[G1] Before the Thunder - Part Two
Dec. 16th, 2017 12:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Before the Thunder Part Two
Universe: G1, Mastermind
Character: Bluestreak, Soundwave, Jazz, Background Cameos
Rating: T
There was a certain ambient noise present in any bar, the volume of it varying by patronage. Visages was a mid-range lounge, casual conversation just low enough to hear the music pumping through the speakers, and the clink of glass on tabletops. So when silence descended throughout the space, it was enough to make Bluestreak’s armor crawl.
He finished mixing a Toxic Turnover and turned around, optics and sensory panels both scanning the bar to find the reason why. When Bluestreak found it, standing by the door awkwardly like he wasn’t sure what he was doing here, he almost dropped the finished drink.
What in Unicron’s rusted undergarments was Soundwave doing here? He wasn’t known for socializing or going to bars. And yes, Visages was welcoming to all types, former Autobots and Decepticons and Neutrals. But the only member of command of any faction to ever pass through those doors was Jazz, and no one blinked twice at that. It was just who Jazz was.
Soundwave was, as Jazz would say, a whole different kettle of fish.
Bluestreak watched, as did everyone else in the bar, as Soundwave gathered his wits about him and strode through the gawking crowd as if it didn’t bother him. He made a beeline for the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat himself carefully. If he noticed that the nearest mechs to the stool abruptly grabbed their drinks and made for an empty booth, he didn’t show it.
Bluestreak worked his intake and planted a smile on his lips. He slid the Toxic Turnover down to Sideswipe and grabbed the towel from his shoulder, hiding his nervousness by wiping his hands.
“Welcome to Visages,” he said cheerfully as he approached Soundwave, given that his other bartender seemed to have vanished the moment Soundwave appeared. Knew how to clear a room, he did. “What can I get for you?”
Soundwave stared at him for a long moment before he rested his arms on the counter. His mouthguard slid open, baring the lower half of his face to the room.
Bluestreak froze and would only later admit to staring under torture. Soundwave… was pretty. He’d imagined a scarred, horrifying visage. And yes, there were scars. Small ones, like little knifemarks around Soundwave’s lips and cheeks, but they didn’t detract from his appearance. His lips were ones Bluestreak could easily imagine sliding his thumb between. His cheeks tinged a pale blue as if he were blushing.
“--please.”
Soundwave gave his order, and Bluestreak hadn’t heard it. He was too busy ogling. He forced himself back into awareness, coughing a ventilation.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he said with forced cheer, because now everyone in Visages was staring for an entirely different reason. “The noise, you know. What did you want?”
Soundwave shifted on the stool, as if he felt the weight of the stares. “Maccadam’s Special.”
“Simple enough. I’ll get right to it.” Bluestreak grinned a service-grin and whipped around, trying to hide the heat in his cheeks. Damn but Soundwave was pretty.
And it was just weird that he was here. In a bar. Ordering engex. Granted, the Maccadam’s Special was the most basic, least intoxicating drink on the menu, outside of a Weak Spritzer, but still. Soundwave wasn’t one known to desire socializing, and he hadn’t even brought any of his cassettes with him.
Did he even have friends?
Behind Bluestreak, the ambient noise picked up again, now low murmurs rather than the excited conversation it had been before. It was better than the silence, but only just. If Soundwave realized the effect he had on the patrons, he didn’t show it.
There was a treaty, so Soundwave wasn’t here to attack. Or at least Bluestreak hoped not. Soundwave was pretty loyal to Megatron, and was the last ‘Con Bluestreak expected to go against Megatron’s wishes. He wasn’t disallowed from coming into Visages either so he had every right to be here. It was just… weird.
Bluestreak poured the Special into a tall glass and turned back toward Soundwave, sliding it across the counter for him. “Should I, uh, start a tab or…?” He left the question open-ended, hoping to get more conversation out of the mech.
“Tab unnecessary,” Soundwave replied and offered a cred chip to Bluestreak. “Change unnecessary also.”
“Uh, thanks. I guess.” Bluestreak slid the chip into the reader at the register, and nearly boggled at the tip Soundwave offered him.
That was an absurd amount of creds. What the frag was Soundwave’s angle here? Well, his drinks were covered for the rest of his night either way.
The door opened again, with a loud bang, and Bluestreak nearly jumped.
“The fun has arrived!” Jazz announced loudly as he strode inside, hands in the air and a grin on his lips.
His arrival shattered the tension. Or cracked it any rate. More of the ambient noise returned, almost to a normal level. It was as if the patrons felt safer around Soundwave now that Jazz was here.
Jazz, who made a beeline to the bar, pulled out an empty stool beside Soundwave, and clambered up into it. “Sounders! Look at you, socializing with the common folk. I’m proud of you.” He slapped Soundwave’s shoulder, and Bluestreak’s vents caught in his intake.
Soundwave cringed, his mouth turning downward before he buried it behind his glass. He subtly inched away from Jazz, not that it made much difference.
“Hey Baby Blue,” Jazz continued as he rapped his hands on the counter in a playful beat, his visor bright and his grin a little too forced. “How’s it hanging?”
Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Why do I feel like you’re up to no good right now?” He might have put a touch of a growl to his vocals, enough for Jazz to know he meant business.
His former commander, often lover, and occasional sub, just smirked and leaned an elbow on the counter, propping his chin into his hand. “I am nothing but good, sweetspark.” He flashed his visor in a wink. “Can I get a Pretty Prime?”
Bluestreak snorted. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Optimus about that.” He rolled his optics and turned back to the cabinet, sifting through the bottled brews for the one Jazz favored. “I don’t think he’s your type.”
“And sadly, he’s taken.” Jazz sighed theatrically. “What’s a mech gotta do to get a hot date around here? A thousand or so mechs on Cybertron and not a single love match to be found. Isn’t that right, Sounders?”
Jazz jostled Soundwave with his elbow, and Soundwave’s shoulders hunched. He curled around his drink, hardly touched, mouth twisted into a moue of aggravation.
Bluestreak pulled the cap off the brew and handed it to Jazz. “Maybe that’s because you’re not looking in the right places.”
Jazz barked a laugh. “You’re probably right about that, Blue. But hey, Sounders. Get this. If there’s someone around here who has no problem getting a date, it’s Baby Blue. Mechs love ‘im. He’s even got a stalker!”
Bluestreak sighed. He hadn’t believed it when Jazz sent him that message late last night. Of course, Bluestreak knew he’d been surveilled by someone, but a secret admirer? It sounded absurd, like some cheesy romantic comedy. If it wasn’t for the fact that Jazz knew better, Bluestreak would have thought it a tasteless joke.
“Can we not talk about that?” he asked as he wiped the bartop with his rag, though it wasn’t at all dirty. “I don’t like thinking about some creep out there following me.”
He glanced down the bar, but Riptide had emerged from wherever he’d been hiding, and was now taking care of the other patrons. It was a slow night. Which meant Bluestreak could sit here and chat with Jazz if he wanted, as long as he helped anyone who came around.
Not like Mirage could pitch a fit anyway. They co-owned this place. Bluestreak had as much say in how it was run as Mirage did.
“Fair enough.” Jazz slurped down half of his brew and lounged against the bar, giving Bluestreak a dopey grin. “But you know I’d never let anyone hurt ya, right? It don’t matter who they are.”
Bluestreak blinked. That was an oddly… intense statement, backed up by the intense glimmer in Jazz’s visor, and the reach of his field. This was as much Fun Time Jazz as it was Third-in-Command Jazz.
“Yeah,” Bluestreak said. “I know.” He slung the towel back over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Both of you.” He cut a gaze toward Soundwave, but the mech was staring into his glass like it held the answers to the universe.
Weird.
Bluestreak shrugged and headed to the other end of the bar, where a rowdy trio of Neutrals were being obnoxious in their demands for more booze. Nope. They were cut off. Bluestreak didn’t need customers like them. Factions didn’t matter. Behavior did.
They complained, of course they did, but they dragged their afts out of his bar. Let them stagger on toward Swerve’s. That mech served anyone so long as they had creds. Then again, if Bluestreak had a bouncer like Whirl, maybe he’d tolerate the afts more, too.
As the three idiots schlepped out, a horde of new customers came rolling in, a crew of some kind, recently released from shift. They looked tired and thirsty, not the sort to be rowdy, but the sort to sit in a tired clump and spend lots of creds.
Well, there went the idea of loitering around Jazz and having a good conversation. Booming business was a good thing though. And it would keep his mind off of his “secret admirer”.
Bluestreak planted a smile on his face and moved to greet the new customers, preparing himself for a long night. A good one at least. No one here was the sort to cause problem. Not even Soundwave apparently.
All night, Soundwave was seeming content to sit at the bar and sip at his one drink. He didn’t interact with anyone, and the other patrons gave him a wide berth. Except for Jazz, who seemed to delight to carry on a one-sided conversation with Soundwave.
Up until Wheeljack came inside and gave Jazz such an exasperated look that Bluestreak felt a pang of sympathy. It was a look he often gave Jazz himself, especially when Jazz was being very disobedient. Which was often the case as Jazz enjoyed being punished.
Jazz left; Soundwave lingered. Alone, for the most part.
Engex gave mechs courage, not that Sideswipe needed any encouraging. He spied the vast bubble of emptiness around Soundwave and invited himself into one of the stools, half-soused as he babbled at Soundwave. Who bore it all in patient stride. Even as Sideswipe got more than a little, ah, handsy.
Bluestreak was two kliks from wandering over to save Soundwave, as all good bartenders do, when Sunstreaker showed up like a mech in sparkling gold armor. He hadn’t even needed to search the crowd to find his brother, stalking straight toward the bar with exasperation twisting his pretty lips.
Such a shame they hadn’t worked out, Bluestreak sighed to himself. Too much dom in the both of them. While it was occasionally fun to wrestle about in the berth, it was exhausting in the long run.
Sunstreaker exchanged a few words with Soundwave, perhaps deigning to apologize for his brother’s behavior, before he retrieved his drunk twin and dragged Sideswipe out. No one else dared approach Soundwave. Maybe that was for the best.
Bluestreak kept half an optic on Soundwave, making sure he didn’t need anything else, but for the most part, he stayed focus on his work. They were busy enough that both he and Riptide were kept hopping, and they ran out of several necessary supplies before closing time came around.
Exhaustion tugged at every cable and every strut. But it was the good kind of fatigue. The kind that signaled a job well done. It was better than war fatigue, staying up long past the limits of his processor, running on little energon and even less recharge. Living moment to moment, stress to stress, waiting for the floor to crack.
Riptide escorted the last of the patrons to the door as Bluestreak moved back behind the bar, taking stock of their depleted resources. The soft clink of a glass being placed on the bar attracted his attention. He blinked and turned around, optical ridges raised as he realized that one customer had lingered.
Soundwave.
“You know we’re closed now, right?” Bluestreak asked as he swept up the empty glass from the counter and slid it into the wash bin. “That’s usually the point when the customer leaves.”
Soundwave had yet to restore his battlemask, and another blush stained his cheeks. Embarrassed? Talk about weird. Bluestreak didn’t even know Soundwave could be embarrassed. He was the ice man, as Jazz put it.
“Assistance offered,” Soundwave said, and Bluestreak tried his best not to watch those pretty lips shape each word.
“For what? Last time I checked, Visages doesn’t have any need for a telepath, and Blaster already hooked us up with a state of the art sound system.” Bluestreak gathered more empty cups as he talked.
Soundwave shifted on the stool. “Cleaning needed.”
“You mean the bar? That’s what Riptide is for.” Bluestreak chuckled at his own joke, ignoring the derogatory gesture Riptide threw at him from across the room.
“I’m just picking up the chairs. I gotta date tonight, boss.” Another chair clattered to a tabletop. “I told you that earlier.”
Oh. Right. He had.
Primus, Bluestreak was losing his mind. First, he had forgotten his session with Jazz. That was horrible enough.
Bluestreak waved a hand. “Right, you’re right. Sorry, Rip. I forgot. Go on. I’ll take care of this.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Seems I got a volunteer anyway.” Bluestreak jerked a thumb toward Soundwave, who said nothing as he watched the interchange.
Riptide frowned. His gaze shifted to Soundwave in concern, but Bluestreak waved him on. Seriously. He could handle Soundwave, even if the mech was acting weird. He doubted Soundwave would do anything to upset Megatron anyway. Besides, he had Jazz and Prowl both on speed-dial.
And what was it Jazz had said? Prowl was itching to arrest a Decepticon. He’d probably show up here, guns blazing and handcuffs spinning from a finger before Bluestreak could get out the last few bleeps of a distress call.
“Go! If it’s with who I think it is, you don’t want to be late.” Bluestreak shooed him on, flapping his mesh cloth in Riptide’s direction.
Riptide hesitated again, but love conquered all apparently, because he grinned and shot Bluestreak a thumbs up. “Thanks, boss. You’re the best.”
Bluestreak chuckled. “Yeah, I am.”
Riptide saluted and scuttled out, leaving Bluestreak alone with Soundwave in the odd quiet of the bar. The music had been cut off – a sign to the customers that the lounge was closed.
“He’s been seeing Pipes for a while,” Bluestreak said, to fill the silence, as he snagged a bin from behind the counter and moved around the bar, gathering up abandoned cups and cubes. “They’re the cutest couple, I swear. Pipes is head over heels, and I think Riptide likes that Pipes looks at him with stars in his optics.”
He heard a scrape, and looked over to see Soundwave rising from his stool. He watched for a moment as Soundwave moved to pick up chairs and put them on the tables, as Riptide had been doing, all without a word. He was serious about helping apparently.
Bluestreak shrugged and got back to work. He wasn’t about to turn down free labor. Especially since he’d been left on his own. Riptide and Pipes though, they deserved that opportunity. With the war over, everyone deserved to capture what happiness they could, now that there was less chance of losing it.
“I think that’s what everyone is doing now,” Bluestreak continued, because he couldn’t abide by silence, and Soundwave wasn’t complaining. “We’re all allowing ourselves to have some kind of life. Mostly anyway. I’ll bet even you are.”
Silence.
“I know running a bar isn’t exactly the most glamorous thing to do in a post-war world, but I think it suits me.” Bluestreak dumped all the dirty dishes into the washer and arranged them. “I can’t imagine there’s anything else I could do. I didn’t have any skills when they pulled me out of the rubble. All I know now is killing. That’s no good in a post-war world.”
He started up the auto-washer and grabbed a spray bottle and a mesh cloth. He started to wipe down counters, sweeping metal flakes to the floor.
“Not much use for a sniper now. So I thought, what else can I do? What’s easy enough to learn? What use is there for a mech who only knows war and talks too much and still can’t sleep without a light on. Oh, sorry. Recharge. Then Mirage suggested this. He thought it would be good for me. I figured I’d give it a shot.”
Bluestreak shrugged and smiled softly. “Turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it. I listen as well as I talk and everyone likes a chatty bartender. It’s a good job.” He paused as he concentrated on scrubbing at a stain. “It’s a pretty good life. All things considered. Even if some weirdo is stalking me.”
“Apologies.”
Bluestreak blinked and looked up. Soundwave had finished lifting the chairs and now stood in front of the bar, right where Bluestreak was standing. He’d found the broom and dustpan, too, and clutched the handles of both as though they were a lifeline.
“For helping me close? That’s a pretty silly thing to apologize for,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. Soundwave towered over him, but there was something in the way the mech held himself back that kept him from being threatening.
“Negative.” Soundwave’s head dipped a little, the light of his visor shifting away. His engine warbled an odd sound. “Bluestreak… interesting.”
Bluestreak stared. Was Soundwave admitting to what Bluestreak thought he was admitting to?
He braced his hands on the edge of the counter and stared up at Soundwave, narrowing his optics. “You want to tell me why you came here tonight?”
Soundwave’s lips pressed together. His field was nonexistent, giving Bluestreak nothing to work with. His armor had clamped to his frame, as though he expected to be attacked, which was ridiculous. There was no one else here, and Bluestreak was hardly a match for Soundwave if it came down to it.
His behavior was all too telling. Maybe he and Jazz were a lot more alike than they cared to admit.
Bluestreak squared his shoulders. He lifted his chin. “Let me rephrase,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. “Tell me why the frag you’re here.” He didn’t leave it as a question. He made it a command.
Soundwave’s intake bobbed. “… Partnership desired.”
… What? Was he serious?
Bluestreak stared at Soundwave, who wasn’t meeting his gaze, who suddenly snapped his battlemask shut. Out of embarrassment? Out of a sense of vulnerability? Both?
He tilted his head and rapped his fingers on the edge of the counter. He shouldn’t be so surprised, though that Soundwave would choose him of all mechs, that was the confusing part. And also, he could have sworn Soundwave was involved with Megatron. Though it did explain why he’d felt like he were being watched.
“Just to clarify, you mean that you want a relationship with me?” Bluestreak asked, careful to keep his tone firm. Soundwave seemed to respond best to that firmness. “And not one that involves business, but something personal. Something you think you can only get from me.”
“Affirmative.”
Bluestreak nibbled on his bottom lip. “Do you even understand what you’re asking for?”
Slowly, the light in Soundwave’s visor shifted toward Bluestreak, meeting his gaze with more courage than Soundwave had shown all evening. “Affirmative.”
Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Stop that,” he demanded, the chastisement falling a little too easily from his lips. “If you’re going to talk to me, I want that mask gone. I want to know I’m talking to a person, not a machine.”
Silence.
Soundwave stared at him, even the sound of his ventilations stilled. His fingers curled tightly around the broom and dustpan.
And then his battlemask slid away, revealing the lower half of his face once more, the perfect shape of his lips, his cute nasal structure, the blush staining his cheeks. The visor remained, but Bluestreak wasn’t going to argue about that. Maybe it was permanent, maybe he couldn’t see without it.
A thrill chased itself around Bluestreak’s spark.
“So,” he said as his glossa swept over his lips, an unexpected hunger curling in his internals, like the first time Jazz had knelt for him. “You do understand.”
Soundwave’s head dipped minutely. He, too, wet his lips. Bluestreak tracked the motion of his glossa, the way it left a sheen of moisture behind.
“Why me?” Bluestreak asked as he dragged his optics back to Soundwave’s visor.
The flush deepened. It was unfairly cute. For a mech as dangerous as Soundwave to blush of all things, where Bluestreak lacked the words to describe how adorable that was.
Soundwave’s vents quickened. His armor fluttered. His mouth opened and closed, and his vocalizer clicked as though he was engaging it, but faltering in what to say.
Adorable.
Bluestreak leaned forward. “Maybe you don’t know the answer to that,” he murmured, keeping his tone warm and silken, sure to vibrate in Soundwave’s sensitive audials. “You want me to help you figure that out, don’t you?”
A shiver visibly raced across Soundwave’s armor. His head dipped, almost a bow. “… Yes,” he answered, his vocals no longer the dull monotone, but something soft and delicate.
Bluestreak almost groaned.
Jazz was as playful and disobedient as a sub could be. Bluestreak enjoyed their times together. He enjoyed twirling Jazz about his finger, and turning the saboteur into a sated mess. Mastery of Jazz was a special talent in itself.
But Soundwave…
Primus, was there ever a mech who radiated a need to be dominated more than him? It all but bled from his field, from his seams. He would submit beautifully. He would never be disobedient. He would take joy in it.
Bluestreak worked his intake. He mastered his fans, so the sound of them spinning faster wouldn’t be audible.
Caution lingered. Bluestreak might be tempted, but he didn’t trust Soundwave. He didn’t trust this.
He firmed his jaw and straightened, pinning Soundwave with a Look, one that never failed to weaken Jazz’s knees.
“We’re under a truce, a treaty, maybe even something that won’t get broken because of a standstill in negotiations, but I’m not stupid,” Bluestreak said as his doorwings flicked up and rigid, mimicking Prowl at his most stern.
He moved out from behind the bar, sliding through the swinging door, delighted as Soundwave turned to watch him. He was a natural at this. Training him would be easy.
“There’s a reason you’re tagged as a loyalist,” Bluestreak added as he moved closer, until he trapped Soundwave between himself and the bar.
Soundwave loomed over him. But Bluestreak still felt as though he were the only person in the room who was a threat. The dustpan rattled.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Bluestreak purred.
Soundwave’s head dipped, as subordinate as he could be without kneeling. “Loyalty to Megatron separate from devotion to Master.”
“You think you can have both?”
“Yes.”
Bluestreak chuckled, but it wasn’t meant to be a sound of amusement. “Maybe you can. Since the war is over and all. You don’t have to choose. Unless Megatron tells you that you can’t. Regardless, I don’t trust you. And there can be no partnership without trust. It’s the golden rule. And lesson number one.”
“Lesson,” Soundwave echoed, and his engine rumbled. “Refusal or acceptance offered?”
Bluestreak’s lips curved into a smile. “We’ll see. One step at a time, I think. I’m intrigued at least. Though it could’ve started out better. I don’t particularly like being stalked.”
Soundwave’s head dipped further, as though he couldn’t meet Bluestreak’s optics. “I apologize. Soundw-- I am unfamiliar with dating protocols.”
“Well, it’s a learning curve.” Bluestreak leaned in, a promise to touch that he didn’t deliver. “And I suspect you’re a fast learner. But for now, we have a lounge to clean and we both have some thinking to do.”
Soundwave’s fans stalled. “Understood.”
“And?” Bluestreak leaned in closer, his ex-vents fogging the clear transsteel of Soundwave’s dock.
A shiver fluttered through Soundwave’s armor. “Yes,” he said. “Sir.”
Bluestreak’s smile could not get any larger. Maybe this didn’t make sense. Maybe it was the weirdest thing to happen to him in ages.
And maybe he was going to dive head first into it, because why not? The war was over, probably for good. He was trying to move on, trying to learn what it meant to be live.
Might as well start with this.
****
a/n: One more part to go!
As always, feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
Universe: G1, Mastermind
Character: Bluestreak, Soundwave, Jazz, Background Cameos
Rating: T
There was a certain ambient noise present in any bar, the volume of it varying by patronage. Visages was a mid-range lounge, casual conversation just low enough to hear the music pumping through the speakers, and the clink of glass on tabletops. So when silence descended throughout the space, it was enough to make Bluestreak’s armor crawl.
He finished mixing a Toxic Turnover and turned around, optics and sensory panels both scanning the bar to find the reason why. When Bluestreak found it, standing by the door awkwardly like he wasn’t sure what he was doing here, he almost dropped the finished drink.
What in Unicron’s rusted undergarments was Soundwave doing here? He wasn’t known for socializing or going to bars. And yes, Visages was welcoming to all types, former Autobots and Decepticons and Neutrals. But the only member of command of any faction to ever pass through those doors was Jazz, and no one blinked twice at that. It was just who Jazz was.
Soundwave was, as Jazz would say, a whole different kettle of fish.
Bluestreak watched, as did everyone else in the bar, as Soundwave gathered his wits about him and strode through the gawking crowd as if it didn’t bother him. He made a beeline for the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat himself carefully. If he noticed that the nearest mechs to the stool abruptly grabbed their drinks and made for an empty booth, he didn’t show it.
Bluestreak worked his intake and planted a smile on his lips. He slid the Toxic Turnover down to Sideswipe and grabbed the towel from his shoulder, hiding his nervousness by wiping his hands.
“Welcome to Visages,” he said cheerfully as he approached Soundwave, given that his other bartender seemed to have vanished the moment Soundwave appeared. Knew how to clear a room, he did. “What can I get for you?”
Soundwave stared at him for a long moment before he rested his arms on the counter. His mouthguard slid open, baring the lower half of his face to the room.
Bluestreak froze and would only later admit to staring under torture. Soundwave… was pretty. He’d imagined a scarred, horrifying visage. And yes, there were scars. Small ones, like little knifemarks around Soundwave’s lips and cheeks, but they didn’t detract from his appearance. His lips were ones Bluestreak could easily imagine sliding his thumb between. His cheeks tinged a pale blue as if he were blushing.
“--please.”
Soundwave gave his order, and Bluestreak hadn’t heard it. He was too busy ogling. He forced himself back into awareness, coughing a ventilation.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” he said with forced cheer, because now everyone in Visages was staring for an entirely different reason. “The noise, you know. What did you want?”
Soundwave shifted on the stool, as if he felt the weight of the stares. “Maccadam’s Special.”
“Simple enough. I’ll get right to it.” Bluestreak grinned a service-grin and whipped around, trying to hide the heat in his cheeks. Damn but Soundwave was pretty.
And it was just weird that he was here. In a bar. Ordering engex. Granted, the Maccadam’s Special was the most basic, least intoxicating drink on the menu, outside of a Weak Spritzer, but still. Soundwave wasn’t one known to desire socializing, and he hadn’t even brought any of his cassettes with him.
Did he even have friends?
Behind Bluestreak, the ambient noise picked up again, now low murmurs rather than the excited conversation it had been before. It was better than the silence, but only just. If Soundwave realized the effect he had on the patrons, he didn’t show it.
There was a treaty, so Soundwave wasn’t here to attack. Or at least Bluestreak hoped not. Soundwave was pretty loyal to Megatron, and was the last ‘Con Bluestreak expected to go against Megatron’s wishes. He wasn’t disallowed from coming into Visages either so he had every right to be here. It was just… weird.
Bluestreak poured the Special into a tall glass and turned back toward Soundwave, sliding it across the counter for him. “Should I, uh, start a tab or…?” He left the question open-ended, hoping to get more conversation out of the mech.
“Tab unnecessary,” Soundwave replied and offered a cred chip to Bluestreak. “Change unnecessary also.”
“Uh, thanks. I guess.” Bluestreak slid the chip into the reader at the register, and nearly boggled at the tip Soundwave offered him.
That was an absurd amount of creds. What the frag was Soundwave’s angle here? Well, his drinks were covered for the rest of his night either way.
The door opened again, with a loud bang, and Bluestreak nearly jumped.
“The fun has arrived!” Jazz announced loudly as he strode inside, hands in the air and a grin on his lips.
His arrival shattered the tension. Or cracked it any rate. More of the ambient noise returned, almost to a normal level. It was as if the patrons felt safer around Soundwave now that Jazz was here.
Jazz, who made a beeline to the bar, pulled out an empty stool beside Soundwave, and clambered up into it. “Sounders! Look at you, socializing with the common folk. I’m proud of you.” He slapped Soundwave’s shoulder, and Bluestreak’s vents caught in his intake.
Soundwave cringed, his mouth turning downward before he buried it behind his glass. He subtly inched away from Jazz, not that it made much difference.
“Hey Baby Blue,” Jazz continued as he rapped his hands on the counter in a playful beat, his visor bright and his grin a little too forced. “How’s it hanging?”
Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Why do I feel like you’re up to no good right now?” He might have put a touch of a growl to his vocals, enough for Jazz to know he meant business.
His former commander, often lover, and occasional sub, just smirked and leaned an elbow on the counter, propping his chin into his hand. “I am nothing but good, sweetspark.” He flashed his visor in a wink. “Can I get a Pretty Prime?”
Bluestreak snorted. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Optimus about that.” He rolled his optics and turned back to the cabinet, sifting through the bottled brews for the one Jazz favored. “I don’t think he’s your type.”
“And sadly, he’s taken.” Jazz sighed theatrically. “What’s a mech gotta do to get a hot date around here? A thousand or so mechs on Cybertron and not a single love match to be found. Isn’t that right, Sounders?”
Jazz jostled Soundwave with his elbow, and Soundwave’s shoulders hunched. He curled around his drink, hardly touched, mouth twisted into a moue of aggravation.
Bluestreak pulled the cap off the brew and handed it to Jazz. “Maybe that’s because you’re not looking in the right places.”
Jazz barked a laugh. “You’re probably right about that, Blue. But hey, Sounders. Get this. If there’s someone around here who has no problem getting a date, it’s Baby Blue. Mechs love ‘im. He’s even got a stalker!”
Bluestreak sighed. He hadn’t believed it when Jazz sent him that message late last night. Of course, Bluestreak knew he’d been surveilled by someone, but a secret admirer? It sounded absurd, like some cheesy romantic comedy. If it wasn’t for the fact that Jazz knew better, Bluestreak would have thought it a tasteless joke.
“Can we not talk about that?” he asked as he wiped the bartop with his rag, though it wasn’t at all dirty. “I don’t like thinking about some creep out there following me.”
He glanced down the bar, but Riptide had emerged from wherever he’d been hiding, and was now taking care of the other patrons. It was a slow night. Which meant Bluestreak could sit here and chat with Jazz if he wanted, as long as he helped anyone who came around.
Not like Mirage could pitch a fit anyway. They co-owned this place. Bluestreak had as much say in how it was run as Mirage did.
“Fair enough.” Jazz slurped down half of his brew and lounged against the bar, giving Bluestreak a dopey grin. “But you know I’d never let anyone hurt ya, right? It don’t matter who they are.”
Bluestreak blinked. That was an oddly… intense statement, backed up by the intense glimmer in Jazz’s visor, and the reach of his field. This was as much Fun Time Jazz as it was Third-in-Command Jazz.
“Yeah,” Bluestreak said. “I know.” He slung the towel back over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Both of you.” He cut a gaze toward Soundwave, but the mech was staring into his glass like it held the answers to the universe.
Weird.
Bluestreak shrugged and headed to the other end of the bar, where a rowdy trio of Neutrals were being obnoxious in their demands for more booze. Nope. They were cut off. Bluestreak didn’t need customers like them. Factions didn’t matter. Behavior did.
They complained, of course they did, but they dragged their afts out of his bar. Let them stagger on toward Swerve’s. That mech served anyone so long as they had creds. Then again, if Bluestreak had a bouncer like Whirl, maybe he’d tolerate the afts more, too.
As the three idiots schlepped out, a horde of new customers came rolling in, a crew of some kind, recently released from shift. They looked tired and thirsty, not the sort to be rowdy, but the sort to sit in a tired clump and spend lots of creds.
Well, there went the idea of loitering around Jazz and having a good conversation. Booming business was a good thing though. And it would keep his mind off of his “secret admirer”.
Bluestreak planted a smile on his face and moved to greet the new customers, preparing himself for a long night. A good one at least. No one here was the sort to cause problem. Not even Soundwave apparently.
All night, Soundwave was seeming content to sit at the bar and sip at his one drink. He didn’t interact with anyone, and the other patrons gave him a wide berth. Except for Jazz, who seemed to delight to carry on a one-sided conversation with Soundwave.
Up until Wheeljack came inside and gave Jazz such an exasperated look that Bluestreak felt a pang of sympathy. It was a look he often gave Jazz himself, especially when Jazz was being very disobedient. Which was often the case as Jazz enjoyed being punished.
Jazz left; Soundwave lingered. Alone, for the most part.
Engex gave mechs courage, not that Sideswipe needed any encouraging. He spied the vast bubble of emptiness around Soundwave and invited himself into one of the stools, half-soused as he babbled at Soundwave. Who bore it all in patient stride. Even as Sideswipe got more than a little, ah, handsy.
Bluestreak was two kliks from wandering over to save Soundwave, as all good bartenders do, when Sunstreaker showed up like a mech in sparkling gold armor. He hadn’t even needed to search the crowd to find his brother, stalking straight toward the bar with exasperation twisting his pretty lips.
Such a shame they hadn’t worked out, Bluestreak sighed to himself. Too much dom in the both of them. While it was occasionally fun to wrestle about in the berth, it was exhausting in the long run.
Sunstreaker exchanged a few words with Soundwave, perhaps deigning to apologize for his brother’s behavior, before he retrieved his drunk twin and dragged Sideswipe out. No one else dared approach Soundwave. Maybe that was for the best.
Bluestreak kept half an optic on Soundwave, making sure he didn’t need anything else, but for the most part, he stayed focus on his work. They were busy enough that both he and Riptide were kept hopping, and they ran out of several necessary supplies before closing time came around.
Exhaustion tugged at every cable and every strut. But it was the good kind of fatigue. The kind that signaled a job well done. It was better than war fatigue, staying up long past the limits of his processor, running on little energon and even less recharge. Living moment to moment, stress to stress, waiting for the floor to crack.
Riptide escorted the last of the patrons to the door as Bluestreak moved back behind the bar, taking stock of their depleted resources. The soft clink of a glass being placed on the bar attracted his attention. He blinked and turned around, optical ridges raised as he realized that one customer had lingered.
Soundwave.
“You know we’re closed now, right?” Bluestreak asked as he swept up the empty glass from the counter and slid it into the wash bin. “That’s usually the point when the customer leaves.”
Soundwave had yet to restore his battlemask, and another blush stained his cheeks. Embarrassed? Talk about weird. Bluestreak didn’t even know Soundwave could be embarrassed. He was the ice man, as Jazz put it.
“Assistance offered,” Soundwave said, and Bluestreak tried his best not to watch those pretty lips shape each word.
“For what? Last time I checked, Visages doesn’t have any need for a telepath, and Blaster already hooked us up with a state of the art sound system.” Bluestreak gathered more empty cups as he talked.
Soundwave shifted on the stool. “Cleaning needed.”
“You mean the bar? That’s what Riptide is for.” Bluestreak chuckled at his own joke, ignoring the derogatory gesture Riptide threw at him from across the room.
“I’m just picking up the chairs. I gotta date tonight, boss.” Another chair clattered to a tabletop. “I told you that earlier.”
Oh. Right. He had.
Primus, Bluestreak was losing his mind. First, he had forgotten his session with Jazz. That was horrible enough.
Bluestreak waved a hand. “Right, you’re right. Sorry, Rip. I forgot. Go on. I’ll take care of this.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Seems I got a volunteer anyway.” Bluestreak jerked a thumb toward Soundwave, who said nothing as he watched the interchange.
Riptide frowned. His gaze shifted to Soundwave in concern, but Bluestreak waved him on. Seriously. He could handle Soundwave, even if the mech was acting weird. He doubted Soundwave would do anything to upset Megatron anyway. Besides, he had Jazz and Prowl both on speed-dial.
And what was it Jazz had said? Prowl was itching to arrest a Decepticon. He’d probably show up here, guns blazing and handcuffs spinning from a finger before Bluestreak could get out the last few bleeps of a distress call.
“Go! If it’s with who I think it is, you don’t want to be late.” Bluestreak shooed him on, flapping his mesh cloth in Riptide’s direction.
Riptide hesitated again, but love conquered all apparently, because he grinned and shot Bluestreak a thumbs up. “Thanks, boss. You’re the best.”
Bluestreak chuckled. “Yeah, I am.”
Riptide saluted and scuttled out, leaving Bluestreak alone with Soundwave in the odd quiet of the bar. The music had been cut off – a sign to the customers that the lounge was closed.
“He’s been seeing Pipes for a while,” Bluestreak said, to fill the silence, as he snagged a bin from behind the counter and moved around the bar, gathering up abandoned cups and cubes. “They’re the cutest couple, I swear. Pipes is head over heels, and I think Riptide likes that Pipes looks at him with stars in his optics.”
He heard a scrape, and looked over to see Soundwave rising from his stool. He watched for a moment as Soundwave moved to pick up chairs and put them on the tables, as Riptide had been doing, all without a word. He was serious about helping apparently.
Bluestreak shrugged and got back to work. He wasn’t about to turn down free labor. Especially since he’d been left on his own. Riptide and Pipes though, they deserved that opportunity. With the war over, everyone deserved to capture what happiness they could, now that there was less chance of losing it.
“I think that’s what everyone is doing now,” Bluestreak continued, because he couldn’t abide by silence, and Soundwave wasn’t complaining. “We’re all allowing ourselves to have some kind of life. Mostly anyway. I’ll bet even you are.”
Silence.
“I know running a bar isn’t exactly the most glamorous thing to do in a post-war world, but I think it suits me.” Bluestreak dumped all the dirty dishes into the washer and arranged them. “I can’t imagine there’s anything else I could do. I didn’t have any skills when they pulled me out of the rubble. All I know now is killing. That’s no good in a post-war world.”
He started up the auto-washer and grabbed a spray bottle and a mesh cloth. He started to wipe down counters, sweeping metal flakes to the floor.
“Not much use for a sniper now. So I thought, what else can I do? What’s easy enough to learn? What use is there for a mech who only knows war and talks too much and still can’t sleep without a light on. Oh, sorry. Recharge. Then Mirage suggested this. He thought it would be good for me. I figured I’d give it a shot.”
Bluestreak shrugged and smiled softly. “Turns out, I’m actually pretty good at it. I listen as well as I talk and everyone likes a chatty bartender. It’s a good job.” He paused as he concentrated on scrubbing at a stain. “It’s a pretty good life. All things considered. Even if some weirdo is stalking me.”
“Apologies.”
Bluestreak blinked and looked up. Soundwave had finished lifting the chairs and now stood in front of the bar, right where Bluestreak was standing. He’d found the broom and dustpan, too, and clutched the handles of both as though they were a lifeline.
“For helping me close? That’s a pretty silly thing to apologize for,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. Soundwave towered over him, but there was something in the way the mech held himself back that kept him from being threatening.
“Negative.” Soundwave’s head dipped a little, the light of his visor shifting away. His engine warbled an odd sound. “Bluestreak… interesting.”
Bluestreak stared. Was Soundwave admitting to what Bluestreak thought he was admitting to?
He braced his hands on the edge of the counter and stared up at Soundwave, narrowing his optics. “You want to tell me why you came here tonight?”
Soundwave’s lips pressed together. His field was nonexistent, giving Bluestreak nothing to work with. His armor had clamped to his frame, as though he expected to be attacked, which was ridiculous. There was no one else here, and Bluestreak was hardly a match for Soundwave if it came down to it.
His behavior was all too telling. Maybe he and Jazz were a lot more alike than they cared to admit.
Bluestreak squared his shoulders. He lifted his chin. “Let me rephrase,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. “Tell me why the frag you’re here.” He didn’t leave it as a question. He made it a command.
Soundwave’s intake bobbed. “… Partnership desired.”
… What? Was he serious?
Bluestreak stared at Soundwave, who wasn’t meeting his gaze, who suddenly snapped his battlemask shut. Out of embarrassment? Out of a sense of vulnerability? Both?
He tilted his head and rapped his fingers on the edge of the counter. He shouldn’t be so surprised, though that Soundwave would choose him of all mechs, that was the confusing part. And also, he could have sworn Soundwave was involved with Megatron. Though it did explain why he’d felt like he were being watched.
“Just to clarify, you mean that you want a relationship with me?” Bluestreak asked, careful to keep his tone firm. Soundwave seemed to respond best to that firmness. “And not one that involves business, but something personal. Something you think you can only get from me.”
“Affirmative.”
Bluestreak nibbled on his bottom lip. “Do you even understand what you’re asking for?”
Slowly, the light in Soundwave’s visor shifted toward Bluestreak, meeting his gaze with more courage than Soundwave had shown all evening. “Affirmative.”
Bluestreak narrowed his optics. “Stop that,” he demanded, the chastisement falling a little too easily from his lips. “If you’re going to talk to me, I want that mask gone. I want to know I’m talking to a person, not a machine.”
Silence.
Soundwave stared at him, even the sound of his ventilations stilled. His fingers curled tightly around the broom and dustpan.
And then his battlemask slid away, revealing the lower half of his face once more, the perfect shape of his lips, his cute nasal structure, the blush staining his cheeks. The visor remained, but Bluestreak wasn’t going to argue about that. Maybe it was permanent, maybe he couldn’t see without it.
A thrill chased itself around Bluestreak’s spark.
“So,” he said as his glossa swept over his lips, an unexpected hunger curling in his internals, like the first time Jazz had knelt for him. “You do understand.”
Soundwave’s head dipped minutely. He, too, wet his lips. Bluestreak tracked the motion of his glossa, the way it left a sheen of moisture behind.
“Why me?” Bluestreak asked as he dragged his optics back to Soundwave’s visor.
The flush deepened. It was unfairly cute. For a mech as dangerous as Soundwave to blush of all things, where Bluestreak lacked the words to describe how adorable that was.
Soundwave’s vents quickened. His armor fluttered. His mouth opened and closed, and his vocalizer clicked as though he was engaging it, but faltering in what to say.
Adorable.
Bluestreak leaned forward. “Maybe you don’t know the answer to that,” he murmured, keeping his tone warm and silken, sure to vibrate in Soundwave’s sensitive audials. “You want me to help you figure that out, don’t you?”
A shiver visibly raced across Soundwave’s armor. His head dipped, almost a bow. “… Yes,” he answered, his vocals no longer the dull monotone, but something soft and delicate.
Bluestreak almost groaned.
Jazz was as playful and disobedient as a sub could be. Bluestreak enjoyed their times together. He enjoyed twirling Jazz about his finger, and turning the saboteur into a sated mess. Mastery of Jazz was a special talent in itself.
But Soundwave…
Primus, was there ever a mech who radiated a need to be dominated more than him? It all but bled from his field, from his seams. He would submit beautifully. He would never be disobedient. He would take joy in it.
Bluestreak worked his intake. He mastered his fans, so the sound of them spinning faster wouldn’t be audible.
Caution lingered. Bluestreak might be tempted, but he didn’t trust Soundwave. He didn’t trust this.
He firmed his jaw and straightened, pinning Soundwave with a Look, one that never failed to weaken Jazz’s knees.
“We’re under a truce, a treaty, maybe even something that won’t get broken because of a standstill in negotiations, but I’m not stupid,” Bluestreak said as his doorwings flicked up and rigid, mimicking Prowl at his most stern.
He moved out from behind the bar, sliding through the swinging door, delighted as Soundwave turned to watch him. He was a natural at this. Training him would be easy.
“There’s a reason you’re tagged as a loyalist,” Bluestreak added as he moved closer, until he trapped Soundwave between himself and the bar.
Soundwave loomed over him. But Bluestreak still felt as though he were the only person in the room who was a threat. The dustpan rattled.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Bluestreak purred.
Soundwave’s head dipped, as subordinate as he could be without kneeling. “Loyalty to Megatron separate from devotion to Master.”
“You think you can have both?”
“Yes.”
Bluestreak chuckled, but it wasn’t meant to be a sound of amusement. “Maybe you can. Since the war is over and all. You don’t have to choose. Unless Megatron tells you that you can’t. Regardless, I don’t trust you. And there can be no partnership without trust. It’s the golden rule. And lesson number one.”
“Lesson,” Soundwave echoed, and his engine rumbled. “Refusal or acceptance offered?”
Bluestreak’s lips curved into a smile. “We’ll see. One step at a time, I think. I’m intrigued at least. Though it could’ve started out better. I don’t particularly like being stalked.”
Soundwave’s head dipped further, as though he couldn’t meet Bluestreak’s optics. “I apologize. Soundw-- I am unfamiliar with dating protocols.”
“Well, it’s a learning curve.” Bluestreak leaned in, a promise to touch that he didn’t deliver. “And I suspect you’re a fast learner. But for now, we have a lounge to clean and we both have some thinking to do.”
Soundwave’s fans stalled. “Understood.”
“And?” Bluestreak leaned in closer, his ex-vents fogging the clear transsteel of Soundwave’s dock.
A shiver fluttered through Soundwave’s armor. “Yes,” he said. “Sir.”
Bluestreak’s smile could not get any larger. Maybe this didn’t make sense. Maybe it was the weirdest thing to happen to him in ages.
And maybe he was going to dive head first into it, because why not? The war was over, probably for good. He was trying to move on, trying to learn what it meant to be live.
Might as well start with this.
a/n: One more part to go!
As always, feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
