The first time Skywarp really brought Jetlag into his world, it wasnât a battlefield or a mission briefingâit was a quiet corner of a dim Decepticon hangar, where the lights buzzed low and the war felt, for a few stolen moments, far away.Â
He had shown up with a sealed canister of high-grade energon distillate. Nothing official, nothing sanctioned, just something heâd âfound,â which in Decepticon terms usually meant stolen, rerouted, or violently negotiated for. Jetlag had eyed it with suspicion at first, arms crossed, posture tight like she was still waiting for someone to tell her this was a test.
âYouâre not going to lecture me about protocol?â sheâd asked.
Skywarp had given a lazy shrug, optics half-lidded. âIf I start lecturing, shoot me.â
That had made her snort, just once, quick and sharp, like she didnât mean to let it happen. And that was how it started. Not with romance or grand confessions, but with two soldiers sitting shoulder to shoulder on cold metal, passing a canister back and forth like it was nothing more than a shared secret.
Jetlagâs first sip had been cautious. Measured. Like everything she did.
And Skywarp had laughed, actually laughed, because it was the first time heâd seen her lose control of anything in a room where she wasnât actively being shot at.
âStarscreamâs going to have a breakdown if he finds out youâre this bad at handling yourself,â he teased.
âIâm not bad at it,â she shot back immediately, optics narrowing. âIt just tastes like rust and poor decisions.â
âWelcome to energon distillate.â
Sheâd taken a second sip anyway.
At first, it was rare. A way to decompress after missions that ran too long, too loud, too close. Jetlag was always wound tight in the fieldâprecise, calculating, always three steps ahead of everyone else and ten steps ahead of her own exhaustion. Skywarp, for all his chaos, understood that kind of strain better than he let on.
So they drank sometimes. Not often, just enough to loosen the edges, just enough to make her laugh a little easier, speak a little softer, lean a little closer when she thought no one was watching.
Skywarp told himself it was harmless. He told himself a lot of things back then.
He didnât notice the shift until it stopped being something they did after missions and started being something Jetlag did alone.
At first, it was subtle. A canister missing from storage. A faint haze of processed energon on her breath when she arrived somewhere she was supposed to be sharp and alert. The way she started carrying herself like her armor was heavier than it used to be, like something inside her had started dragging instead of lifting.
He tried to joke about it once.
âYouâve been hitting my stash without me?â he asked, tone light, almost teasing.
Jetlag didnât look up from her datapad. âIt helps me focus.â
That answer should have worried him more than it did. It didnât become real until the night he found her sitting alone in an empty corridor, back against the wall, visor dimmed low. There was a canister beside her, half-empty, then nearly empty, then gone entirely when he checked again a moment later and realized sheâd finished it while he was still standing there.Â
âYouâre early,â she said, like that explained everything.
Skywarp crouched in front of her. âJetlag.â
âI can still function,â she snapped immediately, too fast. Defensive. âI donât needââ
âYou donât need it,â he cut in, quieter than usual.
That made her pause. For half a second, she looked like she might agree with him.
Then her expression tightened, and she looked away. âDonât start acting like you care more than you do.â
That landed harder than she meant it to.
It didnât take long for the spiral to become impossible to ignore. Jetlag started arriving late. Then exhausted. Then not arriving at all unless someone went looking. Her precisionâthe thing that made her dangerous, reliable, fearedâstarted to fray at the edges. And worse, she started pushing people away before they could notice. Before they could stop her.
Skywarp watched it happen like someone standing too close to a collapsing structure, knowing exactly what was going to fall and still not stepping back in time.
He tried to intervene. He really did. He stopped bringing the distillate. She found other sources. He tried to keep her grounded after missionsâkept her talking, kept her moving, kept her in spaces where she couldnât disappear into herself. She started avoiding him. Not all at once. Slowly, carefully, like she was testing how much distance she could create before it broke something permanent.
The breaking point didnât come with shouting. It didnât come with betrayal.
He found her in an unused maintenance bay, sitting on the floor with her helm tipped back against a crate. There were empty canisters around her. Not scattered, but arranged almost neatly, like she still needed control over something.
When she saw him, she didnât even react with surprise anymore.
âDonât,â she said immediately.
Skywarp stopped a few steps away. âDonât what?â
âDonât look at me like that.â
His optics flickered. âLike what?â
âLike Iâm already gone.â
Silence stretched between them. For a moment, Skywarp didnât speak, because if he did, something in him might crack in a way he couldnât repair. Finally, he said, âYouâre not gone.â
Jetlag let out a short, humorless laugh. âThatâs funny coming from you. Youâre the one who keeps hovering like youâre waiting for me to break completely so you can decide it was inevitable.â
That wasnât fair, but it also wasnât entirely wrong. He stepped closer anyway, lowering himself to sit across from her. âI donât think youâre weak.â
âI donât care what you think I am,â she said quickly.
That stung more than anger would have. Because it wasnât anger. It was fear. Wrapped in exhaustion. Wrapped in something she didnât have words for anymore.
âI care,â Skywarp said anyway.
Jetlag finally looked at him then. Really looked at him, and for a second, Skywarp saw itâthe version of her that used to sit beside him in hangars, laughing too quietly, leaning just a little too close like she didnât know what to do with trust when it was offered gently instead of demanded.
And that was the problem, because knowing didnât fix it. It didnât undo the spiraling. It didnât rebuild the trust sheâd burned through trying to outrun herself. It didnât erase the nights she couldnât remember and the mornings she wished she didnât.
Skywarpâs voice dropped lower. âIf we keep doing thisâŠweâre going to drag each other under.â
Jetlagâs optics flickered at that. A micro-expression. A crack.
âI already am under,â she whispered.
And there it was, the truth neither of them had wanted to say out loud.Â
Skywarp looked away first, like it physically hurt to keep watching her unravel in front of him.
âI still love you,â he said quietly.
Jetlag didnât respond right away, and when she finally did, her voice was steadier than it should have been. âThatâs why you have to stop saving me.â
He stood slowly, like every movement cost something.
âSo what? I just watch you disappear?â
âOr you leave before I take you with me.â
That was the moment Skywarp understood there wasnât a version of this where love was enough to fix it.
He didnât leave right away, but something changed after that night. The way he looked at her wasnât less caring. It was more careful, like someone standing at the edge of a storm, still hoping it passes, but finally understanding what it costs to stay in it too long.Â
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
The drinking started out the way it always did. Quietly, almost ritualistically. Not in celebration. Not in relief.
Jetlag hadnât meant to go far that night. That was the first lie. The second was that she âwasnât that drunk.â The third was that she was âfine.â
By the time she reached the edge of the barracks wing where Angelwing and Overwatch were stationed, the truth had already started slipping through the cracks in her voice.
âI didnât come here for-â Jetlag stopped mid-sentence, swaying slightly in the doorway.
Angelwing looked up first, immediately registering the imbalance in her posture. âYouâre wasted.â she said flatly.
âIâm not-â Jetlag tried again, then gave up halfway through the denial. Her optics flickered, unfocused. âI just neededâŠsomewhere quieter.â
Overwatch exchanged a glance with Angelwing, then gestured toward the inside of the room without a word. No judgment. No interrogation. That alone was enough to make Jetlag move forward. She sat too carefully for someone pretending she was fine, and for a while, she said nothing. Just stared at her hands. Like she didnât trust them to stay steady.
The canister of Engex sheâd brought was already half-empty. Or maybe more than half, time was starting to blur at the edges.
Angelwing didnât push. That was her way. She simply observed, head tilted slightly, calculating without intrusion. Overwatch, however, leaned forward just a little. âYou came here for quiet,â she said gently. âBut you look like you brought a storm with you.â
That was what broke something.
Not the words themselves, but the fact that they were spoken so soft.
Jetlagâs hands tightened, then loosened, then tightened again.
âI lost him,â she said abruptly.
Angelwingâs optics narrowed slightly. âLost who?â
Jetlag laughed once. Sharp, broken, completely wrong for her usual controlled tone, âLike I could lose anything on purpose.â
Overwatchâs voice lowered. âSkywarp.â
At the name, Jetlag flinched like it physically struck her.
She nodded too quickly. âYeah. Him.â
Silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, careful. Cautious. Like even the air didnât want to push her further in fear of collapse.Â
Jetlag stared at the floor, âI donât know when it changed,â she said finally, voice thinner now. âIt justâŠdid. One day he was there and it felt normal. And then I started noticing when he wasnât there. And then I startedâŠâ She swallowed hard. âI started waiting.âÂ
Her optics flickered again, brighter this time in a way that didnât look healthy.
âAnd thatâs stupid,â she added quickly. âThatâs inefficient. Thatâs-â
âLove.â Angelwing interrupted quietly.
Jetlag stopped, like the word had short-circuited her logic pathways. Overwatch didnât correct it, didnât reframe it. She just watched Jetlag carefully, like she was holding something fragile without touching it.Â
âI didnât want to need him,â Jetlag said suddenly, voice rising slightly. âThat wasnât the plan. That wasnât-I donât do that. I donât-I donât rely on people like that.âÂ
Her hands shook once before she forced them still.
âBut I didâŠwith him.â
The admission hit the room harder than anything else sheâd said. Jetlagâs posture collapsed slightly, like the act of holding herself together had finally become too expensive.
âAnd now he looks at me like Iâm already gone,â she whispered.
Her voice cracked on the last word. That was when the drinking stopped being casual and became something else entirely. She lifted the canister again, not even fully realizing she was doing it.
Overwatch moved slightly, not to stop her, but to stay present. âJetlag,â she said softly. âLook at me.â
It took a moment, but she did. And when she did, it was worse than angerâit was fear. Not fear of losing control, fear that she already had.Â
âI didnât mean for it to get like this,â Jetlag said, and now the words were coming too fast, like they had been waiting too long to exist. âHe was just-he was there, and he was loud, and he didnât move the way I expected, and I could still-I could still function around him. I could still think.â
Then quieter, âAnd then I couldnât stop thinking about when heâd leave.â
Angelwing finally spoke again, voice level. âSo you tried to leave first.â
Jetlagâs silence answered for her. That was the truth she didnât want to admit.
Overwatch leaned back slightly, exhaling slowly. âYouâre not the only one who feels things late,â she said. âBut you are the only one trying to punish yourself for it.â
Jetlag let out a broken sound that might have been a laugh if it had more air in it.
âI didnât want to lose him,â she said again, softer now. âBut I think I already did. And I donât know how to fix it without making it worse.â
Her optics dimmed slightly as her voice cracked with emotion, âAnd I donât know how to stop drinking long enough to figure it out.â
That was the first time her voice stopped sounding like a soldier trying to maintain structure, and started sounding like someone who had finally run out of ways to hold herself upright. Overwatch didnât move to correct her, Angelwing didnât move to judge her. Instead, they just stayed there with her in the aftermath of everything she couldnât undo yet, because none of them had a solution.Â
But for the first time that night, Jetlag wasnât alone with the weight of it.Â
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
After everything fractures between Skywarp and Jetlag, nobody in the trine handles it cleanlyâbut Starscream and Thundercracker approach it in almost opposite ways, and Skywarp feels both of them in different parts of himself.
It happens after a mission. Not immediately after, Starscream is too strategic for that. He waits until Skywarp has already started acting ânormalâ again. That version of normal where nothing is addressed, just compartmentalized until it stops bleeding. Skywarp is in the hangar, half-repaired plating still open along his shoulder, when Starscream finally speaks.
âYouâve been a liability out there,â he says, like itâs an operational report.
Skywarp doesnât even look up, and instead scoffs,, âThatâs new.âÂ
Starscream steps closer, optics narrowing. âYouâre drifting in combat. Your spatial precision is unchanged, but your decision latency has increased.âÂ
That lands, Skywarp finally stills. Not defensive. Not angry. JustâŠcaught. Because Starscream doesnât say Jetlag like a name, he says it like a variable that failed to stabilize.
Skywarp exhales slowly. âItâs not-â
âDonât,â Starscream interrupts immediately. âDonât insult my intelligence by pretending it isnât relevant.â
Thatâs when it shifts from critique to something more dangerous.
Starscream tilts his helm slightly. âYou are compromised.â
Skywarp lets out a short laugh. âYeah? Welcome to the club.â
Starscream doesnât laugh back. Instead, his voice drops. âYou are not the only one affected by instability in attachments.â
Thatâs as close as he gets to admitting anything personal with a certain commander. A beat passes, then quieter, but still sharp, âIf you cannot separate your emotional entanglement from operational conduct, I will remove her from your assignments.â
That finally gets Skywarpâs attention, his optics flicker as he raises his head.
âYou donât get to-!â
âI do,â Starscream says coldly. âIf it threatens effectiveness.â
Skywarp goes still for a long moment before responding, voice low, âShe didnât ruin me.â
Starscream studies him, then replies, almost dismissively, âYou are not functioning as you were. Draw your own conclusions.â
He turns to leave, then adds one final line without looking back:
âAnd stop pretending this is love if it is making you both weaker.â
That line stays in the room long after he leaves.
Later, itâs Thundercracker who finds him. Thundercracker doesnât approach like authority, he approaches like someone trying not to scare a wounded animal. He sits nearby instead of standing over him, he doesnât ask Skywarp to explain anything.
Just says, quietly, âYouâre doing that thing where you act like you donât feel anything so no one can use it against you.â
Skywarp snorts. âThatâs every day.â
Thundercrackerâs tone stays calm. âNo. This is different.â
Silence stretches, then Skywarp mutters, âStarscream talked to you.â
Thundercracker nods once. âHe talked at me.â
That gets a faint reaction, almost a smile from Skywarp that doesnât fully form. Thundercracker watches him for a moment before continuing, âIâm not going to tell you to move on,â he says. âBecause thatâs not how you work.â
Skywarp doesnât respond.
So Thundercracker adds, softer, âBut I am going to tell you this isnât just about her.â
Skywarpâs optics flicker slightly.
Thundercracker continues, steady but careful, âYouâre acting like if you had been better, more stable, more controlled, you couldâve kept her from falling apart.â
âThatâs not a relationship,â he says. âThatâs you trying to take responsibility for everything she carries.â
That hits closer than Starscreamâs accusation ever did.
Skywarpâs voice is quieter now. âI did hurt her.â
Thundercracker doesnât deny it, instead, âYes.â
âAnd she hurt you too. That doesnât mean either of you are the cause of the other.â
For a long moment, neither of them speaks, then Thundercracker adds, almost reluctantly, âYou can love someone and still not be able to save them.â
Thatâs the part Skywarp canât answer, because it doesnât solve anything, it just makes the grief real enough to sit with.
Afterward, Skywarp doesnât feel fixed, but he does feel slightly less alone in the shape of it. And thatâs what both Starscream and Thundercracker do, in their own ways. Neither of them tells him to stop loving her, they just force him to see that love didnât fail because it wasnât real. It failed because it wasnât enough to override everything else they were both already breaking under.Â
