Title: Dark Horses
Warning: A relationship extrapolation from what Robots In Disguise (the comic) showed of Swindle and Blurr.
Rating: PG
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Swindle, Blurr
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): Part 1 of 2 commission continuation for the delightful FlyFloyd. Thank you!
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Part 4: Wherein Blurr sees only what he expects to.
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Swindle stood on the corner waiting for him.
Blurr slowed as he made the turn, but he didn't stop. The ghost had become too much of his life in the past two weeks to be surprised. Haunting his home instead of his bar was a new twist in his aching spark, but he guessed he should have expected it. They'd started whatever it was between them in the bar, but they'd taken it elsewhere after hours.
It seemed inevitable Swindle would come home.
The lightpole the ghost waited under stood down the street from the run-down building they'd once shared. Although looking back on it in the aftermath, that description wasn't accurate. There was nothing of Swindle in the place. Blurr had shared his home with Swindle, opening his apartment and bed to the merchant, but Swindle hadn't moved anything in. He hadn't shared anything with Blurr. Nothing tangible, anyway. Nothing Blurr could keep.
The racer-turned-bartender had stood in the middle of his apartment and been at a loss. It'd taken Swindle's death to make him realize the only thing he had to remember the mech by were memories. Swindle had never brought anything to the apartment, had never slotted bits of his life in among Blurr's belongings, joined him in living here. He'd used whatever Blurr had lying around if he needed something, and sure, he'd offered money in return for the polish, the energon, the small parts and pieces every mech kept in a repair kit for the minor breakdowns of everyday life.
Blurr had refused the shanix. It'd seemed petty to charge his lover for stuff like that. He wasn't running a business out of his apartment. It wasn't as though he gave Swindle free drinks at the bar, after all. He'd tried a couple times, but Swindle had given him a speaking Look doubting his sanity and business sense. To Swindle's mind, business was a mutual exchange of money for goods and services no matter what buyer and seller were involved. He'd nagged Blurr into submission over getting too friendly with bar clientele. The bar was a business, not a place to hemorrhage money away to drink-mooching buddies.
Apparently he'd seen the apartment as another business, one he could take advantage of. There had been nothing mutual about living together. Swindle had taken and taken, and Blurr had given and given, a one-sided sharing made painfully obvious in the aftermath when Swindle disappeared entirely. And really, Blurr had no one to blame but himself.
He transformed to walk past the apparition at the corner. Swindle stood hunched over as if in pain, and Blurr stomped the urge to stop to help him. "Forget your key?" he said instead as he breezed past.
"Wasn't sure you'd want to find me collapsed inside your door." Limping steps followed him, and Blurr glanced over his shoulder.
The raw light of an open wound flashed under a familiar smile. Spark-deep damage, the kind of damage that killed, and a squeezing pressure crimped Blurr's spark. Tonight was the first time the ghost hadn't appeared in the bar after closing, and his absence had mingled fear, regret, and grief in Blurr. Seeing the ghost here was almost a relief, but this was also the first time Blurr saw what had killed him. Rattrap had told him Starscream had shot Swindle in the chest, and the witnesses Blurr cornered described how the merchant had slid to the ground, dying slowly in the background of more dramatic going-ons, but nobody had brought the body back for a funeral of any sort. According to Windblade, the Camiens denied having it, but politics were involved. Who knew where Swindle's body had actually vanished to.
To a proper recycling, hopefully. Blurr didn't like to think about a greyed-out corpse tossed on a scrapheap somewhere, forgotten. He missed the greedy fragger enough without hurting himself thinking of how his lover's body could have been desecrated.
Seeing Swindle like this was worse than being haunted at the bar. There, Blurr could see the dead mech whole and healthy and know, seeing him, that the ghost wasn't real. It hurt less, somehow. He hated how real Swindle looked, here. Shadows turned bright purple optics a tired lavender. Exposed sparklight flickered across his face from below, and thick, repair-nanite tainted energon smeared pink around the burnt-black edges of the open wound. The merchant couldn't seem to straighten up, hunched over the injury. His shoulder dragged along the building for support as he limped down the street after Blurr.
Seeing Swindle suffer hurt. Blurr watched him in mute pain. What else could he do?
Vents heaving, the merchant made it at last. He leaned heavily against the wall beside the door and looked up at Blurr. "Can I come in?"
"I don't know, can you?"
Swindle sighed. "You're going to be difficult about this, aren't you." Blurr shot him a nasty look, and Swindle put a hand as if to ward it off. "Okay! Okay, fine, may I come in?"
"Why bother asking permission? My opinion doesn't make a difference what you do," Blurr said, looking away to palm the door open.
He left it open behind him for the same reason he set a full glass at the end of the bar every night. Dead didn't mean gone, not as long as he remembered, and he did. He missed the infuriating, stupid, spark-wrenching little greed-glitch. Despite remembering, despite knowing better, he'd still welcome Swindle into his home.
Silence filled the doorway behind him as he headed up the stairs. He refused to look back.
Soft words floated up after him. "I suppose I deserve that. But, I…I came back. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
He stiffened at the faint nasal whine in Swindle's voice, a peevish demand for forgiveness the merchant didn't deserve. Snarling, the racer-turned bartender spun around to glare down the staircase. "Mean anything? It's supposed to mean something that you're here? What do you want, a kiss? A pity frag? I know," he widened his optics as if he suddenly understood, "a Get Out Of Jail Free card, right?"
Swindle stared at him. "Wha - ?"
Blurr rode right over him, optics narrowed back to a disgusted, angry glare stabbing down the stairs at him. "What's it supposed to mean that you're here now, huh? What do you think it means that you screwed me over for your blasted greed? I had to find out what you did through Rattrap, what happened to you from Rattrap, and you think it means something that you came back? So what?!" He took two steps down, pointing a finger at Swindle. The merchant blinked rapidly, looking taken aback, and Blurr hated that his hand kept shaking. This wasn't the first time he'd lost his temper at the ghost, but there was something new and terrible about shouting at him while a wire crisped in Swindle's chest, a thin trail of smoke wisping from the too-real injury. The mech looked like a stiff wind would blow him over. "You say you came back like it matters. You came back? Who cares! You left."
Swindle slumped in the open doorway, backlit by the streetlight. Even dimmed by pain, his hyper-expressive optics managed a look of dismay. "But I came back? I mean, it wasn't supposed to be like that. It wasn't supposed to happen that way. I, uh, I screwed up, I know that now, but Starscream told me - "
"Oh, Starscream. You know better than to believe anything that pit viper hisses. Everyone knows better!"
"But - I know, but - "
Laughing bitterly, Blurr threw his hand up in a dismissive wave. It was suddenly so ludicrous. Arguing with a ghost about Starscream's integrity added the final dollop of ridiculous to the entire night. "You came back, great, hurray, I'll go get the confetti. Time to celebrate! I just won last place in your dumb life! Do I get a prize?" he asked in all sarcasm. "You could have called me for help when you needed it. I could've done something, but no, you took off on your own, and I had to find out what happened from Rattrap."
"You could have called me, but you didn't," he repeated, anger deflating into a hollow sense of loss. "You trusted Starscream more than me. Starscream. You left me behind for him." And yeah, that was a sore point.
The look in Swindle's optics was one of helplessness, like the ghost didn't know how to deal with the sudden barrage of emotions. "I just, y'know. I thought you'd…"
"What? Turn you in?" He had no idea what he'd have done, but he bristled anyway, offended.
Swindle held his hands up, palms out, and laughed nervously. "Well, maybe not, but, just. You wouldn't have, er, liked it. Even if Starscream hadn't been involved."
"You knew exactly what you were doing was wrong. And you were afraid to tell me you'd hooked up with the Decepticons again," Blurr said, practically spitting acid.
"I'm not a Decepticon!"
"Could have fooled me!"
"I - hey, it was business decision, not a faction one."
"If you're trying to convince me you made the right choice anywhere in that mess, you can save your breath. Get real. You were Starscream's political pawn from start to finish, and he made every decision for you. Then he got rid of the evidence," Blurr said, tasting bitterness like purged fuel in the back of his throat, and he shut off his optics. "You."
He'd had this discussion too many times with the ghost in the past two weeks. Angry as he was with Swindle, he was absolutely livid at what Starscream had done. It was hard to stay angry at Swindle for falling for Starscream's tricks. Sunstreaker had known better, too, and everyone kept warning Wheeljack to no effect. Everyone had a weak point, and Starscream excelled at finding the right leverage to stick into the soft spot. Swindle had been a greed-blinded fool, but Blurr blamed Starscream for what had happened on Caminus.
Bringing his optics back online, he looked down at the ghost of his lover and felt his spark break all over again. "You never stood a chance."
Swindle eyed him strangely, hands falling back to his sides. "…okay?"
Blurr shook his head. Turning, he threw out a beckoning gesture. "Whatever. Get up here if you're coming. Get lost if you're not. I don't care either way."
He lied. He did care if Swindle followed him up the stairs, but he tried not to. Inviting a ghost into his home made no more or less sense than talking to a ghost in his bar every night. It didn't change anything, yet the ache in his chest swelled, easing as much as it hurt anew. Maybe he'd feel less lonely coming home alone, now.
After a long minute, limping footsteps started a slow progress up the stairs. Blurr squared his shoulders and left the apartment door open. Instead of standing there waiting like a lovesick fool, he wandered over to the bed to sort through the heap of junk it had somehow acquired. He had no idea how his habsuites attracted clutter. It hadn't been bad before, back when Swindle had -
Swindle was the organized one. Blurr had gotten used to living in a tidy home until one day it wasn't.
"You should clean in here."
Of course that's what he'd say. Blurr huffed his vents. The whuff of air could barely be heard over the roaring whirr of Swindle's fans laboring to dump heat. "You should see the bar." What was he saying? Swindle had seen it just last night. The ghost's disapproving frown had reminded Blurr to mop when he'd usually just toss a towel on the worst puddles and go home.
"I'm scared to," Swindle said through deep breaths. "Dare I ask about the state of your finances?"
"No."
Blurr's reply came out hard, voice cold, and Swindle winced back at the sharp denial, spare tire bumping against the door as it closed behind him. "I…sorry. That's…yeah. I know you won't - shouldn't - trust me with that again."
It wasn't that. It was more that Swindle had been the one to put his bar's finances in order, and even looking at the spreadsheets tore a burning hole in Blurr's spark ever since. Talking about them with a ghost would just be ripping the wound open further.
He busied himself chucking a trophy and a bunch of medals from Velocitron out of sight. He didn't want them around. They seemed sort of tacky at the moment. Injecting cheer into his voice took near physical effort, like straightening his legs against cramped cables during the warm-up lap. "Forget about it," he said. "Are you visiting for a reason, or did you just want to chat?"
Swindle hesitated, the pause obvious for the way his heaving vents soughed in the expectant silence. "Uh, look. I hate to hear you say 'I told you so,' but I really don't have anyone else left to turn to. There's nowhere else I can go, not after," he shrugged, smile forced and uneasy, "uh, not after what I did. You're mad, I get it, really, I don't blame you and I'm sorry, my hand to Primus I am, but the truth is I'm here 'cause I need a place to stay."
He couldn't help but start laughing. The blunt statement took him by surprise. It was the last thing he'd expected Swindle to say, just outright admit like that, and once he started laughing he couldn't stop. "Are you," he gasped through guffaws, "are you apologizing - are you trying to - are you saying you're s-sorry so I'll let you - let you back into my bed?"
"Ah, well." Large purple optics stared at him, somewhat worried as Blurr bent double to slap a knee in a convulsion of humor at the fragged-up nature of the universe in general. "Yes? I'm sorry anyway, but it's, er. I'm kind of a wanted mech. Please?"
In other words, it'd take desperation and the law riding his bumper to make Swindle apologize for screwing Blurr over. It didn't seem quite so funny anymore.
Blurr kept laughing. He couldn't help it, even as the spasms of laughter started to feel like sobs. "Of course. Of course you are. I can't think of any other reason you'd show up at my door saying you're sorry. Why would I ever think differently?"
Swindle leaned back against the door, still staring. "Does that mean I can stay?"
"Pfftahahahaha!"
"Blurr?"
The racer-turned-bartender straightened up, throwing his arms out as if to put the whole apartment at Swindle's disposal. "Oh, sure! You came back, after all! And that's the important part, am I right? Make yourself at home."
The tiny flinch made Blurr feel like a heel, but he couldn't take back the mockery. He didn't want to. Swindle deserved to have his smug salesmech face rubbed in his mistakes, for once.
Besides, seeing him flinch at least confirmed Swindle had the grace to know what he'd put Blurr through. It wasn't much, not in the context of a relationship that was over if it'd ever begun and the ghost of his lover haunting him nightly, but it was something.
And somehow, it was enough. Awkwardly timed apology aside, it was an apology, and Swindle had come back. Too late to mean anything in reality, but it meant the world to Blurr's stupidly romantic spark. Let Swindle stay here with him. He'd spent the last two weeks vacillating between fury and grief, trying to come to terms with Swindle leaving, so let him come back. Blurr hadn't found any answers talking to his ghost at the bar. He hadn't found any answers screaming at him, either. Yelling himself hoarse at a dead mech was a sad way to mourn, but it was one way to find peace. He was too slagging tired to hold a grudge tonight.
He spun on his heel and fell back across the bed, arms spread. It'd been a long day. It'd been an even longer two weeks. Betrayed, angry denial took a lot of energy, and sadness exhausted him. He hadn't felt this tired since running a marathon on Velocitron. He was a sprinter. Long-term exertion emptied his reserves, leaving him hollow, spark whirling.
Swindle didn't move. He looked uncomfortable, waiting for some sign of welcome, but Blurr sighed. "It's safe here, if that's what you're worried about," he said. Turning onto his side, he curled in loose, weary ball on his side of the bed. 'His' side, even after two weeks recharging alone.
"That's not the part that worried me," Swindle said dryly. "I thought you'd pitch me out on my aft the second I showed up." Blurr harrumphed. "Guess I'm lucky you're the forgiving type." 'An Autobot,' he didn't say, but then again, maybe not. Autobots didn't tend to forgive Decepticons.
Blurr snorted. "Hard to throw a dead mech out," he subvocalized through the tightness in his throat. He curled a bit tighter, bringing his knees up to his windshield. Grief cut his optics offline. "Lay down and shut up. I don't want to talk anymore. I've had a bad day, and I want to shut down for the night."
Slow footsteps dragged toward the bed. "I...huh." A clicking reset of a vocalizer, and Swindle sounded less openly amazed when he spoke again. "I thought you'd make me crash on the floor." 'After what I did,' he didn't say, but they both heard the silent words.
"Just don't touch me," Blurr muttered. He didn't think he could take that. The ghost hadn't tried to touch him, but neither of them had ventured close enough in the bar to make the attempt.
"Cold shoulder? Ouch." The joking tone fell flat.
Yes, Blurr was giving him the cold shoulder. "Shut. Up."
"Alright, alright, shutting up."
The bed rocked in a painfully familiar way, and Blurr pushed his face into the dusty padding underneath his head. His imagination always got its most vivid on the edge of recharge. It didn't help that his memory insisted on dwelling on the details, the little moments of living with someone else that he'd missed so much in their absence. The slight movement of the bed felt real. It wasn't, but it hurt because he could almost imagine it was.
Swindle hadn't kept stuff. Anything physical could be sold. He'd treated belongings as temporary possessions, things to stock a warehouse and eventually be moved out to buyers. The things he'd owned had been part of his business, and he han't bring his business into Blurr's home.
It took until he died for Blurr to realize what Swindle had shared had been the priceless things, the time and affection a pricetag couldn't be stapled to. Not for lack of trying, but there it was. His home felt colder and emptier in Swindle's absence, even though the merchant hadn't added or taken so much as a piece of furniture, and it hurt to remember him being here.
The pained grunts of an injured mech were new, but the ghost made noise. Blurr was used to that.
Swallowing against the tightness of his throat, he mumbled, "You're not getting any sympathy from me."
Swindle made a sound. It might have been a choked laugh.
Blurr sent a wireless signal to the lights. They dimmed toward dark. He hadn't recharged with the lights off for a couple of weeks now, too afraid waking up to see a glint of purple in the dark and breaking down. His spark had done enough jumping for one night, however. It was weirdly comforting to think he might see the ghost looking back at him if he woke up.
"Blurr?" whispered quietly from behind him.
"Shut up."
Swindle's voice fell even lower, barely audible. "I should have come back before."
His hands closed into fists so tight the knuckle joints creaked. "You shouldn't have left at all."
"Yeah." The merchant gave that choked little laugh again. "But I did, so I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner."
It wasn't worth replying to. Regrets changed nothing for the dead. Especially not for the dead.
Blurr forced his recharge protocols online.
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