Helm in the Clouds

"You can even get an apartment in the same complex as mine, if you wanted."

The answer comes easily, Longarm watching Weaselwing even as the overwhelmed flight frame can't maintain optic contact.

"I also keep extra cots here, in my office. For late nights. They're not nice sturdy berths but....they work well enough. You can stay here, while we arrange for your things to be moved....But only if you wanted. Of course...."

His tone soft, only trying to be helpful. Coaxing. He places the container of food down before Weaselwing and the napkin wrapped fork besides it. The Prime serving his subordinate, on bended knee. His own food getting cold as Shockwave kept talking.

"These aren't perfect solutions to your unfair predicament, of course. But long term answers will only come with time. The war will be won. This ridiculous tension will be a thing of the past when that happens....."

That has him perking up in surprise.

He had kind of assumed that even with the promotion, that he couldn't move. First of all, you'd have to go inspect properties and then apply in an Anti-Flier environment, of which he assumed he'd get knocked back. Then you have the double whammy of collegues knowing you were packing would count that as suspicious and flag it.

"I ... Would like that? The complex part" If Longarm is the one who has ordered and issued the move, it wouldn't have a consequence for him. He's a Prime, he's the head of intelligence, everyone would just a salute and do it. "But I, uh, I don't need a cot. Pretty sure as soon as I get fuel in me I am just going to black out on this couch for a few hours. I have slept in worse places than a study berth" Roof tops were actually pretty secure when the paranoia hit. No fire escapes meant no access via grounders. Pillow and a blanket in the subspace, he could roost quite easily.

The smell of food has his almost drooling, he's so hungry. He'd been able to forget about it while taking care of Weaselwing, but now Longarm was reminded of his very mortal needs. Bags are deposited onto his office desk and once more he's taking the time to get Weasel set up comfortably first. It was just practical.

"......well, you definitely will have some time off to recover. You've more than earned that."

He starts, arranging the couch pillows to act as an impromptu table so the smaller mech could comfortably eat one handed.

Okay, he had a few books he could pass the time with, maybe a few shows too, but he has a feeling that he will mostly be sleeping of medication and pain till he's got a functioning arm again.

Until, Longarm brings up the Big Question. Did he not want home.

"Done and done.~"

At just that moment, there's movement at the elevator. Doors opening and someone wanting entry. Longarm's attention snapping to his intercom immediately-

Their food was here.

"Wait here, I'll get it."

He doubts that throwing any furniture at the windows would have it break as a means of an escape route as the balcony by his desk was really the only true means of out for him if he was to bail. But, his servo is hovering at his hip as he listens.

While he knows Longarm wouldn't turn him in over false allegations, if there is more of them than there are the Prime, that might not matter. He's already hurt, but he thinks he could still make it to the balcony, smashed door or otherwise, and jump before they even begin thinking how to stop him. They are used to grounders. Not someone flying overhead, quite literall- Oh. It's the fuel.

Armour slowly slicking back to his frame as he watched Longarm with takeout bags, and he is sinking back into the cushion he's pulled closer earlier.

"As if it's that easy to even scratch my paint at all. While you did indeed win, I am in a whole other league than your opponents were."

Shockwave could handle more than any anemic little Prime would be able to anyway. Even from a flight frame.

"I understand your hesitance, but I wouldn't suggest it if couldn't be done safely."

He continues, gesturing his hand in reassurance.

Well, that ... is true. You didn't get named a Prime or Magnus if you were squishy in combat of the mind or frame. No, smarts would only take you so far in the world of rankings so, Longarm has a very good point, that not everyone can just be slugged into submission with a break room table.

A glance down at himself; the cracked cockpit glass, the array of dents, the cast on his arm; and Weaslewing can't deny that he did come away from the fight damaged. While all parties will require recovery time, that seed planted that next time he won't certainly gets some pondering. How satisfying would it be, to walk away from his next spat without a scuff or scratch? After all of the insults, the jeers, the pranks, the fearmongering?

"Well said, I'm afraid....." Longarm concedes with a put upon sigh.

"Which means, we'll just have to be ready for more of the same. Because I doubt the fall out from this will curb much of the ingrained frame envy and petty competitiveness that's cropped up in the ranks."

He continues, sounding as if he'd just come to a decision.

We are going to do battle training.

Ah. Hmm. No. And there we go, recoiling in on himself to be very small on the couch.

Trust. He was earning trust.....Good.

"Hmph, my looking for new admin was supposed to be a need to know basis to begin with. I knew things would get heated...."

And the fact that Longarm had only wanted Weaselwing for the job, anyway. But he'd had to do the whole ceremony of opening a position and such to hide that fact. And then the rest of upper management thought that Longarm was "finally" going to fill ranks-

His frustrated tone wasn't entirely false. Damn Autobot bureaucracy-

".....my apologies, Weaselwing. Seems this whole mess is my fault, in the end...."

Those cherubic features give a soft, conferned frown. Tone turning beleaguered and apologetic.

"Mismanagement on the position announcement for my notoriously closed Department mixed with the jealousy and undeserved animosity your former coworkers had for you...and then I left you alone. Assuming professionalism from mechs who I know always score higher in aggression on their evaluation tests than the rest in other departments ours deals with less..."

Not that anyone actually knew that...

He's satisfied that Weaselwing has no objections to the snack. And hands over a tablet and some water for the flight frame to take down as well.

He pauses on the way back to his desk chair, turning to look back, when his assistant asks his obviously burning question.

Why not suspect Weasel of being a spy?

Well, the honest answer wasn't an option to give.....for now...

So.....

"Decepticons and Autobots alike come in all sizes and frame types. Flyers, ground vehicles, and even marine transformers. Those who accuse you are the types that have barely been off-world, if ever; have never been tested if they can really tell friends from enemies."

He leans against the desk lightly, giving WW a sympathetic look that wasn't entirely manufactured.

"It's actions that make a bot. Not the alt-mode. Or things he can't control about himself. One look at how you are, Weaselwing, it's obvious you aren't a Decepticon. Or even a petty schemer. Those old coworkers of yours, though? Slagheads."

It was the blind leading the blind around here. If it didn't work to Shockwave's advantage so well, Longarm would actually do something about it. But it did leave those like Weaselwing on the outs...

It's actions that make a bot. Not the alt-mode.

The balcony was right there. He wouldn't have gotten far if this did turn out to be some reverse stockholme Slip that you are the spy, I will be kind kind of interrogation. So, the fact that despite it all; the rumor mill, the war effort, the stigma, the frameism, Longarm truly believed Weaselwing a genuine and honest mech, guilty of nothing but squaring up on a bully, gets a slow exhale released he didn't know he'd been holding.

"I have a small sweet tooth. Nice pick me up on long nights...."

Longarm explains as he opens a drawer and grabs up one of the wrapped goodies he stashed there. They were all the particular flavor that Shockwave preferred, so hopefully Weaselwing didn't mind it either.

"Judging from the size and color of the tablets, you should be taking them at least twice a day. So I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

He mutters as he walks back over, opening the treat wrapper so the smaller mech wouldn't have to struggle with it one handed.

Instead? They were the kind of not quite gummies not quite hard candies of citrust fruits. Taking the offered box once it had thankfully been opened for him, or he'd have tried to subtly chew it open when unobserved, and Weaselwing is shaking a couple into his bad palm for a bowl and picking one up to nibble on. Okay, not overly tart. He can see why the Prime like's them.

Longarm replies with a dry smile as he fits the brace onto Weaselwing's arm with slow care. Shockwave very much making sure his fingers made contact with the smaller mech again and-

Pain! Exhaustion! HUNGER! Pain!Pain!PAIN!PA-

Yeah. His hypothesis was seeming to be correct. The flight frame had an ability. One he seemed wholly ignorant of, to boot!

".....and as long as you take it with one of the energon goodies I keep at my desk, I'll give you a tablet now."

"It helps you treat people like beings, not things' He says as he draws his arm back, digits giving a slow flex to test his range of motion with his wrist stabilised and, good to know he would still have some grabbing ability. He could probably type with bobbing his arm up and down to hit keys, but he's not hitting his 100 words per minute.

"You have a stash?" Weaselwing says with an amused but tired little scoff, having not once assumed the mighty Longarm Prime would have a little stockpile of 'goodies' on hand. But, he's not complaining if it gets him pain relief asap.

He confirms. A meal that was easy to eat one handed- and easily digestible for a hungry frame.....

Once more at the Intelligence Deparment, Longarm leads the way to his own office and has Weaselwing sit on the spare small sofa seating that's in the room. The bit of furniture comfortable enough to rest upon, but rarely used.

In the end, he orders pasta. Not wanting to go to the mess for food, or order anyone from below to bring anything up to them. Should be easy enough for Weasel to eat, right?

Once that's complete, he grabs up the brace and the pill bottle from where he'd placed them on his desk.

".....this says you should take these with a meal, so we'll save the pills for when lunch arrives. For now, the brace."

He concludes, setting the bottle aside for now and then moving to kneel in front of where the flight frame was seated. So he could easily reach to strap the thing on.

Stepping out of the lift into a familiar space once again, smothering the little voice whispering about this all being a trap, and Weaselwing is promptly sinking into the little gestured lounge and reclining back as far as the cushions will let him with a shaky exhale.

"Should have grabbed a syringe for later"

Okay, yep. Adrenaline tanking, and now he is really starting to feel that fracture. Surely one tablet before food arrives wouldn't be so terrible, if he takes more with the meal?

"......" So many people would riot if they could see the Prime, moving to the floor to put a wrist brace on a lowly flight frame.

"Much medical training outside the bootcamp 101?" He asks, mindful of the angle of his servo as he extends his arm, trying to hold it out over the opened brace so all Longarm has to do is lift it slightly and affix it into place.

Longarm nods to his assistant before turning to the nearest nervous medic.

"I'll be taking a brace with the painkillers, thank you. And if that's all, we'll be on our way."

Even with everyone going out of their way to be sure not to touch Weaselwing, it was obvious the flight frame was still on edge. And, frankly, Shockwave was just as eager to leave as well. The sooner the pair of them were out of public optic anywhere, the sooner things would begin to die down.

And he also wanted to investigate what the frag was going on with the flight frame further. And that would have to be done in private.

With brace, painkillers, and a diagnosis of thankfully mild injuries, they could leave. And soon enough were back in the elevator, headed right back up to the relative "safety" of Longarm's department.

"I'll put the brace on you when we get back to my office. It's best if someone else does it, instead of you trying to one handed....."

A handy enough excuse to make physical contact again....

"And I'll order delivery for lunch. Can't have you keeling over on me, either."

“Yessir” it’s a good point. Trying to wrangle Velcro strips and magnetic clasps with his non dominant hand without jostling the wrist is just easier if someone else does it. Someone not one of these medics.

Longarm has given no indications that taking him out of the cells was a trap, mostly from the lack of questions that could incriminate, and the first point being medical care, but he’s … naturally a little skittish. Once burnt, twice shy.

Even as one of them went up to Longarm and led the way to where Weaselwing could be sat down to be scanned and treated. Shockwave just glad that the Autobots actually had access to advanced devices for this sort of thing.

But, seems Longarm's order of Do Not Touch Him was being honoured from how medics chose to instead wave scanners over him, directing him to hold his arm out or lift his helm up, to get diagnosis on his vitals and the damage. Fractured wrist; Would need a cast or brace. Cracked cockpit glass; Would heal on its own. Busted flight visor; Could replace it himself. But at least all the dents from the blows would pop out on their own.

All in all? The suggestion was low activity, plenty of rest and a proper meal. His tanks were basically running on empty, which checked out.

"I'll take care of it. We just need you to get scanned and get some support for your arm to heal properly.'

On Velocitron, it hadn't been so bad. Whether that was just everything moving at a speed he couldn't compute, or his means of flying from A to B to avoid the chaos of sidewalks and highways, he hadn't really had any of these 'accidents' like Cybertron. Was there something different about the two planets? Something in the air, the fuel, the chemical compounds? He can't remember these issues back home.

Arm tucked close to his chassis as he slinks along after Longarm, optics landing on any source of motion to ensure the medical staff keep to themselves, and Longarm will find himself as a buffer with any staff passing by a little too close, optics trained on their servos until they are deemed out of range. For all the Primes' curiosity, this might be the one place contact is truly avoided. He looked ready to throw hands down in the holding block, but here? He looks ready to smash his way out a window.

Longarm replies lowly, Shockwave trying to acclimate to the barrage of emotional data his processor was getting even as Weaselwing began to settle down. The experience was almost like if they had their EM fields fully enmeshed, instead of just brushing like they were.

Finally he can't take the contact and lets go slowly, letting out a soft vent as he does. His optics studying the smaller flight frame with a new clarity.

"...not a surprise the medics still planet side have failed you so. Anyone who'd know what they were looking at is either offline or on the front lines out in space...."

He can't help but mutter. As he speaks they finally get to their floor and the lift settles. He rubs a hand over his faceplates, wiping away the tears that still lingered there.

Still, the fact that there were people who knew about his condition out there, alive, made him a little hopeful at the possibility of a cure or treatement. Yes, they were on the front lines, but surely the Decepticon's would yield at being barred at every turn by their wonderful Magnus and relentless barrage against occupied planets. They had fuel, infrastructure, economy, medicine, civilisation. They decepticons were just wallowing in the mud in the boonies.

Small. Feeling so small and helpless! Horrified relief! Panicked realization of a danger narrowly avoided-!

He gasps and lets go - for a klik. And then he's grabbing onto Weaselwing once more, hold firm on the shorter mech's shoulders. Now using both hands to get full contact.

THIS! THIS WAS IT!

The effect was the same! Sudden emotions that were not his own!

Was this why the heli avoided touch at all costs-?!

Liquid begins to leak from Longarm's own optics, making him look as if he were crying with his assistant. But it was just run over from the emotions steamrolling through the larger mech's processor. He grit his denta, determined to investigate what was going on here. And get Weasel to calm down before they got to the medbay.

"I saw the security footage. They antagonized you and threw pointed accusations around.....you hit a breaking point due to their treatment of you."

He reasons, thumb rubbing slightly in a mechanical effort to soothe.

For the first time in what had been decacyles here on Cybertron, there was a form of contact long enough for him to actually feel frame heat on his sensors of another being. An em field resting against his. And .. Longarm hadn't pulled away. Usually people recoil at a mere brush. They shout or they yelp like they've been struck, they flinch away like they have been shocked. He's had a medic scream at one point when he'd crash landed and had tried to see if he'd broken anything. Official Diagnosis: Standard Unexplained Flight Frame Static, nothing to worry about. Official Treatment Plan: Avoid physical contact until further notice.

And yet, here was Longarm, two palms pressed to his shoulder, telling him everything would be alright, despite the little rivulet of tears trickling down their own cheeks.

I have your back

Well, consider him calmed down. If not, dumbfounded.

So the pair walk back out of the cell block and into the are beyond, Longarm holding out a limb to give his assistant space from the crowd but making no body contact himself either. His demeanor the same as when he arrived, at least until he spots Brakecheck within the crowd once more.

"Be advised that I will be filing a long and detailed report about all of this to Ultra Magnus."

His tone is even, as if stating a simple fact. But the cutting look in the Prime's usually soft optics would make it clear that the statement was not just a promise, it was a threat. Helms were going to roll, specifically that of Gearshift and Crankshaft. And Brakecheck himself, if Longarm could swing it.

Get the trio of antagonistic - and far too perceptive - bots demoted down to janitorial detail. Or boot camp staff. Processor numbing backbreaking labor that'll keep them too busy to make accusations. Shockwave was already mentally writing up report drafts as they made it to the lift and got in. It's only when the doors close and they're finally alone do his shoulders slump a bit with a vent. He rubs a hand over his face, ruminating, when he hears the absolutely smallest 'thank you' being said to him.

He turns to look at Weasel and Longarm can't help his optic ridges from raising slightly when he sees the smaller mech is leaking from his optics...

Crying. That was the word for this. He was crying from....relief? Perhaps....?

The Prime stares, expression openly lost for a klik as Shockwave flounders and releases active control of his face plates. Then his expression shifts to concern and he moves forward, the spy going for broke and reaching to take Weasel's shoulder. In an attempt to ground the understandably distraught flight frame.

I'ts going to be alright.

Well, that gets a whole new bubble of tears and sobs pulled from the little aerial, not even noticing the hand curl over his shoulder supportively in his fight in trying to push all these tears away.

He felt so small ... Why did he always feel so small.

These idiots were mad that Weaselwing had gotten 'promoted' over them. And were connecting dots just to have something to say.

Honestly. Autobots were just as bad as Decepticons. Truly so.

When arriving onto the lower levels, Longarm Prime is nothing but the image of patience that would be expected of him. Even as he's swarmed on all sides. Calmly making his way through the crowd even as those who had spoken conspiracies about him were now looking to him for 'justice'.

Idiots. Hypocrites. Reminded him of Starscream, honestly....

"There are no Decepticons here. Maybe your insistence to otherwise, is why he's remained hostile?"

Is the only pointed comment he says to the attendant, Longarm not even pausing long enough to see who it was. Not important.

--------------------------

Honestly? He expected for Weasel to look worse than he did. Considering the injuries on his opponents in the 'incident'. Though, the cracked lens and the injured arm are still of concern. Both would negatively affect the flight frame's flying if not properly tended to.

"Let's get you out of here and to medbay. Hnnn?"

Weaselwing wasn't sure what to expect from Longarm stepping through the threshold into the cell. Would Longarm turn on him as well? Expressing disappointment for his assistant being a double agent? For harming two perfectly stellar Autobots? Would he be angry? Would he be loud? What he was not expecting, while stoic, was that usual kind tone to join him in leaving and making their first stop the med bay.

Compassion.

Paranoid fists lowered, instead cradling his sore arm against his cockpit, and Weaselwing was giving a quick little nod to get out of there and join Longarm at his side, through the parade of stares and protests, until the elevator doors could seal the pair away from the last 18 hours of terror. He wasn't aware the breath he'd been holding until it is wrenched from his chassis at the same time adrenaline finally gives out, slumping against the wall with a shaky little inhale.

"Thank you"