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Pt. 2: An Intentional Happenstance

(In which the Brick of Subtlety is introduced to Cliffjumper's head.)

'Carry your Shield of Ignorance high, and wield the Brick of Subtlety!'

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He was never going to get used to dating a Special Operations mech.

No, scratch that. He was never going to get used to dating a noblemech. The SpecOps thing was just the weird icing on the strange cake.

Despite warning Mirage about his complete inability to catch subtexts, the spy continued to be as subtle as Cliffjumper was blunt. He couldn't count how many times he'd missed some sort of miniscule cue from the blue Autobot and only caught on when the insulted huffing started. And, whoa, Mirage could huff with the best of them. Eons in the Autobot army, and the Towers mech still went stiff and angry when spited. Then he proceeded to let everyone within a six mechanometer radius know of his ire through cloak-and-dagger verbal digs and pointed body language.

It was like dating a prickly mechanical cactus. Cliffjumper never knew when he was going to get a hug or a frigid glare because he'd failed to pick up some sort of hint.

All in all, getting captured by the Decepticons was kind of a relief. At least getting punched until his plating buckled and optics cracked wasn't subtle. Cliffjumper knew exactly why he was getting kicked repeatedly in the hood, and nobody was sniffing contemptuously and saying, "If you don't know, then I'm not telling you."

Of course, it hurt like the Pit, but he could deal with pain.

He wasn't sure he could deal with another week of Mirage's bizarre Tower mannerisms.

Cliffjumper curled up in the corner of his cell and kept pressure on a severed fuel line, dully watching the door in case the guards came back for more. It wasn't likely. The battle had been a particularly nasty one, and he knew he'd seen two or more flyers go down behind the Autobot lines. Barring a miraculous escape by the crashed Decepticons, Cliffjumper had more value as a bargaining chit than entertainment. That didn't mean his time in Decepticon hands would be pleasant, but it did mean the guards gave his self-repair some time before starting in on him again.

In the meantime, the red Minibot distracted himself. Mirage, thankfully enough, was excellent for that. Lots of shiny blue armor, and that tall, sleek frame, and the little moans he let out when Cliffjumper finally got him hot enough to forget for half a klik that he was some sort of emotionless robot too dignified for honest reactions, and - and -

- and Mirage was driving him crazy. The interfacing was good, don't get him wrong. Mirage was actually the type to enjoy getting tossed into the berth and 'faced until he couldn't see straight, and Cliffjumper liked that he could randomly grab the taller Autobot for a highly public all-but-fragging kiss wherever and whenever he wanted. Since Mirage's stupid noblemech manners apparently didn't allow him to outright say when he wanted it, that left it up to the red Minibot to check at every possible opportunity. This was not an unpleasant duty in the least, especially since Mirage's frametype resembled a racer's. With high performance systems came high demand. Cliffjumper could barely keep up, some days.

So constantly checking on the spy's libido? Not a bad thing at all.

On the other hand, that same set of Towers manners required Cliffjumper to be the mind-reading aggressor in their relationship. Again, not necessarily a bad thing, but all the time? He wasn't Soundwave in the berth!...and, urgh, wasn't that a horrible thought.

The whole situation was getting tiring. No, actually, he was tired already. Elite Towers manners were the most horrible behaviorisms every invented. He was getting better at picking up on when and what Mirage wanted, but…okay, for instance, for the last two weeks the blue Autobot had been in an utter snit because, so far as Cliffjumper knew, the red Minibot cared enough to make sure Mirage was functioning correctly. When the spy's invisibility cloak had malfunctioned for the third time in a row in the middle of an excellent bout of 'The neighbors are going to complain!' interfacing, Cliffjumper had stopped everything - again - and refused to accept Mirage's dismissive "Just a glitch" explanation. Mirage was a larger mech, but Cliffjumper could heft guns bigger than the blue mech. He'd dragged the protesting noblemech to the medbay himself.

Ratchet had taken one look at the two of them glaring at each other in the entryway and told Cliffjumper to scram. Patient-doctor confidentiality, everybody knew that, but Cliffjumper had hung around in the hall waiting to hear if it was serious. Having the Mirage fade to invisible in the midst of some truly memorable 'facing was…unsettling. He'd been worried that there'd been a mechanical malfunction. If Mirage's unique ability started going haywire under high-stress situations like a good fragging, he could only imagine how it'd go wrong while on a dangerous mission.

He'd been a little hurt when Mirage had gotten out of the medbay fourteen kliks later and used that slagging stealth cloak to dodge him in the hall. It obviously hadn't been much of a problem if Ratchet let him go that quickly, so what was the big deal? Cliffjumper had thought he gotten the hint, even through the stiffly formal way Mirage conveyed such things, that they were getting pretty exclusive these days. Wasn't he allowed to be concerned at this stage of a relationship?

Then the slagging blue noblemech had retreated into supremely chilly civility, exchanging frostbitten conversation instead of their regular banter because open communication was common and vulgar, and Cliffjumper had been reining in his temper like mad because he was trying, slaggit, and now he was stuck in a Decepticon prison cell thinking that this was a welcome break from the subdued drama that his life had become. And that was all kinds of wrong. He liked Mirage, but this was becoming ridiculous.

He pressed harder on his severed fuel line and sullenly tucked himself into a defensive ball. Bah. If the noblemech couldn't be bothered to tell him what he wanted, then he couldn't want it very badly.

Something swept over him.

Cliffjumper's vents stuttered, and his optics popped wide. He had just enough presence of mind not to move more than that.

The 'something' resolved slowly into a familiar tingling sweep. It started near his feet, meshing slowly into the red Minibot's fitful electromagnetic field. The harsh sputter of damaged circuitry underneath dented armor made his EM field almost painful to the touch, but the inquisitive tingling probed deeper. It seemed to be trying to do a field diagnosis of just how badly he was injured. The answer wasn't a good one. A sympathetic glitter of 'Poor you.' spangled over the edges of his field when the tingling reached his snapped knee joints, but Cliffjumper pushed back with the dismissive equivalent of 'I've had worse.' It was true, and he'd even fought with worse. Give him a gun and some form of a shield, and he'd be a formidable force.

The Decepticons crippled him because they could, not because it made him any less of a threat. He smirked into his corner and tried to absorb more pleasure than pain from the familiar tingle now stroking up his curled back. He didn't move more than that. His cell probably had video surveillance, but sound wasn't as likely. As long as he didn't react visibly and stayed quiet, the guards would stay away.

The tingle became careful touches from fingertips too fine to have been manufactured anywhere but in the Iacon Towers. They dipped into the crease where one of the Primus-fragged Coneheads had forced his helm projection back in on itself, almost doubling it over. That hurt, but a moment later a thrumming click announced a connection made in the crease.

Glued into place and hidden from sight, the tiny communication speaker vibrated more than it projected. It was a trick that kept anyone not standing right next to him from hearing anything. "Cliffjumper?" Red Alert asked.

"Present and accounted for," Cliffjumper breathed.

"Hold your position," the Security Director said briskly, all business. "Megatron is being stubborn about a prisoner trade. A break-out may not be required, but Mirage will be staying close at hand in case negotiations fall through. How mobile are you?"

"I'll crawl if I gotta." A fierce grin directed at the wall, and the hands now exploring the back of his helm pushed amusement through their meshed fields.

"It shouldn't come to that, I hope." There was a click of keys, and Red Alert 'hmm'ed briefly. "I will leave this line open. It's transmitting through Mirage's commlink, so don't be alarmed if I don't respond when he leaves close proximity to you."

"If I leave close proximity to you," was restated deep and - um, that was a rather interesting tone of voice. Yeah. 'Interesting' sounded about right.

The other thing that took some getting used to when dating a Special Operations mech was the entire division's complete lack of shame when it came to spectators. Cliffjumper got revved when someone played voyeur, but he had gotten the distinct feeling that most of SpecOps couldn't relax fully unless Red Alert or Jazz was monitoring them. He hadn't asked - mostly because he was fairly sure he already knew the answer - but he thought Mirage maintained a constant comm. line to one or the other mechs at all time. That made bedding Mirage more of a threesome, really.

So of course Mirage would feel absolutely no shame in sharing intimate whispers over an open comm. channel. Not like Red Alert hadn't heard it before. And Cliffjumper was generally okay with that. Red Alert had been Security Director a long, long time, and it'd take some doing to show the Lamborghini something nobody had done yet. Which could have been a fun challenge, except for the fact that Cliffjumper was currently in a Decepticon prison cell.

"What are you doing?" he whispered into the shelter of his arms. The severed tubing had a tender patch over it now, but his curled position kept his face hidden from any watching guards. Cliffjumper didn't uncurl, because he has the sinking certainty that he knew exactly what Mirage was doing. The gentle, exploring strokes were dipping into areas that were most definitely not injured. "Not now!"

"Yes, now," Mirage whispered right back, and slag Cliffjumper if the invisible spy didn't sound frustrated. "You've been away for four days!"

Four? Huh, he was missing some time. Must have been when Motormaster had started kicking him in the head.

This was hardly the time or place for a quickie, but Cliffjumper hesitated. Mirage had surely gone much longer without 'facing before, so he sort of felt responsible for amping up the other Autobot's interfacing drive. It was like taking weeks to tune up a high performance race car and, once it was operating at an even higher level, leaving it to sit. That was just a pathetic thing to see happen. Plus, it was so rare to get Mirage to outright admit he wanted something that he had to be all but begging for it right now. That meant he wanted it bad, real bad, and that made Cliffjumper feel kind of guilty for turning him down cold.

But…they were in a prison cell. Cliffjumper couldn't touch the other Autobot without giving away the game. He couldn't even see his partner, and that was just weird anyway because it made him think of the last time they'd interfaced and how Mirage had disappeared in the middle of - of -

Oh, come on. No way. He had to be jumping to conclusions again, because otherwise he was going to have to spank the subtlety right out of the noblemech for this one.

Hidden by his arms, Cliffjumper's optics narrowed. "Mirage…no."

"Yes."

"I said no," he repeated, emphasizing it as much as he dared in a whisper.

A tiny, tiny whine came from far in the back of the blue Autobot's throat. It sounded like it'd struggled past Mirage's dignity, and both had emerged battered from the fight. "But…" Clever, obscenely well-crafted fingertips slipped down Cliffjumper's side to toy with the latches to one of his ports. "It'd be nice…"

The Minibot shrugged them off irritably, covering the motion by shifting position in his corner. Seriously, right over his knee. A few good smacks in front of the whole blasted bridge shift should teach the tall noblemech a lesson or two about trying manipulation over actual communication. The whole 'too polite for words' Towerling attitude really had to go. "You tell me why you're so dead-set on doing it like this," he hissed, "and I'll consider it."

Cue the extremely uncomfortable silence.

He grumbled his engine, scowling as pistons stuck hideously. His hydraulics weren't happy, either. All in all, he just wasn't in the mood to indulge Mirage if Mirage wasn't going to stuff his dignity down enough to drop to the common mech's level every once and a while. Cliffjumper was okay with Mirage not saying when he wanted to get laid. Really, he could deal with it. It wasn't that much different than bringing shy little Bluestreak to berth, because Bluestreak was perfectly capable of talking about everything but how very, very much he wanted to bang bumpers with someone. It was sometimes hit-or-miss on guesswork, but that was okay.

Looking at it that way, the never-ending quest to read Mirage's mind in the berth really only irritated him because of the constant manipulation. When the noblemech wanted something, he tried to mindscrew Cliffjumper into doing it for him. Instead of, say, asking. Y'know, like a sane mech would? Surely this was not a foreign concept, even amidst the back-stabbing subtle snobbery of the Towers.

His engine flooded as a fuel line popped open somewhere deep inside, and now Cliffjumper really wasn't in the mood. He coughed and curled into a hostile ball of red and black, refusing to acknowledge the hand insistently petting at his waist.

"Lemme alone," he growled.

"I…" The words emerged like they were clawing out of Mirage's vocalizer. "I…want to…to stay cloaked. I…"

He couldn't help but respond. "You could have said that before I took you to Ratchet!" the Minibot snapped in a low whisper behind his arm.

"I told you nothing was wrong!" Mirage whispered back, sounding indignant.

"No, you said it was a glitch. A glitch means something is wrong, especially when it happens three times in a row! What was I supposed to think?" He curled up even tighter, stubbornly covering his head with his arms as anger finally broke over his face. He'd been trying so fragging hard not to lose his temper at the other Autobots only to have Mirage push and push and push at his self-control like this. "You want me to be the strong, dominant one dragging you by one leg off for some down-and-dirty filthy fragging," he muttered, "but you can't stop trying to control me."

There was a noticeable squirm of discomfort against his field. Mirage didn't like having his manipulations pointed out, apparently.

Well, tough cookies. Nine million years of war, and the Iacon Towers still cast heavy shadows over Cybertron. It'd have done a lot of good if someone had called out the noblemechs on their behind-the-scenes scheming before the Senate had gone totally corrupt. Mirage was a good Autobot. Cliffjumper knew that. But he was fed up with the mind-fragging.

…maybe they'd be better off calling off this whatever-it-was they had going on. Mirage was a Special Operations enigma wrapped in a riddle concealed by an invisibility cloak, and Cliffjumper was no good at deciphering the clues being dropped for him. This really wasn't the time for interfacing, and it was an even more spectacularly awkward time to dump a mech, but it was probably for the best that he ended this now. Really, what was a Towers mech doing with a common Minibot like Cliffjumper, anyway? Cliffjumper was too dense to take a hint, even when the hint involved getting kinky in the berth. Or in a Decepticon cell, for that matter.

He relaxed his curl slightly, sighing dibbles of lubricant out his vents from a leaking hose. "Look, Mirage. We've had a good run, but - "

An arm wrapped abruptly around his waist, tapered fingers running up over his altmode's roof to caress his throat and hesitantly pat at his jawline. Cliffjumper had to fake a sudden coughing fit to cover how he jolted in place as Mirage pressed against his back, curling around him like a second coat of armor. And that armor was hot, running fast and irregular as Mirage's stealth mod worked overtime to fool watching cameras. To the naked optic, there was nothing in the dark cell but a wounded Autobot huddled in the corner, coughing and miserable while his self-repair slowly patched him. Only Mirage and Cliffjumper knew differently, and the mech with his face buried in the Minibot's flat tire was well-aware that what was visible only scratched the surface of what was actually there.

"I want to see you stay stoic while I'm hooked into you," mumbled hurried and ashamed against the torn rubber. "I want you to not change. I want you to - to be, instead of focused on me, on how I'm reacting. You always d-distract me when I start to just watch you," the flow of words hitched slightly, recalling Cliffjumper's many and varied methods of driving thoughts from a mech's head when he thought his lover wasn't completely mindless with pleasure, "and I…I want to look through my own body and watch how your plating shifts under my weight, or how your cables stretch when I pull them. I want to see it. I want to watch you. I want to hold you down and frag you hard and really see how you look without me in the way. I want…I want to be invisible."

The rush of words ended in a stuttered pant of air against Cliffjumper's neck, and the smaller Autobot could only reset his optics in dumb wonder. Mirage was venting hot air, all but quivering with pent-up desire just from blurting out things no noblemech should want, and it made sense, in a way. Spies watched. Mirage was a spy. A Towers mech made spy, and why oh why did he have to be desperate before he said stuff like this? Cliffjumper's broken fans were weakly rattling, pain or no, and Mirage had to hear them.

"I want you right now." The fingers on his jaw ventured up and brushed against split lips as the invisible mech huskily whispered heated words against his neck cables. Mirage's other hand slid between wall and the smaller Autobot's body to tease at the dented panel loosely covering Cliffjumper's cables. "Right here. Where you can't turn the tables on me, and you can't do anything but take while I watch. Where I have to stay invisible." The cables were sore from being stomped on, and three of the six connectors were crushed, but they still sparked interest against gentle fingers. Cliffjumper opened his mouth and licked at one of the fingers pressing into his lower lip, inviting it in. Mirage made a tiny, soft noise of hope. "Please?"

He sucked the finger in up to the second knuckle joint as an answer.

"Red Alert, you still there?" he said after a full klik of feeling himself heat up under Mirage's invisible but very busy hands. The thrill of being watched and the challenge of not reacting visibly or vocally enough to draw the Decepticons' attention was…terribly kinky and really revving him. That didn't mean he'd forgotten he was a captive. He needed to speed things up a bit, or he would inevitably give something away with an ill-concealed twitch or stifled sound.

"Yes." The Security Director could not have sounded blander, despite undoubtedly having heard everything.

"Just in case I forget, can you remind me of something later?" Cliffjumper paused to nibble on the nearest finger, securely hidden from the camera behind his arm. It was the only participation he could afford, and he intended to take full advantage of it. There was a gust of hot air vented against his whip-scored back with every slick of his tongue over the finger, so he wasn't doing too bad a job of it.

"Of course."

"Remind me,"nibble nibble and scrap it felt good when Mirage kissed around the burnt places where Skywarp had fired his thrusters on his plating, "to tie Mirage upside-down and spread-eagle on the common room couch when I get back. Feet to the corners, aft against the backrest, back flat on the seat, and wrists to the couch feet." Gust, singular, turned to a typhoon-worthy gale as invisible vents flipped wide open and fans went on full in less than a second. "I want to unlock all his doors and prop them open, and remove his wheel lugs one," he drew the words out, whispering in a breathy growl, "by," Mirage whimpered against his back, "one. When I'm done taking his wheels off, I want to dab hot wax down his thighs a thumb-length at a time, rotate his axles through a full re-greasing, and kiss him so often I sound like him afterward."

He paused to pull in cool air, because his damaged ventilation system wasn't coping with the extra layer of armor wrapped around him generating so much excess heat. "Then I want to leave him like that while we have a long talk about what it is that he wants, because I'm so sick of not talking about this fragging stuff I could bite something." He nipped in illustration, and Mirage made a very quiet strangled sound that wanted to be a full-throated cry. "And every time he goes invisible, I want to untie him and walk away. As many times as I gotta. Until he finally starts talking." The hands had sped up noticeably with every word out of Cliffjumper's mouth, urgently rubbing at pained sensors, but now Mirage fumbled for the red Minibot's working connectors. "Got all that, Red?"

"Got it," Red Alert said, sounding amused. "I'll make sure to remind you."

"Got that, Mirage?"

"Got…got it." The noblemech's voice shook a little as cables connected.

"Good," Cliffjumper managed around the three fingers suddenly thrust into his mouth, as subtle as a freight train to the face. There wasn't a lot of reactions the Minibot could show here and now in Decepticon territory, but Mirage quite obviously wanted everything the smaller mech could give him right this second.

That, at least, was the kind of hint Cliffjumper could take.

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