Chapter Text
Soundwave does not speak.
He observes. Records. Endures.
And in the stillness of static and silence, he loves.
It is not the sharp, all-consuming blaze that Megatron carries for Starscream—no, that fire devours, scars, demands obedience wrapped in ownership. Soundwave’s is something colder, older, slow like glacier drift. A quiet ache buried deep beneath wires and logic, entombed behind his mirrored faceplate where no one can see.
Not even Starscream.
Especially not Starscream.
He watches him dance through the corridors of the Nemesis—sharp, graceful, dressed like the storm that named him. That trailing red cape, those restless hands, the voice always teetering between arrogance and desperation. Starscream does not see the way Soundwave’s visor flickers when he passes. Does not notice the slight shift of stance, the way Soundwave always finds a reason to be near.
He sees only Megatron.
And Megatron wants. Oh, how he wants.
Soundwave knows the signs. The clenched servo, the narrowed optics. The nights Megatron summons Starscream not for punishment, but presence. Soundwave never listens in—he doesn't have to. The data alone speaks volumes: longer visits, softer tones, the fact that Starscream still walks afterward.
It’s not affection. Not really.
But it’s enough to keep Starscream tethered. Enough to burn Soundwave from the inside out.
Because Soundwave could give him gentleness.
Could give him quiet understanding instead of brutality.
But Megatron has the power. And Starscream—Starscream craves power like a dying mech craves energon.
So Soundwave says nothing.
He documents Starscream’s brilliance, his failures, his flights of treason and trembling returns. He hides the footage of Starscream curled alone in the empty hangar, whispering apologies to no one. He archives the moment Starscream staggered into the medbay, bleeding from Megatron’s fury, and still defended him.
“Lord Megatron did what he had to,” Starscream rasped, wings drooping, ego cracked but not shattered.
And Soundwave did not speak. Did not reach out. Did not drag him away from this ship and into safety, where no one could hurt him.
Because to do that would mean taking.
And Soundwave will never take what Starscream will not give.
Instead, he dreams. And in his dreams, Starscream turns.
He turns and sees Soundwave standing behind him like always—not as a shadow, not as a weapon, but as someone. In his dreams, Starscream touches his faceplate with reverence, not revulsion. In his dreams, he leans in.
And whispers Soundwave’s name.
Not Megatron’s.
Never Megatron’s.
But Soundwave’s dreams dissolve like mist when morning comes. The reality returns, cold and metallic, humming with the Decepticons’ cruel march forward.
Starscream wakes beside a warlord who will never love him the way he deserves.
And Soundwave watches—silent, unseen, unwanted.
But still there.
Always there.
The bruises don’t show through armor.
But Soundwave sees them.
He sees the stuttering in Starscream’s gait. The jitter in his talons when he thinks no one is watching. The stiffness in his wings, always half-raised, like a creature cornered one too many times.
Megatron calls it “discipline.”
Starscream calls it “loyalty.”
Soundwave calls it familiar.
He has seen this before. In a different time, a different war. The way someone can break without ever shattering. How a mind fractures when you keep it too close to fire for too long.
Starscream still walks. Still shouts. Still clings to pride like a lifeline.
But he is slipping.
Tonight, it’s worse.
Soundwave watches from the shadows of the bridge. Starscream has just returned from another private meeting with Megatron. The warlord’s temper has been volatile of late, fraying with pressure and paranoia. And Starscream—so clever, so defiant—always tests the limits.
He stumbles.
His claw catches on the edge of a console. It’s minor. Nothing anyone else would care about.
But Soundwave sees him bite down on a cry.
The air is thick with ozone. Soundwave senses the weight in Starscream’s frame—the way it trembles ever so slightly, then stiffens. The performance begins again: head held high, wings adjusted, stride firm.
But Soundwave moves. Not with orders. Not with logic.
He moves because.
He intercepts Starscream in the corridor.
The Seeker startles. “W-what?” His voice cracks. “What do you want, Soundwave? Come to tattle again? Or are you—?”
Soundwave raises a hand.
Silence stretches between them.
Not oppressive, but careful. Protective.
His hand doesn’t touch—but hovers. Near Starscream’s arm. A gesture of offering. An anchor.
Starscream looks at it like it’s a bomb.
“What is this?” he asks, softer now. There’s no one around. No audience to impress.
Soundwave tilts his helm. The screen on his face flashes.
For a moment, it’s not data. Not footage.
It’s Starscream. A still frame, just him sitting in the observation deck weeks ago, alone, looking out at the stars. His wings drooped, mouth half-parted in something that might’ve been a sigh.
Starscream stares.
Soundwave shifts the image.
Another one. From a week ago. Starscream, standing defiant on the bridge, back to Megatron, hands clenched.
Then another. A split second from battle—Starscream saving a Vehicon, taking a hit, snarling something about “idiots who don’t know how to dodge.”
Then another. Starscream asleep. Slumped in a chair. Vulnerable.
And one more.
Starscream laughing.
It’s faint. Barely caught. A flicker of a moment. But it’s real. And Soundwave had saved it.
“You’ve been... watching me.” Starscream’s voice isn’t accusing now. It’s uncertain. Quiet.
Soundwave nods once.
“Why?”
And here... Soundwave hesitates.
The screen goes dark. A low static hum buzzes from him. Something rising, fractured—years of silence pressed behind a dam that cannot hold anymore.
“Because,” a distorted voice says, low and cracked from disuse, “you matter.”
Starscream flinches.
The word echoes.
“You... speak,” he whispers. “You—spoke.”
Soundwave nods again.
Starscream sways slightly. The silence between them isn't cold this time. It’s trembling, electric.
“No one’s ever said that to me,” he says after a moment. “Not like that.”
Soundwave wants to say more.
But he can’t—not yet. So instead, he projects something else.
A small file.
Not surveillance.
A recording.
Starscream’s voice, months ago, muttering into empty air in the lower decks: "If someone ever really saw me... maybe I wouldn’t be so damn alone."
Starscream stares at it in horror. “You—!”
Soundwave steps closer.
“You are not alone,” he says, voice barely more than a broken signal, but it lands like thunder.
And Starscream—wounded, bitter, proud Starscream—breaks.
He leans forward. Not quite a collapse. Not quite a surrender. But a tremble, a pause.
He leans his helm against Soundwave’s chest.
And Soundwave catches him.
No claims. No ownership.
Just presence.
Just sound and silence and the soft hum of frequencies long denied, now beginning to align.