Disclaimer: TF © Hasbro
Warnings: some physical trauma, fly-by-night field repairs, a bit of TF swearing, and some very mild hinting of a possible future pairing.
Summary: There had been rumours that a couple of the minis were close, but until now he hadn't paid much attention.
Word Count: 2,024
Notes: For hc_bingo. The prompt is old school medical treatment. This also ties in a little with a previous prompt, which will become apparent pretty quick. Also, many thanks and kudos to Apollymi for her suggestion of kick it ' til it works ideas for 'old school' treatment XD
Co-Dependent
If he had to name one thing he hated most about the slagging war, Ratchet would have to say that field repairs were quite possibly the worst so far as he was concerned. Just knowing that there were going to be times when he'd have to decide if the 'bot bleeding out on the ground was in salvageable condition or if the only good he could do would be to end his suffering quickly left the medbot feeling numb inside. Maybe it was because he was still, in all technicalities, an apprentice medbot; maybe it was because even with his temperament he wasn't cut out for life on the battlefield.
Whatever it was, he still forced his own concerns and insecurities aside and followed the orders as they were given. Granted, he'd have been a whole lot happier if Hoist had left him behind to do triage at the base rather than drag him along to retrieve the injured from a battle that was still raging even as they arrived. It was nice to be appreciated for his skills, but...
"Sharpshooter's down over along the east wall," the unit commander was saying, Hoist nodding slightly as he tended to the mech's sparking arm. "One of the spies we were trying to extract was over there with him last I heard."
"Ratchet, if you would?" The words sounded like a request, but Ratchet recognized the command in them and nodded sharply before setting off. He didn't have much more than a rudimentary repair kit in his subspace – standard operating procedure for the field, but useless to repair extensive damage – and he hoped that whatever injuries the pair sported weren't too severe for him to patch.
Whatever he'd been expecting when he made it to the east wall, under the cover of laser fire and clusterbomb explosions, it certainly hadn't been one minibot leaning heavily on another for support as he fired on the few Decepticons that hadn't yet returned to the central location of the battle.
Ratchet took a moment to observe before approaching the pair. The red one, obviously the unit's sharpshooter judging by the pulse rifle he was targeting the enemy with, had a pretty nasty gash along the right side of his torso that was leaking energon at a steady but not yet alarming rate. It looked as if it might be the result of some sort of projectile weapon, but he couldn't make that determination with any accuracy until he got a closer look. The yellow minibot was apparently the only thing keeping his companion from collapsing, working to not only support the other but also to keep the damaged plating from separating any further.
When the enemy fire tapered off, signaling that the Decepticons were falling back to the central conflict, the sharpshooter slumped against both the wall and his companion, rifle dropping to the ground as he hissed in pain. Ratchet took that as his cue to join them, darting across the short distance just in time to help the yellow minibot catch the other before he could fall over. Now that he was closer, the medbot realized that the mech was slagging lucky; there were a few scorch marks around the gash itself and the outer-casing of a clusterbomb. The bomb must've simply grazed him when it exploded because otherwise there wouldn't have been enough left of the minibot to scrape off the ground; however, the worst case scenario here was that he might have a scar for a while but the self-repair nanites would minimize it in a vorn or two.
Unfortunately, that meant Ratchet was going to have to field patch it in order to ensure that the mech even made it back to base camp and the repair bay located there.
"Did it never occur to you that maybe you should duck behind the wall and try to stop the bleeding instead of shooting at the enemy?" he found himself asking, and instantly giving a mental wince when he noted the bumblepuppy optics being turned onto him by the yellow minibot. Oh yes, Hoist was most likely going to hear about his snark once again. One of these days, he'd learn how to turn it off while working.
"Where's the fun in that?" the red minibot quipped back, either ignoring Ratchet's comment or finding it amusing. The faint grin he flashed before wincing made it seem like the second was the more likely option. That was... new; most mechs he started in on tended to scowl at him and demand to speak to his mentor. "Besides, they're gone now, ain't they?"
"They're gone and you're bleeding. Good call there," Ratchet replied, oddly pleased to have someone to verbally spar with even if it was a patient who had taken a clusterbomb to the side and lived to tell the tale. "If you go into stasis because you bled out all over the place, I'm going to kick you until you come back online just so I can say I told you so."
"Can you repair it?" the spybot asked, turning his gaze towards Ratchet once more after shooting a chiding glare at his companion. The medbot bit back a slight grin; there had been rumours circulating around the various encampments that a couple of the minibots seemed to be close, but until right now he'd just ignored it as talk. True, the head of Special Operations mentioned that one of his agents went on endlessly about some mech called Cliffjumper, and the security bots talked about how one of their own was almost scarily protective of a bot designated Bumblebee, yet Ratchet had still chalked it all up to gossip. However, given the way the little spy was practically hovering over the sharpshooter and the fact that the sharpshooter had in turn not taken a rest until the enemy was retreating, the medbot was forced to accept that there was likely some truth to those rumours.
"For the moment, best I can do is a patch," Ratchet admitted, addressing both minibots since now he had two sets of optics locked on him. "We'll have to get you back to Iacon base camp to do much else."
"Do it," the sharpshooter replied, voice tight. The yellow mech – and he was really going to have to confirm that these were the minibots that most of his acquaintances were talking about – shot him another worried look and gripped his hand. The medbot pulled his emergency kit out of subspace and removed the portable blowtorch along with some temporary plating.
He glanced up, catching the wounded mech's gaze before speaking again. "I'll warn you right now, this is going to hurt. These med kits aren't designed to carry much more than the basics, so I have no anesthetic nanites or anything of the like to offer you."
"Can't hurt any worse than this slagging thing," came the reply almost instantly, drawing a faint grin from his companion. Ratchet nodded and cut on the blowtorch, setting a section of the temporary plating over the gash. He dialed down his audio receptors slightly before he started to weld the patch into place.
He was immediately glad that he'd done so; the red minibot shrieked at the heat from the blowtorch's flame but forced himself to remain as still as possible and most likely crushing his companion's hand in the process. After the initial howl of pain, the mech started to curse and make some rather colourful deactivation threats against whichever 'con had fired the clusterbomb. Ratchet almost felt sorry for the recipient of the minibot's ire, and at the same time was a bit impressed by his creativity.
Mech curses like a Polyhexian, the medbot mused silently to himself, setting another patch over the wound to continue. He gradually dialed his audio receptors back up once more now that the sharpshooter wasn't screaming anymore, most of his focus on the work he was doing yet still listening to the minibots. He was nearly finished with the final weld when he picked up on what the spybot was saying. Just under the sound of the blowtorch and the popping of heated metal and even the red minibot's continued swearing, Ratchet could just barely make out the words being spoken.
"Just a little longer, Cliffjumper, and then he'll be finished. It'll be okay, really. I can't lose you, okay? Let him get finished and then you can finish getting fixed up back in Iacon and then you can take it all out on the next slaghead 'con to come along. It's okay, Matter. We're both still online."
It was only his training that kept the medbot from freezing up and looking at the pair in shock as he registered the words. Instead of reacting outwardly, Ratchet finished the final weld and returned the blowtorch to the med kit even as his processor reeled slightly at the implication. Neither of the mechs appeared to be very old; Bumblebee – and if the red mech was Cliffjumper, the yellow one couldn't be anyone else from what the rumours claimed – was most likely barely three vorns into his adult frame and Cliffjumper couldn't even have been a full quarter-vorn into his before he got sparked up. Ratchet glanced back over at the pair as he tucked the med kit back into his subspace, finally noting the similarities beyond just the obvious minibot frames both carried.
The pair shared a similar helm design, Bumblebee's slightly different from Cliffjumper's, and both sported sensor horns along with a set of more traditional audio receptors; those were probably what made each essential to the specific unit he was assigned to. Both of the mechs had black accents on their plating, Bumblebee's more overt than Cliffjumper's. If one knew what to look for – someone like a trained medbot, for example – it was obvious that they shared similar facial features and optic shape as well; even the shade of their optics was too close in colour to be anything but a very strange coincidence or a family trait that had been passed along from creator to creation.
From Cliffjumper to Bumblebee.
All of this passed through Ratchet's cortex in the span of a few astroseconds, just enough time for the elder of the minibots to give the younger a reassuring if somewhat drained smile, before he spoke up once more. "That'll hold until we get to Iacon at the least; once there we can do some real repairs. It'll likely be a vorn, maybe two, before it heals completely. You're lucky, kid."
"And pretty." Cliffjumper laughed faintly as Bumblebee punched him on the arm and scowled faintly in disapproval, even though his optics held relief and amusement. "Maybe I won't be quite so pretty for a couple vorns, but perfection ain't everything."
"At least you're modest," Ratchet groused, rolling his optics skyward for a moment and grinning slightly at the soft snort of laughter from the younger minibot. "Time to move out. My CO is close by, so we should be able to get the pair of you on the next transport back to base."
"Sure thing, doc," Bumblebee replied, moving to help his formatter (and really, wasn't that the best-kept secret in the Autobot army?) stand. He shot the medbot a grateful smile and added, "Thanks."
"It's what I do."
It would be later when he'd wonder which made him feel warmer: Bumblebee's gratitude or the small smile Cliffjumper flashed him as the two of them climbed carefully into the transport to Iacon.
End Note: ...oh dear god, why the hell am I contemplating Ratchet/Cliffjumper? That's a sign of the apocolypse, isn't it?
