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Scrapper couldn’t tear his optics from Onslaught. The imposing frame of the missile truck held strong as he rained fire down upon the Autobot forces, the fire from his cannon barrels blazing in the bleeding light of sunset. Beside him, Brawl laid down his own hail of fire alongside other artillery mech, but Brawl was not the mech Scrapper could not pull his gaze from.
In their first assigned mission together since Scrapper and the Constructicons had been saved by the Combaticons, Scrapper had found himself… distracted. Onslaught’s plans had called for the small company of Decepticons Strika had assigned the Combaticon commander, alongside Scrapper’s team, to lead the Autobots into the narrow and hard to navigate canyons of the Acid Wastes.
Scrapper had led the initial assault against the vast battalion of Autobots who had repelled every other effort from the Decepticons to shake their control from the region. He, his Constructicons — but for Hook, whom Onslaught had ordered to stay in the backlines to repair any Decepticon brought to him without the fear of losing the crane or having him injured himself — and a select number of the company of Decepticons had followed Scrapper as they ambushed the resting Autobots.
With the glare of the setting sun blinding the Autobots to the number of Decepticons attacking them, Scrapper’s force had held the advantage — for the time Onslaught had expected them too.
Once the Autobots had regrouped, Scrapper had called for a hasty retreat — straight into the towering canyons.
The Autobots, emboldened by their previous victories and enraged by Scrapper’s audacious assault, had pursued them without a second of hesitation. The Autobots’ wrath was clear as they had pursued without pause, blaster fire and missiles raining down upon Scrapper’s forces as they retreated down the canyon.
The slot canyon had funneled the Autobots forces behind Scrapper until it opened up to a small valley. A small valley where steep walls would corner anyone who entered them. As it had with the Autobots, and would have Scrapper's forces if he had not practiced this retreat for multiple days.
Onslaught had provided Scrapper's forces with a small window to begin their hurried ascent to his position before Onslaught, and the rest of the artillery team, would lay down their hail of punishing fire upon the Autobots.
In practice, it was easy.
In reality, when Onslaught's voice — stern, refined and alluring — came over Scrapper's comms with a cold “commencing fire”, it was infinitely more difficult. He'd never been on the almost receiving end of Onslaught's firepower, had never heard it roar so close past him. Had never felt the scorching heat of his missiles exploding behind him. Nor had he ever heard the deafening screams of agony that Onslaught's firepower wrought out of the Autobots before.
Worse still was the heavy weight of Scavenger on his back as Scrapper had climbed up the steep walls, finding each tiny foothold and handhold their forces had installed in preparation before their attack. Scavenger had been hurt in the retreat, an artillery shot from one of the Autobots breaking his leg at the hip joint. Even as Scavenger pleaded for Scrapper to leave him behind — as if he believed Scrapper could ever abandon one of his own — there had been no hesitation to turn back from half way up the climb, grab the excavator, haul him onto his back and scramble up the steep wall all over again.
Turning back had allowed the rest of Scrapper's forces to reach the top of the canyon. Their firepower, though nowhere near as powerful as Onslaught's or the other members of the artillery team, had soon joined in against the Autobots. It had allowed Scrapper an easy time scaling the wall, carrying Scavenger to Hook and then all the time in the world to marvel at Onslaught.
Even in his alt mode, Onslaught was a sight to behold. Smoke billowed around his frame from the exhaust of his cannons, an acrid smell of cordite making a thrill of static race down Scrapper's backstrut. He still remembered vividly when Onslaught had saved his team almost a year ago, using his firepower to obliterate the Autobots attacking the Constructicons. Now that he could properly observe Onslaught, rather than fear for the lives of his team, Scrapper was not going to waste it.
Onslaught was a marvel of contradictions. Strength. Power. Intelligence. Distance, and at an unfathomable range that Scrapper could only dream of breaching. But there was a softness to him Scrapper had witnessed too. His plating still burned from the soft graze of Onslaught's servo against his shoulder before Scrapper had headed off to ambush the Autobots.
The fire the Combaticon's touch had ignited within his frame had lingered, humming in the back of his mind, only to return at full force as he stared at Onslaught.
How he wished he could talk to Onslaught about more than the war. To sit down and study his frame. See how every cord of tight wiring moved his arms, legs, helm and that stark turret which jutted from Onslaught's back. To touch him, if Onslaught so allowed, to feel every plane and slope within his navy blue and olive green armor. If he could trace Onslaught's armor, Scrapper would be able to memorize his frame into the deepest parts of his memory banks.
Then he could draw Onslaught to his spark's content. Could capture his beauty and magnetism with his stylus and servos, filling his sketchpad with study after study of Onslaught, and for his servos to occupy themselves forming sculptures of the handsome Combaticon.
Why did the Combaticon have to be so—
The annoyed clearing of a vocalizer alerted Scrapper to Hook, glaring at him from a few inches away. Embarrassment darkened his cheeks behind Scrapper’s faceguard at the disgust he could feel blazing off of the crane. Even more so when he noticed Scavenger staring up at him from below him, albeit with a stark difference from Hook’s glare in the confusion waving off the injured excavator’s field.
“We are in combat,” Hook spat, “cease your fantasies until this mission is complete.”
Scrapper flushed, a gust of heat surging uncomfortably through his frame at Hook’s disapproval. He didn’t mean to get distracted by Onslaught. Hook knew that. Didn’t he? “I…” Scrapper’s voice trailed off, his helm shifting to look down at Scavenger.
The excavator wasn’t showing a hint of pain as Hook continued to work on the repairs to Scavenger’s hip. He was always the quietest and least disruptive of Scrapper’s team when hurt, though Scrapper knew that was not because Scavenger lacked functioning pain receptors, but out of fear of being a bother. Venting, and knowing he did need to focus, Scrapper took Scavenger’s left servo and squeezed it.
Using the gestalt bond, he spread comfort and praise through to Scavenger. The excavator had done well on their mission. Knowing how his processor worked, Scrapper knew Scavenger was going to be beating himself up, thinking he’d “failed” by being injured.
It took awhile, with the pounding roar of Onslaught’s cannon fire fading into the distance the longer Scrapper focused upon the excavator, but finally Scavenger’s expression softened and he relaxed. The weight of Scavenger’s worries and anxieties dissipated from the gestalt bond, until all he could feel was the ever running current that was Scavenger’s mind within the powerful, surging bond.
“Thanks, boss,” Scavenger whispered, voice tiny and barely above a whisper as he stared up at Scrapper.
Scrapper frowned behind his faceguard, gaze narrowing down upon Scavenger before he shook his helm and placed his left servo on the excavator’s shoulder. He allowed his field to comfort Scavenger as he gave the excavator a small shake of his helm. “You are integral to our team, Scavenger. I will remind you until you understand.”
Scavenger looked away, his vents giving off a warm huff of steam. The front loader could feel Scavenger’s disbelief at his words, but held back the deep sigh that wished to be expelled upon knowing how much Scavenger didn’t believe them. So he moved his servo from Scavenger’s shoulder to lay it against Scavenger’s cheek, field soft against Scavenger.
Relief surged off Scavenger as he turned his helm into Scrapper’s servo and rubbed his helm against Scrapper’s palm, engine rumbling. Chuffing, Scrapper moved his left servo and rubbed at Scavenger’s helm, scritching his helm cowling as Scavenger’s engine purrs began to roar loudly from his touch.
But then Scavenger’s engine purr cut out, and Hook let out a displeased growl, just as the sound of heavy pede falls echoed behind Scrapper.
“Well done.” The deep, near melodious rumble of Onslaught’s voice, akin to the thunder that reigned perpetually over the Manganese Mountains startled Scrapper.
He looked up from Scavenger, aware of his spark suddenly rumbling and racing within its spark chamber as his gaze landed on Onslaught. The leader of the Combaticons towered over them all, his arms crossed over his chest plate, expression unreadable. But Scrapper could tell the Combaticon’s stance wasn’t irritated or aloof. He was… almost friendly in stance, even with Brawl strolling up behind Onslaught to peer down at Hook and Scavenger as the crane worked.
Scrapper stood up, leaving Scavenger behind (which made Scavenger let out a plaintiff, sad whine), as he looked up at Onslaught. He felt something thrill through his frame at how much Onslaught towered over him, his shadow covering Scrapper with total ease. He swallowed when the missile launcher reached out and touched Scrapper’s shoulder with his broad, strong servo.
He heard Onslaught speak, but his words hit a brick wall of Scrapper’s mind dancing around the warm feeling of Onslaught’s servo on him. He’d imagined Onslaught’s touch many times since they had last spoken, also wanting Onslaught to grasp his shoulder, or—
A low note of concern, a rumble of distant thunder from Onslaught's vocalizer (Scrapper wondered what Onslaught looked like without his armor—) that pulled him out of his thoughts. By now, the sun had set, leaving only the glow of Onslaught’s yellow visor peering down at him for Scrapper to track. He heard a hiss of pistons and then felt Onslaught's servo move from his shoulder.
“You look exhausted,” Onslaught noted, a softness smoothing out the stern edge of his voice that vanished so quickly Scrapper assumed he had imagined it.
Like he imagined so many things with Onslaught. Scrapper shook his helm in a hope to dispel Onslaught's concern, but Onslaught continued on with that powerful voice of his.
“Our mission is complete, and everyone who is injured has been tended to and will be transported. Do you need a lift?”
The missile launcher’s question had Scrapper blinking behind his visor, his expression nigh comical behind his faceguard before he finally caught himself. He activated his vocalizer, ready to answer, only for Hook to respond for him.
The crane had stood up, and was looming behind Scrapper, glaring down at Onslaught as he said, coldly, “He does not need transport. Your offer of assistance is unnecessary.”
Onslaught stiffened, visor narrowing fractionally as Hook spoke. His backstrut straightened as the Combaticon commander straightened to his full height to meet Hook’s glare. But Onslaught was shorter than Hook and Scrapper felt Hook’s sneering satisfaction at that fact.
Hook, Scrapper warned through the bond, but was promptly ignored.
He knew Hook didn’t like Onslaught. He didn’t understand why Hook disliked Onslaught as much as he did, but he could not afford a fight between Onslaught and Hook. He could feel Onslaught’s field tuck in close, away from Scrapper, just as Hook’s flared out, uncontrolled and furious.
But then he heard Bonecrusher’s heavy drawl calling to them both. The bulldozer grabbed Hook by his load line and yanked the crane backwards, which elicited a furious snarl from Hook. But it was enough to lure Hook’s focus away from Onslaught and to Bonecrusher, whom Hook yanked his load line from before he ordered Bonecrusher to pick up Scavenger, and then skulked off.
Bonecrusher turned to Scrapper for a moment, who nodded to the bulldozer, before he turned his attention back to Onslaught. He could see disapproval in Onslaught’s visor as the Combaticon commander watched Hook, with Bonecrusher not far behind the crane with Scavenger in his arms. Onslaught’s gaze traveled down to Scrapper with a small tilt of his helm. It made Scrapper feel smaller than ever, his bucket splitting and flaring out to lay against his side as he looked down.
“He is a handful,” Onslaught finally said, his observation acerbic in tone as he gestured for Scrapper to walk with him.
Scrapper followed Onslaught’s suit, almost at a trot to keep up with every single one of Onslaught’s purposeful strides. He let out a sigh, cycled air through his vents and reluctantly nodded. “Yes, he can be.”
Onslaught let out a low sound that Scrapper could not decipher at his response. But he did not seem to linger, thankfully, on Hook’s rudeness as he began to query Scrapper about the mission. Scrapper felt his mood brighten as Onslaught listened to him so raptly that Scrapper allowed himself to think, for a foolishly hopeful moment, that Onslaught could ever see them as equals.
Onslaught’s rank was far higher than Scrapper’s within the military complex of the Decepticons, even though both were granted similar ranks due to the Constructicons’ being a gestalt. Megatron valued Devastator’s power practically as much as he did Onslaught’s elite black operatives team. Not that Scrapper knew anywhere near the level of complexity behind war as Onslaught did, and often felt that he did not deserve the rank Megatron had foisted upon him.
Which made the prospect of earning Onslaught’s respect one he could not resist and, deep down within his spark, was desperate for. Just as desperate as he was for Onslaught to touch him again, to be able to hear his praise laid down upon Scrapper as if he could ever deserve it.