Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Only More Than a Fire 

The parties over

I’m still on your couch

Are you taking me in

Or are you kickin me out?

KennyHoopla--how will i rest in piece if i'm buried by a highway?

There’s smoke pouring out of every building, so thick it’s choking engines. 

Deadlock runs through it, guns in both hands, optics sweeping left to right and back looking for his final target, the mech he’s meant to bring in. He’s new to the Decepticons but not new to the hunt, his guns familiar in his hands. 

The only difference is the badge on his chest and the sheer level of chaos surrounding him. 

His quarry is a good deal ahead of him but Deadlock’s catching up. He doesn’t know these streets but he knows backalley’s everywhere, and let’s experience guide him as the mech in front ducks in, out and around various buildings. 

The target whips around a final corner, one that opens to a bigger street that Deadlock knows is blocked off by a heavy police-made wall; energon rushing through his wires he pushes himself faster, clicking the safeties off both his guns. 

His victory is short lived.

There’s a red and yellow mech standing on the wall, his hands cupped over his mouth as he yells instructions. Mechs are running towards him, climbing the wall he leads them too. Even through the smoke Deadlock can tell he’s not a professional–this isn’t a medic, or an officer. 

The light of bright blue optics shine through the haze, the mech wincing but otherwise unworried about the concussive sounds of gunfire going off a street over  and Deadlock clocks him immediately as a gutter mech. 

The target he’s chasing yells something that catches the gutter mech’s attention. Deadlock’s quarry leaps, scrabbling up the wall while red-and-yellow bends down and helps him up over it. 

The gunner halts, debating his next move and wondering if the gutter mech will clock him just as easily.

Those blue optics land on him seconds later, proving the answer to be “yes.” 

The gutter mech takes him in, those optics narrowing when they land on Deadlock’s purple badge. Red-and-yellow doesn’t back down though, instead standing tall, sliding into a fighting stance that is taught on the streets in fights, rather than in a dojo or training yard. 

Deadlock can take him. He has the guns, he has more training and he’s fairly certain he’s more determined than the other mech is.

Red-and-yellow must sense his thoughts, because the mech flicks both his hands, palms out, and promptly goes up in flames. 

Deadlock feels his optical ridge raise as the mech stands there, unharmed in what is apparently a hell of a sigma ability, daring Deadlock to do his worst without saying a word. 

This is an unexpected turn of events–a show of protective aggression that Deadlock respects. 

For the first time in a long time, he lets his quarry go. 

Nods at the mech who protected him, who was willing to put his own life and energon on the line for a stranger. 

Deadlock walks away, the image of that mech burned into his processor.

xXx

Drift doesn’t know how to be an Autobot. 

He has an idea about it–and if anything their culture will be closer to the Decepticon one he lived and died by then the New Crystal City mechs. 

Definitely more manageable than the rules the latter had lived under, certainly. 

Drift won’t forget them though, and he’ll never forget Wing. He’s been given a new life, another chance–and this time he’s determined not to waste it. To live how he wanted to live, and not by attaching himself to the next mech that looks at him and smiles.

Too bad for him that he’s barely with the Wrecker’s a year before a familiar face shows up.

Red-and-yellow is different now. He tells the crew he has a new name and he’s got the Matrix of all things slung around his neck. 

He’s an absolute fragging wreck, having been stranded in space for Primus knew how long, but when his optics flick to Drift there’s recognition there. 

“Hey, how do I know you?” Is how Rodimus introduces himself, and unwilling to lie, Drift tells him the truth. It’s not as though Perceptor hadn’t already identified him as a former ‘Con, though Drift was lucky enough not to have been ID’d beyond “That guy’s a Decepticon General!” and thus never gave anyone the name he used to run under. 

The Wreckers for the most part haven’t cared. He has proven himself in battle with them, has put his own life and energon on the line and between his battle skills and his willingness to teach Perceptor how to shoot, he’s slid in fairly easily as one of them. 

Rodimus’s acceptance of him is even easier. They were both gutter mechs accepted into their respective armies, told they would do great things. They’ve suffered under the shadows of others, fought to meet expectations while they struggled to find where their own beliefs lay. 

They both have secrets, and extraordinary high body counts. 

Rodimus is confident in a way that Drift admires, wishes desperately he had. He’s brash now, bold, and unafraid to say what’s on his mind. He doesn’t care what other people think and upon failing to meet the expectations his heroes had given him, decided to pursue his goals his own way. 

It catches him a lot of flak, and even among the Wreckers some of his actions, his words, get optic rolls, make mechs talk about his ego behind his back. 

Yet the Matrix hangs around his neck, and Drift isn’t the only one to realize that it belongs there. 

“I like giving speeches.” Rodimus tells him once, beyond frustrated as he paces about the cramped habsuit they share. “What I don’t like is writing them. I don’t say the right things, not unless I’m fighting, or under fire.” 

Drift, sitting cross legged upon his berth, looks up from sharpening his sword. “I could write the speeches for you.” He offers, hiding how much that would delight him, how much he’d love to work as a team politically. 

Rodimus spins to look at him, optics bright. “Could you!?” He says, his field switching from frustrated to excited. “Cause that’d be great!” 

“Yeah.” Drift answers, letting himself get excited. 

Then he does it. 

(Then  he does it again. And again and again, the two of them working together until the end of the war, until they jointly decide to pursue the Knights of Cybertron, turning the whole thing into a mission that gives mechs not just something to do, but closure for those who need it, and a reason to keep going for those who are lost.) 

xXx

It’s just him and Rodimus strolling through the massive ship Drift’s just bought, the two of them watching all their dreams come true right before their optics. 

One minute they’re talking, making notes as to how many mechs the ship could hold–and the next Rodimus has got a look in his optics Drift has seen a thousand times before, but rarely directed at him. 

It’s protective, possessive. 

Heated.

“You know,” He says casually, turning so that he’s leaning against the ship’s wall, facing Drift, “One could misconstrue this whole ship as the world’s most expensive courting gift.” 

Drift just stares at him for a moment, not tracking the change in conversation, before the realization hits him hard. 

He knew about Autobot courtship, had watched many a serious relationship form (and once even witnessed Rodimus conduct a Conjux ritual for two mechs under his command.) His face heats up, finials dipping low because that’s not what he’d meant, but now that Rodimus’s has said it something in Drift doesn’t want to admit that. 

Wishes, suddenly and desperately, that it was the opposite, that it was a courtship gift but–

But, but, but-!

“It’s okay, I’m joking.” Rodimus says with a smile that both eases Drift’s anxiety while equally making him pang with hurt. “We both know why you bought it. Be a hell of a courting gift though.” His optics look up and around, admiring the ship they stand in.

All Drift can do is drag a hand down the wall, force himself not to transformer fingers into claws. 

He can’t lose Rodimus.

Not to a love confession, not when he’s finally found someone he can be himself around and without the bolder mech Drift worries that he’ll throw himself at whoever he comes across next. 

Rodimus he can be angry with. Can fight and argue and have different opinions without a care. 

Drift is easily influenced but he knows it–just as he knows he isn’t immune to Rodimus’s pull on him–but the relationship they have isn’t the same as the ones he’s had before. It’s different. Freeing.

He’s terrified to destroy it. 

Rodimus is looking at him again. The heats holding in his optics, something building within them and Drift meets it head on, the bravest action he can muster. 

He can’t say anything, but the action is enough. 

Rodimus pushes off the wall, stepping up and around to pin Drift flat against it instead. He brings his own chevron so close it bumps Drift’s, arms coming to frame Drift’s head, pressing into the wall over his shoulders.

“We didn’t really do the Autobot version though, did we?” Rodimus says casually, as if he hasn’t pinned the ex Con in, as if Drift’s hands aren’t hovering, unsure of where they should go. “We did the Decepticon one.” 

Drift frowns as the words try to process through the mixture of feelings that have hit him like a brick, the hope and fear and will to keep it off of his face or field. 

Rodimus tilts his head, smile smug but soft on his face. “‘Cons call them claims, right?” 

Just like that, the word activates Drift, demolishes the fears that  kept him immobile. 

Engine revving once, hard, his hands fly to Rodimus’s waist, pulling the future captain hard against him.  

Courtship–-becoming Rodimus’s Conjux-–was too much for him right now. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it, but rather that he needed more time to sort himself out before he dragged another person into his helm. 

A claim though–a claim he could do.

Wanted to do. 

Drift would have held off, continued to let Rodimus lead, but he isn’t just made up of the Autobot he was now and the gutter mech he once had been. Deadlock had long been a part of him, existed still within him, and it was that piece of his personality that peered out of his own optics now, grinning back in a way that showed fang.

He pushes the desire through his field, let it be read by Rodimus’s own. 

“I could claim you.” He says, voice seductive, hands stroking red hips. 

“You could.” Rodimus agrees, moving his hands down, off the wall and onto Drift’s shoulders. “But I was thinking more of the reverse.”

“You–” Drift can barely process that, that Rodimus would want to claim him.  His entire world-view shifts, things unknown falling inline right before him. The deep, craving that simple sentence uncovers.

How he would love nothing more than to be protected and treasured for once, instead of the one doing it. 

“Yes.” Drift says, want hitting him so hard you could read it off him from across the entire damn ship. 

“Yes?” Rodimus repeats teasingly, and it’s annoying how in control he is, but it also makes him feel safe, like this isn’t a snap decision but something Rodimus has put thought into.

“You heard me.” The swordsmech growls playfully, pushing back into his future Captain's body with his own. 

It’s his own fault for the response he gets–Rodimus’s responding rev and lips that come down to capture his own. 

The kiss is hot, fast and deep, making Drift pull in air through his mouth when Roddy finally let’s go. He doesn’t give the former 'Con any time to recover, instead cupping his face and pressing his thumb into the plating under his optics. 

Flames flicker to life, making Drift hiss as his face lights up in pain. Rodimus wastes no time, burning two long, zig-zagging marks into Drift’s cheek. 

“There.” He says when he’s done, his own field meshing with Drift’s. “Now you can never again tell me you feel like you don’t belong here–because you do. You belong with me.” 

Drift’s loved many mechs throughout his life, but never as quickly, or as hard as he loved Rodimus right then. 

(Later, Drift would start to paint the scars red, a mimicry of his claimer’s paint. Autobots almost never recognized it, but he and Rodimus both always got a laugh when a ‘Con did.) 

Chapter Text

Missing the Point

Wheeljack’s spoken to Drift.

Multiple times in fact–he’s not Ratchet’s Amica for nothing. Once he even had spoken to the swordsmech when he still carried the name Deadlock, and while that had been a harrowing experience neither mech would ever bring up again, it was a part of their history as much as anything else was. 

Calling him up out of the blue wasn't unusual for him. 

What he did not mention, could not mention on the off chance it got back to Ratchet, was who he was trying to claim.

The medic didn’t know Starscream. Had really only heard what Wheeljack had told them when the two could manage to connect and the mustang wasn’t stupid.

It wasn’t enough. If his Amica caught wind of his plans he’d turn the entire Lost Light around in an effort to throw a wrench at the scientists head and demand a medical examination after and well–

That reaction would be the same no matter who Wheeljack told. 

It was easier to ask forgiveness, than accidentally imply he needed permission.

The unintended result was that Drift had made some assumptions when giving the advice Wheeljack had asked for. Like that the mech Wheeljack was courting was a lesser known grounder, or maybe even a minor figure in the war. 

Someone who was, if not scientifically minded, at least willing or got along with the kind of behaviors those that were tended to have. 

Particularly considering Wheeljack’s penchant for explosives.

The data was thusly skewed. He’d been told to blend Autobot and Decepticon cultures. Not do anything ‘too flashy, we’re no longer at war.' 

Besting his potential claimee in a fight wasn’t likely needed as Wheeljack could show prowess through providing a home, a stable life, bossing the mech playfully around some and reminding them that he held a high position during the war. 

“Maybe show off some weapons. Threaten them a little. The amount of potential explosives at your place was enough to make me nervous, so this shouldn’t be too hard.” Drift had said. 

Wheeljack had taken this deep to spark, determined to do it right–because if he didn’t, Starscream would slag him.

That, he knew for sure. 

“The neck is still a fashionable place to put a mark. Make sure it’s with someone on your frame or a suitably impressive weapon. Don’t be soft while you do it but you don’t need to hold them down and snarl anymore either–just do what they’ve already positively responded to.” Drift had made it sound so easy, almost like a dance. 

One he’d already been doing.

Pity for them both Drift wouldn’t have recommended any of that if he’d been aware that the mech Wheeljack was trying to woo was Starscream.

xXx

The Ruler of Cybertron is expecting a brutal claim. 

Undoubtedly something science based-–Wheeljack was known for explosions and there is no better surprise than discovering what pattern shrapnel will make on a person. 

Of course the engineer is talented–-he undoubtedly can make a pattern upon the seeker’s body as easily as a master pyrotechnician can make a pattern out of explosives for fancy fireworks.  There might be one in mind, something made to both their specific tastes. 

Not that Starscream knows, of course. 

Secretly it bothers him how much leeway he has given to the mech. How much this echoes his past. Except that’s also the entire point of it-–because Megatron’s claim on him is one burned into the Deceptocon’s history books. 

If they are to do this, then whatever Wheeljack does needs to top it. It has to be flashy and aggressive enough that it will cause another cultural shift, same as the first one had. It must be unique and different; it must help bridge the gaps between Autobot and Decepticon culture, but above all, it must show that Starscream as ruler of the Cybertron, walked smugly out of yet another intense pursuit by a mech he allowed to mark him, and isn’t he just the most gorgeous and sought after person on Cybertron?

This, he understands, is a lot to put upon Wheeljack.

It is not, Starscream has long estimated, out of the scientists range of abilities, something he has personally insured by being the world’s most difficult mech to claim. 

Never once has Wheeljack backed down, and finally, after their last bout of defending one another both physically and verbally in the political ring, Starscream has deemed it time for the inevitable outcome to be reached.

Soon, his body will once again be sacrificed in the name of his own agenda, but this time, the scars he bears from it will carry him into the life he should have led initially. 

No matter the outcome of his second claiming–there is no turning back now. 

xXx

Wheeljack has left him a present.

It is wrapped in delicate paper that perfectly mimics the shades of his armor and delighted, Starscream transforms a claw and rips it open.

It does not explode.

His present continues to not explode when he extracts a box of goodies from his favorite shop, the one some Decepticon whose name he can’t recall opened a while ago. 

The box is wood, Earthen in nature. The goodies within it are made from high grade, the kind saved from before the war. They are topped with metal shavings of various flavors, making each one unique.

Starscream pops one in his mouth, contemplating the cost of the gift.

It is appropriately high. 

Poisoning is an interesting twist–Wheeljack has been playing with some of the liquids in his lab a lot lately. A part of Starscream worries whatever it will do will marr his throat–he needs Wheeljack to make his own mark, not go over the top of Megatron’s. 

The former warlord is old news. Rejected. 

Tossed aside on that stupid space ship, the one that took all those other idiots off on a mission he didn’t bother to learn anything about. 

Another goodie follows the first. Then another, and another.

Nothing happens.

Starscream frowns, annoyed at the lack of pain as he eyes the final goodie, hoping whatever reaction he’s doomed to have isn’t too delayed. 

He has reports to write, after all. 

After slowly savoring the last treat he sets the box aside and begins his paperwork. Eventually he is consumed by it, then by some emergency, and finally by yelling at Windblade.

All thoughts of the goodies–and his not-poisoning, are lost entirely in the following chaos. Not forgotten, but placed into the back of his thoughts, to be examined later. 

He brings it back out later that night. Turns it over, in his mind.

Decides that Wheeljack is trying to trick him, keep him on edge and teased until he’s flustered and looking for danger at every corner.

Something a newbie would undoubtedly fall for but Starscream is a pro.

Still, the effort is appreciated. 

It is nice, he thinks smugly, to have someone care enough to go through such efforts.

xXx

More presents appear throughout the week. 

Each one comes with its own potential for damage, and each one fails to provide such a thing, though Starscream is holding out hope for the thick, gold choker that so carefully matches the yellow highlights of his paint.

It’s tight on his neck, and flashes when hit with direct light.

It is clearly made by Wheeljack’s own hand, something else Starscream deeply treasures. 

This piece he will miss if it spontaneously combusts, though he supposes he can have always have Wheeljack make him a second one. 

Then the end of the week comes, Starscream still unmarked, and Wheeljack himself finally makes an appearance. He’s polished to a shine that is absolutely unusual for him, but Starscream looks it over appreciatively. 

Perhaps, he thinks, the gifts were the Autobot half of the claim. Something the more gentler of their two sides did to woo and win each other over. 

(Seems silly, as the gifts do not showcase prowess or one’s ability to care and protect, but Starscream touches the choker and supposes it has its perks.) 

Wheeljack’s brought one more gift with him, a bottle of expensive high grade. 

Together they work their way through it, inching closer and closer together, until (finally!) they are making out and Wheeljack transformers one of his fingers into a tool (not something Starscream was aware he could do.) It’s a little saw, one that whines as it turns on directly under his optics. 

A thrill goes down his spinal strut as the scientists grabs onto his face–

And then Wheeljack leaves draws the thinnest line of blood–and almost delicate mark–that Starscream has ever seen, right down over his lips. 

The seeker raises his hand to his face. Pats the injury (if one could even call it that.) Lowers his hands and stares incredulously at Wheeljack. 

“Are you serious?” He asks.

Confused, Wheeljack’s fin’s flash an array of colors. “Ah. Yes?” He responds carefully, finger with the saw still held up. 

Starscream frowns at him. “No. The answer to that is no, and you are going to this again. Properly.” 

“I thought I was doing this properly.” Wheeljack replies. 

“Not my face though.” Starscream says, ignoring him as Wheeljack sits back, transforms the saw away. “Not my throat either–but another place flashy.” 

Wheeljack stares at him as he thinks it over, adding in the relevant new information of Wheeljack’s saw blade. 

“Are you supposed to tell me where to mark you?” Wheeljack says, but his disbelief is wrapped in growing laughter, and Starscream knows immediately that the mustang isn’t upset. 

“No but who cares.” Starscream waves away the very thought. “Here, I’m going to ping you with the list of appropriate places to put one. You can find another day to surprise me.” 

Wheeljack accepts the ping easily enough, optics dim as he reads it over.

“Star, I’m not touching your wings.” He says immediately, and Starscream makes an inpatient noise in response.

“Well why not!?” Starscream sniffs. 

“I could inflict serious damage to them, causing problems in the future for combat. Here, what about this–” Wheeljack said, pulling out a datapad and pulling up schematics on it.

Rattrap, who absolutely is not eavesdropping, slowly palms his hand over his face as the two begin to discuss the claim as though it were some kind of science project, rather than a life long thing it’s meant to be.

Later, he reflects that actually fits the two of them a lot more than a traditional claim did, but still. 

With those two at the helm, Cybertron was absolutely going to fall.

Chapter Text

Proven

Ambulon hates himself.

His paint. His status as a ‘Con traitor. The fact that he’s been reformatted into a leg.

Most of all he hates the scar that runs down the length of his front, from the tip of his helm all the way down through his panel. 

Ratchet was a miracle worker, and First Aid close behind him–but though they managed to bring him back from the dead, neither of them could fully erase what Pharma had done. 

Something Ambulon could live with, if the jet’s last words to him (before Pharma had taken him offline, before he forced him awake in time to saw him in half just to piss off Ratchet) had been damningly haunting.

“If you live through this, Decepticon, consider yourself marked as mine.” 

Ambulon had denied the claim, panicked when it became clear his old, hated boss knew exactly what he was doing–-but it wasn’t enough. 

Not when Pharma had gone through with it.

Being sawn in half wasn’t something anyone was going to forget anytime soon either, not with the way the thick, bright scars caught the attention of every optic that dared look him over. 

First Aid, Autobot that he was, thought Ambulon’s horror, his general reluctance to go anywhere in public, was because of the whole “our old boss who we spent an insane amount of time with almost killed us” part. Pestered him to visit Rung, brought him books and holovids and conversations even in the face of Ambulon’s dull, uninterested responses. 

Ratchet thought it was a fairly rational response to being cut in half. He allotted a decent amount of time off, before coming in, sitting down, giving a pep talk that ended up just making Ambulon feeling bad for not working. 

The older medic didn’t intend to shame him coming back to work–was in fact, hoping to do the exact opposite–but that was the takeaway Ambulon had. What got him moving again, forcing himself through the motions even as he tried to figure out what the hell his life was going to look like now.

Part of him wondered why he was making it such a big deal. Ambulon knew what he was. How other Autobots viewed him. There was no illusions that anyone wanted to date him, particularly when so few were willing to even befriend him. 

It wasn’t like he had lost anything. 

Except, of course, he had. 

In a way that horrified him, violated him. 

He had been marked with an unwanted claim, in a way that he could not possibly hide. Could never deny.

Ambulon had long considered himself ruined but this took away the very last thing of his he had. Changed how he interacted with anyone and everyone from this point forward. 

His team meant well. ‘Aid and Ratchet both. But they didn’t get it. Neither of them did–not until Drift walked into the medbay with a tray of energon drinks for the lot of them and stopped dead. 

His optics went right to the mark and Ambulon winced. 

Looked away.

Hoped the ex-Con wouldn’t get it and hated himself more when it was instantly obvious that he did. 

Drift put down the tray. Walked towards him. Examined him.

“It doesn’t count.” He said it loudly, as though his words alone would negate the claim. 

“It does.” Ambulon countered softly. “Pharma knew what he was doing. He was blunt about it.”  

Drift’s optics narrowed into slits. “He didn’t court you on Delphi, did he?”

The words wanted to get stuck in Ambulon’s throat. He felt compelled to answer anyway. “No. Only on Luna-1.” 

Drift hissed, a harsh noise. 

Their conversation had drawn the attention of Ratchet and First Aid both, the two of them making their way over and blatantly eavesdropping with confused faces. 

Neither Ambulon nor Drift corrected them for it. 

“He claimed you under duress.” Drift said, fury building in his field. His words made Ratchet freeze, the elder mechs optics shooting to Ambulon, viewing him in a new light. First Aid’s remained puzzled but then, unlike Ratchet, he likely didn’t know what a claim was. 

Part of Ambulon wished he never would. Not now. 

Not after Pharma had gotten to him first. 

Softly, Ambulon admitted the truth, the thing that burned inside him. Shamed him.  “I didn’t want it–I denied him.”He cleared his vents once, twice. 

A third time that might have been a choked back sob. “He did it anyway.” 

Drift hissed again, fangs making a rare appearance–Ambulon didn’t even realize he still had them. 

“If he isn’t dead already, I’ll kill him.” The swordsmech said, and for the first time in a long time his voice didn’t sound like the soft spoken mech he pretended to be. No, that was Deadlock that had just promised vengeance, and a long buried part of Ambulon was glad for it.

Drift was an Autobot, and Autobot’s could be finicky in these matters. Deadlock was a full blown ‘Con, and he spoke only the blunt and honest truth. 

If Pharma lived, Ambulon would be avenged. 

“Thank you.” He said, bowing his helm. His optics were wet, because of course, his dignity had to go right out the window as well and leave him stripped bare for the world to see.  

Drift–Deadlock, came forward, pressed a kiss against his forehead. “You’ll be alright.” He said. 

Ambulon leaned into the Decepticon style of support, not caring if it made anyone else uncomfortable just then. He closed his optics–and for a moment, just one moment, pretended that the swordsmech was right. That he would be okay, in the end. 

The peaceful feeling didn’t last long, but for a moment, it was there.

xXx

First Aid was sitting in their shared hab with a look that made Ambulon want to walk right back out the door. 

“Don’t even!” The younger medic snapped, accurately guessing his thoughts. 

Caught, Ambulon sighed and stepped in. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He said defensively, glaring at First Aid. 

“You spent two entire weeks not talking about it.” First Aid scoffed in return, optics tracking his roommate as Amublon went to sit on the edge of his berth. “In fact, you let me believe it was something else entirely!”

Which wasn’t quite true, but close enough to it that Ambulon found he could no longer hold his roommates gaze.

“You wouldn’t have understood.” He muttered, picking at the paint on his arm, optics sliding away. 

“I know what a ‘Con claim is, I’ve listened to Ratchet.” ‘Aid said with another optic roll, finger pointing to his neck in imitation of the story the entire medical team had heard one time too many, now that their boss was highlighting his marks. 

The elder medic had a solid grasp of Con Culture and as a result so did most everyone around him now, that was true. 

 Ambulon just didn’t know how to explain the things Ratchet was leaving out. 

Things he wasn’t even sure he wanted First Aid to know. 

The younger mech had always been accepting of him, no matter how many arguments they got into. His Con past hadn’t been a problem, nor had his paint, or his altmode. Adding this onto it felt like it was too much. Like the one thing he had going for him was gone.

Like he was ruined.

First Aid’s helm tilted as he sensed the distress in Ambulon’s field, staring at the mech across from him. 

Abruptly he made the decision to stand, taking two long, practiced strides to deposit himself on Ambulon’s berth, facing the former Con. 

“What I don’t get,” He said after he’d settled. “Is why Pharma decided to claim you." 

The words weren’t gentle, not exactly, but they led into an area of familiarity that automatically eased Ambulon’s stress.

Though he and ‘Aid argued, they also shared the same victories, complaints and general thoughts, and they both were long used to sharing with one another. Mostly for lack of anyone else to share with, but now out of habit and a deep understanding born from living in close quarters. 

This meant First Aid understood the full history of the mech across from him. Knew he often thought Pharma targeted him due to his status as a former Con. Understood Ambulon’s struggles and how he reacted to stress more than anyone else did. 

 That bitching about their boss had been a long time hobby of theirs, and reframing the conversation that way made it easier for Ambulon to discuss it.

"Why else?” Ambulon answered, orienting himself to face First Aid. “Because he knew it would hurt me. Stay with me more than him cutting me in half would.”

“He could have done that a number of other ways though.” ‘Aid countered. “You told Drift he wasn’t pursuing you before Luna-1. Did he even know what a claim was before then?” 

Ambulon just shrugged.

“Let’s say he didn’t know.” ‘Aid continued. “That he found out through whatever means his crazy aft had at his disposal. I bet you credits he’d see it as a weapon, a tool.”  

“What are you trying to say, First Aid.” Ambulon’s words are deadpan, and tired, but mostly done. 

“I’m saying I don’t think he meant it.” 

“That’s–worse. That’s definitely worse.” Ambulon said, closing his optics and pressing fingers hard into the center of his forehelm. “But it definitely sounds like him.” 

First Aid’s instinct is to ask why that’s worse, but he shuts up instead and works it out for himself. 

This leaves the two of them to sit in silence, with Ambulon’s field–open to him, as it usually is–sinking into further and further despair.

‘That.’ First Aid decides as he abruptly picks a course of action, ‘Will not due.’ 

Ambulon didn’t look up when he stood a second time, nor did he fight when ‘Aid moved in front of him, planted his hands on both shoulders, and shoved Ambulon down. 

Too busy wallowing in his helm, refusing to admit he desperately needed the contact ‘Aid was providing, it was easier to let himself be shoved down than to protest. 

"I’m not really in the mood right now.” He does say, as 'Aid climbed up and settled himself atop the former Con. 

“Everytime I sit on you doesn’t mean I want sex.” 'Aid corrected, crossing his arms over his chest, legs kneeling on either side of the older mech. 

“What are you doing then?” Ambulon said, and he couldn’t help himself–it came out tired. 

Defeated. 

“Making sure you’re listening to me.” ‘Aid said immediately. 

He got a frown in response. 

“You’re ridiculous.” Ambulon muttered.

“I’m a protege, we’re brilliant by default.” First Aid scoffed, using the noise to cover that he was perfectly positioning himself to keep Ambulon from being able to easily get up.

 Once he was certain his target was secure, he pounced. 

“Why haven’t you claimed me?” He asked, and watched in well covered amusement as Ambulon jerked like he’d been struck by lightning. 

“What!?” Ambulon sputtered, optics darting up to stare at him in a comical fashion. He flailed for a moment, but 'Aide rode it out easily enough and soon after Ambulon gave up.

“It’s a legitimate question.” First Aid defended. “We definitely have followed most of the rules of it. Especially when it comes to interfacing.” 

“Aren’t we just fuck buddies?” And if it were anyone else 'Aid would be terribly offended, but it was Ambulon, and he could hear the thread of self consciousness that ran through the elder medics words.

“Fuck buddies generally do not live together and exclusively frag each other, no.” 'Aid deadpanned. “They also don’t get jealous when one of them gets hit on at the bar either.”

“We’re not having this conversation again, I was not jealous and you know it!” Ambilon said, offended, that dark, pulsating emotions of doubt and self-hate leaving his field, replaced by an old frustration and annoyance. 

One day he’d realize First Aid picked fights on purpose just to get rid of such things, but that day was not today. 

“You told Whirl of all mechs, to get out of my space. You went as far as to threaten him via telling Ratchet that he’d been dodging his check ups again.” He said. 

"He wasn’t flirting, he was leering at you, it was creepy!” Ambulon said more than a little defensively, because looking back Whirl had been leering, but in the playful kind of way he often did. 

There hadn’t been a threat there and they both knew it. 

"He’s a former Wrecker, Ambulon. And I turned him down because it made you jealous.  What part of that sounds casual?” First Aid made his point by gesturing the the nightstand next to his berth, the one covered by various books, files and studies centered around the Wreckers. 

If ‘Aid wasn’t seated on his stomach Ambulon would have thrown his hands up. 

“Why does this make you think I should claim you? Con’s have Conjux’s too, you don’t have to be claimed to be one!” He protested. 

It took everything in First Aid to not point out that Ambulon hadn’t said date, or even used the newly popular, human word boyfriend,  but rather, had leapt straight to Conjux. 

Somehow, he managed it. 

“I know you.” ‘Aid argued. “You’d prefer a claim to becoming my Conjux right now.” For a lot of reasons neither one of them was willing to go into right just then–but also because ‘Aid himself wasn’t ready for one.

One day he would be, but forcing it now wouldn’t do either of them any favors. 

"Pharma has a claim over me–” Ambulon started to say, before ‘Aid interrupted him. 

“Which is void because you didn’t consent to it. Drift said as much.” One red hand reached down, tapped Ambulon on the chest, right atop his scar. “Would you have claimed me before Pharma?”

Surprised into answering honestly, Ambulon blurted out;  “If–if there had been an emergency, maybe?”

Of course.

“So why doesn’t this,” Another tap on his scar, “constitute as an emergency?” 

To that, Ambulon had no answer. 

He vented in slowly through his mouth, optics looking at ‘Aid both in frustration and with a lot of unspoken emotions, things that hinted at his problems with his self esteem, and his general worth. 

They haunted him, and as always, First Aid could only give in to the urge to chase them away. 

"You said claims don’t have to be romantic, right?” He said, setting up his next point with another line of distracting questions. 

“Yeah.” Ambulon said, the very idea of dating Pharma made his plating slick down flat.

First Aid made himself look as considering as he could, while he balanced by putting both hands down on Ambulon’s chest, leaning some weight into them. “And you said Deadlock had a thing for medics?”

“What does–oh, no.” Ambulon once again tried to sit up, as he finally caught on.This time the result was that he managed to get up on the backs of his elbows. 

“No, he claimed Ratchet, that was where his obsession came from, it doesn’t mean he’d want–” 

"You?” First Aid interrupted. “Why not? Ratchet said that one mech can claim others and Drift seemed pretty defensive over you.”

He got a panicked, sputtering response. “That’s–no–he didn’t–”

‘Aid steamrolled right over him.

“So why don’t you claim me, romantically and he overrides Pharmas claim on you, in a non romantic sense, and then the Lost Light medical team is once again back on the same page?” 

"What about Lancet?” Ambulon said desperately, and ‘Aid had to catch himself before he laughed out loud. 

“The guy that bailed off two off-ship trips ago, or the stuffed animal we replaced him with?” First Aid asked. 

Ambulon’s mouth opened and closed with a click, his field still pressed against ‘Aids own as he flicked through a flurry emotions. 

“Go on. Claim me.” First Aid said again. “It’ll make you feel better.” 

Because it would, plain and simple. 

“I’ll think about it.” Ambulon replied stubbornly. 

‘Aid squinted at him. 

“You’ll do it.” He decided, after getting a glare in response to his blatant attempt to read his partner’s intentions. “You just don’t want to do it now, because then I’d be right.” 

“I hate you sometimes, you know that?” Ambulon grumbled in response.

“No you don’t, you just say that to make yourself feel better.” Aid countered, smiling with his optics as masked mechs tended to do. 

He finally shifted off his not-boyfriend, laying down so that he laid cuddled up against Ambulon’s side, helm resting on a shoulder. “Promise me next time when you need to talk about something you don’t shut down on me again?” 

Carefully, as though his arm would be rejected, pushed away, Ambulon hugged ‘Aid to him. 

“I’ll try.” He said. 

“Good enough for me.” ‘Aid replied, because it was. 

xXx

Claims typically took time to make. If they were done under duress, done last minute, then there was always a history between the two mechs they could fall back on, a reason for making such a statement, promise.

Ambulon did not have that kind of history with Drift.

That wasn’t to say that they were strangers. 

Ambulon had known Drift, and under his other, former name, he had also known Deadlock. Both in ways that were friendly, though neither mech had ever sought the other out individually. 

Ambulon only saw him as much as he did because he was Ratchet’s claimer and Conjux, and only talked to him beyond work and after-work drinks when the few of them who had been Decepticons came together for support. 

It wasn’t enough to ask for a claim. 

The very idea made Ambulon nervous. Drift’s reaction to Pharma’s mark was purely out of horror, a reflex given from someone who understood, and who once held a great position of power.

First Aid, asshole that he was, went ahead and discussed it with Ratchet anyway.

Not that Ambulon could argue with the results. It had taken a while–they’d all wanted to move slow, needed to move slow–but in the end the remedy had been made exactly as First Aid had suggested it.

The nurse now sported four claw marks running down the right side of his chest, outlined in medic-white paint. The same claw marks that matched perfectly to Ambulon’s right hand. 

Likewise, Ambulon’s own mark had been altered, the long scar widened by Drift running his sword down it. Unlike Pharma, Drift had added his own spin by striking a horizontal line across Ambulon’s chest, turning the scar into a cross. 

A blue jewel was set into the center of it, reminiscent of Drift’s own Great Sword. 

Already Ambulon had taken to worrying it instead of the paint he’d finally allowed Ratchet and First aid to fix, applied by Drift under their supervision. 

When it wasn’t enough, he traced his hands down the marks he’d made on First Aid instead. 

Chapter Text

Misunderstood

One night
One more chance to say I'm sorry
And I can't believe a lie
Say you need me

White Flag, Delta Heavy 

Optics dim, weight pressing down, hands exploring every little crevice and it isn’t enough. 

(‘It’s never enough.’)

One hand–finally!–drifts, stroking down his side to come to rest at the top of his panel. It grasps the edges firmly, pulling as though fingers may tear it open. 

Starscream’s knees jerk in anticipation, fans spinning up from a long, ingrained memory of what is to come. Fear and pleasure spike up in equal waves as the seeker makes a noise that equally belongs to both emotions–

And Wheeljack fragging backs off.

Again. 

(‘Always.’) 

Starscream hisses low as the mustang pauses, field going painfully flat. Slowly, carefully (as though Starscream is made of glass, as though he can’t take any hits, as though he is weak) he resumes his gentle kissing, abandoning the hurried yanking on Starscream’s and removing his hands entirely. 

His mouth is even on Starscream’s neck, and in a bid to help the seeker is allowing it, helm tilted backwards and cables stretched, yet nothing happens.

Nothing ever happens. 

This is sad, embarrassing and more than a bit ridiculous and Starscream doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong.

The signs are there. Starscream wouldn’t allow this without them. They’ve tested one another–-through science, through combat and even though politics.

In such an individualistic and honest way, that it leaves Starscream with emotions he’d rather not name, feelings that are felt but not acknowledged.

Not at least, until the fragging claim is fragging established!

(‘The claim that’s never coming, because you don’t deserve it.’) 

He’s accounted for Wheeljack not having a proper understanding of Decepticon culture. 

He’s entertained the thought that possibly, the ‘Stang is an idiot in these matters. That despite being personal and close friends with the Prime’s stupid medic (the one Deadlock claimed in a very public and brutal fashion) he somehow missed the whole discussion of what a claim means. 

He even has considered that Wheeljack knows what he’s doing but is uncertain if he is reading Starscream’s acceptance correctly. 

Then Starscream recalls them discussing claims when Swindle clawed Blurr from aft to hip in the middle of the Maccadam’s and has to remind himself that is definitely not a possibility. 

(‘He knows what he’s doing.’ That dark voice in his mind whispers. ‘Just as you know what you’ve done to deserve this.’)

Wheeljack is a genius.

 A true scientific mind, one of the few that could challenge Starscream’s own. 

He also understands social and cultural concepts with ease, something he has demonstrated regularly when interacting with the varying colonists. Mechs he has not been at war with for a millennial, and certainly never studied with near as much care.

The stupid Autobot expressed interest. He hasn’t backed down when Starscream’s tantruming, has defended him, has stood with him, and the seeker isn’t misconstruing things, nor is he imagining things.

So why did this keep happening!?

(“You’re always imagining things, Starscream.” Megatron’s voice continued to whisper darkly in his audio, a voice he knows he is imagining but can hear clearly as though the grey mech is right next to him. “That’s why my claim is void. Because you saw the wrong things and you acted on them. You ruined us.”) 

The only thing he can think of is that Wheeljack isn’t certain. That he’s hedging, drawing things out to make sure the outcome won’t kill him.  For that, Starscream almost couldn’t blame him–they were enemy combatants for far longer than they have been on friendly terms, let alone anything more. When one considers the seekers formidable reputation on top of that, well. 

He has no disillusions. 

He was not friendly, and has never been friendly.

But Wheeljack was well aware of this, long before things got this far. 

So why even entertain the idea, why play like this, if it was not serious? Why take the very idea of a claim so far, if he has such strong, second thoughts? 

('No one else will ever want you, you know.’ Megatron had said it casually, randomly, not even looking up towards Starscream, more than a hundred years ago. 'They might entertain themselves with you for a bit but no one else is strong enough to keep you. You’d destroy anyone who tried.' 

And at the time Starscream had taken it as a compliment, preened under the words in public. 

In private, he took their double edged meaning to spark.

His only future was with Megatron. No one else would want him, tolerate him.

Love him.)

The idea that Wheeljack was merely toying with him was entirely out of character, but not one Starscream could overlook. Not when so many mechs had proven themselves to have hidden agendas, capabilities, desires. 

Particularly when it came to interacting with the Decepticon SIC. 

His thoughts had left his movements on autopilot, and he’s not fully aware of what the two of them were doing until Wheeljack’s finally succeeded in getting both their panels off. 

The Autobots’ touches are still too gentle, but he’s allowing an edge to build to them, one Starscream can sink his full attention–and hopes–into. 

Even if he calls himself a fool while he does it.

The roughness he craves is held just out of his reach even as he leans into it. Demands it.  Dents are shallow, scratches easily healed, the weight on top him not restricting, barely holding but every action holds the promise of more. 

 The ‘stangs helm drifts down, mouth once again on Starscream’s neck. 

Kisses turn into mouthing, then into something more. 

Denta scrapes across his acables…

It’s the start of what would be a pathetically weak claim and he hates himself for wanting it so badly. 

Everything he’s tried to hold back floods his field at the thought, as the claim (and his acceptance; as a person, a partner, a being to protect and value) is practically held over his head. 

Then Wheeljack fragging freezes again and Starscream all but explodes. 

Molten fury flies through his field, smacking Wheeljack dead in the face. It’s instinct to transform his fingers into claws but somehow Starscream withholds, instead using both hands to shove Wheeljack hard. 

“Get off!” He snarls, and hates how satisfied he is to see shock appear on the mustang’s face. 

“Star-” He tries to get out, but Starscream isn’t letting up and he has to stop while he scrambles backwards, off the seeker.“What–!?”

“Don’t play with me.” Starscream snarls, moving forward until they’re both standing and facing one another. “I have tolerated your hedging for far too long!” 

“I–” Helm fins flash a rainbow of colors, signifying confusion. “I don’t know what–” 

‘Good.’ Starscream thought darkly, horribly. ‘Now we’re finally on equal footing.’ His wings flare out, his own tell for anger. Something allowed because Wheeljack deserves to know how much slag he’s in for. 

“Yes you do.” He spits, finger raising accusingly. “You know exactly what you’re doing and now you’re going to explain why you can’t go through with it!” His voice goes shrill at the last part, his vocalizer struggling as it always does, but Starscream simply weaponizes the glitch. 

Uses it against Wheeljack, whose face and field has flooded with guilt at his words. 

It’s so easy to read off him–not that the scientist is bothering to hide it. 

(‘What did you expect? You did exactly what I told you not to do. Now you get to see first hand how useless you are to everyone else.’) 

“I enjoy getting rough. Probably not as much as you do, but I get it.” Wheeljack admits slowly, helm fin’s flashing a yellow-green mixture that screams 'I’m embarrassed and uncomfortable!’ For all the world to see. 

“And it’s not that I don’t want to take it there, it’s just that it’s–difficult, for me. Not always but–yeah. Sometimes.” His admittance comes slowly, words lost and searching, like a mech flailing around in the dark. 

It’s also a blatant dodge to Satrscream’s accusation. 

(‘Perhaps he thinks you are stupid enough to fall for such distractions.’ Megatron’s voice says, laughter held within it. ‘Maybe he believes if he throws you off enough you will accept it and stop questioning him. I certainly can’t blame him for trying it.’) 

 Furious, Starscream hitches his wings high, stepping forward threateningly. 

In this, Wheeljack doesn’t back down. 

No, he only does it when it matters, an echo to a thousand years of horrible accusations slung at Starscream from grey lips and a hand that held him as much as it hit him. 

Of how he was worthless as a partner.

Of how claiming him had been a mistake.

Of a million other things, spoken by a voice he can’t rid himself of, no matter how hard he tries. A voice so strong it’s become a part of him, that tells him with every step he takes how stupid he is. 

“You flinch.” Wheeljack admits quietly, seeing how Starscream’s anger has gone dark with loathing he knows he has seconds at most to fix. “You’re tense up if I so much as think of getting rough.”

’"So!?“ Starscream exclaims, because really, what does that matter!?

"So I want–I need, you to enjoy it.” It’s said so plainly, so honestly and Starscream stares at Wheeljack like he’s the stupidest thing alive–because he is.

 Pain is expected, for a claim. 

Some would argue it is needed. 

For Starscream, whose prior (canceled, destroyed, irrelevant) claim had been the bar for every Con to hit, pain and permanent damage had been assured. 

Then it had been worth it.

 Now he knows better. 

Yet here he is again, doing the same damn thing, but this time for an Autobot. As if the mustang wasn’t just as capable as fragging him up as Megatron was. 

“I know it’s frustrating and I’m sorry. I should have said something.” Wheeljack continues in earnest. His field inches forward, apology and guilt thick within it. “I know you don’t want to talk about it and I’m trying to give you that space but I think I might need more assurance that you want this. That you’re okay.” He takes a quick vent, like Starscream might interrupt him. “You’re right–I shouldn’t have hedged like I did. I should have just talked to you.” 

Then he apologizes again, all while Starscream stares wildly at him, puzzle pieces falling rapidly into place. 

Wheeljack isn’t dodging the question at all. 

Rather, he’s addressing to the problem he honestly believes Starscream has, and owning up to it fully, as is his stupid, self sacrificing, Autobot nature. 

What he is not discussing, apparently not even thinking about, is a claim.

(Dark laughter rings out in his helm, the very sound of it making him hot and cold in equal waves.)

The world shifts abruptly, as Starscream takes a painfully long moment to reexamine every moment he believed the two of them had. Panic claws at him as he tries to figure out how he managed to misinterpret things so badly, and rage renews as he flicks through each, stand out moment in their courtship, only to find that it still holds up. 

There is nothing to misunderstand. The basis of the claim holds, and remains as blunt as any ever has been. 

“Star?” Wheeljack asks, standing there and staring at him while Starscream open lets his emotions be read. 

Part of him feels an awful lot like he should attack the mustang for the very inconvenience of this, and selfishly, he let’s that threat of violence be felt. 

Wheeljack doesn’t pull away. 

Instead, he leans in. It’s a subtle movement, one not many would catch, but Starscream is leagues above your average mech. 

Just like that, everything clicks into place.

 Starscream could curse himself for being so stupid. Curse Wheeljack too. 

“You expected me to claim you.” He feels the words out, testing them as he speaks.

They ring true.

“You useless Autobot, you thought all Cons would want to be the one to lay the Claim, didn’t you!?” And Primus, why hadn’t he seen that before? Of course Wheeljack would think that. 

All he’s ever seen was Con’s claiming Autobots. Likely all he’s ever heard is of how brutal a Claim between Cons was. 

No doubt the Autobots had twisted it into something dark and ridiculous. As if two mechs couldn’t mutually Claim one another. As if they couldn’t be equals! 

“I thought that’s what you wanted.” Wheeljack says, so perfectly and innocently confused. 

Starscream’s still furious, but now he’s relieved too, in a way he knows is confusing his idiot of a partner. 

"Which you thought was what? Total control?” He says, to buy himself time to try and decide what the hell he wants to do with this new information. 

Wheeljack had never struck him as the kind to desire being claimed. He was calm certainly, and gentle when it was called for, but also a mech who liked to put his mark on things. Was proud and protective of his projects, and the mechs he shared his life with. 

“Honestly, yeah.” Wheeljack offers him a weak smile. “But I wanted to give you what you wanted. I figured I could do that, if it was for you.” He shrugs, as if that isn’t a massive admittance, as if that wouldn’t change the nature of their relationship entirely. 

(‘He’s lying to save himself and you’re buying it.’ Megatron’s voice says. Ruthlessly Starscream squashes it. He’s heard enough of it for today. 

Perhaps, for a lifetime.) 

“You are the stupidest scientist I have ever met.” Starscream accuses, but his wings are lowering, and the heat’s gone out of his voice and field. “Come here.” 

Wheeljack comes, without an ounce of hesitation. 

Hands wrap around the scientists sturdy shoulders as Starscream leans into him. 

“You and I are going to have a very long discussion.” He says, as Wheeljack’s helm comes forward to press against his. “Then afterwards you are going to claim me properly. Roughness included.” 

“Alright.” Wheeljack agrees easily, with his own relieved grin. 

(Then they are kissing instead of talking, but Starscream will fix that in a moment. 

After he’s enjoyed himself.) 

Chapter Text

Two Hands

Brainstorm has two hands.

Two sets of claws.

One hand slashes up, ripping through the plating on Chromedome’s neck, up and under his chin. The other comes down, lancing across Rewind’s shoulder. 

Both rip away from him, yelling in surprise. 

Chromedome steps forward, Rewind back, but Brainstorm stands before them both, wings out and raised defensively, blocking their vision of the ‘Con that’s targeted them. 

Brainstorm clocked him the moment he’d stood up, but he knows the mech’s had optics on them longer, had only been waiting for the perfect opening to strike. 

He curses himself for not seeing it sooner.

For being in the bar alone with the two most important people in his life, and getting so wrapped up in them that he forgot to check his own surroundings. 

Deadlock had always been the Decepticon’s best bounty hunter, but there were others. This one was good, Brainstorm’s quick search told him, too good to pass up a traitor marked by Tarn himself. 

The search had a few more pieces of information for him though, the kind his filters automatically sought out, and by the time he’d worked out a way to politely back his way out of the bar (drawing attention to himself, away from his closest friends who’d come to the neutral planets bar) it had spat out a vision of his worst nightmare.

Chromedome and Rewind both had prices on their heads. 

He’d always known Chromedome might. He’s known the mech for a millenia plus, and mnemosurgery was never something that made a lot of people happy. Usually, quite the opposite. 

Rewind however, is a mystery, one he’ll be finding out the second he doesn’t have to get the three of them away from a guy whose very name shoots a trill of terror down Brainstorm’s backstruts. 

Thankfully he has a few tricks up his sleeve, and the claim he had just laid–the claim he’s not thinking about–was only one of them. 

Said claim had stopped the bounty hunter in his tracks, a look of surprise quickly overtaken by one filled with humor. 

“Well then.” He says, talking over Chromedome’s furiously hissed questions, the taller mech trying to put pressure on his own wound and Rewind’s at the same time. “Guess that means I’m takin’ you on first.” 

He continues forward, but now his optics are on Brainstorm and Brainstorm alone, just as the jet intended. 

::Run!:: Brainstorm comms the two Autobots behind him, moving forward himself so to put space between the bounty hunter and them.

“Stormy!” Rewind calls after him, but the jet doesn’t look back.

Can’t.

If this is the last thing he does–gets to do–then at the very least, he won’t regret staking a claim, and making his own intentions finally known.

Claims don’t have to be romantic, after all, the act itself can be interpreted to just mean that the two meant a lot to him, enough for him to defend them with his life, and he hopes that’s the way they’ll take it.

Even if he knows Chromedome might figure it out.

Even if he knows Rewind will.

Those are also thoughts for later, and he focuses now on the battle ahead of him. 

Brainstorm has a thing about shooting people, a thing where he hasn’t actually managed to do it. He has been in fights before, and so he pulls his own inventions from his subspace, one of which is a smokebomb which will give him even more time. 

The bounty hunter stares at the other object in his hand, an odd shaped knife, and snickers while drawing his own gun.

Brainstorm turns the knife on with a flick, electricity shooting down it–and then promptly ducks in surprise as a white shape whips past him. 

There’s a shwiing! noise, and a gunshot, and then a hurk! sound, all of it so fast,–and then Drift of all fragging people is standing over a dead bounty hunter, sword in hand.

The bullet, wherever it had gone, hadn’t even touched him. 

“Always hated that guy.” He says, before turning to face his crewmates. 

Drift was Deadlock for a long time. Long enough that when he sees the protoform deep scratches, the energon still spilling down Chromedome’s neck, wet and fresh, the matching energon dripping off Brainstorm’s unleashed claws, he ignores the Conjuxed pair entirely and addresses their Claimer.

“They okay?”  

“Yes.” Brainstorm responds immediately, vents still working in overtime, optics a little wild. 

“You okay?” He adds, though there’s amusement in his tone more than anything. That is what marks him as a Con more than anything else does–Autobots don’t kill people casually. 

Except maybe, the Wreckers. 

“Yeah.” Brainstorm says, checking himself over. “Yeah, I think so.” 

“Then congratulations are in order.” Drift adds, before turning and comming their status back to the Lost Light. 

“Congratulations?” Chromedome said, hand still held against his neck,as Brainstorm hisses out a slow vent and turns to face them, putting his knife and smoke bomb both away.  “For what?” 

Brainstorm’s face blanched. It was a difficult thing to see on someone wearing a facemask, but Chromedome, who both had a facemask and who had a Conjux with one, saw it instantly. 

“Brainstorm.” He added in a growl, when an answer isn’t forthcoming. 

Rewind on the other hand, was staring at the energon spilled across his hands, and then up, towards the matching liquid on Brainstorm’s claw tips.

“A claim.” He said, connecting the dots through hundreds of thousands of hours of footage, purchased off of a variety of Cons, some of which depicted the more traditional not safe for work stuff (rather than just snuff films.) 

“You claimed us.” He continued, in a voice that said he’d figured out a puzzle that had been bothering him for ages. 

“Ah.” Brainstorm said, panicking now that the ordeal was over far quicker than he’d thought and he had to face the consequences of his own actions. 

“You mean a lot to me.” He hedged, but Rewind was already walking up to him, field full of purpose. Brainstorm backed up but he wasn’t fast enough, not nearly, and Rewind caught him anyway, standing on the tips of his pedes to snatch at the highest point of Brainstorm’s armor he could reach.

“We accept.” He told him forcefully, before yanking down, making Brainstorm bend to meet him. His face turn against Brainstorm’s in a masked version of a kiss, making the bigger mech freeze. 

“That’s–not how it works?” He said, optics darting over to an equally confused Chromedome, one whose optics were squinted as he initiated a comm conversation with his Conjux.

A riot of emotions exploded across his face a moment later, then he too strode over. 

Brainstorm straightened in a hurry, slightly worried at facing retribution at the hands of his best friend’s own claws, but instead found himself swept into a second kiss. 

“You’re an idiot.” Chromedome told him firmly, before smashing their faces together. A spark of electricity jumped between them, caused by the friction of their kiss, making Brainstorm shiver. 

“We’re going to go home and talk about this.” Rewind commanded, and Drift, more than familiar with the way Autobots tended to ruin any attempts at a proper Decepticon claim, watched with a smile on his face as Brainstorm agreed.

“Now that the three of you have decided that, why don’t we work on getting home?” He said, interrupting them when Brainstorm started to go starry eyed, covered in splotches of two different types of energon. 

“Okay.” The jet said happily, inbetween the two mechs he’d claimed. 

Luckily for him, they’d figured out his intentions far faster than most.