Title: Immolation (part 12/100)
Prompt: "Hours"
Verse: G1 (AU)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2162

Pairings: Inferno/Red Alert
Other Characters: Ratchet. Mentions of Prowl, Jazz, Optimus, Astrotrain, Soundwave.

Warnings: Sticky. Discussion of rape related injuries. Possible brief medical squick but, compared to what came before, this is hardly worth mentioning.
Summary: Ratchet has finished his initial examination of Inferno, and gives Red Alert the news.
Notes: A continuation of my series of vignettes on the theme of Inferno being raped, and how he and Red Alert deal with it, centred around prompts from slash_100.

Yay, more BS-ing of Cybertronian medicine! :D

FYI, Autobot City is still under construction in this verse.

This part is dedicated to Dr. Denis Mukwege, of the Panzi hospital in Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo, "who repairs the injuries of the legions of women gang-raped as a tactic in the country's 12-year-old war." ('Where repairing rape damage is an expertise', The Globe and Mail)

That's right, injuries as bad, or worse, than Inferno's are happening for real to women in conflict zones all over the world. I'm not saying this to make everybody feel bad, but I figured that some education along with entertainment would not go amiss.

Groon: 1 hour

Klik: 1.2 minutes

Hours

They were home, and had been for several groons. Megatron had ordered Red Alert and Inferno released, even going so far as to have Astrotrain transport them to a drop off point within sight of the Ark, though safely out of range of its gun emplacements.

Inferno had mumbled something about Soundwave saying that this situation would have a 'valuable impact' on Autobot morale, but right now, sitting in medbay as Ratchet and First Aid evaluated Inferno's condition in a private examination room, Red Alert couldn't bring himself to care about the impact on anyone but Inferno himself.

Someone, he couldn't remember who, had pressed a cube of energon into his hands as he settled down to wait. He had laid it aside, but that had been at least a groon ago, and now he picked it up again, bringing it to his mouth with shaking hands and taking a deep drink, ignoring how poorly it settled in his overwrought tanks – he would need the energy for what was to come.

After entirely too long, the door to the examination room finally slid open, revealing a troubled-looking Ratchet, and Red Alert nearly dropped his cube in his haste to rise and chase the fearful demons from his processor with cold, hard facts.

"Sit back down," Ratchet said, rubbing his optics wearily as he settled into a chair next to Red Alert. "And before your processor starts bombarding you with worst case scenarios, I'm not telling you to sit down in order to give you bad news - in fact, Inferno's out of danger. I just need to get off my pedes for a while and I don't feel like craning my neck-strut while you hover like an oversized Laserbeak." When Red Alert was seated once more, the white and red medic fixed him with a serious look. "Your first aid efforts may have very well saved his life, you know. Those leaks may not have looked like much, but left untreated they could have been disastrous. Doing what you did can't have been easy, but you did the right thing."

Red Alert's tanks roiled in alarm at the faint praise, which, coming from Ratchet, was nothing short of effusive, and when The Hatchet was saying nice things to you, the situation was grave indeed. He wished he would stop trembling, but his body couldn't seem to cooperate.

"We got him stabilized," Ratchet continued, "and cauterized the energon leaks." At Red Alert's look of horror, the CMO patted his knee reassuringly. "Don't worry, we have him heavily sedated and pumped so full of painkillers he has no idea what's going on. Right now we're running a virus scan to make sure the Decepticons didn't leave any nasty surprises, and then later we'll do an external defrag on him – the first defrag after so much trauma is usually one of the worst, so if we get it over with here while he's good and medicated it should be slightly less... uncomfortable for him."

Red Alert frowned, looking down at his knee where Ratchet's hand still rested. He was getting the full sympathetic treatment, alright, and his chest felt tight, his spark fluttery and anxious. Cycling a calming draught of air, he forced himself to ask the question at the forefront of his processor. "Will he be alright?"

"Physically? Yes." Ratchet's lip components formed themselves into a thin, grim line. "Though his recovery won't be quick or easy. The cosmetic damage, of course, will be simple. As for his internals, I will be going into his abdominal compartment and replacing the muscle cables that were damaged during the... assaults.

The rest, such as refurbishing sensor nodes, won't be so simple. I could do them myself it I had a micro-fabrication facility like we had back on Cybertron, but I don't, so the next best option is to let his self-repair systems take care of it. It will take much longer than surgery, but since his nanites have blueprints of each system in Inferno's body at its optimal functioning state, they will have no trouble repairing or recreating anything that was damaged. With plenty of rest, and a constant supply of mineral and other supplements so his nanites can harvest the building materials they need, his full physical recovery should take half a solar cycle, or six earth months."

The security director slumped a little in partial relief.

"As for mentally..." Ratchet leaned forward and massaged his helmet with a sigh. "I have no fragging idea."

Red Alert nodded, not at all surprised by that piece of news. "I remember how I was after Starscream, and he didn't even do... that..." He waited a klik, thinking Ratchet would say something to fill the silence, but when no words were forthcoming the compulsion to speak again overtook him. "There was something else..." He hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether to bring up what Inferno had told him during those dark moments aboard the Nemesis. It could have been a passing thought, one that would never be acted upon. Surely Inferno was such a strong mech, too strong to just give up like that?

"Red Alert if you know something that could affect Inferno's recovery, you had better tell me," Ratchet counselled, levelling a searching look towards the red and white Lamborghini. "I know you want Inferno to have the best care possible, but I can only give him that if I know all the facts."

Red Alert finally nodded in resignation. "Well," he began reluctantly, "while he was being... hurt, I could hear everything that was going on - "

Ratchet looked at him, aghast, as the realization hit him. Even though Red's enhanced senses were common knowledge, it was difficult for someone not so gifted, even a medic, to imagine just how far reaching his capabilities really were. "Oh Primus, you could, couldn't you?"

"Yes." Red fought the compulsion to expand upon the horrors his advanced sensors had foisted upon him during Inferno's ordeal, the merciful ignorance of details that an ordinary mech could have enjoyed in a similar circumstance. "...and sometimes, in between, he would talk to me. At one point he said that he didn't know if he could live with himself after what happened..."

Ratchet frowned. "That's very serious, Red. It's good that you told me." He leaned forward a bit more. "As his partner, you've come to know Inferno very well. Do you think he is a danger to himself?"

"I... I don't know," Red Alert admitted. "He's very proud, proud of how tough and strong he is, proud in general, really. You know how this whole thing got started? Megatron was going to take me to his berth, but Inferno offered himself instead, made a bargain that if he could get through what Megatron did to him without getting upset, then Megatron would let us both go. He truly believed he could do it, because he even agreed to the clause Megatron tacked on: that if Inferno failed he would have to... with all the Decepticons on Earth..."

Ratchet's crimson hands curled into fists, his optics hardening. "Primus, I knew from the damage it had to be something like that, but so many? Megatron has sunk to an all new low..."

Red Alert had to force himself to continue. "All his life, Inferno thought he was strong enough to handle anything, but he learned in the worst way imaginable that it wasn't true. Ratchet, if you heard him back there... I don't know, I just don't know!" He was so torn, so confused, when, had it been any other Autobot, the right course of action would have been clear. His cautious nature demanded he protect Inferno – preserve him for your own selfish needs, a nasty voice in his processor taunted - and his inclination to fear suggested that it was likely Inferno would try something, but on the other he didn't want to look like he didn't have confidence in the mech he loved.

"Easy Red," Ratchet said gently. "It sounds like you're very worried about Inferno, and I think maybe it would be better if we erred on the side of caution, don't you? We'll have the suicide watch protocols in place before he leaves medbay, but we'll keep an eye on things, and if it seems like he's not going to try anything, we can always re-evaluate."

Hearing it stated so starkly made Red Alert's shudders increase. Suicide watch protocols meant disabling all of Inferno's weaponry, and making sure he wasn't able to obtain the means to harm himself from any other source by putting the entire Ark population on guard for his welfare. It was an obvious signal that something was wrong, and he knew that Inferno, proud as he was, would not appreciate having his damaged state broadcast over the whole ship, even if the reasons themselves were not revealed. However, if the choice were between Inferno's pride and Inferno himself, Red knew which he would pick. "I think you're right."

The CMO nodded. "Of course I am. Would you like to see Inferno now?'

Red nodded. "Please."

"He's not conscious, but I promise I will let you know as soon as we're ready to wake him up," Ratchet said, leading Red Alert into the private room where Inferno rested.

The huge fire engine bot was hooked up to various drips and consoles – carefully monitored by First Aid - his still battered frame draped with a thermal blanket as much to hide his more personal injuries as to keep him warm. His expression was disturbingly peaceful, which could only be a function of the drugs in his system rather than his true state of mind. He appeared to have been meticulously cleaned, but Red Alert could still smell traces of otherness about him, though he would die sooner than ever mention it to anyone – and eventually it would be washed away, in any case. The security director only wished the other reminders of the terrible events could be swept away so cleanly.

Red Alert's hand wavered for a moment before he reached out to stroke Inferno's face, the bent and twisted white ailerons that framed his helmet like the feathered wings of one of those beings from human mythology, angels, they were called. In the stories he had been told they were powerful guardians, protectors, comforters of the hopeless and oppressed. He wondered what would happen to their charges when the compassionate defenders they had come to rely upon were themselves broken and in need of solace. Of course that didn't happen in stories, it never did. "I love you," he whispered falteringly. "I love you so much."

"Come on, Red," Ratchet draped his arm around the white shoulders, steering Red Alert gently from the room. "Now I want you to finish your energon and then grab a spare berth and try to recharge for at least a little while."

"But I'm supposed to have a meeting with Optimus, Prowl, and Jazz," Red protested, albeit weakly. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, but he was afraid that if he took any time for himself now, and lost the fragile shell he had constructed over his emotions, he would never be able to get through the necessary debriefing without breaking down completely.

"I commed them already," Ratchet said. "I told them I need you under observation for a few groons, which, by coincidence, I actually do."

"But..."

"Well, just finish your energon at least," the CMO said, picking up Red's discarded cube and handing it to him. "You're going to need all the energy you can get."

If circumstances had been normal, Red Alert would have been immediately suspicious at how easily Ratchet gave in. Instead, he accepted the cube, and downed it quickly, his tanks gurgling audibly in disapproval, though fortunately they did not seem immediately inclined to purge. "Are you happy now?" he asked, though he couldn't care less what the answer was.

"Almost." Ratchet set the empty cube aside, then there was a hiss near Red's neck, and a sense of pressure, which he identified too late as an air injector doing its work. "I just gave you something to help you relax. Now let's get you to a berth."

As the soporific effects of the drugs began to take effect, Red Alert realized he would shortly be useless to anyone, and resignedly allowed himself to be conducted to one of the repair berths and guided to lie down.

"Everything will still be here when you wake up," Ratchet assured him.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Red Alert whispered, drifting unwillingly into a troubled recharge.