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It was a rowdy night at Maccadam's, which made Blurr all the more irritated that Vortex had chosen to run off early.
He’d been on shift with the shuttle, Blast Off, and the two already had to break up four fights and eject a few people who weren't willing to sit down, shut up, and drink their engex. Blurr had personally helped with the latest group of brawlers, hauling out a flailing Camien whose punches probably hurt when they weren't totally inebriated. Blurr had brushed against Blast Off as they held the door open for her to toss the drunk bot out, and they'd made eye contact and looked away.
Vortex had departed not long after that—"You can handle the rest of the shift, right, Blasty?"—with some local bot, and Blurr would've said something but he was busy refilling drinks for four tables at once and by the time they looked up Vortex had taken his conquest and flown.
Which left Blast Off standing sullenly by the door, mask locked in place, arms crossed and chin lifted in a decidedly prissy stance. Blurr had watched him out of her peripheral vision as she racked glasses, scrubbed messes, and refilled drinks.
During their employment as security at Maccadam's, Blurr had watched Blast Off's shift from a quiet, apathetic bot to someone closer to the arrogant sniper they'd been during the war. Swindle was pleased by this development, even if she didn't say so, and his EM field lost that sour crinkling it often did when he spoke of or saw Blast Off. Shifts where the shuttle was present had fewer dirty looks and tense silences; the snotty remarks from Vortex and the passive aggressive comments from Swindle had died out.
Blurr remembered the first shift Onslaught had finally worked with Blast Off as he polished the countertop.
Onslaught had negotiated during the interviews that he and Blast Off would not work shifts together indefinitely. He did not provide details and Blurr did not request them; she didn’t hire free mess, for one, and for two, they could tell that the subject was very sensitive just from the way Swindle didn’t talk about it. And she likewise did not request details when, one day, the weekly schedule was sent to her for approval and Blast Off and Onslaught were working not one but two shifts together. Of course Blurr could always lightly press Swindle for gossip, but the little jeep had just smiled smugly as if she personally was responsible, which Blurr was certain she wasn't. The bartender braced himself at the start of the shift. However, they'd been professional and cordial with Blurr and each other, and the bartender had enjoyed an end-of-shift with the two of them at closing, idly gossiping about anything and nothing. Blast Off’s field had reflected hope and anxiety in equal measures, while Onslaught’s had been cool with small flares of—something.
As the tensions surrounding Blast Off’s duplicity ebbed, Swindle had become much more relaxed, to Blurr's relief. It also made it easier for him to get to know the gestalt better. Blurr had enjoyed her time spent playing board games with Onslaught, who’d by now soundly beaten her at Vosian Air Raid, chess, Optic Fritz, and go. The tactician never expressed much emotion during the games, but coolly congratulated her on the occasions where she did win. Blast Off had told her once that Onslaught was enjoying himself immensely—couldn’t he tell? And Brawl was affectionate, if loud and rough. He and Arcee and Chromia had achieved a sort of odd friendship that involved them meeting up once a month or so and singing very loudly and badly until other patrons began hurling insults—and even drinks—at them. Blurr never allowed the three to be ejected; it had become something of an entertaining spectacle, and social media chatter often speculated on how many songs the three would get in next month until the onslaught of boos, cocktails, and martini glasses caused them to collapse into their seats, laughing. It was better publicity than the FightsAtBlurr’s vid account she’d made Vortex shut down.
As Blurr wiped down the counter and made the call for last rounds, her eyes drifted over to the empty spot by the door that Vortex had been occupying not an hour before. Blurr had no interest in getting involved in any of his other hobbies, but the speedster couldn’t deny that Tex could dance. Ever since their trip to Club Vogue, Blurr had hit a couple more clubs with Swindle’s gestalt-mate to dance. Sometimes Swindle and Brawl joined them, sometimes they didn’t; these outings invariably ended with Tex taking home an old booty call or some random bot he’d met while Swindle and Blurr and occasionally Brawl toddled home, tipsy and laughing. Or Blurr returned to her little loft above the bar, alone, to find Swindle waiting for him eagerly.
Blast Off never joined them for anything.
Not Brawl's impromptu karaoke during drag nights, not Vortex's latest club he was obsessed with, not Onslaught's board games. They had simply hovered in the background, anxious and uncertain and quiet.
They didn't hover anxiously now. Blast Off's field radiated irritation tonight, and when Blurr warned the Tankors to stop arm wrestling near the glassware, the shuttle actually sighed in exhaustion. His electromagnetics signaled relief as he approached the bar.
"Get ready," Blurr warned him. "I think Red in the corner is going to be a problem." Her optics flicked to a huge red neutral whose kibble suggested she was some kind of shuttle too. She'd been drinking steadily all night, glaring at anyone who came close, and now the sway to her shoulders suggested she wouldn't be able to stand on her own power, let alone exit the bar.
Blast Off glanced at the bot. "Oh, God," he said, prim voice reeking of disgust. "I know her. Hang on."
"You do?" Blurr asked in surprise, but Blast Off turned away, clearly occupied with a comm. After a few moments, they turned back to Blurr.
“Someone is coming to pick her up,” they told the bartender. “Their ETA is fifteen minutes.”
Blurr scowled, but began the cleanup process anyway as Blast Off pointedly stared at the last few remaining guests. She scraped all the gelled energon off the mats and bar in record timing, pausing only to wipe up some powdered chrome that had gotten on the floor somehow. By the time he’d set the sanitation cycle running on the glassware cleaner, the bar was empty except for the big red shuttle, Blast Off, and the bartender. The sanitation sinks still had to be drained, dried, flipped up, but Big Red was still nursing one last drink and Blurr hated to leave any glassware uncleaned.
“Where do you know her from?”
Blast Off pursed his lips. His EM field rippled. “We go to the same waxing joint. There are not many shuttles left around…so we spoke a few times.”
Blurr nodded. “Where do you go to get detailed?” he asked conversationally.
Blast Off turned and looked at Blurr, visor traveling over the bartender’s shoulders, windshield, and hip guards. Blurr stared back defiantly; she was very pretty and knew it, but something about the disdainful tilt of the shuttle’s chin made him feel the slightest bit self-conscious.
After a moment, Blast Off’s lips curved up in the slightest of smiles. “You got a lot of scuffs tonight,” they said. “Perhaps I could show you?”
Just as Blurr was about to answer, the doors flew open and two mecha—a pale blue jet and a purple grounder—tumbled in. “Where is she?” the jet demanded, looking around, while the purple grounder glanced about uncertainly. Giving neither Blurr nor Blast Off the opportunity to answer, the jet marched over to the red shuttle. “Girl, it’s been months. Fuck her. It’s plenty of mecha on this planet!” The purple grounder, who had to be a semi based on the number of wheels on their back, followed.
“Astera, bar’s closing. Let’s get you home.”
“Don’t wanna,” Astera replied belligerently, words slurred.
“Tough bolts, glitch, because we’re taking you.” The jet’s tone brooked no arguments.
“Get smelted, Streamliner.”
“You are such a junkheap sometimes,” the semi grumbled. “Come on, you don’t wanna get thrown out by a Combiner guy. His team’ll fuck you up if you don’t leave.”
Astera sat up a little straighter with obvious effort, looking at Blast Off hazily. “Blasty?” she mumbled. Streamliner and the semi turned to him. Blurr watched expectantly; he hoped Blast Off could make the other shuttle leave with as little drama as possible.
“Hello, Astera,” Blast Off said coolly. “Things didn’t work out with Stormguard, I take it?”
The jet tossed her head angrily, yellow optics glinting in disdain. “Pulley and I warned her about that Pit-bound slag-eater, but she didn’t listen!” Astera’s face crumpled and she leaned forward with a little wail.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Blast Off told Astera. “She’s certainly not worth this. You should go home and rest. Take care of yourself.”
“Blasty’s right,” Pulley added encouragingly, placing a hand on Astera’s shoulder. “We can get you home. Put you in the washracks…help with waxing…you’ll be good as new, and you can find a new cutie to hit the clubs with. One who’ll stay by you instead’a runnin’ around.”
“And you can start by ditching this,” Streamliner added, taking the half-full glass from Astera’s fingers, ignoring the red shuttle's protests. She stomped over to Blurr and set the glass in front of him. “We are cutting you off!”
Blurr rolled his optics as he rinsed the glass and sanitized it. He had finished rinsing and drying the sinks by the time Streamliner and Pulley had gotten Astera out the door, with a little help from Blast Off. Blast Off shut and locked the doors behind them, then turned back to Blurr with a gusty ex-vent that pushed air from his chest and shoulder vents as well as they leaned against the doors.
“God,” he groaned, sounding tired. “God.”
“Yeah?” Blurr came around the counter, optics traveling over the bar to look for any other tasks he’d yet to complete. He wiped down the table Astera had been occupying.
“If someone cheated on you multiple times, why would you stay with them?” Blast Off asked, field dripping with disdain.
“Because you’re an idiot?” Blurr offered as they wiped down the other tables for good measure.
“Exactly so,” Blast Off replied sourly. “It’s hard to feel bad for her when she keeps going back to the person who hurt her so many times.”
Blurr pressed her lips together and didn’t comment. An old scene floated up out of their memory banks. Him and Swindle, sitting on the couch in his loft on Old Cybertron, gossiping amicably over energon before the chatter inevitably turned to something more physical. It’s depressing, watching them trail after Onslaught like a turbofox waiting for a pat on the head. Why keep pining after someone who takes you for granted?
"Well, she's Stream and Pulley's problem now," Blast Off sighed. "Do you need anything from me, Blurr?"
"I forgot to give you your end of shift drink," Blurr exclaimed, dismayed.
"Hm. Add the difference to my paycheck."
Blurr looked up sharply from where they were standing at the disposal, making sure that all the shattered glass had gone down the intake. Blast Off's face was completely serious, but there was a small sparkle in his electromagnetics. The shuttle was capable of jokes. Blurr marveled.
"You'll have to take that up with the accountant," she replied blandly, and Blast Off smirked because they both knew damn well Swindle would not sign off on that.
"Then we can hit up my favorite waxing joint," Blast Off went on casually. "You want to get some of those paint scuffs out before they settle in with your nanites, and I'm due for a detailing." They were almost a little imperious in the way they suggested it, but Blurr couldn't disagree even on principle. She could always detail at home, but between helping rebuild Functionist Cybertron and managing the bar, he hadn't really had time to treat himself lately.
He commed Swindle.
>>blast off and i are going to get detailed. wanna join????
Surprise inflected the glyphs that came back over Blurr's commlink.
>>Nah, sorry. Busy.
>>with what?
>>Wouldn’t you like to know, racer boy?
Blurr laughed aloud, earning a quizzical look from Blast Off at the counter. Swindle only got this coy when they were planning something for Blurr.
>>fine then. dont tell me
>>Have fun with Blast Off. Don't let the slaggers at his usual place rip you off.
"You ready?" she asked Blast Off, turning off the lights. The shuttle followed Blurr out the back door, looking around in the alley carefully as Blurr punched in the alarm codes Swindle had installed. Just because we're in peacetime now doesn't mean there aren't some gearheads willing to do dumb slag, she'd said, arguing Blurr down when the bartender had insisted that basic locks were enough.
"It's quiet out tonight," Blurr remarked. Blast Off hummed, unimpressed. Well. He had tried.
"So where's this detailing place you go to?"
"Do you remember where Club Vogue is? It's not far from there."
"I sure do." Blurr smiled fondly as they headed out of the alley.
Blast Off saw the expression on her face and snorted, but his electromagnetic field was friendly.
"Yes, I doubt people will be forgetting your first visit to club Vogue. Everybody at the detailing shop was talking about it for days."
Blurr cycled her optics in surprise. "So I have a reputation at this place already?"
"Well. How often does a former Wrecker show up to a Con club and serve against the whole dance floor? You made a lot of waves that night."
"Good ones, I would hope."
Blast Off had his mask up, but Blurr could hear the smirk in their voice. "I will say that there are a few people who mourned the fact that you're already spoken for.”
Blurr felt a little shiver of satisfaction up their spine. His celebrity days were gone, but he would never lose the taste for a little bit of worship. They all had their vices.
"Ping me the directions," they suggested. "I'll race you there." Blast Off snorted again.
"What do you take me for? We both know who's going to win."
"Not necessarily. I have to stick to the ground in the streets, you can fly clear over everything in the air."
Blast Off hesitated. Looked from side to side, but none of the passing mecha were paying attention to two more random bots standing in the street. Two pairs of Devisens whizzed by on the back of a large grounder whose altmode suggested time spent on Earth, chattering loudly. A couple of two-wheelers ran circles around a laughing beastformer before they all carried on and out of sight, and other mecha walked, drove, flew, or loitered about, chatting idly or comparing holoscreens excitedly. A submarine with an old Autobot badge helped a limping fighter jet with a scratched out Con brand sit down carefully on a bench, both of them talking amicably. Behind them, a Camien pushed someone from Carcer in a hoverchair along. Blurr found herself looking at the scene indulgently, a slight smile on her face.
"Do you want to ride there?” Blast Off was speaking softly, but their voice nonetheless brought Blurr back to the mech standing before them.
"What?” she asked.
"My alt mode is large enough to carry other Cybertronians."
"Oh. Oh!" Blurr had only ever ridden in a fellow Cybertronian as transport a few times. There was that disastrous moment in the Simanzi Massacre where she'd been in a ground shuttle with several other soldiers, and it had ended pretty quickly when a massive hole was blown into the side of the person transporting them all and scattering them under cannon fire. He'd also had the displeasure of riding inside Astrotrain as a prisoner of Turmoil once, before a bunch of Wreckers busted them out and Kup personally recruited her. She shuddered.
"Uh, would that be okay with you? I mean I know mass shifting requires a lot of energon and if you haven't had a drink yet I don't want to strain you and besides we can both just ride there and I know you usually only transport the team—"
"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to, Blurr," Blast Off interrupted coolly. His field was tight against his frame, but something in his tone set off warnings in Blurr's processor.
Ah.
"It would be my pleasure, Blast Off," Blurr responded after a moment, and Blast Off relaxed ever so slightly. Blurr kept the relief from her field, but he smiled at Blast Off. He was just a little taller than her.
"Stand back," they said while moving away from the building. "The mass shifting happens faster than you'd think." Blurr obeyed, running the little interaction over in his processor. The loud and extended transformation process didn't even phase her, though it did cause several passing mecha to leap, fly, or jump away from Blast Off as he shifted from a taller-than-average mech to a shuttle that could comfortably carry four mecha. His spaceworthy engines rumbled softly, and Blurr covered a smile with one hand—Blast Off was taking up the entire road.
"Hey, what the Pit's the problem?" someone yelled around them. "This look like a frickin' space station to you?"
"Primus gave you a functioning processor, use it! Other mecha is tryna drive out here!"
“You left your fuckin’ wits in the stars, laser brain? MOVE!”
To Blurr's surprise, Blast Off laughed. His back hatch opened. "Get in, Blurr," they said, voice full of deadly good humor. "I think we are causing distress to these good mecha."
Blurr climbed in quickly and sat neatly on a bench seat. The back hatch snapped shut, leaving her in the dim lighting of Blast Off's interior. He could hear more irritated shouting outside, but Blast Off's engines roared to full power, drowning out the aggravated mecha in the street.
"I'm going, I'm going," Blast Off muttered, his voice reverberating all around them. Blurr felt them lift off, surprisingly smooth. His field was pulled tight against the walls, which Blurr appreciated. The ground shuttle at the Simanzi Massacre hadn't bothered to try and cloak their anxiety, and it had spread and infected everyone else in the transport. "Kindly secure your harness, Blurr," Blast Off reminded her. "I don't intend to do any maneuvers, but you never know when a helicopter is going to come hurling at you sideways because they thought they could fly while overcharged on engex."
Blurr secured his harness with a small smile. "It sounds like you're speaking from personal experience. I think I could hazard a guess as to who the culprit is."
"No prizes for guessing right." Blast Off's voice was very dry.
They continued exchanging absent chatter over the hum of the engines. The ride was exceptionally smooth, which was both a surprise and a pleasure. Blast Off was a good conversationalist; he was well informed on a wide array of waxes and polishes, and Blurr found themself debating the merits of liquid wax versus paste with the shuttle. Blast Off seemed much more amenable to small talk now that she'd accepted their offer of a ride, and Blurr tried to keep both the affection and surprise from bleeding into his field. Blurr knew he'd passed some kind of unspoken test, and that by allowing her to ride inside of them, Blast Off was signaling that they now considered Blurr close in the same way he regarded the other Combaticons. She knew that by accepting the offer, they were signaling that they felt the same.
Akin to family.
It felt like a big leap, but—well, he'd become closer with them all by now, hadn't he? But Blurr realized this gesture was not meaningless or small. Swindle had given them all the gossip. Blast Off had come from an aristocratic group of transport tycoons before the war; when familial expectation and business had failed to keep him in line, the shuttle had run off to do mercenary work before falling in with Onslaught and being recruited. Pre-war Blurr had been rich too, and famous to boot, but he wasn't old money the way Mirage or Blast Off were. He didn't run in the aristocratic circles where the location of your seat in a meeting said more about you than you could yourself, and the way you smiled at someone could mean the difference between a deal between business families or a centuries long feud. Blurr had been the kind of rich to hit exclusive nightclubs, pick up groupies whose names he'd forget in a few hours, and trash rented rooms.
He'd actually been a huge jackass, she thought ruefully.
Blast Off's voice brought her out of her memories. "There's this one wax from Earth, carnauba wax—"
"Ooh, I've tried that. It looks nice but doesn't last."
"Oh? Wait until you see what this place has done with the formula."
She quirked an optic ridge. "I'm game."
Blast Off's field emanated satisfaction.
The landing was so smooth that Blurr didn't realize they had touched down until Blast Off's engines shut off and his back hatch opened to reveal a star studded sky. He quickly removed his harness and exited the shuttle, who wasted no time shifting back into his root mode.
The detailing shop was bustling. A few mecha lounged outside, smoking, drinking, and gossiping, while strange music and laughter wafted from the open doors. There was a little stand nearby advertising energon goodies and other refreshments—the proprietor was hanging halfway out of the window, exchanging shouts with a nearby mech in a South Nyon accent so thick Blurr wasn't sure if they were laughing or arguing. As Blurr and Blast Off approached, some of the loiterers in front stopped chatting to look them both over. There were definitely a few leers in the gazes that settled on Blurr.
Blast Off ignored them studiously and marched inside, Blurr quick on their heels. The front lobby was quiet, smoky, with a bored-looking mech sitting at a little stand with a datapad. The laughter and music came from deeper within.
"Just two?" the mech asked, barely glancing up from his datapad. Blurr glanced at Blast Off expectantly.
"Yes."
"Will you need an attendant?"
"No."
"Standard supplies?"
"We'd like the house carnauba in addition to those."
"There's a surcharge."
"I'm well aware. I have an account here, I'm familiar with the prices." And Blast Off's field flicked out in something like a warning, and the slouching mech straightened a little.
"Of course, sir," they said, tone shifting to something resembling politeness. Blurr had never seen a waxing and detailing shop like this. Prior to the war, he'd patronized exclusive joints that fawned over him, where attendants scuffled to be the one to help him and the front staff were intensely well-mannered with just the right amount of awestruck. During the war…well, they hadn't had the time or resources during the war, and now, Blurr mostly did waxing herself, with Swindle helping.
Blurr allowed Blast Off to guide her to a private room, where pleasant music that sounded vaguely like something from Stanix piped in. The suite was a little steamy, obviously having just been sanitized, and while it was clean, the benches and floor were scuffed and chipped. The sharp, interesting smells of cleaning chemicals, waxes, and solvent hung heavy in the air.
After a little moment, Blurr settled on the bench with Blast Off, who wasted no time picking up a soft, wet cloth and working it over her left hand. "Your hands are probably the best place to start," they said as vivid pinks and blues of energon and stains from metal additives came away on the cloth. "Don't tell me all this accumulated in just one night."
"I soak my hands every night," Blurr protested. Blast Off looked at her consideringly. "Most nights," he amended.
Blast Off smiled slightly, field rippling with humor. The cloth worked over Blurr's wrist joint, up their forearm, to the joints of his elbow. "You remind me of Onslaught. I'm always reminding him to do detail work."
"And you're just like Swindle," Blurr groaned goodnaturedly. "Constantly on my bumper about it."
"It's important," Blast Off replied firmly, working a fresh cloth over Blurr's left shoulder. He shivered as their digits moved the cloth carefully in between the slats of the vents there. Blast Off paused, their visor flickering. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," Blurr murmured. "Just sensitive there."
"I'll be quick."
"Do you come here often?" she asked stupidly, to cover the little moment. Blast Off glanced up at him again, shrewdly this time, as if they knew.
"Twice a month or so," the shuttle replied at length, moving to her neck cables. Blurr shuddered again, and Blast Off gave him a moment to collect themself before resuming. "Sometimes Onslaught or Swindle will join me. Rarely, I can get Tex to come."
"What about Brawl?" Blurr tried not to shiver as Blast Off began smoothing a fresh cloth over their right shoulder.
A tiny smile curved Blast Off's lip plates. "He came once, said he hated the smell and the stuffiness and the whole slagging uppityness of it, and said that if waxing at base was good enough during the war it's good enough now."
Blurr huffed a silent laugh. Blast Off started on her right arm.
"Quite," Blast Off agreed. "I keep trying to tempt him back. I have thus far been unsuccessful."
"I'm guessing he didn't get a lot of waxing before the war?"
Blast Off actually paused, looking at Blurr. They exchanged the used chamois cloth for a fresh one, and gestured politely to her legs. Blurr felt their ventilations hitch; Blast Off was perfectly gentle, and he'd waxed with friends before, but there was something very intimate about letting the shuttle touch his legs. He'd hobbled around on crutches for a few months after Unicron, and it had been absolutely hellish. This was a level of trust that she—
Blurr extended one leg carefully, and Blast Off gripped it with gentle servos. Their movements were deft, precise, and firm.
"Brawl was a frontline trooper before the war," Blast Off said at last, continuing easily as if they'd never paused. "He was an M.T.O. before M.T.O.s existed, cold constructed and spun up purely as a tool of war."
Blurr's vents hitched again. He was forged; her first memories—so ancient as to be archival data now—were of a smith praising the unusually aerodynamic shapes of his legs and how lightweight his protoform was. As someone groomed to be a racer from the start, he'd never once lacked for attention or care.
"Needless to say," Blast Off went on drily, "He wasn't given the opportunity to experience this much." He worked the cloth over her thighs, his rippling field locked tight against their brown and purple plating. Blurr saw the copper vents in their chest flutter lightly. Blast Off worked in silence as Blurr's fists clenched and unclenched. The shuttle had his mask down and she had noticed—like Onslaught—he was very handsome.
"What about you?" Blurr asked quickly, their voice a little breathy as the chamois brushed against the sensitive vents on her upper thighs.
"I was forged. I…" Blast Off hesitated, hands near her hip joints, and Blurr took the cloth from him.
"I can do the hip joints. I'm really ticklish there, I don't wanna kick you in the face or embarrass myself laughing." And Blurr worked the cloth quickly and efficiently over his own hips, watching it darken with grime. They could feel Blast Off's optics tracking their movements behind that purple visor.
While she attended to her helm and crest—places far too sensitive to allow anyone but Swindle to touch—Blast Off prepared the carnauba wax, mixing the powder in a little heated tray. The shuttle spoke again. "I was part of a business family of transport tycoons in Old Altihex. My mentor picked me out as being particularly good for it…shuttles are in rather short supply even today."
"But you left."
"I did," Blast Off agreed. "It was…dull. I didn't enjoy the expectations foisted upon me."
"What kind of expectations?"
Blast Off considered, holding the prepared wax tray. “I…Shuttles in Old Altihex are—were—held to certain expectations. What colors you could have, where you went to enjoy yourself, who you could associate with. It felt suffocating. The first thing I did after leaving was get body work done.” Blast Off knelt in front of Blurr with a soft sponge. “Please extend your legs again.”
“What kind of body work did you get done?”
“New paint job. Shifted some of my externals around so my kibble felt more streamlined. And a few new biolights.” Blast Off began working the polish in with a will, and Blurr relaxed under his gentle touch. “Many of the shuttles of Old Altihex…before Functionism took hold, that is, many of them utilized biolights and color alongside engravings to express themselves and their genders.”
Blurr smiled, leaning back so Blast Off could get at her hip guards. He shuddered pleasurably at the feel of the warm wax. “I didn’t realize you had also gotten body reformats.”
Blast Off gave a little sniff. “I’m the first person Swindle asked about frame surgery, back when she was first thinking—” He fell silently suddenly, hand pausing over Blurr’s left thigh.
“Swindle also lets me call her ‘she,’ Blast Off,” Blurr said gently.
“Hmf. Why am I not surprised.” Blast Off resumed their tender ministrations. He worked in amiable silence, all the way back up to Blurr’s shoulders and arms.
“Are you considering any body work, Blurr?” they asked finally as they reached her helm. Their field emitted a silent question, and Blurr acquiesced by leaning forward after a slight hesitation. He shivered at the first gentle touches.
“No. I mean not really. I’m pretty happy with my body, as is.”
“I can see why.” Blurr didn’t need to look up to see Blast Off’s smile; they could feel it in his field. Their own field fluttered shyly in response, but other than that she gave no other flirtatious signals. Blast Off very clearly belonged to Onslaught, and there was no reason to jeopardize her relationship with Swindle by causing drama in her gestalt.
"Done," Blast Off declared, stepping back. They looked Blurr over, their electromagnetics flickering. "The house carnauba has done wonders for your finish."
Blurr looked down at his arms and legs. He did have an exceptionally pristine glow now, all the scuffs and paint transfers from the wear and tear of the last few weeks completely gone. "Okay, I agree. This is nice." They looked up, a smirk on her face. "Now it's my turn to do you."
Blast Off's expression didn't move one iota, but their field rippled almost shyly. They stepped forward and sat on the bench carefully.
"Let me know if there's any places I should leave to you," Blurr said, picking up a fresh cloth. Blast Off smiled slightly, and held out their right arm so Blurr could get started.
Blurr and Blast Off elected to walk back to the neat little apartment Swindle occupied with her gestalt, though Swindle spent half his time at Blurr's anyway. Blast Off stated that he didn't want to ruin his new finish, and Blurr had acquiesced even though walking often made her fidgety. Blast Off kept up a brisk pace, perhaps in courtesy to the speedster, but Blurr didn't feel any of the usual anxiety that fizzed in her joints, and their pace had slowed eventually to a more comfortable walk. I'm getting slow, in my old age, she thought wryly.
The streets were quieter now, though the sounds of construction and demolition were still present. Functionist Cybertron still had a lot of rebuilding to do. Blurr had been helping out as she could in between shifts at Maccadam's New Old Oil House, building something new out of the old rubble. There had been more scuffs on his plating that they'd realized, and it was only their absence that served to remind Blurr that the tiring work she was undertaking merited rest.
"Thank you for this," Blurr told Blast Off suddenly, breaking the friendly, slightly anxious silence. "I didn't realize how much I needed it."
Blast Off smiled down at her. "Don't blow a gear at this, but I think you're more like Onslaught than you realize."
"Like Onslaught?" Blurr huffed. "I'll need you to explain that one to me."
Blast Off gave a little laugh, low and pleasant. "You get so focused on your goals and plans that you forget important things, like taking care of yourself."
"Or other people," Blurr added, his voice and field completely bland. In their peripherals, they could see Blast Off look at them sharply.
"Ons takes good care of me," they said quietly as they approached the little building the gestalt called home. Their field rippled slightly as they punched in the key code to their door.
"I trust you to know better than I," Blurr responded, reaching out with her electromagnetics gently. Blast Off allowed the contact, replying with a soft little flick of their own EM field. Then the door opened and Blurr could hear Brawl shouting inside.
"GET IT! GET IT! I—HOW COULD SHE MISS THAT!"
Swindle's laughter rang out. "You owe me ten shanix, bud."
A rude noise came from Vortex. "Swindle's cheating! She already saw this match!"
Blast Off and Blurr exchanged wary glances, then entered hesitantly. The boys and Swindle were sitting in the common room, watching an organic game on the holovid projector. The little organics kicking a bichromatic sphere around were humans; the treaties between Cybertron and Earth meant that various forms of entertainment were as valuable to import as carnauba.
"Sup, fuckers," Vortex said casually from his perch on the back of Swindle's chair. He was studiously paying attention to the screen, but his visor flickered in a way that suggested his optics were still glued to Blast Off and Blurr.
Brawl turned around noisily to see the newcomers, surprise visible in his field and face. "Hey Blasty. Hey Blue." He openly stared, and Blurr felt her plating tighten a bit.
"What are you watching?" Blast Off asked, glancing at the holovid screen.
No one answered them.
Onslaught was sitting on the central couch, the spots on either side of him empty. His visor had not yet left Blast Off, and while his mask was up, his field reflected an interesting array of emotions. Blurr could pick out awe and desire immediately.
She glanced at Swindle. As soon as he realized she’d been caught staring, a little smirk replaced the look of open adoration on Swindle's face.
"Hi, hot wheels," Swindle purred. "I'm guessing you got the carnauba?"
Blurr smiled back, almost shyly. "We did."
"You look nice!" Brawl blurted out. "Both of you."
Onslaught straightened a little. His field was schooled to neutrality again. "To answer your question, Blast Off, we're watching…" He looked at Swindle.
"Sportsball!" Vortex interrupted gleefully. He snagged one of Swindle’s tires, earning a slap from the jeep. "A bunch of squishies run around trying to kick the ball into a net."
"It's called fútbol, boltskull," Swindle replied with a sneer. "And Argentina women’s national team just took a very nasty loss."
"I thought football was when a bunch of guys fell over every thirty seconds," Brawl protested. "This slag is so confusing."
"That's fútbol americano, B," Swindle said, swatting at Vortex, who was getting too close again. "Different languages."
"I can't keep track of all that," Brawl complained.
"Hey, assholes, y'all wanna sit down? Ons's got two empty spots on either side of him and I wanna see how this slag ends," Vortex interrupted, once more trying to spin Swindle’s tires. "You're in time to watch Brawl lose the rest of his shanix to Swindle."
Blurr exchanged glances with Blast Off again, these ones helpless. But the shuttle smiled after a moment, and gave a small jerk of their head towards where Onslaught was sitting. Onslaught, who still hadn't taken his eyes off of Blast Off.
It wasn't the first time Blurr had been to the gestalt team's neat little apartments, but it was the first time she'd stayed for any length of time. He'd never been beyond the front area, they realized as he settled down next to Onslaught. Swindle pinged the holovid player to unpause, and the tiny organics resumed their fútbol game.
“I still think Swin’s cheating,” Vortex commented as the camera focused on an organic stomping away from the net in an obvious temper.
“This is all live,” Swindle said innocently. He kept sneaking little glances at Blurr on Onslaught’s right.
>>Recorded live, they commed Blurr.
>>you play dirty
>>And you look fantastic. Carnauba’s good on you.
Blurr smiled softly.
>>we should go together sometime
Swindle’s faceplates split into a wicked little smile.
>>Later. I have something to show you at the upstairs of your loft, later.
>>oh??? what did you get me?
>>Something fun for the bar. You ever heard of a jukebox?
Blurr leaned over so her field could mingle with Swindle’s affectionately. To her left, Onslaught had placed one arm around Blast Off in a rather stiff-looking manner.
>>You work too hard, sometimes.
Swindle’s eyes were on Vortex, giving him a rude gesture as the copter prepared another obvious grab for Swindle’s tires. But her glyphs were inflected with admonition and traces of concern. Blurr offlined their optics, allowing the noise of the holovid, Brawl’s chatter, Vortex’s snickering, and soft touches of Swindle’s field to wash over her.
>>Don’t fall asleep. Brawl’s about to owe me a lot of money.
“Not falling asleep,” Blurr mumbled aloud, resting their chin on one arm. “Just resting my optics.” Swindle laughed gently, his thick fingers resting on Blurr’s helm.
She was just dozing into recharge when a different comm pinged her HUD.
>>Thank you for joining me tonight.
Blast Off’s glyphs were cool, polite, and a touch dry.
>>thank you for inviting me!!
And because he felt they had the measure of each other enough to joke, now—
>>onslaught seemed to notice >:)
On the other side of Onslaught’s neutral, calm field, Blurr felt Blast Off’s field warp a bit.
>>So did Swindle…
Blurr smiled—and onlined her optics suddenly as a loud crash cut through the pleasant haze of noise. They looked at Brawl, but he was still seated; the tank was glaring at Swindle and Vortex. The jeep had obviously had enough of Vortex’s shenanigans and pushed him off the back of the seat, and now the swearing copter was struggling to get back up.
“That’s enough,” Onslaught said irritably, leaning forward. “Both of you, opposite sides of this room now. If I have to suffer through watching organic sports I’m going to do it in peace.” His visor paled dangerously as Vortex took an experimental swipe at Swindle. “Now.”
Blast Off glanced at Blurr, a half smile on their face. “Welcome to the family,” they murmured.