[IDW] Walking the Wire 04/11
Aug. 6th, 2018 06:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Walking the Wire 4/11
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 Four
Megatron had Ratchet pinned against the wall, the rinse spattering down over them, solvent swirling down the drain, when his comm chimed.
He tried to ignore it, his mouth otherwise occupied with the hot tangle of Ratchet’s glossa. Their fields intertwined, pulsing to the same needy beat. Ratchet’s spike pressed hot and rigid against his thigh. Megatron’s own left streaks over Ratchet’s abdomen.
His hands drifted down to Ratchet’s hips, gripping and squeezing. He tensed, with every intention of lifting and plunging deep into Ratchet, sinking into the hot grasp of Ratchet’s valve and making the medic overload all over his spike.
His comm chimed again, this time with a command priority override, so that Rodimus’ voice spilled into his comm system. Megatron startled and jerked his mouth away from Ratchet’s.
“My shift doesn’t start for another half hour,” Megatron snarled to the impatient brat. He stared at the wall above Ratchet’s head, trying to control his ventilations so he didn’t sound two thrusts away from overload.
Rodimus sighed into the comm, and Megatron could picture him rolling his optics. “I know that. But Blaster picked up something you’re going to want to hear. Unless you want me deciding to answer it all by myself.”
Primus below. Who knew what kind of trouble they’d get into if Megatron left Rodimus as the sole-decision-maker. And where the frag was Ultra Magnus? Why wasn’t he up there knocking some sense into his former captain current co-captain?
“What is it?” Megatron demanded as Ratchet made a noise and ground against him, his spike skittering hot over Megatron’s armor.
“A distress call,” Rodimus answered, because he was an utter child and couldn’t get to the point fast enough.
Megatron growled. “So?” He stroked a hand down Ratchet’s side to try and placate the boiling field of irritation now rolling against him.
“It’s pre-war code.”
Pre-war. Not Autobot or Decepticon. It could be anyone. It could also be the Knights. It could be the very thing they sought.
It could be Megatron’s undoing.
He worked his intake, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll be right there.”
Megatron ended the comm before Rodimus could reply with a smart retort. He took a moment to ventilate, before the hot press of a frame against his reminded him that he was in the middle of something.
Ratchet growled, his hands on Megatron’s sides, fingers digging between seams to pinch at the cables beneath. “I’m going to kill that flame-painted idiot.”
“You can’t, we need him,” Megatron said with a soft laugh. He smoothed his hands up and down Ratchet’s sides, his own ardor cooling, but Ratchet still firm and hungry against him.
“Says you.” Ratchet snarled. “I swear to Primus that if you don’t finish me off, I’m going to reformat you into a toaster.”
Megatron reached behind Ratchet and slammed his palm against the shower, cutting off the spray. “Won’t that violate your code of ethics?” he asked, his voice echoing without the noise of the spray to muffle it.
He started to lower himself to a kneel as Ratchet grumped at him, “You’re still alive, aren’t you? That’s the import – ah! – important part.”
Ratchet’s grumble cut off into a gasp as Megatron licked the head of his spike. It bobbed eagerly at the apex of Ratchet’s thighs, the perfect mouthful. Mostly red, with white stripes in thick and thin bands, it was a colorful testament to the energetic and fun youth Ratchet must have been.
Megatron would never admit aloud, but he enjoyed sucking Ratchet off. Ratchet fit perfectly in his mouth, a heavy weight across his glossa, the head of his spike nudging the back of Megatron’s intake in a subtle, but powerful sort of claim.
“That-- that’ll work,” Ratchet gasped out, and his hands found Megatron’s head, curving gently around it. His hips rolled forward, gently thrusting his spike into Megatron’s mouth.
His field spilled over Megatron’s, crackling with need. It filled the small space of the washrack, almost suffocating in its potency. Ratchet was already close, and Megatron could taste that urgency in his field, on his spike.
Megatron hummed around Ratchet and sucked him deeper, letting the entirety of Ratchet’s spike fill his mouth. Prefluid trickled down his intake as Ratchet throbbed. He made these bitten off noises, and his grip on Megatron’s head tightened.
Megatron curled his hands around Ratchet’s aft, urging him to thrust, go deeper, until Megatron’s nose brushed against Ratchet’s spike housing. He shuttered his optics, soaking in the sensation, working his intake around Ratchet’s spike.
Ratchet groaned, curling forward, hips making jerking thrusts. Perhaps he was trying to be careful. The concern was touching.
But they were on a timetable here.
Megatron’s intake worked again and again, glossa pressing on the length of Ratchet’s spike. He slipped one hand between Ratchet’s thighs, fingers seeking up and up, until he found the soaking damp of Ratchet’s valve. His thumb nudged firmly over Ratchet’s nub, as two fingers slipped inside, curved just right.
Megatron swallowed.
Ratchet clutched at his head and overloaded, spilling in several hot, heavy spurts down the back of Megatron’s intake. He clutched at Megatron’s head, holding him in place, forcing Megatron to swallow the spill. His moan muffled against Ratchet’s spike, the tug of Ratchet’s field trying his self-control. His spike throbbed within the confines of his panel, demanding that it, too, find relief.
If this wasn’t important, Megatron was going to fling Rodimus out the cargo bay.
Megatron worked Ratchet carefully as the medic sagged against the wall, panting for ventilations, his hands gentling in their grip. Megatron let Ratchet slip from his mouth and rose. He licked his lips, tasting Ratchet upon them.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked as he swept he squeezed Ratchet’s hips, ignoring the urgent throb of his own system.
Dazed blue optics lifted to his. “It’s a start,” Ratchet managed, unwilling as always to admit when Megatron had impressed him. “What did Rodimus want?”
“We’ve detected an SOS apparently.” Megatron stepped away from Ratchet and grabbed a couple of drying towels, tossing one to the medic. “Judging from the glee in his voice, he thinks it might be related to the Knights.” He wiped his fingers clean of lubricant.
Considering they were less than a week out from the coordinates Nautica had found in Quartex, then Rodimus could very well be right. Or they were walking straight into a trap of some kind. One centuries old, but still. You could never be too careful.
“And you want to, what, delay him?” Ratchet asked.
Megatron slanted him a look. “Why would I want that?”
“Finding the Knights does mean you will face judgment.” Ratchet shrugged, but there was something tense about it. Far from nonchalant. “Then again, you probably have a plan for that.”
Megatron quickly swiped the cloth across his frame, the urgent throb of his spike suddenly as uncomfortable as the lingering flavor of transfluid on his glossa. “If you’re so convinced I’m up to no good, what are you even doing here?”
“It’s my washrack.” Ratchet’s drying off was half-sparked at best. He paid as little attention to it as he paid to Megatron.
He pressed his lips together, reminding himself that while Ratchet’s glossa was as sharp as Starscream’s, he didn’t respond to the same kind of discipline. “You know what I meant, medic.”
“Yeah, I do. Doesn’t mean I want to answer your question.” Ratchet balled up the damp towel and tossed it in the vague direction of the laundry drop. He had become quite good at evading Megatron’s questions.
And the laundry drop apparently.
Megatron stooped to pick up the towel lump, stuffing both it and his own down the chute. They’d been navigating this tricky territory for several days now, as Ratchet grappled with some internal demon, and Megatron struggled not to hate him for it. He despised this feeling of uncertainty, of not knowing whether Ratchet was going to kiss him or snarl at him.
It would be easier, he knew, to walk away now. To put aside this relationship, if he were being generous, and stop allowing himself to be distracted. Why he couldn’t seem to do that, Megatron didn’t know.
Why, Ravage asked him, time and time again. Every evening he returned late, or every morning he stumbled inside, just long enough to tidy up before his shift. Why?
Megatron worked his jaw, and decided to let it go for now. They didn’t have time to rehash this.
Again.
He moved to the door and noticed Ratchet made no motion to follow him. So Megatron paused in the entry and looked back at the medic, who seemed very occupied with the few spatters of solvent sticking tackily to the floor.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
Ratchet snorted. “I already did, thanks.” He finally looked up at Megatron, a twinkle of mischief in his optics. “But you didn’t.”
“It’s nothing but a discomfort. I’ve had worse.” He currently felt worse, what with the pits and empty craters inside his frame.
He wondered if Ratchet ever feared spiking him, only to lose that integral piece of his frame to a wandering black hole.
“I’m sure you have,” Ratchet muttered, but he moved to follow Megatron anyway. “Might as well. I don’t have anything better to do since I’ve been banned from working on my days off.”
Megatron had won that particular argument. He assumed it would be the only victory he’d be able to celebrate for quite some time.
“If Rodimus is involved, you can be assured it’s not going to be boring.” Megatron gestured for Ratchet to precede him.
After a long moment of staring at him, searching for something Megatron didn’t know, Ratchet took the invitation.
“Boredom isn’t what I’m worried about,” Ratchet said.
He peered into the hall, checking the corridors for nosy crewmembers before he let Megatron follow him out. They weren’t being secretive as a rule, but neither of them wanted to answer uncomfortable questions. Neither did Megatron want anyone to question Ratchet’s dedication to their health and safety. Because of course, Ratchet would be considered compromised.
The door locked behind them.
“Frankly, I could use a little boredom,” Ratchet added with the edge of a grumble. He looked down at his hands, picking at the palm of one though there was nothing Megatron could see that would cause him irritation.
“Boredom has it’s place,” Megatron agreed. But boredom and peace were not the same thing.
It wasn’t until they walked onto the bridge – together – Megatron realized how much of a bad idea it was. Especially when every optic turned toward them, including Rodimus and Ultra Magnus’. Blaster stood next to them, a datapad in hand, and he looked up, too.
Rodimus’ jaw visibly dropped. “Did you two arrive together?” he demanded with a pointed finger their direction.
“No,” Megatron replied, and Ratchet echoed him, too much in sync for it to come across as anything but guilty.
Rodimus’ optics narrowed. “So it’s a coincidence?”
Ratchet growled.
Megatron shoved himself in front of the medic. “You pulled me up here for something important,” he reminded the flame-painted menace. “What was it so I can go ahead and tell you it’s ridiculous.”
Pink flushed across Rodimus’ face before his spoiler jerked upward. “Ridiculous?” he echoed and snatched the datapad from Blaster’s hands. He stomped across the floor and shoved it against Megatron’s chest. “Look at that and tell me who’s being ridiculous.”
Megatron caught the datapad before it could tumble to the ground. He peered at the screen as Rodimus stepped back, folding his arms with a harrumph. His spoiler arched upward, and he started tapping his feet.
Unfamiliar glyphs scrolled across the screen. Megatron could not read them, but he could recognize a pattern. It was the same statement, repeated over and over. There was a certain cadence to it that reflected a sense of urgency. And it did resemble the type of glyphs around the coordinates they followed.
“See?” Rodimus said.
“I see gibberish,” Megatron replied. He looked past Rodimus toward Blaster. “You’ve translated them?”
Ratchet plucked the datapad out of Megatron’s hands, perhaps to see for himself. That he did so without hesitation was more than a little telling.
“Yes, sir.” Blaster’s weight shifted, his dock fluttering as though fighting back the urge to release his cassettes, not that Megatron believed him to carry any. “Sounds like a distress call to me, though I got Rewind and Nautica and Nightbeat confirming it.”
“The coordinates are in our flight path.” Ultra Magnus turned to key something into the console, bringing up a holoimage of their current route and the location of the distress call.
It would not delay them to investigate it. As far as Megatron could tell, the signal originated from a satellite orbiting a rather large gas planet. The satellite was misshapen, not fully spherical, as though it had taken heavy bombardment, perhaps from space debris.
“It’s definitely worth a side trip.” Rodimus lifted a hand and waved it about. “I vote that we investigate. And not just because it could give us some clues.”
“There may be Cybertronians in need of help,” Ratchet said, his head tilted, but his optics narrowed. “Though judging by these glyphs and their historical significance, I fear whoever issued this SOS is long dead.”
“Or gone,” Megatron said.
“Oh, come on,” Rodimus near-whined, leaping from foot to foot and dancing in place. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? Don’t you want to know what they’re doing all the way out here?”
Megatron sighed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Truthfully, whatever they sought in the Hyades Cluster had been there for quite some time. It could wait long enough for them to investigate this broadcast.
Besides, if he tried to argue against it, Rodimus would sulk for months, and they had a hard enough time getting him to do his paperwork as it was. If he started ignoring it again, then Ultra Magnus would sulk, and that was quite enough moping Autobots. Two more than Megatron needed.
“Fine.” He waved toward the holoscreen. “Let’s investigate. At the very least, it may help us on our greater quest.”
“Yes!” Rodimus pumped both fists into the air. “Highbrow, you heard the co-captain. Take us to the satellite and set us in orbit. We’ll take the Rodpod.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Highbrow sounded amused.
Megatron sighed again. The Rodpod? Seriously? He loathed that thing. He felt quite unsafe in that thing. But like the Pit would he leave Rodimus to explore the signal on his own, with some handpicked crew who would prove to be less than useful.
“Call Perceptor, too. Have him meet us there.” Rodimus spun and started striding off the bridge. He paused by Megatron. “I guess you’re coming too?”
“There must be someone with a level head to keep you on task,” Megatron said. “Especially since Ultra Magnus will remain here so there is at least one command presence on the bridge.”
He couldn’t decide if Ultra Magnus’ sigh was one of relief or disappointment.
“You’ll need a medic,” Ratchet volunteered, and gave Megatron a pointed look. “Even if I’m not on shift.”
Megatron swallowed down a sigh.
This was going to be the exact opposite of his idea of fun.
~
Perceptor piloted despite Rodimus’ insistence he could do it, and Megatron was quite grateful Rodimus seemed to take Perceptor’s quieting glare in stride. It meant the ride was quite smooth, and Perceptor had the good sense to circle what was clearly a crash site before landing near it.
The ship – the size of a scout ship more or less – had nose-dived into a sandy stretch of empty ground. The aft end stuck out like an unexploded missile, and the stabilizing wings to either side of it had been shorn off in the crash. Other than that, there was no visible damage on the outside to indicate why it had crashed.
It wasn’t very promising.
They disembarked and cautiously approached the downed ship. The broadcast for assistance crackled in their comms, until they switched to another channel. There was no atmosphere here, nothing to carry sound. There was very little gravity as well, and as they walked, they disturbed the sediment. It rose up and formed a cloud around their lower halves.
The cargo bay door was only a quarter buried, but still accessible. Perceptor plugged into the system, and even though the ship was centuries old, some things were apparently universal. He managed to get them access.
The air didn’t depressurize as the cargo bay door slid open. Which meant it hadn’t been pressurized to start with.
The whole group hesitated. Perceptor’s scanner flashed a series of nonsense lights at them. “I’m not reading anything that should concern us,” he said. “No signs of life either. It seems the Lost Light’s sensors were accurate.”
“There may not be anyone on board, but there could still be some information we could use,” Rodimus decided, squaring his shoulders. He was the first to put his foot on the ramp. “Let’s go.”
Megatron had to give Rodimus credit. The brat had courage in spades. He might be a work-avoiding, self-interested little Autobot, but he had no problem leaping into the jaws of danger. There was something Decepticon about that.
Rodimus went in first, and Megatron followed, with Ratchet in his wake. Perceptor brought up the rear, sweeping his scanner back and forth. The ramp creaked beneath their footsteps, loud enough to feel the vibrations in their armor. Emergency runners blinked fitfully. As though they had power, but only just.
“There were probably a half-dozen crewmembers,” Ratchet commented, his voice crackling through their comms. “A vessel of this size wouldn’t have supported more.”
“It’s scout class,” Megatron agreed as he examined the walls, the supports.
“But what were they searching for? Why were they out here?” Perceptor asked, though the question seemed directed at no one in particular. His scanner flashed a series of lights. “If the design holds true to earlier ships, the bridge should be straight down this compartment.”
Perceptor was right, of course. But then, he was always right. It had to have been some law of the universe. Megatron once tried to coax Perceptor to the Decepticons. But either he’d laid the wrong bait, or Perceptor was that stridently Autobot. The attempt had failed.
In hindsight, sending Starscream to wheedle Perceptor had not been the best idea. He’d thought, at the time, like would call to like. Scientist to scientist. Or perhaps Starscream had failed on purpose, disliking the idea of competition when it came to scientific acumen. He’d detested Shockwave.
The Decepticons had suffered several losses due in no small part to the kind of scientific minds the Autobots could call. Shockwave, for example, had always loathed Perceptor. Megatron could see why. Jealousy often bred loathing.
It took the combined might of Perceptor’s laser cutter and Megatron’s brute strength to force the door to the bridge open. A cloud of silt greeted them, along with an odd, metallic odor. Like human blood, Megatron’s processor reminded him. It clogged in his filters, and it took all he had not to cough out the particulate.
“Gross,” Rodimus said with a wrinkle of his nose.
Here, the emergency lights were steadier. There was a faint illumination over the captain’s chair, front and center. It was occupied by a limp, gray frame. Four other chairs were arrayed in front of it in a semi-circle at what Megatron assumed were several stations, such as navigation and communication. Each chair was occupied.
“No life signs,” Perceptor said. He took point at the main console, fingers flicking across keys in an effort to bring up some kind of function.
“No.” Ratchet peered at the bulk of the captain’s lifeless husk. “Not for some time now.”
“What killed them?” Megatron asked.
There was no sign of a struggle. Nothing was destroyed. They weren’t in battle formation and had no visible weapons. The filth made it impossible to see blaster marks or energy weapon ash, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any.
Perceptor’s scanners would probably tell them more.
“I’m not sure,” Ratchet said, and there was an odd edge to his voice across the comm. “At first examination, I’d say their sparks burnt out. I’ll need to do an autopsy.”
“Burnt out?” Rodimus repeated with wide optics. “Our sparks do that?”
“We don’t live forever,” Megatron said with a snort. “It just seems like we do.”
Rodimus scowled at him. “People don’t send out distress signals because of old age, Megatron.”
“It was caused by something else,” Percepter commented as a holo-monitor fuzzed to life in front of him, words in an ancient Cybertronian language flashing across the screen. “I cannot read this.”
“Then maybe Rewind can. We should’ve brought him in the first place,” Rodimus muttered, and he turned away from all of them, switching to a different channel, no doubt to contact Blaster and get Rewind down here.
Ratchet tapped Megatron on the elbow to get his attention. “Help me get these back to my medbay,” he said as he lifted one of the smaller corpses into his arms. “The captain’s biggest.”
Megatron scowled but found himself obeying. Ratchet had a point, and it wasn’t like there was anything else he could do here. So he lifted the captain, who was far less stiff than he would have expected. The largest the captain might be, but he was still small in comparison to Megatron, closer in size to Perceptor.
He followed Ratchet out of the scout ship and back toward the Rodpod, leaving Perceptor at the console and Rodimus peering into every nook and cranny as though he could find a clue hiding there. Megatron doubted it. All of the information would be found in the dead and in the computer.
They docked and departed with their load, as another group of mechs – Rewind included – boarded the Rodpod and headed back down to the ship.
The Lost Light seemed a lot brighter and noisier, after the dim and silence of the depressurized scout cabin. The lingering sense of unease vanished in the brightness however, and Megatron shook off the last of the disquiet.
In the medbay, Ratchet directed Megatron to lay the captain on one slab while he carefully deposited his burden on another. Here, under the bright lights, more features were easier to distinguish. One had a visor, the other a face mask. Megatron couldn’t see any signs of an alt-mode. They had strange designs as well, more open seams and gaps in their plating, making it easier to see the cables and such beneath.
“I told the group to bring me back the rest.” Ratchet dragged over a wheeled tray full of instruments. He hooked a chair with one foot and tugged it close as well. “Though I suspect they all died of the same thing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s no trauma.” Ratchet bent over the corpse, peering at it, before selecting two tools from his array and getting to work. “Even with the rust and silt, I can tell they weren’t attacked. At least, not by conventional weapons. It’s like they crashed, for whatever reason, and then just fell into recharge and died.”
Megatron’s armor prickled. “Should we be worried about viruses or diseases?”
“Mm. I can’t think of a single pathogen capable of surviving this long that could infect us.” Ratchet wiped at a flat piece of abdominal armor, revealing the slate-gray of deceased paneling beneath. “But then, who knows what they could have picked up out here.” He waved vaguely. “I scanned them, if that makes you feel better.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Zip, zilch, nada.” Ratchet pressed his lips together, brow drawing down in confusion. “Not a drop of energon either, which is the really odd part. I mean, I suppose when they fell asleep and died, it was because they gradually consumed every drop of energon in their frames, but I don’t know. It’s unusual.”
Ratchet sighed and poked around the frame, before lifting up a rusted panel on the mech’s arm. It creaked noisily, revealing a medical port. “It’s too late now. Suppose we should have done a decontamination rinse at the least. The benefit of hindsight, I guess.”
He rummaged around, producing a datapad, and this he plugged into the mech’s systems. He tapped at the screen, frown deepening.
“Anything?”
“He’s a dead computer,” Ratchet said and gave Megatron a wry grin. “To put it crudely. I can’t access anything because there’s not a scrap of charge left.” He sighed and patted the deceased mech on the abdomen. “Looks like I’m going to have to do this the hard way, soldier.”
“Which is?”
“Removing his processor and plugging it into an external reader. I only hope our current tech can read his ancient tech.” Ratchet set aside the datapad and brought out a spray bottle and cloth. “But did you notice?” He gestured to the mech as a whole.
Megatron nodded. “No tires, wings, or other identifiable kibble.”
“Yes.” Ratchet gingerly started to wipe at the armor, no doubt looking for marks or badges or something to identify the mech with. “He’s a monoformer. That one is, too.” He gestured to the other mech on a slab. “In fact, I think they all were.”
“Is that significant?”
“I don’t know yet.” Ratchet sighed and tossed the filthy rag into the laundry, grabbing something else instead as he moved around to the mech’s head. “This could take awhile. You probably shouldn’t hang around. People might get ideas.” A magnifying glass snapped out over his optic.
Ideas. The wrong sort of ideas no doubt.
Megatron pushed off the wall and edged toward the door. “Rodimus needs further supervision anyway,” he said, his tone oddly tight. “Should I bother coming by tonight then or would that give people ideas as well?”
Ratchet didn’t even look up from his examination of the corpse, his face distressingly close to the washed out metal. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Megatron rolled his optics. He lingered, hand rapping a nonsense rhythm on the doorframe. He should leave, but he felt there was something here, something he needed to poke a little harder. “You do understand why I asked, don’t you? You can be... mercurial.”
Ratchet’s head snapped up, magnifying optic flashing oddly in the overhead light. “I am not!”
Megatron only lifted an orbital ridge. That didn’t even dignify a response. They both knew he was right.
Ratchet’s lips pressed together. His head dipped down again, hands carefully lifting out a rusted chip from the mech’s processor and setting it aside, into a cleaning solution.
“First Aid has your energon,” he said.
It was dismissal if Megatron ever heard one. Unfortunately for Ratchet, one he wasn’t inclined to take at the moment. The urge to poke lingered, and Megatron was tired of standing on an edge, wondering if he dared take one step forward, or one step back.
Besides, he had a question, and the privacy of this room was perfect for getting it answered.
Ratchet must have noticed his hesitation, because he rather crankily demanded, “What?”
Megatron worked his jaw before he decided to barge forward. He was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them.
“Trust,” he said.
“What?” Ratchet repeated himself, his lips curling into a frown, but his hands steady as he plucked free another chip.
Megatron moved away from the door, clasping his hands behind his back. “What we are doing requires trust,” he said. “But you don’t trust me.”
“This is neither the time nor the place--”
“On the contrary,” Megatron interrupted, his spark pounding faster in his chassis. “This is the perfect place, since anyone looking at the camera could assume we are discussing important matters, and it’s the perfect time, because neither you nor I are going anywhere.”
Irritation flickered in Ratchet’s field. “Fine.”
It didn’t feel like a victory, it was too hollow for that, but Megatron barreled forward anyway. “You don’t trust me,” he repeated.
Ratchet audibly vented and set down both scalpel and forceps. “I trust certain things about you. But to say I unequivocally trust you? No, I can’t do that.” He looked up at Megatron, something flat in his optics. “And it should be obvious why.”
“Are my actions not enough?”
“After centuries of war?” Ratchet leaned back in his chair, looking over the poor mech on the table. “A few months of good behavior means nothing in the wake of that.”
Megatron chuffed a vent. “I don’t mean that,” he nearly snapped. “Have I not treated you in a manner worthy of trust?”
Ratchet rubbed his hand over his head, looking tired. “I can’t separate the two in my head. It’s not that easy.” One foot scuffed at the floor, his gaze turning distant. “Yes, I trust you’re not going to hurt me. But not all pain is physical.”
Megatron’s optics widened. He wondered if Ratchet realized what he’d just admitted. Perhaps this was not as one-sided as he’d begun to fear.
“If I make you so uneasy, why do you continue this?” Megatron asked.
“I guess I’m just a masochist.” Ratchet’s lips quirked in a self-deprecating grin. He scooted his chair forward, picking up the tools of his trade. “Besides, you can’t say you trust me either.”
Megatron shook his head. “I trust no one to that extent. It’s not personal.”
“Exactly my point. There are different kinds of trust.” Ratchet’s optics cycled wider, for a magnifying effect perhaps. “It’s up to you if what we’re working with is enough.”
Megatron folded his arms, staring hard at the floor. Was it enough? Ratchet trusted Megatron not to hurt him, which was something no one else on this ship could claim. But he’d already proven to be fickle when it came to their relationship.
But he was still the only one Megatron felt he could remotely trust. At least, with this particular need. Despite it all, Megatron liked Ratchet.
It would have to be enough.
“I’ve been doing research,” Megatron began haltingly. It went against every instinct to bare himself like this. “There are certain acts which intrigue me.” He let the statement hang, waiting for Ratchet’s reaction.
“I’m listening.”
Megatron hesitated. “Controlled pain is of interest to me,” he admitted. “And I… trust you to apply it appropriately.”
There. He said it.
Ratchet froze, a flake of grit and grime fluttering to the floor. “All right,” he said at length. “What kind of pain?”
“Mild. No visible marks. No carnage. No-- no beating or seemingly random assault.” Megatron’s mouth went dry, a mixture of anxiety for the former scenarios, and intrigue over what possibilities remained.
Ratchet released a contemplative hum, seemingly fully distracted by his autopsy but his reply indicating otherwise. “Whips? Electricity? Flogs?”
“The latter, I think.” Megatron gnawed on his bottom lip. Flogs, he knew, could be a targeted, precise pain. Never incidental, always intentional. Sharp.
His engine gave a little rev.
“Restraints?”
“For your own safety, yes. I may lash out on instinct.” Why did it feel so normal? They were having this strange, intimate conversation – while Ratchet autopsied a centuries dead mech no less – and all discomfort had vanished.
“Just pain then?”
Megatron’s forehead drew down. “I… yes?” He wasn’t sure what Ratchet meant by the question.
Ratchet looked up. “Some mechs like to combine pain with other kinks. Like master/slave playacting or humiliation or punishment.”
“No.” Megatron didn’t even have to think about it. His entire frame tensed at the mere mention of the three so-called kinks.
“I figured.” Ratchet cycled several ventilations, his expression contemplative. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Megatron’s comm chose that moment to chirp.
He swallowed a growl of aggravation, though it doubled in intensity when he read the ident code. Of course it was Rodimus. Brat had a talent for knowing the best possible moment to interrupt.
Megatron tapped the acceptance key. “Yes?”
Rodimus’ face bubbled into view on his wrist, bright grin and overeager optics. “Yo!” One hand flickered into view with a casual wave. “Ratchet find anything?”
“Nothing yet of use,” Megatron replied.
“Damn. That sucks.” Rodimus’ leaned closer, like they were standing next to each other rather than speaking over a holo-communicator. “It’s a good thing Rewind’s having better luck then. Wanna see what I found?” The last was rather sing-song.
Megatron fought the urge to roll his optics. He refused to stoop to Rodimus’ level. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
He returned his attention to Ratchet, but the medic was now so focused on the corpse, it felt false.
“Don’t forget to get your energon,” Ratchet reminded him.
Conversation over apparently. All because duty – also known as Rodimus – called. Frag it. They were actually making progress, too.
Megatron grimaced at the reminder. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“Will do.”
This time, Megatron left as he claimed he would. He wouldn’t say that his spark felt lighter after the conversation. If anything, he felt even more unsteady, anticipation warring with dread into an obnoxious tangle in his tanks.
Tonight would give him an answer, he knew.
He only had to figure out the right question.
****
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
Megatron had Ratchet pinned against the wall, the rinse spattering down over them, solvent swirling down the drain, when his comm chimed.
He tried to ignore it, his mouth otherwise occupied with the hot tangle of Ratchet’s glossa. Their fields intertwined, pulsing to the same needy beat. Ratchet’s spike pressed hot and rigid against his thigh. Megatron’s own left streaks over Ratchet’s abdomen.
His hands drifted down to Ratchet’s hips, gripping and squeezing. He tensed, with every intention of lifting and plunging deep into Ratchet, sinking into the hot grasp of Ratchet’s valve and making the medic overload all over his spike.
His comm chimed again, this time with a command priority override, so that Rodimus’ voice spilled into his comm system. Megatron startled and jerked his mouth away from Ratchet’s.
“My shift doesn’t start for another half hour,” Megatron snarled to the impatient brat. He stared at the wall above Ratchet’s head, trying to control his ventilations so he didn’t sound two thrusts away from overload.
Rodimus sighed into the comm, and Megatron could picture him rolling his optics. “I know that. But Blaster picked up something you’re going to want to hear. Unless you want me deciding to answer it all by myself.”
Primus below. Who knew what kind of trouble they’d get into if Megatron left Rodimus as the sole-decision-maker. And where the frag was Ultra Magnus? Why wasn’t he up there knocking some sense into his former captain current co-captain?
“What is it?” Megatron demanded as Ratchet made a noise and ground against him, his spike skittering hot over Megatron’s armor.
“A distress call,” Rodimus answered, because he was an utter child and couldn’t get to the point fast enough.
Megatron growled. “So?” He stroked a hand down Ratchet’s side to try and placate the boiling field of irritation now rolling against him.
“It’s pre-war code.”
Pre-war. Not Autobot or Decepticon. It could be anyone. It could also be the Knights. It could be the very thing they sought.
It could be Megatron’s undoing.
He worked his intake, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll be right there.”
Megatron ended the comm before Rodimus could reply with a smart retort. He took a moment to ventilate, before the hot press of a frame against his reminded him that he was in the middle of something.
Ratchet growled, his hands on Megatron’s sides, fingers digging between seams to pinch at the cables beneath. “I’m going to kill that flame-painted idiot.”
“You can’t, we need him,” Megatron said with a soft laugh. He smoothed his hands up and down Ratchet’s sides, his own ardor cooling, but Ratchet still firm and hungry against him.
“Says you.” Ratchet snarled. “I swear to Primus that if you don’t finish me off, I’m going to reformat you into a toaster.”
Megatron reached behind Ratchet and slammed his palm against the shower, cutting off the spray. “Won’t that violate your code of ethics?” he asked, his voice echoing without the noise of the spray to muffle it.
He started to lower himself to a kneel as Ratchet grumped at him, “You’re still alive, aren’t you? That’s the import – ah! – important part.”
Ratchet’s grumble cut off into a gasp as Megatron licked the head of his spike. It bobbed eagerly at the apex of Ratchet’s thighs, the perfect mouthful. Mostly red, with white stripes in thick and thin bands, it was a colorful testament to the energetic and fun youth Ratchet must have been.
Megatron would never admit aloud, but he enjoyed sucking Ratchet off. Ratchet fit perfectly in his mouth, a heavy weight across his glossa, the head of his spike nudging the back of Megatron’s intake in a subtle, but powerful sort of claim.
“That-- that’ll work,” Ratchet gasped out, and his hands found Megatron’s head, curving gently around it. His hips rolled forward, gently thrusting his spike into Megatron’s mouth.
His field spilled over Megatron’s, crackling with need. It filled the small space of the washrack, almost suffocating in its potency. Ratchet was already close, and Megatron could taste that urgency in his field, on his spike.
Megatron hummed around Ratchet and sucked him deeper, letting the entirety of Ratchet’s spike fill his mouth. Prefluid trickled down his intake as Ratchet throbbed. He made these bitten off noises, and his grip on Megatron’s head tightened.
Megatron curled his hands around Ratchet’s aft, urging him to thrust, go deeper, until Megatron’s nose brushed against Ratchet’s spike housing. He shuttered his optics, soaking in the sensation, working his intake around Ratchet’s spike.
Ratchet groaned, curling forward, hips making jerking thrusts. Perhaps he was trying to be careful. The concern was touching.
But they were on a timetable here.
Megatron’s intake worked again and again, glossa pressing on the length of Ratchet’s spike. He slipped one hand between Ratchet’s thighs, fingers seeking up and up, until he found the soaking damp of Ratchet’s valve. His thumb nudged firmly over Ratchet’s nub, as two fingers slipped inside, curved just right.
Megatron swallowed.
Ratchet clutched at his head and overloaded, spilling in several hot, heavy spurts down the back of Megatron’s intake. He clutched at Megatron’s head, holding him in place, forcing Megatron to swallow the spill. His moan muffled against Ratchet’s spike, the tug of Ratchet’s field trying his self-control. His spike throbbed within the confines of his panel, demanding that it, too, find relief.
If this wasn’t important, Megatron was going to fling Rodimus out the cargo bay.
Megatron worked Ratchet carefully as the medic sagged against the wall, panting for ventilations, his hands gentling in their grip. Megatron let Ratchet slip from his mouth and rose. He licked his lips, tasting Ratchet upon them.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked as he swept he squeezed Ratchet’s hips, ignoring the urgent throb of his own system.
Dazed blue optics lifted to his. “It’s a start,” Ratchet managed, unwilling as always to admit when Megatron had impressed him. “What did Rodimus want?”
“We’ve detected an SOS apparently.” Megatron stepped away from Ratchet and grabbed a couple of drying towels, tossing one to the medic. “Judging from the glee in his voice, he thinks it might be related to the Knights.” He wiped his fingers clean of lubricant.
Considering they were less than a week out from the coordinates Nautica had found in Quartex, then Rodimus could very well be right. Or they were walking straight into a trap of some kind. One centuries old, but still. You could never be too careful.
“And you want to, what, delay him?” Ratchet asked.
Megatron slanted him a look. “Why would I want that?”
“Finding the Knights does mean you will face judgment.” Ratchet shrugged, but there was something tense about it. Far from nonchalant. “Then again, you probably have a plan for that.”
Megatron quickly swiped the cloth across his frame, the urgent throb of his spike suddenly as uncomfortable as the lingering flavor of transfluid on his glossa. “If you’re so convinced I’m up to no good, what are you even doing here?”
“It’s my washrack.” Ratchet’s drying off was half-sparked at best. He paid as little attention to it as he paid to Megatron.
He pressed his lips together, reminding himself that while Ratchet’s glossa was as sharp as Starscream’s, he didn’t respond to the same kind of discipline. “You know what I meant, medic.”
“Yeah, I do. Doesn’t mean I want to answer your question.” Ratchet balled up the damp towel and tossed it in the vague direction of the laundry drop. He had become quite good at evading Megatron’s questions.
And the laundry drop apparently.
Megatron stooped to pick up the towel lump, stuffing both it and his own down the chute. They’d been navigating this tricky territory for several days now, as Ratchet grappled with some internal demon, and Megatron struggled not to hate him for it. He despised this feeling of uncertainty, of not knowing whether Ratchet was going to kiss him or snarl at him.
It would be easier, he knew, to walk away now. To put aside this relationship, if he were being generous, and stop allowing himself to be distracted. Why he couldn’t seem to do that, Megatron didn’t know.
Why, Ravage asked him, time and time again. Every evening he returned late, or every morning he stumbled inside, just long enough to tidy up before his shift. Why?
Megatron worked his jaw, and decided to let it go for now. They didn’t have time to rehash this.
Again.
He moved to the door and noticed Ratchet made no motion to follow him. So Megatron paused in the entry and looked back at the medic, who seemed very occupied with the few spatters of solvent sticking tackily to the floor.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
Ratchet snorted. “I already did, thanks.” He finally looked up at Megatron, a twinkle of mischief in his optics. “But you didn’t.”
“It’s nothing but a discomfort. I’ve had worse.” He currently felt worse, what with the pits and empty craters inside his frame.
He wondered if Ratchet ever feared spiking him, only to lose that integral piece of his frame to a wandering black hole.
“I’m sure you have,” Ratchet muttered, but he moved to follow Megatron anyway. “Might as well. I don’t have anything better to do since I’ve been banned from working on my days off.”
Megatron had won that particular argument. He assumed it would be the only victory he’d be able to celebrate for quite some time.
“If Rodimus is involved, you can be assured it’s not going to be boring.” Megatron gestured for Ratchet to precede him.
After a long moment of staring at him, searching for something Megatron didn’t know, Ratchet took the invitation.
“Boredom isn’t what I’m worried about,” Ratchet said.
He peered into the hall, checking the corridors for nosy crewmembers before he let Megatron follow him out. They weren’t being secretive as a rule, but neither of them wanted to answer uncomfortable questions. Neither did Megatron want anyone to question Ratchet’s dedication to their health and safety. Because of course, Ratchet would be considered compromised.
The door locked behind them.
“Frankly, I could use a little boredom,” Ratchet added with the edge of a grumble. He looked down at his hands, picking at the palm of one though there was nothing Megatron could see that would cause him irritation.
“Boredom has it’s place,” Megatron agreed. But boredom and peace were not the same thing.
It wasn’t until they walked onto the bridge – together – Megatron realized how much of a bad idea it was. Especially when every optic turned toward them, including Rodimus and Ultra Magnus’. Blaster stood next to them, a datapad in hand, and he looked up, too.
Rodimus’ jaw visibly dropped. “Did you two arrive together?” he demanded with a pointed finger their direction.
“No,” Megatron replied, and Ratchet echoed him, too much in sync for it to come across as anything but guilty.
Rodimus’ optics narrowed. “So it’s a coincidence?”
Ratchet growled.
Megatron shoved himself in front of the medic. “You pulled me up here for something important,” he reminded the flame-painted menace. “What was it so I can go ahead and tell you it’s ridiculous.”
Pink flushed across Rodimus’ face before his spoiler jerked upward. “Ridiculous?” he echoed and snatched the datapad from Blaster’s hands. He stomped across the floor and shoved it against Megatron’s chest. “Look at that and tell me who’s being ridiculous.”
Megatron caught the datapad before it could tumble to the ground. He peered at the screen as Rodimus stepped back, folding his arms with a harrumph. His spoiler arched upward, and he started tapping his feet.
Unfamiliar glyphs scrolled across the screen. Megatron could not read them, but he could recognize a pattern. It was the same statement, repeated over and over. There was a certain cadence to it that reflected a sense of urgency. And it did resemble the type of glyphs around the coordinates they followed.
“See?” Rodimus said.
“I see gibberish,” Megatron replied. He looked past Rodimus toward Blaster. “You’ve translated them?”
Ratchet plucked the datapad out of Megatron’s hands, perhaps to see for himself. That he did so without hesitation was more than a little telling.
“Yes, sir.” Blaster’s weight shifted, his dock fluttering as though fighting back the urge to release his cassettes, not that Megatron believed him to carry any. “Sounds like a distress call to me, though I got Rewind and Nautica and Nightbeat confirming it.”
“The coordinates are in our flight path.” Ultra Magnus turned to key something into the console, bringing up a holoimage of their current route and the location of the distress call.
It would not delay them to investigate it. As far as Megatron could tell, the signal originated from a satellite orbiting a rather large gas planet. The satellite was misshapen, not fully spherical, as though it had taken heavy bombardment, perhaps from space debris.
“It’s definitely worth a side trip.” Rodimus lifted a hand and waved it about. “I vote that we investigate. And not just because it could give us some clues.”
“There may be Cybertronians in need of help,” Ratchet said, his head tilted, but his optics narrowed. “Though judging by these glyphs and their historical significance, I fear whoever issued this SOS is long dead.”
“Or gone,” Megatron said.
“Oh, come on,” Rodimus near-whined, leaping from foot to foot and dancing in place. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? Don’t you want to know what they’re doing all the way out here?”
Megatron sighed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Truthfully, whatever they sought in the Hyades Cluster had been there for quite some time. It could wait long enough for them to investigate this broadcast.
Besides, if he tried to argue against it, Rodimus would sulk for months, and they had a hard enough time getting him to do his paperwork as it was. If he started ignoring it again, then Ultra Magnus would sulk, and that was quite enough moping Autobots. Two more than Megatron needed.
“Fine.” He waved toward the holoscreen. “Let’s investigate. At the very least, it may help us on our greater quest.”
“Yes!” Rodimus pumped both fists into the air. “Highbrow, you heard the co-captain. Take us to the satellite and set us in orbit. We’ll take the Rodpod.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Highbrow sounded amused.
Megatron sighed again. The Rodpod? Seriously? He loathed that thing. He felt quite unsafe in that thing. But like the Pit would he leave Rodimus to explore the signal on his own, with some handpicked crew who would prove to be less than useful.
“Call Perceptor, too. Have him meet us there.” Rodimus spun and started striding off the bridge. He paused by Megatron. “I guess you’re coming too?”
“There must be someone with a level head to keep you on task,” Megatron said. “Especially since Ultra Magnus will remain here so there is at least one command presence on the bridge.”
He couldn’t decide if Ultra Magnus’ sigh was one of relief or disappointment.
“You’ll need a medic,” Ratchet volunteered, and gave Megatron a pointed look. “Even if I’m not on shift.”
Megatron swallowed down a sigh.
This was going to be the exact opposite of his idea of fun.
Perceptor piloted despite Rodimus’ insistence he could do it, and Megatron was quite grateful Rodimus seemed to take Perceptor’s quieting glare in stride. It meant the ride was quite smooth, and Perceptor had the good sense to circle what was clearly a crash site before landing near it.
The ship – the size of a scout ship more or less – had nose-dived into a sandy stretch of empty ground. The aft end stuck out like an unexploded missile, and the stabilizing wings to either side of it had been shorn off in the crash. Other than that, there was no visible damage on the outside to indicate why it had crashed.
It wasn’t very promising.
They disembarked and cautiously approached the downed ship. The broadcast for assistance crackled in their comms, until they switched to another channel. There was no atmosphere here, nothing to carry sound. There was very little gravity as well, and as they walked, they disturbed the sediment. It rose up and formed a cloud around their lower halves.
The cargo bay door was only a quarter buried, but still accessible. Perceptor plugged into the system, and even though the ship was centuries old, some things were apparently universal. He managed to get them access.
The air didn’t depressurize as the cargo bay door slid open. Which meant it hadn’t been pressurized to start with.
The whole group hesitated. Perceptor’s scanner flashed a series of nonsense lights at them. “I’m not reading anything that should concern us,” he said. “No signs of life either. It seems the Lost Light’s sensors were accurate.”
“There may not be anyone on board, but there could still be some information we could use,” Rodimus decided, squaring his shoulders. He was the first to put his foot on the ramp. “Let’s go.”
Megatron had to give Rodimus credit. The brat had courage in spades. He might be a work-avoiding, self-interested little Autobot, but he had no problem leaping into the jaws of danger. There was something Decepticon about that.
Rodimus went in first, and Megatron followed, with Ratchet in his wake. Perceptor brought up the rear, sweeping his scanner back and forth. The ramp creaked beneath their footsteps, loud enough to feel the vibrations in their armor. Emergency runners blinked fitfully. As though they had power, but only just.
“There were probably a half-dozen crewmembers,” Ratchet commented, his voice crackling through their comms. “A vessel of this size wouldn’t have supported more.”
“It’s scout class,” Megatron agreed as he examined the walls, the supports.
“But what were they searching for? Why were they out here?” Perceptor asked, though the question seemed directed at no one in particular. His scanner flashed a series of lights. “If the design holds true to earlier ships, the bridge should be straight down this compartment.”
Perceptor was right, of course. But then, he was always right. It had to have been some law of the universe. Megatron once tried to coax Perceptor to the Decepticons. But either he’d laid the wrong bait, or Perceptor was that stridently Autobot. The attempt had failed.
In hindsight, sending Starscream to wheedle Perceptor had not been the best idea. He’d thought, at the time, like would call to like. Scientist to scientist. Or perhaps Starscream had failed on purpose, disliking the idea of competition when it came to scientific acumen. He’d detested Shockwave.
The Decepticons had suffered several losses due in no small part to the kind of scientific minds the Autobots could call. Shockwave, for example, had always loathed Perceptor. Megatron could see why. Jealousy often bred loathing.
It took the combined might of Perceptor’s laser cutter and Megatron’s brute strength to force the door to the bridge open. A cloud of silt greeted them, along with an odd, metallic odor. Like human blood, Megatron’s processor reminded him. It clogged in his filters, and it took all he had not to cough out the particulate.
“Gross,” Rodimus said with a wrinkle of his nose.
Here, the emergency lights were steadier. There was a faint illumination over the captain’s chair, front and center. It was occupied by a limp, gray frame. Four other chairs were arrayed in front of it in a semi-circle at what Megatron assumed were several stations, such as navigation and communication. Each chair was occupied.
“No life signs,” Perceptor said. He took point at the main console, fingers flicking across keys in an effort to bring up some kind of function.
“No.” Ratchet peered at the bulk of the captain’s lifeless husk. “Not for some time now.”
“What killed them?” Megatron asked.
There was no sign of a struggle. Nothing was destroyed. They weren’t in battle formation and had no visible weapons. The filth made it impossible to see blaster marks or energy weapon ash, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any.
Perceptor’s scanners would probably tell them more.
“I’m not sure,” Ratchet said, and there was an odd edge to his voice across the comm. “At first examination, I’d say their sparks burnt out. I’ll need to do an autopsy.”
“Burnt out?” Rodimus repeated with wide optics. “Our sparks do that?”
“We don’t live forever,” Megatron said with a snort. “It just seems like we do.”
Rodimus scowled at him. “People don’t send out distress signals because of old age, Megatron.”
“It was caused by something else,” Percepter commented as a holo-monitor fuzzed to life in front of him, words in an ancient Cybertronian language flashing across the screen. “I cannot read this.”
“Then maybe Rewind can. We should’ve brought him in the first place,” Rodimus muttered, and he turned away from all of them, switching to a different channel, no doubt to contact Blaster and get Rewind down here.
Ratchet tapped Megatron on the elbow to get his attention. “Help me get these back to my medbay,” he said as he lifted one of the smaller corpses into his arms. “The captain’s biggest.”
Megatron scowled but found himself obeying. Ratchet had a point, and it wasn’t like there was anything else he could do here. So he lifted the captain, who was far less stiff than he would have expected. The largest the captain might be, but he was still small in comparison to Megatron, closer in size to Perceptor.
He followed Ratchet out of the scout ship and back toward the Rodpod, leaving Perceptor at the console and Rodimus peering into every nook and cranny as though he could find a clue hiding there. Megatron doubted it. All of the information would be found in the dead and in the computer.
They docked and departed with their load, as another group of mechs – Rewind included – boarded the Rodpod and headed back down to the ship.
The Lost Light seemed a lot brighter and noisier, after the dim and silence of the depressurized scout cabin. The lingering sense of unease vanished in the brightness however, and Megatron shook off the last of the disquiet.
In the medbay, Ratchet directed Megatron to lay the captain on one slab while he carefully deposited his burden on another. Here, under the bright lights, more features were easier to distinguish. One had a visor, the other a face mask. Megatron couldn’t see any signs of an alt-mode. They had strange designs as well, more open seams and gaps in their plating, making it easier to see the cables and such beneath.
“I told the group to bring me back the rest.” Ratchet dragged over a wheeled tray full of instruments. He hooked a chair with one foot and tugged it close as well. “Though I suspect they all died of the same thing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s no trauma.” Ratchet bent over the corpse, peering at it, before selecting two tools from his array and getting to work. “Even with the rust and silt, I can tell they weren’t attacked. At least, not by conventional weapons. It’s like they crashed, for whatever reason, and then just fell into recharge and died.”
Megatron’s armor prickled. “Should we be worried about viruses or diseases?”
“Mm. I can’t think of a single pathogen capable of surviving this long that could infect us.” Ratchet wiped at a flat piece of abdominal armor, revealing the slate-gray of deceased paneling beneath. “But then, who knows what they could have picked up out here.” He waved vaguely. “I scanned them, if that makes you feel better.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Zip, zilch, nada.” Ratchet pressed his lips together, brow drawing down in confusion. “Not a drop of energon either, which is the really odd part. I mean, I suppose when they fell asleep and died, it was because they gradually consumed every drop of energon in their frames, but I don’t know. It’s unusual.”
Ratchet sighed and poked around the frame, before lifting up a rusted panel on the mech’s arm. It creaked noisily, revealing a medical port. “It’s too late now. Suppose we should have done a decontamination rinse at the least. The benefit of hindsight, I guess.”
He rummaged around, producing a datapad, and this he plugged into the mech’s systems. He tapped at the screen, frown deepening.
“Anything?”
“He’s a dead computer,” Ratchet said and gave Megatron a wry grin. “To put it crudely. I can’t access anything because there’s not a scrap of charge left.” He sighed and patted the deceased mech on the abdomen. “Looks like I’m going to have to do this the hard way, soldier.”
“Which is?”
“Removing his processor and plugging it into an external reader. I only hope our current tech can read his ancient tech.” Ratchet set aside the datapad and brought out a spray bottle and cloth. “But did you notice?” He gestured to the mech as a whole.
Megatron nodded. “No tires, wings, or other identifiable kibble.”
“Yes.” Ratchet gingerly started to wipe at the armor, no doubt looking for marks or badges or something to identify the mech with. “He’s a monoformer. That one is, too.” He gestured to the other mech on a slab. “In fact, I think they all were.”
“Is that significant?”
“I don’t know yet.” Ratchet sighed and tossed the filthy rag into the laundry, grabbing something else instead as he moved around to the mech’s head. “This could take awhile. You probably shouldn’t hang around. People might get ideas.” A magnifying glass snapped out over his optic.
Ideas. The wrong sort of ideas no doubt.
Megatron pushed off the wall and edged toward the door. “Rodimus needs further supervision anyway,” he said, his tone oddly tight. “Should I bother coming by tonight then or would that give people ideas as well?”
Ratchet didn’t even look up from his examination of the corpse, his face distressingly close to the washed out metal. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Megatron rolled his optics. He lingered, hand rapping a nonsense rhythm on the doorframe. He should leave, but he felt there was something here, something he needed to poke a little harder. “You do understand why I asked, don’t you? You can be... mercurial.”
Ratchet’s head snapped up, magnifying optic flashing oddly in the overhead light. “I am not!”
Megatron only lifted an orbital ridge. That didn’t even dignify a response. They both knew he was right.
Ratchet’s lips pressed together. His head dipped down again, hands carefully lifting out a rusted chip from the mech’s processor and setting it aside, into a cleaning solution.
“First Aid has your energon,” he said.
It was dismissal if Megatron ever heard one. Unfortunately for Ratchet, one he wasn’t inclined to take at the moment. The urge to poke lingered, and Megatron was tired of standing on an edge, wondering if he dared take one step forward, or one step back.
Besides, he had a question, and the privacy of this room was perfect for getting it answered.
Ratchet must have noticed his hesitation, because he rather crankily demanded, “What?”
Megatron worked his jaw before he decided to barge forward. He was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them.
“Trust,” he said.
“What?” Ratchet repeated himself, his lips curling into a frown, but his hands steady as he plucked free another chip.
Megatron moved away from the door, clasping his hands behind his back. “What we are doing requires trust,” he said. “But you don’t trust me.”
“This is neither the time nor the place--”
“On the contrary,” Megatron interrupted, his spark pounding faster in his chassis. “This is the perfect place, since anyone looking at the camera could assume we are discussing important matters, and it’s the perfect time, because neither you nor I are going anywhere.”
Irritation flickered in Ratchet’s field. “Fine.”
It didn’t feel like a victory, it was too hollow for that, but Megatron barreled forward anyway. “You don’t trust me,” he repeated.
Ratchet audibly vented and set down both scalpel and forceps. “I trust certain things about you. But to say I unequivocally trust you? No, I can’t do that.” He looked up at Megatron, something flat in his optics. “And it should be obvious why.”
“Are my actions not enough?”
“After centuries of war?” Ratchet leaned back in his chair, looking over the poor mech on the table. “A few months of good behavior means nothing in the wake of that.”
Megatron chuffed a vent. “I don’t mean that,” he nearly snapped. “Have I not treated you in a manner worthy of trust?”
Ratchet rubbed his hand over his head, looking tired. “I can’t separate the two in my head. It’s not that easy.” One foot scuffed at the floor, his gaze turning distant. “Yes, I trust you’re not going to hurt me. But not all pain is physical.”
Megatron’s optics widened. He wondered if Ratchet realized what he’d just admitted. Perhaps this was not as one-sided as he’d begun to fear.
“If I make you so uneasy, why do you continue this?” Megatron asked.
“I guess I’m just a masochist.” Ratchet’s lips quirked in a self-deprecating grin. He scooted his chair forward, picking up the tools of his trade. “Besides, you can’t say you trust me either.”
Megatron shook his head. “I trust no one to that extent. It’s not personal.”
“Exactly my point. There are different kinds of trust.” Ratchet’s optics cycled wider, for a magnifying effect perhaps. “It’s up to you if what we’re working with is enough.”
Megatron folded his arms, staring hard at the floor. Was it enough? Ratchet trusted Megatron not to hurt him, which was something no one else on this ship could claim. But he’d already proven to be fickle when it came to their relationship.
But he was still the only one Megatron felt he could remotely trust. At least, with this particular need. Despite it all, Megatron liked Ratchet.
It would have to be enough.
“I’ve been doing research,” Megatron began haltingly. It went against every instinct to bare himself like this. “There are certain acts which intrigue me.” He let the statement hang, waiting for Ratchet’s reaction.
“I’m listening.”
Megatron hesitated. “Controlled pain is of interest to me,” he admitted. “And I… trust you to apply it appropriately.”
There. He said it.
Ratchet froze, a flake of grit and grime fluttering to the floor. “All right,” he said at length. “What kind of pain?”
“Mild. No visible marks. No carnage. No-- no beating or seemingly random assault.” Megatron’s mouth went dry, a mixture of anxiety for the former scenarios, and intrigue over what possibilities remained.
Ratchet released a contemplative hum, seemingly fully distracted by his autopsy but his reply indicating otherwise. “Whips? Electricity? Flogs?”
“The latter, I think.” Megatron gnawed on his bottom lip. Flogs, he knew, could be a targeted, precise pain. Never incidental, always intentional. Sharp.
His engine gave a little rev.
“Restraints?”
“For your own safety, yes. I may lash out on instinct.” Why did it feel so normal? They were having this strange, intimate conversation – while Ratchet autopsied a centuries dead mech no less – and all discomfort had vanished.
“Just pain then?”
Megatron’s forehead drew down. “I… yes?” He wasn’t sure what Ratchet meant by the question.
Ratchet looked up. “Some mechs like to combine pain with other kinks. Like master/slave playacting or humiliation or punishment.”
“No.” Megatron didn’t even have to think about it. His entire frame tensed at the mere mention of the three so-called kinks.
“I figured.” Ratchet cycled several ventilations, his expression contemplative. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Megatron’s comm chose that moment to chirp.
He swallowed a growl of aggravation, though it doubled in intensity when he read the ident code. Of course it was Rodimus. Brat had a talent for knowing the best possible moment to interrupt.
Megatron tapped the acceptance key. “Yes?”
Rodimus’ face bubbled into view on his wrist, bright grin and overeager optics. “Yo!” One hand flickered into view with a casual wave. “Ratchet find anything?”
“Nothing yet of use,” Megatron replied.
“Damn. That sucks.” Rodimus’ leaned closer, like they were standing next to each other rather than speaking over a holo-communicator. “It’s a good thing Rewind’s having better luck then. Wanna see what I found?” The last was rather sing-song.
Megatron fought the urge to roll his optics. He refused to stoop to Rodimus’ level. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
He returned his attention to Ratchet, but the medic was now so focused on the corpse, it felt false.
“Don’t forget to get your energon,” Ratchet reminded him.
Conversation over apparently. All because duty – also known as Rodimus – called. Frag it. They were actually making progress, too.
Megatron grimaced at the reminder. “Let me know if you find anything.”
“Will do.”
This time, Megatron left as he claimed he would. He wouldn’t say that his spark felt lighter after the conversation. If anything, he felt even more unsteady, anticipation warring with dread into an obnoxious tangle in his tanks.
Tonight would give him an answer, he knew.
He only had to figure out the right question.
