Fic: Welcoming Burns, Bluestreak/Ratchet
Title/Prompt: Welcoming Burns
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: MA
Characters: Bluestreak/Ratchet, and a brief appearance by Hound, Optimus and others
Warning: Dark, Sticky style masturbation on Bluestreak’s part, and Medic probably making a bad decision, Besides that it’s Unbeta’d.
Word Count: 4320
Continuity: G1-ish, liberties were taken
Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Takara/whoever.
Bluestreak’s hands moved over his own frame. His doorwings pressed flat against the berth behind him straining the joints and cabling that connected them to his frame. His finger dug into the seam between his thigh’s armor and his pelvic plating stimulating the heavily sensored area. His other hand was wrapped around his spike. His frame was arched, hips lifted from the flat plane of the berth, as if pressing to meet a phantom’s form. The gunner’s neck was bared, as his whimpered sweetly. His hand clumsily removed itself from the seam at the join of his leg and hip to press again his neck, and as his hips bucked into his hand his hand tightened. He gasped mutedly as his vocalizer tried scream.
He was alone in the room but in his mind the Decepticon warlord pressed on top of him, snarling, threatening to kill him as his own hand tightened on his neck. He tried to keep the fantasy going although everything screamed at him that it was wrong. He’d never met the mech, and had only seen him across the battlefield or through a scope, but the source of his misery was that mech. He’d heard the leader’s rough voice barking orders to his legion of red opticed devils.
That voice echoed in his processor, with synthesized words promising to finish what he’d started. Bluestreak’s hand tightened on his own throat once more. Energon built behind his grip not allowed to continue on its path to his processor. His once clear mind grew fuzzy. His air intakes ran furiously. His body acted out struggles against an invisible captor, as finally an overload wiped his consciousness from him.
The gray and black form shifted as the young mech realized he’d returned to the present. He was on his berth, surrounded by the orange walls of the Ark. His transfluid was spilt across his hand the berth and plating as his fingers twitched he could feel the substance try and work its way into his joints. He knew his demons. He laid with them. His pale optics looked to the ceiling of his quarters knowing that he’d have to move soon that he didn’t have the luxury to contemplate just how thoroughly he allowed the silver mech to dominate him. The other had caused his sorrow; It was the sorrow that shaped his existence.
He was wounded deep, and no matter how many times that Ratchet had sat across a desk from him and reassured him that he could recover, the Praxian survivor found himself back here. Here was with his back to the berth his fingers coated, his energy exhausted to a phantom. His clean hand rubbed at his neck where it had clenched, tracing the slightly marring from the harsh press of his fingers. A small sad sound crept from his vocalizer before he rolled onto his side, curling inward on himself.
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Ratchet’s fingers ghosted over the superficial damage. “Your self-repair will take care of it.” The medic’s voice didn’t hold the wrath it could have. Venom and hellfire went nowhere with someone that would welcome the burn. The younger mech shivered at the touch on the delicate workings of his neck and the white mech was slow to remove his hand. I won’t ask why, I know why, the medical officer told himself as he pulled away his hand. “Apologize to Hound.”
“Ratchet…” The large blue optics of the gunner looked up at the mech from under his red chevron. From where Bluestreak sat on the table he was shorted than the medic.
“Bluestreak, I’m done repeating myself. This is it. I’ve logged it.” The sturdily built mech walked away from the medical berth and patient to the computer console. “You’ve told me how you do this, why you do this. I’ve tried to help you. I don’t know how to help you if you won’t even fight against it.” Ratchet’s red hand covered the lower half of his face and one arm was folded over his chest as he looked to the monitor. He shouldn’t have said that. He knew better that to think he knew how to handle the gunner’s case. “Apologize to Hound for causing him worry for finding you like that.” What did you do for a mech that had decided to take pleasure in his own pain, and had done so to cope with what he’d lost?
The Praxian nodded as his slipped from the berth, one pede touching down then the other. “I… I can’t fight them.”
The mech was still close to the berth and Ratchet’s hand slammed down on the computer console, before rounding on gray and black mech. “You won’t, not can’t.” Pushing away from the console the medic felt his patience give way. He had said these words before. He had tried to empower the younger mech make him understand that he was the only one who could fight his battles. He moved toward Bluestreak and cornered the mech. “You are removed from battle. If you won’t fight what you have to, you will not fight what you want to.”
“I can’t fight them!” Bluestreak repeated.
“Oh you can, but you won’t.” Ratchet’s face was miniklik’s from Bluestreak’s face as he made his point. Their chestplates pressed against one another.
“You can’t do this!” The gunner’s hands went to the edge of the berth where they clung as not to let the medic push him back further. It didn’t seem like a possibility. They needed him. He had to fight the Decepticons for what they did.
“Can and DID!” Ratchet snarled fiercely and while he did not gain ground, he did not lose any.
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Standing in front of Optimus Ratchet’s shoulder were level his manner composed if not a little heated. The leader leaned forward, his finger knitted together and resting on the desk. “I will tell you, Ratchet I had never expected anyone to file a complaint against you.” Silence was present and the Prime decided to continue. “He has accused you of not being neutral to the matter, and unprofessionalism, and has requested that you are no longer in charge of his file. Your response?”
Ratchet’s red hands tightened into fist before he decided it would be best to fold his arms over his chest. Leveling his helm at the Autobot leader the medic spoke. “I have made the decision I believe would be in my patient’s best interest. Stand by my decision, and unfortunately due to confidentiality I’m unable to inform you of the reasons I made the decision to remove him from combat. If you wish to have Bluestreak give release of his files, I’ll be able to enlighten you in the matter of a couple sentences.” His hand that had been on top motioned to the datapad that the truckformer held with the gunner’s complaint.
“Tell me without saying.” Optimus prompted, allowing his hand to lower the datapad.
“He has more important battles to fight, and he uses actual physical battles to delay facing things. He’s going downhill. Could you have even pictured Bluestreak filing that complaint? If I give him to Aid, or any of the other’s that help in the medbay he’ll just tell them he’s fine. I already know he’s not. He’s trying to change to field.” While Ratchet was being entirely serious something in his nature came across as juvenile as if he was a sparkling complaining about a cheap move being made in a game.
Cycling air in a sigh-like manner the red and blue mech shook his helm. He didn’t want to let the Praxian rescue lose faith in him and his willingness to listen to complaints, but he had known Ratchet for much longer, and the medic had an impressive track record for being right. “Complaint thrown out. I stand by your decision Ratchet, although Prowl has informed me that you have robbed us of a valuable team member on the field.”
Ratchet huffed, “Inform Prowl, I’m sorry I can’t just see a mech in such a strictly tactical way, not all of us are gifted with that flaw.”
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Bluestreak was the quietest Ratchet had ever heard him. The younger mech seemed intent to discover if one could in fact concentrate their optical light to shoot lasers. In lieu of being sent into battle the gray and black mech was supposed to report to medical and be prepared to assist in whatever way he could. “I should be out there.” The Praxian gestured at the doors to the medbay.
“No, you shouldn’t.” Ratchet collected items out of a cabinet placing them in the crook of his arm before standing. Looking over his shoulder at the other mech he continued about his business. First Aid had taken his place in the field and the other medbay staff seemed to be inclined to steer clear of the two. “I told you the conditions for you getting back out there.”
“You don’t even have a clue what’s going on in my processor!” Bluestreak was in a similar position to before. He was backed up against a medical berth, his hands finding holding on the edge.
“If I’m so clueless then tell me.” Ratchet organized a cart next to where the smaller mech was standing. “I’ve let this go on long enough. You’re getting worse to deal with than Red Alert, at least he’ll admit to his potential problem.” His hands almost on autopilot assembled the tool tray in neat lines with equal spacing. It was amazing how quickly the younger mech clamed up. Moving his optics from the tray the short distance to the other’s hand on the edge of the berth the medic saw the tightness of the grip and the transfer of gray paint to the painted metal of the berth. “Do you think telling me will somehow make things worse?” his voice dropped so that the others in the medbay wouldn’t hear. “You have told me about your want of vengeance, your hatred, and at the same time a loss of control to your enemy. You have lost almost everything to them, and now ‘cause you are afraid you’ll let them take away your ability to fight them. Congrats.”
“They didn’t take that away, you did!” Bluestreak growled turning his frame to face the older mech.
“And why did I take it away? ‘Cause you had injured yourself, to the point of cutting off the flow of energon to your processor, in while self-serving to the idea of Megatron raping and killing you. Think about how sane that sounds? It sounds like you want to be hurt.” Ratchet’s helm was still tilted slightly in his patient’s direction.
“Well maybe I do! Maybe I want to die like the rest of the Praxians. Maybe I just want him to finish the damn job!” The words left the gunner’s vocalizer before they’d had the chance to be processed. Bluestreak took a small step back, his doorwings quivered as Ratchet turned to fully put his gaze on the younger mech.
The medic could remove the “possible” from before the words “survivor’s guilt” in Bluestreak’s file. Ratchet seemed stuck looking at the other mech. It was hard to believe the other had actually said something significant to his frame of mind. His hands set the rest of the items on the cart’s tray. “Bluestreak…” He reached for the gunner’s arm, only to have the other decide to flee from his presence completely. Raising a hand to his helm he commed Red Alert to make sure the security mech knew the Praxian was not to leave the base.
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It was after the battle, and after the last mech that was getting out of medical that day was released that Ratchet went in search of the gunner. He commed Red Alert again knowing that once he’d contacted the head of security the first time that the mech would know Bluestreak’s whereabouts presently. Walking down the corridor he saw Hound and Mirage standing outside of his destination. As he arrived they took the cue and started down the hall away from Hound and Bluestreak’s quarters. Waving his hand over the door command pad the security systems issued a green light and opened the door. “Bluestreak.”
“Get out!” A sealed can of wax hit the wall beside Ratchet’s helm. It clattered to the floor and the younger mech curled up on himself further.
“Well, I’m sure Hound appreciated that.” Fearlessly the medic entered the room fully and sat on the berth next to Praxian’s form. Waiting a moment and seeing that his presence had not been acknowledged any further Ratchet’s arm slid under the ridge that was Bluestreak’s bumper pulling the younger mech into his lap. He was surprised by how his anger dropped when the Praxian’s arm circled his midsection. His hand fell gently upon the other’s chevron, his thumb tracing the edge of the tine soothingly. The difference in the shade of red was indistinguishable in the poor quality of light in the room. “Are you going to apologize to Hound again?”
The gray and black mech answered with a nod although his face was not visible to the medic, and a sound was not uttered. The younger mech’s ventilations synced with the larger mech’s ventilations and it seemed amazingly quiet in the room.
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“I don’t know why. I don’t. I try not to think about why. I try to think about what I have to do, where I have to go, who I have to talk to, and what I have to tell them, and what they want to hear. Have you ever talked faster than you could think? I know it’s possible. You just keep talking.” The gunner right hand held onto the fingers of his left as he unconsciously wrung his hands.
“Anyway, so yeah, I end up saying things I don’t mean to but it’s better than thinking about things I don’t want to. I think that people get tired of listening to me sometimes. I try to at least make things funny. We need more funny things. If people weren’t laughing we’d be crying, And…” Bluestreak’s helm tilted down. His optics were cast on the floor at his pede.
“And?” Ratchet prompted from across the medbay where he was working on refurbishing a piece of large scale scanning equipment.
“And, I don’t think I can do that anymore.” His facial plates crinkled in a way that looked pained. His voice had jumped up in pitched, but he was far from any of the cues that would hint at the ways their kind expressed grief or true misery.
Setting a tool down the medic’s attention looked to the Praxian. It was a quiet look of appraisal. In a hushed volume barely more than a whisper the older mech spoke. “I’m not asking you to cry Bluestreak. I’m sure you’ve done that enough.” Picking up another tool from the counter Ratchet allowed the clinks and clanks of his jobs fill the silence. He shut a panel, allowing his fingers to trail down the metal. “If you still need to that’s fine. It is alright to mourn what happened. You can talk about your grief all you need to.” His optics stayed on the gray, unpainted metal of the device. “Long ago I would have though that was improvement from you, but I expect more from you now. This isn’t about acknowledging what you’ve lost. You know what you’ve lost. It’s about what you still have, and what they didn’t take from you.”
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The klaxon of a base alert system sounded and Bluestreak stood his hands on the table. “Ratchet, please.” The younger mech pleaded at the medic as everyone scramble to ready for the defense.
The medic simply shook his helm, and motioned for the gunner to follow him as he had in the recent past. “Not today.”
“You said this was about what they didn’t take from me!” Bluestreak’s voice matched the volume of the Ark’s call to arms drawing the attention of the few mechs that could spare it. “They didn’t take my life but I can sure as the smelter take theirs!”
Ratchet had paused to listen, but upon hearing the outburst he vented air in a sigh. The Autobots had enough berserkers. “Not today.”
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The younger mech struggled and started to hit the hand that held his own. “Don’t you get it! I’m needed out there. You saw those incendiary burns! If I’d been there to take Thundercracker out that wouldn’t have happened!”
Ratchet firmly held Bluestreak’s fist. The medic had already taken one punch and would not take another. He could hear the sounds of a security team arriving. Although he hadn’t called them, and had already yelled at First Aid to call Red Alert back and tell him not to get involved it was too late. Three mechs crowded the doorway to the medbay. “I’m handling it!” Ratchet shouted over the smaller mech’s shoulder. He grabbed the gunner around the center using his arm to turn him so the mech’s doorwings were pressed to his front. His engine revved at the force he had to use to hold the Praxian still against him. His attention was no longer at the doors when it was clear that Ironhide was one of the responders. The mech of similar frame build to Ratchet realized there was little that they could do to make the situation any better.
“I could’ve helped them! I could have done something!” Bluestreak pulled against the red and white mech’s hold.
Tightening his hold Ratchet lowered his helm speaking in the calm, and patient tone he always used with Bluestreak. “You could have, but it was out of your control. There are some things we just can’t control Bluestreak. It not your fault.”
“I should have been able to do something!” Bluestreak’s helm knocked back into Ratchet’s shoulder. “I hate you!” The younger mech’s struggles picked up again causing gray paint to mar white.
Ratchet’s arms didn’t budge. He stood his form steady, tense with his normally unused strength. “I’m okay with that.” His chin rested on the gunmetal gray shoulder and eventually his peace settled on the one he held.
“I hate you.” It was a small whisper but it was enough to show the fight wasn’t over.
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The whirl of ventilation fans pulled the Praxian from his recharge. His frame was hot. He turned his helm. Hound always recharged soundly. He muted his vocalizer. Privacy was always an issue on the Ark as it was any ship where living space was limited. He shuttered his optics taking away their illumination. His hands started to shyly move over his frame afraid that if he made too much noise his roommate might stir. The touches grew bolder and rougher as his imagination took hold. He pictured his assailant. He mentally worked in his limited motions to his fantasy. He was held down forcefully and although he didn’t feel the pain he allowed the thought of his doorwings scraping over the jagged ground of a dreamscape run.
He hands clawed, and pulled but as he pictured the red opticed mech no relief came. His engine didn’t rev fitfully, and his temperature didn’t inch any closer to something greater. The gunner let his hands drop by his sides, as vented in short cycles. If his vocalizer had been turned on he’d have groaned aloud in frustration. Not a glimmer of satisfaction.
Bluestreak’s optical shutters retracted. His engine growled angrily. He turned his helm to look at Hound to ensure he hadn’t woken the mech. If he had the other’s back remained staunchly turned toward him. Damn, the medic. He’d once done this act with no ill conscience. He’d once allowed himself to take pleasure in the idea of being reduced nothing, and allowing his figment of the Decepticon leader to make him such. It had served so many functions. It eased his disquiet at his own survival, however briefly by imagining his death. It got rid of his need. It had given him some control that he couldn’t describe.
Shifting off his back he rolled unto his side away so his front was to the wall. Damn, Ratchet. Grabbing a helm rest he jammed it down rather forcefully to the berth pretending for a moment it was some representation of the red and white mech. His spike was still out from his earlier attempts and as he went to punch the rest once more his body turned allowing his pressurized spike to press into the padding of the berth. Moving into the pleasurable motion he rolled almost onto of the cushion he’d mentally equated to Ratchet for a brief moment.
He gasped silently at the thought. His hips moved once more against the surface of the berth. His engine rumbled dangerously. Gripping the rest he pressed it to the berth, his hate of Ratchet, his anger about how the other had managed to deprive him fueled him. His free hand moved to his shaft. He pressed into his hand. Stroking himself with firm hard pulls that he shouldn’t have gained charge from. His imagination supplying the feeling the larger mech’s angles beneath him. The sound of mental grating. His fist clenched the rest, pushing it down. He lost himself in the idea of taking the medic, finding that control he longed for in the fantasy and losing it abruptly with his overload. In thinking back on it. It was one of the better overloads he’d ever had.
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Bluestreak sat in a chair across the desk from Ratchet. The gunner’s optics seemed bright, and sharp almost predatory in nature. “You got what you wanted Ratchet.”
The medic worked filing out requisition forms for supplies. He quirked his optical ridge at the younger mech. Setting the stylus down he let his arms rest on his desk. “And what is that?” The medic dreaded the fact he could already tell from Bluestreak’s tone whatever the mech was going to say wasn’t the answer he’d hoped.
“I can’t get pleasure from the idea of Megatron killing me.” A tiny smirk twitched at the corner of the gray and black mech’s mouth.
Ratchet’s expression remained neutral as he could manage. “Alright, I’ll say that’s good to hear, but your still off the mark on what I’m wanting.” His optics locked with Bluestreak’s and that same slightly dangerous slant nearly made the medic’s struts shiver.
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The complaints that Bluestreak once had at the start of every battle he wouldn’t fight in disappeared. The younger mech took his duties and resumed his almost painfully chipper nature and Ratchet feared he’d lost. If the gunner had decided that he was no longer going to be honest with Ratchet then there was little the medic could do to help him. With the new development only in the past couple weeks the older mech couldn’t help but feel as though just perhaps he was missing an important turn.
He rounded a corner, box in hand, heading back toward his realm. It was then Bluestreak trotted up to him seemingly from no where. The mech chatted about anything, the sky, the ground, the dust on his undercarriage, the warm in his engine, the way his plating got hot when he sat in the nearby desert under the sun for hours just listening. The younger mech’s warm hand touched the red cross bearing shoulder, and in a moment switched from an attention getting motion to and forceful press steering the larger mech to having his back pressed into the corridor wall.
The gray and black Praxian pressed himself to Ratchet’s bulkier form. The gray fingers catching the angle of the medic’s shoulder and pulling him down. Bluestreak cut his own words off as he harshly pressed his mouth to the other’s. He caught the officer’s mouth as it was slightly part in surprise, and using that to his advantage he deepened the kiss. Pulling back, Bluestreak let his dental plating graze the malleable derma-metal of Ratchet’s bottom lip. His heated form pressed remained pressing the larger mech to the wall. “I hate you. I hate you for what you took. You took away my gun. You took away how I found control. I want it back.” The younger mech’s optics burned as he stared up at Ratchet. “I will take it if I have to.”
The medic took a moment to process the situation. The lithe form pressed against him and the still chipper words somehow partnered with the searing look disarmed him. Closing his mouth after it had been release a part of him feared opening it to speak lest another kiss would happen. His spark seamed to jump in his chamber and he couldn’t prevent the rev from his engine. “Why?”
“I’m alive. I’m going to do what I want and I want to fight. I want control. They let me live. I’m going to use it.” Bluestreak nuzzled Ratchet’s neck, and let his lips brush against the workings.
“No longer interested in joining the rest of Praxis?” The medic was forced by the gunner’s actions to lift his chin, giving the mech more access to the area.
“No. I’ve got better plans.” Bluestreak murmured as he seemed to locate a thick energon line in the medic’s mech. His dental plates squeezed the line making the larger mech hiss.
Ratchet’s hands went to the gunner’s red midsection. The action placed him to either pull, and hold the smaller mech closer or push the other away. “And what are those?”
“Seduce one medic, and get him to let me go into battle again.”
That one medic was glad that no one else was in the hall to hear him groan and pull the warped, and twisted gunner to him. “Fine, this one time.”
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: MA
Characters: Bluestreak/Ratchet, and a brief appearance by Hound, Optimus and others
Warning: Dark, Sticky style masturbation on Bluestreak’s part, and Medic probably making a bad decision, Besides that it’s Unbeta’d.
Word Count: 4320
Continuity: G1-ish, liberties were taken
Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Takara/whoever.
Bluestreak’s hands moved over his own frame. His doorwings pressed flat against the berth behind him straining the joints and cabling that connected them to his frame. His finger dug into the seam between his thigh’s armor and his pelvic plating stimulating the heavily sensored area. His other hand was wrapped around his spike. His frame was arched, hips lifted from the flat plane of the berth, as if pressing to meet a phantom’s form. The gunner’s neck was bared, as his whimpered sweetly. His hand clumsily removed itself from the seam at the join of his leg and hip to press again his neck, and as his hips bucked into his hand his hand tightened. He gasped mutedly as his vocalizer tried scream.
He was alone in the room but in his mind the Decepticon warlord pressed on top of him, snarling, threatening to kill him as his own hand tightened on his neck. He tried to keep the fantasy going although everything screamed at him that it was wrong. He’d never met the mech, and had only seen him across the battlefield or through a scope, but the source of his misery was that mech. He’d heard the leader’s rough voice barking orders to his legion of red opticed devils.
That voice echoed in his processor, with synthesized words promising to finish what he’d started. Bluestreak’s hand tightened on his own throat once more. Energon built behind his grip not allowed to continue on its path to his processor. His once clear mind grew fuzzy. His air intakes ran furiously. His body acted out struggles against an invisible captor, as finally an overload wiped his consciousness from him.
The gray and black form shifted as the young mech realized he’d returned to the present. He was on his berth, surrounded by the orange walls of the Ark. His transfluid was spilt across his hand the berth and plating as his fingers twitched he could feel the substance try and work its way into his joints. He knew his demons. He laid with them. His pale optics looked to the ceiling of his quarters knowing that he’d have to move soon that he didn’t have the luxury to contemplate just how thoroughly he allowed the silver mech to dominate him. The other had caused his sorrow; It was the sorrow that shaped his existence.
He was wounded deep, and no matter how many times that Ratchet had sat across a desk from him and reassured him that he could recover, the Praxian survivor found himself back here. Here was with his back to the berth his fingers coated, his energy exhausted to a phantom. His clean hand rubbed at his neck where it had clenched, tracing the slightly marring from the harsh press of his fingers. A small sad sound crept from his vocalizer before he rolled onto his side, curling inward on himself.
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Ratchet’s fingers ghosted over the superficial damage. “Your self-repair will take care of it.” The medic’s voice didn’t hold the wrath it could have. Venom and hellfire went nowhere with someone that would welcome the burn. The younger mech shivered at the touch on the delicate workings of his neck and the white mech was slow to remove his hand. I won’t ask why, I know why, the medical officer told himself as he pulled away his hand. “Apologize to Hound.”
“Ratchet…” The large blue optics of the gunner looked up at the mech from under his red chevron. From where Bluestreak sat on the table he was shorted than the medic.
“Bluestreak, I’m done repeating myself. This is it. I’ve logged it.” The sturdily built mech walked away from the medical berth and patient to the computer console. “You’ve told me how you do this, why you do this. I’ve tried to help you. I don’t know how to help you if you won’t even fight against it.” Ratchet’s red hand covered the lower half of his face and one arm was folded over his chest as he looked to the monitor. He shouldn’t have said that. He knew better that to think he knew how to handle the gunner’s case. “Apologize to Hound for causing him worry for finding you like that.” What did you do for a mech that had decided to take pleasure in his own pain, and had done so to cope with what he’d lost?
The Praxian nodded as his slipped from the berth, one pede touching down then the other. “I… I can’t fight them.”
The mech was still close to the berth and Ratchet’s hand slammed down on the computer console, before rounding on gray and black mech. “You won’t, not can’t.” Pushing away from the console the medic felt his patience give way. He had said these words before. He had tried to empower the younger mech make him understand that he was the only one who could fight his battles. He moved toward Bluestreak and cornered the mech. “You are removed from battle. If you won’t fight what you have to, you will not fight what you want to.”
“I can’t fight them!” Bluestreak repeated.
“Oh you can, but you won’t.” Ratchet’s face was miniklik’s from Bluestreak’s face as he made his point. Their chestplates pressed against one another.
“You can’t do this!” The gunner’s hands went to the edge of the berth where they clung as not to let the medic push him back further. It didn’t seem like a possibility. They needed him. He had to fight the Decepticons for what they did.
“Can and DID!” Ratchet snarled fiercely and while he did not gain ground, he did not lose any.
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Standing in front of Optimus Ratchet’s shoulder were level his manner composed if not a little heated. The leader leaned forward, his finger knitted together and resting on the desk. “I will tell you, Ratchet I had never expected anyone to file a complaint against you.” Silence was present and the Prime decided to continue. “He has accused you of not being neutral to the matter, and unprofessionalism, and has requested that you are no longer in charge of his file. Your response?”
Ratchet’s red hands tightened into fist before he decided it would be best to fold his arms over his chest. Leveling his helm at the Autobot leader the medic spoke. “I have made the decision I believe would be in my patient’s best interest. Stand by my decision, and unfortunately due to confidentiality I’m unable to inform you of the reasons I made the decision to remove him from combat. If you wish to have Bluestreak give release of his files, I’ll be able to enlighten you in the matter of a couple sentences.” His hand that had been on top motioned to the datapad that the truckformer held with the gunner’s complaint.
“Tell me without saying.” Optimus prompted, allowing his hand to lower the datapad.
“He has more important battles to fight, and he uses actual physical battles to delay facing things. He’s going downhill. Could you have even pictured Bluestreak filing that complaint? If I give him to Aid, or any of the other’s that help in the medbay he’ll just tell them he’s fine. I already know he’s not. He’s trying to change to field.” While Ratchet was being entirely serious something in his nature came across as juvenile as if he was a sparkling complaining about a cheap move being made in a game.
Cycling air in a sigh-like manner the red and blue mech shook his helm. He didn’t want to let the Praxian rescue lose faith in him and his willingness to listen to complaints, but he had known Ratchet for much longer, and the medic had an impressive track record for being right. “Complaint thrown out. I stand by your decision Ratchet, although Prowl has informed me that you have robbed us of a valuable team member on the field.”
Ratchet huffed, “Inform Prowl, I’m sorry I can’t just see a mech in such a strictly tactical way, not all of us are gifted with that flaw.”
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Bluestreak was the quietest Ratchet had ever heard him. The younger mech seemed intent to discover if one could in fact concentrate their optical light to shoot lasers. In lieu of being sent into battle the gray and black mech was supposed to report to medical and be prepared to assist in whatever way he could. “I should be out there.” The Praxian gestured at the doors to the medbay.
“No, you shouldn’t.” Ratchet collected items out of a cabinet placing them in the crook of his arm before standing. Looking over his shoulder at the other mech he continued about his business. First Aid had taken his place in the field and the other medbay staff seemed to be inclined to steer clear of the two. “I told you the conditions for you getting back out there.”
“You don’t even have a clue what’s going on in my processor!” Bluestreak was in a similar position to before. He was backed up against a medical berth, his hands finding holding on the edge.
“If I’m so clueless then tell me.” Ratchet organized a cart next to where the smaller mech was standing. “I’ve let this go on long enough. You’re getting worse to deal with than Red Alert, at least he’ll admit to his potential problem.” His hands almost on autopilot assembled the tool tray in neat lines with equal spacing. It was amazing how quickly the younger mech clamed up. Moving his optics from the tray the short distance to the other’s hand on the edge of the berth the medic saw the tightness of the grip and the transfer of gray paint to the painted metal of the berth. “Do you think telling me will somehow make things worse?” his voice dropped so that the others in the medbay wouldn’t hear. “You have told me about your want of vengeance, your hatred, and at the same time a loss of control to your enemy. You have lost almost everything to them, and now ‘cause you are afraid you’ll let them take away your ability to fight them. Congrats.”
“They didn’t take that away, you did!” Bluestreak growled turning his frame to face the older mech.
“And why did I take it away? ‘Cause you had injured yourself, to the point of cutting off the flow of energon to your processor, in while self-serving to the idea of Megatron raping and killing you. Think about how sane that sounds? It sounds like you want to be hurt.” Ratchet’s helm was still tilted slightly in his patient’s direction.
“Well maybe I do! Maybe I want to die like the rest of the Praxians. Maybe I just want him to finish the damn job!” The words left the gunner’s vocalizer before they’d had the chance to be processed. Bluestreak took a small step back, his doorwings quivered as Ratchet turned to fully put his gaze on the younger mech.
The medic could remove the “possible” from before the words “survivor’s guilt” in Bluestreak’s file. Ratchet seemed stuck looking at the other mech. It was hard to believe the other had actually said something significant to his frame of mind. His hands set the rest of the items on the cart’s tray. “Bluestreak…” He reached for the gunner’s arm, only to have the other decide to flee from his presence completely. Raising a hand to his helm he commed Red Alert to make sure the security mech knew the Praxian was not to leave the base.
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It was after the battle, and after the last mech that was getting out of medical that day was released that Ratchet went in search of the gunner. He commed Red Alert again knowing that once he’d contacted the head of security the first time that the mech would know Bluestreak’s whereabouts presently. Walking down the corridor he saw Hound and Mirage standing outside of his destination. As he arrived they took the cue and started down the hall away from Hound and Bluestreak’s quarters. Waving his hand over the door command pad the security systems issued a green light and opened the door. “Bluestreak.”
“Get out!” A sealed can of wax hit the wall beside Ratchet’s helm. It clattered to the floor and the younger mech curled up on himself further.
“Well, I’m sure Hound appreciated that.” Fearlessly the medic entered the room fully and sat on the berth next to Praxian’s form. Waiting a moment and seeing that his presence had not been acknowledged any further Ratchet’s arm slid under the ridge that was Bluestreak’s bumper pulling the younger mech into his lap. He was surprised by how his anger dropped when the Praxian’s arm circled his midsection. His hand fell gently upon the other’s chevron, his thumb tracing the edge of the tine soothingly. The difference in the shade of red was indistinguishable in the poor quality of light in the room. “Are you going to apologize to Hound again?”
The gray and black mech answered with a nod although his face was not visible to the medic, and a sound was not uttered. The younger mech’s ventilations synced with the larger mech’s ventilations and it seemed amazingly quiet in the room.
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“I don’t know why. I don’t. I try not to think about why. I try to think about what I have to do, where I have to go, who I have to talk to, and what I have to tell them, and what they want to hear. Have you ever talked faster than you could think? I know it’s possible. You just keep talking.” The gunner right hand held onto the fingers of his left as he unconsciously wrung his hands.
“Anyway, so yeah, I end up saying things I don’t mean to but it’s better than thinking about things I don’t want to. I think that people get tired of listening to me sometimes. I try to at least make things funny. We need more funny things. If people weren’t laughing we’d be crying, And…” Bluestreak’s helm tilted down. His optics were cast on the floor at his pede.
“And?” Ratchet prompted from across the medbay where he was working on refurbishing a piece of large scale scanning equipment.
“And, I don’t think I can do that anymore.” His facial plates crinkled in a way that looked pained. His voice had jumped up in pitched, but he was far from any of the cues that would hint at the ways their kind expressed grief or true misery.
Setting a tool down the medic’s attention looked to the Praxian. It was a quiet look of appraisal. In a hushed volume barely more than a whisper the older mech spoke. “I’m not asking you to cry Bluestreak. I’m sure you’ve done that enough.” Picking up another tool from the counter Ratchet allowed the clinks and clanks of his jobs fill the silence. He shut a panel, allowing his fingers to trail down the metal. “If you still need to that’s fine. It is alright to mourn what happened. You can talk about your grief all you need to.” His optics stayed on the gray, unpainted metal of the device. “Long ago I would have though that was improvement from you, but I expect more from you now. This isn’t about acknowledging what you’ve lost. You know what you’ve lost. It’s about what you still have, and what they didn’t take from you.”
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The klaxon of a base alert system sounded and Bluestreak stood his hands on the table. “Ratchet, please.” The younger mech pleaded at the medic as everyone scramble to ready for the defense.
The medic simply shook his helm, and motioned for the gunner to follow him as he had in the recent past. “Not today.”
“You said this was about what they didn’t take from me!” Bluestreak’s voice matched the volume of the Ark’s call to arms drawing the attention of the few mechs that could spare it. “They didn’t take my life but I can sure as the smelter take theirs!”
Ratchet had paused to listen, but upon hearing the outburst he vented air in a sigh. The Autobots had enough berserkers. “Not today.”
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The younger mech struggled and started to hit the hand that held his own. “Don’t you get it! I’m needed out there. You saw those incendiary burns! If I’d been there to take Thundercracker out that wouldn’t have happened!”
Ratchet firmly held Bluestreak’s fist. The medic had already taken one punch and would not take another. He could hear the sounds of a security team arriving. Although he hadn’t called them, and had already yelled at First Aid to call Red Alert back and tell him not to get involved it was too late. Three mechs crowded the doorway to the medbay. “I’m handling it!” Ratchet shouted over the smaller mech’s shoulder. He grabbed the gunner around the center using his arm to turn him so the mech’s doorwings were pressed to his front. His engine revved at the force he had to use to hold the Praxian still against him. His attention was no longer at the doors when it was clear that Ironhide was one of the responders. The mech of similar frame build to Ratchet realized there was little that they could do to make the situation any better.
“I could’ve helped them! I could have done something!” Bluestreak pulled against the red and white mech’s hold.
Tightening his hold Ratchet lowered his helm speaking in the calm, and patient tone he always used with Bluestreak. “You could have, but it was out of your control. There are some things we just can’t control Bluestreak. It not your fault.”
“I should have been able to do something!” Bluestreak’s helm knocked back into Ratchet’s shoulder. “I hate you!” The younger mech’s struggles picked up again causing gray paint to mar white.
Ratchet’s arms didn’t budge. He stood his form steady, tense with his normally unused strength. “I’m okay with that.” His chin rested on the gunmetal gray shoulder and eventually his peace settled on the one he held.
“I hate you.” It was a small whisper but it was enough to show the fight wasn’t over.
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The whirl of ventilation fans pulled the Praxian from his recharge. His frame was hot. He turned his helm. Hound always recharged soundly. He muted his vocalizer. Privacy was always an issue on the Ark as it was any ship where living space was limited. He shuttered his optics taking away their illumination. His hands started to shyly move over his frame afraid that if he made too much noise his roommate might stir. The touches grew bolder and rougher as his imagination took hold. He pictured his assailant. He mentally worked in his limited motions to his fantasy. He was held down forcefully and although he didn’t feel the pain he allowed the thought of his doorwings scraping over the jagged ground of a dreamscape run.
He hands clawed, and pulled but as he pictured the red opticed mech no relief came. His engine didn’t rev fitfully, and his temperature didn’t inch any closer to something greater. The gunner let his hands drop by his sides, as vented in short cycles. If his vocalizer had been turned on he’d have groaned aloud in frustration. Not a glimmer of satisfaction.
Bluestreak’s optical shutters retracted. His engine growled angrily. He turned his helm to look at Hound to ensure he hadn’t woken the mech. If he had the other’s back remained staunchly turned toward him. Damn, the medic. He’d once done this act with no ill conscience. He’d once allowed himself to take pleasure in the idea of being reduced nothing, and allowing his figment of the Decepticon leader to make him such. It had served so many functions. It eased his disquiet at his own survival, however briefly by imagining his death. It got rid of his need. It had given him some control that he couldn’t describe.
Shifting off his back he rolled unto his side away so his front was to the wall. Damn, Ratchet. Grabbing a helm rest he jammed it down rather forcefully to the berth pretending for a moment it was some representation of the red and white mech. His spike was still out from his earlier attempts and as he went to punch the rest once more his body turned allowing his pressurized spike to press into the padding of the berth. Moving into the pleasurable motion he rolled almost onto of the cushion he’d mentally equated to Ratchet for a brief moment.
He gasped silently at the thought. His hips moved once more against the surface of the berth. His engine rumbled dangerously. Gripping the rest he pressed it to the berth, his hate of Ratchet, his anger about how the other had managed to deprive him fueled him. His free hand moved to his shaft. He pressed into his hand. Stroking himself with firm hard pulls that he shouldn’t have gained charge from. His imagination supplying the feeling the larger mech’s angles beneath him. The sound of mental grating. His fist clenched the rest, pushing it down. He lost himself in the idea of taking the medic, finding that control he longed for in the fantasy and losing it abruptly with his overload. In thinking back on it. It was one of the better overloads he’d ever had.
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Bluestreak sat in a chair across the desk from Ratchet. The gunner’s optics seemed bright, and sharp almost predatory in nature. “You got what you wanted Ratchet.”
The medic worked filing out requisition forms for supplies. He quirked his optical ridge at the younger mech. Setting the stylus down he let his arms rest on his desk. “And what is that?” The medic dreaded the fact he could already tell from Bluestreak’s tone whatever the mech was going to say wasn’t the answer he’d hoped.
“I can’t get pleasure from the idea of Megatron killing me.” A tiny smirk twitched at the corner of the gray and black mech’s mouth.
Ratchet’s expression remained neutral as he could manage. “Alright, I’ll say that’s good to hear, but your still off the mark on what I’m wanting.” His optics locked with Bluestreak’s and that same slightly dangerous slant nearly made the medic’s struts shiver.
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The complaints that Bluestreak once had at the start of every battle he wouldn’t fight in disappeared. The younger mech took his duties and resumed his almost painfully chipper nature and Ratchet feared he’d lost. If the gunner had decided that he was no longer going to be honest with Ratchet then there was little the medic could do to help him. With the new development only in the past couple weeks the older mech couldn’t help but feel as though just perhaps he was missing an important turn.
He rounded a corner, box in hand, heading back toward his realm. It was then Bluestreak trotted up to him seemingly from no where. The mech chatted about anything, the sky, the ground, the dust on his undercarriage, the warm in his engine, the way his plating got hot when he sat in the nearby desert under the sun for hours just listening. The younger mech’s warm hand touched the red cross bearing shoulder, and in a moment switched from an attention getting motion to and forceful press steering the larger mech to having his back pressed into the corridor wall.
The gray and black Praxian pressed himself to Ratchet’s bulkier form. The gray fingers catching the angle of the medic’s shoulder and pulling him down. Bluestreak cut his own words off as he harshly pressed his mouth to the other’s. He caught the officer’s mouth as it was slightly part in surprise, and using that to his advantage he deepened the kiss. Pulling back, Bluestreak let his dental plating graze the malleable derma-metal of Ratchet’s bottom lip. His heated form pressed remained pressing the larger mech to the wall. “I hate you. I hate you for what you took. You took away my gun. You took away how I found control. I want it back.” The younger mech’s optics burned as he stared up at Ratchet. “I will take it if I have to.”
The medic took a moment to process the situation. The lithe form pressed against him and the still chipper words somehow partnered with the searing look disarmed him. Closing his mouth after it had been release a part of him feared opening it to speak lest another kiss would happen. His spark seamed to jump in his chamber and he couldn’t prevent the rev from his engine. “Why?”
“I’m alive. I’m going to do what I want and I want to fight. I want control. They let me live. I’m going to use it.” Bluestreak nuzzled Ratchet’s neck, and let his lips brush against the workings.
“No longer interested in joining the rest of Praxis?” The medic was forced by the gunner’s actions to lift his chin, giving the mech more access to the area.
“No. I’ve got better plans.” Bluestreak murmured as he seemed to locate a thick energon line in the medic’s mech. His dental plates squeezed the line making the larger mech hiss.
Ratchet’s hands went to the gunner’s red midsection. The action placed him to either pull, and hold the smaller mech closer or push the other away. “And what are those?”
“Seduce one medic, and get him to let me go into battle again.”
That one medic was glad that no one else was in the hall to hear him groan and pull the warped, and twisted gunner to him. “Fine, this one time.”