Noblesse Oblige
Chapter Nine
A few days later, Mirage woke up early. He tried to slip back in to recharge and failed, so he got up and wandered into the sitting room to wait for Oblique's morning call telling him that once again, Jazz wouldn't be making it to work today. But inside the sitting room…Mirage blinked his optics on and off to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
Jazz was bent over a side table, a caddy of cleaning supplies at his side, carefully rubbing polish into its surface. At Mirage's entrance he rose to his feet with some difficulty and beamed.
"Jazz!" Mirage sounded much more excited and happy than was prudent, but much less so than he felt. It would do for a compromise.
"At your service…again. Finally." Jazz did a stiff version of one of his overly-elaborate bows. "You'll have to show me where the big scratch in the chair is that you were telling me about."
"Do you know what time it is, Jazz?" It was early, very early. Much too early for Jazz to be at work.
Jazz shrugged. "I have a lot of time to make up for."
Mirage narrowed his optics suspiciously, but let it go. He moved to stand beside Jazz and caught one of his hands, guiding it to the offending scratch.
"Wow, that is a big one. How'd it happen?" Jazz set to work at it immediately, groping for his supplies. Mirage nudged the caddy closer to him with his foot. "Thanks."
"I'm not sure. I didn't notice it until the other day." What Mirage did notice were Jazz's stiff, painful movements. They were a far cry from his attendant's usual confident grace. "Jazz…are you sure you're all right for this? Do you need a few more days at home? Or do you just want to sit? I don't want you overtaxing yourself…"
"No." Jazz was friendly but firm. "I'm here to work. I've spent enough days as a waste of space. It's time for me to stop being a burden." Something inside Mirage gave a twinge at hearing Jazz refer to himself the way Oblique had referred to him just a few days ago. Of course, the attendant didn't know about that. Jazz's voice got lighter. "Besides, one more day of doing nothing but lying on my berth would have bored me to death, and a dead attendant wouldn't do you any good at all."
"I suppose not." Mirage leaned forward and gently tapped the brace that was still around the black-and-white mech's leg. "When does this come off?"
"Soon, hopefully." Jazz shrugged and kept his face turned toward his work. "Apparently I'm a bit of a slow healer. Something to do with my glitchy, low-grade protoform, probably. Just goes to show, you get what you pay for, right?" Jazz shot a grin over his shoulder. Mirage didn't know what to say. He was used to Jazz's occasional cheerfully self-deprecating comments, but this time he detected a slight but unmistakable hint of the bitterness Jazz had never allowed himself to indulge in. He decided to deal with it by indelicately changing the subject.
"If you want, I'll go over the stuff Slides taught me while you were out, so you'll be caught up when he gets here," he offered.
"That'd be great, I'd really appreciate it." The edge was gone from Jazz's voice as though it had never been there. "Thanks for sending the notes over, by the way. Swing read them to me, but…I'm not sure how much of it stuck. I was kinda out of it for awhile there."
"That's understandable." Mirage fetched his pile of datapads and notes from the past few days and spent the next few hours catching his companion up on their schoolwork while Jazz cleaned.
When Slides arrived, they commenced lessons as usual. Mirage was sure Oblique wouldn't approve of the amount of backtracking his tutor did to compensate for Jazz's absence, but he didn't have any argument with it. It made for an easy day of review for Mirage, anyway. When the topic of current events came up, both young mechs were carefully silent. Slides tried to provoke one of their usual discussions, but neither 'bot rose to the bait and eventually the tutor gave up and moved on.
When class was over for the day, Jazz accompanied Mirage to (but did not participate in) combat lessons. They ran a few more errands around the mansion, and Mirage noted that something other than the obvious physical difficulties was different in the other 'bot's movements. He was used to Jazz's proudly guarded independence – the other mech had made it his business to learn his surroundings, and he didn't rely on Mirage for guidance, moving around with sureness and grace. Usually. Today he stuck close to Mirage as if magnetized, and his steps were halting, almost timid. Mirage felt uneasy about the change, but didn't comment on it.
"What now?" Jazz asked when they had returned to Mirage's quarters.
"Now…we sit. We're done for the day." There really wasn't anything else pressing, and Jazz looked tired.
"I…okay. You're the boss." Mirage suspected Jazz would have put up more of a fight if he wasn't so worn out. They each chose their usual chairs and slumped into them, and for a while there was a comfortable silence.
After awhile, Jazz broke it. "Hey, thanks for coming to visit me. It was very…it was nice."
Mirage had visited one other day, after the evening meal so losing track of time wouldn't be a problem. There had been a slight bit of awkwardness about the visit – Pacer had been present. While Swing seemed to have decided that Mirage was trustworthy, apparently Pacer didn't get the memo. Oh, he was polite. Very polite. He didn't do or say anything to indicate that the young aristocrat was unwelcome, but Mirage got the hint all the same. Above Pacer's courteous smile were optics that watched Mirage as though he could see right through him.
"Oh, no problem." Mirage waved it off.
"I never expected to see you in the 'quarters. It was a surprise, that's for sure."
"Maybe I'm not as predictable as you think." Mirage said and Jazz gave a sarcastic puff of a laugh. "Sprocket showed me where you live," he admitted. "And…he helped me out. Did you know you guys don't have door chimes? I wasn't sure how to let you know I was there."
"You mean…" Jazz's smile was incredulous and delighted. "…knocking? Sprocket showed you how to knock? You didn't know how to knock?" Mirage might have been annoyed that Jazz was laughing at him if he hadn't been trying to provoke it.
"When would I have ever needed to 'knock'? Civilized 'bots have door chimes." Mirage willed himself to sound aristocratic and indignant.
"Of course. But what would us servants know about civilization? We're all just a bunch of levers and pulleys over there." Jazz must be feeling better if he was up to making atechnogenesis jokes.
They were quiet again for a moment. "I don't think Pacer likes me much." Mirage said.
"Nah, he…" Jazz paused. "…he's just protective. I'm his son. He worries about me. And lately, it looks like I managed to prove his worries right. Part of them, at least. And if he's right about some things, what's to say he's not right about others? Having me for a son…it can't be easy." Guilt was plain on Jazz's face. He turned away and his mouth straightened into a thin, hard line. "Y'know…if your father hadn't paid for my repairs, I'd be scrap by now."
"That…that's nothing. Nothing you should worry about. It's not a big deal."
"Maybe not for you." Jazz glanced at him, then stared down at his hands. "Lots of things that aren't a big deal for you are a VERY big deal for mechs like us."
"But-" Mirage began. Jazz held up a hand to silence him.
"Look, Pacer and Swing…we may not have very much, but they work hard for it. What we have is earned, fair and square. But now…we owe Oblique, big time. It's not a good position to be in."
"That's not how it is," Mirage protested.
"It is." Jazz was serious. "For us, this is how it is. It slagging sucks rancid exhaust, but…" He trailed off, then seemed to remember where he was, and the anguish left his face as he schooled his features back into casual pleasantness. He returned his friendly gaze to Mirage, and made a point of leaning back in his chair, the picture of relaxation. "But enough of that. You don't need to hear me bitch. I'm sorry."
"No, there's nothing to be sorry about. You- It's fine." Mirage was fascinated and appalled. Never had he seen such clear evidence that Jazz was putting on a show for him. What was and wasn't real? He was torn between pride that Jazz was able to maintain a professional countenance, and an irrational desire to be someone Jazz could confide in.
Jazz looked away again during the silence that followed, and Mirage found himself studying the familiar form of his attendant. It was easy to say that Jazz looked like Pacer, and he did, but really only superficially. Their color schemes were similar, it was true, but now that Mirage had seen him with Swing, it was easy to see the resemblance to Jazz's other sire. His mouth, Mirage decided. His mouth was the same as Swing's, and he held it in the same way. A thought occurred to him.
"Jazz, what do I look like to you?" His mouth asked the question before his brain thought about it. Whoops.
Jazz wasn't offended at all, though. He seemed relieved at the change in subject. A look of consideration, and then: "Blue," he said simply.
"That's it? I'm 'blue'?"
Jazz allowed himself to squint, which Mirage had long ago realized he usually refused to do as a point of pride. "Well, blue and white. And I can see the silver when I'm close enough. And your optics…I can kind of see the gold glow, most of the time. So yeah. You're a blue and white and silver blob with gold optics. That's about it."
"Huh. That's flattering. It must be weird, not knowing what anyone looks like."
"Well, that's not totally true. I know what Pacer and Swing look like. And I know what I look like." Jazz corrected.
"How?"
"Pictures," Jazz explained. "I jacked into pictures of each of us once, and they're saved in my memory. So I know what my family and I look like." He tilted his head and looked at Mirage thoughtfully. "Not that I'm not curious about other people…" He let it dangle and Mirage picked it up.
"Jazz?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you like to…see a picture of me?" Mirage felt egotistical and oddly shy, asking it.
Jazz beamed like he'd just been made Prime. "I'd love that."
"Well, come on, then." Mirage waited for Jazz, then led him to his computer. He flipped through the picture files.
"Choose a clear one." Jazz coached him from over his shoulder. "One with your whole body in it. And another one of your face. I want to see one of your face. And one with your alt form."
I am! Primus! Keep your helmet on!" Mirage didn't let the relief he felt at the happy eagerness in Jazz's voice show in his own, but he allowed himself to grin into the monitor, since Jazz couldn't see it. He selected three images and isolated them in a folder together. "Okay. I've got them." He grabbed Jazz's hand and placed it on the keyboard. "Press this key to flip between them." He helped Jazz's other hand guide his data cable to the port. "Are you ready?"
"Oh, yeah." Jazz grinned and plugged in his jack. Mirage studied his face as he stared intently off into middle space. The only sound was the clicking as his companion flicked between pictures.
Finally Jazz pulled his jack out of the port. "Ugh," he said, and reeled a little bit, one hand on his head. Mirage sprang up and placed a supporting hand on his back.
"'Ugh'? That's not exactly the reaction I was looking for," he teased, pretending to be hurt. "Am I really that bad-looking?"
"'Ugh' because it hurts, you egomaniac. You look fine." Jazz managed to give him a withering look while still wincing. Impressive.
"Just 'fine'?" Now Mirage really was fishing.
"Primus save us." Jazz groaned. "You look good, okay? You're a handsome guy. I'm afraid if I properly compliment you, your ego might swell to the point where you can't fit it through doorways."
"Impertinent little…!" Mirage gave Jazz's shoulder a quick hit that was not meant to hurt. "So, do I look the way you imagined?"
"You're incorrigible." Jazz paused and mulled it over. "But yeah, you look pretty much the way I thought you might. Very aristocratic."
"You think?" Mirage's preening was only partly in jest; he really was secretly enjoying indulging his vanity.
"Yes. Y'know, usually I prefer blue optics on 'bots, but the gold really works for you. I approve." Jazz gave him a pained smile and Mirage pulled himself out of his self-centered daze. He realized with a start how very tired his attendant looked, standing with his head in his hands and his weight off the braced leg.
"Jazz…" he said.
"Yeah?"
"Go home."
"What?" Jazz looked up with a start.
"I said, 'go home'. I don't really need you for the rest of the day, and you're tired. And you need rest. You're still recovering, tough-'bot." Mirage gave him a pat on the shoulder.
Jazz looked uncomfortable. "No, it's okay." He removed his hands from his head and straightened. "I'm okay. I promise. There's stuff I can do, I've got days of chores backed up on me…"
"Jazz." Mirage made his voice stern and final. "Go home."
"I can't." Jazz said in a small voice.
"What? Why not?" Mirage asked, surprised.
Jazz avoided his gaze. "Pacer and Swing won't be off work yet, so they can't walk me back."
"What do you mean, walk you back? You've been walking back by yourself since…Oh." It all came together – Jazz's early arrival, his unusual timid clinginess when they were walking anywhere. Sometimes Mirage was so slow to catch on that he amazed himself.
"Yeah, yeah." Jazz's voice was embarrassed, defensive, and…that hint of bitterness from earlier was back. "Yeah, I'm scared. I'm scared to walk around on my own now. There."
"Jazz-"
"Please don't try to tell me some stupid slag, like 'it could have happened to anyone'." Jazz's voice was mocking, and then hard again. "It couldn't have happened to anyone. It could have happened to someone who can't see. Like me. And now…I can't slagging trust myself. I-" He looked like he wanted to say more, but swallowed his words, and just stood there glaring sightlessly at some place on the floor to his left. Mirage could hear his vents cycling air.
Mirage's first impulse was to gather Jazz in his arms like a sparkling, and pet him and shush him and tell him everything would be okay. But they weren't sparklings – they were adults. Young adults, true, but adults. Or nearly so. Far past hugging age. More importantly, they were from two completely different castes. For all the improprieties they committed, he was the master and Jazz was the servant. An embrace like that was unthinkable; he was sure Jazz would agree. So what could he do?
"Jazz…how about if I walk you home? That way, we won't have to bother Pacer and Swing at all." Mirage tried to sound as gentle as possible.
"I couldn't." The anger had drained from Jazz's voice and left behind tired embarrassment. "That's – you don't have to do that."
"No, I want to." Mirage added a touch of firmness. "It's not a problem at all. It's not like the exercise will kill me. I'll walk you home until you feel okay to walk on your own again."
"What if that takes awhile?" Jazz asked quietly.
"Then that's how long I'll do it for. Come on." Mirage moved out and was relieved to feel Jazz fall into step behind him without further protest. When they were about halfway across the lawn, Jazz spoke, his voice low.
"Thank you, Mirage."
Mirage felt something in his vocal processor involuntarily tighten. He carefully loosened it before he replied. "It's no problem at all. You'd do the same for me. Come on, let's get you home...back to the lever and pulley farm."
Jazz's laughter sounded a bit forced, but it was still laughter. "I'm just a gear, myself."
"Oh, is that why you're so grumpy?" Mirage asked archly.
The chuckles now sounded a bit more real. "Yeah, it must be."
I can still make him laugh. It'll be okay. Mirage thought.
Something quick flashed across their path. Mirage glanced back, but it seemed Jazz hadn't seen it. Mirage didn't say anything, but he watched the turbofox run until it disappeared in the distance as he continued to guide Jazz back home.
At the risk of sounding redundant, I want to thank everyone who's been reading and extra-thank everyone who's been commenting. I really do appreciate it!
And a note: the rating will go up to M next chapter. Fair warning.
