[Transformers G1] Half-Truths -- Part Two
Apr. 7th, 2012 07:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: 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.
(Part One)
--seems to be no complication with the altered memory files. Jazz appears to accept all explanations without suspicion. He asked about you, of course, immediately after onlining. But Prowl was there, and he handled everything. He complained of pain, but after I did a scan, it seemed to be a consequence of the incomplete bond. I've scanned him every day since just to be sure.
He's trying to be normal, but even Gears commented that something's off with him. He's depressed, obviously, and he keeps asking about you. Wanting to know when you'll come back and if you're in pain, too.
We had a skirmish the other day. I don't know what Megatron hoped to accomplish with such a disorganized raid, but we stopped him with only some minor injuries. I had to weld Ironhide's right axle again. You should take another look at it, Ratchet. Just in case.
Come back soon.
The transmission ends with a glyph that identifies First Aid. The whole report carries an overtone of sparkfelt concern and personal unease. Aid is a capable medic, but Ratchet knows that his apprentice doesn't feel ready to assume complete control over the Ark's entire medical operations.
Ratchet files a copy the report away, certain that there’ll be more to come. He hadn't asked his apprentice to do so, but First Aid must feel obligated.
Venting softly, Ratchet stares at the whole of Yellowstone spread out below him. The scenery is beautiful; Hound would love it here. Acres of lush forest and endless plains, wild animals roaming. Ratchet looks at it without really seeing it.
The distance has helped, but he still knew the very moment Jazz came online. Even across hundreds of miles, Ratchet's spark leapt in eager excitement. Spinning brightly in its chamber, making him stumble mid-step. He'd been secretly glad that the twins had bounded ahead of him, letting him recover from his stagger in solitude.
He catches echoes from time to time. Moments of stronger emotions from Jazz, such as joy or sadness. Once, there was anger, which made Ratchet curious. What could have possibly angered the usually calm bot to such a degree?
There is also amusement.
Sometimes, Ratchet gets fleeting glimpses. Images, one might say. He doesn't know if they are because of what Jazz himself is viewing. Or if they are fabrications of Ratchet's own aching spark. Or if it's some mystical combination of the two. Sometimes, those are accompanied by sounds.
Jazz's voice. His laugh.
It's disturbing. Disturbing and depressing and disappointing, and Ratchet isn't sure exactly how he's supposed to feel about it. Nothing seems simple anymore. Nothing is painted in lines of black and white. Instead draped in shades of grey that leave him stumbling around wondering yet again if he’d done the right thing.
“Bonding wouldn't have been enough.”
Ratchet startles at the unexpected voice; his sensors are tuned down to their lowest setting since the wildlife had been given them fits. He twists to the right, where Sideswipe is sitting down beside him, completely without invitation.
“You--”
“Oh, it'll have calmed him for a while,” Sides continues blandly, as though Ratchet's half-stuttered response hadn't even pinged on his radar. “But I bet he would’ve wanted more.”
“You wouldn't have been happy like that,” Sunstreaker comments, appearing on Ratchet's other side and nearly causing spark-arrest. “Owned. Coddled. It would’ve been a cage.”
“One made of love maybe but a prison all the same,” Sideswipe adds in that usual eerie fashion the twins sometimes employ when they complete each other's thoughts.
It's tempting, but in the end, Ratchet decides not to ask. Despite their annoying tendencies, their berserker tactics on the battlefield, and their aggravating codependence on one another, the twins have always had an odd and unique way of seeing to the core of a problem. Ratchet doesn't know how, and he prefers not to delve too deeply into the particulars of it. All he does is fix things.
He vents, shifting so that his optics capture the view again rather than look at either twin.
“You believe me.”
A sound of metal ringing on metal as Sides taps his helm. “Been in Jazz's head.”
“Would’ve believed you anyway,” Sunny mutters on Ratchet's other side, and his arm brushes the medic's, field a tentative flicker of concern. “Jazz is as fragged as the rest of us; he just hides it better.”
“We think it's better this way, too. We like going into the medbay without fearing for our plating,” Sideswipe insists. “Aside from your wrenches, of course.”
“Who else could we get to put us back together?” Sunstreaker questions, but there’s genuine affection in his tone.
“We can't do it ourselves.”
“Yeah. Remember that time Sides put his left leg on backwards?” the golden twin asks. “He never got anywhere.”
The red twin chortles, hands lifting in great caricature of his own actions back then. “I just kept going forward and backward at the same time.”
“It was embarrassing.”
Ratchet shakes his helm. He’ll never understand the twins, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“I do have an apprentice, you know. Aid is more than capable of reattaching missing limbs and fixing the both of you.”
Sideswipe jostles him with an elbow. “Yeah, but he doesn't know how to do the tough love. He's all about hugging.”
“And those optics!” Sunstreaker does a fair exaggeration of a shudder. “They're dangerous! I can't argue with those optics.”
Amusement threatens to wheedle its way past Ratchet's defenses. “You two are impossible sometimes.”
“Yeah, but ya love us anyway.” Sides smirks and leaps to his pedes, planting his hands on his hips. “C'mon, Ratch. Sitting here moping is boring. And Sunny's getting dirt on his finish.”
“I am not!” Nevertheless, the other twin jumps up as though an Insecticon took a bite out of his aft. “There's not a scuff on me!”
The two dissolve into their usual squabble, which is sure to end up in the exchange of blows. Ratchet shakes his helm, climbing slowly to his pedes. This so-called vacation isn't quite what he had planned, but it is a useful distraction.
Optimus was right in the end. The twins are a good choice.
o0o0o
Returning to the Ark makes Ratchet feel at once uneasy and relieved. He's happy to be home again, to recharge in a berth, drink fresh energon, and get back to work in his medbay. He doesn't feel quite right unless he's surrounded by his tools, the hum of the Ark, instant access to Teletraan One and most of his friends within scanning distance.
That he and the twins arrive not long after Jazz has left for a patrol with Smokescreen is no coincidence. Ratchet doesn't feel up to confronting him yet. He doesn't know what he'll say, doesn't know how he's supposed to feel about it, and not even a few weeks have taken the sting out of his spark.
The ghostly images are starting to fade. And the times of experiencing Jazz's emotions are coming less and less. But Ratchet honestly doesn't know long it's going to take before it all goes away. Before he can feel like himself again and not some half-amalgamated version.
Wheeljack is waiting for him at the front entrance.
“Hey, Ratch.”
He considers the fact that he doesn't flinch at the friendly nickname a step up from his earlier behavior.
“Hey, Jack.”
“Feeling better?”
Ratchet approximates a snort. “Somewhat.” He pauses, glancing back at his escorts and guardians. “Your duty is done, brats. Scram.”
Sideswipe grins, executing a playful salute. “Our duty is never done, Ratchet. You still haven't reforged us into toasters.” He laughs as he skips past both engineer and medic, entering the Ark.
“Come see me later,” Sunstreaker says, his optics performing a quick sweep from Ratchet's chevron down to his pedes. “Your paint is a disgrace.”
“Sunstreaker!” Wheeljack sounds horrified, his indicators flashing a shocked purple.
The yellow twin rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “What? I'm being honest.” He too disappears inside then.
Ratchet now has no buffer between himself and the lengthy, scrutinizing look Wheeljack is giving him.
“What?” he barks.
“How are you doing?” his friend asks, all soft tones and gentle glyphs. Like one might speak to a feral turbofox or a terrified and weeping human.
Ratchet stomps past his best friend. He feels the weight of the past months on his shoulders, and now, there’s no welcoming lover to ease the burden.
“Like I'm ready to be useful again,” he finally decides.
Wheeljack follows. “Is that a good idea?”
“Yes, it fragging is.” His words are sharp, testy, and Ratchet performs a systems check just to calm himself down. “I need to get my hands busy. I need to do something. I can't sit around and think anymore.”
“Stubborn aft.”
Wheeljack's mutter is just loud enough for Ratchet to catch. He refrains from commenting.
“Ratchet!” In the hallway ahead of them, Bluestreak grins at the medic. “Welcome back!”
He grunts something that is more or less a greeting. Bluestreak, however, is unfazed, continuing on his merry way. A few others looks up and give similar greetings as Ratchet goes by. They don’t seem to mind his gruffness either.
“Prime's gonna want to talk to you,” Wheeljack says, drawing up beside Ratchet as Fireflight wanders away. “Make sure you're okay and all that.”
Ratchet expected as much. He doesn't look forward to that particular conversation. But he dreads encountering Jazz even more. Speaking of...
“How's Jazz?”
“Better than you. He doesn't have the truth glitching up his memory core.” Wheeljack's tone borders this side of bitter.
Ratchet whirls on a heel. “Jack, this isn't easy on anyone.”
“Easier for him.” Wheeljack tilts his helm upward, unperturbed by Ratchet's frazzled energy field. “He's got Prowl to help him. And plenty of bots who don't know a slagged thing. While you wandered into the wilderness for two weeks. So yeah, he's doing a lot better than you.” Jack leans closer, indicators flashing a sour yellow. “Tell me I'm wrong.”
To do so would be a lie. And Ratchet's done enough of that today.
“I'm tired,” he says instead and starts back down the corridor. “I'll see you tomorrow, Jack.”
Wheeljack doesn't follow him. Ratchet can feel his optics anyway.
o0o0o
The first time he sees Jazz is nearly a week later, when Ratchet wanders into the rec room for a cube of midgrade before he slips into early recharge. Wheeljack hovers at his side like an overprotective caregiver, practically welded to his hip.
Ratchet spots Jazz immediately, as though the saboteur has some sort of homing beacon connected to Ratchet's body. Jazz is sitting at a table, surrounded by members of his team, smiling through the fatigue evident in his clamped plating, dim optics, and drooping doors. His paintjob and wax have suffered, leaving him looking scuffed and dull, and his smile is lopsided.
Ratchet lurches mid-step, spark whirling eagerly, and nearly tips over. Wheeljack's quick reflexes are all that saves the engineer from being knocked to the ground.
Ratchet stares. He stares at Jazz like he's never seen the saboteur before, his chest aching and his vents stalled. He gropes at his chassis, fingers finding the invisible seam in his chestplates and tracing it. As though considering how much effort it would take to coax them open, to reveal his wildly spinning spark to the room at large but most importantly to Jazz as well. Heat cascades across his sensory net, cooling fans kicking on with a quiet whine.
Jazz looks up then, their optics meeting, and Ratchet swears the world does this strange tilting, tunnel-vision sort of thing. His spark surges, a bright flush of expanding energy, and a keen escapes Ratchet's vocalizer before he can stop it. Before he can so much as get a grip on himself.
He's incapable of moving, of accessing higher processor functions. He can only stare, his spark responding of its own accord. A hundred images coasting through his active memory.
All conversation in the room has stopped. Everyone's staring. How can they not? This is obviously a spectacle, the sight of sharp-mouthed Ratchet made speechless.
Someone touches his arm. No, grips his elbow.
“Ratchet?” Wheeljack. He'd know his best friend's voice anywhere even if it is spoken subvoc. “You're scaring me.”
He's scaring himself. He's never felt so weak.
The sound of a chair scooting backward is all too loud in the silence. Jazz is rising to his feet, doors high and tense behind him.
Ratchet's not ready for this. He won't ever be ready for this.
He whirls, all but knocking Wheeljack out of his way, and leaves. Not fleeing. Ratchet would never call it running away. But he's definitely making haste, heading straight back to the medbay because his personal quarters are no solace either.
His office is his best option. He can lock the doors with a code only the Prime and Prowl can override. Well, Jazz could probably hack it if he wanted to, but Ratchet hopes there is a sliver of propriety left in his ex-partner.
The medbay is quiet. Empty. Perfect.
Ratchet goes into his office, shuts the door, and sinks into his chair. His spark thuds within the chamber as he buries his face in his hands, struggling to get himself back together. It's a losing battle. There's a distinct rattle in his plating, and his hands won't stop shaking.
His office isn't soundproof. So he knows when someone else comes in, and not long after, a second pair of steps follow. A brief scan identifies the mechs, not that Ratchet needed more than a single guess for each of them.
“Now's not a good time, Jazz.”
“Is he all right?”
Anxiety. Worry. Sparkfelt, not a lie.
“It's still too soon,” Wheeljack says consolingly, no doubt planted between Jazz and the door to Ratchet's office.
Primus, just the sound of Jazz's voice is too much. Ratchet swears it's echoing around his spark chamber, setting the energies into a chaotic frenzy.
“But...” A resigned sigh. “Can ya do somethin' fer me then? Tell 'im I'm sorry.”
“Of course.”
Wheeljack's vocal tones are wary, but not condescending.
“Thanks.” A pause, a shifting of gears. “And here. Since he didn't get any. Just... I'm sorry.”
“I know.”
Steps fade, the medbay doors open and close. A faint tapping on Ratchet's door is Wheeljack's soft request to be let inside. Ratchet allows him.
He looks up as the engineer enters and his tanks lurch. Wheeljack's carrying a cube of energon, which he then sets on the corner of Ratchet's desk in easy reaching distance.
Ratchet groans at the sight of it. Just like old times, eh, medic? Jazz taking care of you like he used to. Like he wants to.
Wheeljack's field fluctuates with uncertainty. “Ratchet...”
“What am I supposed to do?” he demands, fist thumping the desk. “Was I wrong? Did I overreact?”
It hurts. By Primus! Like someone's scouring his spark chamber with acid. He's getting push-pulls of emotion, worry-affection-guilt-love-remorse, and Ratchet can't be sure if they are his or Jazz's or some combination of the two.
Wheeljack drags a chair over, sitting down in front of Ratchet. “Do you want to rekindle your relationship with him?”
The question is tentative, soft. As though Wheeljack almost doesn't dare voice it. By contrast, Ratchet's tone is laced with static.
“I don't know.”
“Do you want to uplink with him?”
Alien sensation of someone sifting through his systems without his permission. Unable to access his own subroutines, unable to shove the invader out. He's helpless, like he's never been helpless before and not even a violent scrub will ever get him clean.
Ratchet's tanks churn, rumbling on fumes. And eager even to expel those.
“...I couldn't.”
Wheeljack vents audibly. “Ratchet, all Jazz can remember is the good times. In his processor, nothing ever happened except for a failed bond. He won't understand why this is hurting you.”
It's too much effort to raise his head.
“Is Prowl right then? Should I have just let the bond happen?”
Jack lets out more air. Long and low.
“Only you can answer that.”
Ratchet shutters his optics. He doesn't know that he can answer that. Not when all he can see are shimmering images of that betrayed look on Jazz's face and all he can hear is Jazz's voice.
This's supposed ta be a good thing! Yer supposed ta love me!
Love. What a twisted, foolish notion.
Ratchet doesn't have an answer. And he doesn't say anything when the engineer presses the cube into his hand either. He just drinks it in silence, wondering if he's ever going to feel normal again.
o0o0o
Weeks pass.
Ratchet's life settles into a sort of routine. Maintenance checks and supply requisitioning and medbay overhauls and recharges spent staring at the ceiling and energon consumed quickly without pleasure because his system needs it and no other reason.
He doesn't see Jazz except in brief glimpses. Ratchet's dignity is saved from overreacting as he had earlier. It's easy to avoid the saboteur who seems to be making his own efforts to stay away in return. The half-lie, half-truth that proximity only prolongs the pain seems to be enough incentive.
Busy work keeps Ratchet just that. Busy. He heals a bit more, the pains easing into a dull throb that worsens with fatigue and exertion but only then. The flashes of Jazz's daily life have all but ceased, though he still catches echoes of stronger emotions. It's a minor improvement but still improvement.
Wheeljack has finally stopped trailing him around like a second shadow. Prowl is most grateful for this as he's happy to have his sparkmate around again. Even so, Ratchet is hardly ever alone. The twins come by daily to needle him, bring him energon, and so that Sunstreaker can nag Ratchet about his scuffed paint. Aid is a constant presence, eager to learn more, eager to distract. And of course, Gears and his regular complaints about his various creaks, leaks, and discomforts.
It's a familiar sort of busy, and Ratchet embraces it gladly.
Early one shift, however, Mirage and Bumblebee come to call. The look of gravity on Mirage's face is not uncommon, but Bee's solemnity is worrisome.
Ratchet puts down the tools he’d been cleaning and immediately scans both for possible issues.
“What is it? What's wrong?” he asks even as his scans come up clean, though Bumblebee could stand to have a few worn circuits replaced.
The two mechs exchange a glance. But it’s Bee who speaks, probably volunteered for the act.
“We wanted to apologize.”
Ratchet reboots his audials. “You... what?”
They can’t mean what he thinks they mean. Right?
“Apologize,” Mirage repeats, his clear vocals a deep trill. “First, for not coming forward sooner. And second, for not helping to prevent the current… ah, circumstances.”
Ratchet retreats a step. He knows that they know then. It really doesn’t come as a surprise. They’re Spec Ops. Same as Jazz.
But they really don’t have anything to do with the current mess.
“I'm not sure I follow,” he states with confusion, but an inkling of wonder and worry both shoots down Ratchet’s plating. “This isn't your fault.”
“Of course not,” Bumblebee says with a bit more bark than Ratchet would have thought him capable of.
“However, we feel that apologies must be made.” Mirage shimmers a bit, as though fighting to stay visible. “We always suspected something like this might happen. Not if but when.”
“Though to be fair we didn't think he'd go so far.” Bumblebee runs a hand over his helm. “Jazz always gets possessive, but...”
Ratchet’s hands are fists now, and his tone is too cold.
“Who told you?”
The two exchange glances again, and Ratchet detects the low vibrations of narrow-band comms between them.
“No one,” Bumblebee assures.
“We figured it out for ourselves. It wasn't hard,” Mirage adds. “He's our commander. We know him better than anyone.” A wry smile curves the noble's lips. “We've felt the brunt of his nature before.”
Bumblebee shutters his optics. “Red Alert will never ask to borrow either of us for a mission ever again.”
Mirage steps closer. His field tentatively seeks Ratchet's, a contact that the medic slowly accepts.
“So we understand, and we think it's better this way. Safer, too. For everyone.”
Ratchet stares. “You can’t mean--”
“We do,” Bee cuts in, and he doesn’t look the least bit innocent or young. “We know Jazz.”
“We know how he is,” Mirage explains, and his tone says nothing and everything. “We know him better than any save Prowl. Or now perhaps you.”
His optics are dark and glittering. Ratchet wants to step back, to not feel Mirage so close. To have his energy field full not of sympathy or pity but sorrow. Understanding.
“We are sorry, Ratchet,” Mirage repeats. “More than you will ever know.”
Ratchet offlines his optics but says nothing. After all, there’s nothing more to say.
o0o0o
Megatron can never stay silent for long, and if he is, Ratchet can bet it's because he's cooked up another hare-brained scheme to obtain galactic domination. Whatever nonsense the Decepticon leader concocts, however, Megatron is still dangerous. As is his army. And all Ratchet can do is put the broken bots back together again.
They win, sending the ‘Cons scurrying about to their leaking, underwater lair. But it's not easy. It never is, and sometimes Ratchet wonders if they are all just fighting for the sake of fighting now. Because they don't know any better.
The medbay is the picture of chaos. Scanners screaming data, mechs comming him with updates on their patient's status, the smell of scorched metal thick in the air. The frantic scamper of pedes across the floor. Yelling for supplies, for help. Energon and coolant making footing treacherous.
Ratchet recalls it all clinically, even as he struggles to fix Sunstreaker, the twin's spark guttering before his eyes. Sideswipe is no help on the matter, hovering over his brother anxiously, getting in the way more often than not. Ratchet doesn't have the spark to throw him out.
First Aid is bent over Smokescreen, frantically patching up scores of pierced energon lines from some kind of shrapnel-based projectile. Wheeljack's unconscious, unable to help anyone much less himself, but at least he's stable. Perceptor has his hands full with Warpath, and Bluestreak is doing his best to help Skyfire repair Grapple. Hoist, meanwhile, has Air Raid, and even Prime is here, helping weld Mirage back together.
It's a madhouse.
Ratchet doesn't have enough hands. He doesn't have the tools, and there's only one of him and too many bots to fix. Too many close calls.
Sunstreaker's frame jerks beneath his hands, monitors screeching out their distress, and Ratchet curses. An energon line starts spurting bright pink into the air. Sideswipe hyperventilates, caterwauling, energy field a dizzying press of anxiety-fear-pain.
Ratchet needs a clamp. A clamp and a micro-welder and another pair of hands, and he's ashamed of himself. Because as Sunstreaker's vitals are stuttering, for the first time, Ratchet feels normal. He gropes around his tool tray, scattering his equipment everywhere, and that's when a micro-welder appears in front of him. As if summoned.
He half-glances over his shoulder with a grateful look and sees Jazz standing there, silently offering the needed tool. Their optics meet, and a shiver races through Ratchet's spark. He doesn't speak, can't speak, just takes the micro-welder and gets back to work.
“Grab a clamp,” Ratchet orders as Jazz shoulders Sideswipe out of the way, nimble fingers already reaching into Sunstreaker's chassis. “Before Sunny bleeds out everywhere.”
“Whatever ya say, Ratch.”
To his credit, he doesn't flinch.
It's an improvement, one Ratchet latches onto gladly. He bends over Sunstreaker again, micro-welder moving into place. The yellow twin is going to live, fraggit. Primus help them all.
o0o0o
It's late, near dawn by the time everyone is stable enough for Ratchet to sit down and let his processors settle. No one's going to offline; they'll all live to fight another day. It's another small miracle, pulled from who knows where, and Ratchet feels the fatigue of it settle down to his struts.
The medbay is still, only the sound of monitoring systems piercing the quiet. Sunstreaker's still here, Sides curled up next to him on the tiny berth. So are Warpath and Smokescreen, but they are all under a medically-induced recharge.
The doors swish open, Ironhide stepping inside like a mech with a mission, a cube in each hand. The iridescent magenta of the energon identifies high-grade. Ratchet's tanks give a thirsty gurgle.
Ironhide smirks. “Thought ya'd be interested.” He wiggles one cube in Ratchet's direction.
“Give it here,” the medic grumbles in response.
Ironhide settles down beside him. He hands over the cube and pops open his own.
“Don't I get a thank ya?”
Ratchet grunts. “Thanks.”
He quickly downs about a third of the cube, cringing as it goes down thick and oily. Rife with impurities sure to leave behind a kick. He'll online regretting it tomorrow. But it's worth it.
“Ya did good today,” Ironhide says then, fiddling with his own cube. His field is tangible, but his emotions are closed off. “Everyone's alive thanks to ya.”
Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise.
“Noticed ya didn't act up when Jazz appeared.”
He slants a look sideways. “What're you getting at, old mech?”
“Yer one ta talk.”
Ratchet sucks down another third. He shudders as it hits his tanks.
“You're the one who showed up in here with something on your processor.”
Ironhide nudges him with an elbow. “Talk ta me, Ratch. Yer strugglin'. Tell me, and I can help.”
Ratchet waves him off automatically. He thinks to finish his energon but holds off for a moment.
“You can't.”
“I can try.”
Ratchet's vents stutter, and he balances his elbows on his knees. He needs more high-grade. He really does.
“I don't know how I'm supposed to fix myself much less tell anyone else the answers.” He finishes off his cube before tossing the empty container over his shoulder, where it dissolves into nothing before hitting the floor.
Ironhide pushes another one toward him. “I guess it really depends on what the questions are.”
There is only that has taken prominence in Ratchet's thoughts lately.
“Did I do the right thing?”
“Would ya have been happy bonded ta him?” Ironhide asks with a surprising amount of intuition.
Ratchet lifts the new cube, admiring the less-magenta, more-mauve color of the energon. There were good times, lots of them. He remembers being happy with Jazz before all the craziness started. He remembers being comfortable and challenged. Laughing and teasing, soft touches interspersed with welcome rougher edges. He remembers long nights and early mornings.
Most of all, Ratchet recalls affection. Perhaps in his more dangerous, illogical times, he might have even called it love. That sort of emotion can't be easily tossed aside. Ratchet hasn't immediately shifted into loathing. He doesn't even despise Jazz.
“Maybe,” Ratchet admits, and it's the sort of admission that makes him ache deep down. “If he'd asked. In the far, far future.” He pauses, spark fluctuating weakly. “If he'd asked.”
Ironhide makes a rumbly noise of contemplation. “If ya ask me, Ratch. I don't think yer angry enough.”
Ratchet looks up from his cube, startled.
Ironhide swigs his high-grade as though it has less kick than gasoline. “Sure, Jazz is our friend, ally, we all trust 'im. But you trusted him the most.” He peers intently into his empty cube before tossing it. “It's just not right what he did. When a mech says no, that should be it. Ya don't press the issue.”
“But--”
“But nothing.”
Ironhide pulls another cube out of subspace, cracking it open. Ratchet only tangentially wonders where he got them from.
“We ain't like the humans. Spark-bonding's nothing to chuff at. It's permanent, Ratchet.”
He scoffs loudly. “You don't have to explain that to me.”
“I think I do.” Ironhide sits up, turns toward Ratchet, and pins him with those bright optics with the same unerring intensity he gives a battle. “Ya ask me if ya did the right thing like ya weren't attacked. Cause ya were. And from a military standpoint, ya were fightin' fer yer life.”
The draws the medic up short.
Ironhide has a point. One Ratchet has only considered in passing but never put much weight into. The spark is a bot's life. If it's no longer his own, if it's taken from him, what then is his life?
Ratchet's fingers twitch around his cube. “It's not the worst fate to be bonded to that devoted of a partner.”
“And if Jazz hadn't forced it, I could give ya that point.” Ironhide rolls his shoulders. “But if he was willin' to force that, what else would he decide is necessary? What else would you have to give up?”
He tips back half the high grade. He feels his systems stutter at the influx of ultra-rich energon.
“You make a compelling case,” Ratchet admits very slowly.
“I know that I do.” Ironhide throws back the rest of his cube and climbs to his feet, looking down at the medic. “I like Jazz. I do. He's one of the best 'bots ta have at your back and at your side. But even I can see when some thing's just aren't meant ta be.”
With that little nugget of wisdom, Ironhide takes his leave. Ratchet is left with third a cube and more burning conflicts in his processor. He lifts a hand, absently rubbing at his chestplates.
He's beginning to wonder if there's no real answer to be had.
o0o0o
His personal quarters hold no appeal for him. The raucous and always-busy nature of the rec room even less. And not even Ratchet is enough of a workaholic to spend all of his online hours in the medbay.
He finds himself in Wheeljack's lab. Probably not the safest place to be but the better choice out of all the other options. Being here keeps his processor occupied, keeps him from thinking about things.
More time has passed. The initial buzz and gossip about his relationship with Jazz has faded to background murmurs. Mechs don't give him that pathetic consoling look much anymore. Things have, for the most part, become closer to this side of normal.
He still doesn't talk to Jazz. It's not a matter of actively avoiding the mech as much as it is the rest of their fellow Autobots In the Know are doing a fair job of keeping them apart. He only sees Jazz in passing, peripherally. They haven't talked since then.
Ratchet supposes he should be grateful for the relative normality. It's better than the alternative.
“Argh.” Wheeljack huffs in aggravation and shoves at the clutter on one of his many desks, sending bits and pieces to rain down upon the floor. “That's it. I need a break.”
Ratchet smiles, bending back over his own little project: rewiring a phase conductor.
“Of course you do. You've been at it for hours.”
“You're one to talk.” Wheeljack approximates a snort. “I'm going for some energon. Bring ya back some?”
“Sure.”
Wheeljack leaves, and Ratchet is now alone. He doesn't mind. The lab is nothing like his quarters. Nothing here is silent. There's always some project in progress to stare at, and Wheeljack has a lovely orrery depicting Cybertron and her moons that's in constant motion. Plenty here to keep his processor occupied.
Ratchet is just turning back to his work when hears the doors to the lab open again.
“That was quick.”
“It's me, Ratch.”
His hands falter mid-wire at the familiar voice. Ratchet performs a systems check, drawing upon eons of calm gleaned from times of great stress. He carefully sets aside the conductor, withdrawing his hands, and turns to greet his visitor.
“Hello, Jazz.”
The saboteur looks as uncomfortable as Ratchet feels but determined as well.
“Wheeljack said you were here. I hope you don't mind.”
Mind?
Ratchet's not sure what he's supposed to think. Maybe there is a shred of relief. It's the confrontation he's been dreading. Perhaps it's better just to get this over with. See what comes of it.
He keeps his distance though, safer that way.
“I...” Ratchet falters, words failing him, and settles for something less conflicting. “How are you?”
It's a testament to how far they've come that his spark doesn't instantly assail him with acidic pain and torture. There's only a faint spinning, an interested lurch, but none of the usual torment.
“Better.” Jazz wanders toward one of the occupied tables, examining a project in progress but wisely not touching anything. “My memories are still a bit glitched. Aid says there's nothing he can do.”
Ratchet vents audibly. “They probably won't come back. Because...”
“Because of the failed bond. Yeah. I know.” Jazz's optics are inscrutable thanks to the visor, his field tightly contained. “What about you?”
A certain measure of honesty will be easier to bear than a full lie.
“The pain comes less and less.”
Jazz winces, ceasing his meandering circuit and coming a few paces closer to Ratchet. Close enough that if either of them were less tense, their energy fields might brush.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
Ratchet wants to laugh bitterly, but this Jazz doesn't know what his previous self had done. Has no clue what it is that's really hurting Ratchet. This Jazz thinks that they were both intent on sparkbonding and that it had failed.
“Sometimes, these things happen,” Ratchet says, proud of himself for not saying something else, something less than tactful.
Jazz shakes his helm. “They shouldn't have. I'm sorry, you know. Sorry about us. Sorry about hurting you.”
Ratchet's spark twinges, and this time, he knows it's not because of the failed bond. His ventilations hitch.
“You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault.”
He doesn't even have to lie. He often wonders how much of this whole situation is of his own making.
“I’m still sorry.” Jazz lifts a hand, as though intending to reach for Ratchet, before thinking better of it. He closes his fingers and drops his hand back to his side. “We can still be friends, right?”
His vocalizer crackles with static.
“I'm not sure when we stopped,” Ratchet replies and hesitates.
He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But to let things drift away like this. He can't do that either.
He lurches forward, crosses the distance between him and Jazz, and pulls the saboteur into an embrace. It feels... He doesn't know how it feels. He's not quite repulsed nor relieved. The thrum of Jazz's systems is familiar to him, the gentle buzz of Jazz's energy achingly intimate. He wants to let go, and he wants to hold on, and Ratchet suspects his feelings when it comes to Jazz will never be cut and dry again.
Jazz is, at first, stiff in his arms. His field ripples with surprise and then... relief. He returns the embrace, his hands pressed flat against Ratchet's dorsal plating.
By some unspoken agreement, they break apart a few moments later. Ratchet doesn't have any words; he's used them all. And Jazz... he doesn't know how to describe Jazz's expression right now.
“Thanks, Ratch.”
“You needed it.” Ratchet pauses, his faceplates threatening to heat. “We needed it,” he corrects and flounders. What else is there to say?
Something like a smile curves Jazz's lips. “Yeah. I guess we did.” He taps a pede against the floor, easing toward the door. “I guess I'll see you around then.”
“Always.”
More static than glyphs, but Ratchet's response trails Jazz out the door. The saboteur leaves, and the lab feels measurably abandoned.
In Jazz's absence, Ratchet's legs no longer seem fit to keep up his weight. They buckle, and he sinks to the floor, frame immeasurably heavy. He had known it wouldn't be easy, but he couldn't have imagined it would be this hard.
He hangs his head, shutters his optics.
Primus.
He feels heavy and light all at once. Isn't sure what to think. Closure, is that what they call it? No, not quite. It'll never be over, but maybe... maybe they can start to move forward now. Just a bit.
“Ratchet!”
Wheeljack's panicked tone fills his lab. He hurries to Ratchet's side, energy field flaring concern and regret.
“I'm fine,” Ratchet replies a bit irritably, resisting his best friend's attempts to haul him up. “Honestly, you nanny bot. There's nothing wrong with me.”
Wheeljack holds up his hands. “Could've fooled me, the way you're sitting on the floor like that. I saw Jazz leave. What happened?”
“Nothing,” Ratchet snaps, only to pause, reconsidering.
The tremors in his frame ease away. He corrects himself.
“Everything.”
o0o0o
“Almost done,” Sunstreaker says. “Hold still.”
Ratchet forces himself not to shake his helm. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”
Sideswipe snickers, kicking back where he watches with intent interest, the slow and steady glide of cloth and oil over Ratchet's plating. Sunstreaker has spent the last few hours, stripping, repainting and waxing Ratchet's frame. Just as he demanded Ratchet let him do months ago.
It isn’t unlike the human female's tendency to cut their hair after ending a relationship, come to think of it. Though Ratchet will never reveal the comparison upon pains of offlining. He could just imagine what hilarity Sideswipe could make of it.
“I swear, you're worse than Sides,” Sunstreaker mutters, crouching to examine a streak on Ratchet's calf plating with a frown.
“Hey! I resemble that remark!”
Amusement spills out of Ratchet's energy field. “I am only here because you insisted. I am perfectly capable of my own maintenance.”
“Not from where I was standing,” the yellow twin retorts and rises to his feet, planting his hands on his hips. He gives Ratchet a critical once-over. “I declare you finished.”
“Much obliged, your majesty,” Ratchet retorts, but there’s no real heat to it.
Instead, he goes to the mirror on the far wall. An obvious contribution by Sunstreaker. But it’s at least handy to have around. Especially now.
Ratchet stares at himself in surprise. He’s still red and white. That had been his one request. But the placement and pattern are different now. There’s far more red than there had been before, and a few other colors have snuck in. Stray shades of blue and green and even yellow that Sunstreaker used for accents.
Altogether, it’s… nice. It’s different. But still good. Refreshing almost.
“You look good,” Sides declares as he comes up to Ratchet’s left. “You really do. Great job, Sunny.”
Sunstreaker offers a smirk from Ratchet’s right. “Naturally. With my talent and Ratchet’s looks, you couldn’t get anything less.”
Sideswipe laughs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he smiles, watching as Ratchet’s optics take in his new paint once more. His hand finds Ratchet’s shoulder then, and the medic isn’t surprised when Sunstreaker’s somehow sneaks to the other one. Their touch is somehow welcoming and familiar as they stand there.
Ratchet allows himself to gaze into the mirror a minute longer. Allows himself to wonder what Jazz will think of this. If he’d appreciate the new look as much as he had the old one. He’d often commented that he’d like Ratchet’s appearance as it was. And Ratchet knew that he liked all the white paint because it showed color transfers so easily. It let everyone know just what Ratchet had been doing and with whom.
A wordless way of possession. Of ownership.
But Ratchet doesn’t belong to anyone but himself. Not now. Not ever. Not unless he allows it and never before that.
This just goes to prove it.
He nods then and turns to the twins. They look at him like the know exactly what he’s been thinking, but they say nothing. They both just grin and follow him out the door as he turns to leave.
“Thank you,” Ratchet says before they go.
He doesn’t have to explain what he really means.
****
a/n: Yep. That's the end. Whether or not Ratchet ever dates again, well, I leave that up to the reader. It'll be a long while; I know that for certain. I do hope all questions were answered. I hope the ending satisfies. Thank you for reading! I appreciate any and all feedback.
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.
(Part One)
--seems to be no complication with the altered memory files. Jazz appears to accept all explanations without suspicion. He asked about you, of course, immediately after onlining. But Prowl was there, and he handled everything. He complained of pain, but after I did a scan, it seemed to be a consequence of the incomplete bond. I've scanned him every day since just to be sure.
He's trying to be normal, but even Gears commented that something's off with him. He's depressed, obviously, and he keeps asking about you. Wanting to know when you'll come back and if you're in pain, too.
We had a skirmish the other day. I don't know what Megatron hoped to accomplish with such a disorganized raid, but we stopped him with only some minor injuries. I had to weld Ironhide's right axle again. You should take another look at it, Ratchet. Just in case.
Come back soon.
The transmission ends with a glyph that identifies First Aid. The whole report carries an overtone of sparkfelt concern and personal unease. Aid is a capable medic, but Ratchet knows that his apprentice doesn't feel ready to assume complete control over the Ark's entire medical operations.
Ratchet files a copy the report away, certain that there’ll be more to come. He hadn't asked his apprentice to do so, but First Aid must feel obligated.
Venting softly, Ratchet stares at the whole of Yellowstone spread out below him. The scenery is beautiful; Hound would love it here. Acres of lush forest and endless plains, wild animals roaming. Ratchet looks at it without really seeing it.
The distance has helped, but he still knew the very moment Jazz came online. Even across hundreds of miles, Ratchet's spark leapt in eager excitement. Spinning brightly in its chamber, making him stumble mid-step. He'd been secretly glad that the twins had bounded ahead of him, letting him recover from his stagger in solitude.
He catches echoes from time to time. Moments of stronger emotions from Jazz, such as joy or sadness. Once, there was anger, which made Ratchet curious. What could have possibly angered the usually calm bot to such a degree?
There is also amusement.
Sometimes, Ratchet gets fleeting glimpses. Images, one might say. He doesn't know if they are because of what Jazz himself is viewing. Or if they are fabrications of Ratchet's own aching spark. Or if it's some mystical combination of the two. Sometimes, those are accompanied by sounds.
Jazz's voice. His laugh.
It's disturbing. Disturbing and depressing and disappointing, and Ratchet isn't sure exactly how he's supposed to feel about it. Nothing seems simple anymore. Nothing is painted in lines of black and white. Instead draped in shades of grey that leave him stumbling around wondering yet again if he’d done the right thing.
“Bonding wouldn't have been enough.”
Ratchet startles at the unexpected voice; his sensors are tuned down to their lowest setting since the wildlife had been given them fits. He twists to the right, where Sideswipe is sitting down beside him, completely without invitation.
“You--”
“Oh, it'll have calmed him for a while,” Sides continues blandly, as though Ratchet's half-stuttered response hadn't even pinged on his radar. “But I bet he would’ve wanted more.”
“You wouldn't have been happy like that,” Sunstreaker comments, appearing on Ratchet's other side and nearly causing spark-arrest. “Owned. Coddled. It would’ve been a cage.”
“One made of love maybe but a prison all the same,” Sideswipe adds in that usual eerie fashion the twins sometimes employ when they complete each other's thoughts.
It's tempting, but in the end, Ratchet decides not to ask. Despite their annoying tendencies, their berserker tactics on the battlefield, and their aggravating codependence on one another, the twins have always had an odd and unique way of seeing to the core of a problem. Ratchet doesn't know how, and he prefers not to delve too deeply into the particulars of it. All he does is fix things.
He vents, shifting so that his optics capture the view again rather than look at either twin.
“You believe me.”
A sound of metal ringing on metal as Sides taps his helm. “Been in Jazz's head.”
“Would’ve believed you anyway,” Sunny mutters on Ratchet's other side, and his arm brushes the medic's, field a tentative flicker of concern. “Jazz is as fragged as the rest of us; he just hides it better.”
“We think it's better this way, too. We like going into the medbay without fearing for our plating,” Sideswipe insists. “Aside from your wrenches, of course.”
“Who else could we get to put us back together?” Sunstreaker questions, but there’s genuine affection in his tone.
“We can't do it ourselves.”
“Yeah. Remember that time Sides put his left leg on backwards?” the golden twin asks. “He never got anywhere.”
The red twin chortles, hands lifting in great caricature of his own actions back then. “I just kept going forward and backward at the same time.”
“It was embarrassing.”
Ratchet shakes his helm. He’ll never understand the twins, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“I do have an apprentice, you know. Aid is more than capable of reattaching missing limbs and fixing the both of you.”
Sideswipe jostles him with an elbow. “Yeah, but he doesn't know how to do the tough love. He's all about hugging.”
“And those optics!” Sunstreaker does a fair exaggeration of a shudder. “They're dangerous! I can't argue with those optics.”
Amusement threatens to wheedle its way past Ratchet's defenses. “You two are impossible sometimes.”
“Yeah, but ya love us anyway.” Sides smirks and leaps to his pedes, planting his hands on his hips. “C'mon, Ratch. Sitting here moping is boring. And Sunny's getting dirt on his finish.”
“I am not!” Nevertheless, the other twin jumps up as though an Insecticon took a bite out of his aft. “There's not a scuff on me!”
The two dissolve into their usual squabble, which is sure to end up in the exchange of blows. Ratchet shakes his helm, climbing slowly to his pedes. This so-called vacation isn't quite what he had planned, but it is a useful distraction.
Optimus was right in the end. The twins are a good choice.
Returning to the Ark makes Ratchet feel at once uneasy and relieved. He's happy to be home again, to recharge in a berth, drink fresh energon, and get back to work in his medbay. He doesn't feel quite right unless he's surrounded by his tools, the hum of the Ark, instant access to Teletraan One and most of his friends within scanning distance.
That he and the twins arrive not long after Jazz has left for a patrol with Smokescreen is no coincidence. Ratchet doesn't feel up to confronting him yet. He doesn't know what he'll say, doesn't know how he's supposed to feel about it, and not even a few weeks have taken the sting out of his spark.
The ghostly images are starting to fade. And the times of experiencing Jazz's emotions are coming less and less. But Ratchet honestly doesn't know long it's going to take before it all goes away. Before he can feel like himself again and not some half-amalgamated version.
Wheeljack is waiting for him at the front entrance.
“Hey, Ratch.”
He considers the fact that he doesn't flinch at the friendly nickname a step up from his earlier behavior.
“Hey, Jack.”
“Feeling better?”
Ratchet approximates a snort. “Somewhat.” He pauses, glancing back at his escorts and guardians. “Your duty is done, brats. Scram.”
Sideswipe grins, executing a playful salute. “Our duty is never done, Ratchet. You still haven't reforged us into toasters.” He laughs as he skips past both engineer and medic, entering the Ark.
“Come see me later,” Sunstreaker says, his optics performing a quick sweep from Ratchet's chevron down to his pedes. “Your paint is a disgrace.”
“Sunstreaker!” Wheeljack sounds horrified, his indicators flashing a shocked purple.
The yellow twin rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “What? I'm being honest.” He too disappears inside then.
Ratchet now has no buffer between himself and the lengthy, scrutinizing look Wheeljack is giving him.
“What?” he barks.
“How are you doing?” his friend asks, all soft tones and gentle glyphs. Like one might speak to a feral turbofox or a terrified and weeping human.
Ratchet stomps past his best friend. He feels the weight of the past months on his shoulders, and now, there’s no welcoming lover to ease the burden.
“Like I'm ready to be useful again,” he finally decides.
Wheeljack follows. “Is that a good idea?”
“Yes, it fragging is.” His words are sharp, testy, and Ratchet performs a systems check just to calm himself down. “I need to get my hands busy. I need to do something. I can't sit around and think anymore.”
“Stubborn aft.”
Wheeljack's mutter is just loud enough for Ratchet to catch. He refrains from commenting.
“Ratchet!” In the hallway ahead of them, Bluestreak grins at the medic. “Welcome back!”
He grunts something that is more or less a greeting. Bluestreak, however, is unfazed, continuing on his merry way. A few others looks up and give similar greetings as Ratchet goes by. They don’t seem to mind his gruffness either.
“Prime's gonna want to talk to you,” Wheeljack says, drawing up beside Ratchet as Fireflight wanders away. “Make sure you're okay and all that.”
Ratchet expected as much. He doesn't look forward to that particular conversation. But he dreads encountering Jazz even more. Speaking of...
“How's Jazz?”
“Better than you. He doesn't have the truth glitching up his memory core.” Wheeljack's tone borders this side of bitter.
Ratchet whirls on a heel. “Jack, this isn't easy on anyone.”
“Easier for him.” Wheeljack tilts his helm upward, unperturbed by Ratchet's frazzled energy field. “He's got Prowl to help him. And plenty of bots who don't know a slagged thing. While you wandered into the wilderness for two weeks. So yeah, he's doing a lot better than you.” Jack leans closer, indicators flashing a sour yellow. “Tell me I'm wrong.”
To do so would be a lie. And Ratchet's done enough of that today.
“I'm tired,” he says instead and starts back down the corridor. “I'll see you tomorrow, Jack.”
Wheeljack doesn't follow him. Ratchet can feel his optics anyway.
The first time he sees Jazz is nearly a week later, when Ratchet wanders into the rec room for a cube of midgrade before he slips into early recharge. Wheeljack hovers at his side like an overprotective caregiver, practically welded to his hip.
Ratchet spots Jazz immediately, as though the saboteur has some sort of homing beacon connected to Ratchet's body. Jazz is sitting at a table, surrounded by members of his team, smiling through the fatigue evident in his clamped plating, dim optics, and drooping doors. His paintjob and wax have suffered, leaving him looking scuffed and dull, and his smile is lopsided.
Ratchet lurches mid-step, spark whirling eagerly, and nearly tips over. Wheeljack's quick reflexes are all that saves the engineer from being knocked to the ground.
Ratchet stares. He stares at Jazz like he's never seen the saboteur before, his chest aching and his vents stalled. He gropes at his chassis, fingers finding the invisible seam in his chestplates and tracing it. As though considering how much effort it would take to coax them open, to reveal his wildly spinning spark to the room at large but most importantly to Jazz as well. Heat cascades across his sensory net, cooling fans kicking on with a quiet whine.
Jazz looks up then, their optics meeting, and Ratchet swears the world does this strange tilting, tunnel-vision sort of thing. His spark surges, a bright flush of expanding energy, and a keen escapes Ratchet's vocalizer before he can stop it. Before he can so much as get a grip on himself.
He's incapable of moving, of accessing higher processor functions. He can only stare, his spark responding of its own accord. A hundred images coasting through his active memory.
All conversation in the room has stopped. Everyone's staring. How can they not? This is obviously a spectacle, the sight of sharp-mouthed Ratchet made speechless.
Someone touches his arm. No, grips his elbow.
“Ratchet?” Wheeljack. He'd know his best friend's voice anywhere even if it is spoken subvoc. “You're scaring me.”
He's scaring himself. He's never felt so weak.
The sound of a chair scooting backward is all too loud in the silence. Jazz is rising to his feet, doors high and tense behind him.
Ratchet's not ready for this. He won't ever be ready for this.
He whirls, all but knocking Wheeljack out of his way, and leaves. Not fleeing. Ratchet would never call it running away. But he's definitely making haste, heading straight back to the medbay because his personal quarters are no solace either.
His office is his best option. He can lock the doors with a code only the Prime and Prowl can override. Well, Jazz could probably hack it if he wanted to, but Ratchet hopes there is a sliver of propriety left in his ex-partner.
The medbay is quiet. Empty. Perfect.
Ratchet goes into his office, shuts the door, and sinks into his chair. His spark thuds within the chamber as he buries his face in his hands, struggling to get himself back together. It's a losing battle. There's a distinct rattle in his plating, and his hands won't stop shaking.
His office isn't soundproof. So he knows when someone else comes in, and not long after, a second pair of steps follow. A brief scan identifies the mechs, not that Ratchet needed more than a single guess for each of them.
“Now's not a good time, Jazz.”
“Is he all right?”
Anxiety. Worry. Sparkfelt, not a lie.
“It's still too soon,” Wheeljack says consolingly, no doubt planted between Jazz and the door to Ratchet's office.
Primus, just the sound of Jazz's voice is too much. Ratchet swears it's echoing around his spark chamber, setting the energies into a chaotic frenzy.
“But...” A resigned sigh. “Can ya do somethin' fer me then? Tell 'im I'm sorry.”
“Of course.”
Wheeljack's vocal tones are wary, but not condescending.
“Thanks.” A pause, a shifting of gears. “And here. Since he didn't get any. Just... I'm sorry.”
“I know.”
Steps fade, the medbay doors open and close. A faint tapping on Ratchet's door is Wheeljack's soft request to be let inside. Ratchet allows him.
He looks up as the engineer enters and his tanks lurch. Wheeljack's carrying a cube of energon, which he then sets on the corner of Ratchet's desk in easy reaching distance.
Ratchet groans at the sight of it. Just like old times, eh, medic? Jazz taking care of you like he used to. Like he wants to.
Wheeljack's field fluctuates with uncertainty. “Ratchet...”
“What am I supposed to do?” he demands, fist thumping the desk. “Was I wrong? Did I overreact?”
It hurts. By Primus! Like someone's scouring his spark chamber with acid. He's getting push-pulls of emotion, worry-affection-guilt-love-remorse, and Ratchet can't be sure if they are his or Jazz's or some combination of the two.
Wheeljack drags a chair over, sitting down in front of Ratchet. “Do you want to rekindle your relationship with him?”
The question is tentative, soft. As though Wheeljack almost doesn't dare voice it. By contrast, Ratchet's tone is laced with static.
“I don't know.”
“Do you want to uplink with him?”
Alien sensation of someone sifting through his systems without his permission. Unable to access his own subroutines, unable to shove the invader out. He's helpless, like he's never been helpless before and not even a violent scrub will ever get him clean.
Ratchet's tanks churn, rumbling on fumes. And eager even to expel those.
“...I couldn't.”
Wheeljack vents audibly. “Ratchet, all Jazz can remember is the good times. In his processor, nothing ever happened except for a failed bond. He won't understand why this is hurting you.”
It's too much effort to raise his head.
“Is Prowl right then? Should I have just let the bond happen?”
Jack lets out more air. Long and low.
“Only you can answer that.”
Ratchet shutters his optics. He doesn't know that he can answer that. Not when all he can see are shimmering images of that betrayed look on Jazz's face and all he can hear is Jazz's voice.
This's supposed ta be a good thing! Yer supposed ta love me!
Love. What a twisted, foolish notion.
Ratchet doesn't have an answer. And he doesn't say anything when the engineer presses the cube into his hand either. He just drinks it in silence, wondering if he's ever going to feel normal again.
Weeks pass.
Ratchet's life settles into a sort of routine. Maintenance checks and supply requisitioning and medbay overhauls and recharges spent staring at the ceiling and energon consumed quickly without pleasure because his system needs it and no other reason.
He doesn't see Jazz except in brief glimpses. Ratchet's dignity is saved from overreacting as he had earlier. It's easy to avoid the saboteur who seems to be making his own efforts to stay away in return. The half-lie, half-truth that proximity only prolongs the pain seems to be enough incentive.
Busy work keeps Ratchet just that. Busy. He heals a bit more, the pains easing into a dull throb that worsens with fatigue and exertion but only then. The flashes of Jazz's daily life have all but ceased, though he still catches echoes of stronger emotions. It's a minor improvement but still improvement.
Wheeljack has finally stopped trailing him around like a second shadow. Prowl is most grateful for this as he's happy to have his sparkmate around again. Even so, Ratchet is hardly ever alone. The twins come by daily to needle him, bring him energon, and so that Sunstreaker can nag Ratchet about his scuffed paint. Aid is a constant presence, eager to learn more, eager to distract. And of course, Gears and his regular complaints about his various creaks, leaks, and discomforts.
It's a familiar sort of busy, and Ratchet embraces it gladly.
Early one shift, however, Mirage and Bumblebee come to call. The look of gravity on Mirage's face is not uncommon, but Bee's solemnity is worrisome.
Ratchet puts down the tools he’d been cleaning and immediately scans both for possible issues.
“What is it? What's wrong?” he asks even as his scans come up clean, though Bumblebee could stand to have a few worn circuits replaced.
The two mechs exchange a glance. But it’s Bee who speaks, probably volunteered for the act.
“We wanted to apologize.”
Ratchet reboots his audials. “You... what?”
They can’t mean what he thinks they mean. Right?
“Apologize,” Mirage repeats, his clear vocals a deep trill. “First, for not coming forward sooner. And second, for not helping to prevent the current… ah, circumstances.”
Ratchet retreats a step. He knows that they know then. It really doesn’t come as a surprise. They’re Spec Ops. Same as Jazz.
But they really don’t have anything to do with the current mess.
“I'm not sure I follow,” he states with confusion, but an inkling of wonder and worry both shoots down Ratchet’s plating. “This isn't your fault.”
“Of course not,” Bumblebee says with a bit more bark than Ratchet would have thought him capable of.
“However, we feel that apologies must be made.” Mirage shimmers a bit, as though fighting to stay visible. “We always suspected something like this might happen. Not if but when.”
“Though to be fair we didn't think he'd go so far.” Bumblebee runs a hand over his helm. “Jazz always gets possessive, but...”
Ratchet’s hands are fists now, and his tone is too cold.
“Who told you?”
The two exchange glances again, and Ratchet detects the low vibrations of narrow-band comms between them.
“No one,” Bumblebee assures.
“We figured it out for ourselves. It wasn't hard,” Mirage adds. “He's our commander. We know him better than anyone.” A wry smile curves the noble's lips. “We've felt the brunt of his nature before.”
Bumblebee shutters his optics. “Red Alert will never ask to borrow either of us for a mission ever again.”
Mirage steps closer. His field tentatively seeks Ratchet's, a contact that the medic slowly accepts.
“So we understand, and we think it's better this way. Safer, too. For everyone.”
Ratchet stares. “You can’t mean--”
“We do,” Bee cuts in, and he doesn’t look the least bit innocent or young. “We know Jazz.”
“We know how he is,” Mirage explains, and his tone says nothing and everything. “We know him better than any save Prowl. Or now perhaps you.”
His optics are dark and glittering. Ratchet wants to step back, to not feel Mirage so close. To have his energy field full not of sympathy or pity but sorrow. Understanding.
“We are sorry, Ratchet,” Mirage repeats. “More than you will ever know.”
Ratchet offlines his optics but says nothing. After all, there’s nothing more to say.
Megatron can never stay silent for long, and if he is, Ratchet can bet it's because he's cooked up another hare-brained scheme to obtain galactic domination. Whatever nonsense the Decepticon leader concocts, however, Megatron is still dangerous. As is his army. And all Ratchet can do is put the broken bots back together again.
They win, sending the ‘Cons scurrying about to their leaking, underwater lair. But it's not easy. It never is, and sometimes Ratchet wonders if they are all just fighting for the sake of fighting now. Because they don't know any better.
The medbay is the picture of chaos. Scanners screaming data, mechs comming him with updates on their patient's status, the smell of scorched metal thick in the air. The frantic scamper of pedes across the floor. Yelling for supplies, for help. Energon and coolant making footing treacherous.
Ratchet recalls it all clinically, even as he struggles to fix Sunstreaker, the twin's spark guttering before his eyes. Sideswipe is no help on the matter, hovering over his brother anxiously, getting in the way more often than not. Ratchet doesn't have the spark to throw him out.
First Aid is bent over Smokescreen, frantically patching up scores of pierced energon lines from some kind of shrapnel-based projectile. Wheeljack's unconscious, unable to help anyone much less himself, but at least he's stable. Perceptor has his hands full with Warpath, and Bluestreak is doing his best to help Skyfire repair Grapple. Hoist, meanwhile, has Air Raid, and even Prime is here, helping weld Mirage back together.
It's a madhouse.
Ratchet doesn't have enough hands. He doesn't have the tools, and there's only one of him and too many bots to fix. Too many close calls.
Sunstreaker's frame jerks beneath his hands, monitors screeching out their distress, and Ratchet curses. An energon line starts spurting bright pink into the air. Sideswipe hyperventilates, caterwauling, energy field a dizzying press of anxiety-fear-pain.
Ratchet needs a clamp. A clamp and a micro-welder and another pair of hands, and he's ashamed of himself. Because as Sunstreaker's vitals are stuttering, for the first time, Ratchet feels normal. He gropes around his tool tray, scattering his equipment everywhere, and that's when a micro-welder appears in front of him. As if summoned.
He half-glances over his shoulder with a grateful look and sees Jazz standing there, silently offering the needed tool. Their optics meet, and a shiver races through Ratchet's spark. He doesn't speak, can't speak, just takes the micro-welder and gets back to work.
“Grab a clamp,” Ratchet orders as Jazz shoulders Sideswipe out of the way, nimble fingers already reaching into Sunstreaker's chassis. “Before Sunny bleeds out everywhere.”
“Whatever ya say, Ratch.”
To his credit, he doesn't flinch.
It's an improvement, one Ratchet latches onto gladly. He bends over Sunstreaker again, micro-welder moving into place. The yellow twin is going to live, fraggit. Primus help them all.
It's late, near dawn by the time everyone is stable enough for Ratchet to sit down and let his processors settle. No one's going to offline; they'll all live to fight another day. It's another small miracle, pulled from who knows where, and Ratchet feels the fatigue of it settle down to his struts.
The medbay is still, only the sound of monitoring systems piercing the quiet. Sunstreaker's still here, Sides curled up next to him on the tiny berth. So are Warpath and Smokescreen, but they are all under a medically-induced recharge.
The doors swish open, Ironhide stepping inside like a mech with a mission, a cube in each hand. The iridescent magenta of the energon identifies high-grade. Ratchet's tanks give a thirsty gurgle.
Ironhide smirks. “Thought ya'd be interested.” He wiggles one cube in Ratchet's direction.
“Give it here,” the medic grumbles in response.
Ironhide settles down beside him. He hands over the cube and pops open his own.
“Don't I get a thank ya?”
Ratchet grunts. “Thanks.”
He quickly downs about a third of the cube, cringing as it goes down thick and oily. Rife with impurities sure to leave behind a kick. He'll online regretting it tomorrow. But it's worth it.
“Ya did good today,” Ironhide says then, fiddling with his own cube. His field is tangible, but his emotions are closed off. “Everyone's alive thanks to ya.”
Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise.
“Noticed ya didn't act up when Jazz appeared.”
He slants a look sideways. “What're you getting at, old mech?”
“Yer one ta talk.”
Ratchet sucks down another third. He shudders as it hits his tanks.
“You're the one who showed up in here with something on your processor.”
Ironhide nudges him with an elbow. “Talk ta me, Ratch. Yer strugglin'. Tell me, and I can help.”
Ratchet waves him off automatically. He thinks to finish his energon but holds off for a moment.
“You can't.”
“I can try.”
Ratchet's vents stutter, and he balances his elbows on his knees. He needs more high-grade. He really does.
“I don't know how I'm supposed to fix myself much less tell anyone else the answers.” He finishes off his cube before tossing the empty container over his shoulder, where it dissolves into nothing before hitting the floor.
Ironhide pushes another one toward him. “I guess it really depends on what the questions are.”
There is only that has taken prominence in Ratchet's thoughts lately.
“Did I do the right thing?”
“Would ya have been happy bonded ta him?” Ironhide asks with a surprising amount of intuition.
Ratchet lifts the new cube, admiring the less-magenta, more-mauve color of the energon. There were good times, lots of them. He remembers being happy with Jazz before all the craziness started. He remembers being comfortable and challenged. Laughing and teasing, soft touches interspersed with welcome rougher edges. He remembers long nights and early mornings.
Most of all, Ratchet recalls affection. Perhaps in his more dangerous, illogical times, he might have even called it love. That sort of emotion can't be easily tossed aside. Ratchet hasn't immediately shifted into loathing. He doesn't even despise Jazz.
“Maybe,” Ratchet admits, and it's the sort of admission that makes him ache deep down. “If he'd asked. In the far, far future.” He pauses, spark fluctuating weakly. “If he'd asked.”
Ironhide makes a rumbly noise of contemplation. “If ya ask me, Ratch. I don't think yer angry enough.”
Ratchet looks up from his cube, startled.
Ironhide swigs his high-grade as though it has less kick than gasoline. “Sure, Jazz is our friend, ally, we all trust 'im. But you trusted him the most.” He peers intently into his empty cube before tossing it. “It's just not right what he did. When a mech says no, that should be it. Ya don't press the issue.”
“But--”
“But nothing.”
Ironhide pulls another cube out of subspace, cracking it open. Ratchet only tangentially wonders where he got them from.
“We ain't like the humans. Spark-bonding's nothing to chuff at. It's permanent, Ratchet.”
He scoffs loudly. “You don't have to explain that to me.”
“I think I do.” Ironhide sits up, turns toward Ratchet, and pins him with those bright optics with the same unerring intensity he gives a battle. “Ya ask me if ya did the right thing like ya weren't attacked. Cause ya were. And from a military standpoint, ya were fightin' fer yer life.”
The draws the medic up short.
Ironhide has a point. One Ratchet has only considered in passing but never put much weight into. The spark is a bot's life. If it's no longer his own, if it's taken from him, what then is his life?
Ratchet's fingers twitch around his cube. “It's not the worst fate to be bonded to that devoted of a partner.”
“And if Jazz hadn't forced it, I could give ya that point.” Ironhide rolls his shoulders. “But if he was willin' to force that, what else would he decide is necessary? What else would you have to give up?”
He tips back half the high grade. He feels his systems stutter at the influx of ultra-rich energon.
“You make a compelling case,” Ratchet admits very slowly.
“I know that I do.” Ironhide throws back the rest of his cube and climbs to his feet, looking down at the medic. “I like Jazz. I do. He's one of the best 'bots ta have at your back and at your side. But even I can see when some thing's just aren't meant ta be.”
With that little nugget of wisdom, Ironhide takes his leave. Ratchet is left with third a cube and more burning conflicts in his processor. He lifts a hand, absently rubbing at his chestplates.
He's beginning to wonder if there's no real answer to be had.
His personal quarters hold no appeal for him. The raucous and always-busy nature of the rec room even less. And not even Ratchet is enough of a workaholic to spend all of his online hours in the medbay.
He finds himself in Wheeljack's lab. Probably not the safest place to be but the better choice out of all the other options. Being here keeps his processor occupied, keeps him from thinking about things.
More time has passed. The initial buzz and gossip about his relationship with Jazz has faded to background murmurs. Mechs don't give him that pathetic consoling look much anymore. Things have, for the most part, become closer to this side of normal.
He still doesn't talk to Jazz. It's not a matter of actively avoiding the mech as much as it is the rest of their fellow Autobots In the Know are doing a fair job of keeping them apart. He only sees Jazz in passing, peripherally. They haven't talked since then.
Ratchet supposes he should be grateful for the relative normality. It's better than the alternative.
“Argh.” Wheeljack huffs in aggravation and shoves at the clutter on one of his many desks, sending bits and pieces to rain down upon the floor. “That's it. I need a break.”
Ratchet smiles, bending back over his own little project: rewiring a phase conductor.
“Of course you do. You've been at it for hours.”
“You're one to talk.” Wheeljack approximates a snort. “I'm going for some energon. Bring ya back some?”
“Sure.”
Wheeljack leaves, and Ratchet is now alone. He doesn't mind. The lab is nothing like his quarters. Nothing here is silent. There's always some project in progress to stare at, and Wheeljack has a lovely orrery depicting Cybertron and her moons that's in constant motion. Plenty here to keep his processor occupied.
Ratchet is just turning back to his work when hears the doors to the lab open again.
“That was quick.”
“It's me, Ratch.”
His hands falter mid-wire at the familiar voice. Ratchet performs a systems check, drawing upon eons of calm gleaned from times of great stress. He carefully sets aside the conductor, withdrawing his hands, and turns to greet his visitor.
“Hello, Jazz.”
The saboteur looks as uncomfortable as Ratchet feels but determined as well.
“Wheeljack said you were here. I hope you don't mind.”
Mind?
Ratchet's not sure what he's supposed to think. Maybe there is a shred of relief. It's the confrontation he's been dreading. Perhaps it's better just to get this over with. See what comes of it.
He keeps his distance though, safer that way.
“I...” Ratchet falters, words failing him, and settles for something less conflicting. “How are you?”
It's a testament to how far they've come that his spark doesn't instantly assail him with acidic pain and torture. There's only a faint spinning, an interested lurch, but none of the usual torment.
“Better.” Jazz wanders toward one of the occupied tables, examining a project in progress but wisely not touching anything. “My memories are still a bit glitched. Aid says there's nothing he can do.”
Ratchet vents audibly. “They probably won't come back. Because...”
“Because of the failed bond. Yeah. I know.” Jazz's optics are inscrutable thanks to the visor, his field tightly contained. “What about you?”
A certain measure of honesty will be easier to bear than a full lie.
“The pain comes less and less.”
Jazz winces, ceasing his meandering circuit and coming a few paces closer to Ratchet. Close enough that if either of them were less tense, their energy fields might brush.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
Ratchet wants to laugh bitterly, but this Jazz doesn't know what his previous self had done. Has no clue what it is that's really hurting Ratchet. This Jazz thinks that they were both intent on sparkbonding and that it had failed.
“Sometimes, these things happen,” Ratchet says, proud of himself for not saying something else, something less than tactful.
Jazz shakes his helm. “They shouldn't have. I'm sorry, you know. Sorry about us. Sorry about hurting you.”
Ratchet's spark twinges, and this time, he knows it's not because of the failed bond. His ventilations hitch.
“You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault.”
He doesn't even have to lie. He often wonders how much of this whole situation is of his own making.
“I’m still sorry.” Jazz lifts a hand, as though intending to reach for Ratchet, before thinking better of it. He closes his fingers and drops his hand back to his side. “We can still be friends, right?”
His vocalizer crackles with static.
“I'm not sure when we stopped,” Ratchet replies and hesitates.
He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But to let things drift away like this. He can't do that either.
He lurches forward, crosses the distance between him and Jazz, and pulls the saboteur into an embrace. It feels... He doesn't know how it feels. He's not quite repulsed nor relieved. The thrum of Jazz's systems is familiar to him, the gentle buzz of Jazz's energy achingly intimate. He wants to let go, and he wants to hold on, and Ratchet suspects his feelings when it comes to Jazz will never be cut and dry again.
Jazz is, at first, stiff in his arms. His field ripples with surprise and then... relief. He returns the embrace, his hands pressed flat against Ratchet's dorsal plating.
By some unspoken agreement, they break apart a few moments later. Ratchet doesn't have any words; he's used them all. And Jazz... he doesn't know how to describe Jazz's expression right now.
“Thanks, Ratch.”
“You needed it.” Ratchet pauses, his faceplates threatening to heat. “We needed it,” he corrects and flounders. What else is there to say?
Something like a smile curves Jazz's lips. “Yeah. I guess we did.” He taps a pede against the floor, easing toward the door. “I guess I'll see you around then.”
“Always.”
More static than glyphs, but Ratchet's response trails Jazz out the door. The saboteur leaves, and the lab feels measurably abandoned.
In Jazz's absence, Ratchet's legs no longer seem fit to keep up his weight. They buckle, and he sinks to the floor, frame immeasurably heavy. He had known it wouldn't be easy, but he couldn't have imagined it would be this hard.
He hangs his head, shutters his optics.
Primus.
He feels heavy and light all at once. Isn't sure what to think. Closure, is that what they call it? No, not quite. It'll never be over, but maybe... maybe they can start to move forward now. Just a bit.
“Ratchet!”
Wheeljack's panicked tone fills his lab. He hurries to Ratchet's side, energy field flaring concern and regret.
“I'm fine,” Ratchet replies a bit irritably, resisting his best friend's attempts to haul him up. “Honestly, you nanny bot. There's nothing wrong with me.”
Wheeljack holds up his hands. “Could've fooled me, the way you're sitting on the floor like that. I saw Jazz leave. What happened?”
“Nothing,” Ratchet snaps, only to pause, reconsidering.
The tremors in his frame ease away. He corrects himself.
“Everything.”
“Almost done,” Sunstreaker says. “Hold still.”
Ratchet forces himself not to shake his helm. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”
Sideswipe snickers, kicking back where he watches with intent interest, the slow and steady glide of cloth and oil over Ratchet's plating. Sunstreaker has spent the last few hours, stripping, repainting and waxing Ratchet's frame. Just as he demanded Ratchet let him do months ago.
It isn’t unlike the human female's tendency to cut their hair after ending a relationship, come to think of it. Though Ratchet will never reveal the comparison upon pains of offlining. He could just imagine what hilarity Sideswipe could make of it.
“I swear, you're worse than Sides,” Sunstreaker mutters, crouching to examine a streak on Ratchet's calf plating with a frown.
“Hey! I resemble that remark!”
Amusement spills out of Ratchet's energy field. “I am only here because you insisted. I am perfectly capable of my own maintenance.”
“Not from where I was standing,” the yellow twin retorts and rises to his feet, planting his hands on his hips. He gives Ratchet a critical once-over. “I declare you finished.”
“Much obliged, your majesty,” Ratchet retorts, but there’s no real heat to it.
Instead, he goes to the mirror on the far wall. An obvious contribution by Sunstreaker. But it’s at least handy to have around. Especially now.
Ratchet stares at himself in surprise. He’s still red and white. That had been his one request. But the placement and pattern are different now. There’s far more red than there had been before, and a few other colors have snuck in. Stray shades of blue and green and even yellow that Sunstreaker used for accents.
Altogether, it’s… nice. It’s different. But still good. Refreshing almost.
“You look good,” Sides declares as he comes up to Ratchet’s left. “You really do. Great job, Sunny.”
Sunstreaker offers a smirk from Ratchet’s right. “Naturally. With my talent and Ratchet’s looks, you couldn’t get anything less.”
Sideswipe laughs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he smiles, watching as Ratchet’s optics take in his new paint once more. His hand finds Ratchet’s shoulder then, and the medic isn’t surprised when Sunstreaker’s somehow sneaks to the other one. Their touch is somehow welcoming and familiar as they stand there.
Ratchet allows himself to gaze into the mirror a minute longer. Allows himself to wonder what Jazz will think of this. If he’d appreciate the new look as much as he had the old one. He’d often commented that he’d like Ratchet’s appearance as it was. And Ratchet knew that he liked all the white paint because it showed color transfers so easily. It let everyone know just what Ratchet had been doing and with whom.
A wordless way of possession. Of ownership.
But Ratchet doesn’t belong to anyone but himself. Not now. Not ever. Not unless he allows it and never before that.
This just goes to prove it.
He nods then and turns to the twins. They look at him like the know exactly what he’s been thinking, but they say nothing. They both just grin and follow him out the door as he turns to leave.
“Thank you,” Ratchet says before they go.
He doesn’t have to explain what he really means.
a/n: Yep. That's the end. Whether or not Ratchet ever dates again, well, I leave that up to the reader. It'll be a long while; I know that for certain. I do hope all questions were answered. I hope the ending satisfies. Thank you for reading! I appreciate any and all feedback.
