robothell | Medic graduation and post-grad gross cuddling

Ratchet shifts on his crutches, lip curling only very slightly. "With Tarn there, I sort of doubt that," he says, but any edge there is in his voice isn't directed at Megatron.

He comes back and sits down gingerly on the stool opposite and starts on one of Megatron's shoulders, carefully cleaning the black and yellow paint from his plating, optics clear and focused.

"Anyway, I'm not surprised. You did always know how to get a crowd together and pulling in roughly the same direction."

"Keeping Tarn occupied keeps his attention off you," Megatron distantly feels the cool cleaner on his armor as Ratchet begins to tenderly wash it clean.

Far more than paint is wiped off after some stubborn scrubbing. Even a consistent wash routine couldn't quite get the eons of dirt and industrial grime permanently embedded in his paint. It wasn't until it was all scrubbed out that it really began to come off.

"In any case, I think we'll be going in a better direction here."

"Huh. I suppose," Ratchet says, sounding unconvinced as he wipes away the last of the solvent and sands gently over the bare patch of plating before laying a base coat then the first block of white. His hands are steady and sure, moving with surgical precision, and he looks as focused as he would be doing a fuel-pump transplant as he fills in from the edges.

"You've got some good mechs over there, anyway. Sixshot's all right now that he seems less interested in chasing me down and killing me--that was awkward. And you could even give Spinister a bit more training. I offered to let him work here, but he said no--can't really blame him, I guess."

Megatron leans his head in his other hand as Ratchet works, detecting that hint of uncertainty in his voice.

The intense focus in Ratchet's expression is always impressive, and he couldn't help but quiet down as he watched. Still so much to left to learn, even if he was miles away from where he started.

"Most of them are just tired, Ratchet. Tired of fighting and unsure of where to go next. It's not that different from the Autobots here."

"Hmmmm," Ratchet says, moving slowly over Megatron's shoulders and sides and chestplate and helm, neatening the edges of his old, scratched paint and giving the blocks of color time to dry in between coats. "I just worry about things getting out of hand. It's happened before." He snorts, the paintbrush steady in his hand. "And I'm not exactly thrilled about being understaffed, either, but that's neither here nor there."

Heaven forfend he actually admit to missing having Megatron around.

"It won't get out of hand," he said firmly, knowing he'd have many more people aside from Ratchet to reassure.

There is a slight pang of guilt that dances across his optics at the light jest. Leaving Ratchet was part of what made it so difficult to want to start doing this project to begin with.

"You'll have First Aid, and Ambulon here, and if you need me you need only call," he says, perhaps partly trying to reassure himself of his choice.

Edited 2015-08-09 05:50 (UTC)

Ratchet's free hand comes up to cup Megaron's chin, holding his head still as he leans in to slide the paintbrush along the front of his helm.

"...I know, kid. Don't you think I won't call, either. And my comm's open if you need a hand, even if you do have Spinister helping out."

The young medic complies, staying as still as he can while Ratchet begins to pass the brush over his helm.

He pauses for a moment, before gesturing to the helmet.

"I can take this off its easier for you to go over."

"You're fine where you are."

Ratchet doesn't move from his spot either, his hand firm but gentle against Megatron's face until he lifts the brush away and grips Megatron's chin, tilting his head up to examine the paint job.

"Looks good." He grins briefly. "You've come a long way from nearly taking my head off the first time you were in here."

The angle his head is at makes it s bit awkward to try and glance back, so he just focuses at the lines installed into the ceiling courtesy of Nautica and a little hard work.

It has been a while, hasn't it?

Not even that long, by Cybertronian standards. But so much has changed that it felt like millenia ago.

"I didn't actually try to tear your head off."

"You sure as hell thought about it," Ratchet says, laughing, letting go of Megatron's face to move to his opposite shoulder.

"I kept my distance after I slapped that t-cog out of your hand, that's for sure. You didn't want those immunizations, either." Ratchet closes his mouth with a snap after that slip and works on Megatron's shoulder in silence, his lips pressed together.

The silence stretches out for a minute, where Megatron quickly realizes what Ratchet had assumed when he rejected the needles.

"It's fine," he says finally,"I don't mind telling you why, but not now. But we're supposed to be enjoying this, now."

He lets out a half smile, not wanting to marr this moment with what Trepan did. The pit spawn didn't deserve to ruin his life that way,"You remind me of Terminus, sometimes."

"I wouldn't ask that of you," Ratchet says seriously, pausing for a moment to look up at Megatron's face. "I'll listen if you choose to tell me, but it's not something I'd want you to relive just to satisfy some stupid curiosity of mine. I wouldn't do that to you."

He watches the oddly softening expression on Megatron's face, his chin tilting curiously.

"...who's Terminus?"

"I know," he says softly, staring blankly at nothing for a moment.

Happy to bring the topic away from that, he goes back to watch Ratchet's impeccable handiwork.

"Terminus was a good friend of mine on Messatine. He.. kept pushing me to write when I was having doubts. He was about as belligerent as you were."

"Hah." That actually makes Ratchet grin. "He must have been a piece of work." He works in silence for another few moments, laying a thick coat of white over bare, clean plating, considering seriously before he speaks again, his voice much gentler.

"You want to tell me what happened to him?"

"He was the toughest spark I knew."

"Terminus was in far worse condition than I was when I arrived here. After a point he couldn't walk, and the supervisor cut off his rations rather than give him a repair job. Didn't stop him, though. Didn't even phase him. He kept going, managed to keep helping me in secret."

The fondness at remembering his old mentor seems to fade: "At one point, there was an energy spike in the mine, everyone had to evacuate. I couldn't find him after we were shuttled off world."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's still kicking out there. Somewhere."

Edited 2015-08-17 05:45 (UTC)

Ratchet listens quietly for a long moment, an odd lump pressing down against the tops of his tanks, tightening his throat.

"You were siphoning your own to keep him alive." It isn't a question--Ratchet knew the symptoms of long-term lack of fueling and Megatron's had been bad even for a laborer of his caliber. He puts the brush down and cycles his vents shakily for a moment, a disorientingly strong wave of pain and grief and anger washing through him at the loss of a mech he'd never have met even if he'd known of his existence before today. It takes him a moment to steady himself, his mouth crimped taut around the corners.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "I'm sorry you never knew exactly what happened."

"You would have done the same in my position."

He stares at Ratchet dead in the eyes. That wasn't something he'd say lightly. In the doctor he saw someone he truly admired. Someone who cared so much that he'd bare away his mechanisms to the bone if he had to. Someone truly willing to give up what he had for a greater good.

Megatron settles back into his seat,"Terminus would have wanted me to keep pushing forward and forget about him. Not to get attached," he stares at a wall,"I guess it'd be easier that way. But it feels wrong."

Ratchet doesn't argue the point, but he can't keep meeting Megatron's optics like that--he looks away, his jaw tight, the clear, simple trust, the complete conviction in that gaze slamming into him like a weight swung against his belly. He almost opens his mouth to protest that he does his job and no more, but that look, the real belief in his own fundamental decency reflected there, is surprisingly difficult to argue with. He stops trying and just cycles his vents shakily, trying not to look as unnerved as he feels--it would be alarming to have anyone look at him that way, but for it to be Megatron meeting his optics like that is something else entirely.

"He'd be right, to a point," Ratchet manages after a moment, staring at the paint can next to Megatron's elbow. "If it was important enough to him to help you like that, then stopping because you lost him doesn't do him a service. But I don't think you can do the same work to the best of your ability without being attached. That's why your writings meant something--because you cared. Still care." He looks up now, on firmer ground, able to meet Megatron's optics.

"There's middle ground between a dead halt for grief's sake and leaving him behind altogether. You can carry him with you." He shrugs, the look on his face almost naked for a moment, his optics not quite focused on Megatron. "...it's what I do with the ones I've lost. And if I'm any good at what I do, they're why. They're what remind me what I'm doing it for."

Megatron stops to meet the doctor's face after spotting the familiar helm through the corner of his vision. A sort of quiet understanding seems to enter his face as he hears the little nugget of wisdom. He almost forgot that someone like Ratchet was no stranger to loss after eons of terrible war. He just seemed to keep doing his job like nothing happened.

Ever since his own reassignment to C-12, there'd been so much uncertainty, so many questions, about the future and how he was going to keep moving. For a time, it felt like he was quickly running out of options, save for the one he wanted so desperately to avoid. He didn't want to become an engine of violence, but everything seemed to be pointing in that direction before he came here.

This.. This held a strange kind of compassion. Something to let himself still hold on to who he was.

"I like that," he says, finally, after a long bout of silence,"Thank you."

Ratchet shrugs, looking away again.

"It's not easier," he says, his voice a little rough. "But if it feels like the right thing to do, well. Then you're decision's pretty much made for you. Can't do much else. You just have to find a way to balance it without letting it crush you."

He shakes his head and picks up the paintbrush again, going back to work.

"Nothing to thank me for, kid. I gave you a systems cleanse, a couple of basic crash courses in field medicine, and a touch-up. The rest you're doing yourself."

Medic graduation and post-grad gross cuddling

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