Taken - Chapter 3
A/N Please read warnings! Snuggles contained within chapter, but extra hugs also available for anyone that needs them.
Title: Taken 3/4 (Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4)
Characters: First Aid, Streetwise, Wheeljack, Ratchet
Rating: M for mature themes
Word Count: 6222
Summary: The Protectobots try to cope in their own way. Things get both worse and better.
Warnings: More heavy angst, possible triggery material - strongly implied, non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, one brief consensual sex scene of the plug-n-play variety.
They were all awake, still curled around each other when Hot Spot stepped into the common room. First Aid held Groove against his shoulder as Groove cried softly. His face bore a worried frown as one hand gently rubbed his brother’s back, and he was humming a quiet melody, the sweet notes more felt than heard. Hot Spot sat next to Streetwise and wrapped an arm around him, while he used his leg to nudge Blades into a more comfortable position to lean against.
Groove wept himself into silence at last. First Aid looked up at Hot Spot, optics behind the visor alert and measuring.
“Where were you?”
Hot Spot gave a slight shrug in response. He raised his hand to rub at his helm, and Aid leaned forward to grab it, with a small sound of dismay over the dents and scratches.
“Other one,” First Aid ordered, with an imperious beckoning gesture of his free hand. Hot Spot obediently gave over his other hand with a faint smile at First Aid’s commanding tone. A gentle tyrant indeed, at least when it came to matters where he knew best. First Aid closely inspected both hands and then looked up at Hot Spot with a soft exasperated sigh. You see? His expression said it, clearly. This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.
“You need to go see Ratchet,” Hot Spot reminded him, and First Aid nodded, pushing air through his intakes in a reluctant whoosh of breath. Ratchet was not going to be happy with him at all. First Aid looked at his teammates and they looked back at him, expressions sad, weary, dazed with knowledge and weeping.
“Are the Aerialbots still camped outside the door?” he asked Hot Spot.
Hot Spot nodded. “We still need to move that bridge.” They all perked up a little at that, and First Aid smiled slightly.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a sparring match.”
“What?” Hot Spot laughed a little incredulously. “With Superion?” First Aid nodded, and Hot Spot leaned over to knuckle him on the helm gently. “It has been awhile, hasn’t it. Are you sure you’re up to it?” While Hot Spot could usually out-wrestle any of the Aerialbots on an individual basis, Superion was a different matter entirely. Defensor usually lost their infrequent sparring matches, unless Superion was distracted or not fighting up to full capacity for some reason. Like being worried about his friend. Hmm. Unfair advantage perhaps, but…Hot Spot wasn’t feeling fair. He was feeling strange and rebellious and slightly wild to be honest. The others were picking up on it as well, sitting up straighter, shaking off their dazed weariness.
“Let me avoid Ratchet a little longer, ok?” At Hot Spot’s frown, First Aid added, “I altered medical readouts, Spot. This might be my last chance at freedom for a long time once he gets hold of me.” First Aid was thinking the closeness that was Defensor would be good for them, and he meant it as a sort of apology, as well, for their earlier unsucessful merge. Hot Spot could sense it easily through the bond, now that First Aid was no longer blocking him out.
//Do you think Ratchet will throw a wrench?// Streetwise sent, the thought more hopeful than apprehensive.
Blades snorted, rotors twitching. "Air Raid was just pulling your leg components, bolthead. Ratchet doesn't really do that." Streetwise subsided into hurt stillness, and Blades reached over and tugged him over in apology.
//Sorry. I just...I need to do something//
Hot Spot looked at First Aid’s hopeful optics, very wide and blue behind his visor, weighing their growing restlessness against the pain First Aid had been hiding since he'd been returned to them. Not that bad, he insisted. He was fine. “Primus help me if you ever ask for something I can’t give you,” he said, only half-joking, and the rest of the Protectobots climbed to their feet and gathered at the door, optics glowing eagerly.
Silverbolt? Hot Spot commed.
Yeah, Hot Spot! came the answer immediately. I’m here. What’s up?
Race you to the practice field.
Huh? was all Silverbolt managed, before a stampede of Protectobots exited their quarters and ran down the corridor with a chorus of whoops and shouts. The Aerialbots stared at one another until Blades turned and jogged partway back.
“C’mon! Idiots. You’re all so dense I’m surprised-”
Slingshot surged to his feet with a roar and Blades yelped in glee as the rest of the Aerialbots chased him down the corridor after his brothers.
oooooOOOOOooooo
“You just can’t catch a break, can you, kiddo.”
That was Ratchet’s voice, only it was wrong somehow. It seemed far away, but too loud at the same time, and it was sad and gentle and not at all how Ratchet talked, especially if he was mad at you. He was pretty sure Ratchet was supposed to be mad, though he couldn't quite remember the reason. First Aid wondered for a moment if he was dying, to make Ratchet sound like that (and it was Wheeljack that called him ‘kiddo,’ wasn't it? Maybe he had them mixed up...), but he didn’t think so. Ratchet would have told him if he was. His head ached and he felt so hot and nothing would stay still. First Aid curled up on his side as the berth seemed to shift underneath him and his throat cables protested at the movement. The soreness made him remember. He’d purged everything in his tanks for what felt like orns, that was why his throat hurt. Why was he shivering if he was hot?
Virus. Ratchet had explained it to him before. Before it got this bad. When he could still think. First Aid pressed his helm against the berth, trying to get it to stop moving, trying to remember. He knew about viruses. Not a lot yet, his specialty was emergency field repair, but he had studied them, knew enough to protect himself and his patients from infection, but this one…from the Decepticon. Motormaster. Not transmitted through casual contact, but when…his processor turned away sharply from that avenue of thought. It had gotten through his firewalls. Dormant. Motormaster had already had it but had never gotten it cleared from his systems. Not transmitted…his brothers! Were they infected too? First Aid struggled in a panic, nearly falling off the berth.
“Whoa, shhh, Aid, calm down. Lie back down.” Wheeljack’s face bobbed and swung in front of him as he hung on to Wheeljack’s arms. They were moving. Why was everything moving? He wished it would stop.
“Did I make them sick? Wheeljack, did I…” he sobbed, and the ache in his processor stabbed at him and his throat cables burned.
“No, shhh, no, Aid, they’re fine. Remember? Ratchet gave them an antiviral just in case, but their scans all came up clean. They’re all right outside; we can let them in just as soon as we’re sure they’re not going to get too much feedback. How is your tank doing?”
First Aid clenched his jaw against a moan as everything went unbearably hot for a moment, and then he shivered deeply. “Tank’s better,” he said, when he could talk again.
“Everything else worse though, huh kiddo?” Wheeljack asked sympathetically, and First Aid nodded minutely.
“It’s not going to be fun, but it won’t last long.” Ratchet’s face drifted into view. First Aid shuttered his optics as it seemed to slide past at a dizzying pace. “This is the worst part, just hang in there a few more joors and you’ll start feeling better.”
Wheeljack was stroking his helm only it wasn’t comforting. First Aid squirmed as his hand only irritated oversensitive pressure sensors. Wheeljack seemed to realize this and held his hand still instead. That was better. First Aid relaxed a little. As long as it didn’t move. Good to know. If he ever had to treat a patient with a virus. No patting but steady pressure wasn’t so bad, and put something on the berth so it would stop moving. He’d have to remember that. He wanted to ask Ratchet more, about the virus, and the antivirus that killed them (he didn’t like that, the idea of killing them, even if they were just viruses) and where did viruses come from in the first place anyway, but Ratchet was asking him if he could open his right lateral data port panel. Oh.
He didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to, but he did, and lay quietly while Ratchet did something that numbed the sore place, the core deep burning that had been there since….First Aid risked unshuttering his optics a little to see Wheeljack looking off somewhere, mask off, faceplates grim and angry. Everyone was upset and angry now. It wasn’t supposed to be his fault; Hot Spot said so, and so did Blades and Streetwise and Groove, but it still was. He made a small questioning noise, and Wheeljack looked down, expression changing quickly to a not-very-convincing reassuring smile.
Everything started sliding again, so First Aid shuttered his optics and tried politely asking everything to please hold still. It seemed to help. At least the berth was only bobbing gently now instead of flip flops. Thank you, he told it, patting it blindly with one hand. Thank you for holding still. He was probably delirious, talking to the berth, but it never hurt to be polite. He heard a small click as Ratchet closed his panel, although he couldn’t feel anything there now.
“Better?” Ratchet asked softly in his not-Ratchet voice, and he nodded, and then his tank gave a small heave, and then another, and it kept getting worse until he was retching helplessly over the side of the berth and it wouldn’t stop and he was sobbing and retching so hard and it hurt and there was nothing left to bring up, and he heard Wheeljack and Ratchet murmuring, worried, someone holding him and a prick of needle in his arm and then he was falling down and down and down but it was ok. His tank gave a last twitch and relaxed and he let go of all of it, everything, and just fell…falling…
First Aid did not know he was still weeping, as Wheeljack gathered him up and the drugs tumbled him relentlessly into stasis.
oooooOOOOOooooo
He blinked at the edge of the berth as it slowly came into focus. It was hazy sort of, that edge, but it wasn’t moving, not at all. How nice. He lay there for a moment, just enjoying the stillness. There was aching, and hot, but it was far away, nothing to concern him, not at the moment. There was a faint beep and First Aid quickly, automatically reached over and deactivated the monitor that would alert Ratchet or Wheeljack that he was awake. They were tired, they needed rest. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he knew; something his processor had registered the weariness in their voices while he had been offline. It was a pretty safe bet anyway. Neither of them ever got enough rest.
His brothers had been there too. He remembered their voices and worried thoughts, but he seemed to be alone except for Wheeljack recharging on one of the empty berths. Otherwise the medbay was empty, silent, although the door to Ratchet’s office was open and Ratchet was no doubt not far away. First Aid didn’t feel alone though. A faint warm pulling from…somewhere…made him scoot over to the edge of the berth, lean his helm over to find them, all four of them, piled up against his berth on the floor, recharging soundly. He watched them for awhile, content not to think, just to be, the complaining of his frame a distant thing. After awhile he disconnected the sensors and the energon drip that was attached to him with practiced fingers, then rolled over slowly on his ventral plates, sliding his legs carefully over the edge of the berth and letting gravity pull him down a little bit at a time. Good berth for staying so still under him. It was a very long way down; he didn’t remember berths being so tall, but finally his feet touched floor. His knees buckled abruptly when he let go of the side of the berth and he found himself on hands and knees blinking as he forgot to yell. Ouch. But he was where he planned to go, so that was ok.
“Hey,” First Aid felt strong familiar hands lift him easily, like he was made of aluminum, and he hummed happily as he was engulfed by the pile of his brothers. They shifted, crowding close until each one was comfortably squashed amongst the others.
“You’re still so warm,” Hot Spot muttered, turning up his fans.
“Mmm. You feel cool. Cool Spot,” First Aid said, and they all giggled a little, even though it was not really that funny, First Aid thought. It just felt nice, they agreed silently. Nice to laugh together. They hadn’t done that for a long while.
“Hands?” he asked after a bit, and Hot Spot extracted his arms from where they were wrapped around Streetwise’s leg and Blades’ shoulder so First Aid could check the healing scratches and dents.
“M’kay,” he said muzzily, squirming in closer, still holding Hot Spot’s hands, which he tucked up against his chest for safekeeping. He drifted, recharge pulling at him, but there was no falling this time because his gestaltmates were all around on every side, and up and down, and he was happy…happy…
oooooOOOOOooooo
Ratchet nearly had a spark attack when he saw the empty berth in his medbay. First Aid was missing, kidnapped, staggered out into the base somewhere in delirium…logically he knew no such thing had happened, but that didn’t stop the cold wave of panic.
He was about to kick Wheeljack awake and ask where the frag his patient had gotten to, and why the Pit hadn’t the remote alerts gone off, when he saw them all, nestled half under First Aid’s empty berth like a litter of turbofox pups in a den. First Aid was barely visible, just the side of his face, a bit of elbow and arm, peeking out from behind Hot Spot and a little under Groove, but when Ratchet ran his scanners over what parts of him were available, everything seemed to be in order. Temperature still a little high, spark rate steady and stronger, energon pressure…low…Ratchet frowned. It would have been higher if someone hadn’t detached himself from the energon drip, but it wasn’t dangerously low, not yet. He checked the energy levels of the other four for good measure…also low. He’d have to wake them soon to take some energon or they’d all be going into stasis, but they looked so peaceful. The one visible corner of First Aid’s mouth was pressed upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.
He creaked and groaned a little, getting back to his feet. He would never understand the Protectobots’ predilection for ending up on the floor, no matter how many perfectly good berths and chairs were available. Maybe they'd feel differently when they had a few thousand vorns on their chronometers and their joints and servos started to stiffen up, though he knew they all had residual stiffness already, from the pulse cannon blast that had nearly deactivated them a vorn ago. Especially First Aid, although it was rare for him to show it. Just like he hadn't shown any sign of his injuries when Ratchet had checked him out after he was rescued, despite the circuits to the damaged port being scorched to the core. And tampering with the readouts...Ratchet supposed he should be upset with his apprentice, but more than anything it spoke to him of the state First Aid had been in. He was more upset with himself, for not catching on sooner.
He should have suspected…but none of them had even considered…First Aid was a sparkling for Primus' sake, barely past his second vorn. Young as they were, the Protectobots had performed beyond all expectations in their roles with the Autobots, roles they'd demanded and fought for despite any attempts to shelter them, but Ratchet could see how new they were sometimes. Other mechs recognized it as well, and between that and their primarily search-and-rescue function it provided them with some level of protection on the battlefield. Not completely, they were still fair game, but even Decepticons had lines they wouldn’t cross. Or so he thought. The immature state of First Aid’s circuits would have been unmistakable the moment that…’Con…that Pit-spawned malfunction-Ratchet didn’t even want to think his name-had attempted to establish a connection. It was…it was unthinkable. Which was why Ratchet had never thought of it. None of them had.
He didn’t know what to do. He could treat First Aid’s physical injuries; the damage, thankfully, was not permanent, but the mental…it wouldn’t be the first time he and Smokescreen had treated a survivor of forced interface, but never a sparkling. It just…it just didn’t happen. There was nothing in the published literature, no guidelines to go by. That…slagger, Motormaster, needed to be put down, like a glitched-out turbofox. Despite popular opinion, Ratchet was not a murderous being, as a rule, but even medics had their limits past which they were willing to shed a little energon. Except First Aid, maybe, who operated under his own unique system of programming. He'd only seemed bewildered, a little. Blaming himself, Ratchet knew, from his confused ramblings during the worst of his illness, but no anger, none at all. Then there were his teammates. What happened to one of them, happened to them all. Five of them. Sparklings. Raped. Ratchet’s hand twinged in protest and he realized he was crushing his scanner. He took a deep intake and forced his hand to relax, shaking it painfully.
Primus, he needed some high grade. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten well and thoroughly over-charged. Ratchet sighed and pulled up a chair, sent off an update to Prowl and Optimus about First Aid’s status, received their quick, relieved replies and assurances that the Protectobots could be spared from active duty for as long as needed.
They couldn’t, really. Spare them forever. Ratchet knew that, down in his spark, no matter how badly he wanted things to be different. And maybe getting back to work would be the best thing; Primus knew the Protectobots thrived on it, on being needed. As they had learned from the Aerialbots, gestalts were their own best therapy, most of the time. Gestalts, so vulnerable in the way that damages, trauma to one affected the others so deeply, but at the same time Ratchet had seen the tradeoff, how strong they were together, as both teams had proven before. Both physically and mentally, their support for one another allowing them to weather ordeals that would leave most mechs dead or glitching in a corner somewhere. He could only hope it would hold true now.
oooooOOOOOooooo
Streetwise stirred in the cozy huddle of his brothers and brushed his mind over them all, one-two-three-four. Everyone present, all secure. He felt the muted murmur and hum of their thoughts, emotions in recharge, and he sought out First Aid, lingered there a little in that familiar quiet. Content, mostly. Deep contentment and joy even, treasuring their presence and closeness and Streetwise basked in that joy like a bright warm embrace. Distant, unacknowledged pain, that was there too, but at least he wasn’t hiding from them anymore and that was good.
Streetwise hadn't been as unprepared as the others for what had happened to First Aid. Not by much, but at least it wasn't his first encounter with interfacing. He knew nearly everything that happened on the base; that was just what he did. He found out things, whether he was supposed to know them or not. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like he was sneaking around trying to find out…it was just…he saw things, little clues, the way someone said something, and item missing or new or moved, and he couldn’t help it if his auditory sensors kept picking up conversations, right through walls sometimes. And then all of the little clues and threads would weave themselves together and he would know things. It worried Hot Spot, that Streetwise kept figuring things out that really should be classified, things that were none of their business.
He had watched a pair of mechs once, curious. They hadn’t known he was there, sitting in his favorite perch in what had once been a library with a datapad on ancient Cybertronian glyphs. No one ever came in there. It was a leftover part of the base, from when it was a school and not a military operation, which was probably why the two mechs thought they would be alone. It had been very strange, but not a bad thing, and after they left Streetwise had shaken his head and gone back to his datapad, and mostly forgotten about it.
First Aid had known about interfacing too, but it had only been words, words and diagrams, from his medical texts. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, Silverbolt had told Hot Spot. Not that awful empty-devouring look in Motormaster’s optics, smell of scorched metal and rancid oil, terrible crushing grip and…First Aid not understanding at first, and then his silent soul-sick endurance (I could have stopped him. I know how, I should have fought. Guilt and shame, and his brothers’ vehement protest, no, he would have killed you, it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t, not your fault, over and over, until you believe it).
He felt First Aid and the others waking, and Streetwise quickly tamped down his thoughts. First Aid was still fuzzy, still aching a little with strut-deep weariness and not wanting to move, but his content and happiness stayed with him upon waking and warmed through them all, and they wrapped him in their gladness that he was with them, that he was getting better, that he was theirs and they were his.
//I thought we were Hot Spot’s// came First Aid’s slightly wandering thought.
//You are// Hot Spot answered, amused //but I’ll share//
Streetwise felt First Aid brushing curiously at his mind, the memory there, the one he had been…not hiding, precisely, but not drawing attention to it, not sure if they wanted to think about it. Even thinking the word made First Aid go still, like a glitch mouse hoping not to be seen, although he was trying not to, he was trying to look at it without seeing that other one and what he had done, but it was hard, and Streetwise wasn’t sure if the memory would help or make him go still and hiding again.
//Silverbolt said it wasn’t supposed to be like that// Hot Spot offered, encouraging but not pushing, leaving it up to First Aid to decide. Groove was a wordless reluctance, Blades wavering. First Aid nudged Streetwise a little, tired but determined.
//I won’t let him make us afraid. Show us//
Streetwise bumped Groove, reassuring, and they all burrowed a little closer into the bond, bracing one another as they looked into the memory of what Streetwise had seen, the two mechs rubbing, moaning, clutching at one another as they plugged themselves together. It didn’t look like fun, exactly.
//It looks like it hurts them// was First Aid’s thought, apprehensive, and they could all feel the phantom memory-of-pain for a moment until First Aid determinedly stomped it down, growling at it a little.
//It’s not hurting them. They like it, just watch// Streetwise reassured them. Once First Aid’s mind stopped trying to crawl away, (and Blades stopped giggling, a little hysterically. But still, First Aid, growling!) they all turned back to the memory, watching as the two…(lovers? //Lovers// agreed Streetwise) groaned in satisfaction when they were done, and murmured and stroked each other softly. Strange, they all agreed. Not a bad thing, but strange. First Aid even leaned into the memory a little closer, intrigued by the tender way the first mech brushed a finger over the other’s lip components. Nice. That looked nice. (Hot Spot took a moment to examine the two mechs more closely, then sighed and added the information that the Autobot second in command was consorting with a mech sporting Decepticon insignias to the growing file of ‘things they really shouldn't know.’)
//I’d like to do that to Ratchet// Streetwise’s thought drifted to the surface, and the other four rounded on him in shock.
//Streetwise!//
//Just the lip part// he told them, and he felt their laughter ricochet through the bond. //Not all the other things, but…I’d like to touch his lips to make him smile like that// Ratchet smiled sometimes, but not like that, relaxed and peaceful.
First Aid thought it was funny, too, but they could feel his gladness as well, that Streetwise could think that. They were going to be ok, he was not going to let them be afraid of this, and they felt the pain and relief and sorrow rise in him again. First Aid tried to push it down but he was tired, so tired, and this time it would not be growled at. That didn’t stop him from trying, frustrated, weeping, until Hot Spot pulled him up a little higher in their pile and let him cry.
//We’ll be ok, you’ll be ok, but it doesn’t have to all be right now. It’s alright to be not ok for awhile// and First Aid sobbed silently into Hot Spot’s shoulder, not wanting to wake Wheeljack or worry Ratchet. Not very long. He soon quieted into exhausted silence.
//so tired, no more thinking?//
//no more thinking, just rest, rest// Hot Spot told him, and First Aid rubbed his visor and wriggled a little trying to get comfortable; the crying had made everything start to ache again. Streetwise could feel it through the bond. First Aid was tired, so tired, but his systems didn’t want to power down into recharge, and he just wanted to rest, just rest...
Ratchet was there, pulling First Aid gently out of the tangled pile of his brothers and setting him back on the berth. First Aid leaned his head against Ratchet’s chestplates gratefully as Ratchet reattached the energon transfusion line.
“You four, sit,” he ordered, looking down at the rest of the Protectobots. Streetwise obediently crept out from under First Aid’s berth with Groove and Blades and Hot Spot and they sat down on the neighboring one, watching worriedly.
“Can you swallow some of this?” Ratchet asked First Aid, sitting next to him on the berth so he could still lean against Ratchet and handing him a small cube of something. First Aid lifted the cube slowly, and managed to take a few sips, while Wheeljack returned with four cubes of regular energon and passed them out to the rest of the Protectobots. He rubbed Streetwise affectionately on the helm a few times after he gave him his energon, and Streetwise smiled and looked down at the swirling blue liquid with a sigh. He hadn’t realized how low he was on energy, but he really didn’t feel like refueling.
“Drink,” Ratchet ordered them. “All of it.” They all lifted their cubes meekly. First Aid’s visor dimmed, and he sighed and wilted slowly against Ratchet as he went into recharge. Ratchet rescued the cube before it could fall and then lowered First Aid onto the berth where he curled up on his side with another deep sigh. He turned to survey the other four who were slumped slightly together on the other berth as they took tiny sips of their energon.
“He’s doing just fine,” he told them, before they could ask. “He’s going to need a lot of rest for the next several orns, but the virus is deactivated and his systems are starting to recover.”
“Now, as for the rest of you,” he said, voice dropping ominously, “I thought I gave you instructions to get some energon and go to your quarters to recharge.” Streetwise perked up a little. They had never disobeyed Ratchet before. Hot Spot had even broken the rules and used First Aid's medical security codes to get them back through the medbay doors. Maybe they would see some of the fabled wrench-throwing? Ratchet was just so…magnificent. Blades was next to him and caught the thought, snickering softly and giving him an amused glance. So what? Streetwise was not embarrassed. He was magnificent. Blades thought so too; he just wouldn’t admit it.
“I apologize, Ratchet, for not following orders,” Hot Spot said evenly, “but we couldn’t leave him. And I’m afraid none of us have really been ourselves lately.” Ratchet nodded, not mentioning the door code, apparently letting it slide for now. Streetwise slumped a little in disappointment. He was never going to see any wrench-throwing if Hot Spot kept acting like that.
Ratchet was eyeing their barely touched cubes of energon dourly, and they all hastily pretended to drink more, but Streetwise didn’t think Ratchet was fooled.
“All right. I’m keeping you lot here for observation for the next couple of joors. Everyone find a berth and get comfortable. And anyone who doesn’t finish his cube is getting an energon drip, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Streetwise ended up on the end berth next to Blades, with Wheeljack hooking up an energon line to his arm.
“Why so mournful, Streets?” Wheeljack asked him.
“We’re all spread apart,” Streetwise answered. He didn’t see the point, all of the separate berths. He couldn’t reach Blades’ hand from his, even if they both stretched their arms out.
“I know, but Ratchet wants to keep track of all of your individual readings, and it’s easier if you’re not all tangled together. It’s just for a little while, think you can manage?”
Streetwise nodded, looking longingly over at Blades, but Blades was already recharging. Hot Spot was over on the other side of First Aid and Ratchet was talking to him, Hot Spot nodding seriously and attempting to sit up every now and then. Ratchet would give him a look each time, and Hot Spot would subside momentarily. The trick with getting Hot Spot to recharge was to get him to hold still long enough, and the best way to do that, in Streetwise’s opinion, was by piling on top of him until he couldn’t move. Wheeljack used to sing to get Hot Spot to recharge when they had been first constructed, on the little nameless planet where they had been built. Streetwise didn’t want to go back exactly; they were where they needed to be, but he missed having Wheeljack sing them to recharge.
Hot Spot would never shut down if he thought Streetwise was upset, so Streetwise tried to make his mind small and calm and maybe Hot Spot wouldn’t notice. Streetwise understood about the monitors and things, but still…putting them on all of these berths just seemed like a big waste of space. If they were together on one then Ratchet wouldn’t have to walk all over the place to check on them. They could fit, if they smushed on top of Hot Spot just so.
He curled up tightly on the berth, and tried to distract himself by going over Wheeljack’s design for a force field for Defensor. He’d asked for everyone’s input on it, just before First Aid had been taken. If it worked it would give them a breem or so of protection from close range blasts like the one that had taken them out in their first battle. Streetwise tried to concentrate on energy ratios and shield theory, but…it wasn’t working. He didn’t know what was wrong with him-it wasn’t like he never recharged apart from his brothers. Sometimes missions took them apart, but usually they were too busy to think too much about it. And they were all here, all in the same room. There was absolutely no reason why he should feel so lost or alone, or why he wanted to cry. He wasn’t going to cry though. He wasn’t. Slag. He was crying. Streetwise pushed his face against the padding of the berth, hoping to muffle the sound.
“Street…” Wheeljack was rubbing his back. “Hey, Streetwise, what’s wrong?” Streetwise didn’t know what was wrong, so he just curled up tighter, choking a little with his effort to stop crying. He was still a sparkling, but that didn't mean he had to act like one for Primus’ sake. Wheeljack wiggled a hand in and levered him up, and he gave it up as a lost cause, uncurling with a little sob-whimper.
“Does something hurt?”
Streetwise shook his head. No, nothing hurt. Nothing he could tell Wheeljack about anyway, to give Wheeljack something he could find and fix.
“Why are you crying then, kiddo?” Wheeljack asked, vocal indicators flashing in concern, brow furrowing as Streetwise remained silent. "You can talk to me, tell me anything, anytime. You know that, right?" Wheeljack told him, optics steady and kind. Streetwise felt a rush of affection for the engineer. Wheeljack was so busy, but he always made time if they needed him, always answered Streetwise’s questions, no matter how many he had.
“Air Raid said Ratchet can nail a mech in the helm at thirty paces with his wrench, but I think he was making it up. I’ve never seen him throw anything at all,” he said sorrowfully. Which wasn’t what was wrong at all, or it was, but only the tiniest part. Usually he was better at explaining. The others relied on him sometimes if there was something complicated, with layers and sides, and little parts to explain. Not now though. There were too many things to say, too many things he hadn’t figured out, too many things that had been wrong and were still wrong even though they were getting better, and he couldn’t say them all at once and so he said none.
Wheeljack’s vocal indicators flashed brightly again, and he laughed and started, “You were crying because you want Ratchet…”
“You want Ratchet to what?” interrupted Ratchet, coming around Wheeljack to make sure the energon drip line attachment was secure and feeling for Streetwise’s spark pulse with brusque but gentle fingers. Streetwise stared at him mutely and Ratchet frowned. His face was very close and Streetwise thought about what he’d told the others. It sounded nice in theory, but he didn’t think Ratchet would understand if he touched him on the lips and gazed lovingly into his optics right now, like that other mech had done to Prowl. He’d probably just check his core temperature and give him a processor scan, Streetwise thought mournfully.
“Does anything hurt?” he asked, like Wheeljack had, and Streetwise shook his head, trying again not to cry. No. Nothing hurt. Everything hurt. Ratchet drank too much high grade sometimes, Streetwise knew. First Aid never said anything about it, but he worried, and the worry leaked through into their bond.
Ratchet sighed, looking at him. “Gestalts,” he muttered, then detached the energon drip line from his arm. “Come on,” Ratchet grumbled, pulling Streetwise off the berth and nudging him over to Blades’ with a light push on his back. Wheeljack winked one optic at him and helped him climb up next to Blades and snuggle in close, rearranging his rotors a little so they didn’t poke him in the side.
“Mmph,” Blades blinked at him blearily and tugged him up a bit higher, so Streetwise was draped across his chestplates. Streetwise mumbled something in return and felt every servo and circuit relax, all the way down to his struts. Better. Much, much better. Blades, only half awake, wrapped him in his strong fierce mind and sleepily revved his engine, threatening the world in general, at whatever dared to make Streetwise upset.
“There you go,” Ratchet said as he set up another energon drip and attached it to his arm. Streetwise didn’t even feel a twinge. “Imp,” he growled affectionately, close to his audio. “Now recharge.”
“You’re a good medic, Ratchet,” Streetwise murmured into Blade’s chest.
Ratchet chuckled. “Well thank you. And just how many medics have you met youngling?”
“No, you are…you are…” Recharge was pulling at him, and Streetwise wasn’t sure if he was still talking out loud or just thinking. Sometimes it was hard to remember Wheeljack and Ratchet weren’t part of their gestalt, couldn’t feel them, they had to use words.
“Wheeljack?” he spoke or thought. “I miss when you sang for us.” Wheeljack was saying something, questioning, and he tried to repeat what he said but this time Streetwise was pretty sure he wasn’t actually talking. He dimly felt the berth shift a little as Wheeljack sat down and his hand on Streetwise’s back, and then he thought he smiled or he thought of smiling and peace trickled through him like warm energon as Wheeljack softly began one of the rolling work songs of the bridge builder’s guild in his rough but tuneful voice and it followed him down into peace and sweet darkness and Blades warm beneath him.
Title: Taken 3/4 (Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4)
Characters: First Aid, Streetwise, Wheeljack, Ratchet
Rating: M for mature themes
Word Count: 6222
Summary: The Protectobots try to cope in their own way. Things get both worse and better.
Warnings: More heavy angst, possible triggery material - strongly implied, non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, one brief consensual sex scene of the plug-n-play variety.
They were all awake, still curled around each other when Hot Spot stepped into the common room. First Aid held Groove against his shoulder as Groove cried softly. His face bore a worried frown as one hand gently rubbed his brother’s back, and he was humming a quiet melody, the sweet notes more felt than heard. Hot Spot sat next to Streetwise and wrapped an arm around him, while he used his leg to nudge Blades into a more comfortable position to lean against.
Groove wept himself into silence at last. First Aid looked up at Hot Spot, optics behind the visor alert and measuring.
“Where were you?”
Hot Spot gave a slight shrug in response. He raised his hand to rub at his helm, and Aid leaned forward to grab it, with a small sound of dismay over the dents and scratches.
“Other one,” First Aid ordered, with an imperious beckoning gesture of his free hand. Hot Spot obediently gave over his other hand with a faint smile at First Aid’s commanding tone. A gentle tyrant indeed, at least when it came to matters where he knew best. First Aid closely inspected both hands and then looked up at Hot Spot with a soft exasperated sigh. You see? His expression said it, clearly. This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.
“You need to go see Ratchet,” Hot Spot reminded him, and First Aid nodded, pushing air through his intakes in a reluctant whoosh of breath. Ratchet was not going to be happy with him at all. First Aid looked at his teammates and they looked back at him, expressions sad, weary, dazed with knowledge and weeping.
“Are the Aerialbots still camped outside the door?” he asked Hot Spot.
Hot Spot nodded. “We still need to move that bridge.” They all perked up a little at that, and First Aid smiled slightly.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a sparring match.”
“What?” Hot Spot laughed a little incredulously. “With Superion?” First Aid nodded, and Hot Spot leaned over to knuckle him on the helm gently. “It has been awhile, hasn’t it. Are you sure you’re up to it?” While Hot Spot could usually out-wrestle any of the Aerialbots on an individual basis, Superion was a different matter entirely. Defensor usually lost their infrequent sparring matches, unless Superion was distracted or not fighting up to full capacity for some reason. Like being worried about his friend. Hmm. Unfair advantage perhaps, but…Hot Spot wasn’t feeling fair. He was feeling strange and rebellious and slightly wild to be honest. The others were picking up on it as well, sitting up straighter, shaking off their dazed weariness.
“Let me avoid Ratchet a little longer, ok?” At Hot Spot’s frown, First Aid added, “I altered medical readouts, Spot. This might be my last chance at freedom for a long time once he gets hold of me.” First Aid was thinking the closeness that was Defensor would be good for them, and he meant it as a sort of apology, as well, for their earlier unsucessful merge. Hot Spot could sense it easily through the bond, now that First Aid was no longer blocking him out.
//Do you think Ratchet will throw a wrench?// Streetwise sent, the thought more hopeful than apprehensive.
Blades snorted, rotors twitching. "Air Raid was just pulling your leg components, bolthead. Ratchet doesn't really do that." Streetwise subsided into hurt stillness, and Blades reached over and tugged him over in apology.
//Sorry. I just...I need to do something//
Hot Spot looked at First Aid’s hopeful optics, very wide and blue behind his visor, weighing their growing restlessness against the pain First Aid had been hiding since he'd been returned to them. Not that bad, he insisted. He was fine. “Primus help me if you ever ask for something I can’t give you,” he said, only half-joking, and the rest of the Protectobots climbed to their feet and gathered at the door, optics glowing eagerly.
Silverbolt? Hot Spot commed.
Yeah, Hot Spot! came the answer immediately. I’m here. What’s up?
Race you to the practice field.
Huh? was all Silverbolt managed, before a stampede of Protectobots exited their quarters and ran down the corridor with a chorus of whoops and shouts. The Aerialbots stared at one another until Blades turned and jogged partway back.
“C’mon! Idiots. You’re all so dense I’m surprised-”
Slingshot surged to his feet with a roar and Blades yelped in glee as the rest of the Aerialbots chased him down the corridor after his brothers.
oooooOOOOOooooo
“You just can’t catch a break, can you, kiddo.”
That was Ratchet’s voice, only it was wrong somehow. It seemed far away, but too loud at the same time, and it was sad and gentle and not at all how Ratchet talked, especially if he was mad at you. He was pretty sure Ratchet was supposed to be mad, though he couldn't quite remember the reason. First Aid wondered for a moment if he was dying, to make Ratchet sound like that (and it was Wheeljack that called him ‘kiddo,’ wasn't it? Maybe he had them mixed up...), but he didn’t think so. Ratchet would have told him if he was. His head ached and he felt so hot and nothing would stay still. First Aid curled up on his side as the berth seemed to shift underneath him and his throat cables protested at the movement. The soreness made him remember. He’d purged everything in his tanks for what felt like orns, that was why his throat hurt. Why was he shivering if he was hot?
Virus. Ratchet had explained it to him before. Before it got this bad. When he could still think. First Aid pressed his helm against the berth, trying to get it to stop moving, trying to remember. He knew about viruses. Not a lot yet, his specialty was emergency field repair, but he had studied them, knew enough to protect himself and his patients from infection, but this one…from the Decepticon. Motormaster. Not transmitted through casual contact, but when…his processor turned away sharply from that avenue of thought. It had gotten through his firewalls. Dormant. Motormaster had already had it but had never gotten it cleared from his systems. Not transmitted…his brothers! Were they infected too? First Aid struggled in a panic, nearly falling off the berth.
“Whoa, shhh, Aid, calm down. Lie back down.” Wheeljack’s face bobbed and swung in front of him as he hung on to Wheeljack’s arms. They were moving. Why was everything moving? He wished it would stop.
“Did I make them sick? Wheeljack, did I…” he sobbed, and the ache in his processor stabbed at him and his throat cables burned.
“No, shhh, no, Aid, they’re fine. Remember? Ratchet gave them an antiviral just in case, but their scans all came up clean. They’re all right outside; we can let them in just as soon as we’re sure they’re not going to get too much feedback. How is your tank doing?”
First Aid clenched his jaw against a moan as everything went unbearably hot for a moment, and then he shivered deeply. “Tank’s better,” he said, when he could talk again.
“Everything else worse though, huh kiddo?” Wheeljack asked sympathetically, and First Aid nodded minutely.
“It’s not going to be fun, but it won’t last long.” Ratchet’s face drifted into view. First Aid shuttered his optics as it seemed to slide past at a dizzying pace. “This is the worst part, just hang in there a few more joors and you’ll start feeling better.”
Wheeljack was stroking his helm only it wasn’t comforting. First Aid squirmed as his hand only irritated oversensitive pressure sensors. Wheeljack seemed to realize this and held his hand still instead. That was better. First Aid relaxed a little. As long as it didn’t move. Good to know. If he ever had to treat a patient with a virus. No patting but steady pressure wasn’t so bad, and put something on the berth so it would stop moving. He’d have to remember that. He wanted to ask Ratchet more, about the virus, and the antivirus that killed them (he didn’t like that, the idea of killing them, even if they were just viruses) and where did viruses come from in the first place anyway, but Ratchet was asking him if he could open his right lateral data port panel. Oh.
He didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to, but he did, and lay quietly while Ratchet did something that numbed the sore place, the core deep burning that had been there since….First Aid risked unshuttering his optics a little to see Wheeljack looking off somewhere, mask off, faceplates grim and angry. Everyone was upset and angry now. It wasn’t supposed to be his fault; Hot Spot said so, and so did Blades and Streetwise and Groove, but it still was. He made a small questioning noise, and Wheeljack looked down, expression changing quickly to a not-very-convincing reassuring smile.
Everything started sliding again, so First Aid shuttered his optics and tried politely asking everything to please hold still. It seemed to help. At least the berth was only bobbing gently now instead of flip flops. Thank you, he told it, patting it blindly with one hand. Thank you for holding still. He was probably delirious, talking to the berth, but it never hurt to be polite. He heard a small click as Ratchet closed his panel, although he couldn’t feel anything there now.
“Better?” Ratchet asked softly in his not-Ratchet voice, and he nodded, and then his tank gave a small heave, and then another, and it kept getting worse until he was retching helplessly over the side of the berth and it wouldn’t stop and he was sobbing and retching so hard and it hurt and there was nothing left to bring up, and he heard Wheeljack and Ratchet murmuring, worried, someone holding him and a prick of needle in his arm and then he was falling down and down and down but it was ok. His tank gave a last twitch and relaxed and he let go of all of it, everything, and just fell…falling…
First Aid did not know he was still weeping, as Wheeljack gathered him up and the drugs tumbled him relentlessly into stasis.
oooooOOOOOooooo
He blinked at the edge of the berth as it slowly came into focus. It was hazy sort of, that edge, but it wasn’t moving, not at all. How nice. He lay there for a moment, just enjoying the stillness. There was aching, and hot, but it was far away, nothing to concern him, not at the moment. There was a faint beep and First Aid quickly, automatically reached over and deactivated the monitor that would alert Ratchet or Wheeljack that he was awake. They were tired, they needed rest. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he knew; something his processor had registered the weariness in their voices while he had been offline. It was a pretty safe bet anyway. Neither of them ever got enough rest.
His brothers had been there too. He remembered their voices and worried thoughts, but he seemed to be alone except for Wheeljack recharging on one of the empty berths. Otherwise the medbay was empty, silent, although the door to Ratchet’s office was open and Ratchet was no doubt not far away. First Aid didn’t feel alone though. A faint warm pulling from…somewhere…made him scoot over to the edge of the berth, lean his helm over to find them, all four of them, piled up against his berth on the floor, recharging soundly. He watched them for awhile, content not to think, just to be, the complaining of his frame a distant thing. After awhile he disconnected the sensors and the energon drip that was attached to him with practiced fingers, then rolled over slowly on his ventral plates, sliding his legs carefully over the edge of the berth and letting gravity pull him down a little bit at a time. Good berth for staying so still under him. It was a very long way down; he didn’t remember berths being so tall, but finally his feet touched floor. His knees buckled abruptly when he let go of the side of the berth and he found himself on hands and knees blinking as he forgot to yell. Ouch. But he was where he planned to go, so that was ok.
“Hey,” First Aid felt strong familiar hands lift him easily, like he was made of aluminum, and he hummed happily as he was engulfed by the pile of his brothers. They shifted, crowding close until each one was comfortably squashed amongst the others.
“You’re still so warm,” Hot Spot muttered, turning up his fans.
“Mmm. You feel cool. Cool Spot,” First Aid said, and they all giggled a little, even though it was not really that funny, First Aid thought. It just felt nice, they agreed silently. Nice to laugh together. They hadn’t done that for a long while.
“Hands?” he asked after a bit, and Hot Spot extracted his arms from where they were wrapped around Streetwise’s leg and Blades’ shoulder so First Aid could check the healing scratches and dents.
“M’kay,” he said muzzily, squirming in closer, still holding Hot Spot’s hands, which he tucked up against his chest for safekeeping. He drifted, recharge pulling at him, but there was no falling this time because his gestaltmates were all around on every side, and up and down, and he was happy…happy…
oooooOOOOOooooo
Ratchet nearly had a spark attack when he saw the empty berth in his medbay. First Aid was missing, kidnapped, staggered out into the base somewhere in delirium…logically he knew no such thing had happened, but that didn’t stop the cold wave of panic.
He was about to kick Wheeljack awake and ask where the frag his patient had gotten to, and why the Pit hadn’t the remote alerts gone off, when he saw them all, nestled half under First Aid’s empty berth like a litter of turbofox pups in a den. First Aid was barely visible, just the side of his face, a bit of elbow and arm, peeking out from behind Hot Spot and a little under Groove, but when Ratchet ran his scanners over what parts of him were available, everything seemed to be in order. Temperature still a little high, spark rate steady and stronger, energon pressure…low…Ratchet frowned. It would have been higher if someone hadn’t detached himself from the energon drip, but it wasn’t dangerously low, not yet. He checked the energy levels of the other four for good measure…also low. He’d have to wake them soon to take some energon or they’d all be going into stasis, but they looked so peaceful. The one visible corner of First Aid’s mouth was pressed upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.
He creaked and groaned a little, getting back to his feet. He would never understand the Protectobots’ predilection for ending up on the floor, no matter how many perfectly good berths and chairs were available. Maybe they'd feel differently when they had a few thousand vorns on their chronometers and their joints and servos started to stiffen up, though he knew they all had residual stiffness already, from the pulse cannon blast that had nearly deactivated them a vorn ago. Especially First Aid, although it was rare for him to show it. Just like he hadn't shown any sign of his injuries when Ratchet had checked him out after he was rescued, despite the circuits to the damaged port being scorched to the core. And tampering with the readouts...Ratchet supposed he should be upset with his apprentice, but more than anything it spoke to him of the state First Aid had been in. He was more upset with himself, for not catching on sooner.
He should have suspected…but none of them had even considered…First Aid was a sparkling for Primus' sake, barely past his second vorn. Young as they were, the Protectobots had performed beyond all expectations in their roles with the Autobots, roles they'd demanded and fought for despite any attempts to shelter them, but Ratchet could see how new they were sometimes. Other mechs recognized it as well, and between that and their primarily search-and-rescue function it provided them with some level of protection on the battlefield. Not completely, they were still fair game, but even Decepticons had lines they wouldn’t cross. Or so he thought. The immature state of First Aid’s circuits would have been unmistakable the moment that…’Con…that Pit-spawned malfunction-Ratchet didn’t even want to think his name-had attempted to establish a connection. It was…it was unthinkable. Which was why Ratchet had never thought of it. None of them had.
He didn’t know what to do. He could treat First Aid’s physical injuries; the damage, thankfully, was not permanent, but the mental…it wouldn’t be the first time he and Smokescreen had treated a survivor of forced interface, but never a sparkling. It just…it just didn’t happen. There was nothing in the published literature, no guidelines to go by. That…slagger, Motormaster, needed to be put down, like a glitched-out turbofox. Despite popular opinion, Ratchet was not a murderous being, as a rule, but even medics had their limits past which they were willing to shed a little energon. Except First Aid, maybe, who operated under his own unique system of programming. He'd only seemed bewildered, a little. Blaming himself, Ratchet knew, from his confused ramblings during the worst of his illness, but no anger, none at all. Then there were his teammates. What happened to one of them, happened to them all. Five of them. Sparklings. Raped. Ratchet’s hand twinged in protest and he realized he was crushing his scanner. He took a deep intake and forced his hand to relax, shaking it painfully.
Primus, he needed some high grade. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten well and thoroughly over-charged. Ratchet sighed and pulled up a chair, sent off an update to Prowl and Optimus about First Aid’s status, received their quick, relieved replies and assurances that the Protectobots could be spared from active duty for as long as needed.
They couldn’t, really. Spare them forever. Ratchet knew that, down in his spark, no matter how badly he wanted things to be different. And maybe getting back to work would be the best thing; Primus knew the Protectobots thrived on it, on being needed. As they had learned from the Aerialbots, gestalts were their own best therapy, most of the time. Gestalts, so vulnerable in the way that damages, trauma to one affected the others so deeply, but at the same time Ratchet had seen the tradeoff, how strong they were together, as both teams had proven before. Both physically and mentally, their support for one another allowing them to weather ordeals that would leave most mechs dead or glitching in a corner somewhere. He could only hope it would hold true now.
oooooOOOOOooooo
Streetwise stirred in the cozy huddle of his brothers and brushed his mind over them all, one-two-three-four. Everyone present, all secure. He felt the muted murmur and hum of their thoughts, emotions in recharge, and he sought out First Aid, lingered there a little in that familiar quiet. Content, mostly. Deep contentment and joy even, treasuring their presence and closeness and Streetwise basked in that joy like a bright warm embrace. Distant, unacknowledged pain, that was there too, but at least he wasn’t hiding from them anymore and that was good.
Streetwise hadn't been as unprepared as the others for what had happened to First Aid. Not by much, but at least it wasn't his first encounter with interfacing. He knew nearly everything that happened on the base; that was just what he did. He found out things, whether he was supposed to know them or not. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like he was sneaking around trying to find out…it was just…he saw things, little clues, the way someone said something, and item missing or new or moved, and he couldn’t help it if his auditory sensors kept picking up conversations, right through walls sometimes. And then all of the little clues and threads would weave themselves together and he would know things. It worried Hot Spot, that Streetwise kept figuring things out that really should be classified, things that were none of their business.
He had watched a pair of mechs once, curious. They hadn’t known he was there, sitting in his favorite perch in what had once been a library with a datapad on ancient Cybertronian glyphs. No one ever came in there. It was a leftover part of the base, from when it was a school and not a military operation, which was probably why the two mechs thought they would be alone. It had been very strange, but not a bad thing, and after they left Streetwise had shaken his head and gone back to his datapad, and mostly forgotten about it.
First Aid had known about interfacing too, but it had only been words, words and diagrams, from his medical texts. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, Silverbolt had told Hot Spot. Not that awful empty-devouring look in Motormaster’s optics, smell of scorched metal and rancid oil, terrible crushing grip and…First Aid not understanding at first, and then his silent soul-sick endurance (I could have stopped him. I know how, I should have fought. Guilt and shame, and his brothers’ vehement protest, no, he would have killed you, it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t, not your fault, over and over, until you believe it).
He felt First Aid and the others waking, and Streetwise quickly tamped down his thoughts. First Aid was still fuzzy, still aching a little with strut-deep weariness and not wanting to move, but his content and happiness stayed with him upon waking and warmed through them all, and they wrapped him in their gladness that he was with them, that he was getting better, that he was theirs and they were his.
//I thought we were Hot Spot’s// came First Aid’s slightly wandering thought.
//You are// Hot Spot answered, amused //but I’ll share//
Streetwise felt First Aid brushing curiously at his mind, the memory there, the one he had been…not hiding, precisely, but not drawing attention to it, not sure if they wanted to think about it. Even thinking the word made First Aid go still, like a glitch mouse hoping not to be seen, although he was trying not to, he was trying to look at it without seeing that other one and what he had done, but it was hard, and Streetwise wasn’t sure if the memory would help or make him go still and hiding again.
//Silverbolt said it wasn’t supposed to be like that// Hot Spot offered, encouraging but not pushing, leaving it up to First Aid to decide. Groove was a wordless reluctance, Blades wavering. First Aid nudged Streetwise a little, tired but determined.
//I won’t let him make us afraid. Show us//
Streetwise bumped Groove, reassuring, and they all burrowed a little closer into the bond, bracing one another as they looked into the memory of what Streetwise had seen, the two mechs rubbing, moaning, clutching at one another as they plugged themselves together. It didn’t look like fun, exactly.
//It looks like it hurts them// was First Aid’s thought, apprehensive, and they could all feel the phantom memory-of-pain for a moment until First Aid determinedly stomped it down, growling at it a little.
//It’s not hurting them. They like it, just watch// Streetwise reassured them. Once First Aid’s mind stopped trying to crawl away, (and Blades stopped giggling, a little hysterically. But still, First Aid, growling!) they all turned back to the memory, watching as the two…(lovers? //Lovers// agreed Streetwise) groaned in satisfaction when they were done, and murmured and stroked each other softly. Strange, they all agreed. Not a bad thing, but strange. First Aid even leaned into the memory a little closer, intrigued by the tender way the first mech brushed a finger over the other’s lip components. Nice. That looked nice. (Hot Spot took a moment to examine the two mechs more closely, then sighed and added the information that the Autobot second in command was consorting with a mech sporting Decepticon insignias to the growing file of ‘things they really shouldn't know.’)
//I’d like to do that to Ratchet// Streetwise’s thought drifted to the surface, and the other four rounded on him in shock.
//Streetwise!//
//Just the lip part// he told them, and he felt their laughter ricochet through the bond. //Not all the other things, but…I’d like to touch his lips to make him smile like that// Ratchet smiled sometimes, but not like that, relaxed and peaceful.
First Aid thought it was funny, too, but they could feel his gladness as well, that Streetwise could think that. They were going to be ok, he was not going to let them be afraid of this, and they felt the pain and relief and sorrow rise in him again. First Aid tried to push it down but he was tired, so tired, and this time it would not be growled at. That didn’t stop him from trying, frustrated, weeping, until Hot Spot pulled him up a little higher in their pile and let him cry.
//We’ll be ok, you’ll be ok, but it doesn’t have to all be right now. It’s alright to be not ok for awhile// and First Aid sobbed silently into Hot Spot’s shoulder, not wanting to wake Wheeljack or worry Ratchet. Not very long. He soon quieted into exhausted silence.
//so tired, no more thinking?//
//no more thinking, just rest, rest// Hot Spot told him, and First Aid rubbed his visor and wriggled a little trying to get comfortable; the crying had made everything start to ache again. Streetwise could feel it through the bond. First Aid was tired, so tired, but his systems didn’t want to power down into recharge, and he just wanted to rest, just rest...
Ratchet was there, pulling First Aid gently out of the tangled pile of his brothers and setting him back on the berth. First Aid leaned his head against Ratchet’s chestplates gratefully as Ratchet reattached the energon transfusion line.
“You four, sit,” he ordered, looking down at the rest of the Protectobots. Streetwise obediently crept out from under First Aid’s berth with Groove and Blades and Hot Spot and they sat down on the neighboring one, watching worriedly.
“Can you swallow some of this?” Ratchet asked First Aid, sitting next to him on the berth so he could still lean against Ratchet and handing him a small cube of something. First Aid lifted the cube slowly, and managed to take a few sips, while Wheeljack returned with four cubes of regular energon and passed them out to the rest of the Protectobots. He rubbed Streetwise affectionately on the helm a few times after he gave him his energon, and Streetwise smiled and looked down at the swirling blue liquid with a sigh. He hadn’t realized how low he was on energy, but he really didn’t feel like refueling.
“Drink,” Ratchet ordered them. “All of it.” They all lifted their cubes meekly. First Aid’s visor dimmed, and he sighed and wilted slowly against Ratchet as he went into recharge. Ratchet rescued the cube before it could fall and then lowered First Aid onto the berth where he curled up on his side with another deep sigh. He turned to survey the other four who were slumped slightly together on the other berth as they took tiny sips of their energon.
“He’s doing just fine,” he told them, before they could ask. “He’s going to need a lot of rest for the next several orns, but the virus is deactivated and his systems are starting to recover.”
“Now, as for the rest of you,” he said, voice dropping ominously, “I thought I gave you instructions to get some energon and go to your quarters to recharge.” Streetwise perked up a little. They had never disobeyed Ratchet before. Hot Spot had even broken the rules and used First Aid's medical security codes to get them back through the medbay doors. Maybe they would see some of the fabled wrench-throwing? Ratchet was just so…magnificent. Blades was next to him and caught the thought, snickering softly and giving him an amused glance. So what? Streetwise was not embarrassed. He was magnificent. Blades thought so too; he just wouldn’t admit it.
“I apologize, Ratchet, for not following orders,” Hot Spot said evenly, “but we couldn’t leave him. And I’m afraid none of us have really been ourselves lately.” Ratchet nodded, not mentioning the door code, apparently letting it slide for now. Streetwise slumped a little in disappointment. He was never going to see any wrench-throwing if Hot Spot kept acting like that.
Ratchet was eyeing their barely touched cubes of energon dourly, and they all hastily pretended to drink more, but Streetwise didn’t think Ratchet was fooled.
“All right. I’m keeping you lot here for observation for the next couple of joors. Everyone find a berth and get comfortable. And anyone who doesn’t finish his cube is getting an energon drip, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Streetwise ended up on the end berth next to Blades, with Wheeljack hooking up an energon line to his arm.
“Why so mournful, Streets?” Wheeljack asked him.
“We’re all spread apart,” Streetwise answered. He didn’t see the point, all of the separate berths. He couldn’t reach Blades’ hand from his, even if they both stretched their arms out.
“I know, but Ratchet wants to keep track of all of your individual readings, and it’s easier if you’re not all tangled together. It’s just for a little while, think you can manage?”
Streetwise nodded, looking longingly over at Blades, but Blades was already recharging. Hot Spot was over on the other side of First Aid and Ratchet was talking to him, Hot Spot nodding seriously and attempting to sit up every now and then. Ratchet would give him a look each time, and Hot Spot would subside momentarily. The trick with getting Hot Spot to recharge was to get him to hold still long enough, and the best way to do that, in Streetwise’s opinion, was by piling on top of him until he couldn’t move. Wheeljack used to sing to get Hot Spot to recharge when they had been first constructed, on the little nameless planet where they had been built. Streetwise didn’t want to go back exactly; they were where they needed to be, but he missed having Wheeljack sing them to recharge.
Hot Spot would never shut down if he thought Streetwise was upset, so Streetwise tried to make his mind small and calm and maybe Hot Spot wouldn’t notice. Streetwise understood about the monitors and things, but still…putting them on all of these berths just seemed like a big waste of space. If they were together on one then Ratchet wouldn’t have to walk all over the place to check on them. They could fit, if they smushed on top of Hot Spot just so.
He curled up tightly on the berth, and tried to distract himself by going over Wheeljack’s design for a force field for Defensor. He’d asked for everyone’s input on it, just before First Aid had been taken. If it worked it would give them a breem or so of protection from close range blasts like the one that had taken them out in their first battle. Streetwise tried to concentrate on energy ratios and shield theory, but…it wasn’t working. He didn’t know what was wrong with him-it wasn’t like he never recharged apart from his brothers. Sometimes missions took them apart, but usually they were too busy to think too much about it. And they were all here, all in the same room. There was absolutely no reason why he should feel so lost or alone, or why he wanted to cry. He wasn’t going to cry though. He wasn’t. Slag. He was crying. Streetwise pushed his face against the padding of the berth, hoping to muffle the sound.
“Street…” Wheeljack was rubbing his back. “Hey, Streetwise, what’s wrong?” Streetwise didn’t know what was wrong, so he just curled up tighter, choking a little with his effort to stop crying. He was still a sparkling, but that didn't mean he had to act like one for Primus’ sake. Wheeljack wiggled a hand in and levered him up, and he gave it up as a lost cause, uncurling with a little sob-whimper.
“Does something hurt?”
Streetwise shook his head. No, nothing hurt. Nothing he could tell Wheeljack about anyway, to give Wheeljack something he could find and fix.
“Why are you crying then, kiddo?” Wheeljack asked, vocal indicators flashing in concern, brow furrowing as Streetwise remained silent. "You can talk to me, tell me anything, anytime. You know that, right?" Wheeljack told him, optics steady and kind. Streetwise felt a rush of affection for the engineer. Wheeljack was so busy, but he always made time if they needed him, always answered Streetwise’s questions, no matter how many he had.
“Air Raid said Ratchet can nail a mech in the helm at thirty paces with his wrench, but I think he was making it up. I’ve never seen him throw anything at all,” he said sorrowfully. Which wasn’t what was wrong at all, or it was, but only the tiniest part. Usually he was better at explaining. The others relied on him sometimes if there was something complicated, with layers and sides, and little parts to explain. Not now though. There were too many things to say, too many things he hadn’t figured out, too many things that had been wrong and were still wrong even though they were getting better, and he couldn’t say them all at once and so he said none.
Wheeljack’s vocal indicators flashed brightly again, and he laughed and started, “You were crying because you want Ratchet…”
“You want Ratchet to what?” interrupted Ratchet, coming around Wheeljack to make sure the energon drip line attachment was secure and feeling for Streetwise’s spark pulse with brusque but gentle fingers. Streetwise stared at him mutely and Ratchet frowned. His face was very close and Streetwise thought about what he’d told the others. It sounded nice in theory, but he didn’t think Ratchet would understand if he touched him on the lips and gazed lovingly into his optics right now, like that other mech had done to Prowl. He’d probably just check his core temperature and give him a processor scan, Streetwise thought mournfully.
“Does anything hurt?” he asked, like Wheeljack had, and Streetwise shook his head, trying again not to cry. No. Nothing hurt. Everything hurt. Ratchet drank too much high grade sometimes, Streetwise knew. First Aid never said anything about it, but he worried, and the worry leaked through into their bond.
Ratchet sighed, looking at him. “Gestalts,” he muttered, then detached the energon drip line from his arm. “Come on,” Ratchet grumbled, pulling Streetwise off the berth and nudging him over to Blades’ with a light push on his back. Wheeljack winked one optic at him and helped him climb up next to Blades and snuggle in close, rearranging his rotors a little so they didn’t poke him in the side.
“Mmph,” Blades blinked at him blearily and tugged him up a bit higher, so Streetwise was draped across his chestplates. Streetwise mumbled something in return and felt every servo and circuit relax, all the way down to his struts. Better. Much, much better. Blades, only half awake, wrapped him in his strong fierce mind and sleepily revved his engine, threatening the world in general, at whatever dared to make Streetwise upset.
“There you go,” Ratchet said as he set up another energon drip and attached it to his arm. Streetwise didn’t even feel a twinge. “Imp,” he growled affectionately, close to his audio. “Now recharge.”
“You’re a good medic, Ratchet,” Streetwise murmured into Blade’s chest.
Ratchet chuckled. “Well thank you. And just how many medics have you met youngling?”
“No, you are…you are…” Recharge was pulling at him, and Streetwise wasn’t sure if he was still talking out loud or just thinking. Sometimes it was hard to remember Wheeljack and Ratchet weren’t part of their gestalt, couldn’t feel them, they had to use words.
“Wheeljack?” he spoke or thought. “I miss when you sang for us.” Wheeljack was saying something, questioning, and he tried to repeat what he said but this time Streetwise was pretty sure he wasn’t actually talking. He dimly felt the berth shift a little as Wheeljack sat down and his hand on Streetwise’s back, and then he thought he smiled or he thought of smiling and peace trickled through him like warm energon as Wheeljack softly began one of the rolling work songs of the bridge builder’s guild in his rough but tuneful voice and it followed him down into peace and sweet darkness and Blades warm beneath him.