shadow_vector | Fic: Celebration

Verse: TFA, Inamorato AU
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Lugnut x Strika, Bonecrusher x Brawl, Barricade x Blackout

For the

tf_rare_pairing March 'double date' challenge: 'yearning' and 'unprovokable'.

A/N. I have no idea how Barricade gets into *everything*. But...here he is. Little pervert. Semi-collaboration with

wicked3659 : both of our stories, this and Starlight, take place the same time, the same place. Just a cracky weird idea we had since both of us had Lugnut/Strika.

Barricade had a simple policy: go anywhere where there’s free food. And a free party? Oh, he was there. And he’d polished Blackout for the occasion, so he also had to look forward to the way Blackout moved when detailed. All sleek and shiny. It killed him that this job made the copter so happy—Barricade kinda wanted to be the only thing that made Blackout happy. But at least he got to see Blackout happy, and get a few stolen kisses through the night. Okay he would probably initiate most of those—he just wanted everyone to know the Copter Was Off Limits.

He surveyed the crowd. Someone here would know something. That was the other reason he was keeping his optics glued to Blackout—to see who else was noticing him, to see who might be a little too surprised to see the return to health and sexiness.

Funny all these Autobots were here, considering that the big loser for Fight Fifty was one of theirs. Typical Autobots, Barricade snorted. All their propaganda claimed they didn’t do this factionalism thing any more. Here was proof. Dancing on the grave of their fallen. Sure, mech wasn’t dead, but he sure wasn’t going to be pretty any time soon.

He just hoped they stayed behaved, so Blackout wouldn’t have to get too rough with them. At least, unless he could watch.

He’d spotted the ‘café outrage’ bags in the employees’ entrance, which meant his attention was sorely split. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too much of a dereliction of duty to help himself. And…maybe snatch up some of those crispy treats for later. Frag, he loved those things. DESPITE the fact Bonecrusher was involved. And besides, a mech needed to be fully energized to do his best work. No use thinking on an empty tank. Empty tanks were for killing, and he wasn’t feeling like doing that tonight.

He sidled over to the laden tables, jumpy lest Onslaught be around to criticize his manners again. Like me fine when I’m killing for you, he thought, sourly. But tonight, he would refuse to let Onslaught poison his night. There was a copter to ogle, and if he played it right, rotorsex. Well, MORE rotorsex. Detailing the rotors had led to more than a little rotorfondling. He had hopes for even more.

“You!” Bonecrusher snapped, as he approached.

Barricade twitched. “Me?”

“No, not you, YOU!” Bonecrusher’s long arm extended in a pointing gesture that was almost shaking with emotion. “Step away from the fraggin’ gravy boat.”

Barricade turned. Oh. Brawl. Well, that explained it. Brawl couldn’t figure out how to sit down without a manual. And he was holding the gravy boat above his mouth, preparing to pour the liquid straight down his throat. Ha! Even Barricade knew better than that!

Brawl froze, optics wide. He looked over at Bonecrusher, the gravy boat loose in his fingers.

“PUT IT DOWN BEFORE YOU SPILL IT!” Bonecrusher bellowed. “Do you know how slaggin’ hard it is to make a rust roux?”

“Uhhhhh, no?” Brawl squeaked.

“Well then, could you do me the fraggin’ courtesy of NOT SPILLING IT ON THE FLOOR?!” Bonecrusher was trembling with, well…Barricade would have to call it ‘outrage.’

“Sorry,” Brawl said, meekly. He placed the gravy boat carefully back on the table, backing away as if he were afraid it might explode. “It’s really good,” he said, like an apology. As if the food had made him do it. Well, Brawl was pretty suggestible. You never quite knew. It was possible.

“Of course it’s good,” Bonecrusher snapped. But on the plus side, he wasn’t bellowing any more. Conversation, which had been blasted to silence by his outburst, slowly resumed.

“Did you make it? You’re super good at cooking.”

A normal mech might have preened at the naked praise. Not Bonecrusher. Not so much. “Of course I made it. And of course I’m good. And YOU are a slaggin’ palateless culinary heathen.”

“Probably,” Brawl agreed. “I don’t know what those big words mean, but you’re the expert.”

Bonecrusher gaped at him. Barricade could read his thoughts as clearly as is Bonecrusher had a LED display. ‘This mech…is an idiot.’ Even then, understatement. Brawl was good at what he was good at—blowing stuff up and breaking things with his head. His one saving grace was that he was entirely pliable. A perfect weapon: lethal, obvious, stubborn, and too dumb to ask any inconvenient questions.

“So, like,” Brawl shuffled his feet, nervously. “What am I allowed to eat?”

“NOTHING!” Bonecrusher howled. “You are banned from eating. Ever again!”

“Uhhhh, Bonecrusher,” Barricade offered, recoiling a step or two as the beetly red optics swung around to him. “Yeah. Can’t really talk to Brawl like that.”

“I’ll talk to any miscreant who disgraces my cooking any slaggin’ way I please.”

“Yeah, but…he takes it kinda seriously.”

Brawl was already quivering, his optics spilling over with lens lubricant. “B-but I’ll DIE!” Barricade rolled his optics pointedly at Bonecrusher.

Bonecrusher jutted a frustrated lip at him, but relented. “Fine. You can eat. Maybe.” He looked over the chafing dishes. “Here.” He grabbed up a plate and tossed a serving of rust-rolls and fried energon sticks on it and thrust it, ungraciously, at Brawl. “You can have these.”

Brawl took the plate with something like awe and reverence. Barricade breathed a silent sigh of relief that the crispy treats hadn’t been offered. More for him. And the copter. He’d totally share. Maybe he could find some way to combine crispy treats and rotors. No, that sounded sticky and messy. Hrm. The night was young, something would come to him.

“Do you think you can manage to eat those without specific instructions?” Bonecrusher sneered. “Or am I going to have to stand over here and make sure you don’t choke to death?”

“I can see,” Barricade said, snatching for some of the energon sticks himself, “why the restaurant thing didn’t really work out for you.”

“Worked out fine.” Bonecrusher huffed. “Not my fault mechs don’t know how to appreciate energon that’s cooked properly. War ruined every slaggin’ palate on Cybertron. “

“Not mine,” Barricade said around a mouthful of energon sticks. Frag, these were good, too. He’d have to hang around back after the party and get first dibs on leftovers. As a…close friend of an employee.

“You just have no manners,” Bonecrusher said.

“Yeah well,” he hastily covered his mouth while he was chewing, “can’t have everything.” Next to him, Brawl was shoving the food into his own stupid maw. Barricade stepped closer to block the view: Bonecrusher would probably implode from rage if he saw Brawl cramming roll and stick in his mouth at the same time. Some sort of haute cuisine sin. Whatever. Barricade was already going to the Pit to begin with.

“You’re amazing!” Brawl burbled, crumbs flying from his mouth. “You’re like the most amazing mech ever. Can I watch you cook sometimes?”

Barricade almost choked on his roll. No, that didn’t sound creepy at all. And Barricade was smart enough to know that watching Bonecrusher cook was probably a bad idea. Bonecrusher would have… knives.

“No!” Bonecrusher snapped. “You would get your…Stupid Cooties all over everything.”

“Stupid Cooties?” Barricade echoed.

“Would you like to be banned from eating too?” Bonecrusher snarled, optics narrow red lines.

“You could try,” Barricade’s optics glinted.

“I bet he’d help me if I asked.” Bonecrusher looked pointedly at Brawl who was staring at the empty plate with an expression of ineffable (read: stupid) sadness. Bonecrusher plated another handful of the fries, this time drizzling them with gravy, and handed that to the little green tank. Brawl looked like he was about to prove you could explode from happiness. Bribery, plain and simple.

Bonecrusher was probably right. Barricade wouldn’t put it beyond Brawl to kill for food. Slag, he didn’t really put it past himself. A few of those crispy treats or maybe some of those noodles, and he’d be a one-mech assassination machine. He was simply smart enough not to let Bonecrusher know that.

And suddenly, Barricade had An Idea. Okay, not the usual ‘Kinky Things to do with the Copter’ idea or even a ‘Fantasies About Killing Onslaught’ idea. But the best Mischief Idea he’d had in a loooooooong time.

“Brawl,” he turned to the tank. “I bet Bonecrusher could use some help moving stuff at the end of the party.” This stuff looked unbreakable enough. Brawl’s optics lit up with a stupid kind of hopefulness.

“Can I?” he said.

“Sure!” Barricade said, jovially. “Bonecrusher’s just a bit shy when it comes to asking for help.”

“Barricade,” Bonecrusher muttered, “I am going to rip those stupid tires off your arms and grate them into coleslaw and make you eat it.”

Well, that sounded…extreme. “No you wouldn’t,” Barricade bluffed. “That would gunk up your grater thingie.”

“Thingie?! THINGIE?!?! It’s a slaggin’ BOX grater, you ignorant savage!”

“Right. Okay.” Time to beat a hasty retreat. “Anyway, Brawl, he really needs help.” And how. “See ya!” He snatched up the tray of crispy treats and zoomed into the crowd. Ha! Pilfer success! Behind him, he could hear Bonecrusher’s strangled cry of rage. But he, devious little mech that he was, was counting on the fact that Bonecrusher would find it more important to guard the buffet en masse from other ‘savages’ than to rescue one measly tray of like…the most delicious thing ever.

Blackout was really glad his relationship wasn’t like Lugnut’s with Madam General Strika. And it was all because of Barricade, of course. He could totally see himself mooning after Barricade the way Lugnut did after Madam General Strika, but Barricade was way too nice to be that mean to him. Oh he knew that Strika liked Lugnut, and it was probably just being professional and stuff that she kept so distant from him tonight. Still, Blackout was extra glad when Barricade had suddenly appeared next to him, a full tray of crispy treats in his hands. He hadn’t been able to resist bending in for a quick kiss. And then another one as the surprised blink of all four of Barricade’s optics just hit him as the most adorable thing ever. Frag but Barricade was so hot.

And so thoughtful. Blackout loved these treats! “You are so awesome!”

“Yeah, I know,” Barricade said, grinning. “Can you help me stash some of these for later?”

“But…they’re kind of for the party?” Blackout winced at the impatient flicker in Barricade’s optics. He must have said something stupid…again. “I’m sorry,” he said, hanging his head.

Barricade muttered something about ‘consciences with rotors’. “Of course,” he said, a bit louder. “I was just thinking that if we grabbed just one or two now for ourselves, we’d at least get some too, right? I mean, no good if you pass out from hunger.”

“Okay,” Blackout said. That sounded reasonable. He needed to be at the top of his game if anything happened, you know, from the Autobots—who might be riled that their mech lost—and everyone else. And the pink-frosted treats really were yummy. He opened his compartment. “We can keep some here.” He giggled as Barricade stowed a double handful of the treats in his storage. Barricade snapped the hatch shut with a deliberate tickle. “Mind if we stick around late?”

Barricade shook his head, optics rolling. Blackout knew what he was thinking—copter and his job. Still, Barricade was totally understanding about it. Which made him even more awesome. “Let me just,” he said, sighing, “take these around to the others.”

“Awww, that’s super cool of you, Barricade,” Blackout said.

“Yeah, yeah.” Barricade’s optics glinted in the way they did when he was scheming something. “Owe me for this, copter.”

Blackout didn’t quite follow that, but then again, Barricade was like…way smarter than he was and it was probably something he just wasn’t smart enough to get. Besides, all the other times he’d ‘owed’ Barricade, he’d managed to pay it off in interfacing. Which was pretty awesome. He patted his storage, fingers lingering over where Barricade had tickled him, as the smaller mech wove through the crowd, offering the tray to various mechs.

Lugnut ambled over to him. “Did you know about this, Blackout?”

Blackout didn’t know what to answer. So he went with the truth. Because honestly was always the best policy. “I just knew they called me for some overtime. Honest.”

Lugnut grunted. “I am undeserving of this honor. I do not know why Strika thought this was necessary. I was merely doing my duty to uphold the honor of Kaon!”

“You deserve a prize for that,” Blackout said, earnestly. “I get prizes from Barricade when I do good stuff, so, you should too.” Well, maybe not from Barricade. He wanted to be the only mech getting THOSE kind of prizes.

“But I did not ask for a party. I would much rather have General Strika…to myself.” Lugnut looked embarrassed and a little sad, his five optics drooping.

Blackout felt really bad. Lugnut was a cool mech, and he’d heard more than enough of Blackout gushing about Barricade. “You know what I found?” He waited until the optics focused on him. “I found that for stuff like this, where Barricade and I are like together but we can’t really fool around? It kinda makes it really hot later.” He blushed, his olive facial crests quivering with embarrassment. But it was true. Now, just watching Barricade swing gracefully through the crowd, he could feel his interface systems heat up.

“Really?” Lugnut looked surprised, his optics drifting back to Strika as she was patrolling the perimeter of the room. He watched as she paused to suggest to two Autobot dancers that they were dancing a bit too…suggestively that they might take one of the rooms. Even though they were Autobots, they respected her authority. She was commanding and beautiful.

“Sure. Barricade says it’s simple strategy. Like cutting a supply line.”

“Strategy,” Lugnut echoed. “Yes.” He stomped one foot. “I approve of this strategy.” He faltered. “I just wish…she was a little less strategic about it.”

“I think it’s a grounder thing,” Blackout added. “You know. Try to drive us airframes crazy. With their cute tires and all.”

“Oh,” Lugnut groaned. “Do not talk to me about her tires! Visions of beauty!”

“Sorry,” Blackout said. “But I bet that’s what it is. I bet she jumps you later.” Blackout certainly knew his plans for later. But first, a good night at work. And he could feel the treats in his storage like tasty promises.

“This,” Bonecrusher was expostulating wildly, his long arms knocking into the dangling pots in the kitchen, “is an absolute outrage. You cannot saddle me with this…MORON.”

General Strika pursed her lips. “Bonecrusher. Ve haff vorked together long time, yes? Vhen I steer you wrong bevore?”

Bonecrusher sidestepped the point. “But…he’s a moron!” Sticking to his guns. His stupid guns. “He’ll break something!”

“He only breaks things you vant him to break. He is very goot about that if you giff him chance.”

“I do not want to ‘giff him chance’. This is all some evil plot by Barricade to ruin me!”

Strika tilted her head to consider. Meanwhile Brawl was doing his best to pack up the newly rinsed pans, wincing as his shoulder fairing clanked into one of the overhanging pots. “Iz pozzible. You know vhat I do vhen Barricade has plans?” Her optics glinted. “I beat him at his game. Iz goot for intellect.”

Bonecrusher considered. “Would show the little pest, wouldn’t it? Do you know he stole the whole tray of crispy treats?”

“Oh he came round vith them. He can be goot mech vhen he vants.” When Blackout was watching. Strika was no fool.

Which was, Bonecrusher thought sourly, not particularly often.

“Besides, Brawl is goot vorker. You’ll see. Is alvays useful to have zuch devotion.” Her face split into a rare smile. “Speaking of vhich.” She saw Lugnut, disconsolately moping across the back of the kitchen, behind where the others—including Barricade—were wiping down glassware. Yes, Strika thought, watching Barricade lean against Blackout, and the copter’s arm wrap around the narrow shoulders in a quick embrace, and to brace him while the copter planted a kiss on his head, devotion is useful. But there was something even more than devotion, that was even more than simply useful.

A few more things to take care of, she thought. And then, finally, time for herself. And Lugnut. She winked him a signal to follow her as she reentered the main room. Keeping your soldiers happy in the aftermath of battle was vital to long term success. Just because some of her ‘soldiers’ were Autobots, and parolees didn’t change that. A quick talk with Prowl—whose dedication and quiet competence had not gone unnoticed—and, she thought, she would have earned herself a breath of fresh air on the helipad.