Chapter Text
The silence of Antarctica was absolute, the kind of hush that buried even time. The world there was ice and wind, brittle and endless, where white met blue and vanished into grey. But beneath that cold silence, something ancient stirred.
The Autobots had intercepted a signal. It was weak—barely a whisper through their long-range sensors—but unmistakably Cybertronian. The source was buried deep beneath the Antarctic ice, encoded with a very old signature that only one being on Earth still recognized.
Ratchet had scanned the data a dozen times before he dared believe it. “Optimus,” he said, voice reverent and hushed even for him. “This isn’t just any signal. This is Jetfire.”
Optimus Prime, standing tall in the command center, turned slowly. “Jetfire… The seeker who vanished before the Exodus?”
“Presumed dead,” Ratchet murmured. “But if this signal’s correct… he’s been here, on Earth, for a very, very long time.”
“Then we owe it to him to find out,” Prime said. “Prepare a recovery team. We leave immediately.”
It took hours of flying across the frozen expanse before the Autobots found the place. The ice shelf was cracked from a recent tremor. A massive shard of glacial wall had fallen, revealing something that didn’t belong.
A figure lay embedded in the cliffside. Massive, silver and blue, with one wing torn and a deep scar across his chestplate, half-fused to the ice. He looked like a relic—an ancient statue frozen in place—but when Ratchet scanned him, the signal was there. Faint. Weak. But still alive.
They worked tirelessly to excavate him, careful not to damage his systems further. Bulkhead handled most of the lifting, Bumblebee melted the denser ice, and Ratchet kept constant watch on the frozen mech’s vitals.
Jetfire.
His name alone carried a weight none of them fully understood, except maybe Optimus. He had been one of the most brilliant minds of Cybertron’s old science division, a seeker who rejected war—one who vanished before either faction could claim him. Some said he fled. Others whispered he was captured. But the truth had been buried for eons… until now.
They brought him back to base with reverence, placing his stasis-locked frame in the medbay. Ratchet worked on him for days—repairing old damage, revitalizing dormant systems, warming his cold core spark inch by inch.
And then, one quiet night, as snow fell gently outside and the base lights dimmed to low cycle, Jetfire stirred.
It began with a flicker behind his visor. Then, the slow rotation of his fingers curling into his palm. Ratchet stood frozen, unsure whether to speak.
Jetfire’s optics brightened.
His voice, when it came, was a rasp of metal grinding against memory. “Where… am I?”
“You’re safe,” Ratchet said quickly, stepping closer. “You’re on Earth. Autobot base. Do you remember anything?”
Jetfire’s optics flickered again, then narrowed. “Earth?” He blinked, and his HUD rebooted—years of backlog streaming across his vision in a flood of data he couldn’t process fast enough.
Alerts.
Files.
Messages.
Hundreds. No—thousands.
And every single one was labeled with the same name.
Starscream.
Jetfire froze. His core spiked with energy, then dropped as realization settled over him like the ice he’d just left behind. He sat up abruptly, ignoring Ratchet’s protest.
His voice trembled. “Where is he?”
Ratchet hesitated. “Starscream? He’s… a Decepticon.”
Jetfire closed his optics. “Of course he is.”
He spent the next several days in silence, recovering in the medbay, but his processor was elsewhere. He didn’t speak unless necessary. He didn’t eat or rest more than required. Because his every moment was consumed by the messages.
One by one, he opened them.
They began millennia ago, a voice crackling through the void of space, tentative at first. “Jetfire… if you’re out there… I’m still looking.”
Every day, a new message. Some were brief—updates, battlefield reports, news from Cybertron. Others were longer, stories of victories and losses, of betrayals and desperate choices. Starscream had once been a scientist like him. They had studied together, challenged each other, flown together—bonded by intellect and ambition.
But Jetfire had always been more than a rival to him. And somewhere in those messages, that truth began to bleed through.
“…They said I betrayed everything I stood for, joining Megatron. But what do they know? The Council left me for scrap. The Autobots ignored me. I had nowhere else to go.”
“…Knock Out is amusing, if self-absorbed. Soundwave never speaks, but I think he listens. They’re not friends, not really. But they haven’t tried to kill me. That’s something.”
“…It’s been centuries. I keep broadcasting, even though I know you’ll never answer. Maybe that’s what makes it easier. Pretending you’re just… busy. Not lost. Not dead.”
“…I miss you. Primus, I sound pathetic. I hated you, once. For leaving. For not taking me with you. But it wasn’t hate, was it?”
“…I think I loved you.”
Jetfire sat in the dark for hours, listening. And with every word, his spark twisted tighter.
He learned of Starscream’s rise and fall. How he clawed his way into Megatron’s ranks, only to be humiliated time and time again. He heard about Airachnid, about Skyquake, about the endless war that chewed up the old world and spit it out in blood and ash.
But through it all, one thing remained unchanged.
Starscream never stopped looking for him.
Not once.
By the fifth day, Jetfire stood at the entrance of the groundbridge chamber, repaired and fully functional.
“Jetfire,” Optimus said from behind him, voice like granite. “You are not yet ready for combat.”
“I’m not going to fight,” Jetfire replied, calm but unshakable. “I’m going to him.”
“Starscream is dangerous.”
Jetfire turned, his expression unreadable. “So is love.”
Optimus said nothing more. He couldn’t. Not when he saw the look in Jetfire’s optics—the kind of look that only someone who had waited thousands of years to say a single word could carry.
The groundbridge swirled open.
A battlefield raged on the other side—Autobots and Decepticons clashing in the ruins of a human city. Jetfire saw the blast fire, the smoke, the destruction… and then he saw him.
Starscream.
Hovering above the wreckage, issuing orders, graceful as ever even in war. He turned his head at the sound of the portal, optics narrowing as Jetfire stepped through.
For a moment, time collapsed.
Starscream froze.
His wings dropped. His mouth parted slightly. He blinked, and his entire frame locked in disbelief.
“Jetfire…?” he whispered.
And then Jetfire was in front of him, arms around him in one fluid motion, pulling him into an embrace.
Starscream stiffened—then collapsed into it. His hands clutched Jetfire’s back, desperate, trembling. His wings shuddered, folding tightly.
“I thought you were dead,” Starscream choked. “I thought I was imagining you again—like I did in the mines, in the cell, in the warzones—everywhere—”
“I’m here,” Jetfire whispered. “I’m real.”
Starscream clung to him like a lifeline, optics squeezed shut as sobs began to rack his frame. Millennia of loss poured out of him in seconds—centuries of bitterness, heartbreak, pride and hope.
“I waited,” he gasped. “I waited so long—I sent every message—I thought—Primus, Jetfire—I loved you—I love you—”
“I know,” Jetfire murmured, stroking the back of his helm. “I heard every word.”
Starscream broke.
He cried openly, with none of his usual vanity or restraint. On that battlefield, in the middle of chaos, Starscream showed his weakness for the first time in millennia—because Jetfire was the only one who had ever been worth it.
And Jetfire held him like he had never let go.
Because, in truth, he never had.
The silence after the reunion was not peace. It was a void.
Starscream hadn’t spoken a word since the battle ended, not even after Jetfire had pulled him into a trembling embrace. The seeker stood in the war-torn field, wings drooping, trembling with the unbearable weight of everything he’d repressed for millennia. He still held onto Jetfire, as if letting go would snap the illusion.
Jetfire had collapsed against him, armor scratched and singed from the crash-landing through the space bridge. His breath came in sharp, mechanical gasps, but he didn’t move either. He merely held Starscream tighter.
The Autobots had frozen at the sight. Even Optimus Prime hadn’t known how to respond. But now, they waited no longer.
“Jetfire,” Optimus said gently, stepping forward. “You’re injured.”
Jetfire slowly turned his head, optics burning bright and fierce. “Then why does it feel like Starscream is the one bleeding?”
Optimus said nothing, but his expression softened.
Ratchet arrived with the medical crew, urging Jetfire to come with them. “You’re running low on energon, Jetfire. We need to stabilize you before anything else.”
Starscream finally released him, slowly, hesitantly—as if afraid the moment would vanish like smoke. His claws lingered over Jetfire’s arm before pulling away completely.
“I’ll come,” Jetfire rasped. “But only if he stays with me.”
Ratchet’s mouth opened to protest, but Optimus lifted a hand. “He may stay.”
Starscream stared at the Prime. “I’m still a Decepticon, remember?”
“You’re someone Jetfire risked everything to reach. That’s reason enough.”
The medical bay was dim, quiet except for the soft hum of energon transfusions and the occasional beep of monitors. Jetfire lay on a berth, cables running into his side, while Starscream sat beside him, knees drawn to his chest like a child lost in the dark.
“You never stopped,” Jetfire whispered.
Starscream didn’t answer.
“You sent a message every day. For millennia.”
Still nothing.
Jetfire turned his head, his optics dimmed but alert. “Do you know what that means to someone who just woke up after thousands of years?”
Starscream’s voice was hoarse. “No. Because I never expected you to hear them.”
Jetfire reached out, fingers brushing Starscream’s hand. “But I did.”
That cracked something open.
Starscream flinched like he’d been struck. He shook his head, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Jetfire waited, his spark aching for the Seeker beside him.
Finally, Starscream found his voice.
“I thought I was losing my mind. Every year that passed, every solar cycle I sent another message, it felt like cutting open the same wound again and again. I told myself it was for closure. That it was... a habit.”
His optics turned toward Jetfire. “But it was never that.”
Jetfire’s spark trembled.
“You were the only thing that made sense before the war. Before the Decepticons. Before the betrayal of Cybertron’s high council. You were the only one I ever truly trusted.”
“And then you were gone.”
Starscream’s voice cracked. “And I couldn’t handle it.”
He covered his face with a clawed hand. “So I joined Megatron. I swore I’d change the system, burn the injustice to the ground. But it wasn’t that, not really. It was just... pain. Rage. And fear. I thought you were dead. And I let it twist me.”
Jetfire closed his eyes. “But I never stopped believing in you.”
Starscream looked at him, raw. “Even after everything I’ve done?”
“You never hid your pain from me. Not in the messages. Not now.”
Starscream stared at the floor. “You weren’t supposed to hear those words. Not the way I said them. I spoke to ghosts, Jetfire. I spoke to your absence.”
Jetfire smiled faintly. “Then let’s turn absence into presence.”
For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the air filled with grief, affection, and something older than both—something sacred. The past didn't vanish, but it stood beside them, no longer separating them.
Until the door hissed open.
Optimus Prime stepped inside, his gaze immediately locking onto Starscream. The Autobots were cautious, unsure how to feel with a Decepticon in their midst, especially one who had been a key figure in their greatest struggles. Optimus hesitated but then nodded.
“We’ve... discussed it, Starscream,” Optimus began, his tone even but laced with tension. “For now, you’re under our protection. The war’s tides have shifted. And so have we.”
Starscream flinched, his optics narrowing. “Protection?” he repeated, as if the word had poisoned his tongue. “And I suppose you expect me to just—what? Walk in, stay out of your way, and pretend that everything’s fine?”
Optimus’ optics softened, though the hint of caution remained. “I’m not asking you to forget who you were. Just that you stay here, until we can sort things out. There are... many things we need to discuss, especially with the others.”
Jetfire reached out, his hand brushing Starscream’s arm. “I’ll stay with him.”
Optimus nodded slowly. “You’ll stay, Jetfire. But you need to rest. Your injuries—”
“I’m fine,” Jetfire cut him off. “I’ve been through worse. I’ll rest when this is over.” His voice was firm but soft, enough to indicate a lingering exhaustion.
Starscream turned his gaze to Jetfire, his heart heavy with guilt. He had caused so much pain. He had abandoned the one mech who would have stood by him, the one mech who believed in him. And yet, here Jetfire was—offering him solace again.
“Don’t worry,” Jetfire added softly. “I’m here.”
Starscream nodded, though the weight of everything that had passed, everything that was still uncertain, threatened to crush him.
In the following days, the base remained on edge. The Autobots, cautious and silent, spoke little of Starscream’s presence. They watched him from afar, eyes narrowed, wondering what his motives were, and whether they could truly trust him. Ratchet remained skeptical, preferring to stay busy in the medical bay, while Bumblebee and Arcee exchanged cautious glances.
Starscream stayed close to Jetfire, unwilling to leave his side, as though tethered by an invisible cord. He rarely spoke unless directly addressed, and even then, his voice was often distant, cold. But the message was clear: he wasn’t going anywhere, not until he could make things right.
The Autobots didn’t say it aloud, but the thought was there, lingering in the air with every tense exchange: could they trust him? Would they be able to?
Jetfire, though, remained steadfast. He understood the struggle inside Starscream, understood the pain he carried. And as much as Starscream pushed away his feelings, as much as he kept to himself, Jetfire couldn’t help but wonder if this was their chance. A chance to rebuild the bridges that had burned so long ago.
Starscream wasn’t a monster. He never had been. He had only been a broken mech, trying to find his way in a world that had left him behind.
Starscream and Jetfire spent a great deal of time together, but the tension between them remained thick. The Autobot base had become a place of strained interactions, where old alliances and new alliances mingled awkwardly.
But Jetfire remained hopeful. As long as Starscream was there, there was a possibility of something more.
Late one evening, Jetfire found Starscream standing alone on the rooftop, staring out at the horizon. The moonlight glinted off the Seeker’s battered frame, casting long shadows across the floor.
“Starscream,” Jetfire said softly, approaching cautiously.
Starscream didn’t turn around, but his wings twitched, the only sign that he’d heard. “I used to fly to forget. Now it only makes me remember.”
Jetfire stepped closer, careful not to startle him. “What do you remember?”
Starscream was silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, almost hollow. “I remember the day I found your sled. Burned. Shattered. With your name still etched on the side.”
Jetfire closed his optics, pain flashing across his face. “I left it behind on purpose.”
Starscream’s voice cracked. “Why?”
“So you’d have something to find.”
Starscream looked at him, his expression a mixture of sorrow and longing. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.
“I needed you to know,” Jetfire whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of years spent apart. “That even in stasis, I was thinking of you.”
Starscream took a trembling step forward, and their eyes met. His optics were filled with something raw—something unspoken.
“I’ve loved you since the first time we raced above Iacon’s spires,” Starscream whispered, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t know how to say it back then. And after you were gone, all I had left was guilt.”
Jetfire closed the distance between them, his optics searching Starscream’s, the answer already written in his heart.
“Say it now,” Jetfire said softly, his voice breaking.
Starscream leaned in, his words a whisper lost in the wind.
“I love you.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But the words carried a weight so heavy, so pure, that for the first time in millennia, they both felt it: the truth of it, raw and undeniable.
Starscream leaned into Jetfire, his arms trembling as he pulled him close. And there, amidst the stars above them, amidst the fractured world they had both fought to rebuild, they finally found each other again.
Even if only for a moment.
And in that moment, everything else faded away.