Swerve x Human Liaison Reader 7
I'M BACK!!!
I have big ideas. Shit is getting real. Not as in our heroes being forthcoming about their feelings or anything, Lord no. Could you even imagine? But I am about to start COOKING ... and to do that, I need to spend this chapter setting out the ingredients. Nothing earth-shattering yet, but you just gotta trust the process.
Thank you to @i-starcreamed for putting up with a bombardment of ideas and thank you to @cringenation for helping me brainstorm!
If you prefer, you can keep up with this fic on AO3 right here.
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / ?
Immediately after you solidified your plans to hang out later and said goodbye to your new friends, you whipped out your datapad to message Rung about your success, buzzing with excitement and embarrassment and anxiety and pride. Once Swerve’s appointment was over, he messaged you back, congratulating you on your success. When you asked for advice to help you prepare, he suggested that, if you felt it was necessary, you could ‘practice’ interacting with others in a similar environment you felt less strongly about—such as Visages. This seemed to be a perfect idea, because honestly, if things went as bad at Visages as you were convinced they might at Swerve’s, that might score you some points. If, you know, your behavior was so unacceptable that they physically kicked you out, or if your lack of social grace ruined their nights, or if something exploded, you might be hailed as a hero at Swerve’s.
In your habsuite, a snug room in the relatively miniature “guest wing” which you oversaw as part of your liaison duties, you opened your journal and started recording what you could remember of your time on the observation deck, with particular attention to your fascinating encounter with Swerve — Dr. Swerve? No, even you knew that didn’t sound right. You lamented how far out of your league he truly was. Not only was he a charming and witty storyteller and a frequent hero, but a doctor smart enough to find a cure to cybermelanoma. He was breathtaking. Even if you were the same species, you still wouldn’t stand a chance with him. The most you could hope for was friendship, and even that seemed like a pipe dream, what with all the friends he had and all the people he was always telling stories about and all the bargoers he entertained. Well, hopefully in a couple days you could upgrade to somebody who at least talks to him.
Once you’d wallowed in enough misery for one night, your thoughts returned to the time you spent with Tailgate and Cyclonus, and you ended the day’s entry on a positive note, then went to bed thinking of the beautiful view you had of the universe from the observation deck.
After closing up, Swerve drove back to his own habsuite distracted. Mentally, he was replaying the mental recording he made of his earlier interaction with you, specifically the parts where you jumped out to ask if he was okay, and when you called — him? his work? something. — “amazing,” with that starry look in your eye. He analyzed your face throughout the exchange, wondering if it had the effect he wanted, wondering if you believed him. He almost bumped into a few bots on his way, but barely even registered it.
— — —
After work, you headed to that corner of the ship you had been intent on never visiting, given the loyalty you had for your favorite spot on the ship. A sense of calm washed over you as you walked in and registered how different Visages was from Swerve’s. Everybody here seemed much more chill, and there wasn’t as much risk of being trampled. The music was smooth and steady with indiscernible instruments— as far as Cybertronian music went, it wasn’t your favorite genre, especially given the offputting key that relaxed most mechanicals but annoyed you. These were all ways in which the bar could not stack up to your usual watering hole. You felt much less anxious than you expected, since you couldn’t find it in yourself to give too much of a shit about anybody here. Instead, a stubborn pride was building in your chest as you mentally compared the two bars and found Swerve’s preferable in every way. You felt unstoppable as you headed towards the bar.
A professional detour was inevitable, however, when you noticed a stranger just as short and squishy as you sitting alone in one of the booths. All the organics passing through the ship were supposed to check in with you, even if they’d be onboard for less than an hour. This liaising obligation came at a good time, you thought, since it would get you used to talking in this new environment. You speedwalked up to them, waving them down with a welcoming smile.
They froze when they saw you step in next to them table, as if they were getting in trouble. They wore rounded glasses on their round face and a striped t-shirt under a navy blazer. Their graying mousy-brown hair was kept short, especially on the sides, and was gelled upwards away from her face. Based on their number of fingers, facial proportions, relative limb length, ear topography, and manner of dress, they might even be another human. By your species’ standards, they looked quite androgynous. Your kind was rare to find outside Earth at all, let alone in this part of the Universe, so this was a rare and exciting opportunity.
“Hello there, welcome aboard the Lost Light! I don’t think we’ve met. I’m the organic liaison, [y/n].” You put a hand on your shoulder and bowed slightly— a common greeting among the organic species in the local galaxies. “I’m responsible for taking care and keeping track of all my fellow organics here.”
They still looked like a deer in the headlights, and didn’t seem anywhere near introducing themself.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem nervous. I want to assure you that you aren’t in any trouble. Have you been given a room yet?”
After a pause, they seemed ready to shake their head “no” before deciding to nod. It was possible that they did not have a room yet, but were from a culture that values self-sufficiency or discourages ‘burdensome’ behavior.
You avoided asking for their name, since that is a huge misstep in many major cultures across these galaxies. It’s best to get that from them on the intake form. “Can I ask, how long have you been onboard our ship?”
“... No.”
You had to take a second to calculate how that answer fit your question. Apparently, you cannot ask. Perhaps the events by which they came aboard were traumatic. Perhaps the time they’ve been on board has been traumatic. You needed to be even more intentional and delicate. “Would you prefer that I stop talking?” you asked, even-keeled and neutral, so they wouldn’t feel like you wanted them to say ‘no.’
“Absolutely not!” they piped up almost before you finished the question. They had a charming Australian (or Australian-adjacent) accent and earnestness to their voice. You noticed that their lips were synced with the words you were hearing, meaning your universal translator wasn’t doing any work— they were actually speaking your language. You commented on this.
“I speak a lot of languages,” they said, “It isn’t my first one, though, if that’s what you’re wondering. But if we both know it, I might as well speak it.” They looked incredibly shy and started fidgeting with their thumbs.
You thanked them for this and chatted a bit about languages, though they were very cagey on what languages they actually spoke. During another pause, you wracked your brain for another topic that had a low chance of hitting a sore spot for them. You decided to be direct and asked, “What would you like to talk about? Or, if you prefer, what would you like me to tell you about?”
“... Can you talk about the ship?”
“Certainly!” You kicked off the tour guide spiel. “Now that their war is over, the 214 Cybertronians on the Lost Light are searching for Cyberutopia, under the leadership of renowned Autobot Rodimus…” You decided to gloss over Megatron. There weren’t many organics that reacted neutrally to his presence here let alone his role, and this one was already shaken. “You can rest assured that your wellbeing will be seen to here. If you have any medical issues, you can speak to our organic medical chief, Zyphiru. If you’re facing anything beyond her abilities, we can transfer you immediately to an appropriate facility elsewhere. For anything else, you can call me at any time! My role here is to make sure you’re comfortable and well taken care of. I’m available day and night. Here’s my information.” You handed them your ‘business card,’ which they took very slowly. “Have you been given a datapad yet?”
They nodded as they pocketed the card, notably not transferring the information to any device. “Can you tell me about what’s on the ship?”
“Of course. So, this is Visages, one of the two bars on board, both of which were influenced by Cybertronian contact with Earth. Are you familiar with Earth?”
“I’m Terran myself, actually,” they said, beaming with pride.
You blinked. ‘Terran’ was a common word for non-Earthlings to use for humans and all things Earth-related, but you’d never heard another human use the word to describe themselves to you. Perhaps this one was raised off-planet? “What a coincidence! Me too. Have you been to Swerve’s yet?”
“No... What’s that bar like?” In their accent, ‘bar’ sounded more like ‘bah.’
“It’s much more Earth-influenced. They play a lot of Terran music there, and it’s refreshing how knowledgeable the bartender is about our culture. They’ve actually built a designated ‘organic suite’ for us, very thoughtful. Below that, though, it’s very lively, and a bit dangerous to be honest, given the size of the patrons. Much rowdier than Visages.”
“That sounds great, I love Terran music. What are your favorite Earth songs?” They didn’t have the usual cadence of small talk in their voice; instead, they spoke with excitement and seemed genuinely interested in your answer.
You listed a few tracks and artists you love. “Can I ask what yours are?”
“Let’s see… I like Dexys Midnight Runners, Weezer, The Smiths…”
“I’ve heard at least a couple of those playing at Swerve’s! You might enjoy it there.”
“Which one do you like better, though?”
“Hm?”
“Which bar.”
“Well, tonight is my first time at Visages, so I can’t say with certainty yet.” You knew it was pretty much impossible for this new place to become your favorite overnight, but you didn’t need to tell them that. “But Swerve’s is hard to beat, in my opinion.”
Your guest turned their face away, hiding their expression. You hoped you hadn’t said anything that they reacted negatively to. “Why did you come here, then?”
“I just wanted to see more of the ship,” you lied. “I’ve been here for a few months, but there are still many places I’ve never been to.” You realized that they didn’t have anything to drink and remembered with frustration all the times the crew forgot how badly humans need water. “Are you thirsty?”
They nodded hesitantly, so the two of you climbed two empty barstools. You were only tall enough to put your chin on the bar, so you had to stand in order to get the bartender’s attention.
“Welcome to back, Dustad! What can I get you this time?” asked the tall blue ‘bot (Mirage, you’d heard) with barely a glance at you. He was mixing and cleaning with unrushed intent.
“Oh, I’m not Dustad.” Dustad was one of the recently rescued organics you were helping adjust at your job. He was two heads taller than you, three shades bluer, and much balder. “Easy mistake to make, though.”
“Sorry, that was embarrassing. You know how it is with organics, though. How about an isopropyl sunrise, on the house?”
“Just some icewater for now, thanks.”
“... How do you make that one again?”
“Hmm. Scratch that, I’ll just take a plain water.”
“Alright, I’ll have that to you in a moment.” He turned back to resume a conversation with much more metallic patron as he finished mixing his cocktail. You continued listing everything you missed about Swerve’s in your head.
“So, were you raised on Earth? Or offplanet?” you asked your guest in the meantime.
They seemed to consider this for a beat. “I’ve never actually been to Earth. But I… miss it.”
“I understand,” you nodded, thinking about the ache in your heart you felt studying Cybertron and its culture for all those years. It felt like missing a place you’d never been; it would have been so much worse if you yourself were Cybertronian. “May I ask where you grew up, then?”
“No.” Looks like the ‘may I ask’ formula was a good call for avoiding yet another sore spot. “With mechanicals, though.”
“I’m interested in learning about you and anything about your past you want to tell me,” you clarified, “But you aren’t required to share anything beyond the basic intake form. Did you fill one out when you boarded?”
They fidgetted with their hands. It was safe to assume that they had somehow slipped through the bureaucratic cracks— an impressive task under the vigilant watch you kept.
“We can take care of that tomorrow.” You smiled kindly, trying to make them feel as comfortable as possible. “In the meantime, what do you want to talk about?”
“How did you get here?”
“I majored in Cybertronian studies, with a concentration in culture, and wrote Ultra Magnus a very convincing cover letter outlining the utility of a professional ‘organic liaison’ on the Lost Light.” ‘Convincing’ was a flattering word, but ‘desperate’ or ‘begging’ would be more accurate. “This has been my life’s mission for as long as I can remember.”
“Why?”
“At first, I was scared, obviously. We all were. But an Autobot ended up stationed near where I lived for a little while, and we learned a lot from him. We saw past the warfare and the giant, intimidating frames. I fell in love with the history as he told us stories from before the war.”
“What was his name?”
“Jazz. He was fantastic.” He made time for us, even though we were so tiny and temporary and fragile. I remember sneaking off to join some of my classmates camping out where he was stationed. I was shaking so hard, the marshmallow at the end of my stick was bouncing all over the place,” you laughed. After all these years, after meeting hundreds of Cybertronians, remembering him still took your breath away— the firelight bounced off his metal plating that night, his visor so brilliant and high above you that it outshone the full moon, his smooth electronic voice, the careful weight of just one of his huge fingers resting on your shoulder as you hugged tightly to his leg, quietly crying, when he had to say goodbye. “Have you ever made s’mores?”
“I’ve always wanted to… Why were you shaking?”
“He was huge and armed to the teeth! He could have accidentally squished me like a bug. But he was so careful… and he didn’t see us like that. Like bugs. Even though that’s what I felt like.”
“You’re not a bug.”
“I know, I know,” you lied. “I was young and insecure about everything.” You still felt like a bug, but that wasn’t something to get into with your guest. You needed to be a role model, show them that it’s possible to think of yourself as more than that. To be more than that.
At this point, Mirage slid you a gallon-sized tumbler of water with a curly straw the length of your forearm. “Don’t worry,” you assured your guest as you drew two compactible water bottles from your satchel, filling them up for the two of you.
As you both rehydrated, you heard a Cybertronian on the other side of the bar order an “Arvora Torrent.” You watched as Mirage made him a complicated drink that seemed to be … identical to Swerve’s Chili Rush. “Excuse me, I need to ask Mirage a couple questions,” you whispered to your guest.
When he was done, you flagged him down again. “What was that you just made, an ‘Arvora Torrent?’ It looks really good, and I think it might not be toxic to me. What’s in it?”
Mirage listed off the ingredients, all of which could kill you, and the recipe was almost the exact same as Swerve’s.
“Ah, what a shame. I can’t have some of those. Looks great, though. Did you come up with it yourself?”
“Why yes, I did! It was supposed to be a one-time special, but people keep asking for it.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought the combination of those ingredients would be very popular, since they’re such strong, spicy flavors.” You tamped down your righteous fury at the plagiarism enough to talk engex mixology, something you had studied more than you’d care to admit. This would be good practice for talking to Swerve.
“That is the first impression a lot of bots have, but in reality...”
You chatted for a couple minutes and asked him questions about the art, much to his surprise and appreciation. “So tell me, how is an Earthling who can’t even touch half these ingredients so knowledgeable about Cybertronian cocktails?”
“Well, as I was telling our guest here,” (you gestured back to them, checking out of the corner of your eye that they hadn’t slipped away during the doubtlessly boring conversation. You noticed that they seemed to be biting part of their hand, and decided not to elaborate so you could get back to them.), “I’ve studied your culture for years.”
“Then you have great taste!” he laughed. “Welcome aboard the Lost Light. We’re glad to have you here.”
You tried to cram your immense frustration behind a polite smile. ‘Welcome aboard.’ ‘Welcome aboard.’ As if he hadn’t joined the crew only a couple weeks before you did.
“Sorry about that,” you said to your guest.
After a long silence, they told you again between quiet sobs, “You aren’t a bug.”
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, I know that now. I know that,” you lied. “How can I comfort you?”
“Just. You’re not a bug here.” Sniffles. “I know what it’s like to feel small and weak and helpless around everybody, but we’re not bugs. Has anybody here made you feel like a bug?”
“Well, that son of a bitch did a little bit,” you responded in full honesty, cocking your head towards Mirage, before you realized that was not the move.
“I’ll tear his fucking spark out,” she muttered coldly, squaring her shoulders and beginning to climb onto the bar.
“WHOA, WHOA, HEY, please don’t do that. Please.” You came within a couple inches of touching her, but luckily remembered to hold back at the last moment. (Until you knew what culture she observed, you were intent to avoid as many major taboos as you could recall.) She flinched back almost violently into her seat. “I shouldn’t have said that. What I meant was, I feel like he saw me as a bug. But I’ve been here almost as long as him, and I probably know more about this ship and how it’s run than he does. I could probably get this place closed down if I really wanted to.”
“Really?” she asked with hope and fire in her eyes.
“No,” you lied. “Do you want to go to Swerve’s instead? Swerve’s is more welcoming than this place.”
She still seemed caught up on the interaction, and followed Mirage with her piercing eyes. “Yes, please. Wait. No.”
“Okay, not tonight. Do you want me to escort you back to the organic quarters? It’s a big ship, and I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”
Hesitantly, they nodded, and you were relieved to get her out of there. You departed without words.
“So…” she began, and you were pleasantly surprised that she was speaking to you without being prompted, “Is Swerve’s your favorite, then?”
“Yes, very much so. No contest.”
“Why?”
“Well, very importantly, Swerve doesn’t make me feel like a bug,” you might have half-lied, your fight-or-flight activating slightly just when you said his name, “And the place feels like home. There’s the music and the organic suite, of course, but the energy is friendly and unpretentious, even from all the way up in my seat. I feel at ease there, you know? As long as nobody’s throwing anything too high.”
“Maybe there should be some kind of protective glass in front of it,” she mused, scratching her chin.
“That would just make me feel like a zoo animal. More than I already do, I mean.”
“You feel like a zoo animal?” she asked, slightly panicked, “How?”
“I can see everyone from up there, but they can see me too. And I never know who’s watching.” After Cyclonus caught you, the thought that others might have observed your odd behavior first ate away at you as you laid awake at night.
A long pause. She turned away from you again.
“If you don’t like it, maybe we could talk to Swerve about getting something installed for privacy. Do you have any idea of how long you’ll stay on the Lost Light?”
Another long pause. She shook her head.
At this point, you were entering the passage to the organic quarters, and like it or not, you needed to get her name and, if she did indeed have one, her datapad number. As you punched the PIN in to open the door, you finally brought up the dreaded question: “I hope you don’t find it rude of me to ask, but as liaison, I need to know the names of all the organics aboard. Would you be so kind as to tell me your name?”
As the doorway opened, you turned back to your guest.
Well, you tried to. You darted your head around, but she was nowhere to be found— only your business card remained where she had stood silently mere seconds ago. You looked around the corners to see if she had backtracked, but saw no sign of her. You even looked around the common area of the organic quarters in case she somehow dipped in ahead of you. When you didn’t find a soul there, you went around all 50 of the individual habsuites, checking that they were all either marked as inhabited by the organics you assigned to them or were truly empty. As your search progressed, you started thinking you saw someone in the shadows of the unoccupied rooms, but after your scan was complete, you knew that there was no hope. She was truly gone, having left no sign. No name, no planet of origin, no time of arrival or planned departure, no datapad number, no acquaintances mentioned, no method of contact; you even checked your own clothes in case one of her gray hairs had landed on you somehow. Nothing. At least Cinderella had the courtesy to leave a glass slipper. You were royally screwed. The conversations you’d had replayed on loop in your mind, and you were losing your mind thinking of all the opportunities you missed or intentionally passed up to get any information from her. You were too delicate, when you needed to say Your stomach turned as you got increasingly desperate. You ran back to Visages and asked the remaining patrons and Mirage himself, though at that point it was close to closing time and everyone was getting ready to head home or get kicked out. The only sign of her there was the water bottle you had given her, which she left at the bar without taking a sip of. You tried to reach Swerve’s before he closed up, but no such luck. You even tried to wait around for him in case he was still cleaning up in there, but after an hour (during which you were brainstorming, typing up messages and announcements, devising strategies, becoming horribly nervous in case Swerve actually walked out), you decided he must have gone to bed already. At 0245 hours, you ran out of ideas and decided to go to your office to pore over all recent files and records that might contain reference to your mystery guest. By 0330 hours, you finished drafting a lengthy message with as many details as you could remember. At 0344, you finally decided not to send it to Ultra Magnus, so you could save face in case you found your human at the last minute. At 0415, you bit the bullet and sent Swerve a short message that you proofread even more closely than the one you wrote for your boss. It had been a real mental battle, trying to decide whether you should do your due diligence and message him (for the first time ever) or avoid letting him find out how Goddamn incapable you apparently were at your job.
When Swerve woke up at 0900, you had been searching for 9 hours. His spark jumped in his chassis to see a message from you— the very first. For a moment, he clung to a hope that it was detailing how much you hated Visages. But that illusion was quickly shattered by the clear panic in your words. If he had a stomach, it would have dropped straight through the bottom of the ship into open space. As per usual, he thought, he had made a Big. Fucking. Mistake.
