#skywalker au

He wipes at his optics, sniffing hard and feeling his chest clench against the throbbing ache settling in the bottom. He curls in on himself, his room patchy and vibrant as his frame and history and coughs hoarsely once.

He remembers safety- holding tight to First Aid as they nestled between Ratchet and Perceptor and seeing fire and death flicker on the console before Ratchet hurriedly changed the channel to something soft and bright and soothing- the way the two elder mechs exchanged a worried look before Ratchet tugged the sparklings into his lap and surrounded them in the soft scent of clean counters and warm houses.

Rodimus squints his eyes shut, choking on his ventilations as he hugs his knees...

He remembers hearing the whispered conversations- he is older now, and scarred from a cruel infection from his milktooth years and he tongues the fangs the other sparklings tease him for having. They’re going back to Nyon, its not safe here, the war is too close and too dangerous and the younglings need stability after the Latest Report from someone called Prowl.

Rodimus gives a soft crack of laughter, even then the tactician was interfering with his happiness.

He sees First Aid coming home again, his sigil etched carefully on his new frame and sees the pride in Ratchet’s eyes and feels a pulse of confusion at how unfamiliar it seems to him... And then Perceptor is smiling at him, tired and bright and snubbing out something that had been burning between his fingers and waves him over.

“Come now, firefly, come see! Your brother is going to be a medic like Papa!”

Rodimus sobs quietly where he sits now, on his ship with his rank and wonders and wonders if Ratchet can look at him with his proud smile this time- like all those years ago.

He remembers the arguments; Not long after First Aid is hurriedly reassigned to Delphi.

“IF YOU’RE GOING TO BLOODY PICK A FAVORITE THEN KEEP THEM SAFE- OR GET OUT OF MY GOD DAMN HOUSE, RATCHET!”

Papa doesn’t come home, and Pops looks like he’s been crying- but still, Perceptor, Pops, little Hot Rod’s softspoken ‘carrier’ beckons the blooming adolescent over and bundles him close to a twitchy sparkpulse and sings gently- songs from somewhere called Earth; songs Hot Rod can’t help but listen to on the old console in the back office.

Rodimus uncurls, rising from his berth to wobble to his door- He’s been drinking, he knows anyone with working optics will notice, and its late and everyone is no doubt in recharge but...

Papa still doesn’t come home, and Hot Rod learns to have fire in his words and a forge in his optics as Perceptor’s work begins running longer and longer and rougher and rougher until the day the new adult opens the door to an Enforcer who won’t meet his gaze.

He finds out Perceptor is a Wrecker, he finds out he died once and came back long enough to ship out again. Like father, like son.

Rodimus wobbles down the halls hiccuping quietly and muffling his voice as his optics fill and he searches with yearning peeks for the doors to his salvation. He stands in front of Ratchet’s, reached out to tap on the door... And withdraws his hands. No sense in seeking praise from the one who voted against him, no hesitation. No sense in looking to the one he failed to be the favorite for.

He wanders on.

Perceptor looks up, reticule flickering as a tap sounds on his door and his brows tilt down in annoyance as he stands stiffly and walks towards the noisy entry point and taps the pad for it to open.

“How may I- Oh... Oh heavens.”

Rodimus looks down at him, taller now since dying and revival in a sick mockery of his adoptive parent and coughs through his vents as he wears the marks of mourning.

“....Oh, firefly. They’ve dimmed your light again, haven’t they- come now, little nova, and let’s get you fixed up.”

“I. I’m a Captain now, I didn’t think you’d-”

“Captain, vassal, officer- I don’t care. I still read you stories every day before naptime. In, in with you. When was the last time you SLEPT, Primus sakes...”

Familiar hands took Rodimus’s and guiding him in as the door slid shut and Rodimus was babbling apologies and words that taste so sour in his throat- either the spirits of the spirit of the thing he didn’t know but now he’s sitting on the couch in the double hab Perceptor secured for himself and he was pleading for Perceptor’s forgiveness for everything and anything under the sun.

“Hushabye now, firefly.”, murmurs Perceptor as he sits heavily next t his now grown little charge and suddenly Rodimus is a child, a toddler, a little bundle of binary chirrups and grumpy huffs, “Shhhhshshsh- I know just the song, my little nova.”

Perceptor pulls Rodimus sideways to lean and curl and cling like when he was so very young, and the Captain weeps against the father-turned-killer’s chestplate as a lullaby older than any tune ever sung before reaches into a reborn spark and sinks it into baptismal waters to wash it clean of fear and fretful worrying.

Perceptor rocks him gently, side to side and strokes a spoiler like stunted angel’s wings, and his singsong words peter out into a gentle hum and murmur of music- part vocoder, part spark and all soft as eiderdown or Gilead balm on the worn weary messiah’s soul.

Rodimus feels his optics grow heavy, and the colors blur like when he was so, so very young until they close and his spoiler twitches once more before laying flat against his frame.

“And that is the end folks! With the rookie taking first place! Can you believe it!?”

As the announcer’s voice called for all betters to collect their winnings at the booth, you walked your bike to the main hangar, feeling plenty dazed by the post-race adrenaline finally wearing off. 

One season. 

It had taken only a single season for you to reach that coveted goal of actually taking home first prize in the treacherously fast speeder-bike races. The Coruscant underground had never seen one so young make such an ardent comeback; from placing in last for several races to placing in the top three the past few weeks, many spectators showed their confidence in your promising skill and vigor by betting heavily on your highly anticipated success. 

Still, the months of racing and having many close encounters with violent crashes left you grateful for the end of the season. Now you could find the time to rest and recuperate from the hell you had willingly put yourself through. Not only had you risked great physical injury and even death, but the just as frightful rage of your family. 

It was an odd act of tact and grace, formulating a believable front to cover for your underground activities. You had settled on telling your grandfather that you had taken up shadowing some of the New Republic scouts for the tactical experience, which wasn’t a complete lie. It was simply a half-truth you exploited for all its worth. No less than six days a week you made your way to the scout’s hangar and accompanied them on some of their assignments on and off world; it just wasn’t for the length of time your grandfather believed. Leaving early gave you ample time to make your way to the lower levels of Coruscant without rousing familial suspicion.  

When your bike was securely locked in its own garage unit, you started the journey home, knowing you would be expected back soon given the late hour. With your more aerodynamic uniform replaced with your traditional robes, you walked confidently back into your family’s dwelling. 

Your pace became slow as you weaved through the corridors, finally finding solace in your own room by collapsing face first onto your plush mattress. 

“Thought a regular champion such as yourself would be more…celebratory than this.” 

Quickly sitting upright you could just make out the sight of your grandfather as he strode past your threshold, his arms crossed securely in front of himself. 

“H-Hey!” You smiled, hugging a pillow close to your chest. “Didn’t see you there…”

A mischievous smirk spread across Anakin Skywalker’s own face, but was mostly masked by his neatly trimmed beard. 

“That’s the purpose of walking so quietly. But I won’t be so easily sidetracked. Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

“Celebrating…what?”

His smirk evolved into a splitting smile as he sat down on the end of your bed. “Oh come on, quit playing dumb. I’d recognize the smell of oil and grease anywhere. It takes at least a day to get rid of the smell, kid.” When you remained silent, Anakin continued. “So when were you going to tell me you were a speeder-bike racing star?”

“...When I was old enough to compete…” You answered quietly, wanting nothing more than to disappear under the blankets of your bed. 

“Which we all know is a while yet….Hey, don’t look like that.” Your grandfather’s hand playfully pulled at your ear. “If I wanted you to stop I would have pulled you out at the start of the season.”

Swinging your head to the side, you looked at Anakin with wide eyes.