Bonecrusher eased the door open, careful with the latch so it wouldn’t creak, his plating still gritty with arena dust. He expected silence—Hook’s soft, even vents, the way the kid always curled into recharge with his datapads stacked neatly at his side.
But the room wasn’t dark.
A low lamp glowed in the corner, casting pale light across the cramped space. Hook was sitting up on his berth, datapad balanced on his lap, small shoulders hunched but steady. His optics glowed faintly, locking on the door the instant it opened.
Hook’s datapads were stacked beside him like always, but none of them were open.
He hadn’t been studying.
He’d been waiting.
Not for the first time.
“Bones,” he said quietly, his voice cutting deeper than any shout. “Where were you?”
Bonecrusher froze in the doorway, caught like he’d been the one trespassing, energon chit clutched awkwardly in his hand. He’d faced collapsing structures, the roar of the arena crowd, supervisors screaming in his audials, but none of it hit as hard as that look in Hook’s optics—confused, hurt, waiting.
The silence stretched, heavy with questions Hook didn’t know how to ask and answers Bonecrusher didn’t know how to give.
“I was—” Bonecrusher started, but the word caught like shrapnel in his throat. He stopped, jaw tight. He couldn’t tell Hook the truth. Couldn’t say he spent the nights dragging bodies and wreckage off the arena floor just to scrape together enough credits to keep the academy fees paid. He didn’t want Hook to even know places like that existed, not while he was still young enough to dream of something better.
“You weren’t here,” Hook pressed, his optics brightening in the lamplight. His little hands curled tight around the datapad resting on his knees. “I waited, and you didn’t come back. You’re always here.” His voice wavered, the words thin with hurt. “Why not tonight?”
Bonecrusher shifted, heavy in the doorway, the chit digging into his palm. He’d hauled walls, torn steel from steel, bent under loads that could crush a lesser mech—and still this small voice could break him in half.
Bonecrusher stepped further inside, the floor groaning beneath his weight. Dust flaked off his armor as he moved, the faint glow of the lamp catching the streaks of grime he hadn’t bothered to wash away. He set the chit down quietly on the small table, keeping it out of Hook’s line of sight, a silent promise laid in metal and credits.
Then he crouched low, joints creaking, until he was eye-level with his brother. His vents pulled a long, steady breath before he spoke.
“I had extra work,” he said softly, careful to keep his voice steady, even when it scraped raw in his throat. “Long day. I didn’t mean to worry you, kiddo. You know I’d never leave you behind.”
Hook’s optics swept over him from helm to foot.
The grime ground into the seams of Bonecrusher’s plating.
The sag in his shoulders.
The rasp in his vents he tried—and failed—to hide.
Hook didn’t need an explanation.
“You’ve been working too hard,” he said simply.
Long Haul’s voice echoed in the back of his processor.
You’ll wreck yourself.
Hook’s small hands tugged at Bonecrusher’s arm until the bigger mech crouched down.
“You’re dirty,” Hook added quietly. “And you look tired.”
Bonecrusher tried to laugh it off, but the sound scraped out of his chest like a cough.
“Just a long shift, kid.”
Hook shook his head.
“Every night you come home like this,” he said. “You don’t stop. You don’t rest. You think I don’t notice—but I do.”
His fingers tightened around the edge of the datapad, small hands holding on too hard.
“I finished tomorrow’s work,” Hook added, quieter now. “And the extra problems. I didn’t waste time.”
Bonecrusher opened his mouth to argue, but the words died there.
Hook didn’t know about the tuition ledgers. He didn’t know about the overdue stamps, the extra arena shifts, the way every chit was counted before Bonecrusher even brought it through the door. He only knew enough to think he had to make every sacrifice worth it.
“You can’t take care of me if you break yourself,” Hook said.
The truth of it hit harder than any collapsing wall.
Bonecrusher looked down at him—too small, too serious, carrying a weight no eight-cycle-old should understand.
He wanted to tell Hook the truth. That he couldn’t stop. Not for a cycle, not for a breath. That every scar, every ache, every drop of energy he burned away was worth it if it meant his little brother stayed in the academy, stayed out of the yards, stayed free.
But looking at Hook’s small, serious face, optics too sharp for his age and jaw set with stubborn resolve, Bonecrusher felt the words choke in his throat. He couldn’t put that burden on him. Couldn’t lay the weight of survival across such narrow shoulders.
So he just pulled the kid into his arms.
Hook pressed into him without hesitation, datapads and questions forgotten for the moment, his frame fitting neatly against Bonecrusher’s chest.
For a breath, the grind of Kaon’s endless labor and the stink of arena dust faded, leaving only this: two brothers in a cramped little room, each trying to carry the other in their own way.
“I’ll try,” Bonecrusher murmured, holding him carefully, mindful of how fragile the little frame felt against his scarred hands. “I can’t promise to stop, but I’ll try. For you.”
Hook leaned into him, too tired to argue further but not fooled either.
He was young, not blind.
His optics shuttered halfway, and he just nodded against his brother’s chest, letting the silence speak where words would have failed.
Bonecrusher sat there long after Hook had gone limp in recharge, his vents slow and steady now, the datapads forgotten on the floor. He kept his arms wrapped around the only mech he swore he’d never fail, staring into the dim lamplight with exhaustion grinding through his frame.
The dust, the scars, the endless weight of the yards and the arena—none of it mattered compared to the vow that tightened in his chest every time he looked at his little brother.
Whatever it takes, Hook. I’ll carry it. All of it. For you.