Author's Notes: So, I'm changing this into a series of slash stories that predate my Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson fic. I also plan on (eventually) uploading the start of a series of non-slash (/vastly understated slash) stories for that same fic. Ultimately the intent of any and all these is character developement (or just plain setting up their relationships in my head).
Privileges of Rank
Summary Prowl attempts to soothe Ratchet after Wheeljack blows himself up, again. Prowl/Ratchet.
Prowl stood in the entrance of the med bay, watching Ratchet work on the burnt and partially melted form of Wheeljack. The medic wasn't cursing, or yelling at his best friend, and so the tactician surmised that the inventor was no longer in danger. He took in the dim glow of Ratchet's optics and registered the heat of an overtaxed engine. He moved closer, keeping his steps as quiet as he could The smell of stale energon, drew his attention to three empty cubes on a berth nearby. He pursed his lips at that; normally Ratchet kept a much tidier work area.
His doorwings twitched and he made his decision. With deliberate care, he tapped his foot against the floor, letting the CMO know he was there.
"I heard you when you came in." Ratchet didn't even lift his head, sparks flashing up from the open area he currently tended. "I'm a little slotting busy, Prowl. Can this wait?"
Prowl considered the question, and answered with one of his own. "How is Wheeljack?"
Ratchet narrowed his optics. "He's fine, now." The CMO's engine growled his irritation. "For all that he tried to blow his frame out of his slagged casing. What was he doing anyways?"
The red chevron tilted. "Classified. Will he be stable for a few megacycles?"
"Classified?" Ratchet grunted. "Classified, using energon crystals?" Ratchet fingered shards of purple glass, scowling. The medic's gaze finally turned on Prowl. "It'd slagging better be worth this."
"He has yet to fail us." He met Ratchet's glare with an even stare. "Will he be stable for a few megacycles?" he asked again.
"Yes he will, and what are you fragging implying?"
"That I do not wish to see you start failing us." His expression softened, though he kept his distance from the sterile operating table. "You need to recharge."
"After I'm done-"
"No." He gestured sharply, refusing to listen to the rest of Ratchet's procrastination. "Now. You are too valuable to be allowed to succumb to exhaustion from overworking yourself."
Ratchet glared down into Wheeljack's open torso.
"I will turn it into an order, though I prefer not to." Prowl twitched his doorwings again and attempted to entice the medic with suggestive humor. "The berth is cold without you there, as well."
The CMO scowled at the tactician. He wavered slightly and finally set his tools down, closing the open panel. As if it was a signal, Prowl approached the medical table. He touched Ratchet's arm, a silent apology for his harsh words. Ratchet ignored the tactician's hand, but stared at his own.
"I'll be right out. Gotta clean up a little."
Prowl stepped away and left the medbay, trusting Ratchet to keep his word.
He was not disappointed as a few breems later, the doors parted to let the big white mech step through. The medic almost blended into the white-lit room; his blue optics and gray chevron painting an ethereal picture as they hovered over a bodiless windshield and red hands. Shadows almost seemed to fade into existence as the door slid close behind the medic.
The CMO logged off the active personnel channel, officially going off duty. A smile tugged at Prowl's lips as he did the same.
They walked down the hallway, side by side. Though they remained close, they didn't actually touch. Yet even to a casual observer it would be obvious that the two were together.
Prowl's doorwings shifted, avoiding brushing against the light armor of the medic. Due to the number of mechs within the base, even Prowl had to share his quarters. Jazz was actually his originally assigned roommate, but too many disagreements(long and very loud, though they never came to blows) had prompted Prime to order a change of living arrangements.
Ironhide would have been next in line for the privilege. Since he and Ratchet shared the same rank, it hadn't taken much convincing to have the security officer switch with Ratchet.
The results were satisfactory, very satisfactory in Prowl's mind, and well worth the effort.
"Is there anything I can do to help Wheeljack?"
Prowl turned his head to regard the CMO. "I really wish you could, Ratchet, but you're security clearance is just not set high enough."
"Frag security clearance to the slagging pits," the white and red mech spat. "That's my friend you're talking about."
"I know," Prowl pressed his lips together. "It would be a lot easier if you had higher clearance."
They arrived at their shared quarters, Ratchet reached his longer arm over Prowl's head to key in the release code and open the door.
"Than give it to me."
Prowl stepped in first, turning as soon as the door closed. "I would prefer not to have this conversation with you while we are off duty."
The medic's engine grumbled, but he dropped the topic even though Prowl calculated an unsaid 'for now' on the subject. He opened a door in the wall, unlocking a subspace pocket that revealed a small stack of energon cubes. Next to the set of subspace cabinets hung a pair of gladiatorial blades, their selenium blades sparkling sharply; one of the few trinkets Prowl had left over from the destruction of his previous unit, and the base they'd chosen to hide in.
Prowl watched as his lover reached up and took a partially drained container down. "Ratchet…" He knew the purpose of that particular grade of energon, and he didn't think it was what his partner needed.
Ratchet drained half the contents of the cube and offered the rest to the tactician.
Prowl reluctantly accepted the container and finished the rest of the high grade off. He immediately felt it buzzing through his systems, his regulators working on directing the energy, or storing it for future use. The cube vanished with a carefully placed discharge, disposing without creating waste.
Red hands turned Prowl's face up. White lips latched onto grey, moving with a tenderness that never seemed to attach itself to the words the medic spoke.
Prowl reached up, pulling Ratchet's hands away from his chin. He stroked the fingers lightly, gingerly; teasing sensors designed to detect the smallest of bumps and irregularity.
A shudder clattered along the plates of the large white mech and his intakes and vocalizer hitched. The glow of his optics intensified, burning with desire and he drew the smaller mech closer.
Prowl guided them toward the two berths that were pushed together against the wall, still stroking one of the medic's hands, while his free hand caressed panels or circuitry. They collapsed onto the berth, limbs tangling around each other. Lips played across heated metal, nipping at corners and seams. Ventilators hissed in soft gasps as hands dug into bundles of wire and fingers ghosted along circuitry.
Fingers swept across specific panels that obligingly slid aside, exposing a coiled cable and a hidden port. So accustomed had they become to being together, that they didn't even pull away as they drew the other's cable into their own port. The soft chink of the plugs connecting made them both gasp as though it were the most erotic thing possible.
Data streamed through the connection, transmitting sights, sound, touch. Every kiss resonated, every caress teased the giver.
Processor heated with passion, Prowl was able to ignore the discomfort from laying on his back. Even though Ratchet hovered over him, making him moan and whimper with those knowledgeable red hands, Prowl knew just where to touch the medic to make him hiss and cry out in delight.
Prowl recognized Ratchet's attempt to drown the worry he felt for Wheeljack in physical release, but the tactician was uncertain of what other comfort he could offer the medic. He'd been built as a Limited Range Statistic model, as opposed to Ratchet's Full Range Medic model. What emotional protocols he possessed did not tell him how to comfort someone. He hadn't even realized he could experience any affection beyond the barest of friendships before he'd found himself attracted to Ratchet. Still he had since discovered that if he worked around his protocols, using cause and effect, he could manage the motions and ease his lover.
So he did. Offering the reassurance through their interface that Ratchet had done things to the best of his considerable ability, and that Wheeljack was, quite likely, no longer in danger thanks to the medic's intervention. He stroked a hand down Ratchet's face, tracing the medic's cheek seam. Ratchet was nibbling on Prowl's bumper and the tactician pulled on the gray chevron to bring the Ratchet's head up and allow him to kiss the panting white mouth.
The red and white mech clutched at Prowl's plating, his engine thrumming, and his optics flaring. He laughed, only to dissolve into a throaty moan as Prowl dug his hands under the large windshield.
"At least... hmm... you're not- ahh… Primus! -throwing... numbers at... unn. Do that again…... –at me this time," Ratchet gasped in reply to Prowl's transmitted query.
Prowl revved his engine, echoing his lover's amusement.
Prowl knew the worry still lingered as Ratchet grimaced and his optics dimmed, completely at odds with his current actions. But he didn't know what to do, and Ratchet did not respond nearly as well to numbers as the twins(who laughed at Prowl's statistics and scrapped themselves when they didn't listen). That left his touch, and he sought every sensitive area on the medic, sending his confidence in Ratchet's abilities through their connection until they both overloaded in one spark-seizing moment.
Prowl cradled his head in his arms, finally laying on his front, cushion molding to his frame. He watched Ratchet in the peace only found within his quarters, after the medic fell into recharge. That Ratchet went offline so completely after overloading verified Prowl's calculations that the medic had overextended his systems.
The best chance to prevent it from happening again would be to step away from the war, but that was impossible as the Decepticons controlled 86.273 percent of the planet, and the other 13.727 percent was veritably unlivable. Which eliminated that choice. There was also the fact that it was simply not logical, not to mention unethical, to walk away from his duties among the Autobots, and he knew Ratchet would feel the same way. Even not actively participating in the war, Ratchet would still feel morally obliged to continue his practice on neutrals caught between both sides. But then he would not have the Autobots covering him, as they no longer had the resources to extend their protection to neutrals. Really there was no other feasible option, for the only real result would be for the war to end, but that was within neither of their power.
Prowl turned his processor from that pathway, unwilling to test his battle computer so shortly after an overload.
Blue optics powered on, and a white arm languidly draped over the tactician's back. Ratchet smiled, and Prowl contentedly returned the gesture, moving his cushion closer.
"You and that slagging, silly cushion. You should just let me fix that flaw." Ratchet caressed down Prowl's canopy, rubbing at the uneven joining that pressed into his doorwings and scraped his sides.
"Your time and resources are better spent repairing the battle injured, than overhauling something I have dealt with since my creation." Prowl's doorwings twitched, and he leaned closer to the medic. "And do not think about taking it to Prime." His mock growl rumbled through his chestplate, belied by the grin on his lips.
Ratchet frowned, his fingers stroking down Prowl's armored aft. "I think you're overcalculating the cost, Prowl. And undercalculating how important your comfort is." His gaze drifted to his hand as it slid back up Prowl's back and over to the farthest doorwing. "How can you work efficiently," the word hissed out in amusement as it was one of Prowl's favorite words while on duty, "if you're uncomfortable." Metal scraped metal as the large medic pulled himself closer to the black and white mech. Ratchet traced his lips over the backs of Prowl's doorwings, the tactician groaned, clutching at the cushion underneath him.
"You need to relax, Ratchet. Not-" The smaller mech stopped midsentence as his lover slipped his fingers into Prowl's doorhinge joint. "-this is incredibly un-" Prowl halted again as Ratchet slipped on top of his back, bracing himself on his elbow while his free hand delved into Prowl's other doorwing. Prowl buried his face into the cushion, muffling the cry that exploded from his vocalizer.
Ratchet leaned forward to press a kiss to the back of the tactician's neck. "I am relaxing."
Prowl turned his head to look behind his shoulder, blocking access to his neck with his helmet. "I meant recharge." He narrowed his optics. "And you know that." He lifted his doorwings, effectively trapping the medic's hands.
Ratchet glared, attempting to pull his fingers from the tactician's door joint. "I don't particularly feel like slagging recharging right now. Could you fracking let go of my fingers now, Prowl!"
"Negative. I want to know what is disturbing you. Overloading again will not make the problem go away."
"Fraggit Prowl, let go!"
Prowl tilted his head, a soft smile curving his lips. "Wheeljack will be fine. You would not have left the med bay if you did not know this." He relaxed his doorwings, freeing his partner's hands. "I would not have asked you to. I would not have had the authority to." He did not want to talk of this here in their quarters, but he saw no other way to ease the medic.
"He's my friend. If I could help him-"
"Then accept the promotion." He moved his cushion away from Ratchet; his circuits cooling.
"Frag the promotion, Prowl. I can't." Ratchet rolled to his back, and not for the first time Prowl registered the disadvantage to having doors attached to one's shoulders. It was the closest he could come to envy, as jealousy lacked any logical reasoning. The medic glared up at the ceiling, his optics dimming in reaction to the lights overhead.
"So you have said every time the issue is brought up. We cannot force you to take the promotion, but I have always wondered why you refuse." Prowl lay his head on his arms, his optics dim, but his doorwings stood upright attentively.
A sigh rasped from the large white mech's vents. "Because I can't comply with the responsibilities that come with that promotion."
Prowl's doorwings twitched. "How would it be any different than your noncompliance with regulation now?"
The white arms crossed, tucking the medic's hands under his bumper, and he slid a glower at the tactician. "What you want is for me to breech patient confidentiality. Why do you think Smokescreen doesn't accept any promotions?"
Prowl had never known why his fellow Enforcer had never accepted a grade raise. Certainly both Ratchet and Smokescreen deserved the promotions they were offered, and both he and Prime offered it every evaluation. Jazz and Wheeljack had both achieved the highest grade possible for their fields, and within this army. Prowl had always assumed Smokescreen had no desire to share any of Prowl's datawork, or take the brunt of the tactical meetings. Ultimately, it meant that Prowl thought his frame-kin was lazy, and the executive officer had no respect for laziness. It reflected itself in his interactions with Smokescreen. This put the red and blue mech in a different light, and made Prowl reevaluate the way he'd been treating Smokescreen.
"That is a problem that Optimus and I can address. Your informed input on Wheeljack's projects would be most welcome. Asking for your opinion without giving you context has been most.. irritating. I imagine it had something to do with why Wheeljack ended up in your care twenty joors ago." Prowl moved his hand, caressing the red cross on his lover's shoulder. "Would you accept the promotion then?"
"No."
"No?" Prowl stared at the medic. "Why?"
"I can't take a promotion Prowl. It's bad enough that I have the word 'Officer' tagged onto my position. If I were to take the grade that should go with the position, than I wouldn't have to worry about what they're bringing into my med bay, but what they're not letting me repair." Metal squealed, and Prowl could hear the minute hum of motors working. Ratchet was clenching his fists. He cared a great deal for the the unit and patients within it that was placed under his care. At Times like this, it showed. "Primus, slaggit, I don't want to have mechs who don't know a sensor cluster from a circuitboard messing around in their own circuitry when they try some slagging new stupid stunt. Or in eachother's."
Prowl blinked in surprise. "You believe this would be a problem?"
"I know it would be a problem. They didn't bring the really stupid things to the unit doctors, they brought it to us interns. There is no one else for my unit to turn to. I know we're short handed on medics, but..." Ratchet trailed off, static hissing out of his vocalizer.
"We could call in a junior medic from one of the other units. Would you accept the promotion then?"
"Interns," Ratchet growled, refusing to use the more modern term, "don't know a Primusdamned thing. No."
Prowl's engine rumbled in amusement. "Are you admitting to not knowing anything at a point in your existence Ratchet?" His processor redirected itself, now that he had a reasoning behind what he'd always thought of as one of his lover's irrational choices.
"It does not seem to hamper Jazz's connection to the unit."
Ratchet's optics blazed, and his engine ground out a growl. "Do I look like Jazz?"
"If you were Jazz, not only would we not be having this conversation, but we would not be having this conversation on either side of the room." His doorwings swept back in amusement back as Ratchet continued to glare at him.
"Frag you, Prowl," the deep rumble of the medic's engine vibrated through the double berths, betraying his good humor.
Prowl got off his cushion, and crawled over to the larger mech. "I suppose that only leaves one choice."
The azure optics of the CMO watched the tactician draw near. "And what might that be?"
Prowl was silent for a moment, indulging in a kiss that Ratchet returned after a few astroseconds consideration.
"Prime and I might have to rework the security clearances."
Ratchet blinked. "Red Alert is going to fry a processor... or two."
The tactician allowed himself a slight smirk. "I know." The Security Director's reactions never ceased to amuse him.
"It's about slagging time you did something about this, though." The red hands appeared, uncurled from underneath the medic's bumper. He reached for Prowl, his desire clear in the darkening of his optics. "Can I overload myself to slotting oblivion now?"
Silver lips curled in a smile as they caressed the white face. Prowl's engine growled as he wordlessly slid atop the white frame.
Author's Note: This actually comes from contemplation on just why Ratchet (the freakin' Chief Medical Officer) is ranked lower than Wheeljack. It does tie into my ongoing fic, Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson, though I need to do a rewrite of it since Prowl refused to contract any of his words, and then he brought up model types. -sigh-
Since it's been asked, I'd like to point out that the rank Prowl's referring is strictly numerical and grade-related. Ratchet has the title, but he's ranked like a unit medic, and this keeps him from being included in the high security topics.