[TF] Rain or Shine 05

[dracoqueen22]

Rain or Shine
Part Five

“You look tired.”

It was an observation, not a question. Bluestreak made a non-committal noise in response and flicked the stylus over his datapad, marking off another zone.

“Jazz still hasn’t come home?”

Bluestreak vented. “No.”

“I can issue a bulletin. Have my mechs keep an optic out for him?”

“Primus, no.” Bluestreak scrubbed his forehead and looked up at his adoptive father, his mentor, and currently, the mech partially responsible for his domestic dispute. “For one thing, it would be pointless. Jazz isn’t going to want to be found if he doesn’t want to be found, and for another, it would only make him angrier that I went to you for help.”

Prowl frowned, but it was only a slight downturn of his lips. “You didn’t ask, I offered.”

“That’s semantics and you know it.” Bluestreak tapped the end of the stylus on the edge of the datapad, his gaze wandering to the window and the dim haze of construction hanging over the city. “This is his way of making me choose.”

“Between?”

Bluestreak’s spark ached, but he was apparently as stubborn as Jazz, because he didn’t appreciate the position Jazz had put him in. “My relationship with him, and my relationship with you.”

“Is this still about Ricochet?”

Bluestreak slanted Prowl a glare. “You falsely arrested his twin to motivate him. Did you not think there would be consequences to that?”

Prowl finally put down his stylus and looked up at Bluestreak, but there was no apology in the look, merely contemplation. Prowl didn’t apologize for anything, especially if he thought he had the right of it. His priorities, and his morality, was a little bit skewed. He was still a good mech underneath it all, Bluestreak believed that.

War had changed him, like it had changed everyone else.

“Ricochet was never in any real danger.”

Bluestreak rolled his optics. “You can lie to Prime all you want, but you can’t lie to me. If you’d needed a scapegoat, you’d have used Ricochet in a sparkbeat. Jazz knows it as much as I do.”

Prowl tilted his head, his sensory panels not betraying a single twitch. “There are actions which must be done for the greater good.”

“You know, there’s gonna come a time, when the ‘greater good’ isn’t going to be an acceptable excuse.” Bluestreak sighed a vent. “Prowl, I love you, and I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but you make it damn hard to like you sometimes.”

“I’m aware.” Prowl bent his head back over the datapad, stylus moving in neat, even sweeps. “What do you need from me?”

Bluestreak hesitated.

He chewed on his bottom lip. He fidgeted in his chair. His spark ached, and he was tired, and he wanted Jazz back, as much as he wanted to throttle him and shake some sense into him. It wasn’t fair of Jazz to do this, to take off without having an adult conversation.

But then, Bluestreak also knew Jazz had... issues when he started this relationship.

“Did you give me a real assignment?”

“Of course I did. Don’t be ridiculous,” Prowl said, without a single inflection in his voice, and Bluestreak couldn’t decide if he answered too quickly, or if it was just prompt because of his certainty. “Ferreting out potential rebellions is just as important as stopping them after they’ve become a problem.”

“It’s an ongoing assignment,” Bluestreak translated.

“With severity relative to our current intel and actions witnessed throughout the city, yes,” Prowl said, and after a moment, he looked up at Bluestreak, his facade cracking a little. “It’s the assignment I would’ve given Jazz, Bluestreak. It’s a testament to my faith in you not my lack of it.”

Bluestreak vented softly. He did, admittedly, feel like he was chasing his own sensory panels. And Jazz occasionally spat things in the heat of the moment which worried Bluestreak, gnawing at his own insecurities.

He trusted Prowl. He trusted Jazz. He understand the mistrust between them. He wished he wasn’t caught in the middle.

He wished he could make Jazz understand how important this was to him.

A part of him hoped he’d never find anything. It would be proof that this peace was working, that the discontent was restricted to a few individuals struggling to adapt, and there was no collective effort being formed to disrupt the peace. He’d rather walk away with nothing, then find proof of a conspiracy.

Bluestreak rubbed a hand down his face. “Then I’ll keep looking.”

“I could give you a different assignment,” Prowl said, and his tone was gentle, more the kind mech Bluestreak knew, who Prowl rarely revealed to others. He waved to the stack of datapads at one corner of his desk. “Any one of those are waiting to be addressed.”

Bluestreak shook his head. “No, I don’t want to be reassigned.” He eyed the stack, his fingers twitching. “But I’m in an excess of free time right now.” Thanks to Jazz, he didn’t say. “I’ll take another one if you got it.”

Once upon a time, that stack wouldn’t have been so large. But Prowl had chased off Jazz, and there were few mechs Prowl trusted enough to bring into his fold. Petty street crimes were one thing. Crimes which threatened the stability of Cybertron were another.

Prowl nodded and stared at the stack for a long moment before he lifted the third from the top and handed it over. Bluestreak reached for it, but before he could, Prowl lifted the datapad and gave him a long look.

“I’m giving this to you because I trust you which means I don’t want you running yourself into the ground so you don’t have to think about your relationship with Jazz. Understand?” Prowl asked.

Shame briefly licked through Bluestreak’s field before he swallowed it down. “Yes, sir.” He reached for the datapad again, and this time Prowl surrendered it.

“Jazz will come back,” Prowl said as he returned to his work, giving Bluestreak only a small portion of his attention, which was actually pretty standard. “This is his way of things. And if not, you can always enlist Ricochet.”

Bluestreak made a non-committal noise as he settled into his chair and flicked on the datapad. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’ve yet to be wrong,” Prowl said, with that arrogance most people hate about him.

Well.

He had a point.

~

“Anything?”

Drift tried not to hold his vent, or let the yearning show in his vocals, but he knew he’d failed by the tightness of Ratchet’s jaw, the subtle pinching of his lips.

“No, Drift. I’m sorry.”

Ratchet vented and set the datapad aside. He took Drift’s hand, and pulled, and Drift went into his arms, pressing his face into the crook of his mate’s neck. Their chassis collided, and he vented in time with Ratchet, the thrum of Ratchet’s spark tangible through his chestplate.

“I don’t get it,” Drift muttered. “Blurr and Ricochet kindled the first time they fragged. What are we doing wrong?”

Ratchet’s field wrapped around him, patient and loving. “Those two are exceptions to the rule and shouldn’t be taken as an example. It typically takes more than one try.”

Or seven apparently.

Drift worked his intake and tightened his arms, his spark squeezing into a tight knot of worry and disappointment. “Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

“In all likelihood, the fault is mine. I am very old, Drift.” Ratchet sighed and leaned his head against Drift’s, fingers gently stroking soothing patterns over Drift’s armor, his seams. “We’ll keep trying.”

"I didn't exactly have the cleanest life, Ratchet. Could be just as much my fault." Drift sighed a ventilation and drew himself out of Ratchet's arms, choosing instead to slump into their couch. His knees felt weak with shame. "I probably fried my gestational systems."

Ratchet sat next to him, taking one of Drift's hands and threading their fingers together. "I've had my hands in your internals more times than I can count. Your systems are fine." He scowled. "I, however, should probably get First Aid to take a look at me."

And there was little Ratchet hated more than having to admit he needed another medic for a second opinion. Granted, his relationship with First Aid had only improved over the years as he'd given more and more responsibility to his apprentice, and praised First Aid for his newfound confidence.

Still.

No teacher liked admitting they needed the help of their student.

"It's not the end of the world either way. We'll figure something out." Ratchet's thumb stroked the back of Drift's hand in soothing patterns. "Surrogacy or adopting. There'll be something."

Drift's lips quirked with amusement. "Blurr and Ricochet seem to be pretty fertile. Maybe I can steal one of theirs."

Ratchet snorted. "Absolute last resort. I mean it. They're brats are going to be terrors."

Drift leaned in, resting his head on Ratchet's shoulder. Grief still clung to him, but hope was stronger. He trusted Ratchet. He trusted in the strength of their relationship, and Ratchet was right. They had options.

"We'll figure it out," Drift murmured.

Ratchet squeezed his hand. "Yes, we will. I promise."

Drift reached out for Ratchet with his field, wrapping them both up in a warm affection. "I love you no matter what happens. You know that, right?"

"I know." Ratchet pulled his hand up, brushing a kiss across his knuckles. "Which is why I just finished making that appointment with First Aid."

Drift grinned and crawled into Ratchet's lap, straddling the medic, his thighs splayed wide as their chassis bumped. He brushed their nasal ridges together as his hands fluttered over Ratchet's shoulders, teasing into his seams.

"In the meantime, it doesn't hurt to practice, right?"

Ratchet chuckled and rested his hands on Drift's hips, fingers toying with his inset tires. "No, it doesn't." He reached up, cupping Drift's face, his thumb sweeping soft over Drift's cheek. "I love you, too. In case I forgot to mention that."

"I knew it. But I always like to hear it," Drift murmured, and leaned in for a kiss, letting the flush of Ratchet's affection chase away the storm clouds hanging over his head.

They'd figure this out. He just had to keep the faith.

~

Blurr woke with a gasp, pleasure licking up and down his spine, his entire frame tingling with it, and his spike throbbing in the grip of wet heat. He groaned, long and low, and heard Ricochet chuckle, felt the vibrations of it around his spike.

“No fair,” Blurr said as he found Ricochet’s head with his hands and tried to thrust up into his tempting mouth, but Ricochet had a firm grip on his hips and kept him pinned to the berth.

He slurped the length of Blurr’s spike lewdly, visor glittering up at Blurr in the dim of their berthroom. It was early. Too early for Blurr to be awake, too early to wake up Echo, but damn if this wasn’t the best wake up call.

“All’s fair in the berth, speedy,” Ricochet said across the comms before he swallowed Blurr all the way down, his spike hitting the back of Ricochet’s intake, Ricochet’s nasal ridge pressed against his spike housing.

Blurr’s head tossed back, ecstasy throbbing through his lines. His thighs trembled to either side of Ricochet’s shoulders, his heels digging into Ricochet’s upper back. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken with his spike in Ricochet’s mouth, but it was a rare enough treat.

His vents roared. He couldn’t thrust, but he could rock his hips, little pushes into Ricochet’s mouth, against the hot drag of Ricochet’s glossa, the squeezing rhythm of Ricochet swallowing around his spike. Ricochet worked his mouth up and down, up and down, lips performing a tight suction, his fingers flexing on Blurr’s hips, guiding him.

Blurr gasped, lights dancing in his optics, and Ricochet pulled off his spike, until the head of it was in his mouth. The tip of his glossa slid around the crown, poked into the transfluid slit, before he took Blurr to the root and swallowed.

Blurr overloaded with a muffled shout, shoving his fist into his mouth at the last second so as not to wake Echo. He pulsed into Ricochet’s mouth, vents whooshing as pleasure made his vision white and his fans roar. His thighs quaked, and he bucked into Ricochet’s mouth as his mate’s grip eased.

And then Ricochet was kissing him sloppily, and the taste of his own transfluid spilled over Blurr’s glossa, into his mouth. He made a muffled sound as he swallowed, arousal throbbing a harsh beat through his soaking valve seconds before Ricochet slid into him, his spike gliding hot and firm over his sparking nodes.

Ricochet chuckled against his mouth as he set up a hard pace, driving Blurr deep into the berth, relentlessly pursuing his own overload. “My turn,” he said, sucking Blurr’s bottom lip into his mouth, giving it a gentle bite.

The taste of his own transfluid lingered on his lips. Blurr moaned as he wrapped shaky legs around Ricochet’s waist, trying to rise up to meet each rough thrust, but the roundness of his belly making it difficult.

“You gonna overload for me again?” Ricochet asked against his lips before his mouth moved down, denta and lips scraping a harsh pattern against Blurr’s intake.

Blurr moaned and bucked his hips, hands scrabbling at Ricochet’s back before finding his favorite seams to hook. He pushed into their openings, pinched the cables beneath, and a tide of hot desire spilled over him from Ricochet’s field.

“Yeah, you’re gonna give me another,” Ricochet crooned with a raspy laugh and drove deeper, grinding hard against Blurr’s ceiling node. “Come on, Zippy. Sing for me.”

Ricochet bent down, and the pressure of his denta, the sting of the bite, made Blurr jerk and overload, his valve clamping tight, a wave of charge dancing over his armor. He moaned, burying his face against Ricochet’s shoulder to muffle it, and the growl of Ricochet’s engine all but drowned him out.

“You’re so… fragging… hot,” Ricochet grunted, and drilled Blurr into the berth, pushing hard and deep, until the hot splash of his transfluid zinged over Blurr’s nodes, making them tingle and pulse another weak spurt of charge.

Ricochet’s mouth covered his for a deep kiss, and Blurr sank into it, mind still half-fuzzy from sleep, and now half-drunk on pleasure. He hummed as Ricochet circled his hips, gently grinding him through the last tremors of overload, before he tipped over into the berth and dragged Blurr into his arms. His hands patted over Blurr’s belly, both protective and possessive, and it stopped bothering Blurr sometime around the day he realized his carrying didn’t make him any less sexy in Ricochet’s gaze.

If anything, it worked him up more.

“Miss me last night?” Blurr asked as he listened to the sound of their frames cooling, their fans gradually cycling down to a calmer spin.

“Frag yeah. You came to berth too late,” Ricochet muttered, gnawing briefly on Blurr’s helm crest and making him twitch. “Can’t believe it’s already the insomnia stage. Is it just me or is this bitlet growing faster?”

Blurr snorted. “It only seems that way because you’re more aware of the carry this time.”

“Is that it?” Ricochet rumbled a laugh and nibbled Blurr’s crest again. “Huh.” His hand slid around the curve of Blurr’s belly again. “Not much longer, right?”

“Month or two,” Blurr said. “And if you can behave, you’ll get to be in the room this time.”

"I'm going to catch him," Ricochet declared as he rubbed a soft circle around the diameter of Blurr's belly, his engine a soft, rumbling purr. "Ratchet said we're a go for the birth, right?"

Blurr inwardly cringed, but he nodded. "We are. But don't get disappointed if it doesn't work out."

"Your health comes first." Ricochet nipped his crest before pressing his face to the back of Blurr's neck. "You know what this means, right?"

"That we're going to have two pitspawned sparklings underfoot?"

Ricochet snorted and gave his cables a pinch. "No. That you need to get off your aft and hire some folk. Preferably two or three."

"If you could get your twin to show up for his shifts, that wouldn't be such a problem," Blurr grumbled. Jazz had ghosted him, ghosted everyone truth be told, and Blurr was not amused.

"He's not meant to stand behind a bar. You can't count on him for that. And Drift is going to get sparked sooner rather than later. Get over it, Zippy. You gotta hire someone."

Blurr frowned where Ricochet couldn't see him. "Aren't you at all worried about your brother?"

"Jazz can take care of himself. And it's not the first time he's run away from his problems. He'll be back." Ricochet's engine gave a little rev. "I'm annoyed more than I'm worried. The little fragger's actin' like a coward." He pressed a kiss to Blurr's nape, his hips rocking against Blurr's aft in little, slow thrusts.

"But--"

"Blurr. Quit changin' the subject. We need more help. Now, I went out and got you some business, so you don't even have an excuse anymore," Ricochet said.

Blurr sighed a ventilation. Ricochet wasn't wrong. Business wasn't booming, per se, but there'd definitely been an uptick in sales. More patrons on nights that weren't poker nights. And if his customers leaned more toward former Decepticons or mechs with less than stellar reputations -- but currently impeccable manners -- Blurr didn't care. They paid well, they tipped better, and not a single one of them had tried to grope him.

He supposed it was Ricochet's doing.

"I'll think about it," Blurr conceded.

“I guess that’s the best I’m gonna get.” Ricochet’s denta graze the nape of his neck, glossa flicking out to taste a bite mark he kept worrying and worrying into Blurr’s cables. “Don’t wait too long. Rebound’s gonna be here before you know it.”

Blurr put a hand on his abdomen, over Ricochet’s, threading their fingers together. He shuttered his optics, counting Ricochet’s vents, as he felt the slight shifting beneath the surface of his armor. Quickening, Ratchet had called it, when the sparkling’s coding started to activate and caused the bitlet to twitch in the carrier’s tank.

“Can’t wait,” Blurr murmured. “Gonna go back to sleep now. Take Echo to school.”

Ricochet snorted and nuzzled the back of his neck. “Yes, dear.”

Blurr grinned.

Under his thumb.

****