Fic: Looks 3/5
Title: Looks
Word count: 801
Status: On-going
Continuity: Beast Wars [Another Tomorrow AU]
Character(s): Terrorsaur & Quickstrike
Summary: Quickstrike, when lucid, is much more perceptive than any one would guess.
Notes: It's been a while, huh? Some one on ff.net was asking me about this story yesterday, so I decided to finish this part.
“Why you always starin’ at ‘em, Terry?”
Terrorsaur grunted, pointedly ignoring the question in favor of sorting through the muddy, greasy nuts and bolts Inferno had dumped at his feet earlier in the day. The task was simple enough - “Clean and organize them, you lazy fool!” - and he hardly needed any help, but when Quickstrike had wandered aimlessly over, Inferno decided that they needed to work together and barked at the fuzor to help, though what kind of help he could possibly be without proper hands had eluded Terrorsaur.
He was proving to be more of a hindrance than a help, and Terrorsaur was finding himself wanting to throttle his mismatched comrade more so than usual.
“C’mon, Terry. You can’t pretend you ain’t doin’ it, ‘cause I see you lookin’ at them all the time.” Quickstrike was taking some sick pleasure in this; Terrorsaur could tell. The fuzor may not have had a proper face and what he did have was less expressive than Waspinator’s, but the flyer could swear he could see a smirk stretching itself across the mech’s faceplates. “It’s a little creepy, butchoo flyers always were a little odd. Look at old ‘Ferno, after all…”
Terrorsaur chose to ignore him, focusing instead on a pile of small washer-like pieces of metal that were caked with some kind of slimy, oily residue -- Where had Inferno found these? They were disgusting! -- and pulling out a scrub brush to clean them with. What they could have used -and could have used badly- was a couple bottles of solvent and metal cleaner, but, unfortunately, the Maximals’ stash was somewhere beneath tons of rushing water at the base of the falls.
“So?” Quickstrike, tenacious as always, would never just drop the subject without a satisfactory answer, of course. “What’s the deal with the starin’? You jealous or somethin’?”
“Is there something to be jealous about?” Terrorsaur didn’t look up from the disgusting bits of metal, but his voice rose slightly in pitch, edging slightly on screechy, as it tended to do when he got worked up. Of course he wasn’t jealous; why would he be? There was nothing to be jealous of! It’s not like it was any of his business, what they did in their free time.
So why did it bother him so much, seeing them together?
“They ain’t knockin’ boots, if that’s what you mean.” The fuzor was practically vibrating with glee as he spoke, nuts and bolts rattling in the box clutched in his cobra head-hand. Clearly, the entertainment factor of this went beyond what Terrorsaur had believed; Quickstrike was enjoying the whole situation far too much for it to be healthy or normal.
“Inferno don’t got no idea he’s even capable of that.” Quickstrike continued, “’Specially since Waspy ain’t the Queen. It don’t matter what kind of looks and signals the poor bug’s givin’ him -and he’s been flirtin’ somethin’ bad, mind- old ‘Ferno don’t got a clue.”
Now the fuzor was exaggerating to get a rise out of him; Terrorsaur was sure of it.
Why else would he be saying things like that?
Waspinator wasn’t flirting with Inferno; the very thought itself was ludicrous! The little touches, the tilt of his head, the way he sat so close to Inferno when they were relaxing…Those things were just Waspinator being Waspinator. How could he possibly be coming on to the other insect, when he wasn’t treating Inferno any different than he’d treated Terrorsaur himself all those years?
…Waitaminute.
Did this mean…?
Nah, it couldn’t. That was impossible.
“He is not flirting.” The pteranodon scoffed, “Waspinator doesn’t flirt. He’s just like that.” It was impossible, because if it wasn’t, it would have meant that Waspinator had been flirting with him this whole time and that was utterly ridiculous.
“…”
There was a long silence.
Then Quickstrike burst out laughing, manic and cackling. The bolts he’d been sorting went flying as he flopped on the ground, banging a fist of curled up scorpion legs against the dirt as he howled. “Oh, that’s rich, Terry!” He could barely get the words out; he was laughing so hard, “Are you stupid or just in denial?”
“Hey!” Terrorsaur squawked, but Quickstrike jumped to his feet, cutting him off.
“Inferno’s programming keeps him from noticing that Waspy wants him.” He pulled a twig from one of his leg joints, composed and almost-dignified once again, and snapped it in half with the mouth of his cobra head.
Quickstrike didn’t seem to care that Terrorsaur was about the heft a heavy metal box of screws at his head. He just turned -as bored with the task at hand as he seemed to be with the conversation- and marched off towards the cave, tossing one last comment over his shoulder.
“What’s yer excuse?”
Word count: 801
Status: On-going
Continuity: Beast Wars [Another Tomorrow AU]
Character(s): Terrorsaur & Quickstrike
Summary: Quickstrike, when lucid, is much more perceptive than any one would guess.
Notes: It's been a while, huh? Some one on ff.net was asking me about this story yesterday, so I decided to finish this part.
“Why you always starin’ at ‘em, Terry?”
Terrorsaur grunted, pointedly ignoring the question in favor of sorting through the muddy, greasy nuts and bolts Inferno had dumped at his feet earlier in the day. The task was simple enough - “Clean and organize them, you lazy fool!” - and he hardly needed any help, but when Quickstrike had wandered aimlessly over, Inferno decided that they needed to work together and barked at the fuzor to help, though what kind of help he could possibly be without proper hands had eluded Terrorsaur.
He was proving to be more of a hindrance than a help, and Terrorsaur was finding himself wanting to throttle his mismatched comrade more so than usual.
“C’mon, Terry. You can’t pretend you ain’t doin’ it, ‘cause I see you lookin’ at them all the time.” Quickstrike was taking some sick pleasure in this; Terrorsaur could tell. The fuzor may not have had a proper face and what he did have was less expressive than Waspinator’s, but the flyer could swear he could see a smirk stretching itself across the mech’s faceplates. “It’s a little creepy, butchoo flyers always were a little odd. Look at old ‘Ferno, after all…”
Terrorsaur chose to ignore him, focusing instead on a pile of small washer-like pieces of metal that were caked with some kind of slimy, oily residue -- Where had Inferno found these? They were disgusting! -- and pulling out a scrub brush to clean them with. What they could have used -and could have used badly- was a couple bottles of solvent and metal cleaner, but, unfortunately, the Maximals’ stash was somewhere beneath tons of rushing water at the base of the falls.
“So?” Quickstrike, tenacious as always, would never just drop the subject without a satisfactory answer, of course. “What’s the deal with the starin’? You jealous or somethin’?”
“Is there something to be jealous about?” Terrorsaur didn’t look up from the disgusting bits of metal, but his voice rose slightly in pitch, edging slightly on screechy, as it tended to do when he got worked up. Of course he wasn’t jealous; why would he be? There was nothing to be jealous of! It’s not like it was any of his business, what they did in their free time.
So why did it bother him so much, seeing them together?
“They ain’t knockin’ boots, if that’s what you mean.” The fuzor was practically vibrating with glee as he spoke, nuts and bolts rattling in the box clutched in his cobra head-hand. Clearly, the entertainment factor of this went beyond what Terrorsaur had believed; Quickstrike was enjoying the whole situation far too much for it to be healthy or normal.
“Inferno don’t got no idea he’s even capable of that.” Quickstrike continued, “’Specially since Waspy ain’t the Queen. It don’t matter what kind of looks and signals the poor bug’s givin’ him -and he’s been flirtin’ somethin’ bad, mind- old ‘Ferno don’t got a clue.”
Now the fuzor was exaggerating to get a rise out of him; Terrorsaur was sure of it.
Why else would he be saying things like that?
Waspinator wasn’t flirting with Inferno; the very thought itself was ludicrous! The little touches, the tilt of his head, the way he sat so close to Inferno when they were relaxing…Those things were just Waspinator being Waspinator. How could he possibly be coming on to the other insect, when he wasn’t treating Inferno any different than he’d treated Terrorsaur himself all those years?
…Waitaminute.
Did this mean…?
Nah, it couldn’t. That was impossible.
“He is not flirting.” The pteranodon scoffed, “Waspinator doesn’t flirt. He’s just like that.” It was impossible, because if it wasn’t, it would have meant that Waspinator had been flirting with him this whole time and that was utterly ridiculous.
“…”
There was a long silence.
Then Quickstrike burst out laughing, manic and cackling. The bolts he’d been sorting went flying as he flopped on the ground, banging a fist of curled up scorpion legs against the dirt as he howled. “Oh, that’s rich, Terry!” He could barely get the words out; he was laughing so hard, “Are you stupid or just in denial?”
“Hey!” Terrorsaur squawked, but Quickstrike jumped to his feet, cutting him off.
“Inferno’s programming keeps him from noticing that Waspy wants him.” He pulled a twig from one of his leg joints, composed and almost-dignified once again, and snapped it in half with the mouth of his cobra head.
Quickstrike didn’t seem to care that Terrorsaur was about the heft a heavy metal box of screws at his head. He just turned -as bored with the task at hand as he seemed to be with the conversation- and marched off towards the cave, tossing one last comment over his shoulder.
“What’s yer excuse?”