[Transformers G1] Walk of Shame
a/n: And now for a bit of an explanation from Ratchet. Heh, heh. :)
Title: Walk of Shame
Characters: Ratchet, Ironhide
Continuity: G1, fourth in the Apple a Day series
Rating: T
If he hadn't been waiting around the corner, eager to catch Ratchet in a compromising position, Ironhide might have missed this.
But he had been waiting, so he had seen Ratchet first stalk out of the twin's quarters, then creep through the hallways, avoiding all contact with other mechs, and head straight for the medbay.
Ironhide had followed him because this sort of event is monumental. And perfect fodder for teasing later.
Ratchet must be distracted because he doesn't notice Ironhide all but stalking him. The medic stomps into his medbay and heads straight for the private washracks. Must have something to do with the long streaks of bright yellow and red that give evidence to a really, really good time.
If he'd been human, it would be the equivalent of coming home wearing last night's clothing, hair a mess, and missing a sock. Ironhide grins.
Leaning in the open doorway, Ironhide watches as Ratchet turns on the spray and starts scrubbing at his plating, attacking the streaks of misplaced paint with a vengeance. The medic is also muttering to himself, mostly a string of cursewords and self-castigation.
This is the perfect time to announce himself.
“Well, well, well,” Ironhide says and his grin stretches wider as the sound of his vocals make Ratchet startle and whirl around. “What have we here?”
The medic's mouth opens and closes before he stubbornly turns back toward the spray of the washrack and says nothing.
Vastly amused, Ironhide remains undaunted. “Yanno,” he adds, watching as Ratchet scrubs and scrubs at a long swipe of yellow paint on his thigh. “The humans have a term fer this. They call it the walk of shame.”
Ironhide also makes certain to take several image captures. For bargaining later of course. Never know when one might need info on the Hatchet.
Ratchet throws a glare over his shoulder, the gleam in his optics threatening payback on Ironhide.
He allows himself to be worried but only for a second. Ratchet would never hurt him. Permanently, at least, because then he'd have to fix the damage.
“Nice shade of yellow,” Ironhide adds, staring pointedly at the interesting splotch that mars Ratchet's backplate. “Goes well with the red.” A red, by the way, which doesn't match Ratchet's own choice in paint.
Ratchet starts to attack a streak of yellow on his left arm. “Are you through?”
Ironhide chuckles. “Just gettin' started.”
The medic huffs, muttering to himself. “Nosy old rust bucket.”
“Yer older than me.”
“By two whole orns!” Ratchet splutters, throwing another glare over his shoulders. It lacks heat, however, and emanates more embarrassment than angry.
“Still older.” Ironhide looks Ratchet over from helm to pede pointedly, adding a leer. “Robbin' the cradle, eh? Didn't know that was yer flavor of energon.”
Ratchet whirls and tosses the soapy scrub rag at Ironhide, forcing him to duck.
“Oh. Testy,” Ironhide teases, ducking another wet projectile. “Maybe the twins weren't doin' it right if yer still this wound up.”
Ratchet's hands curl into fists at his side as he stalks toward Ironhide, spluttering. “You... you...”
Ironhide shakes his helm. “Can't teach a young mech old tricks, I guess. Am I right?”
It's easy enough to dodge the punch Ratchet tosses at him. Mech's not seriously trying to injure, otherwise Ironhide would be in some trouble.
“Geeze, Ratch,” Ironhide huffs, ducking one blow and catching Ratchet's wrist before the medic can throw another. “Are ya mad ya berthed the twins or embarrassed?”
Blue optics blaze at him before cycling down in annoyance. “I blame Perceptor,” Ratchet growls.
Ironhide chuckles. “I don't think it's his fault ya finally went after what you wanted. Speaking of which... why now?”
Ratchet looks away, a clear indication of his embarrassment. He mumbles something that Ironhide doesn't catch.
“What was that?”
“... lost a bet,” Ratchet spits out, a bit louder this time. “Perceptor's fault.”
Ironhide supposes the only way he's going to get a full explanation is to actually ask Perceptor.
“Okay...” Ironhide releases his hold on Ratchet's wrist and the medic draws away from him, still dripping water. “Why the twins?”
Ratchet scowls. “None of your business.”
Touchy, touchy. Maybe there's more to this than a one-night sharing of the berth.
Ironhide stares at Ratchet. “Ratch, are you planning to... court them?” He can't hide the incredulity in his tone.
Not that there's anything wrong with Sideswipe or Sunstreaker, but aiming for permanence? Ironhide would have never guessed it. The medic with a wrench and the terror twins? It seems an ill match.
The medic pushes past him without a word. Ironhide turns to follow, noticing the way Ratchet's armor is clamped tightly to his frame, his energy field equally contained.
“Ratch?”
“It's a stupid idea,” Ratchet all but snarls, bristling with indignation. “I should've never considered it.” He stomps around his medbay, prepping berths and organizing tools in case of injury. “Frag Perceptor and Wheeljack both!”
Ironhide's optics cycle out in surprise. “That's a yes then,” he says musingly. “Primus, Ratch, ya don't do anything by halves, do ya?”
Ratchet slams a welder down onto a table, glaring at Ironhide. “Are you going to help me or not?”
Help? Since when did Ironhide get drafted into this? Well, he supposes that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are under his command, being frontliners and all, and he ought to know more about them than any other mech. Except where he doesn't.
He spreads his hands, palms down. “Depends on what you need from me. I ain't deliverin' any sparkly, poetic love letters.”
“I think I have more taste than that,” Ratchet retorts with a roll of his optics, but at least the bristliness in his plating starts to fade.
“Or flowers,” Ironhide adds, waggling a forefinger at the medic. “Nor boxes of energon goodies or mix tapes or anythin' else stupidly sappy. Yer gonna have to be cleverer than that if ya think those two idiots are gonna get it.”
Ratchet snorts. “Don't you think I know that? … Wait. Mix tapes?”
Ironhide rolls his shoulders. “Dunno. Something Spike did for Carly. She seemed to like it.”
Amusement replaces some of the ire. “I'll let Sunstreaker know you compared him to Carly.”
“Not in so many words!”
Ratchet chuckles. “Then you'll help me?”
Ironhide supposes he doesn't have anything better to do. Besides, this is the kind of blackmail info a mech dreams of. And he'll have it on the Hatchet? Even better!
He grins. “Course I will. What's the plan?”
Ratchet's optics glint and he smirks. A rather evil smirk that would have made Sideswipe or Jazz for that matter, very, very proud.
****
a/n: And this is the last one I have ready. But I've got plenty of ideas and all that's left is to write them.
I'd love to know what you thought!
And don't forget, Flash Fiction Friday returns tomorrow!
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/182385.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: Walk of Shame
Characters: Ratchet, Ironhide
Continuity: G1, fourth in the Apple a Day series
Rating: T
If he hadn't been waiting around the corner, eager to catch Ratchet in a compromising position, Ironhide might have missed this.
But he had been waiting, so he had seen Ratchet first stalk out of the twin's quarters, then creep through the hallways, avoiding all contact with other mechs, and head straight for the medbay.
Ironhide had followed him because this sort of event is monumental. And perfect fodder for teasing later.
Ratchet must be distracted because he doesn't notice Ironhide all but stalking him. The medic stomps into his medbay and heads straight for the private washracks. Must have something to do with the long streaks of bright yellow and red that give evidence to a really, really good time.
If he'd been human, it would be the equivalent of coming home wearing last night's clothing, hair a mess, and missing a sock. Ironhide grins.
Leaning in the open doorway, Ironhide watches as Ratchet turns on the spray and starts scrubbing at his plating, attacking the streaks of misplaced paint with a vengeance. The medic is also muttering to himself, mostly a string of cursewords and self-castigation.
This is the perfect time to announce himself.
“Well, well, well,” Ironhide says and his grin stretches wider as the sound of his vocals make Ratchet startle and whirl around. “What have we here?”
The medic's mouth opens and closes before he stubbornly turns back toward the spray of the washrack and says nothing.
Vastly amused, Ironhide remains undaunted. “Yanno,” he adds, watching as Ratchet scrubs and scrubs at a long swipe of yellow paint on his thigh. “The humans have a term fer this. They call it the walk of shame.”
Ironhide also makes certain to take several image captures. For bargaining later of course. Never know when one might need info on the Hatchet.
Ratchet throws a glare over his shoulder, the gleam in his optics threatening payback on Ironhide.
He allows himself to be worried but only for a second. Ratchet would never hurt him. Permanently, at least, because then he'd have to fix the damage.
“Nice shade of yellow,” Ironhide adds, staring pointedly at the interesting splotch that mars Ratchet's backplate. “Goes well with the red.” A red, by the way, which doesn't match Ratchet's own choice in paint.
Ratchet starts to attack a streak of yellow on his left arm. “Are you through?”
Ironhide chuckles. “Just gettin' started.”
The medic huffs, muttering to himself. “Nosy old rust bucket.”
“Yer older than me.”
“By two whole orns!” Ratchet splutters, throwing another glare over his shoulders. It lacks heat, however, and emanates more embarrassment than angry.
“Still older.” Ironhide looks Ratchet over from helm to pede pointedly, adding a leer. “Robbin' the cradle, eh? Didn't know that was yer flavor of energon.”
Ratchet whirls and tosses the soapy scrub rag at Ironhide, forcing him to duck.
“Oh. Testy,” Ironhide teases, ducking another wet projectile. “Maybe the twins weren't doin' it right if yer still this wound up.”
Ratchet's hands curl into fists at his side as he stalks toward Ironhide, spluttering. “You... you...”
Ironhide shakes his helm. “Can't teach a young mech old tricks, I guess. Am I right?”
It's easy enough to dodge the punch Ratchet tosses at him. Mech's not seriously trying to injure, otherwise Ironhide would be in some trouble.
“Geeze, Ratch,” Ironhide huffs, ducking one blow and catching Ratchet's wrist before the medic can throw another. “Are ya mad ya berthed the twins or embarrassed?”
Blue optics blaze at him before cycling down in annoyance. “I blame Perceptor,” Ratchet growls.
Ironhide chuckles. “I don't think it's his fault ya finally went after what you wanted. Speaking of which... why now?”
Ratchet looks away, a clear indication of his embarrassment. He mumbles something that Ironhide doesn't catch.
“What was that?”
“... lost a bet,” Ratchet spits out, a bit louder this time. “Perceptor's fault.”
Ironhide supposes the only way he's going to get a full explanation is to actually ask Perceptor.
“Okay...” Ironhide releases his hold on Ratchet's wrist and the medic draws away from him, still dripping water. “Why the twins?”
Ratchet scowls. “None of your business.”
Touchy, touchy. Maybe there's more to this than a one-night sharing of the berth.
Ironhide stares at Ratchet. “Ratch, are you planning to... court them?” He can't hide the incredulity in his tone.
Not that there's anything wrong with Sideswipe or Sunstreaker, but aiming for permanence? Ironhide would have never guessed it. The medic with a wrench and the terror twins? It seems an ill match.
The medic pushes past him without a word. Ironhide turns to follow, noticing the way Ratchet's armor is clamped tightly to his frame, his energy field equally contained.
“Ratch?”
“It's a stupid idea,” Ratchet all but snarls, bristling with indignation. “I should've never considered it.” He stomps around his medbay, prepping berths and organizing tools in case of injury. “Frag Perceptor and Wheeljack both!”
Ironhide's optics cycle out in surprise. “That's a yes then,” he says musingly. “Primus, Ratch, ya don't do anything by halves, do ya?”
Ratchet slams a welder down onto a table, glaring at Ironhide. “Are you going to help me or not?”
Help? Since when did Ironhide get drafted into this? Well, he supposes that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are under his command, being frontliners and all, and he ought to know more about them than any other mech. Except where he doesn't.
He spreads his hands, palms down. “Depends on what you need from me. I ain't deliverin' any sparkly, poetic love letters.”
“I think I have more taste than that,” Ratchet retorts with a roll of his optics, but at least the bristliness in his plating starts to fade.
“Or flowers,” Ironhide adds, waggling a forefinger at the medic. “Nor boxes of energon goodies or mix tapes or anythin' else stupidly sappy. Yer gonna have to be cleverer than that if ya think those two idiots are gonna get it.”
Ratchet snorts. “Don't you think I know that? … Wait. Mix tapes?”
Ironhide rolls his shoulders. “Dunno. Something Spike did for Carly. She seemed to like it.”
Amusement replaces some of the ire. “I'll let Sunstreaker know you compared him to Carly.”
“Not in so many words!”
Ratchet chuckles. “Then you'll help me?”
Ironhide supposes he doesn't have anything better to do. Besides, this is the kind of blackmail info a mech dreams of. And he'll have it on the Hatchet? Even better!
He grins. “Course I will. What's the plan?”
Ratchet's optics glint and he smirks. A rather evil smirk that would have made Sideswipe or Jazz for that matter, very, very proud.
****
a/n: And this is the last one I have ready. But I've got plenty of ideas and all that's left is to write them.
I'd love to know what you thought!
And don't forget, Flash Fiction Friday returns tomorrow!
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/182385.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.