Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ding.

Now approaching: Vos Central Station. Prepare to disembark. Please ensure you have all personal belongings with you before leaving the train. For your safety, remain seated or hold onto a handrail until the train comes to a complete stop. CT Transit thanks you for your cooperation.

The robotic voice over the speakers continued to drone on and on, explaining what to do and how to properly unload luggage. But that wasn’t what had woken Skywarp— it was the sudden surge of noise, the sharp hiss of brakes, the chorus of shifting bodies and rustling bags as passengers stirred like a hive freshly kicked. The air inside the car had shifted too, a restless, collective anticipation. They were almost there.

Skywarp blinked blearily, forcefully peeling his eyelids apart. Five more minutes, pleaseee , he thought bleakly to no one in particular, not budging from his cramped seat.

His backpack, grimy and overstuffed, slumped quietly at his feet like a tired dog. It held everything he owned— what little he’d been able to carry when they’d shoved him out the gates with a half-healed black eye, scabbed knuckles, and a copy of his discharge papers he hadn’t looked at once since.

His temple throbbed faintly from where it had rested awkwardly against the window. Blurred shapes slid past outside: smeared steel girders, graffiti-tagged concrete, glimpses of the city’s edge rising like a wall. Vos’ skyline clawed upward into the clouds, same as it ever did. Distant, too tall, too proud. He hated how it still made his stomach twist.

He shut his eyes again. Just a second longer.

He wasn’t ready.

A woman down the aisle shoved her case into the aisle with a curse. Somewhere to his right, a kid was excitedly asking their parent if they’d be able to see the station bots again. The speakers crackled once more, repeating the announcement in a second language, slightly more fast-paced in its vowels, clipped and cold. Vosian. He understood it, of course. They all did. That wasn’t the problem.

Skywarp dragged in a shallow breath and opened his eyes again, staring ahead. The lights inside the car flickered faintly. There was a brief lurch as the train began to slow, the rails singing under them, and the screech of brakes sent a shudder through his molars.

He reached down and curled his fingers around the backpack’s frayed strap. The cloth felt damp from where his boots had tracked in mud earlier. He didn’t bother slinging it over his shoulder. Just held it in his lap, like he still hadn’t decided whether he was actually going to get off the train.

He could stay seated. Let everyone else file past. Pretend to sleep again. Wait for the next stop, the next city, the next anything.

But no matter where the train went, he knew what would be waiting.

The train gave a final shudder as it began to pull into the station proper. From here, he could just make out the signage through the foggy glass; bright-blue letters flashing above the platform, Vos Central Station, flanked by the same security drones he remembered from years ago. Buzzing in place like gnats, scanning every passenger with silent judgment.

Skywarp exhaled slowly, through his nose. The dull pain behind his eyes had settled into a familiar hum— low, constant, like a pressure system in his skull that never really left. His stomach felt hollow.

With a grunt, he pushed himself upright and slung the bag over his shoulder in one practiced motion. His feet, which had previously been asleep, protested at the sudden movement. His knees cracked. His bruises pulled. The stitches in his left arm gave the faintest warning twinge, but he ignored it.

No one noticed him as he stepped into the aisle. Not even the conductor-bot standing stiffly by the door, reciting the same looped instruction to “please disembark in an orderly fashion.” That was fine. He didn’t want to be noticed.

He was just another ex-soldier heading home.

Just another failure trying not to limp out the doors as they hissed open…

Stale, frigid air hit him like a slap to the face the second he stepped off the train. Placed as far as the edge of the mountainous city as possible, Vos Central smelled the same as he remembered: exhaust, filth, and too many people crammed too close together, all pulsing to the rhythm of city life. A thousand footsteps echoed against tile, drowning out the overhead voice cycling through instructions in multiple dialects. Buses hissed outside. Someone was already yelling into a comm near the gates.

Skywarp hunched his shoulders and stepped aside before the person behind him could ram their suitcase into his ankle.

He hadn’t returned here since shipping out.

He stared for a second, caught in the sudden flood of memory. The same pale greenish light, the same cracked tiles underfoot. There was a dried coffee stain against one of the pillars that looked like it had been there since before he left. Maybe it had. Maybe the station had just waited for him to come back like this— worn down, tired, nothing to show for it but a sealed folder in his bag and bruises that hadn’t faded yet. That dumpster looked new— nope, that was an old classmate. Never mind.

He adjusted the strap over his shoulder and started walking.

The platform gave way to a stairwell, and then he was herded with the rest of the disembarking passengers into the main station concourse— still huge, still cold despite the bodies crowding it, still echoing under the sweeping arch of the glass-panelled roof. The sunlight that filtered through the grime-streaked panes turned everything a muted yellow that Skywarp liked to call “jaundice gold”. Familiar signs pulsed above each gate. Vendors hawked overpriced food and hollow souvenirs no local would ever buy.

Skywarp ignored all of it. He kept his head down and walked past the waiting cabs and transports lined up outside the exit, engines idling, drivers lazily calling out rates. A few of them glanced at him— some older guy with tired eyes and army boots, slumped shoulders and a black eye that still hadn’t faded fully. Not worth the fare.

Skywarp shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking. He didn’t bother approaching any of the cars, purposefully taking the stairs two at a time just to put distance between him and the station. He hadn’t decided what was worse—being home again, or having nothing waiting for him here.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford a cab. The military had given him a little stipend when they tossed him. Not enough to live on. Enough to survive. For now.

But something about letting himself be driven home like that —like he was a returning vet with purpose in his step and pride in his eyes— made his stomach twist.

So he walked. And walked. And walked.

Block after block, intersection after intersection. The surrounding buildings shifted from scattered and derelict, as is the case near stations, to a more lived-in look. Past shuttered shops and vendors, past construction sites where sparks flew like fireworks onto the sidewalk. A kid on a hoverboard nearly clipped him at an intersection. He didn’t flinch. Just kept going, one boot in front of the other, his breath coming a little too heavy under the weight of his pack and everything he wasn’t letting himself think about yet.

It wasn’t a short walk. Vos wasn’t big, but the city’s layout —, and the district they’d grown up in —the one he and Thundercracker and Starscream had managed to cling to— wasn’t exactly close. It was carved into the city’s bones, tucked between the neglected blocks where no patrol bots really ventured and the old industrial ruins people had stopped caring about years ago. That, and the way to the heart of the city being virtually upwards, made for it being a long walk.

But Skywarp knew the way by heart. And he didn’t mind; he needed the time to clear his thoughts anyway.

His feet remembered the route even when his mind drifted. Left by the old bakery where the awning was still half-collapsed. Right past the alley with the broken neon sign that used to buzz like a dying fly. Through the narrow walkway that used to flood every winter.

The streets got quieter the further he went. More trash, fewer lights.

The apartment came into view at the end of a sloped street, wedged between two buildings that probably hadn’t passed inspection since the last energy crisis. Rust streaked the walls. One of the windows on the upper floors was patched with cardboard. A creaky drainpipe rattled in the wind. Unconsciously, he wondered if the weak heater was spitting out enough of its feeble puffs of warm air to keep Starscream and TC warm in weather like this.

Skywarp exhaled hard through his nose and slowed his steps. His shoulder ached from the bag. His stitches were starting to itch. The scab on his knuckles had cracked open slightly from how tightly he’d been gripping the strap.

He rolled his shoulders and reached for the buzzer.

A flickering red light greeted him. The panel was still broken, like always. He sighed and thumped the door twice with the side of his fist—sharp, rhythmic, like the old knock they all used when they were younger. Definitely way more than a little outdated, but it still worked.

He waited exactly three minutes, staring tiredly at his cracked watch screen every few seconds.

No answer.

…Peachy.

He was just about to try again when the lock buzzed faintly and clicked.

Skywarp pushed open the door and stepped into the stairwell, where the air smelled like dust, mold, and something vaguely electrical. His boots echoed faintly up the stairs as he climbed, and he didn’t bother being quiet. If they didn’t already know he was coming, they would now.

He paused at the landing. Then he drew in a breath, reached for the handle of their apartment door, and stepped inside. He wasn’t sure if the door had been left unlocked for him or if it was just never locked. He wasn’t sure which was weirder.

The door creaked open with the same awful groan it always had, like it resented being used. The inside hadn’t changed. Same peeling wall panels. Same half-flickering overhead light that bathed the room in a yellow glow. The dented old couch still sat askew in the middle of the main room, with a threadbare blanket thrown over one arm. 

Starscream’s forgotten coffee mug—chipped, handle cracked—perched precariously on the edge of the counter. The air smelled like damp laundry and the fried oil from whatever Thundercracker had cooked last night.

Skywarp stood in the doorway, frozen.

He’d imagined this moment a hundred times, but none of those imaginings prepared him for the strange, aching tightness in his chest now. The memories hit too hard, too fast. The fights. The laughter. The nights of quiet, shoulder-to-shoulder silence because they were too tired or too prideful to talk. The mess they somehow made into a life.

And now he was back.

He scowled reflexively and stepped in, letting the door hiss shut behind him with a dull click.

Footsteps, quick, uneven, immediately sounded throughout the apartment.

The door to one of the bedrooms slammed open, and TC all but stumbled out into the hall. His eyes were wide, still adjusting to the light, one hand braced against the wall like he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“…Skywarp?”

The voice was too soft. Way too soft considering– considering him and his situation .

It cut through the haze in Skywarp’s head. Made something in his jaw twitch. He dropped his gaze, already trying to armor himself, to pull the scowl deeper across his face and find something sarcastic to say — Yeah, hate to disappoint, but I’m here, guess I forgot to die — but Thundercracker was already moving.

And then Skywarp was being grabbed .

Not the stiff, awkward clap on the back he’d expected. Not the shoulder squeeze of someone trying to be polite. No—Thundercracker crashed into him like someone who had spent every hour wondering if this moment would even happen. Arms thrown tight around his shoulders. Forehead pressed hard into his collarbone. Fingers digging into the worn fabric of his jacket.

Skywarp stiffened. His breath caught.

“…I—” Thundercracker’s voice cracked, low and hoarse. “ You’re here. ”

Skywarp didn’t know what to do with his hands. They hovered awkwardly in the air for a second before he slowly let them drop, hesitantly returning the embrace—arms ghosting around Thundercracker’s back, fists clenched tight. The contact burned, not just from the stitches being tugged in odd places at the hug, but from the recollection of the last time he was held like this .

And shame. There was also a lot of that.

“…Didn’t think I’d get a welcome parade,” he croaked, voice rough.

“You’re such a dumbass,” Thundercracker muttered into his shoulder, but his grip didn’t loosen. “I thought—I thought maybe they’d— slag, Skywarp, you didn’t even message us—”

Skywarp swallowed, hard. “The events weren’t really postcard material.” He tried to sound flippant, but his voice cracked halfway through. He didn’t get a chance to recover before another shifting sound was heard through the hall.

There was another presence nearby — one that Skywarp recognized instantly, as familiar to him as the chill before a storm. He turned his head slightly and found Starscream standing a few paces away, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but there was something brittle about it, something drawn tight at the corners. His jaw was clenched, the lines of his face sharp with restraint, and though he stood still, there was a visible tremor in his fingers, small but unmistakable. He made no move to come closer, no effort to speak. Not at first.

Silence stretched between them— thin, taut, uncomfortable.

And then, in a voice that lacked its usual sharpness, Starscream finally said, “…You look like shit.”

Skywarp snorted weakly. “Thanks, it means a lot coming from you. The king of shit has named a duke.”

There was a long, tense pause—Thundercracker still holding on tight like he couldn’t let go, and Starscream standing a few feet away, looking like every instinct in his body was at war. One hand twitched, then fell to his side. He looked away.

And then, after a long breath, Starscream stepped forward in two quick strides.

His arms wrapped around both of them. The malnourished, bony structure didn’t exactly make for much of a warm, comfy embrace, but its unexpected yet heartfelt nature meant enough.

A little stiff, a little awkward, more a collision of limbs than a hug. His forehead pressed against Skywarp’s temple for half a second, his breath catching with some unspoken thing he refused to admit aloud. “You could have told us,” he muttered.

Skywarp didn’t answer, mumbling a particular curse word under his breath.

He stood there, pressed between the two people who knew him best —who had always known him, even when they hated him, even when he hated himself— and felt something in his chest loosen. A breath he didn’t know he was holding slipped out, somewhere between a sob or a sigh, but not really either of those. It was more like coming up for air after a long, long time under.

The apartment still sucked. The ceiling was still stained, and the floor tiles were still cracked. The radiator still made that awful clunking noise every twenty minutes.

But Skywarp was home.

And—he was held .

For a while, no one moved. The silence stretched on, not heavy, not awkward. Just full. Full of all the things they didn’t know how to say out loud.

It was Thundercracker who let go first, though not without reluctance. His arms loosened slowly, like he didn’t quite trust the moment to last without his grip holding it together. He stepped back just enough to look at Skywarp, his eyes still shining a little too brightly in the dim apartment light. He sniffed quietly and scrubbed his face with one hand, pretending it wasn’t shaking as he did.

Starscream hesitated. Of course he did. Slagger.

Skywarp could feel the tension in his posture, the rigid discomfort of someone who hated being this close for this long. Eventually, after a few seconds too many, Starscream huffed and started peeling away with all the grace of a cat caught showing affection. His hands dropped, and his shoulders drew back as if reassembling his emotional armor in real time.

But the motion —just that small shift— tugged hard at Skywarp’s side. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough.

The wince curled across his face like a lightning strike, unbidden and fierce, and he jerked slightly away, instinctively shielding his left arm against his torso. His whole body tensed.

Both of them noticed.

Thundercracker froze, already reaching toward him again with a frown. “Skywarp?”

“I’m fine, ” Skywarp gritted out.

He tried to straighten up, but the movement made something under his jacket throb with heat. The stitches—hidden just under the seam of his upper arm—had definitely pulled, maybe even torn a little. That’s- great. That was fine. He didn’t need to check. He wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. He wasn’t going to make it a thing .

Thundercracker hovered, concern written all over him, but clearly trying to respect the distance.

Starscream, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes, clearly scrutinizing him like a puzzle he didn’t want to solve but had to. “That didn’t sound like fine, ” he said flatly.

Skywarp rolled his eyes. “You want me to write it down and mail it to you next time?”

He turned away sharply before either of them could respond, stalking a few steps toward the hallway—trying to hide the limp in his gait, trying even harder not to hunch in on himself. Distantly he heard Thundercracker sigh.

“Are you hurt?” Starscream questioned behind him, voice laced with a mix of irritation and… something else. It wasn’t exactly worry or concern, and Skywarp knew better than to expect any visible display of emotion from ‘Screamer. But it was something adjacent.

“Mind your own business,” Skywarp muttered without looking back.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the shadowed hall, the door to the shared bedroom creaking shut behind him a moment later with a dull click.

Left in the quiet, Thundercracker looked over at Starscream, his brows knit with worry.

Starscream exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms again. “I knew he wasn’t fine,” he said pointedly.

Thundercracker gave him a look that spoke of almost two decades of exhaustion.

Starscream scowled. “…Shut up.”

——————

The morning crept in without permission.

Faint, pale light seeped in through the grimy slats of the window blinds, catching on dust and the trailing threads of a battered curtain that had given up trying to block anything out. Somewhere in the hallway, floorboards creaked. A kettle clicked. Echoes of hushed conversation seemed to waft through the hall, along with the scent of burnt toast. The faint hum of the TV starting up buzzed and stopped. And in the shared bedroom, Skywarp woke up. Awareness descended on him slowly through the fog of his mind, gradually reminding him of where he was and what day it was.

The ceiling above him was familiar in a way that hurt— patched plaster, a hairline crack that looked like a map of a continent no one cared to visit, and the faint circle where someone had once tried to smoke a cigarette indoors and gotten caught halfway through. The blanket tangled around him was far too thin for the season, and one corner of it had clung to his wrist like a second skin, damp with sweat.

His throat felt dry. His side ached like a dull warning. His knuckles still stung where the skin had cracked, stitched, and now strained anew.

He lay there for a while, letting his eyes roam the old ceiling and trying to convince himself that this was normal. This was just another morning.

The cot creaked as he sat up, slow and stiff. His shirt had ridden up during the night, exposing the bandages half-stuck to his side, and he pressed the hem down with numb fingers before swinging his legs over the side of the mattress.

The floor was cold. The whole room was cold. No central heating here , Skywarp thought ruefully. Just thin walls and the bodies of two or three overworked, emotionally constipated idiots trying not to freeze in the Vosian winter.

He sat there, on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

Took a breath. Let it out.

Then another. Seven seconds inhale, seven seconds exhale. Or, wait, was it seven seconds inhale, eight seconds exhale? Other way around? Ugh.

After a while, Skywarp pushed himself to stand—not with energy, but with obligation. The way you pull yourself to your feet after a crash. Like if you don’t move, you might sink through the floor and disappear completely.

He didn’t bother checking the time. He definitely didn’t glance at the empty bunk where Thundercracker used to sleep when they were younger. Just crossed the room in slow, barefoot steps and sat down by the tiny, dusty windowsill, his shoulders hunched and his spine curved as he settled against the wall.

The view was, in a word, absolute slag.

Their apartment didn’t look out on anything special. No skyline. No monuments. Just the skeletal husks of rusting fire escapes and the crooked towers of Vos leaning in the distance, hemmed in by thick smog. Skywarp felt sure if he inhaled deeply enough, he could probably taste the carbon monoxide or whatever it was that polluted air. Cars screamed below. Someone shouted in the alley, followed by the clatter of something metal hitting the pavement. Distantly, he wondered if someone was being mugged, and made a mental note to remind his fellow housemates to avoid that particular alley.

He sat there, cramped on the tiny windowsill, hands slack in his lap, mouth a firm line, black eye casting a purpling shadow across half his face, knuckles rubbed raw across his hands.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. After all, this was home, technically. And yet… there was a part of him that still half-expected to wake up to drill calls, to heavy boots stomping through barracks, to clipped orders and bruised pride and the sharp taste of dust choking his throat.

Instead, it was just… this.

Vos.

A city that hadn’t changed, even if he had.

He didn’t care one bit for this place. It could burn for all he cared. Skywarp knew he probably didn’t share Thundercracker’s sincere interest in long-forgotten Vosian arts, or Starscream’s zeal to make their city-state acknowledged or even respected. But regardless of that… it was still home, somehow. He could hate it, but he could appreciate it.

Skywarp dragged in another breath. He could feel the ache in his side again. The slow throb under his ribs. A reminder. A souvenir.

His fingertips tapped once against his knee. Then again, slowly turning into a rhythmic drumming. In the end, not even the strict military planning hadn’t been able to cure him of that “annoying” habit, as Screamer complained when he started tapping against something loudly.

He paused. No, that wasn’t his tapping— someone was at the door.

The scrape of knuckles on the door was soft. Too soft, really—barely more than a polite rap. The kind you’d expect at a stranger’s threshold, not on the door of a bedroom that had once been shared for years, practically elbow-to-elbow.

Skywarp didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look away from the window.

“Hey,” came Thundercracker’s voice, low and unsure on the other side. “You up?”

No answer. The silence stretched on. For a second, Skywarp thought maybe he’d just leave it at that and go away.

But then the handle clicked, and the door creaked inward with the kind of caution only someone close would bother with. Skywarp resisted the urge to audibly groan.

Thundercracker stepped halfway inside, not even pretending to be casual. He was holding a mismatched plate in one hand, the rim chipped and faded from too many trips through the sink, and a cheap plastic fork was balanced on the edge.

He didn’t make a show of looking around. Just took in the sight of Skywarp, half-slouched by the window, face unreadable, and lingered in the doorway like he wasn’t sure whether or not to break the stillness.

“I, uh… made eggs.” He lifted the plate a little. “Used the last of the oil, so they’re probably gonna taste like nothing, but…” A pause. “Figured you might want something warm.”

Skywarp didn’t answer. Thundercracker continued anyway, voice stuttering, “I rummaged around and found some pepper— I remembered you liked that, right? But we’re almost out of spices, so, um— it wasn’t much. Sorry.”

Thundercracker followed Skywarp’s gaze from beyond the streaked glass, on the faint motion of smog in the air, on a dark bird darting between buildings far off in the distance. Skywarp didn’t answer, but his fingers twitched faintly in response from where they rested on his thigh, and that was enough for Thundercracker to take it as something.

A maybe , maybe.

He stepped in, just far enough to not feel like an intruder, and set the plate down on the scuffed, dented desk across from the bunks. The eggs didn’t sizzle anymore, but the heat still curled faint steam into the air.

“I didn’t know if you were sleeping,” he added, a little more awkwardly now. “You didn’t come out. Screamer said not to bug you, but I figured— y’know” His voice was stilted and unsure.

Skywarp finally blinked, slow. Dragged his gaze away from the window like it physically pained him. His voice, when it came, was rough with sleep and disuse. “Didn’t want to eat.”

Thundercracker didn’t argue. He nodded, eyes drifting toward the window like he was trying to see what Skywarp had been looking at all this time. He figured that was fair, all things considered. “Still,” he pointed out, “figured you should know you can. If you want.”

He turned to leave then, giving Skywarp that sliver of space he always tried to protect, even when it hurt to do it. His hand had just touched the doorknob again when Skywarp spoke, barely audible over the sound of a passing car outside.

“...Thanks.”

Thundercracker paused, lingering in the doorway. He gave the smallest nod, subtle but real, and slipped back out into the hallway without another word.

The door clicked shut.

And Skywarp, after a few more minutes of silence, slowly turned his eyes to the plate of eggs, still steaming faintly across the room like a small, reluctant offering of something close to comfort.

Reluctantly, he slipped off the windowsill. After all, it had been a long time since he’d had Thundercracker’s eggs.

Chapter Text

It had been four and a half days since Skywarp had arrived home, bruised and scowling and walking like his limbs were made of concrete. In that time, the apartment had fallen into a strange rhythm— quiet, heavy, and muffled at the edges like sound under a thick blanket. It wasn’t, Thundercracker mused, that different from all the times Star stomped home after getting a less-than-perfect score on an exam and made the whole house feel tense for a week.

The difference was that while it was certainly normal for a sulky, brooding Starscream to shut himself up inside of his room and ignore everyone, it was not normal for Skywarp to do so. He had barely talked to them at all after returning. He slept well after midnight, woke late, didn’t eat much, didn’t join in on conversations, and sat still for long stretches glaring out the window or picking at the peeling paint on the wall. Thundercracker had decided not to ask, not yet, although whether that was out of empathy or hesitation was debatable. Likely both.

Starscream, predictably, had said nothing at all, except for the occasional curt observation like “You smell like a landfill having an existential crisis. Take a shower.”, followed by the more subtle and kindly approach of throwing a bottle of shampoo at Skywarp’s head. Even that felt weirdly gentle by his standards.

So when Skywarp barged out of the hallway that fifth morning —still dressed in the same wrinkled sweats and the old black band shirt he’d pulled on since the first night he got there— but moving with sudden purpose and carrying a battered datapad under one arm, both Thundercracker and Starscream blinked in surprise. He came to a stop in the middle of the living room and met their eyes with newfound focus. “I need a job,” he announced.

Thundercracker looked up from the kitchen table, mid-sip of his awful instant coffee. “Good morning to you too,” he said cautiously.

Starscream peered over the top of his secondhand copy of Halliday Physics from the couch. “Oh?” he said, flatly. “We’re doing that today?”

Skywarp shot scowl at him. “Yeah. I’m sick of sitting here rotting.” He flopped down next to Thundercracker at the table, turning the datapad on and jabbing aggressively at the screen. “I can’t do this waiting crap anymore. I’m not dying here. Not in this shoebox.”

“You’ve only been back a few days,” Thundercracker said slowly, trying to keep his voice level. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” The force behind Skywarp’s voice made both of them pause. When Skywarp was annoyed with something or someone, it usually came out in sarcasm and snide remarks, not volume. But this was sharp, full of a defensive edge. He didn’t look up from the screen. “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

Starscream closed his textbook with a loud snap and stood up, walking to the kitchen to refill his cup of coffee. “Try not to drag your trauma out on the datapad. It might short-circuit.”

Skywarp barked a short laugh. “You’re hilarious.”

Despite the sarcasm, there was something unsettling about the grin he wore now. It was wide and overconfident and didn’t touch his eyes, like he was auditioning to play himself. The old Skywarp —the one who used to sneak junk food into barracks and flick bottle caps at Thundercracker’s head— had never looked quite so fragile underneath the swagger.

Thundercracker noticed the faint twitch in his fingers as he scrolled past listing after listing, all the part-time jobs you could get with no degree, no car, and a discharge history no one wanted to ask about. Bouncer, grocery delivery, warehouse shifts, night cleaner. He tried to act like he was just browsing, but the sharp, near-frantic speed of his search gave him away.

“I don’t care what it is,” Skywarp said out loud, half to them, half to himself. “I’ll take night shifts, graveyards, whatever. I don’t sleep anyway. Might as well get paid for it.”

Starscream returned, leaning on the kitchen counter and sipping from his cup. “You can barely lift your arm without wincing. Very employable.”

Skywarp threw him a middle finger without looking up. “It works well enough to do this.”

“Enough,” Thundercracker sighed, then nudged a small plate of toast toward him across the table. “Eat something before your stomach implodes. You’ll search better with food in you.”

Skywarp glanced at it. For a moment, it looked like he might shove it away on principle — but then, without a word, he grabbed the toast and folded it up without putting anything on it, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. “Fanksh,” he muttered.

Thundercracker watched him in silence. Skywarp’s shoulders were tight, his movements clipped, like a rubber band pulled too tight and trying not to snap. He was trying to outrun something, and the job search was just the nearest vehicle he could leap into.

Starscream’s next words echoed exactly the thoughts that Thundercracker hadn’t wanted to put into words: “You know it’s fine to stop pretending for five seconds, right?”

Skywarp didn’t answer.

——————

Surprisingly, it only took him two days.

Two days of scrolling, submitting, refreshing, pacing, and snapping at any criticism Starscream dared voice, constructive or not. Two days of Thundercracker trying to gently slow him down and being ignored. Two days of poorly eaten meals, cracked knuckles from tense fists, and muttered frustrations in Vosian when the application portals glitched.

And then— he got a job.

“Grocery delivery,” he announced as he stalked back into the apartment early that afternoon, his tone almost smug. “Starts tomorrow. Seven to noon, six days a week.”

Thundercracker, seated on the couch with his half-read book, blinked up at him. “That’s… quick.”

“They needed people. I’m people.” Skywarp tossed his datapad onto the counter and pulled open the fridge like a man returning victorious from war. “Gotta go in early for route training. Not hard. Scan and deliver. I know how to follow orders.”

Starscream glanced up from his homework at the dining table. “Glad you’ve found a niche. Do they offer medical coverage for when you pop another stitch hauling bottled water?”

Skywarp shot him a sharp-toothed grin. “I’m fine. Actually, I feel great. Moving again. Earning creds. Being useful.”

His voice had that same grating cheer it had the day he started searching. He wasn't speaking too rapidly, but it was still too hasty to be normal, like he was scrambling to think of something good to say.

Thundercracker watched him with a tight jaw, but said nothing at first. If this was what Skywarp needed to feel human again, then maybe pushing back wasn’t the way.

Still, something about the way Skywarp moved made it clear this wasn’t about groceries. It was about motion. He needed to be in motion.

“Did they say how long the training shift is?” Thundercracker asked carefully.

“Four hours tomorrow. Short run. Then I’m on my own. Apparently I just need a decent pair of shoes and something that makes me look ‘approachable.’” He held up a faded old baseball cap he’d found after a good bit of rummaging in TC’s old middle school era clothes, snapping it onto his head with dramatic flair. “Ta-da.”

“You look like a drug dealer,” Starscream deadpanned, not even glancing up again.

“And yet,” Skywarp said, tugging the brim lower, “someone looked at this face and thought ‘perfect to hand groceries to old ladies.’ I am society’s finest.”

There was a weird silence that followed — the kind that always showed up when the humor came too fast, too sharp, like he was throwing it out before someone could ask how he really felt. Eventually, Thundercracker gave a short laugh, just enough to make the air move again. “I guess you’ll need to get to sleep early tonight.”

“I’ll be fine,” Skywarp said again, brushing past them both to grab an old box of crackers and a chipped mug. The mug… well, he wasn’t entirely sure which one of them used it last, but the water in it seemed fresh, so it was fine. “I’m used to running on fumes.”

As he leaned against the counter, continuing to ramble about the new job while chewing and sipping, Starscream narrowed his eyes at him, calculating and quiet. For all his unwarranted opinions and endless (and often useless) scorn, he had learned long ago how to read his trine. And this version of Skywarp, with his over-the-top enthusiasm and borderline neurotic determination to get back up again, rang false.

Still, he said nothing.

Because he didn’t know how to say: You don’t need to prove you deserve to be here.

He knew Skywarp wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Starscream glanced over. Skywarp was still talking with his mouth full of stale crackers, continuing his moronic descriptions of an otherwise simple job at length, and Thundercracker was doing his best to appear interested, splitting his attention between that and his book. Internally, he sighed at the scene. Idiots. Soundlessly, he gathered up the papers he had been writing into a messy pile and retreated to his room.

I can talk to Warp about it in the morning, He assured himself as he left the hall. I’m not avoiding it. It’s fine.

——————

Skywarp was out the door before either of them woke up.

By the time Thundercracker blinked sleepily at the time on his watch and wandered into the kitchen, the only sign Skywarp had ever been there was a still-warm cup with half-drunk coffee on the counter and the clumsy scrawl on a sticky note that had been hastily slapped on the fridge door:

hola bitches im gonna be at training!! dont wait up or anything ok? ♡

ps: screamer i stole your flask

Starscream didn’t comment when he saw it later, but he paused long enough to stare at the note before swiping it off. He hesitated before tossing it in the trash.

——————

The morning was… manageable.

The route trainer assigned to him was a chipper, older man who smelled like cigarette smoke and windex. He talked more than Skywarp would’ve liked, but at least it filled the silence.

The work wasn’t glamorous. He scanned boxes, loaded crates, shoved crates, double-checked orders, and repeated the whole process again. There was a rhythm to it — a tempo he could fall into. His feet ached within the first hour. His side was stiff. His shoulder twinged. But he kept moving. It felt good. Not emotionally, not mentally, but it was something. Repetitive. Predictable. Easy. It hadn’t been until he’d fallen back into a routine of work that Skywarp had realised how much he needed it on a base level.

There were no guns, no barking orders, no alarms. Just food and doorsteps and signing datapads.

Keep moving, he told himself, again and again.

By midday, he was alone.

The trainer peeled off after the fourth delivery to take over a separate route, leaving Skywarp with a tote bag full of orders, a datapad and a set of instructions that assumed a lot more mental clarity than he had. But he didn’t mind. Moving was still better than sitting. His ears were ringing, and his arm throbbed faintly beneath his jacket, but it wasn’t enough to stop him.

Vos wasn’t the same city he remembered.

Or maybe it was, and he wasn’t. Quickly, he stuffed down the newfound fear of not being able to navigate his way around here one day before it reared its head and formed into an actual concern. The streets were still cracked in places, the buildings stacked too tight, the traffic erratic and rude. The air smelled like hot exhaust and old concrete. He kept his head down and moved fast, ignoring the way people stared a little too long at the old scars on his face or his mismatched, too-small clothes.

He was halfway through the route —three buildings left, ugh, maybe unemployment wasn’t as bad— when he checked the next address.

Unit 6B, Ampert Terrace.

He blinked at the screen. That street name scraped something in his memory. But there wasn’t time to sit around remembering old ghosts, so he hoisted the insulated tote over his shoulder and pushed forward.

The building was the kind of place that looked better at night — cracked stucco, flickering hallway lights, and a lift that groaned like it resented its own existence. Knowing full well how untrustworthy Vosian electricity could be in a place like this, he opting for climbing the stairs instead. Halfway there, at the 4th floor, Skywarp paused briefly to grab the railing for support, feeling the full effect of every injury from minor to major on his body at the moment. Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

His breath was shallow and coming out in short bursts by the time he reached the sixth floor.

6B.

He knocked.

After a beat, the door creaked open.

A broad-shouldered man, maybe a few years older than him, stood in the doorway, shirt loose, empty can of alcohol in hand. His mouth was set in a neutral line, but something about the sharpness in his eyes made Skywarp freeze.

“…Warp?”

Skywarp’s stomach dropped.

The man stepped forward a little, squinting as if trying to be sure. His mouth slowly stretched into something that might’ve been a smile, but now felt more like a sneer.

“Well, shit. I thought you died out there.”

Skywarp forced a breath, shifted the tote higher. “Nope. Still alive. Big shame, right?”

“Just barely,” the man snorted. “Doesn’t seem like much of a promotion, going from infantry to—what, groceries?”

Skywarp stiffened. He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked, face unreadable.

The man —Trax, that was his name, now it clicked— just laughed, short and harsh. “Guess not all of us landed on our feet, huh?”

Skywarp handed over the groceries in silence, resisting the urge to toss them into Trax’s face at full force. Momentarily, he entertained the fantasy of breaking a nose and maybe a jaw bone. His fingers tightened briefly on the handle of the bag before letting go.

“Have a great day,” he said flatly.

And turned on his heel before Trax could say anything else.

He didn’t remember walking back down the stairs.

He didn’t remember the next delivery.

Or the one after that.

He just moved.

Kept moving.

Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

Kept his jaw locked and his expression blank, even as the back of his mind buzzed with that familiar static — the kind that always came before something broke.

It was well into late afternoon by the time he finally clocked out, turned in the empty tote, and limped down the street toward the nearest transit station.

He made it home by 7:47 and went straight to bed.

No greetings. No lunch. He ignored Starscream’s less-than-usually-acidic “Hi” and Thundercracker’s question of whether he’d join them for dinner this night.

Just the lousy creak of his door sliding shut and the soft clunk of his bag hitting the floor.