[IDW] Lost and Lonely Space 12/12
Jan. 15th, 2019 09:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Commission fic for Cosmicdanger! And the last chapter of their journey. :)
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
chapter twelve
The Collectors are the kinder, gentler solution to the Pentas.
Deadlock will never admit aloud to the surge of relief he feels when he recognizes what has found them. It’s a stroke of luck they’ve sorely needed.
He’s quite sure Ratchet is ecstatic rescue is at hand.
Deadlock makes it easy. He stays brusque, flippant, putting distance between himself and Ratchet as quickly as possible, before Drift can rise up and beg for something foolish. He doesn’t look back when one of the Collectors leads Ratchet in another direction.
“You will give us full scavenger’s rights then?” Araya asks as they deposit Deadlock in a room for his personal use, kitted to the maximum as always.
This isn’t the first time Deadlock’s had dealings with the Collectors. They are the definition of space neutrality, and they have the arms to defend themselves from anyone who might challenge them. The only loyalty they have is to themselves and to wealth, though it’s arguable which they prioritize.
Which isn’t to say they aren’t sympathetic or completely without empathy. Not every service requires coin. But they don’t fight in wars, and they supply all sides equally, and rescue stranded spacefarers of all kinds.
“Yeah. For me and the other guy.” Deadlock flops down on the berth and groans at the indulgent softness of it. “Just get him wherever he wants to go.”
Araya lingers in the doorway, their lips pursed, a glance that’s almost concern in their many, small eyes. “And you?”
Deadlock folds his arms over his head and stares at the immaculate ceiling, lacking so much as a rust stain to measure and memorize. “I want a ship. Small. Fast. Disposable.”
“That can be provided.”
“You guys really put a lot of worth in Cybertronian junk, don’t you?”
“You’d be surprised.” Araya’s tone thickens with amusement, light though their voice is. “A word of caution, Decepticon. The Pentaflexiamoriantrichoglycerites are looking for one they call oath-breaker. He matches your description.”
Deadlock groans and throws an arm over his optics. “Of course they are.” And he’d bet half the credits in his accounts Turmoil’s given them everything they need to know about tracking him down.
Turmoil has been itching for an excuse to be rid of Deadlock. How convenient that one should arrive for him. He must have seen it as a sign from Unicron.
Aft.
Deadlock will have to kill him one day, and he relishes the idea of it. He’ll have to wait for a prime opportunity of course. Perhaps arrange something so he maintains his favor within the ranks, if he so desires.
“How much more is stealth and amnesia going to cost me?” Deadlock asks.
Araya laughs, high-pitched and raspy, just shy of grating on Deadlock’s audials. “Your salvage is not enough.”
“I have credits of my own. Just tell me how much,” Deadlock says.
Araya makes a noise of amused contemplation. “Very well. I’ll see what we have available or what can be outfitted and contact you with a price.”
Deadlock shutters his optics, cycling several steadying ventilations. “I’ll know if you cheat me.”
“On my honor as a Collector, I would never.” Araya, at least, doesn’t sound offended. Probably hears such a thing a lot. They make another noise, a cross between a hum and a chirp. “And your companion? Shall I fetch him for you?”
Deadlock’s optics snap back online. He sits up and pins Araya with narrow optics, his fingers curling into the berth. “You already know there’s no need. Why do you keep asking?”
“Oh. Because it seems that there is something left undone.” Araya examines their fingers, wriggling all eight of them as though they are of great fascination. “I’ll apologize if I’m mistaken, but you mechanicals are not as difficult to read as you think you are.”
Deadlock sneers. “You’re mistaken.”
“Fair enough.” Humor echoes rich in Araya’s voice. “I’ll leave you in peace then. The room is yours. You can use the console as you wish, including to contact me should you need it. And… I wish you luck, Decepticon.”
He slides off the berth, feet hitting the ground. “I don’t need luck.”
“Of course you don’t. My mistake,” Araya drawls before tipping their head in a bow and backing out of the room, the door sliding shut behind them.
Deadlock growls, though the threat is lost on the Collector. Strength belies their small forms, Deadlock knows. They may be friendlier than the Pentas, but they are equally dangerous. Within their blood swirls something Deadlock can only describe as magic, though he imagines Shockwave would scoff at the idea.
He has no interest in loitering in his room. They’ll be docking at a waystation soon enough. With a cargo as big as the shuttle to tear apart, the Collectors will want to be stationary. He can leave once they dock.
Until then, well, he’s quite sure there’s a bar somewhere on board.
Deadlock rinses off in the washrack, pointedly ignoring the bright scrapes of red and white marring his paint. He purposefully doesn’t think about Ratchet because that is an impossibility that doesn’t bear further contemplation. He’s moving on, not back toward the war because apparently that avenue is closed to him at the moment, but toward something.
He’ll figure it out.
Clean, still dripping, Deadlock abandons the room they so graciously lent him, and wanders the corridors, wading through crowds and crowds of Collectors. He probably should’ve taken the time to download a schematic of the ship, but he’s in no hurry.
It takes grabbing one of the passing Collectors and asking before he finds the common area of the ship. It’s a massive open space, a windowed ceiling stretching far and wide above, and the interior stretching out further than he can perceive. While the Collectors themselves are a species half Deadlock’s height, they’ve built the common area to accommodate species large and small.
He finds the bar. He picks the best table he can, tucked in a corner, away from the crowds. He orders the best engex they have on tap, impressed they have engex at all, and he drinks.
It’s not for celebration. It’s not for regret. It just is.
He ignores Drift. He ignores the tiny flicker of not-quite-hope, but ridiculous imagining instead. The one he’d let curl around the depths of his spark while trapped on that shuttle with Ratchet.
Two weeks. Barely two weeks as the chronometer clicks.
In the lifespan of the average Cybertroninan, it’s a blip. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. So he’s going to drink his engex until he forgets he ever wanted it to.
Which is of course the moment Ratchet appears in his peripheral vision.
Deadlock hunches his shoulders, wonders if there’s any chance Ratchet hasn’t noticed him, but fate is not so kind. The chair in front of him pulls out, but fingers linger on the back of it.
“This seat taken?” Ratchet asks.
“Not my ship to decide otherwise,” Deadlock says as he leans back and spreads his hands. He gives Ratchet a lazy grin and snags his cup of engex once more. “You know we’re not obligated to stick together now.”
Ratchet snorts and slides down into the chair, which gives a little creak beneath him. Medics. A lot heavier than they look. “What’re you drinking?”
“They actually have engex here, if you can believe it.” Deadlock rolls his shoulders and tips the cup so Ratchet can see the contents.
“They seem to have everything.” Ratchet braces his arms on the table, shoulders hunched, gaze distant. “We got lucky.”
Deadlock makes a noncommittal noise, hiding his face behind his engex. “Someone must be looking out for you.”
“Primus hasn’t cared in centuries,” Ratchet retorts, a sour note to his tone. His hands curl briefly before he tangles them together. “I’m guessing you found passage back to… wherever the Decepticons are these days.”
“Nope.”
Ratchet cycles his optics and drags his gaze to Deadlock. “I thought we were owed it.”
“We are.” Deadlock sets down the cup, cycles an audible ventilation. “I’m just not going back to the Decepticons.”
“What?” Ratchet frowns, his field flaring with confusion and something else, something beneath the surface Deadlock can’t read without invitation.
“I’m done,” Deadlock says. He lifts his cup again, stares into the depths of it, swirls around the thick, brightly-colored mixture. “Done with the war. Done with the pointlessness of it all.” Done with the political pitslag. He’s tired of fighting his allies for a scrap of notice. “I’m not going back.”
Ratchet stares at him, thunderstruck, and that doesn’t take a deeper look to recognize. “What’re you going to do?”
A server chooses that moment to slide by, pretty smile on their pretty lips, diamond-like glitter reflected in sea foam skin. “Would you like another?” the Collector asks, their antennae tilting toward Deadlock, probably to sense the state of his field. Collectors are odd like that.
“Yeah. Keep it coming,” Deadlock says, tapping the table around his cup. He tilts his head toward Ratchet. “Bring one for him, too.”
“I can buy my own drinks,” Ratchet says.
Deadlock holds the Collector’s gaze, ignoring the medic. “One for him,” he repeats.
Three sets of eyes blink in eerie precision. “Certainly.” They smile, tip their head, and vanish back into the crowd.
“You’re not spending your creds,” Deadlock points out as he takes a big gulp of his engex. The burn of it is almost an afterthought, and the warmth of it in his tank is a comfort. “Your’e spending the salvage rights of our busted-aft ship.”
“Our?” Ratchet snorts. “That was your ship through and through. I just had the misfortune of crashing in it with you.”
Deadlock rolls his shoulders. “Then maybe I’m a generous person.” He grins, flashes his denta, and taps his chestplate. “Must be the Decepticon in me.”
It may or may not be a subtle reminder of what he is.
“Thought you were quitting?” Ratchet points out.
“I’m keeping my options open.”
Ratchet twists his jaw. “What are you even going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Deadlock stares past him, squints at the far wall, gaze tracing the weird painted swirl pattern that decorates it. “Bought a ship and it better be stealthy. Figure I’ll take off for parts unknown. Solve the mysteries of the universe. Figure out some answers.” His grin slides crooked. “Find the Knights of Cybertron. Who the frag knows.”
Ratchet stares at him. “The Knights of Cybertron?” he repeats, incredulous. “Deadlock, that’s ridiculous.”
He arches an orbital ridge. “More ridiculous than an ongoing civil war that’s causing us to slaughter each other in the millions?”
The server returns, sliding a cup in front of Ratchet, and tips a decanter over Deadlock’s, filling it to the brim. Deadlock murmurs a thank you, and they wink, which is somehow less odd than the synchronous blinking.
Ratchet curls his fingers around the cup and stares in at the engex. His frown has softened, more contemplative than incredulous. “So you’re going to abandon the Decepticons.”
“Yep.” Deadlock pops the word, paints it with dismissal, and takes a long drink of his refilled cup, humming as the silky warmth of it coats his intake.
“You’re not worried about the consequences?”
He snorts, unable to hide his amusement, or perhaps not caring about it. “Can’t be any worse than the fate awaiting me if I go back. I’m dead no matter what.” He leans back, affects a casual recline, letting his gaze wander over Ratchet, letting Drift look his fill. “At least this way, I get to enjoy whatever time I have left when they come for me.”
Ratchet gnaws on his bottom lip. He raps the fingers of one hand on the table. “You’re the one who argued about how important the Decepticons were for you. What changed?”
“What this stands for, that’s still relevant,” Deadlock bites out, thumping the badge on his chassis once more. “But the mechs gathering around the symbol sometimes forget that. And I’d rather get out while it still matters to me.”
He swears to everything he believes in that if Ratchet starts another political and philosophical discussion, Deadlock will start a brawl here in the middle of the Collectors’ common room. He’s tired of defending himself and his choices.
Ratchet, however, looses a long sigh. “Belief and practice aren’t always the same thing,” he says slowly, carefully. He ponders his cup of engex before taking a long drink of it. “There comes a point where you have to be loyal to your spark before anything else.”
“Well, at least you understand that much.” Deadlock smirks and lifts his cup in salute. “And what about you?”
Ratchet tilts his cup toward Deadlock in returned salute. His free hand slips a chip from subspace, and he sets it on the counter. “Booked transport back home. There’s a shuttle leaving from the waystation in a few hours.”
“Back into the fray,” Deadlock murmurs around the lip of his cup, ignoring the squeeze-pull around his spark. “Good for you.”
“I guess you think I’m making the wrong choice.”
Deadlock lifts and drops his shoulders. “It’s not my place to decide whether you are or not. That’s sort of more your thing than mine.” He chuckles darkly and makes a vague gesture. “Though feel free to tell me why you’re so eager to die.”
Ratchet scowls. “You don’t know that’s what’s going to happen.”
“Don’t I?” Deadlock arches an orbital ridge. “Where do you think the war is going to take us, if two mechs on opposite sides can barely hold a decent conversation when there are no commanding officers around to tell them otherwise?” He tightens his grip on his cube. “You think there’s going to be peace? Victory? You think there’s any future where we survive this?”
Ratchet’s jaw twitches. “I think giving up is always the wrong choice.”
“Your funeral.” Deadlock shrugs. “Surviving, by the way, is not giving up.”
“Abandoning my friends, my allies, is not how I want to survive,” Ratchet retorts.
Deadlock tilts his head. “Well, then. As I said, don’t let me stop you.” He drinks his engex, nibbles on the edge of the cup, ignores Drift’s howls and pleas to change Ratchet’s mind.
Ratchet’s optics darken. He stares down at the table, fingers fiddling with his cup, his field blanketing his frame. He reaches for the chip with his transport ticket on it, and turns it over and over in his fingers.
“I can’t abandon my friends,” he says, but it’s soft. Quiet.
“Then don’t.”
Ratchet gnaws on his bottom lip. The chip spins faster and faster in his fingers, his engex forgotten. His field wavers around his frame, and Deadlock catches a brief taste of raw indecision, a flood of emotions too quick to identify.
“People will die without me,” he says.
“People are going to die regardless,” Deadlock replies, but quietly. Gently. He’s not here to pressure, to presume, to convince. Whatever choice Ratchet makes, it’ll be with optics wide open.
Deadlock’s not letting the Autobot blame the Decepticon.
Ratchet taps the chip on the table. Tap-tap-tap. His lips press together, a thinner and thinner line.
“I am,” he says, pauses, cycles an audible vent. “I am on vacation.”
Deadlock blinks. His orbital ridges draw down. “What’s that mean?”
“It means, I’m on vacation.” Ratchet sits up and leaves the chip on the table between them, withdrawing his fingers from it.
A burble of hope that can only come from Drift dares pepper its way through Deadlock’s spark. “You’re leaving the war?”
“No. I’m on vacation.” Ratchet braces his elbows on the table, threading his fingers together. “And I understand why Optimus insisted on it now.”
“Okay. Care to share with the class?”
Ratchet gives him a look, one Deadlock can’t define, but when he starts to talk, Deadlock feels like he’s being let in on something deeply personal. As if Ratchet’s sharing a special part of him, and Deadlock is being given a gift of some kind.
“For a moment, I was tempted,” Ratchet says, head bowing, optics focusing on the table. “I wanted to set it all down and walk away. All I could see was the energon on my hands, the sparks I haven’t saved, the things I couldn’t do. And all I saw in that was hopelessness. As if nothing I did mattered. That I didn’t matter.”
Deadlock’s vents catch in his intake. He feels like he should say something, should protest to the contrary, should try and offer reassurances or comfort. Admit that he’s wrong, too. He’s lashing out because the war isn’t going his way either, and one of the things Drift wants is right in front of him, but far out of reach.
Silence grips his glossa instead.
“That was when I realized if I went back to the war, I would die, not because the war is hopeless, but because I didn’t have any faith.” Ratchet shakes his head, his lips curving into a frown. “Not in Primus, because I’ve never had that, but I didn’t have any faith in me. In my allies. In what I was doing. And I can’t fight like that. I’m no good to anyone like that, least of all myself.”
Deadlock nods slowly. “And so…?”
“So I’m on vacation.” Ratchet straightens, as if pulling into himself and gathering a mantle of strength he’d let slip aside for a brief moment. “I’m going to find something, and then I’ll decide what I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll go back to the war. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll find something else I need to fight for.”
He lowers his arms, spreads his hands. “I need this. Time away. Time to myself. Time to figure out what I’m fighting for because I need a sense of conviction.” He pauses and tilts his head. “And I admit – grudgingly – I admire you for yours.”
Deadlock’s spark flutters. His lips curve into a genuine smile. “Why Ratchet, I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Ratchet snorts and rolls his optics. “You never said you wanted romancing.” He eyes Deadlock, and there’s a heat banking behind the blue. “Though if you do, maybe I can figure something out.”
Deadlock cycles his optics. Cycles them again. Reboots his audials for good measure.
“Come again?”
“Oh, I intend to.” Ratchet chuckles, hot and rolling, and it dispels the tension, smooths it over into something promising. “If you have room for me, that is, on your little journey to find the impossible.”
Deadlock leans back in his chair, hoping the smirk hides the sudden excitement bursting like little fireworks in his spark. Drift crows with delight. “What makes you think you’re invited on my defection anyway?”
“Oh, you mean pushing and poking at my plans wasn’t an invitation?” Ratchet asks, orbital ridge arched, the edges of his field pushing at Deadlock now with blatant desire.
Deadlock sets his empty cup down, shaking his head when their server heads their direction. He doesn’t need anymore. For whatever comes next, he wants a clear processor.
“You can crash my ship anytime.” He grins, slow and careful, letting his gaze linger on Ratchet. “But don’t think it’s going to be that easy to walk away, when it comes down to it.”
Ratchet snorts. “We’ll see.” He fiddles with his cup before he lifts it and drains it one go, setting it down on the table with a motion of finality. “So. Where to?”
Beneath the table, Deadlock feels a foot bump against his own, a slow slide of metal on metal, the press of Ratchet’s field like a hot promise. “I have a few ideas,” he says.
Deadlock tilts his head, glossa flicking over his lips. “The waystation, though, we can start there.”
“Oh?” Ratchet’s foot slides up his calf and down again.
“There’s a hotel with all the perks, even better than what we have here,” Deadlock says, a hot tingle of anticipation dancing down his backstrut. “Amenities like hot oil baths, room service, berths big enough for two. Perfect place to start a vacation. For two mechs like us.” He puts his hand over his badge, not to gesture to it, but to conceal it.
Two mechs.
Not an Autobot and a Decepticon.
Just two Cybertronians.
“Sounds like a decent starting place to me,” Ratchet replies, his words deceptively casual, but nothing confusing about the way his feet tangle with Deadlock’s under the table. “I’ll figure the rest myself.”
Deadlock pushes to his feet, braces his hands over the table, close enough to scent the engex on Ratchet’s vents. “We can get started now, if you want,” he murmurs. “We have quarters on the ship after all.”
Ratchet tips his head up, leans forward, their lips in aching proximity. “Lead the way.”
Deadlock grins, and he can feel Drift shining through it, and for once, he doesn’t slap the hopeful leaker down. For once, he lets Drift soak in the sensation of a battle well fought, and a victory won.
Somehow, Deadlock doesn’t think Ratchet’s just talking about this very moment, and the berth waiting for them.
It sounds like something a lot bigger. It sounds a bit like hope, as they leave the table, their empty cups, and a small ticket chip behind.
***
a/n: And that’s a wrap, folks! I hope you enjoyed the journey and the ending satisfied. As always, feedback is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.
Title: Lost and Lonely Space
Universe: IDW, Pre-Death of Optimus Prime
Characters: Ratchet, Deadlock, Alien Original Character(s)
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Canon Divergence
Description: While on a sabbatical from the war, Ratchet runs into a spot of trouble that lands him in close company with a familiar face, the famed Decepticon Deadlock.
The Collectors are the kinder, gentler solution to the Pentas.
Deadlock will never admit aloud to the surge of relief he feels when he recognizes what has found them. It’s a stroke of luck they’ve sorely needed.
He’s quite sure Ratchet is ecstatic rescue is at hand.
Deadlock makes it easy. He stays brusque, flippant, putting distance between himself and Ratchet as quickly as possible, before Drift can rise up and beg for something foolish. He doesn’t look back when one of the Collectors leads Ratchet in another direction.
“You will give us full scavenger’s rights then?” Araya asks as they deposit Deadlock in a room for his personal use, kitted to the maximum as always.
This isn’t the first time Deadlock’s had dealings with the Collectors. They are the definition of space neutrality, and they have the arms to defend themselves from anyone who might challenge them. The only loyalty they have is to themselves and to wealth, though it’s arguable which they prioritize.
Which isn’t to say they aren’t sympathetic or completely without empathy. Not every service requires coin. But they don’t fight in wars, and they supply all sides equally, and rescue stranded spacefarers of all kinds.
“Yeah. For me and the other guy.” Deadlock flops down on the berth and groans at the indulgent softness of it. “Just get him wherever he wants to go.”
Araya lingers in the doorway, their lips pursed, a glance that’s almost concern in their many, small eyes. “And you?”
Deadlock folds his arms over his head and stares at the immaculate ceiling, lacking so much as a rust stain to measure and memorize. “I want a ship. Small. Fast. Disposable.”
“That can be provided.”
“You guys really put a lot of worth in Cybertronian junk, don’t you?”
“You’d be surprised.” Araya’s tone thickens with amusement, light though their voice is. “A word of caution, Decepticon. The Pentaflexiamoriantrichoglycerites are looking for one they call oath-breaker. He matches your description.”
Deadlock groans and throws an arm over his optics. “Of course they are.” And he’d bet half the credits in his accounts Turmoil’s given them everything they need to know about tracking him down.
Turmoil has been itching for an excuse to be rid of Deadlock. How convenient that one should arrive for him. He must have seen it as a sign from Unicron.
Aft.
Deadlock will have to kill him one day, and he relishes the idea of it. He’ll have to wait for a prime opportunity of course. Perhaps arrange something so he maintains his favor within the ranks, if he so desires.
“How much more is stealth and amnesia going to cost me?” Deadlock asks.
Araya laughs, high-pitched and raspy, just shy of grating on Deadlock’s audials. “Your salvage is not enough.”
“I have credits of my own. Just tell me how much,” Deadlock says.
Araya makes a noise of amused contemplation. “Very well. I’ll see what we have available or what can be outfitted and contact you with a price.”
Deadlock shutters his optics, cycling several steadying ventilations. “I’ll know if you cheat me.”
“On my honor as a Collector, I would never.” Araya, at least, doesn’t sound offended. Probably hears such a thing a lot. They make another noise, a cross between a hum and a chirp. “And your companion? Shall I fetch him for you?”
Deadlock’s optics snap back online. He sits up and pins Araya with narrow optics, his fingers curling into the berth. “You already know there’s no need. Why do you keep asking?”
“Oh. Because it seems that there is something left undone.” Araya examines their fingers, wriggling all eight of them as though they are of great fascination. “I’ll apologize if I’m mistaken, but you mechanicals are not as difficult to read as you think you are.”
Deadlock sneers. “You’re mistaken.”
“Fair enough.” Humor echoes rich in Araya’s voice. “I’ll leave you in peace then. The room is yours. You can use the console as you wish, including to contact me should you need it. And… I wish you luck, Decepticon.”
He slides off the berth, feet hitting the ground. “I don’t need luck.”
“Of course you don’t. My mistake,” Araya drawls before tipping their head in a bow and backing out of the room, the door sliding shut behind them.
Deadlock growls, though the threat is lost on the Collector. Strength belies their small forms, Deadlock knows. They may be friendlier than the Pentas, but they are equally dangerous. Within their blood swirls something Deadlock can only describe as magic, though he imagines Shockwave would scoff at the idea.
He has no interest in loitering in his room. They’ll be docking at a waystation soon enough. With a cargo as big as the shuttle to tear apart, the Collectors will want to be stationary. He can leave once they dock.
Until then, well, he’s quite sure there’s a bar somewhere on board.
Deadlock rinses off in the washrack, pointedly ignoring the bright scrapes of red and white marring his paint. He purposefully doesn’t think about Ratchet because that is an impossibility that doesn’t bear further contemplation. He’s moving on, not back toward the war because apparently that avenue is closed to him at the moment, but toward something.
He’ll figure it out.
Clean, still dripping, Deadlock abandons the room they so graciously lent him, and wanders the corridors, wading through crowds and crowds of Collectors. He probably should’ve taken the time to download a schematic of the ship, but he’s in no hurry.
It takes grabbing one of the passing Collectors and asking before he finds the common area of the ship. It’s a massive open space, a windowed ceiling stretching far and wide above, and the interior stretching out further than he can perceive. While the Collectors themselves are a species half Deadlock’s height, they’ve built the common area to accommodate species large and small.
He finds the bar. He picks the best table he can, tucked in a corner, away from the crowds. He orders the best engex they have on tap, impressed they have engex at all, and he drinks.
It’s not for celebration. It’s not for regret. It just is.
He ignores Drift. He ignores the tiny flicker of not-quite-hope, but ridiculous imagining instead. The one he’d let curl around the depths of his spark while trapped on that shuttle with Ratchet.
Two weeks. Barely two weeks as the chronometer clicks.
In the lifespan of the average Cybertroninan, it’s a blip. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. So he’s going to drink his engex until he forgets he ever wanted it to.
Which is of course the moment Ratchet appears in his peripheral vision.
Deadlock hunches his shoulders, wonders if there’s any chance Ratchet hasn’t noticed him, but fate is not so kind. The chair in front of him pulls out, but fingers linger on the back of it.
“This seat taken?” Ratchet asks.
“Not my ship to decide otherwise,” Deadlock says as he leans back and spreads his hands. He gives Ratchet a lazy grin and snags his cup of engex once more. “You know we’re not obligated to stick together now.”
Ratchet snorts and slides down into the chair, which gives a little creak beneath him. Medics. A lot heavier than they look. “What’re you drinking?”
“They actually have engex here, if you can believe it.” Deadlock rolls his shoulders and tips the cup so Ratchet can see the contents.
“They seem to have everything.” Ratchet braces his arms on the table, shoulders hunched, gaze distant. “We got lucky.”
Deadlock makes a noncommittal noise, hiding his face behind his engex. “Someone must be looking out for you.”
“Primus hasn’t cared in centuries,” Ratchet retorts, a sour note to his tone. His hands curl briefly before he tangles them together. “I’m guessing you found passage back to… wherever the Decepticons are these days.”
“Nope.”
Ratchet cycles his optics and drags his gaze to Deadlock. “I thought we were owed it.”
“We are.” Deadlock sets down the cup, cycles an audible ventilation. “I’m just not going back to the Decepticons.”
“What?” Ratchet frowns, his field flaring with confusion and something else, something beneath the surface Deadlock can’t read without invitation.
“I’m done,” Deadlock says. He lifts his cup again, stares into the depths of it, swirls around the thick, brightly-colored mixture. “Done with the war. Done with the pointlessness of it all.” Done with the political pitslag. He’s tired of fighting his allies for a scrap of notice. “I’m not going back.”
Ratchet stares at him, thunderstruck, and that doesn’t take a deeper look to recognize. “What’re you going to do?”
A server chooses that moment to slide by, pretty smile on their pretty lips, diamond-like glitter reflected in sea foam skin. “Would you like another?” the Collector asks, their antennae tilting toward Deadlock, probably to sense the state of his field. Collectors are odd like that.
“Yeah. Keep it coming,” Deadlock says, tapping the table around his cup. He tilts his head toward Ratchet. “Bring one for him, too.”
“I can buy my own drinks,” Ratchet says.
Deadlock holds the Collector’s gaze, ignoring the medic. “One for him,” he repeats.
Three sets of eyes blink in eerie precision. “Certainly.” They smile, tip their head, and vanish back into the crowd.
“You’re not spending your creds,” Deadlock points out as he takes a big gulp of his engex. The burn of it is almost an afterthought, and the warmth of it in his tank is a comfort. “Your’e spending the salvage rights of our busted-aft ship.”
“Our?” Ratchet snorts. “That was your ship through and through. I just had the misfortune of crashing in it with you.”
Deadlock rolls his shoulders. “Then maybe I’m a generous person.” He grins, flashes his denta, and taps his chestplate. “Must be the Decepticon in me.”
It may or may not be a subtle reminder of what he is.
“Thought you were quitting?” Ratchet points out.
“I’m keeping my options open.”
Ratchet twists his jaw. “What are you even going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Deadlock stares past him, squints at the far wall, gaze tracing the weird painted swirl pattern that decorates it. “Bought a ship and it better be stealthy. Figure I’ll take off for parts unknown. Solve the mysteries of the universe. Figure out some answers.” His grin slides crooked. “Find the Knights of Cybertron. Who the frag knows.”
Ratchet stares at him. “The Knights of Cybertron?” he repeats, incredulous. “Deadlock, that’s ridiculous.”
He arches an orbital ridge. “More ridiculous than an ongoing civil war that’s causing us to slaughter each other in the millions?”
The server returns, sliding a cup in front of Ratchet, and tips a decanter over Deadlock’s, filling it to the brim. Deadlock murmurs a thank you, and they wink, which is somehow less odd than the synchronous blinking.
Ratchet curls his fingers around the cup and stares in at the engex. His frown has softened, more contemplative than incredulous. “So you’re going to abandon the Decepticons.”
“Yep.” Deadlock pops the word, paints it with dismissal, and takes a long drink of his refilled cup, humming as the silky warmth of it coats his intake.
“You’re not worried about the consequences?”
He snorts, unable to hide his amusement, or perhaps not caring about it. “Can’t be any worse than the fate awaiting me if I go back. I’m dead no matter what.” He leans back, affects a casual recline, letting his gaze wander over Ratchet, letting Drift look his fill. “At least this way, I get to enjoy whatever time I have left when they come for me.”
Ratchet gnaws on his bottom lip. He raps the fingers of one hand on the table. “You’re the one who argued about how important the Decepticons were for you. What changed?”
“What this stands for, that’s still relevant,” Deadlock bites out, thumping the badge on his chassis once more. “But the mechs gathering around the symbol sometimes forget that. And I’d rather get out while it still matters to me.”
He swears to everything he believes in that if Ratchet starts another political and philosophical discussion, Deadlock will start a brawl here in the middle of the Collectors’ common room. He’s tired of defending himself and his choices.
Ratchet, however, looses a long sigh. “Belief and practice aren’t always the same thing,” he says slowly, carefully. He ponders his cup of engex before taking a long drink of it. “There comes a point where you have to be loyal to your spark before anything else.”
“Well, at least you understand that much.” Deadlock smirks and lifts his cup in salute. “And what about you?”
Ratchet tilts his cup toward Deadlock in returned salute. His free hand slips a chip from subspace, and he sets it on the counter. “Booked transport back home. There’s a shuttle leaving from the waystation in a few hours.”
“Back into the fray,” Deadlock murmurs around the lip of his cup, ignoring the squeeze-pull around his spark. “Good for you.”
“I guess you think I’m making the wrong choice.”
Deadlock lifts and drops his shoulders. “It’s not my place to decide whether you are or not. That’s sort of more your thing than mine.” He chuckles darkly and makes a vague gesture. “Though feel free to tell me why you’re so eager to die.”
Ratchet scowls. “You don’t know that’s what’s going to happen.”
“Don’t I?” Deadlock arches an orbital ridge. “Where do you think the war is going to take us, if two mechs on opposite sides can barely hold a decent conversation when there are no commanding officers around to tell them otherwise?” He tightens his grip on his cube. “You think there’s going to be peace? Victory? You think there’s any future where we survive this?”
Ratchet’s jaw twitches. “I think giving up is always the wrong choice.”
“Your funeral.” Deadlock shrugs. “Surviving, by the way, is not giving up.”
“Abandoning my friends, my allies, is not how I want to survive,” Ratchet retorts.
Deadlock tilts his head. “Well, then. As I said, don’t let me stop you.” He drinks his engex, nibbles on the edge of the cup, ignores Drift’s howls and pleas to change Ratchet’s mind.
Ratchet’s optics darken. He stares down at the table, fingers fiddling with his cup, his field blanketing his frame. He reaches for the chip with his transport ticket on it, and turns it over and over in his fingers.
“I can’t abandon my friends,” he says, but it’s soft. Quiet.
“Then don’t.”
Ratchet gnaws on his bottom lip. The chip spins faster and faster in his fingers, his engex forgotten. His field wavers around his frame, and Deadlock catches a brief taste of raw indecision, a flood of emotions too quick to identify.
“People will die without me,” he says.
“People are going to die regardless,” Deadlock replies, but quietly. Gently. He’s not here to pressure, to presume, to convince. Whatever choice Ratchet makes, it’ll be with optics wide open.
Deadlock’s not letting the Autobot blame the Decepticon.
Ratchet taps the chip on the table. Tap-tap-tap. His lips press together, a thinner and thinner line.
“I am,” he says, pauses, cycles an audible vent. “I am on vacation.”
Deadlock blinks. His orbital ridges draw down. “What’s that mean?”
“It means, I’m on vacation.” Ratchet sits up and leaves the chip on the table between them, withdrawing his fingers from it.
A burble of hope that can only come from Drift dares pepper its way through Deadlock’s spark. “You’re leaving the war?”
“No. I’m on vacation.” Ratchet braces his elbows on the table, threading his fingers together. “And I understand why Optimus insisted on it now.”
“Okay. Care to share with the class?”
Ratchet gives him a look, one Deadlock can’t define, but when he starts to talk, Deadlock feels like he’s being let in on something deeply personal. As if Ratchet’s sharing a special part of him, and Deadlock is being given a gift of some kind.
“For a moment, I was tempted,” Ratchet says, head bowing, optics focusing on the table. “I wanted to set it all down and walk away. All I could see was the energon on my hands, the sparks I haven’t saved, the things I couldn’t do. And all I saw in that was hopelessness. As if nothing I did mattered. That I didn’t matter.”
Deadlock’s vents catch in his intake. He feels like he should say something, should protest to the contrary, should try and offer reassurances or comfort. Admit that he’s wrong, too. He’s lashing out because the war isn’t going his way either, and one of the things Drift wants is right in front of him, but far out of reach.
Silence grips his glossa instead.
“That was when I realized if I went back to the war, I would die, not because the war is hopeless, but because I didn’t have any faith.” Ratchet shakes his head, his lips curving into a frown. “Not in Primus, because I’ve never had that, but I didn’t have any faith in me. In my allies. In what I was doing. And I can’t fight like that. I’m no good to anyone like that, least of all myself.”
Deadlock nods slowly. “And so…?”
“So I’m on vacation.” Ratchet straightens, as if pulling into himself and gathering a mantle of strength he’d let slip aside for a brief moment. “I’m going to find something, and then I’ll decide what I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll go back to the war. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll find something else I need to fight for.”
He lowers his arms, spreads his hands. “I need this. Time away. Time to myself. Time to figure out what I’m fighting for because I need a sense of conviction.” He pauses and tilts his head. “And I admit – grudgingly – I admire you for yours.”
Deadlock’s spark flutters. His lips curve into a genuine smile. “Why Ratchet, I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Ratchet snorts and rolls his optics. “You never said you wanted romancing.” He eyes Deadlock, and there’s a heat banking behind the blue. “Though if you do, maybe I can figure something out.”
Deadlock cycles his optics. Cycles them again. Reboots his audials for good measure.
“Come again?”
“Oh, I intend to.” Ratchet chuckles, hot and rolling, and it dispels the tension, smooths it over into something promising. “If you have room for me, that is, on your little journey to find the impossible.”
Deadlock leans back in his chair, hoping the smirk hides the sudden excitement bursting like little fireworks in his spark. Drift crows with delight. “What makes you think you’re invited on my defection anyway?”
“Oh, you mean pushing and poking at my plans wasn’t an invitation?” Ratchet asks, orbital ridge arched, the edges of his field pushing at Deadlock now with blatant desire.
Deadlock sets his empty cup down, shaking his head when their server heads their direction. He doesn’t need anymore. For whatever comes next, he wants a clear processor.
“You can crash my ship anytime.” He grins, slow and careful, letting his gaze linger on Ratchet. “But don’t think it’s going to be that easy to walk away, when it comes down to it.”
Ratchet snorts. “We’ll see.” He fiddles with his cup before he lifts it and drains it one go, setting it down on the table with a motion of finality. “So. Where to?”
Beneath the table, Deadlock feels a foot bump against his own, a slow slide of metal on metal, the press of Ratchet’s field like a hot promise. “I have a few ideas,” he says.
Deadlock tilts his head, glossa flicking over his lips. “The waystation, though, we can start there.”
“Oh?” Ratchet’s foot slides up his calf and down again.
“There’s a hotel with all the perks, even better than what we have here,” Deadlock says, a hot tingle of anticipation dancing down his backstrut. “Amenities like hot oil baths, room service, berths big enough for two. Perfect place to start a vacation. For two mechs like us.” He puts his hand over his badge, not to gesture to it, but to conceal it.
Two mechs.
Not an Autobot and a Decepticon.
Just two Cybertronians.
“Sounds like a decent starting place to me,” Ratchet replies, his words deceptively casual, but nothing confusing about the way his feet tangle with Deadlock’s under the table. “I’ll figure the rest myself.”
Deadlock pushes to his feet, braces his hands over the table, close enough to scent the engex on Ratchet’s vents. “We can get started now, if you want,” he murmurs. “We have quarters on the ship after all.”
Ratchet tips his head up, leans forward, their lips in aching proximity. “Lead the way.”
Deadlock grins, and he can feel Drift shining through it, and for once, he doesn’t slap the hopeful leaker down. For once, he lets Drift soak in the sensation of a battle well fought, and a victory won.
Somehow, Deadlock doesn’t think Ratchet’s just talking about this very moment, and the berth waiting for them.
It sounds like something a lot bigger. It sounds a bit like hope, as they leave the table, their empty cups, and a small ticket chip behind.
a/n: And that’s a wrap, folks! I hope you enjoyed the journey and the ending satisfied. As always, feedback is welcome, appreciated, and encouraged.
