(no subject)
Title: Morning After
Rating: T
Continuity: TF: Prime, sometime during events of Con Job
Prompt: "Let me guess. I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?"
Characters/Pairing: Wheeljack/Ratchet
Genre: Humour
Notes: Slight spoilers for episode 8... sort of =S Also, what was I thinking? D: This pairing.. I don't even...
Time: 1 hour 34 minutes.
- - - - -
It was interesting that despite the number of times he awoke to the most ungodly of hangovers, a small portion of his dignity having left sometime the night before (never to return), that he always went through the same ‘morning after’ custom. Curse himself. Curse high-grade. Curse the maker of high-grade. Curse whoever had supplied them with said high-grade. And so on.
It was both merciful and frustrating that all possible high-grade reserves on Earth often amounted to nil.
“Frag” he groaned, hand clutching the side of his helm and processor searing.
Usually.
As ironic luck would have it, the first ‘Bot they come in contact with for eons possessed not one, but several crates of high-grade packed on his ship. Apparently Wheeljack had picked it up from an abandoned neutral warehouse. Ratchet couldn’t say he’d cared much about the source last night. Now however…
He tiredly scrubbed at his optics, wary of onlining them, knowing the glare of light that would mercilessly shoot through his processor upon doing so. Unfortunately, at the feeling of movement unnervingly close to his own frame, he was unable to fight the instinctive reaction. Both orbs snapped open and his helm turned.
“What in the Pit?!” he couldn’t help but wince at his own volume, hand rubbing over his faceplates and optics squinting from the lights above. “Oh you have got to be kidding...”
His sentiment, however, seemed to serve as a fitting wake-up call for the other mech. And hangover or no hangover, Wheeljack’s battle-honed reflexes were swift as ever. That or Ratchet really needed to work on his own. In a nanosecond he found himself pinned, facedown, with an arm twisted painfully behind his back… And in spite of his processor flaring in protest at the sudden movements, he couldn’t help but sincerely hope this wasn’t how the night’s antics had transpired.
Though thankfully, the Wrecker came to his senses soon enough.
“Huh? Oh… right. Frag. Sorry Doc.”
Well, that just about covers the whole damn thing doesn’t it? He truly wanted to snap that. But with his faceplates still pressed into the floor, all that emerged was a nonsensical grumble. The compression to his back shifted off and he arduously forced himself upright, rolling his shoulder with a scowl.
“Pretty sprightly considering the early hour aren’t we?” he sardonically groused, levelling an unimpressed look in Wheeljack’s direction. The other actually looked a touch sheepish for a moment before shrugging.
“Several hundred dega-cycles used to waking up on an isolated ship. Lost track of things for a moment” he rubbed the back of his helm, suddenly awkward. Ratchet sighed and gave a small nod, hangover still raging through his processor.
“Right… Well, no harm done” he grumbled, painstakingly forcing himself up onto his pedes and wholly determined to ignore any ‘morning-after’ awkwardness that tried to accumulate. It was only then he noticed where they actually were. “The sick bay?” he questioned aloud, incredulous. Then groaned and slapped a hand to his faceplates. They’d done it here? They couldn’t even make it to a proper room? Had he been that slagfaced?
Wheeljack didn’t seem to see the problem. Well, the problem with the location anyway. “So?”
Ratchets hand slowly dropped and he glowered.
“I work here.”
“You sleep in your quarters, would that have been any better?”
“I operate in here!”
“…Still not seein’ the issue.”
Ratchet threw up his hands with a fed up growl and proceeded over to the nearest cupboard. Wheeljack couldn’t help but smirk a little. Sure, the situation was awkward as Pit, though hardly the worst “morning after” he’d ever onlined to - and definitely not the worst partner he’d onlined next to. He just wished he hadn’t been so thoroughly overcharged last night. The medic was pretty striking, and he’d have liked to have obtained a better memory file of the events. As it stood, the only thing he could effectively recall was… Well, very similar to what just happened a few minutes ago.
Stifling a chuckle, he briefly toyed with the notion of possibly trying again with Ratchet later tonight. Surely the other hadn’t been entirely put off by the whole scenario - if the lack of vocal barbs or objects being hurled at his person were anything to go by.
A clatter startled the Wrecker out of his musings and he jumped to his feet on instinct. Ratchet had apparently dropped a few containers of what appeared to be medicinal energon. The medic currently had his gaze trained on something over Wheeljacks shoulder, prompting him to turn around.
Oh… scrap.
He winced when he could practically feel the others glare boring into him from behind.
“You broke the decontamination chamber?!” he grit out, fury mingled with astonishment. The Wrecker tilted his helm back around and offered a crooked grin.
“Heh… Well, technically we did.”
He ducked as a cube of medical energon was suddenly chucked at him, quickly catching it before it fell.
“I. Needed. That.”
The impending doom resonating from the medic was palpable, and Wheeljack figured now as good as time as any to make a quick dash for the exit.
“Do you have any idea how long it will take me to fix that?!” Ratchets yell followed after him and the Wrecker winced.
On second thought… Repairs to his ship should be just about complete by now. No sense overstaying his welcome or anything...
Rating: T
Continuity: TF: Prime, sometime during events of Con Job
Prompt: "Let me guess. I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?"
Characters/Pairing: Wheeljack/Ratchet
Genre: Humour
Notes: Slight spoilers for episode 8... sort of =S Also, what was I thinking? D: This pairing.. I don't even...
Time: 1 hour 34 minutes.
- - - - -
It was interesting that despite the number of times he awoke to the most ungodly of hangovers, a small portion of his dignity having left sometime the night before (never to return), that he always went through the same ‘morning after’ custom. Curse himself. Curse high-grade. Curse the maker of high-grade. Curse whoever had supplied them with said high-grade. And so on.
It was both merciful and frustrating that all possible high-grade reserves on Earth often amounted to nil.
“Frag” he groaned, hand clutching the side of his helm and processor searing.
Usually.
As ironic luck would have it, the first ‘Bot they come in contact with for eons possessed not one, but several crates of high-grade packed on his ship. Apparently Wheeljack had picked it up from an abandoned neutral warehouse. Ratchet couldn’t say he’d cared much about the source last night. Now however…
He tiredly scrubbed at his optics, wary of onlining them, knowing the glare of light that would mercilessly shoot through his processor upon doing so. Unfortunately, at the feeling of movement unnervingly close to his own frame, he was unable to fight the instinctive reaction. Both orbs snapped open and his helm turned.
“What in the Pit?!” he couldn’t help but wince at his own volume, hand rubbing over his faceplates and optics squinting from the lights above. “Oh you have got to be kidding...”
His sentiment, however, seemed to serve as a fitting wake-up call for the other mech. And hangover or no hangover, Wheeljack’s battle-honed reflexes were swift as ever. That or Ratchet really needed to work on his own. In a nanosecond he found himself pinned, facedown, with an arm twisted painfully behind his back… And in spite of his processor flaring in protest at the sudden movements, he couldn’t help but sincerely hope this wasn’t how the night’s antics had transpired.
Though thankfully, the Wrecker came to his senses soon enough.
“Huh? Oh… right. Frag. Sorry Doc.”
Well, that just about covers the whole damn thing doesn’t it? He truly wanted to snap that. But with his faceplates still pressed into the floor, all that emerged was a nonsensical grumble. The compression to his back shifted off and he arduously forced himself upright, rolling his shoulder with a scowl.
“Pretty sprightly considering the early hour aren’t we?” he sardonically groused, levelling an unimpressed look in Wheeljack’s direction. The other actually looked a touch sheepish for a moment before shrugging.
“Several hundred dega-cycles used to waking up on an isolated ship. Lost track of things for a moment” he rubbed the back of his helm, suddenly awkward. Ratchet sighed and gave a small nod, hangover still raging through his processor.
“Right… Well, no harm done” he grumbled, painstakingly forcing himself up onto his pedes and wholly determined to ignore any ‘morning-after’ awkwardness that tried to accumulate. It was only then he noticed where they actually were. “The sick bay?” he questioned aloud, incredulous. Then groaned and slapped a hand to his faceplates. They’d done it here? They couldn’t even make it to a proper room? Had he been that slagfaced?
Wheeljack didn’t seem to see the problem. Well, the problem with the location anyway. “So?”
Ratchets hand slowly dropped and he glowered.
“I work here.”
“You sleep in your quarters, would that have been any better?”
“I operate in here!”
“…Still not seein’ the issue.”
Ratchet threw up his hands with a fed up growl and proceeded over to the nearest cupboard. Wheeljack couldn’t help but smirk a little. Sure, the situation was awkward as Pit, though hardly the worst “morning after” he’d ever onlined to - and definitely not the worst partner he’d onlined next to. He just wished he hadn’t been so thoroughly overcharged last night. The medic was pretty striking, and he’d have liked to have obtained a better memory file of the events. As it stood, the only thing he could effectively recall was… Well, very similar to what just happened a few minutes ago.
Stifling a chuckle, he briefly toyed with the notion of possibly trying again with Ratchet later tonight. Surely the other hadn’t been entirely put off by the whole scenario - if the lack of vocal barbs or objects being hurled at his person were anything to go by.
A clatter startled the Wrecker out of his musings and he jumped to his feet on instinct. Ratchet had apparently dropped a few containers of what appeared to be medicinal energon. The medic currently had his gaze trained on something over Wheeljacks shoulder, prompting him to turn around.
Oh… scrap.
He winced when he could practically feel the others glare boring into him from behind.
“You broke the decontamination chamber?!” he grit out, fury mingled with astonishment. The Wrecker tilted his helm back around and offered a crooked grin.
“Heh… Well, technically we did.”
He ducked as a cube of medical energon was suddenly chucked at him, quickly catching it before it fell.
“I. Needed. That.”
The impending doom resonating from the medic was palpable, and Wheeljack figured now as good as time as any to make a quick dash for the exit.
“Do you have any idea how long it will take me to fix that?!” Ratchets yell followed after him and the Wrecker winced.
On second thought… Repairs to his ship should be just about complete by now. No sense overstaying his welcome or anything...