[IDW] Walking the Wire 10/12
Sep. 17th, 2018 06:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Walking the Wire 10/12
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 Ten
They emerged from the medcenter into the same flat, grey afternoon. They’d only been inside for a short while, but it felt longer. Megatron’s side ached where the barbs had torn into lines and serrated the edges of his inner workings. He’d heal, but it wouldn’t be fun.
He and Ratchet walked in step, Megatron unconsciously matching his longer strides to Ratchet’s shorter one. They should have turned back toward the Lost Light. Instead, they paused outside the medcenter to catch their bearings.
Megatron didn’t know if there were any bearings to catch. He felt untethered, to his frame and to this moment. Something heavy sat between them, and it was the only thing which kept Megatron rooted to the ground.
Like Starscream, he couldn’t let things lie. He had to poke at an open wound, because Ratchet’s expression was closed to him, and if Megatron were going to suffer in this state of wanting and not-having, then Ratchet needed to as well.
“There is one thing I find strange,” Megatron said, glancing aside at Ratchet, taking notice of the gore staining the medic’s frame.
Ratchet snorted. “Only one?” His gaze skittered around them, armor clamped tight, as though afraid of another attack. Given that his blaster was without a charge, he had right to be wary.
“Yes.” Megatron set his shoulders. He pretended the buildings looming around them were of the utmost fascination. “I find it strange you were so willing to welcome Drift to the Autobots, that you readily forgave him, yet won’t offer that same courtesy to me.”
Ratchet vented, armor creaking as he rubbed at his forehead. “And I find it weird that you don’t realize why that’s totally different.”
Megatron held his hands behind his back, though it pulled at the patched wound. He buried a wince. “Enlighten me.”
Ratchet glanced at him, optics narrowed. “Deadlock was only a soldier. You were the Decepticon commander. It’s an issue of responsibility.” He started walking, but away from the Lost Light and deeper into the city.
Megatron followed.
“Just a soldier?” It was his turn to snort. What lies had Drift fed Ratchet? Or the Autobots, for that matter, in their quest to prove Decepticons could be tamed. “And you say I am a liar.”
Ratchet slowed to a crawl. “What are you talking about?”
“Deadlock was no mere soldier.” Megatron didn’t bother to wipe the sneer from his face. Deadlock’s loss under Turmoil’s command was something Megatron had never forgiven Turmoil for. “He was one of my many captains.”
Ratchet snapped to a stop, his feet scraping the ground. “Then why--”
“He served under Turmoil because, at the time, Starscream complained I was playing favorites, and I couldn’t afford a rift in my aerial forces.” Megatron faced Ratchet, wanting the medic to read the truth in his field and in his face. “Starscream framed it as a discrimination against aerial frames, and I made a concession. I always meant for Deadlock to return.”
Megatron had never forgiven Turmoil his failure or his betrayal. He had cost Megatron a great blow to his command structure. Sometimes, he wondered if that had not been Starscream’s intention all along, to deprive Megatron of a useful, loyal soldier. But then, Starscream couldn’t have known Turmoil’s envy would result in resentment toward Deadlock.
Or did he?
“Funny, that’s not the story as he tells it,” Ratchet retorted. He crossed his arms over his chassis, the energy eater’s gore standing out in sharp relief against his white and red paint.
Megatron cut Ratchet a sideways look. “Of course, Deadlock has always been the sort to go where the wind takes him. I have lost count of the number of times Soundwave requested to train him in infiltration.” To Deadlock, changing personas was as natural as ventilating. He could blend in with the best of spies.
“Are you trying to insinuate he’s not really one of us? He’s just pretending to survive?” Ratchet demanded. His field spiked then, full of anger and outrage and something else as well. Hurt perhaps. “That’s not going to win you any favors.”
Megatron shook his head. “Not at all. I’m just saying, Deadlock likely defected because he found it to be the best course of action, but as for becoming Drift, I’m sure he’s no more certain of what that is supposed to mean than anyone else.” He paused and cycled a ventilation. “But all of that is secondary to my initial statement: that you could trust his defection but not mine.”
“And I still say it’s different!” Ratchet snapped. His armor flared, his engine audibly revving. “He could have been your second in command for all I care, and I’d still trust him more than I trust you. I remember that kid before you tricked him.”
Tricked!?
Megatron opened his mouth to argue, but Ratchet barreled on, his field as oppressive as his tone. “You say he’s the kind to go with the flow, well, when someone tells you they can fix all your problems and you’re the lowest of the low, of course you believe them.”
Ah.
So Ratchet knew Deadlock when he was the Drift of the slums. There was history there. No wonder an underlayer of trust had already been present.
Megatron swallowed his outrage. When it came down to it, he couldn’t match history. Not when his own, to Ratchet’s optics, was steeped in blood and betrayal.
“Then the only Decepticon unworthy of forgiveness and a second chance, in your opinion, is me,” Megatron said, his spark spinning into a tiny ball. He wished, in that moment, he hadn’t started this course of conversation.
“I never said that,” Ratchet growled. “I only said that I find it difficult to trust you, which would be logical for anyone to say! That’s not going to change overnight, Megatron. Not for me, not for anyone.”
Megatron pressed his lips together. “And yet,” he managed, his intake feeling unexpectedly tonight. “Somehow, I’ve managed to trust you.”
“I can’t help that.” Ratchet sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’m flattered and honored, but I’m not going to apologize because I can’t return it so easily. There are some things you just can’t rush.”
“Ratchet!”
The shout drew both of their attention, cutting through the conversation like a vibroblade. Megatron followed the voice to find Rodimus standing on a nearby rooftop, wildly waving his arms. He was two or three storeys above them, but even with that distance, Megatron could read the glee on his face.
“We found something!” Rodimus shouted through his cupped hands. He then pointed ahead of them. “Just go through the gate!”
Ratchet rolled his optics and flicked his hand at Rodimus in understanding. “We have comms for a reason,” he grumbled.
“That would be far too boring for Rodimus,” Megatron said.
Sure enough, directly ahead of them was a gate, though it was not fortified. It looked more like a means to keep track of those coming or going, rather than one meant to keep from harm. It certainly hadn’t done the latter. One side of the gate was twisted on its hinges, lying open. The other was bent in half, like something large had burst through it.
“What do you think we’re going to find?”
“After what I’ve already seen, I don’t dare speculate.” Ratchet scrubbed at his face, shoulders sinking, suddenly looking older than he should.
He had a point.
Megatron didn’t push.
They stepped through the twisted gates, scrape marks along the edges where something large had pushed its way through. Scraps of some material hung to the ragged bits. It opened into a wide, circular space, surrounded by tall buildings overlooking a vast courtyard. Or at least it would have been a courtyard, once upon a time. Now it was a giant pit with a ramp lining the inside, swirling steadily downward.
Most of their fellow explorers were crowded around the edge of the pit. Nightbeat and Skids were missing, but Megatron had no doubt they’d slipped into the pit to investigate further. It seemed like something they’d do.
“What is it?” Megatron asked.
“I have no idea,” Ratchet replied.
They circled the pit, joining the bundle of crew on the other side. Everyone clustered around Perceptor and Rewind who seemed to be comparing notes.
“I think they were digging for energon,” Rewind said as he peered at Perceptor’s datapad and made notes on his own. “I’ve found geological surveys, chemical analyses, and radiation recordings that all back up the theory.”
“But they didn’t find energon,” Perceptor said with a frown. “They found those creatures instead. Perhaps lying in stasis, waiting for a potential energy source to stir them from their hibernation.”
Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “If they went into stasis, that would explain why we weren’t attacked until we powered up the computer.”
“Attacked?” Brainstorm echoed and leapt to his feet, almost jumping over Perceptor. “By a vampire? Did you bring me back a specimen?”
Megatron threw a thumb over his shoulder. “We left the corpse in the basement of the medbay if you really want it. Otherwise, me and Ratchet have splatters of it all over us.”
“I also took pictures.” Ratchet moved over to Rewind, crouching down beside him. “I have some information for you to translate if you can, Rewind. I want to know what else they were doing here.”
“Sure thing, Ratchet.” Rewind handed him a datachip without looking. “Load it onto here. I’ll run it with my translation program.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“Ratchet, I’m older than you,” Rewind reminded him though it was with amusement rather than irritation.
Ratchet chuckled and straightened, moving closer to the edge of the pit. He peered into it, and the sight of him leaning over the edge gave Megatron spark palpitations. He inched closer to Ratchet, thinking he might be sturdy enough to grab the medic before he fell.
“That’s a long way to the bottom,” Ratchet commented.
“Indeed.” Megatron’s insides churned. He had no wish to explore that dark pit, where he imagined there was nothing but miles and miles of low, twisting tunnels, shadowed and unstable. “So they were digging for fuel and found a nightmare instead.”
“They probably deserved it,” Ratchet said.
“Deserve?” Megatron echoed, and that tightening in his spark increased. “Is this what you’d call justice then? Do you look at me and imagine what worse fate I deserve?”
Ratchet’s head whipped toward him. He had a peculiar expression on his face, one Megatron couldn’t identify, but his armor ruffled. “Don’t start,” he hissed, glancing past Megatron, to their compatriots no doubt with hearing range. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
Megatron folded his arms. “I only asked your idea of justice. If it were up to you, Ratchet, what punishment would you have given me?” He tilted his head. “I already know what most of our crewmates would say. They’d have been happier to see my spark, my head, and my t-cog all destroyed at once. Barring that, burying me in the deepest darkest hole for all eternity might have been a fair start.”
“I’m not qualified to make that kind of judgment,” Ratchet said and pressed his lips together in a thin line, his armor taut against his frame.
“It’s not a matter of qualification.” Megatron moved closer, lowering his voice to barely above a murmur. “You think me a monster, the worst villain, a spawn of Unicron, a creature of destruction. What would justice mean to you? My misery? My pain? My fear? My death?”
Ratchet shoved him back. “Frag you!” he snarled. “If your death and misery was enough to make up for all the pain you’ve caused, I’d have voted for it a thousand times over.”
His voice echoed, perhaps even more so because the pit. It made the chatter behind them cease and draw curious stares. Which Ratchet noticed.
Color drained from his face, and he abruptly whirled, stomping away. His field, however, was not one of loathing, but one of struggle. Hate hadn’t been in his optics when he’d snarled his answer. It had been conflict.
Megatron hesitated, weighing his options, before he decided he truly did have nothing to lose. It was already over with Ratchet, was it not? He couldn’t destroy what was already over, but at the very least, he could get some answers.
“Then why?” he asked as they moved further and further from the very interested group of mechs, out of immediate audial range. “If you despise me so much, why did you ever say yes?”
Ratchet jerked to a halt, his back as hard and unyielding as a mountain, his vents coming sharp and quick.
“I don’t hate you,” he said, low and careful. “I never have. Hating. Loathing. Despising. It’s all intent. It’s all personal. And nothing you’ve ever done has been personal to me. In the grand scheme of things. I hate what you represent, I hate the choices you’ve made and I hate…” He broke off, head tilting downward, hands curling at his side. “I hate that, despite all of that, I still want you so much.”
Megatron’s mouth went dry. His spark stuttered, and took a moment to get back on rhythm. “Ratchet--”
“Stop.” Ratchet held up a hand firmly. “Just stop, Megatron. I told you already. I’m not talking about this here. We’ll discuss it later. Right now, I need space.”
Space.
Megatron cycled a ventilation. “Very well. As you wish.” He took a pointed step backward. “I won’t follow.”
Some of the tension eased from Ratchet’s shoulders. “Thank you.” He continued forward, without a backward look, and Megatron kept his word. He stayed behind, though he watched the resolute set of Ratchet’s shoulders with something mingling hope and dread curling through his spark.
“What in Primus’ name was that about?”
Megatron did not jump, but it was a near thing. Rodimus’ voice from directly behind him was enough to startle anyway. “None of your business,” he replied and turned to face his fellow captain. “Is there something you need?”
“Yeah, like an explanation.” Rodimus craned his neck to see past Megatron, but Ratchet was moving at a fair clip, too far to be hailed. “What the slag did you do to our medic?”
“I did nothing. What you observed were the results of a private conversation, which I don’t feel the need to share.” Megatron turned and headed back toward the scientists and investigators – Skids and Nightbeat had returned. “Have we learned anything useful?”
Rodimus gave him a suspicious look but hurried to match Megatron’s stride. “Everyone’s dead. We didn’t find a single mech alive. And the only vampire we encountered was the one you and Ratchet killed. Rewind downloaded every archive he could find, but so far, all we’ve got are the same coordinates we picked up from the scout ship.”
“Pity.”
Rodimus snorted. “Yeah, right. Bet you’re congratulating yourself that we’re even more delayed now.”
Megatron cut him a look. “This sidetrip wasn’t my idea, if you’ll recall.”
“Oh, I remember.” Rodimus frowned. “What’s going on with you and Ratchet?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Looked a bit like a lover’s tiff to me. But that would be ridiculous.” Rodimus chuckled, but it sounded strained, especially when he lifted both his orbital ridges and gave Megatron a look.
He grunted. “I can’t help what assumptions you make.”
“Classic misdirection.” Rodimus danced out in front of him and started walking backward, which was liable to send him tumbling if he weren’t careful. Perhaps even into that deep pit.
Megatron resisted the urge to give him a helpful push.
Rodimus’ grin sharpened. “So tell me I don’t need to poke harder. Convince me.”
Megatron set his jaw. “There’s nothing to investigate. You may confirm with Ratchet if you wish.”
Rodimus made a face. “No, thanks. It’s just, you know, normally I’d point Drift in his direction.” His spoiler sank down, his gaze shifting elsewhere, before his optics focused back on Megatron, hard and defensive. “I don’t need you usurping my crew, Megatron.”
“Our,” Megatron corrected. “Co-captain.”
Emotion stormed across Rodimus’ face. “Don’t remind me.” He huffed and spun back around, stomping ahead of Megatron.
Trust Rodimus to end a conversation without actually ending it. And not making any kind of point with it.
Megatron rubbed his forehead and sighed a ventilation. Autobots frustrated him.
He left the scientists and the researchers to their babbled, excited chatting. Instead, he returned to the city. Ghosts and monsters were more his friends anyway, and the temporary patch job would hold.
It was better than sulking in the confines of the Lost Light. And it was far better than facing Ratchet and accepting the end for what it was.
~
They opted to stay on Clandestine for a week.
Opted was perhaps a strong word. Ratchet was one voice among many who insisted. He wanted to gather the fallen and give them more dignity than death where they lay.
Especially, he growled, any poor sots they found in the hospital.
Rodimus gathered up a hunting party to flush out and chase away or eliminate any ‘estrix’ as Rewind had found them called. He found an enthusiastic half-dozen of the crew and sent them on their way.
Rewind holed up in front of a console, plugged in at every available port, and doggedly poured through all the data he’d collected, much to Chromedome’s concern. He alternated between pacing the floor behind Rewind, and trying to coax his conjunx away for a rest.
Megatron busied himself with helping gather the dead. Otherwise, he would have spent his time much like Chromedome, pacing, waiting for something to happen. Though he had visited the medbay, getting a more permanent repair to the wound in his side, without a single glimpse of Ratchet the entire time.
Time and space, Ratchet had said, for a conversation Megatron wasn’t sure he wanted to have. Megatron gave Ratchet both, and now all he could do was wait. It was a perilous thing, waiting without knowing why or when.
He hated it.
Answers trickled in as they worked.
The knights here had dug too deep, unearthing the estrix as they slept, waking them from their stasis with the sweet smell of their energon. They’d tried to fight, but had been quickly overwhelmed. They’d tried to flee. Perhaps some had survived. Surely an estrix hadn’t snuck aboard every escaping ship.
The estrix, they’d learned, were capable of surviving in space and deep space. They didn’t need to breathe. They consumed energy in whatever form they could find it. They were much like the kremzeek, except they weren’t made of energy alone. They were probably the result of some mad scientist playing with nature.
Some of the crew whispered of Jhiaxus with sideways glances at Megatron. Never mind that Jhiaxus could not be responsible for these creatures.
Ratchet, too, had his worst fears realized. As did Rodimus. These knights were knights no longer. They’d been exiled, expunged from the knights, for their beliefs. Alternative modes were a betrayal to Primus. They disdained their transformation cogs, and apparently, those who sought to keep theirs.
Ratchet was such a being of contradictions, Megatron mused as he sat by himself in the shadows of a creaky building. He guzzled coolant, head tilted back against the rusting wall. While he was part of a group gathering the dead, they were content to let him work alone, and he was content with his solitude.
Ratchet loathed the knights for their treatment of the poor mechs they found in the hospital – far more than the two Megatron had seen, their frames twisted and tortured, t-cogs blackened and burned. But he’d also insisted they treat the dead knights with dignity, something neither Autobot nor Decepticon had managed for their fallen during the war.
Stout atheist Ratchet was, and he claimed it had nothing to do with religion, though Cyclonus had agreed with him. Treating the dead with respect was a matter of course. Together, they were a force with which to be reckoned.
Megatron’s sensors prickled.
He onlined his optics and lifted his head, scanning the dark shadows and crumbled ruins. He sipped at his coolant, watching over the lip of the bottle, the sense of being watched clawing at the back of his neck.
“You’re getting better.”
Agitation bled out of him in an instant. Megatron sighed and lowered his bottle. Ravage crouched in front of him, looking bland and uninterested.
“It must be some kind of proximity association,” Megatron said. He eyed Ravage carefully. Their last conversation had not been a good one, and he hadn’t seen the cassette since they’d parted on angry terms. “Are you enjoying our trip?”
Ravage snorted. “This place is vile.” One paw lifted, briefly brushing over the tip of his nose. “It reeks. I’ll be glad when we leave.”
He stood and padded over to Megatron, pulling something out of a shoulder compartment. “Here.”
Megatron held out a hand, and a small datachip tumbled into his palm.
“This is everything Rewind’s translated about the knights from scout ship and the data that’s been gathered here, including Ratchet’s excursion into the medbay.”
Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “I’m not going to ask how you acquired this.” He tucked the chip away. He’d explore it in full later. “But I do wonder why you brought it.”
“Information is the key to victory, isn’t that what you always said?” Ravage sat back on his haunches, regarding Megatron steadily, as still as stone.
“There is no victory here.”
“Victory is not always battle or war.” Ravage tilted his head. His gaze was as inscrutable as ever, and Megatron couldn’t shake the feeling that Soundwave looked out through Ravage’s optics. “I am not going to apologize.”
“You don’t need to. You were right.”
Ravage’s optics flashed. A flutter ran across his armor. “What?”
Megatron cycled a ventilation. He drew up a knee, resting his free arm across it. “I abandoned the Decepticons. I should have stayed, but I was a coward. I could not immediately see a path they would follow that wouldn’t push us back toward war. And in a moment of irrational thought, I didn’t bother to try. I feared that failure, on top of all the others.”
“Then--”
Megatron shook his head, cutting Ravage off. “You were right,” he said. “But I’m still not going back to the Decepticons. I can’t lead them. Not anymore. I represent far too much of what we don’t need to be.”
Ravage’s front claws kneaded the ground, little skritch-crunch of metal on metal. “You are our leader,” he said, quietly.
“I don’t know what I am, and that’s only part of the problem.” Megatron rubbed his free hand down his face. “I have to remember who I am first. Maybe then I can actually make a difference.”
The kneading stopped. Ravage lifted his gaze, his optics no longer burning with the resentment he’d carried for the past couple weeks. “And if by the time you’re ready, we’ve outgrown you?”
“Then so be it.” Megatron pushed to his feet, brushing bits of grit from his aft and legs. “The Decepticons deserve better, and if they decide it’s not me, then I have no right to protest.”
Ravage stood and turned, tail swishing behind him. “I’m not sure I like what you’ve become. Are becoming. You reek of Autobot.”
“There was a time Orion Pax stormed into the Senate and quoted my words at them.” Megatron’s memories dragged back, far back, to a point when he should have taken the hand offered to him, rather than slapping it aside. “When we stood together against the threat that was Zeta Prime, when in the optics of everyone else, Orion Pax was a Decepticon. Put that way, it’s all a matter of perspective.”
Ravage snorted. “I suppose you have a point.” His tail lashed again. He looked back over his shoulder, amusement in the curve of the dermal metal around his mouth. “Should I let you know if I find anything else?”
“Only if you want.” Megatron paused, hesitating, before he barreled forward. “I don’t need a subordinate, Ravage. But there’s plenty of room in my life for a friend.”
“Friend.” Ravage’s ears flicked and Megatron couldn’t tell if his tone was amused or touched. “That’ll be a first,” he said, and bounded off into the shadows, leaving Megatron to his contemplations.
He supposed that meant they were no longer at odds with each other. How Soundwave would react to the news, Megatron didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure Ravage was still in contact with Soundwave, he’d assumed.
Either way, Megatron considered it a win.
He finished off the last of his coolant, and stretched his arms over his head, easing the kinks in his lower back cables. He might as well get back to work. The corpses wouldn’t gather themselves.
Thank Primus for that.
His system chirped with an incoming message. Megatron paused to acknowledge it, his orbital ridges lifting at the identity of the sender.
Ratchet.
He skimmed the contents before he went back and read them thoroughly, not that there was much to contemplate. It was an invitation. For the talk they needed to have.
Megatron’s spark spun anxiously.
Tonight it was.
He replied with an affirmative and left it at that. He had work to do. At least, he would have closure.
~
Ratchet had them meet on neutral ground, a rarely visited observation balcony on the thirteenth deck, just above the cargo hold. It was smaller compared to the observation deck, with only a few narrow windows, and vaguely reeked of spent transmission fluid and exhaust. It was one of the reasons no one used it, which meant they were unlikely to be disturbed.
There was only a single bench, and a row of small lights along the top of the narrow windows, making for gloomy corners and odd shadows. It reminded Megatron, strangely, of the mines.
They sat on the bench, facing opposite directions, their hips nearly in contact, elbows occasionally brushing. It wasn’t a very large bench. The most contact they had was between their fields, tentative though it was. The silence was weighted. Megatron refused to be the first to breach it.
He, after all, had not been the one to end things.
Finally, Ratchet sighed, like someone who had come to a realization and had resigned themselves it. “Fool’s energon is not what you think it is.”
That was not what Megatron expected.
“It’s nothing more than regular energon that’s been stripped of anything resembling flavor.” Ratchet’s shoulders sank further. “It doesn’t make you weaker. It doesn’t control your violent impulses. It doesn’t tame your anger. It’s a placebo.” Ratchet’s field drew away from his. “There’s no such thing as fool’s energon.”
Megatron’s vents rattled. His hands drew against his knees, wrapping around them, fingers trembling. Anger burned hot and fierce through his lines, his plating juddering.
“It was… a mind game?” he rasped, squeezing his optics shut, grinding his denta, trying to calm the broil of fury ripping through him.
Even now, Optimus humiliated him. Even now, Optimus hung over his shoulders like a rust infection, a gargoyle Megatron could not defeat.
Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “It was no game,” he said. “It was the only way, Optimus claimed. The only way to prove you were sincere without sending you off in chains and inhibitors. I protested, if only because we couldn’t obtain informed consent. You are who you are, but even murderers deserve that right.”
The world spun. It seemed harder and harder to ventilate. Megatron leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees.
“When we started getting more serious, I realized I couldn’t lie to you anymore, especially when you wanted to explore certain kinks.” Ratchet’s ventilations became audibly ragged. His armor creaked as he shifted. “I’m putting myself, my crew, this ship, everyone in danger. I’m betraying the Autobots, the promise I made to Optimus, everything. Do you understand?”
“Not a game,” Megatron managed, strangled as it sounded. “A lie. A test. Even now--” He broke off, hands squeezing into fists.
A lie.
A lie.
Megatron had made an offer in reasonably good faith, and Optimus had responded with a lie, a test. He did not believe Megatron could change. No. Instead he lied.
It was one thing to be shackled by their invisible chains, of which he’d given something like consent for, but to learn he’d been shackled by a cage of his own making? It was unconscionable.
Megatron jerked to his feet, wobbling on unsteady knees. “I have to go,” he said, the room suddenly too small, too hot, too suffocating. He spun around the bench, heading for the door.
Ratchet lurched up. “Megatron, wait.”
And then there was a hand around his wrist, tight enough to be noticed, tight enough to feel like bonds, and Megatron whirled, jerking his arm free. He didn’t know what look he had on his face, but it made Ratchet flinch, made him shift a half-step back before he set his jaw and held his ground.
“Wait?” Megatron demanded. His vents heaved. “Wait for what? Another lie? For you to shatter and stomp on what remnants of trust I foolishly carried for you?”
Ratchet flinched, but he held firm.
“For my apology.” Ratchet sank back down to the bench, but it forced him to look up at Megatron. “I’m sorry. Not for the lie, that was necessary orders, but for the way I ended things. You deserved more than the answer I gave you.” He paused, worked his jaw. “You deserved an honest explanation.”
Megatron stared at him. Even more than the fool’s energon, the last thing he expected was an apology from Ratchet.
“What does that even mean?” Megatron asked. Nothing made sense anymore. The worldview as he’d crafted it had lies for a foundation, and the walls stood on shaky ground.
“It means exactly what I said. I’m sorry. At the very least, I should have been honest with you about my feelings.” Ratchet looked contrite. He rubbed his hands down his thighs and offered a thin smile.
Megatron didn’t return it. “Is that it?” Thoughts crashed one against the other, like atoms untethered in a vacuum.
“It?” Ratchet tilted his head.
“You tell me the truth about your lie, and you apologize for being a selfish aft, and that’s it?”
Ratchet met his stare evenly. “If that’s all you want it to be.”
“Quit being cryptic, medic!” Megatron snarled. He slashed a hand through the air, the urge to strike, to fight back against the agony, something he had to swallow down. Because the fool’s energon was a lie and all he had was his own restraint.
Megatron continued, demanding, “Say what you mean for once. I’m done playing games with Autobots.” Horrifyingly, his vocalizer crackled, betraying the churn of emotions in his spark.
Ratchet’s expression turned thunderous, for all that his voice stayed even. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
Megatron slapped a hand over the badge on his chest. “You know very well what I meant.” He scowled. “But if you prefer your mysteries, then I’ll walk away right now, and you can bet I never answer your comm again. If that’s what you want, so be it.”
Ratchet ground his denta, cables flexing in his intake. “Do you still want a relationship with me?”
“I thought we didn’t have one to start with.” Megatron’s hand slipped from his chassis, revealing his Autobrand once more. He felt bare in ways he’d scarcely felt before.
“Is that my answer?”
Megatron sighed and dropped down next to Ratchet, though this time they were at least facing the same direction. “You frustrate me.” He stared at the far door, halfway contemplating a quick escape, while his spark urged him to stay.
Ratchet had lied to him. He’d participated in the falsehood. Had probably snickered to himself while Megatron gulped down that foul tasting energon under the mistaken belief it earned him points on the road to redemption.
He should walk away now.
Instead, he worked his intake and admitted, “You are not in my plans.”
Ratchet snorted. “No kidding.”
“Not that I ever had any which were concrete.” Megatron worked his jaw, head dipping to glare at the floor. “You asked me if I were sincere. And the answer has always been: as sincere as I can be. I’m more than aware of my position. I know I walk a razor’s edge. Yes, I have plans, but nothing set in stone. And none of them involve returning to war or the Decepticons.”
Silence greeted that admission. Until Ratchet slid nearer to him, closing the distance, their hips and thighs touching. “I want to trust you,” he said. “Against all odds, against my own guilt, I want to believe you want to change. I have to believe or else…”
“Or else you can’t even begin to try being with me.”
“Yes.”
Megatron wondered if the hypocrisy burned at all. “There’s nothing I can say that will convince you.” He nodded slowly, lips pressed together, thinking now was the time he should get up and walk away. He’d been lied to. He’d been tricked.
He didn’t deserve much, but he certainly didn’t deserve that.
His aft stayed planted on the bench. He wanted, against all odds.
And what, he noticed, and what of the trust Ratchet had broken in him? What of the cruelty? Was Megatron expected to swallow it down, forgive without question?
“No, there isn’t.” Ratchet paused before he rested a hand on Megatron’s thigh. The weight of it was warm. Welcome. Familiar. “So that’s where the trust comes in. I trust you’re sincere, and if you’re still interested, you trust me to tie you up. It’s all the same.”
Megatron’s engine gave a little rev in memory, despite the tension. “Is this you agreeing to try?” He hoped he didn’t sound as hopeful as he felt.
“It’s me saying that things aren’t black and white. They never have been, and the last thing I should do is let my past – or yours – dictate what I should do with my future.”
Ratchet patted Megatron’s thigh and lifted his hand away.
A moment passed. A cycling of ventilations.
Megatron braced his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. He stared hard into the dark, his spark struggling with indecision. There was too much hesitation in Ratchet’s words for his comfort. Too much of Ratchet playing word games because he was unwilling to put anything on the line in the same way Megatron had.
“And what if...” He hesitated, wondering if he asked for too much, if he didn’t even deserve this much courtesy. “What if that’s not enough for me?”
Ratchet startled, his field spiking. “What do you mean?”
Megatron turned his head, forcing his face into a mask of neutrality. “I forgive you the lie about the Fool’s Energon. I understand the necessity of it, as much as I loathe the trick Optimus played on me.” His vents rattled. “What if I’m the one who can’t trust you?”
“I’ve already apologized,” Ratchet said, his orbital ridges crinkling. He pushed to his feet, and there was agitation in the way he shifted his weight. “I don’t know what more else I can do about that.”
Megatron’s engine growled a low tone. “I don’t want another apology.” He looked up at Ratchet, though not too far thanks to their size difference.
Ratchet scowled. “Then what do you want? I’m not a fragging telepath. I can’t pluck it out of your mind. I can’t guess.”
Megatron wiped a hand around his mouth, alarmed to find his fingers trembling a little. He didn’t know if he deserved this, but he didn’t know he could continue in this relationship without it. Not after what they’ve learned about one another. Not after knowing what he wanted from Ratchet.
He needed… reassurance. Confirmation. He needed to know he wasn’t the only one invested in this.
“I want to hear you say it,” Megatron said, and perhaps he was too quiet, because there wasn’t an immediate answer. Just the low rasp of sharp venting.
He didn’t want to look into Ratchet’s optics, for fear of the rejection he’d find there, but he did it anyway. He gained a new boldness, a new strength, when he did so. He was Megatron, former leader of the Decepticons, once a miner who rose above his station. He had been feared and admired.
He could do this.
He deserved this.
“Tell me what I mean to you,” Megatron said, louder this time, so there could be no mistake. “Or that’s it. I will walk away from you, and I won’t look back. No more apologies. Nothing. We’re done.”
The scowl deepened, but there was panic in the back of Ratchet’s optics, making them flare. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?” His hands fisted at his sides.
Megatron shook his head. “I’m giving you a choice. You already know how I feel.” He’d said it so many times, perhaps not in such clear words, but it was obvious enough. “You’re the one who keeps trying to walk away. So I want to hear it.”
Ratchet’s intake visibly worked. He dragged a hand down his face, looking off to the side as though he couldn’t meet Megatron’s optics. “I want to be with you,” he managed through gritted denta. “I thought that was obvious. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“That’s not enough.” Megatron pushed to his feet, there being only a few feet between them now, and he looked down at Ratchet. “I won’t accept assumptions.” His field slashed the air between them, turning it a vibrant shade of emotion. “Say it.”
Ratchet jerked like he’d been struck. “I fragging like you,” he snapped, and his palm smacked against Megatron’s chestplate, right over his Autobot badge. “There! Are you happy? I like you.” His vents heaved, and his vocalizer crackled as he looked up at Megatron with bright blue optics.
“I think about fragging you. And recharging with you. And talking to you. And just being with you. I think about… about...” He trailed off, engine revving, stumbling over his words, and his field flared again, panicked but honest.
It was enough.
Primus, it was enough.
Megatron grabbed Ratchet, pulling him into an embrace. Ratchet’s mouth snapped shut. He trembled in Megatron’s arms, clutching his sides like he needed the lifeline. Alarm rang in his field, like a secret shoved into the light.
But he didn’t take it back.
“I fragging like you, too,” Megatron murmured.
Ratchet snorted something that might have been a laugh. “I hate you,” he said, but it was defeated, a joke.
The line between the two was often so thin as to be transparent.
“I know.” He stroked Ratchet’s back, gradually feeling the medic relax against him, as something within Megatron uncoiled and loosened.
“And I am sorry,” Ratchet said with an audible sigh and a sinking of his shoulders. “A certain someone reminded me I should treat you as an individual first, and a former Decepticon second. It took me too long to absorb that lesson.”
Megatron pulled back and cupped his face, urging Ratchet to look at him. “Apology accepted.” He swept his thumbs over Ratchet’s cheeks. “I can’t promise I’m ready for our other activities, but--”
Ratchet shook his head within Megatron’s grasp. “Yes, I get that. Trust is hard to earn back.”
“But not impossible.” Megatron held his chin and bent down, pressing their mouths together, kissing him slow and gentle.
Like lovers do, like the lovers they are.
He ended the kiss with a nuzzle and captured Ratchet’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Ratchet looked at him curiously until Megatron lifted Ratchet’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “Do not lie to me. Not again.”
The anger was not gone. It was still present, like a low simmer in the depths of his spark. But it was not insurmountable. It was bleeding into hope instead, the feeling of something new, something better on the way.
“We don’t lie to each other,” Ratchet agreed, the back of his hand stroking Megatron’s lips, his expression softening. “The rest we can figure out as we go. Talking about things, you know, like a couple of reasonable mechs.”
Megatron snorted. “Since when do either of us qualify as reasonable?”
“Now’s a good time to start.” Ratchet’s field reached out, tentative at first, but gaining in strength as it nudged against Megatron’s.
He didn’t even have it in him to resist, relenting to the nudge and letting Ratchet’s field wrap over and around him. Warm like an embrace. Faintly tingling, on the edge of arousal and affection both. He swore he could sense Ratchet’s sparkbeat in it.
He wanted to keep Ratchet into his arms. He wanted to press their lips together, again and again. He wanted to hold Ratchet like he hadn’t in weeks, to press his audials to Ratchet’s chestplate and listen to the steady beat of his spark.
He wondered if it could last. Would the lies be too much? Would their past only be a noose? Would Ratchet ever see beyond the things Megatron had done?
It was impossible to know for sure.
“I’m not perfect,” Megatron murmured, his ventilations hitching. “I’m going to make mistakes, Ratchet. I’m going to say or do something that you’ll disapprove of. What then?”
Could he trust Ratchet not to have another moral eruption and decide they needed to end things for the sake of his own ethical boundaries?
“We cross that bridge when we come to it.” Ratchet rolled his shoulders in a shrug, but his finger still stroked Megatron’s lips. “No one’s perfect. I don’t expect you to be on your best behavior. I just… want to know that you’re trying.”
“I don’t know how to prove that.”
Ratchet’s fingers rested under his lips, his optics soft and gentle. “You can’t. I can’t either. We’re just going to have to try this trust thing all over again.” He leaned in closer, their armor a handsbreadth apart, his frame tangibly humming. “We’ll learn as we go. Both of us.”
Was it hope, this fragile thing curling inside of him? “You mean it then.”
Ratchet’s lips curved into a soft smile. “I do.”
Primus. This was a terrible, terrible idea.
Which was probably why Megatron wanted it so badly. He wanted something he could mark as real, something he could put his faith into, something that would bring him peace, and if he was lucky, happiness.
He wanted Ratchet.
“All right,” Megatron relented, a soft sigh escaping his vents, armor creaking as it loosens from the tight clamp he hadn’t realized he’d gained. “Then what’s next?”
“Next, if I’m lucky, you’ll kiss me again.” Ratchet chuckled and reached up, curling a hand around the back of Megatron’s neck as if to tug him down within reach. “After that, we can see where the rest of the day takes us. Because I’m off-shift, and I think you are, too. And we have some catching up to do.”
Megatron groaned, low and deep, and hauled Ratchet tight against his frame. Their armor collided, metal on metal, Ratchet curving against him in the right places.
He held himself back from crushing their mouths together. It took effort to stay gentle, but Megatron ensured it. He could be sweet, he could be trustworthy. He could brush his lips over Ratchet’s, tasting him first, before he brought their mouths together, glossa teasing the seam of Ratchet’s lips.
Ratchet shuddered and melted against him, his field robing Megatron in a dizzying prickle of relief and need. He hummed, the sound hungry. He clutched at Megatron, sliding closer, opening his mouth to Megatron to deepen the kiss. He tasted sweet, like he’d recently consumed a delicious energon, the kind of which Megatron should be allowed now.
The anger over the lie still burned inside of him. It was one of many, many long conversations he and Ratchet would have. But later.
For now, there was this simple thing. An embrace. A kiss. A promise of a potential future, if they survived the reach of this quest anyway.
It was enough. It was more than enough. It was a start, starting over.
Megatron never could have believed, after all he’d done, that he’d get one of those.
* * *
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
They emerged from the medcenter into the same flat, grey afternoon. They’d only been inside for a short while, but it felt longer. Megatron’s side ached where the barbs had torn into lines and serrated the edges of his inner workings. He’d heal, but it wouldn’t be fun.
He and Ratchet walked in step, Megatron unconsciously matching his longer strides to Ratchet’s shorter one. They should have turned back toward the Lost Light. Instead, they paused outside the medcenter to catch their bearings.
Megatron didn’t know if there were any bearings to catch. He felt untethered, to his frame and to this moment. Something heavy sat between them, and it was the only thing which kept Megatron rooted to the ground.
Like Starscream, he couldn’t let things lie. He had to poke at an open wound, because Ratchet’s expression was closed to him, and if Megatron were going to suffer in this state of wanting and not-having, then Ratchet needed to as well.
“There is one thing I find strange,” Megatron said, glancing aside at Ratchet, taking notice of the gore staining the medic’s frame.
Ratchet snorted. “Only one?” His gaze skittered around them, armor clamped tight, as though afraid of another attack. Given that his blaster was without a charge, he had right to be wary.
“Yes.” Megatron set his shoulders. He pretended the buildings looming around them were of the utmost fascination. “I find it strange you were so willing to welcome Drift to the Autobots, that you readily forgave him, yet won’t offer that same courtesy to me.”
Ratchet vented, armor creaking as he rubbed at his forehead. “And I find it weird that you don’t realize why that’s totally different.”
Megatron held his hands behind his back, though it pulled at the patched wound. He buried a wince. “Enlighten me.”
Ratchet glanced at him, optics narrowed. “Deadlock was only a soldier. You were the Decepticon commander. It’s an issue of responsibility.” He started walking, but away from the Lost Light and deeper into the city.
Megatron followed.
“Just a soldier?” It was his turn to snort. What lies had Drift fed Ratchet? Or the Autobots, for that matter, in their quest to prove Decepticons could be tamed. “And you say I am a liar.”
Ratchet slowed to a crawl. “What are you talking about?”
“Deadlock was no mere soldier.” Megatron didn’t bother to wipe the sneer from his face. Deadlock’s loss under Turmoil’s command was something Megatron had never forgiven Turmoil for. “He was one of my many captains.”
Ratchet snapped to a stop, his feet scraping the ground. “Then why--”
“He served under Turmoil because, at the time, Starscream complained I was playing favorites, and I couldn’t afford a rift in my aerial forces.” Megatron faced Ratchet, wanting the medic to read the truth in his field and in his face. “Starscream framed it as a discrimination against aerial frames, and I made a concession. I always meant for Deadlock to return.”
Megatron had never forgiven Turmoil his failure or his betrayal. He had cost Megatron a great blow to his command structure. Sometimes, he wondered if that had not been Starscream’s intention all along, to deprive Megatron of a useful, loyal soldier. But then, Starscream couldn’t have known Turmoil’s envy would result in resentment toward Deadlock.
Or did he?
“Funny, that’s not the story as he tells it,” Ratchet retorted. He crossed his arms over his chassis, the energy eater’s gore standing out in sharp relief against his white and red paint.
Megatron cut Ratchet a sideways look. “Of course, Deadlock has always been the sort to go where the wind takes him. I have lost count of the number of times Soundwave requested to train him in infiltration.” To Deadlock, changing personas was as natural as ventilating. He could blend in with the best of spies.
“Are you trying to insinuate he’s not really one of us? He’s just pretending to survive?” Ratchet demanded. His field spiked then, full of anger and outrage and something else as well. Hurt perhaps. “That’s not going to win you any favors.”
Megatron shook his head. “Not at all. I’m just saying, Deadlock likely defected because he found it to be the best course of action, but as for becoming Drift, I’m sure he’s no more certain of what that is supposed to mean than anyone else.” He paused and cycled a ventilation. “But all of that is secondary to my initial statement: that you could trust his defection but not mine.”
“And I still say it’s different!” Ratchet snapped. His armor flared, his engine audibly revving. “He could have been your second in command for all I care, and I’d still trust him more than I trust you. I remember that kid before you tricked him.”
Tricked!?
Megatron opened his mouth to argue, but Ratchet barreled on, his field as oppressive as his tone. “You say he’s the kind to go with the flow, well, when someone tells you they can fix all your problems and you’re the lowest of the low, of course you believe them.”
Ah.
So Ratchet knew Deadlock when he was the Drift of the slums. There was history there. No wonder an underlayer of trust had already been present.
Megatron swallowed his outrage. When it came down to it, he couldn’t match history. Not when his own, to Ratchet’s optics, was steeped in blood and betrayal.
“Then the only Decepticon unworthy of forgiveness and a second chance, in your opinion, is me,” Megatron said, his spark spinning into a tiny ball. He wished, in that moment, he hadn’t started this course of conversation.
“I never said that,” Ratchet growled. “I only said that I find it difficult to trust you, which would be logical for anyone to say! That’s not going to change overnight, Megatron. Not for me, not for anyone.”
Megatron pressed his lips together. “And yet,” he managed, his intake feeling unexpectedly tonight. “Somehow, I’ve managed to trust you.”
“I can’t help that.” Ratchet sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’m flattered and honored, but I’m not going to apologize because I can’t return it so easily. There are some things you just can’t rush.”
“Ratchet!”
The shout drew both of their attention, cutting through the conversation like a vibroblade. Megatron followed the voice to find Rodimus standing on a nearby rooftop, wildly waving his arms. He was two or three storeys above them, but even with that distance, Megatron could read the glee on his face.
“We found something!” Rodimus shouted through his cupped hands. He then pointed ahead of them. “Just go through the gate!”
Ratchet rolled his optics and flicked his hand at Rodimus in understanding. “We have comms for a reason,” he grumbled.
“That would be far too boring for Rodimus,” Megatron said.
Sure enough, directly ahead of them was a gate, though it was not fortified. It looked more like a means to keep track of those coming or going, rather than one meant to keep from harm. It certainly hadn’t done the latter. One side of the gate was twisted on its hinges, lying open. The other was bent in half, like something large had burst through it.
“What do you think we’re going to find?”
“After what I’ve already seen, I don’t dare speculate.” Ratchet scrubbed at his face, shoulders sinking, suddenly looking older than he should.
He had a point.
Megatron didn’t push.
They stepped through the twisted gates, scrape marks along the edges where something large had pushed its way through. Scraps of some material hung to the ragged bits. It opened into a wide, circular space, surrounded by tall buildings overlooking a vast courtyard. Or at least it would have been a courtyard, once upon a time. Now it was a giant pit with a ramp lining the inside, swirling steadily downward.
Most of their fellow explorers were crowded around the edge of the pit. Nightbeat and Skids were missing, but Megatron had no doubt they’d slipped into the pit to investigate further. It seemed like something they’d do.
“What is it?” Megatron asked.
“I have no idea,” Ratchet replied.
They circled the pit, joining the bundle of crew on the other side. Everyone clustered around Perceptor and Rewind who seemed to be comparing notes.
“I think they were digging for energon,” Rewind said as he peered at Perceptor’s datapad and made notes on his own. “I’ve found geological surveys, chemical analyses, and radiation recordings that all back up the theory.”
“But they didn’t find energon,” Perceptor said with a frown. “They found those creatures instead. Perhaps lying in stasis, waiting for a potential energy source to stir them from their hibernation.”
Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “If they went into stasis, that would explain why we weren’t attacked until we powered up the computer.”
“Attacked?” Brainstorm echoed and leapt to his feet, almost jumping over Perceptor. “By a vampire? Did you bring me back a specimen?”
Megatron threw a thumb over his shoulder. “We left the corpse in the basement of the medbay if you really want it. Otherwise, me and Ratchet have splatters of it all over us.”
“I also took pictures.” Ratchet moved over to Rewind, crouching down beside him. “I have some information for you to translate if you can, Rewind. I want to know what else they were doing here.”
“Sure thing, Ratchet.” Rewind handed him a datachip without looking. “Load it onto here. I’ll run it with my translation program.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“Ratchet, I’m older than you,” Rewind reminded him though it was with amusement rather than irritation.
Ratchet chuckled and straightened, moving closer to the edge of the pit. He peered into it, and the sight of him leaning over the edge gave Megatron spark palpitations. He inched closer to Ratchet, thinking he might be sturdy enough to grab the medic before he fell.
“That’s a long way to the bottom,” Ratchet commented.
“Indeed.” Megatron’s insides churned. He had no wish to explore that dark pit, where he imagined there was nothing but miles and miles of low, twisting tunnels, shadowed and unstable. “So they were digging for fuel and found a nightmare instead.”
“They probably deserved it,” Ratchet said.
“Deserve?” Megatron echoed, and that tightening in his spark increased. “Is this what you’d call justice then? Do you look at me and imagine what worse fate I deserve?”
Ratchet’s head whipped toward him. He had a peculiar expression on his face, one Megatron couldn’t identify, but his armor ruffled. “Don’t start,” he hissed, glancing past Megatron, to their compatriots no doubt with hearing range. “This isn’t the time or the place.”
Megatron folded his arms. “I only asked your idea of justice. If it were up to you, Ratchet, what punishment would you have given me?” He tilted his head. “I already know what most of our crewmates would say. They’d have been happier to see my spark, my head, and my t-cog all destroyed at once. Barring that, burying me in the deepest darkest hole for all eternity might have been a fair start.”
“I’m not qualified to make that kind of judgment,” Ratchet said and pressed his lips together in a thin line, his armor taut against his frame.
“It’s not a matter of qualification.” Megatron moved closer, lowering his voice to barely above a murmur. “You think me a monster, the worst villain, a spawn of Unicron, a creature of destruction. What would justice mean to you? My misery? My pain? My fear? My death?”
Ratchet shoved him back. “Frag you!” he snarled. “If your death and misery was enough to make up for all the pain you’ve caused, I’d have voted for it a thousand times over.”
His voice echoed, perhaps even more so because the pit. It made the chatter behind them cease and draw curious stares. Which Ratchet noticed.
Color drained from his face, and he abruptly whirled, stomping away. His field, however, was not one of loathing, but one of struggle. Hate hadn’t been in his optics when he’d snarled his answer. It had been conflict.
Megatron hesitated, weighing his options, before he decided he truly did have nothing to lose. It was already over with Ratchet, was it not? He couldn’t destroy what was already over, but at the very least, he could get some answers.
“Then why?” he asked as they moved further and further from the very interested group of mechs, out of immediate audial range. “If you despise me so much, why did you ever say yes?”
Ratchet jerked to a halt, his back as hard and unyielding as a mountain, his vents coming sharp and quick.
“I don’t hate you,” he said, low and careful. “I never have. Hating. Loathing. Despising. It’s all intent. It’s all personal. And nothing you’ve ever done has been personal to me. In the grand scheme of things. I hate what you represent, I hate the choices you’ve made and I hate…” He broke off, head tilting downward, hands curling at his side. “I hate that, despite all of that, I still want you so much.”
Megatron’s mouth went dry. His spark stuttered, and took a moment to get back on rhythm. “Ratchet--”
“Stop.” Ratchet held up a hand firmly. “Just stop, Megatron. I told you already. I’m not talking about this here. We’ll discuss it later. Right now, I need space.”
Space.
Megatron cycled a ventilation. “Very well. As you wish.” He took a pointed step backward. “I won’t follow.”
Some of the tension eased from Ratchet’s shoulders. “Thank you.” He continued forward, without a backward look, and Megatron kept his word. He stayed behind, though he watched the resolute set of Ratchet’s shoulders with something mingling hope and dread curling through his spark.
“What in Primus’ name was that about?”
Megatron did not jump, but it was a near thing. Rodimus’ voice from directly behind him was enough to startle anyway. “None of your business,” he replied and turned to face his fellow captain. “Is there something you need?”
“Yeah, like an explanation.” Rodimus craned his neck to see past Megatron, but Ratchet was moving at a fair clip, too far to be hailed. “What the slag did you do to our medic?”
“I did nothing. What you observed were the results of a private conversation, which I don’t feel the need to share.” Megatron turned and headed back toward the scientists and investigators – Skids and Nightbeat had returned. “Have we learned anything useful?”
Rodimus gave him a suspicious look but hurried to match Megatron’s stride. “Everyone’s dead. We didn’t find a single mech alive. And the only vampire we encountered was the one you and Ratchet killed. Rewind downloaded every archive he could find, but so far, all we’ve got are the same coordinates we picked up from the scout ship.”
“Pity.”
Rodimus snorted. “Yeah, right. Bet you’re congratulating yourself that we’re even more delayed now.”
Megatron cut him a look. “This sidetrip wasn’t my idea, if you’ll recall.”
“Oh, I remember.” Rodimus frowned. “What’s going on with you and Ratchet?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Looked a bit like a lover’s tiff to me. But that would be ridiculous.” Rodimus chuckled, but it sounded strained, especially when he lifted both his orbital ridges and gave Megatron a look.
He grunted. “I can’t help what assumptions you make.”
“Classic misdirection.” Rodimus danced out in front of him and started walking backward, which was liable to send him tumbling if he weren’t careful. Perhaps even into that deep pit.
Megatron resisted the urge to give him a helpful push.
Rodimus’ grin sharpened. “So tell me I don’t need to poke harder. Convince me.”
Megatron set his jaw. “There’s nothing to investigate. You may confirm with Ratchet if you wish.”
Rodimus made a face. “No, thanks. It’s just, you know, normally I’d point Drift in his direction.” His spoiler sank down, his gaze shifting elsewhere, before his optics focused back on Megatron, hard and defensive. “I don’t need you usurping my crew, Megatron.”
“Our,” Megatron corrected. “Co-captain.”
Emotion stormed across Rodimus’ face. “Don’t remind me.” He huffed and spun back around, stomping ahead of Megatron.
Trust Rodimus to end a conversation without actually ending it. And not making any kind of point with it.
Megatron rubbed his forehead and sighed a ventilation. Autobots frustrated him.
He left the scientists and the researchers to their babbled, excited chatting. Instead, he returned to the city. Ghosts and monsters were more his friends anyway, and the temporary patch job would hold.
It was better than sulking in the confines of the Lost Light. And it was far better than facing Ratchet and accepting the end for what it was.
They opted to stay on Clandestine for a week.
Opted was perhaps a strong word. Ratchet was one voice among many who insisted. He wanted to gather the fallen and give them more dignity than death where they lay.
Especially, he growled, any poor sots they found in the hospital.
Rodimus gathered up a hunting party to flush out and chase away or eliminate any ‘estrix’ as Rewind had found them called. He found an enthusiastic half-dozen of the crew and sent them on their way.
Rewind holed up in front of a console, plugged in at every available port, and doggedly poured through all the data he’d collected, much to Chromedome’s concern. He alternated between pacing the floor behind Rewind, and trying to coax his conjunx away for a rest.
Megatron busied himself with helping gather the dead. Otherwise, he would have spent his time much like Chromedome, pacing, waiting for something to happen. Though he had visited the medbay, getting a more permanent repair to the wound in his side, without a single glimpse of Ratchet the entire time.
Time and space, Ratchet had said, for a conversation Megatron wasn’t sure he wanted to have. Megatron gave Ratchet both, and now all he could do was wait. It was a perilous thing, waiting without knowing why or when.
He hated it.
Answers trickled in as they worked.
The knights here had dug too deep, unearthing the estrix as they slept, waking them from their stasis with the sweet smell of their energon. They’d tried to fight, but had been quickly overwhelmed. They’d tried to flee. Perhaps some had survived. Surely an estrix hadn’t snuck aboard every escaping ship.
The estrix, they’d learned, were capable of surviving in space and deep space. They didn’t need to breathe. They consumed energy in whatever form they could find it. They were much like the kremzeek, except they weren’t made of energy alone. They were probably the result of some mad scientist playing with nature.
Some of the crew whispered of Jhiaxus with sideways glances at Megatron. Never mind that Jhiaxus could not be responsible for these creatures.
Ratchet, too, had his worst fears realized. As did Rodimus. These knights were knights no longer. They’d been exiled, expunged from the knights, for their beliefs. Alternative modes were a betrayal to Primus. They disdained their transformation cogs, and apparently, those who sought to keep theirs.
Ratchet was such a being of contradictions, Megatron mused as he sat by himself in the shadows of a creaky building. He guzzled coolant, head tilted back against the rusting wall. While he was part of a group gathering the dead, they were content to let him work alone, and he was content with his solitude.
Ratchet loathed the knights for their treatment of the poor mechs they found in the hospital – far more than the two Megatron had seen, their frames twisted and tortured, t-cogs blackened and burned. But he’d also insisted they treat the dead knights with dignity, something neither Autobot nor Decepticon had managed for their fallen during the war.
Stout atheist Ratchet was, and he claimed it had nothing to do with religion, though Cyclonus had agreed with him. Treating the dead with respect was a matter of course. Together, they were a force with which to be reckoned.
Megatron’s sensors prickled.
He onlined his optics and lifted his head, scanning the dark shadows and crumbled ruins. He sipped at his coolant, watching over the lip of the bottle, the sense of being watched clawing at the back of his neck.
“You’re getting better.”
Agitation bled out of him in an instant. Megatron sighed and lowered his bottle. Ravage crouched in front of him, looking bland and uninterested.
“It must be some kind of proximity association,” Megatron said. He eyed Ravage carefully. Their last conversation had not been a good one, and he hadn’t seen the cassette since they’d parted on angry terms. “Are you enjoying our trip?”
Ravage snorted. “This place is vile.” One paw lifted, briefly brushing over the tip of his nose. “It reeks. I’ll be glad when we leave.”
He stood and padded over to Megatron, pulling something out of a shoulder compartment. “Here.”
Megatron held out a hand, and a small datachip tumbled into his palm.
“This is everything Rewind’s translated about the knights from scout ship and the data that’s been gathered here, including Ratchet’s excursion into the medbay.”
Megatron arched an orbital ridge. “I’m not going to ask how you acquired this.” He tucked the chip away. He’d explore it in full later. “But I do wonder why you brought it.”
“Information is the key to victory, isn’t that what you always said?” Ravage sat back on his haunches, regarding Megatron steadily, as still as stone.
“There is no victory here.”
“Victory is not always battle or war.” Ravage tilted his head. His gaze was as inscrutable as ever, and Megatron couldn’t shake the feeling that Soundwave looked out through Ravage’s optics. “I am not going to apologize.”
“You don’t need to. You were right.”
Ravage’s optics flashed. A flutter ran across his armor. “What?”
Megatron cycled a ventilation. He drew up a knee, resting his free arm across it. “I abandoned the Decepticons. I should have stayed, but I was a coward. I could not immediately see a path they would follow that wouldn’t push us back toward war. And in a moment of irrational thought, I didn’t bother to try. I feared that failure, on top of all the others.”
“Then--”
Megatron shook his head, cutting Ravage off. “You were right,” he said. “But I’m still not going back to the Decepticons. I can’t lead them. Not anymore. I represent far too much of what we don’t need to be.”
Ravage’s front claws kneaded the ground, little skritch-crunch of metal on metal. “You are our leader,” he said, quietly.
“I don’t know what I am, and that’s only part of the problem.” Megatron rubbed his free hand down his face. “I have to remember who I am first. Maybe then I can actually make a difference.”
The kneading stopped. Ravage lifted his gaze, his optics no longer burning with the resentment he’d carried for the past couple weeks. “And if by the time you’re ready, we’ve outgrown you?”
“Then so be it.” Megatron pushed to his feet, brushing bits of grit from his aft and legs. “The Decepticons deserve better, and if they decide it’s not me, then I have no right to protest.”
Ravage stood and turned, tail swishing behind him. “I’m not sure I like what you’ve become. Are becoming. You reek of Autobot.”
“There was a time Orion Pax stormed into the Senate and quoted my words at them.” Megatron’s memories dragged back, far back, to a point when he should have taken the hand offered to him, rather than slapping it aside. “When we stood together against the threat that was Zeta Prime, when in the optics of everyone else, Orion Pax was a Decepticon. Put that way, it’s all a matter of perspective.”
Ravage snorted. “I suppose you have a point.” His tail lashed again. He looked back over his shoulder, amusement in the curve of the dermal metal around his mouth. “Should I let you know if I find anything else?”
“Only if you want.” Megatron paused, hesitating, before he barreled forward. “I don’t need a subordinate, Ravage. But there’s plenty of room in my life for a friend.”
“Friend.” Ravage’s ears flicked and Megatron couldn’t tell if his tone was amused or touched. “That’ll be a first,” he said, and bounded off into the shadows, leaving Megatron to his contemplations.
He supposed that meant they were no longer at odds with each other. How Soundwave would react to the news, Megatron didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure Ravage was still in contact with Soundwave, he’d assumed.
Either way, Megatron considered it a win.
He finished off the last of his coolant, and stretched his arms over his head, easing the kinks in his lower back cables. He might as well get back to work. The corpses wouldn’t gather themselves.
Thank Primus for that.
His system chirped with an incoming message. Megatron paused to acknowledge it, his orbital ridges lifting at the identity of the sender.
Ratchet.
He skimmed the contents before he went back and read them thoroughly, not that there was much to contemplate. It was an invitation. For the talk they needed to have.
Megatron’s spark spun anxiously.
Tonight it was.
He replied with an affirmative and left it at that. He had work to do. At least, he would have closure.
Ratchet had them meet on neutral ground, a rarely visited observation balcony on the thirteenth deck, just above the cargo hold. It was smaller compared to the observation deck, with only a few narrow windows, and vaguely reeked of spent transmission fluid and exhaust. It was one of the reasons no one used it, which meant they were unlikely to be disturbed.
There was only a single bench, and a row of small lights along the top of the narrow windows, making for gloomy corners and odd shadows. It reminded Megatron, strangely, of the mines.
They sat on the bench, facing opposite directions, their hips nearly in contact, elbows occasionally brushing. It wasn’t a very large bench. The most contact they had was between their fields, tentative though it was. The silence was weighted. Megatron refused to be the first to breach it.
He, after all, had not been the one to end things.
Finally, Ratchet sighed, like someone who had come to a realization and had resigned themselves it. “Fool’s energon is not what you think it is.”
That was not what Megatron expected.
“It’s nothing more than regular energon that’s been stripped of anything resembling flavor.” Ratchet’s shoulders sank further. “It doesn’t make you weaker. It doesn’t control your violent impulses. It doesn’t tame your anger. It’s a placebo.” Ratchet’s field drew away from his. “There’s no such thing as fool’s energon.”
Megatron’s vents rattled. His hands drew against his knees, wrapping around them, fingers trembling. Anger burned hot and fierce through his lines, his plating juddering.
“It was… a mind game?” he rasped, squeezing his optics shut, grinding his denta, trying to calm the broil of fury ripping through him.
Even now, Optimus humiliated him. Even now, Optimus hung over his shoulders like a rust infection, a gargoyle Megatron could not defeat.
Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “It was no game,” he said. “It was the only way, Optimus claimed. The only way to prove you were sincere without sending you off in chains and inhibitors. I protested, if only because we couldn’t obtain informed consent. You are who you are, but even murderers deserve that right.”
The world spun. It seemed harder and harder to ventilate. Megatron leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees.
“When we started getting more serious, I realized I couldn’t lie to you anymore, especially when you wanted to explore certain kinks.” Ratchet’s ventilations became audibly ragged. His armor creaked as he shifted. “I’m putting myself, my crew, this ship, everyone in danger. I’m betraying the Autobots, the promise I made to Optimus, everything. Do you understand?”
“Not a game,” Megatron managed, strangled as it sounded. “A lie. A test. Even now--” He broke off, hands squeezing into fists.
A lie.
A lie.
Megatron had made an offer in reasonably good faith, and Optimus had responded with a lie, a test. He did not believe Megatron could change. No. Instead he lied.
It was one thing to be shackled by their invisible chains, of which he’d given something like consent for, but to learn he’d been shackled by a cage of his own making? It was unconscionable.
Megatron jerked to his feet, wobbling on unsteady knees. “I have to go,” he said, the room suddenly too small, too hot, too suffocating. He spun around the bench, heading for the door.
Ratchet lurched up. “Megatron, wait.”
And then there was a hand around his wrist, tight enough to be noticed, tight enough to feel like bonds, and Megatron whirled, jerking his arm free. He didn’t know what look he had on his face, but it made Ratchet flinch, made him shift a half-step back before he set his jaw and held his ground.
“Wait?” Megatron demanded. His vents heaved. “Wait for what? Another lie? For you to shatter and stomp on what remnants of trust I foolishly carried for you?”
Ratchet flinched, but he held firm.
“For my apology.” Ratchet sank back down to the bench, but it forced him to look up at Megatron. “I’m sorry. Not for the lie, that was necessary orders, but for the way I ended things. You deserved more than the answer I gave you.” He paused, worked his jaw. “You deserved an honest explanation.”
Megatron stared at him. Even more than the fool’s energon, the last thing he expected was an apology from Ratchet.
“What does that even mean?” Megatron asked. Nothing made sense anymore. The worldview as he’d crafted it had lies for a foundation, and the walls stood on shaky ground.
“It means exactly what I said. I’m sorry. At the very least, I should have been honest with you about my feelings.” Ratchet looked contrite. He rubbed his hands down his thighs and offered a thin smile.
Megatron didn’t return it. “Is that it?” Thoughts crashed one against the other, like atoms untethered in a vacuum.
“It?” Ratchet tilted his head.
“You tell me the truth about your lie, and you apologize for being a selfish aft, and that’s it?”
Ratchet met his stare evenly. “If that’s all you want it to be.”
“Quit being cryptic, medic!” Megatron snarled. He slashed a hand through the air, the urge to strike, to fight back against the agony, something he had to swallow down. Because the fool’s energon was a lie and all he had was his own restraint.
Megatron continued, demanding, “Say what you mean for once. I’m done playing games with Autobots.” Horrifyingly, his vocalizer crackled, betraying the churn of emotions in his spark.
Ratchet’s expression turned thunderous, for all that his voice stayed even. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
Megatron slapped a hand over the badge on his chest. “You know very well what I meant.” He scowled. “But if you prefer your mysteries, then I’ll walk away right now, and you can bet I never answer your comm again. If that’s what you want, so be it.”
Ratchet ground his denta, cables flexing in his intake. “Do you still want a relationship with me?”
“I thought we didn’t have one to start with.” Megatron’s hand slipped from his chassis, revealing his Autobrand once more. He felt bare in ways he’d scarcely felt before.
“Is that my answer?”
Megatron sighed and dropped down next to Ratchet, though this time they were at least facing the same direction. “You frustrate me.” He stared at the far door, halfway contemplating a quick escape, while his spark urged him to stay.
Ratchet had lied to him. He’d participated in the falsehood. Had probably snickered to himself while Megatron gulped down that foul tasting energon under the mistaken belief it earned him points on the road to redemption.
He should walk away now.
Instead, he worked his intake and admitted, “You are not in my plans.”
Ratchet snorted. “No kidding.”
“Not that I ever had any which were concrete.” Megatron worked his jaw, head dipping to glare at the floor. “You asked me if I were sincere. And the answer has always been: as sincere as I can be. I’m more than aware of my position. I know I walk a razor’s edge. Yes, I have plans, but nothing set in stone. And none of them involve returning to war or the Decepticons.”
Silence greeted that admission. Until Ratchet slid nearer to him, closing the distance, their hips and thighs touching. “I want to trust you,” he said. “Against all odds, against my own guilt, I want to believe you want to change. I have to believe or else…”
“Or else you can’t even begin to try being with me.”
“Yes.”
Megatron wondered if the hypocrisy burned at all. “There’s nothing I can say that will convince you.” He nodded slowly, lips pressed together, thinking now was the time he should get up and walk away. He’d been lied to. He’d been tricked.
He didn’t deserve much, but he certainly didn’t deserve that.
His aft stayed planted on the bench. He wanted, against all odds.
And what, he noticed, and what of the trust Ratchet had broken in him? What of the cruelty? Was Megatron expected to swallow it down, forgive without question?
“No, there isn’t.” Ratchet paused before he rested a hand on Megatron’s thigh. The weight of it was warm. Welcome. Familiar. “So that’s where the trust comes in. I trust you’re sincere, and if you’re still interested, you trust me to tie you up. It’s all the same.”
Megatron’s engine gave a little rev in memory, despite the tension. “Is this you agreeing to try?” He hoped he didn’t sound as hopeful as he felt.
“It’s me saying that things aren’t black and white. They never have been, and the last thing I should do is let my past – or yours – dictate what I should do with my future.”
Ratchet patted Megatron’s thigh and lifted his hand away.
A moment passed. A cycling of ventilations.
Megatron braced his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. He stared hard into the dark, his spark struggling with indecision. There was too much hesitation in Ratchet’s words for his comfort. Too much of Ratchet playing word games because he was unwilling to put anything on the line in the same way Megatron had.
“And what if...” He hesitated, wondering if he asked for too much, if he didn’t even deserve this much courtesy. “What if that’s not enough for me?”
Ratchet startled, his field spiking. “What do you mean?”
Megatron turned his head, forcing his face into a mask of neutrality. “I forgive you the lie about the Fool’s Energon. I understand the necessity of it, as much as I loathe the trick Optimus played on me.” His vents rattled. “What if I’m the one who can’t trust you?”
“I’ve already apologized,” Ratchet said, his orbital ridges crinkling. He pushed to his feet, and there was agitation in the way he shifted his weight. “I don’t know what more else I can do about that.”
Megatron’s engine growled a low tone. “I don’t want another apology.” He looked up at Ratchet, though not too far thanks to their size difference.
Ratchet scowled. “Then what do you want? I’m not a fragging telepath. I can’t pluck it out of your mind. I can’t guess.”
Megatron wiped a hand around his mouth, alarmed to find his fingers trembling a little. He didn’t know if he deserved this, but he didn’t know he could continue in this relationship without it. Not after what they’ve learned about one another. Not after knowing what he wanted from Ratchet.
He needed… reassurance. Confirmation. He needed to know he wasn’t the only one invested in this.
“I want to hear you say it,” Megatron said, and perhaps he was too quiet, because there wasn’t an immediate answer. Just the low rasp of sharp venting.
He didn’t want to look into Ratchet’s optics, for fear of the rejection he’d find there, but he did it anyway. He gained a new boldness, a new strength, when he did so. He was Megatron, former leader of the Decepticons, once a miner who rose above his station. He had been feared and admired.
He could do this.
He deserved this.
“Tell me what I mean to you,” Megatron said, louder this time, so there could be no mistake. “Or that’s it. I will walk away from you, and I won’t look back. No more apologies. Nothing. We’re done.”
The scowl deepened, but there was panic in the back of Ratchet’s optics, making them flare. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?” His hands fisted at his sides.
Megatron shook his head. “I’m giving you a choice. You already know how I feel.” He’d said it so many times, perhaps not in such clear words, but it was obvious enough. “You’re the one who keeps trying to walk away. So I want to hear it.”
Ratchet’s intake visibly worked. He dragged a hand down his face, looking off to the side as though he couldn’t meet Megatron’s optics. “I want to be with you,” he managed through gritted denta. “I thought that was obvious. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“That’s not enough.” Megatron pushed to his feet, there being only a few feet between them now, and he looked down at Ratchet. “I won’t accept assumptions.” His field slashed the air between them, turning it a vibrant shade of emotion. “Say it.”
Ratchet jerked like he’d been struck. “I fragging like you,” he snapped, and his palm smacked against Megatron’s chestplate, right over his Autobot badge. “There! Are you happy? I like you.” His vents heaved, and his vocalizer crackled as he looked up at Megatron with bright blue optics.
“I think about fragging you. And recharging with you. And talking to you. And just being with you. I think about… about...” He trailed off, engine revving, stumbling over his words, and his field flared again, panicked but honest.
It was enough.
Primus, it was enough.
Megatron grabbed Ratchet, pulling him into an embrace. Ratchet’s mouth snapped shut. He trembled in Megatron’s arms, clutching his sides like he needed the lifeline. Alarm rang in his field, like a secret shoved into the light.
But he didn’t take it back.
“I fragging like you, too,” Megatron murmured.
Ratchet snorted something that might have been a laugh. “I hate you,” he said, but it was defeated, a joke.
The line between the two was often so thin as to be transparent.
“I know.” He stroked Ratchet’s back, gradually feeling the medic relax against him, as something within Megatron uncoiled and loosened.
“And I am sorry,” Ratchet said with an audible sigh and a sinking of his shoulders. “A certain someone reminded me I should treat you as an individual first, and a former Decepticon second. It took me too long to absorb that lesson.”
Megatron pulled back and cupped his face, urging Ratchet to look at him. “Apology accepted.” He swept his thumbs over Ratchet’s cheeks. “I can’t promise I’m ready for our other activities, but--”
Ratchet shook his head within Megatron’s grasp. “Yes, I get that. Trust is hard to earn back.”
“But not impossible.” Megatron held his chin and bent down, pressing their mouths together, kissing him slow and gentle.
Like lovers do, like the lovers they are.
He ended the kiss with a nuzzle and captured Ratchet’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Ratchet looked at him curiously until Megatron lifted Ratchet’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “Do not lie to me. Not again.”
The anger was not gone. It was still present, like a low simmer in the depths of his spark. But it was not insurmountable. It was bleeding into hope instead, the feeling of something new, something better on the way.
“We don’t lie to each other,” Ratchet agreed, the back of his hand stroking Megatron’s lips, his expression softening. “The rest we can figure out as we go. Talking about things, you know, like a couple of reasonable mechs.”
Megatron snorted. “Since when do either of us qualify as reasonable?”
“Now’s a good time to start.” Ratchet’s field reached out, tentative at first, but gaining in strength as it nudged against Megatron’s.
He didn’t even have it in him to resist, relenting to the nudge and letting Ratchet’s field wrap over and around him. Warm like an embrace. Faintly tingling, on the edge of arousal and affection both. He swore he could sense Ratchet’s sparkbeat in it.
He wanted to keep Ratchet into his arms. He wanted to press their lips together, again and again. He wanted to hold Ratchet like he hadn’t in weeks, to press his audials to Ratchet’s chestplate and listen to the steady beat of his spark.
He wondered if it could last. Would the lies be too much? Would their past only be a noose? Would Ratchet ever see beyond the things Megatron had done?
It was impossible to know for sure.
“I’m not perfect,” Megatron murmured, his ventilations hitching. “I’m going to make mistakes, Ratchet. I’m going to say or do something that you’ll disapprove of. What then?”
Could he trust Ratchet not to have another moral eruption and decide they needed to end things for the sake of his own ethical boundaries?
“We cross that bridge when we come to it.” Ratchet rolled his shoulders in a shrug, but his finger still stroked Megatron’s lips. “No one’s perfect. I don’t expect you to be on your best behavior. I just… want to know that you’re trying.”
“I don’t know how to prove that.”
Ratchet’s fingers rested under his lips, his optics soft and gentle. “You can’t. I can’t either. We’re just going to have to try this trust thing all over again.” He leaned in closer, their armor a handsbreadth apart, his frame tangibly humming. “We’ll learn as we go. Both of us.”
Was it hope, this fragile thing curling inside of him? “You mean it then.”
Ratchet’s lips curved into a soft smile. “I do.”
Primus. This was a terrible, terrible idea.
Which was probably why Megatron wanted it so badly. He wanted something he could mark as real, something he could put his faith into, something that would bring him peace, and if he was lucky, happiness.
He wanted Ratchet.
“All right,” Megatron relented, a soft sigh escaping his vents, armor creaking as it loosens from the tight clamp he hadn’t realized he’d gained. “Then what’s next?”
“Next, if I’m lucky, you’ll kiss me again.” Ratchet chuckled and reached up, curling a hand around the back of Megatron’s neck as if to tug him down within reach. “After that, we can see where the rest of the day takes us. Because I’m off-shift, and I think you are, too. And we have some catching up to do.”
Megatron groaned, low and deep, and hauled Ratchet tight against his frame. Their armor collided, metal on metal, Ratchet curving against him in the right places.
He held himself back from crushing their mouths together. It took effort to stay gentle, but Megatron ensured it. He could be sweet, he could be trustworthy. He could brush his lips over Ratchet’s, tasting him first, before he brought their mouths together, glossa teasing the seam of Ratchet’s lips.
Ratchet shuddered and melted against him, his field robing Megatron in a dizzying prickle of relief and need. He hummed, the sound hungry. He clutched at Megatron, sliding closer, opening his mouth to Megatron to deepen the kiss. He tasted sweet, like he’d recently consumed a delicious energon, the kind of which Megatron should be allowed now.
The anger over the lie still burned inside of him. It was one of many, many long conversations he and Ratchet would have. But later.
For now, there was this simple thing. An embrace. A kiss. A promise of a potential future, if they survived the reach of this quest anyway.
It was enough. It was more than enough. It was a start, starting over.
Megatron never could have believed, after all he’d done, that he’d get one of those.
