Day 40: Greenhouse [Fourth Shift]

[toxicspiderman]

Most days, fish and chips (and a cold beer or three) was pretty goddamned high on S.T.'s list of perfect expense-account lunches. Today, the idea of picking at greasy hunks of unidentified bottom-feeder odds-and-ends (politely known as scrod, to the delight of teenagers all across the Northeast) didn't appeal.

He begged off and collapsed into his bed, after using his damp shirt as an excuse to surreptiously check the contents of his closet. Bingo. His nurse watched his little show, unimpressed but (more importantly) unsuspicious. Not that his hairy chest was much of a catch today, pale and sweating from fever. At least she didn't tuck him in.

The intercom woke up up right on schedule, and pulling the sheets back over his head almost won. But a handful of unanswered missives and a vague sense of duty dragged him out to the bulletin, and from there it was easier to stagger over to the greenhouse.

It was warm inside -- a deep, humid warmth that actually penetrated to the aches in more joints and muscles than he could remember the names of. Like a sauna, without the hassle of finding someplace to look that wasn't a mound of pasty middle-management cellulite. Or a sweat lodge, without the opposite hassle of being conscious that he was the only white guy in the room. In fact, besides the nurses in holding patterns, he was the only person in the room.

He located a tray of tomato seedlings going rootbound in their tiny six-packs, and a potting bench whose location was a quick-and-dirty approximation of equidistantly far from anything blooming. He assured his nurse he knew what he was doing, and after a couple of successful repottings, gently sliding the little seedlings out and loosening the tangled roots, she seemed to agree and backed off. It was, by far, the most fucking theraputic thing he'd found in this hellhole so far, and he let himself sink into the rhythm of the task.

[Free!]

Comments

[lossofface.livejournal.com]

"Oh, is that so?"

Blitzwing had reached the end of his patience. He'd wanted Scourge to grow a little backbone -- but only as long as it was convenient for Blitzwing's own purposes. This attitude the tracker was cultivating had to go.

Of course, Blitzwing could hardly knock Scourge down and have it out with him here and now -- though if the tracker kept pushing things, he might just do that anyway, and the nurses be slagged. But for the moment, he simply reached out and grabbed Scourge by the arm, thumb pressing hard enough into the muscle tissue that Blitzwing could almost feel the shape of the bone underneath. Humans were such delicate little creatures; a fact that could, with a little ingenuity, be worked to his advantage.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. Nothing to see here, Ms. Nurse; just two patients speaking quietly together. But Blitzwing's voice was far too cold for this to be some friendly moment.

"You say he doesn't care what we do," he said quietly, studying Scourge's reactions. "But that wasn't my impression." The filthy little organic had been challenging his authority, from the very moment it questioned his right to keep tabs on Scourge. And it sounded just like an Autobot; Blitzwing refused to tolerate even the chance of interference.

Repost, now with actual sleep.

[haplesstracker.livejournal.com]

Scourge cowered under the taller man's gaze, realizing for the first time that he'd overstepped his boundaries far too much. The little weed fell from his fingers. "I-I'll talk to him," he whimpered. "Make him see how it is. He's an organic, he doesn't know how we work."

Properly, he shouldn't have been so attached to Superboy, but the organic had been the first person here he'd actually been comfortable around and people like that were few and far between in the Decepticon ranks and he really wanted to hang on to this one.

Especially when the other options were either a very unlikely death or Superboy hating him for getting him into such a position.

[lossofface.livejournal.com]

"It's a little late for that," Blitzwing growled, voice beginning to heat up a little as he contemplated just what he'd have to do to fix this little problem -- just in time for the intercom to come on.

He snarled, releasing Scourge's arm. Oh, he was so, so, so tempted to just haul off and throw a flowerpot at that slagging mechanical nuisance -- by which he probably meant the intercom. Probably -- but no. That'd be a shameful waste of a perfectly nice flowerpot.

"We'll continue this discussion tomorrow," he snapped at Scourge, just before the nurses came to separate. Whether or not Scourge managed to catch up with him and Lugnut didn't matter; tonight all Blitzwing's attention would be focused on finishing the mission he'd set three slagging days ago. Kon could wait until tomorrow.

After all, none of them were going anywhere.

[haplesstracker.livejournal.com]

"Yes, sir," Scourge sighed, scowling and rubbing his arm as he turned to follow the crowd out the door. He was already trying to plan out how he might be able to solve this situation without it coming to blows that would inevitably implicate him. Superboy would be easier to talk to, he could warn him over breakfast and tell him to settle down, maybe even make an apology. There had to be some button to press that would sooth Blitzwing's ire.

As he walked his fingers trailed over a fallen yellow blossom lying across the warm dirt and reflexively picked it up. It smelled nice, even at arm's length, and right now Scourge felt he could do with some relaxing. Twirling it in his fingers thoughtfully, the tracker headed towards his room.