Title: Caution: Volatile Mixture

'Verse: Movie-ish

Characters / Pairings: Wheeljack/Ironhide/Ratchet

Summary: Ratchet apparently keeps both Wheeljack and Ironhide sane. They go a little nuts without him.

Rating: R

Stuff you'll read: Mech/mech smut of the tactile variety, crappy tongue-in-cheek stereotyping of the French, Cybertronian profanity

AN: This started as an RP with Ruu, then I decided to fic-ize it.

"If you're going to be a sorry slag of a nurse, get your sorry aft outta the medbay."

Wheeljack snickered behind his mask. "'Hide, my good mech," his resonators flashed a mock-soothing blue with his amusement, and he prodded an exposed wire for emphasis. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know?"

Ironhide jumped about a foot, then growled and glared at the gleeful Lancia standing by the berth. "Weren't for that slagging conference, I wouldn't have to beg," he groused.

Wheeljack couldn't help but laugh, the big giant cranky black TopKick looked for all the world like a sulking sparkling. For the record, 'Hide was sulking. He missed his medic. Optimus had gone to DC for a government conference, needing three delegates. The Autobot CO and Prowl were a given, but rather than take Jazz and remove the entire command structure, another officer replaced the First Lieutenant. Of the remaining senior staff, considering how much Ironhide's negotiation skills left to be desired, Ratchet had gone in Jazz's stead. The conference had dragged on, and on, and on – well into the third week. The French delegate was being extremely difficult, making the weirdest demands that any of the Autobots could imagine. Ironhide had taken to stealing and repeating every joke about the French he could access from the internet. The fodder for expressing his annoyance was far from running out...

The weapons specialist was simply getting more and more fed up with playing at 2IC, between the amount of paperwork and the slag he had to put up with from the assorted troops. He thought the Twins enjoyed their pranks under Prime's watch.

The TopKick wasn't the only one unhappy with their current job. 'Jack wasn't exactly delighted about being the temp medic, either. Frag, Ironhide nearly managed to put the inventor's own record for medbay visits in a week to shame. Wheeljack tilted his helm and pulled experimentally at the wires hanging in a messy tangle from black elbow before him.

Ironhide twitched and yanked his arm away with an engine rev. 'Hide mentally cursed the delightedly curious inventor that he, for some Primus-forsaken reason, was trusting to do his repairs. For good measure, he also thought nasty things about Optimus, Ratchet, the Twins for choosing now to paint Bumblebee in Arcee's colors and visa versa, and himself for getting between three quarreling mechs and letting the joint be damaged in the first place.

Resonators flickered while Wheeljack clucked cheery disapproval. "Aww, you're not the only one counting breems, 'Hide. I'll do it, but as a sparkling, medic is not what I wanted to be when I got my full proto."

"You can build a bomb. Why do you worry about reconnecting wires?"

"I guess because my specialty's with taking things apart; and, you know my track record. Wouldn't want you spontaneously combusting into flames, would we?" Wheeljack finished with a condescending pat to Ironhide's shoulder.

'Hide rolled his optics and grumbled, "I seem to manage on my own, sometimes."

"You do, actually," the inventor chuckled. "But imagine what that could happen with a slight nudge from me?"

Ironhide actually managed his EM field retreating back close to his faceplates with a snap, a Cybertronian equivalent of blanching, "…annihilation."

"Very good! You know big words!" The low growl from the patient was completely ignored. "Now? Mute it before I get bored and do turn you into a bomb." Wheeljack stopped simply poking at his latest project, and started to repair the yanked wires.

Ironhide blinked rudely and crossed the functional arm with a huff.

The similarities between the Ironhide's action and those Ratchet regularly employed were glaringly obvious, and Wheeljack failed to keep back the laugh. "Maybe this time away from Ratch is good for you, ol' mech. You're starting to act exactly like each other."

"I hit, throwing stuff is his department." He swung to cuff the inventor's helm.

'Jack ducked, "Yeah, and my job is dodging either of you." He returned to his place to keep working with resonators flickering as he hummed smug amusement.

"Incessantly gleeful mech."

Wheeljack half shrugged, playfully pulling on a nearby wire. "Someone's gotta balance out your grumpiness."

Ironhide gasped and gave the Lancia a strange look. "Says who?"

"Says life. Y'know, the yin-yang, balance deal?"

Ironhide shifted his helm up, quirking an optic ridge as he noticed the black and white plating they sported. He groaned and lay back down. "…frag."

"Not literally, but the coloring does play in nicely," 'Jack was smirking behind his mask, Ironhide was sure of it.

The weapons specialist worked his jaw, but no sort of retort found its way from his vocalizer. He growled in frustration.

That feeling that the inventor was smirking? It was all but confirmed by the look around 'Jack's optics. "I believe the correct phrase is 'own'd.'"

'Hide, feeling very much that Wheeljack was winning this game of banter, decided to turn the game on its head. He smirked and growled, "Check with Ratch before you claim that."

Interesting for both involved, the Lancia went with it. "What," he asked in a mock-conspiratorial whisper, "can't it be a secret?" Somehow Wheeljack's hand strayed from the wires he was reconnecting in the elbow to cabling that ran up and down the TopKick's arm. Seems the inventor had not been oblivious to Ironhide's not-so-well hidden little reactions to the innocent touches over wiring.

Not that they were exactly innocent anymore.

A shiver ran up his arm, and 'Hide tipped his head back. "No," he growled, a wicked glint in his optics. "What if he wants in?"

"Then I guess that invitation is up to you." 'Jack purred, a touch of humor to it, but he purred.

Auditory mech that 'Hide is, he found he liked that sound from the Lancia. "Considering he's gone, it's on my agenda for the next meeting," came a rumble, and the mech shifted on the berth.

"What, you keep one?" Wheeljack asked, all shocked incredulity in his voice and expression.

'Hide put a hand on white plating at the other mech's waist, deciding that they were both stressed, and could use the distraction. "Sure," he growled, "it's in my subspace. Wanna see?"

"Like, you show me yours and I show you mine?" Wheeljack laughed. He leaned over the berth, a slow massage following the muscle cable up and to 'Hide's shoulder.

Ironhide arched off the berth and up to the touch, tugging the Lancia closer. "Sure, now shut up."

Wheeljack shrugged and took the invitation, settling on the berth. Ironhide's hands were slowly stroking up his chassis. The inventor tossed his head back when 'Hide found a transformation seam along the side of his chest and snuck fingertips along the edge. Resonators were shifting from flashing a contented blue to a much more excited white in time with Wheeljack's unsteady intakes.

An engine rev from 'Hide and he wrapped his other arm around the white mech, pulling him over his frame. The TopKick had past lovers with doorwings, and he honestly had always sort of wondered about Wheeljack's much smaller back panels – if they were as sensitive a zone. He tried a few experimental strokes over the edges. If the shivers and the way that the Lancia pressed back into his hands was any indication, the answer to that rhetorical question was 'yes.'

"Oh, frag, don't stop-"

Ironhide chuckled at the quivering white metal heating above him, "For science?"

"For… Primus' sake…" 'Jack stuttered, diving into the wires at the TopKick's shoulders and neck with an enthusiasm that did sort of make 'Hide worry about explosions.

Ironhide arched under 'Jack's hands. He rumbled deep in his chest while he trailed over the little quivering winglets. He felt that the inventor's reactions were impressive, but that didn't compare to the gasp and phenomenal tension that washed through Wheeljack's frame when he let charge follow blunt gray fingertips. He was treated with 'Jack making a slow steady pull along one of his main muscle cables in his chest. He threw his helm back and moaned. It seemed neither mech was pulling any punches, both just desperate for an escape, for release.

Wheeljack laughed, that same jovial tone he always had, and moved along the energon lines along the TopKick's shoulders. He shifted and rocked against the weapons specialist when one hand moved down to his hip. Touches grew deeper, harder, more frenzied reactions and both mechs coiled like springs.

The resonating pants from stressed intakes stalled when the Lancia found the connection relays for 'Hide's cannons. The weapons specialist practically howled and his overload hit fast and hard. He dragged 'Jack down by a winglet to bite a shoulder and the older mech's reaction to his climax dragged the other into overload as well.

Moments later, Wheeljack collapsed against a sated Ironhide, both twitching as they came down from the high.

Wheeljack chuckled, about to say something but was cut off.

"Whatever you're about to say, 'Jack. Just mute it so we don't waste a good overload."

"So much for getting laid helping your disposition, 'Hide."

The black mech growled softly and flicked at the tip of a winglet.

ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo

"Primus forsaken crazy aft… frogs! No, they do not get their own little Autobot to be a tourist attraction and defend Paris. The utter idiocy!" The medic's internal diatribe at the long assignment was much more external than internal as he stomped to the medbay. While Keller had sympathetically flown them back as an apology for the extended negotiations, even returning to the base did not absolve Ratchet of all his responsibilities. He still needed to complete a debriefing report, and all he wanted was to make sure Wheeljack had not exploded his medbay, have a highgrade and find some peace. Slamming through the door, he stopped short, all thoughts draining away like so much water off waxed plating.

"Oh! Hey Ratch!" Wheeljack called, perking at the medic's entrance. He disentangled himself from over Ironhide and sat beside the TopKick on the berth. "Didn't know you were already finished."

Ratchet was shocked that he could apparently say the same thing. He stood just inside the medbay door making sputtering noises, gaze flipping back and forth between the contentedly sitting mech and his entirely unrepentant prone companion. Finally processors and vocalizers decided to work in tandem.

"You mechs have two options to remain among the functioning-" he snarled, stalking towards the berth, "either NEVER mention this again, or make me forget how insane those fucking French frogs are."

Ironhide rumbled a deep chuckle and held out his hand. "Come on, medic." The Hummer came over and slipped his hand into gray with an exhausted smile. Wheeljack had that smirk showing around his optics again and shifted aside to let the CMO sit on the berth as well. The inventor knew his friend, and knew how much tension the mech carried in his shoulders. Once the Hummer joined them, clever fingers worked around shoulder struts and Ratchet slowly began to relax, letting Wheeljack work his joints while he leaned his hip against 'Hide with a low engine purr.

"We'd been talking, 'Hide and I, about what we could manage the two of us working together." 'Jack murmured against an audio.

Ratchet looked confused until Ironhide stroked over black bars and lighting, the CMO arched as his intakes hitched.

The TopKick quirked an absolutely demonic grin up at the medic, growling a single word.