Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Moonless, cloudy nights on Earth were almost impossibly dark––eerie, even, for any being that was one to be spooked by shadows. What little light did emanate from the sky reflected off of the silver paint job of the Jackhammer, its front window artificially darkened so as not to draw curious outside eyes. Inside, a single overhead lamp illuminated the cargo area of the ship and its tenant. Wheeljack, looking admittedly worse for wear since his brawl with Hardshell earlier that day, was attempting to repair his own wounds. It was slow progress, but nothing he wasn’t used to. Hardshell’s attacks had hit hard, but Wheeljack’s armor was––mostly––harder.

In all honesty, he was lucky to have escaped with his ability to walk.

No. He was lucky that Miko was as stubborn as Bulkhead, and refused to leave him behind.

A hiss escaped through his gritted denta, and Wheeljack told himself it was because he didn’t take enough care when inspecting his injury. A deep slash, caused by Hardshell’s second set of––arms? Legs? Pincers? Whatever––curled its way beneath the hood of his vehicle mode, and caved in part of his lower ventral plating. The pain radiated all the way out to his right shoulder and hip. It wasn’t his intention to limp into the Autobot base upon his return with Miko, but there hadn’t been much of a choice. At least he’d managed to bite back his grunt of pain when he transformed.

His thoughts lingered on Bulkhead. The brief glimpse he’d caught of his friend on Ratchet’s med-berth, hooked up to far too many tubes, had been enough for him to decide not to linger.

“Bulkhead will survive…He may never be fully functional again.”

Wheeljack ex-vented, a harsh gust of cycled air that forced his vents to open briefly and his armor to flare. With a shake of his helm, he turned his attention back to the situation at hand. His pre-war occupation as an engineer came in handy in times like these. It wasn’t quite the same, but it was enough. Living and inanimate mechanics alike followed similar logical structures utilizing similar components: some wires here, an energon line there, plating, protoform, servos…he’d done this enough times now that the pain didn’t really bother him, though he still dulled what he could without medical coding.

His processor drifted again. From the moment Optimus refused to reveal Hardshell’s name, he knew the Autobots would be upset with his choice of actions. It didn’t bother him––he was used to disappointing people. Ratchet’s cold silence stung, though. They’d just started to rebuild their rapport.

Wheeljack’s finger brushed an exposed nerve wire and a shriek ripped from his voicebox before he could disable it. His visual and audial feeds went dark, leaving him in deaf silence, twitching from the sudden fire that raced through his circuits.

Frag, that was the worst.

He sat there, panting, until his senses came back online. Then he continued his work. Thankfully, he took much greater care not to touch another nerve wire, and after much fiddling and cursing, he felt satisfied with his results. It still hurt, of course, but it was nothing his self-repair couldn’t handle. He rolled his shoulder back and forth, grimacing at the sound of metal on metal. Something in there was still out of alignment, but short of removing his entire arm, he’d done all he could for now. Maybe he’d work up the courage to go back to the base and ask Ratchet to take a look.

Next, he forced himself to stand and test the weight on his hip. To his relief, the pain almost entirely disappeared. There was a slight catch, perhaps a hooked wire, when he rotated his leg, but he knew he didn’t have the patience tonight to look into the issue further.

In that moment, the exhaustion of the day hit him as if he was on a planet with two times the gravity of Earth. His audials ached at the memory of his earlier confrontation with Soundwave and that strange relic, merely adding to the slew of pain he’d grown accustomed to feeling at any given point since he joined the Wreckers.

Had it really only been twenty-four hours?

It was all he could do to lower himself into his pilot’s chair as his power-down sequence initiated. Before slipping from the waking world, he turned off the overhead light, plunging the ship into total darkness.

Days later, he found himself back at the mine where they’d fought Hardshell. Something, he didn’t know what, had led him back to this place. Choosing not to exit his ship, he was instead content to stare at the battlefield, still strewn with chunks of the Insecticon that the Decepticons hadn’t bothered to recover. They’d only taken his corpse back, from the looks of it.

The ping of his comm drew his attention. It was a message from Miko.

– Bulk’s up and moving around. You should visit. He misses you. –

He dismissed the notification. It wasn’t the first text he’d gotten from the girl that had gone ignored, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Bulkhead had sent his fair share of messages, too, but Wheeljack didn’t know how to explain to them that he couldn’t bring himself to go back. Not yet.

A small voice in the back of his processor, sounding like a strange mix of Miko and Ratchet, of all bots, chided him. Is it not more important to support Bulkhead right now, than to selfishly rot in your own feelings? He needs you.

He shoved the voice away. He has Miko and the rest of the team. His comm pinged again, and his winglets flicked in irritation. Much more of this and he would mute any incoming pings from the Autobot base, just for some peace and quiet. The sender byline on this communication, though, said “Unknown.”

Not an Autobot then, huh? Curiosity piqued, he opened it.

– Win back some of your pride, Wrecker, or do you not care that an organic youngling did what you could not? –

A set of coordinates accompanied the message. Dreadwing, surely. His armor flared slightly at the thought of the Decepticon, and he felt his fuel pump kick up a notch. The jab hardly bothered him, and neither did the fact that Miko had snuffed Hardshell. In truth, he was proud of the kid. She’d proved her mettle as a Wrecker with that feat.

But he’d never turn down a chance to face off against Dreadwing.

The Jackhammer lifted into the air before he could change his mind.

The coordinates led to a field set in a forest. Mountains rose in the distance, a sight that would be idyllic if Wheeljack wasn’t here to spill energon.

He didn’t try for subtlety as he exited the Jackhammer. Dreadwing had already arrived, planted in the center of the field with his arms crossed. His optics narrowed to red slits, analyzing Wheeljack as he approached and stopped several paces away. Nothing in his body language gave anything away.

“What’s the deal, ‘Con?” Wheeljack didn’t activate his battle mask yet, allowing Dreadwing to see his sneer. “Hardshell failed to bring Megatron an Autobot spark, so now you’re stepping up to the plate?” It was a human saying he’d picked up from Miko––some kind of sports reference.

Dreadwing scoffed and the corner of his lip curled. “Do not presume to know my intentions.”

Wheeljack rolled his optics. “Primus, so dramatic.” His mask snapped across his face with a satisfying shink. “I’m tired of it.”

His katanas were in his hands in an instant, and he lunged. Dreadwing was ready, as he’d expected, but his dodge played right into Wheeljack’s plan. The Wrecker spun and landed a solid hit on the other mech’s shoulder. An arc of bright blue lifeblood followed the tip of his blade. He landed awkwardly and immediately backed up a few steps, covering for the mistake. The effort of the strike caused his shoulder to twinge, and he forced himself not to adjust his grip. Dreadwing regarded him coolly, seemingly unfazed by the attack.

The Seeker reached for his own sword, moving sideways at the same time and prompting Wheeljack to take a step as well. They began circling each other, both sets of optics searching for an opening. Another pang radiated through Wheeljack’s shoulder, and he felt his spark hitch. He could only pray that Dreadwing hadn’t noticed his slight favoring of his right side.

Then the Decepticon was springing forward, faster than a frame his size should have been able to move. Instinctively, Wheeljack brought his katanas up to block the attack. He’d been distracted, though, and the force of his opponent’s strength jarred his shoulder again. A grunt escaped his voice box and his right arm lowered, almost imperceptibly.

Dreadwing noticed. A smirk teased the corner of his mouth and he pushed harder, leaning his weight onto Wheeljack’s bad side. Unease swept through the Wrecker, and he pulled his EM field in as tight as he could to his frame. Maybe this had been a bad idea.

With a rev of his engine, he used his left arm to shove Dreadwing off-balance, turning his weight against him. The larger mech tried to recover his stability, but Wheeljack kicked the back of his knee, toppling him. Then Wheeljack was on him like a rabid turbofox, katanas slashing any exposed protoform he could find. He ended the flurry by bringing both swords straight down into Dreadwing’s chest. The Decepticon roared as the blades embedded themselves in his armor, cutting deep. Victory was within reach, and Wheeljack’s optics brightened with the thrill.

It was short-lived, though, as talons suddenly dug into the sensitive wiring of his elbows.

“Erk––!” His grasp on his sword hilts released and he recoiled, trying to extract himself from Dreadwing’s grip, but the claws only sank deeper. Beads of energon rolled down the white plating of his forearms and dripped onto Dreadwing’s armor. Panic coiled in his fuel tank as he realized that he was trapped. Then the world was spinning and he felt his back hit the ground. One of his winglets bent the wrong way and he cried out when it got crushed under his own weight. Primus-damned speedster frame.

The sensors from his elbows all the way to his fingertips throbbed, and he could feel the strength in his hands waning. Would he be able to hold his weapons? He twisted underneath his opponent, suddenly very aware of how much bigger the other mech was. The other Wreckers sometimes picked on him for his smaller stature, but he knew how to use it to his advantage. That was when he wasn’t pinned, though.

He flinched at the sensation of Dreadwing’s claws finally withdrawing from his arms, leaving them mobile again, but it was only a brief reprieve before a massive metal fist collided with his face. His battle mask absorbed most of the damage, but he could already tell that a dent had formed on the underside of his jaw from the blow. The next strike hit his audial fin dead-on, and the sickening crunch of the delicate mechanism sinking in on itself made his tank roil. Dreadwing brought his fist down again in the same place, sensing that it was a weak spot, and Wheeljack howled, visual feed exploding into lines of dead pixels. He tried to transform out his blasters, but the damage to his arms was too great, and the sequence couldn’t finish.

“Quite foolish to accept my invitation while still wounded.” Dreadwing leaned forward so that the hot air from his intake swept across Wheeljack’s face. “It is a mistake you will not live to repeat.”

He raised his sword––when did he pick up his sword?––and held the point over Wheeljack’s chassis. In that moment, the smaller bot directed all his remaining strength into his hips and bucked. It wasn’t enough to throw Dreadwing off of him, but it did cause his blade to go astray, sinking into the earth right beside Wheeljack’s neck. He took the opportunity to finally wrench his katanas out of Dreadwing’s chest, and he found great satisfaction in the spray of energon and shout of pain that followed. He slashed at Dreadwing’s throat cabling, and the Seeker threw himself back to avoid it, releasing Wheeljack in the process.

It took effort, but Wheeljack dragged himself back to his feet. His back hit something metal, and he realized it was the Jackhammer. He sagged against it, waiting for his energon-loss-induced dizziness to ease. The blurry form of Dreadwing was shuffling, no doubt preparing to charge.

Against his better judgement, he taunted the mech. “C’mon, Dreadwing. How pathetic is it that you can’t even take down a wounded Wrecker?”

His barb didn’t land. Dreadwing knew it was all bravado––could see the energon that painted Wheeljack’s frame, the trembling of his hands. It was almost over, and they both knew it. But Wheeljack wasn’t a quitter. He also, contrary to popular belief, wasn’t stupid. For all his bluster, he’d learned when it was finally time to call for help, so he pinged the Autobot base.

The Decepticon rushed forward. Wheeljack sidestepped, opening a fresh laceration on his opponent’s wing––retribution for his audial. Dreadwing bellowed and turned, swinging wildly with his sword. He missed, and Wheeljack used the opening to land a deep gash on his side, then stepped back, out of the reach of his opponent’s weapon. Unfortunately, his balance was still severely affected by the energon loss, and he tripped. He managed to catch himself, but in that brief moment of distraction, Dreadwing closed the distance between them.

The blade slid into his abdomen like it was nothing, cleaving through armor, protoform, and energon lines before emerging out of his back. His katanas clattered to the ground and he scrabbled at Dreadwing’s shoulders, chest, arms, looking anywhere for purchase, but every surface was slick with spilt energon. HUD alerts clouded his vision, warning him of significantly low energon levels, a ruptured fuel tank, imminent shutdown, and more that he couldn't read before they were swept away in the flood.

No, no, no! He didn’t know if the Autobots had received his ping. How was he going to get out of this?

…Could he get out of this?

The energon in his lines ran cold. His spark spun wildly, and he felt giddy.

No, not giddy. Wrong.

He felt like he was going to die.

Wheeljack finally gasped as shock gave way to agony. “You…slagging––” His voice box wasn’t working right. He could barely get his words out, and those that did speak popped with static. Energon trickled into his mouth and he spat it onto Dreadwing’s chest. He shuddered as his systems lagged, the lack of energon and massive trauma taking its toll. His right leg gave out and he lurched, but Dreadwing caught him and pulled him closer. Then the Decepticon twisted the sword, ripping through the old wound from Hardshell and sending fresh ripples of fire through Wheeljack’s sensors. He finally screamed––a wretched sound wrenched from his throat that devolved into keens of binary and static.

The sword was freed from his body, and the ground rushed toward him. He tried to speak, but only energon came out, accompanied by a miserable gurgling noise. Dreadwing used his foot to roll him onto his back.

“I look forward to seeing where Megatron will mount your spark chamber.” The sword tip hovered over his chassis again, and Wheeljack knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it this time. He resolved to stare Dreadwing down, manually rerouting power to his optics to intensify their brightness. If he was to die today, at least he’d do it with dignity.

Then Dreadwing’s sword was flying out of his hands, knocked away by blaster fire.

The Autobots had received Wheeljack’s ping.

Optimus and Arcee chased after the Seeker, who lost no time in transforming and taking to the air. Ratchet was suddenly beside him, his normally-stoic presence marked by an unusual agitation. His EM field crashed against Wheeljack’s, pushing comfort and reassurance, but hidden behind them, Wheeljack sensed fear.

“Tell Bulk…’m sorry…”

His sensory feeds went dark as he slipped into stasis.

Chapter Text

The base was unnaturally quiet, as it had been since Bulkhead’s injury. Even though the large bot was now awake and moving, it didn’t quite temper the uncanny vibes in the main room.  Optimus stood, motionless, at the computer, decoding the Iacon database. Arcee and Bumblebee sat silently at Ratchet’s workbench, playing a human card game sized up for their larger frames––an activity that would normally be marked by friendly banter and raucous laughter. Jack napped on the couch and Raf sat beside him, occupied by his computer.

Bulkhead hated feeling like he was the cause for his team’s odd behavior. They looked at him differently, now, like he was fragile. The thought would have made him laugh if it didn’t grind his gears so much.

He’d just finished his final round of strength-building exercises for the day, and he was glad for it. Struggling with activities that would have been a breeze for him a week ago only reminded him of how far he had to go and the possibility that he may never be the same again. His EM field flared at the brief frustration before he reigned it in, and his plating momentarily raised along his back. Ratchet, having just arrived from the medbay, caught the slip despite Bulkhead’s best efforts, and extended his own field in kind. It carried an unexpected gentleness that caught the warrior off guard.

“You’re making excellent progress, Bulkhead,” the medic murmured. The hum of his engine provided a soft undertone to his words.

Bulkhead scoffed. “I don’t need coddling, Ratch’. I’m already getting it from the rest of the team. Don’t you do it to me, too.”

“I’m not coddling. I’m being honest.” Ratchet’s hands took their now-familiar places on Bulkhead’s shoulder and chest, supporting him back to the medbay. His pride smarted at the assistance, but the exhaustion radiating throughout his frame convinced him to bite his tongue. He sank onto the berth with a groan.

Ratchet stayed nearby, typing on the medbay computer, as Miko entered the space. She’d been helping with the physical therapy as a “coach.” Admittedly, it wasn’t very helpful, but it gave her something to do, and for that, Bulkhead was grateful. The girl had been low-spirited of late, and it rubbed on his already frayed nerves. The other bots reported the events of her…field trip with Wheeljack, with varying degrees of exasperation. Bulkhead had tried to bring it up––taking a life was no joke, especially in an attempt at vengeance––but she shut down every time he tried, so he eventually left it alone.

“Hey, Miko. Wanna watch the monster truck rally later? I heard that it’s gonna be broadcasted on one of the local channels.”

He eagerly watched his charge for her reaction, but she just sighed and shrugged.

“Sure.”

Ratchet glanced over, and Bulkhead caught a hint of concern in his field. Primus, how he wished humans had fields. Miko had tried to explain human body language to him, but he couldn’t seem to grasp all its intricacies. It wasn’t innate to him the way Cybertronian body language was. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the computer pinged with an alert.

“That’s odd,” Ratchet muttered, and Bulkhead turned to look.

“What is it?”

Ratchet’s optics scanned the screen. “We’ve received a ping from Wheeljack. No accompanying message. His signal’s been offline since he left the base. I believe he was purposefully cloaking it so we couldn’t track him.”

“But you can see his location now?” A twinge of irritation, colored with relief, snapped at Bulkhead’s spark. He’d been messaging Wheeljack almost every day with not so much as a word in response. All he wanted was for his friend to know that he wasn’t angry, and that he was worried for him. Ratchet mentioned he’d declined to stay for medical attention following the battle.

Ratchet nodded. His face had lost the softness from earlier and his mouth was set in a thin line. “There’s a Decepticon life signal with him…and a moderate energon reading.”

Bulkhead’s spark seized. Wheeljack wouldn’t have called unless the situation was severe, and a moderate energon reading meant blood had been spilled. “He’s in trouble.” He moved to get up from the med-berth, but Ratchet blocked him.

“Absolutely not! You are in no condition to walk to the groundbridge, much less enter the field!” He firmly pushed Bulkhead back onto the berth. “The best thing you can do for him now is take care of yourself…and be ready.” The medic’s face tightened, no doubt having come to the same realization about the circumstances. After a moment, Bulkhead relaxed back onto the berth, and Ratchet left. Arcee and Optimus were already gathered at the groundbridge, the portal swirling behind them. Bumblebee stayed behind to prepare the medbay for Wheeljack’s arrival.

A small motion caught Bulkhead’s optic, and he jerked his helm to get a better look, already knowing what he’d see. His suspicions were confirmed as Miko scampered through the bridge after the rest of the team.

She was gone before he could utter a word.

The groundbridge spat them out into a grassy field. Massive redwood trees climbed to the sky around them, and the snow-capped peaks of mountains were barely visible through the dense forest. Warm sunlight tickled Miko’s skin, more pleasant than the dry, baking heat of Jasper.

Energon was everywhere. The earth churned where giant swords had missed their marks, grass flattened where a wrestling match may have taken place. The Jackhammer perched to her left, its hull smattered with Cybertronian life blood. Ratchet was near the ship, his back to her, but she knew what––who––was on the ground in front of him, hidden from view. The rapidly-growing puddle of energon seeping into the ground all but confirmed it.

Her breath caught in her throat and tears pricked at her eyes as she ran forward. This couldn’t be happening. She’d just gotten Bulkhead back. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked. If she could get close enough––

A set of metal fingers closed around her and held her back.

“No!” She struggled against the grip, but Arcee held firm.

“Miko, listen to me.” There was a slight tremor to the femme’s voice. “There is nothing that you can do for him right now, and seeing the condition he’s in won’t change that. We need to let Ratchet work.”

Miko landed on her knees. She tasted saltwater and her body convulsed as she curled in on herself.

“Bad things happen to bots when I leave their side.”

She wept until her mouth was dry and she couldn’t stop shivering. Arcee drew her in closer and Miko gripped her fingers like they were the only thing keeping her afloat in a tumultuous sea.

Ratchet stepped to the other side of Wheeljack. Blue streaked across his orange and white plating. Despite his stony facial expression, his optics were cycled far wider than usual. The armor on his shoulders trembled slightly, and Miko realized that it was clamped tight to his frame. His hands, however, were steady, as he lifted Wheeljack into a bridal carry.

She’d gotten pretty good at reading Cybertronian body language. It really wasn’t hard––they were kind of like cats. For instance, she knew when Ratchet was genuinely in a bad mood or just faking it to keep up appearances, based on the height of his audial fins and the rumble of his engine. When Arcee was thinking about Cliffjumper or Tailgate, her armor drew inward and her winglets would sink––like a smaller version of Bumblebee’s door wings. When Bulkhead was really frustrated, the hairs on Miko’s arms stood on end and her clothing clung to her body with static electricity. Even Optimus had his tells––his optics were quite expressive, constantly changing in size and brightness with his mood.

These little movements were the things that made them alive.

And Wheeljack was motionless.

The Wrecker looked broken. Usually clean white armor was flecked with mud and grass stains, and energon. His right audial was crushed, and one of the winglets on his back hung on by a couple of wires. The worst of it, though, was the ugly lesion in his abdomen that appeared to be the main source of the leaking energon. Armor and protoform twisted together, edges jagged and doing little to hide the sparking wires and torn energon lines beneath. In a human, such an injury would likely have already resulted in death.

For a moment, Wheeljack disappeared, and she saw Bulkhead there in his place. Then Optimus. Then Arcee. Bumblebee. Ratchet.

Miko’s chest ached and she would have started crying again if she had any more tears to give. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and scrubbed. If she did it hard enough, maybe the visions would go away. Maybe it would all go away.

But Wheeljack was still there.

The rest of Team Prime couldn’t have been gone for more than thirty minutes, but Bulkhead counted the seconds until their return. Arcee came back first, hurrying to the medbay and pulling Bumblebee aside. Miko was next, staring blankly at the floor. Jack and Raf ran to meet her. Whatever scolding the older boy had prepared died in his throat when he saw her expression, and he embraced her.

Then Ratchet was stepping into the base, and something inside Bulkhead broke when he saw what the medic carried in his arms.

Bulkhead was no stranger to grievous injuries. No Wrecker was. How many friends had he watched die horrifically? Roadbuster, blown to smithereens by a landmine; Hyperion, devoured by scraplets; Rotorstorm, shot in the head by Overlord; Broadside, disintegrated by the Rust Plague; and more. The Wreckers left mountains of bodies in their wake, their own and the ‘Cons’. On Earth, though, there had been something of a reprieve from the mass carnage. Team Prime was scrappy, and careful, enough to avoid serious harm––mostly. He winced as he thought of Cliffjumper.

But seeing Wheeljack like this…it was just wrong . The former engineer-turned-explosives-expert was always the hardier between the two of them. More times than Bulkhead could count, Wheeljack had gotten them out of a jam with a well-placed grenade, a snarky comment, or a barely-held-together field patch. He was the survivor––the one who could get himself into any amount of trouble and make it to the other side. Of all the Wreckers, Wheeljack wasn’t one Bulkhead worried about, despite his recklessness. Until now.

He sat in silence and watched Ratchet work. It wasn’t long before Miko joined him. She perched on his shoulder and drew her knees up to her chest so she could rest her chin on them. They didn’t speak, afraid that even such a simple act could turn the tides of fate unfavorably.

Cybertronians didn’t really dream, not like humans. If they fell into a deep enough stasis, their processors might run through old memory files, deciding what was important and what wasn’t. They lived a long time, and there simply wasn’t enough space for all the memories they built over their lifespans. Sometimes, though, those files could get corrupted. At that point, they might as well have been like human dreams.

Or nightmares.

Wheeljack’s stasis was far from peaceful. Few Cybertronians, regardless of faction, had that privilege anymore. His oldest memories were from before the war, during the time of the Functionists. He was a speedster frame, and as such, he’d had to fight for his place as a scientist, or risk ending up in the Dead End as a buymech or siphonist.

Ratchet had helped, using his sway with the Council to vouch for Wheeljack’s skills. Perceptor had taken him under his wing, given him a lab and a place to live, and, most importantly, a friend.

Perceptor, taking Wheeljack’s hands in his, optics earnest.

Then Crystal City shattered, and Wheeljack and Perceptor’s world with it.

Devastator, bringing his fist down on the great wall that surrounded the city.

Sprinting with Perceptor through the underground laboratories, the clamor of Decepticons echoing in the halls behind them.

Blaster fire searing Wheeljack’s audial and hitting a different mark instead.

A smoking crater where Perceptor’s optic should have been. Energon. Screaming.

He was powerless to stop the images, his processor seemingly determined to make him suffer mentally in addition to the physical pain he’d already endured. The memories changed, becoming more recent.

Shoving aside a blazing, twisted chunk of metal, once attached to a now-crashed ship. Peering inside to see Impactor, gunmetal gray and barely recognizable.

Pyro, sinking into the Darkmount smelting pit, hand outstretched as if it would save him from the molten metal filling his spark chamber.

Springer, internal mechanisms of his processor bared to the world, the other half of his helm held aloft in Overlord’s massive hand.

Roadbuster, resignation in his optics upon realizing that he just lifted his foot off of an active landmine––looking shockingly similar to Bulkhead with Dreadwing’s bomb strapped to his chest––

Bulkhead, unmoving on the med-berth, stuck with tubes and wires.

It sure seemed to be the fate of all Wreckers to die horribly, but wasn’t that the point? They took the hard missions no one else could fathom. They did the things other Autobots were unwilling to do, and they paid the price for it. Survival wasn’t ever in their cards. They only hoped to drag their Decepticon opponents down to the Pit with them.

Betrayal, hurt, anger, had all coursed through Wheeljack when Bulkhead left the Wreckers, but buried beneath all of that…was relief. Bulkhead would be safer with Prime. Maybe he’d even have a chance of seeing the conclusion of the war.

Then he’d gotten hurt, and Ratchet didn’t know if he could fix him, and Wheeljack had felt a fear that he thought he’d conquered a long time ago.

He stood in a battlefield. There had been too many to know which one. Figures moved in shadow around him. The faint, acrid smell of blaster fire hung in the air. A large form ran past, hardly sparing him a glance. Turmoil , his processor supplied.

A weight rammed into his back, and he turned to meet the cerulean optics of Flareup, yet another Wrecker lost to the war. She was an explosives expert, like himself. He reached out and caught her wrist, but she turned to smoke and flitted through his fingers.

The ground shook with an explosion and the crunch of death rang in his audials. Another bot materialized from the murk. Wheeljack’s spark hitched when he recognized Kup. The old mech ran up to him and grabbed his arm, and Wheeljack let himself be pulled along, even though he could have easily broken the grip.

The battlefield faded away, and then Kup was gone, just like the others, and Wheeljack was alone in the darkness.

He finally let himself fall to the ground. Cybertronians couldn’t produce tears the way organics did, but he felt a wail bubbling in his vocalizer. He forced it down. The darkness around him was dense, suffocating, even though he didn’t need oxygen to survive. He thought his armor might fracture from the weight of it.

“My dear, what predicament have you found yourself in this time?”

He startled at the familiar posh, Iaconian accent, at the words that had been said to him Primus only knew how many times.

“Percy?” The utterance was softer than he intended, laced with static. The Autobot Chief Science Officer appeared in front of him, kneeling at optic-level. He looked no different than the day Wheeljack saw him last––the day of the Exodus. A targeting module was nestled where his right optic used to be. Jutting out from behind his left shoulder was his microscope lens. His signature sniper rifle, used less and less as the war stretched on and he became more valuable as a scientist than a Wrecker, was slung across his chassis.

Another bot that Wheeljack had been relieved to see leave the team.

It was obviously some kind of apparition conjured by his struggling processor. He suspected that this version of Perceptor would only say things he’d heard the mech say in real life.

He didn’t care.

Finding his strength, Wheeljack surged forward and enveloped his old friend in a fierce embrace. After a moment of hesitation, Perceptor’s hand closed tentatively on his back. For all their familiarity, they’d never been much for hugs.

He pulled back and looked into the yellow optics he knew so well. They weren’t without warmth, but they lacked their trademark sharpness. It was only a memory, after all.

“Why can’t you let me help you?” dream-Perceptor said, voice strained. “Why must you insist on being alone?”

He remembered what his response had been. Because it’s easier for everyone. Stay in your lane, Percy. I don’t need your help.

This time, he didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry. I know you cared. I cared too. I…didn’t know how to show it.”

Dream-Perceptor stared at him, and Wheeljack wondered if he’d messed up. Then, like Flareup before, he dissolved into smoke. Wheeljack’s hands clenched around the nothing that had been the red mech’s shoulders, and he finally allowed the wail he’d suppressed earlier to come out.

Darkness took him again.

The steady pulsing of a spark monitor pulled him back to consciousness. His systems booted up sluggishly, and when his visual feed came back online, all he could see were blurry shapes. The image finally sharpened into something usable, and he realized that he was in the medbay of the Autobot base.

It was then that the pain of his injuries crashed against him, and a groan escaped his vocalizer. Immediately, a set of hands were on his arm, plugging something into his diagnostic port. The pain receded to a dull ache. He turned his head and caught sight of familiar orange and white plating as Ratchet fussed with a cable.

“Primus-damned Earth technology…” The medic’s optics were dimmed and his plating seemed to sag––he was exhausted.

“…You should go recharge,” Wheeljack murmured. Ratchet’s optics snapped up to meet his, cycling a bit wider. His audials twitched upward, ever so slightly, and Wheeljack thought he caught the hint of a smile before his expression was schooled into one of neutrality.

“I assure you, I will do so once I’m certain that you’re not going to go into sudden system failure.” The optics narrowed and flattened. “Do you have any idea how worried we were?” Impressive, he was managing not to raise his voice. “I’m still questioning how you’re even alive.”

A small grin flitted across Wheeljack’s face. “I have a pretty good physician.” Ratchet’s face remained unchanged by the flattery, although Wheeljack wasn’t trying to redirect––he was genuine. Ratchet’s hand came up to rub his face, and Wheeljack took note of the slight tremble of his fingers. How long had he gone without recharge?

“You should have stayed for repairs after…after Hardshell.”

Wheeljack looked away. “I thought I could take care of it.”

“And maybe you could have if you hadn’t then gotten into a fight with Dreadwing!” Ratchet’s EM field brushed up against his, a whirlwind of entangled emotions that he couldn’t make sense of. He pushed comfort through his own field, and Ratchet quickly course-corrected, evening his out to the familiar sterile reassurance that medics were trained to project.

Wheeljack remembered his conversation with dream-Perceptor. He met Ratchet’s optics again and sat up.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Ratchet stared at him, and Wheeljack thought he could visualize the gears turning in his processor. He fought the urge to poke fun at the other bot’s surprise, and instead tentatively reached out to touch his arm.

“Sometimes I forget that others care about me as much as I care about them. I’ll… try to be more careful.” A pause. “Thank you for the repairs.”

Ratchet gave a small nod and his gaze softened. “Your systems seem to be running smoothly, all things considered. If you’re ready, I can call Bulkhead and Miko. They wouldn’t have left the medbay if I hadn’t forced them out for privacy.”

Wheeljack’s spark spun, although if it was from anxiety or excitement, he wasn’t sure. “I’d like that.” Ratchet turned to leave. “You should recharge, Ratchet. I mean it.”

The corner of the medic’s lip curled upward and he inclined his head in an affirmative. Then he was gone. It didn’t take long for the telltale sound of Bulkhead’s footsteps to reach his audio receptors, although the gait was slightly uneven.

A warm EM field enveloped Wheeljack before the other Wrecker appeared at the side of the berth. In a moment, he felt himself held in what the humans would call a “bear hug.” It wasn’t as tight as Bulkhead usually gave, and the angle was a little awkward, but it was welcomed nonetheless. When they pulled away, Bulkhead’s optics swept over Wheeljack’s frame, taking in the extent of his injuries. Miko sat on his shoulder, face suspiciously wet.

“Hey, kid, careful with that.” Wheeljack inserted a playful lilt to his voice. “Don’t wanna mess up my paint job, now.”

Miko laughed. It was a pitiful, snotty thing, but it lifted Wheeljack’s spark. “You kinda did that yourself.”

His plating was actually nearly pristine, and warmth bloomed in his chest at the thought of Ratchet taking the time to clean off the evidence of his duel. Even so, he conceded to her. “Yeah, not my finest moment.” He gestured to Bulkhead. “You keeping an eye on our boy for me?”

She puffed out her chest and crossed her arms. “Of course! Anyone who wants to mess with him is gonna have to go through me.” There was a tinge of distress to her tone. It pressed on his spark. He held his finger up to her and she grabbed it in a hug.

“Never doubted you for a moment. I pity any ‘Con who has to face off against you.”

Something soft danced in Bulkhead’s optics as he looked at Miko before he turned his sights on Wheeljack. A pulse of gratitude traveled through his EM field, and he tapped his fist lightly to Wheeljack’s good shoulder. “We’re glad you’re alright.”

Miko sniffled, still clutching his finger. “Are you gonna leave again?”

His intake hitched. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Then again…“Well, I’m not in any condition to travel. I think Ratch’ might blow a gasket if I tried.” He winked. “Guess you’re stuck with me, for now.”

A huge grin split her face and she released his finger to whoop and cheer. The sudden return of energy seemed to surprise Bulkhead, but he laughed along with her as she began spouting activity ideas. First on her list, to Wheeljack’s chagrin, was physical therapy, although he supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to take things slow for a while.

Maybe Bulkhead and Perceptor weren’t the only Wreckers who deserved to make it out of this war alive.

Maybe Wheeljack did, too.