People Watching
Just a short thing that insisted on writing itself last weekend...
Title: People Watching
Verse: G1
Rating: T
Characters: Ratchet, Sparkplug, Optimus, Ironhide, Jazz, Prowl
Warnings: Implied mech/mech interfacing, and discussion of the same
Words: 2186, complete
Summary: Sometimes what you see on the surface is a long way from giving you the whole picture.
“What are we doing here?”
The question held no real rancour. For once in his life, Ratchet was too relaxed to much care one way or the other. He was out of the Ark and that was all that mattered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d escaped the shackles of sickbay without battle or even the grind of routine maintenance to prey on his mind. He certainly couldn’t remember when their situation had last been stable enough for Optimus Prime to give his officers the afternoon off. Admittedly that decision was probably rooted in Prime’s reluctance to listen to more of Jazz and Prowl’s incessant bickering, but no matter - Ratchet intended to make the most of his break regardless.
Running Sparkplug back into town was part of that. He enjoyed talking with the mature human, sharing grumbles about the youngsters they tended with more patience and care than either would willingly admit. Even so Ratchet was a little nonplussed to find himself parked in a lakeside recreation area with Sparkplug leaning back against him, sipping from a cold metal can.
The human chuckled, patting Ratchet’s armoured shell. He took his time answering, gaze drifting around the park.
“People watching. That’s all, Ratchet. Just people watching. Reminding myself what it means to be human.” Sparkplug gestured with his drink, trusting Ratchet’s scanners to follow the subtle movement. “See that couple other there? They argued last night. Made up this morning, ah, vigorously. Still a little tentative though. The kid over by the bandstand? Stood up by his friends. Or worried he might be. Probably just had a ‘see you later, maybe?’ kind of thing going on, and was the only one in the crowd who meant it. The guy over there playing softball with his two youngsters? Could have been me once, with Spike. Back in the day.”
He glanced back up at his large companion and shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “I don’t expect you to get it, Ratch. I’ve just got to remind myself of this from time to time. See some faces with real expressions.” His eyes swept the park again, gruff expression softening as the softball-dad scooped up his excited youngest. “We humans are more complicated than you think. You guys are always so upfront about things. After a while on the Ark, I kind of feel the need to come here. I have to remember to watch for what’s going on behind the scenes. I guess you mechs are too straightforward to notice how much most people try to hide.”
The memory file brought a smirk of amusement to Ratchet’s lips. He sat back, sipping his mid-grade as he re-energised after their excursion, and swept the Rec Room with practiced optics.
Ratchet shook his head, his gaze settling for a while on the three Aerialbots who’d argued last night, as he wondered what lay behind their sudden coldness. Their team-mates probably knew. After all, there had to be a reason Silverbolt volunteered for extra patrols today, taking Fireflight with him. Either way, the gestalt wouldn’t share its secrets often or easily.
Moving on, Ratchet watched the twins hover near Hound, quite defiantly not apologetic for letting the Seekers past them in the last battle, but nonetheless ensuring the recuperating scout had everything he might need. Neither frontliner seemed to notice the irritated looks they garnered from Mirage. But then not many mechs aboard could read the frustration in the spy’s cool demeanour, and fewer still would understand it.
Slouched in his chair, exercising all the insight his age and training gave him, Ratchet studied idle mechs and arrogant ones. He picked out the sober and the playful… and at least one pair who looked likely to go beyond playful sometime soon.
Straightforward? Upfront? Sparkplug was a competent mechanic and a fine man, but he sure had some weird ideas about the Autobots he’d befriended.
His smile lingered as he wandered into the briefing room for the regular officer’s meeting a few breems later.
“Ratchet,” Optimus Prime’s acknowledgement rumbled through the room. The large red and blue mech tilted his head. “It’s pleasing to see you so relaxed.”
“It’s kind of nice to feel that way.” Ratchet dropped into his regular seat, halfway along the conference table, leaning forward a little with his pale-armoured arms resting on its surface. “Thanks for today, Prime. We needed this.”
“I trust you found an enjoyable way to pass the time?”
“Just been doing some ‘people-watching’. Always fun.”
Prime’s optics went distant, his systems rumbling quietly as he looked up the human term. His optics widened a little, his blast mask failing to hide his answering smile. “All is well with the crew?”
“Better than that. I think I’m going to have to pull a couple of our younger bots in for a long chat and a code-flush.”
That drew a surprised blink and then a deep, throaty chuckle from his leader. Ratchet grinned. Military unit or not, the Autobot army never had the same hang-ups regarding intimacy as their human allies. As long as emotional involvement didn’t affect anyone’s reactions on the battlefield, occasional interfacing was hardly a big issue. True, their isolation on Earth had led to deeper attachments forming than anyone expected. Even so it wasn’t a comfort Prime would deny his soldiers.
“I won’t ask who. I know I can count on you to ensure the mechs concerned understand the consequences.”
Ratchet made a dismissive sound, waving one hand. “Relax, Prime. The worst a mech can get from a quick ‘face is a few stray code fragments left behind, and the routine system flushes take care of that. It’s not like they’re going to start sharing sparks on a first date.” The afternoon had put him in a mellow mood, otherwise he’d probably have stopped there. “There is precisely one couple aboard that’s spark-merging. And, yes, I had a word.”
Optimus looked a little taken aback, but not nearly as mortified as Hound and Mirage had been when Ratchet pulled them aside for the second, rather more serious, talk all young mechs got sooner or later. The two intensely-private mechs hadn’t even suspected that a medic’s sensors would pick up the slight changes in spark resonance that lingered for several hours after a merge - or realised why First Aid squeaked, blushed and ran the first time he was introduced to the pair of them.
Ratchet shook his head, his cheerful expression fading a little as Prime met his optics. He rubbed his forehead, massaging the base of his broad chevron.
“This new pair isn’t anywhere near that serious, I’m not even sure they’re interfacing yet.” Ratchet paused, looking up with a nod of greeting as Ironhide stomped through the door in time to hesitate on the threshold. The old mech looked startled and amused by that last comment. He dropped into his seat opposite Ratchet, listening with interest as the medic went on. “But yes, Prime, I’ll talk to them. And I’ll let Prowl know if I think they’re getting enough of a tango on to affect their reactions in the field. I’m guessing Jazz will bite his tongue long enough to mention it to our tactician too.”
He rolled his optics a little at that last. Optimus merely sighed. The senior Autobots had long since given up wondering just where the antipathy between their second and third in command came from. The odd thing was that the two officers undeniably worked well together. Well enough for their colleagues to ignore their frequent clashes and occasional sullen feuds… most of the time.
“I think mah audio sensors’re still ringin’ from yesterday’s argument. Forget infiltratin’ the Nemesis, that pair could prob’ly be heard aboard it!” Ironhide glanced up at his old friends, rubbing the side of his helm. His hand fell away and his grimace faded, a wry grin lighting up his face as he divined something of their conversation from the little he’d overheard. “Show me our CTO an’ saboteur and I’ll show yer two mechs that sorely need a stress-relievin’ ‘face or two. Might actually get their circuits unkinked.”
Ratchet’s lips clamped shut. His optics spoke for him. Prime’s widened. Ironhide bit off an oath, shaking his head.
“Jazz, okay, I c’n kinda buy that. But Prowl too?”
The question was rhetorical. Ratchet could only be thankful that his old friends respected him too much to press for details. A good two-thirds of the crew routinely showed up for check-ups with non-native code, fragmented by interface exchanges, in their systems. No real surprise that the sociable Jazz was one of them. It had taken all Ratchet’s professional discipline not to react the first time he noticed the same unmistakeable evidence in Prowl. Never mind their human friends, there wasn’t a mech aboard who’s guess their Second was as… Ratchet fell back on Sparkplug’s word with an internal smirk… vigorous as the rest of them.
Well, presumably with one mysterious exception. Ratchet had half suspected that might be Optimus Prime. Judging by the mech’s stunned expression, he guessed not.
The subject dropped like a sack of scraplets. Prime sat back in his chair, engine rumbling with embarrassment as the briefing room door opened and Jazz ambled into the room. The third in command was accompanied by a steady throb of base from his speakers, his head nodding in time with the beat. He grinned broadly, the expression fading a fraction as his visor swept over the room’s occupants.
“Hey, mechs,” he greeted cheerfully enough, dropping into the chair at Prime’s left hand. “What’s up?”
Optimus knew better than to deny his discomfort entirely under his Third’s sharp scrutiny.
“It is… nothing important.”
Ironhide nodded agreement. Ratchet just stared, too startled to come up with any coherent answer.
“Ratch?”
Jazz gave him an odd look. Ratchet returned it in full measure.
Before Jazz entered the room, the medic had been exercised by the familiar mystery of Prowl’s interface partner.
Now, his attention had been forcibly hijacked from one of their troublesome officers to the second. Reading Jazz’s spark resonance with an instinctive and automatic scan, Ratchet found himself confronted by a far more pressing mystery. As far as he knew, their third was a casual mech with casual partners and nothing more. So who on Earth was Jazz close enough to spark-merge with on a warm, summer afternoon? And why the Pit hadn’t Ratchet the faintest idea?
“Ah…”
Prime rescued him without even realising it.
“Ratchet and I were just discussing the growing incidence of relationships amongst the crew.”
For a moment, just the briefest of instants, a strange expression flickered behind that visor. Then Jazz’s lopsided grin returned, and he turned an inquisitive look on Ratchet.
“We got a new pair? Oooh, do I hear a party callin’? Soft lights. Slow music.” He swayed slightly in his seat, as if moving to the music in his processor. “Got t’ give new love a chance t’ blossom, right?”
“Jazz! I don’t believe this is the appropriate forum for such discussions. Please turn off your music, and kindly refrain from wasting valuable meeting time.”
Prowl’s sharp voice cut through the relaxed atmosphere in the room like a knife. The mech stood just inside the room, doorwings raised high and tense, as Wheeljack and Red Alert slipped in behind them.
“Just tryin’ t’ lighten…”
“Don’t.” Prowl flicked his wings in the gesture only Jazz ever drew from him - the one Ratchet had always interpreted as deep irritation… until now.
Prime sighed, rubbing his helm. “Can we at least try to get through this meeting without arguing?”
“What d’ya think, Prowler? Can we?”
Prowl’s wings flicked again. His expression was neutral, only a slight frown marring his pale face-plates.
“My name is Prowl, as you are well aware. Now, since I believe we are all assembled, shall we begin with the first agenda item?”
Jazz slouched with an amiable shrug, rocking his chair back on two legs. Prowl glanced in his direction, doorwings quivering for a moment, and then pointedly looked away, moving on with the meeting.
Cycling his optics, relaxing back into his chair as his medical sensors flicked from Jazz’s warm spark to the pulsing resonance of Prowl’s, Ratchet felt his shock fading and struggled to keep a swell of amusement from his faceplates. Distracted by the tactician’s stern words, no one seemed to have noticed Prowl’s doorwings were a good deal more mobile than usual, or registered Jazz fidgeting like an over-energised sparkling. Without a medic’s sensors Ratchet would have been as oblivious as every other mech in the room. As oblivious as Sparkplug.
Casual, smiling, apparently without a care in the world, Jazz sat back and folded his arms across his bumper to keep them still. The broad grin he always wore after a bantering exchange with Prowl spread across his face - the one that hinted he knew the biggest secret in the world, and wasn’t telling.
For the first time, but certainly not the last, Ratchet shared it.
The End
Title: People Watching
Verse: G1
Rating: T
Characters: Ratchet, Sparkplug, Optimus, Ironhide, Jazz, Prowl
Warnings: Implied mech/mech interfacing, and discussion of the same
Words: 2186, complete
Summary: Sometimes what you see on the surface is a long way from giving you the whole picture.
“What are we doing here?”
The question held no real rancour. For once in his life, Ratchet was too relaxed to much care one way or the other. He was out of the Ark and that was all that mattered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d escaped the shackles of sickbay without battle or even the grind of routine maintenance to prey on his mind. He certainly couldn’t remember when their situation had last been stable enough for Optimus Prime to give his officers the afternoon off. Admittedly that decision was probably rooted in Prime’s reluctance to listen to more of Jazz and Prowl’s incessant bickering, but no matter - Ratchet intended to make the most of his break regardless.
Running Sparkplug back into town was part of that. He enjoyed talking with the mature human, sharing grumbles about the youngsters they tended with more patience and care than either would willingly admit. Even so Ratchet was a little nonplussed to find himself parked in a lakeside recreation area with Sparkplug leaning back against him, sipping from a cold metal can.
The human chuckled, patting Ratchet’s armoured shell. He took his time answering, gaze drifting around the park.
“People watching. That’s all, Ratchet. Just people watching. Reminding myself what it means to be human.” Sparkplug gestured with his drink, trusting Ratchet’s scanners to follow the subtle movement. “See that couple other there? They argued last night. Made up this morning, ah, vigorously. Still a little tentative though. The kid over by the bandstand? Stood up by his friends. Or worried he might be. Probably just had a ‘see you later, maybe?’ kind of thing going on, and was the only one in the crowd who meant it. The guy over there playing softball with his two youngsters? Could have been me once, with Spike. Back in the day.”
He glanced back up at his large companion and shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “I don’t expect you to get it, Ratch. I’ve just got to remind myself of this from time to time. See some faces with real expressions.” His eyes swept the park again, gruff expression softening as the softball-dad scooped up his excited youngest. “We humans are more complicated than you think. You guys are always so upfront about things. After a while on the Ark, I kind of feel the need to come here. I have to remember to watch for what’s going on behind the scenes. I guess you mechs are too straightforward to notice how much most people try to hide.”
The memory file brought a smirk of amusement to Ratchet’s lips. He sat back, sipping his mid-grade as he re-energised after their excursion, and swept the Rec Room with practiced optics.
Ratchet shook his head, his gaze settling for a while on the three Aerialbots who’d argued last night, as he wondered what lay behind their sudden coldness. Their team-mates probably knew. After all, there had to be a reason Silverbolt volunteered for extra patrols today, taking Fireflight with him. Either way, the gestalt wouldn’t share its secrets often or easily.
Moving on, Ratchet watched the twins hover near Hound, quite defiantly not apologetic for letting the Seekers past them in the last battle, but nonetheless ensuring the recuperating scout had everything he might need. Neither frontliner seemed to notice the irritated looks they garnered from Mirage. But then not many mechs aboard could read the frustration in the spy’s cool demeanour, and fewer still would understand it.
Slouched in his chair, exercising all the insight his age and training gave him, Ratchet studied idle mechs and arrogant ones. He picked out the sober and the playful… and at least one pair who looked likely to go beyond playful sometime soon.
Straightforward? Upfront? Sparkplug was a competent mechanic and a fine man, but he sure had some weird ideas about the Autobots he’d befriended.
His smile lingered as he wandered into the briefing room for the regular officer’s meeting a few breems later.
“Ratchet,” Optimus Prime’s acknowledgement rumbled through the room. The large red and blue mech tilted his head. “It’s pleasing to see you so relaxed.”
“It’s kind of nice to feel that way.” Ratchet dropped into his regular seat, halfway along the conference table, leaning forward a little with his pale-armoured arms resting on its surface. “Thanks for today, Prime. We needed this.”
“I trust you found an enjoyable way to pass the time?”
“Just been doing some ‘people-watching’. Always fun.”
Prime’s optics went distant, his systems rumbling quietly as he looked up the human term. His optics widened a little, his blast mask failing to hide his answering smile. “All is well with the crew?”
“Better than that. I think I’m going to have to pull a couple of our younger bots in for a long chat and a code-flush.”
That drew a surprised blink and then a deep, throaty chuckle from his leader. Ratchet grinned. Military unit or not, the Autobot army never had the same hang-ups regarding intimacy as their human allies. As long as emotional involvement didn’t affect anyone’s reactions on the battlefield, occasional interfacing was hardly a big issue. True, their isolation on Earth had led to deeper attachments forming than anyone expected. Even so it wasn’t a comfort Prime would deny his soldiers.
“I won’t ask who. I know I can count on you to ensure the mechs concerned understand the consequences.”
Ratchet made a dismissive sound, waving one hand. “Relax, Prime. The worst a mech can get from a quick ‘face is a few stray code fragments left behind, and the routine system flushes take care of that. It’s not like they’re going to start sharing sparks on a first date.” The afternoon had put him in a mellow mood, otherwise he’d probably have stopped there. “There is precisely one couple aboard that’s spark-merging. And, yes, I had a word.”
Optimus looked a little taken aback, but not nearly as mortified as Hound and Mirage had been when Ratchet pulled them aside for the second, rather more serious, talk all young mechs got sooner or later. The two intensely-private mechs hadn’t even suspected that a medic’s sensors would pick up the slight changes in spark resonance that lingered for several hours after a merge - or realised why First Aid squeaked, blushed and ran the first time he was introduced to the pair of them.
Ratchet shook his head, his cheerful expression fading a little as Prime met his optics. He rubbed his forehead, massaging the base of his broad chevron.
“This new pair isn’t anywhere near that serious, I’m not even sure they’re interfacing yet.” Ratchet paused, looking up with a nod of greeting as Ironhide stomped through the door in time to hesitate on the threshold. The old mech looked startled and amused by that last comment. He dropped into his seat opposite Ratchet, listening with interest as the medic went on. “But yes, Prime, I’ll talk to them. And I’ll let Prowl know if I think they’re getting enough of a tango on to affect their reactions in the field. I’m guessing Jazz will bite his tongue long enough to mention it to our tactician too.”
He rolled his optics a little at that last. Optimus merely sighed. The senior Autobots had long since given up wondering just where the antipathy between their second and third in command came from. The odd thing was that the two officers undeniably worked well together. Well enough for their colleagues to ignore their frequent clashes and occasional sullen feuds… most of the time.
“I think mah audio sensors’re still ringin’ from yesterday’s argument. Forget infiltratin’ the Nemesis, that pair could prob’ly be heard aboard it!” Ironhide glanced up at his old friends, rubbing the side of his helm. His hand fell away and his grimace faded, a wry grin lighting up his face as he divined something of their conversation from the little he’d overheard. “Show me our CTO an’ saboteur and I’ll show yer two mechs that sorely need a stress-relievin’ ‘face or two. Might actually get their circuits unkinked.”
Ratchet’s lips clamped shut. His optics spoke for him. Prime’s widened. Ironhide bit off an oath, shaking his head.
“Jazz, okay, I c’n kinda buy that. But Prowl too?”
The question was rhetorical. Ratchet could only be thankful that his old friends respected him too much to press for details. A good two-thirds of the crew routinely showed up for check-ups with non-native code, fragmented by interface exchanges, in their systems. No real surprise that the sociable Jazz was one of them. It had taken all Ratchet’s professional discipline not to react the first time he noticed the same unmistakeable evidence in Prowl. Never mind their human friends, there wasn’t a mech aboard who’s guess their Second was as… Ratchet fell back on Sparkplug’s word with an internal smirk… vigorous as the rest of them.
Well, presumably with one mysterious exception. Ratchet had half suspected that might be Optimus Prime. Judging by the mech’s stunned expression, he guessed not.
The subject dropped like a sack of scraplets. Prime sat back in his chair, engine rumbling with embarrassment as the briefing room door opened and Jazz ambled into the room. The third in command was accompanied by a steady throb of base from his speakers, his head nodding in time with the beat. He grinned broadly, the expression fading a fraction as his visor swept over the room’s occupants.
“Hey, mechs,” he greeted cheerfully enough, dropping into the chair at Prime’s left hand. “What’s up?”
Optimus knew better than to deny his discomfort entirely under his Third’s sharp scrutiny.
“It is… nothing important.”
Ironhide nodded agreement. Ratchet just stared, too startled to come up with any coherent answer.
“Ratch?”
Jazz gave him an odd look. Ratchet returned it in full measure.
Before Jazz entered the room, the medic had been exercised by the familiar mystery of Prowl’s interface partner.
Now, his attention had been forcibly hijacked from one of their troublesome officers to the second. Reading Jazz’s spark resonance with an instinctive and automatic scan, Ratchet found himself confronted by a far more pressing mystery. As far as he knew, their third was a casual mech with casual partners and nothing more. So who on Earth was Jazz close enough to spark-merge with on a warm, summer afternoon? And why the Pit hadn’t Ratchet the faintest idea?
“Ah…”
Prime rescued him without even realising it.
“Ratchet and I were just discussing the growing incidence of relationships amongst the crew.”
For a moment, just the briefest of instants, a strange expression flickered behind that visor. Then Jazz’s lopsided grin returned, and he turned an inquisitive look on Ratchet.
“We got a new pair? Oooh, do I hear a party callin’? Soft lights. Slow music.” He swayed slightly in his seat, as if moving to the music in his processor. “Got t’ give new love a chance t’ blossom, right?”
“Jazz! I don’t believe this is the appropriate forum for such discussions. Please turn off your music, and kindly refrain from wasting valuable meeting time.”
Prowl’s sharp voice cut through the relaxed atmosphere in the room like a knife. The mech stood just inside the room, doorwings raised high and tense, as Wheeljack and Red Alert slipped in behind them.
“Just tryin’ t’ lighten…”
“Don’t.” Prowl flicked his wings in the gesture only Jazz ever drew from him - the one Ratchet had always interpreted as deep irritation… until now.
Prime sighed, rubbing his helm. “Can we at least try to get through this meeting without arguing?”
“What d’ya think, Prowler? Can we?”
Prowl’s wings flicked again. His expression was neutral, only a slight frown marring his pale face-plates.
“My name is Prowl, as you are well aware. Now, since I believe we are all assembled, shall we begin with the first agenda item?”
Jazz slouched with an amiable shrug, rocking his chair back on two legs. Prowl glanced in his direction, doorwings quivering for a moment, and then pointedly looked away, moving on with the meeting.
Cycling his optics, relaxing back into his chair as his medical sensors flicked from Jazz’s warm spark to the pulsing resonance of Prowl’s, Ratchet felt his shock fading and struggled to keep a swell of amusement from his faceplates. Distracted by the tactician’s stern words, no one seemed to have noticed Prowl’s doorwings were a good deal more mobile than usual, or registered Jazz fidgeting like an over-energised sparkling. Without a medic’s sensors Ratchet would have been as oblivious as every other mech in the room. As oblivious as Sparkplug.
Casual, smiling, apparently without a care in the world, Jazz sat back and folded his arms across his bumper to keep them still. The broad grin he always wore after a bantering exchange with Prowl spread across his face - the one that hinted he knew the biggest secret in the world, and wasn’t telling.
For the first time, but certainly not the last, Ratchet shared it.
The End