A/N: DragonKara, this is the only way I can get back to you, so hope you don't mind :) Thanks for all the kind words!
Unfortunately, I can't update this any more often than I do. I have nothing pre-written, I tend to start writing the next chapter when I've posted the one I just finished. I also have limited time for writing, since real life with small children and a full-time job tends to take what it needs, and I'm balancing this with three or four other writing projects. I update as soon as I've finished a chapter, and I'm going to keep doing that, and hopefully the wait won't be too long inbetween chapters :)
"Fuel gauge."
Flick
The highlight moves to a different symbol on my HUD. I know that one too, and smile at my teacher as I give the right reply.
"Self-repair status."
flick
"Temperature gauge."
flick
"Coolant level."
flick
"Damage status."
It's the last one. I got them all right. Ratchet feels pleased – I get a definite vibe of a proud teacher coming through the connection.
-Good. Now, show me your commands.-
I dive into my own code, highlighting and naming the ones I know. "Comm access. Transformation. Flare plating. Holoform activation. Medical port access – right arm, left arm, neck, chest, right leg, left leg. Part chest plates. Open spark chamber. Open dorsal ports. Open abdominal ports. Visor control."
I can feel Ratchet's focus on everything I name, tracing my path through the code.
"Music player. Memory access. Camera. External audio recorder. Schedule. Notepad."
-Very good, sparklet. Now, your firewalls.-
Ratchet 'watches' through the link as I lower each of my firewalls in turn, raise them all again, and then lower the firewalls that are required to come down for medical access, data sharing and finally complete sharing.
-Good.- He disconnects from me, and I look up to see a faint smile on his face. "Now, your transformation sequence."
I step away from the bench to stand at the middle of the floor. My alt mode's small, but I still require a little space to actually transform. Once I'm on my wheels, I roll in a slow circle around Ratchet, turn and roll the other way and then transform back.
"Good." His smile grows. He picks up a datapad and makes a very exaggerated check on one of the last boxes on the list. "Very good, sparklet. Now, please tell me the conditions for your clean bill of health."
"I download the traffic regulations and learn them," I rattle off. "I take mandatory driving lessons on a closed track with Streetwise, Arcee and Groove, and any time I need to drive in public I need Streetwise to accompany me. These supervised drives will continue until Streetwise decides that I'm competent enough. Until then, I will use my legs or a transport if I'm going somewhere unattended. I will report for medical check-up once a week for now. I will download the supplied information on Cybertronian history and culture, and familiarize myself with that knowledge." I pause – there's something I've forgotten, I know it. "Oh! And I will keep myself adequately fueled and rested at all times."
"There's my sparklet." Ratchet grins. "Alright, I'm ready to let you go. Sign here, please."
I put in the complicated but elegant glyph that is my Cybertronian name on the datapad. It feels like writing calligraphy, it's so complex.
"Great. I'm so proud of you, Isobel." His voice turns gruff as he turns away from me. "Now get out of here before I find a reason to keep you. Didn't you have an apartment to view? If you take much longer, it'll be gone. And then you're stuck with us until something else crops up."
Like he would mind that. Ratchet's such a softie.
"I did," I reply cheerfully. "And Mirage and Hound are waiting for me. I'll see you tonight!"
"Sure you will," I hear as I turn away and leave the office. "If I ever get done with the rest of today's checkups. And don't speed down the ramp!" he calls after me.
As if I would. I don't know how to drive myself properly yet.
That can wait, though. For now, I have a lunch appointment, and then there's a real estate broker waiting for me. There's a free apartment in Mirage's and Hound's building, and I really really really want it.
Moonracer's more of a coordinator than a broker, really. I suppose Groove was trying to use a term I'm familiar with. Which is nice of him, but considering all the other stuff I have to get used to, the idea that there's a bot who's in charge of allocating housing instead of people just buying and selling it for themselves is not that far of a stretch.
I'm not complaining, though. If this works out, he'll have gotten me a place to live. That isn't with my pseudo-parents. Much as I love them, I'm ready to stand on my own feet. Pedes.
"There she is! Hey, Cynosura!"
I turn towards the cheerful voice as I exit the hospital. Hound's there, waving at me, looking just like he did when they picked me up from Earth in a previous lifetime. I'm ridiculously happy to see him.
The mech on his arm I've never seen before, though. He's slim, blue and white, and elegant – it's a strange word to apply to a metal being, but it's really the only word that fits.
"Hello, Cynosura," he greets me. There's a small smile on his lips. "I suppose you don't recognize me in this frame."
I stare at him. Because, yeah, I totally didn't. "Mirage? Wow! You look – different."
Understatement of the year. The only one I can imagine looks more different from Earth to now is, well, me.
"It's how I used to look," he says, pulling away from Hound slightly and turning a bit to let me see him better. "The Earth frame was a temporary military upgrade, with thicker plating that could take more damage. I am very glad to be back to myself again."
"I'm very happy about too." Hound is practically purring as he pulls Mirage close to him again. "I liked the red well enough, but I've missed this." He nuzzles Mirage's flaring helmvent. "It's so much easier to get my arms around you."
"I do fit much better like this," Mirage agrees, smiling at his mate. "Like I was meant to be here."
I giggle at them. "Okay, if you two're going to be this ridiculously sappy throughout our lunch, I'm calling First Aid to join us."
That has Hound laughing. "So sue me if I'm giddy about my mate being the most gorgeous mech on Cybertron."
"Haven't you two been bonded for vorn at this point?" I tease. "Shouldn't the rose-colored lenses have fallen off by now?"
"Never." Hound nuzzles Mirage's face, and it's so sweet that I can practically feel my spark calling out for my Protectobot.
Both of them, actually. We need to set up a date or something again. I don't see nearly enough of them.
But that's for another time.
"Well, that's all well and good. But one of Ratchet's conditions for letting me go was that I feed myself, and if we keep standing here that'll never happen." I link my arm with Mirage's. "Shall we?"
"We shall." He smiles down at me. He's not as tall as he was, I can tell when I compare to Hound, but he's still taller than I am.
Mirage sets the pace, and he's practically promenading. So we're strolling down the streets, all three of us arm-in-arm, and getting no few strange looks from passers-by.
I guess we do look a bit out of the ordinary.
Hound meets every stare with a grin, though, and Mirage just looks smug as all heck. So I end up smiling as well.
And maybe play Sh-boom for myself, in my own mind.
I'm ridiculously proud that I can walk and manage my music player at once.
"So," Mirage says, grinning at me. "Have you had the grand tour yet?"
I shake my head. "I've barely even been outside."
"Well, then we know what to do now, don't we?" Hound winks.
"Get our meal to go and do the tour," Mirage concludes, with a tone and air like it's already decided whether I agree or not.
Well, I guess I'll certainly work up an appetite. Maybe I can try walking, refueling and talking to someone else all at once, too. It'll be progress.
Mirage smiles at me again and leans close to my audial. "I'm so glad we can be friends like this."
I squeeze his arm. "You and me both."
Dear diary,
Guess what?
I GOT THE APARTMENT!
It's so perfect! It's got two berthrooms and a living room and a kitchen of sorts. It's a kitchenette, really, with a cooler and a hot plate and some cabinets. Sort of like what Optimus and Ratchet have, really, which I guess is what passes for kitchens here. It's certainly enough for me – my needs at this point extend to a cupboard and the equivalent of a spice rack.
I'm going to maybe knock the wall between the berthrooms down and make one room with space for a really large berth. A really, really large berth. Must fit three.
We haven't really had the chance to hang out just the three of us. Not really. Maybe a big berth can give us an excuse.
Seriously, it's so awesome. And I can see the square with the council building and stuff from my living room window. Hound and Mirage are two floors up, and they say the neighbors will be happy to meet me. So I'm looking forward to that.
Lunch was so nice. I didn't realize how much I'd missed them. How much I've missed all my friends, really.
And there are still some gaping holes there.
So it's time for me to get out of Ratchet's and Optimus' – well, not hair. Lair, maybe. It's time for me to get out of their lair and start earning my keep again.
And there are two bots I need to find.
I thought getting Ratchet to finally let me go was hard. That amounts to nothing compared to the mountain of bureaucracy I have to wade through to be allowed to practice psychology.
It doesn't help that the mech in charge of deciding whether I can do so or not is one I don't know from before.
Who also has no knowledge of Earth apart from the reports he's read.
And who, therefore, doesn't know what psychology is.
And who can't seem to wrap his mind around the fact that talking to someone can actually be a cure.
"Let me make sure I've understood," Ultra Magnus says slowly. "It's a form of mental therapy that requires the subject to willingly talk about their problems."
I nod. "Yes, sir." This mech is one of those you always call sir, no matter what.
"And you've specialized in this form of therapy, in particular when it comes to mental trauma associated with war."
I nod again.
"And the training you've received, though long enough to take up most of your adult human lifetime, still took less time than Ratchet's first field medicine course."
Now he's being ornery on purpose. I'm sure of it.
Deep breaths, Isobel.
"I just want to help," I say, as firmly as I dare with this mech. "I know I can help. I can get testimonies, if you like. Recommendations."
He steeples his fingers and frowns at me. "And what do you wish to get out of this, Cynosura?"
Oh, for the love of all that is holy.
"I want to help," I insist. "I have all these skills, and I sit here and watch all these mecha needing my skills, and I can't help them as it is. These are my friends, my family, this is my new home planet, and I want to be of use. For heaven's sake, the only reason I was brought here in the first place was so that I could help!"
Those cool eyes are watching me. He's different, this one – it's like he's inherently professional, that's his purpose and function, that's how he defines himself.
It's an intriguing personality quirk. One that I'll probably never be allowed to get more acquainted with, because there's no way this mech will seek therapy for anything.
"Let me set up a hypothetical scenario for you," he says finally. "Imagine a young mech. He grows up well, but war is brewing, and though his city's out of the way and has few resources worth conquering it won't stay safe for long. So he joins the side he hopes is the right one, and goes through the rigorous training to become a warrior, all in the hopes of keeping his city safe. His first battle is rough, the next is rougher, but by the fifth it's routine. And in his fourteenth battle, one of his immediate superiors is shot in front of him. The wounded soldier is a truckformer, large and heavy, and falls back upon his lighter frame and pins him to the ground. He's stuck there, underneath a dying mech, for the majority of the battle and the cleanup. All the while, the wounded mech's energon flows over his frame, sticking in his joints and gumming up his cabling. And all the while, he keeps talking to the wounded mech in the hopes that he'll stay online long enough that the medics can get to him before his spark gutters. When they finally get the wounded mech off him and reveals that the young mech is uninjured, he's given a pat on the back and a ride back to base and told to clean himself off and have a pleasant recharge. It takes weeks before he learns if his wounded superior even survived." He focuses on me. "Now. What would you say to this soldier?"
I stare at him. Because, seriously? That's his hypothetical scenario?
"That depends on what he sought my help for," I force out. "Is it survivor's guilt? Does he feel he should have done more? Is he now suddenly afraid of being stuck, so much so that it's become a liability in battle? Recharge terrors? Does he now have a compulsive cleaning regime because it always feels like he has someone else's energon under his plating?"
Now Ultra Magnus is the one staring at me.
Hah. Keep staring. I could go on all day, mech.
"Let me give you a scenario instead," I say firmly. Well, as firmly as I dare with this mech. "Imagine a young soldier. He's on his first deployment, but he's been there for a while now and he's getting used to it. He's made friends among the other soldiers and the locals. Then one day his troop is attacked while they're trying to secure a local village. Two of the other soldiers, of his friends, are killed instantly. His commanding officer's injured. The rookie of the group is trying frantically to radio for backup. Now, the soldier can see one of the insurgents. He's got his gun trained on him at this point, ready to fire. The moment he does, the insurgent manages to pull one of the locals in front of him. A young woman. A non-combatant."
I can tell I have his attention now. Good, because I'm making my point whether he likes it or not.
"This soldier shot and killed her. Unintentional, yes, and tragic, but she's no less dead. Her small son is no less alone in the world."
"Tragedies happen in war," Ultra Magnus says softly.
"Yes," I agree, "and soldiers have to learn to live with them."
"So what happened with this particular soldier?"
"He tried to push through it. Tell himself that it was unavoidable, not his fault, couldn't be helped. Kept track of her son, made sure he had what he needed. As much as could be had in war, anyway. Then his deployment was over, and he was sent back home. That's when he broke down. He couldn't handle the guilt – every young woman he saw became the woman he killed, every small child her son, until he became afraid to leave home because he couldn't handle his flashbacks. He was on the verge of losing his apartment, his benefits, everything, when he finally began undergoing therapy."
Ultra Magnus nods slowly. "I've seen mecha act in similar manner. What did you do?"
"It took time," I admit. "We had to work our way down to the core of the issue, because he flinched away from it. He'd also developed anxiety, and the guilt had led to a slew of other issues as well. So it took time. But, eventually, he was able to function in society again. He transferred to another psychologist. Last I heard, he'd gotten married. And he'd kept in touch with the orphaned boy, sending him money and such, making sure the kid got schooling. It's as happy an ending as such a story ever gets, in my opinion."
He looks at me. Scrutinizes me, really. "I've had bots offline themselves because they couldn't handle the guilt."
I meet that gaze evenly. "Then you know there's a need for what I can do."
For a moment, neither of us say anything. I don't look away.
"Very well," he says finally. "I'll double-check with Ratchet, and we'll need to edit the medical legislation. Barring any issues with that, I'll get a confirmation sent over to you within a few days. We'll get your designation added to the list of medics."
"That's excellent. Thank you." I manage not to exhale in relief, but it's a near thing. "Is there anything in the way of my beginning to search for an appropriate office space now?"
"None," he replies. "You don't want to operate out of the hospital?"
"I'd rather not. I'd like a neutral space. It tends to put clients more at ease."
"I suppose I can understand that." He stands, and whoa is this mech tall. It feels like he's close to double my height, though that's probably an exaggeration. Still, I have to crane my neck to look him in the optics.
"Welcome to Cybertron, Cynosura." His giant hand near swallows mine. "I look forward to working with you."
One hurdle down, one to go.
Now I have to hunt down an office space.
Dear diary,
It was actually nice to meet Ultra Magnus. Even though he was a hassle to handle. I think that's mainly because he's so strict.
But he's well-adjusted. He's calm.
It's a blessing to meet someone who hasn't been completely traumatized by this war. They're few and far between.
And now I probably jinxed myself. Oh well. He'll be one of the first to learn where my office space is anyway, so he'll know where to go if he needs it.
I'm going to start compiling a list of which bots I'd like to see once I'm operational. Some of them require different tactics.
Bluestreak, Mirage, Skyfire, the rest of the ones I saw on Earth, they should all be fine with regular office sessions. Some of them are maybe even doing better now. But there are some who I know are doing much worse, and I need a plan for handling them.
Ratchet told me the referral system can still be active. And that he has a shortlist of Decepticons to see me already. I had kind of expected that, though it's going to be an interesting challenge to deal with the other side, so to speak. He promised he'd start me off with some of the easier ones, but I'm not sure anything Megatron touched is going to be easy to fix.
And then there are the Neutrals. That's a whole different kettle of fish. Some of them never saw the war, just had to run from it and find a safe place – and some have lived with the threat of violence over their heads for millions of years.
I'm going to bet there's a lot of every diagnosis possible here. I wish I had some of my reference books, since my memory's kind of sketchy. But I'm rereading my thesis, anyway. I'll have to make do with what I've got.
Finding an office space turns out to be a lot harder than I had expected. It looks like the rebuilding effort hasn't gotten further than the necessaries – adequate housing for everyone, medical and engineering facilities, the council building, a handful of warehouses and businesses.
Nothing that suits my needs. And after spending all day walking around the settlement – Pax Novum, they're calling it, which seems a bit ambitious for what I've seen so far; apparently it's being built on the ruins of what was once Tyger Pax, which explains some of it – I'm fair fit to give up and grab an office in the hospital after all. At least for now.
Still. It's pretty, what they've finished of the town. From the bench at the center of the square in front of the council building, it almost looks complete. The bright façade of Ratchet's hospital down the street balances with the more traditional look of the council building behind me, and there are mecha walking around and chatting. Typical city-scape.
Almost complete. The unfinished park mars it somewhat. And the fountain is nice, all sharp angles and geometric shapes, but it has no water or anything running through it yet.
I guess the artistic finishing touches will have to wait until they're on top of the rebuilding effort. It would make sense.
Besides, they're still missing their main artist. Though I do have hopes to fix that.
It's a good place for a break, this bench. And for trying to consume the energon cube I brought with me - though 'trying' is really the operative word. It's nasty. I thought I'd gotten used to the flavor by now, but I'm having serious issues with this.
"Lukewarm's not the best if you're not used to it," a deep voice says from behind me. "You'd be better off with either heated or chilled, or at least with some additives in it."
"I usually put additives in it," I agree, looking down at my miserable excuse for fuel. "But I didn't know how to reseal the cube, so I didn't dare to open it. I don't even know if it stays good after the additives are in, or if it's a fresh thing like the whipped cream on cocoa. And I couldn't find anything to put the additives in so I could bring them. So today it's plain, lukewarm energon." I turn to look up at him. "Guess I have a lot to learn about being Cybertronian still. Hello, Thundercracker."
"Hello, Cynosura." He offers me a small smile. "Mind if I sit?"
"Sure." I gesture at the bench. "Whoever made this made it big enough for at least two."
I'd half expected to feel a bit intimidated. I was, back on Earth. But Thundercracker looks tired somehow, almost sad, and though a smidgeon of fear should perhaps have been a logical response it just doesn't manifest.
I'm glad. It will make it so much easier for me to work with the Decepticons if I don't react like they're going to hurt me every moment they're near.
Besides, I'm a Cybertronian now. And I might as well stop being afraid of the ones who've never really hurt me.
"Here." Thundercracker hands me a small packet. "I like this blend. It works with any temperature energon."
I bury the instant gut reaction that says I shouldn't let a stranger put anything in my drink. I'm made of metal now and have two medics on speed-dial. I think I'll be fine.
"Thanks." Into the cube it goes. The first sip is not bad. The next is better. I give Thundercracker a smile. "So how are things?"
He shrugs. It's a very elaborate movement with those wings. "I'm doing okay. I work surveys with Bee and Blurr – not my life's ambition, but it's interesting enough. Lets me fly plenty." He looks at me. Looks away. Looks at me again.
Jesus.
"Spit it out, Thundercracker. I can tell there's something you want."
He tries for a smile. "Must be all that psychology training, huh."
"That," I agree. "And you're about as transparent as a sheet of glass."
"Clearly." He smiles slightly, though it doesn't quite seem to reach his optics. I can tell he hesitates to speak. "Okay, I'll just get right to it then. Do you take on patients now?"
"Not yet." I shake my head. "Unfortunately. But soon. I'm waiting for Ultra Magnus to send me the paperwork and update the legislation that will allow me to practice. He said it would just take a few days. Why, what did you have in mind?"
He sighs. "Starscream."
Starscream. The top of my list of mecha who require special consideration and need treatment both urgently and long-term.
I lower my voice. "How's he doing? Any improvement?"
He shakes his head slightly. "Not really. He's… Sometimes he's there, we can talk to him, he knows who we are and where he is. But sometimes he's confused, keeps asking how the war goes, giving us orders, talking to Megatron like he's there. And on the really bad days he doesn't really register us at all. He just stares into the distance." The optics he turns on me are imploring. "Can you help him?"
"I can certainly try," I reply firmly. "I know what I think it sounds like. But I'd need to talk to him. And there's one thing I need to know first."
"As long as you're willing to try," Thundercracker replies. He sounds relieved. "What do you need?"
Now it's my turn to hesitate. This is never an easy topic to breach, and I'm not even sure how things work here. "I'm going to guess, based on how you describe him, that Starscream's not able to make sound decisions on his own behalf at this point. Does anyone have legal guardianship of him?"
He frowns. "How do you mean?"
"Well, on Earth," I explain, "when someone is sick enough that they can't make informed decisions, they need a legal guardian. With children it's often the parents, with adults it's often a spouse or grown children or other members of the family."
His optics brighten. "Oh, like that. Yeah, we have that. Skywarp and I are responsible for Starscream right now. You can ask Ratchet, we signed a document for initial treatment so he should have it on file."
"Good." I smile at him. "That'll make things a lot simpler."
He smiles at that, but it looks more like a mask than anything. He still looks so dejected. I make a mental note to schedule in both Thundercracker and Skywarp when I get a schedule going.
"Hey." I reach out to touch his arm. "Don't give up hope yet. I'll make him a priority, I promise."
He sighs, scrub a hand across his face. "I really do appreciate that. It's just… hard."
"I know." There really isn't more to say about that.
Seeing Thundercracker really got me thinking. There are so many of them who're in similar situations – losing someone, being next of kin to someone who's seriously ill, being victims themselves. I'm starting to wonder if there's anyone on this planet without serious mental trauma.
Barring, maybe, Ultra Magnus.
I think I want to look into creating support groups of some sort. Maybe of several sorts. Of course, it's not going to be for everyone, because nothing ever is… But I can see it help someone like Thundercracker, who's open to talking about his experiences. If there was someone else in his situation, I'd have already suggested it.
The faction lines seem to have blurred a lot already. As far as I've seen, there are quite a few on either side – or all three sides, really – that would be willing to be civil to each other.
There are so many mecha here I don't know yet. But maybe Ratchet and that receptionist – Greenlight? – can help me. If I make it an open offer, maybe I'll be surprised at who shows up.
I think I'll do it. As soon as Ultra Magnus gets me my license and has me registered as a medic, I'm going to post an open support group for war trauma survivors. And then people can interpret that however they may.
Maybe I should reach out to a few of them. Some of the less infamous ones, to not freak out any neutrals. Just to make sure someone actually shows.
Mirage, maybe. He's calm and collected, but he could do with some more help. And Bluestreak, if he can handle it. Maybe Bumblebee. One of the Protectobots – not Blades – just because they're really suited for this work. A few Decepticons too – maybe Laserbeak? She's seen a lot. I can't really get a seeker, since they've been airbombing everyone into oblivion since forever, so those wings might in themselves be triggering.
I'll talk to Laserbeak about it. She might know of someone.
"Unlock the door, Belle?" Groove smiles at me around the large stack of boxes in his arms. "This is getting heavy."
"Give me a moment. I haven't used one of these before." I stare at the doorlock, which is less a lock than a flat metal square next to the doorjamb. "What do I even do?"
Groove shifts his grip on the boxes. They're apparently heavier than they look. "Put your palm against it. Then input the code. Moonracer gave you that, didn't she?"
"Yeah." The panel slides aside at my touch to reveal a keypad. The code is ridiculously long, a combination of numerals and symbols, all in that Cybertronian script I'm not very good at yet. It takes me a few tries before the door clicks open. "There."
I pick my own boxes back up to carry them inside. The apartment is still mostly empty, the bright daylight streaming in through the windows illuminating the pale floors and blank walls.
Groove drops his load on the floor and turns to do something to the door. "I'll go help the others with the rest. The door's locked open now, so it won't close until we're done. Start emptying these ones?"
"Sure." I'm distracted by the view, though. It's just as gorgeous as last time I was here, but now I have better time to look.
My own apartment. I still can't really believe I'm here. The view helps convince me, though.
Outside, there are mecha everywhere I look. Crossing the public square, around the geometric not-quite-a-fountain I was sitting by yesterday. Walking into the council building – I'm going to find out which office is Prowl's, so I can help Jazz nag at him when he's working too late. And so I can wave at him from my window.
The streets are… not quite crowded, but not empty either. This town is alive. Vibrant. Comfortable. Peaceful.
Across the street, two familiar figures are leaving the building opposite mine. Two Decepticons I haven't seen in well over a century.
Before I know I've decided to do it, I'm sliding open the floor-to-ceiling windows and leaning out against the railing. "Hey, Scrapper! Hook!"
I also hadn't really decided to shout loud enough to get everyone staring at me. Oh well. At least I can see Groove grinning up at me from where he's unloading the flatbed trailer we borrowed.
"Hey, Cynosura!" Hook shouts back. I figured he'd recognize me. "How're you doing? Moving in?"
"Yes!" Damn all this shouting, now people are giggling. "Today!"
"Well, welcome to the neighborhood!" Scrapper calls. "We've got the whole building here, so come over when you want to! Scavenger's been wanting to talk to you about some stuff he brought from Earth!"
"It's junk," Hook grumbles loudly, "but he won't take my word for that."
I giggle. "Sure! I'll come over to visit you guys soon, okay?"
The nod up at me and wave before walking down the street again.
I leave the windows open – the air's nice and fresh, and I like hearing the town all alive outside. It's a nice enough background soundtrack to my unpacking.
In fact…
What's the point of having speakers in my abdomen if I'm not going to use them? I don't think I've exposed the Cybertronians to Billy Joel yet. And today feels like an Uptown Girl day.
Unpacking turns into a dance, as my meager collection of possessions and fairly large pile of contributions from my friends and family – and in one case slight acquaintance, since I don't know what to think about Ultra Magnus giving me a potted crystal as a housewarming gift - leave their boxes to find a place in my new home.
My photo albums, safe in my old suitcase for a hundred years, onto the newly installed shelf. My games next to them.
My blankets and pillows and everything soft I brought from Earth. I make a mental note to thank Wheeljack for finding a way to keep them safe in this environment.
Everything's so tiny in my hands. What was once big enough to cover me completely now fits on half a shelf.
Still soft, though. I rub what used to be my favorite quilt across my cheek.
It still smells like Earth.
"I didn't know you were friends with the Constructicons."
I turn to Streetwise and help him navigate the long metal struts that are part of the berthframe into the right room. "You know, I'm not really? But today just feels like one of those days where I'm friends with everyone."
"Well, they're nice enough mecha, now that we're not on opposite sides of the war," he allows as we lower the pieces carefully. "And I know they helped out with your frame."
"I'm looking forward to getting to know everyone."
Streetwise chuckles at my eagerness. "Good. Because there are a lot of mecha who're excited to meet you."
Groove comes in, drops another box near the frame. "I think these are the bolts. And Blades says he's nearly here with the berthpad." He winks at me. "It's a good thing you opened the windows."
"Opened the windows?" That makes no sense.
Unless…
Groove laughs at the look on my face. "You got it, Belle. Your berth is delivered by air."
I dart to the window, hanging over the railing to look out. In the distance, there's a helicopter carrying a large parcel. He's coming closer by the second.
"Stand back, Isobel," Streetwise says, nudging me gently to move me aside. "The bond we've got simplifies this, so let us handle it."
I'm not going to argue. Besides, watching two big robots drag what is essentially a mattress through a third story window is not something you see every day.
Under my watchful and clueless optic, the three Protectobots I've booked for the day assemble the berth frame. I have to suppress a giggle while they're bolting it together – it reminds me of a certain flatpack furniture warehouse back on Earth.
Still, for all the lack of instruction manuals, it doesn't take them too long. Blades dumps an armful of bedding on the berth and begins conjuring up pillows, emptying what seems like his entire subspace.
It seems I owe a lot of mechs a thankyou-note.
"I think that's it," Streetwise comments, looking around. "We've emptied the flatbed, and what's left here I think you need to manage, Isobel."
"Not before time either," Blades agrees. "I have a shift to get to."
"You all do, don't you?" I hand them each an energon cube. My dispenser is just like the one at Ratchet's place, thankfully. And he made sure I packed a whole contingent of additives.
"Not me," Groove says cheerfully. "If you need some more help."
I don't think I do, really. But there's no way in hell I'm throwing Groove out.
Something must have shown on my face, because Blades smirks, looking from me to Groove. "I think that's our clue to leave, Streets."
Streetwise throws me a lazy salute. "I think you're right, brother. Good night, you two!"
Blades throws himself out the window and transforms, hovering outside for a moment. "Come on, Streets, I'll give you a lift. Bye guys! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
"That's basically carte blanche, Blades," Groove calls back as Streetwise jumps outside and grabs Blades' landing gear.
"Thanks for the help!" I holler as they fly off.
"Sure thing, princess!"
Earth rubbed off hard on the Protectobots. Though I had hoped they'd all forgotten about the princess thing. Guess it was too much to hope for.
When I turn around, Groove is suddenly right there. I mean, right there, so close I'm almost drowning in those optics.
"Welcome home," he says softly, with that smile that's so like his brother's and yet not. "Do you like it?"
"I love it." I put my arms around his neck and pull him close enough that my forehead rests against his. "Thank you."
"I'm glad you're happy." His hands are on my waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles over my plating. "Can I stay a bit longer?"
As long as you want, I think, and Forever, and a bunch of other sappy phrases I know we're not quite ready for yet. "Of course you can."
There's something in the air now, something tingly and anticipatory and honestly a little nerve-wracking, and I buy myself some time by dragging a finger across Groove's chest. It comes away dusty.
He chuckles. "Point taken. Can I use your wash rack?"
"Go ahead." My voice is husky, I know it, and I can feel Groove's engine dropping into a deeper purr in response. He does manage to tear himself away, though, turning and walking through the door at the far end of the room.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I take a deep breath. And send a ping to the other most important person in my comm directory.
It doesn't take him too long to respond.
::Hey, love! Moving going well?::
::Very well.:: I swallow, suddenly incredibly nervous. ::We're done, in fact. And Streets and Blades have left.::
::Ah.::
It's like he knows what's going on. What I'm going to ask. So I just steel myself and go ahead.
::Aid, can Groove and I…:: Another deep breath. ::Can we break in my new berth without you?::
There's a pause, and then he chuckles. ::You don't have to ask permission, love. I know we haven't really discussed boundaries and such, but Groove and I have had a century to figure out what we want. And how to share.::
::So… you're okay with that?::
::Well, I'm not going to lie and say I didn't wish I could join you.:: His tone is wistful. ::But honestly, Isobel? I'd say it's about time you two got some time together alone. You need to get to know each other better.::
My Protectobot is perfect.
::First Aid, I love you.::
Another chuckle. ::I love you too, Isobel. Have fun.::
Have fun, he says. Like I'm not ninety percent nerves at this point.
I try pacing, and sitting, and wondering how the hell Groove can use hours in the wash rack and whether I should get Ratchet or First Aid to look over my chronometer, because it has to be malfunctioning. In the end I just rearrange the datapads on the shelf, over and over and over and over, until two strong hands catch mine and make me stop.
Groove doesn't say anything. He just presses his mouth to my shoulder, planting small kisses and nibbles along the plating up to my neck. Licks the cables there before sucking one into his mouth.
I go strutless in his arms. Luckily Groove seems to be prepared for that, because he supports my weight easily. Without pausing for a moment.
Somehow he manages to maneuver us towards the berth room. I'm not sure how, considering my legs aren't working and my optics offlined somehow, but I do notice when he leans me back until there's softness supporting my frame.
"You're so beautiful, Belle," he whispers. "I don't have the words."
I reach for him. I don't need the words. I just need him to keep touching me.
He chuckles, clearly getting it, because those fingers travel down my frame, dipping into seams that I didn't know were this sensitive. His breath is warm on me, even as I'm heating up. I can feel myself shivering.
This time, I don't get any of those warning symbols on my HUD. Thank Ratchet for small favors.
Groove's mouth moves then, from my throat and down across my chest, teasing and nipping. I squirm at the too-light touches. They're not enough, and I want more, but I don't know of what.
I don't know of what.
"Groove," I manage, though my voice is almost a moan, "I don't know how this works. Interfacing. I don't know what to do."
That brings him back up to where we can look at each other again. Groove's smiling slightly. "Do you want the lecture," he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle my cheek, "or the practical demonstration?"
I pinch his side. "Don't be a tease."
"Fair enough." His hand catches mine, pulling it down to rest against his hip. "Remember that tactile overload?"
Like I could forget. Groove apparently reads my faint moan as agreement, because he continues talking. And touching. I seriously didn't know my finials were that… erogenous.
"That's one way of doing it." His voice is soft, pulling at something in me I don't recognize. "Another, and the most intimate, is sparks, which we won't do yet and definitely not without Aid here. The third..." He touches my hand on his hip again, guides my fingers in a rough square pattern.
There's a tiny seam under my fingertips. When I begin tracing it on my own, Groove groans slightly.
"The third is hardline," he manages. "Want to give it a try?"
I don't know what I'm agreeing to at this point, and I don't care. I just nod, pulling him closer with one hand and pushing harder against that small square with the other.
It opens, moving aside under my fingers. Underneath, there are what feels like cables.
Hardline. Cables.
I have to suppress a giggle again. It would really be a moodkiller at this point.
But if this is anything like a LAN or something I'm not sure I'm going to be able to stay serious.
Groove's fingers are tracing across my own hip, clearly looking for my own small square. It's clear to me when he finds it, because suddenly there's enough sensation to have me arching off the berth.
"Whoa –"
"Whoa's right, Belle." He smiles. "Open for me?"
Oh good, another command I have to learn. His fingers become more insistent, teasing at the edges, and a notice pops up on my HUD to open my port cover.
I accept. Here goes nothing.
Groove teases at the exposed cables, and I arch up again. There's something in there that's incredibly sensitive, but he's not quite hitting the spot, and it's getting frustrating.
I don't realize I'm moaning in frustration until he chuckles at me. "Relax, beautiful. I've got you."
He tugs at my cables, pulling them free of the housing, and what I thought was a bunch of cables turn out to be one long, thin length with a slim silver plug at the end. Groove smirks at me as he takes hold of the plug, bringing it up to his lips.
When he licks it, the pleasure is so intense my vocalizer shorts out. All I manage to produce is some form of static.
I'm too afraid of hurting something to reciprocate, though, so I tug at Groove's free hand to get him to unspool his own cable. He keeps teasing my plug while he's doing it, too, which doesn't exactly help my focus.
It feels amazing.
"Now, the plug," Groove says, and he doesn't sound unaffected either, "goes in the corresponding port. Want to do it yourself?"
I hold up my hands so he can see them. They're shaking. Some of it's because I'm turned on, I know, but quite a lot of it's nerves. "Does it look like I can be trusted with sensitive components?"
He laughs quietly. "I'd trust you with quite a lot, Belle, but I get your point." He holds up my plug. It's so sensitive even the air around it feels like a caress. "Watch."
I do try. And it's easy enough to watch as he slowly pulls the plug towards his own port, there on his hip next to the cable. But the moment it comes even slightly close, there's an intense pull, and it feels like my plug's almost vibrating.
It's even more intense than when he licked it. And when it finally connects, with a faint click I can barely hear –
I don't have words. Literally, because my vocalizer's shut down again, along with my optics. And I can feel someone in my head, like I'm reaching out to something, but I don't know what it is yet. Not until I can feel Groove's plug clicking into my own port.
I was wrong. This is nothing like a LAN at all.
This is… This is intense pleasure, the like of which I've never, ever experienced, not even as a human. Everything's sharpened – more sensation, more pleasure, warmer, colder, everything. And in the middle of it all, in the middle of a maelstrom of feeling that's threatening to overwhelm me, there's Groove.
He's a solid presence, offering a connection. And I accept, because that's the point, isn't it? Even though I don't know how much more of this I can take, it's already almost too much for me.
"I'm sending the first charge packet now," someone says, and I realize it's Groove, of course it is, he's both inside my head and outside it. And I don't have the time to ask what that even means before something surges across the connection and explodes through my frame, setting off sensors from my toes to the tip of my shoulder blades, and it's hard to tell where the charge ends and the real touches begin. I know I'm moaning, and there's a name in there somewhere, and Groove's chuckling, though I can't say if it's in my head or if it's real…
"Send it back, love."
I don't know how. I don't even know how to say that I don't know how. Everything in my mind is pleasure, and I can't think straight.
"Gather up the sensations and throw them at me."
I try. I focus on the feeling, as much as I can, and push them at the connection.
By Groove's moan and sudden arching, I managed. Though I don't have time to revel in my success before the charge comes right back, bursting along every seam and cable in me, and now I can see the faint sparks that flash into existence across my plating, and across his as well.
I feel like I might melt. Or explode. Whatever happens next.
"One more, Belle," Groove says, and now he's panting, his plating scorching hot against my hands. I gather up everything I have and push it at him. He groans, almost crashes down on top of me, and immediately I'm assaulted with the strongest charge yet. It washes over me, and in its wake, everything turns black.
"Isobel…"
I groan a bit at the voice. Everything has a pleasant ache to it, like I've done yoga for hours. Or got run over by a truck.
"Belle…"
"Shaddup," I manage. "'M sleeping."
There's a soft chuckle. "Wake up, sleepy beautiful. I need to get some fuel in you."
Like that's reason enough to wake up.
Hands move over my frame, along with something moist. It takes me a moment to realize that Groove's cleaning me with a damp cloth. It feels nice – I'm not that warm any more, for all that I'm sore all over.
"Come on, Belle. Aid'll have my plating for space shielding if I don't get you refueled."
That has me onlining my optics and frowning at him. "No using Aid's puppy eyes to guilt trip me into anything."
He smiles, holds up a cube. I can see the additives floating in it. "Not even this? I added carbon."
"Oh, fine." I draw a put-upon sigh. "Gimme."
He hands over the cube and waits politely until I've finished it. Then he drops down next to me in the berth.
"So… was that okay?"
I consider for a moment. Yeah, I feel all dismantled, but in a good way. And having Groove in my head was… "Yeah." I smile at him. "Yeah, it was amazing."
He's just close enough to snuggle against, though it takes me more than a few tries before I find a position that allows for my shoulder blades and finials to be comfortable. When we finally slot together properly, it's like I was sculpted to fit against him like this – my legs tangling with his, one arm around his waist, my head tucked up under his chin.
"Maybe we can try sparks with First Aid next time we're all off together." This close, Groove's voice almost tickle my finials.
"I have to have a job to have time off, but yeah. I'd love to plan for that."
Reflexively, I check my queue. Not that I expect much – it's late, not even Ultra Magnus will be working now.
Except, it seems he is. Or he was, half an hour ago.
Groove clearly notices something's up. Maybe my gasp alerts him. "What's up?"
I skim through the documents Ultra Magnus sent. They're a lot of legalese and it's going to take me a while to get the details, but the gist of them is clear enough.
"I've been approved." I laugh, more than a little giddy, and squeeze Groove tighter. "I can practice on Cybertron."
"About time," Groove says with real feeling. "We need it. So many mechs need it." He nuzzles the top of my head. "Any idea where you're going to start?"
Clever Groove, not asking for names. He knows I can't give them.
"Yeah," I reply. "Yeah, I know exactly where to start. But I need to talk to Aid first." I pull back a bit so I can look at him. "You mind if I comm him now? It won't take long."
He smiles. "No, it's fine, Belle." He pulls me closer again, tucks my head back under his chin. "You can comm him from right here."
I giggle and snuggle in as close as I can. "Sure."
::Hey, First Aid!::
::Isobel? Something wrong?:: His tone turns teasing. ::Don't tell me you're tired of Groove already.::
::Nah, I'm never letting either of you go. That's not why I'm calling. Guess what! I've been approved!::
He knows what I mean instantly. ::That's great news, Isobel! I thought you would be, but I know it's been chafing on you.::
::Yeah, it has. And now I need your advice. I know who I want to contact first, who I should have contacted a long time ago really, but I don't know where he is. Can you help me?::
::Probably.:: A faint pause. ::You're going to find Sunstreaker, aren't you?::
::He's like a brother to me.:: I know Aid understands. ::I would have gone to see him already, but I didn't want to sabotage my chances of getting approval by stumbling into a psych session without the necessary rules in place.::
::I get it. They will, too.:: Aid's tone changes – suddenly he's all business. Medic-mode. ::I know where they are, and I'd like to come with you. Sunstreaker hasn't let himself be examined by a medic since right after the battle against Shockwave. With you there, I stand a chance.::
::I'll hold onto him if I have to,:: I promise. Not that I think it'll work for a moment. Sunstreaker's probably heads and shoulders taller than me and at least twice my mass.
::I'm off-shift in a few days,:: Aid continues. ::Can we go then?::
::Send me the date, I'll put it in my schedule,:: I confirm. ::We need to make sure Streetwise can come too, though. I'm not allowed to drive anywhere without him.::
::I'll take care of it.::
::Thanks, Aid. Love you.::
::Love you too. Both of you.::
I smile at that. I'm not sure how Groove and First Aid love each other, really, if it's the way a human would expect brothers to or if it's more intimate. I have faint memories of First Aid saying he sometimes interfaced with his gestalt.
Well, I'm in prime position to find out.
::We love you too. And Groove says we should try sparks next time you join us.::
He laughs. ::He loves that. And I'm going to have a hard time focusing on my shift now.::
::I'll let you be, then. Night, First Aid.::
::Night, love.::
I offline my optics and burrow close to Groove. He's covered me up with a blanket at some point without me noticing.
"All good?" My head is nuzzled again.
"All good." I try and fail to suppress the yawn – this body doesn't need it, but it feels like I do. "And now I'm going to recharge. Night, Groove."
"Night, Belle. Pleasant dreams."
I don't know how much Cybertronians dream. But I'm fairly sure Groove can keep nightmares at bay just by being there. He's simply that good.
Not sure how I got lucky enough to get two good mechs. But I'm not complaining.
Especially not when Groove begins softly humming an Earth lullaby. He strokes my back slowly, gently. Soothing.
It's nice to see things finally begin to fall into place. Now I just have to track down my errant brothers, and get a proper office, and I'm all set.
Things are finally falling into place.
A/N: Skywarp and Bluestreak now have their own sidestory to this one! It's posted on ao3, same username, story's called "My trust in your hands".
