IT'S A MIRACLE!
Everybody must be proud of me. I know I am. Why? Because, for the first time in my life I have FINISHED A STORY.
that's right, people. I have SLAIN a PLOT BUNNY.
I'm so please with myself I feel like bursting. I can't stop smilling either. :D FINISHED! ME! A FIC! My good gracious GOD!
It's nothing big, mind, but it's a cute idea, and I'm really glad I managed to get it done. ^^ It's TF, for the curious. Just a little P&J drabble, I suppose. Not betaed yet, either but. . .
Not titled yet (ah he he he. . . never had to before. o.o; )
by: Physh aka Crabapplered
warnings: um, light slash? Gimmiky humour?
Disclaimer: Transformers are property of Hasbro, not me. I meerly borrowed 'em for this
Thursday afternoon found Prowl locked in his office with the lights dimmed, immerced in the most trivial, useless reports he could find. Right now, for instance, he was going over Graple's comments on the Aerialbots' "uncivilized habit of chipping the paint off the celings in their room". Apparently, they didn't like the standard orange.
This wasn't exactly normal behavior for him. True, Thursday afternoons were usualy when he went over the bulk of his reports, but they were usualy reports of actual relevance. And the lights were always on, and the door was unlocked.
But today. . . well, today was different. Because today, Prowl was indulging himself for the first time in many a century, and was wallowing in a good, long sulk.
It was Spike's fault, this sulk. Well, Spike, Carley, and just about every 'bot in the base's fault really.
It had started when Bumblebee had mentioned to the two humans that Jazz had finaly managed to snare Prowl as his 'mate.
Newly wed themselves, the couple had immidiatly congradulated the pair.
"I think you're great together!" Carley had exclaimed. "You're like . . . like . . . Like peanutbutter and jelly. Just perfect for each other."
"Hey yeah," laughed Spike. "It even matches your initials!"
And that, of course, was that. Soon, everyone on base was calling them Peanutbutter and Jelly. It. . . /bothered/ Prowl. It was very obvious that he was not some inane human condiment. The others, therefore, had absolutly no busines calling him such a thing. That they persisted in doing so despite his emphatic protestations just frustrated him more.
And how was he suppose to command the least amount of respect with such a nickname hanging over him? He couldn't even look the twins in the faceplate anymore after Sideswipe's 'chunky or creamy' question.
Jazz, of course, thought the whole thing was hilarious. Prowl suspected darkly that his mate even encouraged it. Primus alone knew why. Jelly was an even more disgusting substance than peanutbutter.
The most depressing thing, however, was that as Prowl well knew, idiotic nicknames had a tendancy to stick wether you wanted them too or not. Espetialy amoung Transformers, who so rarely gave out nicknames that such things were bound to be marked. . . and remembered. Which ment that in a few hundred years people would most likely have compleatly forgotten his /real/ name, and he would be forever know as a legume paste nottable only for it's tendacy to stick to the roof of human mouths.
"Fantastic," he mumbled.
"You don't like the orange ceiling either, huh?"
/Millions of years of working together, and now bonded,/ Prowl thought sourly as he tried to calm his suddenly frantic circutry, /And he can still sneak up on me whenever he wants./
"That's not what I was commenting on," he managed after a moment, turning in his seat to face his mate.
Jazz affected a surprised look, draping himself accross the back of Prowl's chair. "Really! And here I thought your mind was soly on this most /facinating/ report." His expresion turned thoughtful. "Can't really blame the Arealbots, though. Orange ceilings make them feel clausterphobic. Plus, you really can't match much of anything to the colour."
Prowl frowned irritibly. "The point isn't to make it fashionable, Jazz. Studies have proven that orange is a pleasently neutral colour for the transfor-" he stoped himself. No. Absolutly not. He refused to participate in some inane discusion on the colour of the Ark's walls. His life had already surpassed his personal tollerance for the rediculous as of late. He was certanly not going to add to it. Insted he said "I locked the door."
"Yeah, I noticed." A cool, easy smile wound it's self accross Jazz's faceplate, his visor glowing steadily in the gloom. "Good thing I know your keycode or Grapple'd be bitchin' about shorted-out locks in his next report."
"I locked it so I'd be left /alone/, Jazz."
"Kinda figured that out, too. But as your lovin' and dedicated mate, I figured I should come in and check on you. Make sure you wern't attempting some hedious act of self mutilation."
Prowl merly snorted at that, and turned pointedly back to his report.
There was a moment of silence. Then, very gently, "Peanutbutter's not that bad, you know. For an organic paste, anyways."
"It's not," Prowl said tersly, "about the peanutbutter."
Jazz shifted quietly against the back of Prowl's chair, but said nothing. Getting Prowl to open up had always been a delicate mixture of patience and well timed verbal jabs, and Jazz was a past-master at it. He was well aware that Prowl's maniacly locigal and fastidious nature ment he was incapable of leaving a statment like that hanging. If Jazz didn't offer any reply, Prowl would have to elaborate, or break his own unwritten rules for conversation. And that elaboration should come right about-
"It's disrespectful."
Now. And of course, Jazz mused to himself, it would have to be something like this.
"They're laughing at me, Jazz," Prowl continued bitterly. "How am I supposed to enforce any kind of order when each time I look at them I see it their optics? The laughter. . . and the Primus damned association with that rediculous human condiment!" He twisted back to look at his mate, frustration glowing in his optics. "This is a military operation, Jazz. I need their respect and obediance if I'm to get anything done. We've already got too many outbreaks of pranks and goofing off to impede us. We don't need insubordination as well!"
Jazz hummed thoughtfully, trailing his fingers in slow, soothing strokes along the lines of his mate's doors, and Prowl found himself relaxing into it quite against his will. Just as well, prehaps. He was tense, litteraly vibrating with pent up frustration, and if he wasn't careful he'd stress his systems and overheat.
"They're not laughin' at you, Prowl," Jazz said finaly.
"But-"
"Prowl. Believe me. I /know/ people, hon, and I know it when they're laughin' at someone. The only reason they're all ginnin' at you is because they're happy that they've finaly made you reachable."
The tactitian frowned, bewildered. "what are you talking about, Jazz? I'm always reachable. My office hours are regular and well known, and even when I'm in the field or off duty I'm easily available by comm."
"That's not what I'm talkin' about Prowl." Jazz sliped around his mate and perched himself on the desk. "Prowl. . . D'you have any idea just how genuinly /scary/ are are to other people sometimes?"
Prowl stared at him blankly. "Scary."
"Mmmhmm. You're cold, logical, quiet and implacable. You don't socialise, you've got no hobbies they know of and you seem pretty much immune to any attempts at humour. The only time you seem remotly /alive/ to 'em is when you're slagged off about somethin', and even then you're pretty cold. They don't understand you, love. You're compleatly alien to 'em, and that makes you scary."
Prowl shifted uncomfortably. He had known his attitude was intimidating. Had used that very power to heard the other 'bots into a semi-coherant force. But to find out he actualy inspired true fear. . . . He. . . he was not happy with that idea.
"The nickname, though," Jazz continued, "well, it sorta puts you into perspective for them. Still intimidatin', but you arn't the alien logical /thing/ a lot of them were thinkin' of you as before."
"So you're saying," Prowl said slowly, "That I should. . . encourage . . .this?"
"Well, no, not encourage. That'd be goin' a bit far. But you shouldn't discourage it either. Just go along with it, hon. There's a good chance they'll get tired of it eventualy, and if not, well," the saboteur leaned forward, a sly grin on his faceplate. "I kinda like the thought of us having matching nicknames. Peanutbutter and Jelly in a sandwitch of love. Gotta nice ring to it."
"You /would/ think so," Prowl groaned, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lip components. "Though I suppose it's not too terrible, as long as you're saddled with an equaly unpleasent moniker," he admited grudginly.
"Hey now! No dissin' my nickname! I happen to like Jelly."
"Be reasonable, Jazz," said Prowl. "Jelly is a disgusting substance. I've /seen/ Spike eat the stuff. It's runny and sticky and incredibly messy. Clearly, it is at least as unpleasent as peanutbutter. If not moresoe," he added thoughtfully.
"Now hold on there! I'll have you know peanutbutter is much more disgusting than jelly! It's got that awful pasty texture to it and-"
They spent the rest of the day debating the issue until the evening break, where they retired to the mess hall for their energon rations and were introduced to the thick, lumpy mess Spike and Carly had brought for their dinner. Creamed corn, the two bots agreed, was definatly more disgusting than either peanutbutter OR jelly.
end
that's right, people. I have SLAIN a PLOT BUNNY.
I'm so please with myself I feel like bursting. I can't stop smilling either. :D FINISHED! ME! A FIC! My good gracious GOD!
It's nothing big, mind, but it's a cute idea, and I'm really glad I managed to get it done. ^^ It's TF, for the curious. Just a little P&J drabble, I suppose. Not betaed yet, either but. . .
Not titled yet (ah he he he. . . never had to before. o.o; )
by: Physh aka Crabapplered
warnings: um, light slash? Gimmiky humour?
Disclaimer: Transformers are property of Hasbro, not me. I meerly borrowed 'em for this
Thursday afternoon found Prowl locked in his office with the lights dimmed, immerced in the most trivial, useless reports he could find. Right now, for instance, he was going over Graple's comments on the Aerialbots' "uncivilized habit of chipping the paint off the celings in their room". Apparently, they didn't like the standard orange.
This wasn't exactly normal behavior for him. True, Thursday afternoons were usualy when he went over the bulk of his reports, but they were usualy reports of actual relevance. And the lights were always on, and the door was unlocked.
But today. . . well, today was different. Because today, Prowl was indulging himself for the first time in many a century, and was wallowing in a good, long sulk.
It was Spike's fault, this sulk. Well, Spike, Carley, and just about every 'bot in the base's fault really.
It had started when Bumblebee had mentioned to the two humans that Jazz had finaly managed to snare Prowl as his 'mate.
Newly wed themselves, the couple had immidiatly congradulated the pair.
"I think you're great together!" Carley had exclaimed. "You're like . . . like . . . Like peanutbutter and jelly. Just perfect for each other."
"Hey yeah," laughed Spike. "It even matches your initials!"
And that, of course, was that. Soon, everyone on base was calling them Peanutbutter and Jelly. It. . . /bothered/ Prowl. It was very obvious that he was not some inane human condiment. The others, therefore, had absolutly no busines calling him such a thing. That they persisted in doing so despite his emphatic protestations just frustrated him more.
And how was he suppose to command the least amount of respect with such a nickname hanging over him? He couldn't even look the twins in the faceplate anymore after Sideswipe's 'chunky or creamy' question.
Jazz, of course, thought the whole thing was hilarious. Prowl suspected darkly that his mate even encouraged it. Primus alone knew why. Jelly was an even more disgusting substance than peanutbutter.
The most depressing thing, however, was that as Prowl well knew, idiotic nicknames had a tendancy to stick wether you wanted them too or not. Espetialy amoung Transformers, who so rarely gave out nicknames that such things were bound to be marked. . . and remembered. Which ment that in a few hundred years people would most likely have compleatly forgotten his /real/ name, and he would be forever know as a legume paste nottable only for it's tendacy to stick to the roof of human mouths.
"Fantastic," he mumbled.
"You don't like the orange ceiling either, huh?"
/Millions of years of working together, and now bonded,/ Prowl thought sourly as he tried to calm his suddenly frantic circutry, /And he can still sneak up on me whenever he wants./
"That's not what I was commenting on," he managed after a moment, turning in his seat to face his mate.
Jazz affected a surprised look, draping himself accross the back of Prowl's chair. "Really! And here I thought your mind was soly on this most /facinating/ report." His expresion turned thoughtful. "Can't really blame the Arealbots, though. Orange ceilings make them feel clausterphobic. Plus, you really can't match much of anything to the colour."
Prowl frowned irritibly. "The point isn't to make it fashionable, Jazz. Studies have proven that orange is a pleasently neutral colour for the transfor-" he stoped himself. No. Absolutly not. He refused to participate in some inane discusion on the colour of the Ark's walls. His life had already surpassed his personal tollerance for the rediculous as of late. He was certanly not going to add to it. Insted he said "I locked the door."
"Yeah, I noticed." A cool, easy smile wound it's self accross Jazz's faceplate, his visor glowing steadily in the gloom. "Good thing I know your keycode or Grapple'd be bitchin' about shorted-out locks in his next report."
"I locked it so I'd be left /alone/, Jazz."
"Kinda figured that out, too. But as your lovin' and dedicated mate, I figured I should come in and check on you. Make sure you wern't attempting some hedious act of self mutilation."
Prowl merly snorted at that, and turned pointedly back to his report.
There was a moment of silence. Then, very gently, "Peanutbutter's not that bad, you know. For an organic paste, anyways."
"It's not," Prowl said tersly, "about the peanutbutter."
Jazz shifted quietly against the back of Prowl's chair, but said nothing. Getting Prowl to open up had always been a delicate mixture of patience and well timed verbal jabs, and Jazz was a past-master at it. He was well aware that Prowl's maniacly locigal and fastidious nature ment he was incapable of leaving a statment like that hanging. If Jazz didn't offer any reply, Prowl would have to elaborate, or break his own unwritten rules for conversation. And that elaboration should come right about-
"It's disrespectful."
Now. And of course, Jazz mused to himself, it would have to be something like this.
"They're laughing at me, Jazz," Prowl continued bitterly. "How am I supposed to enforce any kind of order when each time I look at them I see it their optics? The laughter. . . and the Primus damned association with that rediculous human condiment!" He twisted back to look at his mate, frustration glowing in his optics. "This is a military operation, Jazz. I need their respect and obediance if I'm to get anything done. We've already got too many outbreaks of pranks and goofing off to impede us. We don't need insubordination as well!"
Jazz hummed thoughtfully, trailing his fingers in slow, soothing strokes along the lines of his mate's doors, and Prowl found himself relaxing into it quite against his will. Just as well, prehaps. He was tense, litteraly vibrating with pent up frustration, and if he wasn't careful he'd stress his systems and overheat.
"They're not laughin' at you, Prowl," Jazz said finaly.
"But-"
"Prowl. Believe me. I /know/ people, hon, and I know it when they're laughin' at someone. The only reason they're all ginnin' at you is because they're happy that they've finaly made you reachable."
The tactitian frowned, bewildered. "what are you talking about, Jazz? I'm always reachable. My office hours are regular and well known, and even when I'm in the field or off duty I'm easily available by comm."
"That's not what I'm talkin' about Prowl." Jazz sliped around his mate and perched himself on the desk. "Prowl. . . D'you have any idea just how genuinly /scary/ are are to other people sometimes?"
Prowl stared at him blankly. "Scary."
"Mmmhmm. You're cold, logical, quiet and implacable. You don't socialise, you've got no hobbies they know of and you seem pretty much immune to any attempts at humour. The only time you seem remotly /alive/ to 'em is when you're slagged off about somethin', and even then you're pretty cold. They don't understand you, love. You're compleatly alien to 'em, and that makes you scary."
Prowl shifted uncomfortably. He had known his attitude was intimidating. Had used that very power to heard the other 'bots into a semi-coherant force. But to find out he actualy inspired true fear. . . . He. . . he was not happy with that idea.
"The nickname, though," Jazz continued, "well, it sorta puts you into perspective for them. Still intimidatin', but you arn't the alien logical /thing/ a lot of them were thinkin' of you as before."
"So you're saying," Prowl said slowly, "That I should. . . encourage . . .this?"
"Well, no, not encourage. That'd be goin' a bit far. But you shouldn't discourage it either. Just go along with it, hon. There's a good chance they'll get tired of it eventualy, and if not, well," the saboteur leaned forward, a sly grin on his faceplate. "I kinda like the thought of us having matching nicknames. Peanutbutter and Jelly in a sandwitch of love. Gotta nice ring to it."
"You /would/ think so," Prowl groaned, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lip components. "Though I suppose it's not too terrible, as long as you're saddled with an equaly unpleasent moniker," he admited grudginly.
"Hey now! No dissin' my nickname! I happen to like Jelly."
"Be reasonable, Jazz," said Prowl. "Jelly is a disgusting substance. I've /seen/ Spike eat the stuff. It's runny and sticky and incredibly messy. Clearly, it is at least as unpleasent as peanutbutter. If not moresoe," he added thoughtfully.
"Now hold on there! I'll have you know peanutbutter is much more disgusting than jelly! It's got that awful pasty texture to it and-"
They spent the rest of the day debating the issue until the evening break, where they retired to the mess hall for their energon rations and were introduced to the thick, lumpy mess Spike and Carly had brought for their dinner. Creamed corn, the two bots agreed, was definatly more disgusting than either peanutbutter OR jelly.
end