Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro
Warnings: A bit of whinging and some fluff, and allusions to sticky sex at the end.
Notes: My muse is an evil little bitch. My goal was to attempt to work a little bit on "Not Just Another Pretty Face" (will appear on upon completion) or "United We Stand" or "Rivalry" or even "Best Served Ice-Cold." So what does the muse want? None of the above.
Also, the muse has decided that this is set in the "Star-Crossed" universe, so see if you can spot the RxSS XD
There were days when Mirage was positive that Primus hated him. And unfortunately, today was one of them.
Oh, the day had started innocently enough. He'd managed to get a decent recharge and onlined with the naïve certainty that all was right in the world. He'd even had a chance to grab an extra energon cube before his monitor rotation, something that usually didn't happen.
But while on his monitor shift, Mirage had caught sight of yet another altercation taking place between the minibots and the Lambo twins, which he'd been quick to bring to Red Alert's attention. The security director had managed to break it up quickly enough, but as usually happened when the front-liners were restless – he was starting to think that there was a direct correlation, such as with the avian life forms of this planet and their accuracy in fleeing from disaster areas pre-event – it wasn't long after when the alarms went off.
This time the Decepticons were attacking a clean-energy plant (and the term made no sense to Mirage. Wasn't any energy worth having clean energy?), and the Autobots had rolled onto the scene quickly. The more rambunctious mechs had thrown themselves gleefully into the fray, and the special ops mechs had carefully skulked around trying to dig up any information as to what the frag Megatron was up to now.
Seeing as Primus had decided that today was not going to be a good one for Mirage, the former noble's disrupter had decided to short out when he was busy pulling the wiring out of the Decepticons' weapon of the week, making him a perfect target for the enemy faction. He'd taken no less than five glancing shots and one direct hit to an arm, but he had still somehow managed to take the weapon offline.
So now, several hours and one lecture/rant from Ratchet later, Mirage had finally been released from the med bay and was slinking off to the safety of his quarters; if he happened to drain off a few cubes of the vintage high-grade he kept for special occasions and hated-by-Primus days, who would ever know? Especially since by this time of the cycle the halls were empty save for the few mechs headed for their night rotation shifts.
Mirage arrived at his door and vented a quiet sigh as he keyed it open. Normally, even on his worst days, his quarters were his sanctuary and only one other was welcome within these four walls; however, due to the circumstances of this particular Primus-hates-me day he really didn't want quiet in his safe haven yet the only other mech who ever invaded his rooms was stuck on extra rotations. (And invasion was the correct term even as welcome as it was, seeing as Mirage couldn't remember the last time he hadn't tripped over some stray object that would never have graced his presence in the towers.)
The door whispered closed behind him as he walked across the room to his private energon stores, pulling out only one cube for the time being. Getting cratered wasn't the best way to get over a horrific day, but his other option wasn't open to him at the moment unless Primus suddenly decided to take pity on him. Plus, Mirage had the hardest time dropping into recharge on bad days and only high-grade or a good solid overload could coax him offline for a while.
Nothing to be done for it now, I suppose, he mused, sipping at the energon and dropping onto his recharge berth. He'd barely started going back over the day – all the better to get cratered when one could replay the events leading up to it – when there was a knock at the door and a familiar query ping sounding over his internal comm. Mirage straightened up abruptly, surprised optics locked on the door for a moment before he sent the unlock codes.
"If Prowl realizes that you skipped out on a punishment detail, he's going to deactivate you," the spy remarked as his visitor stepped in the room, automatically sending the command to lock the door behind him.
"Red cut me lose himself, so Prowl can take it up with his mate if he doesn't like it," the minibot replied with a shrug. "I'm not complaining."
"Any more than usual," Mirage couldn't resist adding, offering a slight smirk at the mock-glare he earned for the remark.
Cliffjumper continued to scowl at him for a moment before crossing the room and joining Mirage on the berth. Rather than take the cube away as expected (although he would have fought him on that one, considering how the day had gone downhill as quickly as it had), the red mech slipped around behind him and began rubbing between his axles. It wasn't until Mirage actually felt the cables relax that he realized exactly how tense and stressed he was as a result of the day's events.
"Not one of your best days?" Cliffjumper asked, his tone indicating that he already knew the answer before it was voiced.
"I am not Primus' most favoured today," the former noble replied, leaning into the touch and letting his head loll forward, careful not to drop the cube he was still holding.
"Poor Raj." At any other time, especially in public, those words would have been spoken in a sarcastic cadence; here, though, in the privacy of Mirage's quarters, they only rang with empathy and affection. Cliffjumper abandoned the other's axles to pull him into a loose hug, helm resting on one shoulder. "How's your arm? Vortex got in a pretty bad blow earlier."
Mirage set aside the high-grade and reached down to twine his fingers through Cliffjumper's. "Good as new, although from the way Ratchet was carrying on you'd think I did it on purpose."
"Ratchet needs to get laid," the minibot remarked, snickering as his companion turned a scolding look his way. "Or to at least take a break. Was there anyone else in the med bay when you left?"
"No, but I did hear him comming Ironhide and asking that our guest in the brig be brought up for repairs," the spy admitted. "You know how he is – if there's something he can do for a mech, he'll do it and factions be slagged."
The minibot mumbled something that might have been stubborn slagger against the plating of Mirage's shoulder before lifting his head to speak clearly once more. "Back to the original topic, is there anything I can do to try and make your day end on a good note?" The question was accompanied by a brief tightening of the arms wrapped around the taller mech's waist.
Mirage made a show of frowning thoughtfully for a moment before twisting around on the berth just a bit. Resting one hand lightly on the other mech's cheek, he pressed a light kiss to his secret lover's mouth, nipping the lower plate delicately as he pulled back. "I think there may be something you can do for me."
Much later, as overheated metal began to cool down once more and their systems gradually fell into synch, Mirage reflected that no matter how horribly off-track a day might go, he could rely on Cliffjumper to make him feel better by the time it was over. He vented a soft contented sigh and wrapped his arms more tightly around the minibot, deciding to recharge while he could and worry about cleaning up their mingled coolant and transfluid closer to morning. Shuttering his optics, he allowed the quiet hum of his lover's fans to lull him into slumber.
End Note: If you spotted the "UWS" reference in the fourth-to-last paragraph, you get cyber cookies; this story does, indeed, take place three months prior to the events of "United We Stand."