It was Bluestreak’s job to keep an optic on Jazz, to watch out for the necessary clues, and to ensure that he cared for Jazz properly. He had learned how to read Jazz’s frame language, the minute ticks in his facial expressions, the tiniest tremors in Jazz’s field. He’d made it his business to know.
But while Bluestreak had been studying Jazz, Jazz had, in turn, been studying his lover and master. This was, after all, mutually beneficial. Where Bluestreak was always there for him, ready to pull him out of the dark, Jazz wanted to return that care in kind.
So he knew, by the slight droop at the corner of Bluestreak’s smile, by the way his door panels dipped ever so slightly, and the way his armor trembled as it tightened close to his protoform, that Bluestreak needed him. Not as sub and pet, but as Jazz, his lover.
Jazz extricated Bluestreak from the gaggle of friends with some lie he’d have to remember later. Bluestreak went with him willingly, barely a protest, and Jazz knew even more then — Bluestreak needed him.
They didn’t go to either of their quarters. Jazz knew better than that. Instead, he guided Bluestreak to the backmost corners of the Ark, those where no one was housed, and no offices were kept. The volcanic walls were too unstable here for daily use. But they were perfect for those needing a moment, for silence and solitude without being disturbed.
“We don’t have a session today,” Bluestreak said, but he sounded disconnected. As though he wasn’t really here. And Jazz knew that was because he was going deep, burying his conscious into his cortex.
“This ain’t a session,” Jazz said, and backed Bluestreak up to a pile of rubble. He gave Bluestreak a push, and Blue toppled backward, his aft landing on a decently sized boulder. “This is just you ‘n me, this rock, those walls, and silence.”
Bluestreak looked up at him, confusion in the edges of his field, but his optics gone cold. He was scarily malleable, and Jazz remained glad he’d urged Bluestreak out when he did. Like this, anyone could have done anything to him.
He cursed those mechs in Praxus all over again. Fraggers. They ruined Prowl’s life. They ruined Smokescreen’s life. And they ruined poor Blue’s, too. Sometimes, Jazz was glad the ‘Cons bombed the pit out of that Primus-forsaken city.
Jazz cycled a ventilation and forced the anger down deep. Right now was about Bluestreak.
He urged Bluestreak’s arms aside, and slid into Bluestreak’s lap, wrapping himself around as much of Bluestreak’s chassis as he could manage. He reached behind him, urging Bluestreak’s arms to return the embrace. Little shivers rattled through Bluestreak’s frame, but he was cognizant enough to press his head against the side of Jazz’s. His field opened, and within it was that emptiness, that dark maw which was frightening enough the first time Jazz felt it. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.
“Shh,” he said, though Blue wasn’t making a sound. That was the scariest part. The ever verbose Bluestreak being so quiet. “I gotcha, Blue. I gotcha.”
Sometimes, he just repeated those words, over and over again. A steady stream, a litany that probably droned in one audial out the other. But the words weren’t what mattered so much as the steadiness of it. The repetition. Something to focus on that could pull Bluestreak out of his spiral.
Other times, like this time, he sang instead. His frame hummed, and he sang so softly, it couldn’t carry any further than Bluestreak’s audials. Which was the point.
Jazz offlined his visor, and he sang, a wordless tune. It might be minutes, it might be hours. It might be that Jazz would need to ping Prowl and ask him to cover Jazz’s shift. He never really knew. He just knew he couldn’t walk away in the middle of this, or he might lose Bluestreak to the black.
So he sang. And he sang. And he sang.
And he waited for Bluestreak to come back to him. Jazz trusted Bluestreak would. He always did.