Part 2: Stars and Scars
Part 3: Hollow Concessions
Certainly a Decepticon air commander wouldn't ever want to tinker around with an Autobot. Even if he did, he wouldn't dare make that interest known. And yet in Ratchet's peripheral vision, he felt a gaze on him.
Don't be ridiculous.
The medic lifted the pretty pede—no, it wasn't pretty, yes it was—in his servo and converted his other into a welder, expertly sealing a mesh wound.
"Don't miss a spot, now," Starscream purred huskily, jerking his leg daringly. Ratchet faltered and stopped his welder, narrowing optics at the 'Con.
"Stay still and I won't," he vocalized, tightening grip and resuming his work. The damage wasn't severe, but if he didn't get the wound closed, Earth's dirt and other substances could cause damage to inner circuitry. He almost snorted. Maybe he should miss a spot. Leave the Seeker with a permanent limp. That way if he ever tried to slag them again (and he would), he wouldn't be able to get very far. Maybe he should install a scrambler. Mix up his flight coordination and send him crashing into a mountain.
Ratchet didn't realize he was smirking as he put away the welder and inspected the leg some more. Starscream flexed his lander with a coy little hum and Ratchet was brought out of his sabotage fantasy. He ignored the heat to his faceplate and rebooted his vocalizer with a suppressed cough. "That should do it," he said, setting the leg down.
"Just don't put a lot of pressure on it while the seams cool. And no flying either."
Gleaming red. Yep. Starscream was staring. To say it was subtle would be a hilarious lie. And he hadn't said anything. Ratchet's mouthplate twitched. "Are your audials full of oil? I said you're done."
To this Starscream laughed, digging the heels of his landers into the dirt and snuggling his backstrut against the boulder behind him. "What if I said I had more information?" he asked, tapping claws against his knees like a manipulative child.
"You don't have any more damage to repair," the Autobot answered matter-of-factly, not looking at him as he put some supplies into his subspace. He'd seen a few twitches in those wings. Gorgeous wings. Smooth wings. Nope.
Starscream's optics half-shuttered. "What if I don't want repairs?"
Nope, nope. Ratchet kept his faceplate down. "You're lucky we even came here. If it were up to me you'd be scraplet bait."
The aerial's gaze cut past Ratchet, to the large green bot standing guard at the cliff's edge. "Yes, we," he sneered, refusing to let go of the fact that his request to be met alone had been ignored. But it didn't matter now anyway.
Ratchet shifted, ignoring him, frowning at the energon on his fingertips. Starscream watched for a terse klik or two, and a decision was made. Grabbing the bot by the doors of his vehicle mode, the jet slammed their faceplates together, biting with denta and giving a charged lick that sent static up Ratchet's helm.
NOPE.
Ratchet's frame was seized and it took his processor a moment to function before he was able to shove away.
"Bumblebeebridgeusbackwe'redone!" he shouted all together, vocalizer strained and optics wide. Bulkhead turned from the cliff blinking and thunked over.
Starscream touched his own mouthplate smugly, enjoying the residual static but Ratchet didn't dare look at him, already standing waiting for the bridge to light up. When it did, he nudged Bulkhead towards it.
"My offer stands, doctor," he heard as the swirls of energy engulfed them.
• • •
The base manifested under their feet and Ratchet stumbled forward. It wasn't until he felt a hand on his shoulder that he realized someone had spoken. He reset his audials and shook his head. "What?"
Bumblebee was watching from the bridge console, ridges down in concern. But it was Bulkhead who was touching him. Who had spoken, then?
"Did you acquire anything useful?" Optimus. Oh. Ratchet's mouth hung open stupidly.
"I—yes." He swiveled. "Bumblebee, would you mind—? I have coordinates."
The yellow mech chirped and brought up a window by the time Ratchet made it over to the console. He typed away, and considered the numbers on the screen for a moment before entering. The computer searched in silence before blipping and zeroing in on a location. Ratchet stepped back.
Prime's shining azure optics scanned the map, mouth a thin line on his faceplate. No one was sure what to make of the silence. Ratchet was the one to speak up. "Optimus?"
"Starscream gave you these coordinates?" He didn't look away from the numbers.
"Yes."
Optimus finally turned from the screen. "Autobots, roll out."
Ratchet shook his helm a little. "Do you recognize the location?"
The large Autobot looked downward, at nothing. After a moment he regarded his medic. "If my assumption is correct, then Starscream knows much more than he is telling us." Optimus nodded to his other 'bots. "Open the bridge. We will investigate with caution."
If Optimus was being vague it meant that he was worried. "Ready," Ratchet called, pulling the lever. The Autobots rolled out, and the medic was alone.
"More information?" he asked himself aloud, grinding vocalizer incredulously. What could Starscream possibly know that they didn't? He listened to the bridge power down, hand still on the lever.
"What if I don't want repairs?"
Alone at the base, opened his interface panel and shamefully gripped a cable.
• • •
"Open. Close. Shutter now."
Arcee was a good patient. Always had been. Allowed Ratchet to do his work without a lot of chatter. But even she felt the stress in his field as he checked her optics. With an ex-vent, the medic shut off his light and looked through vials.
"You need to keep a closer eye on your fluid levels," he said very doctorally, motioning for her to lean back. "Dirty optics won't do you any good in battle. You're lucky your vision didn't just short out."
"I didn't want to hog our supplies," she admitted, honest yet thankful. Ratchet gave her a look just as a roar sounded in the tunnel. Bulkhead had volunteered to grab the kids. Right. Saturday.
Ratchet's field coiled and snapped now and he quickly handed Arcee some synthetic fluid for her cleanser reserve. The bot opened his HUD panel and made adjustments in silence.
"Hey." Arcee sat up straight. "You alright?"
He must not have realized his field was out at all because it quickly withdrew and he looked at her, embarrassment flashing in his optics. Thankfully he didn't have to respond because Arcee spoke again.
"I don't agree with fixing up that slagger either." She started to get up, nodding at Jack by the tunnel. "But it was a good call. Without those coordinates we wouldn't be two steps ahead of the 'Cons."
With a little smile, she left the medic to make fun of Jack's haircut.
Ratchet turned now to Optimus, who had been at the computer typing away. Without looking away he spoke, "I want you to stay open to new high-frequency messages in the event that Starscream is willing to bargain again."
The medic shifted. "Do you really believe he has more information to give us?" Optimus stopped typing now and closed his optics.
"Yes. Though he may be withholding it in case he needs our help again."
Ratchet looked at the console to avoid Prime's eyes. He couldn't say that Starscream had already offered more. That would bring up too many questions. So he just nodded, and noticed a little crackle in his Prime's neck.
"On the berth, Optimus."
• • •
There was something deeply comforting about defragging the computer late at night. Ratchet could clear caches and organize logs while sipping a coolant mixture. It didn't taste the same as the coolant on Cybertron, but he used his imagination.
Half-way through a nostalgic sip, a window flashed. Ratchet maximized his mapping system. Several Decepticon signals. At the caved-in mine? He tapped a few keys to zoom and confirm. That was it alright. But it was useless, why would they even bother, unless...?
Ratchet swore at himself and closed the map. No, nope, no. Don't even think about investigating. Chugging the last bit of his mixed drink, he shut off the monitor, turned around and crashed into something with a startled yelp.
"Bumblebee!" Ratchet put a hand over his spark chamber. The yellow bot beeped and waved his servos apologetically. His big optics cycled at the now dim computer and damn it, puppy dog eyes at this hour was not acceptable. "No, I was heading to recharge now. Why are you up?"
The Scout sounded in multiple tones and Ratchet's slightly buzzed processor nearly jammed. That bot was way too energetic for this time of the night. But he'd apparently been up this whole time too.
"Your servos?" Ratchet confirmed. "Let me see."
Bumblebee pushed his hands out and Ratchet looked them over one at a time. "Stretch. Out, yes." He pinched along hinges and activated a small light on his wrist to look into overlapping plates on his arms for any leakage. "I don't see any problems. If you want I can detach the plating and look deeper."
Bumblebee let out a low sound and withdrew his hands. Ratchet nearly laughed. There were times when he forgot the bot's age. No wonder he was such a good match with Rafael.
"If they still feel funny in the morning, I'll do a scan," Ratchet assured. With a silly little wave, Bumblebee thanked him and shuffled off noisily.
"Now off to bed with you," the medic said to himself, scraping a hand over his faceplate. He was glad to hear the sound of the other Autobots' soft ventilations as he entered his own room. The makeshift berth creaked a little, and again he felt a pang of homesickness.
• • •
"Wheeeeeee, Bulk, look!"
"Miko, be careful!"
In the morning Ratchet regretted his experimental cocktail. His processor was fuzzy and his optics felt weighted. It didn't help that the kids were there again. Wait, was it Saturday again already? He needed to make sure his chronometer was working properly.
"Morning, Ratch," Jack said from the couch, unwrapping a burrito which was unpleasant to Ratchet's receptors. Humans and their fuel. Yuck.
"Hello," was his noncommittal reply, much too slagged to care if he came across rude. As usual, he hit a few keys at the computer and waited as systems fired up. What he would give for some cold-pressed energon right now. He pinched between his optics and stretched just as a blip hit his audials. He looked at the screen and felt like his tank flipped.
"Go get Optimus," he said to anyone. When their leader was summoned, Ratchet let him look at the message. Another one from Starscream. With coordinates close to the mine. Scrap, he'd been right about last night.
"Bulkhead, accompany Ratchet again," Optimus commanded.
The Wrecker looked confused. "But it says to come alone again. He was pretty mad last time. What if he doesn't give us anything?"
Ratchet wanted to punch himself in the helm for the thoughts that crossed his mind and he kept his mouth shut. Luckily Optimus had an answer.
"If he is injured enough, he will compromise. I cannot not risk sending anyone alone yet. Prepare your tools."
Ratchet bit his mouthplate and nodded. He of course anticipated the sour look on the jet's face when they arrived and pointed a finger. "Don't start," he warned right off the bat. "Be grateful we even answered your call."
Starscream gave the pettiest of eye-rolls and clutched his leaking shoulder. In the daylight Ratchet could already see lots of dents and frayed wires sparking bright. He stepped over cautiously. "Information first."
"Yeah," Bulkhead seconded, following with loud steps.
Starscream seemed like he wasn't going to give in, and then ex-vented dramatically. "Fine," he said. His wings gave a funny little incline, like a droop. "But I'm shy. I don't like big ugly Wreckers looking at me while I'm being tended to." The lilt to his voice would've been endearing if he weren't such a pain in the aft. But maybe it was a little pleasing to the audia—no!
Bulkhead gawked a little and charged his weapon in an attempt to maintain his toughness. But Ratchet waved a hand with a sigh, still trying to push inner dialogs from his processor.
"Bulkhead, just... go stand watch over there." As the giant bot trudged away, Ratchet caught an impish look that Starscream didn't even bother hiding. "Well?" Ratchet asked. "Information."
Starscream motioned to his shoulder. "But I'm in so much pain. What if I accidentally give you scrambled coordinates?" Primus, the Seeker liked to talk. "Why, I don't even remember my own designation. What is it? Something about a scream?"
Ratchet wasn't having any of this scrap. "I'll call for a bridge in one micro-klik if you don't start talking."
The speed at which Starscream complied was mildly confusing. "Thirty-four point one-eight-zero-eight degrees... North, or was it South?"
Oh, for Primus' sake. It was Ratchet's turn to roll his optics as he hunkered down and pulled a cube from his subspace. "Refuel while I have a look. Then you give me the rest of the coordinates. Got it?" He held the energon out and went to work, carefully feeling the dents along the shoulder.
"Vile," Starscream complained almost immediately, staring down at the energon like it was piss. Ratchet ignored him. Like he really expected a thank you. He examined the arm and, yep, frayed wires. That was never pleasant. He'd need to get under the plating.
"Sit up straight. I need to pop out these dents before I do anything else," he instructed, trying to ignore the realization that he was tenderly caring for a Decepticon. Starscream finished off the fuel and straightened himself, wings flattening a bit to allow the medic more space. For a faint nano-klik, Ratchet's sensors picked up the 'Con's field, which had spiked in what might've been apprehension.
"Alright," he warned, settling fingers into Starscream's shoulder curve. One, two, pop. The Seeker dug claws into the dirt and kept his optics closed. Again, one, two, pop.
No whining? Color Ratchet surprised. He glanced briefly at his patient's face before pulling out a few smaller tools and propped Starscream's arm against his knee in silence, again surprised at the minimal signs of discomfort when he began disconnecting plating to get to those wires. A few circuits were scalded and he sprayed something cold that made Starscream rattle. Ignore it, keep working.
"Why were you at the mine?" He couldn't keep from asking. Starscream looked startled and quickly faded the expression, flicking energon from his fingertips and placing a smirk upon his plate.
"I didn't know you were a spy as well as a medic," was his dodge.
Ratchet finished a circuit and made Starscream stretch his arm. "Don't flatter yourself. I picked up Decepticon activity."
The jet gave a husky little hum, and dragged his silver-tipped pede against Ratchet's leg. Static crawled and Ratchet froze. "So you're saying you're only here for intel?"
The Autobot let go of the arm, it was done anyway, and tried his best to maintain a stern look on his face. Starscream's left wing twitched and turned inward. Pet me, I'm pretty. He must've known how alluring that was or he wouldn't keep doing it. It was like the servers bringing refreshments to the stadiums after a match. They flirted and showed off dorsal plating, and if they were lucky got to spend the night in the berth of a gladiator.
Ratchet's processor clicked painfully as he willed himself to remain sensible. "... Give me the rest of the coordinates," he almost stammered and put his tools away.
"I'm not finished though."
"Yes, you are."
Ratchet tried with all his might to keep his field tightly folded inside. Starscream's, however, was far from shy and tickled at his plating. It buzzed with definite intent.
The silver Seeker slowly curled talons around his new friend's wrist, like a suggestion. The wing wriggled again for attention and Ratchet watched helplessly as his servo betrayed him and grabbed the smooth grey plane. He checked over his shoulder at Bulkhead and turned back around just in time to meet the hot pools of magma that were Starscream's optics. And then the jet did that weird thing again, put their mouthplates together, scraped denta like a hungry and blind newspark.
"Touch me," he demanded, vocalizer husky with arousal. Ratchet had somewhere in the last minute lost his fragging mind and his fingers obeyed, gripping and sliding up to the tip of the wing. He paused shakily before pinching the sharp tip. Starscream's shudder of pleasure made the medic's optics seize and a groan lock up in his vocalizer.
"There," Starscream continued because he never ever shut up, and he reciprocated by digging his claws into the doctor's grill. "One... eighteen... point..."
Ratchet booted his audials strong in confusion before realizing what the hell that was. With another groan his free hand practically slammed over chestplate, feeling the intricate sharp metal and just staring stupid when Starscream shook from the contact.
"Three-zero... ahh..."
He scratched at a seam. Two more numbers. Just two.
"Ei-eight..."
Fingers carefully dipped under a plate, static rippling up his arm.
"One..."
East, West? Like coordinates were really on his mind right now. Bulkhead was right over there, he would hear him if he—he needed to just—Frag it, Ratchet flared his field so that it snapped against Starscream, his own system screaming at him for more stimulation.
"Where? East or West?"
The aerial squirmed in his grip. Ratchet's optics were so heated from the sight that they burned.
"Yes..."
"West?" Come on, come on. He heard Bulkhead say something, commlinking to base, frag, come on, scrap. Starscream's vocalizer whined in static and Ratchet ground his denta. His processor was still nagging at him, various suggestions popping up like request to document Seeker overload core temperature and I wonder if his vocalizer lives up to his designation? Ratchet scratched his fingers bluntly against a wing panel, digging under it until it fluttered.
"West."
He released the Decepticon in a push, falling backwards from him and scrambling up. "Bridge us back!" Ratchet shouted, logging the coordinates in his processor and desperately trying to control his fans as the bridge appeared.
Starscream's glare could've snuffed out a spark.
• • •
Ratchet ran to the computer so fast he almost tripped over his own pede. He fought with his fans in a struggle of I need to cool down right now and but my fans are so loud. They stuttered before he finally forced them to halt, and he practically assaulted the keyboard.
"Whoa, whoa," Arcee vocalized from the bridge lever. "Ratchet, are you hurt?"
The medic laughed loudly and hated himself immediately afterward. "No," he forced out, insides steaming. "We have another set. Where's Optimus?"
"Defrag," she answered, looking to Bulkhead who shrugged helplessly.
"Good, he'll see this when he wakes," Ratchet responded quickly, minimizing a few windows and grabbing a vial of coolant before making his leave into the corridor.
Arcee stared after him, and looked to the children, who were pretending not to have been watching. Quick on her pedes, she followed into the hall and turned the doctor by his arm. His optics cycled in a fluster and she pressed her mouth thin.
"Ratchet." Her vocals were at a low volume.
Ratchet was silent, a string of Cybertronian swear codes running though his processor.
Arcee's optics were narrowed, looking into his, searching. She let go of his arm and put a hand over her faceplate. "You... you haven't been...?"
Oh, scrapshit son of a glitched shareware—
"You know better than to mess around with Synth-En, Ratchet."
Ratchet nearly dropped the vial in his hands. "What—I haven't—"
Arcee waved a hand. "Look. I won't tell Optimus. But only if you throw out whatever stock you've got," she offered, expression dulling into concern. Wow, holy frag, she really did need to keep a better supply of optic cleanser if she couldn't tell the color of Ratchet's eyes. He bit back a laugh and clutched the coolant.
"Thank you, Arcee," he forced out. With a smile that made Ratchet feel incredibly guilty, she patted his arm and left.
Once alone in his room, the medic's self-control deteriorated and he laughed at himself until his plating went pale.