A/N: Read this after you read Old Turning, if you're following both OC and OM! Thankies!

Starscream is the unhappiest and most confused person I've ever written D: Also, adoring thanks to Pinkuh for providing the whole of Megatron's pre-Detroit backstory, only a snippet/facet of which is being alluded to here. In my opinion, it ups his sexiness at least 140 percent.

Translate the Portuguese, I KNOW YOU WANT TO. Big hugs and kisses to Bisuteria and Drachenaugen for help with grammar/my idiocy. Apparently I have readers who speak both Portuguese and Spanish, which somehow excites me greatly!

Also, this is the last mind-molesty, irritating-lack-of-touch chapter. Not saying they'll get it on immediately (HAH), but things will be much more forward from here on out! And there will be lots of kisses. Many angry kisses! And Skyfire is up next wooooo~

Characters: Starscream, Megatron, flashback Heiress

Pairings: Megatron/Starscream for srs because I keep lying about it

Warnings: Unprofessional conduct from Megatron, as always. Calling and Lesson mentionings, and the Worst (if Most Dedicated) Mother Ever award goes to…

Touch

If there was one thing Starscream despised, it was errands.

Not only errands, but fools' errands. He did not graduate with honors from Iacon Academy to be stuck running reports from floor to floor of the most prestigious and dangerous company in Detroit, and yet, whenever he happened to step on Megatron's toes by pointing out a brutally accurate flaw in one of his oh-so-grand plans, it was a reliable mode of punishment. More often than not he was handed a pile of papers and told to get a move on—oh, and some coffee too, if you wouldn't mind. Only his siblings would dare waggle their coffee cups at him (or, in Slipstream's case, whack him over the head with hers) but the very implication made his blood boil.

Starscream nearly ground his teeth down to stubs as he stalked through the harshly lit hallways, knowing he was still responsible for his original work back in his office as well as this tomfoolery. Megatron was cruel and merciless indeed, but the thing Starscream was beginning to fear most from his President was his horrid brand of efficiency. Why spare the punches or the paperwork of a pay-dock if his inferior could punish himself, cause his coworkers to hold him in contempt and get actual work done at the same time?

Swallowing the last of his grumbles, the Seeker rearranged his bundle of files and elbowed open the double doors that led to his ultimate embarrassment: the President's office. The large room was nearly pitch-black, all shades drawn. Squinting, he looked up towards the front of the room. Projected up onto the wall was a crisp page from a news website (because of course, the old fool's eyes were too ruined to stare at a tiny computer screen, he thought with some pleasure) which featured blocks of text and, in the center, a fuzzy video.

The man on the screen was speaking rapidly, a kind of curt, foreign language, and gesturing to match. Starscream's first thought was that Megatron was ignoring the video and focusing on the text, but when the young man drew closer with his bundle, the text was foreign as well, sporting curvy accents and earmarks of a western romantic language.

The video ended, leaving Starscream somewhat open-mouthed in front of his boss's desk. The lights came back on, illuminating the huge grey-suited man seated silently in his leather chair, one hand to his chin and his rigidly-trimmed goatee. Still, the projection of the web-page remained, turned ghostly translucent. Starscream's eternally snide nose crinkled in confusion.

"That's…"

"Not English," the older man supplied, grey eyes never straying from the screen.

"I gathered," Starscream snapped nastily. He despised how effortlessly the man undermined his intelligence, and was even angrier that he had given Megatron the opportunity. He hadn't even meant to speak, but already Megatron had turned from the wall and was watching him expectantly, wire-frame glasses tap-tap-tapping against his full mouth. Giving him another chance to make a fool of himself.

"Italian," Starscream said off-handedly. When in doubt, be unconcerned.

"Português."

The immediate change in his President's voice startled Starscream: the richness remained, but it was coaxed into a flawless accent. That of a native speaker. Before he could comment—or indeed, stare incredulously until he had his fill—Megatron leaned over and shut off the projector.

"I acquired it during my childhood. It was… necessary," he said oddly, then looked up at Starscream with one thick brow raised. "Surely, considering your upbringing, you have a remedial grasp of some proper romantic language."

"French," Starscream replied somewhat defensively, bundle still untouched and in hand.

"Of course," Megatron chortled softly, shaking his head with an air Starscream didn't like in the slightest. "Have you ever visited?"

"Every summer."

"Oui? And exchanged your mercis and s'il vous plaît's?"

His tone was so condescending that Starscream, chin instantly raising a notch to match the heat under his skin, had no intention of answering him. He wondered, indeed, why he had indulged the old fool so far, but the President exhaled tensely and stood, pocketing his reading glasses.

"You will never learn a language unless you are thrown into the thick of it—unless you link it to vital communication, to a means to obtain bread and water. You do not have the right to say you speak it until you think in it and finally dream in it. Until it becomes verbal instinct and your two vocabularies strive for dominance in your mind. You are, at best, a book-trained tamer that has never once touched a wild horse, rolling proper conjugations around your tongue before you consider to think to speak."

"Yes, and nothing impresses you and you are so very superior to everyone around you."

Megatron turned to stare at him, expression nothing if not unsurprised and bland—but even then, it was hard to hold his gaze.

If the jibe came out sharply, it was only because Starscream realized, at the last moment, that he was actually paying attention to Megatron's eloquent, useless diatribe. The man was an incredible orator, made all the more incredible when the passion of his deep voice was restrained to his eyes and eyes alone. Which, plainly, sucked when you were hellbound and determined to deride and deplore every facet of his being.

"I think we all know the routine, oh mighty leader," Starscream continued snidely, thankfully able to dispel any and all illusion of interest with a dry, impatient look. "Gas was under five dollars, ten miles in the snow barefoot, and all that. Now, if you don't mind, I have more important things to do than listen to your senile rants."

Radiating expert derision, Starscream flung down three grey, logo-marked folders and turned. Before he could take a step, however, a hand closed on his wrist, firm as iron. Starscream chomped down on the urge to hiss like an offended cobra and simply stared, face white, at the President.

"And if you do not mind, I still need that last report," Megatron said lightly, hand outstretched—then those same powerful grey eyes glinted. "If you have the time before you get back to your… very important things."

Namely, getting coffee for the entirety of the finance department. Starscream's teeth clacked together.

There was still one grey folder hiding amongst its blue and yellow fellows. Bristling, Starscream looked at his superior's hand in disgust, then jerkily put the files down on the older man's desk, singled out the remaining report and slid it towards him. Then he waited, lip curled, for Megatron to release him.

Megatron did so only after a long moment more of staring at him. The instant that hard hand was off of his thin wrist, Starscream turned away and rubbed it, earning an openly disbelieving look from the older man.

"Why in the world are you so averse to touch?"

"I can assure you, I'm only averse to yours," Starscream muttered, hurriedly recovering from the shock of the contact. A hand around his wrist was as good as a hand around his neck.

"Nonsense. A universal occurrence," Megatron said shortly. "One has to wonder why, when brushed in a hallway by an intern, you shriek like a cat. Or when your own brother grabs for your arm, you raise your hand as if to strike him."

Megatron walked slowly around his desk as Starscream fussed pointedly with his 'very important things': the photocopies for the afternoon meeting that he had been forced to make that morning. Torture prescribed by the very man regarding him so intently. The President shook his head, speaking with the slow, careful air of one finally closing in on something which has evaded their sharp mind for months, perhaps years.

"You despise the simplest of contacts."

"I do not," Starscream lied, ducking almost childishly to hide the ugly expression forming on his face.

It was true. Any person who touched him initiated an itch that crawled over his back like a fever prickle. If unwarned, a touch on the arm was as good as a slap. A hand on his back (so close to his spine) was an offense punishable by death or a single poisonous sneer. He simply hated the feeling of hands on him unless he had given them express permission to be there. Part of it was because he was too good to be touched by just anyone; part of it was because he simply saw no point in being touched unless it was going to go somewhere.

"Then allow me," Megatron began cordially, deep voice far closer than Starscream ever suspected. By the time the younger man thought to turn and perhaps run, the huge man's hand was on his shoulder, drawing him around. "To touch you."

"Absolutely not."

Starscream snatched the remaining files from the desk and started for the door—but once again, Megatron caught him by the arm, yanking him to a halt. This time Starscream looked back in violent disbelief, shrill voice reduced to a rasp.

"Are you insane?"

"Merely curious."

Megatron ventured closer and took the Seeker's hand in his, well-aware of the knifelike talons that flexed to either side, fully prepared to dig into the flesh of his hand. Slowly, his thumb began to wander his Second's small palm.

"I am interested in you. In your… convolutions."

"I don't care," Starscream said flintily when he found his voice (and whatever dumb words presented themselves first). He pointedly kept his eyes pinned to the opposite wall, away from the silver-haired man. "I'm your Second, not the star of your personal freak-show. You aren't allowed to be personally interested in me. It isn't efficient."

"Neither is sending one of the most accomplished men in this building on idiot's errands when he could be assisting me in my personal business," Megatron said archly, winning a half-dismayed, half-furious flash of emotion from the other man. After a moment, Starscream narrowed his eyes and simply stood, waiting for his next offense. Megatron gestured at the air almost humbly.

"Allow me to touch you in a wholly decent way for ten minutes and I will ask no further on the matter."

At Starscream's aghast, unconvinced look, he smirked faintly.

"Think of it as a test of endurance. If you are not as cowardly as I assume you to be, you will pass and I will leave you be," Megatron continued, expression edging on amused, as if he were chuckling a good deal on the inside. When Starscream looked as if he were tensing to pull away, he tightened his grip and added, "I will also call an intern to relieve you of your current assignment. Afterwards, you may return to your original work and distribute it among your staff as you see fit."

If there was one thing to be said about Megatron, he knew where to hit where it hurt—and how to get what he wanted after his opponent was on his knees.

Efficient bastard. No other offer could have kept Starscream in his grip long enough for Megatron to assume his Second was biting his tongue, and, by that point, the older man's callused fingers were working into his palm in a wholly presumptuous manner. After a few seconds of the—he choked on the word—massage, Starscream settled for sneering and looking away, files still clutched against his chest as if they were a shield.

"What makes you think this even resembles professional protocol?"

"I run my business somewhat differently than the rest. I focus on... relationships."

Starscream failed to react when the President firmly relieved him of the files and set them on his desk. The younger man was too occupied with trying to hide the fact that he was wincing from the strength of the hand gripping his, which was conscientiously working out tendons he hadn't realized were tight. Megatron watched his every twitching expression with an uncommon interest, eyes just beginning to rekindle their earlier gleam.

"And that is what confuses me about you, Starscream. You cling so tightly to some aspects of professionalism then flagrantly disregard others."

"I use… whatever benefits me," Starscream grit out, shoulders rising inch by inch by inch as the small pain came and went, then came again. "As you said, you run your business… differently. What right have you to… assume everyone else will play by your rules?"

Megatron half-smiled. How rare it was to eke an honest statement out of Starscream—and they were more alike than he thought. The only difference was, Megatron functioned off of rationale and a steady observation of others, while Starscream jerked furiously at his own wheel, uncaring of the world around him and firm in the belief that he could conquer anything by sheer concentration of… whatever hid in his gut that simultaneously ate him from the inside out. Pure vitriol, he supposed.

"And what caused this?" Megatron wondered, now looking closely at the hand in his. The pale skin, though barely showing the light lines, was bumpy and ragged with scar-tissue. One of Starscream's hands was perfect, the other almost mutilated in messy stripes—or had been, at one time.

"None of your business," Starscream snapped with sudden anger, neck beginning to pinken, but couldn't pull his hand free no matter how hard he tried. And he tried. The older man looked at him flatly for a moment, as if disappointed or bored with his Second's bawlings, then released him.

"Take off your jacket."

Starscream babied his scarred hand instantly, then gaped up at his employer.

"That wasn't part of the—"

"If the sight of dress-shirts and exposed ties aroused me, I would never get anything done," he rumbled dryly, knowing exactly where the younger man's thoughts were. There was nothing indecent he could do with a shirt that he couldn't do with a jacket, and the impatience in his face proclaimed it. Megatron divested himself of his own jacket as proof, then held his hand out.

"Starscream."

Taking a jittery moment to weigh how much he truly didn't want to refill Thundercracker's coffee pot again (and to reason what one truly evil man could do with a free-swinging tie and eight minutes), Starscream thrashed out of his mauve coat, peevishly throwing it on a nearby chair instead of allowing the older man to take it. Megatron curbed the urge to roll his eyes. He then moved behind his Second, smiling somewhat grimly when he dug both hands into the young man's shoulders and Starscream jerked away from him as if stung.

"As I was saying, what benefits you in abstaining from physical touch? It can sway people unconsciously—a primitive yet effective form of communication highly underrated in this country. But then, we are a primitive people, and thus we are less apt to trust what we cannot touch."

His strong fingers worked methodically into the young man's shoulders, again and again, harder and harder. Starscream's nails were digging into his desk. There were now four pretty little scratch-marks on the President's rich mahogany, and he could not think of waxing them away. Eyes lingering on the fine honey-colored lines (there would be more later, hopefully), Megatron leaned towards his Second's reddened ear and lowered his voice to a purr.

"Surely your mother taught you that."

Starscream tensed instantly: proof that knowing that the blow was coming did not make it any easier to bear. The Seeker heir began to open his mouth, began to move away, but his President forced him into a nearby chair, big hands clamping onto his shoulders and abruptly beginning to knead lower, into his knotted-up back.

"Seven more minutes and you may leave." His tone so iron-clad that Starscream merely swallowed, then squawked sharply and glared over his shoulder as pain daggered out from his back. "And relax. It will not help in the slightest if you continue to flex."

For a moment, there was nothing but the papery slide of thumbs against a dress shirt and the occasional huff from Starscream, soon half-bent in his chair.

"My mother is not the subject of this conversation," Starscream grit out between winces, unable to choke back a strangled noise as the older man happened upon a particularly painful knot: he seemed incapable of anything but the most crushing of touches.

"But you are," Megatron reminded him softly, pausing to trace the fine knobs of the boy's spine, steel and jelly in turns, with his fingers. "And I have the feeling your mother is a very large part of who you are."

He walked up the stone path mechanically, drawn toward the golden-brown light of the high French windows like a sick moth. The cold night cut at his neck and face with a sudden gust of wind, but he did not move to fend it off—his arms remained limp at his sides, his face slack. The front door opened before he stepped foot on the porch, revealing the dramatic hourglass figure of his mother: a tasteful collage of diamonds and grey silk for Christmas dinner with her gloved hands out for him.

"My Star, my handsome Star. I nearly wasted away without you!"

She was all pride, all serene smiles, until she looked down and saw his hand, trussed tightly in white bandages. The jagged, deep wounds had long sealed up, all the glass long-gone, but he wished viciously, with a kind of awful echoing malice, that all of the cuts would break right there and stain the bandages, just for her eyes. He flexed his stiff hand in the hopes that it would.

Mother stared and stared and Starscream stood in the doorway, just outside the light of the porch lamp, and breathed heavily in the frigid air, dark hair mussed.

"My god, your hand," she said finally, voice perfectly breathy, which only enraged him further—brought him to a point both outside himself and deep inside his bones. An animal state.

"You told me what to do," he choked out when he could speak, throat red and tight. "You made me believe this was what was expected of me."

"What… are you talking about?" she asked, stepping forward with wide eyes. The moment her gloved hands extended, however, Starscream knew he would become sick if his mother—her slimy silk--touched him. She caused this.

"Think what you want. You had enough faith in my techniques that you hired me."

"Surely she had a large hand in tutoring you."

"Staff took care of that."

"Staff," came the curious repetition.

"Nursemaids. Tutors. People."

Megatron's large hand slid down the hunched back in front of him, lingering on the delicate edges of the young man's shoulder-blades. There was no need to hide the greed in his eyes, with Starscream's face directed at the floor between his knees. The larger greed was not for his Second's exposed back, or his closed eyes, but the slow and steady exposure of Starscream himself.

If the older man had had his hand in an open wound, the situation would not have been more delicate.

"But she was your primary parent. Your father, as I hear, was mostly absent."

"Aren't they all?" Starscream muttered bitterly, causing the President's eyebrows to raise a notch.

"I cannot give a relevant opinion."

And on and on—and deeper and deeper.

He jerked away, then pushed past her, raging further into the belly of his cold house, his coiffed estate that was no more of a home than a boarding school, and she followed him at a near-run. He could hear her stilettos clicking away behind him, stabbing at the marble then the wood then the tiling. He turned into his room and flung the door back, only to have it catch on his mother's heel. She slapped it back and cornered him, snatching him by the sleeve of his sweater.

"Starscream, look me in the eye and stop sniveling!" she ordered, yanking him down an inch as her eyes maniacally searched his bloodless face. "I won't cater to your goddamned dramatics until you tell me what happened to your hand!"

Taking in a deep breath that threatened to rip him in two, he told her. Screamed it at her, because she never spoke of anything like this happening.

He had never anticipated the terror of outreaching someone's primal patience; of flirting too far in what he assumed to be a game until hard hands came down on his wrists and he realized what was at stake. He used to be a god. Now he was a cringing human, too aware of the weak red blood under his skin and the soft, easily-torn nature of that very covering.

He had fallen, but he was not only broken, he was covered in dirt and he was cold and scared. He had never experienced failure before, much less fear so strong it made him want to retch. In that awful moment, running across the dark grounds of Iacon Academy with his bloody hand hidden in his bloody jacket, face wet with sweat and tears alike with no one to help him, Starscream felt as if he could never trust a man again—himself included.

Then, finally, came the one moment where he ran out of words and he stood before her, a foot taller and shivering madly… and his mother actually reached for him.

His mother took him into her arms and hushed him, made him feel like the seven year old he should have been as he was held by the woman who never touched him unless she had to. They fell, collapsed in tandem onto a nearby chair, Starscream on his knees. He cried silently into her skirts, relishing and becoming even more hysteric knowing that she would normally push him away, seeing as salt water—tears--stained silk. She leaned forward and spoke into his rumpled hair, voice hoarse.

"You are so stunning, my Star. You are beautiful, intelligent, dedicated and strong. You have so much ahead of you: I have so much faith in you, in what you can do. You are poised at the edge of the world, Starscream, ready to take it. You will outdo every single person in this family."

The unfamiliar words, pouring from the first and only tear in the distant woman above him, were enough to make Starscream's chest so tight he felt as though he would die on his knees, lost in his mother's skirts—and part of him dearly wanted to. He knew what lay beyond, now.

"I was…"

Frightened, he tried to say. Terrified. My perfect world ended and you weren't there to tell me what to do. She hushed him again, sighing by his temple, gloved hands on his wet cheeks.

"Oh, Starscream. Even the saddest events have a lesson," she whispered, one finger tracing the line of his jaw. Starscream looked up at her, eyes red and puffy, and she brushed the last of his tears away almost like she didn't care how ugly he was in that moment. She smiled at him, tenderly.

"You'll just have to be more careful next time."

Starscream never quite remembered shoving her away or locking himself in his room, or the unearthly silent moment of staring that came before either, but always remembered the last time his mother held him.

"Truth, Starscream."

It was like pulling teeth to get anything but lies out of him. Megatron practically felt his Second's innards twist at the question he asked. At last, Starscream nodded.

"As you are bound to bring it up again and again in a hollow, idiotic attempt to embarrass me…" Starscream swallowed. "Her methods are well-known. She taught me and, knowing no better, I attempted her way. I found it… undesirable."

That one night in the lab haunted him, and always would. It was right in there along with the First Bicycle memories, imbedded in the flesh of his person like a foul aftertaste. His every nerve remembered it. He had managed to get over it, as five-some years and a sex drive would tell, but there were still certain issues. Trust issues. Control issues.

Any man to cross his bedroom threshold abided by a singular rule: obey or get out.

"And now?" Megatron asked, softly enough not to startle him out of his own head.

Like the hard hands on his back, Starscream could still remember the vehemence with which he felt it: his new direction. His mother had twisted him, even if it was in a sincere wish to see him successful, and he had to surpass her. Prove himself above using his body for what he wanted—anything he wanted. He would defeat her. He remembered it well, but what he couldn't grasp was why he was still talking, why he was telling the President this.

His enemy. His enemy, behind him, crushing hands atop his tender creaking spine. But no--the difficulty of the words combined with the pure strength and difficult nature of the touch rendered the Seeker somewhat stupefied. He had long stopped twitching away from Megatron's hands.

No one had ever asked him why he was the way he was. It wasn't so much that they hadn't wondered—he could always sense the question in the back of their throats, more likely wanting proof for a sordid story they'd already concocted rather than actually willing to listen—but that they hadn't bothered. It was a kind of blatant human disregard that didn't matter much in the daylight, but slipped between the cracks at night. It hatefully insulated his chest and every vulnerable organ within and told him he didn't need people. And he didn't.

Starscream did little more than twitch when Megatron's big hands teased through the hair at the base of his neck. His eyelids fluttered.

"The only way you get what you want is by throwing yourself into it. No compromise. No surrender. Hard work."

He had become a jumbled bag of clichés, hardly himself, but the sea of rhythmic, unthreatening touch he'd found himself in was too deep and too relieving to try to get out of, much less begin the sordid battle of claiming his façade again. Strong hands had stopped their assault and now kneaded softly, slowly. He had never been touched this way before. Pleasantly.

He had never been tricked this way before, pleasantly, as ten strictly-haggled minutes dragged on into fifteen, and then twenty while his President loomed over him, smile slowly growing.

"Of course," Megatron said silkily from behind his ear, hand slipping down his Second's warm neck. Starscream exhaled softly, the very sound sending awed prickles down the older man's hard body. "Hard work and rat poison."

Starscream had replaced one underhanded tactic with another: only a fool would think he was honest, but even the greatest fool could see he was damaged beyond repair.

When Starscream continued breathing softly, un-roused by the jab and lost in his small trance, the President stepped around to the front of the chair and half-leaned on one of the arm-rests, staring intently at his filigree lashes before touching the Seeker's cheek, brushing his thumb over the younger man's lips.

The light contact was enough to make Starscream open his eyes and draw back, dark dabs of color barely glittering. He returned his President's stare hazily, as if wondering what he was doing there in that chair and in that suit and in that well-furnished corporate office—and what this silk-clad man wanted from him.

Megatron saw now, it was not as simple as Starscream being trustworthy. He himself could not trust. He did not know how. If he had ever trusted anyone, it was never rewarded—in any way.

His experience was not exclusive. Megatron's impenetrable chest once more tightened with that manic fervor, so rare and yet so dangerous, that insisted they were destined for each other. He saw the ragged gap in the other man, and finally knew where it lay. Combined, they would be perfection.

"Let me be the first you trust, Starscream. Trust me, and all good things will follow. You need never fear touch beside me."

"And yet you struck me three days ago," Starscream rasped faintly, gaze trained somewhere beyond his President. "And you will slap me tomorrow over some… some unmarked bundle of papers you find in my desk."

Determined expression unchanging, Megatron carefully took the thin man by the waist and lifted his unresponsive weight up onto his feet until they were standing chest-to-chest, mouths almost brushing.

"And that is because I will already know where those papers came from and what you were planning to do with them, Starscream. Nothing is unconditional. You may always trust me to react befitting what you do," the warlord said softly, holding him steadily and breathing in the young man's scent. "Has anyone ever offered you so much—honest constancy? I am just. If you follow me, I will reward you. If you obey me, I will protect you. Do this, I will never lay a hand on you again, little Seeker."

Starscream exhaled shakily when callused fingers trailed down his white neck. An arm slipped around his waist, big hand warm on his back, and Megatron's voice came close and deep in his ear.

"Unless, of course, you desire it."

The Seeker had nothing left in him to protest the other man's suffocating, protective closeness: the earlier rhythmic touch had worked all of the poison out of his blood momentarily. When Starscream did nothing more than shiver slightly in his arms, Megatron leaned down and kissed him. The older man had to hold back the sweltering rush of victory, to keep his hold gentle as he pressed kiss after kiss to the Seeker's pink lips, finally deepening it with a touch of his tongue. Starscream caught his breath but did not pull away, then tasted his lips gingerly in return. When he finally turned his face away, the younger man exhaled almost anxiously, brow knotted.

Megatron's mind strayed to the button that would lock his office door, but he never took a step toward it. The reason: Starscream put a fraction of weight on his wide chest, leaning into him, underneath his chin. Submitting. His skin burned at the thought, making him forget earthly things like locks and privacy; the tender space underneath his ribs convulsed with wonderful sharpness.

"What do you need, Starscream?" he murmured, stroking his Second's narrow back. "Tell me."

Despite the utter honesty and seriousness of the question, Starscream could not speak—and if he had been able to, it would have been to stutter that he did not know what he needed. He had never known, but this whole struggle was to find something he wanted enough to fill the gap left by what he needed. All of this passed in near-frightened silence, circulating unheard beneath his pale sweat-damp skin as he hid against his enemy's chest.

When there was no response, the older man kissed him deeply once again, thrilling at Starscream's soft breaths against his lips and wondering at the hands on his chest; the way the nails simply gave way to white, scarred human fingertips when not poised to kill. Yes, this was the way they were intended to be.

"Eu desejo te mais do que tudo, passarinho," he whispered into the Seeker's ear when they parted again, holding him close to his chest and the heart within, beating rapidly for the first time in years.

"What did you say?" Starscream asked hoarsely, not daring to open his eyes. His cheek was pressed to Megatron's shoulder, sharp cologne overwhelming him as much as the strong heat from his skin. The granite arms around him removed the need for a spine, for a skeleton, and he swam for the first time in exquisite helplessness, exhausted from his constant battles with the older man and abandoned by his pride.

"I know what you need. I see it now, and I will give it to you if only you will stop fighting me," the President swore, lips against his temple. "I will give you anything you desire, if only you give yourself to me. If you entrust yourself to me, you will be safe."

The words, no matter how glorified by the push of Megatron's passion, struck something inside his inferior, and it was a note that could not help but resound. Waking slightly, Starscream shook his head with torturous slowness. He barely began to push his lord away, but the older man took his chin and this time the kiss was brutal enough that Starscream whined and cringed, buckling at the knees.

"Say it, Starscream. Say you will be mine," he urged into his inferior's mouth, grip tightening to near-painful intensity. "I can help you. I will do everything in my power to give you peace, give you purpose. Who else can protect you from yourself?"

For a moment, all he heard were his Second's labored breaths which seemed to steam up the thick haze he was still trapped in--then the telephone gave an earsplitting shriek behind them and Starscream started as if shot, instantly shoving Megatron away. Megatron's hands, loosened by shock, gave.

The President was graced with a single second of Starscream standing in front of him, trembling with wide eyes, before the young man abruptly turned white and ran out of the room.

Megatron grabbed after him, then whirled and overturned the nearest chair with a bloodcurdling roar as the doors boomed shut. The cry seared him from the inside out, shaking his marrow with an inhuman anger. After it faded like a dark earthquake, the President stood motionless for a solid minute, listening to the shrill, awful ring of the phone.

He simply breathed in and out, controlling the riot of his hot blood, then moved over and grabbed the phone and thrust it to his ear, teeth bared.

"I could have you killed."

"Oh. Uh. Well. Aren't you even going to ask who it is before you start, er, making threats, Mr. President?"

The showman's voice was instantly recognizable over the phone, if a little strained. Megaron's grimace, if possible, doubled. This was not a call he could ignore, as much as he wished to crush the very phone to shrapnel. He took the deepest and most ineffectual breath of his life.

"Swindle. Be brief and do not test my patience," he snarled, dangerously quiet. "You've just cost me more than you can imagine."

A single call had soiled his foreseeable future and his bed in the same moment.

He was not naturally kind, not naturally gentle, and the emotions Starscream brought out in him were more acidic and impatient than anything. It was so difficult to see his true potential underneath all of his flaws. The energy it had taken to coerce the brat—to promise kindness--would not easily be regathered, and Starscream would be three times as mistrustful of him for the next month.

It was hard enough to manage meaningful moments when he was forced to reach out to Starscream past the knives he held– but when the traitor was wary of him? Nothing mattered more to Starscream than his own skin. For the foreseeable future, there was no chance of capturing the Seeker and the very thought made his head ache and his fists tremble.

There was no informational brevity on the phone, but rather a long pause. Megatron could hear the other man breathing unsteadily on the other side.

"Speak," he barked at last, the beginnings of a colossal migraine gnawing at his head.

"I, uh, I guess my message precedes me, if you're already that pissed." A pause, an audible gulp. "You're not gonna like this."

"Swindle."

"I just promised your last carrier about thirty-five grand to finish up his first shipment and then said I would let him get out of the game the second the last gun was gone." It all came out in a rush, but before Megatron register what he'd said and could draw breath to roar, Swindle blustered, "Luckily, I have no intention of doing either!"

Unseen by a very, very nervous Indian man, the President's eyes flashed. He drummed his fingers on his desk.

"Explain."

Swindle did. It was a fairly short explanation and all the more acceptable for it. Megatron felt the pain of his fresh loss receding in the logistics of business, the juggernaut gears in his head dominating any other thought-train. At the end, he was rolling his sleeves back and nodding.

"Acceptable. Locate new carriers immediately. Appropriate a portion of the original fee and offer it as a bonus for short-notice and high-risk participation. Send Soundwave the message concerning the last carrier, he will transfer it properly."

"Right, sure thing, Mr. President—hah, and can I say how absolutely astonishingly astronomically, hah, sorry I am that this hasn't worked out the way we planned. Y'know, just through human factors, no real fault of mine, or, er, yours for that matter—"

Irritation spiking, Megatron slammed the phone down and immediately leaned against his desk. His office was achingly empty, horribly sterile, and the grey folders still lay clean on his desk, unaffected by the messy seduction they had begun. The rest of them would remain undelivered, it seemed.

Brooding, Megatron brushed his fingers thoughtfully over the four honey-colored scratches in the varnish. Then, after a moment more, he slid those same fingers over his own lips, still damp from his Seeker's warm mouth. He exhaled, closing his eyes: the physical memory of Starscream against his chest was already faint, chased away by the anger of losing him. But this was the last time.

Starscream disliked touch. He disliked losing control, and thus fought to commandeer authority wherever he could. He constantly clawed for dominance: an outwards stability to supplement his inner instability, his seemingly constant fears. With some perspective, Megatron could see he had all the earmarks of a neurotic over-compensator. What else, combined with caustic pride and arrogance, would drive him to pursue the suicidal course of battling his very employer day by day?

But if someone were to dominate him kindly, to relieve some of the pressure he forced on himself? To care for him in a way so he no longer subconsciously feared the passerby? Megatron was quite sure that, in return for his protection, painless submission would find a fond home with his inferior. The older man reached over and picked up the Seeker's discarded mauve suit-jacket with a faint, dawning smile. No, Starscream would see what was best for him, regardless of how many of his age-old barriers Megatron had to break down in the process.

And, of course, he was only concerned with was best for Starscream. A happy Second would be reward enough for him. Now, with this vital new knowledge in hand, all he had to worry about was getting within three feet of the other man. Also, murdering Swindle.

Busy days ahead, even without considering the files on his desk.