I'm not reposting all the warnings. If you didn't read them in Pt. 1, then on your head be it.
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Pt. 5
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Look at all that open, spacious floor in this nice public hallway. So available! So…there! And clean enough to frag on, because this was Ratchet's domain.
Not good.
Jazz attacked, because the only other option was full-fledged running away down the hall. And - really? Him, run away? Mech, please. "What was that?" he demanded, pointing a finger back toward the office. "Are we gonna have to put out a - a - rape alert warning about overly-amorous soldiers chasing our tailpipes?!"
Amusement was crushed under the cool mask of the Decepticon Second-in-Command. Starscream's wings swept up like a cat's hackles rising, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Of course not, and I'll thank you to remember those 'overly-amorous soldiers' are doing their best to breech a gap in culture to court mechs whose manners leave much to be desired. You're doing little to meet us halfway. Is it any surprise they feel pressured?" Optics cold enough to burn leveled on Jazz, sneering down. "I'll concede that their enthusiasm needs to be curbed, but I will handle discipline issues."
The Seeker looked away, forcing the contemptuous expression off his face. It was probably reflex to use that expression when dealing with Autobots, but they all had to learn new reflexes now. Peace.
When Starscream looked back, he'd donned the neutral mask that had been two paces behind Megatron's right shoulder since the beginning of the serious treaty negotiations. Jazz eyed it warily. It felt no more real than the sneer had. Curse the mech for have emotions as hard to read and quick to shift as mercury!
"For the purpose of ending our Great War," Starscream ground out, voice an irritating grate as he admitted without saying it that he'd gone too far.
As had Jazz, for that matter, but better to catch Starscream off his guard than have that dangerously amused look still on his face. Jazz reached out to clasp hands formally. "For the purpose of ending our Great War." He was half-prepared for the Air Commander to kiss his hand again, but it seemed that was a permission-seeking thing. Starscream just nodded and…ah. Alright, so he wasn't going to let Jazz's hand go.
Jazz tugged experimentally, and slag if there wasn't humor lurking behind the mech's bland expression. "It'd be a lot easier to meet you in the middle if we knew what was going on," he said lightly, discreetly shaking his hand. "You know we're blundering around cluelessly, but you're not exactly being helpful. You can't blame us for not gettin' your cultural cues when you're not telling us what we're seeing."
A hint of a smirk quirked Starscream's mouth. He hung on just a moment more, apparently just to see Jazz try and pry him off without being too insulting about it. The annoying part was that Jazz kind of preferred the humor over Starscream's I'm Playing Nice mask. It was too creepy when Starscream erased all emotion off his face. That just wasn't natural. So when his hand was released, Jazz propped it on his hip to sass attitude at the Air Commander. Dangerous or not, Jazz would take catty Starscream over unreadable Starscream any day.
"Why, Jazz," one bitchy Second-in-Command, Starscream by name, inspected his hand as if checking for Autobot residue, "you never asked for my help. Do you want it?"
Did he..? Oh, come on, it couldn't possibly be that easy! "You're yankin' my chain," Jazz said flatly.
Red optics blinked through reset, and suddenly Starscream was looking him up and down with a lot more open interest than a moment ago. "You come with a chain? Fascinating." A grinding scrape came from the direction of the floor, and Jazz couldn't help but look down, visor getting wider and wider. Starscream's turbines were turning slowly against the floor. Those turbines were taking slow strides forward, as well. "That hasn't been in any file on you I've ever looked through. Where is this chain, and may I yank it?"
A sputter got out before Jazz could stop it, because nothing so insane should be couched in such a coaxing, thoroughly delighted tone of voice. "No! I - it's an idiom from Earth!" He took two quick steps back, pivoting to move parallel to the wall. "I don't come with a chain attached!"
"Oh? A pity." Starscream stopped, a pout crossing his face. The Decepticon's head cocked to the side, disappointment and tentative hope in one. "Is it an optional accessory?"
What?
"I have a vivid imagination," the Seeker informed him, taking his speechlessness as an invitation to continue. Of course, he also took Jazz stopping in his tracks as permission to invade his personal space, crowding close enough to rest a hand on the rubber of one shoulder-tire. He rolled it back and forth, testing resistance and slipping a finger into a hubcab opening. "I can picture something attached here, maybe going through to wind around the axle. It'd be a challenge for you to escape quickly, I'm sure, and if I yanked it," Jazz rocked to one side as Starscream tugged for illustrative purposes, "it'd lay right across your - "
"No!" Jazz finally spluttered. He could feel exactly what it would lay across, and like the Pit was he going to let the Seeker's filthy imagination infect his own with theoretical escape challenges! Scrap metal and rust, was tactile overloading all the Decepticons ever thought about?! "No chain!"
"Are you sure? Something strictly utilitarian to contrast with your pretty design…"
Yes, okay, so the crooned compliment was flattering, and the fingers stroking his tire felt quite nice, and why the frag was he still close enough to let Starscream touch him? "Not cool, mech," Jazz said, jerking away and taking another two steps back. "We're talking about what courting is gonna mean to the Autobot-Decepticon alliance. Lay off the berth fantasies."
Starscream moved away from the wall, and Jazz countered by taking half a step more toward the middle of the hallway. Getting trapped against the wall wouldn't be a good thing. "I see. You want information?" The Air Commander's smile was dazzlingly innocent; Jazz was instantly suspicious. "I would be happy to supply it. Under what terms am I providing such information?"
Decepticon and Autobot faced off. Jazz mulled that over.
"…Decepticons," he said flatly. "We're going to have to double-check every single blasted thing we say to our suitors, aren't we?"
It was as much of a real question as Starscream's smile held true innocence. Ratchet had shown half an opening, and the Constructicons had dove into it seeking every single advantage they could. And it wouldn't just be the Constructicons. Starscream was smirking now in full-blown evil amusement at Jazz's disconcertment.
Because Starscream and the Constructicons were Decepticons. Decepticon culture was an utterly bizarre thing, but what Jazz had to remember was that it came from an entire faction named for its tendency to deceive. Just attempting to be peaceful wasn't going to stop the Decepticons from trying to influence negotiations in their own favor. They were Decepticons trying, in their clumsy way, to stretch a common practice within their ranks. They were trying to include the Autobots.
The Autobots, in turn, were a group of mechs who had no idea what tricks were probably ordinary and avoidable among the Decepticons. Give and take happened by the klik in the Decepticon ranks; exchanges of favors, pleasures, and credits went back and forth in a mind-bogglingly complicated process every day. Jazz could sometimes predict and occasionally infiltrate that process. It was part of his job. However, as an Autobot, he didn't really understand the underlying system that kept the process going. Everything Autobot in Jazz insisted that the Decepticon faction should have collapsed in on itself like scraplet-ridden wreckage long ago.
Yet, it most definitely hadn't. If anything, Decepticon culture seemed to have redoubled and grown out of conflict that should have destroyed it!
…Primus help the Autobots. Courtship negotiations were going to be like trying to navigate a minefield.
"Smelt me," Jazz said out loud, processing that. "I'm beginning to get why you're starting with the officers only."
Starscream snorted explosively through his vents, straightening up to fold his arms again. He turned his head to one side and glared at the wall. "You think it's hard from your side of things? I've made a study of Autobot interface culture, and even I can't understand a third of your reactions. If you were a Decepticon, I'd have you halfway to your second overload by now, and we'd have the basic framework for the contract laid out." Jazz swallowed and shuffled his feet, trying not to draw attention as his hands tingled. Second overload? "My imagination's good enough to picture what the results would be if we turned the rank and file loose on your poor little 'bots right now. Letting them court as they wish without a, hmm, set of courtship guidelines would be…most unwise. What's that human phrase? Wolves in the fold? Sheep to the slaughter?"
Er, yes. Jazz could picture it, too. Cliffjumper would draw a gun on the first Decepticon who put pressure on his personal space bubble, treaty negotiations or not. This whole courtship process was getting more complicated by the klik. Starscream made an aimless gesture at nothing with one hand, trying to expression frustration - sexual or otherwise, Jazz couldn't tell. He felt a little guilty for that, then smacked himself upside the helm for even thinking about feeling guilty for a Decepticon's sexual frustration. Complicated! Yes.
Starscream blew out air again, sighing. "Either I'll figure out the proper protocol for this…endeavor, or we'll find another method." The glare at the wall intensified, and the Seeker's shrill voice shrank to a sullen mutter. "I'm just not sure what other methods are open to us, anymore."
The war loomed over them suddenly, darkening the hallway, and Jazz's tingles turned to a shiver. The chill wasn't physical, but it could freeze the spark. Yeah, the courtship process seemed a nightmarishly strange complication to him, but what was it like from the Decepticons' perspective? What would it be like to decide overnight that a binding contract to an enemy was the best way to make that enemy an ally?
"The other Decepticons will pass all propositions by me before presenting them," Starscream said more formally. His head turned, optics dark crimson with rotten temper and a sort of helplessness that Jazz had to sympathize with. "Does that satisfy your Autobotish need to coddle your officers, or shall I supervise the propositions personally?"
"Not sure havin' a Decepticon supervise Decepticon behavior would really serve the intended purpose," Jazz said, trying for humor. It came out wanly, and he smiled even less convincingly.
Starscream eyed him, seeming to debate whether or not to take offense at that. "I do not want some idiot to end the peace by saying or doing the wrong thing and wounding some Autobot's precious little feelings," he said, settling for adding extra acid to his words. "A misunderstanding under these circumstances could explode into something far worse, and while I've tried to impress upon the officers a need to take things slow and careful, that will do little to ease tension. It is difficult to understand your reactions. It's so counter-intuitive. You Autobots seem to regard everything surrounding interfacing as unnatural and complicated instead of a natural extension of - nevermind. If you wish, I can take you along to witness the propositions and make things even more awkward," he added somewhat viciously, tucking his wings down and folding his arms tighter. "Because Primus knows it's so easy to understand how you want us to behave."
"Hey, heeeey," Jazz ventured a step forward, hands open in contrast to the Decepticon's closed body language. "Calm down. I'm tryin', I really am." It was difficult to read Starscream's underlying motivations at the best of times, but his face gave away surface emotion easily. Frustration and resentment made some mechs lash out. Starscream had lashing out down to an art. Jazz really didn't want to start a fight. "I just want to understand what's goin' on, here," he coaxed. Calm down, there's a good jet.
One blue hand shot out, deflecting Jazz's closest arm to the side and wrapping securely around the wrist. The Autobot immediately twisted his arm to disengage, but Starscream moved into the pull and followed it in. Jazz was abruptly looking up into the Air Commander's face, and that treacherous glimmer of amusement was back. Mech had moods like slagging mercury.
"Yes, so you've said," Starscream said, and his voice had dropped to that pleasing rasp again. Jazz looked up at him, defiant and annoyed, and took a step back as a thruster eased forward as if trying to stand right where the Autobot currently stood. The Seeker followed, turning around that foot like an axle and never releasing the grip on Jazz's wrist as he lowered his voice further. The rasp became something…intimate. "What are you going to give me if I answer your questions?"
That was a question with a whole Fed-Ex airplane of implications, special delivery. Also, surely that voice wasn't legal outside the berth.
The saboteur ducked under his own arm, quicksilver fast. He was almost fast enough to slip under Starscream's wing before a quick switch of turbined heels had them facing each other again. "No chain," Jazz cut him off before he could even start.
"You're no fun."
He couldn't help himself: he winked, half his visor flickering dark. "Oh, mech, you have no idea how much fun I am."
Turbines spun, but that didn't put the Decepticon as off-balance as Jazz had counted on. He aborted his next move halfway and danced back, feet lightly crossing over each other and settling into a modified combat stance as far away from Starscream as their outstretched arms allowed. If this were actual battle, he'd step in closer and kick at the jet's side, then snap a punch at Starscream's face when he flinched from the kick. In the spirit of experimentation, the Autobot allowed the gentle pull on his arm to drag him in. He took the steps in slow motion.
Starscream watched him come with avid optics. "I'm sure I don't. Are you willing to show me?"
"Are you asking for sparring or something more?" Jazz's foot left the floor, a slow motion kick that could clearly be seen coming.
A brief expression of startlement crossed Starscream's face, but it mellowed into mild interest. "I do like hands-on negotiations."
At the same slow motion time, the Seeker's right leg bent as his free arm lifted to block the kick. His left leg straightened to the side and swept across the floor toward Jazz's anchor-leg. Jazz turned the kick into a lunge forward, free arm going back and then forward in a slow-motion punch. He pulled on his captured wrist, gambling that the Seeker would either let go or be pulled off-balance into the punch to the faceplates.
Starscream merely smiled and smoothly changed his unneeded block into an intercept for the punch. The Decepticon was larger and stronger; he could accept the force of the smaller mech's punch in order attempt capture Jazz's other hand. Jazz's lunge turned into ducking under Starscream's intercept. He came up under the hand, running in slow strides around the Seeker in such a way that he wrapped the mech's own arm around him. He sling-shot all his mass onto his trapped arm, trying force the Seeker off-balance.
As predicted, Starscream transferred weight to the leg that had been sweeping forward to trip the Autobot up. Jazz dove neatly over it, trying to slam the hand on his wrist against the sharp edge of the closest wing. If he could get the edge into the vulnerable joint between forearm and wrist, it'd pop Starscream's hand open, but the Seeker countered with by flicking the wing back and trying to hit him with the flat instead.
And suddenly they were dancing around each other, joined by that one hold Starscream utterly refused to relinquish. Sped up to real time, it would have been a deadly test of battlefield survival. At half-time, it was a feat of showmanship and skill. Their feet were placed with deliberate care, and their bodies evaded, collided, and separated to turn about again. Starscream avoided slamming the smaller mech with his larger mass. Jazz didn't stab him with a concealed blade. They fought, and they both knew the steps to this slow dance. Even if Jazz threw in some discothèque moves just to liven things up a bit.
The curve of Starscream's lips grew ever-closer to a smile with every sally up the hall, and it looked so smooth. A ghost-echo skittered through the Autobot's memory, recalling the plump feel of it, and the hand in Starscream's grip tingled faintly. Despite that distraction - temptation? - Jazz was actually having something he might, if interrogated, call fun. Maybe. He liked mixing business with pleasure, after all.
"Megatron's not a fighter build."
"You know that for sure, do you?"
"He's a miner, an' he had extensive rebuilds for the gladiatorial pits, but he wasn't part of a warbuild culture."
"Very good, you know your - Ack! Where did you a joy-buzzer our size?! - history. Point of interest: Soundwave isn't a warbuild either."
"Wheeljack, duh. Mech's got weird hobbies. Kinda undermines you trying to sell this binding contract idea t' me as a warbuild cultural thing."
"I never said it was exclusive to warbuilds. To answer the question you're flitting about, Megatron learned it."
"Float like a butterfly! Sting like a - ow!"
"Turn-about is fair play, yes?"
"…sting like a bee. A joy-buzzer bee. So, he learned it, huh? Riiiiight."
"This is not the first time I've taught cultural awareness. This is just the first time teaching to an entire segment of population opposed to even the basics."
"The frag..?"
"I assume that wasn't an invitation. What?"
"Uh, you assume right. Just picturin' you teaching Megatron. Also, you hit me with a rubber chicken. I think that counts as a weapon."
"It's a very small weapon."
"Still…weapon."
"I'm not letting you go. Megatron learned. He recognized useful knowledge when it was presented to him."
"How was courting useful to the Decepticons?"
"We were setting up a planetwide faction to revolutionize Cybertron. Binding contracts and the associated culture provided a social structure previously lacking. Megatron and Soundwave had military ideas from the Planetary Guard and the ability to exert change within that military, but little in the way of actual rank and file organizational skills outside of the gladiatorial arena. No matter what your prudish Autobot…pardon me."
"For the purpose of ending our Great War."
"Yes. For the purpose of ending our Great War, give me back my rubber chicken."
"Gimme back my joy-buzzer."
"Hrn. No. I have plans for it."
"I know you do. Hence, I'm holdin' the chicken hostage."
"And Scavenger will be sparkbroken."
"Why would he care - oh, no. He wouldn't."
"He would. Scavenger doesn't have the best judgment when it comes to giving gifts. I think it would be best for your dear medic's peace of mind if you kept that. Or gave it back to me."
"Buzzer?"
"Keep it. Anyway, you may question our methods from your viewpoint on the outside, but you must admit that the Decepticons have been successful."
"I'm not commentin' on that. How could Megatron have known it would work? I mean, seems like you were experimenting wholesale on your own faction."
"…ah, I see."
"Yet I don't. See how this whole giving-Jazz-information thing works? Along with the giving-Jazz-his-buzzer thing."
"Which isn't working nearly so well as the information-giving, you may have noticed. Tell me something. When you think of Praxus, what kind of mech do you think of?"
"Really hope you're not trying t' start a fight, Decepticon."
"The Senate leveled my city, too, Autobot. There are very few sore points I can pick at that don't have mirrored injuries, anymore."
"…yeah. Just…yeah. Okay. Grounders."
"Rich or poor?"
"Middle class, I guess. Why?"
"Bear with me. Did they stay in their city or leave to find work?
"Stayed. No, wait, a lot of 'em rotated through the Enforcers. So they left but always came home."
"A stable city-state population with a definite authoritarian culture that promoted rules and enforcement of those rules. But, the majority of the Praxians died. Don't give me that look, I'm making a point you can't see yet. Did most of the Praxian survivors join the Autobots or Decepticons?"
"Autobots!"
"Of course. What about Iacon?"
"Autobots."
"You don't sound as sure."
"Not all Iaconians came to our side."
"No? But you were so certain the Praxians did."
"Praxians are a close-knit bunch."
"What you're too polite to say is that Iacon had two societies: the Tower nobility and the peons whom the nobles stepped on getting to those Towers. The nobles mostly didn't survive the collapse of their privileged lifestyle, but I'd say a 50-50 split happened among those who did survive. The idealists went to the Autobots, and the, hmm, disillusioned came to us. But the Decepticons took far more of the Iaconian dregs. Most of them weren't even from Iacon. The Iacon lower class left the city whenever possible. Polyhex?"
"Flyers. Decepticons."
"Yes, exactly. But before the war, I mean."
"Not rightly sure, now that you mention it. Industrial area, so…grounders, mostly."
"Yes. Was the population indigenous or migrant?"
"What?"
"Did mechs want to stay there, or did they leave as soon as they made money?"
"Oh. Migrant workers."
"Unstable citystate with no fixed population or mainstream culture. Kaon?"
"Same, I suppose."
"Flyers or grounders?"
"Grounders."
"Heavy industry that burnt out workers as quick as they migrated in looking for jobs. Again, an unstable citystate."
"…I think I see where you're goin' with this. Most of the Vosians joined the Decepticons."
"Yes. We did."
"Group decision."
"Yes."
"When most of us think of Decepticons, we think of flyers."
"Of course you do. The Decepticons truly came into military might the day Vos was leveled. We gave Megatron the strength to outright challenge the Senate. We had the social stability and the military structure, not just the numbers. We, like the Praxians, cycled in and out of our city, but we went off-world as mercenaries or joined the Planetary Guard. The difference between what happened at Praxus and what the Senate did to Vos is that far more of us survived the slaughter. But both city states had the only real, cohesive culture left to transfer into the setting of a faction. Praxus went to the Autobots; Vos went the Decepticons."
"There were a lot more differences."
"I was attempting to skip the politics. And if that's a paint can in your hand, I will take you to the floor right here and now."
"Paint? Would I throw paint at - whoooa! Hey!"
"Yes, you would. I think I'll keep a hold on both of your hands from now on."
"And if I tell you to get your hands off me?"
"I will do so. But if that really what you want, Jazz?"
It was a question more breathed than spoken, and Jazz could read the words on those satin-gloss lips. He pressed his own lips together like he could crush out the traitorous prickle that crossed them, but he was unable to tear his visor away. Did he want Starscream to let him go?
Good question.
Their sparring had become something that could only be called flirtation. Negotiated price for information or not, this was not business. Their free hands had brushed aside attacks that were really excuses for body contact. Their legs had intertwined and released, and Jazz's fans were busily humming to disperse heat saturating him from head to foot. His helm projections felt like they were sparking with excess energy. Starscream's turbines ground against the floor, and Jazz's engine wanted to turn over so bad.
The Seeker had him by both hands, long fingers wrapped around the wrists, and even as Jazz hesitated to tell him back off, Starscream gradually edged closer. The Decepticon had him nearly to the wall, but Jazz refused to take the single step back that would force him into a position of no escape. One step of clearance gave him room to dodge. He just…wasn't sure he wanted to.
Starscream's right hand drew back, extending their arms like they'd begin waltzing at any moment. The motion pulled so that soon Jazz would be flush against the gleaming gold cockpit, and that wouldn't be a waltz. The tempting curve of Starscream's mouth would be well within reach as he bent toward the Autobot, and no dance from the Decepticon Air Commander would be acceptable but a fiery tango. No more slow dancing through old steps. This would be new. New, and rather exciting in a dangerous-bait way for a connoisseur of dance.
Something liquid and boiling drizzled desire down Jazz's back like a lust waterfall.
There was a small sound, no more than the creak of a dry hinge. Starscream's head turned fractionally, optics darting to the side. Jazz wouldn't give way, wouldn't be distracted, and his processors shot a dozen moves through his head to take advantage of the opening. Not all the moves were combat-related.
The darted glance steadied into a look. Starscream's posture loosened, tension easing down. He had been closely focused on Jazz, bringing his attention and intent to bear where the peace negotiations wouldn't allow for physical pressure, but now he refocused in the beat of a second. It was as if they'd been holding their breath during a stand-off, and the aggressor had suddenly taken a mental step back. Starscream's body didn't move, but his mind redirected.
Jazz felt the shift keenly. A weird swell of disappointment replaced what could have been, maybe, anticipation that had built with every step they'd taken. The creak came again, and Jazz took his visor off Starscream just enough for a quick glance.
The words burst out of him before he could stop them. "The frag are you two doing?!"
Starscream's wings trembled in renewed tension. Amusement shook them this time, however, not restraint, and the Decepticon Second-in-Command snorted with poorly-suppressed laughter.
His own words turned about and smacked Jazz in the back of the head like a board. Because Mirage and Sunstreaker were just standing there in the hall, staring with half-dumbfounded, half-enthralled looks on their faces. Like, say, anyone who walked into this situation would do.
Despite himself, Jazz became abruptly aware of just how he was standing. They were facing off, yes, Decepticon and Autobot posed face to face. They were evenly matched: Jazz's questions to Starscream's answers, slow-motion sparring with words and actions down the hall. They'd spun and parried, action and reaction like a body language chessmatch, and come to rest at mutual 'check.' Starscream couldn't press forward. Jazz wouldn't back down. They were waiting for whoever had the ball-bearings to dare try for 'checkmate.'
But to an outside observer who'd walked around the corner in a perfectly innocent corridor on the third floor of the medical/engineering building…well. Reality check: Starscream and Jazz were the ones clearly engaged in questionable activities. The question really should have been directed at them.
Mirage and Sunstreaker were well aware of that fact, too, if the wide smiles creasing their faces were anything to go by. Jazz resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands, because that would require bringing Starscream's hands along for the ride. There was accidentally saying something foolish, and then there was jumping gung-ho into foolish action. Jazz would rather like to stop at just saying the foolish things, please.
A fine black hand made a dismissive gesture that emphasized Jazz's stupid question by bypassing it completely. What question? Oh, that question? Now, why would Mirage ask that question, hmmm? He was obviously answering a perfectly reasonable question from a superior officer. "I was just talking with Sunstreaker," Mirage said, polite as anything.
Sunstreaker blinked a few times, missing his cue. He caught it eventually. "…yes. Something about a commission?"
He pointedly turned to face Mirage as if their fellow Autobot and superior officer wasn't posed like a tarted-up model in a lurid, full-page spread from Tango Passionistas. Which only made Jazz want to squirm all the more. The thing about Sunstreaker was that he was a brutal sociopathic frontliner on the battlefield, or even when just provoked or impatient. To be honest, that was a set of pre-existing conditions that had ruled him for most of the war, but Sunstreaker wasn't always like that. He'd had a job, once upon a Golden Age, and that job had required socializing with customers who'd been among the rich elite of Iacon. He was a highly-talented artiste, and he knew how to act like one.
Much to Jazz's dismay at this very moment.
"Of that right there, in fact," Mirage said, ever-so-politely turning his attention to Sunstreaker. He motioned toward the two officers posed motionless not halfway down the hall. "I thought that you might be open to a commission bid to renew interest in the arts on Cybertron. The war may end soon, have you heard?"
"The rumor had reached me," Sunstreaker agreed gravely. He took a second look at the pair and splayed a hand indecisively when he pointedly turned back to Mirage. The noblemech projected amusement that had nothing to do with Jazz's level glare, nope, nothing at all. Sunstreaker just seemed bored, which was almost worse. "The subject doesn't quite fit my style, to be honest. I've been experimenting with landscapes since Earth, and I've fallen out of practice using models. My working relationships have always been turbulent, and diving right back into personalized, mech-focused pieces won't be easy for me or my models."
"Mmhmm." Mirage nodded agreement, tilting his head to study the pair of officers critically. "It might do you good to at least start. Think of it from a business perspective: I'm offering to pay both you and the models. A paid practice period, all in the name of supporting the arts."
He didn't leer. Noblemechs didn't indulge in such plebian facial expressions unless they were Decepticons, and then the leering was really part of an overblown villain personae. Alpha Trion-type facial ornaments had gone out of style among the Autobots, but noblemechs in the Decepticon ranks had been known to have them, apparently for no useful purpose but twirling under specific circumstances. Usually, those circumstances involved tying someone to train tracks. Astrotrain was popular with that lot.
Mirage had never expressed an opinion of the Decepticon triple-changer one way or another, oddly enough. That's not to say that Astrotrain and/or a mustache would have been out of place in the noblemech's vicinity at that moment.
Sunstreaker gave Jazz and Starscream the benefit of a true artiste's bored, I'm Too Good For This once-over. "Would either of them be interested in modeling for the piece? They're not ones for holding still, so far as I'm aware."
"I don't know." So polite. Mirage smiled blandly, deigning to speak directly to them finally. "Would you agree to model?"
Jazz was going to kill them all. It was one thing to be chased like a extra-bouncy bumpercar around a rink, but talking about him like he wasn't locked up on display with the blasted Air Commander of the Decepticons?! That was just objectifying him. And he was never going to stop talking in hysteric Italics inside the sanctity of his own head if Starscream's wings didn't stop jigging with not-so-hidden laughter. Frag the lot of them.
He tried pulling in his extended arm, hoping to at least get out of this ridiculous pose, but that just brought the Seeker's attention back to him. The amusement dancing like captive fireflies in the mech's red optics was…almost attractive. Jazz had expected more maliciousness, or even defensive anger. Starscream had to know that Mirage's ultra-polite snobbish buyer act was nothing but mockery, and he typically reacted to mockery by lashing out.
Taken aback, Jazz's frown eased. His lips parted, on the cusp of asking, and his visor fastened on the puzzle in front of him.
The red optics darkened, slowed, and Jazz's extended arm was gently pulled. The Autobot didn't give in, of course, but that also meant he couldn't back down when the taller mech leaned forward. Jazz's hand slid down the wall as the jet pulled down, straightening them out so the back of Starscream's wings no longer blocked half their bodies from the two Autobots watching them. Jazz hesitated but allowed his weight to roll onto one shoulder-tire. He hitched his shoulder up, allowing the door of his altmode to flick up and over to lay flat against the wall. The vulnerable small of his back curled reflexively, aching aware of empty air, but the flat of his back struts between his doors met the wall.
Just like that, he was suddenly trapped. The feeling came almost as a shock even though he'd seen it coming. He'd allowed it happen. Why?
This was exactly where he hadn't wanted to be: chest to chest, jet cockpit to radiator grill. No room to dodge. Pressed up against the wall, where there could be no escape. Jazz felt his professional pride burn, but it only ached through the heat already soaking his circuits. The hand around his right wrist loosened and slid up, still pushing his arm flat but sliding into his loose fist. One elegantly-tapered finger lingered to caress his palm as Starscream turned entwining their fingers into one more step of their little dance. Mirage and Sunstreaker's optics were a very real weight upon him, their conversation falling silent, but a strange, hypnotic feeling stole over him:
Jazz wanted to know what would happen next.
'Dare you,' whispered underneath Starscream's every move, and the Jazzmeister didn't accept dares. He conquered them as a matter of course. The Air Commander moved slowly into him, an aggressive Decepticon demanding he give way and abandon his defiant stance, while still a suitor allowing time for rejection. And Jazz let him. The Autobot's visor blurred, white static-flecks of hard thought stuttering across the blue until they solidified into solid blue determination.
He re-met Starscream's gaze with a look full of skepticism - and challenge. 'Bring it on.'
Jazz's right hand accepted Starscream's left, fingers interlacing palm to palm, and they stayed that way even as the Seeker let them slide down the wall, following the movement of their bodies. Because their bodies were moving, forearm to forearm and knee to knee. The Seeker's knee bent further, taking more of his weight as he leaned down to press their chests together. The pressure pushed his hood into Starscream's cockpit even as the Autobot's shoulders flattened to the wall. Jazz's right leg braced and took the weight, bending to arch the small of his back. His off-leg, his left leg, was no longer pressed knee-to-knee with Starscream's right, and it relaxed just slightly.
Alright, well, it would have relaxed if that small release of tension wouldn't have brought their now-crossed thighs together instead. That was an intimate contact Jazz wasn't quite ready for.
Jazz's braced foot had turned sidelong to the wall, as if he were about to either throw himself sideways or use his leverage against the wall to shove the Seeker off. Somehow, he'd gotten into a position a less flexible 'bot would have broken something trying to accomplish. Getting back out of it probably would have twisted a lesser mech's back struts beyond parameters. It left Starscream looking as if he'd lunged forward, pinning the Autobot. With his right hand pressed into the wall at waist-height and the other held far forward, legs pushing him forward into a sharp arch that met the wall at foot and shoulders, the saboteur should have looked like a prisoner fighting a losing battle.
Ah, but Primus help him. Send cold weather, because he was heating up. Jazz didn't feel like a prisoner. This was a step in the dance, frozen in that pivotal moment of the song when the dynamics changed like a bolt of lightning, and they'd light the stage on fire. The whole world held its breath. Jazz's vents closed almost as tight as his fingers curled around Starscream's firm hold.
Mirage. Sunstreaker. Who were they? Why did he care, anyway? Stampede the whole blasted army through here, and he wouldn't notice.
Starscream dipped his head, just the beginning of a teasing smile crossing the lush pewter lips - help, Primus, help, he was fixated on the mech's lips again - as they descended toward Jazz. His processors spun, hamster going nowhere, as it raced to blame the position, the angle of his trapped arms, because he'd never in a million vorns say why his back chose that moment to arch that extra impossible inch. His hood pressed into the shiny gold cockpit with a squeal of armor against glass, and, yes yes. Jazz had to open his mouth to gasp, his vents were all closed, and -
Their cheeks stroked together. The soft feel of moving air briefly skirled up the side of Jazz's face, and the very corner of the Seeker's mouth touched his in passing. It was far closer and warmer than the kiss he'd been expecting, but the fleeting caress wrapped his mind in cobwebs of something more tender than lust. It paralyzed him with surprise richer than shock. Velvet heat swirled a tornado of sensation through his spark casing. It skipped his fuel pump and came out of Jazz's parted lips in a tiny, tiny hitch of air.
The Seeker followed an invisible line down, nosing across the saboteur's high cheek ridge and trailing down to his jawline. Starscream lowered himself obliquely, cockpit skreek-skeeting across the Autobot's hood as he angled himself. His face slid down, down, until the bridge of his nose nuzzled where helm and jawline met. He stayed burrowed in there for a moment - Jazz's fuel pump counted, skip one, skip two - as if gathering control. Then he turned his head, letting the tip of his nose trace under the smaller mech's chin.
Metal met metal, vulnerable neck linkages against flexible facial plate, and Jazz's threat assessment programs faltered as badly as his ventilation system. The Autobot's chin tipped down, just slightly. He could claim it was a poor attempt at protecting the linkages, but truthfully, he was moving into the relentless exploration mapping out the side of his neck, one cable at a time. He would just never, ever say that out loud.
His visor dimmed. Although he couldn't see it, he could feel the way Starscream finished mouthing unspoken words down the side of his neck, nudged one shoulder tire with his nose as if testing the rubber's resilience, and then turned the meticulously thorough progress of his mouth back toward center. That mouth! Primus, those lips were as plushly-giving as their looks had promised, polished silky-smooth as they brushed across each linkage on the way, lipping them to hear that inaudible hitch again.
A vent of cool air startled Jazz's left leg into tensing. It drew up a bit, pressing the less-exposed inner side with an almost-unnoticeable vibration against Starscream's thigh. If the Seeker's leg hadn't already had a miniscule tremble of its own, neither of them might have felt it. As it was, Jazz suddenly felt hyper-aware of every sensor humming to the rhythm of another mech's arousal.
They should have looked like a tableau of threat: a Decepticon forcing an Autobot to surrender.
"And if I tell you to get your hands off me?"
"I will do so."
Jazz had never felt more powerful in his life.
Starscream vented deeply in a meditation on self-control, and his hands held the Autobot in place so firmly because the rules could make him let go. He mouthed one particular cable-cord with single-minded purpose, and that lovely little hitch of air came again. If Jazz hadn't been so aware of the Seeker's audio right next to his vocalizer, listening to every stifled noise that wanted to jump out, he wouldn't have felt anything but a surge of drugged power-pleasure. But he was aware, and so he felt the Air Commander smile against his throat.
Oddly, that only made Jazz even more aware of the fact that he wasn't being kissed silent. There was nothing stopping him from gasping and moaning but the frayed ends of self-control.
There was a extremely quiet click as his hood popped. A satisfied hum answered the barely-heard - and slagging embarrassing - sound of the catch releasing, and a quick lick right under his chin rewarded him.
Red optics tilted enough to flash a mischievous look at the two Autobots gawking at them. "May we be allowed to choose the pose?" Starscream asked, as innocent as the day he was sparked. "Because I can think of a few we can hold all day." His voice had lowered down into that husky rasp no one expected to hear from Starscream of all mechs. Jazz smiled widely, finally finding the humor of the situation in one hilarious go. "Holding still isn't difficult," rasped against his throat, and the Air Commander tipped his head up just a little to suck briefly on the spot that'd just been kissed.
Jazz immediately proved him a liar by writhing. The Seeker chuckled, low and amused, and sucked harder. He lifted his mouth reluctantly, but gave their watchers a trademark smirk and finished, "If one has sufficient motivation, that is."
Fans suddenly roared to life, astonishment breaking into itty-bitty pieces that fell to the floor right beside the trampled heap that had been Mirage and Sunstreaker's dignity.
"I - I-I - That is - " Mirage stammered, scrambling mentally for something to say that would salvage his noblemech pride. Sunstreaker just inhaled/exhaled through a full, shaky ventilation cycle while the blue Autobot spy verbally tripped all over himself beside him. "W-we never meant to say - I didn't mean - surely you wouldn't - "
"Wouldn't we?" Jazz murmured, letting his visor come back online. He still couldn't see Starscream's face, but he wasn't looking at the Seeker. He gave the two Autobots down the hall a trademark grin of his own. They deserved to be slapped in the face by the echo of their fans banging off the walls. It betrayed just how much they wanted what they'd just tried to embarrass Jazz with. "You should know better than to give me limitations by now, Mirage."
'Dare you,' his grin said.
His visor narrowed, however, hard-edged reminder that this was the Head of Special Operations wearing such a friendly grin. 'Bring. It. On.'
The Jazzmeister could turn any situation to his advantage, and he was going to make sure they knew it.
Stammering stuttered into the tortured mechanical creel of a vocalizer forcibly shut off, and Mirage stood in mute horror for a moment. His face was a picture of consternation: sheer disbelief vs. 'I want me some of that.' The fan rhythm flubbed for a second, but even Mirage's stung pride wasn't enough to shut his ventilation system off without enough time to cool his overheated frame.
Sunstreaker just cycled again, huffing his vents full-bore as he watched Starscream nuzzle his helm under Jazz's chin. "That pose?"
The only reason Jazz felt it was because Starscream remained pressed against him. The wings jolted, just a tad: 'Is he serious?' in body language. "Maaaaybe," the Decepticon drew out, sounding as confident as if Jazz hadn't felt a thing.
"How maybe? 'Maybe' doesn't art make."
There was a pause. Even Mirage was giving Sunstreaker an incredulous Really? look, but there was smidge of wonder in that look. Nuts and bolts, Jazz was gazing in silent awe at the frontliner, and by now he'd over-drafted his account with the invisible Bank of Flabbergasted for the day. Sunstreaker hadn't done true art in so long, most mechs assumed the bloody-minded sociopath war personae was his default. The dabbling in new medium on Earth didn't count, no matter how Sideswipe had crowed during psyche-evaluations. It was a good sign, but good signs didn't resurrect peace-time careers. There hadn't been even a hint that Sunstreaker would - or even could - resume artwork.
Under the heat, under the pulling desire, something that had almost stopped hoping squeezed around Jazz's spark.
So, of course, Ratchet chose that moment to open the door to his office. How he managed to bang open an automatic sliding door was anybody's guess, but he stomped out into the hall like CMO actually stood for Chief Medical Outrage. He reeked of righteous wrath as he rounded on Mirage and Sunstreaker, who reared back on their heels in utmost surprise to suddenly be facing yet another superior officer, this one post-molestation by Decepticons. Ratchet didn't seem to notice that he was practically bleeding fury. He just got in the two Autobots' personal space and started yelling.
"Why the frag are you in this building?! Unless one of you is going to keel over right here and now, get your tires off this floor and back to your units! So help me, if I have to start assigning bored soldiers tasks to keep them from bumming about in my medical building causing trouble, I will dredge up the worst jobs I possibly can! Dump patrol! Recyclables sorting! Ferrying the human dignitaries around, and I will find them French fries to eat if I have to make them myself. No, corn chips! Nasty, oily smears all over your interiors, and don't even think about coming to me for a solvent, because I'll - fraggers! Get back here when I'm threatening you!"
For a medic better known for his skill and icy stability under fire, this no-holds-barred kind of hostility just blared 'Over-Compensating For Something!' If Mirage and Sunstreaker hadn't been backpedaling in appalled fright before him, they might have summoned the gall to be curious. As it was, they turned tail and fled with Ratchet bellowing threats involving junk food and babysitting humans after them. He ground gears when they cleared the corner, the squeal of rubber on metal floor panels informing everyone that two high-performance cars had transformed and gone for the exit.
"Hrrumph," the angry medic grumbled, turning to storm back up the hall. "Jazz! What by Primus' holy skidplate is going on…out…" He stumbled to a halt, staring.
Jazz and Starscream stared back, still sunk in shock. The last they'd seen, Ratchet had been a debauched 'bot still trembling with stymied overload. Jazz had figured he'd kicked them all out of his office to save what little dignity he had left while working himself to completion. He'd kind of wanted to go back and help, but Starscream had put a stop to that thought fairly quickly. Now it was Jazz's limbs beginning to give those betraying little quivers, and Ratchet's optics drank in the sight like a draught of high-octane, additive-cocktailed highgrade. Overworked fans reluctantly kicked back on, rattling painfully on loose hubs, and Ratchet made a muted sound like a whimper as his abused body heated right back up.
There was a word for the look on the medic's face. Jazz made a query at the Bank of Flabbergasted, which informed him that there was there was no longer credit in the Gobsmacked account. Ratchet had evidently made a hefty withdrawal. Starscream and Jazz reset their optics in unison, just looking at the stricken mech in rather entertained bemusement.
After far too long, Ratchet coughed his intakes clear of appreciation. "Ah. This explains why Red Alert wanted me to come out here and tell you two to get a room." A helplessly amused look crept over the medic's face as Jazz's visor jerked up, searching the ceiling. The camera was at the far end of the hall, opposite the direction Mirage and Sunstreaker had fled, and distracted or not, the saboteur should have remembered it was there! "Really, Jazz? A hallway?"
Starscream didn't even bother to lift his head. He nestled a little closer, in fact, radiating smug contentment. "I'd forgotten that mech's wicked sense of humor," he murmured, and Jazz's neck twinged as he attempted to look at his own throat.
"Who, Ratchet?" he asked, because Ratchet's gloating smirk didn't seem all that surprising to him. It was even a little funny. Sure, he felt a flare of humiliation burn anew under the slow tide of pleasure, but he knew as well as the medic that being caught with Starscream holding him had nothing on the scene Jazz had walked into. Starscream wasn't even touching anywhere strictly inappropriate.
…no matter what it felt like.
"Oh, no." The dark helm that was all Jazz could see turned, and Starscream sighed cool air into neck cables. Jazz's tires left black marks as they juddered against the wall in response. "Red Alert."
That sent all kinds of warning signs popping up. Jazz kinked his neck again trying to catch a look at the Decepticon's face. "What do you know about Red Alert's sense of humor?" he asked sharply.
"Hmmm. Enough."
"That is not an answer." That remark had sounded too familiar, as if Starscream knew more than a file, and Jazz's mind suddenly recalled a memory of Red Alert fritzing. Red Alert running off with this very mech while in the grip of madness, handicapped by damaged circuitry unable to cope in the midst of battle. Red Alert had come back from that incident with faulty memory file gaps. That'd been normal considering the state of his crashing CPU at the time, but Jazz had the sudden, horrible certainty that he needed to know what had happened in those time gaps.
"No, it's not."
"Lover's spat, Jazz?" Ratchet got out around the guffaws trying to get out first. "Going to do that in the hall, too?"
Okay, he couldn't let that one pass. Time to get the Jazzmeister back to the pitching mound. 'Batter up.'
His weight shifted, pushing off his braced leg and shoulders. Instead of settling onto his other leg, evening his stance, Jazz lifted his foot entirely off the floor and curled his leg around Starscream's supporting leg. His thighs straddled the Seeker's leg, now. While his back remained in a dramatic arch, now it looked like he was lunging forward into Starscream's hold. He let his body press forward into Starscream.
The Decepticon didn't raise his head, but he yielded without question to the push. The subtle thrum of tension in the Seeker's thigh went up a notch. Which, ah, felt nice but hadn't been the point.
'Strike one.'
His arm remained extended, wrist encircled by Starscream's hand as if they were about to start waltzing. Their entwined hands had come forward nearly to rest on Starscream's waist. All of the Autobot's weight was supported by one braced foot. It kept him pushed into place on the Seeker's upper thigh, back arched so their chests pressed together.
Jazz let his head fall back, relaxing totally into Starscream's grip. The Seeker's body shook, just once, before he burrowed his face into the vulnerable spot opened fully to him. A quicksilver tongue snaked between cables, and Jazz shuddered.
'Strike two.'
He let his visor dim to a sultry glow and turned it toward Ratchet. "Haven't you heard?" he asked, berth-lazy and engine purring under the Air Commander's ardent attention. "Public debauchery is medically advised. Just…following your fine example, after all."
'Strike three.'
The Bank of Flabbergasted reported that several accounts under the names Taken Aback and Discombobulated had just drained out. Ratchet had emptied them all. "…you."
"Yup. Me." Jazz wondered his level of self-assurance tasted like. Starscream seemed to be trying to find out.
"You."
"You've sa~aid that," he sing-songed, then eeped in surprised as Starscream let go of his captured hand. Well, not so much let it go so much as firmly setting it on the Seeker's waist so his own hand was free to finger Jazz's grill. Oh, Primus, clever fingers. Clever fingers thrusting in and out, in and out in in in and ouuPrii-i-imus!uut of his grill and climbing, one grill at a time, up toward the popped hood Jazz had hoped was forgotten about.
Ratchet's fans weren't racing nearly as fast as Jazz's, but the competition was close. The medic visibly swallowed down several retorts - there might have been a request to join somewhere amidst the indignation, too, but he'd never own up to it - and turned on his heel to bolt back into the office. The door swished closed meekly in his wake.
'You're out!'
Jazz's vision blurred around the edges with the feel of lips on his throat and the teasing brush of a nose. Things wavered all too pleasantly every time Starscream insistently nudged, encouraging him to tilt his head to the side just a bit. The jet made pleased noises between sucking on an exposed fuel line he hadn't had access to before. His free hand fingers wiggled under the hood's edge, searching for the release catch. The Autobot flared his vents, inhaling hard against his fans until they stalled out, and pushed.
"Hands off," he demanded coldly.
[* * *]
"Against the Wall"
Picture by DarthNeko available on Ao3.
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End Pt. 5
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