obsessed with guarded characters (reluctantly) falling sleep around another character(s), showing how much they trust them to put themselves in a position of absolute vulnerability, unwavering faith that they'll be protected and guarded while they recharge, the submission of being alert unfamiliar and strange in their chest, not used to being safe or away from danger enough to get proper rest, looking years younger when they fall asleep, the other characters fiercely always nearby and keeping the quiet around for them just a little while longer
Price didn’t realize he could be so…particular. Having his career meant he was flexible, had to roll with the punches, go with the flow. Sure he had his own way of doing things, but he liked to think he had an appreciation for other peoples preferences. Until he met General Hammond.
He’s shot a general before (rest in…not peace Shepherd), and he didn’t think doing so would become a habit. But he was gettin’ realllll close.
General Hammond seemed to be of the belief that you were below him. Which…you suppose you were. He was a higher ranking officer, older, had more experience. But it seemed something about you in particular rubbed him the wrong way, because ever since he arrived on base 72 hours ago, he had been trying to make your life a living hell.
Normally, superior officers stayed fairly removed from individual teams, preferring to let things be handled internally. You reported to Price, that’s how it’s always been; even Shepherd respected that.
But now Hammond blows into town and thinks you’re his personal assistant, degrading your duties to coffee fetching and note-taking. You were not a secretary. You did not work for years to get into an elite task force to bring some asshole beverages. And he was being sleazy about it too! Patting your hip a little too close to your bum and calling you sweetheart.
…admittedly Price calls you that but it’s fine when he does it!! (…more than fine…)
When John saw that little behavior for the first time, he almost exploded right then and there. Hammond. Touching his sergeant. Acting like you aren’t a highly trained soldier. Like you don’t deserve to be a part of the conversation. He’s never seen a shittier officer.
“Careful.” It rumbles from his chest before he can stop it. The warning clear, an edge of disrespect leaking into his tone.
The general is laughing about some stupid innuendo he just made, but stops and tilts his head subtly, sensing the sharpness in Price’s tone.
“What was that, Captain?” Hammond says Captain like it’s an insult, like Price has now also been demoted to ‘bug-under-my-shoe’ level.
“Said careful.” Price leans forward from where he had been reclined and crossing his arms in his chair, putting them on the conference table in front of him. “Touch my sergeant again and we’re gonna have problems.” He sounds casual as he reaches across the table to pick up the mug you had just dropped off for Hammond, leaning back and taking a sip like it was rightfully his.
Hammond scoffs, “was that a threat, Captain?”
“No, sir,” he sniffs, taking another sip, “just a fact.”
Hammond goes to protest, presumably loudly, as he does. But when he takes a cursory glance around the conference table, and is met by the glares of the whole 141, he reconsiders.
“Well alright! Didn’t know you were the territorial type!” He tries for another joke. No one laughs.
Ghost lets out a low hum, you know it’s a warning more than any sign of acknowledgment.
“Smartest thing you’ve done all day, general.” John effectively ends the discussion.
When the meeting is over, you see John lean down and say something in his ear one last time. You might’ve imagined it, but Hammond looked a little paler after that.
You never saw that general again. When you asked about it, John said Kate had him reassigned due to ‘unrelated’ reasons.
A character attempting to hug another without being able to use their arms- their hands bound behind them and to or around an obstacle, they curl their torso forward and hunch their shoulders around the other character as much as possible, tilting their head and hooking their chin over the other's shoulder or head, providing what contact and comfort they can in their situation.
Transformers Prime. Optimus & Reader. Bulkhead x Reader.
??? x Reader
Summary: Ignorance is bliss, right? The less you want to know, the more you seem to discover, until plausible deniability is no longer a defence you can use.
Bulkhead is obvious. Optimus is worried, Ratchet is wonderfully himself. And you're not nearly as keen to join this ragtag group as they are to welcome you into their fold.
Don't get carried away, no,
I'll only let you down.
Certain circumstances got me feeling low.
Don't take it personally.
-nothing,nowhere. - I'm sorry, I'm trying
--------
Although he’s not so gauche as to assume he’s in any kind of position to say as much out loud, Optimus longs to tell you just how wonderful it is to see you again.
Circumstances notwithstanding, of course.
As it is, he doesn’t imagine a statement of sentimentality nor fondness will be well-received, not while you’re quaking on the gurney before him, staring up at his faceplate through unblinking, bloodshot eyes.
This... is decidedly not how he'd wanted to ease you into the fold.
Despite what Agent Fowler would prefer to believe, Optimus is far from a passive observer of the human species. Ever since his first introduction to Earth, he’s had plenty of time to learn how staggeringly similar a Human’s expressions are to a Cybertronian’s, as a general rule.
He knows what terror looks like. He’d know the sight of it whether it was worn by a face of metal or of flesh.
It’s the same look that seems stitched to yours, sunk into the shadowy skin beneath your eyes and buried in the crease between your brows with the permanence of a scar.
It weighs heavily on his spark that he’s the reason for your anguish.
Blinking his optics, he cants his helm towards you as soundlessly as his pistons will allow, silently coaxing you to ask the questions that must be burning at your mind.
He's already elected not to speak until you do.
He wants you to know that you have a voice here, if you could only find the courage to use it.
-------------------------------------------
It seems so unfair that you can have so many words and thoughts zipping around your head, yet not a single one will make the short trip down onto your tongue.
The air is earthy and metallic when you breathe it in, incongruous on your tastebuds. You almost want to spit just to see if you still can, but your mouth is as dry as the Nevada desert, and even breathing is an insurmountable challenge.
But he’s still waiting, looming above you with unwavering focus. You get the impression that he’d wait forever if he needed to, like a teacher refusing to speak until their unruly students catch on and quieten down. It feels like he’s trying to prove a point…
You don’t care to find out what that point might be.
“You’re not a remote driver…” you finally croak, only to recoil like you’ve been hit when the finials on his head prick up at the sound of your voice.
Something like an exhale whistles out through the slat of his mouth as Optimus merely dips his silver chin in acknowledgement, shoulders sagging like he’s just relieved to hear you speak again. “No,” he utters plainly.
Sniffling, you let out a compunctious little laugh, shaking your head at yourself. “And I guess you’re not a drug dealer either.”
There’s no humour in your voice, and to his credit, Optimus doesn’t seem inclined to poke fun at you for your mistake either.
“No,” he says again, then adds, “I am certainly not, I can assure you.”
Oh, well thank God for that, you nearly scoff, swallowing the words and letting them slide down the back of your throat like acid. At this moment in time, you think you’d prefer to take on the Cartel than this unknowable behemoth.
Opening your mouth, you're about to ask perhaps the most pressing question, but the words get lodged under your tongue before they can see the light of day, sitting there weightily as you work your jaw around them.
‘Then what the hell are you?’
It feels like the right question to ask. He’s unknowable. So, you should endeavour to know him, shouldn’t you?
But, a hushed voice speaks up from a dusty corner of your head, perhaps the better question you ought to be asking yourself is, do I want to know?
Knowledge is power. But there isn’t enough knowledge in the world to give you power over something like this. And what if the only reason you’re here at all is because you already know too much….?
Or at least, he thinks you know too much.
Maybe then, not knowing… is the safer option.
Gradually, the erratic rise and fall of your chest starts to slow as you catch the faintest whiff of an idea.
Whatever these things are, they - or someone - is clearly trying to keep their existence a secret.
So, plead ignorance, and swear to maintain it. That's how it usually goes, right? In matters of secrets that boast this kind of magnitude, it's the suspected rats who are the first to be taken out.
You just have to convince them you aren't a loose end that needs tying up.
Sadly, it seems that in your indecisive silence, Optimus elects to try and fill it with the precise words you’re suddenly hoping to avoid.
Moving at a pace that suggests he’s trying not to spook you, the titanic automaton raises one of his arms towards what constitutes for a chest, splaying dark, mechanical digits across the blackened expanse of his windscreen.
“My name is Optimus Prime,” he begins with a soft rumble of his engine, as if he’s just been waiting to introduce himself to you properly for days now, “And I have come to Earth from-“
“-A! Ah-da-da! Stop!” you rush to yelp nonsensically over his thrumming cadence, throwing your hands about wildly and halting his explanation dead in its tracks. “I don’t want to know! I-I don't want to know who you are! Or where you’re from!”
Trailing off, he just blinks those strange, glowing eyes at you, evidently surprised, if the hike of his brow-plates is anything to go by.
“I…” He hesitates, closes his mouth, then opens it again and politely asks, “Pardon?”
You drop a hand to squeeze at your opposite wrist like you’re trying to wring water out of it, blundering on, “I don’t want to know, a-and I don’t need to know. The less you tell me, the better, right? I won't say a word!”
You… think you’re only imagining the way his tentative smile fades, and the plates above his eyes slide inwards, furling like a human’s brow when your insinuation registers with him.
“Y/n,” he utters in a tone suggesting he’s crestfallen as he lets his arm sink back below the gurney where it lands with a ‘clang’ over his bent knee, “I’m afraid you misunderstand me-“
“-You can just let me go!” you declare, frantic and breathless, grimacing so widely you begin to wonder if it must look like an awful, desperate smile, “I-I won’t tell anyone about… any of this, I swear! I mean…“
Here, you bark out a sharp laugh and throw your arms up, raking your fingernails through sweat-greased strands of hair. “Who the Hell would even believe me!? They’ll start calling me a conspiracy nut, just like crazy, old-!”
“Please, Youngling,” the soft-spoken robot interjects, putting your back up with the odd term, “You must try and calm yourself. I want you to listen to-“
“-Well, I want to leave!” you counter in a burst of hot, angry terror that lends volume to your voice.
You listen to it echo out before a thick, charged silence moves into the room, falling like a dead thing between you.
A troubled hum squeezes out of Optimus’s mouth, and for just a moment, he forgets himself, lifting a servo up to the gurney and reaching towards you with every intention of bridging the gap he seems to be driving perpetually wider and wider with every word.
But you see it coming from the corner of an eye, and the memory of being trapped by that same hand whilst a fire rages furiously between your shoulder blades spurs you into violent motion.
Whirling bodily towards the alien appendage, you shriek so loudly that your voice cracks in fear.
“DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Optimus withdraws his hand as if you’d tried to strike it, even whilst you curl away from him once more and place a few, trembling fingers over your mouth, evidently just as taken aback by your own outburst as he is.
Still, even when you rein in your volume, the force of your words strikes him just as jarringly.
“Haven’t you hurt me enough?!”
A rush of coolant flushes into the Prime's systems, pre-emptively anticipating the sudden spike of alarm that sends heat roiling beneath his neck plates.
"Hurt you?" he ex-vents, burdened by his own brand of horror, subjecting you to yet another onceover to try and pinpoint the place he'd unwittingly added to your injuries alongside the burn on your-
...Ah.
Optimus lowers his optics to the arm you've bent backwards, angled awkwardly to hover just behind your spine without touching it, a protective motion meant to cover what little you can of raw skin.
His processor briefly flickers back to the jarring glimpse he'd caught earlier when he put you down on the gurney, of dark discolouration bleeding tendrils over an inflamed expanse of flesh.
You think he did that to you...
The Prime's vocaliser seizes for a moment before he clears his intake and tries to set the record straight. “You were burned…” he murmurs solemnly.
All at once, your lips twist up in abject horror as you stumble away from him. “You burned me?"
And with that one, panicked utterance, an ominous change comes over the titan.
Brow-plates snap inwards, the finials on his helm tilt back, and a throaty rumble chugs out of the silver smokestacks that vibrate and rattle around the force of the sound as he opens his mouth and recites a word so steeped in rich conviction, you can almost feel it behind your eyelids.
"Never."
Of its own accord, you find your head dipping to avoid his gaze, struck by the sense that you’ve just crossed some sort of line. Implied something you shouldn’t have.
“There is not a force in this Universe that could compel me to harm one of your kind,” he tells you, and the weight packed behind every word presses down on top of your head.
More and more, you have to wonder if you’re standing in front of a force of nature rather than anything manmade. Like gravity, ready to put you in your place if you try to act against it.
But then, his gaze wanders to the uncomfortable curve of your spine, where you’ve shifted to try and keep the straps of your clothing from pressing against the searing skin.
You think the look of pity that softens his inhuman features is somehow far worse than the prior severity.
Venting softly, Optimus lets his optics click shut for a moment, opening them again slowly to give you a far gentler look. “It was the missile…" he explains, his tone back to its usual, mellow inflection, "The explosion… You spared the children from its heat, but used yourself to do so.”
The missile...
You blink unsteadily down at your wobbling hands...
You remember... the streak of silver screaming over your head. A blast of suffocating heat singeing the hairs on the base of your neck, licking at your bare shoulders.
It hurt, you recall. It more than hurt, but you hadn't paid any attention to it at the time, numbed from the worst of the pain by adrenaline and terror.
A burn. From a goddamn explosion.
Despite yourself, you can already feel your resolve start to waver in the face of his reasoning. When you were little, you got sunburnt so badly, you couldn't sleep on your back for a week, and even having a single bedsheet press against your skin was nearly too much to bear.
Now that you've actually stopped to acknowledge the tightness between your shoulders, this does feels astoundingly similar.
Bottom line? Optimus hadn't - hasn't - hurt you. Not in the way you thought he had.
Still, the sceptic in you is quick to plant a seed of doubt, that isn't to say he won't.
Unbeknownst to you, Optimus has seen the comprehension dawning over your face like light washing away a fog of unease, and he knows you've at least begun to contradict your own assumption that he's a threat.
He doesn't expect you to trust him blindly, yet it would mean a great deal to him if he could earn it. Now that you're here, perhaps he finally has that chance.
Although he regrets that your life had ever been caught in the crossfire, there still exists a selfish part of him - one Ratchet insists does not exist - that's immeasurably relieved you were down there in that mine tonight.
You saved the children. You're under his protection, whether he's made that much clear yet or not. The moments of dishonesty that still plague him can finally be put to rest because he can at last tell you the truth. You said you didn't want anything to do with him, and he suspects that was because you didn't know his intentions. Now though, as he vows to lay a foundation of honesty at your feet, Optimus is hopeful that you'll start to see him not as a stranger or a threat, but as an ally.
Shoving the imaginary 'tut' that sounds suspiciously like Arcee to the back of his processor, he lets his dermas smooth into a consoling smile.
"What you did for the children," he continues as a tender node in his chassis squirms with proud admiration, "What you did for this team... I doubt I could ever express the depths of my gratitude for that... But what I can give you, what I think you deserve, is to know the truth."
“Why?!" you protest in an instant, your guard all the way up, much to his dismay "Why do I need to know? What do you care if all I want to do is leave and forget I ever saw you!?”
His response is subdued but blunt, and each of his fingers unfurl to lay flat on the gurney, the tips stretching across the space between you. His smile has vanished, and you hadn't noticed how much softer it made him look until it's gone.
“Because I fear I have put you in grave danger…”
For just a second, you falter, but then the bile starts to climb up the inner wall of your throat, sour and bitter tasting. It even sounds bitter when you curl your lip and spit, “Obviously.”
The low whine of an engine reminds you too much of the Peterbilt trundling along behind you on the road, and you have to wrench your eyes off the drooping smokestacks, staring instead at his wide, prodigious shoulder. There, bright red paint has been scraped away in thin lines across the width of the panel, revealing silver stripes that look like scars, and as he shifts, the shadow of a dent highlights the spot where metal has been pressed concave…
You’re not so dense as to ignore that it’s the same damage he’d sustained when he shielded you from that charging Aston.
'Oh, Optimus... Your lovely truck..."
If you weren’t so itchy to get out of here, there might have been more room for remorse in your churning stomach.
“I will… try to be succinct,” Optimus utters much more mellowly, “If you would allow me just a moment to explain…?”
That much, at least, you can acknowledge, biting down on your lip and chewing at in pensively.
“And then I can leave?” you hedge.
Something flickers across his otherworldly face, but eventually, he inclines his head in a nod and pledges, “I will take you back the Dairy myself.”
Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead, not because you've just remembered the very temperamental farmer likely waiting to see if you've survived the 'cave-in,' but because Optimus seems to be under the impression that you’d be willing to go anywhere with him ever again.
But that aside... if listening to him brings you any closer to getting out of here, you don’t see how you have much of a choice except to sit tight and just go along with it.
Reluctant, restless, you draw a deep breath through your nose, trapping it in your lungs for several moments before you blow it all out in a loud rush. "... Alright..."
That simple, begrudging acquiescence is still enough to entice the smile back onto his face, and with a resonant hum, he begins.
“My name is Optimus Prime." If nothing else, he's glad he hadn’t deceived you about that. “And I am a member of a race of autonomous robotic organisms, hailing from the planet Cybertron.”
You barely register the meaning behind the words he's telling you, save for the fact that the whole thing sounds very rehearsed. You have to wonder how many times he's repeated this same speech... Have the kids heard it?
There is one word, however, that stands out above the others.
Planet?
"But you may call us Autobots, for simplicity's sake," Optimus is carrying on, regarding you with a watchful optic as you bring a hand up to your face and scrub it harshly down your nose and over your chin where it comes to rest, digging a thumb into the hollow of your cheek. Hard.
"So. Aliens...?" you murmur, half to yourself, half to the titan peering back at you, and entirely dreading what you're about to hear.
His answer slugs you with the force of a sucker punch.
"... Yes. To your species, we would be considered extra-terrestrials."
Which is... so very far from what you'd been expecting.
A superweapon built by the military? Yes.
The robotic experiment of some mad scientist with too much funding? Not implausible.
But really? Aliens?
Arduously, you pry each fingernail off your chin and let your arm flop back down to your side, winded.
You completely miss the troubled frown Optimus aims at the moon-shaped welts you've left behind along your jawline.
"Aliens..." you repeat, struggling to catch your breath as you let out a reedy, "Ffff~huuuck..."
Son of a bitch...
Looks like crazy old Terry isn't so crazy after all...
"Aliens exist." A shocked bark of laughter jumps out of you, utterly devoid of humour. "Aliens exist, and they're in Jasper Nevada! Area Fifty~fucking-One!"
The strained smile drops off your face as abruptly as it appeared, leaving you to just stare blankly at the rocky wall around Optimus's bulk, the weight of realisation sinking down on top of your bones.
"Oh my god," you croak, "The conspiracies were right."
Your legs give out with no warning.
Heavily, you slump to your knees, landing on the gurney with an aching thud.
Acting almost with a will of its own, Optimus's hand flinches towards you, though it soon slows to a halt once you rear away from it, hunching your shoulders around your ears.
The titan's mouth hangs open for a moment whilst he blinks at you, the plates over his eyes upturned as if he's worried.
You blanch at the very idea of it.
Still, though you don't want to know, there is a question burning on your tongue like an iron brand, growing hotter and hotter until you're compelled to spit it off. "What are you doing here?"
You don't think you need to specify that 'here' and Earth are one in the same.
Optimus doesn't even hesitate in his response. "To protect your planet," he tells you with a seriousness that puts your teeth on edge.
"From what?" you croak out, lifting a finger of meagre warning and trying to ignore how your whole arm quivers with the effort of keeping it raised, "And if you say from humans..."
He appears caught off guard by that. "From Decepticons," he presses, "You recall the... individual that attacked you in the mines?"
Blood red eyes, a voice like nails on a chalkboard, cruelty defined in every sharp angle and sneer on its face...
You clutch at your elbows, squeezing with chilly fingers. "Mm. Not ringing any bells."
Optimus, well-accustomed to Agent Fowler's particular proclivity for 'sarcasm,' recognises the same pattern in your tone, and simply forges on. "That was a Decepticon," he says, "He goes by the name of Starscream. A notorious figure in the Decepticon Army."
He pauses to appraise you for a moment, then flashes you a smile bleeding warmth. "You did well to outwit him."
But you don't care for the praise, too fixated on what came before it.
"Army...?" you whisper thinly, eyes now trained on Optimus's face, "There's an... army of you guys? Here? On Earth?"
The Prime's expression falters.
Already, this conversation is starting to echo the very same one he had with Agent Fowler when he was first approached by the Liaison on behalf of the US Government. This time, however, he's relieved to be explaining things without the sights of a dozen vehicle gunners trained on his chest-plates.
That doesn't make this conversation any easier though.
He'd hoped it would progress differently, that you might be assuaged by the knowledge that he's only here in the interest of keeping you and your planet safe.
But your concerns are certainly founded, and he won't belittle you by soft-pedalling the facts.
"I am afraid so," he hums solemnly, "We believe they are here to plunder the natural deposits of Energon that grow within the crust of your planet."
When you don't respond further than shaking your head at him helplessly, he elaborates.
"Energon. It is a fuel. An... ichor. A compendious source of power and energy for my species, not unlike water is for yours... In short, we need it to survive."
You're trying to control your breathing, he notices, your eyes flickering sporadically about the room as your expression opens up in a glimmer of comprehension. "That's why you were in the cave," you venture hoarsely, picturing those strange spurs of crystal that lit up the pitch-dark passageways.
Quartz... Pah! Sure.
"The Decepticons were drilling for Energon," Optimus replies, "We Autobots were there to secure what we could through stealth, without resorting to a confrontation."
"You make it sound like you're two sides at war."
There's the softest clink of metal when his mouth seals shut into a thin line.
His silence is as damning as the confirmation it stands for.
You release your elbows in favour of clutching at your head, fingers curling roughly through your hair and gripping it fiercely. "Oh, Jesus Christ..."
"I would call it a miracle that we found you and children down there and got you out in time," Optimus remarks, keen to distract you from the endless spiral of terror whose edge you keep teetering back and forth on. His EM field pulses calm, his gaze troubled, yet fond. "But it was not a miracle. It was all thanks to you, my friend."
You can't help it.
Perhaps it's the idea of being associated with something so irrevocably beyond your scope of understanding. Perhaps it's because of the incessance of the pain spanning the width of your back. Hell. Perhaps you've just learned that aliens are real, and they've brought yet another war into Earth's stratosphere. As if she needed another.
But whatever the reason, you can't stop yourself from prickling at the word 'friend,' prying your lips back and raising your head - and voice - to let out a serrated shout.
"I am NOT your FRIEND!"
Something mechanical gives a whir as Optimus's helm jerks back on his neck struts, but you're already deflating like a burst balloon, wilting in on yourself as if you aren't quite sure why you'd just raised your voice again.
Your declaration is both a reminder and a blow. His spark feels the impact, even if he goes untouched.
He didn't mean to insinuate... He only hoped that-
"Why did I ask?" you groan, presumably to yourself as you stagger up onto unsteady feet and begin to pace, head tipped down to stare through unseeing eyes at the ground. "Why the Hell did I ask!? I didn't want to know! I said I didn't want to know!"
It's increasingly obvious that you aren't addressing him, but Optimus responds all the same.
"Forgive me," he utters, closing the distance between you at last by sliding his servo forwards again and turning it over behind you, a gesture he hopes you'll see for what it is. An olive branch. A motion of support. He's often observed how humans will offer one another their hands in recognition, in familiarity and in greeting.
But when you spin on your heel and find it lurking behind you, closer than it was before, you flinch, skirting around the appendage as you turn to face its owner, keeping one, mistrustful eye trained in its direction.
"Okay," you rush out, "Okay, okay..." And when nothing more eloquent springs to mind... "Shit."
There's a cocktail of anxious energy surging like a fever to your every extremity. It even escapes into your voice, tightening your vocal chords and pushing everything out an octave too high.
"Okay, but what does any of this have to do with me?" you plead, hands slapping frantically at your chest, "What am I doing here? You haven't said why I'm here? Is it because I've seen too much?!"
"On the contrary," Optimus is quick to assuage, leaving his servo where it rests and urging your rejection to roll off his shoulders, "You are here, in part, because someone has seen too much of you."
Owlishly, you blink at him for a second before your face screws up and you blurt, "What!?"
"Starscream," he thrums, kicking a throaty growl out of the engine buried somewhere deep inside his torso. "He is why I wanted to speak with you so urgently. He is why you are still here, why I've been hesitant to let you leave... If Starscream finds you alone, now that he believes we are associated..."
He lets his voice fade into silence, and your imagination readily jumps in to finish the thought.
It isn't a pleasant one at all...
You press a hand against your throat.
"I thought, after Knock Out, it would be enough to watch over you from afar, but Starscream is-"
"Knock Out!?" you squawk, heart-rate leaping, "Who the Hell is Knock Out!?"
Optimus only has to look at you for a moment while he thinks of a response before it hits you.
"The DBS..." you breathe.
"The Decepticon Medic," Optimus says by way of confirmation, "Your encounter was, I hope, a mere coincidence. But another close call that I do not care to repeat..."
You have to sit down. No, wait, you have to stay upright and alert. One of these things was hidden inside the beautiful frame of that Aston Martin? Suddenly, you can't stop wondering about every vehicle that's ever driven past you. Terry's tractor? Is that an alien? Your truck? God, you hope not. But then, how would you know?
"Oh. My god," you swallow roughly, sinking to a crouch, "They're everywhere..."
"Which is precisely why-" Optimus starts, raising his chin, "- I am proposing the same arrangement for you that we have in place for Jack, Miko, and Rafael. They too were exposed to the Decepticon threat, and subsequently became potential targets that our adversaries would seek to harm... I will not allow that to happen to them."
Steadfast, his spark gives a resounding throb as he lays a servo over it, holding your gaze, "I will not allow that to happen to you."
He longs to know what's going through your head, whether you're reassured by his words or abhorred by their necessity. Without an electro-magnetic field, it's difficult to gauge, and you aren't helping matters by turning your face down again, hands balled into fists at your sides. Hiding from him.
"The children have their respective guardians." Belatedly, he attempts to inject some semblance of optimism into his vocaliser. "Bulkhead, Arcee, and Bumblebee. The latter two, you've yet to meet, but I hope you will have the opportunity soon."
Your shoulders hike up, stall, then slowly lower once more, like you're constantly battling the tremor in your limbs.
"For your safety," he continues to muse, "I propose that either myself or Ratchet watch over you for-"
"-No..."
The Prime's audials twitch, whirring softly as they spin forwards.
"No?" He watches on in rising despondence as you shake your head roughly and sweep your arms out from side to side in front of you for added measure.
"No," you repeat, recover a breath, then firmly announce, "No! I - We're not-...! I'm not doing this." Huffing out a ragged breath, you toss your head up, and he's granted a glimpse of your face.
Worn. Weary. Frightened. Lined by anguish that pulls at your jowls and sits visibly beneath your red-tinged eyes.
"I-I listened to what you had to say, and now I want to leave!" you stutter, "You said I could go if I listened!"
"Y/n...." He murmurs your name like it hurts him.
"You said!" It's childish and it's cowardly but you don't care. You're clinging with a desperate fervour to the one and only thing he's told you tonight that makes any kind of sense. "That was the deal! I listened! I can go! Please!"
Optimus, not for the first time, is torn. Yes, he assured you he'd take you back after he'd said his piece, yet he hadn't anticipated that you'd refuse to heed the things he's told you.
This isn't how his introductions usually go. His track-record so far has been nigh-on pristine.
What's gone wrong?
He won't have you going out into Jasper without protection, not with your face likely seared into a vengeful Starscream's processor. But equally, he won't keep you here against your will...
Safety, or freedom? Two concepts he values immensely, each balanced on the same tightrope that he seems to walk on a daily basis.
Perhaps, he wonders, opening his mouth to speak, on the drive back, he might have more opportunity to sway your-
"-You aren't going anywhere."
You almost trip over your own feet at the speed you whirl around, inadvertently back-peddling towards Optimus's chassis as a colossal figure stomps from the shadows of the adjacent corridor and into the cavernous room.
"Ratchet..." Optimus vents a stoic noise, his tone a warning to those who know what to listen for.
The medic, however, knows precisely what to listen for, just as much as he knows Optimus well enough to simply bulldoze straight through the Prime's overprotective field and stalk towards the gurney.
"The others filled me in. You are not leaving this base until that burn has been properly addressed," he announces sharply, adhering you to the spot with a weaponised glare.
Piercing, blue optics shift to meet Optimus's, then narrow in a challenge. "I've given you ample time to explain the situation. If this human hasn't come to terms with matters yet, that's none of my concern. What is my concern, however, is the damage dealt to the epidermis."
The servo he thrusts out at you in gesture is met with an admonishing nudge against his own field.
'Gently...' Optimus doesn't say it aloud, though Ratchet rolls his optics and scoffs as though he had.
"As it stands, I still have no idea how bad it is. Primus forbid it's extended down to the subcutaneous tissue."
It's hard to believe that once again, you've found yourself caught between a threat to your back and to your front.
Whilst you're busy eyeing the ornery giant for any signs of sudden movement towards you, another voice calls from the darkened corridor he'd come striding out of.
"Jeez, Ratch, what's got your bolts in a twist? Calm down."
Your ears perk up at once.
Miko.
Thundering footsteps precede the appearance of the green juggernaut. He melds into the light, the girl perched high on one of his shoulders without a care in the world. A rapid glance down reveals that Jack and Raf are cradled in each of the robot's hands, apparently content to be carried into the room by something infinitely larger than themselves.
It makes you dizzy just looking at them.
"I am perfectly calm!" Ratchet harrumphs perfectly calmly, throwing a molten glare at the girl as Bulkhead traipses up to the gurney's edge and lowers the boys onto its surface.
"Sorry Boss," the largest of the three rumbles sheepishly at Optimus, "We tried to distract 'im, but..."
"But after he saw that we were fine, he started getting worried about Y/n," Raf pipes up helpfully - much to the Medic's indignation - as he hops down from Bulkhead's servo.
Sputtering something incomprehensible, Ratchet throws several objections about at once, but you've already drowned out his voice to focus on Jack, who has left Rafael's side in favour of approaching you with the caution of a well-meaning child who wants to help an injured, snarling dog.
He has his face downturned, peering up at you through his black, flyaway bangs. Over his arm hangs a towel. A wet towel, you deduce, eyeing the droplets of water that trail a glistening path in the boy's wake.
Despite the circumstances, a coil of apprehension untangles itself from your ribs.
They're all... okay?
"Um, hi," Jack greets as he comes to a stop several feet away, offering a crooked grin and bouncing the towel on his arm invitingly, "Thought you might wanna use this... for your back? It’s cold. There's a bathroom down one the hallways..."
Blinking unevenly, you tear your eyes off him and toss a furtive look up at the medical bot, only partially relieved to find him locked in a heated discussion with Miko, while Bulkhead - an unfortunate bystander caught in the crossfire - is trying to surreptitiously angle his shoulder away from Ratchet, maintaining at least some distance between the bickering parties.
Soft, drooping optics flit down to you several times until Bulkhead notices you’ve caught him sneaking glances, and when he does, his entire hulking body stiffens like a metal wash-board, and he wrenches his gaze down to stare at the floor instead.
You still don’t reach out to take the towel.
“Don’t worry about Ratchet,” a timid voice pipes up.
Trying, and failing, to suppress a jump, you pivot your head around to find Raf has also ventured forwards, sticking close to Jack’s side.
“He’s all bark, no bite,” the boy continues, apparently inclined to overlook your jumpiness, “I think he just wants to make sure you’re okay.”
… Now, you don’t like to think ill of people. Especially not children. But you find yourself gawping down at Raf as if he’s grown an extra head.
The alien just wants to make sure you're okay.
Now you've heard everything.
“I… How?” you croak, gesturing helplessly at them with your palms tilting towards the ceiling, “How are you guys… okay with this?” Shaking your head, you let out a breathless sound too dour to be a laugh, and whisper, “How are you not afraid?”
To his credit, Jack actually seems to give your question some thought, sharing a glance with Raf before lifting his eyes to something over your head. Then, dropping his focus back to you, he shrugs a shoulder and replies, “Cause there’s nothing to be afraid of here.”
“Yeah,” Raf attests, “The Autobots are our friends.”
“Even Ratchet!” comes Miko’s chipper input, sending the Medic into another tirade of stark denial.
Raf just sighs tiredly whilst Jack steps closer once again and offers you the dripping towel. “You’ll get used to it,” he says with an awkward smile.
Truth be told, you don’t want the chance to get used to any of it.
Least of all the blue beam of light that suddenly bursts to life behind you and washes over you from head to toe, throwing your shadow across the gurney.
"HEY!" you yelp, spinning around clumsily and almost staggering into Jack.
Ratchet, nonplussed, retrieves his arm as the light dies and scowls at something on his wrist for a moment.
"It's okay!" Raf's hand finds the hem of your shirt, tugging on the fabric and dragging your attention off the Medic, "It's just a scan."
"Yeah, he likes his own personal bubble but doesn't know other people have 'em too," Miko sighs loudly from Bulkhead's shoulder, "You just gotta let him get it out of his system."
Only Optimus, who has been observing you closely from the moment Ratchet walked back into the hangar, notices the spike of alarm that his old friend isn't quite fast enough to catch before it arches through his field.
"Ratchet?" he prompts, straightening up as best he can without rising to his pedes. It hadn't escaped his notice that your heartrate decelerated by a fraction when he wasn't towering high over you.
From the corner of an optic, the Prime sees your head snap towards him, and he wonders if you'd forgotten he was even here in all the ruckus.
Muttering to himself, the Medic flaps a servo at Optimus's question, as if he finds the interruption bothersome. "Mm, I knew this shouldn't have waited," he grouses, then snaps two digits together with a metallic 'shing,' thrusting his servo out towards the humans and sending one of them cowering back like a whipped dog. "Jack. The towel."
"Uh, I-Um," Jack stutters, squinting dubiously at the Medic's digits, "You... wanna do it?"
Picking up on the direction this is heading, you try to draw yourself out of the cage of your own arms, shooting fretful glances between Jack and the impatient bot. "Er, he's not coming anywhere near me."
Which is likely to go down as well as a lead brick.
Sure enough, Ratchet's optics snap from his wrist down to you, glare loaded like a pistol and aimed directly at your upturned face. Even Jack has pivoted to look anxiously at you in profile, his expression twisted up as if to say, 'And what exactly do you think I can do about it?'
"Believe me," the Medic grouses, jutting his chin at you, "Were it not for the circumstances, I'd have no qualms about you staying as far from me as possible."
Optimus knows better than most how Ratchet's berth-side manner goes. For all his curtness and prickly conduct, he's a damn good medic, due in part to his dogged ferocity in cowing even the most unruly or unwilling patients.
The difference here though, is that this patient is nowhere near the same size as the doctor. However daunting it is for Cybertronians to witness a Ratchet in full medical-specialist mode, it must be far more intimidating to be on the receiving end as a human.
“From what I’ve heard, you’re lucky to still be standing at all,” Ratchet tells you with no shortage of reprimand, “The warheads on Starscream’s missiles are packed with an Energon compound; a substance that does not pair well with the human body upon exposure.”
Behind you, Bulkhead makes a sound like air being sucked through gritted teeth.
“So, those are Energon burns?” he frets, wincing at your back, “Scrap. That’s gotta hurt..."
Bewildered, you brave a glance over your aching shoulder, peering up at the underside of a wide, silver jaw. It lifts a few inches when the bot meets your eye, and you'll only realise later that he'd been offering you a reticent smile.
Ratchet just harrumphs.
“Well, I’m assuming they must be, but I won’t know for certain until I’m allowed to examine them more closely!” he snaps, shooting you a very pointed scowl that you return with the barest huff, giving the arm he’d ’scanned’ you with a cagey look.
Bolstered by the pair of humans hovering close behind you, you somehow find the guts to shake your head at the bot and meekly announce, “Not a chance.”
The entire room descends into a tangible silence as Ratchet’s features grow impossibly harder.
Some great, metallic mass gently shifts its weight nearby, and a throat is cleared as quietly as it possibly can be.
You were wrong before... when Optimus got stern. Now you feel like you've crossed a line.
With bated breath, you watch the darkened shadows extend over the alien's face, keeping yourself stock-still like a rabbit caught in headlights until-
"Suit yourself," he sniffs, brushing off his affront with a dismissive shrug.
Everyone, yourself included, seems to exhale in unison.
"But-" he adds briskly, commanding the room to listen once again, "Might I recommend drawing the heat out sooner rather than later? Immediately, is my suggestion, unless you want your tissue to keep 'cooking,' so to speak."
A horrifying image in itself...
Straightening to his full height, he swings his servos around to clasp them behind his back and leans over the gurney, and if it weren't for Raf and Jack unwittingly cutting off your path of retreat, you'd have probably backed over the ledge.
"Now, I don't care who does it..." Ratchet's optic twitches, his volume increasing with every word, "But if someone doesn't get that towel on your burn this instant, I'm going to-"
Jack, ever sticking to his self-imposed role of peacekeeper, is quick to jump in. And he does so by turning his back on the Medic and addressing you directly.
“-Ah, hey! If you won’t let Ratchet help you, will you let me?”
And... strangely enough, the distraction he'd been aiming for seems to work.
Robbed so unceremoniously of steam, Ratchet's bluster comes to an anticlimactic halt, and he takes a step back, silent save for the click of his dentae as he snaps them shut.
You, in the meantime, give your head a quick shake as if to dislodge the mere sight of Ratchet and opt to blink several times at the teen standing in front of you instead, a gear in your brain clunking heavily into motion.
What did he say?
It's hard to think straight when the eyes of no less than three extra-terrestrials are searing into the top of your skull.
Focus. First, shrink the whole world down until it fits on the face of the kid standing in front of you. Nothing really exists further than what he's telling you.
That's how you plucked up the resolve to leave home in the first place. Back then, you shrunk the world down to the contents of your rucksack. You need a toothbrush. Hairbrush. Driver's licence... Don't think about all the ways this could go horribly wrong. Don't look at the bigger picture. If you do, your nerves will fail you, every time.
Shamefully, it's only now you're actually looking closer that you notice the streak of dirt marring Jack's pale cheek. At a glance, he doesn't seem too worse for wear, but you'd forgotten to check... You shouldn't have forgotten to check.
Embarrassment kicks a belated question through your teeth.
"Y'okay?" you grunt articulately, like you're coming out of a daze.
You watch his eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe. "Uh... Yeah?" He gives a short chuckle. "I'm fine." Lips quirked, he nods his head towards the sopping towel in his hand.
Following his gaze, you blink stupidly at it for a moment before your brain catches up with his implication.
You have no idea what kind of state your back is in, but it certainly feels like a big, ugly mess. Nobody should have to deal with that, least of all a kid.
“Nah, you don't wanna do that,” you dismiss, holding out your hand for the towel, “I’ll manage.”
But for some reason, Jack just bites his lip and briefly pulls the towel back towards himself, cycling through expressions like he’s thinking about something very hard, until eventually, his face sinks into a stern frown more suited for a teacher than a teenager.
“You… probably won’t be able to reach,” he tells you, though his voice is small and uncertain, as if he isn’t used to telling someone older than him what to do, “I got it. Hold still.”
You hadn't expected him to flip his own script, not after he seemed insistent on offering the towel for you to take.
Before you can peel away, he’s stepping deftly around you and pinning the entire swathe of fabric up against your back with a sopping-wet ‘squelch.’
“Aghh!” you gasp sharply, reeling forwards to try and escape the sensation of something cold touching such heated skin, but Jack is deceptively persistent, shadowing your half-hearted retreat as he keeps the towel pressed across your spine until you freeze on the spot, shoulders bunched up around your neck.
He'd wet it thoroughly at some point, that much is clear. Water squeezes out of the fabric and dribbles in rivulets down your back, soaking right through your scruffy tank top and leaving you shivering in your boots.
"What was that for!?" Christ. You barely know this kid.
“Relax,” he chaffs amicably, “My Mom’s a nurse. I was learning first-aid when I was, like, six years old.”
Begrudgingly, you have to admit, the cold might be starting to help.
"A!... Does - does she know you're... here?" you ask, teeth chattering. Does she know about any of this, goes unspoken.
"God no. No, she does not. She thinks I'm at a slumber party."
The slap of boots hitting the gurney pulls your head up from where you've tucked it against your chest, spotting Miko sauntering towards you along the rubber surface.
"My foster parents never know where I am, thank god." Coming to a stop in front of you, she takes up position beside Raf and folds her arms boastfully across her chest, casting her eye over you from head to toe, lips pursed in contemplation.
Taking a hesitant step forwards, even the youngest of the trio chimes in, "None of our parents know."
Which... is troubling, to say the least...
"O-okay?" you croak, doing your utmost to ignore the three, enormous elephants in the room, "So, who does know?"
"You, now," Miko says.
"The Government," Raf adds, to which you can't help but snort.
"Stop the Presses."
From behind you, Jack is the last to give his input. "And us."
Letting go of the towel with one hand, he scrubs a palm up and down the back of his neck and crooks a small grin when you glance at him over your shoulder. "It's a... pretty exclusive club," he admits.
In response, you swallow, flexing your sweaty palms and lowering your gaze to the floor, heart beating an unsteady rhythm against your sternum. After a stretch of quiet, you hesitantly whisper, "Is it the kind of club you can leave?"
"Oh, if only they would," Ratchet primly laments in a bitter grumble.
It doesn't come as much of a surprise that Miko is the next to jump in, throwing out a hip defensively and narrowing her eyes at you. "Why would we wanna leave?"
You can think of a few reasons, the most prominent of which are standing very close by.
Without taking your focus off the gurney, you give a sardonic little huff and gesture loosely in her direction, muttering. "You tell me..."
"We can leave," Jack steps in rigidly, "We're not being held prisoner here, if that's what you're worried about."
No. What you're worried about could hardly be encapsulated by a single sentence. At least the cold water on your back is doing wonders to draw pain out of the burn. You finally feel like you can breathe again.
Fidgeting with the turned-up cuffs of his shirt, Raf adds, "The Autobots are trying to protect Earth. We... just want to do what we can to help them. E-even if it isn't much."
You stare at him for the breadth of a second before a soft, rumbling voice fills the silence, one that has kept relatively quiet for some time until now.
"The three of you have been invaluable additions to the team," Optimus say resolutely, startling you yet again when his timbre rolls through your chest.
All of the children seem to stand a little taller at that, sending each other shy, knowing smiles as they bask in the warm glow of his acknowledgement whilst you stand there among them, insignificant. Which suits you down to the ground. If a chasm opened up underneath you right now and whisked you all the way back to a world that makes sense and has rules, that’d be just fine by you.
Tucking enough of the towel over your shoulders to ensure it stays where it is, Jack finally takes a step back and lets his arms drop, wiping them dry on the front of his jeans.
"We're here 'cause the world is in danger, and we can't just… hide a-and pretend it isn’t happening while they’re risking their lives to try and save it," he tells you to concurring nods from Miko and Raf, sounding far more confident in himself than he did before, "And we stay because they're our friends."
The boy's statement earns a proud hum of the Prime's engines.
You, on the other hand, are at a loss.
This morning, you thought you knew everything. You knew the cows needed to be milked at six o’clock. You knew the fences in the North paddock needed fixing. You knew Terry was an eccentric conspiracy theorist but an otherwise decent old man.
And you knew aliens didn’t exist.
Serves you right for thinking the world didn’t hold any more surprises for you.
Muzzily, you look at the kids in turn, Raf, Miko, then you pivot your neck around to stare at Jack, your head bobbing with fatigue. They’re all watching you right back, Raf from behind his spectacles, expression ever so slightly scrunched up like he’s plagued by something insurmountable. Miko with something akin to suspicion, or perhaps anticipation. And finally, Jack, who’s making a valiant effort to school his face into a look that isn’t full of pity.
You don’t hold it against him. You’re sure you must look pretty pitiful. Especially compared to them; kids who’ve taken on some grand and perilous burden that you can’t seem to even ponder on too long for fear of going mad.
Saving the world… That's quite the undertaking.
Well, if they want to get themselves killed for the greater good, who are you to tell them they shouldn’t? Hell, if you had even half their courage when you were that age, maybe you would have grown into someone your parents could be proud of today.
The air is thick and charged with unspoken things, and you can’t help but wonder if they’re all waiting for you to say something.
You feel like the punchline of a joke you aren’t in on.
For once, it’s a joke you don’t want to be a part of.
“Then you’re all better people than me," you tell them at last, earning three sets of blinks. Perhaps they assumed you'd argue the point that children have no place in an alien war. Shit, maybe you should... But then, what the hell do you know?
You only signed up to convince some kids to leave a mine, not contend with... whatever the hell kind of mess this constitutes as. So far as you're concerned, you've already answered the call of duty, and now you're paying for it. No good deed, and all that...
"Whatever this is..." you say quietly, "I don't want any part of it. I just want to go home…”
Home? Fuck, it must be bad. Back to expectations higher than the stars, back to the place that was privately happy to see you go because it meant you might finally go out and do something useful. Back to where you couldn't hide from your painful mediocrity. You remember the look on your father's face when you rolled out of bed at ten in the morning on a Saturday once. Cold disappointment.
It's all so terribly laughable now, of course.
You really thought you had it bad? You thought you were unhappy? You suppose it takes being faced with life-threatening odds before you can put things into perspective... Because at least you were surviving.
“Finally! A human with some common sense!” That’d be Ratchet, you fathom, squeezing your eyes halfway shut at his strident declaration.
“Wait. Seriously?” Giving a brusque scoff, Miko jabs her hand at you, fingers pressed tightly together in a uniform line, “You’re gonna stand up to Screamer like a total hero, and then turn around and call it quits? Where's your sense of adventure!?”
Gone. Buried in the same hole you left the energy of youth behind to die. Maybe if you were standing here ten years ago, when you thought kids were invincible and death wasn't permanent, you'd be jumping headlong into this whole thing without hesitation.
Maybe if you weren't a coward, you'd think the world could still be saved.
Stiff-backed, you retort, "I didn’t come to Jasper to be a goddamn hero.”
“Huh.” This time, it’s Jack who speaks up, shifting his weight onto the opposite foot and drawing the eye of everyone – human and alien – in the hangar. “Could've fooled me when you came down into the mines and protected us from Starscream.”
A neve in your temple twitches as you clench your jaw whilst an inexplicable ball of agitation ricochets off your stomach walls, and before you can keep yourself in check and wonder why you're getting wound up - beyond the obvious reason of your still being here - you turn on the boy, lips parting around your teeth in an ugly lour.
“I was only down there in the first place because my Boss told me to stop some dumb kids from getting themselves killed in an unstable mine."
"Dumb kids?" Miko parrots, her face scrunching up to mirror yours, “Why are you being such a jerk all of a sudden?”
“Miko!” Raf hisses.
Soundly ignoring him, she throws a shoulder out towards you, arms still firmly crossed over her chest. “You were so nice when we met you the other day!”
"You four have already met?" Optimus asks.
Ignoring him, you sneer at the girl, “Oh please. That was the first time we met, and we talked for like, ten minutes, tops! Maybe you caught me on a good day.” Eyes burning, you let your expression go lax and breathe out a miserable little huff, entirely toothless. “Maybe a jerk’s all I am.”
Food for thought, you suppose, because now the kids are looking at you in a whole new light, as if it's only just occurred to them that you really are nothing more than a stranger.
Only the Autobots remain dubious, with one in particular outright rejecting the absurdity of your claim like it's the most preposterous thing he's ever heard.
Optimus does nothing to conceal the discontent that sours the oceanic waves of his EMF. Across the gurney, Ratchet picks up on it first, brushing his own field up against the Prime's. Inquiring.
Even Bulkhead, not as perceptive as Ratchet but no less aware of their leader's disquiet, glances first at Optimus, then at you, his optics thinning to slats of blue as he casts his doubt.
Oblivious, you try to avoid each stare, even the children's, and swallow down the knee-jerk impulse to apologise, especially when you make the mistake of sneaking a glimpse at Raf's face. You didn't know it was possible for a kid his age to look quite so... disappointed.
He must not have liked that you called him dumb...
"Am I allowed to go now?" you croak, slowly inclining your head in the direction of a red and blue mass that hovers in your periphery.
"... I gave you my word," Optimus sighs, reluctance leaving a heavy tack along his glossa. He pulls away from the gurney, easing himself up to his pedes without any inclination to hurry. "Come, I will take you back to the Dairy..."
With any luck, a peaceful drive with you tucked safely in his passenger seat might give him a little more time to help you see that your safety now hangs in precarious balance. Considering the calibre of mech who will be baying for your head on a platter, he knows his case will have to be even more convincing than it was in here.
But as he lowers his servo once more to the rubber surface, he's reminded that a few gentle words and reassurances from your fellow humans will hardly suffice to make you lay your trepidation aside, just like that.
"No!" you bleat, and Optimus has to pretend very hard that his spark doesn't buck when the fear you seemed to have somewhat shaken off returns in a flash of your bobbing throat and eyes that re-fill with tears. "I-I can't-! Not with you... Not you."
It shouldn't be anything new that you won't accept his help when he offers it, and he shouldn't - as a Prime - let that get to him like it does.
You’re staring at him tearfully, and it occurs to him that you must be picturing every awful thing that might happen to you if you get inside his cab. You were already wary on Highway 49, before you knew what he was.
He can’t imagine how much more difficult it’s going to be to coax you back in after he’s betrayed your trust so significantly.
Optimus has fought a lot of battles. Battles he’s won, and battles he’s lost, incalculable in scope. He knows the game, better than most. And if he thought that this was a losing battle, bringing you into their fold, he’d have to concede defeat.
But he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re worth the fight.
Again, you stumble back a few inches, rocking on your heels “I-It's nothing personal,” you lie through your teeth, echoing the sentiment you told him on the first night you met, "I just..." Unable to think of anything substantial however, you finish lamely, "Not you."
Parting his dermas, Optimus goes to offer another reassurance, but it isn't his voice that speaks up first.
"I can take you back!"
In near-perfect unison, every head slowly pivots around to stare vacantly at Bulkhead.
You're a little perturbed to find he only has eyes for you, at least until he blinks, blue lights winking off and on again as he pulls them away from you and flicks them around at the faces peering back at him.
"... What?" he asks.
Ratchet lets out a dubious 'hmph,' draping a servo across his hip. "Never thought I'd see the day Bulkhead started acting like a gentlemech."
Abashed, the Wrecker's silver jaw lowers to gape at him for several seconds before it clangs shut again, and he lets his optics fall to the ground, idly scuffing a pede at the concrete below him. "Just tryn'a help..."
Blowing an exasperated breath through rounded cheeks, you drag a hand down your face and primly address the room at large. "Look, just show me the door... and I'll be on my way, all right? Alone..."
"Out of the question," Optimus contends, "Our base is at least a thirty minute drive to your place of work, and I cannot condone letting you walk there in the middle of the night by yourself.
Funny. If he'd condoned it the other day, you probably wouldn't even be in this mess...
Regarding the back and forth listlessly, Ratchet starts, "If you're in a hurry, I could always just ring up a Ground-"
"- That will not be necessary either," Optimus cuts in, prompting a sigh from his oldest friend. Undeterred, the Prime gives Bulkhead a resolute nod, then lowers his helm to you, optics hooded and dim.
"Bulkhead will return you to the Dairy," he acquiesces, hesitating just long enough for you to notice the pause before he adds, "If that is your wish..."
No. Yes?
You have half an idea of what 'returning you to the Dairy' will entail, and you know you don't have the courage to do it. You want to leave, but if leaving means being taken...
A hundred different thoughts spin endlessly downwards, circling the proverbial drain until an ache begins to form between your temples, and you lift your hands to clutch fistfuls of the towel that still lays draped over your shoulders and hangs down your back.
And then, as if you weren't already busy trying to hold the pieces of yourself together by spit and spite, Miko heaves an airy sigh and announces, "If Bulk's going, then I'd better come with. Gotta get back before my foster parents realise I snuck out again and hide the key to my bedroom window."
"I told you to stop climbing out of there," Bulkhead admonishes even as he brings a servo up to the gurney and lays it flat on the surface, "What if you fall?"
Again, an expression of care that challenges your expectations.
Beckoning for you to follow, much to your bemusement, the girl begins trudging over to the offered hand, watched all the way by her guardian's attentive optic. "Hasn't happened yet."
"Doesn't mean it never will."
Miko tosses her head back and groans, "Okay, sorry Mom. I won't do it again."
And that's what's wrong with this picture, you realise, among a myriad of other things.
It's all too...
... casual.
If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend that this is simply a pair of friends bickering with one another, not a teenage girl and a monolithic, metal alien from another world entirely.
Turning to find you still standing squarely in your spot like a tree that’s put down roots, she frowns, placing one hand on a giant, grey fingertip and using the leverage to pull herself up and into Bulkhead’s servo.
“Well?” she barks, “You coming?”
Distantly, you find your legs begin to move of their own volition, treading cautiously in the girl's footsteps and approaching the palm she's settled herself down in.
It... helps, you think, seeing her place her life quite literally in the hands of something so vast, so astronomical, without even a sniff of ceremony. Like watching someone safely navigate a minefield without getting blown up before it's your turn.
It isn't lost on you, the cowardice behind needing a kid to mollify at least some of your fear.
You don't bother to ask her if it's safe. She certainly seems to think so. Instead, you stiffly trundle to a halt just in front of the hand, lips pressed together and clamped viciously between your teeth.
Grimacing, you hedge a wary glance up at the underside of that massive chin, then peer beyond it to find Bulkhead observing you through wide, enraptured optics, somehow glowing brighter when you reach out and blindly fumble for a handhold.
You palm meets the edge of warm, solid metal, and you go rigid, watching him closely for any change.
When he doesn't move - doesn't even blink - you drag down a quaking breath and tear your attention away from him, turning to Miko instead.
She's scooted backwards, poised confidently on the edge of a titanic wrist as she casts a few, pointed looks between you and the empty palm.
You are going to be phenomenally annoyed if this turns out to be an elaborate trap.
Clenching fingers keep the towel in place as you swing a leg over the side of Bulkhead's digits, and the rest of your body begrudgingly follows suit.
You don't notice the excited ping that Bulkhead sends to the other bots in his presence when you drop into an awkward crouch in his servo, nor do you hear the hum of approval from Optimus, who silently commends his warrior for handling you so patiently.
Keeping a tight lid on his giddiness, Bulkhead starts to move, retracting his arm from the gurney and taking a careful step backwards to lower you both to the floor.
He's barely reached solid ground before you're throwing yourself off his servo, stumbling uneasily over his thumb in your haste and earning yourself a snicker from Miko as she hops down beside you, letting your unorthodox ride straighten back to his full height.
You'd almost forgotten how much worse it is looking up at them from the floor again.
To your shock, Bulkhead starts to amble away from you and Miko, moving further into the spacious centre of the hangar, his jaw still twisted in that odd, cumbersome grin.
He's leaving? You thought he was...
Miko must catch the perplexed frown aging your face because she suddenly leans across and knocks you with her elbow, lips quirking in a grin. "Wait for it..."
God, if you have to do any more waiting just to get out of here, you'll start assuming the foetal position.
And then the colossal bot starts to fall apart.
Quite literally.
At least, that's what you assume is happening at first. Pieces of metal twist and slide into one another. Vast, green plates break apart and fit back together in a transformation so seamless, so fluid, you can't hope to follow it all with the naked eye. Closer and closer to the ground, the parts that make up 'Bulkhead' condense, until within mere seconds, you're left gaping at a familiar, armoured SUV, sitting where the robot had once stood as innocently as any other car you might see on the road.
From the corner of an eye, Miko watches you, her chin tipped back with an air of pride. "Pretty cool, isn't he?"
You snap your jaw shut at once, ashamed to have been caught gawking. Still, you're not dignified enough to simply brush the feat aside. "Extraordinary," you breathe.
So that's how they do it... Ever since you first laid eyes on them in the mine, you knew the vehicles and machines were one in the same, but what you couldn't fathom was how they transitioned between one and the other.
Now, you know. For better or worse, you've yet to decide.
You're nearly shocked out of your stupor when the truck in front of you seems to push itself higher on its wheel struts in response, and the mobile antenna on its backside swings ever so briefly back and forth.
"Ah, it's nothin' really," Bulkhead's voice emerges, just as Optimus's had, from the truck itself, bashful, "Any Cybertronian with a T-Cog can do it."
Still reeling from the transformation, you only jump a little when both front doors pop open in invitation.
Miko wastes no time making a beeline for the passenger's side, all but throwing herself into the cream, leather seat with a 'hup!' and kicking her boots up on the dash. The brazen treatment of what's essentially a giant, robotic alien makes you seize up in anticipation of a rankled scolding....
But whatever rapport Miko has with this juggernaut must be watertight because he says and does nothing to suggest he's even aware that she's putting dirty boots all over his interior.
Sluggishly, you bend your neck down to spare your own wellingtons an appraisal.
Dusty. Flaked in places with dried mud and cow shit.
... What if he-?
No.
You can do this... You have to. This is the only way you get out of this mess.
One last step.
The door sits open, a waiting maw, the leather seat a tongue and the wheel a palate against which you could be crushed so easily... This isn't the same as when you pulled yourself into Optimus's cab. Now, you have the luxury of being vividly aware that this 'truck' is hardly a truck at all.
Your boots carry you to the door, where you raise a leg, stiffly slotting it into the driver's footwell and falling still.
Despite yourself, you hear yourself asking, "Is this... okay?"
Which part of his body are you treading on? His face? His shoulder? Is the door equivalent to an open mouth? You can't shake the vile imagery of parasites making their home in the body of a much larger creature.
But Bulkhead's engine just kicks out a throaty purr as he replies, "Course it's okay."
Well then...
Something hesitant prompts you to look back and search for the others, letting your eyes glance off Ratchet and Optimus and adhere to the two boys staring back at you from their vantage point on the gurney.
You don't know what prompts it.
"Be safe," you stress to them, brows set in an uncompromising frown.
Jack raises a hand in farewell, whereas Raf starts to fidget, pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his vest. "We'll see you around?" he calls.
But you've already pivoted away from them, your one and only request imparted for them to heed as they see fit. Or not, as the case may be.
It's too late to pretend you care more about their lives than your own anymore. You're leaving them, after all, and while every part of you is hoping against hope that these aliens are as good as their word, and that they won't hurt anyone, you can be damn sure that hope isn't going to help these kids if you're wrong.
You should be putting up a fight here like you did in the mine, and you would...
... If you thought they were really in danger.
Towel in hand, you pull yourself into the waiting driver's seat like there's a bomb underneath it, afraid that the slightest pressure could set it off.
Then, the door thuds shut behind you, and you're sealed inside, at last granting you reprieve from Optimus's unwavering gaze.
The Prime's optical shutters click when you vanish from view, breaking the spell of melancholy and foisting him back into his own processor, slowly letting his surroundings bleed back into focus.
He watches, arms at his sides, as Bulkhead rolls forwards and begins to drive across the hangar. After a second, he loses battle with his restraint and sends a brief instruction for the Wrecker to heed.
'Get them home safely.'
Bulkhead's field buzzes with amused reassurance as he fires back, 'Count on me, Boss.'
"Optimus..."
The Prime tunes his audials to Jack's soft voice and prompts the boy to continue by giving him a curious hum, not quite ready to take his optics off the scarlet glow of Bulkhead's brake-lights as they near the corner.
"I-I'm sorry," Jack blurts before he can lose his nerve, "We... kind of ruined your shot at all that Energon, huh?"
Not unkindly, Optimus vents a thoughtful sigh.
How very like Jackson Darby to try and shoulder far more than his own share of the blame when he shouldn't be shouldering even an ounce of it in the first place.
"You are not blame for the actions of our enemies," Optimus tells him, firm yet gentle.
"Yeah, but if we weren't down there in the-"
"Jack... On this planet, we are never short of opportunities to secure more Energon," he assures the boy, easing his titanic body around to face the gurney once more and bending at the waist so neither of them need strain their necks, "The only takeaway from tonight's mission is that you are all safe. Nothing is more important than that."
Jack ducks his head, whether to hide the flush that creeps into the tips of his ears or to escape the unhesitating care in Optimus's gaze.
"Still..." he mumbles, hitching his shoulder up in a shrug and letting his sentence trail off.
Affectionate, the Prime's spark warms like a furnace. "I know."
What he also knows, beyond Jack's habit of apologising, is that young Rafael has been fighting back yawns for the last five minutes and making concerted efforts not to rub at his drooping eyelids. Jack himself doesn't seem to be faring much better, his posture heavily drooped, skinny shoulders slumping, and the increments of time between each blink growing shorter and shorter.
It might be the early hours of a Saturday morning, but that's no reason to keep children from their recharge cycles any longer than necessary.
"Ratchet," he calls over a shoulder to the waiting CMO, "Please check in with Arcee and Bumblebee, see what their ETA is. If it is anything longer than ten cycles, I would ask that you please see Rafael and Jack home safely."
Recent events must have taken at least some sort of toll on Ratchet because the Medic doesn't try to protest at all.
"Consider it done," he nods agreeably, raising a brow as Prime pivots on his heel strut and walks with a purpose across the hangar, "And where are you off to?"
Ah. No doubt he's still thinking of that explanation he was promised...
But Optimus doesn't pause his stride as he heads towards the lift that'll bring him to the top of the butte, where there'll be an uninterrupted view of the stars, and coincidentally, the perfect vantage point from which to oversee a pair of headlights ferrying two, precious souls down the highway towards Jasper.
HEYYYYYYY if I can may I ask for Aventurine, Sunday and Dan Hang protecting reader when they get badly injured protecting them please ( I’ve been desperate for some angst and comfort recently with them 😭😭 )
“If I Fall, Let It Be for You”
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Protectiveness, Sacrifice, Vulnerability, Emotional Conflict, Guilt, Platonic or Romantic Love, Selflessness, Inner Struggles.
The battlefield stretched before you, a blur of smoke and chaos. You had acted on instinct—throwing yourself in front of Dan Heng to block a strike meant for him. The blade tore through your side, pain radiating through your body as you stumbled.
“[Name]!” Dan Heng’s voice, usually so calm and composed, cracked as he caught you in his arms. His eyes widened, a rare display of emotion breaking through his stoic mask.
You gave him a weak smile, your hand clutching the bleeding wound. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
His jaw tightened, and his grip on you was firm yet trembling. “You should never have done that.” There was an edge to his voice, sharp and laden with guilt.
You tried to speak, but the pain was overwhelming. Darkness crept at the edges of your vision, and you felt yourself fading.
“Stay with me,” Dan Heng ordered, his voice softer now but no less desperate. He cradled you closer, his usually steady hands pressing against your wound to stem the bleeding. “You can’t leave me. Not like this.”
He carried you swiftly to a safe spot behind the ruins, shielding you from the chaos. His spear, Cloud-Piercer, stood guard nearby, its sharp tip still dripping with the blood of your enemies. Dan Heng tore a strip of fabric from his coat, fashioning a makeshift bandage to stop the bleeding.
“Why?” he asked quietly, his gaze fixed on your pale face. “Why would you put yourself in harm’s way for me?”
You managed a weak chuckle despite the pain. “Because I care about you, Dan Heng. Even if you keep pushing people away, I won’t stop protecting you.”
His breath hitched, and for a moment, his usual reserve cracked. “I don’t deserve it. Not after everything I’ve done… everything I’ve failed to prevent.”
“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your hand reaching up to brush against his cheek. “You’re worth it to me.”
Dan Heng’s eyes softened, guilt and sorrow mingling with something deeper—something he had tried so hard to suppress. He didn’t speak, but his actions spoke volumes. He leaned into your touch, his fingers brushing your hair as if trying to commit every detail of you to memory.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised, his voice low but resolute. “Not again.”
Dan Heng stayed by your side, his spear within reach, ready to defend you from any further threat. The battle raged on around you, but his focus never wavered. He wasn’t just protecting you now—he was protecting the fragile hope you had given him, the chance for something beyond the weight of his past.
And in his quiet way, Dan Heng vowed to repay the trust you had shown him, no matter the cost.
The echoes of the gunfire still reverberated in the empty corridors, a cruel reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. Aventurine stood frozen for a moment, the world around him slowing to a crawl. The usually confident smirk plastered on his face had vanished, replaced by a rare expression of raw, unfiltered fear.
You lay crumpled on the ground, your blood pooling beneath you. You had thrown yourself in front of him, a human shield against the sniper's bullet that had been meant for his chest.
“Why?” Aventurine whispered, his voice trembling as he knelt beside you, his gloved hands hesitating before pressing against your wound. His pristine, gold-adorned sleeves soaked in crimson as he tried to stem the bleeding. "You absolute fool. What were you thinking?"
Your eyes fluttered open, a weak smile playing on your lips despite the pain. "Because I knew you'd never let yourself be hit," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're too important... too smart to take risks like that."
Aventurine let out a bitter laugh, one that sounded more like a sob. "And yet here you are, bleeding out because of me," he muttered, his tone laced with guilt and frustration. "You're supposed to stay out of the crossfire, not throw yourself into it like some kind of martyr."
The mask he wore so effortlessly in high-stakes games and political negotiations shattered in that moment. He was no longer the composed strategist, the man who always had a plan. He was just Kakavasha—terrified, helpless, and desperate to keep you alive.
“Stay with me,” he commanded, his voice shaking as he pulled out his communicator and barked orders for immediate medical assistance. “You don’t get to leave like this. Not here, not now.”
Your hand weakly reached up, brushing against his cheek. "I trust you, Aventurine," you whispered, your voice faltering. "You'll fix this... you always do."
His eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he pressed his forehead against yours. "I’m a gambler, not a miracle worker," he admitted softly, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. "But if there’s one thing I never bet against... it’s you."
The minutes felt like hours as he stayed by your side, murmuring reassurances that neither of you believed. His mind raced, calculating odds and outcomes, but none of his usual strategies could guarantee your survival. For the first time in years, Aventurine felt powerless.
When the medics finally arrived, he refused to leave your side, riding with you to the emergency unit despite their protests. As the doors closed behind them and the sterile lights flickered above, Aventurine made a silent vow.
No matter the cost, he would ensure you lived to see another gamble, another day by his side. Because without you, even victory would feel like defeat.
The clash of blades and the sound of explosions filled the air, but Sunday’s focus was solely on you. The two of you had been ambushed, and though he had held his ground, one stray attacker had slipped through his defenses, aiming for his unprotected flank.
You hadn’t hesitated. You’d stepped in without thinking, intercepting the blow meant for him. Now, you lay slumped against a ruined wall, clutching your side as blood seeped through your fingers.
“Why... why would you do that?” Sunday asked, his voice trembling as he knelt beside you. His eyes, usually so calm and composed, were wide with panic. He pressed his hands over yours, trying to stop the bleeding. The glow of his halo seemed dimmer, as if it mirrored the dread coursing through him.
“You needed protecting,” you gasped, a weak smile crossing your lips. “That’s what friends do, right?”
“Foolish,” Sunday whispered, his tone a mixture of frustration and anguish. "I am the one who should be protecting you." He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, his gloved hands trembling. “You shouldn’t have to suffer because of me.”
Your hand reached for his, squeezing weakly. "You’re worth it."
Sunday’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his dignified mask crumbled. "No one is worth losing you," he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Not even me.”
The world around the two of you seemed to fade away as Sunday focused solely on keeping you conscious. He whispered soft reassurances, his usually formal tone replaced with a raw, desperate plea. “Stay with me,” he urged. “I’ll fix this. I swear it.”
Using his limited healing abilities, Sunday poured his energy into stabilizing you. The effort left him visibly drained, his face pale and his breaths labored, but he refused to stop. "I’ve seen too much suffering," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "I won’t allow it to claim you."
As reinforcements arrived and medical aid was administered, Sunday stood by your side, his presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. When you were finally safe, he let out a shaky breath, brushing his thumb across your knuckles.
"You risked yourself for me," he said quietly, his eyes softening. “But know this: I will never allow you to come to harm again. You are too precious to lose.”
In that moment, you saw a side of Sunday he rarely revealed—a man burdened by the weight of his ideals, yet willing to fight against them for the sake of someone he cherished.
