[IDW] Walking the Wire 03/11
Jul. 30th, 2018 06:23 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 Three
There was exasperation. There was anger. There was indignation.
And then there was Ratchet, right smack in the center of all three.
He stomped out of the supply room and into the reprocessing center. He dumped his armload of stripped tubing into the recycler, shoving them down with more force than necessary. He vibrated on the inside, armor jittering, anger nestling into a hot ball of fire deep in his tanks.
How dare he? How dare he?
Megatron hadn’t been so concerned when he’d directed his forces to bomb Cybertron, had he? Not been so concerned when his army had laid waste to the planet and countless other planets. Had he been concerned about all the soldiers Ratchet repaired again and again, only to send them back out to the battlefield once more?
Of course not.
Disgust rattled through Ratchet. Worse that it wasn’t entirely directed at Megatron. Worse that he saved the majority of it for himself.
Hypocrite, that’s what he was. Conflict of interest, that’s what he’d snapped at Megatron, ignoring the fact he was the one who needed to look in the mirror. Fragging Megatron? There was no bigger conflict of interest.
The squirm returned to his internals. Guilt and shame, tangling into a miasma. It asked him what he thought he was doing, interfacing the biggest threat to Cybertron in the history of ever. How dare he betray the memory of those lost just for the sake of an overload or three, no matter how good.
Ratchet snarled and smacked his hands on a low table. He leaned forward, shoulders canted, head hanging. His processor ached. Now his palms stung.
He reached for the anger, and he held onto it, because that was easier than confronting the disquiet wriggling inside of him. He and Megatron didn’t have a relationship, he told himself. It was fragging. Just fragging. It didn’t mean anything.
Megatron was trying to change. Or at least he claimed he was. Maybe it was all a trick, maybe it wasn’t. Ratchet didn’t trust him. Ratchet didn’t trust himself. He was supposed to walk away after the first time, the second time, the third time, the--
He was in too deep to walk away now.
Ratchet cycled several ventilations. He forced calm where there wasn’t any. The last thing he wanted to do was attract attention to himself. He didn’t need First Aid giving him a knowing look. Or a pointed one.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” was all First Aid had said when Ratchet strode into the medical center this morning.
He was right, and Ratchet knew he was. He knew the burden he intended to lay on First Aid’s shoulders. But his grip on his position was a clenched fist, and he couldn’t seem to loosen his fingers and let go.
(Not his fingers, a guilty part of him whispered. Not his fingers at all.)
Ratchet pushed away from the table. He forced a step, and then another. He headed out the door; he swerved past the equipment room. He pointedly did not look in the direction of the intensive care unit. He found a door that had seen far too much use, and slipped inside his habsuite from there.
It felt weird to be here in the Lost Light’s equivalent of daytime. His suite looked different, when he wasn’t too exhausted to care where he crashed, so long as he did.
His suite was a mess. Not in the traditional sense, but in the sense there was no one around to bother about it. Dusty. Disorganized. Haphazard stacks. He supposed he really should do something.
Ratchet rolled up his metaphorical sleeves and got to work. He told himself it wasn’t because he actually had been spending more time here lately. The fact Megatron was around more often than not had nothing to do with it either. Ratchet doubted Megatron would show tonight. Not after that argument.
Guilt seeped back in. Not for the memories he betrayed, but for the harsh words he’d spoken. He’d meant them, but not because he wanted to hurt Megatron. Because he wanted to remind himself.
This is the grave where you’ve made your bed, Ratchet. Look at all the corpses you’re sleeping beside.
Fragging Megatron was easy. Living with Megatron was a million times harder. He shouldn’t even be trying to live with Megatron. He shouldn’t be working at it like they had a legitimate relationship.
He wanted it.
He shouldn’t have, but he did.
That, Ratchet decided, was the greatest betrayal of all.
~
Later, his door chimed.
Ratchet froze in the middle of a novel and stared at the door. He frowned, confused. No one came to visit him. No one dared. Well, perhaps Rung might, but he had problems of his own right now.
No one bothered Ratchet anymore. Not since… well, not since Drift.
His door chimed again.
Ratchet set his datapad aside and rose from the chair, joints creaking, curiosity swelling inside of him. He opened the door, unsure who he’d find, but even more surprised it was Megatron. His face was without expression, his field muted, but the way he stared at Ratchet spoke volumes.
“Well,” he prompted, when a moment of silence stretched far too long. “Are you going to let me in?”
“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re after,” Ratchet replied. He didn’t move, blocking the doorway.
Megatron shook his head. “It’s not. Because I am not here to apologize either.” He slanted a look to the left and right. Pointed. People would talk, if they saw him standing outside Ratchet’s door.
Ratchet stepped back, gesturing Megatron inside. “Just so long as we’re clear.”
“As transteel.” Megatron moved beyond the frame, letting the door slide shut behind them. And just in time, too. Voices echoed from down the hall.
“You cleaned,” Megatron observed as he hovered, moving no further than a few feet from the door, hands clasped behind his back.
Ratchet snorted. “You noticed.” This would be the point where he offered his guests refreshments of some kind. He didn’t intend to do so; he was still quite miffed. “If you’re not after an apology, why are you here?”
“If you didn’t want me to be, why’d you invite me inside?” Megatron countered, his field seeping out, tentative as it brushed over Ratchet’s. Perhaps to surmise his emotional state.
Ratchet tossed Megatron a look and moved to his cabinet. Megatron couldn’t have any, but that didn’t mean Ratchet couldn’t indulge. And right now, he needed a drink. He didn’t care if it was rude.
“Because the ship is full of busybodies, and I don’t need anyone sticking their nose into something that isn’t their business.” Ratchet pulled out a few single-serve packets of engex and tipped them into a cube. “Anything interesting I should know about?”
Megatron finally moved, though only to examine Ratchet’s bookshelf, now actually filled with things rather than dust. “We’re on our way to the Hyades Cluster. Apparently, Rodimus is under the impression we can find a clue concerning the Knights of Cybertron there.”
Ratchet flopped down into the only available chair, now that it was clear of a pile of medical equipment in need of tinkering. “You don’t sound like you believe him.”
“I think it’s a fool’s errand as much as this is a fool’s quest.” Megatron tugged out a datapad with a finger. “I was outvoted.”
Ratchet snorted. “It’s amazing how well Rodimus can convince Magnus sometimes. Just when you think he’s got a lick of sense, Rodimus comes along and waves his aft and the next thing you know, we’re off on another adventure.” He tilted his head, Megatron’s first statement catching up. “Wait. Fool’s quest? If it’s so foolish, why are you here?”
Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“I mean, other than to save your spark.” Ratchet waved him off. “You could have stayed behind on Cybertron. In a cell granted, but still.”
“Within Starscream’s grasp? Perish the thought.” Megatron bent over the datapad, paging through the contents. “I thought you more intelligent than that, medic.”
“I have a name.”
“And occasionally, I’ll remember to use it.”
Aft.
Ratchet gulped his engex, savoring the heated burn as it slid down his intake and coiled in his tanks. Better the burn than the wriggle of self-reproach.
“We should just be honest here,” he said at length, an exasperated sigh hissing from his vents. “What we’re doing is pointless.”
Megatron half-turned, looking up from his datapad. “Which part?”
“This.” Ratchet made a broad gesture, encompassing everything. “All of it. You and me. It’s not a relationship. And it’s never going to be. It’s just two mechs who spend a lot of time clanging.”
“Is that so?” Megatron swept his finger over the datapad, cutting it off. He then tucked it into a compartment. Ratchet didn’t know which one it was.
He supposed it didn’t matter. Most of them he’d never read. Most of them weren’t even his. They were on the ship when he moved in.
“It is. Sooner or later, you’re going to go through with whatever scheme you’ve made, and whatever this is will be over.” Ratchet downed the last of his engex to punctuate his point. It made him bold, willing to finally speak his mind.
Or maybe he just wanted to hurt.
Megatron tilted his head. “You think I’m insincere?”
“I think you’re exactly who you’ve always been.” Ratchet straightened his redolent slouch. There was a tone to Megatron’s voice now, a tone he wasn’t sure he liked.
Megatron frowned. He sank onto the edge of the berth, his optics never leaving Ratchet’s. “You think this is all a farce,” he said. “And that includes allowing myself into your berth.”
Ratchet propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his chin on his palm. “I think that there is no path you’re unwilling to take,” he corrected. “But I also think that as long as you’re sincere, it’s a moot point.”
“Except you think I’m not.”
“I don’t know,” Ratchet whooshed a vent, close to exasperation, maybe closer to panic. He wanted to trust Megatron, but he was afraid of how deep the betrayal would cut in the end.
He’d trusted Pharma, hadn’t he?
“Look, we should just stick to what we’re good at,” Ratchet finally said. He scuffed one heel against the floor, the scrape of metal on metal an obnoxious noise.
“And that would be?”
“Fragging.” Because it was easy. Because it required nothing more than physical connection. Ratchet didn’t have to give anything of himself he hadn’t already gave.
Megatron, however, arched an orbital ridge. He leaned back, hands braced behind him, his pose casual, but the clamp of his armor suggesting otherwise.
The distance between them stretched a lot further than a few strides.
“The rest doesn’t matter,” Ratchet continued, plowing forward, because that had always been his trademark. “Whether you’re here for redemption or because you’re trying to escape punishment, it just...” He trailed off, frustration eating at him, his words as much a tangle as his emotions.
“Doesn’t matter,” Megatron echoed, and his jaw set. His optics darkened, his field unreadable, what little of it he offered.
“Yes.”
Megatron stared at him. That he didn’t confirm or deny either endgame was neither a relief nor a worry. No one had ever been able to successfully predict Megatron’s moves. Not even with Prowl with all his calculations and behavioral studies and hours upon hours spent watching vids and surveillance.
Megatron’s plans had only been as obvious as he wanted them to be. He played the rest very close to his chassis. Why would this be any different?
“And what if--” Megatron broke off. He paused, his gaze darting elsewhere, and if Ratchet didn’t know better, he’d think that Megatron was uncertain. “What if that’s not enough for me?”
Ratchet rubbed at his chevron. “What’s not enough?”
“Interfacing without any other connection.”
“You can’t tell me you want to try for something serious,” Ratchet said, once he’d picked his jaw up from where it had dropped. His spark throbbed in his chassis, and he jerked upright.
Megatron scrubbed his hands down the top of his thighs. He rapped his fingers over his knees and returned that inscrutable, coal-fire gaze to Ratchet. “And what if I were?”
“I’d say you were crazy,” Ratchet said, because he couldn’t believe his audials. Was this really Megatron sitting in front of him? Or was it all part of some ploy?
“Why?”
“Because it’s ridiculous!” Ratchet threw his hands into the air and lurched out of his seat, catching himself for a moment as the engex rushed straight to his processor. Damn, he hadn’t known it was that potent. “You’re you, and I’m the Chief Medical Officer--”
Megatron slid off the bed with a light thump. “Retired.”
Ratchet shoved a finger in Megatron’s direction, alarmed to find it shaking. “That is not the point,” he growled.
“Then what is?” Megatron demanded.
“The point is that you’re Megatron! And I can’t--” Ratchet choked on his next words, because that was dangerously close to admitting things he didn’t want to admit to himself, much less to Megatron. That would be too much like having a real relationship, and that wasn’t what they did.
Ratchet swallowed it down, the truth and the admission. He refused to admit he couldn’t handle the guilt. He searched for something, anything else to say, before the silence dragged on too long and betrayed him as much as saying the words aloud would.
“Can’t what?” Megatron asked, his voice less demanding, more curious as he moved closer, into field range, the sense of it tentative but purposeful.
“Can’t manage to keep an amica much less a potential endura,” Ratchet finished, albeit lamely. It was better than the truth. He folded his arms, angling away from Megatron. “Not that I want you auditioning for either. It’s just too complicated.”
Megatron lifted his chin. “And you prefer simple.”
“I prefer not having a moral crisis every time I wake up in the morning with your transfluid on my armor!” Ratchet snapped, his energy field broiling out, slapping Megatron in the face as effectively as a physical blow would.
And then his words echoed in his audials. Ratchet reared back, optics wide, as he realized what he’d admitted aloud. The guilt, the shame, the weakness. How could he let Megatron see it?
He clamped his mouth shut so fast he swore his denta clicked together. He retreated another step, and then a third. There was a chasm between them now, and Ratchet hastily looked away. To safety elsewhere, only it wasn’t because his berth was there, and he’d spent far too much time on it with Megatron as of late.
Silence.
Nothing save the clicking-click of Ratchet’s unmaintained vents, and the whuff of Megatron’s clean fans.
“Then the way I see it, we have two options,” Megatron finally said, but haltingly, as though he was having as much trouble with words as Ratchet. “One, I can walk out of this room, and we can both behave as though I never walked in here in the first place. Or two, we can stop pretending.”
Ratchet hunched his shoulders. “Who’s pretending?”
Megatron hissed a ventilation. His armor drew tight to his frame, making his transformation seams nigh invisible. “We both are, if it’s any consolation. But that doesn’t answer the question.”
“I don’t want you to walk out.” Ratchet dragged his hands over his head. “I just want this conversation to be over so we can return to some semblance of normal because I don’t want to deal with this right now.”
What even qualified as normal anymore? This quest certainly didn’t. This relationship – not a relationship! – didn’t. Nothing was normal anymore, but Ratchet needed something to be, because he was losing his mind.
Megatron worked his intake. “Fair enough.”
Conceding, perhaps, because he recognized Ratchet stood on a ragged edge, and his ventilations reflected that. His field was a chaotic whirl he couldn’t seem to master, and he didn’t know if his head spun because of the unexpectedly potent engex, or because of the choice Megatron had presented and Ratchet wasn’t ready to make.
Red optics slid past Ratchet, and then Megatron started to move, not toward Ratchet, not like earlier. But away from him, past him, toward the door.
“I’ll comm you later,” Megatron said.
“Wait.” Ratchet’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Megatron’s wrist before he even made the conscious decision to do so. “Where are you going?”
Megatron paused, looked down at the hold on his wrist, and then up at Ratchet. “We aren’t in a relationship,” he said, with the tone of someone speaking to an errant youngling.
Or Rodimus.
“And the mood has passed to frag, as you so elegantly put it,” he continued. “Therefore, I’m leaving.”
He didn’t, however, try to jerk his arm free.
Ratchet’s hand lingered. He couldn’t seem to make himself let go. Not with disappointment surging through him. And maybe, a tinge of regret, too.
“But--”
“What else do you expect me to do?” Megatron asked, too soft to be a demand, and if Ratchet had to put a word to it, he’d say Megatron was hurt. Which was utterly ridiculous.
Ratchet gnawed on his bottom lip. His fingers twitched around Megatron’s wrist before he managed a light squeeze. “Stay,” he asked.
The look Megatron leveled on him was nothing short of confused. “To what end?”
Argh.
Of course he would push for an answer. Of course he would. And Ratchet knew – knows – he was being manipulated. Megatron knew all the right buttons to push, to get Ratchet to say what he wasn’t ready to say.
Ratchet vented loudly. Tiredly. “To the end where we sit down and figure this out like two mechs who actually have a clue how to function like… like...”
“Like partners,” Megatron finished for him. He turned fully toward Ratchet, resting his free hand over the one Ratchet had on his wrist.
“Yes. Like partners, frag it.” Ratchet let his hand be tugged free, let himself be tugged toward the berth, though all Megatron did was sit on the edge of it. “If you want me to admit it, fine. But don’t leave here in a sulk because I won’t do it right away.”
“I wasn’t sulking.” Megatron urged Ratchet closer, until he stood nearly between Megatron’s knees, his hand still caught in a gentle hold. “And I wasn’t asking for a promise.”
Ratchet’s orbital ridge crinkled. “Then what--”
“I only wanted to know if there was potential,” Megatron said with a sharp vent. He squeezed Ratchet’s hand, tugging him another step forward, close enough Ratchet could feel the whuff of his ex-vents.
Ratchet’s armor fluttered. Anger flashed through his lines like fire, before fatigue petered it out into a puff of smoke. “You are a pain in my aft,” he sighed. “Frag if I know why I can’t seem to get rid of you.”
Megatron’s lips curved. He pulled Ratchet’s hand to his mouth, his lips brushing over the tip of Ratchet’s fingertips. “Because you don’t want to.”
Ratchet’s shoulders sank. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he grumbled even as he drifted forward, until he was firmly planted between Megatron’s thighs, close enough for their armor to touch and warmth to seep between them.
“I could always use my mouth for other purposes,” Megatron murmured. He drew Ratchet’s fingers between his lips, glossa flick-flicking across them.
A shiver danced up Ratchet’s spinal strut. “Is this you flirting?”
“If it isn’t, then I’ve severely confused my behavioral tells.” Megatron chuckled. He pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s palm, glossa leaving a spot of moisture behind.
Ratchet worked his intake. A tremble raced through his frame, pooling southward, in his groin. His spark skipped a cycle or two, as all the emotional tension decided there was no better exorcism than the exchange of transfluid.
“I guess that means you’re back in the mood,” Ratchet said, aiming for glib.
“Well, you were right about one thing.” Megatron’s knees slid inward, trapping Ratchet between them, invitation clear in the sizzling press of his field. “This is the part we’re good at. That is, if you’re still interested.”
Ratchet eased his hand free of Megatron’s and gripped both of Megatron’s wrists at once. He leaned forward, forcing Megatron back, pinning Megatron’s hands to the berth. Left off balance, Megatron’s chassis pressed to Ratchet’s windshield. His groin nestled right against Megatron’s, a stirring heat behind his panel matching what emanated from Megatron’s.
Thank Primus the berth put Megatron at the perfect height.
“That depends.” Ratchet squeezed Megatron’s hands, a subtle warning, a show of force, a reminder of the ropes from several nights ago, and did not miss the shiver rippling over Megatron’s armor. “I want to frag you over this berth. Are you going to let me?”
Megatron’s thighs closed in around his hips. His engine rumbled into a higher pitch. “What sequence of events has ever led you to think I would demand otherwise?”
Ratchet grinned.
“Just wanted to be sure.” He leaned forward until his mouth found the firm vulnerability of Megatron’s intake.
It bobbed beneath Ratchet’s lips. His armor shuddered. He tasted of heat and lust, and Megatron’s field reflected it, twining hotly with the edges of Ratchet’s own. His knees pressed harder around Ratchet’s thighs in subtle demand.
Megatron’s chassis arched up, rubbing against Ratchet’s, head dipping back in wordless surrender. A small gasp escaped his lips, followed by a groan.
“This is not a night for teasing, medic,” he said.
Ratchet’s denta grazed Megatron’s intake cables. “It is whatever I say it is,” he said.
There was a ripple in Megatron’s field, a tangible sensation of capitulation.
Delicious.
Megatron was right. This, right here, was the easy part.
Kissing Megatron, claiming his mouth more or less, Megatron surrendering beneath him. Ratchet bearing him backward, climbing onto the berth between Megatron’s thighs, rutting against him. Spike against spike, pre-fluid mingling together. The hot snap of Megatron’s valve panel opening, the desperate cant of Megatron’s hips upward, asking without words.
Ratchet growling into the kiss, biting at Megatron’s lips, pinning Megatron’s hands against the berth, parallel to Megatron’s shoulders because he couldn’t reach any higher. Arousal twisting and churning inside of him.
This was a dance familiar to them. This was easy, maybe too easy.
Megatron’s valve, so swollen and slick. Eager as Ratchet’s spike slid over and against it, teasing him the pleasure to come. Ratchet’s own valve, throbbed and ached, desperate to be filled. Perhaps it spoke too much that he wasn’t even sure what he wanted anymore, save that he didn’t want to lose his grip on Megatron’s hands.
Or how pliant Megatron became beneath him. He didn’t give a token tug to Ratchet’s hold. He didn’t try to yank himself free. He relented, more than he resisted, and there was a hunger in his field. Just like the first night Ratchet had tied him up and wrung out more overloads than his frame could tolerate.
His feet drummed against the back of Ratchet’s legs. A push nudged Ratchet’s spike against his valve, slip-sliding over swollen damp, and Ratchet groaned. He slid into Megatron, his spike swallowed by hot sensation, calipers cycling down in the tightest of squeezes.
He mouthed Megatron’s throat, letting cables muffle comments he didn’t want Megatron to hear. He tugged on the wild strings of Megatron’s field, spinning pleasure into a crescendo. Megatron surged and arched beneath him, not to get free, no. There was no fight in the motion, just need.
This was easy. This was so, so easy.
Ratchet wanted – needed – it to stay this easy. So he didn’t have to think about it, didn’t have to debate it or weigh the realities. He just wanted the pleasure, Megatron hot and pliant beneath him or above him, Megatron yielding without struggle.
Megatron, really.
Ratchet wanted.
And he wished that weren’t the hardest thing about it.
***
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
There was exasperation. There was anger. There was indignation.
And then there was Ratchet, right smack in the center of all three.
He stomped out of the supply room and into the reprocessing center. He dumped his armload of stripped tubing into the recycler, shoving them down with more force than necessary. He vibrated on the inside, armor jittering, anger nestling into a hot ball of fire deep in his tanks.
How dare he? How dare he?
Megatron hadn’t been so concerned when he’d directed his forces to bomb Cybertron, had he? Not been so concerned when his army had laid waste to the planet and countless other planets. Had he been concerned about all the soldiers Ratchet repaired again and again, only to send them back out to the battlefield once more?
Of course not.
Disgust rattled through Ratchet. Worse that it wasn’t entirely directed at Megatron. Worse that he saved the majority of it for himself.
Hypocrite, that’s what he was. Conflict of interest, that’s what he’d snapped at Megatron, ignoring the fact he was the one who needed to look in the mirror. Fragging Megatron? There was no bigger conflict of interest.
The squirm returned to his internals. Guilt and shame, tangling into a miasma. It asked him what he thought he was doing, interfacing the biggest threat to Cybertron in the history of ever. How dare he betray the memory of those lost just for the sake of an overload or three, no matter how good.
Ratchet snarled and smacked his hands on a low table. He leaned forward, shoulders canted, head hanging. His processor ached. Now his palms stung.
He reached for the anger, and he held onto it, because that was easier than confronting the disquiet wriggling inside of him. He and Megatron didn’t have a relationship, he told himself. It was fragging. Just fragging. It didn’t mean anything.
Megatron was trying to change. Or at least he claimed he was. Maybe it was all a trick, maybe it wasn’t. Ratchet didn’t trust him. Ratchet didn’t trust himself. He was supposed to walk away after the first time, the second time, the third time, the--
He was in too deep to walk away now.
Ratchet cycled several ventilations. He forced calm where there wasn’t any. The last thing he wanted to do was attract attention to himself. He didn’t need First Aid giving him a knowing look. Or a pointed one.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” was all First Aid had said when Ratchet strode into the medical center this morning.
He was right, and Ratchet knew he was. He knew the burden he intended to lay on First Aid’s shoulders. But his grip on his position was a clenched fist, and he couldn’t seem to loosen his fingers and let go.
(Not his fingers, a guilty part of him whispered. Not his fingers at all.)
Ratchet pushed away from the table. He forced a step, and then another. He headed out the door; he swerved past the equipment room. He pointedly did not look in the direction of the intensive care unit. He found a door that had seen far too much use, and slipped inside his habsuite from there.
It felt weird to be here in the Lost Light’s equivalent of daytime. His suite looked different, when he wasn’t too exhausted to care where he crashed, so long as he did.
His suite was a mess. Not in the traditional sense, but in the sense there was no one around to bother about it. Dusty. Disorganized. Haphazard stacks. He supposed he really should do something.
Ratchet rolled up his metaphorical sleeves and got to work. He told himself it wasn’t because he actually had been spending more time here lately. The fact Megatron was around more often than not had nothing to do with it either. Ratchet doubted Megatron would show tonight. Not after that argument.
Guilt seeped back in. Not for the memories he betrayed, but for the harsh words he’d spoken. He’d meant them, but not because he wanted to hurt Megatron. Because he wanted to remind himself.
This is the grave where you’ve made your bed, Ratchet. Look at all the corpses you’re sleeping beside.
Fragging Megatron was easy. Living with Megatron was a million times harder. He shouldn’t even be trying to live with Megatron. He shouldn’t be working at it like they had a legitimate relationship.
He wanted it.
He shouldn’t have, but he did.
That, Ratchet decided, was the greatest betrayal of all.
Later, his door chimed.
Ratchet froze in the middle of a novel and stared at the door. He frowned, confused. No one came to visit him. No one dared. Well, perhaps Rung might, but he had problems of his own right now.
No one bothered Ratchet anymore. Not since… well, not since Drift.
His door chimed again.
Ratchet set his datapad aside and rose from the chair, joints creaking, curiosity swelling inside of him. He opened the door, unsure who he’d find, but even more surprised it was Megatron. His face was without expression, his field muted, but the way he stared at Ratchet spoke volumes.
“Well,” he prompted, when a moment of silence stretched far too long. “Are you going to let me in?”
“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re after,” Ratchet replied. He didn’t move, blocking the doorway.
Megatron shook his head. “It’s not. Because I am not here to apologize either.” He slanted a look to the left and right. Pointed. People would talk, if they saw him standing outside Ratchet’s door.
Ratchet stepped back, gesturing Megatron inside. “Just so long as we’re clear.”
“As transteel.” Megatron moved beyond the frame, letting the door slide shut behind them. And just in time, too. Voices echoed from down the hall.
“You cleaned,” Megatron observed as he hovered, moving no further than a few feet from the door, hands clasped behind his back.
Ratchet snorted. “You noticed.” This would be the point where he offered his guests refreshments of some kind. He didn’t intend to do so; he was still quite miffed. “If you’re not after an apology, why are you here?”
“If you didn’t want me to be, why’d you invite me inside?” Megatron countered, his field seeping out, tentative as it brushed over Ratchet’s. Perhaps to surmise his emotional state.
Ratchet tossed Megatron a look and moved to his cabinet. Megatron couldn’t have any, but that didn’t mean Ratchet couldn’t indulge. And right now, he needed a drink. He didn’t care if it was rude.
“Because the ship is full of busybodies, and I don’t need anyone sticking their nose into something that isn’t their business.” Ratchet pulled out a few single-serve packets of engex and tipped them into a cube. “Anything interesting I should know about?”
Megatron finally moved, though only to examine Ratchet’s bookshelf, now actually filled with things rather than dust. “We’re on our way to the Hyades Cluster. Apparently, Rodimus is under the impression we can find a clue concerning the Knights of Cybertron there.”
Ratchet flopped down into the only available chair, now that it was clear of a pile of medical equipment in need of tinkering. “You don’t sound like you believe him.”
“I think it’s a fool’s errand as much as this is a fool’s quest.” Megatron tugged out a datapad with a finger. “I was outvoted.”
Ratchet snorted. “It’s amazing how well Rodimus can convince Magnus sometimes. Just when you think he’s got a lick of sense, Rodimus comes along and waves his aft and the next thing you know, we’re off on another adventure.” He tilted his head, Megatron’s first statement catching up. “Wait. Fool’s quest? If it’s so foolish, why are you here?”
Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“I mean, other than to save your spark.” Ratchet waved him off. “You could have stayed behind on Cybertron. In a cell granted, but still.”
“Within Starscream’s grasp? Perish the thought.” Megatron bent over the datapad, paging through the contents. “I thought you more intelligent than that, medic.”
“I have a name.”
“And occasionally, I’ll remember to use it.”
Aft.
Ratchet gulped his engex, savoring the heated burn as it slid down his intake and coiled in his tanks. Better the burn than the wriggle of self-reproach.
“We should just be honest here,” he said at length, an exasperated sigh hissing from his vents. “What we’re doing is pointless.”
Megatron half-turned, looking up from his datapad. “Which part?”
“This.” Ratchet made a broad gesture, encompassing everything. “All of it. You and me. It’s not a relationship. And it’s never going to be. It’s just two mechs who spend a lot of time clanging.”
“Is that so?” Megatron swept his finger over the datapad, cutting it off. He then tucked it into a compartment. Ratchet didn’t know which one it was.
He supposed it didn’t matter. Most of them he’d never read. Most of them weren’t even his. They were on the ship when he moved in.
“It is. Sooner or later, you’re going to go through with whatever scheme you’ve made, and whatever this is will be over.” Ratchet downed the last of his engex to punctuate his point. It made him bold, willing to finally speak his mind.
Or maybe he just wanted to hurt.
Megatron tilted his head. “You think I’m insincere?”
“I think you’re exactly who you’ve always been.” Ratchet straightened his redolent slouch. There was a tone to Megatron’s voice now, a tone he wasn’t sure he liked.
Megatron frowned. He sank onto the edge of the berth, his optics never leaving Ratchet’s. “You think this is all a farce,” he said. “And that includes allowing myself into your berth.”
Ratchet propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his chin on his palm. “I think that there is no path you’re unwilling to take,” he corrected. “But I also think that as long as you’re sincere, it’s a moot point.”
“Except you think I’m not.”
“I don’t know,” Ratchet whooshed a vent, close to exasperation, maybe closer to panic. He wanted to trust Megatron, but he was afraid of how deep the betrayal would cut in the end.
He’d trusted Pharma, hadn’t he?
“Look, we should just stick to what we’re good at,” Ratchet finally said. He scuffed one heel against the floor, the scrape of metal on metal an obnoxious noise.
“And that would be?”
“Fragging.” Because it was easy. Because it required nothing more than physical connection. Ratchet didn’t have to give anything of himself he hadn’t already gave.
Megatron, however, arched an orbital ridge. He leaned back, hands braced behind him, his pose casual, but the clamp of his armor suggesting otherwise.
The distance between them stretched a lot further than a few strides.
“The rest doesn’t matter,” Ratchet continued, plowing forward, because that had always been his trademark. “Whether you’re here for redemption or because you’re trying to escape punishment, it just...” He trailed off, frustration eating at him, his words as much a tangle as his emotions.
“Doesn’t matter,” Megatron echoed, and his jaw set. His optics darkened, his field unreadable, what little of it he offered.
“Yes.”
Megatron stared at him. That he didn’t confirm or deny either endgame was neither a relief nor a worry. No one had ever been able to successfully predict Megatron’s moves. Not even with Prowl with all his calculations and behavioral studies and hours upon hours spent watching vids and surveillance.
Megatron’s plans had only been as obvious as he wanted them to be. He played the rest very close to his chassis. Why would this be any different?
“And what if--” Megatron broke off. He paused, his gaze darting elsewhere, and if Ratchet didn’t know better, he’d think that Megatron was uncertain. “What if that’s not enough for me?”
Ratchet rubbed at his chevron. “What’s not enough?”
“Interfacing without any other connection.”
“You can’t tell me you want to try for something serious,” Ratchet said, once he’d picked his jaw up from where it had dropped. His spark throbbed in his chassis, and he jerked upright.
Megatron scrubbed his hands down the top of his thighs. He rapped his fingers over his knees and returned that inscrutable, coal-fire gaze to Ratchet. “And what if I were?”
“I’d say you were crazy,” Ratchet said, because he couldn’t believe his audials. Was this really Megatron sitting in front of him? Or was it all part of some ploy?
“Why?”
“Because it’s ridiculous!” Ratchet threw his hands into the air and lurched out of his seat, catching himself for a moment as the engex rushed straight to his processor. Damn, he hadn’t known it was that potent. “You’re you, and I’m the Chief Medical Officer--”
Megatron slid off the bed with a light thump. “Retired.”
Ratchet shoved a finger in Megatron’s direction, alarmed to find it shaking. “That is not the point,” he growled.
“Then what is?” Megatron demanded.
“The point is that you’re Megatron! And I can’t--” Ratchet choked on his next words, because that was dangerously close to admitting things he didn’t want to admit to himself, much less to Megatron. That would be too much like having a real relationship, and that wasn’t what they did.
Ratchet swallowed it down, the truth and the admission. He refused to admit he couldn’t handle the guilt. He searched for something, anything else to say, before the silence dragged on too long and betrayed him as much as saying the words aloud would.
“Can’t what?” Megatron asked, his voice less demanding, more curious as he moved closer, into field range, the sense of it tentative but purposeful.
“Can’t manage to keep an amica much less a potential endura,” Ratchet finished, albeit lamely. It was better than the truth. He folded his arms, angling away from Megatron. “Not that I want you auditioning for either. It’s just too complicated.”
Megatron lifted his chin. “And you prefer simple.”
“I prefer not having a moral crisis every time I wake up in the morning with your transfluid on my armor!” Ratchet snapped, his energy field broiling out, slapping Megatron in the face as effectively as a physical blow would.
And then his words echoed in his audials. Ratchet reared back, optics wide, as he realized what he’d admitted aloud. The guilt, the shame, the weakness. How could he let Megatron see it?
He clamped his mouth shut so fast he swore his denta clicked together. He retreated another step, and then a third. There was a chasm between them now, and Ratchet hastily looked away. To safety elsewhere, only it wasn’t because his berth was there, and he’d spent far too much time on it with Megatron as of late.
Silence.
Nothing save the clicking-click of Ratchet’s unmaintained vents, and the whuff of Megatron’s clean fans.
“Then the way I see it, we have two options,” Megatron finally said, but haltingly, as though he was having as much trouble with words as Ratchet. “One, I can walk out of this room, and we can both behave as though I never walked in here in the first place. Or two, we can stop pretending.”
Ratchet hunched his shoulders. “Who’s pretending?”
Megatron hissed a ventilation. His armor drew tight to his frame, making his transformation seams nigh invisible. “We both are, if it’s any consolation. But that doesn’t answer the question.”
“I don’t want you to walk out.” Ratchet dragged his hands over his head. “I just want this conversation to be over so we can return to some semblance of normal because I don’t want to deal with this right now.”
What even qualified as normal anymore? This quest certainly didn’t. This relationship – not a relationship! – didn’t. Nothing was normal anymore, but Ratchet needed something to be, because he was losing his mind.
Megatron worked his intake. “Fair enough.”
Conceding, perhaps, because he recognized Ratchet stood on a ragged edge, and his ventilations reflected that. His field was a chaotic whirl he couldn’t seem to master, and he didn’t know if his head spun because of the unexpectedly potent engex, or because of the choice Megatron had presented and Ratchet wasn’t ready to make.
Red optics slid past Ratchet, and then Megatron started to move, not toward Ratchet, not like earlier. But away from him, past him, toward the door.
“I’ll comm you later,” Megatron said.
“Wait.” Ratchet’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Megatron’s wrist before he even made the conscious decision to do so. “Where are you going?”
Megatron paused, looked down at the hold on his wrist, and then up at Ratchet. “We aren’t in a relationship,” he said, with the tone of someone speaking to an errant youngling.
Or Rodimus.
“And the mood has passed to frag, as you so elegantly put it,” he continued. “Therefore, I’m leaving.”
He didn’t, however, try to jerk his arm free.
Ratchet’s hand lingered. He couldn’t seem to make himself let go. Not with disappointment surging through him. And maybe, a tinge of regret, too.
“But--”
“What else do you expect me to do?” Megatron asked, too soft to be a demand, and if Ratchet had to put a word to it, he’d say Megatron was hurt. Which was utterly ridiculous.
Ratchet gnawed on his bottom lip. His fingers twitched around Megatron’s wrist before he managed a light squeeze. “Stay,” he asked.
The look Megatron leveled on him was nothing short of confused. “To what end?”
Argh.
Of course he would push for an answer. Of course he would. And Ratchet knew – knows – he was being manipulated. Megatron knew all the right buttons to push, to get Ratchet to say what he wasn’t ready to say.
Ratchet vented loudly. Tiredly. “To the end where we sit down and figure this out like two mechs who actually have a clue how to function like… like...”
“Like partners,” Megatron finished for him. He turned fully toward Ratchet, resting his free hand over the one Ratchet had on his wrist.
“Yes. Like partners, frag it.” Ratchet let his hand be tugged free, let himself be tugged toward the berth, though all Megatron did was sit on the edge of it. “If you want me to admit it, fine. But don’t leave here in a sulk because I won’t do it right away.”
“I wasn’t sulking.” Megatron urged Ratchet closer, until he stood nearly between Megatron’s knees, his hand still caught in a gentle hold. “And I wasn’t asking for a promise.”
Ratchet’s orbital ridge crinkled. “Then what--”
“I only wanted to know if there was potential,” Megatron said with a sharp vent. He squeezed Ratchet’s hand, tugging him another step forward, close enough Ratchet could feel the whuff of his ex-vents.
Ratchet’s armor fluttered. Anger flashed through his lines like fire, before fatigue petered it out into a puff of smoke. “You are a pain in my aft,” he sighed. “Frag if I know why I can’t seem to get rid of you.”
Megatron’s lips curved. He pulled Ratchet’s hand to his mouth, his lips brushing over the tip of Ratchet’s fingertips. “Because you don’t want to.”
Ratchet’s shoulders sank. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he grumbled even as he drifted forward, until he was firmly planted between Megatron’s thighs, close enough for their armor to touch and warmth to seep between them.
“I could always use my mouth for other purposes,” Megatron murmured. He drew Ratchet’s fingers between his lips, glossa flick-flicking across them.
A shiver danced up Ratchet’s spinal strut. “Is this you flirting?”
“If it isn’t, then I’ve severely confused my behavioral tells.” Megatron chuckled. He pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s palm, glossa leaving a spot of moisture behind.
Ratchet worked his intake. A tremble raced through his frame, pooling southward, in his groin. His spark skipped a cycle or two, as all the emotional tension decided there was no better exorcism than the exchange of transfluid.
“I guess that means you’re back in the mood,” Ratchet said, aiming for glib.
“Well, you were right about one thing.” Megatron’s knees slid inward, trapping Ratchet between them, invitation clear in the sizzling press of his field. “This is the part we’re good at. That is, if you’re still interested.”
Ratchet eased his hand free of Megatron’s and gripped both of Megatron’s wrists at once. He leaned forward, forcing Megatron back, pinning Megatron’s hands to the berth. Left off balance, Megatron’s chassis pressed to Ratchet’s windshield. His groin nestled right against Megatron’s, a stirring heat behind his panel matching what emanated from Megatron’s.
Thank Primus the berth put Megatron at the perfect height.
“That depends.” Ratchet squeezed Megatron’s hands, a subtle warning, a show of force, a reminder of the ropes from several nights ago, and did not miss the shiver rippling over Megatron’s armor. “I want to frag you over this berth. Are you going to let me?”
Megatron’s thighs closed in around his hips. His engine rumbled into a higher pitch. “What sequence of events has ever led you to think I would demand otherwise?”
Ratchet grinned.
“Just wanted to be sure.” He leaned forward until his mouth found the firm vulnerability of Megatron’s intake.
It bobbed beneath Ratchet’s lips. His armor shuddered. He tasted of heat and lust, and Megatron’s field reflected it, twining hotly with the edges of Ratchet’s own. His knees pressed harder around Ratchet’s thighs in subtle demand.
Megatron’s chassis arched up, rubbing against Ratchet’s, head dipping back in wordless surrender. A small gasp escaped his lips, followed by a groan.
“This is not a night for teasing, medic,” he said.
Ratchet’s denta grazed Megatron’s intake cables. “It is whatever I say it is,” he said.
There was a ripple in Megatron’s field, a tangible sensation of capitulation.
Delicious.
Megatron was right. This, right here, was the easy part.
Kissing Megatron, claiming his mouth more or less, Megatron surrendering beneath him. Ratchet bearing him backward, climbing onto the berth between Megatron’s thighs, rutting against him. Spike against spike, pre-fluid mingling together. The hot snap of Megatron’s valve panel opening, the desperate cant of Megatron’s hips upward, asking without words.
Ratchet growling into the kiss, biting at Megatron’s lips, pinning Megatron’s hands against the berth, parallel to Megatron’s shoulders because he couldn’t reach any higher. Arousal twisting and churning inside of him.
This was a dance familiar to them. This was easy, maybe too easy.
Megatron’s valve, so swollen and slick. Eager as Ratchet’s spike slid over and against it, teasing him the pleasure to come. Ratchet’s own valve, throbbed and ached, desperate to be filled. Perhaps it spoke too much that he wasn’t even sure what he wanted anymore, save that he didn’t want to lose his grip on Megatron’s hands.
Or how pliant Megatron became beneath him. He didn’t give a token tug to Ratchet’s hold. He didn’t try to yank himself free. He relented, more than he resisted, and there was a hunger in his field. Just like the first night Ratchet had tied him up and wrung out more overloads than his frame could tolerate.
His feet drummed against the back of Ratchet’s legs. A push nudged Ratchet’s spike against his valve, slip-sliding over swollen damp, and Ratchet groaned. He slid into Megatron, his spike swallowed by hot sensation, calipers cycling down in the tightest of squeezes.
He mouthed Megatron’s throat, letting cables muffle comments he didn’t want Megatron to hear. He tugged on the wild strings of Megatron’s field, spinning pleasure into a crescendo. Megatron surged and arched beneath him, not to get free, no. There was no fight in the motion, just need.
This was easy. This was so, so easy.
Ratchet wanted – needed – it to stay this easy. So he didn’t have to think about it, didn’t have to debate it or weigh the realities. He just wanted the pleasure, Megatron hot and pliant beneath him or above him, Megatron yielding without struggle.
Megatron, really.
Ratchet wanted.
And he wished that weren’t the hardest thing about it.
