Protectocon bit - Jazz calls
Nov. 30th, 2021 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jabberishOk so, premise: Protectobots are experimental Shockwave-made Cons. First Aid, Streetwise, and Blades get captured in a general territory exchange, commence Autobots and gestalt staring at each other mutually weirded out by how nice they are.
Or rather, the gestalt is panicking, the Autobots are weirded out by how nice First Aid is, and Blades is attacking anyone who looks at First Aid weird. Streetwise has been trying to stay out of it.
---
“—back to Ratch?” Jazz says, right at the edge of Streetwise’s hearing, maybe even a little bit outside his range, only Streetwise has core threat response systems helping him out, because it’s Jazz. He can’t make out what the other mech says, what makes Jazz respond, “Yeah, yeah, no big, I can take him the rest of the way. Kid’s no trouble, right?”
Streetwise clamps down hard on his end of the bond, because he knows how to count time, he doesn’t need any glow off Aid to know that he just entered the cell block and is getting closer — with Jazz — and no one else needs to feel that flash of panic, a bit of sparkling panic that seizes him up stupid even before he remembers to vent and take stock.
Vent in. Stay still and bored on the berth, keep looking at that datapad. Tripline is out, it’s beta shift and the whole probate group is out and the cells are empty overall and wait wait why is Tripline still out he should be back by now and he’s not and that’s bad not like when someone’s not back from the labs not like it’s bad for Tripline like it’s bad for Streetwise because where is Inferno the block is too empty.
Vent out. The block is empty except for the three of them. That’s at least mildly interesting to anyone, so Streetwise — keeps his hands steady — puts his datapad to the side and sits up a little to watch, mildly interested as Jazz walks First Aid down the block, pitches his voice quiet to ask Aid how he’s been, what he learned today. Vent in. Keep the bond shut.
Aid responds, something polite, something hesitant that doesn’t at all hide how he’s looking into Streetwise’s cell as he goes by, concerned — that’s fine, Aid can be concerned, they can know Aid’s concerned, he’s concerned about everyone, Streetwise ignores it, keeps mostly bored and then — they’re stopping they’re —
‘Startled’ is fine, makes perfect sense, which is good because Jazz keys through the bars without breaking step and Streetwise is startled up to his feet before he has any choice about it.
“Heya Streets! Remember this guy?” Jazz says, slinging First Aid along in a way that only varies from his usual escort style for a quick, crucial, moment that gets Aid tucked in under an arm. With his free hand, Jazz waves.
Streetwise pretends he thinks he’s got a chance at hiding his fear, pretends he’s confused and irritated at the surprise, indignant instead of in way over his head in battery acid. He tucks his arms around himself tight enough it’s easier to stop the shake, frowns confused at Aid, skims an almost-look up at Jazz. Vents. “Hello,” he says. “Uh. Yeah?” Gestalt mates. They’re gestalt mates and no one knows what that means.
“Good, good. Yeah,” Jazz says, with quick little smiles for Aid and Streetwise. “You’re bonded in frame, code, and spark, so trying to convince us you don’t know each other would be a bit of a stretch that would kinda undermine your general credibility, huh?”
Streetwise doesn’t care that Jazz is laughing at his desperate attempts to make it out alive, he cares that Jazz is drumming fingers at a seam on Aid’s arm that’ll give and give grip — no, no, flip that. Vent, shrug. “We’re not supposed to tell,” he says. “I just do what I’m told.” Dangerous, dangerous line, when they’re looking for converts, but an indifferent line from an indifferent Con. Please.
“Reasonable mech,” Jazz says. “Smart enough to be polite, but draw a clear line before treasonous. And—Remind me how this kid factors in?” Jazz nods encouragingly, gestures with a — he’s got a knife — he’s got a knife — gestures to indicate First Aid by knifepoint.
Streetwise vents, and keeps the bond shut, like he can’t see First Aid trying to tell him, It’s okay, it’s okay.
“He’s,” Streetwise says, thinking, knowing Jazz knows he’s thinking about how First Aid can’t sit back, can’t let go, won’t let any random scraplet suffer if he can stop it. He rounds down his ever-present terror for First Aid to a kind of annoyance, “my teammate?”
Streetwise shrugs, focuses on how it’s inconvenient and not how it’s the best thing he’s ever known about, and looks at First Aid with a decently resentful frown, like he should be any other way. “Compatibility is rare, so we’re more valuable together.” Please don’t kill me, please don’t split us up.
“Right, right!” Jazz nods more, and his smile stretches, and he’s bouncing like he’s impatient, and he laughs and little and it’s making his knife move and trace over First Aid’s operation-still vital lines and Streetwise isn’t watching that and Streetwise doesn’t open the bond, doesn’t need to know First Aid’s held to blank anticipation. “Nothing against him, but if one of y’alls gonna get stabbed, may as well be him?”
Streetwise didn’t say that. He didn’t, because that’d be admitting he knows the game, and he doesn’t want to play that game.
“Well.” Streetwise can't make himself laugh and won't let himself cry, so he just makes a sort of confused, sort of unimpressed face that probably looks a little unsteady. “Yeah. I’m not going to put myself into slag for the softspark,” he says, with a perfectly trained straight face.
He shrugs. “I know holding paired Bots against each other’s behavior is free leverage, but you can’t let that kind of thing get started.” He nods apologetically at Aid like he doesn’t mean it, like he isn’t so, so sorry. “There’s no winning,” he says, which is absolutely true.
“Yeah! It’s a dumb game, and you can’t—” Jazz is nodding enthusiastically, excited, moving — Aid moves like he doesn’t know better and good thing because Jazz’s knife flicks glances off a mainline as Jazz fidgets. Jazz blinks at his knife, laughs, and tosses it to his other hand to gesture in more space, adjusting his grip on First Aid, twirling them more facing each other, so Jazz is turning over a shoulder to smile at Streetwise. “I’ll bet you’ve seen some very silly heroics that just make everything worse for everyone.”
Streetwise doesn’t relax at all as Jazz settles a grip on First Aid’s arm, and Aid holds perfectly still.
“Like, sure, I’ll take your cooperation, dorks!” Jazz makes a face that tells Streetwise he’s in trouble but not how, that makes Streetwise lose track of what he’s supposed to want right now. “Kinda boring, but eh, s’frellin’ well easy enough to just not hurt—” Jazz shrugs, hauls Aid around and in like they’re dancing, until Jazz is holding Aid close and looking at Streetwise.
Jazz smiles. “I mean, it’s about proportion, right? You can’t bow just to keep his paint from getting scraped,” Jazz says, smiling companionably at Streetwise and — without even looking — swiping his free hand over the side of Aid’s helm — fast, too fast to see if he — did he use the knife — handful of lines — he didn’t use the knife, there’s a handful of scratch lines across Aid’s helm and Aid hasn’t even flinched it doesn’t even hurt yet. “Can’t just let him die because you wouldn’t say please. Oh, or — I guess, to check — your choice, should I kill him, just get it over with?”
Streetwise is trying to think and be still and be quiet and keep calm and almost misses the pause, almost panics when he registers the pause. He can’t tell what his face is doing but he keeps his voice even. “Please don’t kill him.”
“Got it!” Jazz brightens, perks up, steps so Streetwise can see First Aid’s too-bright visor again. “See, communication! You know this kid, you care some, don’t lie, or simplify. It’s about details, Streets,” Jazz says, and Streetwise feels almost on familiar ground. “Like, what would you do for a bit of damage, a bit of pain?”
First Aid, tucked in Jazz’s grip, with just enough angle to look at Streetwise, subtle enough to slip past monitoring, nods. They can do this. He can do this, he can do this.
Streetwise frowns. He can do this. “I told you, I don’t play that—”
“I know, I know,” Jazz says, and he shifts his grip, slides his hand down, steps and twists so that Streetwise can watch Jazz take First Aid’s hand in his, watch him thread their fingers together. “But I need some honest from you.”
Streetwise should look up at Jazz, because something’s familiar, and he needs to know what it is, but all he can do is watch how Jazz lightly swings their clasped hands, wriggles his hand to play with Aid’s smallest finger. “Scale of one to ten—” how much do you need this finger, and
First Aid’s reasoning whites out completely because that’s Vortex’s line, Vortex’s game, but never at him, never with him, not that game, not because he wouldn't but because Shockwave says he can’t but Shockwave isn’t here and Aid needs his hands to be useful to the doctor and
“Stop stop stop!” Streetwise fails immediately. Streetwise can’t look can’t look away he can’t do this. There’s no crunch, no sound of break, and Streetwise is staring at Jazz, who is staring back, lightly curious. “Please don’t hurt him.” Streetwise breaks, and lets himself shake like it’ll make the panic on the bond hurt less. “Okay, okay, yes! He’s my brother, I’m his brother, okay. I’ll — I’ll do whatever, I’ll — please, I know everything he does, you don’t need him.” The words slip out and Streetwise lets them because it’s done, it’s done it’s over and he can’t take them back. “Please don’t hurt him.”
“Okay!” Jazz drops First Aid’s hand, steps back, away, and spreads his hands, drops his knife and lets it fall to the floor in a clatter. “Good to know!”
Streetwise blinks in case he’s missed something — he’s definitely missed something, but suddenly there’s no direct threat on First Aid and nothing between them and no point in pretending. For the moment, for however long it’ll last, he runs for Aid — they meet halfway in a tight, desperate grab.
He checks Aid over for dents, leaks, loose plate in under a nano, just a quick sweep as they clutch in and hold tight to feel each other’s sparks and mingle fields for however long they’ll be allowed to. A little bit of white chalk rubs off onto Streetwise as he buries his face against the lines at the side of Aid’s helm.
He squeezes tight. It’s been so long and Aid feels different but just the same, and he needs this and he was never going to be able to pretend he didn’t, when it mattered. He’s a failure, but one who’s holding his brother, for a moment.
One more vent, a few more sparkbeats he’s allowed, and he takes, before he looks up. “What—” Streetwise chokes a little, stuttering at Jazz, remembering that it’s not over. “What do you need?”
Jazz, in the far corner, looks up from where he’s crouched to pick up his dropped knife. “Oh, no, nothing,” he says. “Nothing, don’t worry about him. Your brother...” He shakes his head firmly, picks up his knife, and tucks it into subspace as he stands up again, spreads his hands again in a show of friendliness. He looks a bit more at First Aid and Streetwise tenses. “Aid, you’re a good kid.” Then Jazz shrugs to look a little towards Streetwise, a little towards nothing. “And a non-combatant. No matter what you or Blades does, he’s not going to get in trouble for it.”
“So what the frag was that for?” Streetwise hears himself say, angry even though he knows better, tired like one slip means he can afford another, and he regrets it intensely in the time it takes for Jazz to tilt his head and look at him, expression sharpening.
Streetwise flinches into reflexive polite submission — a little too reflexive, and he looks down too, away from the threat, for a weak moment before he looks back up, looks for whatever’s coming.
Jazz can move — hit grab kill whatever — him faster than Streetwise can do anything about, he knows, but he has to look anyway.
Jazz doesn’t move. For about a klik, he holds perfectly still. Then he, slowly, drops his hands, shifts into a steadier — balanced, light, truer, Streetwise thinks — stance. His showy friendly smile slips without going away entirely.
He’s staring right back, and Streetwise holds his gaze paralyzed as much as defiant.
“Sorry,” Jazz says, and Streetwise can’t tell at all if he means it. “That was for me, Streets.” He tilts his head at Streetwise again, not coming any closer but putting terrifying attention on him, danger not hidden as deep as he’s pushed it before. “No one should hurt First Aid. I needed to check if you cared about that.”
Jazz dips a bow, raises a hand in apology. “Sorry Aid,” he says, and it sounds real, and he looks friendly again, enough for Streetwise to breathe again for a moment. “I know that sucked. Promise ya the clarity is gonna make things easier for everyone.”
Streetwise feels hollowed out, and he knows it isn’t over, knows he should be trying something, saying something, but he just wants Jazz to leave, now.
“Ey, Streets. Chin up,” Jazz says, and Streetwise is obedient out of exhausted default, looks up again.
Jazz is smiling, bright and crooked. His voice is low, in a way that makes him sound different from before. “C’mon, that wasn’t a failure. You got an impossible hand, and you’re playing it good.”
I’m sorry. First Aid says, clutching a little tighter.
No. Streetwise holds his brother in close, tucks his chin over Aid’s helm, watches Jazz, and lives with his choices. “I’ll do whatever you want if it’ll make things okay for them,” he confesses.
Jazz’s smile dims and he exvents heavily. “Aw frag, kid, yeah. I hear it,” he says, rolling a stretch and looking away for a moment. “And I know you ain’t gonna believe this, but we ain’t gonna use any of y’all against each other.” He smiles ruefully at Streetwise. “This was bad, a one-off.”
Which is either a lie, or means that Streetwise broke for no reason after all.
“Streetwise,” Jazz says. “That wasn’t a stupid call or a moment of weakness, ‘kay?”
Now they know, and no one is safer. Streetwise wants to look down and just be miserable, but he can’t until Jazz leaves.
I’m sorry, Aid says again, so Streetwise squeezes him harder.
Jazz is still here. “I know it would be in some spots, and I know you got no way to know this ain’t one of those spots, but — look, if that was weak, we’ll all be weak together here,” Jazz says, and he comes closer and Streetwise is already wound too tight around First Aid but he finds he can tense just a little more, before Jazz stops where he is. “I know it’s scary, and you’re just gonna have to give it some time — and I know it feels like failure now, I know, okay? I can’t promise you’ll come around. I know it took me a lot to. Point is, wait until you see how it plays out.”
“I didn’t help anything,” Streetwise says, voice a little hoarse from the stress. “Now you know, you win.”
Jazz shrugs and, finally, backs off, towards the cell door. “Eh, I like to think we both win,” he says, back to smiling, grinning at Streetwise as he keys his way out, shrugging as he goes. “I know, I know, now we know you care ‘bout your brothers, probably about people in general, and it’s scary, but — you’ll see — we’re soft about that kinda cracked, here.”
Or rather, the gestalt is panicking, the Autobots are weirded out by how nice First Aid is, and Blades is attacking anyone who looks at First Aid weird. Streetwise has been trying to stay out of it.
---
“—back to Ratch?” Jazz says, right at the edge of Streetwise’s hearing, maybe even a little bit outside his range, only Streetwise has core threat response systems helping him out, because it’s Jazz. He can’t make out what the other mech says, what makes Jazz respond, “Yeah, yeah, no big, I can take him the rest of the way. Kid’s no trouble, right?”
Streetwise clamps down hard on his end of the bond, because he knows how to count time, he doesn’t need any glow off Aid to know that he just entered the cell block and is getting closer — with Jazz — and no one else needs to feel that flash of panic, a bit of sparkling panic that seizes him up stupid even before he remembers to vent and take stock.
Vent in. Stay still and bored on the berth, keep looking at that datapad. Tripline is out, it’s beta shift and the whole probate group is out and the cells are empty overall and wait wait why is Tripline still out he should be back by now and he’s not and that’s bad not like when someone’s not back from the labs not like it’s bad for Tripline like it’s bad for Streetwise because where is Inferno the block is too empty.
Vent out. The block is empty except for the three of them. That’s at least mildly interesting to anyone, so Streetwise — keeps his hands steady — puts his datapad to the side and sits up a little to watch, mildly interested as Jazz walks First Aid down the block, pitches his voice quiet to ask Aid how he’s been, what he learned today. Vent in. Keep the bond shut.
Aid responds, something polite, something hesitant that doesn’t at all hide how he’s looking into Streetwise’s cell as he goes by, concerned — that’s fine, Aid can be concerned, they can know Aid’s concerned, he’s concerned about everyone, Streetwise ignores it, keeps mostly bored and then — they’re stopping they’re —
‘Startled’ is fine, makes perfect sense, which is good because Jazz keys through the bars without breaking step and Streetwise is startled up to his feet before he has any choice about it.
“Heya Streets! Remember this guy?” Jazz says, slinging First Aid along in a way that only varies from his usual escort style for a quick, crucial, moment that gets Aid tucked in under an arm. With his free hand, Jazz waves.
Streetwise pretends he thinks he’s got a chance at hiding his fear, pretends he’s confused and irritated at the surprise, indignant instead of in way over his head in battery acid. He tucks his arms around himself tight enough it’s easier to stop the shake, frowns confused at Aid, skims an almost-look up at Jazz. Vents. “Hello,” he says. “Uh. Yeah?” Gestalt mates. They’re gestalt mates and no one knows what that means.
“Good, good. Yeah,” Jazz says, with quick little smiles for Aid and Streetwise. “You’re bonded in frame, code, and spark, so trying to convince us you don’t know each other would be a bit of a stretch that would kinda undermine your general credibility, huh?”
Streetwise doesn’t care that Jazz is laughing at his desperate attempts to make it out alive, he cares that Jazz is drumming fingers at a seam on Aid’s arm that’ll give and give grip — no, no, flip that. Vent, shrug. “We’re not supposed to tell,” he says. “I just do what I’m told.” Dangerous, dangerous line, when they’re looking for converts, but an indifferent line from an indifferent Con. Please.
“Reasonable mech,” Jazz says. “Smart enough to be polite, but draw a clear line before treasonous. And—Remind me how this kid factors in?” Jazz nods encouragingly, gestures with a — he’s got a knife — he’s got a knife — gestures to indicate First Aid by knifepoint.
Streetwise vents, and keeps the bond shut, like he can’t see First Aid trying to tell him, It’s okay, it’s okay.
“He’s,” Streetwise says, thinking, knowing Jazz knows he’s thinking about how First Aid can’t sit back, can’t let go, won’t let any random scraplet suffer if he can stop it. He rounds down his ever-present terror for First Aid to a kind of annoyance, “my teammate?”
Streetwise shrugs, focuses on how it’s inconvenient and not how it’s the best thing he’s ever known about, and looks at First Aid with a decently resentful frown, like he should be any other way. “Compatibility is rare, so we’re more valuable together.” Please don’t kill me, please don’t split us up.
“Right, right!” Jazz nods more, and his smile stretches, and he’s bouncing like he’s impatient, and he laughs and little and it’s making his knife move and trace over First Aid’s operation-still vital lines and Streetwise isn’t watching that and Streetwise doesn’t open the bond, doesn’t need to know First Aid’s held to blank anticipation. “Nothing against him, but if one of y’alls gonna get stabbed, may as well be him?”
Streetwise didn’t say that. He didn’t, because that’d be admitting he knows the game, and he doesn’t want to play that game.
“Well.” Streetwise can't make himself laugh and won't let himself cry, so he just makes a sort of confused, sort of unimpressed face that probably looks a little unsteady. “Yeah. I’m not going to put myself into slag for the softspark,” he says, with a perfectly trained straight face.
He shrugs. “I know holding paired Bots against each other’s behavior is free leverage, but you can’t let that kind of thing get started.” He nods apologetically at Aid like he doesn’t mean it, like he isn’t so, so sorry. “There’s no winning,” he says, which is absolutely true.
“Yeah! It’s a dumb game, and you can’t—” Jazz is nodding enthusiastically, excited, moving — Aid moves like he doesn’t know better and good thing because Jazz’s knife flicks glances off a mainline as Jazz fidgets. Jazz blinks at his knife, laughs, and tosses it to his other hand to gesture in more space, adjusting his grip on First Aid, twirling them more facing each other, so Jazz is turning over a shoulder to smile at Streetwise. “I’ll bet you’ve seen some very silly heroics that just make everything worse for everyone.”
Streetwise doesn’t relax at all as Jazz settles a grip on First Aid’s arm, and Aid holds perfectly still.
“Like, sure, I’ll take your cooperation, dorks!” Jazz makes a face that tells Streetwise he’s in trouble but not how, that makes Streetwise lose track of what he’s supposed to want right now. “Kinda boring, but eh, s’frellin’ well easy enough to just not hurt—” Jazz shrugs, hauls Aid around and in like they’re dancing, until Jazz is holding Aid close and looking at Streetwise.
Jazz smiles. “I mean, it’s about proportion, right? You can’t bow just to keep his paint from getting scraped,” Jazz says, smiling companionably at Streetwise and — without even looking — swiping his free hand over the side of Aid’s helm — fast, too fast to see if he — did he use the knife — handful of lines — he didn’t use the knife, there’s a handful of scratch lines across Aid’s helm and Aid hasn’t even flinched it doesn’t even hurt yet. “Can’t just let him die because you wouldn’t say please. Oh, or — I guess, to check — your choice, should I kill him, just get it over with?”
Streetwise is trying to think and be still and be quiet and keep calm and almost misses the pause, almost panics when he registers the pause. He can’t tell what his face is doing but he keeps his voice even. “Please don’t kill him.”
“Got it!” Jazz brightens, perks up, steps so Streetwise can see First Aid’s too-bright visor again. “See, communication! You know this kid, you care some, don’t lie, or simplify. It’s about details, Streets,” Jazz says, and Streetwise feels almost on familiar ground. “Like, what would you do for a bit of damage, a bit of pain?”
First Aid, tucked in Jazz’s grip, with just enough angle to look at Streetwise, subtle enough to slip past monitoring, nods. They can do this. He can do this, he can do this.
Streetwise frowns. He can do this. “I told you, I don’t play that—”
“I know, I know,” Jazz says, and he shifts his grip, slides his hand down, steps and twists so that Streetwise can watch Jazz take First Aid’s hand in his, watch him thread their fingers together. “But I need some honest from you.”
Streetwise should look up at Jazz, because something’s familiar, and he needs to know what it is, but all he can do is watch how Jazz lightly swings their clasped hands, wriggles his hand to play with Aid’s smallest finger. “Scale of one to ten—” how much do you need this finger, and
First Aid’s reasoning whites out completely because that’s Vortex’s line, Vortex’s game, but never at him, never with him, not that game, not because he wouldn't but because Shockwave says he can’t but Shockwave isn’t here and Aid needs his hands to be useful to the doctor and
“Stop stop stop!” Streetwise fails immediately. Streetwise can’t look can’t look away he can’t do this. There’s no crunch, no sound of break, and Streetwise is staring at Jazz, who is staring back, lightly curious. “Please don’t hurt him.” Streetwise breaks, and lets himself shake like it’ll make the panic on the bond hurt less. “Okay, okay, yes! He’s my brother, I’m his brother, okay. I’ll — I’ll do whatever, I’ll — please, I know everything he does, you don’t need him.” The words slip out and Streetwise lets them because it’s done, it’s done it’s over and he can’t take them back. “Please don’t hurt him.”
“Okay!” Jazz drops First Aid’s hand, steps back, away, and spreads his hands, drops his knife and lets it fall to the floor in a clatter. “Good to know!”
Streetwise blinks in case he’s missed something — he’s definitely missed something, but suddenly there’s no direct threat on First Aid and nothing between them and no point in pretending. For the moment, for however long it’ll last, he runs for Aid — they meet halfway in a tight, desperate grab.
He checks Aid over for dents, leaks, loose plate in under a nano, just a quick sweep as they clutch in and hold tight to feel each other’s sparks and mingle fields for however long they’ll be allowed to. A little bit of white chalk rubs off onto Streetwise as he buries his face against the lines at the side of Aid’s helm.
He squeezes tight. It’s been so long and Aid feels different but just the same, and he needs this and he was never going to be able to pretend he didn’t, when it mattered. He’s a failure, but one who’s holding his brother, for a moment.
One more vent, a few more sparkbeats he’s allowed, and he takes, before he looks up. “What—” Streetwise chokes a little, stuttering at Jazz, remembering that it’s not over. “What do you need?”
Jazz, in the far corner, looks up from where he’s crouched to pick up his dropped knife. “Oh, no, nothing,” he says. “Nothing, don’t worry about him. Your brother...” He shakes his head firmly, picks up his knife, and tucks it into subspace as he stands up again, spreads his hands again in a show of friendliness. He looks a bit more at First Aid and Streetwise tenses. “Aid, you’re a good kid.” Then Jazz shrugs to look a little towards Streetwise, a little towards nothing. “And a non-combatant. No matter what you or Blades does, he’s not going to get in trouble for it.”
“So what the frag was that for?” Streetwise hears himself say, angry even though he knows better, tired like one slip means he can afford another, and he regrets it intensely in the time it takes for Jazz to tilt his head and look at him, expression sharpening.
Streetwise flinches into reflexive polite submission — a little too reflexive, and he looks down too, away from the threat, for a weak moment before he looks back up, looks for whatever’s coming.
Jazz can move — hit grab kill whatever — him faster than Streetwise can do anything about, he knows, but he has to look anyway.
Jazz doesn’t move. For about a klik, he holds perfectly still. Then he, slowly, drops his hands, shifts into a steadier — balanced, light, truer, Streetwise thinks — stance. His showy friendly smile slips without going away entirely.
He’s staring right back, and Streetwise holds his gaze paralyzed as much as defiant.
“Sorry,” Jazz says, and Streetwise can’t tell at all if he means it. “That was for me, Streets.” He tilts his head at Streetwise again, not coming any closer but putting terrifying attention on him, danger not hidden as deep as he’s pushed it before. “No one should hurt First Aid. I needed to check if you cared about that.”
Jazz dips a bow, raises a hand in apology. “Sorry Aid,” he says, and it sounds real, and he looks friendly again, enough for Streetwise to breathe again for a moment. “I know that sucked. Promise ya the clarity is gonna make things easier for everyone.”
Streetwise feels hollowed out, and he knows it isn’t over, knows he should be trying something, saying something, but he just wants Jazz to leave, now.
“Ey, Streets. Chin up,” Jazz says, and Streetwise is obedient out of exhausted default, looks up again.
Jazz is smiling, bright and crooked. His voice is low, in a way that makes him sound different from before. “C’mon, that wasn’t a failure. You got an impossible hand, and you’re playing it good.”
I’m sorry. First Aid says, clutching a little tighter.
No. Streetwise holds his brother in close, tucks his chin over Aid’s helm, watches Jazz, and lives with his choices. “I’ll do whatever you want if it’ll make things okay for them,” he confesses.
Jazz’s smile dims and he exvents heavily. “Aw frag, kid, yeah. I hear it,” he says, rolling a stretch and looking away for a moment. “And I know you ain’t gonna believe this, but we ain’t gonna use any of y’all against each other.” He smiles ruefully at Streetwise. “This was bad, a one-off.”
Which is either a lie, or means that Streetwise broke for no reason after all.
“Streetwise,” Jazz says. “That wasn’t a stupid call or a moment of weakness, ‘kay?”
Now they know, and no one is safer. Streetwise wants to look down and just be miserable, but he can’t until Jazz leaves.
I’m sorry, Aid says again, so Streetwise squeezes him harder.
Jazz is still here. “I know it would be in some spots, and I know you got no way to know this ain’t one of those spots, but — look, if that was weak, we’ll all be weak together here,” Jazz says, and he comes closer and Streetwise is already wound too tight around First Aid but he finds he can tense just a little more, before Jazz stops where he is. “I know it’s scary, and you’re just gonna have to give it some time — and I know it feels like failure now, I know, okay? I can’t promise you’ll come around. I know it took me a lot to. Point is, wait until you see how it plays out.”
“I didn’t help anything,” Streetwise says, voice a little hoarse from the stress. “Now you know, you win.”
Jazz shrugs and, finally, backs off, towards the cell door. “Eh, I like to think we both win,” he says, back to smiling, grinning at Streetwise as he keys his way out, shrugging as he goes. “I know, I know, now we know you care ‘bout your brothers, probably about people in general, and it’s scary, but — you’ll see — we’re soft about that kinda cracked, here.”
