Chapter Text
Auburn, oblong shapes rain from the box Shockwave overturns onto his lab bench. The objects are organic in nature, and delicate, with paper-like texture.
Shockwave tears one open to find something unexpected inside: seeds of an unidentified plant. The scientist’s processor whirs with a sensation that could be called delight.
As he rotates a seed in hand, he makes qualitative notes in his processor, describing the temperature (standard room), texture (smooth), and hardness (quite). He applies pressure onto the seed until its outer shell splits in half, giving way to the maximum force produced by the index finger and thumb of a very curious Cybertronian.
A smaller white seed with a thin root budding from its top briefly emerges in sight, before getting squished by Shockwave’s overeager hand. Still, he spots the emergence, manages to successfully extract a pale seed in the next try, and repeats the process with the remaining pods and seeds.
Though Shockwave has not previously worked with them, their preferred environmental conditions are simple to recreate, especially given the amount of alien materials he has managed to hoard over the centuries. He places dirt in a large metal bed, pushes each inner seed carefully below the soil’s surface, and pours water from a hose attached to a nearby tank.
Once the seeds are watered, Shockwave takes a moment to observe possible activity or growth. He does not expect any to occur since he has known plants to have a number of disadvantages: their relatively short lifespans, high levels of maintenance, in addition to their miniscule size. Simply put, they exhibited many inferior characteristics that made them irrelevant to examine, until now.
Because these particular seeds are from Soundwave, a mech who is admittedly effective in the many tasks he bears upon himself.
Shockwave’s gaze casts to the note still affixed onto the seedpods’ box. It is signed off by Soundwave, who had written nothing other than that he found the seeds offworld and hopes that they might pique Shockwave’s curiosity. As if keeping Shockwave entertained would even be a priority worth pursuing for the Decepticons’ TIC.
In another context, they might be identified as a personal gift on Soundwave’s behalf, but Shockwave cannot point to a logical reason for it. There is no basis for Soundwave to be paying off a debt, and the gift was left discretely – not bestowed upon in-person, which Soundwave might do if it were a political maneuver.
Unable to converge on an answer, Shockwave shakes his helm, triangular films flicking along with the motion. Distractions compounding upon distractions. Continued thoughts of the spymaster’s actions would only further dip his productivity.
He spares one last glance at the empty box on his table before discarding it and the note, and returns to his experiments.
Several days later, Shockwave finds himself at the command meeting room early by four minutes.
This is atypical. Normally, he seeks to spend every last second holed up in his lab, thus avoiding pointless conversation with his coworkers.
With nothing better to do in the empty room, he combs through recently executed subroutines in his processor, reading through the lines of decision-making that led him to walk out of his lab four minutes earlier than usual.
Soon, he finds it — a passive recall in memory that reminded him that Soundwave tends to be early to the command meetings, and they would likely be alone together in the room for several minutes.
Perhaps he was hoping to discuss the reason for the seeds. But even then, a comm would have sufficed. Shockwave reflects upon his usual motivators, at the forefront of which is curiosity. Ah. Was he still interested in learning what Soundwave’s telepathy might feel like?
It is unnecessary to experience in-person, wholly illogical and risks showing secrets, yet tempted Shockwave when he first heard of Soundwave’s outlier ability many years ago. He has instead gone for the more reasonable approach of reading secondhand reports, though the curiosity remains.
Shockwave shutters his optic, then opens it.
He focuses on the physical sensation rather than the uplifting current that threatens to sweep his frame — to imagine further and wonder at what would be said and heard, and what emotions might possibly be felt and telepathically touched — and shiver.
Shockwave calls it a baseless want — a craving, one that could be silenced as easily as requests for energon, or recharge.
He silences nothing.
He shutters his optic, then opens it, and does not shiver.
But when the door opens to allow for the next attendees of the command meeting, it is Megatron spitting barbed jabs at Starscream, following closely behind. Soundwave does not appear early, or even on time.
The meeting starts, and the room’s door consistently remains in the corner of Shockwave’s optic. Once an hour passes, he notices the leaden feeling that settles in his fuel pump. He knows that the issue lies not with his fuel intake this morning, and that disorients him further. Five minutes remain in their allotted time when Soundwave stumbles in at last, his frame dented and battered.
The feeling within Shockwave unspools, as if suddenly made buoyant, once he fails to spot any trace of leaked energon or ruptured fuel lines. No one else in the room appears particularly worried by the TIC’s injuries, and Megatron is instead more interested in the Autobots that purportedly ambushed him.
A subroutine of Shockwave’s continues recording the meeting’s minutes, while his optic ponders the line of a particularly deep dent into Soundwave’s shoulder plate. Soundwave delivers a preliminary report, and Shockwave wonders if it is deep enough to be impacting the other mech’s internals, and how adept Soundwave might be at hiding it.
At last, Megatron adjourns the meeting for the day. As mechs filter out of the room, Soundwave remains to give Megatron an extended version, replete with timestamps, Autobot designations, and any changes in their frames since each ‘Bot was last seen, whether it be injuries left untreated or potential weapons upgrades. Soundwave is of course nothing less than thorough.
Meanwhile, Shockwave waits.
Shockwave waits, knowing that his samples have finished their time in the centrifuge five minutes ago. Shockwave waits, aware that his solution will finish falling through the chromatographic column in ten seconds.
Shockwave knows that his experiments expect his return, that neither science nor the scientist should wait for anything so trivial as the delivery of a mission report, but Soundwave’s dents are large. Shockwave does not move. He watches Soundwave’s mask bob up and down, wondering not for the first time if he has a mouth underneath it, as the chromatographic column’s timer ticks down. Five… four… three… two–
“Shockwave.”
Shockwave turns off the alarm ringing off in his processor and intones, “Yes?”
“Query: Why are you still in this room?” Soundwave’s voice is a touch bemused, his posture slant and easy.
Shockwave at last tears his helm away from Soundwave to sweep the room, which had at some point become empty aside for the two of them. This is the outcome he initially hoped for, though he still does not understand the purpose of it. His processor stalls before fabricating a response to Soundwave’s question.
“I have further questions about your run-in with the Autobots today.”
Soundwave seems to look surprised, the ridge above his visor furrowing. “Were the details in my report insufficient?”
“No, it was about the wounds you sustained,” Shockwave replies, subroutines frantically trying to connect process trees and errant lines of thinking to deduce a line of conversation that would not seem out of place. It must also be some novel form of excitement for him, because his spark is starting to beat erratically.
“I… I would like to take a look at your injuries. In my lab.”
Soundwave’s visor-ridge drops further. “Are you medically trained? I was not aware.”
“I have tools I use to repair myself whenever any minor injuries occur. I don’t particularly trust our revolving door of medics.”
“That is a fair assessment,” Soundwave’s visor-ridge lifts back to its normal position, and with it, Shockwave’s spirits. “Shockwave: can lead the way. Theory: I don’t believe you have directly led me to your lab space before.“
Shockwave fails to prevent a snort from leaving his vocalizer, but Soundwave’s visor almost crinkles at it. It is enough to soothe his racing spark as they exit the room.
And it is a subtle, subtle thing, but Soundwave’s field exudes past his plating, flavored in wariness and good humor and decent faith.
Shockwave hesitates, extending his own, and finds intermingling with it to be far more pleasant than he expected.
Shockwave begins with repairs to Soundwave’s dents.
He exchanges the cannon tip of his left arm for an extension with a flat metal dolly. Soundwave wordlessly flares his plating at its maximum height above his protoform, and Shockwave attempts to not look too closely at the mass of corded wires and biolights beneath.
(One could objectively call them undulating and bright. One could subjectively call them transfixing. After looking at them in more comfortable circumstances, and for a long while, one might even call the glimpse into Soundwave’s core beautiful, indisputably.)
Shockwave carefully thinks of nothing.
Placing the dolly underneath Soundwave’s plating, he hammers against it from the outside of the plating, until each facet smooths into its original shape. It is deceptively slow work, though Soundwave confirms that he, too, has finished his assignments for the day. They lapse into silence.
In comparison to Shockwave’s own frame, Soundwave’s protoform bears more noticeable fractures, belying his combat experience. Yet his plating is surprisingly smooth. Shockwave can even spot shining metal deposits along the sides, patches of lustrous silver and sparkling blue seamlessly blending into gray and blue. Again, Shockwave tries very hard not to think of Soundwave as beautiful.
After all, he understands that being this close up to Soundwave, and with their frequent points of contact, it could be an easy thing for the telepath to read his mind.
So Shockwave squeezes his optic closed, and opens it. He clears his processor of any stray lines of thinking.
“Shockwave: is alright?” Soundwave’s voice is quiet, as if hesitant to break their shared silence.
The scientist realizes he has not made any sort of progress in the past few minutes, and moves his dolly to a large dent in the middle of Soundwave’s shoulder. “Quite, I was absorbed in thought. But it is unusual for myself to become distracted.”
“Shockwave: keeps a schedule that other Decepticons would balk at. Perhaps it is exhaustion.”
Shockwave’s vocalizer huffs, “I may not have access to it, but your commitments could certainly rival mine.”
“The humans have an odd saying for a situation like this.” Soundwave’s visor crinkles. “About a pot and a kettle.”
“Odd, indeed.” Shockwave remembers the gift from several mornings ago, and asks, “Humans — from Earth. Is that where you had gotten the seeds?”
Soundwave hums, smooth and warm and altogether far too brief. “Inference: correct. How are they doing so far?”
Shockwave tilts his helm to the dirt bed across the room. “They were buried over there and have exhibited little to no growth.”
“The lack of growth is an unfortunate outcome. Perhaps they require more time.”
Soundwave hums again, that resonant note, and Shockwave can’t help but feel a measure of guilt. He replies, “Not that your gifts are unappreciated. I value the diversion they offer to my usual experiments.”
“Soundwave: is glad.”
Shockwave, uncertain what to make of the admission, just nods as they return to silence. This time it is Soundwave’s field that reaches for Shockwave’s. It sings low-pitched notes at a leisurely pace, filling Shockwave’s helm with contentment.
He fixes Soundwave’s final dents, and welds together several small cuts along the front of his chassis. Luckily, none of Soundwave’s internals require repair, which Shockwave would have needed an actual medic to assist with.
The welds cool, and Shockwave monitors the settling of metal into scarred striations. Eventually, he notices the solution he left sitting underneath the chromatographic column, and considers its properties. Perhaps if he combined it in a mixture with several vials left over from his previous experiment, increasing their typical solubility via a high temperature… Yes, it could result in a metal hardening agent, a preventative measure which Soundwave might find useful for future battles.
Shockwave drifts toward his lab bench and gets to work. He can still feel Soundwave’s field close by, content and newly busy with a datapad removed from his subspace.
The scientist outlines a procedure, then executes. Fifteen minutes yield him with a beaker of a clear, runny solution, which he paints onto a small section of his cannon arm. He shines an ultraviolet light for several seconds to cure it, hardening the liquid into a tough exterior.
Experimenting on himself before Soundwave. Shockwave is certainly in rare form today.
After the agent sets, Shockwave flicks a finger against his arm, recording the hardness of the impact, the loud ding! that it emits, and the cohesive sheen of the nacre-like coating. It seems promising, so he moves onto the next stage.
“Soundwave, I have something for you.”
Soundwave’s helm raises from his datapad and tilts to the side. “Query: what is the something?”
Shockwave approaches the other mech, beaker in hand while he shows the shiny patch on his other arm. “A metal hardening agent. I have tested it on myself. An adverse reaction is highly unlikely given the materials, which are all innocuous.”
Soundwave is still and silent, considering. For the first time, Shockwave feels Soundwave’s mind encroach upon his own. He poorly hides his relief that it means that Soundwave was not previously listening to his thoughts, but Soundwave pays it little mind.
Request: mental perusal of intentions?
Shockwave pauses, then thinks, I comply.
Shockwave places statistics and material properties at the forefront of his processor, and although Soundwave does read them, he soon steps past.
The blue, boxy mech strides down the winding corridors of Shockwave’s mind and notes the scenery, the weather. He sees cryptic clouds on the horizon and discerns their intent, whether they mean to bring rain or amiably float by. He walks through pastures of metal grass, copper-colored, and runs his fingers across the tips, feeling Shockwave’s emotions, which range from surface-level to deeper as he wanders into the field’s center.
All of this, Shockwave is aware of.
Shockwave does not attempt to intervene but savors the sensation of Soundwave’s hand upon his grass-shaped self — like gentle pets that can be felt in every corner of his processor. Soundwave’s touch does not seek to change, only observe and understand.
You seem to genuinely be seeking to help me, Soundwave ponders, his words both heard aloud and resounding within Shockwave’s mind. In either case, I owe you for the repairs. And this would prevent further damage for myself and other mechs if successful.
Which it is likely to be, Shockwave replies.
Point: taken.
After Soundwave thinks further, which Shockwave can tenuously view in the abstract as shapes rather than articulate words, the spymaster finally withdraws. Shockwave does not realize that Soundwave’s presence in his mind was warm until he has left. At least he has the privacy to linger on that thought in the several minutes that Soundwave takes to reply.
“You may first apply the agent on my facemask. It is the only extraneous piece of armour on me at the moment. I will remove it if there is an adverse reaction.”
Shockwave nods. “That would be agreeable, and an acceptable outcome in the unlikely case of failure.”
“I can apply the agent myself, unless— Hh,” Soundwave stops short, in-vent hitching, as Shockwave leans toward him.
The scientist briefly admits that Soundwave could have completed the task by himself, though enough time has been lost in convincing him to proceed. This would be more efficient.
He brushes the last of the clear solution onto Soundwave’s mask, and carries the lamp over for curing. Minutes pass. The solution solidifies.
Many things begin to happen at once.
Much later after the fact, Shockwave will discover that a subroutine in his processor has helpfully recorded and organized the proceedings via a numbered list. His internal chronometer will clarify that the total duration of said events is 12.45 seconds.
He will parse through each event in isolation, then in myriad combinations, over and over, for nights to come. Not only out of a desire to find logical coherency, but also, if he would feel particularly honest and emotionally aware (which is rare for Shockwave, but not impossible), because he will wish to relive the aching enjoyment of it.
One: the metal hardening agent completely dries upon Soundwave's mask. It forms a similar shiny coating as when Shockwave applied it to himself.
Two: Soundwave ex-vents in surprise, likely at the lack of explosions and such, though Shockwave is surprised when he feels the huff of air against his helm fins. It is then and only then, 2.75 seconds after the agent has been applied, that he realizes his helm is positioned precariously close to Soundwave’s.
Three: Shockwave experiences another revelation. His helm is, in fact, moving even closer to Soundwave’s helm. Particularly his facemask.
Neither of the mechs seem to be consciously moving but pull towards each other as if unavoidable, their EM fields starting to intermingle. One could liken it to the attraction between magnets, and—
Oh.
Four: Soundwave’s mask and Shockwave’s helm have already reached a certain threshold of closeness, and Shockwave’s processor is firing at nearly half the speed of light, thrumming with panic and confusion and excitement.
For a brief, brief moment, Soundwave’s gaze lowers and Shockwave’s raises. Their optics meet — this close, Shockwave can clearly make out the jagged, concentric rings of Soundwave’s optics, though not the color beneath his red visor. The two mechs understand that whatever the matter, they are in this together.
And lastly, five: In 0.09 seconds, Shockwave and Soundwave’s helms rapidly close the last bit of distance and clink together. Soundwave’s mask is inconveniently smushed against Shockwave’s helm such that all that Shockwave can see is the mask, and the lowest part of the blue mech’s visor.
Shockwave can feel Soundwave’s crest resting above his own flat helm. The two mechs are adhered only by the helm, wherein Soundwave’s mask became magnetized to whatever metal that Shockwave’s armour is made of. Shockwave tests the strength of the magnetic force, his hand pushing against Soundwave’s chassis, though it proves to be stronger. For whatever reason, Soundwave does not reciprocate the attempt to remove himself.
As Shockwave’s awareness expands beyond the mask he is stuck to, he realizes that Soundwave’s hands have become wrapped around his torso, tucked behind his back and supporting part of his weight.
Shockwave’s processor stutters, as he realizes their position resembles a hug or some other sort of affectionate embrace. His fans ramp up to an unreasonably fast rate.
Soundwave is blissfully cool, at least, he thinks, more than a bit delirious at this point.
Soundwave: is pleased you think so.
Wait— Shockwave’s processor fires past the speed of light, gears and switches and pistons searing with motion that heats up his helm.
“The mind connection was triggered the moment when our helms touched,” Soundwave responds out loud, though a feeling of guilt carries over their bond. “Apology: I could not obtain your consent this time. I can try to withdraw, though success is unlikely given the physical contact and proximity of our processors to each other.”
“It— it is not unacceptable. There is no need to withdraw immediately,” Shockwave admits, adjusting his audial sensitivity since Soundwave’s voice is now so close. “I was surprised that it happened, but now I am more curious as to why it did.”
Soundwave’s mind lights up, the spymaster’s own curiosity bringing forth comfort like a cool breeze. “Agreed, I was wondering if you had any working ideas yet?”
If Shockwave could grin, he would have.
“I do, of course. The adhesion itself is due to the magnetic force generated between your mask, which the hardening agent made magnetic, and the natural properties of my own armour.”
Shockwave continues, helm fins flicking excitedly. “You might have a better idea about your abilities, but the magnets may also be responsible for stimulating telepathy, the forced entanglement of our EM fields facilitating an instant mind meld.”
“Telepathy: acts as an extension of EM field reading, so that explanation does seem… logical.” Soundwave’s visor crinkles at the edges.
And Shockwave laughs, short and sweet.
That Soundwave exhibits curiosity similar to his own, and even shares in his celebration of logical reasoning is something that Shockwave had not truly realized. Once he does, Shockwave cannot help but rejoice, a little, at the wonder of understanding and being understood by another.
Shockwave is, however, unsure of how to respond to Soundwave’s well-intentioned joke. He casts his senses to his surroundings and jolts, becoming overly aware of every point of contact between his frame and Soundwave’s. Not only are their helms touching in this tight embrace — this embrace, this hug being monumentally more intimate than anything he has experienced — their whole frames are practically smushed together.
Moreover, as always, as constant as a planet’s orbit around the sun(s), there is work. His gaze catches on half-empty flasks and beakers, and his next in-vent stumbles. There are assignments and missions and experiments and science to tend to, yet here he is, incredibly out of his depth and distracted in Soundwave’s arms.
Shockwave shutters his optic, then when he opens it, he—
He sees Soundwave in his own mind’s meadow, this time just on the outskirts of it. The mech gazes at the sky and its clouds, dark grey and heavy.
Shockwave: is alright? Soundwave echoes. His vocalizer is silent, yet the reverberations are loud within Shockwave’s mind. It feels like there is nothing left to hide, which in and of itself, feels rather terrifying.
The spymaster addresses him steadily, I understand your fears. Secrets prefer to remain so. If it comforts you, I will not probe at all tonight. That is not the purpose of my stay here.
Soundwave pauses, letting quiet steep into their frames. He echoes one more time, Shockwave: is alright?
I don’t know. This is a lot, Shockwave thinks in short bursts, static lacing his words. But I don’t want it to end.
In the loosest of holds, and like the soft rains that start to patter on their spectral frames, Soundwave’s mind descends upon Shockwave’s.
It soothes his worried thoughts, flows through the recesses left behind in their initial mind meld, and fills them with Soundwave’s gentle field. Harmonious music enters Shockwave’s processor, and the scientist follows their melodies to find calm.
At last, Soundwave lets loose an admission, his vocalizer a near-whisper, If we stood like this for an undetermined period of time… I would enjoy it.
Shockwave nods, his helm sliding slightly along Soundwave’s helm.
They remain embraced until their frames begin to lightly ache, and then they stay like that for a little longer. When the hallway lights begin to brighten, and mechs chatter as they emerge from their berths, they push on each other’s chassis in a concerted effort. As it turns out, the force from two mechs is just enough to pull the magnets apart.
Soundwave lingers, both in Shockwave’s lab and his mind. As the blue mech reaches the door, he turns and meets Shockwave’s gaze.
Again, some other time?
Shockwave’s spark soars.
Gladly.