Short update, sort of a filler. Status update for Opti, if you will. You know the working title for this fic was 'Yowch'?
I might or might not have taken some inspiration for this fic, along with the originally-mentioned wildlife doco, from the immortal soldiers in Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.
BEHIND MASKS
Three days later and he still didn't quite know the answer.
Optimus was alive, if not exactly well. He'd recharged for one and a half of the first two days, the remaining half a day spent under surgical anaesthesia while Ratchet operated on him. His systems kept trying to go into delayed shock. While Ratchet had thus far been able to stave them off, stress-induced shutdown was far from what Optimus needed.
He'd woken, at last, earlier this morning.
His sensory track had yet to repair itself. He'd now been deprived of sight, sound and proximity for close to sixty-eight hours. Ratchet had confined him to berth rest for all of that time, though he'd eventually had to detach Optimus' damaged leg at the knee just to get him to stay put. (This meant that he could drench it in nanite gel without the itch bothering Optimus, a grudgingly-acknowledged plus.)
There was not a lot he could do about the nightmarishly gaping hole in Optimus' face. The wound wept, constantly; his fluid drains had been casualty along with everything else. Ratchet had several tubes draining excess fluid from Optimus' protoform while he tried to figure out how best to repair what needed it and replace everything else.
Upon more detailed inspection he had discovered a great deal more invisible damage to Optimus' underlying helm structure. Optical fluid had flooded the back of one orbit, pushing the mechanisms forward; he'd found that out when the optic in question began one evening to bulge grotesquely out of its socket. Primus, he'd never dealt well with optics!
Fortunately he'd been able to thread a tube in beneath the optic and drain the fluid. It didn't seem to have come back yet. He'd run a scan when it had happened, but had not been able to find any indication of where a leak of that size might have come from.
Optimus himself did not seem as bothered by his situation as Ratchet might have had reason to guess. He had been up and attempting to walk within hours – despite Ratchet's repeated urgings to stay still, fraggitall! Fortunately he hadn't gone far; the record attempt was halfway across the medbay in ten minutes, hands carefully outstretched, navigating along the edges of Ratchet's workbench by touch and memory alone. He'd confessed to Ratchet via databurst that the attempt had made him feel woozy, his injured leg aching so fiercely that the stream of damage reports, processed in the same centers as his spatial processing subroutines, had overloaded just about everything in that center and dumped him squarely on his aft.
A sure sign that he shouldn't be up at all, Ratchet had snarked.
The message seemed to have sunk in. Primus take this slagging self-sacrificing martyr of a Prime! (Except if he ever tried, Ratchet would fight him every step of the way.)
Today, or rather, this afternoon, they were alone in the medbay. Optimus sat with his back to the wall, helm dropped back and sightless optics raised to the ceiling.
Ratchet was working on fashioning a mask for him, so that when his leg healed and his sensory center came back online he could walk around the base without sending everyone else scurrying from the room. The sight of his gaping maw was almost enough to unsettle Ratchet – and as an old field medic he had seen far more than his fair share of gruesome wounds! There was just something about the way Optimus' face just… ended right below his expressive optics that set Ratchet's nerves on edge. Empathy too made his own jaw ache.
It was the same for most of the others: Bulkhead, Arcee, Fowler, Jack and Raf avoided looking straight at Optimus at all, while Smokescreen, Bumblebee and Miko seemed not to be able to look away. June was the one exception; after the initial shock she seemed to have filed it away as unimportant. As a medic herself, albeit a human one, Ratchet figured she likely had her own experiences to go on.
Optimus' old battlemask provided a useful template. Ratchet hadn't managed to salvage the mask itself, but he had blueprints, and plenty of spare material lying around. The prototype he was currently tinkering with was made up of the same sheets of alloy which had formed the skin of the shuttle in which they had arrived on Earth.
That shuttle was long gone, scrapped and recycled to augment the base in which they lived. Its skeleton, however, lived on in every Autobot on Earth.
He drummed his fingers against the bench, wondering. The prototype sat on the worktop in front of him, outwardly unremarkable. It contrived to give the appearance of a jawline and chin, mesh packing behind the face of the mask shielding what on Optimus was raw and weeping protoform. The packing left room beneath his chin through which to thread the drains and give him a greater range of movement. Ratchet was probably going to have to surgically fit the later versions, if the prototype run went well.
He turned and crossed over to Optimus' berth, sending a quick databurst. :: Optimus? How are you? ::
Optimus blinked, his helm turning automatically to find Ratchet. :: I am well. :: His field reached out, warm with affection and gratitude.
Ratchet sat down on the edge of the berth, lifting Optimus' hand and placing it on his leg to give him some spatial direction. Optimus squeezed his thigh in a silent thankyou.
He checked the drains, wiping away a ring of dried lubricants from around the ragged edge of Optimus' throat. :: I have something I would like to try, if you're up for it. ::
:: What is it? ::
:: A mask of sorts, based on your old one. I hope it will protect you from the elements should you need to venture outdoors before your injury is properly healed. ::
:: I see. :: Optimus had 'seen' the full extent of his damage, Ratchet had sent him an image file the moment he tried to pull the 'I don't feel that bad' card. :: That certainly could be useful. What will you need to do to test it? ::
:: Well, I need to figure out a way for you to wear it – if there is any discomfort you must tell me immediately – and for long enough that we can be sure it works the way it is intended to. :: He unpinned the drains, organising them in a bundle at Optimus' throat. :: It may also disguise the full extent of your injuries. I already have several volunteers to assist with judging that. ::
Optimus' field swirled with good humour, bright and summer-warm. :: I am relieved to hear that. I certainly see how my injuries might be quite disturbing to look at. ::
Ratchet pushed back, grinning. :: I'm used to treating wounds like this, but no-one else here is. Well, Nurse Darby, perhaps. ::
:: Only to be expected; human medicine is certainly more gruesome than ours. :: Optimus said it as though he believed it. Ratchet debated educating him, but decided to show mercy.
:: You are exceeding our expectations. I can't believe how lucky you are. ::
Optimus rested his helm back against the wall with a faint clank. :: How so? ::
:: You weren't standing half a step or so closer to whatever hit you, for example. Had you, we likely would not be having this conversation. An inch further, and you would have lost your entire vocaliser rather than just the data track. Your optics are not damaged. You did not bleed out before we could get you a transfusion. That is how lucky you are. ::
:: An Insecticon ::
Ratchet blinked up at him. :: What? ::
:: An Insecticon, with a rather… interesting arm mod. It resembled claws, but joined to the hand at the knuckles rather than the digit tips. :: There was a drip making its way down the column of Optimus' neck. He raised his servo and wiped it away. :: Retractable. They don't often attempt to punch. I made a severe miscalculation. ::
:: I don't believe that's native Insecticon tech. Knock Out, likely. Primus, that mech has a lot to answer for. ::
:: Indeed :: Optimus said. He shifted, gathering his legs under himself and rocking from side to side as unobtrusively as any mech his size could have managed. :: Do we ourselves not, however? I will count myself lucky that I was spared to fight another battle. ::
Ratchet curled his lip. :: I hate that you must fight in the first place. I hate waiting for you to come back like this, or worse. ::
Optimus' sightless optics focused uncannily on him. He wrapped his EM field around Ratchet, close and soothing. His hands slid up Ratchet's body to his waist, cupping the small of his back and gently tugging him into Optimus' lap. Up close he stank of solvent and nanite gel, but his closeness was precious and Ratchet found himself pressing his face against the plane of his chest. Optimus obligingly shifted his windshields aside so that Ratchet could feel the humming of his spark, alive and well, beneath the seam of his chest.
Proximity made the vents catch in Ratchet's fans. Relief made his spark spin tight, his circuits heating. He'd been able to save Optimus this time.
This time, his skill had been enough.
