Crashout Relations

by ThunderMyCracker67

Summary:

You thought your quiet life on a remote farm was the perfect escape—just you, your dog, and the endless time to write your book. That is, until a massive blue alien mech crashes into your backyard, battered, broken, and leaking some pink glowing fluid. He’s hurt and unable to call for help, and for some reason, you feel compelled to help him.

It's getting far more complicated as you realize he’s not just some machine. And now you have a twenty-something-foot-tall robot hiding out in your barn until his friends —or you guess trine is what he's been calling them— can arrive to pick him up. But you need to keep him online and hidden because whatever did this to him here might be coming back for him... or worse, for you.

Notes:

This is my first reader insert, so please be nice! I also don't have a beta reader for this one. I read it over multiple times, but sometimes I can't catch all of the mistakes.

I love Thundercracker and his trine with my whole being, and I am so excited to write about them. Also, we all know TC is a sweetspark. More characters will be added as we go, but the first little bit is TC and the reader.

This is mostly just a rough mashup of a bunch of different continuities and my general knowledge, but mainly G1 if we need a specific one to reference.

Also, I'm not the best at openings, so we kinda just get right into it. So sorry if you were looking for a really in-depth backstory for the reader. I tried my best, but really, it just gets right into the Transformers chaos. I hope that's okay.

This story can be read as either romantic or platonic. I will also be listening to comments and stuff like that if you have any suggestions or thoughts. And I am always willing to answer questions and concerns. Also, Reader will be using they/them pronouns so everyone reading can be included. But it won't really come up much.

You will also likely be referred to as "the human" or "the squishy" by a lot of cons for a large portion of this fic.

Sorry for all the notes, on with the story.

Chapter 1: There's a Robot in My Barn

You moved to this little farm for the quiet. That was the whole point. The long, winding thirty-minute drive into town, the evenings spent in near silence save for the soft rustle of the wind blowing through the trees surrounding you. Sometimes the occasional barking from your loyal dogo, Maggie, when she wants to run outside and play. It’s exactly the escape you needed from the busy, noisy world you left behind. Here, you could actually focus on your writing, take your dog on long walks, and feel the kind of peace that only comes with solitude.

The house isn’t much, a small, cozy place with creaky floorboards and decades-old wallpaper. You were given it by your late aunt, who had left it to you in her will. Everyone else in the family got money or some other cherished heirloom. But she knew that you loved this place. You would visit every summer you could while you were a teenager to sit and relax on the porch and read. It's where you started your writing career in the first place. When she left it to you, you jumped at the opportunity to get out here. And you couldn’t be more grateful for it. 

While the house wasn’t worth much, you certainly had a lot of land with it. Not that much was done with it over the years. Almost all of it was filled with trees and little pathways that weaved in and out around the property. The backyard was large and open, and it was also fenced in, which was perfect for your dog so she didn’t run away. Maggie was actually your aunt's dog, whom she had also left to you. She came as part of the house, a package deal. But you weren’t complaining; you loved the fluffy thing. 

Just inside the fence line was an old barn. Well, calling it a barn might be generous. It’s more of a large, weathered shed left over from decades ago when this land was used for livestock. In the four months you’ve been here, you've repurposed it for storage, and its chipped red paint gives the place a bit of rustic charm. 

The sky dims as you sit by the window, typing away at your latest chapter, Maggie snoozing on her bed nearby. The tapping of your keyboard and the faint hum of crickets are your only companions until—

BOOM.

The sound shakes the entire house. Maggie bolts upright, barking furiously, her tail up in alarm. The window rattles as another crash follows, the kind of sound you’d only ever heard in movies. Your heart pounds as you look up out to the window, arms still covering your head from the sudden crash. You stare at the sight before you slack-jawed.

Your backyard is no longer just your backyard. A crater gapes open in the earth, smoke curling from its edges. Something huge is sprawled there, half-crushed against the splintered remains of a fence post. And it’s moving.

You freeze, one hand gripping the window frame. The thing—or rather, the robot—lifts its head, glowing red optics scanning the sky. Its blue frame is battered, dented, and scorched. You don’t recognize it exactly, but you know enough to be terrified. Giant robots don’t just crash into backyards for no reason, and this one? It’s bad news. You’re sure of it.

Before you can think to run—or even grab your phone—it pushes itself upright with a groan of metal. Its gaze sweeps the horizon once more before it turns toward your barn. The massive bot crawls, dragging itself forward with uneven movements, one wing bent at an unnatural angle.

The barn’s doors creak open, splintering slightly under the weight of the robot as it forces its way inside. Then, silence. Smoke rises from the crater, the faint smell of burning grass and dirt wafting through the air.

Maggie growls low at your side. You swallow hard, staring at the barn. Now, what do you do?

 

-

 

You sit on the floor in your kitchen, knees pulled to your chest, Maggie curled at your feet. The initial shock was wearing off. The hours tick by, the clock on the wall an unbearable metronome to your anxiety. Every creak of the house and gust of wind rattling the windows make you flinch. But the barn stays silent.

The robot hasn’t moved. At least, you’re pretty sure it hasn’t. If it had left, you would’ve heard something—metal scraping, crashing, a roar of engines. The quiet only makes things worse. You press your palms against your temples, trying to think.

What are you even supposed to do? Call the police? You can already imagine how that conversation would go: “Hello, officer, so a giant blue robot is hiding in my barn? Can you... like, remove it?” Yeah, no. They’d hang up before you could finish the sentence, probably thinking it was some prank call.

You consider a few other ideas—calling a neighbour (who? no one knows you yet, and you're too far out of town), hiding in your closet until it goes away (not exactly sustainable), maybe just... driving away? Then what? You'll have nowhere to live, and you can't just move out because a robot moved in outside. Besides, none of your half-baked ideas account for the reality of the situation: the robot is still there, and running won’t make it go away.

Another hour passes. You tighten your hold on Maggie, your fingers twisting into her fur as you stare up at the window, only able to see the tops of trees and the dark sky from this angle. But you know it still hasn’t left. 

What if it’s dead? Machines can’t exactly die, but maybe it’s broken. Or dormant. Maybe the crash finished it off, and it’s just... a hunk of lifeless metal now. The thought doesn’t ease the tension in your chest. If anything, it makes you more curious. What if it’s still alive but injured? What if it needs help?

You groan, burying your face in your hands. This is insane. But you can’t just sit here forever, and you need to know what’s happening in your own backyard.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of mental tug-of-war, you make a decision. You stand up, your legs stiff and shaky, and glance down at Maggie. “You’re staying here,” you say. Maggie tilts her head, ears perked, but doesn’t argue when you lead her into the living room and shut the door behind you. You can still hear her soft whines as you grab a flashlight and pull on your boots.

Your heart pounds as you step outside, the cool night air sharp against your skin. The barn looms ahead, its silhouette darker than the shadows around it. You grip the flashlight tightly, and every step toward the barn feels heavier than the last.

What are you doing? You should turn around, go back inside, pretend none of this ever happened. But your feet keep moving. Curiosity and nerves drive you forward, your breath visible in the crisp air. You hesitate at the barn door, the faint smell of scorched metal and oil still hanging in the air. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the door, pushing it open just enough to peer inside.

You take a tentative step into the barn, your flashlight trembling in your grip. The beam cuts through the stale air, illuminating the massive robot’s battered frame. It’s hunched awkwardly, one wing bent at an impossible angle, the other hanging limp against its back. Its head is tilted back, its optics dark and lifeless. The only sound is the faint creak of metal as the night breeze sneaks through the slats between panels of the barn.

Your gaze drops to the ground, and your stomach churns. There’s some kind of glowing, pinkish liquid pooled beneath the robot, seeping out in uneven streams from somewhere in its torso. The sight of it fills you with dread. It looks too much like blood, though you know that’s impossible. Machines don’t bleed—do they? You grip your flashlight tighter, the cold metal slick against your clammy palms.

Is it dead?

You shine the light higher, letting the beam drift across its chest, its arms, its face. The robot is enormous, taller than anything you’ve ever seen up close, even in this crumpled position. Its blue plating is scratched and dented, scorched black in places where something—blasts?—must’ve hit it. The more you look, the worse it seems, as though this thing had been through hell and barely survived.

If it survived at all.

It hadn’t moved once, not even when you entered the barn. You chew on your lip, torn between relief and unease. If it’s truly gone, you’re safe. But the thought doesn’t make you feel any better. Who—or what —could’ve done this to something so big, so strong? And more importantly, who might come looking for it? Your fingers tighten around the flashlight. You want to back away, to retreat to the safety of your home and forget this ever happened, but your legs refuse to cooperate.

You swallow hard, nerves buzzing. It doesn’t feel right to leave without knowing for sure. You need to be certain. Heart pounding, you crouch down and grab a small rock from the dirt floor. Testing its weight in your hand, you straighten up, take aim, and throw it.

Clang.

The sound is sharp and metallic, echoing in the stillness. You freeze, watching for any kind of reaction. Nothing. Not a twitch, not a flicker of light. The rock bounces off the robot’s chest and falls to the ground, forgotten. You exhale shakily, the tightness in your chest loosening just a little. If it hasn’t moved by now, it probably won’t.

Probably.

You take a cautious step forward, the beam of your flashlight tracing along the jagged contours of its body. Up close, the damage is even worse. There are purple symbols on its wings, but whatever it was had been rubbed off in the collision and half-obscured by scorch marks.

Your eyes drift to its face. There’s something unnerving about the stillness of it, the way the dark, glassy optics reflect the flashlight’s beam without giving anything away. It almost looks peaceful, which feels wrong. How can something so enormous, so obviously powerful, seem so vulnerable?

Your thoughts swirl, questions piling on top of one another with no answers in sight. Was it running from something? From someone? And if it was, what happens to you when they come looking?

Your fingers tremble as you reach out, almost without thinking. You stop yourself short, a few feet away, realizing how ridiculous it is to even consider touching it. You don’t know what this thing is, or what it’s capable of. For all you know, it could—

The red optics flicker to life.

You stumble back with a sharp gasp, heart slamming into your ribs as the glow intensifies, bright and menacing in the darkness. The robot’s head snaps toward you with a low, grating noise, its gaze locking onto yours. Its movements are stiff and jerky, like something out of a nightmare, and you’re too stunned to do anything but freeze in place.

Maggie barks furiously from inside the house, but the sound barely registers. All you can hear is the rapid thud of your heartbeat and the faint hum of the robot’s optics as they burn into you.

 

Notes:

Depending on the reaction in the comments, I may or may not do a Thundercracker POV chapter in 3rd person about his inward opinions of the strange human. You guys will have to let me know what you want to see.

Also, any suggestions, thoughts, or stuff you want to see are completely welcome! Sometimes, your guys' ideas are better than mine, and I honestly may end up adding a few. Love you all, and I hope you have a great week.

Chapter 2: Please Don't Hurt Me!

The bright red optics feel like they are staring into your soul. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t do anything. After a long staring contest, the robot then tried to move, lifting his head up to try and look around. The low groan that escapes the robot sends a shiver down your spine. It’s a deep, awful sound that reverberates around the barn. The robot shifts slightly, attempting to sit up, but the motion is halting and strained. Its massive arm moves first, shaking as it presses a hand into the ground for leverage.

You stumble back away from the arm that lands near you, trying to get far away enough that the robot doesn’t accidentally (or on purpose) squish you with its movements. Your breath caught in your throat. Every motion it makes seems to amplify the damage—metal grinding on metal, sparks flying where metal plating scrapes against itself. The groan deepens, morphing into something halfway between a growl and a pained hiss. 

He manages to push himself halfway upright before slumping back against the barn wall with a loud thunk. Dust rains down from the rafters. “Ugh...” The sound from his vocalizer is rough, broken, and laced with static. It’s barely a word, more like a strained exhale forced through shredded machinery. His head turns again, slowly this time, and his optics lock onto you once more.

The look is strange. You can’t tell if it’s curiosity or suspicion—or both—but it’s enough to root you to the spot, torn between the urge to run and the feeling to get as small as possible and not draw any attention towards yourself.

“wh—attt—kt ” His voice attempts to form again, but it collapses into static once more. You wince at the sound. His hand twitches, massive fingers curling into a weak fist with frustration. You eye the movement worriedly.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch him struggle. Unsure of what to do.

But he seems to give up on trying to talk to you, diverting his attention elsewhere as he manages to bring one of his hands to his –ear?– only to wince back once he tries touching it. He then makes a clicking sound that almost sounds like an annoyance. He is clearly upset about something.

His optics snap back to you, sharper now, narrowing with something unreadable. He shifts, attempting to sit up straighter despite the effort it takes. The groan of metal and the faint whine of gears or whatever this guy is made out of makes you wince in sympathy. His gaze flickers toward the open barn door. As if waiting for more people to show up. Or that he is nervous someone is going to sneak up on him.

“It's... uh... It's just me here.” You try to reassure him. “There’s no one around for miles. I don’t think that anyone would have seen the crash, and no one knows me well enough to check on me.” You stop. Was it really a good idea to tell him that? Now he knows you’re here alone, and no one is coming for you. You shift nervously.

He tilts his head to the side, studying you. It does nothing to ease your fears. "If you can stay quiet," you add cautiously, "you can hide here. No one will find you. You want to hide right?"

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then he leans back against the barn wall with a low, metallic creak. His gaze doesn’t leave you, but the piercing sharpness is gone now, replaced with something less... threatening. He nods once, a small but deliberate movement.

You exhale slowly, trying to convince yourself that this is fine, that it’s okay. But the knot in your stomach says otherwise. You glance at the mess of glowing pink fluid pooling on the ground, then at the broken cables and twisted metal near his side. 

“That looks bad.” You mutter, staring at the injury. The robot seems to nod half-heartedly. You step closer, making sure to stare at his hands for any sudden movements. “I may be able to… plug it up with something - I don’t know." He doesn’t react, just keeps staring. 

Alright then. Think. Think! What could possibly help? You’re not a mechanic—or a medic, for that matter—but you can’t just let him bleed out... or whatever the robot equivalent of that is.

Your eyes dart around the barn, searching for something— anything —that might be useful. In the corner, half-buried under some old tools, you spot a grimy, heavy-duty tarp. It’s not much, but it might be enough to hold back whatever’s leaking. Maybe.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, mostly to steady your nerves. “Okay, uh... hang on, I’ll... I’ll try something.”

You step toward the tarp, brushing off dust and cobwebs as you drag it closer. It’s stiff from disuse, and a faint smell of mildew clings to it, but it’ll have to do. “I can... wrap this around—uh, the leaking parts?” You glance at the robot’s face, unsure if he’s even paying attention. “And... that can stop the bleeding?”

Still no response, though his optics remain faintly focused on you. It’s not much, but you take it as a yes.

You shuffle closer, the tarp crinkling loudly in your hands. Several cables dangle loosely from his side, leaking that glowing fluid, almost like big blood vessels that were about an inch or two thick. Some of them seemed burned, like from a sci-fi blaster you would see in a movie. 

You need to stop the flow somehow. Maybe you could cut strips from the tarp to tie around the tubes? Would that even work? You’ve never done anything like this before.

“Um... sorry if this is a bad idea,” you say awkwardly, looking up at him again. “I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but—well, you’re kind of... leaking. So, uh, yeah.” You cringe at your own words. Great, just great. 

Grabbing a pair of shears from a nearby toolbox, you see him shift out of the corner of your eye at the sight of the weapon. You quickly hold a hand up in surrender. "It's just to cut up the tarp, I promise." You slow your movements to show him as you manage to hack off a few strips from the tarp, making crude, uneven lengths of fabric. You carry your pile of scraps over to him. Your hands are trembling as you reach toward the leaking cables, but you force yourself to focus. You carefully wrap a strip around the first tube, pulling it tight and tying it off with a shaky knot.

The waterproof nature of the tarp seems to help keep the strange fluid in. You move to the next one, repeating the process. It’s messy, and the sticky residue gets on your hands, glowing faintly against your skin. You don’t have time to think about whether it’s safe; you’ll deal with that later— if there’s a later.

As you work, you glance at his face again. He is staring at you. Or at least at your hands on his tubing. Staying perfectly still as he tries to analyze what you are doing to him and possibly if it was actually helping or not.  It’s hard to tell if he approves, but at least he hasn’t swatted you away.

You tie off the last leaking tube and step back, staring at your makeshift handiwork. The tarp strips are snug, and the flow of fluid has slowed to a faint drip. It’s far from perfect, but it’s something.

“There,” you say, exhaling shakily. “That’s... that’s the best I can do for now. I—”

You squeak in horror as a massive metal hand closes around you, your body instinctively trembling. You didn't even see him move before he grabbed you. The grip isn’t crushing, but it’s firm enough to make you acutely aware of just how powerless you are against him. Your heart pounds in your chest, and for a terrifying moment, you wonder if this is it—if patching him up was the last mistake you’ll ever make.

He lifts you up, bringing you closer to his face. You’re barely breathing, staring into those piercing red lights that seem to pin you in place. His head tilts slightly, he’s studying you, analyzing you, and you can’t tell if it’s out of curiosity or malice.

“L-look, I’m sorry,” you stammer, your voice shaking as you try to keep your fear in check. “I—I didn’t mean to... if I messed something up, I didn’t know! I was just trying to help—” This was bad, this was so bad. You should have just stayed inside and pretended that you didn’t see anything!

You stop as the faintest noise rumbles from his vocalizer. It’s low and crackling, like static mixed with a growl. He’s still staring at you, his optics narrowing. His hand shifts, tilting you slightly, and you clutch desperately at his fingers. The fear of being dropped making you cling for dear life. “Please,” you manage to say. “Don’t hurt me.” You close your eyes and look away.

For a moment, you think he might ignore you—or worse. But then the hand holding you loosens just a fraction. You open your eyes again to look up at him. He doesn’t drop you, but it’s enough to make you realize he’s not about to crush you, either.

The rumbling noise comes again, softer this time. It almost feels like the purr of an engine coming deep from his frame. It seems almost soothing. His head tilts again, and you realize with a jolt of clarity that he doesn’t look angry. He looks... confused.

“I just—thought maybe I could stop the bleeding. That’s all.” You say hesitantly, daring to break the tense silence

His optics shift away from you for the briefest moment, glancing down at his own battered frame. The tarp strips you tied around the leaking tubes are crude and haphazard, but they seem to be holding for now. He lets out another low rumble, almost like a sigh, and you realize with a flicker of disbelief that he’s not angry. He’s exhausted.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers you back to the ground, setting you down with surprising gentleness. You stumble back a step, your legs unsteady beneath you, but you don’t run. You can’t. Not when his optics are still on you, watching your every move.

You take a shaky breath, your hands still trembling. “I... I don’t know how to fix everything,” you admit quietly. "I can’t fix everything if that's what you want.” Better he knows that now. “I can try, though.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then his massive frame sags against the barn wall again, as if the effort of lifting you had drained what little energy he had left.

You shift uncomfortably, thinking it's time to go. He isn’t focused on you; he looks like he’s about to fall asleep again. You take the chance to escape.

You pull the barn door shut behind you with trembling hands, the faint creak of the hinges lost under the hammering of your pulse in your ears. The cool night air bites at your skin as you stumble toward your house, still covered in the glowing pink fluid that stains your clothes and hands. It clings to you, sticky and warm, and the faint light it gives off seems almost otherworldly in the dark.

You don’t dare look back at the barn, afraid that if you do, something bad will happen. You don’t know what. But it doesn't matter now.

When you reach your front door, your fingers fumble with the handle, the shaking in your hands making it harder than it should be to get inside. Finally, you shove the door open and step into the familiar safety of your home. You close the door behind you with a heavy thud, leaning against it for support as everything finally starts to catch up with you.

You’re alive.

The thought hits you like a freight train. You’re alive! For a moment back there, you were sure that was it—that the robot was going to crush you or tear you apart or... something. But he didn’t. He let you go, and you still don’t understand why.

Your legs feel like jelly, barely able to hold you up as you stagger to the couch. You collapse onto it, your breathing shallow and uneven. The adrenaline that had been keeping you upright is gone now, leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake.

Maggie whines softly, nosing at your arm before she hops onto the couch beside you. Her tail wags hesitantly, but her eyes are wide with worry. “I’m okay,” you whisper hoarsely, though you’re not sure if it’s for her benefit or your own. The words feel hollow, even as you say them.

The pink fluid glimmers faintly on your hands, catching your eye as you stare down at yourself. It’s smeared across your clothes, sticky and unsettlingly warm even now. You should probably wash it off—should probably do a lot of things—but the weight of everything crashes down on you before you can move.

Before you know it, your head falls back against the cushions, and your body gives in to the pull of exhaustion. Maggie’s head rests on your lap as she lets out another worried whine. You mumble something reassuring, but it’s barely coherent as sleep overtakes you.

Notes:

I decided against doing the Thundercracker POV (thanks to some lovely comments). I may do an alternate fic in the future from his POV if people would be interested in that. If you are, let me know!

Thanks for any support you guys give! Comments help keep me going! And Honestly, let me know what kind of stuff you want to see or even your theories about what will happen or did happen! I love to read them <3

Chapter 3: Fuel

A sharp beam of sunlight shines across the room, cutting across your face and pulling you out of sleep. Groaning, you blink against the brightness, your mind sluggish as the world comes into focus. Your body feels stiff and sore, every joint protesting as you shift. Why are you on the couch?

You sit up slowly, wincing as your neck twinges in complaint. It wasn’t the first time you’d crashed on the couch, but it’s the first time you don’t remember why. You stretch your arms over your head, trying to shake off the stiffness, when something on your hands catches your eye.

The sight of the weird, dried pink stuff stops you cold.

For a moment, you just stare at it, your mind struggling to process what you’re seeing. Then, like a floodgate opening, it all comes rushing back—the crash, the crater, the robot, the glowing fluid smeared across your hands and clothes.

Your eyes widen as your breath quickens. You push yourself off the couch, ignoring the grogginess weighing down your movements, and stumble toward the nearest window. Pulling the curtain back, you scan the backyard, your heart pounding in your chest.

The crater is still there, raw and jagged in the morning light, its edges scorched and torn. From this angle, you can’t see the shed—or the robot. Is he still in there? Did he leave during the night?

You don’t want to find out.

As you close the curtain, you take a step back, your thoughts racing. Your body feels frozen, rooted in place, and it takes a deliberate effort to move.

Maybe if you just focus on something else for a while, maybe—just maybe—you’ll look back and laugh at how ridiculous this all was. Maybe when you go outside later, there won’t be a crater. Maybe it was all a dream.

You turn away from the window and make a beeline for the bathroom. The pink stuff on your hands looks even worse in the daylight, its dried, flaky surface catching the light in an unsettling way. You grab the soap and scrub furiously under the warm water, watching as the flakes swirl down the drain.

‘Please don’t be toxic’, you think grimly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you probably should’ve worn gloves last night.

When your hands are finally clean—albeit still a little stained—you dry them off and change into fresh clothes, stuffing the ruined ones into a trash bag. You’ll figure out what to do with them later.

Suddenly, the sound of groaning metal cuts erupts from outside, loud and jarring enough to make you freeze mid-step. Maggie perks up from her spot on the couch, ears twitching. You rush over to the window again, throwing open the curtains.

Your stomach drops.

The barn was shaking like it was about to fall over. Then suddenly, a giant blue metal hand falls through one of the walls; it looks like he has tried to support himself and falls through the wood. Pieces of the barn fell to the ground with splintered wood and bent nails.

“Crap, crap, crap,” you mutter under your breath. Without thinking, you’re out the door, Maggie barking behind you as you bolt toward the chaos.

As you approach, the source of the noise becomes clearer—low, pained sounds, broken and distorted like static over a bad radio. You skid to a stop just outside the barn, heart hammering in your chest, and peer through the propped open doorway.

Inside, the robot was, trying to move his massive frame. His battered wing scrapes against the rafters, sending another shudder through the structure. His hand, the same one that broke through the wall, twitches and pulls back slightly as if realizing the damage it’s caused. 

“Hey!” you yell before your brain can catch up with your mouth. “Don’t do that! If you knock the barn down on top of you, and you’ll have no cover!”

The mech freezes at your statement, not expecting you to burst in like this. Slowly, he tilts his head, his red optics flickering as they focus on you.

It takes you a second to process what just happened. You just scolded a giant alien robot.

And now it’s staring at you.

You backpedal instinctively, your pulse racing as you put a few more feet of space between you and the mech. But instead of moving to attack, the mech remains still, his optics narrowing slightly. Then, in a voice that’s much less glitchy than last night, he speaks.

“...Cover?”

Your mouth opens, then shuts, before you manage to croak out, “Yeah. Cover. You know, so nobody sees you?” You gesture vaguely to the barn around him. “You kind of stick out like a sore thumb. I figured you’d want to stay hidden, right?”

The mech stares at you for a moment longer, his optics dimming slightly in thought. “You...helped,” he says after a long pause.

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “Yeah, well… you looked like you needed it,” you gesture your arm at him. “I mean, I wasn’t just going to leave you like that.”

His optics flicker again, almost like a blink. He then glances around the barn again, looking at the damage. He tries to pick up one of the pieces of splintered wood that had fallen from the wall, turning it over in his hand. He tries to place it back on the wall, only for it to fall down again. You almost laughed at the sight of him trying to put the barn back together. 

He frowns slightly at the piece of wood as if it wronged him somehow. He then starts to sit back, taking extra care not to knock anything down or break any more walls. 

You find yourself in silence as he does this. Unsure of where to start. “Uh… are you feeling better?” you ask hesitantly. His optics snap back to you. You continue. “I mean, uh, are you… okay? Do you, like, need anything? Or… can you get out of here soon?”

The mech pauses as if he was thinking about the answer carefully. The silence stretches long enough to make you start second-guessing whether you should’ve spoken at all. “My coms… ar-e down,” he finally says, his voice glitching a few times mid-sentence, but way better than before. He makes a sound of frustration, and his vocalizer makes a popping sound like it reset itself. “Damaged in the fight.” He continued.

The glare he directs at the floor makes you think he’s blaming it for his situation. You don’t know what “coms” are exactly, but you guess it has something to do with why he’s stuck here.

“Oh…” you manage, inwardly surprised you’re having this much of a conversation with him. “That’s… not great.” You hesitate, glancing at him nervously. “So, uh… do you know how to fix them? Or do you need—?”

“I need resourc–es, ” he snaps, looking back at you.

You stiffen under the intensity of his gaze, your nerves flaring again. “R-resources?”

“Energon,” he says simply, his tone implying it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You blink, your nervousness temporarily overridden by confusion. “Ener… what now?”

The mech sighs—or at least, makes a sound that you think is a sigh, distorted as it is through his damaged voice box. “Fuel,” he clarifies, his optics rolling like you should know this already.

“Oh,” you say again, nodding dumbly. “Right. Fuel.” You rack your brain, trying to think of what you might have that could possibly count as “fuel” for a giant alien robot. “Um… I don’t think I have any, uh, Energon. I don’t even know what that is. But I—” You pause, and he waits.

You swallow nervously, wracking your brain. Finally, a thought strikes you, and you gesture vaguely toward the garage. “I… I have some gasoline? In a gas can. I don’t know if that’s what you need, but…”

The mech’s optics brighten slightly at your words, and for a moment, you think you see something like curiosity flash across his face. “Gasoline,” he echoes, his tone skeptical but not dismissive.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to head toward the garage before you can second-guess yourself. “Uh, hold on. I’ll… I’ll get it.”

A few minutes later, you return with the small red gas can, holding it up awkwardly. “This is all I have,” you say, feeling ridiculous as you offer it up to the massive mech. “I don’t know if it’s enough, but…”

He reaches out carefully, his massive hand hovering just above the can. A soft, faint hum emits from somewhere in his wrist; you blink as you see a blue light emitting from a sensor or something. Kind of like a laser scanner you would see in a movie.  After a moment, he retracts his hand.

“It w–ill suffice,” he says flatly.

You stare at him for a beat. “You can tell just by scanning it?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“...Okay, then,” you mutter, holding the gas can out further.

He takes it, his movements slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you just watch as he picks it up and pours the contents into his mouth, it almost looks like someone taking back a shot. 

He sets the empty can down with surprising gentleness, his optics flickering back to you. “Thi–is will keep me fun—./ctional for now.”

“Great,” you say weakly. “Uh… glad I could help?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his optics narrowing slightly as if he’s analyzing you. You fidget nervously. You also realize how much… coherent he seems. The words coming out of his vocalizer are clearer, and his movements are more strong and steady compared to the previous night. It’s interesting.

“How are you…” You gesture vaguely at him, unsure how to phrase it. “You seem a lot better than last night. How?”

“Natural heal–ing systems,” he says after a pause. 

“Right,” you say slowly, not entirely sure if that makes sense to you, but nodding along anyway. “So you… self-repair?”

“Essentially,” he replies, his tone flat but not dismissive.

You nod again and take a small step back, just in case he tries to grab you again like before. His optics track the movement, and for a moment, his gaze sharpens, thoughtful. The expression makes your skin crawl, and you quickly fumble for something else to say.

“I, uh, don’t have any more fuel,” you blurt out, gesturing toward the empty gas can. “That was all I had.”

His optics narrow slightly, his gaze lingering on you like he doesn’t quite believe you.

“Well… except for what’s in my car,” you admit reluctantly, your hands clenching at your sides. “But if I drain that, I’ll be stranded.”

He hums—a low, mechanical sound that vibrates faintly in the air. “Where do yo–u get more fuel?”

“The town,” you say automatically, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. “It’s, uh… it’s a bit of a drive. About thirty minutes.”

“And you would bring it back here,” he states more than asks, his optics brightening slightly as he watches you.

You pause, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. “Well… yeah, I guess. You’d have to stay here. I can’t exactly bring you with me.”

He leans back against the barn wall, the metal groaning in protest. “Fine,” he says after a long pause. “Go.”

You swallow hard, taking another cautious step back. “Okay. Um… I’ll need to get ready. It’ll take me a bit.”

“Then don’t waste t-time,” he says flatly, his optics following you as you start to edge toward the house.

“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “No pressure or anything.”