Starscream is irrational and overemotional. He knows this, has for a long time, and it had been spelled out for him in the psychiatric evaluation he’d been forced to undergo before his trial, just in case Starscream had somehow missed it. Little things mean too much and the truth hurts him deeply. He cries a lot. Screams, too.
He’s crying right now, curled up on his side on his too-big couch in his too-big apartment with a blanket around his shoulders. Optic fluid drips down his cheeks, ebbing and flowing with his thoughts. They circle, mostly around the feeling that no one loves him (and they shouldn’t) and that his life will only continue to get worse (and he deserves it). Every once in a while, the cycle is interrupted by a spike in the pain coming from, well, everywhere.
He’s had a frame rebuild since the last time he was seriously injured. Everything that could be replaced had been, in part because of the widespread damage. Most of it wasn’t battle injuries. He hates that so many doctors know. He can’t do anything about it, though.
Can’t do anything about the protoform injuries, either. Some of the permanent damage, the doctors said, could have been avoided had he been properly treated sooner. Some of it would have been permanent no matter how quickly it was dealt with. He hurts most days, but some are worse than others. Today, something’s royally pissed off his fuel pump and his shoulder and hip hurt where they’re not getting enough fuel. Knockout’s most worried about that pain out of all of it. Says it’s an early sign of pump failure.
Another chunk of the pain, undefined by nature, has been labeled “psychosomatic.” Whether this is said with an undertone of pity (he’s so tightly wound, of course he hurts, his processor has no way to cope with it all) or disdain (hysterical, drama queen, exaggerating), varies doctor to doctor and psychiatrist to psychiatrist.
So he’s here alone in his apartment, crying. It’s a day off. He has nowhere to be, no one to see, nothing to do. What a fucking failure.
And there’s the other thing, which is that he’d messaged Wheeljack two breems ago and he’s yet to respond. It’s probably nothing, Starscream reminds himself, but trying to keep his ego (you deserve the best, all the attention, how dare he ignore you, doesn’t he know who you are?) in check keeps tipping into destroying it completely (and why would he answer you of all mechs? You’re lucky he puts up with you enough to interface once in a while, expecting genuine affection is delusional at best) and he doesn’t know which is right. Likely, he reminds himself, neither is right. Wheeljack is probably busy.
Or he hates you because you’re an obnoxious fucking failure.
Stop.
If you want attention so badly, you should have stayed with Megatron.
Stop, please.
No one will ever love you again. You know that, right? If you’d just accepted that was the best you were going to—
His communicator chimes. He snatches it off the table.
Wheeljack: hey just saw ur message
Wheeljack: still want some company? I can be there in ten
Starscream wants to answer. He’s not sure what he’d say, but he should say something. Maybe something to convey the crushing relief of hearing from his partner, proof that he’s being irrational and he hasn’t been abandoned. It should be easy enough to tell Wheeljack yes, he’s welcome to come over or no, he’s not in the mood for visitors right now, but there’s always the possibility that he’ll be Starscream about it and say something completely obnoxious. He’s angry that Wheeljack left him unanswered for so long, and the knowledge that it’s irrational doesn’t help. Part of him wants to ignore Wheeljack, give him a taste of his own medicine, and another part wants to lash out. He’s not confident in his ability to control either part right now.
Contrary to popular belief, hurting Wheeljack with his ridiculous outbursts is the last thing he wants to do. It makes him sick to his stomach when he does, makes him hate himself. Unfortunately, his emotional processor is slagged beyond recognition or help, and that remorse sours into anger more often than not. More proof that he’s a terrible person, not that he needed it.
He should ignore Wheeljack. Let him move on. Starscream’s exhausted by his own processor, and he wants nothing more than to stay on this couch until he fades away to nothing. Wheeljack will find someone else, and Starscream won’t have to be so tired anymore. Tired and sad and in pain.
Wheeljack: psst screamer
Wheeljack: don’t leave me on read asshole
Starscream’s hands have started to shake again. He can’t tell if it’s from the emotion or the renewed pain in his shoulder or the struggling beat of his fuel pump, but it’s difficult to hold his communicator. The fresh tears in his eyes aren’t helping the situation.
Me: here
Me: not godd cmpanyr n
He turns his communicator off and sets it back on the table before drawing both arms back up under the blanket. There. He managed to respond without being too unpleasant. Way to go, Chosen One. You sent an instant message.
Shut up. Stop, please. He just wants to recharge.
Please.
He spends the next breem trying very hard to drift off into recharge. By the time Wheeljack opens the door, he’s half-conscious, drifting through half-formed nightmares and muddy thoughts, and the soft noise of the door startles him so badly he’s got his arm cannons online before he’s even sat up straight.
“Woah, good afternoon to you, too,” Wheeljack says, balking. He stays in the doorway for a moment, hands in the air, until Starscream disables his battle systems with a frustrated sigh. Is it really afternoon? A quick check to his internal chronometer tells him it is, in fact, late afternoon. Starscream’s wasted a whole day, and he’s not even sure where most of it went. He doesn’t think he’s been on the couch for so long, but he can’t for the life of him remember what he’d been doing between waking up and sitting down. Maybe that’s why his head is so foggy. Dissociating again. Did he fuel today?
He draws the blanket back around his shoulders. Sitting up hurts worse than lying down. He hopes Wheeljack leaves soon, so he can stop expending so much energy trying to seem functional. “You woke me up,” he grumbles.
Wheeljack’s entered the living room now, and retracted his battle mask, so Starscream can see how he grins. He has a special smile for Starscream’s bad moods. Some of the crushing pain in his chest eases at the sight of it. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he responds, then sits down on Starscream’s table like it’s a fucking chair.
“Get off my furniture.”
Wheeljack tucks his legs up to sit cross-legged. “You’re on your furniture,” he points out.
“Yes, on my couch, which is meant to be sat on. Not on the table, which is not.”
Wheeljack’s eyes are so bright, so expressive. They flash amused for a moment, and Starscream thinks he’ll quip back, but instead, he changes the subject completely. “Worried me when you didn’t answer a minute ago. You alright?”
Of course. Wheeljack is worried about him, hence the breaking and entering (aided by his knowledge of the door codes. And his biometrics in the security system. And the guards who know him by name). He wants to be angry. He wants to stop being treated like glass, but he probably has to stop acting like it, first. He wants…
He’s tired. He tells Wheeljack as much, because this is Wheeljack, and Starscream loves him. For better or worse, he trusts him.
“Wanna go grab a cube somewhere?” Wheeljack suggests. “Might be good to, you know, get out for a bit.”
Oh, gods, even the thought is exhausting. He shakes his head. “Really, Wheeljack, I wasn’t lying when I said I’m not good company right now.”
“You hurtin’?”
Starscream doesn’t want to answer. No, that’s not right. He wants to answer, consciously. He wants to answer. Something small and scared and anxious in the back of his mind pulls the words out of his mouth before he can. He hums, instead, and turns his gaze to the floor.
He looks back up at the sound of Wheeljack standing. “Well,” Wheeljack says. “Couch’s plenty big for two, right?”
Starscream opens his mouth to say something ( You don’t have to. I’m just going to keep on lying here crying, even if you’re here. You’re too good to me. Please.), but Wheeljack’s on him too quickly for that. Between one sparkbeat and the next, Starscream’s been dragged down into a tangle of limbs and blankets by a laughing Wheeljack. He’s gentle about it, always so gentle when Starscream doesn’t deserve it, and though his partner’s laugh draws a laugh out of him he’s feeling shaky again like he might cry just from being touched.
Wheeljack arranges them so they’re facing each other, Starscream’s back to the room. It makes him twitchy, but it’s easier on his wings, and he’s not sure he can take another point of pain right now. Of course Wheeljack would think of that. Starscream has never felt so known. The shakes get worse. He’s tearing up again.
Wheeljack’s still smiling, but softer now. “Comfy?”
“Almost.” He shifts until he is, and when he’s done, Wheeljack presses their foreheads together and looks him in the optics.
“Hi,” he breathes.
“Hi.” His vocoder catches, and he resets it. Wheeljack’s hands are warm on his back, rubbing the sore spots at the base of his wings, and he has to reset it again.
“I gotcha,” Wheeljack says, and Starscream can’t figure out why he would feel the need to say it until he realizes he’s crying in earnest now, optic fluid once again pooling under his cheek and soaking the pillow. “I’m here, Star. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
He’s here, and the proximity of him crashes down around Starscream’s head, suffocating and immediate and real, and he surges forward to hide his face in Wheeljack’s shoulder. Wheeljack’s here, and he’s been here before and knew what he was walking into and walked into it willingly, and Starscream can’t breathe or move for the exhaustion and the euphoria and the whiplash. Stupid to doubt it, stupid to have another one of his episodes, to doubt Wheeljack. Stupid that he can’t feel right even now, with his fear disproven.
He wishes Wheeljack’s presence could fix him. He wishes he could feel safe. He wishes he didn’t hurt all the time, inside and out. He wishes a lot, but he’s all out of favor with the universe and he doubts Primus ever listened in the first place, so he relaxes into Wheeljack’s arms and just cries.