[Transformers] Dear Lies - Part One
Title: Dear Lies
Characters: Jazz/Ratchet, Wheeljack, Others
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst, Horror
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, bondage, tactile and pnp interfacing, attempted forced spark merge
Summary: G1. It starts, as horrors are known to do, with the little things.
Other Notes: Very dark. Very twisted. Very read-at-your-own-risk.
Written for Competition Fun's Love Abounds contest. Originally posted here.
The quiet hours after a battle are simultaneously the worst and the best. Good because they are quiet. Terrible because they leave Ratchet with nothing but silence and time to think. Time to ruminate on the injuries he's recently treated, to worry about what he might have to fix in the future, to fear that next time he might not be able to save one of his patients. His friends.
He fills those hours with scut work. Cleaning the berths and spilled energon, along with his many tools and pieces of equipment. Restocking his cabinets with much-needed supplies. Taking stock of what was used, what can be refurbished, and so on. He updates medical files and ignores the fatigue tugging at every strut, every hydraulic line, and has so much practice ignoring the warning pings for recharge and a cube of energon that he doesn't hear them anymore.
Behind him, Ratchet does notice the chime for the medbay seconds before the door whooshes open. The absence of footfalls identifies his visitor as one of three mechs. Fortunately, Ratchet doesn't need those three guesses.
“I'm almost done.”
“Wrong!” Jazz says cheerfully, swinging into the edge of Ratchet's vision. “Yer done now.”
For a teetering moment, Ratchet considers defying him. He’s never been one to be cowed into anything before. But Jazz isn’t one to be ignored. He can be slaggin' relentless when he puts his mind to it. And right now, Ratchet doesn't have the energy to put up a resistance.
With a sigh, he sets down his tools. Even as he silently promises to finish organizing first thing tomorrow.
“Very well,” Ratchet allows with all the dignity he can muster and turns around. “As you say, I'm done now.”
Jazz breaks into a grin, visor brightening with his glee. “Good. Then ya can come with me.” Agile fingers curl around Ratchet's hand as the shorter bot pulls him from the medbay without so much as a by-your-leave. “Ya work too hard, Ratch mah mech.”
“Someone's got to,” Ratchet retorts. “You accident-prone slaggers aren't going to fix yourselves.”
Jazz laughs. He hooks an arm in Ratchet's elbow and escorting him down the hall like the humans do in all those movies.
“I try not ta get slagged too often,” he says, and his voice is so mild, so calm.
Ratchet all but snorts even as he hears it.
“It's not you so much as those pit-born twins,” he grumbles.
But by now, no one takes him seriously anymore. It's an inevitable truth with this war now. Frontliners get slagged; medics fix them. A never-ending cycle.
Jazz chuckles softer this time, then rounds the hall toward the officer's barracks, deftly steering Ratchet to his own quarters. They’ve only been dating, as the humans call it, for around two Earth years. Cohabitating has yet to really permeate Ratchet’s mind; he’s too stubborn to cross that line. Not yet. Not this early.
He's not like Prowl for sure. Prowl who, against all logical odds, took Wheeljack to berth one month and bonded him the next. That had certainly been something to power the gossip mill at the Ark. Mechs talked about it for weeks, months even, afterward.
Whereas Ratchet and Jazz's burgeoning relationship had started so quietly that it still shocked some of the bots to see the two of them together in any capacity. Even casually walking down the hall, as they are now.
“This is getting to be a habit,” Ratchet comments, memory core flagging several files and bringing them to the front of his cortex. As a matter of fact, he'd have to actively search to find a shift where Jazz hadn't escorted him back to his quarters afterward. At least, when he wasn't out on a mission of some kind.
“What is?”
They pause in front of Ratchet's quarters, and he keys in the code, the door sliding open to admit them.
“You bringing me home, so to speak.”
Deft fingers tease at a gap in his hip plating, stroking briefly over buried cables. “How else am I gonna get ya outta that medbay?”
Ratchet shivers as a wash of heat floods his systems. His systems are well-accustomed to Jazz's all-too-skilled touch.
“I can think of a few methods,” he replies, though the fatigue in his struts seemed to belie the tease.
“Yeah?” Jazz grins at him again. “So can I. Sit.” His tone brooks no argument, though amusement glimmers in his visor as he points at the berth.
Shaking his head, Ratchet does as he’s told. His frame relaxes almost immediately when he does.
“You staying?” he questions, pulling a half-empty cube out of his subspace. It wouldn't hurt to top off before heading into recharge.
He lifts the cube to his lip components, but before he can so much as catch a whiff of the energon, Jazz whisks the cube away from his hands.
“Don't drink that.” He promptly plops a full cube into Ratchet's hand. “Use this one instead.”
Ratchet huffs. “What was wrong with the one I had?” he demands but takes what Jazz offers anyway. It tastes no different than the one he already had though.
“It's not mah special blend,” Jazz responds almost dismissively and tucks the half-empty cube away in his subspace. He smiles then, approaching directly, hands reaching for Ratchet's thigh and ghosting upward.
It shouldn't feel so good, but it does. Ratchet's a medic and not even programmed to be a war-time one at that. His armor isn't built to withstand heavy damage, so even the soft scrape of Jazz's hands over his plating sends pleasant buzzes of sensation through his sensory net. His fingers curl tighter around his cube, a rumble of appreciation building in his vocalizer.
“Poor Ratch,” Jazz all but purrs, stepping even closer, perched between Ratchet's legs. His hands slide a tantalizing path over metal and wires, fingers dipping into grooves. “Ya look exhausted.”
Ratchet's fans kick on with an interested whirr. He hastily drinks another third of the energon Jazz had given him.
“Are you trying to get me to relax?” he inquires and surprises himself with the edge of static his voice has adopted.
Jazz chuckles and leans closer, nuzzling against Ratchet's windshield. His mouth components track downward and over the Autobot symbol displayed so prominently. Ratchet has to fight not to arch into the touch completely, even as he feels Jazz smirk.
“I dunno,” a seductive voice whispers. “Is it workin'?”
One deft hand slips into a gap in Ratchet's back armor, tweaking several wires that make him cry out. He arches forward, free hand flailing a moment before landing on Jazz's helm, finding and stroking his sensory horns. Jazz's engine gives an appreciative rev.
“I'll that as a yes,” the Porsche replies mischievously, and his glossa traces over Ratchet's headlights.
The medic groans, fingers threatening to shatter the energon cube. Heat rushes through his systems like a tidal wave, setting every circuit aflame. Fragging Special Ops mechs knowing just when to take advantage! He's always more sensitive when he's in need of a good recharge and a serious defrag, and Jazz knows it. Conniving slagger!
“Finish your energon,” Jazz orders, but it’s almost covered by the sound of an engine revving further. His hand is now buried in Ratchet's cabling, tweaking and stroking mercilessly. “Wouldn't want it ta go ta waste, would we?”
It's almost an automatic response to do as Jazz says, and Ratchet gulps down the cube, shoving it aside the instant he finishes. As if approving, Jazz dips his head. His mouth attacks a seam in the medic’s side, glossa barely brushing a bundle of wires buried beneath.
Ratchet shouts, arching forward, a heavy charge crawling across his circuits. His free hand clamps down on Jazz's shoulder, fingers digging into hydraulic lines. If he's going down, he's going to drag Jazz with him. He feels a shudder race over Jazz's plating, the saboteur's engine giving another heated noise.
“Mmm. Good try,” Jazz teases, drawing back with a parting nip to Ratchet's plating. “But I've a few tricks up my sleeve.”
His free hand snaps out, grabbing Ratchet's own from his shoulder, and before Ratchet can so much as speak, a warm glossa snakes out over his index finger. The heat swamping his systems flares brighter, electricity snapping across his frame. Jazz is merciless, the fragging tease, drawing each and every finger into his mouth. Denta grace over sensitive paneling, glossa teasing at the tiniest gaps between each point.
A wordless burst of static escapes Ratchet's vocalizer as the charge in his systems snapped, sending him into a cascading overload. He jerks and writhes, Jazz's glossa relentless on his fingers, his circuitry crawling with bright sparks of electricity. His fans struggle to cool his heated frame, and he sags, twitching as lingering pleasure sparks his body.
Jazz, looking terribly smug about it all, drags his denta one last time over Ratchet's fingers before letting them slip from his mouth. He looks at Ratchet then. Visor unreadable. But the smirk is all too obvious.
“Nice.”
Ratchet, systems frantically trying to cool him down and HUD pinging him for long overdue recharge, makes a noncommittal noise. Like Jazz needs any more stroking of his ego.
Jazz frees his fingers from Ratchet's plating and pats him on the aft. “Don't fall inta recharge on meh yet, Ratch. We're not through.”
Primus! So it's to be one of those nights then. Ratchet groans, torn between dragging Jazz on to the berth beside him for a night spent fragging each other's pedes off and rolling over, sliding into a wonderful, relaxing recharge.
“I'm not,” Ratchet mutters and drags himself fully onto the berth, not at all surprised when Jazz deftly and immediately straddles him. “Are you trying to interface me into an early grave?”
Jazz laughs. His fingers find Ratchet's windshield. His aft grinds down against Ratchet's hip with a teasing slide of plating on plating.
“Would be a pit of a way ta go, wouldn't it?”
Groaning, Ratchet can only surrender as the low burr of pleasure starts to build within him again. This time, however, he sets his own hands to work. If he's going down, he's going to take Jazz with him. For certain.
It's going to be a long, exhausting night. But oh, so worth it.
o0o0o
He emerges from recharge the next morning feeling like he'd spent the night before guzzling gallons of high grade. Like he'd been trampled by Grimlock and then run over by Astrotrain for good measure. Every circuit aches from being subjected to delirious amounts of pleasure, and his systems are pinging him alerts, energy levels dipping into a low thirty percent.
Primus! Jazz was insatiable!
Groaning, Ratchet rolls out of his berth, every move sluggish and achy. He has to be on-shift in an hour. Which is enough time to grab a cube of energon in the rec room and try to prod his processor into something more coherent.
His quarters are empty. No surprise there. Jazz recharges little, rises early, and isn't one for lingering around idly. Ratchet has grown used to waking alone. Not all the time but often enough. Also, to no surprise, there is a cube of energon waiting for him on his desk. Which means he won't need that trip to the rec room.
A message has been left on his terminal access.
Ratchet slumps heavily into the chair at his desk, dragging the cube toward him and downing it in several gulps. He has to reboot his optics twice before they agree to focus on the message Jazz left for him. Slag but he's getting too old for this.
He quickly scans the datapad. Jazz is going to be on a mission for the next couple of days. And he's been ordered to not be lonely in his lover's absence. Ratchet chuckles softly and tucks the datapad away.
He drinks the cube Jazz left for him, luxuriates in the meditative silence in his quarters, and only rises from his seat when his HUD pings him with a shift reminder. Ratchet rises to his pedes, flicks the cube into a recycle chute, and heads for the door. He reaches for the panel, and notices the scrape of black paint on his arm.
Frag.
He looks down. Streaks are all over his thighs and hip, too.
Double frag.
And he doesn't have enough time to stop by the washracks now. He'll have to try his best to buff them out in the medbay. Slaggin' stupid lover. Might as well have painted “Property of Jazz” on his aft if the saboteur wanted to stake a claim.
Ratchet shakes his helm. Point of fact, he wouldn't put it past Jazz to do such a thing, mildly possessive bot that he is.
Ratchet sighs. Wheeljack’s going to tease him mercilessly.
Oh, well. A few carefully aimed wrenches should take care of that.
o0o0o
Fatigue tugs at his strut, at every hydraulic line, as Ratchet drags himself to the rec room. All he wants is a quick cube before he retires to his quarters for a much needed break. He swears that he can't remember what it feels to be properly energized. If it's not the Decepticons causing carnage, then it's the Dinobots being clumsy or Sideswipe's prank gone awry. Or on the rare occasions such as earlier this afternoon, Perceptor accidentally mixing chemicals together and causing an explosion of Wheeljack proportions.
Perceptor of all mechs!
And to think, Ratchet had always thought the soft-spoken scientist the careful, logical one amongst them all. Perceptor is supposed to be one of the few Ratchet doesn't have to worry about.
Instead, he's spent most of the afternoon putting a very embarrassed, very apologetic microscope back together. ‘Jack had been inappropriately ecstatic for the simple fact that it wasn't him in pieces for once.
It had been a long day for everyone.
On the bright side, Jazz would be returning from his mission any hour now. He'd have to deliver his report to Prowl, get cleaned up, and see Hoist in the medbay for a quick systems scan, but afterward Ratchet can be assured that the saboteur will seek him out. It's nearly always the first thing Jazz does once the official business has been handled.
It's somewhere between the end of the second shift and the beginning of the third, which probably accounts for the fact the rec room is so slaggin' packed. Ratchet groans, wishing not for the first time they had energon dispensers in the officer barracks. He can only hope the two banes of his existence aren't somewhere in the crowd, just waiting to pounce and annoy the slag out of him.
Ratchet attempts to slip unobtrusive through the crowd, aiming to grab a cube and leave before he can be roped into socializing in his exhausted state. Unfortunately, stealth is neither in his programming nor one of his acquired skills. Before he makes it three steps toward the dispenser, Smokescreen spots him. The tactician smiles and immediately comes Ratchet's direction.
Scrap. He's been caught.
“Ratchet!” Smokescreen greets, clapping a hand to Ratchet's shoulder with a companionable squeeze. “You look exhausted. Having trouble keeping up with the Jazz-man?”
If he weren't so tired, Ratchet probably could have come up with a sufficiently witty and barbed reply to that. Instead, he offlines his optics with a huff.
“Jazz is on a mission,” he says. “And my systems have been pinging me for energon for an hour, so if you don't mind...”
Smokescreen pushes a cube at him. “Here. Take mine.” He slings an arm over Ratchet's shoulders, tugging him close. “Got it before I realized I didn't need it. Come on. Bee was just telling us an interesting story about Perceptor. He fragged up all of the betting circles around here.”
Ratchet tries to dig in his heels, knowing that if he gets dragged into their friendly, conversational circle, it'll be awhile before he can excuse himself free. And then someone will mention high grade, and he's never been that good at self-control - case in point his numerous trysts with Jazz. Next thing he knows, he'll wake up tomorrow with a processor-ache, very little useful recharge, and an unpleasant gurgle in his tanks.
Better not to be lead into temptation.
“Actually,” Ratchet inserts, trying to duck out from under Smokescreen's arm, “I'm thinking to head back to my quarters.”
That earns him a grin and gleaming optics.
“The better to wait for Jazz?”
“Wait? I'm already here.”
Ratchet half-turns, and Smokescreen looks over his shoulder. Both of them see Jazz standing there, a mere half-pace behind them. He has an odd expression on his face, one Ratchet can't recall seeing before, but in another moment it's wiped away, replaced with his usual smile.
“Jazz,” Ratchet greets warmly. And no, he’s spark doesn’t give a happy tremble. It doesn’t!
“Hey, Ratch.” Jazz beams, but it fades a tad. “Smokey.”
“Welcome back,” Smokescreen replies and gives Ratchet a little shake. “We were just talking about you.”
“I noticed.” Jazz deftly slides into between them, an interesting feat of physics that dislodges Smokescreen's arm as the saboteur slides his own around Ratchet's waist. “Missed me, did ya?”
Smokescreen gives them some space. “Only because you're always the life of the party.”
“Smokey! Leave the lovebots alone!” Sideswipe suddenly calls out, much to Ratchet's mortification and a small scatter of laughter from the room. “No one likes a third wheel.”
Smokescreen holds up his hands, backing up another step as he shifts toward the group he'd left earlier. “He's got a good point. Don't let me get in the way.”
He grins mischievously, and Ratchet can practically see the wheels turning in Smokescreen's processor. How can he work this to his advantage? What kind of bets can he get the bots to place?
“Two years later and they still haven't run out of jokes,” Ratchet says and pulls the cube Smokescreen had given him toward his lips. He's still running low after all.
He reboots his optics as the cube is plucked from his fingers and whisked away, only to be replaced by another. Again.
“This one's better,” Jazz says and deftly steers Ratchet toward the door. “Who knows what Smokescreen put in that one?”
Ratchet gives his lover a pointed look. “Spiking the energon? He doesn't hang out with Sideswipe that much. Besides, I've enough secondary and tertiary systems that one cube would hardly affect me.”
They leave the rec room, nodding a greeting to a pack of minibots that is just entering.
“Not the point.” Jazz's hand strokes along Ratchet's back. “Mech's gotta learn some boundaries.”
“Boundaries?” Ratchet pauses in the hall. “What in the pit are you talking about?”
That odd look is in Jazz's face again, though it can be hard to tell with how inscrutable his visor makes him.
“Nothin',” he replies, fingers curling around Ratchet's hand and tugging the medic closer to him. “Don't worry 'bout it. Been a long day is all.”
Ratchet can agree with that much. “Tell me about it,” he grumbles with a sigh. “How did your mission go?”
Jazz's visor lights up. “Ya won't believe the cracked up plan Megs is cookin' up this time.”
“Another brilliant scheme from the Decepticon commander, Primus forbid!” Ratchet sips at the energon Jazz brought him.
Chuckling, Jazz tugs his hand and they pick up the pace again, heading no doubt to either of their quarters. Which is a good end to the night in Ratchet's opinion. Though Jazz's behavior does nag at the back of his processor, he shutters it away. Jazz always was a bit tense after returning from one of his infiltrations.
o0o0o
Jazz was right of course. Not but two days after his return from scoping out the Nemesis, the Decepticons attack with their most recent weapon of mass destruction. It’s some kind of matter eradicator to the best of Ratchet's estimation, but it works as well as one of Wheeljack's least successful endeavors. That is to say, it explodes the first time Starscream tries to use it.
Admittedly, part of Ratchet wants to attribute that to operator malfunction rather than an error in the weapon's design.
Megatron, infuriated by yet another failure, attempts to take out his anger on the Autobots. With two gestalts at his command, the battle is fierce but thankfully brief. Still, the injured are carted into Ratchet's medbay with wounds raging from laserfire to a missing limb in Ironhide's case. Ratchet is kept quite busy, though that doesn’t keep the idiot twins from annoying him, which is their usual standard when only one is injured.
“Ratchet, I’m in need of some attention over here!” Sunstreaker complains loudly, the dent in his chestplate hardly even worth the effort in Ratchet’s opinion.
Ironhide's still clutching the remnants of his leg after all, and though his pain sensors have been shut off, it’s unsettling for anyone to be lacking a limb. The rebuild and reattachment is also among the lengthier repairs, but since ‘Hide's not in any pain, he and Sunstreaker both can be dealt with later.
“Your slaggin' paint job can wait!” Ratchet growls and bends over Sideswipe's flank again, continuing the delicate process of removing bits of splintered shrapnel from the red twin's innards.
Sides chuckles, arms folded behind his head. He’s as relaxed on the medberth as someone might be on a beach vacation.
“He just wants you to kiss it and make it better,” he teases.
Sunstreaker, very unamused, seethes at his twin. “Suck my tailpipe,” he snarls.
Smiling sweetly at his brother, Sideswipe drags the back of his knuckles over Ratchet's arm. “Ignore the surly sunflower, Ratch. What do ya say? Everyone says a quick overload cures all that ails a bot.”
“Everyone?” Ratchet snorts, tweaking a frayed wire with a bit more force than necessary. “Try another one.”
The red twin chuckles. “You wound me in my very spark,” he says, free hand groping at his chestplate and making him twitch under Ratchet's ministrations. “And with me being so free with my affections.”
“Yeah, we all know how free ya are, Siders.”
Ratchet startles, jerking out a piece of shrapnel in his surprise and making Sideswipe yelp. He hastily puts a clamp on a suddenly spurting line and then glances over his shoulder.
“Jazz!” He divides his attention between his lover and Sideswipe's quickly patched leak. “I thought you were in ops.”
“Prime sent me ta check on ‘Hide,” the saboteur answers, but he's not even looking at Ratchet. His focus seems to be on Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who are both suddenly much quieter than before.
Ratchet huffs. “He could have commed me and saved you the trip. Primus save me from guilt-struck Primes!”
If not for his proximity sensors, he would’ve startled again when Jazz placed a hand at the small of his back. It's rare that Jazz gets so close when Ratchet is in the middle of performing repairs after a battle. In fact, it's even rarer that Prime would send Jazz of all mechs on a courier run. He'd normally grab Bee or Grapple or pits, even Mirage.
Jazz makes a noncommittal noise. His fingers rap over the berth, mere inches from Sideswipe's knee.
“Nasty wound ya got there, Siders.”
“It's what I get for standing too close to Megatron's latest weapon of doom,” Sideswipe replies with another chuckle, but it sounds forced. Nervous even. His optics don’t meet Jazz’s visor. “Guess I should be more careful from now on.”
“Haven't I been saying that all along?” Ratchet demands, tugging out the last of the shrapnel and leaving only patches left. Well, those and a few dents but Sideswipe can bang those out on his own, and Ratchet's quite sure Sunstreaker will see to the scratches in his brother's paint.
“Yeah,” Jazz agrees, and his fingers rap over the berth again, almost contemplative. “Ya should really watch where yer goin'.”
Final patch applied, Ratchet straightens. He snags a cloth from his subspace and wipes the fluid spatters from his fingers. There’s a tension to the air around him, but he ignores it like usual. The twins are always good for making things uncomfortable anyway.
“You're good to go, Sideswipe. And Sunstreaker, not a word about your slaggin' dent, or I'll give you another one!” he hastily adds just as the yellow twin opens his mouth to complain again.
Ratchet turns toward his lover, who’s watching Sides slide from his berth and hobble after his brother out of the medbay. Amazingly, neither of them have further argument or complaints to give. Ratchet half-expects them to linger, if only to offer up more aggravation on his part.
“Ironhide's going to need that joint reconstructed. It wasn't a clean tear,” Ratchet says when they don’t and glances at the mech in question. “You can pass that on to Prime.”
Jazz stirs, finally turning to look at him. “What?”
“Ironhide. Leg. Long time to fix?” the medic arches an orbital ridge. “Prime wanted you to check on him, remember?”
A smile curves the saboteur's lips. “I'll deliver th' message. I'm sure it'll relieve poor Prime.” He leans closer, brushing his helm and hand over Ratchet's shoulder. “Comin' over tonight? I got time b'fore mah shift.”
“Mmm. If I can.”
Ratchet's optics sweep through his medbay, automatically cataloging all the repairs still in need of attending. Wheeljack almost has Cliffjumper good to go, but there are still so many others. Huffer, Air Raid, Gears, Powerglide. Bluestreak would probably need his entire arm rewired, but that could wait until the next day. And Skyfire has already moved on to help weld Hound back together.
Jazz squeezes Ratchet's hand then. Which effectively distracts him as surely as if he’d leaned in for a human kiss.
“I'll be waitin',” he say in a low and seductive voice. He offers a smile before whisking an energon cube out of his subspace like magic. “Here. I'm sure yer gettin' low.”
Primus! Does Jazz keep a dispenser in his subspace or something? Every time Ratchet turns around, there his lover is with a cube or two.
Nevertheless, Jazz is right. Ratchet simply hadn't noticed the alerts popping up in his HUD until now. Strange that Jazz should know. Or perhaps by now he's gotten familiar with the parameters of Ratchet's frame and his general lack of self-care.
“Thanks,” Ratchet says with a wan smile of his own. “See you tonight. Hopefully.”
“Count on it.” Jazz tosses Ratchet a cheery, playful salute and bebops out of the medbay like it's nothing.
Shaking his head, Ratchet turns toward his next walking wounded, who happens to be a very surly-looking Gears.
“It's about time,” the minibot huffs. “I think my arm's about to fall off.”
Ratchet rolls his optics. Some mechs never change.
o0o0o
Despite Jazz's earlier declaration, the moment Ratchet steps out of the medbay, he finds the saboteur waiting for him. His position seems nonchalant, head tipped back against the wall and arms crossed, but Ratchet knows better. Jazz is always ready for action at a moment's notice.
“Tired?” the Porsche asks, straightening as the door slides shut behind Ratchet.
“Not as much as you'd think,” the medic replies with a wry grin. He looks down at his chassis, brushing at a splatter of energon and some sooty residue. “More like in desperate need of a good scrubbing.”
Jazz chuckles. “I can help with that.” His visor brightens in a pointed look, one that sends a tingle of arousal through Ratchet's circuits.
“Don't you have to be on shift soon?”
“I've enough time fer this,” Jazz all but purrs and pulls out a cube. “Here. Brought this fer ya, too.”
Ratchet shakes his head but takes it anyway. “You spoil me too much. I can get my own, you know.”
“Better if I bring it to ya.”
There's a stubborn set to Jazz's mouth. One that means they could spend hours debating this and in the end, neither of them will concede.
Ratchet decides just to let it go. Jazz constantly bringing him energon is hardly a bad thing, and it seems to make the saboteur happy. Ratchet's not complaining, though it means his trips to the rec room happen less and less. Just last week ‘Hide had teased him about being sequestered in the medbay too much or “tied down ta Jazz's berth” as he'd so elegantly put it.
The washracks are surprisingly deserted when they arrive. Jazz herds them toward the back corner, out of view of the door, and Ratchet can read the intent in his body language. Can already feel the tension sizzling between them.
Ratchet cuts on the spray, stepping under the warm solvent. He reaches for washrag - amusingly something the humans use on their non-sentient vehicles. However, Jazz gets there before he does, snatching it out from under his hand.
“Allow me.” One hand strokes down Ratchet's side as he steps around the front, swiping the damp cloth over the medic’s windshield.
He can hardly argue with such an offer. Instead, Ratchet shutters his optics and surrenders to the sensation of the warm water pattering over his plating and Jazz's deft, sure strokes.
The saboteur leaves no inch of his plating untouched. His fingers dip into tiny crevices between his joints and armor, each teasing tickle building a slow heat in Ratchet's systems. His fans kick on with a whirr that echoes in the empty room, and Jazz chuckles, sounding smug.
“Good?” he questions, vocalizer soft and purring.
Ratchet lets out air unsteadily. “You know that it is.”
Jazz sweeps around to Ratchet's back. Slowly. So slowly.
“Lean forward,” he murmurs, vocals still soft and seductive. “Put yer hands on the wall.”
“What if I want to touch you?” Ratchet asks, his fans kicking on louder.
He does as Jazz wants though. Lifting his hands. Succeeding in opening up some gaps in his armor. Allowing the solvent to seep into every nook and cranny.
“Maybe I jes wanna touch ya right now,” Jazz replies, and his hands sweep over Ratchet's back, a place not crowded with sensors but evoking a pleasured response nonetheless.
Heat creeps over Ratchet's circuitry. His entire frame buzzes with rising charge.
“Here? Where anyone can walk in?”
“Not like everyone doesn't already know yer mine.”
Jazz presses himself against Ratchet's back, revving his engine hard. The vibrations travel through his frame and into Ratchet's, igniting a thunderstorm of sensation through plating already sensitized from Jazz's thorough cleaning. The medic gasps, arching against his lover, fingers scraping the metal of the wall.
He wants to argue against Jazz's blatantly possessive tone, but his thoughts bounce back and forth inside his processor, scurrying away from any coherency with every broad sweep of Jazz's hands. With every tweak of skilled fingers and the rhythmic patter of the solvent spray over his body.
His sensor net is aflame with pleasure, energy crackling across his circuits. Ratchet's overload takes him by surprise, and he jerks in Jazz's arms, heat crashing through him. He twitches, legs turning useless beneath him. Ratchet sags, only to be caught by Jazz and gently lowered to the damp floor.
“This is hardly conducive to getting clean,” Ratchet manages after several ragged ventilations.
Jazz laughs against the back of his head, fingers lazily caressing his hip assembly. “What's the use of getting' clean if yer not dirty in the first place?”
Ratchet laughs himself and eventually grows quiet to the feel of Jazz looking at him. But Jazz doesn’t say anything further. He just keeps stroking Ratchet with the cloth. Slowly. Possessively.
Ratchet lets him.
o0o0o
“Have you noticed anything… odd about Jazz lately?”
Beside him, Wheeljack arches an orbital ridge. His indicators flash an incredulous yellow.
“You're his lover. Shouldn't you know better than me?”
Ratchet huffs. “You'd think that, right?” He bends back over the solar panel they’ve been working on all afternoon. “But you've known him longer than I have.”
‘Jack seems to consider the question for a moment.
“What do you mean by odd?” he finally asks.
This is hard to put into words. Ratchet doesn't have anything tangible to cite. Just... little things. Impressions. Strange tics, one could say.
His hands pause as he searches his databanks for the right explanation. But there isn’t one.
“He's... always there.”
Wheeljack looks at him, confusion in his optics.
“Is that a bad thing?” he muses aloud. “It's kinda what happens when two bots are in a relationship, you know?”
“I know that!” Ratchet snaps and vents air out of frustration. “I mean that he always shows up out of nowhere. I swear whenever I need energon, he's there with a cube. Or when I want to go the washracks, he's there with a helping hand. He comms me the exact moment before I go into recharge. Like he knows. Like we're already spark-bonded or something.”
“And that's weird?”
Wheeljack seems honestly confused. But then, he would be. He and Prowl live that weird wonderland of theirs where it’s all rainbows and overloads and the experimental gone wrong.
Ratchet tosses him a cross look. He stubbornly picks up his soldering rod again.
“Now you're making me feel like I'm paranoid,” he mutters and tries to concentrate on his work again.
But the whole situation is nagging at him. He doesn't quite know why it strikes him as off, but it does. Ratchet hasn't made it this far as the Autobot's CMO without knowing when to listen to his instincts, and right now, they are telling him that something's not quite right. Either that or he's losing his processor.
That’s also a distinct possibility.
“You know,” he says after a long moment. “I honestly can't remember the last time I drank a cube he hasn't brought me or left for me or given me. I'd have to actively search my memory banks to find it, and I'll bet you, it was only when he was on a mission.”
Wheeljack looks at him. “Ratch--”
“And yesterday, Bluestreak brought me a cube after I finished his arm, but before I could so much as look at it, Jazz was there. Telling me to take his instead.”
“So he's a bit possessive.” Wheeljack shrugs, turning back toward his work, indicators flashing softly. “Everyone knows Spec Ops is wired a bit differently. And Jazz is the best at what he does.”
Ratchet shakes his head, abandoning his own tinkering and leaning back against the table. “Possessive, I get. Possessive, I can handle. This... I don't know what to call this.”
That is, of course, when his comm chooses to ping him. He doesn't need more than one guess to identify the originator, and there's a weird stutter in his systems when Jazz's transmission comes across the line.
--Ratch?--
“Speak of the mech,” Ratchet mutters.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing.” Ratchet waves his best friend off. “Give me a moment.”
He turns his attention to the comm just as Jazz pings him again.
--Where are ya?--
He's surprised Jazz doesn't already know.
--In the lab with 'Jack. Why?--
There's a noticeable pause as though Jazz is distracted.
--No reason. Just wonderin'. Ya comin' to the party tonight?--
--Party?--
A trickle of amusement filters through the transmission.
--Vorn majority fer th' Protectobots.--
--Oh, that.--
Primus, how had he forgotten? He swears he's getting out of touch with the goings on around the Ark these days.
--I'll be there. First Aid will give me that pathetic look if I don't at least make an appearance.--
Jazz laughs.
--Kid looks up to ya like a creator.--
--I noticed--, Ratchet replies dryly. --I'll meet you later, Jazz.--
--It's a date.--
The comm ends with a cheerful chime, and the normal conversation only adds to the other nagging belief that he's maybe being paranoid. His processor is of two minds about it. Part of him feels that he should be concerned, that this just isn't normal behavior. But then Jazz is nothing if not devoted. Loving. Doing nothing but taking care of Ratchet at every turn, and how can he find that worrying?
“Jazz, I take it?” ‘Jack drawls, amusement making his indicators flash a happy blue-green.
“Yeah.” Ratchet picks up his soldering rod and stares resolutely at the unfinished solar panel. “Let's just get this done.”
Maybe Wheeljack's right. Maybe there is nothing to worry about. So Ratchet will push that all aside for now. There's work to be done.
o0o0o
Unlike humans, Cybertronians have nice little alerts in their HUD which tell them when they've reached their high grade limit and increasingly noisy, aggravating warning pings after that informing said bot of impending danger. Though like humans, despite having those warnings, there are plenty of mechs that simply ignore them and keep on chugging down the good stuff. Especially when friends are there to goad them along.
Ratchet is thoroughly convinced his current overcharge can be blamed entirely on Jazz. Jazz who kept pressing cube after cube into his hands tonight, encouraging him to drink, drink, and drink some more. It's the only explanation for why Ratchet has allowed the saboteur to drag him onto the dance floor where Ratchet is quite sure he made a stumbling fool of himself.
Well, the Protectobots are delighted and amused, so Ratchet supposes that is all that matters. The party is in their honor after all. Vorn majority is a pretty big deal, symbolizing that they are considered adults by their fellow bots now. And though the Protectobots don't have the physical years behind them, they've certainly matured fast enough here on Earth. Ratchet ascribes it to the fact that they’ve have all but adopted the humans’ way of measuring time.
Still, Ratchet isn't sure which exactly it was that finally does him in. Whether it’s the ninth cube or the tenth. Either way, he's finding it a little difficult to keep his pedes beneath him. He stumbles, the floor rolling and tossing beneath him. His gyros refuse to stabilize, and all he's getting from his HUD are error messages.
Huh.
“Easy there, lover.” Jazz puts a stabilizing hand against Ratchet's chest. “Don't fall over on me now. Yer a bit heavier than I am.”
Ratchet outright laughs and sways to the right, hitting a wall and deciding that it's a good place to rest for a minute. “If I were human I'd accuse you of calling me fat.”
“But I like ya just the way ya are,” Jazz says, his voice dropping low as he wraps an arm around Ratchet, pressing their frames together.
Ratchet can feel the heat radiating from Jazz's plating, sure to match his own. Both of them are overcharged, both of them running hot. Jazz's visor is bright with charge and desire. His mouth is oh-so-tempting. If only they didn't have so much kibble. Ratchet has wondered a few times what the deal with kissing is.
Clumsily groping at his shorter lover, Ratchet tries to hook fingers under Jazz's plating, reaching for a sensitive wire bundle that's sure to make him moan. But his hand scrabbles at thin air as Jazz suddenly drops down onto one knee, nuzzling against Ratchet's pelvic area.
What the frag? That's not sensi--
Ratchet hisses, bucking up against Jazz as a deft glossa traces slow circles over his pelvic paneling. Jazz slides his glossa to the left, hands pushing Ratchet's legs aside and widening the gap between his armor. Pleasure bursts across Ratchet's sensory net as Jazz's glossa traces rarely touched wires and cables.
Primus! He hadn't even known he could be sensitive there!
Laughter floats to Ratchet's audials, and his optics unshutter with a snap. He turns his head, mortification biting at the edge of his desire, as Smokescreen and Blaster round the corner in the hallway. Both bots draw to a halt, optics wide as they stare at the scene in front of them.
“Jazz!” Ratchet hisses, clumsily groping at his lover's helm.
Jazz's only response is to amp up his pleasurable torture. That makes Ratchet moan and twitch against the wall before he can stop himself.
“Sorry, mechs,” Blaster quickly inserts, holding up his hands and backing away. “We'll take another route.”
“Never knew Ratchet had it in him,” Smokescreen comments, but he lets Blaster drag him off anyway.
Embarrassment wars with arousal, and Ratchet isn't sure what he wants to do first. Yell at Jazz or cry out in pleasure. His fingers scrabble over Jazz's helm in indecision. Should he let loose his fearsome temper or -
Primus!
Ratchet moans, curling forward. Jazz's fingers dig into his wiring harder, the sharp edge of pain only sweetening the pleasure. Charge shoots through his systems, sweeping like wildfire, and another staticky sound escapes Ratchet's vocalizer.
He shudders, overload crashing down over him. His mouth locks open on a silent cry. He shakes from head to toe, electricity crackling over his plating. The edge of his vision goes white and then black, and his fans work furiously to cool his heated frame.
He comes to barely a minute later according to his chronometer with Jazz holding him close. His revving engine is an indication of his still-present arousal.
“That was the hottest thing, I swear ta Primus,” Jazz murmurs, his hands roaming over Ratchet's hot paneling.
Ratchet groans, lingering charge making him over-sensitive. He grabs Jazz's arm, squeezing.
“It was embarrassing,” he argues with every intention of getting up, moving. But he feels limp and lifeless. Limbs don't want to respond, too overcharged by the high grade and relaxed by his overload. “You could’ve at least waited until we got back to my quarters.”
Jazz's visor darkens. “What fun is that? Mechs got ta learn ta keep their hands off.”
His mouth is already moving for Ratchet’s neck.
“What the frag are you talking about?”
Ratchet wonders if his bewilderment is as clear on his face as it is in his processor as Jazz pauses. The Porsche just lifts one hand, fingers stroking across Ratchet's chevron before sliding gently down the side of his cheek. His visor lights up then, but it isn’t a bright as it should be.
“I guess ya wouldn't see it. Ya can be pretty oblivious sometimes.”
Jazz’s tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it. Sharp beneath the teasing.
Ratchet stares at his lover. “You're not making any sense.”
“That's just th' high grade talkin'.” Jazz works himself free and rises to his feet with a graceful motion that completely belies how much energon he's consumed. “To the berth, yeah? I'm not done with ya yet.”
o0o0o
It starts to nag on Ratchet, all the little things that paint a larger, more worrisome picture. He likes Jazz; he holds a deep affection for the saboteur. Maybe even loves him. But he's beginning to think that they aren't on the same datapad. That what he wants and what Jazz wants are two entirely different things.
It would be easier, he supposes, if he could just talk to Jazz about it. But if there's one thing that Jazz excels at better than anything else, it's keeping his secrets. He's a pro at changing the subject, producing vague answers, or distracting Ratchet with a processor-blowing interface that leave him pleasantly achy and still lost.
Maybe the problem isn't Jazz but is in fact Ratchet himself. That thought has also crossed his mind. Any normal mech would be thrilled by all the loving affection, the energon every morning, and the complete usurpation of his free time and attention. Maybe Ratchet's the one who's changed and is acting a bit odd.
Except...
Except a week later, he bursts out of recharge halfway through a defrag cycle and finds Jazz watching him.
That, by itself, wouldn't be so unusual. Ratchet has woken a few times from recharge to find his lover curled against him, hands softly stroking his plating, perhaps Jazz is even humming one of his favorite tunes. When Jazz doesn’t leave early, he usually wakes Ratchet with caresses and some cuddling. Those instances are common enough to be comforting even. Those instances are also, however, preceded by the fact that Jazz had been in his quarters with him when he fell into recharge in the first place. He'd been invited then.
Jazz, by virtue of his vocation, can probably hack the lock of any mech's quarters on the Ark with the possible exception of Red Alert or possibly Prowl. Point of fact, he doesn't do it. Why should he? They none of them are enemies. Ratchet has invited Jazz into his quarters enough time that hacking isn't necessary.
Except apparently, for the times when Jazz wants to visit and Ratchet isn't alert to let him in. They haven't exchanged door codes; that’s akin to moving in together. And that... that step Ratchet just isn't ready to take.
It's unnerving, and it shouldn't be. There's an unsettling feeling somewhere in Ratchet's spark. He can feel Jazz's gaze on him, the saboteur's head tilted thoughtfully as he leans back in his chair. The unwavering gaze makes something in Ratchet's plating crawl.
But why should it? This is his lover. More than that, Jazz is a friend, an ally, someone Ratchet has trusted with his very existence on more than one occasion.
“It's the middle of th' night,” Jazz says, casual as he pleases. “Ya should go back ta recharge. Ya got shift in the mornin', remember?”
Ratchet has to cycle his vocalizer twice before he can make himself speak. It still fritzes a bit too much.
“I remember,” he says softly. “What are you doing here?”
Jazz shrugs. “Got back from my mission early. Wanted ta see ya.”
Any normal mech would be flattered by such an admission. Ratchet isn’t sure what to think.
“Oh,” is Ratchet's rather lame reply. “You didn't get yourself fragged up, did you?”
“Not a scratch. Promise.” Jazz leans forward, fingers stroking over Ratchet's helm. “So go back ta recharge.”
The uneasiness doesn’t leave no matter how much Ratchet tries to bury it. It's several long minutes before he manages to power back down. He can't shake the sensation of Jazz's optics on him. And he wonders. Wonders just how often has this happened without him noticing before?
o0o0o
“I think I'm losing my mind, ‘Jack.”
The door slides shut behind him with a definitive thud, announcing his presence with as much noise as his words. Wheeljack startles, nearly dropping a stabilizer from the newest invention.
“You... what?” He hesitates, peering at Ratchet. “Is something wrong?”
Ratchet ventilates loudly and runs a hand over his face. “Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe I'm the one who’s going crazy.”
“Ratch, calm down. Talk ta me.” Wheeljack swivels around in his stool, facing him directly. “What's going on? Is this about Jazz?”
“Yes.”
He can't help himself. There's an uneasy surge in his spark, and he starts to pace, feeling unbalanced.
“He... I don't know. Fraggit!”
He snarls, more at himself. It sounds silly when he tries to put it into words. It sounds like he's majorly overreacting. And maybe he is.
Wheeljack raises his hands. “What happened?”
Ratchet's shoulders slump. He can feel himself curling in on himself.
“You're going to think I'm crazy.”
“You came here because you want my opinion,” Wheeljack inserts. “I can't give ya one if I don't know what's going on.”
Shaking his head, Ratchet continues to pace. “It's probably nothing.”
“Ratchet.”
He throws up his hands, the unease in his spark traveling to his plating. Where a shudder of discomfit races over his frame.
“He was staring at me. I woke out of recharge, and there he was. Staring at me.”
Wheeljack doesn't say anything. Again, Ratchet feels like a mech who's crossed a few wires or who has a glitching processor. By Primus, he feels like Red Alert!
“We haven't exchanged door codes, Jack. I didn't let him in. And I know, I know, that it's sparkling play for him to crack any lock, but it was... I don't know how to put it.” He abruptly stops his pacing and turns to face his best friend. “Help me, Wheeljack. Something's got to be wrong. I'm glitching or something.”
“You're not glitching,” Wheeljack says firmly, though there's a thread of worry in his voice. “Sit down. I'll scan you, and we'll get to the bottom of this.”
Ratchet sits, a bit heavily at that, feeling like he's losing control. It doesn’t make any sense really. Jazz is his friend, his ally, his lover.
He feels a slight tingle spread over his sensor net as Wheeljack starts the scan, and Ratchet sits as still as he possibly can. If he has to, he'll demand that Wheeljack plug in and page through his coding, too. Something must be wrong.
“Huh,” Wheeljack comments as he completes the scan. “Weird.”
Ratchet straightens. “What is it?”
“Hold still.” ‘Jack leans closer, his face mere inches from Ratchet's windshield as he peers at Ratchet's plating.
One hand lifts, finger shifting into something like tweezers, which he then works into the gap at Ratchet's helm. There's a tickling sensation before Wheeljack draws back, something glinting between pointy tips. It’s tiny. So tiny. Too tiny. Barely visible.
Ratchet reboots his optics. “What the frag is that?”
“Near as I can tell at first glance... a tracker and transmitter.” Wheeljack shifts, giving him an uncomfortable look. “It's Spec Ops design. And I don't mean Decepticon.”
Ratchet's spark lurches. “Are you telling me...?”
He can’t even find the right words. His processor stutters at the mere idea of it. He can only look up in horror as Wheeljack completes the thought for him.
“Unless Mirage or Bumblebee suddenly want to keep tabs on you… then yes, I’m telling you that Jazz put it there.” Wheeljack turns toward his desk, sweeping aside some clutter to set the transmitter near a magnifier. “Let me take it apart to be certain, but… I'm pretty sure I'm not wrong.”
Ratchet tries to say something. It comes out as static. He waits for a minute and tries again.
“Why... why would he do that?”
Wheeljack glances over his shoulder. “You tell me. I mean, you're right. Being possessive is one thing. Putting a tracker on your lover?” His indicators flash pink. “That's beyond weird.”
Strangely, it doesn't relieve Ratchet one bit to know that the issue isn't one of his own devising. It means something else he'd rather not consider. To be fair, the Autobots as a whole are one grand collection of glitches, issues, and barely sane mechs.
Ratchet doesn't wish to think the worst. He doesn’t. But he can’t help himself.
There's nothing left to do but talk to Jazz. He can't allow the Porsche to squirm out of the questioning this time either. No more distractions. No more subject changes.
Ratchet wants answers. Now.
He straightens. “Let me have the transmitter, 'Jack. There's only one thing I can do: ask him.”
Wheeljack gives him a look that's almost apologetic.
“It may be nothing, Ratch,” he tries, but it’s weak. So weak. “He might just be paranoid and worried, wanting to keep an optic on you to keep you safe.”
“Yeah,” the medic finally allows, taking the tracker into his subspace. “Maybe.”
But Ratchet doesn’t really believe it. And neither does Wheeljack.
o0o0o
(Finished in part two here)
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/167143.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Characters: Jazz/Ratchet, Wheeljack, Others
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst, Horror
Warnings: dubcon, noncon, bondage, tactile and pnp interfacing, attempted forced spark merge
Summary: G1. It starts, as horrors are known to do, with the little things.
Other Notes: Very dark. Very twisted. Very read-at-your-own-risk.
Written for Competition Fun's Love Abounds contest. Originally posted here.
The quiet hours after a battle are simultaneously the worst and the best. Good because they are quiet. Terrible because they leave Ratchet with nothing but silence and time to think. Time to ruminate on the injuries he's recently treated, to worry about what he might have to fix in the future, to fear that next time he might not be able to save one of his patients. His friends.
He fills those hours with scut work. Cleaning the berths and spilled energon, along with his many tools and pieces of equipment. Restocking his cabinets with much-needed supplies. Taking stock of what was used, what can be refurbished, and so on. He updates medical files and ignores the fatigue tugging at every strut, every hydraulic line, and has so much practice ignoring the warning pings for recharge and a cube of energon that he doesn't hear them anymore.
Behind him, Ratchet does notice the chime for the medbay seconds before the door whooshes open. The absence of footfalls identifies his visitor as one of three mechs. Fortunately, Ratchet doesn't need those three guesses.
“I'm almost done.”
“Wrong!” Jazz says cheerfully, swinging into the edge of Ratchet's vision. “Yer done now.”
For a teetering moment, Ratchet considers defying him. He’s never been one to be cowed into anything before. But Jazz isn’t one to be ignored. He can be slaggin' relentless when he puts his mind to it. And right now, Ratchet doesn't have the energy to put up a resistance.
With a sigh, he sets down his tools. Even as he silently promises to finish organizing first thing tomorrow.
“Very well,” Ratchet allows with all the dignity he can muster and turns around. “As you say, I'm done now.”
Jazz breaks into a grin, visor brightening with his glee. “Good. Then ya can come with me.” Agile fingers curl around Ratchet's hand as the shorter bot pulls him from the medbay without so much as a by-your-leave. “Ya work too hard, Ratch mah mech.”
“Someone's got to,” Ratchet retorts. “You accident-prone slaggers aren't going to fix yourselves.”
Jazz laughs. He hooks an arm in Ratchet's elbow and escorting him down the hall like the humans do in all those movies.
“I try not ta get slagged too often,” he says, and his voice is so mild, so calm.
Ratchet all but snorts even as he hears it.
“It's not you so much as those pit-born twins,” he grumbles.
But by now, no one takes him seriously anymore. It's an inevitable truth with this war now. Frontliners get slagged; medics fix them. A never-ending cycle.
Jazz chuckles softer this time, then rounds the hall toward the officer's barracks, deftly steering Ratchet to his own quarters. They’ve only been dating, as the humans call it, for around two Earth years. Cohabitating has yet to really permeate Ratchet’s mind; he’s too stubborn to cross that line. Not yet. Not this early.
He's not like Prowl for sure. Prowl who, against all logical odds, took Wheeljack to berth one month and bonded him the next. That had certainly been something to power the gossip mill at the Ark. Mechs talked about it for weeks, months even, afterward.
Whereas Ratchet and Jazz's burgeoning relationship had started so quietly that it still shocked some of the bots to see the two of them together in any capacity. Even casually walking down the hall, as they are now.
“This is getting to be a habit,” Ratchet comments, memory core flagging several files and bringing them to the front of his cortex. As a matter of fact, he'd have to actively search to find a shift where Jazz hadn't escorted him back to his quarters afterward. At least, when he wasn't out on a mission of some kind.
“What is?”
They pause in front of Ratchet's quarters, and he keys in the code, the door sliding open to admit them.
“You bringing me home, so to speak.”
Deft fingers tease at a gap in his hip plating, stroking briefly over buried cables. “How else am I gonna get ya outta that medbay?”
Ratchet shivers as a wash of heat floods his systems. His systems are well-accustomed to Jazz's all-too-skilled touch.
“I can think of a few methods,” he replies, though the fatigue in his struts seemed to belie the tease.
“Yeah?” Jazz grins at him again. “So can I. Sit.” His tone brooks no argument, though amusement glimmers in his visor as he points at the berth.
Shaking his head, Ratchet does as he’s told. His frame relaxes almost immediately when he does.
“You staying?” he questions, pulling a half-empty cube out of his subspace. It wouldn't hurt to top off before heading into recharge.
He lifts the cube to his lip components, but before he can so much as catch a whiff of the energon, Jazz whisks the cube away from his hands.
“Don't drink that.” He promptly plops a full cube into Ratchet's hand. “Use this one instead.”
Ratchet huffs. “What was wrong with the one I had?” he demands but takes what Jazz offers anyway. It tastes no different than the one he already had though.
“It's not mah special blend,” Jazz responds almost dismissively and tucks the half-empty cube away in his subspace. He smiles then, approaching directly, hands reaching for Ratchet's thigh and ghosting upward.
It shouldn't feel so good, but it does. Ratchet's a medic and not even programmed to be a war-time one at that. His armor isn't built to withstand heavy damage, so even the soft scrape of Jazz's hands over his plating sends pleasant buzzes of sensation through his sensory net. His fingers curl tighter around his cube, a rumble of appreciation building in his vocalizer.
“Poor Ratch,” Jazz all but purrs, stepping even closer, perched between Ratchet's legs. His hands slide a tantalizing path over metal and wires, fingers dipping into grooves. “Ya look exhausted.”
Ratchet's fans kick on with an interested whirr. He hastily drinks another third of the energon Jazz had given him.
“Are you trying to get me to relax?” he inquires and surprises himself with the edge of static his voice has adopted.
Jazz chuckles and leans closer, nuzzling against Ratchet's windshield. His mouth components track downward and over the Autobot symbol displayed so prominently. Ratchet has to fight not to arch into the touch completely, even as he feels Jazz smirk.
“I dunno,” a seductive voice whispers. “Is it workin'?”
One deft hand slips into a gap in Ratchet's back armor, tweaking several wires that make him cry out. He arches forward, free hand flailing a moment before landing on Jazz's helm, finding and stroking his sensory horns. Jazz's engine gives an appreciative rev.
“I'll that as a yes,” the Porsche replies mischievously, and his glossa traces over Ratchet's headlights.
The medic groans, fingers threatening to shatter the energon cube. Heat rushes through his systems like a tidal wave, setting every circuit aflame. Fragging Special Ops mechs knowing just when to take advantage! He's always more sensitive when he's in need of a good recharge and a serious defrag, and Jazz knows it. Conniving slagger!
“Finish your energon,” Jazz orders, but it’s almost covered by the sound of an engine revving further. His hand is now buried in Ratchet's cabling, tweaking and stroking mercilessly. “Wouldn't want it ta go ta waste, would we?”
It's almost an automatic response to do as Jazz says, and Ratchet gulps down the cube, shoving it aside the instant he finishes. As if approving, Jazz dips his head. His mouth attacks a seam in the medic’s side, glossa barely brushing a bundle of wires buried beneath.
Ratchet shouts, arching forward, a heavy charge crawling across his circuits. His free hand clamps down on Jazz's shoulder, fingers digging into hydraulic lines. If he's going down, he's going to drag Jazz with him. He feels a shudder race over Jazz's plating, the saboteur's engine giving another heated noise.
“Mmm. Good try,” Jazz teases, drawing back with a parting nip to Ratchet's plating. “But I've a few tricks up my sleeve.”
His free hand snaps out, grabbing Ratchet's own from his shoulder, and before Ratchet can so much as speak, a warm glossa snakes out over his index finger. The heat swamping his systems flares brighter, electricity snapping across his frame. Jazz is merciless, the fragging tease, drawing each and every finger into his mouth. Denta grace over sensitive paneling, glossa teasing at the tiniest gaps between each point.
A wordless burst of static escapes Ratchet's vocalizer as the charge in his systems snapped, sending him into a cascading overload. He jerks and writhes, Jazz's glossa relentless on his fingers, his circuitry crawling with bright sparks of electricity. His fans struggle to cool his heated frame, and he sags, twitching as lingering pleasure sparks his body.
Jazz, looking terribly smug about it all, drags his denta one last time over Ratchet's fingers before letting them slip from his mouth. He looks at Ratchet then. Visor unreadable. But the smirk is all too obvious.
“Nice.”
Ratchet, systems frantically trying to cool him down and HUD pinging him for long overdue recharge, makes a noncommittal noise. Like Jazz needs any more stroking of his ego.
Jazz frees his fingers from Ratchet's plating and pats him on the aft. “Don't fall inta recharge on meh yet, Ratch. We're not through.”
Primus! So it's to be one of those nights then. Ratchet groans, torn between dragging Jazz on to the berth beside him for a night spent fragging each other's pedes off and rolling over, sliding into a wonderful, relaxing recharge.
“I'm not,” Ratchet mutters and drags himself fully onto the berth, not at all surprised when Jazz deftly and immediately straddles him. “Are you trying to interface me into an early grave?”
Jazz laughs. His fingers find Ratchet's windshield. His aft grinds down against Ratchet's hip with a teasing slide of plating on plating.
“Would be a pit of a way ta go, wouldn't it?”
Groaning, Ratchet can only surrender as the low burr of pleasure starts to build within him again. This time, however, he sets his own hands to work. If he's going down, he's going to take Jazz with him. For certain.
It's going to be a long, exhausting night. But oh, so worth it.
o0o0o
He emerges from recharge the next morning feeling like he'd spent the night before guzzling gallons of high grade. Like he'd been trampled by Grimlock and then run over by Astrotrain for good measure. Every circuit aches from being subjected to delirious amounts of pleasure, and his systems are pinging him alerts, energy levels dipping into a low thirty percent.
Primus! Jazz was insatiable!
Groaning, Ratchet rolls out of his berth, every move sluggish and achy. He has to be on-shift in an hour. Which is enough time to grab a cube of energon in the rec room and try to prod his processor into something more coherent.
His quarters are empty. No surprise there. Jazz recharges little, rises early, and isn't one for lingering around idly. Ratchet has grown used to waking alone. Not all the time but often enough. Also, to no surprise, there is a cube of energon waiting for him on his desk. Which means he won't need that trip to the rec room.
A message has been left on his terminal access.
Ratchet slumps heavily into the chair at his desk, dragging the cube toward him and downing it in several gulps. He has to reboot his optics twice before they agree to focus on the message Jazz left for him. Slag but he's getting too old for this.
He quickly scans the datapad. Jazz is going to be on a mission for the next couple of days. And he's been ordered to not be lonely in his lover's absence. Ratchet chuckles softly and tucks the datapad away.
He drinks the cube Jazz left for him, luxuriates in the meditative silence in his quarters, and only rises from his seat when his HUD pings him with a shift reminder. Ratchet rises to his pedes, flicks the cube into a recycle chute, and heads for the door. He reaches for the panel, and notices the scrape of black paint on his arm.
Frag.
He looks down. Streaks are all over his thighs and hip, too.
Double frag.
And he doesn't have enough time to stop by the washracks now. He'll have to try his best to buff them out in the medbay. Slaggin' stupid lover. Might as well have painted “Property of Jazz” on his aft if the saboteur wanted to stake a claim.
Ratchet shakes his helm. Point of fact, he wouldn't put it past Jazz to do such a thing, mildly possessive bot that he is.
Ratchet sighs. Wheeljack’s going to tease him mercilessly.
Oh, well. A few carefully aimed wrenches should take care of that.
o0o0o
Fatigue tugs at his strut, at every hydraulic line, as Ratchet drags himself to the rec room. All he wants is a quick cube before he retires to his quarters for a much needed break. He swears that he can't remember what it feels to be properly energized. If it's not the Decepticons causing carnage, then it's the Dinobots being clumsy or Sideswipe's prank gone awry. Or on the rare occasions such as earlier this afternoon, Perceptor accidentally mixing chemicals together and causing an explosion of Wheeljack proportions.
Perceptor of all mechs!
And to think, Ratchet had always thought the soft-spoken scientist the careful, logical one amongst them all. Perceptor is supposed to be one of the few Ratchet doesn't have to worry about.
Instead, he's spent most of the afternoon putting a very embarrassed, very apologetic microscope back together. ‘Jack had been inappropriately ecstatic for the simple fact that it wasn't him in pieces for once.
It had been a long day for everyone.
On the bright side, Jazz would be returning from his mission any hour now. He'd have to deliver his report to Prowl, get cleaned up, and see Hoist in the medbay for a quick systems scan, but afterward Ratchet can be assured that the saboteur will seek him out. It's nearly always the first thing Jazz does once the official business has been handled.
It's somewhere between the end of the second shift and the beginning of the third, which probably accounts for the fact the rec room is so slaggin' packed. Ratchet groans, wishing not for the first time they had energon dispensers in the officer barracks. He can only hope the two banes of his existence aren't somewhere in the crowd, just waiting to pounce and annoy the slag out of him.
Ratchet attempts to slip unobtrusive through the crowd, aiming to grab a cube and leave before he can be roped into socializing in his exhausted state. Unfortunately, stealth is neither in his programming nor one of his acquired skills. Before he makes it three steps toward the dispenser, Smokescreen spots him. The tactician smiles and immediately comes Ratchet's direction.
Scrap. He's been caught.
“Ratchet!” Smokescreen greets, clapping a hand to Ratchet's shoulder with a companionable squeeze. “You look exhausted. Having trouble keeping up with the Jazz-man?”
If he weren't so tired, Ratchet probably could have come up with a sufficiently witty and barbed reply to that. Instead, he offlines his optics with a huff.
“Jazz is on a mission,” he says. “And my systems have been pinging me for energon for an hour, so if you don't mind...”
Smokescreen pushes a cube at him. “Here. Take mine.” He slings an arm over Ratchet's shoulders, tugging him close. “Got it before I realized I didn't need it. Come on. Bee was just telling us an interesting story about Perceptor. He fragged up all of the betting circles around here.”
Ratchet tries to dig in his heels, knowing that if he gets dragged into their friendly, conversational circle, it'll be awhile before he can excuse himself free. And then someone will mention high grade, and he's never been that good at self-control - case in point his numerous trysts with Jazz. Next thing he knows, he'll wake up tomorrow with a processor-ache, very little useful recharge, and an unpleasant gurgle in his tanks.
Better not to be lead into temptation.
“Actually,” Ratchet inserts, trying to duck out from under Smokescreen's arm, “I'm thinking to head back to my quarters.”
That earns him a grin and gleaming optics.
“The better to wait for Jazz?”
“Wait? I'm already here.”
Ratchet half-turns, and Smokescreen looks over his shoulder. Both of them see Jazz standing there, a mere half-pace behind them. He has an odd expression on his face, one Ratchet can't recall seeing before, but in another moment it's wiped away, replaced with his usual smile.
“Jazz,” Ratchet greets warmly. And no, he’s spark doesn’t give a happy tremble. It doesn’t!
“Hey, Ratch.” Jazz beams, but it fades a tad. “Smokey.”
“Welcome back,” Smokescreen replies and gives Ratchet a little shake. “We were just talking about you.”
“I noticed.” Jazz deftly slides into between them, an interesting feat of physics that dislodges Smokescreen's arm as the saboteur slides his own around Ratchet's waist. “Missed me, did ya?”
Smokescreen gives them some space. “Only because you're always the life of the party.”
“Smokey! Leave the lovebots alone!” Sideswipe suddenly calls out, much to Ratchet's mortification and a small scatter of laughter from the room. “No one likes a third wheel.”
Smokescreen holds up his hands, backing up another step as he shifts toward the group he'd left earlier. “He's got a good point. Don't let me get in the way.”
He grins mischievously, and Ratchet can practically see the wheels turning in Smokescreen's processor. How can he work this to his advantage? What kind of bets can he get the bots to place?
“Two years later and they still haven't run out of jokes,” Ratchet says and pulls the cube Smokescreen had given him toward his lips. He's still running low after all.
He reboots his optics as the cube is plucked from his fingers and whisked away, only to be replaced by another. Again.
“This one's better,” Jazz says and deftly steers Ratchet toward the door. “Who knows what Smokescreen put in that one?”
Ratchet gives his lover a pointed look. “Spiking the energon? He doesn't hang out with Sideswipe that much. Besides, I've enough secondary and tertiary systems that one cube would hardly affect me.”
They leave the rec room, nodding a greeting to a pack of minibots that is just entering.
“Not the point.” Jazz's hand strokes along Ratchet's back. “Mech's gotta learn some boundaries.”
“Boundaries?” Ratchet pauses in the hall. “What in the pit are you talking about?”
That odd look is in Jazz's face again, though it can be hard to tell with how inscrutable his visor makes him.
“Nothin',” he replies, fingers curling around Ratchet's hand and tugging the medic closer to him. “Don't worry 'bout it. Been a long day is all.”
Ratchet can agree with that much. “Tell me about it,” he grumbles with a sigh. “How did your mission go?”
Jazz's visor lights up. “Ya won't believe the cracked up plan Megs is cookin' up this time.”
“Another brilliant scheme from the Decepticon commander, Primus forbid!” Ratchet sips at the energon Jazz brought him.
Chuckling, Jazz tugs his hand and they pick up the pace again, heading no doubt to either of their quarters. Which is a good end to the night in Ratchet's opinion. Though Jazz's behavior does nag at the back of his processor, he shutters it away. Jazz always was a bit tense after returning from one of his infiltrations.
o0o0o
Jazz was right of course. Not but two days after his return from scoping out the Nemesis, the Decepticons attack with their most recent weapon of mass destruction. It’s some kind of matter eradicator to the best of Ratchet's estimation, but it works as well as one of Wheeljack's least successful endeavors. That is to say, it explodes the first time Starscream tries to use it.
Admittedly, part of Ratchet wants to attribute that to operator malfunction rather than an error in the weapon's design.
Megatron, infuriated by yet another failure, attempts to take out his anger on the Autobots. With two gestalts at his command, the battle is fierce but thankfully brief. Still, the injured are carted into Ratchet's medbay with wounds raging from laserfire to a missing limb in Ironhide's case. Ratchet is kept quite busy, though that doesn’t keep the idiot twins from annoying him, which is their usual standard when only one is injured.
“Ratchet, I’m in need of some attention over here!” Sunstreaker complains loudly, the dent in his chestplate hardly even worth the effort in Ratchet’s opinion.
Ironhide's still clutching the remnants of his leg after all, and though his pain sensors have been shut off, it’s unsettling for anyone to be lacking a limb. The rebuild and reattachment is also among the lengthier repairs, but since ‘Hide's not in any pain, he and Sunstreaker both can be dealt with later.
“Your slaggin' paint job can wait!” Ratchet growls and bends over Sideswipe's flank again, continuing the delicate process of removing bits of splintered shrapnel from the red twin's innards.
Sides chuckles, arms folded behind his head. He’s as relaxed on the medberth as someone might be on a beach vacation.
“He just wants you to kiss it and make it better,” he teases.
Sunstreaker, very unamused, seethes at his twin. “Suck my tailpipe,” he snarls.
Smiling sweetly at his brother, Sideswipe drags the back of his knuckles over Ratchet's arm. “Ignore the surly sunflower, Ratch. What do ya say? Everyone says a quick overload cures all that ails a bot.”
“Everyone?” Ratchet snorts, tweaking a frayed wire with a bit more force than necessary. “Try another one.”
The red twin chuckles. “You wound me in my very spark,” he says, free hand groping at his chestplate and making him twitch under Ratchet's ministrations. “And with me being so free with my affections.”
“Yeah, we all know how free ya are, Siders.”
Ratchet startles, jerking out a piece of shrapnel in his surprise and making Sideswipe yelp. He hastily puts a clamp on a suddenly spurting line and then glances over his shoulder.
“Jazz!” He divides his attention between his lover and Sideswipe's quickly patched leak. “I thought you were in ops.”
“Prime sent me ta check on ‘Hide,” the saboteur answers, but he's not even looking at Ratchet. His focus seems to be on Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who are both suddenly much quieter than before.
Ratchet huffs. “He could have commed me and saved you the trip. Primus save me from guilt-struck Primes!”
If not for his proximity sensors, he would’ve startled again when Jazz placed a hand at the small of his back. It's rare that Jazz gets so close when Ratchet is in the middle of performing repairs after a battle. In fact, it's even rarer that Prime would send Jazz of all mechs on a courier run. He'd normally grab Bee or Grapple or pits, even Mirage.
Jazz makes a noncommittal noise. His fingers rap over the berth, mere inches from Sideswipe's knee.
“Nasty wound ya got there, Siders.”
“It's what I get for standing too close to Megatron's latest weapon of doom,” Sideswipe replies with another chuckle, but it sounds forced. Nervous even. His optics don’t meet Jazz’s visor. “Guess I should be more careful from now on.”
“Haven't I been saying that all along?” Ratchet demands, tugging out the last of the shrapnel and leaving only patches left. Well, those and a few dents but Sideswipe can bang those out on his own, and Ratchet's quite sure Sunstreaker will see to the scratches in his brother's paint.
“Yeah,” Jazz agrees, and his fingers rap over the berth again, almost contemplative. “Ya should really watch where yer goin'.”
Final patch applied, Ratchet straightens. He snags a cloth from his subspace and wipes the fluid spatters from his fingers. There’s a tension to the air around him, but he ignores it like usual. The twins are always good for making things uncomfortable anyway.
“You're good to go, Sideswipe. And Sunstreaker, not a word about your slaggin' dent, or I'll give you another one!” he hastily adds just as the yellow twin opens his mouth to complain again.
Ratchet turns toward his lover, who’s watching Sides slide from his berth and hobble after his brother out of the medbay. Amazingly, neither of them have further argument or complaints to give. Ratchet half-expects them to linger, if only to offer up more aggravation on his part.
“Ironhide's going to need that joint reconstructed. It wasn't a clean tear,” Ratchet says when they don’t and glances at the mech in question. “You can pass that on to Prime.”
Jazz stirs, finally turning to look at him. “What?”
“Ironhide. Leg. Long time to fix?” the medic arches an orbital ridge. “Prime wanted you to check on him, remember?”
A smile curves the saboteur's lips. “I'll deliver th' message. I'm sure it'll relieve poor Prime.” He leans closer, brushing his helm and hand over Ratchet's shoulder. “Comin' over tonight? I got time b'fore mah shift.”
“Mmm. If I can.”
Ratchet's optics sweep through his medbay, automatically cataloging all the repairs still in need of attending. Wheeljack almost has Cliffjumper good to go, but there are still so many others. Huffer, Air Raid, Gears, Powerglide. Bluestreak would probably need his entire arm rewired, but that could wait until the next day. And Skyfire has already moved on to help weld Hound back together.
Jazz squeezes Ratchet's hand then. Which effectively distracts him as surely as if he’d leaned in for a human kiss.
“I'll be waitin',” he say in a low and seductive voice. He offers a smile before whisking an energon cube out of his subspace like magic. “Here. I'm sure yer gettin' low.”
Primus! Does Jazz keep a dispenser in his subspace or something? Every time Ratchet turns around, there his lover is with a cube or two.
Nevertheless, Jazz is right. Ratchet simply hadn't noticed the alerts popping up in his HUD until now. Strange that Jazz should know. Or perhaps by now he's gotten familiar with the parameters of Ratchet's frame and his general lack of self-care.
“Thanks,” Ratchet says with a wan smile of his own. “See you tonight. Hopefully.”
“Count on it.” Jazz tosses Ratchet a cheery, playful salute and bebops out of the medbay like it's nothing.
Shaking his head, Ratchet turns toward his next walking wounded, who happens to be a very surly-looking Gears.
“It's about time,” the minibot huffs. “I think my arm's about to fall off.”
Ratchet rolls his optics. Some mechs never change.
o0o0o
Despite Jazz's earlier declaration, the moment Ratchet steps out of the medbay, he finds the saboteur waiting for him. His position seems nonchalant, head tipped back against the wall and arms crossed, but Ratchet knows better. Jazz is always ready for action at a moment's notice.
“Tired?” the Porsche asks, straightening as the door slides shut behind Ratchet.
“Not as much as you'd think,” the medic replies with a wry grin. He looks down at his chassis, brushing at a splatter of energon and some sooty residue. “More like in desperate need of a good scrubbing.”
Jazz chuckles. “I can help with that.” His visor brightens in a pointed look, one that sends a tingle of arousal through Ratchet's circuits.
“Don't you have to be on shift soon?”
“I've enough time fer this,” Jazz all but purrs and pulls out a cube. “Here. Brought this fer ya, too.”
Ratchet shakes his head but takes it anyway. “You spoil me too much. I can get my own, you know.”
“Better if I bring it to ya.”
There's a stubborn set to Jazz's mouth. One that means they could spend hours debating this and in the end, neither of them will concede.
Ratchet decides just to let it go. Jazz constantly bringing him energon is hardly a bad thing, and it seems to make the saboteur happy. Ratchet's not complaining, though it means his trips to the rec room happen less and less. Just last week ‘Hide had teased him about being sequestered in the medbay too much or “tied down ta Jazz's berth” as he'd so elegantly put it.
The washracks are surprisingly deserted when they arrive. Jazz herds them toward the back corner, out of view of the door, and Ratchet can read the intent in his body language. Can already feel the tension sizzling between them.
Ratchet cuts on the spray, stepping under the warm solvent. He reaches for washrag - amusingly something the humans use on their non-sentient vehicles. However, Jazz gets there before he does, snatching it out from under his hand.
“Allow me.” One hand strokes down Ratchet's side as he steps around the front, swiping the damp cloth over the medic’s windshield.
He can hardly argue with such an offer. Instead, Ratchet shutters his optics and surrenders to the sensation of the warm water pattering over his plating and Jazz's deft, sure strokes.
The saboteur leaves no inch of his plating untouched. His fingers dip into tiny crevices between his joints and armor, each teasing tickle building a slow heat in Ratchet's systems. His fans kick on with a whirr that echoes in the empty room, and Jazz chuckles, sounding smug.
“Good?” he questions, vocalizer soft and purring.
Ratchet lets out air unsteadily. “You know that it is.”
Jazz sweeps around to Ratchet's back. Slowly. So slowly.
“Lean forward,” he murmurs, vocals still soft and seductive. “Put yer hands on the wall.”
“What if I want to touch you?” Ratchet asks, his fans kicking on louder.
He does as Jazz wants though. Lifting his hands. Succeeding in opening up some gaps in his armor. Allowing the solvent to seep into every nook and cranny.
“Maybe I jes wanna touch ya right now,” Jazz replies, and his hands sweep over Ratchet's back, a place not crowded with sensors but evoking a pleasured response nonetheless.
Heat creeps over Ratchet's circuitry. His entire frame buzzes with rising charge.
“Here? Where anyone can walk in?”
“Not like everyone doesn't already know yer mine.”
Jazz presses himself against Ratchet's back, revving his engine hard. The vibrations travel through his frame and into Ratchet's, igniting a thunderstorm of sensation through plating already sensitized from Jazz's thorough cleaning. The medic gasps, arching against his lover, fingers scraping the metal of the wall.
He wants to argue against Jazz's blatantly possessive tone, but his thoughts bounce back and forth inside his processor, scurrying away from any coherency with every broad sweep of Jazz's hands. With every tweak of skilled fingers and the rhythmic patter of the solvent spray over his body.
His sensor net is aflame with pleasure, energy crackling across his circuits. Ratchet's overload takes him by surprise, and he jerks in Jazz's arms, heat crashing through him. He twitches, legs turning useless beneath him. Ratchet sags, only to be caught by Jazz and gently lowered to the damp floor.
“This is hardly conducive to getting clean,” Ratchet manages after several ragged ventilations.
Jazz laughs against the back of his head, fingers lazily caressing his hip assembly. “What's the use of getting' clean if yer not dirty in the first place?”
Ratchet laughs himself and eventually grows quiet to the feel of Jazz looking at him. But Jazz doesn’t say anything further. He just keeps stroking Ratchet with the cloth. Slowly. Possessively.
Ratchet lets him.
o0o0o
“Have you noticed anything… odd about Jazz lately?”
Beside him, Wheeljack arches an orbital ridge. His indicators flash an incredulous yellow.
“You're his lover. Shouldn't you know better than me?”
Ratchet huffs. “You'd think that, right?” He bends back over the solar panel they’ve been working on all afternoon. “But you've known him longer than I have.”
‘Jack seems to consider the question for a moment.
“What do you mean by odd?” he finally asks.
This is hard to put into words. Ratchet doesn't have anything tangible to cite. Just... little things. Impressions. Strange tics, one could say.
His hands pause as he searches his databanks for the right explanation. But there isn’t one.
“He's... always there.”
Wheeljack looks at him, confusion in his optics.
“Is that a bad thing?” he muses aloud. “It's kinda what happens when two bots are in a relationship, you know?”
“I know that!” Ratchet snaps and vents air out of frustration. “I mean that he always shows up out of nowhere. I swear whenever I need energon, he's there with a cube. Or when I want to go the washracks, he's there with a helping hand. He comms me the exact moment before I go into recharge. Like he knows. Like we're already spark-bonded or something.”
“And that's weird?”
Wheeljack seems honestly confused. But then, he would be. He and Prowl live that weird wonderland of theirs where it’s all rainbows and overloads and the experimental gone wrong.
Ratchet tosses him a cross look. He stubbornly picks up his soldering rod again.
“Now you're making me feel like I'm paranoid,” he mutters and tries to concentrate on his work again.
But the whole situation is nagging at him. He doesn't quite know why it strikes him as off, but it does. Ratchet hasn't made it this far as the Autobot's CMO without knowing when to listen to his instincts, and right now, they are telling him that something's not quite right. Either that or he's losing his processor.
That’s also a distinct possibility.
“You know,” he says after a long moment. “I honestly can't remember the last time I drank a cube he hasn't brought me or left for me or given me. I'd have to actively search my memory banks to find it, and I'll bet you, it was only when he was on a mission.”
Wheeljack looks at him. “Ratch--”
“And yesterday, Bluestreak brought me a cube after I finished his arm, but before I could so much as look at it, Jazz was there. Telling me to take his instead.”
“So he's a bit possessive.” Wheeljack shrugs, turning back toward his work, indicators flashing softly. “Everyone knows Spec Ops is wired a bit differently. And Jazz is the best at what he does.”
Ratchet shakes his head, abandoning his own tinkering and leaning back against the table. “Possessive, I get. Possessive, I can handle. This... I don't know what to call this.”
That is, of course, when his comm chooses to ping him. He doesn't need more than one guess to identify the originator, and there's a weird stutter in his systems when Jazz's transmission comes across the line.
--Ratch?--
“Speak of the mech,” Ratchet mutters.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing.” Ratchet waves his best friend off. “Give me a moment.”
He turns his attention to the comm just as Jazz pings him again.
--Where are ya?--
He's surprised Jazz doesn't already know.
--In the lab with 'Jack. Why?--
There's a noticeable pause as though Jazz is distracted.
--No reason. Just wonderin'. Ya comin' to the party tonight?--
--Party?--
A trickle of amusement filters through the transmission.
--Vorn majority fer th' Protectobots.--
--Oh, that.--
Primus, how had he forgotten? He swears he's getting out of touch with the goings on around the Ark these days.
--I'll be there. First Aid will give me that pathetic look if I don't at least make an appearance.--
Jazz laughs.
--Kid looks up to ya like a creator.--
--I noticed--, Ratchet replies dryly. --I'll meet you later, Jazz.--
--It's a date.--
The comm ends with a cheerful chime, and the normal conversation only adds to the other nagging belief that he's maybe being paranoid. His processor is of two minds about it. Part of him feels that he should be concerned, that this just isn't normal behavior. But then Jazz is nothing if not devoted. Loving. Doing nothing but taking care of Ratchet at every turn, and how can he find that worrying?
“Jazz, I take it?” ‘Jack drawls, amusement making his indicators flash a happy blue-green.
“Yeah.” Ratchet picks up his soldering rod and stares resolutely at the unfinished solar panel. “Let's just get this done.”
Maybe Wheeljack's right. Maybe there is nothing to worry about. So Ratchet will push that all aside for now. There's work to be done.
o0o0o
Unlike humans, Cybertronians have nice little alerts in their HUD which tell them when they've reached their high grade limit and increasingly noisy, aggravating warning pings after that informing said bot of impending danger. Though like humans, despite having those warnings, there are plenty of mechs that simply ignore them and keep on chugging down the good stuff. Especially when friends are there to goad them along.
Ratchet is thoroughly convinced his current overcharge can be blamed entirely on Jazz. Jazz who kept pressing cube after cube into his hands tonight, encouraging him to drink, drink, and drink some more. It's the only explanation for why Ratchet has allowed the saboteur to drag him onto the dance floor where Ratchet is quite sure he made a stumbling fool of himself.
Well, the Protectobots are delighted and amused, so Ratchet supposes that is all that matters. The party is in their honor after all. Vorn majority is a pretty big deal, symbolizing that they are considered adults by their fellow bots now. And though the Protectobots don't have the physical years behind them, they've certainly matured fast enough here on Earth. Ratchet ascribes it to the fact that they’ve have all but adopted the humans’ way of measuring time.
Still, Ratchet isn't sure which exactly it was that finally does him in. Whether it’s the ninth cube or the tenth. Either way, he's finding it a little difficult to keep his pedes beneath him. He stumbles, the floor rolling and tossing beneath him. His gyros refuse to stabilize, and all he's getting from his HUD are error messages.
Huh.
“Easy there, lover.” Jazz puts a stabilizing hand against Ratchet's chest. “Don't fall over on me now. Yer a bit heavier than I am.”
Ratchet outright laughs and sways to the right, hitting a wall and deciding that it's a good place to rest for a minute. “If I were human I'd accuse you of calling me fat.”
“But I like ya just the way ya are,” Jazz says, his voice dropping low as he wraps an arm around Ratchet, pressing their frames together.
Ratchet can feel the heat radiating from Jazz's plating, sure to match his own. Both of them are overcharged, both of them running hot. Jazz's visor is bright with charge and desire. His mouth is oh-so-tempting. If only they didn't have so much kibble. Ratchet has wondered a few times what the deal with kissing is.
Clumsily groping at his shorter lover, Ratchet tries to hook fingers under Jazz's plating, reaching for a sensitive wire bundle that's sure to make him moan. But his hand scrabbles at thin air as Jazz suddenly drops down onto one knee, nuzzling against Ratchet's pelvic area.
What the frag? That's not sensi--
Ratchet hisses, bucking up against Jazz as a deft glossa traces slow circles over his pelvic paneling. Jazz slides his glossa to the left, hands pushing Ratchet's legs aside and widening the gap between his armor. Pleasure bursts across Ratchet's sensory net as Jazz's glossa traces rarely touched wires and cables.
Primus! He hadn't even known he could be sensitive there!
Laughter floats to Ratchet's audials, and his optics unshutter with a snap. He turns his head, mortification biting at the edge of his desire, as Smokescreen and Blaster round the corner in the hallway. Both bots draw to a halt, optics wide as they stare at the scene in front of them.
“Jazz!” Ratchet hisses, clumsily groping at his lover's helm.
Jazz's only response is to amp up his pleasurable torture. That makes Ratchet moan and twitch against the wall before he can stop himself.
“Sorry, mechs,” Blaster quickly inserts, holding up his hands and backing away. “We'll take another route.”
“Never knew Ratchet had it in him,” Smokescreen comments, but he lets Blaster drag him off anyway.
Embarrassment wars with arousal, and Ratchet isn't sure what he wants to do first. Yell at Jazz or cry out in pleasure. His fingers scrabble over Jazz's helm in indecision. Should he let loose his fearsome temper or -
Primus!
Ratchet moans, curling forward. Jazz's fingers dig into his wiring harder, the sharp edge of pain only sweetening the pleasure. Charge shoots through his systems, sweeping like wildfire, and another staticky sound escapes Ratchet's vocalizer.
He shudders, overload crashing down over him. His mouth locks open on a silent cry. He shakes from head to toe, electricity crackling over his plating. The edge of his vision goes white and then black, and his fans work furiously to cool his heated frame.
He comes to barely a minute later according to his chronometer with Jazz holding him close. His revving engine is an indication of his still-present arousal.
“That was the hottest thing, I swear ta Primus,” Jazz murmurs, his hands roaming over Ratchet's hot paneling.
Ratchet groans, lingering charge making him over-sensitive. He grabs Jazz's arm, squeezing.
“It was embarrassing,” he argues with every intention of getting up, moving. But he feels limp and lifeless. Limbs don't want to respond, too overcharged by the high grade and relaxed by his overload. “You could’ve at least waited until we got back to my quarters.”
Jazz's visor darkens. “What fun is that? Mechs got ta learn ta keep their hands off.”
His mouth is already moving for Ratchet’s neck.
“What the frag are you talking about?”
Ratchet wonders if his bewilderment is as clear on his face as it is in his processor as Jazz pauses. The Porsche just lifts one hand, fingers stroking across Ratchet's chevron before sliding gently down the side of his cheek. His visor lights up then, but it isn’t a bright as it should be.
“I guess ya wouldn't see it. Ya can be pretty oblivious sometimes.”
Jazz’s tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it. Sharp beneath the teasing.
Ratchet stares at his lover. “You're not making any sense.”
“That's just th' high grade talkin'.” Jazz works himself free and rises to his feet with a graceful motion that completely belies how much energon he's consumed. “To the berth, yeah? I'm not done with ya yet.”
o0o0o
It starts to nag on Ratchet, all the little things that paint a larger, more worrisome picture. He likes Jazz; he holds a deep affection for the saboteur. Maybe even loves him. But he's beginning to think that they aren't on the same datapad. That what he wants and what Jazz wants are two entirely different things.
It would be easier, he supposes, if he could just talk to Jazz about it. But if there's one thing that Jazz excels at better than anything else, it's keeping his secrets. He's a pro at changing the subject, producing vague answers, or distracting Ratchet with a processor-blowing interface that leave him pleasantly achy and still lost.
Maybe the problem isn't Jazz but is in fact Ratchet himself. That thought has also crossed his mind. Any normal mech would be thrilled by all the loving affection, the energon every morning, and the complete usurpation of his free time and attention. Maybe Ratchet's the one who's changed and is acting a bit odd.
Except...
Except a week later, he bursts out of recharge halfway through a defrag cycle and finds Jazz watching him.
That, by itself, wouldn't be so unusual. Ratchet has woken a few times from recharge to find his lover curled against him, hands softly stroking his plating, perhaps Jazz is even humming one of his favorite tunes. When Jazz doesn’t leave early, he usually wakes Ratchet with caresses and some cuddling. Those instances are common enough to be comforting even. Those instances are also, however, preceded by the fact that Jazz had been in his quarters with him when he fell into recharge in the first place. He'd been invited then.
Jazz, by virtue of his vocation, can probably hack the lock of any mech's quarters on the Ark with the possible exception of Red Alert or possibly Prowl. Point of fact, he doesn't do it. Why should he? They none of them are enemies. Ratchet has invited Jazz into his quarters enough time that hacking isn't necessary.
Except apparently, for the times when Jazz wants to visit and Ratchet isn't alert to let him in. They haven't exchanged door codes; that’s akin to moving in together. And that... that step Ratchet just isn't ready to take.
It's unnerving, and it shouldn't be. There's an unsettling feeling somewhere in Ratchet's spark. He can feel Jazz's gaze on him, the saboteur's head tilted thoughtfully as he leans back in his chair. The unwavering gaze makes something in Ratchet's plating crawl.
But why should it? This is his lover. More than that, Jazz is a friend, an ally, someone Ratchet has trusted with his very existence on more than one occasion.
“It's the middle of th' night,” Jazz says, casual as he pleases. “Ya should go back ta recharge. Ya got shift in the mornin', remember?”
Ratchet has to cycle his vocalizer twice before he can make himself speak. It still fritzes a bit too much.
“I remember,” he says softly. “What are you doing here?”
Jazz shrugs. “Got back from my mission early. Wanted ta see ya.”
Any normal mech would be flattered by such an admission. Ratchet isn’t sure what to think.
“Oh,” is Ratchet's rather lame reply. “You didn't get yourself fragged up, did you?”
“Not a scratch. Promise.” Jazz leans forward, fingers stroking over Ratchet's helm. “So go back ta recharge.”
The uneasiness doesn’t leave no matter how much Ratchet tries to bury it. It's several long minutes before he manages to power back down. He can't shake the sensation of Jazz's optics on him. And he wonders. Wonders just how often has this happened without him noticing before?
o0o0o
“I think I'm losing my mind, ‘Jack.”
The door slides shut behind him with a definitive thud, announcing his presence with as much noise as his words. Wheeljack startles, nearly dropping a stabilizer from the newest invention.
“You... what?” He hesitates, peering at Ratchet. “Is something wrong?”
Ratchet ventilates loudly and runs a hand over his face. “Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe I'm the one who’s going crazy.”
“Ratch, calm down. Talk ta me.” Wheeljack swivels around in his stool, facing him directly. “What's going on? Is this about Jazz?”
“Yes.”
He can't help himself. There's an uneasy surge in his spark, and he starts to pace, feeling unbalanced.
“He... I don't know. Fraggit!”
He snarls, more at himself. It sounds silly when he tries to put it into words. It sounds like he's majorly overreacting. And maybe he is.
Wheeljack raises his hands. “What happened?”
Ratchet's shoulders slump. He can feel himself curling in on himself.
“You're going to think I'm crazy.”
“You came here because you want my opinion,” Wheeljack inserts. “I can't give ya one if I don't know what's going on.”
Shaking his head, Ratchet continues to pace. “It's probably nothing.”
“Ratchet.”
He throws up his hands, the unease in his spark traveling to his plating. Where a shudder of discomfit races over his frame.
“He was staring at me. I woke out of recharge, and there he was. Staring at me.”
Wheeljack doesn't say anything. Again, Ratchet feels like a mech who's crossed a few wires or who has a glitching processor. By Primus, he feels like Red Alert!
“We haven't exchanged door codes, Jack. I didn't let him in. And I know, I know, that it's sparkling play for him to crack any lock, but it was... I don't know how to put it.” He abruptly stops his pacing and turns to face his best friend. “Help me, Wheeljack. Something's got to be wrong. I'm glitching or something.”
“You're not glitching,” Wheeljack says firmly, though there's a thread of worry in his voice. “Sit down. I'll scan you, and we'll get to the bottom of this.”
Ratchet sits, a bit heavily at that, feeling like he's losing control. It doesn’t make any sense really. Jazz is his friend, his ally, his lover.
He feels a slight tingle spread over his sensor net as Wheeljack starts the scan, and Ratchet sits as still as he possibly can. If he has to, he'll demand that Wheeljack plug in and page through his coding, too. Something must be wrong.
“Huh,” Wheeljack comments as he completes the scan. “Weird.”
Ratchet straightens. “What is it?”
“Hold still.” ‘Jack leans closer, his face mere inches from Ratchet's windshield as he peers at Ratchet's plating.
One hand lifts, finger shifting into something like tweezers, which he then works into the gap at Ratchet's helm. There's a tickling sensation before Wheeljack draws back, something glinting between pointy tips. It’s tiny. So tiny. Too tiny. Barely visible.
Ratchet reboots his optics. “What the frag is that?”
“Near as I can tell at first glance... a tracker and transmitter.” Wheeljack shifts, giving him an uncomfortable look. “It's Spec Ops design. And I don't mean Decepticon.”
Ratchet's spark lurches. “Are you telling me...?”
He can’t even find the right words. His processor stutters at the mere idea of it. He can only look up in horror as Wheeljack completes the thought for him.
“Unless Mirage or Bumblebee suddenly want to keep tabs on you… then yes, I’m telling you that Jazz put it there.” Wheeljack turns toward his desk, sweeping aside some clutter to set the transmitter near a magnifier. “Let me take it apart to be certain, but… I'm pretty sure I'm not wrong.”
Ratchet tries to say something. It comes out as static. He waits for a minute and tries again.
“Why... why would he do that?”
Wheeljack glances over his shoulder. “You tell me. I mean, you're right. Being possessive is one thing. Putting a tracker on your lover?” His indicators flash pink. “That's beyond weird.”
Strangely, it doesn't relieve Ratchet one bit to know that the issue isn't one of his own devising. It means something else he'd rather not consider. To be fair, the Autobots as a whole are one grand collection of glitches, issues, and barely sane mechs.
Ratchet doesn't wish to think the worst. He doesn’t. But he can’t help himself.
There's nothing left to do but talk to Jazz. He can't allow the Porsche to squirm out of the questioning this time either. No more distractions. No more subject changes.
Ratchet wants answers. Now.
He straightens. “Let me have the transmitter, 'Jack. There's only one thing I can do: ask him.”
Wheeljack gives him a look that's almost apologetic.
“It may be nothing, Ratch,” he tries, but it’s weak. So weak. “He might just be paranoid and worried, wanting to keep an optic on you to keep you safe.”
“Yeah,” the medic finally allows, taking the tracker into his subspace. “Maybe.”
But Ratchet doesn’t really believe it. And neither does Wheeljack.
o0o0o
(Finished in part two here)
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