A Pain In the Backside

AN: THANK YOU AlexLuke for your continued support and feedback! You're slagging AWESOME!

AN 2: Reviews are LOVED! And I'm nearly the 2000 mark! OMG! Never thought I'd get that far! I'm just in shock and awe and inspired to continue to bring you, my FANTASTIC readers, more crazy adventures featuring our favorite Lambos and their wacky crewmates!

** If I can hit the 2000 benchmark by Friday of next week, April 5th, I'll do a double posting for the weekend. :D

THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR CONTINUED SUPPORT AND ENDLESS LOVE AND POSITIVE FEEDBACK!

Be sure to check out my TMNT stories, available here and at archiveofourown dot org.

And now... on to the next adventure with our favorite troublemaker... :D

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Sideswipe awoke with a groan, clutching his helm. Suddenly, a ghostly white demon was poised over him, blocking the light. Sideswipe let out a sound akin to purging his tank and muffling a scream of fear.

"Primus, Ratchet! You're not exactly a vision to wake up to," he goaded.

He may be injured but his sense of humor remained in top operational capacity.

"Think you're so clever, huh?" Ratchet snapped loudly.

Sideswipe rubbed his audios, groaning again. "Volume, Ratchet."

"I'll show you slagging volume,' Ratchet thundered as the heavens above, full of lightening, thunder, and hellfire. "Are you trying to terminate yourself or are you merely so stupid to believe you can take on a combiner team singled handedly?"

"I've taken on combiners before," Sideswipe fussed, not rising to the bait of the challenge of his mental health.

"Yeah, well, you're not as young as you used to be," Ratchet rumbled, checking his scanner. "You've got a lot of wear and tear on that frame, and we don't exactly have spare parts lying around for idiots."

"Anything off the factory line will be fine," Sideswipe said, all cheekiness and bluster, though he was still sore.

"We've picked the local places clean," Ratchet muttered more ominous than a threatening hailstorm. "Prime sent out a couple of teams on supply runs to neighboring states. Raid the junk yards."

Sideswipe's usual jocularity died down.

It was no laughing matter having to salvage for parts in a junk yard. It was a common enough thing on Cybertron, many unable to afford repairs and having to rely on the integration of regular machine parts as opposed to biometalic alloys. Despite being robotic in nature, and functioning much like regular machines, there were still limitations to their compatible parts.

Luckily, Ratchet was a genius at improvising. The Earthen metals were fairly even with Cybertronian metals when it came to important factors… tensile strength, melting point, molecule cohesion, and malleability.

"Ratch, why can't I feel my legs?" Sideswipe asked, running an internal diagnostic.

"Parts are integrating," Ratchet explained without looking up from the screen. "You were slagged by Devestator. He crushed your midsection and upper legs. I had to install a stabilizing substructure along your pelvic floor so your main support strut wouldn't snap when you walk or stand."

Sideswipe whined pathetically. He'd suffered such injury before. It was a pain in the aft, literally. He hated being idle and now he was going to be stuck in medbay until Ratchet got the necessary components.

"Maybe next time you'll learn not to pick fights with bots bigger than yourself,' Ratchet scolded.

Sideswipe smirked. "Like that's going to stop me. I like whooping the biggest. It's kinda my thing."

"Yeah, well now you're thing is to reinitialize your systems and get the slag out of my medbay."

"What?" Sideswipe asked, unsure if he heard correctly.

Previous experience meant a week long stay in the medbay, where his only source of entertainment came from riling up Ratchet. Which usually incurred more injury and an elongated rehabilitation.

It was a lovingly vicious cycle between the two.

"There isn't much more I can do until I have the necessary parts," Ratchet informed his most unruly patient. "I kept you in stasis for a couple of days to let the welds heal as you tend to slag yourself with idiocy, but there isn't much I can do until proper parts are available."

Sideswipe's diagnostics finished, systems check showing normal parameters… well, normal for him after begging slagged by a combiner. Now he needed to remain as physically inactive as possible... which meant haunting the rec room or command center, and pester everyone because he was in need of entertainment. The rubious Lambo was a notorious pain in the aft when he was bored. Everyone suffered.

"How's the legs now?" Ratchet asked, optics on the scanner.

Sideswipe rose on his elbows and moved each leg in turn.

"Sexy as ever, but there's some tenderness in my hip joints and my left pede is tingling."

"Back strut?" Ratchet asked, typing in Sideswipe's answers into his medical file.

Sideswipe lifted his arms, head, wiggling all over the berth. It felt great to be able to move once again. An idle life was not for Sideswipe.

"Everything's sore," he reported, "and my aft feels a little hot."

"Hot aft?" Ratchet asked, brow quirked.

Sideswipe splayed himself out on the berth in what he thought was a seductive pose.

"Why thank you. I do work out, you know."

Ratchet rolled his optics.

"You're free to leave. Tracks, Huffer and Bluestreak should be back within the next couple of days and I can finish your repairs."

Sideswipe got up, gingerly tested his weight, shifted his hips around, frowning at his interface panel.

"My aft feels warm for some reason."

"Yeah, well, had to improvise and you're not exactly an easy mech to find properly fitted pieces for." Ratchet said, waving his hand toward the door. "Now get out. I have work to do."

Sideswipe made it as far as the door… then paused.

Frowning, he shifted his hips and bent forward a little.

There was a ding and his aft plates split, ejecting toast onto the floor.

When he realized what he just ejected, he whirled accusing optics to Ratchet.

Ratchet was at his office door, grinning like a maniac.

"Told you…had to improvise. And the toaster was the only thing that would literally fit up your aft to stabilize your pelvic region."

With a slam of his office door, Ratchet was hidden from view. Which was a good thing, as the medic was doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly leaked transmission fluid.

Sideswipe snarled obscenities as he stalked out of med bay, plotting his revenge.

That's slagging Ratchet!

He'd pay for this… this… There wasn't a caustic enough vocabulary for the tirade bubbling in Sideswipe's frame. But he gave it everything he had, most of the expressions learned from the Pit spawned medic responsible for this embarrassing situation.

Unfortunately, his anger and increasingly violent diatribe of retribution caused his systems to overheat.

Prime rounded the corner at that moment, Prowl and Ironhide flanking him, deep in discussion. They glanced up in time to see Sideswipe wiggling his backside, grimacing as if in pain, and with a ding, toast flew from between his skid plates to skitter on the orange floor.

Without missing a beat, all three mechs bypassed the glaring Lamborghini and continued on, knowing it was best not to ask.

Sideswipe's face heated up faster than his toaster aft from the humiliation.

Sure, everyone on base had seen him stripped to his protoform and performing questionable dances and drinking games, but there was something abjectly mortifying about having one's skid plates to open and propel human food out of their back chute.

Sideswipe stalked toward his quarters, sending Prowl the message he was remaining isolated due to medical reasons, and Prowl, for once, didn't question the request but granted it immediately.

Still angry, and boiling with rage, Sideswipe stopped outside of his quarters, rotating his hips, wincing in pain, and with a damnable ding, released another crusty deposit on the floor.

His comms immediately came to life, Red Alert demanding to know what lunacy Sideswipe was up to.

Sideswipe entered his quarters without answering, blocking comms and gritting his denta as his aft began to overheat, the smell of burnt toast filling the air.

Vowing by Unicron's rusty ball bearings, Sideswipe swore he'd make Ratchet pay for this humiliation.

And Devestator.

Next time he saw the combiner, Sideswipe was going to toast his ass… one way or another!

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Admit it, you laughed your ass off.

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