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eldritchships · 9 months

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The First Night

Summary: Much of the last twenty-four hours have been spent fighting, locked in the most desperate and arduous battle since the end of the Transformers War. After an emotional reunion, Shockwave and Flatline retreat to a haven for some much-needed rest. If only it were that easy.

Word Count: 5404

Author's Note: A real labour of love, I hope others enjoy reading as much as I did writing it! Spoilers throughout for Season 1 of Earthspark.

Taglist: @payaso-pastel, @szayelinx @chimerakisses, @mystrunmah, @bugsband (If you'd like to be put on/taken off the taglist, just ask!)

Hidden from prying eyes, a lake groggily woke to the peaceful trill of birds. Dense forest shrouded the light that reached the lake’s surrounding clearing, making the trek uphill more difficult for large, metal feet to traverse their way through. The lake’s clear water shimmered underneath the morning sun; the reflection was split unevenly by the shadow of a giant tower in the near distance.

Flatline kept his servo tight around Shockwave’s, leading the way through the trees. He kept his optics on Shockwave, who was keeping his own firmly fixed on the ground in front of him. The yellow circle cast a faint spotlight, watching out for any rocks and exposed tree roots underfoot. The two of them walked wordlessly; the scenery provided plenty of noise to fill the silence, from the low sounds of wildlife, to snapping branches and the creak of moving metal as they ducked around and underneath the treetops.

It was a few hours past sunrise. Much of the last twenty-four hours had been spent fighting, locked in the most desperate and arduous battle since the end of the Transformers War. It had taken everything to emerge victorious, including the brief death of all energon-based beings worldwide. When the dust settled, everyone had celebrated, but Flatline had tried to rush the collective sigh of relief for one pressing reason: Reuniting with the love of his life, previously thought to have died in the war.

Flatline stepped free of the tree-line into the clearing and then glanced behind him. Shockwave remained close by his side, using the hold on his servo as both a guide and a tether. He lifted his helm, optic recalibrating now that they had reached more open surroundings.

Flatline smiled, and he stepped closer to take the head of Shockwave’s cannon as well.

“Come on.” He tugged Shockwave forward, voice quiet but warm. It was only a short distance further before they approached a house, sitting by the lake and seemingly a couple stories high. Shockwave faltered, but Flatline continued on, undeterred by the idea of human presence. He knew there wasn’t a single human around for a long distance, because he’d explicitly tried to keep it that way.

Taking one stride over the rock garden on the lawn, Flatline’s digits slipped from Shockwave’s cannon, although his other servo remained tightly entwined. Instead of a wooden, human sized door, an industrial roller door took its place as the entrance. The gaze that burned into Flatline’s back, analysing everything carefully, warmed his spark as he reached down and unclamped the lock holding the door shut.

“This is your residence.” Shockwave surmised. Flatline hummed in confirmation with a nod, now reaching for the handle. The tips of his digits brushed against the metal, and then Flatline froze, as if startled. He looked back, something loaded behind his stare, although his expression was vacant.

Shockwave was standing in his yard, tall - not as tall as Megatron, but he was nearly a head taller than Flatline, just like he remembered - and purple plating vivid in the sunlight. Behind one of the finials adorning his helm, a windchime hung beside the window, depicting the moon and stars shaped from stained glass. Flatline had hung it shortly after receiving the house, because it had reminded him of…

“Flatline.” Shockwave’s voice reached his audio receptors, breaking Flatline from his thoughts. Shockwave was staring at him, expectant. Flatline didn’t know how long Shockwave had been waiting, but he swallowed, and fought to summon the words on his processor.

“It’s ours, now, I suppose.” He pulled open the roller door, and the clattering of its metal blinds pierced the silence as he stepped inside.

Outside, Flatline’s home seemed like any normal human abode, aside from a few abnormalities like the door. But inside, the home was gutted of interior walls and of a ceiling between levels, allowing a Cybertronian to stand at full height. Indeed, all of the furniture was sized for Flatline as well, a little cluttered in layout but easy to navigate. Flatline’s gaze swept across the interior of his home, taking it in as if for the first time. Nothing was different from how he’d left it - even his favourite laser scalpel was still sitting out on the workbench, from when he’d sworn that morning he would get around to putting it away later.

He could feel Shockwave behind him, taking the same survey of the house. Flatline wondered what it must have looked like to him; Everything so comfortable and with a set place, a home that had visibly been lived in for years. His jaw clenched and he reached around Shockwave, who stepped aside, to shut the door behind them.

“Are you certain we’re safe here?” Shockwave’s servo was still clutched in Flatline’s, and the latter hadn’t removed it for a moment over the last few hours. The dip in his tone was fuelled by caution, shifting his weight to eye the thin steel shutters.

“Completely.” Flatline assured him, glancing up above at the sleeping fluorescent lights. They weren’t needed, even though fatigue made it feel so much later than mid-morning.

“Good.” He felt a cannon arm wrap around his stomach, and a purple chestplate pressed against his back, “I’ve wanted to be with you privately since we were constrained to the Terrans’ base of operations.” Flatline slowly pulled his free servo away from the door. It shook in the air, and he frowned at it before resting it on the arm around his front. He stroked his palm across the plating. After giving two soft pats to its surface, he squirmed until he was able to turn around, facing Shockwave directly. Shockwave lowered without needing to be asked, and Flatline hopped to wrap his arms around his neck, pulling him down further. They held onto each other tightly, a minute passing by that they spent as close to each other as they could possibly achieve, together and alive and shielded from the outside world by the four walls of Flatline’s home.

“You’re not usually the cuddly type.” Flatline mumbled against Shockwave’s chestplate.

“These are extraordinary circumstances…do you want me to stop?”

“No, no, Primus, no.” He clutched even tighter to emphasise his reply, shaking his helm. His optics shut, missing whatever silent response Shockwave gave. Fifteen years without his life partner, with one more thing that was important to him wrenched from his grasp, and Flatline felt prepared to weld their spark chambers together so they could never be separated again. For now, he settled for the long but terribly brief time they embraced, until concern nagged at his processor and he untangled from around Shockwave’s form. “Are you hurt? I can’t believe I didn’t check after the fight, I should have- Let me take a look at you.” His servo searched frantically around Shockwave’s helm, across his chestplate, over each shoulder pauldron and everywhere else in-between, insistently checking for injuries. Shockwave started to pull back.

“The blast of Quintus Prime’s power repaired all physical damages.” His report fell on deaf audio receptors, and when digits started to curl underneath his arm plating to examine the internal workings, Shockwave carefully took hold of Flatline’s wrist and moved it away from him, firm but not intended to hurt. “Flatline, I am fine.” Flatline stared at him, but then averted his gaze. He looked at his servo in Shockwave’s grasp, and after a beat, his optics narrowed as his digits clenched.

“I’m a medic, this is my job.” He said quietly. “This is what I’m supposed to do.” Shockwave’s helm lowered, the angle mimicking a furrowed brow. With the hold he still had on Flatline’s wrist, he guided the servo to rest on Flatline’s chestplate. Shockwave stopped abruptly, staring at the blank pink plating, but the action only lasted a moment before he met Flatline’s faceplate again.

“There will be time later. I am currently uninjured, so it’s illogical for you to waste your energy.”

Flatline remained silent, but his optics flicked back up, returning Shockwave’s gaze. His body still appeared tense, but his fists unclenched, and that was satisfactory enough. Shockwave turned around, giving a single nod towards the further side of the home. “I wish to become familiar with your living quarters.” Shockwave started to walk forward, but a firm tug on his arm stopped him in his tracks. He peered back, and he saw Flatline still standing in the same place, one servo wrapped around the triangular head of his cannon. It squeezed hard enough that without attempting so, Shockwave knew he couldn’t shake it off.

“Don’t-” Flatline’s vocaliser caught and then gave a few soft clicks, betraying his efforts to reset it. Whatever he wanted to say was lost to the air around them, but his optics were pleading. Shockwave paused, and then he shifted his cannon arm, adjusting so that Flatline’s hold on it wasn’t uncomfortable. He took a step forward, and Flatline followed silently, which encouraged Shockwave to continue walking as he had before.

Their extremities once again entwined, Shockwave took an unhurried tour of Flatline’s home, examining anything which caught his interest. One of the tables housed a modest workstation, complete with most of the proper equipment and a Cybertronian computer for data analysis. Shockwave noticed a laser scalpel left improperly stored against a centrifuge, but he didn’t comment on it; much like Flatline’s attempt to examine him, it could wait until there were less important matters to deal with. Besides, Flatline had always kept his station less orderly in comparison. Shockwave turned his helm, and his finials pulled back. Catwalks ran along every wall, level with his chestplate and sized for the average human. It stank of GHOST’s intervention; he had seen similar catwalks traversing the corridors, in the brief time period between his release from the Immobiliser and the control chip becoming embedded in his shoulder. Shockwave’s servo curled at his side, and a foreign one touched his arm, rubbing gently in an attempt to soothe. His finials returned upright and Shockwave filed away that information to be addressed afterwards.

His attention turned elsewhere, cataloguing some of Flatline’s other belongings: a CD player (likely gifted by their mutual musically-appreciative friend), a well-read collection of guides to Insecticon anatomy, an empty spark chamber preserved in a Cybertronian-made shadowbox (treasured as much here, it seemed, as it had been on the Nemesis), and a small selection of human reading material, including a beginner’s introduction to astrology, open to a page on Earthen constellations. His sensors caught on a flash of colour on the wall, and when he focused on it, Shockwave fell still. Of the windows that adorned the walls, scaled for Flatline like everything else, he had noticed a piece of decor on the window closest to him. As recognition crept over Shockwave’s neural circuits, his shoulder pauldrons sank with a soft creak.

A handful of Cybertronian remembrance flowers, pressed and framed above the window. The blue stripes adorning the petals, even while flattened, accented the view of the lake outside with an eerie beauty. Shockwave’s optic flickered across the piece, and then he turned his helm towards Flatline.

“Were those intended for me?”

The grip around his arm tightened, and Flatline stared at the frame.

“You and some others.” His vocaliser sounded hollow. Shockwave watched his faceplate, the microscopic twitches in his expression, until Flatline tore his gaze away and moved to lean into Shockwave’s side. It was another reminder of the war, of the space bridge exploding, and of Decepticons being hunted down and caged. Another reminder of why he had to swallow down what had been done to him and keep going. What had originally been a respectful gesture now made his fuel tanks turn, as if the act were cheapened by having one of those flowers resurrected, tangible and comforting underneath his touch. Flatline pulled Shockwave’s arm, and he was almost relieved when Shockwave shifted and walked away from the window, moving on to the next area of the room. Shockwave remained silent, which itched something in Flatline’s processor, but he couldn’t be certain it was what he thought. Dread crept up into his spark at the idea that he might have lost the ability to read Shockwave, the bot he had spent so long figuring out like a heavy piece of nonfiction, and Flatline failed to keep another frown off of his features.

Shockwave fortunately wasn’t looking at him right now; the improvised path had lured his interest to a shelf of containers, all filled with liquids of different colours and consistencies. A datapad storing a record of the inventory was tucked inside one corner of the shelf, poking out ever so slightly over the edge. Shockwave’s optic brightened and he took the datapad, scanning over the itemised list. Flatline browsed over the contents of the shelf, noting the bubbles that shouldn’t have been present in the KRC-109, until he felt Shockwave step closer towards him.

“What have you been experimenting with while I’ve been gone?” Shockwave’s tone sounded slightly lighter, charged with the intrigue of scientific discovery. A small smile managed to crack on Flatline’s lips, and some of the weight lifted from where it rested on his frame.

“Well, I’ve been working a lot slower lately. Taking it easy.” He glanced towards Shockwave out of the corner of his peripheral, and his smile twitched a little wider, “I haven’t had someone watching my work ethic.” Shockwave’s helm tilted, and he leant forward to nudge the upper corner of it against Flatline’s temple.

“You’re suggesting you need me to create something exceptional.”

Flatline barely stifled a chuckle, and the sound caused Shockwave’s finials to twitch. He thought that if he could manage to rouse the mirth Flatline used to have in surplus, then he was acting correctly. So it was unexpected and disappointing when Flatline’s joy quickly fizzled out, dissipating as soon as it had arrived. Flatline turned enough to reach up and cup Shockwave’s helm.

“I need you.” His palm pressed adamant against Shockwave’s non-existent cheek as his gaze steeled, allowing no room for refusal against the statement. Shockwave stared back at him, the inner workings of his optic spinning in and back out. The weight in Flatline’s vocaliser flooded his processor beyond capacity, and his ventilation fans kicked on to dispel the increased internal heat from computing the full breadth of the words. Even when he did so successfully, he failed to synthesise an appropriate response to encompass every meaning Flatline required. So he relied on past data, and he returned the datapad to the shelf using feel alone, without breaking Flatline’s gaze, to then wrap his servo around Flatline’s hip. His thumb-digit rubbed gently, mirroring Flatline’s comforting gesture from before. Flatline’s expression softened, and he leant forward to press a kiss to the lip of Shockwave’s helm. “Never leave me without you again.”

“I won’t allow that to happen.” Shockwave promised. He swore it both to Flatline and to himself. He had been taken by surprise for the last time, and if Megatron was no longer suitable to lead the Decepticons, he would take authority and lead the faction back to its proper course - an undeniable victory. Then, Flatline would be promoted to chief medical officer; the logical next step of the medic’s climb to accomplishment, and a worthy position for one of few bots Shockwave could still trust.

Flatline’s touch slipped away, and Shockwave was brought back to the present. Another smile was threatening to rise on his partner’s expression, and Flatline removed the servo on his hip in order to move to the cabinet.

“...I can show you my ongoing projects tomorrow, if you’d like.” Flatline slowly suggested, tapping the datapad back into its nook on the shelf with a clawed digit. Shockwave rose back to his full height, and Flatline’s chin tilted up, as if he were expecting the reaction. He looked back at Shockwave over his shoulder pauldron. “You could give me your input on the current problems I’m having.” The idea of working in a laboratory again did cause Shockwave’s finials to perk up.

“Tomorrow, then.” He echoed. He glanced down at his own servos, which he realised were empty for the first time since leaving the Terrans. Shockwave paused. “I had assumed you would want all of my attention to yourself tonight.” The question in the remark caused Flatline to pause, and he slowly turned away from the inventory of chemical concoctions, although his back remained facing Shockwave.

“I’m a little different than you remember. My love.” The words caught before the term of endearment, as if they were rusty on Flatline’s glossa. Approximately fifteen years without use, Shockwave reminded himself with a flash of bitterness. But Flatline’s smile did reappear, and this time it almost became smug as he added, “I’m not affected as easily as I was before.”

“Is that correct?” Shockwave asked. He shifted his weight to his other pede, ignoring Flatline’s nod. He reached over and brushed his servo across Flatline’s side, testing at first, then pressed more firmly along a seam discovered in Flatline’s softer metal. Purple digits travelled along the seam, skirting around rotor blades to massage a spot between the shoulders. Flatline bristled and bit back a pleased-sounding but involuntary grunt. Shockwave cocked his helm, and he tapped a single digit against that spot in satisfaction. Flatline quickly swatted him off, pulling away with narrowed optics.

“Stop that.” He grumbled. His tone lacked any true irritation, but his rotors clicked and twitched more snugly against his back. “Don’t look so smug.”

“You’re incorrect. I’m pleased. You’re much the same as I remembered.” He stepped forward, and when Flatline didn't stop him, Shockwave returned the servo to his back, only to rest there instead of prod. “At least some things haven’t changed.”

Flatline glanced towards Shockwave out of the corner of his optic. The sensation on his back felt too familiar to be disturbing, yet too alien to be truly comforting, and he spent a half-second with his jaw clenched as he agonised between the two conflicting feelings.

“Come on.” He pointed to the right. Shockwave’s helm turned to follow the digit, and the two of them started walking again, ignoring the protests of tired pistons and heavy tank treads. They circled around a wall divider made from heavy duty shelving and a tarp, entering another makeshift room. The catwalks still ran by, but there were noticeably fewer windows on this side of the house, blocking most of the brightening sunshine. Flatline had always preferred to fill his personal quarters with ample places to sit and rest, and inside his home on Earth, that preference was evidently still the case. Besides the recharge slab in the far corner, there was an array of different chairs and couches, some of Cybertronian make, some improvised from human materials. Flatline’s course beelined for the closest one among them; a couch sitting back against the wall, made from mattresses and a combine harvester’s tires.

Flatline dropped onto the couch, and he let his entire body go slack into the softer material. His helm fell back and his optics closed, brow furrowing in relief from finally being off his pedes. He sighed, letting his ventilation systems run on high to purge steam and flecks of dirt from his internals, and sunk further into the serene darkness of his closed optics. A solid whir met his audio receptors. Then a touch braced against his knee. Flatline startled, optics snapping open to see Shockwave starting to kneel between his legs.

“Oh. Shockwave, please, I should’ve-” Flatline sat up and dug his claws into the mattress beside him, pulling it forward with the intention of putting it on the floor. How could he have forgotten so easily? He couldn’t let Shockwave be uncomfortable - he’d been through enough - and if he knelt like that all night, it was bound to put strain on his joints.

Shockwave pressed on the mattress, holding it in place.

“Stop it.” His tone was firm, the metallic filter over his voice grumbling more noticeably with the command. He wasn’t looking at Flatline, and ignored his attempt to over-placate. He moved only to lower to his knees, and then forward against the medic’s smaller form. Another momentary wave of panic ebbed, but Flatline still stared at Shockwave’s forehelm, rendered helpless by the large form slumped against his own. The love of his life, back within his arms. He lowered his ventilation systems to the barest level he could achieve without injury, blaming them for the inhale trapped in his throat. Slowly, Flatline touched the side of Shockwave’s helm.

“Someone needs to take care of you.” He said. His optics flicked away with a blink, and his vocaliser lowered to a mumble, repeating old words archived in his memory banks, “A break won’t kill you.”

“Unnecessary.” Shockwave countered, resting his cannon arm beside Flatline’s seat on the couch. He paused, and then sharply pulled his helm back; He didn’t leave the embrace, but his gaze fixed on Flatline’s chestplate, and his finials twitched down and back. “...What I require is a cycle of rest with full control of my motor function.” Flatline’s frown deepened, looking at the cannon lying beside him, and unaware of Shockwave’s sudden scrutiny.

“I won’t let anything hurt you ever again.” He breathed, and he was willing to engrave the promise into his engine block in order to keep it. It was bitterly almost satisfying that most of those responsible for Shockwave’s most recent pain were already dead. But he could settle for knowing Shockwave was alive, and for the moment he had spotted him on the battlefield. The realisation that it was him after so many years still thrummed through Flatline’s circuits.

Flatline returned his attention back to Shockwave’s pseudo-faceplate, and he finally noticed Shockwave’s staring. He almost always stared, since he couldn’t blink, but Flatline remembered enough for his frown to fade from his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

Shockwave rested his servo on Flatline’s chestplate.

“Your display is gone.” He said quietly. “The silence is…unnerving.” Not for the first time, Flatline’s optics softened, and his servo reached up to entwine with Shockwave’s own.

“It’s still there.” A holo-display appeared on Flatline’s chestplate, right underneath their woven digits. Glowing a soft blue, an agitated but steady beeping noise began to tick from the summoned screen. Shockwave’s pauldrons relaxed, and he gently pulled their servos further to the side, allowing him to watch the reading of energon pulsing through Flatline’s systems. He’d spent many cycles in a laboratory or entering recharge with that quiet beeping reaching his audio receptors. A form of constant feedback of Flatline’s emotions. It used to affect his focus terribly, but he’d grown quite used to it over time. Briefly, while rendered without autonomy and mindlessly roaming a cornfield, he had resented its absence.

“Why did you remove it?” Shockwave questioned. He sunk further forward, resting more of his weight against Flatline. Flatline’s free digits found that persistent tense spot in the back of Shockwave’s neck cabling, idly massaging as his optics flicked between his screen and back to Shockwave’s faceplate.

“A side effect of updating my alt mode, I think.” Flatline explained. “Besides, I wanted to better hide how I felt, and the reading sabotaged that. It was the logical choice to hide it.”

“You sound more like me, my spark.” Shockwave’s helm tilted, and the blue holomatter fizzled where the corner poked through the display. It cast small flickers of light in the reflection of his yellow optic. “Should I be concerned?” Flatline’s gaze set on him, unblinking and heavy. The pulse rate on the screen increased, spiking rapidly, and Flatline switched it off, the display vanishing back into the silence of the room.

Shockwave remained still for a moment, and then he pulled back to get a pede underneath himself. He hoisted stiffly into the empty seat on the couch, the movement faltering for the split-second it took for him to be certain the handmade piece of furniture would hold them both. His servo didn’t leave Flatline’s once during that time, and he used it to pull Flatline as close against his side as possible. Flatline remained silent, but he tucked himself against Shockwave’s chestplate; the size and shape would typically cause an issue, but Flatline found a comfortable position with a noticeable amount of ease. Shockwave made a note that Flatline’s claim of being less receptive to physical contact was proved increasingly false.

“Is this more satisfactory?” He prompted. Flatline slung a leg over Shockwave’s thigh, which put a little more strain on his back that promised to ache later, but it lowered the distance between them even further. He squeezed Shockwave’s servo tightly.

“I missed you.”

“That does not answer my question.”

Flatline laughed, although it sounded tired and choked. He wrangled his digits free to slide both arms around Shockwave’s midsection, although his grip immediately resumed being as snug as before. Shockwave watched his expression tighten, and Flatline then turned his helm, pressing his faceplate into purple plating.

“Satisfactory.” He mumbled slowly. His optics closed, and Shockwave shifted to let his helm fall back against the couch. Even the quiet winch of his neck cables sounded pressing in the noiseless room. His own optic cast a faint but perfect yellow circle on the ceiling above. He watched it for a long time, minutes passing by as he expected Flatline to begin recharging.

The body against him began to shake. Arms clenched around his torso and Shockwave’s helm snapped down, finials up and alert. Flatline’s rotor blades flared, his dentae clenched. He was trembling violently, ventilation coming in strangled bursts as his clawed digits dug into Shockwave’s plating.

“Flatline.” Either the rattle of strained machinery or the sudden alarm of the situation drowned out Shockwave’s voice. Flatline pressed against him, burying his faceplate. The shaking didn’t stop, and his claws clutched tight enough to pierce, tearing grey metal and sending an array of flashing warnings into Shockwave’s HUD. “Stop.”

Shockwave dug the head of his cannon into Flatline’s back, his servo cupping his pink helm. Neither action pressed hard enough to hurt, but the sudden sensation was enough to shock Flatline into a sharp inhale.

Shockwave’s finials flicked back, ignoring the readout from his own sensors. Slowly, the tremors lessened, and finally stopped. Flatline’s optics cracked open, the usually bright blue dulled. His digits removed themselves from the small holes they’d created. He didn’t meet the insistent stare looking at him, the silent questions he knew were rising on Shockwave’s non-existent glossa. His spark felt like it was fluctuating wildly, and he waited for it to collapse altogether, saving him from the dread that had been churning in his fuel tanks since the two of them had arrived home together. Then Shockwave relaxed, so slightly it would have been imperceptible to anyone else, and that felt worse.

“I don’t understand.” Bitter venom stung Flatline’s vocaliser, words pouring out in a growl. “Why can’t I enjoy this? This is a good thing, isn’t it?” Flatline’s rotor blades flared again, one side cutting into the mattress padding next to him and hitting springs. The purple body beside him didn’t move, not even to flinch. He shook his helm, frustrated and angry with himself. “You’re alive. But I’m going to look away for one moment and you’ll be taken out by blaster fire.”

Flatline glared at nothing, and his arms squeezed around Shockwave’s torso, torn between staying or pulling away. There was still a servo supporting his helm, and a cannon against his back. Shockwave’s optic flickered, and he leaned down.

“I’m alive. As are you.” He pressed his forehelm against Flatline’s, pulling his partner’s immediate attention away from scowling at himself. “I will ensure nothing separates us again, to the best of my ability.” Flatline clamped his mouth shut once more, staring into the bright optic filling his vision and paying active heed to the feeling of Shockwave’s servo around his helm. Hearing his own promise spoken back to him certainly made it sound more true, although a voice in the back of his processor was screaming that something bad was about to happen. There was one thing he knew was true, one thing he couldn’t doubt.

“I love you.” Flatline said quietly. Shockwave’s finials perked up, and although a smile wasn’t strong enough to reach his lips, it did reach Flatline’s spark. He pressed a kiss to the lower corner of Shockwave’s helm, and some of the tension faded from his body, bringing him closer against his partner’s form again. The servo cupping his helm rubbed a thumb-digit along the surface, pausing only briefly when part of the shape was unfamiliar. Flatline returned to the spot against his shoulder, and brushed over the injuries he had left in Shockwave’s plating.

“I’ll fix those tomorrow.” A soft whir of Shockwave turning, but Flatline added without looking up, “I won’t take no for an answer.” Shockwave was silent, then shifted to get comfortable again, conceding to Flatline’s insistence as well as avoiding the tear that had been left in the upholstery.

Believing the immediate danger had passed, Shockwave read over and dismissed each of the alarms in his HUD, sorting through until his vision was clear again. Sunlight was attempting to creep into the room, stalking around the corners of walls and furniture. Shockwave glanced down, checking on his partner; after Flatline’s moment of panic, he thought it wise to start observing him periodically. Flatline was still tucked against him, arms holding, helm downturned. But he was still tense, and upon closer inspection, his optics were open. Irritation crept into Shockwave’s vocaliser.

“You should rest.” Flatline jumped when Shockwave spoke, only confirming that he was still on alert. “Your stress will be more severe while you are exhausted.”

“Quintus’ power surge restored our energon levels to full.” Flatline replied matter-of-factly, avoiding optic contact. The excuse hardly satisfied Shockwave’s reasonable processor.

“I didn’t mean physically.” He attempted to smooth down Flatline’s rotor blades with his cannon, tracing the blue metal in an attempt to soothe a physical part of Flatline’s anger. “There have been many developments over the last solar cycle, and your processor is currently overencumbered. I will be here when you awaken. …I will rest better if you do, doctor.”

A long minute passed, and then finally, Flatline allowed himself to sink into their second embrace.

“You’ve always been the reasonable one.” He grumbled. It sounded equally as much a compliment as an insult, but Shockwave’s optic warmed, and his arm tightened around Flatline’s waist.

“With some exceptions.” He rumbled back. The corner of Flatline’s mouth turned up as he gave a short hum, and he shut his optics. The tension that had been radiating off of his form petered out, not completely, but far less recognisable than it had been before. Shockwave let his helm lean against Flatline’s, and he felt another squeeze around his stomach in silent approval.

The silence settled on the two of them again, but it felt less constricting than it had before. The light of day continued to pass by, but it failed to reach them through walls of brick and steel. Any further danger had been postponed until the nebulous tomorrow, or eternity thereafter.

Shockwave lifted his helm. He searched Flatline’s faceplates, making certain that he had finally fallen into recharge. Carefully, Shockwave started to shift, cautious for any sign of rousing as he moved his right arm. His digit tapped a few spots on Flatline’s chestplate, exploring the surface with focused intent. Finally, there was a mechanical hum, and the holo-display flickered back into being. Shockwave listened to the soft beeping, much slower now than it had been before. Then, he tucked the lip of his helm against Flatline’s crest, and his optic dulled, as if closing.

With a blanket of darkness over his vision, what few sounds passed by seemed enhanced in his audio receptors. The calm beep of Flatline’s pulse, shadowed by the hum of dormant lab equipment on the other side of the wall divider. Birds continued to titter outside, capturing insects from the surface of the lake’s water. Recharge eluded Shockwave just as it had the pink mech protected within his arm, but it was still the best rest he had achieved in a long time.

#ShockLine #my writing #OC x Canon #Flatline (OC)

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limey-self-inserts · 6 months

Text

Grounded

Word Count: 3k F/Os: Angor Rot (platonic) Summary: Wherein there is a small magic lesson and a crisis of conviction.

art tag crew: @bugsband @rexscanonwife @chimerakisses @faerie-circle-ships @carbo-ships

For the bare basic living quarters I’d expected when I first made land in Arcadia, this apartment wasn’t actually too bad. It had a whole mini-kitchen that blended into the dining room aka my study space, which made it a lot harder not to deny myself things like scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese toastie when I was goddamn exhausted with trying to read through Trollish texts on some magic stones or history of the Trollhunter. Something-something knowing your enemy to best weaken them, Strickler had said. I hadn’t been paying that much attention up until he’d shoved the books into my arms.

Considering how the Janus Order had specifically told me I needed to keep an eye on Strickler, and that Strickler was consistently intent on dropping something extra on me to keep me away from whatever he was working on alongside the whole ‘kill the Trollhunter’ business, I felt like the study sessions were intentional.

It wasn’t fun. Not in the slightest. Even when it came to finding parts of the text that tied into magic, it could become truly agonising in the process. Spending hours stuck in one room grinding through maybe two books at a time.

However Angor had come to realise that if he skipped on duties regarding directly stalking the Trollhunter to hunker down in my apartment and join me in my study sessions ‘in order to assist with the overall goal’, then it really, really pissed off Strickler.

At least it meant I wasn’t alone.

While most of Angor’s lessons required me to be outside (due to the inevitable surrounding damage and because getting thrown against a tree is miles more comfortable from being thrown against a wall), a little could still be done in the apartment. He’d had centuries to hone his magic, fine-tuning it to what he wanted - hunting, tracking, paralysis, manipulation. I was still in the process of trying to form my magic into goals, into tools. What I wanted from it hadn’t mattered until Angor had pulled me out of the dirt once too often and told me the necessity. Which then lead through to the core magic lessons.

According to the older books, wizards and witches normally used staffs or other foci to cast their spells. It was like formulating code - you decided your goal, adjusted the parameters of the world around you, and set the spell into motion. I did not have the comfort of a focus. It was a major part of why my magic could be so sporadic and volatile - curses shattered the moment my concentration wavered, if I created a weapon to fight with it could easily fall apart under too much stress.

But I did have a teacher who didn’t need a focus himself. Angor didn’t talk about the how or why, only the what and who. What did I want. Who was I aiming at. The only ‘how’ was ‘how quickly can I get this done’.

What did I want?

I wanted to go home.

Jerking awake abruptly, the ache of sleeping in a chair promptly hit my back muscles and legs. I blinked away the last dregs of the surprise nap, grimacing and hauling off the table to stretch myself out. Multiple pops echoed in the otherwise empty apartment. Delightful.

My most recent book lay open in front of me, partially haloed by pages of notes from this book and others, plus a bare basics Trollish translation cheat sheet. Most of the paper was now crinkled by the ghost imprint of my face. Across the rest of the table was the unwashed plate from a lunch or breakfast meal, a sad and cold half-drunk mug of tea, and an eyeball -

Oh. Bastard.

I leaned my chin on my hand, squinting at the obsidian eyeball.

“Good morning to you too,” I grumbled. The sun outside said that it was pushing into late evening. That counted as morning from trolls, I assumed. Like vampires. But then again Angor had his own shadow umbrella so he didn’t take as much caution towards the daytime.

The eyeball rolled further across the table, hopping onto the open book. Somehow it managed to look down and then back up in disdain. It didn’t have a face, but I knew Angor far, far too well already now. This was definitely a disdainful eye roll.

“Thank you for that enthusiasm,” I replied. Getting out of my chair was much harder than it should have been, as my legs remembered about blood flow and I stumbled to hold my balance. But after a mere second of embarrassment, I started the process of flipping through the kitchen cupboards to try and figure out what I’d be putting together for dinner tonight. It turned out even if you did sleep through your entire study session you still needed to eat food afterwards.

“Lessons or work tonight?” I asked the eyeball, glancing back over my shoulder. The eyeball rolled left and then right, before spinning around in a full circle. “...Yeah, I don’t know why I asked either. One hop for yes, two hops of no?”

“No.”

I flinched hard. Mistake. Turning quick with the thoughts of ‘shield’ on my mind, the shadows buckled and broke immediately when struck by stone claws. Angor crowded me, crammed down and partially crouched from the lower ceiling, leaving me squeezed against the kitchen countertop. For a moment my half-drawn breath rolled off stone, his eye matching mine and taking up the rest of the world.

Then his claw tip pressed into my forehead.

“Faster,” he commented, taking two steps back into the apartment space. My lungs released, along with the rest of my muscles, and I just about kept myself upright by bracing on the worktop.

“Asshole.”

“You will improve, or you’ll die. And you haven’t died yet, witchling,” Angor replied. After some consideration, he dropped down into a seat on the floor, hidden from the remaining rays of the sunset but unable to hide from their amber glow reflections. His eyeball rolled back to his open palm to be slotted into its proper place.

“Yeah, the court is out on whether you’ll kill me, either by hand or by heart attack, or whether Strickler’s plan to kill me by boredom gets me first,” I grumbled back.

“I am compelled to not kill you, for the time being.”

“You sure like to test the limits on that compulsion, don’t you?” I paused in my rummaging when I didn’t hear a reply. Angor’s grin met me in the middle of the room, a mixture of amused and hungry that slowly slid into a low grating laugh.

With mutterings of how reassuring he could be bouncing around, I returned to my first task.

“Question remains though, is it a lesson night or a working night?” I asked.

“The boy grows close to discovering one of the Triumbric Stones. We will need to learn what he has gathered and where he intends to go,” Angor replied. “I doubt it will be much work, but it will be a matter of…practical teaching, if you so desire.”

Making a small noise of understanding, I made a move for the ‘fast and easy to eat’ area of the kitchen. No point dilly-dallying over omelettes and peppers if we were going to be out the window once the sun was gone. Angor’s gaze remained on me, the cold prickling sensation finding a hold in between my shoulders.

He once described my presence as warm water. At the time I thought it was purely in the disgusting manner, but after time with him, and time reading about history, perhaps it could be better. Less revolting, with exposure.

He certainly seemed less cold sometimes, although that was a push.

Water in the pot began to bubble at the edges, a bath to drop an egg into and wait for the minutes to tick by. As much as I didn’t shy away from the cold on my back, I did chance a couple of looks back over to Angor. His hands held the Shadowstaff loosely, the metal and stone refusing to reflect any light in the room. A focus of the Pale Lady, but Angor didn’t channel magic through it, only utilising its shadow rending to get from point A to point B. A different witch could do great or terrible things with it.

I would not.

“Have you been practising?” Angor asked, catching my gaze and holding it.

“I - yeah, a little. I just - can we go over it when I’m not trying to juggle food?”

“Any moment can be a lesson when you are practising magic. Especially…” Angor trailed off as my phone abruptly pinged with a timer, I hastily scooped the egg out the pot to plop in another bowl, and then started pouring the hot water into my dinner.

“...What?”

“What are you doing?”

“My dinner! It’s very modern, Japanese fusion cuisine, all the kids love it. Tons of flavour, with added protein to boot.”

The silence was a distinctly flat sense of disbelief.

“It’s pot noodles with an egg on top. Look, I'll let you eat the pot afterwards if you want.”

Angor’s brow wrinkled inwards in disgust as I waved the pot in his direction. Shrugging in return, I set about the quick dinner with a fork and gusto.

“Disgusting.”

“You guys eat cats! And socks! I refuse to allow eating judgement in this house,” I snarked back through a mouthful of yolk and noodle.

That earned a very sharp scoff, Angor somehow managing to look even more disgusted at such things.

“That is simply the junk which trolls scrounge for now in your era,” he commented, his scowl sharpening his words. “In my time, we had far richer delicacies to hand than….socks. Deep cave mushrooms, rabbits, fresh veins of ore.”

“Human?” It wasn’t fair of me, and the regret raced in after the words escaped. I hunched my shoulders and prepared for the venomous or snapping response.

There was none.

Instead Angor’s face went rather empty for a moment. His gaze flickered away, falling back through memories. Slowly regret gathered in the corners of his mouth, a bitterness that pulled his grimace back into place.

“Never humans,” he replied. “Not hunting them was a kindness they never understood.”

That was more than a little unexpected. My shoulders slumped, the responses I’d prepared failing me. Quietly I scraped the cardboard insides of the pot in my hands, wracking my thoughts for something to say to break the morose weight that had settled in the room.

“It’d be fun to have rabbit some time,” I mumbled. Surprise caught Angor off-guard once again, but his composure returned much faster, a wry smirk coming free.

“Perhaps your lessons will show more promise if I teach you to hunt smaller game than trollhunters,” he chuckled. “It would be amusing watching you stumble around the woods in attempt to snare a bird or hare.” It was already a fun past-time for Angor watch Avalon struggling with the lack of light in most places. Hunting in the dark, the best time to catch prey unawares, would test them fairly. If hilariously.

“It’d beat pot noodles at least.”

“Anyone would heartily agree to that.”

“Okay. Okay. Look, it’s empty.” I waved the noodle pot in his face, earning not even a flinch but a blank disregard. “We don’t have to talk about that anymore.”

“And you can stop dodging my earlier question.”

Fuck.

Mirth could be so easily obtained with the witchling, Angor reckoned to himself. Try as they might to hold defences up, Avalon left too many open holes to reach through and prod and tug. That human weakness had dragged them here and dropped them at Angor’s feet. If he were to teach them well, he’d keep finding every other crack and either they would need to shore themselves or else they’d break apart.

A part of him didn’t want them to shatter though. If not just to take the fun out of a long game. So he’d keep teaching despite the flaws.

My face remained wrinkled in the cloying distaste of being caught out for a few seconds more before I exhaled a slow sigh, trying to ground myself. Time was short, however long until Angor decided it was time for us to leave. I’d need to do this right.

Magic bubbled at my fingertips. Angor’s instructions sat at the back of my head. What do I want? What carried me forward? Where was my conviction?

Angor watched in silence as shadows coalesced in Avalon’s palm. At first they were shapeless, barely a trick of the fading light. They rose and fell, then began to spread, forming a skeleton of a shape. A simple and efficient knife becoming more real with the passing seconds. It was a good weapon, to be approved of. The simplicity was apt for a beginner, the blade would be useful should they come to a fight. It would save them from their reluctance to kill. Given enough time, they would change, Angor knew that well enough. So he’d teach them enough to survive, in the short weeks before he finally got rid of the Trollhunter, and that would be all.

One eye cracked open. First I saw the knife, held together by shadow and the faint gleam of green, and I had to resist the urge to grin excitedly. Breaking my focus could untether the tool completely. Then I looked to Angor.

What did I want?

The green light fractured and overtook the blade, a thin line of metal becoming thick and rough and stone. Even while still simple, there were enough details to make it identifiable. But beyond that, it was heavy. It was solid. When gravity tugged it into my grasp and I had to grab it to keep it upright it didn’t fall apart without my concentration to hold it in one.

Stoic walls cracked at the edges as Angor squinted. His hand drifted to his belt, touching the handle of his own dagger, just for a moment. Avalon had succeeded, quite succinctly too. Their practice was paying off well. And yet the manifestation seemed…unwieldy. Surprise was too clear on their face. The way the dagger had formed had been unexpected but promising. And the similarities were far too uncanny to be ignored.

Would he call them out? Would he stay quiet?

Teeth ground together as Angor’s eyes narrowed. Despite everything, his influence was digging in faster than he’d planned. But it…wasn’t bad. A good knife would protect them better. Would dig deeper.

“A fine choice of blade,” he commented, a bare air of smugness encroaching his words despite the glower.

“I-I didn’t..” My words collapsed together, stammering over themselves. I knew the knife too well myself, I’d gotten to view it up close and personal enough times. The weight was lighter than the original, easier for my own hand. And it was still here, despite my thoughts going in every direction.

“But you have.” Angor drew himself up, not to full height but enough to be looming as he stepped closer. The Skathe-Hrün unfolded from its handle, almost my height and certainly jabbing a little close to my eyes for my own comfort. Instinctively I batted it backwards with the back of my magic knife, and even the gentle stone-on-stone tink drew toothy amusement from Angor.

It was like watching a small fox cub bat at a dead rabbit that its mother had brought to the den.

“You are becoming better at grounding yourself. It will be far more important the further you progress in learning magic,” he continued. “By far more important to keep yourself in the moment when you are in a fight.”

“For sure,” I agreed, quiet and nervous. That would have to be the main teaching point - whether the knife would stay for long enough with Angor or an actual enemy bearing down on me.

“You considered the questions I asked of you? What is it you want?” he asked.

The answer was there. I looked to the knife, then back up to Angor.

“Home,” I replied. “What do you want?”

You didn’t need a soul to experience the ache of loss. Angor’s grin faded rapidly, turning cold as the stone of his body. Even his eyes seemed to lose the golden glow.

“Something that I lost a long time ago,” he growled back. “That means little with my experience. You are the student here, you have far more to overcome and therefore you are the one who must focus on such thoughts.” Every ‘you’ was punctuated with a tap of the Skathe-Hrün to my chest, just enough to get the point across.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I muttered quickly.

“The knife is a small tool. I will expect you to conjure something greater and stronger the next time I have you practise this skill.”

The conversation was done. Angor huffed out a growling breath before glancing to the windows. The sun was almost gone, the light a weak yellow streaking the ceiling of this box. By himself, he knew he would be able to travel unimpeded. With Avalon, the Shadow Realm made for a more reliable passageway. Turning to the wall instead, Angor pushed his focus into the staff, the location on the other clear in his mind.

What did he want?

Silence. He continued to stare into the wall, staff raised. I shifted my feet together, finally releasing the blade from my hand and my focus. The shadows fell apart before it could fall far from my grasp.

“Angor?”

There was a blink, and then his eyes were back on me. Lips curled, curved fangs bared, before he gestured with the Shadowstaff again more insistently and the air collapsed in on itself. The void was numbing, both to witness and stand close by to. I took a step towards it, only to be blocked by Angor’s hand.

“Don’t let go,” he growled.

“Of course,” I replied in low deadpan. My hand gripped onto his palm as best it could, while his claws dug into the sleeve of my coat. And then the apartment was quiet and empty, a table covered in notes and a book spread open on the history of Trollkind. A trident emblem painted onto the paper.

#writings #self insert #platonic self ship #world: trollhunters #ship: rotten magic

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