dracoqueen22 | [TFP] Despicable Me

Despicable Me – Chapter Two

Dreadwing: Deceased.

Skyquake: Deceased.

Shockwave: Missing, Presumed Dead

Breakdown: Deceased.

Airachnid: Presumed Deceased.

Starscream: Defected

Knock Out: Defected

Predaking: Defected

Darksteel: Defected

Skylynx: Defected

Soundwave: Unable to Confirm

Unable to confirm.

Megatron taps a finger on the desktop before sliding back to the toggle. He flicks it again, to the beginning of the list of Decepticons confirmed at the end of the last war. So many of them, dead or presumed so. No one has seen Shockwave. Soundwave is trapped in the Shadowzone, according to the details of his record, whatever that means. Starscream and Knock Out, both defected, both wanting nothing to do with their former commander.

What a legacy he’s left behind.

Megatron taps through the list again.

He pauses, erases the filter, taps another name into the search bar.

Orion Pax: No Results Found.

He erases. Types in a different designation.

Optimus Prime: Deceased.

Megatron cycles a ventilation. He presses his knuckles to his mouth. He stares at the screen.

Deceased.

He deletes the glyphs. Types in one more.

Megatron.

Status Pending.

What does a warlord do when there’s no more war to fight? Where does he go?

He should have died in battle. Not live like this, in shame and ignominy. He fought and died and lived again, a slave in his own armor, and for what? For nothing. For the death of his faithful, one fallen to his own traitorous hands. He doesn’t have Optimus Prime to rail at. He doesn’t have Orion Pax to blame.

Deceased.

Status Pending.

Megatron feels trapped between the two.

He raps his talons on the desktop. He’s alive. Orion is dead. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that. As hard as he tried to defeat Optimus, he never actually decided what he would do afterward. It had always been abstract, a vision of a future he wasn’t sure he’d actually see.

He had wanted it. Oh, how he’d wanted it. He’d fought for it, scrapped for it, gave it his all. But a clear idea of the after?

No, nothing.

Megatron had been a gladiator. He’d only known how to survive until the next victory and the battle after it. He never considered what would come when there was no one left to fight.

Optimus always came back.

He’s supposed to come back.

“You should still be in a berth.”

The voice comes from behind him. Megatron doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing.

“I am surprised you care.” Megatron catches the medic’s reflection in the monitor, Ratchet’s face perfectly blank, but his field telling a different story.

“As much as I loathe you, you do qualify as a patient. You can thank Starscream for that.” Ratchet reaches past him and cuts off the computer with a flick of his wrist. “You’re in no condition to be up and about. How did you even get into the system?”

“Your security is pathetic. Soundwave would have cut through it in a blink.” Megatron pushes back from the desk with a frown. “Who’s in charge around here?”

Ratchet raises an orbital ridge. "I am. Now get up. Back to the berth." He flicks his hands at Megatron, like shooing a recalcitrant kremzeek.

"I was not talking specifically about this building, medic," Megatron snaps, and he pushes to his feet in a motion his frame is not ready to support. His knees wobble, and only Ratchet reaching out to steady him, keeps him from collapsing in an ungainly heap.

Humiliating.

"I know what you meant." Ratchet's tone stays faintly chastising, but he doesn't grace Megatron with an I told you so. Instead, he keeps a firm grip of Megatron's elbow, guiding him back to the berth. "And so long as you're here, I am the one in charge."

"Then who decides my fate?" Megatron demands.

"Once I release you?" Ratchet snorts and braces Megatron as he slides back onto the berth, his processor spinning from the effort. "Nominally, it's Ultra Magnus. But he's not the only one who has a say."

Megatron groans. "Wonderful." He conceals a flinch as Ratchet reattaches the energon drip, clicking his glossa over the ruin Megatron had made of his port in ripping it out. He hadn't been gentle about it, mostly because he'd overestimated the amount of strength to use.

He's weak. Weak and helpless. Megatron loathes it.

"It is, I think," Ratchet says, not heedless of Megatron's sarcasm, as his smile is false and sharp. Every care he offers is deft and professional, despite the dislike for Megatron hovering in the edges of his field, like little daggers.

"I'm going to be executed," Megatron mutters as energon starts to flow into his lines, and his frame slurps it up, like the half-Empty, starved creature he is.

Ratchet sweeps a scanner out of nowhere and passes it over Megatron's frame. "That is a Decepticon way of thinking."

Megatron snorts. As if execution is a purely Decepticon invention. Autobots and their ilk have been executing criminals for longer than the revolution existed.

"I won't defect." Megatron slides a glare toward Ratchet.

"No one said you had to." Ratchet taps something on the screen, frowns, but doesn't comment on it. Megatron doesn't know him well enough to decipher that frown.

Megatron narrows his optics. There is no lie in Ratchet's field. "Isn't that what Starscream and Knock Out did? Defect to save their sparks?"

Ratchet's scanner beeps, and he gives a confirming nod before he sets it aside. "Well, you've not done yourself any damage at least," he says. "And if you want to know what Starscream and Knock Out chose, you'll have to ask them."

"You are infuriating," Megatron growls. How had Optimus functioned with so much insubordination around him at all times? He'd probably encouraged it, the idiot.

"Mm. Yes, I am." A quirk at the corner of Ratchet's mouth gives the suggestion of a smile, but there isn't anything amused about it. "Too bad you can't knock some sense into me, hm?" He raises his orbital ridges, a challenge in his optics.

In that moment, Megatron remembers a tidbit of information Soundwave had once passed on to him.

"You saved my spark," Megatron reminds Ratchet, though he gives an askance look to the energon dripping into his lines. What else could be lurking in that vital fluid?

"Yes, I did," Ratchet says, and Megatron expects him to say more, but Ratchet leaves it at that, the gleam in his optics all but daring Megatron to push it.

"Why?"

Ratchet turns and rummages through a cabinet before he produces a container of what seems to be coolant. "Because it may not mean anything to someone like you, but I took a vow when I became a medic, and I don't abandon that lightly. Here. Drink."

"Is that so?" Megatron eyes the coolant. "You took many vows, medic. But I notice that hasn't stopped you from killing. Are you sure it wasn't because of Starscream?"

Ratchet's jaw sets. A wall drops around his energy field so quickly, Megatron swears it makes an audible noise. "I'm a medic," he growls. "And that's all there is to it."

"I don't believe that."

"It's not about what you believe," Ratchet snaps, and his field flashes through the room with outrage. "Get some recharge, Megatron. You're going to need all the strength you can get." He sets the container of coolant on the table, within Megatron's reach.

Megatron schools his expression. "Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired."

"I save my charm for the mechs who deserve it." Ratchet's smile is a thing of menace, and for a moment, it sends a chill down Megatron's spinal strut, until Ratchet sweeps out of the room. The lights dim in his wake, as if a secondary command for Megatron to rest.

A laugh bubbles up from Megatron's chassis. He grabs the coolant, gives it a sniff, but can't detect any poison or intoxicant. It's a warframe-grade coolant.

Feh. Foolish Autobots and their honor.

“His anger is justified.”

Megatron cycles his optics. He glances around the room, for the source of the whisper. He sends out a scan, but it pings back no one -- invisible or hiding. The closest spark-rhythm passes in the hall beyond. He's alone.

Perhaps he's going mad.

His vision wavers at the edges, like a heat mirage taking shape. Megatron stares, optics narrowed, the weak light pouring in from the slatted window doing little to dissipate the shape. Is it one of Jazz's pet spies? That mech has long been a gear in Megatron's articulators.

No. The shape is far too large to be a spy. It’s of a size to Megatron, certainly, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long legs.

Wait.

Megatron’s ventilations seize. He coughs, the machines screeching at him in protest, as the shimmer coalesces into a familiar frame, a familiar face. Red and blue and silver, smaller than he’d been at his death, but larger than Orion Pax. Blue optics, weary and solemn, his armor pockmarked with centuries of battle.

The shimmer solidifies. Megatron swears he could reach out and touch Optimus. Could run his fingers over those scars and dents while he murmurs stories of how he’d landed each one.

“Were you trying to die?” Optimus asks, and his voice echoes everywhere and nowhere. His lips don’t move, but a shiver races over Megatron’s armor because the harmonics of his voice are still there. Familiar. Like they have a presence.

Megatron’s engine rumbles. “You have no right to ask me that,” he growls, glaring at Optimus in the corner, Optimus who embraced all too many times a righteous self-sacrifice. Who is he to question Megatron’s motives?

Optimus’ head dips, and the look he gives Megatron is nothing short of chastising. “I have every right. I’ve always had the right.”

“Damn you,” Megatron hisses, rage rising up within him like a painful tide. He struggles to sit up on the berth, his frame as heavy as if it’s weighted down. “Damn everything about you.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Megatron startles, whipping toward the doorway. Starscream loiters inside the frame, one orbital ridge arched, his arms crossed over his cockpit. Megatron hadn’t sensed him coming, or heard the door slide open.

“What are you doing here?” Megatron demands, glancing once at the corner where Optimus had been, but it’s empty now. If he’d ever been there at all.

“Can’t I visit my former commander?” Starscream asks with a flippant twist of his wrist. “Besides, I hear you’ve been harassing the help. That’s so like you.”

Megatron scowls and fumbles with the berth controls. The last thing he wants to do is have any kind of conversation with Starscream while reclining. “You came by to mock me then.”

Starscream pushes off the frame, stepping fully inside so the door can close behind him, sealing them in the quiet of the room. “What would be the fun in that?” He clasps his hands behind his back, at the base of his wings. “You’re in no condition to present a challenge, physically or mentally.”

Megatron’s optics narrow, and he swallows his first reaction to that. “What do you want?”

“There’s a debate right now as to what to do with you.” Starscream moves to the window, touching a finger to the panel to lift the blinds, letting in the dull gray of the sky. “The suggestions range from outright executing you – though there’s little support for that, softsparked Autobots – to releasing you to spend your time serving the Cybertronian interest.”

“Slavery,” Megatron mutters.

“They don’t call it that, but we both know a little too well what it looks like to be chained, don’t we?” Starscream’s wings twitch. There was once a time he wouldn’t have dared show Megatron his back. But here he stands, completely assured, unafraid.

How times have changed.

But not so much. Because Starscream is listed as Defected, but his wings still bear a very familiar purple badge.

“And what’s your vote?” Megatron asks, and smirks. “Or do you even get one?”

Starscream’s engine revs, but it’s a brief sound, quickly reined in. He doesn’t turn to look at Megatron, but his wings flick, one after the other. “It’s a different world, Megatron. Stop trying to linger in the sins of the past.”

The sins of the past. What the frag does that even mean?

Megatron frowns. “A brave new world, Starscream? Of all my lieutenants, I didn’t think you’d fall for the Autobot propaganda mill.”

“Because you know me so well,” Starscream drawls, and he barks a laugh, one in a tone Megatron’s not sure he ever heard before. In fact, there’s so much about this Starscream Megatron doesn’t understand.

"This is ridiculous."

Megatron furrows his orbital ridges, but Starscream shakes his head and turns to face Megatron, his expression schooled into neutrality.

"They'll let you speak for yourself. They're sentimental like that," Starscream says. "They'll take your words into account while they discuss what to do with you afterward. Democratically." He rolls his optics. "Sometimes, I don't know how they get anything done like that, but to each his own."

Megatron snorts, and eyes his former second critically. "You should have left me in that cave. Bringing me here to be executed is not a mercy."

"Yes. I'm constantly asking myself why I'm such a fool when it comes to you." Starscream slants him an inscrutable look. "We'll just have to see what happens. Recharge well, Lord Megatron." His half-bow is just shy of mocking, but he carries himself with high shoulders as he sweeps from the room, dimming the lights behind him.

But he's left the blinds open, the pale light streaking in through the uncovered window, turning the room into dim, gray shadows. Megatron clenches his jaw, stares hard into the corner where Optimus had been, and nothing takes shape. Nothing shimmers to life to mock him or chastise him or make him ache.

Perhaps he'd imagined it all along.

He sinks back into the berth, fatigue clawing at him from all angles. He's dizzy, without really knowing why. Maybe the Autobots poisoned him.

Megatron snorts.

That's giving them far too much credit. Besides, Ratchet is far too pragmatic to waste resources on repairing Megatron, only to turn around and poison him. Sedatives? Yes, those are likely.

Feh. Cowardly Autobots. It's the best way they think they have to control him. They are afraid of him, even now. It's a small comfort.

Megatron's vision goes gray around the edges with exhaustion. Peripherally, Optimus coalesces into view, his expression one of sadness and disappointment. He says nothing, however, and he continues to say nothing for all of the minute more it takes Megatron to slip into recharge.

~

"Are you all right?"

Starscream snorts. "You know, you keep asking me that, and I don't think you're ever going to get the answer you want to hear."

"I keep asking because I care and because I'm worried, you tinfoil turkey." Ratchet slides into the small room Starscream's been using as an office and rests his hands on Starscream's shoulders. "I know how he gets into your head."

"Well, it's the only weapon he has left right now. He's pathetic." Starscream sneers and stares harder at the computer, though he doesn't see any of the calculations on the screen.

Ratchet's fingers slide against his seams, pulsing low-grade magnetics against his cables, and Starscream swallows a groan as they wash away the tension knotting in his lines. "While he's out, I'm going to move him somewhere more secure."

"You drugged him?"

"I sedated him," Ratchet corrects. "But yes. I did. I don't like him here, and if he's well enough to get out of the berth, he's well enough to wander the halls." His tone is gruff, but his hands are gentle instruments of pleasure which move to Starscream's wing edges.

Starscream saves his work, just in case. "Are you afraid of him?" he asks, though he senses nothing in Ratchet's field but irritation and anger, lingering emotions which aren't directed at Starscream.

Ratchet chuffs a ventilation. "I've never feared Megatron. But there are a lot of angry Autobots around here. And no few angry Decepticons for that matter."

Starscream leans back, into Ratchet's hands, shuttling his optics to enjoy the sensation more than anything. "So it's for his safety?" he drawls.

"And yours."

Starscream's wing flicks right out of Ratchet's hand. He half-turns in the chair to stare up at his lover. "I don't need your protection."

Ratchet folds his arms, like an immovable object. "How like me to offer it anyway."

Starscream narrows his optics. He'd been standing on the other side of the window. He'd watched Ratchet and Megatron interact. He remembers what he saw. "I wasn't the one goading him."

"I was making a point."

"Were you?" Starscream stands, agitation erasing what little progress Ratchet has made in his frame. It seems there's no comfort to be found, not while Megatron is anywhere nearby.

Ratchet lifts his chin. "Yes. Because I'm an enemy, and I provoked him, and I insulted him, but he never once got violent with me. You were always an ally, and yet, his first reaction with you has always been violence."

Starscream moves out from behind the desk, feeling trapped. The room is too small for the both of them. "I'm not talking about this right now."

"It's not a talk. I made my point."

So Ratchet says, but Starscream can feel the weight of his gaze, the weight of his concern. It crackles over his armor like a scraplet infestation, and burrows into his substructure.

Ratchet sighs, and it's a rattling, rusty sound, like he's trying to show off how old he is. "He needs to go, Starscream. There's no place for him here."

"A lot people would say that about me," Starscream points out, his wings twitching upward before he can stop them, and maybe he sounds a bit bitter. Tensions between Autobots and Decepticons and Inbetween have remained at a steady unease.

There's no quick fix for it.

“And they’d be wrong,” Ratchet retorts.

Starscream’s lips curl into a half-smile. “You’re biased, I think.” He manages a chuckle, and wonders what Optimus, what so many of the Autobots, would think of Ratchet ready to virulently defend someone who had once been second in command of the entire Decepticon armada.

“Well, maybe I am,” Ratchet says, as indignantly as he can, and he drops his arms, closing the distance between them in a couple strides. “But that doesn’t mean Megatron’s not guilty as frag, far from repentant, and a danger to everyone.”

Affection twists and tangles with amusement. “Also true.” He grabs Ratchet’s hand, tangling their fingers together, briefly admiring the contrast of their relative designs. “Thank you for saving him anyway.”

It’s Ratchet’s turn to snort. “I still don’t get why you care so much. He’s been nothing but pain for you.” The last is softer, less an accusation, and more of a confused resignation.

It isn’t that Starscream doesn’t want to be honest, although there’s a part of him which is too used to lies and subterfuge as a means of self-preservation. The truth is that Starscream doesn’t know what the truth is, and isn’t sure he could explain his reasoning in a way which would make sense to Ratchet. Or even to himself.

Saving Megatron is just something he feels he has to do.

“There was a time he was an inspiration,” Starscream murmurs, tugging Ratchet closer, until their fields collide, and he can feel the warmth of his medic’s frame. “Maybe I’m just nostalgic.”

“You? Nostalgic? I doubt it.” Ratchet lets himself be tugged, his arm coming up around Starscream, hand resting warm and tender on Starscream’s lower back. “You’d sooner burn the past to the ground than let it define you.”

Affection burns bright and fierce. Where Megatron had faltered, Ratchet understands, and it’s one of many reasons Starscream loves him. It’s not about the difference between Autobots and Decepticons either. It’s about someone taking the time to see his spark.

Starscream presses his cheek to Ratchet’s, sliding their derma together in a sensuous slide. “You know me so well. And as touching as your concern is, I can handle it. Him. Both. He’s no threat, not as he is.”

Ratchet slips his hand free of Starscream’s, but only so he can curl his fingers around Starscream’s wrist, pressing his thumb to the inner dermal line. “Is that what this is about? Feeling superior because he’s fallen so low?”

“Would you despise me if that were true?” Starscream gives him a sidelong look, optics burning like coalfire and embers.

“I certainly wouldn’t blame you.” His other hand glides over Starscream’s back, fingers tracing a nearly invisible weld, one of far too many to count. “I know the scars he left.”

Starscream’s wings flick. “I’m stronger than any hold he might have on me,” he hisses, unable to hide the outrage and the hurt. He’s been called weak far too many times in his functioning. He won’t tolerate it from anyone, least of all Ratchet.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” Ratchet presses a kiss to the inside of Starscream’s wrist, and the delicate touch has Starscream shivering, for the simple fact that it’s so gentle. “Just don’t underestimate what he’s capable of because you think defeat has left him cowed. You know what his favorite method of asserting control is.”

“As if I could forget.”

“I know.” Ratchet looks up, and there’s a determination in his gaze, along with a hefty dose of concern. “But without Optimus to fight, who knows what kind of Megatron we have in there.”

Starscream twists his jaw. He eases out of Ratchet’s embrace, because there’s a tremble to his limbs he doesn’t want his partner to feel. There’s nothing to do but fly it out, push himself to the limits, until he leaves the memories behind.

“You’re sure the dark energon is gone?” he asks. Megatron had been hissing at the corner, staring at nothing, and the anger roiling his field had been dark and dangerous.

The last thing they need is a resurgence of Unicron. There are not enough survivors to take on the mad god. They don’t have a Prime to sacrifice anymore.

Ratchet nods and retreats, back toward the door. “I scanned him earlier. Trace amounts at best. One last flush should remove the rest, and he’s on it now.”

Small favor.

“Why?” Ratchet asks.

Starscream shakes his head. “Nothing more than thinking how dangerous he might be.”

“He’s dangerous without the dark energon, but that’s a good point,” Ratchet says. He sighs and loudly cycles a ventilation. “We’ll have to tread carefully.”

“Mm.” Starscream slides back into his chair. Megatron aside, he’s buried under research and actual work. There are far more important things to fix than Megatron right now. “When’s the hearing?”

"Tomorrow."

Starscream whips around in the chair, nearly making it topple. "What?"

Ratchet shifts, looking uncomfortable for the first time. "There's a bit of a rush to it. No one likes having Megatron here without have an answer about what to do with him. It's not like I asked before I brought him here."

"I told him he'd be allowed to present his case," Starscream says through gritted denta, his wingtips flicking. Megatron will see this only as another lie from Starscream. As if nothing has changed.

Damn them.

"That was outvoted," Ratchet says, and he rubs at his temple, exhaustion peeking around his optics. "It's an uphill battle, Starscream. At this point, it's all I can do to keep mechs from storming in here and hauling him out for execution. And I don't even like him."

Starscream twisted his jaw and turned back toward the computer. "When it comes down to it, there's nothing that makes Autobots any better than Decepticons," he mutters.

"Megatron is not an innocent mech, Starscream."

"And if the world had been a different place, the Decepticons wouldn't have ever needed to exist."

Ratchet sighs again, but rather than devolve into an argument of anger and biting, Ratchet seems to deflate. "You're welcome to come to the meeting and plead for him."

"I can't wait," Starscream drawls, and stares hard at the screen, as if he'll find all the answers buried in incomplete calculations and repeated failure.

There's a moment, and Starscream curses himself for flinching, for that stuttered vent of anticipation where he's waiting for a strike that doesn't come. It's been ingrained in him, and he hates it. Hates how Megatron has ruined him. Hates himself for saving the fragger.

"Don't work too late," Ratchet says. "And don't forget to refuel either." He's gone before Starscream can form a response. His glossa is too thick in his mouth, and his vocalizer gummed up with too many words anyway.

This is all so complicated, and it's a mess of his own making. Starscream just wishes he had a better explanation as to why.

~

There's a pulsing, pounding throb behind his optics. It gets harsher every time Arcee speaks, and sharper every time Ultra Magnus sighs. Xaaron's background drone of blather doesn't help, and the waves of argumentative muttering are a buzz in Ratchet's audials.

Ratchet rubs at his nose, at his temples, at his chevron. He cycles a few ventilations.

Starscream snarls, wings hiked high, his anger and his outrage the loudest in his field, louder than anyone else in the room. Knock Out, for once, backs him up, perhaps recognizing the slippery slope of punishing Megatron leading to the punishment of all Decepticons. And sometimes, they remember they are friends.

"He's a menace and a murderer. He doesn't deserve mercy," Arcee hisses, her hands planted on the table, her engine growling, and there's a tightness of fury in her optics that's not for Megatron alone.

Cliffjumper's death. Tailgate's death. Both are fresh in her memory core.

"We can't start executing mechs left and right," Xaaron says, his tone bored and disaffected. Ratchet supposes that's the benefit to riding the middle line during the war, and staying the Pit out of it. "It's impractical. It sets a dangerous precedent. And need I remind you how low our population is at the moment?"

Arcee glares at him. "I'm not talking about executing every Decepticon." Her gaze slides to Starscream before it darts away again. "But Megatron is not just any Decepticon. He's the Decepticon. He's the reason this all started. He's the reason Optimus died."

"If you think executing Megatron will do anything more than martyr him and ensure his legacy survives, then sit down and stick to what you're good at." Xaaron's gold optics narrow, and though he's not a warrior, he's every inch the politician and it shows.

"The Decepticons are stronger than the death of Megatron," Starscream snaps. "We survived without him when he was gone on that idiotic quest, and we're surviving without him now. But that doesn't mean we're going to stand by for him to be executed either. After all..." He looks at Arcee, and there's warning in the glance. "There's no telling who might be next."

"You can't kill an idea," Smokescreen says, but it's so quiet, Ratchet doesn't know if he'd been heard. Of them all, Smokescreen and Bumblebee have been the quietest, with Smokescreen sitting as though he has words on the tip of his glossa, but too afraid to say them.

"Besides," Starscream continues. "He didn't ask to come here. He didn't invade. If we hadn't saved him, he'd be dead."

Ratchet slouches in his chair. "And I'm not in the business of saving sparks so you can drag them up to the executioner's platform, so I'll thank you all very much if execution stays permanently off the table."

"No offense, Doc, but I'm thinking maybe we should've talked about it, before you did that," Wheeljack says with a shrug.

Starscream snorts. "Is that you preaching the benefit of forethought? How black is your kettle?"

Ratchet shutters his optics and tries to hide behind a datapad. They've been at this for what feels like hours, circling around and around the same tired arguments. It is nice of Optimus to leave them with this idea of democracy and no leadership in theory. But it doesn't fragging work.

Someone has to herd the cats.

Maybe the one who needs to be executed isn't Megatron, but Ratchet. Just so he can be put out of his misery.

"I'm just sayin'," Wheeljack says.

"Well, stop," Starscream snaps. "It does nothing to help the situation or help us come to a decision."

Wheeljack throws up his hands and beside him, Bulkhead leans in and whispers something, but Wheeljack jerks away and shakes his head. "Look, killing Megatron is clearly off the table. Even I think it don't feel right. It's one thing to kill someone in the middle of a battle. It's another to take a chained, unresisting mech and shoot out his spark while he's on his knees. I don't want to die on my knees, and I bet Megatron doesn't either."

"Imagine that, common sense from a Wrecker," Knock Out drawls. "Who'd have thought he'd be the only Autobot in the room with a processor."

Arcee revs her engine. "Fine," she bites out. "Throw him in prison and destroy the key. He doesn't need to be wandering around a free mech."

Ultra Magnus sighs and shuffles some of is datapads. "We can't do that for the same reason we can't summarily execute him."

"Why not?" Bumblebee asks.

"Because he wasn't arrested." Ultra Magnus shuffles one datapad out of the pile and gives it a pointed tap, looking as tired as Ratchet feels. Optimus' death has been harder on him than almost anyone, they were as brothers. "We had no warrant out for him. He isn't listed as a wanted criminal. He hasn't technically broken any law. We have no legal right to hold him."

"That's ridiculous. We know where he is and who he is. All we have to do is arrest him," Arcee points out.

Xaaron gives a rattling cough. "On what grounds?"

"Crimes against Cybertron, for starters," Arcee snaps. "Crimes against mechkind. Genocide. Murder. Kidnapping. Treason. Assault. Use of an illicit substance. Pit, take your pick! I'm sure he's ticked off every box."

Bulkhead shifts in his chair, which creaks warningly. "But, uh, not to deride your point Arcee, but he did all that during the war."

"So?"

"So, we didn't arrest him at war's end. We didn't capture him at war's end. He had, up until this point and as far as we know, been living a peaceful and solitary existence out in the wild." Xaaron gestures vaguely over his shoulder. "We weren't even looking for him for the purpose of justice. If we start arresting Decepticons who haven't committed a current crime, and charge them for crimes during war-time, what do you think will happen?"

Starscream's lip curls in a dangerous sneer. "You'd be right back where you started, at the beginning of the Decepticon revolution."

"Honestly, it's not even about Megatron at this point," Knock Out says in a bored tone, leaning back in his chair.

"It's about every other Decepticon out there, who wants to come home, but thinks they can't because the Autobots won, so they decide to die in the universe, rather than come back to their planet to be executed," Starscream says, and his words fall heavy in the room.

Knock Out nods slowly. "You Autobots think you're so high and mighty. You think you're better than us, that you have the moral high ground. But in the end, you'd just as soon slaughter the Decepticons for your better world."

"So if you're wondering why it took so long for the war to end, maybe take a good, hard look around the room," Starscream adds, and for once, it's not vicious. It's quiet and cold, and it falls harder than all the yelling and shouting has done.

Ultra Magnus sits forward, elbows braced on the table, hands clasped. "The very moment we cast aside any idea of the law and order we founded, is the moment we return to the inequalities that launched us into war in the first place. Starscream is right."

Starscream cycles his optics. His wings flutter. He stares at Ultra Magnus as though he's grown a second head.

Ratchet's spark pangs at the sight. How little his lover has heard those words.

"The facts remain as such," Ultra Magnus continues, his steady voice doing much to calm the simmering tension. "Megatron is not under arrest, and nor can he be arrested purely for war-time actions. He was not brought here willingly, and we have no right to hold him or demand anything of him. We're obligated to release him, lest we undercut all of the structures we've worked so hard to build thus far."

Silence.

Blessed silence.

Oh, the emotions still stew, but when it comes down to it, everyone respects Ultra Magnus, and his logic trumps all protests.

"Optimus always said that no one's beyond redemption," Smokescreen offers into the quiet, his optics downcast, and he squirms as all gazes turn toward him. "He always believed Megatron could be saved, and he never wanted us to just slaughter the Decepticons. He always thought we'd be a united planet again. Can't we believe that, too?"

Speaking Optimus' name is like invoking Primus at this point. It's a reminder. It shames them. It reminds everyone what the Autobots -- and Optimus Prime -- are supposed to stand for. Ratchet would be glad of this calculated action on Smokescreen's part, if he thought the calculation intentional. But it's not. Smokescreen had hero-worshipped Optimus. Even now, he seeks to follow Optimus' example.

"Ultra Magnus is right. So is Smokescreen," Bumblebee says and it's a point of pride for Ratchet how many people stand up and take notice when Bumblebee speaks now. The little bot has grown into his own since Optimus' death.

Then again, perhaps its easier to square one's shoulders and speak up when a pretty Decepticon like Knock Out is throwing starry optics in one's direction.

"The right thing to do is let Megatron go. No execution, no imprisonment, we treat him like any other refugee," Bumblebee continues, and then he grins. "Well, he doesn't have to know how closely we're watching him. And if we're at all lucky, he'll hate being here and leave as soon as possible."

"Or he'll think that he's free to do whatever he wants and start building up another army," Arcee says, but it's not as sharp as Ratchet would have expected. She sounds more tired and resigned.

Ratchet can't blame her. He's lost count of the times they've been down a similar road with Megatron.

"At which point we can arrest him for a current crime." Xaaron straightens upright, a light in his optics. "After which he'll be tried and imprisoned if found guilty. That, my dear, is the proper way to do things."

Arcee frowns, her expression souring, her distaste shifting quickly from the subject at hand, to Xaaron’s simpering tone, and Ratchet can’t blame her.

“It’s decided then,” Ultra Magnus says, rising and cutting off Arcee’s immediate view of Xaaron, a wise action on his part. “We will not arrest, imprison, or execute Megatron. He is free to go about his business, and for the duration of his residence here, we will monitor him very, very closely.”

Ratchet doesn’t envy anyone who gets that task.

Ultra Magnus looks to Starscream next. “His presence here is a decision you and Ratchet made without our input. It falls on the two of you to inform him and educate him. He’s your responsibility now.”

Fantastic.

“Fine,” Starscream says, but it’s not as indignant as Ratchet would have expected. Ultra Magnus agreeing with him seems to have really thrown him off balance.

Thank Primus.

Ratchet doesn’t know how much more of this discussion he can take. He rubs his forehead, trying to ignore the ache behind his optics while a few more odds and ends are debated, and quickly decided. Ultra Magnus calls the meeting to an end, and the various members filter out.

Ratchet stands to join them all, but Starscream intercepts him, a hand on Ratchet’s arm, and his field reaching out first. “Back to work for you?” Starscream asks.

“Not if I can help it,” Ratchet grunts, because the ache in his head is apparently here to stay, and he wants nothing more than to lie down. He’s getting cranky in his old age.

Starscream chuckles, and it almost feels like there’s an apology in his field, though Ratchet can’t imagine why. “How long will Megatron be under?”

“Until morning.” Not that Cybertron has an actual sun to measure time by. They’ve been living on Earth’s time since their return to Cybertron. “Why?”

“Wanted to know how long I had before my duty kicks in.” Starscream snorts and hooks an elbow through Ratchet’s arm, tugging him out the door and toward the lift. “I should’ve known saving him would be more trouble than he was worth.”

Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise, his thoughts pinging in several directions, but one standing out the most to him. “Guess I should apologize.”

“Why?”

“For not understanding why you wanted him alive.”

Starscream prods the button for the residential level, then stares at Ratchet as the doors close and the lift starts to ascend. “Are you so sure you do?”

“You were thinking about the other Decepticons.”

Starscream’s lip curls and there’s calculation in his grin. “Sure seems that way, doesn’t it?”

The lift dings and they depart, Starscream guiding him toward their shared quarters. Ratchet’s confusion lingers, and maybe he could piece it together, if his head didn’t ache so much. It’s been a long, long day.

“Am I wrong?” Ratchet asks.

Starscream doesn’t answer. His silence speaks a lot, but it doesn’t feel heavy. His field remains light and affectionate, and it’s not like the world is on his shoulders. It’s not until they’re back in the privacy of their habsuite that Starscream opens back up.

“If you think that’s what was going through my processor when I found him, then yes, you’re wrong,” Starscream says as he pushes Ratchet toward their private washrack, small though it is. “I still can’t explain that, and don’t think I ever will. Figuring out the political implications of him came later.”

Well. Ratchet supposes that makes sense.

Solvent comes on with a rattling spray, lukewarm as it patters over his armor, and some of the tension in Ratchet’s cables instantly eases.

“It was good work,” Ratchet says, because it’s true, and Starscream needs to hear it more. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like having Megatron around, and he deserves execution, but what I want, and what’s politically best are two different things.”

“You saved him,” Starscream points out as he picks up a scrubbing sponge and starts to sweep it over Ratchet’s back, like he so rarely offers to do.

"Like I said, two different things."

"You saved him for me."

Ratchet's glad he's staring at the wall, so Starscream can't see his face. "It was the right thing to do."

Starscream's hands rest on his shoulders, and he leans around Ratchet's kibble to press a kiss to his audial. Ratchet shivers, a tingle spreading warmth up his spinal strut and out along his sensory lines.

"I'm sorry, too," he murmurs. "I'm happy you're so worried about me, even if I don't need you to be."

"If you didn't insist on putting your spark in danger all the time, I wouldn't have to be so worried," Ratchet grumbles. "Honestly, you're worse than most of my Autobots."

Starscream chuckles and goes back to scrubbing. "I consider that a point of pride."

"You would."

Starscream laughs again, and just like that, whatever tension had lingered between them abruptly dissipates.

Megatron is still there, a hulking Combiner in the corner, waiting to pounce. But at least he and Starscream are on the same page.

***
a/n: This story lives! And hopefully by posting it, the muses will wake up and I can finish writing it. :)