AN: This is a re-upload of an old story.
It's a tenuous kind of truce they have. Clawed together out of mutual necessity and the pitiful need for survival. Megatron, half-broken by defeat and imprisonment, Starscream, newly and miraculously revived and alone, both of them universally hated. They had found one another with the tired inevitability of gravity, and neither of them had been surprised. The whole universe to fly in, and they'd flown into each other.
Now, they're holed up in some bombed out tower out of the way of the Autobot patrols, hidden like petty bandits.
Starscream, at his ease despite the desperation of their situation, is stretched on his back on what passes for a berth in their dark, derelict room. Part of the ceiling is gone, and since they're in the penthouse there is a view of the stars. He has his arms folded behind his helm, his optics sleepy, and his spark chamber brazenly open.
"Close that thing up." Megatron is seated on a pile of rubble creatively shaped into a chair. His attitude makes even that look like a throne. "You look like a cheap 'facing drone."
"Who's cheap?" Starscream pulls a face. "Why cover up what's not there? You made sure of that."
"Yes, I know." Megatron sounds infinitely weary. He massages his temple with two fingers, optics trained on the insouciant seeker. "Nevertheless, there's no need to display your... deformity so openly."
Starscream turns his head and shoots Megatron a dark look. "Deformity? This is a war wound... proof of my superior endurance and tenacity. Not even death can keep me offline." His scowl turns into an oily and entirely false smirk.
Megatron sighs and slowly gets to his feet. Starscream watches him, frame subtly tense. He doesn't move, though, even as Megatron places one knee on the berth beside him and sets a hand on the lower edge of one wing.
"You're insufferable."
"You've been suffering me for four million stellar cycles."
"And counting..." Megatron applies a little pressure to the wing, and Starscream hisses. "Does this hurt?"
"...No."
Megatron is mildly amused, but he begins to move away. Starscream's hand snaps out and wraps around the older mech's wrist. His grip is hard, his claws pricking. "Does this?"
Megatron chuckles, though the sound is hollow. "Your worst attempt yet, Starscream."
Starscream doesn't reply, but instead pulls the larger mech down and fastens his lips on Megatron's, his kiss biting and pushy. Megatron freezes, then pulls back, wrenching his hand free and using it to pin Starscream down by the throat.
Starscream takes a sharp intake and looks up at the fallen tyrant with sharp, bright optics. His expression is callous, baiting. Megatron doesn't ease his hold, and he feels Starscream's throat work as he swallows.
He watches darkly as Starscream's hands begin to wander; the jet's optics remain on him, but his nimble claws trail over his own chest-plates, one hand dipping into the empty chamber, the other moving up again, to Megatron's hand. Instead of pulling or gripping, he just strokes the sensitive inside of the wrist.
"What are you doing?"
"You sound shocked."
Megatron watches keenly for a few moments more before his processor goes a crisp, cold kind of clear, like glittering, sharp glass. He releases Starscream's throat, and instead takes hold of both the jet's wrists. He straddles Starscream's slender waist in order to give him the necessary angle and pins Starscream's wrists to the berth, just above the top edge of his wings. His grip is hard enough to buckle the metal of Starscream's gauntlets, and the jet snarls and struggles under him for a moment, sharp teeth snapping.
"What did you expect, Starscream? You think I'm going to put up with your continued attempts to undermine and humiliate me? The only reason I haven't killed you is because you're stubborn enough to just keep functioning anyway."
He releases one wrist and moves his hand to Starscream's head, gripping the back of his helm and tipping his head back, thumb scraping at the small crack in front. There is no shard there now, only a dark cavity. "How do you do it?"
Starscream gasps as he's manhandled, and it takes Megatron a few kliks to realise the jet is laughing. It's a cruel, sharp sound, and Megatron curls his lip to hear it. He presses Starscream's helm down, cheek to the grimy, hard berth, and watches him. It strikes him now that death has changed Starscream. Real death, this time – true death, not the numerous temporary deactivations Megatron made him endure. Those must have been little more than stasis-naps compared to the prolonged silence following the Allsparks reformation. He didn't remember seeing the jet fall, but he heard later how it happened. Starscream speaks of it seldom. Megatron thinks this is telling.
He wonders, as Starscream's one free hand scrabbles at his shoulder and side, claws gouging painful lines, whether Starscream does remember anything from his time in the Well of All-Sparks... or, more likely, the Pit.
His optics drop to the chamber – dark and empty, all the sensors and connectors arrayed on the rear wall clearly visible, displayed, with no spark to hide them. It's obscene – or at least, it would be, if Starscream had his spark. As it is it's just a stark and brazen display of... what? What would be his most vulnerable core has been rendered just another assembly of components. Thus, what would be a painful disadvantage has become instead a show of strength – a reminder that he has already endured the worst fate a mech can, and come out the other side still shooting.
Starscream cannot be broken, because he is broken already. There is nothing Megatron can take from him, because Starscream has already thrown it all away.
He lifts his optics again and starts when he sees Starscream staring up at him, sidelong, with a knowing expression.
"You thought you had nothing left to lose," he says. Megatron makes a small, involuntary noise of surprise – taken off guard again. Starscream seems to be able to read his processor. "But you know now that you're wrong."
"I still have what's most valuable..." Megatron speaks softly, sobered by the grudging realisation of Starscream's superiority in this particular regard.
"And I can take it from you," Starscream says. Megatron can hear the sharpness to his voice, beneath the smooth, even tone.
He moves his hand back to the jet's throat and pushes down. There's a quiet cracking sound, and he feels the metal give slightly under his grip.
Starscream claws at Megatron's arms for a moment, then tilts his head back. His optics are a bright, light red, and he pulls in a rasping breath. His frame trembles under Megatron. Megatron doesn't let go. Starscream's faceplates are heated, and then, to Megatron's surprise, the jet lets out a small, dry moan – not of pain. Startled, Megatron loosens his grip for a nanoklik.
Starscream licks his lips and comes back to himself a little. He looks up at Megatron with keen, bright optics, and holds Megatron's wrist with one hand. His other hand finds Megatron's thigh, and his claws score the curved armour.
When Starscream speaks, his voice is lower than usual, and has a raspy softness to it. "Go on," he says. "See if you can finish the job. I double-dare you."
Megatron's thumb moves on its own, stroking a buckled cable with a slow back and forth motion. He gives another experimental squeeze, and Starscream grins and gasps.
Suddenly overcome with contempt for Starscream's easy scorn and insulting nonchalance, he closes his hand. His grip is powerful, and he grunts and applies cruel pressure. Starscream yelps and struggles beneath him, bucking, back arching. It's beautiful, and Megatron's systems heat. Starscream's hands scrabble and paw at Megatron's frame, and then his optics roll back and he seems to calm. Megatron keeps holding on until Starscream's hands fall and his frame goes still. Energon slides over his hands as ruptured fuel lines in the jet's throat bleed. Starscream's optics go dark.
Several intakes later, Megatron lets go. He sits back, looking steadily at Starscream. Absently, he licks some of the energon from the side of his thumb.
It takes longer than he thought it would.
He watches, mesmerised, as the crushed throat rebuilds itself, visibly glistering with small crackles of electricity licking over the small parts. Megatron can all-too-easily believe that Starscream is doing it himself – out of sheer hard-headed, stubborn willpower.
A klik later Starscream onlines with a revving hum. His optics flash, then steady to their normal even red, and the jet looks up at him. He looks mildly surprised.
He smirks, slow and dry. "See?" he says. "I knew you couldn't do it. You'll never finish me."
Megatron leans over him, bringing their faces close together. Starscream holds his optics.
"I have my reasons for keeping you online." He brings one hand to Starscream's helm, and rubs at the tiny crack in the front of it with the pad of his thumb. Starscream hisses and tenses, and Megatron can tell he's forcing himself not to flinch away. Even though the cavity is empty, Starscream still seems to think of it as a weak spot. "As soon as you're no longer required..."
The threat hangs over them like a pendulum blade.
"Tell yourself what you like, old mech." Starscream's hand wraps loosely around Megatron's wrist again. This time his touch is light. "I have my reasons, too."