(no subject)
Title: 'It's A Lonely Ol' Night'
Author: moya_koordinat
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Trailbreaker/Ironhide, implied Trailbreaker/Inferno
Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Dreamworks
A/N: Started for the m_e April challenge, but it stalled. Feels finished, but bunny insists there's more. Unfortunately bunny wasn't forthcoming. So... putting it up anyway, for you guys to enjoy ;3. Part of the Wireless set. PS DIE, LJ-coding. DIE.
It's a lonely ol' night
Can I put my arms around you?
It's a lonely ol' night
Custom made for two lonely people like me and you
"See, we've sorta... been friends since we'd had that patrol shift together, me turning up just a fraction of a breem late and earning myself a snort and a glower and deep-chested rumble from him. And I'd thought I'd slagged him off! - but turned out, that's just how he is, thank Primus for that. So, finding that we'd somehow fallen into an easy understanding of one another over the course of our circuit was a kind of relief; I'd apologized to him again, said, you know, lemme treat you to a highgrade sometime, but he kinda waved it off, stalked away. Turned my engine, you know? Weird as it might sound. He's got a real nice frame, too, all big and black and powerful, Primus. Real good-looker. He don't talk too much, but he's a fraggin' great listener.
"So yeah, anyway, initial attraction aside - yeah, yeah, shaddup, scrapheap - so yeah, did a lil digging, did a little nosing around here and there. And I tell you, that mech's got some real issues with that medic... aww c'mon! Pull the other one, why don'cha, who doesn't know who Ratchet is? No seriously. Anyhow. One day I went up to him, and I said, 'mech, you've got issues.' And he goes, 'what issues?' And he looks about ready to take my head off, too, so I pull him over to one side and just give him this look, 'cause let's face it. Whatever they had, it ended bad, and it kinda tells. Ratchet's more irritable than usual, he goes all brittle like he's going to snap if anyone even so much as mentions his designation, and I overhead Jazz telling Prowl that Maintenance is on the verge of banning him outright from Training and the firing range... I digress, we're kinda off-track here.
"I've got him in this little nook, yeah? Away from foot traffic and all that slag. And I say to him, you know, whatever it is that's eating at you - you can't carry it on all by yourself, just like that. So you and me, we're buddies, right? And we look out for each other, right? Then he gives me this cagey-sounding 'Yeah, so...?' And I say, 'So, you know, whatever it is that's got you all tangled up - think you could share with a friend? Burden shared is a burden halved, all that slag? Looks back at me like I'm some kind of moron, does that little snort, looks away. Then he says to me, 'you wanna know? Then stop bulldogging me and come by after shift.' Then I tell him he's a moron himself because our shifts are staggered; mine start just as his end, and I said without thinking - look, it's obvious that whatever it was that happened between you and Ratchet, it's not doing either of you any good. And he flinches. Cross my spark, Inferno, he flinched. You know him just about as well as I do - you ever known Ironhide to flinch from anything?"
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were humming systems and the intermittent clink of metal on metal, alloy components hitting the top of the long workbench; Ironhide was reassembling a sniper rifle that had taken some damage. Behind him, Trailbreaker sat with a couple of datapads strewn on the berth, muttering subsonically about 'glitched dumbnuts' and 'idiots who couldn't tell a wing formation from ducks in a row'. Ironhide snorted amusement at his... friend, eventually turning from the workbench to look back at him. Trailbreaker raised his head, eyed the weapons specialist sourly from behind his visor.
"Mech, 'm serious here. There I was sayin' 'wing formation, wing formation!' and the fraggers straggle all over the place and I - gah, glitches. Gonna have to pull them in line 'fore they get anymore useless than they already are."
"Couple of sessions of hollerin' orders at them will turn any mech's processor, TB," he said, laying the rifle aside to swivel the chair around, resting elbows on his thighs. Trailbreaker snorted, punched in a couple more notes, then shut down the datapad. "Yeah, well. Gotta point there, 'Hide." He tilted his head consideringly, gentle smile already in place. "Done with the rifle?"
"Yeah. Was jamming. Cleared out the kinks. It's as good as new."
"Maybe better, now that you've worked your magic over it."
"Flatterer," came the deep growl, contra to the softening of stern faceplates. Trailbreaker whuffed quiet amusement, rose from his seat to kneel before the weapons specialist. "You're such an idiot," he said, hands sliding past the cage of black formed by Ironhide's forearms, and sliding up by black hips. Ironhide shuddered, and hunched forward, moving to drape his arms down the defensive strategist's back, headed right for that little sensor node underneath plating -
"Oh - slag, 'Hide," Trailbreaker moaned, fingers tightening. "Primus -"
He didn't say it - couldn't say it - but the designation that threatened to sneak its way out of his vocalizer wasn't the trilling ripple-snap of mechanical tones belonging to the mech before him, but was instead the crack-whine-clack ascribed to another mech - But no, don't think of it now. Instead, he bent closer to the defensive strategist, nipped along the edge of his crest, let static scatter across dermal plating.
"Damn, 'Hide - geez. T-take this to the - oh, Primus, don't stop - take this to the berth?" Trailbreaker gasped, squirming under big gray hands, intakes cycling higher than they had before.
"If we even get there," Ironhide rumbled against the edge of an audio, systems running far too hot. Make this a fast and hard one, a quick one...
"Mech, I think you just like me on my knees," came the unsteady reply. Gray digits worked their way around to the transformation seams on his sides, and Trailbreaker whined, trembling against sturdy black limbs.
"I think I like you better flat on your back."
Trailbreaker made a sort of incoherent noise, arched up to press lip components together, letting static electricity lash between them as he nudged Ironhide, teased the weapon specialists' mouth open with the tip of his glossa. The hand busy trying to make him all wobblety-legged crept around to slide against the edges of chest plating, as Ironhide rumbled appreciatively, swept glossa against glossa, letting static charges dance over sensitized plating, swallowing Trailbreaker's moans.
"Sparkshare?" Trailbreaker mumbled, shaking hands tracing small patterns on black plating, visor glowing a deep, deep crimson.
"Yeah."