A/N Hi, welcome to yet another bizarre pairing that somehow only works in my head. Take one reticent nerdy Autobot that the other Autobots don't really trust, and one psychopathic Phase Sixer, and shazam. MAGIC!

Orrrrr, maybe not. Whatever. :P

This is sort of a screwed up angsty romance story.

[***]

Autobot Base: Designation FH-3

Jetfire readied the weapon, his thick fingers clumsy even in the open triggerwell. He could see the muzzle wobble on its bipod. He was so bad at this. He wasn't a fighter. He knew this. Everyone knew this. Which was why they gave him these rear-echelon jobs, like the quiet little research and fabrication station. It was supposed to be safe here, the front lines of battle far, far away.

Except that someone was outside, having blown through the Grade Six blast doors as though they were made of fatigued tin, having easily blow the defensive turrents. And who was now battering at the even heavier, lead-lined doors to the radioactive research room.

Jetfire risked a glance to the table on which the rifle's bipod rested. Datatracks had slipped from the neat stack he'd put them in—all the findings he'd made, vorns of research. It seemed at once somehow offensive to have all that time compressed into the files, and at the same time, a satisfying testament: Jetfire had contributed. He had mattered. He wasn't a warrior, but still. He had mattered, would matter, would maybe, one day, have his research end the war or, better yet, help consolidate the peace or brighten the future.

Even if he died, he hoped that his research would survive. That's what counted.

Another loud hiss, followed by a thoom so loud that the floor vibrated under Jetfire's feet. He braced himself, mentally more than physically.

The door buckled inward, metal crumpling. Jetfire could hear the sharp hiss as the rubber gasket seals blew, as if the door itself were in pain.

Jetfire lowered himself awkwardly. 'Make yourself a smaller target' Ironhide had told him, during his abortive 'training'. 'Decepticons will shoot you sure as any of the rest of us.' Yes, Jetfire knew that. Another reminder that they held him at arm's length. Another reason to station him far away from 'the enemy'—because they didn't entirely believe he wasn't one of 'the enemy' himself.

A cracking boom. The room plunged into darkness after a single flash of light threw an elongated silhouette into the room.

The boom echoed away into a ringing silence. Red optics glowed, malevolent beacons in the darkness. Jetfire became aware of his own optics—how they must be limning the rifle in front of him, bright blue targets. He waited, hesitated, holding back from making the first move, taking the first shot. He could hear Ironhide's voice in his cortex, howling at him to take the shot.

He was not Ironhide. Perhaps, he was not, really, an Autobot.

The red optics moved, suddenly, swinging in a long arc. Jetfire flinched back, curling one long white finger around the trigger, as the optics came for him, then, suddenly, abruptly, noisily, downward.

The mech had fallen, collapsed just on the other side of the workbench. The rifle seemed to jump from Jetfire's hands, clattering on the table as he leapt over it, barely able to think what he was doing before he did it. Did he think the mech was Starscream? He didn't know. But he'd seen red optics, and…not taken the shot. He'd rationalized that he was waiting for the Decepticon to shoot first, to obey some Rules of Engagement. Even he wasn't sure he believed it.

His optics adjusted to the dimness as he squatted by the inert form. One hand found a vertical stabilizer mounted by the shoulder frame.

The mech groaned. Jetfire could feel a shiver of pain through the panel under his palm.

"Are you injured?" He winced. Unnecessary question. Stupid question. He waited for the retort. An Autobot would ask that question, though, wouldn't he?

But why couldn't Jetfire imagine any of the Autobots he knew asking that of a Decepticon?

"Fix me." The voice was deep, gravelly, and somehow thready. A groan of metal, the mech turning gingerly over.

"I-I'm not a medic," Jetfire said. His optics, nonetheless, skittered down the damaged frame. The mech was almost his size, white armor scorched and gouged and charred, pink energon luminescing dully in his lowlight optics.

A click, and the unmistakable black eye of a pistol muzzle staring him down. "Wasn't a request."

Jetfire stared at the muzzle, waiting. My research, he thought, a chill rushing through him. That will survive. He waited. The muzzle wobbled, suddenly, the servos in the hand firing unsteadily. His optics went back to the red ones. They flickered as well, pain and something like a distant alarm warring in them. What else could he do? What if this had been Starscream? Could he turn away an injured mech? He didn't know what an Autobot would do. But he knew what THIS Autobot would do. "I'll do my best."

"…better," the voice croaked. The optics dimmed, the hand falling limp, pistol jouncing from the nerveless hand.

[***]

Sixshot felt his systems online, slowly, painfully. He didn't begrudge the pain. It was a sign he was still alive. His optics powered on, flaring in the light of emergency-generator lighting. He was alone. And able to move—his split lines repaired, armor undented, if still filthy, fuel topped off. Foolish Autobot. But…compliant. Sixshot would do him the favor of killing him quickly. His hands closed, seeking weapons, and found none.

No matter. He didn't need guns to kill. Merely opportunity.

A shadow moved in the far end of the room. "You are awake?" The voice he remembered from before, from that fever-dazed state in which he'd battered his way into the tiny base, determined to find something to slake his rising core temp. Reapers. He should have known they wouldn't accept a second refusal with good grace.

"Back off, Autobot." His voice was thinner than he liked, sounded far away. Weak. He hated it. His core temp was still high, but not, at least, redlining. His secondary and tertiary systems were on and above marginal. Improvement.

"You asked me to repair you. I had to get…rather near." The mech approached again, his white armor smirched and smudged with char and flecks of energon. Sixshot's energon.

Sixshot's optics narrowed into a glare.

The Autobot, a large flyer, holding out a small drum. "Coolant. Your systems require a flush." He stilled, waiting for some acknowledgement, permission.

Sixshot ran a quick check. Yes. His coolant was discharged and sludgy. He struggled up onto his elbows, nodding warily. His optics tracked the white fingers as they opened one of his access hatches, the touch coolly competent, hooking the coolant pump. Sixshot repressed a sigh as the cool fluid began seeping through his lines.

He felt the blue optics on him, as if waiting for something. Gratitude? Huh. He'd wait a long time for that. Not that he had that long to live.

"I tried to inform you that I am not a medic. But I did the best I could."

Sixshot grunted. He had no complaints. He was online, and the coolant was sapping the dangerous heat, building his strength, pushing him toward recovery. And then, kill this mech and then…and then the Reapers.

He felt the optics continue to search over him. His gaze narrowed. "What?"

The Autobot twitched, as if caught doing something wrong. "I-I was studying your engineering. It is…unusual."

Yes, and that was all the more reason why the Autobot had to die—in his blind pain, Sixshot had been vulnerable—this mech already had seen too much, probably had a list of his vulnerabilities. "It is."

"Oh." The blue optics flared. "I am sorry. I should introduce myself."

No. Don't, Sixshot thought. Do not try to become a mech with a name to me. Do not think it will save you.

"My name is Jetfire."

Jetfire. The name resonated dimly in his cortex. A no-kill order. Really. Intriguing. Not that it mattered. He could mission-override the directive.

The coolant system signaled that the flush was complete. Jetfire busied himself unhooking the line. "Is there anything else I can do for you? To make you more comfortable?"

The question confused Sixshot. "Comfortable?" he echoed the alien word.

"Are you in pain?" Jetfire's hands stilled, optics turning to meet Sixshot's.

Sixshot shrugged. He was always in pain. "Means nothing."

"It means your systems are not optimally functional." A strange earnestness burned behind the blue. A flash of image: the blue optics dulled and dead, spiderwebbed with cracks. Sixshot blinked and the optics were once again open and wide and blue.

Sixshot sat up, pushing the mech away. "I'm fine."

Jetfire staggered back a few paces, the drum of now-filthy coolant clutched in one hand. "I am glad to hear that," he said, unsteadily. "I did what I could." And then the question Sixshot had wanted to avoid. "Can I ask your designation?"

No reason not to answer, really. Jetfire was going to die, at Sixshot's hands. Knowing the name of the mech who killed him would hardly do any harm. "Sixshot." He felt vaguely gratified at the surprise and alarm that flashed over the light face. Yes. Fear.

Another flash, the black char on the mech's armor was not merely transfer, but the bubbled scorch of fresh injuries, the concerned tautness of the face reduced to a dead laxness. Soon, Sixshot murmured to the darkness within him.

Sixshot swung his legs over the edge of the worktable Jetfire had laid him on. His cortex whirled, his tanks roiling to one side. He clutched the edge of the table, head swinging forward, systems whitelining from too much motion.

White hands closed on his shoulders, steadying him. "I'm sorry," Jetfire said, quickly. "I must have overcalibrated the main gyroscopic input."

You're sorry, Sixshot thought, darkly, suspiciously, watching as one hand rested on his shoulder, benignly, without force, another reaching for what Sixshot recognized as a medical scanner. Sixshot stared at it, trying to stop the room from spinning by fixing his vision on the fingers, white on white.

"I can make the adjustments…if you'll let me." Pausing, waiting for permission. Again. Sixshot nodded, dully. Simply, he rationalized, because he could not function this way. And he liked the irony of killing the mech who just repaired him. Give me the capability to destroy you, Autobot.

Jetfire reached for the access panel again, leaning over. Sixshot held himself rigid, refusing to lean onto the broad shoulder for balance as the white helm lowered to his chassis. A soft laugh. "I believe you speak even less than I do."

"Nothing to say and no one to say it to," Sixshot countered, still queasy from the gyro error. Simply to be contrary.

The head tilted up. "I would imagine you have plenty to say." The blue optics were pools of sincerity. If Sixshot hadn't already had his gyros spinning, such naivete would have done it. Jetfire returned to his work. Sixshot felt the gyroscopic rheo adjust downward. His head cleared almost instantly.

"Not really."

Jetfire pulled his hands away, slowly, solicitously, holding his palms out in case Sixshot needed to grasp them for balance. "I envy you, then," he said, his voice strangely soft.

"Don't."

A long silence. Jetfire turned to put away the scanner, showing the broad expanse of his back, his wingspan, to Sixshot. Sixshot had flashes of images—tearing off those wings. He could feel the popping rivets beneath his hands, smell the ionizing energon. Turning his back was an insult, weighing Sixshot as less than a threat. Sixshot should be incensed. He should attack. What are you waiting for? Kill the Autobot.

Jetfire turned back to him, a question trembling on his lips. "Do…do you not trust them, or do they not trust you?" His hands held something—not a weapon. That was all Sixshot registered—that was all that mattered, in his world.

The question made no sense, and every sense in the world. "Both," Sixshot heard himself answering, roughly. "But loyalty doesn't demand trust."

"No," Jetfire replied. "It does not." His voice was heavy with a familiar resonance—the hollowness of a regret that could not allow itself to be said aloud. He straightened, the wings spreading wide. "I…I know you are going to kill me, Sixshot. I only ask that…," his voice cracked. Distress lightning-struck across his face at his own break. "I—I only ask that you take these. Do not let them be lost." He thrust out what turned out to be a stack of datatracks. "Please."

Sixshot took the tracks, numbly. No. This was not how it was supposed to go. Jetfire should be begging for his life. Screaming in agony. He could feel the mech's fear, but it was not the fear of the dying.

It was the despair of the dreadfully alone.

"Not going to kill you," he muttered, disgusted. Not because of the no-kill order. That…didn't bind him anyway. He laid the datatracks down.

It was worth it—almost—to see the look of confusion on the Autobot's face. "I…uh…thank you."

"Don't," Sixshot said, sourly. Another image—the blue cockpit ruptured, light glinting whitesilver from shards of glass. He could practically hear the glass's musical sobbing as it shattered, fell. His optics blinked. The voices in his cortex whispered inexorably, pushing him to action. He resisted.

"How do you cope with it? Being alone?" Jetfire asked it as if they had this thing in common. Resentment swelled in Sixshot's cortex—he and Jetfire were nothing alike. Nothing.

He knew the answer—he buried himself in missions, threw himself into combat. Seeking pain, sensation. Not for his social isolation, but for a larger alienation—that there was no one like him. No one capable of understanding who or what he was. So instead, he punished the world, punished himself, filling his days with torment, an unsated maw of isolation. "I don't."

Jetfire's rigid wings seemed to sag. "I am…sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. Not your problem." Not Sixshot's problem. No. It wasn't. Nothing compared to the flashes of atrocities waiting to be born that flashed across his cortex, the voices like a mob of dark passengers, like the spirits of the mechs he'd killed begging for more company, ghosts feeding on pain.

"Not the same way, no," Jetfire said. "I did not mean to offend you by a comparison." Not the same. At all. Sixshot would never repair another mech. Much less one he knew would kill him. Jetfire made no sense. No sense.

Sixshot tilted his head, before he realized that Jetfire had misread his statement. Not surprising: Sixshot was willing to grant that he was inept at conversation. A stupid skill. Worlds were not destroyed through words. "Not offended." He felt a strange urge rise up in him, pushing aside the roiling tide of violence. He tried to tell himself it served some purpose. Some military purpose.

What other use was there?

But when he came to put it to words, he grated at the clumsiness. Hand him a weapon and he could make devastation an art. Ask a question and…he was lost. Curiosity was lethal, was weakness. But. Did Jetfire, after all, have the answer to that as well? Could he quiet the voices, fill Sixshot with something other than singleminded murder?

"You…feel."