[Transformers G1] Half-Truths -- Part One
Apr. 7th, 2012 07:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: This fic is the sequel to Dear Lies that I've been promising since February. It wouldn't fit all in one post but I linked the second half of it at the bottom. Special thanks to azardarkstar for beta'ing and helping me with a few troublesome scenes.
Title: Half-Truths
Characters: Past Jazz/Ratchet, Wheeljack, the Twins, Others
Rating: M
Genre: Angst, Horror
Warnings: mentions of dubcon and noncon, bondage
Summary: G1. Sequel to Dear Lies. It's a universal constant that the best lies are half true.
Nighttime, Earth's equivalent of off-shift, is by far the worst. Every soft noise of the Ark makes Ratchet twitch. Every flickering light or quiet click make his spark twinge with dread.
He can look a few berths over and see Jazz's stasis locked frame, but that doesn't make him feel any less apprehensive. Worse that he doesn't have anything to distract him. He's been banned from his medbay so that he can “heal” by order of his Prime, forced to obey his apprentice in all matters related to his recovery. Not that any of them have the first clue how to handle this except for the physical matters.
The psychological matters are another cog entirely.
His only distraction is the pain. A spark is as intangible as it is tangible. Yet, it can convey pleasure in the same way it conveys agony. The sharp knife that cuts through Ratchet is felt strut-deep. It makes him ventilate shallowly, makes his circuits surge erratically. The further he is from Jazz, the worse it gets, but Ratchet isn't going to get any closer.
He'd rather have the pain.
The quiet hours when he should be recharging are the worst. He can't recharge, doesn't want to, and only required systems shut down to give him a few hours peace. They are the hours when he starts to think, when his addled processor leaps from random thought to anxious wondering, when the memories decide to refresh themselves. When he can't help but pull them up again and again and wonder what he missed, how he couldn't have seen this coming.
He begins to wonder if he'd made a mistake.
Loneliness surges through Ratchet, overriding the vague numbness that has been the majority of his sensation lately. His spark continues to tug him toward his almost-mate, desperate to complete the bond. Sometimes, he catches echoes, lingering traces of Jazz both in his systems and in his spark.
Ratchet turns his head, staring at Jazz's stasis-locked frame. His sensors pinpoint, identify, and catalogue every aspect of Jazz's systems. In the dim of the medbay, Jazz still appears to gleam, as handsome as the day Ratchet first met him. He looks wrong lying there. No energy to his motions. No playful mischief in his visor.
Three days. It's been three days. Enough time for the physical injuries to be mended, except for the agony in his spark. Time is the only balm for that particular wound.
And tomorrow is the inquest. Ratchet should be recharging, preparing for what is likely going to be a grueling affair, no matter how delicate he knows his Prime will be.
Instead, he stares up at the medbay's ceiling, thoughts swirling over and over in self-recrimination.
Maybe he made a mistake.
o0o0o
Ratchet supposes he should be grateful that Optimus wants to keep recent events to only the command staff. These are the sorts of rumors that they don't want spreading around. The faith that everyone has in Jazz is nearly on par with the faith that they have in Ratchet. They’re fighting a war, too, and the last thing the Autobots need is something to unsettle their comfortable base.
Worse that they have all become so close-knit over the years. No one can be impartial. Jazz is everyone's friend; Ratchet is their chief medic. Jazz and Prowl are as close as brothers. Ratchet and Wheeljack are best friends.
The casual atmosphere Optimus tries to effect fails miserably for Ratchet. They’re in a small conference hall rather than the brig, which might be more appropriate depending on an individual’s point of view, and Ratchet is sitting at a table with everyone else. He's not in a chair, the sole focus, which would again probably be more appropriate. But he can see the dimness in Optimus' optics.
This sort of event is unprecedented. They are so few now with the laws and rules of Cybertronian society four million years behind them. The Autobots are a law unto themselves, governed by the inherent structure of a military unit. In the end, final judgment will be made by their Prime.
Ratchet's spark gives another painful lurch. He winces, stifling a hiccup of discomfort, only exacerbated by the tension in the air right now.
“Ratchet,” Optimus says gently. “We don't have to do this now. The situation remains unchanged. We can delay the proceedings--”
“No,” Ratchet cuts him off, perhaps a bit rudely than he would usually. “I'm fine.”
Optimus gives him a level look. “You are anything but fine, old friend. But I can understand the need to believe otherwise.” He approximates a sigh and sits back, optics flicking around the table to the small gathering.
Prowl to his left and Blaster on the other side. Ironhide to his right and Red Alert next to him. Wheeljack is here, too. With Ratchet across from Optimus, the sole focus of their Prime's incisive gaze, something that can make a bot guilty without even trying.
Not that Ratchet needs it. He has enough regret, enough second-guessing of his actions. He doesn't need them to condemn him.
“Then shall we begin?” Prowl asks curtly, sitting ramrod straight. His doors are held up above him in a tight configuration, betraying his own discomfort with the whole situation. He surely must feel torn, trapped between loyalty to his brother in all but name and his bonded. “An attack on a fellow Autobot is no small transgression.”
“Though one executed in self-defense is a different matter,” Optimus replies, giving his second a stern look. Ratchet has the feeling this is a discussion the two of them have had prior to this meeting.
Prowl doesn't so much as flinch. “Self-defense has yet to be determined.”
“Uh, unless you're calling Ratchet a liar, I'm pretty sure it has,” Blaster comments with a raised orbital ridge.
“One does have to question the legitimacy of the accusations,” Red Alert adds with a thoughtful click of his mouthplates. “Not that I'm claiming anyone of telling falsities, but that given the relation between the two at question, one wonders what precisely the issue is. Or was rather.”
Ratchet shifts in his chair, opting to keep silent until someone addresses him directly. They all have valid points. Why should they believe Ratchet over Jazz? Because he's the one that's conscious with full access to his memory core? What makes either Ratchet or Jazz more worthy of trust than the other?
They've been comrades in arms for eons. How does one handle something like this?
Blaster ventilates noisily, giving Ratchet an apologetic look. “Sorry, Ratch, but Red's got a point. You and the Jazz-bot were together for a couple of years. It's just a bit odd that you didn't notice anything sooner, yeah?”
“Not necessarily,” Wheeljack interjects, and he sounds a touch offended. “How much of those years was Jazz actually on base? How much of it did Ratch spend in the medbay?”
Optimus lifts a hand, a gesture he's picked up from the humans. His voice is calm but strained
“Easy, Wheeljack. The question is legitimate. Perhaps what none of us have considered yet is that this behavior is recent and the result of a virus or a glitch.”
Guilt swamps Ratchet so heavily he can't do anything but slump. Why hadn't he, the supposed chief medical officer, considered that? In retrospect, that should have been his first suspicion. Jazz's behavior had seemed to come from nowhere, but he'd thought it a product of his own obliviousness and Jazz's inherent possessive nature.
Could he have been so wrong?
“Did Hoist not scan his coding and run full anti-virals?” Prowl questions as his gaze sweeps around the room.
“He did,” Ratchet answers before anyone else can, refusing to conceal the static in his vocalizer. He knows better than to suggest himself. “But he's not as trained for it as others. Someone else should do it. 'Jack?”
The engineer shakes his head. “Not me, Ratch. I'm better with mechanics not coding. You know that. Maybe Prowl?”
“No.”
The lieutenant gives no other reason, just the emphatic, glyph-laden negative.
“Skyfire?” Wheeljack then suggests though it is hesitant. Rightly so, as that would involve telling more mechs about the truth of matters.
Blaster runs a hand over his helm. “Jazz’s like the absolute best coder I know, aside from a few Decepticons. He woulda known if something was off in his systems, yeah?”
“Not necessarily,” Ratchet replies with an audible ventilation. “I find it unlikely that this is a mere glitch, but I wouldn't protest to having someone check.” He would be relieved actually, though it wouldn't allay the guilt.
“If that's what ya want done, Prime, I can do it,” Blaster adds though he is hardly enthused about it. “I know enough to do a proper search. When would you like me to start?”
“Immediately,” Prowl interjects before anyone else can get a word in edgewise.
Optimus looks uncomfortably resigned. “Yes, Blaster. If you can. We can't proceed any further until we eliminate or confirm this possibility.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Since nothing more can be discussed, we'll call an end to the inquest for today.” Optimus abruptly rises to his pedes, hands planted flat on the conference table. “It goes without saying that nothing we've discussed here should leave the room.”
“Bots are askin' questions,” Ironhide finally inserts. He looks uncomfortable, though rightly so “What're we sposed to tell 'em?”
Red Alert gathers up his many datapads. “Nothing for now. I'm sure enough rumors will spread on their own. Perhaps they will merely chalk it up to a particularly strenuous bout of interfacing and teasing will commence.”
Ratchet fails to hide his wince. Neither do the others.
Red Alert, tact knows not thy designation.
Their Prime makes a sound not unlike that of a human clearing their throat. “In any case, please do not confirm or deny anything. We'll reconvene as soon as Blaster has something to report. Understood?”
A chorus of acknowledgment echoes through the gathered mechs. They all rise to their pedes, making for the door with the low murmur of conversation already buzzing between them. Ratchet stays seated, and Optimus too remains behind. He waits until they leave, pretending he doesn't notice the varied glances tossed his way, before he rises from his chair with a slow and ponderous motion. It feels as though it takes greater effort to leverage himself up.
“Shall I go to the brig then?” Ratchet asks, using great effort to keep his vocalizer from wavering.
“The brig?” Prime's optics spiral outward, betraying his surprise, as he circles around the table. “I had no intention of confining you, Ratchet.”
“I don't see why not. I harmed a fellow Autobot.” He feels his tanks roil, the impulse to purge rising up within him. “It's the least of what I deserve.”
Optimus lifts his hands, perhaps intending to comfort Ratchet in some way. But at the medic's flinch, he wisely lowers them.
“The motivations behind this matter are still under debate, but I'm certain brig-time is not the answer to anything here.”
“I can't return to my medbay.”
“Unfortunately not.”
He resists the urge to ask where the frag else he ought to go. “I see.”
The Prime's plating lifts and clamps down, once again fighting the urge to exhibit tactile comfort. Ratchet almost feels sorry for Optimus, trapped as he is amongst his many loyalties. To cause this much conflict in their already troubled Prime… well, Ratchet's own guilt amps itself up several notches.
“Take the opportunity to recover a bit more, old friend. I'm not remanding you to quarters, but--”
“It's best if I stay there,” Ratchet finishes for him, his spark giving a surge of discomfort.
More's the pity as there is nowhere else on the Ark Ratchet would feel more uncomfortable, save perhaps for Jazz's room.
o0o0o
Ratchet's only consolation is that his quarters remain as empty as they were a week ago when Jazz took it upon himself to remove all of his belongings for cohabitation. The room looks entirely unlived in, which makes it easier to forestall any uncomfortable reminders of the chaos that waits outside the door.
In the still silence of the room, Ratchet ventilates softly. He sits in the chair in front of Teletraan One's terminal and stares blankly at the screen. His HUD pings him, reminders that he could use a cube of energon, but Ratchet has no urge to go to the rec room.
His chronometer reminds him that now is about the usual time he's getting off shift in the medbay. When Jazz swings by to pick him up, usually with cube in hand, and off they go.
There's nothing in his room to remind him of that terrible night from a week ago, and yet, the utter silence is all too telling.
Rest and recover.
As though it should be so easy.
Physically, Ratchet barely suffered any damage. A few scuffs and dents from the cuffs and one on the back of his helm from whatever Jazz had done to knock him briefly online. The worst damage is to his spark, but even that shows no outward sign of injury.
Ratchet's insides twist, and a low grunt escapes him. He palms his chest plate, feeling the thrum of his spark beneath. A consequence of the half-initiated bond; he knows this as well as anyone. It could be weeks, months, frag even years, before all the strange sensations and stray thoughts go away. If Jazz's memory core wasn't wiped, if he was conscious, the feedback would be so much worse...
What will Blaster find? What if there is a virus or a glitch or something Ratchet, as the most trained medic in the Ark, should have found first? Why hadn't that thought ever crossed his processor? Why had he automatically assumed that there was something nefarious behind the scenes?
Has the war changed his conceptions about matters? So much that he first thinks the worst of mechs, even his fellow Autobots?
Ratchet slumps in his chair, slapping a hand over his face and shuttering his optics. Too much. This is too much. Sitting here in the half-dark emptiness of his quarters with nothing but the sound of his own systems echoing around him.
He wants nothing more in this moment to be with Jazz again. The Jazz who hadn't betrayed him and shattered his trust. He wants to curl next to the mech, listen to the familiar hum of his systems, and laugh over some shared joke. He wants Jazz to tease him, to respond with empty threats, and to feel clever fingers tease at his plating.
His spark surges, sympathetic. It feels too large for his casing, stretched and sore, if something intangible can even carry such a sensation. His frame is equally tight, too small, not enough to contain him.
Ratchet curls into himself, fighting off the waves of inevitable pain. How the frag could it have all gone so wrong?
o0o0o
“It's not a glitch,” Blaster says, his vocalizer lacking its usual infectious cheer and amusement. “Or a virus. Not any I could recognize or categorized in any of our databanks.”
“It could be something new. It's not unheard of for Decepticons to devise new forms of viral warfare,” Prowl suggests with the air of a grounder grasping at the clouds. Utterly pointless and only forestalling the inevitable.
Prime's noisy ventilation does more to invoke Ratchet's lingering guilt than the dying hope in the optics of the others in the room.
“No, Prowl, I don’t think that is the case. No matter how much we wish it were so.”
The SiC's doors drop by a fraction of an inch as Prowl inclines his head. “The only logical conclusion is one that doesn't bear considering.”
“Yet, it is the conclusion that must be discussed.” Prime lays his hands flat on the table, fingers spread, a gesture that indicates the difficulty of the situation. “Jazz's actions are of his own choosing, and it is them we must judge.”
Heavy silence sweeps into the room. Ratchet can't speak, doesn't dare say anything for fear of how his words might be interpreted.
Red Alert places a datapad on the table, the screen dark. “What it boils down to, Prime, is whether or not we restore Jazz's memories. That is the question we must answer. Because if we do not, we only have the options of dealing with a sparkling with Special Ops instincts, complete reprogramming, or execution.”
Ratchet flinches. He's not the only one. Execution, even for criminal behavior, has never been done amongst the Autobots. Not even their Decepticon prisoners have ever suffered such a fate. The prospect of dealing with a sparkling in Jazz's frame is barely the lesser of two evils. Such a reprogram would never shake the stigma of its previous life.
“I need ta know what's really goin' on here,” Ironhide puts in darkly, gaze shifting all around the table. “We all got the basic picture, but I still don't get how somethin' like this coulda happened. No offense, Ratch, but it came outta nowhere.”
“Preaching to the choir, 'Hide,” Wheeljack mutters, indicators flashing a sullen green. “None of us thought Jazz capable.”
“Capability wasn't in question,” Ratchet says, his spark giving an unwelcome surge that makes his plating crackle. “And I don't have the answers for you, Ironhide. I didn't see this coming any more than you did.”
Prowl straightens, doors held up above him in a tight configuration. “You were together for years, and there was no sign? You noticed nothing?”
The lieutenant's questions approach accusation, one Ratchet can't be sure if he deserves or not. His own thoughts haven't settled one way or the other. Nevertheless, a touch of his old spirit returns as he squares his shoulders.
“Of course I noticed,” Ratchet snaps, his words a whip-crack in the otherwise tense atmosphere. “I noticed lots of things. But I didn't automatically connect mildly possessive and weirdly obsessed with my energon habits with he's going to force me into a spark bond!” His hands slam into the table with more force than is wise, his plating rattling audibly.
Prowl's optics cycle down. “It's no small wonder Jazz was confused. Particularly since to him, your rejection must have come from nowhere.”
Ratchet feels heat surge through his systems. He’s angry now, but he isn’t entirely sure it’s appropriate.
“You're treading on dangerous ground, Prowl,” he grounds out, “to imply that my repeated requests for him to stop were somehow unclear.”
Prowl just looks at him. He and Prowl aren’t brothers by creation, but it’s a fact that is so easy to forget at times. Especially right now.
“Would such a bond have been so terrible?”
Ratchet jerks backward, spark stuttering at the tone and words both.
“Prowl!” Wheeljack interjects with a horrified blitz of static. He stares at his bonded like he's never seen the mech before, and Ratchet can't blame him.
“It's a logical question,” Prowl retorts, his optics a flat shade of blue that even Sideswipe has learned to fear. “Jazz brought you energon. Saw to your needs. Cared for you. Loved you and was devoted to you. Was a bond with him truly a fate worse than deactivation?”
A low thrum resonates throughout the room as Optimus leans forward.
“Freedom is the right--”
“Freedom,” Prowl coolly interrupts, “does not exist during wartime. There is a larger picture. We are, as a species, becoming extinct. Dwindling more with each clash with the Decepticons. We need Jazz.”
Ironhide rumbles ominously. “We also need our CMO.”
“It was a spark bond. Between two mechs in a previously established relationship. Hardly deactivation,” the lieutenant retorts with the same even tone as before, all pragmatism and logic. “The Decepticons still outnumber us and have the greater firepower. We cannot afford to lose any skilled mechs. Not even for a lover's spat.”
Prowl's optics shift to Optimus. The room is silent then. Processing. Reaching conclusions that Ratchet doesn’t even want to fathom.
“You know that I'm right, Prime.” A shudder visibly races across his frame, but he continues without pause, “This is Jazz we're discussing here, not some sparkless drone. More than that, he cannot even speak for himself currently.”
“Mech, you might wanna watch yer tone,” Ironhide all but growls, one hand resting on the table but the other out of sight. “Because yer also sittin' there accusing the slaggin' chief medical officer of not only lyin' but deliberately cripplin' a fellow Autobot.”
“Either way, someone is the victim, and someone is the criminal,” Blaster says, his vocalizer tuned louder than usual, as though to override any other possible commentary. “I don't know how any of us are qualified to judge either way. We're all biased.”
“That's enough.” The words tumble out of Ratchet's vocalizer before he entirely knows what he's going to say. He finds himself on his pedes in much the same manner. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Behind him, Wheeljack shifts. “Ratch--”
It takes all he has to conceal his wince at the too-familiar nickname.
“No,” Ratchet interrupts to whatever protest Wheeljack might have intended. “Give Jazz back his memories.”
He could have called himself the spark-bonded of Unicron for all the shock that his suggestion produced. Not even Prowl looks satisfied, which only serves to boggle Ratchet further.
He can hardly blame Prowl though. He and Jazz are close. Closer than anything but the sparkmated mechs amongst the Ark’s populace. And maybe even closer than that.
Someone touches Ratchet's arm, and if not for their familiarity from over the vorns, Ratchet might have shifted straight into offense mode. As it is, he recognizes the warm press of Wheeljack's energy field, but the contact is still uncomfortable, still holds a faint trace of Jack’s own bondmate.
Ratchet shakes off his hand, taking a decisive step away from his closest friend.
“Maybe I overreacted,” Ratchet says in the ensuing silence, while all optics are focused his way, giving him perhaps his only real chance to speak. “Maybe I didn't make myself clear. Maybe I'm really at fault.” He doesn't look at anyone, instead focusing on the relative safety of the wall, which stares back at him completely without judgment. “Prowl's right. No matter what happened; we can't afford to lose Jazz. Not just because of the Decepticons, but also because of our fellow Autobots. He’s needed.”
“He's not the only one.” Wheeljack tosses a cutting look toward his bonded. “You're not indispensable either.”
“We are still fighting a war,” Ratchet reminds them, as though the command staff could have possibly forgotten.
And though part of him screams that the last thing he wants is for Jazz to pick up where he left off, he knows what’s best for the good of everyone else. So he speaks, the words coming from a numb, insentient mechanical place inside of him. Like a robot without a spark.
“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Even medics understand that.”
Wheeljack sputters a helpless burst of static, trapped between loyalty to his bonded and his best friend. No one else speaks yet, disheartened quiet sweeping through the small meeting room.
Logic and rationality dictate that Prowl is right. And Ratchet, too. Emotion and sentiment cry for a different approach.
“We are overlooking an important detail here,” Red Alert finally speaks up, fingers rapping over the tabletop. “Yes, it would benefit the Autobots to have Jazz's memories returned to him. But he doesn't need them all.”
Prime straightens then, and his optics are nothing short of grateful for the lifeline Red Alert just threw him.
“What do you mean?”
“I don't claim to understand the full mechanics of how a memory core works, but it stands to reason that backups are mere data.” Red Alert pauses for a second, and his hand stills. “Data can be altered.”
Wheeljack's indicators pulse weakly. “That’s hardly less ethical...”
“It is the only practical option,” Red Alert corrects, and his voice is practical but somehow tired at the same time. “When did Jazz last back up his memory core?”
“Right after he returned from his last mission. Roughly a month ago,” Ratchet supplies.
And right before I officially ended our relationship.
Red Alert makes a low noise of consideration. “We would have to construct a story, of course, to cover gaps in Jazz's memory files, but it's not impossible.”
Prowl's doors hike backward, rigid and unyielding. “You mean to suggest we edit a fellow Autobot's memories and carefully construct a lie all for the sake of an act we've yet to prove?”
“Prowl,” Prime cuts in, his voice suddenly sharp. “I understand your reluctance to believe the worst of Jazz, and it may be that there is a serious misunderstanding here, but consistently debating what ifs is not going to solve the problem we face. We need to make a choice. For everyone's sake.”
The tactician's energy field ripples tangibly. His fingers curl into fists, and for a long moment, Prowl looks as if he might argue before he dips his head in acquiescence.
“Yes, Prime.”
Ratchet shutters his optics for a second before turning to Prowl.
“All you have to do is ask,” he says with an embarrassing crackle of his vocalizer. “I'll show you what I remember of that night. You can see my memories of it, my perceptions, and then you can decide whether or not I was mistaken.”
The idea of someone uplinking to him makes Ratchet’s tanks churn, but it may be a necessary evil.
“Slaggit, medic, ya don't hafta do that,” Ironhide insists with a fierce jerk of his hand.
“I will if I must.” Ratchet's shoulders slump, his frame feeling tight and creaky. Old. He's tired of fighting. “Prime?”
Optimus vents noisily, hands once again spread across the table. “No, Ratchet. That won't be necessary.” His vocal tones shift into low register. “Jazz's memories will be returned to him. They will be edited to suit a proper cover story. Blaster?”
The communications officer shakes his helm. “The kind of editing you're asking for... it's complicated and a bit out of my area of expertise. I can't do it on my own.”
Prowl's energy field fluctuates again. His back is now ramrod straight, and his optics all but burn.
“I refuse.”
Nearby, Blaster edges away. His own energy field draws in tightly around him as though offended by the virulent nature of the bot next to him.
“I do have someone in mind, but you'll probably object,” Blaster comments, but his voice is a twinge hesitant.
Red Alert frowns. “Who?”
Blaster's gaze skitters around the room. “Sideswipe.”
“Are ya glitchin?” Ironhide demands with an outraged roar that makes Ratchet flinch and shut off his reflexive battle routines.
Energy crackles between Red Alert's helm crests, a sure sign that he does not approve.
“I do not think it's wise--”
“--more likely to leave chaos in his wake than to--”
“--and they call me crazy.”
“I know what I'm talking about,” Blaster retorts with an indignant twitch of his armor. “Sides is a genius when it comes to this kind of stuff. And Jazz's processor is the least linear system I've ever peeked into. I need Sideswipe's help.”
Optimus drums his fingers across the table, a habit he's picked up from Sparkplug. “You are certain he can be trusted with this task.”
“Of course, boss bot.” Blaster motions to the translucent glass of his chest compartment. “I’d stake my spark on it.”
An oath that few Cybertronians take lightly, even in these days of unending war against the Decepticons. These days, all that a bot owns is his spark.
In the wake of Blaster's confidence, Prime leans back. He is quiet for a moment. Contemplative. Optics flicking from Ratchet to Prowl and then around the table.
“Very well,” he finally allows. “Explain to him what has happened and what you need from him. Enforce memory blocks if you must.”
Prowl bristles. His field is staticky and painful to feel, and Ratchet actually has a second to think that Prowl might actually resort to violence.
“You can't seriously--”
“Since you refuse to attend to this matter, I will rely on whomever else can complete the task,” Prime interjects, taking on a steely note, harmonics brooking no argument.
Prowl clamps his mouthplates shut, but his gaze spits fire, and Ratchet is only grateful the tactician doesn’t have laser vision.
No one else offers an argument, however. What can they say? What other choice do they have?
o0o0o
Sometimes, it happens. Sometimes, sparks just won't bond. Maybe the frequencies are too dissimilar, the wavelengths too dissonant. Maybe there's an integral flaw in one spark or the other that causes them to repel. Maybe it's just not meant to be.
No one really knows why. There's never one simple explanation. No true way to test ahead of time.
It happens. It's rare, but it happens. Out of all the mechs in all of Cybertron, it's not impossible for there to be another Cybertronian whose spark frequency grates against a potential mate. But it seems a one in a billion chance to end up attached to the one mech a bot can never bond.
Ratchet himself has only seen it twice: once in a singular pair early on in his career and later in a trio that intended to trine. In both instances, the relationships dissolved, fell apart. Not only could they never touch sparks to one another, but future attempts to do so brought only pain. And for a vorn afterward, all five of Ratchet's patients suffered from twists in their spark, interrupted recharge, and acute depression.
Sometimes, bonds just go wrong.
It’s this story that they decide to give Jazz. It's impossible to completely remove their relationship from Jazz's memory core. Their interactions are a core part of his day to day life for years. Not to mention the fact that everyone in the Ark knew about them, and the difficulties in keeping that secret are astronomical.
Easier to acknowledge the relationship but contrive an explanation for why Ratchet doesn't wish to pursue it any further without prompting the same behavior as before.
They don't even have to lie. Not really. It was a bond gone wrong. They just don't have to tell Jazz why it had gone wrong. Let him believe they simply aren't meant to be. Let him think that there’s still love, that he never betrayed Ratchet. Let Jazz have the happy memories. There's no reason for him to suffer the guilt.
It's a universal constant that the best lies are half true. It's believable, it's viable, and most of all, it works.
Standing here, watching Blaster and Sideswipe plug into Jazz, Ratchet isn't sure how he's supposed to feel. There's pain, first of all, because even though Jazz is in a private room, he is still too close. There is a viewing window between them, but it's not enough to stop the yearning. The aching in his spark to tear open the door to the private medberth and finish what Jazz had started.
This close, he keeps getting echoes. Out of sync pulses that are Jazz's spark and not his own, spindly little surges that reflect their partially-finished bond.
There's guilt, too. Seeing Jazz lying there on the berth, still and silent, makes it crop up all over again. It makes Ratchet wonder if was Prowl right? Had he made a mistake? Had he overreacted?
Affection wars with horror that battles with grief. Jazz is friend, lover, and now... now Ratchet doesn't know what to call him. He doesn't know how he's supposed to feel, to react. He doesn't know how he's going to act normal once they take Jazz out of stasis.
Behind him, the door to the medbay opens and closes, the arrival's footsteps whisper-quiet. A subtle query from Ratchet's sensors identify his visitor. His plating clamps down against his frame.
“Ratchet.”
He doesn't look, doesn't need to.
“Prowl.”
Acknowledgment given, Ratchet says nothing else. He turns his attention back to the window, where the three mechs are still as stone, practically a piece of art for all the movement Ratchet sees from them. It could be hours before they finish depending on how much of Jazz's memory they have to alter.
Prowl steps up beside Ratchet, his gaze focused on the room as well. There's a twitching in his doors, an annoying noise on Ratchet's sensors, but the lieutenant doesn't speak. Yet.
Ratchet continues to watch. Eject comes into the room, less enthusiastic than usual, setting aside a few cubes of energon for Blaster and Sideswipe. They'll need it. He peers at Jazz, peers up at his symbiotic master, then leaves again. He and the rest of the cassettes have been tasked with subtly spreading the lie that will serve as truth to the rest of the crew.
“I owe you an apology.”
The words are sudden. Unexpected. Surprising.
Ratchet shutters his optics. “No, you don't.”
“I do.” He senses, more than sees Prowl shift toward him, discomfort radiating from his energy field. “I have behaved--”
“In a way that is completely understandable.” Ratchet performs a systems check, gets his surging emotions under control, and onlines his optics. “I get it, Prowl. He’s your brother.”
A twitch visibly flicks across Prowl's pristine plating. “Yes, and as such, I am not blind to his... faults.”
Faults, yes. Ratchet supposes one could call them that. Perhaps the possessive behavior is how Jazz displays the depths of his feelings for another mech. Maybe it's the only love he's ever known. Some might consider it a fault. Ratchet calls it an irreconcilable difference.
“I know Jazz. I know what he's capable of.” A reflection in the glass shows Prowl's head bowing, his optics dimming in resignation. “I merely wish it weren't the truth.”
So. The most logical bot on the Ark had reacted most illogically.
Ratchet feels compelled to say something. How twisted is this that he is the one offering comfort?
“Bias, as Blaster so elegantly put it, makes fools of us all,” he says, focusing intently on the private medbay and the two mechs still locked in their statue-like exploration of Jazz's memory core. “I know, Prowl. I don't hold a grudge. I'm not offended.”
Prowl relaxes by only a fraction, just enough that Ratchet's automatic light sensors can detect it. “Nevertheless, I apologize.”
“You're forgiven.”
It's a waste of energy to be angry with Prowl.
“And Jazz?”
Ratchet jerks, as though the mere designation were a physical attack. He swivels his helm toward Prowl, whose optics meet his in bland curiosity.
“Will you ever forgive him?”
A question with no answer. Ratchet doesn't carry grudges like some other Autobots, like the Decepticons. And he doesn't loathe Jazz, never claimed hatred either. Parts of him still long for his former partner, hungering for the joy that had been their relationship. He wishes for the days before everything went to the Pit.
He turns away.
“I can't answer that right now.”
He doesn't know that he'll ever be able to answer it. Can he grant forgiveness to a bot who won't remember what he did?
“I understand.” Prowl stares for a moment longer through the glass before he moves to the side. “He does love you.”
Like a blast to the spark. Prowl couldn't have done more damage if he tried. Ratchet lowers his head and stares at nothing.
“I know.”
o0o0o
For Cybertronians, the human measurement of time seems so fleeting. Yet, the hours and days drag into eternity for Ratchet as he waits, on bolts and brackets, for Blaster and Sideswipe to finish their delicate work.
There is little for him to do but rest and recuperate.
One day, he and Wheeljack attend to the disquieting task of retrieving Ratchet's belongings from Jazz's quarters. It takes every ounce of tungsten-will that Ratchet owns to walk into that room, rich with memories good and bad, and box back up the trinkets and odds and ends that belong to him.
Save for the items that Jazz had arranged on the shelves, most are still in the box. Ratchet pretends to be completely focused on removing his and adding them to the metal case. He lets Wheeljack poke around Jazz's quarters, careful to disturb nothing else, finding other items of Ratchet's that might have wandered out of the box.
He pointedly does not look at the berth. It’s a simple piece of furniture, but for Ratchet, it symbolizes much more. Better to pretend he can't see it. Better to pretend it doesn't exist.
Most of that night is a haze to Ratchet. He suspects a bit of corruption in his short-term memory banks due to the failed bond is to blame. It doesn't bother him that he can't recall the finer details. The broader picture is enough to make his tanks lurch.
He can still remember the way Jazz looked at him, completely perplexed. As though he couldn't understand why Ratchet wouldn't be thrilled for them to cohabitate. As though they are suddenly speaking two different languages, one of which is completely incomprehensible to the multi-lingual Jazz.
Ratchet remembers the moment he realized something wasn't quite right in Jazz's reasoning, and he ought to make himself scarce. The instant he turned on a pede and tried to leave, not once even considering that Jazz would do something drastic. Not once fearing to turn his back on his ally and friend and lover.
Overlying it all, Ratchet remembers waking on Jazz's berth, held down by stasis cuffs with Jazz perched over him. Fingers lazily tweaking Ratchet's sensitive circuitry, nonchalantly prodding him toward desire.
“Ratchet?”
He reaches down, hefting the box into his arms. “I'm fine,” he says stubbornly and makes for the door. All the better to leave as soon as possible.
“You're not,” Wheeljack counters, equally stubborn as he follows Ratchet out. “But I guess sometimes it's easier to believe a lie.”
Ratchet refrains from replying. His best friend doesn't deserve bitter tirades and furious rants.
He begs off Wheeljack's offer to join him for some energon. Ratchet doesn't want any company. He prefers the emptiness of his personal quarters, boxes of his belongings stacked against a wall. Ratchet suspects he wouldn't be much company right now anyway, and he doesn't want to say something he'd regret.
It's not Wheeljack's fault that Ratchet's spark aches on a daily basis now. Or that he can't recharge anymore because the memory ghosts have become unbearable.
It would be easier, Ratchet suspects, if his fragged processor would focus on the unhappy, uncomfortable memories. Instead, his systems flag all the gentler, loving times. He relives them over and over in stark technicolor, full audio and other sensations.
Jazz laughing as he teases Ratchet into bristling. Jazz dragging him onto the dance floor, using moves that better resemble the human's messy style of interfacing. Jazz handing him needed tools as he struggles to save Fireflight's life, a silent and strong support.
Jazz curling around him much later that evening, still wordless, spark humming and sending out waves of reassurance and consolation.
Ratchet lies on his berth, staring blankly at the ceiling. His system flags important medical files, ones that explain his condition, describe treatments. Logically, he knows he could probably use a counseling session or two. Logically, he knows that his current behavior is not healthy.
The Ark feels ten times smaller than it actually is. The dimensions haven't changed, but it’s still too confined. Blaster and Sideswipe are almost done; they'll be taking Jazz out of medical stasis soon. Then, the Ark will be even smaller.
Ratchet shutters his optics. He's not ready for this, despite what lies he's told his Prime.
It's too soon.
o0o0o
It’s his medbay, and by all rights, Ratchet should be there when they finally pull Jazz from stasis. There are many logical reasons for why he needs to be present.
For once, Ratchet obeys the lurching in his spark and ignores practicality.
“I can't.” Ratchet stands in front of Optimus, his armor plating clamped down tight and his energy field equally enclosed. “I don't want to be, and I can't. First Aid is more than capable of bringing him out.”
Prime's optics dim with sadness. This situation hasn't been easy for him either.
“I understand. I am certain that Prowl can devise an appropriate explanation.”
“He won't even have to lie.” Ratchet doesn't bother to hide the bitterness in his tone, lifting a hand to rub his chestplate, where his spark continues to twist and surge. “The pain is uncomfortable now. It'll be worse when he's conscious.”
And he can't say for certain that he'll be strong enough to resist the temptation. The desire to complete the bond just to make the agony go away.
“Is there anything that will help?”
Ratchet drops his hand. “Distance. Proximity makes it worse.”
He hasn't been in the medbay since his last conversation with Prowl. He misses it, feeling cut off from a part of his life that had become so ingrained since their crash landing on Earth. But Jazz and the memories are just as bad in that space.
Prime's energy field tentatively reaches out. It’s flavored with the mystique of the Matrix, volunteering comfort and balance.
“The humans have something called a sabbatical where they take a long break from their work.”
He doesn't immediately rebuff Optimus' gentle offer. The energy between them is the most contact Ratchet has allowed anyone since Jazz's attempt to spark-bond him.
“Are you telling me to take a vacation?”
Ratchet would be amused were it any other situation. Prime and Prowl have been trying to get their CMO to take a break for years, and he suspected they intended to recruit Jazz into their efforts if things hadn't changed.
“It can only be a benefit, old friend.” Optimus vents heavily, betraying his unease about the entire situation. “I am certain First Aid and Wheeljack can handle things in your absence. You deserve it. I’d only insist that you do not go alone.”
Ratchet's shoulders slump.
Alone is what he wants to be. He has no interest in listening to some mech's idea of advice or enduring soft-sparked attempts at consolation. He wants to deal with this in his own way even if it means ignoring medical advice. He knows he shouldn't be alone, but fraggit...
“Then I can't take Wheeljack,” Ratchet responds, already running through a list of mechs. His closest friend is the only one he'd feel remotely comfortable with at the moment. And there are only so many bots who know the truth.
“No. He will be needed here. I had someone else in mind.” Here, Optimus hesitates, his field wavering before acquiring a flare of determination. “Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.”
Ratchet reboots his audials twice. He’s absolutely certain that he must have caught a glitch.
“The twins?” he half-asks, half-demands.
The look Optimus gives him is purely honest but also purely mischievous at the same time.
“They are aware of the situation, will provide adequate backup on the off-chance you run into the Decepticons.” He sobers then. “They also have a keen understanding of difficulties regarding bonds.”
Ratchet lapses into silence, though his plating still trembles with shock. Optimus' reasoning is sound… But the twins? The two mechs who make a game out of seeing who can get a rise out of Ratchet first and fastest?
“I'll have dismantled them before two days is up,” the medic mutters.
Optimus transmits a wordless glyph of disagreement. “They may surprise you.”
He could protest, suggest a different pair of escorts. Ironhide and Hound, perhaps. But for all of Ironhide's bluster, he is gentle at spark. He'd probably treat Ratchet like a piece of breakable crystal, stuttering and stumbling about the entire time. And Hound would be even worse, especially since he doesn’t know the entire truth. They'd be a pair of nanny-bots really.
There are others, but in the end, Ratchet thinks his Prime is right. If there's two mechs he can count on not to coddle him or offer unwanted advice and who might actually be able to treat him normal, like he wants, it's the twins.
The fight goes out of Ratchet with a hiss of depressurizing hydraulics.
“Fine.”
Optimus has the decency to keep quiet after that.
o0o0o
They leave before dawn strikes, taking an eastern trek toward distant borders. Ratchet has no clear destination in mind, and maybe that's for the best. Maybe some idle wandering on the open road will clear his processors, let his systems settle and give him a chance for some decent recharge.
The twins surge ahead of him, always within sensor distance, but a bit too eager to be out from under Prowl's eagle-optics and disapproving supervision. Optimus had claimed a worry about Decepticon activity. Ratchet, however, is far from a fool. Prime wasn't worried about what Megatron might do if he noticed the CMO was wandering around alone. Optimus was concerned about what Ratchet might do to himself if left alone.
He approximates a snort. Yes, he's probably teetering on the edge of a consuming depression, spiraling downward. Self-harm, however, is not within his programming. He just needs time, space, a chance to let his spark recover away from Jazz's unconscious influence.
He has to be ready to face Jazz on his return. Deal with the memories he has that Jazz won't. He has to act normal, pretend like nothing’s wrong.
Right now, Ratchet wants to wallow. Wants to indulge in knowing that nothing is on kilter in his world and let everything tilt on its axis.
“Ratchet!” Sideswipe whines over the comms, swerving across the road a good mile ahead of him. “You're moving too slow! I know you've got a higher top speed than that!”
“Mute it,” Ratchet retorts with an aggravated chuff. “And use a little encryption, slagger. I'm not eager to encounter any ‘Cons today. I put you two back together enough as it is.”
“I think a little destruction would do you some good,” Sunstreaker counters, adding in his two creds worth. At least he has enough sense to use a few levels of encryption though. “It's the best kind of distraction.”
Ratchet transmits a noncommittal sound. Battle isn’t his kind of processor-clearing activity. Not at all.
The twins slow down a little then, allowing him to catch up. Sideswipe takes point with Sunstreaker trailing after Ratchet.
“So where are we going?” Sides asks, drifting back and forth across the road. Heedless to oncoming traffic except when he swerves to avoid with an aft-wiggle of dangerous glee.
Ratchet doesn't bother to reprimand him. “I don't know.”
“How long will we be gone?” Sunstreaker questions instead.
“A week. Maybe two.”
Fourteen days isn't nearly long enough for Ratchet to feel normal again, but it's better than nothing. It's better than having to stand there while Jazz onlines, feeling his spark tug and tug, his chestplates parting of their own accord.
Sunstreaker makes a noise of disgust. “We better run into some ‘Cons then.”
“Don't mind him. Tracks nicked the last of his polish, and he's pouting,” Sideswipe puts in, and Ratchet detects the presence of narrow-band comms.
“Am not,” the ever social yellow twin retorts.
“He totally is,” Sides says with a smug tone and drops back a pace, the nose of his alt-mode gently tapping Ratchet's. “Mind if I pick a destination then?”
Ratchet edges away. “I'm not helping you cause any mayhem.”
“Who? Me?” Were Sideswipe in root mode, Ratchet imagines he'd be utilizing his best innocent look, one that only Bluestreak can pull off effectively. “Seriously, Ratch, I was thinking about Yosemite.”
Ratchet's flinch melts away as he manually reboots his audial sensors.
“The National Park?”
“I wanna see Old Faithful,” Sideswipe practically sing-songs.
“The Grand Prismatic Spring,” Sunstreaker adds, a quieter murmur that nonetheless proves he is also interested in visiting the park.
Color him surprised. Ratchet would have never expected either twin to be interested in Earth's natural wonders. He can't think of a reason not to go. Yellowstone would be a suitable distraction at least. And it's not as though Ratchet has any better ideas.
“It's as good enough a course as any,” Ratchet finally allows. “Lead the way.”
o0o0o
(Fic is concluded here)
azardarkstar for beta'ing and helping me with a few troublesome scenes. Title: Half-Truths
Characters: Past Jazz/Ratchet, Wheeljack, the Twins, Others
Rating: M
Genre: Angst, Horror
Warnings: mentions of dubcon and noncon, bondage
Summary: G1. Sequel to Dear Lies. It's a universal constant that the best lies are half true.
Nighttime, Earth's equivalent of off-shift, is by far the worst. Every soft noise of the Ark makes Ratchet twitch. Every flickering light or quiet click make his spark twinge with dread.
He can look a few berths over and see Jazz's stasis locked frame, but that doesn't make him feel any less apprehensive. Worse that he doesn't have anything to distract him. He's been banned from his medbay so that he can “heal” by order of his Prime, forced to obey his apprentice in all matters related to his recovery. Not that any of them have the first clue how to handle this except for the physical matters.
The psychological matters are another cog entirely.
His only distraction is the pain. A spark is as intangible as it is tangible. Yet, it can convey pleasure in the same way it conveys agony. The sharp knife that cuts through Ratchet is felt strut-deep. It makes him ventilate shallowly, makes his circuits surge erratically. The further he is from Jazz, the worse it gets, but Ratchet isn't going to get any closer.
He'd rather have the pain.
The quiet hours when he should be recharging are the worst. He can't recharge, doesn't want to, and only required systems shut down to give him a few hours peace. They are the hours when he starts to think, when his addled processor leaps from random thought to anxious wondering, when the memories decide to refresh themselves. When he can't help but pull them up again and again and wonder what he missed, how he couldn't have seen this coming.
He begins to wonder if he'd made a mistake.
Loneliness surges through Ratchet, overriding the vague numbness that has been the majority of his sensation lately. His spark continues to tug him toward his almost-mate, desperate to complete the bond. Sometimes, he catches echoes, lingering traces of Jazz both in his systems and in his spark.
Ratchet turns his head, staring at Jazz's stasis-locked frame. His sensors pinpoint, identify, and catalogue every aspect of Jazz's systems. In the dim of the medbay, Jazz still appears to gleam, as handsome as the day Ratchet first met him. He looks wrong lying there. No energy to his motions. No playful mischief in his visor.
Three days. It's been three days. Enough time for the physical injuries to be mended, except for the agony in his spark. Time is the only balm for that particular wound.
And tomorrow is the inquest. Ratchet should be recharging, preparing for what is likely going to be a grueling affair, no matter how delicate he knows his Prime will be.
Instead, he stares up at the medbay's ceiling, thoughts swirling over and over in self-recrimination.
Maybe he made a mistake.
Ratchet supposes he should be grateful that Optimus wants to keep recent events to only the command staff. These are the sorts of rumors that they don't want spreading around. The faith that everyone has in Jazz is nearly on par with the faith that they have in Ratchet. They’re fighting a war, too, and the last thing the Autobots need is something to unsettle their comfortable base.
Worse that they have all become so close-knit over the years. No one can be impartial. Jazz is everyone's friend; Ratchet is their chief medic. Jazz and Prowl are as close as brothers. Ratchet and Wheeljack are best friends.
The casual atmosphere Optimus tries to effect fails miserably for Ratchet. They’re in a small conference hall rather than the brig, which might be more appropriate depending on an individual’s point of view, and Ratchet is sitting at a table with everyone else. He's not in a chair, the sole focus, which would again probably be more appropriate. But he can see the dimness in Optimus' optics.
This sort of event is unprecedented. They are so few now with the laws and rules of Cybertronian society four million years behind them. The Autobots are a law unto themselves, governed by the inherent structure of a military unit. In the end, final judgment will be made by their Prime.
Ratchet's spark gives another painful lurch. He winces, stifling a hiccup of discomfort, only exacerbated by the tension in the air right now.
“Ratchet,” Optimus says gently. “We don't have to do this now. The situation remains unchanged. We can delay the proceedings--”
“No,” Ratchet cuts him off, perhaps a bit rudely than he would usually. “I'm fine.”
Optimus gives him a level look. “You are anything but fine, old friend. But I can understand the need to believe otherwise.” He approximates a sigh and sits back, optics flicking around the table to the small gathering.
Prowl to his left and Blaster on the other side. Ironhide to his right and Red Alert next to him. Wheeljack is here, too. With Ratchet across from Optimus, the sole focus of their Prime's incisive gaze, something that can make a bot guilty without even trying.
Not that Ratchet needs it. He has enough regret, enough second-guessing of his actions. He doesn't need them to condemn him.
“Then shall we begin?” Prowl asks curtly, sitting ramrod straight. His doors are held up above him in a tight configuration, betraying his own discomfort with the whole situation. He surely must feel torn, trapped between loyalty to his brother in all but name and his bonded. “An attack on a fellow Autobot is no small transgression.”
“Though one executed in self-defense is a different matter,” Optimus replies, giving his second a stern look. Ratchet has the feeling this is a discussion the two of them have had prior to this meeting.
Prowl doesn't so much as flinch. “Self-defense has yet to be determined.”
“Uh, unless you're calling Ratchet a liar, I'm pretty sure it has,” Blaster comments with a raised orbital ridge.
“One does have to question the legitimacy of the accusations,” Red Alert adds with a thoughtful click of his mouthplates. “Not that I'm claiming anyone of telling falsities, but that given the relation between the two at question, one wonders what precisely the issue is. Or was rather.”
Ratchet shifts in his chair, opting to keep silent until someone addresses him directly. They all have valid points. Why should they believe Ratchet over Jazz? Because he's the one that's conscious with full access to his memory core? What makes either Ratchet or Jazz more worthy of trust than the other?
They've been comrades in arms for eons. How does one handle something like this?
Blaster ventilates noisily, giving Ratchet an apologetic look. “Sorry, Ratch, but Red's got a point. You and the Jazz-bot were together for a couple of years. It's just a bit odd that you didn't notice anything sooner, yeah?”
“Not necessarily,” Wheeljack interjects, and he sounds a touch offended. “How much of those years was Jazz actually on base? How much of it did Ratch spend in the medbay?”
Optimus lifts a hand, a gesture he's picked up from the humans. His voice is calm but strained
“Easy, Wheeljack. The question is legitimate. Perhaps what none of us have considered yet is that this behavior is recent and the result of a virus or a glitch.”
Guilt swamps Ratchet so heavily he can't do anything but slump. Why hadn't he, the supposed chief medical officer, considered that? In retrospect, that should have been his first suspicion. Jazz's behavior had seemed to come from nowhere, but he'd thought it a product of his own obliviousness and Jazz's inherent possessive nature.
Could he have been so wrong?
“Did Hoist not scan his coding and run full anti-virals?” Prowl questions as his gaze sweeps around the room.
“He did,” Ratchet answers before anyone else can, refusing to conceal the static in his vocalizer. He knows better than to suggest himself. “But he's not as trained for it as others. Someone else should do it. 'Jack?”
The engineer shakes his head. “Not me, Ratch. I'm better with mechanics not coding. You know that. Maybe Prowl?”
“No.”
The lieutenant gives no other reason, just the emphatic, glyph-laden negative.
“Skyfire?” Wheeljack then suggests though it is hesitant. Rightly so, as that would involve telling more mechs about the truth of matters.
Blaster runs a hand over his helm. “Jazz’s like the absolute best coder I know, aside from a few Decepticons. He woulda known if something was off in his systems, yeah?”
“Not necessarily,” Ratchet replies with an audible ventilation. “I find it unlikely that this is a mere glitch, but I wouldn't protest to having someone check.” He would be relieved actually, though it wouldn't allay the guilt.
“If that's what ya want done, Prime, I can do it,” Blaster adds though he is hardly enthused about it. “I know enough to do a proper search. When would you like me to start?”
“Immediately,” Prowl interjects before anyone else can get a word in edgewise.
Optimus looks uncomfortably resigned. “Yes, Blaster. If you can. We can't proceed any further until we eliminate or confirm this possibility.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Since nothing more can be discussed, we'll call an end to the inquest for today.” Optimus abruptly rises to his pedes, hands planted flat on the conference table. “It goes without saying that nothing we've discussed here should leave the room.”
“Bots are askin' questions,” Ironhide finally inserts. He looks uncomfortable, though rightly so “What're we sposed to tell 'em?”
Red Alert gathers up his many datapads. “Nothing for now. I'm sure enough rumors will spread on their own. Perhaps they will merely chalk it up to a particularly strenuous bout of interfacing and teasing will commence.”
Ratchet fails to hide his wince. Neither do the others.
Red Alert, tact knows not thy designation.
Their Prime makes a sound not unlike that of a human clearing their throat. “In any case, please do not confirm or deny anything. We'll reconvene as soon as Blaster has something to report. Understood?”
A chorus of acknowledgment echoes through the gathered mechs. They all rise to their pedes, making for the door with the low murmur of conversation already buzzing between them. Ratchet stays seated, and Optimus too remains behind. He waits until they leave, pretending he doesn't notice the varied glances tossed his way, before he rises from his chair with a slow and ponderous motion. It feels as though it takes greater effort to leverage himself up.
“Shall I go to the brig then?” Ratchet asks, using great effort to keep his vocalizer from wavering.
“The brig?” Prime's optics spiral outward, betraying his surprise, as he circles around the table. “I had no intention of confining you, Ratchet.”
“I don't see why not. I harmed a fellow Autobot.” He feels his tanks roil, the impulse to purge rising up within him. “It's the least of what I deserve.”
Optimus lifts his hands, perhaps intending to comfort Ratchet in some way. But at the medic's flinch, he wisely lowers them.
“The motivations behind this matter are still under debate, but I'm certain brig-time is not the answer to anything here.”
“I can't return to my medbay.”
“Unfortunately not.”
He resists the urge to ask where the frag else he ought to go. “I see.”
The Prime's plating lifts and clamps down, once again fighting the urge to exhibit tactile comfort. Ratchet almost feels sorry for Optimus, trapped as he is amongst his many loyalties. To cause this much conflict in their already troubled Prime… well, Ratchet's own guilt amps itself up several notches.
“Take the opportunity to recover a bit more, old friend. I'm not remanding you to quarters, but--”
“It's best if I stay there,” Ratchet finishes for him, his spark giving a surge of discomfort.
More's the pity as there is nowhere else on the Ark Ratchet would feel more uncomfortable, save perhaps for Jazz's room.
Ratchet's only consolation is that his quarters remain as empty as they were a week ago when Jazz took it upon himself to remove all of his belongings for cohabitation. The room looks entirely unlived in, which makes it easier to forestall any uncomfortable reminders of the chaos that waits outside the door.
In the still silence of the room, Ratchet ventilates softly. He sits in the chair in front of Teletraan One's terminal and stares blankly at the screen. His HUD pings him, reminders that he could use a cube of energon, but Ratchet has no urge to go to the rec room.
His chronometer reminds him that now is about the usual time he's getting off shift in the medbay. When Jazz swings by to pick him up, usually with cube in hand, and off they go.
There's nothing in his room to remind him of that terrible night from a week ago, and yet, the utter silence is all too telling.
Rest and recover.
As though it should be so easy.
Physically, Ratchet barely suffered any damage. A few scuffs and dents from the cuffs and one on the back of his helm from whatever Jazz had done to knock him briefly online. The worst damage is to his spark, but even that shows no outward sign of injury.
Ratchet's insides twist, and a low grunt escapes him. He palms his chest plate, feeling the thrum of his spark beneath. A consequence of the half-initiated bond; he knows this as well as anyone. It could be weeks, months, frag even years, before all the strange sensations and stray thoughts go away. If Jazz's memory core wasn't wiped, if he was conscious, the feedback would be so much worse...
What will Blaster find? What if there is a virus or a glitch or something Ratchet, as the most trained medic in the Ark, should have found first? Why hadn't that thought ever crossed his processor? Why had he automatically assumed that there was something nefarious behind the scenes?
Has the war changed his conceptions about matters? So much that he first thinks the worst of mechs, even his fellow Autobots?
Ratchet slumps in his chair, slapping a hand over his face and shuttering his optics. Too much. This is too much. Sitting here in the half-dark emptiness of his quarters with nothing but the sound of his own systems echoing around him.
He wants nothing more in this moment to be with Jazz again. The Jazz who hadn't betrayed him and shattered his trust. He wants to curl next to the mech, listen to the familiar hum of his systems, and laugh over some shared joke. He wants Jazz to tease him, to respond with empty threats, and to feel clever fingers tease at his plating.
His spark surges, sympathetic. It feels too large for his casing, stretched and sore, if something intangible can even carry such a sensation. His frame is equally tight, too small, not enough to contain him.
Ratchet curls into himself, fighting off the waves of inevitable pain. How the frag could it have all gone so wrong?
“It's not a glitch,” Blaster says, his vocalizer lacking its usual infectious cheer and amusement. “Or a virus. Not any I could recognize or categorized in any of our databanks.”
“It could be something new. It's not unheard of for Decepticons to devise new forms of viral warfare,” Prowl suggests with the air of a grounder grasping at the clouds. Utterly pointless and only forestalling the inevitable.
Prime's noisy ventilation does more to invoke Ratchet's lingering guilt than the dying hope in the optics of the others in the room.
“No, Prowl, I don’t think that is the case. No matter how much we wish it were so.”
The SiC's doors drop by a fraction of an inch as Prowl inclines his head. “The only logical conclusion is one that doesn't bear considering.”
“Yet, it is the conclusion that must be discussed.” Prime lays his hands flat on the table, fingers spread, a gesture that indicates the difficulty of the situation. “Jazz's actions are of his own choosing, and it is them we must judge.”
Heavy silence sweeps into the room. Ratchet can't speak, doesn't dare say anything for fear of how his words might be interpreted.
Red Alert places a datapad on the table, the screen dark. “What it boils down to, Prime, is whether or not we restore Jazz's memories. That is the question we must answer. Because if we do not, we only have the options of dealing with a sparkling with Special Ops instincts, complete reprogramming, or execution.”
Ratchet flinches. He's not the only one. Execution, even for criminal behavior, has never been done amongst the Autobots. Not even their Decepticon prisoners have ever suffered such a fate. The prospect of dealing with a sparkling in Jazz's frame is barely the lesser of two evils. Such a reprogram would never shake the stigma of its previous life.
“I need ta know what's really goin' on here,” Ironhide puts in darkly, gaze shifting all around the table. “We all got the basic picture, but I still don't get how somethin' like this coulda happened. No offense, Ratch, but it came outta nowhere.”
“Preaching to the choir, 'Hide,” Wheeljack mutters, indicators flashing a sullen green. “None of us thought Jazz capable.”
“Capability wasn't in question,” Ratchet says, his spark giving an unwelcome surge that makes his plating crackle. “And I don't have the answers for you, Ironhide. I didn't see this coming any more than you did.”
Prowl straightens, doors held up above him in a tight configuration. “You were together for years, and there was no sign? You noticed nothing?”
The lieutenant's questions approach accusation, one Ratchet can't be sure if he deserves or not. His own thoughts haven't settled one way or the other. Nevertheless, a touch of his old spirit returns as he squares his shoulders.
“Of course I noticed,” Ratchet snaps, his words a whip-crack in the otherwise tense atmosphere. “I noticed lots of things. But I didn't automatically connect mildly possessive and weirdly obsessed with my energon habits with he's going to force me into a spark bond!” His hands slam into the table with more force than is wise, his plating rattling audibly.
Prowl's optics cycle down. “It's no small wonder Jazz was confused. Particularly since to him, your rejection must have come from nowhere.”
Ratchet feels heat surge through his systems. He’s angry now, but he isn’t entirely sure it’s appropriate.
“You're treading on dangerous ground, Prowl,” he grounds out, “to imply that my repeated requests for him to stop were somehow unclear.”
Prowl just looks at him. He and Prowl aren’t brothers by creation, but it’s a fact that is so easy to forget at times. Especially right now.
“Would such a bond have been so terrible?”
Ratchet jerks backward, spark stuttering at the tone and words both.
“Prowl!” Wheeljack interjects with a horrified blitz of static. He stares at his bonded like he's never seen the mech before, and Ratchet can't blame him.
“It's a logical question,” Prowl retorts, his optics a flat shade of blue that even Sideswipe has learned to fear. “Jazz brought you energon. Saw to your needs. Cared for you. Loved you and was devoted to you. Was a bond with him truly a fate worse than deactivation?”
A low thrum resonates throughout the room as Optimus leans forward.
“Freedom is the right--”
“Freedom,” Prowl coolly interrupts, “does not exist during wartime. There is a larger picture. We are, as a species, becoming extinct. Dwindling more with each clash with the Decepticons. We need Jazz.”
Ironhide rumbles ominously. “We also need our CMO.”
“It was a spark bond. Between two mechs in a previously established relationship. Hardly deactivation,” the lieutenant retorts with the same even tone as before, all pragmatism and logic. “The Decepticons still outnumber us and have the greater firepower. We cannot afford to lose any skilled mechs. Not even for a lover's spat.”
Prowl's optics shift to Optimus. The room is silent then. Processing. Reaching conclusions that Ratchet doesn’t even want to fathom.
“You know that I'm right, Prime.” A shudder visibly races across his frame, but he continues without pause, “This is Jazz we're discussing here, not some sparkless drone. More than that, he cannot even speak for himself currently.”
“Mech, you might wanna watch yer tone,” Ironhide all but growls, one hand resting on the table but the other out of sight. “Because yer also sittin' there accusing the slaggin' chief medical officer of not only lyin' but deliberately cripplin' a fellow Autobot.”
“Either way, someone is the victim, and someone is the criminal,” Blaster says, his vocalizer tuned louder than usual, as though to override any other possible commentary. “I don't know how any of us are qualified to judge either way. We're all biased.”
“That's enough.” The words tumble out of Ratchet's vocalizer before he entirely knows what he's going to say. He finds himself on his pedes in much the same manner. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Behind him, Wheeljack shifts. “Ratch--”
It takes all he has to conceal his wince at the too-familiar nickname.
“No,” Ratchet interrupts to whatever protest Wheeljack might have intended. “Give Jazz back his memories.”
He could have called himself the spark-bonded of Unicron for all the shock that his suggestion produced. Not even Prowl looks satisfied, which only serves to boggle Ratchet further.
He can hardly blame Prowl though. He and Jazz are close. Closer than anything but the sparkmated mechs amongst the Ark’s populace. And maybe even closer than that.
Someone touches Ratchet's arm, and if not for their familiarity from over the vorns, Ratchet might have shifted straight into offense mode. As it is, he recognizes the warm press of Wheeljack's energy field, but the contact is still uncomfortable, still holds a faint trace of Jack’s own bondmate.
Ratchet shakes off his hand, taking a decisive step away from his closest friend.
“Maybe I overreacted,” Ratchet says in the ensuing silence, while all optics are focused his way, giving him perhaps his only real chance to speak. “Maybe I didn't make myself clear. Maybe I'm really at fault.” He doesn't look at anyone, instead focusing on the relative safety of the wall, which stares back at him completely without judgment. “Prowl's right. No matter what happened; we can't afford to lose Jazz. Not just because of the Decepticons, but also because of our fellow Autobots. He’s needed.”
“He's not the only one.” Wheeljack tosses a cutting look toward his bonded. “You're not indispensable either.”
“We are still fighting a war,” Ratchet reminds them, as though the command staff could have possibly forgotten.
And though part of him screams that the last thing he wants is for Jazz to pick up where he left off, he knows what’s best for the good of everyone else. So he speaks, the words coming from a numb, insentient mechanical place inside of him. Like a robot without a spark.
“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Even medics understand that.”
Wheeljack sputters a helpless burst of static, trapped between loyalty to his bonded and his best friend. No one else speaks yet, disheartened quiet sweeping through the small meeting room.
Logic and rationality dictate that Prowl is right. And Ratchet, too. Emotion and sentiment cry for a different approach.
“We are overlooking an important detail here,” Red Alert finally speaks up, fingers rapping over the tabletop. “Yes, it would benefit the Autobots to have Jazz's memories returned to him. But he doesn't need them all.”
Prime straightens then, and his optics are nothing short of grateful for the lifeline Red Alert just threw him.
“What do you mean?”
“I don't claim to understand the full mechanics of how a memory core works, but it stands to reason that backups are mere data.” Red Alert pauses for a second, and his hand stills. “Data can be altered.”
Wheeljack's indicators pulse weakly. “That’s hardly less ethical...”
“It is the only practical option,” Red Alert corrects, and his voice is practical but somehow tired at the same time. “When did Jazz last back up his memory core?”
“Right after he returned from his last mission. Roughly a month ago,” Ratchet supplies.
And right before I officially ended our relationship.
Red Alert makes a low noise of consideration. “We would have to construct a story, of course, to cover gaps in Jazz's memory files, but it's not impossible.”
Prowl's doors hike backward, rigid and unyielding. “You mean to suggest we edit a fellow Autobot's memories and carefully construct a lie all for the sake of an act we've yet to prove?”
“Prowl,” Prime cuts in, his voice suddenly sharp. “I understand your reluctance to believe the worst of Jazz, and it may be that there is a serious misunderstanding here, but consistently debating what ifs is not going to solve the problem we face. We need to make a choice. For everyone's sake.”
The tactician's energy field ripples tangibly. His fingers curl into fists, and for a long moment, Prowl looks as if he might argue before he dips his head in acquiescence.
“Yes, Prime.”
Ratchet shutters his optics for a second before turning to Prowl.
“All you have to do is ask,” he says with an embarrassing crackle of his vocalizer. “I'll show you what I remember of that night. You can see my memories of it, my perceptions, and then you can decide whether or not I was mistaken.”
The idea of someone uplinking to him makes Ratchet’s tanks churn, but it may be a necessary evil.
“Slaggit, medic, ya don't hafta do that,” Ironhide insists with a fierce jerk of his hand.
“I will if I must.” Ratchet's shoulders slump, his frame feeling tight and creaky. Old. He's tired of fighting. “Prime?”
Optimus vents noisily, hands once again spread across the table. “No, Ratchet. That won't be necessary.” His vocal tones shift into low register. “Jazz's memories will be returned to him. They will be edited to suit a proper cover story. Blaster?”
The communications officer shakes his helm. “The kind of editing you're asking for... it's complicated and a bit out of my area of expertise. I can't do it on my own.”
Prowl's energy field fluctuates again. His back is now ramrod straight, and his optics all but burn.
“I refuse.”
Nearby, Blaster edges away. His own energy field draws in tightly around him as though offended by the virulent nature of the bot next to him.
“I do have someone in mind, but you'll probably object,” Blaster comments, but his voice is a twinge hesitant.
Red Alert frowns. “Who?”
Blaster's gaze skitters around the room. “Sideswipe.”
“Are ya glitchin?” Ironhide demands with an outraged roar that makes Ratchet flinch and shut off his reflexive battle routines.
Energy crackles between Red Alert's helm crests, a sure sign that he does not approve.
“I do not think it's wise--”
“--more likely to leave chaos in his wake than to--”
“--and they call me crazy.”
“I know what I'm talking about,” Blaster retorts with an indignant twitch of his armor. “Sides is a genius when it comes to this kind of stuff. And Jazz's processor is the least linear system I've ever peeked into. I need Sideswipe's help.”
Optimus drums his fingers across the table, a habit he's picked up from Sparkplug. “You are certain he can be trusted with this task.”
“Of course, boss bot.” Blaster motions to the translucent glass of his chest compartment. “I’d stake my spark on it.”
An oath that few Cybertronians take lightly, even in these days of unending war against the Decepticons. These days, all that a bot owns is his spark.
In the wake of Blaster's confidence, Prime leans back. He is quiet for a moment. Contemplative. Optics flicking from Ratchet to Prowl and then around the table.
“Very well,” he finally allows. “Explain to him what has happened and what you need from him. Enforce memory blocks if you must.”
Prowl bristles. His field is staticky and painful to feel, and Ratchet actually has a second to think that Prowl might actually resort to violence.
“You can't seriously--”
“Since you refuse to attend to this matter, I will rely on whomever else can complete the task,” Prime interjects, taking on a steely note, harmonics brooking no argument.
Prowl clamps his mouthplates shut, but his gaze spits fire, and Ratchet is only grateful the tactician doesn’t have laser vision.
No one else offers an argument, however. What can they say? What other choice do they have?
Sometimes, it happens. Sometimes, sparks just won't bond. Maybe the frequencies are too dissimilar, the wavelengths too dissonant. Maybe there's an integral flaw in one spark or the other that causes them to repel. Maybe it's just not meant to be.
No one really knows why. There's never one simple explanation. No true way to test ahead of time.
It happens. It's rare, but it happens. Out of all the mechs in all of Cybertron, it's not impossible for there to be another Cybertronian whose spark frequency grates against a potential mate. But it seems a one in a billion chance to end up attached to the one mech a bot can never bond.
Ratchet himself has only seen it twice: once in a singular pair early on in his career and later in a trio that intended to trine. In both instances, the relationships dissolved, fell apart. Not only could they never touch sparks to one another, but future attempts to do so brought only pain. And for a vorn afterward, all five of Ratchet's patients suffered from twists in their spark, interrupted recharge, and acute depression.
Sometimes, bonds just go wrong.
It’s this story that they decide to give Jazz. It's impossible to completely remove their relationship from Jazz's memory core. Their interactions are a core part of his day to day life for years. Not to mention the fact that everyone in the Ark knew about them, and the difficulties in keeping that secret are astronomical.
Easier to acknowledge the relationship but contrive an explanation for why Ratchet doesn't wish to pursue it any further without prompting the same behavior as before.
They don't even have to lie. Not really. It was a bond gone wrong. They just don't have to tell Jazz why it had gone wrong. Let him believe they simply aren't meant to be. Let him think that there’s still love, that he never betrayed Ratchet. Let Jazz have the happy memories. There's no reason for him to suffer the guilt.
It's a universal constant that the best lies are half true. It's believable, it's viable, and most of all, it works.
Standing here, watching Blaster and Sideswipe plug into Jazz, Ratchet isn't sure how he's supposed to feel. There's pain, first of all, because even though Jazz is in a private room, he is still too close. There is a viewing window between them, but it's not enough to stop the yearning. The aching in his spark to tear open the door to the private medberth and finish what Jazz had started.
This close, he keeps getting echoes. Out of sync pulses that are Jazz's spark and not his own, spindly little surges that reflect their partially-finished bond.
There's guilt, too. Seeing Jazz lying there on the berth, still and silent, makes it crop up all over again. It makes Ratchet wonder if was Prowl right? Had he made a mistake? Had he overreacted?
Affection wars with horror that battles with grief. Jazz is friend, lover, and now... now Ratchet doesn't know what to call him. He doesn't know how he's supposed to feel, to react. He doesn't know how he's going to act normal once they take Jazz out of stasis.
Behind him, the door to the medbay opens and closes, the arrival's footsteps whisper-quiet. A subtle query from Ratchet's sensors identify his visitor. His plating clamps down against his frame.
“Ratchet.”
He doesn't look, doesn't need to.
“Prowl.”
Acknowledgment given, Ratchet says nothing else. He turns his attention back to the window, where the three mechs are still as stone, practically a piece of art for all the movement Ratchet sees from them. It could be hours before they finish depending on how much of Jazz's memory they have to alter.
Prowl steps up beside Ratchet, his gaze focused on the room as well. There's a twitching in his doors, an annoying noise on Ratchet's sensors, but the lieutenant doesn't speak. Yet.
Ratchet continues to watch. Eject comes into the room, less enthusiastic than usual, setting aside a few cubes of energon for Blaster and Sideswipe. They'll need it. He peers at Jazz, peers up at his symbiotic master, then leaves again. He and the rest of the cassettes have been tasked with subtly spreading the lie that will serve as truth to the rest of the crew.
“I owe you an apology.”
The words are sudden. Unexpected. Surprising.
Ratchet shutters his optics. “No, you don't.”
“I do.” He senses, more than sees Prowl shift toward him, discomfort radiating from his energy field. “I have behaved--”
“In a way that is completely understandable.” Ratchet performs a systems check, gets his surging emotions under control, and onlines his optics. “I get it, Prowl. He’s your brother.”
A twitch visibly flicks across Prowl's pristine plating. “Yes, and as such, I am not blind to his... faults.”
Faults, yes. Ratchet supposes one could call them that. Perhaps the possessive behavior is how Jazz displays the depths of his feelings for another mech. Maybe it's the only love he's ever known. Some might consider it a fault. Ratchet calls it an irreconcilable difference.
“I know Jazz. I know what he's capable of.” A reflection in the glass shows Prowl's head bowing, his optics dimming in resignation. “I merely wish it weren't the truth.”
So. The most logical bot on the Ark had reacted most illogically.
Ratchet feels compelled to say something. How twisted is this that he is the one offering comfort?
“Bias, as Blaster so elegantly put it, makes fools of us all,” he says, focusing intently on the private medbay and the two mechs still locked in their statue-like exploration of Jazz's memory core. “I know, Prowl. I don't hold a grudge. I'm not offended.”
Prowl relaxes by only a fraction, just enough that Ratchet's automatic light sensors can detect it. “Nevertheless, I apologize.”
“You're forgiven.”
It's a waste of energy to be angry with Prowl.
“And Jazz?”
Ratchet jerks, as though the mere designation were a physical attack. He swivels his helm toward Prowl, whose optics meet his in bland curiosity.
“Will you ever forgive him?”
A question with no answer. Ratchet doesn't carry grudges like some other Autobots, like the Decepticons. And he doesn't loathe Jazz, never claimed hatred either. Parts of him still long for his former partner, hungering for the joy that had been their relationship. He wishes for the days before everything went to the Pit.
He turns away.
“I can't answer that right now.”
He doesn't know that he'll ever be able to answer it. Can he grant forgiveness to a bot who won't remember what he did?
“I understand.” Prowl stares for a moment longer through the glass before he moves to the side. “He does love you.”
Like a blast to the spark. Prowl couldn't have done more damage if he tried. Ratchet lowers his head and stares at nothing.
“I know.”
For Cybertronians, the human measurement of time seems so fleeting. Yet, the hours and days drag into eternity for Ratchet as he waits, on bolts and brackets, for Blaster and Sideswipe to finish their delicate work.
There is little for him to do but rest and recuperate.
One day, he and Wheeljack attend to the disquieting task of retrieving Ratchet's belongings from Jazz's quarters. It takes every ounce of tungsten-will that Ratchet owns to walk into that room, rich with memories good and bad, and box back up the trinkets and odds and ends that belong to him.
Save for the items that Jazz had arranged on the shelves, most are still in the box. Ratchet pretends to be completely focused on removing his and adding them to the metal case. He lets Wheeljack poke around Jazz's quarters, careful to disturb nothing else, finding other items of Ratchet's that might have wandered out of the box.
He pointedly does not look at the berth. It’s a simple piece of furniture, but for Ratchet, it symbolizes much more. Better to pretend he can't see it. Better to pretend it doesn't exist.
Most of that night is a haze to Ratchet. He suspects a bit of corruption in his short-term memory banks due to the failed bond is to blame. It doesn't bother him that he can't recall the finer details. The broader picture is enough to make his tanks lurch.
He can still remember the way Jazz looked at him, completely perplexed. As though he couldn't understand why Ratchet wouldn't be thrilled for them to cohabitate. As though they are suddenly speaking two different languages, one of which is completely incomprehensible to the multi-lingual Jazz.
Ratchet remembers the moment he realized something wasn't quite right in Jazz's reasoning, and he ought to make himself scarce. The instant he turned on a pede and tried to leave, not once even considering that Jazz would do something drastic. Not once fearing to turn his back on his ally and friend and lover.
Overlying it all, Ratchet remembers waking on Jazz's berth, held down by stasis cuffs with Jazz perched over him. Fingers lazily tweaking Ratchet's sensitive circuitry, nonchalantly prodding him toward desire.
“Ratchet?”
He reaches down, hefting the box into his arms. “I'm fine,” he says stubbornly and makes for the door. All the better to leave as soon as possible.
“You're not,” Wheeljack counters, equally stubborn as he follows Ratchet out. “But I guess sometimes it's easier to believe a lie.”
Ratchet refrains from replying. His best friend doesn't deserve bitter tirades and furious rants.
He begs off Wheeljack's offer to join him for some energon. Ratchet doesn't want any company. He prefers the emptiness of his personal quarters, boxes of his belongings stacked against a wall. Ratchet suspects he wouldn't be much company right now anyway, and he doesn't want to say something he'd regret.
It's not Wheeljack's fault that Ratchet's spark aches on a daily basis now. Or that he can't recharge anymore because the memory ghosts have become unbearable.
It would be easier, Ratchet suspects, if his fragged processor would focus on the unhappy, uncomfortable memories. Instead, his systems flag all the gentler, loving times. He relives them over and over in stark technicolor, full audio and other sensations.
Jazz laughing as he teases Ratchet into bristling. Jazz dragging him onto the dance floor, using moves that better resemble the human's messy style of interfacing. Jazz handing him needed tools as he struggles to save Fireflight's life, a silent and strong support.
Jazz curling around him much later that evening, still wordless, spark humming and sending out waves of reassurance and consolation.
Ratchet lies on his berth, staring blankly at the ceiling. His system flags important medical files, ones that explain his condition, describe treatments. Logically, he knows he could probably use a counseling session or two. Logically, he knows that his current behavior is not healthy.
The Ark feels ten times smaller than it actually is. The dimensions haven't changed, but it’s still too confined. Blaster and Sideswipe are almost done; they'll be taking Jazz out of medical stasis soon. Then, the Ark will be even smaller.
Ratchet shutters his optics. He's not ready for this, despite what lies he's told his Prime.
It's too soon.
It’s his medbay, and by all rights, Ratchet should be there when they finally pull Jazz from stasis. There are many logical reasons for why he needs to be present.
For once, Ratchet obeys the lurching in his spark and ignores practicality.
“I can't.” Ratchet stands in front of Optimus, his armor plating clamped down tight and his energy field equally enclosed. “I don't want to be, and I can't. First Aid is more than capable of bringing him out.”
Prime's optics dim with sadness. This situation hasn't been easy for him either.
“I understand. I am certain that Prowl can devise an appropriate explanation.”
“He won't even have to lie.” Ratchet doesn't bother to hide the bitterness in his tone, lifting a hand to rub his chestplate, where his spark continues to twist and surge. “The pain is uncomfortable now. It'll be worse when he's conscious.”
And he can't say for certain that he'll be strong enough to resist the temptation. The desire to complete the bond just to make the agony go away.
“Is there anything that will help?”
Ratchet drops his hand. “Distance. Proximity makes it worse.”
He hasn't been in the medbay since his last conversation with Prowl. He misses it, feeling cut off from a part of his life that had become so ingrained since their crash landing on Earth. But Jazz and the memories are just as bad in that space.
Prime's energy field tentatively reaches out. It’s flavored with the mystique of the Matrix, volunteering comfort and balance.
“The humans have something called a sabbatical where they take a long break from their work.”
He doesn't immediately rebuff Optimus' gentle offer. The energy between them is the most contact Ratchet has allowed anyone since Jazz's attempt to spark-bond him.
“Are you telling me to take a vacation?”
Ratchet would be amused were it any other situation. Prime and Prowl have been trying to get their CMO to take a break for years, and he suspected they intended to recruit Jazz into their efforts if things hadn't changed.
“It can only be a benefit, old friend.” Optimus vents heavily, betraying his unease about the entire situation. “I am certain First Aid and Wheeljack can handle things in your absence. You deserve it. I’d only insist that you do not go alone.”
Ratchet's shoulders slump.
Alone is what he wants to be. He has no interest in listening to some mech's idea of advice or enduring soft-sparked attempts at consolation. He wants to deal with this in his own way even if it means ignoring medical advice. He knows he shouldn't be alone, but fraggit...
“Then I can't take Wheeljack,” Ratchet responds, already running through a list of mechs. His closest friend is the only one he'd feel remotely comfortable with at the moment. And there are only so many bots who know the truth.
“No. He will be needed here. I had someone else in mind.” Here, Optimus hesitates, his field wavering before acquiring a flare of determination. “Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.”
Ratchet reboots his audials twice. He’s absolutely certain that he must have caught a glitch.
“The twins?” he half-asks, half-demands.
The look Optimus gives him is purely honest but also purely mischievous at the same time.
“They are aware of the situation, will provide adequate backup on the off-chance you run into the Decepticons.” He sobers then. “They also have a keen understanding of difficulties regarding bonds.”
Ratchet lapses into silence, though his plating still trembles with shock. Optimus' reasoning is sound… But the twins? The two mechs who make a game out of seeing who can get a rise out of Ratchet first and fastest?
“I'll have dismantled them before two days is up,” the medic mutters.
Optimus transmits a wordless glyph of disagreement. “They may surprise you.”
He could protest, suggest a different pair of escorts. Ironhide and Hound, perhaps. But for all of Ironhide's bluster, he is gentle at spark. He'd probably treat Ratchet like a piece of breakable crystal, stuttering and stumbling about the entire time. And Hound would be even worse, especially since he doesn’t know the entire truth. They'd be a pair of nanny-bots really.
There are others, but in the end, Ratchet thinks his Prime is right. If there's two mechs he can count on not to coddle him or offer unwanted advice and who might actually be able to treat him normal, like he wants, it's the twins.
The fight goes out of Ratchet with a hiss of depressurizing hydraulics.
“Fine.”
Optimus has the decency to keep quiet after that.
They leave before dawn strikes, taking an eastern trek toward distant borders. Ratchet has no clear destination in mind, and maybe that's for the best. Maybe some idle wandering on the open road will clear his processors, let his systems settle and give him a chance for some decent recharge.
The twins surge ahead of him, always within sensor distance, but a bit too eager to be out from under Prowl's eagle-optics and disapproving supervision. Optimus had claimed a worry about Decepticon activity. Ratchet, however, is far from a fool. Prime wasn't worried about what Megatron might do if he noticed the CMO was wandering around alone. Optimus was concerned about what Ratchet might do to himself if left alone.
He approximates a snort. Yes, he's probably teetering on the edge of a consuming depression, spiraling downward. Self-harm, however, is not within his programming. He just needs time, space, a chance to let his spark recover away from Jazz's unconscious influence.
He has to be ready to face Jazz on his return. Deal with the memories he has that Jazz won't. He has to act normal, pretend like nothing’s wrong.
Right now, Ratchet wants to wallow. Wants to indulge in knowing that nothing is on kilter in his world and let everything tilt on its axis.
“Ratchet!” Sideswipe whines over the comms, swerving across the road a good mile ahead of him. “You're moving too slow! I know you've got a higher top speed than that!”
“Mute it,” Ratchet retorts with an aggravated chuff. “And use a little encryption, slagger. I'm not eager to encounter any ‘Cons today. I put you two back together enough as it is.”
“I think a little destruction would do you some good,” Sunstreaker counters, adding in his two creds worth. At least he has enough sense to use a few levels of encryption though. “It's the best kind of distraction.”
Ratchet transmits a noncommittal sound. Battle isn’t his kind of processor-clearing activity. Not at all.
The twins slow down a little then, allowing him to catch up. Sideswipe takes point with Sunstreaker trailing after Ratchet.
“So where are we going?” Sides asks, drifting back and forth across the road. Heedless to oncoming traffic except when he swerves to avoid with an aft-wiggle of dangerous glee.
Ratchet doesn't bother to reprimand him. “I don't know.”
“How long will we be gone?” Sunstreaker questions instead.
“A week. Maybe two.”
Fourteen days isn't nearly long enough for Ratchet to feel normal again, but it's better than nothing. It's better than having to stand there while Jazz onlines, feeling his spark tug and tug, his chestplates parting of their own accord.
Sunstreaker makes a noise of disgust. “We better run into some ‘Cons then.”
“Don't mind him. Tracks nicked the last of his polish, and he's pouting,” Sideswipe puts in, and Ratchet detects the presence of narrow-band comms.
“Am not,” the ever social yellow twin retorts.
“He totally is,” Sides says with a smug tone and drops back a pace, the nose of his alt-mode gently tapping Ratchet's. “Mind if I pick a destination then?”
Ratchet edges away. “I'm not helping you cause any mayhem.”
“Who? Me?” Were Sideswipe in root mode, Ratchet imagines he'd be utilizing his best innocent look, one that only Bluestreak can pull off effectively. “Seriously, Ratch, I was thinking about Yosemite.”
Ratchet's flinch melts away as he manually reboots his audial sensors.
“The National Park?”
“I wanna see Old Faithful,” Sideswipe practically sing-songs.
“The Grand Prismatic Spring,” Sunstreaker adds, a quieter murmur that nonetheless proves he is also interested in visiting the park.
Color him surprised. Ratchet would have never expected either twin to be interested in Earth's natural wonders. He can't think of a reason not to go. Yellowstone would be a suitable distraction at least. And it's not as though Ratchet has any better ideas.
“It's as good enough a course as any,” Ratchet finally allows. “Lead the way.”
(Fic is concluded here)
