[Hook Fic] Adjustments
I really need a Constructicon icon.
Title: Adjustments
Characters: Hook, Scrapper (possibly Hook/Scrapper)
Word Count: 600+
Rating: G
Summary: The day after a battle as Devastator, Hook is having some problems with his crane-mount.
---
Hook rolled his shoulders in irritation. The mount for his crane-arm was bothering him, not quite enough to warrant asking for a quick repair from Scrapper but definitely enough to make lifting things a little painful. As a crane, lifting things was his fundamental reason for existence. Jets flew, cars drove, cranes lifted things.
"Something bothering you?" Scrapper asked, glancing up from the plans for their latest project.
"Not in the slightest."
The payloader looked at him levelly, the light of his optic-band clearly reading as dubious. "If I find out you're lying, I'm taking you off this project. We have enough problems with Bonecrusher and Scavenger not taking care of themselves."
Hook made an irritated sound. "The mount on my crane-arm is bothering me. That's all, and it's certainly not something worth worrying over."
"You get stress-fractures on that mount," Scrapper pointed out. The force with which he snapped the plans shut belied the mildness of his tone. "Come over here and let me take a look at it."
"Which of us is the surgical engineer?" Hook gave the payloader an arch look. "I am well aware of my limits and the damages I can take. If I say it's nothing to worry about, then it's nothing to worry about."
"We merged into Devastator yesterday, and you always pick up the worst mix of Bonecrusher and Long Haul's stoicism and Scavenger's not-wanting-to-bother-peopleness when we do." Scrapper gestured with the plans. "Let me take a look. If you're right, you can say 'I told you so' for a week before I belt you."
"Tempting." Very tempting. Scrapper, unlike Mixmaster, was usually a little too careful to wind up in the situations where Hook had a reason to say 'I told you so'. Which was likely a good thing, come to think of it, as Scrapper had built Hook's arm into a wall the last time such a situation had come up. "Very well."
He presented his back to Scrapper, who pressed hard fingers against the mount of his crane-arm. Hook winced and rolled his shoulders again, then gasped when Scrapper kneaded the mount.
"It looks like the clobbering Superion gave us yesterday knocked your mount out of alignment," Scrapper said. "It should be a simple fix. Hold still."
"Do I have a choice?" Hook asked, spreading his stance slightly to brace himself.
"Not really." Scrapper wrapped his hands around the mount and gave a powerful jerk.
Black exploded across Hook's optic-band, and then he felt the mount slide back into place. The sudden cessation of pain he hadn't acknowledged as pain was startling. He staggered, and Scrapper grabbed him by the crane-arm and held him upright.
"That should do it," the payloader said, his hands sliding abradingly hard up Hook's crane-arm to the mount. He didn't take his hands away, however, instead beginning to knead the mount again, rubbing the tips of his fingers in hard. "Your servos are probably still a little out-of-alignment. They need adjustment."
Hook made an agreeable sound. Being thrown off his calculations by out-of-alignment servos was terribly upsetting. He had a reputation for precision, and how could he be precise if his own body was betraying him?
Scrapper shifted to grind his knuckles into the edge of the mount, then rubbed the palm of his hand over the top, then went back to working with his finger-tips. After a little while, he stepped back. "Your engine's motoring away."
It was, a deep basso purr, and Hook glanced over his shoulder at Scrapper. "It does that sometimes. I'm certain you're familiar with stimulus-impulse responses in Decepticons."
"I am." Scrapper picked up the plans and unrolled them again. "Let's finish this."
-End-
Title: Adjustments
Characters: Hook, Scrapper (possibly Hook/Scrapper)
Word Count: 600+
Rating: G
Summary: The day after a battle as Devastator, Hook is having some problems with his crane-mount.
---
Hook rolled his shoulders in irritation. The mount for his crane-arm was bothering him, not quite enough to warrant asking for a quick repair from Scrapper but definitely enough to make lifting things a little painful. As a crane, lifting things was his fundamental reason for existence. Jets flew, cars drove, cranes lifted things.
"Something bothering you?" Scrapper asked, glancing up from the plans for their latest project.
"Not in the slightest."
The payloader looked at him levelly, the light of his optic-band clearly reading as dubious. "If I find out you're lying, I'm taking you off this project. We have enough problems with Bonecrusher and Scavenger not taking care of themselves."
Hook made an irritated sound. "The mount on my crane-arm is bothering me. That's all, and it's certainly not something worth worrying over."
"You get stress-fractures on that mount," Scrapper pointed out. The force with which he snapped the plans shut belied the mildness of his tone. "Come over here and let me take a look at it."
"Which of us is the surgical engineer?" Hook gave the payloader an arch look. "I am well aware of my limits and the damages I can take. If I say it's nothing to worry about, then it's nothing to worry about."
"We merged into Devastator yesterday, and you always pick up the worst mix of Bonecrusher and Long Haul's stoicism and Scavenger's not-wanting-to-bother-peopleness when we do." Scrapper gestured with the plans. "Let me take a look. If you're right, you can say 'I told you so' for a week before I belt you."
"Tempting." Very tempting. Scrapper, unlike Mixmaster, was usually a little too careful to wind up in the situations where Hook had a reason to say 'I told you so'. Which was likely a good thing, come to think of it, as Scrapper had built Hook's arm into a wall the last time such a situation had come up. "Very well."
He presented his back to Scrapper, who pressed hard fingers against the mount of his crane-arm. Hook winced and rolled his shoulders again, then gasped when Scrapper kneaded the mount.
"It looks like the clobbering Superion gave us yesterday knocked your mount out of alignment," Scrapper said. "It should be a simple fix. Hold still."
"Do I have a choice?" Hook asked, spreading his stance slightly to brace himself.
"Not really." Scrapper wrapped his hands around the mount and gave a powerful jerk.
Black exploded across Hook's optic-band, and then he felt the mount slide back into place. The sudden cessation of pain he hadn't acknowledged as pain was startling. He staggered, and Scrapper grabbed him by the crane-arm and held him upright.
"That should do it," the payloader said, his hands sliding abradingly hard up Hook's crane-arm to the mount. He didn't take his hands away, however, instead beginning to knead the mount again, rubbing the tips of his fingers in hard. "Your servos are probably still a little out-of-alignment. They need adjustment."
Hook made an agreeable sound. Being thrown off his calculations by out-of-alignment servos was terribly upsetting. He had a reputation for precision, and how could he be precise if his own body was betraying him?
Scrapper shifted to grind his knuckles into the edge of the mount, then rubbed the palm of his hand over the top, then went back to working with his finger-tips. After a little while, he stepped back. "Your engine's motoring away."
It was, a deep basso purr, and Hook glanced over his shoulder at Scrapper. "It does that sometimes. I'm certain you're familiar with stimulus-impulse responses in Decepticons."
"I am." Scrapper picked up the plans and unrolled them again. "Let's finish this."
-End-