After Atlantis, Part 10

[anon_decepticon]

Title: After Atlantis, Part 10
Author: anon_decepticon
Rating: M
Pairing or Character(s): Wheeljack, Ratchet, Trailbreaker
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”. 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 this fic started out as a Kink Meme prompt. Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9. Also posted at FFN. Eternal thanks to kookaburra1701 for giving up well-deserved sleep to play sounding board for my ideas, and offering a few of her own. Much-belated thanks also to vonderbarr for posting the original prompt. "Atlantis" wouldn't exist without you.



Wheeljack trailed meekly down the corridor, following in the enraged medic’s wake.

They passed several ‘Bots on the way to repair bay, all of whom were quick to stand aside once they caught a glimpse of Ratchet’s stormy expression. One or two cast sympathetic looks at Wheeljack as he slunk past, correctly identifying him as the unhappy target of Ratchet’s ire.

What Wheeljack didn’t understand was why Ratchet was so angry with him.

He knew Ratchet had a temper – who didn’t? – and he was fairly accustomed to being its target, usually in the aftermath of an explosion or when he’d gotten himself damaged doing something particularly stupid or careless. Wheeljack understood that. Ratchet’s primary function was to put mechs back together, so naturally he’d take issue with them fragging themselves up.

But he didn’t understand how he’d earned Ratchet’s fury this time. He couldn’t begin to guess what he might have done to invoke it. Refueling? Talking?

When they arrived at the repair bay, Ratchet stalked swiftly across the room toward his office.

Wheeljack hung back. “Uh…Ratch..?” he inquired tentatively.

Ratchet whirled on him, looking ready to explode. “What?” he demanded. “You heard me. In my office, now.” He gave a curt jerk of his helm in the direction of the door.

Most ‘Bots would have obeyed immediately; such was Ratchet’s tone. But Wheeljack couldn’t move; it was as if his feet had been welded to the floor. The thought of being confined in a small room with an incensed Ratchet sent an uncharacteristic flicker of fear through his spark.

Ratchet wouldn’t hurt him, would he?

“…what did I do?” he asked weakly.

Ratchet twitched, arrested by his tone. The faint quaver in Wheeljack’s vocalizer, the look of bewildered apprehension in his optics, suddenly seemed to register on the irate medic.

With a visible effort, Ratchet reined in his temper. “Come into my office, and we’ll discuss it,” he said, managing a strained but more moderate tone.

Wheeljack hesitated, uncertain.

Ratchet heaved a gusty sigh through his vents. “Or we can discuss it out here,” he said acerbically. “I assumed you’d want some privacy, since –”

Wheeljack tensed. This was about that? “Okay, I’m going,” he relented. He entered the office without further argument.

Ratchet followed him in, keying in the locking code with swift, angry jabs of his fingers.

Wheeljack watched him with more apprehension that he cared to admit, struggling to convince his clenching spark that everything was okay. Even angry, Ratchet was still Ratchet.

Ratchet wouldn’t hurt me. Ratchet would never hurt me. Ratchet won’t –

“Sit down, ‘Jack,” Ratchet said, moving past him to take a seat behind the desk.

Wheeljack didn’t want to sit. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He could feel his spark ricocheting about in its chamber like a trapped, frantic animal. What on Cybertron was wrong with him? He hadn’t felt this terrified, this helpless since – since –

A low, thready keen escaped his vocalizer.

Ratchet looked up at the small, desperate sound, his optics widening. “Oh, Primus,” he cursed. His disgruntled expression was overtaken by a look of profound remorse as he leapt to his feet, coming back around the desk to lay a comforting hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder-strut.

Wheeljack flinched at his touch.

“‘Jack, I’m sorry,” Ratchet said hastily, his vocalizer thick with regret. “It’s all right, everything’s all right. I was just – dammit!” He paused to collect himself, then continued soothingly, “It’s okay, really. You’re fine, everything’s fine.”

Wheeljack stared at his hands, once again beset by violent tremors. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked, wincing inwardly at how tiny and plaintive the question sounded.

“It’s an echo,” Ratchet explained. “Something about the situation triggered an associative link in your memory core that brought up –“

“Oh,” Wheeljack interrupted, not wanting to hear Ratchet say it out loud.

“You all right?” Ratchet asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

In truth he still felt pretty shaky, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“Then have a seat,” Ratchet said. He turned his back on him and walked back to his desk while Wheeljack settled into one of the visitor’s chairs. Resting his palms flat against the smooth surface of the desk, Ratchet leaned heavily against it, bowing his helm wearily, as if a great weight rested on his shoulder-struts.

Wheeljack regarded him curiously. “You okay, Ratch?” he inquired with concern.

“Yeah,” Ratchet said, straightening. “Sorry about that.”

“What happened?”

“You happened, you little glitch,” Ratchet replied chidingly. “I swear, I can’t turn my back on you for an astrosecond without you getting into trouble.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“At least now I don’t have to wonder who the mystery mech was,” Ratchet continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Or should I say, is?”

Wheeljack stared at him in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Ratchet pinned him with a no-nonsense glare. “Trailbreaker.”

“…oh.”

“‘Oh,’ is right,” Ratchet retorted. “I take it he’s the one you –?”

“Yeah,” Wheeljack admitted, ducking his helm.

“Not my first guess, I’ll admit,” Ratchet said contemplatively. “But it makes a certain amount of sense. Even if it was a bad idea to begin with.”

Wheeljack fidgeted uncomfortably, wondering where Ratchet was going with this. He didn’t really want to have to answer questions about…that night.

“You do agree it was a bad idea, don’t you ‘Jack?” Ratchet inquired, leaning close and tilting his helm, trying to catch Wheeljack’s optics. “You indicated as much, last time we talked about it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat like a scolded sparkling. “It was a bad idea.”

Ratchet nodded. “That’s what I thought,” he said, straightening. “It’s funny, though…” he added with mock thoughtfulness, moving back towards his desk again. “It looked to me almost as if Trailbreaker was under the impression that you were…I dunno, involved, or something.”

Wheeljack avoided his pointed glare.

“Why do you suppose that is, ‘Jack?” Ratchet queried.

He shrugged awkwardly. “I dunno.”

Ratchet’s optics blazed. “You’re still fragging him, aren’t you?” he accused.

His helm jerked up. “What? No!”

Ratchet’s hands clenched briefly, and he seemed to be fighting to hold himself back. “You don’t have to lie to me, Wheeljack,” he said with exaggerated calm. “It’s perfectly understandable that you’d want to regain some sense of – of control after what Starscream did to you. It’s a completely normal, misguided response...”

Wheeljack regarded him quizzically, lost again. “I’m not lying.”

“You’re not,” Ratchet repeated dubiously.

“No,” he said. “It was just the one…time.”

“You haven’t interfaced with him since, and you’re not planning to again?”

Wheeljack shook his helm. “No.”

“Because when you did, it didn’t go well,” Ratchet persisted. “You didn’t like it, weren’t ready for it. Right?”

He nodded.

“Does Trailbreaker know that?”

Wheeljack hesitated, guiltily avoiding his friend’s optics. “…not exactly.”

“‘Jack,” Ratchet said reprovingly, “You can’t do that.”

“What else could I do, Ratchet?” he asked defensively. “I’m the one who – and he thinks I – what else could I do?”

“You could try telling him the truth,” Ratchet suggested mildly.

“No.”

“Why not?” Ratchet inquired, sounding obnoxiously reasonable.

Because he'd probably tell everyone on the Ark.

Because he’d be disgusted that he ever touched me.

Because I don’t want him to know how pathetic I am.

“...I don’t want to,” he muttered quietly.

“So you’re just gonna, what, keep leading him on?” Ratchet demanded, beginning to sound angry again. “What happens the next time he wants to interface? Ever think of that, ‘Jack? Sooner or later he’s going to expect you to open up for him; what do you plan to do then?”

“…said he didn’t want to rush,” he muttered, vocal indicators barely flickering.

“Okay, so maybe he won’t ask right away,” Ratchet speculated, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his tone, growing stronger with every word. “And maybe when he does, you’ll be able to come up with some excuse to put him off a while longer. Pit, it could be orns before you finally have to own up and admit you were never interested in him in the first place – who knows, by then he might even be in love with you!”

Wheeljack jolted to his feet, ready to level a sharp retort – but no words came.

“I – it’s not like that,” he argued weakly. “I just…I just need more time, that’s all.”

Ratchet regarded him with a canny expression. “Time to tell him the truth, or to come up with a more convincing lie?” he asked.

“It’s not – you don’t understand –” he protested.

“I understand just fine,” Ratchet retorted viciously. “You think it’s easier to toy with another mech’s emotions than to face up to your own.” He shook his helm disapprovingly. “I realize you’re having a rough time right now, ‘Jack, but that’s pretty fragging selfish of you. What you’re doing to Trailbreaker is wrong, and you damn well know it.”

“It’s none of his slagging business!” he argued vociferously, his circuits heating with affront. “Why should I have to tell him anything?”

“Because it’s not good for either of you!” Ratchet exploded. “You tell him the truth, Wheeljack, or you end it! Because if you don’t, I will.”

Wheeljack’s optics widened in shock. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered.

“Try me,” Ratchet replied grimly.

“You wouldn’t,” he repeated more firmly, shaking his helm in disbelief. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“I will...if I have to,” Ratchet said.

Wheeljack stared at him, stunned. “You can’t do that,” he protested. “How could you do that? If you do, I – I swear Ratchet, if you do, I will never, ever forgive you!”

Ratchet looked pained. “It’s for your own good, ‘Jack. One way or the other, you have to end it. If you don’t, it’ll only get worse!"

Anger flared up in his spark, burning hot and bright as magnesium. “How could you even think of doing that to me? How could you even consider betraying me like that?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be my friend! I trusted you!”

“I am your friend!” Ratchet shouted back. “Dammit, Wheeljack, what do you expect me to do? Sit back and watch while you self-destruct like one of your slagging inventions? When will you get it through your thick plating that I’m trying to help you?! Stop fighting me! Stop pushing me away!”

“You're the one who's pushing, Ratchet!” he snapped. “You pushed me away, remember? ‘I wanted you to come to me,’ you said, but when I did come to you, you turned me down! So don’t give me that slag about pushing you away. You pushed first.”

“Have you fried your logic circuits?” Ratchet retorted. “You honestly think it would have been any different if I’d let you try your little experiment out on me instead? You think it wouldn’t have turned out exactly the same way?”

“It wouldn’t have!” he insisted, vocal indicators flashing, a hint of static creeping into his vocalizer. “It - it would have been okay! Even if it wasn’t, it would still've – if it’d been you, you'd have known, you’d have stopped –”

Ratchet was staring at him with a pole-axed expression. “You actually believe that,” he said.

“Of course I believe it!” he cried. “It’s true! You know it is!”

A faint glow suffused Ratchet’s optics, casting shadows across his faceplate.

“It’s your fault,” he said petulantly. “If you hadn’t – if you’d just –”

“Done what?” Ratchet asked quietly, closing on him. “This?”

His energy field crashed over Wheeljack like a tsunami.

**

It all happened so fast.

One moment they were arguing, and the next…

The next, Ratchet’s energy field was slamming into him, and his own was lashing out to meet it, hot and crackling and eager. For a few astroseconds the two fields clashed and juddered unpleasantly against one another, then abruptly fell into sync, engulfing both mechs in a wave of electric ecstasy.

Wheeljack’s internal cooling fans roared to life as his core temperature shot into the red, the sound nearly drowning out Ratchet’s low, needy moan.

The next thing Wheeljack knew, he was lying in an ungainly sprawl across Ratchet’s desk with Ratchet on top of him, one leg hiked around the medic's crimson hip and both hands buried deep in his circuitry.

Ratchet’s hands were similarly occupied within Wheeljack’s chassis, demonstrating quite effectively why medics were so often sought after as lovers. Ratchet was stimulating sensors Wheeljack hadn’t even known he had, and wielding his energy field with the precision of an energon scalpel, slicing fast and deep.

Wheeljack knew in some distant part of his processor that none of this should be happening – he shouldn’t be doing this, this was Ratchet, and that was wrong somehow – just as he was also distantly aware that his vocalizer was producing some really embarrassing noises, but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

It felt so good, after so much pain and frustration and uncertainty and denial, to stop thinking, to stop hurting and just feel. His moans of pleasure were like sobs of relief.

He dimly registered Ratchet whispering heatedly into his audial as he groped and fondled every square inch of Wheeljack’s frame he could reach, repeating his name in low, impassioned tones – ‘Jack, Primus, ‘Jack – over and over like a mantra.

There was something odd about that, a vague feeling of not-quite-right that nagged at the back of his processor, but before he could pin down the source, Ratchet dug his fingers into the gap at the base of his sensor-winglets and sent a sharp, hard pulse through his energy field, bowing Wheeljack’s backstruts, pulling a startled shriek of pleasure from his vocalizer as he went tumbling over the brink.

It was then that Wheeljack decided to abandon all semblance of coherent thought and surrendered himself to sensation.

**

His optics flickered and offlined as he slumped back onto the desk, still shuddering with the aftershocks of pleasure. The movement jostled a stack of datapads balanced near the edge of the desk, sending them slithering to the floor in a clattering cascade.

But Ratchet wasn’t finished with him. The medic was still greedily exploring every micrometer of his frame with urgent, hungry fingers, a steady stream of endearments pouring from his vocalizer.

At first Wheeljack caught only brief snatches of Ratchet’s whispered words amid the cacophonous symphony of cycling fans, revving engines, heaving intakes, and the scrape of metal against metal – finally together, Jack…dreamed of this…touching you...hearing you moan – but as more and more of them began to register on his scattered CPU, a faint trickle of unease crept into his spark.

“…don't know how long I've waited, ‘Jack...how long I’ve wanted you…”

If only he could think! Ratchet’s hands, Ratchet's fingers, were so distracting - trailing up his sideseams, tracing the curve of his windshield, progressing steadily upward - rubbing and stroking his chestplate, opening him up –

Wheeljack’s optics onlined abruptly, his spark clenching in panic.

Ratchet was leaning over him, his optics alight with desire, his interface cable already in hand, whispering, “…can finally show you…”

“No,” he said, in a voice so small and frightened it took him an astrosecond to recognize it as his own. “Please don’t.”

Ratchet froze, the ardent glow of his optics dwindling as they shifted from Wheeljack’s own – wide and frightened – to the cable in his hand and back again, a look of dawning horror spreading over his faceplate.

“Oh, ‘Jack,” Ratchet whispered, pulling hastily away from him, his expression anguished. “I didn’t – Primus, I’m so sorry –”

Wheeljack scrambled up from the desk and immediately lunged for the door, a low, terrified keen escaping his vocalizer when he discovered it locked.

“‘Jack, wait, don’t go, let’s talk about this –“ Ratchet pleaded as Wheeljack fumbled with the keypad, his hands shaking so badly it took three attempts before he managed to successfully enter the override code.

“‘Jack, please –” Ratchet begged as the door hissed open.

Wheeljack fled.

**

He tore blindly down one of the Ark’s many corridors, his processor reeling.

He couldn’t – he couldn’t think. The chaotic tangle of thoughts and emotions currently assailing his CPU were too numerous and complex to process – every attempt returned a fresh barrage of system errors and critical faults. Abort, Retry, Fail?

And at the core of the tangle, at its very center, was Ratchet.

Ratchet. His best friend.

He’d had to get away. Being in Ratchet’s presence only exacerbated his confusion. So he’d fled.

He’d taken his internal comm offline after the third consecutive ping, but that was a temporary solution at best. He couldn’t maintain comm silence indefinitely, and Ratchet wouldn’t allow Wheeljack to ignore him forever. If he couldn’t reach Wheeljack by comlink, Ratchet would seek him out personally.

Which meant he couldn’t go to his quarters, or to his lab. Ratchet would know to look for him there, would find him easily. No door could keep the medic out if he wanted in. As the CMO, Ratchet could override any locking code on the Ark.

Therefore the only solution was to keep moving.

Wheeljack wasn’t even sure where he was anymore. All the corridors looked the same.

He came to an abrupt halt, looking around. He was in one of the residential sections, one that seemed strangely familiar. Had he become so distracted he’d ended up heading straight back to his own quarters, in spite of his determination not to?

“Wheeljack?”

He started and turned, his spark clenching in dread. Had Ratchet found him already–?

Trailbreaker was standing there, regarding him with a look of mild surprise.

“Hey, Trailbreaker,” he greeted him, struggling to sound calm and untroubled. “What’s up?”

“I was just helping Hound,” Trailbreaker replied, gesturing back down the corridor in the direction he’d come. “We decided to call it a night, so I was heading back to my quarters for some recharge.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” Wheeljack replied agreeably. “I was just stretching my servos. You have a good night.”

“…right, thanks,” Trailbreaker replied, frowning in confusion. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but otherwise made no effort to resume his previous course, and for a few astroseconds the two mechs stared at each other in awkward silence.

“Was, uh…was there something you needed?” Trailbreaker asked.

“Who, me?” He forced a laugh. “No, not at all. I’m good.”

“Oh. Okay.” Trailbreaker hesitated a moment, studying him, then asked, “Are you sure?”

A thread of apprehension shivered through his spark. Was it that obvious something was wrong?

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Wheeljack assured him, forcing another laugh. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Trailbreaker replied quickly. “It’s just, uh…you’re standing outside my quarters, and um…you don’t live in this section.”

A quick glance behind him confirmed Trailbreaker’s statement. He was standing almost directly in front of the entrance to the defense strategist’s quarters, effectively blocking the door. He abruptly understood Trailbreaker’s puzzled reaction to his presence, and why this particular section of the corridor had seemed vaguely familiar to him.

“Did you want to come in?” Trailbreaker asked.

He thought fast. In light of their recent conversation, Ratchet probably wouldn’t think to look for him here. And he had to go somewhere. He couldn’t wander the corridors all night.

“Maybe just for a klik,” he assented with a shrug.

Trailbreaker nodded, and keyed in the locking code, stepping back to allow Wheeljack to enter first when the door slid open.

**

Trailbreaker’s quarters were as tidy as Wheeljack remembered. As he stood looking around uncertainly, Trailbreaker said, “Have a seat, if you want.”

Quarters aboard the Ark were relatively small and utilitarian. The only available places to sit were the chair in front of the desk, and the berth.

Wheeljack opted for the chair.

Trailbreaker took a seat on the edge of the berth. “So…” he hazarded.

“So,” Wheeljack echoed. “What’s this project of Hound’s?”

Trailbreaker looked relieved to be provided a neutral topic for conversation. “Oh, that? It’s a Quatra board.”

“A what?”

“A Quatra board. It’s a game they used to play in the Towers, back on Cybertron,” Trailbreaker explained. “They don’t exist here on Earth, of course; probably aren’t even many left on Cybertron since the war started, but Hound found some pictures in an old data file, and he’s been trying to make one. For Mirage. You know, as a gift. Hound says he’s homesick, figures it’ll cheer him up.”

“Oh,” Wheeljack said. “That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, he’s been working on it for orns, collecting Earth materials to make the board and all the pieces, carving them out…”

“And you’ve been helping him?” he asked.

“Yeah, sort of,” Trailbreaker said. “Not with the actual making it part; he wanted to do that himself. He’s got it mostly finished now, but he can’t give it to Mirage yet because he doesn’t know how to play. It’s a two-mech game, and probably the only other ‘Bot on the Ark who’d know how to play is Tracks.”

“And naturally Hound doesn’t want to give Mirage a gift that would make him spend less time with him, and more with Tracks,” Wheeljack concluded.

“Exactly,” Trailbreaker said, grinning. “So Hound’s got to learn how to play himself, and for that, he needs someone to play with, for practice.”

“And that’s you,” he surmised.

“That’s me,” Trailbreaker agreed. “To be honest, I think it’s the most boring game ever invented. A single match can go on for days, and there are all these special rules that only apply in very specific situations…” he trailed off with a shrug, “But Hound needed for my help, so I’m helping. He’s my best friend; how could I say no?”

His best friend.

Wheeljack’s shoulder-struts slumped, his helm bowing dejectedly.

Ratchet had been his best friend. He’d known him for countless vorns. They’d been friends for so long Ratchet was practically a part of him, an extension of his own frame. They’d created the Dinobots together. They’d worked side by side. They knew each other, inside and out, every circuit and servo.

Wheeljack couldn’t conceive of a world in which Ratchet wasn’t his best friend. He trusted Ratchet, shell and spark, trusted him more than any mech he knew. Trust wasn’t something Wheeljack gave easily, but Ratchet had earned his.

Until tonight.

Tonight, Ratchet had threatened to betray him, to reveal secrets shared in confidence. Wheeljack had felt as if the ground beneath his feet had suddenly crumbled away, leaving him helpless and adrift. For the first time ever, he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake, if he’d been wrong to trust Ratchet so implicitly.

“So, uh…” Trailbreaker began hesitantly, interrupting Wheeljack’s thoughts and breaking the long silence that had risen up between them. “Did you want to..?”

He glanced up distractedly, “Huh?”

Trailbreaker looked embarrassed. “It’s just…I know you said you wanted to wait and all, but…” he trailed off, laughing nervously. “I mean, here you are, and…well, I figure you didn’t decide to stop by ‘cause you wanted to talk about Hound,” he concluded.

Wheeljack stared at him blankly.

“…or maybe you did,” Trailbreaker amended uncertainly.

Wheeljack’s spark quailed. He should have anticipated this when Trailbreaker asked him in! Naturally Trailbreaker would assume the reason Wheeljack had shown up unannounced outside his quarters late at night was because he wanted to interface! He’d been so preoccupied with his goal of avoiding Ratchet, he’d failed to consider the implications of accepting Trailbreaker’s invitation.

And now the mech in question was regarding him with open curiosity; a faint puzzled frown curving his lip-components as he tried unsuccessfully to ascertain some hint of the emotional state concealed beneath Wheeljack’s masked faceplate.

He activated his vocalizer to offer some excuse, to reassert that he’d merely been passing by and had only stopped in for a quick chat –

All that emerged was a burst of static.

Two pairs of optics widened at the sound; Trailbreaker’s with surprise, Wheeljack’s with alarm.

“Are you all right?” Trailbreaker asked.

He quickly reset his vocalizer, not wanting to humiliate himself any further. “Sure.”

Trailbreaker looked concerned. “No you’re not,” he said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied with a shrug. “Just a glitch. I’m fine.”

“Was it something I said–?“

“No,” he said hastily, shaking his helm. “No, you didn’t do anything, you’re fine.”

Trailbreaker met his optics squarely, giving him look that was frankly dubious.

Wheeljack lowered his gaze. “It’s just been a long night,” he muttered.

“Is it because of what happened today with the Dinobots? Are you worried about them?” Trailbreaker asked. His optics widened slightly as a thought occurred to him. “Did someone say something to you–?”

“No, no, they’re fine,” he said quellingly. “Everything’s fine, really.”

Trailbreaker was silent a long moment, studying him thoughtfully.

Wheeljack sat quietly, fighting the urge to fidget, trying to project an air of confidence and ease.

“You really did come just to talk, didn’t you?” Trailbreaker asked, soft and surprised.

Wheeljack twitched, startled. “What? No, I was only passing through the section –“

“It’s okay,” Trailbreaker interrupted him. “If you just want to talk, that’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Wheeljack relaxed marginally, a small degree of tension easing from his taut servos.

“And…if there’s something you need to talk about,” Trailbreaker offered, carefully meeting his optics with a steady, serious gaze, “I’ll listen. I’d be happy to. I…I kinda like that you’d wanna to talk to me.”

“Thanks,” he replied, surprised and oddly touched by the offer.

“So what’s wrong?” Trailbreaker asked.

“Nothing,” he replied evasively. “I’m just –” He halted mid-denial, a wave of guilt sweeping over him.

What you’re doing to Trailbreaker is wrong, and you know it.

He looked at Trailbreaker, sitting there on the edge of the berth, his posture attentive, his expression politely concerned, and suddenly he couldn’t bring himself to vocalize another lie.

You could try telling him the truth.

“I…” he began hesitantly.

I can’t. I can’t say it. I can’t tell him.

He cycled a sigh through his intakes, his shoulder-struts drooping, and shook his helm. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he admitted.

“Okay,” Trailbreaker said, nodding. “That’s fine. We can talk about something else.”

“All right,” he agreed.

“Oh!” Trailbreaker said, like he’d suddenly remembered something. “Shoot.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s…it’s not that I don’t want to talk, it’s just…I didn’t realize it’d gotten so late,” Trailbreaker explained apologetically. “I’m supposed to do another a patrol tomorrow, and that battle today kinda wiped me out. I need to get some recharge, or I’ll really feel it in the morning.”

“Oh,” he said. “That’s okay, I understand.”

“We could talk tomorrow,” Trailbreaker offered hopefully. “My patrol’s scheduled for the afternoon, so maybe we could meet for energon in the morning?”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, getting to his feet. “I’ll just get out of your way.”

Trailbreaker got up too, and walked him the few strides’ distance to the door, activating the mechanism as they reached it. “I’m glad you stopped by,” he said. “It was nice talking to you.”

The door slid open obligingly with a faint hiss. Wheeljack stared out into the empty corridor it revealed with something akin to dread. He knew he should just thank Trailbreaker and leave, but he couldn’t force his feet to move.

Ratchet was out there somewhere, probably still looking for him. He couldn’t go back to his quarters. He couldn’t go back to his lab. He couldn’t spend the night wandering the corridors aimlessly – he needed to recharge, too. And he couldn’t leave the Ark – that would require providing an explanation to the other officers that he couldn’t afford to give.

It was time for him to leave…and he had nowhere to go.

The quiet keen that escaped his vocalizer was faint but audible in the hush of Trailbreaker’s quarters.

Before he could react, an arm was wrapped gently around his shoulder-strut, and he was pulled in close to the comforting warmth of another’s chassis.

“C’mere,” Trailbreaker said softly, releasing the keypad and guiding him over to the berth as the door slid shut again, urging Wheeljack to sit down beside him. An astrosecond later the startled inventor was drawn into a full embrace, a soothing hand rubbing his backstrut.

“It’s okay,” Trailbreaker murmured, “It’s gonna be okay.”

It was if a floodgate had been opened.

At first it was only a trickle - a few soft clicks and pops, a low plaintive whine - but the next thing Wheeljack knew, he was clinging to the larger mech and wailing like a lost sparkling, his vocalizer spitting out loud bursts of static and ragged, broken screeches of feedback, his vocal indicators flashing an uneven semaphore of misery and desolation.

All the while, Trailbreaker held him, murmuring meaningless reassurances and soothing nonsense, stroking his helm and backstruts comfortingly.

Wheeljack wasn’t sure how long they remained like that, how long his surrender into total dissolution lasted, but gradually the raging tide of emotional floodwaters calmed and began to recede.

He wasn’t sure how he ended up lying in the berth with Trailbreaker stretched out alongside him, his arms still wound loosely around his waist components - by then he was too drained and exhausted to question it.

His processor was powering down, his thoughts growing heavy and lethargic. Trailbreaker was a solid, soothing presence at his back, the assuaging warmth of his chassis, the faint vibration and familiar hum of his working systems lulling Wheeljack into a state of calm.

He slipped into recharge feeling safer than he had in cycles.


*Part 11 is here.*

Comments

[sister-dear.livejournal.com]

Words cannot express how much I love this story. <3

I'm glad Wheeljack finally got his chance to cry. Trailbreaker and Ratchet are probably going to have their share of trouble sleeping tonight, though.

[lemonflav-lopfe.livejournal.com]

Oh, man, I have no idea where this is going, and I love it! Your writing just drags me through all of Wheeljack's emotions, so I come out of it feeling just as drained and confused as he does. This is a terrible situation, and it just seems to be getting worse, but now that the dam has broken, maybe some things can start to be repaired.

I really feel for Ratchet; what you don't write about him means more than what you do. Wheeljack's his best friend, and long-time love interest. This has got to be ripping him apart as much as it is Wheeljack, because he has to see it all. And now... well, he's going to be not at all okay. Probably thinking of himself as worse than Starscream.

I'm glad that Wheeljack gets some of what he needs from Trailbreaker in this chapter. Boy, with what you put him through, he needs it!

[poptartodoom.livejournal.com]

Awww. While the thing with Ratchet is totally hot, Ratchet shouldn't have done that to him, not with how much of a mess Wheeljack is... Good to see you don't fall into the "healing sex" pitfall, though.

I love how he ends up just crying in Trailbreaker's arms. There are going to be a lot of mechs hurt by the end of this, but I hope they can work it out.

[animikii.livejournal.com]

First of all, since I'm just finding this now, comments on the whole fic:

Very, very realistic. It has a good flow, both plot-wise and emotion-wise; the angst is certainly there, but it isn't over done as it sometimes is in fics dealing with rape and the aftermath of it. Good progression of emotions within Wheeljack towards Bumblebee, shame turning into anger, which is common in real life.

Secondly, comments for this chapter:

YES. RATCHET. Wheeljack's utter trust and maybe overestimation of Ratch's self-control is... cute, somehow, but disarming, and that hot and fast flash of Ratchet/Wheeljack was PERFECT before everything fell apart, which was also well done. Trailbreaker ending up as a support was also nice to see. More soon, I hope!

[faremyr.livejournal.com]

*blinks*

Shit... this is totally realistic. Wow... well done, indeed, well done. I like your story and damn... it's a good one. *grin* Beautifully written. Well, gotta go!

[laratron.livejournal.com]

Gah! So very good. That was totally intense. I can't tell you how much I love this story. Can't wait to read more!

[anon-decepticon.livejournal.com]

Dear god, I want your icon. ROTFL!

[laratron.livejournal.com]

XD I love that one.

[vonderbarr.livejournal.com]

Wheeljack, I am sorry I instigated your rape. Wait, no. No, I'm not, because this story is awesome.

Oh Ratchet. So many boundary violations. It was really unfair to and of him to try to be Jack's therapist as well as his doctor, best friend, and love interest. It's going to take a long time to get that trust back.
Trailbreaker is so sweet. He's almost too good. Something tells me he was probably a little relieved to see that Jack has some serious flaws. I hope they're not headed for dysfunctional co-dependent relationshipville.

[conure-herder.livejournal.com]

... Ah

.... AHHHHH


AAAAAH! I HAVE TO WAIT FOR MORE!