A/N: I am so very sorry.

In other news there will soon be a link on my profile to a timeline for this story, as a few people have let me know that they are a bit confused about it. And honestly I was confused too. I'll update it every few chapters or as needed.

Also there's a small reference in here to Autobot Chromia's Ratchet's Sick Days. If you haven't read it already, go do so now. It's beautiful and more medically accurate than I could ever hope to be.

"English"

"Cybertronian"

"Nice one, Bulk," Wheeljack called with a whistle. "Harder this time." Bulkhead bounced on his pedes, pulling the tangled ball of metal back, using the momentum it provided to lob it with all his strength. The resulting throw sent Wheeljack skidding back across the training room floor. He grunted, sure that last one had dented something.

"You okay, Jackie?" Bulkhead took a cautious step forward when Wheeljack didn't straighten immediately.

He nearly fell backwards when Wheeljack slammed the ball into the ground, denting the cement. "That's what I'm talking about!"

"Hey!" Both wreckers flinched at the high pitched shout, bracing themselves for a chewing out as Arcee slipped into the room. She stalked over to pry the ball out of the ground. Despite the femme's smaller stature, she easily tossed the ball back to Bulkhead with all her usual grace.

"Sorry, 'Cee," Bulkhead mumbled. "We'll be more careful."

Arcee scoffed. "Just be quieter. Ratch is going to try to spend some time out of the medibay."

Bulkhead put the lobbing ball away in one of the far corners of the hanger. "He's feeling that good, huh?" Wheeljack smiled right along with him. Ratchet was recovering much more quickly than any of them had expected. Within days of coming out of stasis he was speaking semi-coherent Cybertronian, though the multiple definitions of English words still escaped him.

Ratchet had only been out of the CR Chambers for only a week and he'd managed to regain most motor control in his upper body. It wasn't uncommon for him to be somewhat nauseous but by the time the children got off from school his systems had righted themselves.

His physical progress was amazing. His metal wellness, however, worried his teammates greatly. While he'd managed to regain his ability to speak somewhat coherently, it was slow and practically butchered. His sentences were short and simple and did not reflect his renowned intellect in the least.

June had gently reminded them each multiple times that it was far too early to tell just how much Ratchet would recover from the processor damage CCG had caused.

"He wanted to watch some shows with the kids," Arcee elaborated. "It's good mental stimulation even if he won't get the program." Ratchet had to be constantly engaged whenever he was awake. They'd found out rather quickly that when his environment went still, so did his mind. The medic would enter a state similar to an absent seizure. Once he entered that state it was extremely difficult to pull him out of it.

Bulkhead raised a brow. "Kids? I haven't picked them up yet." He gave Arcee a confused look, asking silently if she'd managed to pick up all three children, knowing Bumblebee had monitor duty for the afternoon.

"Ratchet made it very clear he wants to watch TV with the kids," Arcee suppressed a chuckle, "He doesn't seem to care that they aren't here."

"Or doesn't understand," Wheeljack smiled. She stopped his arm teasingly before turning for the door, beckoning the two others to follow.

"Be nice," She chided, "He knows he's not as smart as he should be. He's frustrated. Give him a break, Wheeljack."

Wheeljack huffed, "I'm just joking with 'im." This time it was Wheeljack who glared at him.

"Just don't let him hear you say that, Jackie. You know the doc's pretty touchy right now." Wheeljack returned the sad smile that flickered across his best friend's features.

"Don't blame him one bit, Bulk. Not one bit." As they approached the main room Optimus already had Ratchet in his wheelchair and was attempting to get him situated beside the large couch. The medic, however, was instead preoccupied with something else entirely. He'd twisted himself to the side as much as he was able and was pointing back towards the medibay doors, an unreadable look to his features. Optimus finally crouched in front of him, following the medic's gaze. Ratchet mumble d several disconnected words that the group just approaching failed to make out.

"Normally, Ratchet, yes." Optimus nodded his helm, agreeing uncertainly to what Ratchet was commenting on. "I know, but we're going to watch some tv now." He reached up and gave the medic's hand a firm squeeze, attempting to regain his attention, but Ratchet remained stubbornly focused on the door.

The prime momentarily acknowledged Bulkhead's wave and comment that he and Wheeljack were going on patrol before picking up the children. "Noise," Ratchet interrupted, this time in English.

"Noise?" Arcee echoed, coming to sit on the far side of the couch, allowing the Prime to sit next to Ratchet's chair.

Optimus sighed as he sat down, flicking on the television with a wireless command. "He seems to be upset about the noise the medibay doors make, and the fact that they have not squeaked all morning."

"Seriously?" Arcee huffed, "I thought he was doing better today."

"He was," Optimus agreed. "However his mind gets stuck in loops, such as the current situation."

"Noise," Ratchet repeated, upset at not being acknowledged. Arcee stood, moving to block Ratchet's view of the door. He attempted to see around her for a moment, moving his upper body in all directions to look through the gaps in the small femme's armor. Eventually he gave up and glanced about the room, attempting to remember why he was there in the first place. The sight of Optimus flipping through the TV channels caught his attention almost immediately.

"What are we watching?" He asked after a moment. Optimus looked over at him, surprised. It was rare that Ratchet managed to put together whole sentences in English in the correct order. Cybertronian used a very different configuration of words, much closer to Chinese.

"What would you like to watch?" Optimus asked after a moment. Ratchet shrugged.

"TV." The moment the words left his mouth his optics dilated and his body stiffened. Arcee rolled her optics, sighing.

"Seems his moments of coherency are getting shorter every time." She crossed her arms I over her chest as Optimus finally settled on a nature channel. Ratchet appeared satisfied with the chose as well, as he relaxed marginally and focused what little attention he had on the screen.

"Perhaps," The Prime agreed, "but they've also been much more frequent these past few days.

"Still," Arcee mumbled, wiggling further into the couch, "worried."

Optimus reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Have faith. Ratchet is strong. He will regain himself given time."

The femme made a grunting sound, shaking her leader's hand free. "Not just worried about him." She glanced around Optimus, checking that Ratchet was still enraptured with the tv. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Hasn't been much in the way of con activity in two months. Few minor raids, but no real attacks."

Optimus hummed, "I agree that their recent lack of activity has been rather troubling. Though currently beneficial for us, seeing as we are short our medic."

"And whoever decides to stay behind with him," Arcee agreed. "Still, I'd like to know what they're up to. Them going quiet like this has never ended well for us."

Optimus placed a hand on his chin leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "Let us not make assumptions just yet. This is hardly the longest period they have gone quiet for." He check over his shoulder at Ratchet, watching him for a moment as the medic wiggled in his chair, gaze never leaving the tv. "Their activity has been minimal since Ratchet's capture."

Arcee nodded slowly. "What, you think it has something to do with that?"

Optimus shook his helm sadly. "I do not know, but we never learned the whole story behind Ratchet's capture, only that Megatron was after the synthetic energon formula."

"He was pretty banged up when he came in too," Arcee mumbled before falling silent. When Optimus did not continue with his musings she glanced his direction. The Prime was silently watching Ratchet, his optics affectionate and gentle. Arcee's mouth quirked up into a barely there smile before dipping back into a frown. "Prime?" She whispered, "Do you think he was hacked?" The femme almost felt guilty when the smile Optimus wore vanished. He turned to meet her optics slowly, with an eerie grace.

"That is my fear." His voice was tinged with anger. "I would not put it past the Decepticons." His words had been a touch too loud and Ratchet jolted behind him as if stung. He looked as if he was going to make an attempt to stand for a moment before Optimus was in front of him and pushing him back down. Arcee moved behind his chair, prepared to hold him down by his broad, unarmored shoulders if necessary.

The medic opened his mouth and a weak gasp of static filled the air. The Prime rubbed at his thigh soothingly, momentarily forgetting that Ratchet could not feel it. "Shhh," he soothed, "it's alright, you're safe. You're safe." The panicking mech seemed to calm at the sound of Optimus' voice. After a moment of small twitches his fists clenched around the arms of the chair.

"Cons?" Ratchet breathed, once his ventilations had settled.

Optimus placed a hand on his, gently prying it off the chair arm to hold it in his own. Ratchet was shaking slightly. "We were simply discussing their recent lack of activity. There is nothing to worry about."

The medic nodded, settling further. "Okay," he mumbled shakily, "okay."

"Would it be alright if we asked you some questions, Ratchet?" Optimus approached the subject cautiously, aware of the worried looks Arcee sent him. Ratchet, however, considered the question and after a moment nodded. Optimus forwent tact at that point and simply opted to get the information he needed as quickly as possible. "During your time with the Decepticons, did they attempt to retrieve information from you forcefully?" Ratchet sat for a worryingly long moment, seemingly riveted to his chair. His optics darted about finally settling on Optimus. The Prime watched in intently for any sign of panic.

Finally Ratchet spoke, opening his mouth several times before any sound came out. "They tried."

Optimus felt as if he'd been hit with a freighter. He'd expected the answer but had desperately hoped against it. There were several ways of getting information from an unwilling Cybertronian. Torture was the easiest and the safest for the interrogator but tended to provide the least reliable information. Hacking was the next best option. However, it required a skilled specialist to blast through a mechs firewalls and access specific information within their processors. This could be extremely dangerous for the assailant if the victim was skilled in the same art. The Decepticons would have risked a virus or hacking from the Autobot side if they had pitted anyone against Ratchet. Though the medic was not an interrogator and had never been, he was extremely talented when it came to programming and the Cybertronian processor.

The final, most invasive form of gaining information, the one that worried Optimus the most, was a forced spark merge. Normally merges served as a form of sharing experiences, emotions and often pleasure. They were highly intimate and only preformed willingly amongst close friends or couples. However, the information that was passed between two bots when merged could not be falsified. A spark merge initiated with the intention of hacking or harm was often painful for both participants, but would form a small scar, an impurity, on the spark of the victim. The impurity could be treated and would eventually fade, but would sap small amounts of energy from the host spark until removed, often causing physical and emotional ailments.

Optimus resisted the urge to rub at his finials, feeling a helm ache forming. "I must ask, Ratchet. Did they get anything?" The medic's mouth immediately quirked into an expression halfway between a smile and a grimace. His optics flickered away from the Prime, instead peering over his left shoulder.

"TV," Ratchet sounded almost smug, but his optics were distant, indicating that he'd lost interest in the conversation.

"Oookay," Arcee breathed from over Ratchet's shoulder. "I think it's time to head back to the medibay. The kids will be back soon."

Ratchet immediately shook his helm, almost frantically. "No," he protested, "TV."

"I believe Arcee is right, Ratchet," Optimus agreed, standing to move behind the mech's wheelchair. "It's nearly time for your supplements anyway."

Ratchet made a low grumbling noise in his throat, but conceded without any further protest to allow Optimus to wheel him back to the medibay.

"Gonna go check on how Bee's coming along with the monitors," Arcee offered before turning to head back to the ops room.

"We can come back here later, Ratchet," Optimus consoled the practically pouting medic. "Once you've gotten your meds and the children have settled. I'm sure they would be pleased to spend some time with you." Ratchet watched the medibay door intently as they approached it. When it opened its customary squeak was yet again absent. The medic's face lit up. With a satisfied nod he returned what little focus he had to his Prime.

Optimus gently lifted the medic up onto the berth closest the door, the one he'd most frequently been occupying during his illness. He'd grown accustom to this one and would often grow upset if he were placed on the far berth. After Ratchet was settled, berth tilted up to keep him in a sitting position, Optimus went about gathering the supplies he would need to make Ratchet's afternoon energon.

Certain supplements that Cybertronians normally absorbed through the air, such a cybertronium, Ratchet's recovering systems had a hard time processing. They needed to be taken orally instead. The mixture of cybertronium, boron, iron and ammonia with already thick medical grade energon made for a soupy liquid, almost like warm jello instead of its normal water like consistency. He grimaced at the smell of it and added a liberal sprinkling of mercury to the top, Ratchet's favorite additive. It would do little to help the overall flavor but they'd found out rather quickly that it did make Ratchet more agreeable when it came to drinking his rations.

Optimus carried the cub over to the medic, who was carefully examining a wrench that had been left near the berth. "Filthy," he commented. "Towel, please?" Optimus grabbed the towel Ratchet motioned to and placed it just out of his reach.

"You can do that after you've had your energon." The medic glared at Optimus but took the cub from him anyway. Optimus watched with equal amounts of sympathy and amusement as Ratchet steeled himself for the bitter taste he knew was to come. When the first gulp had made it past his lips his whole upper body shuddered in disgust.

Ratchet gulped down the rest of the energon as quickly as he could. "Primus, that's nasty," He complained as he handed the now empty cube back to Optimus, who accepted it with a sympathetic smile.

"But it's still better than the IV, isn't it?" He asked, handing Ratchet the promised polishing cloth. Ratchet considered the question for a long moment before giving a sharp nod of his helm. At least the taste was temporary. The IV stung if his arm was moved and had to remain in the majority of the time. It was also an inconvenience every time he wanted to go anywhere, not that he did very often anymore.

Once his space had been cleared and Optimus was involved in cleaning up what he'd removed from the cabinets, Ratchet set about polishing the wrench in his lap. The main, broader surfaces where easy to get to a shine. The smaller details, however, did not as easily relinquish their tarnish. The medic pressed the small fabric towel into the cracks and seems, rubbing vigorously. When he pulled the cloth away the tarnish remained. Ratchet huffed, returning to scrubbing again. He twisted the wrench about, attempting to find an angle that he could properly remove the grime. Yet again his efforts were futile. The grime remained.

Optimus watched from behind the cube he was cleaning. After Ratchet's forth attempt he had to hid a smile behind the datapad he'd been reading earlier in the day. The medic was growing frustrated, quickly.

Optimus couldn't help a small snicker when Ratchet finally slammed the wrench down in his lap, evidently having exceeded his patience for the day. Silently the Prime pulled a small que-tip like object from a draw. When the Autobots had first begun to settle into their base Ratchet had complained about the lack of proper cleaning supplies to Agent Fowler until the government agent had finally caved and order a bulk shipment of saxophone cleaners and uncut polishing rags. While not perfect, the instrument cleaners were easy for the large bots to handle and worked sufficiently for the needed task. Optimus handed the cleaner to Ratchet, who seemed shocked that the Prime would have kept such a valuable tool from him at all.

With the medic occupied with cleaning his favorite wrench to perfection, Optimus settled into a nearby chair and resumed reading the report Fowler had provided him with that morning. The text detailed exactly what he already knew: very little to no Decepticon activity had occurred in the past month. The enemy was as silent as they had been during Megatron's five year voyage into space. The Prime sighed and forced himself not to worry just yet.

Being on earth had greatly changed the Cybertronians' view of time. A single earth week was just barely longer than a day to the Autobots. Twenty-four hours was a dizzyingly short amount of time. Adjusting to the rapid pace that humans lived by had been a challenge to even Bumblebee, who tended to adjust to alien environments faster than anyone else. Ratchet had had a particularly difficult time. He remained on duty for days at a time, what would be a normal shift on Cybertron, only to take the equivalent of a human rest period, eight hours. He'd worked himself to collapse within a month.

That had not been the first or last time the medic had exhausted himself working. Ratchet was known as an insomniac to the crew of the Ark, and was watched closely by his colleague when any injury more severe than scratched paint was present in the medibay. After battles Ratchet often had to be dragged to berth or have his CMO status threatened by the Prime himself before he finally allowed himself to recharge.

Optimus smiled. Ratchet had not changed much, despite every horror the war had wrought. When he'd owned a small walk in clinic before the war, he was just as grouchy and unkind to the fools he was forced to suffer. Even if the patient was a complete stranger, Ratchet was known to provide as many dents as he fixed. The locals, typically poorer lower class mechs, were extremely fond of their medic. He was fair, did good work and charged only on an honor system. If you could pay you did. If not, then the service was free and he would never turn down a patient due to a lack of credits. The only time he had turned down a mech, in fact, was when the mech had threatened another patient, demanding to have his bent arm strut repaired before the other mech's internal bleeding could be seen to. Ratchet had the mech removed from his waiting room by the two burly twins he'd just finished seeing to.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had watched over Ratchet's clinic diligently since the yellow mech had first been dragged through the door, bleeding profusely from an outmatched street fight, by his distraught red twin. When the war began the twins had joined the Autobots instantly, but had stubbornly refused to be deployed anywhere beyond Polyhex, where Ratchet's clinic resided.

Optimus glanced up from his musings when the sound of a tool clattering to the floor caught his attention. The Prime cursed when he caught sight of Ratchet. His hands were still held in front of him, frozen as if still cleaning his wrench. He shook minutely, small tremors wracking his frame. His optics stared straight ahead, unfocused and wide in distress. Optimus had seen the medic like this plenty over the last three months, when his mind would stall or be preparing for a seizure. In the last week however, there had been no sign of it.

Optimus stood, placing his datapad on his stool and came around the side of the berth. "Ratchet?" He asked, voice soft as not to startle his companion if he'd simply zoned out. The medic did not act as if he'd heard. "Ratchet." Optimus tried again, louder. When he still gained no reaction he activated his comm. link.

"What's up, Prime?" Wheeljack's voice was rough with static and Optimus could hear the wind whistle about the Lancia as he sped down the jasper roads.

"I am in need of assistance." There was a pause as the connection faded in and out. Wheeljack must have been at the edge of town, where the signal was often distorted by the town's radio signals.

"Ratchet?" Wheeljack asked. "I'm on my way. ETA: ten minutes."

Optimus shook his helm, "I need you to pick up June. She should have the evening off today." He watched Ratchet carefully, trying to spot any major change in his behavior to determine the nature of this attack.

"Gotcha," Wheeljack chirped in the affirmative. "Make that ETA twenty minutes." With a screech of tires the comm. clicked off. Optimus returned his full attention to Ratchet.

"Ratchet?" He asked again, hoping desperately for a response.

The medic's helm twitched minutely. He opened his mouth, letting it hang there a moment before speaking. "Hurts."

Optimus reached forward to encompass his smaller hands in one of his own, easing them down into Ratchet's lap. "Okay," he tried to make his voice as soothing as possible. "What hurts?" The medic didn't respond. "Ratchet, focus. Talk to me. What hurts?"

Ratchet gave another small jolt, this time his whole upper body twitching. "My head."

Optimus forced back a shudder. A hem ache was a very bad sign.

"Okay," Optimus soothed. "Let's lie down and see if that helps." The berth's upper half was propped up by a simply locking bar underneath it. Optimus reached under the berth and eased it as gently as he could into a horizontal position. Ratchet groaned, jerking again. His hands curled into fists in his lap, tensing and releasing with the throbbing of his helm.

"Arcee!" Optimus yelled over his shoulder. Ratchet startled at the sound. He reached up and groped for Optimus' hand. The Prime gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze as Arcee skidded through the medibay doors. She watched Ratchet for a moment before moving to his other side.

"Absent seizure?" She asked. Optimus shook his helm.

"No, he's responding." Optimus ran his free hand over the medic's arm. "He's complaining of a helm ache, however."

"Ratchet," Arcee directed her attention back to the medic, who was now staring blankly at the ceiling. "Ratchet, can you hear me?" The white mech's optics slid to meet Arcee's larger ones. He nodded slowly, optics flickering in pain. "Good. I want you to count to ten, okay?" Ratchet stared at her before nodding. "One," Arcee began.

"Two," Optimus joined her, nudging at Ratchet's arm to attempt to get him to participate.

"Three," Arcee slowed her words, making sure to pronounce each number as clearly as she could.

Optimus gave Arcee a troubled look when Ratchet continued to remain unresponsive. He simply sat and trembled. The Prime did the only thing he could think of and switched from English to clear Polyhexian cant. "Four."

"Fivesixseven," Ratchet's vocalize spurt static as he whistled out the words.

Arcee frowned, but carried on anyway. "Eight." She followed Optimus' example and spoke in Cybertronian.

"One," Ratchet began, slower this time, "two, three, four." As he continued, still speaking in Cybertronian, Optimus spared Arcee a confused and worried look. She returned it. Neither knew what this was. "Seven, eight, nine."

"Should we get his seizure meds?" Arcee whispered over the medic.

"Eleven, twelve, ten."

Optimus nodded. "I'll get them."

"Two, three, three."

Optimus made to stand. The moment he let go of the medic's arm, Ratchet's hand shot out and caught the seam between his hip and his waist. The Prime hissed at the sudden contact to such a sensitive and rarely touched area.

"Five, two, nine," Ratchet continued, optics locked on the Prime's hand.

Slowly Optimus turned back, as careful as possible to not pinch Ratchet's shaking fingers in his plating. Arcee chuckled when he began prying the fingers one by one from his plating, only for them to clamp down again the moment he released them.

"I'll get 'em, Prime." Optimus nodded, grateful.

"You have to let go, Ratchet," he practically begged. The mech's tight grip was beginning to dent. "I promise I will not leave but you are going to hurt us both."

"My head hurts," Ratchet slurred as he reluctantly released Optimus. He shook harder with every passing moment.

"Arcee," Optimus called. The femme returned to his side, holding the near empty bottle of Ratchet's seizure medication. They both watched solemnly as the pained mech's twitching turned into small spasms.

"He's starting to seize," Arcee absently mumbled, reiterating what they both already knew. Ratchet let out a pained gasp as his head rose and slammed back against the berth. Optimus quickly placed a hand behind his helm, cradling it.

"I thought we were done with these," the femme whispered.

Optimus didn't look up from Ratchet, expression stricken. He'd believed the same. The medic's vocalizer spat static and tonal cries as he jerked. His optics flickered in time with his convulsions.

"Be prepared with his meds," Optimus urged. Arcee scrambled to fill the syringe in her hand. The Prime placed an arm across Ratchet's chest, rubbing circles over the plating. When the medic's seizing only increased, Optimus glanced to the femme across from him. She held up the syringe, gently tapping the air bubbles out of it before lowering it to the arm Optimus was pinning. The moment the needle touched his protoform, Ratchet emitted a loud, binary groan. His frame trembled, platting clattering against the berth.

"Hold him still." Arcee's voice was tense and sharp. She focused on moving the needle with his arm as not to break it. Optimus grunted in acknowledgment, placing as much weight as he dared on Ratchet's arm. The position was awkward and provided little balance. With one hand under Ratchet's helm, Optimus had to lean at an odd angle to properly pin the medic. Arcee injected the liquid as quickly as possible, and pulled the needle free. Optimus released Ratchet's arm to focus on holding his helm. Arcee was silent, simply watching and waiting. The only sound in the room was Ratchet's gasping vents and squealing servos.

The roar of engines emitted from the main room. Wheeljack jogged in a moment later, June dwarfed within his hands.

"He's seizing?" June asked, leaping down from Wheeljack's hand when he held her over the observation deck.

"He was complaining of a helm ache before the attack," Optimus provided, "He's had a dose of medication already."

June leaned forward on the railing, watching Ratchet jerk. "How long's the attack lasted?"

Arcee glanced to Optimus before responding. "About five minutes. It hasn't slowed at all either."

June nodded. "Okay. There's not much we can do but wait. Make sure he doesn't hurt himself. Talking to him might also help."

Optimus glanced back down to the medic, drawing in a deep vent. "It's okay, Ratchet," He attempted, "Just relax and you'll be fine." The medic did not respond, continuing to stare at the ceiling as he spasmed. The larger mech startled when a hand landed on his shoulder. Wheeljack gave him an empathetic smile as he eased next to the Prime at the berth's edge.

"Hey, Ratch," He said, voice loud and clear as he took the other's hand. "It's Jack, bud." He glanced back at June, who nodded for him to continue. "Remember when I was working on compacting that fusion drive back in Polyhex? Blew my whole workshop sky high." He chuckled, grinning when Ratchet's helm jerked towards him. "Boy where you pissed. Took you a whole decacycle to put me back together."

"It's not slowing," Wheeljack heard Arcee whisper at his back.

"Go ahead and sedate him," June responded, voice resigned, saddened.

"Is that safe?" Arcee asked, already moving towards the cabinet where the sedatives were kept.

"This goes on much longer and brain damage is guaranteed." Arcee signed, providing Wheeljack with a sad smile when the mech pinned Ratchet's arm to the berth once more. She easily slipped the statis drive into his medical port and watched in silence as the code was integrated. Ratchet's twitching eased to a subtle shake, his optics dimming and falling shut before his frame had stilled. The room's audience allowed themselves to breath only one the medic's ventilations slowed to an even, natural pace.

No one move. No one spoke. The silence that filled the medibay was all consuming.