Chapter Text
Ratchet woke up from recharge quickly. At least, his processor did. Shuttering his optics a few times, Ratchet exvented a weary sigh as he stretched on his berth.
How he had ended up there, he had no idea. Ratchet was certain he had fallen to sleep right there at his desk again, a new synth-en formula just out of reach.
He vented another (pained) sigh of frustration as he slowly - oh so slowly - sat up. After his close run-in with Megatron, and the rest of his shenanigans he did under the influence of synthetic energon, his back struts were killing him.
As the humans would say, he had ‘pulled a muscle’.
Well obviously! He hadn’t done such strenuous fighting since… well, since the time he had to fight the dark energon undead along with Optimus. And even then, he knew his limits.
He certainly hadn’t attempted any upside down overly-complicated spinning kicks on any of the undead.
Seriously, past-high-on-synth-en-ratchet, a simple slash of your scalpels would’ve done the trick as well!
Looking back, while horrifying, and in spite of his lack of finesse, the undead fight had been far more enjoyable. Though perhaps that was because he got to fight alongside Optimus…
Back to back, leaning upon each other like they did before the war, and falling into each other’s rhythm with perfect ease.
Ratchet groaned, forcing himself up. He clutched at his chestplates for a moment. There was still some tightness there too. Not surprising, I *have* been stabbed there recently , he thought to himself rather dryly.
Still, it really ached. And with his back struts playing up again, he knew he was in for a rough few days. Though, if they had enough resources, he could fix his back easily enough…
There was no point in wasting what little they had on the Medics back. Despite the energon reserve he had managed to secure after his pitiful fight with Megatron, it wasn’t enough to be splurging all willy-nilly on himself.
It would sort itself out in a few days with a little bit of work from his inner self-repair mechanisms.
“Ratchet?” a familiar baritone rumbled from his berthroom door.
Ratchet didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. Quickly, he moved his servo from his aching chassis to his optics, and pretended to rub at them tiredly.
“Yes, Optimus?”
“How was your recharge, old friend?” Optimus said, doing a once over of Ratchet with a slight frown. Ratchet forced another exvent out, letting his shoulders relax.
“Better than the last few nights now that I’m off that medical slab, thank you.”
Ratchet moved to stand up, wincing as his inner chest workings spasmed. Optimus made a concerned little noise in the back of his throat as Ratchet spluttered and coughed.
When he opened his optics again, he was stood up with a worried Optimus by his side. Ratchet continued like nothing had happened, “though I could’ve sworn I fell asleep at my desk again last night…”
“Ratchet..?” Optimus trailed off, unsure (and wasn’t that odd).
Ratchet raised his optic ridge.
His leader straightened up, smoothening out his features with a gentle smile, “apologies. I moved you to your berth after you drifted off.” Optimus hesitated, then added, “you are working too hard. Everyone has forgiven you for the synth-en. You were not of your right mind at the time. There is no need to make it up to us.”
Ratchet barely heard the last words. Optimus had… carried him to his berthroom? An odd feeling bubbled up in his chest and it wasn’t from that stab wound. Ratchet looked at the floor to hide his heated faceplates, “thank you. I recharged well last night.”
Optimus opened up his intake, another smile twinkling at the edge of his optics —
The computers alarms whined, followed by Arcee and Bulkheads back and forth conversation. “Something has pinged on our monitor,” Arcee shouted down the halls, obviously after Optimus.
Ratchet watched the smile drain from Optimus, and the way his optics roved over his medic. “We must investigate. Ratchet, could you activate the groundbridge?”
Ratchet reeled from the lack of command in the order, but nodded quickly and followed Optimus out from his room. He ignored the way their servos stayed clutched together until his leader issued the command for the rest of them to roll out.
Ratchet felt oddly cold when they parted.
——
Rafael dizzily watched as the medic whizzed around the base, checking the monitors, the formula for synth-en and back again to the computer. What made him pause was the strangely pained expression on the mech. His dentae were clenched and his servos balled into fists.
And the coughing.
So much coughing.
If Rafael didn’t know that energon was a liquid, he’d have assumed the poor Medic had his fuel lodged in the back of his throat.
“I didn’t know Cybertronians could get colds,” Rafael finally said, curiosity getting the better of him.
Ratchet paused, servos stilling. “There are Cybertronian illnesses. However, I shouldn’t be able to contract them on Earth.”
Yes, pathogens could only survive in certain conditions, and Rafael knew that Earth and Cybertron were vastly different climates. “So, not a cold?”
“Not a cold.”
“How are you feeling today?” Rafael asked, eyeing the Medics chestplate suspiciously. He had done a rather lacking welding job on himself - not at all using the precision he had for his friends wounds. Rafael frowned further.
“Fine.”
Rafael nodded. But when the Medic erupted into further gasping and wheezing, he noted it down in his own laptop, along with all the other times.
——
Rafael was quiet on the ride home.
A faint blueish glow reflected off the kids glasses, concealing his eyes. Bumblebee beeped apprehensively.
Finally, the kid looked up. His smile was faint, “sorry, Bee. I am… just researching Cybertronian disease.”
Ratchet give you Cybertronian homework again? Bee beeped humorously.
Rafael snorted. But he quickly sobered.
“No, but he seems unwell. He didn’t even notice when I downloaded the data about the illnesses onto my computer,” Rafael said tensely.
Bee hummed. How does he seem ill?
“You haven’t noticed the coughing?” Rafael asked, looking stunned. Then, he too hummed, “though I suppose you haven’t seen him much today apart from for your medbay visit.”
The coughing? Bumblebee prompted.
“Oh, right! Well, if you look at these logs,” there was a ping as Rafael forwarded the data, “you can see for yourself. He just seemed under the weather.”
The car ride after that went quickly. Rafael lightened up and talked about a school project for the rest of the journey.
The conversation remained in Bees processor though.
Ratchet didn’t seem any different when Bumblebee returned to base. Perhaps a little more grouchy than usual, but nothing significant. There was certainly no coughing.
But again… Rafael had forwarded him hours worth of logs, all logging each and every cough he had heard. There was different severity levels, which Raf had rated himself and a brief description of the coughing.
There was a cough that took two minutes to finally pass, and it had been described as wet and dry at the same time. Bee couldn’t imagine that in his processor. But if Raf said so… it was worth the investigation.
Somebody nudged him, and he let out an embarrassing squeal. Then, he heard Arcee, “are you alright, Bee?”
Lost in thought Bee dismissed politely.
“Are you sure? You took a pretty big hit out there today,” Arcee said, head tilted and eyes squinted. The slow clunk clunk of footsteps echoed through the main room as Ratchet picked up on the conversation.
“I can run another scan if you’d like,” Ratchet said, optic ridge pinched in concern. Bumblebee shook his head.
“It’ll be quick,” Ratchet added.
Bumblebee went to shake his head again, before pausing. It would be a good chance to investigate Rafaels worries and put it to rest for him. He nodded.
Bumblebee frowned as Ratchet huffed out a dry laugh. “You never had any patience, even when you were a sparkling.” Ratchet let out another odd wheeze-laugh.
Bee beeped indignantly.
“Yes, yes. You are much more patient now,” Ratchet said, as he guided him to the medbay. Arcee snorted, though it sounded rather forced. When Bee turned to look at her, it seemed she was also concerned.
And not with Bee.
That laugh had sounded really… painful.
Bee fidgeted with his fingers while Ratchet typed away at his monitor, the green computer screen casting a sickly glow over his figure.
Bee allowed the entire scan, watching as Ratchet shuffled around the room. He definitely seemed a little slower, his vents more laborious.
Ratchet, you should have an early night tonight, Bumblebee beeped, grabbing at the Medics stiff armplates. It’s been quiet lately.
Ratchet nodded, “I will. And you should too.”
He shooed him off. Bumblebee couldn’t help but feel like he was being ignored. In fact, he knew he was being ignored.
Ratchet was stubborn.
Bee left without another word, back to his berth. In the dark, feeling as defiant and rebellious as he dared, he forwarded a message to Optimus.
That’d serve ratchet right for being so dismissive of his own needs.
——
Optics dimming, the Medic tried to blink back the tiredness. Ratchet twiddled the fine adjustment screw again, squinting down at the left over synth-en.
He wasn’t getting anywhere.
The sandy texture in his mouth wasn’t helping with his concentration. It was almost acidic. Ratchet exvented again.
And tried again.
Again.
Ratchet spluttered, that sharpness in his chest also returning. His vents felt blocked. His throat felt coated in something sticky. And his spark pounded painfully in his chassis.
Bracing one servo against the medical slab, Ratchet clutched at his throat and heaved. A weird noise crrrcked from his voice box, staticky and wet-sounding.
Coughing into his elbow joint, Ratchet let out a tiny groan as sticky energon and something solid dribbled onto his wrist armour.
After resetting his optics several times, he looked at the energon-soaked petal that clung to his plating. With renewed interest (and not nearly enough worry), Ratchet pinched the crinkled greenery between his digits and lumbered over to the sink.
He watched with morbid fascination as the energon washed away in sticky strings down the drain, leaving a crystalline blue petal behind. It was Cybertronian in origin.
What the frag.
That couldn’t…
How could that…
Scrap. That just came from inside himself.
The room was nearly entirely dark now. It had still been light out when Bumblebee had gone to bed. Ratchet padded back to the medbay, where the computer still shone that awful green colour he had come to hate.
Stashing the petal in a cabinet, Ratchet plopped himself down on the medical slab again, closing his optics immediately. Tomorrow, he’d worry. Tonight, he couldn’t help the more scientific side of himself from being wholly intrigued by the phenomenon.
He drifted off soundlessly.
——
Optimus enjoyed long drives. In Cybertron, the roads were easier on the tyres, he could admit to himself. And there certainly wasn’t any sand that could creep into all the little crevices of your frame.
But Earth was nice.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
He had wanted to ask Ratchet to accompany him today. He nearly had.
One look at his Medics faceplates though, and he knew it would be a bad idea. His friend looked particularly pained today, moreso than he had in years.
Optimus was half-tempted to offer the mech a servo to loosen some of the tension in his backplates and protoform. A massage and heavy-duty oil would certainly help.
But Ratchet probably wouldn’t like that. He’d misread it, interpret it like Optimus believed him to be weaker, or more of a burden. When he wasn’t.
Optimus needed to keep reminding Ratchet that he was the most essential part of their team. And he would.
The Prime was so deep in thought, that the little ping at his HUD had him nearly swerving off the side of the road.
Steadying his steering, Optimus read the little message Bumblebee had forwarded:
Ratchet is being a stubborn aft again. Please make sure he gets to berth tonight. I think he’s unwell.
And then, another message:
Thank you :)
Optimus was stuck between a frown and a smile. It would seem Mikos attempts at getting Bee to text in unnecessary abbreviations were still unsuccessful. The little ‘emoticon’ at the end was progress though. Not that he wanted Bee to message with that confusing slang.
But the message itself worried him. It would appear that he hadn’t read into Ratchets behaviour earlier.
Shifting up a gear, Optimus sped back to base. Thankfully, the roads were deserted (hah) enough that he wouldn’t get done for speeding.
The drive back felt longer despite the faster speed. Once he returned, Optimus transformed slowly back to his normal form to keep the shifting quiet - Ratchet may already be deep in recharge.
Optimus didn’t want to wake him
because then he wouldn’t get to see his friends relaxed faceplates or carry him to his berth
because Ratchet needed all the recharge he could get.
As he suspected, his friend had crashed out right there in the medbay again. Perhaps a sterner talking to was in order. His friend needed rest. Real rest.
Optimus tiptoed over to the medbay, wincing at every heavy footfall, and pausing at every uneven vent Ratchet released. When he got close enough, he froze.
Little blue flecks dotted Ratchets lips and dentae, glowing faintly in the otherwise dark room. There was an ominous beeping coming from somewhere too.
Still, Optimus stared at his lips.
Ratchet used to struggle with a faulty memory bank at night, where it would play particularly awful memories to him. Most bots struggled with this. It was a war.
Optimus hadn’t even been immune to it.
It was common on Earth too, though the phrase for it was ‘nightmares’.
But Ratchet… he had so many bad memories. Having to go into enemy lines to retrieve injured soldiers, or working in an active war zone to resuscitate someone - not always being able to save that someone.
His cries for Ironhide to come back were particularly haunting.
Optimus had tried all sorts to help his friend. The problem wasn’t just the distressing nightmares, but also the aftermath of them. Ratchet had a horrible habit of chewing on his lip plates, and he often made himself bleed in his sleep.
Optimus could barely recall the memory now - it was buried deep in his memory banks - but there was a time, however long ago, when he would share a berth with his friend to remind him that they were both okay.
Optimus shook himself out of his daze, then quickly retrieved his straying servo which had drifted to wipe Ratchets lips clean.
Optimus swiftly shifted until he was better adjacent to his friend. Ratchets bulky armour made it difficult to get a good hold on him. Hooking one arm under his knee joints and another across the Medics backplates, Optimus gently scooped Ratchet up and closer to himself.
The Medics head rolled immediately into Optimus’ chestplates, and subconsciously he chased the warmth radiating there. Alone, Optimus shamelessly blushed a deep blue hue.
Once settled, Optimus started the short journey to Ratchets personal room, which was closest to the medbay. The lights flickered ominously ahead, motion activated.
Optimus hated walking into Ratchets room. It was bare, empty, and devoid of any personal touches. Of course, he understood why. Ratchet desperately wished to return to Cybertron. Why settle down if you plan (or hope) to leave.
Regardless, Optimus glided through his room and to his berth, lowering Ratchet achingly slow.
With one last look at his friend, Optimus left the room.