“What's he doin'?”
The doc grunts. “Who?”
Wheeljack leans a bit to the right, getting a better view of Optimus, who's sitting on the floor, curled up as though intending to make himself a smaller target. “Prime.”
Ratchet looks over his shoulder, glancing at his leader. “Oh. He's meditating.”
Wheeljack arches an orbital ridge. “What the frag is he doing that for?”
“You can't be serious.” The doc gives Wheeljack a flat look before he returns to digging through their crates of mixed supplies, looking for the converter that Wheeljack needs. “He meditates to calm his spark and to settle his processor.”
Wheeljack folds his arms, watching as the Prime sits utterly still, his plating not so much as twitching. Even from this distance, he can catch flutters of the Prime's energy field. Agitation. Restlessness. Che. When the frag has meditation ever fixed that?
“Seems like a waste of time to me.”
Ratchet snorts. “No one asked you. Here's your converter.” He tosses the part over his shoulder.
Wheeljack catches it without a wasted movement, tucking the converter into his subspace for later. He's not quite ready to leave yet. He planned on waiting for Bulkhead anyway and poking at the Prime should fill in the wait.
Ratchet gets all bristly, plating raising like a charged turbo cat as he glares at Wheeljack, before he mutters something subvocally and stomps away. Wheeljack chuckles. Priceless. It's ridiculously easy to get the doc-bot riled. Mech needs to loosen up, could probably use an interface or twelve.
Not unlike their fearless leader as a matter of fact.
A smile curling his mouthplates, Wheeljack stealthily creeps closer to the meditating Prime. Optimus' optics are offline, his battlemask open, revealing a faceplate in calm repose. Or something like it at any rate. There, if Wheeljack looks close enough, are some evident twitches.
Amused, Wheeljack circles the Prime, though he gives Optimus a wide berth. Optimus has to know he's there but he says nothing. Does nothing. This is gonna be so much fun.
Wheeljack waits. One of them is going to crack first. Either Optimus is going to speak or Wheeljack's going to lose patience waiting for the Prime to snap.
He keeps circling Prime, steps carefully measured. A tiny surge of anticipation crackles along his circuits. He's heard a lot about the infamous Optimus Prime who used to be a mere data clerk. Bulkhead can't stop going on about how Optimus is different than all the others. Wheeljack might even be starting to believe the lughead.
Optimus can certainly kick some Decepticon aft, which gives him a few good marks in Wheeljack's datapad. He's got his own code of honor, and he's a fine piece of mech to look at, but Wheeljack's not ready to completely throw in his swords on Team Prime just yet. Best to watch and wait a bit more.
He likes being a loner. A loner who occasionally goes plating to plating with a shiny piece of aft.
Heh. Now there's an idea.
Wheeljack pauses when he's standing behind Optimus, contemplating the smokestacks of his alt-mode. “Is that really helpin'?” he asks. Okay, so he really isn't that patient.
“It was,” Optimus replies after a moment, his tone void of any evidence of possible irritation. He can't hide the wisps of annoyance in his energy field, though.
Wheeljack smirks. “But not anymore?”
“Is there something you need, Wheeljack?”
He takes a step, noticing the slight lifting and dropping of Prime's fingers across his thigh armor. A nervous tic?
“Naw. Doc gave me the part for the Jackhammer.” Wheeljack takes another step, a stalking stride really. “I was gonna wait around for Bulk but something else caught my optic.”
Optimus onlines his optics, turning his helm just so in order to watch Wheeljack. “We are always willing to provide assistance. Have you changed your mind about remaining on base?”
Primus, does anything poke through Prime's restraint? “Not a chance,” Wheeljack replies with a huff. He reaches up, pointedly fingering the hilt of one sword. “That's not the way to burn off some steam, Prime. Meditation just points the slag inward. Ya gotta get it out. That's the way we do it.” We, of course, meaning the Wreckers.
“I assume you have a suggestion?”
Wheeljack draws one of his swords, twirling it expertly in his fingers. “I hear you're pretty good with a blade yourself. Wanna give it a go?”
Prime rises from his kneel, looming over Wheeljack without even trying. “If you wish to engage in some training, you need only say so.”
Trust Optimus to turn a friendly spar into something serious and boring.
“That's not what I'm looking for but it'll do for now.” Wheeljack lets his battlemask slide closed, reaching for his second blade. Prime's got two; it's only fair.
Prime flicks his wrists, blades snapping free, his battlemask sliding shut with an audible shunt. “Terms?”
“I'm not fixing any damage!” Ratchet hollers from who the frag knows where. Doc probably has audials and optics in all directions. Or maybe he's just got a sixth sense for these kinds of things.
Wheeljack chuckles, his optics flashing. “Better listen to the doc, I guess. Nothing permanent.” Talk about putting a damper on the festivities.
“Acceptable.” Prime inclines his helm and takes up a defensive position.
Well, that's fine with Wheeljack. He's perfectly happy being the aggressor. This is going to be ridiculously fun. Too bad Bulk's not here to see it. Miko's gonna throw a fit that she missed it, too.
Wheeljack measures the room, taking note of the floorspace. Enough room to move, but tight enough quarters that he'll need to get creative. Prime's got the reach on him, and probably the strength, too. But Wheeljack's crafty. And he has no problems fighting dirty.
“Show me what ya got,” Wheeljack challenges and rushes the Prime, knowing he's probably going to get his aft kicked, but he'll go down swinging.
He swings with one blade, quick to follow it up with the other. Prime effortlessly blocks him, the collision ringing through the air. Prime pulls back, faster than a mech his size should be capable, lashing out at Wheeljack.
He darts back, barely avoiding the swipe, twisting and striking out with his left sword. Prime throws back a shoulder with ease and his arm whips out, the back of his hand slamming into the side of Wheeljack's helm. His optics fritz for a fraction of a second but Wheeljack dances back, to regain his bearings.
“Nice,” he compliments, because neat tricks deserve compliments.
Optimus' response is mild, tempered, and doesn't give warning at all. He moves, in that strangely quick way of his, sword slicing through the air. Wheeljack leaps backward, avoiding one blade, parrying the other.
Sparks light up the dim room, the clang of metal on metal echoing around them. Optimus' optics flash brightly, the first clear indication of something more heated behind his placid facade. The sight of it makes Wheeljack shiver, a tiny curl of heat winding its way through his circuits.
Optimus presses forward, blade slashing out. Wheeljack stumbles, the flat of the sword smacking his wrist. He drops his right blade, the weapon spinning off across the concrete. Frag.
Wheeljack drops, slamming his shoulder against Prime's window-clad chestplace, forcing the taller mech back a pace. He bears down, shifting his weight, trying to sweep out a leg, but Prime's elbow comes down, hard, on the back of his neck, jarring his main mobility line.
Limbs spasming, Wheeljack falters and it's enough for Prime to lift a knee, slamming it against his abdominal plating. Wheeljack's second sword hits the ground as he grabs Prime's knee with both hands, using the larger mech's momentum against him, sending Prime tumbling to the floor.
Wheeljack scrambles to pin the Prime down, his hands reaching for Prime's wrists as he straddles the larger mech. Hmm, not a bad place to be actually. Prime's plating is warm from the mild workout, his fans working to expel the extra heat, and his frame vibrating.
Prime's hips are narrow, a complete contrast to the breadth of his shoulders, and easily subdued under Wheeljack's stockier frame. Prime's hands, however, are another matter entirely. Wheeljack's fingers curl around the larger mech's wrists, his entire frame strained to reach. Frag but why's Prime got to be so large?
Not that it's a bad thing, just seriously inconvenient. Still, Wheeljack's got Optimus right where he wants him.
“You know,” Wheeljack says, vocals closer to a purr as Prime stops struggling, though his frame remains tense with coiled intent. “There's another method with better results if ya want to calm your spark.”
His fingers flex around the Prime's wrist as he shifts his weight, the slow slide of his thigh plating against Prime's hips eliciting a burr of tantalizing static. An invitation. An offering.
Prime's optics widen, his energy field flaring with shock. And is that a hint of pleasure? Is the Prime flattered by the proposition?
Wheeljack leans closer, letting his battlemask slide open. “We got all the privacy we need right now. So how about it?”
A second later, Wheeljack finds himself airborne, landing with a processor-jarring thud on the concrete, limbs splayed in four directions. He lays in stunned repose for several moments, trapped between embarrassment and arousal until he lands somewhere near amused.
He laughs, softly at first, and then louder, until his whole frame shakes from the force of it. “You could have just said no, Prime.”
“If you are anything like Bulkhead, then I assumed a more definitive answer would leave no room for misinterpretation,” Optimus replies, but he can't hide the edge of amusement in his vocals either.
So, the Prime isn't as stoic as he'd lead others to believe. Good to know.
“Maybe next time then,” Wheeljack says and hauls himself up, looking around for his swords.
Prime turns on a pede. “I think I'll stick to meditation,” he says, over his massive shoulders.