FIC: Between a Car and a Hard Place (Human Series)
Title: Between a Car and a Hard Place
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: TF: Bayverse
Series: Human Series: Chapter: 52
Pairings: Sam/Bumblebee, Ratchet/Optimus, Mikaela/Prowl
Notes: I don't really post on livejournal anymore, all my newer stories are on AO3, but heck, this series started here so it feels right to add it, even if no one sees it. :)
The seats inside Bumblebee looked and felt like leather, a good enough impersonation to fool anyone who didn’t get right up close enough to notice they didn’t actually smell like leather. Which honestly made perfect sense, of course they didn’t, it wasn’t like they’d been raising space cows on Cybertron. Sam knew the seats weren’t leather, just like he knew there was no plastic in the fenders, no steel in the frame. He didn’t know what Autobots were actually made of, he’d never thought to ask, but lying here with his face pressed into those not-leather seats while recovering from Bumblebee’s scan was probably not the time to start.
Bumblebee’s kiss was still tingling through him or maybe that was an aftereffect of the scan. His nerves were still twanging from whatever Bee had done to him, skittering pins-and-needles over his skin. Bee himself was straddling Sam’s hips, the weight of his holo offering little comfort. After the events of the past few days, what little sleep had Sam managed couldn’t begin to combat his exhaustion and what he wouldn’t give to be back home, back in their warm, comfortable bed-
Except he didn’t even know if home was there anymore or if they’d ever be going back. Again. The second home he’d lost in as many months and Sam felt…nothing. Only that same bone-deep exhaustion.
“Am I...did he…” Sam didn’t even know what he was asking. Outside, the darkness was complete, a fingernail crescent of moon hanging sky offering no light. Nothing but the vast emptiness of the desert and Sam shivered, hunching down further into the seats.
“I couldn’t see any sign of virus.” Bee leaned in closer to dab at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and Sam wondered if he’d been drooling while Bumblebee checked out his inner workings. He’d be embarrassed if he could feel anything past uncomfortably numb. “When it comes to the arena of viral scanning, I’m a few steps above talented amateur and a few below expert. I’m comfortable enough with my assessment to recommend someone else could safely doublecheck my work. I'm also not a medic, but my scans seem to indicate he took a sample of your cerebral fluid."
"Uck," Sam shivered uncontrollably with old memories of his Dungeons and Dragons phase, extraterrestrial robots taking on the role of mindflayer. "Why would he do that?"
"I wish I knew." Bee hunched over to bury his face into the hollow of Sam’s collarbone, inhaling deeply. There, that was a tingle of some emotion, just a flicker of warmth, a candlelight in the darkness. "This is far beyond my purview, Sam.”
Sam managed a cracked, dry chuckle. How had he even managed to drool with how dry his mouth was; they’d left the hamburgers and drinks behind, they’d need to find someplace to stop. Next time they’d have to pack some kind of go-bag, snacks and drinks, maybe some extra clothes-only he’d really prefer if next time remained as a hypothetical. He rested his cheek on top of Bumblebee’s head and said, "If you haven't noticed, I'm neck deep in shit myself."
A surprised huff of air blew ticklishly against his neck, almost a laugh. "Yes, well, I think we need to consult an expert in the realm of ‘neck deep’. Ratchet needs to look you over. He's one of the best viral code hackers I've ever met."
“Yeah?” Sam shifted up on one elbow, looking down at Bee skeptically, “The way I remember it, he didn’t do so well last time.”
Bumblebee waved that off. “That virus was particularly virulent and fast moving. If he’d gotten to it sooner, things might be much different right now.”
Maybe, and as happy as he would be to be able to ditch his little robotic hitchhikers, there was no guarantee things wouldn’t have ended up worse. If Ratchet hadn’t brought him along, if he hadn’t needed to say goodbye and unintentionally given his immune system a chance to pit itself against the virus. “Different is not the same as better.”
“True.”
The warmth of Bumblebee’s holoform against him was soothing, warmer than normal, maybe he was increasing his body heat for Sam. It was possible, other holos always seemed to feel cooler, sometimes too cool, like Sunstreaker…like that Decepticon and Sam shivered again, helplessly, wrapped both arms around Bee in an effort to absorb more of that warmth. "Do you think it's safe to contact them?"
Bee gave him a lopsided shrug, jostling his arms. "I don’t know. You scanned clean, but as I said, it could be buried past my ability to detect.” He made a sound of frustration. “It makes no sense; if the Decepticons were going to take you, they could have. So why didn’t they?"
"Not the Decepticons. One Decepticon."
"That's true. One Decepticon, who might have his own reasons. Decepticons can border on radical with their loyalty, but certainly enough of them have their own agendas. " He pushed up on his elbow and frowned down at Sam, his expression barely visible in the dashboard lights. "He gave no indication at all of his designation?"
“He said he wasn’t Barricade.”
“No, I’d already guessed that. Unless he’s very recently upgraded, he couldn’t possibly cloak from my scans.” He sighed. “But I also wasn’t scanning constantly, I couldn’t without increasing the possibility of someone breaking through my cloak. I can’t be sure if that’s how we were found or if Ravager was simply able to triangulate possible future locations based on our position last night and sent it out before I offlined him.”
“You’re sure he was-“ Sam swallowed around the thickness in his throat, “offlined?”
“Very.”
“So it couldn’t have been him. This guy had red hair and the way he looked,” Sam shuddered, gorge rising and sourness lingering at the back of his mouth. “I thought Sunstreaker was crazy, but his eyes, the way he talked.” He raised his hands helplessly “There was something just off about him, it’s hard to describe.”
Bumblebee considered. “Can you show me?”
“Show you?”
“The same way you’d send a message to me,” Bumblebee said, “send me a picture of him. It’s all data, a picture should transfer as well as words.”
“Oh. I can try.” Sam screwed up his face and focused on his memory, making it as clear as he could in his thoughts before he pushed it towards Bumblebee the same way he’d sent words earlier. At first, he wasn’t sure it worked; it felt a lot like when he’d been a little kid trying to use the Force on his toys after his parents took him to see Star Wars, only as a kid he hadn’t felt like a failure when it didn’t work. He was about to try again when Bee let out a sound, not from his holo but from his engine, a snarling rev that was almost a growl.
Above him, Bee exhaled through clenched teeth. “Starscream. Yes. If there is any Decepticon with an agenda of their own, it would be him.”
Sam looked away from him and out the window into the darkness, remembering another night, when he’d taken off in a stupid panic trying to…what? Prove something, to himself, to Bumblebee, and all he’d done was put them in more danger than he could have ever expected. "This is all my fault. He wouldn’t have been interested in my brain fluids if I’d just stayed on base like I was supposed to."
Bumblebee made a soft sound of denial. "They would have learned the truth eventually. We couldn't hope to keep it concealed from their spies forever."
Sam wasn’t so sure about that. "They wouldn't have figured it out so fast if I hadn’t gone into town and Barricade hadn’t gotten a front row seat."
"Perhaps," Bee agreed softly. "Perhaps not. There's no point in second guessing now.”
Sam thought there was plenty of point in it, but he could wallow in that guilt later. "Could they do what Sunstreaker said? Could they use me to bring back Megatron?"
In his lap, Bee moved restlessly, as if trying to physically avoid the question. "I don't know," Bumblebee said finally, reluctantly. "Your receptors are barely more than a scattering of dust in terms of size but considering the power of the Allspark, if they removed them all, found a way to replicate them en masse, it's possible," he admitted, his arms around Sam tightening to the point of discomfort. "But you wouldn't survive the process."
"Was this another thing you and Ratchet were going to tell me about later?" Sam asked, a little acidly. Yeah, they were trying to protect him, he got that, but for once it would be nice to be in the know before the consequences came pounding on his door.
"I hadn't even considered it a possibility, much less anything that required confession," Bumblebee sighed. "It seems obvious now. But I don't believe Ratchet considered it, either. Your energy signature is so minuscule, your receptors are so few compared to a mech, but if they found a way to replicate…or to communicate with them," Bumblebee said suddenly, shifting to sit up. "If they were in possession of the genetic blueprint to the Allspark they might be able to--of all the pit-spawned glitched things to not think of!" He hit his forehead with a closed fist. “He doesn’t mean to resurrect Megatron, he means to recreate the Allspark itself! I never even conceived the possibility and Starscream of all mechs--”
"Neither did anyone else," Sam drew his knees up and rested his chin on his knees. "So if the other Decepticons get me, they could, what? Dissect me for parts and make a new Allspark?"
"You have the makings of the Allspark within you," Bee said with whispered horror. "Oh, Sam. What have we done to you?"
"You didn't do anything, none of you," Sam said fiercely. "If I'm not allowed to blame myself for this shit then neither are you! It's the Decepticons who did this."
“We need to get to Ratchet,” Bee said decisively. “Now.”
Before Bumblebee could roll away from him or even disappear, Sam tightened his hold. “Um, maybe not right this second?” he said, meekly, even as he rolled his hips up against Bee.
For the first time since they’d began, Bumblebee looked less than enthusiastic about the idea of sex. Only a brief glimpse of impatience before it was masked and Sam swallowed hard, wishing he didn’t have to ask for this.
“I could just…you know…” Sam gestured feebly, the tried-and-true jerking motion. “You don’t have to-”
A gentle kiss cut off his words, warm hands teasing at his waistband, “No,” Bumblebee murmured warmly into his mouth, “I’d rather not try driving with any distractions. And you, love, always hold my attention.”
Any other protest, feeble or otherwise, quickly dissolved into moans and if Bee was trying to hurry him along, it sure didn’t show.
Over the long years of the war, Ratchet had unfortunately become very adept at operating under less-than-optimal conditions. When he’d took his vows as a medic so long ago, never had he expected in the not-too-distant future to be caught up in an all out war leading from Cybertron to kneeling in mud of some Primus forsaken dwarf planet with acid rain hissing down on his armor as he tore through the chest plate of another wounded mech in a desperate attempt to save their life while munitions thundered overhead, a counterpoint to the equal thundering of the clouds roiling above them.
Millenia later he was here on Earth, and operating on tiny humans whose systems he’d only spent a year studying with insistent need prickling at the back of his processors was nowhere near the top of the list for worst conditions for surgery, but it was certainly on that list. That need was getting harder to ignore, a distraction that he did not need, and if Sam’s receptors requiring frequent recharges was inconvenient, then on a medic it was simply unacceptable. As the only medical officer currently available, he often spent days at a time in surgery, he couldn’t ask his patients to pretty please hold on a moment while he dragged Optimus away from his equally important work to satisfy the needs of a few slagging ancient rudimentary bastards who adamantly refused to accept the energy humming tantalizingly close from his own systems, oh, no, only a buffet in the form of overloading close to a Prime was acceptable to those little slaggers.
It was a problem that needed an answer and soon. What a shame that he was starting to run out of solutions.
Ratchet shoved that increasingly persistent need to the back of his processors again, carrying his latest Human patient from surgery and settling him gently beneath the monitors. If anyone were to look at the Human, they’d see undamaged skin on his chest with no sign of the ugly damage there only hours ago. No visible sign but simple scan would show scars beneath the surface, carefully precise repairs to bone and organs. The Human himself would never be able to see it, would never know exactly what Ratchet had done to save his life and that was fine by him. The soldier would still have to live with the trauma of what happened but that was far out of Ratchet’s department.
Ratchet took a moment to check on the patients still waiting for their turn under the laser scalpel. Epps, now elevated to his highest concern, was still sleeping peacefully as the nanites worked on his leg. So long as Epps was stable, Ratchet intended to put his surgery off till the last; the damage was significant enough that Ratchet estimated it would require several hours of work, perhaps less if Jolt were able to assist. There were two other humans who required minor surgery and then twins were still waiting to be onlined again, for better or worse.
The others were impatient for that, messaging him frequently for updates on when he’d be able to revive the twins for more questioning on the whereabouts of Bumblebee and the other humans and with every inquiry, Ratchet’s replies were getting more terse, beginning to verge on vulgar. Ratchet didn’t damn well care what anyone else wanted. It did not sit well with him to endanger the injured by onlining them for useless questioning and the deeper he probed into their injuries, the less he believed they’d be any assistance at all. The physical damage was extensive, the spark damage indeterminate, and their memory of the battle was likely to be scrambled and even if it weren’t, he highly doubted there was any useful information they could provide anyway, it wasn’t as if Bumblebee would have left them a map, now was it.
Like a sparkless demon called down by his irritable thoughts, the door swooped open and even as his spark surged in hopes that it was Optimus, his mood sank as Prowl came in.
::If you’re here to bitch about the Twins, I am in no way prepared to power them back up yet,:: Ratchet sent. His patients needed their rest and did not need to be woken by the argument he suspected was coming.
::I do not ‘bitch’, as you say:: Prowl replied coolly and Ratchet reminded himself that he actually did like Prowl, they’d been friends for years, and the fact that his serene tones scraped over Ratchet’s rawness like metal claws was no excuse to throw anything at him. Yet. But with his next calm words, the urge instantly doubled. ::The humans are talking about transferring us to a more secure location.::
“No!” Ratchet burst out before he caught himself, sending the rest in a furious data spat, ::I'm not going anywhere. None of the humans are stable enough to travel yet and I'm not letting half of them die on anyone's say so. Side-:: he cut himself off impatiently. ::He is in no condition to be moved and I've not been able to do anything for Blaster other than transfuse him. I'm staying right here.::
::I concur. I was not suggesting otherwise,:: Prowl said mildly and Ratchet resisted the renewed urge to throw the spanner he was holding directly at Prowl's head. He needed it and if Prowl didn't duck in time, it would just give him one more thing to fix. ::But speaking of them as you were, did you have anything new to report about the Twins?::
::Not here.:: He led Prowl to the Autobot side of the infirmary, where the patients there would be undisturbed by any shouts or tossed equipment. While he’d been in surgery, someone, Jolt, perhaps, had sealed off the shattered window with a sheet of plywood and cleaned up some of the filth and broken glass blown in with it. Blocking out the wind and dust but also the sunlight, leaving the room darker, gloomy, not helped at all by the shrouded form of Sunstreaker still in one corner.
Normally, if the deceased were able to be recovered, they would be stored until a memorial of some sort could be arranged, and then disposed of. He suspected the Humans would be aghast to know he regularly gutted out deactivated mechs for parts to use in repairs. There was a time he would have been aghast as well, but as supply lines dwindled, practicality overwrote sentiment. When it came to the living vs the dead, there was only one choice to be made, ghoulish as it might seem to some.
In Sunstreaker’s case, though, Ratchet was at a loss. Caught in limbo with his spark bound to his brother’s, Sunstreaker was currently more misplaced than gone, dead and not dead. Even if Ratchet had the time, and he did not, he couldn’t imagine disassembling Sunstreaker, not until he was absolutely certain their sparks couldn’t be split again.
He gestured at the silver mech laid out on the table then at Sunsteaker’s shrouded form. “Does this give you any new information?” Ratchet said acidly, “As I’ve said multiple times, they are not ready to be onlined, not until we’ve had a chance to work on them more, something that would be easier without constant interruptions. By the way, thanks for reminding me that Jolt has medical training,” Ratchet finished, sullenly. The little blue mech was being very helpful, eagerly taking on any task assigned to him until Ratchet caught him swaying on his feet and sent him off to recharge, a luxury Ratchet could ill afford himself right now.
That Prowl’s armor was showing signs of recent wash, gleaming mellowly in the low light and perking the interest of his recalcitrant new receptors was not helping his mood.
“Because you so often take my advice? You weren't listening to Optimus, odds were low you'd listen to me.” Still that same cool tone and Ratchet itched to see if removing his language centers next time he needed any servicing temporarily changed Prowl’s tune.
Not that he would, that would be highly unethical. But then so was offlining Decepticons and gutting them for parts…Ratchet exvented sharply, “Prowl, if you don't have anything useful to say then get the hell out of my infirmary.”
"Actually, I do. We've received a message from Bumblebee."
Ratchet jerked his head to look at Prowl so quickly his joints creaked a protest, "They're alive?"
Prowl nodded evenly. "Or they were twenty minutes ago. He gave us the coordinates of where Mikaela and Samuel Witwicky’s parents are. We've already sent a team to retrieve them.”
And hadn’t told him, of course. When they wanted information, it was paramount, when he might have more injured coming to his infirmary, it was an afterthought.
“What about Sam and Bee?” Ratchet demanded. Prowl only shook his head and Ratchet let out a particularly foul curse in Cybertronian. “Why would he divide their team?”
“He did not say.”
And Prowl refused to guess. Ratchet resisted the urge to snark about too much logic overriding common sense, the Human phrase ‘touch grass’ was remarkable apt. Not that he would mind getting a little closer to touching Prowl, with his sleek armor and commanding tones-
He cut that thought off with no small amount of horror, turning away abruptly. If Prowl was starting to seem appealing, he needed to see Optimus sooner rather than later. “I need to get back into surgery.”
“You need Optimus.”
Ratchet whirled back around furiously, “Did Ironhide-"
“Ironhide hasn’t revealed anything to me, my own observations tell me all I needed to know.” That coolness was gone now, sharpening with command enough for Ratchet to flinch. “You, however, should have told me yourself. I need all pertinent information about the state of our troops to be able to strategize, including about the condition of our medics. If there is anything impeding your duties, I need to know immediately, not when you deem it important enough to mention.”
The sharpness of the rebuke irked, anger warring with shame, because Prowl was correct, damn him, his embarrassment was no excuse for keeping a possible viral incident from Prowl, even one that was more inconvenient than debilitating. “I was planning on it after I spoke to Optimus.”
Prowl said nothing, only regarded him with those steady optics and every word he did not say, Ratchet could easily fill in for himself. Finally, Prowl said, “I will send Optimus to you as soon as he is available.”
The timorous desire that wormed its way past his firewalls was growing the longer Prowl was close and Ratchet forced himself to turn away and said, reluctantly, “Sooner, if possible.”
A moment of silence, then he heard Prowl take a few hasty steps backwards towards the door, once again proving that Prowl was very observant, indeed. “Understood.”
The door opened and closed as Prowl left, if not with unseemly haste than with a healthy respect for keeping Ratchet and his hungry receptors at arms-length
Ratchet exhaled shakily and went back to check the Human’s monitors, firmly ignoring the increasing need. “Intolerable,” he muttered beneath his breath and there was no one awake to hear him.
tbc
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: TF: Bayverse
Series: Human Series: Chapter: 52
Pairings: Sam/Bumblebee, Ratchet/Optimus, Mikaela/Prowl
Notes: I don't really post on livejournal anymore, all my newer stories are on AO3, but heck, this series started here so it feels right to add it, even if no one sees it. :)
The seats inside Bumblebee looked and felt like leather, a good enough impersonation to fool anyone who didn’t get right up close enough to notice they didn’t actually smell like leather. Which honestly made perfect sense, of course they didn’t, it wasn’t like they’d been raising space cows on Cybertron. Sam knew the seats weren’t leather, just like he knew there was no plastic in the fenders, no steel in the frame. He didn’t know what Autobots were actually made of, he’d never thought to ask, but lying here with his face pressed into those not-leather seats while recovering from Bumblebee’s scan was probably not the time to start.
Bumblebee’s kiss was still tingling through him or maybe that was an aftereffect of the scan. His nerves were still twanging from whatever Bee had done to him, skittering pins-and-needles over his skin. Bee himself was straddling Sam’s hips, the weight of his holo offering little comfort. After the events of the past few days, what little sleep had Sam managed couldn’t begin to combat his exhaustion and what he wouldn’t give to be back home, back in their warm, comfortable bed-
Except he didn’t even know if home was there anymore or if they’d ever be going back. Again. The second home he’d lost in as many months and Sam felt…nothing. Only that same bone-deep exhaustion.
“Am I...did he…” Sam didn’t even know what he was asking. Outside, the darkness was complete, a fingernail crescent of moon hanging sky offering no light. Nothing but the vast emptiness of the desert and Sam shivered, hunching down further into the seats.
“I couldn’t see any sign of virus.” Bee leaned in closer to dab at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and Sam wondered if he’d been drooling while Bumblebee checked out his inner workings. He’d be embarrassed if he could feel anything past uncomfortably numb. “When it comes to the arena of viral scanning, I’m a few steps above talented amateur and a few below expert. I’m comfortable enough with my assessment to recommend someone else could safely doublecheck my work. I'm also not a medic, but my scans seem to indicate he took a sample of your cerebral fluid."
"Uck," Sam shivered uncontrollably with old memories of his Dungeons and Dragons phase, extraterrestrial robots taking on the role of mindflayer. "Why would he do that?"
"I wish I knew." Bee hunched over to bury his face into the hollow of Sam’s collarbone, inhaling deeply. There, that was a tingle of some emotion, just a flicker of warmth, a candlelight in the darkness. "This is far beyond my purview, Sam.”
Sam managed a cracked, dry chuckle. How had he even managed to drool with how dry his mouth was; they’d left the hamburgers and drinks behind, they’d need to find someplace to stop. Next time they’d have to pack some kind of go-bag, snacks and drinks, maybe some extra clothes-only he’d really prefer if next time remained as a hypothetical. He rested his cheek on top of Bumblebee’s head and said, "If you haven't noticed, I'm neck deep in shit myself."
A surprised huff of air blew ticklishly against his neck, almost a laugh. "Yes, well, I think we need to consult an expert in the realm of ‘neck deep’. Ratchet needs to look you over. He's one of the best viral code hackers I've ever met."
“Yeah?” Sam shifted up on one elbow, looking down at Bee skeptically, “The way I remember it, he didn’t do so well last time.”
Bumblebee waved that off. “That virus was particularly virulent and fast moving. If he’d gotten to it sooner, things might be much different right now.”
Maybe, and as happy as he would be to be able to ditch his little robotic hitchhikers, there was no guarantee things wouldn’t have ended up worse. If Ratchet hadn’t brought him along, if he hadn’t needed to say goodbye and unintentionally given his immune system a chance to pit itself against the virus. “Different is not the same as better.”
“True.”
The warmth of Bumblebee’s holoform against him was soothing, warmer than normal, maybe he was increasing his body heat for Sam. It was possible, other holos always seemed to feel cooler, sometimes too cool, like Sunstreaker…like that Decepticon and Sam shivered again, helplessly, wrapped both arms around Bee in an effort to absorb more of that warmth. "Do you think it's safe to contact them?"
Bee gave him a lopsided shrug, jostling his arms. "I don’t know. You scanned clean, but as I said, it could be buried past my ability to detect.” He made a sound of frustration. “It makes no sense; if the Decepticons were going to take you, they could have. So why didn’t they?"
"Not the Decepticons. One Decepticon."
"That's true. One Decepticon, who might have his own reasons. Decepticons can border on radical with their loyalty, but certainly enough of them have their own agendas. " He pushed up on his elbow and frowned down at Sam, his expression barely visible in the dashboard lights. "He gave no indication at all of his designation?"
“He said he wasn’t Barricade.”
“No, I’d already guessed that. Unless he’s very recently upgraded, he couldn’t possibly cloak from my scans.” He sighed. “But I also wasn’t scanning constantly, I couldn’t without increasing the possibility of someone breaking through my cloak. I can’t be sure if that’s how we were found or if Ravager was simply able to triangulate possible future locations based on our position last night and sent it out before I offlined him.”
“You’re sure he was-“ Sam swallowed around the thickness in his throat, “offlined?”
“Very.”
“So it couldn’t have been him. This guy had red hair and the way he looked,” Sam shuddered, gorge rising and sourness lingering at the back of his mouth. “I thought Sunstreaker was crazy, but his eyes, the way he talked.” He raised his hands helplessly “There was something just off about him, it’s hard to describe.”
Bumblebee considered. “Can you show me?”
“Show you?”
“The same way you’d send a message to me,” Bumblebee said, “send me a picture of him. It’s all data, a picture should transfer as well as words.”
“Oh. I can try.” Sam screwed up his face and focused on his memory, making it as clear as he could in his thoughts before he pushed it towards Bumblebee the same way he’d sent words earlier. At first, he wasn’t sure it worked; it felt a lot like when he’d been a little kid trying to use the Force on his toys after his parents took him to see Star Wars, only as a kid he hadn’t felt like a failure when it didn’t work. He was about to try again when Bee let out a sound, not from his holo but from his engine, a snarling rev that was almost a growl.
Above him, Bee exhaled through clenched teeth. “Starscream. Yes. If there is any Decepticon with an agenda of their own, it would be him.”
Sam looked away from him and out the window into the darkness, remembering another night, when he’d taken off in a stupid panic trying to…what? Prove something, to himself, to Bumblebee, and all he’d done was put them in more danger than he could have ever expected. "This is all my fault. He wouldn’t have been interested in my brain fluids if I’d just stayed on base like I was supposed to."
Bumblebee made a soft sound of denial. "They would have learned the truth eventually. We couldn't hope to keep it concealed from their spies forever."
Sam wasn’t so sure about that. "They wouldn't have figured it out so fast if I hadn’t gone into town and Barricade hadn’t gotten a front row seat."
"Perhaps," Bee agreed softly. "Perhaps not. There's no point in second guessing now.”
Sam thought there was plenty of point in it, but he could wallow in that guilt later. "Could they do what Sunstreaker said? Could they use me to bring back Megatron?"
In his lap, Bee moved restlessly, as if trying to physically avoid the question. "I don't know," Bumblebee said finally, reluctantly. "Your receptors are barely more than a scattering of dust in terms of size but considering the power of the Allspark, if they removed them all, found a way to replicate them en masse, it's possible," he admitted, his arms around Sam tightening to the point of discomfort. "But you wouldn't survive the process."
"Was this another thing you and Ratchet were going to tell me about later?" Sam asked, a little acidly. Yeah, they were trying to protect him, he got that, but for once it would be nice to be in the know before the consequences came pounding on his door.
"I hadn't even considered it a possibility, much less anything that required confession," Bumblebee sighed. "It seems obvious now. But I don't believe Ratchet considered it, either. Your energy signature is so minuscule, your receptors are so few compared to a mech, but if they found a way to replicate…or to communicate with them," Bumblebee said suddenly, shifting to sit up. "If they were in possession of the genetic blueprint to the Allspark they might be able to--of all the pit-spawned glitched things to not think of!" He hit his forehead with a closed fist. “He doesn’t mean to resurrect Megatron, he means to recreate the Allspark itself! I never even conceived the possibility and Starscream of all mechs--”
"Neither did anyone else," Sam drew his knees up and rested his chin on his knees. "So if the other Decepticons get me, they could, what? Dissect me for parts and make a new Allspark?"
"You have the makings of the Allspark within you," Bee said with whispered horror. "Oh, Sam. What have we done to you?"
"You didn't do anything, none of you," Sam said fiercely. "If I'm not allowed to blame myself for this shit then neither are you! It's the Decepticons who did this."
“We need to get to Ratchet,” Bee said decisively. “Now.”
Before Bumblebee could roll away from him or even disappear, Sam tightened his hold. “Um, maybe not right this second?” he said, meekly, even as he rolled his hips up against Bee.
For the first time since they’d began, Bumblebee looked less than enthusiastic about the idea of sex. Only a brief glimpse of impatience before it was masked and Sam swallowed hard, wishing he didn’t have to ask for this.
“I could just…you know…” Sam gestured feebly, the tried-and-true jerking motion. “You don’t have to-”
A gentle kiss cut off his words, warm hands teasing at his waistband, “No,” Bumblebee murmured warmly into his mouth, “I’d rather not try driving with any distractions. And you, love, always hold my attention.”
Any other protest, feeble or otherwise, quickly dissolved into moans and if Bee was trying to hurry him along, it sure didn’t show.
Over the long years of the war, Ratchet had unfortunately become very adept at operating under less-than-optimal conditions. When he’d took his vows as a medic so long ago, never had he expected in the not-too-distant future to be caught up in an all out war leading from Cybertron to kneeling in mud of some Primus forsaken dwarf planet with acid rain hissing down on his armor as he tore through the chest plate of another wounded mech in a desperate attempt to save their life while munitions thundered overhead, a counterpoint to the equal thundering of the clouds roiling above them.
Millenia later he was here on Earth, and operating on tiny humans whose systems he’d only spent a year studying with insistent need prickling at the back of his processors was nowhere near the top of the list for worst conditions for surgery, but it was certainly on that list. That need was getting harder to ignore, a distraction that he did not need, and if Sam’s receptors requiring frequent recharges was inconvenient, then on a medic it was simply unacceptable. As the only medical officer currently available, he often spent days at a time in surgery, he couldn’t ask his patients to pretty please hold on a moment while he dragged Optimus away from his equally important work to satisfy the needs of a few slagging ancient rudimentary bastards who adamantly refused to accept the energy humming tantalizingly close from his own systems, oh, no, only a buffet in the form of overloading close to a Prime was acceptable to those little slaggers.
It was a problem that needed an answer and soon. What a shame that he was starting to run out of solutions.
Ratchet shoved that increasingly persistent need to the back of his processors again, carrying his latest Human patient from surgery and settling him gently beneath the monitors. If anyone were to look at the Human, they’d see undamaged skin on his chest with no sign of the ugly damage there only hours ago. No visible sign but simple scan would show scars beneath the surface, carefully precise repairs to bone and organs. The Human himself would never be able to see it, would never know exactly what Ratchet had done to save his life and that was fine by him. The soldier would still have to live with the trauma of what happened but that was far out of Ratchet’s department.
Ratchet took a moment to check on the patients still waiting for their turn under the laser scalpel. Epps, now elevated to his highest concern, was still sleeping peacefully as the nanites worked on his leg. So long as Epps was stable, Ratchet intended to put his surgery off till the last; the damage was significant enough that Ratchet estimated it would require several hours of work, perhaps less if Jolt were able to assist. There were two other humans who required minor surgery and then twins were still waiting to be onlined again, for better or worse.
The others were impatient for that, messaging him frequently for updates on when he’d be able to revive the twins for more questioning on the whereabouts of Bumblebee and the other humans and with every inquiry, Ratchet’s replies were getting more terse, beginning to verge on vulgar. Ratchet didn’t damn well care what anyone else wanted. It did not sit well with him to endanger the injured by onlining them for useless questioning and the deeper he probed into their injuries, the less he believed they’d be any assistance at all. The physical damage was extensive, the spark damage indeterminate, and their memory of the battle was likely to be scrambled and even if it weren’t, he highly doubted there was any useful information they could provide anyway, it wasn’t as if Bumblebee would have left them a map, now was it.
Like a sparkless demon called down by his irritable thoughts, the door swooped open and even as his spark surged in hopes that it was Optimus, his mood sank as Prowl came in.
::If you’re here to bitch about the Twins, I am in no way prepared to power them back up yet,:: Ratchet sent. His patients needed their rest and did not need to be woken by the argument he suspected was coming.
::I do not ‘bitch’, as you say:: Prowl replied coolly and Ratchet reminded himself that he actually did like Prowl, they’d been friends for years, and the fact that his serene tones scraped over Ratchet’s rawness like metal claws was no excuse to throw anything at him. Yet. But with his next calm words, the urge instantly doubled. ::The humans are talking about transferring us to a more secure location.::
“No!” Ratchet burst out before he caught himself, sending the rest in a furious data spat, ::I'm not going anywhere. None of the humans are stable enough to travel yet and I'm not letting half of them die on anyone's say so. Side-:: he cut himself off impatiently. ::He is in no condition to be moved and I've not been able to do anything for Blaster other than transfuse him. I'm staying right here.::
::I concur. I was not suggesting otherwise,:: Prowl said mildly and Ratchet resisted the renewed urge to throw the spanner he was holding directly at Prowl's head. He needed it and if Prowl didn't duck in time, it would just give him one more thing to fix. ::But speaking of them as you were, did you have anything new to report about the Twins?::
::Not here.:: He led Prowl to the Autobot side of the infirmary, where the patients there would be undisturbed by any shouts or tossed equipment. While he’d been in surgery, someone, Jolt, perhaps, had sealed off the shattered window with a sheet of plywood and cleaned up some of the filth and broken glass blown in with it. Blocking out the wind and dust but also the sunlight, leaving the room darker, gloomy, not helped at all by the shrouded form of Sunstreaker still in one corner.
Normally, if the deceased were able to be recovered, they would be stored until a memorial of some sort could be arranged, and then disposed of. He suspected the Humans would be aghast to know he regularly gutted out deactivated mechs for parts to use in repairs. There was a time he would have been aghast as well, but as supply lines dwindled, practicality overwrote sentiment. When it came to the living vs the dead, there was only one choice to be made, ghoulish as it might seem to some.
In Sunstreaker’s case, though, Ratchet was at a loss. Caught in limbo with his spark bound to his brother’s, Sunstreaker was currently more misplaced than gone, dead and not dead. Even if Ratchet had the time, and he did not, he couldn’t imagine disassembling Sunstreaker, not until he was absolutely certain their sparks couldn’t be split again.
He gestured at the silver mech laid out on the table then at Sunsteaker’s shrouded form. “Does this give you any new information?” Ratchet said acidly, “As I’ve said multiple times, they are not ready to be onlined, not until we’ve had a chance to work on them more, something that would be easier without constant interruptions. By the way, thanks for reminding me that Jolt has medical training,” Ratchet finished, sullenly. The little blue mech was being very helpful, eagerly taking on any task assigned to him until Ratchet caught him swaying on his feet and sent him off to recharge, a luxury Ratchet could ill afford himself right now.
That Prowl’s armor was showing signs of recent wash, gleaming mellowly in the low light and perking the interest of his recalcitrant new receptors was not helping his mood.
“Because you so often take my advice? You weren't listening to Optimus, odds were low you'd listen to me.” Still that same cool tone and Ratchet itched to see if removing his language centers next time he needed any servicing temporarily changed Prowl’s tune.
Not that he would, that would be highly unethical. But then so was offlining Decepticons and gutting them for parts…Ratchet exvented sharply, “Prowl, if you don't have anything useful to say then get the hell out of my infirmary.”
"Actually, I do. We've received a message from Bumblebee."
Ratchet jerked his head to look at Prowl so quickly his joints creaked a protest, "They're alive?"
Prowl nodded evenly. "Or they were twenty minutes ago. He gave us the coordinates of where Mikaela and Samuel Witwicky’s parents are. We've already sent a team to retrieve them.”
And hadn’t told him, of course. When they wanted information, it was paramount, when he might have more injured coming to his infirmary, it was an afterthought.
“What about Sam and Bee?” Ratchet demanded. Prowl only shook his head and Ratchet let out a particularly foul curse in Cybertronian. “Why would he divide their team?”
“He did not say.”
And Prowl refused to guess. Ratchet resisted the urge to snark about too much logic overriding common sense, the Human phrase ‘touch grass’ was remarkable apt. Not that he would mind getting a little closer to touching Prowl, with his sleek armor and commanding tones-
He cut that thought off with no small amount of horror, turning away abruptly. If Prowl was starting to seem appealing, he needed to see Optimus sooner rather than later. “I need to get back into surgery.”
“You need Optimus.”
Ratchet whirled back around furiously, “Did Ironhide-"
“Ironhide hasn’t revealed anything to me, my own observations tell me all I needed to know.” That coolness was gone now, sharpening with command enough for Ratchet to flinch. “You, however, should have told me yourself. I need all pertinent information about the state of our troops to be able to strategize, including about the condition of our medics. If there is anything impeding your duties, I need to know immediately, not when you deem it important enough to mention.”
The sharpness of the rebuke irked, anger warring with shame, because Prowl was correct, damn him, his embarrassment was no excuse for keeping a possible viral incident from Prowl, even one that was more inconvenient than debilitating. “I was planning on it after I spoke to Optimus.”
Prowl said nothing, only regarded him with those steady optics and every word he did not say, Ratchet could easily fill in for himself. Finally, Prowl said, “I will send Optimus to you as soon as he is available.”
The timorous desire that wormed its way past his firewalls was growing the longer Prowl was close and Ratchet forced himself to turn away and said, reluctantly, “Sooner, if possible.”
A moment of silence, then he heard Prowl take a few hasty steps backwards towards the door, once again proving that Prowl was very observant, indeed. “Understood.”
The door opened and closed as Prowl left, if not with unseemly haste than with a healthy respect for keeping Ratchet and his hungry receptors at arms-length
Ratchet exhaled shakily and went back to check the Human’s monitors, firmly ignoring the increasing need. “Intolerable,” he muttered beneath his breath and there was no one awake to hear him.
tbc