[TF G1] Poking Hatchets with Sticks
a/n: I do hope that you enjoy this update as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also, behold another rare pairing!
Beta'ed by myself alone. I won't be offended if you point out grammatical mistakes.
Title: Poking Hatchets with Sticks
Universe: G1, Apple a Day verse
Characters: Ratchet, Wheeljack, Prowl
Rating: T
Warning: Language, Light groping
Description: Takes place directly after Placing Blame. Wheeljack has a talent for stirring up trouble. Prowl's amused. Ratchet is not.
Ratchet moves awfully quick when he's angry.
He's out of sight by the time Wheeljack leaves Perceptor's lab, with only a stream of devastation in his wake. Mostly in the form of a few minibots who had the misfortune of walking in the hall when Ratchet passed.
He'd bowled through them as though they weren't there.
Brawn had a fist raised, like he was halfway considering getting some revenge, but hesitated. Wise mech. One does not rile the Hatchet and live to tell the tale.
Though, Wheeljack smirks, that's exactly what he's planning to do.
He has a fair idea of where Ratchet is going, and his suspicions are confirmed when he approaches the medbay, only for First Aid to come barreling out, his visor flashing with a harried look.
“I think Ratchet needs to be alone,” First Aid says, making no attempt to hide that he's trying to put as much distance between himself and his irascible mentor as possible. “He's... uh...” First Aid wrung his fingers together, at a loss for words.
Sympathetic, Wheeljack lays a calming hand on the Protectobot's shoulder “Don't worry, kid. I'll take care of it.”
First Aid looks ridiculously relieved. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Wheeljack grins and watches First Aid go, the young mech wandering with a bit of a dazed look in his visor.
Girding his metaphorical loins, Wheeljack enters the dragon's den.
There's no shouting, no airborne pieces of equipment, but the energy field that slams Wheeljack in the face makes him glad for his mask. It's not vile, per se, but it is strong and frustrated.
Ratchet is in the midst of furiously scrubbing down a medberth as though it has offended him in some manner. And it probably has. This particular medberth is the one that's been given the dubious honor of the nickname the Lamborghini Motel, due to the fact it's usual occupants are Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, or Red Alert.
“You don't do anything by halves, do you?” Wheeljack says.
Ratchet's helm whips toward him with a glare so fierce it could be made of lasers. He says nothing, however, concentrating on scrubbing the berth again, the stench of cleanser thick in the air.
Hmm. Must poke him a bit harder.
“Are you really having interfacing difficulties?” Wheeljack asks. “Wrenched cables perhaps? Dented ports? Fried circuits?”
Ratchet growls. “Wheeljack, so help me Primus, if you don't shut the frag up...”
Wheeljack laughs. “You're cute when you're angry. And embarrassed.”
“Laugh it up. Just like everyone else.”
“Is that what's grinding your gears?” Wheeljack rolls his optics. “You know how rumors are around here. The gossip mill's self-sustaining! Bots talk. It's a fact of life.”
“Oh yeah?” Ratchet throws down his rag, turning toward Wheeljack with a devilish sparkle in his optics. “Tell me, Jack. How's Prowl doing these days?”
Oh dear. He's woken the devious side of Ratchet.
Nevertheless, Wheeljack plasters an innocent look over himself. “Far less stressed as far as I can tell.” His smirk is luckily hidden behind his facemask. “Several good overloads'll do that for a mech.”
Ratchet huffs, folding his arms. “You're no fun to tease.”
“That's because I have no shame,” Wheeljack says cheerfully and strides further into the room. “You, on the other hand, can be quite the prude.”
“I am not!”
“Are so.” Wheeljack glances at Ratchet from the corner of his optics. “Otherwise you wouldn't be trying to blame every mech and their brother for seducing the twins. Is it that fragging hard to admit you wanted them?”
Indecision wars on Ratchet's faceplate, obvious to anymech who knows him well enough to look for it. And Wheeljack's known Ratchet for most of his life. He can read Ratchet like an open datapad.
He shakes his helm, pulling up a seat on a nearby berth. “Mech, look at you. Terrified of your own feelings. I honestly don't know what to say.”
“I don't have feelings,” Ratchet retorts, on the edge of a snarl. “My spark's as black as the Pit.”
Whoa. Defensive much?
Wheeljack sighs, resting his chin on his hand. “C'mon, Ratch. You and I both know that's not true.”
A long, tense silence whips through the room before Ratchet rolls his optics. “Quit being so logical. That's Prowl's department.”
Wheeljack shutters one optic in semblance of a wink. “Well, ya know what they say about mates taking on the characteristics of each other.”
“You two did not mate.”
“Nope. But in the future, who knows?” Wheeljack shrugs. “But we're not talkin' about me and Prowl. We're talking about you and those sexy-aft Lamborghinis. C'mon, Ratch. Curious processors gotta know.”
Ratchet unfolds his arms, giving Wheeljack a wry look. “I'm not giving you details. Or asking for help. Ironhide's already offered his services.”
“Oh?” Wheeljack perks. “What kind of services?”
“I'm not telling you either, you nosy busybody!” Ratchet says and rushes toward Wheeljack, grabbing him by the shoulders and bodily tugging him off the table. “Now see here, I've got work to do and I'm sure you do, too. So scat!”
He whirls Wheeljack around and gives him a not-subtle push toward the door, nearly making the poor engineer tumble helm over pedes.
Wheeljack digs in with his heels, his arms shooting out and hands catching the frame of the door, stopping Ratchet's forced eviction. “I want to help, too! C'mon. Can't you trust this face?”
“Not one iota!” Ratchet's growl, more amused now than angry, is accompanied by the sudden cessation of his hands on Wheeljack's shoulders.
Except that's also when he rams his massive shoulder into Wheeljack's back, right between the separated wings of his spoiler. A sensitive spot, as Ratchet would know.
Wheeljack yelps and arches forward, spontaneously leaping away from the source of irritation. “Ratchet!” He whirls but the medbay door slams closed with a trio of beeps that indicates it's been locked. Triply.
Only Prowl, Jazz, Red Alert, or Prime could get in now. And Wheeljack doubts any of them will be interested in him making googly optics so he can torment his best friend some more.
Wheeljack crosses his arms, glaring at the door. “You can't hide from me forever!” he hollers, knowing Ratchet can hear him since his bestest buddy in the whole world has also blocked his private comm.
“Am I missing something?”
Wheeljack jumps about four feet in the air, his spark leaping in his chassis. “Prowl! Make some noise, Primus Allmighty!”
His brand new partner grins wryly. “And lose the element of surprise? Something I rely upon to catch errant Autobots and underhanded Decepticons?”
Wheeljack shakes his helm, patting the air with one hand. “Yes, yes. We've all heard the tale of how you were granted your designation.” He peers at his partner. “Exactly how long have you been lurking out here?”
“I do not lurk,” Prowl retorts, raising both orbital ridges. “I have a legitimate reason to be here.” He holds up a hand, bearing a datapad. “I need Ratchet to sign off on these supply requisitions.”
Wheeljack laughs. “I think you're making that up.”
“I would not,” Prowl says, with affront, though there's a curve to his lipplates that imply otherwise.
Wheeljack gestures to the locked medbay. “Then by all means, confront the Hatchet in his lair for some paperwork. He's breathing fire right about now.”
Prowl's legendary composure finally cracks and he chuckles. “I doubt that I have anything to fear. Unlike a certain mech I know.”
Wheeljack grins behind his mouthplate and presses closer to his partner, indicators flickering. “I can't help that Ratchet doesn't appreciate my good intentions.”
“There's a reason everyone on base thinks you have a death wish,” Prowl retorts dryly, though his doorwings give a flicker of interest that he just can't hide. “And it's not based on the number of failed experiments.”
Wheeljack nuzzles against Prowl's helm, feeling his partner's energy field buzz with affection. His facemask slides aside, glossa slipping out to tease a sensitive audial. “Those weren't failures. They were successful ways that the process did not work.”
“However you wish to claim it,” Prowl concedes, turning his helm to meet Wheeljack's optics. “Seducing me is not going to distract me from obtaining this signature either.”
Wheeljack chuckles. “I'm trying to protect you. Ratchet's in a limb-removal mood and I rather like your limbs. All of them.” One hand creeps up behind Prowl, brushing between his door wings where strong metal is laden with sensors. “So is it working?”
Prowl takes a long step away from Wheeljack, putting some distance between them, resetting his vocalizer with an audible click. His doorwings visibly twitch. “My shift ends in an hour.”
Oh, yeah. It's working.
“I have some purloined high grade we can share,” Wheeljack suggests, tucking his hands behind his back, lest his wandering fingers continue to fulfill their incessant need to explore Prowl's shiny frame.
Prowl inclines his helm, already punching his codes into the override panel for the medbay. “I shall meet you afterward then.”
“I'll be waiting.” Wheeljack slides his facemask closed, to hide what must be an absolutely goofy expression.
He then takes his leave because the door to the medbay is opening and Prowl, a braver mech than Wheeljack, is striding inside with purpose.
Good luck.
* * *
a/n: I'm still not entirely sure where this fic is going so I'm writing it as it comes. Feedback helps to stir the muses so if you found this at all amusing, I'd love to know. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/195780.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Beta'ed by myself alone. I won't be offended if you point out grammatical mistakes.
Title: Poking Hatchets with Sticks
Universe: G1, Apple a Day verse
Characters: Ratchet, Wheeljack, Prowl
Rating: T
Warning: Language, Light groping
Description: Takes place directly after Placing Blame. Wheeljack has a talent for stirring up trouble. Prowl's amused. Ratchet is not.
Ratchet moves awfully quick when he's angry.
He's out of sight by the time Wheeljack leaves Perceptor's lab, with only a stream of devastation in his wake. Mostly in the form of a few minibots who had the misfortune of walking in the hall when Ratchet passed.
He'd bowled through them as though they weren't there.
Brawn had a fist raised, like he was halfway considering getting some revenge, but hesitated. Wise mech. One does not rile the Hatchet and live to tell the tale.
Though, Wheeljack smirks, that's exactly what he's planning to do.
He has a fair idea of where Ratchet is going, and his suspicions are confirmed when he approaches the medbay, only for First Aid to come barreling out, his visor flashing with a harried look.
“I think Ratchet needs to be alone,” First Aid says, making no attempt to hide that he's trying to put as much distance between himself and his irascible mentor as possible. “He's... uh...” First Aid wrung his fingers together, at a loss for words.
Sympathetic, Wheeljack lays a calming hand on the Protectobot's shoulder “Don't worry, kid. I'll take care of it.”
First Aid looks ridiculously relieved. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Wheeljack grins and watches First Aid go, the young mech wandering with a bit of a dazed look in his visor.
Girding his metaphorical loins, Wheeljack enters the dragon's den.
There's no shouting, no airborne pieces of equipment, but the energy field that slams Wheeljack in the face makes him glad for his mask. It's not vile, per se, but it is strong and frustrated.
Ratchet is in the midst of furiously scrubbing down a medberth as though it has offended him in some manner. And it probably has. This particular medberth is the one that's been given the dubious honor of the nickname the Lamborghini Motel, due to the fact it's usual occupants are Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, or Red Alert.
“You don't do anything by halves, do you?” Wheeljack says.
Ratchet's helm whips toward him with a glare so fierce it could be made of lasers. He says nothing, however, concentrating on scrubbing the berth again, the stench of cleanser thick in the air.
Hmm. Must poke him a bit harder.
“Are you really having interfacing difficulties?” Wheeljack asks. “Wrenched cables perhaps? Dented ports? Fried circuits?”
Ratchet growls. “Wheeljack, so help me Primus, if you don't shut the frag up...”
Wheeljack laughs. “You're cute when you're angry. And embarrassed.”
“Laugh it up. Just like everyone else.”
“Is that what's grinding your gears?” Wheeljack rolls his optics. “You know how rumors are around here. The gossip mill's self-sustaining! Bots talk. It's a fact of life.”
“Oh yeah?” Ratchet throws down his rag, turning toward Wheeljack with a devilish sparkle in his optics. “Tell me, Jack. How's Prowl doing these days?”
Oh dear. He's woken the devious side of Ratchet.
Nevertheless, Wheeljack plasters an innocent look over himself. “Far less stressed as far as I can tell.” His smirk is luckily hidden behind his facemask. “Several good overloads'll do that for a mech.”
Ratchet huffs, folding his arms. “You're no fun to tease.”
“That's because I have no shame,” Wheeljack says cheerfully and strides further into the room. “You, on the other hand, can be quite the prude.”
“I am not!”
“Are so.” Wheeljack glances at Ratchet from the corner of his optics. “Otherwise you wouldn't be trying to blame every mech and their brother for seducing the twins. Is it that fragging hard to admit you wanted them?”
Indecision wars on Ratchet's faceplate, obvious to anymech who knows him well enough to look for it. And Wheeljack's known Ratchet for most of his life. He can read Ratchet like an open datapad.
He shakes his helm, pulling up a seat on a nearby berth. “Mech, look at you. Terrified of your own feelings. I honestly don't know what to say.”
“I don't have feelings,” Ratchet retorts, on the edge of a snarl. “My spark's as black as the Pit.”
Whoa. Defensive much?
Wheeljack sighs, resting his chin on his hand. “C'mon, Ratch. You and I both know that's not true.”
A long, tense silence whips through the room before Ratchet rolls his optics. “Quit being so logical. That's Prowl's department.”
Wheeljack shutters one optic in semblance of a wink. “Well, ya know what they say about mates taking on the characteristics of each other.”
“You two did not mate.”
“Nope. But in the future, who knows?” Wheeljack shrugs. “But we're not talkin' about me and Prowl. We're talking about you and those sexy-aft Lamborghinis. C'mon, Ratch. Curious processors gotta know.”
Ratchet unfolds his arms, giving Wheeljack a wry look. “I'm not giving you details. Or asking for help. Ironhide's already offered his services.”
“Oh?” Wheeljack perks. “What kind of services?”
“I'm not telling you either, you nosy busybody!” Ratchet says and rushes toward Wheeljack, grabbing him by the shoulders and bodily tugging him off the table. “Now see here, I've got work to do and I'm sure you do, too. So scat!”
He whirls Wheeljack around and gives him a not-subtle push toward the door, nearly making the poor engineer tumble helm over pedes.
Wheeljack digs in with his heels, his arms shooting out and hands catching the frame of the door, stopping Ratchet's forced eviction. “I want to help, too! C'mon. Can't you trust this face?”
“Not one iota!” Ratchet's growl, more amused now than angry, is accompanied by the sudden cessation of his hands on Wheeljack's shoulders.
Except that's also when he rams his massive shoulder into Wheeljack's back, right between the separated wings of his spoiler. A sensitive spot, as Ratchet would know.
Wheeljack yelps and arches forward, spontaneously leaping away from the source of irritation. “Ratchet!” He whirls but the medbay door slams closed with a trio of beeps that indicates it's been locked. Triply.
Only Prowl, Jazz, Red Alert, or Prime could get in now. And Wheeljack doubts any of them will be interested in him making googly optics so he can torment his best friend some more.
Wheeljack crosses his arms, glaring at the door. “You can't hide from me forever!” he hollers, knowing Ratchet can hear him since his bestest buddy in the whole world has also blocked his private comm.
“Am I missing something?”
Wheeljack jumps about four feet in the air, his spark leaping in his chassis. “Prowl! Make some noise, Primus Allmighty!”
His brand new partner grins wryly. “And lose the element of surprise? Something I rely upon to catch errant Autobots and underhanded Decepticons?”
Wheeljack shakes his helm, patting the air with one hand. “Yes, yes. We've all heard the tale of how you were granted your designation.” He peers at his partner. “Exactly how long have you been lurking out here?”
“I do not lurk,” Prowl retorts, raising both orbital ridges. “I have a legitimate reason to be here.” He holds up a hand, bearing a datapad. “I need Ratchet to sign off on these supply requisitions.”
Wheeljack laughs. “I think you're making that up.”
“I would not,” Prowl says, with affront, though there's a curve to his lipplates that imply otherwise.
Wheeljack gestures to the locked medbay. “Then by all means, confront the Hatchet in his lair for some paperwork. He's breathing fire right about now.”
Prowl's legendary composure finally cracks and he chuckles. “I doubt that I have anything to fear. Unlike a certain mech I know.”
Wheeljack grins behind his mouthplate and presses closer to his partner, indicators flickering. “I can't help that Ratchet doesn't appreciate my good intentions.”
“There's a reason everyone on base thinks you have a death wish,” Prowl retorts dryly, though his doorwings give a flicker of interest that he just can't hide. “And it's not based on the number of failed experiments.”
Wheeljack nuzzles against Prowl's helm, feeling his partner's energy field buzz with affection. His facemask slides aside, glossa slipping out to tease a sensitive audial. “Those weren't failures. They were successful ways that the process did not work.”
“However you wish to claim it,” Prowl concedes, turning his helm to meet Wheeljack's optics. “Seducing me is not going to distract me from obtaining this signature either.”
Wheeljack chuckles. “I'm trying to protect you. Ratchet's in a limb-removal mood and I rather like your limbs. All of them.” One hand creeps up behind Prowl, brushing between his door wings where strong metal is laden with sensors. “So is it working?”
Prowl takes a long step away from Wheeljack, putting some distance between them, resetting his vocalizer with an audible click. His doorwings visibly twitch. “My shift ends in an hour.”
Oh, yeah. It's working.
“I have some purloined high grade we can share,” Wheeljack suggests, tucking his hands behind his back, lest his wandering fingers continue to fulfill their incessant need to explore Prowl's shiny frame.
Prowl inclines his helm, already punching his codes into the override panel for the medbay. “I shall meet you afterward then.”
“I'll be waiting.” Wheeljack slides his facemask closed, to hide what must be an absolutely goofy expression.
He then takes his leave because the door to the medbay is opening and Prowl, a braver mech than Wheeljack, is striding inside with purpose.
Good luck.
* * *
a/n: I'm still not entirely sure where this fic is going so I'm writing it as it comes. Feedback helps to stir the muses so if you found this at all amusing, I'd love to know. :)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/195780.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.