Ratchet drops heavily into Drift’s desk chair, frame creaking under the weight of the day. It’s been… well. It’s been a day.
He’d had a long-distance appointment today, a call to Red Alert all the way on Luna 1 to make sure his recovery from his self-imposed decapitation is coming along smoothly. He’s doing well, both mentally and physically. Better than Ratchet could have hoped for, but still, he’s struggling. It’s heavy business, and Ratchet feels drained. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing.
“Hey.”
Ratchet looks up to see Drift standing in the doorway, back from his own shift. He’s watching Ratchet with soft eyes. “Hey,” Ratchet responds.
The door slides shut again. “Long day?”
“Mmph.” Not really. Not as long as they used to be before First Aid stepped up. “Tough meeting.”
Drift makes a sympathetic noise and walks over to sit on the edge of his bed. “C’mere,” he calls, holding his arms out to Ratchet. “Let me hold you.”
Ratchet heaves himself to his feet. It’s getting harder these days to start moving again once he’s stopped. He manages, though. He always manages for Drift. He staggers stiffly to the bunk and drops down half on top of Drift, who shifts them until they’re horizontal. They fall easily into a comfortable position, legs tangled together and arms on each other’s waists. Drift runs warm, and the little insulation afforded to speeder frames means the warmth radiates off of him, cuts straight to Ratchet’s protoform like sunlight.
Drift smiles and leans in to press a kiss to his forehead, lingering to cradle Ratchet’s face in his hands. “I love you,” he murmurs, lips brushing Ratchet’s brow. He starts to pull back, but Ratchet catches him by the finials and keeps him close, pressing their foreheads together.
“Love you, too, kid. So much.”
Starscream’s graceful. Despite it all, through it all, he moves easy. He doesn’t twist his ankles and fall in the middle of hallways. He also doesn’t hallucinate, and if he does, it’s just Bumblebee, not deathmoment screams in his ears out of nowhere.
Until today.
Wheeljack tries to catch him, but his hands burn and the screaming’s stopped but now the cacophonous voices are back and he flinches and Wheeljack pulls back and gods, he should really do something about all this loss of control.
“Starscream?”
“I’m fine… just a little dizzy.” He breathes deeply. Back to background noise.
“...Alright.”
“I think I really messed up this time.”
Drift whispers it into the space between them, hot and wet and so close her lips brush Rodi’s when she speaks.
Rodi keeps her eyes closed. “Ratchet?”
“Yeah.”
“You love her?”
“Badly.” Drift sighs out her nose and it tickles Rodi’s cheek. Sweat’s still drying on the both of them, prickling. It’s summer still, too warm for this kind of proximity, especially after a few drinks and a night of dancing.
She presses a quick kiss to Drift’s lips. “And us?”
“You’re my best friend. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Badly.
It’s just an argument, he tells himself, curled up under the covers on this new bed he hasn’t gotten used to yet. He can never sleep in new environments. Can’t deal with change. Broken. Needy. It’s just an argument. You’re best friends, he’ll come around.
You’d best hope he does, the other part of Drift thinks. He’s the only one on this ship who even comes close to tolerating your presence.
Not that anything’s surprising about that. What did you expect? You’re an ex-Con. Of course they hate you. It’d be worrying if they didn’t.
Shut up. Shut up shut up shutupshutupshutupshut up!
Drift screams through his teeth, into his pillow. Be quiet. Be quiet be quiet.
Everything feels so much. It hurts.
He doesn’t want to think about fighting with Rodimus. He doesn’t want to think about fighting with anyone, how he always seems to bring out the worst in people or how they only tolerate his presence when he’s doing things for them, but he’s stuck in endless replays of the look on Rodimus’s face and the way Ultra Magnus had grabbed him earlier and how Ratchet’s here again, Ratchet who knows all the terrible things about who he was, who he is—
Stop. Stop stop stop he needs this to stop he’s panicking and he’s going to start crying and everything hurts.
Can’t you just help me with this one thing, Drift? It’s really starting to feel like I’m doing all the work, here.
He doesn’t know the crew well enough yet to know who might have brought anything harder, but he read the manifest and he knows which boxes the high-grade is in. It would be so easy. Just half a bottle and he wouldn’t hurt so badly anymore. A whole bottle and maybe he’d actually get some sleep tonight. Suddenly, he wants so badly it’s almost as bad as the hurt and his head is a mess of memories and cravings and the fear that Rodimus will never talk to him again and he’s going to rot alone in this bunkroom so what’s the point?
Call me if you need anything, kid. I mean it.
Call me if you need anything.
But Ratchet doesn’t really want Drift to call. Drift knows from the raised eyebrows and the tone of voice exactly what Ratchet had meant by anything, knows Ratchet doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him, and certainly not to stay sober or sane, and Drift just can’t. Not today. He can’t prove him right and he can’t stomach the thought of bothering one of the only mechs on this ship who’s been decent to him. He can’t. He should just find something to drink instead. It won’t hurt anything. Just one bottle Just one night.
Just one night.
Just—fuck it. Fuck it all to the fragging Pit.
You’re something special, kid.
He wants—he needs—
He calls Ratchet.
Skywarp and Thundercracker met over a million years ago, back at the Academy. They’d been young, then, newly forged and new to their outlier abilities and the implications thereof. They’d been fast friends, held together by circumstance through their first few fights. By the time the war was upon them, trining someday was a foregone conclusion. They were just waiting for the perfect third.
Starscream wasn’t that. Starscream was loudmouthed and abrasive and arrogant, and they trined two days after meeting him. It was a bond of convenience: Starscream offered to become their trine leader and pull them out of Jhiaxus in exchange for their sworn loyalty to the Decepticon cause. He had money and power and strong ideals, and a persuasive voice promising revenge for all that had been done to them. They were taken with him, and he was taken with what they could do for him.
Within the first year, something had begun to grow between them, something more romantic than mutual benefit. Maybe it was the bond, maybe it was circumstance, maybe it was just something about the three of them that worked together. Skywarp doesn’t know. All he knows is that he and Thundercracker talked about it, and then one night after three hours of drills, finally back in their quarters and steaming with exertion, Thundercracker grabbed Starscream’s face and kissed him. Things progressed from there.
Of course, there was the issue of Megatron. Megatron, Skywarp has learned, is very good at being an issue. In this case, the issue was specifically that of Starscream and Megatron, and of their relationship, which hadn’t interfered much with the trine’s relationship until Megatron had gotten into the habit of beating the absolute slag out of Starscream on an increasingly regular basis. It was… upsetting. Hard to watch. Starscream wouldn’t stop mouthing off and Megatron wouldn’t stop beating him for it. Then, Starscream started to get mean (well, meaner). The trine fought more and more. There was no room in their berth for a warlord, but Starscream just wouldn’t let him go.
Things got bad.
Thundercracker tried to fix it, to put their trine back together. Maybe Skywarp should have tried to help. Maybe if he had, Thundercracker wouldn’t have left.
Whatever. It’s not like Starscream tried, anyway. Thundercracker’s gone now. It doesn’t matter. Contrary to popular (grounder) belief, Seekers don’t actually need trines. Skywarp is perfectly fine without one and, if he so wished, he could break the remnants of his bonds to Thundercracker and Starscream and find a new trine. He’ll just have to spend time getting to know them well, as well as he knows—knew Thundercracker. He’s learned his lesson trining with people he doesn’t know well.
It’s not surprising that their trine didn’t last. It was never the most conventional, after all. That it was Starscream’s fault is especially unsurprising. As far as Thundercracker and Skywarp, well—
Well, Thundercracker’s a traitor. That’s all there is to it. Skywarp should have seen it coming. He should have expected Thundercracker would go soft.
Skywarp’ll just be more careful next time.
“Don’t touch him,” Skywarp snaps.
Starscream jerks back. Skywarp’s glaring at him with such intensity Starscream wonders if he’s trying to manifest a new branch of his power and warp him away with a look. He’s not moving out of his chair, though, and try as he might, there’s nothing he can actually do to Starscream without touching him. Starscream rallies quickly, snapping his hand back to his side and standing up straighter, stretching his wings as far as he dares within the confines of the medbay. Even their high command status can only buy so much space, and wounded mechs and harried medics press close all around Thundercracker’s berth.
He’s about to snap at Skywarp, ask him who exactly he thinks he is to tell his trine leader not to touch one of his trinemates, when Thundercracker cycles his vocalizer with a burst of static and says, “Please don’t fight. Not right now.”
Starscream’s mouth snaps shut. Skywarp’s sneer drops off his face, replaced by that sickening look of cloying concern he’d been fixing Thundercracker with ever since they’d gotten back to base. He keeps his hand up between Starscream and the bed, though, claws out. “TC…”
Thundercracker glances quickly to Starscream, then looks back to Skywarp and lays a bandaged hand on Skywarp’s forearm. “Warp, please? For me?”
Starscream scoffs. “Fine. I have better things to do.” He spins on his thruster with a flick of his wings and stalks out of the medbay, head held high. He really does have better things to do. Shower and buff out the battle scratches, for one. Review the details of the battle and figure out how he’d missed the possibility of an attack from above, for another, not that Thundercracker’s injury was his fault. Skywarp was being unreasonable. He’ll talk some sense into his trine soon enough, and they’ll be back to normal. They’ll be back to flying well and there would be no more injuries to argue over.
He’ll fix this. Not that it’s his fault.
“That’s the sixth time you’ve complimented me today,” Wheeljack remarks, glancing up from his workbench to look at you.
You force a laugh out. “Is it?” Is it? You try to recall. One (You really should keep your mask back more, you know. Your faceplates are better than most of these excuses for politicians could hope for.) , two (I like your color scheme), three (I’ll put in a good word for you. Better a competent engineer than some ignorant fool.), four (Good plan.), five (Your inventions have always been useful), and now, perhaps most embarrassingly, six: You’re good with your hands. You didn’t mean it that way, but now that you’re thinking about it, you find energon rushing hot to your face. He’s going to figure it out. He’s going to know how you feel and he can’t. He can’t know.
Wheeljack’s eyes shift in that way that means he’s smiling behind the mask. “Yeah.”
“Well,” you start. “Well, you’re worth it.” And that’s not what you meant to say. It’s what you thought, but it’s not what you meant to say. Frag Wheeljack and his way of forcing words out of your processor. You try to think of a way to backtrack, but his audials are already flashing surprised blue. He clears his vents with a blast of air.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, uh. Thanks?” His audials are still glowing. You open your mouth but then he laughs, and your whole universe narrows down to that sound. Something’s crushing your spark, you think. Something’s hit you in the chest, collapsing all you are down into the feeling of Wheeljack’s field, the sound of his laugh, the way he squints when he’s happy. It hurts. You wouldn’t trade it for anything. You’re drowning, and then he says, “You, too. Um, you’re, you’re worth it, too, you know,” and you stop venting. Your spark stops spinning.
He doesn’t mean it like that, you remind yourself. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t make it weird. You reboot your vocalizer and stammer out, “Of course I am. And I have a, a meeting in a joor. Yes. So I’ll be going now.” You spin on your heel thruster and beat a hasty retreat from the lab.
“Starscream, wait,” Wheeljack calls out behind you. You don’t hesitate. “Uh, bye? See you later?”
You stop with your hand over the button for the door. “Yes. I’ll… I’ll see you later.”
It’s easy to forget with the way they both run around doing things at all hours of the day and night, but Drift and Rodimus are speedsters. They’re meant for short, intense bursts of energy, the kind a bot like Ratchet isn’t even capable of, followed by extended recharge periods. Both of them are good at what they do, more than capable of the endurance work required of leading a ship, but it wears on them. It’s not uncommon to find one or both of them asleep at a table at Swerve’s or leaning against each other dozing off in one of the common areas, especially in the days following a battle. Ratchet knows Drift’s almost never fully recharged, and he’d be willing to bet Rodimus isn’t, either.
Even more common than Drift and Rodimus’s impromptu naps around the ship are afternoons spent like this, with Ratchet on the couch in his office catching up on paperwork and reviewing cases and Drift curled up under his arm or with his head on Ratchet’s thigh, engine purring softly, radiating contentment and warmth. Today, he’s lying down with a pillow hugged to his chest. He’s fast asleep, but every so often, when Ratchet reaches down to pet his finials, he tips his head into Ratchet’s hand or makes a soft sound. It’s peaceful. They’re peaceful.
Starscream’s not a romantic, but he did have something a bit more… well, fuck it. He had something more romantic in mind for his first kiss. Skyfire did seem like the romantic type, and he clearly had feelings for Starscream, so Starscream’d had a few daydreams about being swept off his pedes with a candlelit dinner and a heartfelt confession and a night to measure up to the love he’s read about in novels.
When it happened, it wasn’t anything like that. It wasn’t planned. There was no fancy engex and there was no mood lighting. It happened late one night, studying and talking in Skyfire’s cramped dorm room. There was nothing particularly arousing about discussing four-variable interpolation, but Starscream’s spark lurched in his chest every time he glanced at Skyfire. It was almost painful, and he’d just about resolved to stop doing it when Skyfire made a small sound and Starscream looked up to see him sitting a bit closer than before. Close enough to touch, Starscream realized, and when he leaned up it was as if in a trance. Skyfire leaned down, glancing between his optics and his lips, and Starscream managed a staticky, “Can I…?”
“Yeah,” Skyfire breathed, and then they were kissing. Neither of them quite knew what they were doing, but when they pulled away after a second or two Starscream’s whole frame tingled.
He was holding Skyfire’s face, he realized. It was warm. Skyfire’s whole frame was warm. “Again?” he whispered, and Skyfire nodded.
“Please.”
Ratchet loves the police officer, Orion Pax. Drift knows his name, not just because everyone does, but because it’s on Ratchet’s lips when they meet at the front door of Ratchet’s clinic. It’s not every day, barely even every week, but it’s often enough. They walk home together, or to the pub, or worse, they go inside where Drift can’t see them and spend hours in Ratchet’s little office. They talk about politics a lot. Drift knows this because he walks home with them. Because he’s the one that makes sure Ratchet gets home safe every day, not Orion.
Orion thinks he protects Ratchet. Drift can see it in the possessive arm around Ratchet’s shoulders, in the way he checks their surroundings and carries his gun on his hip like he thinks he’s a fucking soldier. They’ve never had trouble on their walks. Even a shot at Orion Pax isn’t worth tangling with Drift.
Ratchet smiles at Orion, laughs at his jokes and talks with him for hours about anything that comes through their processors. He takes Orion’s idiotic comments seriously, even if he’s much smarter, looks his frame up and down and wants. Drift bites his lip until it bleeds when Ratchet’s hands wander on Orion’s frame late at night after a few too many drinks at the pub.
Ratchet loves Orion Pax. Drift has never hated so deeply in his life.
I wanted to taste what you do that keeps you on me
After dinner, Wheeljack walks Starscream to his door. Not just the door of his complex, but the actual door to his apartment, so really, he can be forgiven for assuming.
Wheeljack makes a startled little noise when he leans close, and instead of opening his battle mask, he jumps back. “Oh! Uh, oh?”
Starscream cycles his optics. “What are you doing?”
“Um….”
“Don’t you want to kiss me?”
Wheeljack’s finials go bright pink. “Well, uh, I mean, eventually?” he sputters. “Yes? But not, I mean, not right now?
Starscream frowns. “Why not?” Wheeljack is still backed up against the wall, he realizes, so he steps back. He wonders if he’s made some misstep somewhere.
“I mean, it’s kind of soon, isn’t it? We just had our first, you know, our first date.”
“Yes.” He raises an eyebrow. “You walked me to my door.”
Understanding dawns across Wheeljack’s face. “Oh! Oh, uh. Yeah, I did. But I didn’t mean, you know.”
“You didn’t mean to interface with me tonight,” he says flatly.
“Uh, no.” Wheeljack is wringing his hands, and he wonders if all Autobots are such prudes, or if it’s just Wheeljack. “Sorry?”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I’m confused.”
So am I. In all honesty, the vast majority of Starscream’s romantic endeavors had centered around interfacing, and he’s not quite sure how to proceed without it. “So this is where we say goodbye?”
“I think so?” Wheeljack looks away. “Starscream, oh man, I’m really sorry—”
Starscream swipes a hand through the air between them. “Nothing to apologize for. A misunderstanding.”
“I know, but this is so awkward, and you’re so, you know.”
He doesn’t know, but he lets it go in favor of putting Wheeljack out of this social misery. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
Wheeljack’s optics snap back to him. “Yeah! Yeah, of course. See you then, then?”
“See you then.” As Wheeljack walks away, he calls out, “And Wheeljack?”
He stops, turns. “Yeah?”
“I’d love to do this again next week.”
I’ve got all this love I’ve got to keep to myself
All this effort to make it look effortless
“---And at least try to maintain a low profile!”
The groundbridge closes and Ratchet slumps over his keyboard. Finally. All the humans gone, and with them, every other Primus-forsaken inhabitant of this base, save---
“Optimus.” Ratchet hears him approach, doesn’t bother turning around.
Optimus steps close behind him and lays his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders, massaging gently. “You look tired, old friend.”
Ratchet sighs, arching into the touch. “It’s been a long day.”
“It has,” Optimus agrees. “Come to bed.”
“I have more---"
Optimus drapes himself fully across Ratchet’s back, tucking his face into the crook of Ratchet’s neck and purring a long, deep note. “Ratchet,” he rumbles. “It will wait.”
“But---" Optimus doesn’t say anything this time, just nuzzles deeper into Ratchet’s collar faring. “Fine. But only for a few hours.”