After Atlantis, Part 8

[anon_decepticon]

Title: After Atlantis, Part 8
Author: anon_decepticon
Rating: M
Pairing or Character(s): Wheeljack, Trailbreaker, Ratchet, the Dinobots, Prowl (briefly)
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.” These portions of the fic are not mine.
Warning(s): PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations
Summary: Raped by Starscream, Wheeljack struggles to cope.
Author's Note: Originally a kink meme prompt, this fic ended up going in a decidedly non-smutty direction. Parts 1 and 2 appear on the meme, concluding with a brief epilogue that summarizes events detailed in Parts 3, 4, and 5. Parts 6 and 7 continue the story. Thanks to everyone for their wonderful comments, and as always to kookaburra1701, without whom I’d probably never have had the nerve to post anything.




After leaving the common room and saying goodbye to Trailbreaker, Wheeljack headed for his lab. He hadn’t taken more than a handful of strides when he got the ping on his internal comm.

He opened a channel. *Yes?*

*Wheeljack, this is Prowl. You’re needed in the cargo bay. The Dinobots have gotten into another fight, and they’re refusing to stand down.*

He groaned inwardly. Incidents like this occurred from time to time, usually when there was a lull in the struggle against the Decepticons. Apart from fighting, there were very few duties his powerful but dim-witted creations were well suited for. Working in the cargo bay was one of the few jobs they could manage; their strength made them invaluable when it came to heavy lifting, and the simple task of loading and unloading supplies didn’t tax their slow-functioning processors overmuch.

Unfortunately, the Dinobots were as ill tempered and intractable as they were formidable, and even the smallest disagreement between them could quickly escalate into a full-fledged brawl. When that happened, it wasn’t easy to bring them back under control, even with the combined efforts of many Autobots. As their creator, Wheeljack was one of the few ‘Bots Grimlock and the others would listen to. When all else failed, they commed him.

*On my way,* he replied with resignation.

*Quickly, please,* came the crisp reply. *Prowl out.*

Grumbling, Wheeljack transformed, making excellent time as he shot off towards the cargo bay at top speed.

He’d been very proud of the Dinobots lately. After their disastrous introduction and rather shaky entrance into the Autobot ranks, he’d been hard-pressed to convince the other ‘Bots of their value, but recently the Dinobots’ intervention had spelled the difference between victory and defeat in several battles against the Decepticons, and attitudes toward them had grown increasingly positive as a result.

But Wheeljack knew repeated incidents like this one would quickly obliterate that good sentiment, costing them most or all of the precious ground they’d gained.

He could admit that the Dinobots weren’t one of his more successful inventions, but unlike any of his other failed experiments, he couldn’t bring himself to discard them like so much scrap metal. They weren’t mere malfunctioning gadgets – they were alive. They had thoughts and feelings, even if those thoughts were exceedingly simple, and those feelings tended toward arrogance and aggression. He was their creator. He had a responsibility to them, to protect and instruct them, to shield them from harm.

But as strongly as he felt about that, coming hard on the heels of his own troubles, this little altercation was the last thing he needed.

**

It took a little over a breem to get the Dinobots back under control.

Fortunately, the damage to the cargo bay and the supplies it contained was minimal. The damage to the Dinobots themselves, however, was significant, and several of the ‘Bots who’d endeavored to bring the brawling titans under control had sustained minor injuries as well.

That was the worst part. The damage the Dinobots had inflicted on each other wasn’t irreparable, but it was fairly extensive. Being hardy by nature, they didn’t complain. The injured Autobots, however – most of them minibots, and unfortunately among the most vocal – didn’t hesitate to make their opinions of both Wheeljack and his creations abundantly clear.

Ignoring their jibes and mockery, Wheeljack herded his rebellious charges toward the repair bay, resolving to have a very stern conversation with Grimlock once their repairs were completed.

Preoccupied as he was, he had completely forgotten about Ratchet.

He halted on the threshold when he caught sight of the medic, all the tension and embarrassment of their last encounter rushing back to him.

“Oh, slag,” he muttered.

“What?” Slag responded. The triceratops was standing at his shoulder, looking up at him inquiringly.

Wheeljack couldn’t help but chuckle, in spite of his present mood.

Letting the Dinobots choose their own designations had been Ratchet’s idea, but Wheeljack doubted Ratchet had anticipated one of them would chose one of the more colorful words from his own vocabulary when he'd made the suggestion. Ratchet had tried to talk Slag out of it, tried to persuade him to pick a different name, but Slag had been immovable.

Wheeljack had thought it was hilarious. Ratchet had dented his helm for laughing, but it had been worth it. Slag wanted to be Slag, so Slag he was.

“Go on in,” he told the Dinobot, suppressing a snicker. “Let Ratchet take a look at you.”

Slag nodded and obediently plodded over to where Ratchet was standing – and glaring.

“Now what?” Ratchet demanded irritably. “Don’t tell me they’ve done it again.”

“’Fraid so,” Wheeljack replied, fighting to keep the amusement out of his vocalizer. He waved the others into the repair bay and got them lined up in order of the severity of their injuries.

His good mood lasted through most of the repairs, but as each Dinobot was brought back to optimal and released, the concerns that had been weighing on his processor promptly returned to the fore.

He watched Snarl, who’d been the least damaged and thus the last to be repaired, depart with some regret.

He was left alone with Ratchet. The tension level in the repair bay increased accordingly.

Wheeljack busied himself with the task of putting away the tools he’d used, studiously avoiding looking in Ratchet’s direction.

“Don’t tell me you’re still torqued off because I turned you down,” Ratchet said acerbically, breaking the prolonged, tense silence. “Trust me, ‘Jack, it was a bad idea.”

“I know,” he replied, his tone subdued. He’d found out the hard way.

Ratchet looked at him in surprise; clearly he’d been expecting an argument.

“You were right,” Wheeljack conceded, his voice almost a whisper, vocal indicators barely flickering. “It was a bad idea. I should have listened to you.”

Ratchet stared at him, his expression shifting from mild puzzlement to one of dawning horror and disbelief. “Oh, no,” he said, almost pleadingly. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Wheeljack made no reply, only looked away, avoiding his optics.

“Oh, ‘Jack,” Ratchet whispered, stricken.

“This is the part where you say, ‘I told you so,’” Wheeljack informed him bitterly.

“No,” Ratchet replied, coming over and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder-strut. “It isn’t.”

For a klik they simply stood in silence, unmoving. It was Ratchet who spoke first. “Who was it?”

“Does it matter?” Wheeljack retorted. “It was a mistake. I thought I could – I thought it would help, but…” he trailed off, cycling a sigh through his intakes. “You were right.”

After a long pause, Ratchet asked reluctantly, “Was it…bad?”

“Awful,” he replied immediately. A crackle of static infused the single word, making him wince. He reset his traitorous vocalizer. “It was awful,” he repeated.

Ratchet remained silent, but his grip on Wheeljack’s shoulder-strut tightened.

Wheeljack wanted to leave it at that, to let the subject drop entirely, but he had to ask. “You knew what would happen,” he said. “How did you know?”

“I’m a medic,” Ratchet replied simply.

A pain that was strangely like grief welled up in his spark. He’d just wanted everything to be normal again, the way it used to be. It was his function to fix things; why couldn’t he fix this? He’d tried to approach the situation logically, like he would any other problem. He’d tried to repair it, but he’d only made things worse.

And it hurt. No damage, no injury he’d suffered in his entire existence had ever hurt like this. Pain seemed too inadequate a word, hurt too poor a descriptor.

“Does it ever stop hurting?” he asked, bleak but clinging to a faint, desperate hope. “Does it ever get better?”

“Yes,” Ratchet said. “But it takes time, ‘Jack. A lot of time.” He hesitated a moment, “And you have to talk about it.”

“No,” he said firmly.

“’Jack –”

“No,” he said adamantly. “I’m not talking about it.”

Ratchet’s hand on his shoulder-strut gave another squeeze, “You have to, ‘Jack. You need to. And you want to. Deep down, I think some part of you knows that.”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” he protested, shrugging off Ratchet’s hand and rounding on him. “I don’t even want to think about it! All I ever do is think about it!”

His treacherous vocalizer was emitting pops and crackles of static again. Wheeljack clenched his hands into fists, fighting to stay in control, anger and frustration surging in his spark.

“Why don’t we go into my office,” Ratchet suggested.

Wheeljack shook his helm, “No, I – not now. I have to talk to the Dinobots, to Grimlock. I have to teach them better self-control. We can’t have them tearing up the Ark and each other like this.”

Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“All right,” Ratchet relented. “Go and take care of it. But later, I promise you, you and I are going to have a talk.”

Dread infused his circuits, causing his spark to clench. “Sure, Ratch,” he said reluctantly. “Whatever you say.”

He departed quickly, before Ratchet could call him on the insincerity of his tone.

**

Working with the Dinobots was no simple task.

Granted, Wheeljack had an easier time of it than most. His status as their creator afforded him a certain degree of respect. He also knew how to talk to them, how to get them to obey his commands, how to phrase his requests in a manner they’d respond to.

The trick, he’d found, was to convince Grimlock.

The other Dinobots invariably followed Grimlock’s lead. As the strongest, Grimlock was viewed as the de facto king of their small group. Where he led, the rest followed.

The arrogant tyrannosaur was quite enamored of his position as the Dinobots' leader. It was a role he was well-suited for, but also a source of great pride for the hulking mech. Wheeljack had learned that any request framed by a recognition of that status was invariably well-received by Grimlock.

Therefore, all he had to do to get the Dinobots to exercise greater self-control was to persuade Grimlock. And to convince Grimlock, Wheeljack simply had to explain to him that when the other Dinobots misbehaved, it reflected poorly on Grimlock as their leader.

After that, things progressed quite smoothly.

He spent the rest of the day working with the Dinobots, and Grimlock in particular, coaching them in the use of their abilities, with a focus on fine control over raw power. When Grimlock performed well, Wheeljack praised him lavishly, both for his efforts and his leadership ability. Preening, Grimlock would then turn around and demand his fellow Dinobots perform to the same standard.

Once that pattern had been established, training with the Dinobots was almost…fun. There were a couple of snags along the way, most resulting from the odd bit of clumsiness or a minor dispute, but to Wheeljack’s delight, even those incidents were largely handled by Grimlock himself, and required little-to-no intervention from him.

As distractions went, it was one of the better ones he’d come up with, and it provided him with the perfect excuse to avoid Ratchet for a while. It was such a relief, not having to worry about –

His internal comm pinged.

Stepping away from the Dinobots, Wheeljack responded. *Yeah?*

*Wheeljack,* a familiar deep voice greeted him cheerfully. *It’s Trailbreaker.*

His spark sank.

*Hey, Trailbreaker,* he replied, praying his friendly tone didn’t sound too forced. *What’s up?*

*You remember how I said I’d comm you if I was able to trade my duty shift with someone?* Trailbreaker inquired.

*Yeah?* Wheeljack replied expectantly.

*Well…I couldn’t convince anyone,* Trailbreaker admitted with obvious chagrin. *I tried, but everyone I asked turned me down.*

*That’s okay,* he replied, feeling relieved. *It’s not your fault.*

*I did have another idea, but…I’m not sure you’re going to like it,* Trailbreaker continued, sounding hesitant and uncertain.

Wheeljack’s spark clenched. Apart from their regular off-duty cycles, which were prescheduled, the only leisure time the Autobots were afforded was designated for cleansing, refueling…and recharge. He had his suspicions about the sort of alternate activity Trailbreaker had in mind.

*What’s that?* he asked warily.

*I was thinking, if you didn’t mind, maybe you could join me on my shift?* Trailbreaker asked haltingly. *Ever since I got jumped by the ‘Cons that time, Prowl’s assigned one of the twins to escort me while I’m out on patrol; they’re faster and have more firepower.*

*Uh-huh,* Wheeljack replied, indicating that he should go on.

*The thing is, you do too, so I figured if you volunteered to go with me instead, Prowl would probably be okay with that,* Trailbreaker continued. *I know the twins would be,* he muttered darkly. *They hate having to tag around after me.*

*Right.*

*You’d be giving up your off-duty time to put in extra joors on-duty,* Trailbreaker explained unnecessarily, sounding simultaneously hopeful and apologetic. *But at least we’d get to spend some time together.*

Wheeljack considered Trailbreaker’s request. Normally he only took on additional duties when a crisis warranted it. He enjoyed his time off, relished having the opportunity to relax, get caught up on his projects, and ponder new ideas at his leisure.

Or at least he had. His newly acquired inability to recharge, coupled with a need for near-constant diversion, had left Wheeljack more caught up than he’d been in orns. At the rate he was going, he’d soon have to resort to pointless make-work to keep his processor occupied. Under the circumstances, the prospect of extra duties and less time off was strangely appealing.

And of course there was Ratchet to consider. Because they so often worked together, Ratchet was well acquainted with Wheeljack’s duty schedule. Knowing he had tomorrow off, there was a good chance Ratchet would seek him out to…talk.

In which case, Wheeljack surmised, being off on patrol somewhere outside the Ark might be a very good place for him to be.

*Yeah, okay,* he said finally, to Trailbreaker’s delight. *If Prowl says he’s okay with it, I’ll go along with you tomorrow.*

After an exchange of farewells and no small amount of enthusiastic gratitude from Trailbreaker, Wheeljack closed the comm channel and went back to observing the Dinobots, trying to ignore the tiny flicker of apprehension stirring in his spark.

**

Wheeljack fidgeted nervously as he stood just inside the entrance to the Ark, waiting for Trailbreaker.

Mentally he chided himself for his unease. What was he so worried about? It was a patrol shift, after all. Trailbreaker wouldn’t suggest they do anything…inappropriate while on duty.

…would he?

No, of course not. Trailbreaker had a reputation for reliability. He wasn’t the type to shirk his responsibilities in favor of…other pursuits.

They’d be in vehicle mode most of the time, anyway.

Shaking off his anxiety, Wheeljack checked his internal chronometer. He was a little early. Trailbreaker wouldn’t be officially late for another klik or two.

He peered out at the narrow strip of sky visible from his present position. It was dark and ominous, heavily mantled with storm clouds – fitting weather for his present mood.

Rain was likely, probably imminent. Not a good day for a pleasure drive. The roads would be slick, the visibility poor. In the mountains, it might even be snowing.

As Trailbreaker had predicted, Prowl had readily agreed to allow Wheeljack to substitute for Sideswipe – Trailbreaker’s designated escort for today’s patrol – and Sideswipe had been downright ecstatic when he learned he’d been excused from his least-favorite duty.

Wheeljack wondered what Sideswipe would do with his unexpected windfall, and whether Prowl would end up regretting granting the mischievous Lamborghini extra leisure time.

He wondered if he’d end up regretting it, too.

“You’re early,” Trailbreaker said from behind him, making him jump. He sounded dismayed. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long?”

“Nah, not really,” he shrugged.

Trailbreaker glanced out at the darkening sky. “Ugh. Lousy weather,” he commented. Turning back to address Wheeljack directly, he added brightly, “But at least we’ll have a chance to talk!”

He nodded. “So I should just...follow you?” he asked, discomfited by Trailbreaker’s steady gaze and hopeful smile.

“Yup, that’s it,” Trailbreaker replied. “I scan, you follow. Ready to go?”

“Sure,” Wheeljack agreed.

They transformed and rolled out.

**

Wheeljack counted himself lucky that patrols weren’t a part of his regular duties.

The weather hadn’t held. Predictably, within a few kliks of their departure from the Ark, the sky opened up and proceeded to dump a truly impressive quantity of water onto the two Autobots. It wasn’t harmful – Cybertronians could tolerate total immersion without suffering damage to their vital components – but neither was it pleasant.

Their patrol route currently bore more resemblance to a river than a roadway, and they had to endure the constant sensation of cold water – or worse, cold mud – splashing against their undercarriages and into their wheel wells as they drove. The heavy rain also created a kind of intermittent barrier that impeded and periodically reflected their sensors, so every reading had to be laboriously checked and rechecked to verify its accuracy.

The conversation began more as commiseration than anything else.

*I bet Sideswipe is laughing his aft off right now,* Wheeljack commed irritably.

For a few astroseconds the only response was the hiss of dead air over the open channel.

*I’m really sorry,* Trailbreaker said finally, his vocalizer sounding small and tinny over the comm link – a side effect of the rain, perhaps. *I should have checked the weather before I asked you to come.*

Wheeljack didn’t respond. Saying Yeah, you should have – his first impulse – would be rude and spiteful. It wasn’t like Trailbreaker had forced him to come along. He’d agreed to it – without checking the forecast himself, it seemed fair to note – and Trailbreaker could hardly be blamed for something as unpredictable as Earth weather, anyway. So he held his peace.

*At least there’s not much chance of the ‘Cons being out in this,* Trailbreaker said, struggling to find a bright side to the situation.

*Then they’re smarter than we are,* Wheeljack groused. *Not that we’d know if they were in this slag. I can’t see half a meter in front of me.*

Dead air.

Wheeljack fell into a sullen silence, wallowing in his misery. He became so absorbed, in fact, that it took him several kliks to register that while water continued to spray out from beneath his tires and splatter against his undercarriage, it was no longer drenching him from above. His core temperature had reclaimed a few of the degrees it had lost since they started out, and his sensor readings were clearer.

Yet the rain hadn’t stopped.

He could see it, falling all around him like a silver curtain, but he couldn’t feel it.

Wheeljack was just about to reopen the comm link, intent on alerting Trailbreaker to this mysterious phenomenon, when he noticed the faint glow hovering just above him.

A force field.

He suddenly felt like a complete and total aft.

Sheepishly, he reopened the channel. *Thanks,* he commed.

*Don’t mention it,* Trailbreaker commed back.

He sounded pleased.

**

Upon returning to the Ark, they headed straight for the washracks.

Wheeljack had never been one to obsess over his appearance. He wasn’t Tracks, or – Primus forbid – Sunstreaker. Any minor scuffs or dents he acquired on his chassis were repaired, of course – when he got around to it. Extensive polishing was too troublesome and time-consuming to bother with. Looking like an ambulatory mirror wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

But he drew the line at mud.

Wet and fresh, it was slippery and unpleasant. Dry and caked-on, it was gritty and itchy. In either state, it compromised sensors, sifted into joints and servos with every movement, and got all over everything.

Right now, Wheeljack was covered with it.

Trailbreaker seemed to be of the same opinion; he came along with him. Wheeljack didn’t have a problem with that, until they’d actually entered the washracks.

They were completely deserted.

Doing his best to conceal his unease, he nodded and laughed at Trailbreaker’s joke about mud getting into the darndest places as he stepped over the threshold. After a brief glance around, he made his way to the far side of the room, switching on the sprayer in a perfunctory manner and stepping under it.

He offlined his optics, cycling a sigh of relief as the warm solvent coursed over him, beginning to wash away the worst of the grime that had accumulated on his chassis.

He onlined them again with a jolt when he heard the second sprayer switch on a short – very short – distance to his right. His servos locked into place; suddenly he was too frightened to move. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn his helm, although he already knew what he’d see.

Out of all the wash stations in the room – enough to accommodate over twenty mechs – Trailbreaker had picked one directly adjacent to the one the Wheeljack had chosen.

All he could do was stand there, frozen in terror, staring at the mud and solvent as it ran down his frame in thready rivulets, watching it coil into the drain at his feet, his spark pulsing wildly in its chamber. He could hear the movements of other mech nearby – too nearby – hear the faint squeaks and protests of mud-coated servos as Trailbreaker endeavored to cleanse himself of the unwelcome organic substance.

At first he thought he might remain that way forever, but after a few kliks had passed with no indication from Trailbreaker that he was even aware of Wheeljack’s presence – not a word, not a gesture – he relaxed slightly, and found he was able to move again. He resumed his efforts to remove the mud from himself, focusing all his attention on that simple task.

“Want me to do your back?”

His helm jerked up. “What?”

“Your back,” Trailbreaker said. “I’ll do yours if you’ll do mine. I’d appreciate a hand; can’t reach on my own.” He laughed. “Figures that’s where all the mud always ends up.”

Wheeljack wanted to refuse. He wanted desperately to say ‘no.’ But what reason could he give, what excuse did he have? The request was hardly an unusual one, though typically reserved for close acquaintances.

Which of course they were, strictly speaking. They’d interfaced, after all.

“Sure,” he consented, fighting to keep the strain from his vocalizer.

Trailbreaker took a step toward him, but Wheeljack held up a hand to halt him. “You first,” he said.

Trailbreaker smiled, “All right,” and turned around, offering his back.

Grabbing one of the stiff brushes provided at each station, Wheeljack hesitantly took hold of Trailbreaker’s shoulder-strut, to steady himself.

That’s when he noticed his hands were shaking.

Gripping the brush tighter in an effort to quell the involuntary tremors, he set to work on Trailbreaker’s backstrut, which was heavily clogged with silt. His initial efforts might have been more vigorous than was comfortable, but Trailbreaker made no complaint. In fact, he remained completely still and silent while Wheeljack worked.

Within a few kliks Trailbreaker’s backstrut was spotless and gleaming. Wheeljack moved on to his shoulder-plates, taking care to scrub underneath where grit could invade the gaps and compromise sensitive circuitry.

“Mmmm,” Trailbreaker hummed appreciatively. “That feels amazing.”

Wheeljack was so startled he nearly dropped the brush.

Idiot! he chided himself mercilessly. There’s a sensor cluster there! Now he thinks you’re –

“Don’t stop,” Trailbreaker said, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re great at this.”

“Thanks,” Wheeljack murmured, reluctantly applying the brush once more.

This time his strokes were a little more tentative.

“Hound’s terrible,” Trailbreaker elaborated conversationally. “Don’t tell him I said so, but don’t ever let him do your back. He’ll take your paint off!”

“I’ll remember that,” he replied absently, intent on his task. In his CPU, he’d pulled up Trailbreaker’s medical file and was carefully mapping out the most heavily sensor-laden regions of Trailbreaker’s chassis, places he thought it best he avoid.

Naturally, those spots were just as muddy as the rest.

Feeling trapped and desperate, his spark surging in panic, Wheeljack began to scrub faster, determined to finish as quickly as possible. He forced himself to include the areas he would have preferred to avoid entirely, but he couldn’t bring himself to press as firmly as he knew he ought to, to ensure every trace of mud was removed.

In hindsight, it probably would have been better if he had.

When Trailbreaker groaned and pulled away, turning to regard him with glowing optics, Wheeljack realized his gentle, hesitant strokes might have been interpreted as deliberately erotic.

“Enough,” Trailbreaker rumbled. “Your turn.”

Wheeljack stood frozen as Trailbreaker took the brush from his trembling hands, stepping behind him. He didn’t flinch when Trailbreaker rested a hand on his shoulder-strut for balance just as had he done; he held very, very still.

He did flinch when the brush made contact with his backstrut.

“You’re really tense,” Trailbreaker commented as he scrubbed.

Processing quickly, Wheeljack replied, “Stress. The Dinobots have been acting up again.” Fearing further questions, he tried to will the tension out of his taut servos, and was rewarded when his shoulder-struts eased slightly.

“They do seem to do that a lot,” Trailbreaker said, still scrubbing.

“Certainly more than I’d like,” he responded. “Every time I think they’ve finally been accepted, they get into trouble again, and end up right back where they started.” He cycled a sigh through his intakes. “Naturally everyone blames me, because –”

“…because you’re the one who built them,” Trailbreaker concluded for him. “I guess that’s understandable.” He leaned in closer to reach a stubborn clot of mud wedged into a transformation seam running up Wheeljack’s side. “On the other hand, they have saved our tailpipes more than once.”

“Yeah, but no one remembers that when they’re trashing the cargo bay,” Wheeljack replied bitterly. “I’ve been working with them, but there’s only so much I can do. They’re just…clumsy. They can’t help it.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Trailbreaker agreed. “Raise your right arm a little.”

He complied with the request without even thinking about it. The steady scrubbing felt good; the relaxation he’d initially feigned slowly turning into the real thing.

“I can’t just scrap them,” Wheeljack said mournfully. “I won’t. They may not be perfect, but they're alive. They–” He trailed off as the scrubbing suddenly ceased. “What’s wrong?” he inquired, peering over his shoulder at the larger mech.

Trailbreaker was staring at him with a kind of awe. “It just hit me,” he said, responding to Wheeljack’s puzzled look. “You’re right – the Dinobots are alive. And you created them.”

“Yeah?” he said, confused. “So..?”

“You brought the Dinobots to life,” Trailbreaker repeated. “You, not Vector Sigma. That’s…incredible.”

He realized abruptly what Trailbreaker was getting at. It was both flattering and embarrassing. Wheeljack felt his circuits heating, though he wasn’t sure which emotion was responsible. “Well…they’re not very bright,” he deflected. “And they do tend to destroy things.”

Trailbreaker seemed to shake himself. “I guess…it’s all in how you look at it,” he said slowly, and bent to resume his task.

With a slight difference.

Wheeljack couldn’t be sure it was deliberate – after all, he himself had done the same thing unintentionally only a breem ago, in complete innocence – but the strokes of the brush were suddenly much slower, softer, and undeniably more sensual than they had been a moment before.

It felt…nice.

A part of him wanted to pull away. Another part wanted to stay right where he was, and see if the gentle strokes would continue, perhaps progress to other, more sensitive areas…

“I think that about does it,” Trailbreaker announced, straightening.

Wheeljack turned to look at him in surprise. Trailbreaker wasn’t even looking at him; he rinsed the brush carefully, set it back in its niche, and then switched off the sprayers.

“Thanks for tagging along today,” Trailbreaker said, turning back and laying a hand on his shoulder-strut. “I know it wasn’t what you’d call a fun outing, but I enjoyed it. Maybe we can do better next time.”

“S-sure,” he stammered.

“See you around.”

Wheeljack stared after the departing mech for a long time.

**

He returned to his quarters almost in a daze, punching in the locking code automatically and stepping inside, barely registering the faint hiss of the door as it slid shut behind him.

He moved to the chair at his workstation, turned it around and sank into it, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his processor, a confusing tangle of emotions pulling at his spark.

Trailbreaker had just…walked out.

Wheeljack had been expecting – dreading – another interface request. Given Trailbreaker’s behavior up to that point – in the washracks especially – it had seemed practically inevitable. Wheeljack had all but resigned himself to it.

But instead, Trailbreaker had just said goodbye and walked out.

It was an incredible relief.

He slouched down in his chair, the tension finally easing from his servos. He’d been wound up tighter than a mainspring all day. He’d been so sure…

But Trailbreaker hadn’t.

Wheeljack felt an odd surge of gratitude toward the other mech. The past few days had been extremely stressful for him, but now he was clean, comfortable, calm, and relaxed. He felt…good.

And once again, he had Trailbreaker to thank for it.

The thought made him chuckle. After all that had happened between them, he’d assumed – not unreasonably – that he would no longer find Trailbreaker’s presence quite as soothing as he had in the past.

Yet here he was, sitting at ease in his quarters, thanks to him. He ran a finger down the length of the transformation seam on his right side appraisingly. Not a trace of mud remained. Trailbreaker had done a good job.

Better than I did on myself, Wheeljack thought ruefully, noting a small clump of grit still clinging to the edge of his chestplate. He stretched to retrieve the cleaning cloth he kept stashed in a drawer at his workstation – more frequently used on his inventions than himself – and buffed away the spot.

It was odd though, the way Trailbreaker had just left like that…

He spied another spot he’d missed and buffed that out too, shaking his helm at his own carelessness.

Trailbreaker had departed in a good mood, to all outward appearances. Wheeljack was fairly certain he hadn’t done or said anything that could be construed as offensive even to the touchiest mech, which Trailbreaker definitely wasn’t. It seemed unlikely he’d left in a fit of pique.

But he had left. Wheeljack couldn’t fathom why.

Absorbed in his thoughts, his efforts at polishing became increasingly directionless, devolving into half-sparked swipes at random sections of his chassis.

It didn't make any sense. Trailbreaker had opted to use the wash station right next to his, when he’d had the entire room to choose from. He’d offered to wash the places Wheeljack couldn’t reach. On their own, those things weren’t inherently suggestive, but they did imply a certain degree of…familiarity.

His fingers absently traced another transformation seam, this time the one at his hip. The polishing cloth slipped from his hand, unnoticed.

Of course it wasn’t unheard of for two mechs who were close friends to assist each other in such a way, but it occurred far more frequently between lovers, and for good reason. For some Autobots – particularly those with an exhibitionistic streak – a visit to the washracks with one’s lover was a popular form of foreplay.

His fingers flitted idly across the seam again. He slouched lower in his chair, widening the gap, allowing greater access to the wires and cables hidden within. His fingertips traced along their length, stroking gently.

Given their recent history, Wheeljack couldn’t believe Trailbreaker had intended the offer as a strictly platonic one. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility; Trailbreaker had indicated he’d done the same thing with Hound, whom he’d identified as ‘just a friend.’ But he’d also admitted to having interfaced with Hound, once upon a time...

The other hand slid down his chassis to join the first, dipping into the seam on the opposite side.

He recalled the light, teasing strokes of the brush moving over his plating. That had been nice.

His fingers continued their steady motion, sliding back and forth as arched into them, leaning further back in his chair.

But had it been intentional? Could he have misread the situation? No, it had to have been deliberate. There was no other logical explanation. Trailbreaker had clearly wanted to –

The sharp click-whirr of his cooling fans switching on startled him out of his reverie. To his dismay, he discovered that his core temperature had risen significantly over the course of his musings, and his fingers were –

He jerked his hands away from himself hastily. His plating was hot, but not dangerously so; nevertheless he reacted as if he’d been burned. He panted through his intakes, trying to rapidly cool his overheated core.

A chaotic blend of conflicting emotions assailed him – distaste, arousal, revulsion, longing, confusion, loneliness, despair, disgust. His fuel tank churned; his spark fluttered.

Great Cybertron, what was wrong with him?

A mild charge had built up in his circuits, leaving him feeling restless. A part of him wanted to finish what he’d started. Another part was horrified that he’d started at all.

He’d never had any issues with self-service before. Sometimes he even preferred it to interfacing – it was less complicated, more convenient. If he craved an emotional connection, he’d seek out a suitable partner, but for the times when he just wanted to relax himself with a quick overload, he had no compunctions about tweaking a few wires and tripping a few sensors to get there.

But now the act was no longer relaxing. There were too many uncomfortable associations, too many conflicting emotions involved to even contemplate it. He couldn’t bring himself to finish. He didn’t dare attempt to enter recharge in his present state.

In the end, he simply sat, alone in the dark, waiting for his systems to normalize.


*Part 9 is here*

Comments

[pl2363.livejournal.com]

i can't get enough of this fic. i love how you handle his delicate emotional state. *happily awaits the next part!*

[dvana.livejournal.com]

This is great. It makes me wonder how much Trailbreaker is picking up on, and how much is just his own sweet, affable self.

Wonderful reading. Listen to Ratchet, 'jack, he's a doctor! : )

[zyraxus.livejournal.com]

Ehehe. Oh man, I am loving this fic and how well it's done. D:

*stalks for more*

[vonderbarr.livejournal.com]

Great chapter! I really felt how horrified Ratchet was, and I really hope they get that talk eventually. You can't run away from your problems, Jack!
I love the Dinobots and I love me some Daddy Wheeljack. That bit was adorable.
Ugh, I wish I could write as well and as quickly as you!

[poptartodoom.livejournal.com]

Awww. I hate seeing Wheeljack like this. I hope he eventually finds some peace!

[nitemea.livejournal.com]

I feel bad because I don' t want Trailbreaker to end up with Wheeljack, but then I feel even worse because they are soo cute together! x3
.....still ratchet/wheeljack is my OTP

I feel evil Dx

[laratron.livejournal.com]

I can't wait for more! This was a great chapter.

[growlingturtlez.livejournal.com]

Beautiful! I'm really loving this story.

[naboru-narluin.livejournal.com]

The scene with the Dinobots was hilarious.
Slag wanted to be Slag, so Slag he was. - *lol* ^^

I like it how you balance between drama and humour. You place the humour at the right place, that it brightens the atmosphere, even if it’s just a tiny bit, but enough that I don’t become all drama myself.

Mud must be something that Cybertronians really dislike - and I guess - didn’t know until they came to earth. *g*
Thanks for the scene in the washracks and that it ended pretty different than one might expect.

“Hound’s terrible,” Trailbreaker elaborated conversationally. “Don’t tell him I said so, but don’t ever let him do your back. He’ll take your paint off!”
Poor Mirage. :p

I pity Trailbreaker. He seems to truly like Wheeljack. Somehow I see a big disaster coming… v.v
And again the last sentence is pithy. I like this rhetorical device. I mean letting a chapter or story end with something that leaves a deep impression. :)

[anon-decepticon.livejournal.com]

The scene with the Dinobots was hilarious. Heehee! I didn't describe it in detail, but I have a very clear visualization of that scene in my head; it makes me giggle a LOT.

Mud must be something that Cybertronians really dislike - and I guess - didn’t know until they came to earth. I've always had the impression Cybertron has very little atmosphere and therefore gets virtually no rain...so while dirt and rock is nothing new to them, mud is. It's messy.

Thanks for the scene in the washracks and that it ended pretty different than one might expect. It didn't end the way Wheeljack was expecting, either.

Poor Mirage. LOL, don't worry about 'Raj - Hound treats him like he's made of fine china! Towers mechs are rumored to have delicate plating, so Hound's hesitant to get too rough-and-tumble with him - although Mirage is a lot tougher than he thinks.

Somehow I see a big disaster coming… Actually, there are several on the way...but Trailbreaker isn't the only source.