Truth and High Grade
Feb. 19th, 2009 09:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ante_luceThis fic is thanks to Desk!bunny from the PxJ comm and #6 from here.
I think there are more questions (and hence more parts) too.
Title: Truth and High Grade
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing. Implied smuttings.
A victory with little to no injuries gained usually meant a party. A party usually meant high grade, and high grade usually meant chatty mechs with muchly lowered inhibitions.
It should come as no surprise that the crew often went all out to drag Prowl into the celebrations, and should also come as no surprise that the SIC went all out to avoid being dragged into the celebrations.
Most times, he succeeded at evading the events with varying degrees of subtlety.
Key word there being, ‘most’.
= = =
The tactician sighed, trapped between Jazz and an increasingly rowdy Sideswipe. The game the crew were playing was simple enough. Drink some high grade and answer a question as vaguely as you wished, as long as it was truthfully. Then you got to ask a question of your own. No one was allowed to back out of a question, but so far, no one had worked up the nerve (or perhaps, the amount of liquid courage) to ask the black and white Datsun anything.
For which Prowl was grateful. Some of the questions were horribly inappropriate, which, he supposed, was the whole point of the game.
As the crowd burst out laughing at Hound’s answer to his question (‘What do you find most annoying about Earth?’ ‘Um… The bugs that get caught in my grill when I go exploring.”), the tracker chuckled as well, and when prompted, turned to Jazz with a query of his own.
“ ‘Raj tells me that Ops has a fondness for trophies, souvenirs from their missions.”
Ignoring the catcalls and cackles from the crew (“Mirage, looks like Hound’s far too effective an interrogator. You ought to quit the spy business!”), though the green jeep did duck his head in slight embarrassment, especially when the other mech just snorted and snuggled closer, Hound continued. “So, I was wondering, what’s your most prized trophy?”
Jazz smiled, sipping from his cube lazily as he made a show of thinking the question over. “Hmm, there’s the blaster I lifted from that mech… no, the enegon blades are kinda pretty… but nah… Ah… Got it.”
As the mechs leant closer in eager anticipation, the Porsche grinned. “The desk in Prowl’s office.”
At their stunned expressions, Sideswipe’s dry “What mission could that possibly be from, pray tell?”, the Ops bots’ smirks and Prowl’s near inaudible groan, Jazz laughed and waved at them to quiet down so he could be heard.
“Really. S’my favourite trophy.”
“Why, because of the use you two put the poor thing to all the time?”
“Nah, well, that too, but-” Jazz waited for the next round of snickering to calm before continuing, almost solemnly. “It’s ‘cos the desk wasn’t always in Prowl’s office.”
A sparkbeat’s pause, and he grinned again. “That desk is Megatron’s.”
At the outcry, the visored mech’s smug expression only grew. “Nope, I’m not kidding. Yes, that chunk of metal is of Decepticon origin, and surprisingly sturdy for something Decepticreeps made, right, Prowl?”
More cries of outrage and another self-conscious groan, and the Porsche snickered before talking on. “Yes, Megatron’s worked at that desk. ‘Raj and ‘Bee helped me get it here. Yes, the thing’s been taken apart and checked and scanned down to the fragging atoms, if there were anything suspicious about it we’d have found it by now. And yes, I have pictures.”
And pictures he did have and duly produce, showing a very familiar piece of furniture in a very unfamiliar location, with a certain Decepticon warlord where most Autobots typically saw Prowl seated. After a good long minute of absolute silence, Sideswipe muttered.
“Well. Now I know why I get the heebie jeebies when glared at from across that desk.”
“You sure it isn’t because you’re always in trouble when that happens?” Hound ribbed the red frontliner, laughing when the Lamborghini made a face back at him. Jazz put away his pictures, and rubbed his hands in glee.
“Now, I believe it’s my turn to ask a question.”
No one noticed a large red and blue mech slip away to his office.
= = =
“What is it, Prime?!”
“I thought I’d apologise, Megatron. It seems that Jazz really did take your desk.”
“I told you as much! That was my favourite desk!”
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry for not believing you. Uh… Do you want it back very badly?”
Optimus was sure the Decepticon leader could see his faceplates glowing from the heat that had rushed to them. Evidently, Megatron read something from his silence and suddenly abashed expression, and thunked his helm backwards into his chair. “… What have they done to it?”
The Autobot commander sighed, shuttering his optics. How to put this delicately? “I’d… rather not consider the possibilities.”
“Prime…” The gunformer growled, and Optimus blurted out, “It’s still in one piece! In Prowl’s office!”
Silence, and as a disturbed expression crossed Megatron’s faceplates, the Prime could see the trembling wings of a seeker in the background, trying his hardest not to laugh.
“… Keep the desk, Prime.”
“We can get you a new one?”
“Don’t bother. I want to forget this conversation ever happened.” Privately, Optimus thought that wasn’t likely, what with Starscream quivering like that with suppressed mirth, but he nodded, and the connection cut off.
Then, Optimus gave in to his own fit of snickering, and when he’d collected himself, sent a message off to Jazz to tell the Ops mech that Prowl could keep Megatron’s desk.
= = =
//Hm, Prowler?//
The tactician glanced over at his lover, wondering why Jazz had decided to comm. him when the visored mech was sitting right next to the Datsun.
//Yes, Jazz?//
//After this, can we stop by your office?// The Ops head was chuckling at the response to another question, but Prowl could sense he was still waiting for a response. Cautiously, the doorwinged mech replied.
//… Why?//
//Gotta christen your desk, of course.//
//… I believe that has already been accomplished. Repeatedly. As the rest of the crew already seem to know.//
//Nah, that was Megatron’s desk. Prime just called, said Megs doesn’t want it back, so it’s all yours now, baby. And we gotta christen your desk.//
//You’re just a kinky glitch.//
//And you like it, babe. So?//
A soft rumble of resignation as Prowl settled deeper into the couch, causing the Porsche to slide closer.
//As you wish.//
Jazz’s grin had nothing to do with the next question being asked.
I think there are more questions (and hence more parts) too.
Title: Truth and High Grade
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing. Implied smuttings.
A victory with little to no injuries gained usually meant a party. A party usually meant high grade, and high grade usually meant chatty mechs with muchly lowered inhibitions.
It should come as no surprise that the crew often went all out to drag Prowl into the celebrations, and should also come as no surprise that the SIC went all out to avoid being dragged into the celebrations.
Most times, he succeeded at evading the events with varying degrees of subtlety.
Key word there being, ‘most’.
= = =
The tactician sighed, trapped between Jazz and an increasingly rowdy Sideswipe. The game the crew were playing was simple enough. Drink some high grade and answer a question as vaguely as you wished, as long as it was truthfully. Then you got to ask a question of your own. No one was allowed to back out of a question, but so far, no one had worked up the nerve (or perhaps, the amount of liquid courage) to ask the black and white Datsun anything.
For which Prowl was grateful. Some of the questions were horribly inappropriate, which, he supposed, was the whole point of the game.
As the crowd burst out laughing at Hound’s answer to his question (‘What do you find most annoying about Earth?’ ‘Um… The bugs that get caught in my grill when I go exploring.”), the tracker chuckled as well, and when prompted, turned to Jazz with a query of his own.
“ ‘Raj tells me that Ops has a fondness for trophies, souvenirs from their missions.”
Ignoring the catcalls and cackles from the crew (“Mirage, looks like Hound’s far too effective an interrogator. You ought to quit the spy business!”), though the green jeep did duck his head in slight embarrassment, especially when the other mech just snorted and snuggled closer, Hound continued. “So, I was wondering, what’s your most prized trophy?”
Jazz smiled, sipping from his cube lazily as he made a show of thinking the question over. “Hmm, there’s the blaster I lifted from that mech… no, the enegon blades are kinda pretty… but nah… Ah… Got it.”
As the mechs leant closer in eager anticipation, the Porsche grinned. “The desk in Prowl’s office.”
At their stunned expressions, Sideswipe’s dry “What mission could that possibly be from, pray tell?”, the Ops bots’ smirks and Prowl’s near inaudible groan, Jazz laughed and waved at them to quiet down so he could be heard.
“Really. S’my favourite trophy.”
“Why, because of the use you two put the poor thing to all the time?”
“Nah, well, that too, but-” Jazz waited for the next round of snickering to calm before continuing, almost solemnly. “It’s ‘cos the desk wasn’t always in Prowl’s office.”
A sparkbeat’s pause, and he grinned again. “That desk is Megatron’s.”
At the outcry, the visored mech’s smug expression only grew. “Nope, I’m not kidding. Yes, that chunk of metal is of Decepticon origin, and surprisingly sturdy for something Decepticreeps made, right, Prowl?”
More cries of outrage and another self-conscious groan, and the Porsche snickered before talking on. “Yes, Megatron’s worked at that desk. ‘Raj and ‘Bee helped me get it here. Yes, the thing’s been taken apart and checked and scanned down to the fragging atoms, if there were anything suspicious about it we’d have found it by now. And yes, I have pictures.”
And pictures he did have and duly produce, showing a very familiar piece of furniture in a very unfamiliar location, with a certain Decepticon warlord where most Autobots typically saw Prowl seated. After a good long minute of absolute silence, Sideswipe muttered.
“Well. Now I know why I get the heebie jeebies when glared at from across that desk.”
“You sure it isn’t because you’re always in trouble when that happens?” Hound ribbed the red frontliner, laughing when the Lamborghini made a face back at him. Jazz put away his pictures, and rubbed his hands in glee.
“Now, I believe it’s my turn to ask a question.”
No one noticed a large red and blue mech slip away to his office.
= = =
“What is it, Prime?!”
“I thought I’d apologise, Megatron. It seems that Jazz really did take your desk.”
“I told you as much! That was my favourite desk!”
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry for not believing you. Uh… Do you want it back very badly?”
Optimus was sure the Decepticon leader could see his faceplates glowing from the heat that had rushed to them. Evidently, Megatron read something from his silence and suddenly abashed expression, and thunked his helm backwards into his chair. “… What have they done to it?”
The Autobot commander sighed, shuttering his optics. How to put this delicately? “I’d… rather not consider the possibilities.”
“Prime…” The gunformer growled, and Optimus blurted out, “It’s still in one piece! In Prowl’s office!”
Silence, and as a disturbed expression crossed Megatron’s faceplates, the Prime could see the trembling wings of a seeker in the background, trying his hardest not to laugh.
“… Keep the desk, Prime.”
“We can get you a new one?”
“Don’t bother. I want to forget this conversation ever happened.” Privately, Optimus thought that wasn’t likely, what with Starscream quivering like that with suppressed mirth, but he nodded, and the connection cut off.
Then, Optimus gave in to his own fit of snickering, and when he’d collected himself, sent a message off to Jazz to tell the Ops mech that Prowl could keep Megatron’s desk.
= = =
//Hm, Prowler?//
The tactician glanced over at his lover, wondering why Jazz had decided to comm. him when the visored mech was sitting right next to the Datsun.
//Yes, Jazz?//
//After this, can we stop by your office?// The Ops head was chuckling at the response to another question, but Prowl could sense he was still waiting for a response. Cautiously, the doorwinged mech replied.
//… Why?//
//Gotta christen your desk, of course.//
//… I believe that has already been accomplished. Repeatedly. As the rest of the crew already seem to know.//
//Nah, that was Megatron’s desk. Prime just called, said Megs doesn’t want it back, so it’s all yours now, baby. And we gotta christen your desk.//
//You’re just a kinky glitch.//
//And you like it, babe. So?//
A soft rumble of resignation as Prowl settled deeper into the couch, causing the Porsche to slide closer.
//As you wish.//
Jazz’s grin had nothing to do with the next question being asked.
