Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.
Because, you know, stealing is wrong.
Title: On The Care And Feeding Of Humans
Summary: Transformers AU. Juxtaposition side story. So you think you're ready for a human all your own, but do you know how to care for one? ... Ratchet and Wheeljack are doing their best to figure it out.
Rating: PG
Warnings: mild cursing
Author Notes: Number six: organics are fragile. Handle with care. (Not so much humor, but it was a scene that I thought needed to be written.)
Timeframe: Directly after chapter twenty-one (Authority) when Evelyn finally returns to 'her' room. (between Ch. 22-23)
On The Care And Feeding Of Humans
Handling
Baby doll, I've had me one helluva bad day. I've been beaten up every time I turn around.
- Jack Rafferty, Sin City
Ratchet did not mean to interrupt her grooming period. There had been mix-ups early on, of course, before the femme had introduced them to the concept of 'knocking.' On this occasion, the medic had just finished the last bits of repair work on the mechs still in the repair bay and felt the undeniable need to check up on his remaining patient. 'Knocking' was not a concept that registered in his cognitive processes at the moment.
The little femme had stripped herself of her flimsy outer coverings and now wore only the small, simple coverings for her lower body and upper chest. She knelt beside a cube of water, unmoving, her head and arms glimmering with moisture. She jerked as the door entered, sending spatters of water across the table, and looked over her shoulder at him, blinking.
Ratchet's optics widened as he realized his blunder, and the sensitivity of his aural receptors toned down several levels in anticipation of the forthcoming indignant shriek...
None came.
"Ratchet..." The word came as a resigned sigh, voice scratchy and quiet, and her arms rose to cross over her chest. She leaned back against the cube, legs curled close to her body in what he recognized as a position meant to conceal as much of her form as possible. "What've I told you about knocking?"
Ratchet's ever-present frown deepened, and he eyed the femme suspiciously. "As I recall, you screeched, 'Knuckles! Door! Compute?' and threw one of your foot-coverings at me."
"And it still didn't sink in, hm?" she asked mildly. She brushed at the damp tendrils of hair falling across her face, drawing his attention to the not-quite-white cloth wrapped around her forearm. To his sensitive optics, the faint pink smudge showing through the material was easily discernable.
"Are your self-repair systems working correctly?" he asked. When she merely looked confused, he said, "Your arm."
She looked at the limb in question and frowned, and Ratchet wondered whether organic processors were truly that inferior to those of Cybertronians' or she were suffering an ailment of which he was unaware.
"Evelyn?" he prompted, moving nearer to the table.
"'m fine," she mumbled. She shook her head, blinking rapidly. "Sorry. Think 'm ready t' crash."
His systems spiked at the word 'crash.'His medical sensors all came online with a surge of energy that set the tactile sensors in his hands and faceplate tingling. He ran through the standard checks as fast as his processor could interpret the data: heart-rate, rate of breathing, temperature, neural activity... all lower than the recorded norms. How much trauma had she endured during the battle? "Evelyn?"
"What?" She squinted up at him.
"Are you functioning?"
"'m conscious, aren't I?"
"Your systems are not performing at their usual levels. Are you damaged somewhere other than your arm?"
She eyed him muzzily for a moment, mouth twisting into an unamused frown. He was pleased to see her vitals rising slightly, but her answer was not pleasing in the least:
"Would you like th' list alphabetically or by location?"
"Explain."
She avoided his gaze, glowering at nothing in particular. Moving with extreme reluctance, she lowered her arms to her sides, and Ratchet felt his systems heat with ire at the sight of the oddly-colored bands of skin spanning her abdomen, blue and purple and green...
Tissue damage. He accessed the 'human files' in Metellus' database and researched. Bruising. Broken microscopic tubing beneath the skin. Signs of trauma. Pain.
"Nothin' broken, at least," Evelyn was saying. "That really would be a nightmare. Broken bone, an' no one around to set it but a giant alien r—mech."
There were more markings, now that he knew what to look for, scattered across her limbs.
"Turn," he ordered.
She seemed to suffer some kind of brief optic spasm, looking toward the ceiling and sighing, but she rose shakily to her feet. She swayed, and he offered his hand as a support. Her hand was a tiny spot of warmth upon his palm as she leaned upon him, turning her back toward him, revealing another set of colorful bands.
"Your skin is very sensitive to pressure," he observed quietly.
"My skin," she retorted, her voice still coming as a hoarse, tired half-sigh, "is not meant to stand up to back-to-back rounds of 'Squeeze The Squishy.'"
Ratchet rumbled irritably. "The files indicate they will heal on their own. Is there anything you need?"
"Warm bath would be heaven. Dunno, though. Prob'ly fall asleep an' drown m'self."
"Later, then."
"Later," she agreed.
"Anything else? Your arm?"
"... fine."
"I'll check it during your next day-cycle."
"Mm."
"You'll have to tell me if anything is wrong," he said, a bit of warning creeping into his tone.
"Mm-hm."
"Evelyn?"
"Mm?" She seemed to be leaning even more heavily upon his hand, her heartbeat and respiratory rates slowing again, and he recognized this pattern in her vitals now. She was halfway to being in a recharge cycle.
Still frowning, he used his hands to coax her nearer to her recharge berth, and the little femme did not seem to even be aware she was moving. She stumbled when it came to stepping over the raised lip of the box but settled down atop the towels readily enough. Her optic-shutters were already closed by the time her head touched the berth.
Ratchet pinched the corner of a loose towel between his fingers and pulled it over the human's small frame. She did not move. He took one last reading of her vitals before leaving.
The door to the private room hissed closed behind him, and Ratchet absently performed a visual once-over of his 'bay.
Optimus Prime had requested that the repairs on the Decepticon prisoners take place as soon as Ratchet had the time to spare. The medic set his systems to automatically log any anomalies in his patients that the medbay sensors detected and retreated to his office.
The repairs on the damaged Decepticons would be a delicate matter. He would have to choose his tools very carefully.
Very carefully.
End Handling