After Atlantis, Part 20

[anon_decepticon]

Title: After Atlantis, Part 20
Author: anon_decepticon
Rating: M
Pairing or Character(s): Wheeljack, Trailbreaker, Ratchet, Optimus Prime, a few others.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Transformers. Part 1 references scenes from the G1 Season 2 episode “Atlantis, Arise!” Part 4 references scenes from the next episode, “Day of the Machines.” Parts 5 and 6 reference scenes and quote some dialogue from ”Enter the Nightbird.” Part 9 references scenes from “Dinobot Island, Parts 1 & 2”. Part 11 references scenes from “The Master Builder” and “Auto Berserk.” Part 12 references scenes from “Microbots,” (as does Part 13, briefly) and gives minor nods to “Heavy Metal War” and “Prime Target.” Part 14 references scenes from the two-part episode “Megatron’s Master Plan,” and gives a teeny nod to “The Ultimate Doom.” Parts 16 and 17 reference scenes and quote dialogue from the two-part G1 cartoon episode “Desertion of the Dinobots.” Part 18 contains oblique references to “S.O.S. Dinobots,” “Traitor,” “The Ultimate Doom” (part one) and “City of Steel” (namely the bits w/Autobots on water skis.) Part 20 references scenes and quotes dialogue from “Blaster Blues.” These portions of the fic are not mine.
Warning(s): PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.
Summary: Raped by Starscream, Wheeljack struggles to cope.
Author's Note: If you've gotten this far, you already know the backstory. Original Kink Meme prompt. Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18 (1/2), Part 18 (2/2), Part 19. Also available on FFN. Yes, I’m alive! And I made it to Part 20, woot! I recently realized this fic is well over 100K words long – and it’s still not done yet! (But it’s getting there.) Boundless, effusive thanks to kookaburra1701 for her continued support and encouragement – lately I’ve needed an awful lot of it. Thanks also to everyone who’s stuck with me thus far, and to any new readers for having the nerve to tackle this monster of a fic. I hope you’ll stay around for the finale!



“This…what we have…it’s just not working for me.”

Wheeljack stared at Trailbreaker uncomprehendingly, his spark twisting in its chamber. “W-wait, are you –?”

Trailbreaker looked away, almost seeming to wince. “Yeah,” he said, his vocalizer strained.

The word struck Wheeljack like a blast from his own Immobilizer. He couldn’t move, couldn’t process – he could only stare in stunned disbelief.

Trailbreaker seemed equally immobile; he stood stiff and silent, his optics averted, tension radiating from every line of his frame, his expression pained but resolute. After a tense moment, he stepped back, leaving Wheeljack with a clear path to the door. “I think you should go.”

Wheeljack raised a hand hesitantly, reaching for him –

Trailbreaker recoiled, offlining his optics. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, just go.”

The words were spoken in a tone of near-desperation, threaded with the faintest hiss of static.

Wheeljack withdrew his hand, lowering it slowly to his side. In some distant part of his processor, he noted it was shaking.

There was a queer sense of unreality to it all, a strange feeling of detachment, as if he were floating or falling through space. He wanted to say something, to apologize maybe, but his ability to speak seemed to have abandoned him. He felt himself turning, felt his feet carrying him forward, his trembling hand lifting to trigger the panel that activated the door, but it was as if he were being controlled by an outside force, like a drone operating on remote control, executing a command he’d been given, devoid of emotion or reason.

He stepped out into the hall. The door hissed shut behind him.

He flinched at the sound.

It was over.

**

He began to feel a little more normal as he made his way to the section of the Ark that housed his personal quarters, the familiar surroundings gradually reawakening mental processes that had inexplicably gone numb.

He still felt odd though, as he keyed in the locking code on his door and stepped into the room. He was startled by the sight of the haphazard collection of tools, half-finished components and incomplete circuit boards cluttering his workstation, evidence of a project he’d started working on and completely forgotten.

He realized with a jolt that he hadn’t been in his own quarters in days.

He lay down on the berth and prepared to initiate a recharge cycle. That felt strange, too. The berth seemed larger than he remembered; the room eerily quiet. Every aspect of his surroundings was familiar, and yet…not.

He lay silently for a time, staring up at the ceiling, his processor curiously empty of thought.

A part of him wanted to recharge. He had the vague sense that when he awoke, everything would be back to normal. But another part insisted he remain online. Any klik now, Trailbreaker was going to comm him, tell him he was sorry, that he’d made a terrible mistake. If Wheeljack initiated a recharge cycle now, he might miss his ping.

So he waited, listening to the soft, steady hum of his systems as they powered down. His optics flickered.

Any klik now.

**

Wheeljack onlined his optics at the completion of his recharge cycle the next morning with the nagging feeling that something…wasn’t right.

He checked his internal chronometer. He wasn’t late for duty. He had nearly half a joor before he needed to report in, and no current assignments beyond tinkering in his lab.

He was undamaged. His fuel levels were fine.

The room seemed peaceful, dark and quiet. Maybe too quiet. And cold. Shouldn’t it be warmer?

He reached out absently across the berth, his fingers seeking…something.

They met only air.

That was when it hit him. He was in his quarters. He was alone.

Trailbreaker hadn’t commed him.

The memory files of the previous day rose up in his cache, bringing with them a bewildering tangle of emotions he couldn’t begin to name. Trailbreaker had been angry with him – no, he’d been angry, Trailbreaker upset. He’d said things. Trailbreaker had said things. And then Trailbreaker had asked him to leave, with a tone of finality that made it clear he didn’t expect Wheeljack to return.

His circuits heated with indignation as he recalled Trailbreaker’s final demands. He’d given Trailbreaker everything he could, made every effort he could think of. He’d given Trailbreaker his time, his attention, free access to his frame. He’d acquiesced to every demand, catered to every whim. He’d even hung out with Hound and Mirage, so that Trailbreaker wouldn’t have to feel abandoned and neglected by his best friend.

But it hadn’t been enough. Trailbreaker wanted more.

It wasn’t fair. Just because Wheeljack didn’t want to uplink with him, or ‘face him in public to boost his flagging self-esteem. Just because he didn’t feel compelled blurt out every thought that passed through his processor, like Hound did –

For that, Trailbreaker had cut him off, thrown him out because Wheeljack refused to bare his spark to him. It wasn’t enough that he’d kept Trailbreaker’s company, shared his berth, ‘faced with him whenever he wanted – Trailbreaker wanted to strip away his armor too, expose him like he had in the ‘racks, probe the deepest, most intimate corners of Wheeljack's CPU and plunder all that lay within.

Trailbreaker had made it clear that unless Wheeljack allowed that, it was over.

But it was a trap, what Sparkplug called a catch-22. Wheeljack knew if he ever revealed the truth, confessed the dark, shameful secret he’d fought so long to conceal, it’d all be over anyway. The revelation would shatter Trailbreaker’s illusions, allow him to see Wheeljack for what he really was – a pathetic, tainted mech more worthy of pity and scorn than admiration or desire.

...and then Trailbreaker wouldn’t want him anymore.

His spark clenched painfully at the thought. He huddled in on himself, offlining his optics, curling into a tight, miserable ball on a berth that felt too large, too empty.

It was what he deserved.

All this time, he’d been fooling himself. He’d never been worthy. He never would be.

Starscream had ruined him.

That was the fate Wheeljack was doomed to endure; a bleak, solitary existence built on a foundation of lies and deceit, haunted by the echoes of the mech who’d destroyed him.

…except he hadn’t been.

The realization made him online his optics and sit up, his spark pulsing with sudden hope.

Last night, there’d been no tormenting visions, no sensor ghosts. He recharged alone for the first time in cycles without interruption. Without fear.

I don’t need him anymore.

It didn’t matter that Trailbreaker no longer wanted him. No, it was better.

He was free.

**

Buoyed by his newfound sense of liberation, Wheeljack departed for the washracks with a spring in his step. He didn’t really need another cleansing so soon, but it felt right, like making a fresh start. He scrubbed himself down with vigor, feeling like he was stripping away old woes instead of the scant amount of dust and grime that had accumulated on his chassis.

From there, he went on to the common room to collect his ration of energon, and afterward headed for his lab, exchanging cheerful greetings with the handful of ‘Bots he met along the way.

He felt almost like his old self again.

He checked his task log to see if any special requests had been made of him, for new inventions to assist in their continuing efforts to defeat the ‘Cons, but there was nothing new in his queue. All had been quiet on the Decepticon front; there’d been no raids or attacks since the disastrous battle at the electric power plant, when they’d all succumbed to the debilitating effects of cybertonium depletion.

Which meant something was sure to be looming on the horizon. By now Megatron would have seen to the restoration of his troops and was probably already working on another plan to steal Earth’s resources or gain a new tactical advantage.

The thought exhilarated Wheeljack. He’d come up with something new too, something that would make the ‘Cons think twice the next time they attacked the Autobots or their human allies.

…not a weapon, though. Trailbreaker had been right about that, and Wheeljack had learned his lesson. Any weapon he created could be stolen and turned against them, or used to harm the humans. It had happened with the Negavator, the Immobilizer – Pit, even the Dinobots had betrayed them once, tricked by Megatron into attacking Optimus Prime.

The last thing Wheeljack needed was more guilt.

Something defensive, then, he thought. He picked up a datapad, settling comfortably at his favorite workstation. He stared at the blank screen for several kliks, but no inspiration came.

C’mon, Wheeljack! he exhorted himself. Think defensively! The ‘Cons can fly – that’s an advantage. Maybe something to disrupt their antigravs? Or something that causes their systems to glitch, so they can’t fight?

No. that was still more like a weapon. The ‘Cons could steal a device like that and use it against them.

Trailbreaker would probably have some suggestions Wheeljack could explore – he was, after all, a defense strategist. His ideas for applications of the force field Wheeljack had invented had been remarkably innovative; brilliant, even –

I can’t ask him now, he thought dejectedly. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He couldn’t even stand to look at me.

He shook his helm, pushing back the memory files crowding into his cache. Focus, Wheeljack, he thought. What about the humans? I could invent something to help them, something useful, like that mini-communicator I made Sparkplug.

That invention had worked perfectly, and had been well-timed, besides. The Decepticons would have no interest in a device with no destructive applications, and the humans would be grateful for anything that made their lives easier. It might even help to make up for all the strife the Autobots had brought to their planet.

But what did the humans need? A time- and labor-saving invention would be best, he surmised. His newfound awareness of their all-too-brief life spans made Wheeljack realize how invaluable such a device would be to the humans. For them, time was a precious commodity.

His thoughts turned to Brad, the human at the fish hatchery who’d acted as their guide. Brad had said that the hatchery had to measure and tag millions of fish every year within a mere handful of orns, a daunting task he’d freely admitted was inefficient and exhausting. Wheeljack had suggested automating the process, and Brad had allowed that it might be possible.

He wasn’t sure what exactly “tagging” entailed, but automated measurement would be easy enough. Set up a continuous flow of water between two gathering pools connected by a channel narrow enough that only one fish could pass through at a time, and position a motion-sensitive image capture device at the junction to record each fish’s dimensions as they swam through. Could be done, he mused.

He scoffed a little, recalling Hound’s reaction when he’d offered to help. It wasn’t as if everything he invented blew up. A machine like the one he envisioned wouldn’t have any explosive components; the fish would be perfectly fine. Better than fine – Brad had indicated that human handling was bad for them, and Wheeljack’s invention would lessen the need for that.

If he invented such a device, Hound would have no choice but to admit he’d been wrong. He’d have to be grateful that Wheeljack had chosen to turn his talents toward something of little interest to him, but of great interest to Hound.

Trailbreaker would appreciate the gesture as it was intended. He didn’t automatically assume that anything Wheeljack attempted to build ended up exploding in his faceplate. Trailbreaker had faith in him.

…he just didn’t want him anymore.

He shook his helm again, forcing the thought aside. It was a good idea, but too simple for him to pursue. A human engineer could create a similar machine using Earth technology – it wasn’t the sort of thing that required Wheeljack’s personal attention. He could suggest it to Brad, but he should really be focusing on creating something unique and challenging, something only he could build.

Something defensive, but impressive, he thought. Think, Wheeljack, think!

What about Mirage’s electro-disruptor? That was one fancy mod, living proof of what a talented engineer could devise when time and expense were of little concern. His own limited contact with the Towers back on Cybertron had left a strong impression on Wheeljack in his youth, given him something to aspire to – prior to the war, all the great inventions had come from Iacon.

Maybe Mirage had heard about some new ideas in the works when he’d lived in the Towers, ideas that were lost when the war broke out, dashing so many mechs’ illustrious dreams and forcing them to turn their efforts toward more practical pursuits. Mirage had proved surprisingly candid and willing to talk in their recent interactions – maybe he’d be willing to discuss his recollections with Wheeljack? The former Towers mech would probably enjoy the opportunity to reminisce about his old life, and Wheeljack would have a shot at gaining some fresh ideas.

He was about to comm him when he recalled the promise he’d made to Mirage, to tell Trailbreaker his concerns about Hound’s…approach. Wheeljack had given Mirage his word, and at the time he’d fully intended to keep it, planning to broach the topic after he and Trailbreaker interfaced again. But their last conversation had gone in another direction entirely, denying him the opportunity to carry out Mirage’s request.

Now he never would.

It galled him to break a promise, even if he’d been forced to by circumstances beyond his control. There was no way he could keep it now – that sort of discussion required a certain level of…intimacy to pursue.

Intimacy he and Trailbreaker no longer shared.

Stop thinking about him! he thought, tossing the datapad away in frustration. It’s over! You don’t need him, and he doesn’t want you anyway!

But it was no use; the memory files he’d been fighting to suppress flooded his cache, refusing to be denied. This time Wheeljack couldn’t prevent himself from seeing them, seeing all the things he’d been struggling so hard to ignore.

The look of anguish on Trailbreaker’s faceplate. The pain in his optics. The hint of static that had crept into his vocalizer as he’d asked – no, begged for Wheeljack to leave.

His spark contracted painfully.

He offlined his optics in a futile effort to shut out the images assailing him, his hands clenching into fists. It wasn’t his fault; he hadn’t wanted to leave – he’d had no choice! Trailbreaker had unwittingly given him an ultimatum, one that would lead to the same inevitable conclusion regardless of whether Wheeljack refused or complied. Leave him, or be left –

His comm pinged, making him jump. He opened a channel. *Yeah?* he asked hesitantly.

*Wheeljack,* Optimus Prime said in response to his tentative query, *Please report to Command. The Decepticons are at it again.*

*Yes sir,* he said, *I’m on my way.* He rose from his seat as he spoke, closing the link as he headed for the door. As he’d predicted, Megatron hadn’t allowed the ground to corrode under his feet. The Decepticons were obviously up to their old tricks.

He was grateful for the distraction. The Decepticons could be overcome, with the right solution.

His own dilemma had none.

**

“What does a voltronic galaxer do, exactly?” he asked.

“It’s a long-range communications device,” Optimus explained. “The humans created it as a means to discover if there was life on other planets.”

Wheeljack had reported to Command as ordered. Upon his arrival, Optimus Prime had immediately begun to brief him on the situation. Megatron had stolen another human invention, this voltronic galaxer thing, for some as-yet-unknown purpose. A group of Autobots had gone to try and stop him, but they’d arrived too late to prevent the Decepticons from escaping with the device.

Now they were trying to find it, hopefully before Megatron had a chance to put it to nefarious use. Optimus Prime had already ordered a search, but without knowledge of Megatron’s probable intent, their efforts were largely directionless. He’d commed Wheeljack to speculate on what Megatron might be planning.

Unfortunately, Wheeljack had no real answers to give. A human-invented long-range communications device wasn’t the sort of thing Megatron would normally be inclined to steal. Only a few breems ago, Wheeljack had naïvely assumed the ‘Cons would consider such a thing to be useless. But in Megatron’s hands, anything could be potentially dangerous, and the mere fact that he’d taken the galaxer meant the Decepticon tyrant had something specific in mind.

“If that’s all it does, it’s unlikely he could use it as a weapon,” he said. “A device like that could jam radio frequencies, but its range would be extremely limited. To have an impact over a larger area, Megatron would need a powerful long-range transmitter, and an energy source to run it. The humans don’t have that kind of technology; nothing on Earth would be strong enough.”

“Perhaps it’s not Earth technology he intends to use,” Optimus said.

“Has he stolen anything else? Or had something sent over the space bridge from Cybertron?” he asked. “Maybe he means to build it himself. The voltronic galaxer could be the final component.”

“Teletraan-1 hasn’t detected any space bridge activity,” Prime replied, “and the humans haven’t reported any recent Decepticon attacks.”

“Maybe the voltronic galaxer is only the first component,” he mused. “We should keep an optic out for any signs that he might be trying to get the rest.”

“If that’s his plan, why would he go for the galaxer first?” Jazz asked. He’d been among the group of Autobots who’d gone to investigate the theft, and was present in Command when Wheeljack arrived, along with Ratchet, Hoist, Ironhide and Prime. “If a jammin’ device is the only thing he could use it for, why not go for the more generic components first? Stealing the galaxer is like announcing to us what he’s up to.”

“Maybe he’s already got ‘em,” Ironhide said. “He coulda had this plan in the works for awhile, had ol’ Shockwave send over the stuff he needed ages ago, maybe along with the cybertonium.”

Optimus nodded. “Megatron could have managed to get hold of the other items more covertly,” he agreed. “If that’s the case, he would have saved the voltronic galaxer for last, knowing its theft would attract our attention, but that by then it would be too late for us to stop him.”

“He still has to build it somewhere,” Wheeljack pointed out. “And it won't be small, either."

Optimus stepped forward, activating Teletraan-1’s viewscreen. “Huffer, Tracks, report. Any sign of Decepticon interference?”

“Negative, Prime,” Huffer replied.

“Well, keep checking,” Optimus said, “and stay in contact.” He closed the link, and opened another. “Powerglide, Spike, report.”

“No sign of Decepticons or the voltronic galaxer,” Spike responded, sounding frustrated.

“And we’ve been halfway around the hemisphere,” Carly added.

Hearing her voice made Wheeljack look up; he hadn’t realized Carly had decided to pay them another visit. “Hey, Carly,” he greeted her. “Good to see you again.”

She smiled at him. “You too, Wheeljack,” she replied. “Wish it were under better circumstances.”

Optimus continued to contact each of the remaining ‘Bots on patrol in turn, but none reported detecting any Decepticon activity, or seeing any trace of the voltronic galaxer. Prime told them all to continue searching, and to report in immediately if they spied anything that looked like a possible jamming station. That accomplished, he turned back to address the Autobots in Command still awaiting his orders.

“Wheeljack,” Prime said, “I want you to work on a countermeasure, in case Megatron succeeds in building his jamming device before we’re able to locate him.”

“Right, Optimus,” he said, glancing uncertainly at the other officers gathered around them.

“Everyone else, remain vigilant,” Prime told the rest of the group. “We’ll need to move quickly if the patrols spot anything, or Megatron makes his move.”

“You got it, Prime,” Ironhide replied.

“You can count on us, Boss ‘Bot,” Jazz agreed.

Wheeljack turned to leave, intent on heading back to his lab. As he made his way to the door, he heard Ratchet grumble, “Stuck on standby again. I was looking forward to getting out of repair bay for a change, but so far this day’s been a dud.”

“Be glad it has,” Hoist replied. “If there’d been more for us to do this morning, we'd have more to do in the repair bay now.”

“Yeah, true,” Ratchet acceded. “And the day’s not over yet. We might still get a chance to kick some Decepticon skidplate.”

Ratchet’s words stayed with him as Wheeljack made his way down the corridor to his lab. He hadn’t seen much combat lately, either. He’d been assigned a lot of monitor duty, built a few new gadgets, but he’d only been called into battle on a handful of occasions.

He’d been sort of grateful for that. He couldn’t deny he’d performed poorly the last few times he’d been ordered to fight. But Ratchet’s idle comment had made him realize just how often he’d been assigned another task while the other Autobots were sent out to fight the ‘Cons.

Just like this time.

It was his current assignment, too. Something about it rang…false. Technically speaking, there was no countermeasure for a jamming device – any attempt to jam the jamming signal would be, well, jammed. The only way to defeat such a device was to deactivate or destroy it.

For that, they needed to locate it first.

It seemed unlikely Optimus had failed to realize that. With the knowledge contained within the Matrix of leadership and his own extensive experience, Prime had to be aware that a communications-jamming device was in itself a countermeasure, and therefore couldn’t be countered with another.

He’d ordered Wheeljack to work on one anyway.

Optimus knew what had happened to him. Had he also noticed how Wheeljack reacted in battle when Starscream appeared? Was Prime deliberately giving him assignments that would keep him out of combat and away from the Decepticon who’d assaulted him?

As he keyed in the locking code and entered his lab, Wheeljack tried to decide how he felt about that. On the one hand, he was grateful to Optimus for his concern. It felt good to know Prime cared enough to want to spare him further trauma. But on the other, the fact that Optimus Prime had gone to such lengths to keep him on the Ark implied that his commander thought such an act was necessary – and that pricked Wheeljack’s pride.

He was fine. He may not have been in top form, but he wasn’t a human or some fragile sparkling, too weak to fight or defend himself. Wheeljack could accept being given more monitor duty, or being asked to build more gadgets than usual – those assignments utilized his skills, allowing him to contribute to the Autobot cause – but this latest task felt more like a diversion, a pointless endeavor meant to keep him out of the way while other ‘Bots did the real work.

The thought made him grumble resentfully as he sank into his chair.

He’d been sidelined.

He shook his helm, feeling frustrated and torn. A part of him wanted to confront Optimus, to protest his unfair exclusion, but the thought of actually doing it gave him pause. What if it was all just a coincidence? He wasn’t entirely sure his suspicions were correct. Perhaps Prime had merely been distracted, or was sincerely unaware that he’d effectively asked Wheeljack to deliver the impossible.

If he was wrong, and Prime was innocent, objecting would make Wheeljack look as paranoid as Red Alert, accusing his own commander of conspiring against him. The unfounded accusation would make Wheeljack look more unstable, not less.

If he was right, then he could at least appreciate Prime’s discretion. If Optimus was indeed quietly rearranging the duty schedule to ensure that Wheeljack was kept out of combat, he was doing it subtly enough to avoid arousing the suspicions of even the wariest of Autobots, mechs like Red Alert and Prowl. Complaining about Prime’s well-intentioned efforts to shield him would be the very height of ingratitude.

But even so, Wheeljack couldn’t allow such treatment to go on indefinitely. He may have needed that degree of consideration initially, but he was fine now, and Prime needed to know that. It wasn’t fair to ask the others to take risks he himself didn’t have to face, and their cause would hardly be served by Wheeljack contributing less than he was able.

Maybe a confrontation was exactly what Optimus Prime was hoping for? Optimus would never order one of his soldiers into a situation he wasn’t sure that mech could handle; it wasn’t in his nature. He might simply be waiting for Wheeljack to step up and tell him he was ready to resume his normal duties. If he didn’t, Optimus would continue to assume he wasn’t.

There was no time to talk to him about it now, not with Megatron actively pursuing what was undoubtedly another plan to defeat the Autobots once and for all, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t arrange an appointment to speak with Prime later, once the ‘Cons had been defeated and things had calmed down.

He opened a comm link – and got only static.

**

That was it, then. Megatron had obviously succeeded in getting the components he needed to build his jamming station, and had set his plan into motion. The fact that Wheeljack’s comm system was no longer functioning was no mere coincidence.

He tested it a few more times, just to be sure. He tried contacting Optimus again, then Ratchet, then Prowl and Jazz. Finally he linked to Teletraan-1 via his workstation console and confirmed what he already knew – all communications systems were down, jammed by an outside signal.

He huffed through his vents in frustration. There was nothing he could do. Even if he’d been able to invent something to solve the problem, he had no way of telling anyone he’d done it.

He spent a few breems staring at a datapad anyway, just to satisfy his sense of duty. No solutions came to him. He pulled up a bookfile instead, tried to read, but after a quarter joor he gave up on that, too. He paced. He sifted through the assortment of spare parts and components scattered across his workstation, dug up some old projects he’d abandoned, but within half a joor it was painfully evident why he’d given up on them in the first place.

Finally, in desperation, he tackled the daunting task of cleaning his lab. He killed several joors doing that, putting everything away, but in the end, when every last tool had been consigned to its proper place and surfaces he hadn't seen in an orn gleamed unhelpfully back at him, Wheeljack was forced to admit defeat.

He slumped into his chair, pulling the energon cube he’d acquired earlier from his subspace compartment. Sure, he could go out and wander the corridors, maybe check in with Command, but what would be the point? By now the other ‘Bots on duty were long gone, out looking for Megatron’s jamming station, maybe even already fighting the ‘Cons in an effort to disable it.

In either case, Optimus Prime clearly hadn’t wanted Wheeljack among them.

His processor began to wander as he sipped sullenly from his cube. He felt restless, irritable. He reached up to rub his neck cables in aggravation, and was startled by the responding flush of heat that surged through his systems, accompanied by a brief sensor-echo of Trailbreaker’s mouth scraping across the smooth metal.

He jerked his hand away, panting through his intakes in an effort to lower his abruptly skyrocketing core temperature.

He didn’t want that. He couldn’t have it anyway.

Not anymore.

But that didn’t stop his treacherous CPU from pulling up still more memory files. Trailbreaker’s hands, moving lovingly over his chassis, seeking out his most sensitive circuitry. The low, ardent rumbling of his engine. The solid, reassuring weight of him, pressing him into the berth. His deep voice whispering his name, telling Wheeljack how much he wanted him.

Stop it! he thought desperately, offlining his optics. Stop thinking about him! It’s over!

He shoved the images aside, forcing them to the back of his processor by reciting meaningless equations, calling up technical schematics and logic puzzles to divert himself from the growing sensation of need suffusing his frame.

You don’t need him, he told himself calmly, stubbornly ignoring the persistent hum of his rapidly cycling fans. You never really wanted him in the first place. It was just an experiment. It just…happened.

He doesn’t want you, he reminded himself, carefully setting his cube aside.

He got to his feet stiffly, leaning over the table and gripping the edges tightly, fighting for calm.

It’s just a standard autonomic response, he told himself. Your systems have become accustomed to frequent overloads. It’s perfectly normal. It doesn’t mean anything. It’ll go away.

The metal was beginning to distort beneath his fingers, but he didn’t dare let go. His circuits were burning, aching to be touched. He squeezed harder, his intakes hitching as the sensors in his hands registered the increased input, his internal fans kicking up another notch.

No, he thought firmly. No.

His hands clenched harder, until the only sensation was pain. He stood like that for nearly a breem, tense and trembling, fighting for control, willing himself back from the brink to a point where the urge to surrender no longer seemed undeniable.

His grip on the table eased as his core temperature dropped back to normal levels and his fans subsided, the rhythmic sound of his laboring intakes gradually being overtaken by the steady tick-tick-tick of rapidly-heated metal cooling. Only then did he straighten, releasing his hold.

He had to get out of here.

But where could he go? His quarters would be just as bad. The washracks would be worse.

Repair bay, he thought decisively. Someone would be on duty there. Maybe Ratchet and the others had returned by now, having given up their search for Megatron’s jamming station. Or maybe they’d found it, and incurred damage in the ensuing battle.

He tested his comm, placing a status inquiry with Teletraan-1.

It was live. Teletraan informed him that Megatron’s moon base – he’d been on the moon? – had been conquered, his plan foiled. The other Autobots had been back for over a joor. Several had been injured.

They’d won. And they needed him.

**

The repair bay was deserted.

Wheeljack paused just beyond the threshold, looking around in confusion. He’d expected to find the bay a bustle of activity, but instead all was quiet. The repair berths lay unoccupied, the workstations unmanned.

He was about to contact Teletraan-1 again when a flicker of movement caught his optic and the faint hiss of a door opening reached his audials.

Ratchet stepped out of his office, his helm bowed, his optics on the scrap of polishing cloth he was using to wipe his hands. He glanced up as he proceeded across the bay, and spied Wheeljack standing by the door.

“‘Jack,” he said in surprise. “What’s up? Everything all right?”

“I should be asking you that,” he replied. “Where is everyone? Teletraan said there were injuries.”

“There were,” Ratchet said. “We just finished patching everyone up.”

“We..?”

“Hoist and I,” Ratchet explained.

Wheeljack stared at him, feeling strangely hurt. “Why didn’t you comm me?”

“Didn’t need to,” Ratchet said with a shrug. “The damages were minor; mostly scrapes and dings. Prime was the only one who needed major repairs.”

“Optimus was hurt?” he asked worriedly.

“Yeah, but he’s fine now,” Ratchet said. “I released him about a breem ago.”

“Oh,” he said, making his way to the nearest berth. There were some tools scattered on the tray beside it; evidence of recent repair work. He began gathering them up, diffidently.

Ratchet moved to join him, assisting him in his efforts. “Quite a day,” he said conversationally.

“Yeah,” he agreed, tossing a laser scalpel into a drawer. Not that he’d actually done anything. He might as well have been off duty, for all he’d accomplished.

“I guess you got the fight you wanted,” he said after a moment.

“Not really,” Ratchet replied dismissively, his attention on the set of hex wrenches he was carefully arranging into their respective cubbyholes. “Prime, Powerglide and Omega got to do all the real fighting. We just got shot at and buried in an avalanche.”

“Avalanche?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder-strut at his friend, a pair of wire strippers in hand.

“Yeah,” Ratchet said. “Went out to help some humans who’d gotten stuck up in the mountains. With Megatron jamming all the radio signals, they missed the bad weather warning.”

He cocked his helm, eyeing his friend quizzically. “And they shot at you?” he asked incredulously.

Ratchet laughed. “No, the Decepticons did,” he said, “and then brought half the mountain down on top of us.”

“Oh,” he said, turning back to shove the strippers in alongside a pair of socket wrenches.

“But we saved the humans,” Ratchet said, sounding pleased. “In a way, it was a good thing. After they buried us, the ‘Cons took off. All we had to do was dig ourselves out and get the humans to a hospital.”

“So no one was hurt?”

“Not a scratch,” Ratchet confirmed proudly, returning a circuit tester to its drawer.

He nodded, stowing the last of the remaining tools in their designated storage compartments.

There was a brief silence before Ratchet spoke again. “Actually…it might not have gone so well if Trailbreaker hadn’t been there. He used his force field to shield us all. Saved a lot of humans’ lives, and took a hit doing it.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling abruptly uncomfortable.

Ratchet cycled a sigh. “He’s a good mech, ‘Jack,” he said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

His spark twisted in its chamber. “Trailbreaker doesn’t think so,” he said bitterly.

Ratchet seemed startled. “What do you mean?”

He huffed irritably. “Just what I said,” he replied curtly. “It’s over.”

He met Ratchet’s optics then, saw the stunned expression on his friend’s faceplate.

“You ended it?” Ratchet asked hopefully.

“No,” he said, shutting the drawer with more force than was necessary. “He did.”

“Primus,” Ratchet said softly. “You finally told him.”

He started, stiffening. “No.” Ratchet’s reaction was a grim confirmation of his fears. Even Ratchet knew how disgusted Trailbreaker would be. “I’m not that stupid.”

Ratchet was silent for a klik, mulling over this new information. “He wanted to uplink with you,” he guessed. “You said no.”

More or less. “Yeah.”

Ratchet laid a comforting hand on his shoulder-strut. “I’m sorry, ‘Jack,” he said. “But it’s for the best.”

His spark twisted again. “Yeah, I guess,” he agreed.

“I know you were ‘facing with him,” Ratchet said quietly. “Not just the one time. After that.”

It seemed pointless to lie. Ratchet had seen the proof in Trailbreaker’s energy levels. “Yeah.”

Ratchet hesitated. “Did you want to?” he asked gently.

He shrugged uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “I guess so,” he said.

“Oh, ‘Jack,” Ratchet whispered, his vocalizer thick with sorrow.

Suddenly Ratchet’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, pulling him close in a fierce hug. Wheeljack tensed at first, but Ratchet’s plating was warm, not hot, so he relaxed into his embrace.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Wheeljack?” Ratchet asked brokenly, his words muffled against Wheeljack’s shoulder-strut. “Is your pride really worth so much?”

He pulled back sharply, breaking free of his friend’s hold. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

Ratchet gave him a disappointed look. “You know what I’m talking about,” he said sadly. “Why would you let him do that to you, ‘Jack?”

He stared at him in shock. Was Ratchet suggesting –? “It wasn’t like that!” he protested, his circuits heating with offense. Trailbreaker would never –! He had asked!

“Wasn’t it?” Ratchet asked. “You said it was awful, ‘Jack. Remember?”

“It was, that – that first time,” he admitted, shrugging uncomfortably. “Not after.”

Ratchet frowned, studying him thoughtfully, an obnoxiously clinical look on his faceplate. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.

He huffed in irritation. “Come on, Ratch, I’m not that pathetic,” he retorted. “It’s not like I rolled off the assembly line yesterday – I’ve got a few miles on my odometer! I 'faced with you, didn't I? Did you make me?”

Ratchet seemed taken aback. “No,” he conceded softly. "You – you seemed okay with it." He lowered his gaze a moment, then glanced up again, warily meeting Wheeljack’s optics. “Were you okay with it, ‘Jack?” he asked quietly.

“Sure,” he said. “I told you I didn’t mind. At least, not until you –”

“Yeah,” Ratchet said, interrupting him. “I’m so sorry, ‘Jack. You have no idea how sorry I am, how much I hated myself for –”

“It’s okay,” he said, cutting off his apology. “I understand. I forgive you, Ratch.”

He was a little surprised by Ratchet’s contrition. How could he not forgive him? He may not have liked what Ratchet had done, but he understood now why he’d done it. Ratchet had wanted him, even though he knew about…everything. Wheeljack had forgotten that. It felt…good, to know someone did, after what Starscream had –

Ratchet pulled out his polishing cloth again, wiping down the tray they’d cleared. “I’m glad,” he admitted. “For a while there, I wasn’t sure you ever would.”

“I do dumb impulsive things all the time,” he pointed out. “It’s only fair you get a turn, too.”

Ratchet looked up at him with a smirk. “Oh, yeah?” he asked wryly. “Do I get one for each one of yours?”

His optics widened in alarm. That was a joke, right?

Ratchet laughed at his expression. “C’mon, you stubborn aft,” he said, elbowing him in the chestplate. “We’re done here.”

**

They headed back to the officer’s section together, walking side by side, trading jokes and playful insults. It was just like old times, like the tension between them had never existed. Wheeljack felt almost normal.

…almost.

Ratchet’s questions about Trailbreaker had gotten him thinking. They nagged at the back of his processor, persistent and troubling. He had been willing; of that, he was sure. Trailbreaker may have always been the one to get things rolling in that direction, but Wheeljack hadn’t been all that inclined to protest when they had. Trailbreaker had asked. He’d said yes.

Come to think of it, there had been a couple of times where he’d said no. Trailbreaker had always listened, never pressured him for more. The suggestion that he hadn’t, that Wheeljack had had no choice in the matter, was undeniably untrue.

He’d never felt used by Trailbreaker. He’d felt…desired. Wanted.

He felt his circuits heating at the thought, and quickly quashed it. It didn’t matter how he’d felt. Trailbreaker didn’t really want him. He wanted the old Wheeljack, the strong, capable mech he used to be. The confident one, the one that was never afraid.

What Trailbreaker wanted was a lie. The truth would repel him.

Ratchet halted abruptly, shaking Wheeljack from his thoughts. Looking up, he realized they’d arrived outside the CMO’s personal quarters.

“Good night, ‘Jack,” Ratchet said. “Get some recharge; I’ll see you in the morning.”

He activated his vocalizer to bid his friend farewell, but all that came out was, “…why wait?”

Ratchet had turned to enter his quarters, but he paused at Wheeljack’s words, half-turning to look back at him. “What?”

Wheeljack lowered his gaze, studying the deckplating at his feet. “I could come with you,” he offered.

Silence.

After an agonizing handful of astroseconds, he risked a glance upward, meeting Ratchet’s optics.

Ratchet was shaking his helm, regarding him sadly. “‘Jack –” he began.

Wheeljack’s spark clenched at his tone, at the expression on Ratchet’s faceplate. Ratchet was going to say no. He was going to refuse his offer, leaving Wheeljack to return to his too-empty quarters alone, to confront the thoughts he’d spent the entire day struggling to avoid. “You gonna turn me down again, Ratch?” he asked reproachfully.

“Is that what you want?” Ratchet asked. “What you really want?”

A sudden surge of doubt and uncertainty welled up in his spark. Ratchet did want him, didn’t he? He’d wanted him all along, or at least he’d said he did. Even after the way Wheeljack had treated him, even though he knew what Starscream had done –

“No,” he said finally, shaking his helm. “I mean, yeah, I want – it should have been you, Ratch. It always should have been you. That’s what I wanted from the beginning. You were my first choice.”

Ratchet didn’t respond immediately. For a klik he just stared at him, giving Wheeljack the uneasy impression the medic was looking straight through him, seeing all the way to his spark.

He ducked his helm, his servos tightening in apprehension. What if he’d been wrong? What if Ratchet didn’t want him? What if no one did?

He wanted to extend his energy field, to prove to Ratchet that he was serious, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not even a little bit. Not if Ratchet was just going to reject him anyway. It had been humiliating enough the last time.

He’d thought for sure Ratchet would say yes then, but Ratchet had said no, just like he was going to say no this time. That night in his office had just been a glitch; Ratchet’s claim that he’d wanted him for vorns nothing more than a polite effort to reassure him. He’d probably only said it so Wheeljack wouldn’t be angry at him anymore.

It was galling, to realize he’d made the same mistake twice. He’d gone and made a fool of himself in front of Ratchet again. How could he have been so stupid? Ratchet didn’t want him, any more than Trailbreaker did! Why couldn’t he get that through his slow processor?

“Forget it,” he said, shaking his helm in defeat. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

With that, he turned to leave, to go back to his empty quarters and recharge alone. Maybe in time, he’d get used to it.

Ratchet caught hold of his hand, his thumb tracing lightly over Wheeljack’s wrist-joint.

“I’d love to,” Ratchet said with a smile.

**

It felt strange, actually being inside Ratchet’s quarters.

He’d visited them before, of course, but not often, just as Ratchet rarely visited his. The majority of their interactions took place in the repair bay, or in his lab – they both spent so much time working, both on and off duty, that those places were more “home” to them than the personal quarters they’d been assigned.

Ratchet’s looked about like he remembered from the last time he’d seen them; tidier than his own, but still slightly cluttered, stacks of datapads, a few personal items and the odd tool Ratchet had been too busy to put away occupying the shelves and workstation. Ratchet recharged here, and that was all.

Well…not entirely all.

He glanced over at him uncertainly, feeling vaguely awkward.

“Are you sure this is what you want, ‘Jack?” Ratchet asked after Wheeljack finished looking around and met his gaze.

He huffed through his vents, mildly annoyed by his tone. “Are you going to keep asking me that all night?” he asked irritably.

“I just want to be sure,” Ratchet replied reasonably.

A wave of frustration mingled with despair washed over him. He sat down heavily on the berth, glaring at his own feet like they’d personally offended him. “It’s never gonna go away, is it?” he said bitterly. “It’s never gonna be over – he’s always going to be there! You’re not even seeing me, are you? All you see is him, and what he did to me.”

He heard the sound of metal shifting, and Ratchet’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, compelling him to lift his gaze and meet his optics.

Ratchet was smiling, his expression a familiar blend of fond indulgence and genuine affection. “Has anyone ever told you you’re cute when you’re angry?” he asked.

His vocal indicators flickered in indignation, but before his vocalizer could catch up with them, Ratchet’s energy field enveloped him, hot and immediate. His intakes hitched at the sensation, his own field extending instinctively to meet it, matching Ratchet’s frequency.

Ratchet joined him on the berth, urging him back and down, his fingers seeking out the gaps in Wheeljack’s plating that guarded his most sensitive circuitry with an air of confident self-assurance that was very…Ratchet.

It stood to reason, really – Ratchet was a medic, and had taken almost as many mechs to berth as he had attended in repair bay. Based on what Ratchet was doing with his energy field, Wheeljack doubted a single one of them had been left wanting.

Not wanting to be outdone, he sent a series of pulses through his own energy field, lifting his hands to touch Ratchet in return. He had access to the medical files, too, and had done a fair number of repairs on Ratchet personally – he could give as good as he got. Ratchet’s hands were occupied in a task he was loath to interrupt, so he pressed his fingertips beneath Ratchet’s bumper instead, stroking aggressively.

He was rewarded with a low moan and a renewed fusillade of field pulses, and suddenly it seemed as if Ratchet’s hands were everywhere, making him arch up off the berth, his engine revving, his circuits heating rapidly.

“You’re not,” he gasped as he slumped back, a little embarrassed by his own reaction. The charge that had built up in his circuits earlier hadn’t fully dissipated, and he was heating up fast. “You look like Motormaster when you’re fragged off – after a head-on collision with Prime.”

Ratchet froze, his hands halting in their movement. “You cocky little glitch,” he said indignantly, the roar of his engine belying his offended tone. “You are so going to get it.”

“Bring it on,” he challenged, grabbing one of Ratchet’s hands and dragging his fingertips over the palm, making Ratchet jerk and cry out above him. “I know all the same tricks you do, Ratch.”

Ratchet’s engine revved lustily, and then he was shoving his energy field into him again, making Wheeljack stiffen and whimper in the resulting surge of ecstasy. “You’re gonna eat those words,” he promised, pulling his hand free of Wheeljack’s pleasure-slackened grip and wrapping it around his right sensor-winglet, squeezing firmly as he caressed upwards along its length.

He activated his vocalizer to issue an appropriately mocking reply, but his is retort was swallowed by the groan of pleasure that escaped him in response to Ratchet’s touch. He reached down to seize hold of Ratchet’s hip plate anyway, digging his fingers into the gap and tugging the bundle of wires within while his other hand launched a similar attack on Ratchet’s shoulder-joint, transmitting another set of rapid pulses through his energy field.

The way Ratchet’s backstruts bowed in response was immensely satisfying.

Still quivering in reaction, Ratchet leaned over him, his plating positively searing where it came into contact with his own, their chestplates scraping hard enough to swap paint. Wheeljack almost objected, but then realized no one would be able to tell anyway. It felt too good to protest, regardless.

Ratchet’s energy field flared, seeming to cut right through him, setting his circuits ablaze, and his hands began moving again, stimulating what seemed like every sensor node Wheeljack possessed.

Why hadn’t he done this before? It was good with Ratchet, really good, sharp and intense and processor-blowing –

Maybe a little too intense.

Ratchet was a lot more direct in his approach to ‘facing than Trailbreaker had been, his efforts to stimulate Wheeljack’s most sensitive components more focused and deliberate. There was something almost…unnerving about how precisely Ratchet manipulated his responses, urging him ever closer to the brink –

A sudden flash of anxiety coiled through his spark as an image of other hands – sky-blue hands, similarly engaged – flickered through his processor. His intakes hitched, and not in pleasure.

“Slow down, Ratch,” he entreated, striving to maintain their previous tone of playful derision and only partially succeeding, hating the way his vocalizer quavered over the words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ratchet paused, looking down at him in surprise, meeting his half-pleading gaze. Wheeljack suppressed the urge to squirm beneath the all too knowing look Ratchet gave him as comprehension lit his optics.

“Sorry, ‘Jack,” Ratchet said contritely. “You’re right; there’s no reason to rush this.” Then he grinned. “So, does this mean you concede defeat?”

He stared at him for a moment in disbelief, and then scoffed. “You haven’t overloaded me yet,” he pointed out. He was actually pretty close, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “I could still fry your circuits.”

“Mmmm,” Ratchet purred suggestively, his optics flashing. “Yes, please.”

Optics narrowing, Wheeljack answered his challenge, seizing hold of Ratchet’s hands and dragging them down, pressing them flat against his sides and revving his engine hard, sending his tachometer screaming into the red. Ratchet’s mouth opened in a silent shriek of ecstasy as the onslaught of vibrations tore through his hands, igniting his sensor nodes with pleasure. He jerked against him, but Wheeljack held him in place, thrusting his energy field into him again and again, prolonging Ratchet’s overload until the medic slumped over him, limbs twitching with the fading charge.

He chuckled smugly. “You’re welcome.”

Ratchet grumbled something against his chestplate, but the words were lost amid a crackle of static. Wheeljack chuckled again, feeling pleased with himself.

After a few kliks, Ratchet recovered enough to push himself upright. “Primus, Wheeljack,” he said shakily. “Where in the Pit did you learn that?”

He sounded so incredulous Wheeljack was almost offended. “You don’t have to sound so shocked,” he said indignantly. “It’s not like I’ve never done this before. I’ve had my engine turned a few times.”

Ratchet’s optics flashed. “Not tonight you haven’t,” he purred lasciviously. “I think it’s high time I corrected that oversight.”

His tone sent a tiny shiver up Wheeljack’s backstrut, an uneasy combination of apprehension and anticipation. He wanted to tell Ratchet to go easy on him, to not to get too carried away, but his pride wouldn’t allow him vocalize the request. He didn’t want Ratchet to think he was nervous.

Fortunately, Ratchet did go slower when he began touching him again, if only because his circuits were still hyper-sensitized by his recent overload. He caressed Wheeljack’s chestplate with the backs of his hands instead of his palms, gazing down at him with glowing optics, his expression rapt with desire.

“You’re incredible, ‘Jack,” Ratchet whispered. “As long as I’ve known you, you still manage to surprise me.”

He scoffed a little, mildly embarrassed by the compliment. “What can I say?” he replied dismissively. “I’m just that good.”

“You are,” Ratchet agreed, reaching down to fondle his hip plate. His fingers dipped into the seam, making Wheeljack groan as Ratchet caressed the wires within. “You’re brilliant, talented, amazing in the berth –”

“C’mon, Ratch, lighten up,” he muttered, his circuits heating with chagrin. A little flattery was nice, but Ratchet was taking it a bit far. The uncharacteristically effusive adulation was making him sort of uncomfortable. It was such a departure from the gruff, cantankerous medic Wheeljack knew, a mech more inclined toward wry taunts and back-handed compliments than open admiration.

“You’re wonderful,” Ratchet insisted, grinding against him, his hands moving more urgently, “and you always will be. Nothing can change that, ‘Jack, not ever. Nothing.”

Wheeljack’s spark sank as he realized what Ratchet was getting at. He was talking about that, reminding him even now of his tainted and broken status. Suddenly all the flowery palaver made sense.

An inexplicable surge of hostility shot through him. “Pit, Ratch,” he said scornfully. “Does that sort of slag usually work for you?”

Ratchet stiffened as if he’d been struck, a look of hurt flashing through his optics.

A thread of guilt coiled through Wheeljack’s spark, but not enough to assuage his anger. “Give it a rest, will you?” he said peevishly. “You’re supposed to be fragging me, not blowing smoke up my tailpipe.”

“Sorry, ‘Jack,” Ratchet replied in a cowed tone.

It was hard to get back in the mood after that; he was too annoyed at Ratchet to appreciate his efforts to pleasure him, even after his friend wised up and muted his vocalizer. Finally he just offlined his optics and focused on the sensation of Ratchet’s hands moving over his frame, on the steady throb and pulse of his energy field, and let his processor wander.

It was weird, the way he’d reacted to Ratchet’s blandishments. Ratchet’s attempt to grease his gears hadn’t been all that different from the sort of things Trailbreaker said to him when they were ‘facing, things he’d found highly arousing at the time, yet somehow, Ratchet’s words had had the opposite effect.

He supposed it was because it was Ratchet who’d been saying them. Trailbreaker was a direct, plain-spoken, forthright sort of mech; when he said something, it was easy to believe he meant it. Ratchet was the opposite, prone to jibes and insults that over the decacycles Wheeljack had come to understand were a sign of affection from the crotchety medic. It wasn’t that he doubted Ratchet cared – he knew better – but he also knew his friend too well to not become suspicious when Ratchet started acting uncharacteristically nice.

Ratchet chose that moment to stroke along his sensitive sideseams, and Wheeljack groaned, clinging to his shoulder-struts as he arched into his touch, surrendering to the sensations washing over him. Trailbreaker’s compliments had always sounded so sincere, filled with ardent, undisguised admiration and echoed by touches that bordered on worshipful. Even the way Trailbreaker said his name heated Wheeljack’s circuits, his deep voice rumbling in counterpoint to his roaring engine –

His overload took him almost by surprise; one moment he was seething with resentment over Ratchet’s patronizing, over-cautious treatment of him, and the next he was crying out, thrust over the moon and catapulted into ecstasy, his vocal indicators flashing in time with the rippling waves of electricity crackling over his frame.

He fell back panting, his intakes laboring, his vents cycling rapidly. That had been…surprisingly good.

He onlined his optics as Ratchet gathered him into his arms, gratefully meeting his optics. “Thanks, Ratch,” he said. “That was nice.”

“Anytime, ‘Jack,” Ratchet replied wryly.


*Part 21 is here*

A/N: I know, I know – I wanna kill him too. Hope Ratchet doesn’t have any wrenches handy…

Comments

[pl2363.livejournal.com]

*groans in frustration*

oh jack...

[aaaaaah.livejournal.com]

I felt so bad for Wheeljack through most of this chapter! I have to say, you really sold me on Wheeljack/Trailbreaker, so when Trailbreaker broke their thing off I was like D: But I still love Ratchet/Wheeljack, so it's all good.

Teh Ramblings

[dualitybythree.livejournal.com]

"A/N: I know, I know – I wanna kill him too. Hope Ratchet doesn’t have any wrenches handy…"

Very good to know. Cause I got to the end there and all I could do was stare and make incoherent noises that probably sounded like "ah", "erg", and "murgle".

I don't mean to sound harsh though, it's a good fic that can get me that emotionally invested.

I really am very fond of the way you write Ratchet. He's always tempermental, but it is unique that you allow his temper to be only a single aspect of his personality. I liked seeing his gentler side in this chapter.

Strange as it may seem, I also like how poorly he deals with 'Jack's issues through out. I'm sure somebody will say "But he's a doctor! He should know how to council someone whose been raped!". But really? For one, technically he's a mechanic, not a doctor. For two, if I'm reading this right, he and Wheeljack pretty much think the same way, very much a "there is problem? Fix it" mentality. Except in this instance they can, so they end up just bashing their heads together and although painful at times, it makes their little courtship very charming. (Yes I did just summarize your plot to you; it made me laugh so sue me.)

I have never been able to figure out which mech I Wheeljack to end up with, although I always seem to be cheering for the mech he isn’t presently with so that may be a good thing.

Ah well, don’t mind me. Happy writing, I do hope you finish you seeker series, I was very curious how that would end.
~DB3

Re: Teh Ramblings

[anon-decepticon.livejournal.com]

I got to the end there and all I could do was stare and make incoherent noises that probably sounded like "ah", "erg", and "murgle". Pretty much the response I was going for. ;)

I really am very fond of the way you write Ratchet. He's always tempermental, but it is unique that you allow his temper to be only a single aspect of his personality. I liked seeing his gentler side in this chapter. Ratch and WJ have a lot in common, and not just mad repair skillz. Part of it is a repair 'Bot thing - you have to have a degree of detachment when you're putting the pieces of your friends back together day after day. They get along because both understand that the macho tough-guy act is a front, and why it's there, so what seems like a contentious relationship is in fact a very close one. The fact that Ratchet's "mask" slips as often as it does in regards to Wheeljack's situation reveals just how profoundly he's been affected by it.

Strange as it may seem, I also like how poorly he deals with 'Jack's issues through out. I'm sure somebody will say "But he's a doctor! He should know how to council someone whose been raped!"
I was also worried someone might think that, but you're exactly right. Ratchet is having a hard time dealing for a couple of reasons. The first is because (P&P) rape is very uncommon among TFs in my headcanon, especially not rape-via-uplink where the victim is forced to "enjoy" it. (This is why TB doesn't look at WJ's odd behavior and conclude, oh, he must have been raped.) Because an uplink allows both mechs to feel the other's emotions, rape is about as much fun for the rapist as it is for the victim (unless they're the sort of twisted individual who gets off on fear and disgust) and when it does occur, it's usually done for practical interrogation purposes. WJ's is a very unusual case in that respect.
The second reason involves Ratchet's personal feelings for 'Jack - he knows how to deal with rape on a medical level, but he lacks the necessary degree of detachment to play therapist to WJ because he's empathizing far too much with his best friend's pain, and WJ is resisting his efforts because he fears losing Ratchet's respect. Ratchet can clearly see what WJ is doing in that final scene, but he can't bring himself to shatter what little remains of 'Jack's virtually non-existent sexual self-esteem by refusing him. He's also rather idealistically hoping that he can somehow "heal" Wheeljack by reminding him he's still desirable. It's a romantic notion, one he's too emotionally involved to recognize for the wishful thinking that it is.

I do hope you finish you seeker series, I was very curious how that would end. I plan to, but I think I'm going to jump right into the next chapter of "Atlantis" first, just to avoid forcing my brain to switch gears. The conclusion is coming, though, and I hope you enjoy it when it does.

[astersyn.livejournal.com]

Geez, Wheeljack thinks way too hard about everything. Worrying and obsessing over little details! He needs to step back and look at the bigger picture.
Also: getting pissed at Ratchet for being too nice? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, fella, especially if that horse swings a hell of a wrench.

I love how you're able to get so much out of just someone's thought processes. Most of what happens in this chapter is just Wheeljack thinking, but it's still as engaging as the more action-y bits.

[poptartodoom.livejournal.com]

I love this fic. Wheeljack is my favorite character, and it's fascinating to see how he copes with a horrifying ordeal. And Wheeljack/Ratchet is my OTP, so I can't say I'm sorry that the thing with Trailbreaker is over, but I feel bad for Trailbreaker, too...

[patokichi.livejournal.com]

I like where this is going. c:


Hopefully more Trailbreaker/Wheeljack? :3 No offense Ratchet. D:

[sister-dear.livejournal.com]

...

*wibble*

Okay I've said this before, but it bears saying again; I absolutely love that we can tell what the other characters are thinking and feeling despite this being completely from Wheeljack's point of view.

*wibbles more*

*keeps reading*

...

Wheeljack, I love you, but you -are- a bit of an idiot.

[anon-decepticon.livejournal.com]

I absolutely love that we can tell what the other characters are thinking and feeling despite this being completely from Wheeljack's point of view. I assume you're referring to the scene with TB; I wanted to make it very clear the poor mech was this close >< to breaking down and crying like a baby. Aw, TB...

Wheeljack, I love you, but you -are- a bit of an idiot. Yes, yes he is. Stubborn git.

[dvana.livejournal.com]

Poor Ratch. Rebounded! That hurts. Hope 'Jack catches on before there's an even bigger mess.

[faremyr.livejournal.com]

*shakes head*

Man... that was... uhm, well... Oh, 'Jack! *sigh*

[mdperera.livejournal.com]

This is a bit like Twilight, in that we've got Team Ratchet and Team Trailbreaker. :D

While I'm in the latter camp, now that I've seen the consequences of the last chapter, I'm glad that Trailbreaker ended it. Wheeljack wasn't treating him right, and Trailbreaker showed that he wasn't going to put up with that for long. But going straight to Ratchet was another bad idea. Wheeljack still has his last romance very much on his mind, and he certainly hasn't had time to really think about what he could have done better.

Where will this all end up? No idea, but can't wait to find out.

*waves a little Trailbreaker flag*

[anon-decepticon.livejournal.com]

No! No "Twilight" comparisons! (Although I admit I've been aware of the pro-Ratchet and pro-TB camps for some time.)

I'm glad that Trailbreaker ended it. I'm glad you're glad! I wanted to show that TB is an easygoing mech, but most definitely NOT a doormat - he possesses a core of inner strength that even he isn't fully aware of.

Wheeljack still has his last romance very much on his mind, and he certainly hasn't had time to really think about what he could have done better. Oh, he's had time - he's just doing everything he can to avoid it! The FFN title for this chapter is "Abnegation," and I was amused to discover that "define: abnegation" in teh Google brings up THIS as the second hit. Wheeljack is displaying at least 4 of the 6 types of denial listed in that entry in this chapter alone, and even more amusingly, the description for "Denial of Cycle" contains a direct quote from the chapter as an example. I'd never seen that Wiki entry before I posted, and I think it's hilarious.

Thanks for reading and commenting! I always love your reviews.

[vonderbarr.livejournal.com]

Poor Trailbreaker! All he wanted was for Jack to open up a little bit. While Jack really should have told him the truth, he could have gotten away with just giving him some information. That's still not quite right, though. Arg, dammit Jack!
And oh god, Ratchet wants to fix him with his love ;_;
At this point I'm not really rooting for any particular mech, I just want Wheeljack to get his junk together. Right now he's a pretty hot mess.

[sidewaystories.livejournal.com]

Ahh Wheeljack, there's dark matter out there less dense than you...

I get the oddest feeling this isn't going to end well for Ratchet, and it's unexpected to see him have less confidence and self respect for himself than Trailbreaker did - so kudos to you for pulling that off and making it work in this context.

[growlingturtlez.livejournal.com]

Dude, Wheeljack is so messed up right now...that mech needs some healing!

Will the other 'bots ever find out what happened to him??? Will Trailbreaker?

[cmdrtekk.livejournal.com]

The TBxWJ thing probably could have/should have worked if Jack would have communicated a bit more. But his mental state was certainly not running in the strong positives. Yet I wonder if Breaker could have helped with some of that. He seems like a personality who would have been understanding. I think Jack's headspace is so messed up at the moment that its not likely to be very good for any intimate relationship. And jumping in with Ratchet the day after 'breaking up' just does not seem like a good idea. Ummm... he didn't seem to offline when overloading with Ratchet. I found that tidbit interesting. The intimate acts seemed to be much more CPU blowing when with TB. GOt to say, was expecting the relationship to hit a low point, but it was a surprise after what seemed like such a good day for all four bots in the previous chapter.

Looking forward to more, but missing Trailbreaker/Wheeljack already.

Thank you for sharing.

[anon-decepticon.livejournal.com]

TB and WJ are more sexually compatible, to a degree I don't think 'Jack fully appreciates. When Mirage asked if there was anything TB does/doesn't do that wasn't working for WJ and he says no, Mirage says he's lucky - and he's right. Their "date" together did go quite well from Wheeljack's point of view, but for TB it reawakened all the niggling doubts he'd been having about their relationship, little things he'd noticed but shrugged off as a symptom of his own insecurity. Seeing Hound and Mirage interact highlighted the differences between the two relationships, and gave TB the courage to finally speak up. He saw Hound confront Mirage for not opening up, saw Mirage get angry at Hound, and realized that sort of occasional conflict is part of a healthy relationship - a part that was missing from his own relationship with 'Jack.

As for Wheeljack promptly turning to Ratchet, his primary (but still largely reflexive) reason for doing so is hinted at in this chapter, but becomes painfully apparent in the next one. Thanks for reading!

[anon-decepticon.livejournal.com]

The next chapter is up, by the way - I just realized I forgot to link it. *fixes*