sugar coma
Aug. 12th, 2008 07:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quidamlingfic-drablet demanded by Ruu. ♥
and what Ruu demands, I have to deliver. even if 'parently it's still in emo-verse. *shrug* might prod more.
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and what Ruu demands, I have to deliver. even if 'parently it's still in emo-verse. *shrug* might prod more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was much rejoicing. The sweet embargo placed on the cyborg kitchen by the Republic of Prowl had been lifted. Mainly, because the United Nations under Prime had demanded it. The proud, regal cyborg had held out against his tactician for an excruciating three weeks. But fraggit, and yes, even for Optimus this was a situation worthy of cursing; it was unfair to be denied the small guilty pleasure of a few powdered doughnuts.
Secretly, about every spark in the base was relieved. Once the Autobot second in command had taken it upon himself to overstep the CMO, much to Ratchet’s consternation, and ordain the collective base at risk for chronic sugar shock, he had locked down the supply chains to anything but food he deemed “healthy.” The rest had worked furiously to beg, plead, convince, harangue and/or threaten the logical male into allowing some junk food. Unfortunately, Prowl held the ace of being in charge of signing-off on requisition forms. If even Jazz couldn’t work his magic and get Prowl to unlock the glucose, the rest knew that they were doomed. Grouchy old Ironhide managed to best his normal surliness as the collective sugar levels of the base dropped. Ratchet was one of the few aware of the sweet tooth that ‘Hide possessed, though he was sworn to secrecy - on pain of sleeping on the floor, for a month. The medic’s and everyone’s reprieve came when Prime put his foot down. Thankfully, the CO had a sugar addiction to match just about anyone else’s. He just hid it better.
The cybernetic enhancements drew a lot of extra energy. That was their story and they were sticking to it.
So once the junkfood was unlocked, and back on the supply shipments, the cyborgs coerced Wheeljack into preparing an all-out feast. Someone even coaxed him into making pie. Which was divine; a little bit of all-out-adoration went a long way with the inventor.
After a long and delicious meal, most of them had dispersed back to their assorted quarters or lounging around the, well, lounge. Ratchet and Ironhide had gone back to their room. The medic was snoozing on the bed like a content sated cat. ‘Hide sat with the red mop of hair cradled in his lap, watching television, routed through his comms so as not to disturb his mate. He was rubbing over Ratchet’s shoulders, knowing he owed an apology for generally being more of a pain in the aft than usual lately.
The weapons specialist had eaten about as much as the rest who were happily in their post-meal naps, but he was still fighting a sugar craving. Three weeks. Three long weeks without cookies, chocolate, ice cream, anything. Whoever let Prowl get that amount of power over the base needed to be shot… He was shaken from his mental tirade by Ratchet’s light snores. Well, it seems like his keeper was out for the count. Maybe ‘Hide could go get a little second helping of dessert.
He grabbed a pillow and scooted it under the medic’s head as he slid out. Ratchet squirmed a bit, but settled after Ironhide stroked his brow. The soldier slunk quietly from the room, and down the deserted halls. Wheeljack had made the job easy. As Ironhide found his way to the kitchen, he opened the pantry and chuckled. It was a thing of beauty. Seventeen cyborgs-worth of junkfood, all unlocked, and no one to stop him. Taking a few boxes of assorted cookies, cakes and candy, the weapons specialist made a stockpile on the counter. Ironhide had some self control when it came to things that could kill people, but when it came to sugar, toddlers were better at managing their impulses. Though he did have the presence of mind to avoid Jazz’s Oreos and most of Prime’s doughnuts. Other than that, it was the most satisfying sugar binge he’d had in a long time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ratchet shivered and woke rather groggy. He was cold. He was never cold beside Ironhide, that cyborg was a furnace; it had to be some sort of holdover from his mech form. The medic rolled over and blinked, clearing the fog as he peered around the room. Where did that idiot get to? Ratch grumbled and crawled out of bed to find his wayward mate.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, Ratchet wanted to find his bonded just so he could strangle him.
But the shrapnel of wrappers and boxes around the counter made him stop in his tracks. Well, the carnage seemed on a scale worthy of Ironhide. The CMO grumbled to himself, but there was no sign of the fragger. The medic stalked over to snag a lemon wedge before he continued on the hunt, when he was stopped by a grunt as his foot hit something on the floor. Ratchet cocked a hip, and chewed on the lemon bar a moment before kicking the unidentified lump once again, with force. He snickered at the groan that produced, then leaned down to glare at Ironhide curled on the floor under the counter.
“Wow, ‘Hide. This is impressive even for you.” All that got was a garbled little whimper from the form curled in the fetal position on the floor. Ratch did a quick scan and then poked the soldier’s shoulder with one stiff finger at each word. “You, are one chocolate chip from a diabetic coma, drooling moron.”
Ironhide growled softly. “I hate you.”
“I know.” The slighter cyborg smirked. “And I can leave you here.”
“Mmm?” and a panicked look.
“Big baby.” Ratch rolled his eyes and reached down for an arm. “Come on. Nap time.”
Secretly, about every spark in the base was relieved. Once the Autobot second in command had taken it upon himself to overstep the CMO, much to Ratchet’s consternation, and ordain the collective base at risk for chronic sugar shock, he had locked down the supply chains to anything but food he deemed “healthy.” The rest had worked furiously to beg, plead, convince, harangue and/or threaten the logical male into allowing some junk food. Unfortunately, Prowl held the ace of being in charge of signing-off on requisition forms. If even Jazz couldn’t work his magic and get Prowl to unlock the glucose, the rest knew that they were doomed. Grouchy old Ironhide managed to best his normal surliness as the collective sugar levels of the base dropped. Ratchet was one of the few aware of the sweet tooth that ‘Hide possessed, though he was sworn to secrecy - on pain of sleeping on the floor, for a month. The medic’s and everyone’s reprieve came when Prime put his foot down. Thankfully, the CO had a sugar addiction to match just about anyone else’s. He just hid it better.
The cybernetic enhancements drew a lot of extra energy. That was their story and they were sticking to it.
So once the junkfood was unlocked, and back on the supply shipments, the cyborgs coerced Wheeljack into preparing an all-out feast. Someone even coaxed him into making pie. Which was divine; a little bit of all-out-adoration went a long way with the inventor.
After a long and delicious meal, most of them had dispersed back to their assorted quarters or lounging around the, well, lounge. Ratchet and Ironhide had gone back to their room. The medic was snoozing on the bed like a content sated cat. ‘Hide sat with the red mop of hair cradled in his lap, watching television, routed through his comms so as not to disturb his mate. He was rubbing over Ratchet’s shoulders, knowing he owed an apology for generally being more of a pain in the aft than usual lately.
The weapons specialist had eaten about as much as the rest who were happily in their post-meal naps, but he was still fighting a sugar craving. Three weeks. Three long weeks without cookies, chocolate, ice cream, anything. Whoever let Prowl get that amount of power over the base needed to be shot… He was shaken from his mental tirade by Ratchet’s light snores. Well, it seems like his keeper was out for the count. Maybe ‘Hide could go get a little second helping of dessert.
He grabbed a pillow and scooted it under the medic’s head as he slid out. Ratchet squirmed a bit, but settled after Ironhide stroked his brow. The soldier slunk quietly from the room, and down the deserted halls. Wheeljack had made the job easy. As Ironhide found his way to the kitchen, he opened the pantry and chuckled. It was a thing of beauty. Seventeen cyborgs-worth of junkfood, all unlocked, and no one to stop him. Taking a few boxes of assorted cookies, cakes and candy, the weapons specialist made a stockpile on the counter. Ironhide had some self control when it came to things that could kill people, but when it came to sugar, toddlers were better at managing their impulses. Though he did have the presence of mind to avoid Jazz’s Oreos and most of Prime’s doughnuts. Other than that, it was the most satisfying sugar binge he’d had in a long time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ratchet shivered and woke rather groggy. He was cold. He was never cold beside Ironhide, that cyborg was a furnace; it had to be some sort of holdover from his mech form. The medic rolled over and blinked, clearing the fog as he peered around the room. Where did that idiot get to? Ratch grumbled and crawled out of bed to find his wayward mate.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, Ratchet wanted to find his bonded just so he could strangle him.
But the shrapnel of wrappers and boxes around the counter made him stop in his tracks. Well, the carnage seemed on a scale worthy of Ironhide. The CMO grumbled to himself, but there was no sign of the fragger. The medic stalked over to snag a lemon wedge before he continued on the hunt, when he was stopped by a grunt as his foot hit something on the floor. Ratchet cocked a hip, and chewed on the lemon bar a moment before kicking the unidentified lump once again, with force. He snickered at the groan that produced, then leaned down to glare at Ironhide curled on the floor under the counter.
“Wow, ‘Hide. This is impressive even for you.” All that got was a garbled little whimper from the form curled in the fetal position on the floor. Ratch did a quick scan and then poked the soldier’s shoulder with one stiff finger at each word. “You, are one chocolate chip from a diabetic coma, drooling moron.”
Ironhide growled softly. “I hate you.”
“I know.” The slighter cyborg smirked. “And I can leave you here.”
“Mmm?” and a panicked look.
“Big baby.” Ratch rolled his eyes and reached down for an arm. “Come on. Nap time.”
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