[IDW] Casualty 02/03
Nov. 25th, 2019 06:11 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 Two
Megatron doesn’t know what’s in the fluids attached to his lines. Energon, he assumes, and possibly a sedative of some kind, because time slips away from him a bit.
He’s in recharge, and he’s not. He can’t recharge for longer than a few hours of time, and he wakes up from the bursts of sleep with nightmares shaking his frame, making his spark rattle in his chassis.
Some of them he remembers.
Some of them he’s glad he can’t.
The purges based on actual events are the worst. They are vivid. Visceral. He’s trapped in the mines, he’s strapped to a table, he’s under fire, he’s blown to pieces. He lives, and he dies, and he lives again. It’s a cycle he can’t escape.
He feels helpless in the wake of them, these foes he can’t fight with traditional means. There’s no one to attack. There’s nothing to hurt. There’s no weapon he can wield. It’s as if a wall has a been broken, a dam burst, and everything held behind them rushes out to swallow him, heedless of his own efforts to escape.
It’s the mine collapse which haunts him the most.
Safety precautions in the mines had always been spoken but unheeded. Supervisors pretended they wanted the workers to be safe and efficient, but truthfully, they wanted production doubled and output tripled, and they didn’t care if their workers died or if the conditions were unsafe. Mines collapsed. Workers died.
They replaced them quickly enough, often within hours. Sometimes, they hauled the corpses away, sometimes they had to look at the empty frame of their fallen brethren until the end of a shift, and could carry the mech out themselves. No one cared about the cold-constructed mechs made to live and die in the dangerous dark.
Megatron isn’t sure how long he spent buried in rubble. He remembers the fall of debris knocking him unconscious, rattling his processor. His chronometer hadn’t functioned. His GPS had spun and spun, too deep to give him a location. His comms crackled and spat a lack of connection.
He knew they wouldn’t find him. He didn’t know if they’d bother to look. The section of mine they’d had him digging had been mostly emptied, with Megatron’s crew tasked to carve out the last bits of what remained before they were reassigned elsewhere. The tunnel was unstable. They all knew it.
Megatron had argued with their superior. While his fellow miners worked with hollow optics and creaking frames, Megatron had tried to inject logic into a situation where greed ruled.
They punished him.
They sent him to work at the deepest end of the tunnel. The most unstable. It came as no surprise when the tunnel collapsed.
Megatron expected to offline there. What was one more drone lost to them? Especially one so troublesome. They were too far from the surface for anyone to care what happened to those constructed cold. He was created for this purpose. If he died for this purpose, then he died doing what he was made to do.
No one cared. He was a nothing.
His vents clogged with debris and dust. His system ran into a dangerous level of overheating. His biolights flickered, and the silence of the tunnel wrapped around him. Silent save for the frantic whines of his engine, the pulsing of his spark in his audials.
He clawed his way free. He beat at the stones, dug his fingers into the debris, broke struts and limbs and pushed through the pain, because if he was going to die, it would be clawing for freedom, not waiting for help that wouldn’t come.
In his nightmares, he doesn’t escape. He offlines choking on grit, energon pooling around his damaged frame, alone in the dark, knowing how little he mattered in the cog of the great Cybertronian machine.
Sometimes, he wakes when the cave-in crashes down on his head. Sometimes, he wakes when he starts suffocating on his own frame. Sometimes, it’s when his spark snuffs out.
Sometimes, he onlines swallowing a scream.
The knowledge of Chromedome’s needles on the back of his neck attract other nightmares, other things he doesn’t want to remember. The betrayal stings fierce and fresh.
It’s clear he won’t find any rest in the medical bay.
When First Aid comes into the room a few days after his admission -- and during which he’s not seen Ratchet once -- Megatron has swung his legs over the side of the berth. He’s disconnected himself from most of the machines and is struggling with the last.
“Those are attached for a reason,” First Aid says. He doesn’t have a mouth, but his expression gives off the effect of frowning. He clutches a cube of energon.
“I’m discharging myself.” Megatron manages to yank the last one free with a grunt, and a shriek of alarm from one of the machines.
First Aid immediately moves to turn it off, shifting them into blessed silence. “I would advise against that,” he says, but he doesn’t try to intercept Megatron or shove him back toward the dangling lines.
He’s a medic with sense, apparently. Perhaps Ratchet should be taking lessons from his apprentice.
“Your advice is noted. I’m not staying here any longer,” Megatron says. He rises from the berth, takes a moment to find his balance on unsteady limbs, and makes for the door.
First Aid doesn’t try to get in his way. “If you have any questions or need anything, my comms are always open.”
He follows Megatron at a polite distance.
“Please rest as much as you can. You’re still recovering,” First Aid says.
“I appreciate the concern,” Megatron lies, and he steps out of the medical bay before First Aid can say anything else. It feels like there is something dark and dangerous nipping at his heels, and unease coils in his tanks, not quite as violently as the day he first woke, but waiting in the wings to strike.
He heads straight for his private hab-suite. He has no intention of interacting with anyone, and as he’s been removed from the duty schedule ‘until further notice’ according to the message in his inbox, he has nothing else to do. He wants to be alone and right now, his habsuite is the only place he can be certain no Autobots will bother him.
Or so he thought.
Megatron keys open his door, and Ratchet looks up at him like a misbehaving newspark caught in the act. Anger flashes hot and fiery through Megatron’s systems, like the aftermath of an artillery sweep.
“Get out,” Megatron growls, his hands forming into fists at his side.
Ratchet picks up a meshcloth and tucks it away. “You should still be in the medical bay,” he says, and the flash of a scan hits Megatron, making his field tingle.
He snarls. “That’s not for you to decide.” Megatron steps out of the doorway so Ratchet has no excuse. He points to the door. “Get the frag out right now.”
Ratchet’s optics narrow. He has the audacity to scowl, as though Megatron is the rude one in this circumstance. “We need to talk.”
“If I talk to you right now, I’m going to hurt you,” Megatron snaps, because it’s growing inside him, threatening to swallow him, the urge to blame someone for his pain, and Ratchet being an easy target. Easier still with part of the fault lying on his shoulders. “I’m trying not to do that right now. So how about you actually listen to me for once and give me some damned space!”
He’s shouting by the end. Enough to draw a crowd. Perhaps even security. Megatron doesn’t care. He’ll ping Ultra Magnus if he has to.
He’s shaking. It alarms him that he’s shaking. He’s not ready for this at all.
Ratchet works his jaw, and he reeks of guilt, but instead of allowing it to define his actions, he pulls on anger instead. He storms across the room, heading for the door.
“You were trapped in your mind,” he says, defensive. “I did what I thought was best.”
Megatron steps in the doorway once Ratchet is beyond it. “You made that choice for you, not me. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise,” he snaps, and slams his hand on the panel, closing the door before Ratchet can reply.
He stands there for a moment, Ratchet’s face echoing in his short-term memory, the taste of Ratchet’s field on the tip of his own. There’d been an urge, however brief, to let himself fall into Ratchet’s arms. He’d started to think of them as a place of safety.
He’s shaking. His vents have increased to a dangerous rate. He’s cold, which is odd to him. The tips of his fingers tingle. There’s a sensation of panic at the edge of his spark, but there’s no battle before him.
Megatron is unfamiliar with all of this.
He stumbles to his berth, vaguely acknowledging that his habsuite smells as if it’s been freshly cleaned and tidied. He collapses onto the new berth cover, sprawls onto the thick padding, and his engine reaches an uncomfortable pitch.
He offlines his optics to quell the rising nausea. His armor clatters. He remembers the dark and the cold. He remembers the helplessness of the mines, and how it felt to be nothing. He remembers the pain.
He has no choice but to remember the pain. He can’t chase the memories away. They’re there, in his active memory queue.
Megatron works his intake. His mouth is dry.
This has to be Chromedome’s fault. Surely the Autobot has done something to him. Rather than repair him, he’s decided to torture Megatron by reminding him of his failures, of his worst moments.
He won’t call for help. He won’t. He hadn’t then, he won’t now.
He’d rather die.
~
Ratchet doesn’t know what to call the emotion churning inside of him. Anger is there. Frustration, too. Guilt circles around the wild tide, herding everything else in his spark. Megatron’s words echo in his audials.
Ah, and yes, there’s the concern.
Megatron looked exhausted. It wreathed his frame like a secondary layer of armor. Clearly, he hasn’t recharged soundly since they pulled him from the purge cycle. And why isn’t he still in the medical bay? He should be under observation.
He can’t ask Megatron.
Ratchet heads for his own habsuite, but he pings First Aid on the way.
“I already know what you’re going to ask, and I’m going to tell you that it’s none of your business because he’s my patient now,” First Aid says, in a sharp tone Ratchet is unaccustomed to hearing from the other medic. “He left by personal request, and I felt we owed it to him to allow whatever he wanted.”
Ratchet snarls, though First Aid can’t see him. “He’s a patient. He doesn’t know what he needs.”
“That’s what you keep telling yourself, I know,” First Aid says, and there’s chastisement in his tone, thick enough that Ratchet startles. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Ratchet. I was on Delphi for a long time without you. I know what I’m doing.”
Ratchet halts in the corridor, in front of the big portside windows, where stars rush by, too quick to identify. “Clearly not, if you allowed a mech who recently underwent processor surgery to walk out of your medbay.”
“Your guilt is not my fault,” First Aid snaps, and Ratchet is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. It rings through the comm. “I know why you chose what you did, but that doesn’t excuse you from it. You taught me about a patient’s right to choose, how we can’t save those who don’t want to be saved.”
“This and that are two different situations,” Ratchet retorts.
“No, they’re not, and if you don’t quit lying to yourself about it, there won’t be anything left for you to salvage.” First Aid vents loud enough for it to translate over the comm. “We all know how Megatron would have picked for himself, and you know more than anyone. You opted to save his life for yourself, not for him.”
Ratchet grinds his denta, swearing he can taste sparks on his glossa. “Saving lives is what we do.”
There’s a moment of silence, so quiet the connection crackles with it. “Patient care doesn’t always mean saving their sparks,” First Aid says after a long, long moment, his voice quiet and aching. “You’re the one who told me that.”
It’s Ratchet’s turn to be silent. The twisting churn of emotion inside of him is as noisy as his conscience, which is starting to sound a lot like First Aid.
“Just take care of him,” Ratchet says, gruff, and ends the comm.
He shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation, trying to get himself under control. It’s not often he second-guesses a choice. He hasn’t had the luxury of second-guessing in a long time. In war-time, decisions are made in a split-second and living with the consequences an inevitability. He’s usually too busy trying to survive, and hold together the soldiers around him, to linger on said consequences and their attached guilt.
Peace leaves too much time for dwelling.
He doesn’t know what makes him angrier. That he knows First Aid is right, and technically, Ratchet made the wrong call by all the regulations of a medic’s vow. Or that he made the call not because it was best for Megatron, but because Ratchet couldn’t stand there and watch Megatron die.
Because he cares.
He hates that he does, but it’s there, nestled in a quiet corner of his spark. He cares for Megatron. He cares for a mech responsible for the death of millions.
Ratchet sighs and presses on, back toward his habsuite. His head aches, his spark aches, and there’s a bottle of high grade calling his designation.
Unfortunately, it’s not his to be had today. Because a dressing down from Ultra Magnus and First Aid are not enough. Now Bluestreak lies in wait outside of his habsuite, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess why the sniper is here.
“Don’t give me that look,” Bluestreak says before Ratchet can so much as open his mouth. He lifts a bottle into view and gives it a wiggle. “I brought a bribe.”
Ratchet peers at the label, and well, Bluestreak knows him too well. It’s a damn good bribe. “Are you going to leave the bottle when you’re done?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Come in.”
Might as well get this over with.
Ratchet keys them into his habsuite and rummages around in a cabinet. He has something that can serve as a cup, he’s sure.
“We can drink out of the bottle, Ratchet. You don’t have to be hospitable,” Bluestreak says with a chuckle. “It’s mostly for you. I don’t even expect you to share. It was just a bribe to get me in the door, since we both know how much you hate talking about feelings.”
Ratchet snorts. “Just because it comes easy to you--”
“It’s not easy,” Bluestreak interrupts, but it’s so quiet it doesn’t feel rude. “But it’s necessary. And who else on this ship is going to get where you’re coming from? Most of the mechs play in the things we do, but no one is as serious as we are. Except maybe Rung, but I know you’re not going to talk to him.”
Frag that. Rung sees too much, and talking to Rung feels like he’s getting a dressing down from a superior officer or a caretaker or one of his teachers. Ratchet loves Rung, considers Rung one of his best friends, but there is no one who pulls off a disappointed look quite like Rung, and Ratchet would rather hold on to his confidence a little while longer.
Ratchet closes the cabinet, and Bluestreak is there, offering him the bottle, cork already removed. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite?” Ratchet accepts it, immediately taking a swig of the thick, syrupy-sweet engex. His one indulgence, this carefully guarded secret.
“You didn’t have to. I already knew.” Bluestreak smiles, but it turns serious. “Tell me about Megatron.”
“Don’t you already know?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
Ratchet sighs and scrubs at his forehead. He stumbles to his berth, sits on the edge of it, and Bluestreak plops down next to him, attentive.
“He was dying,” Ratchet says, and taps into his clinical side, to try and forget the panic-worry-fear he’d felt when the realization struck him. “I made a choice that saved his life.”
“I think that’s a gross oversimplification.”
Ratchet side-eyes Bluestreak. “That so?”
Bluestreak plucks the engex bottle from his hands and takes a swig, only to make a disgusted face. “Ugh. Don’t know how you drink this.” He hands it back and gives Ratchet a long look. “You saved his life, against what you knew would be his better wishes, because you didn’t want him to die. You wanted him to live, to be with you, for your own sake.”
Is there an echo on this damn ship?
Ratchet frowns and fiddles with the engex bottle, picking at the peeling label with two fine manipulators from his fingertips. “Yeah,” he admits, to Bluestreak alone. “And don’t think I’m unaware of how obscenely stupid and terrible that is.”
“He might not be the best choice of someone to fall in love with, but I don’t think the love itself is terrible,” Bluestreak says. “Up til now, you were good for each other.”
Ratchet snorts.
“Well, it’s true. Maybe it’s because the war is over, or maybe it’s because you found someone you can connect with on a level you haven’t managed with anyone else -- Drift doesn’t count, that’s different, I know it is, so don’t you start,” Bluestreak says before Ratchet can even open his mouth. He’s too perceptive for his own damn good. “But that you can look past what he’s done, to see what he is and what he’s trying to be, that’s not a bad thing.”
Ratchet takes another swig, lets the thick heat of it settle in his tanks. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Either way, I’m pretty sure it’s over.”
“You had to know he wasn’t going to react well.” Bluestreak makes a thoughtful noise. “Then again, better that he’s alive and hates you, then dead and apart from you, hm?”
Ratchet snorts again.
“Yeah, I figured that.” Bluestreak’s quiet for a moment, but Ratchet knows that means he’s readying his most powerful weapon. “We have a responsibility, Ratchet. If there’s one thing we’re never supposed to do, it’s betray the trust of our submissives. That’s the number one rule. You as good as ignored his safe word.”
And there it is.
Ratchet tightens his grip on the bottle, Bluestreak’s words precision missiles right into the center of the thickest knot of guilt in his chassis. The engex tastes sour on his glossa. Ratchet caps the bottle and stares at the floor.
“You decided you knew what was best for him because yes, you love him and you want him to live, but we both know it wasn’t just that,” Bluestreak continues, because he’s a sniper and he always aims for the tenderest spots. “You’re the Autobot’s best medic. You’re the Dominant in your sessions. You are the righteous one because he’s the defeated Decepticon, the great and terrible Megatron. You can dress it up however you like, but you and I both know, what you did wasn’t for him. It was a selfish choice for you.”
“Enough,” Ratchet says, and he pushes up from the berth, his vents quickening, and an iron grip on his spark, squeezing and squeezing. The bottle creaks in his grip, and he has to set it down before he shatters it.
Such a vintage is rare now. With Cybertron still in ruins -- thanks to Megatron, he mustn’t forget that -- it’s likely Ratchet will never see it again.
Bluestreak’s field is gentle, sympathetic even, as it brushes against Ratchet’s. “You owe him an apology. And you probably need to accept that whatever you had is over. I don’t know Megatron, but he doesn’t seem the type to take betrayal lightly.”
“Yes. I know. I’m fragging lucky he hasn’t knocked my head off,” Ratchet growls. He cycles several ventilations, trying to ease the tightness in his chassis.
“For what it’s worth, I’m not so sure I would’ve chosen different, if I’d been in your position,” Bluestreak says, and his voice is warm again. Friendly, too. He rises from the berth, resting a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. “I’m not good at letting go either.”
Ratchet snorts and slungs an arm over the sniper’s shoulder, pulling him into a hug at his side. “Didn’t stop you from eviscerating me with logic and sense.”
“Well, this and that are two different things.” Bluestreak slides around and pulls Ratchet into an embrace. “You know where to find me if you want to talk some more. But as for Megatron, leave him alone. Give him space. Maybe you two can work it out, maybe you can’t. That’s the choice you made. Don’t blame him for it.”
Ratchet sighs and allows the embrace. He doesn’t blame Megatron at all.
He blames himself.
~
Megatron wakes.
Exhaustion lingers in every line, every strut, every cable. He forces himself out of the berth, forces himself to swallow mid-grade -- not fool’s energon, not anymore, and the reminder of another lie makes the midgrade sour on his gossa.
His limbs tremble. He stares at them until they obey his command. He wrests control of himself through sheer willpower.
He has a shift. It’s on a trial basis, according to Ultra Magnus, who hadn’t wanted Megatron to return to his duties yet, but had conceded when Megatron reminded him that it was choice. Autobots can be predictable if you tap the right guilt complex.
He needs something to feel normal again.
Megatron shows up on the bridge, takes report from Ultra Magnus, and settles into the routine. It should be a quiet shift. They’re following one of the vague directions from the information they found on Clandestine, and while most of it hasn’t panned out, they’ve been hopeful.
Megatron knows he’s not the only one waiting for some weird and outrageous event to find them. If there’s one thing Rodimus and the Lost Light excel at, it’s being found by trouble. It’s an inevitability.
Focus is slippery. The lights are too bright. The beep and hum of the consoles are too loud, the murmured conversation like a grating aggravation on his sensors. He paces, because he can’t stay still, and he focuses on his ventilations.
It’s one shift.
He reviews data. He advises an alternate route around a debris cluster. He reads through the reports of what’s transpired on the ship in the past week or so, when he was out of commission. He ignores the sideways glances the crew toss his way. No one is foolish enough to ask him a direct question.
Megatron might have gone the entire shift without incident, proud at himself for the mask he cobbled together, if his idiotic crew hadn’t decided to play grenade tag in the lower levels again, setting off the alarms. They spring to life in the bridge, flashing orange and yellow, bright and shrill, and Megatron snaps out of his fugue.
His spark surges into overdrive. He whirls toward the console, optics wide, and Jackpot releases a squeak of panic as he fumbles to cut off the alarm.
“Primus,” Jackpot says with a laugh that betrays his nervousness. “Hate it when that happens. You think they’d learn, right, sir?” He gives Megatron a lopsided grin.
He’s shrunk back against the console. His optics are wide. Probably because Megatron is looming over him. He doesn’t remember striding across the bridge. He’s not sure when he came within reach of Jackpot, but here it is.
He backs up. He nods. He gathers control of himself, and pretends everything is fine.
“Send security down to take names and issue a reprimand,” Megatron says, and his proud of himself for the control in his vocals.
“Already done, sir,” says Jackpot.
Megatron nods and steps further back. He retreats all the way to the central console, and on the outside, everything is fine, while inside he’s a storming rage of barely concealed emotion.
He tries to unknot his armor, but it clings to his substructure, as if subconsciously he’s preparing for battle. The empty socket for his fusion cannon clicks into readiness and honks at him when the weapon isn’t found. His spark pounds, distressed without understanding why, and adrenaline pumps through his system at an alarming rate.
There’s no battle, but his spark and frame and defensive protocols are convinced otherwise. Every sound heralds a possible attack. Every shift of motion in his peripheral is a threat he must assess.
Surrounded by Autobots, is it any wonder he doesn’t feel safe?
When Rodimus arrives, early no less, Megatron hates himself for feeling relieved, for being glad to see the obnoxious younger mech. They’ve come to an accord, he and Rodimus, but he knows Rodimus resents his presence, as much as Megatron considers him a poor substitute for Optimus.
They’re working on it.
“You look like slag,” Rodimus says, with a complete lack of tact. “Maybe think about actually taking the rest you’re supposed to be getting.”
“Nice of you to care,” Megatron grunts and hands him the command datapad, not that there’s anything to report, save for the tag-grenade idiots, but he thinks Ultra Magnus will be more inclined to deal with those. “I’m fine.”
Rodimus arches an orbital ridge. He very pointedly looks Megatron up and down. “You look like you’re about to fall over. And I can’t believe these words are about to come out of my mouth, but I’m fragging worried about you.” His frown deepens and he taps his chin. “Try to actually get some rest or something?”
Megatron cycles his optics. Rodimus’ words and his tone match. That’s genuine concern. It throws him for a loop.
“I’m fine,” he lies.
“Yeah. Sure you are.” Rodimus logs in to the console, tapping himself on duty. “I’ll just take my concern and stuff it then.” His spoiler flicks, up and down, and in that moment, he reminds Megatron a lot of Starscream.
The parallels are uncanny.
A host of retorts rise on Megatron’s glossa. He voices none of them. He heads back to his habsuite instead, thinking only of collapsing on his berth in deference to the exhaustion plaguing him.
He’s handling this on his own. He’s fine. He doesn’t need Autobot sympathy.
He’s fine.
~
“Megatron looked like he was about to fall over. Anything you want to tell me?” Rodimus’ comm nudges Ratchet out of his haze of concentration.
He cycles his optics and sits up, rubbing his temples. Ratchet sits back from the broken scanner he’s been crouched over for the past three hours.
It’s an effective distraction. Both from the circumstances, and from the half-consumed bottle of rare engex Bluestreak left for him.
“You already know what happened,” Ratchet says, acknowledging the comm.
“Yeah, but I assumed that you, being his lover and all, and being a medic, would be taking care of him,” Rodimus says, and though his tone isn’t chastising, there’s an implication in his words.
It’s a humiliating burn. That Rodimus, irresponsible Rodimus, is chastising Ratchet, and it makes sense.
“I will be,” Ratchet says, and rises to wipe his hands and make himself presentable. “Provided he wants me to.”
“Right. Well. You get right on that,” Rodimus says with an air of authority that seems to be coming easier to him these days. Apparently, all he needed was a rival in the form of Megatron to get his gears in, well, gear. “Rodimus, out.”
Ratchet sighs.
He retrieves some energon for Megatron, as both a peace offering and an excuse to visit. He runs through several conversational openers, and is frustrated when none of them seem viable.
Bad luck strikes on his way to Megatron’s habsuite as he passes by Ultra Magnus just as the larger mech is stepping out of his own quarters, only partially distracted by a datapad in hand. He looks up as Ratchet comes close enough for brief field contact, and Ratchet resents just a little how well Ultra Magnus is at schooling his expressions.
“I suppose I will only need one guess as to your destination,” Ultra Magnus rumbles.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation. “If it makes you feel better, Rodimus all but ordered me to.”
“Rodimus does not know how to address the finer details of your relationship, especially how it relates to the current situation.” Ultra Magnus levels him with a look that makes it hard for Ratchet to remember he’s actually Minimus Ambus deep down inside. “Megatron needs time and space. If you give him neither, you will not like the end result.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.” Sheer force of will keeps Ratchet from scowling. “Don’t you worry, Magnus. I’m bringing him energon because he needs it. I’ll even leave it outside the door if he ignores me.”
Ultra Magnus tilts his head. “You will let him go?”
“If he wants me to.” Primus, but he hates talking about his private life with others. He hates even more that his private life has intersected into something necessarily public. “I’ll understand if he wants to dissolve our… relationship.” Yes, that’s him, stumbling over his words like an idiot. “But I’ll still help him if he needs it. If he asks.”
“Hm,” Ultra Magnus says, and a mech like him can make a simple glyph sound like an incredibly lengthy sentence. He dips his head, barely, then says, “Carry on.”
“Glad I could get your permission,” Ratchet drawls. He steps past Ultra Magnus, trying to pull on his dignity from the tatters that remain.
Ultra Magnus lets him go.
Ratchet’s certainty lasts for the half-dozen steps it takes for him to round the corridor and arrive at Megatron’s hab-suite. He braces himself, unsure how he’ll be received, and pings the door.
“I’ve brought energon,” he says, to explain himself. “If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave it outside the door.”
He waits.
He knows Megatron is inside. He’d checked. He’s not talking to thin air.
He waits a few minutes more. Silence.
Well. He tried.
Ratchet sets down the energon and turns to go. He only manages a few steps before the door clicks open behind him. Ratchet turns back, stifling a pang of worry as he gets a glimpse of Megatron, who’s crouched to pick up the energon.
He looks exhausted, optics dim, armor clamped so tightly, Ratchet wonders if he’s properly ventilating. There’s weariness in the slump of his shoulders, the tremble of his fingers, and his field keeps slipping from his control, allowing Ratchet samples of his mental state.
It’s not good.
Ratchet’s first instinct is to draw Megatron into his arms, to soothe the anxiety and pain away, and he closes his hands into fists, tucks them at his side. He can’t do those things. He surrendered that privilege.
“You have five minutes,” Megatron says, and steps back into his room, leaving the door open.
Well. He’d better not waste the invitation.
“Thank you,” Ratchet says, hovering in the doorway. He doesn’t feel like an invitation has been extended to fully enter. He cycles a ventilation, all of his carefully rehearsed lines escaping his memory. “How are you?”
“I am not answering that question,” Megatron replies with a snort. His habsuite is dim, the lights barely at twenty percent, and the draping shadows are eerie.
Fair enough.
Ratchet works his jaw. He braces himself. No point in pretending there isn’t a combiner in the corner. “You’re right. I made the wrong decision because I wanted to save you, not because I knew it’s what you wanted.” He pauses, pushing himself past the urge to hide behind his pride. “I’ll apologize for betraying your trust, but I’m not sorry you’re not dead. And I’m not sorry you're free of whatever nightmare trapped you.”
There. A decent medium.
Megatron stands in the middle of his habsuite, and his stance is defensive. Prepared. Like a mech about to storm the battlefield. Ratchet aches to see it.
“No. Instead, you’ve trapped me in my own frame,” Megatron says, and the last emerges with a growl.
Oh.
Oh, of course.
Ratchet hasn’t been here, and he doubts Megatron has been willing to listen. No one’s explained to him the aftereffects of treating a purge-loop, or what it would have done to his frame and subconscious. Ratchet recognizes the side-effects, can see them written all over Megatron’s frame, and he can’t imagine what dark memories the experience has brought to life for Megatron now.
He doubts Megatron is equipped to deal with them either.
“You need to talk to First Aid,” Ratchet says with a wince. “I know you don’t want to hear it from me, but he’ll explain it for you. Whatever you’re feeling right now, it’s normal.” He swallows a sigh. “Both as a side-effect of the mneumosurgery, and as lingering echoes of the purge-loop.”
Crimson optics narrow like slits of accusation. “Is that your way of telling me it’s technically not your fault?”
“No. I accept the blame,” Ratchet says. He’s a coward in many things, but not this.
“Well, at least you’re honest about something.” Megatron’s voice is like tires over gravel. He lifts the cube of energon, eyeing it pointedly. “Should I be worried about contaminants? Fool’s energon maybe?”
Ratchet winces.
“I deserved that.”
“And more,” Megatron says, but he flicks open the cap and takes a sip of the cube, his gaze falling away, dismissive. “Your apology is noted. I’ll speak with First Aid.”
But not accepted. He supposes that’s as much as he deserves.
Ratchet inclines his head. He cycles a ventilation. “Thank you.” He shifts his weight, swallowing the urge to yell, to defend himself, to shout all the arguments he’s told himself over and over again. “I'll leave you be.”
Megatron doesn’t tell him otherwise. Doesn’t protest when Ratchet steps out of the doorway to leave. Doesn’t watch him go.
Well.
Ratchet squares his shoulder. He’s got a little bit of dignity left.
“Thank you for the energon,” Megatron says, and the door shuts behind Ratchet, closing him off from the closest thing he’s had to a relationship in centuries. It could have meant something. Or maybe it’s a pipe dream.
Megatron is, after all, Megatron. And Ratchet is Ratchet. Decepticon and Autobot. Murderer and medic.
Maybe this is for the best.
~
It’s mid-grade. It’s spiced to his preference. It’s been subtly warmed.
Megatron supposes Rodimus is the one to blame for Ratchet’s appearance at his door. He can’t imagine the medic would have shown up on his own.
The apology was expected. Autobots are good at apologies. As good as they are at guilt. Remorse? Well, that’s a different story. Autobots are full of apologies, but they never change.
Who’s the fool here?
It must be Megatron.
“Are you done with the Autobot then?”
Megatron startles, his spark leaping into his intake. His armor clatters. The shadows in the dim of the room coalesce into a quadrapedal shape, dim optics brightening.
Ravage tilts his head with a slow-blink. “I apologize. I thought you knew I was here.”
“I should have,” Megatron says. He toys with the cube, spins it in his fingers, contemplating what it means. Or perhaps, sometimes a cube of energon is just a cube of energon.
Not everything has a second meaning, Rung.
“It’s none of your business,” Megatron adds, after a moment, which is as much true as the fact Megatron doesn’t have an answer to the question. Because he’s a fool.
He’s been trying to break himself of the habit of lying to himself. So he’ll admit, quietly and to himself, why the feelings of betrayal are so sharp and heavy. Because he cares for Ratchet. He has affection for Ratchet. If he knew what love was, Megatron might even claim to feel it for Ratchet.
Betrayal hurts the most when it’s wielded by someone you dared trust. Megatron had given Ratchet something he rarely gave anyone, had attempted something with Ratchet he’d never dare attempt with anyone, and he’d known better, but he’d done it anyway. He’d wanted it so much, and he’d thought Ratchet was someone he could trust with it.
Trust, in general, he rarely offered. This trust, specifically, had been given to no one.
This is the thanks he gets. This is how it’s treated. He doesn’t know if this betrayal is forgivable. Surmountable. He doesn’t know if he can forgive.
The anger is too heavy. Sharp and burning in his lines. Eating him from the inside out.
The war began because of stolen choices. Another one has been taken from him now. And it is now, as it had been, by the hands of an Autobot. War or no war.
“Do you want my opinion?” Ravage asks, with an even tone Megatron envies.
“You’re going to offer it anyway.” Megatron sighs and sets the energon down, half-consumed as it is. He’s suddenly lost what little appetite he had.
Ravage offers a toothy smirk. “About this plan you don’t have.”
“I’m listening.”
“Imagine how much there is to gain knowing you effectively have the CMO of the Autobots wrapped around your finger.” Ravage rises to pace across the floor in front of him, slow and measured, like stalking prey. “Knowing that when you reach the end, you’ll have him arguing for you, and Ultra Magnus also, the honorable idiot.”
Megatron frowns. “His honor doesn’t make him an idiot.”
“To each their own.” Ravage’s shoulders lift in a shrug, and he gives Megatron a piercing look. “Notice how you didn’t comment on Ratchet.”
Megatron grinds his denta. He toys with the energon again, staring at mid-grade which no longer carries the taint of Fool’s Energon, because Ratchet had come clean about that particular lie as well.
“You suggest I make use of his guilt,” Megatron says.
“Why not?” Ravage cocks an orbital ridge and his talons go clack-clack on the polished floor. “He’s only an Autobot. It’s not as though you have genuine feelings for him. For any of them.”
Megatron thins his lips. It would be so much easier to give in to the rage, to let himself soak in the disappointment and the anger and the betrayal. He could scream about his rightness as he destroyed everything around him, until he emerged from the rubble and death with nothing to show for his pain.
It would be easier.
If he didn’t care so fragging much.
He fiddles with the cube again.
“I’ll decide what to do about Ratchet,” Megatron says, at length, because the choice hovers in front of him, colliding with the reality of the situation, and the cage they’ve made for him. “It remains to be seen what he’s worth.”
Ravage snorts. “As you say.”
He’s gone between one vent and the next. Unsurprisingly.
Megatron is left to stare at the wall, lost in contemplation. He’s more than aware he has a choice to make.
For better or worse.
***
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.
Megatron doesn’t know what’s in the fluids attached to his lines. Energon, he assumes, and possibly a sedative of some kind, because time slips away from him a bit.
He’s in recharge, and he’s not. He can’t recharge for longer than a few hours of time, and he wakes up from the bursts of sleep with nightmares shaking his frame, making his spark rattle in his chassis.
Some of them he remembers.
Some of them he’s glad he can’t.
The purges based on actual events are the worst. They are vivid. Visceral. He’s trapped in the mines, he’s strapped to a table, he’s under fire, he’s blown to pieces. He lives, and he dies, and he lives again. It’s a cycle he can’t escape.
He feels helpless in the wake of them, these foes he can’t fight with traditional means. There’s no one to attack. There’s nothing to hurt. There’s no weapon he can wield. It’s as if a wall has a been broken, a dam burst, and everything held behind them rushes out to swallow him, heedless of his own efforts to escape.
It’s the mine collapse which haunts him the most.
Safety precautions in the mines had always been spoken but unheeded. Supervisors pretended they wanted the workers to be safe and efficient, but truthfully, they wanted production doubled and output tripled, and they didn’t care if their workers died or if the conditions were unsafe. Mines collapsed. Workers died.
They replaced them quickly enough, often within hours. Sometimes, they hauled the corpses away, sometimes they had to look at the empty frame of their fallen brethren until the end of a shift, and could carry the mech out themselves. No one cared about the cold-constructed mechs made to live and die in the dangerous dark.
Megatron isn’t sure how long he spent buried in rubble. He remembers the fall of debris knocking him unconscious, rattling his processor. His chronometer hadn’t functioned. His GPS had spun and spun, too deep to give him a location. His comms crackled and spat a lack of connection.
He knew they wouldn’t find him. He didn’t know if they’d bother to look. The section of mine they’d had him digging had been mostly emptied, with Megatron’s crew tasked to carve out the last bits of what remained before they were reassigned elsewhere. The tunnel was unstable. They all knew it.
Megatron had argued with their superior. While his fellow miners worked with hollow optics and creaking frames, Megatron had tried to inject logic into a situation where greed ruled.
They punished him.
They sent him to work at the deepest end of the tunnel. The most unstable. It came as no surprise when the tunnel collapsed.
Megatron expected to offline there. What was one more drone lost to them? Especially one so troublesome. They were too far from the surface for anyone to care what happened to those constructed cold. He was created for this purpose. If he died for this purpose, then he died doing what he was made to do.
No one cared. He was a nothing.
His vents clogged with debris and dust. His system ran into a dangerous level of overheating. His biolights flickered, and the silence of the tunnel wrapped around him. Silent save for the frantic whines of his engine, the pulsing of his spark in his audials.
He clawed his way free. He beat at the stones, dug his fingers into the debris, broke struts and limbs and pushed through the pain, because if he was going to die, it would be clawing for freedom, not waiting for help that wouldn’t come.
In his nightmares, he doesn’t escape. He offlines choking on grit, energon pooling around his damaged frame, alone in the dark, knowing how little he mattered in the cog of the great Cybertronian machine.
Sometimes, he wakes when the cave-in crashes down on his head. Sometimes, he wakes when he starts suffocating on his own frame. Sometimes, it’s when his spark snuffs out.
Sometimes, he onlines swallowing a scream.
The knowledge of Chromedome’s needles on the back of his neck attract other nightmares, other things he doesn’t want to remember. The betrayal stings fierce and fresh.
It’s clear he won’t find any rest in the medical bay.
When First Aid comes into the room a few days after his admission -- and during which he’s not seen Ratchet once -- Megatron has swung his legs over the side of the berth. He’s disconnected himself from most of the machines and is struggling with the last.
“Those are attached for a reason,” First Aid says. He doesn’t have a mouth, but his expression gives off the effect of frowning. He clutches a cube of energon.
“I’m discharging myself.” Megatron manages to yank the last one free with a grunt, and a shriek of alarm from one of the machines.
First Aid immediately moves to turn it off, shifting them into blessed silence. “I would advise against that,” he says, but he doesn’t try to intercept Megatron or shove him back toward the dangling lines.
He’s a medic with sense, apparently. Perhaps Ratchet should be taking lessons from his apprentice.
“Your advice is noted. I’m not staying here any longer,” Megatron says. He rises from the berth, takes a moment to find his balance on unsteady limbs, and makes for the door.
First Aid doesn’t try to get in his way. “If you have any questions or need anything, my comms are always open.”
He follows Megatron at a polite distance.
“Please rest as much as you can. You’re still recovering,” First Aid says.
“I appreciate the concern,” Megatron lies, and he steps out of the medical bay before First Aid can say anything else. It feels like there is something dark and dangerous nipping at his heels, and unease coils in his tanks, not quite as violently as the day he first woke, but waiting in the wings to strike.
He heads straight for his private hab-suite. He has no intention of interacting with anyone, and as he’s been removed from the duty schedule ‘until further notice’ according to the message in his inbox, he has nothing else to do. He wants to be alone and right now, his habsuite is the only place he can be certain no Autobots will bother him.
Or so he thought.
Megatron keys open his door, and Ratchet looks up at him like a misbehaving newspark caught in the act. Anger flashes hot and fiery through Megatron’s systems, like the aftermath of an artillery sweep.
“Get out,” Megatron growls, his hands forming into fists at his side.
Ratchet picks up a meshcloth and tucks it away. “You should still be in the medical bay,” he says, and the flash of a scan hits Megatron, making his field tingle.
He snarls. “That’s not for you to decide.” Megatron steps out of the doorway so Ratchet has no excuse. He points to the door. “Get the frag out right now.”
Ratchet’s optics narrow. He has the audacity to scowl, as though Megatron is the rude one in this circumstance. “We need to talk.”
“If I talk to you right now, I’m going to hurt you,” Megatron snaps, because it’s growing inside him, threatening to swallow him, the urge to blame someone for his pain, and Ratchet being an easy target. Easier still with part of the fault lying on his shoulders. “I’m trying not to do that right now. So how about you actually listen to me for once and give me some damned space!”
He’s shouting by the end. Enough to draw a crowd. Perhaps even security. Megatron doesn’t care. He’ll ping Ultra Magnus if he has to.
He’s shaking. It alarms him that he’s shaking. He’s not ready for this at all.
Ratchet works his jaw, and he reeks of guilt, but instead of allowing it to define his actions, he pulls on anger instead. He storms across the room, heading for the door.
“You were trapped in your mind,” he says, defensive. “I did what I thought was best.”
Megatron steps in the doorway once Ratchet is beyond it. “You made that choice for you, not me. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise,” he snaps, and slams his hand on the panel, closing the door before Ratchet can reply.
He stands there for a moment, Ratchet’s face echoing in his short-term memory, the taste of Ratchet’s field on the tip of his own. There’d been an urge, however brief, to let himself fall into Ratchet’s arms. He’d started to think of them as a place of safety.
He’s shaking. His vents have increased to a dangerous rate. He’s cold, which is odd to him. The tips of his fingers tingle. There’s a sensation of panic at the edge of his spark, but there’s no battle before him.
Megatron is unfamiliar with all of this.
He stumbles to his berth, vaguely acknowledging that his habsuite smells as if it’s been freshly cleaned and tidied. He collapses onto the new berth cover, sprawls onto the thick padding, and his engine reaches an uncomfortable pitch.
He offlines his optics to quell the rising nausea. His armor clatters. He remembers the dark and the cold. He remembers the helplessness of the mines, and how it felt to be nothing. He remembers the pain.
He has no choice but to remember the pain. He can’t chase the memories away. They’re there, in his active memory queue.
Megatron works his intake. His mouth is dry.
This has to be Chromedome’s fault. Surely the Autobot has done something to him. Rather than repair him, he’s decided to torture Megatron by reminding him of his failures, of his worst moments.
He won’t call for help. He won’t. He hadn’t then, he won’t now.
He’d rather die.
Ratchet doesn’t know what to call the emotion churning inside of him. Anger is there. Frustration, too. Guilt circles around the wild tide, herding everything else in his spark. Megatron’s words echo in his audials.
Ah, and yes, there’s the concern.
Megatron looked exhausted. It wreathed his frame like a secondary layer of armor. Clearly, he hasn’t recharged soundly since they pulled him from the purge cycle. And why isn’t he still in the medical bay? He should be under observation.
He can’t ask Megatron.
Ratchet heads for his own habsuite, but he pings First Aid on the way.
“I already know what you’re going to ask, and I’m going to tell you that it’s none of your business because he’s my patient now,” First Aid says, in a sharp tone Ratchet is unaccustomed to hearing from the other medic. “He left by personal request, and I felt we owed it to him to allow whatever he wanted.”
Ratchet snarls, though First Aid can’t see him. “He’s a patient. He doesn’t know what he needs.”
“That’s what you keep telling yourself, I know,” First Aid says, and there’s chastisement in his tone, thick enough that Ratchet startles. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Ratchet. I was on Delphi for a long time without you. I know what I’m doing.”
Ratchet halts in the corridor, in front of the big portside windows, where stars rush by, too quick to identify. “Clearly not, if you allowed a mech who recently underwent processor surgery to walk out of your medbay.”
“Your guilt is not my fault,” First Aid snaps, and Ratchet is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. It rings through the comm. “I know why you chose what you did, but that doesn’t excuse you from it. You taught me about a patient’s right to choose, how we can’t save those who don’t want to be saved.”
“This and that are two different situations,” Ratchet retorts.
“No, they’re not, and if you don’t quit lying to yourself about it, there won’t be anything left for you to salvage.” First Aid vents loud enough for it to translate over the comm. “We all know how Megatron would have picked for himself, and you know more than anyone. You opted to save his life for yourself, not for him.”
Ratchet grinds his denta, swearing he can taste sparks on his glossa. “Saving lives is what we do.”
There’s a moment of silence, so quiet the connection crackles with it. “Patient care doesn’t always mean saving their sparks,” First Aid says after a long, long moment, his voice quiet and aching. “You’re the one who told me that.”
It’s Ratchet’s turn to be silent. The twisting churn of emotion inside of him is as noisy as his conscience, which is starting to sound a lot like First Aid.
“Just take care of him,” Ratchet says, gruff, and ends the comm.
He shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation, trying to get himself under control. It’s not often he second-guesses a choice. He hasn’t had the luxury of second-guessing in a long time. In war-time, decisions are made in a split-second and living with the consequences an inevitability. He’s usually too busy trying to survive, and hold together the soldiers around him, to linger on said consequences and their attached guilt.
Peace leaves too much time for dwelling.
He doesn’t know what makes him angrier. That he knows First Aid is right, and technically, Ratchet made the wrong call by all the regulations of a medic’s vow. Or that he made the call not because it was best for Megatron, but because Ratchet couldn’t stand there and watch Megatron die.
Because he cares.
He hates that he does, but it’s there, nestled in a quiet corner of his spark. He cares for Megatron. He cares for a mech responsible for the death of millions.
Ratchet sighs and presses on, back toward his habsuite. His head aches, his spark aches, and there’s a bottle of high grade calling his designation.
Unfortunately, it’s not his to be had today. Because a dressing down from Ultra Magnus and First Aid are not enough. Now Bluestreak lies in wait outside of his habsuite, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess why the sniper is here.
“Don’t give me that look,” Bluestreak says before Ratchet can so much as open his mouth. He lifts a bottle into view and gives it a wiggle. “I brought a bribe.”
Ratchet peers at the label, and well, Bluestreak knows him too well. It’s a damn good bribe. “Are you going to leave the bottle when you’re done?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Come in.”
Might as well get this over with.
Ratchet keys them into his habsuite and rummages around in a cabinet. He has something that can serve as a cup, he’s sure.
“We can drink out of the bottle, Ratchet. You don’t have to be hospitable,” Bluestreak says with a chuckle. “It’s mostly for you. I don’t even expect you to share. It was just a bribe to get me in the door, since we both know how much you hate talking about feelings.”
Ratchet snorts. “Just because it comes easy to you--”
“It’s not easy,” Bluestreak interrupts, but it’s so quiet it doesn’t feel rude. “But it’s necessary. And who else on this ship is going to get where you’re coming from? Most of the mechs play in the things we do, but no one is as serious as we are. Except maybe Rung, but I know you’re not going to talk to him.”
Frag that. Rung sees too much, and talking to Rung feels like he’s getting a dressing down from a superior officer or a caretaker or one of his teachers. Ratchet loves Rung, considers Rung one of his best friends, but there is no one who pulls off a disappointed look quite like Rung, and Ratchet would rather hold on to his confidence a little while longer.
Ratchet closes the cabinet, and Bluestreak is there, offering him the bottle, cork already removed. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite?” Ratchet accepts it, immediately taking a swig of the thick, syrupy-sweet engex. His one indulgence, this carefully guarded secret.
“You didn’t have to. I already knew.” Bluestreak smiles, but it turns serious. “Tell me about Megatron.”
“Don’t you already know?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
Ratchet sighs and scrubs at his forehead. He stumbles to his berth, sits on the edge of it, and Bluestreak plops down next to him, attentive.
“He was dying,” Ratchet says, and taps into his clinical side, to try and forget the panic-worry-fear he’d felt when the realization struck him. “I made a choice that saved his life.”
“I think that’s a gross oversimplification.”
Ratchet side-eyes Bluestreak. “That so?”
Bluestreak plucks the engex bottle from his hands and takes a swig, only to make a disgusted face. “Ugh. Don’t know how you drink this.” He hands it back and gives Ratchet a long look. “You saved his life, against what you knew would be his better wishes, because you didn’t want him to die. You wanted him to live, to be with you, for your own sake.”
Is there an echo on this damn ship?
Ratchet frowns and fiddles with the engex bottle, picking at the peeling label with two fine manipulators from his fingertips. “Yeah,” he admits, to Bluestreak alone. “And don’t think I’m unaware of how obscenely stupid and terrible that is.”
“He might not be the best choice of someone to fall in love with, but I don’t think the love itself is terrible,” Bluestreak says. “Up til now, you were good for each other.”
Ratchet snorts.
“Well, it’s true. Maybe it’s because the war is over, or maybe it’s because you found someone you can connect with on a level you haven’t managed with anyone else -- Drift doesn’t count, that’s different, I know it is, so don’t you start,” Bluestreak says before Ratchet can even open his mouth. He’s too perceptive for his own damn good. “But that you can look past what he’s done, to see what he is and what he’s trying to be, that’s not a bad thing.”
Ratchet takes another swig, lets the thick heat of it settle in his tanks. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Either way, I’m pretty sure it’s over.”
“You had to know he wasn’t going to react well.” Bluestreak makes a thoughtful noise. “Then again, better that he’s alive and hates you, then dead and apart from you, hm?”
Ratchet snorts again.
“Yeah, I figured that.” Bluestreak’s quiet for a moment, but Ratchet knows that means he’s readying his most powerful weapon. “We have a responsibility, Ratchet. If there’s one thing we’re never supposed to do, it’s betray the trust of our submissives. That’s the number one rule. You as good as ignored his safe word.”
And there it is.
Ratchet tightens his grip on the bottle, Bluestreak’s words precision missiles right into the center of the thickest knot of guilt in his chassis. The engex tastes sour on his glossa. Ratchet caps the bottle and stares at the floor.
“You decided you knew what was best for him because yes, you love him and you want him to live, but we both know it wasn’t just that,” Bluestreak continues, because he’s a sniper and he always aims for the tenderest spots. “You’re the Autobot’s best medic. You’re the Dominant in your sessions. You are the righteous one because he’s the defeated Decepticon, the great and terrible Megatron. You can dress it up however you like, but you and I both know, what you did wasn’t for him. It was a selfish choice for you.”
“Enough,” Ratchet says, and he pushes up from the berth, his vents quickening, and an iron grip on his spark, squeezing and squeezing. The bottle creaks in his grip, and he has to set it down before he shatters it.
Such a vintage is rare now. With Cybertron still in ruins -- thanks to Megatron, he mustn’t forget that -- it’s likely Ratchet will never see it again.
Bluestreak’s field is gentle, sympathetic even, as it brushes against Ratchet’s. “You owe him an apology. And you probably need to accept that whatever you had is over. I don’t know Megatron, but he doesn’t seem the type to take betrayal lightly.”
“Yes. I know. I’m fragging lucky he hasn’t knocked my head off,” Ratchet growls. He cycles several ventilations, trying to ease the tightness in his chassis.
“For what it’s worth, I’m not so sure I would’ve chosen different, if I’d been in your position,” Bluestreak says, and his voice is warm again. Friendly, too. He rises from the berth, resting a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. “I’m not good at letting go either.”
Ratchet snorts and slungs an arm over the sniper’s shoulder, pulling him into a hug at his side. “Didn’t stop you from eviscerating me with logic and sense.”
“Well, this and that are two different things.” Bluestreak slides around and pulls Ratchet into an embrace. “You know where to find me if you want to talk some more. But as for Megatron, leave him alone. Give him space. Maybe you two can work it out, maybe you can’t. That’s the choice you made. Don’t blame him for it.”
Ratchet sighs and allows the embrace. He doesn’t blame Megatron at all.
He blames himself.
Megatron wakes.
Exhaustion lingers in every line, every strut, every cable. He forces himself out of the berth, forces himself to swallow mid-grade -- not fool’s energon, not anymore, and the reminder of another lie makes the midgrade sour on his gossa.
His limbs tremble. He stares at them until they obey his command. He wrests control of himself through sheer willpower.
He has a shift. It’s on a trial basis, according to Ultra Magnus, who hadn’t wanted Megatron to return to his duties yet, but had conceded when Megatron reminded him that it was choice. Autobots can be predictable if you tap the right guilt complex.
He needs something to feel normal again.
Megatron shows up on the bridge, takes report from Ultra Magnus, and settles into the routine. It should be a quiet shift. They’re following one of the vague directions from the information they found on Clandestine, and while most of it hasn’t panned out, they’ve been hopeful.
Megatron knows he’s not the only one waiting for some weird and outrageous event to find them. If there’s one thing Rodimus and the Lost Light excel at, it’s being found by trouble. It’s an inevitability.
Focus is slippery. The lights are too bright. The beep and hum of the consoles are too loud, the murmured conversation like a grating aggravation on his sensors. He paces, because he can’t stay still, and he focuses on his ventilations.
It’s one shift.
He reviews data. He advises an alternate route around a debris cluster. He reads through the reports of what’s transpired on the ship in the past week or so, when he was out of commission. He ignores the sideways glances the crew toss his way. No one is foolish enough to ask him a direct question.
Megatron might have gone the entire shift without incident, proud at himself for the mask he cobbled together, if his idiotic crew hadn’t decided to play grenade tag in the lower levels again, setting off the alarms. They spring to life in the bridge, flashing orange and yellow, bright and shrill, and Megatron snaps out of his fugue.
His spark surges into overdrive. He whirls toward the console, optics wide, and Jackpot releases a squeak of panic as he fumbles to cut off the alarm.
“Primus,” Jackpot says with a laugh that betrays his nervousness. “Hate it when that happens. You think they’d learn, right, sir?” He gives Megatron a lopsided grin.
He’s shrunk back against the console. His optics are wide. Probably because Megatron is looming over him. He doesn’t remember striding across the bridge. He’s not sure when he came within reach of Jackpot, but here it is.
He backs up. He nods. He gathers control of himself, and pretends everything is fine.
“Send security down to take names and issue a reprimand,” Megatron says, and his proud of himself for the control in his vocals.
“Already done, sir,” says Jackpot.
Megatron nods and steps further back. He retreats all the way to the central console, and on the outside, everything is fine, while inside he’s a storming rage of barely concealed emotion.
He tries to unknot his armor, but it clings to his substructure, as if subconsciously he’s preparing for battle. The empty socket for his fusion cannon clicks into readiness and honks at him when the weapon isn’t found. His spark pounds, distressed without understanding why, and adrenaline pumps through his system at an alarming rate.
There’s no battle, but his spark and frame and defensive protocols are convinced otherwise. Every sound heralds a possible attack. Every shift of motion in his peripheral is a threat he must assess.
Surrounded by Autobots, is it any wonder he doesn’t feel safe?
When Rodimus arrives, early no less, Megatron hates himself for feeling relieved, for being glad to see the obnoxious younger mech. They’ve come to an accord, he and Rodimus, but he knows Rodimus resents his presence, as much as Megatron considers him a poor substitute for Optimus.
They’re working on it.
“You look like slag,” Rodimus says, with a complete lack of tact. “Maybe think about actually taking the rest you’re supposed to be getting.”
“Nice of you to care,” Megatron grunts and hands him the command datapad, not that there’s anything to report, save for the tag-grenade idiots, but he thinks Ultra Magnus will be more inclined to deal with those. “I’m fine.”
Rodimus arches an orbital ridge. He very pointedly looks Megatron up and down. “You look like you’re about to fall over. And I can’t believe these words are about to come out of my mouth, but I’m fragging worried about you.” His frown deepens and he taps his chin. “Try to actually get some rest or something?”
Megatron cycles his optics. Rodimus’ words and his tone match. That’s genuine concern. It throws him for a loop.
“I’m fine,” he lies.
“Yeah. Sure you are.” Rodimus logs in to the console, tapping himself on duty. “I’ll just take my concern and stuff it then.” His spoiler flicks, up and down, and in that moment, he reminds Megatron a lot of Starscream.
The parallels are uncanny.
A host of retorts rise on Megatron’s glossa. He voices none of them. He heads back to his habsuite instead, thinking only of collapsing on his berth in deference to the exhaustion plaguing him.
He’s handling this on his own. He’s fine. He doesn’t need Autobot sympathy.
He’s fine.
“Megatron looked like he was about to fall over. Anything you want to tell me?” Rodimus’ comm nudges Ratchet out of his haze of concentration.
He cycles his optics and sits up, rubbing his temples. Ratchet sits back from the broken scanner he’s been crouched over for the past three hours.
It’s an effective distraction. Both from the circumstances, and from the half-consumed bottle of rare engex Bluestreak left for him.
“You already know what happened,” Ratchet says, acknowledging the comm.
“Yeah, but I assumed that you, being his lover and all, and being a medic, would be taking care of him,” Rodimus says, and though his tone isn’t chastising, there’s an implication in his words.
It’s a humiliating burn. That Rodimus, irresponsible Rodimus, is chastising Ratchet, and it makes sense.
“I will be,” Ratchet says, and rises to wipe his hands and make himself presentable. “Provided he wants me to.”
“Right. Well. You get right on that,” Rodimus says with an air of authority that seems to be coming easier to him these days. Apparently, all he needed was a rival in the form of Megatron to get his gears in, well, gear. “Rodimus, out.”
Ratchet sighs.
He retrieves some energon for Megatron, as both a peace offering and an excuse to visit. He runs through several conversational openers, and is frustrated when none of them seem viable.
Bad luck strikes on his way to Megatron’s habsuite as he passes by Ultra Magnus just as the larger mech is stepping out of his own quarters, only partially distracted by a datapad in hand. He looks up as Ratchet comes close enough for brief field contact, and Ratchet resents just a little how well Ultra Magnus is at schooling his expressions.
“I suppose I will only need one guess as to your destination,” Ultra Magnus rumbles.
Ratchet cycles a ventilation. “If it makes you feel better, Rodimus all but ordered me to.”
“Rodimus does not know how to address the finer details of your relationship, especially how it relates to the current situation.” Ultra Magnus levels him with a look that makes it hard for Ratchet to remember he’s actually Minimus Ambus deep down inside. “Megatron needs time and space. If you give him neither, you will not like the end result.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.” Sheer force of will keeps Ratchet from scowling. “Don’t you worry, Magnus. I’m bringing him energon because he needs it. I’ll even leave it outside the door if he ignores me.”
Ultra Magnus tilts his head. “You will let him go?”
“If he wants me to.” Primus, but he hates talking about his private life with others. He hates even more that his private life has intersected into something necessarily public. “I’ll understand if he wants to dissolve our… relationship.” Yes, that’s him, stumbling over his words like an idiot. “But I’ll still help him if he needs it. If he asks.”
“Hm,” Ultra Magnus says, and a mech like him can make a simple glyph sound like an incredibly lengthy sentence. He dips his head, barely, then says, “Carry on.”
“Glad I could get your permission,” Ratchet drawls. He steps past Ultra Magnus, trying to pull on his dignity from the tatters that remain.
Ultra Magnus lets him go.
Ratchet’s certainty lasts for the half-dozen steps it takes for him to round the corridor and arrive at Megatron’s hab-suite. He braces himself, unsure how he’ll be received, and pings the door.
“I’ve brought energon,” he says, to explain himself. “If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave it outside the door.”
He waits.
He knows Megatron is inside. He’d checked. He’s not talking to thin air.
He waits a few minutes more. Silence.
Well. He tried.
Ratchet sets down the energon and turns to go. He only manages a few steps before the door clicks open behind him. Ratchet turns back, stifling a pang of worry as he gets a glimpse of Megatron, who’s crouched to pick up the energon.
He looks exhausted, optics dim, armor clamped so tightly, Ratchet wonders if he’s properly ventilating. There’s weariness in the slump of his shoulders, the tremble of his fingers, and his field keeps slipping from his control, allowing Ratchet samples of his mental state.
It’s not good.
Ratchet’s first instinct is to draw Megatron into his arms, to soothe the anxiety and pain away, and he closes his hands into fists, tucks them at his side. He can’t do those things. He surrendered that privilege.
“You have five minutes,” Megatron says, and steps back into his room, leaving the door open.
Well. He’d better not waste the invitation.
“Thank you,” Ratchet says, hovering in the doorway. He doesn’t feel like an invitation has been extended to fully enter. He cycles a ventilation, all of his carefully rehearsed lines escaping his memory. “How are you?”
“I am not answering that question,” Megatron replies with a snort. His habsuite is dim, the lights barely at twenty percent, and the draping shadows are eerie.
Fair enough.
Ratchet works his jaw. He braces himself. No point in pretending there isn’t a combiner in the corner. “You’re right. I made the wrong decision because I wanted to save you, not because I knew it’s what you wanted.” He pauses, pushing himself past the urge to hide behind his pride. “I’ll apologize for betraying your trust, but I’m not sorry you’re not dead. And I’m not sorry you're free of whatever nightmare trapped you.”
There. A decent medium.
Megatron stands in the middle of his habsuite, and his stance is defensive. Prepared. Like a mech about to storm the battlefield. Ratchet aches to see it.
“No. Instead, you’ve trapped me in my own frame,” Megatron says, and the last emerges with a growl.
Oh.
Oh, of course.
Ratchet hasn’t been here, and he doubts Megatron has been willing to listen. No one’s explained to him the aftereffects of treating a purge-loop, or what it would have done to his frame and subconscious. Ratchet recognizes the side-effects, can see them written all over Megatron’s frame, and he can’t imagine what dark memories the experience has brought to life for Megatron now.
He doubts Megatron is equipped to deal with them either.
“You need to talk to First Aid,” Ratchet says with a wince. “I know you don’t want to hear it from me, but he’ll explain it for you. Whatever you’re feeling right now, it’s normal.” He swallows a sigh. “Both as a side-effect of the mneumosurgery, and as lingering echoes of the purge-loop.”
Crimson optics narrow like slits of accusation. “Is that your way of telling me it’s technically not your fault?”
“No. I accept the blame,” Ratchet says. He’s a coward in many things, but not this.
“Well, at least you’re honest about something.” Megatron’s voice is like tires over gravel. He lifts the cube of energon, eyeing it pointedly. “Should I be worried about contaminants? Fool’s energon maybe?”
Ratchet winces.
“I deserved that.”
“And more,” Megatron says, but he flicks open the cap and takes a sip of the cube, his gaze falling away, dismissive. “Your apology is noted. I’ll speak with First Aid.”
But not accepted. He supposes that’s as much as he deserves.
Ratchet inclines his head. He cycles a ventilation. “Thank you.” He shifts his weight, swallowing the urge to yell, to defend himself, to shout all the arguments he’s told himself over and over again. “I'll leave you be.”
Megatron doesn’t tell him otherwise. Doesn’t protest when Ratchet steps out of the doorway to leave. Doesn’t watch him go.
Well.
Ratchet squares his shoulder. He’s got a little bit of dignity left.
“Thank you for the energon,” Megatron says, and the door shuts behind Ratchet, closing him off from the closest thing he’s had to a relationship in centuries. It could have meant something. Or maybe it’s a pipe dream.
Megatron is, after all, Megatron. And Ratchet is Ratchet. Decepticon and Autobot. Murderer and medic.
Maybe this is for the best.
It’s mid-grade. It’s spiced to his preference. It’s been subtly warmed.
Megatron supposes Rodimus is the one to blame for Ratchet’s appearance at his door. He can’t imagine the medic would have shown up on his own.
The apology was expected. Autobots are good at apologies. As good as they are at guilt. Remorse? Well, that’s a different story. Autobots are full of apologies, but they never change.
Who’s the fool here?
It must be Megatron.
“Are you done with the Autobot then?”
Megatron startles, his spark leaping into his intake. His armor clatters. The shadows in the dim of the room coalesce into a quadrapedal shape, dim optics brightening.
Ravage tilts his head with a slow-blink. “I apologize. I thought you knew I was here.”
“I should have,” Megatron says. He toys with the cube, spins it in his fingers, contemplating what it means. Or perhaps, sometimes a cube of energon is just a cube of energon.
Not everything has a second meaning, Rung.
“It’s none of your business,” Megatron adds, after a moment, which is as much true as the fact Megatron doesn’t have an answer to the question. Because he’s a fool.
He’s been trying to break himself of the habit of lying to himself. So he’ll admit, quietly and to himself, why the feelings of betrayal are so sharp and heavy. Because he cares for Ratchet. He has affection for Ratchet. If he knew what love was, Megatron might even claim to feel it for Ratchet.
Betrayal hurts the most when it’s wielded by someone you dared trust. Megatron had given Ratchet something he rarely gave anyone, had attempted something with Ratchet he’d never dare attempt with anyone, and he’d known better, but he’d done it anyway. He’d wanted it so much, and he’d thought Ratchet was someone he could trust with it.
Trust, in general, he rarely offered. This trust, specifically, had been given to no one.
This is the thanks he gets. This is how it’s treated. He doesn’t know if this betrayal is forgivable. Surmountable. He doesn’t know if he can forgive.
The anger is too heavy. Sharp and burning in his lines. Eating him from the inside out.
The war began because of stolen choices. Another one has been taken from him now. And it is now, as it had been, by the hands of an Autobot. War or no war.
“Do you want my opinion?” Ravage asks, with an even tone Megatron envies.
“You’re going to offer it anyway.” Megatron sighs and sets the energon down, half-consumed as it is. He’s suddenly lost what little appetite he had.
Ravage offers a toothy smirk. “About this plan you don’t have.”
“I’m listening.”
“Imagine how much there is to gain knowing you effectively have the CMO of the Autobots wrapped around your finger.” Ravage rises to pace across the floor in front of him, slow and measured, like stalking prey. “Knowing that when you reach the end, you’ll have him arguing for you, and Ultra Magnus also, the honorable idiot.”
Megatron frowns. “His honor doesn’t make him an idiot.”
“To each their own.” Ravage’s shoulders lift in a shrug, and he gives Megatron a piercing look. “Notice how you didn’t comment on Ratchet.”
Megatron grinds his denta. He toys with the energon again, staring at mid-grade which no longer carries the taint of Fool’s Energon, because Ratchet had come clean about that particular lie as well.
“You suggest I make use of his guilt,” Megatron says.
“Why not?” Ravage cocks an orbital ridge and his talons go clack-clack on the polished floor. “He’s only an Autobot. It’s not as though you have genuine feelings for him. For any of them.”
Megatron thins his lips. It would be so much easier to give in to the rage, to let himself soak in the disappointment and the anger and the betrayal. He could scream about his rightness as he destroyed everything around him, until he emerged from the rubble and death with nothing to show for his pain.
It would be easier.
If he didn’t care so fragging much.
He fiddles with the cube again.
“I’ll decide what to do about Ratchet,” Megatron says, at length, because the choice hovers in front of him, colliding with the reality of the situation, and the cage they’ve made for him. “It remains to be seen what he’s worth.”
Ravage snorts. “As you say.”
He’s gone between one vent and the next. Unsurprisingly.
Megatron is left to stare at the wall, lost in contemplation. He’s more than aware he has a choice to make.
For better or worse.
