[crack fic] mathe & mechs
More drabbles! I'll keep collecting them in new posts as I keep throwing them out in comments. Obviously, feel free to bunny me in said comments, as it seems to be working. =P
"So," Ratchet said, conversationally, "would you like to explain to me - again - WHY I am picking pieces of organic plant matter debris out of your internals?"
Perceptor winced slightly, optics flickering, which might have been from the medic's deceptively mild tone or, more likely, from where the medic had one hand braced against a gap in the scientist's armor and the other shoved wrist deep into said gap. "That *itches*," he ground out, fingers tightening on the edge of the berth.
"I'm sure it does," Ratchet replied mildly. "There's a high percentage of fructose in the pulp, it's going to dry tacky and that's going to itch and *that's* only if it doesn't attract any of the local insect life in the meantime." He withdrew his hand, flicking away bits of what might have been applesauce, wiped his fingers on a rag and went back in again. "So what, exactly, have we learned from this, hmm?"
Percepter groaned softly. "That I am *not* Wheeljack," he said through gritted dente, "and explosions are *not* 'fun'."
"It's going to be even less fun when I get the worst of this out and we start power washing your internals," Ratchet predicted cheerfully. "Maybe *next* time you'll remember to arrange for blast shielding for our human allies in the event of a catastrophic field failure. Something *other* than your own chassis, if you please."
* * * * *
Mikaela's expression was, Ratchet noted, shocked for all of five nanokliks before it slid smoothly into perfect blandness. All except her eyes, which raked over the speaker with sharp judgement. "It's... pocketsized."
Mattias rolled his eyes upwards. "Yes, yes," he said testily. "So says the American in ten centimeter heels and an eleven centimeter *skirt*. It speaks, but does it *think*?"
"*She* is my assistant," Ratchet interjected, putting emphasis on the human pronoun which made Mikaela flash him a grateful look.
The elder Ulrich offspring's expression was skeptical. "Then I assume she thinks, or at least takes direction." He flicked a dismissive gesture at Mikaela. "In that case, bitte, if you would..."
"If your next words have anything to do with 'coffee', or running and fetching anything," Mikaela said through clenched teeth and a stiff smile, "the four inch heels are going to be shoved up your ass."
Alaric, leaning on the scaffolding railing beside Kalmenka, groaned and covered his face with his hands. "This," he said, muffled. "THIS is why my brother does not date."
"Because he's an ass?" Kalmenka guessed.
"Because there are rabid angry shit flinging baboons in Africa with better social skills," Alaric sighed, shoving himself away from the railing. "Excuse me, I need to go save him from his own stupidity before he opens his mouth again and Fraulein Banes kicks his ass."
If the OC crowd seems somewhat, well, OOC, it's because I'm winging a re-interpretation of them in modern day with 90% less trauma involved in their backgrounds. ^_^
"So," Ratchet said, conversationally, "would you like to explain to me - again - WHY I am picking pieces of organic plant matter debris out of your internals?"
Perceptor winced slightly, optics flickering, which might have been from the medic's deceptively mild tone or, more likely, from where the medic had one hand braced against a gap in the scientist's armor and the other shoved wrist deep into said gap. "That *itches*," he ground out, fingers tightening on the edge of the berth.
"I'm sure it does," Ratchet replied mildly. "There's a high percentage of fructose in the pulp, it's going to dry tacky and that's going to itch and *that's* only if it doesn't attract any of the local insect life in the meantime." He withdrew his hand, flicking away bits of what might have been applesauce, wiped his fingers on a rag and went back in again. "So what, exactly, have we learned from this, hmm?"
Percepter groaned softly. "That I am *not* Wheeljack," he said through gritted dente, "and explosions are *not* 'fun'."
"It's going to be even less fun when I get the worst of this out and we start power washing your internals," Ratchet predicted cheerfully. "Maybe *next* time you'll remember to arrange for blast shielding for our human allies in the event of a catastrophic field failure. Something *other* than your own chassis, if you please."
* * * * *
Mikaela's expression was, Ratchet noted, shocked for all of five nanokliks before it slid smoothly into perfect blandness. All except her eyes, which raked over the speaker with sharp judgement. "It's... pocketsized."
Mattias rolled his eyes upwards. "Yes, yes," he said testily. "So says the American in ten centimeter heels and an eleven centimeter *skirt*. It speaks, but does it *think*?"
"*She* is my assistant," Ratchet interjected, putting emphasis on the human pronoun which made Mikaela flash him a grateful look.
The elder Ulrich offspring's expression was skeptical. "Then I assume she thinks, or at least takes direction." He flicked a dismissive gesture at Mikaela. "In that case, bitte, if you would..."
"If your next words have anything to do with 'coffee', or running and fetching anything," Mikaela said through clenched teeth and a stiff smile, "the four inch heels are going to be shoved up your ass."
Alaric, leaning on the scaffolding railing beside Kalmenka, groaned and covered his face with his hands. "This," he said, muffled. "THIS is why my brother does not date."
"Because he's an ass?" Kalmenka guessed.
"Because there are rabid angry shit flinging baboons in Africa with better social skills," Alaric sighed, shoving himself away from the railing. "Excuse me, I need to go save him from his own stupidity before he opens his mouth again and Fraulein Banes kicks his ass."
If the OC crowd seems somewhat, well, OOC, it's because I'm winging a re-interpretation of them in modern day with 90% less trauma involved in their backgrounds. ^_^