Saturday Night Fic - Still Waters Chapter 5
Holy Angstville, Batman! I'd forgotten about this Ratchet flashback scene, and good golly. I played around with posting it separately (because also, structurally, two big flashback chapters in a row? but there was really no where else to put it...), but it does fill in a lot of backstory, and so I left it as it was. Just remember, IT ALL TURNS OUT MOSTLY OK IN THE END, K? Free hugs for everyone.
Title: Still Waters (5/?)
Characters: Ratchet, First Aid, Wheeljack, Silverbolt, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker
Universe: Protectobot Beginnings AU
Rating: K+
Word Count: 6671
Warnings: Allusions to suicide, of the "gestalt member trying to carry on alone" variety. Major angst! Tissue warning! Links to traumatic-but-happy P-bot reunion at the end!
Summary: Ratchet's turn to remember the not-so-good days.
First Aid woke from recharge slowly, feeling the familiar pain and stiffness in his joints, vestiges of the long-ago disrupter blast, the ever-present ache in his spark as it pulsed irregularly, searching, endlessly, for its four missing partners, the newer pain deep through his back and side where the spear had gone. He cycled air through his intakes carefully, slowly, until it eased. Moving was harder than usual, due to the substantial red and yellow frontliners pressed on either side of him. First Aid carefully extracted himself without waking them.
He smiled a little, watching them, face mask closing automatically to guard the expression. They looked so peaceful, lying there in recharge, those two fearsome warriors. Sideswipe looked unfamiliar with the darkness of the temporary visor shielding his optics. First Aid checked it gently, making sure it was well-placed and doing its job. Not that he doubted Ratchet, but they both checked and rechecked one another as a matter of course.
He felt…better. Better than he had in a long time, despite the nagging pains, old and new.
Awake? Ratchet commed him, alerted by the remote monitors that First Aid’s systems were no longer in recharge.
Yes, Ratchet. Can I come back to work now?
Come back yes, work no.
First Aid sighed sadly.
I heard that, Ratchet scolded. If you won’t rest I may have to exile you permanently to the twins’ care, until you’re fully recovered. They still in recharge?
Yes. First Aid smiled again at them fondly.
They took good care of you, kind of surprised me. You needed that. Might have to recruit them,‘till we get back to the other five airheads.
Ratchet… First Aid started.
No arguing. I let you have your way far too much you know. You’re just going to have to cope with me on this one. Need help getting back?
First Aid had already exited the twins’ quarters and was making his way down the hallway, slow and a little wobbly still. I’ll let you know. So far, so good. Whoops- First Aid wavered sideways a few steps and paused a moment to regain his balance.
Hmm, I’ll meet you halfway.
Can I at least have my xenobiology datapads back?
“One datapad,” Ratchet said as he met up with his assistant in the corridor and gently took his arm. First Aid gave him a small huffed sigh but did not argue. “And you do not fix or clean anything. You had a very close call this time, Aid.”
“I shouldn’t be alive,” Aid murmured softly, “again.”
“Aid…” Ratchet paused and pulled First Aid into a careful embrace, there in the middle of the corridor. First Aid endured it for a moment, nudging Ratchet’s helm with his own quickly before pulling away.
“I’m ok, Ratch. Really.”
Ratchet sighed, examining him closely. First Aid’s facemask was up again, but he did seem…ok. Seemed, was the operative word. His systems were healing, slowly. He didn’t bounce back the way he used to (and that spark pulse worried him, but there was no saying whether it was worse or better than before), but physically, he was healing. It was the parts he couldn’t scan, couldn’t monitor that worried him.
“The twins helped,” Ratchet said, making it not-quite a question. Of all strange developments, to find those two looking out for Aid had to be among the strangest.
First Aid nodded, not meeting his gaze. He was still wobbly, still unstable under Ratchet’s grasp as they continued walking down the corridor, but his engine wasn’t running nearly as hard as it had earlier.
“Poor twins,” First Aid said softly. “I really don’t think that’s their thing.” He met Ratchet’s optics for a moment, and Ratchet felt his spark lift at the twinkle of humor there. It floored him, as always, that First Aid could be so…the way he was, after everything. Steady as one of Grapple’s towers, anchored somewhere deep where no one could see. Most of the time. He never worried about First Aid during battles, when there were wounded. It was only every now and then, when there was a rare period of quiet. He’d worried for Aid on this mission, so long away from the Aerialbots, as one crisis after another turned what had originally been scheduled as a brief, two-orn journey into a nearly two-vorn one.
They’d kept busy enough, to be true, no shortage of battles and disasters, and Ratchet felt guiltily and oddly almost grateful for them. First Aid had applied himself industriously to his studies of organic and techno-organic medicine during down times, but his recharge levels dropped to worrisome levels, and he grew quieter than was even his usual wont, and once he found First Aid, in the empty medbay, in front of the storage cabinets hand pressed lightly against the door, not responding when Ratchet said his name at first. Ratchet took his arm then and turned him, and his visor flickered and then he seemed to be fine, but...there were so many deadly drugs in there, in the right dose, Ratchet could not help but think. And First Aid knew them all.
Ratchet had been ready to approach Ultra Magnus about risking the return to Cybertron, for Aid’s sake, but then he had been so badly injured, and now there was this new development with the twins.
“How do you feel?” he asked First Aid. He knew what his scanners said, but that wasn’t what he was after.
“Better,” Aid replied. “Still tired, a little.”
“That’s physically, how about mentally? You were pretty upset last night.”
First Aid shrugged.
“That’s the first time you’ve talked about them, you know.” Ratchet wasn’t sure if it was a mistake, bringing up Aid’s lost brothers, but…it seemed a cruel circumstance, that the only way First Aid could cope with their loss was to never speak of them. They’d been so close. He’d always hoped that one day Aid would be able to access and find comfort in remembering and talking about them, and maybe this was a start?
“I know.” First Aid took another several careful steps and then they paused again to rest. “I know, Ratchet,” he said, tilting his helm up to meet Ratchet’s optics finally. “I know you worry, and that you…miss them. Too.”
“Yeah,” Ratchet murmured, feeling his vocalizer catch with memories. “Yeah, Aid, I do.” He left it at that, patting First Aid’s hand and continuing in silence. Maybe First Aid wasn’t the only one not ready to face the past.
“I had the strangest memory purge while I was recharging,” Aid said, as they turned the final stretch to the medbay.
“Not a bad one, I hope.” With First Aid’s light and fractured recharge cycles, it was rare he entered levels deep enough to experience memory purges. Given his history, that might not be a bad thing, although Ratchet had never known Aid to mention nightmares.
“No, it was just strange. Somehow, Sideswipe was the Prime, and Sunstreaker was his Lord High Protector.”
“Primus forfend!” Ratchet gave First Aid a horrified look. “Sounds like a nightmare to me!”
“Not at all,” First Aid laughed. “They were actually...really sort of. Well. Wonderful.”
“Ha! Now I’m definitely going to have to check your processor.” Ratchet gave the junior medic an amused look. If First Aid were older Ratchet would’ve said he was smitten with the two frontliners, in subtle First Aid fashion, of course.
By the time they arrived at the medbay, First Aid was lagging a bit, but Ratchet was pleased to see him otherwise holding up well, moving without undue pain or overheating. Ratchet helped First Aid up to a berth and hooked him up to an energon drip (his ruptured tank was still healing, not ready to process fuel yet), and gave him another injection of heavy duty painkillers and electrical system dampeners, though Aid gave him a resigned look, knowing it would slow his processor and leave him woozy without necessarily helping him recharge, not anymore.
He handed Aid one of his organic biology datapads (Ventaxian reproductive methods) with a warning look to stay put, “and no thinking too hard, either,” Ratchet added, mock scolding. Aid gave him an innocent tilt of the helm and curled himself contentedly to read and make notes, though Ratchet caught him staring once at an untidy pile of temp-plating scraps on the floor that had yet to be swept and cleared his vocalizer in warning. First Aid sighed and went back to his datapad. When Ratchet checked back on him a few breems later he was recharging lightly, all systems on the monitor edging nicely into acceptable limits, where several had still been in the caution zone before. Ratchet smiled, and then found his optics filling unexpectedly with fluid, swallowing grief as he remembered First Aid on a different berth, back on Cybertron, monitors headed sharply in the other direction.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sound of Wheeljack on the other end of the transmission, barely keeping his composure, made Ratchet’s own spark clench painfully.
“I’m on my way, Ratchet. I’ll be there as…as soon as...as soon as Skydive’s energon pressure comes up a little more, it will be safe to leave him.”
“Wheeljack…he’ll be gone before you get here.” So hard to say, but it was only the truth. “We’re on full alert, anyway. It’s not safe.”
“Have you tried…”
“I’ve tried everything. He’s not responding. And I don’t know if, even if I could, with the rest of them gone if it’s kinder to…” Ratchet’s vocalizer caught painfully and he couldn’t continue. You would think, with as much death as he’d seen this would be easier. But this was different.
“He’s…he’s very quiet now,” Ratchet said, haltingly, vocalizer still shaky. “It won’t be long.” In truth First Aid had been quiet since it had happened. Frantic just before, knowing something was going terribly wrong, a soft, agonized sound, and then…he’d gone so still, so quiet, and Ratchet had known even before he’d gotten confirmation from Prowl. First Aid had put a gentle hand on Ratchet’s arm.
“They’re gone, Ratchet,” First Aid said, in the same steady, compassionate voice that he used to tell a patient that his friend had not survived. Soft but unflinching. “Tell Prowl to tell the Aerialbots come back home, and thank you for trying. They’re gone.”
He’d made no other sound after that, just crumpled in on himself, Ratchet holding him in numb shock, with his scanners bleeping urgent warning as First Aid’s spark tried to rip itself into shreds inside his chassis. Now the junior medic was…very still, systems shutting down one by one.
Wheeljack was sobbing. He heard one of the Aerialbots, briefly, a broken sound of grief. They’d tried to save them, had nearly lost Skydive doing so as he exceeded his operational limits, trying to escape Cybertron’s atmosphere to reach the Protectobots’ shuttle. Ratchet was silent, for a long while.
“I’ll stay with him,” he said, drawing air through his intakes, slow and steady. He placed a hand on the red-and-white helm. “I won’t let him die alone.”
“Tell him…I love him and …so proud, so proud of him. And I’m sorry...I couldn’t…” Wheeljack’s voice choked off.
“I’ll tell him ‘Jack,” Ratchet whispered. “I know, I’ll tell him.” It was unbearable. He couldn’t take any more of this, he just couldn’t. Ratchet cut the transmission. Wheeljack had put his spark and soul into the Protectobots. The part of him not stunned with grief was deeply worried for his friend. He had the Aerialbots with him; he hoped they could find some comfort together.
He brushed a hand over First Aid’s limp form, before going to check the other patients in the medbay. Cybonic Plague victims, mostly. All recovering, but one. (Thanks to the Protectobots and their antivirus, he thought, spark stabbing him painfully again with grief, so much promise, so many lives they’d saved, and then this…never any mercy in this war, never, and he wasn’t sure why he did this anymore).
The one he was still worried about, an imposing yellow warrior model, was holding steady, clinging to life just barely, but at least he wasn’t getting worse. The virus was controlled, by whatever program the Protectobots had concocted (and Ratchet still didn’t have the slightest clue how it worked, it was like no other antivirus he’d ever seen). If his systems could rally from the damage already done, he might recover fully. He’d arrived carried by an equally imposing red mech, neither of them with faction markings, also hit by the virus but not nearly so badly. The red mech was suspicious and…almost feral. Ratchet wasn’t sure if it was safe, allowing them in the medbay, but he’d never turned a patient away and Primus be damned if he was going to start now. By the way the red mech hovered over his friend he wondered if they were bonded, but neither of them were remotely old enough. The yellow mech was somewhat the younger, but they were both no more that a few hundred vorns older than the Aerialbots.
Ratchet completed his checks and then settled himself next to First Aid. To wait. It wouldn’t be long, the lines on the scanner wandered uncertainly now, wavering between life and death. He answered the medbay comm screen by reflex.
We’ve got incoming wounded, Ratchet. There’s a line of fighting moving towards you; we need you to triage and evacuate whoever you can. ETA six point four breems
Slag, no! Not now! Take them to someone else, I’m not…
Ratchet, I’m sorry, Jazz’s expression was hidden by the visor, his voice sad but hard-edged. There is no one else.
He’d told Wheeljack he wouldn’t leave him. Ratchet disconnected First Aid from the monitors--he didn’t need them telling him what he already knew--and moved him to a corner berth, where it would be quiet.
“I was waiting for you to come back before I tried this out. Safer that way.” Ratchet knew First Aid probably couldn’t hear him, but it didn’t matter. He placed one of Wheeljack’s latest inventions, a tri-beam medical welder, in Aid’s hand and wrapped the lax fingers around it.
“Thought it would be good to have another medic around, you know. Just in case it didn’t work as advertised. Hang on to it for me, kiddo, ok?” Ratchet rested a hand on his helm, one last time, and then there was no time for grieving. And if nothing else would have convinced him, First Aid lying still and unresponsive in the chaos of the arriving wounded convinced him of the reality. He was really leaving them, joining his brothers in the Matrix. Ratchet’s spark broke again at the thought of them, the other four, so young and so joyful in their purpose, in their bonds with one another, even in the midst of war. Gone.
Ratchet, you need to evacuate, everyone, and get out of there yourself, now.
I can’t, Jazz. He’d already sent most of the virus victims, triaged the incoming wounded and repaired what couldn’t wait and sent them off. The only ones remaining were the red and yellow warriors, the red one refusing to leave his friend, and First Aid, still and quiet on his berth. I’ve got a critical patient here; if I move him he’ll die.
The red warrior, silent and brooding, withdrawn, until then, raised his head, listening.
I can make that an order.
I can override. I’m. Not. Leaving.
The red warrior was watching him now, staring at Ratchet like he was an atmospheric anomaly of some sort.
“What?” he snapped, not in the mood to be stared at.
Jazz gave a frustrated sigh. Ok, I’m sending reinforcements to hold them off, but they’re not going to be in time.
The ‘Cons will stay out of my medbay if they know what’s good for them.
Jazz chuckled, despite himself. I don’t doubt it. Good luck, Ratchet…and…about the Protectobots…I’m so sorry.
Thanks, Ratchet said tightly, cutting the transmission.
“I have weapons,” the red warrior said, standing, transforming some formidable-looking dual blasters. “I’ll hold them off.”
Ratchet eyed him doubtfully. He was recovering, but Ratchet estimated he was still only operating at quarter strength from his own bout with the virus. The red warrior noticed his expression and suddenly his grim-serious expression of a battle-hardened warrior turned into a grin, an impish optic-twinkling expression that made him look his age, and suddenly reminded him painfully of a certain Protectobot scout.
Ratchet blinked, and the red warrior gave him an insouciant wink, followed by a nod that somehow managed to convey a hint of wondering respect, and ducked out the medbay entrance, weapons at ready.
He went to check the yellow mech again, condition unchanged, and then, reluctantly, not wanting to face the inevitable, First Aid. The junior medic’s intakes were still cycling faintly. Not dead. Still clinging to life, just barely. Ratchet ducked his head with something like relief, although he didn’t know what he was hoping for. He was just prolonging the agony, drawing out the pain in his spark, it would be kinder for it to just be over, but somehow, finding Aid still alive, he felt a sad relief.
Commotion and the sound of weapon fire outside drew his attention. The ‘Cons must have arrived. No one was going to get to his patients. No one was going to disturb First Aid’s final moments. Ratchet powered up his big saw and went to join the red warrior.
“You’re not half bad!”
“What?” Ratchet replied, distractedly, digging a crumpled chunk of armor out of his saw.
“Pretty good at this, for a medic,” the red warrior yelled, over his shoulder, from behind the improvised barricade they’d erected.
“Thanks, I think,” Ratchet yelled back, some time later. “What’s your name, anyway?” Just in case he had to yell to get his attention or something. Might be good to know. He looked over when there was no answer to find the red warrior sprawled on his back, staring at the sky and looking dazed. “Frag.”
Ratchet scrambled over. The mech’s chest was a smoking ruin. Ratchet dragged him into the medbay and dug through his cabinets until he found his stash of high grade. He mixed it with a few select chemicals from the medicine cabinet then put the whole mess in the medbay doors, activating the warrior’s blaster to set off a Wheeljack-worthy explosion. The ceiling did not fall down on them, thankfully (Grapple and the Protectobots had reinforced it after the last time). He then hauled the red mech up onto a berth. He was too limp, too unresisting. Not a good sign.
Ratchet opened what remained of the chest armor and drew in air through his intakes sharply. The spark chamber was cracked, there was energon leaking everywhere, and his spark was flickering ominously. Slag. Ratchet triggered life support on the berth, and began hooking up transfusion lines and a spark regulator.
“Sideswipe.” Ratchet lifted his optics to meet dim ones, staring at him with a sort of weary admiration. “Name’s Sideswipe,” he mumbled again, “nice explosion,” before his optics flickered once and went offline again.
“Hang in there, Sideswipe,” he gritted out as he quickly sealed off leaking energon lines. The rubble of the doorway shook as something tried to blast it from the other side. Sideswipe’s spark wasn’t stabilizing, the severity of his injuries, exertion from holding off the invading Decepticons, and half-repaired damage from the virus joining in a deadly three way combination.
Ratchet spared a glance up as monitors beeped from the other berth with the yellow warrior, the mech shifting restlessly, his spark pulse suddenly becoming erratic. Pit. Slag. It. All. To. Pit. There was nothing he could do. Sideswipe was critical; he couldn’t leave for a nanoklik or he would deactivate. Ratchet frantically tried to stabilize his spark.
The yellow mech moaned feebly, then again, louder. The beeping intensified, then cut off abruptly. Ratchet looked up to find that the yellow mech had rolled off the berth and was now dragging himself across the floor.
“Sides…” it started as a hoarse moan, and then rose in volume, as the yellow mech continued to try to make his way across the floor to Sideswipe.
“Lie down, hold still,” Ratchet barked. The yellow mech didn’t have the energy reserves for that sort of thing. He wasn’t going to last long at this rate, unless he could get him calmed down. Primus, if he didn’t know better he’d say they were acting like a bonded pair. Or a fraggin’ gestalt. Or…Ratchet’s energon ran cold. Twins. Spark twins. The different frame-ages had thrown him off, but their baseline spark frequencies, now that he had a close look at Sideswipe’s, were nearly identical.
“Sideswipe!” The yellow mech was screaming now, over and over. Sideswipe’s spark faltered, faded for a moment, then came back unevenly. The other mech convulsed, briefly, with a cry of agony, confirming Ratchet’s suspicions. Spark twins. He’d only seen one case before in his entire medical career, the other twin dying within kliks of his brother even though he’d been completely uninjured. Sideswipe’s spark faltered yet again, and the other one cried out again, weaker this time. Soft but full of agony, and entirely too similar to the sound First Aid had made when....Not this, not this again, Ratchet’s thoughts ran through his processor in a jumble of horror. Please Primus I can’t watch this again, can’t watch him dying and not a thing I can do…
“No!” The cry was desperate, torn from a mech at the end of endurance. Ratchet glanced up again, fearing the worst, and froze in complete and utter shock. A familiar white-and-red form was pinning the yellow warrior to the floor, hands gripping either side of the helm by the wide flaring vents, their optics were locked.
“They said wait. Not yet.” First Aid spoke in a fierce commanding tone, in a voice almost unrecognizable, shredded raw by grief and pain. “Wait. Hold on. Hold still.” First Aid pressed his own foreplates against the yellow helm. “It will be ok, lie still.”
Ratchet, by pure reflex, continued his efforts to stabilize Sideswipe’s spark, his processor a whirl of shapeless thoughts. He found and cauterized a major internal leak in Sideswipe’s lower abdomen and suctioned accumulated fuel from his engine and suddenly his spark flared brightly and began pulsing in a near steady rhythm.
First Aid was still crouched over the yellow one, holding on to his helm and murmuring something into his audial sensors. The yellow warrior was lying calmly, still online as far as Ratchet could tell.
“Aid,” he said, not sure what to do or where to go from here. What was he supposed to do? First Aid didn’t respond. Ratchet continued his repairs of Sideswipe, looking up at one point to see First Aid, unbelievably, carefully levering the yellow mech back onto his berth. It was surreal. He finished the last welds on the red warrior, reassembling the damaged chestplates. At some point, he wasn’t sure when, the sounds against the rubble-filled doorway had stopped, the Decepticons leaving in search of easier prey.
He wiped his hands clean, and went over to where First Aid was sitting quietly, monitoring the yellow twin. He looked up at Ratchet, looking battered and weary, but undeniably alive.
“He’s stable,” First Aid said, his already soft voice no more than a whisper. “I gave him three units of sedative.” Ratchet nodded. He examined the yellow mech, checking First Aid’s work as he’d done thousands of times before, knowing there would rarely be anything missed, or needing more attention. He could see the tell-tale signs, now that he knew to look for, that they were twinned sparks, both sparks now pulsing in unison.
“Twins,” he said out loud, and First Aid nodded.
“Yes.” First Aid nodded.
Ratchet met his optics, glowing an exhausted, faded blue behind the visor, with an effort.
“Aid…how…” he shook his head, still in shock, he supposed. “I’m so sorry…”
First Aid held up a hand, forestalling him. “Stop. Please, Ratch…I can’t…” His hand clenched suddenly, trembling, voice rasping into silence.
Ratchet nodded. “Ok. Ok, kiddo.” He kept his vocalizer steady, somehow. He wanted to hug his assistant, looking so...so…alone; he wanted to rock and scream all of the pain and anguish of the last cycle to the skies, but something told him that was not what Aid needed right now, and so he did not. He did, however, run some medical scans. His spark broke a little more at the results. First Aid’s spark was shivering in a strange irregular rhythm he’d never seen before, fast, with occasional deep flares that he knew had to be extremely painful, though Aid gave no sign, then stuttering into a steady beat for several kliks, a long pause, then flaring again. His engine was a wreck, his energon pressure low, oil pressure, non-existent, coolant levels low, fuel pump irregular as well, energy levels almost completely drained…Ratchet had no idea how Aid was even upright, let alone speaking to him coherently.
“Think you can take some energon?” he asked. First Aid looked at him a long while. Deciding, Ratchet thought. Deciding whether to live. First Aid shook his head.
“I don’t think I can swallow,” he whispered. Ratchet nodded, spark dropping.
“Transfusion?” he asked, trying not to sound too desperate, too hopeful.
First Aid watched him for awhile, then nodded faintly, and Ratchet hooked him up, trying to seem nonchalant about it. He was in such uncharted territory; he didn’t know what the right thing was to do. First Aid, alive, but…what at what price, what pain. He fought tears again thinking of the four lost ones (crying over the dead, he thought he’d given that up long ago) and now there was only First Aid, here, wavering on a thin knife edge between life and death, not the first time he’d been there, but always before there were his brothers, holding him firmly on the side of life and now they were on the wrong side…
He risked a quick brush of his hand over First Aid’s helm before quickly rising and leaving before his lost his composure, under the guise of going to check over Sideswipe again. There was a rumbling from the ruined entryway to the medbay. Ratchet turned to watch it, startled, but not moving from Sideswipe’s berth. There was no danger in the sound, somehow he knew. First Aid sat quietly, unalarmed as well, seeming to take it all in stride as the rubble moved away and Silverbolt and Slingshot pushed through, followed by Wheeljack.
“You look like slag,” Ratchet said, unthinking, and they did, all of them dented and grit-streaked. Slingshot had a big black-scorched area over half of his wing, and Silverbolt was limping badly. They looked…blank, soul-blasted by grief and sorrow. They stopped in shock at the sight that greeted them. First Aid made a small noise, seeing their injuries, but had no chance to rise from the edge of the berth. Wheeljack had stumbled across the distance and had him wrapped in a desperate embrace.
First Aid stroked his all-but-creator’s helm and back. “Shhh, Wheeljack,” he murmured into the audio. “Shhh, I’m here, it’s ok.” His optics met Silverbolt’s for a moment, optic ridges drawn together in pain or concern, before ducking his helm down over Wheeljack, still cradling the spark-broken engineer.
“Ratchet,” Silverbolt’s voice was broken, his face and that of his brother scarred by the tracks of optic fluid. “What…how…we were there Ratchet, we saw that ship explode. How…” His optics shone with a terrible hope, begging Ratchet to tell him it had all been a horrible mistake, that the Protectobots hadn’t been on the shuttle after all.
Ratchet shook his head quickly. “No, ‘Bolt, no…I can’t explain why Aid…he was dying, but he…somehow…” Ratchet shook his head again, unable to find words to explain. Silverbolt nodded, the optic fluid spilling over again, and Ratchet put his arm around the tall jet, pulling him close. Silverbolt fell into him with a broken sound of grief. Slingshot huddled against them both, ducking his head under Ratchet’s arm as he hadn’t done since he was a sparkling, silent and miserable.
They wept together for awhile, then finally calmed, all turning to watch Wheeljack and First Aid. Wheeljack was quiet now too, huddled in First Aid’s lap as if he were the sparkling. Silverbolt rose unsteadily and went over to them.
“Aid…” Silverbolt reached an unsteady hand out, but stopped short as if afraid to touch him. First Aid sighed and brushed his own hand briefly against Silverbolt’s.
“What did you do to your leg?” he asked.
“Aid…”
“Are the rest all right? How deep does that scorching go on Slingshot?”
“I’m fine, he’s fine. Skydive’s not, but he’s going to be…”
“Skydive?” First Aid’s gaze sharpened. “What happened to Skydive?”
“AID!” Silverbolt shouted, “STOP WORRYING ABOUT US, FOR PRIMUS’ SAKE!” His voice crackled with static. Wheeljack looked up at him in shock. First Aid bowed his head, and Sliverbolt dropped down to his knees, horrified at himself.
“Oh Primus, Aid, I’m so sorry I’m so sorry,” he babbled, weeping again. Slingshot was next to him, trembling with the force of both their emotions. “Just tell me what to do, what I should say, I just don’t know…I don’t know anything anymore…”
Aid was by his side, comforting him, him, murmuring soothing nonsense, somehow wrapping arms around all three while they wept. It was all backwards.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to do anything.” First Aid pressed his helm to Silverbolt’s for a moment (the gesture that Silverbolt had seen him do a hundred times, First Aid pressing his helm close to Hot Spot’s, and Silverbolt was wrenched with another deep sob at the thought), and then pulled gently away. Without a word he began tending the scorched area on Slingshot, carefully wiping off the blackened soot with a cleansing cloth he pulled from somewhere, and then coating the most damaged areas with circuit gel.
“Not deep, I don’t think it reached most of the circuitry,” First Aid said softly. He then started on Silverbolt’s leg, Ratchet silently handing him supplies, while they all just sat there, watching him in an exhausted daze, emotions run to the ground for the moment.
“Skydive?” First Aid asked hesitantly, while he worked, with a quick glance at Silverbolt’s face. He ducked his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I really want to know.”
Silverbolt sighed, resting a hand on First Aid’s helm for a moment. “No, I’m sorry. It’s ok. Skydive…”
“He tried to fly past his altitude specifications and overheated badly, but he’ll be all right.” Wheeljack answered for him, more familiar with the medical details, his voice hoarse but steady as he filled First Aid in on Skydive’s condition. First Aid nodded, continuing his repairs on Silverbolt’s leg.
“I’m so sorry, we failed-” Silverbolt started, voice cracking again, but First Aid interrupted, placing a hand on Silverbolt’s chestplates.
“No. Don’t you apologize. Not for nearly dying trying to save us. Don’t you dare.” He stared seriously into Silverbolt’s optics until the jet nodded faintly. “Good,” he said, removing his hand, sounding satisfied, and so much like himself, stubborn and caring and giving orders like he sometimes did, taking over without so much as a by-your-leave when he knew what was best, that Silverbolt almost smiled.
Ratchet cleared his vocalizer. “Aid, what…just tell us what you need. Is there anything we can do?”
First Aid was silent for awhile, staring at his hands. “I don’t know myself,” he murmured sadly, at last. “I just know, somehow, I’m not supposed to go. Not yet. They said to wait.”
Slingshot and Silverbolt exchanged glances at that one.
“I don’t know how…I don’t know if I can...” First Aid continued. He twined his fingers together. They were trembling just perceptibly, and First Aid clasped his hands tightly to still it, tight enough that Ratchet knew from experience it was probably shooting bolts of pain up his arms. No, calm as he seemed, First Aid was not ok. “I think I just need to be…alone…for awhile.”
Alone. The word hung heavily in the air. First Aid had never been alone before, not really. Alone to deactivate? It would be like him, to hide away somewhere, spare them what grief he could.
“Aid…” Ratchet said slowly.
First Aid looked up at him, meeting his optics with that steady, weary gaze. “You still need me here?”
“Yes.” Ratchet somehow kept himself from breaking as he said it. “Primus, Aid, yes, I need you. We need you here, if there’s a way, if you can bear it, yes.”
Silverbolt and Slingshot looked hesitant, less certain, knowing better than anyone the cost, the choice they would have made, but they nodded. //That’s what they asked, if he really heard them, what they wanted// was their shared thought.
“Stay,” Slingshot said hoarsely, the first time he had spoken, “if you can.” Wheeljack gave a wordless sob and pressed his helm against Aid’s shoulder. First Aid leaned back a little, nudging Wheeljack comfortingly as was his way.
“Well then.” First Aid drew a deep cycle of air through his intakes, a controlled sigh, his hands still gripping themselves as if holding on to life itself. He nodded once, slowly, determined. “I’ll see what I can do.” His visor tilted towards Silverbolt. “Silverbolt, may I ask a favor? Will you take me to a high place, please?” he asked.
Wheeljack and Ratchet looked puzzled, concerned, but Silverbolt nodded. “I know a place. It should be safe enough, even now. I’ll take you wherever you want to go, always and forever, Aid, no questions asked.”
First Aid’s visor flickered a few times at that. He looked up at Ratchet’s worried frown. “Don’t worry,” he said, and Ratchet could feel his spark pulse painfully at the smile that flickered across First Aid’s face. Faint, weary, more a slight crinkling of the plating around his optics than a lifting of the mouth, but a smile nonetheless it was. “I’m not planning to jump.”
First Aid brushed his cheek against Wheeljack’s helm, then stood, moving slowly as if he had weights attached to every limb, or deep shock, Ratchet thought grimly to himself. First Aid checked the monitors on the yellow warrior one last time, standing and looking at the peaceful, glorious face. Just before Ratchet decided First Aid was going to drop over or recharge there standing on his feet, he turned and made his way to Silverbolt (not steady on his feet, and it was all Ratchet could do to keep from grabbing him and sedating him on a berth for the next vorn) and held up his arms. Silverbolt hoisted First Aid up to his chest, cradling him close, and, with Slingshot close on his heels in the way that only gestalts could manage, carried him from the medbay.
They were gone a long time. Wheeljack helped Ratchet clean up the mess he’d made of the medbay entrance, and treat the trickle of minor injuries that came in from Jazz’s team, while Ratchet updated Jazz. Ratchet and Wheeljack ended up sitting on the floor together, leaning on one another in exhaustion.
“Rest,” Ratchet said, hearing the hum and stutter of Wheeljack’s systems.
“No,” Wheeljack answered. “Not until….” he trailed off. “You rest, Ratchet. I’ll keep watch.”
“No.”
“Okay then.” They left it there, both unable to summon the strength to argue.
They stayed that way, too tired to think anymore, too tired to either hope or fear or even grieve for their lost ones, until Silverbolt’s comm that they were on their way back (the Aerialbots, their other creations, Ratchet thought, vowing to hug them all fiercely as soon as he got the chance and to Pit with whatever it did to his reputation) returning roused them from their stupor. The approaching sound was of a single large engine rather than five jets. They exchanged glances, and then, bracing one another, managed to stagger up and out the medbay entrance to meet Superion, cradling the limp form of First Aid close. The combiner separated into his components, Fireflight and Air Raid supporting Skydive, Slingshot close behind Silverbolt, who was still holding First Aid. His face was set and grim, ravaged by grief, but it changed at Ratchet’s expression of dread, Wheeljack’s low moan of despair.
“No, no, it’s ok,” Silverbolt said quickly. “He’s only recharging.”
Silverbolt gently laid his burden on one of the empty berths, his brothers close behind him. Ratchet checked his systems with all of them, including Wheeljack, hovering near. First Aid was indeed recharging, so deeply he was only a few steps away from complete stasis. His systems were…stable, for the most part. Strained to the breaking point, all of them, and his spark still kept that painful, erratic rhythm, but it beat strong in its unsteady tempo, and that gave Ratchet hope.
Everyone was watching Ratchet’s face anxiously, though Skydive looked so exhausted he had to be online by sheer force of will.
“He’s holding his own,” he told them, and everyone relaxed a little. “You,” he added, pointing at Skydive. “Berth, now. Actually, that goes for all of you. You too, Wheeljack.” No one argued, for once. Ratchet reconfigured several berths together and everyone gestalt-piled in, including Wheeljack, and, after some consideration, Ratchet added First Aid to the weary tangle of wings and limbs, where he was completely engulfed. He’d be harder to monitor, but Ratchet couldn’t bear to see him alone on that berth any longer.
Ratchet stayed near until he was sure everyone was in recharge, and then made his rounds, running on whatever fumes had sustained him thus far. The twin warriors were both doing better, the readings slightly stronger than the last time he checked. Ratchet had moved them close to one another, and it was undeniably clear, the way their sparks pulsed together. He wondered now how he had missed the signs, despite the frame-age disparity, but he’d been perhaps not at his best. Another time and he would have been fascinated, now he only felt a sort of dim regret, that he lacked the motivation or energy to study them more, while they were there and offline. He had a feeling, by the scars and signs of less-than-optimal medical care on both their frames, that they would be unlikely to volunteer as research subjects.
“Ratchet.” Someone was speaking to him, touching his elbow. Ratchet came to himself with a start, realizing he had nearly fallen into recharge on his feet. He turned to see Optimus Prime’s concerned face.
“When did you get here?” he asked. It felt like a heroic effort to get the words out, in order. The right order, making sense.
“As soon as I could. You’re the last ones left, but none of you are in any sort of condition to go anywhere. Lie down.” Optimus guided him to a berth, Ratchet unresisting, though he craned his head a little at the Aerialbot pile, wanting to check, just one more time…Optimus’s face was sad, he must have heard then….
He was lying down. When did that happen? He focused on Prime with an effort, and frowned at the dimness of his optics, the faint ragged edge of his systems, all-too-familiar symptoms.
“Prime, you were sick, too?” Ratchet tried to sit up, but Optimus prevented him easily with a hand to his chestplates.
“I’m better now. I’ll watch over them. Perceptor has the medbay, Ironhide’s standing guard. Rest, Ratchet.”
Recharge swallowed him whole.
In case of excessive feels, plz read the following:
Reunion Part 1
Reunion Part 2
Reunion Part 3
This entry was originally posted at http://playswithworms.dreamwidth.org/151054.html. Please comment wherever you wish.
Title: Still Waters (5/?)
Characters: Ratchet, First Aid, Wheeljack, Silverbolt, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker
Universe: Protectobot Beginnings AU
Rating: K+
Word Count: 6671
Warnings: Allusions to suicide, of the "gestalt member trying to carry on alone" variety. Major angst! Tissue warning! Links to traumatic-but-happy P-bot reunion at the end!
Summary: Ratchet's turn to remember the not-so-good days.
First Aid woke from recharge slowly, feeling the familiar pain and stiffness in his joints, vestiges of the long-ago disrupter blast, the ever-present ache in his spark as it pulsed irregularly, searching, endlessly, for its four missing partners, the newer pain deep through his back and side where the spear had gone. He cycled air through his intakes carefully, slowly, until it eased. Moving was harder than usual, due to the substantial red and yellow frontliners pressed on either side of him. First Aid carefully extracted himself without waking them.
He smiled a little, watching them, face mask closing automatically to guard the expression. They looked so peaceful, lying there in recharge, those two fearsome warriors. Sideswipe looked unfamiliar with the darkness of the temporary visor shielding his optics. First Aid checked it gently, making sure it was well-placed and doing its job. Not that he doubted Ratchet, but they both checked and rechecked one another as a matter of course.
He felt…better. Better than he had in a long time, despite the nagging pains, old and new.
Awake? Ratchet commed him, alerted by the remote monitors that First Aid’s systems were no longer in recharge.
Yes, Ratchet. Can I come back to work now?
Come back yes, work no.
First Aid sighed sadly.
I heard that, Ratchet scolded. If you won’t rest I may have to exile you permanently to the twins’ care, until you’re fully recovered. They still in recharge?
Yes. First Aid smiled again at them fondly.
They took good care of you, kind of surprised me. You needed that. Might have to recruit them,‘till we get back to the other five airheads.
Ratchet… First Aid started.
No arguing. I let you have your way far too much you know. You’re just going to have to cope with me on this one. Need help getting back?
First Aid had already exited the twins’ quarters and was making his way down the hallway, slow and a little wobbly still. I’ll let you know. So far, so good. Whoops- First Aid wavered sideways a few steps and paused a moment to regain his balance.
Hmm, I’ll meet you halfway.
Can I at least have my xenobiology datapads back?
“One datapad,” Ratchet said as he met up with his assistant in the corridor and gently took his arm. First Aid gave him a small huffed sigh but did not argue. “And you do not fix or clean anything. You had a very close call this time, Aid.”
“I shouldn’t be alive,” Aid murmured softly, “again.”
“Aid…” Ratchet paused and pulled First Aid into a careful embrace, there in the middle of the corridor. First Aid endured it for a moment, nudging Ratchet’s helm with his own quickly before pulling away.
“I’m ok, Ratch. Really.”
Ratchet sighed, examining him closely. First Aid’s facemask was up again, but he did seem…ok. Seemed, was the operative word. His systems were healing, slowly. He didn’t bounce back the way he used to (and that spark pulse worried him, but there was no saying whether it was worse or better than before), but physically, he was healing. It was the parts he couldn’t scan, couldn’t monitor that worried him.
“The twins helped,” Ratchet said, making it not-quite a question. Of all strange developments, to find those two looking out for Aid had to be among the strangest.
First Aid nodded, not meeting his gaze. He was still wobbly, still unstable under Ratchet’s grasp as they continued walking down the corridor, but his engine wasn’t running nearly as hard as it had earlier.
“Poor twins,” First Aid said softly. “I really don’t think that’s their thing.” He met Ratchet’s optics for a moment, and Ratchet felt his spark lift at the twinkle of humor there. It floored him, as always, that First Aid could be so…the way he was, after everything. Steady as one of Grapple’s towers, anchored somewhere deep where no one could see. Most of the time. He never worried about First Aid during battles, when there were wounded. It was only every now and then, when there was a rare period of quiet. He’d worried for Aid on this mission, so long away from the Aerialbots, as one crisis after another turned what had originally been scheduled as a brief, two-orn journey into a nearly two-vorn one.
They’d kept busy enough, to be true, no shortage of battles and disasters, and Ratchet felt guiltily and oddly almost grateful for them. First Aid had applied himself industriously to his studies of organic and techno-organic medicine during down times, but his recharge levels dropped to worrisome levels, and he grew quieter than was even his usual wont, and once he found First Aid, in the empty medbay, in front of the storage cabinets hand pressed lightly against the door, not responding when Ratchet said his name at first. Ratchet took his arm then and turned him, and his visor flickered and then he seemed to be fine, but...there were so many deadly drugs in there, in the right dose, Ratchet could not help but think. And First Aid knew them all.
Ratchet had been ready to approach Ultra Magnus about risking the return to Cybertron, for Aid’s sake, but then he had been so badly injured, and now there was this new development with the twins.
“How do you feel?” he asked First Aid. He knew what his scanners said, but that wasn’t what he was after.
“Better,” Aid replied. “Still tired, a little.”
“That’s physically, how about mentally? You were pretty upset last night.”
First Aid shrugged.
“That’s the first time you’ve talked about them, you know.” Ratchet wasn’t sure if it was a mistake, bringing up Aid’s lost brothers, but…it seemed a cruel circumstance, that the only way First Aid could cope with their loss was to never speak of them. They’d been so close. He’d always hoped that one day Aid would be able to access and find comfort in remembering and talking about them, and maybe this was a start?
“I know.” First Aid took another several careful steps and then they paused again to rest. “I know, Ratchet,” he said, tilting his helm up to meet Ratchet’s optics finally. “I know you worry, and that you…miss them. Too.”
“Yeah,” Ratchet murmured, feeling his vocalizer catch with memories. “Yeah, Aid, I do.” He left it at that, patting First Aid’s hand and continuing in silence. Maybe First Aid wasn’t the only one not ready to face the past.
“I had the strangest memory purge while I was recharging,” Aid said, as they turned the final stretch to the medbay.
“Not a bad one, I hope.” With First Aid’s light and fractured recharge cycles, it was rare he entered levels deep enough to experience memory purges. Given his history, that might not be a bad thing, although Ratchet had never known Aid to mention nightmares.
“No, it was just strange. Somehow, Sideswipe was the Prime, and Sunstreaker was his Lord High Protector.”
“Primus forfend!” Ratchet gave First Aid a horrified look. “Sounds like a nightmare to me!”
“Not at all,” First Aid laughed. “They were actually...really sort of. Well. Wonderful.”
“Ha! Now I’m definitely going to have to check your processor.” Ratchet gave the junior medic an amused look. If First Aid were older Ratchet would’ve said he was smitten with the two frontliners, in subtle First Aid fashion, of course.
By the time they arrived at the medbay, First Aid was lagging a bit, but Ratchet was pleased to see him otherwise holding up well, moving without undue pain or overheating. Ratchet helped First Aid up to a berth and hooked him up to an energon drip (his ruptured tank was still healing, not ready to process fuel yet), and gave him another injection of heavy duty painkillers and electrical system dampeners, though Aid gave him a resigned look, knowing it would slow his processor and leave him woozy without necessarily helping him recharge, not anymore.
He handed Aid one of his organic biology datapads (Ventaxian reproductive methods) with a warning look to stay put, “and no thinking too hard, either,” Ratchet added, mock scolding. Aid gave him an innocent tilt of the helm and curled himself contentedly to read and make notes, though Ratchet caught him staring once at an untidy pile of temp-plating scraps on the floor that had yet to be swept and cleared his vocalizer in warning. First Aid sighed and went back to his datapad. When Ratchet checked back on him a few breems later he was recharging lightly, all systems on the monitor edging nicely into acceptable limits, where several had still been in the caution zone before. Ratchet smiled, and then found his optics filling unexpectedly with fluid, swallowing grief as he remembered First Aid on a different berth, back on Cybertron, monitors headed sharply in the other direction.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sound of Wheeljack on the other end of the transmission, barely keeping his composure, made Ratchet’s own spark clench painfully.
“I’m on my way, Ratchet. I’ll be there as…as soon as...as soon as Skydive’s energon pressure comes up a little more, it will be safe to leave him.”
“Wheeljack…he’ll be gone before you get here.” So hard to say, but it was only the truth. “We’re on full alert, anyway. It’s not safe.”
“Have you tried…”
“I’ve tried everything. He’s not responding. And I don’t know if, even if I could, with the rest of them gone if it’s kinder to…” Ratchet’s vocalizer caught painfully and he couldn’t continue. You would think, with as much death as he’d seen this would be easier. But this was different.
“He’s…he’s very quiet now,” Ratchet said, haltingly, vocalizer still shaky. “It won’t be long.” In truth First Aid had been quiet since it had happened. Frantic just before, knowing something was going terribly wrong, a soft, agonized sound, and then…he’d gone so still, so quiet, and Ratchet had known even before he’d gotten confirmation from Prowl. First Aid had put a gentle hand on Ratchet’s arm.
“They’re gone, Ratchet,” First Aid said, in the same steady, compassionate voice that he used to tell a patient that his friend had not survived. Soft but unflinching. “Tell Prowl to tell the Aerialbots come back home, and thank you for trying. They’re gone.”
He’d made no other sound after that, just crumpled in on himself, Ratchet holding him in numb shock, with his scanners bleeping urgent warning as First Aid’s spark tried to rip itself into shreds inside his chassis. Now the junior medic was…very still, systems shutting down one by one.
Wheeljack was sobbing. He heard one of the Aerialbots, briefly, a broken sound of grief. They’d tried to save them, had nearly lost Skydive doing so as he exceeded his operational limits, trying to escape Cybertron’s atmosphere to reach the Protectobots’ shuttle. Ratchet was silent, for a long while.
“I’ll stay with him,” he said, drawing air through his intakes, slow and steady. He placed a hand on the red-and-white helm. “I won’t let him die alone.”
“Tell him…I love him and …so proud, so proud of him. And I’m sorry...I couldn’t…” Wheeljack’s voice choked off.
“I’ll tell him ‘Jack,” Ratchet whispered. “I know, I’ll tell him.” It was unbearable. He couldn’t take any more of this, he just couldn’t. Ratchet cut the transmission. Wheeljack had put his spark and soul into the Protectobots. The part of him not stunned with grief was deeply worried for his friend. He had the Aerialbots with him; he hoped they could find some comfort together.
He brushed a hand over First Aid’s limp form, before going to check the other patients in the medbay. Cybonic Plague victims, mostly. All recovering, but one. (Thanks to the Protectobots and their antivirus, he thought, spark stabbing him painfully again with grief, so much promise, so many lives they’d saved, and then this…never any mercy in this war, never, and he wasn’t sure why he did this anymore).
The one he was still worried about, an imposing yellow warrior model, was holding steady, clinging to life just barely, but at least he wasn’t getting worse. The virus was controlled, by whatever program the Protectobots had concocted (and Ratchet still didn’t have the slightest clue how it worked, it was like no other antivirus he’d ever seen). If his systems could rally from the damage already done, he might recover fully. He’d arrived carried by an equally imposing red mech, neither of them with faction markings, also hit by the virus but not nearly so badly. The red mech was suspicious and…almost feral. Ratchet wasn’t sure if it was safe, allowing them in the medbay, but he’d never turned a patient away and Primus be damned if he was going to start now. By the way the red mech hovered over his friend he wondered if they were bonded, but neither of them were remotely old enough. The yellow mech was somewhat the younger, but they were both no more that a few hundred vorns older than the Aerialbots.
Ratchet completed his checks and then settled himself next to First Aid. To wait. It wouldn’t be long, the lines on the scanner wandered uncertainly now, wavering between life and death. He answered the medbay comm screen by reflex.
We’ve got incoming wounded, Ratchet. There’s a line of fighting moving towards you; we need you to triage and evacuate whoever you can. ETA six point four breems
Slag, no! Not now! Take them to someone else, I’m not…
Ratchet, I’m sorry, Jazz’s expression was hidden by the visor, his voice sad but hard-edged. There is no one else.
He’d told Wheeljack he wouldn’t leave him. Ratchet disconnected First Aid from the monitors--he didn’t need them telling him what he already knew--and moved him to a corner berth, where it would be quiet.
“I was waiting for you to come back before I tried this out. Safer that way.” Ratchet knew First Aid probably couldn’t hear him, but it didn’t matter. He placed one of Wheeljack’s latest inventions, a tri-beam medical welder, in Aid’s hand and wrapped the lax fingers around it.
“Thought it would be good to have another medic around, you know. Just in case it didn’t work as advertised. Hang on to it for me, kiddo, ok?” Ratchet rested a hand on his helm, one last time, and then there was no time for grieving. And if nothing else would have convinced him, First Aid lying still and unresponsive in the chaos of the arriving wounded convinced him of the reality. He was really leaving them, joining his brothers in the Matrix. Ratchet’s spark broke again at the thought of them, the other four, so young and so joyful in their purpose, in their bonds with one another, even in the midst of war. Gone.
Ratchet, you need to evacuate, everyone, and get out of there yourself, now.
I can’t, Jazz. He’d already sent most of the virus victims, triaged the incoming wounded and repaired what couldn’t wait and sent them off. The only ones remaining were the red and yellow warriors, the red one refusing to leave his friend, and First Aid, still and quiet on his berth. I’ve got a critical patient here; if I move him he’ll die.
The red warrior, silent and brooding, withdrawn, until then, raised his head, listening.
I can make that an order.
I can override. I’m. Not. Leaving.
The red warrior was watching him now, staring at Ratchet like he was an atmospheric anomaly of some sort.
“What?” he snapped, not in the mood to be stared at.
Jazz gave a frustrated sigh. Ok, I’m sending reinforcements to hold them off, but they’re not going to be in time.
The ‘Cons will stay out of my medbay if they know what’s good for them.
Jazz chuckled, despite himself. I don’t doubt it. Good luck, Ratchet…and…about the Protectobots…I’m so sorry.
Thanks, Ratchet said tightly, cutting the transmission.
“I have weapons,” the red warrior said, standing, transforming some formidable-looking dual blasters. “I’ll hold them off.”
Ratchet eyed him doubtfully. He was recovering, but Ratchet estimated he was still only operating at quarter strength from his own bout with the virus. The red warrior noticed his expression and suddenly his grim-serious expression of a battle-hardened warrior turned into a grin, an impish optic-twinkling expression that made him look his age, and suddenly reminded him painfully of a certain Protectobot scout.
Ratchet blinked, and the red warrior gave him an insouciant wink, followed by a nod that somehow managed to convey a hint of wondering respect, and ducked out the medbay entrance, weapons at ready.
He went to check the yellow mech again, condition unchanged, and then, reluctantly, not wanting to face the inevitable, First Aid. The junior medic’s intakes were still cycling faintly. Not dead. Still clinging to life, just barely. Ratchet ducked his head with something like relief, although he didn’t know what he was hoping for. He was just prolonging the agony, drawing out the pain in his spark, it would be kinder for it to just be over, but somehow, finding Aid still alive, he felt a sad relief.
Commotion and the sound of weapon fire outside drew his attention. The ‘Cons must have arrived. No one was going to get to his patients. No one was going to disturb First Aid’s final moments. Ratchet powered up his big saw and went to join the red warrior.
“You’re not half bad!”
“What?” Ratchet replied, distractedly, digging a crumpled chunk of armor out of his saw.
“Pretty good at this, for a medic,” the red warrior yelled, over his shoulder, from behind the improvised barricade they’d erected.
“Thanks, I think,” Ratchet yelled back, some time later. “What’s your name, anyway?” Just in case he had to yell to get his attention or something. Might be good to know. He looked over when there was no answer to find the red warrior sprawled on his back, staring at the sky and looking dazed. “Frag.”
Ratchet scrambled over. The mech’s chest was a smoking ruin. Ratchet dragged him into the medbay and dug through his cabinets until he found his stash of high grade. He mixed it with a few select chemicals from the medicine cabinet then put the whole mess in the medbay doors, activating the warrior’s blaster to set off a Wheeljack-worthy explosion. The ceiling did not fall down on them, thankfully (Grapple and the Protectobots had reinforced it after the last time). He then hauled the red mech up onto a berth. He was too limp, too unresisting. Not a good sign.
Ratchet opened what remained of the chest armor and drew in air through his intakes sharply. The spark chamber was cracked, there was energon leaking everywhere, and his spark was flickering ominously. Slag. Ratchet triggered life support on the berth, and began hooking up transfusion lines and a spark regulator.
“Sideswipe.” Ratchet lifted his optics to meet dim ones, staring at him with a sort of weary admiration. “Name’s Sideswipe,” he mumbled again, “nice explosion,” before his optics flickered once and went offline again.
“Hang in there, Sideswipe,” he gritted out as he quickly sealed off leaking energon lines. The rubble of the doorway shook as something tried to blast it from the other side. Sideswipe’s spark wasn’t stabilizing, the severity of his injuries, exertion from holding off the invading Decepticons, and half-repaired damage from the virus joining in a deadly three way combination.
Ratchet spared a glance up as monitors beeped from the other berth with the yellow warrior, the mech shifting restlessly, his spark pulse suddenly becoming erratic. Pit. Slag. It. All. To. Pit. There was nothing he could do. Sideswipe was critical; he couldn’t leave for a nanoklik or he would deactivate. Ratchet frantically tried to stabilize his spark.
The yellow mech moaned feebly, then again, louder. The beeping intensified, then cut off abruptly. Ratchet looked up to find that the yellow mech had rolled off the berth and was now dragging himself across the floor.
“Sides…” it started as a hoarse moan, and then rose in volume, as the yellow mech continued to try to make his way across the floor to Sideswipe.
“Lie down, hold still,” Ratchet barked. The yellow mech didn’t have the energy reserves for that sort of thing. He wasn’t going to last long at this rate, unless he could get him calmed down. Primus, if he didn’t know better he’d say they were acting like a bonded pair. Or a fraggin’ gestalt. Or…Ratchet’s energon ran cold. Twins. Spark twins. The different frame-ages had thrown him off, but their baseline spark frequencies, now that he had a close look at Sideswipe’s, were nearly identical.
“Sideswipe!” The yellow mech was screaming now, over and over. Sideswipe’s spark faltered, faded for a moment, then came back unevenly. The other mech convulsed, briefly, with a cry of agony, confirming Ratchet’s suspicions. Spark twins. He’d only seen one case before in his entire medical career, the other twin dying within kliks of his brother even though he’d been completely uninjured. Sideswipe’s spark faltered yet again, and the other one cried out again, weaker this time. Soft but full of agony, and entirely too similar to the sound First Aid had made when....Not this, not this again, Ratchet’s thoughts ran through his processor in a jumble of horror. Please Primus I can’t watch this again, can’t watch him dying and not a thing I can do…
“No!” The cry was desperate, torn from a mech at the end of endurance. Ratchet glanced up again, fearing the worst, and froze in complete and utter shock. A familiar white-and-red form was pinning the yellow warrior to the floor, hands gripping either side of the helm by the wide flaring vents, their optics were locked.
“They said wait. Not yet.” First Aid spoke in a fierce commanding tone, in a voice almost unrecognizable, shredded raw by grief and pain. “Wait. Hold on. Hold still.” First Aid pressed his own foreplates against the yellow helm. “It will be ok, lie still.”
Ratchet, by pure reflex, continued his efforts to stabilize Sideswipe’s spark, his processor a whirl of shapeless thoughts. He found and cauterized a major internal leak in Sideswipe’s lower abdomen and suctioned accumulated fuel from his engine and suddenly his spark flared brightly and began pulsing in a near steady rhythm.
First Aid was still crouched over the yellow one, holding on to his helm and murmuring something into his audial sensors. The yellow warrior was lying calmly, still online as far as Ratchet could tell.
“Aid,” he said, not sure what to do or where to go from here. What was he supposed to do? First Aid didn’t respond. Ratchet continued his repairs of Sideswipe, looking up at one point to see First Aid, unbelievably, carefully levering the yellow mech back onto his berth. It was surreal. He finished the last welds on the red warrior, reassembling the damaged chestplates. At some point, he wasn’t sure when, the sounds against the rubble-filled doorway had stopped, the Decepticons leaving in search of easier prey.
He wiped his hands clean, and went over to where First Aid was sitting quietly, monitoring the yellow twin. He looked up at Ratchet, looking battered and weary, but undeniably alive.
“He’s stable,” First Aid said, his already soft voice no more than a whisper. “I gave him three units of sedative.” Ratchet nodded. He examined the yellow mech, checking First Aid’s work as he’d done thousands of times before, knowing there would rarely be anything missed, or needing more attention. He could see the tell-tale signs, now that he knew to look for, that they were twinned sparks, both sparks now pulsing in unison.
“Twins,” he said out loud, and First Aid nodded.
“Yes.” First Aid nodded.
Ratchet met his optics, glowing an exhausted, faded blue behind the visor, with an effort.
“Aid…how…” he shook his head, still in shock, he supposed. “I’m so sorry…”
First Aid held up a hand, forestalling him. “Stop. Please, Ratch…I can’t…” His hand clenched suddenly, trembling, voice rasping into silence.
Ratchet nodded. “Ok. Ok, kiddo.” He kept his vocalizer steady, somehow. He wanted to hug his assistant, looking so...so…alone; he wanted to rock and scream all of the pain and anguish of the last cycle to the skies, but something told him that was not what Aid needed right now, and so he did not. He did, however, run some medical scans. His spark broke a little more at the results. First Aid’s spark was shivering in a strange irregular rhythm he’d never seen before, fast, with occasional deep flares that he knew had to be extremely painful, though Aid gave no sign, then stuttering into a steady beat for several kliks, a long pause, then flaring again. His engine was a wreck, his energon pressure low, oil pressure, non-existent, coolant levels low, fuel pump irregular as well, energy levels almost completely drained…Ratchet had no idea how Aid was even upright, let alone speaking to him coherently.
“Think you can take some energon?” he asked. First Aid looked at him a long while. Deciding, Ratchet thought. Deciding whether to live. First Aid shook his head.
“I don’t think I can swallow,” he whispered. Ratchet nodded, spark dropping.
“Transfusion?” he asked, trying not to sound too desperate, too hopeful.
First Aid watched him for awhile, then nodded faintly, and Ratchet hooked him up, trying to seem nonchalant about it. He was in such uncharted territory; he didn’t know what the right thing was to do. First Aid, alive, but…what at what price, what pain. He fought tears again thinking of the four lost ones (crying over the dead, he thought he’d given that up long ago) and now there was only First Aid, here, wavering on a thin knife edge between life and death, not the first time he’d been there, but always before there were his brothers, holding him firmly on the side of life and now they were on the wrong side…
He risked a quick brush of his hand over First Aid’s helm before quickly rising and leaving before his lost his composure, under the guise of going to check over Sideswipe again. There was a rumbling from the ruined entryway to the medbay. Ratchet turned to watch it, startled, but not moving from Sideswipe’s berth. There was no danger in the sound, somehow he knew. First Aid sat quietly, unalarmed as well, seeming to take it all in stride as the rubble moved away and Silverbolt and Slingshot pushed through, followed by Wheeljack.
“You look like slag,” Ratchet said, unthinking, and they did, all of them dented and grit-streaked. Slingshot had a big black-scorched area over half of his wing, and Silverbolt was limping badly. They looked…blank, soul-blasted by grief and sorrow. They stopped in shock at the sight that greeted them. First Aid made a small noise, seeing their injuries, but had no chance to rise from the edge of the berth. Wheeljack had stumbled across the distance and had him wrapped in a desperate embrace.
First Aid stroked his all-but-creator’s helm and back. “Shhh, Wheeljack,” he murmured into the audio. “Shhh, I’m here, it’s ok.” His optics met Silverbolt’s for a moment, optic ridges drawn together in pain or concern, before ducking his helm down over Wheeljack, still cradling the spark-broken engineer.
“Ratchet,” Silverbolt’s voice was broken, his face and that of his brother scarred by the tracks of optic fluid. “What…how…we were there Ratchet, we saw that ship explode. How…” His optics shone with a terrible hope, begging Ratchet to tell him it had all been a horrible mistake, that the Protectobots hadn’t been on the shuttle after all.
Ratchet shook his head quickly. “No, ‘Bolt, no…I can’t explain why Aid…he was dying, but he…somehow…” Ratchet shook his head again, unable to find words to explain. Silverbolt nodded, the optic fluid spilling over again, and Ratchet put his arm around the tall jet, pulling him close. Silverbolt fell into him with a broken sound of grief. Slingshot huddled against them both, ducking his head under Ratchet’s arm as he hadn’t done since he was a sparkling, silent and miserable.
They wept together for awhile, then finally calmed, all turning to watch Wheeljack and First Aid. Wheeljack was quiet now too, huddled in First Aid’s lap as if he were the sparkling. Silverbolt rose unsteadily and went over to them.
“Aid…” Silverbolt reached an unsteady hand out, but stopped short as if afraid to touch him. First Aid sighed and brushed his own hand briefly against Silverbolt’s.
“What did you do to your leg?” he asked.
“Aid…”
“Are the rest all right? How deep does that scorching go on Slingshot?”
“I’m fine, he’s fine. Skydive’s not, but he’s going to be…”
“Skydive?” First Aid’s gaze sharpened. “What happened to Skydive?”
“AID!” Silverbolt shouted, “STOP WORRYING ABOUT US, FOR PRIMUS’ SAKE!” His voice crackled with static. Wheeljack looked up at him in shock. First Aid bowed his head, and Sliverbolt dropped down to his knees, horrified at himself.
“Oh Primus, Aid, I’m so sorry I’m so sorry,” he babbled, weeping again. Slingshot was next to him, trembling with the force of both their emotions. “Just tell me what to do, what I should say, I just don’t know…I don’t know anything anymore…”
Aid was by his side, comforting him, him, murmuring soothing nonsense, somehow wrapping arms around all three while they wept. It was all backwards.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to do anything.” First Aid pressed his helm to Silverbolt’s for a moment (the gesture that Silverbolt had seen him do a hundred times, First Aid pressing his helm close to Hot Spot’s, and Silverbolt was wrenched with another deep sob at the thought), and then pulled gently away. Without a word he began tending the scorched area on Slingshot, carefully wiping off the blackened soot with a cleansing cloth he pulled from somewhere, and then coating the most damaged areas with circuit gel.
“Not deep, I don’t think it reached most of the circuitry,” First Aid said softly. He then started on Silverbolt’s leg, Ratchet silently handing him supplies, while they all just sat there, watching him in an exhausted daze, emotions run to the ground for the moment.
“Skydive?” First Aid asked hesitantly, while he worked, with a quick glance at Silverbolt’s face. He ducked his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I really want to know.”
Silverbolt sighed, resting a hand on First Aid’s helm for a moment. “No, I’m sorry. It’s ok. Skydive…”
“He tried to fly past his altitude specifications and overheated badly, but he’ll be all right.” Wheeljack answered for him, more familiar with the medical details, his voice hoarse but steady as he filled First Aid in on Skydive’s condition. First Aid nodded, continuing his repairs on Silverbolt’s leg.
“I’m so sorry, we failed-” Silverbolt started, voice cracking again, but First Aid interrupted, placing a hand on Silverbolt’s chestplates.
“No. Don’t you apologize. Not for nearly dying trying to save us. Don’t you dare.” He stared seriously into Silverbolt’s optics until the jet nodded faintly. “Good,” he said, removing his hand, sounding satisfied, and so much like himself, stubborn and caring and giving orders like he sometimes did, taking over without so much as a by-your-leave when he knew what was best, that Silverbolt almost smiled.
Ratchet cleared his vocalizer. “Aid, what…just tell us what you need. Is there anything we can do?”
First Aid was silent for awhile, staring at his hands. “I don’t know myself,” he murmured sadly, at last. “I just know, somehow, I’m not supposed to go. Not yet. They said to wait.”
Slingshot and Silverbolt exchanged glances at that one.
“I don’t know how…I don’t know if I can...” First Aid continued. He twined his fingers together. They were trembling just perceptibly, and First Aid clasped his hands tightly to still it, tight enough that Ratchet knew from experience it was probably shooting bolts of pain up his arms. No, calm as he seemed, First Aid was not ok. “I think I just need to be…alone…for awhile.”
Alone. The word hung heavily in the air. First Aid had never been alone before, not really. Alone to deactivate? It would be like him, to hide away somewhere, spare them what grief he could.
“Aid…” Ratchet said slowly.
First Aid looked up at him, meeting his optics with that steady, weary gaze. “You still need me here?”
“Yes.” Ratchet somehow kept himself from breaking as he said it. “Primus, Aid, yes, I need you. We need you here, if there’s a way, if you can bear it, yes.”
Silverbolt and Slingshot looked hesitant, less certain, knowing better than anyone the cost, the choice they would have made, but they nodded. //That’s what they asked, if he really heard them, what they wanted// was their shared thought.
“Stay,” Slingshot said hoarsely, the first time he had spoken, “if you can.” Wheeljack gave a wordless sob and pressed his helm against Aid’s shoulder. First Aid leaned back a little, nudging Wheeljack comfortingly as was his way.
“Well then.” First Aid drew a deep cycle of air through his intakes, a controlled sigh, his hands still gripping themselves as if holding on to life itself. He nodded once, slowly, determined. “I’ll see what I can do.” His visor tilted towards Silverbolt. “Silverbolt, may I ask a favor? Will you take me to a high place, please?” he asked.
Wheeljack and Ratchet looked puzzled, concerned, but Silverbolt nodded. “I know a place. It should be safe enough, even now. I’ll take you wherever you want to go, always and forever, Aid, no questions asked.”
First Aid’s visor flickered a few times at that. He looked up at Ratchet’s worried frown. “Don’t worry,” he said, and Ratchet could feel his spark pulse painfully at the smile that flickered across First Aid’s face. Faint, weary, more a slight crinkling of the plating around his optics than a lifting of the mouth, but a smile nonetheless it was. “I’m not planning to jump.”
First Aid brushed his cheek against Wheeljack’s helm, then stood, moving slowly as if he had weights attached to every limb, or deep shock, Ratchet thought grimly to himself. First Aid checked the monitors on the yellow warrior one last time, standing and looking at the peaceful, glorious face. Just before Ratchet decided First Aid was going to drop over or recharge there standing on his feet, he turned and made his way to Silverbolt (not steady on his feet, and it was all Ratchet could do to keep from grabbing him and sedating him on a berth for the next vorn) and held up his arms. Silverbolt hoisted First Aid up to his chest, cradling him close, and, with Slingshot close on his heels in the way that only gestalts could manage, carried him from the medbay.
They were gone a long time. Wheeljack helped Ratchet clean up the mess he’d made of the medbay entrance, and treat the trickle of minor injuries that came in from Jazz’s team, while Ratchet updated Jazz. Ratchet and Wheeljack ended up sitting on the floor together, leaning on one another in exhaustion.
“Rest,” Ratchet said, hearing the hum and stutter of Wheeljack’s systems.
“No,” Wheeljack answered. “Not until….” he trailed off. “You rest, Ratchet. I’ll keep watch.”
“No.”
“Okay then.” They left it there, both unable to summon the strength to argue.
They stayed that way, too tired to think anymore, too tired to either hope or fear or even grieve for their lost ones, until Silverbolt’s comm that they were on their way back (the Aerialbots, their other creations, Ratchet thought, vowing to hug them all fiercely as soon as he got the chance and to Pit with whatever it did to his reputation) returning roused them from their stupor. The approaching sound was of a single large engine rather than five jets. They exchanged glances, and then, bracing one another, managed to stagger up and out the medbay entrance to meet Superion, cradling the limp form of First Aid close. The combiner separated into his components, Fireflight and Air Raid supporting Skydive, Slingshot close behind Silverbolt, who was still holding First Aid. His face was set and grim, ravaged by grief, but it changed at Ratchet’s expression of dread, Wheeljack’s low moan of despair.
“No, no, it’s ok,” Silverbolt said quickly. “He’s only recharging.”
Silverbolt gently laid his burden on one of the empty berths, his brothers close behind him. Ratchet checked his systems with all of them, including Wheeljack, hovering near. First Aid was indeed recharging, so deeply he was only a few steps away from complete stasis. His systems were…stable, for the most part. Strained to the breaking point, all of them, and his spark still kept that painful, erratic rhythm, but it beat strong in its unsteady tempo, and that gave Ratchet hope.
Everyone was watching Ratchet’s face anxiously, though Skydive looked so exhausted he had to be online by sheer force of will.
“He’s holding his own,” he told them, and everyone relaxed a little. “You,” he added, pointing at Skydive. “Berth, now. Actually, that goes for all of you. You too, Wheeljack.” No one argued, for once. Ratchet reconfigured several berths together and everyone gestalt-piled in, including Wheeljack, and, after some consideration, Ratchet added First Aid to the weary tangle of wings and limbs, where he was completely engulfed. He’d be harder to monitor, but Ratchet couldn’t bear to see him alone on that berth any longer.
Ratchet stayed near until he was sure everyone was in recharge, and then made his rounds, running on whatever fumes had sustained him thus far. The twin warriors were both doing better, the readings slightly stronger than the last time he checked. Ratchet had moved them close to one another, and it was undeniably clear, the way their sparks pulsed together. He wondered now how he had missed the signs, despite the frame-age disparity, but he’d been perhaps not at his best. Another time and he would have been fascinated, now he only felt a sort of dim regret, that he lacked the motivation or energy to study them more, while they were there and offline. He had a feeling, by the scars and signs of less-than-optimal medical care on both their frames, that they would be unlikely to volunteer as research subjects.
“Ratchet.” Someone was speaking to him, touching his elbow. Ratchet came to himself with a start, realizing he had nearly fallen into recharge on his feet. He turned to see Optimus Prime’s concerned face.
“When did you get here?” he asked. It felt like a heroic effort to get the words out, in order. The right order, making sense.
“As soon as I could. You’re the last ones left, but none of you are in any sort of condition to go anywhere. Lie down.” Optimus guided him to a berth, Ratchet unresisting, though he craned his head a little at the Aerialbot pile, wanting to check, just one more time…Optimus’s face was sad, he must have heard then….
He was lying down. When did that happen? He focused on Prime with an effort, and frowned at the dimness of his optics, the faint ragged edge of his systems, all-too-familiar symptoms.
“Prime, you were sick, too?” Ratchet tried to sit up, but Optimus prevented him easily with a hand to his chestplates.
“I’m better now. I’ll watch over them. Perceptor has the medbay, Ironhide’s standing guard. Rest, Ratchet.”
Recharge swallowed him whole.
In case of excessive feels, plz read the following:
Reunion Part 1
Reunion Part 2
Reunion Part 3
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