[Fic] Seven Days -- Part 5a/7: (Friday Evening) Special Handling
Title: Seven Days -- Part 5a/7: (Friday Evening) Special Handling
Author: Lyricality (lyricality)
Rating: M/NC-17 overall for graphic sparksex. This part, PG.
Pairings: Eventual Bee/everyone. Nothing graphic in this mini-part, but mild Ironhide/Ratchet and Bee/Sam.
Disclaimer: Still not mine, for teh sad. All characters are of legal age.
Note/Summary: Here is the promised mini-part for Friday evening, from Ratchet's point of view. Nothing graphic, for once. Omgz Lyric, you must not be feeling well because there is no p0rnz. For this entire fic, you can blame nemi_chan and her marvelous prompt o' doom, in which Bumblebee is the resident pleasurebot of the Autobots. Also, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last part. Nervousness has abated. ♥
Insert something here about the Special Hell.
Part 1/7: (Monday) Prime Time can be found here.
Part 2/7: (Tuesday) Iron Ride can be found here.
Part 3/7: (Wednesday) Doctor Love can be found here.
Part 4/7: (Thursday) Horizontal Jazz can be found here.
Part 5/7: (Friday) Scream Queen can be found here.
With Bumblebee in stasis lock, Ratchet could worry less about his probable mental injuries and more about his obvious physical wounds. He readied his tools, running a diagnostic check on his own systems to eliminate the chance of any untimely malfunctions. With all the efficiency required by both his past and present duties, he divided his emotions from his actions with clean precision, separating himself from his helpless rage and relying on his practicality, instead.
His hands stopped trembling after a full cycle of dedicated concentration. Then he brought out the welding instruments and went to work.
After some few minutes of restoration on Bumblebee’s spark casing, he noticed a distinctive hitching sound just at the edge of his awareness, and glanced sharply up at Sam. The boy had both arms wrapped around himself, muffling the sound as he cried into one hand. Tears were unfamiliar except by Ratchet’s research on humanity, but the effects of shock and emotional strain were universal.
“Sam,” he said. The boy jumped, wiping at his eyes. “He will recover, I promise you.”
Sam drew in an unsteady breath, uncurling with a visible effort and leaning back with both hands braced against the crate. “I know. I mean, he got his legs ripped off before, right? This is no big deal, huh...”
“You are both quite fortunate to have survived,” Ratchet replied with flat finality. “And not only due to injury. You know firsthand the danger Starscream represents.”
“God,” Sam whispered, drawing both knees up against his chest. “He just... He’s a sick bastard. I didn’t even know that...that one of you could...” He shook his head, a violent denial. “That was rape, Ratchet.”
He saw no reason for euphemisms. “Yes.”
“He didn’t even... It wasn’t about sex or whatever, he just wanted to hurt Bee. He said he... I think he wanted to hurt all of you, because Bee’s your...conduit.” He pronounced the word with a strange sort of stress, and Ratchet stared at him in confusion for a moment before the meaning of the word linked correctly with its interpretation as Bee must have chosen it.
“In that case, he greatly underestimated Bumblebee’s resilience. As well as his skill.”
Sam seemed uncomfortable, shifting his weight and clearing his throat.
Applying specifically calculated force to the ruptured plates of the casing, Ratchet brought them back into perfect alignment with a snap, and then set to replacing the stripped connections. “What do you know about conduits, Sam?”
“Only what Bee’s told me.” The boy rocked lightly back and forth. “He helps all of you with pain. Emotional stuff. With your sparks. Every team needs a conduit, I guess. He said it takes a lot of training. Like...hundreds of years on Earth.” He closed his eyes for a moment or two, then glanced sideways at Ratchet again. “I didn’t understand right away. I...I said some pretty stupid shit.”
Ratchet took a somewhat perverse pleasure in increasing Sam’s discomfort. “Bumblebee was my apprentice, on Cybertron. I trained him.”
The gaping wasn’t particularly attractive, but it was certainly satisfying. “...Oh.”
“I don’t suppose he mentioned that.”
“Um. No. Think I’d have remembered that.” Awkward, Sam scratched at the back of his head. “I guess you must have a lot of experience, then...” He trailed off, looking as if he desperately wished he’d never said such a thing.
Ratchet took pity on him and did not elaborate. “I was a conduit for several millions of your years, yes.”
“Wow,” Sam breathed. He fell silent for a minute or more, and then spoke in a rush. “Bee said that it...it wasn’t prostitution, and I get that--” He spoke faster, noting the murderous shift in Ratchet’s expression at that particular word. “But it’s--it’s sex, isn’t it?”
Pausing to consider that, Ratchet extracted the remains of a shattered bolt and chose a suitable replacement from his collection. “No, it isn’t. Among organics, sex is a means for procreation. That is the primary purpose, no matter the pleasure of the act. Our kind does not reproduce in such a way, so I would not term our connections as sex. I doubt there is a human equivalent, in fact.”
“Hey, humans have sex for pleasure,” Sam tried. “But you’re right, I guess. We can’t...share thoughts or whatever you guys can do.” He drew in a breath and let it out again on a heavy sigh. “Bee said that the government paid conduits. The army.”
Ratchet nodded. “To ensure equality in service, although conduits are always granted their choice in the matter of partners. Offering private funds would be crass.” He considered. “Although gifts are not discouraged.”
“Gifts,” Sam repeated with a ghost of amusement. “Heh. What kind of gifts? New set of wheels?”
Ratchet rumbled faintly in return, mouth quirking. “I would have preferred those. Once I received tickets to a Cybertronian opera that lasted...” He calculated the conversion while adjusting delicate hydraulics. “Some two hundred sixty of your hours.” He chuckled aloud at Sam’s expression of abject horror. “That was several thousand years before the war began. Traditionalism was at its height in Iacon. The Cybertronian capital,” he clarified.
Lips curving, Sam shook his head. “Frankly, that blows, man.”
“Human colloquialisms are astonishingly apt.”
Jazz clicked over the open communications frequency, seeking permission to interrupt.
- Go ahead on overhead, Jazz, - Optimus acknowledged.
“Ironhide’s en route back ta base,” the lieutenant announced over the com system, making Sam jump. “I’m fillin’ him in. He took out the jamming equipment, too, an’ I got contact with the protoform again. Planetfall in thirty-three hours, seven minutes.”
“Good news is always appreciated,” Optimus murmured.
Sam balled his hands into fists, striking them against the top of the crate. “Did he get Starscream?” he shouted, apparently at the ceiling.
Jazz’s voice sounded from the adjoining room, rather than from the overhead speakers. “Judgin’ by the swearin’ I’m gettin’, I’d say not.” A pause, and then he continued on the base frequency. “He’s sayin’ he took ‘minor damage,’ Ratchet.”
Any hint of an improvement in mood firmly vanquished, Ratchet turned back to his work with a vengeance. “Just exactly what I need,” he muttered. “More unnecessary, masochistic havoc wreaked by an idiot who considers destruction his personal responsibility to the universe.” Sam edged away when the tirade continued, plainly deciding to leave any other questions for Bumblebee, when he came back online.
When Ironhide did return several cycles later, he had the forethought to stay out of the medical bay with Optimus until Ratchet reached a suitable pause in his work. A brief glance and a scan of the weapons specialist revealed burnt armor and wiring--minor damage, after all. Would wonders never cease.
“You can wait,” Ratchet proclaimed, turning back to Bumblebee.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Ironhide grunted in response, passing him by to slide open the recovery room door and toss something charred and twisted at Jazz.
The lieutenant caught it with a single magnetic sweep. “Standard jammin’ device. Self-assembled, most likely. Crude, but pretty damn effective.”
Ironhide crossed massive arms over his chest, and Ratchet forced himself into the reconstruction of delicate circuitry to avoid making any comments about obvious parallels. “Put a stop to it, in any case. Artillery works faster than deconstruction,” Ironhide said.
“Smashed it ta the Pit an’ back, I see,” Jazz agreed, then did his part with rare viciousness, reducing the bit of technology to ribbons of scrap.
Ratchet glanced toward the outside door. “Optimus.”
“Yes.”
“If we could delay the briefing until I am certain Bumblebee is stable...”
Optimus had moved back into the room at the call, and now he nodded once. “We will await your word on the matter, then.” He hesitated, glancing at Sam. “Sam, this could take several hours. If you would prefer to wait at your home--”
“No.” Sam shook his head, the line of his lips thinning. “I’m staying.”
Nodding in deference to his choice, Optimus returned to his guarding stance. Ratchet considered it overcompensation--devoted protection now could not undo their earlier failure--but he understood the emotional need for it, nevertheless. Ironhide had shifted into a similarly protective position, standing over Bumblebee with one blunt fingertip tracing over his shuttered optics, astonishing tenderness in that touch. For a surreal moment, Ratchet recalled the immeasurably milder repairs he had preformed only two days ago. Injuries of passion instead of pain, and he rejected the superficial similarities.
Ironhide settled onto a crate near Sam’s, breaking the spell. With everyone present and accounted for, and all of them silent again, Ratchet found that he could lose himself more easily in the intricacies of his work.
*****
When Ratchet next returned from the serene concentration so necessary to surgical repairs, several hours had passed. A swift check revealed that Jazz had entered an uneasy recharge in the adjoining room, and that Sam was near sleep himself, his breathing steady and low. Bumblebee had come through the restoration of his spark casing and his interior armor without a hitch, and the time for reconnoitering was now.
Ratchet called to Optimus and Ironhide over private communication channels to avoid disturbing the boy, and together they moved into the narrow adjoining room that Ratchet had commandeered as his office.
“Let’s see your arm,” he said aloud, motioning Ironhide over to a seat. He gave the wound a cursory inspection, and saw no particular need to block any pain receptors before starting repairs. “I’ll imagine Starscream didn’t make a clean getaway,” he added, ignoring the casual tension that swept through Ironhide’s joints at his touch. With a few presses of his fingers, he lifted away the main components of Ironhide’s left cannon and set the weapon aside, exposing more damage.
“Mm. He was barely online when I caught up to him, but he could still shoot. Took him a cycle or so before he could fly. I nicked the energon line in one wing, but that won’t have kept him from putting megaclicks between him and us. Slagging coward.”
Optimus sighed as he arranged himself in Ratchet’s chair. “Where did you find the jamming device?”
“He had it linked around one of those old electrical towers. Made a decent antenna.”
Readying his drill, Ratchet frowned. “How did he behave when you found him?”
“Disoriented,” Ironhide grunted. “He shot the landscape all to slag and only managed one hit to me.”
Ratchet let the drill slide just enough for discomfort. A reminder. “Once is more than enough.”
Optimus shook his head, pensive. “There is a strangeness to it that I dislike.”
“I’m troubled by his motivation,” Ratchet agreed, ripping out fried circuitry and dusting away the remaining scrap. “He talked of justice. What could that mean? If anything, he should be grateful for our interference. Starscream’s disloyalty to Megatron has been legendary since his disappearance.”
Ironhide made a buzzing snort. “You heard Bumblebee’s description. He’s malfunctioning at the very least. Probably worse.”
“Maybe that is so.” Optimus spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Starscream follows his own distorted impulses. That may be reason enough. Although I cannot say it satisfies me,” he continued, in deference to Ratchet’s deepening glare. “In any case, we must take greater care than ever before. The violence done to Bumblebee transgresses any...previous levels we have experienced from this particular grouping of Decepticons.” His voice lowered, aching in every word. “It is personal. Disturbingly, unforgivably intimate. The repercussions for Bumblebee will be personal, as well."
They fell silent. Ironhide lowered his head and clenched the fingers of his free hand into a fist.
Despite the circumstances, Ratchet couldn’t entirely suppress a pang of bittersweet pride. Bumblebee had fought back with all the lessons he had learned so well, and his talent and skill had brought Starscream literally crashing to earth. Fierce satisfaction shared space with turbulent worry at the forefront of Ratchet’s processors, a mixture that did nothing for his peace of mind.
Flexing his fingers, Ironhide turned his gaze to Optimus. “No one deserved this less than him. What that unhinged heap of slag did to him means death. No mercy, and I’m not giving any, no matter how broken that psychotic piece of scrap is inside.”
“He seems much more concerned about what he’s done to Starscream than about what Starscream did to him,” said Ratchet.
Ironhide growled, low and deadly. “That’s insanity. Starscream isn’t the one who looks like someone tried to rip him in two down the center. Although if I’d gotten a better grip on him--” The components in his arms began the instinctive shift to bring out the cannons, whether or not they were actually present, and Ratchet gave him a sharp clip on the back of the head that quelled that impulse.
Scowling, Optimus crossed both arms over his chest. “I ordered you not to engage him without sufficient cause.”
Ironhide swung his free arm in Bumblebee’s general direction. “I had sufficient cause!”
“And disabled yourself in the process--”
“Both of you shut up,” Ratchet snapped. “Optimus, if you want to help, go and speak to Jazz before he comes out of recharge and tries to sneak out to follow Starscream. The moment I’m finished with this, the two of you can slag each other senseless if you like, but until then, Bumblebee needs further repair and your bickering is making no improvements on my concentration.”
Suitably chastised, Optimus bowed his head in apology and went for Jazz, pausing in the adjoining room to rest one hand briefly against Bumblebee’s head.
Ironhide sulked instead of apologizing. “I tried to take off his head,” he said at length.
“I won’t pretend I don’t appreciate that,” Ratchet replied, a note of viciousness in his own voice. “But do me a favor and keep yourself out of the line of fire.” The faintest tremor ran through his hands, surprising him. Ironhide flinched, though he gave no other sign of pain, and Ratchet gentled his touch. “Two more wires,” he muttered. “And I’m not repairing the third. Let your internal repairs systems take care of it.”
“As if I have a choice.”
“Be quiet, or I’ll have you shooting pop cans instead of plasma by the end of this conversation.” Not exactly an idle threat, and Ironhide grumbled but settled nevertheless, waiting with uncharacteristic patience while Ratchet replaced both wires and finally levered the missing cannon back into place. He made the final connections and Ironhide tested them, grunting in satisfaction when everything cycled correctly.
Flipping his weaponry back into place below his armor, Ironhide stood, following Ratchet into the main room. “You’re in one piece,” Ratchet confirmed, dismissing him before turning to consider Bumblebee’s half-finished repairs.
Nearby, Sam was asleep on the crate, his body curled and his cheek pillowed on one hand. They had no need of blankets here, but Ratchet could fetch the fire blanket that made up a part of his own alternate form, and he draped it over the boy with a moment’s quiet consideration.
Ironhide stood over Bumblebee, optics assessing his remaining damage on several different scanning levels. “Can you help him?” Plainly he meant more than the physical injuries.
“I’ll do everything in my power.”
Ironhide gripped his wrist. “That’s no answer.”
Going perfectly still, Ratchet narrowed his optics. “If you think for one instant that I would give him less than my full dedication, then you don’t know me half as well as you would like.”
He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken them-not only because of their unwarranted cruelty, but also because of their implied revelation. He had known of Ironhide’s infatuation for some time, even without Bumblebee’s more or less subtle pressuring, and he deeply disliked the implication that he didn’t know what was best for himself.
Ironhide had withdrawn his hand as if physically stricken. He seemed to consider a number of different replies before discarding them all in favor of silence, and then turning with great purpose and leaving the medical bay.
Regret and irritation warring equally in his processors, Ratchet sat at the edge of the examination table, one hand rising to rub at the bridge of his nose. Not a human gesture, but still a habit he had picked up from Optimus in their countless years together. His experience told him they each would suffer from the assault on Bumblebee; stress and its effects should be the least of his worries.
Large hands rested suddenly against his shoulders, and he started. He had forgotten how quietly the weapons specialist could move.
“Sorry.” Ironhide spoke very low, and in a tone that sent an unexpected and unwelcome quiver down his neural cabling. “I shouldn’t take things out on you.”
Ratchet tried to keep himself entirely still. “I’m guilty of doing the same.”
Ironhide’s fingers shifted against his shoulders, a soft hesitation in that touch that suggested he knew just whom he was touching, just how, and just why. More forethought in that than Ratchet might have given him credit for, once. “You need rest,” Ironhide said at length, without moving his hands again.
“When I’m finished.”
“Then let me help you.” Ironhide pulled his hands away, and Ratchet absolutely did not relax just a bit in relief, the pressure lifted. The weapons specialist moved to stand at the side of the examination table opposite him, Bumblebee’s unconscious form between them. “Give me something to do.”
Despite his misgivings, Ratchet hesitated. Ironhide was no medic, but he knew basic repairs, and he took direction easily in matters such as this. Perhaps most damning, they worked well together, without much need for explanations or defenses after so many years of friendship. Friendship strained by what Ironhide now insisted on bringing into it, but Ratchet could endure that, at least for the time being.
“Get the braces, then,” he muttered. “And those replacement wires.”
Ironhide complied.
No initial awkwardness, just an easy slide into partnership as Ratchet directed and Ironhide did as he was told, the two of them working with steady concentration to replace ruptured metal and broken wires. Without conscious thought, Ratchet eventually abandoned audio communication and sent his instructions via private channel.
More hours passed; their side of the Earth rotated back toward the sun. Their work slowed, only the delicate adjustments left, and Ratchet completed those himself.
However well I repair this, it only accounts for physical damage.
“It’s a start,” Ironhide said. Ratchet flicked his optics, unaware that he’d spoken aloud. Perhaps he hadn’t. Ironhide had his gaze focused on Bumblebee’s chest, the armor repaired but the paint still stripped beyond easy restoration. “He’s good, and he’s strong. You taught him well enough how to defend himself, I’d say. He’ll be all right.”
“May that be so,” Ratchet murmured, allowing himself a silent prayer. Just this once, only this once, he welcomed the reassuringly steady hand that Ironhide rested against the back of his neck.
*****
Author: Lyricality (lyricality)
Rating: M/NC-17 overall for graphic sparksex. This part, PG.
Pairings: Eventual Bee/everyone. Nothing graphic in this mini-part, but mild Ironhide/Ratchet and Bee/Sam.
Disclaimer: Still not mine, for teh sad. All characters are of legal age.
Note/Summary: Here is the promised mini-part for Friday evening, from Ratchet's point of view. Nothing graphic, for once. Omgz Lyric, you must not be feeling well because there is no p0rnz. For this entire fic, you can blame nemi_chan and her marvelous prompt o' doom, in which Bumblebee is the resident pleasurebot of the Autobots. Also, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last part. Nervousness has abated. ♥
Insert something here about the Special Hell.
Part 1/7: (Monday) Prime Time can be found here.
Part 2/7: (Tuesday) Iron Ride can be found here.
Part 3/7: (Wednesday) Doctor Love can be found here.
Part 4/7: (Thursday) Horizontal Jazz can be found here.
Part 5/7: (Friday) Scream Queen can be found here.
With Bumblebee in stasis lock, Ratchet could worry less about his probable mental injuries and more about his obvious physical wounds. He readied his tools, running a diagnostic check on his own systems to eliminate the chance of any untimely malfunctions. With all the efficiency required by both his past and present duties, he divided his emotions from his actions with clean precision, separating himself from his helpless rage and relying on his practicality, instead.
His hands stopped trembling after a full cycle of dedicated concentration. Then he brought out the welding instruments and went to work.
After some few minutes of restoration on Bumblebee’s spark casing, he noticed a distinctive hitching sound just at the edge of his awareness, and glanced sharply up at Sam. The boy had both arms wrapped around himself, muffling the sound as he cried into one hand. Tears were unfamiliar except by Ratchet’s research on humanity, but the effects of shock and emotional strain were universal.
“Sam,” he said. The boy jumped, wiping at his eyes. “He will recover, I promise you.”
Sam drew in an unsteady breath, uncurling with a visible effort and leaning back with both hands braced against the crate. “I know. I mean, he got his legs ripped off before, right? This is no big deal, huh...”
“You are both quite fortunate to have survived,” Ratchet replied with flat finality. “And not only due to injury. You know firsthand the danger Starscream represents.”
“God,” Sam whispered, drawing both knees up against his chest. “He just... He’s a sick bastard. I didn’t even know that...that one of you could...” He shook his head, a violent denial. “That was rape, Ratchet.”
He saw no reason for euphemisms. “Yes.”
“He didn’t even... It wasn’t about sex or whatever, he just wanted to hurt Bee. He said he... I think he wanted to hurt all of you, because Bee’s your...conduit.” He pronounced the word with a strange sort of stress, and Ratchet stared at him in confusion for a moment before the meaning of the word linked correctly with its interpretation as Bee must have chosen it.
“In that case, he greatly underestimated Bumblebee’s resilience. As well as his skill.”
Sam seemed uncomfortable, shifting his weight and clearing his throat.
Applying specifically calculated force to the ruptured plates of the casing, Ratchet brought them back into perfect alignment with a snap, and then set to replacing the stripped connections. “What do you know about conduits, Sam?”
“Only what Bee’s told me.” The boy rocked lightly back and forth. “He helps all of you with pain. Emotional stuff. With your sparks. Every team needs a conduit, I guess. He said it takes a lot of training. Like...hundreds of years on Earth.” He closed his eyes for a moment or two, then glanced sideways at Ratchet again. “I didn’t understand right away. I...I said some pretty stupid shit.”
Ratchet took a somewhat perverse pleasure in increasing Sam’s discomfort. “Bumblebee was my apprentice, on Cybertron. I trained him.”
The gaping wasn’t particularly attractive, but it was certainly satisfying. “...Oh.”
“I don’t suppose he mentioned that.”
“Um. No. Think I’d have remembered that.” Awkward, Sam scratched at the back of his head. “I guess you must have a lot of experience, then...” He trailed off, looking as if he desperately wished he’d never said such a thing.
Ratchet took pity on him and did not elaborate. “I was a conduit for several millions of your years, yes.”
“Wow,” Sam breathed. He fell silent for a minute or more, and then spoke in a rush. “Bee said that it...it wasn’t prostitution, and I get that--” He spoke faster, noting the murderous shift in Ratchet’s expression at that particular word. “But it’s--it’s sex, isn’t it?”
Pausing to consider that, Ratchet extracted the remains of a shattered bolt and chose a suitable replacement from his collection. “No, it isn’t. Among organics, sex is a means for procreation. That is the primary purpose, no matter the pleasure of the act. Our kind does not reproduce in such a way, so I would not term our connections as sex. I doubt there is a human equivalent, in fact.”
“Hey, humans have sex for pleasure,” Sam tried. “But you’re right, I guess. We can’t...share thoughts or whatever you guys can do.” He drew in a breath and let it out again on a heavy sigh. “Bee said that the government paid conduits. The army.”
Ratchet nodded. “To ensure equality in service, although conduits are always granted their choice in the matter of partners. Offering private funds would be crass.” He considered. “Although gifts are not discouraged.”
“Gifts,” Sam repeated with a ghost of amusement. “Heh. What kind of gifts? New set of wheels?”
Ratchet rumbled faintly in return, mouth quirking. “I would have preferred those. Once I received tickets to a Cybertronian opera that lasted...” He calculated the conversion while adjusting delicate hydraulics. “Some two hundred sixty of your hours.” He chuckled aloud at Sam’s expression of abject horror. “That was several thousand years before the war began. Traditionalism was at its height in Iacon. The Cybertronian capital,” he clarified.
Lips curving, Sam shook his head. “Frankly, that blows, man.”
“Human colloquialisms are astonishingly apt.”
Jazz clicked over the open communications frequency, seeking permission to interrupt.
- Go ahead on overhead, Jazz, - Optimus acknowledged.
“Ironhide’s en route back ta base,” the lieutenant announced over the com system, making Sam jump. “I’m fillin’ him in. He took out the jamming equipment, too, an’ I got contact with the protoform again. Planetfall in thirty-three hours, seven minutes.”
“Good news is always appreciated,” Optimus murmured.
Sam balled his hands into fists, striking them against the top of the crate. “Did he get Starscream?” he shouted, apparently at the ceiling.
Jazz’s voice sounded from the adjoining room, rather than from the overhead speakers. “Judgin’ by the swearin’ I’m gettin’, I’d say not.” A pause, and then he continued on the base frequency. “He’s sayin’ he took ‘minor damage,’ Ratchet.”
Any hint of an improvement in mood firmly vanquished, Ratchet turned back to his work with a vengeance. “Just exactly what I need,” he muttered. “More unnecessary, masochistic havoc wreaked by an idiot who considers destruction his personal responsibility to the universe.” Sam edged away when the tirade continued, plainly deciding to leave any other questions for Bumblebee, when he came back online.
When Ironhide did return several cycles later, he had the forethought to stay out of the medical bay with Optimus until Ratchet reached a suitable pause in his work. A brief glance and a scan of the weapons specialist revealed burnt armor and wiring--minor damage, after all. Would wonders never cease.
“You can wait,” Ratchet proclaimed, turning back to Bumblebee.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Ironhide grunted in response, passing him by to slide open the recovery room door and toss something charred and twisted at Jazz.
The lieutenant caught it with a single magnetic sweep. “Standard jammin’ device. Self-assembled, most likely. Crude, but pretty damn effective.”
Ironhide crossed massive arms over his chest, and Ratchet forced himself into the reconstruction of delicate circuitry to avoid making any comments about obvious parallels. “Put a stop to it, in any case. Artillery works faster than deconstruction,” Ironhide said.
“Smashed it ta the Pit an’ back, I see,” Jazz agreed, then did his part with rare viciousness, reducing the bit of technology to ribbons of scrap.
Ratchet glanced toward the outside door. “Optimus.”
“Yes.”
“If we could delay the briefing until I am certain Bumblebee is stable...”
Optimus had moved back into the room at the call, and now he nodded once. “We will await your word on the matter, then.” He hesitated, glancing at Sam. “Sam, this could take several hours. If you would prefer to wait at your home--”
“No.” Sam shook his head, the line of his lips thinning. “I’m staying.”
Nodding in deference to his choice, Optimus returned to his guarding stance. Ratchet considered it overcompensation--devoted protection now could not undo their earlier failure--but he understood the emotional need for it, nevertheless. Ironhide had shifted into a similarly protective position, standing over Bumblebee with one blunt fingertip tracing over his shuttered optics, astonishing tenderness in that touch. For a surreal moment, Ratchet recalled the immeasurably milder repairs he had preformed only two days ago. Injuries of passion instead of pain, and he rejected the superficial similarities.
Ironhide settled onto a crate near Sam’s, breaking the spell. With everyone present and accounted for, and all of them silent again, Ratchet found that he could lose himself more easily in the intricacies of his work.
*****
When Ratchet next returned from the serene concentration so necessary to surgical repairs, several hours had passed. A swift check revealed that Jazz had entered an uneasy recharge in the adjoining room, and that Sam was near sleep himself, his breathing steady and low. Bumblebee had come through the restoration of his spark casing and his interior armor without a hitch, and the time for reconnoitering was now.
Ratchet called to Optimus and Ironhide over private communication channels to avoid disturbing the boy, and together they moved into the narrow adjoining room that Ratchet had commandeered as his office.
“Let’s see your arm,” he said aloud, motioning Ironhide over to a seat. He gave the wound a cursory inspection, and saw no particular need to block any pain receptors before starting repairs. “I’ll imagine Starscream didn’t make a clean getaway,” he added, ignoring the casual tension that swept through Ironhide’s joints at his touch. With a few presses of his fingers, he lifted away the main components of Ironhide’s left cannon and set the weapon aside, exposing more damage.
“Mm. He was barely online when I caught up to him, but he could still shoot. Took him a cycle or so before he could fly. I nicked the energon line in one wing, but that won’t have kept him from putting megaclicks between him and us. Slagging coward.”
Optimus sighed as he arranged himself in Ratchet’s chair. “Where did you find the jamming device?”
“He had it linked around one of those old electrical towers. Made a decent antenna.”
Readying his drill, Ratchet frowned. “How did he behave when you found him?”
“Disoriented,” Ironhide grunted. “He shot the landscape all to slag and only managed one hit to me.”
Ratchet let the drill slide just enough for discomfort. A reminder. “Once is more than enough.”
Optimus shook his head, pensive. “There is a strangeness to it that I dislike.”
“I’m troubled by his motivation,” Ratchet agreed, ripping out fried circuitry and dusting away the remaining scrap. “He talked of justice. What could that mean? If anything, he should be grateful for our interference. Starscream’s disloyalty to Megatron has been legendary since his disappearance.”
Ironhide made a buzzing snort. “You heard Bumblebee’s description. He’s malfunctioning at the very least. Probably worse.”
“Maybe that is so.” Optimus spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Starscream follows his own distorted impulses. That may be reason enough. Although I cannot say it satisfies me,” he continued, in deference to Ratchet’s deepening glare. “In any case, we must take greater care than ever before. The violence done to Bumblebee transgresses any...previous levels we have experienced from this particular grouping of Decepticons.” His voice lowered, aching in every word. “It is personal. Disturbingly, unforgivably intimate. The repercussions for Bumblebee will be personal, as well."
They fell silent. Ironhide lowered his head and clenched the fingers of his free hand into a fist.
Despite the circumstances, Ratchet couldn’t entirely suppress a pang of bittersweet pride. Bumblebee had fought back with all the lessons he had learned so well, and his talent and skill had brought Starscream literally crashing to earth. Fierce satisfaction shared space with turbulent worry at the forefront of Ratchet’s processors, a mixture that did nothing for his peace of mind.
Flexing his fingers, Ironhide turned his gaze to Optimus. “No one deserved this less than him. What that unhinged heap of slag did to him means death. No mercy, and I’m not giving any, no matter how broken that psychotic piece of scrap is inside.”
“He seems much more concerned about what he’s done to Starscream than about what Starscream did to him,” said Ratchet.
Ironhide growled, low and deadly. “That’s insanity. Starscream isn’t the one who looks like someone tried to rip him in two down the center. Although if I’d gotten a better grip on him--” The components in his arms began the instinctive shift to bring out the cannons, whether or not they were actually present, and Ratchet gave him a sharp clip on the back of the head that quelled that impulse.
Scowling, Optimus crossed both arms over his chest. “I ordered you not to engage him without sufficient cause.”
Ironhide swung his free arm in Bumblebee’s general direction. “I had sufficient cause!”
“And disabled yourself in the process--”
“Both of you shut up,” Ratchet snapped. “Optimus, if you want to help, go and speak to Jazz before he comes out of recharge and tries to sneak out to follow Starscream. The moment I’m finished with this, the two of you can slag each other senseless if you like, but until then, Bumblebee needs further repair and your bickering is making no improvements on my concentration.”
Suitably chastised, Optimus bowed his head in apology and went for Jazz, pausing in the adjoining room to rest one hand briefly against Bumblebee’s head.
Ironhide sulked instead of apologizing. “I tried to take off his head,” he said at length.
“I won’t pretend I don’t appreciate that,” Ratchet replied, a note of viciousness in his own voice. “But do me a favor and keep yourself out of the line of fire.” The faintest tremor ran through his hands, surprising him. Ironhide flinched, though he gave no other sign of pain, and Ratchet gentled his touch. “Two more wires,” he muttered. “And I’m not repairing the third. Let your internal repairs systems take care of it.”
“As if I have a choice.”
“Be quiet, or I’ll have you shooting pop cans instead of plasma by the end of this conversation.” Not exactly an idle threat, and Ironhide grumbled but settled nevertheless, waiting with uncharacteristic patience while Ratchet replaced both wires and finally levered the missing cannon back into place. He made the final connections and Ironhide tested them, grunting in satisfaction when everything cycled correctly.
Flipping his weaponry back into place below his armor, Ironhide stood, following Ratchet into the main room. “You’re in one piece,” Ratchet confirmed, dismissing him before turning to consider Bumblebee’s half-finished repairs.
Nearby, Sam was asleep on the crate, his body curled and his cheek pillowed on one hand. They had no need of blankets here, but Ratchet could fetch the fire blanket that made up a part of his own alternate form, and he draped it over the boy with a moment’s quiet consideration.
Ironhide stood over Bumblebee, optics assessing his remaining damage on several different scanning levels. “Can you help him?” Plainly he meant more than the physical injuries.
“I’ll do everything in my power.”
Ironhide gripped his wrist. “That’s no answer.”
Going perfectly still, Ratchet narrowed his optics. “If you think for one instant that I would give him less than my full dedication, then you don’t know me half as well as you would like.”
He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken them-not only because of their unwarranted cruelty, but also because of their implied revelation. He had known of Ironhide’s infatuation for some time, even without Bumblebee’s more or less subtle pressuring, and he deeply disliked the implication that he didn’t know what was best for himself.
Ironhide had withdrawn his hand as if physically stricken. He seemed to consider a number of different replies before discarding them all in favor of silence, and then turning with great purpose and leaving the medical bay.
Regret and irritation warring equally in his processors, Ratchet sat at the edge of the examination table, one hand rising to rub at the bridge of his nose. Not a human gesture, but still a habit he had picked up from Optimus in their countless years together. His experience told him they each would suffer from the assault on Bumblebee; stress and its effects should be the least of his worries.
Large hands rested suddenly against his shoulders, and he started. He had forgotten how quietly the weapons specialist could move.
“Sorry.” Ironhide spoke very low, and in a tone that sent an unexpected and unwelcome quiver down his neural cabling. “I shouldn’t take things out on you.”
Ratchet tried to keep himself entirely still. “I’m guilty of doing the same.”
Ironhide’s fingers shifted against his shoulders, a soft hesitation in that touch that suggested he knew just whom he was touching, just how, and just why. More forethought in that than Ratchet might have given him credit for, once. “You need rest,” Ironhide said at length, without moving his hands again.
“When I’m finished.”
“Then let me help you.” Ironhide pulled his hands away, and Ratchet absolutely did not relax just a bit in relief, the pressure lifted. The weapons specialist moved to stand at the side of the examination table opposite him, Bumblebee’s unconscious form between them. “Give me something to do.”
Despite his misgivings, Ratchet hesitated. Ironhide was no medic, but he knew basic repairs, and he took direction easily in matters such as this. Perhaps most damning, they worked well together, without much need for explanations or defenses after so many years of friendship. Friendship strained by what Ironhide now insisted on bringing into it, but Ratchet could endure that, at least for the time being.
“Get the braces, then,” he muttered. “And those replacement wires.”
Ironhide complied.
No initial awkwardness, just an easy slide into partnership as Ratchet directed and Ironhide did as he was told, the two of them working with steady concentration to replace ruptured metal and broken wires. Without conscious thought, Ratchet eventually abandoned audio communication and sent his instructions via private channel.
More hours passed; their side of the Earth rotated back toward the sun. Their work slowed, only the delicate adjustments left, and Ratchet completed those himself.
However well I repair this, it only accounts for physical damage.
“It’s a start,” Ironhide said. Ratchet flicked his optics, unaware that he’d spoken aloud. Perhaps he hadn’t. Ironhide had his gaze focused on Bumblebee’s chest, the armor repaired but the paint still stripped beyond easy restoration. “He’s good, and he’s strong. You taught him well enough how to defend himself, I’d say. He’ll be all right.”
“May that be so,” Ratchet murmured, allowing himself a silent prayer. Just this once, only this once, he welcomed the reassuringly steady hand that Ironhide rested against the back of his neck.
*****