Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's time, Starscream realizes. He's been fighting it for so long, but it's time, and there is nothing he can do to change that. 

Leaving was never really at the forefront of his priorities before, if he's being honest—it never occurred to him that the idea of leaving even existed, let alone that it would crop up and become the focus in his mind. To be frank, he never even really fully thought about what the future would look like—if he and Megatron would still be within grasp of each other, if love would still be any part of the equation, if any part of this was going to be salvaged. It’s a strange thing to think about, at some ungodly hour of the night, but it’s always at an ungodly hour of the night that these things occur to him. He thinks about these things all the time when it’s dark. He thinks about these things any time the loudness in his helm dies down and the quiet engulfs him. He thinks about these things whenever he finds his optics have landed on Megatron.

It isn't different tonight, at this ungodly hour, having somehow been awoken from dead sleep. He sits up in the rigid berth as soon as his optics online, slowly and carefully of course, soft rubber mattress squeaking ever so slightly beneath him as he does. 

He sleeps so quiet, Starscream can’t help but notice, as he listens to the vents of the stealth bomber quietly amp up as he takes in his breath. He isn't sure how he never noticed before. There is no booming snore or gradual rise in volume and pitch from his engines—it's even in sound, and in pace. He sleeps so quietly and he rests so still that Starscream is sure that if not for the occasional quirk of his dermae or the sound of his vents occasionally choking just slightly on the dry, dry air of Iacon, he would've assumed him offlined, an empty husk. And sometimes he wishes that were the case. Sometimes, he thinks about how easy it would be to make that happen. 

"I wish I could," he mumbles to himself, knowing full well he can—the small tin of liquid mercury is right downstairs, hidden in the cupboard. Or the old gladiator equipment in the little cubby in the closet could be of use. Starscream doesn't quite know how to use it, but he could certainly learn and watch the lifeblood seep into the mattress and on the floor. He could certainly learn, just to watch him die. "I wish you would."

But he knows how it would be in the morning when the light shines upon his crimes, the empty husk slack-jawed and rigid in that berth with the lifeblood everywhere. How much he would regret, because the newspark inside him demands safety and stability, and he can’t do that if he has killed its sire and gotten sent to prison. Because he knows what it will be like to clean it. Hide it. Slip into the cracks so no one sees what he's done. But above all because despite that searing hatred, when the morning comes, he will still somehow miss him. Or maybe he wouldn't. Starscream looks away, the moment he swears he sees a splatter of energon on the pillow.

Maybe I'm sick, he thinks, upon feeling the squeeze of his spark as he imagines what it would look like when he's done with Megatron's torture. But I don't care. 

He checks the time. He still has several joors to sleep but his processes just keep booting up. He stifles a groan so as not to wake the former miner, easing his stabilizers over the side of the berth and rising gracefully, giving a stretch, ignoring the slight yawp of his joints. He exits the room, and creeps down the stairs as quietly as he can manage, reaching the bottom without issue. He strides into the kitchen. He isn't sure why he defaults to the kitchen, but he does, and it doesn't matter much, because he is striding toward the big cabinet, where various types of fuel enhancers reside. 

He stares as soon as he opens it. Much of them are Tarnish in origin—used primarily to mask the taste of dust and soot and the bitter taste of the energon the miners used to ingest. He warily eyes the mercury tin as he contemplates whether it would be worth it to get it over with. He stares at it, thinking how easy it would be to simply dump the whole thing into a stew as it cooks and then watch as Megatron chokes and coughs and curses his name. 

He doesn’t grab the mercury, though. He stands there, thinking carefully of his next move, observing, attempting to decide whether this is worth it. Does Megatron deserve to be doted on? The answer: no. No, he does not. But will Starscream still do so, if only to preserve himself? Yes, because Starscream knows what will happen if he’s found out of bed, meandering on the lower level, and not securely tucked into the crook of Megatron’s arm, the way they’d gone to bed. He sighs, when he decides on what to do. In the cupboard, he grabs the fuel sweetener and unopened containers of crystal fruit juices and the tea bags—the one good thing about Iacon was their incredible tea blends—and all other things to make traditional Tarnish tea. Because it’s been cold and perhaps if Megatron can be put in a good mood, perhaps it will prevent another volatile incident. But the actions he takes don’t stop the intrusive thoughts, of course; they only intensify.  

It would be so easy, he tells himself, to take the very same knife that he carefully dissects the Polyhexian rutaceae fruits with and go up those stairs with the intention of driving it into his neck cables. It would be so simple, he thinks, to stop what he’s doing and take Megatron's old blaster hung up on the wall in the main room (for decoration or as a threat, Starscream isn't sure) and shoot him in the processor. But he still doesn't do it. He just combines the sweetener and the juices of the rutaceae fruits in the big pot he’d (somehow) gotten down from the tall cabinet. 

He doesn't even notice the feel or sound of the incoming comm as he thinks about Megatron's bloodied frame, Megatron's broken hands, Megatron cast into a ditch and forgotten about, the way he deserves, Megatron trapped like Starscream and left to struggle under someone's thumb digit until he breaks. He doesn't even realize he's accepted the comm until he is pouring hot liquid over the tea bags and the small bits of zeylanicum and syzygium, the entire kitchen filling with the smell of sweet spice, pleasant despite the given situation, and the femme's voice interrupts his concentration. 

"Is this Starscream? " She asks sweetly, just as Starscream was grabbing a small vial of powdered myristica, prompting him to drop it and send the powder everywhere. " Is everything alright?" 

"Primus fragging damn it—you scared me!" He snaps in a loud whisper, staring at what he'd dropped, only to grumble and drop to his knees. "Why are you comming me this early?" 

" It's been about an orbital cycle. Maybe a cycle and a half. I figured you forgot about the will." She says, prompting Starscream to pause as he reaches for the larger shards. " You still haven't come to see me about it." 

"I haven't been able to get away," he snaps quietly, unable to help himself. "I'm—" he stops, because he still can't seem to say it. He glances down. There is still no bulge from the developing protoform in his lower midsection. "—I'm busy." 

" That's okay. Perhaps you can come by today? I have an office right in Iacon—" Starscream strains his audials, trying to figure out whether Megatron has awoken yet. He doesn't seem to have. " It's by the senate building. And I happen to have an opening in the afternoon. " 

"I can't," Starscream grumbles, scooping the large shards of the vial into his servos, not caring in the slightest about the way they tore up his mesh and left him bleeding. "I really am very busy." 

" Ah, I understand, it's very short notice. " He can hear typing on the other end. " And I’m sure the grieving process has been quite difficult. You must have loved him very deeply. ” 

Starsream’s vents hitch as he knicks his digits on the fragments, breathing in a deep intake of breath, his processor all at once lagging at the images of Skyfire in his helm, what he must have looked like after whatever happened to him— helm caved and processor gone, limbs torn asunder, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding— what he must have felt— unbridled, unrivaled terror— and seen— the planet growing larger and closer and rapidly engulfing him— what he must’ve thought in those final moments. 

“Get to the point.” Starscream states plainly. “ What do you want?”  

“ The deadline to meet before the board of housing reclaims Skyfire’s things is quickly approaching. It would be in your best interest to come see me soon to claim them. ” She states gently, softly, and Starscream rises again to his pedes, dumping the shards into the trash with weeping servos. “ We have a couple decacycles, but better sooner than later. ” 

Starscream has to take a moment to breathe again, when he hears the berth upstairs, wings bristling at the noise, aching, almost. 

“...Fine. I need to look at my schedule, but I’ll comm you when I figure out a time I can go.” Starscream relents, speaking quickly because he can hear Megatron’s lumbering steps. “What exactly is so important that he left me?” Starscream whispers into the comm. 

“ Skyfire asked me to tell you personally in case anything ever happened, since I have all you’ll need to get in. ” The femme—didn’t she say her name was Beta?—speaks in a strange, gentle, almost carrier-esque tone of voice as she says this. Starscream furrows his optic ridges. 

“Get in? What does that—” he pauses, noting the direction of pedesteps upstairs. And then the smell of the warming liquids begins to strengthen. He freezes, for a fraction of a second at the sudden influx of stimuli. And then he’s moving again, he supposes, because he finds himself darting over to the steeping tea on the counter, ignoring the way his lifeblood spreads onto the floor in tiny little dots, like an abstract splatter painting. “Remember what I said!” Starscream growls, hanging up promptly as he pours the large pot of steeping tea slowly through a small strainer he had collected from one of the many little drawers of the kitchen into the pot of juices and sweetener. The pede steps descend the stairs quickly. 

“ What happened? ” Is the first thing Megatron asks as soon as he enters into the kitchen, groggy exhaustion clear on his faceplates. Starscream looks over, optics wide, like a deer in headlights.

“Nothing!” he answers quickly. Megatron’s optics drift to his servos. His chassis clenches. He strides quickly over, instinct reigning freely over his senses upon seeing the still angrily weeping cuts, untreated, hard at work, and as soon as he’s close enough, regardless of Starscream’s reaction, grabs them up. He ignores the protests as he softly, gently drags his glossa over the sites of damage, pressing sparing kisses against the surface. “ Unhand me! ” 

“I heard something shatter. What happened?” Megatron demands, voice low, all the gravel and rocks and soot of Tarn as he does, heaving a tired half-yawn-half-sigh. “Did you use your servos to pick up the pieces? Are you stupid ?” 

“I’m fine. ” Starscream groans, a deadly, lethal glare set squarely on his partner, who only grips his servos tighter. “I dropped a vial—I cleaned up the mess, what the frag do you want from me?” Megatron’s little bird argues, voice all anger and fear as clear as day, but Megatron doesn’t stop kissing those wounds, as instinctive coding demands. 

“Does that look clean to you?” Megatron points at the mess on the floor, powder and blood all over the floor. “I am going to patch your hands and you’re going to clean your mess, do you understand?” Megatron grumbles, releasing him delicately. 

“I-I was going to do that until you interrupted me—” the glare on Megatron’s face tells him he should stop talking. But he doesn’t. “Go back to bed.” 

“So you’re telling me what to do now?” Megatron’s tone of voice no longer sounds groggy but ragged and flat, still tired but certainly edged. 

“No!” Starscream huffs, watching as Megatron turns away abruptly. He returns with the first aid kit Starscream thought had been a secret. His hackles raise. “Where did you get that?” 

“Shut up.” Megatron shoves the seeker hard, a warning, but Starscream does not topple as he assumes he would’ve. And then he’s being shoved toward the dining room table. “Take a seat. This is your only warning.” 

“Okay, Sire, ” Starscream begins. Megatron clenches his fist tightly. “Oh, what, you’re going to hit me? Go ahead, do it.” 

“I said sit, Starscream!” Megatron snaps, shoving him into one of the seats at the table. “I said I wasn’t going to hit you anymore. Didn’t I? Now shut up and let me deal with your servos.” 

Vaguely, Starscream recalls that one conversation, several days prior—that his love, solemn and in a moment of somber sobriety, in a moment of vulnerability sat him down at that very same table and softly held his hand, and promised him to change. For the newspark. For their future. All Starscream actually remembers, to be real, is that he didn’t believe the words for a second. The sobriety is refreshing but, ultimately, doesn’t matter, because the words are so very empty. 

"Fine," he agrees, surrendering said servos. "I was just trying to make you some of that tea you like so much." 

Megatron doesn't pause as he disinfects the cuts, pressing against them if only to force the bleeding to stop quicker. But the slight tremble that enters into his digits as they work intrigues Starscream. 

"You were," he hums softly in acknowledgement. "What a surprise." 

"Oh, is it?" Starscream narrows his optics at him. "Is it really? " 

Megatron purposefully, painfully twists one of Starscream's digits, earning a startled gasp of pain. 

"I don't have the energy to yell at you," Megatron grumbles. "You aren't worth it, anyway." 

" Excuse me? " Starscream's voice raises. "I go out of my way to make you your stupid fragging tea, and you have the audacity to want to yell at me?" 

"You got up far too early, made a mess, and hurt yourself, all while carrying our sparkling. You need to rest and if you don't, I will be forced to tie you to our berth and keep you there until it emerges." Megatron snaps, deftly bandaging his servos to prevent the leaking. "Clean up, finish what you were doing, and come back to berth, we'll have tea later." 

"No," Starscream snaps against better judgement. "I was trying to do something nice for you!" 

"Every time you open your mouth, I wish to push you over the edge of a cliff," the Tarnish mech pulls away. "Fine. Stay up. But this kitchen better be clean when I come back down. Do you understand?" 

"Fine," Starscream huffs, ignoring the tremble of his frame as he eyes those still clenched fists. "J-just get out!" 

Megatron glares, pausing mid step to turn around and watch his little bird, his little bird that he would sometimes love nothing more than to pound into dirt, vents kicking on full force as he gears up to yell, but the words don't leave. He exhaled, turning and ascending the stairs again. As soon as he's gone, Starscream releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He rises again to his pedes, grudgingly of course, as he proceeds to clean the now contaminated fuel enhancer off the floor.  Of course he expedites the creation of the tea. But naturally he has to find another additive. And naturally, again, his optics drift to the small tin of mercury, his processor picks up speed at the many many ways he could give Megatron what he deserves. The mercury is too obvious, he decides—the taste is so very strong, the poison far too aggressive to ever potentially be ruled an accident. He strides back to that cupboard, delicately and quietly moving aside tins and cups and bowls and other containers of various fuel types and fuel enhancers. At the very back of the cupboard is another vial, so small that it's easy to miss and easy to forget. 

Not to Starscream, of course. The translucent purple petals in the vial never once were forgotten, from past experiments, work he brought home but hid, before he wanted to see Megatron suffer. 

"Atropa wolfram," he reads the label softly to himself. He looks at the tea. Then at the dark glassy petals. And an idea strikes him. He sets the vial on the counter, mind made up as he finishes cleaning the mess. Naturally, the tea is ready just before Megatron comes back to have tea. Naturally, Starscream prepares cups for himself and for his partner. Naturally he makes sure the vial is hidden. And naturally, when Megatron seats himself, still groggy but docile by now, he watches as he delicately blows the stream that billows from the tea's surface. He watches as Megatron takes the first sip. 

"Impressive," the Tarnish mech muses after the initial taste. "This is unexpectedly good." 

Starscream allows a smirk to cross his dermae, sipping his own tea. 

"I'm glad. You have been working so hard , and I figured you deserved a nice breakfast." He watches as Megatron, like a fool, allows the soft blue hue to creep onto his faceplates the way they did the first time Starscream ever told him how much he cared for him. "I hope you don't mind, I had to make a couple substitutions." 

"Not at all," Megatron answers, quiet and rumbling in approval. "It's close enough." 

Starscream still eyes him, setting his mug down as he watches Megatron drink in the concoction. He almost smiles for real as he starts to notice the condensation building on the surface of Megatron's mesh. He almost laughs when he sees him set the mug down, an unsettled look upon his faceplates. 

“What’s wrong?” Starscream asks, despite knowing damn well what the problem is. “You look unwell.” 

“What did you put in this tea?” Megatron grumbles, and Starscream’s optics flicker ever so slightly from his face to his vents, which have exploded to life, not so much heaving as working just slightly harder. 

“Oh, nothing special. Some Vosian spices I forgot we had—closest thing to myristica was Vosian zingiber, which I forgot we had. Why?” He innocently inquires, and Megatron does not speak. His cheekplates grow bluer, optics unfocused, the central visual sensor dilated. 

“Perhaps the plague is back,” he says, still quiet but nonsensical by now. Starscream clicks his glossa, still watching him, because it’s always intriguing to watch the effects take place. Amazing that they use such a thing in medicine—given even just the smallest bit of the petal can produce results like this in a mech of Megatron’s size. “I don’t—” The Tarnish mech grips the table suddenly, shifting it unintentionally. Starscream takes one more sip of his tea before rising from his seat. 

“Poor thing. You’re so overworked you must’ve gotten sick.” Starscream tuts, gently easing his lover to his feet. “Let me help you back to berth. I’ll take care of you.” 

The former miner gurgles and groans, as if he is on the edge of purging. It’s a bit awkward getting him up the stairs again, but Starscream does it, and to his surprise, he doesn’t even have to do anything aside from lay him down on his side in the berth before Megatron is out cold, no more sound. Starscream is almost positive he must’ve offline him—unintentionally, this time—until he hears his fans kick on, his vents working overtime as his firewalls begin to work. It’s nice. It’s nice now that the house is quiet, no wondering when he’ll wake—he remains passed out when Starscream leaves, no sound even when the seeker is downstairs cleaning up and treating himself to a second helping of uncontaminated tea. 

Maybe it isn’t the smartest thing, he tells himself. Not the smartest or most well thought out but—it happened, and no one is really hurt by it. Megatron is sure to be better by morning—after all, the little bit that he put in his cup of tea was less than an eighth of what’s considered lethal. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine. And doesn’t Starscream deserve a moment of peace, of rest, of contemplation? After all he has to deal with? 

He contemplates calling back that femme and going right this second. He contemplates all of the things he could do now that Megatron is stuck in berth again. And…he can’t think of a single thing. He wracks his processor and—nothing. He’s read every scientific magazine they had, every scientific book he kept from his days in the science center. There are no experiments to perform—the house isn’t equipped for it and no material to perform any with anyway—and no particular places to go. Skyfire is gone, so it isn’t like he can go on an expedition—and he probably can’t set foot back into that science center, given his lack of a license—Skyfire is gone—though not completely, science has lost its allure—Skyfire is gone—it’s been so unbelievably lonely since Megatron has entered his life—Skyfire’s gone—Prowl probably hates him too much to even deign to speak to him—

Oh. Prowl. 

Starscream almost hadn’t noticed the tautness of their familial bond, had Prowl’s name not crossed his mind. He takes a breath. An orbital cycle and a half and Starscream still hasn’t spoken to him after that night. He makes a face. Is it worth it to shoot him a text, now that Megatron is no longer—for the time being—breathing down his neck cables? 

Well, it’s not even a question, because he’s already done it. 

‘ You feel tense .’ Isn’t much of a conversation starter, but it’s something, straight to the point, just the way his cousin always liked. He doesn’t say anything else, though just to drive his point in, he nudges Prowl through the bond, because honestly, when Starscream is bored, it becomes everyone else’s problem. Surprisingly, Prowl responds quickly. 

‘ I feel fine. ’ he says, as if that’s an answer that Starscream will believe. He scoffs, immediately tapping out a response. 

‘ Liar. ’ Starscream says first. ‘ You can lie to whoever you want but it won’t work on me. ’ Is the quick addition, because even though Prowl can now rival him in lying propensity, the one bot he can’t lie to is the seeker he calls his cousin.

‘ What do you want? ’ Prowl fires back. And it’s such an odd, interesting question, because Starscream isn’t sure he wanted anything to begin with. He pauses to think, because there is something he wants, needs, would die for, but is it something his cousin can do for him? He hesitates to even type for a fraction of a klik. But then he’s typing again, anyway. 

‘ You’re an enforcer now, right? In Iacon? ’ He asks, because he can’t imagine the board of science would be of any help— they sent him away to his death —and because he can’t imagine he can be of any help either— I pushed him away —and he can’t imagine it will get any better without intervention.

‘ Yes. Are you alright? ’ Prowl asks, as if that’s a question. Starscream stares at the screen, chewing his lower derma. He knows he can’t avoid last orbital cycle’s dilemma. 

' Look, we need to talk. I want to see you.’ He says before he can think. ‘ Something horrible happened. ’ his digits tremble as he continues to type, but this time, there is no misspelling, because though the desperation remains, it is not so concentrated. ‘ It’s been an awful orbital cycle. ’ And then he has to pause to gather himself again, upon thinking about the day he had asked to see Prowl. How Megatron might tell him no one would believe him, should he ever threaten to tell about what happened. Because who other than Skyfire would hear a word he had to say? Only one mech. And that mech probably hates him. ‘ Comm me as soon as possible. ’

‘ I’ll comm you during my lunch break. In about three joors. ’ Is the response he receives, as straight and to the point as can be possible for the enforcer. Starscream glances up at the clock on the kitchen wall. Three joors isn’t too long, he decides. He’s spent longer in the silence. He’s spent longer wondering how and why his life ended up like this. It isn’t a big deal, he tells himself. He listens closely for any activity upstairs. Not a peep for those three joors. And when they finally pass, naturally, the moment he receives the notification of the comm, he answers.

“Prowl.” he says, voice unintentionally shaky, tone strange even to himself . “It’s been a long time. ”

“ Yes, ” is the awkward reply, riddled with concern and a tremble the seeker can’t place. His hackles raise as he finally rises from the kitchen table, where he had decided to settle in with another of the old romance novels he’d read a thousand times over. “ Are you alright? ” Prowl inquires, for he surely must hear the clicking of Starscream’s pedes. For some reason, the seeker can’t make sound exit his intake. He takes in another breath. “ I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ ” 

“This past orbital cycle-and-a-half has been unbelievably awful. ” The Vosian admits, unable to stop himself from pacing in circles through the kitchen and into the main living area, where that old blaster hangs. “Tell me, Prowl, what is it you do for the enforcers?”

“ Excuse me? ” The tone of voice stings some, but Starscream frankly doesn’t care. “ You don’t know what I do? ” 

“If you haven’t realized already, Prowl, we haven't spoken in a while. I'm not gonna know what exactly you're doing. So just tell me.” Starscream answers, unable to help the waterfall of emotion that threatens to spill out without reprieve. 

“ Mainly, I’m in charge of leading sting operations. But today I'm covering for the mech who usually works on the missing person's cases. ” 

Starscream falls entirely silent, then, not trusting his vocalizer to function. 

“I have a favor to ask you.” He whispers, listening closely for Megatron. 

“ I won’t bend the law for you, if that’s what you’re going to ask. ” The Praxian grumbles, prompting the seeker to scoff. 

“It’s not that, you oaf. It’s about Skyfire. He’s missing. And since you’re in charge of the missing person’s cases, I want you to bump his case to first priority.” 

" Missing? " He echoes quietly, and Starscream can hear him doing— something on the other end. What it is surely doesn’t matter. Starscream pauses mid-circle, the world all static beyond this call, because how can anything make sense now, when everything else is falling apart? " Oh. " 

"Oh? That's it? My best friend goes missing and all you have to say is 'oh'? " Starscream snaps, just barely able to control the pitch and the volume of his voice, confining it to a low octave, all growls and rage just barely masked. "Get him back for me!" 

" Starscream, it isn't that simple. I'll need to talk to Perceptor first to get more details. " And this statement only makes it worse. Starscream resumes pacing, ignoring any and every sound that threatens to interrupt this Very Important Conversation. What a load of bullslag, he wants to say. What a rotten excuse it is, that nothing can be done—that nothing has been done because no one has spoken to his old boss yet. He squeezes the bridge of his olfactory sensor. " Star— "

"They told me he's dead. I won't believe it. If you need someone to search for him, then I'm right here— " 

" Starscream, listen to me . You can't panic right now. " 

" Who's panicking!?" Starscream practically howls into his end of the commlink connection, voice spiraling, cracking more, and Starscream knows he has to reel it in before he wakes that lumbering oaf, before he’s found like this, before the secret gets out and he faces a bigger punishment. He takes another shuddering breath.  

“ Evidently you. Please, Star. ” And Starscream knows, logically, he should listen—for a multitude of reasons, calm and serenity are key to surviving this, all of this, the rock and the hard place he’s stuck between and the loss and the hopeless feeling eating him alive. But he doesn’t. The panic can’t just go away, and he wishes he can say that. “I’m sorry.” He hates the way Prowl’s voice drops, because this is not the be careful voice drop, this is the there’s nothing I can do for you voice drop, the you can’t fix a dead mech voice drop, the I can’t save you voice drop. “I know this must be difficult for you.” 

“Find him.” He demands anyway, frenzied and still listening for pede steps. They never come during the call. “I need this, Prowl. He’s not dead. I won’t believe it. I won’t! If I have to leave Cybertron myself to find him because you dundering fools refused to look, then I will! And I’ll do a better job finding him than any of you ever could!”

“ I need you to calm down, ” Prowl snaps back, all the rigidity and force of Praxus in his voice and none of the soft singing crystals that Starscream can hear if he listens just right . “ Please. ” 

Starscream contemplates hanging up. He contemplates it for a good long while in the silence that builds between them. 

“ We're doing all that we can. " Prowl says. " I have to send this case to the search team and work with them to find him. Since he's offworld, it's going to be a long time before we can recover him. " 

"Prowl." The seeker can’t stop the storm that wants to burst forth in his words. He fights the tears that want to roll down his cheekplates. "He isn't dead. Tell me he isn't dead!" 

Prowl says nothing to that. And maybe it’s for the best. 

" Listen to me. I can't promise you anything, " And the words sting worse than even the strongest acid, it stings worse than the biting cold and unforgiving winds. He chokes back a frustrated sob, because Skyfire deserves better than to be made to wait like this—if he’s gone he deserves a good service—a nice memoriam—a meaningful sendoff to the Allspark even though his spark breaks at the prospect of throwing his lifeless form over the edge of Vos, if only to watch him turn back into stardust. " ...I want to see you again. " 

"So now you want to see me?" Starscream tries not to shout at his cousin, despite the overwhelming urge to do so. "Why?" 

" Why do you think? " Prowl retorts, and Starscream instantly is brought back to that night, that night he shut himself in the washroom to cry like a pathetic little wet cybercat and beg for help. " There's a café downtown I think you'd enjoy. I wanna meet you there. Whenever you're free to do so. " 

"...Fine. Send me the address. I'll sneak out the day after tomorrow. " He lets that last bit slip unintentionally from his intake—but he’s sure Prowl won’t comment on it. In a moment, he receives a text with the coordinates, a date, and a time. 

" You have a lot of explaining to do. " Starscream prickles at the words, the soft way they’re said, the very un-Prowl essence in every word, because none of Prowl is that soft. " I'll pay— "

And then there’s a voice just off comm that Starscream hears, unfamiliar and strange in tone and in manner, so strange that it makes Starscream’s tanks turn, again.

" Contact me again if you can think of any details I should know about your friend. " Is the stilted final statement Prowl gives before he cuts off from the comm. It’s so abrupt and strange and unsettling that it leaves Starscream staring into space as he allows it to sink in. He disconnects his frequency fully from comm mode. 

“What the frag was that?” he asks himself quietly. It’s only then that he hears something upstairs. He sighs. So the poison is starting to wear off. No matter, he says to himself as he ascends the stairs. 

He can always apply another dosage.

—

When the day comes, Starscream makes extra sure that Megatron remains confined to the berth. 

“You’re still so ill,” he tells Megatron just before he is to leave for the cafe. “Don’t you move a digit, dear, I’ll take care of it all.”

“The plague—” he groans, vocalizer crackling with static, optics still unfocused, central visual sensor dilated almost all the way. Starscream tuts, dabbing the top of his helm with a cool cloth, if only to help lower the fever. “I fear it may take me, little bird.” 

“Don’t you worry your pretty little helm,” Starscream gives a convincing enough comforting kiss to the cheek. “I won’t allow it to take you,” Because it would be no fun if you went so quickly and with such little pain. “Here. I prepared a soup for you. It will at least numb the pain.” 

“You are so good to me,” Megatron mumbles, voice slurred as Starscream attempts to help him ingest the tainted soup he’d prepared, laced of course with more atropa wolfram. It’s almost sad, Starscream reckons, that it’s the kind statements like this that make him think the war frame desperately needs a doctor. He chokes, as soon as the soup is gone, filling his tanks. His entire body burns, the condensation worse, fans kicking on. He swears he sees Starscream smile at him. “ Starscream…! ” 

“Shh,” his little bird soothes him. “Rest. You’ll need it. I’m going to see what we have for medicine. If I can’t find anything, I’m going to go get something for you. Do you understand? ” 

The response is nothing more than a choked back gurgle. It doesn’t take long for him to pass out again. With pride, Starscream collects the empty soup bowl, and eases himself up and out of the room, almost crazed. It’s sick, he reminds himself, how the only way to feel liberated is in these actions, in these moments. But he doesn’t feel bad. He won’t let himself feel bad. Not in the slightest. And this dose is stronger, anyway—delivered before it’s supposed to wear off. Certainly Megatron will stay out for longer today. Meaning…

“ Aha! I knew he was hiding credits from me! Lying slag—” he huffs to himself as soon as he sees the bills sitting in a neat pile in Megatron’s liquor cabinet, never to be opened by Starscream’s own servos. All those times Megatron told him they couldn’t afford the small, meager little things Starscream had wanted in the past suddenly make sense. “So this is what it goes to. Not anymore, it doesn’t.” 

In the subspace the credits go. And out the door Starscream goes, because naturally, there is no medicine. There is no treatment for the atropa poisoning. Megatron isn’t worth it, anyway. Suffice to say, he doesn’t go to a pharmacy. Nor a doctor. He goes downtown, to that nice little cafe, where he is promptly seated in the outdoor section, and where he orders for the both of them, forking over a decently cheap ten and a half credits. With it all said and done, he sits, and he waits. And waits. And waits, until several kliks later—approximately fifteen kliks later—Prowl arrives. He looks—different. A strange different that Starscream can’t put his digit on. He transforms promptly, and approaches. 

"Starscream?" is the first thing Prowl says to him. "What happened—?" 

"Sit." Starscream orders, staring him down, and obediently, Prowl obeys. Just like when they were young. "Huh. Still more of a follower than a leader, I see." 

"Enough, Starscream." His cousin answers, uncharacteristically soft spoken, staring him down just as hard and just as challenging as Starscream had been. "I didn't keep you waiting long, did I?" 

"No, but I already ordered for us." The seeker crosses a leg over the other, unimpressed at the strangeness of Prowl’s new behavior—something is wrong, his systems tell him—something isn’t right, Prowl isn’t Prowl anymore, be worried, ask, ask, ask. "The fuel here better be as good as you hyped it up to be." 

"It is," Prowl somehow seems caught off guard. He can’t quite imagine why. "Starscream, you look—” the Praxian pauses to find the right word. The seeker glares. “—Good.” 

“Oh, do I? Certainly don’t feel good.” 

“Well, all things considered, I don’t think I can blame you.” His cousin pauses, again, and Starscream is sure he can see the gears turning in his helm. “I’m sorry. About Sky—” 

There it is. Starscream chews his lower dermae, holding a hand up, focusing squarely on the small patterns in the table, in every attempt to far divorce himself from the thoughts of Skyfire and his last moments, and from the things he says to him, even knowing that he is no longer here to hear it. The ‘I’m sorry’s and the ‘I miss you’s all whispered under dying breath in the night still whisper in the back of his helm. And he’s sure it’s clear as day on his faceplates. 

“Spare me the condolences. I’m not one of those sensitive glitches that needs their hand held through the grief. I can manage on my own about it.” And maybe this is a lie, a cruel untruth, but it is still comforting. He isn’t sensitive. He’s strong. He can survive. Can’t he? “I’ll find him, anyway. Regardless. But I’m assuming that’s not why you wanted to see me.” 

“You asked first, a little while ago. But it just wasn’t a good time.” Prowl begins, servos folded neatly on the table, and he takes in a breath as if he wants to speak again, only to remain silent, and it’s this moment that Starscream sees undeniable, unmistakable changes in him. His own face falls. His wings raise. The profound slip of the mask is unmistakable. The haunting is real. 

“Prowl?” Starscream only has to call his name once to get his attention again. “You trailed off.” 

“Oh. Right.” He sputters, voice nothing more than a mumble. “There were a lot of reasons I wanted to see you. Mostly the Skyfire situation.” Starscream can’t help but notice the slow-down of Prowl’s speaking, nothing like his normal pace, as if he simply can’t believe he is here right now. "How are you holding up?" 

"Fine." The seeker grumbles. "Don't I seem fine?" 

"Well," Prowl can't help the scowl that begins to crawl onto his own faceplates. "Given your dents—" 

Starscream wishes he could shut Prowl up over that, for once, but he finds he doesn't need to. The server returns with what Starscream ordered for the pair—tea and alloy trinity cream for himself and coffee and donuts—the jelly ones, with barium sprinkles on top—for Prowl. He continues to give him an unimpressed look, and as soon as the server leaves, he speaks again.

"Oh. So you're curious about that. That's why you wanted to meet." The Vosian tries, very very hard to get comfortable in his seat, picking up his spoon to dip in the silvery looking pudding before him, and for a moment, he isn't particularly sure if he can eat it at all, because the taste of his purges still remain on his glossa, even when he hasn't done so in a long time. "Do you remember when I texted you about Megatron?" 

"Yes." Prowl's voice is neutral when he says this, neutral and blank as if a challenge, and Starscream can't help but feel his mesh crawl at it.

"I didn't lie, you know." He dips his spoon into his dessert as he says this, and delicately takes his first bite, never once acknowledging the way his beloved cousin looks at him.

"I never said you did." And that has to be a lie, Starscream thinks to himself, because he didn't say he lied, but the way he spoke, the way he looked at him was geared toward thar believe, that wrong opinion that Starscream was lying. "Is that part of why you asked if I was an officer?" 

" No. It was always Skyfire." Starscream snaps. "It was a moment of weakness when I told you about Megajerk." 

"Right. A moment of weakness." The seeker watches Prowl, for a moment, upon realizing he wasn't looking at him, at all—he was staring at those donuts. "Starscream, has he—" Prowl pauses. "Is he still doing that to you?" 

"Why do you care?" Is a simple question. It's a simple question that comes out too quick and Starscream can't help but regret it as soon as he sees the slight shift in his face, optics softened just slightly, dermae downturned, so, so very subtle that Starscream is sure no one else would notice aside from him. 

"Are you serious?" The Vosian can hear the audible click of doorwings hitting a block. "Why wouldn't I?" 

Starscream sets his spoon down, for a moment, just the way carrier taught him to do when he is planning on sipping his beverage. He picks up his cup, holding it between his servos, leaning in to watch his dear cousin, because he must watch while he attempts damage control. Because watching tells him when the hurt has stopped and Prowl is back to being Prowl—but why does this feel so permanent, so doomed, something Prowl can't shake even if he tries? Why does this feel like a problem Starscream can't fix?

"I thought you liked those." Starscream points out, as soon as he realizes neither the coffee nor the donuts have been touched at all. Prowl's face changes again into confusion. "The donuts. Last time I saw you, you said these were your favorite." 

"Oh," his younger cousin simply says, blinking at him as if coming out of some kind of stupor. The F-15 Eagle squints at him in suspicion. "You remembered." 

"Yeah. So eat them." he takes a sparing sip yet again from his mug to punctuate the order, watching as Prowl, hesitantly picks up a confection with a (very obviously) trembling servo.

"Why wouldn't I care?" Prowl presses again about the issue, voice still low, still somehow not biting into his treat, though the older of the two can see he wants to, just by the quiver of his dermae. "It wasn't a good time. I had things going on." 

Starscream continues to watch him suspiciously. There are a great many things that he's sure have kept Prowl busy—after all, the work of an enforcer isn't simple, he's sure, and given Prowl's particular subset of skills—coupled of course with that tacnet of his—his cousin must be such a highly sought after officer. He must be swimming in cases. And beyond that, surely, he must have met someone, if he hasn't left Barricade. Starscream is sure he would be so very popular—oh. His optics land on the distinct pendant upon Prowl's chassis, shaped like a holy symbol of Primus. 

"You're promised to someone. Barricade, still?" He can't help but gasp, because Prowl has not mentioned Barricade in a while. And come to think of it, Starscream isn't sure he can say he even knows much about him—only that he is an enforcer from Kaon, and he and Prowl have been together for a while, and he's brash and assertive and Starscream never quite liked him. But here Prowl is, haunted and quieter than usual, a pendant of engagement upon his chassis. Starscream's wings flare harder the more Starscream realizes the amount of red flags in this interaction alone, despite the look on his face being that of annoyance. 

"Yes," Prowl answers, sounding neither happy nor excited. "But I'm not interested in talking about him. I want to know about Megatron." 

"I'm not interested in talking about Megatron." Starscream growls, picking his spoon up again. "I've had enough of him." 

And now Prowl is looking at his donuts again, blank faced, that trace if sadness clear in his optics.

"You know I'm here for you. Right?" Prowl says, bold and more like himself than Starscream has heard yet. "Always." 

Perhaps it's the change in coding, from carrying. But Starscream fights the urge to become teary eyed at the statement, because it's moments like this he's missed—a nice, calm outing with his cousin, with the only bot to ever be able to figure him out. It's moments like these he's rejected because Megatron has decided any moment like this is a threat, any moment with another mech is a risk, even if that other mech is just family. He eyes him, optics only slightly wet, because—well, when are they not, these days? He softly, gently reaches out, cupping his cousin's cheek gently, because in this moment, he looks just like when they were young, just like the days Starscream could hear the horrid, vile things often said to his dear little cousin. All of the " stop being so sensitive "s, the use of the word halfbreed as if Prowl was so bad just for being alive. Yet Prowl is the one stating that he is here for Starscream?

"I know." Is all the seeker can say in response, barely masking the tremble of his voice, hoping it isn't noticeable as he gently brushes his thumb digit across the high ridge of Prowl's cheekplate. "Don't worry." 

"That's not comforting." Is his cousin's response, logical as always. The seeker gives an overexaggerated pout, carefully calculating the amount of force needed to lightly smack the Praxian's faceplate, the gentle way, the way he did to garner his attention when they were young. He delivers said smack expertly—only for Prowl to jerk away in a hard flinch, prompting Starscream also to jerk away, spark swelling, shaking, alarm and feral confusion clear in his optics. "What was that for?" 

"I used to do that to you when you'd stare too long at lights. Did you just—flinch?" 

"Don't do that." Prowl speaks quickly. Starscream furrows his optic ridges, unable to help the suspicious squint that returns to his optics.  "Please." 

"You flinched. " Starscream's voice drops an octave or two or five upon realizing that this is not in his helm and his dear cousin really flinched, that flicker of fear in his optics is real and alive and, logically, Starscream is sure he knows who did it, who forced this change, and the thought makes his spark swell again with rage . "You're not supposed to flinch." 

"No," Prowl agrees, never changing, that fear still there, tucked away in the littlest corners, visible only if you know what to look for. He finally eats his donut, but it only worsens Starscream's souring spark. "I'm not." 

"Why did you?" Should be a simple question. But Prowl doesn't answer. He just continues to eat his confections, avoiding his gaze. Forgetting about his dessert, Starscream leans in again, a frown clear on his face as he repeats; " Why did you flinch? " 

"It’s—" The datsun sputters, door wings still hitting that block with audible clicks as they attempt to lower. He doesn't shrink down or get smaller the more that fear becomes apparent though. That's the funny thing about Prowl, Starscream thinks. He only becomes more threatening when he's afraid. "Why did you contact me that day a month and a half ago?" 

A realization dawns on Starscream, the cataclysm of his understanding of this entire situation raining down. He takes in a breath, upon realizing—unsurprisingly—that he's right. He's right and he hates that he's right and he hates that so very small look on his face, that everything is fine look, that don't worry about me look, that look that says he believes he deserves it—believes he's as bad as everyone said he is—believes he can't leave, shouldn't leave, isn't allowed to leave. Starscream's mug shatters in his servo, but neither seem to notice in the slightest. 

"You too?" He asks softly, and he watches Prowl's face as it drops, as his vents kick on rabidly for breath, only to stop right up. Starscream can't fight the feelings that bleed until his voice—he can't even name them himself. Sorrow? Anger? Betrayal? The feeling of having failed? " Is it Barricade? " he asks, practically a whisper, optics wide. 

"No," Prowl says, "He would never." 

But that's exactly what Starscream used to say. He lets go of the broken mug pieces, ignoring the stinging feel of the cuts and the old bandages from two days prior rubbing against them antagonistically. 

"Prowl, you're a horrible liar.” The seeker manages through the panic threatening to settle in, because how could he ever have let this happen to Prowl? “He does. Doesn't he?” 

“I’m not the one sitting here looking dented to hell, Star.” Prowl says with a full mouth, all spite and challenge, by Starscream doesn't back down, because he is not known for his ability to know when to stop. “...He's only done it once. He said it won't happen again. Everything is fine.” 

“Oh, is that right? ” Starscream suddenly remembers he has not touched his dessert, spooning another bit into his intake, if only to avoid a public screaming match, and be arrested for public disturbance—because Prowl said he wouldn't bend the law for him, and he is not interested in going to jail. “Everything's fine? You wouldn’t even eat your little treats until I pushed—” 

“ What do you want from me? ” Prowl snarls at him, teetering on the edge of snapping, so very cold and dark and threatening that Starscream can't help but shudder upon hearing it. The seeker looks at his food again, because he can't stand to see that look in his optics anymore. “What do you want me to tell you?” 

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But if he does—” 

“I know. Tell you. Or someone. My coworker Hound told me the same thing.” There is a bitter edge to Prowl’s small voice, bitter and uncertain, all the gravel of the crime underbelly that Starscream is sure he deals with on the daily. The seeker warily spoons another bit of his trinity cream into his intake, sweet caesium and savory iron the only comfort he can feasibly find in a moment like this—and in a moment like this, he can’t help but drink in the little details. Prowl’s tired optics, trembling servos, face covered in crumbs and arsenic powder, the feeling of lost and never found clear in his field and in his body language, and Starscream wishes he didn’t care so much. Because if he didn’t care so much, then he could feasibly return to his little life, to his little vial and the little moments when the poison does the work for him. But the fact is, he does care. He does care and he can’t stop looking at him like this.

“You can tell me.” he begins. “You better tell me. I’d kill any mech who hurt you,” he snarls, but Prowl is staring off into space, like he used to do, and Starscream remains to be Starscream, watching that solemn look deepen into what Starscream knew to be hopelessness. “I mean it,” he adds, because it’s true, but Prowl’s attention still hasn’t been turned back to him. He shakily sighs, disbelief flooding his systems. And then Starscream is thinking again, his first mistake, thinking, thinking, thinking, about so many things—too many things. “I do.”

The femme said they only had a couple decacycles left, yet Starscream still hasn’t called. Beta—if that’s her name—still hasn’t told him what, all, lies in wait—and sometimes he wishes she would just tell him over comms. Sometimes he wishes there was nothing for him to receive. Sometimes he thinks about what it would be like for Skyfire’s things just to be reclaimed, redistributed, never to be seen again—but the thought sends his spark careening again. Because how could he ever hope to see the last traces of his best friend be sent off to those who can never appreciate it like he can? And then suddenly he finds himself speaking again. He doesn’t even realize Prowl isn’t participating in the conversation anymore.

“I couldn’t do it for Skyfire.” he admits, quietly. “Who the frag could I blame for that? Perceptor? The board? The damn weather? Who the frag would pay for what happened to him?” he grips his spoon tightly, staring into what’s left of his dessert. “Everyone should be looking for him. Maybe no one else thinks he’s important, but Primus damn it, he’s important to me. Doesn’t that mean anything? Doesn’t it mean anything at all?” 

He thinks about their last interactions. He can’t bring himself to look at the texts. He can’t bring himself to say it aloud that he said what he said—that he sealed his fate—that it’s his fault, because he’s sure that had he gone with him, he could’ve prevented it. But he’s here. He’s here and he doesn’t have his best friend anymore, and there’s nothing anyone can do. He would cry, if he had tears left to shed. He would cry so many times more than he has, but there is nothing left but his very spark to cry out.

“You know Skyfire had a will?” Starscream finds himself saying, a mere grumble. “A will. Of all things. He wasn’t planning on dying, I—” The seeker finds he has to put his spoon down to hold his helm, abate the urge to scream in frustration—because why would Skyfire have a will, if he wasn’t planning on dying? Did Skyfire dislike life that much? “ Tell me he wasn’t planning on dying. ” 

“I can’t tell you that with certainty, Starscream.” The answer does nothing to satisfy him. The F-15 Eagle can’t stop himself from glaring daggers at him. “Anything can go wrong off-world. I’m sure he was just preparing.” 

“I know that. I used to lead him. I used to fix all the problems that came up. This was his first expedition on his own, and that idiot— ” Starscream takes a shaky breath, thinking about the roar of the wind, what it must have felt like to see a world coming fast at him, what it must have felt like to know that the will was necessary after all. “He left me something.” 

“He did?” His cousin inquires. “What did he leave you?” 

“I have no idea. Some femme commed me to tell me that was the case and to meet with her to discuss it. Right after I was told he was gone, mind you. I still have to comm her back. A bit difficult with Megatron always on my aft.” 

“Starscream,” To the seeker’s surprise, Prowl looks at him again, with a real live look in his still tired optics, gripping his mug again as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “You don’t have to stay with him.”

“I don’t.” Starscream quickly states, because it’s true, and it seems only Prowl can get him to tell the truth about that. “And I don’t want to.” 

“Then leave him. Run away if you have to. I’ll be waiting for you whenever you do. Listen, I know you care about him—” 

“No.” Starscream snaps, because he can’t say he does—he won’t say he does—he refuses to even believe that any part of him loved him enough for the newspark to form. But he says none of this, because he would rather Prowl not know—perhaps he’ll never tell him, until it emerges. He barely registers the servo on his shoulderplating. “He’s an aft and I am three kliks away from trying to poison him the next time he tries some slag.” As if he is not sitting at home, poisoned already—but next time he may not be so lucky.

“If you need help leaving—” 

“Comm you.” Starscream attempts to sip his beverage, only to remember it’s shattered in his servo. No matter. “You better do the same. Because I don’t care about a bit of jailtime if Barricade tries anything, too.” It’s with that that he finally finishes his dessert, neatly placing his spoon down in the dish, and once again brushing the broken pieces of his cup into his hands and into the bowl. “I’m leaving.” He announces, when he realizes it’s probably about time to head back, standing up from his seat. “I have to get back before Megatron does and comm that femme.” 

“Right.” Prowl appears reluctant to let him go, rising to his own pedes as well.  “Promise me you’ll leave him.” 

“I promise,” Starscream puts on the brave face again, all bravado and all feral arrogance in every word. “I’ll be dead before I promise myself to him.” He watches as Prowl reaches for his credits, only to hold up a servo. "I paid with Megatron's high-grade money." 

"You didn't have to do that—" The attempted argument comes out only half hearted, meek, nothing like regular Prowl once again. "Starscream, I said I would—"

"And I'm saying I paid. Comm me when you get back to work." The F-15 Eagle hesitates, but he steps closer, wings low, spark singing, crooning, whispering comforting things through the familial bond as he awkwardly wraps his arms around Prowl. It doesn’t take long for Prowl to embrace back. "And keep me updated." 

"Okay." The Praxian softly says, servos drifting over Starscream’s frame, eliciting grimaces of pain every now and again—but Starscream doesn’t dare let it through. Not all the way. "I'll comm you. Fly safe." 

With a nod, Starscream pulls away, exiting the way he came in, never looking back because why bother doing so? When does looking back ever help anyway? He transforms and flies out, ignoring the strange twinge in his fuel tank like something is wrong, that feeling like something Awful Bad is going to happen soon, like the whole world is gonna crash and burn around him. He flies toward his destiny, regardless. Whatever it may be.

—

Starscream doesn’t intend for the poisoning to become routine, but that’s exactly what happens over time, and somehow, the secret remains well kept. 

It's not a bad thing, exactly, he thinks. He at least lets him recover in the end, anyway—so it isn’t all that bad. It isn’t all that bad if, when he has every opportunity, desire, and—the way he sees it—the right to let him wither and die and slip into the underworld where he belongs, he doesn't allow it to happen. He doesn't allow the Tarnish mech to encounter Unicron’s “tide of judgment to withstand and withhold for the great many wrongs that are inescapable in life and in death”—Starscream always thought that was such a loaded line in all of Megatron’s work—and so there is nothing wrong with a little bit of payback. It's a nice break, anyway. A nice break to wait for Prowl to call.

Prowl doesn’t call, though. He doesn’t call for days, despite Starscream’s order—and the seeker would be angrier, had he not secured the date and time for that very important meeting with that very important femme. He doesn’t expect the call to come when he is waiting in the lobby of that nice building. But it does. The comm comes, and immediately, Starscream can feel the panic in the familial bond. In fact he can feel the panic infect him, all fire and fury and real, live, true concern when Prowl speaks. When his voice is so very small, and when those words exit his intake— something is wrong, and I—I can’t remember. He listens, tries to help, because that’s what a good cousin does. 

“Listen to me very closely,” Starscream says, attempting to corral Prowl into doing so, but the Praxian takes a shuddering breath, as if he can’t even bring himself to breathe properly. “Is Barricade home?” 

“ I don’t— ” he tries to speak, but the comm crackles. “ I don’t know. ” 

“Okay.” Starscream trembles, as well, hoping to hope that what he thinks happen didn’t. That Prowl is okay and just panicking over some argument. “If he’s home, just act like you normally would. Acting like a coward will probably just make him hurt you again.” he states, matter of factly, detaching all feeling because when does feeling save you? When does anything other than hard facts and real action work? He hears Prowl retch. His systems flood with concern. “No puking yet, Mr. Everything-is-fine. You need to keep it together.” he snaps, because he thinks back to those early days, those early days when Megatron left him curled on the floor, calling his carrier—his carrier who should have helped him—his carrier who should’ve cared—only to be told to keep it together. Endure. Live the life he signed up for. 

“ Oh, like you , Mr. Who’s-Panicking?” His cousin snaps back, like a soft-spoken firecracker freshly come to life. Starscream’s wings flare in irritation, servos finding their way to his hipplates. He doesn’t even notice the big door open, nor does he hear the pede steps behind him. 

“You dare—!? ” he is startled when he hears a delicate, awkward throat clear behind him, and turns toward it, toward a femme of unknown make—clearly neither a sea frame nor a flight frame—who eyes him quietly, a serene look about her weathered face. He hesitates. “I have to go. Pick up my comm-link when it comes. Okay?” 

He vaguely can hear Prowl’s weak protest. And he knows he shouldn’t hang up on him like this—especially given he doesn’t know what, exactly, occurred—but he does, because the femme is standing right there and she knows things and Skyfire wanted him to talk to her—

“You must be Starscream,” she greets kindly, azure eyes glistening under the artificial lights of the office building. “I’m Beta. We chatted on comm. I’m sincerely sorry for what happened to Skyfire.” 

“A pleasure.” he flatly states, because it certainly would be a pleasure, if they weren’t meeting due to his dearest friend’s demise. “So. You mentioned the will.” 

“Oh, yes—please, come in my office and have a seat.” she gestures to the room behind her, opening the door wider for Starscream, offering a gentle smile, a smile like Skyfire’s—unless maybe Starscream just sees Skyfire everywhere—as she ushers him in, shutting the door behind them. 

He has to admit it’s a nice little office. It’s bright and sunny and the big desk is nice, neatly organized, fake crystal plants of various colors brightening up the otherwise drab color scheme. He eases himself into one of the soft seats in front of the desk as she slides into her own, pushing the chair in as she does. 

“When did he come see you?” Starscream asks quietly. “To write the will.” 

“Before he left for the expedition, he said he wanted to get everything in order in case he can’t come back,” Beta offers a gentle, soft look. “We live in the same community and my rates aren’t too bad, so he came right to me. He asked me to speak to you myself, should anything happen to him.” 

Starscream doesn’t speak. He simply watches her. She shifts uncomfortably. 

“Um…right. So, I might have let the surprise slip when we spoke last, given I said I have what you need to get in, I’m sure you’re wondering what that’s about—” she picks up one of her datapads, clearing her throat. Starscream’s optics flick over her frame, noting how small she looks in this big room, this big room not built for her. He crosses a leg over the other, waiting for her to say it. To tell him what happened, what Skyfire said. She slides toward him a datapad, opened to a pdf file of something or other. He raises an optic ridge. “A copy of his will.” 

Starscream just stares at the screen when he picks up the datapad. 

“I figured you would want a copy of the will, for legal purposes, just in case.” She isn’t smiling anymore when she says this, opening a drawer in her desk and pulling—something out. An envelope? 

Starscream furrows his optic ridges, looking down at the copy he was given. 

“Skyfire has stipulated in his will that you are the sole heir,” she begins, hesitantly. Starscream’s optic ridges unfurrow and raise. “He has also stipulated that—” 

“ Hold on. ” Starscream gasps, voice so, so, very small as the words sink in, make their mark in his spark and in his processor. “ Sole heir ?” 

“Oh, yes—Skyfire didn’t tell me he had any living family. And he didn’t seem to have anyone else he wanted to leave anything to. He said he only trusted you enough with his things.” She skims over the will for several kliks. 

Starscream’s spark drops. 

“So what, exactly, did he leave me?” he asks, baffled, astounded, staring straight at her as she skims the document and the notes left. “ What did he leave? ” 

“Given that you’re the sole heir, he’s stipulated in his will that—Oh. Oh, my.” she appears to read and reread the note he’d attached to the side. “He’s left you everything.” 

Starscream stares at her, optics wide, the entire world silent for several nanokliks, spark stopping entirely, only to begin pulsing again violently. He grips the datapad tighter, scrolling to get to the page she’d been on—hell, he’s sure he asked which page it was, just to read the same exact thing; as the sole heir, he shall receive all of Skyfire’s possessions.

“He attached a note to my documents stipulating that I tell you, uh—‘I know how you liked to keep your space organized, so I kept everything the way you liked. Please stay safe.’” 

“Wh-what—What the actual frag does that mean?” Starscream snaps, voice cracking. She slides the envelope toward him. 

“I told you I had what you needed to get in,” Beta sheepishly responds. Starscream shakily reaches for the envelope, slicing it open with a clawed digit and pulling out a—Oh. Oh, no. “He said you had a copy of the key, but he wanted you to have the original key, too, just in case.” 

“ No. ” he manages, almost sickened, and then suddenly his faceplates are wet, and his lap is covered in fat coolant droplets. “No, he didn’t. ” 

“He did,” she confirms. “He stipulated that you shall inherit his house, and everything in it. Now look—since you've come to this meeting, it should be noted that if you're claiming Skyfire's things, you don't have to move in right away. Technically you don't have to move in at all. Skyfire left a note saying his home will be available to you should you choose to move in—” 

And then the rest of the conversation is a blur. Something about signing some things, acknowledging he is accepting responsibility for Skyfire’s things—something about signing an official document stating that he is now the owner of the house in Uraya. It doesn’t really matter, in the end. It doesn't matter because everything was said and done when Skyfire initially saw her—behind his back, no less—and initially put together that last will and testament, everything was said and done when Skyfire kept this secret, never letting him know that this was how much he must’ve cared, to leave all these things to him—to Starscream , who doesn’t deserve it and who got himself into his predicament. But he doesn’t quite cry as he does softly, slightly whimper to stave off the tears, because why in the name of Cybertron should some strange femme get to see him like this? 

And then he’s walking out of that office, blinking rapidly to make the tears stop as he shoves the house keys into his subspace. 

“Frag,” he whispers. “ Frag you, Skyfire. ” he can’t help but say, despite the immediate regret. “Don’t tell me you wanted to die and leave me here with these idiots.” Don’t tell me that this was planned , he wants to say, that you thought the ultimate act of kindness was to die . He takes a sharp breath at the thought. He can’t figure out whether he wants to be angry or upset or totally and completely empty—if he wants the very notion of feeling to fade. For the smallest fraction of a moment, he considers the act of becoming an empurata. He considers the act of shadowplay. He considers the cutoff so seriously that he’s sure that it might eventually happen. 

But of course, it doesn’t stick for long in his mind. He scrolls through his frequencies, trembling hard as soon as he sees Prowl’s frequency pop up. He comms him. 

“Prowl." He speaks before his cousin can speak. "Prowl—Skyfire's such an idiot." He can barely take in a real vent before a cry its tugging at the edge of his vocalizer. 

" Why? " Prowl asks quietly, groggy, and Starscream tries so very hard not to feel, not to cry, not to be upset because Primus damn him, he can't believe this is happening. He tightly grips the key in his servo. 

"He was living in Uraya." He evenly says. "He had a home there—a nice one—and he left it to me." How could I ever deserve such a thing? "He left me the house." He left me everything. 

" He did? " Prowl echoes, and Starscream can't help but zero in on the crackling, on the tone and the dazed little fog he'd been in. He knows just by the sound, just by experience, what the cause is. " Star, that's great." 

"The femme said I could go to the house anytime. She said I didn't even have to move in if I chose not to. Skyfire said in his will." 

" Are you?" Prowl inquires, and Starscream finds that he must keep moving while listening to his voice, because this makes him less likely to break something in passing, and strangely, less likely to run to collect his cousin, who surely has suffered from a crash. " Going to go there, I mean ."

"Of course I'm going! I'm going and no one can stop me!" And then through the familial bond comes a weak warmth. Prowl is silent for several kliks. That's alright. He's never been a very noisy mech. 

" I'm glad ," he finally says, all the soft and warm of younglinghood, like he has drifted back to those days. The seeker isn't sure he believes him—but Prowl isn't particularly good at lying. So he must mean it. " Really, I am. "

"And guess what—you're coming too. I'm not letting you stay with that pathetic little technoworm you call your 'intended.'" He announces, all pride and no shame upon saying it, because he knows the truth now—Prowl admitted to it—he's always had to protect him, and he's always been damn good at it. And Primus forsake him, he would be there again. Even if it had to be by force. And he doesn't care that other bots probably hear him as he makes his journey back home, searching for the best take off spot. 

"... Okay ." Prowl relents. " I have an idea for a go-plan. " 

Starscream doesn't bother to hide the feral, deranged smile that crawls onto his face. 

"Meet me in a decacycle to discuss the plan. Start packing but don't be too suspicious. I'll comm you sooner if something comes up." 

He hangs up as soon as he finds the best vantage point, jumping and taking off. He isn't sure he's ever flown so fast. He isn't sure he will ever fly that fast again. But he's going. He's going and no one can stop him. 

He reminds him that night, via text. "Next decacycle," he says. "Same cafe, same time. Don't be late." 

They don't talk at all until the day they meet. Of course Megatron gets his tea again—with extra atropa wolfram. There's just something addicting about that power it gives him—something so sinfully gratifying, delicious, about that. And he knows logically, he should slow down because a death is not a good look on his part. But Primus, doesn't it help to have the option? 

Like last time, Starscream leaves for the café, liquor credits in hand again. Megatron did ask about that—about what had happened, had he been in the liquor cabinet. But batting his pretty carnelian optics, Starscream told him something along the lines of, no, dear, I didn't think your lying aft was hiding credits from me, of course not! What a silly thing to think! So very silly! 

But unlike last time, he is not the early one. Prowl is. What they order doesn't matter. What all they say, exactly, doesn't matter—every awkward throat clear and every little touch of comfort doesn't matter. What does matter is that they're both here, and poor Prowl looks so beaten, his lip plate torn, cheek ridge dented and bright bruises blooming about his faceplates. They don't have to talk at all for Starscream to know what happened, or at least have an idea.

They agree early on in this meeting that the key to a clean getaway is flawless acting and subtlety.  

"No note," Starscream asserts, when it comes down to the details of said escape. "Okay? When we leave, no note. " 

"Understood. No note," Prowl nods. "I've been investigating disappearances all week. If you want to disappear, this is how I recommend we do it; any cameras in the house we obscure or break. We use only private comms and forget all others. If you haven't already, the one thing I recommend doing for documentation purposes is contact the neighborhood we're moving to, to avoid issues moving in—" 

"Already done, I contacted the neighborhood watch via letter and let them know we're moving in. No return address added." 

"Clever," Prowl heaves a nasal sigh as he leans on the table, rubbing his tired optics. "Very clever." 

"Of course it is, of the two of us, I'm the scientist." Starscream proudly states. Prowl gives him a deadpan look.

" Former scientist." He corrects. "Don't forget that I am an enforcer. I investigate this stuff for a living." 

The seeker glares daggers at him, but does not argue.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. So how do we do this, then, with the getaway? You said you had an idea." 

"It's very simple," Prowl states, neatly folding his servos, glancing quickly around himself before leaning in, voice low, only for Starscream's audio sensors. "This is the prospective idea for the plan; A few days before we leave, we destroy or obscure cameras if there are any. It normally takes a couple of days to get those fixed or replaced so it shouldn't be a problem. The day we leave, you text me that it's time. When you do, I'll meet you at your house when your partner isn't there. You'll lead the way to Uraya." 

And Starscream supposes that's a solid plan. He supposes that could work—it makes the most sense, it's the least likely to cause trouble, the most likely to end well. Perhaps it's the drama lover in him that is hesitant—the plan is no where near as dramatic as in the movies or in the books he reads. But it's doable, and that's the important part. 

"Good enough. It will be a long drive for you, so get ready for that—load up on energon and medikits, just in case." 

"We shouldn't go just yet, then, since it will take time to compile those things without 'Cade noticing. It has to be just right, or the whole plan could fall apart." Prowl doesn't bother to lift his beverage to his intake. 

"Then how long do we wait? How the frag are we supposed to leave if we can't execute it any time soon?" He inquires, mind drifting back to the newspark that has yet to occupy a frame—time really is of the essence, though Prowl doesn't need to know that—and he's sure, for a moment, that it's quite obvious. But Prowl's face hasn't changed, Prowl hasn't shown any sign of knowing. And that's a good thing, he thinks. Maybe it won't be real, then, if he just never says anything. Maybe nothing will come of this if he keeps the secret. 

"Just a little while. Only long enough to prepare. Did you tell the neighborhood watch when we were coming?" 

"No," Starscream finds himself saying, a bit too quickly. "I just said that we were going to be moving in and not to be surprised if they see us." 

"Clever," Prowl nods sagely, his processor kicking up in speed, despite the occasional skip or lag that disrupts his thoughts. "I can provide you with Barricade's exact schedule. If you remember, let me know whenever Megatron is gone the same time Barricade is." 

"Sounds good to me." Starscream says, thinking about the go-bag he'd packed just a few days ago, very small and very compact, hidden in one of the many hidden little nooks in that blasted house, in one of those hidden cubboards under the stairs. Surely, Megatron will not find it. He can't help but feel as though that isn't enough preparation—instinct tells him that he must prepare. Must take precautions. Immediately, he starts to tap out an emergency message in his notes, a ready-to-go guide on getting to the small town in Uraya, because he's sure he'll forget in the chaos. "Megatron has a rather loose schedule, however—it may take time for the opportunity to present itself."

"That's okay. As long as we get out, the timeline shouldn't matter too much. Though, of course, the sooner we leave, the safer we'll be." Prowl nods, drawing in on himself, averting his gaze, never looking to his cousin's optics. And Starscream can't blame him. He watches as Prowl reaches for his beverage, staring into the dark liquid with a forlorn look on his face. "Has he given you any trouble?" He does not beat around the bush when he says this, trembling some, because Starscream can only imagine what he's dealt with recently.

"Not much, really," Starscream answers, because that's the truth, because Starscream has made sure he can't. He casually sips his tea, shuttering his optics. "He's an ungrateful bastard, and he's been particularly demanding recently, but I'm managing. I would ask about your intended, but—well. I may just catch a prison sentence." And that's the truth. The statement does not earn a smile from Prowl. But Starscream can see the slightest glimmer of hope. "Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"Hm? Oh." Prowl looks away again, shifting uncomfortably. "No reason." is the lame excuse. Starscream softens only a little for him. His optics drift over his faceplates still, all the new little cuts and dents horribly noticeable, and it's a wonder that no one has said anything. Or maybe others have asked. Maybe people at the precinct have asked him about the damage. Maybe Prowl didn't answer them. 

"You're anxious to leave." Starscream says, in a statement, a very real statement that neither of them can negate. Because Starscream knows that Prowl knows it's true, no matter how much he wants to deny. But Prowl just keeps watching him, blank faced, thinking about something or other, something Starscream can't place. The F-15 Eagle sets down his mug, wiping from his dermae the tea droplets that had collected around his intake. "If you need help getting ready so we can go sooner—" 

"What if we don't make it?" Prowl softly, quietly asks. "To Uraya? What if Barricade or Megatron catches up with us?" 

"They won't," Starscream answers. "I can at least make sure Megatron won't." he thinks back to the poison. He thinks back to how sick Megatron got. How sick he should be. Hell, how sick he is, just for being the way he is. He almost wants to offer to do the same for Barricade. He almost wants to do worse. He almost wants to march right over to that house and kill him in his berth, because no one should ever get to treat Prowl like that. The only insults for Prowl should be from Starscream, and they should be playful—only sometimes serious. Because he can only imagine the things Barricade calls him. Because he can only imagine how much worse they got once they became engaged. "You aren't thinking of backing out, are you?" 

"No. Barricade has proven himself unreliable and untrustworthy, among other things. I don't wish to remain engaged to him. But..." Prowl grimaces in overt pain as the frown tugs his dermae, and Starscream can't help but match it as he watches his cousin. "He—" he pauses for a long time. Starscream's hackles raise. "He told me my coworker Hound went missing."

"So?" Starscream blinks at him—until he remembers what Prowl said. That Hound had said to comm him if he needed help. Or something to the effect, anyway. "When did he tell you this?" 

"Today." Prowl mumbles. "I don't believe that Hound just up and left one day. Not without his turbodog. And he went missing the same day I—" Prowl appears almost ill, as he speaks, voice even, firm, quiet still. "...That day I commed you, right before you found out about Uraya. I woke up after an accident. I..." Prowl chews his lower dermae, never caring about the bit of blood that dribbles down his chin.

"Spit it out." Starscream orders, concern flooding his field. "How does this relate to Barricade—?" 

"I think he knows what happened to Hound," Prowl says, voice low. "When I got off comm with you the first time, he came into the room, covered in energon." 

Starscream makes sure he isn't holding anything, makes sure he isn't at risk of breaking something gain. But his spark stops, as soon as he hears those words. He grabs Prowl by the servo. 

"I'll get you out," he says to him, voice hushed because you never know who might be listening. "Did you tell anyone?" 

"Who can I tell? The enforcer chief hasn't been returning my comms. No one at the precinct has been returning my comms." Prowl says, and Starscream can't help but be stricken by the sight, by the sound of him like this, defeated, resigned, un-Prowl-like. "...I think he hurt Hound. I don't know why, I just—" He sighs. "What if he tries to hurt us, too? What if we can't defend ourselves?"

"Then we learn. We teach them not to frag with us if they ever come across us again. Our leaving without a word should be enough of a hint that they've fragged up." Starscream squeezes his servo. "Prowl—just listen to yourself. You're a trained enforcer, and I can learn quickly. We have an out. Just don't worry too much about it and we'll be fine. Understand?" 

Prowl falls silent, lifting his beverage to his intake finally, and taking a long sip. He nods, without a word. 

"I packed. Aside from travel neccesities, I'm ready when you are." Prowl says, and Starscream nods in approval. "I didn't have much to pack, anyway." And Starscream does not have to strain to feel the feelings in Prowl's EM field, the feelings of I hate that this is happening and I wish we could go tonight. And in all honesty, he wishes they could go tonight, too. That they can be gone with the wind, never to be seen again, on greater horizons. "Barricade didn't let me take much when we moved in together." 

Of course, Starscream thinks. Because Barricade is a selfish idiot. Because Barricade does not know a worthy mech when he sees one. He doesn't dare let go of his servo. 

"Good. So did I," he confidently boasts, grinning a feral grin, because yes, he will have a home, but that is baseless when you have no credits. So naturally, what better way to start getting ready for a new life than by siphoning loose, spare credits from the various hiding spots Megatron has chosen for his liquor stash funds? "Frankly, I didn't have much, to begin with when I moved in with Megatron." 

"Huh. Guess we really are going through the same thing, then." Prowl can't help the bitter chuckle that exits his intake, raising his mug just slightly. "To our new lives, I suppose." He says blankly, and in agreement, with that same feral, determined grin, Starscream raises his nearly empty mug and taps it against Prowl's. To that, they both take long wigs, until the rest of their beverages are gone. They part ways, self-assured and unflinching. Because There is no more time to even flinch, or pretend, or stay involved n this little fraudulent game. Starscream certainly can't find it in himself to do any of these things, if he has any say. Which is easier said than done, because every moment with Megatron makes him flinch. Perhaps even more now, given the coding change. 

But Starscream, for a time, does pretend. Because that's all he can do. And it works, for a time. A brief time, maybe, but it works. And the poisoning continues to work as well. Until it doesn't. 

It lasts less than another decacycle. Starscream should've seen Megatron's suspicion grow. He should've seen it coming after the second time he was inexplicably sick. Megatron had finally started to feel better, the week that Starscream met to discuss the plan. He barely remembers the illness, what was said, what all went on. But he remembers that he was sick. That he was sick after random intervals. That the only common denominator in his sick spells is Starscream. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't be so stupid, would be? He wouldn't be so stupid as to jeopardize his life like that. To get him angry. To cross a line his old, long missed, long lost lover never would have, because Orion was cruel to have done that to him, but he would never poison him. Maybe it's paranoia, he tells himself. Just stupid insecurities in his helm, a real, true problem tht he can eat least recognize—he is not a perfect mech, after all, and it would be foolish to even deign to think him as such. 

"I promised," Megatron has to remind himself, day to day, that violence, here, is unacceptable. Because Starscream is carrying. Because that's his sparkling inside him. Because he is aware that carrying isn't easy, and given Starscream's own ailing health, it wouldn't be wise, he reckons, to resort to violence all at once. "I promised not to hit him. I promised not to be violent. I promised." he tells himself, because it's true. He promised. He promised because he loves Starscream—he does. He loves many things about him. He loves him so much that he simply must watch over him, as much as possible, because Starscream is the one mech aside from the one preceding him that he would never want to leave. Because Starscream is so many things. So many things Megatron can't understand, that he wants to understand, needs to understand. 

On the day that everything changes, Megatron descends the stairs midday, body aching and threatening to give out. But he continues on. Because the illness like the plague that hit Tarn when he was but a mechling, robbed him of his own creators, left him just as tired in recovery as many of the adults long passed had been. He doesn't notic, at first, until he's passed by the staircase on his way to the dining room that one f the many cabinets in their home is slightly ajar. He pauses to stare at it, because he swears, that one is normally closed. Nothig but ordinary junk and old, forgotten protective gear for the days in which the weather becomes unpredictable. On any ordinary day, he would disregard it. Perhaps Starscream was organizing, like he said he was going to do, and simply forgot to close it. That's forgiveable. He forgets sometimes to close cabinet doors too. But he stands there, for several nano-kliks, watching that just slightly ajar door and wondering if he should investigate. His instincts say yes. So he does. He approaches it cautiously. When he is close enough, he nudges it open with his foot, only to reveal half organized gear. Ah. Starscream must've gotten distracted in the middle of doing this. He heaves a sigh, dropping into a crouch to see if, perhaps, he could at least help deal with the mess. He reaches in, and—oh. There's an unfamiliar bag. He blinks. He pulls it out, of course, and opens it. 

There's not much. Just some trinkets—familiar trinkets, he dare says, things he'd seen Starscream wear from time to time, gifts from himself, from early in the relationship, he assumes. Just some small books, books Megatron isn't particularly fond of, a science textbook or two, and—Oh. Credits. A lot of credits. He furrows his optic ridges, staring down at this pile of stuff in that bag. He takes a deep breath, leaving the bag on the floor in the corridor. Down said hall, he can hear Starscream in the kitchen. He wouldn't, Megatron tries to remind himself. Starscream is stupid but he is not as stupid as this. To be so brazen. He stares in the direction of the kitchen. Then he looks down at the bag. He sees a tiny scrap of white paper. His hackles raise as he leans down to pick it up. They raise higher upon reading the first few statements. A draft of a letter to some unknown mech or femme.

'To whom it may concern, I am writing this letter to inform you of my impending arrival. Myself and a dear friend are moving into the scientist's home on your block.' 

He does not have to read more to come to the conclusion he comes to. He balls up the draft of the letter, servos shaking profusely as anger begins to well in his chassis and show in his field. He turns quickly, still leaving that bag where it is on the floor, walking as slowly, and as calmly as he can to the kitchen, where he is greeted by the sight of Starscream, stading over the stove, the entire room filled with the smells of traditional Kaonite food. The light bathes him so perfectly like this, when it streams in through the window and leaves everything aglow, like everything is new. And Megatron should have been swayed by this sight. And he almost is. Violence is not the answer, he repeats to himself. Until he sees a strange vial in Starscream's servo. 

"Starscream," he greets, earning a startled yawp from him as he turns, wings immediately low. "What are you doing." Comes out more as a demand than a question, optics zeroing in on his servos, scrambling still to hide what's being held. He strides the room quickly, upon seeing the distinctive flowers coincidentally native to the lowlands of Tarn. He knows those flowers anywhere, and their distinctive petals. He knows that hue, that smell of them, he knows, he knows, he knows what the old mechs and femmes used them for, in the day, when people still believed in folk magic and folk medicine. 

"Nothing—I-I'm cooking! Nothing more!" He exclaims, bold and standing up straight, like a soldier, like he has any power her. Megatron stares at the vial with the flower.

"You." Megatron's voice drops several octaves as soon as the realization sets in, the entire world slipping out from under his pedes. Megatron grabs his arm in a crushing grip. "You!" 

"It isn't what it looks like—" Starscream attempts to argue, barely noticing that he's dropped the vial, that it's shattered and all the pieces have scattered across the floor.. "Megatron, please, " he continues, attempting to peel the digits from his arm. "Please let go!" 

"You've been drugging me." Megatron states, low, disbelief dripping off of ever word, tightening his grip, ignoring the slight whimper and yelp from Starscream's intake. "You little traitor! " he roars in a grand show of rage upon realizing the gravity of what has been happening—that Starscream prefers him drugged up—that his love, his little bird, light of his life, didn't care whether he lived or died, that another of his loves has decided they would prefer to be without him. He yanks Starscream by the wrist out of the kitchen, uncaring. The seeker fights. He fights and claws and screams the whole way, but Megatron doesn't care. The whole neighborhood could hear, and Megatron still wouldn't give a single damn. 

He throws Starscream into the wall as soon as he makes it into the living room. 

"Why." The Tarnish mech demands. Starscream stares, optics wide. "Who have you been seeing? " 

"Wh-what are you talking about?" Starscream's vocalizer hitches, stutters, hesitates, as he finds himself shrinking back against that wall. "I-I haven't seen anybody! Not in a while!" 

"what about that bag in the closet? and the credits? Then why have you been drugging me? " Megatron snaps, taking several steps forward, grabbing his love by the neck, despite the way his wings lower and he claws at his servo and his face and anywhere he can reach. It does nothing to deter him. " For how long? " He roars again, but Starscream still does not answer. A barely audible whimper breaks from his vocalizer. 

"I'm not! I-I haven't—" Starscream struggles to vent in and out, kicking, hitting, scratching—but Megatron tears him from that wall and throws him onto the hard floor in a clatter. He squawks in alarm as soon as he lands, frame twisted, attempting immediately to scramble to his pedes as his HUD flashes the word danger. "Please no—no, you said you'd change, you said it would stop! " 

"Why should I stop when you keep giving me reasons?" Megatron bellows, winding up and delivering a hard kick to Starscream, hard enough to roll him onto his stomach before he can even get up. "Answer me!" 

"There IS no reason for this, you sack of cybersheep vomit!" Starscream howls back, only for those quick servos to unashamedly tear at his wings, forcing a scream of agony out of his intake, so loud that his vocalizer crackles uncontrollably. The, hot, searing pain intensifies, and he swears he's bleeding, and he swears that is another reason for his love to be upset with him. When the tugging stops, and all that's left is the cold, remaining sting, he raggedly breaths, only taking in three breaths before Megatron kicks him again, harder this time. 

"WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL ME?" Starscream isn't sure Megatron has ever reached that decibel. The seeker shakily tries to get off his stomach, but Megatron kicks him hard again, sending him to his back. He blacks out for just a moment. "You dare use that filthy mouth to lie and call me names? The same filthy mouth that tells me how much you love me?" Megatron speaks as soon as Starscream onlines his optics again. And then there's pressure on his neck cables. He gasps at the many painful sensations that mount up. His HUD keeps flashing. His midsection cramps uncontrollably. He fights the urge to purge right then and there. "I'll make sure you can never say those things again!" He puts pressure on his neck cables. The seeker wraps his servos around his massive pede, fighting back his sobs, because he swears, he swears that if Megatron does not kill him, then the pain will, and there is so much of it, so much pain, new pain, unfamiliar pain more intense than he's ever felt it.  

"Megatron!" Starscream tries, so so very hard, to pry the pede from his neck cables, but it does not work. The strength does not come to him. "Please no—the newspark! Please!" Starscream can't help but sob. More pressure is put. He can feel some of his neck cables snap already. 

"It will be fine. You, on the other hand…" he applies more pressure. Coolant tears run down Starscream's faceplates in droves, and he isn't sure, but he thinks he may be screaming—something about help, about Primus, not that he believes in him, something about wanting to live. 

"Megatron, I love you, I'm sorry, don't do this," he manages, vocalizer crackling severely. His lover gives him a cold look. 

"Liar."

Crunch.

When Megatron pulls his pede away, Starscream is silent no matter how his intake opens wide in a silent scream, what little sounds being even less than a crackling squeak that dies within seconds. And then the assault continues. And Starscream endures. And Starscream sobs and tries to shield himself. And then somehow, the sensation stops.

There is nothing, for a moment. Only the dark. In the distance he sees light. Warm light to fight the cold that his engines can't seem to negate anymore. Something passes through his body—a small little flickering spherical object, headed toward the light. He doesn't know what it is—but he tries to follow. Except the further it goes, the further the light goes. And then something is tugging on him, by the arm, quick but gentle. And then the light becomes smaller, dimmer, the warmth dissipating all at once. There is a profound emptiness after the fact. He shutters his optics, finally surrendering.

—

Starscream wakes in berth again. He is alone. But he can hear voices. He takes a shuddering breath. He attempts to speak but words don't come out. He mouths the words, attempts to call a name—any name—but all that comes out is static. He isn't sure he can even see out of one of his optics. 

He doesn't move. Doesn't sit up. Doesn't do anything. He opens his texting commlink frequencies, scrolling until he finds Prowl.

'Prowl.' He starts, trembling hard. 'It's time.' 

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't have the energy to do so. Prowl texts back almost instantly.

'Already? I thought we agreed to wait?'

Silly Prowl. Waiting doesn't do anything. He trembles. 

'I need a doctor.' He states simply. Through the familial bond, he can feel his cousin grow anxious again. 'Don't ask questions. I just need one.' He says, because no amount of science can fix this—he has no choice—there is no other option left. 

'Okay. Are you able to fly?'

'I don't know.' Starscream answers, taking just a tad longer than he intends. ' I'm dying' he types, but he never sends it. He listens carefully. He can hear voices still growing more distant. He forces himself up only to crumple to the floor. The voices stop. He gets to his pedes, then, despite the screaming pain, ignoring his reflection in the full body mirror Megatron kept in the berthroom. He only gets a glimpse before he is sickened by the sight of himself, the sight of what he allowed Megatron to do to him. He speed limps to the door of the room, deftly picking the lock with a long claw, and soundlessly sliding it open. He moves quick, passing through the threshold in a haze, into an adjacent hall on the upper level, out of view, hopefully. He isn't sure where he's going but he's moving as quickly as he can.

He listens for the pedes and the distant call of his name—the windows are too small but they'll have to do— and as he passes into the office, he can hear and feel the EM field distantly—the tether can't be severed without risk— and he shuts and locks the door behind him as soon as he's in. With as much strength as he can, he shoves the desk against the door, ignoring the stomping pedes growing louder. 

"Starscream?" Megatron's voice is grating, his audials screeching in agony at the sound. He texts Prowl shakily again, shaking legs threatening to give out. 

'I might have to improvise. Are you here yet? South end of the house. Outside the study. ' 

There is a slam on the door, prompting him to jump. 

"Starscream!" Megatron calls, desperate, a good sound on him. The seeker inches weakly toward the window. The slamming intensifies. He can already see cracks in the door. He takes a breath, perhaps his final one as he peeks out the window. Below, Prowl is there, in his altmode. He hears the door begin to break. With the last bit of his strength, he opens the window, just as his captor breeches the room. "What are you doing?! " 

Starscream gives him a look as he seats himself on the ledge of the window, folding his wings in uncomfortably, squeezing his shoulderplates in as he gets himself in just the right position to slip out. He flips up his middle digit, rapidly shimmying his way out of the tiny window, falling just before Megatron can reach him. When he lands, it isn't harsh. The pain isn't any worse than what he felt. In fact this pain is so very different. He doesn't have to look up to know Megatron is looking out that same window, he doesn't have to strain his audials to hear him angrily call his name. 

"Starscream—" Prowl calls his name in what the seeker can only identify as acute, abrupt fear. "What happened to you?" 

The seeker cannot answer no matter what he does. His wings move, slightly, in a vague attempt at wingcant, but they refuse to move further than a few inches up, given they are damaged and still unfolding again, before they entirely flatten and droop again. He tries, he tries very very hard to indicate a response, only to find he is unsuccessful in all areas. He keeps slipping out of consciousness. He distantly feels himself being moved. He isn't sure how or when but he's no longer on his pedes when he notices the world melting into the past. It almost feels like he's flying again, when the world more and more passes him by, fading into a blurry backdrop as he attempts to find his footing again, fighting the urge to pass right out entirely. 

"Starscream," he distantly hears Prowl call to him. "Don't pass out! Tell me about the house!" 

Starscream can feel a sharp turn. He groans. He chokes. He tries to move but his body is stiff. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is static. And then somehow it's dark, biolights lining the edges of the—tunnel? Are they in a tunnel? 

"Starscream, I'm not playing!" Prowl snaps, all panic and gravel in his voice, a good different from Megatron's. 

Shakily, Starscream sends his pre-prepared text from his personal notes. Prowl does not speak again for the drive, not that Starscream would remember after, anyway. There are sounds he can't place that scream in his audials, his one still good optic blurry and unfocused, half-shuttered. He isn't sure when he fully passes out—only that they are infinite, infinite and untouchable because at some point, when he starts to feel less like he will not pass out, he is separated from Prowl, tossed into the sky, only to transform and take of. 

He doesn't remember the flight he takes nor does he remember when he passed out. He just remembers the dark. And then the nothing. And then the familiar smell of medical grade sterilizing agents. 

His optics online. The room feels so big. The walls look like they can expand into the vast abyss of space. Aside from machines monitoring his health, he is mostly alone. He doesn't sit up. He doesn't speak. He doesn't move at all. The entire room is quiet. Too quiet. He takes a shuddering breath, because he can't even hear pedesteps in the hall, wherever he is. He shudders his optics. He runs a servo over his midsection and over his chassis, silent, reassuring whatever lifeform that resides within him that he is okay. That it's all okay because at the very least, he is alive. He isn't sure how long he spends doing this, because one moment, he is awake, then he blinks, and the room feels substantially brighter when he does. Like the sun has peeked in more fully to greet him. He hears a door. His hackles raise, and he slowly, very slowly opens his optics, sitting up on his elbows. His hackles lower as soon as he sees who it is.

Prowl stands there, fresh energon cubes in his servos, optics tired but a content look on his face. His doorwings flutter just slightly.

"You're awake," the Praxian says, voice hushed as he takes to the side of the berth, resting the energon cubes on a small table. "Thank Primus." 

Starscream tries to speak. To his surprise, two words are clear through the static of his broken vocalizer, high pitched and grating, but given the situation, it isn't like it's unexpected. Prowl gives him a soft, unsmiling look.

"What happened?" Starscream rasps, reaching out for his cousin, who softly, gently takes his servo in his own, giving it a gentle squeeze. He watches as his cousin, his dear, sweet, brave cousin, his cousin who didn't have to but truly came through for him, rests a digit against his dermaw in a signal to be quiet, to rest his vocalizer. He obeys, because it hurts too much anyway. 

"We made it." Prowl whispers to him, as if entirely in awe. Starscream's optics widen. "To Uraya."