[IDW] One More Sad Song
a/n: I'm not terribly familiar with Jazz and Blaster in IDW so they might be a bit OOC. But I was in the mood for fluffy-angst and that's what's here. Also, apologies in advance for the lame title and the fact that it's self-beta'ed.
Title: One More Sad Song
Universe: IDW, MTMTE before the Lost Light launches
Characters: BlasterxJazz
Rating: T
Warnings: Angst, Fluff, maybe OOC
Description: Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go.
For tf_rare_pairing weekly prompt of Jazz/Blaster, before you go
“So. You're going.”
The words are not a question. There is no judgment in the neutral tone. Just a statement of fact.
“You can still come along,” Blaster says, tilting his helm back into the spray of cleanser, a luxury as of late. “Plenty of action and adventure. Didn't you tell me you were getting bored?”
Dust and grime sluices down his frame, swirling into a drain that would collect said cleanser for recycling. With Cybertron in it's current state, they can't afford to waste anything, not even the so-called waste.
The hands on his back still. “Aren't you tired of it?”
Blaster lowers his helm, giving the question the sericous consideration it deserves. He can read the genuine disquiet in his partner's vocals.
“I don't know how to do it,” he finally admits at length, because this is what has been nagging at him all along. Why he's felt so uncomfortable here in the ruins of Iacon despite having Jazz by his side. “And I won't figure that out by staying here either. Besides, I like Roddy.”
A noncommittal noise and Jazz's hands pick up their steady sweeping. “And you don't like Prowl,” he says shrewdly.
“Who does?” Blaster retorts, his lips quirking into a grin.
Jazz chuckles and Blaster joins him. It's an inside joke, really. One that probably all of the Autobots would share, except for the mech in question. Prowl doesn't have a sense of humor.
“What about Bee?”
Blaster cycles a ventilation and turns to face Jazz, something in him aching to stay, though the urge passes within moments. He meant what he said.
“I like him just fine,” Blaster says, cupping Jazz's face and stroking a thumb over the curve of his jaw. “But you know he can't keep this under wraps for long.”
Jazz's visor flashes brighter. “At least he's trying.”
Blaster shrugs. “True. But you know, there's a lot of universe left to see and who better to spread the word then 'the Voice,' eh?”
“You just like to hear yourself talk.” The back of Jazz's hand raps gently on his chestplate, chiming against the solid windscreen.
“Ha, ha.” Blaster rolls his optics, and lets his hand drop from Jazz. “Come on. We're wasting cleanser.”
Jazz's field lightly touches his, something like apology simmering in it. “So?”
“You're going to make Bumblebee give another speech about conservation and politeness and sharing and all that slag.” Blaster leans forward, hitting the panel and shutting off the spray.
Jazz shakes his helm, grabbing a cloth and giving it a quick run over his frame, black and white gleaming in the pale overhead light. “Poor mech. He's not so good at the speechifying. Another reason he needs you to stick around.”
“Mmm. Nice try.” Blaster is not so dim that he doesn't hear the implicit plea. Jazz would never outright ask him to change his mind or manipulate him into doing so, but he would continue to offer other options.
Just in case.
“Had to give it a shot.” Jazz tosses the used towel into a corner. “Got a few others up my sleeve.”
Blaster shakes his helm and closes the distance between them, ignoring the dampness of his own armor as he drags Jazz into an embrace. It's always a risk to hold Jazz. Sometimes, he squirms free because he can't stand the closeness. Other times, he melts into an embrace as though it's his last connection to sanity.
This is somehow between the two extremes.
Silence settles until Blaster tunes himself into the music of Jazz's frame, the whump of ventilations, and the more distant beat of his spark.
“Won't be the same without you around,” Jazz finally says, his tone carefully light.
Blaster's own spark stutters. “I'm only a comm away.”
“Don't you die either.”
“Have you seen the crew manifest?” Because Blaster has and it's a formula for trouble, a Wheeljack-sized explosion.
“And my point is made.”
Despite himself, Blaster laughs softly. Jazz is right, of course. There's no guarantee Blaster's going to come back alive. Just as there is no guarantee Blaster will return to a united Cybertron. Or even one that's been partially restored. The entire political balance could implode while they are gone.
He supposes those are the chances he has to take. Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go and sometimes, a compromise can't be made.
“You staying?” Jazz asks, his vocals echoing in the washrack, silent save for their ventilations and the drip-drip of a leaking nozzle.
Blaster strokes a hand down Jazz's back, memorizing the sleek feel of his plating, and storing such memories for later. “Until I have to go,” he says.
It's all the concession he can make. And he hopes, some miracle of Primus might occur, and it will turn into the best choice he could have made. For both of them.
***
a/n: I was in an angsty/fluffy mood and this is what happens. *headdesk* Well, I hope it was at least readable. I'm still eying another prompt on there and maybe I can whip that up, too. Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
And don't forgot tomorrow is Flash Fiction Friday. Look forward to what your devious minds have for me. :D
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/257465.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: One More Sad Song
Universe: IDW, MTMTE before the Lost Light launches
Characters: BlasterxJazz
Rating: T
Warnings: Angst, Fluff, maybe OOC
Description: Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go.
For tf_rare_pairing weekly prompt of Jazz/Blaster, before you go
“So. You're going.”
The words are not a question. There is no judgment in the neutral tone. Just a statement of fact.
“You can still come along,” Blaster says, tilting his helm back into the spray of cleanser, a luxury as of late. “Plenty of action and adventure. Didn't you tell me you were getting bored?”
Dust and grime sluices down his frame, swirling into a drain that would collect said cleanser for recycling. With Cybertron in it's current state, they can't afford to waste anything, not even the so-called waste.
The hands on his back still. “Aren't you tired of it?”
Blaster lowers his helm, giving the question the sericous consideration it deserves. He can read the genuine disquiet in his partner's vocals.
“I don't know how to do it,” he finally admits at length, because this is what has been nagging at him all along. Why he's felt so uncomfortable here in the ruins of Iacon despite having Jazz by his side. “And I won't figure that out by staying here either. Besides, I like Roddy.”
A noncommittal noise and Jazz's hands pick up their steady sweeping. “And you don't like Prowl,” he says shrewdly.
“Who does?” Blaster retorts, his lips quirking into a grin.
Jazz chuckles and Blaster joins him. It's an inside joke, really. One that probably all of the Autobots would share, except for the mech in question. Prowl doesn't have a sense of humor.
“What about Bee?”
Blaster cycles a ventilation and turns to face Jazz, something in him aching to stay, though the urge passes within moments. He meant what he said.
“I like him just fine,” Blaster says, cupping Jazz's face and stroking a thumb over the curve of his jaw. “But you know he can't keep this under wraps for long.”
Jazz's visor flashes brighter. “At least he's trying.”
Blaster shrugs. “True. But you know, there's a lot of universe left to see and who better to spread the word then 'the Voice,' eh?”
“You just like to hear yourself talk.” The back of Jazz's hand raps gently on his chestplate, chiming against the solid windscreen.
“Ha, ha.” Blaster rolls his optics, and lets his hand drop from Jazz. “Come on. We're wasting cleanser.”
Jazz's field lightly touches his, something like apology simmering in it. “So?”
“You're going to make Bumblebee give another speech about conservation and politeness and sharing and all that slag.” Blaster leans forward, hitting the panel and shutting off the spray.
Jazz shakes his helm, grabbing a cloth and giving it a quick run over his frame, black and white gleaming in the pale overhead light. “Poor mech. He's not so good at the speechifying. Another reason he needs you to stick around.”
“Mmm. Nice try.” Blaster is not so dim that he doesn't hear the implicit plea. Jazz would never outright ask him to change his mind or manipulate him into doing so, but he would continue to offer other options.
Just in case.
“Had to give it a shot.” Jazz tosses the used towel into a corner. “Got a few others up my sleeve.”
Blaster shakes his helm and closes the distance between them, ignoring the dampness of his own armor as he drags Jazz into an embrace. It's always a risk to hold Jazz. Sometimes, he squirms free because he can't stand the closeness. Other times, he melts into an embrace as though it's his last connection to sanity.
This is somehow between the two extremes.
Silence settles until Blaster tunes himself into the music of Jazz's frame, the whump of ventilations, and the more distant beat of his spark.
“Won't be the same without you around,” Jazz finally says, his tone carefully light.
Blaster's own spark stutters. “I'm only a comm away.”
“Don't you die either.”
“Have you seen the crew manifest?” Because Blaster has and it's a formula for trouble, a Wheeljack-sized explosion.
“And my point is made.”
Despite himself, Blaster laughs softly. Jazz is right, of course. There's no guarantee Blaster's going to come back alive. Just as there is no guarantee Blaster will return to a united Cybertron. Or even one that's been partially restored. The entire political balance could implode while they are gone.
He supposes those are the chances he has to take. Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go and sometimes, a compromise can't be made.
“You staying?” Jazz asks, his vocals echoing in the washrack, silent save for their ventilations and the drip-drip of a leaking nozzle.
Blaster strokes a hand down Jazz's back, memorizing the sleek feel of his plating, and storing such memories for later. “Until I have to go,” he says.
It's all the concession he can make. And he hopes, some miracle of Primus might occur, and it will turn into the best choice he could have made. For both of them.
***
a/n: I was in an angsty/fluffy mood and this is what happens. *headdesk* Well, I hope it was at least readable. I'm still eying another prompt on there and maybe I can whip that up, too. Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
And don't forgot tomorrow is Flash Fiction Friday. Look forward to what your devious minds have for me. :D
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/257465.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.