[TFP] Child's Play
May. 28th, 2020 06:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Child’s Play
Universe: TFP, Event Horizon Universe
Characters: Raoul, Tracks, Ratchet, Sunstreaker
Rated: K+
Description: Raoul Gonzalez is absolutely sure this must be a dream, because why else would there be a ten-foot robot child wandering around his scrapyard?
Raoul easily ignores the first clatter, the second clatter, and the third clatter. It’s early, and he owns a junkyard. Piles of metal tumbling over is pretty common. A stiff breeze might send a perilious stack of old hubcaps rolling for the hills.
The fourth clatter, however, finally pierces his morning haze. Or maybe it’s that he’s finally consumed enough coffee to register the racket, because it’s a bit too much noise to be normal.
If those damn brats are making forts in his junkyard again, Raoul is going to call the cops this time, rather than their parents. Enough is enough! A man’s still gotta make a living, even if it is junk.
Raoul scowls, shoves his feet into his boots, and pelts out the back door, mourning the coffee he left steaming on the desk. He grabs his trusty baseball bat along the way -- he’s never used it on anyone, but it does give an effective threat.
He charges toward the sound, weaving through familiar stacks of salvage and junk alike, the smell of decaying metal and car emissions like a comforting perfume. Another loud crash orients him toward the source of the noise, and Raoul twists his face into something scary as he rounds a careful square stack of old refrigerators.
“Alright you miscreants! What did I tell you about…”
His words die in his throat.
He skids to a halt and stares up at something. Because what’s currently rifling through a pile of unsorted salvage is not a trio of teenage troublemakers, but a... a robot? A mech? A thing made of metal and shaped like a human that turns toward Raoul with blue eyes that seem to widen and brighten with surprise.
“Oh!” the mech-thing says with a surprisingly cheerful voice. “Hello! Are you the human who lives here?”
Raoul’s mouth opens and closes. “You…” he says, and struggles to find his composure. He doesn’t realize he’s backing up until he nearly trips on a bicycle tire. “What are you?”
“I’m--” The mech-thing stops, tilts its head, and then it backs away from Raoul as if it’s the one who should be afraid. “Oh, no. I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers. Papa’s gonna be mad.”
“Papa?” Raoul echoes. His voice is faint because he doesn’t know what’s going on, and he quite possibly didn’t have enough coffee, and maybe he’s dreaming.
Yeah. That’s it. This is just some elaborate dream.
Phew.
Well, in that case -- Raoul tosses the baseball bat aside, holds up his hands, and smiles warmly. “Are you lost, little robot? Is that it? Are you looking for your parents?”
It’s not the weirdest dreams he’s ever had, in retrospect. But he’ll take it over the zombie apocalypse any day of the week.
“I’m not lost,” the mech says, indignant. It stands up a little straighter and the wing-things on its back twitch. “I’m exactly where I’m ‘sposed to be. Papa and Mama’s sleeping so there.” It sticks out its tongue -- it has a tongue, what the hell -- at Raoul.
It’s a child.
This thing is a child of some kind.
All right. Raoul can work with this. His little sister has like seven of the things. He’s got oodles of nieces and nephews. He can handle a giant robotic child.
First things first.
Raoul smiles and plants his hands on his hips. “Let’s start over,” he says, and gestures to himself. “I’m Raoul Gonzalez. And you are…?”
“Tracks!” the robot chirps, and Raoul’s gonna hazard a guess that it’s… male? Better than calling him an ‘it’ anyway.
“Tracks,” Raoul repeats. “Nice to meet you, Tracks.” He smiles again and dares take a step closer. “See? Now we’re not strangers anymore.”
Which is exactly what a predator would say. Ay-yi-yi, Raoul get yourself together here! If he saw some grown-ass man talking to one of his sister’s kids like this, he’d bash the man’s brains in. Not cool.
Raoul takes a deep breath. “This is my scrapyard, by the way, and I’m just a little surprised to find you here.”
“We were s’prised to come here,” Tracks says, and his winglets move up and down again.
He really is a pretty color, all bright blues and greys with bits of red and white. There’s a symbol on his chest, too. Some kind of red face?
“Mama thought we were gonna show up somewhere else.” He tilts his head and taps his chin. “Mmm. Can’t remember the name.” He twists his face up an expression of disgust. “This place is dirty. Papa doesn’t like it. I don’t either.”
Raoul, despite himself, laughs. “I’ll give you that much. It’s a junkyard. It’s supposed to be dirty.” He cranes his neck, but it’s hard to see anything around here, what with the piles of scrap everywhere. “Where are your parents?”
Tracks hums and turns in a slow circle, the ground trembling under the weight of him. Nearby, an old toaster tumbles off a haphazard stack and clatters to the ground.
Raoul winces.
Tracks doesn’t seem to notice.
“Somewhere around here.” Tracks presses his finger to his lip, nibbling on the end of it. “I’m not sure.” He trundles forward, peering around a stack of rusting stoves.
“We could go look for them,” Raoul suggests, because the large robot child is starting to make a small, scared sound, and his inner Uncle is twinging with the need to comfort him. “They’re probably missing you.”
And good God. If this thing is a child, how large are the parents? Tracks is about five feet taller than Raoul, and twice as broad as him. He seems to be made entirely of metal and wait -- are those tires? He has tires attached to him in the weirdest place. Why does he have tires?
Tracks starts to head further into the scrapyard, toward the area Raoul has affectionately dubbed the Caryard -- or the place where cars go to die. There are piles and piles of crushed vehicles, salvaged vehicles, rusting vehicles. He has everything from small family sedans to eight-seater soccermom vans to old ambulances and even a few decrepit military humvees.
“What were you looking for out here anyway?” Raoul asks as he jogs to keep up with Tracks, whose longer stride makes him much quicker.
“Energon,” Tracks chirps, and his little wings bounce up and down. It’s kind of adorable. “Or, I dunno, something to do? I’m bored.”
“What’s energon?” Raoul asks. The word feels strange on his tongue. Energon. Ener-gon. Eeeeenergon. What kind of thing is it? A tool? A weapon? A robot part?
Tracks stops mid-stride and spins around, toward another loose pile of unsorted salvage. He picks up what looks like a passenger window, streaked with dirt, and holds it up to the light. He then frowns with disappointment and tosses it down.
It predictably shatters.
“Thought it was a mirror,” he grumbles.
Raoul sighs. He’ll have to pick that up later so one of the aforementioned ruffians don’t hurt themselves on it. He doesn’t like unwanted visitors, but he’s not a monster. He doesn't want them to get hurt.
“So I take it glass isn’t energon,” Raoul says.
Tracks looks at him, and weird robot or not, he still manages to pull off the look all children give adults who ask stupid questions. “No,” he says, and of all things, rolls his eyes. “Energon glows blue,” he says. “It’s wet. It’s a…” He pauses, and then smiles, big and broad. “Liquid! Or sometimes a rock.”
God, he’s cute. Why is he cute? He’s a giant robot child, and he’s cute. Raoul wants to keep him. Okay, sure, he said he never wanted kids, but he didn’t know giant robot children were an option.
Besides, this is all a dream anyway.
“There aren’t a lot of rocks around here,” Raoul points out. Which is technically not a lie. Sure in Jasper, Nevada there are a lot of desert and rock-like areas, but right here, around this junkyard, there are not a lot of rocks.
There is, however, a lot of dead grass.
“I know that!” Tracks says with a huff.
He stomps one foot, and Raoul watches something tumble from a nearby stack and rattle-rattle-clunk to the ground. He has no idea what that construction of wires and metal is, but it made its way here. He’ll salvage it eventually.
Raoul pats the air. “Of course you knew that. Silly me,” he says. “I’ll bet your parents have some energon though. We should find them.”
“Mama definitely does.” Tracks whirls, heading toward the Caryard once again. Something rumbles inside his body, like a car engine honestly. Raoul knows his car engines, and that definitely sounds like a V8.
This is just getting weirder.
Tracks is not so easily distracted this time, and Raoul fights for breath as he jogs in the baby robot’s wake, his feet aching from boots which are not suited to athletic ventures. Tracks babbling excitedly.
“How old are you, Tracks?”
“I don’t know!”
“Where are you from?”
“Here, I guess.”
“How long have you been in my scrapyard?”
“Not long.”
Full of answers this one is. Raoul hopes his parents have more to offer, while he also hopes the parents don’t immediately squash him flat.
“Do you like it here?” Raoul asks.
“Not really. It’s dirty. And smelly. But we have to be here, because our home got blowed up,” Tracks says, and Raoul nearly trips and falls on his face.
“Wait. What?” Raoul puts on a burst of speed to intercept Tracks and put a stop to their hurried pace. “Your home was blown up?”
Tracks nods, and twists his fingers together, his winglets drooping down. “Mama said we had to go, and Prowl said we had to go, and I didn’t see it, but I guess it got blowed up.” He pauses, his little eyes go narrow, and he says, “Blown up. Blown up.”
Are they refugees?
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Tracks. I guess you guys just need a place to stay, huh?” Raoul scrubs the back of his neck. He supposes if he were a creature made of metal, he’d pick a scrapyard to hide out in as well.
“Tracks!”
Raoul freezes.
Tracks’ eyes go really bright. “Mama!” he shrieks in that too-loud, high-pitched way all children do. He darts full tilt past Raoul, making the ground tremble.
Raoul almost doesn’t want to turn around, but he does and…
Big.
That’s a very large robot. White and red. Easily over twenty feet tall. Broad shoulders and is that a medical symbol on his arm? Her arm? Tracks had said Mama, right? But that voice had sounded very male.
‘Mama’ scoops Tracks up into his arms. “Where have you been? We told you not to leave our sight.”
“But I was hungry,” Tracks whines. “And I was bored.”
“Oh, thank Primus. You found him.” A third robot skids into view, this one a gleaming gold, much slimmer than the other, and taller still. His voice is deeper, more resonant, and holy shit, are those guns in his hands?
“Papa!” Tracks bounces in his mother’s arms, eyes bright with glee.
“Don’t you look at me with that cute smile, Tracks, you’re in trouble,” says Papa with a low growl, definitely an engine growl, and if Raoul doesn’t know better, he’d think it was a V12.
“I don’t want to be in trouble,” Tracks wails and wriggles out of his Mama’s arms, his winglets drooping again. “I just wanted to play. Look, I even made a friend.”
He points at Raoul, and two pairs of eyes look down at the tiny human, and Raoul realizes he missed his opportunity to run.
“It’s a human,” says Tracks’ Papa.
“Yes,” says Tracks’ Mama.
He pushes Tracks toward the yellow robot while he of the red and white paint crouches down, eyes narrowed. “And I’m guessing this trash heap belongs to you, human.”
“His name is Raoul,” Tracks pipes up as his Papa pulls him back into reach, one arm wrapped protectively around him.
Papa is still holding a very big gun.
Raoul gulps.
“Raoul Gonzalez,” he corrects. “And this is my scrapyard, yeah.” He finds his courage where it fell around his knees, and pulls it back up, at least to his shoulders. “And you three are trespassing, but Tracks here tells me your home got, uh, blowed up as he put it so I’m supposin’ you don’t have nowhere else.”
“Gonzalez,” the red robot says and tilts his head. “I swear I’ve heard that before. Hmmm.”
“Does it matter?” the yellow robot snaps.
‘Mama’ sighs, and ignores him. “You would shelter us here? Why aren’t you afraid, Raoul Gonzalez?”
“Because this is a dream.” Raoul spreads his hands, though his certainty is starting to wobble a wee bit. “Nothing to be scared of in a dream. I mean, giant robots don’t actually exist.”
The yellow robot snorts. “He’s an idiot, Ratchet. I’m starting to think the children of this planet are smarter than the adults.”
Ratchet, apparently, pinches his nose and says, “This isn’t a dream, Raoul. This is real. We’re real, and I’m afraid we need your help.”
Raoul blinks.
“It’s real?” he asks, tentative.
“Yup,” says the yellow robot.
“It’s a long story,” says Ratchet. He lowers himself down further, until he’s sitting in an awkward lotus with Tracks immediately throwing himself into Ratchet’s lap while Papa stands guard over them. “You should get comfortable.”
“Wait, are we really going to trust this human?” the other mech asks.
Ratchet looks up at him. “I don’t see where we have another choice, Sunstreaker. For now, we’re on our own.”
Ah! A name. Finally. Man, do these guys have some weird names.
Sunstreaker scoffs and says, with a smirk which makes Raoul’s knees turn to jelly, “You did say we would need a babysitter. Guess this human will do.”
Ratchet sighs.
Tracks giggles.
Raoul’s eyes get wide.
God.
What has he gotten himself into now?
***
Universe: TFP, Event Horizon Universe
Characters: Raoul, Tracks, Ratchet, Sunstreaker
Rated: K+
Description: Raoul Gonzalez is absolutely sure this must be a dream, because why else would there be a ten-foot robot child wandering around his scrapyard?
Raoul easily ignores the first clatter, the second clatter, and the third clatter. It’s early, and he owns a junkyard. Piles of metal tumbling over is pretty common. A stiff breeze might send a perilious stack of old hubcaps rolling for the hills.
The fourth clatter, however, finally pierces his morning haze. Or maybe it’s that he’s finally consumed enough coffee to register the racket, because it’s a bit too much noise to be normal.
If those damn brats are making forts in his junkyard again, Raoul is going to call the cops this time, rather than their parents. Enough is enough! A man’s still gotta make a living, even if it is junk.
Raoul scowls, shoves his feet into his boots, and pelts out the back door, mourning the coffee he left steaming on the desk. He grabs his trusty baseball bat along the way -- he’s never used it on anyone, but it does give an effective threat.
He charges toward the sound, weaving through familiar stacks of salvage and junk alike, the smell of decaying metal and car emissions like a comforting perfume. Another loud crash orients him toward the source of the noise, and Raoul twists his face into something scary as he rounds a careful square stack of old refrigerators.
“Alright you miscreants! What did I tell you about…”
His words die in his throat.
He skids to a halt and stares up at something. Because what’s currently rifling through a pile of unsorted salvage is not a trio of teenage troublemakers, but a... a robot? A mech? A thing made of metal and shaped like a human that turns toward Raoul with blue eyes that seem to widen and brighten with surprise.
“Oh!” the mech-thing says with a surprisingly cheerful voice. “Hello! Are you the human who lives here?”
Raoul’s mouth opens and closes. “You…” he says, and struggles to find his composure. He doesn’t realize he’s backing up until he nearly trips on a bicycle tire. “What are you?”
“I’m--” The mech-thing stops, tilts its head, and then it backs away from Raoul as if it’s the one who should be afraid. “Oh, no. I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers. Papa’s gonna be mad.”
“Papa?” Raoul echoes. His voice is faint because he doesn’t know what’s going on, and he quite possibly didn’t have enough coffee, and maybe he’s dreaming.
Yeah. That’s it. This is just some elaborate dream.
Phew.
Well, in that case -- Raoul tosses the baseball bat aside, holds up his hands, and smiles warmly. “Are you lost, little robot? Is that it? Are you looking for your parents?”
It’s not the weirdest dreams he’s ever had, in retrospect. But he’ll take it over the zombie apocalypse any day of the week.
“I’m not lost,” the mech says, indignant. It stands up a little straighter and the wing-things on its back twitch. “I’m exactly where I’m ‘sposed to be. Papa and Mama’s sleeping so there.” It sticks out its tongue -- it has a tongue, what the hell -- at Raoul.
It’s a child.
This thing is a child of some kind.
All right. Raoul can work with this. His little sister has like seven of the things. He’s got oodles of nieces and nephews. He can handle a giant robotic child.
First things first.
Raoul smiles and plants his hands on his hips. “Let’s start over,” he says, and gestures to himself. “I’m Raoul Gonzalez. And you are…?”
“Tracks!” the robot chirps, and Raoul’s gonna hazard a guess that it’s… male? Better than calling him an ‘it’ anyway.
“Tracks,” Raoul repeats. “Nice to meet you, Tracks.” He smiles again and dares take a step closer. “See? Now we’re not strangers anymore.”
Which is exactly what a predator would say. Ay-yi-yi, Raoul get yourself together here! If he saw some grown-ass man talking to one of his sister’s kids like this, he’d bash the man’s brains in. Not cool.
Raoul takes a deep breath. “This is my scrapyard, by the way, and I’m just a little surprised to find you here.”
“We were s’prised to come here,” Tracks says, and his winglets move up and down again.
He really is a pretty color, all bright blues and greys with bits of red and white. There’s a symbol on his chest, too. Some kind of red face?
“Mama thought we were gonna show up somewhere else.” He tilts his head and taps his chin. “Mmm. Can’t remember the name.” He twists his face up an expression of disgust. “This place is dirty. Papa doesn’t like it. I don’t either.”
Raoul, despite himself, laughs. “I’ll give you that much. It’s a junkyard. It’s supposed to be dirty.” He cranes his neck, but it’s hard to see anything around here, what with the piles of scrap everywhere. “Where are your parents?”
Tracks hums and turns in a slow circle, the ground trembling under the weight of him. Nearby, an old toaster tumbles off a haphazard stack and clatters to the ground.
Raoul winces.
Tracks doesn’t seem to notice.
“Somewhere around here.” Tracks presses his finger to his lip, nibbling on the end of it. “I’m not sure.” He trundles forward, peering around a stack of rusting stoves.
“We could go look for them,” Raoul suggests, because the large robot child is starting to make a small, scared sound, and his inner Uncle is twinging with the need to comfort him. “They’re probably missing you.”
And good God. If this thing is a child, how large are the parents? Tracks is about five feet taller than Raoul, and twice as broad as him. He seems to be made entirely of metal and wait -- are those tires? He has tires attached to him in the weirdest place. Why does he have tires?
Tracks starts to head further into the scrapyard, toward the area Raoul has affectionately dubbed the Caryard -- or the place where cars go to die. There are piles and piles of crushed vehicles, salvaged vehicles, rusting vehicles. He has everything from small family sedans to eight-seater soccermom vans to old ambulances and even a few decrepit military humvees.
“What were you looking for out here anyway?” Raoul asks as he jogs to keep up with Tracks, whose longer stride makes him much quicker.
“Energon,” Tracks chirps, and his little wings bounce up and down. It’s kind of adorable. “Or, I dunno, something to do? I’m bored.”
“What’s energon?” Raoul asks. The word feels strange on his tongue. Energon. Ener-gon. Eeeeenergon. What kind of thing is it? A tool? A weapon? A robot part?
Tracks stops mid-stride and spins around, toward another loose pile of unsorted salvage. He picks up what looks like a passenger window, streaked with dirt, and holds it up to the light. He then frowns with disappointment and tosses it down.
It predictably shatters.
“Thought it was a mirror,” he grumbles.
Raoul sighs. He’ll have to pick that up later so one of the aforementioned ruffians don’t hurt themselves on it. He doesn’t like unwanted visitors, but he’s not a monster. He doesn't want them to get hurt.
“So I take it glass isn’t energon,” Raoul says.
Tracks looks at him, and weird robot or not, he still manages to pull off the look all children give adults who ask stupid questions. “No,” he says, and of all things, rolls his eyes. “Energon glows blue,” he says. “It’s wet. It’s a…” He pauses, and then smiles, big and broad. “Liquid! Or sometimes a rock.”
God, he’s cute. Why is he cute? He’s a giant robot child, and he’s cute. Raoul wants to keep him. Okay, sure, he said he never wanted kids, but he didn’t know giant robot children were an option.
Besides, this is all a dream anyway.
“There aren’t a lot of rocks around here,” Raoul points out. Which is technically not a lie. Sure in Jasper, Nevada there are a lot of desert and rock-like areas, but right here, around this junkyard, there are not a lot of rocks.
There is, however, a lot of dead grass.
“I know that!” Tracks says with a huff.
He stomps one foot, and Raoul watches something tumble from a nearby stack and rattle-rattle-clunk to the ground. He has no idea what that construction of wires and metal is, but it made its way here. He’ll salvage it eventually.
Raoul pats the air. “Of course you knew that. Silly me,” he says. “I’ll bet your parents have some energon though. We should find them.”
“Mama definitely does.” Tracks whirls, heading toward the Caryard once again. Something rumbles inside his body, like a car engine honestly. Raoul knows his car engines, and that definitely sounds like a V8.
This is just getting weirder.
Tracks is not so easily distracted this time, and Raoul fights for breath as he jogs in the baby robot’s wake, his feet aching from boots which are not suited to athletic ventures. Tracks babbling excitedly.
“How old are you, Tracks?”
“I don’t know!”
“Where are you from?”
“Here, I guess.”
“How long have you been in my scrapyard?”
“Not long.”
Full of answers this one is. Raoul hopes his parents have more to offer, while he also hopes the parents don’t immediately squash him flat.
“Do you like it here?” Raoul asks.
“Not really. It’s dirty. And smelly. But we have to be here, because our home got blowed up,” Tracks says, and Raoul nearly trips and falls on his face.
“Wait. What?” Raoul puts on a burst of speed to intercept Tracks and put a stop to their hurried pace. “Your home was blown up?”
Tracks nods, and twists his fingers together, his winglets drooping down. “Mama said we had to go, and Prowl said we had to go, and I didn’t see it, but I guess it got blowed up.” He pauses, his little eyes go narrow, and he says, “Blown up. Blown up.”
Are they refugees?
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Tracks. I guess you guys just need a place to stay, huh?” Raoul scrubs the back of his neck. He supposes if he were a creature made of metal, he’d pick a scrapyard to hide out in as well.
“Tracks!”
Raoul freezes.
Tracks’ eyes go really bright. “Mama!” he shrieks in that too-loud, high-pitched way all children do. He darts full tilt past Raoul, making the ground tremble.
Raoul almost doesn’t want to turn around, but he does and…
Big.
That’s a very large robot. White and red. Easily over twenty feet tall. Broad shoulders and is that a medical symbol on his arm? Her arm? Tracks had said Mama, right? But that voice had sounded very male.
‘Mama’ scoops Tracks up into his arms. “Where have you been? We told you not to leave our sight.”
“But I was hungry,” Tracks whines. “And I was bored.”
“Oh, thank Primus. You found him.” A third robot skids into view, this one a gleaming gold, much slimmer than the other, and taller still. His voice is deeper, more resonant, and holy shit, are those guns in his hands?
“Papa!” Tracks bounces in his mother’s arms, eyes bright with glee.
“Don’t you look at me with that cute smile, Tracks, you’re in trouble,” says Papa with a low growl, definitely an engine growl, and if Raoul doesn’t know better, he’d think it was a V12.
“I don’t want to be in trouble,” Tracks wails and wriggles out of his Mama’s arms, his winglets drooping again. “I just wanted to play. Look, I even made a friend.”
He points at Raoul, and two pairs of eyes look down at the tiny human, and Raoul realizes he missed his opportunity to run.
“It’s a human,” says Tracks’ Papa.
“Yes,” says Tracks’ Mama.
He pushes Tracks toward the yellow robot while he of the red and white paint crouches down, eyes narrowed. “And I’m guessing this trash heap belongs to you, human.”
“His name is Raoul,” Tracks pipes up as his Papa pulls him back into reach, one arm wrapped protectively around him.
Papa is still holding a very big gun.
Raoul gulps.
“Raoul Gonzalez,” he corrects. “And this is my scrapyard, yeah.” He finds his courage where it fell around his knees, and pulls it back up, at least to his shoulders. “And you three are trespassing, but Tracks here tells me your home got, uh, blowed up as he put it so I’m supposin’ you don’t have nowhere else.”
“Gonzalez,” the red robot says and tilts his head. “I swear I’ve heard that before. Hmmm.”
“Does it matter?” the yellow robot snaps.
‘Mama’ sighs, and ignores him. “You would shelter us here? Why aren’t you afraid, Raoul Gonzalez?”
“Because this is a dream.” Raoul spreads his hands, though his certainty is starting to wobble a wee bit. “Nothing to be scared of in a dream. I mean, giant robots don’t actually exist.”
The yellow robot snorts. “He’s an idiot, Ratchet. I’m starting to think the children of this planet are smarter than the adults.”
Ratchet, apparently, pinches his nose and says, “This isn’t a dream, Raoul. This is real. We’re real, and I’m afraid we need your help.”
Raoul blinks.
“It’s real?” he asks, tentative.
“Yup,” says the yellow robot.
“It’s a long story,” says Ratchet. He lowers himself down further, until he’s sitting in an awkward lotus with Tracks immediately throwing himself into Ratchet’s lap while Papa stands guard over them. “You should get comfortable.”
“Wait, are we really going to trust this human?” the other mech asks.
Ratchet looks up at him. “I don’t see where we have another choice, Sunstreaker. For now, we’re on our own.”
Ah! A name. Finally. Man, do these guys have some weird names.
Sunstreaker scoffs and says, with a smirk which makes Raoul’s knees turn to jelly, “You did say we would need a babysitter. Guess this human will do.”
Ratchet sighs.
Tracks giggles.
Raoul’s eyes get wide.
God.
What has he gotten himself into now?
no subject
Date: 2020-05-28 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-05-29 02:00 am (UTC)