Skyfire was taken aback, literally, by Starscream’s reaction. He’d thought…he’d thought the small tetrajet would have been happy for him. These new orders were everything he’d hoped for. Exploration, adventure. Not his project-partner’s kind of adventure, which, to hear him tell of his last off-cycle holiday had involved the lower quadrants of Vos and an overcharge that had left him half-shorted for two whole shift cycles afterwards, but the adventures of science. Discovering new things. Looking at new systems, how they worked, what amazing varieties of life they brought forth.
But instead of looking pleased and excited, Starscream’s mouth had compressed to a tight, lopsided line.
“What’s wrong?” Skyfire asked the smaller mech. “It’s everything I could ever ask for!” He’d been so excited he’d run right into the lab they shared to tell him the news, first.
The mouth compressed tighter, red optics darting away. “I’m happy for you,” Starscream said, grudgingly.
No, you’re not, Skyfire thought. But he couldn’t think why. Unless…. “You’re not jealous, are you? One of your grants will come through and then, well, I’ll be able to say I knew you way back when!” Starscream had so many grants out—it was like he spent whatever offshift time he had when he wasn’t getting overcharged filling out the paperwork. So much ambition, so much drive. These were things Skyfire knew he didn’t have himself, but he admired in his laboratory partner.
“Yes,” Starscream said, flatly. “One day.” He made a show of turning back to the solenoid he was calibrating. “So why would I be jealous?”
I don’t know. The flimsy crumpled in his hand. Skyfire looked at it, perplexed, as if the answer to his problem was written on it. No, it WAS the problem. But why? “I don’t understand,” he said, numbly.
“You’re a scientist; figure it out.” Starscream dropped the pretense of the solenoid, folding his blue forearms over his chassis, the wrench still dangling idly from his fingers.
“You don’t want me to go.”
A look of irritation. “Go! Of course go. Why should I care?” The wrench stopped its lazy swinging, tapping abruptly against his armor.
You care? The question struck Skyfire like a shock to the cortex. Did Starscream actually care? As in…that way? His capacitor stuttered. But Starscream seemed to have no interest in him. Just his grants, just his holidays in perpetual overcharge. There seemed to be no room in there for Skyfire. It hadn’t struck him, the entire time, that he’d be working alone. That Starscream wouldn’t be there—no more early mornings groaning together about what needed to be done that day, no eager passing of interesting articles or finds to the other in almost nightly databursts. It suddenly seemed unbearable. He’d just…never thought what it meant, too focused on science and achievement to consider the implications.
“I…,” Skyfire began, and then stopped. He had no language for this. Science did not provide the vocabulary for emotions—that was all soft science stuff, malleable, frangible. Skyfire’s world was crisp, with hard, clean, square edges and sharp straight lines. Until now. He let the flimsy drop from his fingers. Starscream’s optics tracked it distractedly, only looking up as Skyfire closed the distance between them and the large white hands closed over his shoulders. “Come with me,” Skyfire breathed. He dropped to his knees, his head a little lower than Starscream’s. “I can alter the grant. Come with me, please?” It was clumsy and awkward and stupid, but the closest he could come to speaking and acknowledging the strange pull of his emotions.
“I will not be your tag-along,” Starscream said, bitterly. “I progress on my own, not on your aft-plating.”
Skyfire was hurt, confused. “I know that. I just want….” Words were failing. Imprecise. Illogical. He hated them for their failure. If only he could communicated what he could barely name himself….
He bent forward suddenly, his mouth bumping awkwardly against Starscream’s. He felt the lip plates rigid at first, but then soften under his. Skyfire had no idea what he was doing, much less why, but the motion of Starscream’s mouth against his set fire to his entire internal sensor array. He shifted his own mouth, felt Starscream’s respond, felt the tetrajet’s smaller hands come up to squeeze at his own broad shoulder plates. He was, Skyfire realized, struggling the same way, finding words and logic completely inadequate.
He pulled away after a lingering brush of his mouth over Starscream’s cheek and audio. “Come with me,” he murmured. “And the next time, I will come with you.” Equity. It was all he could offer as a token to Starscream’s ambition. And more, he realized. That this was something he did not want to see the end of. A friendship grown to something he wanted to never end. It went against everything he had learned about how Nature worked in science—cold, brutal, callous—sending things spinning in spirals of birth, growth, death. But this…he thought, looking at the red optics that were flickering with emotion. This could defy Nature’s rules. They could.
“Yes,” Starscream said. It was, to Skyfire, the most beautiful and perfect word that ever existed.
FILLED: Skyfire/Starscream
But instead of looking pleased and excited, Starscream’s mouth had compressed to a tight, lopsided line.
“What’s wrong?” Skyfire asked the smaller mech. “It’s everything I could ever ask for!” He’d been so excited he’d run right into the lab they shared to tell him the news, first.
The mouth compressed tighter, red optics darting away. “I’m happy for you,” Starscream said, grudgingly.
No, you’re not, Skyfire thought. But he couldn’t think why. Unless…. “You’re not jealous, are you? One of your grants will come through and then, well, I’ll be able to say I knew you way back when!” Starscream had so many grants out—it was like he spent whatever offshift time he had when he wasn’t getting overcharged filling out the paperwork. So much ambition, so much drive. These were things Skyfire knew he didn’t have himself, but he admired in his laboratory partner.
“Yes,” Starscream said, flatly. “One day.” He made a show of turning back to the solenoid he was calibrating. “So why would I be jealous?”
I don’t know. The flimsy crumpled in his hand. Skyfire looked at it, perplexed, as if the answer to his problem was written on it. No, it WAS the problem. But why? “I don’t understand,” he said, numbly.
“You’re a scientist; figure it out.” Starscream dropped the pretense of the solenoid, folding his blue forearms over his chassis, the wrench still dangling idly from his fingers.
“You don’t want me to go.”
A look of irritation. “Go! Of course go. Why should I care?” The wrench stopped its lazy swinging, tapping abruptly against his armor.
You care? The question struck Skyfire like a shock to the cortex. Did Starscream actually care? As in…that way? His capacitor stuttered. But Starscream seemed to have no interest in him. Just his grants, just his holidays in perpetual overcharge. There seemed to be no room in there for Skyfire.
It hadn’t struck him, the entire time, that he’d be working alone. That Starscream wouldn’t be there—no more early mornings groaning together about what needed to be done that day, no eager passing of interesting articles or finds to the other in almost nightly databursts. It suddenly seemed unbearable. He’d just…never thought what it meant, too focused on science and achievement to consider the implications.
“I…,” Skyfire began, and then stopped. He had no language for this. Science did not provide the vocabulary for emotions—that was all soft science stuff, malleable, frangible. Skyfire’s world was crisp, with hard, clean, square edges and sharp straight lines. Until now. He let the flimsy drop from his fingers. Starscream’s optics tracked it distractedly, only looking up as Skyfire closed the distance between them and the large white hands closed over his shoulders. “Come with me,” Skyfire breathed. He dropped to his knees, his head a little lower than Starscream’s. “I can alter the grant. Come with me, please?” It was clumsy and awkward and stupid, but the closest he could come to speaking and acknowledging the strange pull of his emotions.
“I will not be your tag-along,” Starscream said, bitterly. “I progress on my own, not on your aft-plating.”
Skyfire was hurt, confused. “I know that. I just want….” Words were failing. Imprecise. Illogical. He hated them for their failure. If only he could communicated what he could barely name himself….
He bent forward suddenly, his mouth bumping awkwardly against Starscream’s. He felt the lip plates rigid at first, but then soften under his. Skyfire had no idea what he was doing, much less why, but the motion of Starscream’s mouth against his set fire to his entire internal sensor array. He shifted his own mouth, felt Starscream’s respond, felt the tetrajet’s smaller hands come up to squeeze at his own broad shoulder plates. He was, Skyfire realized, struggling the same way, finding words and logic completely inadequate.
He pulled away after a lingering brush of his mouth over Starscream’s cheek and audio. “Come with me,” he murmured. “And the next time, I will come with you.” Equity. It was all he could offer as a token to Starscream’s ambition. And more, he realized. That this was something he did not want to see the end of. A friendship grown to something he wanted to never end.
It went against everything he had learned about how Nature worked in science—cold, brutal, callous—sending things spinning in spirals of birth, growth, death. But this…he thought, looking at the red optics that were flickering with emotion. This could defy Nature’s rules. They could.
“Yes,” Starscream said. It was, to Skyfire, the most beautiful and perfect word that ever existed.