Grasping at Starlight

fanfiction: The Mech Before Me, an experiment in style

2008-05-22T02:17:20Z

Universe: G1.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Optimus Prime/Ratchet with reference to Elita One/Optimus Prime.

Author's Notes: If pressed, I would insist this is transformative, an experiment in style. Each line should be read slowly, a heartbeat or two allowed between them as thoughts come slowly from a weary being. April 2008 entry at Mecha_Erotica. 1700 words.

He comes to me again

on a day like many others.

I hear the door cycle open

and look up in time to see him

everyone repaired and released,

gone on about the lives they're making here.

"I need you," he says

in that voice that resonates in my head,

with the vocalizer I've half a mind to detune.

But I see the change,

see the mantle fall from him,

so that the leader,

the commander,

the Prime

is not the mech standing there.

The strain,

the sadness,

the senselessness of war,

weigh on the mech before me.

He is not free,

never free,

bound as he is to duty

and to the past,

to the soul of another.

Often he comes to me like this.

Each time feels like a first time

and feels like a last time.

I stand up slowly at my desk,

other tasks forgotten.

My priority always has to be

this mech before me

because without him

we are all lost.

He steps closer

in the quiet of the room.

It might be the middle of the day

or the darkest hours of night

but the others are elsewhere,

my helpers sent to rest

and recover their energy

after dealing with the aftermath of battle.

He doesn't come to me every time

but enough that I never allow them to remain

when the last repairs are done.

I find reasons for them to go,

leaving me to inventory

or to clean up

and take stock of the damage,

plan the replenishment runs to be made.

His steps are cautious,

uncertain,

not the character he displays at any other time.

The mech before me is asking permission.

He thinks he is asking of me

something difficult,

something uncomfortable,

even something wrong.

The task I was working is forgotten.

Unhurried,

as smoothly as I can move,

I hold out a hand to him

in a gesture of welcome

and acceptance,

offering understanding,

the stolid support that he needs.

At these times

the mech before me is not the power in this company,

not the one whose name everyone knows.

I have no name for the mech before me.

If anyone else were to observe this

they might say that I am as different in these times as he,

but that is not the case:

I care as much

and use the same judgment

with them as with him,

but part of my charter,

my guiding light,

my programming, even,

is to treat each patient as is best for his condition.

The twins curse and carouse

so I curse and carouse with them,

as rough and as harsh

as they need me to be

to get them through;

my fingers less gentle

but my carefulness the same.

Others need to be reassured,

need me to downplay everything:

"Oh, it's just a scratch, get over it,"

I say to one while my student reattaches a limb,

knowing what they need to hear

and how they need me to be.

Bravado and raucousness,

crotchety complaints,

these are not for the mech before me.

He stops about halfway,

as if he does not have the energy to go farther.

Perhaps he does not,

but I find it more likely that he is reconsidering,

thinking that he should not,

that he must not,

that it is somehow unfair of him to ask this of me

one more time.

Before he can talk himself into leaving

I carefully move to close the distance,

silently offering my support,

my presence,

anything he needs that I can provide.

He always waits

for me to touch him first,

then it is as if he deflates,

as if his hydraulics have cut out,

as if his power relays have failed.

I am strong

and the mech before me is not the largest in our ranks,

not the most massive,

and he is not wounded, now,

his gyros are spinning

and the lift I provide him

is of the spark not the body.

He leans into me,

bowing into my embrace.

It is not sensual

or romantic in any way;

at least, it does not start out that way.

Yet we move,

knowing this dance,

knowing that what we share

may not be a love worthy of dreaming,

or a love fit for song,

but it is love none the less,

unchanging

and sustaining,

that keeps him on his feet when he should fall,

and keeps me at my post when everyone else is gone to rest.

Sometimes we both overload

and do not know how we came to it;

sometimes it is purely for comfort

and he plugs into me

so that I can soothe his soul

by partitioning drives

and putting memories in files more remote.

Sometimes, after the initial meeting,

after I hold him for a moment or two,

he straightens up to leave

with a lighter step and a promise to return:

the welcome was all he needed,

a moment to relieve the loneliness.

Those may be the worst times for me,

a reminder that although I count myself his

we both know he can never be mine.

The best times are others

when the welcome is all he needs,

but he straightens up

to become active,

displaying the traits everyone knows

but in a circumstance few would guess.

Leader as lover

is passionate and tender and true.

Those are the times that leave me reeling,

that leave me wishing

he could stay by my side.

This is not one of those times.

I can feel it in him,

I can feel that the bond is aching.

His spark, the core of his being,

the eternal flame that makes a machine alive

is hurting

from being spread too thinly,

across too large a distance,

half of it held by his mate.

This time I hold him and soothe,

I tell him I love him,

and tenderly I touch him,

with gentle hands I drive him to the edge.

I let him forget for a moment -

an hour? - a breem? -

that I am not her.

I brace myself for the sound of her name.

The mech before me knows loneliness

even surrounded as he is by many

who would happily absorb his pain if they could,

or fill the gap in his soul.

"How often have we done this?" he asks

and I don't know what to say.

"I haven't been keeping track."

He accepts that for answer

and leans into me

where we've knelt down on my office floor.

"Does it hurt you when I cry her name?"

That is a question I never imagined:

"I- haven't been keeping track."

"It is not fair to you," he says,

"that I ask this of you."

"You need it-" I start to say.

He overrides me

with his voice no longer controlled:

"What can I do

to leave her behind

and free my spark for the rest of my time?"

I ache for him and he knows it

but I never dreamed he could feel the same.

I touch his face - battle mask long removed -

and gaze into eyes I adore.

"There is nothing,"

I begin, "no change you can make

except to move on day by day.

You deal with the pain,

and you know I can help,

but your spark will remain bound to hers."

He thinks for a moment with faraway optics;

I can hear his processors spin.

Then he returns to the present,

sees me holding him.

He looks at me searchingly

and I meet his gaze,

unflinching

as I am in all things.

I sense a shift in him I do not recognize.

"Do you ever feel I am using you?"

That sounds like his Prime voice.

I let him know I noticed: "No, Prime."

"I do," he says, "but I'm weak and come to you."

Prime no more, he reverts to the lover I know.

"You shouldn't," I offer, "I love you -

I will give freely what you need."

"We can never be open

or allow others to know what we have,

between you and me.

Who here doesn't know her?

But you know, or should know, how I feel."

The pain is still there, I can feel it in him,

but he is shifting, his world's not the same.

"I may be bound to her forever," he says,

"can it be enough that I come to you now?"

"Enough for whom?" I reply, "Don't ask for me, only you."

He turns thoughtful

again looking inside,

and probably back to the past.

For a time we are quiet,

sharing comfort and warmth,

not our thoughts or our fears or our dreams.

Then his focus shifts to me

and he is the one I long for

who is lover and leader and friend;

not the patient,

not the Prime I must mend.

The mech before me is all of those things

as he fans the fire in my spark,

yet I know each time is a first time

and each time is a last time,

with a soul who can never be free.

I ease the strain,

I soothe the sadness,

I lament the senselessness of war,

yet they bear down on the mech before me.

I do all I can to bring a change,

so that when he rises from my side

to resume the mantle of command

he is the leader,

the Prime,

the champion once again.

The mech before me will always come again,

on a day like many, many others.

I will hear the door cycle open

and look up in time to see him

everyone repaired and released,

gone on about the lives they make here.

"I need you," he will say

in that voice once again,

the same that rings true when he says, "Freedom-

-is the Right of All Sentient Beings."

Yet freedom is not his,

bound as he is to duty

and to the past,

to the soul of another.

Each time will be a first time

and each time, a last time,

with this mech who comes to stand before me.

Afterthought: This should be taken in parallel with Break from Habit. The analogy struck me.

recovery

2008-05-15T00:42:13Z

Happy to report that Husband got home last Friday and after his absence for over seven weeks, two days was not enough, but I went to work Monday anyway.

He immediately started fussing at me that my arm should have been all better by now and why hadn't I been back to the doctor yet? So, I went yesterday after getting to work, already sore, and feeling like it just kept getting worse. The doctor worked me in at the end of the day.

She saw fit to give me a cortico-steroid shot, with samples of Lyrica and a prescription for Feldene, two per day, 75 mg and 10 mg, respectively.

Woke up feeling weird, dull. Decided to stay home on sick-time today, feeling sorta slow & loopy from the meds...like my fiber-optic-neural-net had been swapped out for too-high-resistance copper...she did warn me, said the Lyrica would raise the threshold of the firing of my neurons. So, I have to adjust. I'm hoping to feel competent tomorrow, if not operating at normal processor speed. The idea is the drug will break whatever cycle the nerves causing the swelling are in, because there seems to be no good reason for it.

Don't feel competent to study flying stuff, can't focus enough to write, seems like my head-charas come into focus only briefly. I hope the meds do the job they are supposed to.

The actual entry for The Mile High Club

2008-04-26T04:06:54Z

Title: Forget You Have a Root-mode

Universe: loosely G1 cartoon. Sequel to What You're Not Doing and Just Call Me.

Rated: NC-17 for detailed intimacy, physical and otherwise, between mechanical beings. Runs to plug-n-play, then sparks get involved.

Pairing: Ironhide/Swoop, established.

Author's Note: Plot? What plot?!? The Mile High Club challenge entry, March, at Mecha Erotica. 4200 words.

-:- radio transmission -:-

Prowl finalized negotiations with the United States government, securing the Autobots' status as an allied foreign presence. The area of the Ark was officially and indefinitely 'leased' to them and would be treated as a guest military base, with appropriate restrictions on their air-space. It meant that they had their own area for "maneuvers" and could reasonably expect to be alone in that volume. Comm duty became more interesting for those who sat the post: they had to follow a script that sounded quite threatening and officious - Decepticon-like, most thought - to enforce the limits. They transmitted orders like "Cessna Two-Niner-One, this is Tower One, declare your intentions," and "Piper Zulu-Alpha. Tower One. Avert your course," which had to be uttered without a trace of humor. Bumblebee, in particular, had trouble taking it seriously. The military-looking aircraft among them gained an additional duty rotation, on-call to escort negligent pilots out to the approved distance and Air Force custody.

The area became known in the local media as "little Tonopah" after a few tabloids ran photos of Cosmos arriving and departing. One ran a fuzzy image of dinosaurs fighting that seemed to directly result in a drop in the rate of incursions: flying saucers had a following, creatures from the Cretaceous were too much to believe. For about a week, professional debunkers made the talk-show circuit, insisting neither of them existed, then interest in them waned.

Swoop was finally permitted the same privileges as those who could pass for human-designed aircraft. He flew every day after his duty was done. He took on more, helping Silverbolt train his Aerialbots. He loved to fly, loved to feel the wind across his plating, the lift on his wings, the vortices created around him by the slightest movement of his crest. For most of his existence, he was limited to flying during drills with his brothers.

His simple daydream of flying for the fun of it was fulfilled.

It was promptly replaced by a new one. He told Ironhide about it.

"No," his partner said when Swoop brought it up, shaking his head in the local gesture of denial. "No, darlin', I'm sorry. No. I know you love to fly, an' it makes me happy that you wanna take me with you. But no."

Swoop couldn't help it, he got defensive, purposely ignored any data available to him via their bond. Ironhide was the one mech outside of Ratchet whom he expected to at least always think about his ideas and not dismiss him outright. He lost the tenuous hold he had on a chipper outlook and closed himself off from his bond-mate. The Aerialbots had picked on him all afternoon - they were both envious of his status as a native of Earth and derisive - and he was feeling touchy, outcast from his brothers, not accepted among the other young flying mechs, and now shot down by his lover.

He narrowed his optics, "You Hide not trust me Swoop? Carry Grimlock from Alaska. Carry Snarl from far side of planet-" he spoke faster as he went, feeling himself get a bit shrill.

Noting the change in Swoop's tone as he followed that line of thought, Ironhide broke in. "No! Now, don't ya go jumpin' to conclusions without all the data. You've let Slingshot an' that Fireflight get to ya again, haven't you? I didn't say that, and I didn't ever think that. I trust you, you very well know. That is not the issue. Don't go tryin' ta guilt me inta doin' what you want." Ironhide put on his most stern expression and crossed his arms over his windshield.

Swoop towered over him, but still felt intimidated a bit: he couldn't deny that maybe he had been doing that. Slingshot acted like he looked up to Swoop in private, taking off beside him and begging for pointers on how to provide more effective air support until they were joined by the other Aerialbots, then he'd run Swoop down in an astrosecond. Fireflight meant well, but had an attention span that made Slag look like Prowl, always making it out after a close call as if Swoop had not given him clear instruction, forcing Swoop to habitually record every bit of his interaction with Fireflight. They tried even Swoop's patience. He realized he'd brought his frustration with them into his interaction with Ironhide. He dropped his optics to the floor and softened his posture, trying to project contrition and proper humility. He felt guilty for his reaction to hearing Ironhide answer in the negative.

"Oh, now, it ain't worth all that," Ironhide drawled. He also relaxed his stance, reaching out one hand to touch the little yellow Pteranodon top-knot on Swoop's chestplate. "I have no doubt you can carry the weight. That ain't my problem."

Swoop raised his optics to Ironhide's. Ironhide withdrew his hand and cycled his cooling system, not because he was overheating, but out of habit, using the sound of it as filler, a verbal stop. Swoop waited, optics bright, able to read a mix of emotions and reasons through his connection to Ironhide, but unable to pick any out as particularly strong or driving. Maybe just concern?

Ironhide rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand and dropped his head, hiding a bit behind his elbow in that characteristic way of his. "It's ah, knowin' what you really wanna be doin', when you've got me ah-up there with ya, that makes me skittish." He smiled and dropped his hand, holding it out to Swoop in a gesture of truce. "I'll agree to go flyin' with ya. I won't agree ta that." He noted the pleased look on Swoop's faceplates and was glad to see him relax, felt his own systems respond. He picked up a vivid sensory image from Swoop, two memories that had merged to make a fantasy for him. "Logistics are what they are. An' I prefer yer undivided attention."

Swoop wrapped Ironhide in an eager hug, finally sending and receiving as normal through their bond. "Fun to try, at least," he said, "can always land. Come flying soon." Clear as crystal, strong as the connection between them, they both realized Swoop would win agreement eventually. All he had to be was patient.

-X-X-X-

Several days later, Swoop talked Ironhide into a trial flight. Ironhide fretted, and asked Swoop to tighten up all the fasteners and fittings in his arms, since Swoop could really only carry a passenger by latching onto an appendage. Swoop tut-tutted at him happily, always pleased to attend to his partner and tinker and soothe: Ratchet had accepted him as his first Earthside student for a reason. The Dinobot's anticipation and building excitement infected Ironhide despite his personal misgivings. They went outside and watched the moon set, giving them the darkest sky. Swoop transformed and picked Ironhide up easily with his talons wrapped around Ironhide's forearms.

By virtue of their permanent resonance, Swoop's imagination got the better of both of them. Ironhide found his bond-mate's wish affecting him, despite himself.

Without warning, without a fully-formed first thought, let alone a second one, Swoop performed a roll, once completely around, scrambling Ironhide's directional sensors, and then half again, ending up flying upside-down with his Pteranodon belly to the stars and his crest to the ground, tens of thousands of feet below. Ironhide was disoriented, finding himself no longer held by the Dinobot's taloned feet but clinging by his own power as the cold, thin air rushed past them. Swoop laughed, projecting confidence and effortless control with vocalizer and processor, entering a lazy bank to stay in the Ark airspace. "Airlines mostly shut-down this late," he said, "but me Swoop stay in home space." He made his plating warm, sent gentle current through it to Ironhide, trying to entice Ironhide's basic programming to seek further contact.

The older mech recognized the tactic and the response of his systems, chuckling along with Swoop. "Yer terrible," he said, changing his grip on Swoop to flatten more against him. "Think you can handle this, do ya, darlin'?" he teased, and felt their bank straighten out. "D'ya really want me to distract ya from yer flyin'?"

Swoop was laughing, and Ironhide could read a reply about multi-tasking being formulated in his CPU, but had a few tricks of his own.

Yer not the only one who can perform maneuvers without thinkin' 'em through first, he sent, moving smoothly up Swoop's form to get in range of his neck. Not letting a hint of his intention through to the fore of his mind where Swoop might pick it up, he ran his fingers out the leading edge of each of Swoop's wings. Swoop threw his head back, completely removing the obstacle of his beak from Ironide's goal: his neck. Ironhide moved in.

Smug thoughts of multi-tasking fled him as Swoop found all his faculties required to do two simple things: fly and respond to his lover. Never before had he felt trapped by his alt-mode. It was confinement from which he thought he might not want release. Ironhide catalogued the differences between Swoop-as-biped and Swoop-as-dino, exploring his neck and the underside of his beak with lip components and glossa, stimulating the sensors that were already occupied with aerodynamics in their present state. Swoop shuddered beneath him. Every bit of processor power not required for straight and level flight turned to what Ironhide was doing.

"Ooooh, 'Hide," he breathed, and moved his feet to the limits of their range, just able to get hold of the edge of an armor plate on one of Ironhide's legs.

"Sshhh, darlin'," Ironhide whispered, not needing to be louder than the air rushing past their audios because Swoop could 'hear' the thought through their bound fields. He trailed his hands down the surface of each of Swoop's wings, finding Swoop's armament within easier reach in this mode. He traced the edges of the bracketry and catches, and let disengaged transformation gears in his forearms start up, adding to the stimulation of the areas. Swoop's field flared brightly, taking Ironhide's with it: they hadn't known those attachments were so sensitive.

"You should let me-" Ironhide began.

-:-Swoop?-:- concern was clear in Bumblebee's hail of the Dinobot. -:-Swoop, buddy, this is Bumblebee, are you all right?-:-

Ironhide held still and Swoop found the wherewithal to answer. -:-B-Bumblebee. Yes, me Swoop f-fine. Just f-flying.-:- He might have said something more but Ironhide chose that moment to increase the power to his own field.

"'Hide!" Swoop exclaimed, completely missing Bumblebee's next transmission. Swoop rolled forty-five degrees, causing Ironhide to hold still and hang on. -:-Say again, Bumblebee?-:-

-:-Just let me know if you need me to send the cavalry, all right, Swoop? That field flare looked like a missile impact on radar. Bumblebee out,-:- but he didn't cut the connection before his knowing chuckle came through.

Swoop returned to flying upside-down. Ironhide resumed both his activity and his train of thought: "You should let me do for ya in yer alt-mode when yer attention ain't divided." He took a play from Swoop's repertoire and sent a vivid sensory image of what he wanted to do in the privacy of their room.

"Mmmmmmhh," Swoop agreed wordlessly, suppressing another flare. He found a grip on Ironhide's plating with his talons again, as gentle as he could be within the limits of his dino-mode. "Go down now." He rolled back to right-side up. Ironhide had a grip on his intakes, but his hands were small enough not to restrict the airflow notably.

It took only a few minutes to land and walk inside. Back in their quarters, they were both reminded of the night Ironhide first invited Swoop there, each as aware of the other now as then. Maybe more so, even. Swoop fell back a pace, letting Ironhide precede him into the room, then he lingered in front of the closed door after stepping inside. Halfway to Swoop's berth - the original had been too small for comfort - Ironhide turned back to look at him. Swoop smiled that coy little smile and averted his optics shyly. Ironhide took a step back toward him and held out a hand.

"Yer terrible," he smiled in amusement as he repeated his earlier comment, now for a display of the opposite behavior in his partner, "come 'ere, darlin', and lemme finish what we started." Swoop grasped his hand and closed the distance between them. They kissed. Ironhide caressed the surfaces of Swoop's wings. Transform for me, he sent through their merged fields, let me do for ya- he didn't finish the thought. Swoop transformed, looking at him now through the eyes of his dinosaur face. Ironhide dimmed the lights to his personal favorite level, that reminded him of street lights on Cybertron. Swoop uttered a tiny squawk, curious and birdlike. Ironhide stepped into him, under his beak, and repeated the treatment he'd given Swoop's neck aloft.

Swoop had very little he could do to respond, alt-mode not made for any sort of activity on the ground. He sent current through his plating again and vocalized. "Ohhhhh. Feels good," he said, holding his head back to try to give Ironhide all the access he seemed to want.

Ironhide again reached out to touch Swoop's armaments. "Let 'em go," he asked, and Swoop triggered the catches holding the bombs in place. Ironhide caught them in either hand and stepped away momentarily to lay them on a table.

Swoop lowered his head to watch Ironhide's movements. His partner returned to him and set his hands on either side of his face. Optic-to-optic, fields already merged, there was nothing unknown between them. Ironhide turned his engine on; Swoop felt the vibration of it through the hands on his beak, through the places where Ironhide's frame touched his, through the deckplates beneath them. He trembled.

Suddenly, he wanted his primary mode, wanted to run his hands along the edges of Ironhide's plating and give as good as he got. "Let me-"

"Ssshh, darlin', relax," Ironhide shushed him, moving against him. Barely powering his vocalizer, Ironhide promised, "I'm gonna make ya forget you have a root-mode, make yer field flare so hot you'll think yer spark caught yer platin' on fire," he found a way to get leverage and lift Swoop in his odd dinosaur form, and carried him to the berth to lay him on it. The crest was awkward, but he got Swoop positioned so he could move his head freely. "Just relax. You may not have the wind over yer platin', but if you give me the chance, I'll make ya forget to miss it."

Swoop believed him.

Ironhide tuned the berth's temperature setting to draw heat away from them, dropping it to nearly the temperature of the atmosphere they'd flown through earlier. He positioned himself on top of Swoop as he'd been when Bumblebee interrupted them. "Now, where was I?" he asked rhetorically, mouthing Swoop's neck and fondling the now-empty armatures on Swoop's wings.

Swoop trembled helplessly, unable to do anything but register Ironhide: the pressure of his weight against him, the thrum of his engine, the touch of his hands on his wings and the kisses on his neck plating. He vocalized softly. His - their - field began to flare dimly, pushing out from them.

Ironhide moved down his lover's body and off to one side. He nibbled along the part of Swoop's right wing that was usually covered by a missile. When he came to it, he wrapped his glossa around the bracket, lifted his left hand up to the leading edge of that wing, caressing every sensor node within reach. Swoop's wing twitched beneath him and the Dinobot moaned, beak agape, optics off. Relying on his knowledge of Swoop's robot mode, Ironhide left off massaging the bracket on Swoop's left wing with his fingertips - I'll get to that side in a tick, darlin', he thought - and slid his right hand into Swoop's beak, seeking the circuitry that nominally resided in Swoop's chest and could always send his processors into reboot. He made the connection there repeatedly and electricity crackled along Swoop's beak and the plating of his arm.

Pteranodon feet moved, desperately seeking something to hold onto. They found Ironhide's chassis and latched on, talons grasping his sides. "Oooooh, 'Hide," he gasped.

Ironhide coiled his glossa tightly around the sensitive bracket and set his mouth down around it. Swoop's wing shook, and came into resonance with the gears in Ironhide's forearms, in synch with his engine. Their fields flared together.

Swoop completely lost track of what Ironhide was doing. His CPU reset. Ironhide was attending his left wing, free now somehow from both Swoop's beak and his feet. One skilled gray hand was stimulating every pressure point in that wing, the other was tracing the lines of his abdominal plating, heading slowly, teasingly toward his interface coverplate. Ironhide lay atop him, half against his torso, half against that wing, legs to either side of Swoop's left leg. Swoop tried to buck against him, to increase the pressure of their plating against each other or to speed the progress of his fingers to his interface hardware.

"Mmmmh," he voiced. He wanted to beg for more, faster, harder, but couldn't form the thoughts, let alone the words to describe what he wanted.

Ironhide chuckled, mouth against the surface of his wing, letting the sound carry to his young lover not only as the signal on their combined field and the usual wave of disturbance in the air between them, but as vibration against the sensitized plating of that wing.

The promise in it, and the joy, left Swoop suddenly content in his less-capable form. He found he could wrap his stubby dinosaur legs around Ironhide's thigh; he opened the cover of his interface port and moaned.

"What should be first, darlin'?" Ironhide drawled slowly, fingertips mapping the orifice.

Swoop held still, tension building in him, expressed only as increased pressure from his legs and talons. His wings trembled.

"Shall I plug you inta me?" his lover continued, drawing his interface cable from its place gently, fondling the end of it as he kissed the empty bombardier's bracket.

He couldn't answer except to moan again, head thrown back, beak open in abandon, arching against Ironnhide as much as he could.

"Or shall ah-I plug inta you?" The slowly stated question hung in his otherwise empty processor as he heard Ironhide's interface cover slide aside.

Connections made - order forgotten - electricity flowed between them, across their plating and through the two lines connecting them. Sound filled the room: crackling current, whirring gears, cycling pumps and pressurized fluids. Someone was vocalizing, getting steadily louder, matching the energy building in his frame. Ironhide touched his face, traced his optics gently, then the edge of his beak. He realized he was running his vocalizer and stopped abruptly with a gasp. "Oh, 'Hide," he said softly. He moved his wings to the extremes of their range of motion, forward and back, and felt Ironhide shift against him. He wanted, but didn't know what he wanted. He repeated the movement of his wings.

Ironhide was holding onto him, and had worked one hand into his chest. Current rippled sensuously over their plating.

He felt his spark, the core of his being, pulse in its casing. He knew what he wanted. "Ironhide," he panted, and felt the effect of his lover's full name. They shuddered together. He briefly forgot what he was going to say. His spark pulsed, as if to reach for the fingers, the contact that was so close, but so far away. He tried again. "Ironhide. Don't stop." He trembled and their field pulsed out violently. The lights in the room cut off. He used his wings to shift them, bringing Ironhide more tightly into his side, his hand a few microns closer. "Just. A little bit. Farther-"

Ironhide read it, clearly got the desire from him. Moving to mouth his audio, Ironhide gently pushed his hand farther toward the waiting spark. "Are you sure, darlin'? You want me to-"

He didn't need to hear the question, he understood, and he was sure. Projecting as strongly as he could, he answered, able to form only one word: "Yes yes yes yes yes yes ye-es -" He lost any sense of volume control as Ironhide's hand came into contact with his spark core.

-X-X-X-

Being confined to the limits of his dino-mode seemed to open up possibilities for Swoop. It certainly made him more vocal. He sounded and felt as if he was on the edge of a debilitating energy flare as he panted out Ironhide's name - all three syllables - twice then "Don't stop."

Shaking through a field pulse, Ironhide didn't think Swoop heard him, but he offered assurance anyway: "I wouldn't stop for Cybertron." The lights cycled off: that last electrical burst might have tripped the breaker. Swoop moved his wings ineffectually, as if straining for something. Is this like a bondage fetish? Ironhide wondered.

"Just a little bit farther-" Swoop gasped out, and Ironhide read it clearly from him, he wanted his spark touched, drawn into the intimacy they already had.

He didn't really need to ask, connected as they were by field and cable, but he wanted confirmation, eons of acculturation telling him this would be more momentous than when they initiated the field-bond. He didn't even get the entire question out before Swoop was answering him, one word, over and over, "Yes." Every bit of energy in the Dinobot's large reserve tried to pass through Ironhide, via ported connection, via field connection, via conduction from his spark through Ironhide's plating and circuits and tubing. Both their cooling systems responded, driving the temperature in the room up. Ironhide felt his own spark respond. A part of his processor - or was that Swoop's? - wondered if the heat from them would cause the missiles across the room to detonate or the weapons on Ironhide's shelves to fire, then their processors stopped, the sparks they served otherwise occupied, succumbing to the sensory overload.

-X-X-X-

Was he alive? Was he on fire? Was he melting? Was he plasma, vibrating with the strings that composed his quarks? Was he a particle in the cosmic wind? He had sense of nothing except the presence with him: Ironhide.

Ironhide was communicating, but it made little sense beyond emotion. Love. Devotion. Connection. Swoop? Ironhide asked, and he didn't understand what that was supposed to mean. It seemed out of context. Was it a request? A command? He wanted to please Ironhide, wanted to do... anything Ironhide might want from him. Darlin', that made sense, wasn't that his name? Did ya enjoy that? Are ya all right?

Yes. It was all he could do, all he could think. It described everything he felt in that instant, positive and affirmative and agreeable and pleased... Love you, Ironhide.

I love you, too, Swoop. He realized he sensed that in a physical way, too, audio sensors functioning in conjunction with his mind. He heard that statement and felt completed, but there was that word again... "That's yer name, darlin': Swoop." There was another moment where nothing made sense to him, then Ironhide laughed, and hugged him tightly.

Hearing with audio receivers, feeling with tactile sensors, processing in a computer, his sense of self returned. He was connected to Ironhide, but a separate entity. He found his own vocalizer, now that he realized he had one, and used it as Ironhide was using his own. "I. Am Swoop?"

"Yeah, yer Swoop. You really know how to make an old bot feel good about himself."

He felt Ironhide against him, on his wing, touching his plating. He powered up optics and lifted his head to look at his mate. It was difficult, and Ironhide had to help him into the position he wanted, so they could look at each other. "That was nice, wasn't it?"

"Aye." Swoop thought that was enough to say. He lay on the berth and shifted his wings, wondering how he remembered moving as Ironhide moved when his form didn't have the same appendages his lover's did, proportioned nothing like him. Ironhide rocked up and away from him, and he made a sound to protest, not wanting to be without his bond-mate but unable to hold onto him.

"I'm just gonna stand aside so you can transform an' we can catch a little recharge."

It took a processor cycle but he grasped for understanding and found his cache. It had been there the whole time. Ironhide looked at him with concern; it passed when Swoop transformed and sat up on the berth.

"You 'Hide wanted to make me Swoop forget root mode," he remembered, reaching for red plating and drawing the smaller mech to him. "Forgot own name! Lost cache. Had only you, 'Hide." He wrapped his massive limbs around his lover's boxy frame, nuzzled his faceplates into Ironhide's neck joint. Ironhide hugged him back. "Have only you, Ironhide." A long pause, then, "That all that matters."

Sunstreaker wanted to play, too...

2008-04-14T02:44:09Z

...but the object of his fascination would give me away, so the Sunny in my head-space didn't get an entry in the Mile High Club at M_E. Somebody made it up to him though, and how: he got to have jet-judo and overload all in the same skirmish. Can't beat that!

Especially when, in my universe, all he can do right now is dream...

Title: What Moves the Sun

Universe: loosely G1 cartoon. Since the sequel to Approaching the Origin is taking much longer to write than I anticipated, I offer this for insight into Focus of the Sun. This occurs about a week before that scene.

Rating: PG-13 for language and implications.

Pairing: Looking toward a new one for Sunstreaker, but presently implying Bluestreak/Sideswipe and Bluestreak/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker.

Author's Notes: In dreams, past, present, and fantasy mingle freely and become indistinguishable. Sunstreaker processes his reactions to the mech whose form was destroyed in saving him. Except for inclusion of one of my OCs, it would have been an entry for The Mile High Club challenge; Rusty_Chevy provided another round of awesome beta and encouragement. As always, corporations own the widely-known characters. 2600 words.

Sunstreaker was dreaming about jet judo. Holding onto Thundercracker for dear life in the damp night air, he pounded with gusto on the Eagle's fuselage. "How do you like that?" he yelled, letting out another whoop as Thundercracker went into a barrel-roll. "Oh yeah ya slagger keep it up!"

A mote of shadow in the darkness teased his optic and he turned to look. It was gone. What happened to my night vision? he thought. Clouds obscured the starlight. He went back to beating Thundercracker, feeling the jet's canopy crack beneath his blows.

"Starscream can't help you!" he taunted. Condensation formed on both their skins, beading up and running. He felt more than heard another powerful set of engines coming up behind him and instinctively hunkered down over the Seeker carrying him. Just in time, it seemed: where his head had been a moment before, another fighter jet roared past, centimeters above him as he held on to the struggling Thundercracker. It was not an F-15, not the same air-frame as Thundercracker, not one of his brothers. Sunstreaker did not know what to make of it. He could hear radio transmissions between his current victim and assumedly that other, but they were encrypted and he had no processor time to spare for code-cracking as he fought for purchase on the water-slicked plating.

Thundercracker climbed as steeply as he could, and as steadily. The other jet was coming back for another pass, almost completely straight down. Bullet-like, he was headed for Thundercracker, either to crash into him or to peel Sunstreaker from him.

Sunstreaker realized he was falling; the water must have made him lose his grip. No paraglider, no jet-pack, and he'd been wrestling Thundercracker over the ocean. He remembered that detail somehow, oily glistening black water far below them. I'm for the smelter this time, he concluded, not hearing his brother's jet-pack approach.

He fell for what seemed like forever, a frustratingly long time. How the frag did we get that high? passed his processor, nearly impatient to find out what would happen to him. He'd been told that hitting the surface of the water could be as damaging as a fall to the hard ground from a height. He wasn't sure he believed it, but he was certain he didn't want to find out first-hand. Then he collided with another Seeker.

Ahh! he thought with relief and anticipation, Round Two's on! He moved to grasp the leading edge of each wing to get leverage. His fierce glee turned to confusion as the jet spoke to him, contrary to his train of thought.

"I have you, Sir," the mech said cheerfully, completely rattling Sunstreaker, mentally in addition to the physical impact.

Who'd "sir" me? he wondered. He drew back a fist to strike, but something in the other's demeanor prevented him.

"Do I know you?" he asked guardedly, just holding on.

"No Sir," the stranger answered, open and friendly as could be, flight unaffected by the additional weight.

"No need to fraggin' sir me," he said harshly, "I just fight what they tell me to fight, anything with a 'Con badge."

Unaffected by his tone or the comment - he could see the markings on the mech's wings, Decepticon all the way - the Seeker asked, "Sunstreaker, do you like to fly?"

"What?!?" he asked, incredulous as he tried to place the aircraft supporting him, scanning the standard database of Earthly vehicle forms Wheeljack had made them all download. He'd never thought about it before. Suspiciously, wondering why he felt disinclined to beat this one into scrap, Sunstreaker answered rather mildly: "Yeah, actually I do."

"I, too. Let's just fly for a while?"

It was clearly a question, even in Cybertronian, and added to Sunstreaker's confusion.

"Sure," he said, then added mostly to himself, "Why not? I should beat the slag out of you but it doesn't feel right." He realized the mech had called him by name.

"Hey," he started, leaning forward to make sure he was heard clearly as their speed increased and the air rushing past them got louder, "how do you know my name? Who are you?"

"Megatron used your name when he ordered me to help Thundercracker," the mech paused, "and I am Starrunner."

The flight pattern this Starrunner was holding didn't seem designed to dislodge him, or even make it hard for him to hold on. Sunstreaker wondered if he weren't just trying to lull him into complacency so he could drop him to his death.

"Star Runner," he tried the unaccustomed name, "right. Frag me. You're a 'Con flyin' with the Slag-Maker’s crows. Why the Pit are you not at least trying to shake me?"

"I have been trying to shake them all my life," Starrunner offered. Sunstreaker felt inspired to look behind him, behind them as they flew, and sure enough, visible in the distance were the three usual Earth-side Seekers. "At least, it seems as if it has been my whole life."

"Huh."

"Lay flat if you can, Sunstreaker, you are slowing me down."

Sunstreaker felt oddly cooperative: he reasoned it was in his best interest to play along in support of losing their three pursuers even if this one was trying to deceive him. He wrapped his arms around the fuselage and lay flat atop the canopy, knees on either wing-join, carefully holding his legs clear of the flaps.

"That's better," his living transport said, and he felt their speed and angle of attack increase significantly. For the first time, Sunstreaker could enjoy the openness of the sky and the rush of air over his plating, faster than he could ever hope to roll over land.

I could get used to this, he thought, then vocalized: "Funny that Skywarp-fragger hasn't teleported over here to harass me."

"He is afraid of you," Starrunner answered without hesitation, "they all are." Serious as a cracked casing, he sounded, even to Sunstreaker's jaded audios.

Now you're just stroking my ego, he thought. Then, he was struck by the implication in Starrunner's statement. "But you're not afraid of me?"

Starrunner flew stiffly for a moment. Sunstreaker had spent enough time wrestling Decepticon jets to pick up certain nuances of their alt-mode body language. "I did not say that, Sunstreaker, I am more afraid of them." Then, in a small voice, as if he regretted saying it even as it left his vocalizer: "It seems like forever since I did not have to regard every action with fear and suspicion."

Sunstreaker had an urge to reassure him.

That was too much. He woke up partially, with a strangled sound of intakes.

What the frag is wrong with me? He brought his optics on-line, awake.

Bluestreak was looking at him over Sideswipe's shoulder, resting half atop the red twin, on the other berth.

"Recharge, Blue," Sunstreaker ordered dourly, rolling over away from them so he didn't have to see the concerned blue optics of his brother's - lately his and his brother's - lover, so he wouldn't have to admit what he was dreaming about.

Any 'Bot who could survive in the 'Con Pit so long alone has got to be one tough fragger, he thought with admiration. My kind of mech.

-X-X-X-

Sunstreaker was plunged back into his dream-self. Still flying with that black Seeker, Star-something he couldn't remember clearly. He thought he should know the mech's name. Small hands held him, and they flew away from the Ark. What's a Decepticon doing at the Ark? he thought, and, Why are we not fighting?

Looking up at the mech carrying him, flying in primary mode instead of jet-mode, he saw the wings were unmarked, not bearing the Decepticon badging he thought should have been there. He reached up and held onto the mech, adding the strength of his grip to the Seeker's upper arms, taking some of the strain from the hands that held him.

"What's your name again?" he asked evenly, surprised at himself for caring to know it and remember.

"It is Starrunner." Nothing notable in the voice, nothing notable in his speech or intonation, except he spoke in Cybertronian where Sunstreaker would have sworn he asked the question in the local language.

"Aren't you a Decepticretin? We should be trying to scrap each other."

"Never by choice," Starrunner answered him matter-of-factly, “and never in truth."

Sunstreaker sensed a problem coming, turned his head and saw Starscream taking aim on them. He was not concerned for himself: somehow he knew Starscream was not gunning for him this time. He tried to warn Starrunner, even though he knew it would not matter.

"Starrunner look out! Starscream's taking aim-"

There was no time for evasive maneuvers, not in root-mode, carrying Sunstreaker. Blasts from both null rays struck Starrunner squarely in the side. They started to fall.

"Star-!"

He felt anger.

He felt guilt.

He felt grief.

Never one to leak coolant, he expressed those emotions by tightening his intakes painfully, making himself strain for cooling air, able to deal with physical manifestations where the emotional confounded him.

Gentle fingers stroked the back of his hand comfortingly.

He moved to catch the fingers and they ghosted away. Sunstreaker looked for the owner of them and found him, close but not touching. Confused, he started to ask, "Star-?"

A pair of dim red lights drew nearer, optical facets reflecting some of the blue of his own eyes, mirroring his intensity. He was used to doling out as much damage as possible to aircraft wings and canopies, to red-opticked faces. He found himself wanting to do everything but that with the set that came to mantle over him.

"My Star," he breathed with certainty, possessive, and found his intakes already constricted in anticipation.

-X-X-X-

Bluestreak shook Sideswipe awake.

"Whah?" Sideswipe asked, eloquence not his strong suit even when his processors were fully functional.

"I think something's wrong with Sunstreaker he's been talking in his recharge again and woke up a little while ago do you think maybe he's having nightmares?" Bluestreak still had nightmares of his lost city, reliving things he wouldn't explain afterward, only cling to Sideswipe for a breem and thank him for pulling him out of memory. He didn't spend every recharge cycle with them, and they didn’t interact every time, but lately Sunstreaker was nearly insatiable and it spilled over into Sideswipe. Bluestreak gave freely but was concerned.

Sideswipe knew the two were connected, Sunny's dreaming and his apparent increase in drive since his release from medical, not two weeks past. "Could be, Blue," he said muzzily, "but unless he says something coherent, I'm gonna leave him alone." Sideswipe wrapped an arm possessively around Bluestreak's waist and pulled the chevroned head down to his shoulder.

Sunstreaker made small indeterminate sounds and shifted uncomfortably.

"He was fragged bad in that last battle," Sideswipe commented. "Ratchet said he fought going into recharge. Has he said anything understandable?"

Bluestreak relaxed against his best friend, his chosen, his favorite. "No only something that sounds like 'star' over and over and some strangled sounds that could be anything bad good or indifferent."

"Mmmmh," Sideswipe answered, satisfied that all was well in the world, "probably dreaming about jet judo with Starscream, then. Go back to sleep, Blue."

-X-X-X-

Sunstreaker was lost. He did not know where he was. It didn't feel like Cybertron. It didn't feel like Earth or the Ark: it didn't feel like anywhere. He couldn't tell if it was Pit-dark, or too bright for his optics. What happened to my night vision?

"Sides!" he summoned his brother, but received no answer. His systems were cycling too fast to allow him to turn inward to find his twin by his spark.

"Blue?" he queried the space around him. Sideswipe had the best luck with lovers, somehow finding the most accepting and caring bots in the universe: Bluestreak would help him if he were anywhere near, just as if he were Sideswipe. No answer.

He realized he wasn't alone. A dark (darker?) shape materialized near him.

Rather than causing him to take a fighting stance, the vaguely winged shadow that approached him, calmed him. He didn't feel lost any more. "I know you."

"Yes," his friend agreed, "I will never hurt you." Starrunner paused. "Can you promise the same?"

"What the frag-" Sunstreaker blustered, "Where'd that come from?"

"You have a reputation, here, as there," he said, transforming. Sunstreaker remembered: that jet was a MiG, called a Fulcrum, the pivotal point, the fighter the Eagle was designed to counter and failed. "Will you fly with me, and trust me to land with you?"

That was a question to which Sunstreaker knew the right answer: "Anytime, Star Runner." He held on tight as they took to the air.

-X-X-X-

Sideswipe heard it. He had to trigger his auto-record function and listen to it a few times to be sure: his brother wasn't dreaming about jet judo, and he wasn't dreaming about the Decepticon Air Commander. Sunstreaker was dreaming about the one still in medical, the bot Swoop started rebuilding on the sly as a "training exercise". In a strangely satisfied voice, his twin clearly said, "Anytime, Starrunner." It made no sense.

He wondered if Sunstreaker had heard the rumor making its way through the Ark grapevine. Bluestreak heard it from Hound at turnover, when Hound and Trailbreaker relieved Bluestreak and Mirage. Sunstreaker had been going on comm duty at the same time so it stood to reason that over their twelve-hour shift, Hound told him, too. Bluestreak relayed to Sideswipe that the mystery mech he and Mirage stumbled on, who insisted single-mindedly that he had to speak to Jazz, must be a senior special ops agent. The theory ran that he had been in deepest cover among the Decepticon ranks left on Cybertron. Over the vorns between the Ark’s departure and the present, he suffered significant damage and repair such that neither Mirage nor Jazz recognized him right away when he finally got transferred to Earth by the Decepticons. He had blown his cover after the skirmish over Nigeria by saving Grimlock when he thought no Decepticon could see, trying also to make his allegiance clear to the remaining Autobots by that gesture. Starscream obviously had noticed, and tried to kill him, resulting in his flight from the Decepticons and the injuries he suffered prior to being found on their patrol route that night. How else explain the personal welcome by the senior staff, his near-complete isolation from the rank-and-file, the remarkable silence of the mechs who did deal with him, and his behavior in Nigeria and since? He nearly died, unarmed, trying to save Sunstreaker in the middle of a firefight.

That still did not explain Sunstreaker dreaming about him.

It did explain the immediate move of Jazz into Prowl’s room to open an appropriate place for him with Mirage, the second-most senior spy in their garrison. Mirage’s bland disavowal of it all only lent credence to the rumor.

Starrunner can't even be his real name, Sideswipe mused, it has to have been his cover all this time.

He almost roused Bluestreak out of recharge to talk about it but something clicked into place in his processor. Sunstreaker's disturbed recharge periods, the moodiness, and the driving need for physical reassurance and distraction suddenly made perfect sense.

Sunny always says he needs someone who can take him. Whoever this Starrunner really is, he survived a long time among 'Cons so he’s gotta be tough. He felt his systems cycling back down, mystery solved: Sunny's got it bad for this guy.

Everything For You, another from Astrotrain & Cobweb

2008-04-06T18:31:07Z

Universe: loosely G1 cartoon. Sequel to Anything You Like and Something About You, contains foreshadowing for the episode Triple Takeover.

Rated: R for physical intimacy between mechanical beings, including plug-n-play.

Pairing: Astrotrain/Cobweb.

Author's Notes: Only Cobweb (nicknamed 'Enny') is mine, all else belong to corporations. Astrotrain thought the March challenge at Mecha_Erotica, The Mile High Club, was written for him, but Cobweb's presence would give away the author. The goal was NC-17 and Plot? What Plot?!?, yet it didn't happen that way: there's too much going on in their world. 4100 words.

Astrotrain found himself wanting to do everything for Enny. It dawned on him during Soundwave's daily tag-up a few days after she finally opened up to him that he had even offered, only half-jokingly, to process Enny's energon for her. He did not allow himself to follow that train of thought, wrenching his processor away from the memory of energy transfer via hard-line. I am lost, he thought. But he would have smiled to himself had he not been surrounded by the other officers at the time, and supposed to be listening to Scrapper's report.

Even knowing and being reassured that Enny counted herself his partner, even his friend, his energon pumps skipped a cycle when she fell in beside him as he left the meeting. Outwardly, it was as if nothing had changed, as if that meeting were not the only time in the day they were not together. As far as he knew, only three were aware of the change in living conditions: Enny, Astrotrain himself, and Blitzwing. Astrotrain's surprisingly cooperative roommate said he did not care if all the Casseticons themselves took up residence in their space, as long as they each sat an equal share of the watch so he got more recharge, and of course kept their pilfering hands off him.

"And if you want me to never mention it to anyone," he had added, obviously thinking himself very shrewd to have thought of the further stipulation, "I get first watch, every time." Knowing Blitzwing as well as he did, Astrotrain made it look like a hardship, made Blitzwing argue for it, so he could feel like he won it. In fact, that was as Astrotrain and Enny also wanted: Blitzwing in recharge was guaranteed oblivious for at least half a groon - about three hours - so they were assured true privacy for that long every day. He looked down at her askance as they walked in their habitual silence to the shop to get to work. She smoothly kept up with him, two measured steps to each of his, so he knew the replacement part he had made was working out well.

As they rode the lift down to the shop, Astrotrain made an impulsive decision for the day: "As soon as liberty commences," he said, "we'll go flying."

Enny looked up at him, clearly pleased with the idea.

"Have you been out of the base since we arrived from Cybertron?"

Enny made a negating gesture, and allowed a slightly wistful look on her scant faceplates. It seemed she was not unaffected by the sense of confinement.

The lift opened on the level of the workshops and they went on to the mechanical shop. "Is it that you can't fly at all, or that you can't fly far?"

Of course, Enny did not answer such a complex question, speaking as little as she was wont, knowing he would come to the answer on his own or at least say things she could answer by body language if she let him talk. Enny's habitual silence did not bother Astrotrain. He would happily carry the conversation for her, and include her as a matter of course, trusting now that if there were a matter of true importance to him, Enny would speak.

Astrotrain keyed open the shop door. "I've seen some Autobots with ground-bound alt-modes take to the air briefly in their primary modes. I thought Shockwave might have based your design on them."

Enny looked at him sharply as she stepped through the portal ahead of him, not angrily or reprovingly just negatingly - he knew the subtlety of the difference between them - so that was not Shockwave's intent. "Efficiency," he could almost hear her remind him of her creator's only motive.

He followed her, letting the door cycle shut behind him, "That dim-spark!" he said, "Did he leave you completely flightless?" Astrotrain had not believed Starscream when he referred to Enny as "the little flightless one" when they first arrived, thinking the arrogant Seeker was merely showing disdain of Enny, as he was disdainful of everything and everyone not a Seeker.

Enny made a dull, affirmative gesture as she climbed up to the workbench. She settled on it, legs folded beneath her, and reached for the processor she had begun programming the day before. She met his gaze, consciously lightening her expression and dimming her optics slowly at him once, inclining her head and indicating with one delicate hand the ladder-like additions Astrotrain had made to the workbench for her, changing the topic of conversation with that silent Thank you. It not only gave the little Decepticon an added level of autonomy in the room scaled for the Triple-changer's height but removed logical excuses for him to be lifting her about.

He smiled at her. "You are welcome," he answered, then added, "I would have done it sooner if you told me I was touching your spark casing when I picked you up to look at something."

Astrotrain was not really pricking at her silence, and she knew it. She mimed dismissal of his comment, and made a show of going diligently to work on her programming task.

"Local twilight in three-point-two-one-seven hours," he said, settling to work, too, "so we will leave in three-point-three."

-X-X-X-

Cobweb wanted a chance to access the natives' so-called world-wide web. If only I could have gone outside sooner, she thought as she worked, programming a core processor not requiring her full capacity. I could be in contact with Starrunner. That was not quite true. Except for being confined to the base. She would not let the opportunity pass if Astrotrain created one, nor would she leave out either of her new allies, even if Blitzwing were tentative at best. Astrotrain is closer to me than Starrunner, she realized. At least, he knows more about me now, and cares anyway.

She knew Astrotrain was looking at her: the sounds of his activity had ceased. Our leadership is not good enough to him, she thought, turning to catch him staring, yet another reason to overthrow Soundwave and Megatron.

-X-X-X-

Those hours passed in companionable silence, each mostly engrossed in the task at hand. As sunset approached, Astrotrain found himself more attentive to his internal chronometer than his work. After measuring the same bit of potential endostructure at least four times, he set it down on the work bench and looked at the subject of his thoughts.

Enny might have heard him stop measuring, or might have had a sense of being observed closely: either way, she caught him staring. She smiled knowingly, the slightest movement of her lip components, the brightening of a lightly-tinted optic.

The structure of the base carried the sounds of the tower rising, signaling the commencement of liberty and most significant activity.

Astrotrain watched Enny disconnect from her work and unfurl from her seated position. He found her movement pleasing, if not precisely graceful. She displayed an efficiency of motion that was unique in his experience, the product of Shockwave's obsessive efforts. He may be an unfeeling drone, Astrotrain thought, keeping it to himself since he knew Enny did not want to think about her maker any more, but you are fascinating. He decided part of that thought was worth sharing, as Enny looked at him questioningly.

"You're fascinating," he vocalized at a decibel calculated to draw her closer to try to hear more clearly.

Astrotrain got his wish: Enny stepped toward him on the bench. He had to look up at her: the bench was the perfect height for interfacing if she sat on the edge of it and he stood. The present angle of view was interesting. He feigned coyness, to see what she would do if he displayed hesitance. Enny's smile broadened. She stopped within her arms reach of him and called his bluff: "Do we fly for supplies? Or for pleasure?" she asked slowly, nearly purring the last word at him.

He let the systems he had been carefully modulating speed up as they wanted, reaching for her. "Pleasure, my friend," he said, holding her against his chestplate and looking straight up into her face, "purely for the pleasure of your company. We might procure a few things along the way."

She inclined her head and crouched a bit in his grasp, bringing her motor housing in contact with his wrists on purpose. Lips brushing his as she vocalized, she asked suggestively, "Just company?"

Capturing her teasing lip components with his required only a tiny movement of his much larger head. He kissed her hungrily, thinking to let that stand for his answer. Then he thought better of it and broke the kiss to say, "Let's go out before we forget to go out."

Enny laughed - she genuinely laughed, with no bitterness or tinge of regret, the tinkly sound a blessing to Astrotrain - and caressed the hinges of his airfoil promisingly.

Astrotrain thought he would do whatever it took, to hear laughter from Enny as often as possible.

-X-X-X-

Both transformed as they walked out on the platform above the waves. Astrotrain, obviously, was going to fly from there, but Enny chose to leave the Nemesis in her boxy alt-mode. He found it ironic that she seemed even smaller in that form. You're being ironic, aren't you? he thought, as she rolled up his boarding ramp and he registered that pleasurable feeling of tires across his usually desensitized deck plating. My mass comes out of subspace in this mode, so I'm a lot bigger. Really bigger. You don't even have subspace, you just fold inward and look a lot smaller. It's an appearance only. A visual deception. He launched from the platform and headed north and east, thinking an aurora would be a pleasant thing for Enny to observe, a phenomenon never seen on Cybertron, its atmosphere being completely constructed and well-contained, magnetic field induced specifically to prevent cosmic particle damage to it. She transformed and rested her hands against the nearest bulkhead, seeming deep in thought, optics off. They reached the Bering Strait, at an altitude that let them see the curvature of the planet before them.

"There it is," he said with some wonder, "come, look out from the cockpit." The green glow washed over him and into his forward windows. "Aurora Borealis they call it. Northern Lights." Enny sat in the pilot's seat; Astrotrain decided that was validation of the seemingly purposeless sensor fibers built into that normally useless internal appendage. Hands elsewhere and in another form, he could still touch her, still feel the warmth and revolutions of her engine through its housing, the slight firm curve of her back, the teasing touch of her fingers on the seldom-used armrests.

"It is beautiful," Enny said softly. She rested her hands gently on his console, and idly traced the edges of some of his vestigial instrument faces. Her motor vibrated softly, just an idle sort of speed that carried perfectly through the seat and into his primary structure.

"It would have done any number of artists proud," he agreed. "Perhaps when we get home, we can redesign Cybertron's magnetic bottle, allow the interstellar wind to play like this with our atmosphere."

He was rewarded with that light laugh and further exploration of his console. She settled more completely into her perch.

"Keep doing that," he said appreciatively, "and I'll have to orbit or crash."

"Orbit, please."

Astrotrain achieved it easily, whipping through the rarefied atmosphere, plating energized to deflect debris until they cleared the altitudes the natives used. "Humans are messy," he opined absently, attention focused inward now that his altitude and speed would take care of themselves.

"You are near a port and plug," he said at his lowest decibel, as if there were anyone else to hear him. "I-," he hesitated, suddenly shy.

Enny had wrapped her lower extremities around the base of the seat to hold herself in place in micro-gravity; she was doing something distracting to his yoke with her hands. She paused when he did, and looked at the console with a listening attitude. His nearest internal optical sensors were behind her, but she had no way to know that.

Astrotrain was nervous. He did not know why. "I," he began again, at that same conspiratorial volume he used with Enny the first time they spoke, "I would like to be plugged into you. If-," he paused again unreasonably uncertain, "if you don't mind."

Then it felt as if he could not afford silence. He did not vocalize rapidly, just steadily: "It is not as if I can move to plug into you, in this form. You don't have to do it, it will be all right with me if you don't, if you don't want to. It's- I- You- You might never plug into me, it's kind of fearsome, to know someone else has access to all your processors and data banks. Not-," he paused, feeling Enny shift position in the seat but unable to observe exactly what she was doing with her hands from that angle. Only one of them still rested on his yoke. She found his interface port and caressed it delicately.

"Not that it scares me, to be plugged into you, Enny." He opened the port. She touched but did not uncoil his cable. "I trust you. You're-"

Something clicked into place. Astrotrain felt the physical connection; it was followed in rapid succession by an electrical and then a data transferal link. Enny had plugged into him! He felt his consciousness spread into her form, as if the little mechanoid were an extension of his nominal body, her processors peripheral to his.

Hello you, she held in her CPU long enough for him to read clearly. Astrotrain felt her ingrained fear of submission as if it were his own, felt her trust in him, felt her anticipation of closeness. Gently, never having driven such a small form, he directed her right hand to grasp his own interface cable. It gave him a strange but pleasant sense of displacement, of juxtaposition: he saw Enny move, felt her mass shift against him, felt the pressure of his body against her back and legs and spark housing, felt the sensations of movement and registered the strangeness of watching her own hand move without her directing it. Enny's wonder at him filled him with the same and nearly distracted him from the unaccustomed motion.

You made it feel easy, he said in her processor with awe, when you directed my movements. Her hand drew his cable from its housing, of his will reinforced by hers.

I had an advantage, she offered with amusement, regret fading so far into the back of her mind as to be soon forgotten, my original frame was at least as large as yours, in primary mode. Nearly as massive, she was explaining as he made the second connection, and as big. With wings pushed up, above my shoulders. She had a mental image of that lost form, not visual but a memory of the feeling of that body, of Comettracker's body. Astrotrain felt it, remembered it with her. Dual connection in place, they were as one entity, shared out across two forms.

He did not pry into her processor or data banks, as she had not and did not now pry into his. They shared each as they wanted, as they felt ready to do.

Enny's main energy level, Astrotrain found, was in a precarious balance with her spark-energy level. She was close to the tipping-point already, where the missing spark-energy would no longer be offset by the fields of her power system and the pain would return to the fore. Astrotrain could feel it, as if it were his own, hovering on the edge of awareness.

Your spark was not allowed to recover after being split.

No, she agreed dully, memory of being bound briefly to that other's spark, then sundered, vivid for both of them. My mate, she lamented, un-self-consciously, for only a moment. Passed as quickly.

You did not even know his name.

I did not even know his name.

They were filled with sadness for his loss.

They realized this was not how they wanted to spend their liberty.

I understand now, Astrotrain thought with certainty, filling them with acceptance and care and hope, I thought I understood before. Thank you for letting me know, for trusting me.

You love me. Enny's thought, in both their processors.

It was not in his personality to think that word himself, but he had no reason and no desire to deny or question her statement. He simply allowed energy to flow across their network, from their large power system to their smaller one, careful to balance the level against her spark-energy.

-X-X-X-

Overloading at orbital velocity, he thought after an impact with a small human satellite jarred him fully aware, should be undertaken at higher altitude.

"We must do this again," he said aloud as Enny stirred against his plating. He had disconnected his cable from Enny during a period of lucidity, directing the movements of her body smoothly enough that she was not roused from recharge. Enny was still plugged into him: she would have to manage that herself because he would not be able to properly stow her cable after that connection was broken.

I cannot do everything for you, my love, he tried out the word in his CPU, and the universe didn't cease, the matter of his being didn't convert immediately to energy, his orbital plane didn't even shift, but I will do all I am able, all you allow me.

"Rest," he said to her soothingly, aloud and in her processor, settling her small frame more comfortably across the pilot and co-pilot's seats. He made some adjustments to her power system, tricks he had learned over the eons, to help it process the energy he had passed her more effectively.

When he began his descent, carefully avoiding the line-of-sight of the human space station, Enny's processors spun up. She did not move right away, running a brief self-assessment and enjoying the comfort of her location.

This is better than sleeping on your wing, she thought at him, knowing he was reading her as a peripheral.

"It's too bad our chamber is too small to allow me to transform," he said, sending her an image of the damage he would to do the bulkheads if he succeeded in transforming there, "because I could stand watch over you this way and Blitzwing would never need to know you were with us. You could get the recharge you need, maybe even begin to recover your spark-energy."

She turned toward the optical sensor suite at the rear of the cockpit and smiled at him, at the image he sent her, amused. The smile remained, but changed, subtle as all her expressions were with her minimal plating. You do love me, she thought, not intended for his perception, but there nonetheless.

"I'm all right, Astrotrain," she said aloud, "you help more than you know." She sat up, careful of her interface cable. It was strange for her, he could read in her processor, to not have his actual face to look toward, but she was reasonable and able to keep in mind that the non-descript sensors behind the glass really were his optics just as much as the ones she normally met. He felt from her the same desire to protect him, the same need of their connection, and more wonder at those feelings than he himself felt because she had not believed herself capable of such personal investment, not even before her experience with Shockwave. Comettracker's only love had been of the professional, distant sort: intense and passionate, sure, but not romantic, never intimate. That she could feel intensely for him, and for Starrunner, and even for her lost mate, amazed her. It also made her look for ways to prevent losing contact with him. He understood.

In case we're ever parted, she thought, certain he was there in her CPU with her, I have taken precautions. She indicated a packet of data and continued while he transferred it to his own processors, as long as we are on Earth and no one blocks our transmission to the human web, we can have contact. Not immediate. Not as we have when we are connected to each other. Enough to tell where we are, what happened, plan a way to reunite. Her processor was quiet a tick. Then, I won't lose you as I lost Starrunner, she thought. Again, not for his consumption.

He read the data and stored it away, encoded in case someone hacked his processors. It had happened before; the same war still raged, and he was allied now as then with Decepticons, so he had no reason to believe it could not happen again. It was a simplistic connection protocol, an address on a rudimentary bus, a set of email addresses, one of which was his and had a password associated with it.

"Primitive," he said, "but thank you. I understand."

Enny disengaged from him and hid her cable back under her plating. Astrotrain was amazed at the shyness of her body language in that moment. He felt he should turn away for her privacy, but could not offer her that physical gesture.

What he could do was make a show of his attention being elsewhere. "I think we're low enough now to make contact with the web," he said, "let me try to send you a message." He made the connection.

"Slow your transmission speed," she said, standing up to walk around the cockpit. "Don't transmit faster than a megabit per second."

"Right," he said, slowing down accordingly. "I'm logging in as A T Rockwell at graffiti dot net. Nice password. I'm not changing it, since you chose it for me." He would have leered had he been bipedal.

"So, send me a message, Space Cowboy," Enny said, using her transceiver to login to her own brand new account, joining the joke about the silly password. "You'd like the one I picked for Blitzwing."

"Really?" he said, sending his first message through the human network, to his lover inside his own shell. "This is ridiculous. You're right here-"

"We're verifying it works," she said, patting the bulkhead under the optical sensors as tenderly as if it were his face. "Best done while we're together."

"Aye."

-X-X-X-

from: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
to: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
subject: contact

you know what id rather be doing right now

from: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
to: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
subject: RE:contact

Do I?

from: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
to: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
subject: RE:contact

remember that panel you first found

from: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
to: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
subject: RE:contact

I do. Let's save that for later.

from: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
to: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
subject: RE:contact

why not now

from: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
to: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
subject: RE:contact

You will crash.

from: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
to: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
subject: RE:contact

maybe but what a way to go

from: c_w_cooper@graffiti.net
to: a_t_rockwell@graffiti.net
subject: RE:contact

Speak for yourself!

Cobweb vocalized as she sent the last reply. "Starrunner was run off by other Seekers. Led by the one who ordered him built." She looked searchingly into the sensors before her, as if hoping for some level of expressiveness. "You and Blitzwing are useful to the garrison. Well-known, but not popular. The only reason anyone besides you and now Blitzwing knows I exist is because I show up in the ration roster. Either of us is likely to be driven away. Or worse, left behind. I am forgettable. You may be regrettable."

-X-X-X-

Astrotrain almost protested that last, that Thundercracker and Skywarp would not leave him behind after the help he'd given Thundercracker on their first mission together. He thought better of it: if Starscream could order them to drive another Seeker, one of their own, away from them, what might the Air Commander be able to order them to do to him? Worse, to Enny? Soundwave knew Astrotrain remembered his first specialty; that knowledge might be enough for Soundwave to want him disposed of, too.

Another reason they might want the Triple-changers out of the way presented itself to Astrotrain: "They would do that because we are too powerful, too likely to insert ourselves as Megatron's successors."

"You are more powerful than they are. Both of you." Enny strapped herself to a passenger bench for landing - they had a procurement run to make. "Together you could defeat Megatron himself."

Astrotrain triggered his auto-record function: that insight from Enny required thorough contemplation.

You want to go listen to this, trust me.

2008-03-29T04:34:18Z

It Was Good For You Too - check it out! Marian's other work is shiny, too, but ... wow! She said it was a slinky-dress song, and she was right. She should be, she wrote it.

I won't apologize because I know that it was good for you, too.

Saw her play with the Bedlam Bards last weekend at ArtCat's place. Very good time. Strange, to be without Husband, but fun, almost despite myself.

first movie verse fanfiction: Why Stay?

2008-03-22T18:26:55Z

Universe: 2007movie-verse, post-movie.

Rating: R for intimacy between mechanical beings. Beware angst and spoilers. Pairing: Jazz/Optimus.

Banner by VejiRaziel.

Author's Notes: The mecha in my head-space are all G1, so when the Mecha_Erotica challenge for February said, "Anything you want, just NOT GEE WUN," I was not very ambitious. I told Rusty she was evil, with capital letters, spelled out. I found myself looking dolefully at the residents of my head-space, who have all seen the movie and read the prequel as many times as I have by virtue of direct connection to their goddess. Jazz and Prime exchanged a look, maybe radio contact was made, I don't know, but Jazz started to get up to come talk to me. Prime set one of his big blue hands on Jazz's shoulder and said, "I'll take care of it, you enjoy some down time." So, because Ironhide told Jazz in the book, Ghosts of Yesterday, "If you get your Spark extinguished, I'll have to hear about it from Prime for the next couple of millennia," we have this. And I can claim another challenge victory. Paragraphs in italics describe past events, memories interspersed with the present. 3500 words.

And Rusty provided beta-reading service for me. Girl! "Not G-1." Pshah! Whose idea was that? You're still evil, but in a fun and spunky kind of way! XD

After listening to each of the assembled Autobots answer her curious questions about worlds they had visited in their search for the Allspark, she asked a simple question in all innocence: "Why stay? Why do you stay on Earth when you know all of those beautiful places?"

Optimus had not been able to answer Mikaela. Neither Ratchet nor Ironhide would field a theory on that with him present. He made a sweeping statement about humans being worthwhile and Bumblebee developing an attachment to her and Sam, said, "Here, we have made more friends than any of us have known since the War."

Mikaela had looked thoughtful and shrugged one delicate shoulder. Optimus thought she was going to push for a better answer, one with the ring of truth, but Sam saved him, calling her name from Bumblebee's driver's seat as they pulled up. She smiled at the boy and bid Optimus and the others good-bye, joining them for a joy-ride.

'Joy-ride' described what they had done together on the last planet before they encountered humans for the first time and heard of Earth. It was a planet that Optimus specifically did not mention to Mikaela.

Optimus rolled unhurriedly over the alien terrain. A lithe form passed quickly across his path. He heard a happy exclamation in its wake: Jazz was enjoying the time to explore, to open the throttle and run free outside the confines of the ship. They had not detected a Decepticon signal in a century of travel. Gravity at one-third Cybertron's made them feel light on their suspensions and the methane-rich atmosphere of the little world energized them. Without indigenous intelligence, they could roll in their preferred forms. The rare indulgence of leisure, a few days to rest, was necessary. Optimus changed course to follow his first lieutenant.

Her question repeated in his processor. He settled into position across the street from the warehouse they used as their home base on Earth: he had the watch this night. With only three of them to share it - Bumblebee stayed with Sam as requested - he would spend all night there and most of the day to follow, taking Ratchet's watch. He wanted their medical officer to have absolutely as much time as possible to focus on rebuilding Jazz.

Jazz waited for him, at the edge of an alkaline sea. The distant white star radiated hotly on their plating, but they were already acclimated, adjustments made as soon as they transitioned from their protoforms. Evening was approaching; the atmosphere glowed in the haze of distance, rich green and yellow. "Isn't it promising, Optimus," Jazz asked, "that every world has beauty?"

Optimus rolled to a halt beside him. "Yes, it is." He could not help himself, he sighed, not recalling where he picked up the gesture, "But none of them are home."

Optimus was restless, he could not stay parked. He knew it wasted energy to drive around the block in which the warehouse sat, but he had to move. Why stay? she had asked. "Why stay, indeed?" he asked himself, startling a homeless man who was shuffling along the sidewalk beside him. "Pardon me," he said to the poor human, hoping he would not have to shoo him away from their warehouse later. The traffic light changed and he rolled on, turning the corner to pass the rear of their new home. We are not so different, he thought, we were searching for a safe place to live for millennia but did not realize it. He accessed the internet via the Wifi connection of the little all-night diner across the street, finding that the town's homeless shelter was only a few blocks away. He found the thought both disturbing and comforting: homelessness was so common for humans that there were shelters set up for them. Disturbing that it meant being displaced, seeking refuge, being unable to carve a place for oneself in the universe was common; comforting because it meant that other humans cared at least somewhat for those unfortunate sparks.

"No," Jazz agreed solemnly, as he transformed, "none of them are Cybertron." He stepped closer to his leader, his mentor, his friend. He touched the roofline of Optimus's favorite vehicular form, the one suited for the undeveloped parts of Cybertron, when there were still undeveloped regions left to traverse. "But almost any of them could be home if we chose to have it so." He activated the magnets in his hands, modulating the field in a way he knew Optimus found calming.

His internal chronometer flashed a warning, as he had set it to do when he sat too long. He terminated his connection and rolled out, finishing his circuit of the block. He noticed the lone human, trying to settle down for the night in the shadow at the front of the building, in the disused doorway the office staff had surely used when the warehouse was still just a warehouse. He hated to disturb the already unfortunate man. As first lieutenant and generally social bot, this would have been a job for Jazz, were he here and available.

He knew what Jazz was thinking, what he wanted, what he hoped: they had been interfacing for at least a stellar cycle, no secrets withheld. Optimus stayed in his vehicle mode, enjoying Jazz's attention, toying with the idea of giving in to him this time. They both knew Jazz would get his way eventually - in their private moments, he generally did - it was just a matter of time. The others were nowhere near them, Bumblebee surely off exploring the roughest and most volatile ground he could find, Ratchet and Ironhide aboard the Ark doing whatever those two did that always resulted in both of them needing their plating reconditioned. Ratchet said they quarreled, Ironhide said they sparred, and Jazz said they were not as discreet as they wanted to think they were.

He trained sensors on the man on the stoop, thinking that if he just wanted to rest in a safe place this warm California night, Optimus saw no harm in that and would let him. He'll never be safer than right where he is, he thought, prepared now to sit still until just before dawn, when he would have to make the man move on before Ratchet came out to relieve him. Not that he had anywhere else to go..."You and me both, friend." Knowing that really was not true. Mikaela's question nagged him.

Jazz continued to stimulate his field with magnetic fluctuations. He worked his way over Optimus's exposed plating and the bigger bot relaxed, sinking on his suspension, letting Jazz reach as much of him as possible. Softly, Jazz began to sing, a song from home, of peace and stability and love.

Optimus noted a bass join Jazz's baritone beautifully, wondered at the notes mingling, surging and fading, joining and diverging, dancing through the scales of the melody and counter. He realized it was his own. Slowly, he transformed, keeping with the song as Jazz led it, now slower, now faster, flowing as the ammonia lapped at the carbon sand. Bipedal, he gently reached for Jazz, lifting him to perch on his right forearm, holding him so they were optic-to-optic.

The human on the stoop shifted, internals protesting something: Optimus had heard the term 'stomach growling' but knew from anatomy that stomachs could not growl, they had no mechanism for such a vocalization.

Jazz's vocalizations were always memorable in any language: speaking, singing, or sultry. They came to the end of the song and Optimus took his most stable position, opening a channel to Jazz. Jazz stilled, focus narrowed to what they could share on that data stream. Ghosts in each other's processors, they took a less physical approach to intimacy, never scratching and denting each other as Ratchet and Ironhide were wont, but stimulating each other nonetheless. Optimus warmed Jazz's plating further, passing a subtle current over him. Jazz made appreciative sounds, letting his field flare rhythmically out and through Optimus, reaching every molecule of his frame in a pattern, periodic but never repetitious, varying intensity and flavor - now UV then X-ray then microwave then visible - registering the effect on his lover. The tone of his vocalizer changed as his own systems responded to what Optimus did and they established a pattern known to them, but different this time: Optimus allowed his spark core to begin to open, slowly responding to the desire he had been reading in Jazz's processors but had not acknowledged before. He was weary of being wise and holding back; to have been rash would have been to rush in the first time the notion occurred to his lover, occurred to them. He rationalized that it would be better to lose a bonded love than never act on such an emotion. He reasoned that after all they had been through, and all they had lost, either of them could survive the other's termination and carry on with at least the understanding that they had loved freely when they had the opportunity. Jazz sent his voice deeper, a pleased purr, stronger than any of their engines, richer than the songs of the stars.

The man bestirred himself. He unfolded from the doorframe and slowly, stiffly, walked back out from the warehouse, never passing directly under one of the normal human security lights they left on at night. He leaned heavily on the gatepost at the end of their driveway, then shuffled on, back the way he had come, along the sidewalk beside the route Optimus had taken when he made his restless lap around the block. Unmoving, Optimus extended his sensors to follow the human. It was midnight, shift-change at the diner. The man met another human leaving the diner through the back door. Optimus made out their brief conversation, filtering it from among the night-sounds: the cook was a kind-hearted sort and gave the homeless man food. "Half a Reuben sandwich tonight," he said, "and a taco salad that was made by mistake instead of a chef. The chips might be soggy by now, sorry." The hungry man said he did not care about soggy tortilla chips - 'tore-till-a' he said - but thanked the cook sincerely and bid him good-night before walking away, farther from their base, assumedly going wherever he normally spent the night. Optimus expected he would see the man again, especially if he paid attention at the midnight shift change when this particular cook got off work.

Jazz was always kind, even when he teased. With an amused air, he began to open his own spark core, a long 'yes' echoing from him through their processors. Abruptly, he closed it again, letting a negative, a 'no' wash over Optimus with a distancing intent that lasted only long enough to be noted, followed immediately by a coy 'maybe' and a richer audio stimulus, a tingling magnetic shift. Without words, he returned to 'yes', affirmation, acceptance, expectation and welcome. He reached out with his hands, setting them on Optimus's chest, on either side of his now exposed spark. The white light reflected off of his visor and helm, gilding him further in Optimus's optics, washing him white with the green-gold glow of the methane-tinted sunset haloing him behind. Jazz's voice pulsed, following the rhythm of the waves of the ammonia ocean and the pattern of Optimus's surging systems. His name on the data stream from Jazz was the last encouragement he needed: he moved his arm minutely and brought Jazz closer, bowing his head to make that additional physical connection of their plating, their helms touching simulating hard-line communication as their sparks reached out for each other, completing the necessary contact, fulfilling the unassuming desire he had read in Jazz for so long, but ignored for so many interfaces.

Alone again on the street, perceiving the temperature drop in the atmosphere and on his own plating as the cold-sink of deep space became a factor in the clearest, darkest part of the night, Mikaela's question danced through his CPU: "Why stay?"

He could almost in good conscience say to her, "Because this was the last planet Jazz loved." He would never bring himself to say, "Because this was the last place Jazz loved me." He could not tell her, "This was the last place Jazz was happy, the last place I felt him, the last place we touched, the last time my spark was whole." He could not vocalize anything like that. He still felt Jazz's presence. His spark remembered the one with which it was bonded, insisted that spark still burned, still flickered when he thought of it, still responded to his love. "Because Jazz is still here," he could not say, nor "He must be here, somehow, because I am still here." He could say none of these things to a human who could not understand. How could I answer Mikaela, he thought, when I cannot even answer Ratchet? Our language has the proper vocabulary where the one I must use with Mikaela does not. Sadness engulfed him.

Bodies still as statues, souls dancing with joy, they stayed like that over the course of the planet's entire nighttime. Their sparks were well and truly bound together, singing between them when their internal low-power alarms could no longer be ignored. They reluctantly parted, closing their chambers and letting their armor return to its nominal position. Optimus sat on the sand, carefully out of reach of the waves of the clouded ocean. "There will be life here," he said drowsily, watching as Jazz positioned himself more comfortably across his legs.

Jazz smiled, and rested his closed pincers gently on Optimus's thighs. "Aye," he responded, "there already is," he gestured with his head toward a particularly dense region in the liquid that seemed to retain its boundaries against the mixing action of the waves. "Replicator molecules are already grouping together. It's only a matter of time before they get organized."

"Mmmmh," Optimus replied, starting to cycle his systems off. "It is hard to imagine what organized life is like, after all this chaos, searching and fighting."

Jazz leaned into him, and tapped lightly on his chest over his spark chamber. "Nothing to imagine, now. Remember how it felt to bond. That was us, organizing ourselves as we should be."

"As we should be," Optimus echoed, feeling his small partner, now his bond-mate, begin to cycle into recharge, "yes. As we should be."

He sat through the morning hours into dawn, trying not to feel the loss. The moment Megatron tore Jazz in half, Optimus felt it as if it were he himself sundered, but had no time to grieve, not even time to lash out: Sam needed him, the Allspark needed him. As he fought Megatron, he resolved that one of them would not survive the day. "One shall stand, one shall fall," he said, not really caring in that moment which one remained. He felt he had already fallen, perhaps that was why he could not defeat Megatron. Thankfully, Sam was able to see where he could not, extinguishing not his life with the Allspark, but Megatron's.

When it was all over and he accepted Jazz's physical remains from Ironhide, he still could not grieve. The humans were watching, waiting to observe the 'friendly' alien leader in action. He put on his best face, strong for his Autobots, strong for the humans, dignified and calm as was required at the beginning of diplomatic relations. He knew that his deportment in those difficult moments would set the tone for the rest of his race's - at least his faction's - interactions with their new friends.

In these quiet nights, hours that were only a fraction of a proper Cybertronian work period seemed long to one burdened with uncertainty and grief, loneliness and isolation. He sometimes imagined he felt Jazz's spark, just a hint of contact at the barest edge of his ability to detect the fluctuations of his own spark-energy. This night, still only a few weeks since everyone was repaired and they established a sort of routine in their new home, it was stronger. For just a moment, he turned his attention inward. In his Peterbilt form, opening his spark chamber shed light only on internal structure, but still exposed it to the air and the feeling of Jazz's field near him, of their sparks mingling again as they had so often since that first time beside the ammonia sea.

He knew it was only imagination, cold comfort, but he indulged the fantasy. He had been missing his bond-mate terribly, wondering if his Autobots might not be better off under Ironhide's leadership. I may not be stable any more, he thought, I knew better than to have done it, with so many lost and the chance of any of us dying higher with each altercation. He powered off all but his core processors, letting his systems rest and allowing himself to imagine that Jazz was with him.

An automotive horn honked, sounding like it was directly in front of his grill. He extended sensory perception, noting that it was late in the morning. Chagrined and less energetic than he should have been for as much time as he had lost, he closed his spark chamber and greeted Bumblebee over their radio. Bumblebee answered him happily - not accusingly as he deserved - and darted out around him, the wrong way on the street, and into the warehouse parking lot. The yellow Camaro waited, revving his engine rather than speaking over the radio: Optimus guessed that he was wanted inside. He backed up past the entrance since there was no traffic on the street to be disturbed by their activity and pulled in behind Bumblebee. He followed Bumblebee inside where they transformed as soon as the door was lowered back into place. "Good morning, Bumblebee," he started to say, when Ironhide interrupted.

"Ratchet has something you should see, Prime," Ironhide said, indicating with a shift of his head Ratchet's work area.

It was the area where Ratchet had been reassembling Jazz. Optimus both wanted to see Jazz intact and did not: would seeing him as he was supposed to look give him closure or give him nightmares? He did not know. He only knew he wanted to see Jazz restored the same as he wanted to remain on Earth, perhaps unreasonably, but with no more logical alternative readily apparent.

Ratchet was there, leaning over the... Optimus could not say 'corpse' or 'body' even in his own processor ... leaning over Jazz. He was whole, perfect. Ratchet had turned his plating pure white, the Cybertronian color of mourning and of memory. Tabula Rasa. Silently, Optimus walked to stand over the work table on which Jazz lay. Ratchet stepped aside, respectful of his friend and commander's grief. "The shard," he said slowly, "was not enough. I'm sorry, I'll," he paused, "leave you two alone." He walked away, joining Ironhide and Bumblebee in the main room.

He stood, gyro stabilization an autonomic function. "Oh, Jazz," he said, as he had when Ironhide handed the pieces to him on that fateful day, the day that saw the Allspark found and destroyed, Megatron defeated, Jazz... "You had to join battle against the biggest, the worst..." He bowed his head and off-lined his optics and most of his sensors, grief turning inward now that he had final confirmation: repaired, Jazz's shell remained that, an empty exostructure. As he had the previous night, he imagined he felt Jazz's field near him, urging him to open his core and let his spark be touched, even if only by the atmosphere of Earth.

The feeling grew stronger, the familiar sense of the energy that was Jazz overwhelming him. Knowing it was only whimsy, a wish from the depth of his soul that could not be fulfilled, lost in sadness he did not even know how to express, he gave in to it, opening his spark chamber.

It felt like the last time they let their sparks merge, no different from the first time. Sensuous and chaste, glorious, celebratory, sharing ...life.

Servos whined softly, a fan whirred, pumps cycled, a processor sent signals with detectable field fluctuations. An unexpected but familiar, indescribably welcome voice spoke his name, "Optimus."

He was not alone. Jazz was sitting up slowly, his plating open and spark radiating to and receiving tendrils of light from Optimus's. No words needed, their bond sufficed as the conduit of expression.

"This is why I stayed," he would tell Mikaela when they reintroduced Jazz to the world. Could he explain that he had carried Jazz's life-force? Would they even understand the technical details of it, themselves? There was no way to know. For the time being, however, the universe contained only the two of them, points of light in the darkness, motes of fire, lives that could not be separated by death.