Challenge Fic: 0000000004.89, Blaster/Bluestreak
Title: 0000000004.89
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Blaster, Bluestreak, Minor parts played by Jazz and the Cassettes
Prompt: Blaster/Bluestreak- “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + the Machines, if you squint you might be able to see it?
Warning: Unbeta’d- alrighty, edited it a bit might be a smoother read, the start of Interfacing of a not really specified type
Word Count: 3491
Continuity: G1
Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Takara/Dreamworks/whoever.
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As much as Blaster followed orders, when restricted from something a part of his personality protocols wouldn’t let him rest. It was a simple request. It had been something that he should have been able to ignore. He wasn’t a sparkling and had Ratchet explained fully to him the reason for the restriction maybe he would have let it be. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to follow the medic’s request. It was one communication channel out of thousands, but it was the one that he’d been asked not to monitor, not to touch, besides offering standard encryption to it was he did any Autobot channel.
It wasn’t his shift in communication head. The red deck unit’s optics looked to the ceiling of his cabin. On either side of him cassettes in recharge’s grasp pressed their light weight against his plating. He lay with his arms draped around the shoulders of Rewind and Eject. Slowly cycling air in his system his reserve broke. His optics shuttered and he bowed his helm. The light in his quarters was dimmed; only the bare amount contrast existed to tell the color of things, so it was not as though he had been intent on seeing anything to start with.
Skimming through the channels Blaster danced around the one Ratchet had specified, communication channel 0000000004.189. It was off the hub sequence of four that was used primarily by the Medical units. 0000000004.180 through 0000000004.188 were dead air. 0000000004.190 through 0000000004.199 were currently occupied by co-channel interference from the loud and proud 0000000004.2 the channel dedicated to medical supply requests being communicated between units. Channel 0000000004.15 was Iacon’s medbay’s channel for ragchew. Channel 0000000004.5 was Ol’ Ratchet’s line. It seemed to always carry a steady hum so that any mech skimming would know they’d get a response if it was pinged. Ratchet was a mech that never forgot where his spark was situated. If it was something he truly shouldn’t listen to he’d obey the request their main medic made.
Although he went from one channel to another with a simple number punch something about the request had made him slowly jumping channel to channel creep up on 0000000004.189. When the channel tuned properly the reddish orange mech’s hands found spots to hold gently on the shoulders of his cassettes. It was a sad mournful sound that permeated the channel. It dragged on, a high keening. At first Blaster may have mistaken it for the almost whistling sound that solar winds could cause on open channels. His optics unshuttered, and a firm frown took a place on his faceplates. He couldn’t recognize the voice from spark retching sound. Glancing down to Rewind then Eject, Blaster knew that recharge would not becoming easily to him that cycle. As if sensing something of his distress Rewind’s arm shifted to be wrapped over his midsection. His helm fell backward to the berth’s padding. How did one rest when they knew they’d left someone, a fellow Autobot most likely, so many recharge cycles to their sorrow?
He was torn between the very small part wishing he’d obeyed the medic, and avoided the channel and a much larger part that wishing he’d found it early and wishing that he knew the source of cries. While it was likely that he might be able to pull some information from the central computer, even she, the computer's AI, knew better than to go against Ratchet and give him it outright. As the cycle worn on the keens, and warbles faded before disappearing completely not too long before the next shift began. Blaster sighed. There had been so much sorrow. At least it hadn’t been left to the stars that night. It wasn’t right for pain to go unacknowledged. If Ratchet didn’t have the time to listen, then one nosey radio ham could listen.
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It took fifteen recharge cycles of just listening to push the deck unit into speaking to Ratchet directly. He heard cries, keens, screams of pain long past and of rage still very present. It was obvious that the mech was not getting what he needed from the venting to the open channel. In the medic’s determined way he explained the practice, or at least the theory behind the method. He did not reveal the patient but reinforced the idea that the mech in all manners that mattered seemed stable enough to trust. It was war. With a sorry shake of his helm and slowly letting a datapad slip from his fingers to the desk surface, Ratchet looked down. He had done what he could for now. He helped to the best of his means and until there could come a time in which more resources could be put toward a single mech’s meta then he could only handle each case as it came.
Blaster left the office of the chief medical officer feeling no more at ease than he had upon entering. As both being of similar rank he had gotten more of an answer than he’d anticipated but less than he’d hoped. He didn’t recognize the voice. He’d never been stationed in direct contact with the individual who now owned that channel. Rewind joined him on his way to his own office taking somewhere between two and three steps for each one of his own. The black and white cassette looked up at him as they walked only to clear his vocalizer to gain his deck unit’s attention. Looking down at the mech signaled Rewind that whatever he said was being listened to. “You want to know the identity of the mech don’t you?”
There was no question what mech was the subject of their conversation. Blaster was not the type to keep much from his symbiotes and the trust was returned tenfold. The reddish orange mech continued on his way. “He needs help. He’s young; I can tell it. It’s my nature to care.”
Rewind nodded his mask covering his lower face. His optics shone blue from the red plating around them. Although his mouth wasn’t showing, the way the malleable plating crinkled at the corner of his optics was enough to communicate his warm smile. “If your nature was anything different I would not be yours.” The delicate digits of the cassette’s hand brushed against Blaster’s thigh armor as they walked. It was difficult to describe the relation of a symbiote to its host. They needed one another, not as a creation needs a creator, not as a mate needed their other half but as beings that seem to make the other’s life easier, and more complete in ways that few understood. “The information is somewhere. I will find it. It’s my nature.” As they approached the office the cassette turned off down a corridor that led to the science unit, Blaster watched him for a moment with a small smirk before entering his office.
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Blaster had sworn off listening to the channel at night until he had an answer. He needed to recharge. He had his responsibilities. He knew Rewind and now on the side Raindance were hunting for a name, or file of a mech and he would have to be patient. It was one day passing through a common area his audials picked up the voice. It was different when not strained, and pleading, but it was the same. His gait slowed, and Jazz the one that had led him into the area slowed as well. The voice kept speaking and it didn’t take long for the Deck unit to start narrowing it from the crowd. It wasn’t hard to tell that his reaction to something had caught Jazz’s interest. “What’s got you lookin’ like you just stumbled on the find of a vorn?” The saboteur looked in the same direction that Blaster’s helm had turned.
“Who’s the one that’s talking?” All that the deck unit could see was a group gathered and there was no way for him to penetrate it without ruining the current feeling.
“Well… I’m guessin’ you’re asking about Blue. He’s always talking.” Raising his hand to his mouth in a mock way Jazz shouted over to the group. “Hey Blue!” He waved to the mech and the Praxian looked away from the mech he was regaling with his latest new tale and waved in a wide arc back to Jazz. The black and white speedster smiled at the communication officer. “That’s Bluestreak.” Jazz’s thumb pointed in the grey and black mech’s direction. “Nice guy, good shot, perhaps not the most stable.”
“Heh, You’re telling me.” Blaster was trying his hardest not to look gobsmacked by his unexpected find. After a moment he realized Jazz was looking at him quizzically. Clearing his vocalizer he decided to continue walking through the common area leaving the benches, tables, and the mech he’d been looking for behind for the moment.
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With a name, Blaster had a file, and a story. He now had an idea of the mech that had been given channel 0000000004.189 to lament. That day he had thought about the best way to let the mech know of his presence. As he sat on his berth only two of his cassettes had made their way to him that evening the rest were out on their respective assignments. Ramhorn lay flat on his side, helm propped on Blaster’s lower leg, and Eject pressed himself into the space between his host’s core and his arm. His choice may have been based on desire to rest, and he want of something to soothe the spirit that had started so quietly to whimper on the other side of the radio. Blaster queued a soft lullaby letting the notes drift onto the channel. The flow of cybertronian music made it reminiscent of a ringing wind chimes. Bluestreak went silent after a surprised gasp. Blaster let the song play out, and queued another one of a similar nature. The line remained quiet through the second and the third was another long wordless piece. Halfway through a broken hum came onto the line and Blaster joined as a second. Bluestreak's hum faltered but recovered quickly. They worked their way through the song, the ups and downs learning to sync with the other as need be.
At the end both mechs stared at the metal plates of the ceilings above their berth. One doorwinged mech holding a padded helm rest under his bumper and the deck unit felt as his symbiotes shifted roused from recharge by his emotions.
The Praxian's voice rang over the channel. "I thought someone was there." Although they were in different parts of the base, and Blaster could not confirm, the reddish orange mech was certain he could hear a smile in the other's voice.
Ramhorn's helm nudged his leg drawing the Communications expert from his thoughts. "Haven't felt that in a long time." The cassette and his host exchanged looks but neither decided to continue the conversation even after Blaster's fingers rubbed at the join of the smaller mech's helm and neck
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Blaster had never told Ratchet of his idea to listen to Bluestreak. He had never told Ratchet of letting the other know he was listening and four lunar cycles after he'd defied Ratchet, he didn't regret it.
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"Buddy," The gunners voice came through clearly. There were times in the evening now, that it wasn't music, crying, or rage, but just simple honesty. Blaster had never doubted the younger mech's honesty. He'd heard the hate, and the pain that the other during the working cycle decided to hide with a cheerful mask, illuminated by bright optics. "You there?"
Blaster had never revealed his identity and he figured as long as he didn't... Bluestreak could continue to be honest. The corners of the deck unit's lips curled into a small smile. It was hard to believe that with the tragedy the other had endured that some part of the Praxian remained so innocent. Tweaking the line to increa se the fuzzy sound to indicate his presence on the line the Officer waited for a response.
“Sometimes, I doubt you're really there. I try to tell myself you are. You don't talk to me. I've only heard you hum, and the music you've played. I asked Ratchet. He said this was a closed line..." The tone of the younger mech's voice was tinged with worry. "I want you to be there. I won't tell Ratchet if you are. Please be there." There was a crackle of static in Bluestreak's voice. "I know you're probably tired of me. You've been putting up with me. I don't know why you listen... if you're there. Please be there, 'cause talking to myself is really crazy. I know I'm not a full cog set as it is, but please be there." A crisp keen broke over the line.
If Blaster had been there in person his hand would have found the other's shoulder, and the gray and black form would have been pulled into an embrace. He wasn't able to do that. He'd been scheduled an overnight and instead of lying in his berth he was at the communication console, running an encryption program for a tactical meeting taking place with representatives from the other side of the planet. Maybe it was the worried plead for confirmation of his sanity, or the stress from a double shift but the deck unit spoke for the first time over the line. "I'm here. I'm not tired of you." His voice was soft, and Blaster let his forehelm rest on his palm. He remembered the first time he'd been introduced to the mech. The saccharine nature obvious to him who had heard most likely the worst of the other's demons. The line was silent, and he'd long ago established that to mean he'd surprised the Praxian.
A small laugh broke over the line. "That's what I'd want a voice to say."
Blaster chuckled at the comment. "I doubt any figment created by you would be so nice.” The communications expert’s hands moved over the control board of the console tweaking the program to ensure that the strategy meeting stayed secret.
The younger mech’s volume seemed to shrink, and the deck unit could only imagine that the other had curled up in some fashion as he spoke. “I don’t know… sometimes I see my creators, my siblings. That’s not so bad, when they aren’t asking me why I’m not with them.” Silence seemed to rule the line, which prompted the Praxian to continue to fill it. “Sorry you probably don’t want to hear about that. I was just keeping with the conversation. Wow, so you’re really there, or at least… well I can talk with you. I’m not going to tell Ratchet. He feels bad enough, I think. I just don’t ever seem to make him happy. I go and smile and tell him what I think he wants to hear and all he ever does is shake his helm. I-”
“I don’t mind listening. I’m made for it.” Blaster had a small smirk as he stated that fact. He had cut the other off but it appeared that if he hadn’t the mech would have continued. His hands worked without much guidance; this was a familiar task. In thinking about the medic he knew that eventually he’d have to tell the red and white mech. It wasn’t fair to cause possible unnecessary worrying, and possibly some worse marks on Bluestreak’s record. “Did you ever think that maybe you should actually tell Ol’ Ratchet about what’s going on? He’s a good mech. He’ll understand. It’s part of his job.” Ratchet couldn’t fault him for trying to get the young mech to properly express himself.
“Exactly… He has to listen. I don’t want to be an obligation. I’m already enough of a problem.” The tone had an apologetic tint. “He really doesn’t have the time to deal with me.”
“He’d help you if he could.” The deck unit replied with confidence from vorns of service with the fellow officer. “I’m here though. I’ll listen.”
“Why?” The one word question was loaded with unintended suspicion.
“ ‘Cause, I heard you.” It was a simple answer but for some reason a more complicated answer would seem less honest and honesty was what this was about.
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Steeljaw lay sprawled on the floor near Blaster’s pedes. One of the golden mech’s optics was unshuttered and he looked to the large mech. He stretched and shuttered his optic. “Rumor says, there is a Praxian trying to find a mech. Only has a couple voice files to go by.”
The reddish orange mech didn’t even look toward the quadruped although the symbiote could tell he had Blaster’s attention.
“He’ll find you eventually, as you found him.” The lion build’s essence radiated smugness.
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It was during a day shift the Jazz snuck casually around him. An arm rested on his shoulder. The black and white mech pretended to lean against, in actuality was supporting his own weight. The horned helm lowered so the other could make a play at his words being secretive, something the saboteur loved. “So, shall I let your admirer know? He’s in rather deep; I doubt he’ll forgive me if he finds out I knew.”
Blaster glanced at his friend, then back to the monitor. “If he knows who I am, that I’m an officer, he might not be so open with me. He needs someone to be honest to.” He kept his face a neutral mask.
The special ops mech turned his helm to look directly at the deck unit. “Maybe he needs that honesty back.” The arm sitting on the broad shoulder slipped off till Jazz’s hand caught the angle of the armor, and squeezed in a firm but gentle way.
“If you think it’s for the best then tell him. You know the field better than I do.” Blaster’s spark flickered nervously at the sudden release of control of the situation to another. With that statement the hand on his shoulder patted it before Jazz took his leave with a small near rhythmic quality to his step.
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They looked at each other across a span of corridor, Blaster for once lacking a cassette companion, and Bluestreak without a conversation partner. They both had stopped walking as if frozen by the sight of the other and the knowledge of who the voice on the other side of the line was. Blaster smiled, and the Praxian’s doorwings lowered from a sharp anxious height. “Wanna talk?” The deck unit could only offer what he’d always offered.
“Sure.” A matching smile broke over the gunner’s face as Blaster came up beside him.
The officer playfully knocked his elbow against Bluestreak’s arm. “My quarters?” He sent a request for privacy to his cassettes. Their natural reaction was curiosity that dimmed to a warm pleased feeling when they gained insight as to the reason for the request. The younger mech’s chevroned helm nodded and as they walked neither noticed how close they were to each other.
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Originally, they had only talked but rarely things end as they began. Originally Blaster had only listened to Bluestreak, but he’d moved to soothe hurt, and heal wounds and never had he expected to end up flat on his back plating on his berth, the Praxian rescue straddling his hips, fingers curled into seams, EM fields playing against each other, and his interface panel feeling incredibly tight.
“Blue,” He tilted his helm back as lips and dental plates found his neck struts. This wasn’t what he’d meant this to lead to. It had been over an orn since they’d originally sat in the officer’s quarters and started to unravel the nature of what they had. Words spoke across polite distance had turned into whispers spoken as they rested against one another, and whispers had now turn… “Blue, are you sure?” Blaster had to know. This happened so quickly in the great scheme of things.
Bluestreak kissed at the reddish orange mech’s vocalizer feeling the vibration of the other’s words on his lips. “Yes, I want you. I want you to listen.” The smaller mech’s fingers curled into a seam at Blaster’s hip pulling the their forms closer.
The deck unit raised his hands allowing them to run searchingly over the gray and black mech’s frame. “I will listen. I want to hear you.” One of his hands slipped down, fingers grazing the needy mech’s panel. The sensors in his fingertips picking up the heat and the prickle of static from a building charge. Bluestreak’s lips brushed against Blaster’s chin and then unsurprisingly their lips met. As Blaster parted his lips letting the younger mech press into a deeper kiss, he could only think of how great of a marksman the other was, he’d never had the chance to realize he’d been hit before he fell.
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Blaster, Bluestreak, Minor parts played by Jazz and the Cassettes
Prompt: Blaster/Bluestreak- “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + the Machines, if you squint you might be able to see it?
Warning: Unbeta’d- alrighty, edited it a bit might be a smoother read, the start of Interfacing of a not really specified type
Word Count: 3491
Continuity: G1
Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Takara/Dreamworks/whoever.
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As much as Blaster followed orders, when restricted from something a part of his personality protocols wouldn’t let him rest. It was a simple request. It had been something that he should have been able to ignore. He wasn’t a sparkling and had Ratchet explained fully to him the reason for the restriction maybe he would have let it be. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to follow the medic’s request. It was one communication channel out of thousands, but it was the one that he’d been asked not to monitor, not to touch, besides offering standard encryption to it was he did any Autobot channel.
It wasn’t his shift in communication head. The red deck unit’s optics looked to the ceiling of his cabin. On either side of him cassettes in recharge’s grasp pressed their light weight against his plating. He lay with his arms draped around the shoulders of Rewind and Eject. Slowly cycling air in his system his reserve broke. His optics shuttered and he bowed his helm. The light in his quarters was dimmed; only the bare amount contrast existed to tell the color of things, so it was not as though he had been intent on seeing anything to start with.
Skimming through the channels Blaster danced around the one Ratchet had specified, communication channel 0000000004.189. It was off the hub sequence of four that was used primarily by the Medical units. 0000000004.180 through 0000000004.188 were dead air. 0000000004.190 through 0000000004.199 were currently occupied by co-channel interference from the loud and proud 0000000004.2 the channel dedicated to medical supply requests being communicated between units. Channel 0000000004.15 was Iacon’s medbay’s channel for ragchew. Channel 0000000004.5 was Ol’ Ratchet’s line. It seemed to always carry a steady hum so that any mech skimming would know they’d get a response if it was pinged. Ratchet was a mech that never forgot where his spark was situated. If it was something he truly shouldn’t listen to he’d obey the request their main medic made.
Although he went from one channel to another with a simple number punch something about the request had made him slowly jumping channel to channel creep up on 0000000004.189. When the channel tuned properly the reddish orange mech’s hands found spots to hold gently on the shoulders of his cassettes. It was a sad mournful sound that permeated the channel. It dragged on, a high keening. At first Blaster may have mistaken it for the almost whistling sound that solar winds could cause on open channels. His optics unshuttered, and a firm frown took a place on his faceplates. He couldn’t recognize the voice from spark retching sound. Glancing down to Rewind then Eject, Blaster knew that recharge would not becoming easily to him that cycle. As if sensing something of his distress Rewind’s arm shifted to be wrapped over his midsection. His helm fell backward to the berth’s padding. How did one rest when they knew they’d left someone, a fellow Autobot most likely, so many recharge cycles to their sorrow?
He was torn between the very small part wishing he’d obeyed the medic, and avoided the channel and a much larger part that wishing he’d found it early and wishing that he knew the source of cries. While it was likely that he might be able to pull some information from the central computer, even she, the computer's AI, knew better than to go against Ratchet and give him it outright. As the cycle worn on the keens, and warbles faded before disappearing completely not too long before the next shift began. Blaster sighed. There had been so much sorrow. At least it hadn’t been left to the stars that night. It wasn’t right for pain to go unacknowledged. If Ratchet didn’t have the time to listen, then one nosey radio ham could listen.
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It took fifteen recharge cycles of just listening to push the deck unit into speaking to Ratchet directly. He heard cries, keens, screams of pain long past and of rage still very present. It was obvious that the mech was not getting what he needed from the venting to the open channel. In the medic’s determined way he explained the practice, or at least the theory behind the method. He did not reveal the patient but reinforced the idea that the mech in all manners that mattered seemed stable enough to trust. It was war. With a sorry shake of his helm and slowly letting a datapad slip from his fingers to the desk surface, Ratchet looked down. He had done what he could for now. He helped to the best of his means and until there could come a time in which more resources could be put toward a single mech’s meta then he could only handle each case as it came.
Blaster left the office of the chief medical officer feeling no more at ease than he had upon entering. As both being of similar rank he had gotten more of an answer than he’d anticipated but less than he’d hoped. He didn’t recognize the voice. He’d never been stationed in direct contact with the individual who now owned that channel. Rewind joined him on his way to his own office taking somewhere between two and three steps for each one of his own. The black and white cassette looked up at him as they walked only to clear his vocalizer to gain his deck unit’s attention. Looking down at the mech signaled Rewind that whatever he said was being listened to. “You want to know the identity of the mech don’t you?”
There was no question what mech was the subject of their conversation. Blaster was not the type to keep much from his symbiotes and the trust was returned tenfold. The reddish orange mech continued on his way. “He needs help. He’s young; I can tell it. It’s my nature to care.”
Rewind nodded his mask covering his lower face. His optics shone blue from the red plating around them. Although his mouth wasn’t showing, the way the malleable plating crinkled at the corner of his optics was enough to communicate his warm smile. “If your nature was anything different I would not be yours.” The delicate digits of the cassette’s hand brushed against Blaster’s thigh armor as they walked. It was difficult to describe the relation of a symbiote to its host. They needed one another, not as a creation needs a creator, not as a mate needed their other half but as beings that seem to make the other’s life easier, and more complete in ways that few understood. “The information is somewhere. I will find it. It’s my nature.” As they approached the office the cassette turned off down a corridor that led to the science unit, Blaster watched him for a moment with a small smirk before entering his office.
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Blaster had sworn off listening to the channel at night until he had an answer. He needed to recharge. He had his responsibilities. He knew Rewind and now on the side Raindance were hunting for a name, or file of a mech and he would have to be patient. It was one day passing through a common area his audials picked up the voice. It was different when not strained, and pleading, but it was the same. His gait slowed, and Jazz the one that had led him into the area slowed as well. The voice kept speaking and it didn’t take long for the Deck unit to start narrowing it from the crowd. It wasn’t hard to tell that his reaction to something had caught Jazz’s interest. “What’s got you lookin’ like you just stumbled on the find of a vorn?” The saboteur looked in the same direction that Blaster’s helm had turned.
“Who’s the one that’s talking?” All that the deck unit could see was a group gathered and there was no way for him to penetrate it without ruining the current feeling.
“Well… I’m guessin’ you’re asking about Blue. He’s always talking.” Raising his hand to his mouth in a mock way Jazz shouted over to the group. “Hey Blue!” He waved to the mech and the Praxian looked away from the mech he was regaling with his latest new tale and waved in a wide arc back to Jazz. The black and white speedster smiled at the communication officer. “That’s Bluestreak.” Jazz’s thumb pointed in the grey and black mech’s direction. “Nice guy, good shot, perhaps not the most stable.”
“Heh, You’re telling me.” Blaster was trying his hardest not to look gobsmacked by his unexpected find. After a moment he realized Jazz was looking at him quizzically. Clearing his vocalizer he decided to continue walking through the common area leaving the benches, tables, and the mech he’d been looking for behind for the moment.
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With a name, Blaster had a file, and a story. He now had an idea of the mech that had been given channel 0000000004.189 to lament. That day he had thought about the best way to let the mech know of his presence. As he sat on his berth only two of his cassettes had made their way to him that evening the rest were out on their respective assignments. Ramhorn lay flat on his side, helm propped on Blaster’s lower leg, and Eject pressed himself into the space between his host’s core and his arm. His choice may have been based on desire to rest, and he want of something to soothe the spirit that had started so quietly to whimper on the other side of the radio. Blaster queued a soft lullaby letting the notes drift onto the channel. The flow of cybertronian music made it reminiscent of a ringing wind chimes. Bluestreak went silent after a surprised gasp. Blaster let the song play out, and queued another one of a similar nature. The line remained quiet through the second and the third was another long wordless piece. Halfway through a broken hum came onto the line and Blaster joined as a second. Bluestreak's hum faltered but recovered quickly. They worked their way through the song, the ups and downs learning to sync with the other as need be.
At the end both mechs stared at the metal plates of the ceilings above their berth. One doorwinged mech holding a padded helm rest under his bumper and the deck unit felt as his symbiotes shifted roused from recharge by his emotions.
The Praxian's voice rang over the channel. "I thought someone was there." Although they were in different parts of the base, and Blaster could not confirm, the reddish orange mech was certain he could hear a smile in the other's voice.
Ramhorn's helm nudged his leg drawing the Communications expert from his thoughts. "Haven't felt that in a long time." The cassette and his host exchanged looks but neither decided to continue the conversation even after Blaster's fingers rubbed at the join of the smaller mech's helm and neck
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Blaster had never told Ratchet of his idea to listen to Bluestreak. He had never told Ratchet of letting the other know he was listening and four lunar cycles after he'd defied Ratchet, he didn't regret it.
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"Buddy," The gunners voice came through clearly. There were times in the evening now, that it wasn't music, crying, or rage, but just simple honesty. Blaster had never doubted the younger mech's honesty. He'd heard the hate, and the pain that the other during the working cycle decided to hide with a cheerful mask, illuminated by bright optics. "You there?"
Blaster had never revealed his identity and he figured as long as he didn't... Bluestreak could continue to be honest. The corners of the deck unit's lips curled into a small smile. It was hard to believe that with the tragedy the other had endured that some part of the Praxian remained so innocent. Tweaking the line to increa se the fuzzy sound to indicate his presence on the line the Officer waited for a response.
“Sometimes, I doubt you're really there. I try to tell myself you are. You don't talk to me. I've only heard you hum, and the music you've played. I asked Ratchet. He said this was a closed line..." The tone of the younger mech's voice was tinged with worry. "I want you to be there. I won't tell Ratchet if you are. Please be there." There was a crackle of static in Bluestreak's voice. "I know you're probably tired of me. You've been putting up with me. I don't know why you listen... if you're there. Please be there, 'cause talking to myself is really crazy. I know I'm not a full cog set as it is, but please be there." A crisp keen broke over the line.
If Blaster had been there in person his hand would have found the other's shoulder, and the gray and black form would have been pulled into an embrace. He wasn't able to do that. He'd been scheduled an overnight and instead of lying in his berth he was at the communication console, running an encryption program for a tactical meeting taking place with representatives from the other side of the planet. Maybe it was the worried plead for confirmation of his sanity, or the stress from a double shift but the deck unit spoke for the first time over the line. "I'm here. I'm not tired of you." His voice was soft, and Blaster let his forehelm rest on his palm. He remembered the first time he'd been introduced to the mech. The saccharine nature obvious to him who had heard most likely the worst of the other's demons. The line was silent, and he'd long ago established that to mean he'd surprised the Praxian.
A small laugh broke over the line. "That's what I'd want a voice to say."
Blaster chuckled at the comment. "I doubt any figment created by you would be so nice.” The communications expert’s hands moved over the control board of the console tweaking the program to ensure that the strategy meeting stayed secret.
The younger mech’s volume seemed to shrink, and the deck unit could only imagine that the other had curled up in some fashion as he spoke. “I don’t know… sometimes I see my creators, my siblings. That’s not so bad, when they aren’t asking me why I’m not with them.” Silence seemed to rule the line, which prompted the Praxian to continue to fill it. “Sorry you probably don’t want to hear about that. I was just keeping with the conversation. Wow, so you’re really there, or at least… well I can talk with you. I’m not going to tell Ratchet. He feels bad enough, I think. I just don’t ever seem to make him happy. I go and smile and tell him what I think he wants to hear and all he ever does is shake his helm. I-”
“I don’t mind listening. I’m made for it.” Blaster had a small smirk as he stated that fact. He had cut the other off but it appeared that if he hadn’t the mech would have continued. His hands worked without much guidance; this was a familiar task. In thinking about the medic he knew that eventually he’d have to tell the red and white mech. It wasn’t fair to cause possible unnecessary worrying, and possibly some worse marks on Bluestreak’s record. “Did you ever think that maybe you should actually tell Ol’ Ratchet about what’s going on? He’s a good mech. He’ll understand. It’s part of his job.” Ratchet couldn’t fault him for trying to get the young mech to properly express himself.
“Exactly… He has to listen. I don’t want to be an obligation. I’m already enough of a problem.” The tone had an apologetic tint. “He really doesn’t have the time to deal with me.”
“He’d help you if he could.” The deck unit replied with confidence from vorns of service with the fellow officer. “I’m here though. I’ll listen.”
“Why?” The one word question was loaded with unintended suspicion.
“ ‘Cause, I heard you.” It was a simple answer but for some reason a more complicated answer would seem less honest and honesty was what this was about.
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Steeljaw lay sprawled on the floor near Blaster’s pedes. One of the golden mech’s optics was unshuttered and he looked to the large mech. He stretched and shuttered his optic. “Rumor says, there is a Praxian trying to find a mech. Only has a couple voice files to go by.”
The reddish orange mech didn’t even look toward the quadruped although the symbiote could tell he had Blaster’s attention.
“He’ll find you eventually, as you found him.” The lion build’s essence radiated smugness.
_______________
It was during a day shift the Jazz snuck casually around him. An arm rested on his shoulder. The black and white mech pretended to lean against, in actuality was supporting his own weight. The horned helm lowered so the other could make a play at his words being secretive, something the saboteur loved. “So, shall I let your admirer know? He’s in rather deep; I doubt he’ll forgive me if he finds out I knew.”
Blaster glanced at his friend, then back to the monitor. “If he knows who I am, that I’m an officer, he might not be so open with me. He needs someone to be honest to.” He kept his face a neutral mask.
The special ops mech turned his helm to look directly at the deck unit. “Maybe he needs that honesty back.” The arm sitting on the broad shoulder slipped off till Jazz’s hand caught the angle of the armor, and squeezed in a firm but gentle way.
“If you think it’s for the best then tell him. You know the field better than I do.” Blaster’s spark flickered nervously at the sudden release of control of the situation to another. With that statement the hand on his shoulder patted it before Jazz took his leave with a small near rhythmic quality to his step.
_______________
They looked at each other across a span of corridor, Blaster for once lacking a cassette companion, and Bluestreak without a conversation partner. They both had stopped walking as if frozen by the sight of the other and the knowledge of who the voice on the other side of the line was. Blaster smiled, and the Praxian’s doorwings lowered from a sharp anxious height. “Wanna talk?” The deck unit could only offer what he’d always offered.
“Sure.” A matching smile broke over the gunner’s face as Blaster came up beside him.
The officer playfully knocked his elbow against Bluestreak’s arm. “My quarters?” He sent a request for privacy to his cassettes. Their natural reaction was curiosity that dimmed to a warm pleased feeling when they gained insight as to the reason for the request. The younger mech’s chevroned helm nodded and as they walked neither noticed how close they were to each other.
_______________
Originally, they had only talked but rarely things end as they began. Originally Blaster had only listened to Bluestreak, but he’d moved to soothe hurt, and heal wounds and never had he expected to end up flat on his back plating on his berth, the Praxian rescue straddling his hips, fingers curled into seams, EM fields playing against each other, and his interface panel feeling incredibly tight.
“Blue,” He tilted his helm back as lips and dental plates found his neck struts. This wasn’t what he’d meant this to lead to. It had been over an orn since they’d originally sat in the officer’s quarters and started to unravel the nature of what they had. Words spoke across polite distance had turned into whispers spoken as they rested against one another, and whispers had now turn… “Blue, are you sure?” Blaster had to know. This happened so quickly in the great scheme of things.
Bluestreak kissed at the reddish orange mech’s vocalizer feeling the vibration of the other’s words on his lips. “Yes, I want you. I want you to listen.” The smaller mech’s fingers curled into a seam at Blaster’s hip pulling the their forms closer.
The deck unit raised his hands allowing them to run searchingly over the gray and black mech’s frame. “I will listen. I want to hear you.” One of his hands slipped down, fingers grazing the needy mech’s panel. The sensors in his fingertips picking up the heat and the prickle of static from a building charge. Bluestreak’s lips brushed against Blaster’s chin and then unsurprisingly their lips met. As Blaster parted his lips letting the younger mech press into a deeper kiss, he could only think of how great of a marksman the other was, he’d never had the chance to realize he’d been hit before he fell.