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): Voter incentive ficlets for an Arkansas voter.* Thanks for voting!
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Part 7
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Given their height difference, an outsider would probably find it odd that Swindle usually ended up as the big spoon. It was actually his small size that made it ideal. He could nestle in between Blurr's back-mounted boosters, hooking his elbow over the lower one to slide his arm up between Blurr's shoulder and helm. It cupped his hand under Blurr's chin. It tucked down most nights, Blurr nuzzling into his palm when right at the edge of recharge. Swindle could feel him breathe all night long, vents revving in sleepy preparation for dream races but air blowing a steady in-and-out from mouth and nose.
Sometimes, half-asleep, Swindle jolted back awake as a mouth closed softly around the nearest fingers. There wasn't anything inherently sexual to it. When Blurr wanted to frag, he flirted with the bold 'you, me, bed' bluntness of a mech who'd always been able to choose anyone he wanted from the inevitable crowd of eager volunteers. Playing with the tips of Swindle's fingers while on the edge of sleep didn't fit his approach to interfacing. He simply liked the feel of Swindle's hand on his cheek, fingers curling into his mouth. It was an awareness, a way to reassure himself that someone was there, holding him. Lipping at Swindle's fingers was a comfort move.
Swindle could feel the slight curve of a smile on Blurr's face when the ex-racer fell into recharge still mouthing his fingers. It made him shake his head, amused and not understanding, but it didn't bother him. He leaned his head against the back of Blurr's neck and went to sleep.
It bothered Blurr that Swindle refused to spoon behind him, afterward. The merchant would sleep on the bed at his back, but he refused to cuddle. "Why?" the lanky mech demanded, concerned enough to be aggressive.
And Swindle was irritated enough by the demands to tell him the blunt truth: "It hurts."
"Oh." There wasn't much to say to that.
So that night, Blurr waited until Swindle went into restless recharge. Then he turned over.
How Swindle slept told Blurr how much pain he was in. The shorter mech curled inward, the arm Blurr was used to resting his head on crossed in a protective barrier over the poor repair job covering that huge chest wound. It made Blurr's chest ache in sympathy, but it was the defensive posture that disturbed him the most. Swindle slept as if trying to make himself a smaller target even in the apartment, a supposedly safe place.
But that was how Swindle slept all the time, not just when wounded. Awake, his personality stood out like a beacon, attracting attention even in the worst circumstances. Maybe that was why Blurr had come to like the fragger so much. Two huge personalities like theirs might have clashed, but Swindle's confidence was a construct, a carefully-built sales sign that changed depending on what was on special. Blurr just plain knew he was the best. Swindle never tried to one-up him on it. If anything, he sold Blurr's fame to other people, and the expected friction between them didn't happen.
Blurr's self-confidence said, "Look at me, for I'm great."
Swindle's self-confidence pointed at Blurr and said, "Look at him, isn't he great?"
Even when holding center stage, Swindle used the attention turned on him to sell his product. It wasn't about him, it was about his business, and Blurr had become his most precious possession at some point. Swindle loved showmanship, and he showed Blurr off like no one else.
At night, Swindle shut down. The Sales Show ended. All product went into safes, locked up in cases under guard, and Swindle slept like a hunted mech, knowing everyone wanted what he held. Wounded, in pain, he became a wary, twitchy mess once he stowed his sales personae for the night.
In the morning, he woke with one hand trapped against Blurr's face, a possessive hand holding him in place. The bartender lay curled opposite him, their knees pressed together and helms almost touching, and watchful optics met his. For once, the merchandise had protected the merchant through the night.
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[ A/N: *If you don't know what the voter incentive ficlets are, they're me offering fic in return for people voting in the American Presidential primaries. If you've voted, you can send me a Tumblr Ask with your state and claim a ficlet or ask for the writing time to be applied toward an actual fic. Until the curtain rises next time, m'dears..]