Prompt: Endure
Required Character(s): Slag
Other Featured Character(s): Ratchet
Rating: K+/PG
Warnings: An angsty Steg. It's quite a rare condition for said Steg, so cherish it. Or something.
Genre: Angst
Word Count (Not including this intro): 1,655
Notes: This one is a "sequel" of a sort to the story used for the "Damage" prompt, so you'll need to have read that one in order to understand this one. Actually, both stories are part of a larger one, the one described in the description of the "Damage" story and that I'm still picking at on occasion. Slag gets the entire "B story" of that story pretty much all to himself because I love to pick on the big lug just that much. :) This bit obviously happens a bit later on in that story. After I wrote it, I realized that it fit this prompt.
Ratchet sat himself down next to Slag. The big Dinobot had encamped himself in the Rec Room, claiming a table in the corner, and no one else had dared to approach him, much less to sit with him. He was an obvious and festering knot of rage. And of worry. And, Ratchet suspected, of guilt. It was a very bad combination, particularly so in an individual of Slag's volatile temperament. It needed to be addressed before he lost control and hurt someone. Or himself.
Ratchet felt very intimidated at the prospect. For all that he had been one of those responsible for Slag's existence, Slag was frightening even to him. And he was a puzzle, too, as he was to pretty much everyone else, even to most of his Dinobot brethren. He kept to himself and usually said almost as little as Snarl did; in those ways, the two were very alike. But unlike Snarl, whose weapon of choice was a mask of indifference, there was always an air of barely-restrained rage about Slag. It was a black cloud that rumbled and occasionally flashed and that followed Slag wherever he went. It made his reactions to different situations unpredictable at best. This, of course, kept most away from Slag, encouraged most to give him a very wide and wary berth. Ratchet was no exception. Ratchet was also quite certain that such distance was exactly what Slag wanted.
But Ratchet felt – knew, really – that what Slag needed at the moment was not solitude. He didn't often feel like he had much in common with Slag, didn't often feel as if there was any sort of connection between them at all. Under normal circumstances, he could never tell what Slag was thinking, what he might be feeling beyond or beneath his habitual, shielding anger. But right at that moment, in the wake of what had happened to Swoop and especially in the wake of what Slag had been forced to do to help him, indeed to save him, Ratchet had a pretty good idea of what was eating at Slag. Hence, his self-assigned mission.
Because suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, he and Slag had something in common.
Ratchet didn't consider himself to be much of a counselor, really, for all that medics were often called upon for that sort of thing. It was not a talent that he naturally possessed, that much was certain, nor was it one that he'd ever been very successful at deliberately developing in himself. Ratchet was very good, the best, at repairing physical damage, but he was well aware that that was about the extent of his talents. Psychology and being comforting were really not amongst his strengths. Wheeljack was surprisingly good at it, particularly for an engineer, who were usually not individuals known for their "people skills." Swoop was surprisingly good at it. But not Ratchet. Never Ratchet.
Still, Slag was hurting. He was bleeding almost as much as Swoop had been, and Ratchet knew, deep down, that it was up to him to try to stop the hemorrhaging before it wrought serious damage. That was his job, both as a medic and as Slag's…parent, in a sense.
Ratchet firmly reminded himself of this as he gathered his courage and sat himself down, especially when Slag gave him a very displeased look. The Dinobot had been staring at the wall, a container of energon sitting untouched in front of him, and once he'd glared at Ratchet, he went back to staring at the wall, completely ignoring the medic. Ratchet actually considered that to be a good sign; if Slag had really not welcomed his company, he would have made it very obvious, either by leaving himself or by "encouraging" Ratchet to leave. That he did nothing was, to Ratchet, promising.
So Ratchet just sat there for a long while, saying nothing, sipping absently at his own energon and gathering his thoughts, his resolve. And then, long minutes later, he asked, "How are you doing, Slag?"
Slag started a bit, having come to the welcome conclusion that Ratchet wasn't going to talk. He turned his head to scowl at the medic and at the same time resolved that he wasn't going to answer. Which was why it utterly surprised him when he heard words emerge from himself mere seconds after that.
"I'm fine," Slag heard himself say. "Wasn't damaged."
"I know that," Ratchet answered quietly. "But I wasn't talking about that kind of damage." When Slag merely regarded him quizzically, Ratchet turned sideways in his chair so that he could lean closer to Slag, so that he could speak to him almost conspiratorially. "I know," he said, lowering his voice, "what you had to do to save Swoop. And I know what it's doing to you now."
Slag glared down at him, his body stiffening.
"I'm fine," he insisted again. "Did what he asked me to do, that's all."
"You did what you had to do, yes," Ratchet agreed. "But that doesn't mean that it was easy to do. Believe me, I know that. I've been in that same place many times. More times than I want to count, really."
Slag continued to stare at Ratchet, but Ratchet could have sworn that the Dinobot's expression softened somewhat. So he continued, gently, "You're used to hurting enemies, Slag. It's what you do. It's what you were born to do, and you've always done it very, very well. But Swoop is not an enemy, and you hurt him."
"Didn't want to," Slag answered quietly but vehemently. He suddenly gripped the energon container in front of him tightly, his strength threatening to crush it.
"I know," Ratchet answered, equally quietly. He laid a comforting hand on Slag's forearm, fully expecting the Dinobot to jerk angrily away…but he didn't.
"But…I had to," Slag said instead, matter-of-fact.
"Yes, you did," Ratchet agreed. "And you saved him. He'd be dead if you hadn't done what you did."
Slag was a quiet for a very long moment after that, battling with himself. Ratchet felt a tremor run through his forearm every once in a while as the Dinobot fought with his emotions. He was just about to say something, to make an attempt at comfort, when Slag spoke up again.
"I can still hear him," Slag said, his voice hardly sounding like his own. It was quiet with sorrow, and there was a distinct tremor in it. "The way he screamed. I hear it over and over. Can't make it stop. Don't know how to make it stop."
Ratchet winced, squeezed Slag's forearm in empathy. Slag looked down at his arm, surprised, and then his gaze shifted to Ratchet's face, which was looking up at him in shared pain.
"I know," Ratchet said quietly. "The screams are pretty loud in my head sometimes, too." When Slag only looked at him questioningly, he added, "The situation you faced…It happens often, especially in field medicine. In that situation, you can't always treat grave injuries as gently as you ideally should…. and you often have to cause even more pain in order to save a life. Sometimes, you have to cause truly horrendous pain, as you had to do. So, you just…collect screams as you go along, I suppose. And I've been at this a long, long time, Slag."
Slag frowned thoughtfully at Ratchet for a long, appraising moment.
"How…How do you…?" he began to ask.
"Deal with it?" Ratchet finished. At Slag's wordless nod, he answered, "The screams get quieter with time, Slag. The one you're hearing will fade, too, eventually, and since you're not a medic, hopefully you won't accumulate more of them."
Slag nodded, and then he said, almost thoughtfully, "'Time heals all wounds.'"
"Indeed," Ratchet answered with a sad smile. "But until then, you just have to…endure. There's nothing else you can do. Just…try to stay focused on the fact that if you hadn't done what you did, Swoop would be dead right now. That's what's always gotten me through."
All sorts of things tumbled through Slag's thoughts, of a sudden, as he stared wonderingly at Ratchet. Most of all, Slag was only just then realizing how much he had always underestimated Ratchet, how much he had underestimated the medic's sheer strength. He had always done so because, until right at that moment, he'd only ever paid attention to one means of measuring strength. More than that, he had always respected and acknowledged only one kind of strength, and it was a kind that Ratchet had never seemed to have much interest in showing. But Ratchet had just proven to Slag that his kind of strength was, perhaps, ultimately more powerful than the kind that Slag respected and that he sought to cultivate in himself. It was a startling revelation to Slag. Disturbing, even.
"I…always thought you were weak," he confessed to Ratchet, although he couldn't quite bring himself to look at him. "That medics were weak, even Swoop, sometimes. Not fighters. And you are not a fighter, Ratchet." And then he did finally turn his head to look Ratchet squarely in the eye, and he said, approvingly, "But you are not weak."
It was, Ratchet knew, the highest compliment that Slag would ever pay to anyone. He smiled accordingly.
"Thank you, Slag," he said, genuinely flattered. "And neither are you, so I know that you'll get through this." He rose then, saying that he needed to get back to Swoop, but he paused before he left and laid a hand on Slag's shoulder. He was again gratified when Slag didn't jerk away from him. "But…if you need to," Ratchet said quietly, "come and talk to me. Anytime."
Slag regarded Ratchet searchingly for a moment, and then he nodded curtly in acknowledgment, choosing not to say anything more. Ratchet gave Slag's shoulder an encouraging squeeze and then a pat, and then he slipped away, returning to his other patient.