[TF] Rain or Shine 03

[dracoqueen22]

Rain or Shine
Part Three

Sleeping in was an absolute rarity for Blurr. But the day after poker night was the only day of the week he could be reassured the bar would be slow, and he could afford to take a day off, leaving it in Jazz and Riptide's very capable hands. Possibly Drift's if he wanted as well.

By the time Blurr dragged himself out of the berth, it was heading toward midday. Ricochet was out, probably with friends, Blurr didn't ask. He was, after all, allowed to have a social life outside of his family, and Blurr didn't question him on it.

Blurr had enough time for a quick rinse and gulping down energon before he had to rush out the door and make straight for the medical tower, lest he miss his appointment with Ratchet, who had no tolerance for lateness.

Luckily, he wasn't so far along that the sparking had affected his speed. Yet. But he knew that would be coming sooner rather than later.

Ricochet was damn lucky Blurr loved him so much. He hated what his frame went through while carrying.

Blurr arrived with seconds to spare, and Ratchet gave him a grunt of welcome and led Blurr into the examination room.

"Any complaints?" Ratchet asked.

"Nothing more than the usual." Blurr hauled himself up into the exam chair and prepared himself for the inevitable series of scans.

"That's a good sign." Ratchet directed several machines toward Blurr and switched them on, the rumbling hum filling the room with ambient noise. "The first carry is always the hardest, so you got that out of the way."

"And this time, my life isn't in danger."

Ratchet snorted a laugh. "Right." He produced a datapad and started to skim the screen, stylus flicking as he made notations. "Looks like you're in good health. Your gestational tank is firmly seated, and I'm not reading any distress from... Rebound, right?"

"Yeah."

Ricochet had named their second as well. Blurr couldn't find any fault in either of their bitlet's names, and he suspected these were designations Ricochet had been harboring for a long time. But, if Blurr decided to go crazy and have a third, he'd already called dibs on picking the name.

"Ricochet's idea, I take it. He'll never cease to surprise me. He makes an amazing sire," Ratchet said, almost offhand, as he continued to read the results from Blurr's numerous read-outs.

"You know who else would make a good sire or carrier?" Blurr asked leadingly. He gave Ratchet a pointed look. "Your mate."

Ratchet sighed and narrowed his optics. "Don't you start with me."

"I'm just saying. He's amazing with Echo. I know he'd be even better with a sparkling of his own," Blurr pointed out, because Drift had been of great help to him, and if he could convince Ratchet in even the smallest way, it would be the best way to return that kindness.

"I already know he'd make a great caretaker. This isn't about Drift," Ratchet said, but there was a sharpness to his tone and to his field, as if Blurr had stumbled into a sore spot. "We need to talk about you. The first carry might be easiest, but the second extraction will be harder on your frame."

Blurr twisted his jaw, but decided it was better not to poke Ratchet when he was discussing future surgeries. "About that, can we consider the possibility of a valve birth?"

Ratchet pursed his lips and leaned over, switching off one of the scanners and dulling the background noise. "It's not impossible, but it's risky. It won't save you on recovery time either."

"But it is possible."

"Yes." Ratchet tapped the end of the stylus against his datapad. "I'll look into it, discuss with Hoist and Knock Out. If you're serious about wanting to try this, I want to ensure we do it as safely as possible."

Blurr nodded. "If it's medically unsound, we'll understand." He used we because it was something he and Ricochet had both discussed. "And Ricochet would like to participate this time."

"If he can behave, he's welcome." Ratchet snorted, and a touch of amusement entered his field.

"He'll behave."

"Then by all means." Ratchet paused and tapped the stylus again before raising his orbital ridges. "Bring him to the next appointment so we can talk about policy and procedure. If he can get through that, we'll discuss the rest."

Blurr laughed despite himself. "You know, he does that to get a rise out of you." And because he was a bit of a worrywart when it came to Blurr, Echo, and Rebound. Ricochet was fiercely protective of his family.

Blurr loved him for that.

"I'm aware. It's something he and Rodimus have in common." Ratchet's face grew a little dark and he shifted his attention to another screen. "You'd think with Cybertron the way it is, Rodimus would have matured a bit more."

"It's just that he's not Optimus is all," Blurr said, and well, he was a bit biased. He'd never gotten to know Optimus as well as he did Rodimus, and on a personal level, he liked the way Rodimus had taken leadership of the Autobots.

Besides.

He strongly suspected that if Optimus had remained in charge, the war might never have ended. Same with Megatron sticking around. The war, the Autobots versus Decepticons, both were intrinsically tied to Optimus Prime and Lord Megatron.

"I like the idea of the New Senate," Blurr added, though he made a face of disgust. "I think they ought to change the name of it though. No one has any good thoughts about the previous one."

Ratchet sighed. “I agree. And to make matters worse, Rodimus asked me to serve on it."

Blurr's forehead furrowed. "I thought it was going to be democratic, you know, like voting people in."

"It is. He wants me to run. He thinks I'm guaranteed a win."

"Well..." Blurr twisted his jaw as he thought about it, drumming his fingers on his knees. Ratchet was well-respected across factional lines, and well-liked despite his occasionally grumpy nature. "He's not wrong. I'd vote for you."

Ratchet made a non-committal noise. He tapped the end of the stylus again and shut off another scanner. "And you think others would, too?"

"Yeah, actually. What does Drift think?"

"He doesn't want either of us to get involved with politics. I think it's too late for that. We're political by our existence." Ratchet shut off the last scanner, dropping the exam room into a tense silence, save for their systems clicking and whirring away.

"And better you than Knock Out," Blurr pointed out, thinking of the ex-Decepticon surgeon whose bedside manner could use a lot of work. "Do you want to be on the New Senate?"

"That's a good question." Ratchet hooked a stool with his foot and dragged it closer, lowering onto it. "Post-war Cybertron is a little..."

"Boring?" Blurr suggested.

Ratchet gave Blurr a sidelong glance. "You ever miss the war?"

"Not the almost-dying part, but the rest..." Blurr pressed his lips together, rapping his fingers on his thigh. "It was exciting. Peace is a bit of a letdown after that. I miss being a Wrecker. I miss racing even more."

"Life a little too domestic?" Ratchet asked with a wry grin.

"How'd you guess?" Blurr chuckled. "Look, I love my family and my bar, but you know, I was sparked a Racer, to constantly challenge myself and win. Peace is good and all, but it's a little too..."

"Safe," Ratchet finished for him. "Though given what happened with Whipstrike and the anti-Decepticon rumors, maybe safe is an overstatement."

"Someone like you on the Senate could help fix that," Blurr pointed out.

Ratchet snorted and made a notation on his datapad. "I could also suggest bringing back the racing circuits."

Blurr's spark skipped a revolution, excitement sending a surge of charge through his lines before he could tamp it down. "I suppose," he hedged, trying to hide his enthusiasm. He patted the round of his abdomen. "Not that I'm in any shape to compete right now."

"Right now, no. But that'll change soon enough. If anything, having two sparklings will get you into shape rather quickly," Ratchet said with a bark of a laugh. "It's something to think about. We have to figure out how to live in this peace eventually."

"That's true," Blurr conceded, though his enthusiasm tempered itself. Quicken had been trying to push him into wanting to race again because it was his destiny or some slag.

He did miss it. Blurr just didn't want someone who didn't know him to tell him what was best.

"Who knows, maybe I can bring it up at the next open forum. It seems like the kind of thing Rodimus would go for," Blurr said.

Ratchet chuckled and tucked away the datapad. "Well, as far as I can tell, you're good, Rebound is doing well, and I'll find out about the valve delivery and get back to it."

"Are you done with me?" Blurr asked as he hopped down from the berth, stretching his arms over his head, and trying to ignore the twinge in his lower back.

"For now."

"Next month then?"

Ratchet thumbed his chin, optics dim in consideration. "Week after next. If you're serious about changing to a valve birth."

"Week after next it is. Thanks, Ratchet."

Ratchet grunted and waved him out. "Don't need to thank me for doing my job."

"I'm going to do it anyway."

"Brat."

Blurr laughed and scooted out, though he nearly collided with Drift at the door, who had an armful of packages. "You're not working today?"

"Jazz wanted my shift." Drift shrugged and gave Blurr a keen look. "Everything okay?"

"Normal appointment. Nothing to worry about." Blurr patted him on the shoulder, reading the concern in the jagged burst of Drift's field. "Promise."

Drift's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank Primus."

"You're sweet." Blurr chuckled and made his escape, catching the tail end of Ratchet and Drift sappily greeting each other. Newlymated they weren't anymore, but one couldn't tell it.

Blurr went home, thinking longingly of a heavy lunch and a long nap and an even longer soak in the oil tub without mate or sparkling to disturb him. The apartment would be quiet and peaceful, and he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he possibly could.

He loved his family. He truly did. Sometimes, he just needed a little space.

Blurr opted to use the back-lift rather than go in through New Maccadam’s. If he stepped one foot into his bar, someone would need him for something, and he didn't want that headache right now. If it was truly an emergency, they knew who to dial. Petty grievances could be solved on a day that wasn't today.

His armor prickled when he started to put in the code. Blurr hit the clear button and glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean there wasn't anyone there. He could be paranoid, he supposed, though what happened with Whipstrike had made him so.

There was nothing wrong with being cautious.

Blurr waited for a full minute, scanning the area behind him, but there was no movement, no sign he was being watched. Nothing.

Maybe he was paranoid after all.

He input the code, careful to block it from potentially prying optics, and led it scan his metrics before the door granted him access. He didn't feel completely at ease until the door closed behind him, and he engaged the security system, double-checking that the surveillance cameras were active.

He'd review the footage later with Ricochet's help, as Ricochet had more practice in spotting potential threats. He would also have Ricochet change the code, just in case.

For now, he refused to let paranoia rule his life. He had a long, relaxing soak calling his name.

~

Jazz was a wreck.

Bluestreak decided he quite liked him that way. Exhausted. Spent. Covered in fluids. Shivering and hot, his engine purring satisfaction, his field clinging to Bluestreak's with tendrils of adoration.

They needed to spend time like this more often.

"I've neglected you, haven't I, pet?"

Jazz moaned and canted his hips up toward Bluestreak's fingers, seeking a firmer touch to his anterior node, where Bluestreak flirted around the housing, but ignored the swollen nub. Jazz's spike was spent, unable to pressurize any further, but Bluestreak knew Jazz's limitations. He was quite sure there was one more overload charge left crackling within Jazz's valve.

Bluestreak wanted it. And Jazz was going to give it to him.

"You can answer me. It's all right," Bluestreak murmured as he rocked his hips, nudging his spike within Jazz's valve, but less thrusting and more reminding Jazz of its presence.

Jazz crackled a whine and rocked his hips. "Need you, Blue."

"Yes, I know." Bluestreak soothed Jazz with a stroke to his housing and delicately brushed the pad of his thumb over Jazz's anterior nub.

Jazz keened, back arching, his valve clamping down tight on Bluestreak's spike, milking it. His vents roared, his field lashing through the room in a hungry flurry.

"There's one more in you, I think," Bluestreak murmured and kept stroking, long and slow circles designed to build and build and build, while Jazz's wrists rattled the spy-proof manacles keeping them bound above his head.

Primus, he was gorgeous, and he was all Bluestreak's. How had he gotten so lucky?

"Will you give it to me, pet?" Bluestreak crooned and wrapped his free hand around Jazz's hip, pulling him down to meet each forward rock.

Charge crackled along Jazz's armor. His visor flared. He garbled static which might have been an affirmative, given the frantic fluttering of his valve. Bluestreak knew, by the pitch of Jazz's engine, he was close.

"Or maybe I shouldn't bother asking," Bluestreak purred as he shifted his weight, trapping Jazz beneath him, notching his spike deeper. "Maybe I should demand it."

Jazz made a wordless sound and thrashed beneath Bluestreak, lubricant seeping rapidly from his valve, his array burning hot under Bluestreak's fingers.

"Please," Jazz begged on the end of a staticky vent.

Bluestreak thumbed his nub in tight circles over and over and over, as heat flooded Jazz's frame and he arched his backstrut.

"Give it to me," Bluestreak demanded, his tone sharp. "Now."

And Jazz did.

His lips parted in a soundless scream. His head tossed back, thighs clamped against Bluestreak's sides, his valve spiraling down tight as charge erupted over his frame.

Bluestreak grabbed his hips and fragged Jazz through it, his spike plunging into the narrow, grasping channel. Sound tore from Jazz's throat, a keen of pleasure, his frame going limp in Bluestreak's hold -- complete surrender.

Gorgeous.

Bluestreak tipped over the edge, slamming deep, spilling into Jazz as his vision briefly spritzed with static. He leaned into Jazz, caught his swollen lips for a kiss, and Jazz panted against his mouth, field fuzzy with satisfaction.

"Mmm," Jazz hummed, which was a very good sign in Bluestreak's opinion.

"Good?"

"Yes, sir," Jazz slurred. His thighs twitched against Bluestreak's hips before he went lax again, engine purring and field clinging to Bluestreak's with warm affection.

"Proud of you," Bluestreak murmured. He nuzzled Jazz's cheek with his own before he leaned up.

First to go were the cuffs. He tucked them in subspace and slowly lowered Jazz's arms, watching for signs of discomfort in Jazz's face or venting. When none showed, Bluestreak massaged into the joints of Jazz's shoulders, soothing the sore cables. Jazz purred and his field echoed the satisfaction.

Clean up was next.

Bluestreak kissed Jazz as he pulled out, his spark aching a little at the noise of protest Jazz made.

"Gotta get you clean, pet," Bluestreak murmured as he stroked Jazz's intake and soothed his departure with little kisses and caresses. "We don't want fluids to gunk up your joints."

"Gunk," Jazz echoed and snorted a laugh. "You're so cute."

"I'm a dangerous and deadly sniper," Bluestreak corrected, but he planted a kiss on Jazz's nasal ridge and watched him squirm away from it with a chuckle.

He leaned over and dragged a nearby table closer, grabbing the damp meshcloths and cleaners from it.

"Always prepared," Jazz commented, his visor dim as he watched Bluestreak.

"It's my responsibility to be." Bluestreak swiped the cloth over his lover, gentle when he cleaned Jazz's swollen and sensitive array, wiping up the fluids before they had a chance to congeal and make a worse mess. "I like to take good care of my pets."

Jazz chuckled and shifted a little, to spread his thighs further, and Bluestreak bent down, pressing a soft kiss to his main anterior cluster. Jazz breathed a sigh.

"So pretty," Bluestreak murmured.

"Are you trying to get me clean or get me dirtier?"

Bluestreak grinned and got back to work, swiping up the last of the mess on Jazz before he hastily wiped at himself. He'd get the rest later in the washrack.

"Bit of both," he said, and gathered Jazz into his arms, notching their frames together in all the best curves and angles. He still marveled how perfectly Jazz fit into the geometry of his frame. "Feel better?"

"Yeah." Jazz tucked his face against Bluestreak's intake, his hands hooking into transformation seams. "You're a hard mech to catch these days."

Bluestreak made a non-committal noise and stroked Jazz's back, along his strut, which was a particularly sensitive zone. "Prowl keeps me busy."

"I'm sure he does."

Bluestreak noted the sour tone, but chose not to comment on it. It had been years since the whole incident with Whipstrike and Prowl using Ricochet against Jazz, but Jazz was good at holding a grudge.

"Any luck finding the head of the snake?" Jazz asked.

"No. I'm beginning to think it's not as organized as Prowl believes it is." Bluestreak swallowed a frustrated sigh and bit his glossa, lest he bring up an old argument. Besides, he knew better than to start such things post-session.

"Have you shared that theory?"

"I think you know the answer to that." Bluestreak sighed and cupped the back of Jazz's neck, thumb stroking a primary energon line. "I need proof. Concrete evidence."

"Funny that you do and Prowl doesn't," Jazz muttered.

Bluestreak pretended not to hear that either.

It was also the moment his comm decided to chime at him, which it shouldn't have done since he had it set to forward all attempts at communication to his voicemail. There was only one person who could have overridden that directive.

Bluestreak sighed.

"What is it?"

"Prowl," he said, and tapped his comms. "I'm off-shift right now, sir. I remember you specifically stating I've been working too much overtime."

"I know, and I do apologize," Prowl said, and if Bluestreak squinted, he might even believe Prowl sounded apologetic. "But I have a lead, and it's time-sensitive."

"How time-sensitive?"

"In the next few hours."

Bluestreak muttered a curse where Prowl couldn't hear him as Jazz tensed in his arms, going as warm and welcoming as a sheet of duryllium. "How reliable is the source?"

"Very."

Damn it.

"Send me the details. I'll check it out ASAP."

"Already done. Good luck."

The comm ended. Bluestreak tipped his head back and glared at the ceiling, running a string of obscenities through the back of his mind but not letting any of them fall to his glossa.

"Let me guess," Jazz drawled, "Duty calls."

"You know how it is," Bluestreak said as Jazz shifted up, moving to straddle him rather than lying comfortably in Bluestreak's arms.

His armor had slicked tight to his protoform, and only wisps of his field were tangible now. Jazz was furious, though the casual observer couldn't tell, unless they noticed the tight line of tension in his dangerous smile.

"I know how Prowl is," Jazz said. "He did this on purpose."

Bluestreak sighed and scrubbed his forehead. "You know that's not true. Sources talk only when they feel like it, which is often inconvenient to us. And since I have no leads, no evidence, zip, zilch, and nada, I can't afford to ignore the possibility this might be legit."

"Sources talk in their own time. Prowl holds on ta his info until it's convenient for him."

"I'm not having this argument with you right now." Or again, Bluestreak should add. It was a source of friction for them, that Bluestreak had taken the job Jazz abandoned, that he was willing to work with Prowl, and Jazz was unwilling to do it.

Jazz shifted off him, field turning to razorwire. "Who's arguing? I'm stating a fact. Prowl uses the mechs around him, and you're letting him use you."

Bluestreak's inbox pinged with the datapacket, and Bluestreak opened it, choosing instead to skim the contents rather than join the "statement of fact." He probably didn't have time for a full rinse in the washrack, not if this information was accurate.

"Who's going as your back up?" Jazz demanded.

"It's recon. I don't need it," Bluestreak answered, and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say, by the brief but volcanic burst of Jazz's field.

He launched himself off the bed, visibly vibrating with tension. "That's pitslag. I'm going with you."

Bluestreak swung his legs over the berth, planting his feet on the ground. "This isn't your job anymore, remember? You quit."

"I don't need to a badge to back up my partner," Jazz snapped.

"For this, you do." It took all Bluestreak had to keep his voice calm and even. "It's an official assignment. It's my job. The one you resigned."

Jazz snapped, "For good reason."

"And I have a good reason for keeping it." Bluestreak pushed himself to his feet, his sensory panels settling across his back. "You know you're not going to convince me otherwise."

Jazz drew taut, his frame whipcord tense. "Prowl's gonna get you killed."

"No, he's not." Bluestreak reached for Jazz, but his partner twisted out of the way, and Bluestreak knew better than to give chase when Jazz was in a mood.

Instead, Bluestreak sighed and moved toward the door. "I'll be back in a bit."

Jazz folded his arms. "Good for you. I'll probably be out."

With Ricochet, Bluestreak hoped. That would be the preferable outcome as Ricochet would know how to handle his twin in this state. And it meant Jazz was less likely to get into trouble -- such as poking his nose into Bluestreak's investigation out of some intent to "help."

He'd have to warn Ricochet about the hurricane heading his way. And wipe himself down on the way as well, since staying in this apartment to do so was not a good idea.

"I'll check in as often as I can," Bluestreak said over his shoulder.

"And if you don't, I know who to come after first," Jazz growled, and Bluestreak tried to ignore the cold shiver up his spinal strut.

He wondered if somewhere, on the other side of the city, Prowl felt the shiver, too. Jazz was making no idle threat, and they might be in a time of peace, but that didn't mean Jazz was no longer dangerous.

"I'll stay in touch," Bluestreak promised, and he took his leave, disquiet in his spark which he fought to push down. He needed to focus. He trusted Prowl, but he doubted this source, and he doubted this lead would bring him to anything more than a dead end.

This was what he wanted to do, however, and Jazz would just have to understand that.

Eventually.

***