![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2011-02-21 07:13 am
Forlorn Hope 16 Missed Connections
IDW Forlorn Hope AU
Jetfire, Sixshot
no warnings
Forlorn Hope (IDW: Sixshot/Jetfire)
FH-3
Relapse
Transgression
First
Rescue
Half Truths and Shadows
Coping Mechanism
Kiss
Of Mice and Terrorcons
Best Plan Ever!!
Resonance
Two Sides
Pespectives
Interception
Repercussions
Jetfire fretted. Sixshot had been injured. The scene played out like a vile loop in his cortex. The blue bolt aiming for Sixshot’s flight mode, the energy rippling over it, bubbling the metal, the horrible way the flight path had suddenly wobbled and lurched. He felt nauseous.
But Sixshot was…not dead. He knew that. He’d seen the Phase Sixer take out the main comm himself, saw strength and fury and life behind those optics. Sixshot was not dying, not then. And he would not.
Still, the sight of him in pain was…devastating to Jetfire. He wanted to be there, to replace the damaged armor, to clean out the damaged under-systems. Flashes of Sixshot’s systems came back to him—long neglected, corroded cabling, grease-gunked joints. He wouldn’t be repaired correctly unless Jetfire were there to do it.
No. That was treason. Or close enough to it that it didn’t matter. You did not aid the enemy. Especially repairing him from injuries he got killing your own side. It had been different, before. That was the Reapers, not Autobots who had injured Sixshot. And he had come to you for help.
Or…close enough.
Jetfire’s wings drooped, and he was fiercely glad there was no one around to see them, see him.
And a worm of a thought began threading its way up his processor, from some hidden, unseen depth. He had Sixshot’s comm freq. He’d gotten it while doing a full resonance scan. He had all of Sixshot’s schematics in his cortex.
…which he should have handed over to Optimus. Or Prowl. Or Ironhide. Or…anyone. A proper Autobot. But he hadn’t; he’d hoarded it all to himself. Still had. And now….
He keyed the frequency code, taking a moment to create the subroutine for the variable phase encryption. And then, he cycled a nervous vent. He had no right, but he had to know. He sent the execute command.
A hazy click.
“On.”
Jetfire’s systems trilled. Whatever words he’d been thinking about saying seemed to shiver from his vocalizer queue. “…Sixshot.” The word came out as a whisper, barely audible over the encryption hiss.
A pause, calculating. “Jetfire.”
“Yes.” This suddenly seemed like an incredibly stupid idea. What had he been thinking? “I…are you all right?”
Another pause, another moment where he could almost feel Sixshot probing him, testing the connection and…something more. “Fine.”
The moment stretched, until Jetfire’s awkwardness seemed to scream with noise. “I…I saw you get injured,” he confessed.
“Courier mission.”
“Yes.”
“And.” Sixshot’s voice was hard, but almost brittle. Pushing Jetfire away, as if too afraid of what might happen if he get too close.
“And.” Jetfire squirmed. His systems were tingling just from the sound of Sixshot’s voice, his wing panels aching for touch. “I want to see you,” he breathed, the words pouring out of him in a rush.
Sixshot grunted. “Stupid.”
“I know.” Jetfire clenched his hands in helpless fists. “I-I had nothing to do with last time. The others coming. It wasn’t a trap.”
“Know that.”
Jetfire felt relief rush from him in a gust. “I just didn’t want…you know…that I’d betrayed you.”
A strained silence. Jetfire longed for some sort of signal—Sixshot’s voice or at least his face. Jetfire had learned to read a hundred different emotional states from the slightest shift of SIxshot’s mask, the angle of his head, the motion of his hands.
His hands. Jetfire felt a tingle over his net, his ventilation unsteady.
“What.”
“I…,” Jetfire hesitated. If he disconnected now, he’d never have the nerve to comm him again. If he thought about it, he’d talk himself out of it for any of a half a hundred reasons. “I ache,” he said, the words forcing themselves like stones from his throat. “I want you.” He swallowed, hard, a knot of something like terror building in him. He never felt like this in combat, even the few times they had wanted him to fight. He’d never been afraid of dying; he just didn’t like killing. He’d felt a reasonable concern, but nothing like this. If Sixshot rejected him…he felt it would tear his armor off. He felt he already had, and was standing naked, burning in the open air.
Another long silence. Then, “Can’t talk now.” And the line went dead.
Jetfire dropped down against the seat, unaware until then that he’d been holding himself tightly, leaning forward, as if reaching through the comm lines for Sixshot. He felt unsettled, awkward, embarrassed.
But, his scientist’s mind said, that wasn’t a rejection. That wasn’t a denial. Take it for what it’s worth, he said to himself. And try to hold out hope. Sixshot had his comm freq now. All he had to do was sit, and wait for Sixhot to comm him back.
All he had to do.
[***]
“Sixshot.” Banzaitron drummed his fingers on the console, amused.
Sixshot looked up, focusing his optics into a glower.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Sixshot solidified his glower. “What did you want.” Banzaitron had summoned him here as soon as the Devil King had docked, only to keep him waiting. And then…Jetfire. Frag. Sixshot felt his entire systems unsettled. Just when he thought he’d taken all that energy, all that disruption, and channeled it into the Terrorcons. Just when he thought he’d finally worked Jetfire out of his systems, substituted him with something else…he was back. And now Banzaitron on top of it.
Banzaitron smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry. After Action Review? You’ve never had one before?” He curled the corners of his mouth as though Sixshot were slightly stupid. Of course, Phase Six operations didn’t get AARs—Megatron was sufficiently pleased with destruction, not needing to fine tune the weapons.
“Nothing to review.” Nothing Sixshot wanted to review. Which was the same difference as far as he was concerned.
Banzaitron leaned back, optics studying Sixshot. Something was going on behind those flat red optics, Banzaitron thought. Something…interesting. “How about you…humor me.”
Sixshot did his best to push the last tendrils of the shimmering disruption that was Jetfire’s voice out of his processor. He needed to be sharp, now. Banzaitron was up to something. Even more than usual. He nodded, dropping into a seat on the other side of Banzaitron’s console. “Achieved primary objective,” he opened. See? Not hiding anything.
…which was the clearest sign he was trying to hide something, Banzaitron thought. “Left rather more of the ship functional than optimal.”
Sixshot steadied his gaze. “Unclear mission parameters.”
“We have to specify what you do with an enemy, now?” Black sarcasm. Banzaitron smirked as Sixshot’s optics traveled over his face plating, as if searching for a weakness.
Sixshot stared him down, or tried to. “Ship was crippled. Comm was down.” He did the last part personally. “They were going to know they got hit and the courier taken sooner or later.”
“Later would have been better.”
Sixshot shrugged.
Banzaitron leaned forward, his smile turning predatory. “You’re really a simple creature, aren’t you, Sixshot?”
“Sure.” Whatever. Sixshot was willing to be a moron in Banzaitron’s optics. As long as he got his missions. And as long as Banzaitron kept his distance.
Banzaitron laughed. “Agreeable, at least.” The laugh had an edge under it, sheathing a blade. “So,” he said, shifting gears, the same way he would adjust a stance when fighting. “How are the Terrorcons?”
“Fine.” Sixshot gave a bemused shrug. “I guess.”
“Not so fine,” Banzaitron corrected. He shoved a datapad across the console at him.
Sixshot glanced down. Oh.
“So. Maybe I should ask…how’s Sinnertwin?”
“Apparently injured.”
“By…?” Banzaitron did a deliberately terrible job of hiding the smirk.
“…Not aware he was so fragile.”
“Well,” Banzaitron said. “Inexperience will do that.” His optics rested on Sixshot’s face, amused.
Sixshot went still. Stiller than usual. Determined to outwait Banzaitron’s little…joke.
Banzaitron laughed easily. “I do realize how ridiculous it is asking a Terrorcon to exercise some self-restraint.” His optics quirked. “Or a Phase Six specialist, apparently.”
Sixshot fought a growl.
Banzaitron waited. The moment stretched, the smile on his face growing brittle. Then, “Call me a romantic,” Banzaitron said, his mouth quirking ironically, “But I do love a good virginity story.” He rested his chin on a cradle of his folded knuckles, optics bright, expectant.
He was enjoying this…a bit too much. “Not relevant.”
“Oh, but you’ve never done an AAR before, remember? All kinds of things are…relevant.”
Sixshot’s fist jumped, wanting nothing more than to shatter that red armor on Banzaitron’s face. “Go easier on Sinnertwin in the future,” he mumbled. Fragger never told him anything.
“Not the point, Sixshot. Who’d you lose it to.” The amusement had gone underground.
Sixshot bridled, aware the Banzaitron was pushing buttons just to push, just to see Sixshot squirm. Fine. He refused to squirm. “An Autobot.”
“Kinky.” The red optics spiraled. “He’s dead, right?”
“No.” Banzaitron would find out anyway. Everything. This was just a delay. Maybe it made a difference.
“Ah.” Nothing more.
Sixshot shifted. Banzaitron was thinking something.
“And he has a name.”
“Everyone does,” Sixshot said, venturing an evasion. “We…didn’t talk much.” The last thing he wanted to contemplate was…Banzaitron and Jetfire.
Banzaitron nodded, his shoulders lowering, relieved, face spreading into a grin. There was just…no way it didn’t look ghastly on his face. “For a klik,” he confessed, “thought you’d lost it.”
“Haven’t,” Sixshot growled, all honesty now. “Why I want a mission.”
Banzaitron sat back in his chair, dragging the datapad back across the console. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Dismissed. And this time, Sixshot was more than happy to leave. He stood up.
“Oh, and Sixshot?”
“What.” He stopped in the doorway, half turning.
“Go a little easier on the Terrorcons.”
[***]
Jetfire discovered a new kind of agony, waiting for his comm to chime. He’d imagined every possibility for delay, every excuse. A meeting. Training. A mission? Even his wildest rationalizations and excuses exhausted themselves, and his comm line remained agonizingly clear. Sixshot wasn’t calling. He’d never, Jetfire realized, actually said he would. Jetfire had just pinned so much promise that he had heard what he had so desperately wanted to hear—or twisted it into something he could want to hear. But still, he made excuses.
Jetfire restrained himself from trying to access intel reports of recent contact, afraid to read of more Autobot deaths at Sixshot’s hands; more afraid to read of Sixshot’s death.
No, he would have heard. They would not let something so momentous as a Phase-Sixer’s death go without wide report.
It was a bitter consolation.
He stared, gloomily, at the datapad, hand idly toying with his energon cube. Around him, the dining facility bustled with noise and chatter and color. Only he seemed to sit in a sort of singularity of silence and loneliness.
He dropped his gaze back to the datapad, at the title of the article he’d called up. Yes. High heat superconductivity in crystalline alloys. Useful discovery, infinite potentials for application. He forced himself to concentrate.
“Hi?”
Jetfire looked up. First Aid. “Hello,” he said, withdrawing, wings edging forward.
“Can I sit here with you?”
“I, um…yes.” He had no reason to say no. And he should, he argued with himself, open to opportunities to make friends. It was just ironic that only now were any of them seemingly making any effort. “I’m sorry,” he added. “I’m just…I was alone on the station. It’s hard to readjust.” That sounded plausible, and more than half true.
The smaller mech settled himself down next to Jetfire, craning his head at the datapad. “Is this what you were researching at the archive the other day?”
“Yes,” Jetfire said. A long pause. Jetfire squirmed, and the thought hit him—what if Sixshot commed him now? “It is…interesting.”
First Aid looked dubious. “Do you…have a project you’re working on?” A question radiating innocence. For once, no ulterior motive.
“I have my notes,” Jetfire said. “And I am waiting to acquire some of the materials—my ongoing experiments had to be abandoned back on the asteroid." They had left in a mad hurry, barely managing to scoop up Jetfire’s records before shepherding him, numb and slow moving and exactly, he realized now, the big, clumsy, slow idiot they’d probably always seen him as.
“Can you go back for them?”
Jetfire blinked. He’d…never thought of that. “I suppose.” Would it be good to see that place again where so many things had happened? Or would it just make this ache worse? He thought of the mech Sixshot had killed. The body had come back but…had they left the stain and shrapnel on the floor?
“Are you afraid? I’m sure Optimus can put together a team to, you know, go with you.”
Afraid. A team. No. “I will consider it,” he said. “Thank you for the idea.”
First Aid nodded, grinning, taking up his ration cube. “Sometimes it helps, you know, being outside the situation. You can see stuff more clearly. That’s what Ratchet always says about repairs.”
“He is very wise,” Jetfire said. His hand went to his own neglected cube. Yes. He should refuel. He took a sip. Perhaps he could go back to the station. And…tell Sixshot he was going there. And they could meet again and…settle things. Somehow. One wing twitched.
“I’d come with you,” First Aid volunteered.
Jetfire spluttered, his half-formed fantasy shattering. He tried to clear his intakes, placing the cube unsteadily back on the table.
“Oh!” First Aid jumped up, hands poised to do something to help, but not quite finding what, “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Jetfire coughed. He smiled sheepishly. “Amazing I managed to refuel all that time on my own, isn’t it?”
“I-I never doubted you,” First Aid said, shyly. His hand moved, suddenly, wiping a droplet of energon from Jetfire’s cheek.
Jetfire stiffened, seeing innocence and helpfulness and something even under that—a wistful longing. No. He couldn’t. First Aid was small, and fragile, physically and emotionally, his fingers tiny and gentle—too small, too gentle—on Jetfire’s cheek. And he thought he knew Jetfire—they all thought they knew—and though First Aid was wrong, though Jetfire knew he could never live inside the small shell they had of him, Jetfire didn’t want First Aid to be the first, the only one, hurt when that realization imploded.
Something ran cold through Jetfire’s systems, and for the first time he felt…tainted.
no subject
You write the most interesting relationships! <3
no subject
no subject
There's something about that one line that just punched me in the gut harder than all the others.
no subject
no subject
a-and I took Banzaitron SO much more seriously BEFORE I knew he was a Neon Green Lolidalek from transsexual Transylvania! (cue the Rocky Horror soundtrack here.) He sounded so intimidating! But now I can't get the actual visuals out of my head! The robofrills! The phallohat! auuuugh.
no subject
And I'm probably canonfailing so hard with First Aid it's not even funny, but yeah, to make things WORSE for Jetfire, cue Sweet Innocent Admirer.
no subject
Jetfire/Sixshot/First Aid, and then world peace, w00t! :Dno subject
I...can't imagine First Aid's reaction to Sixshot. Or vice versa! ^___^ "Hi you're....big." *glare*