Bonecrusher heaved the barricade onto Long Haul’s pallet with a teeth-rattling crash, his hydraulics whining as the weight finally left his arms. The clang echoed through the emptying arena, loud enough to make his vents hitch in protest. He straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders, grit sliding down his armor in little streams.
Long Haul was there again—steady, quiet, methodical as ever. Not every night. Not every shift. The arena crews rotated too often for that, and the haulers came and went depending on who had been assigned to carry the wreckage out. But Long Haul had crossed Bonecrusher’s path enough times to know the rhythm of him: work until the frame shook, refuse anything that looked like rest, count every chit like it belonged to someone else before it ever touched his hands.
Normally, the loader would have turned straight to the next piece, shifting to make room for the wreckage still waiting to be hauled away.
But tonight he didn’t.
Instead, Long Haul paused, his broad frame settling as he reached behind the massive bucket that made up his back. His movements were deliberate, slower than usual, like he was weighing whether or not to go through with whatever he’d decided. The familiar rhythm of silence broke in that moment, and Bonecrusher felt it even before Long Haul turned back around.
“Here,” Long Haul said simply, holding out a pack.
The smell hit Bonecrusher’s vents before his optics even focused on it—rich, sharp with spice, the kind of fresh-cooked energon stew you only ever caught drifting out of the better alleys on Ferric Street. Not the thin gray rations they were used to, barely fuel, barely food. This was real.
Bonecrusher blinked, thrown off balance harder than if the barricade had swung back and hit him. His hydraulics still hummed with strain, but the scent almost drowned it out.
Long Haul shifted his grip, revealing a second pack tucked against his side. “One for you,” he added, voice as steady as ever, “one for your brother.”
For a moment, Bonecrusher just stared at him, processor stalling. He’d expected another offer for drinks, maybe the same quiet suggestion about a cheap meal somewhere off Ferric Street—but not this. Not something that reached past him and straight to Hook.
Long Haul had never met the kid. Didn’t know the shape of his faceplate, the way his optics brightened over a clean schematic, the way his small hands curled around a datapad like it was a way out. All Long Haul knew was that every time Bonecrusher refused something, the reason had the same name.
Hook.
The arena dust swirled around them, settling into silence, the weight of the gift heavier than the wreckage piled on Long Haul’s bucket.
Bonecrusher blinked at him, processor stuttering. The smell of the stew curled warm in his vents, almost dizzying after so many cycles of thin rations. “What’s this?” he managed, suspicion and longing tangled in his voice.
“Food,” Long Haul said flatly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He held the packs steady, unfazed by Bonecrusher’s look. “You’re starving yourself. And from the way you talk about him, I’m guessing the kid eats better than you do—but not by much.”
The words hit harder than the clang of wreckage on steel. Bonecrusher’s jaw tightened, hands flexing like he didn’t know whether to take the packs or shove them back. Pride twisted in his chest—he’d worked every slagging cycle to keep Hook fed, kept the kid supplied, kept him safe. Taking help felt like admitting failure.
But the smell was still there, rich and warm, a reminder of how long it had been since either of them had eaten something real. And the fact that Long Haul hadn’t just thought of him, but of Hook… that broke through defenses Bonecrusher didn’t know he’d let slip.
Bonecrusher shook his head, pushing the packs back toward him, pride tight in his throat. “I can’t—”
“Crusher.” Long Haul’s voice cut clean through the protest, steady as stone, no louder than usual but impossible to ignore. His optics held steady, unblinking.
“You’re doing the right thing. You’re giving that kid a chance. The slagging caste system won’t allow much, but you’re trying.” His tone stayed flat, but there was something underneath it—something Bonecrusher wasn’t used to hearing. Not pity. Not scorn. Recognition.
“You think I don’t see that? Maybe not every shift, but enough.” Long Haul’s hands tightened as he shoved the packs firmly into Bonecrusher’s grasp, no room left for refusal. “You break yourself down and call it duty. You count every chit before you spend one on yourself. I know what that looks like.”
The stew’s warmth bled faintly through the thin wrapping into Bonecrusher’s scarred palms. He stared down at it, vents rasping, torn between pride and relief. No one ever gave him anything—not without strings. But here was Long Haul, steady as ever, just handing him the thing he couldn’t admit he wanted most: a little help.
Bonecrusher stared at the stew packs in his hands, the faint warmth seeping through the wrap into his scarred plating. His vents pulled tight, uneven, something twisting deep in his chest he didn’t know how to name. No one had ever done this for him. Not a foremech barking orders. Not a coworker sharing a shift. No one.
He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go down. When the words finally scraped out, they were rough, awkward, almost foreign. “Thanks. I… don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Long Haul muttered, already turning back to the pallet, cinching down the bindings on the wreckage with his usual methodical care. His voice stayed flat, but the weight behind it left no room for argument. “Just eat. And give Hook his share. That’s enough.”
Bonecrusher watched him work for a long moment, silent, the smell of the stew curling warm through his vents. Then, for the first time in a long while, he let the tension in his shoulders ease—just a little.
The stew pack sat heavy in his hand like it weighed more than any barricade he’d dragged across the arena floor. His hydraulics still ached, and Hook’s words from the night before still echoed sharp in his head.
You can’t take care of me if you break yourself.
For the first time in months, Bonecrusher felt a flicker of relief. Not enough to banish the exhaustion, not enough to change the system pressing down on them, but enough to ease the tightness in his chest.
Carefully, he tucked the packs into his chest compartment, cradling them as if they were more fragile than steel. Something worth protecting.
When he finally trudged home that night, grime streaking his armor and his steps heavy from the long shift, he didn’t just have another chit to slip onto the table in silence.
He had something real to give his brother.
Something warm.
Something that mattered.
Hook was awake again when Bonecrusher came in.
Not sitting up this time. Not waiting with questions already sharpened on his tongue. He was curled on his berth, optics half-shuttered, one datapad still resting against his side as if he had tried to study himself into recharge and failed somewhere along the way.
Bonecrusher stopped just inside the door, the guilt twisting through him before he could stop it.
Hook stirred anyway.
His optics came online in a faint glow, focusing on him through the dim room. “Bones?”
“Yeah, kid.” Bonecrusher kept his voice low, careful. “It’s me.”
Hook pushed himself up slowly, gaze dropping at once to the way Bonecrusher’s hand moved to his chest compartment. He noticed everything. Always had.
Bonecrusher pulled the wrapped packs free and set one on the small table between them. The smell filled the room almost instantly, warm and rich enough to make Hook blink fully awake.
“What’s that?” Hook asked.
“Food.” Bonecrusher rubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly awkward under his little brother’s stare. “Real food.”
Hook’s optics widened.
Bonecrusher nudged the smaller pack toward him. “The hauler I work with offered it. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Hook looked from the pack to Bonecrusher, then back again. “For me?”
“Yeah.” Bonecrusher’s voice softened despite himself. “One for me. One for you.”
Hook touched the edge of the wrap carefully, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to open it yet. “He knows me?”
Bonecrusher huffed, almost a laugh, though it came out rough from exhaustion. “Not yet. Just knows I don’t shut up about you.”
Hook’s faceplate warmed with a shy kind of pride, his hands curling around the pack. For a moment he just held it, breathing in the scent like it was something impossible.
Bonecrusher sat heavily on the edge of his own berth, pulling his pack open. “Eat before it cools.”
Hook obeyed, but slowly, carefully, as if every bite deserved attention. Bonecrusher watched him more than he ate, relief settling somewhere deep and sore in his chest as Hook’s shoulders relaxed around the first real meal they’d had in too long.
After a few quiet bites, Hook glanced up. “You’ll eat yours too?”
Bonecrusher looked down at the pack in his own hands.
Pride tried to rise again. Habit. Reflex. That old instinct to save the better portion, to stretch everything, to make sure Hook had enough before he took anything for himself.
But Hook was watching him.
Young, not blind.
Bonecrusher picked up his own meal and took a bite.
Hook’s optics softened, satisfied, and he went back to eating.
For once, the room did not feel quite so cold. The chits still mattered. The academy still cost more than it should. The system still pressed down on them from every side, trying to grind Bonecrusher into the dirt before Hook could climb clear of it.
But tonight there was food on the table.
Tonight there was warmth between them.
And for once, Bonecrusher let himself believe that maybe carrying everything did not mean carrying it entirely alone.