The medic jerked in surprise at Sam's words, before the corners of his lips twitched in barely concealed amusement.
"Don't let the brass hear you talk like that," He warned, before he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "We only ever think those things. We never say them out loud."
Sam shook his head, barely hearing the words. His thoughts were focused inwards as he struggled to recall everything that he had said to the medic. He felt a building sense of horrified embarrassment as he realized that it was Ratchet to whom he had admitted having nightmares and flashbacks. It was Ratchet who had dressed him in a hospital gown and tucked him into bed. It was Ratchet who he had told to wear a goddamn bell.
He groaned again as he scrubbed his hands over his face.
The corpsman patted his shoulder good-naturedly, before gathering his supplies and heading to the front of the ward. Sam sat there for a moment longer, gearing himself up, and then he slid off the bed and started after him. He was halfway down the ward before he realized, in surprise, that he wasn't angry with Ratchet. The realization pulled him up short—why wasn't he mad? He should be furious at the medic's deception. Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, however, Sam knew the answer: Ratchet hadn't deceived him. He had a shit bedside manner and no concept of personal boundaries, but his intentions had been honest.
Sam mulled over this realization as he left the hospital ward. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the medic's manner had been compassionate, at least compared to Ratchet-grade normal. Sam grimaced. He was still going to have a word with the medic about his propensity to sedate first and lecture later—he may be a ward of Cybertron, but he was still a fully cognizant, autonomous adult.
He glanced up and down the corridor, trying to decide what to do next. It was midnight, or thereabouts, and he had no desire to sit in his room until morning. He wasn't hungry either, not that the mess hall would likely be open at this hour. He glanced at the signage posted on the wall; one placard pointed to Officer's Quarters while another placard labeled Lounge pointed in the opposite direction. Pain-free, well rested, and satiated for the first time in a week, Sam felt the first stirrings of genuine curiosity. Decision made, Sam started towards the end of the quad that he had not yet explored.
He walked slowly, glancing inquisitively at the rooms that he passed. Many of them had glass facades that provided an unobstructed view inside, although they were all dark and quiet. He made a mental note when he passed the commissary to return in the morning to buy a razor. When he arrived at the lounge, Sam pressed his identification badge into the keycard reader and stepped inside.
The room was large, airy, and neat as a pin. There was abundant seating arranged in clusters around the space, not unlike the officer's lounge aboard the Theodore Roosevelt. There was a kitchenette on the far wall, with a trestle table and bench chairs, and three flat screen televisions were bolted to the walls at even increments. Sam spied a row of vending machines at the back of the room, and he set off towards them. As he walked, he passed people sitting in pairs and small groups, talking and laughing with one another. When he got to the vending machines, he noticed that they had an electronic payment terminal. Glancing at the selection for a moment, he swiped his identification badge and bent to retrieve a bottle of water from the receptacle.
As he cracked open the bottle and took a long drink, a solider sidled up and stared considerately at the vending machine beside him. After a moment, he pressed his selection and swiped his card. As he retrieved his purchase, the man glanced at Sam.
"Hey." He greeted.
"Hey." Sam replied, taking another drink of water.
The man stared at him for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face, before his eyes widened in realization.
"Are you the—are you Mr. Witwicky?" He asked in surprise.
Sam grimaced.
"It's just Sam, and yes. I am."
Judging by the dubious look on his face, the stranger had no intention of calling him that.
"It's nice to meet you. Uh, welcome to Diego Garcia." He said, awkwardly.
Sam tilted his head, glancing at the man's nametape.
"Nice to meet you too Mr. Nelson." He said. Sam finished the last of his water and, nodding good-bye, walked to the nearest recycling bin and dropped the bottle inside. He was suddenly painfully aware of the surreptitious glances that were flitting his way, and so he hastily made his way out of the lounge and continued walking.
A short while later, Sam found himself stepping into the bridge. As he walked, he was surprised to notice the number of people who were coming and going, despite the late hour. Some were in military dress, while others wore professional-looking office attire. Unlike Sam, however, they all looked purposeful—as though they had something to do or somewhere to be.
The realization made him grimace. In his last year of high school, there had been a career fair for all of the graduating seniors. When the eager-faced recruiters had asked him, 'What do you want to do when you finish college?' Sam had shrugged at them. He was a good student—he earned a 4.0 grade point average in high school and an SAT score that opened doors to some of the best universities in the country—but what did he want to do? He had no idea. His favorite subjects in high school were algebra and geography, a combination that did not readily lend itself to an obvious career path. As much as he liked algebra (he found balancing equations to be strangely soothing), he couldn't see himself becoming a mathematician or an engineer. And geography? What did geographers even do?
Sam might not know what he wanted to do with his life, but he knew what he didn't want to do—and that was join the military. His lips quirked in maudlin irony—how had that worked out for him? He might not be a soldier, but for better or for worse, he was a part of NEST now.
Sam had walked another dozen steps before he realized that the thought didn't make him angry. The insight made him stop in his tracks, as he turned it over in his mind, examining it. He was twisted up with anxiety and grief, even a semi-permanent sense of mortal dread, but he wasn't angry. Well, he was angry, true, but not because he was here. He was angry at Megatron, and the shitty hand that life had dealt him, and the way people were treating him like he was made of glass—but he wasn't angry to be at NEST.
He snorted softly, surprised by his moment of clarity.
He walked for a while longer, lost in his thoughts. Eventually he found himself wandering through the South Quad, which looked like it could have belonged to any office building in America. White walls and beige carpet stretched in front of him; it was dark and quiet. He turned another corner and saw a door slightly ajar about halfway down the hall. Curious, Sam pushed it open and fumbled for the switch. Florescent light flooded the small mailroom, which had rows of mail slots on one side and an antiquated printer/fax machine on the other. The incongruous nature of an outdated piece of office equipment in the most technologically advanced military base on Earth actually made him laugh aloud. Shutting off the light once again, Sam pulled the door mostly shut behind him and continued on.
He rounded another corner and found himself standing in a long hallway, with office doors spaced in even intervals on both side of the corridor. Unexpectedly, one office door was open, spilling bright light into the dark hall. He walked down the hall slowly, curiously glancing inside the office as he passed. To his surprise, he recognized Dave sitting at an L-shaped desk, with a stack of papers in front of him and an intent expression on his face. A man was standing in front of the desk, his back to Sam, as he bent over a paper that Dave was handing him. The man hummed considerately, and then signed along the bottom of the page. Dave put the paper aside, and pulled another from the stack in front of him.
Dave glanced up as he passed the paper to his companion, his eyes widening in surprise as he noticed Sam.
"Sam!" He greeted, "What are you doing over here at this time of night?"
Sam stepped into the doorway, loosely crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned on the doorframe.
"I just woke up, if you can believe it. Thought I'd go on a foot tour." Sam glanced around the tastefully decorated room, taking in the diplomas on the wall and the Green Bay Packers pennon on the bookshelf. He crooked a smile at the agent.
"Packers, Dave? Really?"
The agent sat back in his chair, grinning at him from across the desk, "What can I say? I bleed green."
Sam shook his head in exasperation, "I think we just became mortal enemies."
"49ers?" Dave guessed.
Sam's grin widened, "Naturally. Loyalty to the 49ers comes with a California birth certificate."
The man standing in front of Dave's desk had turned around to watch their exchange. Sam recognized him from the hallway that morning, and he barely restrained a wince. Rather than disapproval or irritation, however, there was a warm, genuine smile on the man's face, as though he were happy to see him. As though he were relieved to see him.
The memory of his outburst caused his grin to fade, and he started, "Listen Dave, about this morning—"
"Don't worry about it, Sam. I get it." Dave said, reassuringly.
"No, really. I'm sorry. I'm not usually such an irritable asshole, especially to someone who's done me a favor." He apologized.
Dave waved him off, understandingly.
"It's fine. It happens to the best of us."
Sam nodded his thanks, glancing at the clock behind Dave's desk to see it was almost one o'clock in the morning. He frowned a little, looking back at the agent, "What are you still doing here?"
Dave gestured to the papers on his desk, "Just finishing up. It's been a hectic few days."
Sam's frown deepened, "Optimus is working you too hard."
Dave's eyes flicked to Orion and then back to Sam, and he opened his mouth to reply.
"I agree with you, Sam." Orion cut him off, "Let's finish up tomorrow Dave. Go get some sleep."
The agent looked between Orion and the stack of papers still on his desk, nodding slowly.
"Yeah, sure. I could use a break." He replied.
Orion turned to look at Sam, "Where are you headed?"
Sam blinked at the older man in surprise, "Nowhere in particular."
"I'll walk with you." He replied with a smile, and then turned to look at Dave over his shoulder, "Good work today. I'll see you tomorrow."
Sam stepped back to allow Orion to cross into the hallway. The older man gestured for him to continue, so he started walking. They walked together in companionable silence through the South Quad, passing by a large room filled with cubicles. Sam glanced inside curiously as they passed, trying to work out the purpose of the space.
"Logistics." Orion told him, as though reading his mind, "It's used during activations when there are a lot of moving parts that need coordination."
"Activations?" Sam asked curiously. He had heard the word used before.
"NEST activations," Orion explained patiently, "When a Decepticon signature has been detected, for example, or when a NEST team is deployed."
Sam quirked his head thoughtfully, "I guess I never thought about all the behind-the-scenes stuff that goes on, but that makes sense. What do they do?"
"Anything and everything required to coordinate a mission. They approve the movement of troops and resources, work with local authorities to evacuate civilians prior to engagement, coordinate search and rescue, communicate situational updates to the necessary parties—they have many responsibilities."
Sam was surprised to find himself listening in rapt attention.
"That sounds interesting. Intense, but interesting."
The wrinkles around Orion's eyes deepened as he smiled, "Definitely intense."
They had arrived at the South Quad entrance to the bridge, and Orion pulled open the door for him. Sam walked in silence, his thoughts caught up with what Orion had just told him. He had never thought about the logistics, coordination, and communication required for an Autobot deployment. Every time Sam had been in the field with the Autobots, it had felt like it was just them against the Decepticons. It gave him a funny turn to realize that the Autobots would have been communicating with NEST the entire time.
After a few moments of Sam's introspective quiet, Orion glanced at him.
"You seem distracted," He said casually, "Something on your mind?"
Sam looked at the man askance, expecting to see an expression of polite attention on his face—the sort of look you'd give someone who had just asked you about the weather. Instead, Orion's features were open and honest, and he seemed genuinely interested in Sam's response.
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, "You could say that."
Orion was silent for a moment before he asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Sam turned and looked at the man—really looked at him. His posture was relaxed and welcoming. There was something about him that Sam couldn't quite put his finger on, but he had the strangest feeling that Orion cared. That he could be trusted.
Sam felt himself shrug, not answering Orion's question directly.
"I'm working through some stuff." He said at last, grimacing as he recalled Ratchet's reaction to those same words.
Orion seemed contemplative for a moment, and then he said, "How about this? If you want to talk, then talk. If you don't want to talk, then don't. But I'll keep you company, all the same."
Sam nodded slowly, surprised to find that he was moved by the offer. It took him a moment to puzzle out why he felt so appreciative, and then he realized: Orion wasn't treating him like he needed gentle handling. He was just there, solid and sympathetic. They walked in silence for an interminable time, as Sam tried to marshal his whirling thoughts.
Eventually, he blurted, "I'm not angry."
His assertion seemed to take the man by surprise, "Oh?"
Sam struggled to articulate the revelation he had had before he entered South Quad.
"I'm not angry. To be here, I mean." He sighed, "I was. When I first found out, I was fucking pissed. I think I might have actually punched Optimus in the face, if he had had one—even though that fight would have been over before it began."
A look of surprised amusement flashed across Orion's face, but he said nothing.
"Not now, though. I've had a lot of time to think." Sam paused, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, "So, no more anger. All that's left is grief—and fear."
Orion looked at him, patient and supportive, encouraging him to continue.
"I'm trying to work my way through it, but it's harder than I thought. It wasn't like this after Mission City. Not even close."
Orion's face became carefully composed, and he asked neutrally, "Should you see someone? To help you work through it?"
Sam's eyes snapped to Orion's face, reflexively searching for condescension or disdain, but he could see nothing to suggest that the older man was judging him. His jaw tightened, and Sam resisted the knee-jerk reaction to snap in reply. Instead, he forced himself to consider the question seriously. He knew that this wasn't run-of-the-mill anxiety; he was almost certain that he had PTSD. The flashbacks, the nightmares, the unpredictable emotional outbursts, it all fit. He also knew that Dr. Anderson had probably been right when she said that it wasn't going to go away on its own.
Eventually he murmured, "Probably."
It was a difficult admission for him to make.
"I'll take care of it." Orion said, like a promise. At Sam's confused expression, he clarified, "I know some people."
They walked in silence for a long while, as Sam contemplated the potential ramifications of admitting his weakness to this man. Feeling overwhelmed and adrift, he huffed loudly in exasperation.
"I am so fucking out of my depth."
Orion tilted his head quizzically, waiting for Sam to continue.
"I have, what, sixty years left? More if Ratchet has his way, and less if Megatron does. What am I supposed to do with myself now?"
Orion replied slowly, as though considering his words carefully.
"What would you like to do?"
Sam laughed self-deprecatingly, "I have no idea." He gestured vaguely to their surroundings, "Not this. Nothing against NEST, but I can honestly say that I didn't have any plans to spend the rest of my life surrounded by military types in the middle of the goddamned Indian Ocean."
Sympathy softened Orion's features, "No, I'm sure you didn't."
Suddenly realizing the sharpness of his words, Sam's lips quirked in a smile, "Okay, so maybe I am still a little angry. But only a little."
"You're entitled to it." Orion replied. It was a simple affirmation, but it made Sam feel strangely validated. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he turned to Orion.
"Are you a therapist?" He asked, baffled.
To his surprise, Orion threw back his head and laughed. It was a warm, jovial sound and Sam found himself huffing a laugh in return.
"No, thank goodness, but I am a good listener. It's a job requirement."
They walked in companionable silence for a long time. They were halfway through East Quad when Sam said, apropos of nothing, "I miss my parents already. It's only been one day."
The admission took him completely by surprise. Orion stopped abruptly, turning to look him full in the face.
"Of course you do. You're their son." He said, so plainly and with such conviction that Sam was blindsided by the way his throat closed up with emotion. He turned his face away, struggling to get himself under control. Orion stepped forward slowly, as though waiting to see whether Sam would protest or pull away, and then wrapped his arms around his shoulders in a loose hug. Sam tensed, embarrassed and uncertain, but Orion just stood there—steady and supportive. Sam didn't move for an interminable time, neither hugging him back nor pulling away, merely accepting the comfort that Orion was offering. Eventually, Sam took a shuddering breath and raised the hem of his sleeve to wipe across his face, before pulling away. Orion squeezed his shoulders, and let him go.
"I'm sorry, that caught me by surprise." He admitted, "My emotions have been all over the place lately."
"It will help to talk to someone about it." Orion assured him, "I speak from personal experience. It may surprise you to hear it, but I frequently turn to Ratchet for counsel."
Sam huffed a laugh, "You're right, I do find that surprising."
"Although his abrasive manner may make it appear otherwise, Ratchet is deeply committed to the well-being of those under his care."
Sam sighed, "Ratchet's intentions were never the problem. It's his relentless boundary-stomping and disregard for personal autonomy that's the issue."
Orion's lips quirked up, "That is primarily a symptom of the cultural differences between our two peoples. As Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet has full authority to treat his patients however he sees fit. He can even relieve a commanding officer of duty, if Ratchet feels it's in their best medical—"
Orion abruptly stopped speaking, a frown flitting across his face. Surprised by the disapproval evident in the other man's expression, Sam opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, when Orion turned to meet his gaze.
"I'm sorry, Sam. A matter has arisen that requires my immediate attention. Thank-you for walking with me." His tone was equal parts displeasure and regret. He paused a moment, tilting his head as though listening to something, before he continued, "I'll explain when I see you in the medical bay this morning."
Sam frowned in confusion, opening his mouth to ask for clarification, when Orion shimmered and then disappeared. He jerked backwards in surprise, staring in shocked disbelief at the empty hallway in front of him for a fraction of a second, before understanding dawned on him.
Blue eyes. Works with Dave. Seeks counsel from Ratchet.
Optimus.
Sam's head fell back as he screwed his eyes shut. "You have got to be kidding me."
It took him a moment before he could open his eyes and face the reality of the empty hallway—and all that it signified. After he confirmed that he was, in fact, alone, Sam turned on his heel and stiffly continued down the corridor. As with Ratchet, he struggled to remember all of the interactions he had had with Optimus' holoform. The Autobot leader had been supportive and comforting—neither judging Sam nor pressuring him to talk. Sam remembered his offer to help him find a therapist, his hug, his gentle validation. It had all been welcome, but he couldn't ferret out the mech's motivation for introducing himself as Orion Pax and not as his holoform. Surely, Optimus would have realized that Sam would not connect one with the other.
He stewed on the conundrum for the length of the hallway. The only answer that made sense was that Optimus had wanted to be supportive, and he felt there was a better chance that Sam would accept that support from Orion than from Optimus. Sam's lips thinned in irritation. He had officially reached his limit for people making assumptions and taking action regarding his life without his knowledge or consent.
And he was going to make damn sure both Optimus and Ratchet knew it.
Sam's angry brooding was interrupted by a loud bang, and he startled violently in surprise. The noise had come from somewhere in front of him. He walked forward cautiously, glancing around the next corner. He could see a large hangar door at the end of a short hallway, beyond which were long rows of workbenches and floor-to-ceiling shelving stuffed with pieces of machinery. What immediately caught his attention, however, was the black marks scored into the walls and ceiling of the corridor. He cautiously turned the corner, inching closer to the open door, as he strained to hear anything from inside the hangar.
There was another bang, less forceful than the last, and then an excited voice exclaimed, "Oh! How wonderful!"
Suddenly a mech bounced—and truly, there was no other word to describe the gait—across the entryway as he went to pass from one side of the room to the other. However, as soon as his optics settled on Sam, he stopped in mid-stride, pivoting on his pede to step into the corridor. Sam was completely taken aback; the Autobot was unlike any other that he had met to date. He was short, by Cybertronian standards, perhaps 10 feet or so. His helm was also entirely unique; rather than a faceplate that resembled that of the other Autobots, he had a solid faceplate framed by mandibles, above which two blue optics glowed brightly. A third, larger optic that resembled a telescoping lens was affixed on the left side of his helm. It relentlessly whirled, sharpening and widening as it focused on him.
Sam stepped back reflexively.
On either side of the mech's head were illuminated fin-like panels that swirled with brilliant color. As he watched, sunshine yellow brightened and then melted into sea-foam green. The mech bobbed his head animatedly as he approached, walking on legs that were jointed like a velociraptor's.
"Sam! It is Sam, isn't it?"
"Yeah." He said slowly, "I'm Sam."
"Oh! How fortuitous!" He exclaimed, clasping his servos together, "I came to the hospital ward to see you earlier, but you were in stasis. Ratchet was displeased, of course, but I was most curious about you."
The mech took three long-legged strides towards Sam, who jerked back in surprise.
"It's nice to meet you," The mech said, exuberantly, "My designation is Wheeljack."
Sam recognized the name immediately.
"Wheeljack. You're a scientist, right?"
The mech's head bobbed delightedly as he shifted from pede to pede.
"Yes, precisely! Scientist, engineer, researcher, inventor—I discover. Yes, that's it." Wheeljack leaned forward, "Would you like to see?"
Without warning, Wheeljack turned and sprinted back to the hangar bay door, looking entreatingly over his shoulder at him. Sam, who previously had no intention of stepping foot into the engineer's lab, found himself oddly endeared by Wheeljack's enthusiastic manner. He hesitated for only a moment before he pushed his hands into his pockets and walked slowly forward. At his approach, the fins on either side of Wheeljack's helm brightened into jovial gold, and he darted inside.
Walking through the hangar bay doors, Sam came to appreciate the full size of the engineer's lab. There were workbenches, tables, and shelves, all piled with an assortment of terran and alien technology. Sam walked by a squat table with a disassembled toaster lying next to a complicated-looking piece of Autobot machinery. Perhaps most amusedly, Sam noticed that there were post-it notes all over the lab, which was practically a forest of yellow, pink, and blue paper foliage. Wheeljack stopped in front of a nearby worktable, his dorsal fins fluttering excitedly. Sam walked towards the mech, stopping a safe distance away. The engineer gestured towards the partially disassembled machinery on the table.
"These are the remnants of Jetfire's trans-dimensional warp core. I am attempting to use his parts to develop a rudimentary ground-bridge, but preliminary trials have been… inconclusive."
Sam felt a twist of sorrow at the sight of the Jetfire's parts spread unceremoniously over the workbench. He worked his jaw for a moment, before he said, "He helped us get to Egypt. If it wasn't for Jetfire, we'd all be dead."
Wheeljack looked at him, clicking his mandibles urgently.
"Yes, precisely. I will ensure that his sacrifice was not in vain. If, through Jetfire's parts, we can retrofit a working ground-bridge, it will greatly increase our ability to respond to Decepticon threats."
"Ground-bridge?" Sam asked, confusedly.
"It is similar to Jetfire's teleportation technology. It will allow us to move personnel and materials across great distances with little effort."
Sam looked at the parts curiously, "How far?"
Wheeljack's fins brightened to sunshine yellow.
"Oh, it depends on my success refining the technical parameters, but I am confident that it could eventually have a planet-wide range." He chirped excitedly.
"Do you think you'll be able to do it?"
Wheeljack's optics brightened, "Oh, certainly. Whether it takes a stellar cycle or a vorn, however, I could not say."
Sam smiled at the engineer, "That's amazing, Wheeljack."
Without warning, Wheeljack stepped close and poked him in the chest with a spindly finger.
"Do you think so?" He asked earnestly.
Sam flinched back violently, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Before he could retreat, however, Wheeljack cocked his head and regarded him closely, his fins darkening to an emerald green. The engineer raised his servos, placatingly, and took a large step back.
"My apologies, Sam." Wheeljack murmured, "I did not intend to trigger a stress response."
"What?" He managed, his voice strangled.
"A stress response." The engineer explained patiently, "As I have been informed, and have now observed for myself, the negative associations you have with my kind cause you to shy away from unexpected physical contact. I should not have approached you before we had established a tactile bond."
"A tactile bond?" He asked, irritation sharpening his voice.
"Yes," Wheeljack said enthusiastically, "Humans are an unusually tactile species, who frequently establish and strengthen bonds through touch—hugging a mate, kissing your progeny, shaking the hands of an acquaintance—it all encourages the production of oxytocin in the human brain, which fosters feelings of attachment. It was an error to have approached you, given the trauma you have experienced, before I had engendered such an attachment with you."
The incongruity of Wheeljack's eager tone with his oddly clinical assessment of human physiology left Sam feeling wrong-footed. He was pretty sure that he should be insulted, but the engineer's endearing enthusiasm made it difficult to take offense at his words.
"Well, let's just take things slowly and see where it goes." He replied, after a moment.
Wheeljack's fins brightened once again to sunshine yellow.
"An acceptable proposition!" He chirped.
Switching back to a safe subject, Sam motioned to Jetfire's parts.
"How come he had teleportation technology, but none of you do?"
"Oh, that's because he was an airframe." Wheeljack replied, as though that explained everything. Sam looked at him blankly.
"An airframe?"
"Airframes are designed for flight, and often have trans-warp capabilities."
Sam thought on that for a moment, "Like Starscream?"
Wheeljack busied himself with disassembling a complicated-looking piece of machinery.
"Starscream and most other seekers." Wheeljack confirmed.
"Seekers?"
"Those airframes that match Starscream's chassis-type, like his trine-mates Skywarp and Thundercracker."
Sam's lips thinned in a grimace, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting them."
Wheeljack tilted his head, regarding the machinery in his hands closely.
"Oh no, they aren't on Earth—thank goodness. Starscream is quite enough on his own."
Sam huffed, "Yeah, you can say that again."
"Starscream is quite enough on his own."
Sam laughed aloud, eliciting a confused chirp from the engineer.
"It was a saying, not a request." Sam tried to explain. Wheeljack tilted his head considerately, likely searching the Internet for clarification, when he nodded.
"Ah yes, I understand now. Thank-you Sam."
Sam stayed with the engineer for hours, watching him as he worked. He was surprised to find that he was genuinely interested in Wheeljack's research, and the engineer seemed to enjoy his company—especially when he required small hands to get into tight crevices on a piece of equipment. Sam was wrist-deep inside a twisted piece of Autobot machinery when Wheeljack chirped suddenly.
"Ratchet has requested your presence in the medical bay." He said.
"Already? What time is it?"
"It is 0700 local time."
Sam's eyebrows rose to his hairline in surprise; he hadn't realized that he had been in the lab all night. He carefully extradited himself from the piece of machinery and wiped his hands on the towel that Wheeljack had procured for him. Upon realization that it was time to speak with Ratchet—and Optimus—Sam's face clouded grimly. They were either going to listen to him and respect his requests, or they were going to have a hell of a fight. He wasn't looking forward to it.
"Okay, I'll head over. Thanks for keeping me company. It was really interesting."
"I can take you, if you like." Wheeljack offered, hesitantly.
Sam tilted his head considerately at the mech, "I wouldn't want to pull you away from your research."
Wheeljack's fins brightened to robin's egg blue in a moment, "It would be my pleasure!" He had barely finished speaking before he started to transform, and a moment later a black and white BMW G 310R stood in front of him. Sam recognized the motorcycle from his time spent with Mikaela, and the recollection was accompanied by a twist of pain. She would have loved it.
"I've never driven a motorcycle before." Sam said after a moment, lifting his leg over the seat. It was a warning and an apology, both.
"No worries, Sam. I'll drive." Wheeljack chirped, and then his wheels spun against the concrete floor and they were off. Sam clutched reflexively at the handles and squeezed tight with his legs as they picked up speed. It was no time at all before they were zipping through the bridge. The long corridor was filled with people coming and going, but no one seemed perturbed by Wheeljack's passage. At the sound of his engine, they moved over to the right side of the hall, and Wheeljack passed on the left.
Sam found himself grinning as he got used to balancing on the bike, leaning into the turns instinctively. By the time they passed through the West Quad door, which opened for them on its own, he totally understood Mikaela's love for motorcycles. It was an exhilarating experience.
Wheeljack slowed to a stop outside of a large set of hangar doors. Sam climbed off the bike, giving the seat a friendly pat good-bye, before all traces of his earlier exuberance vanished. The medical bay was large, designed primarily for Autobot occupation, and it was entirely alien in appearance. Unfamiliar technology lined the walls of the hangar, and large berths were spaced down one wall in even increments. The floors and walls were covered with strange tubing, which snaked under berths and up the walls to spiderweb across the ceiling. Sam hesitated for a fraction of a second, unnerved by the otherness of the space, and then he caught sight of Ratchet and Optimus, and his temper outpaced his anxiety.
"Alright," He greeted with artificial cheer as he walked into the hangar, "Let's have a conversation about boundaries."
Ratchet and Optimus turned in unison as he approached.
"Hello Sam." Optimus greeted.
Ratchet crouched down and extended his hand towards him, palm up. He debated whether he wanted to have this conversation on the floor or on a berth, but he decided it would be wise to minimize the height disadvantage between the three of them. Gripping Ratchet's digit tightly, he climbed onto the Autobot's palm and was neatly transferred to the nearest bench.
"I am pleasantly surprised to see that your common sense has finally overcome your obstinacy," Ratchet remarked dryly.
Okay, here we go.
Sam narrowed his eyes at the mech, "You've made it perfectly clear that you'll treat me regardless of my wishes."
Ratchet crossed his arms across his chassis, "Whether or not you are amenable to the fact is irrelevant. You are a ward of Cybertron, and that makes you my patient."
"Ratchet, you're being unreasonable."
"I hope you can appreciate the hypocrisy of that statement."
Sam did not trust himself enough to reply in that moment, so he took a steadying breath before he tried again. "Ratchet, the hospital ward is better equipped to handle human patients."
Ratchet leaned towards him, speaking sharply, "Dr. Lewis and her corpsman are excellent physicians, but they do not have a fraction of a percent of my diagnostic ability, experience, or medical knowledge."
There was something about the medic's tetchy tone that made Sam realize that Ratchet had been offended by his avoidance. He sighed, switching tactics.
"Ratchet, if you're going to be my physician, then you need to start respecting my bodily autonomy. No more treatment without obtaining informed consent and no more steamrolling my medical decisions."
"I will treat you to the best of my medical judgement—not yours."
Sam's face flushed red in anger, "You will not! I'm not one of your soldiers, and I don't have to obey your orders. If you refuse to respect my autonomy, then you'll have to drag me in here every time you want to treat me from now until I'm dead!"
"That can be arranged." Ratchet warned.
"Ratchet." Optimus rebuked, disapprovingly.
"This is not an unreasonable expectation, Ratchet." Sam said firmly.
"And if your decisions go against my medical judgment?"
"Tough luck."
"I am certain that a compromise can be reached that will satisfy you both." Optimus cut-in diplomatically. Ratchet spat out an angry-sounding string of Cybertronian in reply, and Optimus winced minutely in response.
Suddenly understanding the tenuousness of his position, Sam tried desperately, "Listen. If there is a very good reason for you to ignore my medical decisions—and I mean life-or-death good—then I agree you can veto my choice. I am trusting you to do so sparingly, and only in extreme cases."
Ratchet regarded him intently, considering his words. To his shock, the medic nodded tersely.
"Very well. You will submit yourself to my medical care at my discretion. In return, I will adhere to the human convention of informed consent and respect your medical decisions insofar as they do not endanger your health or wellbeing."
Sam turned the words over in his mind, trying to identify any potential issues in the medic's statement. Finding none, he nodded.
"That means no more sedatives, Ratchet." He warned, instantly bristling when the medic's eyes narrowed in disapproval.
"You haven't slept more than eight hours on your own in the last four days!" The medic snapped.
"Oh really? And what are the consequences of repeated sedation? Better or worse than lack of sleep?" Sam snapped back.
"Sam," Ratchet ground out slowly, as though explaining something to an obstinate child, "You died of cardiac arrest four days ago. I am trying to ensure you don't experience a repeat performance."
"Oh for fuck sakes!" He exploded, his temper frayed, "I'm not going to have a heart attack!"
"Sam." Optimus chided, and his eyes snapped up to the Autobot leader's face.
"Not a word, Orion. You don't have a pede to stand on right now."
Ratchet pinned him with a disapproving glare, "The chances are slim but not insignificant. Patients resuscitated by—"
Sam's temper had reached its breaking point. Recklessly disregarding the potential consequences of his words, he snapped, "The chances aren't slim, they're zero. I wasn't resuscitated, I was resurrected." As an afterthought, he added sarcastically, "Oh, and by the way, your demi-gods seem really nice."
He had a brief moment to savor the identical looks of stunned disbelief on both of their faces, before Optimus recovered from his shock.
"Sam, what are you saying?" He asked, strained and urgent.
Sam felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair. Unable to take back his words, he found himself forced to explain.
"I met them." He said quietly, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly, "The Primes. They saved my life."
"Before or after you recovered the Matrix of Leadership?" Optimus prompted, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.
"Before." Sam murmured, "They're the ones who gave it to me."
Optimus' head jerked back slightly, his optics shuttering in disbelief. Ratchet's expression was stricken, as though he were experiencing an existential crisis. The medic looked at Optimus, warbling urgently in Cybertronian. Optimus' optics never left Sam's face.
"It is not our place to interfere." He murmured back in English.
Sam looked from Optimus to Ratchet, and back again.
"What?" He asked, anxiety making his words sharp, "What aren't you telling me?"
Optimus' optics searched his face for a long moment, before he said, "I understand why you feel deceived by my earlier actions, Sam. My reluctance to reveal my identity was selfish. You have my word that I will not withhold information that concerns you again."
Sam frowned at the strange non-sequitur, but Optimus was continuing before he could reply.
"There are two exceptions to that promise. First, I will not reveal information that is not mine to share. I must respect others' right to their privacy. Second, I will wait until I have gathered all of the necessary information before I bring matters of potential importance to your attention."
Sam shifted uncertainly, "Which one is this? One or two?"
"The second." Optimus intoned, confirming Sam's fear, "When I have more information, you have my word that you will be fully informed."
Seeing no other recourse, Sam looked up at the Autobot leader.
"All right. I trust you."
"You have my thanks, Sam. I will not abuse your trust." Optimus replied solemnly.