Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Autobots aren’t scary. They may be giant extraterrestrial mechanical beings, and you were a healthy amount of wary when you first met them, but they never inspired a sense of terror into you. For better or worse.

You never shrink away when Ratchet gets angry. You either try to lift his mood or give him space or herd the rowdier members of the group away (namely Smokescreen and Bulkhead + Miko combo) before someone catches a wrench to the helm and the base descends into pure chaos. You don’t need a repeat of that incident.

You never get intimidated by the sheer greatness that is Optimus. You treat him like anyone else. He seems to appreciate it. At least Ratchet thinks so. You even faced down (faced up) a Vehicon once, and while it gave you a large enough shot of adrenaline to explode your heart twice over, you weren’t exactly terrified. There are far worse things out there. Murders. Diseases. Man-made wars with thousands in innocent casualties. Anything and everything outside the Autobots’ sphere of influence has the capacity to scare you to some extent. But this? Cybertronians and their war? It’s larger than you, than Earth, and that makes it easier to jump into headfirst and not have time to be afraid. The robots just aren’t all that scary. So when it finally happens, nobody expects it. You, least of all.

“We’re at a disadvantage being on the defensive. It shouldn’t matter that we lack numbers. We have a chance to make a difference now. We have to do something!” Arcee paces circles around the base.

“Not this again,” Ratchet grumbles, and she turns on him.

“Arcee, I understand your frustrations,” Optimus interrupts before she can bite Ratchet’s helm off. He’s perfectly calm and composed, exactly how someone frustrated would not look. “But we must be cautious, we must be smart. You know this.”

Arcee bristles, and you think you see the subtle purple of her optics turn a bright red, like an evil robot in a sci-fi movie. She steps closer to Optimus, parallel to where you’re standing on the catwalk.

“We have the skill. The tactical advantage. They’ll never expect it. We gain nothing by waiting!”

“This kind of impatience is exactly what will land you on the medical table,” Ratchet mutters just loud enough to be heard.

Like a furious pendulum, Arcee’s helm swivels towards him again.

“What do you know about patience?” she spits.

Ratchet’s grip tightens on a wrench that he wasn’t holding a minute ago.

“Go ahead, then! Get yourself fragging killed! I know I won’t be the one putting you back together!”

Optimus places a firm servo on Ratchet’s shoulder.

“You’ve gone too far, old friend.”

It’s unintentional, you’re sure, but Optimus completely disregards a seething Arcee in that moment. He and Ratchet are sharing a silent look that only “old friends” can communicate with. They don’t see the way her kibble quivers, how her claws clench on nothing, scraping thin lines into her servos. Her faceplate loses all expression.

It’s bad. You can feel it. Your heart rate picked up at some point, palms going damp. If Optimus doesn’t say something right now…

You step up to the railing, a tense smile contorting your face.

“You, uh, wanna go ambush a Decepticon patrol? Blow off some steam?”

She whirls on you before you even finish speaking, optics ablaze and faceplate twisted up in a rage so thoroughly, you didn’t know it was possible. She looks like a completely different person. Like the dangerous, malevolent alien they expected you to see them as in the first place.

“It’s not your war, you haven’t lost anyone to it! STAY OUT OF THIS!” she shrieks, and you hear the whine of crumpling metal.

You don’t see it as she slams her fist on the catwalk, crushing the railing. As soon as she steps closer and her arm twitches upwards, you’re pressed against the opposite railing. Arms up, shielding your head, eyes shut tight. There’s an awful silence that follows.

Arcee stands frozen, shocked by her own outburst. Optimus still has one servo on Ratchet, the other half-extended in the too-slow attempt to stop her from crushing you. Ratchet’s optics are bouncing between everyone, looking for injuries, for something tangible he could fix. And you, you’re huddled up in a ball even tinier than you usually are, standing unnaturally still, barely breathing.

The silence stretches on, and you furtively peek from behind your arms, unable to focus on anything but the optics trained on you like searchlights. They’re so bright, so piercing, so invasive, you crumple completely under their scrutiny, falling to your knees.

One pair of optics moves closer and you clam up again, breath hitching, body shaking.

Optimus’s reaching arm is halted by Ratchet, who shakes his helm instead of speaking. Then the tenuous silence is broken by Ultra Magnus joining the crowd.

“What’s going on here?” he demands. No one answers him.

Smokescreen is hot on his heels. He calls out your name, moving in to gently tap you on the head before anyone can stop him. You swat away his servo in panic, looking up with wide, teary eyes. You don’t really see him. You just see blue. Way too many blue lights fixed on you. Smokescreen flinches away as if he actually felt your hand connecting with his. He stares at you with confusion and a little hurt. He stares at your frightened and tear-stained face. He’s never seen you look like that before, not even when your life was in danger.

Someone else calls out your name, gently, but the voice still booms when coming from a creature that big.

There’s a ping on the console, then Bulkhead’s voice asking for a groundbridge through blaring music. Every Autobot in the room is keenly aware that they messed up somehow. Seeing their human act like this has them feeling helpless for the first time in a long while, has them on edge. They’re easily distracted in this state. You see your opening to run while their optics are drawn towards the console,

Arcee says your name, and then: “I’m sorry.” But by then you’re no longer there.

Smokescreen moves to go after you, but Optimus stops him.

“It’s best if we keep our distance for now. Another Autobot will only complicate things.”

❦

You are supposed to leave through the front door. Get out into the fresh, scorching air and put as much distance as you can between you and the base on foot. You know they’ll eventually come pick you up. Can’t stand the thought.

You’re on the floor and there’s four massive frames between you and peace, and the groundbridge is right there and only Ratchet in the way.

The blazing light covers your escape, engulfing your tiny flesh body and spitting it out on the other side. And then there’s grass, and a sprawling plain, and a dirt road. You run up the road, past the still-swirling dust. Further. Far as you can, which isn’t much. You crawl into a bare, crumbling concrete skeleton of an unidentifiable building and collapse into the dust, rubble and broad-leaved docks. There’s no ceiling, and the clear blue sky above is like a picture framed by walls. Like a sticker slapped on the ceiling of a cell, pristine and out of place.

Your eyes sting, but they’re dry, staring blankly at your shaking hands as they skirt over the pebbled ground. You barely feel the sharp edges marring your fingers with micro scratches. There’s fear in your lungs, shame for feeling it, embarrassment for showing it. You’re full to the brim with these emotions, with nowhere to put them. Like a tick about to pop, leaving a bloody smear behind.

You stay like that for a while. Every time you think you’re ready to stand up and go back, a renewed sense of dread weighs you down, keeping you rooted to the spot.

There’s no distant rumble of engines, just birds and crickets and leaves torn by the wind. The scraping sound as something lands on the concrete above, sending loose pebbles prattling down, is startlingly loud. Your gaze trails upwards – fixed dead ahead, neck slowly tilting back. The greenery crawls up the wall, reaching for the light that replaces the ceiling. Some species of vine. Rusted metal bars. Laserbeak staring down. Crisp, clear sky.

Head hanging low again, slumped on your knees, you shudder as a fresh wave of anguish rends through you. Tears drop directly onto the floor, nothing louder than sharply exhaled sobs leaving your lips.

You couldn’t hold yourself together if your life depended on it.

The light gets dimmer, and when you look up, Soundwave is there. You didn’t even hear him drop out of the sky. Laserbeak is gone. Soundwave reaches a spindly servo through the opening, and you flinch, curling into yourself again. He stops. He expects you to take advantage of his hesitation and bolt for a false sense of safety.

You’re completely still, aside from shaking. This behavior is unusual in humans he has encountered so far, but Soundwave has seen it before. In crestfallen soldiers. In the Empties. In Ravage, way back on Cybertron, before the war. The last memory gives him pause. He had not thought of Ravage in a long time.  Now that he had, he can’t ignore a Ravage-shaped rift near his spark.

Soundwave backs away from the building and pulls up the footage from Laserbeak docked on his chassis. He analyzes your movements, posture, shell-shocked expression. Cross-references them with data from the human database. Files it away. Then he waits. He stands perfectly still, just glyphs scrolling through his visor as he diverts the troops away from his location.

In time, you crawl outside. You’re startled to see him waiting. But Soundwave doesn’t move on you. He just crouches to make himself smaller, and reaches out a servo. You stare at his thin, angular digits, so different from any of the Autobot’s.

He’s massive – obviously. And he’s a Decepticon. Obviously. But despite the initial panic, you don’t feel that all-consuming, debilitating need to flee for the hills that runs so deep it circles back to being frozen in place.

Soundwave’s long, oddly-jointed legs are folded underneath him. There’s something flickering on his visor – too far to see. And, a sound. There’s a low, mechanical humming emanating from his chassis. It grows louder, then quieter in a pulsing rhythm. Like a heartbeat.

You’re a little wary. Not enough. You’re far more curious. You don’t know much about Soundwave, aside from common facts. High-ranking. Competent. Intimidating. That last one doesn’t seem as prevalent now. Sidestepping away from the ruin, you keep a close eye on him. His helm turns minutely to watch you, but otherwise he’s motionless. You hesitate. He’s not pursuing, not attacking, even though he most definitely knows you’re involved with the Autobots.

That you’re a bargaining chip waiting to be grabbed.

Skulking steps changing trajectory without conscious input, you approach Soundwave. You inch closer until you can’t see his helm without craning your neck. Head down, shoulders hunched, you focus on his servo. He watches you with rapt attention, usual monitoring subroutines running passively at the back of his CPU. He’s keenly aware of Laserbeak’s spark flitting doubtfully next to his own. It’s not outright disapproval, just caution. Where Ravage was aloof and Rumble and Frenzy caught up in their own perpetual trouble, Laserbeak is protective and a little territorial.

You finally get close enough to touch the fingers of one hand to Soundwave’s offered digits. His visor blips with a smiley emote meant to encourage and comfort you, but you don’t look up to notice. Your palm presses flush against the metal, then, after a moment, the other follows. You think you can feel his engine thrum all the way down in his digits. Maybe it’s just your own hands shaking.

Soundwave’s digit moves slightly, and when you don’t immediately turn tail, his other servo descends, flattening to the ground in a universal gesture of coaxing a small creature to clamber on.

Finally, far, far too late, you consider what you should do. What’s the worst that could happen? Something painful. Lethal. Humiliating. Worse than losing your composure so thoroughly and completely, in full witness of superior lifeforms? Probably. But right now you’re so wrung out and defeated that complying with Soundwave sounds exactly like the kind of stupid and dramatic stunt you should pull.

You crawl into his palm. One servo wraps around you and he stands smoothly. You cling onto his digits again. There’s no pause or hesitation as Soundwave brings you to his chassis. Closer. Clutching tighter. Gentle.

A thought crosses your mind. How long will it take for Autobots to notice something’s amiss? Bitter anger smolders within you, unfair, childish and misplaced. At the Autobots, for acting so weird about it, at yourself for being so easily spooked. At whatever the fuck had you so jumpy to begin with. You simmer in Soundwave’s grasp, shaking with anger while he watches you with something bordering on fondness. You’ll regret this anger later, if you live that long. For now, you want to burn it out of your system as soon as possible.

With a shout, you bring your fist down onto his palm, and immediately cradle it when the pain registers. Soundwave doesn’t even flinch. He just brings a digit to your back, petting you lightly. You cry.

Laserbeak detaches once again and lands on Soundwave’s flat forearm. He brings his angular head close, taking a mouthful of your shirt and tugging. He doesn’t put much power behind it, but still underestimates just how small and weak you are compared to a Cybertronian. You pivot sideways, and raise your wet, blotchy face with a hint of affront.

Laserbeak pauses, nibbling on your shirt, making a clicking noise. He releases it, seemingly understanding that he’s being too rough with you, and bumps his helm to your shoulder in apology. You pivot in the other direction. Soundwave’s focus shifts to Laserbeak, glyphs crawling across his visor. Laserbeak chirps in response. Then he steps closer, little clawed feet clacking on the metal of Soundwave’s arm. This time his helm closes in slowly, brushing against you with all the gentleness he can muster.

You sniffle and wipe your face with the back of a sleeve. With the same care he showed, you brush your fingers down Laserbeak’s flat neck plate. He croons and flutters his wings minutely. With that encouragement your fingers wander further, petting over the wide planes of his wings and down cramped seams.

You take a moment to ghost your fingers gently over the spot you struck by way of apology.

Soundwave returns the favor. His digits glide over the fabric covering your back, and you vaguely hope he doesn’t accidentally rip any holes in it.

You sit in this weird little train of back scratches. If someone were to see this, you’d never live it down. A wholesome quiet settles in, with only the rustle of clothes and rumble of engines breaking it up. Soundwave is still making that soothing sound and it blends perfectly into the background. Your mind, like the surface of a lake, stills its distressed rippling, attuning to the sway of your body to the rhythm of Soundwave’s pets. It’s nice.

The Autobots don’t scare you, but you were never this relaxed in their presence. After today, you doubt you ever will be. The irrational need to be your best, most presentable self in their extraordinary company is overwhelming. Now? Now you’re just content to be held, to scratch Laserbeak’s chin, whether he can feel it or not. He seems happy enough.

❦

Soundwave’s radar picks up the spark signatures way before you can hear the engines. You notice his helm lift to the horizon, his frame going still. Alert. Laserbeak follows suit. Then he takes off, suddenly and without a flap of wings. Not that he’s a real bird, but it still looks slightly off-putting. He flies towards where Soundwave is looking, and is soon too small to make out in the sky.

Soundwave tilts his visor towards you and waits.

You squirm, keenly aware of being watched without needing to see his face. It’s so obvious. He makes it so obvious. You wonder if his highly-telegraphed mannerisms are for your benefit. So he doesn’t startle you. So he can communicate. Part of you hopes that you’re imagining it, that you’re way off the mark. Though, if you’re right… What is the proper protocol for a Decepticon being nice to you?

You look up at Soundwave’s impassive visor. The kids had a run-in with him that one time, didn’t they? Didn’t he almost kill them? Threaten their life with the full menacing power of a Decepticon? Where is that mech now? If you make a wrong move, will he resurface? Will he get rid of you, too? Permanently?

Like a feral dog off the chain, your mind plummets down the well of conjectures, trying to come up with reasonable, logical answers to this extraordinary being. His behavior. His gentle touch. How he seems to just know what to do. How the Autobots don’t. How little you know about this war, and the other side fighting in it. If the first Cybertronian you’ve met was a Decepticon, how differently would you see them, their conflict.

How it took so very little for you to start doubting everything you know.

All things considered, you like the Autobots. They’re so full of character, of faults. They’re so alive, so human, for lack of a better word. How could you ever think Decepticons are any different?

Mind overwhelmed with doubt that spreads and contaminates every conviction, you’re one thought away from going back to being a curled up little puddle of sobs and misery.

Soundwave’s visor flicks into color and transmits a video feed being captured by Laserbeak. Autobots. Smokescreen and Optimus. No Ratchet or Ultra Magnus. No Arcee. You don’t expect them all to be there, but the exclusion of those particular bots leaves a gross taste in your mouth.

Soundwave looks for your reaction like he’s judging. Like it’s a test. He notes the way your face twists up watching the feed. The way you hunch up and shrink into yourself, becoming smaller. The way you look to the horizon where Laserbeak disappeared, and when you see the approaching dust cloud you try to hide behind Soundwave’s thin fingers.

You don’t want them to see you. Not like this. Even if you survive the mortification, you won’t be able to face them. You’d have to change your name, blow town. Shave your hair or something. Is there a witness protection program from aliens?

The thought is so absurd it almost makes you smile. You won’t do it, but the thought of there being a way out is more comforting than you’d like to admit. You like to think, if not anything else, you’re good at running.

Soundwave could take you back to Nemesis. You being as small as you are, and without a spark signature, it would be almost too easy to stow you away. To keep you close, keep you safe. Old tracks worn into his coding hum with a promise of contentment at the thought. He can’t – won’t – replace Ravage, and the twins would go berserk for a while, but it would be worth it. Having another weak, vulnerable little bitlet around would be worth it all.

The convoy is closing in. Your time will soon be up. Soundwave receives a signal from the mech patrol in the area. They are aware of Autobot presence. He sends out an order to stand by and remain undetected.

Soundwave sends Laserbeak the same question he’s asking himself. Laserbeak, in a completely unhelpful manner, responds with indifference. Then follows it up by stating that if Soundwave keeps you, he’s not going to just step aside as a favorite. Soundwave immediately denies having favorites, but before he can finish the message Laserbeak disconnects. He’s on his own here.

He does the next logical thing. Soundwave crouches and brings his servo close to the ground.

He’s letting you go.

You stare up at him. Wide-eyed. Lost.

He’s letting you go.

The dust cloud on the horizon grows, roiling and ominous like an approaching storm. You have to decide. You don’t want them to catch Soundwave here. Fuck the war. Fuck the advantage it would give them. If you have to stand there and watch more robot violence today, you might just step underfoot on purpose.

You’d like to go with Soundwave. There’s so much you could see. Learn about the opposing front. You wouldn’t have to give up being held like this. But the Autobots would hunt you down eventually. Megatron would try to wring you for information.

You would just be a burden on Soundwave.

Reluctantly you place your feet on the solid ground. Before he can retreat you grab hold of Soundwave’s digit with both hands. You look up at him for a long, long moment. Gather your courage. Then speak.

“Will I see you again?”

His helm moves slightly to indicate he heard you. Seconds pass and you continue to hold him in place with an open, hopeful look on your face.

“-see you again.” Your own voice plays back at you. You breathe in sharply, deeply. Chest filling with air and excitement.

You let him go then and step back. Soundwave reaches out to brush gentle digits over your body one last time as he stands. Laserbeak returns and docks and without much fanfare a groundbridge opens behind him and just like that Soundwave’s gone.

When the Autobots find you, you’re sitting in the field not far from the road, plucking at the blades of grass. You throw little shredded bits, but they don’t go far before dropping to the ground. The convoy stops close. You can taste their dust.

“Are you okay?” Smokescreen asks and starts to transform, but Optimus releases a garbled, mechanical sound – an order in Cybertronian – and he settles back into vehicle mode.

“We should go. There could be Decepticons in the area.” Optimus opens his passenger side door, beckoning you inside.

You hesitate for a moment, but what choice do you have?

“I haven’t seen any,” you say as you climb into the cabin, and you sound exhausted. Hollow.

The convoy turns around, carelessly tearing up the grass as they go back the way they came. You catch a brief glimpse of your reflection in the window. You look like a plastic bag in a gutter in the rain.

You slump in your seat.

“Sorry for running off.”

Your voice is only slightly louder than a whisper. It’s almost drowned out by Optimus’s massive engine.

“We owe you an apology as well. You were only trying to help. I’m just glad you suffered no harm.”

They reach the coordinates where the groundbridge is set to open, comm Ratchet and drive through the portal of light.