[IDW] Walking the Wire 02/11
Jul. 23rd, 2018 06:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Walking the Wire 2/11
Universe: IDW MTMTE Season Two, Hot to Trot sequel, Between the Lines series
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, Bluestreak, Perceptor
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sex, BDSM themes, Bondage, Dom/Sub Themes, BDSM Education, Trust Issues, Angst, Vampires/Energy Eaters, mentions of torture, canon-typical violence, the LL always finds trouble
Description: What Megatron and Ratchet are to each other is a matter up for debate, one that gets a little tangled when the Lost Light stumbles into an unexpected complication.
Commission for Larry Draws
Chapter Two
Onlining with a squeeze in his tanks, an urge to consume, a hunger was nothing new to Megatron. That damn fool’s energon left him constantly wanting, on edge, waiting for satisfaction in any shape and form.
But it wasn’t a thirst for real energon that squeezed Megatron’s internals when his alarm alerted him he had to be on shift soon. It was a thirst for something else, brought upon by the echoes which haunted his recharge. Lingering memories of two evenings ago, when Ratchet had promised him pleasure, and followed through on the promise.
Megatron had never in his life interfaced to the point of blacking out from the sheer pleasure of it. He’d never felt as thrilled as he had when Ratchet rode him, again and again, the bonds around his wrist a constant reminder he was at Ratchet’s mercy.
A safe mercy. Megatron had been trapped, but he’d felt safe, and he still wasn’t sure which part of that was more frightening.
Megatron slid his legs over the side of the berth and lingered, hands braced on the edge. He rolled his head, easing the kinks in his neck, a passive scan alerting him to the fact he was alone. He did not know where Ravage was. The cassette had his own business, and besides, they weren’t technically on a mission.
Ravage was allowed to do as he wished. And if he were gone, it meant Megatron faced no potential dangers.
They would be leaving Quartex’s orbit today. They’d spent too long here already, but Megatron’s arguments about wasted time had been completely overridden by Rodimus’ much louder insistence their search was as much about the journey as it was the destination. Ultra Magnus had been on Megatron’s side, but there was no stopping Rodimus when he was determined.
Admittedly, most of the crew sided with Rodimus as well. The moment they’d heard about Quartex and what it had to offer, the sense of excitement and enthusiasm had been palpable. Simmering tension had given way to fervor, and the crew had all but stampeded off the ship the moment the Lost Light docked.
Megatron forced himself to his feet. He staggered over to the storage cabinet, pulling out a cleaning cloth to wipe away recharge-gathered dust. He was exhausted, though he only had himself to blame.
He’d stayed up far too late, perched at a public console in the Lost Light’s meager library, researching with Ravage on guard and fielding too many curious looks and questions from crewmembers who were bold enough to poke at him. The database was disappointingly light on information. Oh, it had plenty enough on history – Autobot sympathetic, of course – but when it came to interfacing, there were only dry articles about the mechanisms behind it. There was nothing useful about safe words and bondage and the hints of other types of play related to both.
Megatron had realized, with a growl, if he wanted to know more, he’d have to ask Ratchet. That had been enough to make him power down the console with a jab of his finger, his other hand rapping a nonsense rhythm on the desktop.
Megatron was not an untouched. He’d had his fair share of interface partners. He had, contrary to Ratchet’s belief, allowed himself to indulge in various types of kinky interfacing behavior. He knew of bondage, but had little personal experience because he hadn’t seen the draw of being restrained and at the mercy of another mech.
He hadn’t expected that night to be anything more than something he endured for the sake of proving he could. He hadn’t expected to overload, except perhaps out of a natural response to stimuli.
He most certainly hadn’t expected the cravings to set in. The desire to find out more, to experience more, to feel more. To see what other pleasure Ratchet could wring from him, to hear Ratchet growling commands at him, to feel Ratchet’s valve clamping tight around his spike as he perched over Megatron, lips twisted with pride.
More than that, he definitely hadn’t expected the relief and the surge of trust spawned in his response when Ratchet had listened to him. When the rush of overloads had gotten to be too much, and his spike ached and his lines crackled, and he felt he were drowning in the fire.
He was still hard, and he didn’t know how that was possible, not with his transfluid tank clenching near-empty and his frame drenched in condensation. And then Ratchet started pumping his hips again, valve dragging over the raw sensors of Megatron’s spike, and despite his every effort, Megatron had tossed his head back and gasped out a plea.
“Wait,” he’d said, hating himself for the weakness, but desperately needing a moment to catch his vents. His wrists had jerked in the bonds, his processor spun dizzily.
He waited for Ratchet to keep going, to ignore him. He waited for the barrage of taunts to come, teasing him for not being strong enough to endure.
He received neither.
Instead, Ratchet had risen up on his knees, Megatron’s spike freed of his valve, lubricant and transfluid both dripping freely. He’d rested his hands on Megatron’s chassis, over his spark, and he’d said,
“Tell me when.”
Megatron had gulped in desperate vents, heated air, ripe with the scent of overloads and ozone and lubricant. He’d trembled in his bonds, limp on the berth, but his optics had taken in Ratchet’s expression, the pleasure and the glee and the unexpected patience.
He’d wait there until Megatron told him to continue. And in that moment, trust and affection had spiraled so heavily in Megatron’s spark he’d rattled right into another overload, swallowing down a wail before it could betray him.
The door to his suite slid open, startling him out of the memory. Megatron stiffened, and sent out a sensor sweep, rather than whirl toward it and betray his surprise. But it was only Ravage, slinking inside without making a single noise.
“The natives are restless,” he said.
Megatron snorted. “Given how many of them spent the last week ashore, they should all be sated piles of quiet for the next month.” He tossed the cloth into a laundry bin and gave himself a quick check in the door mirror. He was presentable enough. “Find anything interesting?”
“Just this.”
Ravage leapt up onto Megatron’s berth and pulled a data chip from one of his compartments. He set it on the bedside table with a small click.
Megatron frowned as he picked up the chip, barely bigger than his fingertip. “Have you been poking around in the mainframe again?”
“Would I do that?” Ravage’s voice effected an innocence no one believed. His tail swished as he grinned. “Not this time anyway. I made a discreet call and acquired that for you.”
Curious.
Megatron pulled out his personal datapad and slotted the chip into it. He accessed it immediately, skimming the contents. Heat flooded his face, not that he’d ever admit his embarrassment aloud.
His vents coughed as he gave Ravage a sidelong look. “Dare I ask from who?”
“You probably don’t want to know.” Ravage’s optics flashed with amusement. He lowered himself down, resting his chin on his folded forelegs.
Megatron didn’t know whether to be grateful Ravage had come through for him, or embarrassed his subordinate had not only figured out what Megatron was searching for yesterday, but had decided to seek out information on Megatron’s behalf. Either way, the material on this datachip was priceless. It was an idiot’s guide to BDSM, to put it colloquially.
He powered down the datapad and tucked it back into his storage compartment. He didn’t have the time to read it in depth at the moment. He had to be on shift shortly.
“Thank you,” Megatron said, swallowing down the rest of his embarrassment. He was the former leader of the Decepticons. He was not ashamed of his berth proclivities. “Though if you do happen to stumble into the mainframe and come across anything of interest, feel free to share.”
Ravage’s optics had drifted shut, and he unshuttered one at that suggestion. “And exactly how does that fit into your change of spark?”
“Information is always good to have, no matter what position you’re in.”
“And the medic?”
Megatron tilted his head toward the berth, eying Ravage who had re-shuttered his optic and appeared to be in recharge. “What about him?” Megatron asked, his tone flat.
Tread carefully, his tone warned.
Ravage, however, was never one who had let such a tone intimidate him. His tail swished across the berth. “Are you serious about him?”
“It’s not a relationship,” Megatron said. He closed the supply cabinet with a loud snap. “It’s also none of your business.”
Weighty silence was Ravage’s reply. Judgment without a look, without a word. He’d always been so very good at that. He and Soundwave both. Megatron missed his third’s counsel, even as he already knew Soundwave would never forgive him.
Grinding his denta, Megatron mastered his emotions and hid them behind an impenetrable wall. “I’ll be back later.”
“No, you won’t,” Ravage said. He sounded amused as the comment chased Megatron out the door. It locked behind him.
Had to get in the last word, didn’t he? Damn Ravage. It was no mystery where Soundwave had gotten his inscrutability from. Though there were very few who knew that particular secret.
Megatron headed to the command deck, only absently noting the crew members who scurried out of his path. Most didn’t bother to greet him. Megatron recognized them only because he’d memorized the roster of his new ‘crew’, and Megatron used the term loosely. But as for whether or not he’d ever faced them across the battlefield, Megatron couldn’t say for sure.
It had been a long war.
The door to the command bridge spiraled open and assaulted him with the noise of a dozen different consoles beeping and chirping and clicking their continued efforts. Megatron was here to relieve Ultra Magnus, but Rodimus was present as well, capering about with a grin on his face and a jaunty tilt to his spoiler.
“I told you, Magnus. Didn’t I? I knew it was a good idea to stop here.”
“So you did, Rodimus,” Ultra Magnus replied in a distracted tone, his gaze focused on a datapad, his stylus moving quickly across it. “I still say you were lucky.”
“Pfft. Of course I am. And did you hear that? Pfft.” Rodimus grinned even brighter. “Chromedome taught me. I finally figured it out.”
“Congratulations.”
Ultra Magnus could not have sounded less enthused.
“Dare I ask what has you so excited?” Megatron asked as he approached the two of them.
He glanced around the bridge, taking note of who was present today. The rotating bridge crew had gotten used to his presence by now, but occasionally, there was a substitute.
Rodimus beamed like he’d solved all the mysteries of the universe. “We have a heading,” he declared triumphantly, and planted his hands on his hips. “We’re about to be one step closer to finding the Knights of Cybertron.”
Megatron’s orbital ridges drifted upward. “And how did you accomplish that?”
“Nautica.” Rodimus’ spoiler twitched up and down in a mad dance of glee. “Thanks to my leadership, of course. She found a book on Quartex in some antique shop, and it was written in an old Cybertronian dialect that we translated and voila!” Rodimus spread out his hands and turned in a quick circle, pointing upward at the ceiling with a triumphant finger. “We have made progress.”
Megatron wondered if the look on his face reflected the disbelief he felt on the inside. “A book,” he repeated. “On an organic planet catered to those looking for the quickest means of achieving satisfaction. And you think this is a legitimate source.”
“I think it’s worth checking out.” Rodimus pointed at Megatron, bare inches from poking him in the chestplate directly over his Autobrand. “Unless you’ve got a better idea Mr. Co-Captain who hasn’t made a single worthwhile contribution to our mission yet.”
Megatron twisted his jaw. “And where, perchance, does this book tell us to go?”
“The Hyades Cluster,” Ultra Magnus answered, still bent over his datapad as though it had the secret to understanding Rodimus scrawled across the screen.
“The Hyades-- Rodimus, that’s halfway across the universe,” Megatron said with an exasperated vent. “It’s a sharp angle from the direction we’ve been following from the Matrix.”
Rodimus folded his arms, lips set stubbornly. “Your point?”
Primus below.
Megatron scrubbed at his forehead, a familiar ache developing. It had a name, this processor ache did, and its name was Rodimus. The mech simply didn’t operate by any sort of logic Megatron could understand, unless that logic devolved to “I do what I want because I want, nyah.”
Which was, actually, a lot like Starscream’s logic. Primus, but the two were aggravatingly similar at times. Though Megatron considered Starscream someone more of a challenge, and more of a survivor. This wannabe Prime was merely a nuisance.
He had to give Starscream credit. The Seeker always did a fantastic job of keeping Megatron from getting too complacent.
“If you don’t understand why this is a terrible idea, then I can’t explain it to you,” Megatron said wearily. He slanted a look at Ultra Magnus. “Surely you don’t think this is the best course of action?”
Ultra Magnus slotted the stylus into the holder. He tucked the datapad under his arm and looked up. “I think that up until now we’ve been following the instructions of a map no one can duplicate or accurately remember, one which was taken from an artifact that has since been destroyed. At this point, scribbled coordinates in a dusty tome on Quartex are as believable as anything else.”
Megatron nearly gaped.
Rodimus had no such restraint. He pumped his fists into the air. “Yes!” He did a little dance as Megatron’s armor twitched, and then he spun toward the navigation console. “Mainframe, set course for the Hyades Cluster.”
“Setting course now,” Mainframe said.
The ache in Megatron’s head grew in size.
“And with that, I’m out.” Rodimus dusted his hands like he’d done some great work, when all he’d done was badger everyone into seeing things his way. “Things to do. People to see. Drinks to drink.” He winked. “Have fun!”
He wriggled his fingers in what Megatron assumed was meant to be a parting gesture before Rodimus left the bridge, a skip to his step. It was impossible to take the child seriously. No wonder Optimus had wanted Megatron on this trip. They’d needed adult supervision, and Ultra Magnus did not count.
He was more the older sibling who protested, but ended up getting dragged into his younger sibling’s pace anyway.
Megatron cycled a ventilation and shifted his focus to Ultra Magnus. “What have you to report?”
“Other than our change in course?” Ultra Magnus clasped his hands behind his back, standing at parade rest. “Nothing of concern, captain.”
“Well, that’s a nice change of pace.” Megatron stepped up to the main console, logging himself as on-shift and the main point of contact.
Ultra Magnus fidgeted in his peripheral vision, an occurrence odd in itself. Ultra Magnus did not fidget. He was too precise for that.
“There is one small matter I’d like to bring to your attention, however.”
“Go on.”
“It involves Ratchet.”
Megatron stiffened. His fingers stilled on the console. “What about him?” he asked in an even tone which hopefully betrayed nothing.
Surely Ultra Magnus was not so bold as to ask him about their relationship – and Megatron used the term loosely – right here on the bridge. More than that, how had he known?
“I am concerned he is not getting an adequate amount of rest and as a consequence is overworking himself far beyond the capabilities of his frame,” Ultra Magnus said, never one to use three words when ten would do. “If this persists, he will not only suffer a forced system reset, but he will also reduce the capable medics we have aboard the ship.”
Megatron half-turned. “Are you asking me to order Ratchet to take some time off?” It was absurd. Since when did Ratchet obey anyone? Or did Ultra Magnus expect Megatron to track down and call up Optimus and get him to talk some sense into his medic?
Ultra Magnus met his gaze without flinching. But he swayed a little to the left, toward the door, as though suddenly eager to make an escape. “A direct order might be the only means of achieving compliance.”
“You didn’t ask Rodimus to do this.”
“Of course not.” A look of consternation flickered briefly over Ultra Magnus’ face before it was washed away. “You have more… influence than he does.”
Megatron stared.
Ultra Magnus stared back.
There was a lot unsaid in the space between them, and Megatron was partly afraid to ask for clarification. Had Ultra Magnus asked him because Ratchet had never recognized Rodimus’ authority? Or was it for another reason?
Maybe he was aware of the relationship budding between Ratchet and Megatron. If so, that made this request even more suspect.
Did Ultra Magnus honestly believe Megatron had any control over Ratchet? Or was he asking because Megatron was captain (co-captain if Rodimus asked) and therefore had authority over Ratchet? Either way, it was an odd request, and Megatron wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“I make no guarantees,” Megatron managed and turned his attention back to the console, which listed all of the Lost Light’s major systems and their current statuses. “But I will attempt to encourage Ratchet to rest. Will that suffice?”
“It does. Thank you.” Ultra Magnus dipped his head in a show of respect, which was a novelty on the Lost Light. No other crewmember around here seemed to understand what it meant to show some decorum. “Now if you have need of me--”
“I won’t,” Megatron interjected, and tossed a brief half-smile over his shoulder. “Enjoy your time off, Ultra Magnus. There are others to call on if a need arises.”
Gratitude flickered in Ultra Magnus’ field before it was whisked away, as if embarrassed he’d let it slip. “Yes, sir.”
Ultra Magnus spun on a heelstrut – a perfectly executed 180 degree turn – and strode off the bridge. Megatron bet that if he timed Ultra Magnus footsteps, they would match some internal, immaculate rhythm. Magnus was wound tighter than a spring, and as fascinating as it would be to see him snap, Megatron hoped to circumvent it somehow.
It was on the list.
After all, Ultra Magnus was much more useful in a functional state, rather than a mess of agitation and disarray.
The bridge quieted in Ultra Magnus and Rodimus’ absence. With the Lost Light on a determined course – two week’s arrival time by Mainframe’s estimates – the background chatter dulled to a barely audible murmur. The differences were striking.
Rodimus’ presence meant the bridge was loud and boisterous and often full of crew members loitering about who weren’t even on shift, but merely tarrying because they could. Or because one of their friends were working. Rodimus himself was occasionally found dozing in the captain’s chair, or ensconced in one of the many console or card games the crew brought with them on shift.
Ultra Magnus’ presence demanded respect and the absence of games. But he allowed conversation, so long as it didn’t interfere with their work, and so the occasional laugh or aside could be heard. Ultra Magnus often paced when he was outright on the bridge, or scribbled in a datapad.
Megatron’s presence called for utter silence. They worked as though they expected a blaster shot to the back for so much as coughing or ventilating too loudly. The atmosphere was tense, expectant, and one could hear a bearing drop from the furthest reaches of the room.
Just last week, Highbrow had swung about in his chair, causing it to make an ungainly creak. Gears had been so startled, he fell out of his own seat, got his feet tangled in the stand, and knocked down his sealed cup of energon, causing it to spill everywhere. The sequence of events had been ridiculous, and Megatron had only lifted an orbital ridge. He expected a roll of laughter, muffled titters even.
Nothing. More silence.
The other crewmembers stared as Gears put himself to rights and Highbrow whispered – whispered! – an apology as he brought over a cleaning drone to tend to the mess.
Megatron’s crew weren’t comfortable in his presence. Fortunately, he didn’t need them to be. He only required they do their duties.
Megatron reviewed Ultra Magnus’ shift report, entered into the ship database in a timely fashion – unlike the scribbles of lateness which could be found in Rodimus’ reports. He saw nothing of concern, and plenty which were unnecessary but important to Ultra Magnus. Honestly, if someone didn’t replace that stripped rivet in the aft deck soon, Megatron would do it himself if only so he didn’t have to hear about it anymore.
Ultra Magnus’ other request lingered at the back of his processor. On a hunch, Megatron reviewed the medical bay’s staffing schedule. According to it, First Aid was the medic on hand at the moment, with Ratchet on call for emergencies. How many cubes of engex would Megatron bet Ratchet was present in the medbay anyway?
More cubes than he was allowed to consume, Megatron guessed.
He locked the system and briefly surveyed the bridge. No one would be bothered if he stepped away to do a quick sweep of the ship. In fact, they’d probably encourage it.
“Mainframe, I am going to be off bridge for about an hour or so. You have my comm if anything requiring my attention comes up,” Megatron said.
“Yes, Captain. Logging you as ‘away’ now.”
There was something to be said about the efficiency fear could inspire. Megatron keyed a quick remote access to his mobile unit, tucked said unit into an arm compartment, and exited the bridge. The door had barely whooshed shut behind him before he heard the low murmur of conversation begin to engage.
Megatron headed for the medical bay, three decks down and a quarter of the way across the ship. He pulled out the datapad Ravage had given him, intending on skimming the contents as he walked. It made him seem less threatening, he knew, to be so busy while in the corridor, rather than eying every Autobot he passed.
Perception was not often reality but who listened to reason anymore?
He didn’t know how Ravage had acquired this information, and he’d never ask, but there were hundreds of articles with connecting links, pictures, and testimonials. Some of them were based on other species, more organic, but Megatron supposed some of the principles were the same.
It boiled down to trust. The types of play differed, and the kinks explored ranged from the obscene to the common, but the connecting factor was that it all required trust. Trust your partner would listen to you, and trust you’d be honest with your partner.
Honesty.
Megatron nearly snorted aloud.
They couldn’t very well be honest with each other. They weren’t even honest with themselves.
There was one topic header that interested him. To be fair, there were many, but one in particular called for further exploration more than others. It discussed pain, and the erotic application of it.
Megatron frowned. Pain was something they were programmed to avoid. Why would anyone seek it out? Why would someone mix it into pleasure? It did not compute.
And yet…
He felt so disconnected to his frame some days. Between the multiple rebuilds, the holes in his protoform, the space-time material eating away at his very existence, sometimes he onlined with his hands tingling because he wasn’t sure they were still attached to his frame. Sometimes, even pleasure was hard to grasp. He suspected the fool’s energon was to blame in part, but the truth was, Megatron knew he was living on borrowed time.
He’d had too many rebuilds, too many close calls. He should be a dead a half-dozen times over, but the universe kept conspiring to return him to the madness.
There were times he woke in the middle of the night, shaking and wide-opticked, unable to decide if he were even functioning anymore, so disparate from his frame did he feel. His mind, his spark, they were all that seemed real anymore, and even the former was occasionally suspect thanks to Trepan’s tinkering. The rest was a cardboard cutout.
Pain, controlled pain, perhaps was the reminder he needed. To remember he was alive and still had something to fight for. He wanted to be grounded in his frame again, attached to his protoform, rather than feeling as though his spark floated endlessly in an untethered chamber. He’d always felt strongest when he was fighting for the right to function.
It was certainly something to ponder.
Megatron powered down the datapad and slipped it back into his storage compartment as the main entrance to the medical center came into view. An odd squirm nestled in his tanks, and he wasn’t sure if it was trepidation or excitement. He grimaced at the thought of how Ratchet might react to the mere suggestion he take a break.
Megatron strode into the medical center with a set to his shoulders that screamed purpose and authority. Sadly, there was no one in immediate view to appreciate his arrival. Through the sheer transsteel, First Aid was visible as he tended to the half-dozen or so crewmembers trapped in a sort of permanent stasis. No one was sure why yet, it was an ongoing mystery like so many things circulating around this ship.
Ratchet, who should not have been here, could be seen through the open doorway in the equipment storage room. He looked deeply engrossed in… cleaning? Seriously? That’s what was so important he couldn’t possibly enjoy an off-shift?
Perhaps Ultra Magnus had a point.
Megatron braced himself and ventured inside, leaning against the door frame.
“I don’t need help, Aid,” Ratchet groused as he deftly disassembled a device Megatron could not name. It seemed to consist mostly of a central unit and multiple lengths of tubing.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Megatron said.
Ratchet looked up, something flashing in his optics, before he snorted and went back to removing bits of tubing, inspecting them with a critical optic. “Last I checked, you’re not a medic either.”
“I am, however, captain.”
“Co-captain.”
Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “Echoing Rodimus? This is clearly a sign you should be enjoying your time off, not hiding in your medical bay.”
“It’s not mine anymore. It’s Aid’s,” Ratchet said, but he cut Megatron a glare at the comparison to Rodimus.
Megatron folded his arms. “Really? Well, you should tell him that. And yourself.” He made a show of looking around. “Still looks like yours to me.”
Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Is there a reason you came here? Because you don’t look injured, and it’s not time for your daily dose of poison.” His fingers tightened around the tubing.
“You’re supposed to be off-shift.” Megatron leveled Ratchet with a look, putting every ounce of authority he’d ever acquired into his voice. “Most mechs take the opportunity to rest. Indulge in personal projects. Recharge. Have fun. Normal things.”
“Normal things,” Ratchet echoed, and the disdain dripping from his tone made Megatron shiver, so icy was it. “Well, most mechs can frag off. I’m busy. There’s too much to do.”
With that, he bent over the machine and start tugging at the tubes again, though with more force than before. His field spiked, a brief lash of irritation against Megatron’s, before it withdrew into an icy whirl around his frame.
Megatron straightened. “Ratchet.” He planted his feet and braced himself. He’d faced down Starscream. Surely he could face down an old medic. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Ratchet froze. Even his vents stuttered. His fingers went still, tangled as they were around the tubing. He lifted his gaze back to Megatron so slowly, Megatron swore he could hear the creak of his gears, click-clicking into place.
“If it’s not a suggestion, that means it was an order,” Ratchet said carefully. He set aside the tubing with methodical precision. “And I’m wondering when you started thinking you could come in here and order me around, because it better not have been right after I started taking you into my berth.”
The last was a growl, a threat by any other name.
Megatron worked his jaw, his reaction running the gamut from outraged to frustrated before he settled on offended. “Contrary to your belief, what we do in the berth has no bearing on how I behave as the commanding officer on this vessel,” he bit out, tight and contained. “Specifically your commanding officer.”
“Well, that’s the kicker isn’t it, since here we are standing right smack in the middle of a blatant conflict of interest.” Ratchet moved the equipment aside, his armor fluttering around his frame. “Since you can’t be both.”
“If I was dealing with a reasonable mech, this wouldn’t even be an issue,” Megatron ground out, a touch too loud.
He peered over his shoulder, but no one was around to pay them any mind. First Aid was still with the comatose patients, no one was in the waiting area, and even the medibot was out of sight.
Still.
He stepped fully into the storage room, closing them inside, which was effective, but also not, because now he was closer to the storm that was Ratchet’s field. And the fury, which was reflected in Ratchet’s face.
“Ah, yes, I’m the unreasonable one.” Ratchet snorted, his tone this shade of snide. He scooped up armfuls of tubing like they were what had offended him. “And not, for example, the very same mech who got angry and decided the entire planet had to suffer for it.”
Heat turned to ice inside of Megatron, the chill of shame. There were things Megatron wanted to change, and things he would never regret, and somehow, Ratchet managed to stomp on both.
“If you’re looking for someone to be angry at, take a look in the mirror. I didn’t coerce you into my berth, medic. You leapt in of your own accord,” Megatron near-snarled, and his hands formed fists at his side, before the weakness overtook him.
Leashed violence, that was what had become of him. He would not strike out.
Would not, could not? He wasn’t sure anymore.
“Which still doesn’t give you the right to come down here and order me around,” Ratchet hissed, his field spiking, a lash of liquid nitrogen against the heat of Megatron’s.
Megatron twisted his jaw. “No, it doesn’t. Which is why I’m here as captain of this ship.
And as captain, I’m telling you to take some fragging time off like a normal mech before you crash and burn.”
“When I need advice about the limits of my own frame, I’ll ask a professional, thank you very much.” Ratchet bundled up his tubing and stomped toward the door. “Now get out of my way. These need to be disposed of properly.”
Megatron held his ground, forcing Ratchet to stop within a stride of him. “Were you this insubordinate with Optimus?”
“Yes.” Ratchet’s smile was so falsely sweet it stoked the fires of his anger. “Only I actually respected his authority. Can’t say the same for you.”
It hurt. It hurt far more than he thought it would.
Trust, the little datapad whispered to him. Trust, Ratchet had said, only a few nights ago. How could they even begin to have trust without respect? Megatron always had a healthy respect for the Autobot CMO, but clearly, that was not returned.
Megatron ventilated in and out. “Very well,” he said, through gritted denta, and a building wave of emotion he couldn’t define. “The next time an order needs to be issued, you can take it from Ultra Magnus or Rodimus. That should satisfy your respect for authority.”
He spun on a heel and slammed his palm against the panel, demanding the door open for him. And it did, springing aside, leaving him free to storm out of the storage room, Ratchet behind him.
If the medic said anything, Megatron didn’t hear him, not through the roaring in his audials, and rapid working of his intake as he struggled to swallow a torrent of emotion. Much of which he did not care to feel.
Hurt? He had no business feeling hurt. This was nothing. Not relationship, not friendship. They should have stuck to what they were good at. Interfacing. Fragging. That was easy. That was doable.
Trust? Respect? Hah. Neither existed.
They were a walking disaster.
***
Universe: IDW MTMTE Season Two, Hot to Trot sequel, Between the Lines series
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Rung, Ravage, Bluestreak, Perceptor
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sex, BDSM themes, Bondage, Dom/Sub Themes, BDSM Education, Trust Issues, Angst, Vampires/Energy Eaters, mentions of torture, canon-typical violence, the LL always finds trouble
Description: What Megatron and Ratchet are to each other is a matter up for debate, one that gets a little tangled when the Lost Light stumbles into an unexpected complication.
Commission for Larry Draws
Onlining with a squeeze in his tanks, an urge to consume, a hunger was nothing new to Megatron. That damn fool’s energon left him constantly wanting, on edge, waiting for satisfaction in any shape and form.
But it wasn’t a thirst for real energon that squeezed Megatron’s internals when his alarm alerted him he had to be on shift soon. It was a thirst for something else, brought upon by the echoes which haunted his recharge. Lingering memories of two evenings ago, when Ratchet had promised him pleasure, and followed through on the promise.
Megatron had never in his life interfaced to the point of blacking out from the sheer pleasure of it. He’d never felt as thrilled as he had when Ratchet rode him, again and again, the bonds around his wrist a constant reminder he was at Ratchet’s mercy.
A safe mercy. Megatron had been trapped, but he’d felt safe, and he still wasn’t sure which part of that was more frightening.
Megatron slid his legs over the side of the berth and lingered, hands braced on the edge. He rolled his head, easing the kinks in his neck, a passive scan alerting him to the fact he was alone. He did not know where Ravage was. The cassette had his own business, and besides, they weren’t technically on a mission.
Ravage was allowed to do as he wished. And if he were gone, it meant Megatron faced no potential dangers.
They would be leaving Quartex’s orbit today. They’d spent too long here already, but Megatron’s arguments about wasted time had been completely overridden by Rodimus’ much louder insistence their search was as much about the journey as it was the destination. Ultra Magnus had been on Megatron’s side, but there was no stopping Rodimus when he was determined.
Admittedly, most of the crew sided with Rodimus as well. The moment they’d heard about Quartex and what it had to offer, the sense of excitement and enthusiasm had been palpable. Simmering tension had given way to fervor, and the crew had all but stampeded off the ship the moment the Lost Light docked.
Megatron forced himself to his feet. He staggered over to the storage cabinet, pulling out a cleaning cloth to wipe away recharge-gathered dust. He was exhausted, though he only had himself to blame.
He’d stayed up far too late, perched at a public console in the Lost Light’s meager library, researching with Ravage on guard and fielding too many curious looks and questions from crewmembers who were bold enough to poke at him. The database was disappointingly light on information. Oh, it had plenty enough on history – Autobot sympathetic, of course – but when it came to interfacing, there were only dry articles about the mechanisms behind it. There was nothing useful about safe words and bondage and the hints of other types of play related to both.
Megatron had realized, with a growl, if he wanted to know more, he’d have to ask Ratchet. That had been enough to make him power down the console with a jab of his finger, his other hand rapping a nonsense rhythm on the desktop.
Megatron was not an untouched. He’d had his fair share of interface partners. He had, contrary to Ratchet’s belief, allowed himself to indulge in various types of kinky interfacing behavior. He knew of bondage, but had little personal experience because he hadn’t seen the draw of being restrained and at the mercy of another mech.
He hadn’t expected that night to be anything more than something he endured for the sake of proving he could. He hadn’t expected to overload, except perhaps out of a natural response to stimuli.
He most certainly hadn’t expected the cravings to set in. The desire to find out more, to experience more, to feel more. To see what other pleasure Ratchet could wring from him, to hear Ratchet growling commands at him, to feel Ratchet’s valve clamping tight around his spike as he perched over Megatron, lips twisted with pride.
More than that, he definitely hadn’t expected the relief and the surge of trust spawned in his response when Ratchet had listened to him. When the rush of overloads had gotten to be too much, and his spike ached and his lines crackled, and he felt he were drowning in the fire.
He was still hard, and he didn’t know how that was possible, not with his transfluid tank clenching near-empty and his frame drenched in condensation. And then Ratchet started pumping his hips again, valve dragging over the raw sensors of Megatron’s spike, and despite his every effort, Megatron had tossed his head back and gasped out a plea.
“Wait,” he’d said, hating himself for the weakness, but desperately needing a moment to catch his vents. His wrists had jerked in the bonds, his processor spun dizzily.
He waited for Ratchet to keep going, to ignore him. He waited for the barrage of taunts to come, teasing him for not being strong enough to endure.
He received neither.
Instead, Ratchet had risen up on his knees, Megatron’s spike freed of his valve, lubricant and transfluid both dripping freely. He’d rested his hands on Megatron’s chassis, over his spark, and he’d said,
“Tell me when.”
Megatron had gulped in desperate vents, heated air, ripe with the scent of overloads and ozone and lubricant. He’d trembled in his bonds, limp on the berth, but his optics had taken in Ratchet’s expression, the pleasure and the glee and the unexpected patience.
He’d wait there until Megatron told him to continue. And in that moment, trust and affection had spiraled so heavily in Megatron’s spark he’d rattled right into another overload, swallowing down a wail before it could betray him.
The door to his suite slid open, startling him out of the memory. Megatron stiffened, and sent out a sensor sweep, rather than whirl toward it and betray his surprise. But it was only Ravage, slinking inside without making a single noise.
“The natives are restless,” he said.
Megatron snorted. “Given how many of them spent the last week ashore, they should all be sated piles of quiet for the next month.” He tossed the cloth into a laundry bin and gave himself a quick check in the door mirror. He was presentable enough. “Find anything interesting?”
“Just this.”
Ravage leapt up onto Megatron’s berth and pulled a data chip from one of his compartments. He set it on the bedside table with a small click.
Megatron frowned as he picked up the chip, barely bigger than his fingertip. “Have you been poking around in the mainframe again?”
“Would I do that?” Ravage’s voice effected an innocence no one believed. His tail swished as he grinned. “Not this time anyway. I made a discreet call and acquired that for you.”
Curious.
Megatron pulled out his personal datapad and slotted the chip into it. He accessed it immediately, skimming the contents. Heat flooded his face, not that he’d ever admit his embarrassment aloud.
His vents coughed as he gave Ravage a sidelong look. “Dare I ask from who?”
“You probably don’t want to know.” Ravage’s optics flashed with amusement. He lowered himself down, resting his chin on his folded forelegs.
Megatron didn’t know whether to be grateful Ravage had come through for him, or embarrassed his subordinate had not only figured out what Megatron was searching for yesterday, but had decided to seek out information on Megatron’s behalf. Either way, the material on this datachip was priceless. It was an idiot’s guide to BDSM, to put it colloquially.
He powered down the datapad and tucked it back into his storage compartment. He didn’t have the time to read it in depth at the moment. He had to be on shift shortly.
“Thank you,” Megatron said, swallowing down the rest of his embarrassment. He was the former leader of the Decepticons. He was not ashamed of his berth proclivities. “Though if you do happen to stumble into the mainframe and come across anything of interest, feel free to share.”
Ravage’s optics had drifted shut, and he unshuttered one at that suggestion. “And exactly how does that fit into your change of spark?”
“Information is always good to have, no matter what position you’re in.”
“And the medic?”
Megatron tilted his head toward the berth, eying Ravage who had re-shuttered his optic and appeared to be in recharge. “What about him?” Megatron asked, his tone flat.
Tread carefully, his tone warned.
Ravage, however, was never one who had let such a tone intimidate him. His tail swished across the berth. “Are you serious about him?”
“It’s not a relationship,” Megatron said. He closed the supply cabinet with a loud snap. “It’s also none of your business.”
Weighty silence was Ravage’s reply. Judgment without a look, without a word. He’d always been so very good at that. He and Soundwave both. Megatron missed his third’s counsel, even as he already knew Soundwave would never forgive him.
Grinding his denta, Megatron mastered his emotions and hid them behind an impenetrable wall. “I’ll be back later.”
“No, you won’t,” Ravage said. He sounded amused as the comment chased Megatron out the door. It locked behind him.
Had to get in the last word, didn’t he? Damn Ravage. It was no mystery where Soundwave had gotten his inscrutability from. Though there were very few who knew that particular secret.
Megatron headed to the command deck, only absently noting the crew members who scurried out of his path. Most didn’t bother to greet him. Megatron recognized them only because he’d memorized the roster of his new ‘crew’, and Megatron used the term loosely. But as for whether or not he’d ever faced them across the battlefield, Megatron couldn’t say for sure.
It had been a long war.
The door to the command bridge spiraled open and assaulted him with the noise of a dozen different consoles beeping and chirping and clicking their continued efforts. Megatron was here to relieve Ultra Magnus, but Rodimus was present as well, capering about with a grin on his face and a jaunty tilt to his spoiler.
“I told you, Magnus. Didn’t I? I knew it was a good idea to stop here.”
“So you did, Rodimus,” Ultra Magnus replied in a distracted tone, his gaze focused on a datapad, his stylus moving quickly across it. “I still say you were lucky.”
“Pfft. Of course I am. And did you hear that? Pfft.” Rodimus grinned even brighter. “Chromedome taught me. I finally figured it out.”
“Congratulations.”
Ultra Magnus could not have sounded less enthused.
“Dare I ask what has you so excited?” Megatron asked as he approached the two of them.
He glanced around the bridge, taking note of who was present today. The rotating bridge crew had gotten used to his presence by now, but occasionally, there was a substitute.
Rodimus beamed like he’d solved all the mysteries of the universe. “We have a heading,” he declared triumphantly, and planted his hands on his hips. “We’re about to be one step closer to finding the Knights of Cybertron.”
Megatron’s orbital ridges drifted upward. “And how did you accomplish that?”
“Nautica.” Rodimus’ spoiler twitched up and down in a mad dance of glee. “Thanks to my leadership, of course. She found a book on Quartex in some antique shop, and it was written in an old Cybertronian dialect that we translated and voila!” Rodimus spread out his hands and turned in a quick circle, pointing upward at the ceiling with a triumphant finger. “We have made progress.”
Megatron wondered if the look on his face reflected the disbelief he felt on the inside. “A book,” he repeated. “On an organic planet catered to those looking for the quickest means of achieving satisfaction. And you think this is a legitimate source.”
“I think it’s worth checking out.” Rodimus pointed at Megatron, bare inches from poking him in the chestplate directly over his Autobrand. “Unless you’ve got a better idea Mr. Co-Captain who hasn’t made a single worthwhile contribution to our mission yet.”
Megatron twisted his jaw. “And where, perchance, does this book tell us to go?”
“The Hyades Cluster,” Ultra Magnus answered, still bent over his datapad as though it had the secret to understanding Rodimus scrawled across the screen.
“The Hyades-- Rodimus, that’s halfway across the universe,” Megatron said with an exasperated vent. “It’s a sharp angle from the direction we’ve been following from the Matrix.”
Rodimus folded his arms, lips set stubbornly. “Your point?”
Primus below.
Megatron scrubbed at his forehead, a familiar ache developing. It had a name, this processor ache did, and its name was Rodimus. The mech simply didn’t operate by any sort of logic Megatron could understand, unless that logic devolved to “I do what I want because I want, nyah.”
Which was, actually, a lot like Starscream’s logic. Primus, but the two were aggravatingly similar at times. Though Megatron considered Starscream someone more of a challenge, and more of a survivor. This wannabe Prime was merely a nuisance.
He had to give Starscream credit. The Seeker always did a fantastic job of keeping Megatron from getting too complacent.
“If you don’t understand why this is a terrible idea, then I can’t explain it to you,” Megatron said wearily. He slanted a look at Ultra Magnus. “Surely you don’t think this is the best course of action?”
Ultra Magnus slotted the stylus into the holder. He tucked the datapad under his arm and looked up. “I think that up until now we’ve been following the instructions of a map no one can duplicate or accurately remember, one which was taken from an artifact that has since been destroyed. At this point, scribbled coordinates in a dusty tome on Quartex are as believable as anything else.”
Megatron nearly gaped.
Rodimus had no such restraint. He pumped his fists into the air. “Yes!” He did a little dance as Megatron’s armor twitched, and then he spun toward the navigation console. “Mainframe, set course for the Hyades Cluster.”
“Setting course now,” Mainframe said.
The ache in Megatron’s head grew in size.
“And with that, I’m out.” Rodimus dusted his hands like he’d done some great work, when all he’d done was badger everyone into seeing things his way. “Things to do. People to see. Drinks to drink.” He winked. “Have fun!”
He wriggled his fingers in what Megatron assumed was meant to be a parting gesture before Rodimus left the bridge, a skip to his step. It was impossible to take the child seriously. No wonder Optimus had wanted Megatron on this trip. They’d needed adult supervision, and Ultra Magnus did not count.
He was more the older sibling who protested, but ended up getting dragged into his younger sibling’s pace anyway.
Megatron cycled a ventilation and shifted his focus to Ultra Magnus. “What have you to report?”
“Other than our change in course?” Ultra Magnus clasped his hands behind his back, standing at parade rest. “Nothing of concern, captain.”
“Well, that’s a nice change of pace.” Megatron stepped up to the main console, logging himself as on-shift and the main point of contact.
Ultra Magnus fidgeted in his peripheral vision, an occurrence odd in itself. Ultra Magnus did not fidget. He was too precise for that.
“There is one small matter I’d like to bring to your attention, however.”
“Go on.”
“It involves Ratchet.”
Megatron stiffened. His fingers stilled on the console. “What about him?” he asked in an even tone which hopefully betrayed nothing.
Surely Ultra Magnus was not so bold as to ask him about their relationship – and Megatron used the term loosely – right here on the bridge. More than that, how had he known?
“I am concerned he is not getting an adequate amount of rest and as a consequence is overworking himself far beyond the capabilities of his frame,” Ultra Magnus said, never one to use three words when ten would do. “If this persists, he will not only suffer a forced system reset, but he will also reduce the capable medics we have aboard the ship.”
Megatron half-turned. “Are you asking me to order Ratchet to take some time off?” It was absurd. Since when did Ratchet obey anyone? Or did Ultra Magnus expect Megatron to track down and call up Optimus and get him to talk some sense into his medic?
Ultra Magnus met his gaze without flinching. But he swayed a little to the left, toward the door, as though suddenly eager to make an escape. “A direct order might be the only means of achieving compliance.”
“You didn’t ask Rodimus to do this.”
“Of course not.” A look of consternation flickered briefly over Ultra Magnus’ face before it was washed away. “You have more… influence than he does.”
Megatron stared.
Ultra Magnus stared back.
There was a lot unsaid in the space between them, and Megatron was partly afraid to ask for clarification. Had Ultra Magnus asked him because Ratchet had never recognized Rodimus’ authority? Or was it for another reason?
Maybe he was aware of the relationship budding between Ratchet and Megatron. If so, that made this request even more suspect.
Did Ultra Magnus honestly believe Megatron had any control over Ratchet? Or was he asking because Megatron was captain (co-captain if Rodimus asked) and therefore had authority over Ratchet? Either way, it was an odd request, and Megatron wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“I make no guarantees,” Megatron managed and turned his attention back to the console, which listed all of the Lost Light’s major systems and their current statuses. “But I will attempt to encourage Ratchet to rest. Will that suffice?”
“It does. Thank you.” Ultra Magnus dipped his head in a show of respect, which was a novelty on the Lost Light. No other crewmember around here seemed to understand what it meant to show some decorum. “Now if you have need of me--”
“I won’t,” Megatron interjected, and tossed a brief half-smile over his shoulder. “Enjoy your time off, Ultra Magnus. There are others to call on if a need arises.”
Gratitude flickered in Ultra Magnus’ field before it was whisked away, as if embarrassed he’d let it slip. “Yes, sir.”
Ultra Magnus spun on a heelstrut – a perfectly executed 180 degree turn – and strode off the bridge. Megatron bet that if he timed Ultra Magnus footsteps, they would match some internal, immaculate rhythm. Magnus was wound tighter than a spring, and as fascinating as it would be to see him snap, Megatron hoped to circumvent it somehow.
It was on the list.
After all, Ultra Magnus was much more useful in a functional state, rather than a mess of agitation and disarray.
The bridge quieted in Ultra Magnus and Rodimus’ absence. With the Lost Light on a determined course – two week’s arrival time by Mainframe’s estimates – the background chatter dulled to a barely audible murmur. The differences were striking.
Rodimus’ presence meant the bridge was loud and boisterous and often full of crew members loitering about who weren’t even on shift, but merely tarrying because they could. Or because one of their friends were working. Rodimus himself was occasionally found dozing in the captain’s chair, or ensconced in one of the many console or card games the crew brought with them on shift.
Ultra Magnus’ presence demanded respect and the absence of games. But he allowed conversation, so long as it didn’t interfere with their work, and so the occasional laugh or aside could be heard. Ultra Magnus often paced when he was outright on the bridge, or scribbled in a datapad.
Megatron’s presence called for utter silence. They worked as though they expected a blaster shot to the back for so much as coughing or ventilating too loudly. The atmosphere was tense, expectant, and one could hear a bearing drop from the furthest reaches of the room.
Just last week, Highbrow had swung about in his chair, causing it to make an ungainly creak. Gears had been so startled, he fell out of his own seat, got his feet tangled in the stand, and knocked down his sealed cup of energon, causing it to spill everywhere. The sequence of events had been ridiculous, and Megatron had only lifted an orbital ridge. He expected a roll of laughter, muffled titters even.
Nothing. More silence.
The other crewmembers stared as Gears put himself to rights and Highbrow whispered – whispered! – an apology as he brought over a cleaning drone to tend to the mess.
Megatron’s crew weren’t comfortable in his presence. Fortunately, he didn’t need them to be. He only required they do their duties.
Megatron reviewed Ultra Magnus’ shift report, entered into the ship database in a timely fashion – unlike the scribbles of lateness which could be found in Rodimus’ reports. He saw nothing of concern, and plenty which were unnecessary but important to Ultra Magnus. Honestly, if someone didn’t replace that stripped rivet in the aft deck soon, Megatron would do it himself if only so he didn’t have to hear about it anymore.
Ultra Magnus’ other request lingered at the back of his processor. On a hunch, Megatron reviewed the medical bay’s staffing schedule. According to it, First Aid was the medic on hand at the moment, with Ratchet on call for emergencies. How many cubes of engex would Megatron bet Ratchet was present in the medbay anyway?
More cubes than he was allowed to consume, Megatron guessed.
He locked the system and briefly surveyed the bridge. No one would be bothered if he stepped away to do a quick sweep of the ship. In fact, they’d probably encourage it.
“Mainframe, I am going to be off bridge for about an hour or so. You have my comm if anything requiring my attention comes up,” Megatron said.
“Yes, Captain. Logging you as ‘away’ now.”
There was something to be said about the efficiency fear could inspire. Megatron keyed a quick remote access to his mobile unit, tucked said unit into an arm compartment, and exited the bridge. The door had barely whooshed shut behind him before he heard the low murmur of conversation begin to engage.
Megatron headed for the medical bay, three decks down and a quarter of the way across the ship. He pulled out the datapad Ravage had given him, intending on skimming the contents as he walked. It made him seem less threatening, he knew, to be so busy while in the corridor, rather than eying every Autobot he passed.
Perception was not often reality but who listened to reason anymore?
He didn’t know how Ravage had acquired this information, and he’d never ask, but there were hundreds of articles with connecting links, pictures, and testimonials. Some of them were based on other species, more organic, but Megatron supposed some of the principles were the same.
It boiled down to trust. The types of play differed, and the kinks explored ranged from the obscene to the common, but the connecting factor was that it all required trust. Trust your partner would listen to you, and trust you’d be honest with your partner.
Honesty.
Megatron nearly snorted aloud.
They couldn’t very well be honest with each other. They weren’t even honest with themselves.
There was one topic header that interested him. To be fair, there were many, but one in particular called for further exploration more than others. It discussed pain, and the erotic application of it.
Megatron frowned. Pain was something they were programmed to avoid. Why would anyone seek it out? Why would someone mix it into pleasure? It did not compute.
And yet…
He felt so disconnected to his frame some days. Between the multiple rebuilds, the holes in his protoform, the space-time material eating away at his very existence, sometimes he onlined with his hands tingling because he wasn’t sure they were still attached to his frame. Sometimes, even pleasure was hard to grasp. He suspected the fool’s energon was to blame in part, but the truth was, Megatron knew he was living on borrowed time.
He’d had too many rebuilds, too many close calls. He should be a dead a half-dozen times over, but the universe kept conspiring to return him to the madness.
There were times he woke in the middle of the night, shaking and wide-opticked, unable to decide if he were even functioning anymore, so disparate from his frame did he feel. His mind, his spark, they were all that seemed real anymore, and even the former was occasionally suspect thanks to Trepan’s tinkering. The rest was a cardboard cutout.
Pain, controlled pain, perhaps was the reminder he needed. To remember he was alive and still had something to fight for. He wanted to be grounded in his frame again, attached to his protoform, rather than feeling as though his spark floated endlessly in an untethered chamber. He’d always felt strongest when he was fighting for the right to function.
It was certainly something to ponder.
Megatron powered down the datapad and slipped it back into his storage compartment as the main entrance to the medical center came into view. An odd squirm nestled in his tanks, and he wasn’t sure if it was trepidation or excitement. He grimaced at the thought of how Ratchet might react to the mere suggestion he take a break.
Megatron strode into the medical center with a set to his shoulders that screamed purpose and authority. Sadly, there was no one in immediate view to appreciate his arrival. Through the sheer transsteel, First Aid was visible as he tended to the half-dozen or so crewmembers trapped in a sort of permanent stasis. No one was sure why yet, it was an ongoing mystery like so many things circulating around this ship.
Ratchet, who should not have been here, could be seen through the open doorway in the equipment storage room. He looked deeply engrossed in… cleaning? Seriously? That’s what was so important he couldn’t possibly enjoy an off-shift?
Perhaps Ultra Magnus had a point.
Megatron braced himself and ventured inside, leaning against the door frame.
“I don’t need help, Aid,” Ratchet groused as he deftly disassembled a device Megatron could not name. It seemed to consist mostly of a central unit and multiple lengths of tubing.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Megatron said.
Ratchet looked up, something flashing in his optics, before he snorted and went back to removing bits of tubing, inspecting them with a critical optic. “Last I checked, you’re not a medic either.”
“I am, however, captain.”
“Co-captain.”
Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “Echoing Rodimus? This is clearly a sign you should be enjoying your time off, not hiding in your medical bay.”
“It’s not mine anymore. It’s Aid’s,” Ratchet said, but he cut Megatron a glare at the comparison to Rodimus.
Megatron folded his arms. “Really? Well, you should tell him that. And yourself.” He made a show of looking around. “Still looks like yours to me.”
Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Is there a reason you came here? Because you don’t look injured, and it’s not time for your daily dose of poison.” His fingers tightened around the tubing.
“You’re supposed to be off-shift.” Megatron leveled Ratchet with a look, putting every ounce of authority he’d ever acquired into his voice. “Most mechs take the opportunity to rest. Indulge in personal projects. Recharge. Have fun. Normal things.”
“Normal things,” Ratchet echoed, and the disdain dripping from his tone made Megatron shiver, so icy was it. “Well, most mechs can frag off. I’m busy. There’s too much to do.”
With that, he bent over the machine and start tugging at the tubes again, though with more force than before. His field spiked, a brief lash of irritation against Megatron’s, before it withdrew into an icy whirl around his frame.
Megatron straightened. “Ratchet.” He planted his feet and braced himself. He’d faced down Starscream. Surely he could face down an old medic. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Ratchet froze. Even his vents stuttered. His fingers went still, tangled as they were around the tubing. He lifted his gaze back to Megatron so slowly, Megatron swore he could hear the creak of his gears, click-clicking into place.
“If it’s not a suggestion, that means it was an order,” Ratchet said carefully. He set aside the tubing with methodical precision. “And I’m wondering when you started thinking you could come in here and order me around, because it better not have been right after I started taking you into my berth.”
The last was a growl, a threat by any other name.
Megatron worked his jaw, his reaction running the gamut from outraged to frustrated before he settled on offended. “Contrary to your belief, what we do in the berth has no bearing on how I behave as the commanding officer on this vessel,” he bit out, tight and contained. “Specifically your commanding officer.”
“Well, that’s the kicker isn’t it, since here we are standing right smack in the middle of a blatant conflict of interest.” Ratchet moved the equipment aside, his armor fluttering around his frame. “Since you can’t be both.”
“If I was dealing with a reasonable mech, this wouldn’t even be an issue,” Megatron ground out, a touch too loud.
He peered over his shoulder, but no one was around to pay them any mind. First Aid was still with the comatose patients, no one was in the waiting area, and even the medibot was out of sight.
Still.
He stepped fully into the storage room, closing them inside, which was effective, but also not, because now he was closer to the storm that was Ratchet’s field. And the fury, which was reflected in Ratchet’s face.
“Ah, yes, I’m the unreasonable one.” Ratchet snorted, his tone this shade of snide. He scooped up armfuls of tubing like they were what had offended him. “And not, for example, the very same mech who got angry and decided the entire planet had to suffer for it.”
Heat turned to ice inside of Megatron, the chill of shame. There were things Megatron wanted to change, and things he would never regret, and somehow, Ratchet managed to stomp on both.
“If you’re looking for someone to be angry at, take a look in the mirror. I didn’t coerce you into my berth, medic. You leapt in of your own accord,” Megatron near-snarled, and his hands formed fists at his side, before the weakness overtook him.
Leashed violence, that was what had become of him. He would not strike out.
Would not, could not? He wasn’t sure anymore.
“Which still doesn’t give you the right to come down here and order me around,” Ratchet hissed, his field spiking, a lash of liquid nitrogen against the heat of Megatron’s.
Megatron twisted his jaw. “No, it doesn’t. Which is why I’m here as captain of this ship.
And as captain, I’m telling you to take some fragging time off like a normal mech before you crash and burn.”
“When I need advice about the limits of my own frame, I’ll ask a professional, thank you very much.” Ratchet bundled up his tubing and stomped toward the door. “Now get out of my way. These need to be disposed of properly.”
Megatron held his ground, forcing Ratchet to stop within a stride of him. “Were you this insubordinate with Optimus?”
“Yes.” Ratchet’s smile was so falsely sweet it stoked the fires of his anger. “Only I actually respected his authority. Can’t say the same for you.”
It hurt. It hurt far more than he thought it would.
Trust, the little datapad whispered to him. Trust, Ratchet had said, only a few nights ago. How could they even begin to have trust without respect? Megatron always had a healthy respect for the Autobot CMO, but clearly, that was not returned.
Megatron ventilated in and out. “Very well,” he said, through gritted denta, and a building wave of emotion he couldn’t define. “The next time an order needs to be issued, you can take it from Ultra Magnus or Rodimus. That should satisfy your respect for authority.”
He spun on a heel and slammed his palm against the panel, demanding the door open for him. And it did, springing aside, leaving him free to storm out of the storage room, Ratchet behind him.
If the medic said anything, Megatron didn’t hear him, not through the roaring in his audials, and rapid working of his intake as he struggled to swallow a torrent of emotion. Much of which he did not care to feel.
Hurt? He had no business feeling hurt. This was nothing. Not relationship, not friendship. They should have stuck to what they were good at. Interfacing. Fragging. That was easy. That was doable.
Trust? Respect? Hah. Neither existed.
They were a walking disaster.
