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ante_luceWork!bunny stayed at work. Which just means other bunnies take its place -_-;; Yes, that be song lyrics in there. This is the fault of the spawn of one old bunny of mine, plus bunny #2 from here.
Title: Iris
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Jazz. Prowl.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
The other mech held still, almost deathly so as he slid a simple curve of blue glass over those optics, then took a step back and breathed three words with a sparkaching wonder.
“It is you.”
= = =
“Please?”
“You should be in recharge. You need the rest.”
“I can’t offline. Please, just one. Everyone else is already asleep or sedated.”
He glanced about the room, then made the mistake of looking back into pleading optics.
“Alright. Just one.”
= = =
He froze at the doorway to the med bay, rebooting his optics to be sure that they weren’t malfunctioning. He didn’t dare do the same with his audios, for fear of missing a single moment of that sweet voice, floating softly from a berth at the back of the room.
Could it be?
= = =
A dimly lit bar, a small crowd of regulars, a friendly and discrete barkeep cum owner. This was where he chose to relieve some of the stress that filled his orns and decabreems, where he allowed himself to express what he dared not to in front of his friends and colleagues. Taking the stage, looking down at his pedes, he lifted the mike, then his head, and sang.
= = =
He kept coming back; not for the high grade or the cheery banter of its customers, but for the dark mech whose song sent tremors through his spark. He would sit there for decabreems, nursing a cube, spellbound by a voice that wrapped itself about his core and settled there, chaining him down with all the emotion it carried.
One cycle, their gazes met.
= = =
The other mech, a newcomer, not one of the familiar patrons, was present again this cycle. He could feel those optics on him, could almost swear he knew their gaze from any other bot who walked in. Whenever this mech watched him, he spent the end of the cycle contemplating the floor as he sang, hiding himself from that searching look, just like he hid from his audience with his false paintjob and concealing visor.
One cycle, he looked up.
= = =
The song faltered, a half beat that he was sure no one else picked up. Then that sweep of blue light was turned away again, facing the ground.
This time, when the black mech finished his performance, he left his seat to follow him.
= = =
His watcher was there. He stopped, taking a step backwards in surprise, prompting the other to hold out his hands in a soothing manner.
“I mean no harm. Just wanted to say that I love hearing you sing.”
Thank you, he wanted to say, but he didn’t dare. A song was one thing, to speak was another. It was far too easy for someone to overhear, or, worse luck, for this mech to run into him outside of this bar and its illusion of concealment and find him out. So instead he nodded, then darted away like his life depended on it.
= = =
He’d scared the mech off. Primus, he could be so stupid. Of course he’d run. Who wouldn’t, when confronted by a complete stranger spouting compliments?
The barkeep patted him on the shoulder, and when he glanced up, the mech offered him an encouraging look, and handed him a blank datapad.
“Don’t give up.”
= = =
The manager stopped him when he entered, giving him a datapad and a knowing look. He took it, and spent the next few breems reading and rereading the sparkfelt words contained within. Then he looked at the pad, and an idea occurred to him. Text had no vocal patterns to identify its writer.
He picked up a stylus.
= = =
Did it work? Did the mech forgive him? He spent an agonising decabreem at the back of the room, not daring to take his usual seat right in front of the small performance area. Then the music ended, and that visor came up, scanning the crowd until it lit upon him. A look, the faintest of smiles, and then the barmech was by his side, with what looked like the datapad he’d borrowed the cycle before. With slowly brightening optics, he accepted the file, and read the message for him.
= = =
The exchange of messages continued, long into the deca-orn. Light chatter that evolved into something deeper, something a little more meaningful each time the datapad changed hands.
What’s your name? You already know mine.
I apologise. But I’d rather not say.
Why not?
I want to keep the singing a secret.
You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your voice is beautiful.
It’s not a question of confidence in my ability.
Then, why hide? Why the paint? Why wear the visor?
Because I don’t want the world to see me. I don’t think that they’d understand.
… I want to see you. Please.
= = =
He’d done it again, scared off the singer by moving too fast. The mech no longer performed at the bar. The barkeep just shook his head, sympathy in his optics when he made the inquiry.
There hadn’t even been a last message for him.
Still, he returned every end cycle, hoping that he’d run into the other and be able to say he was sorry, before leaving the mech in peace.
= = =
He’d stared long and hard at the datapad and its message, blinking innocently up at him from the screen.
He wanted to answer. Wanted to agree to the mech’s request, everything else be damned. But he couldn’t. There was so much he’d be risking by indulging himself like this. Bots depended on him, especially now with the recent escalation in unrest.
Primus, he was a coward, pure and simple.
= = =
He trudged up to the bar, its cheerful lighting doing little for its steadily growing bleaker surroundings, and for the black pit his spark had turned into over the past decacycle. This would be his last trip, then he’d walk away and find some corner in which to try and mend his broken spark, then attempt to get on with his life. He stopped in the entryway. The datapad was waiting for him at his usual seat.
And atop it was a gleaming visor.
= = =
Meet me here. Next cycle at the usual time.
I want you to know who I am.
= = =
He was late. Primus, of all cycles to get caught in one of those stupid riots. He took a detour, skirting the worst of the fighting, and ran for the building he could see shining like a beacon in the dim light of the end cycle.
Then he stopped dead as his world broke into shards about his pedes.
The bar was gone. A burnt out husk, the light he’d seen had been the flames engulfing the structure.
Something cut into his hands, and he looked down to see that his fingers were holding the visor in a death grip. It took some effort, but eventually he released the object, tucking it carefully into subspace. It and one very worn datapad were the only things he had to remember his singer by.
Then he dropped to his knees, spark keening in grief.
= = =
The call came just as he was departing, cursing the mechs who’d decided that this cycle was the one they’d begin their uprising. He was already late, but he heard out the message anyway, his sense of duty required it.
The coordinates stopped his spark cold.
Turning away from the door (there was no more need for him to leave now, no more need for him to leave, ever), he strode back into the central hub and inserted himself into the growing bedlam, quelling his colleagues’ panic with the appropriate words and a steadfast look.
His calm expression lasted up until he dropped, exhausted, on his berth.
Then he curled up and wept.
= = =
“Sir? You wanted to see me?”
“Ah, Prowl. I’d like you to meet our new Head of Ops.”
“Pleased to meet you. Name’s Jazz.”
= = =
He hoped his introduction hadn’t sounded shaken. The mech was Praxian framed, like his singer had been. For a moment, his spark had lifted in wild hope, only for his processors to immediately quash the feeling.
It wasn’t possible, after all. This was the Autobot SIC. Army scuttlebutt said he was strict, reserved and a workaholic. A good mech to have in chaotic times like these, but there was no way he’d ever snuck out to sing in a run down little bar.
= = =
He hoped his expression hadn’t betrayed him. He’d thought the mech was dead, but now here he was, standing right beside him. A distant part of his processor kept track of the Prime talking in the background, the rest of his CPU focused on repeating the mech’s name over and over, like a soothing balm to his battered spark.
He drank in the sight of the other, taking in the paintjob that hadn’t changed, the easy stance and warm smile that had been so familiar to him what seemed like a lifetime ago. Then his optics met a visor, and he fought to keep his trademark composure.
= = =
It was driving him crazy. Prowl was driving him crazy. Everything the mech did, from the way he moved to the way he wrote his reports brought up data best left in the dark recesses of his memory banks.
= = =
He watched as Jazz threw himself into the thick of things, socialising with the soldiers like he was one of them, smiling and laughing like he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Why do you wear that visor, Jazz?”
“Is it some kinda Ops modification?”
“Heh, nah. Just thought it looked stylish, y’know?”
He turned back to his work. So the mech had managed to move on. He was glad. Really.
= = =
Waking up on Earth had been disorienting. But they’d coped with the change, settling into their new home, getting to know their comrades, all the family they had now. He could even manage to stay in the same room as Prowl without needing a break to sort out his CPU.
= = =
He looked on as the Ops mech paced across his office, full of nervous energy and an obvious desire to be anywhere else but there.
= = =
Prowl had asked him something. Something he hadn’t heard because he’d been preoccupied with keeping his processors focused on anything but the tactician.
The mech repeated his question, and the genuine curiosity (and the strange look in his optics) prompted him to tell the truth for once in all the time he’d been asked the very same thing.
“Why do you wear that visor?”
“Because I don’t want the world to see me. I don’t think that they’d understand.”
= = =
Primus. How long could he keep from breaking down and telling this mech everything? From trying to restart what he’d carelessly let die? He didn’t deserve the opportunity, and thus he resolved to leave the Ops mech be.
= = =
Primus. How could he concentrate when working with this mech who reminded him so much of another? Who made him want to start something with him? It felt like a betrayal of his singer, and so he decided to do his best to leave the SIC alone.
= = =
The battle had been a bad one. Some mechs were still in the med bay, Bluestreak amongst them. He stopped by the gunner’s berth, and had been coaxed into lulling the mech to recharge with a song.
= = =
He’d come to the med bay to visit, though he knew that most of the mechs would be no company whatsoever. He would forever thank Primus that he did, because it was there that he found him again.
= = =
He reached up, and slid the visor off his face, looking for the first time into Jazz’s optics without its barrier between them.
= = =
“So long. You’ve been right in front of me for so long.”
Black hands framed a pale helm, and he pulled Prowl close, as if afraid to let the mech go.
“My singer. Don’t run from me this time.”
= = =
“Never again.”
Title: Iris
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Jazz. Prowl.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
The other mech held still, almost deathly so as he slid a simple curve of blue glass over those optics, then took a step back and breathed three words with a sparkaching wonder.
“It is you.”
= = =
“Please?”
“You should be in recharge. You need the rest.”
“I can’t offline. Please, just one. Everyone else is already asleep or sedated.”
He glanced about the room, then made the mistake of looking back into pleading optics.
“Alright. Just one.”
= = =
He froze at the doorway to the med bay, rebooting his optics to be sure that they weren’t malfunctioning. He didn’t dare do the same with his audios, for fear of missing a single moment of that sweet voice, floating softly from a berth at the back of the room.
Could it be?
= = =
A dimly lit bar, a small crowd of regulars, a friendly and discrete barkeep cum owner. This was where he chose to relieve some of the stress that filled his orns and decabreems, where he allowed himself to express what he dared not to in front of his friends and colleagues. Taking the stage, looking down at his pedes, he lifted the mike, then his head, and sang.
= = =
He kept coming back; not for the high grade or the cheery banter of its customers, but for the dark mech whose song sent tremors through his spark. He would sit there for decabreems, nursing a cube, spellbound by a voice that wrapped itself about his core and settled there, chaining him down with all the emotion it carried.
One cycle, their gazes met.
= = =
The other mech, a newcomer, not one of the familiar patrons, was present again this cycle. He could feel those optics on him, could almost swear he knew their gaze from any other bot who walked in. Whenever this mech watched him, he spent the end of the cycle contemplating the floor as he sang, hiding himself from that searching look, just like he hid from his audience with his false paintjob and concealing visor.
One cycle, he looked up.
= = =
The song faltered, a half beat that he was sure no one else picked up. Then that sweep of blue light was turned away again, facing the ground.
This time, when the black mech finished his performance, he left his seat to follow him.
= = =
His watcher was there. He stopped, taking a step backwards in surprise, prompting the other to hold out his hands in a soothing manner.
“I mean no harm. Just wanted to say that I love hearing you sing.”
Thank you, he wanted to say, but he didn’t dare. A song was one thing, to speak was another. It was far too easy for someone to overhear, or, worse luck, for this mech to run into him outside of this bar and its illusion of concealment and find him out. So instead he nodded, then darted away like his life depended on it.
= = =
He’d scared the mech off. Primus, he could be so stupid. Of course he’d run. Who wouldn’t, when confronted by a complete stranger spouting compliments?
The barkeep patted him on the shoulder, and when he glanced up, the mech offered him an encouraging look, and handed him a blank datapad.
“Don’t give up.”
= = =
The manager stopped him when he entered, giving him a datapad and a knowing look. He took it, and spent the next few breems reading and rereading the sparkfelt words contained within. Then he looked at the pad, and an idea occurred to him. Text had no vocal patterns to identify its writer.
He picked up a stylus.
= = =
Did it work? Did the mech forgive him? He spent an agonising decabreem at the back of the room, not daring to take his usual seat right in front of the small performance area. Then the music ended, and that visor came up, scanning the crowd until it lit upon him. A look, the faintest of smiles, and then the barmech was by his side, with what looked like the datapad he’d borrowed the cycle before. With slowly brightening optics, he accepted the file, and read the message for him.
= = =
The exchange of messages continued, long into the deca-orn. Light chatter that evolved into something deeper, something a little more meaningful each time the datapad changed hands.
What’s your name? You already know mine.
I apologise. But I’d rather not say.
Why not?
I want to keep the singing a secret.
You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your voice is beautiful.
It’s not a question of confidence in my ability.
Then, why hide? Why the paint? Why wear the visor?
Because I don’t want the world to see me. I don’t think that they’d understand.
… I want to see you. Please.
= = =
He’d done it again, scared off the singer by moving too fast. The mech no longer performed at the bar. The barkeep just shook his head, sympathy in his optics when he made the inquiry.
There hadn’t even been a last message for him.
Still, he returned every end cycle, hoping that he’d run into the other and be able to say he was sorry, before leaving the mech in peace.
= = =
He’d stared long and hard at the datapad and its message, blinking innocently up at him from the screen.
He wanted to answer. Wanted to agree to the mech’s request, everything else be damned. But he couldn’t. There was so much he’d be risking by indulging himself like this. Bots depended on him, especially now with the recent escalation in unrest.
Primus, he was a coward, pure and simple.
= = =
He trudged up to the bar, its cheerful lighting doing little for its steadily growing bleaker surroundings, and for the black pit his spark had turned into over the past decacycle. This would be his last trip, then he’d walk away and find some corner in which to try and mend his broken spark, then attempt to get on with his life. He stopped in the entryway. The datapad was waiting for him at his usual seat.
And atop it was a gleaming visor.
= = =
Meet me here. Next cycle at the usual time.
I want you to know who I am.
= = =
He was late. Primus, of all cycles to get caught in one of those stupid riots. He took a detour, skirting the worst of the fighting, and ran for the building he could see shining like a beacon in the dim light of the end cycle.
Then he stopped dead as his world broke into shards about his pedes.
The bar was gone. A burnt out husk, the light he’d seen had been the flames engulfing the structure.
Something cut into his hands, and he looked down to see that his fingers were holding the visor in a death grip. It took some effort, but eventually he released the object, tucking it carefully into subspace. It and one very worn datapad were the only things he had to remember his singer by.
Then he dropped to his knees, spark keening in grief.
= = =
The call came just as he was departing, cursing the mechs who’d decided that this cycle was the one they’d begin their uprising. He was already late, but he heard out the message anyway, his sense of duty required it.
The coordinates stopped his spark cold.
Turning away from the door (there was no more need for him to leave now, no more need for him to leave, ever), he strode back into the central hub and inserted himself into the growing bedlam, quelling his colleagues’ panic with the appropriate words and a steadfast look.
His calm expression lasted up until he dropped, exhausted, on his berth.
Then he curled up and wept.
= = =
“Sir? You wanted to see me?”
“Ah, Prowl. I’d like you to meet our new Head of Ops.”
“Pleased to meet you. Name’s Jazz.”
= = =
He hoped his introduction hadn’t sounded shaken. The mech was Praxian framed, like his singer had been. For a moment, his spark had lifted in wild hope, only for his processors to immediately quash the feeling.
It wasn’t possible, after all. This was the Autobot SIC. Army scuttlebutt said he was strict, reserved and a workaholic. A good mech to have in chaotic times like these, but there was no way he’d ever snuck out to sing in a run down little bar.
= = =
He hoped his expression hadn’t betrayed him. He’d thought the mech was dead, but now here he was, standing right beside him. A distant part of his processor kept track of the Prime talking in the background, the rest of his CPU focused on repeating the mech’s name over and over, like a soothing balm to his battered spark.
He drank in the sight of the other, taking in the paintjob that hadn’t changed, the easy stance and warm smile that had been so familiar to him what seemed like a lifetime ago. Then his optics met a visor, and he fought to keep his trademark composure.
= = =
It was driving him crazy. Prowl was driving him crazy. Everything the mech did, from the way he moved to the way he wrote his reports brought up data best left in the dark recesses of his memory banks.
= = =
He watched as Jazz threw himself into the thick of things, socialising with the soldiers like he was one of them, smiling and laughing like he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Why do you wear that visor, Jazz?”
“Is it some kinda Ops modification?”
“Heh, nah. Just thought it looked stylish, y’know?”
He turned back to his work. So the mech had managed to move on. He was glad. Really.
= = =
Waking up on Earth had been disorienting. But they’d coped with the change, settling into their new home, getting to know their comrades, all the family they had now. He could even manage to stay in the same room as Prowl without needing a break to sort out his CPU.
= = =
He looked on as the Ops mech paced across his office, full of nervous energy and an obvious desire to be anywhere else but there.
= = =
Prowl had asked him something. Something he hadn’t heard because he’d been preoccupied with keeping his processors focused on anything but the tactician.
The mech repeated his question, and the genuine curiosity (and the strange look in his optics) prompted him to tell the truth for once in all the time he’d been asked the very same thing.
“Why do you wear that visor?”
“Because I don’t want the world to see me. I don’t think that they’d understand.”
= = =
Primus. How long could he keep from breaking down and telling this mech everything? From trying to restart what he’d carelessly let die? He didn’t deserve the opportunity, and thus he resolved to leave the Ops mech be.
= = =
Primus. How could he concentrate when working with this mech who reminded him so much of another? Who made him want to start something with him? It felt like a betrayal of his singer, and so he decided to do his best to leave the SIC alone.
= = =
The battle had been a bad one. Some mechs were still in the med bay, Bluestreak amongst them. He stopped by the gunner’s berth, and had been coaxed into lulling the mech to recharge with a song.
= = =
He’d come to the med bay to visit, though he knew that most of the mechs would be no company whatsoever. He would forever thank Primus that he did, because it was there that he found him again.
= = =
He reached up, and slid the visor off his face, looking for the first time into Jazz’s optics without its barrier between them.
= = =
“So long. You’ve been right in front of me for so long.”
Black hands framed a pale helm, and he pulled Prowl close, as if afraid to let the mech go.
“My singer. Don’t run from me this time.”
= = =
“Never again.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 06:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 07:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 07:05 pm (UTC)that song always makes me want to bawl, and this was just beautifully done.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 07:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 07:12 pm (UTC)damn... It wasn't until that intro scene pre-Ark that I began to suspect where you were going...
*brain explodes*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 07:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 07:32 pm (UTC)Hmmmm...I'm a happy mouse. I think I'll read this all day. Chores? What chores? What do I have to do that's more important than savoring a good story? Oh, those chores. Darn.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 08:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 08:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-16 12:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-14 11:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 12:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 04:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 06:45 am (UTC)(Dangit, now that song is stuck in my head! Bloody earworms.)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:42 pm (UTC)Glad you like.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 06:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-15 02:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-19 02:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-19 04:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-25 06:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-08-26 03:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-06 05:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-06 09:57 am (UTC)