A/N: You people are amazing. Thank you to each and every person that reviewed. The first semester of college is over, so hopefully I'll be able to amp up the amount I write weekly. Kind of a short chapter this week, next week will be much longer. In the mean time, enjoy.
Bulkhead dodged, moving from one lumbering foot to the other. The next punch came too quickly to dodge, but the ex-wrecker managed to move just enough so that the blow only grazed his shoulder. The paint scratched with a whine. Bulk grunted, throwing a punch of his own. He missed, however, as his opponent was simply too quick.
A third blow hit his chest, this one much stronger. A successive kick followed, connecting with his jaw, sending him flying back. He connected with the wall with a shout. His head spun, but he pulled himself up none the less. This was humiliating. He was a wrecker for Primus' sake. How was such a youngling besting him?
With a roar he charged, arm swinging back in anticipation and momentum flinging him forward. His opponent panicked, turning until his back was to Bulkhead, sensitive and fragile doorwings barred. The green mech dug his heals into the cement, trying desperately to stop. Instead he fell forward. On instinct he held his hands out to break his fall. Unfortunately, his right one was mid-transformation from a wrecking ball back to a hand when it made contact with the ground. He cried out, pain shooting up his arm as cogs where bent and cables strained.
Bumblebee was at his side in an instant, whirring and chirping out his concern. He helped the Wrecker to his feet, still apologizing profusely. Bulk waved him down, cradling his injured hand to his chest plates. It throbbed, but by the lack of fluids, no energon lines had been cut. Though it did look rather gruesome, caught in the transformation sequence as it was.
"Chill, Bee," He grunted, hefting himself upright, "Not your fault. But if you keep turning your back like that you're going to get your doorwings slagged." The scout beeped, apologizing for his blunder. Bulkhead shook his helm, mumbling about going to medbay before he left Bee to continue the practice session alone.
Arcee, perched at the monitors, glanced back as the larger bot's steps echoed about the main room. She grimaced at the sight of his hand, knowing being caught like that was particularly painful. "Ratch in medbay?" He asked, coming to stand behind her.
She nodded, "Yeah, but I think he fell into recharge. He was snoring earlier." Miko glanced up from her videogame, raising a brow at the cybertonians.
"You guys snore?" Bulkhead brushed off her question with a shrug. She huffed, but turned back to her game. Bulkhead patted Arcee on the shoulder with his good hand before turning for the medbay.
Sure enough, Ratchet was soundly in recharge, head lulled to the side, resting on his shoulder platting. He'd begun to slide out of his chair as well and his thermal blanket lay in a heap at his pedes. Bulkhead smiled, crouching next to the older Autobot. The repairs his systems had to undergo took a lot of energy, so it was not uncommon to find him in such a state as of late. Bulk pulled the blanket back up to cover his lap, then placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.
"Ratch," He whispered, "I need you up." The medic mumbled incoherently. He was never one to online quickly. Bulkhead shook his shoulder again. He didn't mean to rush him but his hand really hurt. Finally, Ratchet pried his optics open and glared at Bulkhead. Unfortunately, when he made to shift, his precarious position on the chair sent him sliding forward. With a squeak, he scrambled desperately for the arm rests, attempting to halt his fall. Thankfully, Bulkhead managed to catch him before his aft slid completely free of the chair.
"I've got ya'," He assured, hauling the lighter mech back into his seat. Ratchet casually dusted himself off, attempting to retain some dignity.
"Well," He huffed, "That's one way to wake up. Now, what'd you need?" Bulkhead simply held up his damaged hand. As Ratchet's face grew red, the wrecker braced himself for the impending string of curses that usually accompanied such injuries. None came. Instead the medic cycled air heavily and returned to his normally white faceplate color. He grabbed Bulkhead's hand, twisting it this way and that to get a better look before reaching into a nearby drawer for tools. Bulk sat patiently as he worked, wincing every now and then when Ratchet's shaky hands caught on a wire. He knew better than to speak up, however. He'd always been fascinated by watching the medic work so rarely interrupted him, but this silence was unnatural, heavy, uncomfortable.
"You okay, Ratch?" The response was instantaneous. Ratchet stopped his work, placing his tools in his lap but never glancing up. Bulk could tell, however, that he was glaring.
"I wish everyone would stop asking me that," He grumbled, voice dangerously low, a tone he typically reserved for particularly naughty patients. Bulkhead was taken aback.
"Well I – I just-" He stuttered, attempting desperately to find a way to explain himself. He sighed, collecting his thoughts and words before continuing, "You didn't even yell at me. Was just a bit odd is all." The other nodded, resuming the task of forcefully twisting Bulkhead's hand back into shape.
"It's nothing," He muttered, "Don't worry about it."
"I'm going to worry whether you tell me to or not." Bulkhead tilted his helm to better see Ratchet's optics as he was hunched over the Wrecker. "Might as well get it off your chest." Ratchet sighed, evidently annoyed but by the way his shoulders drooped Bulkhead knew he had won.
"I just-" He paused, compiling his thoughts. Finally finished, he placed his tools aside and returned Bulkhead's gaze. "I've been thinking, and I haven't always been the nicest bot. My bed-side manner stinks and I'm not much more than a grouch."
Bulk shook his head. "That's not true, Ratch," He assured, flexing his hand to test out the joints. "Anyway, we know you mean well. Shouting means you care and that the injury is minor. When you go quiet is when we worry."
"Yeah," He sighed, "Maybe this whole imminent death thing is getting to me, but – I just…" He stuttered, not knowing how to express his emotions. Instead he pointed at Bulk's hands giving it a slight tap. "Transform that for me." Bulk did as asked. "Any pain?" He shook his head, "Good. No excessive strain for the next two days, and your auto repairs should take care of the rest." The wrecker sighed, he wasn't going to get anymore out of the medic today. Instead he leaned in closer and inhaled. Ratchet leaned back, pressing into the back of his chair, staring quizzically at Bulkhead. The wrecker pulled away suddenly, scrunching up his face plates.
"When was the last time you visited the wash racks?"
Ratchet glared, "Are you calling me smelly?" Bulk nodded. Now, normally teasing the Hatchet would be a bad idea, but without the ability to walk and his diminished aim, the medic posed little physical threat. "You try showering when your legs act more like broken tension cables than functioning limbs."
Bulk waved him down. "Yeah, yeah." He turned towards the rec-room, shouting through the open medbay door, "Hey, Miko! We've got an ambulance in here in need of a wash."
"I'm coming! I'm coming!" Something fell over with a crash in her mad scramble to get to the medbay. With a grunt of surprise and protest, Ratchet was hoisted into Bulkhead's arms.
"Grab the solvent, Miko," Bulkhead called over his shoulder as he made his way towards the wash racks. Ratchet snorted but clung to Bulk's neck anyway, relenting. Miko trotted behind, bucket and soap in hand.
Bulkhead eased Ratchet to the floor, setting him on the smooth soap stained tiles. The medic's feet slid to an awkward angle, his hips tilted and his arms his only support besides the cold concrete at his back. Uncomfortable, but it would do for now. Instantly Bulk set about hosing Ratchet down while Miko gathered supplies. He kept the hose nozzle close to the other mech's plates to decrease his discomfort as much as possible. Within a kilk, Ratchet was coated from helm to pede in frothy soap bubbles. At some point he had snatched a sponge from Bulkhead and begun to work on areas he could reach. It was disconcerting to have another mech, a friend none the less, scrub at your aft, whether or not you could feel it.
Once, Miko had slipped in the mess they'd made, falling on her backside with a squeak. This had earned her a hearty chuckle from both mechs. She'd slipped several times more after that, deciding that the inevitable bruise on her back was worth watching the usually down medic laugh. Unfortunately, he'd caught onto her intentions ratchet quickly and simply flicked her over with a large finger after the third fall, stating that he'd be the one to hear her complain if she truly hurt herself.
As the bath came to a close, Optimus peeked inside the wash racks. He smiled warmly at the sight.
He cleared his intakes to gain his comrades'' attentions. "I hate to interrupt, but our meeting is in just under a joor, Ratchet." The medic nodded.
"I'll be there, don't worry." He swatted at Bulkhead when the mech brought the hose up to his chin. "Squeaky clean, too."
"The demands are simply too high. That many materials and supplies cost a fortune. We can't throw those kinds of recourses at you." Ratchet pinched the bridge of his chevron in frustration. The conference had already lasted far longer than he had hoped and his patients, small as they were, were wearing thin.
"General," The medic focused on keeping his voice calm and level, "When we originally were granted asylum on your planet and in your country our two races signed an agreement that all supplies necessary for survival would be provided within the bounds that we provided our continued protection to your world from the Decepticon threat." He paused, watching the general's stoic expression. "We have provided our end of the bargain."
The man scoffed, "and there's the issue." Both Ratchet and Optimus glanced at one and other. Confusion lacing one's expression while barely concealed anger buried itself within the other's. "The supplies you are demanding have never been necessary in the past. Why would they be now? Why should we tolerate such an influx?"
The general jumped in his seat when Prime's strong baritone resonated through the speakers. "Circumstances have changed, General Hallen."
Hallen crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine then. If you want more, you need to provide more."
"I have already made it explicitly clear that I will not provide the human race with Cybertronian military technology." Fowler tapped on the desk, silently letting the General know that he agreed with Optimus' decision.
"Proof, then," He drawled, "How do we know you're not just haggling for hand outs?"
"Proof?!" All eyes turned to Ratchet as the medic pushed himself to full height in his chair. Optimus motioned for him to calm, sending a warning glare his way, but it was already too late. The Hatchet was free and would not be subdued so easily. "You want proof? Is it not enough proof that throughout this discussion I have been confined to a chair and had to be carried in here? Do I need to provide medical scans of my backstrut because I can tell you without them that it is well and truly broken. How about the others? I am the medic of this team; I know when my patients are in need of repairs without some human glitch telling me how to do my job."
"Ratchet!" Optimus slammed a hand against his desk, "That is enough!"
"I'm not done, Prime. They'll never understand unless we force them to." The short reprieve, however, had allowed his body to catch up with his emotions. Before he could continue his frame gave a series of quick shutters, tensing and releasing in rapid succession. His optics clenched shut and his ventilations came in shallow gasps. Occasionally the lights adorning his form would sputter on only to quickly shut off again. Optimus leapt from his chair, ignoring the confused cries of Hallen, to kneel in front of the medic, holding his hands as he rode out the tremors.
"Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?!" The general's knuckles had faded to white, clenched against the edge of his desk.
Fowler stepped forward, making a point of leaving the struggling medic in plain sight. "You wanted proof, sir?" The special agent ground out, "Well there it is. This is a glitch, a seizure. A mild one at that." The general glanced between the two Autobots with an unreadable expression. "He was taking medicine to suppress them but since we don't have the supplies…" He trailed off, allowing the more stubborn man to come to his own conclusions.
Eventually Ratchet's tremors slowed, his breathing evened out and his optics came back online, duller than they were before. He sat, tense and still, grasping desperately to Optimus' hands while his systems stabilized. When they finally did, he slumped back in his chair, utterly exhausted.
After giving Ratchet a moment to settle, Prime pulled a cube of medical grade energon from his subspace and placed it in the medic's shaking servos. Ratchet shook his head, mumbling. "Tanks still churning."
Optimus smiled sadly, "I can go get the IV if you prefer." Immediately, the white mech lifted the cube to his lips, some of the florescent liquid spilling down his chin when his hands jerked.
General Hallen cleared his throat, gaining back attention. "I believe I've seen all that I need to at the current time. Bill, you and I can talk about this later." With that the camera shut off.
"Well," Fowler chortled, "Either we've won the argument or he's so embarrassed that he'll convince the higher ups to help just so he doesn't have to face that again."
Ratchet coughed, "Glad I could be of service, Agent Fowler. But you lied. I am still medicated for seizures. That was an extreme case."
The human nodded. "He doesn't need to know that."
Optimus shook his head, taking the now empty cube to place on his desk and lifting Ratchet into his arms. The smaller mech didn't even bother to attempt to hold on. "Come, Old Friend. Let's get you back to berth for some well deserved recharge."
Ratchet moaned, burring his face in the Prime's chest plates. "That's all I've been doing lately."
Optimus smiled warmly. "And it's all you need to do at the moment."
A/N: My family had no contact with my uncle when he broke his neck, but I've heard stories from both my parents and Brad himself. A lot of the emotional research and inspiration for this came from him. Brad is an amazing person and extremely brave. He's made a wonderful life for himself, quadriplegic or not.
By the way, Quad means four, while Para means two. Thus Quadriplegic is not having control over four limbs, or being at least partially paralyzed from the neck down. Paraplegic is having paralysis in two limbs, or being at least partially paralyzed from the lower chest down. In this, Ratchet is fully paraplegic starting at the mid waist.
I'm a big fan of research, so most of the medical information in here is at least somewhat based around human medicine. However, if you find any inaccuracies, please let me know. Or typos. Typos are bad.
Reviews are love.