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Who: Prowl & YOU?
Where: Somewhere in the city
When: A day or so after giving Verity a concussion
What: Prowl has a few robot papercuts and bruises to patch up; he also searches the fuck out of Verity's apartment
Warnings: Asshole ahoy, and some self repair

A.
With relatively minor injuries, there was nothing stopping Prowl from continuing his pursuit of the Aequitas data once Verity had escaped and he was left alone. No repurposed debris or improvised lock was left unturned as he searched her apartment via holoform. Being able to Sherlock-sense his way through a room certainly helped narrow it down, but in the end his search was unfruitful.

All he'd pulled from the impromptu home were data slugs - ones that were quickly discovered to be dummies once he ran a scan of them through his systems. Leaving nearly everything as it was, nearly everything, he shifts back into vehicle mode and abandons the building.

A dead end.

B.

Eventually, Prowl allows himself a moment of reprise in a blasted out building he'd found for himself. Not the most glamorous of locations, but functional for what he needed. Somewhere to sit, be alone and tend to himself.

Prowl's wounds were minor enough that any Autobot with basic knowledge of first aid could repair them. His tools were rudimentary, but functional enough to realign some of the actuators that had been popped out of place. The pain was dull as he picked into the transformation joints of his ankle with a pair of large pliers, feeling them snap back into their anchors with a little persuasion.

Satisfied, he slides away his shoulder armor to begin to dig into his shoulder joint, unbothered by the small amount of energon still seeping out of broken lines. That should heal well enough on its own.

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"I have at least one critical patient back in the medibay, but she's being cared for," Ratchet says, the anger in his voice barely even thinly veiled now. His optics narrow when he watches Prowl's non-reaction to the shift in his shoulder, though, the corners of his mouth tightening.

"What is wrong with you?" he demands, barely even knowing where to begin in more specific terms than that.

Looks like his assumption was correct. He meets Ratchet's anger with a cold and distant stare, unbothered by the fact he knew what happened to Verity. It's not like he didn't predict this meeting to eventually happen.

"Critical? You give humans for too little credit. They're hardier than they look."

And he was careful not to apply any lethal force.

Edited 2015-06-06 16:17 (UTC)

Ratchet's vision goes a little fuzzy as rage slams into him like a blow, leaving him lightheaded and his vents stuttering.

"She's been vomiting and seizing since she dragged herself in," Ratchet says, his vocalizer flanging slightly. "Just because you didn't literally bash her head in doesn't mean she can't die from complications after, even if that means you could conveniently pass the blame onto me." You cruel, stupid, selfish bastard, his tone clearly implies, and he doesn't bother saying it. His lip curls, an odd light flaring in his optics.

"She certainly thought she was dying, certainly enough to give me the codes for her encrypted data. Though head injuries are a particular fear of hers, for reasons that should be obvious."

Prowl is a picture of steely detachment as Ratchet begins to shudder with rage. Severe as the injuries seemed, he was familiar enough with human anatomy to know when Ratchet was reacting out of protective anger more than the actual extent of the damage. Sufficient care minimized the risk of death to be an inconsequential percentage.

But of course, he didn't tell any of this to Ratchet, who would surely have suffered an brain aneurysm himself if presented with that particular fact.

There's a slight break in the wall as he mentioned the codes, however,"Ironfist burdened her with something she should have never had a hand in to begin with. The responsible thing to do would be to have taken the data altogether."

Ratchet held a lot of bluster, but he was easy enough to pry a data slug from.

Edited 2015-06-09 01:17 (UTC)

Ratchet stares at him before he chuffs a short laugh, almost disbelieving.

"'Burdened' her? Prowl, you remember you've met Verity, right? She was actually one of the few who survived that horrorshow you orchestrated on Garrus-9, remember? And now you're sitting there picking gravel out of your joints and leaking everywhere after a fight with somebody a fifth your size and trying to tell me that she can't handle herself or a responsibility entrusted to her by a fellow Autobot? Nobody gave it to me, they gave it to her, and I'm of the opinion there's a reason for that." He snorts, settling more comfortably on his crutches.

"If you think the 'responsible' thing to do," and he actually bothers to take his hands off the handles to make little air quotes, "is to steal from her, or fight her for something that was freely given to her, or try this pointless infantilizing backspeak where you imply that she's incapable or untrustworthy, I'm not going to be responsible for cleaning up the mess when she finally takes you apart."

"You were always stubborn, Ratchet, but I never took you for a short-sighted idiot."

The cool facade breaks, just a little, as vitriol begins to drip from his voice.

"I don't care whether or not you think this is some - some test for her to be proven 'worthy', whatever the hell that means. What do you think will happen when she picks a fight with someone actually interested in killing her? Feel polite and consider restraint?"

"She's resourceful, she's not invincible, and it was never Ironfist's place to continue to inject our mistakes into her life."

Ratchet's lip curls at the insult, but he doesn't look too broken up about it otherwise. Rage still chokes him, but it's cold and still--permafrost, giving him firmer footing.

"And who the hell here--besides you, apparently--is going to try to beat her up for Aequitas data? Nobody else cares anymore, Prowl. The war's still over, and I'm sorry if that's really hard for you, but taking it out on Verity isn't going to help. If it was a test, she's already passed it, and she's proved herself over and over again, whether we were around to watch her do it or not.

"If she'd wanted to extricate herself from this mess, she wouldn't have been doing wetwork back on Earth. If she wanted to be done with it now, she'd just give you the data. But for some reason, she doesn't seem to trust you with it. Or trust you at all." Ratchet's voice goes extremely frigid. "A mystery, I'm sure."

It was Prowl's turn to laugh at that, though it was devoid of any real mirth. It was the acrid laugh of someone who found a sickening amusing contradiction about the situation.

"I'm sure it was easy to waft in your post-war malaise on the Lost Light, millions of miles away from any petty problem Galvatron and Starscream decide to inflict on our planet. Some of us have to stay and keep fighting them."

"But no, let's pretend no Decepticon has any interest at all in damning evidence that could shake their erstwhile enemies. I'm certain Drift agrees with you, after Tarn grinded him to a pulp."

Edited 2015-06-09 13:54 (UTC)

"Don't," Ratchet says suddenly, his voice flexing across Prowl's like a knife, flensing, "talk about Drift. Don't you dare talk about Drift to me. I don't have the time or the energy to drag you up to the top of a cliff and throw you off. And don't talk about wafting--we wafted around the galaxy cleaning up your damn messes, and the messes of people like you. Do you know who it was that figured out that you personally sent Skids and Getaway out to take Tyrest down? Rodimus! In about ten minutes! While he was hungry, and distracted by being trapped in a cell and in imminent danger of being murdered. So if you think you're being subtle anymore, I'm sorry, but you are extremely sadly mistaken.

"If you think Verity is in danger, then why don't you, I don't know, warn her? Or work on keeping the information that she has that data as classified as possible? Or do literally anything besides an attempted mugging? Nobody's stupid enough to believe that you give a single damn about her safety, not now--you just want control, and you can't have it. Not of everything. It's not possible, let alone something anyone would want to give to you, even if they could."

It's grating Prowls nerves that Ratchet referring to Aequitas as her data. It was never hers to take.

"I suppose it would be easier to come yell at me than question why the hell I would attack her out of the blue."

"No Ratchet, it wasn't an "attempted mugging". I was driving her back to her apartment when she started to unload a clip of ion fire into my cabin after telling me she had the data. I knocked her around a bit too vigorously, yes, but it wasn't some heroic fantasy like you seem to think it is."

"If she shot at you first--which, by the way, I completely believe she would do--it's because she doesn't trust you, Prowl. I can't fathom why that would be!" Ratchet says, his chin jerking up. "I don't assume there's anything heroic about the stupid brawl you two had, but you still attacked somebody you could step on if you weren't paying attention, and then went and turned her apartment upside-down, so if you want to cross off 'attempted mugging' and switch it to 'breaking and entering and attempted theft,' sure, why the hell not."

Ratchet bares his teeth, looking angry so he'll keep from looking pained.

"I don't trust you either, Prowl. Not anymore. I know Magnus doesn't. Neither does Optimus, not after this. I don't even think Arcee is on board with whatever you're doing, at this point--and when every single Autobot who's ever even implied that they might give a damn about you is telling you you're completely off the rails, maybe it's time to reassess whatever the hell you're doing, especially when that includes beating up people you used to care about."

"I'm patently aware very few Autobots will give me the time of day, Ratchet, incredibly aware, in fact! The group grows smaller by the day - if present here at all!"

The commentary seemed to have struck a nerve with him, and an actual, raw anger begins to line his own features.

"No one will understand, and at this point, I don't care or expect them to. The things I've done -- you don't even have an iota of an idea-"

He stops, tasting the familiar sweetness of energon in this mouth, when a growing realization sends a pang of horror through him. It's been months since his las combination!

Prowl raises a hand up to the energon streaming down his nose, and with absolute venom in his eyes, turns away. He was done here.

Ratchet stares, frozen, at the energon leaking down Prowl's face, fuel turning to cold sludge in his tanks when Prowl turns away. He switches one crutch under his other arm and takes two quick, limping steps after Prowl to catch at his shoulder, stopping him and turning him back around, but there's no anger in his face now. He digs a small square of mesh out and presses it to Prowl's fingers to mop up the energon on his face and his voice is crisp when he speaks again, flat and professional.

"How long has this been going on?"

There's a deep pang of embarrassment that keeps Prowl silent as he accepts the square and cleans his face. He never liked the feeling of vulnerability, the sensation of not being in control. It was unbearable. It was shameful. Revealing it in front of someone like Ratchet mid argument it was even worse.

"I forget you weren't there," he remarks bitterly,"during the first forced combination."

"It's nothing. Just a sporadic, occasional side effect."

Ratchet's face doesn't change when Prowl takes the mesh, and he doesn't wait for a thank you. He shifts, instead, cycling his vents and moving his crutches to put one under each arm again and limping a little closer to Prowl, around to his injured shoulder. He flicks a solderer out of his wrist and touches his fingertips lightly to Prowl's plating, waiting to see if he'll get knocked away before he reaches in to start patching the few torn lines there.

"But it's been getting worse," he says, not really a question. "Steadily, since then, I'll bet. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me if there are any other symptoms, but I won't bank on it. I'd also appreciate it if you'd let me do a scan, so I can check this whatever-it-is against the baseline I already have, maybe see what's changed." He sounds thoughtful now, as though all that taut, seething anger just evaporated straight into the air like water off of too-hot metal, but his optics are wary on Prowl's face. "I'll ask Ambulon, too--this isn't exactly my area of expertise, but I don't have to be an expert on combiners to know that a brain hemorrhage isn't a good sign."

"It's been necessary to recombine since then," he states flatly, not contesting any of Ratchet's assumptions and letting him begin work on his shoulder,"With more frequency."

He hands back the mesh.

"Sometimes it feels like the combination is the default form," he remarks quietly, although he's curious why Ratchet is suddenly showing more care for him now than he had in ages.

"This doesn't change anything I've said, I hope you know that. My mind is more than clear."

"You think that means I won't treat you?" Ratchet asks, his optics intent on his work finishing Prowl's patch job, his hands steady and careful. "I'm not really offended you don't trust me, since you don't really seem to trust anybody these days, and don't get me wrong--I'm mad as hell at you and I still don't know what you think you're doing in the grand scheme of things. But you should at least know me better than that, to think I'd just... let something like this keep happening to you, without trying to help."

He finishes patching lines and tightening up repairs, his hands drawing back.

"I'll talk to Ambulon and keep your name out of it if you want--though he might figure out who I'm asking for, he's not an idiot--but personally I think you should talk to him, too. He'll be able to tell you if all of those symptoms are normal for being pushed into something like this better than anybody else I know."

"No, it's not that."

It's difficult to not feel the need for some sort of defense despite Ratchet showing him a hint of compassion - job requirement or not. The whole ordeal with Bombshell had always been his problem. His difficulty he simply needed to power through on his own.

He never expected Ratchet to want to get so involved when it didn't hinder him at all.

Prowl is just quiet as Ratchet finishes sealing the lines.

"What is it, then?" Ratchet asks as he finished Prowl's immediate injuries and reaches in to cup his chin, steadying his head. His free hand settles on the top of Prowl's helm, weirdly gentle, but his optics are cool, dispassionate and calm as he looks down into Prowl's face and starts a brain scan, gaze narrowing thoughtfully.

He stiffens a little at the physical contact, still not quite a fan of people touching him (much less his face) - medical reasons or not. But he lets Ratchet begin his scan while sitting on the question, unsure of how to word it.

"..."

Ratchet finishes and carefully lifts his hands away from Prowl's plating to start examining the data, mouth pulling into a slight frown.

"Well?" he asks, his optics flicking back up at Prowl before he tilts his chin a little, considering. "Is it that strange to think somebody else would give a damn about your problems and try to help if they could?"

Prowl's face twists into an incredulous glare at the question. Were the doctor's hands still on his head he might have gone so far as to slap them off.

"What the hell do you think, Ratchet?" he seethes, his voice dripping with venom,"How many other people on this damn rock are willing to sit down and discuss something that taints their hands when they can just pretend it doesn't exist and let me deal with it."

He crosses his arms,"The self-righteous pontificating after the fact certainly comes in droves."

Ratchet settles his hands back onto his crutches and takes a half-step back, his expression extremely bland as he watches Prowl fume.

"Don't sit there and tell me I don't know about hard choices," he says mildly, Prowl's anger washing over him like a hot wind and leaving him unruffled. "Or dirty ones, ones that mean that good mechs die. Or about working until it breaks you. I just broke where everybody could see." He shrugs into his crutches, his optics flickering slightly.

"I don't agree with a lot of things you did, and in my opinion you have a lot to answer for in unintended consequences, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you were trying to do." His mouth twists slightly. "Or that I'm under the assumption that you give half a damn about my opinion. But it also doesn't mean that I won't treat you, no matter how mad at you I might be. ...or that I hate you. Or that I think you should be left to handle everything by yourself."

Ratchet's response seems to calm him down. After millenia of emotional backlash for doing his job, it was actually rather startlingly reasonable counterpoint.

"Is that why you're suddenly taking pity on me? After what I did? You think I'm some broken thing for you to fix?" The question is posed with earnest curiosity. It isn't an irrational sentiment for Ratchet to have, particularly as a doctor, but he doesn't like the suggestion that he can't handle it himself.

"I'm not taking pity on you," Ratchet says, a little irritably. "And I think what you are is a mech with a serious brain injury, so in that capacity, yeah, you are. You can continue to argue while you're bleeding from the nose, if you like."

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