C.M.D: It has been a long, long, LONG time since I wrote a chapter for SoV, but I'm glad to have cranked one out. Especially since we've hit the story's apex. With any luck, my muses will let me put a chapter together every update period, so you can enjoy the ride without further delays. In the meantime, please enjoy what I do have this month!
For a long time, he remembered being cold. Like fangs of liquid ice biting deep beneath his plating, chilling everything under the surface yet scorching him on the outside. It left the mech writhing in agony for cycles on end; praying to be spared of this torment as he slipped between delirium and sense.
His only reprieve came in the form of a stout Decepticon, with golden servos and a golden plate hiding his face, caring for the bedridden mech in unexpected kindness. There should have been anger at the sight of the slave owner by his berthside -even disgust would have been acceptable- yet Tracks could carry no such feelings in his spark any longer. The winged mech had cried aplenty while his processor finally gave up the pretense that Soundwave was his enemy. In this place, he had no other ally.
Imprisoned by fever, Tracks battled with all the realities and truths he had ignored for so long, while on the outside, Soundwave fought to keep the Autobot alive. In those unknown moments, he said farewell to the image of Moonracer once and for all, trembling servos unable to keep her on this plane for another orn. The absence of her in his spark left the winged mech hollow and the grief of it would have been enough to drive him further into sickness. Yet, not a moment after he began to mourn the loss of his betrothed, did another figure enter into Tracks' delirium and the slave was not surprised when he recognized them as Soundwave.
Embraced by the blue mech's phantom in unconsciousness and nursed by the original in his few waking kliks, the Autobot felt the edge of his illness soften and the pain start to cease entirely. He began to carry a sense of serenity and trust that Tracks had not held in what seemed to be an eternity. It cleared away the last of the poisons from his processor and put a flicker of hope in his healing spark.
But when the slave roused from the fever fully, it was to find himself alone without sign or word of his benevolent caretaker. A stone of sorrow pressing on his glossa, Tracks shuttered his optics, feeling like a fool.
xxXxXxx
Sunlight poured warmly through the windows of the estate, shimmering off of the heavy dew drops from the night's rain and carrying an uplifting scent of fresh blooms into the painted halls. Enjoying himself a quiet stroll, Soundwave cycled the precious spring air deeply, glad that its presence signaled the end of a long, arduous winter. It meant the start of his annual checks for the Empire as well, but the telepath was looking forward to a full schedule once more.
"Good morn, Master," a portly femme greeted, approaching the Decepticon from the side. She curtsied as Soundwave faced her, straightening and smoothing the front of her apron after a moment. "I just wished to inform you that the storeroom stock has already been counted and I have personally overseen the end-of-season check of the staff's health. No concerns to note."
"Updates: acknowledged," the blue mech replied, gesturing for the matron to follow as he continued his walk. She did so immediately, keeping one step behind her master respectively. "Order: Gather an able-bodied team and present them a copy of items for restocking. Have a coach take them to the market and shop for what's necessary. Status: Shall send payment to the merchants later."
"Understood, my lord," the matron said, curtsying again. She started to turn but paused, giving a little cough as she awkwardly faced the telepath. "Pardon my rudeness, milord, but is there anything you require for the Autobot Tracks?"
Soundwave straightened stiffly at the mention of the winged slave's name, uncharacteristically mute. "Fact: nothing required. May return to your duties," he answered belatedly, dismissing the femme. He could hear her doubt echo loudly, even as she walked away, yet the matron did not speak up on it. All the same, the telepath found himself judging his actions harshly.
It had been a fortnight since he had last seen Tracks, and that involved tending to the Autobot diligently while he struggled to overcome a series case of fever. Once the sickness had alleviated, Soundwave had tasked a servant to watch over the multi-coloured mech for the final orns of his recovery and had immediately set to distancing himself again. It was cowardice, of course, but the Decepticon knew of no other option.
Seeing Tracks -so frail and weak, wavering on the edge of death- had shaken the councilor to his very core. He'd wasted every cycle at the other's berthside, overwhelmed with the terror that all of his efforts would be in vain. In that instant, Soundwave knew that he truly and wholly loved the Autobot... And the telepath distanced himself the moment he was sure Tracks would be well again. After this scare, how could Soundwave had ever believe that he may live his life fully without the winged mech's spark to call his own? He did not have the spark to play another game of touch-and-go with Tracks, so how was he to keep the slave in his estate for the rest of his orns, neither of them being ever happier?
These sort of thoughts were not helping to resolve the issues at hand. Sighing softly, Soundwave turned left down the next hallway, heading for the library. With no other task on his personal agenda this orn, it seemed best to distract himself with a book or two.
The councilor was just opening the door to the library when he realized it wasn't as empty as he had originally thought it was. Stepping back hurriedly, the telepath pulled the door after him until it remained ajar only a couple inches, peering through the crack anxiously. Within, Tracks moved about the library, climbing up on a short stool to polish the gold filaments and wall brackets until they shone brightly in the sunlight. Soundwave was shocked. He knew that the winged mech had been diligent in taking care of the library, but the Decepticon had not anticipated Tracks being so dedicated in his responsibility. Guided by those slender servos, every inch of the library had been dusted, cleansed, polished and organized. The curtains had been taken down, aired and beaten free of dirt, and now fluttered lightly in the spring breeze. Library tables and chairs had been given a gentle massage with varnish, leaving the wood glowing, and the cushions were freshly washed and plump. Books were dust-free and filled the shelves; ordered by colour, series, author and even subject. From the floorboards to the domed ceiling above, every inch of the room was restored, rich with colour and highlighting the intricate carvings decorated around the library.
The entire space was a wonder to behold under the golden light... yet nothing could compare to the winged mech radiated in the holy glow. Spark pulsating rapidly, Soundwave took another step back, finally shutting the door with a quiet click. What a fool was he. Venting heavily, the councilor slowly released the doorknob and turned away, deciding to head for his office to be alone with his thoughts.
xxXxXxx
Perched on his stool, Tracks came to a pause in the middle of his work, craning his helm about the room curiously. Nothing was amiss though, and despite having been certain he'd heard the door open, it was still closed. "Idiot...," the mech mumbled to himself, turning back to the bracket he'd been polishing, "Face it, he's not coming. Expecting that he will come through that door any moment is pointless."
But why should it be?
The slave halted in his chore a second time, before grunting and scrubbing at the bracket ruthlessly, until the wax disappeared entirely and his fingers started cramping. With an irritated sigh, Tracks stepped down from the stool, collapsing on the wooden bench in a sudden rush of tired limbs. Absent-mindedly, he stared at his polish-stained servos, noting a cloud of dust on his tunic and even a thin string of cobwebs trailing from his knee joints -all physical signs to confirm the exhaustion he felt. If only his tiredness was the result of hard labor alone and not the sickening weight of doubt tethered around his spark.
Was there a reason to Soundwave avoiding him again? Tracks threw his servos down with another sigh, then lifted them again to hug himself as his tanks roiled uneasily. It just didn't make sense! Certainly the councilor had a responsibility towards the winged mech, but did general concern equate to staying at one's berthside and personally tending to an ill slave? Within this realm, such a concept was ridiculous. Even laughable, really. And given Soundwave's track record toward him, the Autobot had to wonder if the kindness had actually been a prelude to something more.
….Or perhaps he had transformed that 'something more' into loathing after all the times he'd attacked the Decepticon.
After all, Soundwave had lashed out vehemently at fall's end, then proceeded to treat the slave like a discarded possession -useless and forgettable. At the recollection of the blue mech's anger, Tracks began to tremble minutely; hugging himself tighter while his optics warmed over. He deserved every harsh thing the councilor had said that orn, yet it had stung. Every bit of it. And Soundwave was right. The Autobot had everything back then, and then some, but was too wrapped up in his hatred and pain to truly acknowledge it.
Something dripped onto the multi-coloured mech's knees, shocking their owner from his piteous thoughts. Staring at the splattered tear drop upon his plating in bafflement, it was a klik before Tracks was wiping the rest from his cheekplates; his actions lethargic and clumsy as he arose from his daze. Losing himself to another cycle of grief would accomplish nothing, and after the last one, he really did not wish to experience such a darkness again. Things could not repeat a second time. Rising to his pedes quickly, the Autobot gathered his cleaning materials into one pile on a table, before rushing out of the library under the flame of fresh determination.
Now was a time for action, not indecisiveness.
xxXxXxx
The cycles had passed at a snail's pace, never speeding up, though the telepath had certainly tried to make them do so. Unfortunately, all it resulted in was a pair of sore pedes, a budding processor-ache and a good workout around the compound. His distractions a failure and his spark still filled with dour thoughts of Tracks, Soundwave decided to call it a night and started for his room. He paused only to summon a passing slave over, instructing the tiny femme to have dinner brought to his quarters immediately and a hot bath drawn as he ate. Once she'd hurried off, the blue mech continued on his way, not at all surprised to find his meal had arrived to his room before he did.
In the privacy of his own berthroom, Soundwave removed his mask, setting it to the side of his plate as he sat down before his dinner. After that point, the councilor only proceeded to stare at the hot meal; even attempting a bite did nothing for his lack of appetite and in fact made the mech feel ill. With a heavy sigh, Soundwave pushed away his food, donning his mask and exiting the room. Seeing as how dinner was not an option tonight, the Decepticon sorely wished to bathe so he might have a dreamless recharge. The bathhouse was filled with steam when the telepath arrived; wisps of it visibly curling off the water as he slipped into the tub, finding the temperature wondrously hot, but not scalding. Removing his clothes, Soundwave let himself sink deeper into the bath, until the water lapped at his collar strut and the muggy air made thinking harder. Enjoying himself finally...
...Until something cool and wet touched his shoulder plating unbidden. Pushing away from the side of the tub suddenly, the blue mech whirled around, snatching his assailant's arm in a crushing grasp. He was duly unprepared though for the face he found staring back in equal surprise.
xxXxXxx
Soundwave was actively ignoring him. The sun was beginning to make a downward descent as Tracks circled back around to his room, having spent an entire orn searching the estate; always several steps behind the Decepticon, never catching up. Now it was evening, and the only thought on the slave's processor was how he didn't know where to find the blue mech. Was there any point in trying any more?
Wings lowering behind him, the Autobot shuffled up to his door, ready to simply collapse in his berth. He stopped just in the doorway though, glancing down at his frame and dusty tunic. A bath first, he decided, would probably be a wise idea. Grabbing a spare tunic from the armoire, Tracks hurried on to the bathhouse, hoping that a warm soak might help ease his troubled thoughts. Imagine his surprise when he cracked the door open to meet a wall of steam. Frozen in alarm, the multi-coloured mech debated just leaving entirely, until his optics gleaned a familiar helm through the warm mist. Spark pulsing quickly, Tracks shuffled a couple more steps inside. It seemed he hadn't been noticed yet, he mused, shutting the door softly behind himself, so the next question was how to proceed.
Optics flashed about the room rapidly, searching for an answer; glowing brightly as they landed on the table of bath oils and scents to his left.
xxXxXxx
Soundwave shuttered his optics behind his visor, struggling to think through the shock. "You-?!"
"O-ow...," whispered Tracks, wincing as the golden fingers around his forearm tightened unconsciously. Hearing it, the councilor released the slave in a hurry, sliding away from the tub edge. His other servo cupping where Soundwave had grabbed him, the winged mech watched the other's frazzled retreat with anxious optics; scooting as close to the edge as he dared in response. "W-wait," he gasped, "Please!"
"Query: What are you doing here?," the telepath demanded stiffly, his shoulders straightening back in his anger. "Tracks: Up to your tricks again?"
"N-no, I...," the Autobot stammered, thrown by the sudden vehemency. "I j-just... I was only wanting to help," he finished in a meek mumble, presenting the sudsy sponge in his right servo as evidence.
Soundwave stared at the bath sponge incredulously, before wading further into the tub, where the floor sunk deep enough to allow a mech his size to stand up and still have the water at a comfortable level around his abdomen. "Help: Unwanted. Fact: Have a heinous record where 'help' is implicated," he accused, a large finger jutted at the winged mech. "Suggest: Leave this very moment before guards are summoned."
Clutching the sponge tightly, Tracks shook his helm, fixing the councilor with a stubborn stare. "I-i... I'm only talking," he protested, pedes sliding into the tub as he tried to get closer to his master. "This isn't a trick or some sort of trap. Would you come here and just talk with me?"
"Answer: No," came the curt reply.
"Why-" The Autobot paused abruptly, starting to feel as if he was going to lose it. He hadn't anticipated Soundwave to be so contentious, and engaging in another altercation with the Decepticon only caused the aching in his spark to return tenfold. Struggling through the knot forming in his vocalizer, Tracks continued, "I know I've been in the wrong and I've made my apologies. I'm just trying to make things better now, okay? Is it really so hard for you to believe that I'm being honest?"
"Status: Not the time or place," Soundwave answered, his tone even more biting than before.
Tracks scowled at it, throwing the sponge down as his emotions got the best of him. "Why? Why isn't this a good time?," he demanded, optics heating over quickly. He had just wanted to talk, slaggit! Not erupt into a screaming match. "Is it because you're undressed? If you'll recall, we've both been in an equally naked state beforehand."
The mention of that night so long ago now, where Soundwave had offered everything to Tracks only to be rejected after, was the last straw. "Order: Get out..."
"But-"
"Repeat: GET OUT!," the councilor bellowed, striding through the water impossibly quick and grabbing the slave by his neck. "Order: Leave this very instant or so help me, you shall be confined to your quarters and punished severely for your defiance!," he growled, giving the Autobot a hard shake.
Blue optics, wet with unshed tears, stared back at him in mute shock, before they darkened and a gloom seemed to settle into the room. Soundwave decidedly did not care; he wouldn't fall for any more of Tracks' mind games. He would not allow himself to be hurt another time. "Query: Do you understand?," he asked lowly.
A small, restrained nod of Tracks' helm was his only answer. Still in turmoil from anger, fear and grief, the telepath threw the Autobot away from himself, red visor fixed on the winged mech impatiently. It took almost a klik before the slave was able to stand to his pedes again; lowered optics glancing at Soundwave for a short moment before turning to the floor passively. With more dignity than the councilor believed he deserved, Tracks smoothed the hem of his tunic and straightened the material around his shoulders, poised like a goddess as he strutted from the bath hall.
Only once the door had been shut behind the slave, did some semblance of guilt pierce its way through the telepath's anger.
xxXxXxx
He had thought...
Servos moved quickly in the dim moonlight, placing a prayer token into a small purse, alongside some beads and small, lose gems. They clinked against the few coins within and fingers moved quickly to smother the sound; tying the drawstring tight and placing the purse into a hidden pocket sewn inside his tunic.
He'd really thought he could make things better now. After all, he'd finally realized a great number of things and was willing to atone for his actions. But apparently, he was not so forgivable.
A sigh threatened to escape, yet had no way to move past the tears squeezing his neck cables closed. He fought to keep the bulk of them down, having spent too many cycles this evening weeping anyhow, but a couple still escaped as the slave pulled a small cloak from the armoire. Over and over, his processor replayed the confrontation in the bath hall earlier that night; spark withering in despair at the memories.
'I think I love you,' he'd wanted to shout. His master had left no room for such words though and fear had robbed him of any motivation to speak them.
Pathetic, the slave thought to himself. He'd suffered and endured more hardships than was duly fair, only, in an unexpected twist, to find himself falling for one of the very Decepticons that placed him in such a situation. Or so he believed. Perhaps he was wrong though. Perhaps the Autobot was mistaking these emotions as affection, when really they were something else. He really didn't know anymore... It felt akin to the feelings he had carried when Moonracer had been in his life. Similar, yet unique.
But he'd been wrong about his master having a civil conversation with him, so it was very likely that he was wrong about this too.
Clasping the cloak in place and double-checking that his purse was hidden away securely, the winged mech exited his berthroom and hastily headed for the estate's front door. He left no note and garnered no attention as he made his way to the stables; the lies slipping off his glossa easily to the coachmech, who prepared to take the slave into the city.
Under the pink sky, pregnant with the rising swell of a new orn, Tracks disappeared down the cliffside road -out of sight of the coach, out of sight of the estate, and out of sight of any who might care.
C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?
