[IDW] Casualty 01/03
Nov. 18th, 2019 06:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Casualty
Universe: IDW MTMTE/LL, Between the Lines ‘verse
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, First Aid, Ultra Magnus, Rodimus, Bluestreak, Ravage
Rated: M
Warnings: BDSM themes, PTSD, Trust Issues
Description: Peace has a nasty habit of bringing hidden issues to the forefront, and when it finally catches up to Megatron, Ratchet makes a terrible choice that might spell the end of their relationship.
Extended warnings: this fic in particular deals with issues of consent, medical ethics and consent, the tanglement of bdsm consent, and contains many discussions on morality.
Fic inspired by and titled after Hidden Citizens, “Casualty”.
Commission for Borath.
Part One
He’s floating.
It’s an altogether unique sensation.
Megatron has felt himself falling. He’s caught himself on his own wings, on thrusters, on anti-gravs. He’s ridden transports and taken to the sky like a Seeker, though perhaps not with the same skill.
Floating, while being grounded, is a unique sensation.
He’s bound. He can, distantly, feel the grip of the padded cuffs around his wrists, keeping his arms taut above his head. He’s aware of similar structures around his ankles, attached to a strong bar, keeping his legs spread and his thighs open, bared to the delicious torment Ratchet offers him.
It’s not pain. Not this time. It’s pleasure, over and over again, with mouth and fingers and toys, until Megatron’s soaked the berth beneath his aft with his own lubricant, and his entire frame trembles, hanging on a precipice of never-ending pleasure.
He overloads again. He doesn't know how many that is. He's lost count.
Ratchet's voice keeps him tethered to solid ground, while the rest of him floats, and there's not a tense cable in his frame. Everything is liquid pleasure, and his processor is blissfully blank.
"You're doing so well," Ratchet says, and there is a part of Megatron which would have once quailed at encouragement, would have roared at the idea of needing such weakness.
Right now, it sends another blossom of heat through Megatron’s frame. He leans his head into Ratchet’s hand, nuzzling his palm, smelling his own lubricant and beneath it, the sharp tang of the antiseptic always clinging to Ratchet's armor.
The vibration of some toy hums away on his array, and Megatron's valve twitches and flexes hungrily, as if he hasn't overloaded multiple times already. He's burning hot, swollen and tender, and still his engine revs and his frame cycles closer to another apex. The buzzing teases his housing, the plump pleats of his valve, the tender plates of his inner thighs, but avoids his anterior node, coming close but not close enough.
And then it's gone, and Ratchet kisses him, achingly slow and gentle, like he wants to savor the taste of him. Megatron moans into the kiss, limp in his bonds, relying on their support to keep him from floating away.
"Still green?" Ratchet murmurs, his hands sweeping Megatron's armor, leaving tingling curls of static charge in his wake, which slide into his seams, nip at his substructure, make him arch and sigh in Ratchet's talented hold.
Megatron tries to remember language.
"Megatron?"
He surfaces a little, manages to make optic contact. "Green," he confirms, slurring the syllables, a steady throb pulsing through his entire frame, the scent of overload ripe in the air, and arousal thick in his system.
Ratchet laughs, but it's quiet and fond, rather than taunting. "I think we finally found it," he says, and he cups Megatron's face while his other hand vanishes.
Megatron finds it a half-moment later, when a delicate brush to his swollen anterior node makes him whimper. He rocks his hips, best he can in his bindings, and his valve cycles down on nothing, aching for a firmer touch.
Found what? Megatron would ask, but the question isn't important, not while Ratchet applies a steady, perfect pressure to his array. When he's drawing charge with his fingertips and painting ecstasy over Megatron's valve.
"One more," Ratchet says, his thumb rubbing a firm pressure while his fingers curve inward, stroking the hard knot of nodes behind Megatron's valve rim. "I know you've got it in you."
Megatron's head lolls, but Ratchet holds him gently, encourages their gazes to meet. He's locked in Ratchet's intense stare, an indescribable emotion behind it, one reminding him that all he has to do is say 'stop' and Ratchet will. He's safe here. Safe enough to let go.
So he does.
The overload comes in waves, each building upon the last, starting in his spark and radiating outward. He shakes, charge spilling out from under his armor, cascading over his plating, and his vision fritzes with static. His vents rattle, his engine roars, but Megatron himself doesn't make a sound, it's swallowed by the ecstasy.
He's floating, still attached by the tether, as distant as it is. As much a part of his frame as he is apart from it.
Sound is distant. He tries to focus on it. Ratchet's talking to him, murmuring words of encouragement, fingers stroking, easing Megatron through the last of the tremors. He feels stripped, lazy in the midst of a pleasure fugue, and his engine no longer roars, but purrs contentedly.
Ratchet grins at him. "Yep. That's it right there," he says as he sweeps his hands over Megatron's armor and presses a kiss to his forehead. "You just lay there and soak it in. I've got the rest."
Megatron believes him.
He drifts, and Ratchet guides him home.
~
Ratchet recharges a lot deeper than he used to, now that there's not a war to keep him running a subconscious alertness protocol. There are other medics on call. He doesn't have to worry about war-time emergencies. He can rest the way he should.
But there are some things that will only adjust with time, and it's not been so long he can ignore signs of distress. He feels it in his field first, a repulsive burst of terror and panic, and he stirs from the fugue of recharge. His optics flicker open, his sensors flash outward in a wide arc, and he's rolling to get to his feet before he's entirely sure what's going on.
Reaction time is all that saves him from a flailing arm, which would have surely broken his nasal ridge, if he hadn't moved off the berth in time. That's the danger of recharging next to a mech larger and stronger.
A mech who's apparently suffering from a nightmare.
Spark pounding, Ratchet cycles a brief ventilation to clear his mind.
"Megatron!" he barks, using a tone that's made many a medic or soldier snap to attention. "Wake up!"
Nothing.
Megatron twitches on the berth. His optics are shuttered, his armor is clamped tightly, and he's radiating heat as though he's become a furnace when Ratchet wasn't looking. His hands form tight fists, his limbs jerking about.
His field.
His field is the worst.
Nausea roils Ratchet's tanks as a miasma of fear and terror and sheer panic rampage across his sensors before he locks away his field. He braces himself and touches Megatron’s arm, ready to duck and cover if he needs to do so.
Megatron doesn’t strike at him. His armor jitters under Ratchet’s palm, flushing a furious heat. His engine climbs toward a terrifying pitch.
Frag.
“Megatron!” Ratchet snaps and grabs Megatron’s face with his other hand. Usually a touch is enough to wake Megatron. Some things are never unlearned, especially if one is a former warlord with a host of terrible memories.
Megatron’s optics unshutter, the light behind them dimly flickering, but there’s no conscious reply to Ratchet’s voice. He’s not onlining.
Ratchet mutters a curse and fumbles with the nearest medical port as Megatron abruptly thrashes on the berth, like he’s fighting an imagined foe, before he goes scarily still. A quiet whine spills out of his intake, and at the moment, Ratchet can’t tell if it’s his engine or his vocalizer.
He plugs into Megatron’s port, and winces as interference screeches back at him. There’s a cascade of failures shouting at him, and Ratchet wades through them, trying to gain access to Megatron’s active systems.
Firewalls slam into place, denying him. Aggressive defenders pour out of the shadowy corners, crowd his presence back, back, back, pushing him out like he’s not a medic with the highest-ranked overrides.
Megatron flails again, and Ratchet’s yanked free as Megatron twists away from him, arm lashing out. Damn it.
He’s out of choices.
Ratchet fumbles out his emergency medkit and hurriedly digs through it, pulling out the strongest sedative they have. He’s used it on Optimus before. It’ll definitely work on Megatron.
There’s a reason medics are built for bulk. He ducks another wild swing, grabs Megatron’s arm, and plunges the sedative into his carpal port. Megatron jerks, tries to pull away, but Ratchet holds tightly, praying the upload takes.
It does.
Second by worrisome second, Megatron gradually goes limp beneath him. He sinks into the berth, and the wild frenzy of his field peters off into a whimper. His frame still twitches, but the violence is leashed.
For now.
Ratchet swallows thickly and plugs back into Megatron’s cephalic medical port, bracing himself for what he’s going to find.
A firewall throws itself up, but Ratchet’s prepared this time. He slices through it with the ease of a medic who’s old and cranky and has nearly seen it all. The defenses here reek of Shockwave, reek of a mech experimenting with things he shouldn’t, and Ratchet knows Shockwave has helped Megatron rebuild himself in the past.
Who knows what little traps he left behind.
Ratchet’s cautious. He goes the long way around, tries to stealth into Megatron’s processor, see if he can’t diagnose the reason Megatron seems to be stuck in recharge, or worse, trapped in a memory purge.
He can’t get through. It’s like peering through metalmesh, where he can see the problem, but can’t reach it. Not with the means currently at his disposal. He’s rebuffed at every turn, and exhausts himself trying, until the defense mechanisms battering at his sense of self overpower him, and Ratchet is thrust out of Megatron’s systems.
Ratchet shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation. He goes through his options, dismissing them one by one, until he's left with very few, all of them far from ideal. He can't wake Megatron on his own. Not through a medical port. His defenses are too strong.
He's seen this before, albeit in a much weaker form. It's essentially a feedback loop, and where Megatron's coding should be kicking him out of recharge, a glitch is passing over the switch and keeping him trapped in a repeated dream-state, reliving his memories over and over again. Or in this case, nightmares, judging by Megatron’s physical reactions.
It shouldn’t be a hard fix.
Damn Shockwave.
Damn whatever his experimental programming has done to build the walls Ratchet can't traverse. He has to find a way around them. Under them. To bypass them. But he can't do it here.
"I'm sorry," Ratchet murmurs, stroking the back of his hand over Megatron's face, where the heat of his frame is a dangerous level. He needs monitoring, more than what Ratchet can do in his own quarters.
Ratchet’s going to need help, which means revealing Megatron’s condition to others, something he knows Megatron loathes. Ratchet doesn’t see where he has any other choice. He can’t leave Megatron like this. It’s a fate worse than death.
Ratchet sighs.
He pings Ultra Magnus for lifting assistance getting Megatron to the medical bay. First Aid is on duty right now, and perhaps together they can find a way to help Megatron.
Because Ratchet fears the only option they have, is one Megatron would not accept.
~
First Aid dreads quiet nights in the Lost Light's medical bay. Not because he despises peace and quiet, but because quiet nights are inevitably disturbed by great and terrible events.
This night is no exception.
He's halfway to dozing, stylus hovering over a datapad where he's been re-drafting his thesis on the spark-restart technique he developed, when the chime to the bay levitates him out of his chair, and Ratchet comes rushing in, with Ultra Magnus on his heels, Megatron in his arms.
"Is the IC berth still free?" Ratchet asks.
"Yes, of course," First Aid says, fumbling to stow his datapad as Ratchet doesn't miss a pace, moving past him for their single intensive care room.
A passive scan provides little answers. Megatron is sedated, First Aid can tell this much, and the leaks of his energy field indicate a mech in distress. But he's not visibly wounded.
"What's going on?" First Aid asks from the doorway as Ultra Magnus sets Megatron in the berth, and Ratchet wheels diagnostic equipment closer, hands steady as he attaches lines and monitors, though his frenetic field suggests he's inwardly panicking.
"I think Megatron is trapped in a purge loop," Ratchet says, and his tone is a clinical, distant one, as if he's already separated Megatron-his-lover from Megatron-the-patient. "I tried to access his systems through a medical port and a firewall prevented me from doing so."
Primus.
If Ratchet can't get through, what hope does anyone else have? A purge-loop is no minor issue either. Megatron will have to remain constantly sedated or the stress on his systems will start to cause a cascade of failures, which First Aid is certain Megatron's frame can't endure.
"What can I do?" First Aid asks, entering the room and rolling up his figurative sleeves. "Do you want me to see if I can access it? Maybe the firewall is coded to reject you specifically." It wouldn't be the first time, after all. There's a risk to being known as the Autobots' preeminent medic.
Ratchet is too famous for his own good sometimes.
"You're welcome to try," Ratchet says, and he hasn't looked up at First Aid once, all of his focus bent upon Megatron.
He tries to pretend that their relationship is nothing serious. That he's not fallen for the murderous Decepticon warlord.
Ratchet's not half as good as lying to everyone else, as he is at lying to himself.
It only takes a few minutes for First Aid to be proven wrong. The defense protocols reject him so quickly, a small ache takes up residence at the base of his head.
"It was worth a try," Ratchet sighs.
"What are our options now?" Ultra Magnus asks. He's taken up post in the doorway, out of the way, but quietly watching their every movement. It's hard to tell if he's concerned for their safety or Megatron's or a bit of both.
"Mneumosurgery," First Aid says.
Ratchet rubs his forehead and sinks down into the nearest chair, looking old and tired. "I knew you'd say that."
"There's nothing else?" Ultra Magnus asks.
First Aid folds his arms over his chassis. "That depends on your definition of else. I'd have to ask Chromedome. He might know of a way that doesn't involve mneumosurgery." First Aid sincerely hopes he does, not just for Megatron's sake, but for Chromedome's as well.
Rewind is not going to like this at all.
~
Ratchet needs only a few moments of reading Chromedome's field to know the answer he has is the one Ratchet feared.
"You're right, Ratchet," Chromedome says once he's finished reviewing the data Ratchet provides him. "It's a purge-loop and glitch. An easy fix for mneuosurgery but..."
"But not ideal," Ratchet finishes for him. He folds his arms and stares through the two-way glass at Megatron's sedated frame. They're outside the room, outside the noisy beep and hum of the many machines maintaining Megatron's comfort as best they can.
"That's it? As smart as everyone here is, that's the only option we have?" Rodimus asks. He'd been roused from recharge by Ultra Magnus, and while that had annoyed Ratchet at first, he understands the political and legal implications of what's transpiring.
Honestly, at this point, he doesn't know which is going to make Megatron angriest.
Chromedome taps one elegant finger on the datapad's edge. "We could wait for him to come out of it on his own. It's happened before, in rare instances."
"And if he doesn't?" Rodimus asks with a deep frown that almost speaks of concern for Megatron. They've all come a long, long way.
"Then he'll be trapped in the purge until either his spark gives out, or his brain shuts down out of sheer self-preservation. Our minds can only take so much," Chromedome answers quietly.
Ultra Magnus’ brow darkens. “From repeating a memory?”
Chromedome shakes his head. “It’s not just a memory, sir. Loops like this? They’re triggered by intensely traumatic memories, the sort to cause lingering emotional pain.” His fingers twitch, biolights flickering. “Whatever trapped Megatron, it’s the worst of his past, over and over, as if he’s experiencing it for the first time.”
Ratchet flinches, guilt and worry tangling into a fine knot around his spark. He already knows the science behind this, but hearing it aloud cements the concern. It’s a visceral reminder of the danger choking Megatron.
“It’s putting stress and strain on his frame,” First Aid says, and he starts to pace, as though imagining himself in the predicament and unable to swallow it. “Every loop will chip away at his systems until...”
"He dies," Rodimus finishes, and he frowns.
Chromedome nods, and First Aid echoes him. "Or you'll have to reformat his processor to clear the glitch, in which case, Megatron as everyone knew him, as he knows himself, will be gone."
"Either way, it's death," Ratchet murmurs. His armor clamps tightly to his frame, betraying his inner turmoil, but he can't be afted to conceal it right now. The enormity of the situation weighs heavily on his shoulders.
He blames himself. He should have looked harder. All that time he's spent repairing Megatron, and he never thought to run a simple coding diagnostic. It's standard procedure for Autobots. Why hadn't it occurred to him?
A hand rests on his shoulder. "You wouldn't have found it anyway," First Aid murmurs, as if reading Ratchet's thoughts and following them to the inevitable conclusion. "This is a trauma-induced glitch, not a physical one."
"That's not a comfort," Ratchet mutters.
"Megatron would not consent to mneumosurgery. Not even to save his own life," Ultra Magnus says, speaking what they all know to be true. "And unfortunately, he is not in a condition to make a choice about his own medical care."
Rodimus scrubs at his forehead, looking physically pained. "Yeah, but we were also tasked with making sure Megatron stays alive long enough to face justice. I don't think letting a night purge kill him qualifies as keeping an optic on him."
"But is it ethical to potentially go against his wishes for the sake of a judicial proceeding? Has he lost all rights?" Ultra Magnus argues.
"Why are you asking me these questions? You do know I'm not actually Optimus Prime, right? I don't know this slag," Rodimus counters with a glare.
Ratchet stares through the window, his internal battle echoing Rodimus and Ultra Magnus'. He's taken oaths, as a medic, to preserve life when at all possible, to heal anyone regardless of their nature, to save as many sparks as he is capable. But he is also bound to respect the wishes of a patient, even if those wishes are in conflict with proper medical care, so long as the patient themself is in a state of mind to coherently make those choices.
He can’t stand here and watch Megatron die. If there is anything they can do to save him, Ratchet wants to try. Megatron lays there, suffering, and they expect Ratchet to sit by and watch. They expect him to nod and let him wither away, trapped in some nightmare, a nightmare Ratchet can’t even begin to fathom considering Megatron’s history, when there’s a simpler solution.
Megatron will be furious.
But he’ll be alive.
If Ratchet has to choose between a happy, dead Megatron and a furious, living one, he’s almost ashamed of himself for picking the latter. For his spark, leaning toward saving Megatron, one who had been such a scourge to the safety of those Ratchet cared for.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation.
Primus forgive him.
“Chromedome,” he says, and it’s a miracle he cuts through the raised voices behind him, Ultra Magnus firm and determined, Rodimus exasperated, First Aid logical. “Can you do this?” He pauses to turn and face the other mech and corrects himself. “Will you do this?”
Chromedome leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, long fingers tangled together. He unfolds them, tips of one touching the fingertips of the other, rubbing over where the needles emerge.
“I can,” he says, into the heavy silence. His shoulders sink, the light behind his visor flattening, as though he can feel the disapproving stare of Rewind behind him, despite his conjunx being in their quarters. “I will.”
“There. Problem solved,” Rodimus says, throwing his hands into the air. “Ratchet’s the chief medic so if you ask me, he’s the best one to decide.”
Ultra Magnus’ glare of disapproval is searing in its intensity. “Then I would like to lodge a formal complaint, sir,” he says. “I would have it known that the prisoner’s wishes are not being met.”
Rodimus rubs his forehead and groans in a long, dull note. “Fine, fine. Formal complaint noted. I’m sure you’re going to send me a heavy datapad with it.” He waves one hand. “Ratchet, Chromedome, don’t let Megatron die. Ultra Magnus--”
“I will remain here,” Ultra Magnus says, as stiff as a board, and his tone flat to match. He radiates disapproval, and guilt lodges at the back of Ratchet’s intake.
He’s not changing his mind.
Chromedome stands, and he’s the one who approaches Ratchet, his gaze inscrutable, but something lurking behind it. “I’ll save him,” is what he says, loitering by the doorway, one hand raised like he means to pat Ratchet on the shoulder but thinks twice about it.
He vanishes into the room.
Ultra Magnus takes the chair Chromedome abandoned. It creaks a complaint beneath him, but holds his weight. Rodimus looks at them all before he throws his hands up again and stomps away, muttering subvocally.
First Aid cycles an audible ventilation. “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” he says, and goes into Megatron’s medroom to assist.
Ratchet lingers outside the window, watching from the outside, holding himself as still as a statue to keep the clatter from his armor. It’s an easy fix, he reminds himself. Chromedome is very good at what he does.
Rewind will eventually forgive him. Ratchet will gladly take the blame. He’ll take a lot of things, if it means Megatron survives.
And if that isn’t an epiphany he wasn’t prepared to have.
~
It's like surfacing from a mine collapse, clawing his way out through layers of rubble and darkness, for a glimpse of the stars above. His thoughts are peppered with determination, and each vent is labored.
He manages it, however, and when he onlines, it's with a sudden gasp, a wince as dim lights streak across his optics, the sharp scent of antiseptic burning his sensors. His vision is blurry, and it takes a moment for his sight to clarify.
He's not in Ratchet's habsuite. His memories are hazy, but he last recalls being in berth with Ratchet, after a particularly pleasurable session. He's in the medical bay, that much Megatron can discern, which doesn't bode well for him.
What happened?
Machines beep and hum. There's another rhythmic sound to match -- vents. He's not alone. Megatron turns his head slowly, wincing at a sharp ache at the base of it. Everything feels slow, muted, and he knows he's been sedated. He's familiar with the sensation.
The simmering anxiety at the back of his processor, however, that's new. He feels jittery. Uneasy. He's not sure why.
Ratchet comes into view, slumped into a chair, head tipped forward, as if in recharge. Lines of fatigue crease his face. His biolights are dim. His field is beyond Megatron's senses, whether because everything feels dull to him, or Ratchet's shielding it even in recharge, he doesn't know either.
He doesn't know a lot of things. The unease grows.
Ratchet stirs. His optics flicker. He sits up, finding Megatron on the berth, and an expression flickers over his face before it's gone again. "Welcome back," he says.
"Did I go somewhere?" Megatron asks, and his vocalizer is raspy, as if from disuse. It's like clawing through the mines, but he shifts on the berth, his frame weak and trembling. "What happened?"
Ratchet stands and looks at the readout on one of the monitors. "You suffered a processor glitch during recharge. It trapped you in a memory purge. Do you remember?"
Megatron shutters his optics. It's hazy. His last clear memory is Ratchet and their session. The rest are foggy images. Emotions. Fear, prevalent over all else. It still simmers in his lines, lingers in his spark.
"No," Megatron says.
Some of the tension in Ratchet eases, but it's so minute Megatron almost missed it. "Good," Ratchet says. "That's good."
"Is it?" Megatron pulls himself upright, and his vision sways from the effort. He’s as weak as a newspark, and it's disconcerting. "I feel like I'm missing something." He stares at Ratchet, and the medic's face is inscrutable.
Disquiet nestles firmly in his tanks, taking root.
"Is it beyond fixing?" Megatron asks.
Ratchet shakes his head. "No. We managed to pull you out of the loop and fix the glitch." He pauses, hesitates. Megatron wants to grab him, shake him, demand to know whatever it is Ratchet's holding back. "How do you feel?"
"Tired," Megatron says, his tone flat. He's tired of these games. "What is it? If you have bad news, spit it out already."
"You're repaired," Ratchet repeats, and he doesn't sound triumphant. He paces across the room, changes his mind and returns, dropping down into the chair. "It's the how you won't like."
Megatron's optics narrow. He looks down at himself, but his frame is as he remembers. He can move, albeit sluggishly, and his spark and mind feel as his own. As best he can remember. He works his jaw, and his hands pull into fists. Shaking ones. The unease has a name, and it's whatever secret Ratchet carries.
"What did you do?" Megatron demands.
Ratchet works his jaw. "Whatever Shockwave did to you, it significantly increased your internal defenses. I tried to pull you out of the loop on my own, but your firewalls were beyond my abilities. I didn't have any other options." He pauses, cycles a ventilation. "I had to ask Chromedome to hack your processor to remove the glitch."
Megatron goes still. Cold. His vision tunnels. Ratchet keeps talking, but the words are dull, unintelligible.
Mneumosurgery.
They used mneumosurgery.
He reaches up, touches the back of his neck, swears he can feel the ghostly imprint of needles sliding into him, invading him, changing him.
His tank clenches. Purge rises up in his intake, and he forces it down, until it burns and seethes in his chest.
"Mega--"
"Where," Megatron grinds out, through gritted denta, anger and outrage and betrayal tangling into a twisted knot inside of him, as he looks at Ratchet, and no longer sees his lover, but the Autobot crest on Ratchet's chassis, "in my history do you ever think I would have consented to that?"
Ratchet squares his shoulders. "You would have died without it."
"Then you should have let me!" Megatron snarls, and his fist hits the berth before he realizes what he's doing, machines shrieking and beeping around him. He tries to swing his legs around the berth, covers twisted around them. "You had no right to do that. None!"
"You need to stay in the berth. You haven't recovered completely yet," Ratchet says, and he moves in to touch, but Megatron snarls at him. Bears his denta. Roars his engine. He's weak and shaking, but his armor flares, and he'll fight if he has to. Like cornered prey.
Wisely, Ratchet steps back, and guilt rises up in his optics, but Megatron doesn't care about his guilt. Or his reasoning.
"Get out," Megatron growls.
Ratchet's lips press together. His face has gone blank, schooled, like he's just another medic with a recalcitrant patient, and not Megatron's lover who has taken Megatron's trust and used it against him. Betrayed him.
Violated him.
"Get the frag out!" Megatron roars and he doesn't care who hears them, who might be watching, if security runs in here because they think Megatron is violent and needs to be caged.
Ratchet lifts his chin. "If you need anything, let us know," he says, and then he walks out the door, which closes with a quiet hiss behind him.
There's a thin, whining sound in the room. Too late does Megatron realize it's his own frame, his fans spinning rapidly, matching the frantic nature of his vents, the throbbing of his spark, the shaking of his armor. He's hot and cold, clenching the berth so tightly his knuckles ache.
He only has himself to blame.
He should have known better than to trust Autobots. To let them in. To allow them close. To put himself in their hands. He should have never taken up with Ratchet, trusted him, made a place for Ratchet in his spark.
Surrendered his control to such a mech.
His tank clenches.
Megatron leans over the side of the berth and purges, emptying his tank as waves and waves of sick roll over his frame. He purges until there's nothing left, until all he can do is dry-heave, his tank clenching painfully. An automatic drone emerges from a panel in the wall, cleaning up his sick, wiping away the Autobots' mess.
Megatron rolls over and tries to swing his legs over the berth on the other side of the mess. His feet hit the floor, but the moment he tries to leverage himself off the berth, his knees buckle and he crashes back down onto the berth. He's weak. Helpless. Shaky.
He mutters a curse and slinks back onto the berth. It's not as though he has anywhere to go. He's trapped on the Lost Light, surrounded by Autobots. He touches the back of his neck again, fingers tracing where he's sure the needle pierced his tender plating.
The shadows shift. He's not alone.
"Did Ratchet lie?" Megatron asks.
"No." Ravage shifts out of the shadows, sitting back on his haunches, giving Megatron an even look. "I saw the data. You were trapped in a recharge purge. Soundwave could have gotten you out but..." He trails off, leaves the implication hanging.
Yes, Megatron is well-aware of how he's betrayed Soundwave.
He presses his lips together. He grinds his denta. His hands ache as he grips the berth, because it's all he can do. There's nothing to destroy, and no one to rage at.
"It was brief, if that helps," Ravage says, and he speaks gently, like Megatron is something to be handled with care. "Though I'm no expert. They discussed helping you, not changing you."
Megatron grunts. He sinks back in the berth, unable to calm the clattering in his armor. "It doesn't help."
"They didn't kill you," Ravage points out.
"I would have rathered they let me die."
Ravage tilts his head. "And if you'd died you wouldn't be able to do whatever it is you have planned."
Megatron snarls. "Does this look like I have a plan?" he demands, his hand whipping through the air, and dislodging one of the diagnostic lines plugged into him. There's a brief stab of pain, but Megatron barely notices.
Ravage stands, pacing around to the other side of the room, staring up at the monitoring equipment, as unruffled as his master would be. "You always have a plan, whether or not you admit it. I'm quite sure this time isn't any different."
Megatron shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation, trying to get himself under control. The anger burns beneath his armor, itching to be set free. He wants to rage, to hurt something, to react to the emotions broiling inside him.
There's nothing to destroy, thanks to the Autobot badge on his chest.
When he looks back toward Ravage, the casseticon is gone.
~
The medical rooms are not soundproof.
While Ultra Magnus remains seated and doesn't look through the window, to afford Megatron some privacy, the yelling comes through the walls without muffling. He is able to discern every shouted word and is therefore not surprised when Ratchet eventually exits, his expression one of storm and guilt.
"Don't," Ratchet says when he catches Ultra Magnus looking at him. "I already know what you're going to say."
Ultra Magnus lifts his chin. "Do you."
Ratchet scowls, armor ruffling, like he's trying to regain his dignity and his poise from wherever he left it, perhaps on the floor of Megatron's recovery room. "He's alive. That's what's important."
"Is it." Ultra Magnus intentionally doesn't frame his response as a question. Ratchet is trying to convince himself, more than Ultra Magnus, who has already firmed his mind on the matter.
Ratchet's scowl deepens. "I'm not looking for approval. Or forgiveness. I did what I had to do." He pushes away from the door. "See if you can get him to drink some energon. I doubt he'll accept it from me."
"No, I imagine he wouldn't," Ultra Magnus replies, but whether or not Ratchet hears him in his haste to escape, he isn't sure.
He retrieves a cube of energon -- Ratchet hadn't specified as to the grade so Ultra Magnus grabs one of each mid-grade and medical-grade -- and returns to Megatron's recovery room. Through the window, Megatron has shifted on the berth. He's staring into the distance, a dark cast to his face.
Ultra Magnus cycles a ventilation and opens the door, though he hovers in the doorway. "I've brought energon," he says. "May I come in?"
"I fail to see how my permission matters either way," Megatron says, and there's anger in his voice, dark and reedy.
Ultra Magnus doesn't enter. "I apologize for your treatment. Your wishes should have been met. And if you'd like to lodge a formal complaint and press charges, I will accommodate that for you."
Only then does Megatron look at him, not with surprise or appreciation, but a guarded respect. "If I had any faith in Autobot justice, I'd do just that. But I don't." He frowns and makes a faint gesture. "Bring me the energon."
Ultra Magnus steps out of the doorway, letting it shut behind him. “If there’s anything else I can do, feel free to ask.”
“Is that right?” Megatron takes both cubes of energon, giving them a suspicious sniff before he sets both aside.
“Yes.” Ultra Magnus eyes the empty chair beside the berth, but it’s not been offered to him, and he won’t presume. “While Ratchet was given the final say in regards to your care, it did not escape notice that you would desire otherwise. I feel you are owed anything I can supply.”
Megatron gives him a long, level look. “Then you can leave me alone.”
“Fair enough.” Ultra Magnus certainly can’t blame him. He tilts his head in a half-bow. “You know how to contact me should you require anything.”
He takes his leave. It’s the least he can do.
~
The medical rooms aren’t soundproof, but if there’s ever a chance to renovate the Lost Light, it might be something First Aid suggests they add. It’s one thing to suffer the sounds of patients in agony.
It’s another to listen to your superior officer and his ex-Decepticon lover have a bit of a domestic while you are two rooms over, trying not to overhear them and failing miserably.
It’s quick, but brutal, and First Aid tries to make himself look busy as Ratchet first snaps at Ultra Magnus, then comes storming into the medbay proper like he has a shaft stuck sideways up his aft. He has a look like he wants someone to blame other than the face he sees in the mirror, and whoever frags him off first is going to be the recipient of an angry artillery.
“I’m transferring Megatron’s care to you,” Ratchet says, as though it isn’t obvious such a thing is going to happen anyway. “I have little doubt he doesn’t want to see me, but he still needs monitoring for the next couple of days.”
First Aid nods, like the obedient subordinate he is, but not so obedient he can’t call out Ratchet when Ratchet deserves it. Like now. “Do you still think you made the right call?”
Ratchet gives him a sharp look. “We’re medics. It’s our duty to save our patients.”
First Aid hums a non-committal noise. “And if you were making that decision as his medic and not his lover, maybe I’d be inclined to agree.” He pretends to be busy reorganizing the top of the desk, making perfect right angles of his datapads and his styluses. “We don’t always know what’s best.”
Medics have to be arrogant, to a certain degree. They have to be confident. They have to be sure. Medics who constantly second-guess their diagnoses and treatment options don’t survive to be medics very long. Primus knows, Ratchet carries arrogance like a mantle, and to a certain extent, it’s warranted.
He’s apparently drawing on it now.
“Saving a patient’s life is always the best choice,” Ratchet snaps, as if First Aid had suggested taking Megatron out back and giving him a quick execution. Which, to be fair, is probably what a great many mechs would have suggested, only for an entirely different reason than the matter at hand.
First Aid lifts his gaze, meets his mentor optics straightforward. “Are you convincing me or yourself?”
Ratchet’s optics narrow, but then he straightens and taps his audial, activating his comm on a frequency First Aid can’t hear. He’s too polite to hack it either, though it’s well within his capabilities. The war has taught him a great many things he never knew he needed.
He vents a sigh, and his shoulders sag. An expression flickers across his face -- resignation -- and Ratchet drops his hand from his comm.
“Something I need to know?” First Aid asks.
“It should make you feel better that I’ve received a formal reprimand. Again,” Ratchet says with a grunt and a sour tone. “As if Megatron chastising me isn’t enough, Ultra Magnus has decided he needs to get involved, too.”
First Aid debates how he wants to reply before settling on, “To be fair, Megatron does have the right to file charges, if he wants. You knew his wishes. You chose to act against them.”
Ratchet’s jaw sets. He puffs back up, returning that mantle of arrogance to his shoulders. “I chose to save his life. I’m still confused why that’s the wrong choice to make.” He spins around and stomps out of the medical bay with all the outrage he can muster.
First Aid sighs and goes back to work.
It’s a fragging mess full of gray areas, and he’s not surprised Megatron is at the root of it. Things are always complicated when it comes to the former warlord.
And it doesn’t look like that is ever going to change.
***
Universe: IDW MTMTE/LL, Between the Lines ‘verse
Characters: Ratchet/Megatron, First Aid, Ultra Magnus, Rodimus, Bluestreak, Ravage
Rated: M
Warnings: BDSM themes, PTSD, Trust Issues
Description: Peace has a nasty habit of bringing hidden issues to the forefront, and when it finally catches up to Megatron, Ratchet makes a terrible choice that might spell the end of their relationship.
Extended warnings: this fic in particular deals with issues of consent, medical ethics and consent, the tanglement of bdsm consent, and contains many discussions on morality.
Fic inspired by and titled after Hidden Citizens, “Casualty”.
Commission for Borath.
Part One
He’s floating.
It’s an altogether unique sensation.
Megatron has felt himself falling. He’s caught himself on his own wings, on thrusters, on anti-gravs. He’s ridden transports and taken to the sky like a Seeker, though perhaps not with the same skill.
Floating, while being grounded, is a unique sensation.
He’s bound. He can, distantly, feel the grip of the padded cuffs around his wrists, keeping his arms taut above his head. He’s aware of similar structures around his ankles, attached to a strong bar, keeping his legs spread and his thighs open, bared to the delicious torment Ratchet offers him.
It’s not pain. Not this time. It’s pleasure, over and over again, with mouth and fingers and toys, until Megatron’s soaked the berth beneath his aft with his own lubricant, and his entire frame trembles, hanging on a precipice of never-ending pleasure.
He overloads again. He doesn't know how many that is. He's lost count.
Ratchet's voice keeps him tethered to solid ground, while the rest of him floats, and there's not a tense cable in his frame. Everything is liquid pleasure, and his processor is blissfully blank.
"You're doing so well," Ratchet says, and there is a part of Megatron which would have once quailed at encouragement, would have roared at the idea of needing such weakness.
Right now, it sends another blossom of heat through Megatron’s frame. He leans his head into Ratchet’s hand, nuzzling his palm, smelling his own lubricant and beneath it, the sharp tang of the antiseptic always clinging to Ratchet's armor.
The vibration of some toy hums away on his array, and Megatron's valve twitches and flexes hungrily, as if he hasn't overloaded multiple times already. He's burning hot, swollen and tender, and still his engine revs and his frame cycles closer to another apex. The buzzing teases his housing, the plump pleats of his valve, the tender plates of his inner thighs, but avoids his anterior node, coming close but not close enough.
And then it's gone, and Ratchet kisses him, achingly slow and gentle, like he wants to savor the taste of him. Megatron moans into the kiss, limp in his bonds, relying on their support to keep him from floating away.
"Still green?" Ratchet murmurs, his hands sweeping Megatron's armor, leaving tingling curls of static charge in his wake, which slide into his seams, nip at his substructure, make him arch and sigh in Ratchet's talented hold.
Megatron tries to remember language.
"Megatron?"
He surfaces a little, manages to make optic contact. "Green," he confirms, slurring the syllables, a steady throb pulsing through his entire frame, the scent of overload ripe in the air, and arousal thick in his system.
Ratchet laughs, but it's quiet and fond, rather than taunting. "I think we finally found it," he says, and he cups Megatron's face while his other hand vanishes.
Megatron finds it a half-moment later, when a delicate brush to his swollen anterior node makes him whimper. He rocks his hips, best he can in his bindings, and his valve cycles down on nothing, aching for a firmer touch.
Found what? Megatron would ask, but the question isn't important, not while Ratchet applies a steady, perfect pressure to his array. When he's drawing charge with his fingertips and painting ecstasy over Megatron's valve.
"One more," Ratchet says, his thumb rubbing a firm pressure while his fingers curve inward, stroking the hard knot of nodes behind Megatron's valve rim. "I know you've got it in you."
Megatron's head lolls, but Ratchet holds him gently, encourages their gazes to meet. He's locked in Ratchet's intense stare, an indescribable emotion behind it, one reminding him that all he has to do is say 'stop' and Ratchet will. He's safe here. Safe enough to let go.
So he does.
The overload comes in waves, each building upon the last, starting in his spark and radiating outward. He shakes, charge spilling out from under his armor, cascading over his plating, and his vision fritzes with static. His vents rattle, his engine roars, but Megatron himself doesn't make a sound, it's swallowed by the ecstasy.
He's floating, still attached by the tether, as distant as it is. As much a part of his frame as he is apart from it.
Sound is distant. He tries to focus on it. Ratchet's talking to him, murmuring words of encouragement, fingers stroking, easing Megatron through the last of the tremors. He feels stripped, lazy in the midst of a pleasure fugue, and his engine no longer roars, but purrs contentedly.
Ratchet grins at him. "Yep. That's it right there," he says as he sweeps his hands over Megatron's armor and presses a kiss to his forehead. "You just lay there and soak it in. I've got the rest."
Megatron believes him.
He drifts, and Ratchet guides him home.
Ratchet recharges a lot deeper than he used to, now that there's not a war to keep him running a subconscious alertness protocol. There are other medics on call. He doesn't have to worry about war-time emergencies. He can rest the way he should.
But there are some things that will only adjust with time, and it's not been so long he can ignore signs of distress. He feels it in his field first, a repulsive burst of terror and panic, and he stirs from the fugue of recharge. His optics flicker open, his sensors flash outward in a wide arc, and he's rolling to get to his feet before he's entirely sure what's going on.
Reaction time is all that saves him from a flailing arm, which would have surely broken his nasal ridge, if he hadn't moved off the berth in time. That's the danger of recharging next to a mech larger and stronger.
A mech who's apparently suffering from a nightmare.
Spark pounding, Ratchet cycles a brief ventilation to clear his mind.
"Megatron!" he barks, using a tone that's made many a medic or soldier snap to attention. "Wake up!"
Nothing.
Megatron twitches on the berth. His optics are shuttered, his armor is clamped tightly, and he's radiating heat as though he's become a furnace when Ratchet wasn't looking. His hands form tight fists, his limbs jerking about.
His field.
His field is the worst.
Nausea roils Ratchet's tanks as a miasma of fear and terror and sheer panic rampage across his sensors before he locks away his field. He braces himself and touches Megatron’s arm, ready to duck and cover if he needs to do so.
Megatron doesn’t strike at him. His armor jitters under Ratchet’s palm, flushing a furious heat. His engine climbs toward a terrifying pitch.
Frag.
“Megatron!” Ratchet snaps and grabs Megatron’s face with his other hand. Usually a touch is enough to wake Megatron. Some things are never unlearned, especially if one is a former warlord with a host of terrible memories.
Megatron’s optics unshutter, the light behind them dimly flickering, but there’s no conscious reply to Ratchet’s voice. He’s not onlining.
Ratchet mutters a curse and fumbles with the nearest medical port as Megatron abruptly thrashes on the berth, like he’s fighting an imagined foe, before he goes scarily still. A quiet whine spills out of his intake, and at the moment, Ratchet can’t tell if it’s his engine or his vocalizer.
He plugs into Megatron’s port, and winces as interference screeches back at him. There’s a cascade of failures shouting at him, and Ratchet wades through them, trying to gain access to Megatron’s active systems.
Firewalls slam into place, denying him. Aggressive defenders pour out of the shadowy corners, crowd his presence back, back, back, pushing him out like he’s not a medic with the highest-ranked overrides.
Megatron flails again, and Ratchet’s yanked free as Megatron twists away from him, arm lashing out. Damn it.
He’s out of choices.
Ratchet fumbles out his emergency medkit and hurriedly digs through it, pulling out the strongest sedative they have. He’s used it on Optimus before. It’ll definitely work on Megatron.
There’s a reason medics are built for bulk. He ducks another wild swing, grabs Megatron’s arm, and plunges the sedative into his carpal port. Megatron jerks, tries to pull away, but Ratchet holds tightly, praying the upload takes.
It does.
Second by worrisome second, Megatron gradually goes limp beneath him. He sinks into the berth, and the wild frenzy of his field peters off into a whimper. His frame still twitches, but the violence is leashed.
For now.
Ratchet swallows thickly and plugs back into Megatron’s cephalic medical port, bracing himself for what he’s going to find.
A firewall throws itself up, but Ratchet’s prepared this time. He slices through it with the ease of a medic who’s old and cranky and has nearly seen it all. The defenses here reek of Shockwave, reek of a mech experimenting with things he shouldn’t, and Ratchet knows Shockwave has helped Megatron rebuild himself in the past.
Who knows what little traps he left behind.
Ratchet’s cautious. He goes the long way around, tries to stealth into Megatron’s processor, see if he can’t diagnose the reason Megatron seems to be stuck in recharge, or worse, trapped in a memory purge.
He can’t get through. It’s like peering through metalmesh, where he can see the problem, but can’t reach it. Not with the means currently at his disposal. He’s rebuffed at every turn, and exhausts himself trying, until the defense mechanisms battering at his sense of self overpower him, and Ratchet is thrust out of Megatron’s systems.
Ratchet shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation. He goes through his options, dismissing them one by one, until he's left with very few, all of them far from ideal. He can't wake Megatron on his own. Not through a medical port. His defenses are too strong.
He's seen this before, albeit in a much weaker form. It's essentially a feedback loop, and where Megatron's coding should be kicking him out of recharge, a glitch is passing over the switch and keeping him trapped in a repeated dream-state, reliving his memories over and over again. Or in this case, nightmares, judging by Megatron’s physical reactions.
It shouldn’t be a hard fix.
Damn Shockwave.
Damn whatever his experimental programming has done to build the walls Ratchet can't traverse. He has to find a way around them. Under them. To bypass them. But he can't do it here.
"I'm sorry," Ratchet murmurs, stroking the back of his hand over Megatron's face, where the heat of his frame is a dangerous level. He needs monitoring, more than what Ratchet can do in his own quarters.
Ratchet’s going to need help, which means revealing Megatron’s condition to others, something he knows Megatron loathes. Ratchet doesn’t see where he has any other choice. He can’t leave Megatron like this. It’s a fate worse than death.
Ratchet sighs.
He pings Ultra Magnus for lifting assistance getting Megatron to the medical bay. First Aid is on duty right now, and perhaps together they can find a way to help Megatron.
Because Ratchet fears the only option they have, is one Megatron would not accept.
First Aid dreads quiet nights in the Lost Light's medical bay. Not because he despises peace and quiet, but because quiet nights are inevitably disturbed by great and terrible events.
This night is no exception.
He's halfway to dozing, stylus hovering over a datapad where he's been re-drafting his thesis on the spark-restart technique he developed, when the chime to the bay levitates him out of his chair, and Ratchet comes rushing in, with Ultra Magnus on his heels, Megatron in his arms.
"Is the IC berth still free?" Ratchet asks.
"Yes, of course," First Aid says, fumbling to stow his datapad as Ratchet doesn't miss a pace, moving past him for their single intensive care room.
A passive scan provides little answers. Megatron is sedated, First Aid can tell this much, and the leaks of his energy field indicate a mech in distress. But he's not visibly wounded.
"What's going on?" First Aid asks from the doorway as Ultra Magnus sets Megatron in the berth, and Ratchet wheels diagnostic equipment closer, hands steady as he attaches lines and monitors, though his frenetic field suggests he's inwardly panicking.
"I think Megatron is trapped in a purge loop," Ratchet says, and his tone is a clinical, distant one, as if he's already separated Megatron-his-lover from Megatron-the-patient. "I tried to access his systems through a medical port and a firewall prevented me from doing so."
Primus.
If Ratchet can't get through, what hope does anyone else have? A purge-loop is no minor issue either. Megatron will have to remain constantly sedated or the stress on his systems will start to cause a cascade of failures, which First Aid is certain Megatron's frame can't endure.
"What can I do?" First Aid asks, entering the room and rolling up his figurative sleeves. "Do you want me to see if I can access it? Maybe the firewall is coded to reject you specifically." It wouldn't be the first time, after all. There's a risk to being known as the Autobots' preeminent medic.
Ratchet is too famous for his own good sometimes.
"You're welcome to try," Ratchet says, and he hasn't looked up at First Aid once, all of his focus bent upon Megatron.
He tries to pretend that their relationship is nothing serious. That he's not fallen for the murderous Decepticon warlord.
Ratchet's not half as good as lying to everyone else, as he is at lying to himself.
It only takes a few minutes for First Aid to be proven wrong. The defense protocols reject him so quickly, a small ache takes up residence at the base of his head.
"It was worth a try," Ratchet sighs.
"What are our options now?" Ultra Magnus asks. He's taken up post in the doorway, out of the way, but quietly watching their every movement. It's hard to tell if he's concerned for their safety or Megatron's or a bit of both.
"Mneumosurgery," First Aid says.
Ratchet rubs his forehead and sinks down into the nearest chair, looking old and tired. "I knew you'd say that."
"There's nothing else?" Ultra Magnus asks.
First Aid folds his arms over his chassis. "That depends on your definition of else. I'd have to ask Chromedome. He might know of a way that doesn't involve mneumosurgery." First Aid sincerely hopes he does, not just for Megatron's sake, but for Chromedome's as well.
Rewind is not going to like this at all.
Ratchet needs only a few moments of reading Chromedome's field to know the answer he has is the one Ratchet feared.
"You're right, Ratchet," Chromedome says once he's finished reviewing the data Ratchet provides him. "It's a purge-loop and glitch. An easy fix for mneuosurgery but..."
"But not ideal," Ratchet finishes for him. He folds his arms and stares through the two-way glass at Megatron's sedated frame. They're outside the room, outside the noisy beep and hum of the many machines maintaining Megatron's comfort as best they can.
"That's it? As smart as everyone here is, that's the only option we have?" Rodimus asks. He'd been roused from recharge by Ultra Magnus, and while that had annoyed Ratchet at first, he understands the political and legal implications of what's transpiring.
Honestly, at this point, he doesn't know which is going to make Megatron angriest.
Chromedome taps one elegant finger on the datapad's edge. "We could wait for him to come out of it on his own. It's happened before, in rare instances."
"And if he doesn't?" Rodimus asks with a deep frown that almost speaks of concern for Megatron. They've all come a long, long way.
"Then he'll be trapped in the purge until either his spark gives out, or his brain shuts down out of sheer self-preservation. Our minds can only take so much," Chromedome answers quietly.
Ultra Magnus’ brow darkens. “From repeating a memory?”
Chromedome shakes his head. “It’s not just a memory, sir. Loops like this? They’re triggered by intensely traumatic memories, the sort to cause lingering emotional pain.” His fingers twitch, biolights flickering. “Whatever trapped Megatron, it’s the worst of his past, over and over, as if he’s experiencing it for the first time.”
Ratchet flinches, guilt and worry tangling into a fine knot around his spark. He already knows the science behind this, but hearing it aloud cements the concern. It’s a visceral reminder of the danger choking Megatron.
“It’s putting stress and strain on his frame,” First Aid says, and he starts to pace, as though imagining himself in the predicament and unable to swallow it. “Every loop will chip away at his systems until...”
"He dies," Rodimus finishes, and he frowns.
Chromedome nods, and First Aid echoes him. "Or you'll have to reformat his processor to clear the glitch, in which case, Megatron as everyone knew him, as he knows himself, will be gone."
"Either way, it's death," Ratchet murmurs. His armor clamps tightly to his frame, betraying his inner turmoil, but he can't be afted to conceal it right now. The enormity of the situation weighs heavily on his shoulders.
He blames himself. He should have looked harder. All that time he's spent repairing Megatron, and he never thought to run a simple coding diagnostic. It's standard procedure for Autobots. Why hadn't it occurred to him?
A hand rests on his shoulder. "You wouldn't have found it anyway," First Aid murmurs, as if reading Ratchet's thoughts and following them to the inevitable conclusion. "This is a trauma-induced glitch, not a physical one."
"That's not a comfort," Ratchet mutters.
"Megatron would not consent to mneumosurgery. Not even to save his own life," Ultra Magnus says, speaking what they all know to be true. "And unfortunately, he is not in a condition to make a choice about his own medical care."
Rodimus scrubs at his forehead, looking physically pained. "Yeah, but we were also tasked with making sure Megatron stays alive long enough to face justice. I don't think letting a night purge kill him qualifies as keeping an optic on him."
"But is it ethical to potentially go against his wishes for the sake of a judicial proceeding? Has he lost all rights?" Ultra Magnus argues.
"Why are you asking me these questions? You do know I'm not actually Optimus Prime, right? I don't know this slag," Rodimus counters with a glare.
Ratchet stares through the window, his internal battle echoing Rodimus and Ultra Magnus'. He's taken oaths, as a medic, to preserve life when at all possible, to heal anyone regardless of their nature, to save as many sparks as he is capable. But he is also bound to respect the wishes of a patient, even if those wishes are in conflict with proper medical care, so long as the patient themself is in a state of mind to coherently make those choices.
He can’t stand here and watch Megatron die. If there is anything they can do to save him, Ratchet wants to try. Megatron lays there, suffering, and they expect Ratchet to sit by and watch. They expect him to nod and let him wither away, trapped in some nightmare, a nightmare Ratchet can’t even begin to fathom considering Megatron’s history, when there’s a simpler solution.
Megatron will be furious.
But he’ll be alive.
If Ratchet has to choose between a happy, dead Megatron and a furious, living one, he’s almost ashamed of himself for picking the latter. For his spark, leaning toward saving Megatron, one who had been such a scourge to the safety of those Ratchet cared for.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation.
Primus forgive him.
“Chromedome,” he says, and it’s a miracle he cuts through the raised voices behind him, Ultra Magnus firm and determined, Rodimus exasperated, First Aid logical. “Can you do this?” He pauses to turn and face the other mech and corrects himself. “Will you do this?”
Chromedome leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, long fingers tangled together. He unfolds them, tips of one touching the fingertips of the other, rubbing over where the needles emerge.
“I can,” he says, into the heavy silence. His shoulders sink, the light behind his visor flattening, as though he can feel the disapproving stare of Rewind behind him, despite his conjunx being in their quarters. “I will.”
“There. Problem solved,” Rodimus says, throwing his hands into the air. “Ratchet’s the chief medic so if you ask me, he’s the best one to decide.”
Ultra Magnus’ glare of disapproval is searing in its intensity. “Then I would like to lodge a formal complaint, sir,” he says. “I would have it known that the prisoner’s wishes are not being met.”
Rodimus rubs his forehead and groans in a long, dull note. “Fine, fine. Formal complaint noted. I’m sure you’re going to send me a heavy datapad with it.” He waves one hand. “Ratchet, Chromedome, don’t let Megatron die. Ultra Magnus--”
“I will remain here,” Ultra Magnus says, as stiff as a board, and his tone flat to match. He radiates disapproval, and guilt lodges at the back of Ratchet’s intake.
He’s not changing his mind.
Chromedome stands, and he’s the one who approaches Ratchet, his gaze inscrutable, but something lurking behind it. “I’ll save him,” is what he says, loitering by the doorway, one hand raised like he means to pat Ratchet on the shoulder but thinks twice about it.
He vanishes into the room.
Ultra Magnus takes the chair Chromedome abandoned. It creaks a complaint beneath him, but holds his weight. Rodimus looks at them all before he throws his hands up again and stomps away, muttering subvocally.
First Aid cycles an audible ventilation. “I hope we’re doing the right thing,” he says, and goes into Megatron’s medroom to assist.
Ratchet lingers outside the window, watching from the outside, holding himself as still as a statue to keep the clatter from his armor. It’s an easy fix, he reminds himself. Chromedome is very good at what he does.
Rewind will eventually forgive him. Ratchet will gladly take the blame. He’ll take a lot of things, if it means Megatron survives.
And if that isn’t an epiphany he wasn’t prepared to have.
It's like surfacing from a mine collapse, clawing his way out through layers of rubble and darkness, for a glimpse of the stars above. His thoughts are peppered with determination, and each vent is labored.
He manages it, however, and when he onlines, it's with a sudden gasp, a wince as dim lights streak across his optics, the sharp scent of antiseptic burning his sensors. His vision is blurry, and it takes a moment for his sight to clarify.
He's not in Ratchet's habsuite. His memories are hazy, but he last recalls being in berth with Ratchet, after a particularly pleasurable session. He's in the medical bay, that much Megatron can discern, which doesn't bode well for him.
What happened?
Machines beep and hum. There's another rhythmic sound to match -- vents. He's not alone. Megatron turns his head slowly, wincing at a sharp ache at the base of it. Everything feels slow, muted, and he knows he's been sedated. He's familiar with the sensation.
The simmering anxiety at the back of his processor, however, that's new. He feels jittery. Uneasy. He's not sure why.
Ratchet comes into view, slumped into a chair, head tipped forward, as if in recharge. Lines of fatigue crease his face. His biolights are dim. His field is beyond Megatron's senses, whether because everything feels dull to him, or Ratchet's shielding it even in recharge, he doesn't know either.
He doesn't know a lot of things. The unease grows.
Ratchet stirs. His optics flicker. He sits up, finding Megatron on the berth, and an expression flickers over his face before it's gone again. "Welcome back," he says.
"Did I go somewhere?" Megatron asks, and his vocalizer is raspy, as if from disuse. It's like clawing through the mines, but he shifts on the berth, his frame weak and trembling. "What happened?"
Ratchet stands and looks at the readout on one of the monitors. "You suffered a processor glitch during recharge. It trapped you in a memory purge. Do you remember?"
Megatron shutters his optics. It's hazy. His last clear memory is Ratchet and their session. The rest are foggy images. Emotions. Fear, prevalent over all else. It still simmers in his lines, lingers in his spark.
"No," Megatron says.
Some of the tension in Ratchet eases, but it's so minute Megatron almost missed it. "Good," Ratchet says. "That's good."
"Is it?" Megatron pulls himself upright, and his vision sways from the effort. He’s as weak as a newspark, and it's disconcerting. "I feel like I'm missing something." He stares at Ratchet, and the medic's face is inscrutable.
Disquiet nestles firmly in his tanks, taking root.
"Is it beyond fixing?" Megatron asks.
Ratchet shakes his head. "No. We managed to pull you out of the loop and fix the glitch." He pauses, hesitates. Megatron wants to grab him, shake him, demand to know whatever it is Ratchet's holding back. "How do you feel?"
"Tired," Megatron says, his tone flat. He's tired of these games. "What is it? If you have bad news, spit it out already."
"You're repaired," Ratchet repeats, and he doesn't sound triumphant. He paces across the room, changes his mind and returns, dropping down into the chair. "It's the how you won't like."
Megatron's optics narrow. He looks down at himself, but his frame is as he remembers. He can move, albeit sluggishly, and his spark and mind feel as his own. As best he can remember. He works his jaw, and his hands pull into fists. Shaking ones. The unease has a name, and it's whatever secret Ratchet carries.
"What did you do?" Megatron demands.
Ratchet works his jaw. "Whatever Shockwave did to you, it significantly increased your internal defenses. I tried to pull you out of the loop on my own, but your firewalls were beyond my abilities. I didn't have any other options." He pauses, cycles a ventilation. "I had to ask Chromedome to hack your processor to remove the glitch."
Megatron goes still. Cold. His vision tunnels. Ratchet keeps talking, but the words are dull, unintelligible.
Mneumosurgery.
They used mneumosurgery.
He reaches up, touches the back of his neck, swears he can feel the ghostly imprint of needles sliding into him, invading him, changing him.
His tank clenches. Purge rises up in his intake, and he forces it down, until it burns and seethes in his chest.
"Mega--"
"Where," Megatron grinds out, through gritted denta, anger and outrage and betrayal tangling into a twisted knot inside of him, as he looks at Ratchet, and no longer sees his lover, but the Autobot crest on Ratchet's chassis, "in my history do you ever think I would have consented to that?"
Ratchet squares his shoulders. "You would have died without it."
"Then you should have let me!" Megatron snarls, and his fist hits the berth before he realizes what he's doing, machines shrieking and beeping around him. He tries to swing his legs around the berth, covers twisted around them. "You had no right to do that. None!"
"You need to stay in the berth. You haven't recovered completely yet," Ratchet says, and he moves in to touch, but Megatron snarls at him. Bears his denta. Roars his engine. He's weak and shaking, but his armor flares, and he'll fight if he has to. Like cornered prey.
Wisely, Ratchet steps back, and guilt rises up in his optics, but Megatron doesn't care about his guilt. Or his reasoning.
"Get out," Megatron growls.
Ratchet's lips press together. His face has gone blank, schooled, like he's just another medic with a recalcitrant patient, and not Megatron's lover who has taken Megatron's trust and used it against him. Betrayed him.
Violated him.
"Get the frag out!" Megatron roars and he doesn't care who hears them, who might be watching, if security runs in here because they think Megatron is violent and needs to be caged.
Ratchet lifts his chin. "If you need anything, let us know," he says, and then he walks out the door, which closes with a quiet hiss behind him.
There's a thin, whining sound in the room. Too late does Megatron realize it's his own frame, his fans spinning rapidly, matching the frantic nature of his vents, the throbbing of his spark, the shaking of his armor. He's hot and cold, clenching the berth so tightly his knuckles ache.
He only has himself to blame.
He should have known better than to trust Autobots. To let them in. To allow them close. To put himself in their hands. He should have never taken up with Ratchet, trusted him, made a place for Ratchet in his spark.
Surrendered his control to such a mech.
His tank clenches.
Megatron leans over the side of the berth and purges, emptying his tank as waves and waves of sick roll over his frame. He purges until there's nothing left, until all he can do is dry-heave, his tank clenching painfully. An automatic drone emerges from a panel in the wall, cleaning up his sick, wiping away the Autobots' mess.
Megatron rolls over and tries to swing his legs over the berth on the other side of the mess. His feet hit the floor, but the moment he tries to leverage himself off the berth, his knees buckle and he crashes back down onto the berth. He's weak. Helpless. Shaky.
He mutters a curse and slinks back onto the berth. It's not as though he has anywhere to go. He's trapped on the Lost Light, surrounded by Autobots. He touches the back of his neck again, fingers tracing where he's sure the needle pierced his tender plating.
The shadows shift. He's not alone.
"Did Ratchet lie?" Megatron asks.
"No." Ravage shifts out of the shadows, sitting back on his haunches, giving Megatron an even look. "I saw the data. You were trapped in a recharge purge. Soundwave could have gotten you out but..." He trails off, leaves the implication hanging.
Yes, Megatron is well-aware of how he's betrayed Soundwave.
He presses his lips together. He grinds his denta. His hands ache as he grips the berth, because it's all he can do. There's nothing to destroy, and no one to rage at.
"It was brief, if that helps," Ravage says, and he speaks gently, like Megatron is something to be handled with care. "Though I'm no expert. They discussed helping you, not changing you."
Megatron grunts. He sinks back in the berth, unable to calm the clattering in his armor. "It doesn't help."
"They didn't kill you," Ravage points out.
"I would have rathered they let me die."
Ravage tilts his head. "And if you'd died you wouldn't be able to do whatever it is you have planned."
Megatron snarls. "Does this look like I have a plan?" he demands, his hand whipping through the air, and dislodging one of the diagnostic lines plugged into him. There's a brief stab of pain, but Megatron barely notices.
Ravage stands, pacing around to the other side of the room, staring up at the monitoring equipment, as unruffled as his master would be. "You always have a plan, whether or not you admit it. I'm quite sure this time isn't any different."
Megatron shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation, trying to get himself under control. The anger burns beneath his armor, itching to be set free. He wants to rage, to hurt something, to react to the emotions broiling inside him.
There's nothing to destroy, thanks to the Autobot badge on his chest.
When he looks back toward Ravage, the casseticon is gone.
The medical rooms are not soundproof.
While Ultra Magnus remains seated and doesn't look through the window, to afford Megatron some privacy, the yelling comes through the walls without muffling. He is able to discern every shouted word and is therefore not surprised when Ratchet eventually exits, his expression one of storm and guilt.
"Don't," Ratchet says when he catches Ultra Magnus looking at him. "I already know what you're going to say."
Ultra Magnus lifts his chin. "Do you."
Ratchet scowls, armor ruffling, like he's trying to regain his dignity and his poise from wherever he left it, perhaps on the floor of Megatron's recovery room. "He's alive. That's what's important."
"Is it." Ultra Magnus intentionally doesn't frame his response as a question. Ratchet is trying to convince himself, more than Ultra Magnus, who has already firmed his mind on the matter.
Ratchet's scowl deepens. "I'm not looking for approval. Or forgiveness. I did what I had to do." He pushes away from the door. "See if you can get him to drink some energon. I doubt he'll accept it from me."
"No, I imagine he wouldn't," Ultra Magnus replies, but whether or not Ratchet hears him in his haste to escape, he isn't sure.
He retrieves a cube of energon -- Ratchet hadn't specified as to the grade so Ultra Magnus grabs one of each mid-grade and medical-grade -- and returns to Megatron's recovery room. Through the window, Megatron has shifted on the berth. He's staring into the distance, a dark cast to his face.
Ultra Magnus cycles a ventilation and opens the door, though he hovers in the doorway. "I've brought energon," he says. "May I come in?"
"I fail to see how my permission matters either way," Megatron says, and there's anger in his voice, dark and reedy.
Ultra Magnus doesn't enter. "I apologize for your treatment. Your wishes should have been met. And if you'd like to lodge a formal complaint and press charges, I will accommodate that for you."
Only then does Megatron look at him, not with surprise or appreciation, but a guarded respect. "If I had any faith in Autobot justice, I'd do just that. But I don't." He frowns and makes a faint gesture. "Bring me the energon."
Ultra Magnus steps out of the doorway, letting it shut behind him. “If there’s anything else I can do, feel free to ask.”
“Is that right?” Megatron takes both cubes of energon, giving them a suspicious sniff before he sets both aside.
“Yes.” Ultra Magnus eyes the empty chair beside the berth, but it’s not been offered to him, and he won’t presume. “While Ratchet was given the final say in regards to your care, it did not escape notice that you would desire otherwise. I feel you are owed anything I can supply.”
Megatron gives him a long, level look. “Then you can leave me alone.”
“Fair enough.” Ultra Magnus certainly can’t blame him. He tilts his head in a half-bow. “You know how to contact me should you require anything.”
He takes his leave. It’s the least he can do.
The medical rooms aren’t soundproof, but if there’s ever a chance to renovate the Lost Light, it might be something First Aid suggests they add. It’s one thing to suffer the sounds of patients in agony.
It’s another to listen to your superior officer and his ex-Decepticon lover have a bit of a domestic while you are two rooms over, trying not to overhear them and failing miserably.
It’s quick, but brutal, and First Aid tries to make himself look busy as Ratchet first snaps at Ultra Magnus, then comes storming into the medbay proper like he has a shaft stuck sideways up his aft. He has a look like he wants someone to blame other than the face he sees in the mirror, and whoever frags him off first is going to be the recipient of an angry artillery.
“I’m transferring Megatron’s care to you,” Ratchet says, as though it isn’t obvious such a thing is going to happen anyway. “I have little doubt he doesn’t want to see me, but he still needs monitoring for the next couple of days.”
First Aid nods, like the obedient subordinate he is, but not so obedient he can’t call out Ratchet when Ratchet deserves it. Like now. “Do you still think you made the right call?”
Ratchet gives him a sharp look. “We’re medics. It’s our duty to save our patients.”
First Aid hums a non-committal noise. “And if you were making that decision as his medic and not his lover, maybe I’d be inclined to agree.” He pretends to be busy reorganizing the top of the desk, making perfect right angles of his datapads and his styluses. “We don’t always know what’s best.”
Medics have to be arrogant, to a certain degree. They have to be confident. They have to be sure. Medics who constantly second-guess their diagnoses and treatment options don’t survive to be medics very long. Primus knows, Ratchet carries arrogance like a mantle, and to a certain extent, it’s warranted.
He’s apparently drawing on it now.
“Saving a patient’s life is always the best choice,” Ratchet snaps, as if First Aid had suggested taking Megatron out back and giving him a quick execution. Which, to be fair, is probably what a great many mechs would have suggested, only for an entirely different reason than the matter at hand.
First Aid lifts his gaze, meets his mentor optics straightforward. “Are you convincing me or yourself?”
Ratchet’s optics narrow, but then he straightens and taps his audial, activating his comm on a frequency First Aid can’t hear. He’s too polite to hack it either, though it’s well within his capabilities. The war has taught him a great many things he never knew he needed.
He vents a sigh, and his shoulders sag. An expression flickers across his face -- resignation -- and Ratchet drops his hand from his comm.
“Something I need to know?” First Aid asks.
“It should make you feel better that I’ve received a formal reprimand. Again,” Ratchet says with a grunt and a sour tone. “As if Megatron chastising me isn’t enough, Ultra Magnus has decided he needs to get involved, too.”
First Aid debates how he wants to reply before settling on, “To be fair, Megatron does have the right to file charges, if he wants. You knew his wishes. You chose to act against them.”
Ratchet’s jaw sets. He puffs back up, returning that mantle of arrogance to his shoulders. “I chose to save his life. I’m still confused why that’s the wrong choice to make.” He spins around and stomps out of the medical bay with all the outrage he can muster.
First Aid sighs and goes back to work.
It’s a fragging mess full of gray areas, and he’s not surprised Megatron is at the root of it. Things are always complicated when it comes to the former warlord.
And it doesn’t look like that is ever going to change.
