[Bay] Indomitable Part Four
Apr. 25th, 2018 08:41 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.
Indomitable – Part Four
It’s a terrible idea.
In the history of awful ideas, this is certainly one that tops the list. Starting something with Megatron of all mechs. Sure the field is limited at the moment. There are, what, a thousand mechs on Cybertron all together? The sea is empty of fish at the moment.
That doesn’t mean, however, he has to choose Megatron.
And yet, he’s woken twice in a berth with Megatron, his emotions a nauseating mix of satisfaction and shame. Not guilt, because he already knows what Ironhide would have said. Ironhide had loved Megatron, even in the end. And he certainly loved Ratchet.
His love for Ironhide is not the problem.
Platonic though his berth-sharing with Megatron might be, Ratchet knows it won’t remain that way. At least, provided Megatron shares the same feelings raging a storm in Ratchet’s spark right now. Unexpected though they might be.
Friendship with Megatron had been a surprise. A wonderful surprise, full of companionship, and laughter, verbal banter, and long nights spent reminiscing. It is a comfortable thing, easier than Ratchet would have thought, as though all the anger and hate he carried, died with Ironhide.
He’s too tired to hate.
There is comfort, in his friendship with Megatron. Comfort and familiarity, an unexpected trust, a kinship. They share a similar grief, a similar sense of loneliness. There is a yearning within Megatron, echoes of the mech he’d been before betrayal, before war, before sparkache.
The problem, Ratchet knows, is everyone else. Even if it is none of their business. Still, he’s not surprised when he feels a presence lurking on the edge of his sensors, watching and waiting. Biding his time, perhaps. Preparing a speech even.
Ratchet doesn’t have time for such nonsense. He’s too old for drama.
“Shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?” he asks as he wipes the assignment board with a touch of his finger and glares at the now empty grid. Who to assign what tasks, he ponders.
Ambulon for basin cleaning for sure. He still has to pay a price for ratting Ratchet out to Megatron.
“A Prime doesn’t have the luxury of such things,” Optimus replies as he steps out from where he’d been lurking behind one of the CR chambers. He doesn’t look the least bit contrite about skulking.
He does, however, look like he’s got something on his mind.
Ratchet snorts. “Tell that to Sentinel Prime.” He taps the end of the stylus on the board as he considers who to give the graveyard shift. Maybe the new mech? What’s his name? Medix? “I recall he was off planet for several months on his.”
Optimus frowns. “I am not my predecessor.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were.” Ratchet scribbles Hoist’s name into an open slot. Morning shifts are perfect for Hoist. He’s perpetually sunny after a night of recharge.
Optimus sighs and shifts his weight. “Ratchet--”
“It’s not time for your monthly maintenance, and I’ll hazard a guess this isn’t a social call either.” Ratchet tosses a look over his shoulder, making it pointed and stern. “Bet I need only one guess why you’re here.”
My but the rumor mill churns ever so quickly on Cybertron. Ratchet supposes it helps their population is so low. You’d think everyone would be too busy with the rebuilding efforts to worry about other mech’s romantic entanglements, but no. He wonders who’d seen Megatron creeping out of his hab at aft’o clock in the morning.
Who had made it their business? Who had gone, from there, to running to Optimus as though there is treachery in the ranks, betrayal in the wings. Or perhaps they think Ratchet so weak he can’t possibly defend himself.
The war is over, but resentment lingers. There’s a reason Megatron still recharges with a weapon within reach. Assassination attempts have been fewer and further between as the peace reigns supreme, but as Jazz would say, it only takes a single moment of complacency and ill-attention for a saboteur to find success.
Oh, yes. There is only one reason Optimus is here.
Optimus’ optics flicker, and he begins in a grave, pontificating tone, “My brother--”
“--is precisely the mech I think he is,” Ratchet interrupts, because he has a feeling he’s heard this speech before. He returns his attention to the board, frowning at his lack of coverage.
Double-shifts it is then. Per the usual.
“Or do you think I can’t handle myself?” Ratchet adds as he scribbles his name in more than a few slots. Days off? What are those? Mystery ideas, they are.
Optimus’ field flashes, tainted with annoyance. “It’s not a question of your capability.”
“My sanity then. Or perhaps his.” Ratchet growls a little before he can rein it in. He focuses on his board. He feels as though he’s missing someone. “I know what I’m doing, youngling. But I appreciate your concern.”
Youngling. That’s it!
Ratchet scribbles Spinister’s glyphs into several shifts, including some of the more challenging ones. More neutral than Decepticon, the former “Scavenger,” to hear Spinister say it, is constantly on the lookout for more experience. Better to dive in headfirst, Ratchet says.
“It is serious then?” Optimus asks, his tone very solemn, as though Ratchet is about to admit to a felony or worse.
Ratchet sighs and caps the stylus. “I don’t know.” He turns to face Optimus, putting all of the authority he carries into his expression. “But whatever it is, it’s no business of yours, and you’d do well to remember that.”
Commanding officer Optimus might be. Oldest and cherished friend, also. But Optimus has no control over Ratchet’s personal life. If he’s making a mistake, so be it. It’s his mistake to make. And he won’t have Optimus, who could learn a thing or two about trust and Megatron besides, dissuade him.
“Fair enough.” Optimus audibly cycles a ventilation and raps his fingers over a thigh panel, a nervous tic he never managed to abandon. The calculating press of his field retreats back into his frame. Naughty, naughty Prime, prying without permission.
“I only mean to look out for you, old friend. Megatron has taken too many from me already.”
Ratchet eyes Optimus. “You still don’t trust him.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question.
Optimus shakes his head, his optics dimming with that same, grave sadness. “No. But perhaps with even more time. Until then--”
“--until then,” Ratchet echoes. He holds up a hand before Optimus can offer any further protest. “Until then, you can keep your opinions to yourself. Whatever Megatron and I become, it’s up to us. No one else.”
Optimus nods and holds himself straight, more leader than friend in the moment. “Don’t think me displeased. You two truly deserve happiness. I merely wish for you to be cautious.”
Ratchet snorts and uncaps his stylus, returning to his careful consideration of the duty board. Perhaps best not to assign Hoist to inventory. He’s not got the best mind for arithmetic. Primus below but he wishes First Aid were here. No one could count like his ward.
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Ratchet scribbles his own designation down.
Inventory is best done by the chief anyway. And maybe his name is on the board more than it should be, but how can he, in good conscience, lay the burden on his subordinates? They are stretched thin as it is.
“I appreciate you worrying about me, Optimus,” he adds, because worrying is not just a Prime thing, it’s an Optimus thing. “Now don’t you have a new mate to go snuggle?”
Tension snaps, petering out of the space between them in an instant. Optimus Prime returns to Optimus, one of Ratchet’s oldest friends. A light chuckle spills out of his mouth, his armor loosening to unveil the cables beneath, shiny in the wake of a recent polish.
“Very well,” Optimus concedes, his voice warm and his field light as it touches on Ratchet’s. “I can see where I’m not wanted.” He retreats several paces, but pauses next to the chamber which had been hiding him in the first place. “For what it’s worth, I do hope my worries are for naught.”
And just like the aft he can be sometimes, Optimus leaves on that parting comment, his words echoing around Ratchet’s head. Always has to get in the last word. Always. Never quite grew out of that. It had always frustrated Megatron back then. Probably frustrates him still.
Ratchet tries to focus on his board, tries to make the proper assignments as any chief medic should. He can’t quite decide which emotion troubles him the most: outrage or pride or anger.
Maybe a mixture of all three.
It bothers him. It nags at the back of his mind, like a rustmite infection. His scribbling becomes even more illegible. He starts miscalculating shift times.
Ratchet growls, caps his stylus, and shoves it into the magnetic holder. He spins on a heelstrut and stomps out of the medbay with a snarled “be back in a minute” to his on-duty technician.
If he passes any familiar faces, Ratchet doesn’t know it. He’s too busy replaying Optimus’ words in his head, and thinking about what they mean. His spark is whirling and twirling, reminding him of things he’d rather not think about.
He’s too old to worry about everyone else. But it still affects him, and he hates that.
His rapid pace carries him into the Cybertronian Defense command center, formerly the Decepticon headquarters, now nominally the main office for Megatron and his chain of command. It’s a wide, squat building, vaguely pentagonal, with a large courtyard in the center for training exercises and the like. And like every other bureau on Cybertron, there are plenty of openings that need filling.
Ratchet doesn’t storm into Megatron’s office, but it’s a near thing. Breakdown doesn’t even try to stop him. The poor sports car huddles behind his desk, hidden behind stacks of datapads that would make Prowl proud.
The door springs open, as though it knows not to cross Ratchet in his current mood, and he strides inside as if he owns this office as well as his own. Megatron is perched behind his desk, hunched over a Very Official datapad. He doesn’t look up to greet Ratchet, but clearly, he knows Ratchet is there.
“I’m refueling as we speak, medic,” Megatron says, holding up a cube for emphasis and giving it a wiggle. “So you can spare me the lectures.”
Ratchet draws up short. Amusement filters in. The very idea of Megatron being so quick to defend himself just because Ratchet has come to call makes something roil with laughter inside of him.
This, right here, is why, Optimus. This casual camaraderie, this understanding. How can Optimus not see it?
Ratchet grins, suddenly at ease when he had been a bundle of agitation before. Unstoppable force of unrest meets unmovable object of unexpected equanimity, and it all grinds to a halt.
Optimus who?
“Well, aren’t you an obedient little leader?” Ratchet chuckles. This is why his friendship with Megatron is so important. Frag everyone else. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh.” Megatron sets the cube down and arches an orbital ridge. He looks so much better now than he had months ago, when the weight of the past and his own fatigue had hunched his shoulders like an ancient being. “What can I do for you then?”
Ratchet’s smile lingers, but there’s less tease in it now. Maybe it’s a bit puerile to storm in here simply because Optimus told him not to. But maybe he also needed that kick in the aft to boot him out of complacency. He’s had enough of letting sleeping mechs lie.
He’s lucky he’s lived this long. If he waits too much longer, opportunity will pass him by.
“It’s about tonight,” Ratchet says.
Megatron blinks. “… What about it?” His optics drop back down to his paperwork, picking up his stylus with a free hand. “I’ve already acquired the good fuel, as you so elegantly put it.”
“No, not that.” Ratchet works his intake and steadies himself. There’s a tremble in his knees that has no business being there. “You should come to my hab instead.”
Because drinking together and chatting belongs in Megatron’s hab. But this innocent sharing of berths, of spaces, of fields, has always been Ratchet’s. He’s breaking the status quo, he knows, and he hopes Megatron understands why. And wants the same thing.
Megatron’s stylus stills. His gaze slowly lifts. “You’re certain?”
Oh, he definitely understands. He’s not ignorant, our Megatron. He’s read the undercurrents as easily as Ratchet has. This undefinable thing between them, he knows where it stands.
Ratchet twists his jaw. “Do I seem like someone who’s prone to making decisions that aren’t?” he demands. He’s already sat through Optimus questioning his choices. He’s not going to have Megatron question them either.
The stylus is placed on the desktop with a quiet click. “People will talk,” Megatron says, tone hushed as though there are audials already eavesdropping on them.
Ratchet rolls his optics. “I’ve never cared what people say or think about me, I’m not going to start now.”
Megatron’s expression twitches before he can steel himself. He tips back in his chair, still careful in his motions. “Just for a meal?”
“I think you know better than that,” Ratchet drawls and leans forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk, putting himself into the furthest flex of Megatron’s field. He can taste the heat in it. The desire.
Megatron’s optics widen, fractionally but not so much a medic could miss it. “There are… better choices,” he says, each word sounding as though it has been carefully chosen.
“Feh.” Ratchet snorts. “And if I wanted to make them, I wouldn’t be here right now. So are you accepting or declining?”
Megatron visibly hesitates before he runs a hand over his head. “Accepting,” he says, in a grave tone, as though he’s heading off to a battle he might not return from.
Oh, well. Ratchet’s sure he can turn that frown upside down later. They don’t call him ‘magic hands’ just because he’s good at putting fractured mechs back together.
“Good.” Ratchet turns to leave, but pauses just inside the door, fingers tapping a nonsense rhythm on the jamb. “You know, for the record, it takes a special kind of mech to do what you did.”
It is Megatron’s turn to snort. “Start a war resulting in the extermination of over 99% of the population of my planet?” he asks without an ounce of humor. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘mad.’”
“No.” Ratchet shakes his head and looks at Megatron, taking in the harsh lines of the Lord High Protector’s face, and the guilt clinging to him like a miasma. “To go that far into the Pit, only to turn around and realize the harm you’ve done, and face it without flinching. That’s what I mean.”
“I’ve flinched,” Megatron replies quietly, his gaze dropping.
Ratchet smiles gently. “Yeah, but you keep moving forward anyway. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit. Braver, too.”
A hint of heat steals into Megatron’s face, visible to Ratchet’s highly sensitive optics.
“You don’t have to tell me pretty lies, medic,” Megatron finally says with a grumble. “I’ve already accepted your invitation.”
Despite himself, Ratchet laughs. “They aren’t lies, Megatron. And I promise, if I’m actually flirting with you, you’ll know.” He offers an exaggerated wink and purrs, “See you tonight.”
He leaves before Megatron can say anything in return, content to have gotten the last word. Breakdown squeaks out a goodbye to him, and Ratchet treats the nervous mech to a smile that only makes Breakdown squeak louder and duck behind his desk.
Cute youngling. Wherever had Megatron scooped him up?
Well, questions for later.
Ratchet grins and struts back toward the medbay. This is what it is to move forward, he decides. And he thinks Ironhide would approve, too. He’d always said he just wanted Ratchet to be happy, whatever that meant.
Surely he wouldn’t mind this.
***
a/n: Closer and closer. ;)
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 terrible idea.
In the history of awful ideas, this is certainly one that tops the list. Starting something with Megatron of all mechs. Sure the field is limited at the moment. There are, what, a thousand mechs on Cybertron all together? The sea is empty of fish at the moment.
That doesn’t mean, however, he has to choose Megatron.
And yet, he’s woken twice in a berth with Megatron, his emotions a nauseating mix of satisfaction and shame. Not guilt, because he already knows what Ironhide would have said. Ironhide had loved Megatron, even in the end. And he certainly loved Ratchet.
His love for Ironhide is not the problem.
Platonic though his berth-sharing with Megatron might be, Ratchet knows it won’t remain that way. At least, provided Megatron shares the same feelings raging a storm in Ratchet’s spark right now. Unexpected though they might be.
Friendship with Megatron had been a surprise. A wonderful surprise, full of companionship, and laughter, verbal banter, and long nights spent reminiscing. It is a comfortable thing, easier than Ratchet would have thought, as though all the anger and hate he carried, died with Ironhide.
He’s too tired to hate.
There is comfort, in his friendship with Megatron. Comfort and familiarity, an unexpected trust, a kinship. They share a similar grief, a similar sense of loneliness. There is a yearning within Megatron, echoes of the mech he’d been before betrayal, before war, before sparkache.
The problem, Ratchet knows, is everyone else. Even if it is none of their business. Still, he’s not surprised when he feels a presence lurking on the edge of his sensors, watching and waiting. Biding his time, perhaps. Preparing a speech even.
Ratchet doesn’t have time for such nonsense. He’s too old for drama.
“Shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?” he asks as he wipes the assignment board with a touch of his finger and glares at the now empty grid. Who to assign what tasks, he ponders.
Ambulon for basin cleaning for sure. He still has to pay a price for ratting Ratchet out to Megatron.
“A Prime doesn’t have the luxury of such things,” Optimus replies as he steps out from where he’d been lurking behind one of the CR chambers. He doesn’t look the least bit contrite about skulking.
He does, however, look like he’s got something on his mind.
Ratchet snorts. “Tell that to Sentinel Prime.” He taps the end of the stylus on the board as he considers who to give the graveyard shift. Maybe the new mech? What’s his name? Medix? “I recall he was off planet for several months on his.”
Optimus frowns. “I am not my predecessor.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were.” Ratchet scribbles Hoist’s name into an open slot. Morning shifts are perfect for Hoist. He’s perpetually sunny after a night of recharge.
Optimus sighs and shifts his weight. “Ratchet--”
“It’s not time for your monthly maintenance, and I’ll hazard a guess this isn’t a social call either.” Ratchet tosses a look over his shoulder, making it pointed and stern. “Bet I need only one guess why you’re here.”
My but the rumor mill churns ever so quickly on Cybertron. Ratchet supposes it helps their population is so low. You’d think everyone would be too busy with the rebuilding efforts to worry about other mech’s romantic entanglements, but no. He wonders who’d seen Megatron creeping out of his hab at aft’o clock in the morning.
Who had made it their business? Who had gone, from there, to running to Optimus as though there is treachery in the ranks, betrayal in the wings. Or perhaps they think Ratchet so weak he can’t possibly defend himself.
The war is over, but resentment lingers. There’s a reason Megatron still recharges with a weapon within reach. Assassination attempts have been fewer and further between as the peace reigns supreme, but as Jazz would say, it only takes a single moment of complacency and ill-attention for a saboteur to find success.
Oh, yes. There is only one reason Optimus is here.
Optimus’ optics flicker, and he begins in a grave, pontificating tone, “My brother--”
“--is precisely the mech I think he is,” Ratchet interrupts, because he has a feeling he’s heard this speech before. He returns his attention to the board, frowning at his lack of coverage.
Double-shifts it is then. Per the usual.
“Or do you think I can’t handle myself?” Ratchet adds as he scribbles his name in more than a few slots. Days off? What are those? Mystery ideas, they are.
Optimus’ field flashes, tainted with annoyance. “It’s not a question of your capability.”
“My sanity then. Or perhaps his.” Ratchet growls a little before he can rein it in. He focuses on his board. He feels as though he’s missing someone. “I know what I’m doing, youngling. But I appreciate your concern.”
Youngling. That’s it!
Ratchet scribbles Spinister’s glyphs into several shifts, including some of the more challenging ones. More neutral than Decepticon, the former “Scavenger,” to hear Spinister say it, is constantly on the lookout for more experience. Better to dive in headfirst, Ratchet says.
“It is serious then?” Optimus asks, his tone very solemn, as though Ratchet is about to admit to a felony or worse.
Ratchet sighs and caps the stylus. “I don’t know.” He turns to face Optimus, putting all of the authority he carries into his expression. “But whatever it is, it’s no business of yours, and you’d do well to remember that.”
Commanding officer Optimus might be. Oldest and cherished friend, also. But Optimus has no control over Ratchet’s personal life. If he’s making a mistake, so be it. It’s his mistake to make. And he won’t have Optimus, who could learn a thing or two about trust and Megatron besides, dissuade him.
“Fair enough.” Optimus audibly cycles a ventilation and raps his fingers over a thigh panel, a nervous tic he never managed to abandon. The calculating press of his field retreats back into his frame. Naughty, naughty Prime, prying without permission.
“I only mean to look out for you, old friend. Megatron has taken too many from me already.”
Ratchet eyes Optimus. “You still don’t trust him.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question.
Optimus shakes his head, his optics dimming with that same, grave sadness. “No. But perhaps with even more time. Until then--”
“--until then,” Ratchet echoes. He holds up a hand before Optimus can offer any further protest. “Until then, you can keep your opinions to yourself. Whatever Megatron and I become, it’s up to us. No one else.”
Optimus nods and holds himself straight, more leader than friend in the moment. “Don’t think me displeased. You two truly deserve happiness. I merely wish for you to be cautious.”
Ratchet snorts and uncaps his stylus, returning to his careful consideration of the duty board. Perhaps best not to assign Hoist to inventory. He’s not got the best mind for arithmetic. Primus below but he wishes First Aid were here. No one could count like his ward.
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Ratchet scribbles his own designation down.
Inventory is best done by the chief anyway. And maybe his name is on the board more than it should be, but how can he, in good conscience, lay the burden on his subordinates? They are stretched thin as it is.
“I appreciate you worrying about me, Optimus,” he adds, because worrying is not just a Prime thing, it’s an Optimus thing. “Now don’t you have a new mate to go snuggle?”
Tension snaps, petering out of the space between them in an instant. Optimus Prime returns to Optimus, one of Ratchet’s oldest friends. A light chuckle spills out of his mouth, his armor loosening to unveil the cables beneath, shiny in the wake of a recent polish.
“Very well,” Optimus concedes, his voice warm and his field light as it touches on Ratchet’s. “I can see where I’m not wanted.” He retreats several paces, but pauses next to the chamber which had been hiding him in the first place. “For what it’s worth, I do hope my worries are for naught.”
And just like the aft he can be sometimes, Optimus leaves on that parting comment, his words echoing around Ratchet’s head. Always has to get in the last word. Always. Never quite grew out of that. It had always frustrated Megatron back then. Probably frustrates him still.
Ratchet tries to focus on his board, tries to make the proper assignments as any chief medic should. He can’t quite decide which emotion troubles him the most: outrage or pride or anger.
Maybe a mixture of all three.
It bothers him. It nags at the back of his mind, like a rustmite infection. His scribbling becomes even more illegible. He starts miscalculating shift times.
Ratchet growls, caps his stylus, and shoves it into the magnetic holder. He spins on a heelstrut and stomps out of the medbay with a snarled “be back in a minute” to his on-duty technician.
If he passes any familiar faces, Ratchet doesn’t know it. He’s too busy replaying Optimus’ words in his head, and thinking about what they mean. His spark is whirling and twirling, reminding him of things he’d rather not think about.
He’s too old to worry about everyone else. But it still affects him, and he hates that.
His rapid pace carries him into the Cybertronian Defense command center, formerly the Decepticon headquarters, now nominally the main office for Megatron and his chain of command. It’s a wide, squat building, vaguely pentagonal, with a large courtyard in the center for training exercises and the like. And like every other bureau on Cybertron, there are plenty of openings that need filling.
Ratchet doesn’t storm into Megatron’s office, but it’s a near thing. Breakdown doesn’t even try to stop him. The poor sports car huddles behind his desk, hidden behind stacks of datapads that would make Prowl proud.
The door springs open, as though it knows not to cross Ratchet in his current mood, and he strides inside as if he owns this office as well as his own. Megatron is perched behind his desk, hunched over a Very Official datapad. He doesn’t look up to greet Ratchet, but clearly, he knows Ratchet is there.
“I’m refueling as we speak, medic,” Megatron says, holding up a cube for emphasis and giving it a wiggle. “So you can spare me the lectures.”
Ratchet draws up short. Amusement filters in. The very idea of Megatron being so quick to defend himself just because Ratchet has come to call makes something roil with laughter inside of him.
This, right here, is why, Optimus. This casual camaraderie, this understanding. How can Optimus not see it?
Ratchet grins, suddenly at ease when he had been a bundle of agitation before. Unstoppable force of unrest meets unmovable object of unexpected equanimity, and it all grinds to a halt.
Optimus who?
“Well, aren’t you an obedient little leader?” Ratchet chuckles. This is why his friendship with Megatron is so important. Frag everyone else. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh.” Megatron sets the cube down and arches an orbital ridge. He looks so much better now than he had months ago, when the weight of the past and his own fatigue had hunched his shoulders like an ancient being. “What can I do for you then?”
Ratchet’s smile lingers, but there’s less tease in it now. Maybe it’s a bit puerile to storm in here simply because Optimus told him not to. But maybe he also needed that kick in the aft to boot him out of complacency. He’s had enough of letting sleeping mechs lie.
He’s lucky he’s lived this long. If he waits too much longer, opportunity will pass him by.
“It’s about tonight,” Ratchet says.
Megatron blinks. “… What about it?” His optics drop back down to his paperwork, picking up his stylus with a free hand. “I’ve already acquired the good fuel, as you so elegantly put it.”
“No, not that.” Ratchet works his intake and steadies himself. There’s a tremble in his knees that has no business being there. “You should come to my hab instead.”
Because drinking together and chatting belongs in Megatron’s hab. But this innocent sharing of berths, of spaces, of fields, has always been Ratchet’s. He’s breaking the status quo, he knows, and he hopes Megatron understands why. And wants the same thing.
Megatron’s stylus stills. His gaze slowly lifts. “You’re certain?”
Oh, he definitely understands. He’s not ignorant, our Megatron. He’s read the undercurrents as easily as Ratchet has. This undefinable thing between them, he knows where it stands.
Ratchet twists his jaw. “Do I seem like someone who’s prone to making decisions that aren’t?” he demands. He’s already sat through Optimus questioning his choices. He’s not going to have Megatron question them either.
The stylus is placed on the desktop with a quiet click. “People will talk,” Megatron says, tone hushed as though there are audials already eavesdropping on them.
Ratchet rolls his optics. “I’ve never cared what people say or think about me, I’m not going to start now.”
Megatron’s expression twitches before he can steel himself. He tips back in his chair, still careful in his motions. “Just for a meal?”
“I think you know better than that,” Ratchet drawls and leans forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk, putting himself into the furthest flex of Megatron’s field. He can taste the heat in it. The desire.
Megatron’s optics widen, fractionally but not so much a medic could miss it. “There are… better choices,” he says, each word sounding as though it has been carefully chosen.
“Feh.” Ratchet snorts. “And if I wanted to make them, I wouldn’t be here right now. So are you accepting or declining?”
Megatron visibly hesitates before he runs a hand over his head. “Accepting,” he says, in a grave tone, as though he’s heading off to a battle he might not return from.
Oh, well. Ratchet’s sure he can turn that frown upside down later. They don’t call him ‘magic hands’ just because he’s good at putting fractured mechs back together.
“Good.” Ratchet turns to leave, but pauses just inside the door, fingers tapping a nonsense rhythm on the jamb. “You know, for the record, it takes a special kind of mech to do what you did.”
It is Megatron’s turn to snort. “Start a war resulting in the extermination of over 99% of the population of my planet?” he asks without an ounce of humor. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘mad.’”
“No.” Ratchet shakes his head and looks at Megatron, taking in the harsh lines of the Lord High Protector’s face, and the guilt clinging to him like a miasma. “To go that far into the Pit, only to turn around and realize the harm you’ve done, and face it without flinching. That’s what I mean.”
“I’ve flinched,” Megatron replies quietly, his gaze dropping.
Ratchet smiles gently. “Yeah, but you keep moving forward anyway. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit. Braver, too.”
A hint of heat steals into Megatron’s face, visible to Ratchet’s highly sensitive optics.
“You don’t have to tell me pretty lies, medic,” Megatron finally says with a grumble. “I’ve already accepted your invitation.”
Despite himself, Ratchet laughs. “They aren’t lies, Megatron. And I promise, if I’m actually flirting with you, you’ll know.” He offers an exaggerated wink and purrs, “See you tonight.”
He leaves before Megatron can say anything in return, content to have gotten the last word. Breakdown squeaks out a goodbye to him, and Ratchet treats the nervous mech to a smile that only makes Breakdown squeak louder and duck behind his desk.
Cute youngling. Wherever had Megatron scooped him up?
Well, questions for later.
Ratchet grins and struts back toward the medbay. This is what it is to move forward, he decides. And he thinks Ironhide would approve, too. He’d always said he just wanted Ratchet to be happy, whatever that meant.
Surely he wouldn’t mind this.
a/n: Closer and closer. ;)
