Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When he was a kid, the first book he’d ever gotten was a children’s space encyclopedia.

Secrets of the cosmos, it was titled, and he’d fallen in love with it at first glance. It talked about planets and stars and the possibilities of alien life, and he’d carried it around everywhere for years, so much so that it earned him the nickname Cosmos from his peers. It might have been a little mocking at the time, but he’d refused to take it as an insult - quite the opposite, really, and eventually, it stuck.

On clear nights, he’d sometimes sneak out of his house after bedtime, lie down on the grass and just look at the sky. He’d watch the stars flicker, thinking of distant planets filled with cool alien people. Imagined himself meeting them one day, leaving Earth behind for greater adventures and new friends, and whenever he saw a shooting star, only one wish ever came to mind – “I want to meet an alien someday!”

In retrospect, perhaps he should have wished for something else. Chocolate cake for breakfast, maybe.

Because the aliens came. And unlike in the movies, they came with little fanfare; no dramatic declarations of war, no menacing signals sent over the airwaves or bright lights in the sky. They just dropped down from atmo and started ripping humanity to pieces.

Cosmos, who at that point had been in his last year of college and working an internship at decently large observatory, got pretty much front row seats to the first planetfall. The quintessons hadn’t bothered to hide. Hadn’t needed to, really – they’d had too much of an upper hand to worry much about human defense forces.

Life after that was a bit of a blur. The shatterdomes sprung up in a matter of months, humanity started fighting back and actually winning sometimes. Cosmos graduated and got hired immediately as one of the many, many people monitoring satellite data, watching for any incoming quint dropships.

And while yes, even a few minutes of warning ahead of an incoming enemy drop could save thousands of lives, it was never quite enough. New mecha were being made constantly, but such things take time, and the losses kept mounting. Clearly, something else needed to be done.

Which is how Cosmos finds himself here, orbiting some twenty thousand kilometers away from Earth in a haphazard little shoebox of an observation station, all alone in the void between worlds.

Well, to be fair, the actual scientific equipment of the station is top of the line. It’s just the everything else that his bosses on Earth skimped out on. The interior is cramped, dull and grey, with only the bare necessities needed for his long-term functioning as a glorified space cameraman. His days are fairly monotone too – exercise routines to keep up his muscle and bone density twice a day, interspersed with long hours of going over telescope footage, checking for enemy signals and keeping an eye out for any potential anomalies.

Now, despite his occasional grumblings about the quality of life here, he’s not really bothered by most of it. Besides, he gets it – there’s only so many resources the world can spare. He’s fulfilling his dream and helping save lives in the process, so he can put up with a little discomfort. It’s still better than his old college dorm, that’s for sure.

He is in space. Actually in space. That little detail sort of makes up for a majority of the gripes he has about the station.

All except one.

When he signed up for this mission, he knew he’d be alone up here. He just didn’t know how much it would ache.

For the record, it’s not like he’s completely cut off from others- that’d be a one-way ticket to madness, and even the most heartless of higher-ups know it. They’d given him a fast internet connection and permission to make as many video calls as he needs, as long as it doesn’t affect his work. He has his parents back on Earth, and his fellow watchmen are usually up for a quick chat, but- It’s not the same. It’s not nearly enough.

Nothing can replace seeing another living being with his own eyes, a casual pat on the shoulder or just the simple warmth of a person existing in your general vicinity. The longer he stays here, the more chill seeps into his bones, into his very soul.

Soma days, it’s as if there’s a layer of frost underneath his skin, and he’s not sure how long he can take it before he shatters.

Cosmos is sipping on his breakfast coffee when the main console pings, the custom alert he’s set for this specific anomaly making him scramble for the railings immediately. Floating over, he goes to check the data, and- yeah, there it is again.

These signals have been a mystery for the past month now. As of yet, the only thing anyone knows about them is that they’re not from the quintessons and are seemingly completely random. Mission control stopped caring about them once they figured out they’re not of enemy origin, but he and a few of his fellow watchmen have been trying their best to learn more. Command hasn’t told them to quit it yet, so Cosmos assumes they don’t mind, at least.

Not that they’ve really gotten anywhere. A few times a day, the signal will originate from seemingly nowhere, just barely strong enough to be noted, bounce around a few satellites and disappear. No pattern that they can see, no changes in strength or even any indication as to its purpose. It’s just- there.

So far, it looks like he’s not figuring it out today either. Still, he logs the data into his personal file and straps himself into his chair; might as well get to work, since he’s already here.

The quintesson warships have their drop off point on the edge of the asteroid belt, about halfway between Jupiter and Mars. Same place every time. Scientists down on Earth have been throwing around theories as to why, talking about wormholes, string theory and weak spots in the time-space continuum, but it’s more speculation than anything for the most part. Faster than light travel was supposed to be the stuff of fiction after all, but here they are. One moment there’s empty space, and next there is a warship. Really exciting stuff, really! It would just be a lot better if it wasn’t being used to ruin his home.

The quints’ sub light engines reach some impressive speeds as well, but they’re still slow enough to give the people on Earth half a day’s notice before they make planetfall, provided they’re informed the moment the ships appear. Which is why Cosmos is here, watching both the space around both the planet itself and the drop-off zone, warning of incoming attacks. Or, well, to be more precise- he’s mostly watching over the equipment doing all those things, and making sure it keeps doing them no matter what. The human failsafe, so to speak.

It's a bit of a hurry up and wait sort of job. The few days after a drop, it’s constant reports and data being sent back and forth, trying to decipher enemy comms and a simmering worry in his gut as he hopes the pilots down there manage to fend off the quints without heavy casualties. Then, it’s back to long silences and practically twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the chaos to erupt once again.

Which brings him back to the signals. They’re something to break up the monotony, something to occupy his thought on the days when the systems have nothing else to report, like today. Or the past two weeks.

That is why, when a small group of quints suddenly peels off from behind Earth’s mass, heading full speed in his general direction, Cosmos nearly suffers a heart attack. The station’s sensors scream at him, and he may or may not begin panicking a little. He’s a sitting duck here- the station has no defensive capabilities, and no shuttle could get to him fast enough. That is, if they even bothered to try in the first place.

But- as he’s trying and failing to open a last call to his family with shaking fingers, he notices the quintessons slowing down to a stop, still nowhere near his position. Instead, they seem to be targeting - he types a few commands into the sensory array with clammy hands - a communications satellite? It looks like any of the thousands of others like it, ESA make, if he had to guess, so why-

And then the satellite- moves. Parts of it shift around each other, forming what looks like limbs and a head, and- no, okay, what?

The satellite, which is now very much not a satellite anymore, opens fire at the quints. Cosmos watches the scene through several sets of digital eyes, mind reeling as the small enemy platoon is- well, torn to shreds, to put it mildly. Whatever this mech is, it’s incredibly efficient, dodging between enemy strikes and dealing devastating blows of its own. His own? Is there a pilot in there? He doesn’t think so; if such technology was in use, he’d have known about it.

Then again, it could be a prototype of some sort. A secret project, maybe? That sounds slightly more plausible, but still- look, Cosmos is no mecha engineer, but even he can recognize something for being wildly out of human technological scope when he sees it. Which leaves only one remaining option, really.

Whatever this is, it’s not from Earth.

And yeah, alright, shit. That’s- well, it’s probably not a bad thing? Seeing as it just sliced through a bunch of quints like a knife through butter, it’s safe to assume it’s not aligned with them. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right? God, Cosmos certainly hopes so, at least.

As the last of the quintessons die, their bodies floating off into the distance, the station’s alarms turn off one by one. All except his custom one, that is. The cheery little chime keeps on ringing, one screen off to the side showing the same odd signal he’s been tracking for weeks now, only stronger. Much, much stronger. Having started the moment the satellite changed shape, the signal keeps going, now recognizable as a multi-layered frequency and coming directly from the alien mech itself.

He's not sure if it’s the adrenaline, his innate curiosity or just plain madness, but Cosmos does something very, very stupid. With still shaking fingers, he tunes into the frequency, puts his headset on, and calls out.

“Unknown craft, this is Cosmos of the Hermes-9, please-“ his voice hitches. Swallowing tightly, he continues, “please identify yourself. I repeat, this is Cosmos of the Hermes-9, unknows craft, please identify yourself. Over.”

For a few moments, the silence is deafening as Cosmos waits for an answer, fear and anticipation mixing in his gut. Then, the mech turns around. Two glowing red optics look straight at him, as if bypassing the hull of his station and piercing through his very soul. His screens black out one by one in rapid succession, words draping themselves across the darkened expanse like stars against the endless void of the universe.

[Designation: Soundwave.]

Chapter Text

“You haven’t actually told me why you’re here yet,” Cosmos asks the next morning between quick bites of his breakfast, excitement thrumming in his veins. Chicken sandwich today- one of the nicer options available here. He generally tries to save them for special occasions, but he’d say he deserves to treat himself, considering the hectic events of the day prior.

After he’d shaken off the worst of his shock, he’d only had time to ask a few things- what the mech/satellite was (a sapient, living machine), whether he was an alien (yes) and what his affiliation to the quints was (their kinds were enemies, at war, just like humanity was) before his alert systems started screeching again, this time not stopping for hours.

As it turned out, a whole quintesson force had managed to hide itself on the Moon somehow, choosing that moment to reveal itself and heading straight for Earth. Which- yeah, that was kind of a disaster, seeing as it gave them basically no advance warning. Cosmos spent the next eight hours hurriedly relaying enemy positions and watching with bated breath as the combat began down on the surface. Eventually, their mecha had managed to kill most of the invaders, but the casualty counts had been higher than usual.

Needless to say, Cosmos hadn’t had much energy to keep questioning his new acquaintance after that. The last thing he did before falling asleep was look up the ‘satellite’ Soundwave was, ah, impersonating? He’d quickly found out that yes, Soundwave was indeed a perfect replica of a Galileo satellite, even logged in the systems as a functional member of the constellation, which- that was incredible, actually. Definitely explained why nobody noticed him.

Cosmos had wanted to ask how he’d managed that, and, for that matter, what happened to the real satellite which used to be there, but sleep had taken him before he could unstrap himself from his bed and ask.

And if his curiosity led him to postpone his morning exercise regime and go interrogate an alien robot instead? Well, it’s not like anyone’s here to tell on him.

[Primary purpose: information gathering. Secondary purpose: curiosity.] Appears in the corner of one screen, shaking Cosmos out of his thoughts.

“Gathering information? On what, humans? Earth?”

[Affirmative.]

Cosmos huffs, amused, crumpling up the wrapper from his breakfast and floating over to the garbage disposal with it. “Could you please elaborate on that?” he asks, tossing the packaging in before turning back. When he returns to his workstation, and answer is already waiting for him there.

[Motives: multiple. Soundwave: became aware of quintesson attacks led on another planet, tracked communications to approximate location. Cybertronian ship Lost Light: recovered organic-piloted mech, claiming Earth origin. Soundwave: noted-]

Wait. “Wait a moment,” Cosmos says hurriedly, thoughts racing. “Organic piloted mech from Earth? Do you know their name?” Because if it’s who he thinks it is, then-

[Human designation: Jazz]

-it would be answering some very big questions.

Anybody who keeps up with the news around the pilot program knows that name. People on Earth have been bashing their collective heads against the wall, trying to figure out how a whole mech could just disappear like that, only for Cosmos to find out that, what? The poor man just- ended up in deep space somehow? It’s wonderful to hear he’s alive, but- wow.

[Cosmos: knows Jazz?]

“Know of him, more like. I’ve only spoken to him once, when he was leaving low orbit on his test flight. Most people know of him, though,” Cosmos answers, running a hand through his red curls. “The whole thing’s been a big mystery, ended up in the news and all. Actually, I should probably inform mission control about this. I’m sure they’d want to-”

A new message flashes on the screen immediately, in bigger letters than usual. [Request: refrain from sharing information with other humans.]

Cosmos freezes, his hands halfway to the keyboard, a frisson of unease sneaking up his spine. “Why not?”

[Soundwave: wishes humans to remain unaware of Soundwave’s presence.]

Which, alright, he supposes that makes sense. Soundwave was quite obviously planning to remain undetected, seeing as he spent an entire month pretending to be an ordinary satellite. Still, though- “Again, why? I don’t want to pry, but what’s the main issue here? A lot of people have been worrying about Jazz, and I think they’d appreciate knowing he’s alive.”

There’s a significant pause, just enough for Cosmos to start getting anxious, before the next message appears. [Humans: fearful, unpredictable, dangerous. Soundwave: alone, vulnerable. Request: refrain from sharing information with other humans temporarily.]

Right. That’s- fair, actually. Cosmos supposes Soundwave is probably not wrong, in this regard. Humans already do some… morally dubious things to their own people, so it’s not too far-fetched to worry that they’d try to, what?  Dissect the alien mech, perhaps? Or something equally as cruel. And even though Soundwave is a very capable fighter, most likely strong enough to keep himself out of their hands, they’d definitely be able to make his stay here difficult. Maybe even enough to leave.

And- Cosmos is surprised to realize how much he doesn’t want that. He’s only just met the mech, and there’s so much more he’d like to ask. For god’s sake, he’s an actual, real alien! How amazing is that? Not to mention, Soundwave is inherently fascinating, not only as an otherworldly being but as a person too, and Cosmos feels like he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he drove him away.

However, he does have a duty to his superiors, and humanity itself. He’s obligated to report on any anomalies, which this most certainly falls under, but- would it really be so bad if, just this once, he didn’t? If he kept this one thing to himself, at least for a little bit longer?

“…You said temporarily?” Cosmos asks eventually, the slight change in the mech’s wording finally catching up to him and bringing him out of his warring thoughts.

The screen remains blank for almost half a minute, and the silence feels weighty. Important, somehow.

Cosmos waits. Then, a new row of text finally begins unfurling in front of his eyes.

[Additional information: Lost Light en-route to Earth, intending peaceful alliance with humans. Jazz: on board. Soundwave: transmitted location of Earth three earth weeks prior.]

[Strong request: refrain from sharing information with other humans until arrival.]

Cosmos exhales, trying to process it all. It’s obvious from his hesitation that Soundwave hasn’t really planned on telling him any of this, and he recognizes the gesture for what it is- a show of trust. And all he’s asking in return is that Cosmos do the same.

If Soundwave isn’t lying, then this ship of theirs is coming to Earth, bringing Jazz back home. Along with an unknown number of very combat-capable alien robots.  And sure, Soundwave hasn’t seemed hostile so far, towards him or humans as a whole, but- Cosmos has known him for a day. He could be wrong about the mech, and soon enough, an alien attack force would be coming along to finish off what the quints started.

Or, Soundwave might be telling the truth. Jazz really could be alive and well on the- Lost Light, was it? The incoming aliens might turn out to be much-needed allies, a crucial step to humanity finally gaining the upper hand over the quints.

Either way, he has no way to know. Which leads him back to the matter of trust.

Is this a gamble he’s willing to make?

“…Alright. I- I’ll keep it to myself, for now. But please tell me once they’re almost here, alright?”

There.

He’s not sure why, but he does trust Soundwave. Or, at least trusts him enough to believe he means no harm. Stupid? Maybe. But his decision is made, and his intuition is telling him to go with it.

The screen in front of his face lights up with another message. [Terms: accepted.]

Well, and that’s that.

Despite having just met an entirely new species of alien, the following two weeks are surprisingly uneventful for Cosmos.

Aside from periodically questioning Soundwave about anything and everything he could think of, his usual routine remans pretty much the same. Exercise, stare at his screens, force down a few tasteless meals, repeat. The mecha teams on earth mopped up the last of the quints’ latest attack within two days, leaving him with not much to do aside from stewing in his own thoughts.

His thoughts haven’t been very kind to him lately.

In the absence of work, his mind never fails to remind him of just how alone he is. His fingers prickle with a chill no sweaters or blankets can chase away and a persistent, aching itch makes itself at home beneath his skin. No amount of calls with his ma or texts from his colleagues can banish it entirely, only lessening the feeling for a few scant moments before it’s back with a vengeance.

Not even his conversations with Soundwave help as much as he hoped- the cybertronian is so fascinating, not to mention an absolute delight to talk to once you get past his odd speech pattern, but the topics they discuss usually aren’t anything close to intimate. Cosmos would very much like to change that, learn more about the mech as a person but, well. He’s never quite sure how to broach the subject.

So he stays silent, keeping their talks to professional curiosity, while the chill in his soul grows day by day.

Sighing for the fifth time in as many minutes, Cosmos finally gives up on the book he was trying (and failing) to read, putting the tablet aside. He’d picked some highly reviewed romance novel, hoping it would help him feel- if not better, then feel something, at least. But to no avail. It’s not that the story is bad, or the characters boring, but watching the main leads hold each other close and whisper sweet nothings into their lover’s ear only succeeds in making him more miserable.

Today marks his third complete month on this mission, with three more still to go. Three months since he’s felt the warmth of another living being, since he’s seen another person face to face. It’s making his mind stray to some unfortunate places.

More and more, he finds himself reminiscing on his mum’s hugs, his old college roommate who’d huddle next to him on their tiny couch while they studied, and even the one crappy ex he’d had years ago. Horrible; yes, he knows, but sue him, he’s lonely. The man might have turned out pretty awful in the end, but he had been the perfect size for cuddles. Cosmos catches himself imagining the weight of him in his arms, dad’s arm around his shoulder or giant metal hands, holding him ever so gently in their palms- wait.

No, wait, what?

Cosmos blinks, rapidly shaking his head with a grimace because seriously, what even? That is- well, preposterous, really. Soundwave is a perfectly nice…alien, sure, but still, come on! Although, now that he thinks about it, he does imagine the mech would be quite warm, despite the metal of his plating, and- gah.

He really must be going mad up here.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he tries to force the beginnings of a flush away from his cheeks, only to flinch when the chime of an incoming message startles him from his embarrassing thoughts. And speak of the devil, here Soundwave is, and Cosmos wishes he was on Earth just so the ground could swallow him whole.

[Query: Cosmos status report?]

“Are you- asking about my data, or how I’m doing?” he says into the headset, puzzled. This is the first time Soundwave has contacted him unprompted, and he’s pretty sure he’d have no reason to be asking after Cosmos’ information. As far as he’s aware from their conversations, the mech is something of a master spy amongst their people, so why-

[Clarification: requesting report on Cosmos’ wellbeing.]

“Me? Oh, uh, I’m alright?” he says, still somewhat confused but also…a little pleased, perhaps. “Why do you ask?”

[Cosmos: displaying unusual behavior, showing signs of unease. Query: status report]

“Showing signs of- wait, you can see me?”

[Affirmative. Statement: camera present in monitor room accessible to Soundwave.]

…Today really isn’t his day, huh.

On one hand, it makes sense. Soundwave seems to have his eyes and ears everywhere, so why not on him as well? And it’s not a bad feeling, to know he cared enough to ask after his wellbeing.

On the other, if death from sheer mortification is at all possible, then Cosmos is a goner.

He knows the camera’s there, of course. Usually, he doesn’t even mind it; the knowledge that either some random worker, or more likely just an automated monitoring system, is keeping an eye on him doesn’t bother him at all. But knowing that Soundwave is watching? That Soundwave saw him, what? Moping for days on end, getting misty-eyed about cat videos and sci-fi novels, and blushing over the thought of getting the giant robot version of a hug?

God, somebody come put him out of his misery.

The console pings again, somehow louder than before, and Cosmos pulls his hands off of his tomato-red face to look. Another request for a status report stares back at him.

Shaking his embarrassment off to the best of his ability, Cosmos takes some time to consider his answer. He’s not sure just how much of his inner turmoil he wants to share with the mech. Then again, isn’t this what he’s been waiting for? A chance to get closer? And here Soundwave is, reaching out of his own volition, serving him this opportunity up on a silver platter.

“I- When you’re away from your people like this, is there someone you miss? Someone who’s waiting for you back home?”

 A momentary pause. Then, [Query: reason for question?]

Cosmos sighs. “It’s just- right, so. Humans, we’re a very social species, yes? We form very close relationships, both platonic and romantic.”

[Soundwave: aware.]

“Alright, good. The thing is, we don’t do very well when we’re alone,” which, understatement of the century, especially in his case. “Back in the day, an astronaut being sent to space alone would have been unimaginable. It would be against all sorts of protocol. However, we don’t really have any resources to spare nowadays, so here I am. And I’ve been… struggling a bit.”

No response is forthcoming, and the silence only drives Cosmos to ramble even faster. “it’s just- and it’s not even just me being alone up here. I can still interact with other people, but who can I really talk to? I mean. I haven’t kept in contact with old friends much, god forbid I ever speak to my ex again and the other watchmen… they’re alright, I guess? But we haven’t really clicked,” he says miserably, running both hands through his hair.

“Which just leaves my parents, really. And they’re wonderful, don’t get me wrong, they’ve always been supportive of me, but-“ he chuckles a little, “they have a corn farm, in Iowa. They love me, and I love them, but they don’t really get it. So…yeah. I guess you could say I’m feeling a little lonely.”

Still no response. Just when Cosmos is starting to regret ever opening his stupid mouth, an odd, metallic voice crackles through his headset.

“Their designations: Rumble and Frenzy, Ravage, Laserbeak - Symbionts. Megatron - oldest friend.”

Cosmos stares, eyes wide. Soundwave talks? Because- well, he honestly thought that maybe their kind, the Cybertronians, just, didn’t.  Or couldn’t. Guess he was wrong there. But, also-

“Symbionts?” he asks. He knows what the word means, of course, at least in an Earth context, but has no idea what to imagine when it comes to giant shapeshifting mecha.

“True meaning; difficult to describe in English. Closest approximation: dependents. Family.”

Family. Alien robots have family.

“And are they- alright?”

“Affirmative. Megatron- powerful, capable. Symbionts: on assignment, alive, in relative safety. However, they are-“ here, his headphones crackle slightly. It makes Cosmos think of a sigh. “-missed.”

And Cosmos’ heart melts. Because even in that somewhat flat, mechanical voice, he can hear the longing. The same longing which haunts him on lonely nights, turning his skin to ice. Soundwave understands.

Soundwave is alone out here too. Just like Cosmos.

“That’s,” he stumbles on his words, swallowing, “it’s good they’re alright. But… it still aches being away from them, doesn’t it?” he chuckles awkwardly. “At least, it does for me.”

Another crackly sigh. “Cosmos: correct. Cybertronians; Highly social species. Isolation…unpleasant.”

Cosmos sighs too, because- what else is there to add? For a few moments, they sit there in silence, some sort of solidarity stretching between them. Two lone souls, connected only by a mutual understanding and a microns-thin radio frequency. Then, Soundwave speaks.

“Cosmos: good conversation partner.” He says, before his voice suddenly changes. “Your company is appreciated.”

And oh, that sounded different. With most of the stiffness now gone out of the sound entirely, Soundwave’s voice is a smooth, deep baritone, only a faint metallic echo still audible when he speaks. That means something, right? It leaves Cosmos a little choked up, even as a small smile grows on his face.

“I’m glad,” he says softly, looking up at where he knows the camera is. “And, for what it’s worth- I enjoy our talks as well. I- well, it helps me too. A lot. So, thanks.”

“No thanks necessary,” comes from his headphones, still in that new voice. Soundwave’s real voice, he thinks. And- though he still misses his family, misses touch and people like an amputated limb, his heart feels warm for the first time in days.

Chapter Text

“Greetings, little watcher,” comes from his headphones, completely out of nowhere, and Cosmos nearly stumbles on the treadmill.

“Good morning, big watcher,” he teases back, and blames the beginning of a blush spreading across his face on the exercise.

A staticky crackle carries through the tiny speakers. “Designation: Soundwave.” says the mech firmly, and Cosmos can’t help but burst into laughter.

Things have been better lately. That first bit of honesty seems to have opened the floodgates, and Soundwave’s voice is now a near-constant companion in his ear. The mech still prefers texting or using his vocal modulator, but every now and then, Cosmos gets to hear the real him, and he treasures every instance accordingly. And if Soundwave’s smooth, almost melodic voice inspires some slightly embarrassing thoughts at times? Well, that’s nobody’s business but his own, really.

“Just returning the favor, Soundwave,” he says, putting emphasis on the name. “It’s only fair to have a nickname for you too, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Correction: greetings, Cosmos.”

Cosmos snorts. “Alright, alright, I see how it is. But I am going to find a nickname you like eventually, you know. Or, well- at least tolerate.”

“Negative,” comes over the speakers, deadpan as all get out. Cosmos just smiles again, shaking his head, before returning to his exercise.

Yeah, things are good.

“Waves.” Cosmos tries, impish grin on his face.

[Designation: Soundwave.]

“Soundy.”

[Negative.]

“Alright, alright,” he says between barely suppressed giggles. “Wavey?”

“No.”

“Sounders!”

The entire screen blacks out. “Wait, no, come back, I’m sorry-“

“Do your people have entertainment media? Books, movies, that sort of thing?”

[Affirmative,] appears on a mostly empty screen in front of him- it’s been a calm couple of days, the equipment not registering anything of import and leaving more than enough time for…well, whatever he wants, really. [Written works: currently most commonplace due to prolonged conflict. Holofilms available: old or amateurly produced.]

“Oh! Yeah, that makes sense. Hollywood has slowed down production as well, quite a bit in the past years.” Getting attacked and smashed to smithereens several times over hadn’t helped much. They’ve always recovered though, actors and writers refusing to give up their art, even if their budgets were cut down severely. “What do you like, then? How do you spend your free time?”

[Free time: rare commodity.] Soundwave writes, and he chuckles because right, fair enough. Head communications officer for an army at war, with four kind-of-not-really kids? That’s got to be busy.

Still, though. “I understand, but surely there’s something you enjoy? Got a favorite book, or a poem?”

“Soundwave: partial to music.” A pause. Then- “Would you like to hear some?”

The offer, along with Soundwave’s real voice, make Cosmos’ heart pick up the pace. Alien music! He’s about to hear real, actual music from another planet! Nodding, he turns to the camera behind him and gives the mech a giddy smile.

Soon enough, a gentle melody begins pouring out of his headphones, and- whatever he’s expected, it was not this. The song - or composition, more like - is alien, oddly complex and unbelievably beautiful.

There are no lyrics, he doesn’t think, but the interplay of different instruments still seems to tell a tale as the song progresses, changing and twisting on itself. It makes him think of two people, of a longing he finds so familiar, of warm clasped hands and stolen moments between the cold of melancholy. He sits in his chair, silent and entranced, as the melody goes through a crescendo, a painful conflict, before mellowing and fading out, like a peaceful embrace of two souls, now finally united for good.

When it’s all over, seconds or minutes or hours later, his vision is blurry with unshed tears. At the other end of the call, he could almost swear he feels Soundwave’s presence, watching him, sharing this moment with him.

Cosmos feels warm.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the receiver, wiping at his eyes but smiling, and he feels more than hears Soundwave’s answering hum. “Could you play it again?” he asks after a few minutes, and when the melody fills his ears once more, he simply closes his eyes and lets himself be carried away.

“I forgot to ask before, but was that Cybertronian music?”

“Negative,” comes through his headphones. “Composition: created by organic species.”

“Oh!” he wasn’t really expecting that, but then again, maybe it should have. it didn’t sound very, ah, mechanical? “Do you have any more from the composer? Or at least the same people?”

“Soundwave: in possession of one more unfinished melody from composer. Cosmos: interested in listening?”

“Gladly. Why was it not finished, though, do you know? Did something happen to the composer?”

“Affirmative. Species: nearly eradicated by quintesson forces. Creator of piece: deceased.”

Oh. That’s- he doesn’t know what to say. He’d never really given much thought to how other species might have fared against the invasion. Or that they might have actually lost.

“I’d still like to hear it, I think,” he says quietly. There’s nothing he can do for them now, for these aliens he’d never even met, but- he can remember them, at least. Keep a tiny piece of them alive through this.

As the new melody surrounds him with its unearthly tones, Cosmos wonders what Soundwave would keep of humans, if they lose this fight. What Soundwave would keep of him.

It dwells on his mind for weeks after, filling his empty hours with maudlin thoughts. He knows by now how unbelievably long a cybertronian’s life is, that his own lifespan is but a speck of dust by comparison, but still. Would the mech keep his face in his memory banks, or the human music playlist he’d made for him? Would he carry a piece of Cosmos with him into the distant stars, keep him close to his spark, or would all they shared be forgotten?

How much does this - whatever they have - matter?

Because it matters to Cosmos. He’s not sure when that happened, but his fascination with the alien mech and enjoyment of his company became- more. Much more. Now, when his soul aches for the presence of another person, it’s not his friends on earth he imagines being held by, or his parents. It’s large silver servos, careful and precise. it’s staring up at a glowing red visor and watching the sun gleam of grey and blue plating. It’s just- Soundwave.

And, well. What is he supposed to do with that?

He knows Soundwave likes him, yes. Enjoys his company, sure, he wouldn’t bother talking with him so frequently otherwise. But is there more to it? Soundwave is a hard person to read, especially with their only method of communication being text and radio. Cosmos had no way to know if he’s like a- a pleasant coworker to the mech, or a true companion, someone actually important.

He doesn’t know, but by god does he hope.

The song they’re listening to comes to an end, bringing Cosmos out of his thoughts. And, yeah, that’s something they do now, listen to music together, looking for things the other might enjoy. That’s… that could mean something, right? Only people who actually care about each other do that, no?

A surprisingly loud, staticky hiss sounds in his ears all of a sudden, and Cosmos flinches. “Soundwave, what-“

“Lost light: arrival impending.”

“Wh- really? When?”

“ETA: thirteen hours local time.”

Oh.

Of course.

It’s just- over the past two months, he’d somehow managed to completely forget about incoming the ship. He’d been so focused on his growing relationship with Soundwave that the knowledge of why the mech was actually here slipped his mind. Now, with reality of the situation staring him in the face, a jittery sort of dread fills his heart.

“Soundwave,” he says, wringing his hands in his lap, “how’s- what’s going to happen now?”

“Negotiation: will begin with human governments. Jazz: will be returned home, accompanied by Prowl.”

This is the first time he’s hearing of this Prowl person, and he will ask later, but- “And what about you? What will you do now?”

“Soundwave: will remain on Earth, join negotiation process.” There’s a pause, then- “I do not wish to cease our interactions, even once my work here is done. If you call, I will always listen, friend Cosmos.”

And- it’s a relief, hearing that. A huge weight falls off of Cosmos’ shoulders, joy making his heart beat overtime, however- things will undeniably change now. Their mostly quiet, familiar routine won’t last once first contact begins in earnest, and they’ll both be busy with their respective work. He’s delighted to hear he won’t lose Soundwave’s voice in his ear, but-

His stay at the station ends in less than two weeks. He won’t get to actually see Soundwave, most likely, not again. Won’t ever be this close to him again, not in person. And that’s- he thinks of the emergency repair space suit shoved in the storage compartment, of the ticking clock, and makes a decision.

“Soundwave? You said you edited yourself out of footage in real time, when you first arrived here, right? Could you do it again?”

“Affirmative. Query: reason for question?”

“I just- there’s something I need to do.”

He approaches the station, gliding through the vacuum of space with ease. It’s a tiny thing, as many earth things are- barely bigger than him in root mode. He’s once again reminded of an earth saying, stating that good things come in small packages, and though he’s not fully certain of its original, intended meaning, he finds himself agreeing nonetheless.

Watching the precious, fragile little person climbing out of the hatch with anxious, unpracticed motions, it feels truer than ever before.

The man’s suit is a colorful thing, yellow and green with red accents, his head surrounded by a fragile looking bubble of glass, protecting him from certain death in the cold, airless void. His hair is a bright, cheerful red as well, only outshined by the force of his smile as pushes off the hull of the station and into Soundwave’s waiting servos.

“Hello, little watcher,” he says, leaving the vocoder off and letting his true voice sound through the suit’s speakers.

Somehow, the human’s smile grows wider, and Soundwave feels his spark pulse with fondness. “Hello, Soundwave,” he says softly, blinking up at him with a combination of awe and unbridled joy. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

If it’s anything like what he feels, Soundwave thinks as he brings the man closer, gently pressing his forehelm to the top of Cosmos’ helmet, then he can probably imagine.