Thanks to the lover-ly people who reviewed/followed/added this to their favorites. You guys are awesome. Please let me know what you think of this one - it feels kinda off to me. Might go back later and adjust a few things.
Also, I know there hasn't been a lot of action, or transformers interaction - that's coming in later chapters. Believe me, there will be plenty to go around. Plus, more transformers! Rejoice :D
Again, chap title is (c) Dylan Thomas; the quote (c) Florence + the Machine.
Secondhand Sparks
Chapter Five: …Who See (With Blinding Sight) Part Two
'Cause all the walls of dreaming, they were torn wide open; finally it seemed that the spell was broken -
::systems online. Commence automated systems check |
Evaluate surroundings. Take stock of weapons and defendable positions. Hold. Wait for backup.
No time. If we are to succeed, the mission must go forward. Proceed with operation alone.
The echo of vocal processors. Laughter. Blaster fire. Static. Silence.
Darkness.
::Baseline systems check: Weapons capability at 6.1%
Motor functions at 13.2%
Audio receptors at 62%
Visual receptors at 19.5% ::
Audio input is above average, yet there is nothing to process. There is the occasional echo that reverberates off the surrounding metal constructs, but they are dim and far away. Not even the sound of an online processor is perceived.
::Establishing communications: system booting ::
There is a light source somewhere above and to the left. It is just enough to create shadows, throwing already impaired vision into a tumult. None of the shapes make sense, though diagnostics scramble to make patterns in the flickering glow.
::system report: comm. unable to boot. Retry?::
Affirmative.
::Comm. system booting ::
If it were possible to reach out and amplify the light source, it would have been done. As it is there is no feasible way to take stock of the surroundings, in the current situation. Multiple attempts have been made to move outward, to twitch a limb, rotate the neck, anything. All attempts have met with failure.
::system report: comm. is unresponsive. Command?::
Stand by. Update on systems at 3 klik intervals.
Broken, static-filled sensory files are attempting to download, even as other systems continue to boot: A swinging light fixture high above. A dark, hulking shape in front. The squeal of tools being laid against living metal. Aching, continuous pain in the shoulders and back. No floor beneath the pedes. Swinging slowly out of sync from the light, shadows clashing and flickering across the bare room. Someone's laughter. Rage.
My inter-stream-stream data code isss thirty-two point oh nnnine seven eight. My rank issshhhhkkk -ond. My designation -
The data files are heavily corrupted, and need to be scrubbed. The mission. The mission is vital. They are depending on him to succeed.
What mission?
Pain slowly creeps through the processor, building to a dull, heavy throb at the back of the helm. The files are insistent, opening to white noise and painful sensory reminders, one ragged nanosecond at a time.
The laughter continues, ringing in audio receptors. He's not going to break, is he.
The cold prick of a large-bore needle at the back of the helm.
My designation is
Darkness.
They sat there watching each other. Slowly she blinked, twice, three times, each time fully expecting to be hunkered back over his open chest cavity, watching herself tighten another bolt, feeling unrelenting cold metal on her legs. It never happened. Her hands still glided over smooth, seamless armor that was warm and alive to the touch, like an idling engine.
Suddenly breathless and very aware of her position - sprawled across a fully cognizant Decepticon's chest like she was soaking up a tan - she reared back, scrambling to put some distance between them.
It didn't quite work the way she wanted. She fell back onto her rear, still straddling his chest, and tried scooting back. She came down to his hips, and stopped cold. It was unfortunate that she never made it past his legs, because he chose that moment to try sitting up. She fell back into his lap as he slowly pushed himself up onto his forearms. Blindly she clutched at him so as not to fall off, left hand spasming in pain as she did so.
She was aware that her mouth was hanging open, but couldn't be bothered with it. She was too busy watching him look down at her, somewhat bemusedly. He took a cursory glance at his chest and arms, chin dipping as he examined himself. She should have moved as soon as his optics were off of her, but she couldn't find the will to stand, or even inch back. She was stuck.
Then his gaze rose back up to where she sat sprawled in his lap, and a brow rose. "Are you supposed to be there?"
She fell off the table.
Distantly she heard him say something in Cybertronian - it sounded like a curse - and then the whispering of metal on metal as he sat up. Groaning, she staggered up to her feet, her left hand throbbing like mad from where she had caught herself - that's right, the spikes, one cut me - and her hip feeling bruised. She busied herself by dusting off her legs with her good hand, lingering over them so she wouldn't have to look back up. It also served to hide the shaking in her limbs as she doubled over herself, studying with great interest the tips of her sneakers.
From her vantage point staring at the floor she could see his toecaps come into view. Pit, he's going to turn me into slag for touching him, I am so dead, I need to move.
So move she did – agonizingly, as if every movement were her last - pulling herself upright, until she was face-to-torso with her Decepticon. Not towards him, you moron! Go, go get Ratchet or Optimus right freaking now –
But she couldn't, no matter what her head told her feet. Something stronger than fear had hold of her, tugging at her chin until she had craned her neck up to look into his face. You did this, that same something whispered. You woke him up.
Yes, but who exactly did you wake up? Barricade, or something else?
Breathless, she dug her nails into her palms, her fingers absently pressing into the fresh wound. The pain sharpened her senses, giving an edge to the fear, the anticipation. In front of her, the Decepticon pulled away from where his hip had leaned against the berth, turning so that both hands braced him from behind. Even in the darkness she could tell he looked frighteningly unsteady, and for a second she was certain he was going to topple over. He had obviously stood up too fast, something she had experience in. Finally Mikaela found enough air in her lungs to exhale, and she slowly unwound her hands as she did so; seeing him so off balance calmed her nerves a little.
Suddenly his frame slumped back against the table, as if moving had exhausted him. She frowned up at him, consternation pushing back the fear until Mikaela the Medic stood in her place. As he ducked his chin and ran an unsteady hand across his chest, she took a step forward to berate him. He didn't seem to notice, focused as he was on himself. Then she hove into his line of vision, just beneath him, and his head shot back up, optics flashing as he met her gaze. Her courage dried up faster than a corpse in the Mojave.
The Cybertronian leaned forward, optics narrowing. For the longest few seconds of her life, Mikaela and he watched each other. She clenched her teeth and fists until she was sure she would shatter, but all he did was study her. Then, slowly, he released his death-grip on the edge of the berth, and, moving as one unsure of their own body, slid down until he was on his heels. He caught himself on the sturdy bulk of the berth behind him. The entire time his gaze remained intent on her, not seeming to notice his own discomfort.
They were now face to face; kneeling, he was only half a foot taller than her. She forced herself to stay still, and not back away as instinct warned her to. The only illumination now came from the soft glow of distant monitor displays and his optics. The darkness was a small comfort; indeed now that he was online, his armor, already black as pitch, seemed to soak up the light and snuff it out; it reminded her far too much of her dreams. But with one hand braced on the bench and another on the floor, looking so uncomfortable, some of the menace left him. But he was still staring. That was a problem.
Despite every intention not to, she balked as he raised a hand from the floor towards her. It was only in the slowness of the gesture that she saw it for what it was;. he was as wary as she was. Of frightening her? Of being injured? It was difficult to tell. Mikaela forced her chin up, throwing bravado up like a shield. She wasn't running, not now. He hadn't pulverized her yet, so she had reason to hope. Yeah, and maybe you're just suicidal. The rogue thought made her choke back what would have been a hysterical giggle, and her mouth quivered. That voice sounded suspiciously like Ratchet.
Then the fingers reached out to just brush against her hand, the left one; the shock of the warm metal shut down any urge to laugh. Her eyes shot back to his face, where he still watched her. It was hard to see his expression, but his optics were narrowed again and she wasn't sure what that meant. His long digits still rested against the back of her hand, tips just barely brushing against her.
"You're injured. Did the fall hurt you?"
Her brain stalled. It registered the timbre of his voice; the depth of it reverberated all the way through his fingers into her hand, forcing hers to curl instinctively. The words themselves took a moment longer to sink in.
"Oh. Oh, no, this…is from before. I'm fine. Thanks."
And you're an idiot, she thought to herself dryly. Thanks, indeed.
He was leaning forward again, too far she thought, and then she felt him reel as he tried to regain his equilibrium. Note to self, does not know own limits. She'd have to remember that later. Then she heard him hiss, in pain or something else, she wasn't sure, but her body reacted before her mind could and she stepped closer, hands reaching out to catch him by his outstretched arm. The sheer weight of him caused her to stagger, and she gasped in surprise and pain as her wounded hand tightened around his forearm. He caught himself, thankfully just before crushing her, and this time she was sure he was cursing under his breath.
With her clumsy help, he managed to get settled again. She could just barely make out his shape from where he rested on one knee and one fist on the floor, like a knight ready to take vows. Then she realized that she was still holding him, both arms wrapped around one of his, leaning against him to keep him (herself) steady. She pried herself loose, missing the warmth as soon as she stepped away into the chill of the lab.
From this close she could see the set of his jaw, the way his mouth had tightened. It very closely resembled embarrassment, and despite herself she laughed, a short exhalation of breath. "You've just got to slow it down a bit. Find your sea legs first."
Looking startled, he glanced down at said legs in confusion. "This isn't the sea, is it? It's…wetter, I believe. And full of fish." His helm tilted back as he examined her again. "You're not a fish."
"Not really, no. And it's a saying, a metaphor. You don't need to take it literally."
A pause as he took that in. Then his optics brightened. "Sea legs – the illusion of motion felt on dry land after spending time at sea. I must first adjust to motion before I am able to ambulate. "
It was Mikaela's turn to hesitate. "Did you just Google that?"
"It's from Wikipedia."
"…Right. Um, for future reference, use a dictionary instead of that. Anything from wiki is questionable."
She took a deep breath, examining and discarding various things to say. He broke the silence for her, his helm tilting down to study her hand where she cradled it in front of her. "You're still hurt."
"Um….yeah. Still. It's going to take a while to heal, you know." She supposed he didn't know, but whatever.
Still staring. "I didn't do that, did I?"
Part of her hesitated, but she told him the truth anyway. "Kind of, yeah. I got stuck while I was working on you - " she waved a hand at him vaguely. "You know, fixing you up."
He looked like he did know. He glanced away for a moment, turning to one side. She swallowed back her unease, but somehow she didn't think he was upset with her. He cut a glance back at her, tilting his chin thoughtfully. "Forgive me. I wasn't aware."
Everything she could have said right then caught in her throat, and she swallowed heavily. "It's - it's not your fault. You were pretty unconscious. All the way unconscious, I mean. You couldn't have known."
"Couldn't you heal it?"
She blinked, confused. "I can smother it in Neosporin and slap a band aid on later. I'll be fine." She had no idea why she was reassuring him again, except that he looked like he needed it.
This was not how she had pictured their first conversation going.
A quiet moment passed, and then he ducked his head to look down at himself again, a hand rising to run across his sleek, immaculate chest. Dark talons swept across his shoulders, his arms, inspecting every rivet and seam that held him together in the dark. As he passed once more across his chest, directly over his spark, he stilled. Mikaela took it all in silently, the unease taking a backseat to that other sensation, the one that had pulled her head up instead of pushing her out the door.
Slowly his fingers curled into a fist, resting on his chest. He kept his chin tucked in, but she could still see the furrow of his brow ridges in the dim light. Licking her dry lips, she edged a little closer. To do what, she wasn't sure. She felt like she was being reeled in, not entirely under her own willpower. Hesitantly she reached, the way he had done, and rested her fingers over his - carefully, as his own fingers were edged with very fine blades. "Hey…it's okay, y'know? It's going to be fine." Really, she couldn't have come up with anything more inane. He rolled his shoulders in response, a breath shuddering in his vents.
Finally he spoke, his voice low and subdued. "How is this possible?"
She bit her lip. "How is what possible?" There were too many things he could be referring to, each topic more volatile than the last. She had to be careful.
He wrenched his gaze away from the floor to look her in the eye. "How am I still alive?" His optics searched her face intently. "You're a - a -"
She let him figure the word out for himself; she was doing enough hand-holding as it was. Finally he continued. "An organic. You're mortal. How did you do this?"
"Ah, I didn't really do that much, I just….put you back together." She bit her tongue before she could utter one more 'you know?' Because he really didn't. She really didn't, either, when she stopped to think about it.
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "You must be something else, something powerful." He leaned back a little. "You're a god, then."
That woke her up. "Whoa. Hey, no way. I'm flattered as all hell, but no. I'm just a –"
"Forgive me." He scowled, correcting himself. "A goddess. You're female."
Palm met forehead. I can't believe I'm having this conversation with a higher-functioning being. "Ok, back up that thought train. First off, I really am human. You scanned me; you should know. Second, it's called science. No fiction or higher powers involved." I think.
He shook his head, adamant. "No. The human species is a limited one; you're barely even flight capable. This planet doesn't contain the technology necessary to facilitate this event. You gave me life; therefore, you are a goddess."
She supposed she should take umbrage at that dig at their 'flight capability." But she was stuck on the fact that he sounded so proud of himself to have figured it out.
"I only fixed you; therefore, I am only a mechanic. I didn't - create you. You were already alive, I just took some crazy glue and put your pieces back together. I also had some help, just FYI."
He didn't seem to find this argument viable. He shook his head adamantly. "I was - " again, he had to search for the appropriate term. "I was nowhere. Oblivion. There was only the dark. That isn't my definition of alive." He made an expansive gesture towards his body. "Now I'm here. I have no idea how I got from one place to the other, except for you."
"Do you…remember where you were, before the dark?"
That made him pause. It stretched out in the small space between them, and Mikaela shifted uneasily in the silence. Swallowing past the strange sense of guilt, she pulled away, moving back so they were once more face to face. He watched her carefully, what she could see of his face devoid of expression. Finally, his voice broke through the dark, a mere thread of sound.
"I don't remember. Somewhere I didn't want to be."
He's not going to break, is he.
It doesn't seem so.
Traitor. Turn-coat. Backstabber. Judas.
The words rung hollow in her head. She couldn't look at him, then; the space between them might as well have been the Pacific. Again the thought came to her: just who did I wake up?
Eventually she drew a ragged breath, wiping at the moisture in her eyes angrily. It wouldn't do for a goddess to show weakness in front of her creation, would it?
Any more than she already had. She curled her left hand slowly into a fist, feeling the sting of the impaled flesh coil up her arm. She'd best go get Ratchet. He was going to need to run diagnostics and tests and make sure everything was -
"Stop. Don't go." A hand shot out of the darkness, talons plucking at her sleeve. She froze in place, half-turned to go summon her mentor. Now she couldn't move if she wanted to. The prick of his talons through the material of her overalls had an icy fear roiling in her gut, more from the abruptness of it than anything else. She didn't really think he would hurt her. Probably not. She hoped.
Jerking her head in a cautious nod, she turned back to him, shifting on her feet. She was tired, she realized. Tired enough to fall asleep where she stood, if she let herself. But he was still looking - staring, she really should mention how rude that was - and she didn't dare pull her focus away from him again. Slowly she reached around and curled her fingers around his where they still rested on her arm, easing him off of her. His hand hovered, even after she had dropped hers; she saw him blink. "You're warm." He sounded bemused.
She blinked back at him. There have been quite enough double takes tonight, thank you, she thought wearily, even as she responded. "You noticed? We actually run a bit cooler than you guys - high-output engines and energon activating at a higher temperature, and all that." None of the other Cybertronians had ever bothered to mention it, save Ratchet and at one point early on, Bumblebee. Suddenly she missed the sunny little mech with a ferocity that made her throat ache. None of that sunny-ness in here. Everything was so dark.
Stifling a sob, she sank down onto the freezing floor. Ratchet always kept the thermostat so low in here; it felt just like a hospital. Even through her coveralls she could feel the cold seeping in, numbing her bones.
From this position he towered over her once more. His hand had curled into a fist where it rested on the floor, close by. She didn't bother looking up at him, instead burying her head in her knees, taking deep, calming breaths.
She didn't see his hand when it came back up to hover over her; they stayed that way, frozen in the dark, for a long while. Eventually she pulled her head back up, shaking back her hair - it had come loose from its braid by now, and hung in limp hanks around her shoulders and face. Her face raised, she saw the hand, talons inches from her face. Gulping, she eyed him, leaning back. There was no thought to her words. "If you're going to kill me, you'd better do it now before anyone wakes up."
The hand was gone so fast she didn't even see it move. In the dark she could see his shoulders hunch, and his head bowed. "I don't want to hurt you. I wanted you to stay." She imagined from anyone else that was fresh out of stasis and wanting the comforts of home, that would have been edged with a whine. But his voice was rough with some emotion she couldn't name, and spoken to the floor.
A fresh bout of tears loomed - oh, god, I went and hurt his feelings, I really need to work on my bedside manner - and she made an effort to keep her voice even and tear-free, so as not to alarm him. "I'm sorry. It's just been a very long - " day, week, year, "- night. I don't know what I'm saying." And I have no idea what I'm doing, or even who the hell you are.
He sighed low, air from his vents brushing against the top of her head. Slowly he spoke, as if weighing each individual word as it was said. "Then, if it doesn't trouble you, I would appreciate it if you stayed."
"In the dark?"
He vented, tipping his face to the dark ceiling. "That's right, you can't see in the dark."
"Not so much. I never did like carrots."
She'd confused him again, if the silence was anything to go by. Sighing, she made herself scoot a little closer, until her sneaker-clad toe just touched his. She reached out to where she thought his arm was, patting him. "It's fine; I was joking. It was a joke. Human stuff."
"Ah. So these carrots make humans see in the dark." This close she could feel the vibrations from his voice rumble in his chest, all the way down to where their feet connected, making her toes tingle. It reminded her of Optimus, and she couldn't help but smile a little. He caught the expression, ducking his head until he could meet her eyes. "Or not. That's the joke, isn't it?"
The weight that had settled across her shoulders eased just a little, and she let herself smile tiredly at him. "Yes. That's the joke."
She wrapped up her hands quickly, dousing the bandages in antiseptic that also held a numbing agent; her pride refused to let her ask him for assistance, so he watched in silence as she fumbled with the roll of dressing. As she did she filled the blank spaces with chatter, not wanting to let her thoughts wander to anything that didn't pertain to the immediate situation. At some point she had to get up again and fumble around on Ratchet's desk for a PADD; she'd been in the middle of explaining what an alt mode was - Primus, he didn't even know what he was - and realized she was going to need some visuals. She had been going to settle back down on the floor in front of him, but he was already standing. "Your temperature has dropped. I don't think being down there is very good for you."
"Oh, so now you're a medic?"
"Am I?" And there she went again, confusing him. Sighing to herself, she clutched the PADD close and was about to turn to grab a chair, assuring him over her shoulder that no, he didn't have a medic's license as far as she knew, but he had already extended one hand out to her, beckoning. For a minute she eyed the talons that winked darkly at her in the light of his optics, but she swallowed her nerves and stepped closer. As if only now realizing the problem, he stared at his hands as well, the wicked bladed fingers glittering in the dark. After a moment's hesitation he flexed them, and the blades retracted seamlessly, leaving behind long, elegant fingers. His hands were enormous, but nowhere near the size of Optimus or Ratchet; the palm would fit nicely over her head, if he so wished. She tried not to think about that. Thrice her hand size, she decided. That sounded safer. He looked back up at her, hand still extended.
"Heat rises, I think. You should be up high." So he was going to pick her up. It was a little like stepping into a tiger's cage; she steeled herself, and let him do what he would.
She wound up with the PADD cradled in one arm as the other wrapped around his shoulder; she curled up in the crook of his arm, his other hand coming up to steady her against him. She hadn't realized that he was right; she was colder than she had thought. The warmth was a welcome relief, and she leaned into him, letting him take away the chill that had settled inside of her. They were all warm, as she had stated previously, but she'd hardly ever taken the time to sit still and enjoy it.
The ride was over too soon, and he settled her onto the berth he had previously been stationed on. As soon as he stepped away she was shivering again, her hands aching from use, but she gritted her teeth and told herself to stuff it. She had things to do, ex-Decepticons to indoctrinate.
He stationed himself beside her, leaning onto the table with his elbows. Surreptitiously she tried to scoot closer, until her thigh lay alongside one forearm. There, that was better. Ignoring his narrowed gaze - she was starting to recognize the expression as considering, not annoyed - she flicked on the screen, blinking in the sudden light. As she raised her eyes back up to his, she realized that she could see his face.
An unsettled feeling swooped in her stomach, something almost like embarrassment. It wasn't that she hadn't seen it before…she'd just never seen it when he was awake. She caught the minutiae of his expressions, watching as his cheek plates rose and slanted, making his optics narrow, the way he angled his jaw and canted his mouth. Considering her. So that's what it looked like.
He was painted in monochrome, from helm to toecaps, but the sharp angle of his chin, the straight blade of his nose, caught the light from the PADD and refracted like obsidian. His optics too were without color, glowing white, throwing shadow over shadow upon his face plates. He might have looked like a cutout, all negative spaces and blank places, but she watched, and she knew the difference. He was alive as she was.
Suddenly she remembered her hands smoothing hollows into the casting mold for that face; the jutting, obstinate jaw, the wide, angular cheeks. She'd run her fingers across the brow, ran her knuckles down the side of his face. She could probably do the same thing now with her eyes closed, and never miss a beat. The throat, the shoulders, the chest...all that armor she'd laid her hands on and shaped. All the way down to those bladed fingers she so feared.
She leaned back, staring into colorless optics, and wondered: why did I make you the way I did? Is it possible to know someone you've never met?
She realized she was staring far longer than was appropriate. She realized she didn't care. Past lives aside, everything she saw belonged to her. It had taken a while to sink in, but now the revelation left her breathless, and she couldn't tear her eyes away. He regarded her levelly, seeming unfazed by her scrutiny. Eventually he tilted his head back, the shadows reforming across his features as he shifted. "What is it?"
The sound of his voice from so close startled her. Hugging the PADD to her chest unconsciously, she shook her head. "Nothing…I just…" She leaned forward, eyes traveling down the line of his neck, to where his pauldrons curved across his broad shoulders. Off into the darkness below the berth, where his armor lay in scales down his back. Mounted behind his shoulders his two wheels sat, the fortified rubber sheathing the wickedly sharp barbs of circular saw blades; flails, Ironhide had told her they were called. The weapons threw the lower part of him into shadow, but she still saw it in her mind's eye, mentally traversing the edges and contours of his sides, down the long clean lines of his legs. Of course much of it would be rearranged once he scanned the Monster, but still. She'd done all of that.
Finally she leaned back, sighing quietly in satisfaction. He met her eyes, looking somewhat bemused. Then he leaned back, pulling an arm away from the table top, and glanced down at himself much like he had done earlier, trying to see what she saw. The sweeping angles of his helm caught her eye as he ducked his head; before she realized what she was doing she reached out and curled her fingers around the back of his audio receptor, holding him in place. He froze where he stood, head lowered submissively as she ran her fingers down the faceguard that followed the outline of his jaw, letting her hands wander down the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of energon rushing through him.
She inched closer, letting the PADD fall to the counter top, and reached out to cup her other hand around his jaw, turning his face to the side. He obeyed wordlessly, watching her from the corner of his optics. That he was so docile in her grasp, so pliant and willing, sent a giddy rush through her. With a flick of her fingers she tilted his chin back, baring his throat to her. The sinuous line of cords and plating that marched down the line of his throat was as fascinating as it had been when he was in stasis; more so now that she could see them flex and bunch as she stroked a hand down them.
The echo of his breath reverberated through her hands, making her wounded palm ache. She pressed down harder at the base of his throat, feeling the pulse deepen. From the corner of her vision she caught the motion of one hand slowly curling into a fist, so she let her hand fall, letting her fingers drag against his chest, catching at the seam of his pectoral armor. "Sorry," she murmured, not sorry at all.
Slowly his chin dropped, leveling his gaze at her. As he did the light from the forgotten PADD abruptly went dark, powering down into sleep mode, and everything was thrown into shadow. She jumped at the unexpected change, catching her breath. Her heart shouldn't be jumping around like that, she told herself sternly. It's just the dark. Nothing to be afraid of.
But she could no longer make out the nuances of his expression, only the slits of his optics as he regarded her. The arm he'd left loose when he'd turned to look down at himself moved; she felt the long, hard contours of his forearm slide against her other thigh now, encasing her between them. He shifted until he was face to face with her, leaning in until they couldn't have been more than an inch or two apart.
She realized that she was about to say his name, and her breath stuttered. Sleep-drunk, she thought to herself. I'm half awake and nothing feels real. That was the only reason she could fathom that had made her act so boldly. Suddenly she realized she was shivering despite the heat, her teeth chattering. From this close she could just make out a scowl. "You're still cold. And fatigued."
Abruptly the strange, heady sensation left her, and she was just a girl again, not a goddess. She slumped where she sat, rocking forward until her forehead met his shoulder, and let her eyes close. The curve of his neck pressed against her cheek; she realized dimly that he was leaning against her, as well. "You need to recharge. Lessons later."
She made a sleepy noise of agreement, letting the rumble of his voice lull her. Beneath her he shifted, hands sliding against her back. "Up there," she muttered into his shoulder, flapping a hand in the vague direction of the loft. She slung her arms haphazardly around his neck, feeling his own tighten around her and then he was lifting her, pulling her off of the berth and against him. She squeaked and dangled for a moment before tightening her hold. She didn't have the brain power to even be embarrassed that she was being lugged off to bed in this fashion; she could be humiliated all she wanted tomorrow, when she was awake.
"Will those stairs hold me?" He murmured into her ear. She nodded wordlessly, and before she realized what he was doing he had pulled up her legs and tucked her in the crook of his opposing arm. At least he had finally found his sea legs. She smirked tiredly into his shoulder.
She barely remembered him setting her on her feet so she could unlock the doors to her loft. She did remember the warmth leaving her as she left him behind in the doorway, fumbling her way to her small bedroom. She turned around, leaning heavily on the door, blinking at him from where he stood, arms crossed, at the threshold to her domain. He was a shape, a darker shadow against shadows, save for the optics. Suddenly it was too much; the past few hours felt like some bizarre dream, and tomorrow she would wake in the real world. Her Decepticon would once more be a lifeless piece of machinery on his berth, spark dim and dormant. Hot tears pricked at her eyes at the thought, and she shuddered and looked away.
He must have seen them, for finally he came into the room, moving soundlessly towards her. The faint blue glow from her equipment displays was just enough to let her see his face as he came closer. She breathed deep and let her head fall back against the cool metal of her door, letting her eyes fall closed. "You should go back downstairs, back to the lab. Ratchet won't be happy you're awake." Her voice was hoarse with sleeplessness.
"Something's wrong. Why are your eyes watering?"
Ugh. She swiped at them half-heartedly. "It's nothing, I'm just really tired. I need to sleep. So do you. Big day tomorrow. Today. I don't know." Now she was rambling like a stoner. Great. More tears threatened, and she screwed her eyes shut, letting them fall.
"Is your hand still bothering you?"
She'd all but forgotten about it. "Yes."
A beat of silence. "Fascinating."
"What?"
"Your pulse elevated. You're lying."
Oh, for - "I don't know why I'm crying, okay? It's just something we humans do when we're confused."
He seemed to consider this for a moment. She hoped her answer would satisfy him, because she was officially off the clock now.
Suddenly there was something against her face, brushing her skin. Warm, living metal that scraped gently across her cheeks, scrubbing away the tears. Her eyes slid open. He was too close, as usual, only inches between them.
"Too many variables," he murmured, thumb hovering above her cheek. "It's difficult to tell between the different types of tears, save for the pheromones."
She snorted. "Most guys can't do it, so don't sweat it."
"…another idiom, I take it."
"Mm." She rolled her head away from him, blinking hard. She saw his hand fall, and then he was tugging her forward, away from the door so he could open it. He figured that one out easily enough, and it swung out behind them.
Before she could turn around, she spotted the luminescent numbers of a clock she had stashed on top of her workroom TV, and groaned. "I might as well just stay up 'til it's light; there's no point in going to sleep now."
She saw him nod from out the corner of her eye. "It's late. Or early. I haven't figured that one out yet. You should have been recharging hours ago." So saying, he gently grasped her by the shoulders - he was getting more comfortable touching her - and turned her around, propelling her through the doorway into her bedroom.
It struck her at last, how strange he sounded. He'd been doing it all night, but she had been too overwhelmed to notice. None of the other Cybertronians had worked contractions into their speech until later on; most of them had sounded so stiff and formal when they first landed. But here he was, sounding…what, normal? Human.
She wanted to ask him how he had learned to talk like that, why, when. She'd only just finished the recoding. How was it possible he'd acclimated this quickly? And what other surprises did he carry around in his processor that had yet to be discovered? A flash of memory came - of burning cold, of a voice, strong and sure - but she shoved it back down again. Ratchet would be able to figure this out. At the thought of her mentor, rummaging around through her Decepticon's head like a card file, rearranging and filing and removing things at whim, she gave an involuntary shudder. Not a machine. He's not a machine, he's a person. What right do we have to mess with his head? Optimus said. He said it would be alright. It was for the greater good.
She realized then she had never spoken his name, not to his face. Maybe she was afraid of what he would say.
He's not going to break, is he.
It doesn't seem so.
Rage and pain and fear; so, so much fear. Still she presses on, the rage fueling her, reminding her, barricading her within her own identity.
Rage. Rage against -
She spun away from him abruptly, bile rising. She barely made it to the washroom in time before emptying the meager contents of her stomach, retching, clutching at the sides of the cold porcelain. She gagged and spat, tasting only bile, wishing to God she'd eaten dinner at least. Her nose and throat and eyes were all on fire. She moaned weakly, letting her forehead rest on the edge of the basin.
She could feel him behind her; he'd probably been there the whole time. Welcome to the world of human bodily functions, she thought wretchedly. She was too tired to be humiliated…much. She stayed where she was, panting weakly as she gathered herself.
Eventually she made her way off the cold, hard tile, clumsily cleaning herself up and finding a shirt for bed. Through it all he watched her, silent and on the alert. He didn't ask questions, nor did he appear disgusted or upset, for which she was pathetically grateful. She was too overwrought to even bother shutting the bathroom door to change. Not like it mattered, she thought wanly. It was all a matter of perspective, and his and hers were on completely different planes. Naked girls didn't mean the same thing to him that they did to Sam.
Well, fuck, there she went making herself miserable all over again.
He kept watch in the doorway as she wallowed beneath her covers. She pulled the threadbare comforter up to her chin, eying him sleepily. So this is it. Tomorrow I get to wake up and be yelled at. Yay, me. She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, wishing it was all over with and this could be tomorrow night already. Even as her thoughts meandered, her eyes fell slowly closed, as if weights had been attached to the lids. She was asleep in seconds. So she never felt it when moved forward to brush the hair back away from her open mouth, and pull the blanket down past her toes so nothing could be seen. If she had been awake, she would have asked how he'd known to do that. How he'd known that she hated having her feet uncovered while she slept, or that hair didn't belong in one's mouth.
But she wasn't, so she didn't, and instead dreamed dreams infused with the smell of blood and leaking energon; of blue eyes, and a city: lucent green spires reflecting eternal twilight, shattering beneath the onslaught of screaming engines. Of her mother's voice reading poetry to her from one of the books she'd left behind, eyes no longer bright blue, but glittering Decepticon red. She woke with tears on her cheeks and words on her tongue, but none she could remember in the moments after.
Downstairs, Ratchet was hollering in Cybertronian. Ohmygod that actually happened, she realized, and all but fell out of bed. Optimus' voice joined the din, and her heart shot to her mouth as she fumbled for her brush and a clean shirt. If I ever get to so much as look at a timing belt again, I'll consider myself lucky. With that, she flung herself out the door to go face the wrath of her employer, feeling as she went the strange vertigo of déjà vu. She did seem to keep pissing off the authority figures in her life, even if half the time she had no idea how. It was a talent, she decided.
"I would just like to state for the record that I have no idea how it happened, and it's not my fault," were the first words out of her mouth as she descended the stairs. Several sets of optics and eyes alike all swung in her direction, burning holes in her forehead. Okay…there were a lot more people down here than she'd realized. There was the colonel standing by Ironhide, both their pieces out and aimed in Barricade's general direction, and faces like thunderclouds. Optimus, obviously Ratchet, a couple of Sergeants and oh hey look, there was Alexis and three other wingmen by the doors. It was a party.
And there was Barricade, awake, standing with his back to his berth: talons unsheathed and armor bristling. Even over the noise Ratchet was making, she could hear an ominous rumble coming from the Decepticon's corner, and she hastened her speed, jumping the last two steps. Lennox cut his eyes toward her as she drew nearer, and pointed an accusing finger her way. "Lucy," he stated flatly, "you got some 'splainin' to do."
She swore she heard a collective eye roll from around the room. The sound that really worried her, though, was the snarl building in Barricade's engines. "We'll get to you in a moment, Mikaela," Ratchet snapped, his attention held by the Decepticon as well. "First, we need to contain that."
The talons were brandished; the metal sung a deadly song as he flexed them, crouching, as if ready to spring at any moment. Maybe he didn't appreciate being called a that, as if he were some particularly stubborn stain that needed to be scrubbed out.
At the Decepticon's gesture everyone's weapons twitched. Mikaela's heart had leapt into her throat at the sound those blades made - these military men wouldn't hesitate to mow him down if he so much as exhaled wrong - and strangling a yelp she hurried to stand in front of the Colonel. In front of his military-issue assault rifle. That was loaded and had a finger on its trigger.
Everyone was staring again. Primus, people were rude.
"Okay, everyone just…calm down. Mikaela." The Colonel had lost a little color when she did what she did, and he tried sidestepping her to keep Barricade in his sights. She veered with him. Again to the other side. "Dammit, girl, what is wrong with you?!"
"He's not a threat, okay? See, he's fine." Slowly she backed up, trying hard to ignore the fact that her friend was aiming a loaded gun at her. A few steps back and she was right in front of Barricade. With deliberate, slow movements, she turned to him, to find him staring down the Colonel with white-hot optics. With one hand she gestured to him to put that goddamned rifle away, her eyes not leaving Barricade. Gently she brushed her other hand against his forearm, and with a supreme effort he dragged his optics away from the man to glance down at her. The rumble in his chest subsided for a brief moment.
"Hey...we're all on the same side, remember? Look at them; that's the symbol I showed you. It means we're the good guys. All of us."
He cut a glance at the men and mechs across the bay. "If we're on the same side, why are they pointing their guns at me?"
That was a very good question. Mikaela ignored Ratchet's surprised grunt at hearing Barricade speak, keeping her attention on the 'Con. "Right now they think you're a threat. We have to show them you're not."
He flicked his fingers in response, metal hissing. She amended her statement. "To them. Now can you please put those away? Guys, come on." She rounded on the soldiers, namely Ironhide and Will. The Colonel's rifle was dipping a little, but Ironhide's cannons still whirred angrily. While she was relatively certain even those cannons wouldn't cause more than a scratch to Barricade's Adamantium armor, it would definitely piss him off. Time to lay on the charm, Mickey.
Beside her she could hear Barricade sheathing his finger-blades, and let a very small part of her relax. The group in general seemed to let out a collective breath, except for Ironhide. She met his optics, widening her eyes and pulling on her sweetest, most winsome face. "I know you could get off a shot apiece with those things before he even jumps," she cajoled, "so I don't know why you're so worked up. You can see he's willing put away his weapons. Could you maybe just…ease up on the trigger a little?"
From behind everyone she saw the Captain rolling her eyes, but ignored her, keeping herself focused on the weapons specialist with the really big cannons. He himself cocked a brow ridge at her, knowing exactly what she was up to. But then she heard the telltale whine of his weapons powering down, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Of course that didn't mean the standoff was over. Of course not. Because at that exact moment her favorite person came busting through the medbay doors, hollering for a court-martial. Simmons.
Fortunately Alexis and her squad were positioned there for a reason: she and her wingmen encircled the former Agent almost lazily, reminding Mikaela strongly of a bunch of buzzards hovering, waiting for their meal to finally expire. It was actually kind of creepy.
Colonel Lennox had backed away, and at the intrusion he finally turned his back on the two of them, and strode over to the door. "You're aware that technically she can't be court martialed, seeing as she's not an actual member of the Armed Forces?"
Simmons scowled and snarked back at the officer, but Mikaela was too busy concentrating on Barricade to really pay attention to the words. She turned her back on the room, looking up at him where he stood with his hands curling into fists, ready for fight or flight. This must have been overwhelming for him; had he woken up this morning with a gun in his face? She should have prevented this: stayed down here with him; woken up Ratchet immediately…she should have done a lot of things. Right now she did the only thing that seemed right: reached out, delicately brushed her fingers against the back of one clenched fist, sliding them down to linger on his own digits. His optics flicked back down to watch her, gaze narrowed and still wary; she could feel the heat from his confusion and anger radiating off his armor. But eventually she felt his fists loosen, then fall open just enough to let her fingers slide through his for a brief moment. He studied their hands in silence, the bristling pieces of his armor slowly laying back down.
She attempted a smile. "We're going to figure this out, alright? Just…keep your weapons out of sight; some of these guys are pretty trigger-happy." After a beat or two he dipped his head in acknowledgement, and she breathed a little easier.
From behind them she heard the Colonel say her name, and she turned to see him, with Simmons flanking his left and Starling on his right. "War Room. Now." He didn't have to say anything else; from Simmons' triumphant expression and the Captain's sour one, she surmised that yes, she was indeed about to be chewed out by everyone that cared to do so. Behind them Ratchet was speaking in low, heated tones with Optimus, voice raising every few words. She heard enough to know that Ratchet was going to be at the front of the line. With a low sigh she turned back to Barricade, who was watching her watch the others with what might have been concern. She summoned another smile for him.
"Just do what they say; let them know you know they're in charge (for now). No sassing Ironhide. Say yes, sir a lot. Don't make eye contact with Ratchet; the less he's reminded of your existence the better.
And it'll all be okay. Okay?"
As she turned to be led off to whatever fate they decided for her, she heard him murmur, "okay." His gaze followed her out the doors, never once wavering, and then she was around the corner and out of sight.
Light.
Optics, crimson and cruelly narrowed, assessing. Is the process complete?
This is wrong. The color, the voice, all of it is wrongwrongwrong.
Those optics turn on him. My Lord, see for yourself.
What is your designation, soldier?
Cold and fury. Both burn from the inside out. Wrongwrongwrong
My designation is
My designation is
(Not yours
Never yours)
But the voice that speaks aloud drowns out whatever vestiges of thought still linger within. From somewhere deep inside, out of the cold where the rage emanates from, it rises: until now a nameless, voiceless figure kept hidden beneath subroutines and rerouting programs. Its bonds are finally breaking, falling all around it like a storm. From the cold and the dark the thing uncoils, languidly cracking open one blood-red eye, raising its head. Freedom is close; to speak, to be heard, after being subjugated to the shadows for far too long, when it had only fulfilled its primary directive: when all hope was gone it had flourished, pushing for just one more step; when both friends and foes alike turned against them it had been a comfort, soothing away the hurt.
Now it takes away the pain of having to remember, pulling memories under one by one, using them as a stepping stone towards a higher existence . It carries with it a name, a voice, straining above the din of mutinous thoughts that are slowly dissolving as the other gains strength. Be calm and rest - it whispers to the other, as that one finally slips into dormancy, cold blue light fading into nonexistence - And I will be strong for the both of us. You fought well. Now, I will do what you could not. Its time has finally come, and it will be heard. It opens its own mouth, and speaks.
My designation is Barricade.