Work Text:
Driving into the woods alone, at night, in the middle of a battle was what most Autobots would call “insane” or “stupid.”
But when you factored in the numerous independent variables at play, it was perfectly rational.
Being unarmed, being a high-profile target, Bludgeon, and knowing there was a safe pocket in the thicket all played a part in Wheeljack’s decision to bolt.
Bludgeon knew better than to try and maneuver the woods at night; they were on Autobot turf, and even if he hopped into root mode, he could neither scope out nor escape the turrets that dot the forest.
Still, Bludgeon is saucy; his boldness is plenty of motivation for literal loose cannons. The rattle of shells pelting steel links is music to Wheeljack’s ears.
In the end, Bludgeon yaps in disdain before disengaging to find a more pragmatic target.
Honor is for the dead, Wheeljack thinks, and he'd rather stay alive.
The further in he gets into the thicket, the better; reinforcements should be saved for the combatants.
If they’re desperate for help, he can redirect turret fire, but Wheeljack’s job is to keep weapons in working order; not use them himself.
Sudden crunching of something much too big to be a bear or moose catches his attention.
The crosshair on his HUD darts from side to side; laser-focused on pinpointing movement, color, light.
Moonlight on Earth has an interesting quality.
It casts a glow on sheer metal.
And Wheeljack sees.
He’s no sniper, but even his eyes are sharp enough to catch sight of the wings.
Truth be told, it’s hard to tell which jet it is when the colors are muddy in the dark.
They locks eyes with Wheeljack, face resigned.
“The mad scientist does me in?” they smile despite themselves, “I hoped I’d go out with a bit more elan.”
That’s a voice for print.
It’s probably Starscream.
Wheeljack should probably be more offended. Mostly he’s anxious.
Starscream is injured; that makes him no less dangerous.
“I’m a noncombatant. I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Wheeljack telegraphs his movements, slow and easy to read.
“Noncombatant, eh? Who managed the clutch shot with that turret? Warpath?”
Starscream hoists his leg up further for emphasis.
Energon oozes out from his knee, already sticky and attracting dirt and twigs. He holds his sparking ankle aloft to prevent setting the brush ablaze.
More for his own sake than any concern for Earth.
“Those’re autonomous; they were rigged weeks ago. You musta flew too close fer comfort.”
“Cute. Still your handiwork, though.”
Wheeljack is an engineer, meaning that technically, he is a noncombatant. He’d like it to stay that way; for Starscream’s sake, as much as his own.
Harming Wheeljack can get...messy.
“So, what are you doing out here? Maintenance in the middle of a battle?”
“Needed cover,” Wheeljack shrugs, trying to pinpoint which turret would have been the one to ground the Air Commander. “How come y’ain’t called your guys?”
“I’ll be fine,” Starscream cringes as he shifts. “Not like I need them getting shot down. Say, maybe I should call for Megatron,” he stares at the forest canopy as he talks, expression wry.
“Please don’t.”
“It’s tempting.”
“If you can’t do him in, I highly doubt my turrets can—”
That’s the wrong thing to say; the click of the null ray practically echoes.
“I could kill you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I like t’ think you won’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve got a detonator wired t’ my spark.”
Starscream laughs.
Wheeljack doesn’t.
Starscream’s face trickles from laughing to horror.
“...Well. That’s bold of Optimus.”
“He don’t know,” Wheeljack murmurs.
It’s not until after the words leave his mouth that he realizes that’s way too much information to give away.
Starscream wails with laughter that time.
“Oh, that is dark!”
“My noggin’s a bit too much of a commodity t’ let it fall into the wrong hands!”
“And Optimus doesn’t know?”
“...Please don’t tell nobody.”
Starscream slaps his good knee.
“Secret’s safe with me.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You think I’m gonna pass up the opportunity to let Megatron try to kill you? What kind of specs have you got on that thing, anyway?”
“I ain’t that naive...”
“Eh, worth a shot.”
Wheeljack seats himself.
“...Yer leg looks bad.”
“Let me conk out,” Starscream shifts “I’ll limp back home in the morning.”
“I got a med kit on me; want me to patch you up?”
“Well, aren’t you a soft soul?”
“I ain’t keen on you settin’ the forest on fire.”
Starscream shrugs, patting himself down.
”You got a bullet shell?”
“Nah, sorry. You c’n have this,” Wheeljack knots a rag and hands it to Starscream.
“Classy,” he grunts, fitting the knot between his teeth.
Wheeljack opens his med kit before hears the click of null rays once more.
“Just making sure that if I die, you do too,” Starscream’s tone is innocent as can be.
Fair enough.
Wheeljack works a solvent-soaked cloth into the gelling energon around Starscream’s knee.
“Yeesh. Glad I didn’t let you wait ‘til mornin’. That’s an infection waiting t’ happen...Sorry, does talkin’ help?”
Wheeljack gets a thumbs up.
“Looks like the plating caught in the knee ratchet. I c’n pull that out real quick.”
Shrapnel buckles and wenches into the joint, forcing Wheeljack to use his lighter to heat the metal.
Starscream’s eyes scrunch tight, but the null ray stays pointed at Wheeljack’s chest.
Once the metal is loose and pliable, Wheeljack can pluck the stray shards from the joint.
“I’m gonna go find a tree branch; you’re gonna need a brace for that knee.”
The sparking thruster is trickier, since that speaks of pieces rubbing up against each other.
But Wheeljack is nothing if not inventive.
Cloth and gauze soak up vibration like a sponge.
So with surgical care, Wheeljack slides cushioning layers into the folds.
That gets wrapped in a tourniquet; the last thing they need is energon working its way into it.
“Yeah, that’ll do fer now. You’re definitely gonna need to see a doctor when you get back, though—”
Wheeljack lowers the ankle to the forest floor, no longer a fire hazard.
Starscream rotates the bandaged limb.
“Not bad, Frankenstein.”
“It’s Wheeljack,” he growls, pushing the null ray down. “Don’t call me Frankenstein.”
“...You know, I always wondered what you weren’t doing on the Decepticon side,” Starscream smiles at the sky. “I figured you’d fit right in.”
“Y’ going somewhere with this?”
“Guess now I know why you aren’t; they’d rip you to pieces.”
“I ain’t much of a bully.”
“No, it doesn’t suit you,” Starscream shakes his head. “Leave being in the Decepticons to the big boys, okay?”
The talking has calmed Starscream.
He can tell.
“...How about me? Does your leader take in strays?” he asks with too much rancor to be serious.
“Optimus’d take you with open arms,” Wheeljack replies, “He’s funny like that. Wouldn’t want him any other way.”
There’s something like scorn in his voice.
It isn’t, though.
“Where are you from?”
“Ultirex.”
“Wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone from there.”
“How about you? Vos?”
“Kaon, actually.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah. People keep thinking I’m Vosnian, though. I think it’s the wings.”
“Might be...Cygarette?” Wheeljack offers.
“Nah, I don’t smoke.”
“Good. Don’t start.”
The flick of the battery lighter drowns the artillery fire in the distance.
“Tough habit to kill?”
“It’s easier when I’m at base,” Wheeljack’s sucks the fumes through slatted vents. “Lemme know if you end up downwind; I like t’ think I’m a gentlemech.”
Starscream laughs at his joke.
This time, Wheeljack laughs too.
“...It’s a fragging shame about the war, huh?”
“Yeah. Think it’ll ever end?” Wheeljack puffs.
“Maybe one day. Or maybe I’m blowing smoke.”
Wheeljack tosses him a box of cygarettes.
“Don’t smoke, s’bad fer you. Bet yer buddies would pay you up the pipe for ‘em, though; save ‘em for a rainy day.”
“Trying to grease me up?” Starscream sniffs.
“Naw; jus’ wanna keep that hope alive. Nice t’ see someone who ain’t a nihilist.”
“What, no healthy sense of realism?”
“Fer this long? I’d probably end it all.”
“You’re a dour one, Fran—...Wheeljack,” Starscream corrects. “But you’re not a shabby bot. Try not to die between now and eternity.”
“Thank y’ much. You as well.”
Wheeljack has spent many a night on many an alien planet crouched in the undergrowth to avoid enemy fire.
They always seem to last an eternity, and every time he returns to base with a mean stimulant withdrawal, he says he’ll never do it again.
Tonight it doesn’t seem to last as long.
When he returns home, his hands will still twitch and he’ll fight back the welling bad mood.
But it won’t feel impossible.
When dawn breaks, his comms come to life.
“‘Hide to Wheeljack, ‘Hide to Wheeljack. Copy?”
“Howdy,” Wheeljack rolls to his feet. “How we doin’, big red?”
“Oh thank Primus, Jackie. Was worried you got slagged.”
“Naw, I’m fine,” Wheeljack glances at Starscream before pulling out a datapad. “Bludgeon got a lil’ handsy with me; had t’ make a tactical retreat. Where y’all at?”
“We’re at 3-Kappa. Should we send someone t’ get you?”
“Eh, I’m at 5-Kappa; I c’n drive. If you wanna send someone to rendezvous, stay outta the forest. Looks like the turrets malfunctioned.”
“Get your head in the game, Jackie!” Ironhide barks on the line.
“Don’t worry; didn’t hit anyone. Yet,” Wheeljack chuckles.
He hands the datapad with a drawing of a route around the turrets to Starscream. The next time he’s in this forest, their location will be changed.
Starscream doesn’t need a note to figure that out.
When he reconvenes with his own troop, he will have shed his brace and tourniquet to avoid suspicion.
Megatron will chew him out for a million and one things.
He will plot a million and one ways to end his superior’s life.
And he will not forget the cygarette box tucked away in his cockpit.