Starscream had always eyed you with suspicion—after all, you were the only Decepticon whose rank wasn’t earned through sheer brutality, but cunning. A strategist, not a soldier. And worse, someone Megatron actually listened to, on occasion.

So when you’re assigned to work together—him for air support, you for field coordination—it’s less a mission and more a pissing contest waiting to happen.

He sneers as he descends, talons hitting metal plating with a clank, his wings twitching with annoyance. “If I were in charge, this would’ve been over hours ago.”

“You were in charge once. For six minutes.”

His optics flare red with annoyance. But he doesn’t leave.

Later, when the plan works flawlessly and the objective is secured, he actually nods once at you—sharp and reluctant.

“Not bad. For someone with such... limited reach.”

And that, from Starscream, is practically affection.