This chapter was a lot harder to come to me than I thought it would. I wanted to do something with Bumblebee for this chapter, since I've already gone through Ironhide, Optimus, and Jazz, but every time I had an idea for a chapter it slipped away. There were so many things Bumblebee could be doing, where he could be, who he could be with, so finally this idea came and I latched on before it could flitter flatter away. Kill two birds with one stone, here's Bumblebee and Ratchet! Watch out, long chapter ahead!
Special thanks to JML, JessyJazz, VAwitch, and Stripperella! Your reviews are always most welcome! To anyone else, I welcome some feed back! Please, read and review and enjoy!
Few mechs liked working the graveyard shift. It was possibly the most boring time to be on duty in the Autobot base. Nothing. Ever. Happened. Literally! It was like the universe had decreed that every graveyard shift ever was to be accompanied by processor-numbing boredom and an itching desire to deactivate one's self just for something to do.
Anyone even remotely entertaining, or havoc causing, in the base (…Sideswipe, Sunstreaker…) were either in recharge, or elsewhere setting up for one of their latest mayhem-causing brawl-ensuing pranks. Just the bare circuits of the Autobot forces were up. And the bare circuits were boring.
Not even the Decepticons bothered to do anything during the graveyard shift.
Mirage had told of a time when he had infiltrated one of the Decepticon strongholds in the deepest joors of the night, he had found each and every one of the slagging Decepticons in recharge. Or offlined from high-grade consumption. He had sworn to Primus over it. Thus explaining why there never were any attacks at night. Lucky fraggers.
Although, there were some mechs that liked the graveyard shifts, they were rare though.
Bumblebee was miraculously one of those few mechs.
Grant you, he was also one of those few mechs who didn't mind whenever he was scheduled to work, insanely early or slagging late, and would actually stay late after a shift to help a friend out. He'd even been known to pull a double shift if a mech was in a real pinch. It was just part of his programming to be helpful like that. Ironhide was constantly warning him that always being so helpful to everyone was going to turn him into a pushover.
The last thing Ironhide needed to worry about was Bumblebee being a pushover though. Being raised among the many formidable warriors of the Autobot forces since the time he was a sparkling had insured he'd be a strong mech. Ironhide had been one of the mechs responsible for his training. He could stand his ground in any situation; he'd proven himself the orn he stood against Megatron to prevent him from getting to the Allspark. He was a hero in that respect; able to be faceplate to faceplate with the lord of the Decepticons and still be active to tell the tale… well, not so much tell, vocal processor crushed and all, but he could whistle sort of and play sound bytes.
Bumblebee was SO not a pushover. But not even an encounter like that could change his friendly helpful streak.
Speaking of which…
A crash resounded throughout the sleek hallway the yellow mech was wandering down, pattering and sliding following soon after, and then a voice whined loudly, "Aw, slag it! That's just great! Perfect! Makes my night a whole lot better! Frag it!"
Quickly identifying the voice as that of Powerglide, Bumblebee made his way up the hall towards the source of the cursing voice to see what had happened, and too see if there was any way he could help. Turning the corner, he saw several crates thrown along the hall, their contents scattered up and down the floor, and at the epicenter of the mess was a cursing Powerglide trying to collect his fallen cargo.
"Slag! Do I look like a messenger mech to anyone?! Do I?! Huh? Ratchet's gonna deactivate me if any of this stiff is dinged!"
Bumblebee gave a couple of clicks to alert the other mech to his presence. Via digital com link, though not his favorite way to communicate due to its lack of emotion, Bumblebee was able to transmit a quick hello.
Powerglide started, then looked up. "Oh, Bee, hey," he said, sitting back in the middle of his mess with a sigh. Bumblebee gave a jovial sound byte and bent down to collect a data pad that had managed to slide so far down the hall. He looked up with raised optic ridges, the other mech obliging to answer the silent question as he dragged the nearest crate to him.
"Ratchet's slag, he's been harping for it ever since those survivors from the outpost attack came here four orns ago. Used all his supplies up on them and now he needs more. This is the second med supply trip in two orns- Red Alert is already starting to fritz at the idea of having to go on a supplies run to another base if Ratchet uses up all we got."
Bumblebee nodded. He'd been in earlier with Ratchet helping with the poor mechs; they were in pretty bad shape, recovery would be slow. But this was war, injuries were to be expected. Medical supplies were always in demand. "Are we really that low on med-supplies?"
Powerglide shrugged. "Not really, but you know how Red Alert is."
Bumblebee nodded his understanding. "So you got stuck with delivery duty?"
"Tsh, I wouldn't be doing this if Prowl didn't order me to," Powerglide replied. "He double shifted, getting on all our afts about the night shifts still being shifts and that we were still expected to work. Told us that the day crew was getting behind 'cause we didn't finish up all our slag at night. It's not us though that make the day shift fall behind, it's them." He threw his arms up in frustration. "They're all still hung over from the high-grade they had before they went into recharge the night before, the slaggers."
The minibot snorted distastefully and crossed his arms over his chest. Bumblebee resisted the urge to point out that Powerglide was often one of those hung-over mechs when he had a day shift rotation.
"I told Prowl exactly why the day shift got behind and he got all glitchey at me for it, so I ended up on delivery duty- I'd rather he'd thrown me in the brig! I heard Ratchet hasn't recharged once since those mechs came in and fire's just coming out his vents now."
Bumblebee gave a couple of revs, the equivalent for laughter for him. Ratchet was a little extra-ornery today when he'd seen him. There was also the rumor going around of the CMO facing down Optimus Prime earlier in the evening and ordering him to his quarters.
Primus help anyone who stumbled into the infirmary for repairs tonight.
Powerglide muttered on with curses as he grabbed a couple of energy transfer lines and threw them into a crate and then tossed an energon purifier on top. Protected cases containing cubes of vital purified low-grade were placed a little more carefully in the crate. Those were closely followed by other instruments required in the exchanging and replenishing of fluids in a transformer's frame.
Bumblebee nimbly began to collect the various medical supplies nearest to him and deposited them into a crate to Powerglide's left. Much of what he was picking up was temporary metal plating commonly used as a way to close a gaping hole in armor until it was able to regenerate on its own. The crate that held them was the largest of the three Powerglide had been carrying. Fitting the varying sized plates into the box snugly, they came right up to the top edge of the box. That was more temp-plating than Bumblebee had ever seen in his lifetime.
Powerglide eyed the temp-plates with a degree of sympathy. "The poor mechs must be pretty fragged up if Ratchet used up all the temps he had on them. Normally he's got loads," he said. Bumblebee shrugged. "Sucks having them on though, you get absolutely no sensation through them- and they're as ugly as pit. You'd think you could paint 'em to match the armor instead of going around looking like some glitching half-done paintjob, but no, can't do that or the Hatchet'd reconfigure you."
Bumblebee whistled in agreement. Temp-plating was good for a mech who'd been blown full of holes, but it was a dull, dusty grey colored metal that was not at all pleasing to the optics. Painting it was a big no-no though, because the paint could affect the healing process, or get in past the patch welding and completely mess up the systems below. As a youngling, he hadn't listened and painted the temp-plate on his forearm anyways (having gotten it when in an unsupervised adventure down to Wheeljack's lab), later having to have wires replaced in his arm when the paint had degraded them.
It only took a few breems to collect up the last crate's contents, mainly consisting of cases of wiring and circuits that were commonly lost in battle when armor was blown away and the exposed innards were fried. Such was the life of a warrior. Wiring and such was constantly being replaced after battle, but you were stiff for so many orns afterwards until you worked the wires in.
Sticking true to his helpful nature, Bumblebee hefted the large crate containing the temp-plating and jerked his head in the direction of the medical wing.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Powerglide growled, stacking his remaining crates and lifting them with ease. "Lead the way, buddy."
Although fire was not spewing out his vents when the two mechs arrived, it was quite obvious to anyone with optics that Ratchet was very much indeed on his way to a severe core meltdown. Optics that were usually bright and sharp had dulled with exhaustion and a deep scowl marred his faceplate. His hands were as steady as ever, but steps had slowed to a drag and his broad shoulders held a worn out sag to them. Tired clicking and whirring quietly came from his internal systems as he moved, stressing the already distressed systems as he forced himself to function just a little longer.
Late as it was, though, a medic's duty was never over. Bumblebee and Powerglide waited in the doorway for Ratchet to finish with the patient he was seeing before they barged in.
"...and my motor controls have been shaky ever since Optimus arrived to look after her. I've never seen her like that, Ratchet; she's always been so strong! I thought nothing could shake her! I can't seem to get it out of my processor..."
Ratchet continued with his routine scans of Moonracer, checking and double checking the results as she went on to describe her shaky motor controls, shortness of intake valves, and disruptions in her equilibrium stabilizers.
"Have you tried to recharge yet?" he asked.
Moonracer nodded. "I tried, but I couldn't seem to engage the subroutines. All my processor could focus on was seeing Elita One on her recharge berth looking so… so distraught."
He nodded and made note of it. "It sounds like you have a mild case of anxiety, then," he said. With worn steps he turned to retrieve what he needed from the one of the shelves around the room and returned to Moonracer to shift aside a section of her armor on her upper right arm. "This is just a moderate sedative that should calm you down enough to allow you to engage your recharge cycle," he said gruffly. "If any of the symptoms persist, contact either me or First Aid right away."
She nodded, looking away as the drug was administered through her exposed energon lines.
Finally, Ratchet turned to acknowledge the two mechs standing in his doorway. Eyeing the cargo they carried, he grunted something akin to "about time," and took Powerglide's load from him.
"I need you to escort Moonracer back to her quarters for me," he said. "Make sure she gets there in one piece before the effects of the sedative kick in."
Powerglide went rigid, optics sweeping from the looming form of Ratchet to the delicate Moonracer sliding from the examination table. It was common knowledge that the minibot had an attraction to the femme, and for all his self-confidence he had yet to approach her. "I- I'm on duty," he replied weakly.
Ratchet's gaze darkened, and was that the flicker of flame from a vent? Standing to his full height, towering over both minibots, he glared down at the flyer. "I'll inform Prowl that you're doing something for me," he ground out, leaving no room for argument. The silent threat of 'do it or I'll dismantle you' hung venomously in the air.
Bumblebee nudged the flyer with his shoulder, urging him on. "Go on, she's sedated now, so she can't run screaming from you when you try a horrible pick up line on her."
In return, Powerglide roughly elbowed him back.
Moonracer peered up at the three shyly. "I don't want to cause any trouble. I can find my own quarters," she said.
"No, no, you won't cause trouble!" Powerglide said suddenly, his vocals working faster than his processor. As Moonracer eyed him with wide,surprised optics, the flyer uncharacteristically stuttered for words. "I- I'd be glad to- uh- escort you." He held out his arm awkwardly and allowed the femme to take it, drawing her to his side like some bot from an old holo-vid. Moonracer giggled, finding the act gallant.
"Stop fooling around and get going," Ratchet ordered, not in the mood to be putting up with nonsense at the moment. The two bots were shoved out into the hall.
Looking a little star struck at his own turn of luck; Ratchet not throwing a laser scalpel at him, not having to go back to Prowl and boring inventory right away, and getting to escort a beautiful femme back to her quarters, Powerglide's own confidence came out a little. He guided himself and his escort back into the hall and led the way.
"And away we go," he said with a grin on his faceplates. He took a couple steps one way before Moonracer laughed and turned them around to head in the right direction.
Ratchet stood next to Bumblebee and watched with narrowed optics as the pair disappeared down the hall. Once out of sight, the old bot sighed and made his way back in, motioning for the smaller yellow mech to follow. The three crates they carried were carefully set down on the examination table.
"She was the first, but I doubt she's going to be the last," he said out of the blue. Bumblebee started from the sudden statement, but cocked his head to the side to inquire further.
Ratchet retrieved a data pad from somewhere on his person, it was the data pad containing the Allspark mission. "I'm sure you read this on your rounds of delivering them, did you not?" he asked wryly.
"Would that make me a good scout if I didn't?" was the reply.
The CMO grunted something that could have been a laugh, leaning up against the table wearily. "Once this gets around to the rest of the lot, there will be a lot more bots suffering from more than just anxiety attacks coming in here. Always happens whenever a big mission is posted."
"News travels fast around here. You'll have bots pouring in by mid-orn tomorrow, if not before."
Ratchet ground his gears. "Lucky me," he replied darkly. "So long as it's not those slagging twins crawling in here for me to bang out their latest dents, I think I can make it." He dug through the top layers of each of the boxes. "Now, where is the inventory list-?"
Bumblebee retrieved the data pad he had picked up earlier and handed it over. Ratchet went over it with a surgeon's precision. His expression only got darker as he read it over.
"Figures," he murmured, dropping the pad and digging into the supplies. "They shorted me, again! Think I can make due with the dictated ration portion, but it isn't worth a slag." He slammed the temp-plating on the table a little harder than what was necessary. "Wait an astrosecond… are these dinged?!" he roared in outrage as he saw a small scuff on one of the plating.
"It doesn't look like it; that could just be dust… or your optics are playing tricks on you," Bumblebee offered, hoping to avoid a ship wide crisis.
"My optics are functioning just fine," Ratchet hissed, inspecting his temp-plating with a more critical eye. "It's everyone else's processors that seem to be glitching constantly." Under normal circumstances, he would already be storming in the direction of the guilty party responsible, tools in hand, but now all he could manage was a black glare and slamming the dented plates on the table in frustration.
Watching the temps receive the abuse, the minibot discreetly nudged the crate containing the more fragile fluid exchange components away from the medic's wrath, unpacking them carefully himself so that they remained in one piece.
"-we'll see what they think of the ration size when they're coming in for repairs and I don't have enough supplies to fix them," Ratchet continued darkly. "Maybe I'll just use this dented plating on them, see how they like it. I specifically requested two crates of temp-plating, and certainly more than this dismal amount of transfusion low-grade." He turned to Bumblebee with an exasperated expression.
"Is there someone on this base that wants a whole lot of mechs to die?" he asked, annoyed. "Or, do they think I'm Primus and can work miracles from nothing?"
Bumblebee stared up at the medic with a sympathetic look. "You make it seem that way sometimes." It was a very honest response; Ratchet had the gift to repair almost any mech no matter the damage. His temper was something to be feared, but his skill as a medic was revered.
"All I do is my job," Ratchet replied roughly, but his voice was more tired then reprimanding. "Nothing more."
"No one does the job better than you, though."
The complement hung in the air unanswered and a little awkward, but Bumblebee knew it must have been appreciated by the over-worked, underappreciated CMO. So rarely was he thanked by his patients before he started throwing things at them and chased them from his med bay.
A relative silence settled in as the two mechs worked together to put away the supplies. In the background, soft whirrs of machines and unobtrusive beeping of monitoring devices created a lonely little melody in the medic's room. On the nearby recharge berth, a deep in recharge Windcharger was recovering from a nasty electro-magnetic backfire that had did a nasty number on his circuits, revving softly with each cycle of his intakes.
Dare anyone say it? It was almost peaceful in the med bay.
Unlike many of the mechs in the Autobot ranks, Bumblebee had not developed the innate fear of Ratchet that seemed natural for everyone else to harbor. That could be because he had never had a welding torch aimed for his head though. The CMO, despite his temper, had always been a mildly benevolent mech to the minibot, opting to host him in the med bay at the odd time to have an assistant handy, training Bumblebee in the art of Autobot repair. Even if being a nurse was not Bumblebee's primary function, nor his most desired one, he made a pretty decent one.
Besides, he liked helping Ratchet out.
The said CMO watched him from the corner of his optics as the small mech flittered around the lab like it was second nature for him to be putting away med supplies. "You're not on duty somewhere, are you, Bumblebee?" he asked. He knew the minibot had a strange habit of wandering around the base late at night even when he wasn't on duty.
"No, I was just taking a walk when I came across Powerglide. He needed a little help, and so do you. I don't mind staying- if that's alright with you?"
"You should be recharging."
Bumblebee gave the medic an incredulous look, pointing at him with an accusing finger. "Look who's talking!"
Ratchet growled. "I don't have the luxury of recharge right now, not with so many mechs in critical condition-." A small blip went off before Ratchet's optics, halting his sentence and alerting him that one of his patients was in need of a new low-grade transfusion. Sighing, he went to the cooled unit that housed the low-grade that had just been set away. "There is no rest for the weary around here," he said. "Not when so many depend on you."
One wall of the infirmary was windowed along its entire length, revealing the intensive care unit on the other side so that whoever was on duty in the med bay would always be able to keep an eye on the critical mechs in recovery. The door to the ICU was disguised to look like a panel in the wall, but it slid aside as the CMO approached. As a sign of his own exhaustion, he bumped into the doorframe as he passed through, rattling the hard crystal panes.
"Ratchet, maybe I should-."
"I am able to function just fine, Bumblebee. I do not need your assistance in something so simple," he snapped, harsher than he had intended.
"You push yourself too hard."
"The same could be said for a certain minibot with a crushed vocal processor," snipped the medic.
"A certain cranky medic should know when to let things go and let others help," Bumblebee griped.
"A certain nosy scout should know when to mute it and let me do my job."
"Your job doesn't require four orns without recharge!"
"It does if I'm trying to save someone's life!"
"You're not the only medic on Cybertron, Ratchet!"
"But I am the Chief Medical Officer of Iacon's Autobot base, and I am going to do my slagging best here before I'm gone!"
Bumblebee opened the digital link to retort, and then stopped. He processed what Ratchet had said several times. "What do you mean before you're gone?!" he demanded. Though the transmission held no inflection, the minibot's wide stance and fisted hands clearly displayed his surprise and wariness. "Where could you possibly be going?!"
Ratchet chose not to respond right away. He walked through the rows of offline mechs in the ICU until he reached the one who had setoff his internal alert. Poor Scattershot, looking like a bad patchwork paintjob of his hot red armor and dull grey temp-plating, energon transfer lines hooked up to his arms where armor was either removed or shifted, multiple sensor arrays hooked up to monitor any change in his critical condition. Being a hotheaded young warrior, no doubt half the mech's injuries were due to his own petulant behavior.
It never got easier seeing a mech who was once so vital now barely holding on.
As if his own sensors could pick up something that the tedious monitoring machines could not, Ratchet swept Scattershot with an array of sensors.
He could still feel Bumblebee watching him from the doorway of the ICU, silently demanding an explanation.
"Think about it, young one, where could I possibly go where my talents would be most needed? Other than here that is" Ratchet asked, tediously studying his sensor read outs for some sign of improvement. No such luck. They were exactly the same as they had been a joor ago when he was last in here. No change in anyone's conditions; no improvements.
"The search for the Allspark…"
Turning away from the mangled and patchwork frames of the patients in the ICU unit, the CMO refocused his attentions back on the minibot watching him with so much helpless concern that it touched his spark.
"Yes. I plan on volunteering for the search for the Allspark," he explained. "In a few orns time, if I am accepted, I will be gone and all the duties of the CMO will be left with First Aid. Before I can leave anyone in charge of this place, I need to get done all I can so that I can leave this place with a clear conscience. If that means I go for a few more orns without recharge, then so be it."
"I never thought you'd be one to volunteer."
"It is not so much my own desire to go, but part of my duty as a medic. This mission is going to take us into uncharted territory, with Decepticons on our afts the entire way. There is no way to accurately predict what will be encountered out there, but it is safe to assume that not all of it will be benign. Engagement with the enemy is imminent, much to Ironhide's pleasure no doubt. Optimus will need an experienced medic onboard to cope with whatever situation arises."
"You know, the twins are really going to miss you. Who else is going to put them back together with the same great humor that you do?"
"I hope you mean that with sarcasm," replied the medic wryly. "I am pretty sure those pit-spawn will figure out a way to cope without me. As will the rest of the Autobots. I simply hope that you will be as good an assistant for First Aid as you have been for me."
Bumblebee let an impish expression cross his faceplate, optics lighting up mischievously. "Who says I'll be here to assist him?"
A rueful sigh escaped the medic. "So, you're volunteering as well? I should have guessed."
"Like you said, Optimus is going into uncharted territory with this mission, and he's going to need someone to go ahead to some places to check it out. Who better to send then the best?"
"It'd be pretty hard to send the best when Mirage is still here on Cybertron," Ratchet replied.
With his pride firmly punctured, the minibot deflated dejectedly. "Ouch. Right in the spark, Ratchet."
"You are way too young to be going on a mission as dangerous as this."
"I could say the opposite to you."
Ratchet felt a dry smile quirk his faceplate. "I believe Ironhide firmly holds the position as the oldest mech around," he replied.
"Yeah, but he's got the cannons to back him up. You don't."
"No matter the case, you are still not going on this mission."
"Who are you, my Creator?"
"No, but I'm still the mech who puts you back together after every time a stupid stunt of yours gets you blown apart. I absolutely forbid you from going on this mission."
"We'll see what Optimus has to say about it!" Bumblebee stomped his foot just as he did when throwing a tantrum as a youngling. It worked about as well now as it did then, procuring not the slightest bit of empathy from the CMO.
"I'm sure he'll see sense and find another capable scout," Ratchet argued. Oh, how thin his patience had worn by now; if he was arguing with any other mech, a laser scalpel would have already been airborne by now.
Bumblebee revved stubbornly. Didn't Ratchet get it? This was his chance to show everyone that he wasn't just the youngling running around everyone's feet anymore. He was a trained scout, able to gather information quickly and covertly, he was efficient and highly adaptable, able to fight with the worst of them when it came to it! If there ever was a chance to prove that he was a proud warrior of the Autobots, this was it!
An unpleasant throb began to develop in Ratchet's processor, warnings popping up and informing him that power cells were now completely drained and that his systems were going to offline forcibly if he didn't engage recharge soon. Slag, he thought he would have more time than this. Guess he wasn't as young as he once was.
He wasn't a scout for nothing; Bumblebee saw the waning in Ratchet's energy, the old bot was on the last dregs on his power supply. Even if he couldn't get an ounce of sympathy from the medic, it didn't mean he couldn't feel sorry for him.
"Let's just drop the mission for now, okay? Truce?"
"Fine. Truce." Even as ridiculous as it sounded to call a truce over something so trivial with a mech who had absolutely no chance of going on that mission anyways, Ratchet said it for the sake of the young one. There was no way in the pit that Optimus would let him on the mission. It was illogical. It was insane. No one in their right processor would allow someone as young as Bumblebee to participate in something so completely dangerous as the search for the Allspark.
Bumblebee offered up a kind look, smiling in his own way. He was completely oblivious to Ratchet's thoughts. "There's a few hours left in your shift and you obviously won't make it without offlining. I'll cover for you if you would just take that berth over there and recharge for a little bit. No one is going to blame you for recharging."
The offer was met with utter reluctance. But you had to hand it to him; he had dedication to his patients.
A sigh slipped out from the minibot, his frame sagging in frustration. Honestly, he was trying to help. "Remember, this is the night shift; nothing ever, ever happens between now and morning. I'm not scheduled to work tomorrow, so I'm fine staying for you. I know the basics of being in here, so if anyone does come in I can help them. You'll get a few joors of rest. The base stays in one piece. Everyone's happy, right?"
His baby blue optics pleaded mercilessly. Even as the list of possibilities for everything that could go wrong mounted in his processor, going on and on and on, the idea of catching a few joors of rest became too tempting.
Old gears groaning and hydraulics sighing, Ratchet slouched back to the free berth along the back wall of the infirmary. He fixed the yellow bot with a sharp glare before he laid down and activated the subroutines. "Are you sure you can handle the place for a few joors?"
Reassuring clicks and whistles issued from the mech in question as he cheerfully nodded. What could possibly go wrong?
Hoping he wasn't jinxing himself, Ratchet nodded to the young mech and gave a brief tired smile before stretching out on the berth. Less than an astrosecond later, he was out like a light.
Bumblebee eased himself up onto the nearest examination table and simply let his optics wander and the room.
Alright, he'd gotten the Hatchet to recharge, he had the med bay all to himself for a few joors… what now?
As it turned out, 'what now' consisted of helping a singed and smoking Wheeljack clean a paint-blistering chemical off his armor after it had exploded on him when his experiment went awry.
It couldn't have been more than a few breems after Ratchet had dropped off that the floor had rattled ominously and the sound of something akin to thunder rumbled loudly through the halls, lights flickering and loose items on counters shaking in the aftermath. Given that the explosion had come from below and not above meant it had come from none other than their resident "mad scientist" engineer Wheeljack, a mech who easily could have been an explosives expert with how many times he had blown himself up.
So often was the occasion of something in Wheeljack's lab blowing up, that not even the bored stiff mechs sitting in the command center look up to guess the cause of the shaking.
Thankfully, Ratchet didn't even stir.
Wheeljack had appeared in the med bay looking worse for wear as his once pristine paint melted off in great gobs of fizzing goo. Bumblebee was forced to shush his desperately as he fell into the bay and clamored loudly around the room for a cleaning solution that would help him. Once the engineer caught sight of the resting Ratchet, he quieted considerably, allowing for Bumblebee to assist with scrubbing the paint peeler and the remains of his destroyed paint off.
That had been a joor or two ago. Wheeljack still remained, feeling that he could use a break from his lab for a while. He had taken up a spot next to Ratchet, leaning against the wall near the resting mech's head.
"I don't know what to tell ya, kid. Ratchet's right, you're still young. Optimus might want someone with more experience on the mission," he said with a shrug after listening to Bumblebee's passionate pleas and arguments and reasons for being the best for the job. "But that don't mean you don't have a chance. Everybody's got a shot, so if ya present you're argument right and give all the right reasons, I don't see why Optimus wouldn't consider ya."
"I need to go on this mission! It's the only way to show everyone I'm not a youngling anymore!"
Wheeljack's fins flashed dimly as he gazed at the yellow mech, then his optics traveled down to Ratchet and he reached out a hand to run along the mech's head. "Ya can't blame us for still seeing ya as a youngling though. It feels like only orns ago that ya were running around, painting yerself up ta look like Sideswipe or Sunstreaker or Jazz. There'll always be files saved in everyone's processors to remember ya like that. But there's also files of ya coming back from Tyger Pax. No one's gonna forget an orn like that. Ya proved yerself that day, kid, that you were as good as any mech."
"I still feel like I need to do this! It's important! At Tyger Pax, all I did was let Megatron rip me apart while I just took it. People think I'm a hero for it, but I'm not! I didn't do anything!" He threw his arms in the air and paced the room. "I mean, I knew what my team was guarding, they didn't but I did. When Megatron came, all I could do was mute it and let him rip my arm off. When the Allspark was launched, all I could do was grab him so he couldn't go after it. I grabbed him! It was stupid! He should have killed me! I didn't fight or anything, just grabbed him. I should have done more, something- but I did nothing! At least with this mission, I can show everyone that I can give as good I got! I want every mech here to know that I am every bit a warrior as they are!"
Wheeljack watched and listened, fins flashing dimly as Bumblebee spoke; he never spoke of what really happened between him and Megatron at Tyger Pax. By request of Optimus, nobody ever asked either.
Slowly, Wheeljack eased away from the wall. "Did ya tell Ratch' that?" he asked.
Bumblebee paused, searching his memory files. "…no."
"Well, when he's online again, do it." The inventor paused to affectionately pat Ratchet on the side. "He cares for ya something fierce an' doesn't wanna see you hurt, but if he saw how much ya wanted this, I think he'd cave. He'd deactivate me if he heard me saying this, but I think ya should go for this mission. Give it yer best shot; give Ratch' an' Optimus and every old mech who'd listen the same spiel you gave me and you'd be as good as guaranteed on this mission."
"You think so?"
Wheeljack shrugged. "I've been wrong before, but I got a good feeling about this."
Forgetting that he was trying to portray himself as a tough warrior mech now, Bumblebee rush forward and hugged the engineer. Fins flashing brightly, he hugged back and laughed a little.
"Thanks, Wheeljack."
"Nah, Bee, I ought ta be thanking you. I've been trying ta get Ratchet ta recharge for the past couple of orns, but he's been a stubborn slagger about it. Doesn't matter how much he's worrying me or whatever, he's always thinking about his job and who he can save- even at his own cost. I tried everything ta try and drag him out of here, and he wouldn't budge. And then ya come along and get him ta recharge without being assaulted. That alone takes talent."
Flattered, all Bumblebee could do was rev softly until Wheeljack drew away to draw a hand over Ratchet's form. "I only hope that he gets a few more joors of recharge. He hardly ever gets any as it is. Primus knows he's up all joors of the day and night, worrying over patients, trying to figure out a new why to save them. I don't wanna imagine what he's gonna be like on the mission; he'll probably stop recharging all together. A bit of recharge here will do him good-."
The doors hissed open, admitting the last two mechs who would make it possible for Ratchet to recharge. Neither noticed that their favorite medic was currently out at the moment. Both were banged up pretty good, and Sideswipe was dragging and unconscious Cliffjumper behind him. Everything about them screamed high-grade was involved.
"Okay, Ratch', before ya ask- most of the dents are from the firing range!" Sideswipe yelled loudly, his voice slurred. "An', we weren't drinking in the firing range, either- that happened after! We had a couple of cubes at Nebula One!"
Bumblebee stared at the twins in horror as they weaved further into the room. From behind him, Ratchet stirred discontentedly. Desperately, he made rapid shushing movements in hopes that the intoxicated fools would get the hint and mute it, but they didn't. They got louder.
"Fragging Cliffy here said something about my paintjob!" Sunstreaker hissed, kicking the down minibot. "I got him good, but he fought back!"
"I jumped in to help!"
"And then Brawn jumped in!"
"So we had to defend ourselves!"
"Sideswipe! Sunstreaker! Quiet!" Wheeljack hissed, shooting a terrified look over his shoulder at Ratchet.
"And then Sunny starts saying he'd beat any short stuff that jumped in!"
"Don't call me Sunny!" Sunstreaker roared, punching his brother with a loud clanging blow to the chassis.
"Sunny! Sunny! Sunny! SUNNY!" Sideswipe sang in a bad falsetto, being so over-energized making him numb to pain.
Bumblebee was practically writhing with desperation and he waved his arms and tried to get the twins to silence themselves. Wheeljack was in the same boat, doing his best to keep his voice to a hissing low while still demanding the intoxicated pair to get the pit out of the infirmary.
"In the end, Brawn was dragged off us!" Sunstreaker shouted over his brother.
"But Cliffjumper wouldn't get off, so I broke an energon cube over his head! It was full- I think… That's why he's here with us!"
"Ratchet, you have to fix us!"
"Fix us now!"
"Shhhhh! Come on, you two! Be reasonable!" Wheeljack begged.
"Hey! Ratchet?! Where are you!?"
"RATCHET-?!"
Suddenly, something shot out from between Wheeljack's and Bumblebee's shoulders, firmly smacking Sideswipe square in the forehead. There was a stunned silence after, one in which the red melee warrior keeled over flat on his back. Sunstreaker's optics only just registered that his brother was down before a second object shot out and caught him between the optics, knocking him out as efficiently as his twin.
With creeping dread and horror, Bumblebee jerked himself around to see a sight he really didn't want to witness.
Ratchet was up. In his hand was another trusty tool of his, a welding torch this time, wielded like a weapon now in his enraged state. Optics were wide with recharge-deprived fury. He glared down at the twins with a pit-spawned expression that meant the two would probably online to find themselves reformatted into high-tech tables or less.
As Bumblebee stared on, he heard gears grind and servos whine, hydraulics hiss and armor rattle and crack together. To his utter amazement, and absolute terror, a few tongues of hot sparks shot out the medic's vents.