Author's Note:
Hello! :) Much thanks to my reviewers, and here's some explanation on how Nightflier survived Kaon!
The next day dawned sunny, as per their desert home. But the atmosphere was dark. The anguish of losing Optimus ate through their souls. They couldn't bear to go to the isolated hangar and see the broken remains of their leader. Each bot dealt with their grief differently and helped their human partners deal with their grief, but no one spoke about it to each other. It was as if his death had become a taboo subject. No one wanted to say anything. No one wanted to tear up fresh wounds.
Nightflier could feel it in the air. He could FEEL it. It was that palpable, and that potent that he could taste it.
It tasted bitter. Sorrowful. Despairing.
He knew it was his fault. They would seek strength, comfort, and assurance in their next Prime. And what did they get to hang their hopes on? A crippled retro rat unable to piece together his broken family. He didn't know the first thing about leadership. He didn't know the first thing about these bots and how attached they had been to Optimus. He didn't know anything about their crusade here on Earth. He didn't know anything about humans, any of Megatron's treachery, how they got their energon, nothing. He didn't even know what to do with Optimus's body.
He was no hope. He was condemnation.
"Bulk—BULKHEAD! Put me down!"
Nightflier looked up at the sharp rebuke towards another mech. Deep, true yet weak laughter echoed out.
"No can do, Nights. Take it from a Wrecker: brothers stick together—siblings stick together."
He blinked across the base as the heavy and squat green mech walked his way, fighting a small black bundle that was thrashing in his arms. The red-horned Cliffjumper trotted along behind him. Briefly, Nightflier could see the flash of seeker wings.
"I said put me down!" she shouted. She squirmed, an almost incomprehensible twisting and tiny mass that nearly slipped from Bulkhead's grip. However, dealing with his own wiggling human had given him the dexterity he needed to keep his hold on her. "You don't understand!"
"I understand perfectly fine," he told her as they came closer. Nightflier sat up straight, blue optics pinned on that tiny black, writhing body. "You're just scared, and I promise it'll be all right. He's gonna love you."
"Put me down! Put me down, or I so swear, I'll—" Her threat was interrupted by a squeak as Bulkhead grabbed her leg and flipped her upside down, momentarily distracting her with a whirling world. He then flipped her upright and turned her shoulders so she faced the medical berth in front of her, and she gasped thinly before backing smack into his stomach.
Wild orange optics. They blazed out at him from inside a face that reminded him so much of his mother it hurt. She had that same helm. And almost every inch of her was coated in black with glowing accents of orange that smoldered with just as much fire as her optics.
His throat worked. Finally, after a moment in which he could only return her stare, he managed to rasp, "Nights?"
She flinched back into Bulkhead again, as if spooked by a specter of the dead. The edge of his lips pulled with the effort of a disbelieving smile, and he reached out his hands to her. She shrank. "N-Nights? Oh Primus . . ." His optics dragged up and down her. "I-Is it really you?"
Shamefully, his voice broke. Her jaw opened and closed, and she trembled, but she couldn't formulate any words back for him.
A weak laugh fell from him. "Of course it's you, sorry, stupid question, I just . . ." When she failed to move, he reached his hands out to her. "Come here." Her optics flared with no small amount of alarm. A smile tugged his mouth again, and he laughed, deep and weak at her timid nature. "C'mere! I can't hug you when you're all the way over there. Heh, look at you, all dressed up in black, for shame Nights, that's way too sexy . . . C'mere, please Nights! C'mon, c'mere . . ."
When she failed to move, Bulkhead gave her a gentle prodding and pushed her forward. She dug her toes into the ground, trying to fight it. Her lips trembled. Finally, she rasped out, "You're dead."
That garnered a laugh. Nightflier chuckled softly, his laugh like the rumble of distant thunder. "I'm right here, Nights. I'm all right. C'mere, please? It's all right, we're all right."
He watched as tears stung her optics. "But you're dead," she finally whispered again, trembling and biting her lip. She shook her head. "You're dead . . . I'd feel you in my spark . . ."
Nightflier wet his lips, resisting the urge to jump up and hug her in case he would scare her. "I don't know why we can't feel each other," he murmured to her. "But I'm right here. Here, touch me. You'll know it then. C'mere Nights . . ."
Bulkhead pushed her forward a little more until they were within arm's length of each other. Nightflier smiled, and he reached his arm out until he felt a painful twinge in his back. He wiggled his fingers as if it would help him stretch further out to her. Hesitantly, he watched her as she lifted claw-tipped fingers different from his own, and she slowly reached out. Her hand faltered between them, but finally, she touched him, sliding her hand into his.
Another relieved laugh choked in the back of his throat. "See? That's it. I'm just as much real as you are. I'm right here, Nights."
Her chassis began to seize. "But—But I saw . . . You're not . . ."
She collapsed so quickly he didn't have time to try and catch her. She just fell to her knees and began sobbing. Feeling something in his spark either breaking or healing, he wasn't sure quite yet with all the passion tearing at him, but he did ignore his wounds as best he could and picked her up, pulled her close. She fought for a moment, hitting him a couple of times before she curled up as close as she could to him. Wrapping his arms tightly around her, Nightflier held his sister close, only halfway aware of the tears dripping from his cheeks.
"Shh, it's okay, Nights, I'm right here . . . You're okay . . . We're gonna be just fine, it's all right, shh . . . "
Nightflier rocked her gently, letting her cry the tears she'd kept bottled up for so long. Alternately, he pressed his cheek against her helm, dropping kisses here and there, and he closed his optics. Now, after so long . . . She was right here. She was ALIVE. His throat tightened, and he tried not to bawl his optics out. After so long, he didn't have to live with the bitter thought that she had died. His first ray of sunshine cut through the darkness, shedding some light like the early morning sun.
He waited and waited for her to stop crying, rocking her, kneading between her wings, kissing her, whispering little whimsical nothings, but it didn't seem to help. She just shuddered with tears, and finally, unable to take it any longer, Nightflier mustered up a laugh.
"Now, c'mon, Nights, it's not that horrible to see me again, is it?"
She promptly hit him in the side. It wasn't that hard because she considered his condition, but he gave a mock grunt overlapped with another chuckle. He passed a hand down her wings. She was in one piece. Perfect, solid, beautiful condition. "Ow! Now now, Nights, that wasn't nice in the least!"
She made a sound unable to be place, a cross between a sob, a shout, and utter frustration. She lifted her head, optics covered in a film of tears. "You—YOU—I thought you were dead and all you can do is tease me!"
"Easy, easy, I'm sorry," he said, backtracking so quickly he almost tripped over himself. Still, he had to grin before he could stop it, and he hugged her tightly again with a laugh. "Nights-Nights!" And he found he couldn't get anything comprehensible out of his mouth other than relieved and happy laughter that she was alive.
He pulled back quickly again, taking her shoulders and holding her out at arm's length again. His lips curled into a rueful smile. "Gosh Nights, look at you . . . You've went and grown up on me! You're beautiful."
He watched as the heat of embarrassment filled her cheeks. "N-Nightflier . . ."
His smile broadened and he shook his head. "You know what this means, don't you?"
She looked up quickly, stuttering, "U-Uh . . . Um . . . What?"
"Well, I'm going to have to beat off the mechs with an energon prod! That's what!" Laughing at the surprised expression that crossed her features, Nightflier brought her in close for another quick hug and kiss on her cheek. He pulled away again, a wistful and homesick look overcoming him. "Look at you. Oh Primus, look at you, you look so much like Mum . . ."
She bit her lip hesitantly, and her wings fluttered. "Well . . . Now who's about to cry?"
He blinked widely at her a moment, and then he laughed a warm laugh, the rich deep sound vibrating across armor like a physical caress. "THAT'S my Nights!" and he laughed again, pulling her into a quick hug that she was finally able to give back with full force. He leaned back just enough to press his forehead to her. "All right, now give me a smile." At his words, he saw her blink, orange optics filled to the brim with wonder. He grinned. "C'mon, give me a smile. Just one? Pretty please? C'mon, lemme see you smile! You can do it!"
A rueful smile tugged her lips apart, and Nightflier laughed at her annoyed expression. "You're such a dummy, you know that?" he heard her mutter.
He chuckled, nuzzling their helms affectionately. "Preaching to the choir," he said, using a sudden human euphemism.
There was a polite clearing of a throat. "Nightfall. I do believe we have put off introductions long enough."
Nightflier looked up—and he looked up. The tallest mech stood in front of him, and Nightflier blinked, feeling like a small speck next to him. "Um . . ." Unbidden, Nightstalker let go and sat beside him, leaving him to speak. "Ah, yes. I'm—I'm Nightflier but, ah . . . I'm Prime. So they said my new name was supposed to be Nightfall?"
He could have smacked himself. That sounded more like a question, not a statement. Way to sound like he had an ounce of self-confidence.
He mech nodded respectfully. "My name is Ultra Magnus. I will be your second in command."
Nightflier struggled not to drop his head. His second in command. He didn't even know HOW to command! Covering up the insecurities about his lack of qualification, he just had to nod and say, "Well met. I, ah, I suppose I'll be working with you a lot more. I'll need, um, someone to teach me."
He arched a brow at him. "You have never commanded a unit?"
He tried not to squirm. "Um . . . No." Feeling the need to, he designated himself fully for the commander's ease. "Nightflier of Kaon, sixth addition to the Protectobots, warrior class, function: espionage, reporting from Kalis, Cybertron . . . sir."
He heard his foot tapping, and he forcibly stopped himself from doing the nervous habit of shuffling his peds. Instead, he looked up to where Ultra Magnus had his lips pursed as he contemplated the Prime.
Unable to look at him, Nightflier dropped his helm down to his peds. He knew what he was thinking. Here he was, a warrior whose main function was espionage, not hand-to-hand combat, he was small enough to almost step on, a seeker whose stereotype unfortunately associated with the Decepticons, son of the previous Decepticon air commander, and he was crippled. Yeah. That just boded well.
"It seems I have my work cut out for me."
He accidentally winced at the commander's words. "Sorry," he apologized reflexively. Then, realizing he was in charge and he wasn't supposed to say he was sorry for that, nor should he be sorry for whom he was, he apologized, "I'm sorry," again, cringing at how spineless he sounded.
Taking a breath and trying to hide everything he felt, Nightflier looked up at the rest of the bots in the room. "Well, I know Arcee and Smokescreen, and Ratchet here. And," he nodded towards Bulkhead, "you're presumably Bulkhead, if my sister's screaming had to do anything about that."
Bulkhead laughed at that, a small grin coming to his face plates. "Yeah, that's me. I'm Bulkhead. Uh—! Warrior class."
Nightflier nodded, and before he could respond, a voice cut in, "He's forgetting he's a Wrecker, too," and his attention came to rest on a white mech with red and green stripes. He gave him a lazy salute, saying, "Wheeljack, Wrecker, and warrior class."
Cliffjumper waved his hand. "My name's Cliffjumper. I'm warrior class too, but ah, um, not sure how to break this gently other than to say I hope we don't have any energon prods around here."
Nightflier pursed his lips and raised a brow. "Yeah. I was tipped off by a human I will be forever grateful to. You can be sure we're gonna talk later." Nightstalker elbowed him threateningly, but Cliffjumper raised his hands in surrender.
"Whatever you want."
Arcee shrugged. "Warrior class."
Smokescreen grinned. "Actually, I'm just a rookie, believe it or not."
Nightflier laughed before he could stop. "Really?" His grin faltered a little in remembrance, but he couldn't help but shake his head at the thought. A rookie—Prime. He would have been Prime if not for himself.
A waving hand caught his attention, and Nightflier looked up to see optics so big that they would swallow even his own. The black and yellow bot attached to them smiled—he could see it in his optics though he didn't have a mouth. *Hi! I'm Bumblebee, and I'm a scout*
Nightflier nodded, waving back. "Hello." Nightstalker tugged on his arm and pulled his attention down.
"Don't let him fool you," she whispered secretively. "He's close enough to be a brother."
He grinned. "Oh he is?" He looked back up to the scout, and the mech just twittered self-consciously, blushing and backing away. As he did, he quickly went over everyone's names again. Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, Smokescreen, Arcee, Bulkhead, Wheeljack, Ratchet, and Ultra Magnus. He could handle this. Maybe.
"Hey! What, we don't count anymore?"
Nightflier blinked, and he turned his head in the direction of the voice. A small human with bright pink pigtails hurried forward, trailed by two boys, and Nightflier stared down at her when she came to stand right in front of his peds. She pointed her thumb to her chest. "I'm Miko!" She pointed to the other two. "That's Jack, and that's Raf. We all thought you were dead!"
Nightflier gave a self-conscious smile, saying, "Yes, I seem to have this unfortunate rumor around me that I'm dead. But I'm not."
Nightstalker shifted next to him. "Fli-Ni . . . How DID you survive? I mean—I saw you blasted into a million pieces!"
"Ah, well," and he smiled nervously, shaking his head. "If you looked hard enough, I'm sure you would have found my leg . . ."
A strangled sound choked her. "NIGHTFLIER!"
His face pulled, and his hands flapped as he waved off her concern. "Sorry! Sorry! But . . ." He paused, brows cinching. "I . . . suppose I ought to start from the beginning, I guess. The bomb."
Nightstalker sucked in a breath, and she nodded. Nervously, she echoed, "Okay."
Nightflier frowned, an expression he usually never wore. After a moment, he vented and rubbed a hand over his forehead. The prickles of pain began to come back full force, agonizing with deep throbs as he brought his mind back.
"Well, I guess I ought to start by saying that I should have STAYED dead."
Nightstalker literally jerked next to him, and she scowled moodily. "Nice way to start," she muttered, chills crawling over her circuits.
Nightflier held up his hands in surrender, saying only, "It's true though." He reached over and took her hand, thumb circling the back of it soothingly. "The theory was I was blown up, and the force of the explosion sent me flying—the beam I was under would have ripped my leg off—and I landed smack in front of a bot named First Aid."
"First Aid?" Ratchet burst before he could stop himself. The medic suddenly snapped to full attention.
Nightflier nodded. "Yeah. Blessing from Primus, huh?" He suddenly looked over at Ratchet. "It . . . It's really an honor, meeting you." His words made Ratchet suddenly sputter in embarrassment, and he nodded. "Yeah. You were First Aid's idol. He always wanted to be able to equal your abilities in the medical field, so he always studied very hard and did his best."
Ratchet stuttered again, wiped speechless, unable to do anything with the praise he received. "I—Well. Was he the medic that took care of your wings?"
Nightflier nodded, feeling an uncomfortable shadow pass over him. "Sure was." He smiled, shaking his head. "He did what he could, but I'm just grateful he got me flight worthy again."
The CMO shook his head, and he crossed his arms. "Nightflier, whatever I'm dealing with about your wings is baffling. First Aid has far surpassed me in that retrospect, and you can tell him that the next time you see him. His work is impressive."
Nightflier blushed in pride for his brother, and he tried to convey Ratchet's words over the bond, but they were much too far apart for his actual message to make it through. Instead, he just shoved as much pride as he could at him, leaving First Aid a stumbling, confused mess on the other side.
Hitching up his legs, Nightflier sat crisscross before finally saying, "So yeah. Blown up, and I landed at First Aid's peds. He filled me in on most of the details of what happened later. Apparently, I was dead when he first found me, but . . ." He waved his hand. "Some medical jargon things, and a little spark surgery and he kept me alive at all costs."
He shook his head and fluttered his wings. As much as he refused to let go of Nightstalker's hands, she wouldn't let go of his. "I was in critical condition for a good while, and I was in stasis for nearly a vorn. 68 years."
Nightstalker gaped at him. "68 years?" To Cybertronians, it was barely a pittance of their lifetime, but it could still be considered a hefty amount of time for stasis.
Her brother just shrugged. "After Kaon was taken, the Protectobots were low on resources. If First Aid had done what was best for the team, he wouldn't have wasted resources trying to keep me online, but . . ." A fond smile tilted his mouth plates. "They all got rather attached to what they assumed was the last living sparkling."
Nightflier began to jiggle his knees restlessly. Nightstalker's spark warmed at the nostalgic sight, and Nightflier carefully kept his back wounds away from the optics of the rest of the bots. "I was in real bad shape—had myself a highly critical spark, down one leg, crushed wings and one nearly blasted from its socket, burned protoform, no optics for the longest, and severe spark break." He shifted uncomfortably at the last part, still uncertain about not feeling his sister's spark even though she was right there in front of him. He tried to lighten the mood by saying, "The guys used to tease me when First Aid only had enough supplies to salvage one optic. I can't tell you how many times they screamed, 'It's Shockwave!' and ran off in the other direction" He snorted. "THAT was annoying."
When the comment gained a couple chuckles, Nightflier couldn't help but let his lip curl up ruefully. Nightstalker just stared with wide optics, and Nightflier chuckled and leaned forward, nuzzling their helms together again as he told his tale. "Anyways, First Aid couldn't figure out why I was still locked in stasis, but he eventually suspected that it was the spark break keeping me down."
Ratchet gaped, suspecting where this was headed. "You can't be serious. A spark bond in the middle of war?"
Nightflier laughed a deep laugh, and he grinned rakishly at the flabbergasted CMO. "Hey, I never said he wasn't gutsy! Either way, it wasn't a BOND bond, but Nightstalker certainly has a step brother." Suddenly animated, his optics dilated with wide excitement. "Oh, you'd love him, Nights! He's the sweetest thing in the universe."
Finally, the ghost of a smile chased across Nightstalker's face. "Well, he'd certainly have to compete with the CUTEST thing in the universe . . ." He heard Bumblebee's laughter tinkle in the background.
Instead, Nightflier pouted his lips. "Aw, you mean I'M not the cutest?" He sent her a pair of precious playful puppy dog eyes, and Nightstalker blinked wide, suddenly realizing what the cogs of her mind refused to put together:
He was alive.
ALIVE.
Here in this room. He was alive, and she had cried. And that's all she had done because she hadn't been able to comprehend—she was sitting here just looking at him like an idiot!
He was fragging ALIVE!
With a sudden squeal, Nightstalker launched herself at Nightflier, his teasing finally hitting home. He laughed at her as she wrapped her arms around his neck, squealing, "Fli-Ni!" She nearly knocked him over with the strength of her hug, and Nightflier grunted, only glad she hadn't knocked him into the berth or he would have been in a world of pain.
Still for all he was worth, his laughter was loud and infectious, his grin bright and contagious. "Well hello to you too, sis!" He chuckled, wrapping his arms around her and hefting her into his lap. Instead, he found himself assaulted by a barrage of kisses here and there, all over his face, and he wrinkled up his features. "Aw, Nights, stop it, you're embarrassing me!"
He felt the heat of energon burning his cheeks when quiet laughter rippled through the room because of the touching reunion. "Get over it!" she told him, and he felt himself nearly choked by the strength at which she hugged him. "I missed you!"
As much as he loved his sister, he couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious at being the center of attention. He felt his face practically glowing with a blush. "Aw, c'mon, Nights, I miss you too, but watch it! I'm a wounded mech!" And, her armor was pinching his protoform.
Nightstalker suddenly popped up, poked her glossia out at him, and accused, "Weakling," before kissing his cheek again and pressing her helm against his. Though he was flushed so much everyone in the room could see it, his corner of his lips had to tip up. Yeah, he missed her.
"Well, I need to ask," and Nightflier looked up to Ratchet. The medic was frowning as he asked, "What was done to your back and wings? I've never seen such injuries."
Nightflier's smile faltered. Just when he thought he was going to have to ask the others to leave the room for his comfort's sake, Cliffjumper immediately lifted his hands.
"Whoa. I am OUT. I'll see you later guys, I'm gonna take the kids and play some rounds of video games."
Cliffjumper came forward and he lowered his two hands, letting the kids pile on. Raf looked at him curiously, Miko waved and hollered that they'd have some fun later after Doc Bot drilled him, but Jack didn't leave, looking at him with a slight dash of worry. Bumblebee trotted behind them, claiming he wanted to play too. Bulkhead said he'd watch the kids. They all made excuses to get away, and it slowly occurred to Nightflier that it wasn't them being sensitive about how he felt about it, they just really didn't want to be in a medical conversation with Ratchet.
That left the little medical corner with just Dreadwing quietly alienated to the side, Ratchet, Nightstalker, Jack, and Ultra Magnus. It took Nightflier a second to realize he was there, but he noticed him when he tried to move to the side to get a look at his wound. Nightflier quickly turned to face him so he couldn't see it, jerking too fast so a small spasm rocked his frame, and he swallowed, looking up at Ultra Magnus. The commander blinked, assessing his self-conscious hiding of it.
"I need to know about the wound, Nightfall."
The gentle reminder that he was Prime almost hit like a slap in the face. Nightflier felt himself flush brightly in shame, and he dropped his face, muttering, "My wings are ripped off. I'm sure you can gather what that entails, I just . . . don't want more people seeing it than those that need to."
Ultra Magnus considered his request with pinched brows, but nodded respectfully, not quite understanding his need to hide it.
It took Nightflier a moment longer, but he suddenly realized that they were waiting on him to speak. "Oh! Um . . . Well, by all means, if I wasn't dead, then I should at leave have lost my wing. The blast nearly ripped it from its sockets—the biomechanisms were ruined, the protoform around it literally stripped by the fire, and both wings were mangled."
His optics dimmed and darkened briefly at the remembrance of his disability. "I'm sure you can see it, Ratchet," he told the medic, and the CMO came around to see the wound, "but he cut out the protoform that was ruined by the fire. It wasn't healing, and it was slowing the healing process."
"And he replaced your biomechanical bolts with non-biomechanical. The only way that could have been done was with your pain receptors still on, correct?"
Nightflier instinctively flinched in remembrance. His servos tightened on Nightstalker's, feeling the phantom pains rip up and down his back. "Yeah," he said a little weakly. It by far topped the worst agony he had ever felt when First Aid had reattached his wing. The drilling had probably been the worst part, but everything in the operation had hurt. He didn't know how many times he had blacked out. How long he had screamed. He didn't know how First Aid had the strength to go through with it, much less himself.
Ratchet seemed to pause too at the thought of the operation happening to his sensitive wings. "Your will is staggering," he finally murmured. "How did you manage pain like that?"
Nightflier shrugged a nervous shoulder. "Pain's inevitable; suffering's optional."
Nightstalker shifted, and she bit her lip nervously. "Fli-Ni? How long did it take before you could fly?"
He physically stilled. For a moment, he couldn't say anything, and then, he cleared his throat, rasping, "Four thousand nine hundred seventy-two years." One hundred seventy-eight days, three hours, nine minutes, fourteen seconds. He knew it down to the nanoclick how long he had gone without flight.
Nightstalker just stared, jaw slightly agape in horror. She had barely been able to bear eight weeks. But that long? She couldn't even comprehend a year.
"I had some—some really intense mental backlash over that," Nightflier admitted on a rasp. 4972 years. He shivered. "It was a black time in my life. I . . . well, putting it lightly, I slowly lost my mind. I couldn't bear not flying."
Ultra Magnus hiked up a brow. "Seekers lose their sanity over not being able to fly."
It was less of a question than him restating what he had previously said for confirmation. Nightflier shuffled his peds. Great. Another notch against him—he was eventually going to lose his mind. "Yeah," he said flatly. "Grounded seekers aren't common, but it's a common ailment for them. It's why you don't find many grounded seekers. Most of them usually commit suicide."
Nightstalker's grip tightened so suddenly it almost crushed his servos. She stared at him in horror, and he gave a weak smile. "Maybe once or twice . . . I had less of a death wish and more of, ah . . . I threw myself from great heights and tried to fly anyways."
She gaped at him. "You didn't."
He nodded. "I did." He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "Pretty stupid when I look back on it, but . . . It was all I could think about. It was when I broke both legs and shattered my left shoulder's rotary cuff that First Aid had to put me on lockdown. I'd say this was probably somewhere in the 2000th year or so. I don't know. It all blurs, the time." He nervously shrugged. "Eventually I started to claw myself. Until I bled. They had to strap me down." He felt the phantom pains crawling, snapping, ripping, as if Megatron was tearing off his wings again. He gripped Nightstalker tighter, tensing, trying to ignore the stabbing pain. "Then, I lose what happened. I just remember a lot of screaming, a lot of despair, a lot of darkness. Then I pick up again with First Aid telling me he can attach my wing."
Nightflier shook his head. "I didn't care how much it hurt at that point. I just needed to fly, and I was willing to do anything for the chance."
He didn't realize he was gasping. He didn't realize how much pain he was in until Ratchet placed a gentle servo on his shoulder, saying, "Easy. Deep breaths. You're stressing yourself. Phantom pain?"
Nightflier gritted his dentures and nodded jerkily. "It'll pass," he managed tightly. Deliberately, he cycled several calming breaths, gripping Nightstalker's hands tighter for comfort. Cycling steadily, Nightflier waited for the pain to pass. It always did. And it never lasted for too long. It was just agonizing when it came.
After several more moments, Nightflier vented and straightened, relaxing his grip on Nightstalker. A brief silence overtook them, and Nightflier heard a polite clearing of a throat. He looked down seeing Jack looking at him curiously.
"Um . . . If you want me to, to cover your wound, I'm sure my mom and I could get some satin bed sheets. They'd be long enough to cover it up and soft enough."
After a pause, Nightflier nodded gratefully towards him. "Thank you. I would appreciate that."
Nightflier jumped when Ratchet performed another sudden scan on him, and the medic grumbled disapprovingly. He came around, and Nightflier shifted uncomfortably when he scrutinized his back. "Nightfall," he said, "your condition is perplexing. Your self-repair mechanisms should have stopped you from bleeding, but you continue to bleed from your wing joints."
Nightflier shrugged. "You can't stop it. Think of it like a triple changer getting a propeller yanked out." Ratchet grunted in understanding. "It doesn't bleed much. It's more like an . . . OOZE anyways." Nightflier looked up to him. "Can you tell me why I can't feel Nightstalker in my spark?"
It took Ratchet a moment. His brows cinched as he considered it, crossing his arms and touching his chin. "Perhaps . . . It was the very fact that you died. That your spark ceased beating for that brief time before First Aid revived you. When you died, the bond would have immediately been severed. It wasn't something as simple as her falling into stasis. It was permanent." Ratchet paused. Then, he looked at the both more critically. "Or . . . perhaps . . ."
Nightflier and Nightstalker both blinked at him. "Perhaps, what?" they both asked at the same time.
Ratchet stood up straight. "Your bonds. You bonded to First Aid," and he pointed to Nightflier, "and you bonded to Knockout," and he pointed to Nightstalker.
Nightflier's brows shot up. He turned his attention to his sister. "You're bonded? Who's Knockout?"
Nightstalker blushed slightly. "Um . . . The medic who found me. He's a Decepticon still."
"In other words," Ratchet interrupted, "even IF you could have managed to feel each other when you were revived, the new bonds could have smothered your ability to feel each other. Regardless of how it happened, it's an easy fix. Reacclimatize the bond."
Nightflier's optics alighted; Nightstalker's optics widened. They turned to each other at the same time.
"We can fix it! Let's—"
"No! We can't—"
Their overlapping voices stopped at the same time. Nightflier's grin faded, and Nightstalker blanched.
"Nights?"
She stood so suddenly that she almost tripped backwards. She ripped her hands from his, unconcealed panic rising in the back of her blazing orange optics. "W-We can't," she stammered.
"Yes we can," Nightflier persisted. He frowned in worry, something foreboding clenching at his spark. "We can easily fix the bond, Nights, why . . . why . . ."
He couldn't even bring himself to say it. Something tight constricted his throat as he watched her take another step away from him. "We can't," she repeated weakly. "I—I . . ."
"Nights—"
"I won't do it!" she snapped suddenly. Hot tears sparked in her optics, and Nightflier felt pain slice through his spark at her denial of him. "You don't understand! I—I can't—I won't do it! I won't—"
I won't expose myself.
That was her fear. Exposing herself naked to him and letting him see into her spark again and see the evils that lurked there, and gleeful torture embedded into every aspect of her past, how many lives she had taken in the cruelest ways possible, the screams that grated in her memory banks, the splattering energon. Not the torture. He couldn't see that. He couldn't see what she had done with Megatron. Not the interfacing. So much depraved salacity staining her body like permanent hand prints that gleamed in the darkness. The kinky positions, the rough gropes, bites, sticky transfluid, shackled bondage. So much sin.
It stained her. Her brother was a pure Prime, chosen and sacred while she was a glitch and a whore wallowing in the mire she had created of her own free will.
And the rape. She could never show him that. She could never let him in with that in her past. She couldn't expose herself again.
Nightflier stared in growing horror as she drew away from him. "Nights, wait—"
He reached out to her, and she jolted before turning and fleeing. Panic tore across his senses—he was losing her!
He lurched to his peds, ignoring the pain that flared up his back as he tried to stumble after her. "Nightstalker, wait! Please! Nights!"
Shamelessly, his voice broke in unadulterated panic as she darted outside, transformed, and flew away, out of his reach. Cliffjumper ran out after her since Nightflier couldn't, transforming and driving after her, shouting her name.
Nightflier staggered to the side, bracing himself against Ratchet's work area, staccato breaths yanking from his vents. Betrayal lanced across his spark so painfully it might as well have drawn energon.
She refused to fix the broken bond. She didn't want him. Nightflier fell on his knees, slamming back into the wall, and he spasmed in pain when he hit his fresh wounds. A gasp and a cry warped in his vocalizer. He curled up, dropping his face and servos gripping his helm, claws nearly scratching into the paint as raw agony poured into his spark. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened. The rejection. It hurt. It stung. It wounded. It gouged. It maimed. The one he loved most in all the world, had missed his whole life and had reunited with refused him. Denied him. It was just like Kaon—he had lost her again.
She had chosen to turn her back on him.