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» stop! observe the flow of the world! shut out everything else and here we go!
Jack stepped into Hangar F at 9:30 on Sunday morning, and stopped just inside the sliding doors. His mouth might have hung open a little, but hopefully everyone else was too busy staring at the two half-naked ex-Cybertronians wrestling in the middle of the floor to notice.
Optimus and Ratchet had been getting a little stir-crazy lately, what with not being allowed to leave the hangar let alone the base. Fowler and a bunch of the military guys had put down several soft mats yesterday to encourage them to work off their insane energy levels a bit. They’d obviously started in the middle of the safe zone, as far away from the bare concrete floor as it was possible to get, but as Jack watched, Ratchet flipped Optimus over his shoulder with what looked like hardly any effort at all, and the edge of the mats crept ever closer.
The remaining members of Team Prime stood, sat, and lounged around in alt-mode in a loose circle around the outer ring of mats, watching and calling encouragement. Every so often someone would let off a string of rapid-fire chittering beeps, and there’d be a round of what passed for subtle giggling among the Autobots, a noise that sounded a bit like a dying air horn crossed with a dial-up modem. Jack half-suspected someone was catcalling.
He made his way across the hangar floor to where Arcee sat beside Bumblebee’s alt-mode, her knees drawn up to her chest and arms folded in front of her shins. She was watching closely, fascination glimmering in her optics. As he approached, he felt the familiar faint prickle of her electromagnetic field washing over his skin, and though she didn’t otherwise acknowledge him in any way, he knew he was not forgotten.
On the mats, Ratchet frowned down at Optimus. He’d tied his hair back in a ponytail – or, knowing Ratchet, June had done it for him – and someone had found him a T-shirt with the Red Cross symbol over the chest. He and Optimus both wore military-issue slacks. And – oh, his mom would have been insufferably embarrassing about this if she’d seen it – Optimus was naked from the waist up. Red marks patched his near-translucent skin where Ratchet’s blows had connected, but he wore the same expression of serene concentration Jack had seen on him last night when Raf had trounced him at Connect-4.
Ratchet’s hair was tousled and his shirt was patched with sweat, but he looked otherwise untouched.
He went to take a step forward, and Optimus moved.
There was a blur of red and blue and white, too fast for Jack’s eyes to follow. It ended with the thump of bodies against the floor, Ratchet on his front with his face pressed against the floor and Optimus crouched above him, pinning one arm behind his back and keeping the other extended at his side so that the erstwhile medic had no leverage with which to free himself.
“A word of advice, old friend,” Optimus began, a rare smile curving his lips upwards. “Never count your opponent down unless you are sure he is out.”
Ratchet grumbled fruitlessly. “I will keep that in mind.”
He didn’t move until Optimus slipped off of him, rubbing his arm once it was released and pushing himself to his feet with the other. They slipped into combat stances; both with a fluidity of movement Jack had been expecting from Optimus, but never from Ratchet.
It was a reminder of something he often forgot when he saw them sitting curled together on the couch watching the soaps his mother liked, or sharing their misgivings over a new meal. They’d been fighting for hundreds of his lifetimes – both of them, not just Optimus. For all his grumbling and hidden soft spots for little easily squished human children, Ratchet had thoroughly earned his stripes as a soldier.
On the mat, they clashed again. Jack resolved to remember better this time.
» and if i have to fall then it won’t be in your line
There was a coffee shop near the base cafeteria. It was popular, and for good reason; in Bill Fowler’s professional opinion, it sold damn near the best mocha latte he’d ever tasted. (Not that he’d profess to be an expert on mocha lattes, it’s just that that was June’s normal order and he’d wondered what was so good about the things, so he’d tried one and wow.) The service was speedy and the waitress loved to chat, and the place was generally full of off-duty servicemen – people who already knew about the ‘Bots.
So, for Optimus and Ratchet’s first venture into the big wide world of humans, it seemed like an ideal training ground.
Ratchet, who somehow walked faster than both Fowler and Optimus despite being shorter than either of them, led the way into the café. It was late in the afternoon, not quite time for the evening rush, but the January sun hung low in the sky, casting warm yellow light through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and over the serving floor.
There were still quite a few patrons, enough for the quiet hum of conversation to take an audible pause as they took in the newcomers. Most gazes centred on Ratchet; the apparent age and exotic coloring of his human frame would have made him eye-catching enough even if he’d let June cut his hair prior to their excursion. There was a moment where his vivid ultramarine eyes narrowed in plain temper and Fowler half-thought he was going to take exception to the attention, but it passed quickly. Heads turned back to their coffees, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
They found a table near the front door, close enough to it that every time someone went in or out a burst of fresh, cool air wafted by them. The sun shone strong through the window, warm on the back of Fowler’s neck.
He sat, and Optimus gave him a small smile, following suit. “I am not used to being passed over so easily,” the erstwhile Prime commented, in a voice enough like his mech form’s that it still gave Fowler a start to hear it coming from a merely six-and-a-half foot tall man. “It is oddly refreshing.”
“It would be nice if it didn’t come at my expense,” Ratchet grumbled, though without his usual sharp-edged irritation. He pushed his chair over a little closer to Optimus’, but left a respectable gap between them for once. The measured expression with which he did it made Fowler feel a little guilty. He hadn’t exactlyinsisted that they observe human personal space rules, but the way that they read between the lines of his suggestions and made an effort to follow their spirit… well, he’d said it for their own benefit, but that didn’t mean he’d wantedto do it.
It didn’t help that he knew it was doing them a disservice, that physical contact for them was not just a medium of affection but a coping mechanism. Ratchet had told him as much. He hadn’t gone into detail, but then he hadn’t needed to.
“Agent Fowler, your people consider sensory deprivation a form of torture, correct? Well, for Cybertronians, electromagnetic field interaction is one of our strongest and most important senses. Humans, however, do not possess this sense. Let that sink in for a while.”
He’d found it difficult to read their expressions as Cybertronians – fair enough, he supposed, not being Cybertronian himself. It didn’t help that Optimus only seemed to have one or two expressions to start off with: calm, and stoic determination. Ratchet was more expressive, but the inhuman proportions of his face and the relative stiffness of interlocking metal plates as compared to elastic human skin sent Fowler’s subconscious mental analysis deep into Uncanny Valley. He’d gotten used to the sheer weirdness of it, but reading them would never be easy.
With human bodies, that disconnect between their species was no longer an issue. And the look on Ratchet’s face that had been one Bill Fowler recognised well: loss, on a deeply personal scale.
The arrival of the waitress with their orders roused him from what was shaping up to be a depressing train of thought. He nodded to her, stifling a chuckle at the coy smile she treated Optimus with. He’d eat his star-spangled shorts if Optimus recognised the attention—and the polite but ever-so-slightly bemused smile with which he replied told him he was right.
Should he tell Optimus? No, by the wry smirk on Ratchet’s face the medic had picked up what his leader had missed. Fowler was beginning to see why Optimus kept him so close to hand.
His mocha latte beckoned. He sat back, took a sip, and watched the show begin.
» i’m making my own road out of gravel and wine
The worst thing about being human was mealtimes.
Somehow, it was also the best.
In all his long life, Ratchet had met many alien species who, like humans, had subsisted on a diet of varied organic substances. While he’d never heard of any cultures which treated such fuel as the art form humankind had elevated it to, he’d always wondered what the appeal was. In general terms the food they ate was simply a collection of – usually carbon-based – enzymes and proteins, varying little in the elements which it contained and often hardly even of the nutritional value to make it worth eating. Where was the point in that?
Now, though, he understood.
Sense of taste and smell in Cybertronians was limited to a measure of the elements present in the offered sustenance. It gave neither disgust nor enjoyment, no physical reaction to the arrangement of elements. Ratchet could down a cube of Praxian rust essence with the same expression with which he’d fuel on drone-grade scrape.
Human taste, however?
He stared down at the glass in his hand, and the glands in his mouth began to produce moisture at an accelerated rate. The liquid within the receptacle was black and evil-looking; it had hissed and bubbled pale foam when Fowler had poured it from its bottle. They’d called it ‘Coke’. Ratchet didn’t know what it was going to taste like, but it bore a strong resemblance to the chocolate which Miko had given him the other day. Inferring from the small bubbles which gathered along the sides of the glass and occasionally rose to the surface, it was infused with some sort of light gas. What that would do to the taste, he had absolutely no idea.
He lifted his optics – eyes, he kept telling himself, they’re eyes now – to the gathered humans, and gave them one last suspicious look. Miko smiled encouragingly; Fowler gave him a big thumbs-up.
Ratchet took a steadying breath. He drank the Coke.
In hindsight, he thought with a certain vindictive satisfaction once the bubbles had stopped trying to claw through the back of his nose, they probably shouldn’t have been standing right in front of him.
» still i’m thinking of you, babe, and until i see you, this is all i have
They’d been given separate beds to start off with, unused private rooms in the medical sector of the base. After that first night they’d only ever used one of them at a time. The beds were large enough to support them both, after all – if only by a small margin.
Optimus scooted over against the wall, trying to pull his larger-than-usual-for-a-human body into a space smaller than it actually was. Ratchet sat down in the space he’d vacated, leaning sideways and bracing himself with one elbow as he manoeuvred himself into the bed. One solid arm slid under the small of Optimus’ back, the medic drawing him into a loose snuggle.
Optimus let himself be held, attaching himself to the warmth of Ratchet’s body with transparent eagerness. It still amazed him, how well they fit together like this, the way each curve and ridge and hollow of their bodies could adjust to press skin against skin from heel to head. Each movement was laid bare to him, each breath and each twitch and each minor adjustment of stance. The steady throb of Ratchet’s engineered heart could be felt under the rise and fall of his chest, the rush of nanite-laden blood through their veins. He could feel the beat of Ratchet’s life even in the absence of his spark, and didn’t that sound so incredibly unbelievable that he’d ever consider such a thing?
The human nervous system was truly a work of miracles. He’d thought his Cybertronian frame’s neural net was fairly sensitive, but compared to the level of tactile diagnosis his fragile human skin gave him, it had been as good as numb. He’d nearly frozen to death, and yet until he’d woken up wearing this alien frame he hadn’t truly understood how the cold bit.
He curved his palm against the soft warmth of Ratchet’s side, measuring how the contours changed as he slid his hand down from ribs to waist to hip. Ratchet bore the attention without complaint—he of all people understood. Without clothes, the nighttime cool raised tiny bumps on their skin. Optimus shivered, and huddled closer against Ratchet’s warmth.
His inspection of Ratchet’s body continued. The spill of long white hair over Ratchet’s shoulders drew his attention; he traced the bright copper streak from its origin high on Ratchet’s forehead, back to where he’d tucked his bangs behind his ear, down the corded tendons of his neck and finishing just below the soft dip between his collarbones. Ratchet’s chest rose and fell sharply as he exhaled, his body taut with unspent energy beneath the splay of Optimus’ fingers.
He felt hands on his own body, rough-padded fingers sliding down the length of his spine. The difference in texture between the undamaged skin on Ratchet’s thumb and the rapidly-healing burn scars over his palms was striking. Ratchet’s eyes, sea-blue and supernaturally bright, narrowed, thick lashes not quite obscuring the glint of life in them. He made a sound, half hum and half rumbled purr, deep in his chest as Optimus pressed his hands flat against his torso and followed the trail of fine white hair down the centre of his chest.
Unexpectedly, Ratchet’s abdominal muscles twitched all at once. He made a startled sound, his eyes going wide.
“Are you alright?” Optimus stopped moving instantly, afraid that he might have somehow inadvertently hurt him. That had looked a lot like a pain reaction. Optimus considered himself something of an expert in those.
Ratchet’s eyebrows drew together in a thunderous frown. Not a grimace of pain, thankfully. Optimus thought he recognised a double helping of puzzlement on those unfamiliar human features.
“I am fine,” Ratchet said, turning the frown on his own body. “It seems to be an involuntary reaction to being touched. It is not… painful, but not exactly pleasurable either.”
Optimus hummed thoughtfully, lowering his hand again until the fingertips hovered just above Ratchet’s belly. Ratchet twitched again, drawing in a stilted breath. “I can feel that, you know.”
“I am not touching you,” Optimus informed him. “You should not be able to.”
“Yes, I can see that.” A moment, and Ratchet’s frown lost its taut irritability. “Ah. I may be ticklish.”
Optimus hummed, lowering his head and resting it in the crook of Ratchet’s shoulder. His breath ghosted over sensitive skin, a faint shudder rippling through Ratchet’s frame. He flattened his hand against Ratchet’s belly, rubbing his thumb over the soft skin and biting back a soft laugh at the way Ratchet automatically jerked away. Sharp eyes fixed him with a glare – dare you to do that again and see where it gets you.
Ticklish, hm? Cybertronian neural systems occasionally suffered from oversensitivity in certain areas of the frame, usually resulting from miscalibration of tactile sensors. Optimus had experienced it for himself a few times; he remembered what it was like. He could only imagine what it felt like in a sensitive human frame.
Ratchet gave him a suspicious look out of eyes that were beginning to drift wearily closed. Optimus returned it with a warm smile. He moved his hand upwards, to where Ratchet’s heart beat steadily under layers of organic skin and muscle.
“Good night.”