robothell | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."