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Jetfire’s spark is in his intake as he bolts upright, his chestplate feeling too tight for his frame and his optics still half-filled with the image of Starscream's rageful, betrayed expression and Skywarp’s smoldering frame. His fans kick up to a low whir as he stares at the plain grey wall across from his berth and tries to convince his frame that he isn’t dying because it really does feel that way.The shadows seem to distort and warp in the corners of his optics, reaching towards him like angry shades, all while his spark continues to hammer against its casing like it’s trying to break free and escape.
His servos tremble as he braces them on the cool metal of his berth and tries to focus on that sensation, closing his optics as he does so.
A half-second later and they snap open again, his vents hitching and fans kicking up a gear as images of his former wingmates, all vengeful and distorted by fury, flash across his mind’s eye. Clearly, returning to recharge isn’t going to be an option for him tonight. Much like it hasn’t been the past few decacycles, either.
Slowly letting out a long exvent, Jetfire eases his frame to the edge of his berth, and then onto the ground, cautious to keep his pedesteps quiet as he exits the makeshift barracks of their current hideout and heads towards the main floor.
There’s an alcove near where Red’s set up his medbay that hides the entrance to a dilapidated rec room. It’s surprisingly soundproof and never occupied. Jetfire’s half-convinced that most of the bots on the ship aren’t even aware of its existence, which works just fine for him. It means that whenever he can’t recharge, he can just sneak in there, find a secure corner to curl up in, and wait out the nightmares until dawn comes. Then, before anyone can wake up and find him, he’ll discreetly head towards the mess hall and pretend as if he’s simply an early riser. It’s a ruse the others readily bought into. After all, he had been commander of the seekers. It made sense—to them, at least.
Part of him finds that reputation mildly hilarious.
If only they knew that Starscream was often the one to drag him out of berth for morning patrols while he moaned and begged for five more minutes of recharge. If only they’d seen the number of times the seeker had had to drag him away from work in the middle of the night in order to get him to go to berth because it was only after the sun went down that he actually felt energized, or the times he’d had to elbow him awake during their post-patrol debriefs.
Another part of him tries to bury those memories and the pain that comes with them as deep down in his psyche as he can.
You can’t think about that, Jetfire reminds himself as he creeps past through the main area filled with scattered maps and drawn-out plans courtesy of Elita. They’re your enemies now. You don’t get to pretend like you get to bring up the ‘good times’ just because you used to be one of them. You’re an Autobot now, so just forget about them and move on.
Tears prick in the corners of his optics, and Jetfire crosses his arms, clutching his plating hard enough to leave visible dents, both hurt and angry with himself at the same time. He really should stop trying to remember the past he had with the seekers (with Starscream). He doesn’t deserve to, he knows this. Just like how he knows that things had been good. At the start.
But then the war had dragged on. And he’d gotten harsher. Crueler.
Cruel enough to chop off his own partner’s servo and threaten to cut off the other simply because he’d disobeyed the chain of command. Cruel enough to kill one of his wingmates in cold energon after centuries of having been good friends with him and his trine. Yes, he knew they’d done terrible things—they all had, himself included—but they’d still been his friends, his family. And he’d turned on them like it was nothing. Like he’d never even cared. He hadn’t even tried to convince them to join him and the Autobots, he’d just turned-tail and fled. Like a coward.
Jetfire’s backplate hits the cold metal of the rec room’s back corner as tears finally slip down his face, the urge to cry pressing against the confines of his chestplate like if he holds it in any longer, he’ll burst apart at the seams. As he sinks to the floor he draws his knees up against his cockpit and tries to stifle his sobs, the pathetic, stuttering things that they are, by burying his face in his arms. Primus he’s such a pathetic fragging mess; he can’t even own up to his own life choices without breaking down like a sparkling.
And then, of course, as his thoughts begin to start tallying his uncountable failures and shortcomings against him, they unwaveringly turn towards the literal bomb in his brain module.
Yes, he’d willingly allowed it to be installed, and yes, he’d rejected Prowl’s offer to be the one to keep custody of the trigger, but he’d really like to go back on his deal right now. He’d really really really like to have it gone, now, please, could someone, anyone take it out?!
His vents are uneven and shallow, tears still streaming down his face, his fans whining in his audials, and somewhere in the back of his processor he knows he should try and cool his internal temperature before it gets to be a real problem, but his thoughts keep spiralling far out of his ability to corral them back into order and even the idea of attempting to calm down is far out of the scope of his abilities right now.
He knows that he picked the right side, he knows that Megatron and Starscream are wrong, but when he’d defected to the Autobots he hadn’t expected to spend the rest of his life with an axe hanging over his helm! He hates it—is terrified of it, really—but has long since come to terms (no, he hasn’t) with the fact that asking for it to be removed now would destroy all the trust he’d worked so hard to build these past stellar cycles. After all, he agreed to it. For Unicron’s sake, he’d been the one to suggest it! He’d been offered an out and he’d still said “Yes” like a Primus-damned moron! And now he’s stuck with a noose hanging around his intake for the rest of his functioning life; stuck waiting with bated vents for someone to decide he isn’t worth the trouble of keeping around anymore.
Some cycles, he’s honestly, genuinely, considered trying to claw it out with his own servos. It’s only the fact that the risk of damaging his processor just barely outweighs the strut-deep fear he has of the wrong bot (or even Prime himself) deciding that he’s outlived his usefulness and pushing the button that he hasn’t. And he’s scared of that, too. Scared that one cycle he’ll snap and try to dig it out himself and end up a thoughtless, motionless slab of metal on the floor and it’ll get detonated anyways because he’s as good as dead either way! That, too, keeps him in-check. Barely. But it’s enough.
Lost too deep in his helm to notice that his not-so-quiet sobbing has attracted attention, Jetfire misses the sliver of light that spills out from the hallway adjacent to the rec room.
***
Red Alert’s always been more of a night-owl: he prefers the quiet solitude of the night to the panicked bustling of the cycle. Nighttime is the perfect time for him to do inventory and see what supplies they need (which is all of them, all the time, they never have enough) and sometimes check on the more critically-injured bots in their care. But tonight is a good night because no one had been hurt in the Autobots’ most recent scouting expedition, so he can simply relax as he takes final stock of their dwindling supply of welding filament and makes to leave for his berth.
At least, he does until he hears what sounds like something rattling from through the walls. It's loud too, like someone kicked over a bucket of bolts.
Immediately on high alert, Red Alert creeps out of the medbay, his blaster drawn even as he kicks himself for not having turned out the light and prays that whoever’s causing a disturbance doesn’t notice it.
As he moves slowly into the main area of their current base, his backplate pressed to the wall and his audials straining for any other indicators of what he’s up against, Red Alert is suddenly forced to stop as he recognizes what he’s hearing: someone is crying. It’s ugly kind that leaves your plating shaking and your fans whining as your ventilation systems try and flush the built-up heat too, by the sound of it.
Subspacing his blaster, but keeping close to the wall, he peers around the empty room and tries to pinpoint the location of the mystery bot sobbing their optics out at this hour. It can’t be Chromia, she’d head towards the roof, he thinks to himself as he edges closer to the noise, trying to parse out where the pit the bot is. And it’s definitely not Elita or Jetfire, they’d both rather die than admit they need a shoulder to cry on.
It doesn’t take him long to find the small alcove and follow it back towards a room with its door ajar. They’ve picked up a few stragglers, what with their freeing Decepticon prison camps, so maybe it’s one of them? Probably.
As Red Alert pokes his helm cautiously through the door, he prepares to clear his intake to announce his presence when his optics finally land on-
His processor immediately stalls as he takes in the trembling, shaking frame of Jetfire, the shuttle’s plating shaking like crystal vines in a windstorm as he sobs into his arms. His knees are drawn up to his chestplate and wings practically skimming the floor as his muffled sobs add to the discordant melody filling the room. He looks so… fragile. So vulnerable. So unlike anything Red Alert’s seen of him since the shuttle had defected from the Decepticons.
When the shuttle’s vents hitch and Red Alert feels as though he’s gone from well-meaning to intruding, he debates leaving Jetfire alone and uninterrupted. This clearly wasn’t something he was meant to find, and it feels incredibly uncomfortable the longer he just stands here and stares. But, after another moment, though, he ultimately decides against heading back to his berth. Medic or not, he can’t, in good conscience, just leave a bot like this when they’re clearly hurting.
Slowly stepping into the room, Red Alert raps his digits lightly on the metal of the doorframe and quietly calls out, “Jetfire? Jetfire, are you alright?”
When that garners no reaction, he carefully steps closer to the shuttle, his servos held out at his sides in as non-threatening a manner as he can muster. He’s never been the greatest at being a shoulder to cry on, but he does at least know that if Jetfire’s so wrapped up in his own helm that he hasn’t noticed the newest presence in the room then he’ll probably startle once he finally does.
“Jetfire, are you okay?” he slowly asks again, half attempting to check on the shuttle’s awareness of his surroundings and half trying to break the uncomfortableness of the situation. He’s close enough to touch his plating, and so reaches out to offer a comforting, grounding touch.
That finally seems to get the shuttle’s attention, Jetfire’s helm jerking up as his plating flattens, mortification and fear zipping through his field before that, too, is pulled close to his frame.
“R-Red? What- What are you-?! Why-!? I-I- I didn’t mean to-! I- I’ll just- I’ll- I-I’m sorry, I-” the shuttle’s words practically trip over themselves as he tries to simultaneously extricate himself from the corner he’s wedged himself into and bolt away from Red Alert. His entire frame screams ‘Get-Away-From-Me’ in bold letters, but there isn’t the telltale aggression in his frame language or field to indicate that he’s going to lash out.
No, right now, Jetfire looks terrified of having been found here, crying, in the middle of the night.
Red Alert simply stands there, stunned, arm still extended, like an idiot, before his processor kicks back into gear and he quickly backs up, servos raised apologetically. “Whoa, whoa, easy, Jet, easy, it’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.”
What in Primus’ name has him spooked so bad? he asks himself as he watches Jetfire track his movement backwards like a snared turbofox watching a hunter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this rattled, not even when he fought Starscream. After a second, something clicks in his helm and it feels like a knife driven straight through his spark. Is he afraid of me?!
By the time he’s backed up far enough for Jetfire’s plating to finally relax a micrometer, Red Alert’s almost past the dingy, worn couch situated in the center of the room. “Alright, is this better?” he asks gently, servos still up, but held low at his sides and away from his frame; easily within the shuttle’s line of sight.
With jerky movements, like his frame doesn’t want to cooperate, Jetfire nods his helm, though he doesn’t so much as vent toward Red Alert, and his plating is still basically flat against his frame. That can’t be good for his cooling systems, Red Alert notes as he tries to figure out where to go from here.
If he leaves to go and get energon, or a blanket, or just something to try and calm the shuttle down, there’s a good chance Jet will simply scurry off to some other, more well-hidden, hiding spot, but, on the other servo, his presence at the moment clearly isn’t helping matters. But he can’t just leave him alone like this!
“Hey, Jetfire?” Red Alert asks slowly, waving a servo a little to grab the shuttle’s attention, “How about I go and grab us some energon? Does that sound alright to you?”
When Jetfire just stares at him, incomprehension plain in his optics—though it looks more like the blank stare of someone going through a breakdown—he adds, “You don’t have to talk, or explain, or anything, but we’re both up late, so we might as well get some energon in us before our frames crash, yeah?”
To that, the shuttle haltingly nods his helm, his optics never once leaving Red Alert as he returns the nod with a thumbs-up and turns for the door. He doesn’t so much as hear a single joint of the bot’s frame creak as he exits the rec room and turns down the hall towards the mess. The only sound that follows his departure is the quiet whirring of Jetfire’s overtaxed fans.
—
When Red Alert returns to the rec room several minutes later with two cubes of energon, the shuttle has only moved a few steps towards the couch and is still staring at the doorway (and then at him) like he expects some kind of attack to be launched at any moment.
Jetfire’s optics track his every movement as he walks across the room to set the cubes down on the table in front of the couch and then settles onto it with a weary sigh, careful to keep his gaze directed at the cracked, broken screen taking up the wall in front of him as he waits for the shuttle to make a move. He has the intuitive knowledge that if he looks his way, then whatever fragile peace they’ve fostered will be broken.
After a few seconds of silence, the soft creaking of stiff joints moving after too long at rest breaks the silence as Jetfire slowly pads over to the couch and settles down as far as he physically can from where Red Alert sits. In any other situation, it would be almost comical—a giant bot like Jet pressing himself into the side arm of a couch like he was trying to avoid an arachnoid—but right now it just twists the knife further into Red Alert’s spark. Glass scrapes against metal as the shuttle pulls his cube towards himself, but when he steals a brief glance over, Jetfire’s just holding it in his lap, making no move to fuel.
Likewise reaching for his own cube, Red Alert takes a small sip from it—both because he genuinely is starting to feel the fatigue of running around all cycle weighing on his frame, and because he hopes that seeing someone else fuel will encourage the shuttle to do the same. Social mimicry and all that.
Unfortunately, Jetfire’s cube remains firmly in his lap, so Red Alert is forced to reset his vocalizer (which the shuttle flinches at, much to his dismay) and asks, “So… do you want to talk about what’s got you up this late? I know the others joke about you always being the first one up and all, but I feel like this is pushing that a little.”
There’s a stutter in Jetfire’s vents as a small laugh escapes his intake—faint enough that Red Alert almost misses it—and then an overwhelming sadness eclipses the shuttle’s field, washing over him like a tidal wave as tears begin to slide down his face again.
“Hey, whoa, easy! I didn’t mean anything by it!” Red Alert apologizes, frame frozen in shock as Jetfire hunches in on himself, vents hitching as silent sobs wracking his frame.
Scrap! You fragging moron, why’d you say that!? he yells at his processor as he hastily sets his energon cube back on the table and turns fully towards Jetfire, his servos reaching out to steady him but stopping at the last second before making contact with his plating. No, no, no! Don’t do that, you’ll just make it worse! Do you not remember how he reacted when you came in here?! So Red Alert just sits there, unsure of what he can even try to do until the hiccupping sobs coming from Jetfire’s intake gradually slow to little more than sniffles as the shuttle scrubs at his optics.
“I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve- I shouldn’t be acting like this.” Jetfire’s voice is quiet and small, barely a whisper of its usual gruffness as he hides his face behind his arms, doing his best to tuck himself as far into the corner between the arm and backrest of the couch as he can.
“No, no, no, Jet…” Voice finally found, Red Alert carefully scoots closer to Jetfire, letting his field brush up against the shuttle’s first before he tries anything along the lines of offering a comforting servo or shoulder. Jetfire flinches momentarily at their fields meshing, but then relaxes seemingly without thinking (given that he still won’t bring his helm up to meet Red Alert’s optics).
“Whatever’s going on, it isn’t your fault, I promise,” he soothes, scooting closer again, this time close enough to cautiously reach out and gently grab the arm shielding Jetfire’s face. “And you don’t have to apologize for crying, you never have to apologize for that. It’s Cybertronian.”
When the shuttle doesn’t shy or pull away, Red Alert slowly draws Jetfire’s arm, and consequently, his gaze, towards him.
The worry tangled around his spark slackens somewhat as the corner of the shuttle’s mouth twitches up ever-so-slightly when he weakly jokes, “I’d be more concerned if you didn’t cry, given everything you’ve been through.”
“Usually, I’m… better at going unnoticed,” Jetfire admits quietly, his gaze sliding towards the floor as his free servo drums an anxious tempo against his leg plating. “This, it’s… most unlike me, and I- I apologize for dragging you into this.”
It takes Red Alert’s processor a few seconds to parse out the shuttle’s meaning, and then his spark breaks a little more, the knife twisting deeper. “Jetfire? How long have you been coming here?” he asks, concern growing in his chestplate when Jetfire’s gaze moves even further away from his. “Jet…?”
Garbled static rumbles in Jetfire’s intake and the shuttle shakes his helm sharply, clearly imploring Red Alert to drop the subject even as he continues to avoid his optics.
Personally, he doesn’t want to just leave this alone—he would, in fact, like very much to know exactly what’s been keeping Jetfire up enough nights for him to frequent their base’s (apparently previously undiscovered) rec room—but this is clearly a very sore subject for the shuttle, and no matter how much he wants to know what’s going on so he can help, he won’t force the matter if Jetfire’s not ready to talk about it.
They both sit there for a long while, Jetfire trembling faintly while Red Alert gently holds his servo and keeps their fields meshed, until, abruptly, the shuttle’s weight shifts sideways on the couch and suddenly his helm is resting on Red Alert’s shoulder.
More than a little surprised, Red Alert just barely stops himself from startling as he cranes his helm around to try and see exactly what’s going on with Jetfire.
The sight that greets him is an entirely passed-out shuttle resting almost his full frame weight on Red Alert’s right side, his vents even and slow.
Did… did he just fall into recharge on me? How? And why? He was freaking out just a few- checking his chronometer, Red Alert’s surprised to find that several hours have passed since he’d first heard Jetfire’s crying from the medbay. Okay… But even with that, bots don’t just pass out from stress unless they’re with someone… they… trust…
Something equal parts fuzzy and unfamiliar blooms in Red Alert’s chestplate as he stares down at Jetfire’s face, his expression still scrunched up in distress, but infinitely more relaxed than it had been. He… trusts me? But why? I thought he’d been terrified of me??
Searching his memory logs yields no helpful hints—only a folder full of moments he’d, apparently, subconsciously tagged whenever the shuttle smiled or had been near him—and only leaves Red Alert with more questions than answers. His processor’s both unsure of his worthiness to be trusted this implicitly, given how badly he’d scared the bot, but warmed at the same time by the fact that Jetfire apparently trusts him enough to recharge next to him.
When the shuttle grimaces in his recharge, Red Alert immediately reaches out to gently brush his thumb over his furrowed optical ridges before he even realizes what he’s doing. Before he can pull his servo away, though, Jetfire nuzzles his helm further into the side of Red Alert’s intake and lets out a soft sigh that makes his spark swell with that same unfamiliar-yet-warm feeling.
He still wants to know exactly what haunts the shuttle’s dreams at night—and how to protect him from it—but for now, he’ll take solace in the fact that it’s been almost an hour since he’d fallen into recharge, and Jetfire hasn’t stirred once.
As time continues to tick on with no sign of the shuttle waking any time soon, Red Alert carefully moves his cube onto the table and next to his own, shifting around so that he can relax into the couch without dislodging Jetfire, and lets himself slip into a peaceful recharge as well.
***
The early dawn’s light streaming through the rec room’s window is what finally wakes Jetfire from recharge, the beam stabbing through his optic covers and forcing him into consciousness.
Groaning at the intrusion, he instinctively twists to bury his helm into his pillow, only to be met with the sound of someone letting out a quiet sigh and shifting to match his movement.
Confusion and adrenaline have his optics snapping open only to be greeted by the sight of Red Alert’s frame beneath his helm, Jetfire’s face practically buried in the crook of the medic’s intake, and decidedly not his pillow.
Embarrassment and shock flood his lines as Jetfire’s muddled processor is quick to kick back into gear and remind him of exactly what happened last night. His first instinct is to pull back and try to find a way to creep back to his berth before Red notices, but his recharge-heavy limbs betray him and leave his frame exactly where it’d woken up. Then, before he can get his vocalizer working to wake Red Alert up, the medic shifts again and lets out a contented sigh, his helm now partially resting against Jetfire’s.
Immediately, something in his spark calms at the sound, and the guilt that had surfaced in his processor at having fallen into recharge next to (and worse, on) someone recedes; retreating back to the corner of his helm that—usually—only torments him when he dreams. Which, now that he thinks about it, is also odd. After he wakes up from a nightmare, he’s never reliably been able to go back to (and stay in) recharge, but, assumedly, he must’ve if he woke up in the exact same position he remembers being in before he’d lost consciousness.
Honestly… this doesn’t feel so bad, he notes sleepily in his helm as the fatigue of the adrenaline crash and being up so early starts to pull his optic covers lower and lower. Red Alert’s plating is warm and his vents are even and from where Jetfire’s helm is situated, he can make out the steady thrum of the medic’s spark.
This is actually kind of nice.
Letting out a long yawn he tiredly nuzzles deeper into Red’s intake and lets his venting slow as recharge starts to pull him under again. He’ll definitely be embarrassed and defensive once he fully wakes up—though hopefully not angry, he really does like Red’s company—but right now Red Alert is a steady rock that Jetfire’s processor has decided that he can anchor onto, and he can’t think of any worthwhile argument against that.
As he drifts back into recharge, Jetfire misses the way the servo Red still has held in his arms pulls the medic a little closer to him and how Red Alert shifts towards him in response, a small, warm sound resonating from his chestplate.