[TPC] Checking In
Feb. 8th, 2021 07:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Checking In
Universe: The Prime’s Consorts
Characters: Wheeljack, Ratchet
Rated: G/K+
Description: It’s the call Wheeljack’s been waiting for, but he still doesn’t expect to hear the good news from Ratchet’s own lips.
Wrist-deep in one of his many projects, Wheeljack often ignores his communication console when it beeps at him or flashes at him or makes any amount of distracting attempts to get his attention. But when the special tone Wheeljack programmed specifically for Ratchet pings at his audials, Wheeljack scrambles to answer it, sending a container of tools crashing to the floor as he lunges for the acceptance key.
He winces as the clatter of scattered tools echoes around his laboratory, but it’s a distant worry because the moment his fingers brush the key, Ratchet’s face fills the screen. Relief crashes over Wheeljack even harder than the tumbled tool chest.
Especially when Ratchet gives him that wry grin. “Catch you at a bad time?”
“Shut up,” Wheeljack says, his indicators flashing. He claws at the desk, dragging his wheeled chair around the tool detritus to get his face better in the screen. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”
Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “Think I can’t take care of myself?”
“I think that having to watch you get on a shuttle meant for the Prime’s estate took decades off my spark-life,” Wheeljack replies tartly. Of course, Ratchet would be flippant about this. Of course. “How’re you? And be honest.”
“When am I not?” Ratchet snorts, but his grin shifts into something more serious. “I’m actually… okay. Better than either of us could’ve hoped.”
He might even be telling the truth, Wheeljack thinks.
Ratchet looks… good. Rested and polished, and his smile feels genuine. From what Wheeljack can see in the background, he’s in a berthroom, probably not the Prime’s but one of his own. Wheeljack doubts the Prime would make all of his Consorts stay in the same room with him, no matter how vile and lecherous they are. Ten is a lot to keep in that kind of space.
Also, Ratchet doesn’t have a kinky collar around his neck, or manacles on his wrists, or any marks on his armor. Of course, this Prime could be the sort who likes to make sure his Consorts are pretty and polished to hide the scars.
Wheeljack squints at his best friend. “Do I need to come to Iacon and blow up the Prime? Because I’ll do it, treason bedamned.”
Ratchet, of all things, laughs. And it’s a genuine laugh, not one of Ratchet’s patented “I’m not okay but Wheeljack makes things a little better” laughs.
“Please don’t,” he says. “I actually like this Prime.”
Wheeljack sits back in his chair, sending it rolling into a heavy wrench. “Wait. Really?”
“Really,” Ratchet says. He leans to the side, plants his chin on his fist. “He might actually be one of the good ones, Jack. So far, that’s what I’ve seen anyway.” His free hand touches his chassis. “I saw a lot of his truth.”
“It’s not impossible to lie through a spark merge,” Wheeljack points out. “You know that.”
They don’t mention the name Pharma. They don’t have to.
“I do, and only time will tell if this Prime is a good liar, but… I don’t think he is,” Ratchet says, and there’s an almost awestruck tone to his voice that really throws Wheeljack for a loop.
Ratchet is grumpy and pessimistic and jaded. He’s not a mech full of awe or hope. What kind of mech is Optimus Prime to inspire this kind of change in him?
And is it genuine?
Ratchet’s one of the smartest, most well-defended mechs Wheeljack knows, but there are plenty of mneumosurgery specialists running around on Cybertron. Past leadership has not hesitated to apply their specific talents.
“Why not?” Wheeljack asks.
Ratchet settles into his chair. “It’s the way he talks to us. He’s open-minded without it being condescending. Everything about him reads as genuine.” He makes a vague gesture. “He actually asked me what it would take for me to be comfortable, and not only did he listen, he took my words to spark.”
It sounds too good to be true. A Prime genuinely taking interest in the well-being of his Consorts? Treating them as more than berth-mates or well-bred buymechs? Has Wheeljack stepped into an alternate dimension?
“He’s made it pretty damn clear he hates the current Consort process, too,” Ratchet continues, because apparently there are more good things to say. Wheeljack has to admit, that’s a hefty amount of evidence leaning toward Optimus Prime being a halfway decent mech. “He wants to change Cybertron, Wheeljack. He’s asked us to help.”
“And you believe him?”
“He asked me to be his personal medic so yeah, I think I do,” Ratchet says, his optics dimming with serious contemplation. “There’s something different about this one, Jack. I’m sure of it.” He pauses and gives Wheeljack a wry look. “He’s not the first Prime I’ve met, remember?”
Wheeljack rolls his optics. “I remember.” Ratchet’s old enough to have met at least two other Primes before Optimus, and he loves to remind Wheeljack how much older he is at every opportunity.
It took forever for Ratchet to stop calling him “bratling.” He still does it now and again to tweak Wheeljack’s gears.
“If he does even half the things he says he’s going to do, then we can all consider ourselves lucky,” Ratchet says, and there’s an odd earnest tone to his voice. “I’ve agreed to support him, or at the very least, not stand in his way.”
Wheeljack has to meet this Prime, if he’s turned surly Ratchet into a mech daring to have an inch of hope these days.
He pulls up a datapad out of range of the camera and starts looking up flights from Nova Cronum to Iacon proper. If the Prime won’t let him see Ratchet, well, that’s just proof he’s not all shiny brackets like he claims to be. A good Prime wouldn’t prevent best friends from visiting each other, now would he?
“Ratchet, start from the beginning,” Wheeljack says, using his best no-nonsense voice. The one he uses on his apprentices to get them to stand up and obey and yes, absolutely, definitely employ the safety precautions that are there for a reason, you morons.
Yes, I’m looking at you, Brainstorm.
“Tell me everything,” Wheeljack continues as he divides his attention between his best friend and the available flights. He’s got plenty of creds saved up for an impromptu vacation and besides, Perceptor’s been begging for him to check out the lab in Iacon anyway.
Two Scraplets, one shot and all that.
“Especially about the other consorts,” Wheeljack adds. He knows who they are thanks to the public announcement that went up, but he doesn’t know them, and if any of them are mistreating Ratchet, well, Wheeljack has a few accidentally explosive gifts to give. “Give me the gossip everyone else isn’t going to get.”
Ratchet laughs and gives him such a fond look, Wheeljack preens. “Alright you nosey slagger. Hope you don’t have anywhere to be today.”
Wheeljack idly kicks a scattered tool away from his chair. “My time is all yours.”
He books the first flight out.
***
Universe: The Prime’s Consorts
Characters: Wheeljack, Ratchet
Rated: G/K+
Description: It’s the call Wheeljack’s been waiting for, but he still doesn’t expect to hear the good news from Ratchet’s own lips.
Wrist-deep in one of his many projects, Wheeljack often ignores his communication console when it beeps at him or flashes at him or makes any amount of distracting attempts to get his attention. But when the special tone Wheeljack programmed specifically for Ratchet pings at his audials, Wheeljack scrambles to answer it, sending a container of tools crashing to the floor as he lunges for the acceptance key.
He winces as the clatter of scattered tools echoes around his laboratory, but it’s a distant worry because the moment his fingers brush the key, Ratchet’s face fills the screen. Relief crashes over Wheeljack even harder than the tumbled tool chest.
Especially when Ratchet gives him that wry grin. “Catch you at a bad time?”
“Shut up,” Wheeljack says, his indicators flashing. He claws at the desk, dragging his wheeled chair around the tool detritus to get his face better in the screen. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”
Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “Think I can’t take care of myself?”
“I think that having to watch you get on a shuttle meant for the Prime’s estate took decades off my spark-life,” Wheeljack replies tartly. Of course, Ratchet would be flippant about this. Of course. “How’re you? And be honest.”
“When am I not?” Ratchet snorts, but his grin shifts into something more serious. “I’m actually… okay. Better than either of us could’ve hoped.”
He might even be telling the truth, Wheeljack thinks.
Ratchet looks… good. Rested and polished, and his smile feels genuine. From what Wheeljack can see in the background, he’s in a berthroom, probably not the Prime’s but one of his own. Wheeljack doubts the Prime would make all of his Consorts stay in the same room with him, no matter how vile and lecherous they are. Ten is a lot to keep in that kind of space.
Also, Ratchet doesn’t have a kinky collar around his neck, or manacles on his wrists, or any marks on his armor. Of course, this Prime could be the sort who likes to make sure his Consorts are pretty and polished to hide the scars.
Wheeljack squints at his best friend. “Do I need to come to Iacon and blow up the Prime? Because I’ll do it, treason bedamned.”
Ratchet, of all things, laughs. And it’s a genuine laugh, not one of Ratchet’s patented “I’m not okay but Wheeljack makes things a little better” laughs.
“Please don’t,” he says. “I actually like this Prime.”
Wheeljack sits back in his chair, sending it rolling into a heavy wrench. “Wait. Really?”
“Really,” Ratchet says. He leans to the side, plants his chin on his fist. “He might actually be one of the good ones, Jack. So far, that’s what I’ve seen anyway.” His free hand touches his chassis. “I saw a lot of his truth.”
“It’s not impossible to lie through a spark merge,” Wheeljack points out. “You know that.”
They don’t mention the name Pharma. They don’t have to.
“I do, and only time will tell if this Prime is a good liar, but… I don’t think he is,” Ratchet says, and there’s an almost awestruck tone to his voice that really throws Wheeljack for a loop.
Ratchet is grumpy and pessimistic and jaded. He’s not a mech full of awe or hope. What kind of mech is Optimus Prime to inspire this kind of change in him?
And is it genuine?
Ratchet’s one of the smartest, most well-defended mechs Wheeljack knows, but there are plenty of mneumosurgery specialists running around on Cybertron. Past leadership has not hesitated to apply their specific talents.
“Why not?” Wheeljack asks.
Ratchet settles into his chair. “It’s the way he talks to us. He’s open-minded without it being condescending. Everything about him reads as genuine.” He makes a vague gesture. “He actually asked me what it would take for me to be comfortable, and not only did he listen, he took my words to spark.”
It sounds too good to be true. A Prime genuinely taking interest in the well-being of his Consorts? Treating them as more than berth-mates or well-bred buymechs? Has Wheeljack stepped into an alternate dimension?
“He’s made it pretty damn clear he hates the current Consort process, too,” Ratchet continues, because apparently there are more good things to say. Wheeljack has to admit, that’s a hefty amount of evidence leaning toward Optimus Prime being a halfway decent mech. “He wants to change Cybertron, Wheeljack. He’s asked us to help.”
“And you believe him?”
“He asked me to be his personal medic so yeah, I think I do,” Ratchet says, his optics dimming with serious contemplation. “There’s something different about this one, Jack. I’m sure of it.” He pauses and gives Wheeljack a wry look. “He’s not the first Prime I’ve met, remember?”
Wheeljack rolls his optics. “I remember.” Ratchet’s old enough to have met at least two other Primes before Optimus, and he loves to remind Wheeljack how much older he is at every opportunity.
It took forever for Ratchet to stop calling him “bratling.” He still does it now and again to tweak Wheeljack’s gears.
“If he does even half the things he says he’s going to do, then we can all consider ourselves lucky,” Ratchet says, and there’s an odd earnest tone to his voice. “I’ve agreed to support him, or at the very least, not stand in his way.”
Wheeljack has to meet this Prime, if he’s turned surly Ratchet into a mech daring to have an inch of hope these days.
He pulls up a datapad out of range of the camera and starts looking up flights from Nova Cronum to Iacon proper. If the Prime won’t let him see Ratchet, well, that’s just proof he’s not all shiny brackets like he claims to be. A good Prime wouldn’t prevent best friends from visiting each other, now would he?
“Ratchet, start from the beginning,” Wheeljack says, using his best no-nonsense voice. The one he uses on his apprentices to get them to stand up and obey and yes, absolutely, definitely employ the safety precautions that are there for a reason, you morons.
Yes, I’m looking at you, Brainstorm.
“Tell me everything,” Wheeljack continues as he divides his attention between his best friend and the available flights. He’s got plenty of creds saved up for an impromptu vacation and besides, Perceptor’s been begging for him to check out the lab in Iacon anyway.
Two Scraplets, one shot and all that.
“Especially about the other consorts,” Wheeljack adds. He knows who they are thanks to the public announcement that went up, but he doesn’t know them, and if any of them are mistreating Ratchet, well, Wheeljack has a few accidentally explosive gifts to give. “Give me the gossip everyone else isn’t going to get.”
Ratchet laughs and gives him such a fond look, Wheeljack preens. “Alright you nosey slagger. Hope you don’t have anywhere to be today.”
Wheeljack idly kicks a scattered tool away from his chair. “My time is all yours.”
He books the first flight out.
