Chapter Text
“About time we head down, aye, doc?”
Atop the roof of the Autobot base, Ratchet was on his back next to Wheeljack. When Ratchet opened his optics, he noticed how much the sky had changed. The stars that had looked down upon them so stubbornly had begun to disappear as pitch black clouds began to roll across the sky, obscuring the constellations that once seemed so clear.
“Sure,” he said quietly, but he didn’t move when Wheeljack lifted his chassis off the top of the roof. He glanced over at the bot he had just reconciled with, seeing the wings of his former rival flutter as he outstretched his arms to reset his tired pistons.
Ratchet widened his optics slightly, gazing upon Wheeljack’s sleek metal. When Wheeljack relaxed and turned his helm to glance in his direction, Ratchet wasn’t afraid to look away. He was proud. He did it.
Ratchet lifted his chassis as well, keeping his gaze on Wheeljack. With a smile, he began to lean toward Wheeljack once more, hoping to receive one last drop of this moment.
Wheeljack pressed his dermas together tightly, his spark fluttering as he leaned away.
Ratchet kept a lock on Wheeljack’s optics, searching for answers—a crack in the dam, anything. He then returned his balance to his own center, allowing Wheeljack to return to his original position as well.
Ratchet huffed softly, looking the other direction.
Wheeljack immediately felt the disappointment fill the air, causing him to slouch forward and look away as well. It was such an irresistible habit to push people away. The addiction stepped on his spark, making him cringe at himself. He looked at his servos, they twitched as he remembered how warm Ratchet felt when he had hugged him, how Ratchet had kissed his neck—
Wheeljack tensed strongly as a surge of heat filled his face plate. Oh, how badly he had wanted that; why can’t he bring himself to do it again? What’s wrong with him?
Wheeljack brought air into his intake, feeling the cool air inside his systems. “I’m not exactly… used to this yet.”
Ratchet perked his audials toward him, his spark lifting. He’s trying. He looked back to find that Wheeljack had hesitantly given back his gaze.
“It—it’s alright. We can go slow.”
“Slow.” Wheeljack nodded. “Yeah…”
Ratchet gave him a subtle grin, although still laced with disappointment. Maybe if they power down for the night and have a chance to process this, things might be clearer.
As the two bots stood up, their peds banged across the metal roof. Wheeljack went down first, leaping forward and landing solidly on the arid, sandy ground. He looked up at Ratchet who had sat down with his legs over the edge, pushing himself off and landing on the ground. He had almost lost his balance, needing to walk forward quickly to steady himself.
“Easy there.” Wheeljack held out his servos.
Ratchet didn’t need Wheeljack’s help—his pistons weren't that rusty—but he accepted Wheeljack’s servo anyways, gripping it lightly.
Wheeljack didn’t have time to process before Ratchet was already pulling him by the servo, getting him to walk side by side. Once they started their stride, Wheeljack let go of the hold, optics forward, embarrassment flickering across his face plate.
Ratchet noticed Wheeljack was being jittery, making sure his vocals were soft on the way out. “You’re doing great.”
Praise… it was rare for him to experience. Wheeljack blinked quickly, a slow rising sense of pride and warmth filling him. He glanced toward Ratchet again, gazing upon his bold, reddish embellishments. The medic was still smiling, and the happiness within Wheeljack's started to peek through. “Mh.” He caught himself smiling back, it felt good to smile.
The inside of the base was as quiet as the outside; everyone was powered down except for Arcee who was standing vigil for the night. In her servos was an object that was keeping her occupied—a data cube filled with colors. She quickly swept through the objective, sorting the colors on all sides to solve the puzzle.
Arcee looked up to see Ratchet and Wheeljack, putting down her toy to analyze them. “I honestly forgot you two were up there.”
Ratchet shrugged.
Wheeljack looked up, knowing what she was about to ask.
“So, how’d it go, Wheeljack?” Arcee looked for his answer specifically.
Arcee was the first within the Autobots to see what had been forming between the wrecker and the medic. During the mission she and Wheeljack took to retrieve the Predacon bone, she finally had the chance to ask him what was going on. He gave her enough to understand—no way he was airing out everything . Arcee gave him some advice, now she searched for the results of her efforts.
Wheeljack vented shallowly. “It went well!” He tried to sound enthusiastic, reviving his little energy. He clasped his servos together. “Thank you, Arcee.”
Arcee uptilt her helm, analyzing him. She then glanced at Ratchet who quickly felt her gaze. “Did it go well?”
Ratchet nodded immediately, avoiding the conversation. He doesn’t know how much Arcee knows, and that uncertainty sat uncomfortably in his tank.
Wheeljack guided Ratchet by pushing him lightly, urging them to continue to the berths. Ratchet puffed out silently, not realizing he had stopped venting. He gazed at Wheeljack uneasily, realizing something disastrous.
What happens if the Autobots find out what we did to each other?
Ratchet spoke in a whisper. “How much did you tell her?”
Wheeljack pushed him again, but this time to cut him off. “Shut up!” he whispered back. “I didn’t say scrap!”
Ratchet vented in relief, holding a servo to his chassis. “We’re only moving forward from here, got it? No one ever has to know what happened.”
Wheeljack continued to look forward, jaded, not answering.
Gazing down the small room of tightly squeezed, powered down Autobots, Ratchet reminisced on his plans to build proper recharge chambers. Powering down is not the same as recharging, they are only saving their remaining energy to use it when it is needed most. And that is what Ratchet and Wheeljack must do.
Wheeljack took the open berth next to Ratchet, sitting toward him. Their knee pads were almost touching. Wheeljack seemed to have been holding his vents back, panting softly as he stared at the ground.
He looks scared. Ratchet thought, empathy taking hold. He reached toward Wheeljack, putting a servo lightly upon Wheeljack’s knee.
Wheeljack’s venting stopped momentarily, holding still. He was okay. He can do this. It’s going to be fine… everything is… fine.
He looked up at Ratchet, a sudden barrage of mixed emotions slamming into him.
Ratchet couldn’t tell what Wheeljack was processing. He only saw panic, then the numb dissociation that followed. Ratchet shook his helm weakly, leaning in closer. “Jackie…”
Wheeljack focused back to the present, thankfully seeing what was in front of him again. His optics twitched back and forth.
Ratchet didn’t know what to do. He wanted to lean further, hug him, kiss him; we’re together in this. But for now, he knew that would only make things worse. He removed his touch atop Wheeljack’s kneepad and kicked his legs up onto the berth. “Rest well,” he said, staring at him for a moment longer before flipping himself around and laying down. He closed his optics to begin shutting down his systems. His dull, mechanical hum clicked off, powering down.
Wheeljack was still upright, gazing at Ratchet’s metal that was lit in the soft light. He physically felt his frame loosen, feeling the gaze of expectations lift off him. He was relieved that he no longer had to do anything, prove anything. And only in that lightness did he realize how thankful he truly was to have another chance…
…What could he ever give that would be enough?
He wasn’t built to give. He’d spent too long learning that giving meant loss. So what was he doing, letting Ratchet in like this? He could only change so much. And if Ratchet saw the truth under the surface… would he still stay?
The floor started to warp as oil sprouted from Wheeljack’s optics. The weight of his processor pulled him forward, his denta clenched, and his shoulders pads slumped.
He wanted to try and do this. He felt how it was like to give into his spark; that flicker of peace in the middle of all his wreckage
He needed it again, he wanted love, he wanted Ratchet.
Wheeljack leaned a servo on Ratchet’s berth, standing up and tilting his frame over the medic. A droplet of oil fell from his optic, running slowly down his face plate as he vented near Ratchet’s helm, causing condensation to form on the beautiful white metal.
Wheeljack kissed Ratchet’s helm. He left his dermas there for longer than intended, unsure if he was ever going to let himself be this close ever again.
He parted, sitting back on his berth pathetically and laying down toward Ratchet. He forced his systems to power down, gazing at Ratchet until his optics darkened and shut off.