AN: Long story short, I love Shattered Glass, and I love seeing it applied to TFP. It just bothers me that almost everyone puts the kids with the Decepticons.
Wrenching the drawer out and tossing it to the floor, Jackson rifled through its contents in search of some elusive object. Muttered curses flew past his lips as he reached the bottom of the drawer without success. He wrenched out another one and emptied it onto the carpet. Again, he did not find the object. This process continued until the entirety of the office had been ransacked, pens and all other manner of office supplies scattered around the teenager. Frustrated, he hurled the empty drawers into the wall and kicked them repeatedly, his heavy combat boots leaving round indentations in the wood.
Jackson jammed his hands into his pockets, drawing a breath through gritted teeth in hopes that the itching in his fingers would go away if he simply ignored it. Besides, it was about time he kicked the habit. At the very least, he could last one day.
Rocking onto his heels and then onto the pads of his feet, he stared at the window. Dawn was just beginning to break, melting away the darkness of the previous night. Red and gold bled together and set the sky ablaze.
He sprinted for the kitchen.
Five minutes later, he was seated on the counter, arms wrapped around his knees, biting down on his lower lip to distract himself from the compulsion to tear apart yet another room in search of the object.
No, the dean had said. He might abuse it.
No, the counselor had said. He didn't need it.
No, the police had said. He couldn't have it.
His mother hadn't said anything.
She probably hadn't even taken it from him in the first place.
A smile stretched his lips as he considered the notion and a quiet chuckle left his throat. His resolve renewed, he jumped off the counter and bolted in the direction of his bedroom.
Arcee and Smokescreen stared in utmost amusement as the human paced the length of the catwalk over and over, his left hand twitching and his head low. He kicked the floor angrily, finally sitting down to glare at his guardian. Unlacing one of his boots, he pulled it off and threw it at the Autobot. It fell short.
"I'm not your keeper," Arcee snapped, fighting the urge to blast him. At one point, she had been fascinated with the idea of having a human as a pet, but in practice, it turned out to be more of a hassle than it was worth. "If you want it that bad, go find it."
Jackson threw his other boot at her.
"Use your words, skinjob." Smokescreen's denta were exposed in a mocking sneer. Even as new an addition as he was, he knew that the teenager preferred not to talk.
Her usual lavender headband strangely absent, Mikoto ascended the ladder and settled herself at the edge of the catwalk—having slipped underneath the railing—to read a book. She hardly spared her fellow human a glance when he began looming over her shoulder. "You're in my light," she said at last, never raising her voice above a whisper. He stayed put. "Move, now, or I won't help you find it."
"Give it," Jackson hissed. He knelt and grabbed her by the collar, yanking her up so that they were on eye level. "Give it, give it, give it!" The words ran together, low and agitated. Mikoto retorted that she didn't have what he wanted, so he shook her with enough force that it left her momentarily disoriented. "Give it or I'll burn you."
"That's a bit of an empty threat, considering you lost your lighter."
"Give it!" The plaintive, drawn-out plea sounded more like it had come from the mouth of a child than from that of a seventeen-year-old male.
Finally losing her temper, Mikoto demanded, "What part of 'I don't fragging have it' don't you understand, Jackson?" She set down her book and grabbed a fistful of the older human's black and red hair, pulling his head back. "Let go of my shirt this instant and maybe, just maybe, I won't lock you in the closet and leave you there until tomorrow night. We both know that your mother wouldn't even notice you're gone."
He gave a strangled whimper and withdrew his hands from her collar.
"Good boy," Mikoto purred, as if complimenting one of her dogs for obeying a command. She patted his cheek with her free hand. "We'll buy you a new lighter on the way home."
Smart enough not to object, Jackson merely waited for her to release him. When she did, he retreated to the couch and curled up with his arms around his knees. If he hadn't bothered her, she wouldn't have pulled his hair. If he hadn't bothered her, he wouldn't have to watch his step for the rest of the day lest she make good on her threat.
"Abuse your boyfriend again, Mikoto?"
"Rot in hell, emo-goth," the girl retorted, refusing to look at him.
Rafael smirked, pulling himself up onto the platform. There was molten sugar dripping from that smile. He set his backpack down and withdrew a carving knife and a half-finished humanoid figure. Dragging his carving knife through the top layer of wood, he flicked the shaving in Mikoto's direction. "You first."
Mikoto brushed the wood shaving off her shoulder and returned to her book. After a minute, she cast the preteen a venom-laced glare, hissing, "Do that again and I'll shove you off the catwalk."
Defiant, Rafael lifted his chin. "I'll drag you down with me," he replied.
"Children, it's a bit early in the day for death threats," Ratchet scolded from his station at the GroundBridge console. He finished entering the latest findings from his experiment and turned to the humans, wagging a digit as a carrier might at her disobedient sparkling. "At least wait until I've finished my work. Can't have you getting under-pede when you're running away from each other, now can I? I'd hate to clean up the mess afterwards."
"Doc, you're disturbing," Jackson offered, uncurling slightly to make eye contact with the Autobot, when it became clear that Mikoto and Rafael weren't going to respond. They were still too busy glowering at each other. He curled up again, burying his face in his knees. "Can I go home now?"
"Jackson, sweetie, shut up before I lock you in the closet." Mikoto didn't tear her gaze away from Rafael's to rebuke him.
"Is it physically impossible for you three to get along for five minutes?" Ratchet inquired, his voice beginning to lose its good humor.
Rafael turned to face the medic. "If she stops threatening to kill me, then maybe I'll be nicer."
"If I stop-" Mikoto broke off with an indignant huff, getting to her feet and making a crude gesture with her right hand. "Unlike you, emo-goth, I'm a good girl. Right, Jackson?"
A nervous laugh erupted from the older boy's throat. "Yeah, a good girl," he echoed, tightening his grip around his legs.
"He only says that because he's scared of you."
"That's it! I'm done with your whining and harping." Mikoto grabbed Jackson by the arm and dragged him towards the ladder, practically shoving him down. "Bulkhead! I want to go home!"
The typically silent warrior looked up from his datapad, crimson optics narrowed. "Get the rookie to take you."
Eerily calm, Mikoto repeated in a whisper, "Bulkhead, I want to go home."
Nestled into the crook of a tree branch, Jackson contented himself with flipping his shiny, new lighter on and off repeatedly. The tremors in his hands had ceased the instant Mikoto shoved the black device in his hands and told him in no uncertain terms to frag off, leaving him to wander about Jasper with his new toy in search of amusement. Eventually, he had stumbled on the school grounds, abandoned in light of the late hour, and decided to hole himself up in one of the trees until someone told him to leave.
So far, no one had even noticed him. If anyone had, they certainly would have called the police, and then Jackson would have been forced to give up his lighter to the chief for the sixth time in as many weeks.
"Ashes, ashes, they'll all burn down," he hummed, enchanted with the flickering, blue-tipped flame. He plucked a dried leaf from the branch and held it in the fire, waiting for it to catch and then dropping it to the ground below. He quickly grew restless and flipped the lighter off, shoving it in his pocket.
Too ordinary. Too small.
He needed something bigger.
His eyes were immediately drawn to the structure to his right. Allowing himself a delighted grin, he dug in the pockets of his leather jacket for a piece of paper. Upon finding one, he spared a moment to acknowledge that it was one of his office referrals, sent home for his mother to sign, but he merely shrugged and headed for the dumpsters behind the school.
He lit the edge of the paper and tossed it into the massive recycling container, ensuring that the rest of the junk caught fire soon after. Not two minutes later, he was standing several yards back from the container, tilting his head in utter fascination, arms hanging limply at his sides, lighter clutched in his left hand. The red-gold flames climbed into the air, searching for something to set ablaze. They licked at the brick of the school building—looked for something flammable lest they run out of fuel.
Jackson was so enamored that he hardly noticed the approaching sirens.