applecrumble: (G1 Blades)
[personal profile] applecrumble
Title: Drunken Angels (1/?)
Characters: Blades, First Aid, Streetwise, Groove, Hot Spot
Genre: Humour
Rating: T
Warning: Pretty obvious slash but no main pairings. Drunk robot-minors.
Summary: Some Protectobots get drunk. Much to the chagrin of Blades and Hot Spot.


The second Blades stepped foot inside the rec-room, he instantly knew he’d be better off returning to his quarters. The casual drinking that had kicked off when he’d left with Hot Spot for patrol had since grown to an all out splurging session. He didn’t know whether to be relieved that he’d avoided the chaos, or pissed off that he’d missed out on the fun.

Either way, it was all a little too much bedlam for someone of a sober mind to enjoy. And considering Ratchet was still wary of letting him and his brothers near high-grade for at least another few months, he decided to leave. Or at least he would have.

Blades turned to go, but a sudden flash of red and white shot into his path. He jolted back a step and tensed when a pair of arms suddenly wound tight around him.

“Blaaaaaades!” it trilled, squishing the copter close into a clumsy hug. “Where’ve y’ been?! I missed you!”

…It sounded like First Aid. But that crooning, high-pitched, giddy voice was way off from the medic’s usual reserved tone. Blades blinked and warily shifted his gaze to properly view the bot latched onto him.

The first thing he noted was the retracted facemask – that in itself was strange for First Aid. He always kept his mask on outside their quarters. Blades looked between the blearily lit visor and half-finished cube of energon.

It took a moment of stunned processing before he slowly said, “Aid… Tell me that’s not high-grade.”

First Aid spluttered a laugh as though that were the funniest thing Blades could have said.

“Wha’? Y’mean this?” The medic grinned, waving the cube and successfully spilling a little in the process. “Nah, got it from somethin’ labelled mid-grade. Y’know we’re not allowed high-grade yet silly!” He giggled again, arms looping more snugly around him – a little of the energon splattering Blades.

“OK… But-!” he yelped as a hand suddenly clapped him on the rotor, optics flaring with rage and whipping around to curse at…

He gaped. “Street? …What the frag?!”

“S’up bro,” Streetwise slurred, stumbling a little in place before tipping back a bit of his cube. A cube which looked eerily similar to the one First Aid was holding.

Blades had to keep from smacking his helm and groaning when he noticed the similar unfocussed light in the police car’s optics. He smiled cheekily and wobbled where he stood. Blades sincerely hoped he didn’t fall – First Aid’s arms were still latched pretty tight around his own, and he didn’t have a lot of confidence he’d free himself in time to catch Streetwise if he did.

The police car snickered and grinned broadly, “Y’ gotta try this stuff! Dunno wha’ they added, bu’s so much better ‘an th’usual scrap.”

Blades just stared. Then stared some more. Eventually it took a surprise grope to his rotors, courtesy of a lolling First Aid, to snap him out of it. With a rapid shake of his helm, he took to glaring at the two of them. Idiots!

“Come on,” he snapped, wriggling an arm free from the medic’s hold and grabbing Streetwise by the wrist. His optics flickered to the door. Maybe if he got the two of them out of here now they’d be spared any further embarrassment.
Though, he cast a disdainful look about the room and scowled, it’s doubtful anybot here would be sober enough to care.

Blades just huffed and tugged on his brother’s arm, trying to simultaneously drag First Aid along – the medic had taken to leaning almost all of his weight on him, and his hands had yet to stop wandering over his rotors. That… didn’t help at all.

Neither did Streetwise’s reaction to the tugging.

He instantly whined, “Awh! I don’ wanna.” Pouting he managed to wrench his arm free from Blades’ grip – only to succeed in falling back on his aft. Both he and Aid burst out laughing a second later.

Blades was not amused. He grit his denta in frustration. Urgh, man this was annoying. He couldn’t believe they were making him be the responsible one here! Or that they got drunk for the first time without him. That was just unfair. In fact, Blades realised he was really quite peeved about that last bit.

“You guys are gonna be in deep shit when Ratchet finds out,” he grumbled, eyeing the slumped form of Streetwise suspiciously. The police car had that sneaky glint to his optics he got whenever he knew something that Blades didn’t.

But before he could ponder that for very long, a squeaked-out curse left him when a glossa suddenly replaced the hand on his rotors. His optics snapped over to First Aid accusingly. The medic just grinned crookedly at him, clearly not the one responsible.

“Mm, yummy rotors.”

Blades jumped when denta suddenly scraped over the metal. OK. Not good.

He growled and awkwardly pivoted round to glare at the offender. Groove looked utterly unrepentant – he seemed momentarily disappointed at the lack of rotors to molest, but lit up when he caught sight of Blades’ faceplates.

“Yay Blades!” he giggled, lurching forwards to swing his arms around the ‘copters neck. Blades grunted and felt his legs start to give under the combined weight of First Aid and Groove.

Oh slag, he winced. Blades was rather tempted to drop the pair of them then and there. Though aside from the niggling guilt and protective brotherly slag, considering how tightly the two were clutching him, he was fairly certain they’d just drag him down with them either way.

He scowled and forced himself to stay upright. He might have managed it too, had he not felt a pair of arms wrap around his abdomen a second later.

“Group hug!” Streetwise crooned from behind him, adding his own weight to the pile. Blades felt his knees finally give and he braced for impact.

“‘Spot!”

He blinked in surprise when the weight of First Aid was suddenly gone, Streetwise following not a second later. Groove, on the other hand, seemed fairly intent on getting at Blades’ rotors again. Grunting in annoyance, it eventually took a firm but relatively gentle headlock to keep the determined motorcycle at bay.

“Um… Blades?”

He turned, dragging a pouting Groove with him and grimaced upon seeing Hot Spot’s unimpressed frown.

“Not my fault.”

It was the standard response whenever Hot Spot gave him that look.

The fire truck didn’t have as much trouble supporting the other two as Blades, but did twitch as First Aid’s hands slid up and gripped his wheels. Streetwise just nuzzled into his side, happily snuggling against him. The copter rolled his optics. Sigma, his team were a fragging needy lot while drunk.

“So… they were like this when you arrived?” he dubiously asked. Blades scowled at the inherent accusation and nodded, struggling to keep Groove from wriggling out of his grip – he didn’t trust any of them to roam free in their current status. Much less a ridiculously horny motorcycle.

“Every one of ‘em shit-faced as hell when I got here,” he stated. “Judgin’ by what Aid said, I think there must’ve been something weird in the mid-grade.”

Hot Spot hummed, awkwardly shooting an arm out to catch said medic before he fell. First Aid just giggled and leant into him, fingers curling over plating again.

“Well… I suppose we should take them to Ratchet?” Blades gave him a look and the fire truck blinked. “What?”

“Look to your left.”

Hot Spot did. His shoulders instantly drooped in despondence. Sure enough, there was Ratchet – currently in the midst of downing a cube that looked to be several times the size of his helm to the chanting of ‘chug chug chug’.

Well. So much for that.

“Tell me there’s at least one sober medic on base,” he muttered, looking back to Blades. The copter just snorted.

“I think the designated ‘sober medic’ around here is currently trying to grope your windshield,” he deadpanned. “Though… What about Hoist?”

Hot Spot scanned the room’s occupants but was unable to spot the green doctor.

He turned to Blades, “Med bay?”

The copter agreed with a nod, but neither voiced the question hanging in the air as to how they were going to manage navigating all three slag-faced bots half-way through the base.

“We’ll need to alternate,” Hot Spot stated, frowning down at his two lively charges. “I’ll take these two for now, and you take Groove. Halfway there we’ll switch. OK?”

Silence was his answer.

“Blades?”

He looked up just in time to see the tips of two white rotors disappear around the corner. Hot Spot’s optic twitched just as Streetwise’s hands began to wander over his hip seams.

“Aft.”

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