[TF] Rain or Shine 07

[dracoqueen22]

Rain or Shine
Part Seven

Bluestreak had always wanted to be an Enforcer, and it wasn’t until after the war that he got the opportunity, thanks to Prowl. This caused some friction between he and Jazz, but it was too important for Bluestreak to quit. He wanted to do this.

Right now, sitting at a table with Blurr and Ricochet, both of whom were wracked with worry and anger in equal measures, Bluestreak second-guessed himself a little. Most of his assignments had involved strangers. This one was too close to home, but Blurr had insisted.

He wanted family involved. Ricochet had no interest in relying on the detective work of mechs who had once arrested him. So Bluestreak would take the lead in finding Echo, and everyone else would defer to him.

It was an enormous responsibility. He wished he didn’t have to bear the burden alone. But for family, he would do this, and Prowl had trusted him with it.

He would succeed.

“Prowl is going to put out a city-wide alert with pictures of Quicken and Echo. The city isn’t that big. Someone has to have seen them,” Bluestreak said as he paced back and forth, speaking aloud to organize his thoughts, and pacing to put his nervous energy somewhere.

He’d already sent a team to Quicken’s registered place of residence, but there was a very low chance they’d find him or Echo there. If a mech intended to kidnap someone’s sparkling for whatever twisted reason they’d devised, they weren’t just going to go back home to get easily caught.

Especially considering how long Quicken had likely been planning this. The whole thing smacked of planning, not convenience and spontaneity.

"Quicken is utterly forgettable. No one's going to remember seeing him," Blurr said as he rubbed his forehead, exhaustion wreathing his field in a heavy cloak.

"Someone has to know him. He didn't come here alone," Ricochet said as he audibly performed a systems check, though it didn't stop his engine from revving. "The real question is whether someone'll turn him in."

Blurr frowned. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Because Echo's part-Decepticon, and Ricochet hasn't made a lot of non-Decepticon friends. There's just enough lingering anger people might protect someone like Quicken," Bluestreak said reluctantly.

"He's a sparkling!" Blurr snapped, and he was on his feet in the next second, pacing back and forth, one hand rubbing his abdomen. Ratchet had warned him to try and stay as calm as possible, for Rebound's sake, but it was a warning which fell on deaf audials. "It shouldn't matter what his lineage is. He's a sparkling who was taken from his parents!"

Bluestreak held up his hands. "Hey, you don't have to tell me that. I'm just saying, I've been buried in anti-Decepticon sentiment for months. There's a lot of anger out there, a lot of resentment. Mechs aren't always gonna think rationally."

"Primus." Blurr rubbed his forehead. "We should have never left him in the playroom like that."

"No slag." Ricochet sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, and the storm on his face darkened with intensity. "You should've hired someone months ago so one of us could always be with him."

Blurr spun on a heelstrut and glared at Ricochet. "That's not helping, you aft!" he hissed. "Yes, I know. I should've hired someone. That's not going to fix it now!"

"No, but it could've prevented it. You're so damn worried about this bar, about us making enough creds, you don't stop to worry about Echo," Ricochet growled. "I'm the one who's stepped up since the day he was born, but ya still look at me like ya think I'm the one who's gonna walk away."

"You want to talk about blame?" Blurr demanded, and his hands swung wildly through the air in sharp, agitated motions. "I told you Quicken was a potential threat, and that you needed to be more careful who you slagged off, and you just laughed it up because you think there's nothing can touch you."

"I'm the one who threw him out and told him not to come back!"

"That's my fragging point." Blurr stomped up to Ricochet and shoved a finger in his face. "I could've handled it my way, but you had to go throw your weight around and be a possessive idiot, and now some unstable stalker has my son. My son."

Ricochet batted his hand away and stood, bristling with anger. "He's my son, too. And you should have remembered he was your son all the times you foisted him off on others because you couldn't be bothered to look after him."

"This isn't helping, you two," Bluestreak said, but if they heard him, they showed no signs. Their fields were a riotous clash of hurt and anger and worry, and they couldn't take it out on the one responsible, so they were taking it out on each other.

"I am not Echo's only parent! I do the best I can," Blurr snapped.

"Your best isn't good enough. Because if it was, Echo would still be here and not in the grip of one of your stalkers!" Ricochet hissed, and his field snapped through the room like a physical blow.

Bluestreak flinched from it, his sensory panels screeching a terrible feedback.

Blurr, however, went still, his face draining of color, and his optics flat and unyielding. He stared at Ricochet before he took a large, visible step back.

“Get out,” Blurr gritted through clenched denta.

"What?" Ricochet reared back, his armor clamping to his protoform.

"You heard me. Get out of my bar." Blurr's hands formed shaking fists. "Just get out of here until you find my son or you stop being a fragging aft. Whichever comes first.

Ricochet's jaw set. His field flared, and for a moment, Bluestreak thought he was going to have to break up something physical between them.

"Fine," Ricochet snarled and he whipped his hand through the air, inches from Blurr's chestplate. "But he's my fragging kid, too."

Ricochet whirled on a heel and stormed out of the bar, slamming the doors open and shut, sending a spidery crack through the transteel of the right-hand door.

"And we're going to have to fix that," Blurr snarled, glaring at Ricochet’s departure, but in the next second, all the fight and anger drained out of him. He stood there, shaking, and Bluestreak worried he was going to collapse.

He moved to Blurr's side, took his elbow, pulled him toward a chair, not that Blurr had any kind of resistance in him.

"Sit," Bluestreak said. "Take a deep vent for me."

Blurr shot him a look, but he obeyed, gratefully sinking into the chair and resting his hands on the table, his fingers visibly trembling. "Ricochet's not wrong. This is my fault."

"The only one responsible for this is Quicken." Bluestreak slid in the stool next to Blurr and rested a hand on Blurr's arm. He pulsed calm through his field, latching onto Blurr's to help regulate the wild flutters of Blurr's field. "The two of you are just angry and scared and don't have anywhere else to vent but on each other. I'm sure Ricochet didn't mean it."

Blurr sighed and covered his face with his hand. "He meant it. He just didn't mean to say it." He pressed his lips into a thin line, drawing a ragged vent. "I know I'm not the best parent. I try, but it just doesn't come as easy to me." He worked his intake. "I should've hired more people sooner."

"I know you love Echo, just like I know you already love Rebound. You're not a bad parent, Blurr," Bluestreak said, giving Blurr's arm a squeeze.

"No, but I could definitely be a better one." He set his jaw, optics hardening with determination. "And I will, too. My sparklings deserve the best, and I'm going to make sure they get it."

"And Ricochet will be back. He just needs to cool down."

"Yeah." Blurr scrubbed his forehead and sank down a little in the chair, his hand dropping to rub the soft round of his abdomen. "It doesn't help that he's on edge because of Jazz. No offense, Blue, but I need your partner to pull his head out of his aft."

Bluestreak managed a wry grin. "Honestly, so do I. No offense taken."

His comm chirped at him, and Bluestreak held up a finger before he took the call privately. He wanted to manage what information he gave Blurr. No need to worry him unnecessarily.

'Sir, Quicken's apartment is clean. Looks like he moved out and didn't plan to come back,' said Nightstick, the Enforcer Bluestreak had tasked with taking a unit to Quicken's registered residence. 'Seems like he's been gone for days.'

'Any notes, datapads, computers?'

'Just the one console. He tried to wipe it, but Restore thinks he can get back some of the data on it. Quicken wasn't tech savvy.'

A small spark of hope surged to life in Bluestreak's spark. 'Good. What about lists of known associates and his job?'

'I've put the request in. We should be getting that shortly,' Nightstick said.

Thank Primus. With any luck they'd get a lead.

'All right. I'm on my way to have a look at that console. Thank you, Nightstick.'

Bluestreak ended the comm and gave a gentle squeeze to Blurr's arm. "Quicken wasn't at his apartment, but he did have a personal console. I'm going to take a look at it."

"Do you think you're going to find something?" Blurr asked.

"I hope so. In the meantime, you shouldn't be alone. We don't know if Quicken is working alone or what his actual motivations are."

Bluestreak stood, contemplating his options, before he buzzed Drift, who immediately agreed to return, and apparently, would bring Ratchet as well.

Blurr nodded, his shoulders slumping, his head hanging as he spoke to the table. "I feel like I should be out there looking."

"There are hundreds of places he could be hiding. The city is full of abandoned buildings, and there are abandoned tunnels beneath us. Quicken could be anywhere," Bluestreak said, resting a hand on Blurr's shoulder. "It'll accomplish nothing to run around without a direction."

"I know." Blurr sighed. "Thank you, Bluestreak. I owe you one. More than one actually. When this is over..."

"Family doesn't keep score," Bluestreak said.

Blurr managed a faint smile.

~

Ricochet was not stupid.

He knew the anger billowing in his spark wasn't meant for Blurr. It wasn't meant for Jazz either, but Jazz was going to get it, because Ricochet was tired. He was tired and worried and upset and angry. His son was missing.

He needed his Primus-damned brother.

He knew where Jazz was. There were only so many boltholes in the city, and Ricochet knew his brother too well. He knew exactly where to go, to a section of the city that was furthest from the reconstruction areas. A lot of mechs who weren't ready to sing kumbayah and shake hands with their former enemies had taken up residence here, squatting in the ruins of Cybertron's former civilization.

It was a slum by any other name, save that no one forced these mechs to live here, they chose to do so.

Ricochet received no few strange looks. He was a familiar face, he knew, after that thing with Whipstrike and that he visited here quite frequently, often trying to convince former Decepticons to come in from the cold. No one gave him any troubles, however.

The Rust was a lawless place, but it had its own code. And anyway, he'd technically been on the right side of the war, never mind that he'd mated an Autobot.

A junker field of disassembled and scrapped ships had turned into a makeshift apartment complex. Jazz had set up a bunker in the fuselage of a scrapped Decepticon destroyer which would never fly again, but provided ample shelter to the displaced, the frustrated, and the anarchist.

Ricochet strode right up to the rickety door -- more sturdy than it looked -- and pounded his fist on it. The anger had time to settle in his tank, forming a low simmer, but the moment the door creaked open and a familiar face peered out, that simmer bubbled into a boil.

Jazz's visor flashed purple -- to match his new paintjob. He'd gone full incognito, full native, and if Ricochet hadn't felt the pulse of his spark, he might not have recognized his twin. That had better be a nanite wash, because if Ricochet had to look at this false-Jazz for too long, he was going to blow his top.

"How'd you find me?" Jazz asked without an ounce of warmth in his tone and heaps of suspicion.

"I always knew where you were, idiot, but I was content to let you play this game," Ricochet said, squaring his shoulders. He pointed to the ground at his feet. "Get out of there and let's go."

"What? No." Jazz scoffed and made as if to close the door.

Frag that.

Ricochet slammed both hands against the door, forcing it open and shoving Jazz back several, startled paces.

"I know I didn't stutter," he growled as he advanced on his twin, hands squeezing in and out of fists. "Echo is missing, and I need my fragging brother. So get your head out of your aft and do what I say."

Jazz froze. "Wait. Echo is missing?"

"If you'd been checking your messages, you'd know." Ricochet grabbed him and spun, slamming Jazz against the wall, his hands locked around Jazz's upper arms.

Jazz spat static at him, but he didn't squirm to get free. "I didn't think--"

"No, you didn't, because you never think, not when you think you know better than everyone else." Ricochet leaned in close enough to taste Jazz's vents on his lips. "The game ends now."

Jazz cycled a shuddering ventilation. "Let me go. I'll help you find him."

"It wasn't optional." Ricochet squeezed, until he felt Jazz's armor give a warning creak beneath his fingers, and the dark purple flickered. Good. It was a nanite wash. "You're coming with me, got it? We're going to meet up with Bluestreak, and we're going to find my son together."

The color drained out of Jazz's face, and his field gave a wild burst before he reined it in to nothing. "I don't--"

Ricochet slammed him against the wall again, and Jazz's head bounced off the surface, dazing but not hurting him. He'd been through worst. Frag, Ricochet had done worse to him.

He was making a point. No more games. He wasn't playing anymore. Jazz had his little fit; it was time to be an adult now. Slag was serious.

"Shut up," Ricochet snarled. "You don't get to argue right now. You're just gonna listen."

Jazz clamped his mouth shut.

Good boy.

"I love you. You're my brother, and I love you, but you've been acting like a selfish fragger," Ricochet snapped. "You've left Blurr short-handed. You've cut off contact with Bluestreak. And you disappeared when I needed you. I don't know what's going on in your head, though I can give it a good guess, but you better get over it."

Jazz's visor turned flinty and hard. His jaw set.

Ricochet gave him a little shake. "Are you listening?"

"You told me not to speak!" Jazz hissed.

"Now, you're just being a brat. You know what I damn well meant." Ricochet wanted to punch him, but he resisted. Just barely. "Do you want me ta kick yer ass? Cause you know I will."

Jazz squirmed in Ricochet's grip, but had nowhere to go. He thumped his fists against the wall, making it creak alarmingly. "It ain't easy as all that," he said. "But fine. Let's go. I wanna find Echo."

"But you're going to apologize to me first," Ricochet said.

Jazz's head dipped, his gaze dropping elsewhere. "I don't owe you an apology."

"You admit ya owe it someone though."

"Blurr, mebbe." He paused, cycled a ventilation, and went limp in Ricochet's grasp, his field wreathed in shame. "Blue, for sure."

"Damn right." Ricochet let go, and Jazz dropped back to the ground, not that Ricochet had held him up too high.

It still took a moment for Jazz to get his feet beneath him.

"You can tell me what crawled up your aft on the way," Ricochet said, and tilted his head to the door. "You first. And drop those nanites. Purple's a horrible color on you."

"I'm on an op. I can't."

"A self-appointed op." Ricochet snorted. He followed Jazz out the door, yanking it shut behind him. There was no point in locking it. This was a bolthole, not an actual home. "What in the Pit are you doing here?"

Jazz gave him a sidelong look as he slipped into a swagger, a far cry from his usual stealthy creep. He was putting on a show for anyone watching.

"You wanna find dissidents, you gotta go where they're likely to hide," Jazz said with a shrug. "Figured the Rust was the best place to start, and I was right. But they only talk to their own."

Ricochet side-eyed him, lip curling with disgust. "You took your partner's op. That's low, Jazz. Real low."

"I was trying to help him!"

"Yeah. Super generous of you, to go off on your own and start your own investigation on his assignment, and not tell him anything." Ricochet punched him on the shoulder, hard, making Jazz wince. "You don't even work like that anymore!"

Jazz rubbed his shoulder, looking suitably chastened. "I was tryin' to prove a point," he said in a sour tone.

"Well, ya didn't think it through. Bluestreak ain't gonna smile and kiss you and say thank you. He's gonna be furious and upset. He's gonna think you didn't think he was up to it," Ricochet pointed out. Primus, his brother was dumb sometimes.

"That's not it at all!"

Ricochet gave him a sour look. "Tell him, not me."

Jazz had the decency to look guilty. "I will." He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. "Just... tell me what happened with Echo, please? What did I miss?"

"Read your damn messages, then I'll tell you."

"Aft." Jazz twisted his jaw and fell silent for a moment as he waded through what was no doubt dozens of messages sitting in the queue, waiting for his attention.

How many of them were from Bluestreak, patiently expressing his worry and asking for a conversation? Judging by the growing reek of guilt in Jazz's field, there were plenty. Bluestreak wasn't one to yell like Ricochet, or make a fuss. He was quietly disappointed instead, and Ricochet would argue that was worse.

"Slag," Jazz sighed, and the guilt increased tenfold. "Blurr asked me to look into Quicken, keep an optic on him, but I never looked deeper than the surface."

"He didn't tell me that."

"He didn't want you to think he was being paranoid."

It was Ricochet's turn to sigh. "I would have listened," he grumbled, even though he knew Blurr probably had reason to hesitate. Ricochet did have a bad habit of dismissing smaller concerns.

"Sure." Jazz snorted and tilted his head. "Well, Quicken's not in the Rust, and he's not part of any of the groups there, so none of my contacts will help us."

"Bluestreak has already started the investigation. With your help, it'll go faster," Ricochet said as they finally arrived at the apartment complex where Bluestreak made his home.

Jazz balked upon sight of it, but Ricochet grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged him inside. He didn't have time for games. Ricochet had already sent a message to Bluestreak, who promised he'd be home as soon as he reasonably could.

Ricochet let himself into the apartment, keeping a firm grip on Jazz, and hauled him inside, where his nose twitched at the faintly stale odor. Bluestreak hadn't been spending much time here, he knew. He worked far too much, and sometimes, he crashed with Prowl, and Ricochet couldn't blame him.

No one wanted to come back to an empty apartment and all the reminders of why it shouldn't be.

"Wash off the Rust and deactivate those nanites. I want to see my brother when you come out of the rack," Ricochet said as he moved to the windows, opening the blinds and letting the pale light of the stars brighten the room.

"That's what I was planning to do anyway," Jazz said, like the brat he was, and vanished into the washrack.

Ricochet rolled his optics behind his visor. He busied himself with tidying a bit, chasing away the sense of abandonment, and filling the apartment with warmth and energy. He cut on the vidscreen, turning on the news to a low murmur, and drew several cubes of energon from the dispenser, keeping one for himself and setting out one for Jazz.

Then he sat on the couch and waited, trying not to stew, trying not to feel the guilt attempting to creep into his spark. He thought of his last angry words with Blurr, and his engine revved, until Ricochet chased them away with his rightful anger toward his brother.

Jazz emerged some time later in a cloud of steam, his armor gleaming fresh, in familiar black and white. He grinned as he strutted into the room -- his time in the rack must have restored some of his confidence. Ricochet was ready to slap it back down.

"Did you miss me?" he asked as he climbed into Ricochet's lap, draping his arms over Ricochet's shoulders, hips rolling in a sinuous dance which made heat lazily crawl through Ricochet's circuits.

He would not be so easily manipulated.

Ricochet shoved him off, and took great satisfaction in watching Jazz tumble to the floor, his field a burst of confused outrage. "Don't ask me a stupid question," Ricochet said, careful to keep his tone cold and even. "You vanished for weeks. On both me and Blue. You don't get to shake your aft and think it's all okay."

Jazz stood, making a show of brushing himself off. "If Echo's missing, why are you here and not with Blurr?" he asked, with that incisive intuition which made him a deadly assassin.

"We're not talking about me."

"Oh, I think we are." Jazz examined a scratch in his armor. "You drag me out of the Rust in a fit of self-righteousness, so I think we oughta question why."

Ricochet glared, the heat of it flaring from his visor. "I'm not the one who fragged off and abandoned my partner and my job because I'm too much of a brat to admit I was wrong."

"No." Jazz's lip curled, but there was nothing friendly about his smile. "But you did something, didn't you? What'd you do wrong, big brother? What did you fuck up?"

Ricochet was on his feet before he'd made the conscious decision to do so, standing toe to toe with Jazz, who looked up at him, triumphant and ready.

"It isn't your business," Ricochet snapped, poking Jazz hard in the chassis, making him rock on his feet. "This is about you."

Jazz lifted his chin, and Ricochet wanted to smack the smirk off his pretty face. "Sweetspark, it's always about me, or didn't you know that?"

Primus damn it. There it was.

"You're goading me on purpose."

"Am I?"

Ricochet rested a hand around his brother's intake, not squeezing, but with implied threat, his thumb stroking over a sensitive cable. "Do you want to pay penance?"

Jazz's armor shivered, and charge nipped at Ricochet's fingertips as Jazz's field opened to him, as readable to Ricochet as a datapad. "Do I need to?"

"You're such a needy slut," Ricochet murmured, but the heat had already coiled in his tanks, pulsed through his groin. His spike thickened in its sheath. He applied pressure to Jazz's intake, felt the pulse of his brother's spark energy in the thick cable. "I'm not in full control, Jazz. You're takin' a big risk."

There was a violence in him right now, one he hadn't felt in a long time, not since the last battle before the war ended. It twisted and coiled in his spark, an urge to do harm without anything to direct his violence toward. He wanted to see Quicken twisted and mangled at his feet. He wanted to beat the enemy to a pulpy mass of cables and protomatter. He wanted to destroy something if only to bleed out the rage.

Jazz licked his lips. "I trust you."

"That's your first mistake," Ricochet growled and yanked Jazz in for a biting kiss, nothing gentle it, but a full claim, biting and plunging his glossa into Jazz's mouth.

Jazz moaned and opened to him, all trace of resistance melting away, his field rising up and smashing against Ricochet's in a riotous storm of emotion.

Perfect.

Ricochet bit Jazz's lip hard enough to draw energon, squeezing his intake warningly, before he drew back and growled, "Knees."

Jazz shuddered, head to toe, and he lowered himself down, despite the strain of Ricochet's grip on his throat, until Ricochet finally released him. Jazz didn't have to be told to kiss Ricochet's interface array, covered though it was. He pressed his face to it, laying open-mouthed kisses, and licking the seams.

"Hands behind your back," Ricochet said. "Hold your elbows. You don't deserve to put your hands on me."

A low whine eked out of Jazz's engine, but he obeyed, armor creaking as he strained to maintain the position while balanced on his knees and sloppily attending Ricochet's paneled array.

"You do your best work on your knees, you know," Ricochet said as he gripped one of Jazz's sensory horns, squeezing until the plating gave a warning crackle and Jazz winced.

He didn't tell Ricochet to stop, however.

"It's where you belong." Ricochet worked his intake, his vents coming in sharper bursts. He rocked against Jazz's mouth, his spike nudging at the closed panel, demanding to be freed. "Don't you dare overload. That's not what you're here for."

Jazz moaned, and his knees scooted a little further apart, aft rocking as though trying to seek friction, his panels snapping aside. His spike emerged, thick and glossy. The scent of his arousal filled the air, sweet and spicy.

Ricochet cupped the back of Jazz's head with his other hand, held Jazz against his panel, and only then did he trigger his spike to release, so that when it emerged it slid against Jazz's cheek, leaving a smear of pre-fluid behind. Ricochet rocked against him, grinding over his face, smearing the pre-fluid over both of Jazz's cheeks, ignoring the temptation of his mouth.

For now.

Primus, he looked good like this. Ricochet hadn't realized how much he missed this until Jazz was here on the floor, hungry and desperate to be taught a lesson. He hadn't closed his mouth, his lips parted instead, hot and damp vents emerging from it, his glossa lying quiescent within.

Ricochet's spike throbbed.

"Lick me," he demanded, and Jazz hastened to comply, his glossa swirling over the head of Ricochet's spike, lapping up every drop of prefluid before laving it up and down.

Ricochet held his head in place, but as pretty a sight as it made, he wanted more. So he pushed into Jazz's mouth slowly, dragging his spike across the flat of Jazz's glossa, taking his time until Jazz's nasal ridge as pressed to his spike housing and he was buried in his brother's intake. Jazz swallowed around him, intake cables flexing, and Ricochet shuddered.

The anger told him to thrust, to slam into Jazz's mouth as though it was as receptive as a valve, to bruise Jazz's intake and drown him in transfluid. Ricochet shuttered his optics, cycled a ventilation, and grasped the strings of his restraint. He moved into Jazz's mouth, long and deep strokes, but without the intent to damage.

Pleasure zipped up and down his backstrut as Jazz kept swallowing, though oral lubricant leaked from the sides of his mouth, and he made these helpless noises of desperation. Ricochet's engine rumbled and roared.

He forced himself to slow down, to slide into Jazz's mouth and linger, enjoy the pleasure of wet heat and the sweep of Jazz's glossa. Every muffled sound, every twitch, every crackle of charge licking out from Jazz's armor, put a chip in the tension riding on Ricochet's shoulders.

Primus, he'd missed this.

Distantly, Ricochet registered that the front door opened. He shifted his gaze to the front hallway just as Bluestreak stepped into view, his expression completely unreadable.

"Perfect timing," Ricochet said, to acknowledge Bluestreak's arrival, and when Jazz made a muffled noise and attempted to pull back, Ricochet held him in place.

His job right now was to suck Ricochet's spike. Nothing else.

Bluestreak shook himself like coming out of a fugue, and came further into the room, a smile on his lips, and his panels arched high. It was a mask if Ricochet ever saw one. "I'll say." He eyed Jazz. "How well is that one behaving?"

Ricochet stroked a sensory horn, making Jazz shudder. "Better than usual. I think he's feeling guilty."

"Well, he should." Bluestreak's tone was sharp, and Jazz jerked, his visor dimming and his field flickering with shame. "Only a coward takes off without a proper conversation."

Oh. Those words were pointed, weren't they? Because they weren't meant for Jazz alone. Ricochet felt the sting of them.

They were fully deserved.

Bluestreak stepped up against Jazz's back, looming over him, and Jazz's visor flickered as Bluestreak's field slithered against his.

"I'm not even sure I want it back," Bluestreak murmured, his optics sharp and flinty, though his touch was gentle as he curled his hand against Jazz's head, fingers scrubbing the other sensory horn, opposite of Ricochet's grip. "I don't know if it's worth it."

Jazz made a muffled, pained sound, and tried to pull against Ricochet's head, but he refused to let him. Jazz was going to kneel here, with a spike in his mouth, until Bluestreak said what he wanted to say.

"It is needy," Ricochet admitted, holding Bluestreak's gaze, to make a point of his own. "And likely to run away when it doesn't know what to do, but you know, it never lied about what it needed. Maybe you forgot that."

Bluestreak flinched and cycled a ventilation. His fingers gentled as he stroked Jazz's sensory horn. "I did," he admitted with a soft sigh. "I put so much time and attention into my job, because it was a dream come true, that I forgot about the other dream I'd won. I assumed it would always be there, and forgot that even the best of things take work. That was my fault."

"And?" Ricochet prompted.

Bluestreak's panels drifted down, his face flickering with guilt and sadness. "And I'm sorry. I should've been here more. I should've remembered what else mattered."

"It's no excuse," Ricochet said, rolling his hips briefly, reminding Jazz he should be tending to Ricochet's spike. "Conversations should've been had. Running away like a coward isn't going to fix anything, no matter what the intentions were."

"Very true," Bluestreak said, and he looked down at Jazz, some of the hardness returning to his gaze. "I don't want a partner who won't talk to me. I don't want a partner who will trust me in the berth but no where else. I want a relationship, I've always been clear about that, so if my partner doesn't want that, then maybe we need to go our separate ways."

Jazz whined deep in his throat, and he twitched, as though he was going to unfold his arms, before he thought better about it.

Ricochet nodded and looked down at Jazz, sliding in and out of his mouth a few times, sensing the conflict in his brother's field, and written on his brother's face. "It's contrary and troublesome," he said. "But I think it's worth it, and worth a second try."

He licked his lips and gave Bluestreak a dirty grin. "Why don't you use that other end of his? See what I'm talking about?"

Bluestreak's optics widened, before heat darkened their crystal hue. "He does have a beautiful aft."

"My thoughts exactly." Ricochet slid out of Jazz's mouth, sweeping his thumb over the swollen lips, before cupping his cheek. "Come along, pet. Let's move this somewhere comfortable."

He put pressure against Jazz's chin, and Jazz struggled to stand without use of his hands, wobbling when he got to his feet, though Ricochet made no move to help him. He opened his mouth as if he intended to talk, but a hard look from Ricochet made him clamp his mouth back shut. Instead, he nodded, and lowered his gaze.

Ricochet went to the bedroom, Jazz following, and Bluestreak along with him. They walked side by side, and Jazz snuck glances at his lover, but said nothing, while Bluestreak's expression said far more than words. Heat burned between them, desire thwarted by months apart and their own inability to communicate properly.

Ricochet grinned to himself. This, at least, was a problem he could solve.

He climbed onto the bed, propped up against the wall, with pillows a comfortable mound against his back, and spread his thighs, one hand curving around his spike. He throbbed with denied release, pre-fluid dribbling freely from the tip.

"Pet," he said as he thumbed the tip of his spike. "Give me your mouth."

Jazz made a strangled noise and started forward, but Bluestreak grabbed him before he could, gripping his chin and turning Jazz's face up toward his. They kissed, nothing soft and gentle about it, Bluestreak biting Jazz's bottom lip, his grip possessive and hungry. Jazz moaned, knees wobbling, and Ricochet licked his lips, stroking himself harder.

Bluestreak ended the kiss, and held his gaze. "You're mine, too," he growled, and damn if it didn't turn Ricochet on a little more. "Don't you forget that."

Jazz trembled. He opened his mouth, but Bluestreak shook his head sharply.

"No talking." He gestured to Ricochet with a tilt of his head. "You heard your brother. Give him your mouth."

"He's not supposed to overload either," Ricochet said as Jazz awkwardly climbed onto the berth without use of his hands, lubricant slicking his thighs, his engine whining from restrained pleasure.

"I approve." Bluestreak climbed after Jazz, openly ogling the sway of his aft, the lines of lubricant glistening on the interior of his thighs, and the droplets he left on the somewhat-dusty coverlet.

He grabbed Jazz's linked arms to steady him, and pushed Jazz forward with the other hand, Ricochet snatching his brother's shoulders to guide Jazz's mouth over his spike, without Jazz faceplanting uselessly. As amusing as that would be, Ricochet's spike wanted attention, and he didn't have the urge to completely humiliate his brother. This was meant to be a lesson.

Jazz hungrily sucked Ricochet's spike into his mouth, licking and sucking on it like he was a starving mech and Ricochet's spike was his favorite meal. He shivered as he moaned, swallowing Ricochet to the base everytime, head bobbing in perfect rhythm. He moaned even louder when Bluestreak grabbed his hips and nudged against his aft, the quiet click of a panel sliding aside heralding the appearance of Bluestreak's spike as he rutted over Jazz's aft.

"You gonna tease all night or are you gonna take him?" Ricochet asked as he held Jazz's head, keeping him in place to rock over Jazz's glossa.

Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. "You think you're gonna order me around now?"

"It was a suggestion." Ricochet grinned, lip curled. "But I can certainly give it a try. They say every Dom's just waiting for the right master to come along."

"That might be true. But you're not mine," Bluestreak said as he rolled his hips, and he must have finally slid into Jazz, because a long moan slipped out of Jazz's mouth, his visor fluttering.

Bluestreak pulled Jazz back onto his spike, and Jazz slipped off Ricochet's mouth, until only the head of his spike lingered on his brother's glossa.

Ricochet grinned. Now that's what he was talking about.

"Is that right?" Ricochet asked as he thrust up and pulled on Jazz's shoulders, guiding Jazz back toward him, pushing down his intake. "Maybe you just need to give me a try."

"No, thanks." Bluestreak's panels fluttered at the tips, and he thrust into Jazz, harder, faster, jolting him forward, onto Ricochet's spike.

Jazz made a muffled noise, and his field flared with arousal, blanketing them in a buzzing surge of need. His hips moved, back against Bluestreak, charge crackling out from under his armor.

Ricochet chuckled, dark and dangerous. He cupped his brother's head, and he started to move, quick and sharp thrusts. No more holding back. No more lingering. He wanted his overload, and he wanted it now.

Bluestreak, however, wasn't so easily bested. There was a flash in his optics, and he tightened his grip on Jazz's hips, pulling Jazz back onto his spike with equal fervor. Jazz was caught between them, the object of desire in a tug of war.

And he was clearly loving every minute of it.

Every muffled moan and whine went straight to Ricochet's spike. He cupped his brother's head and thrust harder, faster, his spike throbbing and dribbling pre-come down his brother's intake. Jazz moaned, oral lubricant dribbling out of the corners of his mouth, his frame writhing between them.

Jazz whined, looking up at him, begging without words to be allowed his pleasure.

"No," Bluestreak answered, and the hum of command in his voice gave Ricochet a little shiver. "You serve us first, pet."

Jazz shuddered, and his shoulders twitched, like he wanted to uncross his arms, and thought twice about it. He swallowed around Ricochet's mouth, glossa stroking and lapping urgently.

He was perfect.

Ricochet overloaded to that thought, thrusting deep, Jazz's nasal ridge pressed to his spike housing, spilling down his brother's intake. He growled as he came, visor flickering, and his field flared out of his control.

Jazz moaned around his spike, gulping down his spill, until suddenly he was pulled back, onto Bluestreak’s spike. Ricochet popped free of his mouth, and Jazz gasped as Bluestreak hauled him backward by a firm grip on his arms, drawing Jazz into an unsteady position on his knees. He was gorgeous like that, and Ricochet couldn’t get annoyed.

He watched the show instead as Bluestreak thrust into Jazz, long and steady strokes, and then he reached around and gripped Jazz’s spike, stroking him in squeezing pulls. Jazz keened, his visor flickering, pre-fluid spilling from the tip.

“P-please,” Jazz moaned.

“Wait,” Bluestreak said, his voice a sharp command, his hips slamming against Jazz’s aft.

Ricochet groaned to himself. They were both delicious. He really ought to share Jazz with Bluestreak more often, if only to see this again. Jazz submitted perfectly, and if he’d get his head out of his aft, he’d see how perfectly he fit with Bluestreak.

Jazz’s head hung, his vents coming in sharp gasps, charge licking out from his armor in bright, fuzzy bursts. Heat poured from him in waves, but Ricochet had to admire his self-control. He clung to their commands as though their forgiveness depended on his obedience.

And Bluestreak overloaded with a low, staticky groan, his sensory panels snapping high and rigid as he yanked Jazz onto his spike and went deliciously still, his optics a deep, cerulean blue. He was pretty gorgeous, and Ricochet wished they were a little more compatible. He’d love to be the one who made Bluestreak scream with pleasure.

Jazz twitched in Bluestreak’s grip, and a litany of pleas spilled from his lips. “Please, please, can I overload now? Please, sir, please.”

Ricochet grinned and caught Bluestreak’s gaze, giving a little nod of approval. He’d let Bluestreak take it from here because he was generous like that.

Bluestreak leaned in against Jazz’s back, nuzzling his head, his hand working faster on Jazz’s spike as he pressed close. “You’ve done well, pet,” he purred, and Jazz all but vibrated in his arms, engine whining a low keen, frame moving in arrhythmic jerks. “Overload for me.”

Ricochet moved forward quickly, caught his brother’s face with his hands and dragged him into a kiss, swallowing his moan as Jazz jerked and overloaded, spilling over Bluestreak’s fingers and spurting onto the bed beneath him. His engine screeched into a high pitch, and he must have overloaded from his valve as well, judging by the low groan of pleasure coming from Bluestreak.

Jazz stilled between them, caught in a rapturous ecstasy, until it let him go and dropped him, strut-less, into Ricochet’s arms. He twitched, little zips of charge crawling over his armor, his fans whirring and engine purring.

Bluestreak nuzzled his nape, gave his spike a little stroke before letting him go when Jazz released a quiet whine of protest. “Very good, pet,” he murmured and he tapped Jazz’s arms. “You can let go now.”

“He might need some help,” Ricochet said with a chuckle.

“I know.” Bluestreak shifted his weight, his hands sliding down Jazz’s arms to gently encourage them to disengage and straighten, causing the cables to creak and Jazz to wince.

“Come on. You’re sturdier than that,” Ricochet teased as he gave Jazz’s aft a playful pat.

Bluestreak gave him a look and slipped his fingers into Jazz’s shoulders, gently massaging the sore cables. “And you’re smarter than walking out on Blurr at a time like this.”

Ricochet worked his jaw. Touche.

“You got something to say?” he asked.

“We’re family. So it’s my business.” Bluestreak’s words were casual, but there was a hardness to his tone. “Both of you are being stupid. You love Echo. You love each other. You should be working together, not trying to blame each other for something that’s neither of your fault.” He gave Ricochet a narrow look. “And you shouldn’t be here. You should be home with Blurr.”

“You should,” Jazz mumbled, sounding exhausted.

“Can I leave you two without it falling to pieces?” Ricochet asked, only half-kidding, and maybe he was stalling. He didn’t look forward to the ball of anger which was surely his mate.

Bluestreak gave him a look. "I think we'll survive without you," he drawled. "Blurr's the one who needs you now."

"And Echo," Jazz said with a bit of a staticky crackle. His field clung to theirs with a warm, stickiness, his frame a loose languor draped against Ricochet's.

He gave Jazz a heave and a push, guiding him into Bluestreak's arms instead. Jazz flopped like he hadn't any energy, and hummed, nuzzling into Bluestreak's intake with a dopey smile on his face.

"Yeah, I know." Ricochet slipped off the bed and stretched, cables creaking, satisfaction thrumming through his lines. His volcanic anger toward Blurr was gone. He still carried quite the fury for Quicken. "What's the word on Quicken?"

"I've got a list of known associates and his various places of work, along with some seriously creepy pictures of his shrine to racers." Bluestreak shuddered theatrically. "I'm going to get cleaned up and then Jazz and I will hit the streets. We'll let you know what we find."

It would have to be enough for now. Ricochet could rant and rave and spend hours running around, but it would be pointless. They had to work smart.

"Go home, Ricochet," Jazz said, his visor flickering into brightness as he cuddled into Bluestreak. "And don't worry. We're gonna find Echo."

"It's what family's for," Bluestreak added.

Ricochet ex-vented his relief. "Yeah, I know,” he said. “Love you, too.”

***