I live!!!
I don't know who bothered to notice, but I have been absent from the forums for... *counts on fingers* ... a really long time. I apologize to anyone who actually cared. I've been in Mozambique for the past two months with a humanitarian group, building houses and helping at orphanages and hospitals. Great character building, but a sad lack of internet access, and thus no entries from me. But I am back with a wicked tan, a butt-load of plot bunnies (some partially hashed out), and Dengue Fever, woohoo! (Also called the Bonecrusher Fever, to my delight. I'm sick with a Decepticon!)
So what does one do when shoved up in a hospital with nothing to do but stare at the drywall and goose the cute male nurses who walk a little too closely to my bed? Why, beg the laptop off one's little brother and post some fanatic drabbles on Livejournal, of course! If it seems a little incoherant or crazy, it's the painkillers. @_@
Title: Figs
Rating: PG
Warnings: some crude, derogatory language
Universe: 2007 movie
Summary: Jazz had spent so many joors trying to explain his relationship with Prowl to the Humans, only to learn that they can sum it up in one word!
Prowl was in his office, intently working away at the large stack of data pads that had accumulated on his desk during his recent stint in the med bay, when his bondmate burst through the door, looking rather excited.
“Prowl, we’re figs!
Suddenly unable to focus on the inventory report in his hand, he looked up at his mate, faceplates a picture of confusion.
“We’re what?”
“Figs!” Jazz repeated merrily, plopping down into the empty seat before Prowl’s desk. “I was just talkin’ ta Sam an’ Micky - they was introducing me t’ their buddy Miles. An’ I was askin’ Micky how she thought I might be able t’ pry ya outta yer office, an’ Miles asked who ya were, so Sam told him we was together, an’ here I thought I was gonna hafta explain all about sparkmates again, but he jus’ kinda -“
“Do you have a point, Jazz?” Prowl interrupted quickly, mildly irked.
“Yeah!” the little saboteur exclaimed. He stood abruptly, putting his hands on the desk before him and leaning forward until his overly-excited faceplates were right up in front of Prowl’s. “Miles actually got it! He’s like, ‘So the new friends you’ve been ditching me for are not only giant alien robots, they’re figs as well?’, an’ Sam was like, ‘Well, kinda’, and Miles is like, ‘That’s cool, man’!”
Jazz had said this all in a very long, very excited stream, making it sound like one word. It took Prowl a moment of processing to decipher what had been said to him. Even after this, though, he was still very confused, and stared up at his bondmate with expression portraying such.
“We’re figs!” Jazz exclaimed again. He was apparently very enthralled at having found a quick and simple way of describing their relationship to the curious humans in a way that they would easily understand.
Prowl, however, still did not understand. And when he quickly looked up the term on the World Wide Web, his confusion grew. How did a type of fruit describe their relationship?
“Are you sure he said fig, Jazz?” he questioned his mate.
The saboteur’s grin gave way to a look of contemplation as Prowl data-burst him the definition of the word he had so giddily been repeating.
“I thought it was fig,” he said, mouth screwing into a little frown as he thought. “Mighta been fog… fag, maybe? Yeah! Yeah, fag!”
Prowl looked it up.
“Oh. Yes, that makes more sense.”
* * * * *
As cool as his kids - and now grandkids - thought his job to be, John Keller really did loathe his responsibilities at times. Even now, working with the Autobots, he found himself wishing he had retired when reelection time had come around. (The glamour of working with an alien species had worn off after he realized they could be frighteningly similar to humans.)
But he had not retired, and so here he sat in a giant conference room in Autobot headquarters, developing a rather large migraine as he tried to decide the best way to calm down the overly-excited vice president, whom had just been introduced to Optimus Prime.
“Mr. McKendrick,” Keller said loudly over the vice president’s rantings. “If you could please stop all that shouting - we’re not going to die.”
Behind him, he could hear Captain Lennox and Sergeant Epps snickering. As Mr. McKendrick was not their responsibility - no matter how hard Keller had tried to pawn him off on them - they were finding the episode to be rather entertaining. Keller, however, was wishing one of their new-found allies would come storming into the room and “accidentally” squish the vice president. Perhaps if he called them on his cell - he had their comm frequencies on his speed dial - and really begged and pleaded, one of them would put him out of his misery. Jazz was pleasant and accommodating and might do it. Or Ironhide and Ratchet. They were always trying to make a game out of it, see how many Humans they could hover over and pretend to stomp on before Optimus caught them and ordered them to stop. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind actually stepping on one.
As it turned out, though, such drastic measures were not needed. It took the vice president just twenty minutes, a cup of coffee, and a few Advil to calm down. After taking a couple Advil himself, Keller wasn’t feeling so bad either.
It was just as the painkillers were kicking in that Jazz and Prowl decided to walk into the room.
“’Sup homies!” Jazz called to Lennox and Epps, who waved to him in return. “How’s it hangin’?”
Keller tensed, expecting another panicked tirade from McKendrick, but was pleasantly surprised to see him simply stare up in awe at the second and third in command. Prowl, in turn, gazed politely back. After exchanging more slangy pleasantries with the soldiers behind Keller, Jazz noticed the stranger sitting at the human sized conference table.
“What up?” he greeted with a grin.
“Mr. McKendrick,” Keller said, gesturing to the pair of Autobots. “This is Prowl, the Autobots’ tactician and second in command, and the ‘homie’ standing next to him is Jazz, third in command and head of Special Ops.”
McKendrick nodded vaguely, mouth partially open. He seemed to have been momentarily struck dumb.
“Greetings,” Prowl said, nodding sagely.
“We’re fags!” Jazz added proudly, throwing an arm about Prowl’s middle.
McKendrick’s look of awe quickly transformed into one of confused shock. He glanced between Jazz and Prowl, who sported looks of open pride and slight apprehension respectively, then to Keller, who had thrown off his glasses and buried his face in his hands, then back to the robots before him.
“Uh - well…” McKendrick stammered, quite unsure how to respond. “That’s, uh… my-my nephew’s one too.”
“Really?” Jazz’s grin widened. “Radical!”
At this, Lennox and Epps could stand no more. They burst into hysterics, shouting incoherently through their laughter about gay robots, their lack of tact, and how much money they would pay to see the report McKendrick would give to the president. Keller, not so amused, pulled out his cell phone and dialed Ironhide’s comm, intent on ending his career early. Jazz, however, was confused.
“I said it right this time, didn’ I?” he asked his mate. “I didn’ say figs, did I?”
“No, you said it correctly,” Prowl assured him, wondering himself why the term the humans had used themselves brought such amusement to them. Making a not to question Sam about it, he turned and began walking out of the conference room with his mate in tow.
“For now, though,” he thought aloud, “I think we should just stick to calling ourselves spark bonded.”
.