Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Why did I get in front of him?!”

Good question, great question, a question Wheeljack would also be shouting at the top of his vocalizer if he wasn’t in the middle of trying to keep the emperor of all Cybertron and his glitchiest friend –a hard fought position, given Ratchet AND Ironhide’s general dispositions– from bleeding out in his lap. Luckily Starscream is shrieking enough for the both of them. 

“It was Megatron. MEGATRON! Why did I protect MEGATRON?!” 

Another fantastic question, one that he ignores in order to keep welding up Starscream's fuel pump, an exceedingly difficult task when the damn thing keeps trying to fail. Wheeljack sends Ratchet another priority ping and shunts the unease that follows out of spark and out of mind. He can’t worry about his friend and his friend’s apparent conjunx, Ratchet has a conjunx now and it’s not him and Wheeljack really can’t afford to think about that right now so he won’t.  

But it isn’t like the medic to not answer a ping from him, especially not a priority distress mechs-are-dying ping, and he knows they’re on every news network across the entire planet if not the entire galaxy because even though the news crews left, their recording station sure as pit didn’t. 

“He's got enough armor built into his stupid bucket helm to survive a rocket to the face, why did I even BOTHER?!”

Wheeljack would also like to know the answer to that, given that Starscream had to remove much of his war-grade armor to be allowed to run for office at all, and the shot that would have landed Megatron in stasis at most is doing a damn good job at killing Starscream. There's a commotion near the doors, a voice bellowing out orders that sounds like Windblade. Chromia and Ironhide will be right on her thrusters, making their defense basically impenetrable, but none of it matters if his amica bleeds out in his arms. 

“Should’ve followed through with the execution if all he’s good for is getting me SHOT! Whose idea even was it to let the slagging glitch stay alive?!”

A carefully selected jury’s, not that Wheeljack is about to remind him right now. Or even for a second suggest that the jury had been unbiased. Starscream shouldn't have even been at the damn welcome party, not when he spent the last five cycles breaking down in Wheeljack's lab, but Primus forbid he fail to meet an abuser face to face and look ‘weak’. And now it’s seen as him being sympathetic, which had led to another four shots through Starscream’s chassis before Wheeljack managed to get to him and get them both to cover.

He wonders if the firefight raging just outside of the half-destroyed building would be over if Megatron had just died. Enough mechs protested his return to Cybertron at all, let alone the jury letting him off with, in Wheeljack’s opinion, a light sentence– the point is that if he had actually gotten shot then maybe it all would have stopped. For a klik all he can see is Starscream's optics going wide and distant, his plating flaring and then jetting forward on instinct and slamming into Megatron right as the shot tore through the air and the ‘official’ welcoming ceremony. 

Maybe it wouldn't have happened if they had waited another decacycle like Chromia had suggested- but no, Starscream and Windblade had agreed that the two chords they waited had been two chords too long, especially since the rest of the Lost Light crew had been free to roam planetside since they landed. But there has to have been something. Something someone could have done, something Wheeljack should have done to, to heighten security, to weed out dissent, to protect Starscream. 

His processor plays Starscream falling with a choked noise of pain and a hole through his chassis over and over again, so close to his spark; four more shots ring through his audials, sending the Starscream in his mind toppling back while mechs begin to scream and Windblade leaps to the offensive and Megatron fights against six guards to try and reach Starscream bleeding out on the ground as if that will ever make up for the harm he caused, then he was bleeding out in Wheeljack's arms-

“Honestly. Never let me get between Megabum and a bullet ever again, Wheeljack.”

Starscream’s trying to calm him down, trying pull him from his mental spiral and to soothe the tension and terror in his lines with an old insult he hasn’t used in vorn. It doesn’t work well, especially not with the faint tremble in his voice, but it at least tugs him free of his awful memories. It goes slowly, so slowly, slower than the flow of pitch. His servos have stayed working without the rest of him, thank Primus.

“Can you hold the end of this line for me, Star?” He asks, and commends himself for not sounding like he's about to start crying. There’s so much damage, so much energon and oil and fluid that won’t stop leaking.

Starscream clearly isn't fooled, his field softening ever so slightly against Wheeljack's own, a quiet little comfort that he rarely offers. His digits move with a confidence forged from tending to a long, horrifying list of life-ending injuries himself when Hook or Knock Out couldn’t reach him. It doesn’t make him feel better, not even when his amica’s digits clamp that line shut with ease as well as two others he hadn't asked him to. It’s really impressive the way Starscream can keep himself so calm with his fuel pump failing and his spark flickering and his life in Wheeljack’s faltering servos-

“Ugh, Primus, stop crying. If anyone should be crying it should be me, the one who took a bullet for MEGATRON! Why couldn’t it be anyone else. ANYONE! ELSE! Even OPTIMUS PRIME would be better than MEGATRON! Pit, I’d even rather take one for Prowl.”

That forces a laugh out of him, shaky and water-logged and crumpled up like how his spark feels with his servos drenched in pink and blue and neon colors he’s never had to see before with his amica dying in his lap because he can’t stop the bleeding. He sends another ping to Ratchet because nothing else he’s doing is working because he’s the worst, most useless amica in the history of Cybertron.

The fight is getting louder, getting closer, and it doesn't help the way his servos shake. It also doesn’t help Starscream for all that he’s acting unaffected; whenever a shot gets too close to Skywarp or Thundercracker he tenses all over and whenever Windblade takes a bad hit he winces, though Wheeljack knows he’ll deny it later. He tries so hard to maintain his distance, plays into every single belief about him because it’s ‘safer’ that way and he wishes more of Cybertron understood what Starscream did to make their lives better so maybe this would stop happening. This shot may have been meant for Megatron, but it’s not like attempts against his amica’s life are unheard of. 

Starscream is quiet now, watching the sky with anxiety radiating out of his field in waves that slam into his own and threaten to drag him into a spiral. Wheeljack’s had a lot of practice in battle situations to not lose himself to his panic, but it turns out failing at saving someone’s life’ll do it just fine. 

He takes stock of the twitching wings in front of him, the way Starscream’s optics are narrowed and flicking between near and close lenses, and the fact that his trine is actually struggling to outmaneuver some of the seekers who decided they want their emperor dead, and determines that he has exactly five kliks before Starscream flies to his death in defense of his brothers.

A shot cracks through the sky, a wing ignites, Thundercracker screams, and Wheeljack revises his time to zero kliks as Starscream immediately tries to leap from his lap to his brother’s rescue, exposed spark or not.

“THUNDER!” The scream is loud, echoed and doubled, his amica’s voice cracking one of his optics as Skywarp's sends a chill down his spinal strut. 

Skywarp's managed to stop Thundercracker’s descent, holding his position in the air as the seeker struggles to right himself while his backup stabilizers engage; none of that means anything to Wheeljack who’s a bit too busy panicking over all the welds Starscream is reopening as he fights to join his trine. 

Several things happen all at once. The enemy sniper takes another shot, then two more ring out in less than a nanoklik. The first shot flares to nothing in the sky as the enemy sniper finally crashes to the ground, frame already greying. A battle cry rings out that shakes the building to its foundations, just as familiar to Wheeljack as the hammer he catches sight of out of the corner of his optic; a little flash of white and teal leaps off it to go racing up to Thundercracker’s side. 

And out of nowhere an ambulance tears into the building, Ratchet transforming out of the smoothest drift Wheeljack has ever seen him pull off and catching Starscream’s chassis right as he’s about to jet out the roof, pushing him back into Wheeljack’s arms with the ease of medic strength.

In the middle of a welcome-turned-battle with Starscream bleeding out in his lap isn't the time to start staring, but it turns out his processor doesn't much care. Ratchet's frame isn't as familiar as it once was, bulkier with more kibble and new dents and scars that Wheeljack aches to see. He never got used to not being around Ratchet, not being able to protect him, and seeing the damage he was dealt without Wheeljack there to watch his back is doing awful things to his spark.

The Lost Light’s voyage has been one of the worst times of his functioning, especially seeing all the reports sent back to Cybertron. Especially when Starscream explained who exactly the DJD were. …Especially knowing how close he came to losing Ratchet forever.

That thought and all the hurt and anger that bubble up after it are forcefully shoved to the back of his processor in favor of finishing looking Ratchet over. He's got a new coat of paint to top off all the changes, back to the gray chevron accompanied by more white than his frame has had in vorn. It's almost nostalgic to see, like Wheeljack could offline his optics and pretend the entire war never happened, that they're back in their respective academies and getting to know each other for the first time.

He should probably stop staring. This is still an interstellar broadcast so now the entire galaxy knows he's helm over pedes for a spoken for mech but dammit he hasn't seen Ratchet in the metal for far too long. 

“Status?” 

Scared. Desperate. Exhausted. So, so happy to see him and absolutely sparkbroken. “I’ve been better.”

Ratchet gives him a Look. Wheeljack’s missed Ratchet’s Looks so much. 

“Damaged spark casing, flaring from the corona every klik, cracked fuel pump with multiple failures, ruptured energon lines, burnt circuitry, mild processor ache,” Starscream says, listing it all in the same bored tone as if he’s reading off names at a party.  

The medic runs his vents all at once as his optical ridges snap together in a fierce scowl. “Don’t suppose you considered not stepping in the way of a bullet?” His servos are already moving through the gaping hole in Starscream’s plating, digits transforming into diagnostic tools that he immediately puts to work.

“Don’t you slagging start with me, Hatchet,” Starscream hisses even as his field fills with real relief. “If you all had just stayed–” He cuts himself off with a guilty flick of his optics in Wheeljack’s direction; Ratchet is too focused on welding up his fuel pump to notice.

Right. Yes. The quantum leap, the attempt at leaving their universe entirely to explore the multiverse. Wheeljack came so primus damned close to losing Ratchet and never even knowing it, and now– ever since they learned of the failure, Starscream had been careful around him about the Lost Light. Looks like that hasn't changed.

“What is it, Jackie?” Ratchet asks, cycling his optics before adjusting his vision to focus on any micro-tears in Starscream’s lines. “Your field is…” Negative and upset and utterly destroyed, probably. He rarely notices it himself anymore.

But that doesn’t mean it should be Ratchet’s problem. “I…didn't think you were coming.” 

“You didn't think I was coming.”

“It's not like y’answered the ping sun– doc.”

Ratchet's nasal ridge scrunches like it detected an unpleasant sensory input as frustration and what looked like –but couldn't be– upset pulled his beautiful face into a frown. Primus, how could he have thought he was ready to be face to face with Ratchet again knowing they can't be more than what they are?

Frustration quickly wins out. “Jackie, you sent me an emergency distress ping, seven emergency distress pings. Why would I waste time answering them when I could be rounding up a team and getting here?!” Ratchet snaps and. And oh. Okay. That’s. Okay. 

Wheeljack turns his attention back down to Starscream’s flaring spark for lack of anything better to do that doesn’t involve announcing his undying love to a taken mech. The emperor of all Cybertron is looking back at him with an arched optic ridge and a smirk that’s more of a grimace than anything else. 

The booming crack of Percy’s gun is echoed by Thundercracker and Skywarp laying down protective fire, sticking close and keeping them safe. Somewhere very distantly Wheeljack is pretty sure he can hear Megatron roaring out a challenge, drawing fire from any remaining assassins and giving Jazz and Bee time to slip in and slit intakes. Ratchet’s servos are flying over Starscream’s frame, welding him back together with a precision closer to an art form than anything else, and Wheeljack really wants to kiss him, maybe, but he settles for squeezing Starscream tight and focusing on the fact that his amica is still alive. 

“Stop hugging me, it’s disgusting,” Starscream snips, but he leans further into the touch regardless. It’s for Wheeljack’s comfort and they both know it. He appreciates it.

Ratchet’s face twitches, looking viciously angry for a moment before smoothing into a practiced wave of ‘medic calm’ that didn’t fully reach his field. Uh oh. “You gotta problem giving your conjunx affection, Starscream, then you picked the wrong mech.”

Starscream's what. “‘Screamer, you have a conjunx–?” Wheeljack glances down at Starscream to see if he has any idea what’s going on, and immediately regrets it. “Whatever you're thinking, stop it.”

Because that face, that face means trouble. His suspicion is immediately confirmed by a clawed servo cupping his cheek, digits slowly running down his blast mask as Ratchet’s field locks down completely, face blank in a way Wheeljack doesn't like.

“Why Wheeljack, you should have told me we were conjunxed,” Starscream purrs, a rough and raspy roll that certain yellow bug-shaped Autobots insist is the sexiest thing on Cybertron, “these past few stellar turns could have been far more enjoyable.”

What.

“What?” For a second Wheeljack thinks maybe his audials have finally blown out from all the explosions until he realizes the weird echo he’s hearing is in Ratchet’s voice, so at least he’s not the only one confused.

“You heard me.” Starscream looks extremely unimpressed, but Wheeljack’s found that once you get leveled with that expression at least five times a day it tends to wear off pretty quick. “Where, may I ask, did you get your information, Ratchet?”

“Megatron was making a scene at Swerve’s about your glitchy aft being taken,” Ratchet responds, pointedly twitching Starscream's wing back into alignment with just a tad more force than is necessary, “and then he brought up Wheeljack and I made a bigger problem.”

Starscream doesn't visibly change at the mention that the warlord is still obsessed with him, but Wheeljack isn't stupid; he knows what tension feels like, knows the way his amica's field shifts when he's hiding fear. He wraps his arms carefully around Starscream's waist in another pseudo hug, ignoring the way one clawed servo digs into his plating. “Oh?”

His sunshine's face goes a little less than friendly. “He acted like being conjunxed to Wheeljack would be anything less than a goddamn delight.”

“Awww, Ratch! Thanks buddy.” As soon as Ratchet looks away, looking almost flushed, Starscream catches Wheeljack's optics, cycling his own rapid fire and mouthing awww Ratch like the absolute glitch he is. 

:That station is still recording, you know?:

:A small price to pay. <3:

Absolute slagpile of an aft. Wheeljack wouldn't have him any other way. It's easier to focus now, easier to manage his venting even though it's kind of odd for him to need to vent so much, usually that only happens when he's damaged his coolant systems with an experiment- but then he does have a jet throwing heat in his lap. 

Ratchet is frowning at him when Wheeljack manages to focus, a quick scan prickling over his plating. He's missed it. Which is stupid because Starscream drags him to medical every single time the lab reports an explosion, a safety feature in the lab that he still hasn't managed to turn off, so it's not like he hasn't been seen by medics since the Lost Light left. In fact he sees them at least three times a chord and has seen them five times this chord specifically, so far.

“Are the two of you trying to tell me that you aren’t conjunxed? Because I checked in with the medics planetside as soon as we landed, and from what they had to say…” Ratchet trails off, almost unsure and Wheeljack hates that, he hates it so much that he doesn't even try to stop himself from reaching out and squeezing his servo.

“Not conjunxes, sunshine. I promise,” Wheeljack says, and it’s gratifying to see the way that tension just melts away even if he’s not sure why it was there in the first place. All that matters is that Ratchet is happy.

“That's what you get for believing rumors and that useless bucket,” Starscream huffs, being that he is completely unable to let anyone else have a moment ever, “you didn't even bother checking with Soundwave, did you?”

“And how would you suggest I do that, Screamer?” Ratchet snaps, skilled servos still expertly stemming leaks Wheeljack had missed even as his face began to flush with embarrassment that wars with the relief in his field. He wants to kiss him so badly it hurts. “Bribe Ravage with creamed energon for a gossip verification commline?” 

“Don't be ridiculous,” Starscream scoffs, slowly sitting up as he's moved to lean back against Wheeljack's chassis instead of in his lap, “Ravage has far more expensive tastes. You would have to offer her caviar sourced from planets with pure mercury seas before she would even deign to listen to you, let alone get you in touch with Soundwave.” 

It gets a laugh out of Ratchet, one that seats itself somewhere under Wheeljack's spark, making his spark chamber almost uncomfortably tight. He can feel Starscream's optics boring into his helm and ignores them. Like an idiot. There's still something tight and uncomfortable in Ratchet’s field, something that pushes him to gently pat his sunshine’s servo.

“You know I would tell you if I got myself ‘junxed, Ratch,” Wheeljack soothes at the exact same time that Starscream says, “Why does it matter, Ratchet? You hardly have reason to care.” 

Fragging glitch of a smugaft slagpit. If he weren't hurt so bad Wheeljack would probably shake him a bit, maybe toss him off a building and follow right after in a race that'd get them both saddled with speeding citations that Starscream would make disappear with the wave of a servo. As it stands he pinches the end of one wing as lightly as he can and tells himself he's satisfied with Starscream's squawk of offense.

“What he means is we heard about the Ritus. Drift’s a lucky mech.” Wheeljack should congratulate Ratchet. That's what a good amica would do in this situation, celebrate his new relationship and be happy for them both. He really wishes he could be a good amica right now. “Didn't think you'd have time to worry about the gossip mill on Cybertron with that going on.”

“I always worry about you,” Ratchet mutters, and for a second Wheeljack lets himself gloat over the fact that Starscream's ploy failed, nudging at his disgruntled field with his own smug one. Only then his favorite medic is frowning and lifting his helm with a confused expression even as his servos keep working and Starscream shoves back with two times the smugness. Aft. 

“Drift is a lucky mech,” he continues slowly, like he's coming to conclusions that Wheeljack would really rather he didn't, “but I would argue Rodimus is luckier. Kid forgave him for a lot to get to where they are. ‘Course if he heard me say that he'd start spouting off some religious slag about forgiveness and guilt.”

What.

“And what exactly does your baby Prime have to do with this?”

“You mentioned Drift’s Conjunx. That’d be Rodimus.”

It’s. That’s. 

Rodimus is Drift’s conjunx.

He hasn’t lost Ratchet. 

Oh. Oh. He hasn’t lost Ratchet. He hasn’t lost him, Ratchet isn’t conjunxed to Drift and he’s here, he’s here in their universe and within reach. Wheeljack has never felt lighter and more relieved in his entire functioning.

Ratchet is saying something, his field a mess of emotions that don't really make sense, but Wheeljack is pretty sure he's pointing out that he would've told him, too.

“Last I heard you were all going universe hopping. Didn't…didn't really think I'd hear much from you again.” Slag. Wheeljack hadn’t meant to bring that up, and he can’t help the flare of hurt that follows it.

Ratchet waves a servo, his expression going complicated and his field not much better. “A version of the Lost Light made it in some universe. Not ours. I for one am glad for it. Perceptor too, he's excited to introduce Brainstorm to Beachcomber.” 

“But you still tried.” 

Starscream hisses through his denta, wincing in a way that has nothing to do with Ratchet servo-deep in his internals. Ratchet cycles his optics slowly before he meets Wheeljack’s optics. “You’re upset.”

Wheeljack should deescalate this. He should apologize for his lack of field control, wave off the hurt and the anger, and they can both move on. “Not sure why. After all, it’s not like I never would’ve seen my amica again for the rest of eternity.” 

:What happened to no hard feelings, Jack?:

:Stay out of this, Screamer.:

Ratchet is clearly weighing what to say, his initial gut reaction of anger mellowed by an old sort of sadness that never used to be there; he takes the time to seal up the last few minor wounds on Starscream’s cockpit as he manually closes his chassis. “Jackie…”

“I guess I should be glad y’all even returned to Cybertron at all, huh?” he asks, beaming all throughout his field but it’s shot through with a bitter, angry hurt. “Since Roddy was considering just flying off all over again.”

The medic sits back on his heels, frown growing more pronounced as irritation begins to lash at his field. “Wheeljack, if you would just let me–”

“Let you what? Tell me why I’m not worth sticking around for?” 

“Wheeljack.” Starscream’s sharp snap shuts him up quick, a reminder not only that they have an intergalactic audience but also to watch his temper. :What happened to ‘I'm grateful to have him at all’?:

And that's. Fair. Starscream is the one who's had to put up with Wheeljack's depressed agonizing over missing out on Ratchet more than anyone else. He's probably the only one who has the right to be pissed at him for nearly ruining the chance that was just dropped in his lap.

For his part Ratchet almost looks like he wants to argue with Starscream over Wheeljack's right to keep snapping at him, and he trips over himself to speak before he can really get a holler going. “I…sorry. I shouldn’t have– I was just–”

“You were hurt,” Ratchet interrupts, looking almost pained. “I hurt you.”

“...maybe a bit.”

His sunshine runs all his vents, looking away as his servos twitch in a fidget that Wheeljack doesn’t recognize. There is so much about him that he doesn’t know anymore, so much he wasn’t allowed to see. It aches something fierce and he’s pretty sure the only reason Ratchet hasn’t noticed is the sheer level of intense discomfort in Starscream’s own field. His amica probably already would’ve flown off into the fray if he thought they could handle this like reasonable mechs, which is rich coming from him.

“The quantum jump…I was neutral to it. It was something Perceptor and Brainstorm thought up with Nautica, and then Rodimus was desperate to save his ship and Megatron–” Starscream’s plating flares all at once “–and we weren’t exactly– I wasn’t thinking about what I would be leaving behind, not until it failed and I realized how grateful I was that it had.”

“Grateful?”

Ratchet nods, firm and resolute. “I would’ve left behind so many mechs, so many patients who still look to me even now, so many colleagues and friends. Pit, I would’ve lost our bitlets– I would’ve lost you.”

Ain't it something, knowing Ratchet even thought of him at all. “Y'don’t think you woulda just found me in the multiverse?”

“I wouldn't want you from the multiverse.”

“Yeah, that's fair. If I already annoy you now, I can't imagine–”

Ratchet's expression pinches tight. “Dammit, Jackie, I wouldn't want you from the multiverse because you aren't someone that can just be replaced.” 

Wheeljack lets his optics close, his processor playing the words back again and again. He isn't replaceable, not to Ratchet.

“This is all very sweet,” Starscream croons, interrupting the moment because that’s what he excels at, the aft, “but since we’ve clarified that we’re all in this universe and not going anywhere, maybe you can sate my curiosity.”

An optic ridge raises as Ratchet seals off his last leaking line with a quick cauterization. “Shoot.”

“Why exactly did you care that we were supposedly conjunxed?” Backstabbing slimy political bastard, Wheeljack really shoulda let him be squirrely and paranoid and alone for the rest of his functioning. 

As soon as he thinks it he takes it back because Starscream might be The Worst ever but he’s still his amica. Ratchet, meanwhile, is suddenly busying himself with scrubbing at some of the grime on Starscream’s cockpit. “Like I said, Megatron–”

“Bullslag.”

Ratchet’s denta clench as his jaw gives a quick little tic. Wheeljack nudges at Starscream because that, that right there? That’s the Hatchet waking up. “I'm not sure why it’s any of your concern–”

Forget the Hatchet, Wheeljack only has half a klik to mourn his peaceful life as he catches sight of Starscream’s derma curling into a viciously satisfied smirk that he hasn’t seen since he beat Elita out for the senate. “It’s my concern because my beloved amica has been moping ever since he heard a certain cranky old medic was off the catalogue.”

“Starscream,” Wheeljack chirps, indicators flashing a sunny yellow while his field fills with intent to kill, “as soon as you're better I'm drowning you in the Rust Sea.”

His worst amica ever who he definitely wasn’t trying to save and pre-mourning this whole time throws his helm back with a cackle and shrugs away their servos. “Good luck catching me!”

Starscream’s thrusters kick on with a mellow rumble and he flips out of Wheeljack’s lap in an aerobatic little maneuver that probably awoke something in a good chunk of whoever was still watching this absolute slagfest of a welcome ceremony. There’re only a few mechs left in the ruins of the building now that Ratchet is here and Perceptor has overwatch, but Wheeljack pretends to be doing a helm count anyway. Whatever keeps him from having to look back at where he can feel Ratchet’s optics burning into his plating.  

That lasts for about five nanokliks before Starscream’s heel struts touch ground and start clicking forward with a purpose known as ‘get the frag out of my way’. Wheeljack would know. He’s heard it more than anybody. 

“Everybody OUT!” their brave leader shrieks, vocalizer just barely tipping into the range where it can cause physical damage, and Wheeljack wonders if it’s normal for his fuel tank to creak like that, or if he should worry about the way his assumedly undamaged optic goes out with a snap crack FZZT. 

The intent filling Ratchet’s field goes from the mix of emotions that he’s been resolutely ignoring to medical emergency and that. Doesn’t seem like a good thing. Especially not as he realizes the energon that he figured was Starscream’s due to the whole ‘being shot’ thing is actually still leaking and from his own plating, too.

Huh. Guess he didn’t get Screamer to cover as smoothly as he figured he had. Oops. 

There are servos on him, Ratchet visibly shaking himself out of…whatever emotions he had been feeling and pressing Wheeljack back against the wall he had been propping up with a gentle servo. His face is tight with worry and he really wants to kiss it away. Judging from the sharp vent immediately following that thought he’s not doing as good a job at tucking his field down as he had been. 

A screechy, disinterested sound somewhere to the left, too hard to look at now that the adrenaline is gone and his HUD is spamming him with error messages. Too hard to look at with his sunshine staring at him like it’s the first time he’s ever really seen him. 

“You have this covered, I assume?” 

“Yeah,” Wheeljack mumbles at the same time that Ratchet snaps it. He’s not sure which of them the shrill voice was talking to. Both, probably. 

He leans his helm forward, his intake suddenly aching, and a careful servo runs over his forehelm, soothing away his growing helmache for a nanoklik. Everything hurts, real pain and fake pain and the room feels almost like it’s spinning but it isn’t which means maybe he is himself. Ratchet makes a quiet sound in front of him and he’s tilted further back with care, sliding down the wall and bracing instead on something soft and warm. Comfortable, familiar. He offlines the optic he has left and rests his helm against familiar strength, willing his frame to calm the frag down, thanks. 

“Good.” There's a very expensive sounding crash, one that Wheeljack should really look at but that would mean onlining his optics and sitting up and getting out of Ratchet’s lap, he realizes, he's in Ratchet’s lap. 

The sound of Starscream spinning into a graceful transformation sequence tears through the room a moment before he goes roaring out through the destroyed roof, gone in a nanoklik and absolutely not resting his welds like he should. Wheeljack. Is worried about that. But now that Starscream is alive and going to stay that way it’s so hard to focus on anything other than his churning tanks, the sharp, stabbing points of white-hot pain, and gentle, beloved servos running all over his frame. 

“Don’t suppose you’d consider not getting shot for Screamer next time?” Ratchet grumbles, but Wheeljack knows he doesn't mean it. 

“S’not his fault this time,” he mumbles even though words are so hard right now, but there's still something he has to say if he can just say it- “Ratch, I– you gotta…gotta know, sunshine, we–”

A servo gently cups his cheek, digits seeking out the latch to his blast mask and then Ratchet is kissing him and Wheeljack forces himself to online his optics through his pain and three critical system errors to watch Ratchet’s face as he does it. 

“We'll talk about this when you aren't about to start bleeding out on me, deal?” his sunshine murmurs as Wheeljack’s field blooms with shock and happiness, so light that he can almost pretend he’s not maybe dying. 

“You got it, gorgeous,” he says, or tries to; just in case the words don’t make it out he pushes the same sentiment forward in his field. Those same talented digits are flying over his own wounds now, welding and cauterizing and cutting through plating whenever he has to get at something still covered. 

Wheeljack wants to watch him forever but his optics are dimming and everything is going all pixel-y and blurred which is making it pretty fragging hard. “Sunshine?”

Ratchet doesn’t respond, too focused on addressing all the little repairs piling up now that Starscream is out of danger and his processor is letting him feel them, but his field reaches out with a brush of concern and a quiet question and so much love that it takes kliks for Wheeljack to come back from his emotional high.

“‘M I good t’pass out?” he finally manages to mumble, venting out a little sigh when Ratchet leans down to press a kiss to his forehelm.

“Yeah, Jackie, you can rest. I got you.” 

Don’t need to tell him twice.

“Does he ever shut up?” One of the visiting dignitaries asks, watching the screen with poorly disguised fascination.

“Never.”

Elita’s not sure who answered it, just that it was absolutely at least half the room. It’s a good bonding activity, ragging on Starscream’s dramatics. It’s all that’s kept the neutrals, civilians, and visiting dignitaries holed up in their makeshift shelters calm, and it’s fun to do besides. She completes her loop and makes her way back to the start of her patrol route to meet Rodimus, Drift, and Firestar to make certain no one’s slipped through. Not much else she, or any of them, can do. 

It helps at least that the entire drama unfolding is unfolding across every viewscreen in the capital. Makes it easier to ensure Starscream is still functioning while figuring out what to say in her acceptance speech just in case he keels over. Windblade will be a difficult political opponent to match, but it’s easy enough to rely on old prejudices against outsiders combined with general distaste against NAILs…yes, she knows just what to say. 

She tunes out Starscream’s shrieking in favor of mapping out her campaign up until there's a gunshot loud enough to be heard all the way at their temporary shelter; she whips back around to check the screen and sees Ratchet kneeling in front of Starscream and Wheeljack, already stemming the worst of the bleeding. Damn. Their emperor should survive. Ah, well– it’d be a pain in the aft to run a special election campaign with so little time to prepare anyway, so his continued survival is preferred. For now.

Another shot goes off; this time she identifies the sound as Perceptor’s rifle and immediately shunts her concern to turn back to her guard route. Aside from the first two unlucky mechs none of the attackers have made their way to her quadrant, but she refuses to be caught unawares. 

By the time she reaches the square they set up for check-in she’s the last one there, and they’re all –of course– huddled around the largest viewscreen that still functions.

“They’ve got to talk about it now!”  Drift says with a chuckle, breaking her concentration and looking almost too pleased at the thought; Rodimus drapes himself over his back as their attention splits between protecting the noncombatants nearest to them and watching the mess unfolding before them. 

Elita turns back to the screen and lets the audio filter back into her audials. 

Starscream is already looking much better, leaning against Wheeljack instead of collapsing in his arms, and he's still running his mouth. “It’s my concern because my beloved amica has been moping ever since he heard a certain cranky old medic was off the catalogue.”

Wow. Never mind. For once Elita appreciates Starscream's inability to shut up, if only for how entertaining this is going to be.

Rodimus has given up on swallowing up Drift's frame with his own and settled for hanging off of him. “When you're right you're right, babe! I'm just trying to figure out where Wheeljack got you and Ratchet getting ‘junxed from.”

“Probably when I asked him to officiate so that I could make him follow a spectralist ceremony,” Drift laughs, running a protective, soothing servo down his conjunx’s spoiler as the once-Prime’s field clamps down tight. “You know how gossip gets. He knows that I'm your conjunx now, and that's what matters.”

Elita watches Rodimus's bravado ease into something more genuine, his slump against Drift’s shoulders going from anxiously possessive to comfortable; she takes an image capture and sends it to Optimus, too far away to help with damage control now. He immediately responds with a stream of happy, heartfelt emojis and she has to cycle her optics out of fondness. Honestly. It’s a miracle he ever lasted through the war with a spark that soft.

“Everybody OUT!” Starscream snaps over the enormous screen, yanking Elita’s attention back with a voice shrill enough that even over a live feed several screens crack. It’ll be interesting to get the complaints from other planets after that one. 

Still, it’s a relief to see him on his pedes even as he stalks towards the fray that he should probably be staying out of. An assassination attempt against a visiting ex-war criminal culminating in the successful murder of their highest ranking political figure would not be a good look in front of their guests visiting from other systems.

And then, in what she just knows will come to be considered the most hated move of his entire political career, Elita watches Starcream change course, rear back in a graceful arch, and put his heel strut straight through the remaining reporting station. The cameras go dark, the audio feed dies, and she could swear that the entire galaxy shrieks in outrage all at once; every single mech present certainly does.

A roar of turbines and an audial-fritzing shriek cuts above the commotion as all hell breaks loose, Starscream shooting out into the open air above their helms and dropping into a spark-clenching dive that he transforms out of at the last moment; a pede catches one of the would-be assassins facing Windblade straight in the chassis and hurls them both further into what is left of the fray.

There’s a nanoklik-and-a-half where no one realizes the emperor of all Cybertron has joined the battlefield; like the opportunistic fragger he is, that’s all the time Starscream needs. Three mechs hit the wall of a building across the street and are immediately met with two more who ended up on the wrong end of the seeker’s heel struts. Then he’s jetting backwards, flying up at dizzying speeds and bracing against the atmosphere itself to scream down at the insurgents below, shattering cockpits and audials and lightweight fiberglass frames in a sparkpulse.

Elita’s not impressed. She’s not. Not even as a streak of yellow darts over his shoulder, hurtling through the air at terminal velocity followed by a lightning strike that grounds itself in every frame that’s falling to the planet below. Starscream catches Bumblebee as he rebounds against the largest frame, dropping at an idiotic speed for someone who was just bleeding out and using the hiver as a goddamn electrified missile to take out a mech at least twice the size of Optimus. 

Purple flashes as the mech topples, Skywarp tearing himself and Bee free with three quick warps that lands them both in the middle of one of the few remaining pockets of agitators.

Thundercracker catches Starscream as he hurtles back from that, launching him at the enemy in a move that Elita hasn't seen since the ending battle of the war. The emperor of all Cybertron, Primus help them all, works as an equally deadly projectile, separating no fewer than six arms from their frames before he lands in a graceful crouch, tossing an armful of weapons to a member of the security staff. She’s impressed he bothered to keep them alive, really.  

Someone lunges at his back; Megatron yells a warning, fusion cannon already swinging up to fire most unwisely as Windblade drops at dizzying speeds. They’re both beat out by a blur of yellow as Bumblebee slams into the assailant and crushes their legs. Skywarp and Thundercracker right behind him. The scout says something that makes Starscream laugh a moment before they fall back into combat, and she catches a hint of a vicious smile sent Megatron's way. And mechs think Bee is a sweet little pushover.

There are three mechs left on the field now, fighting alongside a paltry half dozen drones that are mostly sparking and falling apart and Elita holsters her laser pistols as the civilians begin to leave their makeshift shelters. It’ll be fine, now. The seekers have it, and with Megatron and Bumblebee helping their efforts and Ironhide and Chromia running defense the attack is as good as done. 

Time to weed out the insurgents because there were absolutely not this many mechs at the start of the attempt, which means Starscream has, once again, made himself some new enemies. 

Maybe she should keep her campaign plans fresh in her processor. Just in case.