robothell | Phase Sixer On Doorstep Delivery

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Phase Sixer On Doorstep Delivery

Who: Sixshot and Tarn!
Where: The Decepticon, uh, 'base'.
When: Some time after Tarn gets fixed up after his fight with Megatron.
What: Sixshot finds some high grade.
Warnings: Weird Decepticon fluff? Also, NSFW as heck.

Sixshot arrives with a box tucked under one arm and about an inch of dust and grime on his frame. It's been a surprisingly productive past few days of digging around the city and finding random, necessary knickknacks. He usually leaves them near the makeshift base's front door before wandering off again.

Today, however, he's found something that seemed a bit more fitting to be delivered in person. As he reaches the warped door frame, however, Sixshot slows to a stop. The hallway leading into the building looks like it'd just been cleaned. He looks down at his decidedly rather filthy feet.

Hmm.

Leaning somewhat awkwardly into the building, careful not to touch the door frame, he peers into the unlit hall.

"Tarn?"

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The recovery has been slow going. Tarn's fight with Megatron had (embarrassingly enough) laid him up for quite some time, practically immobilizing him and making him more dependent than he would like on his increasingly few alliances. Really the killing blow for his pride was when the younger Megatron decided to pay him a visit, resulting in loss of his badge. The empty spot on his chassis is unsettling to say the least.

Tarn has begun hobbling around the base even as his wrecked knee continues to heal, unable to stand being still for so long. His frame is littered with patches and bits of missing armor that hasn't been able to be replaced.

He hears a familiar voice call his name from just outside. Sixshot. It has been a while since Tarn has seen him; not since their initial run in. However, Tarn has found odds and ends placed next to the base's door for weeks now. Clearly, little gifts from his new friend. If he's to be honest he's a bit embarrassed for Sixshot to see him in such a state. Weak and beaten down by their old leader.

He feels obligated to answer, dragging himself up and over to the entrance.

"Yes, I'm coming."

At the answer, Sixshot takes a step back from the entrance and waits patiently. He could hear the sound of damaged machinery struggling against motion and frowns slightly.

Come to think of it, he can catch traces of Megatron's scent lingering in the air, the smell of damage and energon. Tarn limping into sight a second later confirms his suspicions.

"... You fought him," he murmurs, frown fading back into his usual, neutral expression.

Tarn can't bring himself to look at Sixshot's face.

"Yes." As he limps ever closer, he gestures for his comrade to enter, not caring about the thick layer of dirt covering his frame.

"I was foolish to think that I had any chance. But it had to be done regardless. I could not stand by idly while this great injustice was waged against the cause." Flopping into a chair, he continues, "Sacrifices must be made."

His gaze stays stubbornly away from Sixshot, a tense sort of energy winding inside his spark. He refuses to admit that it is shame.

Casting a dubious glance down the hallway, Sixshot cautiously steps into the building half expecting Spinister to show up. The last time he stepped inside, the helicopter had given him exasperated looks for the dusty tracks he'd left behind.

Looks like the doctor was out for the day though.

Setting the box down next to Tarn, the Sixer unlatches the insulated lid and sets it aside. A yellow-tinged glow spills from the opened container.

"You survived," he points out quietly. "You've a purpose to live for still." Pulling a golden-pink cube from the box, he holds it out in offering for the DJD commander.

Edited 2015-02-15 19:06 (UTC)

Tarn looks in Sixshot's general direction, smirking slightly as Phase Sixer nudges the high grade toward him. His gaze has lifted from the ground to level with the Purple badge on Sixshot's chest before flitting away again.

"Where did you find this?"

Tarn takes the offered cube, holding it between his hands. It has weeks since he has had good Engex. There is only so long a mech can drink the sort of swill the Spinister cooked up without feeling a little bit depressed.

"Sniffed it out from under a building," Sixshot answers. He notices the way Tarn's optics slide over the badge on his chest but pretends that he doesn't. "Might've been a big hospital once from the looks of the rubble."

Should he ask? He could guess what had happened with the scents that lingered on Tarn's plating, the gaping blankness where a badge had once been. It struck him quietly as rather unfair. Here was a loyalist without his faction mark while Sixshot still walked around with his own still welded neatly in place.

Was it even his place to ask, then?

Leaving the box next to his companion, the green and white mech goes to lean against the opposite wall, self-consciously folding his arms over his badge.

"It's medical-grade engex," he says with a shrug. "Should boost your healing."

"Thank you..." Tarn murmurs. Staring down at the cube, he lifts it to the slit in his mask. After a few moments Tarn takes a gentle sip before placing it down on a nearby table.

"I'm sorry Sixshot." He sighs, resting his face in his hand "I should have listened to you. I couldn't defeat Megatron, I was reckless and foolish and I rushed into conflict without the slightest plan of how I was to defeat him. It was different when I had my team. Others to bounce ideas off of and talents to defer to..." Tarn's fingertips brush against the crack in his mask " I'm a failure."

The pain in Tarn's voice leaves the Phase Sixer silent and awkward for a long moment, unsure if it was appropriate for him to be witnessing this. But he was the only one here and Tarn... looked like he needed company.

"The person we've existed for has left us," he says, finally, hesitantly, searching for the right words, tone shadowed with exhaustion as he pushes off the wall. "Neither of us knew how things would pan out. You lashed out. I wandered these wastes. Neither of us had plans."

"But you cannot die here, or the things you believe in will be lost." The Phase Sixer reaches out, sliding a finger under Tarn's chin and gently urging him to look up, free hand placed gently on the purple mech's shoulder. "You cannot fight here because you will die."

"You're alive. You haven't failed. You just need to do things somewhat differently, considering the limitations."

Tarn wants to pull away from the touch but finds himself frozen by Sixshot's unexpectedly kind words. He allows his optics to flick up to the Sixers and catch for a few moments. They lack the fire that they once held, glowing a somewhat dull red. Tarn's own hand twitches before coming up to rest on Sixshot's forearm.

"That is...kind of you to say. I'm afraid that I have been having trouble motivating myself as of lately. It is strange to say and this sudden apathy is somewhat disturbing."

The dull glow of Tarn's optics are as familiar to Sixshot as his face. How strange to see it reflected back from another's visage.

"Hope it doesn't linger after you heal." Primus knows Sixshot's been trying to dig himself out of this hellish ennui for an eternity and a half by now and he's still not escaped.

Maybe there was no way out at all.

The warmth of Tarn's hand on his arm draws him back from the gloom. It was oddly comforting for a second. And then decidedly a bit more awkward once Sixshot realizes how close they were.

"Ah."

They are close. To be fair Tarn is used to being this close in proximity to other mechs. Really what is strange for him is the uncharacteristic gentleness in his own demeanor paired with Sixshot's tolerance for being touched.

Tarn pauses briefly before deciding to press forward just a bit more, curiosity taking over common sense. His other hand comes up slowly to grip at Sixshot's upper arm.

"Ah...Thank you."

Having never really been in a team, being physically close to another Cybertronian was always an... experience. Often involuntary, considering Black Shadow didn't really grasp the concept of 'personal space'.

"Oh." Something like nervousness knots in the space just under his spark chamber at the touch, but Sixshot doesn't pull away. The hand under Tarn's chin slides up to gently cup the side of the purple face. "For what?"

"For having faith in me." Tarn looks back up at Sixshot, an indecipherable emotion flitting across his optics briefly before they return to the dull closed off gaze.

Tarn dims his optics turning his face into Sixshot's hand in an intimate caress. An argument could be made that if his mouth was uncovered it would have been a kiss. But as it stands the gesture is nothing short of affectionate.

The warmth of Tarn's face against his palm sparks the previously suppressed anxiety to life.

Alright, so, the last time he'd been remotely close to being this intimate with someone was roughly about a century and a half ago. And it was a century and a half ago because the Phase Sixer was a depressive, socially awkward hermit

Also, this was wrong. Tarn didn't deserve this. Primus knows between the both of them, they'd done enough horrific deeds to warrant all manners of comeuppance- but Sixshot wasn't about to do this to Tarn.

"... I should probably go," he says suddenly, quiet apology in his voice.

"Stay." Tarn insists, perhaps a bit too quickly."I could really use some good company."

He would be lying if he wasn't hoping for a bit of carnal stress relief. It has been quite a while since he has allowed himself to give in to such activities. Hunting traitors does not leave one much time for such recreational activities. Something, anything to help take his mind off the events of the past week.

"Please." The word comes out quietly. Barely audible past the mask.

Sixshot was all set to refuse and duck out- right up until Tarn actually said 'please' in a hushed little tone that froze the walking world destroyer on the spot. He makes the mistake of letting his optics be drawn back to Tarn's face and, well, there went escape.

No matter what he did right now, he was going to end up hurting the other mech. That hadn't been his intention when he'd come to this building and now that he's seen just how deeply things have been affecting his companion...

"I haven't done this in- I haven't done this is a long while," he tries, somewhat futilely.

Tarn smirks slightly, huffing at Sixshot's awkward demeanor. He finds it oddly charming in a strange way. Purple hands slide up to the Phase Sixer's shoulders, using them to steady himself as he stands.

"I must admit, it has been a while for myself as well. As you can imagine there aren't many jumping for such an encounter with, well, me."

Tarn takes another step forward, coming close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from Sixshot's frame. His hands slide up higher on his shoulders, fingers digging slightly into the green plating as they lock eyes.

"I, ah, that. Yeah." That was kind of painfully relatable. The other Decepticons were so terrified they hardly ever stuck around for a report, much less, well, this.

Speaking of this, Sixshot swallows anymore words at the arms around his shoulders, his own hands automatically settling on Tarn's waist to help support him as he stood up. The warm press of another body and the fingers against his armor makes the Sixer's spark swell and swirl with a strange mix of emotions.

"Should we... maybe somewhere more private?" he manages, unable to look away from Tarn's gaze.

He's right, this common space isn't particularly private. Tarn glances around trying to determine the most secluded and comfortable place to go about this.

Just as he is about to suggest his own meager temporary quarters he actually looks at Sixshot's plating. He thought it looked more dull than usual but had brushed it off as his own depression coloring his perception. It isn't until his hand wipes away some of the grime that Tarn realizes that Sixshot is actually just covered in dirt and mud.

"Spinister has recently built a shower. The space is relatively small but it is private and it seems you could use a bit of a wash." The tiniest hint of a smile edges it's way back into his voice as he swipes a finger through the layer of dirt.

If Sixshot's cooling system wasn't the kind of beast that could keep a fusion cell powered death machine running around without guttering out, he would absolutely would have been overheating just from the embarrassment right now. Here he was, possibly about to have sex with the leader of the DJD, a notoriously refined Decepticon, and he wasn't even presentable for the occasion.

"That was fast," the Sixer utters, somehow maintaining a level tone despite the finger wiping the mud off his shoulder. "I only found that cleanser tank two days ago..." It was about then that Sixshot realizes he was leaving pale, dusty hand prints on Tarn's side.

"Primus, I am so sorry," he says trying to make as little contact between them while still supporting his comrade. "I- scrap. Show me the shower?"

Tarn presses a bit closer when he feels Sixshot try to minimize his contact. It doesn’t really matter if he is getting dirt on himself, he will be washing it away soon enough.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sixshot. I can handle a bit of dirt on my plating.” He gently steers the Phase Sixer to a side room. “I don’t think I’ve seen him do much else other than work on the shower since you dropped that tank off. I guess his priorities have to be somewhere. “

Opening the heavy steal door Tarn reveals a relatively well assembled wash rack, complete with overhanging shower head. Given the lack of supplies Spinister had to work with Tarn couldn’t help but be impressed with what he managed to cobble together.

Tarn lets go of Sixshot, taking a few steps into the room before stopping to look over his shoulder to ensure that he was following

"I just. Didn't want to get anything in your joints..." Sixshot mumbles as he lets Tarn steer him about the small living space. Also, he might be stalling a bit, waiting to see if the purple mech would finally get annoyed and change his mind. It's a tactic that'd worked stunningly well when he hadn't intended for it to before.

Tarn lets him go and Sixshot pauses on the threshold, one hand resting on the door frame. It wasn't the most well lit of shower racks, but he could now see the welding scars scattered over the tank-former's dark back, shoulders and arms, bare patches where paint had been stripped off, darkness where biolight strips had been. The empty space Tarn's fusion cannons had once occupied.

Drawing in a quiet, deep in-vent of air, the six-former finally steps in after his companion, sliding the door shut behind him. Tarn's optic catches his as he reaches out and flattens his hands against the mech's back, pale mask pressing against heavy treads.

"Think I should've been there."

Tarn is silent for a moment as he feels Sixshot press against his back, smooth face mask caressing his shoulder. Perhaps he’s right. Maybe the Phase Sixer should have been there.

"There's nothing you could have done." Tarn murmers, "You would have been ordered to stand down." Or worse, be ordered to help Megatron 'pacify' him.

He bows his head, turning so that he's facing his partner. Their chests brush together as Tarn rests his head in the crook of Sixshot's neck, warm air seeping from the slit in his mask as he sighs softly.

It is an intimate caress, especially for Tarn, but he presses further forward, hands coming back to clutch at the Sixer's shoulders. It’s been too long, he decides, since he has felt this sort of warmth from another mech. He missed it. His fingers brush against vents and he dims his optics.

“It doesn’t matter. Not right now.”

Tarn wasn't... entirely wrong. Sixshot still has his own will and mind, even after so many years being the tyrant's loyal hound. But Megatron would have just shut him down with that secret little off-switch before he could've done anything, much less oppose their ex-leader.

A heap of good he'd have been, then.

The press of a smooth face against his neck draws Sixshot back from the sudden, deep unhappiness and he cycles air sharply out of his vents. This time, he returns the warm gesture instead of flustering, wrapping his arms around the other mech, fingers sliding along armor seams. A soft click resounds through the small room and then warm lips press against the crack that cut through the crest of Tarn's mask.

Tarn hesitates. He wants to return the gesture but he has long sense given up his identity, locking his face securely behind his mask.

Perhaps a middle ground could be had…

Sixshot’s fingers feel nice as they trace against transformation seams and armor plating. Tarn arches into the touch, his own fingers sliding down to his chest plating, running over his Decepticon badge.

Throwing caution to the wind, Tarn loosens his mask with a soft hydraulic hiss, just enough that he can slide it up to reveal his own scarred lips. It isn’t often that he takes this step, but part of him feels obligation to return the favor if Sixshot was willing to take down his own defenses. Pressing his lips to his partners collar assembly, he huffs a soft ex-vent, hoping that he isn’t about to make a fool of himself.

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