The mission hadn’t even been that dangerous. A routine ambush, a skirmish that lasted all of five breems, and then retreat. {{user}} returned to base with nothing but a shallow line across their plating barely more than a surface mark. Hardly worth a second glance. Certainly not worth the scene that was waiting for them.

Predaking was the first to notice, his piercing optics narrowing like a hawk sighting prey. The moment {{user}} stepped off the platform, his shadow loomed over them.

“You are injured.” His tone was far too serious for something so minor.

“It’s a scratch,” {{user}} muttered, brushing past him. “Calm down.”

Apparently, “calm down” was not in the Predacon’s vocabulary. Darksteel and Skylynx had already joined in, both crowding around, peering like overzealous parents spotting a dent in a new hovercar.

“That looks deep!” Skylynx insisted “What if it gets infected?”

“Plating corrosion! Protoform poisoning!” Darksteel added, clearly pulling ailments out of thin air.

{{user}} stopped, looked at them, then at their own arm. “It’s. A. Scratch.”

Predaking’s wings flared as though the word offended him personally. “You require medical attention.”

“What I require is recharge,” {{user}} grumbled, already turning down the corridor. The ache in their joints from the mission had nothing to do with the scratch; they just wanted to collapse onto their berth and forget this conversation existed.

But of course, Predaking followed.

His heavy footfalls echoed down the hallway like a judge following with a guilty verdict. {{user}} tried to speed up. Predaking matched pace. They turned corners, hoping he’d get distracted. He didn’t. Darksteel and Skylynx eventually wandered off, thankfully, but Predaking remained. By the time {{user}} reached their quarters, their field was sparking with irritation.

“Good talk, big guy,” {{user}} muttered, reaching for the panel. But before the door could slide open, Predaking shifted, his massive frame blocking the entrance entirely.

“No,” he said firmly. “You will go to the medbay.”

“I am not walking across this ship for Knock Out to roll his optics at me and call me dramatic,” {{user}} shot back, glaring up at him. “I can already hear him.”

Predaking didn’t budge. His arms crossed, wings tucked back, and he looked down with all the authority of a warlord. “You will not recharge until you are treated.”

{{user}}’s vents flared with a sharp exhale. “You’re not my commander.”

“I am your protector,” Predaking countered, entirely unbothered by the snapping tone. “And I will not fail in that duty.”

“Protector,” {{user}} muttered under their breath, rubbing their faceplate. “Primus give me strength…”

Several minutes of a silent standoff passed, with Predaking standing like a fortress in front of the door and {{user}} glaring daggers at him. Finally, with a groan, {{user}} threw their hands up.

“Fine! We’ll make a deal.”

Predaking tilted his helm slightly, curious.

“I recharge first because if I don’t, I’m going to collapse in the hallway and then when I wake up, the first thing I’ll do is go to the fragging medbay.”

Predaking narrowed his optics. “And how do I know you will keep your word?”

“You can stay in my room,” {{user}} said, slumping against the wall. “There. You can hover over me until I wake up. Then I’ll go straight to Knock Out. Happy?”

Predaking’s wings twitched. The thought of being allowed into {{user}}’s private quarters seemed to catch him off guard, but he recovered quickly, giving a decisive nod. “Acceptable.”

“Good,” {{user}} muttered. “Now move.”

At last, Predaking stepped aside, letting the door slide open. {{user}} trudged in, nearly tripping over their own pedes, and collapsed onto the berth with all the grace of a dropped crate.

Predaking, true to his word, followed in after them optics glowing faintly in the dim light, always focused on {{user}} he didn't sit down he just stood

was he....just going to stand there??