[Fic] Seven Days -- Part 6b/7: (Saturday Evening) Sweet Surrender
Title: Seven Days -- Part 6b/7: (Saturday Evening) Sweet Surrender
Author: Lyricality (lyricality)
Rating: M/NC-17 overall for graphic sparksex.
Pairings: Eventual Bee/everyone. In this part, finally Ironhide/Ratchet.
Disclaimer: Hasbro owns everything, including my BRAINZ oh noes I needses them. All characters are of legal age.
Note/Summary: It has been FOREVER, and I hope anyone waiting for this can forgive me. My excuse is a temporary winter job that became far more difficult than I ever imagined. For getting me back into the spirit, worship at the feet of lady_oneiros (my spectacular and suffering beta) and flarn_fanfic (to whom I credit Ironhide's fearless obsession with Ratchet's surgical saws ♥ ). For this entire fic, you can blame nemi_chan and her marvelous prompt o' doom, in which Bumblebee is the resident pleasurebot of the Autobots. I bet you never thought we'd return to the Special Hell. ^-^
Part 1/7: (Monday) Prime Time can be found here.
Part 2/7: (Tuesday) Iron Ride can be found here.
Part 3/7: (Wednesday) Doctor Love can be found here.
Part 4/7: (Thursday) Horizontal Jazz can be found here.
Part 5/7: (Friday) Scream Queen can be found here.
Part 5a/7: (Friday Evening) Special Handling can be found here.
Part 6/7: (Saturday) Human Touch can be found here.
Part 6a/7: (Saturday Evening) Safety Dance can be found here.
Saturday Evening: Sweet Surrender
Watching Ratchet work had been one of Ironhide's secret pleasures long before their arrival on Earth. The chief medical officer had such a way with his hands-all of his capable fingers worked in complicated rhythm, and even when his expression promised retribution to anyone who dared disturb him, his optics betrayed a certain harmony of clarity and concentration. Despite that hint at inner peace, Ironhide wasn't idiot enough to interrupt-not when Ratchet had his fingers buried in Wheeljack's neural cabling, and not before he realized he was being observed.
Unlocking Wheeljack from cometary mode had absorbed much of the last five megacycles. His protoform lay stretched out against the surgical table, freed at last but still offline. Strange how their stronger endoskeletons could withstand such force and yet appear so vulnerable, with no armor or weaponry visible. Ironhide vastly preferred the discretion of local camouflage.
The sudden tension in Ratchet’s posture ended this period of unnoticed observation. The medic said nothing as of yet-nothing for several more cycles, in fact-but he eventually chose to acknowledge the intrusion.
“I do not require an audience.”
Demonstrating either his courage or his stupidity, Ironhide made no excuse, simply stepping into the room and letting the door slide shut behind him. He moved to one side of the operating table before speaking. "I came to help." He crossed both arms over his chest, keeping his expression neutral.
Ratchet turned away, studying the readouts from his scanners with false concentration. "There's nothing you can do."
Ironhide stilled. "You mean there's nothing to be done."
"No," Ratchet snapped. He shouldered Ironhide aside; their armor grated together before Ironhide relented and took a step back. Resting a hand against Wheeljack's forehead, Ratchet shuttered his optics. "He's still in stasis lock. Nothing I've tried has brought him out of it." His other hand curled against the table, his fingers marking the metal. "The repairs make no difference."
Frowning, Ironhide turned his optics to Wheeljack, studying the still frame. The inventor was so vibrant a personality that seeing him silenced felt unreal. “What would cause that?”
“Shock. Psychological damage. How should I know, without physical evidence?” Ratchet’s optics blazed, his mouth a grim line, but Ironhide recognized the signs of that formidable temper turned inward on itself. The medical officer exhausted all his options before the signs of his own exhaustion began to crack through the seams. Straightening, Ratchet lifted both hands to his chest. Ironhide thought he meant to recalibrate the myriad tools concealed beneath his fingers, and he stared in a dim, unblinking sort of shock when Ratchet began opening his chestplating instead. He had exposed the spherical shield of his spark chamber before Ironhide let loose a grunt of protest, raising a hand. Ratchet’s glare stopped him short.
“If you have a better suggestion, I’m willing to hear it,” Ratchet growled.
Doubt coiled in Ironhide’s processors. He never completely forgot that Ratchet had been a conduit, and that the medical officer knew the intricacies of sparks better than most. “You’ve done this before?”
“Of course I’ve done this before.”
The deliberate misunderstanding of his meaning made Ironhide grunt again, one of his hands catching Ratchet’s wrist, preventing him from leaning over Wheeljack. “With him?”
Ratchet shook him off. “No,” he admitted. He pressed a series of controls, bringing the examination table to an easier angle, and Ironhide felt uneasiness spread spindly electric fingers through his wiring. “We weren’t friends in that way.” Glancing sideways at Ironhide, he dismissed the last barrier over his spark, and Ironhide dragged his gaze away out of reluctant respect. “There is nothing left to try but this,” he said, but something in his voice kept shaking. “And at the moment, there is no one but me to do it.”
Unable to argue with that-and hating it-Ironhide kept his optics averted, almost believing he should stop this, almost certain that Prime would never have allowed it. Almost, but Ratchet’s desperation left him uncomfortably weak-willed.
Apparently convinced that Ironhide wouldn’t interfere, Ratchet turned back to Wheeljack. Golden light spilled from the medical officer’s chest, visible at one edge of Ironhide’s vision, touching him through different senses and sensors. A cycle or more of swift presses by Ratchet’s fingers, and the protoform’s chest slid open as well to reveal a dim but beautiful glow of blue.
Ratchet hesitated then, curling shaking fingers into a fist. A moment more and he was moving again, draping himself over the table and over Wheeljack, and Ironhide couldn’t help but watch with narrowed optics as Ratchet braced himself and shifted to bring spark against spark. It wasn’t sensual, but it was gentle, and he never wanted to see so much pain shifting through Ratchet’s expression again. For a moment, the light brightened, and Ratchet clenched his fist against the table edge, struggling to bring strands of energy into alignment.
A flash of blue-white and gold.
Ratchet made an inarticulate cry of pain and jerked away, stumbling a backward step or two into Ironhide's waiting hold. Ironhide caught both arms around the medic, one hand rising with protective instinct to curl over Ratchet's fluctuating spark. He did not touch. Shielding what he cared for was simple, the most fundamental function of his programming.
"Slag," Ratchet hissed, a broken quality to his voice and a shaking in his joints.
Ironhide curled his fingers against Ratchet's hip, pulling metal back against metal, a steadying hold rather than an embrace. "Hush."
Ratchet spoke in a strange undertone. "If Starscream felt one-tenth that sort of pain when he forced himself on Bumblebee's unwilling spark..." A quiver ran through his frame. “Then I should celebrate.”
Tightening his grip, Ironhide buzzed out a snort. “Hush,” he repeated. “Should never have let you try that.” Both Ratchet and Wheeljack might have been badly damaged, connecting so recklessly. Wheeljack had no control over his reactions while in stasis lock, and all his other weaponry was disarmed. Little wonder he’d struck out with whatever defenses he had available.
Such carelessness didn’t speak well for Ratchet’s rationality.
“You thought it might work,” the medical officer muttered, drained of his usual vitriol.
“You thought it might. Should never have let you convince me so easily, either.”
One capable hand wrapped around Ironhide’s wrist, and he froze his joints to keep a steady barrier over Ratchet’s spark. Even so, Ratchet didn’t push him away. Instead, he spoke in a voice that ached. No more wavering notes, no more anger, just the dull throb of defeat marking pain through his words.
“There’s nothing more I can do.”
“You can recharge.” Only rarely had he seen Ratchet beaten. To see him disarmed enough for despair was rarer yet. “You’re close to this. To him.” He sympathized, but he wouldn’t hold back the truth. “You’re too close.”
Ratchet’s grip tightened just to the point of pain, but the expected diatribe never came. “All of you are friends,” he said instead, voice raw. “I’m always too close.”
Keeping otherwise still, Ironhide lowered his head, forehead barely a nanoclick shy of Ratchet’s helm. Almost a touch. Almost reassurance. Pity that he wasn’t allowed to give either one. “I know.”
Silence between them. Then Ratchet’s hand loosened, and his fingers slid upward to splay over Ironhide’s, a warning as much as an inquiry in the gesture and in his words.
“What are you doing?”
Ironhide had an honest answer. “Whatever I can.” He kept his hand in place, unwavering, and only withdrew when Ratchet turned to face him, spark still bared and still beautiful. Something in Ironhide’s processors leaped; something deep in his chest stuttered and hummed. With a monumental effort, he kept his voice steady despite the stressed trembling of his components. “You know how I feel.” How long Ratchet had suspected, Primus only knew, and Ironhide had no intention of risking his dignity in finding out. “You know me. You know I’m sincere.”
He’d said the wrong thing, and knew it at once by the way something flickered and then dimmed in Ratchet’s optics. “You’re sincere,” he said. “And impatient. And damnably stubborn, and utterly tactless.” He shook his head, the line of his mouth flattening with an electric grind of gears. “No one knows anyone else the way they believe they do.”
Despite the discouragement, Ironhide held firm. “I want to give it a chance.” He didn’t touch, didn’t move-he knew Ratchet could be skittish despite his remarkable self-possession. “I want to know you.”
Ratchet demanded what he hadn’t expected. “Why.”
Ironhide had too many reasons to count, and choosing any one of them to say aloud seemed like an insidious sort of trap. He chose the middle ground. “Nothing I say can make any difference.” Ratchet would never be persuaded by words where actions had failed.
This time, the strange flicker of Ratchet’s optics surprised him, and tension settled so heavily between them that Ironhide imagined it clogging his intakes. “Try it,” Ratchet said.
Everything inside Ironhide caught and squeezed for a painful instant, before the beat passed and he could speak again. “Because you…” He paused, thoughts spinning circles. The danger here was suddenly, viciously real. Ratchet enjoyed tests in which he made the rules and changed them exactly however and whenever he pleased, and one wrong answer might lose his respect for vorns. Ironhide’s voice came out unusually rough. “Are you teasing me?”
In answer, Ratchet reached out, snaring Ironhide’s wrist in one capable hand. Their gazes locked, and he deliberately drew Ironhide’s hand to his exposed spark.
A flare of light heralded the first touch.
Ironhide felt thunderstruck, as though he’d been given a revelation, and perhaps he had. Hesitant, resolute, he flexed his fingers, and Ratchet’s optics shuttered as a profound trembling ran through his frame. Taking another step closer, Ironhide made a soft sound, low and soothing, and curled his fingers to stroke them through the outermost aura of Ratchet’s spark. Ratchet’s hands settled at his hips, bracing them together, pushing underneath Ironhide’s armor to brush along gear edges. Ironhide didn’t want to question it, he didn’t want to doubt any of it, and he couldn’t help himself.
His fingers kept caressing in spite of his concern. “Ratchet.”
“Don’t.” Ratchet’s voice had a warning edge, a shudder ending the single word. “Touch me, if that’s what you want.”
“If it’s what you want,” Ironhide muttered, but brought his free hand up to trace fingertips along the edge of the medical officer’s spark casing, all pure mathematical angles containing so much unmeasured power, so much unbelievable light. Ironhide had wanted so long to discover its limits that he should have been fumbling, but he kept his fingers steady and stroked Ratchet slow and deep inside, until the medic arched his neck and suppressed a moan into grinding revs of his engine.
Ratchet’s fingers worked into Ironhide’s joints, seeking out and stroking the wires that led from his legs into the neural cabling along his back. Ironhide cursed the advantage of medical knowledge while his body celebrated it, trembling under an expert touch. He didn’t suppress anything, just offered up a growl that vibrated straight through his frame and into his fingers and directly into Ratchet’s spark, and the medic’s voice tore free with a sudden groan.
For a cycle or two, they clung to each other, steadier together than apart, and Ironhide made a rough sound before speaking. “There are better places for this.”
Optics flickered in wry amusement. “That’s quaint.”
“I’m not a prude,” Ironhide growled, both his hands still buried in Ratchet’s chest, brushing through energy and over components that shook the both of them. “This means something to me.”
Leaning back just enough, Ratchet looked into him with narrowed optics, something fleeting and haunted passing over his expression like a specter. It was brief, but left Ironhide stricken. He instinctively loosened his grip. Frustration threatened, but he struggled to let it go-he’d known long ago that Ratchet moved one step forward to two steps back in everything outside the professional.
“I won’t be what you expect,” the medical officer murmured. “I can’t be what you’re wanting. Understand that now.”
“I don’t want you as a conduit.” Ironhide held Ratchet by the spark, one hand cupped fully around the casing, and his words came out rough at the edges. “I have a conduit. Both of us do.” He didn’t want another, and whether or not Bumblebee could currently fulfill that duty made no difference in the slightest. “What I want is you.”
Fingers gentle, he tugged Ratchet closer, near enough that his own chest plating rubbed against the delicate barriers of Ratchet’s spark. An electrical tremor pushed through all his circuits. Pressing closer still, he spoke low and raw into one audio receptor.
“I want you.”
Intakes hitching, Ratchet replied with a quiver of his own. His softened sound struck Ironhide’s sensors like a pure note, setting all his components resonating in the same key. Ironhide stroked both thumbs against Ratchet’s spark to hear that sound repeated in a higher octave.
“All right.” The ache in Ratchet’s voice made Ironhide shudder, and the unexpected agreement left him reeling. They brushed together, metal scraping metal. “Where?”
Wherever he wanted, but Ironhide knew better than to say so. He tried to consider the question as another test, instead, and during his moment of vacillation, Ratchet turned his optics to Wheeljack again, tension stiffening his shoulders. The protoform’s chest had closed, following deep subroutines for survival, concealing Wheeljack’s spark. Ironhide withdrew one hand as gradually as he could, touching fingertips to the back of Ratchet’s neck. “Should we stay close?”
Ratchet regarded him with a steady sideways glance, his head still turned toward the protoform. “He isn’t going to come out of it by himself,” he said, but hesitated nevertheless.
With a final smooth stroke, Ironhide extracted his other hand, ignoring the tendrils of energy that trailed after his fingers. “I’m quartered across the hall.”
“I know.”
Of course he did. They were all much too close for secrets. “Is that near enough?” Ratchet’s single room was accessible through his office-close to the medical bay, but close to the recovery room as well, and despite his earlier words, Ironhide doubted that the medical officer wanted Jazz as an audience.
One of Ratchet’s hands caught his, and the other rose to his chest. His fingers paused, then pushed his chest plating closed for the brief journey to safer territory. “Yes.”
With a last glance at the motionless protoform, Ironhide twined his fingers through Ratchet’s, and then led him out of the medical bay and across the hall, where he sent the minimalist codes to unlock his quarters. Just a nanocycle passed, and they stepped inside, the door sliding shut to keep out the world, to keep them together.
They had lost a little momentum during their shared concern over Wheeljack, and Ironhide paused near the door while Ratchet took an uneasy seat on the edge of the berth. Glancing up, Ratchet met his optics, something too close to a challenge in his own. “You want more than I’m willing to give.”
Almost certainly true. “I have time. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
Despite the tension between them, Ratchet chuckled with a little desperation in the sound. “You aren’t patient.”
“I can be.”
“Have you ever known me to change my mind about anything?” Ratchet held entirely still when Ironhide took the two easy steps that separated them, one of his legs sliding between the medical officer’s thighs, pushing them apart, bringing them closer together with metal rubbing metal, grazing interior cabling. Heat grew and spread between them.
He let both hands rest against Ratchet’s shoulders. “Once in a very great while, yes.” He flattened his hands against the back of Ratchet’s neck, fingers stroking with a pressure just firm enough to smooth out twisted cabling and increase electrical circulation. Delving deeper, he rubbed over the sensory nodes beneath the plating of both shoulders, and Ratchet gave a reflexive twitch before leaning gradually back into his hands. Silenced by a fierce and hungry joy, Ironhide curled one hand to work his fingers under secondary plating. One thumb grazed against the protective barrier over Ratchet’s neural cabling.
Without a sound, Ratchet bucked against him. Ironhide tightened both arms around him and kept stroking, every shudder vibrating through the medic’s frame and into his own. Ratchet was so smooth, better than oiled machinery, more sensitive than Ironhide had dared to hope.
“Careful,” Ratchet warned with static in his voice, brittle pops and clicks of faltering concentration.
Ironhide shook his head. “I am. With you.” He pressed and probed until the tension eased out of Ratchet’s shoulders, a trembling rush like water cracking out of ice.
Loose and shaking, Ratchet slid forward, and Ironhide caught him close against his chest, simply holding.
“Let me bring you off like this,” he murmured against the top of Ratchet’s head after a long cycle or two. He heard the aching in his own voice and ignored it, shifting an arm to slide his right hand under the grill crossing Ratchet’s chest. Delicate gears fluttered under his fingertips. “You need it, whether you want me or not.”
Ratchet shook his head. “Don’t pretend that’s all you want.”
Shuttering his optics for a moment, Ironhide cursed his own stupidity in all the many languages he knew, but then he angled back far enough to meet Ratchet’s steady gaze. “What do you want?” he asked, words rougher than he had meant, probably too honest with frustrated desire.
Ratchet kept still, his expression neutral, his optics dimming, their color deepening as his interior energies shifted. He lifted one hand, and ran it with slow precision along the center of Ironhide’s chest.
“Lie back,” he said after a false start at speaking.
Ironhide stared at him for a moment, then did as Ratchet asked. They reversed their positions, Ratchet rising not-quite-steadily to his feet, Ironhide lowering himself onto the berth. With both hands urging him back, the medical officer leaned over him, fingertips making meditative flicks over his chest and downward, across his pelvic armor and then under the armor of his thighs. One hand touched superficial hydraulics, and Ironhide shifted before stilling himself with a grunt as those fingers found gear edges in his hip, probing old injuries. Pressure, then sudden deep pleasure, relief as much as response when something clicked and shifted and eased. Groaning, he arched up, and Ratchet slipped his fingers free before discarding the bit of extracted shrapnel, shaking his head with a snort.
He didn’t bother to lecture, returning his hand to caress, rubbing raw edges smooth again with the files on the backs of his fingertips. There was nothing clinical about his touch, and Ironhide alternately growled and shivered beneath him, every reaction a study in wordless appreciation.
Stroking upward, Ratchet ran fingers over the tangle of wires at Ironhide’s waist. His hands slipped beneath flexible plating to catch at the cables connecting sensors at Ironhide’s sides, at his back, and slow tugs at those connections had Ironhide’s engine running hot, vents hissing steam. Fingers twisting, Ratchet pinched at wires, his touch calm and collected while Ironhide writhed beneath it. Ironhide rumbled his approval, inarticulate praise, loving those hands and what they were doing to him, what they could do for him with a few more cycles of equal pressure.
And then Ratchet withdrew them.
Ironhide sat halfway up, shocked by the sudden loss of contact and growling deep in his vocal components. “What-”
“Be still.” Not the Voice of the CMO Who Knows What’s Best for You, Ironhide noted, but something deeper, hotter, and while that new voice made demands, it asked for trust instead of promising retribution. A hand pressed against his shoulder and he relented, stretching out again. “Demonstrate for me,” Ratchet murmured, “the extent of your self-control.”
Catching his wrist, Ironhide pulled him close again until their optics met. “I don’t play control games,” he warned.
Ratchet’s expression went unreadable but for the flattening line of his mouth. “You seemed eager enough before.”
“Don’t twist this,” Ironhide growled. Sitting up again, he adjusted his grip and brought his other hand into play, a quick tug to pull Ratchet down onto the berth beside him. They tangled together there, Ironhide aligning their chests, letting Ratchet feel the electrical shiver of attraction between them. “You think this isn’t real? I’m too old for lust.”
Ratchet actually had the audacity to laugh, if only for a moment. He quieted soon enough, and one of his hands touched Ironhide’s face, a gentle exploration of fingertips that had Ironhide helplessly turning his head toward the caress.
“Don’t push me on this,” Ratchet warned in his turn, but with a rare undercurrent of pleading to his words that drew Ironhide’s full attention. Ratchet’s circuitry hummed, and they shifted against each other with longing made nearly tangible, soft snaps of current between metal components, and still Ratchet hesitated. Something in this frightened him, unnerved him more than any medical mystery, any violent atrocity, and Ratchet had seen plenty of both.
Ironhide would be slagged straight to the Pit before he ignored that, whether or not he understood the reason for it. Running both hands upward along Ratchet’s shoulders, he cupped the back of Ratchet’s head, thumbs smoothing again along the cables in his neck. “Then tell me when you’re ready. And what you’re ready for.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just ran one hand down the length of Ratchet’s arm, pausing to rub exposed wiring between his fingertips. Trailing lower, he slid a thumb into the medical officer’s elbow joint. Gentle exploration along the rotating gears earned him a shiver, but he moved on anyway, seeking something less simply mechanical, more undeniably personal.
Along the armor of Ratchet’s forearm ran the precise gap from which his primary weaponry emerged-an outwardly innocuous slit concealing dozens of rotating saw blades.
Ironhide’s fingertips pressed along the edge, thumb stroking the length of the seam. Ratchet jerked against him, vocalizers muffled but movements more than eloquent, and Ironhide felt the deep and delicate shift of metal beneath that plating, blade shearing against blade in eager vibration. His focus on weaponry probably wouldn’t surprise Ratchet, but Ironhide couldn’t deny the attraction. So much power, and Ratchet kept all of it concealed behind one form of armor or another. The saw blades flexed again, and Ironhide spread his fingers, applying pressure, conscious of danger in every increasingly intrusive caress. Activating both saws could be reaction as much as reasoning, but he trusted Ratchet’s self-control.
Beneath his fingers, the blades shifted again, then again, a gradual build toward constant friction. Ratchet rolled his shoulder, bent his elbow, increasing the pressure and letting go a soft grinding of vocal components. “Harder.”
Obeying, Ironhide curled his hand, applying force with the base of the palm, sliding his fingertips into the seam as far as they could reach. Ratchet quivered from head to foot. Bending over him, Ironhide separated one of the cables from the others along the line of Ratchet’s neck, squeezing gently with his free hand, maybe a little too tight. He begged his own self-control to last. “Really are beautiful,” he grunted, speaking through components that wanted to seize. “Always thought so.”
Ratchet made a sound like anguish, a metallic sob. “I’m ready now,” he groaned, and his armor opened piece by piece, withdrawing to either side, exposing his spark.
Ironhide had touched it before and didn’t hesitate to do so now. Shaken, Ratchet arched up into his hand, bright tendrils of light reaching out from his chest.
“’Hide,” he growled, patience disintegrated. “I want this-”
A slow smile curved Ironhide’s mouth. “Be still, then.”
Ratchet buzzed out a shuddering snort, but visibly exerted his willpower, bringing himself back under control even as Ironhide made long, gentle strokes inside his chest, hand tangled into his spark. With a shift of weight, Ironhide rolled them over, settling Ratchet fully onto his back and bracing his own greater weight against his forearms. His chestplates trembled, sudden contact with the outer aura of Ratchet’s spark parting them thinly down the center, both barriers withdrawing at once to leave him bare.
Tendrils of light laced outward, catching at the strands of Ratchet’s spark. They brushed, retreated, and then knotted at the ends. Ironhide allowed himself one harshly metallic groan before their minds reached out in response.
They met in the middle, superficial thoughts tangling, melding before sliding below the surface. Ironhide reached out for him in the diminishing space between them, inviting him in, walls fully dismissed. A beat of spark against spark and Ratchet let himself be caught, pulled deep, his intakes hissing in shock.
Hesitation. Readjustment. The shuddering edge of awe, because
No one does this
Because no one gave everything, because giving everything was dangerous, left you exposed, left you vulnerable. Ratchet’s thoughts, not his. Ratchet’s perceptions, and Ironhide examined them, appreciated them, and then set about proving them wrong.
He had nothing to hide. Giving everything was simpler than holding back.
Ratchet was shaking, his beautiful hands clenched against Ironhide’s shoulders, his systems racing. So little needed to give him so much, and Ironhide pushed them together, burying them in each other again. A flicker of mixed emotion touched him, told him how close Ratchet could be to the razor edge of ecstasy. Ironhide groaned as he drew them apart, senses and sparks. Then, with barely a pause, he brought them crashing together, deep into each other. Ratchet clung to him and arched with a shout of grating voice and flashing sirens.
Beneath his veneer of control, Ratchet’s emotions shifted with extraordinary strength and subtlety. First open, then swiftly closed, glimmers of powerful feeling like light on moving water. His psyche was as much a mystery as the fickle but rhythmic seas of this planet.
Ironhide didn’t probe him, but offered himself fully, equally, in all self-awareness. He pushed forth all his passion and called on all his patience to wait for Ratchet’s response.
Hesitation.
Then Ratchet accepted it, all of it, meeting passion with desire, his thoughts winding into Ironhide’s with a note of wildness, of irresponsibility and discarded control.
Ironhide latched onto that thread with a growl of hunger in return.
This was still too raw for any teasing or play. With trembling thoughts and fingers, Ratchet stroked him, a scattershot of pleasure along his neural cabling and deep in his spark. They groaned together. In response, Ironhide gave Ratchet everything he was and everything he wanted, desire so keen it registered as potent pain, a shared ache of need and loss and love. Ratchet reached back into him with sharp strands of pleasure, tremors of sensation. Neither of them bothered with stimulating memory; they both wanted the moment.
This moment. The next.
Shuddering, Ironhide ground them against each other, the pressure powerful enough that the armor at the edges of Ratchet’s chest warped under the force. Ratchet cried out, but not in protest, his hands tightening, fingers dragging along circuitry and tugging hard at wiring-bringing them as close as physically possible without the readjustment of components, the crushing of delicate systems.
“Yes,” Ratchet whispered, voice rising, processors turning repetitious with excitement. “Yes. Yes yes...” Ironhide pressed him flat against the berth, shaking too hard for audible sound, his spark thrumming out the basic thread of his fundamental being.
Won’t hurt you.
It was a deeper promise, too, an immediate vow.
Won’t let you be hurt.
Ratchet sobbed beneath him, softly screeching hums and vibrations, spark flaring with incandescent light. His thoughts wove into Ironhide’s, a beating rhythm and underlying strength of fervent agreement. Please. Yes. Please.
Yes
Unusual harmony, perfect cadence, and Ratchet held back, Ironhide pushed just enough, and they surged together with a force beyond anything Ironhide had experienced in countless vorns. Pleasure sizzled through his wiring, feedback offlined his optics, and he heard a keening cry in Ratchet’s voice that wrapped them both in a bright, hot burst of electrical discharge and brilliantly grateful desire.
He had the presence of mind to roll them over, Ratchet’s lighter form over his heavier frame, and then he lay still and sometimes shuddering, waiting for the gradual return to full function with his thoughts and Ratchet’s still aligned.
They mirrored each other, strange symmetry in the aftermath, like hands touching hands at each fingertip. Ironhide felt the liquid warmth in Ratchet’s wiring, the lingering ache in his spark, pleasure with a steadying touch of pain. He knew what Ratchet felt in return-the strain in his joints, the relief so physical that it touched all his wiring with heat. The union of their sparks transcended the separation of bodies. It seemed particularly deep, so much so that Ironhide couldn’t tell which of them reached out, but he knew when Ratchet slid conscious care over the open framework of his memory, spreading cool comfort over old scars, signs of pain both recent and ancient.
Altogether willing, he split himself ever more thoroughly open, welcoming Ratchet’s consciousness into the folds of his own. Always a healer, Ratchet touched thoughts like the tips of fingers to the lingering pain of old losses, and Ironhide gave an inward flinch but pressed himself into that caress.
You loved her.
Ironhide shuddered a bit, reaching back to stroke Ratchet’s thoughts in return. We were a good match.
A slide of condolence against sorrow, probing so gently that Ironhide gave up the memory without hesitation, images he hadn’t viewed for long vorns. Light striking dark and pain slashing through both hips, and Chromia came apart in front him, long tangles of wire and metal scattering molten in shards, and Ironhide couldn’t suppress a low murmur of shattered anguish. Even so, it was a shadow, more memory than present emotion. Ratchet caught him, soothed him, and Ironhide welcomed his presence with an affection far different but no less intense.
He pulled Ratchet in, like arms wrapping over arms, a complete embrace. The medical officer pressed forth a silent question, and he offered the simple answer. Bumblebee was his conduit, had brought him through that loss, but Ironhide had chosen to remember her by never forgetting that pain.
Meant what I said. Ironhide ran his thoughts and his fingers through Ratchet’s framework. I want you. But I don’t need you to fix what isn’t broken anymore.
Hesitant but earnest, he grazed his thoughts over the untouched shadows of Ratchet’s memory, offering the same sort of comfort in return, but Ratchet pulled back, a gentle negative, and Ironhide didn’t push. They drifted into and out of each other, instead, letting the connection carry them until systems recovered and stabilized, until the heavy rush of intakes and vents steadied and softened. Body became as noticeable as mind again, and Ratchet was a pleasantly limp weight against his chest. Ironhide left himself inwardly open, unashamedly willing to rest spark to spark, keeping nothing back.
“I can’t give you that,” Ratchet said into the silence.
Ironhide knew what he meant. “I didn’t ask for it.” Chromia had kept her secrets, too-for a long, long time. He’d had his own discomforts to hide back then, but these days he no longer felt the need for such intense inner armor.
Unsettled, Ratchet’s thoughts jostled against the edges of their connection, wary despite the reassurance. That worry rippled outward, touching different reference points, circling back to failure and fear and Wheeljack. And Bumblebee.
“Talk to me,” Ironhide said.
Ratchet sighed through his vents. “About what. You know where my mind is.”
He slid a heavy hand along Ratchet’s back, slow circles with one palm. “Is there really nothing else to be done?”
Silence. Then an answer. “I don’t know. But the option left is one I dislike.”
Thinking at first that Ratchet must know of something arcane, something uncommon and dangerous, he felt a sudden jolt when a much simpler, much more terrible solution presented itself. Bumblebee.
Ratchet answered him aloud. “Yes.”
“How can you ask it?” Ironhide murmured, then wished he could withdraw the note of accusation. But they remained connected, enough so that Ratchet could judge his intention alongside his words. Strands of memory caught the dim, warm light between them, Bumblebee with his hands buried in Ratchet’s chest, Bumblebee with his optics offlining in pure and glorious ecstasy, Bumblebee jerking away with bemused fear in every nuance of his expression.
Ratchet’s vents hissed in a heavy sigh. “I don’t know if I can.” A gradual, disturbing tremble worked its way through his frame, into his spark. “He...does not view duty as an option. And he will consider this a duty, above all else.”
Despite his best efforts, Ironhide had no reassurance to offer him, and simply shook his head, voice low as he asked, “Why should he succeed, when you didn’t?”
“He knows Wheeljack as I do not.” Ironhide stilled, considering the weight of that advantage, and the methods behind Bumblebee’s particular sort of offered comfort-what he understood of them, in any case. “Besides,” Ratchet continued, “we have very different ways of making connections. Every conduit does, regardless of training.”
Ironhide rubbed his fingertips upward over Ratchet’s back, settling in to stroke the treads of the tires partially buried in each shoulder joint. “That’s true.” Bumblebee gave all of himself, unhesitating, and given the opportunity he would dig deeper inside to offer more. Ratchet’s skill distracted from his unwillingness-or inability-to give much of himself at all. Ironhide liked to think he’d seen more of Ratchet’s spark than had a majority of the former conduit’s partners.
You aren’t a partner. Ratchet’s thoughts coiled around his, heavy and still uneasy at the core. Not like those.
Good.
Ironhide offered as much satisfaction as he dared, hands gentling even further, but spoke aloud after a cycle or two. “How will you tell him?” Ratchet was right-Bumblebee could not, would not refuse, but Ironhide hated to think how attempting a spark connection so soon after Starscream’s assault might hurt their youngest soldier.
Optics flickering dark, Ratchet covered Ironhide’s satisfaction with a ghost of acknowledgement. “Not before tomorrow,” he said, failing entirely to answer the question.
“Tomorrow,” murmured Ironhide. That sounded like dismissal, in both action and tone, and he steeled himself for the conclusion he had expected, in the unlikely event Ratchet ever had allowed him more than a platonic touch. He began to withdraw, untangling their thoughts, a gradual process of winding back into himself. Then Ratchet shocked him, caught and clung, fingers and thoughts holding him in place and pulling him closer.
“Stay,” he said.
So unexpectedly, fiercely tender like this, Ratchet was irresistible. Ironhide didn’t need to say yes, so he didn’t say anything, just anchored mind against mind and eased them back together, holding tight as long as holding was allowed.
*****
Author: Lyricality (lyricality)
Rating: M/NC-17 overall for graphic sparksex.
Pairings: Eventual Bee/everyone. In this part, finally Ironhide/Ratchet.
Disclaimer: Hasbro owns everything, including my BRAINZ oh noes I needses them. All characters are of legal age.
Note/Summary: It has been FOREVER, and I hope anyone waiting for this can forgive me. My excuse is a temporary winter job that became far more difficult than I ever imagined. For getting me back into the spirit, worship at the feet of lady_oneiros (my spectacular and suffering beta) and flarn_fanfic (to whom I credit Ironhide's fearless obsession with Ratchet's surgical saws ♥ ). For this entire fic, you can blame nemi_chan and her marvelous prompt o' doom, in which Bumblebee is the resident pleasurebot of the Autobots. I bet you never thought we'd return to the Special Hell. ^-^
Part 1/7: (Monday) Prime Time can be found here.
Part 2/7: (Tuesday) Iron Ride can be found here.
Part 3/7: (Wednesday) Doctor Love can be found here.
Part 4/7: (Thursday) Horizontal Jazz can be found here.
Part 5/7: (Friday) Scream Queen can be found here.
Part 5a/7: (Friday Evening) Special Handling can be found here.
Part 6/7: (Saturday) Human Touch can be found here.
Part 6a/7: (Saturday Evening) Safety Dance can be found here.
Saturday Evening: Sweet Surrender
Watching Ratchet work had been one of Ironhide's secret pleasures long before their arrival on Earth. The chief medical officer had such a way with his hands-all of his capable fingers worked in complicated rhythm, and even when his expression promised retribution to anyone who dared disturb him, his optics betrayed a certain harmony of clarity and concentration. Despite that hint at inner peace, Ironhide wasn't idiot enough to interrupt-not when Ratchet had his fingers buried in Wheeljack's neural cabling, and not before he realized he was being observed.
Unlocking Wheeljack from cometary mode had absorbed much of the last five megacycles. His protoform lay stretched out against the surgical table, freed at last but still offline. Strange how their stronger endoskeletons could withstand such force and yet appear so vulnerable, with no armor or weaponry visible. Ironhide vastly preferred the discretion of local camouflage.
The sudden tension in Ratchet’s posture ended this period of unnoticed observation. The medic said nothing as of yet-nothing for several more cycles, in fact-but he eventually chose to acknowledge the intrusion.
“I do not require an audience.”
Demonstrating either his courage or his stupidity, Ironhide made no excuse, simply stepping into the room and letting the door slide shut behind him. He moved to one side of the operating table before speaking. "I came to help." He crossed both arms over his chest, keeping his expression neutral.
Ratchet turned away, studying the readouts from his scanners with false concentration. "There's nothing you can do."
Ironhide stilled. "You mean there's nothing to be done."
"No," Ratchet snapped. He shouldered Ironhide aside; their armor grated together before Ironhide relented and took a step back. Resting a hand against Wheeljack's forehead, Ratchet shuttered his optics. "He's still in stasis lock. Nothing I've tried has brought him out of it." His other hand curled against the table, his fingers marking the metal. "The repairs make no difference."
Frowning, Ironhide turned his optics to Wheeljack, studying the still frame. The inventor was so vibrant a personality that seeing him silenced felt unreal. “What would cause that?”
“Shock. Psychological damage. How should I know, without physical evidence?” Ratchet’s optics blazed, his mouth a grim line, but Ironhide recognized the signs of that formidable temper turned inward on itself. The medical officer exhausted all his options before the signs of his own exhaustion began to crack through the seams. Straightening, Ratchet lifted both hands to his chest. Ironhide thought he meant to recalibrate the myriad tools concealed beneath his fingers, and he stared in a dim, unblinking sort of shock when Ratchet began opening his chestplating instead. He had exposed the spherical shield of his spark chamber before Ironhide let loose a grunt of protest, raising a hand. Ratchet’s glare stopped him short.
“If you have a better suggestion, I’m willing to hear it,” Ratchet growled.
Doubt coiled in Ironhide’s processors. He never completely forgot that Ratchet had been a conduit, and that the medical officer knew the intricacies of sparks better than most. “You’ve done this before?”
“Of course I’ve done this before.”
The deliberate misunderstanding of his meaning made Ironhide grunt again, one of his hands catching Ratchet’s wrist, preventing him from leaning over Wheeljack. “With him?”
Ratchet shook him off. “No,” he admitted. He pressed a series of controls, bringing the examination table to an easier angle, and Ironhide felt uneasiness spread spindly electric fingers through his wiring. “We weren’t friends in that way.” Glancing sideways at Ironhide, he dismissed the last barrier over his spark, and Ironhide dragged his gaze away out of reluctant respect. “There is nothing left to try but this,” he said, but something in his voice kept shaking. “And at the moment, there is no one but me to do it.”
Unable to argue with that-and hating it-Ironhide kept his optics averted, almost believing he should stop this, almost certain that Prime would never have allowed it. Almost, but Ratchet’s desperation left him uncomfortably weak-willed.
Apparently convinced that Ironhide wouldn’t interfere, Ratchet turned back to Wheeljack. Golden light spilled from the medical officer’s chest, visible at one edge of Ironhide’s vision, touching him through different senses and sensors. A cycle or more of swift presses by Ratchet’s fingers, and the protoform’s chest slid open as well to reveal a dim but beautiful glow of blue.
Ratchet hesitated then, curling shaking fingers into a fist. A moment more and he was moving again, draping himself over the table and over Wheeljack, and Ironhide couldn’t help but watch with narrowed optics as Ratchet braced himself and shifted to bring spark against spark. It wasn’t sensual, but it was gentle, and he never wanted to see so much pain shifting through Ratchet’s expression again. For a moment, the light brightened, and Ratchet clenched his fist against the table edge, struggling to bring strands of energy into alignment.
A flash of blue-white and gold.
Ratchet made an inarticulate cry of pain and jerked away, stumbling a backward step or two into Ironhide's waiting hold. Ironhide caught both arms around the medic, one hand rising with protective instinct to curl over Ratchet's fluctuating spark. He did not touch. Shielding what he cared for was simple, the most fundamental function of his programming.
"Slag," Ratchet hissed, a broken quality to his voice and a shaking in his joints.
Ironhide curled his fingers against Ratchet's hip, pulling metal back against metal, a steadying hold rather than an embrace. "Hush."
Ratchet spoke in a strange undertone. "If Starscream felt one-tenth that sort of pain when he forced himself on Bumblebee's unwilling spark..." A quiver ran through his frame. “Then I should celebrate.”
Tightening his grip, Ironhide buzzed out a snort. “Hush,” he repeated. “Should never have let you try that.” Both Ratchet and Wheeljack might have been badly damaged, connecting so recklessly. Wheeljack had no control over his reactions while in stasis lock, and all his other weaponry was disarmed. Little wonder he’d struck out with whatever defenses he had available.
Such carelessness didn’t speak well for Ratchet’s rationality.
“You thought it might work,” the medical officer muttered, drained of his usual vitriol.
“You thought it might. Should never have let you convince me so easily, either.”
One capable hand wrapped around Ironhide’s wrist, and he froze his joints to keep a steady barrier over Ratchet’s spark. Even so, Ratchet didn’t push him away. Instead, he spoke in a voice that ached. No more wavering notes, no more anger, just the dull throb of defeat marking pain through his words.
“There’s nothing more I can do.”
“You can recharge.” Only rarely had he seen Ratchet beaten. To see him disarmed enough for despair was rarer yet. “You’re close to this. To him.” He sympathized, but he wouldn’t hold back the truth. “You’re too close.”
Ratchet’s grip tightened just to the point of pain, but the expected diatribe never came. “All of you are friends,” he said instead, voice raw. “I’m always too close.”
Keeping otherwise still, Ironhide lowered his head, forehead barely a nanoclick shy of Ratchet’s helm. Almost a touch. Almost reassurance. Pity that he wasn’t allowed to give either one. “I know.”
Silence between them. Then Ratchet’s hand loosened, and his fingers slid upward to splay over Ironhide’s, a warning as much as an inquiry in the gesture and in his words.
“What are you doing?”
Ironhide had an honest answer. “Whatever I can.” He kept his hand in place, unwavering, and only withdrew when Ratchet turned to face him, spark still bared and still beautiful. Something in Ironhide’s processors leaped; something deep in his chest stuttered and hummed. With a monumental effort, he kept his voice steady despite the stressed trembling of his components. “You know how I feel.” How long Ratchet had suspected, Primus only knew, and Ironhide had no intention of risking his dignity in finding out. “You know me. You know I’m sincere.”
He’d said the wrong thing, and knew it at once by the way something flickered and then dimmed in Ratchet’s optics. “You’re sincere,” he said. “And impatient. And damnably stubborn, and utterly tactless.” He shook his head, the line of his mouth flattening with an electric grind of gears. “No one knows anyone else the way they believe they do.”
Despite the discouragement, Ironhide held firm. “I want to give it a chance.” He didn’t touch, didn’t move-he knew Ratchet could be skittish despite his remarkable self-possession. “I want to know you.”
Ratchet demanded what he hadn’t expected. “Why.”
Ironhide had too many reasons to count, and choosing any one of them to say aloud seemed like an insidious sort of trap. He chose the middle ground. “Nothing I say can make any difference.” Ratchet would never be persuaded by words where actions had failed.
This time, the strange flicker of Ratchet’s optics surprised him, and tension settled so heavily between them that Ironhide imagined it clogging his intakes. “Try it,” Ratchet said.
Everything inside Ironhide caught and squeezed for a painful instant, before the beat passed and he could speak again. “Because you…” He paused, thoughts spinning circles. The danger here was suddenly, viciously real. Ratchet enjoyed tests in which he made the rules and changed them exactly however and whenever he pleased, and one wrong answer might lose his respect for vorns. Ironhide’s voice came out unusually rough. “Are you teasing me?”
In answer, Ratchet reached out, snaring Ironhide’s wrist in one capable hand. Their gazes locked, and he deliberately drew Ironhide’s hand to his exposed spark.
A flare of light heralded the first touch.
Ironhide felt thunderstruck, as though he’d been given a revelation, and perhaps he had. Hesitant, resolute, he flexed his fingers, and Ratchet’s optics shuttered as a profound trembling ran through his frame. Taking another step closer, Ironhide made a soft sound, low and soothing, and curled his fingers to stroke them through the outermost aura of Ratchet’s spark. Ratchet’s hands settled at his hips, bracing them together, pushing underneath Ironhide’s armor to brush along gear edges. Ironhide didn’t want to question it, he didn’t want to doubt any of it, and he couldn’t help himself.
His fingers kept caressing in spite of his concern. “Ratchet.”
“Don’t.” Ratchet’s voice had a warning edge, a shudder ending the single word. “Touch me, if that’s what you want.”
“If it’s what you want,” Ironhide muttered, but brought his free hand up to trace fingertips along the edge of the medical officer’s spark casing, all pure mathematical angles containing so much unmeasured power, so much unbelievable light. Ironhide had wanted so long to discover its limits that he should have been fumbling, but he kept his fingers steady and stroked Ratchet slow and deep inside, until the medic arched his neck and suppressed a moan into grinding revs of his engine.
Ratchet’s fingers worked into Ironhide’s joints, seeking out and stroking the wires that led from his legs into the neural cabling along his back. Ironhide cursed the advantage of medical knowledge while his body celebrated it, trembling under an expert touch. He didn’t suppress anything, just offered up a growl that vibrated straight through his frame and into his fingers and directly into Ratchet’s spark, and the medic’s voice tore free with a sudden groan.
For a cycle or two, they clung to each other, steadier together than apart, and Ironhide made a rough sound before speaking. “There are better places for this.”
Optics flickered in wry amusement. “That’s quaint.”
“I’m not a prude,” Ironhide growled, both his hands still buried in Ratchet’s chest, brushing through energy and over components that shook the both of them. “This means something to me.”
Leaning back just enough, Ratchet looked into him with narrowed optics, something fleeting and haunted passing over his expression like a specter. It was brief, but left Ironhide stricken. He instinctively loosened his grip. Frustration threatened, but he struggled to let it go-he’d known long ago that Ratchet moved one step forward to two steps back in everything outside the professional.
“I won’t be what you expect,” the medical officer murmured. “I can’t be what you’re wanting. Understand that now.”
“I don’t want you as a conduit.” Ironhide held Ratchet by the spark, one hand cupped fully around the casing, and his words came out rough at the edges. “I have a conduit. Both of us do.” He didn’t want another, and whether or not Bumblebee could currently fulfill that duty made no difference in the slightest. “What I want is you.”
Fingers gentle, he tugged Ratchet closer, near enough that his own chest plating rubbed against the delicate barriers of Ratchet’s spark. An electrical tremor pushed through all his circuits. Pressing closer still, he spoke low and raw into one audio receptor.
“I want you.”
Intakes hitching, Ratchet replied with a quiver of his own. His softened sound struck Ironhide’s sensors like a pure note, setting all his components resonating in the same key. Ironhide stroked both thumbs against Ratchet’s spark to hear that sound repeated in a higher octave.
“All right.” The ache in Ratchet’s voice made Ironhide shudder, and the unexpected agreement left him reeling. They brushed together, metal scraping metal. “Where?”
Wherever he wanted, but Ironhide knew better than to say so. He tried to consider the question as another test, instead, and during his moment of vacillation, Ratchet turned his optics to Wheeljack again, tension stiffening his shoulders. The protoform’s chest had closed, following deep subroutines for survival, concealing Wheeljack’s spark. Ironhide withdrew one hand as gradually as he could, touching fingertips to the back of Ratchet’s neck. “Should we stay close?”
Ratchet regarded him with a steady sideways glance, his head still turned toward the protoform. “He isn’t going to come out of it by himself,” he said, but hesitated nevertheless.
With a final smooth stroke, Ironhide extracted his other hand, ignoring the tendrils of energy that trailed after his fingers. “I’m quartered across the hall.”
“I know.”
Of course he did. They were all much too close for secrets. “Is that near enough?” Ratchet’s single room was accessible through his office-close to the medical bay, but close to the recovery room as well, and despite his earlier words, Ironhide doubted that the medical officer wanted Jazz as an audience.
One of Ratchet’s hands caught his, and the other rose to his chest. His fingers paused, then pushed his chest plating closed for the brief journey to safer territory. “Yes.”
With a last glance at the motionless protoform, Ironhide twined his fingers through Ratchet’s, and then led him out of the medical bay and across the hall, where he sent the minimalist codes to unlock his quarters. Just a nanocycle passed, and they stepped inside, the door sliding shut to keep out the world, to keep them together.
They had lost a little momentum during their shared concern over Wheeljack, and Ironhide paused near the door while Ratchet took an uneasy seat on the edge of the berth. Glancing up, Ratchet met his optics, something too close to a challenge in his own. “You want more than I’m willing to give.”
Almost certainly true. “I have time. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
Despite the tension between them, Ratchet chuckled with a little desperation in the sound. “You aren’t patient.”
“I can be.”
“Have you ever known me to change my mind about anything?” Ratchet held entirely still when Ironhide took the two easy steps that separated them, one of his legs sliding between the medical officer’s thighs, pushing them apart, bringing them closer together with metal rubbing metal, grazing interior cabling. Heat grew and spread between them.
He let both hands rest against Ratchet’s shoulders. “Once in a very great while, yes.” He flattened his hands against the back of Ratchet’s neck, fingers stroking with a pressure just firm enough to smooth out twisted cabling and increase electrical circulation. Delving deeper, he rubbed over the sensory nodes beneath the plating of both shoulders, and Ratchet gave a reflexive twitch before leaning gradually back into his hands. Silenced by a fierce and hungry joy, Ironhide curled one hand to work his fingers under secondary plating. One thumb grazed against the protective barrier over Ratchet’s neural cabling.
Without a sound, Ratchet bucked against him. Ironhide tightened both arms around him and kept stroking, every shudder vibrating through the medic’s frame and into his own. Ratchet was so smooth, better than oiled machinery, more sensitive than Ironhide had dared to hope.
“Careful,” Ratchet warned with static in his voice, brittle pops and clicks of faltering concentration.
Ironhide shook his head. “I am. With you.” He pressed and probed until the tension eased out of Ratchet’s shoulders, a trembling rush like water cracking out of ice.
Loose and shaking, Ratchet slid forward, and Ironhide caught him close against his chest, simply holding.
“Let me bring you off like this,” he murmured against the top of Ratchet’s head after a long cycle or two. He heard the aching in his own voice and ignored it, shifting an arm to slide his right hand under the grill crossing Ratchet’s chest. Delicate gears fluttered under his fingertips. “You need it, whether you want me or not.”
Ratchet shook his head. “Don’t pretend that’s all you want.”
Shuttering his optics for a moment, Ironhide cursed his own stupidity in all the many languages he knew, but then he angled back far enough to meet Ratchet’s steady gaze. “What do you want?” he asked, words rougher than he had meant, probably too honest with frustrated desire.
Ratchet kept still, his expression neutral, his optics dimming, their color deepening as his interior energies shifted. He lifted one hand, and ran it with slow precision along the center of Ironhide’s chest.
“Lie back,” he said after a false start at speaking.
Ironhide stared at him for a moment, then did as Ratchet asked. They reversed their positions, Ratchet rising not-quite-steadily to his feet, Ironhide lowering himself onto the berth. With both hands urging him back, the medical officer leaned over him, fingertips making meditative flicks over his chest and downward, across his pelvic armor and then under the armor of his thighs. One hand touched superficial hydraulics, and Ironhide shifted before stilling himself with a grunt as those fingers found gear edges in his hip, probing old injuries. Pressure, then sudden deep pleasure, relief as much as response when something clicked and shifted and eased. Groaning, he arched up, and Ratchet slipped his fingers free before discarding the bit of extracted shrapnel, shaking his head with a snort.
He didn’t bother to lecture, returning his hand to caress, rubbing raw edges smooth again with the files on the backs of his fingertips. There was nothing clinical about his touch, and Ironhide alternately growled and shivered beneath him, every reaction a study in wordless appreciation.
Stroking upward, Ratchet ran fingers over the tangle of wires at Ironhide’s waist. His hands slipped beneath flexible plating to catch at the cables connecting sensors at Ironhide’s sides, at his back, and slow tugs at those connections had Ironhide’s engine running hot, vents hissing steam. Fingers twisting, Ratchet pinched at wires, his touch calm and collected while Ironhide writhed beneath it. Ironhide rumbled his approval, inarticulate praise, loving those hands and what they were doing to him, what they could do for him with a few more cycles of equal pressure.
And then Ratchet withdrew them.
Ironhide sat halfway up, shocked by the sudden loss of contact and growling deep in his vocal components. “What-”
“Be still.” Not the Voice of the CMO Who Knows What’s Best for You, Ironhide noted, but something deeper, hotter, and while that new voice made demands, it asked for trust instead of promising retribution. A hand pressed against his shoulder and he relented, stretching out again. “Demonstrate for me,” Ratchet murmured, “the extent of your self-control.”
Catching his wrist, Ironhide pulled him close again until their optics met. “I don’t play control games,” he warned.
Ratchet’s expression went unreadable but for the flattening line of his mouth. “You seemed eager enough before.”
“Don’t twist this,” Ironhide growled. Sitting up again, he adjusted his grip and brought his other hand into play, a quick tug to pull Ratchet down onto the berth beside him. They tangled together there, Ironhide aligning their chests, letting Ratchet feel the electrical shiver of attraction between them. “You think this isn’t real? I’m too old for lust.”
Ratchet actually had the audacity to laugh, if only for a moment. He quieted soon enough, and one of his hands touched Ironhide’s face, a gentle exploration of fingertips that had Ironhide helplessly turning his head toward the caress.
“Don’t push me on this,” Ratchet warned in his turn, but with a rare undercurrent of pleading to his words that drew Ironhide’s full attention. Ratchet’s circuitry hummed, and they shifted against each other with longing made nearly tangible, soft snaps of current between metal components, and still Ratchet hesitated. Something in this frightened him, unnerved him more than any medical mystery, any violent atrocity, and Ratchet had seen plenty of both.
Ironhide would be slagged straight to the Pit before he ignored that, whether or not he understood the reason for it. Running both hands upward along Ratchet’s shoulders, he cupped the back of Ratchet’s head, thumbs smoothing again along the cables in his neck. “Then tell me when you’re ready. And what you’re ready for.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just ran one hand down the length of Ratchet’s arm, pausing to rub exposed wiring between his fingertips. Trailing lower, he slid a thumb into the medical officer’s elbow joint. Gentle exploration along the rotating gears earned him a shiver, but he moved on anyway, seeking something less simply mechanical, more undeniably personal.
Along the armor of Ratchet’s forearm ran the precise gap from which his primary weaponry emerged-an outwardly innocuous slit concealing dozens of rotating saw blades.
Ironhide’s fingertips pressed along the edge, thumb stroking the length of the seam. Ratchet jerked against him, vocalizers muffled but movements more than eloquent, and Ironhide felt the deep and delicate shift of metal beneath that plating, blade shearing against blade in eager vibration. His focus on weaponry probably wouldn’t surprise Ratchet, but Ironhide couldn’t deny the attraction. So much power, and Ratchet kept all of it concealed behind one form of armor or another. The saw blades flexed again, and Ironhide spread his fingers, applying pressure, conscious of danger in every increasingly intrusive caress. Activating both saws could be reaction as much as reasoning, but he trusted Ratchet’s self-control.
Beneath his fingers, the blades shifted again, then again, a gradual build toward constant friction. Ratchet rolled his shoulder, bent his elbow, increasing the pressure and letting go a soft grinding of vocal components. “Harder.”
Obeying, Ironhide curled his hand, applying force with the base of the palm, sliding his fingertips into the seam as far as they could reach. Ratchet quivered from head to foot. Bending over him, Ironhide separated one of the cables from the others along the line of Ratchet’s neck, squeezing gently with his free hand, maybe a little too tight. He begged his own self-control to last. “Really are beautiful,” he grunted, speaking through components that wanted to seize. “Always thought so.”
Ratchet made a sound like anguish, a metallic sob. “I’m ready now,” he groaned, and his armor opened piece by piece, withdrawing to either side, exposing his spark.
Ironhide had touched it before and didn’t hesitate to do so now. Shaken, Ratchet arched up into his hand, bright tendrils of light reaching out from his chest.
“’Hide,” he growled, patience disintegrated. “I want this-”
A slow smile curved Ironhide’s mouth. “Be still, then.”
Ratchet buzzed out a shuddering snort, but visibly exerted his willpower, bringing himself back under control even as Ironhide made long, gentle strokes inside his chest, hand tangled into his spark. With a shift of weight, Ironhide rolled them over, settling Ratchet fully onto his back and bracing his own greater weight against his forearms. His chestplates trembled, sudden contact with the outer aura of Ratchet’s spark parting them thinly down the center, both barriers withdrawing at once to leave him bare.
Tendrils of light laced outward, catching at the strands of Ratchet’s spark. They brushed, retreated, and then knotted at the ends. Ironhide allowed himself one harshly metallic groan before their minds reached out in response.
They met in the middle, superficial thoughts tangling, melding before sliding below the surface. Ironhide reached out for him in the diminishing space between them, inviting him in, walls fully dismissed. A beat of spark against spark and Ratchet let himself be caught, pulled deep, his intakes hissing in shock.
Hesitation. Readjustment. The shuddering edge of awe, because
No one does this
Because no one gave everything, because giving everything was dangerous, left you exposed, left you vulnerable. Ratchet’s thoughts, not his. Ratchet’s perceptions, and Ironhide examined them, appreciated them, and then set about proving them wrong.
He had nothing to hide. Giving everything was simpler than holding back.
Ratchet was shaking, his beautiful hands clenched against Ironhide’s shoulders, his systems racing. So little needed to give him so much, and Ironhide pushed them together, burying them in each other again. A flicker of mixed emotion touched him, told him how close Ratchet could be to the razor edge of ecstasy. Ironhide groaned as he drew them apart, senses and sparks. Then, with barely a pause, he brought them crashing together, deep into each other. Ratchet clung to him and arched with a shout of grating voice and flashing sirens.
Beneath his veneer of control, Ratchet’s emotions shifted with extraordinary strength and subtlety. First open, then swiftly closed, glimmers of powerful feeling like light on moving water. His psyche was as much a mystery as the fickle but rhythmic seas of this planet.
Ironhide didn’t probe him, but offered himself fully, equally, in all self-awareness. He pushed forth all his passion and called on all his patience to wait for Ratchet’s response.
Hesitation.
Then Ratchet accepted it, all of it, meeting passion with desire, his thoughts winding into Ironhide’s with a note of wildness, of irresponsibility and discarded control.
Ironhide latched onto that thread with a growl of hunger in return.
This was still too raw for any teasing or play. With trembling thoughts and fingers, Ratchet stroked him, a scattershot of pleasure along his neural cabling and deep in his spark. They groaned together. In response, Ironhide gave Ratchet everything he was and everything he wanted, desire so keen it registered as potent pain, a shared ache of need and loss and love. Ratchet reached back into him with sharp strands of pleasure, tremors of sensation. Neither of them bothered with stimulating memory; they both wanted the moment.
This moment. The next.
Shuddering, Ironhide ground them against each other, the pressure powerful enough that the armor at the edges of Ratchet’s chest warped under the force. Ratchet cried out, but not in protest, his hands tightening, fingers dragging along circuitry and tugging hard at wiring-bringing them as close as physically possible without the readjustment of components, the crushing of delicate systems.
“Yes,” Ratchet whispered, voice rising, processors turning repetitious with excitement. “Yes. Yes yes...” Ironhide pressed him flat against the berth, shaking too hard for audible sound, his spark thrumming out the basic thread of his fundamental being.
Won’t hurt you.
It was a deeper promise, too, an immediate vow.
Won’t let you be hurt.
Ratchet sobbed beneath him, softly screeching hums and vibrations, spark flaring with incandescent light. His thoughts wove into Ironhide’s, a beating rhythm and underlying strength of fervent agreement. Please. Yes. Please.
Yes
Unusual harmony, perfect cadence, and Ratchet held back, Ironhide pushed just enough, and they surged together with a force beyond anything Ironhide had experienced in countless vorns. Pleasure sizzled through his wiring, feedback offlined his optics, and he heard a keening cry in Ratchet’s voice that wrapped them both in a bright, hot burst of electrical discharge and brilliantly grateful desire.
He had the presence of mind to roll them over, Ratchet’s lighter form over his heavier frame, and then he lay still and sometimes shuddering, waiting for the gradual return to full function with his thoughts and Ratchet’s still aligned.
They mirrored each other, strange symmetry in the aftermath, like hands touching hands at each fingertip. Ironhide felt the liquid warmth in Ratchet’s wiring, the lingering ache in his spark, pleasure with a steadying touch of pain. He knew what Ratchet felt in return-the strain in his joints, the relief so physical that it touched all his wiring with heat. The union of their sparks transcended the separation of bodies. It seemed particularly deep, so much so that Ironhide couldn’t tell which of them reached out, but he knew when Ratchet slid conscious care over the open framework of his memory, spreading cool comfort over old scars, signs of pain both recent and ancient.
Altogether willing, he split himself ever more thoroughly open, welcoming Ratchet’s consciousness into the folds of his own. Always a healer, Ratchet touched thoughts like the tips of fingers to the lingering pain of old losses, and Ironhide gave an inward flinch but pressed himself into that caress.
You loved her.
Ironhide shuddered a bit, reaching back to stroke Ratchet’s thoughts in return. We were a good match.
A slide of condolence against sorrow, probing so gently that Ironhide gave up the memory without hesitation, images he hadn’t viewed for long vorns. Light striking dark and pain slashing through both hips, and Chromia came apart in front him, long tangles of wire and metal scattering molten in shards, and Ironhide couldn’t suppress a low murmur of shattered anguish. Even so, it was a shadow, more memory than present emotion. Ratchet caught him, soothed him, and Ironhide welcomed his presence with an affection far different but no less intense.
He pulled Ratchet in, like arms wrapping over arms, a complete embrace. The medical officer pressed forth a silent question, and he offered the simple answer. Bumblebee was his conduit, had brought him through that loss, but Ironhide had chosen to remember her by never forgetting that pain.
Meant what I said. Ironhide ran his thoughts and his fingers through Ratchet’s framework. I want you. But I don’t need you to fix what isn’t broken anymore.
Hesitant but earnest, he grazed his thoughts over the untouched shadows of Ratchet’s memory, offering the same sort of comfort in return, but Ratchet pulled back, a gentle negative, and Ironhide didn’t push. They drifted into and out of each other, instead, letting the connection carry them until systems recovered and stabilized, until the heavy rush of intakes and vents steadied and softened. Body became as noticeable as mind again, and Ratchet was a pleasantly limp weight against his chest. Ironhide left himself inwardly open, unashamedly willing to rest spark to spark, keeping nothing back.
“I can’t give you that,” Ratchet said into the silence.
Ironhide knew what he meant. “I didn’t ask for it.” Chromia had kept her secrets, too-for a long, long time. He’d had his own discomforts to hide back then, but these days he no longer felt the need for such intense inner armor.
Unsettled, Ratchet’s thoughts jostled against the edges of their connection, wary despite the reassurance. That worry rippled outward, touching different reference points, circling back to failure and fear and Wheeljack. And Bumblebee.
“Talk to me,” Ironhide said.
Ratchet sighed through his vents. “About what. You know where my mind is.”
He slid a heavy hand along Ratchet’s back, slow circles with one palm. “Is there really nothing else to be done?”
Silence. Then an answer. “I don’t know. But the option left is one I dislike.”
Thinking at first that Ratchet must know of something arcane, something uncommon and dangerous, he felt a sudden jolt when a much simpler, much more terrible solution presented itself. Bumblebee.
Ratchet answered him aloud. “Yes.”
“How can you ask it?” Ironhide murmured, then wished he could withdraw the note of accusation. But they remained connected, enough so that Ratchet could judge his intention alongside his words. Strands of memory caught the dim, warm light between them, Bumblebee with his hands buried in Ratchet’s chest, Bumblebee with his optics offlining in pure and glorious ecstasy, Bumblebee jerking away with bemused fear in every nuance of his expression.
Ratchet’s vents hissed in a heavy sigh. “I don’t know if I can.” A gradual, disturbing tremble worked its way through his frame, into his spark. “He...does not view duty as an option. And he will consider this a duty, above all else.”
Despite his best efforts, Ironhide had no reassurance to offer him, and simply shook his head, voice low as he asked, “Why should he succeed, when you didn’t?”
“He knows Wheeljack as I do not.” Ironhide stilled, considering the weight of that advantage, and the methods behind Bumblebee’s particular sort of offered comfort-what he understood of them, in any case. “Besides,” Ratchet continued, “we have very different ways of making connections. Every conduit does, regardless of training.”
Ironhide rubbed his fingertips upward over Ratchet’s back, settling in to stroke the treads of the tires partially buried in each shoulder joint. “That’s true.” Bumblebee gave all of himself, unhesitating, and given the opportunity he would dig deeper inside to offer more. Ratchet’s skill distracted from his unwillingness-or inability-to give much of himself at all. Ironhide liked to think he’d seen more of Ratchet’s spark than had a majority of the former conduit’s partners.
You aren’t a partner. Ratchet’s thoughts coiled around his, heavy and still uneasy at the core. Not like those.
Good.
Ironhide offered as much satisfaction as he dared, hands gentling even further, but spoke aloud after a cycle or two. “How will you tell him?” Ratchet was right-Bumblebee could not, would not refuse, but Ironhide hated to think how attempting a spark connection so soon after Starscream’s assault might hurt their youngest soldier.
Optics flickering dark, Ratchet covered Ironhide’s satisfaction with a ghost of acknowledgement. “Not before tomorrow,” he said, failing entirely to answer the question.
“Tomorrow,” murmured Ironhide. That sounded like dismissal, in both action and tone, and he steeled himself for the conclusion he had expected, in the unlikely event Ratchet ever had allowed him more than a platonic touch. He began to withdraw, untangling their thoughts, a gradual process of winding back into himself. Then Ratchet shocked him, caught and clung, fingers and thoughts holding him in place and pulling him closer.
“Stay,” he said.
So unexpectedly, fiercely tender like this, Ratchet was irresistible. Ironhide didn’t need to say yes, so he didn’t say anything, just anchored mind against mind and eased them back together, holding tight as long as holding was allowed.
*****