Chapter Text
Starscream's wings are damaged.
The crushing weight of debris settles heavily on his frame, worsening the cracks in his casing and making his joints ache.
His wings are damaged. Heavily damaged.
One of them is fully trapped beneath the rubble, dented and crumpled like paper. The other has a hole right through it, still smoking, visible wires sparking occasionally. His turbines are nearly crushed, and his left servo isn't responding. His vents drag in more dust and dirt than air.
His trine is waiting for him, back at base. Entirely unsuspecting of the danger he's in, expecting him back any astrosecond. Why wouldn't they? He always comes back. Scraped up occasionally, dented maybe, but he always comes back.
Starscream isn't so sure this time.
Megatron already left. Fled with Soundwave once his ‘master plan’ failed.
This rig is going to blow up. Soon, by the discouraging sounds rumbling from beneath the floor Starscream is pinned to. It sustained too much damage. He told Megatron it was a dangerous place to turn into a battleground, theorized that too much damage would cause a detonation that would destroy anyone unlucky enough to be inside.
Of course, Megatron had called him a mindless pile of scrap about it.
A rattling, raspy sigh leaves Starscream.
He figured his death would be more… Important. Flashier, maybe. Or at least something earned, like going down in some glorious battle.
The foundation shakes. Several small pieces of rubble trickle down onto his helm, leaving dust on the paint and small scratches in the finish.
Wow.
What's that human phrase? ‘Salt in the wound?’
Starscream's wings throb in pain and he drops his helm to the cracked, unstable floor.
This is so unfair .
He hears distant voices and raises his helm again. Right. Autobots. He'd thought they'd have left by now, but, then he hears one of them call for help not too far from him.
Oh. They're searching for their teammate.
Figures, the soft-sparked, sentimental freaks. Of course they'd risk being blown up just to save one measly little bot.
The ceiling nearby is ripped up, torn open, and Optimus Prime drops down. Starscream watches the light reflect off red and blue metal and his derma curls in annoyance.
“Ironhide?”
“Right here, Prime!” The other trapped bot, Ironhide, sounds relieved, and from this angle, Starscream can barely glimpse a coal and crimson servo reaching out from between large chunks of metal and concrete.
Prime moves swiftly, with purpose—lifting, shifting, tossing debris aside as though it weighs nothing. His steps are careful but heavy, the ground shaking just slightly under each one. The tremors vibrate through Starscream and it feels like knives being jabbed into his wires.
Of course Optimus Prime would show up. Of course he'd come for one of his own.
He can't even delegate this to someone else. Optimus Prime is too noble, too compassionate, too honorable to not put his own life on the line for his underlings .
Megatron would laugh at the very notion.
"Got you," Prime grunts, finally wrenching the last piece of debris off Ironhide's trapped leg. The ruby autobot groans and shifts, dragging himself partially upright with the assistance of his leader.
"Thanks," Ironhide mutters, then winces and glances around. “I think- Err, I’m pretty sure I heard- Starscream?”
Starscream freezes.
Prime turns his helm sharply, optics narrowing suspiciously.
“What? Where?”
Ironhide jerks his chin in Starscream’s direction.
“O’er there, I think. Was pretty sure I heard him crash earlier in the fight, but I never saw him get back up or leave with the rest of ‘em.”
Starscream grits his denta.
His vocalizer is damaged. He can feel it. Self scans pop up red warning alerts all over.
Prime is already moving toward him. Starscream sees the moment he spots him, the way bright blue optics widen, taking in the full extent of the damage. His frame blocks out some of the overhead light, casting Starscream into shadow.
Primus, he's tall.
“Can you move?” Prime asks.
Why is he wasting time? Get your stupid autobot hides out of here before it blows.
Starscream’s laugh is sharp and bitter, glitching noticeably.
“D- D- D- Does it look like I can move -ove -ove, you oversized w- w- w- windchime?” He rasps, rough with static and hard to make out.
He hates this. Hates how he sounds. He’s scared. Angry. Vulnerable. Useless.
Prime doesn’t rise to the bait. He just kneels beside him, gaze steady.
“There’s not much time,” he says. “This rig is unstable. We need to get out.”
Starscream narrows his optics.
“Then g- g- g- get out.” He snaps.
Prime’s expression doesn’t change. Instead, he turns, gesturing to Ironhide, who reluctantly lumbers over.
“We’re not leaving you behind.” Prime says, servos grasping the chunk of debris pinning his wing.
Starscream stares. For a long, uncertain moment, the words don’t make sense, processors misfiring. He blinks.
“What?”
“I said-”
“I heard y- y- y- you!” Starscream hisses. “What is wrong -ong -ong -ong with you? Are you stupid? You- you g- g- g- gain nothing from -om -om it! You should just leave me here!”
Prime doesn't flinch. He lifts. The pressure on his wing lessons and Starscream can't help the ragged exhale that leaves him.
“That’s not what we do.” Prime says firmly.
Starscream wants to laugh again. Or scream. Or maybe cry, though he'd never allow it.
Instead, he hisses through his denta and averts his gaze, throat tight.
“…I don't want your p- p- p- pity.”
“Duly noted.” Prime answers, unwavering. He starts to shift the wreckage off Starscream’s mangled wing, careful.
Starscream winces, grits his denta, but he doesn't fight it. Not that he really can.
Ironhide grabs Starscream's good arm and drags him out from under the rubble, decidedly less careful than Prime.
“W- W- Watch it,” Starscream snaps. Ironhide isn't looking at his face. His blue optics are fixed on Starscream's torso.
He glances down. Energon leaks from a crushed chunk of his chassis. The glass of his cockpit is shattered. His non-mangled wing is still faintly smoking.
“You're-” Ironhide starts.
The ground shakes beneath them, cracking worryingly.
He can't fly.
He needs to leave, they need to leave, and he can't fly. None of them can.
“Let's go.” Prime drops the rubble heavily with a loud thud. “Skyfire is waiting up top, we need to get out of here.”
Starscream flinches.
“I am n- n- not riding in-”
“There's no time.” Prime reaches out.
Starscream jerks back as much as he can—which isn’t far, given his ruined frame and Ironhide’s grip on his arm.
“I am not-” His voice glitches, strained and weak. “-not being carried! I am a flyer! I fly myself -self -self! I don’t ne- ne- ne- need some other bot to ferry me around -ound -ound -ound, especially not him!”
The ceiling above groans. Dust filters down like snowfall.
Prime's voice is calm, firm, and leaving no room for argument. He sounds like a leader, not a tyrant.
“You can object once we’re clear of the blast radius.”
“No! You listen to me—!”
But he doesn’t get to finish. The floor beneath them bucks violently with a discomforting crack, and for one terrible moment, Starscream thinks they’re all about to fall into the pit of fire yawning beneath the rig.
Then there’s a blur of motion. Strong arms wrap around him—careful, surprisingly gentle given the strength behind them—and suddenly he’s weightless, and not of his own volition.
“Put me d- d- down!” He screeches, struggling, but he’s too weak, and Prime’s grip doesn’t falter.
“I will,” Prime says, “when it’s safe.”
They climb out of the hole, out into the open. Skyfire’s alt-form waits, door open. Ironhide rushes inside, Prime close behind him, still cradling Starscream like a weak little sparkling.
Starscream hates this.
He hates every nanoklik of it.
He hates how small he feels. How fragile. How grateful, buried somewhere deep under the fury and shame and fear. He curls his good servo into a trembling fist against Prime’s chassis, smearing the glass with his energon, and bangs it weakly against the red metal of his chestplate. Prime doesn't even react to it.
He tries not to notice how steady the spark behind that plate is. How warm.
The whole structure groans behind them like a dying beast. Debris crashes in on itself as fire licks the outer supports.
Skyfire soars through earth's blue sky just as the facility detonates behind them; an enormous, echoing boom that lights up the horizon in white and orange.
The force of it ripples through the air, flinging dust and sparks skyward.
Skyfire keeps flying.
Prime holds onto Starscream a klik longer than necessary, shielding his damaged frame from the worst of the shockwave.
Starscream says nothing. Nobody says anything for a while.
The sound dies down, the dust settling.
“Let m- m- m- me go.” Starscream hisses. Quiet. Bitter. Humiliated.
Prime sets him down carefully. Ironhide is panting nearby, leaning on one knee, his plating scuffed and scorched. Skyfire's engine rumbles softly in the background.
Still, nobody says anything.
Starscream shifts awkwardly where he’s been placed. His wings are dead weight behind him, his arm trembling with strain, energon leaking sluggishly down his side.
Prime straightens to his full height, too tall , and peers down at him with a look Starscream cannot decipher.
Not pity. Not quite concern, either.
Starscream bares his denta at him. Prime doesn't react.
“Ratchet will take care of your injuries,” Prime says after a long moment.
Starscream squints.
“What -at -at -at?”
“You’re badly wounded. I doubt you can make it back to decepticon headquarters like this.”
Ironhide grumbles something about ‘should’ve left him,’ but he doesn’t speak up and Prime doesn't look away from Starscream.
“I d- d- don’t need your h- h- h- help!” Starscream spits, snarling. His wings try to flare indignantly, sending sharp jolts of pain through his sensors.
He can barely stand.
And he can’t fly.
And Megatron left him behind to die.
Prime meets his gaze, unflinching.
“You would have done the same.”
Starscream opens his intake. Closes it again.
That’s… not true.
Blatantly untrue. He can and has left mechs behind to save his own hide, and he constantly tries to offline autobots in battle.
“Maybe not for us.” Prime amends. “But there's someone you would've gone back for. I'm sure of it.”
Starscream stares at him.
His trine, maybe?
He tries to think about Thundercracker pinned beneath rubble, tries to imagine Skywarp with mangled wings and an unresponsive arm. Maybe that alone wouldn't be enough to make him go back and help, but if they were stuck on an impending death trap? If they were at risk of being blown into scrap metal?
He'd have gone back for them. Immediately.
Starscream lowers his helm.
He doesn’t thank Prime. Refuses to.
He just sits, pressing his good servo against his bleeding injury.
“Your m- m- m- medic better be at least -east -east -east half as good as Kno- Kno- Knockout.” He mutters petulantly.