Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prelude

“You want me to talk to him?” Megatron stared at the datapad in his hand, “You can’t possibly think that I am the right mech for this.”

“No, no, of course not, ha, hell no.” Rodimus shook his head, “But you wanted to know what needs to be done on my ship, so there it is.”

“It is indeed number one on the ‘To-Do’ list.” Ultra Magnus nodded.

“Our ship, Rodimus.” Megatron mumbled, “And this is the most urgent affair on this ship?”

“Uh, no, you see, the ‘To-Do’ list is arranged in an order of time, not one of importance.” Ultra Magnus explained rather hastily, “I arranged it so we would avoid a build-up of less urgent tasks. And this task has remained while all others are resolved in a timely manner.”

Megatron felt slightly amused. This was bothering Ultra Magnus to a certain degree, which was a sentiment that Rodimus didn’t share.

“Yeah, right, so make sure you get right on that,” Rodimus said.

“If you think sending me on an impossible and pointless errand will stop me from—”

“This is important! Right, Mags?”

“Although that is true, I would strongly suggest that you two start with more productive ship matters. The ‘To-Do’ list is not a timetable, it is merely a list of things one, preferably the captain of the ship, has to do—”

“Like I said, important!”

“If it is so important, then I presume you two have already tried?” Megatron cut in. These mechs didn’t seem capable of shutting up on their own, “What results did you achieve? I see no progress recorded here.”

“You mean other than the shouting and berating that has become a ship-wide sports event? Well, none.” Rodimus crossed his arms before him and huffed like a petulant child. Ultra Magnus pressed his lips together; one would say he was embarrassed.

Megatron studied their body language and came to a conclusion, “Are you two scared to talk to him again? Is that why you passed this to me?”

Rodimus rolled his eyes while Ultra Magnus stiffened. After a few kilks, Ultra Magus spoke quietly, “It’s merely a to-do list. There is no task allocation. It is shared—”

“Have you asked Optimus? They have been friends since before the war.” Megatron interjected again.

“Of course you would know that because suddenly you are all best pals with the prime and all that.” Rodimus mumbled, “But yes, we have tried that too.”

“And it didn’t work?”

“There was so much yelling, I am surprised you haven’t heard it from inside your cell.”

“Then I don’t think I would be of any help, either.”

“Nobody expected you to be. But since you want to have a hand in managing my ship, this can be your problem too.” Rodimus flashed him a grin and turned to leave, “Good luck, co-captain.”

“Our ship.” Megatron gritted out from between his teeth to Rodimus’ back. This maybe-prime and co-captain was already getting on his nerves, and they hadn’t even left Cybertron. No wonder this ship had achieved so little in its journey.

All the more reason to take care of its valuable assets. Megatron looked at the single line of words on the page and heaved a sigh.

“To-Do” list:

#1 Convince Ratchet to replace his hands.

Megatron decided to skip to #2 first.

Ratchet still worked in the medbay, even though he had formally renounced his position as the Chief Medical Officer, and his hands were severely limiting his functions. Something that Megatron couldn’t help but notice every time he went to get his nightmare fuel.

It was always Ratchet who poured him his cup if the doctor was in the medbay, probably because it was the easiest work around the place.

Ratchet almost spilled his fuel, twice, and nobody made a single comment, not a single helm turned their way.

Megatron had never achieved this level of respect from even his most loyal Decepticons. Though he knew that the Autobots were not doing it out of fear, but out of care and protectiveness.

“Are you going to drink it, or do I have to put it in a baby energon bottle like you were a protoform?” Ratchet squinted up at him, giving him the most hateful look Megatron had ever seen since he last saw Starscream.

Ok, maybe out of some fear.

Megatron took the cup, and Ratchet quickly crossed his arms and shoved his hands under his arms. But Megatron could well see his hands, frozen in the gesture of holding the cup. A claw would be more useful right now. He extended his hand towards Ratchet, who just squinted and walked away.

Megatron was staring at those nimble hands, which made Ratchet irritable. Megatron liked riling up Ratchet, but right now he was simply admiring, reminiscing. He got a great deal of things on his processor.

“Following orders, Megatron.” Ratchet told him, brows furrowed together like he was actively trying not to be irritated, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Not like I should even be the one doing this.” He grumbled.

Megatron ignored him; he knew well how short-tempered the medic was. He continued in his own train of thought. He was going to make, probably the biggest change in his life, in Cybertron’s history, you could even say. The thought made him afraid; he was not going to lie, but it also fueled him with power. He was Megatron; he had already proved once that you could be anything, anything you chose to be. Now he could do it all over again.

He could be a medic if given the chance. He might be terrible at it, but that was something he wanted but was never able to be. Now that he had created that chance, was he going to run away from the freedom, freedom to be whatever he deemed right for himself?

Ratchet was scared of him, angry with him, as most Autobots were. There was hardly a time when the medic didn’t snap at him for basically everything he said, anyway. So Megatron didn’t realize there was something else bothering him until a twinge of pain shot up from where his legs were being reattached.

“Now zip it—” Ratchet’s shouting came to a sudden end as Megatron pushed his upper body up on his elbows. He didn’t dare move too much, since Ratchet was still pointing his tools at his body.

He eyed the medic coldly, “I didn’t know it’s Autobot tradition to torture a patient for talking too much.”

“Slag.” Ratchet’s face suddenly lost all of its ire. The tool from his right hand dropped to the ground, and he transformed his left hand back into a servo, plugging it into Megatron’s wires. The pain intensified, but Megatron didn’t have time to react before Ratchet spoke again, “Don’t worry. It was only a small cut to one of your tibulen auxiliary processing lines. I have pinched it so it is not leaking. Now I just need to call another medic to help me patch this up.”

“And the reason you couldn’t fix this right now?” Megatron delayed the request for the fighting programs to come online. Something very strange was going on. Was this some kind of trap? Maybe not even an Autobot trap…

“Because my hand is not fragging working!” Ratchet shouted, panic seeping through his voice. He looked at Megatron, and some of that doctor’s calmness took over again, “Don’t fight me. If you hurt me and I loosen my grip, you are going to lose motor function in your legs instantly.”

“And you accuse me of threatening.”

“This is not a threat. It was a mistake. I made the mistake of repairing you with those fragging non-cooperating hands. This should not happen with any patient.” Ratchet drew a breath, his face fell a little, “All the other medics are having their hands full. We are in for a long wait.”

“At least you can be glad it happened with someone you don’t mind hurting.” Megatron offered.

Ratchet put his face in his other hand and didn’t even talk back.

Megatron looked at Ratchet’s right hand; he couldn’t help it. Ratchet was renowned for his hands. Considering what Megatron was planning to do, it seemed ironic to say that he was shocked by another mech’s mid-life crisis. But the medic had always been so stubborn. Some said that he was true to himself. While others called him predictable. Nevertheless, Megatron had seen few like him, who walked into and out of a four-million-year war almost unchanged. He was still very much the mech Megatron met all the way before the war. What could change a mech like this?

“What exactly is wrong with your hand?” Megaton asked. He could not see anything wrong from here. The digits all rested on Ratchet’s face, steady as ever, didn't fidget or tremble.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ratchet grumbled but it lacked bite. He splayed his hand in front of Megatron, “It freezes up sometimes, like this.” He balled up his hand and spread it again repeatedly until Megatron caught it, the lag in his middle digit. It was just a few nano-kilks behind the others, but it easily disrupted the smooth and delicate dance of the medic’s hand.

And the more Ratchet flexed his digits, the more of them slowed down until all of them were sluggish and Ratchet had to grit his denta to do the simple motion. “So, yeah, it does this.” Ratchet leaves his hand in the shape of a fist, apparently familiar with this predicament. “Usually hitting it with a wrench frees up the range of movement. But it’s getting worse. I thought it would be fine for attaching some legs, but…”

“Hit it with a wrench then.” Megatron frowned, “We don’t have all day.”

“I kind of need another hand to do that.”

Megatron waved his two perfectly fine hands, “Just give me the wrench.”

“Which is on the floor, and we are not moving while my hand is buried in your thigh and risking a burst in your lines just to get it.” Ratchet gave him a hard stare.

“Just tell me what you need to do with the wrench,” Megatron said.

“I smash it into the sole of my palm, not exactly quantum science. A wall I can knock it into does the job too.” Ratchet looked around them and shrugged.

“You don’t need a wall when you have me.” Megatron reached out and took Ratchet’s hesitant hand. He pressed his thumb against the center of Ratchet’s palm. “Here?”

“A bit down.” Ratchet eyes him with uncertainty, “Don’t ruin my hand.”

“Trust me, I know how much force it takes to do damage.” Megatron waved dismissively, then pressed down hard with his thumb.

“Slag it!” Ratchet yelped; his voice cracking at the end. His hand balled up instinctively and whooshed open in the next kilk. Ratchet looked at him, “I told you to be careful!”

“I could crush your helm with one hand, medic.” Megatron said, “This is as light as I can go.”

“Real charming.” Ratchet scoffed. But with his hand back in working order, he focused on repairing the damage he caused.

So, they were all changing, how fitting. Megatron watched the pair of hands finish their work expertly and effortlessly. It was not too late for change, no, not even for Megatron or Optimus Prime. They all needed to change, no matter the consequences.

And one of those consequences came back to bite him in the aft in the form of a bullheaded medic.

He stood in the medbay. This time, there were no other medics or crew members. But Ratchet still glared at him when he held out his hand.

“You can’t even open the fuel cap with that.” Megatron pointed out. Unlike the other Autobots, he cared not for hurting the medic’s pride.

“Do it yourself. I will supervise.” Ratchet said, just to be difficult.

“Surely like you have been supervising all cycle.”

“Say more and you can starve.”

“I see that the Autobots’ tyranny starts with their doctors.”

“Not anyone’s doctor anymore.”

“For most mechs, but you are still mine. I believe I remain your only patient as of this moment.” Ratchet had transferred out all the other crewmembers he was directly responsible for to different medics. All but Megatron, with his classified medical files that even his code as co-captain couldn’t access.

“In name only. And how the hell did you know that?”

“I can see the names on medical files even if I couldn’t open them.”

“Already snooping around for top-secret material in the Autobots’ databases, why am I surprised?”

“It’s my own medical file!” Megatron seethed. Every single mech on this ship was trying his patience. Primus knew just how, how these mechs managed to get anything done. And to think there was a time when they were all highly feared soldiers in war. Optimus was really something.

He went ahead and grabbed Ratchet’s left hand. For all his huffing and puffing, Ratchet didn’t stop him when he held his wrist in one hand and gripped one of the rigid digits with his other, only hissed when the movement tugged at his shoulder.

He didn’t give any warning, just pulled the digit backwards, out of its claw-like shape. The cramp in the servo circuit was no match for his strength (however diminished), and the digit snapped back, releasing all the charge built up in the joints.

Ratchet’s optics dimmed and his lips pressed tightly together. It must be painful; Ratchet was not one to look hurt easily. A blow of force to the palm was no longer enough to loosen the hand as Ratchet’s condition progressively worsened. The interval was getting shorter, too. Right now, Ratchet had to go through the same kind of torture approximately every three cycles, yet the medic would choose this over getting perfectly working new hands.

Megatron snapped all the digits out of its paralyzed state with the same force, then hit the heel of the palm with a closed fist. The moment he was done with this hand, it slipped out of his grip like all the lines in it had been broken. It fell limp to Ratchet’s side, whose optics had offlined completely.

It was almost a full joor before Ratchet lifted his other hand and placed it in Megatron’s open palm. There was a slight tremor, not from the hand, but rather the arms. He moved more swiftly with this one, but Ratchet was still breathless and leaning against the desk when it was over.

He snatched his hand back and began rubbing it with his other one. Then slowly blinked his optics online. And, rather reluctantly, grumbled a quiet “Thank you.”

The Autobot doctor might be a permanent crouch, but at least he seemed to be in possession of some kind of manners, though a rather minuscule amount.

“Nobody asked you to do this, you know,” Ratchet said while rubbing his wrists. Megatron was pouring himself some of that foul-tasting green fuel. He gulped down all its content in one mouthful

“Ah, Yes. You could always ask other mechs for help, like Ultra Magnus,” Megatron said through the bitter taste in his mouth, “But he wouldn’t be so nice, would he? He would get sad and worried and all but begging you to replace your hands.”

“I don’t think we are talking about the same Magnus here.” Ratchet deflected, but Megatron could see guilt dripping from his face, feeling bad for causing his friends distress, but too stubborn in his ways to end it. “Don’t say it like you aren’t trying to do the same. Why else are you always here?”

“If I want to try, then you would be convinced already.” Megatron put the cube down and said with confidence that he used to pull on opponents five times his size.

“Bullshit.” Ratchet rolled his eyes.

“Really,” Megatron stood up and leaned his hand on the desk, towering over Ratchet, “This ship runs well the way it is now. I think we don’t need you that much.”

He fully enjoyed the anger and hurt that rose in Ratchet’s optics before he turned and left.

Chapter Text

A little over four million years ago

When he heard that a renowned medic was paying a visit to C-12, his first thought was “no, not again”. They were coming for him, to finish what they hadn’t accomplished on Messatine. But he had stopped writing. Data pads were stacked in his quarters, and he was afraid to open them. He didn’t want to think about who he was missing. He averted his gaze, for every time he looked over, desperation, anger, and fear welled in his spark. He would not allow it to happen again, Megatron told himself, his hands tightening on his drill, he would… he would die before they took his mind away.

But other miners were excited. All of them were carrying some wear and tear that no one bothered to fix for them. A few were badly damaged, but no one here was willing to share their precious ration with them. The foremen were acting confused, like these kinds of things just didn’t happen to a small off-world outpost like here.

“Chief Medical Officer’s order.” They said. “No, the Chief Medical Officer is coming here.” They said. “How is that possible? Is that, like, a thing they need to do?” “Not that I know of. But I heard that the new CMO likes keeping himself busy.” All kinds of words flowed into Megatron’s audial. And they did nothing to soothe his suspicion. He buried his helm low and worked in the deep mine all by himself.

When the cycle came, they were placed into groups to see the doctor. Megatron managed to squeeze himself into the first group. He was not going to be helpless or tied down again, if there was even a shadow of that mnemosurgeon, he was going to make a run for it. Where could he run to? How could he even leave this place? Megatron tried not to allow him to think too deeply, but the terror gripped his spark and whispered into his audials for him to be prepared. So, he came up with somewhat of a plan that may involve fighting guards, stealing ships, and… tearing apart whoever was in his way if he had to.

Megatron didn’t know what it would feel like to kill a mech, but he thought about it too much these cycles. Specks of memories of death, images brought by his imagination. They gave him a sick sense of thrill that he tried hard to ignore. They haunted him in his recharge, blinged in the back of his processors when he worked. He didn’t want to be violent, no, he would probably be very bad at it too, but what else could you do when your enemies were coming for you with their fists raised?

Megatron’s spark was pulsing violently when their group of miners rounded the corner and saw mechs walking their way. A mech with white and red paint came into view, and for a moment, he was floored with relief. At least it was a real medic; the medic was even followed by mechs carrying cases of supplies and spare parts. A murmur of excitement erupted among the other miners.

The mnemosurgeon surely hadn’t had all those tools before. They had whatever they needed with them, within reach with just one easy transformation. Megatron breathed out, his plan dissolving into the air he expelled from his frame. But then a large figure came into view, red and blue bright on his frame. It was that police officer from Rodion, he would never forget. Blue optics locked with his, and then he was moving towards Megatron.

He knew this was too good to be safe.

He took a step back as the cop came closer to him. His hands clenched into fists. Another step back, then another. The cop was almost in the group of confused miners when a disgruntled voice rang loudly in the corridor, “Can someone please help me dust off this room? It looks like it hadn’t been used since the cycle Primus was born. I fear that the dust is going to charge me rent if I go in right now.”

A white and red helm with a black chevron poked out in the corner of Megatron’s vision. “Orion? Where are you going with my tools?” He called, and the cop looked down at his hands, where three boxes were stacked on top of each other. The cop turned back hastily and leaned down to whisper to, if the rumor held true, the Prime’s CMO, who looked up and found Megatron with his optics.

They went into the out-of-use medical center. Megatron turned around and bolted.

He hadn’t made a run for it yet. Group and group of miners went to the doctor, and none of them came back missing key parts, neither in their gears nor in their memory. Megatron didn’t think there were anything in their helm that was worth wiping, though.

The cop managed to find him after all. Megatron didn’t want to hide from him now. He had heard something of the political unrest before he had been shipped off-world. Something about a police officer storming the Senate. Megatron had a faint hunch, or hope, that it would be the cop who complimented his writing.

Orion apologized for the attempted Shadowplay and tried to have a conversation with him. To what end, Megatron had no idea. No, he hadn’t written anything new. No, it is not because his writing has been erased from his processor. He simply had no one to show to. And no! He would not show it to Orion if he wrote anything.

“You shouldn’t give up.” Orion said, “There was always going to be a way.”

“What way is there for the likes of me?” Megatron felt his indignation rising under that calm, patronizing tone, “I was lucky to have left with my processor intact.”

“Because of Senator Shockwave’s new police. There is hope for change, we are—”

“I got out because something triggered a station-wide alarm. You don’t see it. The world is chaos, and it won’t follow whatever righteous path you saw before your optics.” Megatron bellowed, something shaking loose in his chassis, words that he had suppressed for too long, “No senator or Prime is going to be the solution when their existence coins the problem. But I don’t suppose someone who had such an easy time working his way up the system like you would recognize the truth.”

“The Prime is something for mechs to unite under. That’s what I work for. Do you truly think a mob powered by anger and dissatisfaction would be a better choice?” Orion said, holding his palm out as if it was supposed to convince Megatron of something, “Your writing can guide change, it can be used to light a clearer path rather than fuel rage that turned mechs into worse versions of themselves.”

“I will not be censored, nor will I become a tool for your lies!” Megatron shouted before he remembered that he was talking to a cop, a lobbyist for the fake primes, or worse, a poor fool who actually believed that the system could be saved.

It meant that he held the individuals more responsible than the functionist doctrine squeezing their airpipes. It meant that he would be placated by promises and dreams and not see that other mechs couldn’t afford to simply wait like him. It meant that he would be Megatron’s enemy when push came to shove.

The conversation was hopeless from the start.

“Either way, I don’t write now. I am just a miner who is grateful to still be employed. Or is that illegal as well?” Megatron diverted; his anger and frustration were lost on Orion Pax. All he had left were dangerous and horrible thoughts that he wouldn’t dare to communicate to the police officer.

Orion looked at his long and hard; there was something akin to sadness and hope in his bright blue optics. Megatron didn’t understand. It was not like they were friends.

“It is your right to do what you wish with your life. I… I am glad to see that you are unharmed.” Orion sighed, words burning with sincerity, but Megatron wasn’t inclined to believe him.

“If you call this unharmed. Mnemosurgery is not the only threat in a miner’s life.” Megatron showed a deep dent in his shoulder plate, created by a huge chunk of stone collapsing on top of him a few cycles before.

“Then you should go see Ratchet. He is the best there is.”

“I have had enough of your doctors lately.”

“You can have my word that he will not harm you. He wouldn’t harm anyone.”

The mnemosurgeon called what he did “healing” as well, and it wasn’t like Orion’s word meant slag to him.

But he still found himself outside of the medical center, it was really just a supply closet in the shape of a room, out of curiosity mostly.

And the fact that he couldn’t recharge without dreaming of needles in his helm. So, he wandered out in the quiet of the night. Most of the other miners had gone to recharge, having some part of their frame patched up or replaced with better components. They sang praises of the medic, of how fast his hand worked and how easily he cured something that had been bothering them for vorns.

The less-used side of the facility was still, almost discarded, nothing here but the one room with lights on. Megatron walked closer and was surprised to find the medic still inside. He sat in front of a desk; there were no other bots in sight. He was working on soldering some parts together.

Megatron stalked closer, intrigued by those digits moving the gears quickly and precisely, cutting and soldering straight lines with perfect stillness.

“Come back in the morning if it’s not urgent.” The medic did not raise his helm, just waved a hand at him. He sounded tired.

“Your friend left,” Megatron told him. He had seen Orion board the ship and fly off. Only then did he completely shred the escape plan in his processor.

The medic looked up, he squinted a little at him, “You,” he said.

“I’m Megatron.” He offered.

“I know who you are.” The medic scanned him with his optics, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want me to fix what’s wrong, or are you just here to waste my time?” The medic heaved a sigh.

“Uh, my shoulder plate.” Megatron gestured. He was expecting more conversation before he was seated on a mediberth and the medic started hammering out his dented plating.

This one was not the talkative type for a change.

“Why are you still here?” Megatron asked, because the reverse psychology worked and he now wanted conversation, “That cop left breems ago.”

“He had his work and I had mine.” The medic shrugged, “I can work fast, but not a whole outpost in one cycle fast. I’m exhausted.” But his hands still moved so expertly and smoothly.

“Why do you bother? Clearly, you are only here as a cover for Pax’s visit.” Megatron looked over his shoulder and found surprised optics snapped up to meet his, “It must be rather degrading for the prime’s CMO Ratchet to come treat measly miners.”

“If you don’t want my service, then you are very welcome to leave.” Ratchet stepped back and threw down the tools in his hand; they clattered loudly on the desk. He glared at Megatron. Megatron could hear a faint roar of the doctor’s engine in the room. Ratchet sure got a rather short temper. Good, because Megatron had some temper to match.

“On Messatine, a friend of mine was maimed in the mines. I had sat and watched over him for deca-cycles.” Megatron’s spark throbbed. How could he be accusing anyone else when he was the one who left, who saved a useless pile of datapads, but not Terminus? “I shared my energon with him because the cut-back ration they gave him was dooming him to death. Where were you then? Where was the help when we needed it, or do they only come with police officers in tow?”

The hard stare quivered just a little, “I have nothing to prove to you.” Ratchet said, “I am here to do my job, regardless of the reason why the work exists.”

Maybe to prove a point, or maybe just out of spite, Ratchet chose this moment to put his hands on Megatron’s shoulder plate and pull the dislocated wheel bearings into place.

The pain surprised him, and he clutched the medic’s hand reflectively to pry it away from him. His engines bellowed.

“Careful!” Megatron looked down and found the fear in his optics mirrored on the medic’s face. “Let go of me,” Ratchet said slowly and quietly, as if speaking to a deranged animal.

Megatron turned and saw Ratchet’s red hand gripped tightly in his black servos. Those mesmerizing, delicate doctor’s digits, Megatron could snap them with little effort. Forged, talented medic’s hands, nothing like his clumsy, cold-constructed ones. Megatron tightened his grip on Ratchet’s wrist, hearing the metal grind under his strength.

The medic pushed him, trying to pry loose. But he was half Megatron’s weight and couldn’t move him at all. Megatron pulled him closer to stop him from struggling. Blue optics scowled at him from below, “Listen now, I won’t be able to reattach the two disconnected sensory lines in your shoulder if you damage my hand in any way. Your shoulder may feel fine now, but in a deca-cycles’ time, it is going to ache till you can’t lift over your head.” Ratchet spat out, voice calm and clear, “I imagine it would be inconvenient for a miner.”

“It would be a death sentence.” Megatron stared back, but the violent urge that flooded him had retreated as rapidly. He dropped the medic’s hand; guilt flitted through his processor.

He looked away when the medic glowered at him while rubbing his hand. “Well, sit back down so I can overrule that verdict, would you?” A digit poked him in the chestplate when he wasn’t looking. Megatron complied without protest. He felt pressure on his shoulder pads, nimble digits reaching inside, making him twitchy.

“Still. It’s almost finished.” Ratchet glowered again. He put down his tools and started to move Megatron’s arm up and down, “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“It doesn’t.” Megatron looked at Ratchet as the doctor gave his shoulder pads one last pat, “I just assaulted you. And the first thing you do is fix me?”

“What can I say? I’m a very stubborn medic. And you are hardly the first patient to lash out during treatment.” Ratchet walked back to his desk to put his tools back. Megatron saw him rubbing his wrist absent-mindedly as he stood there. He caught Megatron’s gaze and suddenly flashed him a smile, “Besides, I don’t mind getting a little rough as long as you are not messing with my livelihood.”

“Doesn’t sound like something primes would do.” Megatron followed. Then suddenly an entirely different sub-routine onlined in this processor. Wait? Was Ratchet flirting with him?

“I treat all kinds of mechs, Megatron.” Ratchet leaned towards him with his hands braced on the desk, the ghost of a smile on his lips, “Don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know me that well.”

Despite his newfound self-isolation from other miners here, and his preoccupation with his writing before this. Megatron had actually ‘faced and, on several occasions, flirted with other mechs. And under any other circumstances, he would be sure of the intention of the mech before him. But now, he was left staring.

Sensing his hesitation, Ratchet returned to a less enticing pose with a flash of disappointment in his optics. He cleared his throat, “Treatment’s over. You can go.”

“What if I’d rather stay and… get to know you more?”

Ratchet’s optics dimmed to an interesting shade of blue. The senate’s CMO was turning out to be a lot more audacious than Megatron had assumed.

“I probably won’t kick you out.” All work clearly forgotten as the tiredness vanished from Ratchet’s face. Megatron stood up and they were meeting each other clumsily in the next kilk. He looked down, and Ratchet was giving him an intense stare, as if waiting, daring him to make a move.

Megatron did the first thing that came to his processor and picked up those hands he had been quietly obsessing over all night. His grip was gentle this time, and Ratchet let him raise the red digits to his mouth. He placed a tentative kiss on the knuckles.

Ratchet made an appreciative hum in the back of his intake, and Megatron took two of his digits into his mouth, gliding his glossa over the seams and dents. He looked directly into Ratchet’s bright-blue optics, marking every shift and flicker while he worked those digits over in his mouth.

A quiet gasp left Ratchet’s intake, and his optics darted away as if embarrassed. “Enough teasing, big guy. Now bend down so I can kiss you properly.”

Yeah, right, bend down, that was probably the first thing he should have done. Megatron obeyed the order. The medic had a certain way with him that made mechs oblige him easily.

Ratchet’s arm hooked over his neck impatiently and dragged him into a kiss. The first press of lips together was timid, closed-mouthed, just feeling the softness and heat. So maybe the medic wasn’t as seasoned as he appeared to be. But they came together smoothly. Soon, Megatron found one of his large hands at the back of the medic’s helm and he opened his mouth to suck at Ratchet’s bottom lip, coaxing his denta to open. Megatron always appreciated a sharp glossa, and he had been wanting to taste Ratchet’s since the sixth sentence they had exchanged.

He sank his denta into the soft mesh, and Ratchet opened with a moan. His glossa finding its way into Megatron’s mouth without a moment of hesitation. Megatron wound his arm around the medic’s waist and deepened the kiss. Ratchet’s other hand was exploring his frame. Clever digits dug into seams, toyed with the lines underneath, and Megatron’s processor was fully distracted, giving Ratchet the freedom to do whatever he wanted to Megatron’s mouth.

And as it turned out, Ratchet liked to bite. The taste of energon filled his mouth, and Megatron glowered. He straightened, changing the angle to regain an upper hand in this fight that they somehow started. This time, Ratchet was pliant, his arms clinging hard to Megatron’s frame, and let Megatron explore his mouth at will.

Ratchet’s fans kicked on, and Megatron cracked his optics open. Only when he stared into Ratchet’s startled expression did he realize what he had done. He looked down and saw the medic being lifted off the ground in his embrace, and his peds struggled in the air, kicking Megatron weakly.

Megatron hadn’t noticed at all. Other miners were usually not so easily picked up. The deep color of the fuel lines on the medic’s face suggested that he wasn’t opposed to this position. Megatron let his hands move down, making a show of almost dropping the medic before catching him with two hands firmly gripping the back of his tibulens.

“Don’t play smart with me.” Ratchet gritted out after the surprised yelp he made. But his legs wound around Megatron’s waist without a second thought, and it made Megatron smile.

Ratchet gave him an even more affronted look.

Megatron felt the weight in his hands and gave the medic a few good bounces. There was no danger of Ratchet actually falling off him, but the arms around his neck wound so tight that the doctor might be actively trying to squeeze Megatron’s helm off.

The sound of the cooling fans got significantly louder as the medic yelped again. “I will kill you if you drop me on the floor.” Ratchet panted, Megatron’s face buried in his chassis. It was hard to see the glare when he was busy biting his way up the medic’s intake, but Megatron managed to feel it, along with the heat radiating off the frame between his arms.

“I thought you didn’t mind playing a little rough.”

“I don’t.” Ratchet stifled a moan when Megatron found a particular fuel line to nibble on, “But I’d rather you bounce me on your spike.”

Megatron’s fans kicked on. And rather embarrassingly, the latch on his panel clicked and opened at the same time.

“Liking the idea, I see.” Ratchet teased. Megatron moved one of his hands to Rachet’s aft so he could use his digits to rub against the medic’s panels. Ratchet squirmed in his hand and his panel unlocked as well.

“I would like to ‘face you across your desk. Take you from behind.”

Ratched laughed breathlessly, “You sounded so damn serious.” But his frame shivered in support of the idea. “No, let’s do this first. I want to see your spike in me.” He retracted his valve panel and instantly, there was lubricant running down his legs, getting all over Megatron’s mid-section plating.

Megatron didn’t even realize that his panel had folded, but his spike was suddenly in the open. Ratchet must have heard the sound because he freed up an arm and reached behind him until the servo was wrapped around his spike.

He couldn’t for the life of him suppress his groan when those expert hands started moving around his spike. The angle was awkward, but Ratchet truly was exceptional with his hands. Megatron’s valve clenched in excitement, and he was taken with the sudden impulse to bite down on the medic’s intake, to tear through him with force and rage until his hunger was satisfied.

Megatron trembled from the idea, and his spike jumped. “Frag,” Ratchet cursed, “Put it in me, now.”

“You aren’t prepared.” Megatron dug some sanity out of his processor.

“I can take it. Trust me, I know my way around a larger mech like you.” Ratchet said into his audials, he sneaked one hand in between them and played with his anterior node and valve mesh until his digits were soaked in lubricant, “See how wet I am?”

Any further prompting would be an insult to his processor. He lifted Ratchet with ease, one hand moving to the medic’s waist to align his valve perfectly with the head of Megatron’s spike. Rachet was nervous; Megatron could feel his digits digging into his plating. His cadulens were squeezing Megatron’s waist tightly, as if afraid that he was going to fall.

But Megatron could tell that Ratchet’s attention was on Megatron’s spike, nestling its head into the dripping mesh of Ratchet’s valve. He moved Ratchet up and down slightly, let his spike drag against his folds and nods. Ratchet let out a faint, high-pitched whine. “In, right now, frag you.”

Megatron’s spike found its way to the fluttering valve, and he pushed in; just the head and Ratchet’s vents were roaring already. He wanted to slam his way in, knowing that Ratchet was not inclined to fight it, probably welcomed it. But the temptation of his violence scared Megatron. Ratchet doesn’t deserve his violence. He was a high-class bot in the system, an important one at that. But he was not Megatron’s enemy, … right?

He chose to sink into the gushing valve slowly. Ratchet’s optics were locked onto the scene, unblinking, his breathing almost stopped as Megatron’s spike filled him bit by bit. The glide was not smooth; Ratchet was tight and tense around him. But there was no other way but for the mesh to give in when Megatron was pulling Ratchet’s whole frame onto his spike. And thankfully, the capacious amount of lubricant prevented any tears.

He hit the ceiling without being able to fully bury into Ratchet, but this would have to do for now. They let out a vent in unison. Ratchet clung to Megatron again, locking their frames together tightly.

“Are you alright?” Megatron mumbled, and Ratchet nodded so sluggishly that his chin knocked into Megatron’s helm. Megatron almost laughed, but there was just not enough processing power left for anything but how good his spike felt in the burning, soft mesh.

Megatron rocked his pelvis, moving in small increments. Ratchet moaned against his audials. They were trying to ease into this, Megatron was sure. But somewhere in that process, he completely lost himself. By the time he was thinking again, he was already dragging Ratchet along his spike like he was moving a toy. He watched as most of his spike slipped free, and then he pulled Ratchet back down, engulfing his spike in that heat again.

Ratchet’s cry echoed in the small room. If anyone were out in the corridor, they would be able to hear it loud and clear. But neither of them could think much of anything other than his spike slamming into Ratchet’s ceiling node. Ratchet’s hands were scribbling all over him, leaving scratches on his finish until he found purchase on Megatron’s caterpillar treads so he could push back against Megatron and frag himself on Megatron’s spike.

Megatron was knocked back by the momentum, his peds moving to steady himself. His back knocked into a wall without him even noticing that he had moved, leaving a trail of wet lubricant on the floor. Megatron pressed his face into Ratchet’s shoulder, pretty sure that the medic was making enough noise for both of them. His string of moans and cries was only disrupted by a chant of curse words, both of their name and Primus’, and very occasionally and faintly, the word “please” as in, “harder, frag me harder, please”.

Megatron was burning so hot that he became sure that he was going to burst if he didn’t overload soon. So, he used the support of the wall to snap his pelvis forward in accordance with how he was moving Ratchet. His spike stretched and pounded against the mesh until something gave, and he was forcing the whole of his length into Ratchet’s valve with ease.

Ratchet threw his helm back. The charge around him gathered in an instant and burst in the next, whitening out Ratchet’s processor as he let out a choked cry. Nothing but pleasure sensors firing off in a chain reaction in his frame. And the strong current that coursed through his frame tipped Megatron over. He overloaded without a kilk to prepare and plunged all of his transfluid deep inside Ratchet’s valve.

Ratchet twitched in his hands. His charge pulling and building again, probably due to his deep sensors being flooded by Megatron’s transfluid.

Megatron wanted nothing more than to kneel over and lie down on the floor, so he deduced that Ratchet would just do the same if he put him down right now. He struggled a few steps forward and deposited Ratchet on his desk (He didn’t know if Ratchet was going to be mad at him if he let him drip all over the mediberth) before easing his spike out of Ratchet’s valve.

He tried to close his vents as well as retract his spike, but neither of these functions listened to him. It was… it definitely was the kind of ‘facing that was on the intense side. Megatron pulled over a chair and dropped into it. He offlined his optics.

Nothing but the roaring of cooling fans in his audials and Megatron almost felt peaceful. Like if he fell into recharge right now or picked up his datapad to type down a few lines, nothing bad would happen to him.

The CMO beside him very much reminded him that it was wishful thinking. But at least Ratchet was… was kicking him with his peds.

“What?” He slowly onlined his optics again and was greeted with the sight of Ratchet sitting on the desk before him, lubricant and transfluid leaking down his legs.

Megatron’s engine started working enthusiastically again.

“How long before you can go again?” The medic asked, a relaxed, blissful look on his face. It sure made Megatron’s engine purr louder.

“Right now.” Because Megatron was always sizzling with extra charge. Unreleased energy rambled in his fists, in his processor, in his spark since the cycle he had been brought online. It made him work quicker, but also made him think faster. And soon he began to realize that there were much more important things for him to do than meeting the cycle’s quota as soon as possible.

This source of energy helped him to learn, compelled him to write, whispered to him to fight, and apparently made him good at interfacing.

Ratchet sized up his pressurizing spike with surprise, though the pleasant kind, judging by how the shade of blue brightened.

“I might need another kilk.” Ratchet said. His words were slurred, but his actions spoke a different truth. Megatron could feel the charge bouncing in the medic’s frame, too, not as strong as his own, but still the kind meaning that Ratchet was probably tireless in his work and more energetic than the average mech around him.

Ratchet opened his legs right before Megatron’s optics. His digits lazily circled his valve, playing with the anterior node, making himself whine lowly in the back of his vocalizer. Then he plunged two digits into the mesh, stroking and lightly fragging himself with his own digits, digging out all the transfluid Megatron left in him.

Megatron wanted to put those digits in his mouth again. He wanted to suck and see if he could make Ratchet’s charge build up just from teasing his hands.

He stood up abruptly, and Ratchet smirked at him. He raised his arm to pat a spot on Megatron’s helm, “Don’t worry, I will fix it.”

Megatron touched his helm in confusion, the pain receptor belatedly kicked online, “Did you bite through my helmet?” Rachet just licked his lips and hooked one of his legs over Megatron’s waist again.

Megatron didn’t step in immediately. “I want you on your front.” He commanded, because that was what he wanted, so that was what he would get.

Ratchet rolled his optics at him but stepped off the table, turned around, then bent over, leaning with his elbows on the desk. His aft was presented nicely before Megatron, who couldn’t help but touch. Palms swept over the frame, and digits pulled the mesh open, teasing the opening.

Ratchet groaned and impatiently tried to push himself onto Megatron’s digits. Megatron didn’t allow it. Instead, he grabbed Ratchet’s waist and hauled him forward unexpectedly, until all of his upper frame was lying flat on the table and his peds couldn’t reach the floor unless he stood on his tiptoes.

Ratchet yelped indignantly and turned around to glare at him when his face hit the table. “What the scrap are you doing?”

“Getting prepared for fragging you through the desk,” Megatron answered confidently, and put his hand on Ratchet’s back to stop him from getting up.

“You better not be up to something,” Ratchet grumbled. Megatron could almost taste his stress and annoyance when they were so close, their charges entangled together.

“But the danger is part of the fun, isn’t it?”

” No, not particularly.” Ratchet’s neck was clearly getting tired, so he put his helm back onto the table and made his displeasure known from there. But whatever he was going to say next was killed when Megatron pushed his spike into Ratchet’s well-fragged valve again.

Ratchet could only let out a shaky breath. He gripped the edge of the desk reflectively.

Megatron started slow, rocking into Ratchet, savoring what he had missed out on last round. That was one of the reasons he wanted Ratchet like this, under his control. Ratchet could get so impatient so fast.

“If you don’t want danger, then why did you pick me?” Megatron bent down to nibble at Ratchet’s intake, “There are plenty of other miners here who aren’t on the Senate’s watchlist.”

“Do I look like I give a flying lunaboat’s aft about the Senate?” Ratchet snorted, his voice getting breathy while his frame twitched due to the slow build-up, “Orion spoke pretty highly of your little essay, and you’ve got a nice face.”

“You want to interface with me because you liked my writing?” Megatron smiled into the back of Ratchet’s helm, “I am flattered.”

Ratchet tried to push against him, but Megatron held him down again. He was slowly pulling out, then bottoming again, dragging all the fluids he left in Ratchet out with him. It dripped down Ratchet’s spread legs and pooled on the floor.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I was not sold on your ideas or you just yet.”

“Then what’s your reason for ‘facing me twice in one night?”

“Because overloads are as good as recharge when you are in a hurry. I can make more replacement parts before the sun comes up with two overloads instead of a full recharge cycle.” Ratchet then hit the desk and growled, “Why are you doing this? Do you not know how to frag?”

Megatron ignored him, “You interfaced so you can work more?”

“I can’t stay here indefinitely, can I? I had to talk my helm off just to stay the whole cycle. How else am I going to treat everyone in a whole fragging outpost?”

Megatron found Ratchet’s hands with his own and gripped them in his. He bore down on Ratchet, his spike finding the perfect angle to slide in deeper and rub against the deep sensors. Ratchet moaned raggedly.

“You actually cared.” Megatron had considered the possibility, but was rather surprised that it turned out to be true. It was nice to know that he wasn’t interfacing with someone who regarded him as nothing but disposable labor.

Ratchet glared at him with one optic, “Does it really matter now?” He growled, “I thought you were going to frag me through the desk?”

“If you admit that you care.”

“What’s your problem? Fine, fine!” Ratchet conceded when Megatron once again dragged his spike over his nodes, achingly slow, “Of course I care, what kind of medic what I be if I – Now would you let me overload already so I can—”

The rest of his sentences were reduced to static as Megatron gave in to his command and pounded into him hard and unforgiving.

He pinned Ratchet’s upper body under him easily and slammed into his valve again and again with all but animalistic instincts. Ratchet screamed at the force, his helm arched off the table, and when he caught Megatron’s optic, he gritted out, “Come here.”

Megatron surged forward with refreshed hunger. Their plating clashed together so loudly that the sound almost drowned out their panting and moans. Ratchet’s pedes scraped against the floor as his legs trembled, pleasure all but lost when charges built up through sheer brute force.

The second overload tore through Ratchet’s frame and left him a shaking mess. But Megatron made no note of that as he pounded into Ratchet with the same force, knocking the medic’s weak frame into the desk over and over again. Ratchet bit down on Megatron’s arm, to either protest this treatment or stifle his sharp cry.

Megatron pulled his hands back and straightened. He lifted Ratchet’s waist, picking most of his frame off the desk and ground for the perfect angle to enjoy using his valve. The control, the power, the rage all fed to the electric charges that ran through his frame, crackling the air around them until it was too much to hold and pulled both of them to a shuddering overload as it exploded around them.

And the world around them seemed to stop for a kilk; they too were suspended in the vacuum of bliss. Until Megatron moved slightly, and he saw drops of transfluid being pushed out from Ratchet’s valve with his spike still firmly stuffed inside. The sight was so inviting that Megatron was sure he could go again right now, and again, and again.

But you don’t want to actually hurt him, do you?

Megatron pulled out, and Ratchet made a sound in his intake. He collapsed back onto the desk. When Megatron circled around to look at him, his optics were still unfocused. Megatron traced his digits over the medic’s hands, then his chevron. Ratchet slowly raised his helm to look at him.

“My medical box.” The doctor rasped.

“Where?” Megatron’s processor was still wandering, getting lost in Ratchet’s optics.

“The big white and red box at the corner of the room, what do you think?”

Ratchet took out a spray when Megatron finally fetched it. He sprayed both of them, the desk, then, after a second glance around the room, most of the floor as well.

“Wipe before you close your panels.” Ratchet handed him a piece of cloth. “Build-up may lead to infections.”

For all of his eloquence, it was hard for him to find what to say after such intensity. Ratchet and he were practically strangers when he thought about it. So, he busied himself with cleaning his frame very thoroughly while Ratchet did the same with the room.

He wiped the desk, the floor, and the mediberth. Then he sprayed the desk and wiped it down again, he looked over to Megatron like he wanted to clean him again as well.

“I don’t think the desk needs to be cleaned a third time.”

“I am not going to get fluids on parts that go into other mechs.” Ratchet snorted, but he didn’t kick Megatron out, demanding a sanitary condition or something when he started working again. So Megatron sat and watched him in silence.

“Your friend,” Ratchet said after a while, Megatron watched him work through three different wheels or cogs in the meantime, “is he still on Messatine? You are right, I should go on more visits. I could start there.”

“No, he,” Megatron almost couldn’t find his vocal cords, “uh, he went missing during the evacuation.”

Those hands stilled for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Something stung in the back of his neck. He stood up, electrical currents built up in his audio, and all he could hear was static. He cleared his intake, “I should go back to recharge.”

“Yeah, yeah, you should, you got a whole cycle’s work ahead of you,” Ratchet said, never taking his optics off the work before him.

Megatron couldn’t for the life of him produce anything else to say, so he just left and walked back to his quarters.

He took a datapad out of his subspace when he reached there. Everyone else was still in recharge, and he stared at his datapad. His hands hovered in the air above it, still hesitant and afraid. But the extra charge flowed to his digits, he pulled it in close, wound it tight around his knuckles, his fist. He thought of the bliss, the peace he felt when he let it explode around him, and pushed past the emotions binding him.

He typed down a line, then suddenly words poured out of him, like they had been repressed for too long. There was always going to be a way, yes, Megatron was going to carve that way out of the stones and caves that imprisoned him with his bare hands. And he could only imagine the ecstasy when he would finally bring his fist down.

Chapter Text

Now

They thought that he was moping. And he didn’t really correct them. It was not like he could say, “No, I am actually searching my inner blackhole for antimatter, which could kill all of you in an instant, just to be safe.”

“You are moping,” Ravage said to him.

“No, I am searching for antimatter. You know that.” Megatron pinched his nose bridge. He couldn’t get it. He had a brief connection with it when he had actually been moping, but now it was gone.

“That was what you said five cycles ago.”

“Have you forgotten how much the success of a plan relies on patience?” Megatron frowned. But he wasn’t feeling any real annoyance. It was uncommon for Ravage to… bicker with him, for lack of better words. Four million years of command-and-follow was hard to rewire; and Ravage always had his particular way with judging things and mechs.

There were so few who could separate him from the Decepticons; the renounce of his cause might as well be the death of Megatron for every mech closest to him. Megatron was not going to act like he was wronged in any way; he had made sure this would happen through his own actions. Yet after a few deca-cycles on this ship, it was feeling more and more like Ravage was seeing not just a traitor and a dead cause, but the him in this moment, one that was lost, tired, selfish, and a coward.

And Ravage had decided he would still lie on Megatron’s chestplate occasionally during recharge, curl up beside him when he worked in silence, and allow Megatron to pet him. Sometimes when Ravage was napping, Megatron looked at him and typed, putting into rhymes words he wanted to say, but neither of them was ready to hear.

“Something’s bothering you.”

“If I had learned anything these vorns, it is that sometimes suffering brings strength.” Megatron leaned on this thigh guard, “And I seem to be failing because of a lack of such on my part.”

“You are saying that you aren’t miserable enough right now, and you don’t like it.”

“Why shouldn’t I be miserable?” Megatron offlined his optics again, feeling the familiar ache, “I tore down the only thing I built. I achieved nothing for myself but regret. I left behind mechs who put their lives in my hands. I failed the Decepticons, I failed Cybertron.” But the pain was dull.

He searched for the connections he had with his greatest cause and most loyal subordinates and found them thin. The feelings he once felt deeply in his spark were watered down by his suspicion and grudge against the world. They have spent so much time together and drifted impossibly far as a result. Every moment where he had felt like he truly lived was a distant memory for him. And he found himself incapable of mourning a loss so great, or feeling a pain that should have been devastating. That alone would have been misery enough, but—

“And as far as life on this ship is erratic and baffling, it was not the suffering I expected.” Megatron’s intake worked; he had to swallow before saying in a hushed voice, “Especially now that I have unexpected company.”

“If so then maybe there’s no use for the antimatter.” Ravage’s tail batted on the floor, so Megatron knew he had heard what he said. His old friend turned his optics away, “We will find some other plans to make, and you can continue being... not miserable.”

“I came here to correct a mistake, not to be…”, the word burned like bleach on his glossa, “happy.” He certainly didn’t deserve it, nor does it matter whether he deserved it or not. His methods were wrong, so he changed them. It was never about redemption or finding peace for him.

“But you see, you are not—” Ravage was saying, but then something on him pinged. Megatron watched in confusion as he swatted some alerts in his processor away with his paw.

“I think you d—” Another ping.

“I—” And another.

“That’s enough. What is this?” Megatron opened his door and looked outside the habsuite. The ship was not on fire. Even if it was, Megatron would want to finish his conversation first.

“It’s nothing.” Ravage walked up to weave between his legs, “I set an alert for every time someone on this ship accesses your files. To see if anyone was planning against you.”

“Who was accessing my files, and why is it nothing?”

“It’s your medical files being accessed by your doctor.”

Megatron could be dying, He thought angrily as he stomped to the medbay, and Ratchet wouldn’t even tell him. No, the doctor chose instead to access his medical files 38 times in the last deca-cycle.

“Where is Ratchet?” Megatron asked coldly as he walked through the door and didn’t find its most loyal resident. The medics and two mechs in for repairs eyed him warily.

First Aid pointed him to a door down a corridor in the back of the medbay. Megatron touched the pad on the door. The door didn’t open under his command; it just beeped rather loudly. Megatron knocked on the door. Why would a room in the medbay be locked from the captain? Were there more secrets on this ship?

He didn’t anticipate the possibility that this was not a room of the medbay.

“What do you want?” A scowling Ratchet answered the door, “Do you know how hard it was for First Aid to force me to take a cycle off? Don’t ruin it for him.”

Megatron looked past Ratchet. The room was largely indiscernible from the medbay with all the tools, screens, and supplies inside. But a large, non-foldable berth in the middle spoke the truth.

“Your habsuite is connected to the medbay?” It was not every cycle that Megatron was surprised by someone else’s workaholic tendency.

“And you are outside of it because…?”

Because you were poring over my medical file on your cycle off. You are hiding something from me, Ratchet.

“Because, I need to talk to you about your hands.” Megatron went with the most fail-safe answer, “And I would prefer it not to be a scene.”

Ratchet’s line of sight landed over Megatron’s shoulder. Megatron turned slightly and saw all of the medbay hiding poorly around the corner of the wall.

“FINE.” Ratchet gritted out, “Come in.”

“So, it was finally your turn.” Ratchet firmly stood before him, blocking Megatron from the rest of the room. Megatron swore he saw the diagram of his own frame on the screen on Ratchet’s table. If only he could get close enough to see what was written beside it…

He took a step towards Ratchet. Ratchet didn’t buckle at all. “I thought you weren’t interested in persuading me?”

A reason like how Rodimus nagged him was not going to move Ratchet out of the way. Megatron had to go in big.

“You have heard of what happened, right?”

“Yes.” Ratchet looked a bit upset, “Brainstorm… I mean, didn’t you know?”

“No, I don’t think he was the most active of spies. If that’s any consolation.” Megatron took the betrayed look on Ratchet’s face as a NO, “That’s not what I want to talk about.”

“What then?”

“When the timeline was destabilizing. Rewind picked up on the history of the alternative universe, where Cybertron was controlled by the functionist regime.”

“Yes, I’ve been told the horror stories.” Ratchet frowned at him, “I would not say that I prefer you. But that’s not a world I want to live in.”

“Then why do you endorse their ideas?”

“What? I did no such thing.” Ratchet’s optics rounded, “If you are talking about before the war, then—”

“I am talking about the last deca-cycle, and the deca-cycle before that, and four joors ago. I am talking about every time you refused to replace your hand because ‘you can’t make a medic’s hands; they have to be forged’.”

“That is not a belief or a political stance. That is a fact!” Ratchet exclaimed. Rodimus was not kidding; Ratchet got loud when this topic was involved.

“Your prejudice is a far cry from facts. There were many cold-constructed medics throughout the war.”

“I am not saying that cold-constructed mechs can’t be medics. Just that forged medic hands move better. That is a fact. The other universe may have turned the whole ’Primus gave you a function’ thing into a cult, that doesn’t mean everything about Functionism is a lie.”

Ratchet paced the room and walked to the screen in angry strides, which was exactly what Megatron wanted. He followed and saw, yes, it was his frame’s schematics on the screen. But before he could take a closer look, Ratchet pointed to his spark and said, “Isn’t your one-in-a-hundred green spark proof of that? You were born different, and it showed.”

And how could Megatron tolerate that?

“Individual differences are hardly proof enough for the diminishing nature of functionists’ doctrine.” Megatron stared into Ratchet’s pulsing optics, “It is never about what the fact is, but rather how it is understood.”

“For instance, the fact stands that while forged hands are better than cold-constructed ones, a hook would be better than your forged hands. So, what is the reason, Ratchet? Other than thinking that you are above made parts, and cold-construction will taint the forged Primus-appointed Autobot CMO.”

“Because I wouldn’t know how to use made hands! “Ratchet burst out. He rolled his left shoulder back, an unconscious habit for when he was distressed, Megatron noticed. He threw his hands in the air,” It was never about which was better or worse. It was about what I always am.”

“Forged?”

“One of the best.” Ratchet took a deep vent in, “I am not saying that cold-constructed mechs can’t be good, or even the best doctors. But I will never be as good as I was with made hands. I can’t show you any studies or statistics. But I know there’s a difference. I don’t know what will happen, Megatron. But most likely, I will spend the rest of my cycles as a mediocre. And mechs on this ship, you know, they only put their faith in me because of my reputation. How do I tell them that I am still me, but I am no longer able to be what they remembered?”

Megatron felt something pang loudly in his chassis, it was as if his spark had shaken itself loose. Guilt and doubt shot through him, feelings he had long ignored wrote themselves so clearly in Ratchet’s words. He had been running, searching for misery out of practicality but shunning his emotions out in the depths of the processor. And look at the cage Ratchet made for himself with those feelings. How could Megatron be finding the right path if he had been in a similar place this whole time as well?

The vent came out, and Ratchet shook his head, “You know what? Forget it. You are right, I am a bigot, end of story.”

“You think I won’t be able to understand? That I would not know what it’s like to be a shadow of my former self, to fail my mechs?” Megatron touched the Autobot sigil on his chest with too much force, the metal clinked. “Are you so deep in your pit of agony that you forget who you are talking to?”

“It’s not… You are not…” Ratchet finally looked at him. He sighed, “I know. But it’s still not the same. You made a choice, I didn’t.”

“That is because you are shackled by functionist lies.” Megatron’s tone turned a tad softer. “You never made your own choices.”

“You can’t honestly think all Autobots still believe that. It had been four million years.” Rachet rolled his optics at him, “Pretty sure you already killed everyone who thought that crap.”

“No. Some lies wear the face of facts, of common sense.” Megatron said calmly, “That’s how they deceive you.”

“Are you trying to preach to me?” Ratchet snorted and walked away, “After admitting that the whole Decepticon cause was a mistake?”

“Optimus wrote that speech, and even he didn’t believe that it was the whole truth.” Megatron raised his voice and followed Ratchet, whatever was on that screen temporarily forgotten to him, “I am simply telling you that you have to choose.”

“Whether or not to get my hands replaced? Yes, I think you made that clear the moment you stepped in.”

“Whether you are going to spend your life chained to the parts you are born with, unable to move on because these are the things that made you most suitable to one function.” Megatron took one of Ratchet’s hands, studied it in his hands, even though he had seen it, held it numerous times before, “Or are you going to allow yourself the freedom to choose?”

“Are you suggesting that I stop being a doctor?” Ratchet half gasped, half yelled, “Megatron, I am always going to be a medic. And sorry to conform to the evil, evil functionism, but the things I was born with are the things I am best at.”

“Even the best medics don’t have to be medics.” Megatron replied, “I was a very good miner, but that didn’t stop me from choosing.”

“To be a genocidal manic, yes.” Ratchet huffed and turned to move away from him. He kept moving, but there really weren’t more places to be in this room. So now they were arguing on different sides of Ratchet’s berth.

“To create a free world where a mech’s identity is defined by themselves, not their function or class. Where violence and peace are choices you make rather than a state you resort to out of lack of power or options. While it has come to my realization that my methods and thinking have become misguided and distorted--"

“That just might be the most understated sentence I have ever heard. And I’ve had Optimus tell me he was ok while half his frame was missing.” Ratchet mocked loudly.

“But I think the logic applies to medics just as well.”

Ratchet sat down at the edge of the berth like he was damn tired. “Unfortunately, I also happen to like what I do.”

“How do you know there aren’t other things you like unless you’ve tried them?”

The room went quiet for a long while. “Do you really think I could be free of my responsibilities?” Ratchet asked. His voice had gone quiet, contemplative. And a circuit in Megatron’s processor sizzled with pride and excitement. Was he going to do the impossible?

“I think the mechs on this ship are perfectly capable of seeing you for just who you are.”

“And they see you as a ticking bomb ready to blow.” Ratchet looked up at him, “You are thousands of light years away from any Decepticon. So, are you saying that you are free from that responsibility?”

Megatron thought about Soundwave and the world of equality that he had promised him. His old friend might not see it now, might not see it ever. But Megatron was still holding onto his words. He had convinced himself it was all that mattered; yet truth was part of him still hoped that Soundwave would one day understand, not him, but his new way of viewing the world. “No. I am not.” Then he thought about Ravage; he wondered what Soundwave could sense from him. Across light years, did Soundwave know that Ravage was happy here? “But first we fix ourselves.”

“What in the pits are you doing here?” Rachet yelped as he all but crashed into Megatron’s chestplate. Megatron grunted.

“We agreed that you need to find a new interest so you can decide what you will do with your hands.”

“We agreed on nothing. You barged into my quarter, said a bunch of ideological bullshit, then just left.” Ratchet tried to push past Megatron, but Megatron wasn’t planning on letting the medic slip through his digits this cycle. Ratchet’s optics narrowed, “Move, I have work.”

“You are not on shift.” Megatron stared back, “It was easy to confirm. I checked with the CMO on the way here, about 30 kilks ago.”

“Move before I shove these up your exhaust pipes.” Ratchet waved whatever he was holding menacingly before Megatron’s optics. It was, uh, a roll of replacement mesh, three small vials, and a large shock unit. Ratchet was undeterred by how unrealistic his threat was: “You have no say over what I do.”

Rodimus would be snickering at him all cycle if the shouting reached the captain’s audials. Megatron gritted his denta, “I will send everyone on this ship to talk to you, every cycle, unless you prove to me that you have no need for new hands.”

Ratchet’s optics widened, “You wouldn’t. How dare you!” He spluttered, “Why would they want to do that!”

“Captain’s order. Let’s see if they are more afraid of me than they are of you.” Megatron crossed his arms and stuck his chin up, “And I will make sure that all of your friends aren’t going to miss out. How do you intend to make them give up on you again?”

Ratchet’s knuckles squeaked, “I will bite your fragging helm off. It’s a promise.”

“If you go with me, you will only have me to convince.” Megatron peered down at Ratchet, “Plus, aren’t you curious about yourself?”

“No.” Ratchet raised his helm to match Megatron's, “But I am curious about what you could possibly have planned. One cycle, that’s all, I don’t give a frag about your pathetic blackmail.”

Megatron bit down on the urge to rile the medic up some more, “Understood.” He tilted his helm, “Shall we?”

Ratchet pushed past him and stomped off angrily until he realized that he didn’t know where they were going. He turned and gave Megatron a murderous stare. Megatron easily ignored it, he had seen similar looks so many times before that this felt like he was coming home to his Decepticon base.

“The first thing you can think of is poetry?” Ratchet stared at the datapad Megatron handed him incredulously, “The very first thing you thought I would like when you look at me was poetry?”

Yeah, it was a long shot. Megatron pinched his nose ridge. “There are other kinds of literature if you keep scrolling.”

“But poetry is your thing, right?” For what it was worth. Ratchet started flipping through the pages.

“It wasn’t all mine.” Considering the frown on Ratchet’s face, Megatron wasn’t looking forward to hearing his judgment. Besides, it was unlikely that Ratchet could tell whether the author was different or the same, “Just to see what genres of literature you might find engaging. What do you normally like to read?”

“Uh… Papers and research mostly.” Ratchet was still frowning at the datapad. What on there was offending him so much? “Medical files and reports, too.”

It was going to take some effort to weed the work out of Ratchet’s life.

By the time Megatron finished that thought, Ratchet was looking at him.

“What?”

“I finished the first one.” Ratchet waved the datapad.

“The first book?”

“Yes. There aren’t that many words on each page.” Ratchet looked at him like he was dumb or something, “And they are mostly gibberish. Look, I don’t think this is for me.”

“You are not kidding,” Megatron said quietly.

“I am not an eloquent mech. I read for the information, and that’s all.” Ratchet rolled his shoulder, “I don’t usually need to woo my way into a mech’s spark. I just cut their chassis open.”

Then who taught you to talk like that? Megatron had to blink a few times to make sure he swallowed down his thoughts instead of voicing them out of frustration. Who knew? Maybe Ratchet really was just reading Megatron’s medical file to pass the time. He was sure the content was exhilarating compared to other parts of the medic’s life.

“Do I need to continue?” Ratchet grumbled as he flicked through the pages, “What other kinds of literature are there?”

Megatron watched him as he seemed to randomly pick a page to start on, heaved a heavy sigh, and squinted skeptically at the lines as if he was grading a first-year school student’s homework rather than what Megatron had carefully honed for a few centuries.

Megatron took the datapad out of his hand. “No, I think we can move on.” He said, and a relieved look appeared on Ratchet’s face for the first time since this morning.

“No,” Ratchet said the moment they stepped into the oil reservoir.

“You have a grudge against fishing as well?” Megatron asked.

“For the last time, I don’t have a grudge against stories and rhetoric. They are simply… not useful in my life.” Ratchet kicked the fishing tools lightly while circling the place with his hands behind his back, “Fishing, though, it’s incredibly boring.”

“You have tried?”

“I have watched humans try. Can you believe that some of them will spend a fifth of their lives. A whole twenty years out of a hundred in total on this? We can live for millions of years with no upper limit, and I wouldn’t even do that.”

“Try it before you conclude so hastily.”

Ratchet sighed so loudly that it echoed and bounced for nearly 30 kilks in the empty reservoir.

After half a breem, Ratchet was surgically sewing up scraplets, and Megatron was filing paperwork on his datapad.

It was another breem before either of them remembered what they should be doing, and Megatron had to concede that Ratchet was right about fishing.

“You all are gonna burn your optics out,” Ratchet grumbled. “What is this exactly?”

“It’s a human video game system. I adapted the controller to fit Cybertronian hands.” Skid said proudly.

“Quick! The fish is going to burn!” Nautica yelled behind him.

“I’ve got it!” Nightbeat shouted. His fingers flew over buttons on his controller.

“You know we’ve got a hologram deck, right?” Ratchet was still scowling, but Megatron could see his optics tracking the movement on the big screen. “And what were those green and brown things?”

Skid and Nautica shared a look. “This is an amazing idea, we can make this into a hologram game!”

“Those are called vegetables. They are an energy source for humans.” Rung said from the side, “You have to chop them before you can fry them.”

“It looked nothing like a carrot.” Ratchet squinted at the nametag under each item.

“I will have to take your word for it. I think the game has some unique art style.” Skid handed his controller to Ratchet, “Wanna try?”

Nautica looked and waved her controller at Megatron, and he shook his helm. “Can’t have two chiefs at the same time.” Nautica looked at him confusedly.

“What am I doing exactly?” Ratchet asked.

“Oh, first you have to pick a profession. We are in a diner, so you've got cashiers, waiters, cooks, chefs, dish— oh you already picked. So now you are the chief.”

Megatron snorted expectantly.

“Oh.” Nautica looked at him with some surprise, “Maybe you can be chief next round?”

For the next four breems, Ratchet was the chief every round.

“Ah-a-a, what do you think you are doing! That meat was not cooked!” Ratchet yelled, he snapped his fingers in front of Rung, didn’t even take his optics off the screen, “Waiter, go get that plate back.”

“But the order was medium rare.” Rung protested weakly.

“Yeah, precisely, medium! Have you ever seen a medium rare stake? The color was way off. Do you want to kill somebody?”

“You, plates are piled pretty high.” Ratchet ordered, “And who is taking the orders? The details are scrap. Nightbeat, you be the waiter next round.”

“That is an NPC in the game.” Nightbeat complained, “We don’t have enough players. And I want to be the cashier!”

“Well, Megatron can be the cashier. Do you have an extra controller?” Ratchet pushed a button frantically, swirling the joystick around until Megatron heard the tell-tale sound of his knuckles screeching, “Hey! Keep your helm in the game! Who forgot to preheat the oven!”

The movement of his left hand slowed, staggered, and Megatron saw the exact moment part of the wires just stopped. “I think we are done for the cycle,” Megatron said, and everyone around them heaved a subtle sign of relief.

“Why? I am enjoying this.” Ratchet continued abusing his poor NPC staff.

“Your hand, Ratchet.” Megatron pointed out, and Ratchet scowled at him. He hid his frozen thumb in a fist and put the controller down.

Everyone’s relief turned to hushed guilt.

Megatron took the medic’s unresponsive left hand into his and pulled Ratchet up from his spot on the ground, then dragged him out of the door. Ratchet knocked him away and rubbed at his shoulder.

“I’m pretty good at the game.” Ratchet looked smug when he turned back to see that they had earned 3872 Shanix in one cycle. “You think this can be my new interest?”

“I think you will have some problems finding mechs to play with you.” Megatron leaned down to say. Ratchet snorted as a wicked, self-satisfied smile spread on his face.

Megatron turned to sneak a peek at the ranking page as they walked away. Yes, he was still on top. Last time he was chief, he earned 4300 shanixes with Rodiums, Rewind, and Minimus.

They were in Megatron’s habsuite, because Ratchet wouldn’t let him fix his hand in public. Maybe it had something to do with how breathless he got every time, a show of weakness and vulnerability the medic didn’t like to let on, no doubt.

“You didn’t tell me your condition is related to the amount of use,” Megatron said when he snapped the last digit back.

Ratchet opened his mouth to say something, but instead groaned in the back of his intake, accidentally, judging by how fast he snatched his hand back.

“Of course it is. Do you not know how neuro-circuit cramp works?”

Megatron stared at him.

“Fine, you don’t know. Since it really doesn’t matter whether you do or not.”

“It matters, because I am certain that your friends also don’t know. That’s the only reason they still let you work. According to my observation, your hand can function perfectly well for 2 deca-cycles instead of 3 cycles if you don’t perform any surgeries.”

“First Aid knows. And he thinks it’s alright.”

“Only because he can’t possibly stand up to you all the time.”

“Oh and you think you can?” Ratchet stared right back at him. Megatron lifted his optical bridge. It felt like it was turning into a staring contest.

“What’s the difference between not using my hands for surgeries and having them freeze up so I can’t use them for surgeries anyway?” Ratchet walked around the room, but there were fewer things in Megatron’s habsuite for him to pace around. There was a berth and… Ravage was not in the room when they entered, so there was just the berth.

“So you can function normally outside of work?”

“I think I just proved that I don’t have anything outside of work.” Megatron almost rolled his optics at the weirdly proud look on Ratchet’s face.

“It couldn’t possibly have always been like this. What about before the war?”

Ratchet thought for so long that Megatron decided to sit down on his berth, and after a kilk, Ratchet joined his side.

“I liked going to parties when I was in school. Blowing off stress, you know.”

Megatron felt a wave of frustration wash over him. “You could have told me that. Do you know how many parties are hosted on this ship every cycle?”

Megatron pulled out his pad, four ongoing party applications waited for his review. He was going to deny all of them, but…

“Oh Primus, No.” Ratchet shuddered violently, “I am way too old for any of those slag now. Besides, I didn’t really go for the partying, alright, I went to… hit on mechs. That’s all.” Ratchet’s optics seemed to find the ceiling of Megatron’s habsuite rather interesting.

“You mean hit on them for…” Megatron asked hesitantly, “interfacing?”

“No, I wanted some live specimens to operate on. Of course it was interfacing!” Ratchet tore his optics off the ceiling and kicked Megatron’s leg, “Don’t sound so surprised. I fragged you the first time we met, didn’t I?”

Megatron looked over in shock and found his gaze locked with Ratchet’s. It wasn’t like he had forgotten, or that it was buried too deep in his processor. He just hadn’t assumed that they would bring it up, ever.

Megatron should focus on the conversation, but his processor had already started a replay of that particular clip in his memory storage.

“You could still do that.” Megatron was indeed quite distracted because he found himself saying, “I am largely certain most of Rodimus’ parties end with some interfacing.”

“For him mostly, and whichever unfortunate mech happened to find him attractive.” Ratchet puffed loudly, he shook his helm, “I have no interest in one-night stands with some over-eager, egotistical little sports-cars.”

So, not only did Ratchet’s temperament stay throughout the war, it would seem that his preferences did too.

Megatron was reliving that detail very vividly in his processor.

“There are plenty of bigger mechs onboard as well.” He supplemented as evenly as he could because he was four million years older and not going to blush over a memory replay. No, Megatron was going to blush, period.

“If I spend all of my cycles ‘facing you in berth, it’s hardly a hobby, is it?” Ratchet said with mirth and a tellingly light tone, as if he was reliving some memories of his younger self as well. Megatron stared at him.

Ratchet’s optics rounded as he realized what he said and seemed to have choked on nothing as he spluttered.

“I do have one last option prepared.” Megatron stood hastily, “If you—”

“Yes, let’s do that.” Ratchet jumped to his peds as well, “Let’s go, right now. I can’t wait to try it.”

“I thought he was your friend,” Megatron asked on their way of being kicked out of the bar.

“I suppose I make a very lousy bartender.” Ratchet coughed, expelling smoke from his intake. Megatron swore that he was looking more and more self-satisfied throughout the cycle. Unfortunately for Megatron, Ratchet was doing a really good job of proving how sad his work-life balance was. “This is the end of the cycle, then. Are you convinced?”

“Let’s try one more thing,” Megatron said.

He took Ratchet back to the medbay. Ratchet regarded him skeptically as he unlocked a computer and pulled up a training module. He saw mechs glancing at them, Ratchet waved them off.

“You know our computer systems disturbingly well,” Ratchet commented.

“I am in charge of this ship, remember?” Megatron looked at the hologram of a simulated surgery. “Teach me.” He said.

“What?” Ratchet squeaked.

“Tell me what to do to save the patient.”

“This is a level-6 training scenario for senior-year medical staff. You know nothing about medical procedures!”

“I learn quickly,” Megatron assured him. Rachet gritted his denta, but at last produced a wrench and a scalpel out of nowhere. He looked like he wanted to throw them at Megatron’s helmet. But instead, he handed them over.

“Start with removing the chest armor and find the original eruption point,” Ratchet said. His instructions were clear, and a string of them flowed effortlessly. He crossed his arms in front of him. When Megatron glanced up at him, he found Ratchet looking slightly bored, but his optics tracked Megatron’s hands intently.

“Congratulations. You did it.” Megatron said as the training module beeped softly and played a celebratory little tune.

“You did it.” Ratchet threw his hands, his calm and patient attitude vanishing in a kilk, “I’ve been through this training module ten thousand times. I can tell you what to do in a coma. And let me guess, you did this to tell me I should take up teaching as a hobby?”

“You know what they say. Those who can’t do, teach.”

Ratchet shot him an aggressively affronted look, “I’ve taught plenty. The thing you just finished? I’ve trained thousands of mechs to do that across an active battlefield, while trying to keep their fellow soldiers alive. I can teach and do pretty well.”

“Then you do know that your work involves more than hands-on surgeries?” Megatron smiled as Ratchet walked himself right into his trap.

“You want me to be a backseat medic in my medbay?” Ratchet almost heaved. “Sorry, your medbay,” Ratchet said to a First Aid nearby, who was trying to act like he wasn’t eavesdropping. First-aid turned to look at him sheepishly and left.

“How about we have this conversation in my office?” Ratchet scrubbed his face and walked away without waiting for Megatron.

Surprise, surprise, Ratchet’s office was another storage unit, but with a desk and two chairs in it.

“Is this whole cycle a ruse? Did you plan these things just to make fun of me?” Ratchet threw whatever was in his hands on his desk, making a loud clatter. The medic had a lot of old habits, Megatron noticed.

“It was genuine until I realized that your hands were not going to expire at all if you don’t tire them out so much.” Ratchet didn’t sit down, so neither did Megatron. The room was cramped. He stepped closer and almost bumped Ratchet with his chestplate. “Which is something you long knew. So what is this cycle about to you? Just to get me off your back?”

Ratchet peered up at him with difficulty, “It was about the problems you are clearly trying to work through by investing so much in my craps.”

“You thought you would feel better if you helped me.” Megatron realized. How coincidental, he had the exact same thought.

“I was clearly wrong.”

“What a rare sentence to hear coming out of your mouth.”

“Yeah, like you are the prime of admitting your mistakes.” Ratchet held his helm high, “Oh wait, you just might be after admitting that most of your life is a mistake.”

Ratchet was an expert on dodging questions and provoking him, Megatron was reminded as anger roared in him out of reflexes. He resisted the urge to pick the smaller mech up by his intake and took a step back so he could actually see Ratchet.

“Surely you don’t think your hands’ remaining service cycles are best used on picking fibers out of Swerve’s airpipes for 12 breems or sewing up Whirl’s scarplet bites. We all know he got those every few cycles because, as he claimed, he was ‘bonding with his children’, I have no idea what it means.”

“What kind of medic doesn’t get his own hands dirty?”

“You are still performing surgeries. Just in emergencies, so when they truly need you, you won’t fail them. You don’t want a repeat of what happened with me, do you?” Megatron didn’t know it could be this hard to dissuade mechs from using their abilities. He was more used to milking them dry.

He thought of those short vacations that Soundwave forced him to take. He tried to remember the tactic that his third in command used, but all he could recall was the irritation and suspicion he had felt. Megatron clenched his fists as those distant emotions made acrid charges bounce in his spark chamber.

It was hard being the one worried. Megatron thought and startled himself, he stared at Rachet’s contorted thinking face. Why would he be worried about Ratchet?

“As it pains me to admit, I know what you say is right. I just don’t like hearing it.” Ratchet said after a very long while, as if weighing his options, “You guarantee that if I don’t overtax my hands performing non-urgent surgeries, I can keep them?”

“With a clear conscious to tell your friends you did what is best for you.”

Rachet took a deep vent in. He sat down hard on the desk like all of his power lines were cut. “Then it’s a promise.”

“It’s a promise.” Megatron echoed, “I will be informing all medical staff, Rodimus, and Ultra Magnus of your decision.”

“Think they can keep me in check?” Ratchet tried to sass, but he sounded wary and exhausted, “Or just showing off that you did what they couldn’t?”

“That’s hardly surprising. I am Megatron.”

Ratchet looked at him like he had had enough of life as a whole, “Can’t believe I compromised with Megatron. I hate compromises and I hate you.”

“You will get used to it.” A proud smirk spread across Megatron’s face. He couldn’t help it.

Ratchet pulled a disgusted face. “What a nightmare. Quick, ask me something unreasonable so I can say no to you to feel normal again.”

Megatron pondered for a kilk, “You want to interface?”

Ratchet’s helm snapped up to stare at him in shock, his whole frame rattled due to the sudden jolting. “What prompted you to ask that!”

“You know, there’s one trick I never learned.” Megatron uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips. “How exactly do you rewire your energy output to substitute recharge with overloads?”

Ratchet blinked at him for a moment, and then burst into laughter, “Don’t tell me you actually tried to do it!”

“Quite a few times.” Megatron narrowed his optics, “It’s a hoax, isn’t it?”

Ratchet wheezed and crackled; he even bent down to clutch at his mid-section, nothing like his wry smiles from before. Megatron realized that this was the first time he had ever seen Ratchet laugh like this.

It was… it was interesting.

“I forwent recharge all the time in med school. It was practically my special ability.” Ratchet admitted, “Interfacing just added to the thrill. I can’t believe you bought it!”

“You were the famous doctor back then. I was just a miner.” Megatron felt his lips pulling upwards at the devious twinkle in Ratchet’s optics.

“No, you are not going to make me feel bad four million years later.” Ratchet’s laughter turned into a low chuckle, “Must have been an unhandy experience when it didn’t work.”

To be frank, Megatron was not too bothered. He always had too much energy anyway. It was, however, not very pleasant when he dragged his berthmate up and ordered them to work when they were just getting ready to cuddle and fall into recharge.

Ratchet doubled over laughing again.

“Are you still moping? You missed game night again.” Rodimus stuck his helm out right next to him, “I thought you would be happy after checking #1 on the ‘To-Do’ list.”

“I am not ’happy’. I am never happy.” Megatron resisted the urge to knock Rodimus’ helm with the pad in his hands, because he was not startled by Rodimus, not in a million years, “And get down from the chair.”

“You seemed pretty proud of yourself when you rubbed your big fat victory in our faces.” Rodimus snorted, “You also liked it when Magnus and First Aid fawned over you with their gratitude.”

“Ultra Magnus did no such thing. He was only a little excited for his friend and for clearing the list.” Megatron tried not to let his lips twitch, but his processor quite liked automatic replays recently.

“If Magnus can be happy, so can you.” Rodimus jumped down from the chair and circled him, as if carefully studying his opponent. Something in his face unnerved Megatron slightly. “I know!” His co-captain declared gleefully, “You need to go on another date with Ratchet!”

Megatron swatted the datapad at the sports car’s helm.

“Rodimus nagged you into doing this, didn’t he?” Megatron pinched his nose bridge. Their juvenile, annoying, and hyperactive co-captain had a certain way of being so annoying that mechs cave in to him every now and then just to get him out of their audials.

Primus knew why he got himself into a battle against Megatron’s… not happiness. Megatron assumed Rodimus didn’t know either. It was confusing, it was unsettling, it was… new.

“Yes, and he insisted on calling it a ‘date’.” Ratchet groaned. He shared a look with Megatron and shook his helm in a tired manner. Megatron nodded knowingly and sighed.

“Put aside Rodimus’ antics, I am not opposed to teaching you some medical basics, you did pretty well last time. Maybe you’ve got a knack for it. Interested?”

Megatron couldn’t deny that he was very interested.

Staying with Ratchet was also, one could say, peaceful, despite it not being peaceful 80% of the time. Ratchet was familiar. And though Megatron wouldn’t even admit it on his death berth, it was sometimes nice to have a doctor pressuring him into a fix-up when he was acting tough and pretending like the spacebridge in his mid-section wasn’t giving him grief. (Only sometimes, Ratchet did this way too often.)

Maybe if he could sort this out, then he would have more chances of figuring out the changing dynamic between him and quite a few other mechs on this ship, it was getting out of the simple category of “want him dead now”/” want him dead later”. And the unclear water felt like a potential threat, putting even more strain on Megatron’s processor.

Ratchet seemed happy that he agreed, and a smile spread across the cranky doctor’s face. Megatron should once again feel disoriented, but it somehow registered as familiar in his processor.

“You need to turn your wrists out. No, that’s too much. Like,” Ratchet grabbed his wrists and adjusted until he was satisfied. Megatron marked the angle in his processor.

He didn’t need Ratchet’s instruction for the next part. Cutting through the outer layer of the spark chamber was akin to the repetitive motion he performed back in the mine. His spade rose, then down, up, then down. The shattered rock hit his helmet, then bounced off it.

“No-,” The warning came in a little too late, the training module beeped sharply, and a big red cross appeared over the patient’s chestplate. Ratchet sighed.

“I couldn’t seem to get this right.” Megatron studied his hands. He didn’t feel defeated, just confused. He had been stuck on this step 38 times.

“You applied too much force.” Ratchet, who had been adamant about his hands-off teaching style, seemed to have reached the end of his patience. He waded through the projection to Megatron’s side of the table. Megatron stepped back to accommodate him. Ratchet turned to face the hologram.

“Hands,” Ratchet ordered. Megatron hesitantly put his arms around Ratchet. To reach the patient with his hands at a steady angle, Megatron’s chestplate was pressed against Ratchet’s back, nearly crowding the doctor into the medical slab, which Ratchet didn’t seem to notice.

He put his hands around Megatron’s hand, fingers interlacing with his. “Feel it?” He moved one of his fingers, creating a similar motion in Megatron’s hand. And did it a few more times until Megatron found the rhythm to fall perfectly in sync with the doctor.

Ratchet’s hand was small over his. Luckily, Megatron’s small finger wasn’t needed in this process. However, the medic had an iron grip and moved Megatron’s fingers fluently like a carefully orchestrated puppet show.

The medic’s palms were calloused, current danced through them with every movement, issuing orders to the finest sensor in those digits before his processor did. Megatron felt every small charge on the back of his hand, a million years of practice transformed into electronic signals, and he spent more attention on documenting those than the surgery before his optics.

Ratchet may have to walk him through this again. At least Megatron’s fingers stayed calm and steady on the scalpel.

If he were Ratchet. He would have a hard time letting go of these hands as well. They made even more reliable and familiar companions than his fusion canon, which was a weight Megatron missed dearly.

“There, see, your hands can go light,” Ratchet said as he guided Megatron’s hands through the most delicate part; the rest was just plain show-off. Megatron nodded and made a soft hum.

Ratchet didn’t stop his demonstration; they operated in unison silently. After a while, Ratchet said, rather casually. “I need to ask a favor.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to sign off on me taking one of the spacecrafts on board, and preferably not tell anyone. They will make this into a whole thing.” Ratchet pulled a sour face at the thought, “I might be gone for a while. Just to get Drift back. The kid had been through enough, I—”

Megatron didn’t need a second kilk to think, he interjected, “No.”