Author Note: I have added my own contribution to the fanart for this pairing and I am shamelessly plugging it – the link is on my profile, for anyone who is interested.
Salvation
Chapter 8
Starscream grit his teeth in frustration, kicking out at a dead tree trunk, taking little satisfaction in the way the rotting wood splintered under the force of his assault. Around him, the peat bog gave off the foulest of odours, a mixture of rotting flesh and decay. There was barely anything left alive in this desolate mess of sludge and decomposing biological waste. It matched his mood.
'Come out and meet me,' he'd said through the internally-wired communication link he shared with his mate. Not that that should have been a problem, it never had been before. 'Come out and meet me.' There'd never been a problem before.
But this time Perceptor had sounded strained and distracted and, above all, apologetic – he'd refused the command, for the first time since they'd installed those devices. Starscream pressed him, but he maintained he couldn't leave, not while he was being watched so closely by his white-bodied friend. Skyfire had found out, he had said, and was suspicious of his loyalties.
If the jet could have predicted what a problem Skyfire would turn out to be, he would have shot the shuttle through right there when he had first realised he was being watched.
Frag it all! Having eyes on him was exhilarating, yes, but theconsequences... agh, if only he had some foresight sometimes! Starscream did not take being denied well. Furiously, he shot at another of the lifeless trees, though its explosion into several thousand tiny splinters did hardly anything to alleviate his ire.
Vengeful plotting simmered forth in his processors, and he swore to himself that the next time he saw Skyfire, the slagging glitch who kept ruining everything, that only one of them would walk away alive. Ohh, if only he had thought to kill his old partner when they had dug him out of the ice, then none of this hurt would ever have happened...
Well, there was nothing left for him to do out here now. Best to return to the sunken Nemesis before Megatron became suspicious of his absence. He could probably find some excuse to vent his anger on his hated leader.
Next time, though, next time Perceptor would learn to never defy him again!
O
"Dear Primus," Ratchet took a moment to assess the damage and then snapped into action, rattling off orders and organising the other medically trained Autobots, knowing that time was of the essence if they were going to stand any chance of saving the injured mech's life.
The shot, hard to tell what it had been from, had penetrated through the epidermal metal of the chest, tearing through the inner circuitry and passing right through. It had been well-aimed enough to have hit the spark chamber, not cutting through to extinguish the core but doing enough damage to deactivate the huge shuttle and send him plummeting to the ground from his flight path.
Skyfire looked so... dead. That was the only real way to describe it.
Optics that were usually an expressive and soul-searching azure were greyed and unseeing. The mouth hung slightly open, dried of its natural energon by the ravages of Earth's atmospheric make-up. The limbs were limp and unresponsive. Wings usually so regal were dented by the crash; the wind shield that made up the cockpit in shuttle mode had split on impact with the ground and fully crumbled during the transfer back t the Ark, which had been rough and unsteady despite Ratchet's best efforts.
Apart from Ratchet's occasional quiet commands, the medical team worked silently and efficiently, each concentrating on repairing what they could best do while on such thin ice – one slip could disturb the weakened protective sphere of the laser core and send the pulsating life inside spiralling down into nothingness.
Perceptor was numb. Even if he had wanted to speak while he painstakingly rebuilt one of the crushed motherboards, even if he had had the concentration to speak while he slotted it back into its rightful place, he could not find the words in his processor. For once, he could not even think.
Hadn't he been wishing, just cycles ago, that Skyfire would leave him alone? Hadn't he been appealing to Primus for a moment when he could slip out and join Starscream? He knew that, by turning the seeker down, he could expect a 'lesson' the next time they met – part of him dreaded it – but Starscream only ever called him if there was something wrong. He had felt guilty and even ashamed he could not be there.
... Primus could be cruel.
When he'd prayed for just a moment when Skyfire dropped his careful scrutiny – he hadn't meant this. He hadn't wanted for something so terrible.
It wasn't anyone's fault; it couldn't have been predicted. Some cycles prior, while Perceptor had been busy with Wheeljack, Optimus had called for Skyfire, given him a delivery that needed to be taken urgently to the resistance forces on Cybertron, who were still composed mostly of renegade femmes. Cheerful as ever, obviously having no intention to relay his suspicions of Perceptor to Prime, Skyfire had accepted, and had left the Ark kliks later.
He'd been shot down before even entering the stratosphere – a relief, as, if he had fallen from any higher, the combination of Earth's strong gravitational field and dense geological crust (and thus the velocity of his descent and the impact force of his crash) would have caused his chassis to be liquidated.
Whoever had attacked Skyfire had disappeared long before the Autobot rescue team arrived on the scene after receiving the SOS frequency. None of the Autobots had had a visual at the time of the attack. No one knew who it was.
But, from the way Skyfire transformed into his alternate mode, it was not hard to work out that, from where the wound was and the irregular way it had damaged the interior working of his robot mode, he had to have been shot from above – and that he had been unable to call for help before sustaining his injury meant that his assailant had been fast enough to get within range before the white scientist had picked him up on radar.
Surely it had to have been one of the Decepticon jets. There was no one faster in the air. The sky belonged to them.
Perceptor knew of Starscream's achingly misplaced hatred of Skyfire – in fact, possibly everyone did after that dogfight they'd had in the Arctic, so many stellar cycles ago.
Could his bondmate have really...?
Finally, the worst was over, and Ratchet pronounced the deactivated shuttle to be in a stable condition at last, easing the worries of all three of his subordinates.
"He'll be fine," he murmured in his gruff voice, wiping his red hands together, a tense smile lingering about the metal of his face, "he just needs to sleep it off. Hoist, would you just make sure that there's no blocked energon capillary vessels?"
"Right away." Nodding, the deep green tow-truck began his examination, using a small surgical laser to melt any blockages so that the natural energon flow would wash them away to the central pumps as fluid waste.
"Other than that, his automated self-repair systems should be able to patch up anything we've missed as long as he remains in stasis for the next orn or so. Then again, the chance of him waking up in that time is very small."
"We should take it in turns to monitor him, just in case." Wheeljack pointed out tiredly, running a hand over one of his flashing audio protrusions.
"Mm, good idea." Acknowledging the suggestion, Ratchet turned his attention to Perceptor, who was still unable to look away from the recuperating Skyfire. "Perceptor, could you look after him for half a cycle? I need to check over Ironhide's cerebro-armour."
Wordlessly, still unable to collect his scattered thoughts, Perceptor nodded his acquiescence. As a mech trained somewhat in medical science, and as an occasional stand-in surgeon when Ratchet was otherwise engaged, gore had never bothered him before, even less so with where he'd been and what he'd seen. Never had the sight of an injured robot, whether friend or foe, made him feel quite so sick as he did now.
As Hoist finished his last examination, Wheeljack and Ratchet left the medical bay, the former to recharge his weary circuits and the latter on the hunt for a quick intake of energon before he resumed his gruelling duties as the Ark's chief medical officer.
Glancing up at Perceptor once, Hoist nodded a polite 'by-your-leave' before he, too, left the surgery.
Quietly, the red-bodied microscope leaned himself against the wall with a sigh, knowing better than to touch Skyfire now he was finally in a stable condition and wondering if this had been his fault for not being subtle enough.
Unbidden, fleeting glimpses of Skyfire's disappointed and uncomfortable expressions from their talk in the storage room several orns ago flashed before the optics in his mind. Unfeeling, he stared at nothing, torn between being thankful that his friend would make a full recovery and devastated he had been shot down at all. Starscream had -
No. No, that wasn't fair. He could hardly judge the jet without having proof that it was actually he who had shot down the shuttle.
Although, who else could it have been? Who had such a vendetta against the white researcher? Who wanted revenge or could hold a grudge for as long as could the Decepticon air commander?
... assuming it was a targeted attack and not just an opportunistic strike.
There was only one way to know for sure, Perceptor thought to himself as he stared blankly at the unconscious Autobot on the berth, poking his own index fingers together without even realising he was doing it, and that was to ask Starscream. Let the seeker speak in his own defence.
Hopefully, Perceptor would be able to tell if he was lying – though, knowing Starscream, he would take such a pride in his 'kill' that he would not bother to pretend he hadn't done it.
Starscream...? The microscope tried through the internal connection, but there was no response. Repeating the name again, the scientist felt a flare of some alien emotion through his chest, which at least confirmed that his mate was alive and functioning, though probably in too much of a mood to answer. It had happened before.
Usually it meant that Starscream was in the middle of some activity and he didn't want to be disturbed or distracted. Sometimes it was something as mundane as taking pleasure in a slight victory over Megatron, other darker times it had been because he had been fighting for his life under his leader's brutal punishments for his repeating insubordination. He usually responded within a breem.
This time, though, the acknowledgement was longer in coming than it had been before, over quarter of a cycle passing before Perceptor heard his mate's voice in his processors again, curt and strained and waspishly impatient.
What is it!?
Skyfire was almost killed, the microscope replied, quiet, his tone betraying no emotions only because he was not sure which to feel, was that... was that you?
No, and Perceptor could almost see the sneer that would surely be on Starscream's face. His relief was short-lived, however, as a grating groan cut through his conscious, and he realised it had come though the communication device – from Starscream, unngh, if I'd been there, though, I would have taken pleasure in it!
Feeling inexplicably alleviated at Starscream's assurance he was not responsible for Skyfire's current condition, Perceptor found himself focussed on his next worry. There was something not right with his mate – it carried in his tone, in the tensed tone of his voice, in his staccato, clipped sentences...
What is your position? He asked, feeling stupid the moment he had voiced the question, as surely Starscream would be in the sub-oceanic Decepticon starship, where he belonged.
To his surprise, rather than giving him the answer he expected, Starscream forwarded a set of co-ordinates to him. Computing them quickly, the scientist realised that they landed in a spot that was not too far away from the Ark. Oh, there was something definitely not right.
Worry nagged at his spark. When Ratchet came back in not long after to take over monitoring the patient, the microscope slipped away from the Ark, wanting to know what was wrong.
O
Gingerly, Starscream raised a hand to his cheek and felt the gashes. One -- two -- and three, jagged depressions descending in vertical parallels to the seam from his optic to his chin. He would have massaged them to ease the ache if that didn't make his head feel worse.
As he sat on the trunk of one of the deciduous trees he had kicked down, he contemplated his current predicament, secretly surprised at his own strength for being able to fly here in a straight line without crashing.
It had been his own fault, not that he would admit or acknowledge that fact – he had been so caught up in agonising about Skyfire and the various bloody retributions he would deliver upon his old friend that he had not noticed Megatron watching him fiddling with the controls to the docking tower, lowering it after his not-so-subtle return.
The backhand had been for disobeying his orders. Everything else had been for lying to him.
Ugh, one day he would make Megatron pay for every single punch, he would count them as he threw them, slowly so that he could see his despised leader's face crumple in pain. Oh, if anyone could get Megatron to beg for mercy... he, Starscream, would have the last laugh.
His radar picked up a robot in the bushes, its size and build betraying it to be a ground-crawler. The jet tensed before realising what a mistake that had been, unable to stifle the yelp as white-hot agony seared his body from his collar.
"Starscream? Is that you?" Called out a meek voice, which, of course, the Decepticon recognised instantly as his partner's. Oh. Frag.
"Go away!" He shrieked roughly, not wanting to be seen in his current state. He tried to rise to his feet but fell forwards to his knees with a groan – apparently his injuries were deteriorating, for he had been able to fly here without too much of a problem. Close to panicky at the thought of being so vulnerable, he screeched at audio-splitting velocity, "Go away, go away! Get lost! I don't want you here!"
It was no use, Perceptor could be disgustingly stubborn when he thought he was in the right. Starscream heard the footsteps getting closer, fast and rhythmic, and then they stopped dead. He forced himself to sit back on the trunk he had fallen from, not wanting to seem so pathetic as to be crawling on the ground like a despicable organic beast.
Looking up, the jet saw his mate, standing a short distance away, frozen solid. The azure optics were wide and one grey hand was covering the pale mouth. If Starscream had had the mind to, he would have laughed at the ridiculous display of horror.
Perceptor, on the other hand, could not have been further from wanting to laugh. Oh, Primus above, how right he had been to trust his instincts and come out!
Starscream was – Starscream looked terrible, as though he had been sent to the Pit and back. Three vertical scratches marred the left cheek, ragged and imperfect. The new wing was no longer unblemished; the tip had been warped, probably by the heat of a fusion cannon. Hairline cracks ran across the red fuselage from a wound that oozed energon, exposed circuitry sparking and fizzing with crackling power.
Worst, though, by far the worst was Starscream's head. It was twisted back at an odd angle, as though it had been turned too far one way and then wrenched back into place, the dark helm grazing the side of one of the red shoulder vents. Oh, dear Sigma, Megatron had broken his neck...!
"Wh-what happened...?" The Autobot managed, though he already knew the answer, his voice muffled a little as he spoke around his fingers, utterly horrified at the Decepticon leader's approach to dealing with his subordinates.
Starscream waved a dismissive hand. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and found me using the docking tower without authorisation. What the frag are you getting so worked up about!? It's nothing you haven't seen before, you weakling."
But Perceptor shook his head, stunned into silence for a moment before he started towards his mate again, reaching out. "I – you need – you need repairs –"
"No." Said Starscream curtly, snarling and baring his teeth. "Don't you touch me."
"Your neck," choked the Autobot, still stumbling forwards, "I can't – you need that looked at! Your central relay, with your neck at that angle, it'll be trapped, oh Primus, Starscream, there's no time to explain, you need it looked at right now! For once, will you just trust me!"
Instinctively drawing his shoulders up as his mate drew closer still and shuddering at the twinge the movement sent through his nervous relay, Starscream glared at the microscope suspiciously.
Later, when he looked back on the meeting in the deciduous wood, he would wonder why he gave in and allowed Perceptor to touch him. Perhaps it was the desperation he felt through their bond. Perhaps it was that the meek scientist had snapped at him. He didn't know.
But he did growl in ill-tempered acquiescence and turn his head to the side, his overly-bright optics staring accusingly at one of the still-standing trees. He was unable to repress a flinch as he felt fingers on his neck, opening a panel there.
Perceptor's hands were trembling almost too much to carefully move the various wires and arterioles aside as he searched for any trapped nerves or severed vessels.
"Oh, oh, thank the stars!" Honest and open, the scientist was unable to help himself, exclaiming in relief with what he found. "Just a twisted strut – Primus above, I was so worried..." diverting power from the microscope lens on his shoulder so that it would function as a surgical tool rather than an implement of death, Perceptor magnified the injury and warmed the metal so that it would bend itself back into its natural state without causing Starscream too much pain.
"Nnngh!" The jet complained, "Can't you be more careful!?"
Perceptor did not reply until he had finished the operation, standing back and then letting himself collapse to sit on the trunk next to his mate in overwhelming relief. First Skyfire, now Starscream – injured and, thankfully, going to be okay...
"Try that..." He murmured, turning his blue gaze on the battered officer.
Starscream turned his head from left to right before tilting it up and back. "Whatever. It's far from perfect, but I guess it'll do."
And Perceptor smiled, having spent enough time with the antisocial jet to know when he was being thanked for something – even if it sounded more like an insult than words of gratitude.
"So," grumbled the seeker, "you going to enlighten me as to why you were fritzing over that little injury? I've had worse, y'know."
"Oh Starscream, you fool," the microscope smiled sadly, "if your central nervous relay had been trapped for any length of time, you would have lost all control over your main body, and that includes your energon converter and main pumps... Primus, you would havedied."
"Keh!" Starscream spat in indignation, "As though I would ever let that fool kill me!"
There was no response, Perceptor did not think to say anything; Starscream came out with these boasts so often that there was no point in trying to dissuade him from deliberately provoking the silver tyrant to be more and more violent in his punishments. The jet never listened anyway.
Now that he knew that his Decepticon partner was in no immediate danger, Perceptor's adrenal pumps ceased coursing chemicals around his body, and he found himself able to relax further and further. In truth, the Autobot wanted to rest his head against the protruding red vent on one of Starscream's shoulders, but he still was not sure whether the jet would accept his touch again.
"Starscream," he whispered, exhaling a ventful of air in a sigh, "will you... hold me? I... these last few orns have been so tiring, I was worried about getting to see you again like this..."
Sneering, the seeker turned his head away. "Heh, hold you? Pathetic."
"Come on, it's not that much to ask!" Perceptor turned to face Starscream, his voice conveying mild indignation. "Especially after all I put on the line for you!"
"I don't want to." Snapped the air commander in response, his already-bright optics flashing fiery vengeance. Perceptor was about to press the matter when he ran his eyes over the damaged fuselage. A wry smile fought its way across his face, showing some small amount of the barrage of conflicting emotions in him.
"Well... all right," he murmured, hoping that Starscream would be more willing to agree once his automated repair systems had had a chance to at least relieve some of the damage, "maybe later then."
He watched Starscream's face for some hope of an answer either way, but the Decepticon merely sneered.