Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Starscream's wings are damaged.

The crushing weight of debris settles heavily on his frame, worsening the cracks in his casing and making his joints ache.

His wings are damaged. Heavily damaged.

One of them is fully trapped beneath the rubble, dented and crumpled like paper. The other has a hole right through it, still smoking, visible wires sparking occasionally. His turbines are nearly crushed, and his left servo isn't responding. His vents drag in more dust and dirt than air.

His trine is waiting for him, back at base. Entirely unsuspecting of the danger he's in, expecting him back any astrosecond. Why wouldn't they? He always comes back. Scraped up occasionally, dented maybe, but he always comes back.

Starscream isn't so sure this time.

Megatron already left. Fled with Soundwave once his ‘master plan’ failed.

This rig is going to blow up. Soon, by the discouraging sounds rumbling from beneath the floor Starscream is pinned to. It sustained too much damage. He told Megatron it was a dangerous place to turn into a battleground, theorized that too much damage would cause a detonation that would destroy anyone unlucky enough to be inside.

Of course, Megatron had called him a mindless pile of scrap about it.

A rattling, raspy sigh leaves Starscream.

He figured his death would be more… Important. Flashier, maybe. Or at least something earned, like going down in some glorious battle.

The foundation shakes. Several small pieces of rubble trickle down onto his helm, leaving dust on the paint and small scratches in the finish.

Wow.

What's that human phrase? ‘Salt in the wound?’

Starscream's wings throb in pain and he drops his helm to the cracked, unstable floor.

This is so unfair .

He hears distant voices and raises his helm again. Right. Autobots. He'd thought they'd have left by now, but, then he hears one of them call for help not too far from him.

Oh. They're searching for their teammate.

Figures, the soft-sparked, sentimental freaks. Of course they'd risk being blown up just to save one measly little bot.

The ceiling nearby is ripped up, torn open, and Optimus Prime drops down. Starscream watches the light reflect off red and blue metal and his derma curls in annoyance.

“Ironhide?”

“Right here, Prime!” The other trapped bot, Ironhide, sounds relieved, and from this angle, Starscream can barely glimpse a coal and crimson servo reaching out from between large chunks of metal and concrete.

Prime moves swiftly, with purpose—lifting, shifting, tossing debris aside as though it weighs nothing. His steps are careful but unrelenting, the ground shaking just slightly under each one. The tremor of the rubble vibrates through Starscream and it feels like knives being jabbed into his wires.

Of course Optimus Prime would show up. Of course he'd come for one of his own.

He can't even delegate this to someone else. Optimus Prime is too noble, too compassionate, too honorable to not put his own life on the line for his underlings .

Megatron would laugh at the very notion.

"Got you," Prime grunts, finally wrenching the last piece of debris off Ironhide's trapped leg. The ruby autobot groans and shifts, dragging himself partially upright with the assistance of his leader.

"Thanks," Ironhide mutters, then winces and glances around. “I think- Err, I’m pretty sure I heard- Starscream?”

Starscream freezes.

Prime turns his helm sharply, optics narrowing suspiciously.

“What? Where?”

Ironhide jerks his chin in Starscream’s direction.

“O’er there, I think. Was pretty sure I heard him crash earlier in the fight, but I never saw him get back up or leave with the rest of ‘em.”

Starscream grits his denta. 

His vocalizer is damaged. He can feel it. Self scans pop up red warning alerts all over.

Prime is already moving toward him. Starscream sees the moment he spots him, the way bright blue optics widen, taking in the full extent of the damage. His frame blocks out some of the overhead light, casting Starscream into shadow.

Primus, he's tall.

“Can you move?” Prime asks.

Why is he wasting time? Get your stupid autobot hides out of here before it blows.

Starscream’s laugh is sharp and bitter, glitching noticeably.

“D- D- D- Does it look like I can move -ove -ove, you oversized w- w- w- windchime?” He rasps, rough with static and hard to make out.

He hates this. Hates how he sounds. He’s scared. Angry. Vulnerable. Useless.

Prime doesn’t rise to the bait. He just kneels beside him, gaze steady.

“There’s not much time,” he says. “This rig is unstable. We need to get out.”

Starscream narrows his optics.

“Then g- g- g- get out.” He snaps.

Prime’s expression doesn’t change. Instead, he turns, gesturing to Ironhide, who reluctantly lumbers over.

“We’re not leaving you behind.” Prime says, servos grasping the chunk of debris pinning his wing.

Starscream stares. For a long, uncertain moment, the words don’t make sense, processors misfiring. He blinks.

“What?”

“I said-”

“I heard y- y- y- you!” Starscream hisses. “What is wrong -ong -ong -ong with you? Are you stupid? You- you g- g- g- gain nothing from -om -om it! You should just leave me here!”

Prime doesn't flinch. He lifts. The pressure on his wing lessons and Starscream can't help the ragged exhale that leaves him.

“That’s not what we do.” Prime says firmly.

Starscream wants to laugh again. Or scream. Or maybe cry, though he'd never allow it.

Instead, he hisses through his denta and averts his gaze, throat tight.

“…I don't want your p- p- p- pity.”

“Duly noted.” Prime answers, unwavering. He starts to shift the wreckage off Starscream’s mangled wing, careful.

Starscream winces, grits his denta, but he doesn't fight it. Not that he really can.

Ironhide grabs Starscream's good arm and drags him out from under the rubble, decidedly less careful than Prime.

“W- W- Watch it,” Starscream snaps. Ironhide isn't looking at his face. His blue optics are fixed on Starscream's torso.

He glances down. Energon leaks from a crushed chunk of his chassis. The glass of his cockpit is shattered. His non-mangled wing is still faintly smoking.

“You're-” Ironhide starts.

The ground shakes beneath them, cracking worryingly.

He can't fly.

He needs to leave, they need to leave, and he can't fly. None of them can.

“Let's go.” Prime drops the rubble heavily with a loud thud. “Skyfire is waiting up top, we need to get out of here.”

Starscream flinches.

“I am n- n- not riding in-”

“There's no time.” Prime reaches out.

Starscream jerks back as much as he can—which isn’t far, given his ruined frame and Ironhide’s grip on his arm.

“I am not-” His voice glitches, static-frayed and weak. “-not being carried! I am a flyer! I fly myself -self -self! I don’t ne- ne- ne- need some other bot to ferry me around -ound -ound -ound, especially not him!”

The ceiling above groans. Dust sifts down like snowfall.

Prime's voice is calm, firm, and leaving no room for argument. He sounds like a leader, not a tyrant.

“You can object once we’re clear of the blast radius.”

“No! You listen to me—!”

But he doesn’t get to finish. The floor beneath them bucks violently with a bone-jarring crack, and for one terrible moment, Starscream thinks they’re all about to fall into the pit of fire yawning beneath the rig.

Then there’s a blur of motion. Strong arms wrap around him—careful, surprisingly gentle given the strength behind them—and suddenly he’s weightless, and not of his own volition.

“Put me d- d- down!” He screeches, struggling, but he’s too weak, and Prime’s grip doesn’t falter.

“I will,” Prime says, “when it’s safe.”

They climb out of the hole, out into the open. Skyfire’s alt-form waits, door open. Ironhide rushes inside, Prime close behind him, still cradling Starscream like a weak little sparkling.

Starscream hates this.

He hates every nanoklik of it.

He hates how small he feels. How fragile. How grateful, buried somewhere deep under the fury and shame and fear. He curls his good servo into a trembling fist against Prime’s chassis, smearing the glass with his energon, and bangs it weakly against the red metal of his chestplate. Prime doesn't even react to it.

He tries not to notice how steady the spark behind that plate is. How warm.

The whole structure groans behind them like a dying beast. Debris crashes in on itself as fire licks the outer supports.

Skyfire soars through earth's blue sky just as the facility detonates behind them—an enormous, echoing boom that lights up the horizon in white and orange.

The force of it ripples the air, flings dust and sparks skyward.

Skyfire keeps flying.

Prime holds onto Starscream a klik longer than necessary, shielding his damaged frame from the worst of the shockwave.

Starscream says nothing. Nobody says anything for a while.

The sound dies down, the dust settling.

“Let m- m- m- me go.” Starscream hisses. Quiet. Bitter. Humiliated.

Prime sets him down carefully. Ironhide is panting nearby, leaning on one knee, his plating scuffed and scorched. Skyfire's engine rumbles softly in the background.

Still, nobody says anything.

Starscream shifts awkwardly where he’s been placed. His wings are dead weight behind him, his arm trembling with strain, energon leaking sluggishly down his side.

Prime straightens to his full height, too tall , and peers down at him with a look Starscream cannot decipher.

Not pity. Not quite concern, either.

Starscream bares his denta at him. Prime doesn't react.

“Ratchet will take care of your injuries,” Prime says after a long moment.

Starscream squints.

“What -at -at -at?”

“You’re badly wounded. I doubt you can make it back to decepticon headquarters like this.”

Ironhide grumbles something about ‘should’ve left him,’ but he doesn’t speak up and Prime doesn't look away from Starscream.

“I d- d- don’t need your h- h- h- help!” Starscream spits, snarling. His wings try to flare indignantly, sending sharp jolts of pain through his sensors.

He can’t stand.

And he can’t fly.

And Megatron left him behind to die.

Prime meets his gaze, unflinching.

“You would have done the same.”

Starscream opens his intake. Closes it again.

That’s… not true.

Blatantly untrue. He can and has left mechs behind to save his own hide, and he constantly tries to offline autobots in battle.

“Maybe not for us.” Prime amends. “But there's someone you would've gone back for. I'm sure of it.”

Starscream stares at him.

His trine, maybe? 

He tries to think about Thundercracker pinned beneath rubble, tries to imagine Skywarp with mangled wings and an unresponsive arm. Maybe that alone wouldn't be enough to make him go back and help, but if they were stuck on an impending death trap? If they were at risk of being blown into scrap metal?

He'd have gone back for them. Immediately.

Starscream lowers his helm.

He doesn’t thank Prime. Refuses to.

He just sits, pressing his good servo against his bleeding injury.

“Your m- m- m- medic better be at least -east -east -east half as good as Kno- Kno- Knockout.” He mutters petulantly.

Chapter Text

When Skyfire lands at the Ark, Starscream refuses to be carried out. He drags himself out, limping and hobbling, chin held high.

Prime looks vaguely concerned. Ironhide rolls his optics.

They exit and Skyfire transforms. Before Starscream can think better of it, he turns his helm, taking in the both familiar and unfamiliar sight of him.

The autobot insignia catches in the light. Skyfire refuses to look at him, his expression stony and hard to read.

Starscream swiftly turns his helm back, jaw clenching.

“How're you feeling?” Prime asks, steadying him with a servo on the small of his back strut. Starscream shoves at it with his good servo, almost knocking himself off balance in the process, and Ironhide snorts.

“H- H- H- How do you think I feel -eel -eel?” Starscream snaps. Primus, he's already sick of his voice glitching like that. He can't wait to get it fixed. He can't wait for repairs in general. His damaged wings throb and ache, the injury on his side is leaving a trail of energon drops on the ground behind him, and not being able to feel one of his arms is very off-putting. Not to mention, he'll probably need a brand new cockpit, with the glass of it shattered…

Ugh.

“I'll tell Ratchet to be ready for ya.” Ironhide says.

“I'll join you.” Skyfire says quickly, passing right by Ironhide into the base. Ironhide looks startled, confused for a nanoklik, then he follows.

Cowardly traitor.

Starscream scowls deeply, but his attention is quickly refocused onto Prime when offers him his arm. He stares at the larger mech.

“...What.”

“You're struggling to walk but I have a feeling you'd protest if I tried carrying you again.” Prime says, as reasonable as ever. Starscream wants to smack him. “You look like you're going to fall over, though. While I don't mind decepticons falling, I'd rather you didn't, in your current state.”

Starscream sneers “I'm not f- f- f- fragile,” even though he definitely is at the moment.

He still can't believe Megatron just left him.

…Actually, he can believe that part fairly easily.

He can’t believe that Prime had to save him, of all bots. Optimus Prime . How humiliating .

Starscream doesn’t take the offered arm. Of course he doesn’t. He’s Air Commander, Second-In-Command—and he's wobbling like a sparkling taking its first steps.

He pushes forward with all the stubborn determination of a mech whose pride is somehow still greater than his injuries, and doesn't bother acknowledging Prime’s stupid face.

“Suit yourself,” Prime says, and, infuriatingly, slows his pace just enough to keep beside him. Starscream hates him.

The Ark’s entrance looms ahead, dull and ugly and covered in dust. It smells like hot metal and old oil. 

Inside, the light shifts. Cooler, dimmer. A handful of Autobots glance up as they enter—Wheeljack, Bumblebee, Jazz. Megatron probably couldn’t tell which was which, the moronic pile of scrap metal, but Starscream knows them. Vaguely, at least, enough to recognize them and somewhat recall what they do. Their reactions range from mild surprise to outright suspicion.

“Holy moly, I think that's-” Wheeljack starts rather loudly. Bumblebee elbows him in the chassis and he grunts, turning to look down at the yellow bot.

“Slag,” Jazz mutters under his breath, blue visor glinting, “is that who I think it is?”

“Unfortunately.” Starscream bites out. His vocalizer crackles mid-word, glitching again. “Do y- y- you autobots just stand around -round -round slack-jawed, or do you do- do- do- do anything useful around here -ere?”

Jazz cocks his helm, clearly unimpressed, but doesn’t respond. Prime doesn’t even flinch.

“Medbay’s this way,” he says mildly, gesturing down a corridor. “Ratchet’s expecting you.”

“Oh j- j- joy,” Starscream mutters, dragging his pedes in that direction.

He pauses outside the door. He can hear voices inside—Ironhide, unmistakably gruff, complaining, and Skyfire’s low tone in reply, calm, quiet.

He doesn’t want to go in.

Doesn’t want to see the expression on Skyfire's face when he's finally forced to look at him.

But his knees are starting to tremble under him, and his side is bleeding harder now, and Primus, he hurts. The quiet hum of repair equipment almost lures him in by itself.

He steps inside.

Ratchet glances up from a datapad and immediately grimaces, optics darting downwards.

“You’re leaking on my floor.”

“How terribly in- in- inconvenient for you.” Starscream spits.

Skyfire turns. Their optics meet, and for a moment neither of them speak. Skyfire looks… Starscream doesn't know. Frustrated, maybe. Distrusting, which… Is fair, they're enemies. Starscream has to look very hard to find the glimmer of concern in those sapphire optics.

He kind of looks like he wants to say something. He opens his intake and dread fills Starscream's fuel tanks, but then he closes it again and looks away.

Coward , he thinks, even though he doesn't say anything to him, either.

Starscream’s optics narrow.

“Do I need -eed -eed to drag myself onto the b- b- b- berth, or will one of you heroic autobots deign to hel- hel- hel- help me?”

Ratchet rolls his optics, but he does move toward him, signaling for Skyfire to assist.

“Grab his other side, would you?”

Skyfire hesitates.

Starscream stiffens.

But then he does move, without a word, slipping under Starscream’s good arm. His grip is gentle. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Starscream glares at nothing. Says nothing. He turns his helm a bit to the side, away from Skyfire, and is a bit startled to find the steady gaze of Prime. That feels like it burns, worse than his injuries, so he tilts his helm down to glower at the floor instead.

Starscream grits his denta as he's half-lifted, half-guided onto the medberth. He refuses to yelp when his wing catches on the edge—though the noise that slips from his vocalizer is strained and sharp, painfully undignified. Ironhide poorly covers an amused sound. Prime's optics flick over to him in warning and his expression sobers.

“Careful,” he snarls, “th- th- this frame is delicate.”

“Oh, believe me,” Ratchet deadpans, activating the scanning array, “I can tell.”

Disrespectful little-

The light sweeps down Starscream’s form, illuminating the full extent of the damage. Fractured plating across the torso, energon steadily leaking from a punctured side tank, internal sensors flickering from stress. Left wing strut crumpled and smashed. Right wing blown right through, the hole in it still occasionally sparking with wires. Disconnected, damaged circuits and torn wiring in his left arm.

The shattered glass of his cockpit crunches softly as Ratchet brushes a few remaining shards from his chassis.

Starscream twitches away from the touch, optics narrowing.

“Do you ev- ev- ev- even know how to repair a seeker -ker -ker?”

Ratchet doesn’t look up.

“I’ve welded together bots with their spark chambers hanging out of their chests. I think I can handle a dramatic flyer with a busted voice box and a bruised ego.”

Skyfire shifts awkwardly beside the berth, silent. Starscream refuses to look at him. Ironhide is squinting at Starscream's cockpit as if trying to figure out how best to haphazardly put it together, and frowns when he comes up empty.

Moronic grounder.

“Start w- w- w- with the voice,” Starscream grits out.

Ratchet gives him a long, unimpressed look.

“No.”

“ What?”

“I start with the critical energon leak in your side and the secondary energon lines in your left arm that are hanging on by a thread. If I patch your vocalizer now, you’ll spend the whole repair process screaming at me—and frankly, I don’t have the patience for that today.”

Starscream makes a noise halfway between outrage and pure static. Ratchet ignores it.

“Hold still,” the medic warns, already working. His servos are swift and clinical, snapping open plating with practiced ease. The berth tilts slightly, compensating for Starscream’s weight, exposing his side wound.

The pain flares hot and sharp when Ratchet presses an injector against the damage, the weld-seal foaming over the worst of it.

Starscream writhes, a low whine dragging from his throat.

“ Ahh- you b- b- barbarian!” He shrieks, already damaged vocals fraying.

“I warned you.” Ratchet doesn’t even look up from what he's doing. “Skyfire, hold his shoulder down, will you?”

“I don’t need-”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Ratchet says sharply. “You’re a twitch away from falling off the berth.”

Skyfire hesitates again. Then, slowly, one large servo braces Starscream’s shoulder. His grip is careful, not confining—but his presence is steady. Frustratingly steady.

Starscream squeezes his optics shut.

Why did he have to be here?

Why did any of this have to happen?

“Punctured wing strut here,” Ratchet mutters, moving on. “Primus, what were you in? A hail storm of cinderblocks?”

“Megatron's h- h- horrendous plan -an -an.” Starscream snaps.

Ratchet pauses. Just a beat. Then he hums, noncommittal, and keeps working.

The repairs go on for a long while, seemingly forever—sealing welds, fused circuitry, a replacement for the shattered cockpit glass, finally fixing his voice box. Ironhide leaves. Skyfire leaves. Prime stays. Lingers. Ratchet moves like someone who's had far too much practice putting broken frames back together. Eventually, he sets down his tools.

“Done with the worst of it.” He says, finally. “You’ll be weak for a while. Stay grounded. No transformations. And no fighting.”

Starscream growls unhappily. Grounded. He can't transform, he's weak, he's currently stuck with autobots, and he's grounded .

“Do I look like I’m about to start a war in your broom closet of a base?” He mutters, focusing on the last part so he doesn't completely blow his lid.

“You look like you’d snip at a cleaning drone if it rolled too close.” Ratchet says dryly. “Now shut up and drink the damn recharge-grade.”

He sets a cube of thin energon beside him.

Starscream doesn’t reach for it. His optics drift toward Prime, curious, searching.

Prime tilts his helm at him and Starscream looks at the energon cube instead, picking it up with his newly repaired servo. If he lets himself, he can pretend that the way it trembles is a result of it being recently damaged, and nothing else.

He drinks the recharge-grade, and finally, finally, Prime's lumbering form leaves, heavy steps echoing.

Starscream’s helm thunks back against the berth as he sets the cube down. He stares at the ceiling and doesn’t say anything else.

Ratchet lets him be, moving around the medbay in silence.

He hates this. Hates Megatron and his stupid plans. Hates autobots. Hates Skyfire. Hates Optimus Prime.

At least most of those things hate him back. Optimus Prime doesn't seem to hate him, and that's worse. He can recharge at night, knowing he hates Skyfire for being a traitor and that Skyfire hates him for shooting him. It's a lot more to think about when he despises Prime only for the idiotic mech to- to save his life.

Starscream presses the heels of his palms to his optics.

He hates Optimus Prime.

Chapter Text

At some point, Ratchet gets tired of his ‘moping’ and kicks Starscream out of the medbay.

(He wasn't moping. He was… Sulking. Brooding, maybe.)

Prowl is waiting for him outside the doors, arms crossed over his chassis and expression serious. He eyes Starscream like he expects him to launch an attack even in this sorry state.

He isn't sure if he should feel flattered that he thinks him that determined or offended that he believes him stupid.

Starscream cocks his hip and rests a servo on it.

“What?” He snaps. His wings twitch irritably, sending a jolt of pain along his sensors. “Come to take me to whatever passes for a brig in this place?”

Prowl makes a face that suggests he'd very much like to do that.

“No.” He says stiffly. “Prime says you're injured. And not really a threat right now.”

Starscream scowls.

“I am still very much-”

“So he said to treat you like a guest, but exercise caution.” Prowl interrupts.

Starscream grits his denta, pride wounded.

Has he mentioned how much he hates autobots?

“So, what, then?” He studies his talons, frowning. They need to be buffed, and filed. His whole frame does, actually, covered in scrapes and scratches and dents. He must look awful. He needs a new paint job, and a fresh coat of finish. Preferably, the really expensive, scented kind. The kind that takes a sizable chunk out of Megatron's finances.

…Well. Actually, he doesn't currently have access to Megatron's finances. Because the stupid tyrant left him behind to die in an exploding-

Focus.

“He said you should get a tour. Not an extensive one, but a tour nonetheless.” Prowl stares at him like he's the one who suggested such an absurd idea. Starscream makes a face.

“I think your glorious leader is malfunctioning. He risked his own hide to save an enemy, took said enemy back to base, repaired him, and now wants to give me a slagging tour.” He declares. Prowl looks both vaguely agreeing and a bit offended on Prime’s behalf. His optics narrow slightly, wings giving the faintest twitch.

“He said—direct quote—that you are ‘owed some sense of dignity.’”

Starscream blinks. Once. Slowly. Processing.

“Oh,” he says, voice dry. “So he’s glitched and sentimental. That bodes well for your war effort.”

Prowl doesn’t respond immediately, frowning at Starscream like there's something stuck in his waste pipe. He turns on his heel and starts walking, clearly expecting Starscream to follow. Starscream glares at his back, muttering to himself about impolite hosts and tactless autobots, but he does, in fact, follow. He does not appreciate the unsteadiness in his gait, or the way the hallway lighting makes his scratched paint more obvious. It's humiliating. This whole thing is humiliating.

Prowl begins with clipped, precise commentary.

“That hallway leads to the command center. Do not attempt to enter. Security will react.” He points without turning.

Starscream sneers.

“Yes, yes, the scary security. You’re really giving me the red carpet treatment, aren’t you?” He crosses his arms.

“I was told to give you a tour,” Prowl says flatly, “not to entertain you.”

Starscream sighs, loudly and a touch more dramatically than he needs to.

“Naturally.”

Prowl keeps walking. Starscream reluctantly trails after him.

The autobot behaves with all the personality of a particularly stern datapad—efficient, unreadable, and absolutely no fun.

They pass a few autobots in the hallway. Most give Starscream a wary glance or pointedly avoid looking at him at all, but the little yellow one, Bumblebee, grins like this is the most interesting thing he’s seen all cyberweek.

Starscream glares at him.

Bumblebee offers a two-fingered salute.

Starscream nearly trips over a cable in the floor because he’s too busy trying to hold his wings in an approximation of dignity to watch his pedes, despite the ache radiating down to his struts.

Prowl doesn’t comment. He doesn’t offer assistance, doesn’t slow his pace, doesn’t even glance back.

Starscream hates him on principle.

“This is the common area.” Prowl gestures with the bored air of someone who would rather be doing anything else. “Some autobots gather here when not busy. If you cause a disturbance, you will be removed.”

“Oh, perish the thought,” Starscream says, saccharine. “I’d never want to cause a scene .”

Prowl stops so suddenly that Starscream nearly walks into him. He turns, slowly, optics scanning Starscream up and down with the air of someone trying to decide whether what he’s dealing with is truly sentient or more of a decorational doorstop.

Starscream lifts his chin. Prowl’s expression doesn’t shift.

“I am aware of who you are, Starscream. And I am under no illusions about your… nature .”

Starscream bares his denta in a grin.

“Flattered.”

Prowl ignores that.

“But Prime believes in second chances, and unfortunately for me, that means I must tolerate you. I would suggest you avoid making me regret that.”

Second chances?

What is he going on about? He's injured, not defecting . He's still-

His wing twitches wrong and the jolt of pain makes his processor glitch, distracting him. He hisses through his intake, a low sound, sharp and involuntary. Prowl’s optics flick toward the motion but he doesn’t comment. He only turns again and keeps walking.

Starscream follows, more slowly now, biting back a curse as his injured joints twinge slightly.

They move through another corridor, one lined with glassed-in rooms and control terminals. Starscream recognizes some of the tech, though most of it looks depressingly… Hm, well loved , he'll say. This must be where they monitor communications and long-range sensor sweeps. There’s a mech inside. Blaster, he thinks. The bot glances up as they pass. His expression hardens when he sees him.

Starscream keeps his helm high.

He is not weak. And he will not be cowed by a bunch of fragging autobots .

Prowl gestures to another hall.

“Rec rooms. Lounge. Training center. And the officer’s mess.”

Starscream hums, dry and unimpressed.

“Do you also serve energon sludge, or do you save that for the prisoners?”

Prowl doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

They round another corner and stop near a branching hallway. Prowl finally faces him again.

“Your quarters are through there.” He says. Quarters—? “Second on the left. Locking systems are standard. You’ll be escorted if you leave this sector unaccompanied. If you tamper with our systems-”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be vaporized or decommissioned or something. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” Starscream waves a servo dismissively. “Threats, warnings, passive-aggressive glaring. You autobots have such charming hospitality.”

Prowl levels him with a flat look.

“Rest. Prime expects to speak with you later.”

Starscream stiffens.

“Oh? Will there be a formal audience? Shall I kneel and thank him for his mercy?”

Prowl doesn’t even blink.

“Only if you enjoy wasting your own time.”

With that, he turns and walks away without another word.

Starscream watches him go, arms still crossed, scowl firmly in place.

He shuffles toward the assigned quarters, muttering to himself.

“…Idiots. Sentimental fools. If they think this means I’m grateful -”

The door opens with a soft hiss.

The room is small. Clean. Functional.

And, Starscream realizes as he steps inside, quiet , in a way he isn't used to.

For the first time in vorns, no one is shouting. No one is demanding anything of him.

He doesn't trust it.

But his wings ache and his frame buzzes with exhaustion and pain, so he lets the door slide shut behind him and sinks carefully onto the recharge berth, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

“…Stupid autobots,” he mutters, quieter this time. “Stupid Megatron.”

-

Starscream doesn't remember drifting into recharge, but he jerks awake with a startled vent inwards, feeling off-kilter.

He sits up too fast and instantly regrets it. Pain zings down the delicate structures of his wing and flares along his back struts. He hisses, curling forward slightly and gripping the edge of the berth until the wave passes.

It takes him a moment to recall where he is.

Right. Still injured. Still trapped in the dingy autobot base.

The room hasn’t changed. Still smaller than he's used to. Still offensively beige.

Still quiet.

His internal chronometer informs him that he’s been out for nearly 4 joors. Not long, but long enough. The ceiling still hasn't apologized for existing, and the feeling of dust and scraped paint on his casing still makes his wiring itch. 

Starscream rubs his faceplates with both servos and groans.

If anyone asks, it was a strategic nap, he decides.

The door chimes.

He startles and immediately shifts his weight, posture rigid and wings flaring instinctively before he remembers—ache, pain, don’t do that —and bites back a yelp, dropping his wings immediately. He schools his expression as best he can and scowls at the door.

“Enter,” he snaps.

The door hisses open.

Optimus Prime steps in, ducking beneath the doorway.

Starscream’s optics widen, just slightly, before narrowing in suspicion. He shifts again on the berth, crossing one leg over the other and tilting his helm like this is some sort of political meeting rather than... whatever this is. He holds his chin high.

“Ah,” he sneers, “so the mighty Prime comes to pay a visit to his rescue project. How quaint .”

Prime doesn't even twitch, not a hint of annoyance in his optics. Infuriating.

“Starscream,” he greets instead, calm. Almost warm. “How is your recovery?”

Starscream scoffs.

“Painful, irritating, and conducted entirely without the luxuries I’m accustomed to. But I suppose that’s to be expected when one is being held by the enemy.” He sighs, checking his talons. He wonders if the autobots even have a file or buffer.

“You are not a prisoner.” Prime says simply, stepping further into the room. It makes it feel smaller. “You're injured, and until you’re recovered, this is where you will remain. Safely.”

Starscream bristles at the word 'safely.' Like he’s some delicate trinket that needs guarding. Or a liability.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.” He hisses, wings twitching irritably. “You should have let me rot with the rest of the debris.”

Prime's gaze doesn’t waver.

“Maybe.”

Starscream stares at him. Just—stares. Waiting for the rest. Waiting for the explanation. For some asinine lecture about moral high ground or redemption.

But Prime just folds his arms across his wide chassis and looks at him with that maddening calm.

“You could have left me behind,” Starscream spits. “It would have been logical. Efficient. Smart. ”

“We don’t leave people to die.” Prime replies. “That's not how we operate. Not how I operate.”

Starscream’s jaw clenches.

“Well, you’ll regret it!” He says, throwing his weight into a lounging sprawl on the berth, pretending like he isn't sore all over. “I’m a decepticon. Your charity will come back to bite you. That’s how this works, isn’t it?”

Prime cocks his helm.

“You don’t sound convinced.” He remarks. His mouthpiece makes it difficult to tell, but he sounds like he's smiling, as though amused.

Starscream growls.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Prime doesn’t answer. Not immediately. He studies Starscream in silence for a moment longer, and then, he stands up.

“I’ll have someone bring you a fresh cube. You haven’t refueled since your arrival.”

The door hisses open.

“I don’t want your-”

But the door’s already shut behind him.

Starscream glares at it like it might catch fire from sheer hatred alone.

It doesn’t. Unfortunately.

He crosses his arms over his still aching, freshly repaired cockpit.

Starscream doesn't understand autobots. Doesn't understand Prime. Hates them, even.

He tilts his helm back and offlines his optics.

…Some energon would be nice.

Chapter Text

There’s a knock. Not a chime, not a ping, an actual knock, sharp and deliberate against the physical door itself.

Starscream looks up, lazy but expectant.

“Enter.”

The door slides open.

It’s not Prowl, not Prime, not Ironhide, not the irritating yellow one. Thank Primus, not Skyfire.

It’s Wheeljack.

Starscream narrows his optics instantly.

“Oh, wonderful. The walking OSHA violation.”

“Didn't know you knew about human organizations.” Wheeljack says, both servos raised in mock surrender. His finials flicker blue as he speaks. “Peace offering,” he adds, and holds out a cube of energon. It's cool. Fresh. Not the bitter processed slag served to frontline troops—high quality, the kind the decepticon high command drinks. Not the kind he'd expect autobots to have. Starscream’s suspicion only grows.

“…What’s it laced with?” He asks.

Wheeljack chuckles.

“Trust issues, huh? Can’t imagine why.”

Starscream huffs and doesn’t reach for it. Wheeljack sets the cube on a small table near the berth and steps back, not quite leaving, but not lingering in a threatening way either. He leans against the doorway.

“Prime said you’d be… bristly,” Wheeljack says. “Told me not to take it personal.”

“Personally.” Starscream corrects. He stares at the cube like it might explode. “…You’re the explosives one, right?” He continues after a beat of silence. “The one that causes all the fires.”

“I prefer innovative field scientist,” Wheeljack snorts. “But sure. I blow stuff up on Tuesdays.”

Starscream doesn't dignify that with a response.

Wheeljack leans more heavily against the doorway, arms crossed loosely.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “this ain’t my first time patching up a ‘con.”

That gets Starscream’s attention. He tilts his helm, intrigued despite himself.

“Really?” He says, voice carefully neutral. “Do tell.”

“Not many stick around long enough for conversation,” Wheeljack says. “But you’re the first one we didn’t drag in kicking and screaming.”

Starscream’s optics narrow, a bit miffed.

“That’s a very charitable way of saying I was too injured to resist.” He replies tightly.

Wheeljack shrugs.

“Eh. Still counts for somethin’, I think.”

Starscream stares at him.

“You think I’m going to switch sides?” He asks, defensive.

“Nope,” Wheeljack replies without hesitation, popping the ‘p.’

That catches him off guard and he loses the sharp edge a bit.

“No?” Starscream echoes.

“Nah,” Wheeljack affirms. “You’re arrogant, petty, vain, and probably the most paranoid bot I’ve ever met.”

Starscream bristles, but Wheeljack continues before he can bite his helm off.

“But you’re also kinda brilliant, I've noticed. One scientist to another. And tired. You’re real, real tired. And I don’t think you know what to do with peace when it’s handed to you, even temporarily.” Wheeljack scratches his chin idly. “Like you don't know how to function when you're not clawing your way up somethin’.”

Starscream stares at him. Again. His wings twitch.

“…Do you practice psychoanalysis, or is that just a side effect of breathing in fumes all cycle?”

Wheeljack laughs, loud and obnoxious, finials flickering with it.

“Bit of both.” He says, almost boasting. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.” He pushes off the wall. “But you might wanna drink that before Ratchet finds out it’s not in your fuel tank. He gets all tetchy when people ignore his recovery orders.”

Starscream hesitates.

“…Why,” he starts, voice low, “do you all keep being so- blegh. ‘Friendly’, for lack of a better term? What do you want from me?”

Wheeljack pauses in the doorway.

“We don’t want anything,” he says, sounding genuinely baffled. “That’s kinda the point.”

The door slides shut behind him.

Starscream frowns at the closed door for a long time.

Then he sighs, reaches out, picks up the cube, and takes a sip.

It’s not poisoned.

Of course it’s not.

He's almost disappointed.

-

Starscream gets up, sometime later, and finds the door isn't locked. Not even a little bit. It slides right open, and he pauses, startled.

… Wow. Autobots are real idiots.

He steps out the door, and starts wandering.

The halls are louder than he expected. Dusty, scuffed metal under his pedes, the faint hum of the base’s systems, distant voices behind closed doors, muffled laughter and lively chatter.

It’s unnatural.

He grimaces. And keeps walking.

He doesn't have a plan, not really . Maybe he’s looking for something to steal. Maybe he just wants to prove he can walk the halls unsupervised without being tackled to the floor by some jumpy autobot security officer. Maybe he just needs to move .

Starscream rounds a corner.

Something slams into his leg.

Starscream jerks back, startled, wings flaring out with a sharp clang against the corridor walls before quickly drawing back in close to himself with a bitten down yelp of pain as his sensors light up.

He looks down.

It’s the irritating yellow one.

Bumblebee is sitting on the floor, rubbing his helm and looking up with an expression caught between sheepish and defensive. There’s a datapad beside him, and his little door-wings twitch with embarrassment.

“…You.” Starscream says, flatly.

“Me.” Bumblebee echoes.

A pause.

“You were sneaking,” Starscream accuses, putting a servo on his hip.

“I was walking,” Bumblebee retorts, narrowing his optics, “you turned the corner like a ghost.”

Starscream scoffs.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you were watching where you were going.”

“I was!” Bumblebee snaps, then pauses. “Okay maybe I wasn’t, but still, you’re tall. You’re like a moving antenna tower. You should come with warning lights.”

Starscream just stares at him, incredulous.

“Are you trying to provoke me?”

“No.” Bumblebee says, standing and brushing himself off with a huff, wings fluttering a little. “If I wanted to provoke you, I’d mention how your wing struts are misaligned or how your paint looks like it got in a fight with a sandstorm and lost.” He stoops to pick up his datapad and Starscream’s servo immediately flies to his wing, self-conscious.

“How dare -”

“Kidding!” Bumblebee says, backing up a step with both servos raised, one clasping his datapad. “Kidding. Mostly. You look fine. If a little grumpy.”

He falters.

Because Bumblebee isn’t posturing. Isn’t reaching for a weapon. He’s blinking up at Starscream with his wings slightly flared and his optics wide, but not afraid, a crooked little half-smile on his faceplate. Not afraid. Not even suspicious. Just… Uncertain. Slightly stiff. Awkward.

“…Hello?” Bumblebee prompts after a beat of uncomfortable silence, voice a little too chipper, a little too fast.

Starscream narrows his optics.

“No.”

Bumblebee tilts his helm.

“‘No’ what?”

“No playful mockery. No friendly chatter. No small talk. Just- just no .” Starscream folds his arms. “I will not be exchanging banter with a scout who once stapled an explosive to my wing .”

“That was one time!” Bumblebee blurts, dropping his servos with a huff. “And you were trying to vaporize Optimus!”

“A minor tactical decision.” Starscream huffs. “With far-reaching consequences, admittedly, but still. Entirely justified behavior on my part.”

They stare at each other.

Then, inexplicably, Bumblebee laughs . It's a short, bright sound, startled out of him before he can stop it.

Starscream stiffens, squinting.

“What’s so funny?”

“You.” Bumblebee says. “You’re just… Exactly the same. Even in our base. Even half-repaired and cranky.”

Starscream scowls immediately.

“I am not cranky -”

“Starscream,” Bumblebee interrupts, entirely amused, “you are the crankiest .”

Starscream growls, wings flaring again despite the pain it brings.

Bumblebee’s grin wanes a little, but he doesn’t step back. He shifts his weight instead, arms folding casually.

“Where are you going, anyway?” The smaller mech asks, tilting his helm to peer up at him with bright blue optics.

“None of your business.”

“You have no idea, do you?”

Starscream glares, and doesn't respond.

“I heard Prowl gave you a tour.” Bumblebee continues, unbothered. “Did he show you the training area?”

“...No.” Starscream mutters begrudgingly, narrowing his optics at him.

“Do you wanna?” Bumblebee asks. He doesn't wait for an answer. “C'mon, I'll show you.” He turns, marching away.

Starscream wavers, but sighs loudly and follows after him anyway.

He might as well.

The training room isn't far. Down the hallway, and then down a shorter corridor that offshoots from it. A plain looking door on the left.

It slides open and Starscream stops in the doorway.

The room is large, lit in cool blues and stark whites, contrasting the warm tones of the rest of the base, and its full of the distant hum of automated systems on standby. Training dummies stand lined along the walls. Scorch marks mar the flooring.

And in the center of it all, Optimus Prime moves.

He’s alone. Sparring with a heavy drone, some reinforced model that’s clearly built to take a pounding, and a pounding is exactly what it’s getting. The clang of metal echoes off the walls as Prime spins and brings his servo down in a crushing arc that sends the drone staggering.

He doesn’t seem to have noticed them.

Starscream stares. Openly. Processing.

He knows he shouldn’t. Knows it’s unbecoming. But he still stares.

His optics catch and linger on the curve of a shoulder, the cut of cables under armor, the focused tension in Prime’s stance. Prime is fast. Too fast for someone of his size. Precise, too. He moves like he was built for it, weight shifting effortlessly as he slams his ped into the drone's abdomen. Then he straightens, his vents drawing in deep and steady, and Starscream sees the way his chassis rises and falls with the motion, the way light gleams along that broad chestplate.

Bumblebee nudges him in the side.

“Cool, huh?”

Starscream makes a noise in the back of his intake pipe, startled, and straightens.

“I’ve seen better.” He says stiltedly.

Bumblebee rolls his optics and wanders off to the weapons rack with a mutter about decepticons being stuck up.

Prime finishes his round, slamming his shoulder into the drone’s chestplate and sending it crashing to the floor with a shudder and a twitch. The stillness that follows is palpable.

He turns.

And Primus help him, Starscream’s internals stutter when those optics settle on him.

"Bumblebee," Prime greets, calm and deep, like it’s just another day, as if Starscream hadn’t just been thinking wholly inappropriate things about the noble, righteous, infuriatingly composed autobot leader, “Starscream.”

“Prime.” Starscream manages, voice tight.

Prime tilts his helm slightly.

“Come to train?”

“He’s just showing me around.” Starscream denies, pointing with his thumb at Bumblebee. “Not that I expected much. I’ve seen decepticon training facilities that would put yours to shame.”

Prime doesn’t take the bait, frustratingly. His optics squint in something that might be amusement instead.

“Still. You’re welcome to try the equipment.” He gestures, and Starscream tries very, very hard not to think about the way his shoulder cabling flexes with the motion.

Primus, that debris must have damaged my processor.

“I'm going back to the dingy little room you've stuck me in.” He says, a bit too loudly. Bumblebee looks over at him curiously.

“I was about to show you the cool weapons Wheeljack designed.” He says.

“Too bad.” Starscream turns on his heel strut and leaves in a rush, not giving either of the autobots a chance to say anything further.

He may need to pay Ratchet another visit.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean there's no retrieval mission?” Skywarp hisses.

Thundercracker is, usually, a voice of reason. A voice he often ignores, but one that is there nonetheless. Normally, he'd be pulling Skywarp back, or at least leaving the room to avoid getting caught in the crossfire when Skywarp goes too far.

At the moment, though, Thundercracker is by his side, looking only a few astroseconds away from joining in on the yelling.

“I mean that I have no interest in wasting supplies to go get an incompetent backstabber.” Megatron growls. “That moron will find his own way back, if he wasn't blown up on the rig.”

Skywarp's optic twitches.

Starscream being left for dead wasn't necessarily new. He always came back to the decepticons, occasionally a little worse for wear, but functional, and ready to annoy everyone to death in no time.

The difference was that it had been a deca-phase, almost a full cycle, and there was no sign of Starscream. No glimpses of stupid plans, no proof that he hadn't been blown to scrap.

“He's Air Commander,” Thundercracker says, trying to keep his voice even, “and Second-in-Command.”

“Blitzwing will be acting Air Commander until further notice.” Megatron waves a servo dismissively and turns away. “Soundwave will be my second.”

Skywarp wants to tear Megatron's helm off, talons flexing angrily, and he's mildly relieved to see Thundercracker's wings twitching irritably. At least he isn't the only one seething.

Starscream is a pain in his aft. A pain in everyone’s aft, honestly. He throws him and Thundercracker under the bus at every given opportunity, and he keeps trying to usurp their leader, and he's loud and selfish and petty and has a stick up his aft. He complains about everything and acts like he's Primus reborn, and Skywarp is pretty sure he still has scratches in his casing from the last time they argued.

But he's Starscream. Skywarp's Starscream. Thundercracker's Starscream. Their trinemate, for better or worse.

Skywarp’s engine rumbles low in his chassis, vibrating through his frame. He doesn’t teleport forward to strangle Megatron—barely resists the urge—but the only thing stopping him is the way Thundercracker steps closer, not to hold him back for once, but to join him.

Thundercracker’s voice is tight, anger bubbling just beneath the surface, optics narrowed at Megatron with murderous intent.

“You’re not seriously going to just move on from his absence like it's nothing.”

Megatron turns just enough to glance over his shoulder, optics dim and disinterested.

“Starscream made his choices.” He says. “If he'd been less reckless, he would've been able to retreat with Soundwave and I.”

“Then we're going to find him.” Skywarp snaps before he can think it through.

Megatron’s expression darkens.

“Leave and get back to work, or I’ll have you both thrown in the brig for insubordination.”

Thundercracker doesn’t flinch, wings angling high in a rare display of defiance.

“ Try it.”

There’s a dangerous silence. Soundwave tilts his helm ever so slightly where he stands beside the throne, but doesn’t move. His visor and mouthpiece render his expression unreadable. Skywarp keeps his optics on their leader.

Then, without another word, Megatron sits.

Dismisses them like they’re beneath his notice, waving a servo and turning his attention to a datapad.

Skywarp growls but Thundercracker grabs his arm and pulls him back, frame tight with tension. 

They leave.

The door slides behind them, and for a moment, neither of them speaks, silent except for the heavy thud of their footsteps.

“He knows Screamer wouldn’t have gone this long without making a scene unless he was slagged. He knows!” Skywarp blurts, servos clenching. 

“I know,” Thundercracker mutters, quieter now.

They walk fast, angry, purposeful. Back to their shared quarters, where Skywarp starts throwing gear into a bag, muttering angrily under his breath the whole time.

Thundercracker is already pulling up schematics on the datapad—of the rig, of the last known coordinates, of the surrounding sea trench and what little they know of enemy movement. He holds out a servo to Skywarp, stopping him.

“He wouldn’t have just left,” Skywarp says. “Even if he was pissed and injured. Even if he was planning to defect again. He’d say something. Leave a message. Gloat. Brag. Something .”

“I know,” Thundercracker repeats, “but what if he comes back? What if he returns, and we're not here? Or he returns and we've been demoted because we were, what, worried?”

Skywarp scowls, but he does still.

“He should be back by now.”

“I know.” Thundercracker emphasizes. “But it hasn't actually been that long. You know how Star is and what his luck is like. For all we know, he could have been stopped on his way back by a flock of angry Earth-animals. He has the worst luck, and he's really stubborn.”

Skywarp shifts on his pedes, wings fluttering restlessly.

“...I guess. So, what? We just— wait? ”

Thundercracker zooms in on his schematic, expression grim and stressed. His wings tilt downwards and his jaw works for a moment.

“We can do some reconnaissance, at least. See if we can find any sign of him in that area. But nothing too brash yet. Megatron would kill us.” He says after a beat of tense quiet. Skywarp sighs, dragging a servo down his faceplate.

“ Dammit, Screamer.” He mumbles.

“He's probably fine.” Thundercracker says. It sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than Skywarp.

“When he gets back, I don't care about the stupid independent streak he's had since Vos fell, we're all getting in a berth and I'm polishing his wings.” Skywarp mutters to himself, tossing his bag aside with more force than necessary. “It's been ages since all three of us did anything together like a proper trine. I swear, if I was a stupider mech, I'd think he didn't care at all.”

“Star's just difficult and particular.” Thundercracker sits on the edge of the berth with a sigh. “Always worried about looking weak.”

“I know. But it's stupid.” Skywarp sits next to him and then flops backwards. “Do you remember back on Vos when Screamer used to sneak out past curfew just to fly loops over the city towers? Like the enforcers wouldn’t notice a bright red, white, and blue idiot doing barrel rolls over the plaza.”

Thundercracker smiles faintly. It almost looks like it hurts.

“Yeah. He used to tell us it was ‘training,’ but he just liked the attention.”

Skywarp snorts.

“You’re telling me! He’d make sure his wings were waxed before sneaking out. That wasn’t training , that was peacocking .”

Thundercracker leans back on his servos with a hum.

“Do you remember how he used to sneak us into the upper levels, just to sit on the edge of the glass towers and gawk at the launch paths?” Skywarp continues, trailing into nostalgia. “He acted like he hated it; complained about the height, the danger, the effort. But he always went back with us because the wind calmed you and I liked practicing my teleports up there.”

Thundercracker huffs a bemused breath.

“He liked it more than he let on. He always does. Likes us more than he says, too.”

Skywarp sighs.

“Well, if he’s still functioning, I’m going to tell him that next time I see him. That I know he gives a damn, no matter how much he pretends otherwise. Then I’m going to punch him in the face.” He folds his arms behind his helm and stares up at the ceiling.

“Get in line.”

“I hate this. Not knowing. I’d rather he send a message saying ‘slag off, I’m defecting again’ than this- this nothing .” Skywarp mumbles.

Thundercracker doesn’t answer, just staring down at the datapad, tracing the coastline with one finger.

“So, when are we leaving?” Skywarp presses.

Thundercracker doesn’t answer that immediately, either. He studies the schematics, marking likely places where Starscream could’ve escaped to if injured, or places he might have fallen into if he didn’t. After a moment, he sets the datapad down and leans back, optics narrowed in thought.

“Tonight.” He says finally. “After third shift swap. Most of the guards will be tired or distracted. We’ll fly low over the sea trench. Cloaked .”

Skywarp nods.

“Stealthy recon. Got it. If he’s alive, we find him. If he’s not-”

“He is. Until I see a body, he's alive.” Thundercracker cuts him off forcefully.

Skywarp falters, wavering, and Thundercracker's servos ball into fists.

“He's alive.” Thundercracker snaps.

“Yeah.” Skywarp glances away.

-

By the time they reach the outer perimeter, the skies are dark and the moonlight reflects off the ocean like something out of a movie. Thundercracker leads the way, his expression tight with focus. Skywarp trails just behind, ready to blink them out of danger if needed.

The rig is quiet when they arrive. Eerily so. Ruined. Collapsed. Singed struts poke out from the sea like broken fingers.

Skywarp hovers just above the damaged platform, wings twitching.

“Energon residue,” Thundercracker mutters, scanning the area. “A lot of it. Old. No fresh trails, but-”

He stops. Kneels by a half-melted panel.

“What?” Skywarp drops beside him.

Thundercracker lifts a scrap of scorched plating, twisted and carbon-marked.

Faint, but unmistakable, on the underside is a smear of red paint. Starscream’s red.

Skywarp goes very still, optics flitting around to take in the whole scene. Pieces of shattered yellow glass linger nearby, and more paint chips and paint transfers decorate the area, some in Starscream's colors and some not.

“He was here,” Thundercracker says, voice low, “but there’s no sign of a body. He made it off the rig.”

A mix of relief and a fresh wave of concern wash over Skywarp.

“Then where the frag is he now?” He whispers.

Thundercracker grits his denta, standing up again.

“I don't know. But not here. Scans didn't pick up any sign of him in the water, so he must have gone somewhere. Hopefully somewhere where he can't get himself hurt worse.” His wings twitch, then droop low.

Skywarp crosses his arms.

“So we're relying on hope now? You sound like an autobot.”

“Do you have a better plan that won't get us melted down by Megatron?” Thundercracker retorts. Skywarp scowls and looks away. “Didn't think so. Come on, we need to leave before anyone notices our absence.”

“But-”

“He's not here, Sky.” Thundercracker says. “He's not here and all signs point to him having made it off alive. The best thing we can do with the information we have is to wait.”

Skywarp bites his glossa and resists the urge to scream, kicking a stray piece of metal off the rig and into the water with a distant splash.

“ Fine. ” He spits, wings flaring. “Let's go.”

Chapter Text

“What do you mean my comms are blocked?” Starscream hisses.

Blaster glances at him, raising a brow ridge.

“I mean that you're an enemy, Starscream, and therefore it'd be dumb to let you communicate with your little decepticon friends.” He leans against the console and Starscream growls. “Sorry ‘bout it.”

“Useless, infuriating, rusting -” He mutters under his breath, spinning his heel strut and stalking off, wings twitching irritably.

He just barely manages to stop himself short of running straight into Skyfire.

His scowl deepens.

“What are you doing here?” He sneers.

Skyfire has the audacity to look annoyed. Ridiculous.

“This is the autobot base ,” he says dryly, “I live here.”

“Whatever.” Starscream steps around him and keeps walking. Heavy footsteps follow him and he turns his helm to see the shuttle trailing behind. “Go away. Or are you just enjoying seeing me injured?”

“I don't enjoy it.” Skyfire frowns, large wings fluttering slightly in what might be frustration. “Unlike certain mechs, I don't actually like when people are in pain.” He narrows azure optics. “Even if they deserve it.”

Starscream bristles, indignant.

“How dare- I've done nothing to deserve this!” He hisses, spinning on his heel strut and glaring up at him.

Skyfire stares at him, studying him like he's trying to figure something out.

His frown deepens.

“You don't actually believe that, do you?” He asks, incredulous. “That you've done nothing wrong?”

Starscream crosses his arms.

“I don't want to hear your preaching about my wrongdoings.” He snaps. “You and your- your selflessness and justice and morals. You're ridiculous. You could've been by my side, but-”

“ You shot me!” Skyfire snaps back, louder than Starscream expected. He stops, wings flicking downwards, and blinks up at the larger mech, startled. Skyfire vents in deeply and leans backwards. “You shot me. Because I didn't want to hurt people. Why would I go with you after that?”

Starscream falters a little. Something twists in his fuel tanks.

“...I could've shot you somewhere fatal.” He finally manages, lifting his chin.

Skyfire scowls.

“Maybe I should've. You're clearly not worth my kindness.”

“If that's your ‘kindness’, I would've preferred the ice.” He mutters bitterly.

A lump forms in Starscream's intake pipe and he forcefully turns away.

“Yes, well, you're not the only one who wishes you stayed in ice.” He spits, thrusters clicking against the floor as he storms away.

Skyfire doesn't follow him this time.

He turns a corner and scrubs a servo roughly over his faceplate.

Grounded and injured. In an autobot base. With no comms. And on top of it all, Skyfire is-

“Starscream?”

Starscream picks up his pace, walking a little faster as if ignoring the call will make Prime leave him alone.

It doesn't. Prime closes the distance between them easily, catching up to walk beside him.

“Starscream?” He prompts again. Starscream glances at him and shoves down the memory of how he'd looked in the training room. Primus, he feels like he's riding some stupid human rollercoaster. Feeling nauseous over Skyfire one moment, ogling the size of Prime's servos the next.

“What?” He grumbles.

Prime hums quietly, helm tilted slightly as he matches Starscream’s brisk pace with long, effortless strides.

“You looked upset.” He says simply. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Starscream lets out a sharp bark of humorless laughter.

“How touching. The great Optimus Prime, concerned for the well-being of a war criminal.” He drawls, mockery lacing every syllable.

“You’re not a prisoner.” Prime replies mildly, not offended in the slightest. “You’re injured. And you’re here because you need care.”

Starscream halts abruptly, turning a bit to face him with a glare.

“Don’t pretend this is charity . You think I don’t know how this works? You fix me up, then interrogate me. Try to ‘redeem’ me, maybe, if you’re feeling especially self-righteous.”

“I don’t force redemption,” Prime replies, calm but firm, “it has to be chosen.”

Starscream scoffs, crossing his arms tightly.

“Well, don’t hold your vents waiting. I’m not interested in defecting. I’m not some sad little seeker looking for forgiveness.”

“I never said you were.” Prime says. His gaze is steady, unreadable. The damn mask covers too much of his expression. “But you're not as good a liar as you think.”

Starscream bristles again, wings flaring, pain dancing along his sensors.

“ Excuse me?”

“You’re angry,” Prime says, quietly, “but you’re also hurt. Not just physically. Skyfire’s words affected you. And your first reaction to pain is to lash out.”

Starscream takes a step back as if physically hit.

He heard that?

His wings twitch, then fold flat against his back, defensive.

“You think you know me?” He seethes, furious. “You don’t . You sit up on your little throne, handing out mercy like it costs you nothing, like it has no strings attached. I know better! I’m no fool. ”

Prime watches him, gaze unwavering.

“I don’t know everything.” He concedes. “But I’d like to. If you’ll let me. There's little known about you in general. Skyfire hasn't said much. I know you're from Vos, that you're Air Commander and Second-in-Command, and that you try to usurp Megatron quite often. I know you're an exceptional flyer, and that you were a scientist once upon a time. I know you're clever, if a bit reckless. But I don't know much about you. Personality-wise, I mean. I don't know your interests or hobbies, or… Much of anything that can't be gleamed just from fighting you for long enough. I admit, I'm curious.”

“…You’re insufferable,” Starscream mutters, turning away again, “big and noble and insufferable.”

Prime lets out a quiet, amused ex-vent.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Starscream grunts noncommittally.

“...By you, actually.” Prime adds thoughtfully.

“Yes, and I'll do it again.” He grouches, petulant. He starts walking again.

“I'm sure you will.” Prime follows.

Starscream glances at him, annoyed.

“I don't need a sparksitter.”

“I'm not trying to be one.” Prime muses. “Anyway, I noticed you have some, uh… Scratches and such.”

Starscream's derma curl back to bare his denta.

“Be very careful with your next words, Prime.”

Prime holds his servos up.

“I was just going to offer you a buffer and file. I don't have paints in your shades, but Sunstreaker and Tracks like to spend their free time cleaning up their casing.” He hums.

Starscream slows his gait and Prime matches him.

“You think I care about my finish right now?" He asks, offended.

"No," Prime says evenly, "I think you're trying very hard not to care."

Starscream glares, but it’s a little less sharp now. His wings twitch again, but he doesn't speed up. He walks slow and considering instead, optics locked forward, stubborn.

"I’m not vain," he mutters, “I'm not shallow or self-absorbed, you know.”

"I never said you were." Prime agrees. "You are proud. There's a difference."

Starscream grits his denta and stays silent. It's less embarrassing than admitting that yes , of course it bothers him, walking around scratched and dented with chipped paint, like some fragging demolition derby truck.

He looks like he fell out of orbit. Twice.

And worse— Skyfire had seen him like this.

He almost growls again just thinking about it, but Prime's next words recapture his attention.

"You don’t have to take the buffer. I just thought you might appreciate the option."

Starscream rolls his optics.

“What is this, some kind of twisted social experiment?”

"No." Prime says, not rising to the bait. “I’m just trying to offer a kindness. You’re under no obligation to accept it.”

Starscream opens his intake to fire off something cutting and sharp, but then, he bites his glossa. He exhales, wings drooping slightly, and rubs his servo over a line on his forearm where the paint has been completely scraped off, revealing the silver metal beneath.

“…Where,” he starts stiffly, like he's pulling his denta out, “do you keep the buffer?”

Prime smiles. Starscream can't see his intake, but the corners of his bright blue optics turn upwards.

“Ratchet’s medbay has one. But I figured you'd prefer not to go back there right now. So I brought one from my quarters.”

Starscream stops dead in his tracks again, turning to squint at him.

“You brought one? Already?”

“I had a feeling you might want it eventually.”

Starscream stares.

“That’s… manipulative.”

Prime tilts his helm and holds the buffer out.

“That’s intuition.” He corrects.

Starscream glares, “that’s creepy. And presumptuous.”

“You did want it, though.”

“That’s irrelevant,” he mutters, and snatches the buffer from Prime's outstretched servo like it offended him personally. He tucks it under one arm and starts walking again.

Prime trails behind for some Primus forsaken reason.

After a long beat of silence, Starscream speaks again—reluctantly, begrudgingly, but wanting to clarify a few things.

“I wasn’t even trying to usurp Megatron when he left me behind. Not this time.”

Prime hums.

“Noted.”

“And… And for your information, I didn’t shoot Skyfire fatally. On purpose. If I wanted him dead, he would’ve been dead.”

“Also noted.”

Another pause. Starscream bites the inside of his cheek, considering.

“...And it wasn’t because I wanted to shoot him. I'm not cruel , you know, I didn't enjoy it like he seems to think. It was just- he- I shot him, yes, but it was-”

“-because he was leaving?” Prime finishes gently. Too gently. It grates on Starscream's audials, sets his sensors on edge.

“ Don’t take that tone with me. I am not a pitiable creature.” Starscream hisses. Prime dips his helm in acknowledgement.

“Unrelatedly,” he says, “you could repaint. Sunstreaker might have something. Tracks, too. Then, you wouldn’t have scratches like that.”

“I like my colors.” Starscream scowls. “They’re distinctive. Commanding.”

“I think they suit you.”

Starscream’s spark jumps, wings jerking upwards in a movement that is too sharp, making him flinch and trip over his own pedes.

He stumbles, and large servos catch him around the waist.

“Are you alright?”

Starscream consciously stops his cooling fans from starting up and shoves at Prime's stupid, warm servos, scrambling upright.

“I'm fine. ”

Prime does not let go of him immediately, steadying him on his pedes first. His thumbs press into the protruding armor Starscream's hips.

It's very distracting.

“Are your wings okay?” Prime asks, leaning down as if to check for himself. “Ratchet said they'd be easier to damage during the recovery period.”

Starscream glowers, gritting his denta.

“I,” he repeats forcefully, “am fine. Let go of me.”

Prime does let go then, finally, and Starscream quickly shuffles backwards. He retreats a step too quickly and nearly bumps into the wall. He catches himself, straightens, and glares hard enough to crack glass.

Prime, infuriatingly, doesn’t even look smug. Doesn’t smirk or tease or act victorious. He actually looks sincerely concerned. Starscream hates that more.

He clears his intake harshly and adjusts the buffer under his arm like it’s a shield.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t!” Starscream snaps, too fast. “I simply don’t appreciate being manhandled like some fragile sparkling with wobbly thrusters.”

Prime tilts his helm.

“You stumbled.” He notes.

“I did not-” Starscream sucks in a sharp vent and forces himself to maintain his already fractured composure. “I misstepped . Due to your looming presence and absolutely ridiculous… thighs. You blocked the light.”

There’s a pause.

A long pause.

And then Prime… Snorts . A low, brief, thoroughly amused sound that makes Starscream feel like he’s about to spontaneously combust.

“I’ll try to be more considerate of my thighs in the future.” Prime says lightly.

“See that you do.” Starscream seethes, flustered beyond all reason.

They walk in silence again. The halls of the base are quiet, humming with distant generators and the low murmur of mech activity elsewhere. The buffer is starting to feel very warm tucked against his side, and his wing joints ache more with every step, the sting of overuse catching up to him.

He should go lie down.

Or sulk somewhere private.

Or find a closet and scream into it.

Instead, he ends up blurting, “Skyfire always said I cared too much about the wrong things.”

Prime glances at him. Starscream keeps his optics fixed forward.

“He said I got emotional about things that didn’t matter. About status. Respect. Recognition.” He scoffs quietly. “He said I craved attention like a hatchling. That I was never content unless I was being praised for something.”

Prime is quiet, letting the words hang in the air for a klik before speaking.

“You’re not the only one who wants to be seen.” He remarks.

Starscream turns his helm to glare at him.

“I'm not needy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But you implied it.”

“ No .” Prime says, firm, brow ridge furrowing. “I meant that wanting to be acknowledged doesn’t make you weak. It makes you honest. And maybe a little wounded.”

Starscream’s intake clicks shut.

“I dislike your psychoanalysis.”

“It’s the truth.” Prime shrugs broad shoulders. “And I think Skyfire saw that, too. That you were hurting. That’s why it made him angry. You hurt him, and he can’t even properly hate you for it because you’re hurt, too.”

Starscream frowns deeply.

He thinks about the way Skyfire’s voice had raised in a way he'd rarely ever heard, the way his wings had trembled, the way his optics had looked too bright with heat. He thinks about Skyfire’s back, retreating into the hallway and not following him this time.

“…He’s always been too soft.” He dismisses.

“Or maybe,” Prime offers, “he’s just not soft in the same way you are.”

Starscream’s optics narrow into thin slits.

“Say that again,” he says, voice low and sharp, “and I will dent your faceplate.”

Prime holds up his servos in surrender.

Starscream glares at him a moment longer, then growls under his breath and turns his helm away.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s absolutely none of your business.”

“Because,” Prime says, and his voice is soft again, “you’re tired. And you’re lonely. And I’m listening.”

Starscream’s tanks churn.

The buffer creaks slightly under his tightening grip.

“…You said you had paints?”

Prime inclines his helm.

“I’ll ask Sunstreaker for the shades closest to yours. Might take some mixing.”

“…Hm.” Starscream scuffs a ped against the floor, kicking a stray bolt down the hall. “Maybe you’re not entirely useless.”

“High praise,” Prime says dryly.

“Don’t get used to it.” Starscream snaps.

He gets the awful impression that the mech is smiling under his dumb mouthpiece.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Chapter Text

It has been approximately two cycles, and Starscream feels like he's going insane.

It's not like he's never been grounded before. It was rare, but he has. A few particularly bad battles or risky plans resulted in damaged wings or an offline navigation system, sometimes.

It never gets easier. The unease sets in quickly, the discomfort and restlessness eating at him, the need to soar itching under his plating. He's already irritable most of the time and being unable to fly always makes him even more so .

The fact that he's currently stuck in an autobot base after Megatron so thoughtfully left him for dead, well, that only makes it that much worse.

He's still feeling lingering pain from his injuries even after Ratchet patched him up. He can't move his wings properly. He can't fly. He can't contact his trine. He was left for dead. And he's stuck in an autobot base with mechs who glare at him all cycle and an infuriatingly understanding Optimus Prime.

Oh, and Bumblebee, who keeps finding him, somehow, like a boxy yellow heat-seeking missile just to bother him. He asks nosy questions, makes rude comments, and all but bullies Starscream into leaving his temporary room instead of sulking in the berth.

Hmmph. He's kind of like a smaller, somehow even more obnoxious version of Skywarp, except he's a grounder, and makes less innuendos and crude jokes.

Not that his jokes are actually better. They're just corny, and childish, and not very clever in the slightest.

At the moment, Starscream is hiding from him. He's… Well, technically, he's pretty sure Prowl said he wasn't allowed in here but the door was completely unlocked and hey, that means the little brat won't come looking for him here.

It's a lab. He thinks maybe Wheeljack's, given the messiness of it. Blueprints, schematics, and half-dead datapads scatter across the room's various surfaces. It's a stark contrast to Shockwave’s lab, cold and clinical and overly neat.

His spark does something odd. He refuses to think about his and Skyfire's old lab.

Starscream wanders deeper into the area. After all, maybe he can at least make use of some information he finds here?

He leans over a work bench to peer at a partially finished blueprint for some kind of lie detector device, and promptly frowns, because the calibrations of it are incorrect by a few margins.

He can’t help himself.

Starscream grabs the nearest stylus and begins correcting the values. Even the shoddy efforts of a grounder shouldn’t be this mathematically offensive. He mutters under his breath while he adjusts the waveform parameters and rewrites a portion of the logic tree, the flow of it all like an old half-remembered melody. Like riding a bike, or whatever the organics say.

He’s just finishing a rough fix for the output algorithm when a voice startles him.

“Hey! Hey-hey-hey, whoa, back away from the tech, seeker!”

Starscream jumps so hard the stylus clatters from his claws. He whirls around, wings flaring instinctively, which just makes him wince when they twinge painfully somewhere in their wiring. He bites back a curse.

Wheeljack is standing in the doorway, optic ridges raised, servos half lifted with alarm like he wants to physically move Starscream away from his little toys.

Starscream narrows his optics defensively.

“It was unlocked.”

“That doesn’t mean break and enter is okay,” Wheeljack says, stepping into the room with a snort. “Seriously, Prime might be all about the whole ‘second chances and forgiveness’ thing, but I draw the line at breaking my prototypes.”

“This isn’t a second ch- I didn’t break anything!” Starscream snaps, bristling.

Wheeljack pauses.

“…Sabotaging, then?”

Starscream gestures sharply at the datapad, a little miffed.

“Your waveform calibration was a whole two percent off. The detection sensitivity would have been laughable. Your signal isolator was configured for military coding, not neutral dialect patterns. Amateur. Even for a grounder. I improved it.”

There’s a long pause. Wheeljack walks over, picks up the datapad, and stares at it.

Then tilts his helm.

Then lets out a low whistle.

“…Huh.”

Starscream crosses his arms and huffs.

“You're welcome.”

Wheeljack mutters under his breath, running one finger along the edge of the datapad and double-checking the recalculated data.

“You adjusted the output for variable audio stress ranges… and rewrote the isolator subroutine…” His voice is steadily climbing in pitch. “Wait, how the frag did you do that in under ten kliks? This was a mess even I couldn’t untangle!”

Starscream preens a little, chin lifting.

“Because you are clumsy and undisciplined in your approach. Do you even understand the basic principles of sound vector mapping? Your methodology is laughable. If this had been used, it would’ve detected false positives constantly.”

Wheeljack stares at him like he’s grown a second helm.

Starscream scowls.

“What?”

“…You’re one of those kinds of scientists.” Wheeljack says, not unkindly; more… fascinated. Starscream doesn't know if that's better. “You know, I figured you were smart, being a flyer and all. But that’s not just smart, that’s terrifyingly specific. You know signal theory better than half my team.”

Starscream crosses his arms tighter, wings twitching.

Probably not better than Skyfire.

“I was a proper scientist before the war,” he says stiffly, “you autobots just like to forget that because it’s easier to paint me as a cackling, incompetent villain.”

Which, to be fair, he does tend to cackle, he knows that.

Wheeljack sets the datapad down and holds up both servos in mock surrender.

“Hey, I’m not arguing . Just… surprised.” He placates. “It's not even necessarily that I didn't think you were that smart, I always knew you were clever. I just didn't think you'd use it to fix somethin’ instead of breaking or sabotaging it.”

Starscream waves a servo.

“It was bugging me. You'd practically sabotaged yourself, anyhow.” 

"Isn't that Wheeljack’s latest pet project?" A voice adds, far too close for comfort. "Hope you didn’t just make it explode by doodling on it."

Starscream jumps and spins around with a snarl.

"You!" He snaps, glaring at Bumblebee, who is way too close to him. When did he even get here?

“Hi, Wheeljack,” Bumblebee greets, unbothered.

“Hi, B.” Wheeljack replies, amused. Bumblebee peers around Starscream to squint at the blueprint, and Wheeljack picks the datapad up and offers it to him for a better look.

“Okay, I do have to ask; did you actually understand that blueprint?” Bumblebee asks.

Starscream grinds his denta, wings twitching in annoyance.

“Of course I understand it, you ignorant scraplet.”

Bumblebee raises his servos innocently, stepping back half a pace with a grin that’s far too smug for Starscream’s liking.

“Okay, okay, chill. I was just wondering. You never know what bits are just you making stuff up to sound smarter.”

Starscream narrows his optics, his tone pure acid.

“If I wanted to make things up to sound smarter, I’d start by talking about your continued existence and try to justify that.”

Bumblebee doesn’t even flinch.

“Ouch. That one had bite.”

“Everything I say has bite.” Starscream mutters petulantly, crossing his arms again. “You’d know that if you had even a rudimentary neural processor, which I’ve begun to suspect you do not .”

Wheeljack steps in before the insults can escalate further—although, judging by the glint in his optics, he’s enjoying it at least a little.

“Alright, alright, let’s not test the structural limits of my lab today, huh?”

Starscream huffs, but grudgingly stands down.

Bumblebee leans in toward Wheeljack and stage-whispers, “he fixed it?”

Wheeljack lifts the datapad.

“Not just fixed it—he streamlined it. I was banging my helm on this pad for three cycles straight. He walks in, insults my entire scientific career, and fixes it in under ten kliks.”

“I told you,” Starscream says loudly, “you’re welcome .”

Bumblebee raises an optic ridge.

“I thought you were an air commander. Like, yelling, scheming, backstabbing, shooting people in the back kind of commander.”

Starscream bristles.

“I said I was a scientist. The war simply made it inconvenient to focus on academic pursuits.”

Bumblebee tilts his helm.

“So wait. You're saying if you weren't trying to overthrow Megatron or blow up the Ark, you’d be off writing papers and building mood-sensing laser grids?”

Starscream considers that for a second.

“…Yes. And no. I was scouting planets for materials, and working on signal behavior and quantum-based phase alignments before the war, not ‘mood lasers’, idiot.”

Wheeljack makes a thoughtful hum.

“Actually, mood lasers do sound like a thing I’d build…”

Starscream stares at him in horror and disgust.

“Don't give him ideas,” Bumblebee mutters.

“Too late.” Wheeljack says gleefully, already reaching for a stylus and a clean pad. “So if you really know this much about waveform analysis… you ever build a stealth comms relay that self-scrambles under Energon-interference?”

Starscream rolls his optics.

“Not only have I built one, I refined one. Are you familiar with the Erebos Protocol?”

Wheeljack looks intrigued.

“That was the one that scrambles outgoing signatures and makes them bounce like ghost signals, right? That was you?”

Starscream shrugs one shoulder.

“I contributed heavily to it. Shockwave couldn’t finish it alone—he’s too linear in his approach. I had to correct his logic gates. Soundwave finalized it. Most of my efforts are used in battle plans, strategies, and tactics, though.”

“Okay,” Bumblebee cuts in, “so I was joking before, but that's actually pretty crazy.”

Wheeljack just hums consideringly.

“Well, since you’re already here and rewriting my tech… wanna help me calibrate the test dummy?”

Starscream blinks, then frowns.

“You mean you haven’t tested it yet?”

“Test dummies are expensive,” Wheeljack says, waving his servo. “But if you wanna stand in for it…”

Starscream immediately takes a step back.

“Absolutely not. I am the most valuable bot in this room. Possibly this entire base. I’m not about to subject myself to your amateur invention just to prove it works.”

“So… you're scared?” Bumblebee smirks.

Starscream hisses, wings twitching.

“I am selectively cautious, which is why I still have my processor intact.”

Wheeljack shrugs.

“Fair enough. But hey, if you ever want to put that processor of yours to use doing something other than muttering about my incompetence, I wouldn’t mind the help.”

Starscream eyes him warily.

“Why would you trust a decepticon? Are you that stupid?”

“Because you’re bored, smart, and stuck here,” Wheeljack says with another shrug. “And I don’t think you can’t be useful. Just… haven’t had a good enough reason to be.”

“No.” Starscream glares at Wheeljack, and then at Bumblebee. “ No. I'm not helping the autobots.”

“You kinda already did.” Bumblebee remarks, pointing at the datapad.

“He's right.” Wheeljack agrees, amused.

Starscream glares harder.

“That wasn't- I wasn't helping you. It was just…” He gestures vaguely. “They were minor corrections.”

“Sure,” Wheeljack tilts his helm, “but they were still corrections. Therefore, helpful. Therefore , helpin’ us autobots.”

“That doesn't count!” Starscream stomps his ped, annoyed.

The door opens again and they all turn to see Prowl in the doorway.

His bright blue optics scan the room. Then narrow.

“Starscream,” he says flatly, “you are not supposed to be in here.”

Starscream stiffens, drawing himself up as tall as possible despite the undeniable wince of his wings.

“Oh, how tragic,” he drawls, arms folded, “should I go sit quietly in my assigned box like a good little prisoner, then?”

Prowl ignores the sarcasm.

“Wheeljack, I thought I made it clear this lab was off-limits to unsupervised non-autobots .”

Wheeljack lifts a servo with an easy shrug.

“Hey, he wandered in before I did. ‘Sides, he fixed my prototype. Look: realigned my output code and recalibrated the waveform modulators.”

Prowl doesn’t look impressed. If anything, his expression tightens.

“That’s not the point.”

“No, no, do keep talking about me like I’m not standing right here.” Starscream cuts in. “Very polite. Very diplomatic. Is this how you treat all your guests?”

“You’re not a guest.”

Starscream scoffs.

“No, I suppose not. I’m just the enemy who was left to die and patched up and now gets to rot in a glorified broom closet while your soldiers glare daggers at me.”

“Some of us don’t glare,” Bumblebee adds, earning a withering look from Starscream and a warning glance from Prowl.

Prowl takes a step into the lab.

“You’ve made it clear you resent being here, Starscream. No one is forcing you to stay yourquarters—which are not a glorified broom closet, by the way... But we do have protocols.”

“Which I so graciously ignored to fix your idiot’s device.” Starscream growls. “You should be grateful. If anything, I’ve done you a favor.”

Prowl regards him coldly.

“That doesn’t change the fact that this is a secured lab.”

“And I’m a glorified paperweight with broken wings and nothing better to do than correct your engineers' laughable attempts at science.” Starscream snaps back. “Forgive me for existing .”

There’s a beat of tense silence.

Then Wheeljack sighs and tosses the datapad onto the worktable.

“Okay, maybe everyone should take an astrosecond. Prowl, chill. Screamer, relax. You’re gonna frag up your own circuitry if you keep hissing sparks like that.”

Starscream turns a scathing glare on him, wings flaring even though it hurts.

“Do not call me Screamer.”

That is a name only two bots are allowed to call him, thank you very much, and this grounder is not one of them.

Prowl ignores the outburst, addressing Wheeljack directly.

“If you must work with him, do it with clearance . I’ll authorize a limited lab assistant role under your supervision. I want every access logged. Every test documented. No wandering. No solo sessions. He so much as sneezes near the weapons rack, he’s out.”

Starscream scowls.

“I am not working with him.”

“You already are,” Bumblebee points out again, with far too much delight.

Wheeljack gives Prowl a lazy salute.

“Sure thing, boss-bot. Logged and documented. Got it.”

Prowl turns to leave, exasperated.

“I have no idea what Prime was thinking.” He mutters under his breath. The door shuts behind him with a hydraulic hiss.

Starscream resists the urge to grab something from a nearby table and throw it.

Wheeljack nudges a datapad toward him with a servo. Starscream wants to slam his fist on it and break it.

“So. Mood lasers?”

“Absolutely not.”

Bumblebee smirks.

“What about neural stress emitters?”

Starscream groans, pressing the heels of his palms into his optics.

“I hate this place.”

“Sure you do,” Wheeljack says, already sketching out something that includes a waveform loop and something labeled ‘emotion tracker array v2.’

Starscream's sanity slips a bit more.

Chapter Text

Starscream has a shadow that is almost twice his size.

He's currently writing on a datapad, fixing up one of Wheeljack's blueprints. But it's not like he's unsupervised: Wheeljack himself is right there, standing just a few metrons away, welding something together.

Which means there's absolutely no reason for Optimus fragging Prime to be hovering .

Starscream is pretty sure the Prime doesn't even need to be in the lab at all, actually.

He scowls slightly.

“I’m working,” he says flatly, without turning around.

“I can see that,” Prime replies, calm and maddeningly neutral, “you’re doing well.”

Starscream nearly snarls. Praise from the autobot shouldn’t rankle him this much, but it does . It feels… condescending. Patronizing . Like he’s a wayward protoform being congratulated for not chewing on a cable.

Wheeljack doesn’t even look up from his welding, but Starscream hears the faint, unmistakable snicker of amusement over the hiss of the torch.

"Don’t you have, I don’t know, a war to lead?" Starscream mutters under his breath, stylus tapping a little more sharply against the datapad as he adjusts the cooling system's angle on the schematic.

“I trust my officers.” Prime replies smoothly. "And besides, I wanted to see how you were settling in."

Starscream finally turns in his seat to glare at him.

“Settling in?” He echoes, just shy of venomous. “I’m not a stray you're trying to coax into staying.”

“No,” Prime agrees, unbothered. “But I also know you don’t take well to being idle. When Prowl asked about this, I was pleased. I figured something constructive would help.”

Starscream’s optics narrow.

“Constructive.” He repeats blandly.

“Mm-hmm,” Wheeljack chimes in, finally lifting his helm. “And you have been constructive, actually! That tweak to the vent system you suggested saved me two deca-cycles of redesigning.”

Starscream glares at him, too, just for good measure, but Wheeljack only shrugs and turns back to his workbench.

“You’re making this worse.” Starscream mutters, making a final correction into the schematic and sending it to Wheeljack’s terminal with a bit more force than necessary. “Hovering like some massive ‘moral support’ drone.”

Prime's optics blink slowly.

“…I can leave, if you’d prefer.”

Starscream doesn’t answer immediately.

“Do whatever you want.” He says stiffly. “It's your base.”

“Yes,” Prime concedes, “but you're a guest.”

“I'm a prisoner.” Starscream corrects.

“Pretty spoiled prisoner, if you ask me.” Wheeljack comments.

“I didn't ask you.” Starscream glowers.

Wheeljack just snickers and goes back to work.

Starscream’s wings twitch irritably, sending a fresh jolt of pain through him.

He wants- Primus, he needs to lash out, to snap or sneer or do something to fracture the maddening calm that’s suffocating him. Instead, he picks up the datapad again with a kind of surgical precision, as though maybe if he stabs the next schematic hard enough, it’ll draw energon and scratch that itch.

Prime shifts behind him, a subtle creak of metal. Starscream doesn’t look up this time, trying very hard to pretend he isn't on edge.

“I’m not here to monitor you,” Prime says, and his voice is still maddeningly sincere, "I meant what I said. I wanted to see how you were doing."

“As if you actually care how I'm ‘doing.’” Starscream snaps.

There’s a pause. Not a long one. Just long enough to be noticeable.

“I do.”

Starscream stiffens.

Wheeljack’s torch flares up again with a crackle and hum, mercifully filling the silence before it can rot into something unbearable, or before Starscream can say all kinds of horrible things in response to Prime's nonsense.

“You’re a valuable mind,” Prime continues, and Starscream hates the way he eats up the words, “you’ve always been one. Even when we were at odds.”

“We are still at odds.” Starscream hisses, optics flitting up to glare at Prime. “I haven't defected.”

Prime says nothing to that. He just studies him for a moment, blue optics bright and clear as they scrutinize him. It makes him bristle a little.

“You'd prefer it if I left.” Prime says, not quite a question.

Starscream tightens his grip on the datapad.

“No,” he says after a beat, and the word tastes like rust on his glossa, “not if you’re just going to come back again anyway.”

Prime just inclines his helm slightly, like he understands something Starscream didn’t say.

“That’s fair.” He concedes, and takes a step back. “I’ll give you space.”

He turns like he means to leave, and Starscream almost lets him. Almost. But his intake gets ahead of his processor, and the words leave him before he can think better of it.

“You’re terrible at that.” He scoffs. “Giving space.”

Prime pauses at the threshold, one heavy step short of the door.

“You hover like a malfunctioning orbital drone.” Starscream continues, glaring at the schematic again, though the lines are far from his focus right now. “How you've ever managed to stay unnoticed in any stealth based mission long enough to pull off any tactics at all, I’ll never understand.”

Prime doesn’t rise to the bait, which is probably what’s most infuriating about him. That calm, unwavering patience, like a mountain Starscream could throw himself against for millennia and still never make a dent. Things would be easier, he thinks, if Prime would just- get angry. Be annoyed. Insult him back, take the obvious bait and sink to Starscream's level, even just glare.

But he doesn't.

His voice stays steady and his optics remain disgustingly kind.

Behind them, Wheeljack clicks off the torch again and stretches, arching his back struts until something pops audibly.

“Honestly, Screamer, if you really didn’t want him here, you could’ve just told me to set something on fire.”

Starscream glares sharply.

“Don't call me that.” He says. “And I'm not telling you to set something on fire. What's wrong with you?”

Wheeljack hums unrepentantly.

“It’s worked before.”

“I’d rather not incinerate the lab again,” Prime says mildly.

“It was only a small explosion,” Wheeljack insists, “and technically, that one was Bumblebee’s fault.”

Starscream looks between them like they’re both diseased. They might be. Who knows what germs autobots have?

“I’m surrounded by lunatics,” he says, and goes back to stabbing the datapad’s screen with unnecessary force.

Prime lets out a quiet hum, like he's maybe agreeing.

“Regardless, if there’s anything you need-”

“I’ll survive,” Starscream interrupts irritably. “I always do.”

It doesn't come across as boastful as he means it to.

Prime nods, slowly, then, finally, he turns and leaves. The door hisses shut behind him, and for a moment, the lab is quiet.

Wheeljack, still at the workbench, whistles low and tuneless under his breath.

“He’s not wrong, y’know.”

Starscream doesn’t look up, exasperated.

“About what?” He sighs.

“You bein’ valuable.” A beat. “And about him caring.”

Starscream clenches his denta.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.” He mutters sourly.

“No,” Wheeljack agrees, entirely too cheerfully. “I’m funnier.”

Starscream calmly vents in, and then chucks the datapad at Wheeljack's helm.

-

Restlessly pacing the halls of the autobot base is bound to cause problems for him, he figures, but he's bored, and temporarily banned from Wheeljack's lab, and he's grounded.

So he paces anyway.

It, as anticipated, causes problems.

One particular big, white, winged problem, blue optics peering down at Starscream with a cocktail of emotions.

Starscream should just go around him and move on with his life. But he doesn't. Because he's itching for a fight, aching to verbally or maybe physically rip into someone, and making eye contact with Skyfire makes his agitation flare up. So, he stops in front of the shuttle, and glowers up at him with disdain.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he remarks, confrontational.

Skyfire just looks… Tired. Maybe exasperated. A little irritated.

“Like what?” He asks, unamused.

“Like I'm pitiable.” Starscream spits.

Skyfire’s expression doesn’t shift much, but his wings twitch, just slightly, almost imperceptibly, except Starscream knows how to read him. He always has.

“I’m not—” Skyfire begins, then cuts himself off with a sigh. “...I’m not pitying you.”

“Oh?” Starscream sneers, stepping closer, thrusters clinking against the floor noticeably. “Then what do you call that little look you just gave me? What, Skyfire, am I mistaken?”

“You’re angry.” Skyfire replies evenly, fingers twitching. “And you want a target. That doesn’t make me responsible for your mood.”

“Coward.” Starscream snaps. “You used to know how to argue.”

Skyfire’s optics narrow a fraction, and Starscream almost laughs—there it is. That flicker of temper, that carefully guarded control. He hates how much self-control Skyfire has. He remembers an old conversation about it; Skyfire had told him that with his size, he couldn't afford to lose his temper like that. Starscream told him he should be allowed to express his emotions like everyone else. It feels like it was a lifetime ago.

“You’re not pitiable,” Skyfire says at last, slow and measured. “You’re frustrated. You’re used to flying when you feel on edge. Now, you’re grounded, and you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.” Starscream hisses, stepping in close enough to jab a finger against Skyfire’s lower chassis. “You think you understand me just because we shared a few labs a few million vorns ago? You don’t know anything about me anymore.”

“I know enough to see what this is.” Skyfire says, clearly struggling not to raise his voice. “You’re hurting, and instead of asking for help like a normal bot-”

“Oh, please,” Starscream interrupts, flaring his wings dramatically despite the pain it sends down his struts. “ Help? What, are you going to take me for a walk around the deck and talk about my feelings? Or maybe offer to play caretaker again, like you always did, coddle me, act like you know what's best for me better than myself-”

“I’m not your caretaker,” Skyfire cuts in, voice suddenly sharper than before. “And I never was . I was your partner . I was your friend. And now I'm neither, because of you .”

That stops Starscream for a beat.

The hallway is quiet.

Starscream’s servos clench into fists at his sides.

“Then stop acting like you still care!”

“I never stopped caring,” Skyfire retorts, the words angry, “that’s the problem!”

Starscream glares at him like it'll fix anything.

“Well, you’re wasting your effort.”

“Believe me, I know.” Skyfire finally looks away, turning slightly as if to leave.

Starscream's temper flares and he lunges forward, shoving Skyfire hard in the chassis with both servos.

“You always get to walk away, don’t you?”

Skyfire stumbles a step but doesn’t retaliate. He looks at Starscream again, expression sour.

“You always make sure I have to.”

That stings more than it should.

Starscream's vents cycle louder than he'd like.

“You’re the one in my way, remember.” He reminds in a growl.

“I never wanted to be.” Skyfire snaps back. It's uncomfortably honest and sincere.

Starscream can’t stand it.

He turns sharply on his heel strut, stalking off down the corridor.

Maybe he’s roamed the halls enough for one cycle. Maybe he’ll spend the rest of today in his temporary quarters.

Maybe he'll find something in there to tear apart to make himself feel better.

Chapter Text

“You know, you'd probably get kicked out of the lab less if you threw things at Wheeljack less.” Bumblebee says.

Starscream frowns at him from the berth.

“Wheeljack shouldn't be so obnoxious, then.” He replies, turning up his olfactory. Bumblebee leans against the doorway.

“I'm surprised Prowl hasn't outright banned you yet.” He muses. “Optimus is probably vouching for you, though. And Wheeljack himself, honestly.”

“I threw a tire at his helm yesterday.”

“Yeah, but you've also saved like three of his pet projects.” Bumblebee shrugs. “And I'm also vouching for you.”

Starscream scowls.

“You're all idiots.” He says. “I don't know how Prowl keeps things functioning when you're all so sentimental and forgiving. I don't envy his position.”

Bumblebee just grins.

“Why are you here, anyway? Can a seeker not have some privacy?” Starscream crosses his arms.

“Oh, yeah. Ratchet says you need to come in for a check up.”

“Absolutely not.” Starscream denies.

“He's gotta see how your recovery’s going. See if you're healing up good or not.” Bumblebee snorts. “Come on, Screamer, it won't be that bad.”

“The next bot to call me that is getting their optics clawed out.” Starscream snaps. “I'm serious. Don't call me that.”

That's Skywarp's nickname for him. It isn't for filthy, soft-sparked autobots.

Bumblebee's smile wanes a little.

“Jeez, okay. Sorry.” He holds up his servos in surrender. “You still gotta see Ratch, though.”

“No.”

“It's mandatory.”

“No,” Starscream says again, “I'm not going. Tell him I feel fine. My injuries haven't worsened. I don't need a check up.”

“If you don't come willingly, someone's gonna have to drag you there.” Bumblebee says, sounding a bit too entertained at the idea.

“I'll bite anyone who tries.”

“Ironhide's armor is pretty thick.” Bumblebee reasons. “If he wasn't still technically healing himself, he'd probably be the sorry mech to have to lug you to the medbay. Maybe Skyfire, then, since he's big-”

Starscream tenses, but Bumblebee continues obliviously.

“-or Optimus? Probably Optimus. Skyfire's armor isn't as thick as his, and if you're gonna be biting…”

“I'll scratch his headlights. And crack his windshield.” Starscream threatens.

Bumblebee smirks.

“Like that'd stop him.”

Starscream glares harder.

“You’re all insufferable. Why is everything a joke to you?” He gripes. Bumblebee shrugs.

“Because if I didn’t laugh, I’d probably start throwing tires too.”

“I threw one tire.”

“Right. And the wrench? And the canister of sealant?”

“That one was justified.” Starscream sniffs.

Before Bumblebee can retort, heavy footfalls echo down the hall. The sound is distinctive—measured, precise. Starscream’s wings twitch instinctively as Optimus Prime steps into view, flanked by Ratchet.

“Oh no,” Starscream mutters, attempting to sit up straighter on the berth without wincing. He fails.

Ratchet’s optics narrow in warning.

“Don’t even think about it. You so much as flinch toward the door and I will sedate you.”

“I am fine .” Starscream snaps. “Functioning at optimal-”

“You nearly ruptured a wing actuator yesterday trying to vault over a railing you had no business being near in the first place,” Ratchet cuts in sharply, already scanning him with a portable medical tool. “And I heard about the tire.”

Prime, to his credit, doesn’t say anything about the tire. He simply folds his arms and gives Starscream one of those calm, steady looks that somehow manages to be more effective than a battalion of security drones.

“I see you’re feeling well enough to argue,” he says mildly.

“Funny how that’s never counted as a sign of mental stability.” Starscream mutters, glaring at Bumblebee like this is his fault. 

“Oh, it counts,” Ratchet says dryly, “I’ve got an entire diagnostic category for difficult patients. Guess whose designation comes up under ‘frequent offenders.’”

Starscream huffs, bristling with indignation.

“It’s hardly my fault the standard for ‘medical competence’ is so low in this base. I’ve seen Skywarp glue a wing back on better than your last patch job!”

“Well, Skywarp isn’t here, is he?” Ratchet asks, already pulling a tool from his subspace that looks suspiciously sharp. “Get off your aft or I'll make you.”

Starscream stares.

“...You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Bumblebee leans in toward Prime, stage-whispering, “I give it two kliks before the shouting starts.”

“Half a klik.” Prime replies immediately, just as quietly.

Starscream scowls at both of them.

“I heard that!”

Ratchet glowers.

“Optimus.”

“On it.”

“What do you mean ‘on it'- don't you dare-! ” Starscream cuts himself off with a loud shriek when Prime crosses the room and picks him up by the waist like he weighs nothing.

He squirms and smacks at Prime's arms with as much dignity as one can muster while being carried like a datapad.

“Put me down this instant!” Starscream hisses, cooling fans kicking on in embarrassment. “You lumbering, under-polished glorified cargo-hauler-”

“You’re not helping your case,” Prime replies, tone infuriatingly calm, like he does this sort of thing every day. He might. Bumblebee follows behind, snickering openly.

“This is the best thing that’s happened all cyberweek.” He says.

“I hate all of you,” Starscream seethes, “I’ll remember this! When I get back to the decepticons, you’re all going to regret-”

“Stop flailing,” Ratchet barks as they enter, “you're going to exacerbate your injuries.”

“Let me go!” Starscream struggles harder, managing to thump Prime in the chest with an elbow, though it does absolutely nothing. “This is humiliating!”

“You could have walked.” Prime points out. “Several opportunities to do so were offered.”

“You could have respected my autonomy and fragged off!”

“No.” Prime says, almost but not quite apologetically. Starscream lashes out with his talons and manages to leave shallow scratches on Prime's windshield.

Ratchet is already setting out tools and muttering about ‘seekers and their dramatic tantrums,’ while Bumblebee finds a seat in the corner, kicking his pedes and thoroughly enjoying the show, like a giddy sparkling.

Prime deposits Starscream gently but very deliberately on the main medical slab. He doesn’t release him immediately, just long enough to ensure Starscream doesn’t bolt the instant his frame touches metal.

Starscream glares at him as though he can melt his chassis with nothing but spite and fury.

“If I have to be here, fine, but I’m not cooperating. You can run your scans and poke me with your primitive tools, but I refuse to answer any questions or assist in any way.”

“That’s fine.” Ratchet says, rolling his optics. “I’ve already downloaded your last week of activity from the base sensors. Including your charming stunt yesterday where you slipped on coolant and swore at the floor.”

Starscream hisses in outrage, flaring his wings.

“That was a tactical stumble!”

“Put your wings down, you’ll hurt them. It was a faceplant, and you’re lucky you didn’t dent your helm.” Ratchet pulls on a pair of gloves and switches on a scanner with an ominous hum. “Hold still or I will tie you down.”

Starscream bares his denta.

Prime finally releases him and steps back, giving Ratchet space.

“Let me know if you need assistance,” he says dryly.

“Oh, I will.”

Starscream flops backwards with a loud, dramatic groan, defeated.

“You’re all monsters.”

“It's pronounced ‘medic.’” Ratchet says, already scanning his wings. “Now hush, or I’ll bring in Prowl to babysit next time.”

Starscream glares and shuts his intake.

Useless, pushy, rude-

-

“Why do you keep pestering Blaster about comms?” Bumblebee asks.

“Why are you still following me around?” Starscream grumbles, sitting heavily on a couch in the common area. It's vacant at the moment.

“‘Cause. Anyway, why do you keep pestering-”

Starscream groans and leans against the back of the couch. Bumblebee plops down next to him.

“I want to contact my trine. But I can’t. Because I’m technically your prisoner.”

“What even is a trine? Like, I know it's a seeker thing, but…”

Starscream tilts his helm, optics dimming slightly as he stares at the ceiling. 

Then he says, voice lower than before, “it’s more than just a seeker thing.”

Bumblebee doesn’t interrupt. He just waits, surprisingly patient for someone who was pestering him not a klik ago.

Starscream vents out slowly.

“A trine is… a formation. A bond. Seekers, flying together—living, fighting, thinking together. It’s not assigned like squads, or units. It’s chosen. Or… earned. Usually during training. Sometimes it just happens.” He gestures vaguely with a servo, like that might explain the complexity of it. Bumblebee hums.

“So, it’s like best friends with wings?”

Starscream snorts.

“Not quite. It’s… closer. Worse. Better. They’re the ones who have your six mid-dogfight. They know how you think, how you move. You don’t have to ask, you just know. You can go whole vorns without talking and still understand each other.”

“That sounds kinda nice,” Bumblebee says, voice quiet.

“It is,” Starscream replies, “and awful.”

A beat of silence.

“Skywarp and Thundercracker,” Bumblebee says, as if remembering something. “They’re your trinemates, right?”

Starscream nods once, mute.

Bumblebee leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Do you think they’d come here, if they knew where you were?”

Starscream hesitates, jaw tightening.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Skywarp would. He’s reckless like that. Would teleport straight into the middle of the base, knock over half the energon supply in the process.” He almost smiles, not quite, just a twitch at the corner of his derma. “Thundercracker… might not. He was always the one with sense. More cautious. But I don’t know.” He frowns deeply and looks away. “...I don't know.”

Bumblebee watches him for a beat.

“...So let’s contact them.”

Starscream turns his helm slowly, giving Bumblebee a look like his processor has gone out.

“I just said I’m technically a prisoner.”

“Yeah, but you’re not locked in a cell. You’re on our couch. Talking to me. Looking very dramatic.”

Starscream narrows his optics.

“I’m just saying,” Bumblebee continues, shrugging. “Maybe if you asked nicely, Optimus would let you transmit something. Not like a coordinates drop or anything. Just a ping! A status check. To let ‘em know you’re okay.”

Starscream is quiet, considering.

Then, finally: “...Prowl wouldn't let me near the comm equipment.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have clearance,” Bumblebee says, standing up. “Come on, Flight Risk. Let’s go cause a minor amount of trouble.”

“At least ask your first lieutenant for permission.” Starscream says. “I don't want to be put in stasis cuffs just because you had a bright, spontaneous idea.”

Bumblebee pouts at him.

“ Fine, whatever. Come on, let's go ask!” He grabs Starscream's servo and tugs.

“You're terrible.” Starscream sighs loudly and drags himself onto his pedes, scowling the whole time. “If I get locked up, I'm pouring sand into your seams.”

“I'll take that risk,” Bumblebee says, and grins wide.

Chapter Text

“ That's your first lieutenant?” Starscream asks under his breath.

Bumblebee glances at him, amused.

“You didn't know?”

“No, I did.” Starscream corrects. “I'm just making sure I wasn't somehow mistaken. Are you sure you're not mistaken?”

“I'm sure.” Bumblebee muses.

Jazz is hanging upside down from the scaffolding across the room, casually spinning a half-open energon canister in one servo and waving at them with the other. He’s humming. Off-key.

Starscream stares, utterly bewildered.

“ That ,” He gestures vaguely, clarifying once more, “that is the first lieutenant?”

“Yup.” Bumblebee answers, popping the ‘p.’

Jazz finally flips down, landing lightly on his pedes with a dancer's grace and a lopsided grin.

“Y’all talkin’ about me? That’s cute.”

Starscream’s optics narrow.

“You’re supposed to be second-in-command.”

“I am second-in-command.” Jazz tilts his helm. “Is that a problem?”

“It seems like a joke.” Starscream retorts, arms folding. “I thought you were someone’s overenthusiastic backup dancer.”

Jazz clutches his chest like he’s been struck.

“Oof. Harsh.”

“He warms up to people slow,” Bumblebee offers helpfully, nudging Starscream’s side.

“I do not warm up to people at all.” Starscream snaps.

“You’re already being mean,” Bumblebee says cheerfully. “That’s, like, phase two of his friendship cycle.”

Jazz snickers.

“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

Starscream bristles.

“I am not here to ‘fit in.’” He says, baffled. “I'm a prisoner.”

“Sure.” Jazz says noncommittally. He peers down at Bumblebee. “You need somethin’, little man?”

“Yeah.” Bumblebee points at Starscream. “Can we use comms?”

Jazz's visor glints.

“I don't know about that one.” He says, which isn't an outright no.

Starscream crosses his arms and gives Bumblebee a sour look.

“I told you so.”

“Shh. Let me work.” Bumblebee huffs. “Jazz, hear me out?”

“Sure thing.” Jazz leans against a wall and crosses his legs at the ankle joints. “Hit me with it, B.”

“Starscream's trine is super important to him and they're probably really worried. They don't know that he's alive or where he is.” Bumblebee explains. “The whole thing would be monitored. It wouldn't be, like, giving intel or coordinates. Just a little ping to tell them, ‘hey, I'm alive and safe.’ Y'know? Their trinemate is missing.”

A sentimental ploy like that wouldn't sway Prowl even a little bit.

Jazz, however, rubs his chin consideringly.

His weight shifts lazily between pedes, like he’s more focused on the rhythm of his own processor than the gravity of the request.

Starscream, arms still crossed, glares between the two of them like he can't decide who he’s more irritated with.

“Well?” He snaps.

Jazz lifts a servo, slow and placating.

“Easy, wings. I’m mullin’ it over.”

Starscream scowls at the nickname.

“It’s not complicated. Either you allow a simple signal through monitored channels, or you continue to arbitrarily-”

“You think anythin’ around here’s simple?” Jazz cuts in mildly, still smiling, but there’s a flicker of something more serious under the surface. “You'd be surprised how fast a ping can become a beacon if the wrong code’s slipped into it.”

Starscream is, internally, a little impressed at the functioning processor beneath that absurd behavior.

Outwardly, he scoffs.

“If you think I have the energy to orchestrate an escape from this glorified junkpile, you’re delusional.”

“Escape might not be your goal.” Jazz reasons, tilting his helm lazily. “You’re clever. I can respect that. Kinda gotta assume the worst, though. Comes with the badge.”

Bumblebee interjects quickly before Starscream’s inevitable sharp retort can land.

“C’mon, Jazz. I’m vouching for him. You trust me, right?”

Jazz clicks his glossa thoughtfully against his denta.

“Always. But trust ain't a free pass, B.”

Starscream makes a frustrated sound.

“This is absurd. What do you think I’m going to do? Summon a fleet with three words and a wing waggle?”

Jazz chuckles.

“Depends on the words.”

“Jazz,” Bumblebee tries again, more serious this time. “They’re his trine. That’s not just some squad to him. If they think he’s dead…”

Jazz’s expression shifts, subtle but clear to anyone paying attention. The easy grin doesn’t fade entirely, but it thins. Tightens.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter. “I know.”

He exhales, flicking his wrist like he’s casting the tension off it.

“Alright. I’ll talk to Prowl. No promises, but,” he glances sideways at Starscream, “we’ll see if we can’t work somethin’ out. Might take a bit.”

Starscream blinks.

“Wait. You're agreeing?”

“Don’t get excited.” Jazz says breezily. “It’s still a no until Prowl says otherwise. But I’ll give it a shot. I’m pretty good at convincin’ him to do risky things. Worst case scenario, I pull rank on him and he sulks for several cyberweeks.”

Bumblebee beams. Starscream… doesn’t. But he does loosen his arms, slightly.

“I suppose I can endure your ridiculous antics a little longer, if I must.” He mutters.

“Aww,” Jazz grins, winking behind the visor. “That’s phase three.”

Starscream's expression darkens and he barely resists the urge to lunge.

-

Starscream wakes up from recharge in the middle of the night to the feeling of being stared at.

His optics online and he shrieks, not at all feeling bad about the way his fist flies out and connects with Prowl's olfactory with a quiet crunch.

Prowl doesn’t flinch.

Which is arguably more terrifying than if he had.

He just straightens slightly, having barely reeled back from the hit, expression impassive despite the faint yet unmistakable crack along his nasal ridge.

Starscream sits up abruptly on the berth, wings flared wide in instinctive alarm. Pain catches up with him swiftly and he cringes, dropping them down again.

“What in the Pit are you doing?” He hisses, voice still staticky and rough from recharge.

“Observing.” Prowl replies flatly, fingers coming up to touch the dent. He winces just slightly at the contact. “Reflexes appear intact.”

“I should fragging hope so!” Starscream snarls. “Are you in the habit of looming over recharge berths like a specter? That’s creepy! That’s disturbed behavior!”

“You’re very opinionated for someone without clearance,” Prowl replies, tone mild. “Stop shouting. You'll wake the others.”

Starscream scoffs, dragging a servo down his faceplate.

“I cannot believe this,” he mutters. “I’ve been captured by children.”

There’s a shuffle from the doorway, followed by Bumblebee’s muffled voice, “told you not to get too close to his face.”

Prowl turns his helm slightly.

“Noted.” Then back to Starscream: “We’ll be sending your signal within the next cyberweek. I came to inform you personally.”

Starscream’s optics sharpen, suddenly much more awake.

“…Seriously?”

Prowl tilts his helm and grimaces.

“Jazz believes it’s worth the risk. And your case is… unique.”

“I’m Starscream,” he says, as if that explains everything, “of course I’m unique.”

Prowl doesn’t bother addressing that even a little bit.

“The ping will be heavily filtered and location-scrambled. The message must be brief.”

Starscream blinks at him, processor struggling to switch gears from ‘why is this glitch haunting my recharge’ to ‘wait, I might actually get to contact my trine.’

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

Bumblebee pokes his helm in, optics bright.

“You okay?”

Starscream stiffens, affronted.

“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be? I simply didn’t expect…” He trails off, then continues, more sharply. “When?”

“Soon. I’ll have Jazz escort you when it’s time.” Prowl states, then turns and walks out without another word, as though he didn’t just completely shatter personal space laws moments ago.

Starscream stares after him, then turns slowly to look at Bumblebee.

“What is wrong with him?”

Bumblebee just shrugs.

“Everything. But he means well.”

Starscream throws himself back down onto the berth with a loud clang, and ignores the jolt of pain sent through his struts.

“I’m in the Pit.”

“You’re in Autobot HQ,” Bumblebee corrects, grinning. “It’s a common mistake. Night, Starscream.”

Starscream doesn't reply.

The door shuts.

-

“Skyfire says you're restless.” Prime tells him.

Starscream narrows his optics.

“ Skyfire can shove it. He doesn't know me.”

“I agree with him.” He adds.

Starscream turns away.

“ You know me even less.”

“True, but I believe I've expressed my desire to.” Prime leans down over Starscream’s shoulder, peering at him with curious blue optics. “And anyway, you are restless. You keep twitching and fidgeting.”

“Could it perhaps be that I'm uncomfortable due to one of the million things plaguing me at the moment?” Starscream drawls. “My glorious leader left me for dead. I'm injured. I'm stuck in enemy territory. Your base is ugly and cramped. Your troops are annoying-”

“I get the point.” Prime cuts him off. He sounds amused. Starscream scowls. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Starscream squints at him.

“What.”

“A walk.”

“... What?”

Prime snorts, straightening up. Somehow, it isn't intimidating like when Megatron looms over him, broad shoulders blocking out the light. He doesn't look threatening, even though Starscream knows he can be. He just looks… Big.

“You and I could go on a walk. There's a cliff nearby that has an excellent view of the sky.” He clarifies.

“I'm a prisoner.” Starscream reminds dryly.

Prime makes a ‘so-so’ gesture with one servo.

“Barely.”

“What do you mean ‘barely’?” Starscream demands, stomping his ped.

“You get access to Wheeljack's lab, free roam of the base, you recharge in comfortable quarters instead of the brig…” Prime reasons.

“I'm still stuck here against my will!” He snaps.

“You're damaged. We're waiting for you to heal.” Prime corrects. “And then you can leave.”

“As if you'll let me just waltz out of here.” Starscream scoffs, injured wings twitching. Prime tilts his helm slightly, studying him in that infuriatingly calm way that makes Starscream feel like a microorganism under a microscope.

“If you wish to go, I will not stop you,” Prime says finally, voice steady, matter-of-fact.

Starscream barks a sharp laugh, the sound bitter.

“Oh, please. Do you expect me to believe that? You’d just open the doors, wave goodbye, and hope I don’t come back with Megatron at my side?”

Prime shrugs—actually shrugs, like this is nothing more than an idle discussion about the weather.

“I expect you to make your own choices. I trust you to choose well.”

“Trust me?” Starscream repeats, incredulous, as if the word is foreign in his vocalizer. His optic twitches. “You’re either incredibly naive or-”

“ Or I see something in you worth trusting.” Prime cuts in smoothly, optic ridge arching ever so slightly.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters, turning sharply away as though the corridor wall is suddenly fascinating.

“Then humor me.” Prime says, his tone light again. “A walk. Fresh air. Perhaps a moment away from the ‘ugly and cramped’ base.”

Starscream hesitates, talons tapping lightly against his own forearm in an unconscious rhythm.

“…And if I say no?”

“Then I will return to my office, and you will remain here, restless.” Prime replies simply.

Starscream hates that it feels like a trap. He hates even more that it doesn’t feel like one.

“Fine,” he says at last, “but if you push me off the cliff, I will haunt you.”

Prime’s optics brighten slightly, as if entertained.

“Noted.”

Without waiting, he turns and starts toward the exit, trusting Starscream will follow. And—much to his own annoyance—Starscream does.

The base doors hiss open, letting in the bite of cool, early-evening air. Starscream slows just outside the threshold, optics flicking warily between the rocky canyon walls and the shadowed horizon. The scent of mineral dust and distant rain cling to the win.

Prime walks ahead with unhurried steps, the crunch of gravel under his pedes steady and even. He doesn't speak, doesn't try to fill the silence with some noble speech, which is almost more unnerving than if he had. Starscream trails behind by a few paces, pedes occasionally knocking free loose stones, wings flexing as though tasting the openness after cycles indoors.

“This had better not be some kind of slow, scenic execution,” Starscream finally mutters.

“If it were, I doubt I would have chosen such a pleasant route.”

Starscream huffs, refusing to admit the cliffs ahead look… promising. They're painted in gold and deep crimson by the lowering sun, shadows stretching long over the uneven terrain.

As they climb a narrow path upward, the wind grew stronger, tugging at Starscream’s wings and making them ache faintly at the joints. Still, it’s cleaner than the recycled air of the autobot base, and for a moment, he lets himself breathe it in.

“You keep looking over your shoulder.” Prime observes without turning his helm.

“Habit.” Starscream says curtly.

“From what?”

Starscream pauses mid-step.

“…From surviving,” he answers, then pushes ahead before Prime can respond.

They reach the cliff’s edge just as the sun kisses the horizon. The sky explodes in shades of fire—amber, magenta, violet; colors so rich, they seemed almost unreal. Below, the canyon stretches vast and silent, its depths swallowing the last of the light.

Prime stops a respectful distance from the drop, his gaze fixed upward.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“You’re sentimental. I thought autobots were supposed to be boring.” Starscream sneers.

Prime’s optics glint faintly in the fading light.

“I find the sky anything but boring.”

He agrees, quietly, internally, just to himself.

For a moment, Starscream stands still, letting the wind rush past him, his wings trembling against the pull. He can almost imagine he isn't grounded, that he can launch himself into that endless burn of color and not look back.

Almost.

Chapter Text

The walk is… Fine.

The view is admittedly quite pretty from here, and they're high up enough that the wind comfortingly brushes over Starscream's frame like it's his conjunx. He can ignore the ache in his damaged wingstruts, closing his optics briefly to relish the sun on his casing and the air against his plating.

Starscream feels the itchy sensation of being watched and his optic ridge twitches in annoyance.

He opens his optics, glancing over to find Prime staring at him.

He squints.

“What?”

“You look like you were made to be viewed in this lighting.” Prime says.

Starscream's servos spasm slightly and he clenches them into fists to deal with it.

“That doesn't make any sense. What are you babbling about?” He demands.

Prime blinks, then looks out at the horizon again, staring firmly over the edge of the cliff instead of at Starscream.

“Nothing. Do you like it up here?”

“...It's acceptable.” Starscream says slowly, sideeyeing him.

“Good.” Prime replies evenly. “I hope it brings you some comfort, since you were getting restless being stuck at base.”

“I wouldn't be so restless if your base wasn't hideous and cramped.” Starscream grumbles, even though he would probably still, in fact, be restless regardless of the state of the base.

Prime simply hums in that maddeningly patient tone of his, arms folding behind his back.

Starscream scowls, turning to study the way the clouds drift across the sky, painted in pinks and oranges. He sees Prime's blue optics find their way back to him out of the corner of his vision.

“You don’t have to hover, you know. I’m not going to throw myself off the cliff. Tempting as the thought may be, it would be a spectacular waste of both our time.” He mutters.

“I wasn’t concerned about that.” Prime tells him.

Starscream growls under his breath and turns sharply to glare at him directly.

“Oh, then, do tell, what the Pit are you staring at me for?” He snaps, irritated.

Prime holds his gaze for a moment.

“I don’t know. To remind myself, perhaps.”

Starscream bristles, optics narrowing suspiciously.

“Of what?” He presses.

Prime tilts his helm slightly, like he's considering whether or not to answer truthfully. There’s a beat of silence that grates on Starscream’s already frayed nerves.

“That even in war, there is beauty.” He finally says.

Starscream’s vents stutter. He turns back to the horizon so quickly his wingstruts ache again.

“You’re insufferable .” he seethes, crossing his arms tightly over his cockpit.

Prime doesn’t deny it. He just stands beside him in silence, letting the wind blow.

Starscream keeps his optics fixed on the horizon, jaw tight, vents hitching every so often. He has to consciously keep his wings from twitching.

The silence stretches.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says after a long moment, his voice sharp and defensive. “Sentimental platitudes , spoken like some fool poet. ‘Beauty in war’—what nonsense . Utter nonsense. You’re a moron, Prime.”

“Not nonsense.” Prime replies calmly. “Truth.”

Starscream scoffs loudly.

“And I suppose I am your shining example of this… ‘truth’?” He drawls sarcastically, spitting the word out like a curse.

Prime doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingers on Starscream again, the way he did before; like he’s seeing him, really seeing him, not as an enemy or a burden or a weapon to be wielded, but something else entirely. It feels weighty. It feels heavy.

He shifts uncomfortably on his pedes.

“Yes,” Prime says at last, simple, too certain. He offers no elaboration.

Starscream’s spark flutters. He whirls, wings flaring despite the pain, denta bared.

“You- you can’t just say things like that, you hulking scrapheap!”

“Why not?” Prime asks. Too soft. Too sincere.

“Because- because -” Starscream’s words escape him, searching for a proper explanation as to why the Prime's remark brings him so much discomfort. He comes up empty.

Prime takes a step closer, slowly, deliberately, giving Starscream every chance to retreat. He does not.

“I did not mean to unsettle you,” he says apologetically, sounding far too genuine, “only to speak what is true.”

Starscream’s wings droop again and he swallows, taking a half-step backwards. Prime doesn't follow him, but he doesn't stop looking either, tilting his helm slightly.

“Just… Don't.” He says, turning towards the sky again.

“Okay.” Prime replies quietly, turning as well.

They stand in silence for a while, the wind whistling around them, the sky beautiful above them.

Eventually, Starscream’s joints begin to protest from standing still for so long, and he shifts his weight.

“This is… tolerable,” he starts, voice clipped, “but if I remain here much longer, I’ll rust from disuse. And orange is not my color.”

Prime glances towards him.

“Then we should return.”

Starscream narrows his optics.

“I’m capable of walking back on my own.”

“I never doubted that.” Prime replies, unbothered, and then starts down the rocky path first.

Starscream watches him for a moment, field prickling with suspicion. No order, no demand, not even an annoyingly noble offer of a steadying servo. Just… space. He huffs sharply and follows, his thrusters clicking against the rocks.

The walk back down is quiet, the only sounds being their footsteps against stone and the wind against their frames. The silence isn't exactly comfortable, but it isn't quiet, either. It just… is.

Starscream finds himself watching Prime’s broad back as they walk, the sunlight catching on the red of his armor, shadows outlining transformation seams and the occasional scuff or scratch in his paint.

Perhaps he stares a bit too hard, because Prime turns his helm at one point to glance at him over his stupidly big shoulders and Starscream is forced to avert his optics.

He doesn't say anything about it, though. He just looks forward again and keeps walking.

By the time the dingy, dirt covered base comes back into view, Starscream can almost pretend the trek down had been… peaceful.

Almost.

He sniffs disdainfully as they enter the base.

“Well. That was… marginally better than staring at the bland walls of your facility. I suppose. Kind of.”

Prime glances at him sidelong, helm dipping in acknowledgment.

“I’m glad.” He says warmly instead of responding properly to his derision.

Primus, Starscream can't stand him. Stupid, self-righteous, unbearable Optimus fragging Prime with his ugly face and scuffed paintjob.

He growls and stalks off to Wheeljack's lab. Maybe he can blow something up. And blame it on Wheeljack to avoid getting banned again.

-

“ Must you be present for this? A little privacy would be appreciated.” Starscream grumbles.

Jazz leans against the console, arms crossed.

“Sorry, wings. It's a safety thing. You know I can't let you send an unmonitored message to other ‘cons.” He muses. “But I promise not to make fun of you too bad for whatever mushy stuff you say.”

Starscream scowls.

“I won't say anything mushy. Anyway, how long can the message be?”

“An absolute maximum of 1.7 kliks.” Jazz says, visor glinting. “Should be just enough time to let your trine know you're not slagged.”

Starscream's scowl deepens, rubbing his faceplate for a moment, muttering darkly under his breath.

“ Fine. Okay. I'm ready.”

He straightens, jaw ticking as the recorder hums online. He hesitates for an astrosecond, then speaks, clenching and unclenching his servos.

“This is Commander Starscream. I am… functional. Circumstances have led me into temporary custody, but I am not in immediate danger.” He pauses, glancing disdainfully at Jazz before continuing, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Remain in formation. Do not attempt a retrieval. That is an order. Keep your helms down. Do not do anything stupid. Monitor the skies, and- and… keep each other steady.”

He grimaces, a small lump in his intake pipe, an uncomfortable weight on his chassis.

“I will return. Until then, fly true. Be smart, for once.”

He cuts the comm abruptly, venting out sharply, staring blankly at the console for a moment.

Jazz tilts his helm, smirking.

“Not mushy, huh?”

“I don't need your commentary.” Starscream snaps, whirling on him and glowering.

Jazz holds up his servos, smirk fading.

“Woah, woah. Okay. Cool it, man, I was just saying-”

“You were just saying what? That I sounded- sentimental? Weak?” His voice raises, and he bares his denta like a cornered mechanimal. “Do you think I enjoy degrading myself by recording messages like some pathetic sparkling scribbling in a diary? Do you think I want them to hear me like that? With my wings clipped and my freedom stripped from me like I’m nothing?”

His talons clench around nothing and he has to specifically remind himself not to flare his wings out, vents cycling louder than he'd like.

“They depend on me,” he snarls, shoulders tense. “If they lose focus for even a klik, they could die, and I'm not even there to be trine leader. All I can do is tell them to keep their helms down while I sit here, stuck and humiliated, performing like some- some pet for your amusement!”

“Screamer-”

“Do not call me that! That name isn't for you!” Starscream spits, wings flaring despite himself. “You know nothing about what it means to lead a trine. To be bound together so tightly that when one falters, the rest fall from the sky! So do not-” His entire frame twitches and he swallows hard. “Do not stand there smirking at me as though I am some ridiculous spectacle for your entertainment!”

The silence after is charged and brittle, filled only with the sound of his own loud vents and subtle hum of machinery.

Jazz doesn’t move from where he leans against the console, but the playful air he usually exudes has all but disappeared.

“…Got it,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now. “No jokes.”

Starscream’s vents stutter, some of the wind taken out of his sails. He jerks his helm away, still stiff and rigid, gritting his denta so hard that his jaw aches.

“Good.” He mutters sourly.

“...I ain’t tryin’ to make light of what you just did, wings. That message? That wasn’t weak. That was you lookin’ out for your trine, even from where you’re stuck. Nothin’ about that’s pathetic.” Jazz says carefully, deliberately.

Starscream doesn’t answer immediately, glaring at a wall instead.

“You got every right to be pissed, man, every right. I’d be tearing the place down if someone kept me from my crew.” Jazz continues. “But believe me when I tell ya, I wasn’t laughing at you. I saw a mech fightin’ real hard not to sound like he cares, and, I don’t know, that’s somethin’ I can respect. Shows you’ve still got fight, even in this situation.”

“…You still shouldn’t have been listening.” Starscream mumbles, turning his helm to look at Jazz again.

“That wasn't for my audials, no.” Jazz agrees. “I'm sorry. But it's just a safety thing. You're smart enough to understand.”

He is.

He still hates it.

“I still hate it,” Starscream tells him. Jazz offers a wry smile.

“Well, next time, I promise to at least keep my big intake shut, yeah?”

“...See that you do.” Starscream mutters.