[G1] Apple a Day 20
Aug. 26th, 2019 06:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: All About Those Expectations
Universe: G1, Apple a Day
Characters: Ratchet/Sunstreaker/Sideswipe, Ironhide
Rated: K+
Warnings: None
Description: Another date is had as Ratchet, Sunstreaker, and Sideswipe discuss what they want from each other – and how long they’ve wanted it.
For my Patreons. <3
Ding-dong-ding.
“Sunny, someone’s at the door,” Sideswipe mumbles as he rolls over and smashes his nasal ridge against the wall. It’s too early for this pitslag.
“Then answer it,” Sunstreaker growls from beneath the pillow pulled over his head.
Maybe they shouldn’t have stayed up so late battling each other in Mortal Kombat, but damn if there isn’t a certain pleasure to be had in kicking the heads off their opponents and watching the gouts of pixelated blood. It’s like war without all the pesky real consequences.
Besides, they'd needed the distraction from the interfacing they aren't supposed to have right now. Fragging Ratchet.
Well, actually.
Not fragging is the problem. Each other or Ratchet.
“You’re on the edge,” Sideswipe says, kicking at his brother, hard enough to make a point, but light enough not to dent, mark, or leave a streak behind.
"It's your turn."
Sunstreaker groans and elbows him hard in the side, right on a seam, pretending it's an accident as he throws off the pillow and clambers out of the berth. Oh, Sunshine. Totally not a morning mech, as evidenced by the way he stumbles toward the door. Or maybe he stumbles because he trips on one of the cords Sideswipe didn't reel up last night.
Oops.
"Fragger," Sunstreaker mutters.
Sideswipe grins. Sunstreaker's irritation is tainted with fondness across the bond. Heh. He loves his brother.
The door opens.
"Special delivery," comes Ironhide's familiar twang, and Sideswipe onlines one optic, peering blearily toward the door, where his twin blinks back at Ironhide, equally bleary.
"What?" Sunstreaker asks.
Ironhide thrusts a datapad toward them, grinning like he has a secret, and it's his prerogative to share. "From Ratchet."
Sideswipe's off the berth in a flash, excitement peppering through his spark in little bursts before his processor fully catches up to his audials. "Ratchet?" he echoes, excitedly.
And then he faceplants.
Frigging controller cord.
He feels, more than sees, Sunstreaker's optics roll.
"You are not my brother," Sunstreaker declares as Ironhide laughs.
"Ratch's got his hands full with you two. Which is good. Mech needs a distraction."
Sideswipe groans and pushes himself up, shaking his foot to clear the cord. He clambers to his feet, shakes off the humiliation, and pulls up to his twin's side, peering at the datapad Sunstreaker must have taken from Ironhide.
"What is it?"
"You'll have to open it to find out." Ironhide sketches them a salute. "I'm rootin’ for ya, brats," he says. "But if ya play this as a game you ain't serious about, I'm comin' for you."
What is this, the shovel talk, as humans call it?
Sideswipe wrinkles his nasal ridge. Sunstreaker rolls his optics again.
"Sure," Sunstreaker says, and presses the panel, closing the door in Ironhide's face. Maybe not the wisest move, but then, Ironhide's the one who woke them up.
Sunstreaker really isn't a morning mech.
Sideswipe snatches the datapad from him, twisting his body to keep Sunstreaker from taking it back.
"Aft," Sunstreaker mutters, giving up after a few fruitless efforts. He stalks away from Sideswipe, kicking aside the controller that caused so much fuss.
Sideswipe flicks on the datapad, which contains a couple documents and a few more detective novels for his reading pleasure. Ratchet really is the best.
"It's an invitation," Sideswipe says, that excitement building in his spark, until it tries to swallow him. "Another one, I mean. For dinner."
"Dinner," Sunstreaker echoes, and snorts. "We're becoming human."
"Well, that isn't so bad." Sideswipe shrugs and skims through the rest. "Friday night. In the rec room? That doesn't sound very romantic."
"It's Ratchet. Do you really think it's exactly what it says on the tin?"
Hmm. Good point.
"Friday feels like forever away," Sideswipe sighs as he reads the invitation again, hoping it'll offer more clues as to Ratchet's intentions, other than the obvious of course.
"The anticipation is part of the courtship process," Sunstreaker replies, quoting from that damned datapad. He's probably memorized the thing by now, having read it cover to cover, over and over.
Forget Ironhide's shovel talk.
If Ratchet's the one not serious about this, Sideswipe's gonna tear his spark out, no matter how much he adores their favorite medic. Sunstreaker is so invested in this, so excited, that Sideswipe will kill anyone who takes that away from him.
Which isn't to say Sideswipe's not excited and invested, because he is. He's just more cautious about it. Sunny's number one in his spark, always will be, but that doesn't mean there isn't room for Ratchet, because there is. It just means Sideswipe's going to be a bit more tentative about falling for him.
Even if, technically, he already has.
"The anticipation is gonna fry my circuits," Sideswipe grumbles as he rubs at his optics. It's too early to be up, but there's no point in going back to the berth. So he starts to tidy. "What masochist decided abstinence was necessary?"
"A romantic one," Sunstreaker says, and there's something wistful about his tone. Something longing and eager, and Sideswipe's grump goes away completely.
He crosses the floor in a few quick strides and drops into his brother's lap, slinging his arms over Sunstreaker's shoulders. He presses their foreheads together, and Sunstreaker blinks, surprise slingshotting across their bond.
"Wha--?"
"You know I love ya, right?" Sideswipe says with a little kiss to the corner of Sunstreaker's mouth, sliding his field warm and tender over Sunstreaker's. "And it's you and me forever, no matter what happens with Ratchet."
Sunstreaker's hands rest on his hips, but he rolls his optics. "That's a given."
"Good. Just checking." Sideswipe plants a kiss on the other corner of Sunstreaker's mouth. "Tell me we get to 'face after this date."
A huff of a laugh escapes his twin, and Sideswipe counts that as a win.
"Not entirely, but we can touch if we want," Sunstreaker says, and his optics go a little dim, his field flush with warmth and anticipation. "That's what we have to discuss. That's what this date is for."
Sideswipe blinks. "What do you mean?" He pulls back, because the temptation to kiss his brother into oblivion is too strong.
Sunstreaker grimaces. "We have to... talk about our expectations. In the berth." He wrinkles his nose, as if talking is the worst thing he could ever do.
For someone like Sunstreaker, it probably is.
"Oh, well that's easy enough." Sideswipe shrugs and gently strokes the side of his twin's throat with one hand. "Makes sense, too."
Sunstreaker grunts an affirmative, his hands sweeping up and down Sideswipe's sides, lingering on his seams, tracing the lines of his armor panels.
"It's going to be just fine," Sideswipe says, pressing his cheek to his twin's, tasting the edge of apprehension in his brother's field, and the hope peeking out from behind it. "It's going to be great."
This, at least, Sideswipe believes.
~
Friday comes too slowly.
Sunstreaker's not sure who's more anxious for it -- Sideswipe, because he's such an overclocked glitch or Sunstreaker himself, because he's desperate to know what Ratchet wants from them. If they're even compatible. Or if one high-grade induced night is the best it's going to get.
Nevertheless, he washes, waxes, and polishes both himself and Sideswipe until they shine like a newspark, their armor glowing deep and lustrous, their finish as perfect as Sunstreaker can manage with the substandard materials available on Earth.
It's a curiously empty corridor for a Friday night. Usually, all manner of Autobots would be out and about causing a ruckus, chatting about their plans or the recent Decepticon incursion. This time, Autobots are few and far between.
"Get the feeling we missed something?" Sideswipe asks.
Sunstreaker doesn't answer. This feels like Ironhide's doing, which means he leaned on Optimus and Optimus relented because for some reason, he actually enjoys Ironhide's face.
They arrive at the rec room, expecting to be assailed with the riotous noise of Autobots who've gotten off second-shift partaking in some energon and entertainment. And while there are a couple Autobots inside, they're parked in front of the massive vidscreen, quietly watching some nature show.
Which is odd.
Sunstreaker doesn't think he's ever seen Jazz so quiet, but he supposes being cuddled up to Perceptor will do that to a mech.
And then he sees the screens shielding the far corner of the rec room, turning it into a private area, with Ratchet standing just outside of an opening in the painted panels. He's reading from a datapad, but he looks up as they approach.
"Right on time," he says with a grin, and holds out his hand, dipping forward in a shallow bow. "Thank you for coming."
Sideswipe cycles his optics. "Uh. You're welcome. What is this?" he asks, craning his neck to try and peer past Ratchet.
Idiot.
Sunstreaker nudges him with an elbow and tilts his head toward the proffered hand. It takes quite a few orbital ridge waggles before Sideswipe gets the memo and places his hand in Ratchet's.
Then he shivers as Ratchet draws it to his mouth, placing the most delicate of kisses across the knuckles.
Sideswipe's surprised pleasure radiates across the bond.
Ratchet reaches for Sunstreaker next, and Sunstreaker is already waiting, resting his hand on Ratchet's as soon as the medic offers it. Ratchet smiles, leans in, but then turns Sunstreaker's hand up, his lips brushing over Sunstreaker's palm instead, with a warm ex-vent.
A shiver dances down Sunstreaker's spinal strut. There's heat in the way Ratchet looks at him, wanting in the gentle press of his lips.
Ratchet straightens, releasing Sunstreaker's hand, and it tingles in the aftermath. "This is dinner," Ratchet answers. "As private of one as I can make it." He gestures for them to enter.
Sunstreaker blinks with surprise. It's a little alcove, large enough for a table set for a meal, with three chairs around it. A large candle flickers in the center of the table, while holiday lights twinkle around the periphery, hanging from the privacy panels and the walls.
Ratchet pulls out a chair for each of them before he sits down himself.
"This is pretty swank," Sideswipe says with an approving look. "You did all this for us?"
"Well, I certainly didn't do it for anyone else," Ratchet says. He taps the table, near his plate, calling attention to it. "I had some help. Wasn't much of a cook before the war so I out-sourced."
“Really? Who?” Sunstreaker asks.
"Gears and Huffer, if you can believe it." Ratchet gives a little laugh, but there's something pained in it. "They used to be professionals."
Sideswipe picks up a utensil and pokes at the slice of oil cake drizzled with magnesium shavings. "War changes a lot of things." He looks up at Ratchet. "Did you tell them it was for us? Did they poison it?"
Ratchet snorts. "I'm sure they didn't." He cuts into his and takes a huge bite as if in a show of faith. "It's a matter of pride."
"I believe you," Sunstreaker says and takes a taste of his own, his chest rumbling at the delicious sweetness of it. He's never had them before, oil cakes always being something he and Sideswipe couldn't afford and couldn't steal.
They're heavenly.
"Yeah, I know you do." Ratchet gives him a warm look. "I've seen you fix their paint jobs as a punishment. They always look perfect."
"If I have to do it, I'm going to do it right," Sunstreaker says, though his insides flutter at the compliment.
"Just like with this." Ratchet waves over the meal and then gestures among the three of them. "The courtship, I mean."
Sideswipe beams. "Sunny's memorized the datapad you gave us."
"Shut up," Sunstreaker hisses, not that it deters Sideswipe in the slightest.
"That actually makes me happy to hear." Ratchet tilts his head, giving Sunstreaker his full attention. "Then you know what this date is for, right?"
Sunstreaker nods. "Expectations." He looks at his brother, giving him a nudge. "Get the datapad out. You brought it, right?"
"Of course I did." Sideswipe looks insulted, and he digs out the datapad, putting it in the center of the table, next to the flickering candlelight. "Mine and Sunny's terms, right here in print. Should be easy reading."
Ratchet doesn't immediately take it, and for a minute, Sunstreaker panics, thinking he was wrong, that he made some mistake. But, no. Ratchet cycles a ventilation and looks at them with a soft, genuine smile.
"Do you two know why I decided to use these courtship rituals?" he asks, folding his hands on the table behind his plate.
"To torment us," Sideswipe says.
Ratchet chuckles. "They torment me as much as they torment you, but no." He shakes his head. "Because I wanted to see how serious you were. How serious I was even. To see if this is worth it for all of us."
"And by this you mean... us. You and me and Sideswipe," Sunstreaker says.
"Exactly." Ratchet's field reaches out then, stroking along the edges of Sunstreaker's, and probably Sideswipe's as well given the way his optics darken with pure lust. "I've wanted you for a long time, and I needed a push to actually try for something because I’m a bit of a coward."
There's a lump in Sunstreaker's intake. It's hard to ventilate.
Ratchet wants them.
Ratchet wants them for longer than that one night. For more than that one night. He's wanted them for a long time.
"What..." Sideswipe pauses, licks his lips. "What do you mean 'long time'?" Beneath the table, he grips Sunstreaker's knee, not playfully, but like he needs something solid under his fingers.
Sunstreaker doesn't blame him. He feels like he's falling, too, so consuming is his surprise.
Ratchet's grin is wry and gentle and warm and wanting. "Since Uraya."
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe suck in a vent at the same time. They remember Uraya. Sunstreaker remembers it very clearly.
Remembers a battle going poorly for the Autobots as they fought on, waiting for reinforcements. Remembers Ratchet stuck behind enemy lines, desperately trying to save a spark that clearly wasn't going to make it. Remembers trying to convince Ratchet to leave, and failing, and covering the medic's frame with their own, because in the grand scheme of things, Ratchet will save more lives than they'll ever take, and the war, the Autobots, need him more.
But most of all.
Wanting to save Ratchet because he cares, and once the war is over, they'll need mechs who care. Especially a mech who cares about two gutterspawned near-Decepticons who most Autobots would rather shoot than save.
Yeah.
They remember Uraya.
It was a long, long time ago.
Sideswipe's grip on Sunstreaker's knee gets tighter. "We weren't anything then," he says. "We wouldn't even have been on the Ark's waiting list."
"And when have I ever struck you as the kind of mech who cares what people are rather than who they are?" Ratchet asks, an edge of a growl in his voice. "It started in Uraya, when you two put yourselves between me and a Seeker line of fire, and since then, I've done nothing but pay attention."
"Ratchet, no offense, but you've got terrible taste," Sideswipe says, his smirk crooked and self-deprecating.
"Speak for yourself," Sunstreaker says, indignant. "We might be a hot mess on the inside, but at least we're gorgeous. He's got great taste."
Ratchet chuckles, and it's affectionate down to the layered harmonics. "Yes, you're gorgeous. And yes, you're a mess. But we all are." He spreads his hands. "If you don't want me, that's one thing. I already know I want you."
"Whoa, whoa. Hold on. We didn't say that," Sideswipe says as he holds his own hands up. "We're here, aren't we? Because that's definite interest on our side."
“I wouldn’t bother studying the datapad if we weren’t interested,” Sunstreaker adds, and takes another huge bite of his oil cake, just to prove how appreciative he is. Not that it’s hard.
He might have to change his mind about minibots, if they’re capable of creating something this delicious.
“I believe you.” Ratchet finally picks up their datapad, exchanging it for one of his own. “Last time we set the rules for our courtship. Now we’re setting the terms for a relationship.”
“I remember,” Sunstreaker says, and he’s the one to take the datapad rather than Sideswipe, since he’s the one who knows more about what’s going on. He powers it on and starts skimming, relieved to find that a lot of Ratchet’s expectations match their own.
"You know these terms aren't exhaustive, right?" Ratchet asks as he swipes through their datapad. "We can alter it at any time."
"We know," Sideswipe and Sunstreaker say in unison, which is something they don't often do, since it tends to weird other mechs out.
Ratchet, however, doesn't even blink.
He actually chuckles and smiles at them. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He reads with one hand, and feeds himself more oil cake with the other, little crumbles sticking to his lips, and Sunstreaker has to resist the urge to brush them away.
“You’re cruel, you know that,” Sideswipe says as if reading Sunstreaker’s thoughts, which he’s fully capable of doing. “Having us discuss interfacing and all that when you’ve got our panels on lock.”
The corner of Ratchet’s mouth curves in a devilish grin. “Patience is a virtue, and anticipation makes the reward all the sweeter,” he says.
Sideswipe groans.
Sunstreaker hides his smile behind the datapad. It’s not that he doesn’t miss interfacing, because he does. But he also enjoys seeing Sideswipe thwarted in such an entertaining manner.
And he even more enjoys that they’re going through this because they mean something to Ratchet.
That’s worth all the waiting in the world.
Beep! Beep!
Lights flash. The siren sounds. Sunstreaker startles, nearly out of his chair, fumbling the datapad as Sideswipe bites too hard on his cutlery and cuts his bottom lip. Ratchet swears, his face twisting with displeasure.
“Decepticons sighted near Diablo Canyon.” Red Alert’s voice pours over the speakers. “Repeat: Decepticons sighted near Diablo Canyon. Alpha and Beta teams report for action, Gamma team on standby. Repeat…”
And on it goes.
“Of course. Because why wouldn’t there be a Decepticon attack right now?” Ratchet snaps with a roll of his optics. He stands and blows out the candle. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.”
Sunstreaker stows his datapad as murder starts to broil and build in his spark. “Someone is going to pay for this,” he says.
“Yeah. Whichever Decepticon I can get my piledrivers on first,” Sideswipe agrees.
They are going to regret interrupting Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s date.
Sunstreaker will make sure of it.
***
Universe: G1, Apple a Day
Characters: Ratchet/Sunstreaker/Sideswipe, Ironhide
Rated: K+
Warnings: None
Description: Another date is had as Ratchet, Sunstreaker, and Sideswipe discuss what they want from each other – and how long they’ve wanted it.
For my Patreons. <3
Ding-dong-ding.
“Sunny, someone’s at the door,” Sideswipe mumbles as he rolls over and smashes his nasal ridge against the wall. It’s too early for this pitslag.
“Then answer it,” Sunstreaker growls from beneath the pillow pulled over his head.
Maybe they shouldn’t have stayed up so late battling each other in Mortal Kombat, but damn if there isn’t a certain pleasure to be had in kicking the heads off their opponents and watching the gouts of pixelated blood. It’s like war without all the pesky real consequences.
Besides, they'd needed the distraction from the interfacing they aren't supposed to have right now. Fragging Ratchet.
Well, actually.
Not fragging is the problem. Each other or Ratchet.
“You’re on the edge,” Sideswipe says, kicking at his brother, hard enough to make a point, but light enough not to dent, mark, or leave a streak behind.
"It's your turn."
Sunstreaker groans and elbows him hard in the side, right on a seam, pretending it's an accident as he throws off the pillow and clambers out of the berth. Oh, Sunshine. Totally not a morning mech, as evidenced by the way he stumbles toward the door. Or maybe he stumbles because he trips on one of the cords Sideswipe didn't reel up last night.
Oops.
"Fragger," Sunstreaker mutters.
Sideswipe grins. Sunstreaker's irritation is tainted with fondness across the bond. Heh. He loves his brother.
The door opens.
"Special delivery," comes Ironhide's familiar twang, and Sideswipe onlines one optic, peering blearily toward the door, where his twin blinks back at Ironhide, equally bleary.
"What?" Sunstreaker asks.
Ironhide thrusts a datapad toward them, grinning like he has a secret, and it's his prerogative to share. "From Ratchet."
Sideswipe's off the berth in a flash, excitement peppering through his spark in little bursts before his processor fully catches up to his audials. "Ratchet?" he echoes, excitedly.
And then he faceplants.
Frigging controller cord.
He feels, more than sees, Sunstreaker's optics roll.
"You are not my brother," Sunstreaker declares as Ironhide laughs.
"Ratch's got his hands full with you two. Which is good. Mech needs a distraction."
Sideswipe groans and pushes himself up, shaking his foot to clear the cord. He clambers to his feet, shakes off the humiliation, and pulls up to his twin's side, peering at the datapad Sunstreaker must have taken from Ironhide.
"What is it?"
"You'll have to open it to find out." Ironhide sketches them a salute. "I'm rootin’ for ya, brats," he says. "But if ya play this as a game you ain't serious about, I'm comin' for you."
What is this, the shovel talk, as humans call it?
Sideswipe wrinkles his nasal ridge. Sunstreaker rolls his optics again.
"Sure," Sunstreaker says, and presses the panel, closing the door in Ironhide's face. Maybe not the wisest move, but then, Ironhide's the one who woke them up.
Sunstreaker really isn't a morning mech.
Sideswipe snatches the datapad from him, twisting his body to keep Sunstreaker from taking it back.
"Aft," Sunstreaker mutters, giving up after a few fruitless efforts. He stalks away from Sideswipe, kicking aside the controller that caused so much fuss.
Sideswipe flicks on the datapad, which contains a couple documents and a few more detective novels for his reading pleasure. Ratchet really is the best.
"It's an invitation," Sideswipe says, that excitement building in his spark, until it tries to swallow him. "Another one, I mean. For dinner."
"Dinner," Sunstreaker echoes, and snorts. "We're becoming human."
"Well, that isn't so bad." Sideswipe shrugs and skims through the rest. "Friday night. In the rec room? That doesn't sound very romantic."
"It's Ratchet. Do you really think it's exactly what it says on the tin?"
Hmm. Good point.
"Friday feels like forever away," Sideswipe sighs as he reads the invitation again, hoping it'll offer more clues as to Ratchet's intentions, other than the obvious of course.
"The anticipation is part of the courtship process," Sunstreaker replies, quoting from that damned datapad. He's probably memorized the thing by now, having read it cover to cover, over and over.
Forget Ironhide's shovel talk.
If Ratchet's the one not serious about this, Sideswipe's gonna tear his spark out, no matter how much he adores their favorite medic. Sunstreaker is so invested in this, so excited, that Sideswipe will kill anyone who takes that away from him.
Which isn't to say Sideswipe's not excited and invested, because he is. He's just more cautious about it. Sunny's number one in his spark, always will be, but that doesn't mean there isn't room for Ratchet, because there is. It just means Sideswipe's going to be a bit more tentative about falling for him.
Even if, technically, he already has.
"The anticipation is gonna fry my circuits," Sideswipe grumbles as he rubs at his optics. It's too early to be up, but there's no point in going back to the berth. So he starts to tidy. "What masochist decided abstinence was necessary?"
"A romantic one," Sunstreaker says, and there's something wistful about his tone. Something longing and eager, and Sideswipe's grump goes away completely.
He crosses the floor in a few quick strides and drops into his brother's lap, slinging his arms over Sunstreaker's shoulders. He presses their foreheads together, and Sunstreaker blinks, surprise slingshotting across their bond.
"Wha--?"
"You know I love ya, right?" Sideswipe says with a little kiss to the corner of Sunstreaker's mouth, sliding his field warm and tender over Sunstreaker's. "And it's you and me forever, no matter what happens with Ratchet."
Sunstreaker's hands rest on his hips, but he rolls his optics. "That's a given."
"Good. Just checking." Sideswipe plants a kiss on the other corner of Sunstreaker's mouth. "Tell me we get to 'face after this date."
A huff of a laugh escapes his twin, and Sideswipe counts that as a win.
"Not entirely, but we can touch if we want," Sunstreaker says, and his optics go a little dim, his field flush with warmth and anticipation. "That's what we have to discuss. That's what this date is for."
Sideswipe blinks. "What do you mean?" He pulls back, because the temptation to kiss his brother into oblivion is too strong.
Sunstreaker grimaces. "We have to... talk about our expectations. In the berth." He wrinkles his nose, as if talking is the worst thing he could ever do.
For someone like Sunstreaker, it probably is.
"Oh, well that's easy enough." Sideswipe shrugs and gently strokes the side of his twin's throat with one hand. "Makes sense, too."
Sunstreaker grunts an affirmative, his hands sweeping up and down Sideswipe's sides, lingering on his seams, tracing the lines of his armor panels.
"It's going to be just fine," Sideswipe says, pressing his cheek to his twin's, tasting the edge of apprehension in his brother's field, and the hope peeking out from behind it. "It's going to be great."
This, at least, Sideswipe believes.
Friday comes too slowly.
Sunstreaker's not sure who's more anxious for it -- Sideswipe, because he's such an overclocked glitch or Sunstreaker himself, because he's desperate to know what Ratchet wants from them. If they're even compatible. Or if one high-grade induced night is the best it's going to get.
Nevertheless, he washes, waxes, and polishes both himself and Sideswipe until they shine like a newspark, their armor glowing deep and lustrous, their finish as perfect as Sunstreaker can manage with the substandard materials available on Earth.
It's a curiously empty corridor for a Friday night. Usually, all manner of Autobots would be out and about causing a ruckus, chatting about their plans or the recent Decepticon incursion. This time, Autobots are few and far between.
"Get the feeling we missed something?" Sideswipe asks.
Sunstreaker doesn't answer. This feels like Ironhide's doing, which means he leaned on Optimus and Optimus relented because for some reason, he actually enjoys Ironhide's face.
They arrive at the rec room, expecting to be assailed with the riotous noise of Autobots who've gotten off second-shift partaking in some energon and entertainment. And while there are a couple Autobots inside, they're parked in front of the massive vidscreen, quietly watching some nature show.
Which is odd.
Sunstreaker doesn't think he's ever seen Jazz so quiet, but he supposes being cuddled up to Perceptor will do that to a mech.
And then he sees the screens shielding the far corner of the rec room, turning it into a private area, with Ratchet standing just outside of an opening in the painted panels. He's reading from a datapad, but he looks up as they approach.
"Right on time," he says with a grin, and holds out his hand, dipping forward in a shallow bow. "Thank you for coming."
Sideswipe cycles his optics. "Uh. You're welcome. What is this?" he asks, craning his neck to try and peer past Ratchet.
Idiot.
Sunstreaker nudges him with an elbow and tilts his head toward the proffered hand. It takes quite a few orbital ridge waggles before Sideswipe gets the memo and places his hand in Ratchet's.
Then he shivers as Ratchet draws it to his mouth, placing the most delicate of kisses across the knuckles.
Sideswipe's surprised pleasure radiates across the bond.
Ratchet reaches for Sunstreaker next, and Sunstreaker is already waiting, resting his hand on Ratchet's as soon as the medic offers it. Ratchet smiles, leans in, but then turns Sunstreaker's hand up, his lips brushing over Sunstreaker's palm instead, with a warm ex-vent.
A shiver dances down Sunstreaker's spinal strut. There's heat in the way Ratchet looks at him, wanting in the gentle press of his lips.
Ratchet straightens, releasing Sunstreaker's hand, and it tingles in the aftermath. "This is dinner," Ratchet answers. "As private of one as I can make it." He gestures for them to enter.
Sunstreaker blinks with surprise. It's a little alcove, large enough for a table set for a meal, with three chairs around it. A large candle flickers in the center of the table, while holiday lights twinkle around the periphery, hanging from the privacy panels and the walls.
Ratchet pulls out a chair for each of them before he sits down himself.
"This is pretty swank," Sideswipe says with an approving look. "You did all this for us?"
"Well, I certainly didn't do it for anyone else," Ratchet says. He taps the table, near his plate, calling attention to it. "I had some help. Wasn't much of a cook before the war so I out-sourced."
“Really? Who?” Sunstreaker asks.
"Gears and Huffer, if you can believe it." Ratchet gives a little laugh, but there's something pained in it. "They used to be professionals."
Sideswipe picks up a utensil and pokes at the slice of oil cake drizzled with magnesium shavings. "War changes a lot of things." He looks up at Ratchet. "Did you tell them it was for us? Did they poison it?"
Ratchet snorts. "I'm sure they didn't." He cuts into his and takes a huge bite as if in a show of faith. "It's a matter of pride."
"I believe you," Sunstreaker says and takes a taste of his own, his chest rumbling at the delicious sweetness of it. He's never had them before, oil cakes always being something he and Sideswipe couldn't afford and couldn't steal.
They're heavenly.
"Yeah, I know you do." Ratchet gives him a warm look. "I've seen you fix their paint jobs as a punishment. They always look perfect."
"If I have to do it, I'm going to do it right," Sunstreaker says, though his insides flutter at the compliment.
"Just like with this." Ratchet waves over the meal and then gestures among the three of them. "The courtship, I mean."
Sideswipe beams. "Sunny's memorized the datapad you gave us."
"Shut up," Sunstreaker hisses, not that it deters Sideswipe in the slightest.
"That actually makes me happy to hear." Ratchet tilts his head, giving Sunstreaker his full attention. "Then you know what this date is for, right?"
Sunstreaker nods. "Expectations." He looks at his brother, giving him a nudge. "Get the datapad out. You brought it, right?"
"Of course I did." Sideswipe looks insulted, and he digs out the datapad, putting it in the center of the table, next to the flickering candlelight. "Mine and Sunny's terms, right here in print. Should be easy reading."
Ratchet doesn't immediately take it, and for a minute, Sunstreaker panics, thinking he was wrong, that he made some mistake. But, no. Ratchet cycles a ventilation and looks at them with a soft, genuine smile.
"Do you two know why I decided to use these courtship rituals?" he asks, folding his hands on the table behind his plate.
"To torment us," Sideswipe says.
Ratchet chuckles. "They torment me as much as they torment you, but no." He shakes his head. "Because I wanted to see how serious you were. How serious I was even. To see if this is worth it for all of us."
"And by this you mean... us. You and me and Sideswipe," Sunstreaker says.
"Exactly." Ratchet's field reaches out then, stroking along the edges of Sunstreaker's, and probably Sideswipe's as well given the way his optics darken with pure lust. "I've wanted you for a long time, and I needed a push to actually try for something because I’m a bit of a coward."
There's a lump in Sunstreaker's intake. It's hard to ventilate.
Ratchet wants them.
Ratchet wants them for longer than that one night. For more than that one night. He's wanted them for a long time.
"What..." Sideswipe pauses, licks his lips. "What do you mean 'long time'?" Beneath the table, he grips Sunstreaker's knee, not playfully, but like he needs something solid under his fingers.
Sunstreaker doesn't blame him. He feels like he's falling, too, so consuming is his surprise.
Ratchet's grin is wry and gentle and warm and wanting. "Since Uraya."
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe suck in a vent at the same time. They remember Uraya. Sunstreaker remembers it very clearly.
Remembers a battle going poorly for the Autobots as they fought on, waiting for reinforcements. Remembers Ratchet stuck behind enemy lines, desperately trying to save a spark that clearly wasn't going to make it. Remembers trying to convince Ratchet to leave, and failing, and covering the medic's frame with their own, because in the grand scheme of things, Ratchet will save more lives than they'll ever take, and the war, the Autobots, need him more.
But most of all.
Wanting to save Ratchet because he cares, and once the war is over, they'll need mechs who care. Especially a mech who cares about two gutterspawned near-Decepticons who most Autobots would rather shoot than save.
Yeah.
They remember Uraya.
It was a long, long time ago.
Sideswipe's grip on Sunstreaker's knee gets tighter. "We weren't anything then," he says. "We wouldn't even have been on the Ark's waiting list."
"And when have I ever struck you as the kind of mech who cares what people are rather than who they are?" Ratchet asks, an edge of a growl in his voice. "It started in Uraya, when you two put yourselves between me and a Seeker line of fire, and since then, I've done nothing but pay attention."
"Ratchet, no offense, but you've got terrible taste," Sideswipe says, his smirk crooked and self-deprecating.
"Speak for yourself," Sunstreaker says, indignant. "We might be a hot mess on the inside, but at least we're gorgeous. He's got great taste."
Ratchet chuckles, and it's affectionate down to the layered harmonics. "Yes, you're gorgeous. And yes, you're a mess. But we all are." He spreads his hands. "If you don't want me, that's one thing. I already know I want you."
"Whoa, whoa. Hold on. We didn't say that," Sideswipe says as he holds his own hands up. "We're here, aren't we? Because that's definite interest on our side."
“I wouldn’t bother studying the datapad if we weren’t interested,” Sunstreaker adds, and takes another huge bite of his oil cake, just to prove how appreciative he is. Not that it’s hard.
He might have to change his mind about minibots, if they’re capable of creating something this delicious.
“I believe you.” Ratchet finally picks up their datapad, exchanging it for one of his own. “Last time we set the rules for our courtship. Now we’re setting the terms for a relationship.”
“I remember,” Sunstreaker says, and he’s the one to take the datapad rather than Sideswipe, since he’s the one who knows more about what’s going on. He powers it on and starts skimming, relieved to find that a lot of Ratchet’s expectations match their own.
"You know these terms aren't exhaustive, right?" Ratchet asks as he swipes through their datapad. "We can alter it at any time."
"We know," Sideswipe and Sunstreaker say in unison, which is something they don't often do, since it tends to weird other mechs out.
Ratchet, however, doesn't even blink.
He actually chuckles and smiles at them. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He reads with one hand, and feeds himself more oil cake with the other, little crumbles sticking to his lips, and Sunstreaker has to resist the urge to brush them away.
“You’re cruel, you know that,” Sideswipe says as if reading Sunstreaker’s thoughts, which he’s fully capable of doing. “Having us discuss interfacing and all that when you’ve got our panels on lock.”
The corner of Ratchet’s mouth curves in a devilish grin. “Patience is a virtue, and anticipation makes the reward all the sweeter,” he says.
Sideswipe groans.
Sunstreaker hides his smile behind the datapad. It’s not that he doesn’t miss interfacing, because he does. But he also enjoys seeing Sideswipe thwarted in such an entertaining manner.
And he even more enjoys that they’re going through this because they mean something to Ratchet.
That’s worth all the waiting in the world.
Beep! Beep!
Lights flash. The siren sounds. Sunstreaker startles, nearly out of his chair, fumbling the datapad as Sideswipe bites too hard on his cutlery and cuts his bottom lip. Ratchet swears, his face twisting with displeasure.
“Decepticons sighted near Diablo Canyon.” Red Alert’s voice pours over the speakers. “Repeat: Decepticons sighted near Diablo Canyon. Alpha and Beta teams report for action, Gamma team on standby. Repeat…”
And on it goes.
“Of course. Because why wouldn’t there be a Decepticon attack right now?” Ratchet snaps with a roll of his optics. He stands and blows out the candle. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.”
Sunstreaker stows his datapad as murder starts to broil and build in his spark. “Someone is going to pay for this,” he says.
“Yeah. Whichever Decepticon I can get my piledrivers on first,” Sideswipe agrees.
They are going to regret interrupting Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s date.
Sunstreaker will make sure of it.
