Chapter 2: Reunion Feast - A Golden Spark's Welcome
The habsuite door hissed shut behind them, cutting off the sterile light and constant hum of the main bunker. Here, the silence was different. It was charged, thick with eighteen months of pent-up static.
Sideswipe’s assigned quarters were a testament to his nature: functional, messy, and lived-in. A single reinforced berth, a scratched desk piled with data-slates and human knick-knacks, a viewport currently showing nothing but the star-dusted black of the desert night. The air carried the faint, permanent scent of ozone, burnt wiring, and now, the distinct, polished-metal scent of Sunstreaker.
Sunstreaker took two steps into the room and stopped, his optical lenses adjusting to the dim light. His gaze swept over the disorder, a faint disapproval in the set of his doorwings. “Charming. Do they issue you a debris field, or did you cultivate this yourself?”
“Missed you too, Sunshine,” Sideswipe said, his voice low. He wasn’t looking at the room. He was looking at Sunstreaker’s back, at the way the low light caught the subtle seams in his gold armor, at the slight scuff on his shoulder plating from their impact in the crater.
He crossed the space in two strides.
There was no gentle lead-up this time, no dramatic leap. He simply pressed himself against Sunstreaker’s back, his arms snaking around his twin’s waist, his face burying into the junction between neck cabling and shoulder. He inhaled deeply, filtering the scent directly to his processor. Home. Finally.
Sunstreaker stiffened for a nanoklik, then his entire frame seemed to sigh, a release of tension so profound it was almost audible. One of his hands came up to cover Sideswipe’s, his fingers tightening. “You reek of desert and poor life choices.”
“You love it,” Sideswipe mumbled against his armor.
“I tolerate it.” Sunstreaker turned in the circle of his arms. Their chestplates met with a quiet click. His optics, usually so sharp and assessing, were soft, the blue light within them flickering with unguarded intensity. “That cadet. Strongarm. She’s going to be a problem.”
“Later,” Sideswipe said, his voice dropping to a growl. All the forced calm, the playful banter in front of the others, evaporated. What was left was raw, jagged need. “Not now.”
His hands came up to frame Sunstreaker’s faceplate. He traced the familiar lines, the arrogant angle of his jaw, the curve of his olfactory sensor. Sunstreaker’s optics shuttered closed, a rare show of surrender.
Sideswipe didn’t kiss him. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Sunstreaker’s, the most intimate, spark-deep gesture their kind knew. Their energy fields flared, merging completely, a private storm contained within the confines of the cramped room. Memories—not data files, but sensory fragments—flooded the connection: the chill of Cybertron’s rain, the smell of a shared polish rag, the jarring impact of a blast that had thrown them apart during the war, the echoing silence after.
“Never again,” Sideswipe whispered, the words vibrating between them.
“You said that last time,” Sunstreaker murmured back, but his field pulsed with forgiveness, with the same desperate promise.
Sideswipe pulled back just enough to look at him. The hunger in his gaze was visceral. He leaned in again, but this time his mouth found the sensitive intake vent on the side of Sunstreaker’s neck. He didn’t kiss it. He snarled into it, the sound vibrating through Sunstreaker’s internal mechanics. “I need you,” he said, the words hot and clouded against the metal. “I need to taste you. I need to feel you coming apart. I need you to ride my face until your transfluid drips down my chin.”
Sunstreaker’s vents hitched. His hands came up to grip Sideswipe’s waist, claws pricking at the seams. “So brutish,” he breathed, but the charge in his field spiked, hot and eager.
Sideswipe didn’t wait for an invitation. His movements became deliberate, forceful. He walked Sunstreaker backward until his back met the wall beside the berth with a dull thud. He slid down his twin’s frame, his dentae scraping down the flawless gold abdominal plating with a purposeful, grating sound.
Sunstreaker’s head tipped back against the wall, a low groan escaping him. “You’ll… scratch the finish…”
“I’ll buff it later,” Sideswipe growled, his hands sliding behind Sunstreaker’s thighs. He applied pressure, a silent command.
With a shuddering ex-vent, Sunstreaker complied. There was a series of soft, hydraulic clicks, the sound of internal locks disengaging. His main armor panel shifted, retracting with a smooth, practiced motion he usually reserved for a med-bay. What was revealed wasn’t mechanics, but layered, bioluminescent anatomy, now flushed with heat and pulsing with a soft, inner light.
Sideswipe didn’t pause. He leaned forward and licked a searing, wet stripe from base to apex.
Sunstreaker jolted, one hand slapping against the wall for support. The other tangled in Sideswipe’s headfinials. “Frag, Sides—”
Sideswipe didn’t let him finish. He sealed his mouth over the central, fluttering array of biolights, applying suction, tracing patterns with his glossa that he knew by spark. He was relentless, driving past the initial shock, past the teasing, into a deep, consuming rhythm. His hands held Sunstreaker’s hips in place, keeping him anchored as he trembled.
The dialogue ceased. Sound became gasps, the scrape of metal on metal, the wet, rhythmic glide of Sideswipe’s glossa, the escalating whine of Sunstreaker’s cooling fans struggling to keep up. Sideswipe’s own panel had blown open, his pressurizing spike straining against its housing, but he ignored it. This wasn’t about his release. This was about reclamation. About tasting every micron of the brother he’d been severed from, about drowning in the sensory proof that he was here, real, and his.
Sunstreaker’s composure, his vanity, his arrogance—all of it unraveled. His vocalizer glitched, emitting static-laced cries and half-formed fragments of Sideswipe’s name. His thighs began to shake around Sideswipe’s head. The biolights under Sideswipe’s mouth blazed, their pulse frantic.
Sideswipe felt the telltale tightening, the charge coiling to its breaking point. He doubled his efforts, swallowing around him, urging him on.
With a sharp, truncated shout, Sunstreaker overloaded. Energy crackled in the air, a miniature lightning storm contained between them. Transfluid, shimmering and silver, spilled over Sideswipe’s chin and dripped onto his own chestplate in hot, claiming streaks.
Sideswipe stayed there, drinking him in, until the last tremors subsided. He finally pulled back, his glossa swiping over his own lips. He looked up, his face a mess, his optics blazing.
Sunstreaker slid down the wall, his legs giving out. He ended up on the floor, back against the wall, vents heaving. He looked utterly wrecked, his armor askew, his finish smeared. He looked beautiful.
Sideswipe crawled over him, caging him against the wall. He captured Sunstreaker’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, letting him taste himself. “Mine,” he rasped against his lips.
Sunstreaker, still gasping, managed a weak, haughty smirk. “Yours is… currently attempting to dent my hip.”
Sideswipe grinned, feral and full of love. He shifted, lining himself up. There was no more gentleness left in either of them. He pushed in, a single, decisive thrust that made them both cry out.
It was friction and heat, a perfect, punishing fit. It was spark-deep synchronization made physically, brutally manifest. Sideswipe set a pace that was less about rhythm and more about collision, slamming Sunstreaker against the wall with every drive, each impact singing through their joined frames.
Sunstreaker clawed at his back, leaving thin, bright scoring marks on the red paint. He met every thrust, his heels digging into the small of Sideswipe’s back, urging him deeper, harder. The room filled with the sounds of them: clanging metal, strained vents, raw, unfiltered vocalizations.
It was over quickly, violently. Sideswipe’s overload tore through him like a supernova, blinding and all-consuming. He spilled into Sunstreaker with a choked roar, his whole frame locking into a rigid arch before collapsing forward, a dead weight.
They stayed like that for long minutes, a tangled heap of exhausted limbs against the wall, their systems gradually cycling down from redline. The only sound was the syncopated whir of their cooling fans.
Sunstreaker was the first to speak, his voice rough. “My finish is ruined. There are… wall imprints on my spoiler.”
Sideswipe nuzzled into his neck, too spent to move. “Worth it.”
A beat of silence.
“Yes,” Sunstreaker admitted softly. His hand came up, fingers gently tracing the scoring marks he’d left on Sideswipe’s back. “It was.”
Later, after a reluctant and perfunctory clean-up, they lay side-by-side on the too-small berth. Sideswipe was on his back, one arm thrown over his optics. Sunstreaker was on his side, facing him, meticulously using a small cloth from his subspace to buff a scuff on his own wrist.
“So,” Sunstreaker said, his tone back to its usual clinical precision. “Strongarm.”
Sideswipe groaned. “Do we have to?”
“She asked for my purpose for being here. My serial code.” Sunstreaker’s optics narrowed. “She’s a bureaucrat with a badge.”
“She’s just by-the-book. Bee keeps her in check.” Sideswipe turned his head. “Mostly.”
“Bee.” Sunstreaker considered this. “He seems… soft.”
“He’s not.” Sideswipe’s voice held a note of defensive loyalty. “He’s different from Prime. He has to be. We’re not an army here. We’re a… a messy clean-up crew. He makes it work.”
Sunstreaker hummed, noncommittal. He finished buffing and put the cloth away. His gaze drifted to the viewport, to the infinite black. “And the Decepticon? Knock Out.”
Sideswipe smirked. “Oh, he’s fun. And he and Bee are… doing the weird dance. You know, the one where they’re obviously conjunx but haven’t filed the paperwork.”
“A Decepticon medic,” Sunstreaker mused. “And Ratchet allows it?”
“Ratchet hates it. Which is how you know he secretly approves.” Sideswipe shifted, turning onto his side to face his twin. The humor faded from his face. “Sunstreaker… Optimus is going to find out you’re here.”
Sunstreaker’s expression hardened, the softness from moments before gone, replaced by the old, war-forged resolve. “Let him. My place is here. With you.” He reached out and flicked a bit of dried transfluid off Sideswipe’s cheek. “Besides, someone has to keep you from getting yourself scrapped by a territorial human with a loud noise complaint.”
Sideswipe caught his hand, intertwining their fingers. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The quiet certainty between them was more solid than the bunker walls.
Outside, in the command center, Bumblebee stared at a red-locked file on a datapad—Knock Out’s “logistical report” on Sunstreaker’s arrival. He hadn’t opened it yet. He looked toward the habsuite corridor, a faint, worried static in his spark. Doubling the trouble always sounded better in theory.
And down the hall, in her own orderly quarters, Strongarm updated her security log. New asset: Designation: Sunstreaker. Origin: Cybertron. Clearance: Pending. Notes: Arrived via unsanctioned transport. Exhibits severe disciplinary noncompliance and undue familiarity with Officer Sideswipe. Recommend full protocol review and separation pending assessment.
She saved the file. The first move in a game the twins didn’t even know they were playing.
The quiet of the habsuite was stolen by the shriek of Sideswipe's internal comm. He jolted upright, the calm of moments before shattered. It was Bumblebee's direct channel, coded urgent.
"Command center. Now." Bee's voice was clipped, all business. The line went dead.
Sunstreaker was already on his feet, his finish hastily wiped down, every trace of vulnerability locked away behind polished armor. "Strongarm," he stated, the word flat and certain.
"Probably." Sideswipe transformed his fist into a blaster and back again, a nervous tic. "Let me do the talking."
"Your talking is what gets us into these situations," Sunstreaker replied, but he fell into step beside him as they left the room. Their shoulders brushed, a silent, steadying point of contact.
The command center hummed with low-level activity. Fixit, the small orange mini-bot, was muttering over a console. Strongarm stood at rigid attention before Bumblebee’s platform. And Bee himself was pacing, the yellow and black of his frame taut with restrained energy.
Knock Out leaned against a far console, casually buffing a forearm. He caught Sideswipe’s eye and gave a minute, unhelpful shrug.
"Sir," Strongarm began, her voice pure protocol. "I've filed my preliminary report on the unsanctioned planetary entry. The security breach is significant. I recommend confining the new arrival to the brig until Cybertronian Command can—"
"The 'new arrival' has a designation," Sunstreaker cut in, his voice icy. He didn't raise it. He didn't need to. "It's Sunstreaker. And I am under no authority of yours, cadet."
Strongarm’s optics flared. "You are on this Earth unit’s roster, subject to Commander Bumblebee’s authority and, by extension, my security oversight."
"Your oversight is already failing," Sunstreaker said, taking a single step forward. "You didn't detect the transport. You didn't intercept the landing. Your first action is to file paperwork. It's pathetic."
"Stand down, Sunstreaker." Bumblebee's order was quiet. It held no anger, only a deep, weary command. Sunstreaker’s jaw tightened, but he took a step back, falling in line beside his twin.
Bumblebee looked at Strongarm. "Your report is logged, Officer. Dismissed."
"Sir—"
"That's an order."
Strongarm’s entire frame stiffened. She rendered a crisp salute, spun on her heel, and marched out. The door slid shut with a definitive hiss.
Bee waited a full three seconds after she left before he turned his gaze onto the twins. He looked at Sideswipe first. "Was it worth it?"
Sideswipe didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Bee’s doorwings dipped slightly. Then he looked at Sunstreaker. "And you. Do you understand the position you've put this unit in? My position?"
Sunstreaker met his gaze, unflinching. "I understand that my brother was here alone. I understand that his effectiveness is compromised without me. Your position, Commander, is now strengthened."
A beat of silence hung in the recycled air.
Knock Out whistled softly from his corner. "He's got a point, Bee. Tactically speaking."
"Don't you start," Bee said, but some of the rigidity left his shoulders. He pinched the bridge of his nose guard. "Optimus is going to comm. Probably within the hour. I need a better argument than 'they're really good at fighting together.'"
"They are one spark in two bodies, Bumblebee."
The voice came from the entrance. Ratchet stood there, a datapad in hand, his expression grim. He walked into the center, ignoring everyone else and addressing Bee directly. "Separating them wasn't strategy. It was cruelty. You know it. I know it." He threw the datapad onto a console. "I'm making the call."
Before Bee could protest, Ratchet had activated the main comms console. He input a priority code, one that bypassed all Earth-based relays and went straight to Iacon. The room waited, the only sound the low hum of the machinery.
The holographic image of Optimus Prime resolved in the center of the room. He looked tired, the weight of a dead world etched into the lines of his faceplate. "Ratchet. Bumblebee. Report."
"Save the formalities, Prime," Ratchet snapped, stepping forward. His anger was a live wire, sparking in the dim light. "We have Sunstreaker."
Optimus was silent for a moment. "I see."
"You see?" Ratchet's voice rose. "You stranded half a binary spark on a dead rock for a year. Do you have any idea the neural degradation? The spark strain? Sideswipe’s been running at a forty percent deficit on half his emotional registers! I've seen the scans!"
"Ratchet—"
"No! You don't get to justify this. Keeping them apart 'for their own good'? To 'focus their talents'?" Ratchet was in full fury now, years of medical frustration boiling over. "It's not discipline. It's torture. It's the kind of psychological fragmentation Megatron would have applauded. Since when do we use his tactics?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Fixit had frozen at his console. Knock Out had stopped buffing. Bumblebee held perfectly still.
Optimus’s hologram seemed to sag. The fierce light in his optics dimmed. He looked past Ratchet, at where the twins stood together, Sunstreaker’s arm pressed against Sideswipe’s. He saw the unbreakable line of their connection.
"You are right," Optimus said, the words heavy and slow. "My oldest friend… you are right. I allowed the burden of command to blind me to the burden of the individual spark. I was wrong."
He shifted his gaze to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. "My apologies. To both of you. Your place is together. Bumblebee," he continued, "the Earth unit is yours to command. This decision is yours to uphold. I will adjust Cybertron's records accordingly."
The hologram flickered out.
The command center was utterly still. Bumblebee let out a vent he didn't know he was holding. Sideswipe’s hand found Sunstreaker’s and squeezed, hard.
Ratchet’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He walked over to the twins, his movements suddenly those of a weary old medic. He looked them both up and down. "You're both a mess. Follow me. Full spark alignment scan. Now."
As they trailed after Ratchet towards the med-bay, Sunstreaker glanced back at Bumblebee. "Thank you," he said, the words uncharacteristically simple and direct.
Bee just nodded, watching them go.
Knock Out pushed off the console and walked over to him, his field brushing against Bee’s with a gentle, knowing pressure. "Well. That happened."
"He chewed out Optimus Prime," Bee said, a faint note of awe in his voice.
"Mm. Remind me never to get on his bad side." Knock Out leaned closer, his voice dropping to a murmur only Bee could hear. "You did good, Commander. You protected your team."
Bee finally looked at him, the stress in his optics softening. "We're not in the clear. Strongarm’s going to be a problem."
"Let her be," Knock Out purred, tracing a seam on Bee’s shoulder. "We have bigger things to worry about. Like where we're going to put a second Lamborghini."
In the med-bay, under the harsh lights, Ratchet attached the spark monitors. The readouts began to scroll, two waveforms that were meant to be separate but were instead eternally entangled, pulsing in perfect, imperfect harmony. He watched the screens, his old spark aching with a familiar mix of worry and fondness.
"They'll be fine," he said, more to himself than to the silent room. "They have to be."
Outside, leaning against the corridor wall just beyond the med-bay door, Strongarm listened to the dying hum of the scanners. Her own data-pad glowed in her hand, a new file open. It was no longer a report on Sunstreaker.
It was a requisition form for upgraded stasis cuffs. Rated for binary spark resonance. Quantity: two.
She saved the file and walked away, her footsteps echoing down the empty hall. The game was just beginning.