Rating: M
Chapter 7
This was new.
Tracks could feel that steady gaze
fixed on him; he shifted almost inconspicuously on the leather seat,
letting his servos slide down his thighs as he folded them against
his abdomen. He caught the flash of that red visor and had to
suppress the smirk that rose. But even despite his subtle
flirtations, Soundwave did not move from where he sat across the
autodog. The entire ride thus far, the kittycon had sat opposite of
Tracks, making light conversation and offering a drink to the mech
from the limo's bar. The talk Tracks had engaged in eagerly; the
champagne he had decided to decline.
He would have taken some of that liquid
gold now if it meant he could have the persian at his side.
Why was Soundwave insisting on sitting
so far away from him?
Tracks wanted to pout. Most mechs
-slag, even most femmes- would be welded to his side by now; touching
and kissing each other fervently, with possibly a quick romp on the
plush seating as well. He had thought that the blue mech was
interested in him..... had he been wrong?
“So..... just where are we going,
anyhow? You still haven't told me,” the pomeranian started, lifting
his helm and making optic contact with the kittycon.
Light gleamed off of Soundwave's visor,
but it did not reveal any of his secrets. “Destination: surprise,”
he answered, refusing to give any more information. Tracks merely
hummed, feeling slightly annoyed. Soundwave had kept quiet about
where they were going since leaving Flare-up's office.
No flirting, no means of advances, no
sharing with him where their destination was......
Just what kind of date was this?
The vehicle started to slow, and Tracks
turned his helm to the window. Unfortunately, he could not see much
past the dark pane and the blue mech quickly drew his attention again
afterwards, keeping the pomeranian from trying to deduce their
location. “Notice: we have arrived,” the persian announced,
getting to his pedes and heading for the door. He stepped out onto
the sidewalk as the limousine came to a full stop; looking back and
holding out his servo for the autodog.
Tracks smiled coyly as he took the
proffered limb, sliding out of the black car with one fluid motion
and pressing into Soundwave's side immediately. He was tempted to run
his fingers down those glorious chestplates, but the kittycon was
releasing his servo shortly after; letting his other servo fall to
the small of the pomeranian's back, turning the both of them
forwards. Any of the multi-coloured mech's disappointment was quick
to fade though as his mouth gaped slightly in shock.
“S-steel Haven?!”
The lights of the restaurant glittered
like a web of stars before them; red carpet lining the stairs leading
up to the building's glass doors. Bots, both kittycon and autodog
alike, walked up and down those steps, all dressed in their finest
and laughing with merriment. Valets and drivers waited along the
sidewalk, ready to serve the high-class that evening. Tracks, in
utter awe, looked between them all -was this real? Was he really,
honestly and truly, here? Steel Haven was the highpoint of elite
dining: made for the rich, the powerful and the well-known. In
accordance, it was just as hard to get a table at the restaurant
during the night. Though the pomeranian had been many places before,
none of his dates had taken him here.
Excitement crackled across his
circuits, making something bubble up deep inside. “So we're to have
a nibble here first then?,” Tracks asked, smirking up at the
persian.
Soundwave turned his helm to the other
mech, leading them up to the doors. “Affirmative,” he answered.
“Inquiry: Does this please you?”
A doorman held the door open for them
as the couple entered. Inside was even more fabulous, and Tracks had
a hard time not cooing in pure delight. There were more mechs and
femmes that he could recognize within; bots that had their own
spreads on Cybertron Press and Galactic Girl magazines. Truly, the
autodog was among social royalty.
“Oh..... I am very pleased,” Tracks
smirked breathlessly. “I must thank you appropriately, later on.”
He tried to share a wink with Soundwave, but the kittycon simply
turned away, avoiding optic contact with the pomeranian.
That was...... How was Tracks supposed
to respond to that?
The autodog kept smiling, trying to
appease himself with all the celebrities and CEOs surrounding him,
but it couldn't completely squash the confusion welling in his spark.
Soundwave's servo was still on his backstruts, though it did not move
anywhere else. The bookkeeper met them about half-way past the
doorway, smiling and bowing as the mech checked their names off and
called a waiter to seat them. Within a few short minutes, both Tracks
and Soundwave had been seated in a semi-private booth, away from the
hubbub of the rest of the crowd.
“Cozy,” the pomeranian noted,
making himself comfortable on the satin seats. The chairs were nice
and plush; Tracks could practically sink into them blissfully, never
to emerge. Unshuttering his optics, which had closed during his
moment of enjoyment, the multi-coloured mech was surprised to see
Soundwave studying him intently.
The intense gaze was enough to make
Tracks blush again.
“Action: order whatever you'd like,”
the persian said, holding out a menu for the autodog to take.
“Anything, hmm?,” Tracks hummed,
feeling his spark whirl as he turned on his charm again. “I'm
tempted to just ask if I can have you to go.” He hid his smirk
behind the menu as he saw Soundwave lean across the table an inch or
so, blue ears pointed high to the sky with attentiveness. “So tell
me, you come here often?”
“Negative,” Soundwave answered,
finally tearing his gaze away from the pomeranian after a klik and
glancing at his own menu. “Fact: First time coming to this specific
restaurant since moving to Iacon. But, would be willing to come more
often if you would accompany me.”
He could not help the pom-pom shake
that his tail made as the kittycon answered him, and Tracks was
certain that he must have been beaming like a sparkling handed their
favourite treat. Soundwave was practically giving the autodog
everything he ever wanted! A night on the town among the prestigious
and beautiful; the chance for a hot, gratifying interface; a big,
handsome paycheck..... “Darling, there's nowhere that I wouldn't
mind going with you,” Tracks answered sultrily, closing his menu
and setting it on the table top.
Soundwave's visor flashed again that
evening.
“Good evening sirs,” a femme
greeted, coming up to the booth. “I hope you are both having a
delightful night thus far; may I take your order?”
Tracks almost wanted to pout at the
interruption, but he refrained, instead glancing at the waitress. She
was sort of a cute thing.... “We're doing well, thank you,” the
multi-coloured mech started, smiling at the femme, “And as for
myself, your Shrimp Etoufee sounds enticing. I believe I shall have
that.”
Nodding her helm, the waitress turned
to Soundwave. “And for you sir?”
“Order: shall take the cranberry
glazed pork tenderloin. Add in a bottle of Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque
Blanc de Blanc.”
“Understood,” the femme replied,
noting the kittycon's dish on her notepad. “Entrees are started
with a salad and an appetizer of your choice; this month's special
being the Fresh Garden salad with an Italian vinaigrette dressing and
grilled mushrooms stuffed with minced pork and blue cheese filling.”
“Month's special shall suffice,”
Soundwave said.
“Good choice, sir,” the waitress
continued. She took their menus, folding them just behind her
notepad. “Your salads and drinks shall be along shortly.” With a
quick bow of her helm, the femme hurried off to the kitchens, to
place their orders before helping another customer.
“Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque Blanc de
Blanc, hmm?,” Tracks smirked, once they were alone again.
“Inquiry: you know of it?,” the
persian asked, turning his helm to the pomeranian.
“Indeed I do. Though I am sad to say
I have only had it once before.” And for good reason too. The
autodog knew the price tag on a bottle of that delectable champagne.
Fifteen thousand for a simple bottle..... most 'bots wouldn't fork
out that much for such an alcohol, didn't matter if it was the most
delicious champagne to be found on Cybertron or not. “I'm surprised
that you'd order it though. I didn't take you for a champagne
drinker.”
“Fact: impartial to such drinks,”
Soundwave answered. “Assumption: thought that you might enjoy it.”
Again, Tracks was blushing; optics
bright with excitement. This kittycon knew just how to spoil a 'bot.
“And enjoy it much I shall. Thank you for your thoughtful
consideration.”
Their dinner came along shortly after
that, and it was quiet for a time as they ate. Tracks instigated
conversation between dishes, trying to keep his mind off the fact
that he had yet to see Soundwave remove his mouth guard at all the
entire meal thus far. He knew the persian was eating -his plate was
nearly cleaned by the time the waitress came to take their dishes-
but the blue mech always seemed to wait until Tracks had turned his
own helm away before touching a bite of his food. Just what was the
kittycon hiding under that golden covering? Was he horribly
disfigured? Did he have scars? The pomeranian just couldn't figure it
out, and he was growing desperately more and more curious by the
nanoklik.
'Well, he's gotta take it off some
time tonight,' the autodog thought to himself, lifting his glass
and sipping at the bubbling champagne within.
“My.... that was delicious,” Tracks
sighed, patting the corners of his mouth with his napkin, having
finished his meal.
“Affirmative,” Soundwave agreed,
setting down his own utensils. Both of their plates were empty,
nothing but sauce and small scraps remaining from the entrees.
“Inquiry: Would you care for some dessert?”
“Hmmm....,” the pomeranian thought
about it for a moment, before waving the suggestion off. “No, I
think I shall decline this time. This meal was much too good, I'm
afraid I don't have the room enough to eat another bite.”
The kittycon nodded his helm, and as
their waitress from earlier arrived to take their plates, he politely
asked for the bill. “Where to next then, love?,” Tracks asked,
leaning across the table. He folded his servos under his chin,
letting his opticlids shutter to half-mast. “Or is that a surprise
as well?”
“Negative,” Soundwave answered. He
paused momentarily, pulling out a credit card and handing it to the
femme who had just returned, not even bothering to look at the bill.
The waitress scanned the card, giving it back to the persian, a smile
on her face.
“Thank you for your business,
gentlemen, and have a good night.” With another bow of her helm,
she turned away to go and serve the other patrons.
At her exit, Soundwave rose to his
pedes, once again holding his servo out for Tracks. The autodog took
it graciously, loving the way the thicker, golden servo nearly
encompassed his own. He was surprised though when the blue mech lead
his servo under the other's arm; leaving the pomeranian's arm to be
looped around the persian's. Not that Tracks really minded.... it
gave him more of an excuse to stay pressed into his partner's side.
Smiling up at the kittycon, Tracks
said, “You still haven't told me where we're going next.”
Soundwave inclined his helm in
acknowledgement to the multi-coloured mech's words. “Status: Is a
beautiful evening. Inquiry: Would you care for a walk?”
Tracks couldn't help the stunned
shuttering of his optics. Soundwave led the both of them outside,
stopping just beside their limo, waiting for the pomeranian's answer.
“O-oh, yes; of course!,” the autodog quickly stuttered in reply;
mentally berating himself for his folly. Why did he have to idle like
that for?! Surely Soundwave must of thought him as glitched. But, a
walk? Was the kittycon being serious?
The persian turned to the limo, bending
down a little and speaking to the driver within. As he was
straightening up, the black vehicle pulled away from the curb;
driving back out into late night traffic. “Come,” Soundwave said,
directing Tracks to the main sidewalk. The slimmer mech followed
silently; too stunned to adequately respond.
After a few kliks of silence though,
the kittycon took notice of his companion's silence and decided to
comment on it. “Inquiry: Is this not a satisfactory proposition?”
“Huh? Oh, well....,” Tracks trailed
off, uncertain how to continue. He didn't want to simply tell
Soundwave that he was beyond confused and marginally irritated that
nothing else had come out of their date thus far. “No, this is
lovely,” he eventually lied, plastering on a coy smile for the
persian. “It's a nice evening.”
“Affirmative,” Soundwave responded.
A slight hesitation, “Tracks: would you like to continue this?”
Continue what exactly? “Of course,”
the pomeranian purred, pressing in tighter to the kittycon's side.
“Was there something else you wished to do?”
The blue mech merely shook his helm,
coming to a stop. Tracks followed suit, shuttering his optics up at
the persian. “Soundwave, wha-?”
The autodog swallowed back a gasp as
Soundwave unwound his arm from its resting place; grasping the
thinner servo and bringing it up to his faceplates. Though the
mouthguard was nothing more than an obstruction, it could not take
away the meaning behind the action. Soundwave was essentially kissing
his knuckles, in a most romantic and gentlemanly fashion. It made the
pomeranian swoon, melt and shiver all in the same instant.
“Status: Driver shall escort you back
home,” the persian announced, leading a stunned Tracks to the limo
that had just pulled up and was waiting for them. “Action: Must
thank you for a lovely night. Your presence has made it most
enjoyable.”
“B-but.....”
Soundwave opened the door and gently
guided Tracks onto the seat within. “Fact: Will be seeing you again
soon. Good night, Tracks.” And then the door was shut on the
pomeranian's face; both kittycon and sidewalk disappearing from sight
as the limo started to drive away.
In a daze, Tracks turned away from the
window, staring at his left servo where he could still feel the
phantasmal kiss upon his flesh.
xxXxXxx
Wheeljack paced about the room,
nervously winding his servos together. Finally, to the bulldog's
relief, the office door opened; Ratchet coming into the room. The vet
closed the door behind him silently, walking over to his desk before
he paid any attention to the other mech. “Where are the twins?,”
Ratchet asked, trying to strike up some light conversation.
The engineer shuffled in place, then
hurriedly took a seat. “T-they're with Perceptor today. He, uh,
wanted to keep an eye on them. Apparently he found out about the
almost 'explosion' in my lab the last time I was watching them.....,”
Wheeljack explained, cheekplates flush with an embarrassed blush. “He
wasn't happy....”
“I see,” the labrador hummed,
leaning back into his chair. “Wheeljack, you're probably wondering
why I called for you to come see me today.”
“Well, a little,” the bulldog
admitted. “I was sure you were gonna ream me out for tricking you
into coming to the picnic yesterday but I guess not. Unless.....
wait, you're not trying to lull me into some semblance of security
before you pounce, are you?!” Wheeljack jumped from his seat,
looking at the vet worriedly.
“Would you just sit down!,” Ratchet
growled, annoyed by the engineer's skittishness. “I'm not going to
do anything to you .....but don't tempt me....” The older autodog
shifted in his chair, wrapping his vet coat around him tighter. “No,
I asked you to come today to discuss Perceptor.”
Wheeljack calmed down some, slowly
returning to his seat. “The therapy sessions you mentioned,
correct?,” the bulldog asked. Ratchet nodded his helm.
“But, before we can begin that, I
first need to speak with you.”
The engineer lifted his helm, staring
at the vet puzzled. “What do you mean, Ratchet?”
Ratchet sighed softly. “I mean, that
I can not even think of treating Perceptor before treating you. His
issues lie not only in the past, but whatever connection he has with
you. And don't even say that's not the case- you've been with him
since coming to this city, and you still protest that you're only
'friends',” the labrador interjected quickly, noticing the bulldog
opening his mouth. Wheeljack promptly shut it again. “Whatever
problems that Perceptor has, they cannot be solved until you first
open up about the things you've been holding in all these years.
Otherwise, you will only serve as a reminder to the past and
Perceptor will not be able to move on.”
“B-but Ratchet, I-,” Wheeljack
started. On his own, the engineer fell silent, gaze dropping to his
clenched servos. “No, you're right.....”
Ratchet rose from his chair, circling
around his desk. He sat on the edge of the table, right across the
other autodog; reaching out and squeezing the bulldog's shoulder
tightly. At the silent comfort, Wheeljack vented wearily, shuttering
his optics. “You don't have to do this right now, Wheeljack,”
Ratchet murmured softly.
“No, Ratchet,” the engineer
replied. “It's best I start now.”
The vet nodded, releasing his hold on
the bulldog. He sat, waiting for the other to start.
Smiling softly, Wheeljack did so. “It
was the fall of my senior year when I met him.....”
xxXxXxx
Thin fingers danced across the
keyboard, rapidly hitting keys and having words and symbols flash
across the screen with every click, at a speed that would awe most
'bots. It was like an art, watching those fingers move in succession
like that, one after the other. The formula they were piecing
together as well was something to be astounded by. Not many
processors could even begin to contemplate such an equation, let
alone understand the theory behind it. To the mech typing away, this
was serenity. There was not a calmer place on all of Cybertron then
when he was surrounded by datapads and computers, containing vorns
upon vorns of different branches of mathematics and science. All
wrapped up in a cocoon of peaceful silence.
Crash!!!!
The fingers continued to flicker about
for an astrosecond longer, before they finally came to a pause. With
a slow servo, the mech adjusted his glasses, turning in his seat to
assess the damage that had taken place behind him. Two, sheepish
grins met his optics; kitty ears laying lowly across orange and blue
helms.
“Hey mommy....,” Jetfire and
Jetstorm said, apologetic grins growing on their faceplates a couple
inches wider.
Perceptor did not reply, instead merely
looking about, trying to determine what they had broken. Noticing
this, his sons eventually brought their servos out from behind their
backs, displaying the damaged components of a microscope. “Sorries
being,” Jetfire started.
“Really, really are,” his brother
finished.
The border collie shuttered his optics,
turning back around in his seat. “Deposit the microscope into the
appropriate trash receptacle,” he instructed, once again setting
his servos on his keyboard. As he started up with his typing, he
could hear from behind him the two hybrids moving about the room,
followed by the clanking of the ruined equipment being dropped down
the garbage chute. Perceptor got in another few kliks of work before
two sets of arms were wrapping around his chassis.
“Yes?,” the autodog asked, pulling
his servos away from the keyboard.
Jetfire and Jetstorm squeezed their
creator tighter, nuzzling at whichever body part was closest. “Mommy,
bored are being....,” the blue hybrid began. He was squatting near
the floor, arms wrapped around Perceptor's middle and his chin
resting on the scientist's thigh. “Doing we all of work; nothing
have now left.”
“Playing can go we?,” the orange
youngling asked. He stood just behind Perceptor, arms wrapped just
under his creator's own arms and chin propped on the autodog's
shoulder plating. “Please of pretty?”
Perceptor glanced at each of his sons,
before his optics came to rest on his computer again. He had almost
finished that new space-time formula for the Technician department
downstairs.... just a little more and he would have completed it.
But, noticing the time displayed in the corner of the screen, the
scientist concluded that he could finish writing it later. “Come,”
the border collie said, rising to his pedes. The twins released their
hold on him, standing side by side with their creator. “The cycle
dictates that it is long past the time to refuel. We shall have a
short break, where in we will acquire the proper nutrition before
returning to the lab. Is this action agreeable?”
“Oh, yes, yes!,” the two younglings
chirped, rocking on their pedes in excitement.
The scientist nodded, turning and
heading for the door. He paused only long enough to remove his lab
coat and replace it with his outdoor coat, already hanging on the
clothes rack by the exit. His sons followed him the entire time.
“Mommy?,” Jetstorm asked, as the
trio were heading downstairs. “How is you knowing Ratchet, sir?”
Jetfire glanced at his brother quickly,
before turning his entire attention to their creator. Perceptor's
only reaction to the bizarre inquiry was the subtle lift of his helm.
“Ratchet is a trusted acquaintance. He has proved his skill and
dedication over the years.”
The twins wanted to whine at such a
mediocre answer. “Yes, but,” Jetfire persisted, “How is first
knowing to come of Ratchet?”
A border collie ear flicked almost
unseen at the question. “He was the leading vet during your
protoforming,” the scientist replied.
“Ah, so is seeing us since was lil'
sparklings,” the younglings mused aloud. Well..... that made
Ratchet fairly aged then, didn't it? After all, he was older than
their creator, and he had been there at their birth.... Still, that
fact did not squash the budding emotions welling within their sparks.
“Mommy, mommy!,” Jetstorm chirped,
swooping forward and latching onto Perceptor's arm tightly. He rocked
the appendage back and forth as he nuzzled the scientist's ears.
“Telling more of us Ratchet about. Please?”
“Ah, yes!,” Jetfire added in.
“Please, please, mommy? Tell of us, please?”
Perceptor glanced at each of his sons
in turn. “For what purpose?,” he asked monotonously. The twins
looked over their creator's helm, sharing a quick discussion between
them. They didn't want to lie to their mommy but they weren't sure if
telling him the reason behind their interest was such a great idea.
All the same, they just had to know more about Ratchet.
“We want just know him more about,”
they answered. “He being person important, yes? More know so thank
right.”
“Thanks?,” the scientist replied.
“Wheeljack informs me you have done such already.”
“Yes, uh, well....,” Jetfire hummed
in distraction.
Jetstorm thankfully continued for his
brother. “Is good vet he. Want thanking of him often, we do. Is
deserving not, yes?”
“..... Rewards are applicable,”
Perceptor said softly. “We shall continue discussions at a later
date, when the circumstances allow.” The twins let out a pleased
chirp at the autodog's words. The border collie's tail twitched
faintly behind him at the sound. It went unnoticed by his sons, who
had skipped forward merrily, rushing for the exit and henceforth the
outdoors.
The scientist watched them go, a
strange, undefinable expression pulling slightly at his usually blank
faceplates.
xxXxXxx
“Tracks.....? Tracks!”
Fingers snapped irritably before the
autodog's faceplates.
“Huh? Wha?,” the pomeranian
shuttered his optics dazedly, turning to the voice calling him. The
speaker turned out to be none other than Mirage. The yorkie looked at
the taller autodog anxiously, hands propped loosely on his hips.
“I've been calling your name for the
past couple kliks,” the blue mech said. “What's the problem? I've
never seen you this distracted before....”
“Hmmm? Oh, nothing, nothing.....,”
Tracks mumbled in response. He glanced at his half-eaten lunch,
falling quiet again, before turning his attention back to Mirage.
“Well, I suppose I should get going. I have another appointment
tonight.”
Mirage pursed his lip components at the
blatant excuse, shaking his helm. “I'm surprised that you haven't
chased me down earlier to gossip about your date last night. It's
been the talk all over the lounge, about how you managed to catch
that kittycon's attentions. Apparently, his reputation is quickly
growing -same with his money.”
Tracks was silent for a moment as he
rose to his pedes. As if just catching what the fallen Noble had
said, the pomeranian turned to the yorkie; optics clouded deep with
thought. “Yes.... Soundwave....,” Tracks confirmed. Mirage
waited, expecting the other autodog to continue.
“Well?,” he finally asked, when it
became obvious that Tracks was not going to finish. “Aren't you
going to tell me how your date went?”
A frown made itself known on the
pomeranian's faceplates. “It was.... different,” the taller
autodog answered vaguely. Sighing, Tracks shook his helm, gathering
his lunch tray. “Listen, I really do need to rush now. We can talk
more later, okay?”
That was.... unexpected.
Mirage shrugged nonchalantly, crossing
his arms over his chassis. “Alright. I'll see you later then,” he
replied. The yorkie was given a quick nod before Tracks was making
his way to the exit briskly. The ex-Noble's optics followed the
pomeranian the entire way, confusion marring his beautiful features.
Just what had gotten into Tracks?
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