robothell | [network post--marked urgent]

Entry tags:

ratchet | asafepairofhands

[network post--marked urgent]

Hello? Yeah, all right, it looks like this thing is on.

[The vid flickers on and Ratchet's face fills it, somehow more exasperated and peeved than usual.]

Look, public service health announcement, stay away from the damn stupid flowers that are popping up everywhere. They're releasing a pollen that's hyperconductive that causes an allergic reaction in both organics and inorganics. Nobody's going to drop dead, unless you're set on being a medical miracle and being the first to die of overcharge, but if you're affected, for goodness' sake, be careful until it wears itself out. If you don't release the pent-up charge or whatever periodically it's possible you'll overheat.

If you absolutely need medical assistance, I'm going to be at the first medibay trying to figure out more precisely what the fresh smelting hell is going on.

Ratchet out.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Ratchet feels that tension in Cyclonus' frame, anger swelling in him helplessly until he can't keep it from spilling into his voice.]

Yeah? Those 'base urges' of yours tear your wing half off, too?

[Cyclonus's fingers twitch, resisting the urge to touch the torn metal.]

Essentially yes.

[He's ashamed of himself, for giving himself to Galvatron again, and worse for enjoying it. The familiarity, the ache, the unbridled power...

Just the memory of it mixed with this infernal pollen has him heating a little once more.]

Fine.

[Ratchet's voice is clipped and short but his hands remain gentle as he repairs the wing, finishing a weld and smoothing slow fingers along it, almost soothing.]

You don't have to tell me who did this to you if you don't want. But stay away from whoever it was until this blows over, at least, please. [He presses a flat palm to Cyclonus' back, his expression tight and his optics dim where Cyclonus can't see as he starts to patch the smaller leaks and tears in plating.] As a favor to me, if nothing else.

[Cyclonus lets a small gust of warm air out of his vents.]

I have no more interest in seeing Galvatron again than I did encountering him to begin with.

[It's not really a secret, he's just grouchy.]

[Ratchet goes quiet a moment.]

Good.

[All the major repairs are finished, but Ratchet moves on to minor ones, his hands careful against Cyclonus' plating as he moves back around to look at him.]

You're welcome to hole up here, if you need somewhere to stay until this is over with.

[The offer has some of the tension leaking out of Cyclonus's frame. Primus, he's tired. Tired and old. But if there's any sanctuary to be found on this strange Cybertron, it's probably here.]

Yes, that sounds... it's a sound plan.

[He pauses for a moment and the corner of his mouth twitches slightly.]

So long as he doesn't come looking here for a replacement optic.

[Ratchet makes a low noise in his vocalizer, half a growl as he pops one of the larger dents he's found.]

If he does, he'll be dealing with me, not you.

[His tone does not suggest this hypothetical encounter would turn out particularly well for Galvatron, crutches be damned.]

[That gets a full on small smile out of Cyclonus, unflinching in the face of popped dents.]

Thank you. Though it would probably best not to test Galvatron's patience.

[Ratchet catches that smile and feels the knot of worry coiled tight and small and hard just above his fuel tank relax a little, his own face easing enough that one corner of his mouth turns up.]

Galvatron hasn't been dealing with people limping into his medibay all damn week whining about paint transfer and heat damage to actuators and friction burns. Consider my patience thoroughly tested.

I apologize for adding to your workload.

[And is somewhat disappointed in himself for needing to seek medical attention. There's only so much one can do about torn wings...]

Huh. You have an actual injury.

[Ratchet is quiet for a moment, his hands still working.]

You don't have anything to apologize for.

I should have avoided it.

[As Ratchet works, he finds his gaze wandering repeatedly over Ratchet's frame. He tries to keep his gaze on the medic's face, only to find his gaze dropping to white lips...

He forces himself to look in the other direction completely. Hadn't his violent tryst with Galvatron burned enough of this infernal contaminant out of his system?!]

Yeah, a whole bunch of us should have done a lot of things this week.

[His lips thin, optics narrowing on the plating under his hands.]

Doesn't make it your fault.

[He wants to argue that point. If he'd been more attentive he could have avoided Galvatron. If he'd had more self-control, perhaps he could have fought him off and saved his dignity.

Instead he had spread his legs eagerly for his old leader, like he had so many times when he was younger. He may have taken an eye and drawn his fare share of energon, but it was hardly more violent than many of their couplings in the past, back when his loyalty to Galvatron remained unyielding.

But he's too tired for arguing, both emotionally and physically, so instead he simply remains silent as his optics dim and tries to ignore the rising warmth beneath his plating.]

[Ratchet fusses--he's fussing now, if he's honest with himself, all the actual repairs are done--for another few moments before he lets his hands slide away from Cyclonus' plating. He takes a long, shaking vent of cool air before he reaches out, resting a palm on Cyclonus' shoulder for a moment.]

It's over and done with now, regardless. You're safe here. Do you need anything else?

[Cyclonus's lips part when Ratchet's hands pull away from him, and a soft noise of disappointment almost escapes him before he catches it.

The hand on his shoulder is much more welcome than it should be, and he finds himself leaning into it.]

I- [Should he ask about the pain in his hips and the ache between his thighs? Not the arousal, the throb that came from a port getting too much, too hard, after too long, with too little preparation...

He looks away.]

Nevermind, it's superficial.

[Ratchet's face darkens, his lips thinning as he squeezes Cyclonus' shoulder briefly.]

If you even considered mentioning it, I doubt it's 'superficial'--and even if it is I still want to know about it, as long as you're willing to tell me.

[A long vent escapes him, gusting warm air from his internals into the room. Interface equipment isn't exactly a necessity, and it's surely nothing his self-repair can't handle...

But then he is getting old, and even when he was young he'd usually gotten a full examination after particularly... energetic bouts with Galvatron.]

My... array

[Ratchet goes still for a moment, a numbing, frigidly cold expression flickering over his face.]

I see. [His optics are pale as he looks down at Cyclonus, his ventilations very even before he turns away to limp over to a cabinet, tipping his head at the slab.] Lay back, then, and open up. I'll take a look.

[Cyclonus is too busy looking at everywhere but Ratchet to catch the expression, but his vents hitch and rise at the command.

He curses his body as he settles back, legs spread. This is just a medical examination. He's never gotten revved about those before!

Taking a few cooling vents, he lets his plating fold open, exposing himself to the air. It feels shockingly cold against his overly-warm valve. The spill of fluids from him doesn't help. A mix of lubricant and Galvatron's trans-fluid - he ignores the pulse arousal at the memory of being filled - both tinged with the tell-tale sheen of internal fluids that suggest a tear in the port lining or a node knocked out of place. Likely both and more in this case.]

[Ratchet drags himself back over with a small container of gel and some cleaning cloths in one hand, his lips tightening as he takes in the damage he can see. His field is drawn in tight when he finally gets close enough to Cyclonus to touch, laying a hand carefully on one knee first.]

Normally I'd let you do this yourself, if you wanted, but I don't think those claws of yours are going to do you any favors. [He reaches down with a cloth, first, carefully wiping the slick mix of fluids from Cyclonus' pelvic block and off the berth between his spread thighs. He gathers up some of the gel with two fingers once he's finished and watches Cyclonus carefully as he reaches in, torn between wanting to give Cyclonus whatever space he needs, wanting to treat him, and knowing that whatever Cyclonus needs it likely isn't to be coddled.] This is going to sting a bit, probably--no help for it. Tell me if something's wrong or you want me to knock it off.

[Cyclonus does nothing to stop Ratchet as he settles between his legs - there's a heat spike - only nodding slightly in acquiescence.]

I'm sure it looks works than it-

[He has to pause for a moment, lips pressing tightly together to suppress a gasp - and it's certainly not one of pain. Not that the touch of cool gel on his damaged internal mesh doesn't sting, but pure pain he can deal with. The problem is the pollen, and pleasure, and parts involved, and the fact that he enjoys the sting.]

...looks worst than it is.

[Primus part the ground and swallow him whole.]

I doubt that.

[Ratchet's voice is a half-growl and he leans hard into his crutches and presses his free hand flat on Cyclonus' belly, rubbing soothing, absent circles against his plating as his fingers press deeper, finding microabrasions in the mesh lining and damaged nodes and carefully pressing them back into place, coating them with the gel. His optics are dimmed in concentration for long moments as he slides his fingers carefully over every space he can reach inside, stroking and smoothing, working purely by touch.]

[He looks up at Cyclonus when he's nearly done, his optics a little too bright and his own cooling fans going at a low clip just from the slick heat around his fingers, but he ignores them.]

All right, still?

[It takes every bit of willpower Cyclonus has not to moan or let his fans roar out of control as Ratchet massages his aching port in a maddening mix of stinging and soothing.

Without his fans running high, his temperature rises steadily, and by the time Ratchet looks up his optics are hazy and unfocused, one of his long pointed fingers clutched between his teeth.

He doesn't have enough sense left to reply.]

[Ratchet frowns when he doesn't get a response from Cyclonus, narrowing his optics a little--then huffs a sound that isn't unkind enough to be a laugh from his vocalizer, the hand on Cyclonus' belly stroking gently.]

And here I was worried about upsetting you. Cyclonus, turn your fans on, for goodness' sake.

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