Chapter Text
In Starscream’s very modest opinion, managing resources is key to winning a war. Resources encompass a wide array of things, from energon, utilities, repair materials and, of course, balancing the time you have to spend around your colleagues. Because not only the dark and broody survive this far into a conflict: sometimes, the so-called veterans are obnoxious, picturesque specimens you unfortunately have to put up with.
Autobots are… a mixed bag, for lack of better terms. And although he sleeps with one optic open on most nights – because the highest courtesy Arcee can offer is ignoring his existence – he feared termination a total of, maybe, three times here with them. Two of which had been overreactions on his part, but he’d rather forget they ever happened and so should everyone involved. Still, less than the number he’d have racked up under Megatron’s rule in the same time frame.
Now, about resources, Starscream used to think he was accustomed to the grinding economizing of war. He lived like royalty in Vos, with huge responsibilities but the nice things and the delicacies to balance out his efforts. All of that disappeared the more the fallen piled up and energon couldn’t be spent anymore making the luscious blends of paint he preferred. Even high-grade food became a rare commodity. And, like any sane bot outside of Knockout, he’d rather economize on paint than on fuel.
Siding with the Autobots comes with more adjusting than he estimated.
When you’re not busy avoiding enemy fire, you notice that said enemy’s appearance is more ragged than it might seem at first glance. The Autobots all share scuff marks, chipped painting, glaring and unpleasant signs of low maintenance from the aesthetic side.
Even Optimus Prime.
While being in pristine conditions compared to his captors had been a source of pride and vanity, it became a source of self-consciousness down the road of acclimating himself to the base. He started to maintain his frame less, use a minimal amount of paint and keep scruff marks for longer periods of time, in an effort to live up to the Prime’s frugal lifestyle. He hated it at the start, of course. He felt so bare and so insignificant. But, as anyone would agree, better to feel less appealing than being so acclimated with med bays that anti-corrosives trigger a quiet churning of anxiety.
Today is the off-chance case in which all of the base’s inhabitants are out on patrols, or picking up the kids from school. One is never truly alone in the base with Ratchet holed up the most inside, but some kind of planet alignment must have occurred to need an additional vehicle for pick-up duty.
Which leaves him alone with Optimus.
Not that this occurrence warrants a break from routine – nonsense, he’s way too busy pulling his weight for that – but it still makes him aware of the bigger bot’s presence, his back crawling with a soft prickling more than usual.
Sharing space around the consoles should be customary at this point, Starscream hogs the communication center and Optimus is meant to be where imperative decisions are made. It works out, it really does, and it eases something in the seeker that’s been aching for a long time.
What is it then, this vague feeling of hypervigilance?
Starscream shrugs, tapping a claw on the surface of the console, optics fixed on the screen.
Time blurs in the flow of the work routine, especially when dealing with self-isolating tasks. Until, his left wing is bumped into and he winces, cringing when a weeks-old ache is poked at.
“My apologies, Starscream,” Optimus says. He’s ready to wave the Prime off and resume where he left, but he feels Optimus’s gaze on him. “Is everything alright with your wing?”
Starscream doesn’t have to look under his arm to see that he’s keeping his wing askew and leaning toward the ground, while the right one is hiked at its regular height.
“Yes, quite.”
He raises his left wing back up, rolling his shoulder joint to help with the movement.
Optimus studies him with a mellowing frown.
“Does your shoulder hurt?”
“No.” Starscream clears his vocalizer, realizing he spoke too fast and too quietly. “No, everything is in order. I must have… recharged on the wrong side.” Optimus’s helm tilts ever so slightly. Oh, he missed something. “Thank you for your concern.”
His performative behavior doesn’t convince the bigger mech. Optimus places his datapad on the nearest surface, gentle blue optics searching his own.
“We can have a look at it, if you feel comfortable with me doing it.”
Starscream knows he can feel uncomfortable about it. But can he really, when the Prime is showing such concern? He still finds lots of things here off-putting, but it’s leagues better than what he’d have to deal with in the past. Walking on eggshells is too harsh of a phrase to describe his stance with the Autobots. Let’s just say that he’s trying to be on his best behavior in the eventuality that something lands him out of the team’s good graces.
He follows Optimus into the med bay, Ratchet’s domain left unguarded. The grounder smooths out a slab for him to sit on. Starscream does, claws curling beside his legs.
A part of him always dreads the worst when he’s put into an uncomfortable situation. He knows he’s safer now than he ever was in millennia. Try to tell that to the side of him that flinches at the most inappropriate of times, that can’t wait to be proven wrong about this sense of quiet he’s tasting under Optimus’s leadership, that grapples with old tensions and anger surfacing out of nowhere.
“Where does it hurt?” Optimus asks, standing on the side where the seeker can see him.
Starscream shifts his lips in a grimace.
“It’s just, a little crick, right above my wing. More to the side,” he says with a dismissive smile. “Nothing some well-placed rubbing can’t solve, I assure you.”
Optimus nods, in that reflective way of his that Starscream finds himself both unsettled by and appreciative of.
“May I have a closer look?” he asks. “Perhaps you do not feel as much pain. But, there might be something out of place you are not aware of. Your wing was nearly limp.”
Starscream can’t help the defeated sound leaving his mouth, of someone caught red-handed.
“Alright, it does hurt. A little,” he says, lifting a placating servo. “I wouldn’t inconvenience your medic for this. I am capable of performing with as much as the same diligence as usual.”
It must be some misaligned strut or a worn-off wire pressing on circuitry when he moves a certain way, or when the humidity is too intense. Who knows? It's manageable – and it’s all Optimus needs to have relayed to him.
The Prime’s lids flutter. He moves in front of him, his expression gentling profoundly.
“I will not press the issue further if you do not wish me to. However, I want to highlight that Ratchet does not see any problem he is presented with as an inconvenience.” Optimus’s servo reaches for his pauldron, resting on the edge where the dark piece of armor meets his shoulder. “You are encouraged to seek your medic whenever you need to.”
Starscream shifts under the warm weight of Optimus’s servo.
“There’s no need to remind me, I know how to take care of myself,” he points out, not to be hostile in any way, but rather to not appear dependable.
“I am not implying you cannot,” Optimus says. His wide palm minutely brushes his plating, closer to his neck cables. Such a small motion causes a sliver of tension in his arm, one that coils in his spark the longer it persists.
“No, you didn’t.” Starscream lifts his helm. “But, if you will allow me this moment of honesty, if you learned to trust me in other fields, you can learn to trust me on this one too, Optimus.”
You wouldn’t catch him admitting that a part of him feels deceitful when understanding crosses Optimus’s features. It’s not lying if neglect among the Decepticons turns into independence among the Autobots. He isn’t less if compared to the rest of the team. He must not be less since he’s been in the military his entire life.
Optimus’s lips curve up.
“I put my trust in you, Starscream.” The seeker’s spark flutters at how easy those words sound coming from the other’s mouth. It’s embarrassing, but no one in over a millennia said that to him and he can’t control his bodily reaction to such rewarding admissions. “Sometimes, I simply worry you are pushing yourself too much. You are doing more than enough, you are not required to do more.”
Starscream gazes elsewhere, lips parting then closing.
“Well, if you do trust me as you said…”
Then why is he still putting his judgment into question?
Optimus seems to catch on.
“I apologize if you feel like I am discrediting your word.” Optimus’s right servo joins the first on his opposite shoulder. “I want to be sure you are not pushing yourself past what you can sustain to do.”
Starscream carefully peers up at the grounder.
Optimus’s size makes him an intimidating force on the battlefield, a steady presence for his soldiers, a point of reference you can trust to use his power to aid yours. It’s… it’s something else, something at the edge of perception where words barely form, the pressure inside amps up way too much to be described.
It's invigorating.
It’s fullness that trickles outside of the soul in the form of tingles.
Starscream sighs in the solid presence of the bot in front of him, holding parts of his frame with a care he had yet to experience at his age. He was never the most attuned with his emotions, they simply come to him either in waves or in flickers he’s too distracted to decipher. Instincts handle that pesky part of him better than he ever could.
In the space between Optimus’s heavily armored arms and his wide chassis, he lolls his helm forward. His forehelm brushes against the Prime’s chin and facial vent, his breathing tickles.
Optimus doesn’t pull away. His servos move a little lower.
“Ah, you don’t know me, Optimus.” Starscream smiles, optics lidded. “Nor the lengths I’m willing to go, merely because I want to.”
Because of what he’s capable to do.
“I believe…” Optimus’s lips brush against his crest as he speaks – and still doesn’t push him away. “That some things are not meant to be lengths. Only steps, to take forward.”
Starscream breathes out through the vents of his chassis. A chuckle bubbles in his vocalizer.
“Forward to what?”
One arm moves from the hollow of his neck to his upper back, digits light as breeze.
“Starscream…” Optimus sounds hesitant. “Is there something you wish to talk about? If you find yourself unsure about your place here, you can come to me to talk. You will not be judged.”
Starscream smirks, hidden from sight.
“What is there, that a true Prime such as yourself will judge?” he whispers, teasing. Perhaps self-deprecating.
He cranes his helm around Optimus’s facial vent, his smirk growing faint anticipating a silence, yet hoping for an answer against the odds. He oscillates between spelling out Optimus’s thoughts like he could read them and moments in which Optimus’s mind extends far beyond his reach. Right now, he’s dealing with the second case.
Optimus dips his helm, a courteous bow that brings the Prime’s lips to the top of his helm. Squared, firm digits skim his neck, his jaw, as Optimus’s lips seem to place a kiss there, shy of his red crest. Starscream doesn’t know if it was intentional or accidental. His spark is squeezed by an unknown pressure that reveals a hole of hollowness in the center of his life.
“My judgment is not absolute. It is not meant to be.”
That whisper is an intangible caress for Starscream’s audials, concession and compassion together.
“What reason could you have to treat me like this?” he asks, accusation and wonder in one. In which “this” is whatever grace and understanding Optimus offers him when others would barely have the decency to hear him. It’s this favoritism someone for once bestows on him for his efforts, too good to be true, yet too painful to be imaginary due to the shroud of solitude Optimus awakened in him.
Optimus pulls him away. But the Prime’s servos stay where they are, his blue optics holding a hint of warmth.
“I am not sure I follow,” he says, as if Starscream hasn’t grown painfully aware of any scrap of good will thrown his way when once he had been too angry and bitter to acknowledge it.
Starscream lifts an optical ridge, intake parted in a knowing smile.
“You don’t?” he questions. He shifts forward, perching on the edge of the slab. Optimus’s faceplates are a light steely gray interspersed with a few lines and scratches from age. But his lips, those are nearly white, thin, pulled in a soft, inviting set. “There’s no need to be sure. I am familiar with certain dynamics, aware of the advantages they offer.” With a few subtle rolls of his shoulder joint, he's able to prettily fan both of his wings, even though the chances of a grounder finding them a captivating feature are small. “I am willing.”
Willing to partake in what Prime would like him to, willing to blur a little the line between leadership and following, willing to warm and be warmed in return.
He would have found this demeaning once. Starscream has been struggling a lifetime with conceding, giving up and being deprived of power. Optimus is different, in the way a god among mortals is, on another plane where pride doesn’t answer the call for competition.
His claws touch Prime’s arms, slithers until they stroke over the smooth glass of a windshield.
A questioning frown deepens on Optimus’s faceplates. It prompts Starscream to pull back, his mouth splitting into a nervous, simpering smile, servos left hanging.
“Of course, it’s merely an offer,” he says, stumbling his way into a nonchalant attitude in the face of what could mean rejection. “To alleviate the thoughts and the needs that duty often imposes to overlook. Yes?”
He dearly hopes he didn’t misunderstand Optimus’s intentions. Could he be blamed though, when such an elusive, powerful mech treats him so well? No, it would have been misleading for anyone in his position.
Optimus’s servo tentatively reaches for one of his, digits brushing over his palm.
“Starscream, is this what you need?”
The tone was quiet, thoughtful, as if this is something he’s allowed to refuse – that he can allow himself to refuse.
The promise is alluring, the chance is there, and it burns that he’s never been the first choice before in anything. Optimus at his core is a good soul, so selfless that he’d rather fight his private battles alone than burden his team. It makes sense that Starscream is not just the first choice, but the only choice available; he’s the outsider, the stranger, the one who doesn’t measure Optimus to a preconceived standard, or for whom an image must be maintained at all times.
“Yes, it is what I need,” he says.
It would be for convenience’s sake and it doesn’t hurt that Optimus is good-looking.
But, it’s not only that…
In his mind, in his spark, Optimus Prime and “good” are intertwined, sometimes without a cost. Even if relieving his burdens was a duty to fulfill, he’d be eager to do so for the mech that makes him feel fulfilled in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.
He leans into the bigger mech, craving that good, that special treatment that he earned in Optimus’s eyes. Lips brush, Optimus’s mouth parts and Starscream locks them together. He closes his optics, claws curling into Optimus’s chassis components, spark twinging in agitation and gratification alike.
Good, like he knew it would feel.
Optimus vents into his kiss, searching his lips as his servos run down his frame. Starscream wraps his arms around the wide grounder’s back, a big, solid servo holding his hip joint, thumb brushing his pelvis plates and sparking a prickling need in him. He leans and pushes against that taste of intimate touch, trying to show how dedicated he is to dear, dear Optimus, no matter the time, the place, the task.
The kiss stops and he senses the hesitation through Optimus’s suddenly stiff movements. The look of sympathy he finds on Optimus’s faceplates hits him, just like the distance reestablished between them. Only one servo stays, shifting from his back to his arm.
“Starscream, I… never meant for you to see our relationship under this light.” The seeker recoils inside. Optimus is gazing at him so intensely that he wonders what else he might have messed up to deserve this kind of stare. “I never… I apologize for…”
“No,” Starscream interrupts him. “No, it was a mistake on my part. I-I’ll take my leave.”
He can’t stand hearing anything else, he has already humiliated himself enough.
Optimus’s servo closing around his arm, keeping him seated where he is, prevents him from even placing his pedes on the ground.
“Stay, please. Let me finish,” Optimus says, gentling his grip into a caress that causes a shudder under the seeker’s plating. “While I may not have intended for this conversation to happen this way, I will not ignore its implications, nor any potential change between us.” Optimus’s servos search for his, squared digits delicately enveloping claws, leaving Starscream’s spark to quiver in trepidation. “I do not wish to see you as a tool, a convenience. If this is what you believe you need, I will pursue it with you as long as it is meant to deepen and nurture a feeling, not just an instinct.”
Starscream knows he looks like an idiot, he can feel it in the shame clinging to his shoulder joints. He clears his vocalizer, wiggling the digits of his free servo on the slab.
“I think it’s a good arrangement.”
Optimus’s lip plates rise in a gentle curve.
“I am glad you find it so,” he says. “Yet I must ask you to think about it, assess your feelings on the matter without any pressure involved. Do you agree?”
Starscream nods with a fond grimace. Optimus and his tendency to coddle him.
“Fine, if I must.”
Optimus understands him, listens to him, gives him purpose and makes him feel good. To him, there’s nothing else to think about for once. But, sure, he can do this if only for Optimus’s sake.