C.M.D: This is a collaboration piece I ended up doing with my good friend Randomus-Prime, because we couldn't stop talking about how certain appointments would play out under the available medic at each faction. This was a tough write at times -I'm not the greatest with humor (getting better every day though!) and we were so divided at times about what characters to write, we legit ended up drawing names from a hat.
Hope that everyone enjoys my lame attempts at humor anyways! Originally posted god-knows-when now...
They call him the Hatchet for a reason...
"What the slag happened to you?"
Ratchet looked at the little scout stretched out on the medical berth, optics shuttering in disbelief. Bumblebee was mangled -no, it could only be worse than that. He was scuffed, banged, dented and scratched; including being covered in all manners of twigs, waste and mud. The CMO thought he even noticed a mosquito mushed against the yellow helm. At his enquiry, the youngling glared at the medic.
"You don't want to know...," Bumblebee grumbled, crossing his arms over his chassis testily.
"Oh, I bet I don't," Ratchet replied, stepping forward cautiously. After the "roller-blading" up a skyscraper incident and the youngling's previous CPU jumble from extreme excessive game-play, if the medic had learned anything, it was that it was safer not to ask how these things happened. Better to fix Bumblebee and hope the little mech stayed that way for a couple days. As Ratchet approached Bumblebee, he got whiff of the nasty smell coming of the scout. "I'm assuming you're here to get fixed, then?"
"Duh! Why else would I come to the medbay? It sure isn't to bask in your flowery presence."
"Watch your glossa, youngling," the medic snapped, getting real tired of Bumblebee's attitude fast. "I can break you apart in several ways to the Pit and back, so don't try me."
The scout cringed at the threat, eyeing the doorway fearfully. When he finally looked back to Ratchet, it was with a simpering expression, though agitation still simmered in the corners of his optics. "It's my transformation cog... I think I broke it. I had to walk all the way home from the woods. Either that, or I tore something real awful. The pain is killing me though."
"Right, lie down and let me have a look," Ratchet sighed, gesturing for Bumblebee to do as he said, while heading to the cupboards for his tools. "And why were you out in the woods? I thought you hated them."
"I do," Bumblebee grumbled. "But I got a comm to head on over there. Something about Bulkhead needing me or something... but when I got there, nobody was around! Then trees started falling, and the animals were acting funny... They chased me all the way to a cliff and over the edge into a swamp. I think that's when I broke something."
Ratchet nodded his helm, humming softly in response to the youngling's ranting, gently prying open the yellow mech's chestplates and taking a peek inside. He was only listening with half an audio, more concerned with the complicated mass of wires, tubing and sensor nodes that met his optics. He picked and prodded about, locating Bumblebee's transformation cog which, indeed, was cracked. It was nothing too serious, but it would need to be replaced if the scout ever wanted to transform again. The medic wondered if he still had a spare in his cupboards...
"Then I had to walk through Detroit. Have you ever walked through Detroit, docbot?," Bumblebee rambled behind the CMO. "Well, I wouldn't suggest doing it. Everyone was laughing at me or staring, and then some stupid kids ran up and started pelting me with eggs! And the other drivers were honking their horns at me, constantly. I don't even know why!"
Ratchet thought he might have known the reason behind that, the ambulance noted as he headed back for the whining 'bot. Invisible to Bumblebee's own optics were a serious of bumper stickers, covering the underside of the youngling's chassis and over his aft.
Caution! I can go from zero to annoying in 2.5 seconds.
Sarcasm: just another service I offer.
Honk if you love me.
The Earth is full -go home.
I haven't lost my mind, it's backed up on disk somewhere.
Honk if you think I'm obnoxious.
Chuck Norris is my sugar daddy.
Honk if you're horny.
On and on they went, all of them placed almost seamlessly beside the others, over-lapping sometimes but not enough to cover the messages they carried. They practically covered Bumblebee's backside! It was surprising that Ratchet hadn't noticed them straight away. Whoever put them on had a bone to pick with the scout... and had the patience and skill of Prowl. No one but a ninja 'bot could have pulled a prank like this off, though the thought of the motorcycle doing anything this juvenile was ridiculous.
"Just who did you slag off this time, kid?," Ratchet asked, getting back to work.
Bumblebee lifted his helm, gazing at the medic in puzzlement. "What are you talking about?"
Well, if he wasn't aware of the bumper stickers, then Ratchet sure wasn't going to tell him. He was beginning to find this entire situation pretty amusing. His favourite sticker had to be the one about yellow and idiots.
"Sounds like someone's out to get you," the CMO explained, removing the broken cog and preparing to place in the new one.
"...that could explain why Jetstorm and Jetfire were laughing this morning... I bet they were the ones that spiked my energon with hot sauce."
An optic ridge rose on Ratchet's face. "Come again?"
Bumblebee ignored the medic's confusion, grumbling to himself still. "And of course, there was that shelf that fell and broke my game controller, then before that, someone poured glue all over my room floor..."
"Just how long has this been going on?," Ratchet asked, soldering the last of the cog in place.
"Not sure," Bumblebee shrugged. "I guess about that time me and Sari got into a fight."
"That was two weeks ago! Haven't you two kids made up already?"
"Hey, it was her fault! She was making a fuss and punched me for going into her room. I don't understand why... it's not like she's got anything to look at."
Ratchet pulled away, staring at the scout in disbelief. Seeing that the medic was stunned into idle, Bumblebee sat up, closing his chestplates with a small click. "Hey, nothing hurts anymore! Thanks, docbot."
"Wait...," Ratchet started, raising his hand as the youngling slid off the berth. "You didn't walk in while she was changing, did you? And please, for the love of Cybertron, don't tell me that's how you really responded."
"She was the one being weird. Honestly, what's up the term 'changing' anyhow? It's not like Sari needs oil changes, so what does she have to change?"
It was very hard for the medic not to slam his face into his palm.
"Ooh, hey! Is that deodorizer?"
Ratchet looked to where Bumblebee was heading, noticing a slim shadow slink away from the counters. "Wait, no, kid, don't-!"
But the yellow mech had already picked up the spray bottle, spritzing himself down in a generous amount of the mystery fluid. Even Ratchet could tell it was not a deodorizer -if anything, it made the scout smell even worse.
"Urgh, what is this stuff?," Bumblebee gagged, dropping the rest of the bottle back on the counter. There was the small buzz of insect wings as a lone fly began to zig-zag toward the youngling. Scowling, Bumblebee tried to wave the bug off. "Shoo! Go somewhere else!"
The wind from his shaking servo was enough to send the fly back a few meters, but it readjusted course and was buzzing for the scout not long after. This time, it was joined by a second. And then a third. More and more flies were rising from the distant corners of the rooms; drifting in through cracks and holes in the ceilings or walls, and all flying directly for Bumblebee.
"Leave me alone!," the youngling wailed, racing from the room. The insects, oddly, all flew after him.
Thinking it was safe for the time being, Ratchet slowly stepped towards the bottle, picking it up and giving it an experimental sniff. As he had thought, it was insect pheromones. Well, Sari was really upset with the scout, and Bumblebee wasn't making it easier on himself by refusing to apologize.
You think being on Earth this long would have taught him not to walk into a girl's room unannounced.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Ratchet knew it was going to be one of those days.
He could feel it the moment he came online; sharp, edgy jolts of electricity running down his back struts in disjointed loops. He was practically waiting for the moment when someone would randomly come up behind him and attack him, or dump some other crazy, screw-loose problem into his lap.
Surprisingly, Primus did not hold back.
Ratchet was cleaning some of his tools in the medbay, glad for the relative peace and quiet that he was able to get so rarely. His CPU nearly crashed when the doors were thrown open behind him; twirling in his chair with a snarl, ready to chew out the offensive mech. Words stuttered on the tip of his glossa when he saw that his loud visitor was actually two -and both very obviously upset.
"What hearing this?!," Jetstorm shouted, stomping up to the CMO.
"Y-you cheating?!," Jetfire croaked, following in his twin's steps. Coolant was pooling about their optics as the both of them glared at Ratchet.
Warily, Ratchet backed away, cursing when he ran into the medical berth. "W-what the frag are you talking about?," he grumbled back.
"Y-you...!"
"With smelly mech of junk!," Jetstorm cried. "You b-being of interfacing with him... in, in this room very!"
Ratchet's bewilderment quickly was replaced with anger as he absorbed what the jettwins had just told him. "Now wait just one slagging astrosecond!," the CMO ordered. "I would, number one: Never cheat on any of my bondmates. And two: I would never even think, let alone actually want to, interface with that crazy, backwards bolts-for-brains! Who told you such ridiculous things in the first place?"
Jetstorm and Jetfire blinked in surprise, wiping the coolant from their eyes quickly. "R-really?," they asked together. "Y-you want of us just? But small yellow one saying you being with smelly mech..."
Ratchet was going to dismantle Bumblebee when he got his servos on him.
"Of course I want only you two...," the medic answered softly, frown fading just a little for them. He raised his servos and petted each of their helms. The jettwins revved their engines in contentment, leaning further into the touch.
"Now," Ratchet cut in, pulling his servos away again. He ignored the whines that followed at the action. "Why don't you younglings run along. I've got work to do."
Jetfire and Jetstorm pouted as the CMO turned his back to them, stepping around the berth and over to the counters. They didn't want to leave just yet, not when they hadn't seen the older mech in so long! Especially with some garbage-picking mech invading on their territory. Suddenly, a devious idea came to their processors, and the jettwins glanced at each other, grinning mischievously.
"Ratchet, sir."
Ratchet held in his sigh, turning around again to face the flyers. "What do you want no-" The CMO nearly swallowed his glossa in shock, faceplates colouring with boiling energon; engine rumbling suddenly into the silence.
Jetfire arched on the berth, grinding against Jetstorm; interface equipment exposed to the atmosphere. "S-sir...," Jetstorm whimpered, pushing up into his brother, keeping his visor fixed on Ratchet the entire time. Even when Jetfire reached down and started to lick his neck cables.
"D-doctor... ready be-being are we for e-examination," they moaned in unison. "W-won't coming you to c-check us?"
Ratchet could feel his cooling fans roar to life, heat slithering through his circuitry and pooling in his codpiece. "F-frag...," he hissed, trying to remain in control.
What little restraint he had was broken as soon as those gorgeous younglings' let their chestplates slide open, revealing their beautiful, twirling sparks.
X
"Hey, man, you okay?"
Jazz peered into Bumblebee's faceplates, waving a servo before the scout's optics. The yellow 'bot didn't even acknowledge him; arms wrapped around his chassis tightly and staring off into the distance like he had been for the past couple breems.
"What happened to him?," the cyberninja asked, turning to look at the others.
"Uh..."
"Shouldn't we get ol' Ratch to look at him?," Jazz asked, waving his servo once more before Bumblebee's optics. Still no response.
"I don't think that's gonna happen...," Bulkhead coughed uncomfortably from behind the group. Jazz gave his attention fully to the big, green mech. There was a question in the cyberninja's visor.
"A-apparently, Bumblebee walked into... a, umm, interesting situation in the medbay," Optimus attempted to supply; even the level-headed 'bot's faceplates darkening with a blush. "T-there was some, uh, c-curious noises coming from the room, a-and he went t-to go see..."
"How could he do that!," Bumblebee suddenly shouted. "Oh, Primus! The screams! He-he-he-he... i-interfacing... Primus, his spike! I-i-i saw it, by the All-Spark. MAKE THE IMAGES GO AWAAAYYY!"
Jazz blinked, stepping back as the yellow scout began rocking in place, trembling all over, his optics losing focus of everything around him once again. Slowly, the cyberninja turned his helm, studying the rest of the group. Prowl looked unconcerned by everything that was happening, and appeared as if he was about ready to head out the door. Optimus and Bulkhead though were deeply flushed, obviously embarrassed.
"So... I'm guessing none of you knew about Ratchet and the twins, huh?"
Prowl sniffed. "Serves him right for opening his big mouth."
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
"You're idiots..."
"C'mon, Ratchet...," Sari whined, squeaking in fright and scurrying out of the way as Bulkhead rattled on the medbay berth. The giant green mech lurched forward, purging all across the warehouse floor.
"Oh, Primus...," Ratchet scowled, stepping back quickly to avoid the rapidly growing puddle of projected waste.
"D-doc...I...ah..."
More mech vomit across the floor.
"Use a slagging bucket, will ya?!," Ratchet screeched, picking up a bucket and thrusting it at the heavy-load military van.
Bulkhead fumbled to grasp it with his pincers before he was sticking his head in it, purging loudly. The medic shivered at the nasty sounds, turning around to try and catch the little techno-organic girl that had come in with the green 'bot earlier.
"Sari...," he growled, seeing her attempt to sneak out the door. The girl cringed and then attempted to bolt the last of the distance out the door. The CMO simply raised his servos, capturing Sari in his magnet beams.
"What did you do?"
"W-what are you talking about, Ratchet? I didn't do anything."
He hung her upside down, staring into her eyes with a deadpan expression. "What did you do," he repeated.
"I-i already said..."
Bulkhead purged again behind them.
Sari flinched, smiling up at Ratchet guiltily. "Okay, okay, so I may of, um... m-may have allowed Bulkhead to try some of Burger Palace's value meal..."
"And?," the medic asked, catching a string of scents passing his olfactory sensors. They made him scowl further as the smells became nearly enough for him to want to purge as well.
"And...uh," Sari mumbled, tapping her index fingers together anxiously, "T-that may have been followed by, umm, f-fifty-seven pixie sticks and, uh, an extra large milkshake that Bumblebee and the jettwins d-decided to spike with Bulkhead's paint thinner..."
That explained the somewhat alcoholic nature of Bulkhead's excrements.
The green mech moaned pitifully as he lifted his head up from the bucket; fans whirling and intakes hitching as he attempted to breathe.
"Why?," Ratchet asked blandly. He fought the urge to shake the little techno-organic. "What ever in the entire universe could prompt you to feed a Cybertronian PIXIE STICKS!?"
"...I think Van Gogh is staring back at me..."
"That's nice, Bulkhead. You just keep purging until I can fix you up a nice tonic for your fuel tanks." The CMO pinned Sari with a stern look.
"What?!," the girl whined. "It wasn't really my fault! He was alright until the milkshake, and the others were the ones who decided to mess with it. I was the only not to run away when Bulkhead starting vomiting all over the place, and I brought him here too!"
"I'll give you a gold star later," Ratchet growled, finally setting the techno-organic down. "In the meantime, you get to play lil' Miss Nursebot. And you can start by helping to mop up this mess."
Sari looked at the collected pool of oil-tainted energon, tossed with bits of bolts, wires and regurgitated hamburger, in disbelief before turning her horrified face to the CMO. "Y-you're kidding... right?"
"Pixie Sticks," was all Ratchet responded with, bringing out a mop from subspace and handing it to the girl. He ignored her tiny, pitiful whimpers and turned to the medbay cupboards.
"H-hey Sari... I r-really do think t-the bucket is staring back at me..."
"That's nice, Bulkhead. Really. If you don't mind though, I gotta- Aiiiiieeeee!"
Ratchet turned at the scream, watching as Sari slipped on some of Bulkhead's waste; flailing comically with mop still in hand before landing back first into the pile of half-processed fluids. "Ah...ah...ah...AHHHHHHH!," the girl screamed, slowly sitting herself and gagging at the mech vomit that now covered her from head to toe.
"Use the bucket!," Ratchet yelled almost hysterically, kicking a garbage pail at the techno-organic. It hit her square in the stomach, before Sari was wrapping her arms around it and puking inside the container as well. "...Great, now I've got to clean that up as well...," the medic grumbled tiredly to himself.
Could this day get any worse?
"No, wait, it's just Wreck-gar..."
"D-didn't you j-just purge into...Blagh!"
"...I purged on... Wreck-gar...? Oh..."
"I am Wreck-gar and I've been purged on!"
"Ah, slag..." He forgot about the putting the garbage 'bot back together...
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Why me, Ratchet wondered. Why did he always get stuck with the weirdos.
"And so, I explained to that poor ignorant youngling that seeker wings were rare commodities, thus making seekers themselves the ideal of Cybertronian beauty. I wasn't about to change my entire alt-mode though, obviously; I'm an Autobot and the last thing I want to do is become a seeker -they've had too many connections to Decepticons, and their image is tarnished. But with a little tweaking I was able to procure these wings; a much easier solution to attaining seeker beauty."
"...as if I really care...," Ratchet grumbled, ignoring his patient's rambling. "Listen, would you just shut up about your fragging looks already, kid? I certainly don't care, and if you can't mute it yourself, then I'll be happy to disconnect your vocalizer."
"The name is Tracks," the other mech sniffed derisively. "Not 'kid'. I'm certainly no youngling... shall I prove it to you?," Tracks purred, flickering his wings slightly and spreading his legs provocatively.
"No, thanks," the CMO replied, shivering a little at his patient's flirting. What was with the young generation and lusting after older 'bots? "I'm happily bonded, and I'm sure my mates wouldn't take kindly to your actions." Kindly, his aft. Jetstorm and Jetfire had almost blown a gasket when they thought he was having an affair with Wreck-gar. They would surely go ballistic if they thought their bondmate was cheating with an older mech who was actually coming on to the medic.
"Mates?," the tri-coloured Autobot leered. "My, my, my Mr. Medic... Playing the field even at your age?"
Ratchet resisted the urge to hit himself over the head with his own wrench. Why did he even bother opening his mouth sometimes? "Yes. Not that it's any of your business," the CMO growled, trying to return to the examination. "Why did you even call for me? Couldn't this be done by someone else; First Aid, for example. Surely he's got enough credentials for your taste."
"He's been seen with some inscrutable company," Tracks answered, inspecting his fingers distractedly. "I don't want such a 'bot poking around my inner circuitry."
"And I don't have a bad rep, what with the organics and all?"
The other mech was silent for an astrosecond. "You're excusable," he finally answered. In between the lines was the message declaring that the other medbots were of lower-class, and therefore, worthless by Tracks' standards. He would have the best, or none at all. "Besides," Tracks purred again, "I wouldn't be able to spend such private time with a handsome mech like yourself if I hadn't decided to see you."
Ratchet frowned deeper. "I told you to stop that."
"Yes, I know... because of your bondmates, correct? Tell me about them?"
"No," was the quick reply. "We're here for your tune-up, not my auto-biography. Now mute it!"
Tracks though, refused to let the subject drop.
"Younger or older?," he asked.
"Must be younger," he added after a moment, "Judging from how tense you are. My, such a naughty 'bot~ It's a shame really, if you were still single, I'd definitely snatch you up. You must have some prowess in the berth to keep two 'bots by your side constantly..."
Ratchet clicked his audio receptors off, deciding that if he couldn't get the younger Autobot to shut up, then he at least wouldn't continue to listen to his prattling. The medic really didn't care for 'bots of Tracks' model type. They were always so chatty, caring more about looks and trends then they did about people. And they were horrible gossips as well. The sooner he finished this exam though, the faster he could boot the mech's aft out of his medbay; so Ratchet did his best to reign in his frustration for the tri-coloured Autobot and complete his scans.
Something on the monitors caught his attention, and the CMO looked at it in his disbelief for a nanoklik, before adjusting his scanners and doing another check. The results came out the same. Slowly, a diabolical smile came to Ratchet's lip components, and he casually removed his scanners off of Tracks, beginning to hum a merry tune.
"...heard that security 'bots are exceptionally great in the berth. Something about all that stress build-up releasing itself all at once for one amazing overload. Sounds like something I'd love to try, but really, who has the time to deal with their wayward emotional programming on a regular basis? Those types of mechs are practically glitchy from the get-go, and they certainly don't trust enough to sleep with some random 'bot. You'd have to actually get to know them before you even get close to kissing. I just don't have the time for that and... umm, you're humming." Tracks finally silenced his chatter, realizing for the first time that his examination was done... and the medic was humming. An eerily jaunty tune that clashed with the crazy smile on his faceplates. Fidgeting, the tri-coloured mech glanced around the room, suddenly wary that he might be attacked or the like.
"I-is... is everything alright, doctor?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Everything is quite alright," Ratchet continued to smile, putting away his equipment. "Your systems are fully operational. In fact, I dare say they are running the best I have ever seen on a mech. Then again, they do have a new spark to think of now."
"Oh, well in that case -wait, WHAT?!"
"Sorry, did I mumble?," Ratchet asked innocently. "Pardon me, let me repeat myself. Congratulations, you are sparked!"
"I-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i," Tracks stuttered, rouge faceplates paling to a sickly pink.
"It means you're pregnant."
"I know what it means!," the slim Autobot shouted. "B-but, I-i-i-i mean, I-i c-can't possibly be..."
Ratchet continued to grin, doing his best to hide his chuckles as he approached the other mech. He patted Tracks' shoulder hard, practically jostling the stunned 'bot. "Give my thanks to the father!," he said, before turning and leaving the medbay.
Tracks continued to stutter after him. But as the doors shut, a strangled yell seeped through the metal walls. "I'M GOING TO LOOK TERRIBLE WITH A SWOLLEN CHASSIS!"
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
"Hey kid... how you feeling?"
Rodimus looked up from the floor, a grin coming to his faceplates as he saw who had entered his room. "You must be the legendary Ratchet then, huh?"
Ratchet paused by the young Prime's berth, optics running through the contents of the datapad he held in his servos. When he was finished his quick check, he returned his gaze to the other Autobot, taking note of the dark, metallic decay eating away at Rodimus' paintjob. "I suppose that would be me," the CMO replied. "Though I certainly don't understand why. Anyways... I came at First Aid's request. He wanted me to see how you were doing. So, how do you feel?
"What? Oh... well, as good as any 'bot would be, still recovering from Cosmic Rust. Since I'm still alive, I'm not gonna complain."
"Really now? I've heard otherwise."
At that, Rodimus laughed. Ratchet kept his faceplates even on the outside, but inside, he was grinning just as much as the Prime. "Well now, I guess that can't be helped," the flame-coloured mech chortled still, servo held behind his helm sheepishly. "My reputation does have the habit of preceding me... Not that First Aid's gossiping helps."
"So I can safely assume that you were indeed sneaking out from the medbay to the training grounds then?," Ratchet asked casually.
"Yeah... about that..."
Rodimus cut off his confession with a yelp, falling backwards on the berth as a wrench was smacked against the side of his helm. Blinking back the coolant along his optics, the young mech grinned wryly up at the medic, servos rubbing the dent in his helm. "I was beginning to wonder if maybe I had the wrong mech," the Prime said. "You were being too nice, after all."
"Nice to see that my reputation precedes me," Ratchet smirked back. "Now," he continued, frowning again, "Explain to me why you thought it was smart in that foolhardy processor of yours, to go running off and putting strain on your recovering body. I know well enough that you haven't been fully repaired and that the Cosmic Rust has put you out of commission lately."
"With all due respect sir, my systems are at 85 percent capacity. More than enough to function, and plenty more for me to resume my training regime. Though I may be listed as 'under medical leave' on the Elite Guard docket, it is no excuse for me to sit here and idle -not when more time can be spent bettering my skills and ensuring that such an event as this never happens again."
Ratchet couldn't help it -he hit Rodimus again.
"And with all due respect, sir, I dislike being called in to chase down some over-zealous youngling who doesn't know when to call it quits," the CMO growled.
Rodimus wasn't grinning this time. He winced, lightly tracing the dent that had been deepened with the medic's second swing. "I don't see why it matters...," he pouted.
"You were found tangled up in your own bowstrings on the training field! If Jetstorm and Jetfire hadn't found you, you'd be nothing more than scrapped metal, riddled with holes from the field cannons the new recruits were gonna use later that joor!"
"...that was an accident..."
"Whatever," Ratchet grumbled, safely setting his wrench aside. The flame-coloured Prime visibly relaxed once the tool was out of the medic's servos. Catching sight of it only made the red and white Autobot frown further. Primus... what was with all these Primes? None of them had given him as much grief as Optimus had. Though the firetruck had been his own amount of grief and annoyance to the CMO.
"If you're so bored, I can always put you to work."
Rodimus turned his helm away from Ratchet, avoiding optic-contact with the older 'bot. "When did you say Perceptor was going to have the rest of my antidote finished?"
"I didn't...," Ratchet replied. He crossed his arms over his chassis. "Not so quick to jump at the chance of doing paperwork, huh? Well too bad for you... First Aid won't stop whining, so until you're fit enough to be released, you and me will be spending a lot of "quality time" together."
The CMO paused to allow himself to grin darkly at the stunned Prime. "I hope you haven't forgotten your standard formatting skills. We've got a lot datapads to sort through."
Rodimus amazingly managed to keep in his sigh, though his optics clearly showed the mech's resigned defeat at this twist of events. "As you command sir," the Prime said, rising to his pedes.
Nodding his helm contently, Ratchet spun on his pede and headed for the room's door. The flame-coloured Autobot followed behind the CMO obligingly; silent for the first few astroseconds. Eventually though, boredom got the best of the young Prime and he interrupted the silence with a:
"So... you're really gonna bond with Jetfire and Jetstorm?"
"What the frag is with all the gossips in this slaghole!"
"Ah c'mon... have a little pity on a poor, injured 'bot. Is it true you've already interfaced with them?"
"Keep talking and I'm leaving you out on the training field, gagged and bound with your own bowstrings again. And this time, I'll make sure no one finds you in time."
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Perceptor onlined with a choke, lurching up on the berth.
"Relax," came a gruff voice, "You're in the medbay. That blast did a number on you. Why you willing spend so much time with Wheeljack, when it's common knowledge that every one of his experiments are volatile in nature, is beyond me... but count your diodes that the last explosion didn't offline you both."
"R-ratchet?," the scientist squeaked. A flash of panic hit the mech and he raised a hand quickly to his vocalizer.
Ratchet sighed at the typical response, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. "Don't strain yourself too much. I just finished reattaching your right arm and leg, including replacing some broken cogs and repairing damaged programming. It'll take an orn or two before everything syncs up smoothly again."
"P-programming?," Perceptor croaked again. "R-ratchet, wh-what programming did you-?"
"Your firewalls for one," the medic interjected quickly. He crossed his arms over his chassis, frowning at the microscope. "You and your aversion to medics is beyond ridiculous paranoia. I decided to use your stasis lock to my advantage and update all security systems. I could see you did some of your own personal updates, which made it a slagging pit of a time trying to work around your customizations without accidentally crashing your entire CPU."
"B-but..."
"Mute it!," Ratchet growled. "I ain't finished yet. I spent a few good cycles trailing mass amounts of corrupted data, trying to place the source and then a few more cycles erasing and rewriting them, correcting your system's standard subroutines. I'm a little tired after doing all this, so don't you dare say a word of complaint otherwise!"
The CMO's glare was enough to make most want to cower and hide away, but Perceptor, overwhelmed by a stream of incoming data was not so inclined to do so. Steeling himself, the scientist straightened up on the berth, servos curled tightly in his lap.
"Ratchet," he started, attempting to maintain the dull, apathetic speech patterns he had been speaking with for vorns, "Please undo all coding that you have implemented. Retaining function was all that was necessary; additional maintenance not vital."
"You're feeling it, aren't you?," Ratchet asked, ignoring Perceptor's request.
"Ratchet, you are-"
"Tell me, Perceptor, what are your thoughts on Wheeljack?"
Without his re-routers gone, Perceptor could not stop the blush that rose to his cheeks. He had to fight back the onslaught of archived memory files rushing to the forefront of his processor, trying to stay focused on the medic before him.
"I-i-i-i-i-i-i-"
Ratchet frowned deeper. "I know you can be pretty oblivious when you're wrapped up in your work, but you're not an idiot either. I hardly believe you never noticed his feelings for you."
It was too much! The rush of emotional feedback was making his spark pulse erratically; vorns and vorns of repressed data jolting angrily across his circuits and flaring sharply in every place within his chassis. The flood of information was building higher and higher, 'til the point that the microscope thought he might simply overload from the turbulent feelings. Unsurprisingly, coolant sprung just underneath his optics; pooling together thickly and threatening to fall down his cheekplates.
"R-ratchet...," Perceptor gasped.
The CMO approached the tearful scientist, sliding an arm about the other mech's shoulder plating comfortingly. "It's alright, Perceptor. Let it out. The amount of back-up data will fry your CPU if you try to keep it all bottled up inside. We shouldn't expect any other response from your systems really... it's been centuries after all."
"B-but, t-the war!," the scientist sobbed, lifting a servo to his mouth to try and smother the whimpers falling past his lip components.
"The war is over now, Perceptor," Ratchet replied softly. "We have Megatron in the stockades finally, and his top lieutenants with him. It's only a matter of time before the rest of the rogue Decepticons are rounded up and locked away as well. The fighting for us, for this century, is over."
Perceptor cried some more, wiping at his optics. "I-i-i... I'm frightened, Ratchet," he confessed in a watery, weak whisper.
"I know it, kid, I know. But, that's why you have us." The medic smiled, one of the rare ones he showed anybot. "Ultra Magnus, myself... Primus, even the young ones, Optimus, Rodimus and Jazz; the Jettwins especially. I hear they're particularly attached to you. We're all here for you -to help you adjust and adapt without all those firewalls. I'm sure Wheeljack would be very eager to assist as well."
The blush returned, even brighter than last.
Eyeing Ratchet warily, Perceptor cleared away the last of his tears, trying to appear unaffected by the CMO's not so subtle jab. "Y-you're persistent. I am curious to know why you are so set on playing match-maker."
"No reason," Ratchet replied, shaking a servo nonchalantly in the air.
"Ratchet..."
"I just thought you two should stop scooting around each other, is all."
"Ratchet..." A serious frown now.
"...And maybe try to limit the crazy things that mech does while he's trying to get your attention."
A sigh.
"Ah, gimme a break!," the medic scowled. "I'm getting too old to deal with anymore flying excrement of any sort or running for my very function because of a half-bolt, screw loose mad engineer with a penchant for making everything explode."
"...so you'd prefer that I be berthing this insane mech at every available turn to counter-act his instability and backfiring inventions...?"
"That about sums it up," Ratchet agreed. He patted the smaller mech on the shoulder. "I'm sure the rest of the galaxy would appreciate your sacrifice."
Perceptor shuttered his optics, silent for an astrosecond. "Point taken."
XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Waking up was dying.
"Sari... go ahead, use your key."
It was the first thing he heard as he came to life and died all over again.
Slowly, his engines purred into motion; systems and motherboard humming as circuits freshly built surged with new energy, feeding the vibrant flame of his spark deep in his chassis. Even the sudden onslaught of archived memory files could not overwhelm the hot zing of electricity jolting across his sensory array. But they could cripple his spark...
"Hey, kid... it's me, Ratchet. You remember me?"
His optics onlined, staring up at a steel-grey ceiling. White lights shone down on him from overhead. The other's features were darkened by shadows, but he could still recognize the CMO from Earth. Beside the medbot's helm was another... a face of a human that he could not recall.
"Ratchet...," the organic asked, glancing away from him to stare at the Autobot. "Are you sure that he's really fixed?"
Fixed? No, he wanted to say, there was no way he was really repaired. His vocalizer remained muted though.
"Hush," Ratchet hissed to the human. "Sari, go inform the others that Blurr is back online. I'm just gonna run some last minute diagnostics now that he's conscious."
Sari looked as if she was going to refuse, but finally the organic acquiesced to the CMO's order and pulled away from his line of sight. Alone now, or so he assumed, Ratchet turned his full focus downwards. "C'mon, time to get up."
A servo was sliding under his back struts, forcing him upwards into a sitting position. He followed the motion, not even bothering to resist. He looked about the medbay distantly, catching sight of the disentangled mess of scraps nearly hidden on a table just out of the light. He immediately recognized the paint colour -it was the same one he wore now.
"I know, kid, I know...," Ratchet sighed, stepping into his line of sight and blocking the table from view. His optics met with the CMO's and he was marginally surprised to see the depth of understanding and compassion there. That feeling quickly faded back under his veil of apathy.
"It's hard... and it hurts... but you just have to shove on, while you're still functioning."
There was wisdom in those words, but not what he wanted to hear. How could this stranger possibly understand? What did he have that could compare to that spark-tearing feeling of betrayal; soft, gentle servos and a quiet voice becoming scathing remarks and vicious claws. The face of a friend twisted to a new one, where morality did not inhibit crushing another to death. A punishment for knowledge that should have been final.
It wasn't.
He wished it had been.
A servo took hold of his own, leading him off the berth, pulling him towards the door. "Promise me, kid, promise me this very moment. I've spent decacycles building you a new frame, and preparing for a spark transfer ever since Sari found you. Promise me that you will try to live and not squander this chance you've got at a fresh start. At least, for a little while..."
He knew he wasn't going to be left alone until he had made his promise. Quietly, he agreed, and was rewarded by Ratchet's shoulders lightening just the faintest. But in his spark, he was torn to find that for the first time he had lied and deceived a fellow Autobot. And he felt no remorse for it.
Blurr was rebuilt... but Blurr he was no more.
Death had been waking up to reality.