a/n: This is a series of short ficlets. The overall story is a romantic comedy between Ratchet and the Twins but other pairings and plots will probably make an appearance. The first chapter was originally a flash fiction that I cleaned up and altered the details to make it fit into G1.
Title: Morning After
Characters: Implied SunstreakerxRatchetxSideswipe
Continuity: G1, first in Apple a Day series
Warning: implied alcohol use, implied mechslash/twincest
Sunstreaker onlines slowly, systems more or less dragging into their boot sequences instead of leaping sharply into awareness. The last to come online are his optics, and that with great reluctance. His joints feel tight, his vents clogged, and his sensors too responsive for his comfort.
Frag but Wheeljack's special mix of Praxian high grade and Earth's highest octane fuel packs a punch. He'd had half a dozen cubes of it. And Sides'd had more than him.
From their bond, Sunstreaker senses nothing but static. Either Sides has yet to online, or he's feeling substantially worse than Sunstreaker.
Sunstreaker doesn't want to move, but there's a blinking light in the corner of his HUD, reminding him that his shift starts in ten minutes. Which is just enough time to drag his aft to a washrack and try to wash out the aches with the gentlest grade of energon.
Something's lying on his right arm. Or shall he say, Sideswipe. With a grunt, Sunstreaker jerks his arm free, rolls over, and promptly topples off of the berth with a resounding clatter.
Ow. That certainly hadn't helped his systems settle. His tanks roil unpleasantly.
"Huh? Whozawhat'sit?" Sideswipe's mumble floats down from the berth.
"Fraggit! Too early for noise," someone else mutters, sounding grumpy.
Sunstreaker freezes on the floor. Two voices? Slag. This can't be good. He grabs the edge of the berth and drags himself up, bleary optics making out a bright white paintjob just as Sideswipe mumbles, "Who?"
Recognition floods Sunstreaker's sluggish processor and he leaps to his pedes, instantly regretting the too-quick motion when his gyros reel out of equilibrium. "Ratchet!"
Sideswipe jerks upward, sitting up in an instant. "Where?" he demands, and then groans, clutching his helm. "It's too fraggin' bright in here."
"Right here, you halfwit," Ratchet grumbles and with a laborious motion, drags himself upward, squinting around the room. "It's too early for this slag."
Sunstreaker's gapes. "You!" he splutters, pointing at Ratchet with one finger. "You!"
"Me," Ratchet agrees. "And for the record, I'm blaming this on Perceptor."
"Did we...?" Sideswipe trails off, as though unwilling to finish. One hand clumsily gropes at his plating, as though he can tell from touch alone. Which is quite frankly impossible.
Ratchet hauls himself off the berth, looking more spry than either of the twins. "Let me know when your memory cores catch up. I'll be in my med bay," he grumbles, and sweeps out of their room without so much as a by your leave.
"Did he just...?"
"Yeah, I think he did," Sunstreaker replies. And then his HUD starts beeping incessantly. Five minutes now.
"Frag!" He rushes from the room, leaving Sideswipe to deal with the aftermath of... whatever that was. He'll have to deal with this later.
a/n: I've got at least three more parts coming. And more when the ideas hit (and I find time to write them).
Feedback is welcome!