[Bay] Indomitable Part Two
Apr. 12th, 2018 06:38 am![[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.
Indomitable – Part Two
It’s a curious mixture of emotions that crest in Ratchet’s spark as he stands outside the main door to Megatron’s quarters, fingers poised over the call bell. The door, he knows, only leads to the reception room for the Lord High Protector, and not the private hab Megatron actually calls home. Yet, there is still something in the invitation.
Something Ratchet had been surprised to find himself not just willing, but eager to accept. Like calls to like, he supposes. While he should despise Megatron, should blame the former Decepticon warlord for many things, Ratchet can’t.
Ironhide lingers at the back of his spark, belief in his once-commander unyielding despite the weight of war.
He’ll come back to us someday, Ratch. I know he will.
Ironhide’s faith hadn’t stopped him from stepping between Megatron and Optimus far too many times. Hadn’t kept him from firing back at his once-commander or doing what was necessary to protect his Prime. And he’d never stopped hoping, always remaining on the precipice of forgiveness, if only Megatron would return to his senses.
Now that Megatron has, it’s a shame Ironhide is not alive to see it.
Nevertheless, Ratchet is here. He’s accepted the invitation, and nothing remains but to press the button. He’s due rest and energon, according to his traitorous subordinate, and Megatron has kindly offered to supply at least one of those needs.
Ratchet may not know Megatron’s intentions, but now is the perfect time to ask.
Ratchet is not timid by nature. So he presses the button before he can do the sensible thing and talk himself out of it.
The speed at which the door opens amuses Ratchet as much as it surprises him. So. Megatron is as anxious for this dinner as Ratchet is.
“You’re here,” Megatron says by way of greeting, not quite in control of himself enough to hide the relief in his voice.
Ratchet supposes if he were in Megatron’s place, he’d be relieved someone accepted his invitation as well.
“I was invited,” Ratchet says with a snort. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Megatron steps aside, gesturing for Ratchet to enter. “I’d tell you to excuse the mess, but I’m not here often enough for there to be one.”
“Meanwhile, I’m rarely in my room to clean it up. You should be thankful I didn’t insist on meeting there,” Ratchet drawls as he passes through the door, getting his first good look at the suite of rooms re-purposed to house the Lord High Protector.
It is not at all what he expected. But then, he supposes he should have known better. Grandeur has never been Megatron’s style. Nor Optimus’ either. Both of them had been culled from humble beginnings, thrust into the role the council and Senate divined for them. They’d never forgotten their roots.
“Well, this is… modest,” Ratchet compliments as he takes in the bare minimum decorations, the token seating and cozy lighting. “I’d expect more from someone rumored to be selfish.”
Selfishness, Ratchet supposes, is all based on one’s point of view.
Megatron shrugs. “I am a soldier. What use have I for glamor and opulence? This suits my purposes well enough.”
“That must have been another argument Prowl lost,” Ratchet muses as he makes his way to the clearly defined sitting area, where a tray sits on a table in the midst of comfortable lounges, already stocked with energon. “He seems to have it in his processor that those of us in leadership positions need to act like it.”
Megatron chuckles as he follows, choosing to sit across from Ratchet rather than right beside him. “If he’s so determined, he’s welcome to come here himself and redecorate. I won’t stop him.”
Ratchet snorts. He doubts Prowl will ever find himself here, unless it’s for an official function that requires the presence of every member of Cybertronian’s leadership team above a certain rank. Prowl might be willing to work alongside Megatron, Thundercracker, and the rest of the former Decepticon command structure. But he doesn’t like it, and he still does not trust them.
Ratchet can’t blame him.
“Be grateful that he hasn’t,” Ratchet warns. “His taste is Praxian by nature.”
Megatron groans, the disdain of someone who’d once walked the opulent and glittering streets of Praxus and was nearly blinded by the glitz of it. “I consider myself lucky then.” He gestures to the table. “Help yourself. That is the point of this after all. I’m supposed to be ensuring you’ve refueled.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” Ratchet rolls his optics, even as he leans forward to browse the selection offered. The decanter holds basic solar-filtered energon, but Megatron has provided several flavorings to enhance the taste.
“There used to be a time my subordinates feared me,” Ratchet grumbles as he selects a few of the sweeter flavorings and sprinkles them into his cube. “I must be getting soft in my old age.”
Megatron barks a laugh. “I doubt there is anything soft about you, medic.” He waits until Ratchet has served himself before pouring a cube, though it goes unflavored, Ratchet notices. “No mech with a soft spark could have survived this long.”
“Mmm.” Ratchet sits back, his spark giving a sudden pang of grief, reminding him of all the soft and hard sparks he’s watched slip away.
Megatron must have realized his foible, because his armor clamps, and he visibly works his intake. “Forgive me,” he says behind the protection of his energon. “I am… no longer as skilled in social interaction as I used to be.”
“You never were,” Ratchet says with a sigh. He dismisses the apology, wholly unnecessary as it is. “That was always Optimus. He was the talker. Not that you didn’t have a certain charm of your own but--”
“My brother has the silver tongue,” Megatron finishes with a soft ex-vent, his fingers trembling around the cube before he masters himself. “Fortunately, one needn’t have pretty words to inspire.”
How very true.
Ratchet sips at his cube, taking in Megatron’s expression, the careful way he holds himself, how he sinks into the couch as though it is armor. His plating doesn’t loosen. He seems poised to bolt at any moment, despite this being his quarters, and he appears the one uneasy, a bull in a china shop, as the humans might say.
“Megatron, why did you invite me?”
“Why did you say yes?” Megatron rebuts with an answering sip of his energon. His free hand rests along the length of the back of the couch.
Tense does not begin to describe Megatron’s field. What of it Ratchet can sense at any rate. Whereas Optimus has always been the sort to wear his spark in his field, at least around those he trusts, Megatron has always been closed off. Then and now. Ratchet remembers this all too well.
He’s like a duryllium cage, Ratch, Ironhide had commented with a thoughtful look as he fiddled with his arm cannon mount. Emotions go in and nothin’ comes out. Like he can’t dare to let himself feel. The damndest thing.
Ratchet waggles a finger at the Lord High Protector. Maybe he can draw something from that cage. “Uh uh. My question first.”
Megatron ex-vents, wobbly though it sounds and thankfully, without the wheeze now that Ratchet’s finally managed his maintenance. “There are few Cybertronians who do not fear or openly despise me,” he finally says.
“True,” Ratchet replies. “But I don’t think that’s the only reason.”
Megatron chuckles, but it’s not an amused sound, it’s a resigned, self-deprecating sound. “And you would be right.”
He doesn’t elaborate, however. He looks into his cube of energon as though it holds all the secrets. Which is pretty annoying. Optimus is the one who’s supposed to be cryptic, not Megatron. The Lord High Protector is blunt and honest and completely lacking in tact, to point to previous conversations.
“Well?” Ratchet prompts. He’d like to know why he’s here, thank you very much. Well, other than his own moments of weakness which had carried him right to the door, searching for some unnameable thing he thought he might find here.
Maybe Megatron is a drifting ship, too.
Megatron doesn’t answer, not immediately at least. Instead, he drinks his mid-grade solar-filtered as though wishing it were the most potent engex. He ex-vents, a rattling sound that makes Ratchet’s optics narrow.
“Difficult as it may be to believe, even I desire companionship,” Megatron finally admits.
“Then that makes you just like the rest of us,” Ratchet replies, though he’s aware why Megatron finds it hard to admit such a weakness. “You’re lonely.”
“Yes.”
Ratchet sinks back into the couch, enjoying the comfort it has to offer. Why doesn’t he have furniture like this in his quarters?
Oh, right. Because he’s hardly ever there.
Then again, this couch feels unused. There’s no dip of a constant weight. The cushion has little give to it. It’s a decoration, for lack of a better word. Has Megatron ever had visitors here?
“Then lucky for you, so am I. To answer your question.” Ratchet takes a hearty drink of his cube, the light flavor of it slick across his glossa and pooling warm in his tanks. It’s sweet, almost sickly so to hear Wheeljack tease him years upon years ago, but it’s the way Ratchet has always preferred his midgrade to taste.
He takes another long gulp, almost finishing the cube, his tanks pinging him for more. Primus, he hadn’t realized he was so low. No wonder Ambulon had been so insistent. He must have resembled a walking drone.
A burst of shock in Megatron’s field drags Ratchet’s attention back to the former warlord. Megatron’s optics are wide as they look at Ratchet, and it’s a visible fight to rein in his field, dialing it back down to the poise he’s cultivated since the end of the war.
Never bothered, that one. At least, not on the outside.
“You look surprised,” Ratchet observes.
Megatron ex-vents and leans forward, placing his empty cube on the tray next to the decanter. “Because you are loved, Ratchet. By everyone.”
“You should know it’s not the same thing.” Ratchet’s retort is quiet, he’s not even sure he meant for Megatron to hear it.
But hear it Megatron does. Understanding washes over his face. “Indeed.”
“My mate is dead,” Ratchet says, though the reminder spoken aloud is not something he enjoys. “My best friend is as well. My creations are missing, presumed lost to the stars, and everyone else is re-discovering how to move on.”
Meanwhile, Ratchet doesn’t know what that means anymore. Post-war future had always included Ironhide. They’d had so many plans. Logically, they’d known, there was a chance they wouldn’t survive to peace. But they’d never planned for it, because they had wanted the hopeful future. There was also a part of them which assumed when they went, they’d go together.
Now, Ratchet flounders.
What is his future without ‘Hide? Without Jazz? Without friends and family, without his creations? Without Wheeljack? On a ruined planet, surrounded by tentative allies, as an ancient, rusting medic, well past his prime?
So yes.
Ratchet can sympathize.
Megatron refills his cube, again with that mournful look which suggests it ought to have the decency to be high grade. “I understand.”
“I know you do.” Ratchet sips the rest of his cube and holds it out, giving it a shake, one Megatron must recognize because he fills it. “So let’s make a deal.”
“A… what?” The decanter clatters as it returns to the table.
Ratchet tips his cube in thanks. “A deal,” he repeats. “We don’t drown in our work, our grief or our guilt. We meet, as often as we can, to make sure we’re both still in good health.”
If someone were to ask him later, why he decided to make a friend of Megatron, Ratchet wouldn’t have an explanation. Not with words. But Ironhide had loved Megatron, and Ratchet had been there when Megatron first onlined, and Ratchet had loved Megatron in much the same way as his mate.
Optimus doesn’t need Ratchet anymore. He’s doing just fine. Megatron probably doesn’t need him either. But he does need a friend, and that Ratchet can do.
“As friends?” Megatron asks
Ratchet nods. “If you need a definition.” He grins behind the safety of his cube. “And in return, we each vow to refuel and recharge properly whenever possible. For the sake of Cybertron if nothing else.”
“For the sake of the planet,” Megatron echoes, and snorts a laugh. “Sure. That can be our excuse. I suppose I’ll be in charge of supplying the energon then?”
“Well, you are the Lord High Protector...” Ratchet trails off with a shrug. “If you really want to split the duties, I could always bring medical grade when it’s my turn.”
Megatron makes a face that takes a million years off his age. The disgust in the wrinkle of his nasal ridge is more cute than Ratchet can take. It reminds him of a different time, before the war, before two ill-fitting puzzle pieces had been jammed together to make a painful whole.
“Spare us both the disgust. I’ll take charge of the energon,” Megatron says. He shakes his head with a little sigh and leans back into the comfort of his couch. “Our subordinates will be pleased, I think.”
“Oh, they’ll still find some way to nag.” Ratchet crosses one ankle over the other. Maybe given enough time, his aft will make a mark on this too firm couch. “Frankly if they have the time to worry about a little under-charge, that means we’re doing all right. Better than fretting over a list of patients, trying to decide who deserves the one part you managed to scrounge more than the other.”
Megatron’s amusement turns somber, and the guilt, Ratchet knows, is a heavy thing, a weighty burden. The Lord High Protector’s optics drop, his fingers twitching where they hold his cube, pausing on its way to his mouth. Perhaps as though wondering if he deserves the next sip.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation.
Perhaps that had been a little rude of him. A little too cutting when he’s supposed to be building tentative bridges.
“Sorry,” he says, and offers a wry grin. “Looks like I’m not as talented in social interaction as I used to be either.”
“You speak only truth,” Megatron replies, his words soft, and his expression distant.
Ratchet could have kicked himself for the painful reminder, as if Megatron doesn’t know of his own actions. “Truth or not, there is always plenty of blame to go around. Don’t forget that.”
“I assure you, medic, I am incapable of forgetting anything of the war.” Megatron works his jaw and finally finishes his drink of the energon, though it is long and extended as he drains the cube dry. “Truth is a matter of perception, and the truth is, my hands are stained, and my spark is darkened. Nothing can change either of those truths.”
“You underestimate yourself. There aren’t many who can look at the things they’ve done, recognize their faults, and try to make amends,” Ratchet says.
Megatron snorts, more dismissive than annoyed. “Apologies mean nothing in the sparks of the family, friends, and loved ones I have led to slaughter. I can build a thousand cities, and history will still remember me as the one who tore them down.” He shakes his head and sets the empty cube on the tray. “No, my legacy will always be one of death. I live but by the grace of my brother and that, I can never forget.”
Ratchet wants to argue otherwise. But it is true, all of it. There is no history that will paint Megatron as a hero, as a visionary, except perhaps the most fanatic of Decepticons – those still living on the fringes of the universe, believing their faction will rise again. There are Autobots who still dream of vengeance, only restrained by their faith in Optimus’ leadership.
Megatron is a mech alone in so many ways. His closest friends have all been killed. His most-trusted subordinates are gone, lost to the final battle. Sunstreaker, too, is only a memory in his spark. His brother has clearly moved on, though it’s hardly a loss for either of them as they had both not loved as they should have.
Ratchet knows, tangentially, that he should hate this mech sitting in front of him. He should want for Megatron’s death. He shouldn’t feel sorry for Megatron. He shouldn’t pity him, shouldn’t reach out a hand in friendship. Megatron deserves all this and more.
He’s just lost his way, Ratch. Maybe someday he’ll find it again. Even if it ends up being at the end of my cannon.
Ratchet sighs a ventilation.
Damn you, Ironhide. Years gone, and he’s still there, a voice in the back of Ratchet’s head, unexpected reason to turbulent emotion.
“Megatron--”
“I apologize,” Megatron says, in a voice tired and worn, giving truth to his age. “I meant for this to be a night of relaxation, not one of melancholy. I did not intend to unload my burdens on you.” He presses his lips together tightly before he shifts as though to rise. “Perhaps there are things I’m not suited for after all.”
Ratchet holds out his cube. “You seem to be pretty talented at refilling when I need more.” He gives said cube an expectant wiggle.
Megatron blinks at him. Confusion writes itself across his face, and he looks so flummoxed, that for a moment, Ratchet wants to laugh. Megatron reaches for the flagon on energon as though on auto-pilot, splashing the rest of it into Ratchet’s cube.
“Perhaps I should have arranged for more,” Megatron says, with the mournful tone of a sparkling who’d emptied his rust stick cache.
Ratchet chuckles. “Next time, you’ll be better prepared.”
Megatron’s optics snap up toward him as though the words ‘next time’ are ringing around his audials. The empty flagon returns to the tray with an audible clatter.
“Sit,” Ratchet says, gesturing toward the couch. “I want to hear about how well the rebuilding is doing. I don’t get out much, you know. I’m missing all the good gossip.”
Megatron sits, and Ratchet prides himself that he can still make mechs obey without realizing it. “I’m afraid I don’t know the good gossip,” he says.
“Well, you could always make some up. Proper gossip is supposed to be a little untrue.” Ratchet wriggles around in his chair, making a show of getting comfortable, proof he intends to stay.
Megatron snorts. “You do have a point.” He relaxes into the couch, some of the tension easing away from his frame. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Ratchet grins and sips at his cube. He doesn’t really need it, but the gesture had been important.
Megatron isn’t the only one around here who needs a friend.
I’m trying, Ironhide. Primus beneath us, but I’m trying. I’ll find the Megatron you loved once. I swear it.
I’ll find him. And I’ll bring him home.
****
a/n: :)
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.
It’s a curious mixture of emotions that crest in Ratchet’s spark as he stands outside the main door to Megatron’s quarters, fingers poised over the call bell. The door, he knows, only leads to the reception room for the Lord High Protector, and not the private hab Megatron actually calls home. Yet, there is still something in the invitation.
Something Ratchet had been surprised to find himself not just willing, but eager to accept. Like calls to like, he supposes. While he should despise Megatron, should blame the former Decepticon warlord for many things, Ratchet can’t.
Ironhide lingers at the back of his spark, belief in his once-commander unyielding despite the weight of war.
He’ll come back to us someday, Ratch. I know he will.
Ironhide’s faith hadn’t stopped him from stepping between Megatron and Optimus far too many times. Hadn’t kept him from firing back at his once-commander or doing what was necessary to protect his Prime. And he’d never stopped hoping, always remaining on the precipice of forgiveness, if only Megatron would return to his senses.
Now that Megatron has, it’s a shame Ironhide is not alive to see it.
Nevertheless, Ratchet is here. He’s accepted the invitation, and nothing remains but to press the button. He’s due rest and energon, according to his traitorous subordinate, and Megatron has kindly offered to supply at least one of those needs.
Ratchet may not know Megatron’s intentions, but now is the perfect time to ask.
Ratchet is not timid by nature. So he presses the button before he can do the sensible thing and talk himself out of it.
The speed at which the door opens amuses Ratchet as much as it surprises him. So. Megatron is as anxious for this dinner as Ratchet is.
“You’re here,” Megatron says by way of greeting, not quite in control of himself enough to hide the relief in his voice.
Ratchet supposes if he were in Megatron’s place, he’d be relieved someone accepted his invitation as well.
“I was invited,” Ratchet says with a snort. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Megatron steps aside, gesturing for Ratchet to enter. “I’d tell you to excuse the mess, but I’m not here often enough for there to be one.”
“Meanwhile, I’m rarely in my room to clean it up. You should be thankful I didn’t insist on meeting there,” Ratchet drawls as he passes through the door, getting his first good look at the suite of rooms re-purposed to house the Lord High Protector.
It is not at all what he expected. But then, he supposes he should have known better. Grandeur has never been Megatron’s style. Nor Optimus’ either. Both of them had been culled from humble beginnings, thrust into the role the council and Senate divined for them. They’d never forgotten their roots.
“Well, this is… modest,” Ratchet compliments as he takes in the bare minimum decorations, the token seating and cozy lighting. “I’d expect more from someone rumored to be selfish.”
Selfishness, Ratchet supposes, is all based on one’s point of view.
Megatron shrugs. “I am a soldier. What use have I for glamor and opulence? This suits my purposes well enough.”
“That must have been another argument Prowl lost,” Ratchet muses as he makes his way to the clearly defined sitting area, where a tray sits on a table in the midst of comfortable lounges, already stocked with energon. “He seems to have it in his processor that those of us in leadership positions need to act like it.”
Megatron chuckles as he follows, choosing to sit across from Ratchet rather than right beside him. “If he’s so determined, he’s welcome to come here himself and redecorate. I won’t stop him.”
Ratchet snorts. He doubts Prowl will ever find himself here, unless it’s for an official function that requires the presence of every member of Cybertronian’s leadership team above a certain rank. Prowl might be willing to work alongside Megatron, Thundercracker, and the rest of the former Decepticon command structure. But he doesn’t like it, and he still does not trust them.
Ratchet can’t blame him.
“Be grateful that he hasn’t,” Ratchet warns. “His taste is Praxian by nature.”
Megatron groans, the disdain of someone who’d once walked the opulent and glittering streets of Praxus and was nearly blinded by the glitz of it. “I consider myself lucky then.” He gestures to the table. “Help yourself. That is the point of this after all. I’m supposed to be ensuring you’ve refueled.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” Ratchet rolls his optics, even as he leans forward to browse the selection offered. The decanter holds basic solar-filtered energon, but Megatron has provided several flavorings to enhance the taste.
“There used to be a time my subordinates feared me,” Ratchet grumbles as he selects a few of the sweeter flavorings and sprinkles them into his cube. “I must be getting soft in my old age.”
Megatron barks a laugh. “I doubt there is anything soft about you, medic.” He waits until Ratchet has served himself before pouring a cube, though it goes unflavored, Ratchet notices. “No mech with a soft spark could have survived this long.”
“Mmm.” Ratchet sits back, his spark giving a sudden pang of grief, reminding him of all the soft and hard sparks he’s watched slip away.
Megatron must have realized his foible, because his armor clamps, and he visibly works his intake. “Forgive me,” he says behind the protection of his energon. “I am… no longer as skilled in social interaction as I used to be.”
“You never were,” Ratchet says with a sigh. He dismisses the apology, wholly unnecessary as it is. “That was always Optimus. He was the talker. Not that you didn’t have a certain charm of your own but--”
“My brother has the silver tongue,” Megatron finishes with a soft ex-vent, his fingers trembling around the cube before he masters himself. “Fortunately, one needn’t have pretty words to inspire.”
How very true.
Ratchet sips at his cube, taking in Megatron’s expression, the careful way he holds himself, how he sinks into the couch as though it is armor. His plating doesn’t loosen. He seems poised to bolt at any moment, despite this being his quarters, and he appears the one uneasy, a bull in a china shop, as the humans might say.
“Megatron, why did you invite me?”
“Why did you say yes?” Megatron rebuts with an answering sip of his energon. His free hand rests along the length of the back of the couch.
Tense does not begin to describe Megatron’s field. What of it Ratchet can sense at any rate. Whereas Optimus has always been the sort to wear his spark in his field, at least around those he trusts, Megatron has always been closed off. Then and now. Ratchet remembers this all too well.
He’s like a duryllium cage, Ratch, Ironhide had commented with a thoughtful look as he fiddled with his arm cannon mount. Emotions go in and nothin’ comes out. Like he can’t dare to let himself feel. The damndest thing.
Ratchet waggles a finger at the Lord High Protector. Maybe he can draw something from that cage. “Uh uh. My question first.”
Megatron ex-vents, wobbly though it sounds and thankfully, without the wheeze now that Ratchet’s finally managed his maintenance. “There are few Cybertronians who do not fear or openly despise me,” he finally says.
“True,” Ratchet replies. “But I don’t think that’s the only reason.”
Megatron chuckles, but it’s not an amused sound, it’s a resigned, self-deprecating sound. “And you would be right.”
He doesn’t elaborate, however. He looks into his cube of energon as though it holds all the secrets. Which is pretty annoying. Optimus is the one who’s supposed to be cryptic, not Megatron. The Lord High Protector is blunt and honest and completely lacking in tact, to point to previous conversations.
“Well?” Ratchet prompts. He’d like to know why he’s here, thank you very much. Well, other than his own moments of weakness which had carried him right to the door, searching for some unnameable thing he thought he might find here.
Maybe Megatron is a drifting ship, too.
Megatron doesn’t answer, not immediately at least. Instead, he drinks his mid-grade solar-filtered as though wishing it were the most potent engex. He ex-vents, a rattling sound that makes Ratchet’s optics narrow.
“Difficult as it may be to believe, even I desire companionship,” Megatron finally admits.
“Then that makes you just like the rest of us,” Ratchet replies, though he’s aware why Megatron finds it hard to admit such a weakness. “You’re lonely.”
“Yes.”
Ratchet sinks back into the couch, enjoying the comfort it has to offer. Why doesn’t he have furniture like this in his quarters?
Oh, right. Because he’s hardly ever there.
Then again, this couch feels unused. There’s no dip of a constant weight. The cushion has little give to it. It’s a decoration, for lack of a better word. Has Megatron ever had visitors here?
“Then lucky for you, so am I. To answer your question.” Ratchet takes a hearty drink of his cube, the light flavor of it slick across his glossa and pooling warm in his tanks. It’s sweet, almost sickly so to hear Wheeljack tease him years upon years ago, but it’s the way Ratchet has always preferred his midgrade to taste.
He takes another long gulp, almost finishing the cube, his tanks pinging him for more. Primus, he hadn’t realized he was so low. No wonder Ambulon had been so insistent. He must have resembled a walking drone.
A burst of shock in Megatron’s field drags Ratchet’s attention back to the former warlord. Megatron’s optics are wide as they look at Ratchet, and it’s a visible fight to rein in his field, dialing it back down to the poise he’s cultivated since the end of the war.
Never bothered, that one. At least, not on the outside.
“You look surprised,” Ratchet observes.
Megatron ex-vents and leans forward, placing his empty cube on the tray next to the decanter. “Because you are loved, Ratchet. By everyone.”
“You should know it’s not the same thing.” Ratchet’s retort is quiet, he’s not even sure he meant for Megatron to hear it.
But hear it Megatron does. Understanding washes over his face. “Indeed.”
“My mate is dead,” Ratchet says, though the reminder spoken aloud is not something he enjoys. “My best friend is as well. My creations are missing, presumed lost to the stars, and everyone else is re-discovering how to move on.”
Meanwhile, Ratchet doesn’t know what that means anymore. Post-war future had always included Ironhide. They’d had so many plans. Logically, they’d known, there was a chance they wouldn’t survive to peace. But they’d never planned for it, because they had wanted the hopeful future. There was also a part of them which assumed when they went, they’d go together.
Now, Ratchet flounders.
What is his future without ‘Hide? Without Jazz? Without friends and family, without his creations? Without Wheeljack? On a ruined planet, surrounded by tentative allies, as an ancient, rusting medic, well past his prime?
So yes.
Ratchet can sympathize.
Megatron refills his cube, again with that mournful look which suggests it ought to have the decency to be high grade. “I understand.”
“I know you do.” Ratchet sips the rest of his cube and holds it out, giving it a shake, one Megatron must recognize because he fills it. “So let’s make a deal.”
“A… what?” The decanter clatters as it returns to the table.
Ratchet tips his cube in thanks. “A deal,” he repeats. “We don’t drown in our work, our grief or our guilt. We meet, as often as we can, to make sure we’re both still in good health.”
If someone were to ask him later, why he decided to make a friend of Megatron, Ratchet wouldn’t have an explanation. Not with words. But Ironhide had loved Megatron, and Ratchet had been there when Megatron first onlined, and Ratchet had loved Megatron in much the same way as his mate.
Optimus doesn’t need Ratchet anymore. He’s doing just fine. Megatron probably doesn’t need him either. But he does need a friend, and that Ratchet can do.
“As friends?” Megatron asks
Ratchet nods. “If you need a definition.” He grins behind the safety of his cube. “And in return, we each vow to refuel and recharge properly whenever possible. For the sake of Cybertron if nothing else.”
“For the sake of the planet,” Megatron echoes, and snorts a laugh. “Sure. That can be our excuse. I suppose I’ll be in charge of supplying the energon then?”
“Well, you are the Lord High Protector...” Ratchet trails off with a shrug. “If you really want to split the duties, I could always bring medical grade when it’s my turn.”
Megatron makes a face that takes a million years off his age. The disgust in the wrinkle of his nasal ridge is more cute than Ratchet can take. It reminds him of a different time, before the war, before two ill-fitting puzzle pieces had been jammed together to make a painful whole.
“Spare us both the disgust. I’ll take charge of the energon,” Megatron says. He shakes his head with a little sigh and leans back into the comfort of his couch. “Our subordinates will be pleased, I think.”
“Oh, they’ll still find some way to nag.” Ratchet crosses one ankle over the other. Maybe given enough time, his aft will make a mark on this too firm couch. “Frankly if they have the time to worry about a little under-charge, that means we’re doing all right. Better than fretting over a list of patients, trying to decide who deserves the one part you managed to scrounge more than the other.”
Megatron’s amusement turns somber, and the guilt, Ratchet knows, is a heavy thing, a weighty burden. The Lord High Protector’s optics drop, his fingers twitching where they hold his cube, pausing on its way to his mouth. Perhaps as though wondering if he deserves the next sip.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation.
Perhaps that had been a little rude of him. A little too cutting when he’s supposed to be building tentative bridges.
“Sorry,” he says, and offers a wry grin. “Looks like I’m not as talented in social interaction as I used to be either.”
“You speak only truth,” Megatron replies, his words soft, and his expression distant.
Ratchet could have kicked himself for the painful reminder, as if Megatron doesn’t know of his own actions. “Truth or not, there is always plenty of blame to go around. Don’t forget that.”
“I assure you, medic, I am incapable of forgetting anything of the war.” Megatron works his jaw and finally finishes his drink of the energon, though it is long and extended as he drains the cube dry. “Truth is a matter of perception, and the truth is, my hands are stained, and my spark is darkened. Nothing can change either of those truths.”
“You underestimate yourself. There aren’t many who can look at the things they’ve done, recognize their faults, and try to make amends,” Ratchet says.
Megatron snorts, more dismissive than annoyed. “Apologies mean nothing in the sparks of the family, friends, and loved ones I have led to slaughter. I can build a thousand cities, and history will still remember me as the one who tore them down.” He shakes his head and sets the empty cube on the tray. “No, my legacy will always be one of death. I live but by the grace of my brother and that, I can never forget.”
Ratchet wants to argue otherwise. But it is true, all of it. There is no history that will paint Megatron as a hero, as a visionary, except perhaps the most fanatic of Decepticons – those still living on the fringes of the universe, believing their faction will rise again. There are Autobots who still dream of vengeance, only restrained by their faith in Optimus’ leadership.
Megatron is a mech alone in so many ways. His closest friends have all been killed. His most-trusted subordinates are gone, lost to the final battle. Sunstreaker, too, is only a memory in his spark. His brother has clearly moved on, though it’s hardly a loss for either of them as they had both not loved as they should have.
Ratchet knows, tangentially, that he should hate this mech sitting in front of him. He should want for Megatron’s death. He shouldn’t feel sorry for Megatron. He shouldn’t pity him, shouldn’t reach out a hand in friendship. Megatron deserves all this and more.
He’s just lost his way, Ratch. Maybe someday he’ll find it again. Even if it ends up being at the end of my cannon.
Ratchet sighs a ventilation.
Damn you, Ironhide. Years gone, and he’s still there, a voice in the back of Ratchet’s head, unexpected reason to turbulent emotion.
“Megatron--”
“I apologize,” Megatron says, in a voice tired and worn, giving truth to his age. “I meant for this to be a night of relaxation, not one of melancholy. I did not intend to unload my burdens on you.” He presses his lips together tightly before he shifts as though to rise. “Perhaps there are things I’m not suited for after all.”
Ratchet holds out his cube. “You seem to be pretty talented at refilling when I need more.” He gives said cube an expectant wiggle.
Megatron blinks at him. Confusion writes itself across his face, and he looks so flummoxed, that for a moment, Ratchet wants to laugh. Megatron reaches for the flagon on energon as though on auto-pilot, splashing the rest of it into Ratchet’s cube.
“Perhaps I should have arranged for more,” Megatron says, with the mournful tone of a sparkling who’d emptied his rust stick cache.
Ratchet chuckles. “Next time, you’ll be better prepared.”
Megatron’s optics snap up toward him as though the words ‘next time’ are ringing around his audials. The empty flagon returns to the tray with an audible clatter.
“Sit,” Ratchet says, gesturing toward the couch. “I want to hear about how well the rebuilding is doing. I don’t get out much, you know. I’m missing all the good gossip.”
Megatron sits, and Ratchet prides himself that he can still make mechs obey without realizing it. “I’m afraid I don’t know the good gossip,” he says.
“Well, you could always make some up. Proper gossip is supposed to be a little untrue.” Ratchet wriggles around in his chair, making a show of getting comfortable, proof he intends to stay.
Megatron snorts. “You do have a point.” He relaxes into the couch, some of the tension easing away from his frame. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Ratchet grins and sips at his cube. He doesn’t really need it, but the gesture had been important.
Megatron isn’t the only one around here who needs a friend.
I’m trying, Ironhide. Primus beneath us, but I’m trying. I’ll find the Megatron you loved once. I swear it.
I’ll find him. And I’ll bring him home.
a/n: :)
