Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Doing just about anything fun on Earth was a difficult task; especially when the fun required the less conspicuous root-mode. Even though Transformers had been introduced and acclimated to humans (or rather, humans acclimated to them ) nearly a decade ago, it wasn’t exactly wise to just stroll up to a fun event such as a cherry blossom festival. Humans were little and hard to walk through when they were crowding all over the place. One would think they’d be smart enough to give a wide berth to big ol’ robot pedes, but alas. And driving through a festival? Forget it- unless you want to see the blossoms through what little gaps left between buildings and other trees. 

But oh, did Indigoknight really want to go to a cherry blossom festival. 

Indigo had been daydreaming about a local cherry blossom festival since well before the season. Whenever she got stuck on monitor duty, she’d sneak a few personal image searches to look at the gorgeous pink and white petals as they floated frozen in time. That only got her in trouble oh… maybe seven…? Eight. Eight times, each with a stern lecture from Prowl on “saving personal internet browsing for personal time”. 

In her defense, she really couldn’t help it! She was just so tired of being cooped up on The Arc most of her days. Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” really resonated with her on the especially long winter shifts. 

With the festival finally kicking off the past couple of days, it was all Indigo could think about. Entire sections of her processor were filled with nothing but her hopes and dreams and thousands of merry cherry blossoms. 

And… maybe a special someone to see them with as well. 

Listen, Indigo knew it was bad enough to have a couple of secret ‘Con friends. But, like, they were cool and nice! And she knew them before she knew the Autobots, so. Yeah. Besides, she got one to defect, didn’t she? Crackle was really shaping up into a model Autobot! 

Optimus Prime didn’t need to know that she also had about two, maybe four other friends that weren’t Autobots (yet!). He definitely didn’t need to know that she was maybe kind-of sort-of… inlovewithoneofthem???

Cosmos had better keep his intake shut and the satellite cams off of her location, lest Optimus Prime (or worse: Prowl ) see the Seeker she was walking hand-in-hand with down the moonlit paths bordered with scattered cherry blossom petals. 

“Your polish looks so pretty,” Solarflare murmured at one point along their quiet walk. Her wings twitched and fluttered the way they always did when she looked at Indigo. Likewise, Indigo’s four doorwing panels bobbed and wiggled.

Indigo giggled in that bashful way she always did when Solarflare called her pretty. 

“So does yours! Is that new linework?” 

Solarflare showed off her arm, where sharp lines of gold had been painted. They gleamed softly under the moonlight, and Indigo reached out to brush them. 

“My trine and I had a little bonding night,” the Seeker admitted softly. “I’ve never seen Ozone so focused before.” 

Indigo giggled again, helplessly. “I dunno, he seems pretty focused when…” she trailed off, spark sinking with the reminder that Solarflare and her trine had shot at her and her friends countless times. That Decepticons had fought and hurt her friends for so long. The worry and guilt lapped at her ankles, and she quickly kicked it away. “That’s very sweet of him. He did a great job!” 

Solarflare huffed softly, clearly appreciating the avoidance of the particular topic of the war they were supposed to be fighting in. Her hand squeezed Indigo’s a little tighter. “He did,” she agreed, tapering off into a gentle hum. 

Indigo took turns admiring the scenery (which was probably much prettier in sunlight, but night time was when easily squishable humans weren’t out so much) and the zig-zagging gold lines of Solarflare’s armor. It probably looked really awesome when she was in alt-mode. Maybe she herself could get someone to paint lines on her chassis! Ooh, now that would be fun. Maybe she’d get silver instead of gold– it’d probably look great against her purple-y-blue paint. 

Indigo more or less wandered, leading them along the wider paths to points of interest she knew the location of by spark. Thank you, online event maps! She filled the quiet with little fun facts about the festival itself, the trees, and the history of some Earth culture. Solarflare listened contentedly, piping up with clarifying questions when she had them. 

It was so nice to relax like this. Where no one (except Cosmos, at least) knew what they were up to. They could hold hands and exchange shy compliments and do their little dance around each other like they were simultaneously too afraid to come too near and desperate to get closer. 

The main event- the largest cherry blossom tree- stood proudly in the center of a precisely groomed courtyard. Its branches weaved around and between and overtop the stars high above even the two Transformers’ helms, and its petals waved lazy greetings to their wide and wondering optics. Even in the moonlight, Indigo could tell just how pink they were. It was absolutely beautiful. 

“Woah,” Solarflare muttered, coming to a stop below the massive tree. “This is… really cool.” 

Indigo smiled, bright and wide. “I know, right?! ” she failed to hide the joyous squeal in her vocalizer. “Hey, stand right there, I wanna take a couple piccies.” 

“‘Piccies’?” Solarflare turned, casting a confused look at Indigo. The expression made for a cute image capture, what with the Seeker’s wings angled just right to catch the silver light from above. 

“Pictures,” Indigo clarified, miming the action of a human taking a photo with their tiny little cameras. “I want to look back on this moment until I offline, I think.”

Solarflare ruffled her plating a bit, a shy smile creeping up on her face. “Oh. Okay, sure. Uh… what do I do?” 

“Just look pretty!” Indigo backed up a few paces to get the framing just right. “You’re already doing perfect!” 

The jet blushed, but the way her ailerons wiggled meant she was trying not to preen. She even dared to strike a polite pose, smiling as if the pictures would be hung up on the fridge. Not that Decepticons or Autobots really had fridges… Either way, they’d definitely roost within Indigo’s memory banks for the rest of all time. Maybe when the war was over, she’d get her own place to live and a fridge and a little printer and she’d print all the pictures of Solarflare out to put them on said fridge. 

Half of Indigo’s processor went down a lovely fantasy where she did just that. And her house was a larger scale version of an amalgamation of her favorite parts of modernistic 1980s-style homes. And all her friends were there. And Solarflare was there with her too, and they would fill the fridge with all of their little printed pictures. And maybe sometimes they would go to Japanese gardens or a big lake or maybe they’d sit around and watch movies or just hold hands and talk. 

And they would be so happy. 

“Are you okay?” 

Indigo came back to reality with orange optics taking up most of her view. 

“Huh? What? Yeah, I’m okay,” Indigo replied, leaning her helm away to get a better look at the rest of Solarflare’s face. The Seeker always had that weird thing about personal space. Not that the Mazda3 really minded. “What’s up?” 

Solarflare’s nasal ridge crinkled upwards in that adorable way it did when she was repressing a snarky comment. “You were smiling all weird.” 

Had it been anyone else, Indigo would have taken offense. But this was Solarflare , and the reason she often smiled all weird to herself (she’d gotten an equally weird look from Prowl that one time…). 

Indigo just giggled that same bashful giggle and reached up to cup the Seeker’s jaw. “It’s nothing,” she lied, and it was the biggest lie she’d ever told. She was unable to keep the wistful hope from glimmering in her optics. “I just love you.” 

In that moment, Indigo was convinced that the following cool breeze was a paid actor, because the resulting gentle rain of pink petals was perhaps the single most cinematic thing she’d ever witnessed. They landed deftly on their helms and shoulders not unlike fresh and fat snowflakes. 

Solarflare’s optics turned as golden as her plating, and her intake hung open as if she’d never been told she was loved before. Which was ridiculous, considering all the things she’d said about her trine and all of the time Indigo had been waiting to say such a thing. She had never been really scared of saying it; it was just a matter of good timing.

And beneath the sprawling branches of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom under the light of a full moon? That seemed like more than perfect. 

“I– oh Primus, I–” Solarflare choked on her vents, sputtering and clicking as she tried to regain her composure. But Indigo’s hands were still on her face, and her gaze was unwavering. “ Indigo– ” 

“You big goof,” Indigo mused softly, raising to the tips of her pedes and craning her neck so she could press their helm crests together. Her doorwings fluttered in alternating patterns at the reminder that the movement was becoming well-practiced. “You don’t have to say it back. I know how you feel about me.”

Solarflare pressed into the gesture, huffing and still clicking. But now her arms were wrapping around the Mazda3’s shoulders, and everything was okay. 

“I care about you. A lot. I just want us to be happy.” 

“So do I,” whispered Solarflare. If Indigo really listened, she could almost hear the whirl of a spark. Their sparks. “I wish it was different…”

Indigo hummed in sympathy. 

If only a lot of things were different.

Chapter Text

A beautiful overture played in Drift’s imagination. Its sweeping crescendos and yearning vibrolins were almost enough to bring a tear to his optics, which glinted the light of a Cool City sunrise. In his mind, he was sweeping a swooning Ratchet off of his pedes, declaring that they should run away together into that very sunrise. 

In reality, Ratchet was seemingly unbothered that it was Drift’s last cycle of vacation. He sat in his porch chair, engrossed in a report even well after the end of his shift. Cool Hospital had seen yet another uptick in unfortunate drug-related incidents, and the doctor’s concern for his patients never slept. 

“Ratch,” Drift said, clearing his vocalizer as he leaned against a support pillar. A burlap sack of his meager possessions (and the many things bought during his triple-extended vacation) was slung over his shoulder, and his pistols hung heavy at his hips. “I dunno hwhen I’m gonna evah see yew again. But I mus’ bid yew a farewell.” 

To his credit, Ratchet did look up to meet Drift’s soulful optics. He didn’t swoon, but there was emotion there, beneath the worn-down exhaustion that never seemed to go away. 

“Safe travels back to Western Town, Drift.” The words were bland, but Drift had learned that subtle hint of deep caring over the course of their groon-long courtship. “Visit again soon, got it? And don’t get yourself into any trouble.” 

Not that there was ever much trouble in Western Town. Some cycles, Drift was the only one he saw on the streets. Nobot but rust buckets too old to bust it down anymore lived in Western Town, simply waiting to die in the old-timey iron shacks they called home. It was lonesome, in Western Town. It may have once been a great part of Cool City subculture, but… no longer. 

“I will think o’ yew offin, darlin’ Ratch. In my achin’ spark…”

The overture reached its climactic peak, swirling in some invisible breeze that would otherwise love to carry tumbleweeds and loose Wanted posters. Drift turned away to face the sunrise, venting deeply as he took the first steps away from Ratchet. 

Ratchet, who huffed softly, but watched him march in a straight line down the center of the street, an optical ridge raised fondly.

“R-ranger Drift?” 

Drift cracked one optic open. His cheek was pressed flat against the saloon’s bar and his helm was surrounded by empty cubes. He had no idea how long he’d been laying there, but he was confident he never actually fell into recharge if he didn’t automatically draw his pistol. That, or he was more slagged than he meant to be.

“Whassit? Whossit?” Drift grumbled, wincing as he raised his helm to search for the source of the voice. Pits his vision was swimming. He looked left, then right, then twisted to see behind, then looked down. Ah. 

Huge, rounded purple optics looked unblinking up at Drift. He could hardly see the rest of the sparkling’s body beneath their big helm. 

“Mmm-my grandcarrier wanted me to ask if ya could, um, take a looksee at his uh, um, his broadcaster? It’s broke all over again.” 

The sparking twisted their digits together, wringing them anxiously. Drift sighed heavily, trying to find the right pathways to his FIM. Duty calls…

“Who’s yer grandcarry? I don’ think I’ve met yew, lil’ one.” 

New sparklings weren’t unheard of in Western Town or Cool City, but they weren’t exactly a frequent occurrence. Re: most Western Town residents were practically senile (and Cool City was hardly sparkling-friendly). But, as tragedy often loved to strike, sometimes creators died, and the responsibility of caring for the young newspark landed on the next of kin. Drift tried not to speculate what horrible thing must have happened to this sparkling’s creators to wind up in Western Town. 

“Ir’nhide!” the sparkling peeped, watching Drift sway unsteadily on his barstool. He found his FIM chip, and the activation of it made him see stars for a brief moment. “Why’re ya so sad, Ranger Drift?” 

Drift squinted down at the sparkling, taking mild offense before he knew better. Nobot knew exactly why his mood had been so glum ever since he got back into Western Town. He felt a little embarrassed, to be mooning over a Cool City doctor he’d only known for a groon. The relationship could never work in the long term… or so he told himself, whenever he laid in his berth with its scratchy sheets and a distinct lack of Ratchet. It had been barely an orn, and he was already trying to plan another vacation. 

“Ranger Wing won’ lemme leave fer so long again. Says he’s got burrs in ‘is seams ‘n’ he wants a turn at a lil’ vay-cay-tion.” 

“Oh. Ranger Wing is nice,” the sparkling said, nodding their big helm once. “Have ya tried askin’ real nicely? Say ‘please’ ‘nd all? My grandcarrier always tells me to say please when I want somethin’ real bad.” 

Drift, again, before he could catch himself, shot the innocent sparkling a side-glance. Not because of the implication that Drift didn’t ask nicely, but because he did and Wing wasn’t budging. It was fair, in lots of ways (though Drift personally wouldn’t have cared if Wing extended his vacations by three orns), but it didn’t stop the ache in his spark. 

“I’ll try it,” Drift said in place of undeserved complaint. “Thank ya, lil’ one. Now show me to yer grandcarry, why don’tcha?” 

“Hmph. Well that ain’t workin’,” Drift grumbled, smacking the top part of Ironhide’s millenia old broadcaster. It was a wonder the damned thing wasn’t disintegrated already.

“Ya gotta hit it on the side ,” Ironhide grumped, being very helpful from his creaky old rocking chair. “Nah, nah, wit’ the palm o’ yer servo. There y’are. Ah…” 

Drift frowned minutely at Ironhide as he continued smacking the poor dented broadcaster until it fuzzed and hissed back to life. The song that began playing from the tinny speaker was mostly fuzzy static. Somehow, Drift was willing to bet that it had more to do with the distance from the frequency he was tuned in on rather than the machinery itself.  

“Thanks, Ranger. I’da dunnit, but y’know how the ol’ joints get.” Ironhide lifted one pede, his knee joint creaking with obvious disuse. 

The thing was, Drift knew how old Ironhide was. Most of his issues really just came from a general laziness and a blatant refusal to see a medic about anything, rather than age (though he was quite old, he wasn’t that old). He was one of the most stubborn residents of Western Town, but he was also one of the most personable. It probably helped that his processor was all still in one place. 

Anyway, the broadcaster sat only a few paces from Ironhide’s rocking chair on the porch, at about waist-height on a little table. Drift guessed that the only reason he didn’t put his grandcreation to the task was because they were too short to reach the broadcaster. 

“I guess I’ll be findin’ out one o’ these ‘ere days,” Drift sighed. “Anythin’ else I can do ya for?” He hoped not. He had some more drinking and moping to do. 

Ironhide looked to the sky contemplatively, scratching his jaw. Little metal shavings flaked off. “Hwell…” he began, taking a long invent. “Not really, no. I been pretendin’ to be worse off ‘n I am. You know that though.” 

“Sure dew,” Drift murumured. “That work fer ya, dussit?” 

Ironhide cracked a grin where a couple of divots formed along his dentae, leaving gaps. His faceplate crinkled with wily mischief befitting only someone such as Ironhide. “It sure do, Ranger Drift. It sure do.” 

Less than a week later, that unwise non-advice from Ironhide wormed its way through Drift’s processor, giving him a disgustingly perfect plan to cure his ailing spark. And this time, it didn’t require ungodly amounts of engex. 

“I think I’m-a comin’ down with somethin’ purdy nasty, Wing,” Drift coughed miserably into his fist. He’d slicked his plating down to make himself appear thinner, and held himself at a sickly droop, dragging his pedes as he approached his mentor and fellow ranger. “I think it’s a darned virus.” 

Wing, ever the stoic, leveled Drift with a studying look. He didn’t get up from his chair with his legs kicked up on the desk. 

“Didja see the town healer about it?” 

“Sure did, Wing. ‘E said ‘e couldn’t figger what the issue was. Wants me ta go to a professional or some slag.” Drift made sure to play up how much he didn’t want to go out of town to a better doctor (reverse psychology!). 

“A’ight.” Wing leaned his chair back against the wall and tilted his helm back as he shut his optics. “Keep me updated, ya hear?” 

Drift was so glad Wing didn’t see the triumphant smile that flashed across his face quicker than he could shoot a can from 1000 meters. 

“Thank yew, Wing. I’m sure they’ll fix me up good in no time flat!”

Drift found himself in quite the pickle as soon as he got admitted to Cool Hospital. 

Of course, he wasn’t actually sick. So when the first nurse scanned his vitals and ran a surface-level diagnostic and declared that he was perfectly healthy, Drift played it up a little more. He was hoping that Ratchet would have seen that he was there by now, but the only doctors that came to check him out were… not Ratchet. 

So his cough and stiff joints became only the baseline of symptoms he kept making up on the fly. He complained of a processor ache that only acted up when he turned his helm to the left. He faked involuntary twitches of his abdominal plating. He pretended to forget who bots were. He even managed to make himself purge a little oil from his nose (don’t ask). But because he wasn’t sick at all , the medbots found nothing in their scans and tests. And that seemed to stress them out more than a bot with a guttering spark.

And yet, the commotion and medical panic still didn’t yield Ratchet. 

“Buddy, we gotta ship you out to Iacon. Their doctors are more qualified for whatever this is,” First Aid told Drift following the newest addition of a persistent (nonexistent) pain in his spinal strut. 

“H- whut? ” 

Drift almost dropped his act. Iacon was so far away! And they’d all know he was faking if the doctors there were better than the ones in Cool City! Panic swirled in his chassis, and his hands twitched by his emptied pistol holsters. First Aid zeroed in on the motion and frantically scribbled it down as another symptom of the invisible disease. 

“We can get you on a transport first thing this evening. Just–”

Drift bolted. 

At least, he tried to? He kind of forgot about the crowd of nurses and doctors that had been swarming his room since he started making a mess of things. 

“Hey, stop!”

“Woah!”

“He shouldn’t even be able to stand!” 

Were among the chorus of startled shouts. Those, and the ever foreboding:

“ Someone sedate him! ”

It took about ten nurses to finally wrestle Drift to the floor, screaming, and his last coherent thoughts as he felt a prick in his main fuel line were oh frag.  

Bright lights.

Searing lights. Restraints. Hushed voices. A cold metal slab beneath him. 

“He’s rebooting. Everyone remembers the symptom list Cool Hospital sent us?”

An agreeable murmur from around the room.

Drift groaned, using what little strength he had in his still mildly sedated frame to tug at the straps keeping his arms at his sides. Short bursts of foggy memory came back to him one at a time. They must have kept dosing him on the transport, but he remembered the feeling of movement. Vertigo caught him then, and his head lolled from side to side in attempt to restablize. 

“He’s still shaking off the drugs,” observed the same voice. “Flush his lines.”

“ Noooooooooo, ” Drift complained, tugging uselessly at his restraints again. But the IV was already stuck in his arm, and a gravity injector was hooked up with clean energon. 

Long, aching moments passed, and the staticy feeling of sedatives gradually left his frame. In it’s place, was raw, unfiltered dread. 

“What are you feeling right now?” asked that first voice. A helm loomed over Drift’s face, blocking out half of the bright light overhead. His periphery filled out what he couldn’t focus on before: big, shiny, important doctors all circled around his medical slab. 

Drift whimpered . They were going to be so slagged at him… 

“I…” he began, trying to swallow, but his intake was dry. “I’m feelin’ jus’ fine… how’re yew doin’?”

The doctor looming over him frowned, then looked around at her colleagues. “He is quite the anomaly,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “What are your symptoms?” 

Drift wished he could hide under the medtable. He really fragged it, huh. He began wondering if he should just. Keep pretending to have a mystery illness. That transport to Iacon could not have been cheap. 

Just as he opened his intake to begin a lame excuse, the sounds of a door being pushed open with some force startled everyone in the room.

“Sorry I’m late!” huffed a new voice; one that was gruff and wise and- Ratchet! “He awake yet?”

Drift turned his head to see his beautiful, glorious, amazing doctor push his way through the towering Iaconians. 

His spark could melt.

“Patient says he feels fine. I’m not sure if-”

Drift began sobbing. Like, uncontrollably. He just missed Ratchet so much . 

“Write that down!” the first doctor barked with minimal concern. 

“You…” Ratchet mumbled through the excitement in the room and the ranger’s pathetic whimpering. “What’s wrong with you? You look fine to me?” 

Drift, in his hysterics, just shook his helm and struggled against his restraints for the umpteenth time. “I– I–!” 

The first doctor began running through the list of symptoms that Drift fully made the frag up when he was in Cool City. Each new one, Ratchet would hum thoughtfully, all while keeping a steady optic on Drift’s frame. At the end of it, the Cool City doctor shrugged.

“He’s faking it.” 

A gasp went around the room. The first doctor quirked an optical ridge.

“Care to explain your… diagnosis?” 

Ratchet pressed a palm to Drift’s cheek, wiping the coolant that was streaking his faceplates. “None of the tests came up with anything. Each time they found nothing, there would be a new symptom. Clearly–” and he shot the ranger a particularly nasty look “-he was making it all up.”

Drift deflated. He’d been had. Frag. 

“But- but why? ” someone asked, out of view. 

Ratchet turned to that bot with a tired- albeit fond- expression. “Because he’s a hopeless romantic.”

“You have my comm.. That slag you pulled? Absolutely ridiculous. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Ratchet’s scolding lasted from the time they unstrapped Drift from the exam table until they were sequestered inside the doctor’s hotel room. “I mean what were you thinking?! Were you even thinking? At all?! ” 

On and on and on.

Drift deserved it. So, he took it all, his helm and finials drooped low and frame language oozing guilt. 

“I missed yew,” Drift whispered when the doctor’s tirade finally ebbed. “I’m awful sorry, Ratch, I am.” 

Ratchet huffed, but pulled Drift into a tight embrace. “You’re fragging stupid as all frag.” 

Drift grunted, but he nuzzled his helm against his doctor’s shoulder anyway. As long as Ratchet wasn’t too slagged off… it was fine. 

He did get what he wanted, anyway. 

The hug lasted a long time, but when it ended, it felt much too short. Ratchet appraised Drift with a tired look on his face. 

“This medconvention ends in two cycles. You might as well stay here and come back with me. Cheaper that way.” 

Drift’s finials perked up. That was enough of an answer for Ratchet, who managed a quiet laugh and tapped their helms together. 

Through the hotel room windows, the sun was setting on Iacon. A beautiful overture began to unfold inside Drift’s helm; one with dramatic chords and fluttering trumpets. This time, he really did sweep Ratchet off of his pedes, and in Drift’s mind, the force of their derma meeting was like a dust storm. 

“Alright, you sap,” Ratchet grunted, trying to stay steady in his dipped position. He was smiling. “Berth’s that way.” 

And the screen faded to black.

Chapter Text

I was struck by lighting

Walkin’ down the street

I was hit by something last night in my sleep

It’s a dead man’s party

Who could ask for more?

Everybody’s comin’, leave your body at the door

Leave your body and soul at the door!

“Where’d you say you found these guys?” 

Jazz lay upside-down on the couch, legs bent over the back as one bounced to the beat of the song. Steeljaw and Ravage were each trying to find the best way to lay across the visored mech’s abdomen, while Ramhorn settled for the crook of Jazz’s arm. Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw perched on his non-bouncing pede, huddled together and half in recharge. The rest of the couch was also occupied by cassettes: Rumble, Frenzy, Eject, and Rewind in a cuddle puddle of their own. 

That left their cassette carriers the seating pillows on the floor, but they didn’t seem to mind. If their symbiotes were happy, they were happy. And Jazz and their cassettes got on like music on a record. 

“Soundwave: has many resources.” 

“Bet it was in a TikTok edit,” Blaster mused, looking playfully at the blue cassette carrier. 

Soundwave shrugged, but sheepishness bled into his EM field. 

“Well it fucking rocks .” Jazz offlined his visor for peak listening capabilities. “Good pick, Sounders.” 

The soft whir and click of the bashful tapedeck was a joy to hear every time.

New music nights had started as a monthly semi-mandatory club after the war ended on Earth. It was a way for Autobots and Decepticons (scratch that, Cybertronians ) to hang out in a recreational way while also learning about Earth culture. Music was huge to human culture, and while not every bot enjoyed it so much, it was something Jazz had adhered to the first time he even interacted with it. 

Human music was weird and infinitely diverse. Even different artists in the same genre could sound entirely different. Jazz almost thought it was pointless to try and label everything into genres because in a way, each song could be its own genre… or maybe he was just overthinking it.

In any case, they had a whole genre that was literally Jazz’s name. And that was cool as hell! The stuff was a treat to listen to, too. 

After a while, new music nights thinned out as bots found their cliques and groups to hang out with. That was how Jazz found himself in an exclusive three-member (plus 9 cassettes!) weekly new music night club. Which… sometimes became nightly ‘listening to any music at all while we cuddle in Jazz’s big high-ranking officer berth and maybe kiss a little’. 

Don’t run away, it’s only me

Don’t be afraid of what you can’t see

It’s only me

It’s only me…

“Song: Dead Man’s Party. Artist: Oingo Boingo,” Soundwave announced as the song ended. “Preview: sufficient?” 

Jazz onlined his visor to look at his tapedecks. Soundwave, despite the mask and visor, managed to look incredibly eager to share more of the band he’d found. Blaster was already nodding enthusiastically, of course. 

“Hell yeah, it is. Show us whatcha got!” Jazz got extra comfy in his not-so comfy looking position. Ravage chirped at him when he wriggled to get his back between the cushions just so, then promptly put her head back down on his hip guard. 

“I’ll get the drinks. Usual? Usual?” Blaster pointed at Soundwave, then at Jazz as he got up from the floor. “I got some of that good bromine additive~” 

“Bromine: appreciated.”

“Fuck yeah. Thanks, B.B.!” 

“Only the best for my mechs,” Blaster chuckled, bending down to lightly tink his helm against Soundwave’s, then Jazz’s. His way to the kitchen also had to include a few pets for each and every cassette hogging the couch. 

Who’s goin’ down?

Soundwave began the next song, expertly adjusting his audio balancing and turning up the volume. From the bass lines alone, Jazz knew he’d love it. And then there was a scream, and the steady bass was overlapped with trumpets and guitars and drums, turning the roll into a full on groove. 

I ride my elevator through the shafts of your heart

When you climb aboard, baby

There’s no getting off

I’m a silent operator, won’t you please take my hand?

I am so polite, I’m the elevator man

Blaster danced as he returned from the kitchen, two drinks in hand. Jazz chuckled as he watched the mech try to swivel his hips without spilling the glasses. 

“For you.” Blaster bent at the knee to present Jazz’s favorite drink with a flourish. It was  a broad glass mug filled with about a dozen different additives, all of them tangy or sweet, resulting in a pinkish-orange color. Once the mug was handed over, a chaste kiss was pressed against his visor. 

It’s a friction and harmony

Who’s gonna ride with me?

I’m the elevator man

“And for you!” Blaster put the electric blue cube in Soundwave’s waiting servo. Rather than a visor kiss, he received another helm bonk. Then, he boogied back to the kitchen to prep himself something. 

Jazz bet it would end up being some disgusting shade of chartreuse. 

Who’s goin’ down, who’s comin’ with me?

Who wants to take a chance on a piece of abstract reality–

Huh!

It’s only just a dance!

Won’t you come and ride with the elevator man?

“Jazz: should sit up,” Soundwave warned, focused on the way Jazz was trying to tilt the energon into his intake without spilling it all over himself and the floor. 

Jazz was more focused on Soundwave’s mask, and how it would be retracting any moment. He’d seen Soundwave’s full face a handful of times since they’d started being together, and Soundwave had likewise seen Jazz’s optics. That didn’t mean it still wasn’t a revolutionary sight every time. 

“Soundwave: should shut up,” Jazz mocked light-heartedly, angling his helm just so as he began to tip the mug. 

To his credit, Jazz didn’t spill his drink. He did, however, choke on it because he was upside-down and that’s how gravity works. During his spluttering and flailing, he not only scared off all the cassettes that were using him as a glorified pillow, but he missed the ultimate moment where Soundwave’s mask retracted to reveal the shiny metal beneath. 

Blaster came around to hold Jazz’s upper body up, lightly thumping his back to help the inhaled droplets escape his vents. All Jazz could think as he coughed was I was right- chartreuse . 

“Soundwave: told Jazz,” the blue tapedeck scolded gently, taking Jazz under one arm while Blaster took the other. Together, they mechhandled him into sitting on the couch like a normal bot. Jazz went limp, forcing them to work harder than they had to. 

Please, pretty baby! 

Won’t you come to me?

Won’t you let me be your daddy, come sit here on my knee

And tell your sugar daddy

Oh, all of your fears

Cry for me, darlin’

Let me taste your tears

“You’re such a pain sometimes, you know that?” Blaster scoffed, propping Jazz up against a couple cushions. “You’re always so graceful, and yet…” 

Jazz huffed, side-eyeing Blaster beneath his visor. His dignity… actually barely bruised. He’d do it again. “Whatever. I was comfy!” 

Blaster coaxed Steeljaw back to the couch with some soft, assuring clicking sounds and an outstretched servo. The little cassette purred, pushing his head against Blaster’s servo. Ravage was quick to follow suit once Soundwave appeared to settle on Jazz’s left. One by one, the nine cassettes wormed their way back onto the couch, finding the best spots across three mechs’ laps and the back cushions. 

Before the end of the war, Jazz would have been fidgetting from being seemingly trapped. Instead, he relaxed fully, taking an actual sip of his drink, and let the music pulse through his frame.

Take an intermission while the bird is in the hand

It’s worth two in the bush

So give yourself a push

Won’t you come and ride with the elevator man?

Soundwave’s helm lightly bobbed to the beat of the song, and on Jazz’s right, Blaster was tapping the timing of the notes on Ramhorn’s back. As Jazz appreciated the overall sound, he began a sub-thread to begin analyzing the lyrics. They seemed a little more abstract than most Earth songs did, which promised a good mental exercize. Without thinking, he set up an auto-response to send anything interesting to Soundwave’s comm.. 

The three-plus-nine sat together just like that through the rest of the song, sipping drinks and leaning into the infinite points of contact. It was a certified cuddle puddle. 

“Song: Elevator Man. Next song: No Spill Blood.” Soundwave eagerly queued the next feature, and the next, and the next.

Each Oingo Boingo song the blue tapedeck played was on the upbeat side. Jazz was already forming dance moves in his head for a second listen. From the way Blaster was staring off into space, Jazz could tell he was making notes for mixing the songs later. Soundwave, however, tended to just listen and analyze whatever music they listened to. They were a perfect team of observation, creation, and change. 

So open the door and let me in

Don’t question who I am, no

Just shake my hand and give me your name

We soak up!

Soak it up!

Soak up!

Soak it up!

A longer pause than usual followed the conclusion of the last song- Pain- and prompted Jazz to look up at Soundwave. He was graced with a bared face; mask and visor both retracted. Nervousness and hope glittered in the mech’s optics.

“Hey there, handsome,” Jazz murmured, once over his brief surprise. He found the command for his own visor, and it flipped up into his helm with a faint click. 

Blaster rested his chin atop Jazz’s helm, a dreamy hum buzzing against the back of his head. “Handsome is right,” he sighed, watching Soundwave fluster under the same enrapturedness of Jazz. 

“Soundwave: …has one more song.” He fidgetted, just a little, under the full attention of both mechs and their contagious smiles. “Song: Unlike previous examples. Song: slower. Song: has deeper importance to Soundwave.”

Jazz could see something barely held back in Soundwave’s face. Had it not been for the slight tremor of vibrations in the air, he would have teased the blue bot a little for being nervous about a song; they’d each presented pieces that just didn’t resonate with the others in the past. 

Unless it wasn’t just about the song.

“Of course,” Blaster said encouragingly. “Should we dock the cassettes first?”

Soundwave looked taken aback for a moment, then nodded. “Idea: wise.”

“Oh?” Jazz slipped out from under Blaster’s chin to look at the red tapedeck. So this was a big thing, whatever this was? 

Blaster didn’t reveal anything; only went through the usual routine of helping his darling cassettes transform and then slotting them into the compartment in his chest. On his other side, Soundwave did the same, murmuring barely audible praise as his cassettes were safely tucked away. 

When all were accounted for and beginning their recharging cycles, the three mechs rearranged in a way that they could all face each other. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it worked. 

Once cued, Soundwave began playing his final song. “Song: Skin.” 

The sound was lighter, for sure, and the beat wasn’t as fervorous as the rest of the music they’d heard from the band. Like the others however, the instrumental introduction was plenty enough to lay the groundwork for the rest of the song. And then, the familiar voice of the lead singer melted out from Soundwave’s speakers in a gentleness unheard of in his other vocals. 

This is someone else’s story

Someone that I never knew

This is someone else’s body

Am I getting through to you?

Soundwave reached his servos out to Jazz and Blaster, who took one each, then took one of each other’s, creating a completed circuit between them. 

If you peel away the armor 

Is there something underneath?

If you look below for hidden treasure

Underneath another layer

Are you hiding underneath the skin?

Blaster squeezed their hands gently, looking at their interlinked fingers fondly. 

If you peel away the skin

Is there anybody there?

If you peel away the skin

Is there anybody there?

If you peel away the armor

Is it too late to begin?

Is there anybody hiding if you 

Peel away the skin?

Jazz watched Soundwave’s face intently, watching the lenses in his optics cycle and wind. His faceplates were flushed, and he was chewing his lower derma. 

“Next part: superior.” 

Jazz and Blaster leaned ever closer.

Now a spark has passed between us now

A momentary recognition

Blaster gasped so softly, Jazz almost missed it.

Something lost and something gained and

Something shared that feels strange

Something cold that will not go away

The look in Soundwave’s optics was burning with hope and wanting. In earnest, he pressed their joined servos overtop their respective sparks. 

Jazz could feel his own surge with energy, almost too bright to contain.

The rest of the song became null, then, thanks to the unsubtle subtext of the lyrics and feeling of the song. They didn’t have to speak of it; the understanding was well and wanted enough.

Jazz would be lying if he didn’t think about bonding to both mechs in the recent past. In fact, he and Blaster had discussed it, one night, but decided that it would ultimately up to Soundwave’s readiness. 

And now, finally, he was proposing in his own tender way. And it was oddly perfect.

Jazz let go of their servos to throw his arms around the backs of the other two’s necks, clanking their helms against his own as he suppressed a giddy giggle. Blaster was doing the same, his tape winding with a low whir. Soundwave fell into the contact, letting his full weight lean into the other two as the relief of acceptance washed over him. 

If you peel away the skin

Is there anybody there?

If you peel away the skin

If you peel away the skin…

Jazz wondered if Danny Elfman would be willing to play at the bonding ceremony.