Ficlets: Yet more Medics
Second lot of medic ficlets from various prompts, still more to go...
Title: Letting off Steam
Continuity: G1
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Ratchet/Hoist
Warnings: None
Prompt: Ratchet/Hoist - letting off steam
“Slagging, rusted, pit forsaken, scrap welded, micro-processor glitched pile of scrap!” Blue optics turned to view the irritated medic as he stalked through the medbay, one hand clamped tightly around a welder.
“Dare I ask?” The hand tightened even further, the welder creaking ominously before it was put down, no doubt to avoid it breaking, they were fiddly things to repair and even worse to make new ones.
“No. You can't ask.” The medics frame rattled in fury, every piece of armour vibrating with barely restrained anger. “If I see certain mechs before the start of the next vorn it will be too soon.”
“It can't be that bad.” The attempt at placating the irritated medic gained a wrench to the helm. Or at least it would if it had connected, instead it left a sizeable impression in the wall.
“Worse.” The growl was muted somewhat as the other mech abandoned his seat at the desk and motioned into the back room.
The thundercloud in metallic form followed him in, barely waiting till the door slid shut before he lunged, sending them both tumbling to the floor.
'Constructive use of anger' Prime had named it after some mech had reported witnessing a truly horrifying assault and all parties involved had been interviewed. In the end Prime had simply nodded and agreed and told us to stay out of view in the future. He had also been heard to mutter something about less wrenches flying if the medics were calmed down, but both of the medics in question had ignored that as they left.
The sound of fans was loud in the small room as Hoist finally pushed himself up from where he had sprawled across the white and red form, the tingle of fading charge still buzzing through his circuits.
“Going to tell me what got you so upset?” Ratchet asked lazily as he let his systems spin up to full power in a leisurely sequence. It wasn't often Hoist got annoyed enough to show his anger, let alone have a full blown Ratchet-esque tantrum.
“You'll probably get Prowl's report, but suffice it to say, it involved mini-bots, the rec room ceiling and some human invention called silly string.”
Title: Why Do these Things Always Happen to Me?
Continuity: G1
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Ratchet/Chromia, Ironhide
Warnings: None
Prompt: Ironhide/Ratch/Chromia - Why Do these Things Always Happen to Me?
“Good mech” Ratchet bristled at the praise.
“Clearly this is your fault.” The medic said with a grumble.
“Why is it my fault?”
“You are the slagger that supplied the highgrade.” Ratchet groused as he twisted around as the red mech snickered from where he was lounging on his berth.
“Ah, ah, mech. Optics this way.” Chromia didn't give her new toy a choice in the matter as she used the conveniently positioned chevron to turn the helm back, ignoring the yelp of pain from the owner of the chevron. “Better.” She grinned as she wound the chain wrapped around one hand a little tighter, Ratchet's optics following the movement.
When 'Hide had said he'd won her a present in a bet she had expected him to bring home extra energon or wax or polishing cloths. Not once had she thought that he might bring back the chief medical officer of the Arc on a silver leash.
That hadn't been one of her guesses.
But she definitely wasn't going to say no.
Besides, he did look good in a collar and no matter how much he may be growling and snapping at her, his roiling electromagnetic field was a mix of lust and anticipation.
She tugged on the chain again, forcing him to drop to his knees.
Not a chance in the Pit was she going to say no to such a delightful present.
Title: Directionally Challenged
Continuity: G1
Rating: G
Character(s): Protectobots, Ratchet
Warnings: None
Prompt: This prompt spawned. I blame femme4jack and mmouse15 for encouraging the muse.
Every mech on the Ark knows that even with built in sonar, satellite navigation and the advanced processor capabilities of a Cybertronian creation, Hot Spot couldn't find his own berth, let alone anything else, if he was given a highlighted, glowing, flashing and heavily outlined map.
And this wasn't the first time that the Protectobot leader had gotten his team lost. There was the memorable incident when he had gone out for a short drive with First Aid. They had got back two days later, exhausted and dishevelled having visited several neighbouring states, searched for the Ark around the base of the wrong mountain and First Aid attending to no less than seven human emergency calls.
Despite that the ambulance had been in high spirits when he rolled back into the medbay and asked for a tracking device to be installed on his leader.
Mechs who had heard that had merely laughed, thinking that he was joking. Thus the laugh was on them when the entire group vanished, only for a disgruntled Blades to turn up several hours later snarling something about idiot ground pounders and malfunctioning buckets of rust.
Since then it had become routine for the Protectobots to go missing at least one a human month, the members of the team by now resigned to the extended sightseeing when Hot Spot refused to acknowledge that he might, in fact, be going the wrong way.
So it was no real surprise when the team failed to turn up where they were meant to at the appointed time.
Ratchet vented air to calm himself as he pinged Hot Spots location transmitter and set out towards it, Protectobot recovery duty tended to fall to himself or Hoist, 'just in case they are actually hurt this time', pah, as if First Aid couldn't deal with any problems.
Heading off road Ratchet was glad that despite the outer shell looking like an ambulance, the material it was made of was far more robust, otherwise he'd have got stuck in a ditch long ago.
Search and Rescue. It must be a cosmic joke, Ratchet has thought far too many times. It must be. For the pure irony that the leader of a search and rescue team can't find his own skid plate in a mirror.
“Ratchet!” The transmission rolled over him as he pulled up on a small ledge to view the valley floor from which the ping was originating. Defensor trundled over, picking his way over the trees, careful not to flatten them as he moved.
“You're late and you are not where you are meant to be.” Ratchet pointed out, hands firmly attached to his hips, one foot tapping on the stone beneath him. “Well, let's get going shall we?”
Defensor had crouched down to the same level as the smaller medic and he was managing a credible apologetic expression as he shrugged slightly. Straightening up he strode away along the edge of the tree line, clearly confident that Ratchet would be following him. He stopped when it became apparent that the medic was not behind him.
“The Ark is that way.” Ratchet hadn't moved as he pointed almost a full one hundred and eighty degrees, his foot still tapping on the ground.
Defensor blinked, his optical array shuttering for a long moment, “Oh.” was all he said before he broke apart and all four proficient map reading members glared at the directionally challenged.
“Told you.” One of them muttered, although which one exactly was unclear, as they began to head the correct way.
Ratchet shook his helm as he filed that information away for future reference, gestalt combiner forms acquire coding from all members, and in Defensors case it seems that him turning up for battles in the right place has been pure luck, as he certainly got that bit of coding off Hot Spot.
Title: Letting off Steam
Continuity: G1
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Ratchet/Hoist
Warnings: None
Prompt: Ratchet/Hoist - letting off steam
“Slagging, rusted, pit forsaken, scrap welded, micro-processor glitched pile of scrap!” Blue optics turned to view the irritated medic as he stalked through the medbay, one hand clamped tightly around a welder.
“Dare I ask?” The hand tightened even further, the welder creaking ominously before it was put down, no doubt to avoid it breaking, they were fiddly things to repair and even worse to make new ones.
“No. You can't ask.” The medics frame rattled in fury, every piece of armour vibrating with barely restrained anger. “If I see certain mechs before the start of the next vorn it will be too soon.”
“It can't be that bad.” The attempt at placating the irritated medic gained a wrench to the helm. Or at least it would if it had connected, instead it left a sizeable impression in the wall.
“Worse.” The growl was muted somewhat as the other mech abandoned his seat at the desk and motioned into the back room.
The thundercloud in metallic form followed him in, barely waiting till the door slid shut before he lunged, sending them both tumbling to the floor.
'Constructive use of anger' Prime had named it after some mech had reported witnessing a truly horrifying assault and all parties involved had been interviewed. In the end Prime had simply nodded and agreed and told us to stay out of view in the future. He had also been heard to mutter something about less wrenches flying if the medics were calmed down, but both of the medics in question had ignored that as they left.
The sound of fans was loud in the small room as Hoist finally pushed himself up from where he had sprawled across the white and red form, the tingle of fading charge still buzzing through his circuits.
“Going to tell me what got you so upset?” Ratchet asked lazily as he let his systems spin up to full power in a leisurely sequence. It wasn't often Hoist got annoyed enough to show his anger, let alone have a full blown Ratchet-esque tantrum.
“You'll probably get Prowl's report, but suffice it to say, it involved mini-bots, the rec room ceiling and some human invention called silly string.”
Title: Why Do these Things Always Happen to Me?
Continuity: G1
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Ratchet/Chromia, Ironhide
Warnings: None
Prompt: Ironhide/Ratch/Chromia - Why Do these Things Always Happen to Me?
“Good mech” Ratchet bristled at the praise.
“Clearly this is your fault.” The medic said with a grumble.
“Why is it my fault?”
“You are the slagger that supplied the highgrade.” Ratchet groused as he twisted around as the red mech snickered from where he was lounging on his berth.
“Ah, ah, mech. Optics this way.” Chromia didn't give her new toy a choice in the matter as she used the conveniently positioned chevron to turn the helm back, ignoring the yelp of pain from the owner of the chevron. “Better.” She grinned as she wound the chain wrapped around one hand a little tighter, Ratchet's optics following the movement.
When 'Hide had said he'd won her a present in a bet she had expected him to bring home extra energon or wax or polishing cloths. Not once had she thought that he might bring back the chief medical officer of the Arc on a silver leash.
That hadn't been one of her guesses.
But she definitely wasn't going to say no.
Besides, he did look good in a collar and no matter how much he may be growling and snapping at her, his roiling electromagnetic field was a mix of lust and anticipation.
She tugged on the chain again, forcing him to drop to his knees.
Not a chance in the Pit was she going to say no to such a delightful present.
Title: Directionally Challenged
Continuity: G1
Rating: G
Character(s): Protectobots, Ratchet
Warnings: None
Prompt: This prompt spawned. I blame femme4jack and mmouse15 for encouraging the muse.
Every mech on the Ark knows that even with built in sonar, satellite navigation and the advanced processor capabilities of a Cybertronian creation, Hot Spot couldn't find his own berth, let alone anything else, if he was given a highlighted, glowing, flashing and heavily outlined map.
And this wasn't the first time that the Protectobot leader had gotten his team lost. There was the memorable incident when he had gone out for a short drive with First Aid. They had got back two days later, exhausted and dishevelled having visited several neighbouring states, searched for the Ark around the base of the wrong mountain and First Aid attending to no less than seven human emergency calls.
Despite that the ambulance had been in high spirits when he rolled back into the medbay and asked for a tracking device to be installed on his leader.
Mechs who had heard that had merely laughed, thinking that he was joking. Thus the laugh was on them when the entire group vanished, only for a disgruntled Blades to turn up several hours later snarling something about idiot ground pounders and malfunctioning buckets of rust.
Since then it had become routine for the Protectobots to go missing at least one a human month, the members of the team by now resigned to the extended sightseeing when Hot Spot refused to acknowledge that he might, in fact, be going the wrong way.
So it was no real surprise when the team failed to turn up where they were meant to at the appointed time.
Ratchet vented air to calm himself as he pinged Hot Spots location transmitter and set out towards it, Protectobot recovery duty tended to fall to himself or Hoist, 'just in case they are actually hurt this time', pah, as if First Aid couldn't deal with any problems.
Heading off road Ratchet was glad that despite the outer shell looking like an ambulance, the material it was made of was far more robust, otherwise he'd have got stuck in a ditch long ago.
Search and Rescue. It must be a cosmic joke, Ratchet has thought far too many times. It must be. For the pure irony that the leader of a search and rescue team can't find his own skid plate in a mirror.
“Ratchet!” The transmission rolled over him as he pulled up on a small ledge to view the valley floor from which the ping was originating. Defensor trundled over, picking his way over the trees, careful not to flatten them as he moved.
“You're late and you are not where you are meant to be.” Ratchet pointed out, hands firmly attached to his hips, one foot tapping on the stone beneath him. “Well, let's get going shall we?”
Defensor had crouched down to the same level as the smaller medic and he was managing a credible apologetic expression as he shrugged slightly. Straightening up he strode away along the edge of the tree line, clearly confident that Ratchet would be following him. He stopped when it became apparent that the medic was not behind him.
“The Ark is that way.” Ratchet hadn't moved as he pointed almost a full one hundred and eighty degrees, his foot still tapping on the ground.
Defensor blinked, his optical array shuttering for a long moment, “Oh.” was all he said before he broke apart and all four proficient map reading members glared at the directionally challenged.
“Told you.” One of them muttered, although which one exactly was unclear, as they began to head the correct way.
Ratchet shook his helm as he filed that information away for future reference, gestalt combiner forms acquire coding from all members, and in Defensors case it seems that him turning up for battles in the right place has been pure luck, as he certainly got that bit of coding off Hot Spot.