brush from him, careful not to touch his pincers (but not flinching from them, Cyclonus would never [visibly] flinch from him) and a low voice told him, "This is not a battle, and refusal is not the same as running."

"Just scrub my damn back," Whirl told him, and making it an order helped somehow. It let him turn around, shove his not-face into the spray and try to drown the way his plating was screaming in horrified anticipation.

So he almost didn't hear Cyclonus tell him, "I'm going to touch your shoulder," but he did hear it and the touch came after, soap on his shoulder, and he only flinched a little. "Your other shoulder," more soap, and on like that, warning and follow-through slow and patient and steady.

It wasn't as bad as it could have been. Probably. Just someone else's hand smoothing over his plating, touching the aches where armor used to anchor and catching on the gouges where he'd been too feral to be treated properly. Digging a brush into the seams he could never quite reach himself, that had never felt anything as horrible as a soft brush and a gentle touch. It must be disgusting in there. He stared blindly into the rushing water hitting his optic. He knew what old grease and grime looked like when it washed out, dark globs resentfully slug-trailing past his feet to the drain. He didn't need to see it again. He didn't want to know what Cyclonus' face looked like on seeing that filth. He didn't want to get truly clean, to have to open up for the awful sensation of someone else's touch. He couldn't make himself move enough to let Cyclonus access his rotor hub under its protective cover - held himself stiff and immobile and unyielding. Cyclonus just spoke quietly, telling him where the next touch would be, working down his lumbar plating.

And then, "I missed this," Cyclonus said. It came between warnings, in the same tone, and it took Whirl a moment to even begin to process. This? They'd never done this. There was no repetition here, if Whirl had anything to do with it. But no - this was probably a thing the old codger had done after battle, same as Whirl had. Alright, probably not exactly the same. Not if he missed it. "There."

It took a second, still cringing in expectation of another careful touch, to realize Cyclonus meant they were done. Good, great, quick duck under the spray to rinse off and a casual "Same time next week?" that meant same time next never but don't look at Cyclonus, don't look for the disgust, the guy was halfway decent and he'd hide it with that stupid stoic mask anyway.

He looked. Whirl had terrible impulse control.

And he didn't quite know what to do with the soft, pleased look Cyclonus had instead of what he'd expected. The look like Cyc really had missed this, really thought this was pleasant. Like he honestly wasn't hiding a sneer or scowl. Like he'd enjoyed a wash with a fr- a sparring partner and it wasn't a big deal. Like he hadn't noticed Whirl was a disgusting mess who cringed at every touch.

"I would enjoy that," Cyclonus said. He looked like he meant it.

"Right," Whirl said dumbly. It took a minute to remember what that was in response to. "Next week. Sure."

He turned off the wash, and Cyc turned on the blowdryers, and it wasn't so bad from there. Drying off was fine. It was fine enough that he could tentatively bump a shoulder against Cyclonus' as they stepped out into the bright halls, testing, and not crawl out of his own plating. Fine enough that he could take a heavy hand-clap to his own shoulder as they parted ways and not punch back.

Fine. Next week.