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wyntir_knightTitle: The Sessions: Bluestreak
Fandom: Transformers: Generation One
Characters & Relationships: Smokescreen, Bluestreak
Rating: T
Warnings: Example of PTSD
Summary: Bluestreak surprises Smokescreen with an unexpected and much needed therapy session.
Author’s Note: Based on the TF_Speedwriting prompt: #2 - Scenario - no sound, over a large space of time. My hope is to turn this into a series with Smokey having sessions with all the various mechs on the Ark and maybe one or two Decepticons along the way. We'll see how that works.
I was sitting in my office waiting for my next session when Bluestreak walked in. He wasn't scheduled but the second I saw the stiff posture and the even stiffer doors, I knew that something was terribly wrong. He sat down opposite me and began to stare at the wall over my shoulder. It was then that I noticed his optics. They were dark, looking like hollows in his grey face. No functioning mech would walk around blinded like that. And certainly no sniper would voluntarily choose to.
I stood and approached him.
"Blue? Are you okay?"
At least that's what I would have asked. The second his name left my vocalizer his gun was in his hand and pointed at my head. I carefully backed up, hands up in surrender as I did. Bluestreak was not in his right mind and he needed to work this out. Clearly though, words were not the answer, and the chances were that he would appreciate being touched even less.
So I did all that I could do. I sat in the chair opposite him and watched the young gunner carefully. Yes, my fellow Praxian was in need of counsel and comfort, but it was also clear that any sudden move or wrong word would get me sent back to the Matrix.
The very fact that Bluestreak wasn't talking up a storm had me worried. He hadn't said a single thing since coming into my office. Even his engine and vents were running silent, like he was hiding from something. Or preparing for a shot. Normally there was no shutting him up as he used noise and words and mindless chatter to keep his own personal demons at bay. Normally he was a ball of energy and sensuality. He moved, touched, talked, twitched, caressed, chattered, kissed; filling every moment of every day with distractions. The only time I had ever seen him like this was when we pulled him out of the wreckage of Praxis. ... or more specifically, when we finally got him to come down out of his makeshift sniper's nest.
I took to my chair and sat opposite him, waiting for him to make the first move. I cancelled my upcoming session with Tracks, and after another twenty minutes of total silence passed, I cancelled the rest of the day's appointments and locked my office down, sending a warning of potential events to both Prime and Ratchet and asking them not to interfere. Yes, I am nothing more than a con-artist with a forged degree on my wall, but I do know how to help my charges, and it is abundantly clear that Bluestreak needed me right then. The other Autobots' issues and neuroses could wait.
The rest of the hour continued minute after minute with the gunner simply staring at the far wall. His optics did lighten slightly and flicker occasionally, but that only served to accentuate the haunted look. Finally in the middle of hour two, his doors began to twitch slightly.
I took the opportunity and stood cautiously. With a measured and deliberate tread, I made my way to a cabinet and withdrew two cubes of energon. At no point did I take my optics off of Bluestreak. It was not the time to let my guard down in any way. I carefully approached my patient, moving as if I was dealing with a wounded and frightened animal. Making sure that I was in Blue's line of site, I cracked open one of the cubes and took a small sip before placing it in front of him on the table.
Bluestreak's doors bobbed slightly in response as if in thanks for the fuel and after several minutes he reached out and took the cube. In an instant he had downed the contents, drinking as if he was starved and the fuel would be taken away from him at any moment.
His now brighter optics landed on the second cube, and in an moment it too was devoured.
It was in the third hour of silence that Bluestreak finally seemed to come back to himself slightly. His optics seemed closer to a midnight blue and his doors' twitching came to be something closer to a bob and a dip than a twitch of panic. Taking a chance, I mimicked his movements with my own doors. It was an ancient form of Praxian communication. A subtle form of body language that was sometimes called 'the door code'. There were so few of us now though, that it was rarely, if ever used any more.
But now, Bluestreak was being as vocal as if he was talking up a storm. His doors bobbed and dipped eloquently, telling me of his fears and his need to go back to Praxis.
We never spoke of our home, Prowl, Blue, and I. We never discussed the pain of watching the entire city being razed to the ground. For Prowl and I, it was a loss to be sure, but we had long since moved on and away. But for Blue ... I can only imagine what it was like being inside the walls at the time of the Decepticon attack. I can only imagine the horrors that ended with a child picking up a gun that was almost as big as he was and shooting at an enemy he had never known. I cannot imagine trying that hard to protect my home and the bodies of my mentors.
I can only imagine the pain and anguish that Bluestreak keeps hidden every day of his life behind a wall of chatter and touch.
I don't know when my doors started to respond to his in kind, or when I started to share my own fears and horrors. All I know is that halfway through hour four, Bluestreak left his chair and climbed into my lap. Yes, it was uncomfortable. Praxians are not exactly designed for such things, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Bluestreak was back from wherever he went and he was safe. I sent a single word to Optimus and Ratchet. Clear. And I settled in to cuddle Bluestreak as best as I could.
Fandom: Transformers: Generation One
Characters & Relationships: Smokescreen, Bluestreak
Rating: T
Warnings: Example of PTSD
Summary: Bluestreak surprises Smokescreen with an unexpected and much needed therapy session.
Author’s Note: Based on the TF_Speedwriting prompt: #2 - Scenario - no sound, over a large space of time. My hope is to turn this into a series with Smokey having sessions with all the various mechs on the Ark and maybe one or two Decepticons along the way. We'll see how that works.
I was sitting in my office waiting for my next session when Bluestreak walked in. He wasn't scheduled but the second I saw the stiff posture and the even stiffer doors, I knew that something was terribly wrong. He sat down opposite me and began to stare at the wall over my shoulder. It was then that I noticed his optics. They were dark, looking like hollows in his grey face. No functioning mech would walk around blinded like that. And certainly no sniper would voluntarily choose to.
I stood and approached him.
"Blue? Are you okay?"
At least that's what I would have asked. The second his name left my vocalizer his gun was in his hand and pointed at my head. I carefully backed up, hands up in surrender as I did. Bluestreak was not in his right mind and he needed to work this out. Clearly though, words were not the answer, and the chances were that he would appreciate being touched even less.
So I did all that I could do. I sat in the chair opposite him and watched the young gunner carefully. Yes, my fellow Praxian was in need of counsel and comfort, but it was also clear that any sudden move or wrong word would get me sent back to the Matrix.
The very fact that Bluestreak wasn't talking up a storm had me worried. He hadn't said a single thing since coming into my office. Even his engine and vents were running silent, like he was hiding from something. Or preparing for a shot. Normally there was no shutting him up as he used noise and words and mindless chatter to keep his own personal demons at bay. Normally he was a ball of energy and sensuality. He moved, touched, talked, twitched, caressed, chattered, kissed; filling every moment of every day with distractions. The only time I had ever seen him like this was when we pulled him out of the wreckage of Praxis. ... or more specifically, when we finally got him to come down out of his makeshift sniper's nest.
I took to my chair and sat opposite him, waiting for him to make the first move. I cancelled my upcoming session with Tracks, and after another twenty minutes of total silence passed, I cancelled the rest of the day's appointments and locked my office down, sending a warning of potential events to both Prime and Ratchet and asking them not to interfere. Yes, I am nothing more than a con-artist with a forged degree on my wall, but I do know how to help my charges, and it is abundantly clear that Bluestreak needed me right then. The other Autobots' issues and neuroses could wait.
The rest of the hour continued minute after minute with the gunner simply staring at the far wall. His optics did lighten slightly and flicker occasionally, but that only served to accentuate the haunted look. Finally in the middle of hour two, his doors began to twitch slightly.
I took the opportunity and stood cautiously. With a measured and deliberate tread, I made my way to a cabinet and withdrew two cubes of energon. At no point did I take my optics off of Bluestreak. It was not the time to let my guard down in any way. I carefully approached my patient, moving as if I was dealing with a wounded and frightened animal. Making sure that I was in Blue's line of site, I cracked open one of the cubes and took a small sip before placing it in front of him on the table.
Bluestreak's doors bobbed slightly in response as if in thanks for the fuel and after several minutes he reached out and took the cube. In an instant he had downed the contents, drinking as if he was starved and the fuel would be taken away from him at any moment.
His now brighter optics landed on the second cube, and in an moment it too was devoured.
It was in the third hour of silence that Bluestreak finally seemed to come back to himself slightly. His optics seemed closer to a midnight blue and his doors' twitching came to be something closer to a bob and a dip than a twitch of panic. Taking a chance, I mimicked his movements with my own doors. It was an ancient form of Praxian communication. A subtle form of body language that was sometimes called 'the door code'. There were so few of us now though, that it was rarely, if ever used any more.
But now, Bluestreak was being as vocal as if he was talking up a storm. His doors bobbed and dipped eloquently, telling me of his fears and his need to go back to Praxis.
We never spoke of our home, Prowl, Blue, and I. We never discussed the pain of watching the entire city being razed to the ground. For Prowl and I, it was a loss to be sure, but we had long since moved on and away. But for Blue ... I can only imagine what it was like being inside the walls at the time of the Decepticon attack. I can only imagine the horrors that ended with a child picking up a gun that was almost as big as he was and shooting at an enemy he had never known. I cannot imagine trying that hard to protect my home and the bodies of my mentors.
I can only imagine the pain and anguish that Bluestreak keeps hidden every day of his life behind a wall of chatter and touch.
I don't know when my doors started to respond to his in kind, or when I started to share my own fears and horrors. All I know is that halfway through hour four, Bluestreak left his chair and climbed into my lap. Yes, it was uncomfortable. Praxians are not exactly designed for such things, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Bluestreak was back from wherever he went and he was safe. I sent a single word to Optimus and Ratchet. Clear. And I settled in to cuddle Bluestreak as best as I could.