#At least they now understand how sector 7 couldn't nab you

[witchofthesouls]

Alright, a continuation of Bayverse Autobots dealing with a rogue human carrier due to the absolute fuckery (as in the noncon body modification and unethical human experimentation) from Sector Seven.

(Needless to say, Optimus makes a good impression. The rest of them? Not so much...)

You’re not exactly sure how to feel about your life at the moment. Just one major upheaval after another. It feels more from like a supernatural or superhero action movie with the subplot of a shadow government agency making people disappear Just Because insert-whatever-plot-revalent-reason-of-ultimate-power… 

In the end, there’s no secret order or great prophecy or hidden school with a twinkling headmaster too full of secrets and too much regrets. Just a human that managed to escape on sheer dumb luck that’s trying lay down low and not get caught.

The accelerated healing seems to either cure your terminal illness or keep it in check, but you’re no Deadpool. Jumping from one fourth-story window is one time too many, and not a thing you wish to repeat if it can be avoided.

Now your life is veering into another direction. A sci-fi one.

One with aliens.

Giant metal titans that can transform in vehicles and what not.

What not also includes the ability to project a physical avatar which is sitting across from you right now as you’re wolfing down the fourth Grand Slam plate. Leo Cullen, the alias, is still nursing his hot chocolate, the lumberjack slam barely touched; whereas Optimus, the real man… mecha, alien, is parked outside.

A boot taps your shoe, you look up to see him smile, dimpled and a bit crooked, as he pushes his plate forward and quickly switches it with your empty one.

You’ve gotten used to the constant low buzz at the back of your neck, but the sudden jolt that sears your spine is a different story.

You stop eating. Fork down and napkin up as you pay attention to the direction.

“Something wrong?”

“I think it’s an eyelash.” The lie comes easily. After all, you and him are both hiding in plain sight for similar reasons. “Hold on.”

The angle of the compact mirror catches a couple half-asleep at their table, and behind them, an older man with greying red hair with glasses. He’s staring at you and a flare lights your nerves on fire.

The table rattles as you push up, the smile feels like a grimace as you say you’re going to the toilet.

The restroom is single users and it suits your needs perfectly. In the reflection, a wan face stares back at you; still thin and sharp from the weight loss and stress still etched on your features. Recovery is an absolute bitch and being on the run gives it a caustic tongue.

Splashing water over your face does little to settle your newfound sparky nerves, and you’re finishing up when there’s a loud click of the door unlocking without your damn permission and it swings open to-

“There you are!” 

The face and body is different, softer with floral wear but the same greying red hair and glasses. You hold your breath and let the static build in your gut. There’s a distant thought that’s amazed by the aliens’ adaptiveness. To have different forms at a blink of an eye? What a skill to have…

They’re saying something but it doesn’t matter. All you need is for them to come closer. Closer.

Cold porcelain digs into your lower back as you wait for the door to finally settle, and finally-

You have no idea who’s more surprised when they disintegrate in an electric rain as you dig your hands into them. The gold chains and rings around your palms and fingers aren’t to just look pretty.

The dryer sputters in a slow death and soap dispenser sparks, drooling out all of its contents. Only the toilet and sink escaped due to the lack of sensors. Lucky them that you’re getting better at that trick. You once shorted out half a block -signs, posts, and even the cars, nothing was left unaffected- to escape in the dark streets.

It does leave you off-kilter: bodily disconnected, yet hyper-aware of all the running currents.

Leo’s outside the door, and you force your shaking, wet hands to smooth out the static in your hair, patting them dry with your clothes. (A small, distant part of yourself jokes about matching Leo’s greying side streaks should you ever return to your original hair.)

There’s concern on his face and he says something but you honestly want to go back to bed. Just sleep it off for awhile.

He pulls you close and hot air hits your wet face. Sun beating overhead and you drag your feet to disperse the extra charge, teeth hurting whenever a radio is changed.

Leo makes no comment when you kick up dust, but he hum in a strange singsong and unrecognizable tune that bleeds out the itch under your skin.

Besides the weirdly green ambulance in the far corner, there’s a hummer and a sports car nearby giving you the same sharp sense of jittery awareness. And unlike the ambulance who’s avatar you knocked out, those two weren’t muted and had their attention on you.

Static numbs your clenched fingers and your spine buzzes as you and Leo pass them. You're tense. Absolutely ready to bolt away, and if it wasn't for the arm around your shoulders and the calming presence exuded by Leo, you're pretty sure you would have taken your chances to run into traffic. 

The lizard part of your brain is still screaming to try: Don’t turn your back!

A bizarre sensation of cool water slides down your neck and you shiver as it spreads down your back, like a huge icy-hot pack and a massage as it rolls and digs into your muscles, unknotting them, playfully tapping each individual knobs of your spine. 

It’s enough to shove the overwhelming urge to run to back of your head. Enough to realize that you need to breathe and had a death grip on Leo’s clothes. Leather and flannel twisted in your hands, straining the materials even.

In a way, you’re operating on a cross between autopilot and hyperviligance. You know that the Leo/Optimus hybrid is physically guiding you back to him, but your entire focus is tracking the other not-cars. Too many, persists the lizard, what’s stopping them?

You’re suddenly back inside the cab, seatbelts curling and sliding back to its proper place. 

Your life is turning upside-down again, but all you do is stumble to the bed in the back. Too strung out by everything to speak. The mattress shifts and bury your face into the eerily smooth skin of a neck and inhale the mix of tires, metal, and fire. He pulls you over to rest right on top of him and you follow it, soaking his body heat and matching his slow rise of his chest.

Optimus hums, the pitch low, and you realize it’s his whole frame, not just the avatar, that’s gently vibrating in a strangely soothing noise that slowly eases away the harsh tension in your back and unclenches your belly, limbs relaxing as you cling to the other body and broad hands, warm and sure, are resting on your lower back, heat sinking into the sore muscles.

Hunger still nips at your senses, but it’s the exhaustion that drags you down.

The noise drowns out the sharp awareness that’s outside, and somewhere between the easy, slow strokes across your lower back and rocking motions of the drive, you fall asleep.

You’re vaguely aware you’re purring back.

_________________

:: Congratulations, Prime, we have a feral carrier in our grasp now. ::