Show me your horsepower.

Ulysses has no way of knowing it, but he’s in good company. Petri -- or Petrichor as the old people in town started calling him, and he didn’t hate it enough to fight it -- has woken from at least three dreams of being bent over that greenhouse table, one hand attempting to steady the plants while the other claws rivets in the dirt covered surface.

There’s a reason he takes such long showers.

Starscream is thankful Knock Out trusts him enough to pick a more secluded area for their little “tea party” this time. Mostly because he stole a precious artifact to share with him: a shimmering vial of premium Kaonite high grade.

He wouldn’t dare keep such a thing from his new friend.

Knock Out most certainly does trust Starscream enough to pick a more secluded location. He’s so trusting that he leaves his coordinates with Breakdown, and a coded phrase in case things go wrong. Same coded phrase they used back in the good old days.

He’d never dream of staying away, though. He loves a surprise, especially when it comes coupled with a euphemism.

twistedlittlemind:

Starscream hasn’t been this excited for Energon in nearly a giga-cycle. He watches the drone go with a smile, tapping his dark claws as he eyes some of the other patrons enjoying their drinks.

Knock Out’s voice draws him back and he proudly presents his leg by shifting his position.

“I knew you could be trusted,” he says, showing off the healing plating. Maybe not perfect, but he’d made sure to take care of it. “Good as new. Well…you know what I mean.”

He shrugs, testing the waters with acknowledging the Predacon in the room. But maybe not quite fully yet.

Knock Out looks over his dining companion’s leg, surveying it as best a glance allows for signs of rust, rejected meshing, or hints that Starscream’s been picking at it. Finding none of the above, he gives a satisfied nod.

"I do take a few things seriously, on occasion.” So many proverbial Predacons in the room, it’s hard to know where to begin stepping around them. “Keep clear of anything that punctures bots for the fun of it and it really will heal as good as new.”

twistedlittlemind:

Starscream follows with a smile, servos clasped behind his back.

This establishment is impressive. In the years that they’ve terraformed Earth, this New Cybertron has had time to not only work on rebuilding, but to bring a bit of luxury back into daily life.

Envy will crawl up his spine when he returns to his dark, damp home.

But for now, he’s here for a good time.

He happily takes the seat across from the medic and they’re shown a very posh menu. His tank practically chokes in anticipation.

“It is brunch, after all,” he agrees with a drawl, gesturing at Knock Out and the drone. “I trust your taste is fashionable across all timelines. I’ll have whatever you have.”

“Living dangerously, I see. I like to carry a few deeply unfashionable tastes in my subspace at all times.” For their purposes, however, he orders something relatively classy. “Two Abraxan sunrises.”

The drone flashes their order across its screen to confirm, chirping brightly as it zips away. Searching for a conversation starter that doesn’t involve the war or either of their respective universes, Knock Out idly traces a crisp new seam on the table with the tip of a claw.

“So, how’s the leg holding up?”

i-remain-unconvinced:

Under his cloak, Ulysses had somehow managed to strap other essentials over his shirt. A leather pouch safely conceals his razor and other items. When in hiding, he often switches between growing his beard and shaving it completely.

His right sleeve is empty, with only what’s left of his scarred, cursed bicep peeking out. He unclips a few items from himself and gathers up his dirty cloak, nodding in silent thanks.

The ivy plant is easy enough to spot. Once he’s by the basin, he strips down and tosses the rest of his clothes to the side. He’ll wash them after. Will he even fit in there? It’ll be tight. The water heats just as the old man said and he kneels, nude, to check the temperature with his hand.

“If there are any bloodhounds in this town, you’re going to want to cook plenty of meat,” he calls out before lowering, carefully and awkwardly into the basin.

Gods… How long has it been since he felt warmth like this? He’s lucky winter didn’t come early, but he’s been living cold and dirty for so long.

He lets out a long, long sigh and closes his eyes. He’ll do the actual washing… as soon as he’s enjoyed this enough.

Foxwort is the herb the botanist ultimately settles on, so named for its ability to completely cloak the smells of runaway foxes. Sometimes the simplest answer really is the correct one and he keeps several vials of it on hand to disguise the scents of his food caches when he’s out camping. A few rings around the yard and it doesn’t matter how strongly his impromptu houseguest smells.

At least, it won’t as long as the guards don’t come knocking. But one thing at a time.

When he returns to the house, the steam of the bathwater is in the air, and like a thief in the night -- like the very namesake of the herb that’s keeping the bloodhounds at bay -- the thought of the stranger’s bare, wet muscles noses around the corner of his brain. His hair plastered soaking, the scars on his bicep. He shoos it away as quickly as it comes and clears a few things around the kitchen, focusing on the issue of the guards, what their options might be if they ever come around.

Hell if he’s got a solution, but the sooner Ulysses is safe and on his way, the sooner they can both go on with their lives.

asideofhighgloss:

It’s not a healthy look by any measure, not a healthy burst of energy – and Knock Out’s intimately familiar with things that give you unhealthy bursts of energy – but he’s not here to doctor Starscream. Not today, anyway.

“All too well,” he replies. “You’d think the end of the war would bring more relaxing times, but here we are.”

Starscream knows he stands out in Vos. Honestly, he likes the attention.

“Good thing we planned this little date then,” he says with a teasing smile. “A day away does the spark some good. Isn’t that right, doctor?”

He takes a moment to look around. Vos is lost to his timeline. Starscream knows he’ll never see his again. Being here really does do something to his inner processes. Memory files flicker, familiar yet different in this universe.

“Shall we?” he finally asks, bowing his helm slightly as if to tell the medic he’s following his lead.

Knock Out can only imagine what's going through Starscream's mind as he looks around the city that's grown up out of Vos's ashes. He knows he, personally, can't come to this place without feeling the bittersweetness of it all nibble on his spark. This sea of construction and newly assembled towers inching hungrily toward the sky might be promising, but it will never be the Vos he remembers.

"Let's shall."

He ushers them into the building, the aroma of freshly poured energon hanging thick and deliberate over the new-building scents of paint and metal. There are several bots already seated, mostly Seekers eagerly recapping the night before, although there are a few rough looking members of one of the construction teams congregting around a single table. Knock Out pretends to pay it no notice when they glance in Starscream's direction.

He manages to snatch up his favorite seat near the window -- the one with the best view of the street, where any drama on display is both visible and extremely audible. In very little time at all, a drone sporting the same warm, approachable color scheme as the rest of the interior hovers up to them, screen lighting up with their menu options.

"I don't know about you, but I'm having something stronger than standard-grade."

Starscream’s entrance is much different this time. He exits the portal in alt-mode, pointing nose straight to the sky. Mid-air, he shifts out and lands skillfully and loudly on his heeled pedes.

He doesn’t hide from the light, but basks in it. Though his plating is still dark and rough around the edges, he has an energetic glow to him that he didn’t have before. And it’s not just his pink-colored optics.

“Apologies for the delay,” Starscream says as he approaches, brushing particles from his arm. “Hard to get away from work. You know how it is.”

It’s not a healthy look by any measure, not a healthy burst of energy -- and Knock Out’s intimately familiar with things that give you unhealthy bursts of energy -- but he’s not here to doctor Starscream. Not today, anyway.

“All too well,” he replies. “You’d think the end of the war would bring more relaxing times, but here we are.”

twistedlittlemind:

As anticipated, his wound has been taken care of expertly. But he can’t go this route forever. He’s going to have to think of other ways to get the medic’s attention…

No notifications on his HUD. He still has time. Starscream doesn’t get up right away, using the opportunity to gaze up at Knock Out with a glint in his optic.

“I may not have flavorful minerals or supplies to trade…” he begins, shifting his legs, pelvic plating flashing under the light. Though not as brightly as it would if he were buffed and polished.

“But perhaps I can offer some manual labor in exchange for your time.”

Packing in his med-kit, Knock Out simply smiles.

A bone-dry, bittersweet smile.

“Non-flavorful minerals will also suffice.”

twistedlittlemind:

The Seeker doesn’t realize he’s smiling. How long has it been since he had a normal conversation with a Knock Out? Since he got to be annoyed but amused at his strange hobbies and peculiar way of speaking? Instead of listening to him ramble about torturing clones in place of exacting revenge on Wheeljack for destroying his faceplate.

He scoffs, sick of Insecticons and their hives. “I’d give my wings to never see their disgusting dripping mandibles ever again.”

Starscream continues switching between watching the medic tend to him and nosily observing bots packing or enjoying cubes. When the healthy blue glow makes his tank hurt, he stops looking.

“I intend on paying you for your services, Knock Out,” he says quietly, as a group of bots pass. “Whether you agree to it or not.”

It’s a smile that doesn’t escape Knock Out’s attention -- a smile the likes of which he last saw seven years ago, in the final moments before Starscream flew up and away into the glorious reds that were calling to him, and out of their lives for good. He lasts perhaps four seconds before he has to look away.

When he rises again, Starscream’s leg sufficiently mended, the clamor of the depot isn’t so loud that he misses the softness of the Seeker’s reply.

“Who’s turning down a payment? Certainly not me.”

twistedlittlemind:

Starscream looks at the medic as he talks, amused. “You mean to tell me that even with Cybertron functioning, you’re still running off to Earth for your little street races?”

He still can’t understand what kind of joy the medic gets out of such a thing, unless he’s running humans over and awarding himself points. But it does make him curious. If he’s still doing that, then someone must be letting him. If he’s free to meet with Starscream here to deal with a wound, what other freedoms does he have?

The Seeker looks down at Knock Out’s work.

“They’re lucky I didn’t blast their helms off,” he vocalizes, curling his claws and turning his arm to admire the missile on his arm. “But they hardly deserve a painless death.”

“Natürlich! Cybertron is, fingers crossed, forever...the human street racing scene isn’t.”

Knock Out carries on finishing up the last remnants of his task, fastening down the edges of the mesh to Starscream’s dark, sickly plating. Even being in his field is enough to prick at the edges of Knock Out’s brainpan, sending up the ghosts of alarm bells...it’s how he imagines a prey animal must feel stepping out of its burrow, no immediate danger in sight yet, but the possibility of it impossible not to know.

"You should see the hive they’ve built beneath our Hydrax. It’s grown to the point where they effectively own what’s left of the city, and we’ve all given up on ever getting it back.”

twistedlittlemind:

The Seeker gets comfortable, spreading his legs with the opposite knee bent for balance.

While he waits, he takes another moment to look around. Plenty of busy bots, with the worst conflict being a disagreement about order processing. He watches a ship take off into the night. And what a nice night it is, even if he can’t see the stars. The atmosphere here isn’t perfect, but it’s still cooling to his inflamed vents. He ventilates, enjoying the feeling.

“I hope I haven’t disrupted your plans for the evening,” he says under the rumble of air.

“Look at it this way. You spared the fleshlings of Warsaw a night of having their sleeper drag racers ground into the dirt. If you ever come across them, consider wringing out a ‘thank you.’”

The wound itself is easily remedied -- flush the wounds, smooth down the jagged little edges, flush again with an anti-corrosive, mesh over the whole thing. The sound of those ventilations is far more concerning, and Knock Out can think of at least four things off the top of his helm that might be causing his impromptu patient to look and sound this way. None of them rest easy on his mind.

“You’re lucky they didn’t breach the protoformal metal. Insecticons have filthy mouths...they love infection the way a newbuild loves a rust stick.”

twistedlittlemind:

Starscream had prepared himself for a range of reactions. He knows he’s not as pretty as he used to be. He knows what they’ve been living off of on Unicron’s Earth is corrosive and toxic.

But, slag, does it pack a punch.

“Only when they have something I want,” he answers, inspecting his dirty claws.

The Decepticon watches two mechs across the way stacking bright blue cubes before turning his attention back to the medic.

“Like I said, it was an accident.”

“Hm.” Knock Out’s made a long and prosperous career of not delving too deeply into patients’ quote unquote accidents, and he won’t be starting now. Gathering his med-kit, his more pressing concern is preventing infection.

“In any case, have a seat. Anywhere will do.”

asideofhighgloss:

On the face of it, Knock Out knew what he’d be getting into when he stepped through that portal. He knew that for the first time in years, he was going to see Starscream standing before him, to hear that warm, rasping, weaseling voice. He knew that it was going to hurt immensely.

And it does, of course. Hurts like a brief, but pointed kick to the spark. But before the bot standing in front of him has even finished his sentence, at least one of Knock Out’s fears will have been assuaged…there’s no mistaking this Starscream for his own.

Starscream never batted his optics at anyone.

“Don’t get too excited. I like to hold all my appointments, surgical and otherwise, slightly adjacent to the sidewalk.”

Starscream chuckles, low and husky. The gloomy glow of his optics teases the edge of pink.

“Well,” he starts as a large, loud truck passes by. “At least there will be witnesses if you decide to harvest anything.”

Finally, the Seeker steps into the light. He’s darker in color, with pale, eroded edges to his seams. He shifts to present his right hip and thigh, dressed in static bandages which have already soaked through with pale energon.

“A little accident. Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.”

He lowers to the ground, plating grinding audibly.

It’s all Knock Out can do not to flinch, and he’s not entirely successful at resisting the urge. He’s certainly seen far worse, and far worse when it comes to treating Starscreams who seem to be chronically allergic to caring for themselves, but there’s something deeply, deeply unsettling about all of this. Nothing about the Seeker’s condition is normal.

But he’s not about to turn him away either, so he takes a step closer, peering intently at Starscream’s thigh. Bots walking by can draw whatever conclusions suit them.

“...Do you normally make a habit of letting Insecticons chew on you?”

A Cybertronian depot. No war. Just bots going about their errands. For a long moment, no one appears out of the portal. Gradually, the sound of heels comes through under the swirling hum. Starscream exits at a leisurely pace, looking around to inspect their location.

It’s only when he’s closer that his careful and deliberate steps indicate injury.

Starscream smiles with his optics, not quite stepping fully into the light yet.

“Is this where you meet all of your patients or am I just special?”

And it does, of course. Hurts like a brief, but pointed kick to the spark. But before the bot standing in front of him has even finished his sentence, at least one of Knock Out’s fears will have been assuaged...there’s no mistaking this Starscream for his own.

Starscream never batted his optics at anyone.

“Don’t get too excited. I like to hold all my appointments, surgical and otherwise, slightly adjacent to the sidewalk.”

They’d planned to meet up for lunch that day, just the two of them. Talk about Wheeljack’s mysterious head pains, in all likelihood, and then talk about anything but Wheeljack’s mysterious head pains.

He’d known.

Somehow, even before the Wrecker failed to show up, he’d just known.

That didn’t stop him from hoping against hope that Wheeljack had simply lost track of time, been waylaid by Spitter spit, that he’d walk in to find him tucked away with Bumblebee in their favorite corner and knuckles deep inside one another, anything, anything but Wheeljack slumped over and motionless, optics alight with sightless, haunted flickering...

Anything but that.

#agooddistraction

i-remain-unconvinced:

Ulysses squints for a moment, like he’s still not sure about any of this. If he’s telling the truth, if no one comes around here much, then it’s the best he’s got.

With a resigned sigh, he looks away and reaches for his belt. It clinks and clanks as he takes his near-empty bottles and vials out. Finally he removes the belt and sets it across a stool. Next he begins to loosen his damp, dirty cloak.

“The dogs already know I’m here,” he says, pulling the garment off of himself skillfully. “I’m sure you can blame it on your foul-smelling plants until…”

He sniffs. It’s been some time since he’s bathed. But even then, the past day had put him through it. Mud from the storm, blood still stuck to his whitening hair, the smell of smoke and acid from his vials. The storm only helped so much to wash away his scent.

“I need to soak these clothes.” He looks to Petrichor again. “And to wash up. It could buy us time.”

The botanist’s eyes flicker as Ulysses casts aside his belt and cloak, then away just as quickly, focused with great deliberation on a rogue knot of wood in the wall.

“The room just off the ivy plant, you’ll find a big wood basin and a sluice gate, and don’t worry about the writing carved into it. Enchanted thing, heats up the water.”

He stands, purposeful, already thinking ahead to his greenhouse and the options that lie within it. Be easier to cover up the scent, if he can do it reliably, and that’s the question...he’d rather not try saturate the house with something that spooks animals, as that has the potential to backfire on them...

“Leave the dogs to me. That’ll be the least of our problems.”

i-remain-unconvinced

asideofhighgloss:

The botanist lets him pace the room like a caged tiger…knows he’d probably be doing the same thing in the other man’s position. He sits, sips, doesn’t comment on the abuse of his bucket, but is quietly grateful when Ulysses uprights it again. “Shoulds, shouldn’t haves…maybe your life would have been easier if you hadn’t stopped, maybe they would have filled you with arrows at the next stop up the road. No point in worrying about it.”

He’s under no illusion that Ulysses, in all likelihood, isn’t going to continue worrying about it anyway.

“Anyway, they won’t expect you to be hiding in someone’s house. Sure as hell not mine. That’s as good a place as any to start working from.”

Maybe it would be easier to just let them exterminate me, Ulysses thinks. Maybe the easiest thing to do would be to stop running. Stop hiding. Let it end.

He breathes quietly, closing his tired eyes. How long has the war been over? And he’s been running ever since. The end had coincided with his curse. A mistake he’ll never get to make even.

“I can’t hide here forever,” he argues, looking down at himself, at his one arm, at how much bigger he’s gotten in his dirty, tattered cloak. “I can’t be around—” He quiets at the sound of a child laughing somewhere outside. His heart picks up again.

His lip curls like he intends to snarl but he swallows it painfully. “I don’t blend in. Even if I manage for a time, something always happens.” The old soldier has lost count of the times the beast has overtaken his impulses, his thoughts, his desires. But he never forgets the mess he leaves behind.

“I’m to trust you for sanctuary and you would trust me with your—?” Ulysses turns and inhales. Plants. Just fucking plants. He doesn’t smell anyone else of importance. No relatives, no kids? No family even to visit?

“I smell no one else. Maybe your customers. Messengers. The milk maid.”

He looks down at the botanist, his nose still learning the story of every scent it can pick up.

“How long have you been alone here? How soon might someone notice a monster under your bed?”

“You won’t have to hide here forever. Probably won’t even have to be here very long.”

But you don’t become exceptionally good at keeping plants alive without being perceptive, and the curl of the larger man’s lip isn’t subtle. Briefly, but vividly, the old botanist wonders what he’s going to do with himself if all of this turns out to be completely off the mark and he ends up with a dead kid on his hands.

...Not likely. If anyone’s getting killed, he reasons, it’s almost certainly going to be him, the freshest and most available form of meat. That seems fair.

“Why not? Some of these plants’ll do a better job of defending themselves than I ever will.” Maybe Ulysses knows how to pick those out by smell, maybe not. It’s an ability he wouldn’t mind having himself, frankly, being able to stand around and sniff and the plants tell him their stories. “...20 years and change. I’ve been here that long and no parade of customers knocking down my door has ever shown up. My bed’s the last place anyone's going to think of looking.”