robothell | (no subject)

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(no subject)

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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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."

He stiffens a little, instinctively checking his nose with a pair of fingers. Nothing there. For now.

"And what does your scanner say?"

Ratchet watches that telling knee-jerk motion impassively.

"It says... that your brain scan is radically different than the last one I took, mostly." He cycles his vents in a frustrated sigh. "Which I could have told you by looking at you, pretty much. Other than that, I meant it when I said this wasn't my specialty. I'll have to do whatever research I can on this rock, and consult. But I'll figure something out." His mouth twists up at a corner, wry and ironic and not altogether pleasant.

"I always do."

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