Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Red Alert, Jazz
Continuity: G1, second in Apple a Day series
Rating: T
Warnings: implied mechslash/twincest
Morning After Redux
His memory core is still full of fuzz, even hours later and halfway through his shift. In fact, Sunstreaker's processor is starting to ache in a not-fun kind of way with the beginnings of overcharge. A hangover as the humans would call it.
And Sideswipe whining over their private comm is not helping at all. Fragger's the lucky one who's off-shift.
-Are you sure you don't remember anything?-
Sunstreaker shifts in his chair, trying to focus on the monitors and failing. Miserably. -No. And if you fragging ask me again I'm going to kick your aft so hard you'll taste mud for a week.-
-Harsh, Sunny,- Sidewipe retorts.
-Then stop irritating me.-
There's a long moment of brief, wonderful silence. Sunstreaker contemplates closing his optics just to ease the pain of too-bright lights on his optical sensors. But a quick glance at Red Alert proves he's being watched. Can't get nothing past him. Fraggit.
Sunstreaker mutters under his breath, rolls his aching neck cables, and tries in vain to get comfortable.
-What do you think he meant?- Sideswipe asks, apparently done mulling and back to irritating his brother.
-By what?-
-Blaming Perceptor.-
Sunstreaker raps his fingers across his console, feeling a twitch of aggravation dance through his circuits. Of all the mechs in all the universe, why did Primus have to saddle him with Sideswipe for a twin?
-How the frag should I know?- he demands waspishly.
Sullen disappointment flickers across their twin-bond. -Primus, you're in a mood today.-
Sunstreaker grits his denta with a squeal of metal on metal. -I'm blaming you.-
-Fragging Ratchet is not my fault!- Sideswipe shouts into the comm.
Sunstreaker winces visibly. -Tone it down, glitch.-
-You're the glitch.-
-We're twins, dumbaft.-
-My point is made.- Sideswipe huffs into the comm, like he's about to go into a drawn out sulk the likes of which their fellow Autobots have never seen. -Are you sure you don't remember anything?-
Sunstreaker cuts off the comm without responding to his annoying twit of a brother and huffs. He glares at the monitor, currently cycling through several views of the outer perimeter, where nothing so much as moves. Oh wait. There went a rabbit.
Slag Prowl and his idea of punishment. This is boring!
His processor wanders. He tries in vain to poke his memory circuit into producing a hint of what had happened last night. He remembers the party and the taste of the high grade, sharp and acerbic, hitting his tanks with a punch.
There had been dancing, too. Somehow, Bumblebee had coaxed the other mini-bots into joining him on a table. Sunstreaker blames that on the high grade, too. Mini-frames can't handle it and apparently, neither could frontliners.
He remembers hands on his plating, skillful hands. The heavy ventilations of an overheated frame in the darkness of their quarters. The blue glow of optics. The bright crawl of static across their frames. The ecstasy of an overload that lasts and lasts.
He doesn't remember Ratchet.
But by Primus, does he wish he could.
Movement in his peripheral sensors tugs Sunstreaker out of his musings. He turns, watching as Jazz plops down in the open chair beside him. Instead of speaking, however, the Spec Ops mech simply stares at Sunstreaker. He's grinning, too. One of those smirks that carries great amusement.
Sunstreaker scowls. "What?"
Jazz's grin widens as he lounges in the chair. "So...?" One hand lazily twirls in the air.
"So what?" Sunstreaker demands, optics burning with the force of his glare.
Jazz chuckles, leaning forward conspiratorially. "C'mon, Sunshine. Details. Inquiring mechs want to know."
"Don't call me that." Sunstreaker gives the annoying mech – superior officer or not – a disgusted look. "The frag are you talking about?"
"Everyone saw Ratch drag you two out last night," Jazz says, vocals a little louder now, making it easier for those that are unashamedly eavesdropping to hear him. "And I got my good stuff hinging on the details."
Sunstreaker honestly can't answer the question. He doesn't remember last night, fraggit. So he stares at Jazz.
Ratchet had dragged them out? Yergh. They're never going to live this one down.
Jazz's visor flickers, his jaw dropping. "No way."
Sunstreaker looks away, trying to focus on the screen. Monitor duty, yes. He's here, on shift, not supposed to be gossiping with the resident busybody.
"You don't remember!" Jazz exclaims like this is new to Sunstreaker. He laughs, falling back against his chair and laughing even harder.
Everyone's staring now and making no attempt to hide it.
"Frag. Ironhide's not going to believe this. The seducers become the seduced. Classic." Jazz dissolves into chuckles yet again.
A low growl of irritation escapes Sunstreaker before he can stop it. "Are you going to mock me or tell me what you know?" Like the Pit he's going to ask Ratchet.
Jazz taps his mouthplate. "Hmm. I was gonna but y'know, I think it's funnier this way." He leaps up from his chair, waggling his fingers at Sunstreaker. "Later."
Sunstreaker snarls, but Jazz is quick, dancing out of reach and making haste from the control room before Sunstreaker can chase him down. And now, he can see that everyone had indeed been watching them.
"What are you looking at?" Sunstreaker demands.
No one replies, their helms swiveling back to the monitors. Red Alert looks faintly annoyed and Blaster appears to be snickering, but no one speaks.
Sunstreaker turns back toward his monitor, a twitch in his circuits, the lingering pain in his processor worse now.
Someone pings him with a personal comm.
-By the way,- Jazz says, his ident code flashing across Sunstreaker's HUD. -White streaks suit your paint job. Just sayin'.-
Jazz cuts off the comm as quickly as he pinged in.
What the frag is he...?
Sunstreaker looks down, staring with horror at the long and broad sweeps of white paint that streak his leg plating. There are smaller transfers on his chestplate, too. He'd walked through the halls like this?
Fraggit it all to the Pit!
a/n: Still more to come.
Let me know what you thought. Funny or just plain lame?
