Work Text:
Arcee’s earliest memories are full of bloodshed. It makes it all the more infuriating to be told that her ways are wrong, that she’s acting out in a way that’s off-putting.
What’s so off-putting about protecting myself? she’s grown tired of asking. There’s no point to it; nobody ever has an answer, least of all herself. It’s been a weight she’s carried since the gladiator pits of Protohex, and it’s one that she doesn’t imagine herself letting go of anytime soon.
Everybody else is so soft in a way she doesn’t understand. In the Darklands, it was every person for themselves—kill or be killed, because it’s a matter of when, not if. It was the only way to ever make it, the slaughter, and if there’s one thing Arcee has ever excelled at, it’s surviving.
She predates so many of her peers, but she doesn’t think that’s the biggest difference between them. They have something she doesn’t, something that they dress up in the colors of common sense and morality. Arcee hates it when they do that. It makes it sound as if she doesn’t know right from wrong herself. Makes it sound as if she’s only ever thought of herself as being in the right when not even she knows what direction she’s heading for.
It makes it sound like she doesn’t hate herself. It makes it sound like she’s only ever reveled in every kill she’s ever committed.
Once, that might have been so. But the struggle and bloodshed is all she’s ever known, and too many people have been a testament to what happens if you don’t learn to adapt—if you aren’t made of what it takes to survive. It doesn't mean she likes it.
Arcee thought Prowl might have understood. He always preached pretty lines about having what it takes; about doing the dirty work everyone will turn a blind eye to because they understand that his ways are their best chance at winning the war. She tried patience, compassion, but it never mattered.
Arcee’s used to being used. She’s used to being treated as a weapon. She’s used to being reduced to nothing more than a title, those not knowing her name refusing to learn it.
She isn’t used to being hurt.
And now, the only person she might have considered to be a friend, is dying.
She feels guilty that she’s spent so much of her time here thinking over what that Camien—Aileron—had said rather than the time she did have with Sideswipe.
“I don’t think so,” she whispered with a small, sad smile. "I don't think you're crazy." Like it was easy to say. Like it didn’t shatter some fragile part of Arcee that she hadn’t even known she possessed.
What is Arcee meant to do with that? How is she meant to believe that? They hardly know each other.
Earnest words kill. Earnest words get you hurt. It's weakness, that type of kindness. It's weakness and a strength that Arcee isn't familiar with, not yet, and maybe not ever. Because she's seen many bots like Aileron before who believe in such tender words, only to get hurt because of them.
Arcee knows what it feels like to be hurt. She doesn’t want to feel that again. Give Aileron a few days with Arcee and she’ll see soon enough just how wrong she is. She’ll be just like everyone else. Arcee knows she’s the common denominator here, the thorn in people’s sides; the blot in the Autobot cause.
But a part of her is a desperate, yearning thing. It wants to believe, starved for affection and care.
What happens when Arcee gives it what it wants?
“There have been some concerns over your… self-isolating behavior.”
So? she wants to ask. There’s nothing ‘self’ about it when you’ve given others plenty of reason to stay away.
“Your skulking has been making some of the others uneasy.”
Now that’s probably closer to the truth and what he really means to say. He isn’t a bad guy per se, but.
Arcee’s being heard, but she isn’t so sure she’s being listened to.
This was a bad idea. She knew it had been from the beginning, but foolishly, she thought that explaining herself would help.
She should have known better when all of this tension, all of this anger, is the only thing holding her upright.
The tricky thing about anger, however, is that it only ever elevates you to put you back down again. It rubs your face into the ground to say: Look at what you’ve done. This is where you’re meant to be.
It’s happened so often, and now that the anger is gone, Arcee doesn’t know how to climb out of this pit. She’s never been taught how.
“Look, can’t you just– I don’t know. I don’t know what your issue is, but it’s kinda tiring, having you be so hot and cold all the time. It’s making the newer recruits a little unsettled.”
He pauses, clearly expecting something from her. Arcee can hear the unsaid “Can’t you just leave?” in there, but regardless of whether or not she’s liked or merely tolerated, she has a duty to fulfill—to Sideswipe and herself.
He sighs when she doesn’t give him the response he’s looking for. The only sound after is his receding footsteps.
Arcee’s always been good at disappointing others.
Sideswipe dies peacefully, which is more than he had ever let himself dream of happening. It’s bittersweet, and Arcee’s sure many would have words to throw at her for saying she’s happy for him, but it’s the truth: Sideswipe always imagined himself dying a more gruesome death.
And perhaps it’s selfish of her to feel relieved when her friend is dead. Maybe it’s something more. She doesn’t know. She’s found that she really doesn’t understand herself, lately. All she knows is that Sideswipe can finally rest, and now she's truly alone once more. Being alone is another way of protecting herself, yet this hollow feeling persists. She wants to make friends. She wants what nearly everyone has. She doesn’t want to find herself alone forever—not when their kind lives such a long time. She’s seen what being alone and without an ally can do to you.
What’s it like to trust another? What’s it like to not look over your shoulder every other second?
Arcee doesn’t beg, and she certainly doesn’t want to take anymore, but oh, how she wants all the same. She wants, and she wants, and she wants. Anything to make her spark stop feeling so cold.
That’s how Aileron finds her, alone and clutching the railing in front of her like a vice because anger is no longer enough to keep Arcee up on her feet. She offers comfort, if a little awkwardly, but it's more than Arcee's received in a long, long time.
Arcee isn’t one for theological speals—they’ve never done her any good, and in the Darklands, there is no Primus to speak of, only acts that would make Him ashamed of the life He’s created.
She doesn’t buy into Aileron’s idea that Sideswipe will be reincarnated one day. Jokingly, Arcee wants to say that Sideswipe is much too stubborn for that, but hesitates. It’s a lovely idea, even if she doesn’t believe it, and it clearly means something to Aileron. Besides, what’s the harm in hoping? Arcee has never afforded herself a chance to make wishes before, but maybe it’s time she changes that.
So, she lets herself imagine a world in which Sideswipe is able to reunite with his twin as she watches the stars with Aileron in comfortable silence, saying her final goodbyes to the mech she had cherished.
Aileron’s reward for saving Arcee’s life is a kiss.
Arcee isn’t sure what comes over her; she just knows that her spark is warmer than she’s ever known it to be, and it feels right as it happens. She came back for Arcee. She didn’t abandon her.
Maybe it’s silly, but everyone has always treated Arcee as infallible, and who can blame them? She wins. She always wins.
But Aileron had treated her like something precious and worth going after—as a friend, and not just an asset.
The moments after that are a bit blurry, but eventually, Arcee finds a moment away from everyone else. Everyone who isn’t Aileron, that is, because something about her sets her apart from everyone else.
“What’s this one from?” Aileron asks, tracing a welding scar that mars Arcee’s arm. It’s long; from shoulder pauldron to wrist.
“I honestly don’t remember,” she says, because it’s true. There’s been too many fights, too many injuries, to keep track.
“Hmm.”
Aileron lingers on it, gently running down the map that is Arcee. There’s something adoring and soft in her gaze—something Arcee has never seen directed at herself before. It makes her feel prickly, but not in a bad way.
“Do you…” Do you find them ugly? Because Arcee does, sometimes. They're reminders of the person she was. She’s never wanted to forget that pain, though. Someone had once mentioned that there’s treatment for that kind of stuff; that there are skilled surgeons who can erase the memories and all the hate.
“No,” she had said, because the pain reminds her of how far she’s come.
Aileron seems to understand. She smiles instead of recoiling, placing a chaste kiss of her own to the scar. She rubs her thumb across the old wound, her other hand seeking out Arcee’s.
“It’s part of you,” she says, “and I love you.”
And without a doubt, Arcee believes her, the very same feeling echoing inside her.