FIC- Hate You Too, Jazz/Ratchet Weekly Request Response
Title/Prompt: Hate You Too
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: PG-13 for Drug Abuse references
Characters: Jazz and Ratchet
Summary: Ratchet’s slipping and leave it to Jazz to play pick up
Prompt: Jazz/Ratchet - who are you and what did you do to our medic?
Warning: Unbeta’d, and I swear I’ll do another read through when I’m more awake.
Word Count: 1506
Another wave of refugees was due in and Ratchet had barely time to get the non-combatant area sorted from the last group. Each of the waves seemed to grow as more civilians saw what this war was doing and sought shelter behind the fortification that Iacon was becoming. The medical staff was still running the shift rotation at the rate from the peak of the last surge and he had yet to inform shift leaders of the next one. There was a dull throb of a processor ache brewing somewhere in the space between his optical center and the point of his chevron.
He’d already added pain-blocking coding, on top of medical grade stimulant coding that he seemed to have to up more often than he should have if he was honest with himself, on top of alterations to existing function coding for recharge to shorten the average down time, on top preventative coding to prevent relapse into high grade abuse he’d insisted upon needing after his last escapade with the system degrading substance. Ratchet knew he’d have to draw a line. It wasn’t going to be today, and most likely not the next hundred tomorrows. He’d updated his file as necessary for each of the changes. No one ever checked his file. He was self-aware, and he was his own primary care doctor. He gave no reason to doubt his ability, and no one ever did.
His dark chevron came to rest on his left hand as he looked down at a datapad checking the reports from the unit leaders, and requests for supplies. His shoulders were stiff and his back struts ached from staying hunched over so long, whether it be over his desk, or a patient. Ratchet could feel his systems preparing to cycle in the rest recharge and he reached for his desk drawer.
A small anxious shiver prickled his neck working and ghosted across his sensitive fingertips as they connected with the smooth surface of the instrument. The CMO hadn’t thought to lock his office. Any of the staff in his section would trust him if they were ever to see him tweaking his coding. Pulling the compact device from the drawer. In a practiced way he unwrapped the wires, and sunk the four jacks of the programmer home into two in ports hidden under the bottom edge of his helm and two in his left wrist.
Looking at the plexiglass face of small medical machine he could seem his dimmed optics staring back. Had he seen those optics on another mech he’d have issued temporary sedative coding and at least a few unscheduled shift rotations for strictly recharge, but it wasn’t another mech and he didn’t have the time for that. Deciding to up the stimulant coding hopefully to some effect this round, and once again alter function coding to prevent the drain that would typically alert a mech to recharge deprivation Ratchet started to enter the changes.
His fingers tapped the screen making to selections with a familiar ease. After reviewing the changes, his went into a temporary standby mode while they were implemented in his systems. He gasped and his optics brightened as he felt the effect of the stimulant coding. It wasn’t as good as high grade. It didn’t pleasantly burn its way from his intake to his tanks like high grade, but it was something within his grasp. It wasn’t as wasteful and didn’t take the resources that were starting to run tight.
He sat in that blissful, pain free standby for perhaps a breem. His helm tilted back, his form slouched in the his seat relaxed, optical shutters drawn, the working of his neck exposed and his left arm relaxed on the surface of the desk as his other still lay near limp on the programmer itself. The world was quiet to him. There was no clatter of tools, no asks for assistance or the cries of the wounded. The stimulant coding served its purpose. It made him feel again. He didn’t hear the door to his office slide open with a soft hiss, nor did here hear it slide shut. The near noiseless pedefalls of the mech who entered were nothing compared to the workings of the door.
Jazz had came to Medical first to get some of the bearings in his shoulder repaired after he zigged when a zag was more appropriate on a mission then after repairs were conducted and having seen no sign of his fellow officer had proceeded to search him out. The sight in the office was one he knew. He knew it from the slums. He knew it from barracks and in fact he knew it firsthand.
“Ratch.” It was all he could say. The black and white mech had known of the CMO’s history with high grade. This shouldn’t have surprised him. Addictive coding tendencies were hardwired. His optics softened behind his visor and his helm shook gently. Stim-junky. The reprogrammer sat under the medic’s hand and the wires were still connected. Jazz had dabbled with it in the field where stimulant coding sticks were sometimes used, and he’d seen it abused in the dives of the slums where a small crowd of mechs would gather around a center module, plug in and slowly with an eerie shuddering grace wither to the effects of the coding.
The mech before him was not the professional healer he sat across from at meetings, nor was the mech the patient, and attentive caregiver Jazz knew personally. Shaking his horned helm the smaller built mech came forward and circled round the desk with his usual grace. A small involuntary twitch ran through the medic’s form. The third in command’s dark colored hand lighted on Ratchet’s shoulder. He added more pressure to his hand and gently shook the large ambulance build. “Ratch, mech,”
The medic slowly responded first with a shudder and then with a small groan as his form shifted back to its previous hunch. Jazz spoke again. “Hey, mech.” His hand moved from the mech’s shoulder plating to the now exposed wiring of the back of the other’s neck. His fingers slowly kneaded to tensed cabling in an attempt to soothe the ache Jazz could predict. “I don’t want to have to report ya, but we need to have a serious talk about what I’m seeing. ‘Cuz I didn’t see the medic I trust when I came into this office.”
Ratchet’s helm shook. “I was just altering some coding in preparation for the next shift, Jazz. I’d prefer if you’d let me manage myself in peace.” One of the medic’s hands rubbed wearily at his chevron while the other seemed to tighten its hold on the reprogrammer.
“Ratch, I’m not gonna let you manage your way into being a chronic Stim-junky. ‘Nd trust me what I saw you appear well on the way to it.” The third in command slowly reached across the span between their forms unhooking the jacks from beneath the edge of Ratchet’s helm. The residual feed of code from the machine faded, and the drop made something in the medic feel ill.
“How often do you need to ‘alter’ your coding, and how much, does it keep increasing? Ever back off it? Do you keep amping it till you can feel the effect or do you still bother to measure so it feels more like actual treatment?”
“Jazz, I’m doing what I have to. I have to keep up with the schedule, and the demand keeps increasing. You should understand that.” Ratchet didn’t look at the sleeker build beside him not even as the other took hold of his wrist to disconnect the two remaining jacks. “This war is only starting.”
“I’m going to take the reprogrammer Ratch. I’m going to talk with your second and third about shifts. I don’t care if you work in your off time when you aren’t supposed to be recharin’, but you’re right Ratch. This war is only startin’ and it’s too early to lose good mechs due to poor vigilance. Next refugee wave is coming in three shift rotations; if you wanna work it I want documented proof from your second or third saying you’ve rested. You trained them both Ratch. They can handle it for a couple joors.” Jazz’s hands slowly disengaged the medic’s hand from the reprogrammer and it was smoothly subspaced. “Next time I come in I want the medic I trust, and not mech ya let yourself retrograde to. I care for ya Ratch, mech. It’s the least I can do after you’ve riveted my skid plate back on too many times to count.” He patted Ratchet’s dorsal plating.
“I hate you right now, Jazz.” The medic rubbed at his face with his red hands.
“Thas Alright. I hate you too sometimes, generally when you’re tryin’ to do something good for me.” The special ops mech smirked down at the medic, only to receive a tired half laugh as a reply from the other mech.
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: PG-13 for Drug Abuse references
Characters: Jazz and Ratchet
Summary: Ratchet’s slipping and leave it to Jazz to play pick up
Prompt: Jazz/Ratchet - who are you and what did you do to our medic?
Warning: Unbeta’d, and I swear I’ll do another read through when I’m more awake.
Word Count: 1506
Another wave of refugees was due in and Ratchet had barely time to get the non-combatant area sorted from the last group. Each of the waves seemed to grow as more civilians saw what this war was doing and sought shelter behind the fortification that Iacon was becoming. The medical staff was still running the shift rotation at the rate from the peak of the last surge and he had yet to inform shift leaders of the next one. There was a dull throb of a processor ache brewing somewhere in the space between his optical center and the point of his chevron.
He’d already added pain-blocking coding, on top of medical grade stimulant coding that he seemed to have to up more often than he should have if he was honest with himself, on top of alterations to existing function coding for recharge to shorten the average down time, on top preventative coding to prevent relapse into high grade abuse he’d insisted upon needing after his last escapade with the system degrading substance. Ratchet knew he’d have to draw a line. It wasn’t going to be today, and most likely not the next hundred tomorrows. He’d updated his file as necessary for each of the changes. No one ever checked his file. He was self-aware, and he was his own primary care doctor. He gave no reason to doubt his ability, and no one ever did.
His dark chevron came to rest on his left hand as he looked down at a datapad checking the reports from the unit leaders, and requests for supplies. His shoulders were stiff and his back struts ached from staying hunched over so long, whether it be over his desk, or a patient. Ratchet could feel his systems preparing to cycle in the rest recharge and he reached for his desk drawer.
A small anxious shiver prickled his neck working and ghosted across his sensitive fingertips as they connected with the smooth surface of the instrument. The CMO hadn’t thought to lock his office. Any of the staff in his section would trust him if they were ever to see him tweaking his coding. Pulling the compact device from the drawer. In a practiced way he unwrapped the wires, and sunk the four jacks of the programmer home into two in ports hidden under the bottom edge of his helm and two in his left wrist.
Looking at the plexiglass face of small medical machine he could seem his dimmed optics staring back. Had he seen those optics on another mech he’d have issued temporary sedative coding and at least a few unscheduled shift rotations for strictly recharge, but it wasn’t another mech and he didn’t have the time for that. Deciding to up the stimulant coding hopefully to some effect this round, and once again alter function coding to prevent the drain that would typically alert a mech to recharge deprivation Ratchet started to enter the changes.
His fingers tapped the screen making to selections with a familiar ease. After reviewing the changes, his went into a temporary standby mode while they were implemented in his systems. He gasped and his optics brightened as he felt the effect of the stimulant coding. It wasn’t as good as high grade. It didn’t pleasantly burn its way from his intake to his tanks like high grade, but it was something within his grasp. It wasn’t as wasteful and didn’t take the resources that were starting to run tight.
He sat in that blissful, pain free standby for perhaps a breem. His helm tilted back, his form slouched in the his seat relaxed, optical shutters drawn, the working of his neck exposed and his left arm relaxed on the surface of the desk as his other still lay near limp on the programmer itself. The world was quiet to him. There was no clatter of tools, no asks for assistance or the cries of the wounded. The stimulant coding served its purpose. It made him feel again. He didn’t hear the door to his office slide open with a soft hiss, nor did here hear it slide shut. The near noiseless pedefalls of the mech who entered were nothing compared to the workings of the door.
Jazz had came to Medical first to get some of the bearings in his shoulder repaired after he zigged when a zag was more appropriate on a mission then after repairs were conducted and having seen no sign of his fellow officer had proceeded to search him out. The sight in the office was one he knew. He knew it from the slums. He knew it from barracks and in fact he knew it firsthand.
“Ratch.” It was all he could say. The black and white mech had known of the CMO’s history with high grade. This shouldn’t have surprised him. Addictive coding tendencies were hardwired. His optics softened behind his visor and his helm shook gently. Stim-junky. The reprogrammer sat under the medic’s hand and the wires were still connected. Jazz had dabbled with it in the field where stimulant coding sticks were sometimes used, and he’d seen it abused in the dives of the slums where a small crowd of mechs would gather around a center module, plug in and slowly with an eerie shuddering grace wither to the effects of the coding.
The mech before him was not the professional healer he sat across from at meetings, nor was the mech the patient, and attentive caregiver Jazz knew personally. Shaking his horned helm the smaller built mech came forward and circled round the desk with his usual grace. A small involuntary twitch ran through the medic’s form. The third in command’s dark colored hand lighted on Ratchet’s shoulder. He added more pressure to his hand and gently shook the large ambulance build. “Ratch, mech,”
The medic slowly responded first with a shudder and then with a small groan as his form shifted back to its previous hunch. Jazz spoke again. “Hey, mech.” His hand moved from the mech’s shoulder plating to the now exposed wiring of the back of the other’s neck. His fingers slowly kneaded to tensed cabling in an attempt to soothe the ache Jazz could predict. “I don’t want to have to report ya, but we need to have a serious talk about what I’m seeing. ‘Cuz I didn’t see the medic I trust when I came into this office.”
Ratchet’s helm shook. “I was just altering some coding in preparation for the next shift, Jazz. I’d prefer if you’d let me manage myself in peace.” One of the medic’s hands rubbed wearily at his chevron while the other seemed to tighten its hold on the reprogrammer.
“Ratch, I’m not gonna let you manage your way into being a chronic Stim-junky. ‘Nd trust me what I saw you appear well on the way to it.” The third in command slowly reached across the span between their forms unhooking the jacks from beneath the edge of Ratchet’s helm. The residual feed of code from the machine faded, and the drop made something in the medic feel ill.
“How often do you need to ‘alter’ your coding, and how much, does it keep increasing? Ever back off it? Do you keep amping it till you can feel the effect or do you still bother to measure so it feels more like actual treatment?”
“Jazz, I’m doing what I have to. I have to keep up with the schedule, and the demand keeps increasing. You should understand that.” Ratchet didn’t look at the sleeker build beside him not even as the other took hold of his wrist to disconnect the two remaining jacks. “This war is only starting.”
“I’m going to take the reprogrammer Ratch. I’m going to talk with your second and third about shifts. I don’t care if you work in your off time when you aren’t supposed to be recharin’, but you’re right Ratch. This war is only startin’ and it’s too early to lose good mechs due to poor vigilance. Next refugee wave is coming in three shift rotations; if you wanna work it I want documented proof from your second or third saying you’ve rested. You trained them both Ratch. They can handle it for a couple joors.” Jazz’s hands slowly disengaged the medic’s hand from the reprogrammer and it was smoothly subspaced. “Next time I come in I want the medic I trust, and not mech ya let yourself retrograde to. I care for ya Ratch, mech. It’s the least I can do after you’ve riveted my skid plate back on too many times to count.” He patted Ratchet’s dorsal plating.
“I hate you right now, Jazz.” The medic rubbed at his face with his red hands.
“Thas Alright. I hate you too sometimes, generally when you’re tryin’ to do something good for me.” The special ops mech smirked down at the medic, only to receive a tired half laugh as a reply from the other mech.