Author's Note:

Heyo! :) Been a little bit since my last post, but this chapter was being a butt to write. I think it was because I couldn't get happy enough to write it. XD Anyways, enjoy, and brace yourselves for the next chapter!

"Dude! Nightflier! We saw your sister getting it on!"

"Agh, Timber, really? That's his sister you're talking about!"

"I'm not kidding, that robot cock was HUGE."

"Who was the red mech? Did you know about this?"

"Nightflier, get your sexy ass over here! Family meeting!"

Nightflier stood rooted to the spot, halfway to the main hangar when he heard his passel of human pals calling out to him. Actually, shouting at the top of their lungs with the recent topic of gossip. His jaw was partially unhinged from the first statement; he thanked D.O.A silently on the inside for reprimanding Timber; he wondered if that HUGE statement was just blown out of proportions because they were human; yes, he knew about Cliffjumper . . . who had promised to be good; and did Boobie just call him sexy?

But mainly, his processor grinded to a stop at the fact that his sister had been caught interfacing. No, not even that she had been caught—she was INTERFACING.

Nightflier groaned, squeezing his optics shut and looking helplessly to the sky, claws digging into his face as the humans beckoned him over.

This. Could NOT. Be happening.

Defeated and more than a little angry, Nightflier turned and strode purposefully towards the humans in their matching uniforms, and he knelt, holding up a hand. It took a minute, but they finally settled down long enough for him to strain out of his vocalizer, "Just . . . WHAT happened last night?"

"Just like I said!" Timber burst in eagerly, a big grin on his freckled face. "You're sister's the little winged one, right? Dude, she was ALL OVER that red one! Whipped out his junk like a real br—"

Prophet elbowed Timber sharply before he could get the word "broad" out of his mouth when he saw Nightflier's horrified face. "I DON'T need details," Nightflier choked up, looking as if he had swallowed something that disagreed with him. "Primus, they—you mean—RIGHT IN THE OPEN—!" He groaned again dropping his face into his palms. "Oh Primus, I think I'm gonna be sick . . ."

"Easy," Casino said quickly, trying to undo some of the damage. "We stopped them—"

"Right before she ran off with him again!" Double Down snickered. "Since she's your sister I'm trying to refrain from saying exactly how hot that was—"

D.O.A. whacked him upside the head, and Angel cracked his knuckles. "So, should we get some crowbars ready for that red Charger?"

Nightflier vented sharply, shaking his head. "No, but thank you for that offer. I'll have to deal with them myself . . ." And he groaned again, getting a splitting headache at the mere thought that crippled his processor. "I can't believe them! He said—AGH. I'm gonna KILL him."

"I take it he promised to keep his hands to himself?" Prophet asked with an arch of his brow.

"Basically!" Nightflier exploded.

Boobie laughed, and she grinned, winking up at him. "Well, before you go plan that one's execution, I've gotta ask—can I see YOURS?"

Nightflier gaped for a moment, and a combination of laughter and groans filtered through the tight-knit group. "I—I—What! No! Boobie, come on!"

"Just a quick flash?" she asked with a pout of her lips. "I'll flash my headlights for the chance," she said, and that brought a bigger round of laughter as they all remembered Ultra Magnus.

Nightflier couldn't help but roll his optics then, a grin tipping his lips up. "NO, Boobie, I'm not flashing you anything!"

On a chuckle, Iggy Pop began to light a cigarette. Nightflier winced back, falling all the way back on his aft at the sudden presence of fire, and the man looked up at him.

"Whoa! You all right?"

Nightflier swallowed, all traces of laughter gone as he stared at the one flame that flickered on the lighter. Then, the cap snapped shut, extinguishing the flame, and Nightflier gave a small laugh. "Y-Yeah, I'm fine. Really! Don't look at me like that, guys."

Iggy Pop raised a brow. "You're afraid of fire?"

A threatening roar of an inferno rose up in his memory banks, and he tried to shake it off with a, "Not really."

Iggy Pop lit the lighter again, taking a step forward and waving it at him. Against his will, Nightflier cringed away, the bestial growl of that conflagration getting closer. When Iggy Pop blew out the flame and hiked up a brow, Nightflier huffed out a sigh, admitting, "Okay, maybe a little."

He took a deep puff of his cigarette, and Nightflier's energon tanks rolled at the stinging smell of the smoke. "Seems more like a lot," D.O.A. said to him. The big man crossed his arms, whiskers twitching. "So what happened there?"

When they all stood there waiting for a story—much like he had asked about the stories of their names—Nightflier vented, tugging nervously on the satin sheet tied around his neck as he sat back down on his aft. "Well, um . . . You know that we, the Autobots, have been at war with the Decepticons for millennia, right?"

He drew out some righteous stares. "No kidding," Clothesline finally managed. "How old are you, kid?"

He gave a small shrug, almost choking on the stench of the cigarette. "I'd say around 4 millennia."

Boobie groaned. "Shucks, I'm only 29. I guess that makes you too old for me, right?"

Nightflier grinned, and he nudged her with a finger. "Too old AND too Cybertronian." Finally, he couldn't take it. He looked at Iggy Pop, throat working and feeling sick as he asked, "I'm sorry but—can you put out the cigarette? It's . . . making me sick."

"Sure—" he started to say, but Angel snatched it from his mouth and dropped it on the ground. "About time," he said impatiently, grinding it to dust to which Iggy Pop angrily shoved at Angel. He grinned up. "I've been telling him how bad it is for him, but he just won't listen!"

Nightflier smiled ruefully as Double Down suddenly asked, "But you're not the oldest, are you?"

Nightflier shook his head. "No. I'm actually one of the youngest, though I think that title goes to Bumblebee or Smokescreen . . . The oldest is Ratchet."

Double Down frowned. "Which one is he?"

"The ambulance," he said, and he gathered several nods. "The sport cars are the young ones."

"So how old DO you guys get?" Casino asked curiously, shielding her eyes from the rising sun to look up at his face.

Nightflier frowned. "Good question. I've known bots 12 millennia of age," and he couldn't help but think of the old mech that had helped teach him a little bit of Circuit-Su before his died. The humans gaped more, trying to wrap their minds around it. Nightflier shook his head. "But I've seen bots that look TWICE as old as him. And heard of bots that are supposed to have come from as early as the original Thirteen."

"Twelve millennia . . ." Prophet breathed, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, mind still stuck back there in the conversation.

"Sorry," Clothesline finally said with a small grin, "got us a bit off track there. So you Autobots and these Decepticons have been at war for millennia?"

Nightflier nodded. "For four millennia, basically. My whole life. And . . . when I was little . . . there was a—a routing. Of all the femmes and sparklings." He winced at their blank looks. "Women and children."

Several dark swears were heard, and the entire conversation suddenly grew grim. Nightflier shifted. "So, um . . . My mom died early, and my dad was off fighting in the war, and Nightstalker's dad was too . . . so we were street rats. And we were playing hide and seek when the routing began. So we were separated, and . . . I tried to find her."

He tried to flutter his wings, flustered when he couldn't do it. "It . . ." He sucked in a tight breath, chassis expanding as he tried not to let it get to him again. "Basically, my home city of Kaon was burning," he hurriedly explained. "Femmes and sparklings were getting slaughtered everywhere, and I was just a kid at this point, Nightstalker even younger, and I couldn't find her anywhere, and after seeing bodies thrown in fires to get melted down for spare parts and seeing the buildings burning, and the fire, and the smell of the smoke and the bodies—"

Disturbed, he stopped short, cycling in tight breaths to fight off the memories that crept up inside him to consume him. "So that's why I'm scared of fire, and that's why femmes are so rare to find, and that's why there's not many bots as young as or younger than me . . ." He chafed his arms, feeling uncomfortably hot in the quickly warming day in the Nevada desert.

Casino suddenly stepped forward, patting his knee from where he sat crisscross with them. "It's all right, kiddo," she said comfortingly. "Take a deep breath."

Nightflier did so, taking comfort in the presence of his friends, and finally, Prophet had to ask quietly, "So . . . If all the women and kids were supposed to . . . Then how did you survive?"

Hitching up his knees to his chest and hugging them, Nightflier briefly explained, "I did almost die, but I was found by Autobots and taken in. My sister was found by Decepticons, and, on some whim, the medic that found her chose to save her." He shrugged. "I don't know about Bumblebee or Smokescreen, you'd have to ask them yourself."

"All right," Iggy Pop said suddenly, and he crossed his chest, "cross my heart and hope to die, I won't ever light up again in front of you."

Nightflier's lips twisted up into a smile, and his, "Thank you," was drowned out by Angel snorting and claiming, "Then we oughta keep you around here permanently so we can finally kill this addiction."

"Aw, lay off, Angel. You act like a demon with this medical crap."

Nightflier grinned, thinking of a certain other medic. Casino frowned in concern, asking, "Just a little bit of fire's enough to trigger the memories?"

"Wh—No! No, of course not, but it does automatically put my train of thought in that direction." Nightflier rubbed the back of his neck, admitting, "It has to be a pretty big blaze to get me to, ah, relapse if you will. I'd probably say that's one of my most haunting memories." The insanity he fell into after losing his wing for so long would be a close second.

There was a lengthy pause. Gathering a greater depth of insight to their friend, all conversation was put on hold as they absorbed this gritty part of his past, and before they could get back into conversation, D.O.A. finally grunted, saying, "Well, we've kept you from killing that red bot long enough, and we've got our own day to get to." A collective groan fell from group as if he was acting like their father, and D.O.A. just chuckled.

Nightflier smiled back. "Right. I think I've put off—"

"Nightfall!"

He looked up to where Ultra Magnus and Ratchet beckoned him from in front of the base. He smirked, jerking his head. "And there's my calling. See you guys and girls another time, yeah?"

A collective chorus of goodbyes met his audios as he parted from his human friends again. Nightflier walked over, coming up before his two elders, asking, "Sir?"

Ratchet cleared his through subconsciously, and he glanced over to Ultra Magnus. The commander nodded his helm graciously to Nightflier. "I took the liberties to tell the others of the state of the Forge of Solus Prime, Sir," he stated. "And given its limited capabilities, explained why its meager power could never truly repair the Omega Lock. So we put it up to a vote: what should be done with the Forge's last remaining power."

Nightflier blinked rather slowly, not fully encompassing what he was saying. Ratchet harrumphed, gathering his attention. "While there were several other good arguments as to what we should use the Forge's power on . . . the general consensus was for you to repair your wings."

He recoiled, optics flaring wide with pleasant and shocked surprise. But . . . his wings? But—"But Optimus said . . ."

Ultra Magnus nodded. "Yes. We know. But this was before you were wounded beyond repair. In order to repair your wings by hand, we would need First Aid's assistance and instruments of healing we do not possess. Your injury hampers both your physical and mental health, and we need our Prime strong."

Nightflier's throat worked. "You mean—" Suddenly, needing to know, he hurried past them and into the base where the Autobots looked up, and he exploded, "You want me to repair my wings?" And then, his jaw nearly hit the floor at the femme the bots were crowded around. "By the Celestial Spires . . . NIGHTS . . ."

She jumped, wings flattening self-consciously against her back as she shrank for some odd reason, but Nightflier literally found himself . . . DAZZLED. She all but glittered in the light of the base, her new paintjob the clear topic of discussion, silver, and contrasting stunningly against the black protoform of her thighs.

She flicked worried orange optics up to him. "It's too bright, isn't it?" she said, arms crossing over herself with the effort to shrink and fade back into the background.

His glossia tripped for a minute, unable to speak. "Y—That—I mean—Wh-What?" He came closer, nearly tripping over his peds as he stumbled out, "You have got to be kidding me—of course it's not too bright!"

Ratchet harrumphed in irritation, muttering, "That's what we've been trying to convince her of all morning . . ."

Finally, an overwhelmed smile tugged at Nightflier's lips, and he laughed warmly. "Nights—Aw, jeez, Nights!" He pulled her into a tight hug, rocking her back and forth before holding her out at arm's length, a suspicious mist starting to bug his optics. "By the Celestial Spires, you look so much like Mom . . ."

Ever so slowly, her wings perked back up. "I do?" They perked all the way back up, flaring open and closed. "So it looks okay?"

"OKAY?" Nightflier repeated with exaggerated sarcasm. "Nights, you look beautiful! Aw, Primus, what do we have to do? Beat it into that thick helm of yours?" He head butted her lightly for good measure, drawing a small giggle, and he threw his arm around her shoulder, turning her around to face Dreadwing. "Isn't she just the prettiest thing?"

He reacted like one who hadn't been expecting to be suddenly put in the spotlight, but he blinked rapidly, clearing his vocalizer suspiciously. "Yes," he finally rumbled quietly. "You look . . . gorgeous, Nightstalker."

She blushed hotly, knowing what the colors meant to him. "Thank you," she whispered, dipping her helm.

Nightflier felt the moment pass between them before he leaned over, nuzzling the side of her helm and kissing her cheek. "You look fabulous, Nights. And don't let anyone say anything otherwise." The sudden change in color was dynamic, flipping the entire demeanor of her character. There was a little lift in her chin; a square of her shoulders; a sort of lively sparkle he hadn't realized was missing from her optics until it was there. She had thrown off the colors shackling her down to the past, and he hugged her tightly again, chuckling warmly to see her growing so much as a femme.

She poked his tummy. "Um . . . And as for your question, yes. We want you to have your wings."

Nightflier suddenly stopped, and he opened his mouth to say something—probably to protest—but Ratchet interrupted with a, "Yep-ep-ep! We had enough trouble finally settling on your wings, don't make us have to fight you into fixing yourself too."

His jaw clacked shut. "But . . ." He shifted uncomfortably, looking dubiously at them all. "My wings? I mean—Bumblebee!" He suddenly whirled on the young scout who blinked wide. "I could use the Forge's power to heal your voice box!"

The scout twittered slightly. *Well, sure, but I mean, I'll be okay. Ratchet's going to fix my voice box, so I'm not too worried about it . . . And besides, it can wait. It's not a physical handicap like yours*

"Yeah," Bulkhead suddenly chimed in. "And besides, we know what not flying does to you seekers after seeing Nights go off the walls."

"Hey!"

Bulkhead flinched obligingly when Nightstalker smacked his belly, apologizing, "Wait—That didn't come out right."

"Sure didn't."

She softened her snide little tone by poking her glossia out at him, and Bulkhead blushed, sheepishly rubbing his helm. "Sorry, Nights. You know I didn't mean it like that."

She huffed, but her lips twisted up. "I know." She turned towards Nightflier. "So you," and she poked his chassis, "fix your wings."

Nightflier bit his lip, looking towards the Forge dubiously. Finally, after a moment, he heaved an overwhelmed breath, trying to say, "But I really just—"

"Nightfall," Ultra Magnus suddenly interrupted as graciously as he could. "Please. We have been over this conversation in many different ways, and you said it yourself: without your wings, you are not an asset. You need to be in top shape, Sir."

He shuffled his peds uncertainly, saying, "Okay . . ." He headed up hesitantly to the Forge, with little baby steps because he honestly felt a little intimidated—how was he supposed to heal his wings, first off? He eventually had to chalk it up to blind faith that the Primes in his spark would know what to do since he didn't, but his fingers hesitated before touching the golden hammer.

He turned again. "But—I mean, are you sure? I'd feel bad for using the power if we needed it for something else—"

"Nightflier."

He dipped his helm obediently at his father's voice. "All right," he said nervously again. Taking a deep breath, Nightflier laid his hand on the massive Forge of Solus Prime, and the hammer immediately crackled to life beneath his touch, cogs whirring and snapping with ancient, powerful electricity. The energy moved on its own, rushing up through his body, sizzling every circuit inside, and he felt an answering energy surge through his chassis, the Matrix coming alive with veracity, helping power the meager power of the Forge, giving him a last little blessing to top off the last of his sufferings.

A blue wave of energy blasted through the room, making the bots shield themselves before all became normal again. The Forge whirred to a stop, completely drained of its power, and Nightflier heaved a sigh, turning to face them all with a question in his optics.

"Did it work?"

As he asked that, his wings tipped up, sending the satin sheet falling over his head.

A strangled cry of joy and excitement caught in his vocalizer, and he laughed as he staggered blindly for a moment, trying to get the sheet off, and a surprised yelp squeaked out when he tripped over the Forge before managing to free himself from the sheet.

"My wings!" he cried out, so amazed he jumped back up to his peds and tried to turn around to see them, like a dog chasing its own tail. Then, his ecstatic optics pinned to his sister glimmering silver in the light of the base, and he thought his spark would explode with happiness.

"Nights!" he crowed, and he bolted across the room, grabbing her up in a bear hug and swinging her around. "I've got my wings back! I've got my wings back!"

Nightstalker squealed obligingly with him, and Cliffjumper's warm laughter filled the air at Nightflier's excitement. "Sure do!" he said on a grin. "And it looks like you're already doing a lot better!"

"Sweet Cybertron above, better?" Nightflier yipped again, socking a friendly and firm punch to Cliffjumper's arm. "I'm doing MORE than better! I've got my wings back!" And he whirled back around, catching sight of blue. "Arcee, I've got my wings back!" And he picked her up in a giant hug, swinging her around similarly to Nightstalker, but before she could answer, he hooked an arm around the back of her neck, swung her down, and landed a giant kiss on her lips. With another shout, he moved on, so excited he completely missed Arcee's blush and wide optics as she stared after him.

His optics finally registered his father, optics soft at the sight of his son being whole again, and Nightflier laughed, running up and literally launching himself at him, hugging him arms and legs around his waist. "Dad, look! Look! I've got my wings! My WINGS!"

A soft chuckle actually worked its way from Dreadwing's vocalizer, and he passed a hand over Nightflier's sensitive new wings. Then, with a wild gasp, Nightflier leaned up, blue optics flaring wide.

"We have to go flying!"

He scrambled down from his father's arms, bolting across the room with a thrilled yip as he raided the medical area for his armor, hurriedly clipping it on as Ultra Magnus finally spoke up, "Nightfall, please, exercise a little restraint—"

"Restraint!" Nightflier whirled with an unrestrained laugh, grinning and wagging his finger. "Magnus, you most certainly aren't going to put a damper on my happiness, got it? Let's just cut loose for this once! Slot, we're in need of some good news after everything that's happened!" He turned back, grabbing his chassis plate and locking it on but as he did he heard Ratchet suddenly say, "Nightfall, wait—Wait, stop a second."

Of course, Nightflier didn't until he felt Ratchet's hands grab his wings and bark, "Hold still!" Giddy with excitement, Nightflier tried to hold still, failing miserably as his peds shuffled restlessly. Ratchet gaped. "By the All Spark . . . Nightfall, you're healed!"

"I know!" he exclaimed, a bright grin covering his face.

"No, no—I mean, you're HEALED! Everything!"

Finally, Nightflier turned around to face him, his wing clipping Ratchet's mouth on the way around. The medic grumbled, but Nightflier missed it, optics popping wide. "Wait—What?"

"Hold still!" Ratchet growled at him again, turning him almost roughly back around as he inspected what the Forge had done. He passed a hand down the center of Nightflier's back, causing a small shiver to tremble through the Prime—so used to living all his life with the burns that had matted over his back, he had never really been able to feel a gentle touch. He felt hyper sensitive. "Nightfall, the burns—they're gone. And your protoform—" and he pressed two fingers pointedly against the area of his back that had had the protoform cut out.

It took Nightflier a moment to comprehend it, and then, he lit up like a Christmas tree. "By the Celestial Spires—I'm healed? Primus, Ratchet, it's a miracle!" and Nightflier latched a tight hug around Ratchet's waist too. The medic hesitated a moment, unsure if he should touch him, but then, Nightflier had let go and was rapidly putting his armor on, so giddy he almost couldn't see straight.

"Let's fly!" he burst excitedly to his father, taking his hand and pulling him along. With him, he grabbed Nightstalker's wrist, dragging them along in excitement, exclaiming, "Come on, come on! Let's fly!" With a final, excited crow, Nightflier couldn't contain himself any longer, and despite Ultra Magnus shouting something after him, Nightflier bolted from the hangar, transformed for the first time in weeks, and took off with a loud kick of his thrusters.

He yelled at the top of his vocalizer, soaring up into the sky as high as a kite, and then, he remembered—his pals! They wanted to see him transform! Banking around sharply and spying the first group of humans running outside of the base, Nightflier transformed and landed directly in front of them, sending them shouting and some literally falling on their butts in shock. Realizing they weren't his human buddies, Nightflier exploded, "Where's Boobie? And Timber and D.O.A. and Clothesline and all of them?" He wasn't going to wait for an answer, but someone frantically pointed to hangar B, so Nightflier bolted across the way, shouting out, "Double Down! Angel! You guys won't believe it! I've got my wings back! I've got my—YAAHG!"

With an un-Prime-like squawk, Nightflier tried to run through the door of the hangar just as one of the military vehicles was trying to leave, resulting in a catastrophe of limbs flailing and face planting into the floor. The SUV merely found its front clipped by Nightflier's ped before it swerved out and went on its merry way.

Still, clumsy when he was excited or not, it didn't deter Nightflier as he jumped back up to his peds, exploding, "Guys! Guys, look at this! Look! My wings! I've got my wings!"

A general cheer and whistle cut through the shocked hangar of humans, and Nightflier grinned at his set of friends as he wiggled his wings in a show, letting them see him in his prime. "Come on! Come on, get out here, you've gotta see me transform!"

He bolted out again, waiting impatiently as his friends hurried out, and Nightflier eagerly jumped, transforming, letting each part morph into the correct position—as slow as he could so they could get a good look—before catching himself with his thrusters. Another roar went up, and he couldn't understand their words since they overlapped, but he laughed warmly, swirling around in a circle before transforming and landing on his peds again.

"I've got my wings back!" he shouted again at the top of his lungs, as if the entire world didn't know it with how many times he had already said it. Then, spying his family, he burst, "Wait here!" and he ran over to the only other Autobot seekers, grabbing their hands and tugging on them until they followed him over to the nine Autobots who gaped up at Dreadwing. "You guys, this is my sister," and he pointed to Nightstalker with a grin, "and this is my father," and he jerked his thumb to his dad. Then, as an afterthought, added, "Oh! Nightstalker and Dreadwing."

Prophet dug a hand into his red hair as he stared up. "You weren't kidding when you said you were one of the smallest," he finally managed.

D.O.A. smiled, saying, "It's good to finally meet the family he's talked so fondly about," and the comment made Nightstalker blush ridiculously.

Double Down grinned, taking in Nightstalker's new colors with interest. "Well, I have to say, the silver looks good on you!" He grinned. "It's a big flip from the black I saw the other night—!"

The light blush became an infuriated flush. She stomped her foot down near him, making the Spanish man fall into giddy laughter as he collapsed away from her. "I'll still make good on my threat," she threatened lightly, orange optics narrowing.

Angel laughed and elbowed Double Down. "I'd stay out of her private business if I were you!" he snorted on a grin. "You might find yourself missing something important!"

Nightflier grinned, throwing an arm around his sister. "That's right! Trust me, mess with her, and she'll give you what for!" And then, he let out a half-heartedly frustrated shout, exploding, "What are we still doing on the ground? Let's fly!" and he ran off, did another somersault, and took off into the air.

Nightstalker grinned and was quick to follow with her own excited catcall. Dreadwing's peds stayed on the ground, and the great seeker looked up in the sky, following their movements as they chased each other about.

"Why the long face?"

Dreadwing looked down to Casino, and the young woman shrugged, rolling her dice restlessly in her fingers. "Go fly with them."

He pressed his lips together, and he glanced back up to the small seekers above before looking down on the small human. "My first flight when freed from the gladiator pits was supposed to be with my spark mate," he finally rumbled truthfully. Several shocked expressions covered the humans' faces realizing that even alien robots had gladiator games—much less, he was a survivor. "My first flight was with Megatron, the rebellion leader. I broke my promise." He paused, throat working as he looked up on Nightflier and Nightstalker laughing above. She reminded him so much of Ampere it hurt.

"But . . . perhaps . . ." His blue optics slowly softened as he watched them above, feeling another tug in his spark from Nightflier for him to fly with them. "I could fly with her children . . . regardless of differing fathers."

A quiet ripple of amazement trickled through the humans. "Nightstalker isn't yours?" Clothesline finally asked, shifting uncomfortably at the familiar scenario he had lived through.

Dreadwing's blue optics didn't falter from the children above. "Not by energon," he murmured. His spark moved in a way he had never felt for Nightstalker before. "Not by energon," he repeated softly again, but for the first time in a long time, the edge of Dreadwing's lip curled up.

With two long strides, Dreadwing took a great leap and transformed, engines kicking heavily as he chased Nightflier and Nightstalker across the skies.

They played for most of the day. The happiest Nightflier had been in a long time. But all good things must come to an end, they say—right? Well, it did. Nightflier knew they couldn't play around all day. His Prime duties came back to him, and he knew they couldn't burn all their energon on a fun flight when they had so little to spare. But that didn't keep him from enjoying his day.

The Decepticons were quiet now. After collecting the Predacon bones, they had gone almost eerily quiet, so the bots did a couple scouting missions—Nightflier included, just to stretch his new wings some more—until he hung out with his family more. He told Dreadwing and Nightstalker of stories of his Protectobot team, what they were like, what not to do with Blades when she met him, about his pet driller Minitron, the whole shebang. He even detailed some of his craziest pranks and got some giggles from his sister.

They stargazed at night until Nightflier and Nightstalker had exhausted themselves and fallen asleep. It left Dreadwing awake, Nightflier curled up in the crook of his left arm and Nightstalker curled up in the crook of his right arm.

Holding the children of Ampere in his arms, Dreadwing felt his spark hurting. Only . . . it was a good hurt. It took him a moment to realize it, but he thought, perhaps it was a healing hurt. Out in the solace of the night, Dreadwing let his processor roam over the years, what he had done, what he hadn't, what he had done wrong, what he had done right. The bad outweighed the good, and though he was guilty over that, Nightflier had found it in him to forgive him.

He stroked one of Nightflier's wings tenderly. The sensitive new wings twitched beneath his touch in his recharge, and Dreadwing's spark softened. He pressed his helm to his. His son was finally whole again.

Then, he paused, feeling Nightstalker shift on his other side. His solid blue optics blinked over at her, and he stroked one of her wings too. She puffed a small sigh, curling closer.

No. Perhaps Nightflier was finally whole in the physical sense, but . . . He was still waiting on Nightstalker. Still waiting for his sister to come home.

And it was here, in the solace of the night that Dreadwing found the broken pieces of himself starting to piece together. He tightened his arms, holding the children of his spark mate close, and he vented softly, pressing his helm to theirs. Regardless of fathers . . . they were his. They were his children. By energon or not.

He shuddered another uneven vent before looking up to the stars. He had never been privy to see the stars as a gladiator. He had lived underground for most of his life, locked in a tomb of gladiatorial battles, never to see the sun—the moon. His spark melted. Indeed, it was silver.

"This is what you wanted, right?" he whispered softly to her. The moon didn't respond, but it glowed in the night, giving light where none was. "Our children . . . have grown into fine adults. And we are here. Together. And I'm not going to lose them the way I did you. I promise."

Soft ped steps stopped near him. Dreadwing looked over, seeing Ratchet standing in the doorway. The medic's optics took him and his children in, and finally, he said quietly, "I was going to take Nightstalker to her recharge berth."

Dreadwing nodded and stood with both small seekers clutched to his chassis. "I will take her," he told the medic. Ratchet didn't argue, but he noticed the way he lingered in the doorway. Dreadwing turned, looking at him again, and his optics shuttered. "I know what she means to you," he murmured.

"Do you?" Ratchet replied coolly. He wasn't sure if he was jealous and territorial yet, or if he was happy Dreadwing was finally putting aside his prejudice against Nightstalker.

He nodded his regal helm down to the medic. "I do, because I feel the same." Ratchet waited for the rest of it, and it took Dreadwing a moment to say, "I respect your relationship to her. I will not intrude between you, but please . . . Let me be privy to my own moments with her. She is my daughter as much as she is yours."

After a moment, Ratchet nodded his helm back since Dreadwing couldn't shake his servo with his hands full. "Well said," the medic said softly, and he turned, leaving his daughter with another father.

Dreadwing made his way to the collective berth rooms as quietly as a mech his size could walk. Surprisingly, it was quite quiet, and he slipped past the recharging bots with ease. He paused near Cliffjumper, and he looked down at Nightstalker curled up to his chassis.

After a minute of silent debate, Dreadwing didn't put Nightstalker down on her own berth, but he gently eased her down with Cliffjumper. The mech stirred blearily, reaching almost blindly to her until he realized Dreadwing was handing her to him. His blue optics snapped open in shock, servos frozen on Nightstalker as he stared at Dreadwing. The previous air commander merely nodded, answering Cliffjumper's silent question.

Cliffjumper vented a small sigh of relief and thanks, nodding back, a silent promise to keep her safe. He bunched Nightstalker up to his chassis protectively, spark hammering in his chassis as he realized Dreadwing had just given her away to him. He trusted him with his step daughter. Trust him to love her.

Dreadwing settled on his own berth with Nightflier, letting the Prime sprawl over his chassis comfortably. He kept a servo on his back to minimize Nightflier's tossing and turning so he didn't roll over and fall to the floor. Then, he shuttered his optics and fell into a recharge also.

It took Cliffjumper a little while before he couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore. He gently shook Nightstalker's shoulder to wake her, whispering, "Hey, Nights?"

Her orange optics took a moment to flicker on. "Yeah?"

He jerked his head vaguely outside. "Can I talk to you?"

She took a big vent, expelling a huge gust of air before saying quietly, "Sure."

A relieved smile touched his face. "Thanks." So he pulled her to her peds, took her hand, and he led her outside into the night, avoiding the humans with night shift as he took her out so they could overlook the sand dunes rolling in the soft breeze and lean again hangar C. He sat down, pulling her down into his lap, and he sighed, wondering how to breach the subject with her.

Nightstalker poked his stomach when he failed to say anything at first. "Earth to Cliffjumper," she teased him softly. His worried spark settled a little at her smile. "What's up?"

Cliffjumper vented again, and he took both of her hands in his. "Nightstalker, I want to talk to you about something very personal, all right?"

She nodded. "Okay. What is it?"

His servos tightened on hers. He kept his optics level with hers. "Nightstalker . . . Have you ever thought about what it would be like to be bonded to me?"

He felt her physically still, so he rapidly backpedaled so he wouldn't scare her. "I'm not saying we'd have to right now, or anytime soon for that matter," he stumbled out quickly. "I mean, I'm waiting to see how you'll be able to handle it, I know I have to go by your pace, I just wanted to make sure you were aware of the option, but I mean—I know if you're not willing to bond with your brother yet you won't for me, I just wanted to let you know that I'd love nothing more in the world than to be able to bond with you."

Cliffjumper blushed a little, realizing he was rambling again, and Nightstalker dropped her optics down. He felt her tug, trying to take her servos from his. "You don't want to bond with me," she reprimanded him softly.

"Yes I do."

"No, you don't," she snapped a little stronger than before. "I'm—I'm—You don't want to bond with me. You don't know everything I've . . ."

He tugged back on her hands, pulling them close to his chassis. "Now, don't go trying to use that excuse on me," he chided her with a gentle tease, smiling at her. He kissed the side of her helm though she tried to avoid it. "I've experienced the torture. I've . . . seen what you want to hide most. Nightstalker—Nights, Nights look at me." He reached over, tilting her chin up when she wanted to avoid his optics. "I've seen the very best and the very worst of you already. I know exactly who I am inviting into my spark, and she's a femme I love with every ounce of my soul. For better or for worse, I am ready to take you as my own and finally prove to you that yes, love IS unconditional."

He bunched her up close when he felt her start to cry a little. He kissed the top of her helm, kneading between her wings and wiping the tears away. "Shush now, you know I don't do this tears business . . . And really. Take your time. I know you're not ready yet, I just . . . Wanted to make sure you knew exactly how much I loved you so you wouldn't be afraid to ask when you do become ready. All right?"

Nightstalker nodded into his neck, and he felt her claws dig into his chassis. "All right," she finally rasped back.

He smiled at her. "Good!" Then, he settled her down on his lap, saying, "Want to star gaze? That'd be pretty romantic, just us two, but I didn't see Ratchet in his berth, so he's probably pulling a late nighter . . . Hopefully he doesn't catch us out here all alone or else I'm going to have a nasty wrench welt on the side of my head. He can get really mean with those things! It's worse when it comes to you. I've never seen a mech so jealous before . . . !"

Nightstalker cuddled back into his chest as he prattled on, completely taking the romantic part out of star gazing with his endless talking. But she liked it this way. His patience; his strong arms; the warmth of his spark; the non-stop flap of his mouth. They were all things she loved about him, and though she knew she wasn't ready yet . . . she was glad he had said something. It comforted her to know he was always going to be there for her. Even with all his chatter that killed a romantic vibe.

But she wouldn't have it any other way.