Rating: M
Chapter 13
Waking was a gentle affair. Warm and
comfortable, the yorkie rose quietly, pushing back his egyptian
cotton sheets and stretching languidly before sliding out of berth
completely. His first destination was to the bathroom, where he set
about to filling the bathtub with warm water; pouring a cap of his
favourite oils into the bubbling water and heading back out in his
berthroom while he waited. A knock at his door surprised Mirage.
Grabbing his robe, he padded through
the condo to his front door. He hesitated for a moment, his servo
hovering above the knob, before he told himself to stop being silly
and open the slagging thing. Making sure the sash of his robe was
cinched tightly closed, the autodog pulled the door open; a polite
smile on his faceplates to greet his unexpected visitor.
It was quick to fall when he found no
one waiting on the other side.
“Hello?,” Mirage called, leaning
out the doorway. The hallway was empty. Something clinked against his
pede as he started to pull back; surprised, the yorkie glanced down,
shuttering his optics at the little potted plant set at the foot of
his door. Mirage crouched low to inspect the plant, finding a little
note tied to the pot's girth with blue ribbon. Recognizing the messy
scrawl, the autodog's spark immediately swelled, a soft smile pulling
at his lip components.
It was only by chance that the blue
mech was glancing upwards at that moment, catching sight of another
type of note -this time, taped directly to the front of Tracks' door.
Confused, the yorkie scooped up his gift, cradling it to his chassis
carefully as he padded across the hallway; reading the note quickly,
before peeling it off of the wood.
“Tracks?” He knocked at the door.
“Tracks? Are you in there?” Mirage waited a klik before knocking
again, becoming slightly annoyed. His irritation was quick to turn
into concern when he heard something crash on the other side of the
door.
“Tracks? Tracks, are you in there? Is
everything alright?”
The autodog shifted the pot in his
arms, reaching for the doorknob in his panic. He didn't even bother
to acknowledge that it was surprisingly unlocked, as the yorkie
rushed into the apartment; dropping his gift haphazardly on the
coffee table in the living room as he hurried for the berthroom.
“Tracks?,” he called anxiously, “Tracks? Are you alright? It's
me- Mirage!”
For a moment, Mirage was stunned by the
nightstand filled with empty wine glasses, its circumference and half
of the bedside littered with the accompanying bottles. He was quickly
shaken from his reverie though when he heard someone retching in the
next room. Cautiously, the yorkie crossed the room, peering into the
bathroom. “Oh my.....,” escaped the blue mech.
Tracks, dressed in crinkled clothes
from the night before, had his face shoved into the toilet as he
retched; ears flattened against the back of his helm as he trembled
and a champagne bottle clutched tightly in one servo. The horrifying
sight of his friend so disheveled and unwell would be enough to make
someone nervous -especially if they knew what Tracks was like on a
regular basis.
Mirage walked into the bathroom
carefully, wary of the wet tile floors (no doubt, what had attributed
to part of the crash he had heard earlier) as he approached the
pomeranian. “Tracks, Tracks....,” he said softly, “Tracks, it's
alright. I'll help you.” The ex-Noble was dutifully ignored as the
other escort continued to purge his tanks, which was fine with the
yorkie entirely.
He honestly wasn't sure if his frazzled
circuits could handle having any of Tracks' attention on himself at
this moment.
Rubbing uncertainly at the taller
autodog's backstruts, the blue mech knelt behind Tracks, one servo
still rubbing his shoulder plating while the other one struggled to
undo the pomeranian's iron-clad grip from around the champagne
bottle. “Come on, give me the bottle,” he muttered exasperatedly,
just as Tracks' fingers loosened around the bottle's neck. With a
relieved sigh, Mirage stood up, setting the bottle onto the far side
of the counter before grabbing a wash clothe and soaking it with warm
water.
It was silent for a little bit
afterwards; once in a while, the yorkie pressed the clothe to the
pomeranian's brow, fingers stroking downcast ears unconsciously.
Shivering one last time, Tracks pulled his face from the bowl, his
intakes rattling as he struggled to even them out. Patting at the
other escort's brow one last time, Mirage rinsed out the clothe and
soaked it with warm water again, handing it to the more aware mech.
“....I feel like slag....,” Tracks
groaned, as he took the clothe offered, wiping at his mouth; spitting
one last time into the toilet.
“I wonder why,” the blue autodog
clipped dryly. He took the wash clothe back from Tracks, tossing it
into the sink, turning his focus back on the pomeranian. “C'mon,”
he said, reaching out and grabbing one of the multi-coloured mech's
arms, “Let's get you up.”
Tracks was wobbly as Mirage pulled him
to his pedes, and yet he still struggled weakly in the other's hold.
“I'm fine,” he snapped tiredly, as they shuffled out of the
bathroom.
The attitude was unappreciated. “Oh,
you're fine?,” the yorkie growled back sarcastically. “Really,
you are perfectly fine? You just had your helm stuck down the toilet,
puking your gears out!”
Tracks finally managed to tear himself
out of his friend's grasp. He stumbled as he tried to stride forward,
but did not fall; strutting like an injured chicken towards the
living room. “Please Mirage!,” he sniffed, “Give it a break,
will you? I just got a little drunk, alright? It happens sometimes.
There's nothing wrong with getting a little buzzed on a saturday
anyhow.”
Mirage followed crossly. “It's
thursday...”
Collapsing on the couch, Tracks dug
between the cushions, pulling out a slim bottle of high-grade. Before
he could even twist off the cap, the ex-Noble was pouncing, slapping
the pomeranian's servo and ripping the bottle from him. The hungover
mech made a swipe for his stolen drink, but missed; giving up, he
slumped against the couch, helm tipped back on the cushions.
“Well, all the same! Stop
nitpicking,” Tracks replied. “I am a grown mech and you are
certainly not my creator.”
The yorkie refrained from confessing
how lucky he felt not being the other autodog's creator. Stashing the
bottle in a potted fern beside the loveseat, Mirage turned back to
the pomeranian, arms crossed over his chestplates as he glared at
Tracks. “Fine, whatever,” he scowled, “I apologize for being
concerned then. And here,” he held out the note he'd almost
completely forgotten about now, “A letter from the house mother for
you.”
The other escort tilted his helm,
peering at the fallen Noble with half-shuttered, dim optics.
“....What are you talking about?”
The yorkie didn't bother to stop his
optical sensors from rolling. “I'm talking about the note so
graciously left on your apartment door, that's what.” He shook the
paper in his servo for extra emphasis. “What happened? Did you
forget to charge your cell again?”
Tracks frowned, but did not reply to
the jab. He sat up with muffled groan, grabbing the letter out of
Mirage's servo with more force than necessary, glancing at it quickly
before looking back up at his friend. “And just what would bring
you out in the hallway anyhow?,” the pomeranian asked. “You're
not dressed to go out, unless you're starting a new fashion
statement.”
He gestured to the smaller autodog's
satin robe and his cashmere pajama pants.
Blushing, Mirage double-checked the
knot on his robe, trying his best not to fidget under the other's
teasing stare. “For your information,” he answered testily, “I
was picking up something that had been left for me. I just happened
to notice the note there after.”
Tracks leaned forward more, his free
servo cupping under his chin while a devious smirk pulled at his lip
components. “'Picking something up'? Picking up what, 'Rajy? A
gift?” The pomeranian finally took notice of the plant sitting on
his coffee table. Shuttering his optics slowly at the pot, he asked,
“...is that it there? That little half a twig in that teeny, tiny,
bland pot?”
“It's called a Bonsai Tree,” the
yorkie snapped, scooping up the plant quickly and holding it to his
chestplates, as if to protect it from the other autodog. “And I
happen to think it's gorgeous, not to mention refined and
thoughtful.”
He bristled at the dry look Tracks was
giving him now.
“Don't you start with me, Mr.
Alcoholic!,” Mirage growled, the last of his patience completely
depleted. “You'd better straighten yourself up and stop acting like
such a booze binger, or the next time you're on the bathroom floor,
it'll be in some serial murder's -oh, Primus be slagged! My bath!”
With a muted yip, the blue mech turned
and ran from the apartment, reminded of the water he had left running
in his own condo. Unconcerned as he continued to float in his
post-drinking haze, Tracks merely looked down at the note
half-crumpled in his servo; squinting as his bleary optics attempted
to read the crisp lettering.
xxXxXxx
“I know your secret.”
Rodimus shifted on the berth,
pulling the blankets over his exposed interface equipment before
turning his helm to the kittycon. His optics were narrowed, lip
components pulled back slightly to bare his dental plating. Two sharp
canines reflected sharply in the dim lighting of the room. “What
are you talking about?,” the autodog hissed.
Blackout smirked at the other's
acidic tone. “I'm not as dumb as everyone thinks I am. After all,
it's not that hard to see why you want me.” One clawed servo
wandered over to the golden retriever, pawing at the beautiful curve
of the other's aft, before a finger was slipping beneath the
protective blanket and into the smaller mech's valve. A groan escaped
Rodimus' vocalizer, hot lubricant spilling around the kittycon's
large digit.
“S-stupid cat....,” the autodog
growled, twisting sharply into the prodding claw, forcing it to drag
across his inner walls. The sensor nodes crackled with electricity at
the harsh touch, making his engines rev with a growing charge.
“Ahhh.... so good....”
The panther licked his lip
components at the writhing autodog on the berth, feeling his own
interface equipment begin to heat up and his naked spike start to
ache again. Rodimus offlined his optics, tugging the blanket off and
spreading his legs open further. His spike stood erect, transfluid
already on the tip as he ground into Blackout's paw, pushing for more
of that delicious touch. “Glad you.....mmmm.... like it so much,”
the kittycon purred huskily, red optics committing the erotic sight
to memory. “But you can't avoid the truth that easily, mutt.”
Rodimus growled at the nickname,
servos reaching up and grabbing at the larger mech. With surprising
strength, he pulled the panther down onto the berth, flipping their
positions so he straddled the kittycon. “What's.... ohh, oh
Primus.... y-your po-point?,” the golden retriever asked, grinding
his aft along the other's rigid spike.
“So hot.....,” Blackout growled,
ripping his finger out from the autodog's dripping valve and using
both servos to grasp those condensation-slicked hips. “T-this
arrangement of.... ah, o-ours exists o-only because...... hah, mmmmm,
ah..... o-of my s-spike,” the kittycon continued, vocalizer
hitching as he aligned the trembling Rodimus, pulling the slim mech
down onto his waiting spike. The golden retriever howled at the
intrusion, his tight valve being stretched almost mercilessly for the
other 'bot's large, thick cable. Panting wantonly, the autodog
scratched at the other's chassis, trying to gain purchase against the
pleasure that wracked his systems.
“Mmmm.... so lovely....,” the
panther rumbled, optics narrowing at the tight friction surrounding
his cable. Such beautiful heat.... it was almost sinful, really.
Blackout dragged his claws up Rodimus' chassis, causing the autodog
to buck erratically in his lap, making them both cry out in bliss.
“Y-you can re-really take a-aahhhh....... a s-spike,” the
kittycon smirked, pistoning his hips and thrusting up into that
molten hot valve. The golden retriever screamed at the sudden
assault, optics onlining as he arched in the larger mech's servos.
Blackout's smirk grew at the cry.
“I-if it weren't f-for my spike,
we w-wouldn't be doing this. I know t-that. B-but I'm fine be-being
the re-replacement. A-after all,” the kittycon pushed upwards
again, drawing a keen from the other mech's lips. “I s-still was
t-the first t-to break yo-your seal. I-i was..... ahh, hah..... the
only one t-that can satisfy y-you now. S-so, mmmmm, t-tell me.... who
is it t-that you c-can't have?”
“S-shut up!,” Rodimus moaned,
rocking back into the panther's thrusts. He grinned when it caused
the kittycon to groan wantonly. Blackout retaliated by running his
claws up the autodog's back struts, angling his thrusts to leave the
smaller mech mewling and whimpering.
“T-they say I'm stupid.... b-but I
know,” Blackout smirked, glossa sneaking out and licking at the
neck cables that came within reach. Rodimus shivered against his
chassis, but did not move, moaning and grinding for more attention.
“G-go ahead, mutt. Ahhhh..... s-scream fo-for your da-daddy;
p-pretend that h-he's the one i-interfacing with you t-then. I won't
mind.”
Pale, blue optics glared at him
before they shuttered completely as the autodog reached his sixth
overload that night.
xxXxXxx
“B-big Brother Rodimus, you.... okay
you?”
The golden retriever shook his helm
slightly, coming out of his thoughts, his gaze falling to the two
younglings sitting on either side of him. They were currently in the
lounge room, the lesson for today supposed to be table manners and
the different uses for the various silverware one might find at a
social event. Unfortunately, Rodimus couldn't keep his processor on
the present.
“I am..... My apologies, boys,” he
sighed, “I have other things on my mind.”
“Things bad?,” Jetfire asked
quietly. His brother's ears drooped a little anxiously.
Rodimus shuttered his optics
momentarily at the question, before shaking his helm again, smiling
in what he hoped was a comforting manner to the twins. “No,
just.... just thinking about some adult things. I'm sorry. They're
not that big of a deal, and yet I'm worrying you over them
needlessly.”
“O-okie for dokie....,” the hybrids
answered, turning uncertain gazes to the table.
It must have been apparent that he was
lying. The autodog would have sighed, but that would only draw
Jetfire and Jetstorm's attention further, and Rodimus just couldn't
explain himself to them. How could he expect two inexperienced
younglings to understand casual interfacing or longing for someone
that was out of their reach in almost every way possible? The golden
retriever wished that Optimus would come back from sick leave, and
that Sentinel would quit being AWOL at this moment.
He just didn't have the energy to look
after both of the twins for several cycles straight.....
For a klik, Rodimus sat there silently,
one servo rubbing circles into the side of his helm while either
Jetfire or Jetstorm fidgeted, playing with their silverware idly -he
wasn't sure which hybrid was doing it, with his optics offlined, but
he could hear the delicate clinking echoing loudly in lapse of
conversation.
“I think....,” the red mech started
shortly afterwards, onlining his optics to find both of the twins had
straightened up in their seats the moment he had spoke, “Maybe it's
time for a break. Please, stay here boys, and I'll go get us some
lunch, alright? I'll be back shortly.”
“Brother Rodimus,” Jetfire piped up
as Rodimus rose to his pedes. “We..... it alright be we use
terminal?” The orange youngling pointed to a spare computer sitting
at the back of the lounge, just behind the sitting area.
“For doing homework for Uncle
Optimus!,” Jetstorm added quickly, as if he thought his caretaker
might deny him the privilege. At this point, any way the hybrids
could entertain themselves that didn't include them running off was
fine by the golden retriever.
He just needed some time to think about
his visit the other night with Blackout without any distractions.
“Go ahead boys,” Rodimus nodded,
pushing in his chair, to the younglings' joy. “I'll be back
shortly....”
Jetfire and Jetstorm barely waited
until the autodog was out of the room before they were leaping from
their seats and racing for the computer, dropping into chairs heavily
as the blue youngling's fingers flashed across the keyboard, bringing
the aging terminal out of stasis. “You find place of home
certainly, brother?,” the other hybrid asked, pulling a folded
magazine page out of his pocket.
He unfolded the paper, smoothing out
the creases as he pressed the article to the table, Starscream's
image starting back up at the twins.
Jetstorm nodded as he pulled up a
search engine, sparing a torn look at the picture of his sire.
“Finding quick home, then finish of plans to go,” he replied, his
fingers clacking away wildly.
Jetfire's ears sank low on his helm,
his fists clenching in his lap. “I...... I scared being is,
brother. If what.... if what we doing right not? If what is
mistake?,” he mused softly, gnawing at his fingertips anxiously.
“Be of may we stay..... w-we....”
The other youngling quickly grabbed his
brother's servo, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Fine being it,”
Jetstorm assured, his visor locked with his twin's optics. “Do of
this then.... then thing of every be okie for dokie....”
The orange hybrid hesitated, but after
a moment he nodded, placing all of his faith in his twin's words.
Unwinding their servos for the time being, Jetstorm turned back to
the computer, his visor dimmed contently as he hurried to scour
through the search engine. Jetfire sat beside him silently, picking
at his fingers idly and casting nervous looks over his shoulder
plating every few astroseconds; his spark puttering erratically with
his growing anticipation.
xxXxXxx
Tracks wanted to leave the room the
moment he entered. “Sit,” Flare-up growled, as the pomeranian
took one step back.
Refraining the urge to rub at his
aching helm, the escort stepped forwards, plopping down in the free
seat as commanded. The femme folded her servos on top of her desk,
leaning forwards testily. “You....,” she began, “Have been
missing for the past few days. Where have you been?”
“On the contrary,” Tracks replied
hoarsely, “I haven't been missing, I've just-”
“Silence!,” Flare-up snapped. “I've
already talked to our security staff and your floor neighbour....
You've spent the last few days in and out of the condo, drunk out of
your processor, and apparently your apartment reflects this new booze
binge diet that you've adapted recently as well.”
The pomeranian tensed slightly at the
spoken truth. That traitorous yorkie! Before he could voice any
further protests though, the jack terrier was continuing.
“I think you seem to forget that this
is place of business, Mr. Tracks,” the femme growled lowly, leaning
forward in her seat; her optics narrowed and flashing in anger. “Your
home, safety, food.... all of that is covered by the Agency, and as
such you have a responsibility to the business and its clients. What
you do on your own free time matters not to me, but your
over-excessive drinking habits have made you absent for three of your
appointments these past few days -appointments that I had to
reschedule with other escorts at the last minute to appease your
angry clients!”
Tracks did his best not to look either
surprised or upset.
“Keep this behavior up and I will
have you removed from this agency! I have no need or time to waste on
selfish, spoiled mutts who won't work,” Flare-up threatened. “Do
you understand?”
“I..... I completely understand,”
Tracks answered, sitting up straight in his chair. “And I apologize
for my indiscretion.... I have not been feeling well, I suppose. A
few drinks made it easier to forget about this cold I seemed to have
caught.”
The jack russell terrier shuttered her
optics slowly at the excuse. “A cold, you say?,” she hummed in
contemplation. Flare-up leaned back in her seat, silently studying
the mech. Tracks endured it patiently for a klik, but his patience
was thin this orn. It didn't take long for him to get annoyed with
his employer's quiet, wishing that she'd hurry up and release him so
the pomeranian could go back to his apartment and spend his hang-over
buried under his comfortable sheets.
Finally, after what seemed like an
eternity, the femme was turning her chair around, rising to her pedes
and heading for the filing cabinet behind her desk. “Very well,
Tracks. If you are feeling unwell, then you can go see the visiting
vet tomorrow afternoon,” Flare-up said, opening a drawer and
flipping through folders, “Miss this appointment though and you can
forget about your future in this company.”
“Fine....,” he gritted, rubbing at
his optics as a particularly painful throb started behind his
forehead.
“Go sober up,” the smaller autodog
dismissed, sitting back down at her desk, flipping open the thick
folder she had withdrawn from the cabinet and opening a program on
her computer. “And stay away from the alcohol for the next few
days.”
Not even bothering to mention that such
a suggestion was unnecessary at this point, the pomeranian rose to
his pedes, gratefully sliding to the doorway; reminiscing on his
soft, downy comforter and the blessed numbness a flute of champagne
could give his aching processor.
xxXxXxx
The apartment was dead silent when he
entered.
“Percy....,” Wheeljack called out
softly, “I'm home.” He took off his jacket, hanging it in the
closet, switching on the apartment lights as he headed down the hall.
It was no surprise to the autodog that Perceptor still laid in berth,
facing the wall, his optics online but unseeing.
The engineer had put him in here
earlier in the orn, hoping that a change of scenery might help the
border collie come out of his trance, but evidently such a hope had
been foolish. His fist curling against the door frame, Wheeljack
refrained from punching the wall, staring at the floor as coolant
collected along the edges of his optics.
In his depression, he almost missed the
clicking of the door as someone else entered the apartment.
“B-boys?,” the bulldog called
hoarsely, “I-is.... is that you?”
“Being is,” came the little whimper
in reply. Wheeljack lifted his helm a bit, seeing Jetfire and
Jetstorm standing at the other end of the hall. They were holding
servos and both looked distressed. “I-is..... being is m-mommy
better?,” the orange youngling asked, his optics hopeful.
The engineer was silent, and the twins
lowered their helms in response to the unspoken truth.
“L-listen, umm,” the autodog
cleared his vocalizer roughly, stepping away from the berthroom door.
“Why don't you two g-go in; see Perceptor. I'm sure h-he'd like
your company. I-i'll get us something to eat i-in the meantime.”
Jetstorm nodded his helm quickly at the
suggestion and tugged a hesitant Jetfire forwards. Wheeljack watched
as the hybrids squeezed past him, wanting to pet their helms in
reassurance, but unable to bring his servo up and even offer them
that small comfort. His optics dimmed as he saw the two younglings
approach their carrier's berth slowly, choking up at the sad display
of the border collie lying there so lifelessly. It seemed like
forever before either of the twins were able to take even a step
forward again; when they did, they walked slowly and cautiously, as
if they feared breaking Perceptor further in his already fragile
state. Gently, Jetfire and Jetstorm crawled onto the berth, curling
around the scientist, and cocooning him within the safety of their
limbs.
Seeing this only furthered the
bulldog's feelings of alienation.
Reaching forward, Wheeljack closed the
door shut quietly, before heading back up the hall and to the
kitchen. He stared up at the cupboards for a moment, then decided
that he couldn't cook anyways nor did he have the energy for it.
Grabbing his keys, and making sure he had his wallet on him, the
engineer headed for the apartment door, figuring that greasy
fast-food would have to suffice.
xxXxXxx
First Aid was surprised to see that
Ratchet was still in his office when he came in to put away some
documents. “Sir.....? I thought you were off shift at eight?,”
the australian shepherd said, posing it as a question to note his
confusion. After all, his superior was never one to linger after work
unless something needed his immediate attention.
“Has.... has something happened with
Perceptor, sir?”
Ratchet finally glanced up from his
paper work at the inquiry, fixing a flat look on the smaller mech.
“Have you been talking with the nurses again?,” the vet retorted.
First Aid was unable to quell the blush
that rose, making him guilty as charged. Sighing, Ratchet waved
dismissively at any forth-coming excuse, not interested one bit at
the moment. He turned weary optics down to his paper work, reaching
for the mug on the left side of his desk.
“In a way..... yes,” the older
autodog answered, as his subordinate came closer, setting his load of
folders onto the labrador's desk. “Things have... gotten worse, as
I suspected that they might. Unfortunately, I would not have foreseen
the conflict stemming from the supposed “return” of Perceptor's
past demons. Fourteen...... how the slag does one cope with pregnancy
at fourteen....?!”
Ratchet sighed again, tipping his helm
back to chug his oil. He paused, looking back down, realizing just
then that the cup was empty. With a low growl, he put the mug back in
its resting spot; a servo rising to rub at tired optics instead.
As surprised as he was by this slip of
confidential information, First Aid wisely decided not to press on
the matter further, more concerned about his boss' well-being at this
time. “Sir..... Sir, that is certainly spark-breaking to hear, even
more so that Perceptor's condition seems to have worsened since,”
the white mech said, his servos grasping at Ratchet's shoulder
plating, “But, sir, you won't be able to do much good if you stay
here, wearing yourself down to the wiring. Now, I've got a
practitioner's license too, sir, and I'm saying you need to go home
and rest. Save these troubles until morning, sir.”
The vet relented to his younger
companion's pestering, rising from his seat, and, with First Aid's
help, shuffling for the door. “I'm not sure if I will get much
rest, kid,” the labrador vented heavily, as he allowed the smaller
autodog to drape his coat on his shoulders and get his hat. “.....I
can feel a storm brewing.....”
Smiling wryly at the statement, the
australian shepherd opened the door and gently pushed Ratchet
through. “Here, sir,” he replied. “There's always some sort of
storm brewing. What matters most, is the rainbow that comes after,
and the sunshine of a brand new day. And sir.... the storm eventually
has to pass, remember that.”
Ratchet stared at the First Aid; optic
ridge raised in subtle disbelief at the wise words his subordinate
had just said. Making a non-committal sound in response, the older
autodog nodded stiffly at the other mech, before turning and heading
out of the office; wondering if there would be a happy ending at the
end of this storm..... or merely ruins of shattered lives.
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