As Tracks started up again, Cliffjumper briefly tensed and thought, again, that he really should get rid of Mirage's hand. But the offered anchor, like the renewed strength of the song, helped with not lashing out and trying to put a stop to the whole thing, again.
So he settled back, curled up against the side of the berth and glaring at the floor, trying to concentrate on Mirage's humming rather than the noise of the etching tool or the tenseness bleeding through from Mirage's hand.
He could do this.
He regularly went out on fragging battlefields, had for millions of years now, but... But it wasn't the same thing.
This was... Shifting his shoulders and trying to dispel that train of thought, Cliffjumper dimmed his optics and tried to relax.
But, despite the additional support Mirage was, for whatever reason, offering through the gentle hand on his helm, he just couldn't. Even less so than he'd been sitting on the other side of the room.
It was like there was a creeping lattice of... intent? heat? he wasn't sure, but it was right behind him, centered, he assumed, on Mirage and Tracks, but he couldn't figure out how.
He tried to sit still and just ignore it, to focus on the hand and the humming - which had its own thread of warm presence, Cliffjumper realised with a scrunch to his nasal ridge.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2014-03-08 12:49 pm (UTC)So he settled back, curled up against the side of the berth and glaring at the floor, trying to concentrate on Mirage's humming rather than the noise of the etching tool or the tenseness bleeding through from Mirage's hand.
He could do this.
He regularly went out on fragging battlefields, had for millions of years now, but... But it wasn't the same thing.
This was... Shifting his shoulders and trying to dispel that train of thought, Cliffjumper dimmed his optics and tried to relax.
But, despite the additional support Mirage was, for whatever reason, offering through the gentle hand on his helm, he just couldn't. Even less so than he'd been sitting on the other side of the room.
It was like there was a creeping lattice of... intent? heat? he wasn't sure, but it was right behind him, centered, he assumed, on Mirage and Tracks, but he couldn't figure out how.
He tried to sit still and just ignore it, to focus on the hand and the humming - which had its own thread of warm presence, Cliffjumper realised with a scrunch to his nasal ridge.
No, Focus.
Ignore the other stuff.