[Bay] Indomitable Part One
Mar. 28th, 2018 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Indomitable
Universe: Bayverse, Interwoven
Characters: Megatron, Ratchet
Pairings: past Megatron/Sunstreaker, past Ratchet/Ironhide
Rating: K+
Warnings: None so far
Description: For Megatron, grief is an ever-shifting presence, first in the echoes of loss, and then in the ebb and flow of healing. And as it turns out, no one understands this better than Ratchet.
Optimism aside, integration is still an exercise in patience and flexibility. The war had been long and painful, seeding grudges and building resentment. It is easy enough to tell everyone to lay down their arms and get along. It is not so easy to put it into practice.
Megatron, Lord High Protector and military leader of Cybertron, spends his days breaking up petty fights. And not all of them are “interfactional” though Optimus likes to claim that the faction lines don't exist anymore.
They may not be wearing their brands, but it's easy to look and know. And when the Neutrals return, that only complicates matters. Though to be fair the Autobots and Decepticons loathe the Neutrals and vice versa. It's the first thing that's truly united the disparate factions.
Most of his Decepticons had been warriors or soldiers before the war. After, Megatron has turned them into builders and construction-workers. A few, those better disciplined, he keeps for a home guard. They are trying to rebuild Cybertron, and there are many species out there who would only think of them as an easy target.
The few that choose to do otherwise Megatron sends to Optimus. Surely Prowl can think of some use for them.
Governance is left to the Autobots for the most part, though once a week, he and Optimus meet to discuss administrative matters. Unsurprisingly, Prowl is deeply involved in this. His survival must have been a boon for Optimus. Megatron tends to toss Thundercracker in Prowl's direction and let the two debate particulars.
They often argue long past Optimus has called an end to the meeting and everyone has vacated the room. There are bets going around the command staff over how long it will take before the two start fragging. At least it's a step in the right direction in terms of integration.
Ratchet has completely taken over all matters involving what few medics have survived. He's evaluated all the medics, declared their training woefully inadequate, and works more hours than anyone as he trains those with talent or experience or both. He struggles to build a functional medical team capable of dealing with all manner of injuries.
Psychology, he admits at one such weekly meeting, is sadly on the backburner. Right now, he's barely staffed enough to handle the physical.
And it doesn't help when Megatron keeps dragging idiots to the medcenter to get patched up for their own foolishness. Though he admits it is with a certain wolfish glee he gets to turn them over to Ratchet's tender mercies.
Or in this case Ambulon's, because Ratchet takes one look at Decepticon#1 and Decepticon#2 and declares he doesn't have time to deal with Damage by Stupidity. He shoves both injured mechs in his trainee's direction and washes his hands of them, though then that leaves him plenty opportunity to look Megatron over with a critical optic.
“You're still not recharging properly.” Ratchet places his hands on his hips, optics cycled down and feet planted as though he's gearing up to physically enforce his will.
Megatron lifts his orbital ridges. “Speak for yourself, medic.” The fatigue in Ratchet's field is almost dizzying enough to affect Megatron's own. “When was the last time you took a break?”
Ratchet snorts and drops his hands. “What's a break? And shouldn't you be doing something elsewhere, like babysitting those morons you have working on the communications array?”
Megatron winces. It is times like these that he sorely misses Soundwave. Misses most of the mechs closest to him in fact. Their expertise is greatly needed. He can't help feeling like a castaway Decepticon amid a sea of Autobots.
Sunstreaker would have understood.
“Skyquake is there,” he says, and he gives Ratchet a considering glance. Has Prime even looked twice at his medic? It's clear that Ratchet's about two cycles from crashing. Has no one tried to get him to rest?
Ratchet rolls his optics and reaches for a stack of datapads. “Well, then, there's nothing to worry about. On your way now.” He waves a shooing hand at Megatron.
He insinuates himself between medic and the ridiculously tall stack of datapads, presenting quite the formidable barrier. “Don't you have an intern that can take care of paperwork?”
“Not one that will do it properly. In case you haven't noticed, we are all understaffed.” Ratchet shifts, tries to reach around him.
Megatron twists his frame and leans, blocking Ratchet with both his size and his arm. “And will anyone offline if you don't take care of these?”
Ratchet takes a step back, optics narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing?”
“My job.” He folds his arms over his chest, staring Ratchet down. “You are officially off duty as of right now.”
Ratchet's jaw drops, and then he splutters. “You can't... you have no authority... just who the frag do you think you are?”
“The Lord High Protector of Cybertron. And yes, I do have the authority. You can thank Prowl for losing that particular argument.”
Thundercracker has been gloating about that victory for the past month.
Ratchet points at him, bristling from helm to pede with outrage. “You can't do that.”
“I just did.” Megatron dares lean closer, right into that prickly field. “You're welcome to challenge and comm Optimus, but not only will he choose to agree with me, he is required by law to do so.”
Ratchet glares at him. The silence in the medbay is almost deadly. Megatron can feel every optic watching them, even the two idiots he'd brought in for minor repairs.
“Fine,” Ratchet says with such a venomous tone that Megatron half-feels his paint has blistered away. “Your wish is my command, my lord.”
He whirls on a heel and stalks from the medcenter with all the grace of a rampaging Devastator. That he is wobbling is further proof that Megatron had done the right thing. Though he doesn't ventilate a sigh of relief until Ratchet is out of sight and hearing range.
~
Vengeance, however, is Ratchet's to dispense.
Because it's a week later when Megatron is sitting at his desk, barely visible behind his own pile of unnecessarily large stack of datapads. Administration is supposed to be Optimus' problem, but apparently, Prowl is as vindictive as he is clever because his form of revenge is called paperwork.
Megatron's in the middle of a complicated proposal involving currency or their lack thereof when a whirlwind storms into his office and smacks him in the face with a self-righteous energy field.
“I have it on good authority that you haven't left this office in a week,” Ratchet snarls.
Megatron blinks at him and sits back in his chair. “Good afternoon, Ratchet. So nice of you to stop by. It's always a pleasure to see you. Having a good day are we?”
The frothing volcano that is the Prime's Chief Medical Officer doesn't so much as blink at him. But he does whip out a scanner that gives off a very negative series of tones.
“You haven't defragged in twice as long,” Ratchet continues, and there's almost delight on his face. “And when was the last time you initiated a full recharge? You've ignored all of my summons for system maintenance and yesterday, you were limping.”
“I was not,” Megatron retorts. He folds his arms over his chest. “I do not limp. I walk in a stately manner as befitting my position in Cybertron's new government.”
Ratchet’s scanner all but honks at him, as if refuting his statement, much to the medic’s visible glee. “You,” he says with an almost scary light in his optics, “were limping. Getting too old to shake off those battle wounds, aren’t you?”
Megatron bristles at first, before he recognizes the tease in Ratchet’s voice, buried under the layers of concern. “You know as well as I do that there are only so many repairs that a joint will absorb before it needs replacement.”
“Oh, I do. Which is why I expect you in my medbay first thing tomorrow morning for that maintenance.” Ratchet peers at at the scanner, and his fingers flick across the screen, making notations. “We’ll schedule your surgery after I get a good look at that joint.”
“Sur-- Ratchet, I cannot take the time for surgery!” Megatron splutters as he leans forward, hands landing on his desk in a more violent motion than he intends.
Ratchet, thankfully, is not perturbed. Doesn’t so much as cycle his optics, point of fact. “You can if I say you can.”
“I have far too much work to do!” Megatron insists, and wonders why he’s bothering to argue with a medic. He’s the Lord High Protector! He answers to no one! And yet… “You can see the data that needs my attention, can you not?”
He gestures to the piles of datapads in front of him, ones brought by the armful from mechs under Prowl’s jubilant direction. If there was ever a mech whose function revels in the bureaucracies and irritating minutiae of day to day life, it is Prowl.
Ratchet waves his scanner, which spits out a series of blats and honks and beeps as if to back up its owner. “It can wait.”
Wait!? Has the medic never crossed paths with Prowl? The term late is not in the mech’s vocabulary. Not that Megatron is at all afraid of his brother’s second-in-command, but the last thing he needs is for Optimus to give him his trademark Disappointed Look.
“Then I trust you will inform Prowl why this work is not completed,” Megatron declares, and snatches up a stylus, convinced that his argument is unbeatable. No one crosses Prowl.
“Sure I will,” Ratchet says, and smirks of all things, as though he knows some secret to which Megatron is not privy. “That’s the battle he lost.”
The arguments between Prowl and Thundercracker have become something of a running joke between the two former factions. They are almost, dare he say, more vicious than the physical alterations once so common between Megatron and Optimus on the battlefield. Neither mech gives ground easily.
Despite himself, Megatron feels amusement bubble up inside his spark, warring with the outrage.
“Oh, Thundercracker must have been thrilled,” Megatron drawls, and his armor slicks back down, away from the battle protocols he’d inadvertently activated. Perhaps there is truth to Ratchet’s insistence he take a break, if he’s responding to a little verbal sparring by assessing a potential threat level.
It is Ratchet’s turn to smirk, though there is something positively evil about it. “Three times, from what I hear,” he says with a leer.
Megatron stares at the chief medic, his chief medic he supposes since factional lines no longer divide them. “You lie.”
If Ratchet’s smirk widens any further, it’ll be manic. “Just repeating the rumors that float to my audials, my lord. And they say that Prowl and Thundercracker have started taking their policy disagreements to the berth.”
Megatron shakes his head. Building bridges between factions, he supposes. Though he’s not quite sure this is what his brother had in mind. He doubts Optimus would disapprove however, soft spark that he is. Romantic to the core of his being, Optimus will probably be the first to congratulate them.
Fool.
“Incredible,” Megatron murmurs and rubs at his forehead, wondering how this will affect the balance of power in their already unstable political landmass.
“I know. I keep asking for video. They are surprisingly uncooperative.” Ratchet’s scanner vanishes into subspace as he taps his chin with a contemplative finger.
Megatron snorts. “I imagine so.” He cocks his head, giving Ratchet another look. “You are quite the rogue, Ratchet. I never knew this side of you existed.”
“Best kept secret in all of Iacon,” Ratchet declares and abruptly leans forward, bracing his weight on the edge of the desk with his hands. He’s in Megatron’s space, his field as oppressive as his expression.
“And if you don’t want to find out how much, you’ll get your aft out of that chair, take a rest, and refuel,” Ratchet continues with an echo of command in his tone. “Then I will see you first thing tomorrow for your maintenance appointment. I took the liberty of adding it to your calendar.”
And so he has. Megatron’s internal system is already pinging him a reminder. There’s a request to confirm the appointment as well, but he suspects it is little more than a formality. He doesn’t have the option of declining.
Megatron cycles a ventilation and lowers his head in defeat. “Very well,” he says. “I concede to the respected opinion of my chief medical officer and will retire to my quarters at once.”
Ratchet’s glee at winning is almost suffocating. “Good to know you are capable of seeing reason.” He leans back, dusting his hands. “Enjoy your break, my lord.” His bow is just shy of mocking. “And I’ll see you in the morning.”
Megatron glares at the stacks of paperwork he’ll now have to leave behind as Ratchet sashays out of his office, the scent of victory clinging to him like a fresh coat of paint. It must have felt like revenge also, considering Megatron had thrown his own weight around to get Ratchet to rest.
Well played, medic. Well played.
Megatron chuckles and taps a quick save onto his datapads. Prowl’s wrath will be Ratchet’s to defuse now, a problem not on Megatron’s shoulders. It’s almost a bit freeing.
Megatron might as well enjoy the rest of his night. Tomorrow, he supposes, will be another match.
~
After that, it becomes something of a game between them.
Megatron learns Ratchet is overworking himself and confronts the medic, bullying him into rest and recovery and refueling, often after one of Ratchet’s subordinates have tattled on their boss’ bad habits. Megatron only needs pull rank twice before Ratchet tries to hide from him, and Megatron must learn to chase.
It should be annoying, but it becomes amusing.
In turn, Megatron’s own subordinates have found the chink in his armor, so to speak. Whenever they think he works too hard, or becomes too irritable, they contact Ratchet. The next thing Megatron knows, an irascible medic storms to wherever Megatron is currently working, demanding he take time for himself.
Megatron offers token resistance, if only because seeing the fire of determination in Ratchet’s optics secretly delights him. The world is not sane, not right, if Ratchet is not his strict, protective self.
Several months into the familiar dance, Megatron responds to a curt message from the medbay and strides into the adjoining storage room, where he’s been told he’ll find Ratchet. Sure enough, the chief medical officer is standing in front of the shelves, datapad and stylus in hand, surrounded by boxes and crates, performing a task that any intern or nurse could accomplish easily enough.
Ratchet doesn’t even look to guess who has disturbed his counting. “Who tattled this time?” he asks as he marks a tally off on his sheet.
“Ambulon.”
“I knew it.” Ratchet shakes his head and makes another mark, nothing of irritation in his field, but resignation instead. “That solves the issue of who has to scrub the recycler this weekend.” He chuckles, dark and evil.
Megatron leans against the wall. “Then you’ll spare me the trouble of pulling rank on you?”
Ratchet shoots him a sidelong look. “Oh, come on. I can’t let you off that easily. Where’s the fun in that?” He turns around and starts documenting the items on the shelf behind him, though Megatron can’t help but notice his accounting is idle at best.
“Fun,” Megatron echoes, and he laughs a little to himself because Ratchet is right. But while it has become something of a fun past time, it still concerns him that Ratchet continues to overextend himself. It doesn’t speak well to his mental health.
Megatron is all too familiar with the desire to bury the pain of grief behind exhaustion and work. Anything to keep the mind occupied and the spark distracted. Ratchet must be suffering the same. His loss is even fresher than Megatron’s own.
“I missed the part where you overworking yourself is something to be taken lightly,” Megatron adds.
Ratchet chuffs a ventilation, his field one of dismissal. “As I’ve told you before, I know my limits,” he says, a touch cross, though that seems to be his standard emotional state lately.
“I’m not certain you do.”
Ratchet eyes him. “As if you’re one to talk.”
He has a point.
“Granted.”
Megatron cycles a ventilation and pushes off the wall, daring to move closer to Ratchet, though he distracts himself by pretending to take stock of the items on the shelves. It is good to see the main medbay is not lacking for necessary supplies.
Ratchet doesn’t flinch. His ease in Megatron’s presence feels like a gift. Where so many still cringe around Megatron, cast their optics away, move off in a hurry, Ratchet is stalwart and certain. He is comfortable enough to tease, to joke, to throw around his rank if need be.
It makes what comes next easier, though certainly not without anxiety. It is something Megatron has considered for some time now, only hesitating for uncertainty about how he might be received.
“Though...” Megatron pauses, gathers himself, and barrels forward, “Perhaps if you won’t refuel on your own, you’ll be willing to do so with company.”
Ratchet’s stylus goes still. He looks up at Megatron, optical ridges raised. “Is that an order, my lord?” His tone is even, without a single inflection of emotion, making it impossible for Megatron to divine how he’s taken the offer.
“Merely an invitation,” Megatron is quick to clarify. He doesn’t want this to be taken as an obligation, but rather an offer for friendship. “One you are free to decline. After all, it would solve the issue of both of us overworking ourselves into near stasis.”
Ratchet snorts a ventilation. “Point taken.” He makes another tic mark. “I accept then.” His lips curve into a smirk, his field flitting out almost playful in nature. “But you better offer the good stuff.”
“Only the best solar-refined we have on tap,” Megatron promises. While mined, naturally-occurring energon is the tastiest, it is quite rare. Cybertron has suffered far too much, and without the Allspark, natural crystal growth may never occur again.
Ratchet chuckles. “It’ll do.” He shifts his attention back to the shelving, but his posture remains at ease. “Your suite, I presume?”
“Unless you’d be more comfortable elsewhere?”
“Oh, I can take care of myself.” Amusement trickles around the edges of Ratchet’s field. “But I’m going to finish this shift first, regardless of what Ambulon says.” His optics twinkle with malevolent glee. “Someone needs to be informed of their newly assigned task.”
Megatron laughs aloud before he can stop himself, losing sight of the regal poise he’s supposed to bear at all times.
“I would say I pity him, but I have given similar punishments to Skyquake after he’s gone to you.”
Megatron chuckles and turns for the door, content by Ratchet’s agreement and willing to let the medic finish his task. Counting, after all, should not strain Ratchet’s systems all too much.
“I’ll see you after shift, Megatron,” Ratchet calls after him.
“And I will have refreshments waiting,” Megatron says before he sees himself out, unable to deny the quiver of excitement in his spark.
He tells himself that it is only relief at the possibility of gaining a friend. Or that he is doing his duty as Lord High Protector by ensuring his citizens are rested and refueled and happy.
He doesn’t examine too closely the delight flirting around the edges of his spark. It’s far too soon for such a thing.
Friendship, Megatron decides, is worth everything.
***
a/n: And so it begins, the first of seven parts of the last piece of the trilogy. :)
Universe: Bayverse, Interwoven
Characters: Megatron, Ratchet
Pairings: past Megatron/Sunstreaker, past Ratchet/Ironhide
Rating: K+
Warnings: None so far
Description: For Megatron, grief is an ever-shifting presence, first in the echoes of loss, and then in the ebb and flow of healing. And as it turns out, no one understands this better than Ratchet.
Indomitable – Part One
Optimism aside, integration is still an exercise in patience and flexibility. The war had been long and painful, seeding grudges and building resentment. It is easy enough to tell everyone to lay down their arms and get along. It is not so easy to put it into practice.
Megatron, Lord High Protector and military leader of Cybertron, spends his days breaking up petty fights. And not all of them are “interfactional” though Optimus likes to claim that the faction lines don't exist anymore.
They may not be wearing their brands, but it's easy to look and know. And when the Neutrals return, that only complicates matters. Though to be fair the Autobots and Decepticons loathe the Neutrals and vice versa. It's the first thing that's truly united the disparate factions.
Most of his Decepticons had been warriors or soldiers before the war. After, Megatron has turned them into builders and construction-workers. A few, those better disciplined, he keeps for a home guard. They are trying to rebuild Cybertron, and there are many species out there who would only think of them as an easy target.
The few that choose to do otherwise Megatron sends to Optimus. Surely Prowl can think of some use for them.
Governance is left to the Autobots for the most part, though once a week, he and Optimus meet to discuss administrative matters. Unsurprisingly, Prowl is deeply involved in this. His survival must have been a boon for Optimus. Megatron tends to toss Thundercracker in Prowl's direction and let the two debate particulars.
They often argue long past Optimus has called an end to the meeting and everyone has vacated the room. There are bets going around the command staff over how long it will take before the two start fragging. At least it's a step in the right direction in terms of integration.
Ratchet has completely taken over all matters involving what few medics have survived. He's evaluated all the medics, declared their training woefully inadequate, and works more hours than anyone as he trains those with talent or experience or both. He struggles to build a functional medical team capable of dealing with all manner of injuries.
Psychology, he admits at one such weekly meeting, is sadly on the backburner. Right now, he's barely staffed enough to handle the physical.
And it doesn't help when Megatron keeps dragging idiots to the medcenter to get patched up for their own foolishness. Though he admits it is with a certain wolfish glee he gets to turn them over to Ratchet's tender mercies.
Or in this case Ambulon's, because Ratchet takes one look at Decepticon#1 and Decepticon#2 and declares he doesn't have time to deal with Damage by Stupidity. He shoves both injured mechs in his trainee's direction and washes his hands of them, though then that leaves him plenty opportunity to look Megatron over with a critical optic.
“You're still not recharging properly.” Ratchet places his hands on his hips, optics cycled down and feet planted as though he's gearing up to physically enforce his will.
Megatron lifts his orbital ridges. “Speak for yourself, medic.” The fatigue in Ratchet's field is almost dizzying enough to affect Megatron's own. “When was the last time you took a break?”
Ratchet snorts and drops his hands. “What's a break? And shouldn't you be doing something elsewhere, like babysitting those morons you have working on the communications array?”
Megatron winces. It is times like these that he sorely misses Soundwave. Misses most of the mechs closest to him in fact. Their expertise is greatly needed. He can't help feeling like a castaway Decepticon amid a sea of Autobots.
Sunstreaker would have understood.
“Skyquake is there,” he says, and he gives Ratchet a considering glance. Has Prime even looked twice at his medic? It's clear that Ratchet's about two cycles from crashing. Has no one tried to get him to rest?
Ratchet rolls his optics and reaches for a stack of datapads. “Well, then, there's nothing to worry about. On your way now.” He waves a shooing hand at Megatron.
He insinuates himself between medic and the ridiculously tall stack of datapads, presenting quite the formidable barrier. “Don't you have an intern that can take care of paperwork?”
“Not one that will do it properly. In case you haven't noticed, we are all understaffed.” Ratchet shifts, tries to reach around him.
Megatron twists his frame and leans, blocking Ratchet with both his size and his arm. “And will anyone offline if you don't take care of these?”
Ratchet takes a step back, optics narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing?”
“My job.” He folds his arms over his chest, staring Ratchet down. “You are officially off duty as of right now.”
Ratchet's jaw drops, and then he splutters. “You can't... you have no authority... just who the frag do you think you are?”
“The Lord High Protector of Cybertron. And yes, I do have the authority. You can thank Prowl for losing that particular argument.”
Thundercracker has been gloating about that victory for the past month.
Ratchet points at him, bristling from helm to pede with outrage. “You can't do that.”
“I just did.” Megatron dares lean closer, right into that prickly field. “You're welcome to challenge and comm Optimus, but not only will he choose to agree with me, he is required by law to do so.”
Ratchet glares at him. The silence in the medbay is almost deadly. Megatron can feel every optic watching them, even the two idiots he'd brought in for minor repairs.
“Fine,” Ratchet says with such a venomous tone that Megatron half-feels his paint has blistered away. “Your wish is my command, my lord.”
He whirls on a heel and stalks from the medcenter with all the grace of a rampaging Devastator. That he is wobbling is further proof that Megatron had done the right thing. Though he doesn't ventilate a sigh of relief until Ratchet is out of sight and hearing range.
Vengeance, however, is Ratchet's to dispense.
Because it's a week later when Megatron is sitting at his desk, barely visible behind his own pile of unnecessarily large stack of datapads. Administration is supposed to be Optimus' problem, but apparently, Prowl is as vindictive as he is clever because his form of revenge is called paperwork.
Megatron's in the middle of a complicated proposal involving currency or their lack thereof when a whirlwind storms into his office and smacks him in the face with a self-righteous energy field.
“I have it on good authority that you haven't left this office in a week,” Ratchet snarls.
Megatron blinks at him and sits back in his chair. “Good afternoon, Ratchet. So nice of you to stop by. It's always a pleasure to see you. Having a good day are we?”
The frothing volcano that is the Prime's Chief Medical Officer doesn't so much as blink at him. But he does whip out a scanner that gives off a very negative series of tones.
“You haven't defragged in twice as long,” Ratchet continues, and there's almost delight on his face. “And when was the last time you initiated a full recharge? You've ignored all of my summons for system maintenance and yesterday, you were limping.”
“I was not,” Megatron retorts. He folds his arms over his chest. “I do not limp. I walk in a stately manner as befitting my position in Cybertron's new government.”
Ratchet’s scanner all but honks at him, as if refuting his statement, much to the medic’s visible glee. “You,” he says with an almost scary light in his optics, “were limping. Getting too old to shake off those battle wounds, aren’t you?”
Megatron bristles at first, before he recognizes the tease in Ratchet’s voice, buried under the layers of concern. “You know as well as I do that there are only so many repairs that a joint will absorb before it needs replacement.”
“Oh, I do. Which is why I expect you in my medbay first thing tomorrow morning for that maintenance.” Ratchet peers at at the scanner, and his fingers flick across the screen, making notations. “We’ll schedule your surgery after I get a good look at that joint.”
“Sur-- Ratchet, I cannot take the time for surgery!” Megatron splutters as he leans forward, hands landing on his desk in a more violent motion than he intends.
Ratchet, thankfully, is not perturbed. Doesn’t so much as cycle his optics, point of fact. “You can if I say you can.”
“I have far too much work to do!” Megatron insists, and wonders why he’s bothering to argue with a medic. He’s the Lord High Protector! He answers to no one! And yet… “You can see the data that needs my attention, can you not?”
He gestures to the piles of datapads in front of him, ones brought by the armful from mechs under Prowl’s jubilant direction. If there was ever a mech whose function revels in the bureaucracies and irritating minutiae of day to day life, it is Prowl.
Ratchet waves his scanner, which spits out a series of blats and honks and beeps as if to back up its owner. “It can wait.”
Wait!? Has the medic never crossed paths with Prowl? The term late is not in the mech’s vocabulary. Not that Megatron is at all afraid of his brother’s second-in-command, but the last thing he needs is for Optimus to give him his trademark Disappointed Look.
“Then I trust you will inform Prowl why this work is not completed,” Megatron declares, and snatches up a stylus, convinced that his argument is unbeatable. No one crosses Prowl.
“Sure I will,” Ratchet says, and smirks of all things, as though he knows some secret to which Megatron is not privy. “That’s the battle he lost.”
The arguments between Prowl and Thundercracker have become something of a running joke between the two former factions. They are almost, dare he say, more vicious than the physical alterations once so common between Megatron and Optimus on the battlefield. Neither mech gives ground easily.
Despite himself, Megatron feels amusement bubble up inside his spark, warring with the outrage.
“Oh, Thundercracker must have been thrilled,” Megatron drawls, and his armor slicks back down, away from the battle protocols he’d inadvertently activated. Perhaps there is truth to Ratchet’s insistence he take a break, if he’s responding to a little verbal sparring by assessing a potential threat level.
It is Ratchet’s turn to smirk, though there is something positively evil about it. “Three times, from what I hear,” he says with a leer.
Megatron stares at the chief medic, his chief medic he supposes since factional lines no longer divide them. “You lie.”
If Ratchet’s smirk widens any further, it’ll be manic. “Just repeating the rumors that float to my audials, my lord. And they say that Prowl and Thundercracker have started taking their policy disagreements to the berth.”
Megatron shakes his head. Building bridges between factions, he supposes. Though he’s not quite sure this is what his brother had in mind. He doubts Optimus would disapprove however, soft spark that he is. Romantic to the core of his being, Optimus will probably be the first to congratulate them.
Fool.
“Incredible,” Megatron murmurs and rubs at his forehead, wondering how this will affect the balance of power in their already unstable political landmass.
“I know. I keep asking for video. They are surprisingly uncooperative.” Ratchet’s scanner vanishes into subspace as he taps his chin with a contemplative finger.
Megatron snorts. “I imagine so.” He cocks his head, giving Ratchet another look. “You are quite the rogue, Ratchet. I never knew this side of you existed.”
“Best kept secret in all of Iacon,” Ratchet declares and abruptly leans forward, bracing his weight on the edge of the desk with his hands. He’s in Megatron’s space, his field as oppressive as his expression.
“And if you don’t want to find out how much, you’ll get your aft out of that chair, take a rest, and refuel,” Ratchet continues with an echo of command in his tone. “Then I will see you first thing tomorrow for your maintenance appointment. I took the liberty of adding it to your calendar.”
And so he has. Megatron’s internal system is already pinging him a reminder. There’s a request to confirm the appointment as well, but he suspects it is little more than a formality. He doesn’t have the option of declining.
Megatron cycles a ventilation and lowers his head in defeat. “Very well,” he says. “I concede to the respected opinion of my chief medical officer and will retire to my quarters at once.”
Ratchet’s glee at winning is almost suffocating. “Good to know you are capable of seeing reason.” He leans back, dusting his hands. “Enjoy your break, my lord.” His bow is just shy of mocking. “And I’ll see you in the morning.”
Megatron glares at the stacks of paperwork he’ll now have to leave behind as Ratchet sashays out of his office, the scent of victory clinging to him like a fresh coat of paint. It must have felt like revenge also, considering Megatron had thrown his own weight around to get Ratchet to rest.
Well played, medic. Well played.
Megatron chuckles and taps a quick save onto his datapads. Prowl’s wrath will be Ratchet’s to defuse now, a problem not on Megatron’s shoulders. It’s almost a bit freeing.
Megatron might as well enjoy the rest of his night. Tomorrow, he supposes, will be another match.
After that, it becomes something of a game between them.
Megatron learns Ratchet is overworking himself and confronts the medic, bullying him into rest and recovery and refueling, often after one of Ratchet’s subordinates have tattled on their boss’ bad habits. Megatron only needs pull rank twice before Ratchet tries to hide from him, and Megatron must learn to chase.
It should be annoying, but it becomes amusing.
In turn, Megatron’s own subordinates have found the chink in his armor, so to speak. Whenever they think he works too hard, or becomes too irritable, they contact Ratchet. The next thing Megatron knows, an irascible medic storms to wherever Megatron is currently working, demanding he take time for himself.
Megatron offers token resistance, if only because seeing the fire of determination in Ratchet’s optics secretly delights him. The world is not sane, not right, if Ratchet is not his strict, protective self.
Several months into the familiar dance, Megatron responds to a curt message from the medbay and strides into the adjoining storage room, where he’s been told he’ll find Ratchet. Sure enough, the chief medical officer is standing in front of the shelves, datapad and stylus in hand, surrounded by boxes and crates, performing a task that any intern or nurse could accomplish easily enough.
Ratchet doesn’t even look to guess who has disturbed his counting. “Who tattled this time?” he asks as he marks a tally off on his sheet.
“Ambulon.”
“I knew it.” Ratchet shakes his head and makes another mark, nothing of irritation in his field, but resignation instead. “That solves the issue of who has to scrub the recycler this weekend.” He chuckles, dark and evil.
Megatron leans against the wall. “Then you’ll spare me the trouble of pulling rank on you?”
Ratchet shoots him a sidelong look. “Oh, come on. I can’t let you off that easily. Where’s the fun in that?” He turns around and starts documenting the items on the shelf behind him, though Megatron can’t help but notice his accounting is idle at best.
“Fun,” Megatron echoes, and he laughs a little to himself because Ratchet is right. But while it has become something of a fun past time, it still concerns him that Ratchet continues to overextend himself. It doesn’t speak well to his mental health.
Megatron is all too familiar with the desire to bury the pain of grief behind exhaustion and work. Anything to keep the mind occupied and the spark distracted. Ratchet must be suffering the same. His loss is even fresher than Megatron’s own.
“I missed the part where you overworking yourself is something to be taken lightly,” Megatron adds.
Ratchet chuffs a ventilation, his field one of dismissal. “As I’ve told you before, I know my limits,” he says, a touch cross, though that seems to be his standard emotional state lately.
“I’m not certain you do.”
Ratchet eyes him. “As if you’re one to talk.”
He has a point.
“Granted.”
Megatron cycles a ventilation and pushes off the wall, daring to move closer to Ratchet, though he distracts himself by pretending to take stock of the items on the shelves. It is good to see the main medbay is not lacking for necessary supplies.
Ratchet doesn’t flinch. His ease in Megatron’s presence feels like a gift. Where so many still cringe around Megatron, cast their optics away, move off in a hurry, Ratchet is stalwart and certain. He is comfortable enough to tease, to joke, to throw around his rank if need be.
It makes what comes next easier, though certainly not without anxiety. It is something Megatron has considered for some time now, only hesitating for uncertainty about how he might be received.
“Though...” Megatron pauses, gathers himself, and barrels forward, “Perhaps if you won’t refuel on your own, you’ll be willing to do so with company.”
Ratchet’s stylus goes still. He looks up at Megatron, optical ridges raised. “Is that an order, my lord?” His tone is even, without a single inflection of emotion, making it impossible for Megatron to divine how he’s taken the offer.
“Merely an invitation,” Megatron is quick to clarify. He doesn’t want this to be taken as an obligation, but rather an offer for friendship. “One you are free to decline. After all, it would solve the issue of both of us overworking ourselves into near stasis.”
Ratchet snorts a ventilation. “Point taken.” He makes another tic mark. “I accept then.” His lips curve into a smirk, his field flitting out almost playful in nature. “But you better offer the good stuff.”
“Only the best solar-refined we have on tap,” Megatron promises. While mined, naturally-occurring energon is the tastiest, it is quite rare. Cybertron has suffered far too much, and without the Allspark, natural crystal growth may never occur again.
Ratchet chuckles. “It’ll do.” He shifts his attention back to the shelving, but his posture remains at ease. “Your suite, I presume?”
“Unless you’d be more comfortable elsewhere?”
“Oh, I can take care of myself.” Amusement trickles around the edges of Ratchet’s field. “But I’m going to finish this shift first, regardless of what Ambulon says.” His optics twinkle with malevolent glee. “Someone needs to be informed of their newly assigned task.”
Megatron laughs aloud before he can stop himself, losing sight of the regal poise he’s supposed to bear at all times.
“I would say I pity him, but I have given similar punishments to Skyquake after he’s gone to you.”
Megatron chuckles and turns for the door, content by Ratchet’s agreement and willing to let the medic finish his task. Counting, after all, should not strain Ratchet’s systems all too much.
“I’ll see you after shift, Megatron,” Ratchet calls after him.
“And I will have refreshments waiting,” Megatron says before he sees himself out, unable to deny the quiver of excitement in his spark.
He tells himself that it is only relief at the possibility of gaining a friend. Or that he is doing his duty as Lord High Protector by ensuring his citizens are rested and refueled and happy.
He doesn’t examine too closely the delight flirting around the edges of his spark. It’s far too soon for such a thing.
Friendship, Megatron decides, is worth everything.
a/n: And so it begins, the first of seven parts of the last piece of the trilogy. :)
