[Bay] Indomitable Part Six
May. 10th, 2018 06:37 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 Six
Ratchet has never been one to bother much with tact or subtlety. He’s too old and lived through too much to care much for other’s sensibilities. If people have a problem with him, they are welcome to say so to his face. It’s not his issue, it’s theirs.
Even so, his choice to engage in a relationship with Megatron is something both fragile and precious. It’s not a secret. He doesn’t attempt to hide it. But he doesn’t flaunt it either. Not this delicate thing which much be protected.
Megatron, for all his bale and bluster, is easily startled. He’s too quick to back down when he should straighten his spinal strut. He lets the others shame him for things he shouldn’t feel guilty about.
Meanwhile, Ratchet decks the first mech who dares ask him what Ironhide would think about it.
It’s none of their damn business.
Cybertronians gossip. Ratchet thinks it’s a law of the universe, that any collection of peoples living close together, have to spend half their time talking about one another, both publicly and in private.
So he’s not surprised when word gets out. He’s even less surprised when it causes something of an uproar. When former Autobots start screeching about Decepticons corrupting their heroes. When Decepticons start snarling back that badges are gone and the only abettors around here are the soft-sparked Autobots. When the Neutrals shake their heads and mutter that some mechs have no taste.
It’s all Ratchet can do to swallow his fury, his sharp retorts. Some know better, and he informs them thusly.
He has only to knock out the one outright crude commenter before the rest get the picture. Ironhide is off limits and by the way, whomever Ratchet chooses to spend his time and attention with is his own fragging business and no one else’s.
Yes, that means you, Optimus fragging Prime.
Prowl might have had something to say about it. But once Ratchet remarks on the suspicious blue streak of paint on Prowl’s right thigh panel, the tactician snaps his jaw shut and concedes defeat.
Hypocrite. As if half the planet doesn’t already know he and Thundercracker have christened every closet and storage room between here and Lunabase. Clearly Prowl hadn’t learned anything from Jazz’s various lessons in being stealthy.
But thoughts of Jazz bring a pang to Ratchet’s spark. A pang of loss, of grief, and regrettably, guilt. Because Megatron had been the one to rip Jazz in half. He’d been the one to end the life of such a bright spark.
It had been war. Megatron had killed a lot of mechs. Ratchet had, too. And arguably, Jazz had probably gone after Megatron with suicidal intent in the first place. He’d never quite gotten over losing Bluestreak, and Ratchet couldn’t blame him for that.
But every time Megatron smiles at him and Ratchet’s spark flutters, he wonders if he’s making the right choice. If it’s alright for him to forgive, or if he should continue to be bitter and angry like everyone else. Is it selfish of him to reach for this? Is he betraying the memories of everyone who fell to Megatron’s madness?
Ratchet doesn’t know. He’s not a philosopher. He’s a medic, one who’s watched far too many mechs die, who’s felt their sparks flicker and fade under his hands, who saw friends go to the battlefield and never return. He’s bathed in grief and the gloom, he’s felt the weight of hopelessness drag him down.
Anger can only carry you so far.
There’s a point where you have to stop, say enough is enough, and learn the fight toward forgiveness. It’s the only way to ease the burden, to lighten the weight on your spark. Ratchet’s too old to let himself be buried in the dregs of bitterness and resentment.
Besides, Megatron makes him happy. And that’s really all that matters.
Half a year after he and Megatron take their tentative steps into a deeper relationship, when Ratchet’s learned to ignore or handle all but he most stubborn of detractors, his resolve is tested.
Of all the opinions Ratchet’s brushed aside, however easily, he doesn’t expect to have to deal with this one.
This one being the rattling clunker that touches down with a loud harrumph and a belch of smoke in the middle of the main landing pad. It looks like it’s held together with wishes and dreams and miles and miles of duct-tape. The cargo bay door opens, unveiling a ramp that promptly falls off.
And leaping out of the cargo bay, straight to the ground now that a casual disembark is no longer possible, is Hot Spot. Behind him, his four brothers, every last one of them.
They survived, just as Megatron had surmised they did.
They hadn’t known who was on the ship when it broadcast it’s arrival. They’d been unable to establish communication and had been prepared for anything. Ratchet and Optimus, Megatron and Thundercracker, a team of medics and a team of soldiers for security, all swarming the landing site.
Of all the mechs in the universe, Ratchet had no idea it would be his younglings, the combiner team he and Ironhide had helped design, program, and raise. They are the closest things to sparklings he and Ironhide ever cared for.
His spark simultaneously warms and squeezes tight. He’s so happy to see them that he’s struck dumb, wondering if he’s wandered into a dream.
Except that if it was a dream, Ironhide would be beside him instead of Megatron. He’d He’d be whooping with joy, lurching forward to sweep Groove into a big embrace – always the hugger that one – while Hot Spot clapped them both on the shoulders.
“Ratchet!”
First Aid notices him first, visor bright with relief, and he’s the one who throws himself at Ratchet, still too short, but taller now. Reframed obviously, and his paint’s seen better days, but he’s alive. Primus, they’re all alive, and Ratchet’s processor keeps short-circuiting.
More frames crowd around him, and he feels hands, arms, sweeping him up. There’s chatter and laughing and maybe a little vent-snuffling.
“We found you!” Streetwise says, a touch too loud, always trying too hard to be heard. “I told Hot Spot we would.”
“He did,” Hot Spot agrees, the tallest of them, taller even than Ratchet, embracing Ratchet from behind, nearly big enough to pick up the lot of them.
Groove hugs Ratchet’s left side, barely cresting Ratchet’s hip, but his field is the strongest, the warmest and it wraps around them all like a heavy blanket. “Told you we’d be fine,” he says with a little laugh, because Ironhide had been so worried, so angry, when the orders came down for them to escort a medical transport off-planet and to a distant galaxy.
But that is what Protectobots do. Ratchet and Ironhide couldn’t leave Optimus, it was their duty. And it was the duty of Hot Spot’s team to watch over those who needed it most.
Ratchet doesn’t ask what happened to the medical transport. Logic answers that question for him. He can tell, in the dark echoes of their fields, the sense of tragedy buried in the unasked question.
Blades is silent compared to his brothers. He stands apart, armor jittering, his expression serious and narrow. Ratchet doesn’t take offense. That’s how Blades has always been. He’s always preferred his shows of affection to be sincere and private.
But his inability to control his emotion hasn’t much changed for the centuries.
“Where’s Ironhide?” he demands, his visor tracking the gathered faces, his HUD no doubt already updating with Cybertron’s current census and finding his adoptive-genitor’s designation nowhere in the list.
Ratchet’s spark squeezes like a punch to the midsection. Ironhide’s loss hits him all over again, his optics sparking and his vents stuttering. His mate should be here, welcoming their younglings back to Cybertron. He should be congratulating Hot Spot, and talking to Blades in that way he always had to calm the erratic heli down.
But Ironhide isn’t here. Because Sentinel Prime killed him.
“He’s gone, Blades,” Ratchet replies, the words tasting like ash on his glossa. No, like rust. The rust in the air, lingering after Sentinel shot Ironhide in the back. “He… Sentinel… He’s gone.”
Hot Spot’s arms tighten around him. First Aid presses his face to Ratchet’s chestplate. Blades’ rotors jitter in familiar patterns even as Streetwise moves closer to him, reaching up to rest a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Blades frowns, and then his gaze shifts, ever so slowly, to Megatron nearby, watching but not interfering. Wisely removed to Optimus’ side as he keeps his silence.
Ratchet only notices because he’s watching. He sees the shift, the dawning realization come over Blades’ face. The way his lip curls back, his denta clench, his hands form fists. There must be a flash of warning through their gestalt bond, because First Aid stiffens and Hot Spot growls a single “don’t” before Blades snarls and chaos reigns.
It takes the combined might of all four of his brothers to pull Blades off from Megatron, who had only defended himself and hadn’t returned a single blow. It takes Ratchet wading into the fray, sedating the angry rotary, who’s howling curses and screaming, “Your fault, your fault, your fault!” and Ratchet can’t blame him.
He’d spent far too long himself, shouting ‘your fault’ at Megatron, if only in his own head.
Blades slumps into Hot Shot’s arms, his field full of frenetic energy, and the silence afterward is ripe with whirring vents and startled looks.
“It’s a long story,” First Aid murmurs with a sideways glance at Megatron, who hadn’t reacted beyond backing further away. “It’s been a long journey home.”
“As it has for everyone,” Optimus says, stepping forward, reaching out with arms and a field that has always served as a source of comfort, helping to ease the thick tension of the moment. “Come. We’ll get you fuel, rest, treatment if needed. There are many changes now, but we can talk about it after you’ve rested.”
Optimus’ quiet, firm command takes charge of the situation, setting the tension to a low simmer. The Protectobots look to Hot Spot, who looks to Optimus with relief and agreement in his optics. He nods, murmurs a quiet thank you, and hefts Blades up into his arms.
“Lead the way, sir,” he says, the rest of his brothers falling in beside him.
All save for First Aid, who lingers, his gaze more sharply knowing than it had been before leaving Cybertron all those eons ago. Ratchet doesn’t know what they’ve been through out in the universe, but it’s matured his young protege. Perhaps even changed him.
“He’ll be okay,” First Aid says as he watches Optimus lead his team away, and Hot Spot shift Blades’ weight in his arms. “Eventually, I mean. We all will.” He leans in against Ratchet. “I’m sorry about Ironhide.”
Ratchet sighs. “Me, too.” He slips an arm over First Aid’s shoulders, tucking his protege against his side. He chances a glance at Megatron who had lingered, and their optics meet.
Megatron nods once before he turns to leave, opposite where Optimus had taken the Protectobots, Thundercracker leaving with him. No charges will be filed against Blades. Ratchet knows Megatron won’t bother.
The guilt still rages within Megatron. Honestly, without it, Ratchet doesn’t know if he can even look at Megatron. Not when those words echo in his audials.
“Your fault! Your fault!” Because Blades is wrong, and he isn’t, and the world is not simple. Not anymore.
He’ll catch up with Megatron later. He has a feeling he knows what’s going through Megatron’s processor at the moment and like frag is Ratchet going to let Megatron run away from this. It isn’t going to be easy, but nothing worth having ever is.
Ratchet pats First Aid on his opposite shoulder. “Come on. Optimus is right. You all could use some rest.”
First Aid lets Ratchet lead him away, relief thick in his field as he leans hard against Ratchet’s side. Behind them, the rickety spacecraft groans its final death throes and collapses with a clatter.
~
Later, far later than Ratchet is used to functioning these days, the Protectobots are snuggled away in a suite large enough to suit all five of them and their unique situation. They’re clean, as fueled as their starved tanks can manage, mended, and deep in recharge.
Ratchet’s spark had ached as he looked at them, as he assessed their hurts and their scars, recognizing far too many types of damage. What horrors they survived, he doesn’t even want to know. There’s a haunted shadow in the back of their gazes. Ironhide would’ve been furious.
Perhaps it’s better he’s not here to see.
Ratchet intends to trudge home, but he detours. He drags himself to Megatron’s suite instead, knowing the Lord High Protector has yet to recharge, and it’s come to this, that he doesn’t even have to knock for an invitation. He has the code, so he lets himself inside, to quarters that are dim and quiet, but occupied.
He finds Megatron on the balcony, hands clasped behind his back as he looks out over Cybertron in the middle of night-cycle, though leaning more toward early morning. There’s a heavy tension to Megatron’s shoulders, a resigned set to the way he holds himself, as if braced for bad news.
“How is Blades?” he asks before Ratchet can even get in field-sense range.
Ratchet blasts Megatron with a quick, sweeping scan. But there’s no lingering damage from Blades’ attack. Megatron’s nanites have already tended to the dents and bruises.
“He and Ironhide were close,” Ratchet replies, which isn’t precisely an answer. He moves next to Megatron, within touching range, but doesn’t reach out, except with his field. “Fortunately, he has his brothers still. He’ll be fine.” He pauses, and amends with, “Eventually.”
Megatron doesn’t look at him, his gaze fixed outward. “That is good to hear.” He sounds carefully neutral, carefully braced. “I am glad they found their way back to you.”
“Me, too. And here I was thinking the universe was all out of miracles for me.” Ratchet chuckles, but he knows it sounds forced and nervous.
Megatron shifts and audibly cycles a ventilation. “Ratchet,” he begins, only to pause, his armor creaking as it tightens over his frame. He adds, much more quietly, “You don’t have to pretend on my account. They are your younglings. They will always come first.”
“They are adults now. The war’s made them that much. Their opinions are noted, but don’t matter,” Ratchet retorts, anger flashing through him before he realizes the true fear behind Megatron’s actions. Leave before being left, it’s a matter of self-preservation.
Because yes, he’d told them. He hadn’t wanted rumors to color their opinions. He hadn’t wanted the gossip to set in, poisoning their memories or their relationship.
Yes, Ratchet and Megatron are romantically involved. It’s a long story. They don’t have to accept it. They don’t have to understand it. But they do have to respect Ratchet’s choice. He’d been quite firm.
Their reactions left much to be desired. Hot Spot had been respectful, but his gaze haunted, no doubt thinking more of Ironhide, who had been both mentor and creator to him. Streetwise had said nothing. Groove had, of all things, congratulated Ratchet with an embrace and a murmured ‘be happy, yeah?’.
Blades had been silent because Blades was still sedated. Hot Spot promised to tell him first thing after he woke. Ratchet doesn’t envy anyone that task. He’s made a mental note to keep an optic out for Blades. They don’t need any incidents.
First Aid had given Ratchet a long, incisive look. He’d known, he claimed as he walked Ratchet to the door and was out of immediate hearing range of his brothers. He’d seen the way Megatron looked at Ratchet. He’d seen how Megatron lingered. How he hadn’t even fought back, and it wasn’t just the treaty and personal guilt that kept his hands at his sides, not even formed into fists.
“I trust you,” First Aid had said, only to sigh heavily. “But I don’t trust him. Ironhide’s not here anymore. So if he hurts you, Defensor is more than happy to step up in his place.”
Ratchet had appreciated the sentiment, but not the insinuation behind it. The way his younglings-adopted look at him as though he’s lost his processor, his senses, with Ironhide and all that remains is a series of terrible choices.
There are other mechs on the planet, he imagines them trying to plead. Couldn’t you have found one even three-fourths as controversial as Megatron?
Pah.
Ratchet shakes his head, shakes out the memories and the assumptions. Left behind is frustration and irritation, and both he directs at Megatron, if only so he can make the foolish Lord High Protector understand.
“I don’t know when you think I became the sort of mech who lets others decide things for me, but that’s not who I am. That’s never who I’ve been,” Ratchet says with a fierceness that surprises him.
He steps in front of Megatron, blocking his view of the city, forcing Megatron to look at him. “I’m with you because I want to be. I’m here because this is where I chose to go. If you don’t want me, fine, I can take a hint. But don’t push me away because you think it’s what’s best for me. I can decide that for myself, thank you very much.”
Megatron looks at him, optics wide and startled, his expression betraying the conflict of emotion in his spark. Like he wants to believe Ratchet, but doesn’t trust that belief. His intake visibly works until the tension in his posture loosens enough for him to uncross his arms, to rest his hands carefully on Ratchet’s shoulders. His coalfire optics are warm, because yes, Megatron had not swapped his optical lenses for Autobot blue.
No one insisted.
“I don’t think there is anything I have done to deserve you,” he says quietly, his voice like tires over gravel. His hands slide inward until they gently cup the bottom of Ratchet’s face, thumbs sweeping over the spurs of his cheeks. “If there is justice meant for me, it would be a broken spark as you walk away.”
Megatron audibly ex-vents and leans forward, until his forehead presses to Ratchet’s, and the contact of plating against plating relents his energy field as well. Ratchet senses the broil of turmoil inside of him, the fight between what he wants, and what he thinks he can have.
Ratchet snorts, aiming for irreverent if only to cover up the way his spark throbs at the overtly gentle touch. “I’m not a prize or anything. Besides, I’m done letting the universe decide what I deserve. You should be, too. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it takes a special kind of courage to look at the destruction you’ve caused and try to change. That’s the courage I fell in love with.”
The words leave his mouth before he realizes the confession they are. Ratchet’s jaw snaps shut in surprise at himself, and he shutters his optics with a quiet sigh. The words are out there, he’s not taking them back because they are true, if not a little premature in being offered.
He’s more worried they’ll spook Megatron.
Ratchet swallows over a lump in his intake and gently rests his hands over Megatron’s wrists. The hold on his face has gone still. Even Megatron’s field paused, as though his entirety has been frozen with shock.
Ratchet looks up at him, and his spark throbs at Megatron’s expression. It’s almost physically painful, to see the mix of wonder and hope and anxiety flashing over the elegant dermal plates.
“I’m sorry,” Ratchet says, quietly. “I babble. It’s what I do when I’m tired, and it’s been a long day. I still meant what I said, and it was freely offered. You don’t owe me anything in return.”
Megatron cycles a ventilation, one ragged and rough, before his thumbs sweep over Ratchet’s cheek once more. “I don’t… I can’t…” He pauses to compose himself and his field rises up, wrapping warm and tender around Ratchet’s frame. “I’m not worthy of such a gift,” he finally says. “But I cherish it. And someday, I might even be brave enough to offer one of my own.”
“I can wait,” Ratchet says.
Because something like this, it shouldn’t be rushed or demanded. He’ll wait forever if that’s what it takes. Words are just words.
The look in Megatron’s optics, the gentle way he pulls Ratchet into his arms, an embrace near-crushing for the desperation in it, they speak all Ratchet needs to know.
****
a/n: Once more!
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.
Ratchet has never been one to bother much with tact or subtlety. He’s too old and lived through too much to care much for other’s sensibilities. If people have a problem with him, they are welcome to say so to his face. It’s not his issue, it’s theirs.
Even so, his choice to engage in a relationship with Megatron is something both fragile and precious. It’s not a secret. He doesn’t attempt to hide it. But he doesn’t flaunt it either. Not this delicate thing which much be protected.
Megatron, for all his bale and bluster, is easily startled. He’s too quick to back down when he should straighten his spinal strut. He lets the others shame him for things he shouldn’t feel guilty about.
Meanwhile, Ratchet decks the first mech who dares ask him what Ironhide would think about it.
It’s none of their damn business.
Cybertronians gossip. Ratchet thinks it’s a law of the universe, that any collection of peoples living close together, have to spend half their time talking about one another, both publicly and in private.
So he’s not surprised when word gets out. He’s even less surprised when it causes something of an uproar. When former Autobots start screeching about Decepticons corrupting their heroes. When Decepticons start snarling back that badges are gone and the only abettors around here are the soft-sparked Autobots. When the Neutrals shake their heads and mutter that some mechs have no taste.
It’s all Ratchet can do to swallow his fury, his sharp retorts. Some know better, and he informs them thusly.
He has only to knock out the one outright crude commenter before the rest get the picture. Ironhide is off limits and by the way, whomever Ratchet chooses to spend his time and attention with is his own fragging business and no one else’s.
Yes, that means you, Optimus fragging Prime.
Prowl might have had something to say about it. But once Ratchet remarks on the suspicious blue streak of paint on Prowl’s right thigh panel, the tactician snaps his jaw shut and concedes defeat.
Hypocrite. As if half the planet doesn’t already know he and Thundercracker have christened every closet and storage room between here and Lunabase. Clearly Prowl hadn’t learned anything from Jazz’s various lessons in being stealthy.
But thoughts of Jazz bring a pang to Ratchet’s spark. A pang of loss, of grief, and regrettably, guilt. Because Megatron had been the one to rip Jazz in half. He’d been the one to end the life of such a bright spark.
It had been war. Megatron had killed a lot of mechs. Ratchet had, too. And arguably, Jazz had probably gone after Megatron with suicidal intent in the first place. He’d never quite gotten over losing Bluestreak, and Ratchet couldn’t blame him for that.
But every time Megatron smiles at him and Ratchet’s spark flutters, he wonders if he’s making the right choice. If it’s alright for him to forgive, or if he should continue to be bitter and angry like everyone else. Is it selfish of him to reach for this? Is he betraying the memories of everyone who fell to Megatron’s madness?
Ratchet doesn’t know. He’s not a philosopher. He’s a medic, one who’s watched far too many mechs die, who’s felt their sparks flicker and fade under his hands, who saw friends go to the battlefield and never return. He’s bathed in grief and the gloom, he’s felt the weight of hopelessness drag him down.
Anger can only carry you so far.
There’s a point where you have to stop, say enough is enough, and learn the fight toward forgiveness. It’s the only way to ease the burden, to lighten the weight on your spark. Ratchet’s too old to let himself be buried in the dregs of bitterness and resentment.
Besides, Megatron makes him happy. And that’s really all that matters.
Half a year after he and Megatron take their tentative steps into a deeper relationship, when Ratchet’s learned to ignore or handle all but he most stubborn of detractors, his resolve is tested.
Of all the opinions Ratchet’s brushed aside, however easily, he doesn’t expect to have to deal with this one.
This one being the rattling clunker that touches down with a loud harrumph and a belch of smoke in the middle of the main landing pad. It looks like it’s held together with wishes and dreams and miles and miles of duct-tape. The cargo bay door opens, unveiling a ramp that promptly falls off.
And leaping out of the cargo bay, straight to the ground now that a casual disembark is no longer possible, is Hot Spot. Behind him, his four brothers, every last one of them.
They survived, just as Megatron had surmised they did.
They hadn’t known who was on the ship when it broadcast it’s arrival. They’d been unable to establish communication and had been prepared for anything. Ratchet and Optimus, Megatron and Thundercracker, a team of medics and a team of soldiers for security, all swarming the landing site.
Of all the mechs in the universe, Ratchet had no idea it would be his younglings, the combiner team he and Ironhide had helped design, program, and raise. They are the closest things to sparklings he and Ironhide ever cared for.
His spark simultaneously warms and squeezes tight. He’s so happy to see them that he’s struck dumb, wondering if he’s wandered into a dream.
Except that if it was a dream, Ironhide would be beside him instead of Megatron. He’d He’d be whooping with joy, lurching forward to sweep Groove into a big embrace – always the hugger that one – while Hot Spot clapped them both on the shoulders.
“Ratchet!”
First Aid notices him first, visor bright with relief, and he’s the one who throws himself at Ratchet, still too short, but taller now. Reframed obviously, and his paint’s seen better days, but he’s alive. Primus, they’re all alive, and Ratchet’s processor keeps short-circuiting.
More frames crowd around him, and he feels hands, arms, sweeping him up. There’s chatter and laughing and maybe a little vent-snuffling.
“We found you!” Streetwise says, a touch too loud, always trying too hard to be heard. “I told Hot Spot we would.”
“He did,” Hot Spot agrees, the tallest of them, taller even than Ratchet, embracing Ratchet from behind, nearly big enough to pick up the lot of them.
Groove hugs Ratchet’s left side, barely cresting Ratchet’s hip, but his field is the strongest, the warmest and it wraps around them all like a heavy blanket. “Told you we’d be fine,” he says with a little laugh, because Ironhide had been so worried, so angry, when the orders came down for them to escort a medical transport off-planet and to a distant galaxy.
But that is what Protectobots do. Ratchet and Ironhide couldn’t leave Optimus, it was their duty. And it was the duty of Hot Spot’s team to watch over those who needed it most.
Ratchet doesn’t ask what happened to the medical transport. Logic answers that question for him. He can tell, in the dark echoes of their fields, the sense of tragedy buried in the unasked question.
Blades is silent compared to his brothers. He stands apart, armor jittering, his expression serious and narrow. Ratchet doesn’t take offense. That’s how Blades has always been. He’s always preferred his shows of affection to be sincere and private.
But his inability to control his emotion hasn’t much changed for the centuries.
“Where’s Ironhide?” he demands, his visor tracking the gathered faces, his HUD no doubt already updating with Cybertron’s current census and finding his adoptive-genitor’s designation nowhere in the list.
Ratchet’s spark squeezes like a punch to the midsection. Ironhide’s loss hits him all over again, his optics sparking and his vents stuttering. His mate should be here, welcoming their younglings back to Cybertron. He should be congratulating Hot Spot, and talking to Blades in that way he always had to calm the erratic heli down.
But Ironhide isn’t here. Because Sentinel Prime killed him.
“He’s gone, Blades,” Ratchet replies, the words tasting like ash on his glossa. No, like rust. The rust in the air, lingering after Sentinel shot Ironhide in the back. “He… Sentinel… He’s gone.”
Hot Spot’s arms tighten around him. First Aid presses his face to Ratchet’s chestplate. Blades’ rotors jitter in familiar patterns even as Streetwise moves closer to him, reaching up to rest a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Blades frowns, and then his gaze shifts, ever so slowly, to Megatron nearby, watching but not interfering. Wisely removed to Optimus’ side as he keeps his silence.
Ratchet only notices because he’s watching. He sees the shift, the dawning realization come over Blades’ face. The way his lip curls back, his denta clench, his hands form fists. There must be a flash of warning through their gestalt bond, because First Aid stiffens and Hot Spot growls a single “don’t” before Blades snarls and chaos reigns.
It takes the combined might of all four of his brothers to pull Blades off from Megatron, who had only defended himself and hadn’t returned a single blow. It takes Ratchet wading into the fray, sedating the angry rotary, who’s howling curses and screaming, “Your fault, your fault, your fault!” and Ratchet can’t blame him.
He’d spent far too long himself, shouting ‘your fault’ at Megatron, if only in his own head.
Blades slumps into Hot Shot’s arms, his field full of frenetic energy, and the silence afterward is ripe with whirring vents and startled looks.
“It’s a long story,” First Aid murmurs with a sideways glance at Megatron, who hadn’t reacted beyond backing further away. “It’s been a long journey home.”
“As it has for everyone,” Optimus says, stepping forward, reaching out with arms and a field that has always served as a source of comfort, helping to ease the thick tension of the moment. “Come. We’ll get you fuel, rest, treatment if needed. There are many changes now, but we can talk about it after you’ve rested.”
Optimus’ quiet, firm command takes charge of the situation, setting the tension to a low simmer. The Protectobots look to Hot Spot, who looks to Optimus with relief and agreement in his optics. He nods, murmurs a quiet thank you, and hefts Blades up into his arms.
“Lead the way, sir,” he says, the rest of his brothers falling in beside him.
All save for First Aid, who lingers, his gaze more sharply knowing than it had been before leaving Cybertron all those eons ago. Ratchet doesn’t know what they’ve been through out in the universe, but it’s matured his young protege. Perhaps even changed him.
“He’ll be okay,” First Aid says as he watches Optimus lead his team away, and Hot Spot shift Blades’ weight in his arms. “Eventually, I mean. We all will.” He leans in against Ratchet. “I’m sorry about Ironhide.”
Ratchet sighs. “Me, too.” He slips an arm over First Aid’s shoulders, tucking his protege against his side. He chances a glance at Megatron who had lingered, and their optics meet.
Megatron nods once before he turns to leave, opposite where Optimus had taken the Protectobots, Thundercracker leaving with him. No charges will be filed against Blades. Ratchet knows Megatron won’t bother.
The guilt still rages within Megatron. Honestly, without it, Ratchet doesn’t know if he can even look at Megatron. Not when those words echo in his audials.
“Your fault! Your fault!” Because Blades is wrong, and he isn’t, and the world is not simple. Not anymore.
He’ll catch up with Megatron later. He has a feeling he knows what’s going through Megatron’s processor at the moment and like frag is Ratchet going to let Megatron run away from this. It isn’t going to be easy, but nothing worth having ever is.
Ratchet pats First Aid on his opposite shoulder. “Come on. Optimus is right. You all could use some rest.”
First Aid lets Ratchet lead him away, relief thick in his field as he leans hard against Ratchet’s side. Behind them, the rickety spacecraft groans its final death throes and collapses with a clatter.
Later, far later than Ratchet is used to functioning these days, the Protectobots are snuggled away in a suite large enough to suit all five of them and their unique situation. They’re clean, as fueled as their starved tanks can manage, mended, and deep in recharge.
Ratchet’s spark had ached as he looked at them, as he assessed their hurts and their scars, recognizing far too many types of damage. What horrors they survived, he doesn’t even want to know. There’s a haunted shadow in the back of their gazes. Ironhide would’ve been furious.
Perhaps it’s better he’s not here to see.
Ratchet intends to trudge home, but he detours. He drags himself to Megatron’s suite instead, knowing the Lord High Protector has yet to recharge, and it’s come to this, that he doesn’t even have to knock for an invitation. He has the code, so he lets himself inside, to quarters that are dim and quiet, but occupied.
He finds Megatron on the balcony, hands clasped behind his back as he looks out over Cybertron in the middle of night-cycle, though leaning more toward early morning. There’s a heavy tension to Megatron’s shoulders, a resigned set to the way he holds himself, as if braced for bad news.
“How is Blades?” he asks before Ratchet can even get in field-sense range.
Ratchet blasts Megatron with a quick, sweeping scan. But there’s no lingering damage from Blades’ attack. Megatron’s nanites have already tended to the dents and bruises.
“He and Ironhide were close,” Ratchet replies, which isn’t precisely an answer. He moves next to Megatron, within touching range, but doesn’t reach out, except with his field. “Fortunately, he has his brothers still. He’ll be fine.” He pauses, and amends with, “Eventually.”
Megatron doesn’t look at him, his gaze fixed outward. “That is good to hear.” He sounds carefully neutral, carefully braced. “I am glad they found their way back to you.”
“Me, too. And here I was thinking the universe was all out of miracles for me.” Ratchet chuckles, but he knows it sounds forced and nervous.
Megatron shifts and audibly cycles a ventilation. “Ratchet,” he begins, only to pause, his armor creaking as it tightens over his frame. He adds, much more quietly, “You don’t have to pretend on my account. They are your younglings. They will always come first.”
“They are adults now. The war’s made them that much. Their opinions are noted, but don’t matter,” Ratchet retorts, anger flashing through him before he realizes the true fear behind Megatron’s actions. Leave before being left, it’s a matter of self-preservation.
Because yes, he’d told them. He hadn’t wanted rumors to color their opinions. He hadn’t wanted the gossip to set in, poisoning their memories or their relationship.
Yes, Ratchet and Megatron are romantically involved. It’s a long story. They don’t have to accept it. They don’t have to understand it. But they do have to respect Ratchet’s choice. He’d been quite firm.
Their reactions left much to be desired. Hot Spot had been respectful, but his gaze haunted, no doubt thinking more of Ironhide, who had been both mentor and creator to him. Streetwise had said nothing. Groove had, of all things, congratulated Ratchet with an embrace and a murmured ‘be happy, yeah?’.
Blades had been silent because Blades was still sedated. Hot Spot promised to tell him first thing after he woke. Ratchet doesn’t envy anyone that task. He’s made a mental note to keep an optic out for Blades. They don’t need any incidents.
First Aid had given Ratchet a long, incisive look. He’d known, he claimed as he walked Ratchet to the door and was out of immediate hearing range of his brothers. He’d seen the way Megatron looked at Ratchet. He’d seen how Megatron lingered. How he hadn’t even fought back, and it wasn’t just the treaty and personal guilt that kept his hands at his sides, not even formed into fists.
“I trust you,” First Aid had said, only to sigh heavily. “But I don’t trust him. Ironhide’s not here anymore. So if he hurts you, Defensor is more than happy to step up in his place.”
Ratchet had appreciated the sentiment, but not the insinuation behind it. The way his younglings-adopted look at him as though he’s lost his processor, his senses, with Ironhide and all that remains is a series of terrible choices.
There are other mechs on the planet, he imagines them trying to plead. Couldn’t you have found one even three-fourths as controversial as Megatron?
Pah.
Ratchet shakes his head, shakes out the memories and the assumptions. Left behind is frustration and irritation, and both he directs at Megatron, if only so he can make the foolish Lord High Protector understand.
“I don’t know when you think I became the sort of mech who lets others decide things for me, but that’s not who I am. That’s never who I’ve been,” Ratchet says with a fierceness that surprises him.
He steps in front of Megatron, blocking his view of the city, forcing Megatron to look at him. “I’m with you because I want to be. I’m here because this is where I chose to go. If you don’t want me, fine, I can take a hint. But don’t push me away because you think it’s what’s best for me. I can decide that for myself, thank you very much.”
Megatron looks at him, optics wide and startled, his expression betraying the conflict of emotion in his spark. Like he wants to believe Ratchet, but doesn’t trust that belief. His intake visibly works until the tension in his posture loosens enough for him to uncross his arms, to rest his hands carefully on Ratchet’s shoulders. His coalfire optics are warm, because yes, Megatron had not swapped his optical lenses for Autobot blue.
No one insisted.
“I don’t think there is anything I have done to deserve you,” he says quietly, his voice like tires over gravel. His hands slide inward until they gently cup the bottom of Ratchet’s face, thumbs sweeping over the spurs of his cheeks. “If there is justice meant for me, it would be a broken spark as you walk away.”
Megatron audibly ex-vents and leans forward, until his forehead presses to Ratchet’s, and the contact of plating against plating relents his energy field as well. Ratchet senses the broil of turmoil inside of him, the fight between what he wants, and what he thinks he can have.
Ratchet snorts, aiming for irreverent if only to cover up the way his spark throbs at the overtly gentle touch. “I’m not a prize or anything. Besides, I’m done letting the universe decide what I deserve. You should be, too. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it takes a special kind of courage to look at the destruction you’ve caused and try to change. That’s the courage I fell in love with.”
The words leave his mouth before he realizes the confession they are. Ratchet’s jaw snaps shut in surprise at himself, and he shutters his optics with a quiet sigh. The words are out there, he’s not taking them back because they are true, if not a little premature in being offered.
He’s more worried they’ll spook Megatron.
Ratchet swallows over a lump in his intake and gently rests his hands over Megatron’s wrists. The hold on his face has gone still. Even Megatron’s field paused, as though his entirety has been frozen with shock.
Ratchet looks up at him, and his spark throbs at Megatron’s expression. It’s almost physically painful, to see the mix of wonder and hope and anxiety flashing over the elegant dermal plates.
“I’m sorry,” Ratchet says, quietly. “I babble. It’s what I do when I’m tired, and it’s been a long day. I still meant what I said, and it was freely offered. You don’t owe me anything in return.”
Megatron cycles a ventilation, one ragged and rough, before his thumbs sweep over Ratchet’s cheek once more. “I don’t… I can’t…” He pauses to compose himself and his field rises up, wrapping warm and tender around Ratchet’s frame. “I’m not worthy of such a gift,” he finally says. “But I cherish it. And someday, I might even be brave enough to offer one of my own.”
“I can wait,” Ratchet says.
Because something like this, it shouldn’t be rushed or demanded. He’ll wait forever if that’s what it takes. Words are just words.
The look in Megatron’s optics, the gentle way he pulls Ratchet into his arms, an embrace near-crushing for the desperation in it, they speak all Ratchet needs to know.
a/n: Once more!
