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capeandcowllogs2009-11-16 12:14 am
loltraitorlol.livejournal.com) wrote in capeandcowllogs2009-11-16 12:14 am
If you wish to make a apple pie from scratch [Closed, in-progress]
WHO: Starscream, Skyfire
WHERE: Somewhere in Florida
WHEN: Sunday - Wednesday. Yes, we'll probably be tagging this log for separate days so as to not clog up your log comm ;)
WARNINGS: will probably be fluff but if anything happens I'll edit
SUMMARY: Fluff. Also, possibly they will be going to watch the space shuttle launch tomorrow. Also, enjoy your mood whiplash from last week's flavor.
FORMAT: Para to the MAX.
He makes his decision that Saturday night, shortly after he hangs up the phone.
In theory, he should be searching for his wayward brother, to punish him.
For once, however, he finds that he does not want to punish. He doesn't want revenge. Yes, it's important to go after his brother - Thundercracker knows little, but what he does know is too much.
But that seems so distant. And Starscream has never been one to deny his impulses.
So he packs one backpack, filling it with just enough clothes, and the next morning as the sun rises he takes the train to the airport, staring out of the window at the slowly rising sun, and he dreams of a more glorious dawn.
He leaves only a single note on the table for Soundwave. It explains, in terse Decepticon, where he has gone, and when he'll be back. Nothing more. He has other obligations, and he doesn't care. This is what he wants right now, and he will go find it.
He buys his tickets right there in the airport - too much money, but he still has enough that he can afford it.
He sits in the airport as the squares of sunlight on the floor shorten, looking through the newspaper in his hands, thinking of the stars. A little boy watches him from the shadow of his mother's protection.
He hates children, it's true. They've caused him more harm than good, and he still finds the human life cycle nonsensical. Disgusting, really. When he came online, he had enough knowledge to at least survive in the world, not to sit there mewling.
He pulls down his sunglasses, giving the child a smirk, his every intention to scare the kid. But he's only greeted with a shy smile, and perhaps a little admiration. He raises an eyebrow, and the kid smiles more, hiding behind the chair.
Well, he's not one to deny worship, even by a brat. And maybe...
It's a little fun. Peeking out from behind his newspaper. Making strange faces as he gets increasingly angry glares from the child's mother. This, of course, only serves to encourage him.
It's when he's about to board that the kid comes up behind him and shoves something into his hand. He's about to snap angrily, except he chances to open his hand first.
It's a tiny die-cast airplane.
He has no idea how the kid knew - if the kid knew - and is forced to put it down to coincidence. Still, something in his spark lifts, like an updraft has caught his wings. An almost festive mood comes over him.
He stares out of the window on the plane, looking down at the clouds, remembering when he could fly this high without help; looking up into the (still unnatural and still strange) blue sky, remembering when he could fly higher still. The shapes of the clouds still speak to him, and he can feel with each slight pitch and roll of the plane how the flying must be today, the air itself speaking a language he's known since before his optics first registered light.
He thinks the pilot hasn't a fragging clue what he's doing; or the gift he holds.
They touch down when the shadows are at their shortest, and the first thing he notices is how warm it is; how the air seems thicker and full of light. He also notices how flat the landscape is, which while boring from the ground, means that the place is perfect for flying. He takes off his warm jacket and slings it over his shoulder, making sure his sunglasses are in place. He doubts people here will react any more favorably to vibrant red eyes than people in the City will. Though he remembers from their trip to Portland that most people there simply thought they were ravers with particularly cool contact lenses, and wanted to know where they'd gotten them.
Outside, he ignores the bus pickup, and the cab stand, and walks straight off, across the street and into the brush, hovering just enough to avoid any nasty surprises but not enough to catch attention, at least, not until he's well into the brush and out of sight of the airport. He checks his wrist-mounted GPS, then pulls his jacket back on, taking out his goggles and settling them over his eyes.
And he flies.
The air is warm, the weather is perfect - he can almost imagine the wind under his wings, a gentle but surprisingly firm lift. He rides a tailwind like a cresting wave that never breaks; he briefly plays chicken with a small plane pilot who is, somehow, amused enough by the idea of flying against an imPorted that she actually plays along. They dance, and once he comes so close that he can touch one of her wings.
He gives her a little salute before he flies off; and he wonders how living here has changed him. He can't explain his mood - his relationship hangs by a single gossamer thread, his life perched on a needle's point.
Perhaps somehow, in the balance here, he can have a moment of serenity. And at least, here in the blue, it is his own.
The air is so good, so perfect, and the wind just right that he can't help but keep flying for a while. It's not like there's anything to do on the ground. He takes his sweet time making it to his destination, his GPS chirping insistently every few minutes.
At last he lands at an incredibly ugly pastel motel, touching down just outside the fence and startling a small flock of birds. The kidney shaped pool just inside the fence smells of too much chlorine and was utterly unoccupied, which was just as well.
He walks up to the front, a little wobbly on his feet from his long flight. The plaster of the walls is chipped, the roof slightly sagging. Tiny lizards scamper along the floor in front of him, and, just for the hell of it, he shoots off one of their tails with a well-placed laser shot.
Good mood or no, he is still a bastard.
Which door, then? He counts off the numbers, walking along, until finally he finds the peeling white one with the number he is looking for.
For one fleeing moment, he wonders what the hell he's doing. He has work to do. Obligations.
And then he decides he just doesn't care about that right now.
He knocks on the door.
WHERE: Somewhere in Florida
WHEN: Sunday - Wednesday. Yes, we'll probably be tagging this log for separate days so as to not clog up your log comm ;)
WARNINGS: will probably be fluff but if anything happens I'll edit
SUMMARY: Fluff. Also, possibly they will be going to watch the space shuttle launch tomorrow. Also, enjoy your mood whiplash from last week's flavor.
FORMAT: Para to the MAX.
He makes his decision that Saturday night, shortly after he hangs up the phone.
In theory, he should be searching for his wayward brother, to punish him.
For once, however, he finds that he does not want to punish. He doesn't want revenge. Yes, it's important to go after his brother - Thundercracker knows little, but what he does know is too much.
But that seems so distant. And Starscream has never been one to deny his impulses.
So he packs one backpack, filling it with just enough clothes, and the next morning as the sun rises he takes the train to the airport, staring out of the window at the slowly rising sun, and he dreams of a more glorious dawn.
He leaves only a single note on the table for Soundwave. It explains, in terse Decepticon, where he has gone, and when he'll be back. Nothing more. He has other obligations, and he doesn't care. This is what he wants right now, and he will go find it.
He buys his tickets right there in the airport - too much money, but he still has enough that he can afford it.
He sits in the airport as the squares of sunlight on the floor shorten, looking through the newspaper in his hands, thinking of the stars. A little boy watches him from the shadow of his mother's protection.
He hates children, it's true. They've caused him more harm than good, and he still finds the human life cycle nonsensical. Disgusting, really. When he came online, he had enough knowledge to at least survive in the world, not to sit there mewling.
He pulls down his sunglasses, giving the child a smirk, his every intention to scare the kid. But he's only greeted with a shy smile, and perhaps a little admiration. He raises an eyebrow, and the kid smiles more, hiding behind the chair.
Well, he's not one to deny worship, even by a brat. And maybe...
It's a little fun. Peeking out from behind his newspaper. Making strange faces as he gets increasingly angry glares from the child's mother. This, of course, only serves to encourage him.
It's when he's about to board that the kid comes up behind him and shoves something into his hand. He's about to snap angrily, except he chances to open his hand first.
It's a tiny die-cast airplane.
He has no idea how the kid knew - if the kid knew - and is forced to put it down to coincidence. Still, something in his spark lifts, like an updraft has caught his wings. An almost festive mood comes over him.
He stares out of the window on the plane, looking down at the clouds, remembering when he could fly this high without help; looking up into the (still unnatural and still strange) blue sky, remembering when he could fly higher still. The shapes of the clouds still speak to him, and he can feel with each slight pitch and roll of the plane how the flying must be today, the air itself speaking a language he's known since before his optics first registered light.
He thinks the pilot hasn't a fragging clue what he's doing; or the gift he holds.
They touch down when the shadows are at their shortest, and the first thing he notices is how warm it is; how the air seems thicker and full of light. He also notices how flat the landscape is, which while boring from the ground, means that the place is perfect for flying. He takes off his warm jacket and slings it over his shoulder, making sure his sunglasses are in place. He doubts people here will react any more favorably to vibrant red eyes than people in the City will. Though he remembers from their trip to Portland that most people there simply thought they were ravers with particularly cool contact lenses, and wanted to know where they'd gotten them.
Outside, he ignores the bus pickup, and the cab stand, and walks straight off, across the street and into the brush, hovering just enough to avoid any nasty surprises but not enough to catch attention, at least, not until he's well into the brush and out of sight of the airport. He checks his wrist-mounted GPS, then pulls his jacket back on, taking out his goggles and settling them over his eyes.
And he flies.
The air is warm, the weather is perfect - he can almost imagine the wind under his wings, a gentle but surprisingly firm lift. He rides a tailwind like a cresting wave that never breaks; he briefly plays chicken with a small plane pilot who is, somehow, amused enough by the idea of flying against an imPorted that she actually plays along. They dance, and once he comes so close that he can touch one of her wings.
He gives her a little salute before he flies off; and he wonders how living here has changed him. He can't explain his mood - his relationship hangs by a single gossamer thread, his life perched on a needle's point.
Perhaps somehow, in the balance here, he can have a moment of serenity. And at least, here in the blue, it is his own.
The air is so good, so perfect, and the wind just right that he can't help but keep flying for a while. It's not like there's anything to do on the ground. He takes his sweet time making it to his destination, his GPS chirping insistently every few minutes.
At last he lands at an incredibly ugly pastel motel, touching down just outside the fence and startling a small flock of birds. The kidney shaped pool just inside the fence smells of too much chlorine and was utterly unoccupied, which was just as well.
He walks up to the front, a little wobbly on his feet from his long flight. The plaster of the walls is chipped, the roof slightly sagging. Tiny lizards scamper along the floor in front of him, and, just for the hell of it, he shoots off one of their tails with a well-placed laser shot.
Good mood or no, he is still a bastard.
Which door, then? He counts off the numbers, walking along, until finally he finds the peeling white one with the number he is looking for.
For one fleeing moment, he wonders what the hell he's doing. He has work to do. Obligations.
And then he decides he just doesn't care about that right now.
He knocks on the door.
no subject
Well.
It had slagging terrified him to be trapped under the ice. Renewed the nightmares. He no longer danced on the water like that.
Here he basked in the warm sun, the soupy, humid air. Everything still buzzes with life and it's not tense as it is in The City. He wears loud Hawaiian shirts and hideous shorts with flip flops. Always followed by a parade of ducks. The locals call him "Daffy", which he seems to like just fine.
He doesn't answer the door when Starscream knocks.
"Yes- no- of course not ma'am. I'll try to keep them quieter at night. I didn't know there were complaints." Skyfire's voice rises from down the hall, a stout woman with frizzy hair following him up.
"Ah' don't mean it like that now, Charlie, but y'see the family downstairs- well. They're just snippy."
"No, no. I understand. They have every right to be. It's Starscream... he just quacks all night over anything. I'll figure something out."
"Good... it's been a real pleasure havin' ya stay here Charlie, but if the management says yer' out, there's nothin' ah'cn' do for it, 'cept give em my good honest opinion of ya."
"Don't worry, Miss Roseburg. Your kindness is more than enough incentive." The former shuttle comes into view, sunglasses perched on his head, brilliant blue eyes, smiling at the woman who stops as she sees the man at his door.
"Friend ah'your's?"
Skyfire's eyes go wide and he nearly fumbles the bag in one hand and the duck in the other.
"Yeah." He manages to stammer.
"Ah'll get outta' your hair then, y'silly kids." The comment practically lights up his face red.
"M-Miss Roseburg, I'm not a kid!" He warbles as she hobbles back down the stairs.
"When y'been around as long as I have, everyone's a kid."
Skyfire turns to blink and awkwardly point at the Seeker at his door... before smiling bright and closing the distance between them, hitting Starscream so hard he'd have knocked the other over if he wasn't lifting him up in a bear hug.
no subject
He can't help but smile at his partner's surprise.
"Your shirt is - "
He can't finish the sentence, because the air is knocked out of him with a loud wuff.
"" he manages.
And then he smiles wryly. "She's right. You are a big kid. Sixteen thousand year old protoform is what you are."
no subject
"I'm not a protoform. I maintain that I am far more mature than you are." He can't help but let the smile win him over again, though and he runs a hand through the Seeker's hair fondly.
"What are you doing here? I just poke to you a little while ago- I thought you had work... Not that I'm complaining." The ducks gather in a little feathery mosh pit at his ankles.
"Mm- I'm sorry. Come inside, come inside- Sit down, you must be exhausted." He opens the door, shuffling his ducks and Starscream into the small motel room.
no subject
"Eh, frag work," he says, carefully running a hand through his hair to de-muss it. "One of the many things about being the High and Mighty Leader of the Decepticons is that you can take a day off whenever you slagging well please. Which I have."
He sighed. "As for StarWave, I set things as in order as they're going to get, and I don't want to deal with the rest. So."
"And you're far more interesting than work," he said, a wry smile playing across his lips.
He walked inside, taking off his shoes at the door (Starscream, for all that he left paperwork lying around constantly, was fastidiously clean when it came to things like dirt and food) and dropping his backpack on the floor before flopping across a chair.
And then there was the inevitable. "Do you have anything to eat? I'm starving."
no subject
"I'm flattered that I can one-up work, though you are a historical procrastinator." The shuttle teased gently, stretching and putting away his groceries. He returned momentarily, settling his arms around Starscream and leaning down to offer a short kiss.
Ah- of course he would be hungry. Though all the food Skyfire had, he had a feeling that Starscream wouldn't like it very much. Mostly fruit and health food.
"If you can last a little longer, there's a little Chinese take-out place down the street." He waved a hand to the fading sun winking through the blinds.
"There's a field out back- we can grab a bite and go watch the sky."
no subject
"I suppose I won't starve," he says. "And... yes, that sounds acceptable."
He stands up, looking out at the setting sun, folding his arms. "By the way, I heard that they're launching that silly thing they call a space shuttle tomorrow," he says. "It's quite near here. Would you like to go see it?"
no subject
Naturally it didn't take much convincing, and the fact that Starscream wanted to go with him-
It was never hard to make the shuttle happy.
"I'd love to." This. This was what he'd needed. Just the two of them, no City. No work or worries to deal with. Sunshine, warm air... after the recent turn of events, it was like a gift. He quickly gathered up a bag and filled it with a few blankets and two canned, iced coffees.
"Come on then, Stars." He paused a moment, considering it... and offers his hand to the Seeker.
no subject
No worries. No thinking about factions or deadlines or obligations. Today and tomorrow, he was just going to exist here, in the moment, and for once, he was not going to worry.
no subject
"I must admit, though I do value the thought of eating healthy... nothing really beats fried stuff." Skyfire confided in the Seeker. It was almost completely dark now, and the sky began to reveal it's stars. The moon was still a pale shadow in the twilight, sun just ghosting below the horizon.
Crickets began to scrape their collective cacophony and the evening was not without it's fair share of mosquitoes but it was not a terrible concern.
no subject
"Nope," he admitted. "It's one thing I have to hand to the apes - food really is rather interesting."
He chuckled a little. "Slag, I think when we get our old forms back I'm going to have to figure out some way to install taste. I might actually miss it."
He sighed, rolling onto his side to poke at the lo mein, picking up long noodles with his chopsticks (which he had actually gotten very good at using, the result of months of a serious addiction to green curry).