[TFP] Despicable Me - Chapter Five

[dracoqueen22]

Despicable Me
Chapter Five

The alert hits his comm the same moment it hits Ratchet’s. Starscream knows this because they growl in tandem. Ratchet’s field flares with agitation; Starscream’s own with a mixture of anger and distress. He’s not ready to do this again.

“You can say no,” Ratchet says as he bends back over his microscope. He’s pretending to be nonchalant, and it doesn’t help. It doesn’t soothe.

It feels more like Ratchet is calling him a coward, but Starscream knows he isn’t. Still, an irrational burst of anger bubbles inside of him like an emergent volcano.

“I’m aware of that,” Starscream snaps, only to immediately feel guilty. His unease is not Ratchet’s fault. None of this is Ratchet’s fault.

Starscream puts down his datapad. He braces his hands on the edge of the table. The screen swims before his optics, his spark fluttering like a caged bird.

“You don’t owe him or Soundwave anything,” Ratchet says. Lightly. Carefully. Maybe a bit like ‘I told you so’ only not quite so rudely.

“I know that, too.” This time, there’s less heat. The only one Starscream can truly blame is himself.

He’s the one who insisted they couldn’t leave Megatron to rot. He’s responsible for bringing the near-dead Decepticon commander back for treatment. He ensured Megatron recovered, and he fought to keep the assembly from killing Megatron. He argued for Megatron to have citizenship and rights, just like any other wayward Cybertronian.

So if Megatron is stomping around Kaon making demands, Starscream only has himself to blame. If Starscream himself is next on Megatron’s list, he can’t turn the anger anywhere but inward.

He’s bit himself in the aft yet again. How is this still a surprise?

Ratchet sighs and leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose where the microscope lens scraped against it. “But you’re not going to refuse. Are you?”

Starscream works his intake. “I am still a Decepticon.” He flicks his wings, showing off the badges he still wears like an honor. He’s the only one in Kaon. All of the Vehicons and Eradicons have washed off theirs. Knock Out never wore one.

“Is that what you tell yourself when you look at him?” Ratchet asks. There’s an iciness to his tone, an impatience, that suggests their banked discussions might be coming around the bend again. Perhaps their shared quarters won’t be shared tonight.

Again.

Sometimes, I think you’re a masochist. And not the fun kind, Ratchet told him. Because there’s no logical reason you should care whether Megatron lives or dies.

But he does. Starscream isn’t sure why. How can he expect Ratchet to understand when it’s a half-mystery to himself?

“Will you help me?” Starscream asks, rather than answer a question for which he has no answer. Or at least, not the one Ratchet wants to hear.

Ratchet looks up at him, optics narrowed, face firmly set in a grump. “If you have to ask, maybe we have bigger problems.”

Starscream sets down his vial, yet another failed attempt to create the Synth-en, and along with it, the necessary cybermatter. A part of him wishes it had been Shockwave he’d found out in the wastes, and not Megatron. They need a scientist right now, not a gladiator.

“You weren’t keen on my rescuing him, if you recall,” Starscream points out.

“I still helped.” Ratchet taps the slide out from under the lens and replaces it with another, pretending as though he’s actually working and not merely trying to keep his hands busy. “We’re partners. For better or worse, as the humans say. Right now is the worse.”

“Worse.” Starscream flinches before he can hold himself back. He’d gotten too used to not having to hide every reaction and emotion from Ratchet. Sometimes, he forgets words can hurt as much as a backhand.

“No one thinks reuniting the dream team is a good idea. But we’re going to do it anyway.” Ratchet rolls his shoulders as he carefully adjusts the magnification, all without looking Starscream’s direction. “Though that means I get to say ‘I told you so’ when Megatron is blasting us with a fusion cannon, and Soundwave whips out those cables of his.”

Starscream leans against the table. “That won’t happen.”

“You sound sure.”

Less sure than he feels. Maybe he wants to believe it because he’s tired of fighting. And of pain, because he’s not a masochist, thank you very much.

“Maybe I just hope,” Starscream says.

The laboratory door buzzes. Ratchet looks up at him, the glance saying a thousand words.

They don’t get visitors. At least, not visitors who can’t invite themselves inside or show up announced. Starscream can’t remember the last time someone actually buzzed the door for entry.

The door buzzes again. Someone impatient waits on the other side.

Starscream’s spark tries to claw into his throat. He throws a drop cloth over his experiment just in case. He lowers his wings, flattening them against his back. All subconscious, he realizes as he moves to the door. It makes them smaller targets.

Primus, he’s an idiot.

Why, why, why.

He thumbs the door open.

Megatron stands there, filling all the available space, his paint a patchwork of weld lines and scratches, tears and patches. He’s half-himself and half the shell Unicron left him with. But he’s standing on his own two feet, under his own power. He’s unarmed, but that’s little comfort.

Megatron had never needed the fusion cannon to hurt.

Starscream freezes, caught between flight or fight. It’d been easier, when approaching Megatron had been on his own terms. But in the here and now, in one of the few places Starscream considers his, a safe zone of sorts, it feels like a horrific violation.

His quarters on the Nemesis had never been safe either.

“Well,” Starscream finally drawls, pulling on a reserve of poise and distaste, planting both on his face to disguise the rest. “Look who’s feeling better.”

“A fact which disappoints you, I’m sure,” Megatron says with a drawl that would be playful on anyone else. His gaze flicks around the doorway, where he still stands in the hall. “Are you going to let me in?”

Starscream steps back from the door, but doesn’t turn his back on Megatron. He knows better than that.

“I would have left you to rust in that dank hole you called home if I wanted you dead,” Starscream says. His wings flick, and he edges toward Ratchet. The medic is a bundle of bristly armor, his optics narrow, his lips a flat line. “Now I already know what you want. Why don’t we get through the part where you pretend to ask for it, so I can go ahead and tell you where to shove it.”

Megatron ducks inside, that annoying blue speedster on his heels, though Smokescreen keeps to the wall near the door. Starscream waits for an inane comment, but Smokescreen keeps his mouth shut. He just bobs on his heels, optics darting from Megatron to Starscream to Ratchet and back again.

Well. He’s learning at least.

Megatron says nothing at first, optics assessing the laboratory in a slow, steady sweep. “Quaint,” he comments, as if his opinion matters. “I suppose you’re trying to replicate the omega formula.”

“It’s no business of yours what we’re trying to do,” Ratchet growls. His armor fluffs up, and Starscream remembers once upon a time, Ratchet had actually punched Megatron in the face. Maybe he’s itching to do it again.

Megatron glances at Ratchet. “That’s unnecessarily rude, don’t you think?” He pauses, something sly entering his tone. “Does Starscream approve of your protectiveness?”

Ratchet’s frown tightens. He has to know a goad when he hears one, but his optics narrow into angry pinpoints nonetheless.

Starscream lays a hand on Ratchet’s arm, angles himself between Ratchet and Megatron, more for the former’s sake and his own peace of mind. “You want our help, not the other way around. Remember?” Starscream’s spark quivers, as it never has before. He’s not sure if it’s anxiety or courage. Perhaps a mix of both.

He waits for the snarl. He waits for Megatron’s optics to flash, for the rage to boil over in Megatron’s field. He waits for an intimidating step forward and a demand. He waits for the pain.

Instead, Megatron stares past him and Ratchet both, over their shoulders. It’s like he’s seeing something, but Starscream knows there’s nothing there. Nonetheless, he glances behind him.

There’s a case of various scientific equipment and chemical agents but nothing which would be of interest to Megatron. They don’t keep any dark energon samples around, though perhaps they should. Maybe it’s the missing ingredient for the cybermatter. Starscream makes a mental note to bring it up to Ratchet later.

Megatron’s odd behavior is of greater importance. Perhaps Unicron is not as exorcised as they all think.

“You’re right,” Megatron says, his tone strangled, his optics paling before they shift to Starscream.

Starscream’s vents catch. He resets his audials. He’s not the only one staring. He replays the last five seconds in his active memory bank three times, but the same words keep echoing back to him.

“I’m what?”

Megatron’s intake visibly bobs. “I’m not a scientist,” he says, slowly. Carefully. Like the words are being chosen one by one but consulting a thesaurus first. “My communications officer is the one who’s trapped. I need help and that means the two of you.” He pauses, licks his lips, sets his jaw, and meets Starscream’s gaze directly. “Will you help me?”

Starscream gapes. He staggers, and it’s only Ratchet’s grip on his elbow that keeps him upright. He’s still not sure he’s hearing correctly. He wonders if he’s stepped into an alternate dimension or universe. One where Megatron actually feels a semblance of guilt or courtesy.

“And why should we help? Why do you only care about Soundwave now?” Ratchet asks, not aggressive, but curious. He’s probably the only one in this room with his head screwed on straight, because even Smokescreen is gaping.

“Because Soundwave doesn’t deserve that fate. No one does.” Megatron’s intake bobs. He glances at the corner. His fingers twitch. “It’s one thing to die in battle. It’s another to slowly rot in a parallel dimension.”

Smokescreen shifts and scratches his jaw. “I mean, it’s kind of the right thing to do,” he mutters, maybe like he didn’t mean to be heard, but it’s quiet enough in here his voice carries.

Ratchet glares at him. “No comments from the peanut gallery thank you very much.”

Smokescreen holds up his hands. “I’m just saying, doc. You know what Optimus would’ve done. Okay, so he was a little more angry there in the end, but you can’t tell me he didn’t hope for a peaceful end to the war the whole time.”

Ratchet deflates like a tire losing air pressure. He scrubs at his face. “Damn it, kid,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nasal sensor, and there’s resignation in the glyphs he breathes into the air.

Invoking the name of Optimus Prime. That’s always the way to get through to these Autobots.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Smokescreen says. He’s not gleeful about it, at least.

“You pulled me from the brink for a reason,” Megatron says, focusing on Starscream again, and there’s no apology in the way he looks at Starscream. But there isn’t contempt either, and what a sad world it is, that Starscream considers this an improvement. “Doesn’t Soundwave deserve the same?”

Starscream crosses his arms over his cockpit. “You didn’t answer Ratchet’s question,” he bites out. “Why do you care?”

“Why don’t you?” Megatron tilts his head. “Or weren’t you always trying to lead the Decepticons? Does it not count anymore, now that you’ve defected?”

Starscream goes rigid.

“Frag you,” he says, and it wants to come out as a screech, but he reins it in at the last second. “Frag you and what you want from me. Frag your manipulations!”

“Is that a no?” Megatron demands, and it’s harsher, edging toward a tone Starscream is too familiar with. A tone that makes him shrivel inside, that dashes his common sense against the rocks of memory and painful patterns.

“Get out!” Starscream snarls, and he flings a hand toward the door, points at it, wings upright, and his vents are coming sharp and labored now.

There’s a high-pitched, thin whine and it takes too long for Starscream to realize that the sound is coming from him. That his defensive protocols have activated, and his empty blaster mounts are twitching, trying to activate weapons he doesn’t carry when he’s not on patrol.

“Get the frag out of here!” Starscream repeats, louder, and it’s not until Ratchet’s hand rests on his lower back that Starscream hears how loud his armor is rattling. That he’s shaking because he’s weak, and he’s afraid, and he’s not good enough.

Never good enough.

“You heard him,” Ratchet says, low. Warning. “Get out.”

Megatron stares at them both. His jaw sets. His optics darken with fury, his frame going taut and tense, as it often did moments before he did harm. Starscream catalogs the weapons he has within reach, improvised or not.

Until Megatron’s gaze flicks past him. His face pales. And he spins on a heelstrut and strides out of the room as if something is chasing him. He leaves behind an oppressive, suffocating silence. No, not silence. There’s still that terrible, terrible whine, and Starscream feels like a tension wire about to snap.

“Primus that was intense,” Smokescreen breathes. He moves like he’s been frozen in place and edges toward the door. “I’m supposed to be keeping an optic on him so I gotta…”

“Go,” Ratchet says, much more gently than he’d commanded Megatron. “I’ll take the rest from here.”

“Thanks, doc!” Smokescreen’s door panels flick upward in a manner that should not be adorable, and then he skedaddles.

The roar of something in the distance indicates Smokescreen has already lost sight of his charge. Megatron has taken to the skies. With any luck, it’s because he’s gone back to the wilderness, where he can’t bother anyone again.

Starscream draws a ventilation. Two. He wants to scream, but he swallows it down, forcing it into his tanks where it bumbles and churns. He turns, the taste of energon sour on his glossa. His knees wobble, and he stays upright out of sheer willpower.

He is stronger than this. He’s always been stronger than this.

The door beeps. The panel turns crimson. Locked. It must have been Ratchet.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay because I’m not an idiot,” Ratchet murmurs. He doesn’t otherwise move, his hand a welcome warmth on Starscream’s lower back. “What can I do?”

Starscream swallows. He turns into Ratchet, allows himself the weakness of drawing on his medic for comfort. “You scanned him thoroughly, right?” He feels numb. Distant. Leaning on the logical, scientific half rather than the emotion in his spark, which wants to run away and never look back.

“Of course.”

“Was there any trace of dark energon left in his system?”

Ratchet strokes his back in long, gentle sweeps. “None that I could detect. There’s a possibility his spark is permanently corrupted, but there’s no active dark energon in his system. Why?”

Starscream cycles a ventilation. Two.

“He was behaving strangely. Even for him.” Starscream shutters his optics. Why does he fragging care? Is it self-preservation? Is it wrongly placed sympathy? He wishes he knew.

Ratchet sighs. “He was dead, Starscream. And Unicron brought him back. It’s impossible to know how that affected him.” He pulls Starscream into his arms, and Starscream goes willingly. “But I’ll scan him again. If he comes back. If he comes into my medbay.”

“Thanks.” Starscream cycles a ventilation, presses his forehead to Ratchet’s shoulder, nearly into the crook of his intake. “Tell me how to hate him, Ratchet.”

"I don't know how to do that," Ratchet says quietly. Gently. "Hate's an easy thing, if you've never complicated it with awe or loyalty or trust."

Meanwhile, those complications means the lines blur when it comes to love, hate, and the very thin boundary in between.

It should be easy, knowing all Megatron has done to him, but it isn't. Starscream has taken that hate and rage and turned it back on Megatron so many times, and it's never gotten him anywhere. It's not helped him exorcise his demons or clarify his emotions.

He's still doesn't know the difference between despising Megatron, and desperately wanting to impress his former commander, seeking an approval he's never going to get. Maybe there isn't a difference. Maybe the two are so tangled together, Starscream can't separate them.

He wishes he'd never found Megatron. He wishes he'd never had to make this choice.

"Hate gives him more power than he deserves," Starscream says, and tells himself to repeat it often enough, he might actually believe it someday.

Ratchet hums an agreement. "What are you going to do?"

Starscream pulls back, feeling strengthened by an internal resolve. "Megatron's right about one thing. As much as Soundwave annoys me, he doesn't deserve to die like that. And he's a good Decepticon when Megatron's not around."

"Except that Megatron is around. Alive and probably trying to build up an army," Ratchet points out.

Starscream knows it's a risk. But he thinks about the Shadowzone. He thinks about how he'd felt, trapped in there as briefly as he had. He thinks about their low population, and how that population is barely comprised of Decepticons. He thinks about all the voices that won't be heard, especially Soundwave's since he took his vow of silence. He thinks about the reasons the Decepticons first began, outside of Megatron's outrage and personal grievances.

He thinks, for once, outside of himself.

And maybe, he even thinks about how useful Soundwave would be right now, with Cybertron so weak and defenseless and in desperate need of able-bodied residents, especially ones who don't need to be trained like the newsparks who stumbled out of the first bloom.

"I don't want Megatron anywhere near us trying to help Soundwave. I don't want him looking over our shoulder, making demands, or anything," Starscream says, and in this he won't budge. "But I still think we should do it." He manages a wry grin. "If anything, just to prove we can."

Ratchet snorts and pats him on the cheek. "There's that arrogance I was waiting on." He rolls his shoulders. "Fine. I'm with you. Besides, with Optimus gone, Soundwave's our best hope for pulling data from all those harddrives we've salvaged."

Starscream grins. "And there's the practicality I need." He swoops in, brushing a kiss over Ratchet's chevron. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well, you and me are a bundle of bad decisions." Ratchet grabs the back of Starscream's head, pulling their foreheads together for a light touch. "We can just keep adding to the list."

Starscream chuckles quietly, and warmth spreads through his chassis, cracking the ice that had gripped his spark when Megatron first strode inside. He's not better, not by a longshot, but he thinks he's starting to see how he might be.

Right now, that's enough for him.

~

Megatron transforms to prove to himself he still can. He flies to gain a new perspective. He rises higher and higher into the air, because ground-bound librarian Orion Pax can’t follow him here. Neither can his speedster shadow, but Megatron is more concerned with the ghost haunting him.

From this height, he can see everything.

They’ve torn down his statue. They’ve destroyed monuments for the Decepticons. They’ve demolished and reconstructed. They’ve taken his army. He’s noticed the Vehicons and Eradicons around Kaon, barely recognizable beneath the modifications and the new paint. Unbranded, which Megatron found to be peculiar, but working hard under Autobot rule.

For a moment, he considers returning to the wilderness, to his dank, dark hole. Cybertron no longer feels like a place he belongs.

Where does a gladiator go when there are no more bouts to fight? What does a warlord do when the war is over? To the victor go the spoils, and what do those left behind have? Who is he now? Not D-12, a miner who clawed his way from the mines. Not Megatronus, a gladiator who stole his designation from a fairytale. Not even Megatron, the commander of a great army, now reduced to rubble.

What do you want, Orion had asked him.

Megatron doesn’t know the answer to that question.

He’s latched on to the concept of rescuing Soundwave because it’s the only concrete course of action that has a point. A purpose.

He tilts into a curve, and his gaze lands on the horizon. Just out of sight lies the Well of Allsparks where Optimus had given his life for the sake of everyone, as he so often did.

Megatron feels a pull, perhaps real, perhaps imagined. He sets a course for the well, desperate for answers, desperate for more than the echoes of a voice he misses. No one pings him. No one asks where he’s going. He half-expects Ultra Magnus to send him an angry message.

Nothing.

They truly don’t care if he stays or goes.

It should feel freeing. Instead it just reminds him of his own irrelevance.

Megatron circles twice around the Well. The opalescent gleam of it calls to him. The surface doesn’t stir, it’s as placid as stone. It hasn’t spilled any new sparks since Optimus had released the Allspark’s energy. Perhaps it is like the deities of Earth, requiring a sacrifice before it’ll grant life.

Megatron snorts and lands, transforming mid-fall, his feet slamming into the harsh ground. It’s flat for miles, save for the blunted tops of mountains in the distance. It’s quiet here, almost silent, were it not for the low hum of the well.

He inches close to the edge and peers into the depths. His spark squeezes in his chassis. He doesn’t know what he expects. The well offers him nothing, not even a ripple of the surface. It doesn’t speak to him. It doesn’t swirl with new life. It looks solid enough to touch, but Megatron knows better. It’s pure energy, pure life.

It would kill him in a moment. Just as it had killed Optimus.

Then again, perhaps his is the sacrifice it needs. Him and whatever is left of Unicron inside of him.

Megatron works his intake. The throb in his spark grows stronger. His knees wobble. The iridescence swirls and shifts, like a light behind a window or a transparent sheet of steel. It’s mesmerizing. Like he could sink beneath it and float forever. Optimus is in there somewhere. Perhaps as an echo of himself, perhaps dispersed with all the rest of the sparks. Perhaps as Orion once again.

He hurriedly backs a few steps from the edge. He has no wish to die.

Does he?

His armor shivers. He stays away from the edge, but he still feels a pull toward it. He doesn’t know who he is without Optimus, without that rivalry, that battle. He doesn’t know what there is left to fight. And if there isn’t, what is he? What does he do?

“What am I supposed to do?” Megatron growls to no one.

Sensation claws up his backstrut, sharp and icy.

“I don’t know the answer to that.”

Megatron whips around. Orion stands behind him once again, but firmer now, as though being in proximity to the well strengthens him. His spirit. His hallucination. Whatever he is. His stare is steadying, his lips curved ever so lightly toward a smile, no matter how sad it is.

“Why not?” Megatron demands. He stalks closer to the apparition but somehow, gets no nearer. Like always, within sight, but forever out of reach. That was Orion to him. “You were the one with the answers. Remember?”

“I do.” Orion’s ventilation is a quiet whisper. “But I still can’t tell you what you want to know.”

Megatron growls. “You owe me a path. You did this to me!"

Orion’s optics dim. His face creases with grief. “I’m not real, Megatron.”

The worst part is, he’s not sure if Orion means his current presence, or what they had in Megatron’s memories. He’s not sure of anything anymore.

He vents loudly. He glares at the ground, feeling the heat in his optics, wishing it were the burn of dark energon, because at least he’d have a reason for this madness.

“I need you,” Megatron admits, voice crackling, hating the admission as it tears from his intake.

“I’m not coming back.” Orion flickers in his peripherals, sadness clinging to him like a dim haze.

“Can’t or won’t?” Megatron asks. He paces around the rim of the well, and miracle upon miracle, he gets closer to Orion, but a distance is maintained. It’s strange. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Neither.” Orion sighs and his optics dim. “Both.”

Grief pours through his spark before he can stop it. Megatron jerks to a halt, cycling ragged ventilations. The low hum of the Well is static in his audials.

“I have nothing left,” he murmurs, more to himself, but of course Orion can hear it. “I have failed. I lost the war, and got nothing for it. I’m at the end of the road.”

“You did lose, but you are not at the end.” Orion moves closer, but there’s no footstep to accompany the motion. When he moves, it sticks, unlike the other way around. “The Autobots may have declared victory, but there are Decepticons who need you. The Senate is gone. The High Council. The Primacy. There is no one to stop you from following through with your promise.”

His promise?

Megatron looks up, and Orion is suddenly near enough to touch, but Megatron knows he can’t. Knows he’s not capable of reaching out and cupping Orion’s face, of stroking his cheek in gentle ways. He used to be capable of gentleness. He looks at his armor, his spikes, his claws.

He doesn’t have tenderness any longer.

“Where is the miner who fought his way from the mines?” Orion murmurs, his optics gradually brightening. “Where is the gladiator who promised a better life to those who followed him? Where is the commander who led his troops against impossible odds because he once believed the people of Cybertron deserved more? Where is the mech once nameless, who claimed an identity?”

Megatron works his intake. He can’t ventilate. His spark is too large for his chassis, and it burns. Or maybe that’s his optics. Maybe that’s his field, reaching for one who can’t reach back.

Orion’s expression softens. “Where is the mech I loved? The one who loved me? Surely he’s not lost to the hate? Surely he’s still there. Right here.” His hand presses to Megatron’s chestplate, and Megatron can’t feel it, it’s not really there, but warmth blooms through his chassis nonetheless.

“I don’t know if I can find him,” Megatron rasps. Primus, how he aches to take Orion into his arms. “I worked too hard to crush him.”

“You are capable of anything, Megatronus. You have always proven that.” Orion’s lips curve, his optics glimmering. “You lost the war. You’ve lost yourself. But you are not defeated. You are not without purpose. You’re still here. And I still believe in you. I always have.”

Orion’s face blurs. For a moment, Optimus’ stern façade transposes it. Even briefer, he’s larger than life, larger than Megatron, rebuilt by the last gift of Solus Prime. His voice echoes with the wisdom of the Matrix, a position he had never asked for, but had taken nonetheless.

Megatron knows better. But he tries anyway. Tries to touch Orion, to gently cup his face, and his hand goes through air. His talons, his armor, the ugly juts where Unicron’s decorations have been shorn away. He’s a monster, a creature of war and nothing more. His spark squeezes into a tiny ball. He aches.

“You know what you have to do,” Orion murmurs.

And then he’s gone, and Megatron is left reaching for nothing, only the sound of the Well to break the silence.

~

“Well, I lost him.” Smokescreen flops down on the stack of mats pressed up against the wall. Does a good flop, the kid does. Throws himself down with the sort of reckless abandon of the truly beleaguered.

“Who? Your newest romantic entanglement?” Wheeljack asks with a laugh as he twists his wrench and something splurts onto his face. Damn it.

“What? No!” Smokescreen sounds indignant, like the youngling he is.

Wheeljack chuckles.

“Megatron!” Smokescreen clarifies with a rev of his engine, arms waving wildly before flopping back to his side with a thump. “I was supposed to follow him, but he fragged off into the skies, and I can’t fly, can I?”

“Language, baby bot.”

“Pft.”

Wheeljack can’t see Smokescreen’s face, but he knows the kid is rolling his optics. “So what? You’ve decided to come whine to me about it?”

“Magnus took me off shift. Says he’ll call me if Megatron comes back.”

“And now you’re bored.” Wheeljack jerks the wrench again, and the bolt comes free with a shriek of metal, sending another goopy glop downward. He tilts his head to avoid it. “Well, I’d offer to let ya help me here, but the last time I did, you only made it worse.”

“I’m not an engineer. I’m a soldier,” Smokescreen grumbles. There’s a tap-tap as he toes the floor.

Wheeljack wrenches the bent strut free and tosses it out from under the transport’s chassis. It clatters across the floor. “Don’t be so quick to put yourself in a box, kid.” He pauses and squints at the undercarriage. “Hey, hand me that new strut out there, will ya?”

Smokescreen leverages himself off the mats with a squeak and groans as he picks up the strut and slides it under the transport. It bumps against Wheeljack’s hip. “I’m not in a box,” he protests. “I just like what I like. “

“And that’s good, but it can’t be the only thing you’re about either.”

Wheeljack snags the strut and levers it into place, giving it a good twist with the wrench and then a hearty bang to make sure it’s well suited. There. Good as new.

He shoves out from under the transport, wheeled cart rolling over the pitted floor, and sits up. A meshcloth hits him in the face.

“You’re covered in goop,” Smokescreen says.

“It’s called hard work,” Wheeljack corrects, but he accepts the cloth, mopping at the fluids spattered on his face. “And if I’m lucky, it’ll be enough to get this beast going.” He knocks his knuckles against the vehicle behind him and looks up at Smokescreen. “What’s with those droopy panels, youngling? You look like someone stole your blaster right out from under you.”

Smokescreen makes a face that’s unfairly adorable. “No one takes me seriously.”

Wheeljack sticks out a hand, and Smokescreen frowns at the oil on it, but takes it anyway and hauls him to his feet. “Thanks, kid.” Wheeljack pats him on the shoulder. “So how do you expect to change that?”

“What?”

“The not seriousness.” Wheeljack wipes off his fingers and cocks his head. “What’s your plan?”

“Oh. Um.” Smokescreen ducks his head, and his face shades pink. His door panels droop even further. “I was thinking, maybe, that you could train me a little? You know, teach me stuff, like how to be a Wrecker.”

Aw, how cute. Kid thinks he can be a Wrecker. Was there ever a time Wheeljack was so innocent?

Nah. He was sparked to be wild.

Wheeljack cocks an optical ridge. “I ain’t patient, and I ain’t nice,” he says.

“I learn fast!” Smokescreen insists as his smile widens. “I promise. I won’t even complain. Please?” He shines those big soft blues at Wheeljack, and damn but if Wheeljack ain’t weak to the pretty ones. Can never say no to them.

“Fine,” he says, though grudgingly. “But it’s my show. You do what I say, when I say it. Understand?”

“Yes, yes. I do!” Smokescreen throws his arms over Wheeljack’s shoulders in a big hug – Bulk’s gonna be so jealous. “Thank you so much. I’m not going to let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t.” Wheeljack grins as Smokescreen’s field bombards him with happiness and gratitude. Smokescreen even kisses him on the cheek before he bounces away.

“Go on, get out of here,” Wheeljack says. “I gotta get cleaned up. I’ll let you know when the first lesson is.”

"Okay. Thanks, Jack!" Smokescreen's panels jerk upright, happy again, and he scampers from the room with an honest-to-Primus skip in his step.

Wheeljack chuckles. Maybe the reason no one takes him seriously is because he’s so darned cute. Kid like that ought not be learning to fight, but doing something else. Having fun mebbe.

Shaking his head, Wheeljack tosses the dirty rag into the bin and stretches his arms over his head. His hydraulics hiss, and his cables creak. Time for some cuddling, he thinks, and drops his arm in a swing. He leaves the garage and heads back to the residential buildings, or at least what they are calling home for now. Ain’t much that’s inhabitable on Cybertron yet.

He whistles as he approaches the room he shares with Bulkhead and jabs his code into the panel. The door slides open and light from the hallway pours into the dim interior. Bulkhead’s recharging? Well, this just won’t do.

Wheeljack tiptoes inside, the door sliding shut behind him, and makes a beeline for the berth. He can make out the large, black mass that is his partner upon it. Wheeljack doesn’t hesitate before he crawls up onto it and Bulkhead both, stretching his frame out on top of Bulkhead’s. His field reaches out and Bulkhead’s reaches back, pulsing recognition and affection.

Bulkhead shifts and his arm wraps around Wheeljack, hand settling at the base of his spinal strut. “You smell,” he rumbles.

“Love you, too, big guy.” Wheeljack sneaks a hand under Bulkhead’s chassis, stroking a few cables. “Whatcha doing?”

“Recharging. Or trying to anyway.”

Wheeljack revs his engine. “Mmm.” He rolls his hips, grinding his pelvis against Bulkhead’s belly. “Sounds boring. Guess what?”

“What?”

“I got a kiss from Smokescreen.”

“I’m sure you did, crèche-robber.” Bulkhead pats Wheeljack on the aft and then leaves it there, his big palm cupping the entirety of it. “Gonna have to get a chain for you.”

Wheeljack laughs and wriggles his way into Bulkhead’s intake. “For my neck, right? So you can pull on it when I’m bad?”

“You’re always bad.”

“True.” He nibbles on Bulkhead’s intake. “Wanna be bad with me?”

Bulkhead laughs and his optics finally online, filling the room with a pale blue glow. “I gotta relieve Arcee soon.”

“I can be quick. You know I can,” Wheeljack breathes and rocks his hips. “Come on, big guy. My mod’s been aching for one of your fingers all day today.”

His spark quickens as Bulkhead’s hand slides down, fingers dipping between his thighs, brushing over the heat at his panel. “Yeah, I can tell. What do I get out of it?”

“My love and eternal devotion?” Wheeljack nibbles on the curve of Bulkhead’s jaw, and ex-vents hot and wet against his cables.

Bulkhead groans and shifts beneath him, his free hand grabbing Wheeljack’s aft, too. “I already have those.”

Wheeljack pushes his aft into Bulkhead's palm and rocks hopefully. "I'll suck your cables," he promises.

"You'd do that anyway," Bulkhead retorts with a laugh, and his finger presses harder on Wheeljack's panel, the pressure enough to taunt the delicate sensors beneath.

Wheeljack moans and claws at Bulkhead's seams, slick seeping out from the seam, but he doesn't pop the panel. Not just yet. Not until Bulkhead tells him he can.

"Tell me what you want," Wheeljack pleads as he rocks against Bulkhead's massive thigh. Primus, he loves how big his Wrecker is. "You know I'll give it to ya."

Bulkhead's laugh rumbles through his chassis and vibrates into Wheeljack's. "Open up, Jackie. You owe me one."

Wheeljack grins and grabs Bulkhead's head, pulling him into a delicious kiss, as his panel opens and Bulkhead's finger slides nice and thick into him. It's perfect. Bulk's perfect. And Wheeljack is so damned glad he'd found his partner again, even if the war's over and he doesn't have anyone to kill anymore.

This is so, so much better.

~

Starscream is waiting for him when Megatron returns to the building which houses his quarters, or what he assumes to be his assigned quarters. There's a set to the Seeker's jaw, and his arms are folded over his cockpit. His optics are dark, challenging, his chin lifted.

"This is what's going to happen,"

Megatron opens his mouth, but Starscream lifts up a hand.

“No, don’t talk. If you do, I’m going to change my mind.”

Megatron presses his lips together. He narrows his optics. He holds his silence, an odd thing to do in Starscream’s presence.

Starscream folds his arms behind his back and looks up at Megatron, his shoulders square, his optics almost harsh. “This is how it’s going to be,” he states, without inflection, without emotion. “I’ll help rescue Soundwave, if he’s there to be rescued. You’ll stay here.”

“Fair enough,” Megatron says, once the pause has dragged on long enough he’s deemed Starscream’s allowing him to speak.

Starscream narrows his optics. “We’ll bring him back to Cybertron. We’ll even let you talk to him. But if I catch so much as a hint that you’re trying to rebuild your army and return to war, I’ll destroy you.”

Starscream pauses, cycles a long and low ventilation, and his wingtips flinch. He continues, “I know that sounds like an empty threat, given our history, but this time, I have allies. This time, I’m not alone. This time, even if I hesitate, they won’t. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Starscream’s field flashes, too quick to read, before he reels it back. “You do?” He cocks his head.

Megatron opens his hands, holds them at his sides, shows his palms, empty and scarred. “You’re right,” he says, and he knows it’s a novelty, knows that it shocks Starscream. Knows that it rocks Starscream out of whatever cold place he’s taken himself.

Cold has never suited his rebellious Seeker. Starscream is fire and passion and spite.

His former Air Commander jerks, and there it is, a crack in the ice. “What did you say?” he demands.

Megatron cycles a ventilation. Orion’s words echo at the back of his processor. The ghost of a touch lingers on his chestplate.

He used to be better. He can be that again. If he tries.

“You’re right,” Megatron repeats, with the ghost of Orion Pax leaning against his shoulder, offering him warmth and encouragement. “And I’m not going back to war. It’s pointless.” He works his intake, stares at the corridor over Starscream’s shoulder, blessedly empty of other mechs. “Orion always told me there was a better way. I owe him enough to try.”

“Really?” Starscream arches an orbital ridge, and there’s affront in his tone. Possibly because Megatron mentioned Orion. There’s a jealousy there. Megatron will admit to manipulating it, on occasion. “What prompted that little about face?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Mm.” Starscream takes a step closer, and though his optics widen, betraying his fear, there’s no trace of it in his frame. “I know the games you play. I know the way your processor works. Whatever you’re planning, you won’t succeed.”

He brushes past Megatron, a bare inch of space between them, his field crackling-hot where it bumps against Megatron’s. He walks away, head held high, wings arched and proud, shoulders back. It takes Megatron a long moment to realize why Starscream looks so odd to him, why he seems so much taller.

He’s not cowering.

A cold shock floods Megatron’s spark. How had he not noticed it before? When had it become normal and natural to see Starscream cowering before him? When had the fear become the only emotion he used to keep control, to master his troops, to push the war onward?

“You see,” Orion whispers, over his shoulder, against his audial. “He’s still inside you. Find him.”

A ghost of a touch, briefly warm, over his Decepticon badge.

“I’m trying,” Megatron murmurs, and lets himself into his room.

***