Author's Note:
I have a sort of love-hate relationship with this chapter. I think it's cause things are a little slower, more character development than action.
Oh, and there's a little bit of bad-touching at the end ^-^
Hm, this is a long chapter... usually I average around the 5000-6000 word mark, and this one's a whopping 8000...
"You call THIS not much else?"
Nightflier blinked as Wheeljack suddenly chucked the lobbing ball across the room, and Bulkhead's hands came up too slow. The ball ricocheted loudly off his chassis and Miko squealed as Jack jerked her out of the way of the ball. It crashed into the wall, and Nightflier blinked owlishly before grinning with a tease on his mouth—
"Wheeljack! You could have caused serious damage!"
"To me!" Miko snapped.
Nightflier's jaw shut with a click. Oh.
Ultra Magnus stalked forward with a frown. "What were you thinking, soldier?"
Wheeljack shrugged. "I was thinking Bulk could catch that lob."
"Allow me to make myself clear," Ultra Magnus stated flatly, and Nightflier felt his brows rise at the confrontation, almost wide-eyed as he took in a superior chastising his subordinate. "As Nightfall Prime's second in command, I have no intention of tolerating Wrecker behavior!"
Nightflier stared even more. Wrecker behavior? That looked like just the sort of thing Hot Spot would do with the Protectobots, and he was the leader for crying out loud!
"Some things never change . . ." Wheeljack muttered.
Ultra Magnus stifled a growl behind pressed lips. "Need I remind you that it was Optimus Prime himself who assigned me to command your Wreckers back on Cybertron, and get you loose cannons UNDER CONTROL. An effective combat unit begins and ends with discipline. If you won't accept that, feel free to take the path of least resistance. As you did before."
Nightflier's jaw almost dropped. What? No no no, that was a bit . . . severe, and he wasn't going to let Wheeljack walk out just because Ultra Magnus came down on him like that.
However, Wheeljack's optics just flashed and his teeth gnashed. "If my ship wasn't a twisted wreck at present, I'd do that. SIR."
Nightflier moved out of the way with the rest of the bots as Wheeljack stormed away. He blinked at Magnus, and the commander just puffed a resigned sigh before settling his gaze on Nightflier. "So. Where is Dreadwing?"
Ah, the only one not in the room—barring Wheeljack. "He's investigating recent Decepticon activity," Nightflier told him. "Hopefully an energon mine. Now, ah, if you'll excuse me a moment . . ."
Dismissing himself—since he had the authority to—he basically had authority over almost everything—Nightflier made his way across the base to where Wheeljack was. "Hey."
He gave a half shrug. "Hey."
Nightflier shifted, practically feeling the bad vibes rolling from Wheeljack's shoulders. "Look. Try not to take that personally. The Protectobots I was a part of did practically the same sort of things like you did."
Wheeljack snorted and turned to face him, looking down. "Everything between me and Magnus IS personal. We go way back, kid."
Nightflier paused. "A little respect, please," he said to the easily agitated Wrecker. "I may be little, but I am in charge. I came over here to make a little peace in my ranks, not make things worse."
Wheeljack scowled, looking away from him. "It doesn't help anything that you've let that Dreadwing be a part of us . . ."
Feeling small next to the Wrecker, Nightflier arched a brow up at him. "That Dreadwing happens to be my father. Now, what's your problem with him?"
Wheeljack whirled back on him. "MY problem with him?" he growled. He flung an arm out. "He blasted my friend Seaspray into bits, and tried to kill Bulkhead and me too!"
Nightflier leaned away, taken aback at his vehemence. Slot. So there was a lot more undercurrents beneath the surface than he had initially thought. Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus didn't get along. Wheeljack had a vendetta against Dreadwing. Bulkhead probably held it against him too.
Pinching his brow, Nightflier finally said, "I can't repent my father's sins nor can I pretend he is sorry. But he is an Autobot now and not a Decepticon, and I expect you to treat him as such. If not, then I expect you to talk to him and settle this WITHOUT violence." He paused. "Slot, I don't mean to sound like Ultra Magnus, but Wheeljack, please. I want to keep things as peaceful as possible around here."
Wheeljack's lips curled up. "You expect me to forgive him?"
Nightflier shook his head. "If not, then at least settle this respectfully and put it behind you enough that you can work with him without grudges. All right?"
Wheeljack pressed his lips together, judging the smaller mech before him and what bearings he had before he nodded. "Right. I'll do that."
He detected a sense of mixed emotions from the Wrecker, but his word was going to have to do for now. Before he could go ask Bulkhead how he felt about it—realizing he was probably going to have to do this for ALL of the Autobots—a blue and yellow car came screaming in.
Arcee's brows lifted. "Smokescreen?"
He transformed up with a groan. "Aw, what gave me away?" A rueful smirk tipped Nightflier's lips when Arcee could only give him a look. "C'mon! Robots in disguise, right?"
His smile faded—again—when Ultra Magnus walked up. "Where have you been, soldier?"
"Scanning new war paint!" Smokescreen replied with a grin. "Thought it'd be proactive to follow Bumblebee's lead."
"Now you can look your best while stacking those empty cubes."
Nightflier winced a little at the statement. Ouch. Smokescreen's helm dipped as he said, "Yes, sir." He moved off to do his bidding.
Nightflier stifled a sigh. And again he was diffusing tensions. Brushing past Ultra Magnus who acted like he wanted to talk to him, Nightflier made his way over to Smokescreen. He looked up at him, and Nightflier grinned.
"Digging the paint job!"
The effect was instantaneous. Smokescreen grinned widely, bursting, "Thanks! I thought these colors might be pretty sick—" and then, when Nightflier bent down to help him stack the cubes, his optics widened. "W-Wait a minute! You're not supposed to—"
"To what?" Nightflier replied candidly. He picked up the first cube, feeling a twinge in his back as he did so. "Help out a friend?"
Smokescreen glanced quickly over his shoulder, looking back at Ultra Magnus before a hot blush overcame him. "You're PRIME," he whispered furiously back. "You're not supposed to do chores like this!"
"And who says I can't?"
"Your physician," and Nightflier nearly jumped out of his protoform when Ratchet was suddenly there, frowning with arms crossed. "You don't need to be putting that kind of strain on your back."
Nightflier quietly huffed a little and relented. "Yes, sir." He gave a small shrug to Smokescreen with a pinch of his face as he was forced to move on and leave his friend with the most mundane chores. Nightflier sighed in frustration to himself again.
If he was Prime, he couldn't view Smokescreen as his friend, could he? He was his soldier. He was supposed to treat him as such. But did that really mean he couldn't help him out like that or compliment him on his proud new colors? That was pretty stiff. Before he could think on it further, an incoming transmission with his father's voice lifted his head.
"Dreadwing requesting ground bridge back to base."
He didn't relax. He felt the worry in his father's spark. And that was culminated when he returned, not with energon, but the skull of a Predacon.
It helped explain the dragon Megatron had sent on them, but Ratchet and Ultra Magnus helped him theorize that Shockwave had cloned the beast from the CNA of the beast. But, for the life of them, they couldn't understand how the Predacon bones were found on Earth when they went extinct on Cybertron. To top it all off, the humans said that the Predacons looked like metal versions of their Greek mythology.
In short?
It didn't help his already strained consciousness. In fact, it only added to the stress that was heaping up on him. He excused himself quietly that evening, deciding to clean up. He hadn't had a good decontamination bath, and the solitude would do him some good. He needed time to think.
Heading outside and past hangar D—their collective berth room—and to hangar C on the end, Nightflier entered the showers and turned them on blasting hot. Dropping the satin sheet at the entrance, Nightflier stood beneath the spray, so consumed with his thoughts he bypassed actually scrubbing himself.
By Primus he wanted to fly. It was a slow, processor-consuming ache deep inside that he never really had to face until he was alone. Like now. He could usually keep his mind off of it—worry about other things, talk with someone, as long as he wasn't alone, he could bear it. And with the limited space, there was always someone near. But now that he was alone in these showers? He shivered beneath the hot spray of water, sucking in a tight vent—he wanted it. Primus he wanted to fly SO badly. He could almost feel the kiss of the wind on his face, the weightlessness of a fall before shooting back up into the air, the sight of the landscape whizzing beneath his sight.
With a curse sworn under his breath, Nightflier shook his head, trying to shake the sound of the water spraying inside the showers. It was too loud. He turned off his audio receptors, breathing evenly at the sound of the silence.
He had always preferred silence. As a young sparkling, he had learned Kaon was never silent. It was a noisy city, dark and cruel, and there were always sounds breaking the quiet. The foreboding rumble of derelict buildings; the cry of a child; the faint roar of the crowds cheering gladiators to their deaths; there was always a sound. It hurt and haunted, somehow.
Especially remembering the slaughter. Nightflier felt his armor hinging up in remembrance. The explosions that rocked his audio receptors; the burning buildings; the fire that consumed everything and everyone—he hated fire; the rivers of glowing blue energon; the screams; the grating screams; the screams that strained in agony, shrieked in despair, shouted out names in desperation—
He felt a cry crack from his vocalizer. He shook his head, trying to erase the haunting images and disturbing sounds, and instead he focused on the silence. He lifted his helm towards the spray of the hot water, and suddenly, it was too hot. It was horribly hot. Wildly, his servos scrambled to make it cold, and the freezing blast that suddenly assaulted him was a relief. Stabilizing his vents, Nightflier let the chilled water pour over his neck like a libation to cover the horrors of his past.
Instead, to tear his mind away, he focused on the present and felt the dread creep back up. The Forge of Solus Prime was practically dead of power. If it had enough power to even restore his wings that would be a blessing. But what of it? He didn't want to use what little power it held simply because Optimus had asked him to use its power to restore the Omega Lock. Yet he argued with himself that there was no use to try when he wouldn't have the Omega Keys too, much less the skill to recreate the Omega Lock, not did the Forge have that kind of power left in it. Optimus hadn't known when he had perished, but he still didn't want to go against the Prime's last request.
He felt a brush up against his spark. His father. Even that he felt twisted and turned against him. Nightflier struggled in several tight vents to control his emotions that wanted to spiral, and he let him know his touch was a relief, but not welcome at the moment. He needed some time alone to think. He felt Dreadwing's push that he was there for him. A stroke of guilt painted across Nightflier's optics. He had mended the bond with his father only to keep pushing him away. He apologized nearly profusely, but really needed the chance to sort out his own thoughts. Though worried, he felt his father brush up one more time to let him know he understood before he withdrew.
And what was he to do about all this in fighting about his father? A Decepticon turned Autobot. They didn't trust him—he could see it in their optics. All of them. Even Ratchet didn't trust him though he seemed to respect him. Wheeljack was out for his energon, Bulkhead kept his distance though didn't seem to mind if Wheeljack pulled his energon, and Bumblebee had killed Skyquake. His uncle.
Nightflier's servos clenched into fists, and he drowned in the silence of having his audio receptors turned off. The water pounded, cold and stinging, especially against his raw wounds as he suffered the chill that settled deep inside him. He couldn't hold it against Bumblebee. He liked the mech too much, and Nightstalker looked on him as a brother. Even Dreadwing was confused about him, whether to hate him with all his might like he wanted to or begrudgingly let his respect show for the likable young scout.
And on top of all this, Nightstalker. Grinding his dentures tightly, Nightflier slapped his palms against the wall of the showers, bracing himself there as he drowned in his thoughts, water falling all around him. He couldn't understand it. What was so bad that she had to keep it from her own brother? He couldn't fathom the idea. It bothered him, and it hurt him that she was keeping him isolated from her. He wanted so badly just to have his sister back, and she kept pushing him away . . .
Pit, even HE had his dark side. He had things he was ashamed of, things he wouldn't share with the others, his own sins he had committed. But he was still willing to bond. He knew what that meant, and he understood the price, but he believed in his sister. He believed in unconditional love. How he was able to accept his father after all of these years. How his father accepted him, even knowing his faults.
His servos fisted. Conflicted, angry, oppressed, and despairing tears pricked his optics. He hadn't even let himself dwell on the problems outside of the Autobots. How were they supposed to combat the Decepticons? They had a Predacon to call at their every beck and whim! They had the resources they needed to survive! Pit, they even had enough energon to survive, and the Autobots were only going to be able to hold out for a week before they all offlined?
How was he supposed to lead the Autobots? How was he supposed to take on Megatron? He was half the mech's size! He was crippled! He couldn't do anything! He couldn't lead them, and that's what they were looking for him to do. The feeling of pressure weighted down his shoulders, and Nightflier trembled, but not from the cold of the showers.
He tried to reach to the Primes for some sort of assurance. What he was supposed to do. A word of help, anything. But he received nothing. Nothing but the idea that he had to take action. But what good were they! He didn't know what to do, and they had nothing to tell them! He spat a particularly foul curse word Optimus's way before apologizing in shame and withdrawing from the Matrix.
So perhaps they couldn't help him with his problems. He had the knowledge, but he didn't know how to utilize it. He didn't know how to lead. And the Autobots were looking to him? They looked to him for leadership? For assurance? For help? He couldn't even comfort himself! They looked to him for resistance against the Decepticons? For fearlessness? For protection?
A harsh cry wrenched from his vocalizer, and with his audio receptors turned off, Nightflier had no idea how loud he was.
I couldn't even protect my own sister in the Kaon attack! What makes them think I can protect all of them?
He felt his mistakes accumulating over his head. They pressed down, a weight on his shoulders that threatened to crush his will. He braced himself against the wall of the shower, struggling with his inner demons and looming defeat before he had even began.
He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to combat this, and he couldn't do anything about it.
What had Ultra Magnus seen in him? Was there anything at all?
Arcee groaned softly, stretching her back. Scouting all that energon today had given her a crick. Granted, it hadn't been too bad since she got to take Jack along for the ride, but being cooped up in her alt mode for so many hours could wear on a bot. And to boot, the route she had been assigned had been recently rained on. Mud was caked up her sides from the road.
She headed to the showers, and when she got there, she huffed to herself when the water had been left running. No doubt by Bumblebee again. She stepped inside, shivering in the stinging cold—had he really left it on long enough to let it get cold! She was about to crank the heat up when a sharp gasp met her audio receptors.
Arcee whirled, and her optics bulged when she saw Nightflier bracing himself against the far wall, a place she had completely overlooked when she first came into the wash racks. She pressed a hand against her rapidly beating spark, exploding, "Nightfall! Scrap, you gave me a spark attack!"
However, he gave no indication he had heard. Arcee frowned when he merely continued to shake and breathe harder than was prudent. "Nightfall?" Still, no response. "Nightfall?" His chassis heaved in plain sight, no armor barring her view of his black protoform or of his wounds as he struggled with his inner demons.
Finally, softer, she asked again, "Nightflier?" but he still never heard her, having turned his audio receptors off. She approached him slowly, cautiously as her gaze drifted to his face, pinched and warped with passion, optics screwed shut and brows slanted as he vented sharply. Her optics initially followed the curve of his shoulders, admiring of the strength there before her optics dipped to his back, and her spark stilled.
That . . . That was his wound? She stared in horrified awe through the sheet of icy cold shower water at his raw wound bared open without the satin sheet to cover it up. It was no wonder he wore the sheet. Thankfully, the water had washed away the residue pus of the day, but for some reason that made it worse. The wound was clean, fresh, and each droplet hitting him had to sting with pain. Arcee's optics trembled as she came close, almost unable to comprehend what she was looking at.
The protoform of his back was tough, almost brittle-like from old burns that had healed with a leathery texture over his back. Worse still was the eerie and disturbing sight of his back struts on the right side, like bones in plain sight with his protoform cut away and removed with clean slices. Surgical. It opened him up and the fresh wounds of having his wings ripped off glistened wetly under the light, raw and sickening. She felt her energon tanks roll when she saw his joints try to move, to flutter his wings, and the ripped protoform moved around it.
She whirled, pressing her hands to her optics as she struggled to push away the grisly sight of the wound he bore. No one should have to deal with something like that. No one. And yet, he did. Because he had to. Arcee shuddered, and she felt her spark swell painfully with compassion when she heard a choked sound squeeze from his vocalizer.
A warmth started in her that had nothing to do with the freezing shower. It pooled somewhere in her torso, caught between her spark and stomach, and she shook her helm again, wanting so badly do something. She turned back towards him, and she saw that he was shaking almost uncontrollably. His helm pressed against the wall now, and his servos were inching up to grasp at his helm.
Her spark throbbed in pain as she looked at him. Pity and empathy warred inside her, and her throat worked. Arcee fought for a steadying breath. She had never so much in her life wanted to just take someone up in her arms and never let go. She had never wanted so much to whisper words of comfort, to chase away the demons and responsibility that hung over his head.
He gave another strangled cry, and he hit the wall in pure frustration. His protoform flexed and tensed with the motion, and Arcee swallowed hard, stuck somewhere between that magnetism that initially drew her to him so much and the need to provide him with that something more he was looking for. Something a bit more affectionate than just checking around with purely wondering intentions about their emotions.
A serious relationship.
She wanted to fill whatever it was that made him hurt right now. She wanted to fix the problems that he had to deal with, and she wanted to show him what she would do for him and to be there for him. After all, there was nothing quite like seeing someone hit rock bottom and the pure despair that overcame them in their greatest tribulations.
Arcee's optics dropped to his back again that expanded and contracted roughly with irregular breaths. Shaking, her hand reached out, fingers trembling with muted passions as she stretched to touch him. By Primus, she wanted to touch him so badly. Everything about him. To touch the muscle that lent him strength, to slide her fingers over the catches in his armor, to drag her fingertips over the leathery look of his improperly healed burned protoform. To lightly brush over those wounds that made him half the mech he was.
Her touch hesitated at the last second. Her fingertips hovered mere inches away from his heaving back, and another conflicted cry broke free of his lips. Her hand jerked back when he got too close, and her throat worked hard. Her volatile spark reacted almost violently, and she gasped as a realization struck her. One she didn't want to face.
When he began to sink to his knees, Arcee whirled on her peds and darted from the wash racks. Bolting from the doorway, she slammed her back against the wall and panted sharply, thin and ragged. She sank down, aft on the ground as she pressed herself against the wall almost in the gesture to be closer to him when in fact she couldn't bring herself to come any closer.
Her spark stuttered, singing a staccato song that resonated further inside than she had expected. She wanted him so much it hurt—body and soul. But she closed her optics, panting as her fingers tightened on the ground, so conflicted and so full of passion she thought she would break.
My spark isn't ready for this.
His optics swept the room once. Twice.
"Where is Nightfall?"
The bots looked at each other questioningly, and the humans, who were half dozing on the couch that night before really falling asleep, just shook their heads. Ultra Magnus vented, brows pinching.
"Does no one know where he is? I need to speak with him."
Arcee avoided his optic contact. Instead, when he looked to Dreadwing, the great mech inclined his head, stating, "He's in the wash racks."
Ultra Magnus frowned. "Sir."
Dreadwing paused, and though his brows pinched because he was getting used to his lower rank, stated respectfully, "Sir."
The moment stretched a little awkwardly as Ultra Magnus took in the polite mannerisms of the former Decepticon before he gave him a civil nod back and turned, heading out to find Nightfall. He fought back a moment of irritation. If not for Dreadwing's connection to his spark, they would not have known where their Prime was. He couldn't just run off like that without telling anyone. If not for Dreadwing, that stunt could have easily alarmed the entire base.
He transformed down into his alt mode to hide his true form before he drove from the confines of the base and to hangar C. Once inside, he transformed up, and he spotted him to the side, pressing his hands against the wall.
"Nightfall," he stated from the doorway so he wouldn't get wet, "may I have a word?"
He didn't respond, and after a moment, Ultra Magnus frowned. "Nightfall Prime, please do not ignore me," he said, but he received little more than a sharp breath. His lips pressed. "Nightfall!"
Still, he was granted no answer. Finally, a shuddered breath left Nightflier, and Ultra Magnus paused. "Are you listening? Nightfall, turn on your audio receptors."
Of course, there was no way for him to hear him, so Ultra Magnus vented a sigh and walked into the showers. As he came closer, his steps became slower, and his optics darkened a shade when he drew within clear sight of the Prime's back. The grotesque wound caused him heavy pause, and his lips pressed as he looked at the product of what Megatron had done to him. Drawing a breath, Ultra Magnus laid a gentle hand on Nightflier's shoulder.
The Prime reacted with startled panic, and he gasped thinly before yanking and whirling away. However, he tried so hard to get away that he slammed his back into the wall, and an agonized cry tore from his vocalizer. Ultra Magnus knelt and reached out to him when a spasm shuddered through him and he sank to the floor.
"Nightfall, easy. Are you all right?"
Nightflier looked up with wild optics. Ultra Magnus leaned away slightly, taken aback by the raw passions pouring from this small mech, and finally, an incomprehensible sound cracked from Nightflier's vocalizer and he threw himself forward into the commander's stomach plates.
Ultra Magnus froze for several kliks before he could get his vocalizer to function again. "Nightfall, please let go," he said. "This is highly inappropriate, and—"
"Don't you cite protocol to me right now," he heard the smaller mech rasp. His clawed fingers dug into his back almost desperately for some kind of anchor of wisdom. "Just—Just shut up for one Primus-blessed minute—!"
Surprisingly, Ultra Magnus found himself doing exactly that. He knelt uncertainly in the freezing cold shower with his Prime, uncertain of what to do with the smaller mech trembling and holding on to him. Periodically, a shudder and a sob would wrack the seeker's shoulders before a sharp vent swallowed it all back.
By fits and starts he would snatch in a stabilizing breath before burying his face more into Ultra Magnus's stomach. Finally, though hesitant, Ultra Magnus put a comforting servo on Nightflier's upper arm. The Prime shivered. The commander's optics dimmed slightly as, for once, he truly realized exactly how small Nightflier was and how small he felt—his hand absolutely swallowed the mech's shoulder and upper arm. He couldn't begin to imagine what the mech must have felt like when he had taken on Megatron when Ultra Magnus himself had felt small when he had been fighting the warlord.
It took him several long minutes, but finally, Nightflier began to calm himself. He shivered once more, this time more from the cold of being in the freezing shower for so long, and he vented hard once against Ultra Magnus before letting him go and forcing himself to stand up. Still, he braced a servo on the commander's shoulder and sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself.
Ultra Magnus felt himself pause again. "Phantom pain?"
He nodded. "That too."
He didn't have anything to say to that. After a moment more, Nightflier opened his optics again and looked his second in command straight in the optics. "Ultra Magnus . . . How . . . How did Optimus deal with all of this? When he was made Prime?"
The commander felt a suspicious hurting in his spark. "I do not know," he told the younger mech truthfully.
He squeezed his optics shut again. After a moment, he opened them, and he was appalled by how drained the young mech was. "What if . . ." he whispered. "What if . . . you're called to die?"
Ultra Magnus stopped. The gravity of his voice was real. Finally, he said quietly, "As long as I am around, I will not let you die, Nightfall."
Nightflier swallowed tightly. To sacrifice yourself and give me what is left. I ask for your death. He shook his head. "What if . . . the sacrifice is inevitable?"
Ultra Magnus reached out to grip one of his shoulders. He looked him straight in the optics, his own optics dark with worry. "Nightfall, what are you talking about?"
The young Prime looked up, apprehension curling in the back of his eyes. Then, he suddenly shook his head, muttering, "It's fine. Please, forget I said anything." With a sense of defeat, he suddenly wondered if it was a good thing Nightstalker wouldn't bond with him. Maybe it had been a mistake to bond with his father. He hated the idea of leaving them to suffer spark break whenever . . . whenever he was supposed to meet his end.
Nightflier shook his helm, trembling. "Let's get out of these showers," he finally said to his second in command. "I'm freezing."
Quietly, they turned off the water and dried off, a shake seizing Nightflier every once in a while because he was so cold. How long had he stayed in the shower and his thoughts? He didn't really know, but as he tied the satin sheet around his neck to hide his wounds, it was completely dark now that night. As they walked back to the main hangar, he felt Ultra Magnus rest a strength-giving servo on his shoulder, and Nightflier vented softly, taking a great deal of comfort in that small touch.
"Did you need to talk to me?" he suddenly asked as they entered the main hangar.
Ultra Magnus vented, considered his options, and finally shook his head. "It can wait for another time," he told the younger mech.
Nightflier closed his optics, taking a deep breath before he shook his head. "It's all right," he told him. "You might as well go ahead and—"
"PRIME!"
Agent Fowler's classic exclamation of the Prime designation cause Nightflier to cringe visibly, and he peeked over to the gangway Fowler stood on, amazed that such a big sound could come from such a small human. Fowler seemed to pause, sensing the smaller mech's discomfort, but Nightflier just took a breath and a step forward. "Yes?"
"Satellite surveillance has picked up two signs of Decepticon activity," Agent Fowler reported. "One near an oil fill outside of El Paso, and the other near the Hiberties Bluffs in Scotland. So don't forget to pack your kilts."
Nightflier blinked. Kilts? "Um . . . Not to sound woefully blissful, but what are kilts and do we have any?"
So used to Optimus taking his euphemisms in stride, it took Fowler a moment. And then, he began to snort with laughter, struggling to hold it in as he finally choked out, "I'm sorry, Prime, please, scratch that from the record," and continued to laugh all the way into his office.
Nightflier just stared for one moment more before he realized he was supposed to be issuing orders. "All right then," he started to say, and he paused as he took in his soldiers. He didn't know their strengths. Wheeljack and Bulkhead were clearly capable warriors, Bulkhead being a heavy hitter with his size, but he couldn't tell about Wheeljack. Smokescreen was a rookie—he clearly didn't have that much time in the field, though he was sure the harsh training of the Elite Guard would give him a leg up.
Cliffjumper seemed like a balanced warrior. He got that from his optics alone. Arcee was a formidable warrior, as he had seen firsthand. Bumblebee was just the scout, but he had yet to see him in action. Dreadwing used to be a lieutenant, and so he was bound to be a warrior on par with Ultra Magnus, plus his air superiority. Ratchet was his medic, so he would stay in the base, and Nightstalker—
Nightstalker?
Nightflier blinked at her. What would she be? Certainly not a warrior at that size, could she? Ah, but Arcee was small and one extremely skilled warrior. Who was he to judge his own sister? But no, not those optics. He could see it. She couldn't be a warrior. Maybe a scout? She would certainly be fast enough—
"Nightfall? What are your orders."
He jumped at the sound of Ultra Magnus's voice. "Oh! S-Sorry, um, was just thinking . . ." He paused again. "Well, we're going to have to split up. Ah, Ultra Magnus, you can take the Wreckers to the Bluffs. Um, and El Paso—" He felt his mind grind to a halt. Sending them all would be overkill. Only a few, just in case they needed to respond to another emergency, correct? "Smokescreen, Bumblebee—" and he bit his lip, peds shuffling unconsciously as he thought. "Dreadwing and Nightstalker."
He heard an audible groan from Cliffjumper, but a sharp elbow from Arcee silenced him quick. Nightflier nodded to himself, as if convincing himself of his choices. He needed to have Dreadwing out in the field to solidify his part as an Autobot. They needed to learn how to trust him. Nightstalker could work as a mediating factor, and whatever was between Bumblebee and Dreadwing needed to be worked out, right? Battle forced bots to work together—he knew first hand with Groove and Blades with one particularly fierce argument that had driven a rift through the team, and Hot Spot forcing them together had quickly made them work it out.
"Bulkhead. Wheeljack. Let's roll." Nightflier eyed them as Wheeljack groaned under his breath. Hm. And Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus needed things settled too, yes? He pinched his brows. SO much muted in fighting they needed to get settled. That was one thing he could remember from Hot Spot—there had to be peace in the ranks for them to work as a team. It was what allowed Hot Spot to command such a philosophically different bots like Blades and First Aid as such a tight and effective unit.
"Nightfall." He looked up to see Ultra Magnus standing before the Forge of Solus Prime. "I know there are many emotions tied to the Forge . . ."
He debated it for one click and gave a small shrug. "It's not doing much good sitting there collecting dust," he said.
Ultra Magnus gave a grateful nod as he picked up the drained Forge. "I would be honored to put this to some practical use."
The day was . . . LONG.
And worrisome.
Nightflier hated idleness. And he hated waiting. As the Protectobots' one and only seeker, he could scout things out the best, get behind enemy lines the best—he was always sent deep into the thick of things and behind enemy lines. He was always in the middle of it all, always getting his abilities used. To have it all stripped away by his handicap, he festered with the urge to DO something.
He chatted some with Cliffjumper and Arcee. He finally got to drill Cliffjumper and determine if he was good enough for his sister—though, he had to admit, he was probably biased because he REALLY liked the mech. He went and saw his human friends again, much to their delight. And when Wheeljack asked for a bridge back to base, clearly sore about something—other than the 'Cons getting the bone—Nightflier forced him to go along with Arcee and Cliffjumper to Tahos, New Mexico. After all, threatening to talk about Wheeljack's problems had made the mech narrow his optics at the Prime, turn on his heel, and walk out with the two.
But in short?
Each mission was a failure.
And, somehow, Nightflier found a way to blame that on himself too. Maybe he had split them up wrong? They blamed his father for losing the bone, though Nightstalker blamed herself, saying she lost her nerve at the last second when the bridge opened up. Had he sent too many weaker, greener links on one team? Should he have sent another seasoned warrior with Nightstalker's group? Maybe the Wreckers had needed another. Maybe he shouldn't have let Wheeljack go with Ultra Magnus since their disagreements clearly backfired. Letting the humans go out alone was a stupid idea. He knew he should have told Ratchet to go with them.
So Nightflier brooded and stressed over things as Ratchet again doctored his back, sopping up the oozing energon and oiling his exposed back struts so they wouldn't grate. He took comfort in his father's underlying assurance while he fought on the inside with himself. What were they supposed to do to combat the Predacon? Much less, if Shockwave was cloning more . . . A slight tremble shook his frame. How could they fight more, much less when they couldn't even fight one?
Ah, and recent pressure on his Prime position. Not only was it Ultra Magnus, but the Primes inside of the Matrix of Leadership that vastly disapproved of his affectionate nature. They claimed—more so the Primes, as Ultra Magnus had yet to fully grasp it—that he shouldn't be fraternizing with Arcee. He couldn't afford attachments at this point, and he couldn't have a bias to his soldiers. He shouldn't bond with Nightstalker, he shouldn't have bonded with Dreadwing again.
It bothered Nightflier. He couldn't even love freely anymore? It made him despise his position more, but he knew he had to do what he had to do.
A sharp pain in his back snapped him back to the land of the living, and Nightflier stiffened and hissed, snapping, "Watch it, Ratchet! It's sensitive!" Then, catching his glossia, he pressed his palm to his forehead, muttering, "Sorry. I'm just a little stressed."
The medic gave a perturbed hum under his breath. "Don't worry about it," he told him. "It was my fault. I will try to be gentler."
Nightflier cast his optics over the room again, taking in each bot. At least Wheeljack was getting along better with the others now. Arcee had mentioned she had talked to him while Cliffjumper had complained about being the useless third wheel . . . He supposed she must have said something meaningful to him. But in general? He could still see that dark haze over the bots. They weren't happy. And he didn't know how to lift their spirits. Couldn't lift them.
Nightstalker caught herself looking at Ultra Magnus again and swore under her breath.
Get it together you little whore. I don't care if he's the sexiest thing you've seen, I will tear out your optics if you look at him like that again.
Two weeks since her last night with Cliffjumper, and Nightstalker was getting absolutely crazy. With all the threat from the Decepticons, and Darkmount, and the Predacons, there hadn't been a mite of a moment to themselves, especially with the strict chain of command. But now? This night after everyone's missions, she couldn't stop her optics from sliding over to Ultra Magnus who was shaped so Primus-slagged much like Optimus it made her stomach heat up.
But Primus-damn those legs that went on and on for goddamn miles! Ooh, and the little accents of lights on his stomach—no, that just wouldn't do. He shouldn't make that delectable stomach anymore tempting than it already was. Mh, and those hips and that aft, and that thunderously heavy chassis coupled with those glorious audio finials . . .
With a small growl, Nightstalker grabbed her helm.
Argh! What the FRAG am I thinking!
It took a moment, but when Nightstalker realized that almost every head in the room had turned towards her, she had actually spoken that last thought out loud. She narrowed her optics, and obviously she must have given the look of the Pit because everyone looked away quickly.
She vented sharply. It wasn't like she hadn't seen a hot mech before. But then again, other than Megatron or Optimus, he was the first one she had actually lusted after. But she belonged to Cliffjumper, processor and spark AND body! She shouldn't even be thinking things like this!
Quickly, she roundabout turned her back on Ultra Magnus and looked over to where Cliffjumper was laughing with Bumblebee as they played a last late round of games with the kids since they hadn't seen the humans all day. To fight what she liked about Ultra Magnus's body, she immediately combated it with things she liked about Cliffjumper. The thing that immediately hit the top of her list was his arms. Primus she loved his arms, strong and powerful, and the way he would hold her and make her feel safe.
She liked his horns. A favorite pastime being grabbing the sensitive spot and riding him. Yes, she loved his horns. She liked the fact that he was smaller, and it was easier to get up on her toes and kiss him. She liked his laugh so warm that vibrated through his broad chassis, another feature she liked so much. And his lips. It was just too bad his aft was so flat compared to how nice Ultra Magnus's was—
Nightstalker's mind grinded to a halt as she tried to shake off that last thought. But it easily butted its way in again, and she could only imagine getting her claws into the sensitive spots of Ultra Magnus. How much would it take for him to finally lose his cool? And how generously endowed a mech of his size would be—
She shook her head as she glared across the base at the temptation that stood so stolidly at the computer as he double checked the day's events before he briefed Nightflier a little more about things like the incomplete Synthen formula. He was strict. He'd never go for it anyway, and it was a good bar to her fantasies. And that face. That was one thing she didn't like. He was always frowning. Always. And if he wasn't frowning, he was scowling even angrier.
Another bout of laughter turned her head from the stoic commander back to the mech she loved so much. As if tantamount to her thoughts, the broadest grin was on his face as he lightly shouldered Bumblebee in the effort to distract the mech from the game so he could win the round. Nightstalker's spark softened even as the unwilling heat from her guilty fantasies burned hot. Cliffjumper's ready smile, and his way to lighten any situation. Yes, yet another reason she loved him.
However, she had just gotten herself worked up.
Stalking across the base, Nightstalker grabbed the controller out of his hand and tossed it on the couch. He started to protest with, "Hey! C'mon, Nights, I was win—" and then, she grabbed his hand, pulling him away and snapping, "You're coming with me."
Cliffjumper just blinked as she hauled him away, and she was half aware of him calling out a couple of apologies for bailing on them before they were out the door of the base. Nightstalker dragged him off, Cliffjumper mildly asking where they were going, but she only was able to take him a few buildings down before she chose the dark inside of another one, pulled the door open, and shoved Cliffjumper in. He staggered with a good natured laugh until she slammed the door back shut and turned blazing orange optics on him.
Desperate to drown all of her thoughts about Ultra Magnus in Cliffjumper, Nightstalker pounced on him the moment they were alone. Slamming her mouth down on his, Nightstalker nipped and bit, wound up with hot need that had slowly built over the weeks without a release. Cliffjumper responded with a typical eagerness as her claws dug under his sensitive plating, groaning softly before passing his palms flat down her sides. He staggered backwards, hitting the wall, and Nightstalker's glossia invaded his mouth for a hot, slick dance before he was able to wrest his mouth away long enough to ask with a pleased chuckle,
"To what do I owe this quickie?"
Nightstalker growled, humping her hips aggressively into his. "Just frag me," she snapped, so angry with herself for thinking about Ultra Magnus like this that she absolutely seethed. The dim light of the hangar glinted off his armor, a factor that hampered her hungry process on his body, but she was honestly too torqued to even care at this point. She'd do him fully armored if she had to.
Her lips crushed down on his again, and Cliffjumper responded in kind, hands groping her thighs. Nightstalker shuddered before she reached up, grabbing his sensitive horns, and he moaned a bit loudly when she hoisted herself up so her legs could grip around his waist. Having experience with her partner, she knew exactly what would be pressing painfully against his interface plating. Nightstalker bent her head down, nipping and suckling on his neck wires as she freed his spike from its casing, her thumb giving it a long smooth stroke.
A clatter of something dropping passed over Nightstalker's helm, but Cliffjumper noticed the sound. Then, with an urgent, "Night—Nights, stop, stop it Nights—" his hands suddenly started to fight her. Nightstalker growled shortly, and it was on the tip of her glossia to tell him off when he gripped her wrists tightly to stop her touches and jerked his head meaningfully to the side.
Nightstalker scowled and looked, and then, she froze, optics popping wide. Four humans using the light of a lamp for a card game stared with jaws hanging wide open and eyes so big they could have swallowed the world. Nightstalker swore under her breath, all but leaping off of Cliffjumper as the mech hastily put his boner away, wincing with the effort.
Casino, Clothesline, Boobie, and Timber all stared until Timber finally gave the broadest grin, swearing, "Holy FUCK!" That snapped Casino and Clothesline out of their apparent stupor, Casino blushing slightly while Clothesline grinned too. "That was HOT!"
Boobie just kept that stoned look on her face, gaze transfixed on the apex of Cliffjumper's legs. Nightstalker's wings dropped and she blushed hotly, as did Cliffjumper, and Clothesline leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and drawling, "Aw, c'mon now, don't stop on account of us!"
This time, Nightstalker's flush was one of anger. Her wings snapped upright, and her claws fisted as she took one deliberate step towards them. "I so swear if you guys breathe one word of this to ANYONE I will skewer your heads on a pike."
Not true, but it got her point across. Casino lifted her hands quickly in submission, "As long as you don't talk about any gambling, we won't talk about any sex."
Nightstalker's optics flicked over the money piled on the table, and she gave them one strict nod. "Deal." Then, she grabbed Cliffjumper and stalked back out with him into the night.
Cliffjumper tugged her close. "So?" he whispered. "What's the problem?"
Nightstalker blushed hotly. "Promise you won't hate me?" she muttered.
"I promise."
She dropped her helm, fluttering her wings. "Well, um . . . I . . . Looked at Ultra Magnus wrong."
It took him a moment before it suddenly clicked. "Oh. Well, what about it?"
Nightstalker's helm snapped up and she gaped. "Wh-What? You're not worried about that?"
That caused him to chuckle and nuzzle her affectionately. "It's normal to find others attractive, Nights. I'm not going to hate you because you like how he looks. I know I'm not the greatest looker in the world. I'm just glad instead of doing something, or even thinking about it long, you dragged me off for some kinky recreational activity." He grinned, tweaking her nose. "Besides," he said, cod warming hot again at how her mouth was poised gaping wide open, perfect to fit something inside that pressed painfully against his cod. A pity he'd have to hold it back until they were out of range of the base entirely for some privacy. "When I'm through with you," he purred suggestively, "you won't even remember what Ultra Magnus looks like."
After a moment of staring after the two Cybertronians that hastily left, the humans turned back to the gambling table—all but one, that is.
Timber grinned at Boobie. "C'mon, Boobie, close your mouth. There's no way you could get it around that."
Her jaw mechanically shut with a clack of teeth. She huffed, muttering, "Well, it certainly puts it into perspective . . ."
Casino rolled her eyes and kicked her friend under the table. "Oh boy. Someone's gonna have some fantasies."
"Not about her or the red one," Boobie quipped, which sent the group into laughter as they thought about a certain smaller, black seeker that was brother to Nightstalker.