Separation 1/2

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Verse: TFA Inamorato AU
Rating: PG-13 implied slash/violence
Characters: Barricade x Blackout, Arcee, Onslaught, Vortex
Summary: Following on from Impulse Control, Barricade has regrets

 

Barricade sat on the floor right inside the door to the recharge, watching Blackout sleep.  He saw the datapad next to Blackout’s form on the berth, discarded, probably when recharge overtook him and he could no longer wait up for Barricade to return.  He’d sat here for megacycles, since he’d gotten home from his little…’visit’ with Onslaught.  He felt too dirty, tainted, to do what he wanted to do, which was crawl up in the bed next to the copter and twine himself around one of the massive forearms.  He wanted that so much, to feel the gentle vibration of Blackout’s power core recharging, to feel the ebb and flow of Blackout’s cooling ventilations against his back. 

Onslaught was right—about two things.  First that, frag, he did love the damn copter.  He couldn’t deny it, at least to himself anymore.  If he didn’t, he’d’ve kicked Blackout awake the klik he’d gotten home and demanded interfacing.  And Blackout would have complied, happily. 

Barricade was a jerk.  Onslaught was right about that, too.  But that wasn’t the second thing he was really right about—the thing that bothered him.  Being a jerk was just…being himself.  But he felt a dry ache at the very thought of doing to Blackout, or even with Blackout, what he’d just done with Onslaught. He didn’t want that from the copter. Didn’t want the copter to have to deal with that, see that side of him.  He wanted to be the sweet affectionate mech Blackout thought he was.  He didn’t want to be what he was.  Most of all he didn’t want to cheat on the copter.  The fact that he had—and with his boss—stirred a sort of sick fear in him, mixed with self-loathing. No control, Barricade, none.  Get thrown across a desk by your boss and what do you do?  Interface with him.  Yeah, that’s perfectly sane. 

He scrubbed his claws together, as if trying to get them clean.

Blackout sighed in his recharge, his hands shifting restlessly. Almost, Barricade thought, as if looking for Barricade.  Naïve, innocent copter.  How little he knew.  Barricade wondered if Blackout was having dreams about missing him. He hoped not—how could he choose between keeping his unclean, undeserving frame away and giving Blackout bad dreams? 

This, he thought, is what the sleep of the innocent looks like.  Pure. Open.  Serene.  Frag, he wished he could sleep like that—flat on his back, splayed out, trusting.  Instead of how he actually slept—curled in a hostile, protected ball, back up against something. Paranoid of attack, even in his sleep. 

He remembered a few solars ago when he’d been injured, and had crawled up to wedge himself between Blackout’s legs.  Feeling safe and protected and…not alone.  He hated being alone, being still, when his thoughts could settle and…he could reflect. 

Hated it. 

And it was the worst punishment he could think of to be doing it right now, forcing himself to be alone, to sit back and think over what he’d done, to deny himself comfort. 

Frag, Blackout, he thought.  He pushed himself to his feet, creeping noiselessly closer—the same rolling gait he’d used countless times to move soundlessly behind his target.  I’m dangerous to you: you’re dangerous to me.   He felt along behind his audio mount, and tore out the locator beacon signal node. 

Barricade bent over, and gently brushed his lips against the copter’s supraorbital crest. Blackout sighed in his sleep at the touch. Be well, he thought, his spark almost burning with suppressed emotion.  Be happy.  Forget all about me.

He turned and, as stealthily as he had come, walked out, the door muttering shut behind him, calling him a coward. 

***

Blackout was frantic. And he knew it was throwing him off at work.  It was bad enough Barricade hadn’t come home last night and he was worried sick about him, but now he was screwing up the only other thing he cared about—his job.  So when Madam Arcee called him into the main office, he was shaking with fear.  He was going to lose both of them in the same day.

“Sit down,” Arcee said, gently, pointing one slim white finger at a chair behind him, as she perched herself daintily on the desk. 

It took Blackout three tries to settle himself on the chair, his nervously twitching rotors getting in the way.  “Sorry!” he said, his optics bright with embarrassment, “I’m sorry!” 

Arcee waited until he was settled. “Something bothering you, Blackout?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, drooping his head to study his hands. 

“Blackout,” she chided. “Are you lying to me?”

His head drooped lower. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“What’s bothering you? You can tell me.”

“It’s…uh…it’s Barricade.”

“Barricade? He’s not hurt is he?”  Arcee thought worriedly back to the recent events, when Barricade was brought back injured. He’d received medical treatment here. If he was still hurt, there could be a liability issue.  She might be able to get Ratchet to check him out.  No, slag.  He was gone on that mission to try to find Prowl.  She missed him suddenly, terribly much.

Her musings were cut short by the copter’s wail. “I don’t know!  I don’t even know where he is!”

Oh, this sounded serious, but a bit more in Arcee’s area of expertise.  All of those advice columns she’d penned during the war had given her a lot of experience counseling woes of the spark.  “Oh, honey,” she said, her voice soothing. “Tell me what happened.” 

“I don’t know!” The copter dropped his head in his hands, trying to cover shameful sobs. “He had a meeting with Onslaught last night and he never came home and I don’t know and I know he’ll just get mad if I worry but I tried to find him using the locator beacon and it’s not working and I can’t raise him on comm and I think he’s DEAD!”  A huge suck of breath. 

Oh, is that all? Arcee thought to herself.  Well, Barricade didn’t do things by halves. “Why would you think he’s dead? Maybe Onslaught just gave him a mission and he didn’t have a chance to say goodbye before he left?”

Blackout shook his head, his rotors trembling with emotion. “I had a memory purge last night that he came to say goodbye and…and…he kissed me on the forehead!”  One of his hands rubbed the center of his chevronned crest as if it could still feel this phantom kiss. 

“So?” Arcee asked, reasonably. “What’s so wrong about that?” It sounded almost sweet. 

“He NEVER kisses me there!”  The copter’s voice quavered. “I know he’s dead and he came to me in a vision!” 

“No, no,” Arcee said.  “Look, why don’t we see if Onslaught is here, or Vortex. We can ask them about the meeting, all right?” She winced—she was using her sparkling-teaching voice, but instead of getting riled, Blackout sniffled and nodded, his optics glistening. 

“Okay,” the copter said.  “I’m sorry, Madam Arcee. I’m just really worried. And I don’t want to lose my job.” The olive finials of his facial crests began trembling.

“Oh, Blackout.”  Arcee’s spark hurt for the big copter.  “You won’t lose your job, I promise.”  He looked up, a little hopeful. She continued.  The poor thing really needed a bit of a boost right now. “Everyone here loves you.  And you’re one of us and we don’t want you to be upset.” 

He nodded, as though that were an order. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.  He wiped his facial crests with the back of one large fist.  The gesture struck Arcee as touchingly childlike. 

“Now, why don’t you go to the break room until you can get yourself together?  Have a little snack? I’ll go see if I can find Onslaught for you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His obedience was so touching, Arcee thought. If only Ratchet would listen to her like this.  She felt her own brow contract with a bit of worry—Barricade was missing for Blackout, and while she at least knew that Ratchet was on a mission, it didn’t help her feel any better about it.  She felt like a hypocrite telling Blackout not to worry.  Of course you worried. 

Blackout rose to his feet. He stood awkwardly by the door, as if wanting to ask her something. 

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Madam Arcee, could…could you help pick the next thing for me to study? I don’t know what I gotta study next.”  He waited for her nod, and then reached for his compartment, where he’d stowed the device. “I don’t want Barricade to come back and find me stupid and stuff.”

Arcee felt her own lip tremble.  “Of course, Blackout,” she managed to say. “We’ll make sure you’re ready for his quizzes.” 

The copter’s shy, worried smile broke her spark.  No, they’d find him. First Prowl, now Barricade. It was too much. As if fate had it in for Inamorato.

***

Vortex frowned as the pink and white Autobot left him and went back to mech (or femme, he guessed) the bar.   He tapped his comm.

Onslaught’s voice, always sounding slightly impatient. “On.”

“Barricade. Last night. You didn’t send him on a mission.”  Onslaught hated being asked questions when he was busy.  And while it was hard to tell if he were busy, Vortex had learned always to err on the side of ‘busy as flaming slag’. 

“No. Reason you’re suddenly so interested in yesterday’s schedule.” He wasn’t much for asking them, either. He must not be that busy. 

“The Autobot madam was asking about him.  Apparently he’s gone missing.”

“Arcee—why does she care?” Only sarcasm saved that from being a question.

Vortex answered it anyway.  “She doesn’t.” He looked up just as Blackout lumbered into the room, shooting a grateful look at Arcee. “I think she’s handling Blackout.” 

A contemplative grunt. “Comm freq.”

“Disabled.”

Another grunt followed by a pause.  “Locator beacon’s disabled, too.”

“Dead?”

“Don’t think it’s likely. Do you?”

No.  Barricade wasn’t the suicidal type. If he ever did do himself in, Vortex was pretty sure there’d be a large body count to keep him company.  And…, “he seems to be able to handle himself. If he’d gotten in real trouble, he’d’ve activated his distress.” 

“You have a lot of faith in him,” Onslaught said, dryly.

No, Vortex thought. YOU have faith in him. I just know better than to question it. “He’s a survivor.”

A muffled curse.  “Likely places to start a search.” Vortex noted that Onslaught wasted no time asking why he thought Barricade might have disappeared.  Guilty, Onslaught? he thought. 

“Last investigation had him in Iacon.  Hunting down that Backslash character.”

“The one who met with an unfortunate accident.”

An unfortunate accident they both knew was called ‘threatening Barricade’s copter.’  “Do we trace that neighborhood or that lead?” 

“Lead’s more important.” 

Huh, Vortex thought. Not to finding Barricade. Not if Barricade was going underground.  Still, they did have limited resources and…Onslaught probably guessed that Barricade’s disappearance would somehow show up in more bodies of mechs who had dared to threaten Blackout.  He made a mental note to be nice to the copter.  “I can run a few…unofficial checks with his old team.  Off duty, of course.”

He could hear the smirk. “Why, Vortex. Didn’t know you cared.”

Vortex snorted. “Just want my turn with him, that’s all.”

“Maybe I’m possessive.”

Vortex choked over his reply. He’d been about to make some retort-in-kind about Moonracer. Which would blow the whole thing. And that made him paranoid that the comment was a set-up. “All right,” he recovered, “maybe I just want to watch again.”  That sounded…reasonably like him, he hoped.  Moonracer would kill him if he screwed it up.  She’d been hinting for weeks that she wouldn’t mind a second round. 

A half-disbelieving snort, but Onslaught didn’t follow up with anything suspicious, only a “You know what you’re doing.”  Which was carte-blanche permission.  Vortex looked over at Blackout, whose optics kept drifting to the door, lit with hope, as if expecting Barricade to stroll in.  Slag.  Copter didn’t deserve a jerk like Barricade.  He didn’t know why he was sticking his aft into this one, but he was.  Like the damn copter gave off some kind of aura of altruism.  He made a log-note that Blackout was a decidedly bad influence.

***

Barricade rubbed at one his upper arms.  Hog did good work, but this had been a rush job, and the strip down before the repaint had been a little rough.  No disrespect to Hog, though.  It just hurt right now. And it deserved to.  Barricade had bigger issues than an itch, though.  He didn’t even know HOW to feel.  Mad at himself.  Mad at Onslaught.  Ugly and dark and dirty. He could kill for Blackout, no problem.  It was…all this other stuff that came with it that he wished he could get rid of. 

And he had started it.  He just wanted Blackout safe.  And to be honest, all this ‘caring about someone NOT named Barricade’ was a unique and scary occurrence for him. 

What was he even doing?  Hiding, yeah.  But also…hoping he could do something to straighten everything out: himself on the inside.  He couldn’t go back, couldn’t face Blackout or himself, until he’d finally done something big. Something they could all look on and respect. Right now…he couldn’t trust himself around Blackout.  Or anyone. 

So he rolled out of Kaon, almost desperate enough to ask for the hand of Primus to guide him. As if Primus ever dealt with such twisted slag as Barricade. 

He’d been in Hog’s shop almost an entire solar.  Which had given him a pretty good idea of exactly how ‘legitimate’ Hog’s business…wasn’t.  Still, not his problem.  Hog was adjusting after the war way the slag better than Barricade was, so, Barricade better shut the frag up.  But Hog knew Barricade would keep his secrets, because he’d be keeping pretty slaggin’ secret the fact that he saw Barricade.  Mutuality of mistrust.  What Barricade knew best.  The only thing he trusted was self-interest. Which was probably why Blackout freaked him out so much.

He’d told Hog he was heading back to Kaon center.  Which meant, of course, he was heading…the exact opposite direction. After winding a circuitous path around Kaon’s slummier outlying areas, he zipped around the cloverleaf onto the main road to Iacon, the rising sun cutting the road in front of him into pink and black patterns.  Blackout loved sunrises, he remembered, suddenly. Had woken Barricade up more than once, on various planets, on ships, in orbiting stations, to watch the play of solar light over things. “Made it like everything was new again,” Blackout had said. “Fresh start.”  Barricade had sneered it off as the usual upbeat pseudo-philosophy that Blackout liked.  Now…he desperately wished it were true. 

On the mission: he didn’t have a mission.  But he made one up for himself, simply because having no direction, no aim, was the worst thing he’d ever experienced. He needed to be pointed at something or else he’d explode. Onslaught knew that, and though he hated that Onslaught knew, he knew he could trust the Combaticon to keep him pointed at something that deserved his darker attention.  But right now…he didn’t trust Onslaught either. So he had to call his own mission. And that left…Slingslot. Or whatever.   Backslash had left traces.  And with a change of paintjob, Barricade was pretty sure he could get some leverage there.  If he could bring in that mech, maybe, MAYBE he could hold his head up again. Maybe things would fall into place.  Maybe he’d deserve something good to happen for once. Maybe he’d NOT, for a change, fuck everything up.  Two fouled investigations and now…he’d cheated on Blackout.  No excuse possible. 

Iacon in darkness looked like any of a hundred cities Barricade had run during the war.  This was no different. This…for better or worse—was his element.  He jetted to the offramp, taking him to the run down neighborhood where he’d tracked down Backslash.

**

Vortex comm’d Onslaught from outside of Ground Hog’s…interesting establishment.

“Update,” Onslaught said, briskly. 

“He was here.”

“Verbal confirmation?”

“The opposite.  Absolute, flat out denial.  Alleges he hasn’t seen Barricade since the end of the War.”

“Flat lie.”

“Yeah.” Well, when he could turn the music down enough to pretend to listen to Vortex’s questions.  Vortex always loved the ‘I’m too busy to answer your official military investigation’ ploy.  Because, yeah, t hat wasn’t suspicious.

“Next lead.”

“Barricade’s too smart to have left…in the direction of where he headed. But we can presume he picked up some extra equipment and maybe some physical mod, while he was here.  Going to check his other former associates.”

“Fine. Uh,” And here Onslaught’s commanding tone broke down a bit, “I’ll be off-comm for the next few megas.  An important meeting.”

Vortex was glad this was only an audio comm—he wasn’t able to keep the smirk from his face. Right. Important meeting. With Moonracer.  The only thing that kept a pang of jealousy from his processor was that Moonracer had promised to make vids of the whole thing.  Oh, dear Primus.  On so many levels.

“Right.  Might queue a message if I find anything.”

“That would be adequate.” Onslaught cut the line.  Vortex smirked.  Oh, Onslaught.  Vortex’s glee over Onslaught’s stiff clumsiness fed his excitement. Barricade was missing and that was a mission. The first real mission since the war’s end.  He’d forgotten how it felt to have something to do that was worth doing.  The mental game.  The guessing, the questioning, the moving pieces around trying to make them fit.  When he finally found Barricade, he would have to thank him for reminding him what it felt like to be useful. To be alive. 

***

Barricade spent the day skulking around. He’d had an uneasy snooze in a parking lot.  While he was fairly certain that Ground Hog’s forgery would bear all but Elite Guard inspection, he’d rather live in ambiguity about that for a bit longer.  He’d had some worry at Ground Hog’s shop: he’d kept this identity—his only Neutral—going pretty well during the war, but after…like everything else, he’d let it slip.  Still, maybe it would just be chalked up to generalized upheaval. A lot of mechs, he told himself, not just him, were more or less lost at the end of the war. Drifting.

Dusk fell, finally, and the mechs he was interested in dragged themselves out of whatever hideyholes they had.  He still had flashsnaps of the ones who had assaulted them.  It would have been easier to tap Vortex to see if he’d gotten a match on a (probably hacked) Autobot database, but…a good operative, Barricade knew, could operate without the ease and convenience of databases. He’d work it out. 

He watched a few likely dirtballs stroll into a grimy pub.  ‘New Hope,’ the neon sign announced, but…the place looked like it had given up on both the hope and the new ages ago.  And it was ironic that dead end dirtballs would frequent a place as…given up on as this. 

He transformed and walked in after them.  Such an old, such a cliché set-up he was using.  But success rate overrode his desire for originality.

He strolled over to the bar and while the bartender was getting him some completely vile, clouded over low-grade, he pulled a flashsnap flimsy from his storage, an Intel picture of Backslash.  He flipped it in front of the bartender, pitching his voice just a little too loud. “Ever seen this mech?”

A quick glance down at the flimsy.  Barricade watched the optics react. Yeah, he’d definitely seen Backslash.  Plenty.  “Who wants to know?” the bartender retorted.

“Mech who’s paying me,” Barricade answered with a shrug. 

“Who’s paying you?”

Barricade allowed a smirk to cross his face. “He paid extra for confidentiality.”

A glimmer of…something from the bartender.  Dislike, but a respectful one. “Haven’t seen him for a while.” A nod at the flimsy.  Barricade noted a few of the other mechs taking an interest. 

“He say anything about where he might go?”  Pretend like it’s an actual inquiry. You don’t ‘know’ he’s dead.  You know, other than the fact that you killed him.

A shake of the head, the bartender’s large audios almost whistling against the air.  “Not really my best friend, you know. Just…was here and then not here.”  Interesting. Either the bartender didn’t know Backslash was dead, or he didn’t want this new investigator to know.

Barricade’s turn to nod.  “Pretty regular customer before then?”

“Pretty regular.  Not enough to be able to tell you when he stopped showing up though.”  Ah, cutting off the next question.  Barricade hid his grin. This bartender has been questioned before.  Barricade didn’t mind having his inquiry shut down. The bartender was a prop to the real questioning.  Time to move this along to that point, though. “Any of his known associates ‘round tonight?”  He saw the bartender’s optics glint at the lingo, ‘known associates.’

The bartender made a show of looking around the dim interior. “Not that I can recognize.”  Barricade nodded. Making a show of protecting his customers. Had to be done. 

“Right.  Well, let me know if he shows up. “  Barricade flipped a call-code disk onto the counter.  “Ask for Stockade.” 

“Never heard of you.” Meant to be a put down.

Barricade couldn’t resist the grin and the cheesy line. “Not supposed to.”

 

Comments

[darklight8121.livejournal.com]

*grins*

"Not supposed to." I like-y.

I wanna bash Barricade in the head, making Blackout worry like that. I love this series.

[dfastback68.livejournal.com]

I read the title, the first sentence, and then went 'oh god Barricade no don't do it D:' I just want to give them all a big hug.

Once again, I'm rooting for Barricade. Here's hoping he succeeds and works through his issues.