[Transformers G1] Grey
Title: Grey
Universe: G1
Characters: JazzxBluestreak, Sideswipe, Mirage, Ratchet, Hound, Prowl, Smokescreen
Rating: T
Warning: slight voyeurism, hints of tactile and pnp
Description: Perception and reality are only ever passing acquaintances at best.
For tf-rare-pairings New Beginnings Challenge, prompt Jazz/Bluestreak, altered perceptions.
With an ex-vent that was only slightly above irritated, Mirage checked his chronometer. No, he had not read it wrong the first time. His commander was indeed late. Again.
What was the point of these training sessions again?
Optics flickering through a spectrum of irritation, Mirage prepared to, once again, comm Jazz and ask him where the fragging hell he was. Only in much more polite tones.
The door to the training center slid open with a rattling squeak, Jazz strolling inside almost immediately afterward. Finally.
“You are late,” Mirage said in lieu of a greeting. He stared at his commander with that flat, level look that had intimidated many members of the lower class.
Predictably, Jazz didn't even notice. “I'm not late,” Jazz corrected, swinging himself up onto the training mat with a well-practiced motion. “I always arrive 'xactly when I mean ta.”
Jazz's energy field, usually so well-contained, all but radiated eager pleasure. As though he couldn't possibly hold it to himself.
Mirage's optics narrowed down in suspicion. “I know that look.”
“I don't know what ya mean,” Jazz retorted, rolling his shoulders and bouncing on the balls of his pedes. “Don't we have some trainin' to do or somethin'?”
“Or something.” Mirage stared at his commander. “What is his designation?”
Jazz's restless movements came to a halt, a sly grin curving his lipplate. “Ya know me too well.”
He ought to. They'd been in the same unit for the better part of a decavorn. Jazz might like to think himself mystery incarnate, but Mirage had long since seen past those walls.
Mirage raised an orbital ridge, unwilling to repeat himself.
Jazz huffed a ventilation and then dropped to the padded mat of the ring, folding his arms behind his helm. Apparently, he had no interest in actual training. “Bluestreak.”
Mirage cycled his optics and then, for good measure, rebooted his audials. Surely he was mistaken. “The babbling sniper?”
Jazz chuckled, his vocalizations turning warm and syrupy. “Yeah, that's 'im.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Jazz turned his helm, giving Mirage a long look, his energy field still that excited and pleased whirl. “And why wouldn't I be?”
“He is clearly not your type.” Among other things. Mirage had met Bluestreak several times. The gunner was charming, a bit young and clearly fighting some internal monsters, but an altogether nice mech.
Jazz didn't do nice. Or gentle.
“Ya have no idea what my type is, Mirage,” Jazz retorted, and there was a harder edge to his vocals, a warning. “And didn't we already have a chat about this? Judging mechs by their plating?”
Mirage bristled, armor fluffing out to signify his indignation. “This and that are two entirely different matters.”
“Th' way I see it, they're 'xactly the same.” Jazz leapt to his pedes, an interesting feat of flexibility that curved his backstrut and was further proof as to how he'd earned his position. “And maybe you'll understand that eventually. No training today.”
Mirage frowned, watching his commander flip over the mat's ring and drop down to the floor on silent pedes. “Are you actually serious about him?” He couldn't hide the incredulity in his tone.
Jazz paused with one servo on the door panel, flicking a glance over his shoulder. “Not that it's any of yer business, but yeah, I am.”
The door slid shut behind him. Mirage was left staring at the spot where his commander had stood, confusion blasting his spark. Jazz had never struck him as the commitment sort. Or a mech interested in someone he'd have to protect.
Mirage huffed. He didn't believe Jazz's infatuation for a single astrosecond. Just watch. Within a decaorn, Jazz would have some new mech to occupy his attentions.
Mirage was sure of it.
o0o0o
Smoke and ash made visibility a fragile thing, practically impossible in Smokescreen's opinion. It was the kind of distraction that a diversionary tactician like himself could appreciate, if it had been planned. The only good thing about it now was that it hampered Autobot and Decepticon alike.
The Seekers couldn't see well enough to initiate a proper bombing run, unless they wanted to take out their own troops. And the Autobots couldn't make use of their elite sniper's unit, as they couldn't distinguish Decepticon targets from Autobot allies.
The battle was just about at a stalemate. Smokescreen didn't know who would end up calling the retreat first. Optimus Prime didn't want to lose Tyger Pax, and Megatron wanted to occupy it with equal desperation.
He wondered how many Autobots were going to fall today. And then promptly dumped the calculations as quickly as they cropped up in his processor. Those kinds of pessimistic numbers were Prowl's to figure.
The steady sound of blasterfire dragged Smokescreen from his musing. He ceased peering from behind a battlement, glancing to his left. Bluestreak, a fellow Praxian and one of the last remaining, had been stationed nearby. Smokescreen had heard of the gunner's sharpshooting talent, but this was his first time actually seeing it in action.
Of all of the members of their elite sniping unit, Bluestreak was the only one still attempting to fire at their enemies.
“How can you even see?” Smokescreen demanded, marveling at the mech's intense concentration, the way his blaster never so much as wavered.
Two more rounds tunneled into the Decepticon ranks before Bluestreak withdrew his rifle, ducking back down behind the battlement. “I don't know,” he said, rolling his shoulders, doorwings twitching behind him. “I just do. I have to make the shot so I just do it. I don't really think about it, or process it. I just do it.”
Natural talent then. Spark deep. Smokescreen could admit a fair amount of jealousy.
He craned his neck cables, looking out over the battlefield. He was supposed to be relaying conditions to Prowl after all. Not that the could see much and in this madness, his sensors were fairly useless.
Flitting shapes moved amongst the smoke and debris. Smokescreen cycled his optics through a few settings, trying to determine whether they were threat or ally.
“Ah,” he said with an amused grin. “Prime finally let Jazz badger him into releasing the Spec Ops team.”
Bluestreak was back into position within an astroklik, rifle pressed to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel of it. “Then that's my cue.”
“Cue?” Smokescreen glanced at the gunner.
“They're going to need somemech to cover them. I volunteered.” Bluestreak's optics cycled down and several shots were fired in rapid succession.
Smokescreen peered into the haze, barely hearing the dull thunks as the shots struck home in someone. A Decepticon he hoped. It was hard to tell. Even just distinguishing the flitting shapes of Jazz and his two agents was frag near impossible.
Two huge frames loomed in front of the Special Ops team. Smokescreen muttered a low curse, but Jazz's team didn't even flinch or pause, though both Decepticons were easily larger and a genuine threat.
Bluestreak's rifle punctuated the air with a rapid flurry of bursts. Jazz's teammates hit the ground, rolling to the right and left of their Decepticon opponents, but Jazz didn't move. Didn't so much as twitch as the shots fired passed him, taking down the Decepticons in precise blasts. Energon sprayed in the air, other fluids following.
Smokescreen's ventilations stalled, optics rounding. “Holy... he didn't even flinch.”
“That's because I don't miss.”
Smokescreen quickly summed up what happened and sent it off to Prowl before giving Bluestreak a flat look. “Everybody misses.”
“I don't.” Bluestreak's frame was utterly still, entirely focused on the battlefield, save for what he spared for their conversation. Though it was clear he was utilizing a subroutine. “Not when it matters. He knows that.”
Come to think of it, Smokescreen did seem to remember the rumors flitting about regarding Bluestreak and Jazz. At the time, he had chalked them up to hearsay and dismissed them. But now...
“He trained you?” Smokescreen asked.
Bluestreak cocked his helm, shifting a brief glance to Smokescreen. “You could say that,” he said, and fired another round, one Smokescreen tracked with his optics, all the way to the Decepticon spark casing it punctured. “Among other things.”
On the battlefield, Jazz cast a glance over his shoulder. It was impossible, from the distance, for Jazz to see them, as guarded as they were by the battlements. But somehow, he knew just where to look, just where to flash a grin and a salute before he melded back into the smoke and shadows. His teammates were by his side, as equally concealed.
Jazz and Bluestreak, hmm?
Smokescreen gave the gunner a thoughtful look. Maybe it wasn't so absurd after all.
o0o0o
Four millions years and a brand new planet. Hound still marveled at what changes the war had brought them. He liked Earth. He liked the humans.
He grieved over a planet that had done nothing but degrade over the millennia. There were so few Cybertronians left. But he tried to bury that grief beneath all the good things, the positives. Otherwise he'd succumb to his own melancholy.
There was so much to love about Earth. The flora. The fauna. The people and the music and the culture. It was so rich and vibrant and... Hound ex-vented a calming ventilation. It was almost enough to chase away the worries of the war.
He trudged back to the Ark after a late shift, feeling mud squish on his pedes and in between his gears. He'd have to visit the washracks or Ratchet would pitch a fit. So worth it though. There wasn't anything like mud on Cybertron. It was such a novel irritation.
First, though, a trip to the rec room. Hound felt like he was running on empty and a quick cube ought to fix that. He was built to be rather efficient, but he forgot to refuel often enough that no amount of efficiency helped.
Unsurprisingly, the rec room was deserted. They had all adopted the human method of measuring time, and adapted themselves to the rather truncated scheduling. This late, few Autobots would be milling around
Hound drew himself a ration and slid into a chair, if only to give himself a rest before he dragged his muddy aft to the washracks. The quiet was welcome, though he definitely preferred the noise and clatter of a midday break.
Pedesteps echoed on the edge of his audio sensors. Ah. Company.
He turned to see Jazz moseying his way into the rec room, a definite bounce to his step and a light tune playing from his speakers. Well, the volume was light, the music itself had a definite pep to it.
“Hey, Hound,” Jazz greeted with a playful salute. “Coming off-shift?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable, sharp optics not missing the dark grey streaks of paint that marred Jazz's usually impeccable finish. “Getting energon for you and Blue?”
Jazz chuckled, striding up to the dispenser. “As observant as always.” There wasn't a hint of shame in Jazz's energy field. Just a warm and pleased satisfaction.
“You didn't exhaust him too badly, I hope?” Hound's lips curled with light amusement. It was strange and a bit perplexing, the relationship between Jazz and Bluestreak, saboteur and gunner, but it seemed to be working out all right.
Turning away from the dispenser, Jazz easily juggled the two cubes in his grip, never once losing the cheerful clip to his movements. “You'd be surprised,” he said, a strange curve to his vocals. He jolted as though he were going to say more, but then held himself back.
Hound wasn't quite sure what to make of that. But he figured it wasn't any of his business. Bluestreak was pretty happy, Jazz had lost some of that hard edge since the two of them hooked up, and Hound couldn't fault either of them. Even if it didn't make much sense to him.
“Well, as long as he's on time for his patrol tomorrow. You know how Cliffjumper hates to wait.”
Jazz rolled his optics and his shoulders. “If there's one mech on this base that needs a good tumble in the berth, it's that one.”
“Tell me about it.”
They shared a laugh. Hound, as observant as Jazz had noted, didn't miss the subtle shifting Jazz made toward the door. Eager, he suspected, to return to his berth and his waiting berthmate.
Hound leaned back in his chair, saluting Jazz with his cube. “I won't keep you then. Try not to fry too many circuits. He'll need them.”
Jazz shook his helm, another quiet chuckle rolling from his chassis. “I can't promise anythin'. Later.”
Hound watched him go, unable to wipe the amusement from his face.
o0o0o
The hardest part of putting a mech back together after a battle was dealing with the hovering loved ones. Friends and lovers and family members, all waiting with dreaded anticipation for the medic's final word. Ratchet loathed having to give bad news. He despised it with a passion.
Bad enough he had to boot the annoyances out of his medbay. He understood their hovering. He understood the need to be there, to watch and agonize and hope and fear all at the same time. But they were distractions and when every klik counted, Ratchet couldn't afford distractions.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were his worst offenders, with Inferno coming in a close second. Where one twin was, the other demanded to be. More often than not, Ratchet opted just to sedate the uninjured one and dump him in a corner somewhere. Easier that way all around. Inferno was wily, usually requiring the back-up of bigger mechs than Ratchet, who wasn't exactly tiny himself.
There were others, difficult to certain degrees, but those three were the worst.
Bluestreak and Jazz were... different. Over the vorn, Ratchet had seen these two come together, shock the processors out of everyone, and then stay together. A united unit. A pairing that baffled even the most romantic-edged processor of them all.
They worked, though Ratchet was hard-pressed to explain why.
Bluestreak was rarely injured. But on the few times that Decepticons had gotten in a lucky hit, usually as a result of a bombing run or some kind of sabotage, Bluestreak had taken up residence in Ratchet's medbay. Jazz didn't hover. He didn't pester Ratchet for information or protest when it came time to boot out the worried friends and family.
But if Ratchet was working and heard a scritch in the vents above him, well, he pretended not to notice. Jazz had this thing about control - he didn't like to give it up. He might have trusted Ratchet with his spark and frame, yet there would always be this niggling worry in the corner of his spark. He had to watch for himself, he had to be there.
It was enough that he wasn't in the medbay peering over Ratchet's shoulders, energy field a whirl that somehow managed to be both frenetic and controlled at the same time.
Jazz, however, considering the nature of his profession, was in the medbay four times as often as Bluestreak.
It was unnerving to see Bluestreak so quiet. For those bright and cheerful optics to darken to a somber, flat shade. For Bluestreak to leave the medbay without a single protest, and return with equal silence.
Bluestreak never argued, but as soon as he was allowed inside, he never left. He never moved. He would sit there, by Jazz's side, and wait until the saboteur onlined. He would sit and he would stare and sometimes, he would take Jazz's hand with his own, thumb stroking the soft metals of Jazz's palm over and over and over.
“He can't feel it,” Ratchet had told him once. “His haptic sensors are completely offline.”
Bluestreak hadn't so much as lifted his optics. “Doesn't matter,” he'd replied, vocal tones clipped and curt and very unnerving. “It's what he needs from me.”
That hadn't made a lick of sense to Ratchet at the time. He couldn't ask for an elaboration though because that jury-rigged fuel pump of Trailbreaker's had decided to blow out and Ratchet had to scramble to save Trailbreaker's spark.
Looking at Bluestreak now, though, as he sat by Jazz's side, calmly stroking Jazz's palm over and over, Ratchet was tempted to say as much again.
What came out, however, was something different entirely. “He's going to be fine.”
Bluestreak startled, as though he hadn't realized Ratchet was there, and then cradled Jazz's hand close. “Of course he is,” the gunner replied, lifting Jazz's hand to his lipplates, kissing across his knuckles. “He's not allowed to offline before me.”
Ratchet cycled his optics. The sheer... determination in Bluestreak's tone was something he could have never expected to come from a mech as lightsparked as Bluestreak. There was an edge to it, a ghost of possession and fierce devotion.
Ratchet honestly had no words. What could he say to that? He stood there and he stared and Bluestreak said nothing else, returning to his silent vigil.
Ratchet couldn't find it in himself to interrupt again.
o0o0o
First one twitched and then the other. Prowl tried to ignore them, but his doorwings were responding to outside stimuli which meant that he, in theory, should be paying attention as well. It wasn't often that he ventured out of his office to “socialize,” but Ratchet had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn't start engaging others in conversation.
Cybertronians are social creatures, Ratchet had blathered, on and on. You're not doing yourself any good being cooped up in your office all the time.
Prowl had protested. Vehemently. His efficiency dropped if he couldn't concentrate, and he definitely couldn't do so while being surrounded by the noise and haste of his fellow Autobots. They couldn't do anything quietly. Not refuel, not recharge, not socialize.
In the end, Optimus had sided with Ratchet and Prowl had been given no choice.
Thus the reason for his presence in the rec room, tucked away in the quietest corner he could find, yet one that gave him a clear view of the entire room. Most of his fellow Autobots didn't even notice him until they were on their way back out, which suited Prowl just fine. It meant that they wouldn't bother him unless they had something important to say.
Though ignoring him and being quiet were two entirely different things.
Laughter was first and foremost, perhaps the true reason his sensor panels were twitching. The shift of atmospheric pressure, too, as more and more mechs crowded into the rec room was another explanation. He checked his chronometer. Ah. The second shift had just ended. Small wonder.
With a barely suppressed ex-vent, Prowl saved his work on his current datapad and gave some attention to what his external sensors were telling him. Namely, optics and audials.
“--ously, Jazz. It's not fair,” Powerglide was saying with a little laugh and playful punch to Jazz's shoulder.
Tracks laughed, shoving himself into the conversation, unwilling to be left out of anything. “He does make for a diligent little housewife, though, doesn't he?”
Housewife? What in Primus' name were they talking about?
Jazz tried to shoulder his way through the crowd, laughing them off with his usual flair. “You all are startin' to sound a bit jealous.”
“Of course we are!” Sideswipe exclaimed from where he was all but hanging off of Sunstreaker's arm, though his twin looked to be seconds away from pummeling Sideswipe if he didn't let go. “Blue's too good for a mech like you. All sweet and innocent as he is.”
Ahhh. Prowl sat back in his chair, comprehension dawning. Would they never learn? One would think that his fellow Autobots would have better things to do than gossip. Prowl certainly did.
“Innocent?” Jazz broke out into a wicked grin and a barely muffled series of snickers. “Yeah, sure he is.”
Jazz noticed him watching, visor flicking Prowl's direction to acknowledge it. He tilted his energon in greeting, understanding passing between them.
Innocent? Sweet? Clearly these mechs knew nothing about their relationship. Jazz probably preferred it that way, as much as he loved to cling to his mysterious aura. Bluestreak probably thought it for the best.
Still, Prowl felt the corners of his lipplates pull into an amused smirk. No, these mechs had no clue how very wrong they were.
o0o0o
Sideswipe whistled as he walked. Or well, he tried to at any rate. Strange sounds the humans made. He'd been fascinated when he caught Spike whistling and demanded the teen teach him. That had been an interesting exercise in futility. Vocal chords and vocal processors weren't quite the same thing, but Sideswipe had given it a try.
Sooner or later, he was going to get it down.
But since he was trying to be sneaky and nonchalant, perhaps he'd save his practice for another day. Sideswipe shut up, the silence of the hallway surrounding him. He was alone. Perfect.
Except, though, for that sound.
Sideswipe paused, helm cocking to the side. A whuff of ventilation. The lightest scratch of metal on metal. A muffled noise, like a whimper but not.
In fact, it sounded an awful lot like someone was putting on a little show just out of sight in the hallway. Sideswipe grinned from audial to audial and quickly activated a few Special Ops protocols he'd convinced Bumblebee to teach him. He was almost running on silent.
He snuck to the curve of the corridor and peered around it, just to see who was up to no good in the hallway. Red Alert had this strict no-public-displays policy that pretty much everyone ignored. Well, save for boring mechs like Prowl who probably interfaced with the lights off and in total silence. If he even interfaced at all.
Sideswipe shook his helm to dispel the unsettling images of Prowl interfacing and concentrated on the task at hand, just as another stifled moan floated to his audials. He caught the barest wisp of an uncontrolled energy field, tight with pleasure. Nice. There was a low murmur of vocalization and then--
Sideswipe's jaw nearly dropped. His engine gave a stuttered rev that he quickly smothered, ducking back around the curve of the hallway before either of the two mechs could spot him, if they'd heard him.
He'd seen plenty of arousing things in his time. But Jazz pinned to the wall by Bluestreak really had to top the list. Especially considering the look on Jazz's faceplate, visor dim with arousal, lips parted, faceplate flushed. Bluestreak had a knee nudged between Jazz's legs, pinning him in place, and both of his hands were locked around Jazz's wrists, pressed as they were to the wall.
Bluestreak was talking. Sideswipe could hear it now that he dialed up his audials, quieted his ventilations, and strained to listen. Bluestreak talking was nothing new. The mech could babble on and on about anything and everything. But this? This was more than talking.
Who could have known that the endless blather could shift smoothly into such heated, sensual words? That Bluestreak's vocalizer could hit just the right range of harmonics to make a mech's spark chamber resonate?
A shiver raced across Sideswipe's plating. He risked another glance, catching sight of Bluestreak nuzzling into Jazz's neck cables, provoking a murmured gasp from the saboteur. Jazz didn't protest or even make a token attempt to escape, his frame undulating with a rolling purr of metal on metal.
Sideswipe honestly couldn't believe that they were doing this here, in the hallway, where anyone could see them! Granted, no one was supposed to be here anyway, especially not Sideswipe himself, and no one would have seen them if Sideswipe hadn't been where he wasn't supposed to be. But still!
His ventilations kicked on with another telling whirr, despite all of Sideswipe's attempts to smother them. Perhaps it was time he made himself scarce. But not without another peek. Just for the lonely times, not that Sideswipe really had any of those.
Sideswipe chanced a peek, watching curls of static dance over Jazz's frame, hearing another one of those stifled moans that seemed to dart straight to his audials and down his backstrut. Bluestreak had shifted Jazz's hands to one hold, his free hand now diving down to bury itself in a gap in Jazz's hip, no doubt stroking the wires beneath.
Who knew that perpetually chatty Bluestreak had it in him? Sideswipe was a bit disappointed he hadn't noticed the potential himself.
Heat pooled in Sideswipe's interface, the urge to connect with another mech burning through him.
And then Jazz tilted his helm and his visor looked straight in Sideswipe's direction. The edge of the saboteur's lips tilted in a knowing smirk. As if to say, “hah, look what I got.”
It was also a warning, one Sideswipe took to spark. He quickly made himself scarce.
Seriously though. Who knew?
***
a/n: Self-beta'ed. I looked it over a coupla times but feel free to point out any grammatical mistakes. This is the first time I've written several of these characters so any comments on characterization would be lovely. I think Jazz/Bluestreak is one of my starring OTPs. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/211481.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Universe: G1
Characters: JazzxBluestreak, Sideswipe, Mirage, Ratchet, Hound, Prowl, Smokescreen
Rating: T
Warning: slight voyeurism, hints of tactile and pnp
Description: Perception and reality are only ever passing acquaintances at best.
For tf-rare-pairings New Beginnings Challenge, prompt Jazz/Bluestreak, altered perceptions.
With an ex-vent that was only slightly above irritated, Mirage checked his chronometer. No, he had not read it wrong the first time. His commander was indeed late. Again.
What was the point of these training sessions again?
Optics flickering through a spectrum of irritation, Mirage prepared to, once again, comm Jazz and ask him where the fragging hell he was. Only in much more polite tones.
The door to the training center slid open with a rattling squeak, Jazz strolling inside almost immediately afterward. Finally.
“You are late,” Mirage said in lieu of a greeting. He stared at his commander with that flat, level look that had intimidated many members of the lower class.
Predictably, Jazz didn't even notice. “I'm not late,” Jazz corrected, swinging himself up onto the training mat with a well-practiced motion. “I always arrive 'xactly when I mean ta.”
Jazz's energy field, usually so well-contained, all but radiated eager pleasure. As though he couldn't possibly hold it to himself.
Mirage's optics narrowed down in suspicion. “I know that look.”
“I don't know what ya mean,” Jazz retorted, rolling his shoulders and bouncing on the balls of his pedes. “Don't we have some trainin' to do or somethin'?”
“Or something.” Mirage stared at his commander. “What is his designation?”
Jazz's restless movements came to a halt, a sly grin curving his lipplate. “Ya know me too well.”
He ought to. They'd been in the same unit for the better part of a decavorn. Jazz might like to think himself mystery incarnate, but Mirage had long since seen past those walls.
Mirage raised an orbital ridge, unwilling to repeat himself.
Jazz huffed a ventilation and then dropped to the padded mat of the ring, folding his arms behind his helm. Apparently, he had no interest in actual training. “Bluestreak.”
Mirage cycled his optics and then, for good measure, rebooted his audials. Surely he was mistaken. “The babbling sniper?”
Jazz chuckled, his vocalizations turning warm and syrupy. “Yeah, that's 'im.”
“You cannot be serious.”
Jazz turned his helm, giving Mirage a long look, his energy field still that excited and pleased whirl. “And why wouldn't I be?”
“He is clearly not your type.” Among other things. Mirage had met Bluestreak several times. The gunner was charming, a bit young and clearly fighting some internal monsters, but an altogether nice mech.
Jazz didn't do nice. Or gentle.
“Ya have no idea what my type is, Mirage,” Jazz retorted, and there was a harder edge to his vocals, a warning. “And didn't we already have a chat about this? Judging mechs by their plating?”
Mirage bristled, armor fluffing out to signify his indignation. “This and that are two entirely different matters.”
“Th' way I see it, they're 'xactly the same.” Jazz leapt to his pedes, an interesting feat of flexibility that curved his backstrut and was further proof as to how he'd earned his position. “And maybe you'll understand that eventually. No training today.”
Mirage frowned, watching his commander flip over the mat's ring and drop down to the floor on silent pedes. “Are you actually serious about him?” He couldn't hide the incredulity in his tone.
Jazz paused with one servo on the door panel, flicking a glance over his shoulder. “Not that it's any of yer business, but yeah, I am.”
The door slid shut behind him. Mirage was left staring at the spot where his commander had stood, confusion blasting his spark. Jazz had never struck him as the commitment sort. Or a mech interested in someone he'd have to protect.
Mirage huffed. He didn't believe Jazz's infatuation for a single astrosecond. Just watch. Within a decaorn, Jazz would have some new mech to occupy his attentions.
Mirage was sure of it.
o0o0o
Smoke and ash made visibility a fragile thing, practically impossible in Smokescreen's opinion. It was the kind of distraction that a diversionary tactician like himself could appreciate, if it had been planned. The only good thing about it now was that it hampered Autobot and Decepticon alike.
The Seekers couldn't see well enough to initiate a proper bombing run, unless they wanted to take out their own troops. And the Autobots couldn't make use of their elite sniper's unit, as they couldn't distinguish Decepticon targets from Autobot allies.
The battle was just about at a stalemate. Smokescreen didn't know who would end up calling the retreat first. Optimus Prime didn't want to lose Tyger Pax, and Megatron wanted to occupy it with equal desperation.
He wondered how many Autobots were going to fall today. And then promptly dumped the calculations as quickly as they cropped up in his processor. Those kinds of pessimistic numbers were Prowl's to figure.
The steady sound of blasterfire dragged Smokescreen from his musing. He ceased peering from behind a battlement, glancing to his left. Bluestreak, a fellow Praxian and one of the last remaining, had been stationed nearby. Smokescreen had heard of the gunner's sharpshooting talent, but this was his first time actually seeing it in action.
Of all of the members of their elite sniping unit, Bluestreak was the only one still attempting to fire at their enemies.
“How can you even see?” Smokescreen demanded, marveling at the mech's intense concentration, the way his blaster never so much as wavered.
Two more rounds tunneled into the Decepticon ranks before Bluestreak withdrew his rifle, ducking back down behind the battlement. “I don't know,” he said, rolling his shoulders, doorwings twitching behind him. “I just do. I have to make the shot so I just do it. I don't really think about it, or process it. I just do it.”
Natural talent then. Spark deep. Smokescreen could admit a fair amount of jealousy.
He craned his neck cables, looking out over the battlefield. He was supposed to be relaying conditions to Prowl after all. Not that the could see much and in this madness, his sensors were fairly useless.
Flitting shapes moved amongst the smoke and debris. Smokescreen cycled his optics through a few settings, trying to determine whether they were threat or ally.
“Ah,” he said with an amused grin. “Prime finally let Jazz badger him into releasing the Spec Ops team.”
Bluestreak was back into position within an astroklik, rifle pressed to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel of it. “Then that's my cue.”
“Cue?” Smokescreen glanced at the gunner.
“They're going to need somemech to cover them. I volunteered.” Bluestreak's optics cycled down and several shots were fired in rapid succession.
Smokescreen peered into the haze, barely hearing the dull thunks as the shots struck home in someone. A Decepticon he hoped. It was hard to tell. Even just distinguishing the flitting shapes of Jazz and his two agents was frag near impossible.
Two huge frames loomed in front of the Special Ops team. Smokescreen muttered a low curse, but Jazz's team didn't even flinch or pause, though both Decepticons were easily larger and a genuine threat.
Bluestreak's rifle punctuated the air with a rapid flurry of bursts. Jazz's teammates hit the ground, rolling to the right and left of their Decepticon opponents, but Jazz didn't move. Didn't so much as twitch as the shots fired passed him, taking down the Decepticons in precise blasts. Energon sprayed in the air, other fluids following.
Smokescreen's ventilations stalled, optics rounding. “Holy... he didn't even flinch.”
“That's because I don't miss.”
Smokescreen quickly summed up what happened and sent it off to Prowl before giving Bluestreak a flat look. “Everybody misses.”
“I don't.” Bluestreak's frame was utterly still, entirely focused on the battlefield, save for what he spared for their conversation. Though it was clear he was utilizing a subroutine. “Not when it matters. He knows that.”
Come to think of it, Smokescreen did seem to remember the rumors flitting about regarding Bluestreak and Jazz. At the time, he had chalked them up to hearsay and dismissed them. But now...
“He trained you?” Smokescreen asked.
Bluestreak cocked his helm, shifting a brief glance to Smokescreen. “You could say that,” he said, and fired another round, one Smokescreen tracked with his optics, all the way to the Decepticon spark casing it punctured. “Among other things.”
On the battlefield, Jazz cast a glance over his shoulder. It was impossible, from the distance, for Jazz to see them, as guarded as they were by the battlements. But somehow, he knew just where to look, just where to flash a grin and a salute before he melded back into the smoke and shadows. His teammates were by his side, as equally concealed.
Jazz and Bluestreak, hmm?
Smokescreen gave the gunner a thoughtful look. Maybe it wasn't so absurd after all.
o0o0o
Four millions years and a brand new planet. Hound still marveled at what changes the war had brought them. He liked Earth. He liked the humans.
He grieved over a planet that had done nothing but degrade over the millennia. There were so few Cybertronians left. But he tried to bury that grief beneath all the good things, the positives. Otherwise he'd succumb to his own melancholy.
There was so much to love about Earth. The flora. The fauna. The people and the music and the culture. It was so rich and vibrant and... Hound ex-vented a calming ventilation. It was almost enough to chase away the worries of the war.
He trudged back to the Ark after a late shift, feeling mud squish on his pedes and in between his gears. He'd have to visit the washracks or Ratchet would pitch a fit. So worth it though. There wasn't anything like mud on Cybertron. It was such a novel irritation.
First, though, a trip to the rec room. Hound felt like he was running on empty and a quick cube ought to fix that. He was built to be rather efficient, but he forgot to refuel often enough that no amount of efficiency helped.
Unsurprisingly, the rec room was deserted. They had all adopted the human method of measuring time, and adapted themselves to the rather truncated scheduling. This late, few Autobots would be milling around
Hound drew himself a ration and slid into a chair, if only to give himself a rest before he dragged his muddy aft to the washracks. The quiet was welcome, though he definitely preferred the noise and clatter of a midday break.
Pedesteps echoed on the edge of his audio sensors. Ah. Company.
He turned to see Jazz moseying his way into the rec room, a definite bounce to his step and a light tune playing from his speakers. Well, the volume was light, the music itself had a definite pep to it.
“Hey, Hound,” Jazz greeted with a playful salute. “Coming off-shift?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable, sharp optics not missing the dark grey streaks of paint that marred Jazz's usually impeccable finish. “Getting energon for you and Blue?”
Jazz chuckled, striding up to the dispenser. “As observant as always.” There wasn't a hint of shame in Jazz's energy field. Just a warm and pleased satisfaction.
“You didn't exhaust him too badly, I hope?” Hound's lips curled with light amusement. It was strange and a bit perplexing, the relationship between Jazz and Bluestreak, saboteur and gunner, but it seemed to be working out all right.
Turning away from the dispenser, Jazz easily juggled the two cubes in his grip, never once losing the cheerful clip to his movements. “You'd be surprised,” he said, a strange curve to his vocals. He jolted as though he were going to say more, but then held himself back.
Hound wasn't quite sure what to make of that. But he figured it wasn't any of his business. Bluestreak was pretty happy, Jazz had lost some of that hard edge since the two of them hooked up, and Hound couldn't fault either of them. Even if it didn't make much sense to him.
“Well, as long as he's on time for his patrol tomorrow. You know how Cliffjumper hates to wait.”
Jazz rolled his optics and his shoulders. “If there's one mech on this base that needs a good tumble in the berth, it's that one.”
“Tell me about it.”
They shared a laugh. Hound, as observant as Jazz had noted, didn't miss the subtle shifting Jazz made toward the door. Eager, he suspected, to return to his berth and his waiting berthmate.
Hound leaned back in his chair, saluting Jazz with his cube. “I won't keep you then. Try not to fry too many circuits. He'll need them.”
Jazz shook his helm, another quiet chuckle rolling from his chassis. “I can't promise anythin'. Later.”
Hound watched him go, unable to wipe the amusement from his face.
o0o0o
The hardest part of putting a mech back together after a battle was dealing with the hovering loved ones. Friends and lovers and family members, all waiting with dreaded anticipation for the medic's final word. Ratchet loathed having to give bad news. He despised it with a passion.
Bad enough he had to boot the annoyances out of his medbay. He understood their hovering. He understood the need to be there, to watch and agonize and hope and fear all at the same time. But they were distractions and when every klik counted, Ratchet couldn't afford distractions.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were his worst offenders, with Inferno coming in a close second. Where one twin was, the other demanded to be. More often than not, Ratchet opted just to sedate the uninjured one and dump him in a corner somewhere. Easier that way all around. Inferno was wily, usually requiring the back-up of bigger mechs than Ratchet, who wasn't exactly tiny himself.
There were others, difficult to certain degrees, but those three were the worst.
Bluestreak and Jazz were... different. Over the vorn, Ratchet had seen these two come together, shock the processors out of everyone, and then stay together. A united unit. A pairing that baffled even the most romantic-edged processor of them all.
They worked, though Ratchet was hard-pressed to explain why.
Bluestreak was rarely injured. But on the few times that Decepticons had gotten in a lucky hit, usually as a result of a bombing run or some kind of sabotage, Bluestreak had taken up residence in Ratchet's medbay. Jazz didn't hover. He didn't pester Ratchet for information or protest when it came time to boot out the worried friends and family.
But if Ratchet was working and heard a scritch in the vents above him, well, he pretended not to notice. Jazz had this thing about control - he didn't like to give it up. He might have trusted Ratchet with his spark and frame, yet there would always be this niggling worry in the corner of his spark. He had to watch for himself, he had to be there.
It was enough that he wasn't in the medbay peering over Ratchet's shoulders, energy field a whirl that somehow managed to be both frenetic and controlled at the same time.
Jazz, however, considering the nature of his profession, was in the medbay four times as often as Bluestreak.
It was unnerving to see Bluestreak so quiet. For those bright and cheerful optics to darken to a somber, flat shade. For Bluestreak to leave the medbay without a single protest, and return with equal silence.
Bluestreak never argued, but as soon as he was allowed inside, he never left. He never moved. He would sit there, by Jazz's side, and wait until the saboteur onlined. He would sit and he would stare and sometimes, he would take Jazz's hand with his own, thumb stroking the soft metals of Jazz's palm over and over and over.
“He can't feel it,” Ratchet had told him once. “His haptic sensors are completely offline.”
Bluestreak hadn't so much as lifted his optics. “Doesn't matter,” he'd replied, vocal tones clipped and curt and very unnerving. “It's what he needs from me.”
That hadn't made a lick of sense to Ratchet at the time. He couldn't ask for an elaboration though because that jury-rigged fuel pump of Trailbreaker's had decided to blow out and Ratchet had to scramble to save Trailbreaker's spark.
Looking at Bluestreak now, though, as he sat by Jazz's side, calmly stroking Jazz's palm over and over, Ratchet was tempted to say as much again.
What came out, however, was something different entirely. “He's going to be fine.”
Bluestreak startled, as though he hadn't realized Ratchet was there, and then cradled Jazz's hand close. “Of course he is,” the gunner replied, lifting Jazz's hand to his lipplates, kissing across his knuckles. “He's not allowed to offline before me.”
Ratchet cycled his optics. The sheer... determination in Bluestreak's tone was something he could have never expected to come from a mech as lightsparked as Bluestreak. There was an edge to it, a ghost of possession and fierce devotion.
Ratchet honestly had no words. What could he say to that? He stood there and he stared and Bluestreak said nothing else, returning to his silent vigil.
Ratchet couldn't find it in himself to interrupt again.
o0o0o
First one twitched and then the other. Prowl tried to ignore them, but his doorwings were responding to outside stimuli which meant that he, in theory, should be paying attention as well. It wasn't often that he ventured out of his office to “socialize,” but Ratchet had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn't start engaging others in conversation.
Cybertronians are social creatures, Ratchet had blathered, on and on. You're not doing yourself any good being cooped up in your office all the time.
Prowl had protested. Vehemently. His efficiency dropped if he couldn't concentrate, and he definitely couldn't do so while being surrounded by the noise and haste of his fellow Autobots. They couldn't do anything quietly. Not refuel, not recharge, not socialize.
In the end, Optimus had sided with Ratchet and Prowl had been given no choice.
Thus the reason for his presence in the rec room, tucked away in the quietest corner he could find, yet one that gave him a clear view of the entire room. Most of his fellow Autobots didn't even notice him until they were on their way back out, which suited Prowl just fine. It meant that they wouldn't bother him unless they had something important to say.
Though ignoring him and being quiet were two entirely different things.
Laughter was first and foremost, perhaps the true reason his sensor panels were twitching. The shift of atmospheric pressure, too, as more and more mechs crowded into the rec room was another explanation. He checked his chronometer. Ah. The second shift had just ended. Small wonder.
With a barely suppressed ex-vent, Prowl saved his work on his current datapad and gave some attention to what his external sensors were telling him. Namely, optics and audials.
“--ously, Jazz. It's not fair,” Powerglide was saying with a little laugh and playful punch to Jazz's shoulder.
Tracks laughed, shoving himself into the conversation, unwilling to be left out of anything. “He does make for a diligent little housewife, though, doesn't he?”
Housewife? What in Primus' name were they talking about?
Jazz tried to shoulder his way through the crowd, laughing them off with his usual flair. “You all are startin' to sound a bit jealous.”
“Of course we are!” Sideswipe exclaimed from where he was all but hanging off of Sunstreaker's arm, though his twin looked to be seconds away from pummeling Sideswipe if he didn't let go. “Blue's too good for a mech like you. All sweet and innocent as he is.”
Ahhh. Prowl sat back in his chair, comprehension dawning. Would they never learn? One would think that his fellow Autobots would have better things to do than gossip. Prowl certainly did.
“Innocent?” Jazz broke out into a wicked grin and a barely muffled series of snickers. “Yeah, sure he is.”
Jazz noticed him watching, visor flicking Prowl's direction to acknowledge it. He tilted his energon in greeting, understanding passing between them.
Innocent? Sweet? Clearly these mechs knew nothing about their relationship. Jazz probably preferred it that way, as much as he loved to cling to his mysterious aura. Bluestreak probably thought it for the best.
Still, Prowl felt the corners of his lipplates pull into an amused smirk. No, these mechs had no clue how very wrong they were.
o0o0o
Sideswipe whistled as he walked. Or well, he tried to at any rate. Strange sounds the humans made. He'd been fascinated when he caught Spike whistling and demanded the teen teach him. That had been an interesting exercise in futility. Vocal chords and vocal processors weren't quite the same thing, but Sideswipe had given it a try.
Sooner or later, he was going to get it down.
But since he was trying to be sneaky and nonchalant, perhaps he'd save his practice for another day. Sideswipe shut up, the silence of the hallway surrounding him. He was alone. Perfect.
Except, though, for that sound.
Sideswipe paused, helm cocking to the side. A whuff of ventilation. The lightest scratch of metal on metal. A muffled noise, like a whimper but not.
In fact, it sounded an awful lot like someone was putting on a little show just out of sight in the hallway. Sideswipe grinned from audial to audial and quickly activated a few Special Ops protocols he'd convinced Bumblebee to teach him. He was almost running on silent.
He snuck to the curve of the corridor and peered around it, just to see who was up to no good in the hallway. Red Alert had this strict no-public-displays policy that pretty much everyone ignored. Well, save for boring mechs like Prowl who probably interfaced with the lights off and in total silence. If he even interfaced at all.
Sideswipe shook his helm to dispel the unsettling images of Prowl interfacing and concentrated on the task at hand, just as another stifled moan floated to his audials. He caught the barest wisp of an uncontrolled energy field, tight with pleasure. Nice. There was a low murmur of vocalization and then--
Sideswipe's jaw nearly dropped. His engine gave a stuttered rev that he quickly smothered, ducking back around the curve of the hallway before either of the two mechs could spot him, if they'd heard him.
He'd seen plenty of arousing things in his time. But Jazz pinned to the wall by Bluestreak really had to top the list. Especially considering the look on Jazz's faceplate, visor dim with arousal, lips parted, faceplate flushed. Bluestreak had a knee nudged between Jazz's legs, pinning him in place, and both of his hands were locked around Jazz's wrists, pressed as they were to the wall.
Bluestreak was talking. Sideswipe could hear it now that he dialed up his audials, quieted his ventilations, and strained to listen. Bluestreak talking was nothing new. The mech could babble on and on about anything and everything. But this? This was more than talking.
Who could have known that the endless blather could shift smoothly into such heated, sensual words? That Bluestreak's vocalizer could hit just the right range of harmonics to make a mech's spark chamber resonate?
A shiver raced across Sideswipe's plating. He risked another glance, catching sight of Bluestreak nuzzling into Jazz's neck cables, provoking a murmured gasp from the saboteur. Jazz didn't protest or even make a token attempt to escape, his frame undulating with a rolling purr of metal on metal.
Sideswipe honestly couldn't believe that they were doing this here, in the hallway, where anyone could see them! Granted, no one was supposed to be here anyway, especially not Sideswipe himself, and no one would have seen them if Sideswipe hadn't been where he wasn't supposed to be. But still!
His ventilations kicked on with another telling whirr, despite all of Sideswipe's attempts to smother them. Perhaps it was time he made himself scarce. But not without another peek. Just for the lonely times, not that Sideswipe really had any of those.
Sideswipe chanced a peek, watching curls of static dance over Jazz's frame, hearing another one of those stifled moans that seemed to dart straight to his audials and down his backstrut. Bluestreak had shifted Jazz's hands to one hold, his free hand now diving down to bury itself in a gap in Jazz's hip, no doubt stroking the wires beneath.
Who knew that perpetually chatty Bluestreak had it in him? Sideswipe was a bit disappointed he hadn't noticed the potential himself.
Heat pooled in Sideswipe's interface, the urge to connect with another mech burning through him.
And then Jazz tilted his helm and his visor looked straight in Sideswipe's direction. The edge of the saboteur's lips tilted in a knowing smirk. As if to say, “hah, look what I got.”
It was also a warning, one Sideswipe took to spark. He quickly made himself scarce.
Seriously though. Who knew?
***
a/n: Self-beta'ed. I looked it over a coupla times but feel free to point out any grammatical mistakes. This is the first time I've written several of these characters so any comments on characterization would be lovely. I think Jazz/Bluestreak is one of my starring OTPs. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/211481.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.