[TF] Rain or Shine 09

[dracoqueen22]

Rain or Shine
Part Nine

Nova's loomed in front of them, a crumbling, shambling hulk of broken dreams and empty promises, a rusting lump of former greatness, decaying more and more with each passing year. It represented, to Ricochet, all the reasons why he'd become a Decepticon.

"If you even think about telling me to wait outside, I will shoot you and then go in by myself," Blurr said with a stubborn set to his chin.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Ricochet said, even though he'd been thinking of doing exactly that. Did they know each other so well already?

How the world had turned.

"Good." Blurr's expression was hard, set in battle-mood, but there was something haunted in his optics. This place probably held good memories for him. "We do this together."

"After you." Ricochet gestured in a sweeping bow. After all, Blurr knew this building far better than he did, even in it's current decrepit state.

Blurr rolled his optics, but led the way.

They did a quick reconnaissance around the perimeter first, Ricochet looking for traps, signs of active cameras, the works. He couldn't see anything worrisome, but it was Blurr who spotted the door with recent signs of tampering. It had been forced open and shut multiple times – obvious signs of a squatter or otherwise. It was as good a point of entry as anything.

The door creaked and screeched open, rattling loudly through the eerie stillness.

"There goes our element of surprise," Ricochet muttered.

"If he's here, he knew we'd find him eventually. There's no surprise," Blurr said. "We already know we're walking into a trap."

"Fair enough."

In they went, Ricochet taking point, but following Blurr's directions. Inside, it was dim and dusty, smelling of rust and lingering traces of death, as if mechs had dragged themselves in here to go offline, leaving their grayed corpses in the ashes of a once-great institution.

My, he was feeling poetic today, wasn't he?

Ricochet snorted to himself. His armor crawled, and the discomfort made him antsy. He hated knowing he was walking into a trap. He hated the anticipation of waiting for it to spring.

The door must have been some kind of service entrance. There were janitorial facilities here. Docks for cleaning drones, long since scavenged for parts, and rows of cleaning supplies by the empty barrel -- no doubt also drained to make explosives during the war. Rusted signs on the wall gave a fair indication of direction.

Then they reached an intersection of hallways, the right leading toward the locker rooms, the left leading toward the green room.

"We should split up," Blurr said. "It's the only way to do this quickly."

Ricochet frowned. Both hallways were equally dim and shadowed and cluttered with debris. The silence was suffocating. Footsteps in the dust went both directions.

"I don't like that," he said.

"I don't want to waste time sticking together when we're both capable of looking after ourselves," Blurr said, and started toward the green room. "Comm me if you find anything."

Ricochet knew a lost argument when he heard one. "You know, you're pretty hot when you take command like that."

Blurr rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide the pride in his field. "Go find our son."

Despite everything, Ricochet managed a chuckle. He watched Blurr vanish into the dim, trying to ignore the niggle of apprehension in his tank, before he turned toward the lockers, blaster drawn and sensors on high alert.

Quicken was here; Ricochet was sure of it.

Every step was cautious. His scanners continuously swept the hall ahead of him, behind him, above him, below him. No traps. No alarms. Nothing but the signs of foot traffic, and the uncomfortable quiet.

He passed dusty displays, cracked vidscreens, fading posters declaring the wonders of racing, and the stars who had made history. One of them Ricochet faintly recognized as Blurr, though the color had long since faded. That silly crest of his was unmistakable. As was that cocky grin.

There were three locker rooms. The first he checked held nothing but empty lockers and scattered debris and yes, a few gray corpses, slumped together in a corner. The second, however, made his armor stand on end. He could hear something in here, something moving, ventilating, and tiny whimpers.

Ricochet's spark leapt into his intake. He knew those whimpers.

He hurried, rounding the corner to what seemed to be special, private lockers for the bigger stars. The doors had been forced open, two of them slightly ajar, and when Ricochet peered into the first, it took every ounce of his instincts not to dart inside, straight to Echo.

He made himself check for traps first, signs of tampering, pressure sensitive plates, wiring for bombs, anything that could hurt Echo or himself before he got there. He sent off a comm to Blurr as he scanned, jittering in place, every second he waited a special kind of torture.

His scans came back negative, and Ricochet stowed his blaster, hurrying into the room. Echo was laying on a bed of dirty, torn washrags. There was a cuff around one of his wrists, connected to a chain which was then attached to a pipe.

Monster.

Ricochet was going to rip out Quicken’s intake with his denta.

He skidded to his knees by his sparkling, who shivered in a restful recharge, but stirred as Ricochet touched him. His optics fluttered open, hazy like he'd been drugged, and his frame was overly hot.

Anger made Ricochet's engine roar, but he tried to quiet it for Echo's sake.

"Daddy?" Echo's voice crackled with confusion, and then relief. "You came!"

"Of course I did, silly bit. Didn't I tell you I'd protect you?" Ricochet pulled Echo into his lap and glared at the cuffs. They were stupidly easy to pick for someone like him.

Echo threw himself to Ricochet's chest, clinging tightly. "I was so scared, Daddy."

"I know. It's okay. I got you." Ricochet wrapped an arm around Echo, holding him tight, as the last cuff fell away. "Mama's on his way. We both came for you. And that bad mech is never going to hurt you again."

'Blurr?'

'I'm coming!'

Echo shook, and the rage kept building higher. He would eviscerate Quicken, tear him limb from limb. He would make the mech regret he'd ever been sparked.

Ricochet tucked Echo into his arms and drew his blaster with the other hand. They still didn't know where Quicken was.

"Come on, Echo. Let's find Mama and get out of here," Ricochet said, and he turned to go.

Heat and pain exploded in his left knee, his leg immediately crumbling beneath him. Ricochet toppled, and instinct tucked Echo into his frame, shielding his sparkling even as he dropped.

"Daddy!" Echo's shriek echoed in his audials.

Ricochet swung his blaster in the direction the shot must have come from, and looked up into the business end of a laser rifle.

"Drop it," Quicken said in a cold voice, looking down at him with wild optics and a shaky finger hovering on the trigger.

Ricochet’s blaster clattered to the floor. He didn't need it to kill Quicken anyway.

"Are you going to actually use that weapon, or is this all some show?" Ricochet asked as Echo whimpered and tried to crawl under his armor. He did his best to put himself between the end of that weapon and his sparkling.

The rifle wavered, but Quicken’s glare didn’t. “It’s not a show,” Quicken snapped, indignant, his optics bright. “It’s something that has to be done. I take no pleasure in it. But it has to be done. You’re a weight, you see, both of you. A weight dragging him down.”

Stall.

He had to stall.

Blurr would be here any moment, and all Ricochet had to do was stall, wait for his chance. He didn’t dare attack unless he could be sure Echo would be safe. He didn’t trust Quicken’s temperament. He didn’t trust the tremble of Quicken’s trigger finger.

“You’re delusional,” Ricochet growled, because if there was one thing crazy mechs couldn’t resist, it was arguing that they weren’t crazy.

“I’m practical,” Quicken corrected. He shifted his weight, the blaster wavering, the muzzle twitching toward Echo, and Ricochet adjusted, curving around his sparkling. “Blurr is meant for greater things. For adoration and trophies. Not a life as some domestic, some housemech bending the knee to a Decepticon.”

His vocals grew louder with every word, until the last was a shriek, punctuated by a forward thrust of the rifle, butting up against Ricochet’s head.

Ricochet flinched. Echo whimpered.

“Blurr’s not happy. He’s miserable. He wants to run, to race, and you’ve turned him into… into a sparkling factory!” Quicken’s fans spun so quickly they whined, and he started to wave his free hand wildly, the rifle humming in arrhythmic octaves as his fingers twitched on the controls.

His knee throbbed. It ached. The stench of burnt circuitry and armor, the hissing as it sparked beneath his weight, filled the room. Echo’s crying and desperate hold made the rage burn brighter.

Blurr.

Hurry.

“Ask him then,” Ricochet growled, holding his visor static, but letting his gaze skip past Quicken, toward the door and beyond, hoping to see a shift in the light, in the shadows. “If you’re so convinced he’s miserable, why don’t you ask him?”

Quicken barked a laugh. “He’ll lie. He’s convinced himself this is what he wants. But he’s wrong. He’s wrong.” He shifted, doing a little dance in place, and Unicron, this mech was crazy. He needed to be put down hard. “He can’t do what needs to be done so I… I’m going to do it for him.”

Quicken nodded, and his field pulsed heavy and thick through the room, suffocating in its glee and self-righteousness.

“He can’t get rid of the dead weight in his life, so I’ll do it for him, and then he’ll be free to be what he’s meant to be.” Quicken licked his lips. “He’ll realize how much I love him.”

Ricochet clenched his jaw.

Damn it.

‘Blurr. I’m about to do something drastic.’

~

Stadiums and racetracks had always felt like home to Blurr, like a place he belonged. Not so much anymore. It was creepy to be here now, and Blurr was not a mech easily unsettled. It was dark and dirty and reeked of death. It was a shamble of debris and shattered dreams, and as much as he wanted to hear the echoes of an adoring crowd, all he could see was the rich life he’d led while under his feet, the rest of Cybertron suffered.

He wanted to race again, but not like how it used to be. Not anymore.

It made him ill, his tank twisting and churning into knots.

There were corpses in the green room, mechs who looked like they’d crawled here in a desperate attempt to find somewhere decent to die. They’d starved or been injured and had nowhere else to go. They weren’t marked as Autobot or Decepticon, which meant they’d just been civilians caught in the crossfire of the emerging war.

It hadn’t occurred to Blurr, until now, to feel guilty.

Beyond the green room was a different story. It was clear Quicken had been trying to effect repairs as best he could. Walls had been reinforced, debris cleared, a fresh coat of paint slapped over cracks and dents. He didn’t know where Quicken had found them either, but posters had been hung on the walls, old things, of Blurr in the height of his popularity.

They weren’t the faded and worn images he’d passed in the hallway earlier. These looked new, like they’d been freshly printed. It was like some kind of monument to Blurr, and it creeped him the frag out.

Quicken had been living here, too. Or at least, someone had. One of the storage rooms had been turned into a living space with a berth and a portable energon converter and…

Blurr’s tanks churned again, and he worked his intake, trying to keep it down. Was it a shrine? Was that the best word for the display he found on a shelf, pictures of him, tickets preserved in laminate, a bottle of what had to be streamer tape and burst balloons? The sight should fill him with nostalgia, but all it did was overwhelm him with a creeping dread.

Quicken wasn’t like Wirelight. He had entirely different motives.

And then Ricochet’s comm came through, and Blurr had turned away from the nauseating display. He hadn’t found Quicken, but Ricochet had found Echo, and really, Echo was all who mattered.

Blurr turned and ran away from the madness.

‘I’m coming,’ he said.

He found his way back to where their paths diverged, glancing at the walls to find the signs to reassure him he was on the right route. It was odd, wasn’t it, how in a place so dirty and disused, that the signs should be so legible.

‘Hurry,’ Ricochet said, and it was a comm, not his actual voice, sent perhaps because he couldn’t speak, and panic forced Blurr into a run, a speed he rarely indulged anymore because there was no reason to let himself fly.

He was slow, held back by the weight of his gestational tank, and it was a stern reminder that as much as he had to get to Ricochet and Echo, he had to protect Rebound, too. He was two sparks right now, not one.

Blurr ran, and slowed as he approached the lockers. He tightened his grip on his blaster, spark hammering in his chassis. He didn’t want to run in blind, but then the sound of a lasershot echoed around the empty space, and rationality flew out the window.

Blurr darted inside, toward the sound, sprinting through the main locker room, to one of the private racks, skidding to a stop, his spark leaping into his intake. The stench of spilled energon and fear choked him as he took it all in a glance.

Ricochet on the floor, curled around a wailing Echo, energon pooling from multiple wounds, his denta gritted and his field spiking fury. Quicken standing over them with a blaster, his back to the door, only to turn at the sound of Blurr’s arrival. Joy brightened his face, sheer unadulterated delight.

“Blurr!” He grinned, face splitting wide. “You’re here!”

Blurr didn’t see red.

He saw a kaleidoscope of fury, and he fired before he thought twice about it, two shots, one slamming into Quicken’s elbow, forcing him to drop the blaster, the other hitting Quicken in the hip, sending him stumbling into a spin.

“About time you joined the party,” Ricochet said, his vocals grating and gurgling, like fluid was spilling into his vents.

Blurr threw himself between his family and the monster, his thoughts spinning as Quicken groaned, holding himself up against the wall, looking at Blurr with betrayal and confusion.

“I don’t understand,” he said as he cupped his hip, energon spilling out, trickling down his thigh. “”This is what’s best, Blurr. Can’t you see? You need to be free. You need to compete.”

Blurr shot him again, taking out his left knee, and Quicken crumpled with a gasp, face contorting with pain, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough to make up for what he’d done.

“You had no right,” Blurr growled, furious and aching, and Echo’s weeps making his energon boil while Ricochet’s vents gurgled, and he struggled to stand, energon seeping from injuries Blurr hadn’t had enough time to count. “This is my family. Mine. You don’t touch them.”

Quicken shook his head, tried to get back to his feet, but his knee sparked and spat fluids, and he crumpled back down. “You’re a star. You deserve better. You’re meant for more. They’re only holding you back.” He fumbled at his side.

Blurr shot his hand, palm and fingers splatting to the ground, and Quicken whimpered. He didn’t know what the fragger was reaching for, and he didn’t care.

“Shut up,” Blurr growled, and he realized his hands were shaking, the blaster wavering as he pointed it at Quicken, looking more and more pathetic and confused and sparkbroken. “You took my son. You threatened and hurt my conjunx. You…”

He broke off, the anger roiling inside of him, the worry. He thought about Rebound and Echo, he thought about anyone else who might think it was a good idea to try and destroy Blurr’s family for their own selfish obsessions.

He thought he needed to make a statement.

“You’ll never understand,” Blurr said as he took one step closer to Quicken, looming over him, his spark squeezing and squeezing, and every instinct clamoring at him to protect. “This is my life, and no one is going to choose it for me. Not you.” He paused, worked his jaw, and his voice went as cold as he could make it. “And not anyone else who might come after.”

Blurr lifted his blaster, he aimed, but as he squeezed the trigger, Ricochet stumbled against him from behind, and the shot went wide, scorching the wall to the side of Quicken’s head. He yelped and cowered, weeping, as Blurr whipped around to catch Ricochet, who slumped against him, still cradling Echo, energon dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

“We need to get Echo home,” he said, his visor pale with pain, energon streaking over his armor. “He’s scared.”

Blurr cycled his optics. He cycled a ventilation. Then two. “You?” he asked, and the clatter in the room was his armor trembling. “Why did you stop me?”

“Because we need to take Echo home,” Ricochet said and tipped his head against Blurr’s, ventilating raspily. “And that’s not who we are anymore, remember? Jazz and Bluestreak will be here. Let the Enforcers finish the rest.”

“He needs to die,” Blurr murmured as Quicken moaned brokenly behind him, garbling something about shattered dreams and empty promises.

Ricochet leaned heavily against him and reached around, pushing his arm down and as a result, shifting his aim away from Quicken. “No doubt about that, but we’re trying to be good mechs for our sparklings, right?”

Blurr shoved his blaster into his subspace and turned fully to his family, just as Echo wailed and leapt into his arms, burying his face against Blurr’s intake. “You just didn’t want me to be the hero,” Blurr grumbled as he held his son close, spark finally starting to unclench.

“You’ll always be my hero,” Ricochet said with a raspy laugh, and Blurr was too relieved to be angry with him.

He kissed Ricochet, reassuring himself that his mate was alive, and held Echo close, venting with relief. Only then did he turn to face the whimpering mass who was Quicken, bleeding from multiple wounds, his face one of misery and disappointment.

“You… could be so much more,” Quicken burbled, trying and failing to get up as his left knee assembly went a direction it shouldn’t go. “You could. You could!”

“Shut up,” Ricochet snapped, and limped toward Quicken, striking him hard across the face, hard enough his optics went dark, and he collapsed like a sack of bolts.

“We can leave him here for the Enforcers,” Ricochet said as he dragged himself back to Blurr’s side and gestured to the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

Blurr nodded as he stroked Echo’s back, resting his chin on top of Echo’s head. He couldn’t remember ever being so afraid. “Can you make it?”

“Pfft. I’ve had worse.” Ricochet thumped his chestplate, and then winced as more fluid trickled from the wound in his opposite shoulder. “Fragger was playing with me. I kept making him angry to distract him.”

“He could have killed you.”

Ricochet wrapped an arm around Blurr’s waist, resting his head against Blurr’s. “Lucky he didn’t. Now let’s get out of here. If my audials are working right, I think I can hear sirens.”

Blurr tilted his head. He couldn’t hear a damn thing. But it wasn’t like he wanted to be in this place any longer. Not near Quicken’s unconscious slump, and not in this decaying echo of a former life.

He had all he needed in his arms right now.

~

“They sure have a knack for attracting drama, don’t they?”

Prowl looked over his shoulder as Rodimus Prime approached, alone, without the guard he was supposed to keep on him, but ditched every chance he had, because he swore he didn’t need the protection. What was more odd was the lack of his Seeker shadow, as it had become common place to find Rodimus and Starscream within arms reach of one another.

If they thought they were being circumspect, well, Prowl had a moon he could sell them.

“To be fair, it is rarely either of their fault,” Prowl said as he stood a little straighter. He respected Rodimus, to a certain degree, and it was in his programming to let it show. “At least this time we have a criminal to take into custody, rather than a pockmarked corpse.”

He turned his attention back to the melee below, Enforcers scurrying around putting up caution signs and warning tape and holding back the crowd drawn by the presence of so many officials around what was technically a condemned building. Given that they’d been running Echo and Quicken’s faces on the daily news, Prowl wasn’t surprised it had turned into a media circus.

Quicken had already been taken away, first to the medical facilities on site, and then to holding to await his trial. He’d blubbered the entire time, swearing his actions had been for love, for admiration, and Prowl suspected his defense team would argue insanity. Prowl would be hard-pressed to argue otherwise, though he was of a mind it was no excuse.

“Well, that’ll reassure the public at least.” Rodimus folded his arms and watched the melee as well, but Prowl didn’t take his lack of babbling as comfort. He’d come here with something to say.

Below, Bluestreak held court as the officer in charge, directing mechs to their tasks with an efficiency to make Prowl proud. He’d already sent Ricochet and the family home, with Ratchet and Drift to see to their wounds. Ricochet insisted his multiple rifle shots were plate wounds at best, needing nothing more than a temp patch and some nanite spray.

Bluestreak’s level-headed leadership was nothing new to Prowl. He was always aware of Bluestreak’s capabilities. He simply needed his ward to realize them as well. No, it was Jazz who surprised Prowl. Jazz who had appeared from wherever he’d been sulking, and now stood at Bluestreak’s side, diligently playing second-string.

“Starscream wants Jazz.”

Prowl slanted a look at Rodimus. “I didn’t realize you two were in an open relationship.”

Rodimus rolled his optics. “That’s not what I meant.” He put his hands on his hips, and Prowl twitched with amusement. “Look, we both know Jazz walked away from working with you, just like we both know he’s bored to death. Starscream plans to make a bid for him.”

“And you’re telling me why?”

“It’s a courtesy. So you don’t pitch a fit when Jazz says yes.”

Prowl arched an orbital ridge. “You sound certain he’ll agree.”

Rodimus barked a laugh, and there were echoes of his former self in the amusement of it. “You must not know him very well if you think otherwise.” He shifted, gaze sliding back to the tableau above. “He plays civilian very well, but we both know he’s a hunter. He needs prey.”

“I can persuade him back.”

“You haven’t yet.” Rodimus pursed his lips and gave Prowl his full attention. “Look. Starscream’s taking him, and I’m not going to intervene. At the very least, we can get an optic on the inner workings of that side.”

“I would have thought pillow talk to cover that.”

Rodimus pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you weren’t so damn good at your job…” He sighed and waved a hand through the air. “You know what I mean. Don’t play word games with me. I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”

Prowl folded his arms behind his back and turned to address Rodimus directly. It was only polite; he was their Prime after all. “Sliding Jazz under the radar in Decepticon leadership could be dangerous. Do you intend to monitor him yourself? Because as I recall, he’s not fond of either of us.”

“He’s pretty damn fond of Bluestreak.”

Prowl pressed his lips together. He paused to cycle a ventilation and tilted his head. “Are you suggesting I take advantage of my ward’s romantic relationship to get intel on the Decepticons?”

He had to admit. He hadn’t known Rodimus was this ruthless.

Prowl couldn't believe it. He was starting to like Rodimus Prime.

“Did I say that?” Rodimus tilted his head and grinned, sharp and cutting. “That’s not what I said. That’s not an order or a directive or anything. Why, Prowl, that would be unethical.” He winked.

The curiosity compelled him now. How did Rodimus and Starscream’s relationship even function? Was it real? Or were they playing each other?

Fascinating.

Prowl’s lips twitched and he looked away, lest his smile betray him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good mech.” Rodimus clapped him on the shoulder and turned to go. “By the way, congrats on bagging Quicken. See what he has to say about that movement, too. Word on the street is he was one of them.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

Rodimus laughed.

Prowl ignored him and went back to observing. He’d get the full report after the fact, of course, but there was something to be said for watching the proceeding with his own optics.

Bluestreak, after all, deserved Prowl’s full attention.

~

“Should we keep this or toss it?” Tether asked, holding out a crate full of what had to be pieces of Quicken’s shrine to Blurr’s greatness.

Bluestreak raised both orbital ridges. “You do realize that’s evidence, right? Why would we throw it out?”

Tether cycled his optics, and then at least had the grace to look embarrassed. “Oh. Of course. Sorry, sir.” He ducked his head and scuttled away, and beside Bluestreak, Jazz gave a little chuckle.

“You know, you’re more like Prowl than ya think,” he said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment this time,” Bluestreak said as another mech ran up to him, offering a datapad which required his signature. He skimmed the contents and stamped his designation on it before the mech scurried away.

“You’re good at this, you know,” Jazz said in a softer tone, scooting closer, until their armor touched and his field was readily apparent -- warm with affection and awe. “It suits ya. Can’t believe I was such a jerk to think I should stand in the way of it.”

Bluestreak’s spark throbbed.

“You’re saying that kind of thing when you know good and well I can’t bend you over and kiss you,” Bluestreak murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

Jazz chuckled and squeezed his hand, almost too quick for anyone to see, and for Bluestreak’s sensors to register the warmth and pressure of it. “I’ll make it up to ya later.”

“You were a jerk,” Bluestreak murmured. “But I forgive you as long as you never do it again. I still want you, Jazz.”

Jazz’s field spiked with warmth. “Aww, Blue. Now you’re the one sayin’ slag when I can’t do nothing ‘bout it.”

Bluestreak looked at him with a grin. “You can make it up to me later, too. I have… hmm, some ideas already.”

“Mm. Can’t wait.” Jazz’s visor flashed in a wink. “But hey, you got an admirer. Did you see that?” He threw a thumb over his shoulder.

Bluestreak followed his direction and squinted in the distance, to where he could just barely make out the figure standing on a nearby rooftop. It was unmistakably Prowl. Bluestreak cycled his optics in surprise, and then wariness.

“Or maybe he’s checking up on me, making sure I know what I’m doing,” Bluestreak murmured.

“Nah. That ain’t it. I might’nt like Prowl, but I know one thing -- that mech trusts you like no one else. He’s watchin’ cause he’s proud.”

The thought filled Bluestreak with warmth. “Then I guess I better get back to work,” Bluestreak said, making it a point to pretend he hadn’t seen Prowl, though the joy bubbled up inside of him in little pockets of pride.

“Yeah, boss. You sure do,” Jazz said with another one of his special winks.

Bluestreak grinned.

~

Echo hadn’t wanted to go to bed, and Blurr couldn’t blame him, so he’d sat with his sparkling, reading him story after story, until exhaustion proved stronger than determination, and recharge pulled Echo under. Even then, Blurr lingered for several minutes more, soaking in his sparkling’s safety, tucking his covers around him, kissing his forehead, ensuring he rested easily and comfortably.

“Nothing will ever harm you while I’m around,” Blurr promised before he crept out of the room, leaving the door open and a nightlight emitting a soft glow, to chase the monsters away.

Only then did he go into the berthroom, where Ricochet was propped up on the berth in a decadent pile of pillows, his armor a patchwork of temp plating and static bandaging. He had a datapad in one hand, and the noise of some kind of show poured from the speakers, though he paused it as soon as Blurr entered the room.

“Bit didn’t want to go down, huh?” Ricochet asked as he set the datapad aside, and moved some pillows as well, making room for Blurr on the berth.

“Can you blame him?” Blurr asked as he accepted the space and pressed in close to Ricochet, soaking up his conjunx’s presence. He didn’t think he’d be able to forget the sight of the blaster pointed at his family for a long, long time.

“Nope.” Ricochet leaned in, pressing a kiss to the curve of Blurr’s jaw, though he winced as he did so. “I should’ve let you kill him.”

“Yeah. You should’ve.”

It took some effort, but Blurr shifted to straddle Ricochet instead, careful of his wounds. With his rounded abdomen, and the temporary plating, they were a mess, but Blurr wanted to be close, and this was the best he could do.

Ricochet grunted, his hands finding Blurr’s hips, their frames nestling together. “What’s this? Feeling a bit hot under the fairings, Speedy?”

“Shut up,” Blurr grumbled, and stole his lips for a kiss, their chassis colliding, pressing hard enough Blurr could feel the pulse of Ricochet’s spark through it. It was reassuring, that pulse.

Quicken hadn’t taken his family from him. Blurr had been quick enough. Despite it all, he’d been as fast as he needed to be when it mattered.

Ricochet chuckled against his lips, hands sweeping up and down Blurr’s back, his aft, his thighs, up to his booster mounts. “Yeah, I was scared, too,” he said, and the quiet admission made Blurr’s insides burn with affection.

“We gotta talk,” Blurr said, even though talking was the least of what he had on his mind. He couldn’t get close enough to Ricochet, needed to reassure himself that it had all came out okay.

“Sure. We can talk,” Ricochet murmured, but he cradled Blurr’s hips, pulled them closer, rocked up, and the mimicry of interfacing made Blurr’s lines burn with desire. “Right now?”

“Later?” Blurr muttered and grabbed Ricochet’s face, pulling him in for another searing kiss. Need throbbed through his lines, pulsed charge through his frame, his panel snicking aside without a moment’s thought.

Ricochet hummed against his mouth, but his hands remained oddly gentle, caressing and smoothing rather than gripping. He rocked up against Blurr, his motions stiff and uncoordinated, and Blurr realized much too late that Ricochet was likely still in pain.

No matter. He could work with this. Blurr, after all, was not unaccustomed to taking the lead.

He nipped Ricochet’s bottom lip and leaned back, hands on his conjunx’s shoulders. “You’re hurting,” he said, not a question, but a statement. “Lie back. Let me take care of you.”

Something flashed in Ricochet’s visor, but his grin was fanged denta and hot desire. “S’that right?” he asked as he let himself fall into the comfort of the pillows, still somewhat propped but more comfortable. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Don’t be an aft,” Blurr said as he ground down on Ricochet’s, his valve spattering his mate’s groin with lubricant. “Come on. Open up. Unless you don’t want me…?” He left the question dangling, flicked his glossa over his lips, pointedly cupped one hand around his abdomen, and Ricochet’s visor flared with hunger.

“Now who’s being an aft?” Ricochet grumbled, but he was smiling, and his panel opened, his spike emerging to brush against Blurr’s inner thigh, leaving a streak of prefluid behind.

Blurr sucked in a vent, rolling his hips, rocking along the length of Ricochet’s spike, but not quite taking him. Just savoring the sensation of Ricochet’s spike against his valve, his swollen pleats, occasionally brushing over the peak of his anterior nub. Sparks of pleasure licked through his array.

Blurr swallowed thickly, relaxing into the grip of Ricochet on his hips, supporting him as he worked himself again and again. He caught Ricochet’s visor, held his gaze, his hands sliding up the length of Ricochet’s arms.

“I’d have killed him for you. For Echo,” Blurr murmured before he canted his hips and caught the head of Ricochet’s spike, sinking onto him achingly slowly, lighting up every sensor node on the gradual slide down. “I would have pulled the trigger.”

Ricochet reached up, cupped his cheek, sweeping a thumb over it. “I know.” He rolled up as Blurr rocked down, taking him to the hilt, their frames notching together.

Blurr shivered. Ricochet groaned. A wave of charge swept over their frames.

“I probably should have,” Blurr said as he started to move, little rocks and circles of his hips, grinding Ricochet deep, over his ceiling node, sending sparks of pleasure dancing through his sensornet. “As a warning. To anyone else who thinks they can take my family from me.”

“Have I ever told you I love how ruthless you can be?” Ricochet said, but his vocals were a little breathless, his field hot and hungry where it crashed against Blurr’s. His hand slid down, between their frames, briefly cupping Blurr’s abdomen before it kept moving, until his thumb found and pressed against Blurr’s anterior node.

Blurr moaned, backstrut arching, tilting forward, catching himself on the pillows to either side of Ricochet’s shoulders, wary of the patched wounds. His knees dug into the mattress, the angle struck a node-cluster, and charge licked over his armor.

“There’s a reason I fell for you, my dangerous little Autobot,” Ricochet said, and the press of his thumb licked fire up Blurr’s spinal strut.

He lost his rhythm, caught it again, ground harder, taking Ricochet deeper. He chased his own pleasure, and knew he was dragging Ricochet with him by the caught vents, and the deepening color of his conjunx’s visor.

“Did you?” Blurr asked, teasing and not a bit serious. He’d doubted a lot of things, but he hadn’t had cause to doubt Ricochet’s feelings for him. “Fall for me, I mean. There are a lot of dangerous Autobots.”

“Mmm. But you’re the prettiest.” Ricochet’s teasing, too. He had to be. Because he licked his lips and thrust up at the perfect angle to make Blurr keen, teetering on the edge of overload. He panted, wishing the rise of his belly didn’t make it so difficult to kiss.

“Is that all? You fell for a pretty face?”

Ricochet’s engine rumbled, his field volcanic with need and wrapping around Blurr, his hips rising up to meet each of Blurr’s downward thrusts. “I fell for everything,” he murmured, like a little secret he didn’t want anyone to know, because being soft wasn’t in his repertoire, except when it was.

Ricochet’s thumb pressed in a hard, sharp circle and Blurr shattered, overloading around Ricochet’s spike, his world peppered with bright flashes of color as the ecstasy swept through his frame. He panted, light-headed from the pleasure, and fumbled his rhythm, trying to move, to take Ricochet with him.

Blurr’s valve spasmed and sparked, still riding the edge of his overload, his frame trembling. He kept moving, tugging Ricochet’s hand away from his sensitive anterior node to press a kiss to his palm, to lick his own lubricant from Ricochet’s fingers, holding his mate’s gaze as he did so.

Ricochet’s visor burned at him, sharp with hunger. “You are a menace,” he growled, but he bucked sharply, once, twice, and then the heat of his spill painted the inside of Blurr’s valve, provoking a second, smaller overload, which was no less pleasurable than the first.

Blurr chuckled and held out as long as he could, but the urge to kiss Ricochet overcame him, so he rose up, pressing their mouths together, as Ricochet slipped out of him. It was an awkward fumble around his abdomen, but they managed, and it was softer and sweeter than anyone could have ever given Ricochet credit.

It was a side of Ricochet he showed no one, and Blurr always treasured it, cradled it close to his spark.

“Mmm. That’s nice,” Ricochet murmured against his lips before he winced and shifted a little. “Would be better, maybe, if your knee wasn’t pressing on my left hip.”

Oops.

Blurr adjusted, cuddling into Ricochet’s right side, both of them reclined in a nest of pillows, as their frames ticked and cooled, though a wash would certainly be necessary. That, however, was a problem for the morning, because exhaustion threaded through Blurr’s lines, seeped into his cables and his struts.

“We really do need to talk,” Blurr said, at length.

“Yeah.” Ricochet grunted as he shifted, and all so he could cup a hand over Blurr’s abdomen, where Rebound continued to thrive in Blurr’s gestational tank. “I know you love our sparklings and me, but I also know you’re not completely happy.”

Blurr opened his mouth, but Ricochet shook his head and gave him a look, “Let me finish.” He cycled a ventilation. “You’re happy, but you miss things. Like racing.”

“I do,” Blurr admitted, though it pained him to do so. It felt like a failure on his part, to admit that there were things he wanted, which his family couldn’t provide. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Ricochet gave him a confused look. “You run. That’s what you do. I ain’t mad at ya for that. You wanna run, you should run. Me and the kiddos will be there to meet you at the finish line.”

Blurr ruminated on this, a delicate hope blossoming in the back of his spark. “It doesn’t mean I love my family any less.”

Ricochet sighed. “And that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said that.” He traced patterns over Blurr’s belly, nonsense syllables.

“I know.” Blurr pressed his mouth to Ricochet’s shoulder, pretending he couldn’t see all of the bandages wrapped around his mate’s armor. “I’m going to hire some more people. Bartenders. Even bouncers, too. Tomorrow even. I’ll make some calls.”

Ricochet hummed. “Good plan.” He gave Blurr’s abdomen a pat before holding his chin, tilting him up for a kiss and a quiet chuckle. “Look at us, being all mature about our issues. Bluestreak would be so proud.”

Blurr snorted. “Ah, yes. Bluestreak’s approval. That is the point of what I do after all.” He brushed a kiss over the curve of Ricochet’s jaw. “I love you. Just don’t tell anyone.”

“Love you, too, Zippy. And I’ll tell whoever I want.” Ricochet chuckled and nuzzled him before the lights dimmed, and Blurr realized he must have remotely logged into the system. “Now go to sleep. You and Rebound both need your rest.”

“And you don’t?” Blurr retorted, but he snuggled into Ricochet’s embrace all the same, giving in to the exhaustion tugging at him.

His family was safe.

That was all that mattered to him.

***