.:Tantrums and How to Deal With Them:.
It was that exact look, the look that reduced even the toughest mech to a quivering heap of fear. The look that spelled certain doom for the poor fool stupid enough to annoy Ratchet. First Aid backed away slowly, hands raised as if fending off an attack of some form, Wheeljack grimaced with a muttered, "Uh oh!" and Sunstreaker just stood there glaring right back at the CMO.
"What in the name of holy fraggin’ Primus did you just say to me?!" Ratchet snarled, optics blazing neon with rage, "You slaggin’ waste of parts! Get out. Get out - NOW! And don’t dare darken these doors again! GO ON – OUT! GET THE FRAG OUT!"
Sunstreaker held his ground for all of thirty seconds before a red and white tornado swept him off his feet and hurled him forcibly out of medical into the corridor outside.
"No, I don’t give a fraggin’ damn if it’s sunflower yellow instead of sunset yellow," the medic roared after him, "It can be bloody chartreuse or cerise-pink for all I fraggin’ well care – and it will be next time, pal – Comprende?! Ungrateful son of a slag heap!" he lapsed into human vernacular, completely beside himself with rage, "NOW @#%$ OFF!"
A chair sailed after the fast-retreating yellow Lamborghini ‘bot along with a whole host of other Anglo-Saxonesque epithets, the medbay doors slammed shut and Ratchet hurled a fist at the nearest stationary object. The wall didn’t have the option of dodging; it took the abuse as only a wall could – quietly, buckling under the impact.
First Aid cast the engineer a sidelong glance, asking quietly, "Should we restrain him?"
Wheeljack shook his head, "Nah, let him have his tantrum. Believe me he’ll be a lot easier to live with for it," he chuckled draping an arm around the young medtech’s shoulders with easy familiarity, "C’mon kid, let’s go get a drink."
Ratchet spun on the two before they could make good their escape, optics glinting menacingly, "And just where in the name of the Pit do you reckon you’re going, Wheeljack? This is your slaggin’ fault!"
"Whoa there, Ratch!" the Lancia bot backed up, "I had nothin’ to do with it. Just cool off, ok?"
Ratchet wasn’t done yet though, "'Nothing to do with it'?’" he echoed incredulously, warming up to give the engineer the proverbial ‘bollocking of the century’ as humans would say. "Then who the frag was it that designed and built the slaggin’ thing anyway?" he ranted, "Who was it that freakin’-well blew a hole the size of Omega Supreme’s aft-end in the ground out there and took out half the slag-forsaken audience in the process, hey?! Who, Wheeljack? You tell me, ‘cos if it wasn’t you then Primus the Almighty alone knows who it was! I swear to Primus the lot of you are just conspiring to drive me completely off road!"
Wheeljack braced himself mentally and physically, wholeheartedly expecting the rabid medic to flatten him at any given moment. First Aid, more than a little perturbed by the CMO’s uncouth outburst, chipped in calmly in a perfectly even and reasonable tone, "Ratchet, I really don’t want to have to sedate you. Please - calm down, sit down and have a drink."
Wheeljack hissed in dismay. If there was one thing he’d learned in his years of working with Ratchet it was that under no circumstances did you threaten him. Ratchet meanwhile, drew himself up to his full height, a good head and shoulders over his second and treated him to the full weight of his most fear-inspiring glare. Looming over the Protectobot he returned in a deadly quiet tone, "And just what sort of funeral arrangements would you like me to make for you, First Aid? Burial at sea, cremation or being blasted into space?"
First Aid faced him down optic to optic, head raised and arms crossed over his chest plating returning in a cool tone, "If you must, I’ll take burial at sea, thank you. Now, I’m giving you exactly five minutes to calm down before I get the tranqs."
Wheeljack watched in awe, the kid certainly had some nerve. The last ‘bot to stand up to his red and white liveried friend had spent the next five minutes wondering where the hell the freight train that hit them had come from all of a sudden. The freight train that took the form of Ratchet’s known and noted right cross that was. The very same right cross that had laid Prime flat out on his can one time.
The medtech and the CMO continued their battle of wills:
"The holy hell you will. You come anywhere near me with a tranq shot and your peace-loving aft won’t touch the floor for the next two hundred kilometres! – Is that understood, First Aid?" Ratchet hissed icily.
First Aid sighed a long-suffering sigh returning disarmingly, "That’s perfectly fine - as long as you cover my shifts in my absence," he leaned back against an examination table, crossing his legs, "You have three minutes."
Ratchet continued to snarl unpleasant nothings, bearing down on First Aid with a look that could quite well have put the fear of God into Unicron. The Protectobot was unmoved, he simply stood there, entirely passive and entirely unfazed by the display from his senior stating flatly, "I’m not joking, Ratchet. Two minutes thirty seconds."
Wheeljack continued to watch from the comparative safety of the other side of the room, secretly egging the young medtech on. Ratchet had had more than enough years of getting his own way with things like this, he needed to be brought to ground by someone and if it were someone quiet like First Aid, someone who no-one would look twice at then all the better. It’d be a nice large slice of humble pie for the CMO and kudos for the kid. The engineer chuckled to himself quietly, Go on, kid, you tell ‘im….heh.
Ratchet backed off a little, somewhat unnerved by First Aid’s response – or lack thereof. He wasn’t used to eliciting anything but complete obedience from his staff, or blind fear when he was in one of his ‘moods’. His optics narrowed sceptically as he gave the smaller mech the visual once over. He showed no signs of stress of any kind. In fact, he radiated an almost ethereal aura of calm. It was unsettling, very, very unsettling.
"Two minutes, boss. Now, are you going to continue this sorry performance of yours or are you going to sit down and behave yourself?" First Aid queried with more than a subtle note humour in his tone; "You’re more than old enough to know better."
Wheeljack couldn’t hide a snigger; he couldn’t have beaten that shot himself.
The CMO’s optics widened in indignation, "Why you rat-slaggin’ little!…Sweet Primus, if you weren’t a fritzy, flower-lovin’ Pacifist I’d…"
"Yes, you’d what? Go on, Ratchet. Oh, ninety seconds by the way," the Protectobot interrupted and countered easily adding the second as almost an afterthought and unfolding his arms. He’d cracked tougher cases than Ratchet in his time. He’d majored in Medicine and Psychology with a second in Philosophy at the Academy and thus specialised in negotiation and logical debates. He could turn any argument or threat against the other party with startling ease.
Ratchet couldn’t think of a suitable answer, he grumbled something about crowbars, electricity pylons and certain areas of the anatomy that didn’t sound particularly pleasant to either of the other mechs in the room and fell into a sullen silence. Defeated and sulking.
The stalemate lasted for all of ten seconds before the CMO growled, "Ahhh fraggit, what’s the use…? I’m just wasting my time. Primus' sakes, Wheelie couldn’t stress you out! I’ve got better things to do than play fraggin' word games with you anyhow."
First Aid grinned in triumph behind his surgical mask, "And it took you an entire four minutes and how many seconds to figure that out? I think you need a tune up, boss."
Wheeljack couldn’t resist it, he chipped in in a semi-serious tone, an index raised skyward in illustration, "Four minutes, thirty five point two five seconds, to be exact."
Ratchet glared daggers at the engineer, "And you can shut the frag up, too. You slaggin’-well started it, ‘Jack!"
"Yeah, and he finished it," Wheeljack laughed, nodding appreciatively in First Aid’s direction, "Well done, kid. I couldn’t have handled that any better myself and I’ve been workin’ with Ratch here for Matrix-knows how long."
The CMO shook his head in resignation, privately chewing wasps about the situation – he hated being the butt of someone else’s jokes. Making for the door he asked gruffly, "So, whose got the first round then?"
"Your call, boss. You won the Oscar after all," First Aid chuckled, sharing a sly sidelong glance with Wheeljack.
"Ah, slag…c’mon guys!" Ratchet spluttered, caught off-guard, "That’s not fair!"