Title: Milk, Cold Coffee and Quiet Converse
Summary: Late night rides on the subway can lead to an awakening out of quiet desperation. Human!BlackarachniaxHuman!Optimus. One-shot.
Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, any references to any songs exhibited here, nor do I make money off of this.
Warnings: This is a fic with humanization and an AU one to beat. Avoid if this annoys you.
Dedication: Oh, this was made in response to a bargain made on my last fic. The first person to guess what/who/where and got it right, received this. As such, a couple guessed right, but only one made the request. This is for an Anonymous review, with no name.
-:-
Every time I ride a subway, I think about what my life would be like with each man I encounter.
-Post Secret.
Kuthunk. Kuthunk. Kuthunk.
Nails glittering their quiet, subdued colors of dark purple—like those flowers they use at funerals—and Widow Black, a lithe hand clutched at one of the many poles built into the large Underground Terror that the young woman—alone at midnight—took from work to home every night when clocks, calendars and portable digital devices changed the date.
Blackarachnia—this not really being her name on her birth certificate, but something she grew into when she joined a gang out of teen rebellion and kept well after leaving it—continued to watch the platforms pass by, along with the occasional sights of the city when the train passed above ground and then back under. Her eyes were wide open, as if she had gotten high a while ago, but that was not the case. She was just so tired after her time at work (a consultant for the police, if one could believe that sober) that if she didn't keep her eyes from blinking, she ran the risk of falling asleep by accident and ending up in some area of Detroit that she had doubtlessly never seen before. It had happened a couple times already, and she didn't look forward to passing out and finding her groceries—two glass bottles of milk and chilled coffee and some half eaten powdered doughnuts—stolen and quite possibly having someone standing over her and jerking off.
No, she would stay awake for another half-hour, walk her tired ass home and hopefully sleep for about seventy-billion years.
The train swayed with a stop that it always made before the next two platforms before she got off and—amazingly for this time—a young man, perhaps not that much older than herself (twenty-three, twenty-five max) walked silently onto the train with an even more drained expression that she had.
She tilted her head a little towards him as he took a seat near the door—near her by about three feet, and less if she stepped over to another rail—and watched the world pass by. He had noticed her, obviously, he'd be blind if he didn't as there was nobody else in this particular cart, but he was trying not to draw attention to himself.
There was a music player held inside of the breast pocket of his red button-up shirt, its long white cord gracing his denim wearing legs and she could vaguely make out the sounds coming from the buds in his ears.
Grinning to herself and thanking whatever deity ruled this universe that there was finally something to keep her awake, she moved from her standing position and took the seat directly across from him. She crossed her black tight wearing legs over each other in a way similar to the crazy bitch in Fatal Attraction and slowly drew back some of her black and blonde streaked bangs away from her eyes so she could clearly see the blush crossing the other's cheeks.
Setting her grocery bag—worn plastic with some of the dark pink turned almost white from where it had bashed into a wall of girder on the way to the train station—into the seat next to her, she didn't hesitate as she swayed forward and—heaven's he looked flustered now—plucked one of the ear buds from his ears and brought it to her own.
'In the night I hear him talk, The coldest story ever told, Somewhere far along this road he lost his soul, To a woman so heartless…'
"Nice music," she grinned, starting off conversation as well as she was equipped to after coming off of an eighteen hour shift that three years ago she would have died before ever taking, "Do you have anything less depressing?"
He started off—go figure—stuttering, "Er—I-I…Um…I guess?"
She smiled incredibly wide as he started shuffling through his music collection, big fingers pressing so hard on the button she either thought he would break the whole MP3 or the bones in his hand. He was also looking to her to tell him when to stop and she found this appealing in a sort of suburban or farm boy sort of way. This guy might prove to be interesting…
The guy had a wide selection of music. That had to be said. Hip hop, funk, jazz, metal, oldies, modern, new age. It got so that she ended up speaking again before she could pick something that she actually liked.
She held out her hand, and with his other one not busy at all, he gently took it, the other hand still music surfing, "The name's Blackarachnia. And who are you, exactly? I've never seen you take this train before."
"Optimus Prime. Um, I don't usually take this train. I usually get the one from an hour ago, but, uh," he removed his hand to ruffle his own hair, embarrassed, "I got lost, despite having taken the same train for the last seven months."
His thumb pressed the button a few more times before it finally landed on a song she could make peace with so long as they were talking at the same time. Sort of like pulling up drinks in a bar to chat before turning the flirt on with music blasting out of the walls that could make people go deaf, but not care because the DJs were so damn good.
That thought in mind, she pulled one of the chilled coffee bottles out of the bag for herself and, as an afterthought, pulled out the other and offered it to him. The tab wasn't pulled off so at least he knew he wasn't going to possibly end up drinking her backwash. She wasn't that disgusting, but the guy looked totally pink in the face now, with the lyrics of a catchy new song ringing in their ears.
'…And she purses her lips, bats her eyes and she plays with me, Sitting there slack-jawed and nothing to say, And I love her with all that I am…'
He graciously took up the offered bottle, looking grateful for something caffeinated. He probably was as tired as she looked and she smiled at that thought.
He broke the quiet next, gulping down half of the coffee drink, "So, um, Blackarachnia…where are you headed?"
"To home," she answered, truthful despite the absent thought that the guy could very well be a sex predator, but ignored such a thought (even if he was one, he looked easy enough to kick in the groin and run away from), "I just came off of a long shift and my boss is a fascist asshole."
"What do you do for a living?"
"A living? What an old fashioned thing to say. I work for the cops, kinda."
"What does that mean, 'kinda'? What do you do for them?"
Now he looked more curious than flustered and she leaned fully into her seat, getting comfortable as much as a person could in the forsaken leather seats with gum, graffiti and other undesirable gunk, "I'm a consultant. They ask me questions pertaining to street gangs, drug buildings, mafia crap and I do my best to get them information."
Here he looked incredulous and she got the sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly what she was talking about and was going to say the same thing a lot of people said when she told them what she did.
"So, basically, you're a snitch?"
She grit her teeth. Always that ugly, hateful word for people like her who helped, but were looked down on for it.
"Consultant," she corrected, puffy chested and insulted as she chugged her own drink.
"I didn't mean…it's not a bad thing. It sounds rather…exciting."
The guy was trying to apologize. That didn't often happen, so she tossed him a bone.
"What do you do, Optimus?"
The way she said his name—on purpose, as it was always fun to watch this happen—caused him to grip the bottle he held until his knuckles were white and that wave of something tingly passed through his system. He waited a few seconds before answering, so red in the face she almost laughed.
"I…well, I sort of train rookies who come to me from other precincts. I'm a cop."
Her eyes went so wide that the bags under them with her dark makeup placed along the skin actually leveled out and conformed to her rims of her eye sockets. He scratched at his head again and the music changed, but neither noticed. Flirtations were forming in her head and he was trying not to sweat when he looked out the window and saw another platform pass by.
'…Life's a game, but it's not fair, I break the rules so I don't care…'
She spoke again, batting her eyes so she could stay awake and she also noticed how close they were to her stop and wanted a little more from him before she was on her own again.
"Are you in the 13th precinct? Maybe I've seen you around and just haven't noticed."
"Yeah, I just transferred there, actually," he said, eyes lighting up at the thought that maybe he'd get to see her after this chat after all; he found himself excited at the prospect as nobody really talked to him at the 13th as opposed to when he worked the 21st precinct, "I do most of my work in breaking in trainees, but sometimes they trade me to homicide or narcotics. I understand why you don't like the commander. Sentinel is a little hard headed and…stuff."
"You know him?" Blackarachnia couldn't picture the giant chinned prick who constantly slapped her ass and this good looking detective even being in the same airspace, let alone actually knowing each other.
Optimus smiled sheepishly—sort of like a teenager who was Catholic and went to confession—and answered in a whisper, conspirator-esque, "We went to the same high school, college and were on the same football team. Trust me, he only gets worse from here."
Unwillingly, a loud, gut-bursting laugh flew from her and she found herself clutching her sides like they would burst. Within a second, he was chuckling as well.
There was noise and Blackarachnia found that the doors to the cart had opened and they were at her stop. Damn.
Swiftly, she pulled a small paper card from the inside of her bra—very professional, if she were a madam or high class call girl, but only came off as highly attractive to anyone who knew she just kept her cards there because her coat pocket was ripped—and handed it to him, popping the ear bud from her ear.
"My number's on the top if you actually want me to answer, the second one is for business," she spoke, light hearted and walked off of the train with a sway to her hips that was only there before she started work and not after when her damn heels hurt when she moved like that, "Call me. I like that music…and your company isn't as bad as Sentinel's."
The stray ear bud swayed with the train and the last thing she saw before the doors closed was him leaning up with a big, goofy smile, saying something like, "See you soo—"
She gave a loud bark of laughter when the train's whistle sounded and the Underground Terror started onwards.
Finally, a reason to get to work that didn't involve the payments in her check to pay her rent and utilities.