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sakon76Right. There is a reason I usually don't respond to fanfic challenges and other people's plotbunnies. That would be because it tends to result in things like this.
For reference, the plotbunny in question was presented by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sbx here. Go read the details. I did. And then I spent my evening typing. Have tweaked a few things from the original suggestion, but what is for me to know and y'all to find out. Human names are borrowed from a WIP fic by hoshikage. Also, anything you think might be a reference either to G1 or the '07 movie... is. Happy hunting. ^_^
Warning level... mm, some cursing and mention of m/m sex. So don't read if that squicks you. Elsewise, enjoy!
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
part 1
by K. Stonham
prereleased 13th August 2007
The doorbell rang just as Michael finished washing the tomatoes. Drying his hands on a towel, he walked toward the front door of his apartment, reflexively checking through the peephole before undoing the chain and the lock before opening the door. "Hello, Jazz," he said quietly, smiling.
"Hey, Prowl," his friend replied. "Been followin' th' smell of your cookin' for the last three-four miles."
"You have not," Michael replied, waving Jazz in before shutting and re-latching the door behind him.
The Project member grinned and held out a green glass bottle that Michael took and examined while Jazz shed the black hat, scarf, and the trench coat that hid the way his clothing draped sometimes oddly over his body, depositing all three on the coat rack beside the door. "Well, maybe just the last three flights a' steps," he admitted.
"Peach cider?" Michael asked, cocking an eyebrow.
Jazz shrugged. "Sounded interesting, an' since I'm not allowed real bubbly an' you don't drink anyway, thought we could give it a try."
"Is there some kind of special occasion I've forgotten?" Michael asked, trying to remember. He wrote those kind of things on his calendar so he didn't forget them....
"Nah. Just... a rough day, so I thought I'd try t' make it somethin' special," Jazz answered. He sniffed appreciatively, ignoring the way Michael had stiffened slightly at his remark. "If your mama cooked her lasagna half as good as you do, th' angels are surely feastin' tonight."
"Hardly," Michael replied dryly, leading the way to the kitchen to continue salad assembly, fully intent on enlisting Jazz's help since he had arrived early. "She was at least twice as good as I am."
"Lucky angels," Jazz replied, grinning, and commandeered the cutting board. "Right, so what's goin' in this salad?"
*
Jaysen knew Prowl would never ask him what had gone wrong with his day. Prowl knew he didn't need to. Once their meal had progressed far enough, with Jaysen tapping the satellite networks for good music to play through Prowl's speakers, good food on the table between them, good conversation about Prowl's little sister Carla and how she was doing in college, how things went in the police force, a thousand little stories about a thousand little things that reminded Jaysen that he was still human....
Prowl had never used to be so forthcoming. It was a measure of how important Jaysen was to him that he changed like this. Even just in private.
He closed his useless eyes and sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Quietly, he took off his visor and set it on the table. "We got a new kid in the Project today. Younger'n B', even...."
"Christ," Prowl breathed. "Is he...?"
"Not like B'," Jaysen replied. "Kid allegedly volunteered. His mom and little bro disappeared three years back. Wants to try an' find 'em through the networks...."
He could hear Prowl breathe, hear his mouth open.
"His dad's one of the engineers for the Project," Jaysen said quietly.
"Sam...?" Prowl asked.
Jaysen could only nod.
"My God...."
*
They'd met the night of Carla's sixteenth birthday. Michael had had to work that evening, so she'd had dinner at a restaurant with some of her friends before heading home. No one thought anything of it when she'd waved them goodbye and started walking home, her new necklace around her throat. Tranquility was a small town despite the influx from the nearby military base, and her brother's apartment only three blocks away.
It was a block and a half later when Carla was aware she was being followed by two military men half again her age, both of them smelling vaguely of alcohol and cigarettes. Unnerved, she sped up. They matched her pace, then stepped a little faster and caught up. They made comments that made her nervous, whispered touches at her hair and throat, laughed coarsely, drunkenly at every attempt she made to get away. She was almost to the point of really panicking when another man, slightly older, stepped around a street corner and paused, taking in her dilemma, her expression.
"Gentlemen," he said, "would I be correct in assumin' this young lady ain't yours?"
"What's it to you?" one scoffed.
"Well, y'see," the black-haired stranger said, taking a step closer, "it don't reflect well on th' Force to be havin' our men harrassin' pretty girls."
"Sod off," the other shot.
There was the faintest glimmer of a smile on the man's face before he struck, quick as lightning. In less than a minute both of Carla's shadows were down, groaning, the man crouched between them. "Let's see..." he murmured, deft hands picking wallets out of their clothing. "Thomas Crack, an' Simon Wrappe. I think ya just might be gettin' into trouble with your superiors come mornin'. I'd advise y' both to head back t' base before y' dig yourselves any deeper." He tossed their wallets back onto each of their stomachs and stood, turning. "You all right?"
Carla nodded. "Thanks."
He smiled and extended a hand. "Jaysen Zander," he introduced himself. "Sorry 'bout them."
"Carla Powell," she replied, shaking his hand. "You're with the Air Force?"
He nodded. "Just got reassigned here. I heard there was some kind of music festival in the park tonight, so I came into town. I don't suppose you could point me in th' right direction?"
"Tell you what," she replied, "I'll escort you."
"Well." He tugged at his jacket, dusted away a non-existent speck of lint. "I think that makes me th' luckiest fellow this side of th' base, then."
After the concert she'd persuaded the Captain to escort her back to her home, where her brother had been waiting up for her, and introduced them. The rest, as the poet said, had been history. Michael had been the one to tag Jaysen with the nickname "Jazz" for his music-loving ways and laid-back personality, while Jazz had found various descriptors of Michael's work tendencies amusing and started calling him "Prowl" in return. It had been two great years until Jazz... vanished.
Michael had wondered afterward if there had been some clue he'd missed that he should have spotted, some deviation in Jazz's behavior, some verbal hint that he knew something was going to happen. But he could never remember anything. Jazz had dragged him out to a pizza parlor with a live band and they'd eaten and talked while watching people dance, Jazz's fingers merrily picking out the beat on the scarred wooden tabletop. "This time my choice, next time yours," Jazz had said, grinning. "So what're we doin'?" He remembered thinking how bright a blue Jazz's eyes seemed in the restaurant lights as they made plans to see a play Michael wanted sometime in the next month.
Except that after they'd parted ways that night, Jazz had never called again. His cell phone number had been reassigned, and when Michael tried his landline someone else answered. Inquiries at the Air Force base had been rebuffed, until Michael was politely but firmly informed that Jazz had been sent to Qatar.
It had felt like a lie even as he was being told it.
Jazz would never, never, have vanished like that, without a letter, without a call.
But no matter what he tried, there was no way Michael could fight the government.
*
It seemed like such a long time since he'd been among normal people that he walked the streets slower, savoring the experience. It was after dark and so he hardly needed to keep to the shadows; no one was looking at him, save for a few askance glances at the dark blue visor.
He didn't know why he'd come into town. Maybe it was for the memories of music, of the concerts, of the clubs. Tranquility had always had an awful lot of good musicians. He paused outside the front window of a pizza parlor, smiling, remembering the last time he'd been there, how the band's playing had filled him up, made him want to dance himself, but watching had been even more fun with someone to converse with--
He froze, seeing someone familiar inside, head turning like he knew who was there watching him, and their gazes couldn't precisely meet anymore, but they did the next best thing and he stood there for a minute, unable to breathe, to think. Then he turned and ran, the same instant that the man inside had vaulted free of the table and sprinted for the door, yelling his name.
He dodged through the lingering crowds, weaving back and forth, not wanting to hurt anyone but he needed to get away, he should never have come back here--
Prowl knew the town better. He always had; it was his town. In the end Jazz could only put as much distance between them as he could before ducking down a side street that--shit, it was a dead-end. Desperate, he hid himself in the shadows, wrapping coat around himself, ducking his head to minimize any glare off the damn visor.
Prowl, damn him, didn't miss the turnings or run past the little side alley. Instead he walked down it slowly, softly even though Jazz's senses picked up every near-silent footstep. His eyes flicked back and forth as he assessed every possible escape route. Jazz wondered if he was carrying his sidearm. Prowl was... prowling. Looking for him.
He couldn't let himself be caught.
As Prowl passed him, Jazz sprang, catching the police officer with an arm to his throat--an arm that was like steel now, grip so much stronger than anything human could be. He caught one of Prowl's hands between them as he dragged the cop back against his own body, grabbed the other with his free hand, twisted it almost painfully but nothing that would damage him. And then he stopped, stood. He had no idea what he should do next.
He could feel Prowl fighting for breath against his arm, though, and loosened that grasp just a little. "Jazz--" Prowl gasped.
"Shouldn't'a run after me, Prowl," he said softly almost into the other man's ear.
"You disappeared."
"Got reassigned," Jazz replied. Never mind that that hadn't entirely been of his own volition. It was done and over and he'd been a fool to come here tonight, letting his past get mixed up with his present.
"To Qatar?" Prowl's voice was contemptuous.
"No," Jazz admitted. "T' one of th' places where people don't exist if ya ask after 'em."
Prowl was quiet for a moment, then said "You could have said goodbye." And there was something broken in his voice.
Jazz loosened his grip slightly. "Thought a clean break would be better," he admitted. "I didn't expect t' see ya tonight, Prowl."
"Who does it hurt for me to know that you exist?" Prowl asked quietly. "To know that you're all right?"
"You, maybe," Jazz answered. "Weapons don't have friends, Prowl."
"And they don't like pizza and they don't listen to music, either," Prowl retorted quietly. "God, Jazz, what did they do to you?"
"Nothin'... nothin' I wasn't able t' live with," Jazz answered just as quietly.
"This is living?"
No, Jazz wanted to answer. No, this wasn't living. This was... existing. He could feel Prowl's breathing, could hear his heartbeat, could sense his body temperature, just slightly cooler than normal. He remembered the first time he'd ever heard Prowl laugh, over something Carla had said, an inconsequential description of something that had happened at school. He remembered how startled he'd been at that sound, and how intrigued. To hear cool, calm, collected Prowl laugh....
When was the last time he'd laughed, Jazz wondered, and couldn't remember.
"No," he said softly. "This ain't livin'." And he let Prowl go.
Prowl turned around, barely taking a step away, and looked Jazz in what would have been the eyes. Frowning, he reached out to pull the visor away. Jazz's hand caught his, gently this time. "Don't," Jazz said. "It's th' only way I can see, now."
Puzzlement and concern scrawled across Prowl's face. "I--" he started, then stopped. "Would you like to come back home with me?" he asked instead. "To talk."
Jazz hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. I'd like that."
*
Michael had locked the door closed behind the two of them then turned to Jazz. "Your coat," he asked simply.
"My coat?" Jazz asked dumbly.
"That way I know you'll be staying a while," Michael replied implacably, one hand held out impatiently. "Your coat, Jazz."
The pilot hesitated, then gave in and started unfastening buttons. Michael watched impassively as Jazz shrugged the garment off and handed it to him. Something about the lay of Jazz's shirt was off. The way the high-collared long-sleeved white garment fit him seemed strange. "I thought you weren't allowed long hair in the military," Michael said, hanging the coat up.
"Not in th' regular military," Jazz answered. "Where I was... well, disguisin' some things took higher priority." He flipped his long black ponytail back over one shoulder. "You wanted t' talk?"
"Can I get you something to drink?" Michael asked, going into the living room. Jazz followed.
"Jus' water, thanks."
Michael returned a minute later with two glasses of water and set them down on the coffee table, taking a seat on the chair to Jazz's right. "What happened?" he asked simply.
Jazz spent a long moment fiddling with the glass before he answered, "Exper'mentation. They needed someone who fit certain parameters... an' I had th' best record for some kinds of endurance." Michael nodded, remembering Jazz's pride in his records, his love of wild flight. It was the reason he'd never let Jazz drive anytime they'd gone anywhere. "Couldn' let that be some other schmuck... an' maybe I thought I'd be able t' do some good if it worked."
"What did they do to you?"
Jazz looked away, down at his glass. "I shouldn' tell you anythin'," he said quietly. "No one's s'posed t' know."
"I'm prepared to accept the risks," Michael replied. "And I swear, whatever it is, I will not tell anyone. Not even Carla."
Jazz's glance flicked to the mantel, where a picture of Michael's sister, taken at her high school graduation, held a place of honor. "Y' swear, not even Carla?"
"Not even Carla."
Jazz hesitated, then nodded slowly. He undid the cuff of his right sleeve and pushed it up. Halfway up his forearm a swoop of silver delineated the break between normal skin and smooth, hairless metal.
"Jazz...."
"One of th' docs found a way t' make human flesh accept metal as part a' itself," Jazz said quietly. "Found a way t' make a better fighter, a better saboteur... gotta computer in m' head too." He was quiet for a minute. "'Bout a half-dozen a' us now. 'S called 'the Project.' Guess they were more concerned with th' science've it than comin' up with a decent name...."
"Jazz," Prowl interrupted quietly, "will you show me?"
"Y' don't want t'--"
"I do want to see," Prowl replied. "Please."
Jazz hesitated, indecision warring on his face.
"Please," Prowl repeated. "Let me see."
*
He didn't want Prowl to see. Hell, he didn't want to see himself. He tried to avoid mirrors as best he could these days. But Prowl'd asked and he didn't want to force things by saying no... and if Prowl freaked out too badly, at least that way it'd be a clear if nasty end to things.
Jazz ignored the tiny voice that said he didn't want that kind of end to things, and stripped his shirt off. Prowl didn't say anything, but he watched his friend's eyes move over him. "May I touch you?" Prowl asked, looking back into Jazz's eyes. Jazz nodded, and Prowl's fingers came to rest on his chest, lightly drifting across the silver metal that comprised most of Jazz's skin these days. Prowl shifted closer, his fingers running across the collarbone v-dip that defined the boundary between flesh and metal. Jazz suppressed a shiver as Prowl traced along that divide. "Does it feel the same?" Prowl asked quietly.
"Depends," Jazz replied. "I can pay more or less attention t' it... bullets don't hurt much," he said.
Prowl's fingers drifted to the corded ridges on his biceps. "These are?" he asked.
"Weapons cache," Jazz replied dispassionately, opening a few with a thought. Neat lines of bullets were inside some; others held blades; still others vials of chemicals and the hypodermic needles to use with some of them. There were others, too, but he didn't bother giving away all his secrets. Hell, Prowl hadn't even seen the armature on his back now, nor the line of plating that ran the length of his spine up to his skull, part of the reason for the long hair.
"It hurt, didn't it?" Prowl asked.
"Lots a' things do."
"Not like this." Prowl's hand was over his ribcage now, pressing firmly there. He was leaning in toward Jazz, almost in his personal space. "Can you feel me, Jazz?" Not understanding what Prowl was getting at, Jazz nodded. "If I let you walk out of here tonight--honest answer--what will you do?"
"Prob'ly vanish again," Jazz admitted hollowly.
"Then," Prowl said logically, "I can't let you walk out of here, can I?" And then he was in Jazz's personal space, body pressed up against him, mouth pressed up against him, kissing--
Stunned, Jazz couldn't react for a minute until Prowl pulled away, his blue eyes firm on Jazz. "I wanted you for a long time," Prowl said, "and I'm damned if I'm letting you get away with acting like this."
"Prowl...."
"I never said anything," Prowl told him, "because I wasn't sure. Until tonight."
"Y' still don't know that I want you," Jazz pointed out.
Prowl smiled, a smooth, wicked curving of his lips that was unexpectedly dangerous and implied, whether it was untrue or not, that he had your number. "Then why did you run?" he asked, and given the butterflies doing acrobatics in Jazz's cybernetic stomach, he knew that Prowl did have his number.
When Prowl leaned forward to kiss him again, Jazz didn't fight it, just tried to go with the flow, and awkwardly kissed Prowl back.
*
Michael's cache of practical experience had never been that great, and his last encounter had been nearly a decade before: a pair of fraternal twin brothers in college, one blond, the other a redhead. That had been an... interesting night, and well enough to fill his occasional fantasies for the five years until he'd met Jazz. Nonetheless, he was fairly sure it was like riding a bicycle, and that what he needed to remember would come back to him as he needed it.
He'd never been quite sure of Jazz's preferences, and never brave enough to inquire. If he had been, he wondered, would it have made a difference? If he'd started something with Jazz back then, "don't ask, don't tell" aside, would it have been enough to make Jazz stay? He ran his fingers over sleek silver skin, tasting it with the tip of his tongue, and wondered if he could blame himself. If he should blame himself.
Jazz's skin was as warm as any human skin could ever be. And despite the frightening strength he'd displayed back in the alley earlier, his friend was startlingly vulnerable, broken. He didn't know what had changed, physically, and to a certain extent he didn't care. This was his friend, and his friend needed something to hold onto, someone to keep him from drowning. "Stay with me," Michael invited. And Jazz looked at him through that dark visor, then nodded. Michael smiled and stood, tugging at Jazz to follow him.
"What...?" Jazz asked, standing.
"You're staying here, and we're not having sex on my sofa when I have a perfectly good bed," Michael informed him. "At least, not tonight."
"Heh." And there was the breath of a laugh, a ghost of familiar sparkling humor. "Y' sure 'bout this, Prowl?"
"As I've ever been," Michael replied, and led Jazz to his bedroom.
*
The faintest reaches of dawn brushed across Jazz's shoulder, warming the metal, waking him. He blinked needlessly, then turned his head to where Prowl lay next to him, tousled brown hair in total disarray as he slept. Jazz's sensors calculated his breathing pace, the rate of his heartbeat, the temperature of his body even as half a dozen communications channels ran through Jazz's CPU. He ignored all of them, thinking.
He'd always assumed Prowl was straight. Hadn't even considered the possibility of something like this. Hell, if Prowl'd been gay all along, Jazz figured, he was probably deep enough in the closet to find Narnia. Except... Prowl hadn't hesitated last night. He'd known what he'd wanted and gone for it, regardless that Jazz wasn't human anymore. He'd touched gently at first, then more firmly once he got used to things, and every single gesture, every single word, had indicated that he didn't give a damn what Jazz had had done to him. That he might almost l--
Jazz had never had anyone touch him like that before. Like he was the only thing that mattered. And Prowl had driven him crazy, teaching him things about this body that he hadn't learned even after spending over a year with it. Like that there were unexpected places that felt really good, better almost than anything he'd ever felt with a normal human body... that he could drown in that touch.
He wanted to touch Prowl back, to return that selflessness. To let this happen again.
Fingers running along the edge of his visor, Jazz considered his life. His senses were sharper than any human's. He was stronger, faster, could hook in to almost any computer network, could kill without more than a thought if it was needed. He respected his CO, kind of liked the kid he'd been put half in charge of, and for the most part found the work he was doing interesting.
Doc Ratchet had had to rewire his optical nerves, though, along with some other stuff, when they'd put the chips in his head. The visor let him see in spectra other humans never could, ultraviolet, heat-sensing, all kinds of nifty stuff. But without it, he was blind. That terrified him in some ways. He'd never been helpless since he took down his first bully in kindergarten. But much as the optic sensors gave him... he'd never be able to meet Prowl's eyes again.
He probably shouldn't've come back. Or he should've walked away from Prowl in that alley. Or he should've left last night after giving his friend a brief explanation and saying goodbye properly.
But things hadn't turned out any of those ways.
Decision made, he took the visor off, disconnecting the ports on either side of his temple from the optical sensor, and groped for the bedside table that had been there--ah. Carefully he set the visor down on that surface, then scooted down a little deeper into the bed, shifting his shoulder out of the patch of growing sunlight, moving just a little bit closer to Prowl.
Closing his useless eyes, Jaysen Zander went back to sleep.
For reference, the plotbunny in question was presented by
sbx here. Go read the details. I did. And then I spent my evening typing. Have tweaked a few things from the original suggestion, but what is for me to know and y'all to find out. Human names are borrowed from a WIP fic by hoshikage. Also, anything you think might be a reference either to G1 or the '07 movie... is. Happy hunting. ^_^Warning level... mm, some cursing and mention of m/m sex. So don't read if that squicks you. Elsewise, enjoy!
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
part 1
by K. Stonham
prereleased 13th August 2007
The doorbell rang just as Michael finished washing the tomatoes. Drying his hands on a towel, he walked toward the front door of his apartment, reflexively checking through the peephole before undoing the chain and the lock before opening the door. "Hello, Jazz," he said quietly, smiling.
"Hey, Prowl," his friend replied. "Been followin' th' smell of your cookin' for the last three-four miles."
"You have not," Michael replied, waving Jazz in before shutting and re-latching the door behind him.
The Project member grinned and held out a green glass bottle that Michael took and examined while Jazz shed the black hat, scarf, and the trench coat that hid the way his clothing draped sometimes oddly over his body, depositing all three on the coat rack beside the door. "Well, maybe just the last three flights a' steps," he admitted.
"Peach cider?" Michael asked, cocking an eyebrow.
Jazz shrugged. "Sounded interesting, an' since I'm not allowed real bubbly an' you don't drink anyway, thought we could give it a try."
"Is there some kind of special occasion I've forgotten?" Michael asked, trying to remember. He wrote those kind of things on his calendar so he didn't forget them....
"Nah. Just... a rough day, so I thought I'd try t' make it somethin' special," Jazz answered. He sniffed appreciatively, ignoring the way Michael had stiffened slightly at his remark. "If your mama cooked her lasagna half as good as you do, th' angels are surely feastin' tonight."
"Hardly," Michael replied dryly, leading the way to the kitchen to continue salad assembly, fully intent on enlisting Jazz's help since he had arrived early. "She was at least twice as good as I am."
"Lucky angels," Jazz replied, grinning, and commandeered the cutting board. "Right, so what's goin' in this salad?"
Jaysen knew Prowl would never ask him what had gone wrong with his day. Prowl knew he didn't need to. Once their meal had progressed far enough, with Jaysen tapping the satellite networks for good music to play through Prowl's speakers, good food on the table between them, good conversation about Prowl's little sister Carla and how she was doing in college, how things went in the police force, a thousand little stories about a thousand little things that reminded Jaysen that he was still human....
Prowl had never used to be so forthcoming. It was a measure of how important Jaysen was to him that he changed like this. Even just in private.
He closed his useless eyes and sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Quietly, he took off his visor and set it on the table. "We got a new kid in the Project today. Younger'n B', even...."
"Christ," Prowl breathed. "Is he...?"
"Not like B'," Jaysen replied. "Kid allegedly volunteered. His mom and little bro disappeared three years back. Wants to try an' find 'em through the networks...."
He could hear Prowl breathe, hear his mouth open.
"His dad's one of the engineers for the Project," Jaysen said quietly.
"Sam...?" Prowl asked.
Jaysen could only nod.
"My God...."
They'd met the night of Carla's sixteenth birthday. Michael had had to work that evening, so she'd had dinner at a restaurant with some of her friends before heading home. No one thought anything of it when she'd waved them goodbye and started walking home, her new necklace around her throat. Tranquility was a small town despite the influx from the nearby military base, and her brother's apartment only three blocks away.
It was a block and a half later when Carla was aware she was being followed by two military men half again her age, both of them smelling vaguely of alcohol and cigarettes. Unnerved, she sped up. They matched her pace, then stepped a little faster and caught up. They made comments that made her nervous, whispered touches at her hair and throat, laughed coarsely, drunkenly at every attempt she made to get away. She was almost to the point of really panicking when another man, slightly older, stepped around a street corner and paused, taking in her dilemma, her expression.
"Gentlemen," he said, "would I be correct in assumin' this young lady ain't yours?"
"What's it to you?" one scoffed.
"Well, y'see," the black-haired stranger said, taking a step closer, "it don't reflect well on th' Force to be havin' our men harrassin' pretty girls."
"Sod off," the other shot.
There was the faintest glimmer of a smile on the man's face before he struck, quick as lightning. In less than a minute both of Carla's shadows were down, groaning, the man crouched between them. "Let's see..." he murmured, deft hands picking wallets out of their clothing. "Thomas Crack, an' Simon Wrappe. I think ya just might be gettin' into trouble with your superiors come mornin'. I'd advise y' both to head back t' base before y' dig yourselves any deeper." He tossed their wallets back onto each of their stomachs and stood, turning. "You all right?"
Carla nodded. "Thanks."
He smiled and extended a hand. "Jaysen Zander," he introduced himself. "Sorry 'bout them."
"Carla Powell," she replied, shaking his hand. "You're with the Air Force?"
He nodded. "Just got reassigned here. I heard there was some kind of music festival in the park tonight, so I came into town. I don't suppose you could point me in th' right direction?"
"Tell you what," she replied, "I'll escort you."
"Well." He tugged at his jacket, dusted away a non-existent speck of lint. "I think that makes me th' luckiest fellow this side of th' base, then."
After the concert she'd persuaded the Captain to escort her back to her home, where her brother had been waiting up for her, and introduced them. The rest, as the poet said, had been history. Michael had been the one to tag Jaysen with the nickname "Jazz" for his music-loving ways and laid-back personality, while Jazz had found various descriptors of Michael's work tendencies amusing and started calling him "Prowl" in return. It had been two great years until Jazz... vanished.
Michael had wondered afterward if there had been some clue he'd missed that he should have spotted, some deviation in Jazz's behavior, some verbal hint that he knew something was going to happen. But he could never remember anything. Jazz had dragged him out to a pizza parlor with a live band and they'd eaten and talked while watching people dance, Jazz's fingers merrily picking out the beat on the scarred wooden tabletop. "This time my choice, next time yours," Jazz had said, grinning. "So what're we doin'?" He remembered thinking how bright a blue Jazz's eyes seemed in the restaurant lights as they made plans to see a play Michael wanted sometime in the next month.
Except that after they'd parted ways that night, Jazz had never called again. His cell phone number had been reassigned, and when Michael tried his landline someone else answered. Inquiries at the Air Force base had been rebuffed, until Michael was politely but firmly informed that Jazz had been sent to Qatar.
It had felt like a lie even as he was being told it.
Jazz would never, never, have vanished like that, without a letter, without a call.
But no matter what he tried, there was no way Michael could fight the government.
It seemed like such a long time since he'd been among normal people that he walked the streets slower, savoring the experience. It was after dark and so he hardly needed to keep to the shadows; no one was looking at him, save for a few askance glances at the dark blue visor.
He didn't know why he'd come into town. Maybe it was for the memories of music, of the concerts, of the clubs. Tranquility had always had an awful lot of good musicians. He paused outside the front window of a pizza parlor, smiling, remembering the last time he'd been there, how the band's playing had filled him up, made him want to dance himself, but watching had been even more fun with someone to converse with--
He froze, seeing someone familiar inside, head turning like he knew who was there watching him, and their gazes couldn't precisely meet anymore, but they did the next best thing and he stood there for a minute, unable to breathe, to think. Then he turned and ran, the same instant that the man inside had vaulted free of the table and sprinted for the door, yelling his name.
He dodged through the lingering crowds, weaving back and forth, not wanting to hurt anyone but he needed to get away, he should never have come back here--
Prowl knew the town better. He always had; it was his town. In the end Jazz could only put as much distance between them as he could before ducking down a side street that--shit, it was a dead-end. Desperate, he hid himself in the shadows, wrapping coat around himself, ducking his head to minimize any glare off the damn visor.
Prowl, damn him, didn't miss the turnings or run past the little side alley. Instead he walked down it slowly, softly even though Jazz's senses picked up every near-silent footstep. His eyes flicked back and forth as he assessed every possible escape route. Jazz wondered if he was carrying his sidearm. Prowl was... prowling. Looking for him.
He couldn't let himself be caught.
As Prowl passed him, Jazz sprang, catching the police officer with an arm to his throat--an arm that was like steel now, grip so much stronger than anything human could be. He caught one of Prowl's hands between them as he dragged the cop back against his own body, grabbed the other with his free hand, twisted it almost painfully but nothing that would damage him. And then he stopped, stood. He had no idea what he should do next.
He could feel Prowl fighting for breath against his arm, though, and loosened that grasp just a little. "Jazz--" Prowl gasped.
"Shouldn't'a run after me, Prowl," he said softly almost into the other man's ear.
"You disappeared."
"Got reassigned," Jazz replied. Never mind that that hadn't entirely been of his own volition. It was done and over and he'd been a fool to come here tonight, letting his past get mixed up with his present.
"To Qatar?" Prowl's voice was contemptuous.
"No," Jazz admitted. "T' one of th' places where people don't exist if ya ask after 'em."
Prowl was quiet for a moment, then said "You could have said goodbye." And there was something broken in his voice.
Jazz loosened his grip slightly. "Thought a clean break would be better," he admitted. "I didn't expect t' see ya tonight, Prowl."
"Who does it hurt for me to know that you exist?" Prowl asked quietly. "To know that you're all right?"
"You, maybe," Jazz answered. "Weapons don't have friends, Prowl."
"And they don't like pizza and they don't listen to music, either," Prowl retorted quietly. "God, Jazz, what did they do to you?"
"Nothin'... nothin' I wasn't able t' live with," Jazz answered just as quietly.
"This is living?"
No, Jazz wanted to answer. No, this wasn't living. This was... existing. He could feel Prowl's breathing, could hear his heartbeat, could sense his body temperature, just slightly cooler than normal. He remembered the first time he'd ever heard Prowl laugh, over something Carla had said, an inconsequential description of something that had happened at school. He remembered how startled he'd been at that sound, and how intrigued. To hear cool, calm, collected Prowl laugh....
When was the last time he'd laughed, Jazz wondered, and couldn't remember.
"No," he said softly. "This ain't livin'." And he let Prowl go.
Prowl turned around, barely taking a step away, and looked Jazz in what would have been the eyes. Frowning, he reached out to pull the visor away. Jazz's hand caught his, gently this time. "Don't," Jazz said. "It's th' only way I can see, now."
Puzzlement and concern scrawled across Prowl's face. "I--" he started, then stopped. "Would you like to come back home with me?" he asked instead. "To talk."
Jazz hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. I'd like that."
Michael had locked the door closed behind the two of them then turned to Jazz. "Your coat," he asked simply.
"My coat?" Jazz asked dumbly.
"That way I know you'll be staying a while," Michael replied implacably, one hand held out impatiently. "Your coat, Jazz."
The pilot hesitated, then gave in and started unfastening buttons. Michael watched impassively as Jazz shrugged the garment off and handed it to him. Something about the lay of Jazz's shirt was off. The way the high-collared long-sleeved white garment fit him seemed strange. "I thought you weren't allowed long hair in the military," Michael said, hanging the coat up.
"Not in th' regular military," Jazz answered. "Where I was... well, disguisin' some things took higher priority." He flipped his long black ponytail back over one shoulder. "You wanted t' talk?"
"Can I get you something to drink?" Michael asked, going into the living room. Jazz followed.
"Jus' water, thanks."
Michael returned a minute later with two glasses of water and set them down on the coffee table, taking a seat on the chair to Jazz's right. "What happened?" he asked simply.
Jazz spent a long moment fiddling with the glass before he answered, "Exper'mentation. They needed someone who fit certain parameters... an' I had th' best record for some kinds of endurance." Michael nodded, remembering Jazz's pride in his records, his love of wild flight. It was the reason he'd never let Jazz drive anytime they'd gone anywhere. "Couldn' let that be some other schmuck... an' maybe I thought I'd be able t' do some good if it worked."
"What did they do to you?"
Jazz looked away, down at his glass. "I shouldn' tell you anythin'," he said quietly. "No one's s'posed t' know."
"I'm prepared to accept the risks," Michael replied. "And I swear, whatever it is, I will not tell anyone. Not even Carla."
Jazz's glance flicked to the mantel, where a picture of Michael's sister, taken at her high school graduation, held a place of honor. "Y' swear, not even Carla?"
"Not even Carla."
Jazz hesitated, then nodded slowly. He undid the cuff of his right sleeve and pushed it up. Halfway up his forearm a swoop of silver delineated the break between normal skin and smooth, hairless metal.
"Jazz...."
"One of th' docs found a way t' make human flesh accept metal as part a' itself," Jazz said quietly. "Found a way t' make a better fighter, a better saboteur... gotta computer in m' head too." He was quiet for a minute. "'Bout a half-dozen a' us now. 'S called 'the Project.' Guess they were more concerned with th' science've it than comin' up with a decent name...."
"Jazz," Prowl interrupted quietly, "will you show me?"
"Y' don't want t'--"
"I do want to see," Prowl replied. "Please."
Jazz hesitated, indecision warring on his face.
"Please," Prowl repeated. "Let me see."
He didn't want Prowl to see. Hell, he didn't want to see himself. He tried to avoid mirrors as best he could these days. But Prowl'd asked and he didn't want to force things by saying no... and if Prowl freaked out too badly, at least that way it'd be a clear if nasty end to things.
Jazz ignored the tiny voice that said he didn't want that kind of end to things, and stripped his shirt off. Prowl didn't say anything, but he watched his friend's eyes move over him. "May I touch you?" Prowl asked, looking back into Jazz's eyes. Jazz nodded, and Prowl's fingers came to rest on his chest, lightly drifting across the silver metal that comprised most of Jazz's skin these days. Prowl shifted closer, his fingers running across the collarbone v-dip that defined the boundary between flesh and metal. Jazz suppressed a shiver as Prowl traced along that divide. "Does it feel the same?" Prowl asked quietly.
"Depends," Jazz replied. "I can pay more or less attention t' it... bullets don't hurt much," he said.
Prowl's fingers drifted to the corded ridges on his biceps. "These are?" he asked.
"Weapons cache," Jazz replied dispassionately, opening a few with a thought. Neat lines of bullets were inside some; others held blades; still others vials of chemicals and the hypodermic needles to use with some of them. There were others, too, but he didn't bother giving away all his secrets. Hell, Prowl hadn't even seen the armature on his back now, nor the line of plating that ran the length of his spine up to his skull, part of the reason for the long hair.
"It hurt, didn't it?" Prowl asked.
"Lots a' things do."
"Not like this." Prowl's hand was over his ribcage now, pressing firmly there. He was leaning in toward Jazz, almost in his personal space. "Can you feel me, Jazz?" Not understanding what Prowl was getting at, Jazz nodded. "If I let you walk out of here tonight--honest answer--what will you do?"
"Prob'ly vanish again," Jazz admitted hollowly.
"Then," Prowl said logically, "I can't let you walk out of here, can I?" And then he was in Jazz's personal space, body pressed up against him, mouth pressed up against him, kissing--
Stunned, Jazz couldn't react for a minute until Prowl pulled away, his blue eyes firm on Jazz. "I wanted you for a long time," Prowl said, "and I'm damned if I'm letting you get away with acting like this."
"Prowl...."
"I never said anything," Prowl told him, "because I wasn't sure. Until tonight."
"Y' still don't know that I want you," Jazz pointed out.
Prowl smiled, a smooth, wicked curving of his lips that was unexpectedly dangerous and implied, whether it was untrue or not, that he had your number. "Then why did you run?" he asked, and given the butterflies doing acrobatics in Jazz's cybernetic stomach, he knew that Prowl did have his number.
When Prowl leaned forward to kiss him again, Jazz didn't fight it, just tried to go with the flow, and awkwardly kissed Prowl back.
Michael's cache of practical experience had never been that great, and his last encounter had been nearly a decade before: a pair of fraternal twin brothers in college, one blond, the other a redhead. That had been an... interesting night, and well enough to fill his occasional fantasies for the five years until he'd met Jazz. Nonetheless, he was fairly sure it was like riding a bicycle, and that what he needed to remember would come back to him as he needed it.
He'd never been quite sure of Jazz's preferences, and never brave enough to inquire. If he had been, he wondered, would it have made a difference? If he'd started something with Jazz back then, "don't ask, don't tell" aside, would it have been enough to make Jazz stay? He ran his fingers over sleek silver skin, tasting it with the tip of his tongue, and wondered if he could blame himself. If he should blame himself.
Jazz's skin was as warm as any human skin could ever be. And despite the frightening strength he'd displayed back in the alley earlier, his friend was startlingly vulnerable, broken. He didn't know what had changed, physically, and to a certain extent he didn't care. This was his friend, and his friend needed something to hold onto, someone to keep him from drowning. "Stay with me," Michael invited. And Jazz looked at him through that dark visor, then nodded. Michael smiled and stood, tugging at Jazz to follow him.
"What...?" Jazz asked, standing.
"You're staying here, and we're not having sex on my sofa when I have a perfectly good bed," Michael informed him. "At least, not tonight."
"Heh." And there was the breath of a laugh, a ghost of familiar sparkling humor. "Y' sure 'bout this, Prowl?"
"As I've ever been," Michael replied, and led Jazz to his bedroom.
The faintest reaches of dawn brushed across Jazz's shoulder, warming the metal, waking him. He blinked needlessly, then turned his head to where Prowl lay next to him, tousled brown hair in total disarray as he slept. Jazz's sensors calculated his breathing pace, the rate of his heartbeat, the temperature of his body even as half a dozen communications channels ran through Jazz's CPU. He ignored all of them, thinking.
He'd always assumed Prowl was straight. Hadn't even considered the possibility of something like this. Hell, if Prowl'd been gay all along, Jazz figured, he was probably deep enough in the closet to find Narnia. Except... Prowl hadn't hesitated last night. He'd known what he'd wanted and gone for it, regardless that Jazz wasn't human anymore. He'd touched gently at first, then more firmly once he got used to things, and every single gesture, every single word, had indicated that he didn't give a damn what Jazz had had done to him. That he might almost l--
Jazz had never had anyone touch him like that before. Like he was the only thing that mattered. And Prowl had driven him crazy, teaching him things about this body that he hadn't learned even after spending over a year with it. Like that there were unexpected places that felt really good, better almost than anything he'd ever felt with a normal human body... that he could drown in that touch.
He wanted to touch Prowl back, to return that selflessness. To let this happen again.
Fingers running along the edge of his visor, Jazz considered his life. His senses were sharper than any human's. He was stronger, faster, could hook in to almost any computer network, could kill without more than a thought if it was needed. He respected his CO, kind of liked the kid he'd been put half in charge of, and for the most part found the work he was doing interesting.
Doc Ratchet had had to rewire his optical nerves, though, along with some other stuff, when they'd put the chips in his head. The visor let him see in spectra other humans never could, ultraviolet, heat-sensing, all kinds of nifty stuff. But without it, he was blind. That terrified him in some ways. He'd never been helpless since he took down his first bully in kindergarten. But much as the optic sensors gave him... he'd never be able to meet Prowl's eyes again.
He probably shouldn't've come back. Or he should've walked away from Prowl in that alley. Or he should've left last night after giving his friend a brief explanation and saying goodbye properly.
But things hadn't turned out any of those ways.
Decision made, he took the visor off, disconnecting the ports on either side of his temple from the optical sensor, and groped for the bedside table that had been there--ah. Carefully he set the visor down on that surface, then scooted down a little deeper into the bed, shifting his shoulder out of the patch of growing sunlight, moving just a little bit closer to Prowl.
Closing his useless eyes, Jaysen Zander went back to sleep.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2007-08-14 06:52 am (UTC)And it wasn't confusing, which it really had the potential to be. I eagerly await more. *nods*
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Date: 2007-08-14 09:49 am (UTC)I'm drawing you ARTS as soon as I wake up in another few hours, okay?
Awesome.
Good.
DAMN YOU ROCK.
ME
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Date: 2007-08-14 10:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 10:40 am (UTC)Just...
Yes.
<3
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Date: 2007-08-14 02:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 02:40 pm (UTC)Love the way you alternated the true-names w/ their nicknames at first... before tying it all together.
Hope to see more soon!
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Date: 2007-08-14 06:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 08:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-14 09:52 pm (UTC)really loved it!
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Date: 2007-08-15 05:50 am (UTC)I am in awe of your amazing writing skills.
Srsly, one of the best Transformers fics I've read, and it's only the first chapter!!
Moarplz?
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Date: 2007-08-16 08:32 am (UTC)That was amazing.
Killed me knowing the scroll bar was getting down toward the bottom and I was running out of fic. Cannot wait for more.
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Date: 2007-08-17 03:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-03 05:05 pm (UTC)I love the way you make the reader feel inside Jazz's head, feeling what he feels...
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Date: 2007-11-05 12:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 08:17 am (UTC)Love the allusion to the twins.