[IDW] In the Family Way 03/06
Mar. 11th, 2019 06:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: In the Family Way
Characters: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Ratchet/Bob, First Aid, Perceptor
Universe: Transformers MTMTE, Season One
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Mechpreg, Egg Laying Pregnancy, Oviposition, Semi-Bestiality, Dubious Consent
Description: Ratchet thought he was too old for this. And then the accidental heat charging through the Lost Light swept him up, too. If only he’d locked his door, then he wouldn’t be in this mess, but Sunstreaker stepping in to help him clean it up, that’s the best outcome he could have hoped for.
This is a commission for a wonderfully anonymous person. ^_^
Chapter Three
Everything changed.
In a flash. A moment of poor judgment. A twist of fate. A mistake on his part or no one’s part, Sunstreaker wasn’t sure.
Ratchet’s heat ended. The rapid spread of it throughout the entire Lost Light ended, with less mechs than probably should have been affected walking away with consequences, but still far more than the three medics on board were comfortable caring for. Ratchet had to confess he’d been struck with the heat as well, but he kept the fact he was sparked to himself. They’d agreed to keep that quiet as long as possible.
Ratchet didn’t want mechs fussing over him. Sunstreaker didn’t want the questions. They both figured mechs would talk and form their own theories, but that didn’t mean Sunstreaker or Ratchet owed anyone any truth. They crafted a careful lie.
It wasn’t anyone’s business but their own, yet they had to say something. A secret romance wasn’t unbelievable. The war had lasted a long, long time. Many secret relationships had been born over the course of it, some of which had continued into the truce, some of which had ended because one half of the partnership perished. Romance during wartime was a dangerous, dangerous risk.
Only now did they feel safe to reveal the truth, they’d claimed. It was time to stop hiding and be together in the light, the way they’d always wanted to be. If Sunstreaker was a better poet or writer, he would have woven a romantic tale about their past. But he wasn’t, and the best he could do was be blunt.
Most people didn’t want to ask him anyway. They didn’t want to ask Ratchet either. Instead, they whispered amongst themselves.
It was fine. Sunstreaker was used to it.
He went about his shifts like usual, Bob tagging along or left behind in Ratchet’s quarters, or often, Bob could be found at Ratchet's heels, obeying Ratchet like he'd never obeyed Sunstreaker. Most mechs didn't seem to mind Bob being around, and if they did, a single sharp word from Ratchet, and Bob would slink away, whining pathetically. He'd keep his distance, but he watched, like a protective gargoyle.
It was a little creepy, Ratchet confessed.
Sunstreaker didn't know how to make him stop. He wondered if it had anything to do with Bob taking part in Ratchet's heat. Ratchet didn't know either. None of them were experts on Insecticon behavior or biology. And the only mech they could reasonably ask was swelling with sparklings of his own.
Sunstreaker would feel sorry for Perceptor, if it wasn't for the fact Perceptor's mistake caused this whole mess in the first place. It was further fair play that Brainstorm was the sire of his bitlets, though the chaos any spawn of those two could create was enough to give half the crew nightmares.
Others noticed. Because if there was one thing the residents of the Lost Light excelled at, it was gossip. And they noticed when something was out of the ordinary. They noticed Sunstreaker spending more time with Ratchet. They noticed Bob following at Ratchet's heels. They stared, and they whispered, but only a few were so bold as to say something.
Smokescreen, in particular, sauntered up with that slow, easy grin that had gotten him into more than a few berths, Sunstreaker's included. But he also knew that grin was a lot sharper underneath than others gave Smokescreen credit. Most didn't know he'd been trained by Prowl and recruited by Jazz.
Sunstreaker did.
He knew to be wary. Especially when Smokescreen slid into the booth across from him at Swerve's, and scooted Sunstreaker's favorite drink across the table.
"For you," he said, plopping one elbow on the table and his chin on his palm.
"I'm taken," Sunstreaker replied, flat, pushing it back with the tip of his finger.
"So I've heard." Smokescreen's vocals could have waxed paint, so smooth they were. "All I'm asking for is details, Sunshine. How'd you snag the medical bay's most eligible bachelor?"
"It's nothing new, we just weren't obvious about it," Sunstreaker lied. He'd gotten quite good at it over the centuries. Hopefully, good enough to fool Smokescreen.
"Hmm. Wonder why I don't believe that," Smokescreen said.
Sunstreaker rolled his shoulders and sipped from his own cube, the one he'd purchased for himself. He continued to ignore the one Smokescreen offered. They were never free. "Ask me if I care whether or not you believe me."
Smokescreen laughed and leaned back, sensory panels flat against the booth. "Your glossa is as sharp as ever, Sunny. I sure do miss that."
Stop calling me that.
He bit his glossa. There was no point in snapping at Smokescreen. He'd read too much from it.
"Bygones." Sunstreaker flicked his fingers. "I'm with Ratchet now, and he's not one for sharing."
"Yeah. I'll bet." Smokescreen chuckled, and his optics flashed with an incisive look. "Seems Bob likes him more, too. Did you two finally come out because you sparked him?"
Damn him.
Damn him to the Pit and back. In a list of bad decisions Sunstreaker made, berthing Smokescreen was one of them. It had been good at the time, but the repercussions were endless.
He hated how accurate Smokescreen's guess was.
There was no answer Sunstreaker could give that Smokescreen wouldn't be able to read through. So he didn't say anything. He drank his engex and glared.
Smokescreen grinned. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He rapped his knuckles on the table. "I don't know if I should congratulate you or offer my sympathies."
“You could try shutting up,” Sunstreaker muttered and buried his face behind his engex.
“I sense I’ve struck a sore spot.” Smokescreen shook his head and leaned back, effecting a casual pose Sunstreaker didn’t believe for a second. “You deserve it, you know. Happiness.”
Sunstreaker scowled and downed the last of his engex, slamming the empty cup on the table. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, and shoved up from the table, fixing Smokescreen with a firm glare. “Try minding your own business for once.”
Smokescreen moved faster than Sunstreaker could read, grabbing Sunstreaker’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Hey,” he said, tone soft and cajoling, like trying to calm a skittish voltaic cat. “I meant it. You and Ratchet. It’s a good match, a good thing. Try being happy, yeah?”
It was always so hard to tell when Smokescreen was being genuine. Or if he was playing a long con of some kind. He had his fingers in every betting pool on the Lost Light. Maybe he was trying to bend the odds in his favor here, too.
Sunstreaker wished he could outright trust Smokescreen. It would be nice to have a friend.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Sunstreaker pulled his hand free. He left before Smokescreen could say anything else, well aware of the optics and visors watching him, their stares burning holes between his shoulderblades.
He picked up the whispers. They weren’t trying to be subtle.
“Ratchet deserves better than a traitor.”
“Doesn’t deserve to wear that badge.”
“Poor Ratchet. He must have been tricked.”
Sunstreaker stared straight ahead. He said nothing, he acknowledged no one. His hands shook, but he wouldn’t let them form fists, and he swallowed his anger like the bitter engex it was.
He was sorry he’d been Ratchet’s only choice. Ratchet did deserve better. Sunstreaker was the selfish one for wanting to have this, to believe even if only for a little while, that Ratchet might want him back. He wanted to hope he could be redeemed.
He wished for a lot of things he didn’t deserve.
He hated that the others kept reminding him of it.
~
“So.”
Ratchet groaned. “Don’t you start,” he said, without glancing toward the doorway, where waves of amusement wafted his direction.
He didn’t have to look to know Drift was smirking at him, smug despite the fatigue still clinging to his frame. He’d been on triple overtime when the heat struck, as one of the last mechs in command standing.
“Start what? Can’t I just come check on my friend now that he’s finally come out of the closet with his apparent lifetime partner?” There was accusation in Drift’s tone.
Ratchet sighed and put down the box of bolts he was pretending to sort. Hiding, really, in the supply closet. He hated all of the ‘congratulations’ other mechs were tossing at him. He hated being congratulated for a lie.
“I’m sparked,” he said as he cast Drift an askance look. “It’s complicated. Sunstreaker’s helping me out is all.”
“Mmm.” Drift nodded slowly, his arms folded over his chassis, his lean casual against the door frame. “Is there someone I need to kill if Sunstreaker’s not the sire?”
Ratchet rolled his optics. “No, you stab-happy hippie, there’s no one you need to kill. It was an accident.” His face heated. As much as he trusted Drift, he wasn’t quite ready to admit the sire of his bitlets. “Like I said. Complicated. So hush.”
Drift dragged his fingers across his lips. “Secret’s safe with me, Ratch. You know it.” He tilted his head, the amusement fading from his tone. “Sunstreaker, huh? You sure helping you is all it is?”
“How should I know. I don’t read minds.” Ratchet grumped and glared at the supplies, idly stirring his fingers through the bolts. “He’s a better mech than others give him credit.”
“Oh, I know that. We all have our demons.” Drift waved a hand, fingers tapping over his chestplate and the shadow of a badge that wasn’t there anymore. “You should tell him.”
“Like frag I should!” Ratchet hissed, and he glared at Drift, wishing he could shoot lasers from his optics. “Don’t you help either.”
Drift held up his hands and straightened, pushing off the frame. “You’re a grown mech. That’s not my place. I’m just saying, no one volunteers to help another mech in your predicament for the sake of it.” He folded his arms again, bouncing a little on his heelstruts.
Ratchet shuttered his optics and leaned his forehead against the shelf. “It’s complicated,” he muttered.
“So you’ve said.” Drift loudly cycled a ventilation. “Just be careful, all right? You know where to find me if you need me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” Drift clapped his hands together, and his field flickered out, pressing against Ratchet’s with comfort and warmth. “I get to be their godsire, right?”
“Get out of here.”
Drift chuckled and slipped free of the storage room, letting the door shut behind him. Silence wrapped around Ratchet once again. He dropped a hand to his abdomen, where he hadn’t begun to show, and wouldn’t for a little while yet.
“Tell him,” Drift said, as though it were an easy thing to do.
Ratchet was old. He was angry. He was bitter. Now, he was saddled with sparklings. What did he have to offer someone like Sunstreaker?
Tell him.
Frag that.
He was lucky enough to have Sunstreaker’s friendship. He didn’t want to push it. And that was the final word.
~
Ratchet did not know how to take care of himself.
This was very, very frustrating for Bob.
He didn't seem to understand he was sparked now, that he carried three precious bitlets inside him. He needed nutrients and energon and rest. He needed to build a nest and prepare. He needed a lot of things he wasn't getting.
It was especially frustrating because Bob couldn't tell Ratchet or Sunstreaker things weren't being done properly. Sunstreaker needed to know to take care of their mate, but there was a swirl of hesitation about him. He didn't speak up like he should. He didn't push when he needed to.
Someday, Bob was going to learn mechspeak. And then he was going to say all the things he needed to say. But that wasn't an option now. He needed a solution right now.
Ratchet would just have to get used to Bob being underfoot. No matter how much he yelled or scowled or made Sunstreaker come get him. Someone needed to take care of Ratchet, and luckily, Bob was pretty good at taking care of the bigmechs. Look at Sunstreaker! He was already doing so much better. Not fully better. But lots better.
That was because of Bob.
Really. Someone should give him a medal. Or treats. A big basket of treats. He'd definitely bring that up as soon as he learned mechspeak.
Anyway.
Sunstreaker was Bob's, and Bob took pride in making sure his Sunstreaker was fed and rested and cuddled and loved. But now Bob had two mechs to keep alive, and Ratchet needed him slightly more, so Bob did what he had to do.
He lurked around the medbay as much possible. Sunstreaker did, too. Which meant Bob didn't look so weird wandering around, but even if Sunstreaker wasn't there, Bob still trundled around underfoot, making his presence known.
Like today.
He hadn't seen Ratchet sit down once. Or consume so much as a cube of energon or a sip of coolant. Fatigue swirled around Ratchet's field in waves, but he kept grumping at First Aid and snapping at Ambulon, and no one wanted to poke him twice.
Stubborn bigmechs. How did they manage to survive this long without a Bob to watch them?
Bob tucked a big cube of energon in his secondary hand -- he'd snagged it from the shelf earlier when Ambulon wasn't paying attention -- and he watched, waiting for his moment. Agitation roiled around Ratchet like a storm cloud, building to a mighty thunder, and when it finally burst, the yell echoed around the medbay.
Other medics ducked and covered. Ratchet stomped away, leaving tremors in his wake. Bob, however, wasn’t the least bit afraid.
It was his chance.
Ratchet stormed into his office, and Bob followed, scuttling in before Ratchet could slam the door in his face.
"Bob!" Ratchet snapped as the door nearly clipped his aft. "What are you doing here? Where's Sunstreaker?"
Bob ignored him and sat down, offering up the cube of energon and tilting his head. He knew it made him look cute. It always melted Sunstreaker.
Ratchet’s thunderous expression melted into a light drizzle. He scrubbed his forehead. "That's not an answer. I don't know why I bother asking." He trudged past Bob and collapsed in his chair, fatigue wafting from him in heavy, anchoring waves.
Bob moved to Ratchet's side, offering him the energon again. He chirped and urged it toward Ratchet pointedly.
"You want me to drink that?" Ratchet asked.
Bob clicked and whirred, giving the cube a little wobble. He waved his antennae for good measure. That always worked on Sunstreaker.
Ratchet sighed, long and quiet, but accepted the cube. "Thank you, Bob." He patted Bob on the head and cracked open the energon, giving it a sip. "I'm not going to ask where you got this, because I'm sure I'm both not going to understand the answer, and I wouldn't like it."
Well, he was right.
Bob chittered a laugh and circled Ratchet's chair, giving him a sniff. He was still perilously underenergized, and he definitely lacked some nutrients. Bob would have to figure out how he could acquire some without being able to tell someone what he needed. The bitlets seemed strong, considering how small they were right now. That was a good thing.
Ratchet was a strong mate and a stronger carrier. They would have strong, strong little ones for their new Hive.
“Thank you,” Ratchet said with an audible vent of exhaustion. He reached out a hand and Bob nudged his head under it, purring as Ratchet gave him the good audial skritches. “You’re a good boy, Bob. Even if this is partly your fault.” He patted his abdomen for emphasis.
Bob chirped back at him. It was his fault, and he was proud of it. A family at last! A family for him and his Sunstreaker. They could build a fine Hive, a fine family. It was going to be wonderful.
“Yeah, you don’t sound the least bit apologetic about it either,” Ratchet scoffed.
Nope. Why would he be? The war was over, right? That was what Sunstreaker kept telling him. The war was over, and maybe their home kept running into trouble, but the real danger was gone, yes? Perfect time to rebuild the Hive.
Bob nuzzled Ratchet’s hand. He’d keep Ratchet here as long as he could, because Ratchet needed to rest.
It was his very, very important job. A difficult, frustrating job, but very important.
Sometimes, when Ratchet shooed him away and wouldn’t be dissuaded, Bob wandered off to help the other two sparked mechs on board. It was a sad and disappointing result for such a strong heat, Bob noticed. Only four mechs out of everyone on the ship? Not a good start to the Hive rebuilding, but better than zero.
Perceptor, he of the interesting conversation, had been sparked. Bob wasn’t sure by who. There were always a lot of smells around Perceptor, and Bob kept getting distracted every time he tried to figure it out. Plus, Perceptor didn’t really like him sniffing around so much. He didn’t mind when Bob brought him energon though.
He always gave Bob a treat or two. Perceptor was the best.
“You’re a good boy, Bob,” Perceptor said with a soft little smile as he patted Bob, the other hand gently resting over his abdomen, protective even. He would make very smart bitlets.
Bob hoped they’d be able to learn mechspeak and then they could teach him!
Whirl was sparked, too. He was the only one who seemed to realize what that meant. He wandered all over the ship, demanding the good energon and the good chairs and taking long naps and getting a lot of rest. His bitlets were going to be strong and maybe a little weird, but Bob figured weird was good.
Bob didn’t have to watch out for Whirl much. His sires were protective all on their own. The grumpy purple one and the cheerful blue one with the good candies. They stayed close to Whirl, either both at the same time, or at least one of them. They were good sires.
Bob was proud of them.
He had to be more careful around Ultra Magnus though. Bob didn’t know who had sired Ultra Magnus’ bitlet – poor Magnus only had one. A disappointing result, but still good. Still important! Every Hive benefited from even the smallest spark in Bob’s opinion.
Ultra Magnus was a lot like Ratchet, though he took better care of himself. He rested, and he recharged, and he refueled. But he didn’t seem to have anyone looking after him, and he didn’t much like Bob trying to help either. He looked sad a lot.
Bob didn’t know how to fix it, and he couldn’t ask for help. It worried him. He couldn’t help Ultra Magnus directly, so he did the best he could. He left gifts outside Ultra Magnus’ door, and then he pressed the call button and scurried away, watching from around the corner as Ultra Magnus retrieved them.
He didn’t smile. Ultra Magnus didn’t really know how to smile, Bob realized. But he was pleased. His field said as much.
For now, it was the best Bob could do.
First Aid told him he was a good boy at least. Especially when Ratchet wasn’t looking. He’d sit down and get that itchy spot on Bob’s back armor, the one he couldn’t reach himself. His field was so nice and gentle, First Aid’s was, and he radiated approval.
“Good boy,” First Aid would say after Bob had successfully delivered energon and got Ratchet to drink it. “He needs looking after, doesn’t he?”
Bob clicked an affirmative.
“It’s a good thing he has you and Sunstreaker.” First Aid’s visor lit up brightly, some of his alt-mode lights fluttering, and Bob knew it for the smile it was.
Bob purred, and First Aid gave him another good scratch, and followed it up with a handful of treats. Because Bob was a very good boy, and Ratchet would always have Bob to look out for him now.
Always.
~
Ratchet was too old for this.
He was past his prime. He should be retired, relaxing in some spa, not grimacing as he shuffled around the medbay, his internals aching from the constant reshuffling, all to make room for his carry. It was a dull, persistent throb, and there was no point in sneaking a pain chip because he knew it wouldn't help.
A third of the way through his shift, and Ratchet had to give up and take a break, bracing one hand on a counter as the other reached for his lower back, rubbing two kinked cables beneath an armor seam. It helped. Marginally.
He was going to demand a back rub from Sunstreaker. Maybe it'd help alleviate some of the kid's guilt.
The ionized wash of a scan pummeled Ratchet from behind, tickling over his field. He narrowed his optics, glancing over his shoulder as First Aid stood there, hands on his hips.
"You're sparked," he declared.
"Brilliant deduction." Ratchet snorted. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide it forever, and that he shouldn't, but he'd thought it would take a little longer. Then again, First Aid had always been very perceptive. "It's Sunstreaker's."
"I could have guessed that." First Aid stepped up behind him, and pushed Ratchet's hand aside, only to replace it with his own. Ratchet would have protested, but the soothing heat that immediately followed made him groan with appreciation. "You two have been dancing around each other for a long time."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" First Aid's other hand joined the fray, gently palpating Ratchet's back and hitting him with low level scan pulses, no doubt looking for the most tense areas. "Honestly, it's always been more of a surprise to me that you two weren't together."
Ratchet braced both hands on the counter, letting First Aid work. It eased the ache quite a lot, and some of the tension radiating through his frame abandoned him. Primus. He should have informed First Aid sooner.
"It was that obvious?"
"Maybe only to people who know you as well as I do."
Except that Ratchet and Sunstreaker weren't actually together, so what did that say about their relationship if others had assumed they were?
"Congratulations, by the way," First Aid said as his hands finished their soothing sweep, and he stepped back. "I know it probably wasn't in your plans, but if I'm any indication, you'll make a great caretaker."
"It's terrible timing," Ratchet grumbled as he scrubbed his face. He turned around and vented easier when it didn't hurt as much to move.
First Aid gave him a look, discernible even through facemask and visor. "It's never going to be good timing. You know that." He folded his arms, pinning Ratchet with a familiar serious stare. "You deserve to try and find happiness."
A burst of fondness erupted in Ratchet's spark. He very nearly took First Aid into his arms for an embrace, save he knew the other medic wouldn't be amenable.
"I appreciate the encouragement," Ratchet said.
"You could also use some aluminum and a huge dose of selenium. You're running really low." First Aid's tone was chastising, hinting of 'you should know better'.
Ratchet's lips quirked into a smile. "Yes, sir."
First Aid's visor narrowed. "You need to rest, too."
"I'll keep that in mind, sir."
"You're mocking me."
"Not at all." Ratchet slung an arm across First Aid's shoulders and steered him back toward the medbay. "You do realize that if I'm sparked, that means you're going to be chief sooner rather than later."
First Aid snorted. "You've been saying that for decades. I'm not going to hold my vents."
~
Sunstreaker stared into the mirror and glared at a smudge on his shoulder. He attacked it ferociously. He refused to walk out of the habsuite looking anything less than perfect.
Today was too important.
"You look fine." Ratchet appeared in Sunstreaker's peripheral vision, in the mirror over Sunstreaker's shoulder.
"It's not enough to look fine," Sunstreaker said.
He squinted, scrutinizing his reflection. He didn't deserve Ratchet as he was. He didn't want to hear it from others. He needed to look like someone Ratchet could be proud to stand beside.
Ratchet's mouth twisted into an expression Sunstreaker couldn't identify. “You don’t have to impress anyone.”
“Don’t I?” Sunstreaker chewed on his bottom lip. He wished he had better supplies.
“Why would you?”
Sunstreaker turned around, glancing past Ratchet to see Bob sitting behind them, looking cute as he cocked his head and waited patiently. “No one really believes we’re together, you know.”
“That’s the point of this excursion.” Ratchet cupped his face and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. “Besides, in the end, who cares? It’s not their life, it’s ours.”
Sunstreaker wasn’t convinced.
“You should pick someone else,” he said. “There are a lot of other mechs on this ship who’d be better for this.”
Ratchet shook his head. “Who else could I trust for this, hm?” He smiled, soft and gentle, and turned away. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Sunstreaker wasn’t sure if he should take that as a compliment or not. Did he mean it in the way Sunstreaker was very trustworthy to him? Or because Sunstreaker knew Bob was involved, Ratchet was the only one Sunstreaker dared trust?
“Whatever you want,” Sunstreaker said. It was the safest reply.
They ventured out of Sunstreaker’s habsuite, where Ratchet had come to meet him after-shift, and with Bob in tow, headed for Swerve’s. There was no better place on the Lost Light to make a public appearance. They needed to be seen together, now that their quote-unquote secret relationship was no longer secret. They needed to sell the lie.
Sunstreaker’s internals squirmed. He hated how much he so desperately wanted the lie to be truth.
Bob trotted along at their feet. Ever since Ratchet’s heat, Sunstreaker hadn’t needed to use a leash for Bob. Instead, the hard part became dragging him away from Ratchet. Bob never wanted to go far from the medic, and Sunstreaker didn’t have an explanation for that. Even now, he trundled along at Ratchet’s other side, keeping Ratchet safe between Sunstreaker and Bob.
He seemed happy, but if someone who Bob didn’t outright like passed by, he growled or hissed, no matter how much Sunstreaker snapped at him. He didn’t try to bite or attack, but there was a tangible aggression in his stance, and his armor fluffed up, like he was trying to make himself threatening.
“Why is he so defensive?” Ratchet asked with a small frown.
Sunstreaker shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s been acting weird ever since… well, you know.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Guilt still clogged up his intake. He didn’t know if there was anything he could do to apologize for it.
Ratchet chuckled. “Maybe he’s struck a claim on me then.”
“Why doesn’t it bother you?” Sunstreaker asked, blurting out the question before he could convince himself otherwise.
Ratchet audibly sighed. “Because I don’t see any point in letting it bother me. It’s done. It’s not his fault or my fault or your fault. It’s a thing that happened, and we all need to deal with it. And I know it wasn’t done out of menace.” He looked down at Bob, and Sunstreaker swore there was affection on his face. “Besides, it’s not a bad thing to have such a determined protector.” He leaned down and patted Bob on top of the head, and Bob chirped up at him.
“He’s very good at that,” Sunstreaker said.
“I’ve noticed.” Ratchet laughed, quiet, but genuinely amused. Sunstreaker didn’t know if he’d ever heard Ratchet laugh like that before.
His spark thumped faster in his chassis.
They arrived at Swerve’s, and after a shift change into graveyard, it was lively and bustling with mechs. They stepped into chaos, and Sunstreaker gently took Ratchet’s elbow, steering him toward the only unoccupied table he could see in the corner. It looked to have been recently abandoned – empty cups and detritus lingering around the seats.
There was no point to trying to be stealthy. Everyone noticed their arrival. Optics and visors swiveled their direction, and Sunstreaker’s armor prickled at all the attention. He’d worked so hard to fade into the background while onboard, and now he was suddenly back in the spotlight.
He hated it.
But for Ratchet?
Anything.
He cleared off the table before they sat down, and before they even got comfortable, Swerve was there, a tray of drinks in one hand and a big smile on his face.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Lost Light’s newest star couple,” he said with a waggle of his orbital ridges. “What can I get for you?”
“Whatever’s on tap,” Ratchet said.
“Same for me,” Sunstreaker said.
Swerve’s grin broadened, impossibly wide. “That’s adorable.” He flashed half his visor in a wink. “I’ll be right back.” He looked down as Bob popped his head up from beneath the table. “And I’ll bring something for you, too.”
Bob wriggled appreciatively. He adored Swerve, contrary to Sunstreaker’s personal opinions, and Sunstreaker suspected it was because Swerve fed him treats.
Swerve left. Sunstreaker leaned against the table and tried not to notice all the stares they had attracted.
“You all right?” Ratchet asked.
“That’s not a question I’m sure I can answer,” Sunstreaker said, honestly. Because he was, in so many ways, not all right. He was getting better, or at least thought he was, but he didn’t know if being all right was a part of his future.
Ratchet reached across the table, and his hand fell over Sunstreaker’s, warm and affectionate. “In general or in this moment?”
“Maybe both.” Sunstreaker looked at their hands, their tangled fingers, and wished it were real. “You know I don’t have the best reputation right now.”
“I’ve never held that against you.”
Sunstreaker’s gaze darted toward the bar at large, noting all of the stares, the whispers, the narrowed optics. He wanted to yank his hand away from Ratchet’s, as much as he never wanted to let go.
“But it’s not my opinion you’re bothered about,” Ratchet added with a soft sigh. “You worry too much about what other people think, Sunstreaker.”
“Some might argue I don’t worry enough.”
“Worry about what?” Swerve appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand, laden with different drinks than before. He slid two mugs of engex on the table in front of them with practiced ease.
“Worry about what you might be putting in these drinks,” Ratchet grunted as he lifted his cup and squinted at it. “This doesn’t look cheap.”
“I don’t serve anything cheap, thank you very much,” Swerve retorted as he planted his empty hand on his hip. “And that’s not cheap either. It’s a congratulations drink, Doc. Congrats on finally getting laid.”
Ratchet’s optics narrowed.
Sunstreaker glared at Swerve. “Don’t be crass.”
“Have you met me?” Swerve lifted his orbital ridges and his gaze flicked between them. “Though I have to say… you two? I don’t see it. I’m pretty good at picking out secrets and good gossip, and this one surprised everyone.”
“I don’t care if you see it or not, it’s happened,” Ratchet said with a scowl. He snatched up his engex and took a long drink of it.
Swerve held up his free hand. “Hey, no offense. Just calling it like I see it. I mean, in comparison to the touchy-feely prom couple over there, you two don’t look very coupleish.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to Chromedome and Rewind near the bar, one in the other’s lap.
Sunstreaker sneered.
Ratchet snorted again. “If you think I’m going to act like that in public, then you don’t know me at all, Swerve.”
“Hm. You may have a point.” Swerve tapped his bottom lip with a finger. Finally, he shrugged. “Well, who am I to judge? Just glad you two are happy together.”
Ratchet rolled his optics. “Thanks for your approval.”
“Not that we needed it,” Sunstreaker muttered.
Swerve chuckled and left, but not before laying a tray of treats down in front of Bob, which he started scarfing noisily. Sunstreaker scowled and stared into his engex, the taste of it like ashes on his glossa after Swerve’s unwelcome commentary.
“Ignore him,” Ratchet said, as if he’d read Sunstreaker’s mind.
“Why? He’s not wrong. This is a farce, and we both know it.” Sunstreaker didn’t look at Ratchet, but he did down the entire cup of engex in a few quick gulps. He needed the burn, his insides twisting and gnarling into thorns.
Ratchet stared at him, and something in his expression spoke of exasperation. “We’re friends at the very least,” he said, and his tone softened, turned gentle, like trying to calm a skittish mechanimal. “We don’t have to decide the definition. We’re not a farce.”
Sunstreaker’s spark throbbed. He tightened his fingers around Ratchet’s, wishing he could hold on forever. He wanted to believe there was a deeper meaning.
“Say it,” Ratchet insisted, squeezing Sunstreaker’s fingers in return. “You and me, and Bob, too. We’re not a farce.”
Sunstreaker’s lips twitched toward a smile. “All right,” he said. “Whatever you say, Ratchet. We’re something real.”
What that something was, however, he still didn’t know.
***
Characters: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Ratchet/Bob, First Aid, Perceptor
Universe: Transformers MTMTE, Season One
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Mechpreg, Egg Laying Pregnancy, Oviposition, Semi-Bestiality, Dubious Consent
Description: Ratchet thought he was too old for this. And then the accidental heat charging through the Lost Light swept him up, too. If only he’d locked his door, then he wouldn’t be in this mess, but Sunstreaker stepping in to help him clean it up, that’s the best outcome he could have hoped for.
This is a commission for a wonderfully anonymous person. ^_^
Everything changed.
In a flash. A moment of poor judgment. A twist of fate. A mistake on his part or no one’s part, Sunstreaker wasn’t sure.
Ratchet’s heat ended. The rapid spread of it throughout the entire Lost Light ended, with less mechs than probably should have been affected walking away with consequences, but still far more than the three medics on board were comfortable caring for. Ratchet had to confess he’d been struck with the heat as well, but he kept the fact he was sparked to himself. They’d agreed to keep that quiet as long as possible.
Ratchet didn’t want mechs fussing over him. Sunstreaker didn’t want the questions. They both figured mechs would talk and form their own theories, but that didn’t mean Sunstreaker or Ratchet owed anyone any truth. They crafted a careful lie.
It wasn’t anyone’s business but their own, yet they had to say something. A secret romance wasn’t unbelievable. The war had lasted a long, long time. Many secret relationships had been born over the course of it, some of which had continued into the truce, some of which had ended because one half of the partnership perished. Romance during wartime was a dangerous, dangerous risk.
Only now did they feel safe to reveal the truth, they’d claimed. It was time to stop hiding and be together in the light, the way they’d always wanted to be. If Sunstreaker was a better poet or writer, he would have woven a romantic tale about their past. But he wasn’t, and the best he could do was be blunt.
Most people didn’t want to ask him anyway. They didn’t want to ask Ratchet either. Instead, they whispered amongst themselves.
It was fine. Sunstreaker was used to it.
He went about his shifts like usual, Bob tagging along or left behind in Ratchet’s quarters, or often, Bob could be found at Ratchet's heels, obeying Ratchet like he'd never obeyed Sunstreaker. Most mechs didn't seem to mind Bob being around, and if they did, a single sharp word from Ratchet, and Bob would slink away, whining pathetically. He'd keep his distance, but he watched, like a protective gargoyle.
It was a little creepy, Ratchet confessed.
Sunstreaker didn't know how to make him stop. He wondered if it had anything to do with Bob taking part in Ratchet's heat. Ratchet didn't know either. None of them were experts on Insecticon behavior or biology. And the only mech they could reasonably ask was swelling with sparklings of his own.
Sunstreaker would feel sorry for Perceptor, if it wasn't for the fact Perceptor's mistake caused this whole mess in the first place. It was further fair play that Brainstorm was the sire of his bitlets, though the chaos any spawn of those two could create was enough to give half the crew nightmares.
Others noticed. Because if there was one thing the residents of the Lost Light excelled at, it was gossip. And they noticed when something was out of the ordinary. They noticed Sunstreaker spending more time with Ratchet. They noticed Bob following at Ratchet's heels. They stared, and they whispered, but only a few were so bold as to say something.
Smokescreen, in particular, sauntered up with that slow, easy grin that had gotten him into more than a few berths, Sunstreaker's included. But he also knew that grin was a lot sharper underneath than others gave Smokescreen credit. Most didn't know he'd been trained by Prowl and recruited by Jazz.
Sunstreaker did.
He knew to be wary. Especially when Smokescreen slid into the booth across from him at Swerve's, and scooted Sunstreaker's favorite drink across the table.
"For you," he said, plopping one elbow on the table and his chin on his palm.
"I'm taken," Sunstreaker replied, flat, pushing it back with the tip of his finger.
"So I've heard." Smokescreen's vocals could have waxed paint, so smooth they were. "All I'm asking for is details, Sunshine. How'd you snag the medical bay's most eligible bachelor?"
"It's nothing new, we just weren't obvious about it," Sunstreaker lied. He'd gotten quite good at it over the centuries. Hopefully, good enough to fool Smokescreen.
"Hmm. Wonder why I don't believe that," Smokescreen said.
Sunstreaker rolled his shoulders and sipped from his own cube, the one he'd purchased for himself. He continued to ignore the one Smokescreen offered. They were never free. "Ask me if I care whether or not you believe me."
Smokescreen laughed and leaned back, sensory panels flat against the booth. "Your glossa is as sharp as ever, Sunny. I sure do miss that."
Stop calling me that.
He bit his glossa. There was no point in snapping at Smokescreen. He'd read too much from it.
"Bygones." Sunstreaker flicked his fingers. "I'm with Ratchet now, and he's not one for sharing."
"Yeah. I'll bet." Smokescreen chuckled, and his optics flashed with an incisive look. "Seems Bob likes him more, too. Did you two finally come out because you sparked him?"
Damn him.
Damn him to the Pit and back. In a list of bad decisions Sunstreaker made, berthing Smokescreen was one of them. It had been good at the time, but the repercussions were endless.
He hated how accurate Smokescreen's guess was.
There was no answer Sunstreaker could give that Smokescreen wouldn't be able to read through. So he didn't say anything. He drank his engex and glared.
Smokescreen grinned. "Yeah, that's what I thought." He rapped his knuckles on the table. "I don't know if I should congratulate you or offer my sympathies."
“You could try shutting up,” Sunstreaker muttered and buried his face behind his engex.
“I sense I’ve struck a sore spot.” Smokescreen shook his head and leaned back, effecting a casual pose Sunstreaker didn’t believe for a second. “You deserve it, you know. Happiness.”
Sunstreaker scowled and downed the last of his engex, slamming the empty cup on the table. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, and shoved up from the table, fixing Smokescreen with a firm glare. “Try minding your own business for once.”
Smokescreen moved faster than Sunstreaker could read, grabbing Sunstreaker’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Hey,” he said, tone soft and cajoling, like trying to calm a skittish voltaic cat. “I meant it. You and Ratchet. It’s a good match, a good thing. Try being happy, yeah?”
It was always so hard to tell when Smokescreen was being genuine. Or if he was playing a long con of some kind. He had his fingers in every betting pool on the Lost Light. Maybe he was trying to bend the odds in his favor here, too.
Sunstreaker wished he could outright trust Smokescreen. It would be nice to have a friend.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Sunstreaker pulled his hand free. He left before Smokescreen could say anything else, well aware of the optics and visors watching him, their stares burning holes between his shoulderblades.
He picked up the whispers. They weren’t trying to be subtle.
“Ratchet deserves better than a traitor.”
“Doesn’t deserve to wear that badge.”
“Poor Ratchet. He must have been tricked.”
Sunstreaker stared straight ahead. He said nothing, he acknowledged no one. His hands shook, but he wouldn’t let them form fists, and he swallowed his anger like the bitter engex it was.
He was sorry he’d been Ratchet’s only choice. Ratchet did deserve better. Sunstreaker was the selfish one for wanting to have this, to believe even if only for a little while, that Ratchet might want him back. He wanted to hope he could be redeemed.
He wished for a lot of things he didn’t deserve.
He hated that the others kept reminding him of it.
“So.”
Ratchet groaned. “Don’t you start,” he said, without glancing toward the doorway, where waves of amusement wafted his direction.
He didn’t have to look to know Drift was smirking at him, smug despite the fatigue still clinging to his frame. He’d been on triple overtime when the heat struck, as one of the last mechs in command standing.
“Start what? Can’t I just come check on my friend now that he’s finally come out of the closet with his apparent lifetime partner?” There was accusation in Drift’s tone.
Ratchet sighed and put down the box of bolts he was pretending to sort. Hiding, really, in the supply closet. He hated all of the ‘congratulations’ other mechs were tossing at him. He hated being congratulated for a lie.
“I’m sparked,” he said as he cast Drift an askance look. “It’s complicated. Sunstreaker’s helping me out is all.”
“Mmm.” Drift nodded slowly, his arms folded over his chassis, his lean casual against the door frame. “Is there someone I need to kill if Sunstreaker’s not the sire?”
Ratchet rolled his optics. “No, you stab-happy hippie, there’s no one you need to kill. It was an accident.” His face heated. As much as he trusted Drift, he wasn’t quite ready to admit the sire of his bitlets. “Like I said. Complicated. So hush.”
Drift dragged his fingers across his lips. “Secret’s safe with me, Ratch. You know it.” He tilted his head, the amusement fading from his tone. “Sunstreaker, huh? You sure helping you is all it is?”
“How should I know. I don’t read minds.” Ratchet grumped and glared at the supplies, idly stirring his fingers through the bolts. “He’s a better mech than others give him credit.”
“Oh, I know that. We all have our demons.” Drift waved a hand, fingers tapping over his chestplate and the shadow of a badge that wasn’t there anymore. “You should tell him.”
“Like frag I should!” Ratchet hissed, and he glared at Drift, wishing he could shoot lasers from his optics. “Don’t you help either.”
Drift held up his hands and straightened, pushing off the frame. “You’re a grown mech. That’s not my place. I’m just saying, no one volunteers to help another mech in your predicament for the sake of it.” He folded his arms again, bouncing a little on his heelstruts.
Ratchet shuttered his optics and leaned his forehead against the shelf. “It’s complicated,” he muttered.
“So you’ve said.” Drift loudly cycled a ventilation. “Just be careful, all right? You know where to find me if you need me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” Drift clapped his hands together, and his field flickered out, pressing against Ratchet’s with comfort and warmth. “I get to be their godsire, right?”
“Get out of here.”
Drift chuckled and slipped free of the storage room, letting the door shut behind him. Silence wrapped around Ratchet once again. He dropped a hand to his abdomen, where he hadn’t begun to show, and wouldn’t for a little while yet.
“Tell him,” Drift said, as though it were an easy thing to do.
Ratchet was old. He was angry. He was bitter. Now, he was saddled with sparklings. What did he have to offer someone like Sunstreaker?
Tell him.
Frag that.
He was lucky enough to have Sunstreaker’s friendship. He didn’t want to push it. And that was the final word.
Ratchet did not know how to take care of himself.
This was very, very frustrating for Bob.
He didn't seem to understand he was sparked now, that he carried three precious bitlets inside him. He needed nutrients and energon and rest. He needed to build a nest and prepare. He needed a lot of things he wasn't getting.
It was especially frustrating because Bob couldn't tell Ratchet or Sunstreaker things weren't being done properly. Sunstreaker needed to know to take care of their mate, but there was a swirl of hesitation about him. He didn't speak up like he should. He didn't push when he needed to.
Someday, Bob was going to learn mechspeak. And then he was going to say all the things he needed to say. But that wasn't an option now. He needed a solution right now.
Ratchet would just have to get used to Bob being underfoot. No matter how much he yelled or scowled or made Sunstreaker come get him. Someone needed to take care of Ratchet, and luckily, Bob was pretty good at taking care of the bigmechs. Look at Sunstreaker! He was already doing so much better. Not fully better. But lots better.
That was because of Bob.
Really. Someone should give him a medal. Or treats. A big basket of treats. He'd definitely bring that up as soon as he learned mechspeak.
Anyway.
Sunstreaker was Bob's, and Bob took pride in making sure his Sunstreaker was fed and rested and cuddled and loved. But now Bob had two mechs to keep alive, and Ratchet needed him slightly more, so Bob did what he had to do.
He lurked around the medbay as much possible. Sunstreaker did, too. Which meant Bob didn't look so weird wandering around, but even if Sunstreaker wasn't there, Bob still trundled around underfoot, making his presence known.
Like today.
He hadn't seen Ratchet sit down once. Or consume so much as a cube of energon or a sip of coolant. Fatigue swirled around Ratchet's field in waves, but he kept grumping at First Aid and snapping at Ambulon, and no one wanted to poke him twice.
Stubborn bigmechs. How did they manage to survive this long without a Bob to watch them?
Bob tucked a big cube of energon in his secondary hand -- he'd snagged it from the shelf earlier when Ambulon wasn't paying attention -- and he watched, waiting for his moment. Agitation roiled around Ratchet like a storm cloud, building to a mighty thunder, and when it finally burst, the yell echoed around the medbay.
Other medics ducked and covered. Ratchet stomped away, leaving tremors in his wake. Bob, however, wasn’t the least bit afraid.
It was his chance.
Ratchet stormed into his office, and Bob followed, scuttling in before Ratchet could slam the door in his face.
"Bob!" Ratchet snapped as the door nearly clipped his aft. "What are you doing here? Where's Sunstreaker?"
Bob ignored him and sat down, offering up the cube of energon and tilting his head. He knew it made him look cute. It always melted Sunstreaker.
Ratchet’s thunderous expression melted into a light drizzle. He scrubbed his forehead. "That's not an answer. I don't know why I bother asking." He trudged past Bob and collapsed in his chair, fatigue wafting from him in heavy, anchoring waves.
Bob moved to Ratchet's side, offering him the energon again. He chirped and urged it toward Ratchet pointedly.
"You want me to drink that?" Ratchet asked.
Bob clicked and whirred, giving the cube a little wobble. He waved his antennae for good measure. That always worked on Sunstreaker.
Ratchet sighed, long and quiet, but accepted the cube. "Thank you, Bob." He patted Bob on the head and cracked open the energon, giving it a sip. "I'm not going to ask where you got this, because I'm sure I'm both not going to understand the answer, and I wouldn't like it."
Well, he was right.
Bob chittered a laugh and circled Ratchet's chair, giving him a sniff. He was still perilously underenergized, and he definitely lacked some nutrients. Bob would have to figure out how he could acquire some without being able to tell someone what he needed. The bitlets seemed strong, considering how small they were right now. That was a good thing.
Ratchet was a strong mate and a stronger carrier. They would have strong, strong little ones for their new Hive.
“Thank you,” Ratchet said with an audible vent of exhaustion. He reached out a hand and Bob nudged his head under it, purring as Ratchet gave him the good audial skritches. “You’re a good boy, Bob. Even if this is partly your fault.” He patted his abdomen for emphasis.
Bob chirped back at him. It was his fault, and he was proud of it. A family at last! A family for him and his Sunstreaker. They could build a fine Hive, a fine family. It was going to be wonderful.
“Yeah, you don’t sound the least bit apologetic about it either,” Ratchet scoffed.
Nope. Why would he be? The war was over, right? That was what Sunstreaker kept telling him. The war was over, and maybe their home kept running into trouble, but the real danger was gone, yes? Perfect time to rebuild the Hive.
Bob nuzzled Ratchet’s hand. He’d keep Ratchet here as long as he could, because Ratchet needed to rest.
It was his very, very important job. A difficult, frustrating job, but very important.
Sometimes, when Ratchet shooed him away and wouldn’t be dissuaded, Bob wandered off to help the other two sparked mechs on board. It was a sad and disappointing result for such a strong heat, Bob noticed. Only four mechs out of everyone on the ship? Not a good start to the Hive rebuilding, but better than zero.
Perceptor, he of the interesting conversation, had been sparked. Bob wasn’t sure by who. There were always a lot of smells around Perceptor, and Bob kept getting distracted every time he tried to figure it out. Plus, Perceptor didn’t really like him sniffing around so much. He didn’t mind when Bob brought him energon though.
He always gave Bob a treat or two. Perceptor was the best.
“You’re a good boy, Bob,” Perceptor said with a soft little smile as he patted Bob, the other hand gently resting over his abdomen, protective even. He would make very smart bitlets.
Bob hoped they’d be able to learn mechspeak and then they could teach him!
Whirl was sparked, too. He was the only one who seemed to realize what that meant. He wandered all over the ship, demanding the good energon and the good chairs and taking long naps and getting a lot of rest. His bitlets were going to be strong and maybe a little weird, but Bob figured weird was good.
Bob didn’t have to watch out for Whirl much. His sires were protective all on their own. The grumpy purple one and the cheerful blue one with the good candies. They stayed close to Whirl, either both at the same time, or at least one of them. They were good sires.
Bob was proud of them.
He had to be more careful around Ultra Magnus though. Bob didn’t know who had sired Ultra Magnus’ bitlet – poor Magnus only had one. A disappointing result, but still good. Still important! Every Hive benefited from even the smallest spark in Bob’s opinion.
Ultra Magnus was a lot like Ratchet, though he took better care of himself. He rested, and he recharged, and he refueled. But he didn’t seem to have anyone looking after him, and he didn’t much like Bob trying to help either. He looked sad a lot.
Bob didn’t know how to fix it, and he couldn’t ask for help. It worried him. He couldn’t help Ultra Magnus directly, so he did the best he could. He left gifts outside Ultra Magnus’ door, and then he pressed the call button and scurried away, watching from around the corner as Ultra Magnus retrieved them.
He didn’t smile. Ultra Magnus didn’t really know how to smile, Bob realized. But he was pleased. His field said as much.
For now, it was the best Bob could do.
First Aid told him he was a good boy at least. Especially when Ratchet wasn’t looking. He’d sit down and get that itchy spot on Bob’s back armor, the one he couldn’t reach himself. His field was so nice and gentle, First Aid’s was, and he radiated approval.
“Good boy,” First Aid would say after Bob had successfully delivered energon and got Ratchet to drink it. “He needs looking after, doesn’t he?”
Bob clicked an affirmative.
“It’s a good thing he has you and Sunstreaker.” First Aid’s visor lit up brightly, some of his alt-mode lights fluttering, and Bob knew it for the smile it was.
Bob purred, and First Aid gave him another good scratch, and followed it up with a handful of treats. Because Bob was a very good boy, and Ratchet would always have Bob to look out for him now.
Always.
Ratchet was too old for this.
He was past his prime. He should be retired, relaxing in some spa, not grimacing as he shuffled around the medbay, his internals aching from the constant reshuffling, all to make room for his carry. It was a dull, persistent throb, and there was no point in sneaking a pain chip because he knew it wouldn't help.
A third of the way through his shift, and Ratchet had to give up and take a break, bracing one hand on a counter as the other reached for his lower back, rubbing two kinked cables beneath an armor seam. It helped. Marginally.
He was going to demand a back rub from Sunstreaker. Maybe it'd help alleviate some of the kid's guilt.
The ionized wash of a scan pummeled Ratchet from behind, tickling over his field. He narrowed his optics, glancing over his shoulder as First Aid stood there, hands on his hips.
"You're sparked," he declared.
"Brilliant deduction." Ratchet snorted. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide it forever, and that he shouldn't, but he'd thought it would take a little longer. Then again, First Aid had always been very perceptive. "It's Sunstreaker's."
"I could have guessed that." First Aid stepped up behind him, and pushed Ratchet's hand aside, only to replace it with his own. Ratchet would have protested, but the soothing heat that immediately followed made him groan with appreciation. "You two have been dancing around each other for a long time."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" First Aid's other hand joined the fray, gently palpating Ratchet's back and hitting him with low level scan pulses, no doubt looking for the most tense areas. "Honestly, it's always been more of a surprise to me that you two weren't together."
Ratchet braced both hands on the counter, letting First Aid work. It eased the ache quite a lot, and some of the tension radiating through his frame abandoned him. Primus. He should have informed First Aid sooner.
"It was that obvious?"
"Maybe only to people who know you as well as I do."
Except that Ratchet and Sunstreaker weren't actually together, so what did that say about their relationship if others had assumed they were?
"Congratulations, by the way," First Aid said as his hands finished their soothing sweep, and he stepped back. "I know it probably wasn't in your plans, but if I'm any indication, you'll make a great caretaker."
"It's terrible timing," Ratchet grumbled as he scrubbed his face. He turned around and vented easier when it didn't hurt as much to move.
First Aid gave him a look, discernible even through facemask and visor. "It's never going to be good timing. You know that." He folded his arms, pinning Ratchet with a familiar serious stare. "You deserve to try and find happiness."
A burst of fondness erupted in Ratchet's spark. He very nearly took First Aid into his arms for an embrace, save he knew the other medic wouldn't be amenable.
"I appreciate the encouragement," Ratchet said.
"You could also use some aluminum and a huge dose of selenium. You're running really low." First Aid's tone was chastising, hinting of 'you should know better'.
Ratchet's lips quirked into a smile. "Yes, sir."
First Aid's visor narrowed. "You need to rest, too."
"I'll keep that in mind, sir."
"You're mocking me."
"Not at all." Ratchet slung an arm across First Aid's shoulders and steered him back toward the medbay. "You do realize that if I'm sparked, that means you're going to be chief sooner rather than later."
First Aid snorted. "You've been saying that for decades. I'm not going to hold my vents."
Sunstreaker stared into the mirror and glared at a smudge on his shoulder. He attacked it ferociously. He refused to walk out of the habsuite looking anything less than perfect.
Today was too important.
"You look fine." Ratchet appeared in Sunstreaker's peripheral vision, in the mirror over Sunstreaker's shoulder.
"It's not enough to look fine," Sunstreaker said.
He squinted, scrutinizing his reflection. He didn't deserve Ratchet as he was. He didn't want to hear it from others. He needed to look like someone Ratchet could be proud to stand beside.
Ratchet's mouth twisted into an expression Sunstreaker couldn't identify. “You don’t have to impress anyone.”
“Don’t I?” Sunstreaker chewed on his bottom lip. He wished he had better supplies.
“Why would you?”
Sunstreaker turned around, glancing past Ratchet to see Bob sitting behind them, looking cute as he cocked his head and waited patiently. “No one really believes we’re together, you know.”
“That’s the point of this excursion.” Ratchet cupped his face and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek. “Besides, in the end, who cares? It’s not their life, it’s ours.”
Sunstreaker wasn’t convinced.
“You should pick someone else,” he said. “There are a lot of other mechs on this ship who’d be better for this.”
Ratchet shook his head. “Who else could I trust for this, hm?” He smiled, soft and gentle, and turned away. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Sunstreaker wasn’t sure if he should take that as a compliment or not. Did he mean it in the way Sunstreaker was very trustworthy to him? Or because Sunstreaker knew Bob was involved, Ratchet was the only one Sunstreaker dared trust?
“Whatever you want,” Sunstreaker said. It was the safest reply.
They ventured out of Sunstreaker’s habsuite, where Ratchet had come to meet him after-shift, and with Bob in tow, headed for Swerve’s. There was no better place on the Lost Light to make a public appearance. They needed to be seen together, now that their quote-unquote secret relationship was no longer secret. They needed to sell the lie.
Sunstreaker’s internals squirmed. He hated how much he so desperately wanted the lie to be truth.
Bob trotted along at their feet. Ever since Ratchet’s heat, Sunstreaker hadn’t needed to use a leash for Bob. Instead, the hard part became dragging him away from Ratchet. Bob never wanted to go far from the medic, and Sunstreaker didn’t have an explanation for that. Even now, he trundled along at Ratchet’s other side, keeping Ratchet safe between Sunstreaker and Bob.
He seemed happy, but if someone who Bob didn’t outright like passed by, he growled or hissed, no matter how much Sunstreaker snapped at him. He didn’t try to bite or attack, but there was a tangible aggression in his stance, and his armor fluffed up, like he was trying to make himself threatening.
“Why is he so defensive?” Ratchet asked with a small frown.
Sunstreaker shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s been acting weird ever since… well, you know.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Guilt still clogged up his intake. He didn’t know if there was anything he could do to apologize for it.
Ratchet chuckled. “Maybe he’s struck a claim on me then.”
“Why doesn’t it bother you?” Sunstreaker asked, blurting out the question before he could convince himself otherwise.
Ratchet audibly sighed. “Because I don’t see any point in letting it bother me. It’s done. It’s not his fault or my fault or your fault. It’s a thing that happened, and we all need to deal with it. And I know it wasn’t done out of menace.” He looked down at Bob, and Sunstreaker swore there was affection on his face. “Besides, it’s not a bad thing to have such a determined protector.” He leaned down and patted Bob on top of the head, and Bob chirped up at him.
“He’s very good at that,” Sunstreaker said.
“I’ve noticed.” Ratchet laughed, quiet, but genuinely amused. Sunstreaker didn’t know if he’d ever heard Ratchet laugh like that before.
His spark thumped faster in his chassis.
They arrived at Swerve’s, and after a shift change into graveyard, it was lively and bustling with mechs. They stepped into chaos, and Sunstreaker gently took Ratchet’s elbow, steering him toward the only unoccupied table he could see in the corner. It looked to have been recently abandoned – empty cups and detritus lingering around the seats.
There was no point to trying to be stealthy. Everyone noticed their arrival. Optics and visors swiveled their direction, and Sunstreaker’s armor prickled at all the attention. He’d worked so hard to fade into the background while onboard, and now he was suddenly back in the spotlight.
He hated it.
But for Ratchet?
Anything.
He cleared off the table before they sat down, and before they even got comfortable, Swerve was there, a tray of drinks in one hand and a big smile on his face.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Lost Light’s newest star couple,” he said with a waggle of his orbital ridges. “What can I get for you?”
“Whatever’s on tap,” Ratchet said.
“Same for me,” Sunstreaker said.
Swerve’s grin broadened, impossibly wide. “That’s adorable.” He flashed half his visor in a wink. “I’ll be right back.” He looked down as Bob popped his head up from beneath the table. “And I’ll bring something for you, too.”
Bob wriggled appreciatively. He adored Swerve, contrary to Sunstreaker’s personal opinions, and Sunstreaker suspected it was because Swerve fed him treats.
Swerve left. Sunstreaker leaned against the table and tried not to notice all the stares they had attracted.
“You all right?” Ratchet asked.
“That’s not a question I’m sure I can answer,” Sunstreaker said, honestly. Because he was, in so many ways, not all right. He was getting better, or at least thought he was, but he didn’t know if being all right was a part of his future.
Ratchet reached across the table, and his hand fell over Sunstreaker’s, warm and affectionate. “In general or in this moment?”
“Maybe both.” Sunstreaker looked at their hands, their tangled fingers, and wished it were real. “You know I don’t have the best reputation right now.”
“I’ve never held that against you.”
Sunstreaker’s gaze darted toward the bar at large, noting all of the stares, the whispers, the narrowed optics. He wanted to yank his hand away from Ratchet’s, as much as he never wanted to let go.
“But it’s not my opinion you’re bothered about,” Ratchet added with a soft sigh. “You worry too much about what other people think, Sunstreaker.”
“Some might argue I don’t worry enough.”
“Worry about what?” Swerve appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand, laden with different drinks than before. He slid two mugs of engex on the table in front of them with practiced ease.
“Worry about what you might be putting in these drinks,” Ratchet grunted as he lifted his cup and squinted at it. “This doesn’t look cheap.”
“I don’t serve anything cheap, thank you very much,” Swerve retorted as he planted his empty hand on his hip. “And that’s not cheap either. It’s a congratulations drink, Doc. Congrats on finally getting laid.”
Ratchet’s optics narrowed.
Sunstreaker glared at Swerve. “Don’t be crass.”
“Have you met me?” Swerve lifted his orbital ridges and his gaze flicked between them. “Though I have to say… you two? I don’t see it. I’m pretty good at picking out secrets and good gossip, and this one surprised everyone.”
“I don’t care if you see it or not, it’s happened,” Ratchet said with a scowl. He snatched up his engex and took a long drink of it.
Swerve held up his free hand. “Hey, no offense. Just calling it like I see it. I mean, in comparison to the touchy-feely prom couple over there, you two don’t look very coupleish.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to Chromedome and Rewind near the bar, one in the other’s lap.
Sunstreaker sneered.
Ratchet snorted again. “If you think I’m going to act like that in public, then you don’t know me at all, Swerve.”
“Hm. You may have a point.” Swerve tapped his bottom lip with a finger. Finally, he shrugged. “Well, who am I to judge? Just glad you two are happy together.”
Ratchet rolled his optics. “Thanks for your approval.”
“Not that we needed it,” Sunstreaker muttered.
Swerve chuckled and left, but not before laying a tray of treats down in front of Bob, which he started scarfing noisily. Sunstreaker scowled and stared into his engex, the taste of it like ashes on his glossa after Swerve’s unwelcome commentary.
“Ignore him,” Ratchet said, as if he’d read Sunstreaker’s mind.
“Why? He’s not wrong. This is a farce, and we both know it.” Sunstreaker didn’t look at Ratchet, but he did down the entire cup of engex in a few quick gulps. He needed the burn, his insides twisting and gnarling into thorns.
Ratchet stared at him, and something in his expression spoke of exasperation. “We’re friends at the very least,” he said, and his tone softened, turned gentle, like trying to calm a skittish mechanimal. “We don’t have to decide the definition. We’re not a farce.”
Sunstreaker’s spark throbbed. He tightened his fingers around Ratchet’s, wishing he could hold on forever. He wanted to believe there was a deeper meaning.
“Say it,” Ratchet insisted, squeezing Sunstreaker’s fingers in return. “You and me, and Bob, too. We’re not a farce.”
Sunstreaker’s lips twitched toward a smile. “All right,” he said. “Whatever you say, Ratchet. We’re something real.”
What that something was, however, he still didn’t know.
