Title: „A Good Friend"
Status: One-Shot; Complete
Fandom: Transformers, G1 (on Cybertron)
Characters/Pairing: Ratchet, Prowl
Word Count: 938
Disclaimer: I would love to own Transformers, but that honor belongs to Hasbro and some others. Shame!
Rating: K/T
Beta: The great snare-chan! Thank you so much for your help!
Summary: Being a medic is never easy, especially with a civil war raging practically right in front of your hospital. Knowing this, Prowl drops in for a little chat...
Warning/Genre/AN: none; friendship
Please R& R ^v^ Constructive criticism, suggestions, comments, – all that is most welcome!
A Good Friend
War.
The screams, agonized and static-drained, were wailing subsonic bursts. Detonations and laser fire almost drowned them out.
Frames lay strewn between ruins, warped beyond their breaking points and charred to black. Wounds sparked were gabs were torn in the plating.
The stench of energon, fried circuitry, molten metal and drying coolant hung over everything. Sweet and so bitter, even thicker than the sharp tang of evaporating sparks. Souls just vanished, like cyber-fireflies. So fragile, for nearly immortal beings.
Even worse: the aftermath. When bonds lay broken, friends and kin howled in rage or wept in despair, or just stood and stared at the gray frames in disbelief...
Ratchet dealt with all of that - up close and personal. He does. Some cycles are better than others. He's a medic. The simple fact is he's slagging good at treating patients...
But Primus knows – it was, and is, never enough. It always came down to the one mech he couldn't save. And now they fight in a war, so the numbers of the lost multiply.
XXX
"Prowl." Ratchet bobbed his helm in some sort of greeting, feeling a bit too unsteady for his liking; most of all, his servos shook. "What can I do for you?"
Ratchet was too tired to put up with any slag from the SIC. So many patients were sent in this cycle alone that his small staff and he had pulled triple shifts. But even now, there was no end to it. He was on his way back into the operating room as it was.
There was no longer peace or laughter to be found in Iacon – the missiles whistled through the darkness even now. The shields held, but barely. A siege, till this wave of assailants was thrown back or crushed and the next came after a short, much needed break. The spark of Cybertron was torn and seeping energon, and Ratchet could not deny that he despised that image as much as he thought it fitting.
Civil war.
"My apologies. I am aware of your busy schedule," the rigid Praxian said. Prowl pulled a datapad from subspace and offered it. "The reports you required about our medical supplies. My estimation indicates that our current resources will last us four orbital cycles."
Ratchet shuttered his optics in a blink of surprise. He took the proffered item and scrolled through the data. Everything was listed meticulously, from data-blockers to spark support equipment, and down to the last derma-patch.
Ratchet had already been resigned to do the supply check-run himself, sacrificing some precious off-shifts to make the time. Everybot just seemed to cross their digits and hope the stuff would last them. Right. So much for the wise Council.
Ratchet realized belatedly that he just stood and stared at the 'pad in his servo. He felt strangely more surefooted, now.
"When the Pit did you manage to draw up all this? Scratch that: When was the last time you properly recharged, you stupid glitch? Prowl, you're Optimus' second, we need you fully functional, not running yourself into stasis! You should have assigned -"
"It was more efficient this way. I had to take stock anyway, seeing as one of our supply lines was taken out. I merely provided a copy for you."
Ratchet's servo itched for a wrench he actually wanted to use, for once, to knock some sense into Prowl. But seeing the slightly flared out doorwings changed his processor.
"You are welcome, Ratchet," the tactician said, with the barest inkling of a knowing smile.
From Enforcer to Council Aide to Second in Command to the Autobots – you couldn't know a mech through all that without getting under each other's plating. It enabled you to know what made the other tick – and vice versa, unfortunately.
Ironhide was fond of calling Ratchet out on his 'bark with no bite' attitude. And with Prowl, well, it was even worse. No use arguing.
"Fine, I give up." Ratchet threw his servos in the air in resigned surrender. "I need to go: I've got another surgery scheduled in a breem."
His spark felt heavy again, the slagging thing. Ratchet turned to leave, but hesitated at the doorstep. He surprised himself by blurting, "Those stupid glitches call me a 'miracle worker', can you believe it?"
Prowl tilted his helm, not fazed by the non-sequitur or the apparent lack of gratefulness. "You are an exceptional medic, but you are not Primus."
Ratchet rolled his optics and vented a sigh. "Don't I know it." And here he had hoped for some more useful input.
"Still, that faith, although admittedly at times a burden, works to your advantage. I am quite certain that a carefully aimed wrench will disabuse them of any truly ridiculous notions." Prowls vocalizer carried the hint of dry humor.
Ratchet snickered, he couldn't help himself. "You miss my point entirely."
"Quite the contrary, I merely refuse to say what you want me to, seeing as I am unable to tell you something you do not already know."
"...stupid glitch." Ratchet seriously hoped that it hadn't sounded as fond as he meant it because that would ruin his reputation.
He fled through the door into the OR. Tranquility finished with the final preparations, greeting him with a distracted nod, while the patient was already put in deep medical stasis.
Picking up the laser scalpel, Ratchet noticed that his servos were once more steady, as he was more sure of himself now. He had heard all he had needed, although most of it had been unsaid but for Prowl's perfectly timed presence.
...damn that observant slagger!
End
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