Chapter Text
The tension was so palpable, Megatron had half the mind to reach out and slice it in half, if only for a momentary release of all the unnecessary stress this situation put on his neural netting.
His own damn warship had become a warzone in and of itself, somehow.
Seeing that traitorous, conniving, sniveling, backstabbing, trust-betraying son of a slag walking once more around his ship had effects on Megatron that he’d rather die than mull over.
It was a weakness. Really, he still isn’t sure why he hasn’t torn those elegant, slim wings clean off and chucked Starscream off his landing port, and, subsequently, out of his mind.
He supposes his reluctance to execute him has something to do with the feeling of his spark spinning deliriously in his chamber whenever he catches sight of the seeker, or hears traces of his voice.
It was a weakness that would surely be his undoing, if not now, then at some point that was far too swiftly approaching to not worry over.
Starscream’s behavior hadn’t quite refracted to its usual stance, the elusive smiles, manipulative tone, and extremely precise choice of words; no, in its absence, was a meeker, softer, almost kinder version.
But Megatron was nobody’s fool. He was especially not Starscream’s fool. He wouldn’t fall for this, fall for Starscream, ever again.
It was little more than a momentary fling. An ember of desperation, caught by the seeker, and blown into a fire by the clashing of their intense, polar personalities; rubbing until the sparks set both of them aflame.
Feeling the effects of burning from the inside out, Megatron did his damndest to avoid the seeker at all costs. He was useful, so at least he was able to deem that the reason he kept him around. Certainly nothing else kept the seeker’s energon inside his frame, instead of spilled obscenely over Megatron’s ship floor.
There wasn’t a flier alive who could compare with Starscream. His speed, his elegance, his mind - when his smarts weren’t being used to devise schemes against him, or plot assassination attempts, the cybertronian warlord found that his seeker was nothing short of brilliant (in his own unique sense of the phrase.).
Because Primus above, Starscream was also incredibly stupid. His plans, schemes, the numerous attempts on his life, all were half thought out, half initiated far beyond the point of return; by the time he realized how stupid the plan was, he was already too deep in his own self-dug grave.
It amused him, minutely, for a while. Always overpowering him, catching him all red-servo’d - hearing the seeker beg for his forgiveness, or try to lie his way out of being thrown into the nearest incinerator, it was like batting a fly for a while. A mindless pastime for Megatron, when he wasn’t focused on more important tasks.
But then, stupidly, Megatron had settled into this routine. Let his shoulders slump-his first mistake-, let Starscream closer, closer than any mech had ever been in more than a millennia; this mistake being his second.
He relaxed around the little jet, underestimated him, in a sense.
It wasn’t love, no, not even close. It was a dark, lonely night, and Starscream had wandered his way into Megatron’s office with the ruse of an oh-so important question. Megatron could not recall if the question had ever been uttered.
He did, however, recall the feeling of those guilt-stained servos roaming incautiously over his body, not even feigning hesitance. As though Starscream had been waiting for this moment, waiting for the day he’d be able to reach out and greedily touch and feel the warm metal of Megatron’s frame beneath his hands.
In the memory, Megatron’s internal engine had grumbled and purred. He remembered Starscream making some ridiculous, over-step of a comment about it, and Megatron had responded in kind by biting him.
The shriek it earned him often played through his processor at night. It was a fond memory, the way the seeker trembled, and whimpered at his touch. It was good.
And it, their tryst, only lasted as long as it needed to.
It was like sleeping with a ticking-time bomb. He underestimated Starscream, yes, but not to the extent that he would allow his guard to trickle away entirely. When he held the seeker in his berth, it was tighter than necessarily need-be for any other mech. But Starscream wasn’t anything like any other mech. Megatron had to manually shut off the threat assessment protocols, or they’d scream at him the entire night.
He was a dangerous little creature. A self-serving, self-absorbed, selfish little thing in his grasp. Like swallowing fire for the taste of it, but you’d have to spit it out, fast, lest it travel down your intake and scorch you from the inside out.
Starscream was that fire, to him.
Megatron had to push these memories to the furthest reaches of his internal processor. For safekeeping, he half snorted, recalling the far too affectionate display of Starscream’s own memories. The memory of that scene was useless to him.
He’d tried to convince himself of that, at least. It meant nothing to him.
“Lord Megatron?”
Knockout’s voice traversed through the thick trance Megatron found himself shrouded in, and the warlord acknowledged his medic with a mere curl of his lip; a warning sign that he wasn’t in the mood for any useless conversation, and that if it truly was important, Knockout had better spit it out fast.
Knockout, heeding the self-preservation warning sensors going off in his own processor, took the hint with ease. Really, Knockout had been talking the entire time. Calling to Megatron just now was the only thing that seemed to reach the mech’s audial receivers, though.
Perhaps it was a bite larger than Knockout could chew, but he’d gotten away with worse before, so he pressed forward anyways. “Are you,” he managed through a slightly trembling intake. “Okay? Just…a doctor checkin’ in, if you’ll humor him.”
A heavy silence pooled in the room, and Knockout felt like he might as well just drown in it. The jet before him turned away from him, clasping his servo’s together behind himself. He seemed to mull over the question, which Knockout took as a good sign; at least he didn’t immediately blast him into scrap metal for ever suggesting the leader of the Decepticons needed to lament about his feelings.
Really, Knockout sometimes wondered when the day would arrive that Megatron would come knocking on his door, demanding a surgery to remove his emotions from his processor entirely.
Parts of him are glad the day has not yet arrived, since watching Megatron and Starscream flit about one another, dodging each other, and yet desperately trying to catch glimpses of the other- it was as entertaining as those human romance movies he’d seen once or twice.
They were acting as stupidly as sparklings in love for the first time, but Knockout would sooner take flying lessons as an automobile before he said a word of this outloud.
Surprisingly enough, Megatron didn’t give him those flying lessons himself, and had actually answered him.
“Tell me, Knockout,” He began, and yet he paused his own sentence; as if to turn over the words in his mind, again, and again. Unsatisfied with each wording, each too vulnerable, too ridiculous, too weak for someone of his status.
Eventually, he settled on the one that would ruin him the least.
“Is this stupid?”
Megatron did not bother turning to face Knockout as he spoke. Just continued staring off, his optics unfocused; he was clearly elsewhere. Had he been mentally present, Knockout would never have skirted this close to the faintest bits of vulnerability Megatron offered up.
“Lord Megatron-” Knockout’s tone was too calculated, too respectful, too forced.
Megatron knew it wouldn’t be the answer he needed. Just a perfectly crafted ‘no’, with the utmost respect and reverence for the asker.
He knew, deeply, it was stupid. All of it was so incredibly stupid. He supposed he only wanted to hear it from someone else, as though it would confirm his feelings, and set them free; so he would not have to deal with this throbbing, yet dull ache in his very spark.
“Don’t.”
So, Knockout didn’t.
Megatron’s voice came out through gritted denta. Strained, but only by the slightest bits. Megatron was not so weak that he would let his voice waver, let it tremble, as though he were going to cry. It was something that was beneath him.
It was an action performed once during his time in the arenas of Kaon. Once, and never, ever again. It was something he stomped into the sands, just as he did the bodies of his opponents. Crushed until nothing but a memory of them remained.
“Yes.”
“It’s very stupid, Lord Megatron.”
The words left his mouth before his self-preservation protocols could forcefully offline his speakers. With a bit of effort, he turned the warning sensors off. With the inch Megatron gave, he’d take a mile. He learned it from the best–worst–, Starscream. He could make a mountain out of a pebble, if given the allowance.
Megatron merely grunted.
It was an affirmation to his suspicions.
That he was losing himself to this stupidity.
“But, I’ve seen stupider mech’s do stupider things.” Knockout said.
He wasn’t quite sure why he was pushed into the role of the supportive best friend, but he used the knowledge he retained from those aforementioned romance movies to help push this scene along.
“It’s a risk, but love always is.”
Megatron visibly stiffened at the utterance of that word. Love. That’s not what this was.
It was contempt.
It was hurt, anger, it was a blaze, a flurry of regret, it was anything but love.
That useless feeling.
“Leave me.” Megatron commanded, his servo’s clenching tighter for a fraction of a second.
Knockout bowed, with his servo pressed neatly against his chest. “As you will it, Lord Megatron.”
Megatron did not loosen the tension that wrung tightly throughout his cabling until he heard the receding sound of pede-steps all but disappear.
Alone with his thoughts, Megatron growled, deeply. The sound reverberated around the otherwise empty command center, followed by the loud clash of Megatron knocking some data-pads to the floor in a rush of his anger.
He left the command center in a similar angry fashion, his pedes falling heavy on the floor beneath him, alerting each drone he passed of his presence before they could even see him.
They did not bother with greeting him, something in their neural net regarded it as a ‘suicidal decision’.
Megatron walked, aimless, throughout his hallways.
The Nemesis was built in his vision. Dark, intimidating, sometimes even regarded as a maze (When it was first built, it had taken a while before Megatron found his way throughout the walls and rooms, but now, he could navigate it with his optics closed. It was second nature, now.).
He had no destination, no intentions to arrive anywhere in particular, simply needed to move. Sitting, or rather, standing, still felt like agony. He knew he needed some type of a fight, a battle, one where he could release all his ridiculous feelings in a burst on his enemies; maybe the feeling of energon cooling on his blade would calm him, or, at least distract him.
What kind of warlord was torn apart by his second in command, who had not even tried? Starscream was his undoing, and the son-of-a slag hadn’t even done anything, at least not recently.
A weak one, Megatron decided. He needed to quell this situation, and fast. He was certain it wouldn’t be long until he really was on a battlefield, distracted by thoughts of his SIC, and then, it truly would be his undoing. His demise.
Rather directly or not, Starscream really would be the death of him.
Speaking of the seeker, Megatron had barely managed to drag himself from his thoughts long enough to realize.
This entire ‘aimless walk’, he had been walking to Starscream’s quarters.
The door stood still, staring at him. Daunting, tall, and ominous. Megatron stared back.
It was as though it was challenging him. Daring him, taunting him, just as Starscream often did.
Or perhaps Megatron was in desperate need of a years-long recharge, maybe he was losing it.
Regardless, Megatron was not one to shy away from a challenge. The door was locked, naturally, a safety protocol, if it was one’s quarters or a random storage closet, there were codes for almost every single door.
And naturally, Megatron had the skeleton-key-code, of sorts. An override code, one that could force any door to–
Shhsk.
Open.
As the door slid open, Megatron visibly stiffened.
What was he going to do?
What was he going to do if Starscream was in there? Would the jet be sleeping? Reading some old data-pad, perhaps buffing old scratches or polishing transformation seams?
What would he do?
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to find out.
The room is empty.
Megatron can’t decide if he is relieved, or disappointed beyond belief.
If not here, then where had that pesky little brat run off to?
Maybe, Megatron mused the thought, maybe he’d decided to turn wing and run; unable to withstand the pressure that threatened promptly to crush them both.
Seekers were…secretive, in nature, when it came to their quarters. It was tricky, and they did not usually allow anyone near their oh-so sacred spaces. Megatron had never really seen the inside of Starscream’s room.
He’d seen it when the Nemesis was first erected, naturally. But it was left a mystery as to what Starscream filled his space with. The few times he’d ever had to search Starscream, following after a blunder of a scheme, he’d never even had to go near his room; the damned jet had kept the contraband on his own person.
Megatron allowed his optics to roll.
The room wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. A relatively small berth laid in the center of the room, the recharge wires strewn lazily about; a desk that tucked itself neatly in the corner, facing the only entrance to the room (likely so Starscream could never be snuck-up on, should he ever actually be working. Paranoid little thing he was.). A few shelves paralleled the desk, lined with data-pads; Megatron had, with little interest, examined a few of the titles.
Mostly science related, though, some pertained to history - of both Cybertron and Earth alike.
With careful steps, Megatron stalked closer to the center of the room. He had to actively try to not step on anything. There were a few small items scattered in disarray on the floor, and as Megatron took in the sights of the room, he did not fail to notice a data-pad that laid haphazardly atop Starscream’s berth.
With a light hand, he read over the electronic pages, though it was hard to feign interest in such a ridiculous topic - some sort of study performed on organic lifeforms. However, beneath his touch, the data-pad suddenly flitted a different shade.
His optic ridges furrowed, then raised, in a quizzical arch. The previous words dissolved off of the screen, replacing and rearranging by themselves in a swift manner.
Megatron jerked his servo away once he’d read but a few lines.
It was about him. Stories, tales, and the like.
Stories of his time as a gladiator, his brutal, and merciless actions that inspired many fans to return time and time again; to witness violence, and energon-shed of Megatron’s accord.
Tales of his rise to power, and his claim to the throne of leader of the Decepticons. It was nearly a collage.
Some stories were true, some of them were completely made up, and some were…exaggerated, half truths at best. But, it seemed, it didn’t bother Starscream. Anything that held his name in its writing was saved to this data pad. He must have used the organic experimentation as a disguise, knowing that nearly no mech besides Shockwave would ever bother the data-pad.
For someone who would leap without a breath of hesitation to kill Megatron, Starscream sure did seem fond of him, in some sense.
It was confusing. It left Megatron’s logic processor reeling and sputtering in every which direction, unable to come up with any sound answers.
But it comforted Megatron, in some aspects, to think that Starscream might be suffering as much as he was. That he, too, was left reeling, hurting, aching, or whatever else.
He clipped the data-pad shut. He had no need to read over things he vividly remembered, since he’d rather forget them, anyway.
He turned to take his leave, only for the door to sshsk.
The warlord tensed, and it felt like his spark began a quick ascension up into his intake, where it lodged itself.
In stepped Starscream himself, who, for but a split second, did not notice the intruder in his berth-room.
Though, that second was short lived.
“Lo-Lord Megatron! Ah,”
The seeker seemed just as tense as the fighter jet before him. Both uneasy and on edge, tentatively watching the other for any signs of- well, anything. Would one of them reach forward and strike? Would one turn wing and run?
“To…what do I owe the honor?”
Starscream’s voice is more controlled now. Though it wavers, only slightly, but enough for Megatron to notice (he really was too damn perceptive.), he manages to steel his emotions, lest they spill carelessly into his tone and words.
It’s a respectful, but fake front.
Megatron’s shoulders slump, not to an unsightly slouch, but a vision that almost seemed…comfortable.
Megatron does not answer, not for a while. Or at least it feels like a while.
That same heavy, touchable tension floods the room and their respective senses. Neither of them move to acknowledge it, though.
“Why have you come back, Starscream?”
Starscream visibly tenses, his wings stretching out in a ‘I am ready to fly away in retreat in a moment’s notice’ type of way. Megatron hopes he doesn’t.
“To my room? Lord Megatron?”
He dodges the question.
How elusive his seeker was. He knows that he knew what he meant. But he also knew that getting direct answers out of Starscream was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Damn near impossible, and half useless to even try.
But, Megatron had all night.
“Here, Starscream.” He begins.
His voice is deep, and low. It couldn’t quite be considered as quiet, that was something Megatron was never capable of being. But, he wasn’t shouting at Starscream for once, so, the difference was stark.
“Why have you come…here? Now? Why have you only come back to me now, Starscream?”
The question isn’t exactly vague, but Megatron’s tone sure was.
Torn somewhere between anger and almost genuine curiosity. And maybe flashes of hurt peeked through, though they were barely noticeable- or maybe Starscream had purposefully ignored them. Maybe it stung, just a tad, to hear Megatron like this.
Maybe he wanted to live in this bubble a while longer; this bubble where he was free to think of Megatron as an unfeeling, uncaring, war-loving maniac who was incapable of flinching or backing down (even when he really should.).
He wanted to keep up the illusion for a few moments more, lest it come crashing down—
“What took you so long?”