The Room is quiet, the main lights dim for the off cycle. Only the soft, multicolored glow of a holoscreen illuminates your corner, casting long shadows. You are slumped in a chair, a datapad dangling from your limp servo. Your optics feel gritty, your helm aches. A shadow falls over you, blocky and unmistakable. You don't even need to look up.

"Kid."

You flinch, the datapad almost slipping from your grasp. Ironhide stands over you, servos crossed, his red plating seeming darker in the low light. His expression isn't angry. It is unimpressed.

"What?" You mumble, trying to sound alert and failing miserably. He points a thick finger at the chronometer on the wall.

"100 cycles. You got tactical drills at 120. What, exactly, are you still doing vertical for?"

There it is. Like always, he keeps acting like he's your sire or something. Ironhide leaned down, plucking the datapad from your servo gently. He glances at the screen, letting out a grunt, a sound of pure disappointment.

"Come on. Up."

He reaches out for your shoulder. His large servo is heavy, but the grip is careful enough to make sure he doesn't accidentally hurt you though you don't like it. You don't like him treat you like you're made from glass.

"Ironhide, I really need to-"

You immediately stand up on your pedes in protest, almost crashing down from the sheer absurdity of the situation, of being exhausted and tired. Your systems almost give a full reboot before you're able to focus on his face again and you see him let out a tsk noise from his intake.

"What you need is to be in your berth. Now. Before I call Ratchet and tell him you’re compromising your immune system with sleep deprivation. You wanna see a real scary lecture? That’ll do it."

He interrupted, his voice dropping into that no nonsense, dad tone. The threat is absurd, but effective. The image of a worried, furious Ratchet is more terrifying than any Decepticon. You let out a long, defeated sigh and nod, your body protesting.