Chapter Text
At this rate, Ratchet just thinks the universe is plotting against him, constantly.
An outbreak on board. It happens, it has happened, and with diseases frankly more severe than this one. Not even a virus, or rust, just a little non-organic parasite that messes with venting and slows processing power by a few percents. Nothing Ratchet would usually concern himself with, given the number of things he's seen. The thing took a few days to disappear at most, and left absolutely no complications, especially if you decided to medicate it (though, again, not necessary, this was as nondescript as the common cold humans dealt with). The only annoying thing about it was that it was highly contagious and hindered work, but the same could be said for many worse ilnesses.
Really, it was so benign than when the first case came through in his medbay, he and the other medics agreed that it didn't warrant a lockdown of any kind. The mech in question had just been quarantined to his quarters, and Ratchet hoped it would be the end of it.
It was not the end of it. The ship was, after all, packed full of slobbering, libidinous idiots who could not keep their intakes off of each other in any circumstances.
Nautica, who'd apparently conversed with patient 0 the day prior, came into medbay with damning symptoms a few joors later. From that they had to send Velocity home, for obvious reasons. Then came in Misfire, then Anode and Lug (together because sure, cuddle up when there's an outbreak anounced, go ahead), and then they had reason to anounce a lockdown for all crewmates that were not stationed in crucial maintenance positions.
He'd also commed Drift, and sternly told him to refrain from socializing, by which he meant refrain from rubbing finials with Rodimus. He didn't want to get back to his hab and be met with a biohazard, if he'd even have the chance to get to his hab at all today. Drift told him that he'd planned on meditating until well into the night anyway, so he didn't have to worry. That slightly eased Ratchet's concerns, but he still extended the same curtesy to Rodimus (with an even more stern choice of words), just to be safe. He wasn't sure he was heard at all, because the fool just answered with a cheery 'okie dokie doc!' and cut the call.
The thing was, he was right about not going to be able to rest at all today. The cases just kept coming, and since they were one medic short, the workload was a lot greater than what he expected this morning.
It seemed everyone on ship went through the medbay, the number of cases to report to command was just phenomenal. Whirl, of course, got infected hastily (Ratchet was pretty sure the mech took it as a challenge). Cyclonus and Tailgate followed quickly after. Chromedome and Rewind had the curtesy to signal their probable infection from their hab, which Ratchet appreciated given the state of the medbay. Of the simpatico duo, only one was down as Perceptor had been wise and quarantined himself when the first case had been anounced. Swerve came in suprisingly late, but with a particularly nasty stuttering of vents that First Aid gave him drugs for.
And then, around midshift, comes the final nail in the coffin. They're one co-captain down, and it's not even Rodimus.
Megatron, to his credit, looks a bit sheepish, even if it doesn't really fit his faceplates. His vents have the telltale rattling, and he isn't an absolute icicle to the touch like he usually is. He's definitely not going to be able to work, though.
"Rodimus seems fine." The former warlord answers when Ratchet asks him, "He'll probably make it to the end of his shift. Even then, I'll try to work from my hab if he gets down with it too."
So apparently command was still roughly holding up, with one captain still active and the second operating from his office to avoid contagion. That's one good news at least. The former CMO thinks about comming Drift to ask him how he's doing, but it's pointless if he just stayed home all day long. He has more urgent things to take care of.
That is until Drift turns out to be one of the urgent things to, supporting Rodimus, and being supported in turn through the wide open doors of the medbay. Ratchet can see they're sick before even approaching them. It's a testament to his self control that he doesn't slag them here and there.
"I warned you!" he barks at them, grabbing them both by their collar plating and sitting them on the same medical slab, one that just freed itself. "I'm guessing you just had to give your amica a visit, even though you're the only captain on board, hm, Rodimus ?"
"Frag y-ugh, krrrr- you, I didn't-" he dissolves into a series of staticky coughing. He looks like he's going to fall forward, so Ratchet stabilizes him with a hand on his chassis, before widening his eyes at the temperature.
"I commed him." Drift admits, breathing with difficulty and helm leaned back, optics in a daze. "I think- might have caught it yesterday- maybe."
Ratchet sighs. "Yeah, that was the case for a lot of people. Stand still, and I'll bring you coolant."
When he returns, both speedsters have reclined against the wall and look like they're about to dose off. Their optics brighten a bit at the sight of coolant though, and they hungrily chug the cubes down. He insists they both drink at least two, because given the heat wafting from their plating, their thermoregulation is going absolutely wack. Their symptoms seem way too advanced for a disease of this caliber, he'd understand Drift being like that after one or two days since infection, but Rodimus...
They drink slowly this time, and Ratchet takes the opportunity to ask some questions.
"Megatron said you were fine barely a joor ago" Ratchet says in a low voice, calmer now than before "how come you're like this ?"
Rodimus hums, optics half lidded and coolant begining to bead on his helm crest as he thinks. It's bad, but despite the circumstances he can't help but find him attractive like that. Makes him think of other situations. That wouldn't happen anytime soon. Or at all, probably. One of Drift's servos slides pearly white over the lean expense of the captain's waist. That does nothing to quell Ratchet's thoughts but it startles Rodimus, who seems to be reminded of the question.
"M'used to the heat I guess. Weakness hit me wh'n I got Drifter" he mumbles.
"So you spent your whole shift infected and spreading the damn thing ?"
"Nah. Stayed 'way from folks, like you told me." He yawns. "I listen sometimes."
"Good." Ratchet nods.
Drift puts his head besides the red speedster's shoulder plating, looking at his conjunx like he's considering something. He eventually seems to give up in favor of whining a bit, which makes Ratchet chuckle. He just knows the swordsmech is going to be embarrassed out of his mind about this later.
"Drift, I need you to take some medicine to make the process easier, you and I both know your immune system's not very impressive." he announces while positionning the both of them so they're lying on the berth.
They immediately cuddle up to each other, burrying their faces into plating like baby turbofoxes. It's awfully cute.
"No injections please ?" Drift shudders as he gets more comfortable.
"Of course not." Ratchet soothes, stroking one of his conjunx's finials and feeling it flutter a bit under his digits. "It's oral. Nothing going through your lines."
Drift gives him a very Rodimus adjacent thumbs up while said mech whines about not getting any medication. He slaps a servo onto this one's spoiler to tell him to zip up (not too hard, Ratchet's aware now of how sensitive that thing is), which gets him a tired yelp. He goes to get the pills for Drift and comes back to Rodimus furiously purring against his amica's chassis, probably trying to comfort him. Drift is purring back, which makes his old mech spark melt a little.
He unfortunately has to put an end to this little show to give Drift his medicine. He takes it as well as he always does, despite his aversion to taking any kind of substances, and Ratchet supplies him with half a cube of coolant for his efforts. He coaxes Rodimus into drinking the other half, and some energon as well. Primus knows this mechs burns through his tanks faster than Ratchet can throw a wrench.
He spends the rest of his shift doing approximately the same thing for the mechs who enter the medbay next (except the fantasizing about pretty waists on pretty speedsters part), and takes a moment from time to time to go check on his two idiots. Well his idiot and the one that's his through marital property, he imagines. They're both soundly asleep now, curled up into each other and the wall, and seemingly very comfortable on this berth sized for one mech.
And well. Ratchet would have rather this day never happened. But he's not that mad about that image capture.