Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N - this first bit here was written originally for antepathy over on LJ, and was heavily inspired by her excellent and rather thought-provoking fic, "Chance," also now available on ffnet! :) Like a lot of folks I was distressed by DOTM's handling of certain character deaths and characterizations, so my coping strategy in which I poke around or ignore whatever I didn't like, make up stuff to make things make more sense to me, and THERE WILL BE NICENESS (I apologize, Decepticons. You may be snuggled. I'm so sorry) and everyone's gonna behave like sensible sentient beings, durnit! Plus First Aid kicks aft, just because it makes me happy. There's one other chapter complete, which I'll be posting later, but otherwise I'm kind of making this up as I go along, so no promises on anything here, hopefully it will all make some sort of sense and good golly what have I gotten myself into?

In case you missed it in the summary, WARNING FOR DARK OF THE MOON SPOILERS AHEAD. Kinda vague spoilers, in this chapt, but still.

He had been very sad, he remembered. A heavy weighing, a pulling down that even the high free sky could not dispel. Pain, exhaustion that would have been anger if there had been any hope to fuel it. All so far away now. Now was only dark, and warm, and drifting peace. Soft murmurs of sound. A gradual sharpening of awareness. He could move, if he wanted to, unfold limbs and stretch them through the warm. Not all the way. There was a barrier there, but still, stretching felt nice. He tested the extent of his reach, the murmurs grew louder. There was a hazy light, but he wanted none of it yet. He tucked his helm down, sank back into the dark. Quiet. Peace. He curled tight, safe, warm, and slept.

The barrier was growing closer, closing tight upon him. He could no longer stretch. He began to grow impatient with his confinement, pressing outward, twisting his helm as best he could to peer towards the light. Murky shapes, murmuring sound, never clear, understanding hovered just out of reach. It didn't make any sense, none of it did. It made him angry. He pressed outward with all parts of him, struggling. On and on and on. He was tired, but he refused to rest. Out. OUT. His finger digits had claws, he discovered. With them he scratched, pressing against the back for leverage. His hands hurt, he was hot and aching. But the barrier…was yielding! Triumph coursed through him at the small movement, the almost imperceptible stretch. He clawed harder, and suddenly...it tore. One hand clawed through, into a new place, colder. An outrush of warm liquid pressed him forward and then out.

He flailed, disoriented by light and sound and freedom. He was wet, and suddenly cold, the air could not hold him up and for a panicked moment would have given anything to be in the warm dark place again. Warmth enfolded him, almost as fast as thought, and solidness pressed him close on all sides. He huddled in it gratefully.

"Well done, small one. A courageous hatching." The voice was soft and kind. The face, when he dared to lift his helm, filled all the world. It had blue optics, smiling at him gently. He mistrusted it all immediately, the kindness, the blue. Sorrow and pain. He would be still and bide his time. He had done so before, he could do so again. He was cradled in hands, he realized, the long tapering fingers tight enough to feel secure, not so tight as to trap. When did the world become so large?

"Welcome, Starscream." A different voice, this one, from behind him. Deep enough it made his tender audios vibrate. "You are welcome here, and safe." He craned his neck to see. There was a sadder kindness in the other's blue optics, and something else as well, something that made him curl his hands into tight balls, caused an aching that rose through his throat and settled there, with nowhere to go.

"He's out then? Is…is he…"

"He's doing well, Barricade. No assistance, as you requested."

At the new voice he pulled himself upwards, discovering he could stand, stretching his hands out through the fingers holding him. The ache in his throat found shape in a yearning cry. Part of him was appalled at how weak, how pathetic it sounded, but a larger part didn't care, and made the sound again.

"He definitely knows you, too, it seems, at least to some extent. A very good sign, so soon. Why don't you come and hold him?"

"Oh, no…no, that's ok. They're so fragile at this stage…I can't…"

The voice faltered. He caught a glimpse of red optics, backing away. The coward! He raged at the enclosing fingers, clawing, biting with tiny useless mouth components.

"Shh, it's ok, small one, little hatchlet, it's ok." The fingers were undismayed by his assault. One patted his backplates, a soft, steady beat. He gave a choked cry of frustration and buried his face in one of the joints. "I'll bet you're tired, after all of that. Why don't you have a nice rest? Hm? Power down, little one, tiny jetling, little spark, you are safe here. " The gentle patting continued, the voice murmured on, tender and lilting, endless soothing nonsense that made him want to shoot something. Shoot something with fire, he was quite sure, if only his limbs would cooperate, if only his optics would power back on, if only...the patting on his back switched to firm, gentle strokes. Ooh, that did feel rather nice. He wrapped his own small limbs securely around the warm, large hand. He felt…safe. Slag it all to pit. He sighed and let recharge take him.