Title: Quantity And Not So Much Quality
Summary: Come and read 50 little stories that focuses on the crazy life and relationship of Ratchet, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker
A/N: RL has been eating my time but here you go guys, the next set of drabbles. Most of them happen in G1-universe, but one definitely happens in bayverse and one can happen in which universe you want.
FuziPenguin, once again I thank you for being fearless and bracing my horrid grammar
:- Com. link -:
Accessing time zones…
Local time zone: UTC +02.00.
Local time: 23:56.
Accessing time zones…
Recalibrate the chronometer back to previous settings. Y/N
"I think my chronometer is glitching," Sunstreaker muttered, sullen optics glaring at the horizon.
"I can assure you that's not the case," drawled the amused voice of Ratchet. The big medic came to sit next to Sunstreaker, EM field reaching out to the glowering warrior. While Sunstreaker showed no outward change, his tightly wound field relaxed, edges mingling with Ratchet's.
"So this backwater system in the middle of nowhere has a star that doesn't go down for joors for almost four lunar cycles every single stellar cycle?" Sunstreaker grumbled, the vents releasing air in a snort-like fashion.
Ratchet's engine only hummed as an answer.
For a moment, they both watched at the peculiar sight of the still bright, pale orange sky and the golden disk that was lazily hanging above the tree-covered fells, as if debating whether or not to take the last plunge.
And as they kept staring at the slightly illogical spectacle, both of their chronometers pinged, setting new dates and times.
But the sun stayed up, almost but not quite touching the horizon.
"You know…," Ratchet added almost absentmindedly, his face distant as the medic recalled memories of the past long gone. "They have this phenomenon called polar night, where the star doesn't rise at all for an equally long time."
Sunstreaker cleared his vents sharply and the front liner's faceplates twisted into a bitter smile. "At least there's some justice in this Pit-forsaken universe."
Desire and lust were a natural part of Ratchet's emotional programming. He liked a good, processor-blowing interface as much as the next mech. Then the war began and suddenly his Medical bay was flooded with exceptionally appealing mechs; too bad it was not in a way he had been hoping for. (Ratchet was a professional but he was not blind; he could still appreciate a beautiful, strong frame even if he was saving the owner of the previously mentioned beautiful, strong frame from deactivation.)
He had principles, vague ones and no fragging with patients was one of them. Getting rid of the charge via self-service became a habit, one among many Ratchet developed during the war. And no 'bot was foolish enough to butt their nasal ridges in what happened behind the closed doors of Ratchet's Medical bay. Despite being paranoid as Pit, the current SD had just a tad bit more self-preservation than Telescope had had. (The veterans enjoyed scaring the scrap out of the new recruits by telling stories of what really had happened to Red Alert's predecessor.)
There were breems, when Ratchet just wanted to throw his servos up and curse Primus for dangling such treats right in front of him. It was like a test, to see just how long the CMO could take it before grabbing one of those unsuspecting mechs and fragging them hard. Somehow Ratchet managed to resist, incidentally spreading his reputation as the master healer with bedside manners from Pit. (Wheeljack had once pointed out that the reason behind their CMO's grouchiness was very simple, his headfins flashing in a way many had afterwards vehemently claimed to having been suggestive.)
Then the two most gorgeous front-liners Ratchet had ever laid optics on landed in the Medical bay. They were arrogant and bold, making lewd comments to the stunned CMO, who in retaliation hit them with his wrenches. Once again, Ratchet found himself fighting yet another attraction but this time it was easier said than done. They were insistent and stubborn, just like him. (As time passed and the twins still continued to flirt with Ratchet despite him shooting them down, the medic began to wonder, if, just this one time, he should give in.)
A flare of bafflement wrapped in shock was the only warning he got, before his brother reached out to him.
::OhfragSunnyyougottoseethis:: Sideswipe's excited babble rushed over their bond, the strong emotions Sideswipe was experiencing effectively gaining the yellow twin's attention.
::What? I'm on duty!:: Sunstreaker growled as he tried to at least focus on the monitors.
He hated doing monitor duty as much as anyone - with the exception of Red Alert, who would probably bond with his precious security system if possible.
::ShutupDandelionandusethosecamerastocheckMedbay:: Sideswipe's words meshed together, impatient and still shocked. It was like he was trying to break Blurr's record. ::JustdoitNOW!::
Muttering something about 'Sideswipe finally blowing his processor', Sunstreaker ignored the look he received from the bored Tracks and changed the camera feed from Corridor SMH-2Z to Medical bay. The lights were dimmed and the berths were for once empty of any patients. Frowning, Sunstreaker was ready to comm. Sideswipe to demand an explanation, when his optics detected a movement in the far corner, at the very edge of the camera's range.
Scowling, Sunstreaker zoomed the camera in closer; the shapes of at least two mechs could be seen in the shadows. Staring at the screen, the yellow front-liner finally recognized a familiar red aft and a pair of black servos clinging desperately to red and white plates. The duo were frantically rocking back and forth, and Sideswipe's side of the bond positively bombarded Sunstreaker with all sorts of sensations and -
The roar of a finely tuned engine and the following crash of glass were so unexpected that Tracks actually fell out of his chair with an undignified yelp. The blue mech twisted his helm just in time to see Sunstreaker bolt out of the room like the fires of the Pit were after him.
The monitor screen the volatile front liner had been watching was now nothing but a sparking mess.
There just was something captivating in the sound of a recharging system.
Compared to medical or forced stasis, there were more noises: an occasional whir of a gyros recalibrating, the purr of an engine. The cooling fans ran slower than when their owner was fully online, almost lazily as they kept the core temperature at optimal levels. And if you listened carefully, you could almost hear the coolant flowing in the lines closest to the plating.
Sideswipe smiled, moving his audio horn from the red-crossed shoulder to Ratchet's chest plates, right over the glass that made up the medic's alt. mode's wind screen. He dialed his audios up, carefully searching for a specific sound.
There, beneath the protective layers of armor and protoform, closed inside a case of crystal, originated a quiet sound. Compared to other sounds of Ratchet's frame, it could be described as a hum. There was no change in it, any higher peaks or fluctuations, just this constant, gentle drone.
It was the sound of their bondmate's very life force.
With a sigh, the red mech allowed himself to be lulled into recharge while listening to the most beautiful music Sideswipe's audios had ever recorded.
This sensation was something he had never experienced before.
Actually, that wasn't quite the truth. Cybertronian sensors were extremely highly tuned - the medics sensors even more so - but even the finest sensor net didn't always catch what the organic sense of touch could. Yes, the sensory feedback was much duller and the lack of information Ratchet received was also almost naught compared to his normal but still... He just couldn't stop himself, captivated by this odd feel.
It also seemed that his actions were being appreciated, and if Ratchet had not known better, he could have sworn that the twins were about to start purring as they lied strutless on the grass, helms resting on Ratchet's lap.
'Boneless' and 'heads', corrected a part of the medic's mind. Then again was it even relevant to change his inner vocabulary. The whole situation had been so illogic that it had crashed Prowl's battle computer and the SIC had fallen into stasis within breems.
Or perhaps he should say 'fainted'; it was the more appropriate term. Cybertronians had processor crashes, not humans.
Ratchet didn't care, mesmerized as he kept running his odd, soft fingers through the thick strands of blonde and red hair. His grey eyes travelled downwards, taking another look at the two naked frames (bodies), and Ratchet couldn't help but wonder if the hair covering the twins' lower regions was smooth as that atop their heads.
"It's going to take forever to get these dents out." The oh-so-familiar words were grunted right into his companion's audio, but for once they lacked their usual acid.
Maybe it was because they could not afford to move a. Single. Gear. Or the Decepticons would find them, hidden underneath the broken frames of what had been their former platoon.
Whatever was the reason; for joors Sunstreaker continued to grouse about his ruined paint job. He even switched to internal communications when it became too dangerous to speak out loud. It didn't matter that the medic couldn't answer; it gave Ratchet something else concentrate on other than the sparking remains of his left shoulder and ruined vocalizer. Kept away the look of fear and desperation in the medic's faded optics.
Sunstreaker wasn't the hiding or the comforting type; but he was willing to do whatever he could to keep Ratchet out of the Decepticon clutches and from the arms of Primus' himself.
He turns, silent, and the play is once again set in motion. They can't help but follow the same script all the way to the bitter end.
"I can't," he answers, the words quiet.
A silent whirr as flared up armor settles. "Why?" the question is sullen, even a little demanding.
"You know why," he sighs, feeling even more exhausted than he usually does.
"Is it because of them? Because I know - "
A warning rumble cuts the mech off mid-speech, and the whine of activating battle-systems freeze the other even as a hostile EM field lashes out. "You know nothing."
The words are cold and the subvocals are acidic, but they can't hide the fear that ripples through his frame. The fear of the truth that is in those words.
"It's been centuries," the mech tries, stubborn. He is always trying, asking the same question, never once wavering despite the certain rejection.
Only the tone of those words change from dreamy to angry, from hopeful to devastate as the two of them keep repeating this macabre play of devotion and love gone wrong.
"It doesn't matter," he spats, spark heavy as fire leaves him, EM field collapsing and withdrawing.
The other mech twitches, likely fighting the urge to touch him; the steady thrum of stand-by battle systems keeps the other at bay.
Instead he looks sad, the edges of a pity-riddled EM field reaching out to touch his. Another growl and pitching of systems makes the dejected Praxian flinch.
"Sideswipe…" Bluestreak tries, pleading, but the red mech turns his back to him.
"I can't, and you know why," Sideswipe murmurs. The outburst has drained his energy and all he wants is to recharge. "I promised," he whispers, more t himself than to Bluestreak, who keeps staring at the hunched mech.
"But you promised to live…"
Strong servos danced across his plating, dexterous fingers twisting and pulling the sensitive wiring even as a hot, thrumming frame pushed him tight against the wall. A thrumming EM field surged, engulfing him into a cocoon of lust and mischief. He was helpless, limbs twitching as pleasure flooded his CPU, warnings of a quickly rising core temperature popping up. And Primus on a fragging pogo stick; the mech was just kissing him!
Uncoordinated, he clawed the strong chassis. It was against his programming to be this passive. But all he could was hang onto the wide shoulders, a series of embarrassing whimpers and clicks the only sounds his static-laden vocalizer could make.
Then there was a servo cupping his crotch plating, a thumb rolling over it lazily, and adding just the slightest amount of pressure against the scorching metal. He pretty much lost it, whimpering desperately as the coverings retracted to reveal his interface array. Cool air brushed against his valve before a thick digit traced the edge of the wet rim and then it bent, touching the pulsing calipers -
Sunstreaker flung himself up, engine hot and revving. The loud whirr of fans filled the dark berthroom as his charged frame tried to cool itself off. His optics were unfocused, the visual sensors scrambling to recalibrate themselves after the unexpected end of defragmentation and forced to reboot.
So it was only normal that it took the yellow mech almost two breems to realize that he was not the only source of loud x-venting.
Glaring hotly down at the twitching Sideswipe, Sunstreaker's expression grew only more sour as his twin's EM field whirled uncontrollably, influenced by the same, albeit slightly warped memory flux that had awoken Sunstreaker.
Ever since Sideswipe had returned from that nightclub, the little glitch had been going on and on about the fragger that had managed to drink him under the table. Sunstreaker was surprised that even after so many solar cycles Sideswipe was still infatuated by this Ratchet; he kept returning to the nightclub, only to come back late in the dark cycle, gloomy and irritated. The increasing number of fantasies slipping through their twin bond had started to take over Sideswipe's - and thus also Sunstreaker's - recharge was also alarming.
Why would you spread your legs for him? Sunstreaker sneered silently at his still recharging twin, jealousy burning his lines with coldness of insecurity right behind its heels. A yellow servo rose, barely touching one black sensory horn. What makes him so special, brother?
Sideswipe didn't answer; instead his frame trembled as he reached his own peak. Keening lowly, the red frame tensed before relaxing again. Sunstreaker's vents stuttered as the ghostlike sensation of an overload passed over their bond. But instead of pleasure he felt only fear of a strange dream-mech that had suddenly invaded his - their - life.
One of the things Ratchet didn't understand about this planet's dominant species was their fascination with candles and especially with candle light. He had heard Mikaela gush over how Sam had taken her out to a restaurant that had had candles and how it had been 'so romantic'.
A quick search through the internet had left the CMO with more questions than answers.
For a rather primitive object, the religious meanings and tales surrounding the candle were vast and often very imaginative. Since the information didn't really do any good for him, Ratchet casted it away, adding it to his memory cortex under the file that was aptly designated as 'Human behavior - odd'.
It was months later, when was Ratchet returning from the Lennox family's farm, that he remembered the candle and its meanings.
The road was dark and the surrounding forest even darker. It was late in the fall, and the air was full of moisture but Ratchet detected a mild change in the temperature. The big Autobot considered it and made a mental note to order an extra medical check-up for the whole team, when his optical sensors noticed something glowing behind the rows of leafless trees.
Curious, Ratchet slowed down, calibrating his sensors for a long distance sweep. He became alarmed as he identified several sources of warmth, all of them immobile. Wondering, if he should contact Ironhide for backup, the CMO turned the curve on the road, and Ratchet's processor came to a halt.
Among the trees, hundreds of little balls of light floated just above the ground. They were placed unevenly, but as Ratchet turned his headlights off to inspect the scene more closely, the CMO started to make out certain patterns, following rows of shaped stones.
Ratchet felt his intakes hitch, a sharp hiss escaping his chassis as he realized he was seeing cemetery, filled with candles. His scans pinged, warning him of a human presence and the CMO witnessed yet another candle being lit and placed in front of a simple tombstone.
For a longest time, Ratchet just stayed there, parked on the roadside and watching the candles burn. His thoughts were filled with memories of friends, of loved ones. He remembered two lithe frames, almost identical in everything but coloration, the handsome faceplates of the two mechs he had once dared to call his own.
"I miss you,"Ratchet whispered into the night.
"I'm not certain, if I find this adorable or alarming."
"It's perfectly normal for him to test his limits."
"Sure, why don't we just drop him in the armory and see if he knows how to use a blas - ow!"
"Quiet. I want to see how far he reaches this time."
The two mechs, one immensely proud and the other unnerved, focused back on the little figure on the move. The sparkling's plating was still gray; the only real color about him was the bright blue optics. The tiny pedes were a bit wobbly, but the sheer determination on the little one's faceplates was just adorable as he toddled away.
"You are incorrigible. Red Alert is going to pitch a fit of the deca-vorn once he finds out."
The laughter came before he could stop it. "I know, and you can't make me feel bad about it."
The unexpected sound made the sparkling halt, turning precariously around to watch the two mechs leaning against the wall. The blue optics brightened, and the little faceplates nearly split in two with a wide smile, when he recognized his creator. The sparkling almost abandoned his quest, already taking a step towards them, but the encouraging nudge through the creator-creation bond made the little one chirp, questioning.
"Primus, how something can be so cute", Ratchet murmured, locking his joints to stop himself from scooping the sparkling into his arms. Pushing more love-safe-proud-proud-love through the bond, the medic was pleased as the little one resumed his mission.
Wheeljack, still weighing the pros and cons at pinging Red Alert and tell him to start planning for new security codes just in case, shook his helm. "Creator programming sure has mellowed you," he teased, helm-fins glowing in amusement.
The CMO paid no attention to the engineer, both he and the sparkling having grown still. Their bonds - sparkbond and creator-creation bond - sensed a surge of annoyance, mixed with worry. Ratchet caught the little one's emotions, a burst of mischief-play-play and the sparkling began to totter away as fast as he could.
Ratchet chuckled as a frowning Sunstreaker appeared through the open door of their quarters. Even Wheeljack had to stifle his laughter, when the yellow twin glared at Ratchet.
"Useless excuse of a sire," Sunstreaker groused, stomping after the happily squealing sparkling.
Only Ratchet and the twins' progeny would learn how to escape from the crib at the tender age of just a vorn.
Like I said in the previous chapter, some of these ficlets are linked together. In this particular one sets, drabbles #12 and #13 can be happen together - or not, it's really up to you as the reader - and I guess you pretty much guess just what story line #18 continues. ;D
See you hopefully soon~