#knock out can finally sleep without soundwave looming over him

[witchofthesouls]

So how would a risk-carriage looks like?

Anonymous asked: Could you do a split twins carriage?

(And because I saw a super hot pic of Soundwave, here's a continuation of TFP!Soundwave with a carrying Con!SO. No valveplug here, though. Just some sad times and near death. No ones dies here.)

The dull ache in your chassis has been persistent for the past two weeks. The only relief was Soundwave fragging you into non-activity. Knock Out had said the sparklet is separating and getting ready to drop to your chamber. The datapad stated that separation causes minimal pain.

Keyword: minimal.

You’re not in “minimal” pain. It slaggen hurts.

Enough to drop you to your hands and knees or try to. The wrench and your only source of light disappear below as you’re stuck inside a narrow space between walls, only held up by specialized magnets that don't need constant input. Otherwise, you would have skidded down as well. 

You clutch your chassis with a sob. The phantom servo drips inside your frame and grips throbbing spark begins to squeeze-

Your vision pixelates from the burning agony, steam fills the space as your internal temperature suddenly skyrockets and there’s no cool air to vent, the SOS flares repeatedly on the public comm lines. Your breaking HUD is flooded by a rush of others trying to pinpoint your location, and multiple voices overlap on your comms as you struggle to remain conscious in the dark.

You shake violently, plating clattering on the walls, and as dust falls, it’s the entire space that’s shuddering. Somewhere above, a hidden shaft opens and light spills into the darkness.

The last thing you remember is the feeling of servos hauling you out by the collar.

__________

It's the beeping that wakes you, opening your optics is a herculean task, and the sight of the medbay ceiling with all the supportive equipment hanging down and connecting to your frame is the reward.

“Well. Well. Well.” Knock Out steps over and quips, tapping on your shoulder. “Look who decided to rejoin us.”

“You look like slag.” Your voice crackles with static. It’s true. Prickles of stress lines on his face, his long digits lack the usual maintenance, and his optics shine bright with the manic energy that’s usually speed-induced.

“Really!? What a fine thanks I get for saving your life.” He scoffs and kicks out a rolling chair from beneath the medberth and sits next to you. “And congratulations, sweetspark. Two newsparks for the price of one sparklet. With the added bonus of near burnout.”

The question burns in your throat and your intake clicks embarrassingly loud in the silence. Knock Out uses the medberth to brace an elbow and lazily rest his face on his digits, curled to keep the talons from scratching his finish.

His gaze shifts to focus on the monitors as you blink away the welling tears. A moment passes and then he tuts, looking back to you, particularly pleased as Pits and taps on your chassis, near one of the supportive cables.

“I got your spark back to acceptable parameters and replaced the scorched lines and circuitry. And your little bundles-to-be are well-rooted down below. The surprise one has a solid coat of nanites. So far, they’re stabilizing quite well given the circumstances.” He says airily. “So, by the way, you’re welcome.”

“Hey, Doc.”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks.”

“Thank me with a can of my favorite polish. Oh, and not dying any time soon.” 

_________

“You’re sure you can make it your hab?” Breakdown stares at the wall above your helm. He can’t meet your optics, not after Knock Out disengaged the support systems, and since you're carrying and had suffered from extreme complications, there's the necessary cable stuffed up your valve and attached to the gestation chamber entrance to directly feed the newsparks.

Of course, Knock Out would have the nurse take care of it. Necessary training and petty revenge for your comment on his less-than-stellar appearance. 

“I’m fine." You look and feel terrible, but your legs hold long enough for you to brace against the wall. Breakdown won't meet your gaze, but he keeps track of your field and watches for any more shakiness. "It’s just a few floors away and I'm going back to bed."

"If you're sure…"

"Absolutely. And besides," You lazily point up to cameras that are stalled at the medbay entrance. “Common area security.”

It's a slow venture to the elevator. The few Vehicons do a double take at your presence, their HUDs are most likely telling them that the Nemesis does, in fact, has a Chief Engineer, they respectfully nod before continuing on their shifts.

The elevator door opens and Laserbeak greets your sight; levitating as she immediately drops a cube in your servos and returns to the corner.

Perfect timing; a short distance away from the medbay and you already feel slight hunger pangs. You drink it, the added supplements leave a thin residual but a nice tang. 

It takes far more effort than you like to admit, but you finally reach your habsuite.

Laserbeak hovers for a beat before settling on a nearby cabinet, the one packed to the brim with neatly labeled mini parts and old tools. You’re going to have to check if the writing matches the insides, but that’s a far-future problem.

What’s more immediate is the crib blueprints: still on your cluttered desk and waiting to be properly rescaled to comfortably fit two passengers.

You should work on it, but you're physically done and emotionally wrung out…

“Don’t you need to go back? My comms are fully functional. The SOS worked perfectly.” The forced cheer falls flat and off-key. 

No answer.

The berth is a welcomed sensation with its actual padding and real sheets. The few rare indulgences in your life since you mainly sleep in the walls. At least, you had.

“I can’t work anymore. I've been taken off." 

High-risk carriage. Your badge is now outlined in vivid green for the severe medical restriction. Perhaps you’ll take on a supervision role… 

Still no answer from the silent watcher.

That’s fine. You’re fine.

You idly rub your abdomen, warmer than usual now that the newsparks are finally there. Too underdeveloped to have any limbs or make a true response, but the heat is a good sign. You press down, not too hard, but it’s enough to feel some discomfort in the protoform through the armor; indicative of swelling, your frame is in the process of reconfiguring to properly expand for their growth.

They’re fine.

(If you repeat it enough, perhaps it’ll come true.)