Chapter Text
Cliffjumper liked his job, for the most part.
Sure, being a glorified receptionist wasn’t the most impressive or exciting career, and he didn’t get to see much action, but his job did come with cushy benefits and his own desk. Cliffjumper liked his desk. He’d decorated it with knick-knacks and random scrap, it was nice. Longarm Prime wasn’t that bad of a boss, either. He was a little awkward and a little formal, but overall, a decent mech. And it sure beat working with Sentinel Prime any cycle.
So yes, being a receptionist for Longarm Prime wasn’t so bad; it was his Intelligence Officers that drove Cliffjumper slagging crazy.
Cliffjumper had made a list of bots within the intelligence division, and that list numbered the bots from “Difficult to Deal With” to “Absolute Worst to Deal With”. His list was more of a rage-fueled hobby; a side project to fiddle with when he was bored in-between managing Longarm’s appointments and sending out emails. The list shifted around based on his mood and which bot had last done something to drive him crazy, but one thing on the list remained constant, and that was that the number one “Absolute Worst Bot to Deal With” was always Agent Blurr.
Blurr was an okay mech outside of work. Cliffjumper liked it when he occasionally joined races in Iacon and blew the competition away; the bot was fast and it was impressive.
At work, however, he acted like he had a steel rod shoved up his exhaust. And he was weird. Probably due to the extended periods of time that he spent alone on missions, stuck in his altmode. But. Still.
Whenever he returned from missions, Blurr was insistent on showing up to Cliffjumper’s desk in the metal to schedule his debrief appointment, rather than sending a message or using the scheduling program that all the Intelligence officers had access to. Which wouldn’t be so bad on its own, but then he’d twitch, and fidget, and stare unblinkingly while Cliffjumper got him scheduled.
He also had an issue with the knick-knacks on Cliffjumper’s desk. He’d make big, long, huffy comments in that obnoxious voice of his about “workspace efficiency” and “desk regulations”. Often, Cliffjumper would look away from his console after the racer had left to find that all the things on his desk had been rearranged into neat, neurotic little rows.
And that wasn’t even the half of it. There was a reason Blurr was always at the top of his list; he was blatantly, borderline insubordinately, bluntly rude to Longarm Prime. He didn’t even try to hide his disdainful comments about the Prime with his vocal tic. In fact, Cliffjumper was sure he made a point to slow his words enough to be understood clearly whenever he talked about the Prime.
The minibot had mastered the art of tuning Blurr out after the first few rants he’d had to sit through. Blurr always ranted about the same slag anyway, crazy stuff like “Our-department’s-productivity-rate-has-gone-down-since-Longarm-Prime-got-promoted” and “Don’t-you-think-it’s-suspicious-how-Highbrow-Prime-disappeared-?”.
Cliffjumper rolled his optical lights just thinking about it. Primus. Intelligence field agents could be so paranoid.
Longarm Prime was always professional about Agent Blurr’s behavior, which made Cliffjumper even more relieved that he worked for such a mature and reasonable Prime. He never said anything rude back; he would merely tactfully change the subject or move on from the situation with an awkward smile. Sometimes the red orb on his helm would glitch and flicker afterwards and Cliffjumper often wondered if it was because he got processor-aches from Blurr’s voice.
Cliffjumper did.
“Still working on your list, I see. What did I do to make it to number three?”
Cliffjumper jumped in his chair when a silky voice purred into his left audial. Shimmering into existence from thin air, Mirage appeared behind him. The spy slouched elegantly against the back of Cliffjumper’s chair, one servo resting lightly on the backrest.
“Agent Mirage!” The minibot spluttered, his servos scrambling on the keyboard to exit the tab with his list open. He glared up at the spy as the other bot left his place behind the chair to strut around to the front of the desk, where he was supposed to stand. “You’re here early. Longarm Prime is still in a meeting with Agent Hound and isn’t due to be finished for another breem.”
Mirage looked down at him curiously. “Hound? I have not seen him in... oh, quite some time. All the more reason to be here early and catch him once he’s finished, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” Cliffjumper huffed, scowling at his console screen. “Do you have your report from your mission on Deneb IV? Might as well send it in if you’re going to hang around.”
“Of course. I sent it shortly before I arrived here.”
Mirage was mentally bumped to number two on his list.
“Of course.” Cliffjumper echoed through grit denta. He checked his inbox and at the top sat Mirage’s report, mockingly. He would have to comb through the data in Mirage’s report extra carefully. He didn’t trust the spy. That was mostly why he always ranked high on Cliffjumper’s list; Mirage was a borderline traitor, a Decepticon sympathizer for sure. Cliffjumper had been keeping a close optic on the spy’s behavior and actions, ready to catch anything that would reveal him as a traitor.
Sure, he’d yet to find any hard evidence, but there was still time. Mirage was bound to slip one of these cycles.
Squinting his optics with suspicion, Cliffjumper peered over the top of his console screen to look at the spy. Mirage blinked back at him slowly, an indulgent look on his traitorous, handsome faceplate.
No. Cliffjumper corrected himself. Not handsome.
“Is this new?” Mirage asked, pointing to a blue servo-sized plastic ball on Cliffjumper’s desk. He was at least polite enough not to touch it, unlike some Intel agents.
“Yeah.” He picked up the ball and squeezed it once in demonstration. “Jazz gave it to me at the last inter-department party. It’s a dumb joke, but it works pretty well.”
Jazz was the only bot smooth enough to gift Cliffjumper –a notoriously short-fused minibot- a stress relief ball and not get his aft kicked.
Mirage’s lipplates quirked into a faint smile.
“I am surprised you-”
He was cut off when a whirlwind of blue metal burst into Cliffjumper’s lobby and stopped directly in front of the desk.
“Agent-Blurr-reporting-to-turn-in-the-mission-summary-from-my-assignment-in-the-Van-Dema-Sector-and-schedule-my-debrief-appointment- oh!” Blurr looked at Mirage in surprise. “Agent Mirage! It-has-been-ten-point-eight-stellar-cycles-since-I've-seen-you-which-isn't-too-long-but-if-you-don't-mind-my-saying-so-it-feels-like-forever-I-thought-you-”
“-Agent Blurr, your wheels are smoking. Have you reported to medical for your post-mission checkup?” Cliffjumper griped, mostly as an attempt to get Blurr to leave, and partially because his wheels really were stinking up the lobby.
The speedster looked down at his pedes as if he’d forgotten he had them and shuffled his legs. They made a horrible creaking-grinding sound, and Blurr winced.
“Well no I have not reported to medical- but-post-mission-intel-takes-precedence-over-any-minor-injuries-and-as-I-am-currently-functional-there-really-isn't-a-point-in-delaying-what-needs-to-be-done-especially-since-our-department's-overall-productivity-rate-has-been-declining-these-past-few-”
“Yeah, sure.” Cliffjumper waved off his rant. It was best not to let him get started, because then he’d never stop. One of Blurr’s servos hovered over the knick-knacks on Cliffjumper’s desk with the barely restrained urge to touch, and he smacked it away out of reflex. “Send in your report. Also, what cycle and time works best for your debrief? The soonest I have available is next cycle at 0800.”
Blurr tapped a pede restlessly, which did not help the smell, and squinted in thought. “Are-you-sure-there's-nothing-earlier-available-I-would-like-t-”
“There’s nothing earlier.”
“Well-if-that-is-the-case-” Blurr sniffed, shooting him an irritated look. “-then-0800-is-acceptable-though-it-is-not-ideal-nor-particularly-efficient-time-management.”
Cliffjumper’s right optical shutter twitched. He could feel a helm-ache coming on, and he squeezed the blue stress ball in his servo so tight that one side of it warped permanently.
He was pretending it was Blurr’s helm.
“Alright. I’ve got you on the schedule.” He ground out.
Mirage turned to look at Blurr, and despite both bots being of similar height and color, they were complete opposites in behavior. Blurr bounced and twitched and scowled while Mirage stood patiently, so still and relaxed that it was easy to forget he was even there.
“It is nice to see you again as well, Blurr. I read the reports of your recent work on Beta-4. Quite impressive.”
Blurr smiled -an extremely rare thing for the huffy bot to do- and it softened his facial plates out of his usual serious scowl enough that Cliffjumper was disturbingly reminded that Blurr was not ugly. Though, as a consolation, the same could not be said for his personality.
Longarm Prime chose that moment to step out of his office.
“Thank you for meeting with me today, Ho-” The Prime paused when he spotted the crowd in Cliffjumper’s lobby. His optics glitched weirdly when his gaze landed on a smiling Blurr, who very swiftly stopped smiling at the sight of his beloathed boss. “-und.” He finished, awkwardly butchering Hound’s designation.
“No problem, Longarm Prime sir.” Hound responded, optics flicking between the Prime and the small hoard gathered in the lobby as he shuffled out of the office.
“Hound!” Mirage called, not loudly but with polite enthusiasm. Cliffjumper was not jealous.
“Mirage!” Hound grinned, coming over to speak with the spy. The two retreated a little further away from Cliffjumper’s desk to exchange greetings, leaving the minibot alone with an uncomfortable Longarm Prime, and an irritated Blurr.
“Cliffjumper, what is going on out here?” The Prime asked quietly, walking to stand by the side of the minibot’s desk.
“Agent Mirage arrived early for his meeting, and Agent Blurr is here to submit his report and schedule his debrief, sir.” Cliffjumper hated it when there were too many bots in his lobby.
“Ah, I see-”
“Longarm-Prime-sir-If-I-may-interject-I-need-to-speak-with-you-about-a- oof !” Blurr squeaked as his attempt to rush forward backfired when his injured pedes gave out with a disgusting cckkkkrrkkk noise and he tipped over. Alarmed, the Prime moved closer with his arms stretched out, utilizing his limb extension ability to catch Blurr by his thin waist and wrap around him twice before he could hit the ground.
Mirage and Hound quieted, turning to watch the scene.
Blurr steadied himself with two servos pressed to the larger bot’s shoulder treads, a pink flush of energon glowing through his facial plates. “Thank-you-for-catching-me-sir-and-I-apologise-for-this-but-please-don't-let-go-of-me-as-I-am-certain-the-main-structural-support-struts-in-my-pedes-have-completely-snapped-and-I-am-currently-unable-to-walk-or-stand-or-run.”
Longarm Prime looked very much like he wanted to drop Blurr on the ground, but instead, he smiled in the uncomfortable, strained way that he always did. “No worries, Agent Blurr. I have a solution.”
As if Blurr weighed as much as a box of a few bolts and screws, the Prime lifted him and carried him over to Hound. “Please escort Agent Blurr to medical, and ensure he stays there for however long he is required to.”
Passing Blurr to Hound, the Prime watched with an uncharacteristic intensity while his arms squeezed once, then slowly unwound from Blurr’s thin waist. The red orb on his helm flickered and his optics were slightly unfocused, as if they weren’t even being used.
Probably just a helm-ache from Blurr’s voice making his optical sensors malfunction, Cliffjumper reasoned.
“Yessir.” Hound replied. He sent an overly friendly wink in Mirage’s direction when he left with an embarrassed Blurr slung over his shoulder, and another part of Cliffjumper’s stress ball was warped irreversibly.
At least his lobby was quickly cleared, and everything was back on schedule after that, as Mirage was taken back into Longarm’s office. Cliffjumper let out a relieved sigh and tiredly rubbed a servo across his faceplate, looking away from his console for a moment. One of his favorite trinkets on his desk was a small red crystal in a pot that he kept for when he needed to rest his optics on something that wasn’t a screen. It had been growing a lot recently and-
Fragging. Agent. Blurr.
Cliffjumper’s desk had once again been rearranged when he wasn’t looking.
The stress ball did not survive Cliffjumper’s resulting rage induced assault, but he did feel calmer after it had burst into a million little blue pieces.