Title: After Atlantis
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers.
Warnings: PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations.
Author's Note: This is the last of the back chapters. I'm currently writing Chapter 13, but this marks the end of the daily double chapter postings.

Chapter 12: Ablution

Upon returning to the Ark, they headed straight for the washracks.

Wheeljack had never been one to obsess over his appearance. He wasn't Tracks, or – Primus forbid – Sunstreaker. Any minor scuffs or dents he acquired on his chassis were repaired, of course – when he got around to it. Extensive polishing was too troublesome and time-consuming to bother with. Looking like an ambulatory mirror wasn't high on Wheeljack's list of priorities.

But he drew the line at mud.

Wet and fresh, it was slippery and unpleasant. Dry and caked-on, it was gritty and itchy. In either state, it compromised sensors, sifted into joints and servos with every movement, and got all over everything.

Right now, Wheeljack was covered with it.

Trailbreaker seemed to share his opinion on the subject; he came along with him. Wheeljack didn't have a problem with that, until they'd actually entered the washracks.

They were completely deserted.

Doing his best to conceal his unease, he nodded and laughed at Trailbreaker's joke about mud getting into the darndest places as he stepped over the threshold. After a brief glance around, he made his way to the far side of the room, switching on the sprayer in a perfunctory manner and stepping under it.

He offlined his optics, cycling a sigh of relief as the warm solvent coursed over him, beginning to wash away the worst of the grime that had accumulated on his chassis.

He onlined them again with a jolt when he heard the second sprayer switch on a short – very short – distance to his right. His servos locked into place; suddenly he was too frightened to move. He couldn't even bring himself to turn his helm, although he already knew what he'd see.

Out of all the wash stations in the room – enough to accommodate over twenty mechs – Trailbreaker had picked one directly adjacent to the one the Wheeljack had chosen.

All he could do was stand there, frozen in terror, staring at the mud and solvent as it ran down his frame in thready rivulets, watching it coil into the drain at his feet, his spark pulsing wildly in its chamber. He could hear the movements of other mech nearby – too nearby – hear the faint squeaks and protests of mud-coated servos as Trailbreaker endeavored to cleanse himself of the unwelcome organic substance.

At first he thought he might remain that way forever, but after a few kliks had passed with no indication from Trailbreaker that he was even aware of Wheeljack's presence – not a word, not a gesture – he relaxed slightly, and found he was able to move again. He resumed his efforts to remove the mud from himself, focusing all his attention on that simple task.

"Want me to do your back?"

His helm jerked up. "What?"

"Your back," Trailbreaker said. "I'll do yours if you'll do mine. I'd appreciate a hand; can't reach on my own." He laughed. "Figures that's where all the mud always ends up."

Wheeljack wanted to refuse. He wanted desperately to say 'no.' But what reason could he give, what excuse did he have? The request was hardly an unusual one, though typically reserved for close acquaintances.

Which of course they were, strictly speaking. They'd interfaced, after all.

"Sure," he consented, fighting to keep the strain from his vocalizer.

Trailbreaker took a step toward him, but Wheeljack held up a hand to halt him. "You first," he said.

Trailbreaker smiled, "All right," and turned around, offering his back.

Grabbing one of the stiff brushes provided at each station, Wheeljack hesitantly took hold of Trailbreaker's shoulder-strut to steady himself.

That's when he noticed his hands were shaking.

Gripping the brush tighter in an effort to quell the involuntary tremors, he set to work on Trailbreaker's backstrut, which was heavily clogged with silt. His initial efforts might have been more vigorous than was comfortable, but Trailbreaker made no complaint. In fact, he remained completely still and silent while Wheeljack worked.

Within a few kliks Trailbreaker's backstrut was spotless and gleaming. Wheeljack moved on to his shoulder-plates, taking care to scrub underneath, where grit could invade the gaps and compromise sensitive circuitry.

"Mmmm," Trailbreaker hummed appreciatively. "That feels amazing."

Wheeljack was so startled he nearly dropped the brush.

Idiot! he chided himself mercilessly. There's a sensor cluster there! Now he thinks you're –

"Don't stop," Trailbreaker said, interrupting his thoughts. "You're great at this."

"Thanks," Wheeljack murmured, reluctantly applying the brush once more.

This time his strokes were a little more tentative.

"Hound's terrible," Trailbreaker elaborated conversationally. "Don't tell him I said so, but don't ever let him do your back. He'll take your paint off!"

"I'll remember that," he replied absently, intent on his task. In his CPU, he'd pulled up Trailbreaker's medical file and was carefully mapping out the most heavily sensor-laden regions of Trailbreaker's chassis, places he thought it best he avoid.

Naturally, those spots were just as muddy as the rest.

Feeling trapped and desperate, his spark surging in panic, Wheeljack began to scrub faster, determined to finish as quickly as possible. He forced himself to include the areas he would have preferred to avoid entirely, but he couldn't bring himself to press as firmly as he knew he ought to, to ensure every trace of mud was removed.

In hindsight, it probably would have been better if he had.

When Trailbreaker groaned and pulled away, turning to regard him with glowing optics, Wheeljack realized his gentle, hesitant strokes might have been interpreted as deliberately erotic.

"Enough," Trailbreaker rumbled. "Your turn."

Wheeljack stood frozen as Trailbreaker took the brush from his trembling hands, stepping behind him. He didn't flinch when Trailbreaker rested a hand on his shoulder-strut for balance just as had he done; he held very, very still.

He did flinch when the brush made contact with his backstrut.

"You're really tense," Trailbreaker commented as he scrubbed.

Processing quickly, Wheeljack replied, "Stress. The Dinobots have been acting up again." Fearing further questions, he tried to will the tension out of his taut servos, and was rewarded when his shoulder-struts eased slightly.

"They do seem to do that a lot," Trailbreaker said, still scrubbing.

"Certainly more than I'd like," he responded. "Every time I think they've finally been accepted, they get into trouble again, and end up right back where they started." He cycled a sigh through his intakes. "Naturally everyone blames me, because –"

"…because you're the one who built them," Trailbreaker concluded for him. "I guess that's understandable." He leaned in closer to reach a stubborn clot of mud wedged into a transformation seam running up Wheeljack's side. "On the other hand, they have saved our tailpipes more than once."

"Yeah, but no one remembers that when they're trashing the cargo bay," Wheeljack replied bitterly. "I've been working with them, but there's only so much I can do. They're just…clumsy. They can't help it."

"Nobody's perfect," Trailbreaker agreed. "Raise your right arm a little."

He complied with the request without even thinking about it. The steady scrubbing felt good; the relaxation he'd initially feigned slowly turning into the real thing.

"I can't just scrap them," Wheeljack said mournfully. "I won't. They may not be perfect, but they're alive. They–" He trailed off as the scrubbing suddenly ceased. "What's wrong?" he inquired, peering over his shoulder at the larger mech.

Trailbreaker was staring at him with a kind of awe. "It just hit me," he said, responding to Wheeljack's puzzled look. "You're right – the Dinobots are alive. And you created them."

"Yeah?" he said, confused. "So..?"

"You brought the Dinobots to life," Trailbreaker repeated. "You, not Vector Sigma. That's…incredible."

He realized abruptly what Trailbreaker was getting at. It was both flattering and embarrassing. Wheeljack felt his circuits heating, though he wasn't sure which emotion was responsible. "Well…they're not very bright," he deflected. "And they do tend to destroy things."

Trailbreaker seemed to shake himself. "I guess…it's all in how you look at it," he said slowly, and bent to resume his task.

With a slight difference.

Wheeljack couldn't be sure it was deliberate – after all, he himself had done the same thing unintentionally only a breem ago, in complete innocence – but the strokes of the brush were suddenly much slower, softer, and undeniably more sensual than they had been a moment before.

It felt…nice.

A part of him wanted to pull away. Another part wanted to stay right where he was, and see if the gentle strokes would continue, perhaps progress to other, more sensitive areas…

"I think that about does it," Trailbreaker announced, straightening.

Wheeljack turned to look at him in surprise. Trailbreaker wasn't even looking at him; he rinsed the brush carefully, set it back in its niche, and then switched off the sprayers.

"Thanks for tagging along today," Trailbreaker said, turning back and laying a hand on his shoulder-strut. "I know it wasn't what you'd call a fun outing, but I enjoyed it. Maybe we can do better next time."

"S-sure," he stammered.

"See you around."

Wheeljack stared after the departing mech for a long time.

x.x.x.x.x

He returned to his quarters almost in a daze, keying in the locking code automatically and stepping inside, barely registering the faint hiss of the door as it slid shut behind him.

He moved to the chair at his workstation, turned it around and sank into it, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his processor, a confusing tangle of emotions pulling at his spark.

Trailbreaker had just…walked out.

Wheeljack had been expecting – dreading – another interface request. Given Trailbreaker's behavior up to that point – in the washracks especially – it had seemed practically inevitable. Wheeljack had all but resigned himself to having to go through with it.

But instead, Trailbreaker had just said goodbye and walked out.

It was an incredible relief.

He slouched down in his chair, the tension finally easing from his servos. He'd been wound up tighter than a mainspring all day. He'd been so sure

But Trailbreaker hadn't.

Wheeljack felt an odd surge of gratitude toward the other mech. The past few days had been extremely stressful for him, but now he was clean, comfortable, calm, and relaxed. He felt…good.

And once again, he had Trailbreaker to thank for it.

The thought made him chuckle. After all that had happened between them, he'd assumed – not unreasonably – that he would no longer find Trailbreaker's presence as soothing as he had in the past.

Yet here he was, sitting at ease in his quarters, thanks to him. He ran a finger down the length of the transformation seam on his right side appraisingly. Not a trace of mud remained. Trailbreaker had done a good job.

Better than I did on myself, Wheeljack thought ruefully, noting a small clump of grit still clinging to the edge of his chestplate. He stretched to retrieve the cleaning cloth he kept stashed in a drawer at his workstation – more frequently used on his inventions than himself – and buffed away the spot.

It was odd, the way Trailbreaker had just left like that…

He spied another spot he'd missed and buffed that out too, shaking his helm at his own carelessness.

Trailbreaker had departed in a good mood, to all outward appearances. Wheeljack was fairly certain he hadn't done or said anything that could be construed as offensive, even to the touchiest mech, which Trailbreaker definitely wasn't. It seemed unlikely he'd left in a fit of pique.

But he had left. Wheeljack couldn't fathom why.

Absorbed in his thoughts, his efforts at polishing became increasingly directionless, devolving into half-sparked swipes at random sections of his chassis.

It didn't make any sense. Trailbreaker had opted to use the wash station right next to his, when he'd had the entire room to choose from. He'd offered to wash the places Wheeljack couldn't reach. On their own, those things weren't inherently suggestive, but they did imply a certain degree of…familiarity.

His fingers absently traced another transformation seam, this time the one at his hip. The polishing cloth slipped from his hand, unnoticed.

Of course it wasn't unheard of for two mechs who were close friends to assist each other in such a way, but it occurred far more frequently between lovers, and for good reason. For some Autobots – particularly those with an exhibitionistic streak – a visit to the washracks with one's lover was a popular form of foreplay.

His fingers flitted idly across the seam again. He slouched lower in his chair, widening the gap, allowing greater access to the wires and cables hidden within. His fingertips traced along their length, stroking gently.

Given their recent history, Wheeljack couldn't believe Trailbreaker had intended the offer as a strictly platonic one. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility; Trailbreaker had indicated he'd done the same thing with Hound, whom he'd identified as 'just a friend.' But then, he'd also admitted to having interfaced with Hound, once upon a time...

The other hand slid down his chassis to join the first, dipping into the seam on the opposite side.

He recalled the light, teasing strokes of the brush moving over his plating. That had been nice.

His fingers continued their steady motion, sliding back and forth as arched into them, leaning further back in his chair.

But had it been intentional? Could he have misread the situation? No, it had to have been deliberate. There was no other logical explanation. Trailbreaker had clearly wanted to –

The sharp click-whirr of his cooling fans switching on startled him out of his reverie. To his dismay, he discovered that his core temperature had risen significantly over the course of his musings, and his fingers were –

He jerked his hands away from himself hastily. His plating was hot, but not dangerously so; nevertheless he reacted as if he'd been burned. He panted through his intakes, trying to rapidly cool his overheated core.

A chaotic blend of conflicting emotions assailed him – distaste, arousal, revulsion, longing, confusion, loneliness, despair, disgust. His fuel tank churned; his spark fluttered.

Great Cybertron, what was wrong with him?

A mild charge had built up in his circuits, leaving him feeling restless. A part of him wanted to finish what he'd started. Another part was horrified that he'd started at all.

He'd never had any issues with self-service before. Sometimes he even preferred it to interfacing – it was less complicated, more convenient. If he craved an emotional connection, he'd seek out a suitable partner, but for the times when he just wanted to relax himself with a quick overload, he had no compunctions about tweaking a few wires and tripping a few sensors to get there.

But now the act was no longer relaxing. There were too many uncomfortable associations, too many conflicting emotions involved to even contemplate it. He couldn't bring himself to finish. He didn't dare attempt to enter recharge in his present state.

In the end, he simply sat, alone in the dark, waiting for his systems to normalize.