Sunstreaker finally makes an actual appearance...
...sooner than I thought too.
Title Nowhere to Turn
Pairings eventual Jazz/Sideswipe, others if you squint (or not)
Warnings None that I can think of (unless you want to count Sunstreaker being... himself?)
Summary A wounded, cornered mechanimal would aptly describe the red rocketeer that stumbles his way into Jazz’s life. Withdrawn, moody, distrusting; all the earmarks of someone who has suffered some serious trauma, and hasn’t recovered. Now, if only Jazz could find out what the slag was going on with him.
Part 1
Part 5
He rubbed at the edges of his visor, so tempted to reach behind them and scratch at the specialized glass that covered his optics. His engine grumbled irritably as he sorted through a small stack of datapads: battlefield reports, injury reports, supply reports, requisition reports, reports full of charts, reports full of numbers, reports full of words. Reports, reports reports and more. Slotting. Reports.
“Slaggit all to th’ Pits an’ th’ Inferno an’ back again! How the frag does Prowl put up with this all th’ time!”
Datapads scattered across the floor, courtesy of a sweeping white arm, and leaving plenty of room for Jazz to lay halfway across the desk like some shipwrecked survivor adrift in an alkali lake. He thunked his head against the table-cum-desk, hoping that maybe it would get rid of the ache that spread throughout all his processors. He wasn’t built for this, he wasn’t programmed to deal with stupid slagging reports, that was Prowl’s specialty (and the slotter reveled in it, too, Jazz knew) and Ultra Magnus’ and Prime’s. ‘Ain’t exactly goin’ with th’ flow are ya, Jazz?’
He vented a sigh and straightened, leaning around the desk to retrieve his abused pile of datapads from the floor.
“Have an accident?” Wheeljack peered curiously at him, tilting his vocal indicators to indicate the mess on the floor.
Jazz pulled his mouth to the side. “I s’pose you can call it that.” He slid a sly glance up at the engineer. “Kinda like how you an’ ‘Hide ‘accidentally’ wound up in that storage closet together.” His engine stuttered with laughter, and he couldn’t help the grin that lit up his face.
The lights in the indicators dimmed with embarrassment. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Then ya should answered yer comms!” Unable to restrain himself any longer, Jazz laughed outright.
Finding the two entwined hadn’t been so funny at the time, at least not to Jazz. Prime had laughed, and then handed Jazz the privilege of lecturing both Ironhide and Wheeljack on the expectations of an officer (it had lasted barely half a breem, unlike Prowl’s infamous cycle long speeches). Optics still dancing with amusement, Prime had then volunteered Ironhide to help Jazz ready the unit for mobilization (“If you wanted to spend some quality time with your hubmate, you should have just asked.” This was about the point in time that Jazz finally started busting rivets from laughing so hard.)
Wheeljack eyed the black and white mech for a long moment before finally crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “We were a little distracted.”
Jazz lost anything else the engineer had to say, leaning almost double on the desk as his engine threatened to rev itself off his torso. After nearly two breem, Jazz finally managed to bring his laughter down to giggles, waving a hand at the white mech. “What brings ya this way. Ain’t y’ supposed ta be helpin’ Ratch finish up with the last of th’ wounded.”
“Ratchet’s lecturing Sunstreaker now.” Wheeljack’s vocal indicators flashed brightly with amusement. “We’re ready to move the incapacitated mechs out.”
Jazz almost instantly sobered. “How’s Prowl? Any change?”
Wheeljack shook his head, stepping over to help Jazz pick up the rest of the datapad on the floor. “Ratchet’s keeping him offline until we get back to base.” He dropped another two from his arms on Jazz’s desk. “That’s the last of the casualty reports. I’m off to the supply depot.”
Jazz grinned again, plucking up one of the datapads Wheeljack had left. “Don’t get distracted by that shiny red platin’ again, y’ hear?”
Wheeljack shot Jazz an acerbic glare, grumbling as he turned around and walked out. He paused at the door, greeting someone that Jazz hadn’t noticed standing there. “…staying away from Ratchet? … Yeah, he’s in there. Go on in.”
Jazz straightened, wondering who would be asking permission to enter. It wasn’t like this was the base, or even an official- if temporary- office.
Sideswipe stepped around Wheeljack, stopping at the entrance and looking around the small room before his optics focused on Jazz with surprise.
“Wait, I thought Prowl was the unit commander.”
“Prowl’s outta commission, Swipe. I’m just fillin’ his plates until he’s up and runnin'.”
The blue optics, no longer the unnerving pale-shade they had been when Jazz saw them last, widened and he clenched his jaw shut. Jazz’s sensitive audio receptors caught the near imperceptible squeal of dental plates as Sideswipe strode forward. “I thought you were just the unit’s special ops commander?” Sideswipe’s optics glowed down at Jazz, narrowed and uncertain.
Jazz quirked a grin. “I am. An’ I’m Prowl’s executive officer.” He shrugged, wondering if he’d just lost any of the rapport he’d managed to build with this mech with the way he’d drawn back and his expression closed to Jazz. “Whatcha doin’ here? Y’ should be helpin’ everyone get ready ta move.”
Sideswipe grinned, his posture still guarded, but he moved forward. “Well-“
A cultured voice interrupted the warrior, “No one really wants to work with a troublemaker like him.”
Jazz turned to the voice as Sideswipe looked about in alarm at the unexpected comment. “Troublemaker?”
“Who said that?”
“You tend to start fights when you’re working in a group.” Mirage resolved into view at the doorway, leaning against the threshold.
Sideswipe narrowed his optics. “Hey, I'm not to blame when some idiot works so close I can’t help but to vent on him. They get all glitchy about it, not my fault.”
Mirage huffed, stepping lightly around Sideswipe to slap a datapad on into Jazz’s hands. “It’s hard to give you a report when you make yourself hard to find, Jazz.”
Jazz grinned, stuffing the report into subspace for later perusal. “Hey, I pay ya to find things, Raj. Even me.”
Mirage frowned, tilting his head at the saboteur. “That was in bad taste, Jazz.” One might call the twitch of his lips a smile. “You don’t pay me at all.”
Jazz snickered. “Nah, I don’t. Ain’t ya got stuff ya gotta be doin’ ‘fore we hit the road?”
Mirage nodded, stepping away from the desk. “Will Bumblebee be joining us?”
Jazz looked over the last of the casualty reports Wheeljack had given him. “Nah, he’s gonna be ridin’ in Vitran’s trailer.” He paused on Sunstreaker’s account, wondering what possessed the mech to climb a building and jump on a Seeker. What the frag tactic was that? “Hey, Raj,” Jazz looked up, setting the report on the pile, “have ya seen that Megahead’s new intelligence officer?”
Mirage paused as he was leaving, looking back at Jazz from over his shoulder. “You don’t pay me to avoid mechs like him, Jazz. I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t seen me. Why?”
Jazz turned to Sideswipe, satisfied with Mirage’s answer. “Had t’ ask.”
Jazz could feel Mirage’s gaze on him for a small while longer while Sideswipe looked between the two of them. “Now, Sides, why exactly are ya here?”
Sideswipe took a step forward, leaning his hands on the desk. “Well, can’t do much with me since I’m stuck on light duty, and I've only got sealing compounds holding my leg struts together, so it's not just light duty...”
“It's no liftin',” Jazz murmured finding and reading the pertinent report, “an' minimum walkin'.” Jazz's lips twisted and he looked at Sideswipe. “What the slag'd ya do t' yerself? I didn't think y' were that bad off when I left ya.”
Sideswipe shrugged, looking at the stack of datapads on Jazz's desk. “Been worse.” A half-hearted smirk tugged at his lips. “At least you can't complain about my optics this time.”
Jazz motioned the Toughline closer, gesturing at a nearby chair. “I ain't said nuthin' about yer optics 'Swipe.”
He grinned, pulling the seat closer to the desk. “No, but I know you're thinking about it. So, what are you going to have me do?”
“Yer gonna help me go through these slaggin' pads.”
The grin fell off his face. “You've gotta be kidding.”
Jazz picked up Sideswipe's grin. “Nope.” He shoved a pad into the black hands tucked into the warrior's lap. “It's what ya get for runnin' off like that.”
Sideswipe stared at the datapad in his hands. “Oh come on. I thought Ratchet's yelling at me was my punishment for that!”
Jazz reached over and activated the pad, still grinning. “Oh, wait 'til Prowl's feelin' a li'l better.”
Sideswipe scrunched his brow ridges together but obediently turned his attention to the datapad.
They spent the next two cycles sorting through the information, alternating moments of quiet with silly jokes. It pleased Jazz to see the mech slowly relaxing around him again. The easy grin once again graced Sideswipe's face and he leaned toward Jazz rather than edging away from him. Seeing the bright optics seemed to ease something within Jazz that he hadn't even realized had been unsettled by the oh-so-pale lights before.
Still, the red mech avoided touching Jazz, and the saboteur realized this. But he didn't make a big deal of it, letting the Sideswipe ease into his own comfort zone, and not pushing any further. That could wait until Sideswipe was ready. Though it was difficult for Jazz to deny his friendly nature and the desire to touch the red plating. Especially as the mech was certainly attractive (and then some) to Jazz's eyes.
With the datapads sorted and eliminated until only one remained, Jazz stood and told Sideswipe to clean up the mess while he checked on the rest of the unit. “An' I don't know about you, but I think I could use a little refuelin'. Meet me by the dispensor and I'll give ya yer next assignment.”
Sideswipe nodded turning his frown on the pile of datapads as Jazz walked out of the room. He made his rounds, ensuring that they had the supplies they needed, checking on the patients listed as 'Critical, but In-stasis'. His final sweep led him around back around the supply depot where they were loading up the trailers.
Ironhide directed the chaos, his parade-ground voice booming out at the mechs, making Jazz's sensitive receptors ache until he turned the gain on them down. Even above the noise, Ironhide still turned at Jazz's approach.
“Hey 'Hide! How's th operation? Goin' smoothly?”
“As smoothly as can be expected with this lot. You there! Landmine, get your aft in gear I know ya can lift more than that.” Ironhide looked back at Jazz. “Somethin' ya needed?”
“Just makin' th' rounds, makin' sure we're on schedule?”
Ironhide grunted. “Yeah, we'll be on time. Have ya seen Prime?”
“Not since-”
Metal clashed together, suddenly and loudly in the midst of the cacophony. The two mechs looked up, seeking the source of the disturbance. Jazz raised the gain on his audio a few increments until he made out yelling, one of the voices a familiar pitch and tone. The two officers looked at each other before dashing off to the small crowd gathering around around the shouting match.
“-you slagger. Are you so blind you can't see where you're fragging going?”
“No actually I can't! How can anyone see anything when you're polished to such a high shine that you're glitching their optics?”
“You scratched my paint!”
Jazz and Ironhide shoved their way through the crowd. Jazz focused on the the golden mech shoving the other into one of the crates. A golden hand wrapped around the cables of the other's neck, shoving the chin up as strong fingers dug past the cables and toward the support struts
“You scratched my fragging paint,” the golden mech hissed again, leaning forward, his horned head tilting. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Jazz moved forward, blinking under his visor as he took in the scratched and dented plating covering the mech. “You didn't cause all that did ya Sides?”
The mechs' optics snapped toward the officer, and Sideswipe managed a strained smile. “Nah, he's always this good-looking. I'm ruining his new fash-grk.”
'Stay the Pit out of this, monochrome, this has nothing to do with you.” The golden mech barely looked toward the Commander. “This slagsucker's had this coming.”
Jazz frowned and seized a dirty, golden shoulder, swinging the mech toward him. A solid block of metal crashed into Jazz's jaw, knocking his head back and forcing him back. Jazz caught himself before he lost his footing completely. He shook his head, recalibrating his optics and receivers.
Bodies tussled on the ground, Sideswipe snarling at the golden mech. They thrashed at each other, hampering the crowd trying to break them up. Ironhide waded in, heedless of the feet smacking into his shins.
Someone steadied Jazz with a hand on his arm, and Jazz leaned against the green mech.
“You okay there, Jazz?”
“Be okay, Hound. Ah, frag, Sunshine, whatcha go and do that for?” He rubbed at his now dented jaw, feeling warm lubricants rubbing off on his fingers. “Slag, that smarts.”
With a roar of fury, Sunstreaker ripped out of Ironhide's grasp and charged the black and white officer. Jazz yelped, and dodged the fists thrown at him. After only a few steps into the dance, he threw his weight into a roundhouse kick that knocked Sunstreaker off his feet.
“You Pit-eating little byte, I'm gonna rip you apart for that.” Sunstreaker rolled to his hands, sliding his feet into a coiled crouch.
Ironhide held Sideswipe down by virtue of a large red foot on his chestplate. Jazz had a glimpse of Sideswipe's wide-opticed grimace before Hound threw himself at Sunstreaker, calling for 'a little help, please?' Two other mechs that Jazz didn't recognize piled themselves on top of the golden mech, receiving kicks and bellows to 'get off me you slagging glitches'.
“Take him to a trailer and strap him on. We ain't gotta brig 'round here, so it'll hafta do.”
Jazz moved over to Ironhide, not refuting his orders. “You an' me are gonna have a nice long talk when we get back ta base, Sunshine.”
The Toughline snarled again, jerking in the grips pinning him to the ground. “I don't have nothin' to say to you, monochrome.” He grunted again, trying to shake off the hands on his plating. “You can just lick my cables for all I care.”
The three mechs hauled the warrior up, dragging him none-too-gently in the direction of one of the carrier trailers.
Ironhide scowled down at the red mech lying passively underfoot. “An' what've you gotta say fer yerself, little punk?”
“Ow?”
“Let 'im up, 'Hide.” Jazz rubbed at his jaw again, wincing as he smeared more lubricant.
Ironhide shifted, placing his other foot on the ground next to Sideswipe before he reached down and bodily lifted the smaller mech. Sideswipe staggered away from the big, red mech, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.
“You okay there, 'Swipe?”
Sideswipe rubbed at his neck cables, stroking them back into place. “Perfectly prime.”
“No loose cables?”
His optics flickered and he glanced in the direction Sunstreaker had departed. “Not that I can tell.”
Jazz tilted his head toward the mech's legs, quirking his mouth to the side.
Sideswipe winced and shifted again. “He did- I'm fi-” he stopped midsentence as Jazz directed a meaningful glare at him. “It's nothing to worry about. Don't you want to get going? It can wait until we get back to base.” A smile forced its way onto his face. “I really don't want to get yelled at by Ratchet again, not so soon at least.”
“Well, I ain't gonna be th' only one. Come on, y' can tell me what happened on the way.” Jazz waved Ironhide's hand off, telling him to get everyone back on track. “Shouldn't be more than a tic.”
Sideswipe hesitated again, glancing toward where his roommate disappeared to.
“Am I gonna really have ta drag you by yer horn this time?”
The black-crowned head snapped back to Jazz, and Sideswipe vehemently shook his head. “No, no! That's okay. Let's go.” He set off at a brisk pace.
Jazz swore as he caught up, snagging a hand and yanking back. “Y' better not be coverin' up yer limp again, 'Swipe.”
Sideswipe halted and stared down at Jazz. He contemplated the saboteur for a breem before sighing and draping his arm over the other mech's shoulder.
They trudged along in silence as Jazz matched the rhythm of his still slightly off-kilter steps to the warrior's limp. Then Jazz glanced up at Sideswipe. “That's the second fight he's been in since you guys came, right?”
That guarded expression fell over Sideswipe's ace again. “Fifth.” When Jazz didn't say anything, and only stared up at the mech's face, Sideswipe continued. “We've gotten into a couple of fights, and the minibots annoy the slag out of him.” He glanced down at the bemused tilt to Jazz's mouth. “You haven't been there.”
Jazz focused on where they put their feet for a few breem, making sure to guide them around the rubble strewn about the street. “Is this normal?”
Sideswipe didn't meet Jazz's gaze. “Yeah, this is pretty common with him.”
Jazz ran a quick scan on him, worried that Sunstreaker had damaged Sideswipe's vocalizer as the mech's volume dropped lower and lower. “If you want, I could reassign yer room?”
Sideswipe jerked to a stop, staring ahead, his systems hissing with some unnamed emotion. “No,” he finally said, softly, a tremor in his voice, “that isn't necessary.”
Jazz regarded the mech, glad the street was deserted so they weren't in the midst of prying eyes. “Y' sure?”
Sideswipe finally looked down, and Jazz was alarmed to see color leach from his optics. “Yeah, I'm sure.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Besides, he'd probably kill anyone else.”
Jazz had absolutely no answer for that.
Part 7
Title Nowhere to Turn
Pairings eventual Jazz/Sideswipe, others if you squint (or not)
Warnings None that I can think of (unless you want to count Sunstreaker being... himself?)
Summary A wounded, cornered mechanimal would aptly describe the red rocketeer that stumbles his way into Jazz’s life. Withdrawn, moody, distrusting; all the earmarks of someone who has suffered some serious trauma, and hasn’t recovered. Now, if only Jazz could find out what the slag was going on with him.
Part 1
Part 5
He rubbed at the edges of his visor, so tempted to reach behind them and scratch at the specialized glass that covered his optics. His engine grumbled irritably as he sorted through a small stack of datapads: battlefield reports, injury reports, supply reports, requisition reports, reports full of charts, reports full of numbers, reports full of words. Reports, reports reports and more. Slotting. Reports.
“Slaggit all to th’ Pits an’ th’ Inferno an’ back again! How the frag does Prowl put up with this all th’ time!”
Datapads scattered across the floor, courtesy of a sweeping white arm, and leaving plenty of room for Jazz to lay halfway across the desk like some shipwrecked survivor adrift in an alkali lake. He thunked his head against the table-cum-desk, hoping that maybe it would get rid of the ache that spread throughout all his processors. He wasn’t built for this, he wasn’t programmed to deal with stupid slagging reports, that was Prowl’s specialty (and the slotter reveled in it, too, Jazz knew) and Ultra Magnus’ and Prime’s. ‘Ain’t exactly goin’ with th’ flow are ya, Jazz?’
He vented a sigh and straightened, leaning around the desk to retrieve his abused pile of datapads from the floor.
“Have an accident?” Wheeljack peered curiously at him, tilting his vocal indicators to indicate the mess on the floor.
Jazz pulled his mouth to the side. “I s’pose you can call it that.” He slid a sly glance up at the engineer. “Kinda like how you an’ ‘Hide ‘accidentally’ wound up in that storage closet together.” His engine stuttered with laughter, and he couldn’t help the grin that lit up his face.
The lights in the indicators dimmed with embarrassment. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Then ya should answered yer comms!” Unable to restrain himself any longer, Jazz laughed outright.
Finding the two entwined hadn’t been so funny at the time, at least not to Jazz. Prime had laughed, and then handed Jazz the privilege of lecturing both Ironhide and Wheeljack on the expectations of an officer (it had lasted barely half a breem, unlike Prowl’s infamous cycle long speeches). Optics still dancing with amusement, Prime had then volunteered Ironhide to help Jazz ready the unit for mobilization (“If you wanted to spend some quality time with your hubmate, you should have just asked.” This was about the point in time that Jazz finally started busting rivets from laughing so hard.)
Wheeljack eyed the black and white mech for a long moment before finally crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “We were a little distracted.”
Jazz lost anything else the engineer had to say, leaning almost double on the desk as his engine threatened to rev itself off his torso. After nearly two breem, Jazz finally managed to bring his laughter down to giggles, waving a hand at the white mech. “What brings ya this way. Ain’t y’ supposed ta be helpin’ Ratch finish up with the last of th’ wounded.”
“Ratchet’s lecturing Sunstreaker now.” Wheeljack’s vocal indicators flashed brightly with amusement. “We’re ready to move the incapacitated mechs out.”
Jazz almost instantly sobered. “How’s Prowl? Any change?”
Wheeljack shook his head, stepping over to help Jazz pick up the rest of the datapad on the floor. “Ratchet’s keeping him offline until we get back to base.” He dropped another two from his arms on Jazz’s desk. “That’s the last of the casualty reports. I’m off to the supply depot.”
Jazz grinned again, plucking up one of the datapads Wheeljack had left. “Don’t get distracted by that shiny red platin’ again, y’ hear?”
Wheeljack shot Jazz an acerbic glare, grumbling as he turned around and walked out. He paused at the door, greeting someone that Jazz hadn’t noticed standing there. “…staying away from Ratchet? … Yeah, he’s in there. Go on in.”
Jazz straightened, wondering who would be asking permission to enter. It wasn’t like this was the base, or even an official- if temporary- office.
Sideswipe stepped around Wheeljack, stopping at the entrance and looking around the small room before his optics focused on Jazz with surprise.
“Wait, I thought Prowl was the unit commander.”
“Prowl’s outta commission, Swipe. I’m just fillin’ his plates until he’s up and runnin'.”
The blue optics, no longer the unnerving pale-shade they had been when Jazz saw them last, widened and he clenched his jaw shut. Jazz’s sensitive audio receptors caught the near imperceptible squeal of dental plates as Sideswipe strode forward. “I thought you were just the unit’s special ops commander?” Sideswipe’s optics glowed down at Jazz, narrowed and uncertain.
Jazz quirked a grin. “I am. An’ I’m Prowl’s executive officer.” He shrugged, wondering if he’d just lost any of the rapport he’d managed to build with this mech with the way he’d drawn back and his expression closed to Jazz. “Whatcha doin’ here? Y’ should be helpin’ everyone get ready ta move.”
Sideswipe grinned, his posture still guarded, but he moved forward. “Well-“
A cultured voice interrupted the warrior, “No one really wants to work with a troublemaker like him.”
Jazz turned to the voice as Sideswipe looked about in alarm at the unexpected comment. “Troublemaker?”
“Who said that?”
“You tend to start fights when you’re working in a group.” Mirage resolved into view at the doorway, leaning against the threshold.
Sideswipe narrowed his optics. “Hey, I'm not to blame when some idiot works so close I can’t help but to vent on him. They get all glitchy about it, not my fault.”
Mirage huffed, stepping lightly around Sideswipe to slap a datapad on into Jazz’s hands. “It’s hard to give you a report when you make yourself hard to find, Jazz.”
Jazz grinned, stuffing the report into subspace for later perusal. “Hey, I pay ya to find things, Raj. Even me.”
Mirage frowned, tilting his head at the saboteur. “That was in bad taste, Jazz.” One might call the twitch of his lips a smile. “You don’t pay me at all.”
Jazz snickered. “Nah, I don’t. Ain’t ya got stuff ya gotta be doin’ ‘fore we hit the road?”
Mirage nodded, stepping away from the desk. “Will Bumblebee be joining us?”
Jazz looked over the last of the casualty reports Wheeljack had given him. “Nah, he’s gonna be ridin’ in Vitran’s trailer.” He paused on Sunstreaker’s account, wondering what possessed the mech to climb a building and jump on a Seeker. What the frag tactic was that? “Hey, Raj,” Jazz looked up, setting the report on the pile, “have ya seen that Megahead’s new intelligence officer?”
Mirage paused as he was leaving, looking back at Jazz from over his shoulder. “You don’t pay me to avoid mechs like him, Jazz. I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t seen me. Why?”
Jazz turned to Sideswipe, satisfied with Mirage’s answer. “Had t’ ask.”
Jazz could feel Mirage’s gaze on him for a small while longer while Sideswipe looked between the two of them. “Now, Sides, why exactly are ya here?”
Sideswipe took a step forward, leaning his hands on the desk. “Well, can’t do much with me since I’m stuck on light duty, and I've only got sealing compounds holding my leg struts together, so it's not just light duty...”
“It's no liftin',” Jazz murmured finding and reading the pertinent report, “an' minimum walkin'.” Jazz's lips twisted and he looked at Sideswipe. “What the slag'd ya do t' yerself? I didn't think y' were that bad off when I left ya.”
Sideswipe shrugged, looking at the stack of datapads on Jazz's desk. “Been worse.” A half-hearted smirk tugged at his lips. “At least you can't complain about my optics this time.”
Jazz motioned the Toughline closer, gesturing at a nearby chair. “I ain't said nuthin' about yer optics 'Swipe.”
He grinned, pulling the seat closer to the desk. “No, but I know you're thinking about it. So, what are you going to have me do?”
“Yer gonna help me go through these slaggin' pads.”
The grin fell off his face. “You've gotta be kidding.”
Jazz picked up Sideswipe's grin. “Nope.” He shoved a pad into the black hands tucked into the warrior's lap. “It's what ya get for runnin' off like that.”
Sideswipe stared at the datapad in his hands. “Oh come on. I thought Ratchet's yelling at me was my punishment for that!”
Jazz reached over and activated the pad, still grinning. “Oh, wait 'til Prowl's feelin' a li'l better.”
Sideswipe scrunched his brow ridges together but obediently turned his attention to the datapad.
They spent the next two cycles sorting through the information, alternating moments of quiet with silly jokes. It pleased Jazz to see the mech slowly relaxing around him again. The easy grin once again graced Sideswipe's face and he leaned toward Jazz rather than edging away from him. Seeing the bright optics seemed to ease something within Jazz that he hadn't even realized had been unsettled by the oh-so-pale lights before.
Still, the red mech avoided touching Jazz, and the saboteur realized this. But he didn't make a big deal of it, letting the Sideswipe ease into his own comfort zone, and not pushing any further. That could wait until Sideswipe was ready. Though it was difficult for Jazz to deny his friendly nature and the desire to touch the red plating. Especially as the mech was certainly attractive (and then some) to Jazz's eyes.
With the datapads sorted and eliminated until only one remained, Jazz stood and told Sideswipe to clean up the mess while he checked on the rest of the unit. “An' I don't know about you, but I think I could use a little refuelin'. Meet me by the dispensor and I'll give ya yer next assignment.”
Sideswipe nodded turning his frown on the pile of datapads as Jazz walked out of the room. He made his rounds, ensuring that they had the supplies they needed, checking on the patients listed as 'Critical, but In-stasis'. His final sweep led him around back around the supply depot where they were loading up the trailers.
Ironhide directed the chaos, his parade-ground voice booming out at the mechs, making Jazz's sensitive receptors ache until he turned the gain on them down. Even above the noise, Ironhide still turned at Jazz's approach.
“Hey 'Hide! How's th operation? Goin' smoothly?”
“As smoothly as can be expected with this lot. You there! Landmine, get your aft in gear I know ya can lift more than that.” Ironhide looked back at Jazz. “Somethin' ya needed?”
“Just makin' th' rounds, makin' sure we're on schedule?”
Ironhide grunted. “Yeah, we'll be on time. Have ya seen Prime?”
“Not since-”
Metal clashed together, suddenly and loudly in the midst of the cacophony. The two mechs looked up, seeking the source of the disturbance. Jazz raised the gain on his audio a few increments until he made out yelling, one of the voices a familiar pitch and tone. The two officers looked at each other before dashing off to the small crowd gathering around around the shouting match.
“-you slagger. Are you so blind you can't see where you're fragging going?”
“No actually I can't! How can anyone see anything when you're polished to such a high shine that you're glitching their optics?”
“You scratched my paint!”
Jazz and Ironhide shoved their way through the crowd. Jazz focused on the the golden mech shoving the other into one of the crates. A golden hand wrapped around the cables of the other's neck, shoving the chin up as strong fingers dug past the cables and toward the support struts
“You scratched my fragging paint,” the golden mech hissed again, leaning forward, his horned head tilting. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Jazz moved forward, blinking under his visor as he took in the scratched and dented plating covering the mech. “You didn't cause all that did ya Sides?”
The mechs' optics snapped toward the officer, and Sideswipe managed a strained smile. “Nah, he's always this good-looking. I'm ruining his new fash-grk.”
'Stay the Pit out of this, monochrome, this has nothing to do with you.” The golden mech barely looked toward the Commander. “This slagsucker's had this coming.”
Jazz frowned and seized a dirty, golden shoulder, swinging the mech toward him. A solid block of metal crashed into Jazz's jaw, knocking his head back and forcing him back. Jazz caught himself before he lost his footing completely. He shook his head, recalibrating his optics and receivers.
Bodies tussled on the ground, Sideswipe snarling at the golden mech. They thrashed at each other, hampering the crowd trying to break them up. Ironhide waded in, heedless of the feet smacking into his shins.
Someone steadied Jazz with a hand on his arm, and Jazz leaned against the green mech.
“You okay there, Jazz?”
“Be okay, Hound. Ah, frag, Sunshine, whatcha go and do that for?” He rubbed at his now dented jaw, feeling warm lubricants rubbing off on his fingers. “Slag, that smarts.”
With a roar of fury, Sunstreaker ripped out of Ironhide's grasp and charged the black and white officer. Jazz yelped, and dodged the fists thrown at him. After only a few steps into the dance, he threw his weight into a roundhouse kick that knocked Sunstreaker off his feet.
“You Pit-eating little byte, I'm gonna rip you apart for that.” Sunstreaker rolled to his hands, sliding his feet into a coiled crouch.
Ironhide held Sideswipe down by virtue of a large red foot on his chestplate. Jazz had a glimpse of Sideswipe's wide-opticed grimace before Hound threw himself at Sunstreaker, calling for 'a little help, please?' Two other mechs that Jazz didn't recognize piled themselves on top of the golden mech, receiving kicks and bellows to 'get off me you slagging glitches'.
“Take him to a trailer and strap him on. We ain't gotta brig 'round here, so it'll hafta do.”
Jazz moved over to Ironhide, not refuting his orders. “You an' me are gonna have a nice long talk when we get back ta base, Sunshine.”
The Toughline snarled again, jerking in the grips pinning him to the ground. “I don't have nothin' to say to you, monochrome.” He grunted again, trying to shake off the hands on his plating. “You can just lick my cables for all I care.”
The three mechs hauled the warrior up, dragging him none-too-gently in the direction of one of the carrier trailers.
Ironhide scowled down at the red mech lying passively underfoot. “An' what've you gotta say fer yerself, little punk?”
“Ow?”
“Let 'im up, 'Hide.” Jazz rubbed at his jaw again, wincing as he smeared more lubricant.
Ironhide shifted, placing his other foot on the ground next to Sideswipe before he reached down and bodily lifted the smaller mech. Sideswipe staggered away from the big, red mech, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.
“You okay there, 'Swipe?”
Sideswipe rubbed at his neck cables, stroking them back into place. “Perfectly prime.”
“No loose cables?”
His optics flickered and he glanced in the direction Sunstreaker had departed. “Not that I can tell.”
Jazz tilted his head toward the mech's legs, quirking his mouth to the side.
Sideswipe winced and shifted again. “He did- I'm fi-” he stopped midsentence as Jazz directed a meaningful glare at him. “It's nothing to worry about. Don't you want to get going? It can wait until we get back to base.” A smile forced its way onto his face. “I really don't want to get yelled at by Ratchet again, not so soon at least.”
“Well, I ain't gonna be th' only one. Come on, y' can tell me what happened on the way.” Jazz waved Ironhide's hand off, telling him to get everyone back on track. “Shouldn't be more than a tic.”
Sideswipe hesitated again, glancing toward where his roommate disappeared to.
“Am I gonna really have ta drag you by yer horn this time?”
The black-crowned head snapped back to Jazz, and Sideswipe vehemently shook his head. “No, no! That's okay. Let's go.” He set off at a brisk pace.
Jazz swore as he caught up, snagging a hand and yanking back. “Y' better not be coverin' up yer limp again, 'Swipe.”
Sideswipe halted and stared down at Jazz. He contemplated the saboteur for a breem before sighing and draping his arm over the other mech's shoulder.
They trudged along in silence as Jazz matched the rhythm of his still slightly off-kilter steps to the warrior's limp. Then Jazz glanced up at Sideswipe. “That's the second fight he's been in since you guys came, right?”
That guarded expression fell over Sideswipe's ace again. “Fifth.” When Jazz didn't say anything, and only stared up at the mech's face, Sideswipe continued. “We've gotten into a couple of fights, and the minibots annoy the slag out of him.” He glanced down at the bemused tilt to Jazz's mouth. “You haven't been there.”
Jazz focused on where they put their feet for a few breem, making sure to guide them around the rubble strewn about the street. “Is this normal?”
Sideswipe didn't meet Jazz's gaze. “Yeah, this is pretty common with him.”
Jazz ran a quick scan on him, worried that Sunstreaker had damaged Sideswipe's vocalizer as the mech's volume dropped lower and lower. “If you want, I could reassign yer room?”
Sideswipe jerked to a stop, staring ahead, his systems hissing with some unnamed emotion. “No,” he finally said, softly, a tremor in his voice, “that isn't necessary.”
Jazz regarded the mech, glad the street was deserted so they weren't in the midst of prying eyes. “Y' sure?”
Sideswipe finally looked down, and Jazz was alarmed to see color leach from his optics. “Yeah, I'm sure.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Besides, he'd probably kill anyone else.”
Jazz had absolutely no answer for that.
Part 7