Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The situation during the raid on an Autobot supply depot had gone… south, to say the least. In the evacuation, Megatron had been somehow left behind. How dare they leave him behind! Him of all mechs. Left on the battlefield behind enemy lines.

Cowards.

Of course, he expected Starscream to leave him behind. That would simply be a normal business day. Soundwave, however, could usually be trusted to haul his unconscious frame off the field. This time, for whatever unknown reason, that didn’t happen.

He would deal with the lot of them when he returned to the Nemesis. Teach them to leave their leader behind. Maybe a few weeks in the brig (for Starscream) or extra patrol duties (for everyone else, except Soundwave) would remind them who was in charge in this void-damned army. Leave Megatron behind on the damn battlefield, would they? Well, he would be making sure that won't be a mistake anyone but Starscream would be keen on repeating.

Now here he was, trying to jump-start this Autobot shuttle that he had managed to sneak his way onto, having left a purple trail of dripped energon with blackened oil smears in his wake. Waking up on an abandoned battlefield, alone and bleeding fuel and oil from his chest, had definitely not been ideal.

The last thing he could recall before waking was Prime impaling him through the chest with a piece of steel pipe he had pulled from somewhere. Megatron could only assume it had come from some part of the supply infrastructure that got destroyed in the raid. The damage had probably forced a full system reboot. Unfortunately, Prime had made the mistake of not ensuring the injury was fatal. It might have been if the pipe had been pushed all of the way through the other side of his frame as opposed to merely halfway. When Megatron had woken up, he’d snapped off the bulk of the pipe, leaving only the remainder that was lodged tightly inside the wound itself. He had crushed the exposed end of the pipe closed in an attempt to staunch the flow of fluid and buy more time.

If he wasn’t quick, the trail would lead the Autobots right to him so they could finish the job. They should have done it earlier while he was still down and out cold, unable to fight back. Big mistake.

Barring that, if he wasn’t quicker, he ran the not-insignificant risk of succumbing to his injury if he couldn’t either access treatment or treat it himself somehow.

Megatron had made the decision that since he wasn’t dead quite yet, getting underway first was the wiser option. That would solve at least one worry. There were probably medical supplies on this shuttle somewhere. While he was no expert, he had patched himself up on occasion before, though nothing quite this extensive.

It was strange though, that even the Autobots had left him there on the ground in front of their oh so precious supply depot.

If they had thought he was dead, wouldn’t they have wanted to make sure? Maybe remove his head to display as a grotesque trophy and use what was left of him to make armor if they didn’t melt his remains down for resources.

If they had thought he was alive, wouldn’t they have captured him? Maybe throw him in a cell to either bleed out (a death on the order of hours) or suffer the horrors of starvation after patching him up (a death on the order of weeks or months), if they were feeling particularly cruel about it.

There was no reason for him to think Autobots would treat their prisoners with dignity, especially not the leader of the enemy army.

No matter. Megatron had a shuttle to steal—Zap!

He jerked his hands back from the uncooperative control panel with a snarled swear.

“Blasted heap!” Shaking out his left hand since it had taken the brunt of the arcing charge, he waved his right one, fisted in threat, at the panel. He knew, of course, he couldn't intimidate it into compliance but it was at least a little cathartic. "I ought to—”

“You ought to what?” said a voice behind him.

Megatron whipped around in the chair, raising his right arm instinctively towards the intruder. Not that it mattered. He had lost too much fuel to power the cannon and, in truth, he felt rather dizzy. That probably wasn’t helping him jump-start the shuttle either.

The intruder, when his optics finally focused, was that grouchy red and white Autobot medic, pointing a handheld welder right at him all while carrying a medical kit in his other hand. A scowl was set firmly on the medic's determined face, lined with age and experience. The welder sparked menacingly.

“And just what are you going to do with that, medic?”

“Originally, I was sent to pick up your sparkless corpse. Unfortunately for the both of us, your sparkless corpse can walk.”

“Oh really.” Megatron lifted one of his optical ridges in doubt, but the medic only pointed with the welder to the trail of energon and oil along the floor, leading from the back of the shuttle to the navigator’s chair where the warlord was currently seated.

“And, worse, your sparkless corpse can also talk.” The medic sighed and lowered the welder, clicking it off before chucking it in the medical kit. “Power down that void-damned cannon before you hurt yourself. We both know you don’t have the energy right now to use the stupid thing.”

“How dare you.”

Just for that insolence, he began powering the cannon. The low whirl of it charging filled the air for a brief moment, before the entire weapon hitched and sputtered, yanking his arm back into the control panel with an echoing crunch.

The charge in the cannon died as the shuttle around them roared to life, shaking the floor underneath them.

“You idiot!” the medic snapped, struggling to stay on his feet as the shuttle trembled. Megatron for the moment considered himself lucky to have the only seat in the house, not that he had had the wherewithal to remember to buckle himself in.

“Me‽”

“Take-off sequence initiated.”

A calm, synthesized voice called announcements through the shuttles internal speakers.

Take-off? Perfect, it seemed he would be getting out of here after all. Unfortunately, now he had a passenger but what was one Autobot prisoner?

"Look what you've done, you tin-pot tyrant!"

“Warp destination auto-selected.”

“What? Warp?” Megatron floundered. As though yelling at the shuttle would do anything beyond making him feel a little better. "Where?"

“Warp drive activation in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”

Before more complaints could be leveled at this infernal Autobot machine, the entire shuttle shuddered and Megatron’s optics offlined from the pulse of bright blue light that surged through the cabin. One final tremor from the vehicle and he was thrown from the chair, splayed on his front on the floor.

Megatron wasn’t sure how much time had passed when everything went still and his systems finished rebooting. Well, he hadn’t died yet. Unfortunately for that medic, if he was still in one piece. He groaned as his optics flickered back on, the images pixelated and indistinct. Maybe that was from the fuel loss. Maybe that was from the fact that he was staring at the floor of the shuttle. Or maybe—the thought was cut off as red hands entered his vision briefly before he was forcibly flipped over onto his back, further smearing escaped fluids on both the floor and his frame.

How dare the Autobot lay hands on him! He would show that pathetic—

“Good job.” The sarcasm, palpable in the medic’s voice as he looked down at the injured warlord, gave Megatron pause. “Your cannon backfired and activated the shuttle’s experimental warp drive.”

Warp drive?

What warp drive?

Wait.

Ah, yes, now he remembered. The shuttle’s system announced something about that before he’d been knocked down.

“Then,” he started, before being cut off with a cough. Perhaps clambering into this particular shuttle had been more serendipitous than he’d originally considered. Then again, why did a random, unassuming shuttle at a half-destroyed supply depot have an experimental warp drive? “Then I will… return to my ship more quickly than I had thought.”

“Not a chance. You broke the damn drive so it warped us to Primus knows where and won’t power back on.”

Dammit.

Megatron tried to sit up, only to be pushed back down. He felt rather numb, a bit tingly. His frame seemed to be heavier than usual, endoskeletal hydraulics unwilling to effectively move his limbs. It was almost as though—

“Don’t move. I already injected you with a liquid analgesic solution. That’ll be why you’re amica endura with the floor right now.” The welder from earlier reappeared in his hazy vision, once again sparking in menace, an ominous promise of health.

If Megatron was unable to move, this medic must have been quite strong to toss him over like he weighed hardly anything at all.

“You’re just barely online. It’s a small miracle your spark hasn’t extinguished from insufficient fuel supply. Either that or you’re just too obstinate.”

“And let me guess, medic, you’re about to change that.” It would certainly be an easy feat. Megatron hardly had the strength to move with all of the fluid loss and this medic had a wealth of the medical knowledge that could easily be used both healing and harming. Which was that welder now meant for, he wondered.

What a way to lose the war. At a medic’s mercy in the middle of nowhere, dying from purposeful malpractice as opposed to dying in battle.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“…What?” Then what in the hell was this fool doing if not offlining the enemy in a vulnerable moment of weakness? That’s what he would have expected. That’s what he would have done if it would end the war.

Apparently that welder was meant to heal. For now.

Then again, even if Megatron died here, that wouldn’t necessarily end the conflict. Starscream could galvanize the troops in the name revenge for their beloved, fallen leader—what a funny thought, but that treacherous seeker knew how to use politics to his advantage. Megatron expected nothing less. On one hand, he was almost proud that the movement would surely outlive him. On the other, he wished he wouldn’t be leaving it all in Starscream’s slippery, self-serving little hands.

Perhaps very little would be gained by the Autobots with his death. Perhaps this medic was just as calculating as any of his or Prime’s strategists.

Fascinating.

The thought brought an amused smirk to his face, even as he was laid out on the floor in a sticky, drying pool of his own bodily fluids.

Disgusting.

Apparently the medic thought so too, given the displeased scowl on his otherwise handsome, white facial plating. Well, if Megatron were to die here should the medic change his mind, at least the last image he would process would be that. And he would be leaving behind one hell of a mess to be cleaned up with how much he had leaked fuel all over the cabin. One final inconvenience to the Autobots just to rub it in.

“And don’t call me ‘medic.’ I have a name.” The crushed pipe in his chest was pulled free with an effortless, wet-sounding pop, as though the medic had done this a thousand times before on a thousand other injured mechs, as though Megatron was merely another unruly patient to be pacified. The tip of the welder was stuffed inside the newly reopened hole, quickly sealing leaks with loud fizzing noises. “It’s Ratchet.”

“Ratchet?” Fitting name for a medic, though perhaps a bit on the nose.

“I won’t be called by my title the entire way back. It’s already a long trip with the normal FTL engines that are still working. Another miracle given how you crushed the void-damned console beyond recognition.”

“Ratchet,” Megatron echoed quietly, committing the designation to memory as he relaxed against the floor, no longer fighting against the analgesic medication that had been administered before he finished rebooting.

“Don’t make me change my mind about it.”

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?”

A sharp voice sounded behind him, a voice that was becoming rather familiar at this point.

All the same, Megatron didn’t answer Ratchet. 

It wasn’t important, whatever aggravating thing it was the medic had to say. As Megatron had been patched up already for the most part, he had no immediate need to be particularly amicable or cooperative.

He was too busy trying to get their bearings with this stupid Autobot navigation system that this stolen shuttle used.

First he had to figure out where they were and then plot a path back to the Nemesis’ last known location. Then again, there was a nonzero chance that the warship would have already moved, either already or by the time Megatron got the shuttle to the last known coordinates. While he knew what the plans prior to the raid had been, if his soldiers believed him offline… the situation could very well look different. He didn’t relish the thought of not having his warship, his home, to rendezvous with.

Who knew where either Starscream or Soundwave would take the ship. Ideally, Soundwave would try to retrieve his body for proper last rites. Starscream also might, if it would ingratiate himself in the sparks of the troops. While setting a course for the Autobot supply depot might have been a good option in that case, there was a risk he would have guessed wrong. Showing up to the Autobot supply depot in this unarmed shuttle, alone with no one but an accidentally kidnapped medic would not end well for the warlord. 

The last known location would at least allow him to pick up the Nemesis’ trail. 

Hopefully. 

Depending on how far away they were now, there was also a chance all hints of the Nemesis’ presence would have dissipated by the time they arrived in this… this puddle-jumper. Did it even have a name? If it didn’t cooperate with him, he would designate it something less than flattering.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!”

Speaking of something uncooperative….

“Autobot, do you not see that I am busy?” Megatron waved his right arm at the medic dismissively, too occupied trying to find their current location on this blasted map with his left. Good thing he had already removed his cannon for the time being, storing it in a locked cabinet in one of the shuttle’s rooms, or he ran the risk of hitting it on more of the finicky equipment in the cabin. Who knew what other delicate experimental machinery this blasted thing had been fitted with. Better to not risk making the situation worse with a misplaced rash gesture.

He didn’t need the medic’s distraction right now. He was having no luck all the same but at least with less vocalizer squeaking nattering on behind him, he had a chance of actually focusing.

The map showed him locations of which he had no recognition. There was no way they had warped to some ill-explored quadrant of the galaxy—well, it wasn’t impossible, but it was rather unlikely. He hoped the map had simply loaded corrupted data and that forcing a fresh data pull to update the navigation screen would help.

The console simply beeped at him happily and showed the same near useless information after the data refresh.

With an exasperated sigh, he turned around in the navigator’s chair to finally face the medic with a snarl.

“Or would you rather we float out here, lost for all eternity? Hm?”

“Firstly, I have a name and you know what it is. Secondly, as much as the thought of keeping you apart from your groveling minions is entertaining,” Ratchet began. The medic stood several paces away, further back in the cabin of the shuttle with his arms judgmentally crossed. Megatron wished he wouldn’t stand so close, but truthfully, there weren’t many places on this transport to be. A couple of rooms, a small cargo bay, a wash rack, a medical cabinet with a fuel converter…. If the medic weren’t more useful to him alive, Megatron would have considered pushing him out the cargo bay’s airlock. “I’d rather not spend the rest of my functioning listening to you complain at the navigation console like an illiterate technophobe.”

“Fine, Ratchet,” the warlord finally acquiesced, “what is so important that you feel the need to disturb me?”

“If you’d listen for five kliks, though I doubt you even can given your hearing is so damaged by that overinflated ego of yours,” the medic started, “I could have told you that I already had a look at the navigation system after your surgery, while you recharged on the floor of my impromptu operating theater.”

Ratchet gestured with one hand at the floor, now cleaned of the energon and oil that had been spilled and smeared all over it. 

Megatron hadn’t thought about it after waking up beyond simply hauling himself to the wash rack and then subsequently planting himself in the navigation chair. 

Now that he actually took a moment to notice, with a glance to the floor, it appeared that Ratchet had made himself quite productive, removing all traces of fluids from the interior of the shuttle. Even the snail trail from the gangway he had practically crawled up had been wiped away.

It seemed that Ratchet would be quite useful on this journey. 

Megatron brought his gaze back up from the floor, locking it with a smirk onto the scowling physician.

A strong, skilled, and industrious medic with warm hands to begrudgingly keep him alive, probably solely thanks to whatever foolish oath medics took. 

A handy knowledge of Autobot technology and systems to ensure that, through their combined efforts, they could keep this infernal shuttle operational. 

Someone with a functioning processor would be at hand to talk to in order to keep the cabin fever at bay. 

All with a nice face to look at to boot. 

Quite the shame about the sharp tongue though, but he’d put up with far worse from certain seekers with impending brig time.

“Why don’t you tell me what you found then.” It was not a request. “Ratchet.”

Perhaps Megatron had not been so unlucky after all. 

“And just what makes you think we’re going to the Nemesis?” Ratchet made himself comfortable in the one other chair in the shuttle, presumably meant for the co-pilot. The chances were high the medic would have taken the navigator’s chair, but Megatron had already practically glued himself to it by refusing to stand up. He was driving and that was how it was going to be.

It turned out, according to Ratchet’s earlier findings, that they had, in fact, been warped to an unfortunately far corner of the galaxy. Even with conventional Faster-Than-Light engines to propel them, their voyage would last months. The chances of finding an ion trail to tail the Nemesis when they got remotely close to their origination point would be slim, but they would at least be in the general vicinity of their respective factions as opposed to Primus knew where. 

“Because I decide what happens, Autobot.” Megatron gestured with his left thumb to his own chest. He was in charge here, not Ratchet. That was just how it would be, an obvious fact. He wasn’t going to be ordered around by some medic, let alone an Autobot, no matter how handsome.

“That’s ridiculous.”

The warlord scoffed, an action he slightly regretted since it pulled on some of his own recently repaired components. Hopefully Ratchet wouldn’t notice the wince, since the Autobot was so busy with sassing him at every turn.

“I’ve captured you,” he said, leaning forward over his knees and pointing his left index finger at the occupant of the co-pilot’s chair. “Your skills will be most useful to the war effort. Not only do I need to return to my duties, I need to return you as well so that your skills can be more efficiently utilized.”

It was obvious, of course.

“You’ve captured me? If anything, I’ve captured you.” 

“Oh?” Megatron lifted an eyebrow ridge, amused. “And how do you figure that exactly? I’d love to know.”

“If it weren’t for me fixing your damn chassis, you would have been an offline husk in the cargo bay so I wouldn’t have to look at your stupid helmet.”

How… grotesque. 

Unfortunately, Ratchet was correct. Without his assistance, the chances of Megatron repairing his own wounds and thus living long enough to return to his comrades were slim to none.

“… We’re going to the Nemesis,” he said, turning away from Ratchet to once again face the navigation console, “and that is final.”

At a minimum, Megatron could now make more sense of the console, now that they’d established their location. He started plugging in the last known coordinates of the warship in hopes of getting a course plotted. At least then some progress could be made. He would have to deal with the obstinate medic still, but once he had the shuttle on a measure of autopilot, the warlord would have much more time available to put that Autobot in his place.

“If I’m going to have to spend months on this shuttle with the likes of you,” Ratchet said, likewise turning to the co-pilot’s console in front of him, “I’m going back to an Autobot base, not that junk heap you call a warship as some sort of prisoner.”

Out of the corner of his optic, Megatron saw Ratchet punch some information into his station’s user interface. Whatever could he be doing—

Glancing back at his own console, he saw the flight path that he had just entered shift entirely, the destination coordinates now wildly different from the ones he had designated. The shuttle jerked sharply to the side as it adjusted. On reflex, Megatron reentered the correct path, the shuttle lurching once more in response. Without missing a beat, the medic changed it again.

When the shuttle stopped shuddering from the most recent adjustment to its course, the warlord growled and balled his hands into fists, slamming them down on the sides of the navigator’s console with a loud, echoing clank. Luckily he inadvertently chose structural areas, devoid of user interface or else they would have been in for another dizzying change of heading.

“Cease this insubordination at once, Autobot!”

“I will put you in a medically induced coma or weld your hands to your face if I have to,” the medic said, abruptly standing and pointing a defiant finger at the larger mech, “but I am not going back to your warship like some sort of trophy.”

Megatron frowned up at the insolent Autobot who somehow dared speak to him like this, dared to defy him. Threats of violence were nothing new to him. He'd been threatened with far worse, but this medic did have chutzpah.

This wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Unless it was possible to disable one of the consoles, hopefully without destroying one, there was no way Megatron could keep control of both at all times, never mind when he had to fuel or wash or recharge. Simply playing this stupid game of adjusting the heading whenever the other changed the path was untenable and would likely ultimately shake the shuttle to pieces from the constant torque. Also they would likely purge their fuel tanks at some point in the process from the resulting disequilibrium. 

All of that meant Ratchet had an advantage beyond his highly prized skills.

They would need to meet halfway if they were ever going to make any kind of progress in returning to known areas of space, let alone their respective factions.

The warlord took a long, slow ventilation to return to a calmer baseline, both for his own sake and to hopefully appear more levelheaded. That would aid him in the long run if he could convince Ratchet that he was not some unhinged maniac. He wasn’t, not in his own estimation, but the uninformed opinions of others often ran contrary to fact.

“I propose,” he said, unclenching his fists and leaning back in the navigator’s chair, “a compromise.” 

For now. There would still be plenty of time to weight the situation back in Megatron’s favor.

Chapter Text

The seemingly endless days aboard this blasted vessel, trapped with that Autobot medic, had grown dull. Their shuttle—now designated the Hyperjump in disdain for its inability to do just that—remained predominantly on autopilot, set to a heading between their individually preferred destinations. Other than occasionally having to adjust manually to navigate around debris, these first few weeks were unbearably boring.

Megatron frowned at the grenade launcher he had disassembled on the workbench in the cargo bay. He had cleaned and polished every nook and crevice on this damned thing over the course of a few days. Some pieces were even given repeat polishings if he managed to leave a smudge while handling them.

After coming to an understanding that it benefited neither of them to muck around with the heading, Megatron and that medic, Ratchet, took to watching the navigation consoles in shifts. This allowed the other mech to wander off and either get recharge in the crew cabin or attempt to find a way to occupy their copious free time, an attempt to ward off cabin fever.

Ratchet had taken to constantly inventorying the medical supplies. The supply level had remained the same after the first patch up after the accident with the warp drive, making the whole thing a fruitless exercise. Yet Ratchet was welcome to putz around however he felt would be the most useful for him. It wasn’t Megatron’s problem.

Besides, a sane medic was a useful medic.

As for himself, Megatron had decided to thoroughly polish and clean every piece of weaponry aboard. Unfortunately, that had only taken about a week to accomplish and even then only because he disassembled every weapon down to the tiniest piece of hardware, except where doing so would cause damage. Four meager, half-charged blasters (two of which were from his own subspace and not part of the shuttle’s armaments), two slug-throwing rifles (with half a box of slugs between them), and one grenade launcher (for which they had no ammunition) later, Megatron had run out of things to clean.

He sighed with resignation as he stuffed the pointless grenade launcher back into its cabinet in the armory, if it could be called that. It was more like a designated section of the cargo bay with a bench, a few cabinets and a half-wall to mark it off.

All that was left was his own fusion cannon, which was still damaged. It would hardly do to polish it before the necessary repairs were undertaken. He would need that medic’s welder and soldering iron if he wanted to make any headway. It wasn’t as though he could simply ask to borrow these items. Surely, the medic would want to hold the items hostage, demand some sort of payment or something in order to allow Megatron access to them.

Or, for personal safety, he might well deign to not allow Megatron near the medical kit at any price.

Not that he could really blame Ratchet. A fusion cannon left wounds (and broken warp drives) far harder to treat than a blaster or a slug-thrower could.

Unfortunately, that meant Megatron was still left in the unenviable position of having to ask for something, not something he was particularly accustomed to. With a grumble, he tossed his damaged fusion cannon that had been waiting in a cabinet onto the now unoccupied workbench.

Leaving the armory, and with it his cannon, behind, he entered the cramped cockpit of the shuttle where Ratchet would surely be vigilantly sitting at one of the consoles.

“Autobot!” Megatron shouted, pointing at the medic's back as though he had any authority to exercise. He had no time to waste—Well, truthfully, now he had all of the time in the universe to waste, but that didn't mean he had to squander it begging. "I require your medical kit.”

“Did you impale yourself on some industrial piping again?" Ratchet didn't even turn around. How insolent. "If so, I want to know where you managed to find any on this damn shuttle.”

To be fair, the piping that had been pulled from his chassis was lying in the small cargo bay so if he really had wanted to do damage with it, it was available. It would just be difficult to propel it into his body using an explosion. Megatron had half a mind to grab a chunk of the blasted pipe and smack it over that insubordinate medic's head.

But he still needed Ratchet. For the time being. Not only was a medic always good to have on hand, but this particular one had additional applications. Long term: a skilled Autobot prisoner was invaluable. Short term: he had someone else to monitor the navigation console and stave off the madness of complete isolation.

He growled, stalking the short distance to the navigation console.

“Don’t you dare mock me, medic. I—“

“What’s my name?”

What?

That stopped the warlord mid-stalk.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s my name, Megatron?” Ratchet huffed, still keeping his back to the warlord. “It’s not a trick question.”

It wasn’t as though he had forgotten what the stupid medic’s name was. He just felt little need to call him that with any regularity. Not unless Megatron needed something.

Unfortunately, he needed something.

“I know what your name is, Ratchet,” he answered, sneering. “What’s the point of asking? Who else could I be talking to in this blasted scrapheap? Do I need to announce constantly that I’m addressing you specifically, the only other person here?”

The chair at the console squeaked as Ratchet turned around, elbow propped up on the back of the chair as he finally looked at Megatron.

“You could be talking to one of your many imaginary friends for all I know.”

If only he could do something about Ratchet’s sharp tongue, this trip would have been far more enjoyable. He got plenty of lip back on the Nemesis from Starscream. He didn’t need it when the seeker was, blissfully, nowhere to be seen.

“Give me your medical kit,” he demanded, pointing at his splayed palm to emphasize the point.

“Yeah, sure, let me just hand over all my lifesaving tools to you, a murderous maniac in search of another power trip.” The flat scowl underscored the sarcasm. “What makes you think I would do that? Did you scramble your logic circuits when you nearly blew up the shuttle last week?”

How dare he.

Megatron had merely been inspecting the damaged warp drive to see if he could possibly do anything with it—which he couldn’t because he was no engineer—and it wasn’t his fault that the warp drive didn’t appreciate being poked at. It had zapped him with a strong current, causing all of his hydraulics to seize and launch him across the cockpit. Nothing that a simple reboot couldn’t fix. His armor hadn’t even been dented by the impact.

“You… you don’t know what you’re talking about. I was trying to fix this blasted shuttle so that we could get back to our respective factions before our sparks burn out.” The last thing he wanted to do was give Starscream an actual cause to hold a combined funeral/coronation ceremony, emphasis on the “coronation” portion.

Before Ratchet could give him another tongue lashing, the console behind him beeped urgently. The medic turned back to the screen as Megatron took his position at the other console. Having a shuttle with two navigation consoles, both having equal priority, still seemed strange but it was an Autobot design.

He leaned over the console, trying to make sense of the readout. The beeping seemed to be from an incoming signal, but it was alien so he couldn’t be sure of the intended message. The urgency could have meant it was some sort of distress signal. He could hear Ratchet frantically tapping at his own console off to the side.

Oh well, this signal wasn’t their problem. He could just tell the system to ignore it and filter it out. Megatron lifted his hand to the screen, searching for the right button. Autobot layouts were, in his humble opinion, not intuitive. They always hid things under strange menus or common commands required several keys to access. Stupid.

“It’s coming from a nearby planet,” the medic said. Of course, it was. Uncharted too, as all the other planets in this sector were. That was how being in uncharted space was. “Probably an old distress signal.”

All the more reason to ignore it, he thought. If it was old, whoever sent it was likely long dead. Still not their problem.

Megatron shrugged, hand still hovering over the console in search of the elusive “mute” button. It wasn’t under “Options.” It wasn’t under “Settings.” Nor under “Advanced Settings.” Nor “Admin Settings.” The beeping was starting to grate on his processor. If only he could solve this with a little percussive maintenance.

Ratchet, however, continued.

“I need to investigate it all the same. Just in case someone actually needs help.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, medic.” Megatron scoffed, turning his head to shoot the blasted Autobot a glare. “I’m not chasing down some ancient ghost and wasting time, fuel, and potentially other resources in the process.”

Where was that void-damned button?

Undeterred, Ratchet glared right back. This wasn’t surprising. If Megatron had learned anything about this medic since their fateful meeting a few weeks prior, it was that this particular Autobot was not short on bolts and bearings. Spinal struts of steel, this one. It wasn’t worth the warlord’s effort, for now, to try and cow him into obeisance.

“Unlike your quacks, I swore an oath to protect and preserve life!“

Ratchet looked away, optics rolling behind those blue lenses, as he tapped his console.

“Of course, you did. I, however, did not. This shuttle is under my command and I don’t have time for—”

The shuttle lurched hard to the right as though someone had yanked on its leash. If Megatron hadn’t grabbed either side of the console in front of him, he would have been once more acquainted with the floor.

That blasted, insubordinate medic must have entered new coordinates into his console, presumably redirecting them towards the origin of the “distress call.” If only they had a brig…. If only he didn’t need that medic….

The alien signal continued to beep up at Megatron from the screen like an upset new-build in need of fuel.

Chapter Text

“I really have no idea what you expect to find, medic,” Megatron said, double-checking, for the umpteenth time, the strap on the rifle he had slung over his shoulder. They were just a touch too tall for the woodlands they were skulking through, and branches kept snagging on plating and equipment. The distress signal had emanated from a region covered in mixed plains and woodland, just too sparse to be considered a forest. The chances of threats were low, but they kept to the treeline for better cover.

This unmapped, organic planet seemed uninhabited, if their shuttle’s scanners weren’t broken. There was no guarantee that anything on the Hyperjump operated as expected. Of course, Ratchet would blame Megatron being a walking accident looking for a place to happen, but the medic could stuff it. He should have considered himself lucky and honored that such a powerful warrior had deemed it in their best interests to guard him, a mere Autobot, on this fool’s errand.

“I expect to find the source of the signal, of course. Whatever that may be.”

Unfortunately, Ratchet, with his specific skills, was invaluable. He was too useful to Megatron to discard, no matter how tempting it was to simply let him disembark on this forgotten world and abandon him to his fate. Megatron could have just taken the Hyperjump, but instead he was here getting mud and moss in his seams, armor scraped by bark and twigs.

He regretted not setting the shuttle down somewhere closer to the signal, but Ratchet had put up a fuss about Megatron’s ability to safely park the vehicle. As though he’d crash it.

Even if there were no sapient beings, organic, mechanical, or otherwise, wildlife remained a risk. Their armaments were minimal and Megatron carried all the ones they had brought. His cannon still needed repair, so it remained behind in what passed for an armory. Ratchet had seen fit to bring only his kit, finding his welder to be sufficient for personal defense.

That left Megatron lugging around one of the rifles and two of the blasters, the ones he already had on his person at the time of their unfortunate launch. He only had enough rifle ammunition for a few good shots, so he would have to make them count. The blasters only had enough charge for about ten shots each, if they didn’t backfire from damage he couldn’t repair. Their options for defense were… limited at best.

The Hyperjump was not equipped to charge the blasters again, not unless he jury-rigged some of the power outlets to accommodate the sizable battery packs. Ratchet would probably complain at him about it though, he thought, reaching out and snapping off a branch that strayed a little too close to his face. The medic would say something along the lines of Megatron trying to blow up the power systems. Did he want working guns or not? The universe wasn’t a peaceful place to idly explore, and it wasn’t like Megatron would let Ratchet wield him! No matter how handsome the red bastard was.

“The signal is probably ancient, long beyond saving anyone, Autobot. You’re foolish to think otherwise,” he said. The ground shuddered under their feet, twigs and fallen lumber crunching into the leaf litter. “At best, you’ll find some remains. Those… rocks that organics have inside their bodies instead of proper endoskeletons.”

Ratchet sighed in exasperation, shaking his head.

“Bones. The word you’re looking for, Megatron, is ‘bones.’”

“Yes, those. I know what they’re called, medic.” Well, he did now. No one could prove otherwise. He wasn’t stupid, despite what Starscream liked to say. Megatron slapped away yet another branch. Those horrible little flapping green things protruding from the wood kept touching his face or getting stuck in his armor. Worse was that they were often moist with dew, leaving shiny smears of condensation in their wake. Disgusting. “Even if you did find an organic in need, what good would we—you even do?”

Why would they even bother? Altruism was a waste of good resources.

“I would try to help, of course. I know that’s an alien concept to you, but I’ll keep it simple for you,” Ratchet said, pausing briefly as he led the way through the trees before turning to face Megatron. He pointed an admonishing finger right at the warlord’s nose, even though the medic was an entire third shorter. “Helping other people is good, even if all you can do is your best, even if that best is to be present. Now don’t work your processor too hard on that one. I know morality is tricky, especially for you. We all struggle with something.”

It was tempting to bite back at Ratchet, to challenge the insult. Instinct and years of bickering with his own subordinates told him that he ought to put this medic back into his place, remind him who was in charge here. They were only here because Megatron had allowed this indulgence, after all. Ratchet ought to have been grateful. Unfortunately, he also knew by now that Ratchet would not and could not be intimidated, at least not by conventional means. Returning the barbs would do nothing.

Another option presented itself, slapping the medic into submission, but he dismissed it immediately. Somehow the thought of trying to cow the medic by force was… distasteful to him. Maybe it was because an injured medic was not a useful medic. That was probably it.

“Nothing to say for yourself for once, you blow-hard? Cybercat got your tongue?”

Megatron only growled, low and deep in his engine, in response. Ratchet gave him a look that could only be read as “unimpressed.”

He remained quiet as Ratchet, seemingly satisfied, turned and started walking again. The crunch of the fragile leaf litter sounded beneath their feet. Several moments of silence, minus the popping and snapping of too friendly tree limbs, passed as they marched along before Ratchet seemed to notice the unusual lack of back-sass.

“Did you finally die back there?”

“If only you could be so lucky, Autobot,” he snapped. “Just get us to the coordinates, medic! I tire of these blasted trees!”

“I have a name.” Not this again. “What’s my name, Megatron?”

“I tire of your little word game as well, Ratchet!”

One day, the warlord promised himself, he would find whatever it was that would cow the damned medic into proper obeisance. For now, though, he would settle for getting out this damned forest and to whatever disaster had set off the distress signal. This planet was lucky he didn’t just burn the woods to the ground and be done with it.

Nestled against the edge of the woods where the land shifted into dry, grassy plains was a dilapidated structure. Concrete and metal. Towering, probably, to whatever race had originally built it. Unfortunately for the two of them, the doors were just tall enough to allow them entry. Even then, Megatron still had to stoop to get his barrel under the top of the doorway, after getting stuck during several attempts. He was going to have a dent…. Ratchet chuckled at the thought. That was just what the brute deserved.

Unfortunately, he would have to spend time later popping the dent—dents—out of Megatron’s barrel. Oh well. It would be something to do. They were lacking in activities.

Ratchet stared at the readout on his scanner to confirm the location. At least he was shorter, so he had comparatively more freedom of movement than the hulking moron that had decided to come with him. For some reason. He’d hardly be of any help unless Ratchet needed a trigger pulled or something destroyed. Doubtful. While he couldn’t detect if there were any organic life signals with his scanner, from the run-down state of the place, the medic anticipated little threat.

“You’re certain that this cramped ruin is the source of that signal you love so much?” Megatron growled, carefully standing back up to make sure he didn’t collide with the ceiling.

The room by the door was stark white, boring underneath the invasion of plant and fungus. Empty save for some bench-like fixtures on the walls. The building was probably some sort of science or medical facility. There had been no obvious markings on the outside, probably worn away by time or not in wavelengths visible to their optics. At least now he didn’t have to listen to Megatron fight trees to hold onto his rifle.

“Yes, now I can ask it for its hand and spark.” Ratchet lowered his scanner briefly as he glanced around the room. There wasn’t much in the room aside from the benches. Nothing was in here to be overturned, but nature had certainly tried reclaiming the structure. Moss and weeds were growing on the walls and floor, obscuring anything that might have been spilled. No bodies though, not yet. “Don’t be jealous.”

The indignant, static-filled sputtering behind him was worth it. There was just something about getting under that bastard’s thick, solid plating that Ratchet found appealing.

Sharing a small shuttle with only his faction’s worst enemy for the last several weeks had been a trying experience. Ratchet at least knew that he was in a privileged position due to his training. Megatron couldn’t lay a hand on him without putting himself at risk further down the line. Ratchet had been leveraging that to his advantage ever since that idiot broke the Hyperjump’s experimental warp drive.

On the downside, that meant Ratchet still had to put up with being in that insufferable egomaniac’s company. When Megatron wasn’t being an aggravating braggart, he was making demands or, worse, complaining. Apparently, he was never satisfied with anything. Nothing was good enough.

No wonder Starscream kept trying to bump him off. It was beginning to look attractive. He should have let Megatron bleed out on the floor when he first found him. Maybe next time the warlord nearly electrocuted himself, Ratchet would just… not intervene and all too conveniently be in a different room. Then he could come back and stumble upon Megatron’s finally sparkless corpse, so tragically sprawled on the floor.

Heaving a resigned sigh, Ratchet knew very well that would not be the outcome. He’d still kneel next to the idiot and get him stabilized the moment there was a commotion. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Waving the scanner around, the medic oriented himself to one of the doors leading from this lobby-like room.

Stupid oaths.

Sometimes he regretted taking them at the end of his medical training.

Even if the patient was his worst enemy, he still had an obligation to that patient to try and save their life. Unfortunately, the earlier operations had been successes. So much for retrieving Megatron’s lifeless husk from the battlefield for an autopsy. Now they were Primus knew where, both trying to get back to the stupid, pointless war their factions had been waging for ages. It had been so long since it all started that sometimes Ratchet found himself struggling to remember what they were even fighting about.

None of that really mattered right now though. Ratchet had to get to the origin point of the distress signal.

There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle, but it was hard to tell with the soft undergrowth on the floor. If anything had bled out, the stains were probably long gone, decomposed and reused by the organic life that covered the planet. It was beginning to look like Megatron might have been right about finding no one left to save. No one left to help. That wouldn’t stop Ratchet from looking for some answers. Figuring out what happened here could still be of value, even if just for some level of closure.

The lights in this hallway were out, which meant he had to switch on his headlights to see where he was going. Behind him, he heard a metallic clang and then Megatron swearing at getting stuck on the door frame briefly, again, before remembering to stoop under it. So much for the element of surprise, not that Ratchet thought they would need it. It would be quite the feat to surprise the dead.

“Have you learned your lesson back there?”

“This door is shorter than the last one!”

“No, it isn’t—”

“If these halls keep shrinking, we’ll be crawling to the origin point of that blasted signal.”

Ratchet shushed him, absently reaching back to pat his current companion on the arm as though he were soothing a frightened turbofox. What a useless lump. Megatron couldn’t accept blame for anything, could he? He should have left Megatron outside, not that he would have stayed there. The warlord seemed intent on shadowing the medic wherever he went on this unfortunately quiet world.

“Unfortunately, you’ll live,” Ratchet said, “now come on—”

A loud crash came from somewhere up ahead, cutting him off. The crash was immediately followed by an unwelcoming growl and thundering footsteps. A black hand from behind came into Ratchet’s vision long enough to push him backwards. The medic staggered for a moment before regaining his footing, finding himself with a large gray shield between himself and the source of the approaching noises.

Chapter Text

Megatron hated this place. It was disgusting. The damp, organic sprawl of infectious green was everywhere as this planet’s biosphere reclaimed what was built and abandoned by the hubris of the race that had once lived here. Whatever happened here… well, the prior inhabitants had probably brought it upon themselves.

More importantly, he’d also been right about the signal. Given the amount of overgrowth that had made its way into this facility, anyone here, barring some weird act of fate or technology, was long beyond help. Ratchet’s little speech about being present would surely make little difference. That didn’t stop the medic’s words from playing on a loop in his processor since they had marched through the woods, an unwanted reminder of Autobot altruism.

Bah.

Now though, as they stalked through this cramped facility, there were far more immediate concerns.

An intact medic was worth far more than an injured, or worse, offline medic. That thought brought an unfamiliar chill to his spark. He shook his head as though it would clear the feeling away.

Megatron, however, knew that he could at least tank a fair amount of damage. Not that Ratchet couldn’t, necessarily, but that the risk wasn’t worth it. Besides, his firepower was limited with the ammunition shortage and his damaged fusion cannon waiting uselessly aboard the Hyperjump. Tactically, if he wanted to ensure his own long-term survival, the best move would be to place himself between the threat and his erstwhile medic.

So that’s what he did, the moment the ruckus of an approaching threat thundered towards them from up ahead.

Megatron swung the rifle from his shoulder, pointing at the source of the ever louder growls. The rifle wouldn’t be of much use in close quarters, the gun having far too much bulk to be maneuverable. Reloading after the initial shots wasn’t going to be an option either in this narrow hallway. At least he could use it to get some ranged damage on whatever the threat was, maybe slow it down or weaken it before switching to the half-charged blasters or even his fists if need be.

He didn’t get to and, more importantly, keep his position of power over millions of years without having some manner of combat prowess to back up his authority.

Let the foolish creature come, he thought. He was ready.

Facing him would be the last mistake the blasted thing would ever make.

Around the shadowy bend at the end of the hallway, a shape appeared. Hulking, muscular and standing on all fours. An animal… presumably. A flesh creature, probably a predator and most certainly very wet inside. How did these organics not get riddled with mold and fungus if they were so moist inside constantly? Oh well. In short order, a little fungal infection would the last of this beast’s problems.

It was smaller than either Cybertronian it was facing down, but not by much. It seemed just smaller enough that it would have no trouble navigating these narrow passageways. Its large, glassy eyes stared forward, locked on the intruders, presumably sizing them up. Had it ever seen silicon-based life before? Did it understand what it was looking at?

No matter. A mere creature, pathetic and unaware of how vulnerable it was. Flesh was fragile, after all.

“There might be a peaceable solut—“

Megatron cut Ratchet’s unnecessary suggestion off.

“No.”

It was a wonder that there were any Autobots left, really. Peaceable solution, he thought. Bah.

The creature roared, its rumbling cry echoing off the walls of the passageway, before surging forward.

Megatron fired the rifle, but, despite all his previous efforts to clean and maintain the weapons, the lock mechanism delayed igniting the blastpowder. The resulting hangfire sent the lead slug wild, lodging it into a wall and missing the bounding creature completely.

He swore.

No time to reload.

There were still two blasters holstered at his hips. Their charges were limited, but they were his best shot at slowing the creature down. He didn’t care for blasters. They tended to backfire. Useless things didn’t pack enough punch but he didn’t have the luxury of being picky right now.

The rifle was shifted to his right hand while the left grabbed a blaster and unloaded a few rounds of energy into the creature’s shoulder. It skidded to a halt, howling as its flesh was burnt, sticky green fluid seeping out where the wound wasn’t quite cauterized.

Disgusting.

Par for the course on this mudball of a planet. Just one more type of organic gunk to get stuck in his seams.

With another roar, the creature recovered and resumed its charge, clawed feet pounding the dilapidated tile floor.

Megatron fired more bolts of energy into the creature’s mass, but it ignored the damage.

By the time it got within arm’s reach, the blaster was empty. He tossed it aside as the creature’s teeth closed around the barrel of the rifle he held in front, a makeshift shield. A shame he didn’t have his fusion cannon. One blast from that and this would have long since ended, the creature nothing more than an inconvenient smear of organic residue on the floor.

Unfortunately, his one remaining weapon that still had charge at all was on his right hip, where he couldn’t quite reach it, not without dropping his “shield.”

“Fall back!” he bellowed, hoping, most likely in vain, Ratchet would obey. Just this once. He didn’t hear a retreat, but it was difficult to hear much over the growling animal in front of him.

The creature threw itself to the side, ripping the rifle from Megatron’s grasp.

The rifle clattered to the floor as the slobbering animal leaped for his throat.

Hand-to-hand combat it would be then. It was his responsibility to protect the foolish medic, after all.

Ratchet bristled at the command to fall back, scowling in offense at the great gray back in front of him.

He didn’t care for being given orders. The autonomy to disregard orders that conflicted with his medical sensibilities was one of the things he enjoyed about his position as a medic, especially the chief medical officer for his faction. He didn’t take orders from Optimus and like hell was he going to take orders from Megatron.

Might as well paint his badge purple and change his name to Hatchet or Boltcutter or something equally malevolent.

What he did care about was the wrestling match on the floor in front of him.

The creature and Megatron, the big idiot, were grappling on the ground. Tenacious teeth and claws versus stubborn hands and heavy armor. Ratchet watched as they rolled back and forth, both growling and covered in the green blood and purple fuel seeping out of their respective wounds.

Ratchet tried not to think about similar the two combatants in front of him were: obstinate, powerful… stupid.

Megatron, now leaning over the animal, was struggling to close his hand on the creature’s vulnerable throat and finish it. It continued to kick black hands away with its sharp feet. Those hooked claws had managed to catch on the edges of Megatron’s plating and pull, enlarging gaps and tearing wires. Its own thick hide had just absorbed blunt blows from fists. If only there were something that could cut through it—Wait.

“Megatron!” he called, trying to get the warlord’s attention. Ratchet rifled through his medical kit for a scalpel.

“I told you to fall back, medic—“ The reproach was cut off by a grunt and a crunch as the creature gained the advantage, rolling them over to pin Megatron down against the floor on his back. Teeth sunk into exposed wires and tubing in the mech’s shoulder where plating had been pried loose. The warlord howled. Ratchet’s spark sunk in his chest as violet fluid flooded out of the pierced tubing.

He felt his hand close around the textured handle of the scalpel.

Ratchet only had one chance, so his aim had to be perfect.

It was his responsibility to protect the foolish warlord, after all.

The floor beneath them was slick with a mixture of coagulating fluids: organic blood, spilled energon, and slowly oxidizing oil. It all started to soak into the patches of lichen and moss.

Ratchet sighed as he knelt next to his moronic companion, welder in hand humming away. Megatron was seated on the floor, leaning his back against the passageway’s wall. The creature’s body was slumped in a pile on the ground across from them, the now useless scalpel snapped off at the handle still lodged in its spine. It had been his only scalpel.

He muttered under his breath about needing to source a new one, but the odds were low that they’d find one here. Meanwhile, Megatron remained uncharacteristically quiet, as though he were in thought.

What a concept. Megatron thinking. Ratchet knew, after spending far too much time alone in the Decepticon’s company, that there was more going on under that bucket than violent, sadistic whims, but he couldn’t say how much more. He seemed inclined towards mechanical engineering, at least when it came to firearms. Maybe that was a side effect of being a firearm.

Megatron stared intently at the heap of meat that would begin to decompose before long. It wasn’t like it would suddenly come back to life to savage them yet again. Organics didn’t have the same type of resilience they did.

Ratchet hated to think that maybe the warlord had been right earlier, on the Hyperjump. They were underpowered. They needed to source ammunition and Megatron needed to repair his cannon. If they stumbled across more fusion cells, they’d need something to use them with. Maybe… if he’d let the Decepticon borrow his tools and repair the damn thing earlier, this level of damage could have been avoided.

“You’re an idiot,” the medic said, trying to tamp down on what he was beginning to fear was genuine concern. It was one thing to care about patients in a global, general sort of sense. It was an entirely other thing to care personally about the wellbeing of particular patients… especially this one.

The bleeding of fuel and oil was stopped, at least, but they would need to be reinforced. Wires would need to be soldered back into place. The plating around Megatron’s shoulder was rent apart, exposing delicate hydraulics and structural components underneath. Support struts would need to be replaced. The plating would need to be removed, hammered back into shape, welded, and reattached. That was several hours of work on its own, but it would have to wait until they got back to the shuttle. For now, they would have to settle with “good enough.”

“As you’ve told me numerous times, medic—Ratchet.” The big fool sighed. “Don’t you have anything else to say? If I wanted to hear how foolish others think me, I would have just played myself recordings of command meetings on the Nemesis.”

It seemed perhaps some of Ratchet’s influence had gotten through, slipped past any “evil impulses.” The bastard had at least used his name without being nagged about it first.

The thought brought more warmth to his spark than it had any right to. He was not about to feel sentimental towards a murderous lunatic just because he learned the bare minimum of manners. The only reason Megatron hadn’t tried to offline him yet was because he was useful. The moment Ratchet stopped being useful, he was as good as dead. Just another Autobot to be destroyed.

A cruel, selfish urge to only repair Megatron partially reared its ugly head in his processor. Ratchet could spin some lies about the extent of the damage or the capabilities of their available equipment, and then keep the Decepticon at that level of malfunction…. He would ensure his value and thus his continued functioning. Unfortunately, that was an awfully Decepticon-like thought. He’d been around Megatron too long.

Ratchet couldn’t bring himself to leave a patient untreated, even this one.

Maybe Megatron was counting on that.

“It seems you finally remembered my name. Good, you’re learning. That’s called personal growth.”

With a sigh, he flicked off the welder and finished clamping the warlord’s shoulder closed. The plating was too ragged to properly weld here in the hall, but this would at least keep the worst of the outside world from getting too cozy with Megatron’s internal components. Ratchet found himself patting the wounded metal like he would a dear friend. When had he started doing that? He yanked his hand away.

Megatron huffed, seemingly taking no notice of Ratchet’s quandary, before forcing himself to his feet with a pained grunt. Pertinacious old wreck. At least nothing was visibly leaking.

“Save your moralizing for someone naïve, Ratchet.” Was he saying his name again on purpose? The repetition did little to hamper the unbidden warmth it brought. “I’ve no need for such sermons.”

Maybe they ought to turn around and go back to the shuttle. The signal would still be here. It wasn’t worth the risk of exacerbating injuries….

“Let’s hurry to that beloved signal of yours,” the warlord said, as though sensing the medic’s thoughts.

“I’ve had more than enough of this filthy place.” Megatron made a disgusted noise while looking at his hands, covered in Primus knew what from fighting with the creature. “I’ll be taking plenty of it with me. It feels like half the blasted planet is lodged in my seams.”

“Good!” Ratchet snapped, getting off his knees and dusting away clinging debris. “I’ve had enough of looking at your rusty internal components anyway.”

Chapter Text

Trailing closely—but not too close, he made sure—behind Ratchet, Megatron was grateful they were nearly at the coordinates of that stupid distress signal.

Kicking aside some shredded, dirt brown something—matted fur maybe—with a disgusted grunt, he was also grateful that it seemed like no more of those predators were lurking around. While he wasn’t afraid of them—he’d never been afraid once in the entirety of his functioning and he would challenge anyone who said otherwise to single combat—they were without the necessary supplies to… neutralize any more of them. Not with the rifle in serious need of repair, slung over his good shoulder and one completely discharged blaster back in its holster. Not to mention the lack of more precious scalpels.

Megatron had forgotten that organic creatures often had their own fleshy, goopy version of nervous circuitry, that they weren’t always just blobs of meat in a loosely organized leather container. It was easy to forget organic life also ran on electricity in its own crude way.

He didn’t want to admit how instrumental Ratchet’s intervention had been in securing victory. That would be admitting to weakness. However, that sort of innovative quick-thinking combined with adroit hands was valuable in a combat situation. He wondered how much more effective Ratchet would be with a blaster in hand, with a far more powerful gun in hand—No.

Besides, with his thoroughly thrashed shoulder, he wouldn’t be transforming for quite some time, not until he was fully repaired. He would have Ratchet see to the remainder of his repairs when they were back on the Hyperjump.

Damaged wires could be heard arcing with dull snaps, muffled underneath the temporarily patched plating. Ratchet had at least done him the courtesy of deactivating some of his nociceptor circuitry, to keep the pain at a “tolerable” level. Megatron hadn’t been in the mood at the time to argue that pain was of no consequence to him. Being in pain meant he was still alive.

Well, at any rate, if he did ever allow the medic to wield him, Ratchet would certainly be a better shot than Starscream… who was probably getting all too comfortable in Megatron’s “abandoned” throne right about now.

The sooner they were off this blasted disgusting mudball, Megatron thought with a growl, the sooner he would be an unpleasant surprise for a complacent, traitorous second-in-command. Thoughts of vengeance and retribution were a fruitless distraction as he tried not to think of how pleasant it would be to be wrapped in warm red hands in his alt-mode while shooting holes in treacherous white wings.

Now was not the time.

There were signs throughout the halls and rooms that the beast they’d encountered had made this place into its den. They could only hope this species was territorial enough that others wouldn’t want to risk encroaching. Unfortunately, it would only be a matter of time before the putrid odor of death would waft out and alert any other animals downwind that this place was once more on the market.

If Megatron had anything to say about it, he and Ratchet would be long gone before any potential house hunters showed up for a tour.

“How much farther, medic?” he demanded, stamping his foot against a cleared spot of floor to dislodge a mat of moss that had decided to go home with him by clinging to his treads.

He would not become a habitat for organic parasites. That would just mean he’d need a round in a hot bath of sterilizing solution once they returned to the Nemesis. That was the last thing he needed, waiting who knows how long while turning an itchy green. Not unless Ratchet had a power washer in that medical kit of his to prevent him from looking like a Constructicon with a questionable paint job.

"Nearly there now. It's probably in the next room here or so." Ratchet sighed, pausing to frown at his scanner. "Have you always been this impatient or just since you broke the experimental warp drive in the shuttle?"

“I am not impatient!” he barked, stamping his foot again both to underscore—undermine—his own point and to further dislodge the sticky muck that loved him so damn much. “I simply have no intentions of becoming part of the environment! The sooner we get this ‘errand’ of yours over with, the sooner we can get away from this organic filth and return to doing something useful.”

Like going home, to the Hyperjump. No, the Hyperjump wasn’t truly home, not in any meaningful sense, but it was more home than this dilapidated facility. They didn’t belong here, not on this forgotten world. Neither of them did.

“The sooner we get this ‘ errand ’ of yours over with, the sooner we can get away from this organic filth and return to doing something useful.”

Ratchet rolled his optics before returning his gaze to the scanner in his hand. As if Megatron thought he wasn’t the definition of “impatience.”

“Oh, yes, because fixing you for the umpteenth time this week is so useful.” He should have just left the stubborn tin can on the shuttle to pout and sulk, so sure that Ratchet was wasting time with this little venture. “You just get hurt again so why I bother, I don’t know.”

Ratchet did know, of course, or at least he thought he did. His medical oaths directed many of his choices and Megatron was just unfortunately benefiting as a result.

But this time, Megatron had gotten injured protecting him. Well, protecting a valuable asset. That was most likely the thought process that led to him being spared a nasty mauling. Ratchet knew the value of his skills and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t wield that privilege to his advantage. That didn’t mean he felt good that someone else got that very mauling in his stead, even if that someone was Megatron of all the damned useless idiots.

“Waste of supplies and time,” he thoughtlessly muttered, without regard for who might be listening.

Instead of a mean-spirited retort about “Autobots” or a growl or any other typical expression of frustration and offense, there was silence. Silence, in the presence of a notoriously violent mech with a penchant for shooting off his mouth, was not a good sign. Ratchet, still holding up the scanner, glanced over his shoulder to be sure he wasn’t about to experience consequences, the only medic for light-years in any direction or not.

All he saw was a frown, quiet but watchful, as though some delicate feelings were hurt but Megatron was too stoic—stubborn—to verbalize them. Somehow that was worse to look at than an impending assault. Maybe it was the horrific implication that this murderous bastard had “delicate feelings” to hurt in the first place.

Ratchet had meant the harsh words as a reminder to himself to not care so much, but no one else would have a reason to know that. Megatron would have no reason not to take that personally, especially not with the expense of his own health that he had just paid. A bot with less tolerance for guff would have apologized.

“I mean me, not you,” he clarified. “Don’t give me those big, sad optics.”

The medic waved the scanner in his hand again, indicating that it was taking up most of his processor space, even though it wasn’t entirely true.

“Let’s go. The sooner I find the source of the signal, the sooner I can put your shoulder back together properly. Then you can stop looking at me like a kicked turbopuppy.”

Without another word, not giving Megatron a chance to have a “smart” comeback and turn it into an argument, Ratchet turned once more and crossed through the door into the next room, the signal’s source.

Banks of what seemed to be primitive computers, long-since powered off circled the room. Leaned against them were the pale bones of, presumably, whatever organic race had built this place. The skeletons had long since disarticulated, forming little piles along the floor where the individual bones, blotched with some dark organic substance, had fallen off the banks. With this level of decay, there was little to tell Ratchet what had caused their deaths, at least not without some knowledge of their physiology and more data.

A quick glance told him a few basic bits of information. They probably had bilateral symmetry given the long bones were in pairs. Sizable skulls. Probably about as tall as a minibot. Nevertheless, these were simply educated guesses based on initial data. With the way the bones laid, he couldn’t even begin to understand what these people might have looked like. Had they gone extinct? Did they still survive on some other planet somewhere? He wouldn’t know more just by staring at the remains, not without a proper examination.

Their kind, due to their lifespans, had seen many civilizations rise and fall. Abandoned worlds like this one weren’t unusual. Unfortunately, sometimes the fall of these civilizations was the fault of Cybertronians and their war.

Ratchet sighed, before giving the room itself a quick look.

Nothing in the room seemed particularly out of place, not that he could see. That itself was a little strange. Whatever predatory animals that lived on this planet hadn’t disturbed the bones for some unknown reason. Maybe something about the manner of death had dissuaded any scavengers from being too nosy. Perhaps a disease or unpleasant smell or some sort of barrier long-since destroyed or deactivated had discouraged them. However, moss or… maybe a fungus—it was hard to tell—had started to grow on them to reabsorb lingering nutrients.

There were no obvious textiles or trash. Either this race did not wear clothing or whatever they had been wearing had long since been returned to the ecosystem.

It was long beyond helping the beings that had once been here. Ratchet hated that Megatron had been right but being unable to help didn’t mean coming here had served no purpose.

A flashing light in the corner of his optic caught his attention. A bank separate from the others in the center of the room had a small blue light on the corner of the user console. It blinked in a regular pattern just as it had probably done for years or however long ago the facility’s inhabitants had died. A quick glance at his hand scanner told him that this was the source of the signal.

The last powered thing in the entire facility… was a call for help, help that ultimately never came. Not in time to do anything anyway.

Ratchet approached the console, carefully stepping over the bones to make sure he didn’t touch any on accident, and started looking around for a place to plug a datapad or, if need be, a diagnostic cable in. Of course, he couldn’t expect compatible technology but luckily Autobot tech, and Cybertronian more broadly, was fairly adaptable given their extensive contact with alien races. He could make some modifications or find some way to get the computer to talk to him.

Whatever information this computer held could possibly help explain what happened here, though given what they had already seen, Ratchet would much rather analyze that data from the safety of the Hyperjump. It was entirely possible this bank only held enough information to produce the distress signal they’d followed, but they wouldn’t know for sure if they didn’t check.

Just as he flipped through his cables to find a possible connector, he heard a soft thump followed by a shuffling noise behind him.

Whipping around, fearing that another predator had come for them, Ratchet raised a cable menacingly… only to see Megatron’s back as he rifled through a cabinet.

Of course, the bastard was looting the room. Decepticons, if nothing else, were resourceful scavengers, skilled at making use of limited supplies.

The injuries from the predator they’d run into looked less bad from this angle, but it was obvious that Megatron’s range of motion was more restricted than it should have been. Ratchet needed to fix that as soon as possible. It hurt to look at.

“What are you doing? You nearly gave me a spark attack, you clumsy idiot.”

“It’s not my fault you stopped paying attention, Ratchet,” Megatron said, stuffing something from the cabinet into his subspace like a common graverobber. Then again, anything here was no longer any good to the former owners and the Hyperjump had limited supplies. It was hard to blame Megatron for capitalizing on whatever he’d found.

As he prepared to link up with the one surviving console again, it occurred to him that he almost hadn’t noticed something. It had nearly slipped right on by despite being in plain sight.

Megatron had referred to him by name, entirely unprompted. No nagging, no insults. Just his name. Just “Ratchet.”

Chapter Text

Back on the Hyperjump, Megatron laid still on one of the two recharge slabs that the shuttle was equipped with. There wasn’t exactly a medbay so this would have to suffice for a repair station. Ratchet’s welder zapped and snapped as the mauled shoulder was carefully mended. The worst of the damaged plating was removed and set aside, granting the medic full access to the inner workings in need of aid.

Torn tubing needed to be replaced, bent struts straightened, and severed wires soldered back into place. There was much that needed professional attention.

The process was laborious, but they both knew a more thorough repair than the first aid provided inside the organic facility’s hallway was necessary if he ever wanted to have full function in that shoulder again.

At least Ratchet had listened to Megatron’s insistence that they get the Hyperjump into orbit first before they started the several hours-long process. The last thing they needed was some large animal potentially damaging their shuttle and stranding them in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The odds were low, but Megatron didn’t want to risk it. Even the generator he’d stolen from the organic facility could wait to be fixed up.

He hadn’t even gone to the mediocre washracks on board to wash the caked on organic gunk from his frame until after they had lifted off, leaving the filthy mudball and its disgusting creatures behind. Luckily, it seemed, he had managed to avoid contracting some sort of fungal infection or hitchhiking botanical friends, obviating the need for sterilizing soak whenever they contacted the Nemesis.

As much as it was a flying piece of garbage, barely space-worthy and hardly bigger than Astrotrain’s alt-mode, they needed the Hyperjump if they had any chance of surviving and getting back to their comrades. He wouldn’t risk it lollygagging on the surface of a planet with dangerous wildlife.

At least this inanimate shuttle wouldn’t threaten to change into root-mode randomly and crush them.

That part was a nice change, actually.

Not that Astrotrain would ever dare crush his leader. No, Astrotrain tended to save his insolence for others that outranked him. The thought of the giant triple-changer giving Starscream absolute hell in Megatron’s absence brought a smile to his tired face.

“And just what are you smirking about?”

Ratchet had been silent for a while, focused intently on his labors like a good servitor, so his sudden voice drew Megatron’s attention. While Megatron had taken to watching the goings on, curious as to the intricacies of the medic’s work, whenever he had become bored, he had allowed his processor to wander despite not moving his gaze. The zapping would continue whether or not he had deigned to give it his conscious awareness.

Though now that he looked back, it appeared Ratchet had changed out the welder for a smaller soldering gun. That would explain the abrasive, piny smell of flux he’d been trying to ignore and tiny jolts of electrical current twitching his circuits whenever the gun was active.

“Nothing of interest to you, I’m sure.” Megatron huffed, though it was decidedly less impressive than it could have been, given that he was unable to move or gesture with his right arm at the moment. He couldn’t even feel most of it as sensors had been disconnected for the duration of the surgery. Might as well not have had a right arm for the time being. While it wasn’t his preferred arm, he needed it all the same so Ratchet had him at quite the disadvantage.

“Well, if you’re planning a nefarious scheme of some kind, as you doubtless are, you can be sure I’d rather like to know about it.” Ratchet’s skilled fingers kept at their work, holding fragile wires in place and stabilizing the solder so it could be melted. Was he smirking? It was hard to tell with the flickering light of the soldering gun obscuring the medic’s distinguished features.

“Oh, I’m certain you would, Autobot.” There was no malice in the epithet this time. “If I were.”

“What else would you be smiling about?”

“Some things are none of your business.” Least of all Megatron’s few pleasures in life. “Now, is this an interrogation or a surgery?”

“If you open your mind, Megatron, it could be both.”

“I will not.” He would, however, settle for watching Ratchet’s hands put everything back where it ought to be in his shoulder. “Carry on. I have work to get done when you’re finished with my shoulder, Ratchet.”

After finishing Megatron’s repairs a day ago, Ratchet had finally had a chance to start analyzing what they’d found on the console on the planet below. They had decided to remain in orbit over the planet for a while, just until they determined there was no need to return to the surface for anything. Then they could be on their way to… somewhere. Known space at least, but beyond that was still an open question, an open question which Ratchet knew Megatron would be more than willing to argue about.

The data they had retrieved from the abandoned facility on that planet had been more than what Ratchet had anticipated. It had been a little tricky to decrypt, at first, but once the right algorithms were developed from their understanding of the original distress signal, it was simple enough.

Now as the final decryption algorithm ran, Ratchet sat at the navigation console, since it was the closest thing to any real computing power the Hyperjump had on board. He eyed the newly decrypted data as it appeared on the screen. It was a shame they didn’t have anything more powerful than their navigation computer, but this was a shuttle and not a fully equipped science vessel.

Back at the planetside facility, Megatron hadn’t displayed much interest in the data itself, not that Ratchet could tell anyway, but he had been keen on taking the backup generator under the one functional console in the facility. Apparently that one generator, operating on scientifically questionable principles, had been all that had kept the signal and its transmitting computer online all these years.

When Ratchet had finished dumping the data to storage, Megatron had unhooked the heavy-looking, box-shaped generator and freed it from its connections with all the skill of an experienced salvager. He’d been surprised that Megatron hadn’t just yanked the entire console and claimed Ratchet could just download the data later. It had been oddly thoughtful of him to wait until the medic had finished what he was doing with it.

Ratchet, then and now as he watched the translated glyphs read out across the console’s screen, thought there was little purpose in having a moral high ground about taking from the long dead in an abandoned place like that. Translated or not, none of the words went into his processor, only passing idly by as his mind wandered elsewhere.

The generator could become very useful on their shuttle, especially if they were able to tweak it to their needs and technology. It could supply backup power. It could be rigged to hypothetically be compatible with their blasters. It could be useful as a direct power source during a surgical procedure, if need be, impromptu life support should the power supplied by their sparks be interrupted or lessened somehow. Not a pleasant thought, but it always helped to be prepared for the worst.

Not that if it was Ratchet’s spark on the line it would be much help.

With a sigh, he reached out and paused the scroll of the text. He would have to start again.

Megatron had no idea what he was doing. He was no medic. It was a miracle he didn’t shoot himself in the foot on a daily basis. Not because Ratchet thought the warlord was truly stupid, despite regular insults otherwise. No, far from it. Megatron was rash. Similar outcome, different source.

No idiot would have watched himself being repaired with the intensity and critical optic of a medical student thirsting for knowledge, scrutinizing every movement of the medic’s hands for clues and secrets. An argument could be made that Megatron was simply assuring himself that Ratchet wasn’t repairing him poorly or, worse, actively damaging him.

Unfortunately, he didn’t see much merit in this particular argument. Enemies though they were, sure, but they both knew Ratchet had a code to uphold.

Ratchet wasn’t sure how he felt about Megatron unabashedly learning like this.

The knowledge used to heal could just as well be repurposed to harm, which was most certainly what Megatron would use it for. Why wouldn’t he? Maybe he was watching to render Ratchet’s value as a medic obsolete. If Megatron suddenly no longer needed a skilled medic, then Ratchet would just become another Autobot to crush under his heel—That was unlikely, he reminded himself. No matter one’s skills, there was no one who could perform any and all operations on themselves. It just wasn’t possible, but there was a chance the warlord’s arrogance would disregard that.

Hell, after Ratchet had finished with the surgery, Megatron had practically jumped up from the table to go examine the generator.

The door to the cargo bay that held the “armory” was wide open, the sounds of Ratchet’s borrowed welder—no, that was the soldering gun clicking—being used in some project drifting out into the rest of the shuttle. It was hard to focus with those noises, in addition to Ratchet’s worries.

For all the warlord’s insistence that he wasn’t an engineer, he did seem to have a vested interest in opening things up and poking around in them. Maybe he had just wanted to see more how things worked, even if that meant his own inner components.

Ratchet leaned back in the navigator’s chair before pushing himself away from the console. He was getting no reading done like this, absolutely none. He’d gone weeks without worrying too much about what Megatron was up to, what he might be scheming up and now, here he was, unable to stop thinking about it.

If he just got up to check what that old blowhard was doing, Ratchet could focus. Simple as that. Maybe he could even tell Megatron to keep it down. That might help. If Megatron was feeling particularly grumpy, Ratchet could remind him that those repairs were still fresh.

Getting up from the console, Ratchet crossed the cockpit and ducked down the short hallway to the cargo bay.

Standing in the open doorway, he was greeted with the sight of Megatron’s back bent over something on the worktable. The “armory,” in all its half-walled glory had become where the loud fool spent most of his time since they’d gotten stranded Primus knew where in the galaxy.

“What are you doing? You do realize I’m trying to get work done. That data won’t decrypt itself, you know, and I can’t hear myself think over the racket you’re making in here.”

Never mind the fact that the hard work was actually done, and he just needed to read it.

“Yes, of course, I am more than aware.” The bastard didn’t even turn around. “I am also trying to get work done as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Ratchet frowned but made his way to the side of the closest half-wall separating them to get a better view at this project.

On the table, he could see that Megatron had set up the generator they’d taken from the organic facility and opened it. Various access panels had been flipped out, wires exposed, and components pulled out for examination. Megatron had the soldering gun in his left hand, stuffed inside the generator’s casing, his right hand nearby presumably holding some form of solder lifted from Ratchet’s medical kit, but it was hard to see from this angle.

“I thought you weren’t an engineer.” Ratchet crossed his arms, raising an optical ridge.

“I’m not,” came the response. “We need to charge the blasters and the Hyperjump isn’t capable of it without significant modification.”

“That sounds like an engineer’s job if you ask me. You’re more likely to break the blasted thing, like you did with the shuttle’s warp drive.”

It was interesting though that Megatron had decided to work on the generator before working on his beloved fusion canon. Why?

“Ah, but I didn’t ask you, now did I, Ratchet?” There was a pause as the soldering gun was clicked off and set aside on the worktable. A whiff of smoke caught Ratchet in the olfactory sensory cluster. “Though, I think… I ought to have used the soldering iron, rather than the gun. More stable temperature control.”

Ratchet sighed.

“Move over. I’ll help you, you big idiot.”

Chapter Text

There hadn’t been much of obvious use to scavenge from that damn organic facility, not that they could readily take anyway. While Ratchet had played amongst those rocks—bones, that was the word, bones—Megatron had assigned himself the task of trying to make their visit to this useless planet and his getting mauled by a wild animal worthwhile.

Standing at the workbench in the “armory”—such a generous word for such a modest space—Megatron was left with the task of tidying up the tools after their successful project. Ratchet’s borrowed gear had already been packed back into the medical kit which the medic had taken with him back to the cockpit. All that was left were the odds and ends that belonged to the armory specifically along with whatever unnecessary components that had been yanked out of the generator.

At least the workbench had a drawer to stuff things in. With a sweep of his arm, he pushed everything into the drawer before slapping it closed. A piece of circuitry stuck out, caught on the edge of the desk. Megatron slapped the front panel of the drawer again, forcing the container into place. Whatever didn’t fit before certainly did now, in multiple pieces if need be.

While the computer banks in the abandoned facility had been tempting for supplies and parts, they could neither store that large of a haul in the Hyperjump’s minuscule cargo hold nor did they have any way to efficiently move that much stock even if adequate space were available. The odds were good that another predator of some kind would have come sniffing around by the time they made any progress, especially given how far away Megatron had been made to park the Hyperjump, for reasons he still thought were foolish.

He’d like to see Ratchet try to park an ungainly experimental Autobot spacebus on an alien world with limited available topographical intel.

The generator Megatron had pulled out of the last functioning beacon in the facility was now humming away on the floor in the armory. While Megatron would have preferred to have it somewhere it wasn’t likely to get accidentally kicked, the “armory” didn’t have anywhere off the ground save for the worktable… that he still needed.

That generator had been the biggest haul. Now it was retrofitted for their needs. The aliens that had originally built it ought to have been grateful that they were able to make something so useful to him and his plans to control the galaxy. Regardless, Megatron needed neither the gratitude nor the disdain of the dead.

After Ratchet had assisted Megatron with the modifications, they could finally charge the power packs for their blasters. Now the packs for their battery of blasters were plugged into ad hoc holders, drawing from whatever improbable source the generator used. As long as it worked, Megatron didn’t care how. Physics had always been Shockwave’s problem, not his.

Ratchet had already gone back to the cockpit of the shuttle several minutes ago, presumably taking Megatron’s unsaid thanks with him. That left him alone once more, only in the company of a generator, some damaged armaments, and an odd, unfamiliar hollow coldness around his spark. At least with Ratchet’s medical kit, he now stood half a chance of fixing all everything.

Except that coldness. It didn’t seem to correlate to his otherwise normal core temperature reading. How odd.

Perhaps he was becoming ill, Megatron thought, pressing his hand to his badge in a futile attempt to soothe the sensation away. Some organic hitchhiker might have made it onboard after all and was getting too comfortable in some forgotten corner of his powerful frame. Perhaps he’d call on Ratchet for a checkup later.

Just in case.

Just to be sure.

He would… trust Ratchet’s opinion in medical matters. That was the sound option, wasn’t it? Not that he really had any others. It was either trusting Ratchet or relying on something as untrustworthy and fickle as luck.

Memories of the warmth of Ratchet’s hands as they brushed and bumped against Megatron’s own while working on the generator rose unbidden in his processor, a weird conflict to that sensation of cold. Yes, he was definitely coming down with some sort of… infection, but that could wait.

It wouldn’t kill him in the next few hours. He’d like to meet the ailment that could.

At any rate, Megatron thought he had better get back to work on repairing the weapons. Who knew when they’d need the guns again? It was only a matter of time. After all, the universe was a dangerous place.

He ought to know.

He was one of the reasons.

Though, despite his earlier industriousness, Megatron didn’t particularly feel like fixing their gear. Instead, he found a strange… bored melancholy had settled in his fuel tank, disinteresting him from his self-appointed tasks.

That feeling hadn’t been there when Ratchet had been at his side, holding generator components in place for him while he soldered or sometimes the other way around.

He reached inside his subspace, scattering some small, aluminum, polyhedral shapes onto the worktable, followed by a rectangular wooden slab with markings burnt into the surface.

While Megatron had been able to plunder a few bits and bobs from some cabinets, but he doubted they would be of much use. Mostly what he’d found had seemed to be some sort of low-tech game, with pieces and a board. Easy enough to fit in his subspace, since the pieces were made for smaller, organic hands. On a whim, he thought perhaps they might make use of it stave off the boredom of their seemingly endless trek back to known space.

Maybe they could make up rules for something to do with the pyramidal prisms. Megatron picked up the board, holding it in front of his face to better see it. The burned marks were mostly triangular or square. Probably places to put the pieces, but there had been no rectangular prisms with the set.

However, there was no indication of how to actually play or what even the goal of the game was. No obvious glyphs engraved anywhere, not even on the back when he flipped it around.

Bah.

Games were for new-builds and the immature. There was little point. No tangible reward except bragging rights. It wasn’t as though he and Ratchet had anything with which to gamble either. Utterly pointless.

Megatron snorted with derision, dropping the board carelessly from his hand. It clattered loudly, impacting with the bench and sending the light metal pieces jumping all over. A few of the prisms even scattered to the floor where they pinged off the titanium interior.

A voice called out from the Hyperjump’s cockpit.

“Did you fall over again?”

Dammit.

“You would know if I did, Ratchet!” Megatron snapped over his shoulder. He was certain that he would sound markedly different than a flimsy piece of organic material if he fell, thank you very much. Surely, he would make something of an almighty crash.

Though maybe if he did… he could hear Ratchet’s voice again. See his handsome face again. Wait. Why did he want that? If he wanted to hear Ratchet’s voice or look at him again, Megatron could just wander out into the cockpit and annoy the medic at his leisure.

With a sigh, he glanced at the mess of metal game pieces littering the floor.

Unfortunately, they had nothing of note to say to him, only lying there and reflecting the harsh lights of the cargo bay back at his optics.

There remained yet another possibility for what to do with them. Megatron could dump the whole set on Ratchet as a “souvenir” of some kind. That might keep the medic busy for a few hours, trying to figure out what it was and how the rules worked, what they said about the originating culture and all that trifle.

After all, Autobots loved all things organic that weren’t in the process of biting their dumb faces off. Or trying to bite Megatron’s face off, in Ratchet’s specific case, given what had happened back on that unnamed planet.

Ratchet had probably only dispatched that beast out of self-preservation. A deactivated, offline Megatron was no good to the medic as a shield on a potentially dangerous journey of indeterminate length. Not that Ratchet was in desperate need of backup. Even before they had landed on that useless mudball, Megatron had seen the medic in combat. He was a terror with anything in those skilled hands of his, whether they were meant to be weapons or not. Ratchet had shown absolutely no fear cornering Megatron in the cockpit with that welder, alone without reinforcements, right before they’d been teleported to Primus knew where.

Witnessing that scalpel fly had just been a solid reminder to not lower his guard too much.

Yes, Megatron would just offload the damn game on Ratchet. He’d just let it be the medic’s problem to play around with.

Besides, he could call it a peace offering or a gift of goodwill, some fancy pleasantry to further cement his erstwhile truce with the medic.

Yes. Good.

It would only help to ingratiate himself for now.

A Ratchet that thought him pliant and tame was a Ratchet he could better use to keep him alive.

First, however, Megatron would settle for picking up the pieces from the floor, setting them neatly next to their board on the workbench. It was an easy enough task, even if the pieces were not made for hands the size of his. Arranged in tidy little rows, lying on their long sides next to the wooden board, the whole set of prisms made a good presentation.

With that out of the way and the metal pieces still gleaming back at him, Megatron was then left with one more task: testing an important hypothesis.

Leaving the bounds of the armory’s half-walls, Megatron stood in the open space of the more or less empty cargo bay before throwing himself backwards onto the floor.

While not the “almighty crash,” he had anticipated, the resulting solid thump of his back colliding with the scuffed titanium flooring summoned Ratchet, judging by the rapidly approaching footsteps.

Perfect, he thought, despite the dull ache in his plating from the impact. In short order it would go away, of course; it was hardly much of a fall, honestly. Megatron turned off his optics and spread out his limbs dramatically, intending to look like he’d gone sprawling from a blow of some kind as opposed to having simply tipped over like some doddering old fool.

“You did that on purpose!” Ah, yes, the nagging machine had arrived. The noble Autobot had come to his rescue.

“I did not,” Megatron protested, feebly trying to close his hands as though he were struggling. Might as well make it look good. “As you can see, I have fallen.”

“How? It’s not like there’s anything in here for you to trip on and no one came in to punch you in the face.” There was a pause. Megatron carefully turned one optic on, surreptitiously leaving the active visual feed very narrow in hopes that he would go unnoticed. Ratchet was standing in the doorway, hands on his hips and frowning down at the fallen warlord. “Though if they did, they deserve an award. You have a very punchable face. Sometimes I think about punching you myself.”

The steps came closer and Megatron turned off his optic again, to keep up the ruse, even if it was, perhaps, silly.

“Unfortunately, you haven’t done anything to deserve that treatment quite yet.”

There was a shuffling noise and creaking of old, brittle plating, as though Ratchet were kneeling down beside him. A light pressure appeared on his recently repaired shoulder, a hand… a warm hand… checking for fresh damage. The fingers trailed across the shoulder towards his neck. Apparently satisfied that none of the new welds had been disrupted, the fingers disappeared at his collar… before the biting pain of the flat of a palm colliding with his cheek.

Megatron’s optics snapped on in a flash, briefly brightening with the force of the impact. The pain quickly dissipated, leaving a warm tingle in its place.

“But that’s for falling over for attention, you melodramatic tin can!”

And he’d do it again too if it would work.

Chapter Text

They had finally agreed to leave the planet’s orbit a day after retrofitting the generator. No need to linger and no need to continue rummaging amongst the ruined facility. Perhaps there had been other installations on the planet but they didn’t have the luxury of time or resources to go adventuring just for the hell of it, not with the dauntingly long journey back to known space ahead of them.

Having wanted to get to work on the data he decrypted from the computer attached to the distress beacon, Ratchet had… reluctantly ceded the job of piloting the shuttle to Megatron so that he could focus from the other navigation chair in the cockpit. While there was a chance the duplicitous bastard could use the opportunity to put them on a heading closer to the last known location of the Nemesis than any Autobot base, they had, at this rate, many months of travel before the exact heading made a significant difference. Let the old rust bucket think he was getting away with something. Even a biased heading would still take them in the right general direction. Besides, it wasn’t like Ratchet couldn’t change it back when it was his turn again or whenever Megatron wasn’t looking.

After a few weeks of plugging through the decrypted data, which had been transferred to a datapad for ease, Ratchet had managed a few discoveries when not taking a moment or two to watch stars zip by the Hyperjump’s viewport.

Firstly, the data showed that the facility had indeed been a medical one, a research facility specifically. At first, Ratchet had thought it was with the intent of curing whatever diseases and ailments had plagued the species that lived—or had at least partially colonized—the planet. Further digging had shown him that the facility’s real intent had been far more sinister.

While the facility had worked on numerous pathogens, they weren’t with the intent to cure. The intent was to produce bioweapons. The data Ratchet had recovered indicated that while most ventures hadn’t been promising, he had found that one airborne virus project had had moderate success for awhile. The intent was to produce something that would be lethal and quick, for small, targeted strikes. Pain the victims may have experienced was irrelevant; neither was virulence as the range was intended to be limited. Suffering and mass contagion were not part of the goal. It was the rapid death and nothing else that was sought.

Later records showed that, after years of slow progress, there was a sudden acceleration in development… resulting in a containment breach… and the beacon that had brought Ratchet and Megatron to this planet, far, far too late to do any good beyond bearing witness to the foible of hubris.

Given the tragedy of the scientists there, it would have been a shame to not name the planet since it didn’t have one in their charts. So earlier in his research, Ratchet had named it for the forests they’d trudged through, if only to save it from the unfortunate fate of only having an ugly, autogenerated name.

Derevon, he had decided, based on word roots from some of Earth’s languages, selected specifically to spite Megatron and his hatred of humanity, not that Megatron would have cared about what Ratchet named some random planet they’d almost certainly never see again. It was the intent that mattered, Ratchet reasoned.

The data also contained the genome for this virus.

Valuable, but dangerous.

Luckily, it seemed as though the virons in the facility itself had long been rendered either inert or inactive. Some of the failsafe measures had worked, at least. An organic virus would have also done little to mechanical, Cybertronian bodies. Theoretically, a mechanical analogue transmitted via nanite could be derived, but the thought of something so destructive was too horrible for Ratchet to contemplate. The thought of Megatron using it against the Autobots should he acquire knowledge of this data terrified him.

Ratchet, without meaning to, looked up from his datapad over to the only other seat in the cockpit, the one currently occupied by his companion.

Megatron seemed to be paying him no mind, switching from looking at something on the navigation console to looking out of the viewport and back again. The warlord grumbled something about “fragging asteroids,” despite Ratchet being unable to see any at all through the glass. Perhaps Megatron had seen some on the shuttle’s sensors out beyond their innate range of vision.

Watching him uselessly swear at unseen asteroids, Ratchet struggled to remember that Megatron was still a threat. Optimus had said some slag about “evil brain impulses” once, not that Optimus was exactly a medical expert. All the same, “evil brain impulses” or not, Ratchet silently reminded himself that he’d do well to keep in mind how dangerous Megatron could be… and would be if he got his hands on a tool like the virus from Derevon. Sure, he might have to hand it off to Shockwave or Hook to make any progress on using it, but putting such a thing within Megatron’s reach would be foolhardy.

No matter what the traitorous thought process that wanted to exclaim to his “friend” what he had found, the penultimate, fatal trait of the scientist.

Unaware of Ratchet’s internal dilemma, Megatron continued to focus on piloting the Hyperjump with the single-minded attention of an expert micromanager with a pathological need to be on control of the situation. He muttered something about the thrusters being a fraction of a degree off and needing to recalibrate.

Yes, having him pilot had been a smart move, now that Ratchet thought about it.

It was oddly comforting to know that, as a result of Megatron’s programming, they would at least arrive wherever they ended up with precision. Even if his ability to park when they got there remained debatable. At the very least, the task of keeping the Jump on track would keep the lumbering accident busy when he wasn’t fixing the guns, a task that was already mostly complete. The fusion cannon was all that was still damaged.

Ratchet should have been more on edge, more wary, with a long-time enemy lurking usually not more than a few meters away and being in control of the helm for the time being. The work he’d been doing—and their shared avoidance of small talk—had made ignoring Megatron’s presence easier.

“Ignoring” wasn’t quite the right word though. “Ignoring” had set in during the first few days of being stranded and “ignoring” didn’t keep a shuttle running. Neither of them wanted to be out here after all and it was impossible to safely—for a given definition of “safety” with Megatron on board—operate a craft of this size alone.

Perhaps the right word didn’t exist. The comfort of not being alone, even if the company was less than ideal. That’s what it was, he decided, tossing his datapad into his subspace. It would be safe from prying red optics there.

A fuel break would be wise. Ratchet stood up and walked over to the cabinet in the cockpit where the all-purpose energon converter was stored. His personal reserves in his tanks were starting to get low, even though he hadn’t been doing terribly much to cause a significant drain. A testament to how long the medic had gone without checking them, a terrible, hypocritical habit.

He double-checked that the converter was set to produce food-grade fuel and not vehicle-grade. Again. Megatron kept changing the settings. Vehicle-grade was too thick, sludgy, and unpleasant in flavor. Flavor didn’t matter when it was meant to be stuffed into a non-sentient craft who didn’t get an opinion.

The heavier grade of fuel was also harder to process in a regular Cybertronian body, but he’d seen Skyfire drink it on occasion. With horror, he’d watched Megatron down a cube of it once. For Skyfire, it made sense, but with Megatron, he could hardly imagine was prompted it other than hard-wired survival habits of taking what you could get. That and vehicle-grade didn’t take as long to refine, given that more impurities from the source material could remain in the final product.

That was probably why Megatron kept changing the settings, now that he thought about it, stretch out their supplies even if it wasn’t exactly comfortable.

He ought to remind Megatron to fuel, now that he thought about it. The idiot probably hadn’t fueled since Ratchet last did. He was just as bad at just… going without when he didn’t have to.

Just as Ratchet opened his mouth to ask, he noticed it.

The energon converter’s supply of raw materials was low. They hadn’t been monitoring it as closely as they ought to have. Either that or the gauge was reading incorrectly or… there was a leak somewhere. The storage tank, which contained a built-in mill to grind materials into powder and liquid slurries, didn’t seem like it was cracked. Opening the top of the tank, Ratchet confirmed his fears.

Low.

They’d need to land and source some supplies in the next week. Ratchet sighed and let the lid fall closed, clicking shut under its own weight.

“We need more raw materials for the converter.”

An impatient, wordless complaint rumbled across the cockpit, preceding the vocalized follow up.

“Yet another pit stop that will cost valuable time.”

Ratchet turned around to face the front of the cockpit and point a finger in accusation, only to find Megatron hadn’t even done him the courtesy of facing him to take the well-deserved tongue-lashing. That wouldn’t stop it though, so Ratchet carried on ahead.

“Do you want to eat? Do you want the Hyperjump to just stop dead somewhere in the void? We’re going to need more fuel, you thick-headed tyrant. We can’t subsist off the vacuum energy of the universe and we’re not exactly flying a solar sail here!”

“Did I say ‘no,’ Ratchet?”

Megatron still didn’t turn around, despite the snap to his voice.

“Not exactly but you implied—“

“I implied nothing.” The bastard huffed, aggressively tapping some sequence or another into the navigation console in front of him. “You Autobots assume much. I’m having the scanners, meager though they are, check nearby star systems for a viable source of materials.”

“Good, because Plan B was going to be surgically removing parts of your scrapheap body to feed into the converter," Ratchet retorted, not truly meaning it. There was still enough in the converter for the week though. Ratchet drew two cubes of fuel from the supplies before walking over to the twin navigation consoles. He held one cube out for Megatron to take, having forgotten to ask him if he actually wanted one. Not that Megatron really had a choice. Doctor’s orders and all that. “Starting with your fat barrel.”

Megatron turned to look at Ratchet at last, narrowing his gaze at the cube of fuel being foisted on him.

“How ruthlessly resourceful of you….” Judging by the slight scowl, Megatron looked like there was something more he wanted to say but was debating the merit of it. He hesitated before taking the cube from Ratchet’s hand, weighing it in his palm like an old habit.

Apparently the threat of potentially being brutally cannibalized didn’t faze him, but then again… scarce fuel and the resulting violence were the order of the day for Megatron’s army. Such sacrifice, though probably not his own sacrifice, was likely not a novel concept to him.

Gruesome, if they’ve ever had to actually cross that line.

"You don't seriously think I—"

Megatron, however, finally deigned to finish his own thought, cutting Ratchet off.

“It’s almost as though you’re starting to think like a Decepticon. How to get the most out of limited supplies, wasting no opportunity to ensure continued survival, no matter how personally distasteful you find it.”

On second thought, Ratchet wished Megatron had kept that to himself. He leaned away in offense.

“I would never sink to thinking like—“

“It was your idea, Ratchet. I am merely admiring your capacity to think beyond your moral compass.” A haunting thought, a feeling probably made plain on the medic’s face.

There was a sigh as Megatron turned away before taking a sip from his cube. “Thankfully, my mechs and I have yet to resort to such extreme measures, despite relentless Autobot attempts to starve us into submission.”

The cube was set aside on the console.

“Besides, it appears the scanners have found some planet with extensive carbon-based fuel reserves. It’s within a few day’s flight.”

Chapter Text

"So this is your planet rich with carbon-based fuel sources?" Ratchet stared out of the viewport at the blue and white surface of the planet below, hands on his hips.

After entering the planet’s orbit, Megatron realized his initial scan data had been incorrect… or at least, incomplete.

He stood back a few paces from the consoles, glaring ruefully at the world he'd brought them to.

There were plenty of carbon-based fuel sources on this world in the form of peat, coal, and oil, but they weren’t exactly easy to get to. Unfortunately, it was too late to change plans. They would run out of fuel before arrival if they tried to find a new planet with more readily accessible resources.

A few bright white clouds floated through the upper atmosphere, wispy and frozen. Beautiful, if he were honest, but beauty would not put raw materials in their energon converter nor would it propel them back to known space.

“I’d love to see you come up with another solution, Ratchet,” Megatron said, approaching the navigation console to pull up some more of the scanner data. They would still need a place to land, even if to avoid the fate of drifting in a decaying orbit before the planet claimed them anyway.

This planet was a world of ice, the victim of a runaway cooling effect. With more ice, the world's albedo increased, deflecting even more heat until the plentiful peat-rich bogs and marshes that had been promised in the initial scan were mostly covered in frost. The trouble was that the high albedo caused interference with the Hyperjump's scanners, the true nature of the planet not being revealed until they got too close to go elsewhere. To this frozen hell’s credit, it did contain what they needed, though getting at it would be tricky.

But not impossible.

Megatron had scavenged resources out of even less ideal rocks before. They would just need to survive long enough to gather what they needed and then get out. Though, maintaining core heat would further deplete their fuel reserves, constraining the amount of time they could spend searching.

“There are fuel sources here, but it won’t be as simple as asking your organic friends to oh so graciously share.” Data scrolled across the navigation console’s screen. The Hyperjump wasn’t equipped to overlay it onto the viewport, a simple window between the cockpit and space. Useless piece of Autobot garbage, but at least it worked. That was all Megatron needed out of it.

At least this planet wasn't obviously inhabited by a sapient species, not that they could tell. No mechanicals anyway and no visible organic settlements. Their scanner technology was often… spotty at detecting organic life or differentiating it from non-living organic matter. If anyone was living on this unfortunate snowball, they probably weren't technologically advanced enough to pose much threat.

Not the same as no threat, so underpreparing was not a risk worth taking.

A good thing then that Megatron had managed to finish the repairs to his fusion cannon on the way here. Unfortunately, he only had a few fusion cells left, having used most of what he'd brought with him during the ill-fated raid on the Autobot supply depot those long months ago.

A viable spot appeared in the data.

He waved Ratchet, who was still frowning out of the viewport, over to look. The medic trudged over with a huff, but leaned over Megatron’s shoulder to see nonetheless. The proximity of their frames trapped heat between them and it took effort to dismiss thoughts of the words “cozy” and “comfort.”

Maybe he ought to hurry up and give Ratchet that board game he pilfered. Megatron had been putting off doing that. For strategical purposes, of course, he had been assuring himself. He’d do it when they returned with fuel. There would be time for just a little frivolity as soon as the work was done.

“There. A coastal swamp valley in the equatorial region.” With a tap of the screen, the region was highlighted for easier viewing.

“It should be slightly warmer there,” he added. Though “warmer” was marginal, perhaps only a handful of degrees warmer but it would still be below freezing. The ice and snow would at least be less thick and they ought to be able to collect some peat.

“Fine.” Ratchet’s voice was right next to his audio sensors. “Take us down.”

“Don’t presume to order me, medic.” Megatron knew very well that Ratchet would not appreciate the appellation. That was why he’d decided to use it, to needle and push back… before he agreed. He did not and would not take orders from anyone, least of all an Autobot. No matter how good looking. The supreme commander of the Decepticons would not be swayed by something so banal as appealing aesthetics… or deft hands.

“Don’t—“ Ratchet stopped himself, walking off to his chair at the secondary navigation console… taking his pleasant warmth with him. “I’m not having this argument with you for the umpteenth time, Megatron. We don’t have time to waste.”

With a grumble, Megatron dropped into his own seat, plugging the necessary commands into the console.

“Now I shall take us down.” Because he had decided it would be expedient for his own ends to do so, not because of Ratchet. Definitely not because of Ratchet.

Trudging through the slush of the chilly bog, Ratchet didn’t think he would ever tire of Megatron being forced to exist in an organic environment and viscerally hating every millisecond of it.

Of course, it was obvious by now that Megatron had no particular compunctions with dirt and grime generally, but something about wet organic material getting lodged into his seams shortened his already notoriously quick temper. It was entertaining listening to the very particular “I’m covered in organic sludge” breviloquence that came with creative swears and threats against the “responsible” lifeforms.

After biting down the momentary alarm in his processor when he realize Megatron was fine, Ratchet just shook his head at the most recent volley of expletives—something about his foot getting stuck under a submerged log—behind him. For now, he was more interested in following the scanner through the icy muck towards the nearest source of peat. The plant matter in the area they had landed in hadn’t yet decomposed into peat and wouldn’t have been of much use.

This planet seemed to now mostly have grass-like plants but that was likely all that would have survived the global ice age, but the anoxic environments of these swamps were perfect for peat generation. The plant material at the bottom of the layers of peat probably predated the ice age. While they could have theoretically used the grasses from the surface in the energon converter, it would have been inefficient. They weren’t energy dense enough to be worthwhile to harvest.

The loud splashing of Megatron’s stomping at least meant Ratchet could keep an optic on him without having to actively look. The bloviating lunatic didn’t need constant babysitting, at least not generally.

An almighty crack followed by a heavy splash several meters away made Ratchet freeze and glance over his shoulder. Ripples in the water danced in growing circles from where Megatron had presumably thrown the log that had so offended him.

Well, that was one way to remove a barrier, but, really, he could have just set it aside. No need to punish the damn thing, unless it was pointless revenge for Derevon’s forests getting too friendly with their leaves and moss.

“You certainly showed that lump of dead inanimate plant matter who’s boss. Do you feel better now?” Ratchet rolled his optics to underscore his sarcasm.

The only response was a huff. That was fine. Megatron could sulk. If he could sulk, that meant he was fine and probably uninjured.

With that strength of his, Megatron did make for a convenient beast of burden though, so Ratchet had ensured Megatron had been loaded up with what tools and kit they had before disembarking. Though, this time Ratchet had armed himself with a holstered blaster, just in case.  With the oddly comforting knowledge of the repaired fusion cannon now securely on his companion’s arm, Ratchet felt secure in the knowledge that they wouldn’t be caught off guard by wildlife again.

“You couldn’t have put us down just a little bit closer to the target, could you?” Ratchet frowned at his scanner. The nearest source of peat was over a mile away. While not terribly far in the grand scheme of things, the rough terrain made traversing that distance difficult.

On the plus side, the sun was out overhead, which helped keep their frames at a more reasonable temperature. The thermal energy from the system’s star would help make the expedition a little less taxing on their fuel reserves, at least for now. They had originally planned for slightly colder ambient air, which meant they could spend more time gathering resources.

Even if not for the cold, the acidic bog water would slowly eat at their plating. While it would take days or weeks of direct exposure to really do any serious damage at the current acidity, it would still irritate the metal and could lead to plating microperforation. A vector for disease and other problems to be sure, but not immediately dangerous. That was a risk they could take and it was something he could treat. He didn’t look forward to sanding Megatron down again and zapping his replacement layers of plating with an annealer, but it would be alright. He could also check for any other damage that the big oaf wouldn’t bother self-reporting while he was fixing a little acid corrosion, reassure himself that Megatron was fine and in good health.

Ratchet shook his head to banish the thought. Just a side effect of loneliness, probably. He hadn’t seen another Autobot, or even any other Decepticons for that matter, for months.

Better to think about something else, like Megatron’s idle complaining.

“I could have, if you hadn’t complained about the landing site not being perfectly flat!” The splashing sped up, as though Megatron were skulking closer now that he was no longer stuck.

“It’s perfectly reasonable to not want to have to jump forty feet off the landing ramp with tons of gear.” Not all of them were nearly indestructible war machines, after all.

“Well, it appears you’ll have to settle for something less comfortable than the old transport hubs of Iacon, Autobot—“

“Yes, because you destroyed them to cripple supply lines,” Ratchet snapped.

And the move to destroy the hubs had worked in Megatron’s favor. Tactically, a great move, but a great loss to the Autobot war effort at the time. Not that it mattered much now anyway, not when their war had left their home planet behind millions of years ago, and certainly not out here in the middle of uncharted space with no one but each other for light-years.

Ratchet shrugged, tapping at the scanner to wake it back up. It must have fallen asleep when he hadn’t been actively using it. That’s what he got for ignoring it long enough to bicker. They had places to be and arguing would only cost more time, no matter how much it reminded him he wasn’t alone out here.

“Come on, there’s a bank up here that we can use for a while.” Ratchet gestured with his scanner up ahead of them where a snowy knoll rose from the muck, extending a ways towards their goal. “Get out of the water a little bit.”

They would need the reprieve, because even though the sun was shining now, there were clouds approaching on the horizon and neither of them knew the weather patterns of this world well enough to predict what that could portend. What he did know was that he didn’t want them to be in the water if the temperature suddenly took a nosedive. Even the heat of their frames wouldn’t necessary be enough to dislodge them from an encroaching ice pack.

“Quickly—”

“Yes, yes, go!” The hurried splashing resumed. Just as Ratchet turned to look back at his companion again, he was stopped when Megatron spoke again. Ratchet had expected some comment about “going when he was damn good and ready,” but no.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

Chapter Text

Crouched down in the murky bog at the back of the valley with a knife in hand, Megatron tried to ignore the aggravating constant bump of dislodged surface ice that floated against his armor. The ice hadn’t been thick, but it had crushed into a crunchy slurry when he’d punched his way through to get at the peat layer below. The ice was more consistent here than closer to their original landing site, forming a thin sheet on top of the water.

Ideally, collecting this fuel would have been done after draining the extraction area, but they had neither the luxury of time nor the resources to go through that effort.

The energon converter could extract the acidic water that came with the raw resource but it would be less efficient than supplying a dry fuel source or liquid hydrocarbons. Wet, waterlogged fuel would have to do. After cutting a sludgy chunk of peat free from the shallow lakebed, he lobbed it into the crate Ratchet held out for him from the nearby bank. Drops of filthy water were flung off in the process.

“Watch it!”

A few animals, only distinguished from the white of the snow by their dark optics—eyes, that’s what Ratchet had called them—watched them in dumb silence from the periphery. Megatron wondered vaguely if maybe he could hit one with a chunk of peat to shoo them away. Being ogled was something he could do without. Waste of fuel though.

“You could also set it down,” he said, letting the thought go. “You’re already on the bank.”

Relatively dry and out of the cold, acidic water. The subtle itch of prolonged exposure to the mild corrosive was just beginning to set in on thinner areas of his armor like his joints and the shoulder patching Ratchet had done after his mauling. The few areas he actually had paint, like his hands, instead of only a clear sealant would likely be pocked and pitted with corrosion.

Megatron was out here doing all the hard work anyway so that Ratchet wouldn’t have to wallow in the cold acidic water with him. The water would be well over the shorter medic’s neck if he squatted down in here, as opposed to coming up to Megatron’s shoulders. “It’s not as though you really need to hold it.”

Besides, Megatron had hauled most of the gear down here in the first place. Not all, no, Ratchet had certainly carried a fair share, but still not the bulk. He wasn’t sure why Ratchet had insisted on holding out the crate. Maybe he felt like he needed to help somehow.

No matter.

Another chunk was sliced free and landed in the half-empty crate with a soggy flop.

Ratchet ought to appreciate the effort Megatron was going to ensure the medic’s comfort during this endeavor. He should have taken amusement from the idea of forcing this Autobot to labor for him, but the idea of Ratchet potentially getting stuck in the swamp’s sticky muck, unable to get out, bothered him for some reason. Besides, this was still less of an inconvenience than when Starscream had dropped him into a vat of some organic gelatin-like substance while in gun-mode several years back. That had been truly disgusting. It had taken weeks to get it out of all his plating and seams.

If Ratchet really wanted to help, the Autobot could take his cannon from the bank and watch the perimeter—No. The recoil would probably damage him outright or knock him beneath the swamp’s crust of ice. Megatron couldn’t have that, but he also couldn’t bring the cannon with him into the water. It would have damaged the delicate internal components he had only just repaired before they had arrived at this snowball of a world. The damn thing had, unfortunately, never been watertight.

They would just have to settle for keeping it off to the side, useless except perhaps as a bludgeon on the frozen bank.

The sky darkened overhead, visibility through the already turbid water worsening. Megatron looked up to see that thick gray cloud cover had moved in, blocking some of the sun’s meager warmth.

Great.

He would have to hurry, but that was fine—Something white drifted down in front of his face. A snowflake?

Followed by another, this one landing on his nose instead of falling to the water below.

More snowflakes fell, gently at first, and then with greater speed, silently colliding with the slurry of ice and filthy water.

“Get out of the water!”

"What?” he asked, holding the knife just above the water.

“Get—Bah!” Ratchet threw up his hands, the crate of harvested peat abandoned at his side, before hopping down from the bank, crashing through the thin sheet of ice and sending a shallow wave of water across the surface.

A sharp chill bit at Megatron’s plating as he watched. Whether because the air temperature was rapidly dropping or the icy wind that was whipping up or because Ratchet just jumped down into the bog, he couldn’t say.

Dumbstruck for a moment with his jaw agape as snow fell around them, he stayed put, crouched in the water. Ratchet ran towards him through the path Megatron had earlier already broken into the thin ice, sloshing the entire way.

“Get out of the water, you idiot!” Red hands grabbed for his wrist, the knife in his palm dropping into the bog as he was pulled.

Guided by millions of years of refined combat instinct, Megatron didn't budge, locking his leg joints to resist the pull and leaving Ratchet to flail and splash in vain.

"What are you—"

"Get out before you get stuck, you death-seeking idiot!"

Ratchet continued to pull, standing over Megatron with no regard for whether or not be he actually wanted to be saved from… whatever it was.

"Stuck?” How would he be stuck? It was only cold water. Falling snow and a brisk breeze didn’t necessarily portend a blizzard. “Nonsense—"

Megatron reached back down with his free hand, hoping to retrieve the dropped knife from the sludge. However, his hand met with unexpected resistance and the heavy crunch of a growing sheet of white ice as he punched through. The sheet had begun to reform around the edge of the hole he had made in it, the new growth thicker than before. He could still break it, for now, but it looked like he would be eating his words.

The wind picked up speed, whipping the falling snow at ever shallower angles.

The heat his engine and internal components radiated wasn't enough to keep frost from settling in on the his plating. The water droplets that had been splashed up were already freezing into place, cracking and falling off with every movement of his frame.

If Megatron, with his larger frame capable of producing more heat, was starting to lose core heat… then Ratchet with his smaller frame was—Without thinking and ignoring the loud protests about being manhandled, he clasped his hands around the medic’s middle and threw him up onto the relatively dry bank. Ratchet landed with a dull clank.

Now that foolish Autobot was safe. Well, safer than standing in the icy bog.

Megatron would blame the strengthening wind if Ratchet complained later about his wishes being disregarded. Now to get out before the ice decided to hug him too. The last thing he needed was a hug, least of all from a disgusting, organic swamp.

It took several moments of crushing through the ice to reach the bank, but by the time Megatron hauled himself onto comparatively dry land, a definite squall was growing in the valley. Ratchet had already gotten to his feet, spitting obscenities about the weather and Megatron throwing him like a sack of sand.

“The scanner readout showed no shelters in this area!” And they likely wouldn’t reach the Hyperjump in time, especially since there wasn’t a path there that didn’t descend into the water at some point. “We’ll be frozen solid before we can get to the shuttle!”

Ignoring Ratchet’s panic for the moment, Megatron leaned down to pick up his cannon. A warning popped up on his HUD about dangerously low core temperatures being immanent. He dismissed it. He knew damn well what the temperature was.

A rock wall, forming part of the ridge that separated the valley from the low mountains cradling it, loomed only a hundred or so meters from their position.

“Then we shall simply make one.” He shook the gathered snow from the fusion cannon. Any real warrior knew that any weapon worth wielding was also a invaluable tool. “Grab the crate.”

Rock and ice crumbled away. The acrid smell of discharged fusion cells lingered, brought into sharp relief by the bite of snowfall. Ratchet watched, half-full crate of damp peat clutched in his arms, as Megatron kicked and shoved at any lingering rubble left over from making a hole in the wall big enough to duck into.

It wouldn't be perfect, but it would get them out of the storm's direct fury. There wouldn't be much room either.

His plating shuddered with another shiver. Ice and frost had already made a home on his metal. Snow clung to the ice's surface and wherever it could get purchase on his frame.

Diving into the bog to pull Megatron out might have been a mistake. It had dropped his core temperature significantly faster than merely being exposed to the atmospheric conditions. His systems were struggling to keep the cold at bay and his joints were beginning to seize in extremities where his natural antifreeze, at thinner concentrations in those areas, began to fail.

Maybe he should have let Megatron freeze in the pond like an idiot.

No.

He had made the right choice, even if he got thrown on his aft for it. Ratchet hadn't even gotten hurt in the process, as though Megatron hadn't been trying to injure him.

At some point while Ratchet idly wondered where his gear had gone and habitually dismissed the low core temperature warnings on his HUD, Megatron had come back over and grabbed his arm. It took him a moment to notice he was being tugged but not dragged, just urged towards the shallow shelter that had been blasted out of the rock. The metal fingers grasping him were cold but still warmer than the surrounding air.

Ratchet willed his feet to move, allowing himself to be led to safety through the howling wind and incessant slap of snow.

At the mouth of the shelter, Megatron let go of Ratchet's arm, letting the medic wedge himself into the back of the small cave first.

Calling it a "cave" was generous.

It was a relatively shallow hole in the rock wall, hardly room to turn around in or stand. At the back, Ratchet had to squat down to avoid hitting his head on the stone. At least the floor was wide enough in the back to set the crate down.

When Megatron squeezed in after him, however, he was well and truly trapped. The warlord's taller and broader frame blocked most of the passage. The cave was just deep enough to keep them both out of the direct wind but Megatron would still be exposed to cold air and snow on at least one side.

On the plus side, at least with Megatron forced to his knees to fit, he would block most of their combined heat from escaping the cave. That would keep them warmer, especially once the air got up to temperature. Ratchet could already see the low temperature warnings dropping off as his internal thermometer registered more comfortable surroundings.

"Couldn't you have blasted a larger hole?" The complaint was automatic. The smaller space would heat up faster.

Megatron huffed, detaching his cannon and bringing it onto his lap. It was an awkward maneuver in the narrow space.

"No, unfortunately." He popped open a panel on the side of the weapon and pulled out the fusion cells one by one. Each cylinder, about as big as the mech's large palm, was dark, a sign that it was completely drained. "I only have a few cells remaining on the Hyperjump and no way to source more."

Weapons powered by fusion cells were expensive to operate and maintain. That was part of why they were so uncommon despite being so powerfully destructive. It would explain all the effort Megatron went to repair his cannon. Sourcing fusion cells, which couldn't be reused once spent, must have been quite a burden.

Megatron carelessly chucked the dead fuel cells into the crate of wet peat. Ratchet ignored the unpleasant squelching noise as the cells landed. Even if the crate were full, they would need to make multiple trips out here to get enough to last them to their next stop, but at least the drained cells could be recycled.

What a mess they were in.

It was funny though, he thought. He ought to be happy that Megatron was out of fusion cells, minus the handful back on their shuttle. That meant, for the time being, he couldn't use it to murder Autobots—

Wait.

"You used the last of your ammunition… to get us out of the cold?"

Chapter Text

"You used the last of your ammunition … to get us out of the cold?"

"Not all of it," Megatron corrected, tapping the fully-charged blaster on his hip. At least this time, Ratchet was also armed with one, though so far, they hadn’t needed the ordnance. As tempting as it might have been to shoot or shout down a storm, even he knew that wouldn’t work. "But neither a blaster nor a rifle would have done much more than make a dent. So what does it matter?"

"It matters because you did something at your own personal expense to help someone else."

Megatron scoffed.

"I didn't do this for you, Autobot." The epithet was a poor cover for his weak lie. Even if he could explain away blasting a cave into existence with self-preservation, there was nothing that necessitated gently leading Ratchet to safe shelter afterward, nothing that required letting the smaller mech have the warmest place of all in which to sit. The logic that stated he needed a medic didn’t require that he pamper the medic. "It was what had to be done."

He could have let Ratchet face the chill of the air biting at his shoulder, the unpredictable spatter of the snow that drifted in. It was a sharp contrast to the comforting warmth on his other side where their arms and shoulders butted together. No, something in his spark couldn't stand the idea of Ratchet bearing the brunt of the poor weather, even if they were only erstwhile allies and the medic had shown himself to be quite sturdy over millions of years.

Megatron merely better blocked heat from escaping. That was all. A nice lie he told himself. A shame he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

The snow and frost were finally melting off their frames, dripping down to the stone floor and puddling around them. A rust hazard, he could practically hear Ratchet say, but nothing that skilled hands and the Hyperjump's angle-grinder couldn't fix.

"You're an idiot."

Somehow, this time, it was comforting to hear the insult. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was said in half a whisper. Maybe it was the fact that Megatron had, against all odds, come to associate Ratchet's voice with safety.

Before he could say anything snappy back, however, a hand made contact with his elbow, gently. No pulling, no squeezing, no struggle, just touch.

"Thank you."

Megatron recoiled from the words like he'd been slapped, exposing more of his back and shoulder to the frigid air in the mouth of their modest cave in the process.

"What?" he hissed.

"I'm thanking you, you lummox." Ratchet just reached out further and patted at Megatron's elbow, still gently, almost tenderly. It was strange. Confusing. "I know you don't hear it much because you're usually too much of a selfish glitch. Don’t get used to it though. I’m sure you’ll do something incredibly selfish at the next possible opportunity."

Their knees bumped together, unavoidable in such a cramped hole in the ground, but his processor interpreted it as more. He was too conscious of the sensation where their plating met, a continuous line from the one knee to the shoulder where they had been wedged, side-by-side. Ratchet was warm, throwing off radiation that the stone walls bounced back and funneled through the small gaps around Megatron's own body toward the squall outside. The hand on his elbow was heavy, if only to his mind.

For the moment, he squinted back at Ratchet in the relative silence, minus the howling wind outside. Ratchet, however, simply glared right back.

Megatron wanted to say that Ratchet being grateful was to be expected. He ought to have been honored that Megatron exerted effort on his behalf. Unfortunately, he had a sneaking suspicion that those wouldn't be the words that came out, so he just kept his mouth shut. Better that than saying something he would regret.

A horrible, traitorous part of his processor suggested leaning closer under the pretense of capturing more of Ratchet's heat for himself. In reality, he knew that he just wanted to be nearer to Ratchet for reasons he didn't understand.

Dreadful realizations, like the inevitable output of some great, omnipotent algorithm, started to click into place in his mind as he stared into Ratchet's defiantly handsome face. There was just something so appealing about the way his optics scrunched whenever he was displeased about whatever Megatron had done.

Seeking Ratchet's presence, even in the already confined environment of the Hyperjump, had become like a compulsion, one whose strength had done nothing but grow over the course of their time stuck together with only each other for company.

Now huddled next to the medic, his processor started throwing up mandatory tasks, all flagged as “urgent,” to be in Ratchet's presence. Constantly. The Hyperjump was, of course, a more comfortable shelter. If Megatron left Ratchet here, he could probably survive a mad run to the shuttle alone, but right now the shuttle didn't have the most important asset in the universe.

This pitiful, damp, artificial cave did.

Even as rock and stone and a snowstorm crowded in around them, his spark slowed in dread at the thought of being anywhere else. Ratchet moved his mouth, like he was saying something, but Megatron didn’t hear anything but the rush of fuel in his lines.

Even if he couldn’t hear Ratchet, the medic was still focused on him. Perfect. Megatron craved the medic's attention. All of it. All for himself.

No one else could have it, the need of additional medics for his army be damned. He had zero desire to share when they got back to the ship, wherever Starscream had taken the Nemesis.

A rogue thought crept across his mind, suggesting the improbable, impractical building of a private medical bay on the Nemesis adjacent to his quarters, all for Ratchet, all to treat Megatron alone. That would never work, would be a waste of resources, and would necessitate that Megatron hurt himself on the regular just to be seen. He’d never get any work done at all.

Besides, he knew that Ratchet wouldn’t stand for being unable to treat everyone who needed him. It was a fruitless fantasy.

Perhaps he could simply install Ratchet as the ship’s chief medical officer and permit Megatron to loiter nearby when he wasn’t busy leading the army.

No.

Ratchet would, of course, insist on returning to the Autobots. Sense dictated that Megatron could never keep Ratchet.

Then again, since when had sense ever stopped a rebellious wish from forming.

Maybe he didn’t just want to be treated by Ratchet though. That wasn’t sufficient. He wouldn’t have been satisfied.

A potential task popped up in his processor as he continued to stare in silence—how long had he been staring? This new task was less urgent and asking for permission rather than automatically adding itself to his queue. It boldly suggested he kiss the medic.

What would that solve exactly? Other than his sore lack of being slapped in the damn face… but it would mean Ratchet’s hands on him again, even if in anger and offense. Regardless, Megatron dismissed the suggested task, a twinge of regret and disappointment lingering in the wake of its disappearance from his HUD.

He blinked, fearing briefly that Ratchet might disappear forever in the milliseconds the shutters behind the glass of his optics closed. Of course, Ratchet didn’t. Ratchet was still sitting right there on the floor next to the crate of wet peat, looking at him like he was looking at the biggest idiot he’d ever seen.

But what if he had? What if he had vanished? Disappeared from the cave like a hologram with a cut power source, leaving Megatron here, alone and cold.

Megatron tried to silently convince himself that wherever this Autobot went, he wouldn't follow.

He tried and failed. Miserably.

He would go, even if that meant depositing himself on the front doorstep of the entire Autobot army. He knew he would demand to be allowed to go wherever Ratchet went…. That would never be permitted, of course. Never. He would be immediately detained and, if Autobot High Command had an ounce of intelligence, executed.

But did Ratchet want any of this? Did Ratchet want his companionship, his attention and protection? Or was he just tolerating Megatron out of necessity? It wasn’t as though Ratchet had really had any choice in the matter.

Something must have shown in his expression because Ratchet called for him. Just how long had Ratchet been watching him stare into the void while the storm outside raged?

"Megatron?" A hand was waved in front of his face. A weight pulled on his arm like Ratchet was using it for leverage. Heat radiated from Ratchet’s plating. "Are you still functional in there or did your rusty processor time out while plotting another one of your ridiculous schemes?"

Intending to open his mouth to speak, he found his jaw had already been hanging open like a starstruck fool. When had that happened?

"Ratchet, I—"

What was he supposed to call these foreign feelings, these horrible yearning thoughts running riot in his processor? They were new, unknown, and, therefore, threatening, dangerous.

"It seems I'm… ill."

Somehow that was easier to admit to an enemy than actually explaining what was troubling him. Being ill was less weak than confessing to experiencing nightmarish, tender emotions. Perhaps some expert care could excise them. Yes.

“Ill?” Ratchet’s face went from annoyed to concerned. He crowded closer, sitting up on his knees to reach out and cup Megatron’s face between his palms. “I can’t get an accurate temperature reading like this. I need my kit, but… this will have to do.”

Of course he couldn’t get an accurate temperature reading. Megatron’s face felt like it was on fire.

“Do you feel too warm? One of the symptoms of hypothermia is, paradoxically, feeling too hot. It’s your processor tricking you, especially if you’ve been dismissing too many critical temperature warnings—“

“Yes.” That wasn’t a lie. He did feel too warm, but most definitely not for the reasons Ratchet seemed to be assuming. “Far too warm.”

Using his hands, Ratchet carefully turned Megatron’s head this way and that, seemingly looking for something. Maybe unreported injuries, maybe just checking that the joints weren’t locked or throat cables weren’t snagged on anything. Megatron had no idea, but the gentle inspection was certainly not helping with the “symptoms.” It took executing several questionably safe overrides to keep his engine from turning over.

“It’s probably because you’re partially exposed to the storm with where you’re sitting. The cave’s not quite deep enough to really shelter us both completely, not without being on top of each other.” That would kill him, he was sure. What a way for the war to end. “I suppose I’ll just have to monitor you to make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

“I… suppose you must, yes.”

“The last thing I need is you running out into the storm to cool off.”

It was certainly tempting to throw himself on the storm’s mercy but not really for reason intended by the statement.

Megatron had no intentions to ask for more than general supervision of his “condition,” but in the next moment, Ratchet was tugging him down and forward by his helmet, wedging them both further back into the cramped cave. His wide plating scratched against the narrow rock walls with a painful, loud metallic grind. His discharged cannon clattered from his lap. The blaster holster on his hip snapped against an edge and dropped to the stone behind him. This had to be the strangest way he’d ever been disarmed.

There was hardly any room for one of them back here, let alone both of them.

“Here, we’ll concentrate the heat in as small of a space as possible. That should help.”

Well, now he was practically on Ratchet's lap! The dimensions of the cave forced him to straddle the medic's legs, propped up on his knees in order to accommodate both of their frames. He braced himself against the walls with his arms to prevent being drawn flush together in the cramped space. His barrel scraped roughly against the top of the cave.

He wasn't some tame pet, some lap animal! He was a terror of the galaxy, one of the many dangers that kept sapient beings, organic and inorganic alike, awake well into their resting periods. He had worked hard to rightfully deserve such a fearsome reputation.

This manhandling was intolerable!

"What do you think you're doing, Ratchet‽"

Chapter Text

"What do you think you're doing, Ratchet ‽"

“Calm down!” he snapped, pinching an exposed wire in the bastard’s neck. Megatron visibly suppressed a yelp. He was terrible at acknowledging pain, but it certainly shut him up for the moment.

The last thing they needed while trying to combat hypothermia was whining. It would be easiest to keep warm if they huddled together.

That was scientific fact.

Ratchet didn’t need Megatron dying on him out in the cold. Not only would that have been an embarrassing way to go for an allegedly powerful warlord, Ratchet… didn’t want to be left alone.

His processor had gone on high alert the moment he had noticed Megatron staring at him like a slack-jawed idiot, not responding to anything Ratchet said. That wasn’t normal behavior at all, not for him. Megatron practically lived for picking dumb fights.

Even if Ratchet put aside his sworn duty to protect the health and wellbeing of those around him, he had only had Megatron for company for months now. He’d gotten used to him, to his complaining and to his tinkering and to petty arguments over the most pointless of things. It was all a thin veneer of discord over how well they worked together.

When not on a battlefield, Megatron was strangely reasonable and oddly tolerable company. He held still for maintenance, cleaned up after himself, and even kept their equipment in working order, regardless of the occasional bout of electrocution. Never mind whatever Megatron had been saying about not being an engineer. He was clearly sharp and knew at least enough about mechanical engineering to be dangerous.

It was strange and stupid, but the thought of not having this foolish tin can around to fuss over summoned tiny tendrils of fear in his spark.

Still, Ratchet found their current arrangement… interesting. Despite his verbal protests, Megatron didn’t resist the pulling and tugging. He hadn’t meant to maneuver them into a position where Megatron was looming over him like that, really only having meant to pull his “patient” deeper into their tiny hiding hole as opposed to half-hanging out in the cold.

Ratchet supposed he ought to have felt like he was in danger with little escape should murder cross the bastard’s mind. It would take more than the blaster on his hip to put this potential assailant down, even if he aimed well.

Yet this seemed, paradoxically, safe.

And Megatron seemed confused and disgruntled as he awkwardly held himself up like a new-build valiantly resisting an oil bath. The top of his stupid barrel scraped the ceiling as a result of his staunch refusal to sit down.

As much as it would be odd to have an entire enemy warlord on one’s lap, Ratchet knew it wouldn’t go well if Megatron didn’t relax.

“Your joints will lock up if you stay like that and then we’ll both be stuck in here,” he warned, “unless I saw off your limbs.”

He still needed his medical kit for that, but there was a nonzero chance that it had ended up tossed in the crate with the peat when they evacuated from the bog. Maybe he could reach it from here, but… he would prefer a warm lap to having to saw off Megatron’s limbs. Sure, he could reattach them. Of course, it wouldn’t be a pleasant process for either of them. Something in his spark protested disassembling the moron.

Megatron showed no signs of moving, only narrowing his gaze as though to dare Ratchet to follow through with the threat, probably knowing full well that there would be no immediate consequences for calling the medic’s bluff.

Time for a new tactic.

“Please.”

That did it.

Somehow.

Megatron eased his way down with all of the sulk of a particularly humiliating defeat. He practically deflated. Under any other circumstances, this would have been hilarious to witness, but not so much when Megatron was sulking directly on top of him. At least he wasn’t crushing Ratchet’s legs with that warframe bulk of his. That was probably the most Ratchet could really ask for at this point. He would also take consolation in the fact that it was warm.

There was something that seemed dissonant about feeling cozy with his faction’s greatest enemy on his lap, but Ratchet reminded himself that space in their hiding hole was incredibly limited. Besides, he couldn’t have Megatron succumbing to hypothermia. He just couldn’t have that. Even if he would be completing his original assignment of retrieving Megatron’s sparkless husk, Ratchet found that he didn’t want to.

The thought of hauling him all the way back to the Hyperjump through the snow and ice and bog water only to toss him onto the examination table for several months—the shuttle didn’t exactly have a morgue—was uncomfortable, but he couldn’t place why exactly. Maybe it was the inevitable unending silence and isolation that normally would have been filled with loud complaining and familiar hubris. Most of their kind didn’t do well in long-term isolation, they were too social. It was in their nature. That was probably all it was, Ratchet thought. He just wanted to avoid something abhorred by their very designs, even if that meant his company was his enemy.

And yet it was hard to think of Megatron as his enemy while still holding onto his head. He glared down at the medic, most likely unhappy with being restrained like that. Ratchet probably could have let go by now. With how they were wedged into the narrow space, it would have been difficult for Megatron to escape with any real speed. There would be plenty of time to wrangle him back into the warmth they’d built up.

But then why couldn’t Ratchet let go? It wasn't like Megatron would run off to die just to spite him.

All the while the focused, burning red glare he was receiving seemed to be more like Megatron was thinking, evaluating something, rather than expressing his usual disdain. He was surprised he couldn’t hear the warlord’s fan overheating from the mental strain of having a coherent thought that wasn’t about warfare.

No, that was ungenerous. Ratchet knew well by now, especially after seeing his repairs and attention to detail, that there was far more than wanton destruction going on in there, even if he couldn’t disprove the existence of evil brain impulses.

The silence, however, was getting more than a little awkward.

“Are you comfortable up there—“ There was a scrape of metal plating against rough stone and Ratchet found his mouth occupied with an unprompted kiss. It was rough and possessive, leaving him pinned against the rock with gray forearms braced on either side of him. His hands were still holding onto Megatron’s head while he tried to process what was happening.

On reflex, he let go of the helmet and slapped Megatron across the face, pushing at his chest with his other hand.

"What are you doing‽"

Of all the things he might have expected Megatron to do, Ratchet hadn't been prepared for this. He hadn't even considered the idea, at least not right now.

Stunned by the slap, Megatron sat back, optics shuttering in confusion. Slaps weren't exactly a prominent form of attack in field combat, so he was likely struggling to register what exactly had just happened.

"I—"

"Ask first, you heavy-handed oaf!" Ratchet waved a finger in admonishment right in front of Megatron's nose. "You don't just do that!"

"But, Ratchet—"

"Don't you 'but, Ratchet' me!" He huffed, jabbing the end of his servo right into the bridge of that damn nose, even if he had to stretch to do it. "I know you're used to just taking anything you want, but that's not how we're going to play this. You're going to learn boundaries! Some damn manners!"

Was it wise to rebuke someone notorious for their willful violence like this? Probably not, but Ratchet had never really cared about that before, so why in the hell would he start caring about it now?

The way they were penned in, Megatron had the advantage if he chose to fight, but Ratchet didn’t feel threatened, not yet. Megatron had had endless opportunities over the past few months to shut him up by force. He’d never taken any of them.

Maybe it was because of Ratchet’s valuable skills that Megatron had yet to lash out during the course of their voyage. On the other hand, maybe those skills were becoming less valuable the closer they got to their destination. Maybe Ratchet should have started worrying, especially since Megatron continued to sit there in silence, palm to cheek, staring… glowering down at the smaller medic. It wasn’t often he was truly reminded of how much larger than himself most warframes were. An unfamiliar chill crawled along his plating, one he couldn’t blame on the howling squall outside.

“I—“

“No, you’re right.” Megatron dropped his hand from his face, slumping his shoulders in a decidedly sheepish way. It was rare for him to admit being wrong, making this Ratchet’s turn to be stunned, his jaw dropping open as the fear vanished in an instant. “That was thoughtless, Ratchet. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Frankly, neither do I.” Ratchet scoffed, crossing his arms as he pretended his nerves hadn't been slightest bit rattled. It served Megatron right to feel like slag about it too. That was just what he deserved. Still, it was oddly soothing to be called by name rather than an epithet or title. It was a hard fought concession he had earned over their time in isolation together, a reminder that Megatron was fully capable of listening and acquiescing when he wanted to.

“I really must be ill.” Megatron’s voice dropped in volume, hardly above a whisper as he cast his gaze to the side. This wasn’t normal behavior for him at all. Avoiding a gaze? Not tackling a problem head-on? Not calling Ratchet an "Autobot" with as much venom, which varied by the hour, as he could dredge up? That was off.

However, a thought, contradictory and blasphemous, popped up in his processor as he watched Megatron's face and overall posture. The great brute seemed uncertain; something about the way he held himself screamed of doubt. None of these were particularly common for a fearsome, battle-hardened warlord.

Something else, something possibly not within Ratchet's capacity to diagnose, was likely wrong with Megatron.

“Kissing people compulsively isn’t known for being a symptom of hypothermia, so if you’re sick, it’s something else co-morbid with your frozen processor. Probably something you’ve had for ages, like a fried circuit.”

That wasn't exactly his best bedside manner, but Ratchet had never been known for tender customer service.

What if Megatron was facing an entirely unknown challenge? A possibility, especially since it seemed positive emotions weren’t something the mean old bastard had much experience with as far as Ratchet could tell. Unfortunately, that meant—Oh no.

Oh no.

“Now, I don’t know exactly what’s going on in there,” Ratchet said, poking Megatron in the side of the head, his helmet making a dull thud with each poke, “but—“

“May I?” Megatron’s gaze returned to lock onto his own, determined and no longer off-kilter from the surprising slap before.

That wasn’t at all what Ratchet had expected. He figured Megatron would take that the admonition as a “no,” not pay attention to what exactly had been said. Though, now, Ratchet had to wonder why he hadn’t said “no.” Why had he only rejected the lack of manners and not the action itself?

He hadn’t really considered letting a kiss happen on purpose, not with this dangerous idiot.

Maybe that’s why the idea of a silent, empty Hyperjump unsettled him so deeply.

Ratchet took a long, slow ventilation before nodding. He was almost certainly going to regret this in the long run, but not now. He was allowed to make the occasional foolish decision.

“You may.”

The kiss returned, just as desperate and possessive and wanting as before, but this time it was permitted. One step to domesticating a half-feral warlord at a time, Ratchet supposed. That was fine. He could get the dents out later anyway.

Like a fool with his hands raised to gingerly cup Megatron's face, Ratchet even kissed back, braving the overly eager bites from sharp fangs and scrapes in his armor from hard, uncaring rock.

Hypothermia certainly wouldn't be a problem.

Chapter Text

Ratchet calmly loaded chunks of wet peat into the storage tank for the energon converter.

They had had to kick their way free of the snow drift that had formed while they had huddled in the cave to wait out the blizzard. It was a good thing they were alone out in this sector of space, given how ridiculous they must have looked walking out in the open to the shuttle, plating dented and covered in paint transfers like a pair of new-builds who had just discovered their interface cables.

While they hadn't broken out those cables while they'd been in the cave, Ratchet had definitely considered it. In the end, the risks had been too high. Allowing Megatron direct access to his systems would have been dangerous, even if he, under the best possible and most unlikely circumstances, meant well. Even if any potential malicious intent were to be removed from the equation, Ratchet doubted Megatron would have been able to control himself and not surge through the medic’s systems to make himself at home.

That was not the kind of havoc Ratchet was willing to let an overeager warlord wreak on him, no matter how comfortable they had been together, no matter how wanted he had been in that cramped hole in the valley wall. Besides, what he had already done would be considered outright treasonous if word got out. That was one of the few bonuses of being incommunicado in the far reaches of their galaxy. No rumor mill.

He threw another lump of peat in the energon converter's storage, ignoring the awful squelching noise it made. The converter whirred loudly as it ground up the material into a slurry it could use to produce fuel.

At least this time Megatron hadn’t messed with the converter’s settings to produce a lower grade of fuel, except whatever was set aside for fueling the Hyperjump. How that maniac could stand to drink that thick sludge Ratchet would never quite understand, not beyond the practical reasons of supply shortages. It would, however, explain why his fuel filters were always so clogged with grit and grime. He probably ought to convince Megatron to let him change out the filter since he knew for a fact the idiot wasn’t going to change the damn thing himself.

That could be worried about later. For now, though, Ratchet could expect the converter to provide them with standard fuel at an appropriate texture with fewer impurities. That was a little more important. Maybe he could even have some ready by the time Megatron came back with another box of peat or some other organic matter he had managed to dredge up.

At least organic life, or its remnants, was a plentiful source of valuable carbon. Though he had wished Megatron hadn’t gone back out into the valley alone to get the remaining loads of supplies. It wasn’t exactly a short trek to the deposit and a storm could have whipped up again at any moment. Maybe Ratchet could move the shuttle a little bit closer. There had been some flat areas he had seen when they had been walking—Yes, he could move the shuttle. He ought to move the shuttle. Megatron wouldn’t have to walk as far and then he’d be able to make the trip safely and in less time.

Another clump of peat was chucked into the ever-hungry energon converter before Ratchet hurried over to one of the navigation consoles. It was still strange, he thought, that the shuttle had a pair of fully functioning consoles with equal priority, but perhaps that was a security feature. Certainly, an unusual one.

He tapped around on the console, double-checking the flight settings and his intended coordinates. Just as he went to send the final command, his finger hovering over the button, a thought occurred him.

What if Megatron was currently en route to the Hyperjump’s location? Just up and moving the ship would be a bad idea. What if that meant Megatron would have to backtrack and spend even more time in the cold bog? What if he interpreted it as Ratchet abandoning him on the planet? An unforgivable act of hostility for… whatever they were now. Worse, what if he accidentally landed the shuttle on Megatron? It probably wouldn’t kill him, given his construction and incurably obstinate nature, but he certainly wouldn’t be in a good mood about it. That was also not the excuse Ratchet wanted to use for hauling the mean bastard onto the examination table for a filter change. Would Megatron forgive him for crushing him with a shuttle? Was Megatron even capable of forgiveness? That remained to be seen but—The pounding of heavy footfalls on the landing ramp and loud swearing about wet snow told him the entire point was moot.

He could just move the shuttle after Megatron dropped off the current load of peat but before he set off into the valley again. There might have even been time to top him off with some warm fuel right out of the converter.

Leaning his elbow against the navigation console, Megatron could only wonder why Ratchet bothered naming these planets they visited. The map system automatically generated designations. They didn’t need to name the worlds they had been unfortunate enough to land on anything of consequence. It wasn’t as though they planned to come back.

Meaningless as it was, though, filling out the map wouldn’t hurt.

They had time enough to spare for a pointless exercise. After taking off that morning, leaving that frozen hell behind, plenty of unrefined carbon sources stored safely in the cargo hold for the fuel converter, there was little to do but occasionally check that they weren’t about to hit an asteroid.

“Mrozon” or something.

Bah.

Autobots loved human things for some reason; Ratchet had even been naming these stupid planets after human words. It hardly mattered though. Sure, Megatron didn’t particularly care for humans, but he also didn’t particularly care for those planets either. At least with these human names, maybe Cybertronians wouldn’t be associated with these garbage worlds, useful only for resource extraction and wet fungal infections. That was the problem with organic worlds; they were so damn wet.

He silently watched, optics narrowed in thought, as Ratchet input the planet’s information into the stellar map. The Hyperjump had been automatically building it since they had first been teleported into an unknown quadrant of the galaxy. If only they had a larger ship with more powerful engines, such as the Nemesis or the Ark, crossing the absurd distance “home” would have been a matter of days rather than months. The data could have been useful then, but for now, it served as little more than a travelogue.

Autobots seemed to enjoy exploring for its own sake, rather than exploring to find what could be made useful. Megatron hated that he was starting to see the appeal, especially when an idle thought drifted through his head about finding a planet Ratchet might like to see… just to show it to him, just to make the damned medic smile.

A task popped up on his HUD again, recommending kissing Ratchet again. Megatron dismissed the suggested task, knowing full well it would return to further haunt him in ten minutes.

“There,” Ratchet said, probably mostly to himself. “The map’s been updated and now we can get back on course.”

Neither of them had mentioned what had happened in the cave the other day.  They had simply scrubbed off the incriminating paint transfers, buffed out some of the scrapes, and then left any dents alone. Ratchet hadn’t seemed like he had been interested in breaking out the medical kit.

Not that he could be blamed.

The kit had gotten soaked in peat and sludge when it had been hastily tossed into the collection crate once the blizzard hit. It would take time to clean and dry everything. Though Megatron had to wonder if perhaps Ratchet was also hesitant to be within arm’s reach again.

For no reason, frankly.

The medic had been in no danger, except perhaps from the storm. Megatron had done nothing but shield and guard Ratchet since this ridiculous journey began. He’d presented no threat; well, no more threat than usual by virtue of existing.

Unaware of Megatron’s mental plight, Ratchet continued to plug information into the navigation console, putting their original destination coordinates back in. Once the coordinates were finalized, the shuttle listed lazily to one side as it adjusted for the change in heading. It was preferable to the sharp, nimble turns the Hyperjump was capable of. Megatron had had more than enough of getting thrown out of his seat early on in their trek.

Temptation gnawed at him as he watched Ratchet fiddle with the console, the urge to simply reach out and take that affection that he craved. It would have been easy. A lowly Autobot should have been grateful for his attention, but Ratchet’s earlier admonishment lingered, a reminder to behave. Megatron’s predictions had been spot on about earning a slap. The more he thought about Ratchet’s words in the cave, the more he found himself agreeing.

He wanted Ratchet’s affections given of his own free will. After all, Ratchet wasn’t some plaything to tame. That would ruin all that feisty attitude he found so appealing.

Well, he would just have to give Ratchet a reason to willingly come within arm’s reach again.

If he played his cards right, Ratchet wouldn’t want to leave. The thought of returning the medic to the Autobots chilled his spark. Even though Megatron knew he would follow, he also knew they would become separated in the process: Ratchet back to his patients and Megatron to a holding cell, probably in solitary confinement pending an execution. That was just how war worked. That’s what he would have done to the Prime.

Though, as fate would have it, they were rich with time and Megatron knew he could figure something out. In fact, he already had an idea brewing.

Ratchet got up from the navigation console and went to the energon converter, probably to dispense some fuel. Megatron had noticed that Ratchet had put off fueling since they had awoken from recharge that morning. He was probably concerned about conserving their supplies, but by now the call of an empty tank would be difficult to ignore.

“Do you want a cube?”

“What is your ideal type of planet, Ratchet?” he asked, apropos of nothing.

“Are you offering to conquer one for me? I don’t want one.” Ratchet huffed, keeping his back turned so Megatron couldn’t see his face from where he was seated. “Now, do you want a cube?”

“I don’t anticipate conquering much without an army or munitions. A handful of fusion cells hardly constitutes planetary bombardment. Just answer the question.”

“You answer my question or you can get your own damn cube.”

“Fine. Yes, I’ll take one.” Might as well. He wasn’t low on fuel but he still had room in his tank. He’d stave off the familiar discomfort of hunger for longer. “Your ideal type of planet, Ratchet. What is it?”

No answer came for some time while Ratchet filled a pair of cubes from the converter’s dispenser. The converter hissed and bubbled all the while.

“Somewhere with a nice beach,” he said at last, returning to the navigation chairs with a cube extended in offer.

Of course, Ratchet would choose someplace notoriously wet, he thought bitterly, taking the cube with a wordless grumble. Sand was also a curse to plating, but perhaps a rockier shoreline, more boulders and driftwood than grainy pebbles, would suffice.

“You’re welcome, dear.”

Megatron almost dropped the cube, narrowly avoiding splashing freshly dispensed fuel all over the damn console. All at the cost of that fuel instead painting his chest and thighs. Between disappointment at wasted fuel and aggravation at being wet again, there was a rare sensation, cold and thick in his core.

Embarrassment.

A traitorous part of his processor desperately wished that he hadn’t done that in front of Ratchet. Something about the fact that the medic had seen was its own particular humiliation.

Ratchet, however, scoffed, setting his own cube on the navigation console. Though, Megatron noticed, he didn’t sit down.

“Are you always this clumsy or just when you’ve been called out for forgetting basic manners like ‘thank you, Ratchet’?”

A growl rumbled in his chest instead of a true answer to what was a blatantly loaded question.

With a patient sigh, Ratchet gently patted Megatron on the arm.

“I’ll get you a cloth. Don’t worry.”

He walked off, calling over his shoulder on the way to a supply cabinet.

“I still don’t want a planet!”

Chapter Text

Finding a suitable planet hadn’t been as difficult as Megatron had expected. Plenty of planets had large bodies of water capable of producing shorelines. He had spent a few days scanning with specific parameters to narrow down the exact types of landscapes he was looking for. The task was easier now that he had tweaked the scanners after the mishap with Mrozon.

And his search had borne fruit.

While he couldn’t see the planet he’d picked out, he felt confident that Ratchet would enjoy it. Any minute now it would be visible on the front window. Any minute now….

It had been a miracle that Megatron had been able to turn the shuttle from its original heading without Ratchet noticing. Perhaps the medic had simply felt there would be little purpose for Megatron to change anything or perhaps he had been too engrossed with whatever information he was synthesizing from the data collected at Derevon.

That data had been occupying larger segments of Ratchet’s time than he had expected, but, truthfully, Megatron had no idea what was in the data. The medic had yet to show him any of it. It hurt some, to not be trusted, but he could see how Ratchet perhaps wouldn’t want to just hand potentially sensitive data over to an enemy leader. He would have done the same if their positions were reversed.

Though, he wondered, were they really enemies anymore?

They hadn’t kissed since the cave and still hadn’t really mentioned it, not beyond Ratchet’s one “dear” comment. They hadn’t even held hands or spent time in physical contact beyond medical necessity to pop out dents.

Yet, he wanted more. Megatron could have asked at any time. Any time. Perhaps Ratchet would have even agreed and willingly quenched his thirst for attention.

No.

He would not bend.

He would not show weakness.

He would not put his desire and want for an Autobot medic on flagrant display.

He would make Ratchet come to him.

A small dot on the front viewport began to grow into an orb. They were nearly at their destination. At this distance, the growing orb was predominantly pale blue and white, from the large bodies of water scattered across the planet and thick clouds. Rather Earth-like when Megatron thought about it, but perhaps more prone to rainstorms with all of that additional moisture. They weren’t even in the same quadrant as Earth, but planets with similar compositions tended to uncommon. This one, in particular, he thought Ratchet would take a shine to.

Seated at one of the navigation consoles, Megatron tapped some commands into the system to more finely tune their approach vector.

He shouted for Ratchet over his shoulder, hoping to summon the medic from wherever he was sitting with the decrypted alien data.

“What?” came the disgruntled reply from the cargo hold. No sounds of approaching feet though.

“Get out here!”

“Why?”

Primus, give him patience for just five more minutes. That was all he would need. Ideally.

“You need to see something! It’s not that complicated! Must you make everything so unnecessarily difficult?”

“Alright, alright, stop shouting!” An amusing command for the medic to shout back.

In a few moments, Ratchet emerged from the cargo hold.

“Now what’s so damn important that I need to see it right now? Did we happen upon a ship of innocent organics you want to slaughter for personal enrichment? A planet blown to pieces that gives you fond memories?”

“There—“ Megatron pointed at the planet coming into view through the glass. “—Is your beach, Ratchet.”

“I said I don’t want a planet, Megatron, or were you pretending I was just saying things for no reason again—“

“We’re visiting, not moving in!” Not that it mattered. No one lived there as far as the scanners could tell. Unless some wet organic creatures did, which the scanners couldn’t discern. Oh well. Easy enough to deal with. "I’ll take your gratitude now.”

“My ‘gratitude’? You took us off course and wasted precious fuel for this?”

“You could have changed the course back at any time.” Not that Megatron wouldn’t have plugged the prior coordinates back in whenever Ratchet’s back had been turned. That wasn’t strictly germane to the point. “But the fact of the matter is that you didn’t and now we’re here because you wanted to see a ‘nice beach.’ I merely saw fit to deliver.”

“I didn’t actually ask to go to the beach, Megatron—“

“I’ll even be generous and let you even name it.”

“Leave them alone,” Ratchet said, grabbing Megatron by the upper arm to stop him from whatever violence he deemed necessary to accomplish his goal. Hell, maybe that goal would be tormenting their unwitting hosts for sport. Either way, Ratchet wouldn’t have it. “They’re not going to bother us.”

Neither Ratchet nor Megatron could have known for certain that these little hairy organic creatures would have been here. Their angular faces and ears were reminiscent of Earth’s foxes, but with way too many optics. At least five, on the ones that Ratchet could see as they fled.

If only there were a reliable way to detect organic life signs before landing and stumbling bolts first into them. But Megatron didn’t even have to go out of his way to scare this beach’s inhabitants off. Just looking at him descending the landing ramp, even completely unarmed, seemed to have been enough to scatter the handful of knee-high locals from where they had been curiously poking at the shuttle’s hull.

Megatron shrugged out of Ratchet’s grasp, fixing him with an offended expression over his shoulder before continuing down the ramp.

“And who said I was going to bother them? You think so poorly of me.” With good reason, Ratchet mentally countered. “They clearly know what’s good for them and are vacating the premises.”

Ratchet grumbled under his breath before following Megatron down to the pebble-strewn shore.

The minuscule rocks crunched underfoot, grinding against the bottoms of his feet as he stepped out onto the beach. More stable than sand would have been, less likely to get into gaps between plating and armor. This was a deliberate choice.

Megatron had apparently been very particular in selecting a planet, especially after the Mrozon debacle. Though, to be fair to Megatron—what a thought—the sensors hadn’t been calibrated correctly and weren’t originally meant for that level of long-distance wayfinding. It was a shuttle after all, meant to be launched from a larger ship for brief forays. The tweaks he and Megatron had made afterward their brief stay on the snowball had apparently come in quite handy.

The soft roar of the sea slid placidly across his audio sensors. He took a moment to open his vents, letting the ocean air in for a deep circulation cycle. The air cooled his frame as it escaped, taking excess heat with it. Ratchet hated to admit, even if only to himself, that the moist, salty breeze was pleasant. Normally salt was horribly corrosive, especially over time, but brief visits were fine if one remembered to wash the salt off and flushed any exposed vents. No taking up residence on the shores of a saline body of water though. After a while, it would be impossible to keep up with the necessary maintenance to stave off the constant corrosion.

The sky above was a cool gray, overcast and heavy with clouds. The system’s sun was hidden somewhere behind the thick blanket of cloud cover. That veil of water suspended in the sky hadn’t helped with their ability to notice the organics that lived here in advance.

The relative lack of daylight would have made for a dim, but pleasantly chilly atmosphere on the shore.

Were it not for the screaming.

The screaming, for all that Ratchet was trying to ignore it, wasn’t exactly encouraging them to stay and spend money, not that they had been intending to do that. This planet’s populace seemed to take neither shanix nor energon… nor did they apparently speak a language that could be readily translated into Cybertronian. There were definitely patterns to the noises, but his automatic translation software could, unfortunately, make no headway with understanding it. He couldn’t even apologize on Megatron’s behalf for being rude.

The local society, at first glance, seemed rather low-tech, not even possessing electricity, so mechanical lifeforms probably looked like monsters to them. Ratchet couldn’t really blame them for being frightened. The screaming was well justified and Megatron crudely stomping around on the shore like he owned the place would do little to ameliorate the situation.

Small huts, cobbled together from driftwood and hardly taller than his own waist, littered the shoreline. Probably the natives’ dwellings. It was a miracle they hadn’t accidentally crushed any, either huts or their tiny inhabitants, when landing the Hyperjump.

As the yelling quieted down when no immediate attack came, a few of the organics cautiously poked their heads out of the buildings or from around the backs of them. The smallest one Ratchet had seen yet, probably a youngling of some kind, darted out of a doorway, only to be snatched up by a larger one, presumably its creator.

Ratchet gave a hesitant wave to their unwilling audience, a vain hope that he could communicate they meant no harm. Well, maybe Megatron meant them harm, but he so far seemed uninterested in conquest today.

For now.

The day was still young.

The locals cringed back into their homes. Maybe that gesture was threatening in their culture.

Out of the corner of his optic, Ratchet saw a metallic sheen near the water. Turning to get a better look, he saw Megatron, apparently willingly, wading into the surf.

“Don’t go too far!” he warned, “if you fall in, I’m not fishing your rusty aft out.”

He would, but that wasn’t the point. Megatron waved him off before picking up some object that had been afloat. He hoisted it high overhead.

Ah. A log, the bark a deep red, probably a result of native biology. But what did he need that log for anyway?

Was Megatron now actively taking revenge against trees? Had he really been that offended by Derevon’s foliage? The tree he’d gotten stuck on in Mrozon’s bog was one thing, but driftwood that was merely floating inoffensively offshore? What a stupid grudge to have. What a stupid mech.

How dare that be endearing? Nothing about Megatron had any right to be endearing. He was a murderous bastard, but so far… a remarkably tame one. Or at least one that could manage to mostly behave.

Ratchet watched as the log was thrown to the shore where it landed with a heavy crunch. The few lingering local inhabitants shrieked and scattered up the hill behind their huts to take shelter from the metal monsters. Megatron went back to poking about in the knee-deep water, presumably after more driftwood to punish.

“And I had better not hear you complain about being wet! You did this to yourself!”

But Ratchet knew he would take pity on the idiot if he got too soaked and help him dry out. He might have even shoved him in front of the heat dryer in the washracks or maybe patted him down with some dry cloth from the shuttle. Somehow, despite being decidedly more effort, the latter option seemed more appealing. Maybe if Megatron behaved and held still—No, Ratchet was not willing to acknowledge what had happened. He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t do it again, even if it seemed fairly harmless. Besides, Megatron hadn’t asked. Ratchet couldn’t say “yes” if he wasn’t asked.

He’d have to stuff Megatron into the washracks anyway to flush away the salts before they corroded his plating and wiring. Ratchet knew he wouldn’t do it of his own accord, probably with the weak excuse of having just “taken a bath” by wading about in the sea like a madman.

Hm.

For now, though, he decided to watch Megatron haul lumber out of the waves like the idiot was a new-build excited to have a task, even if it was a silly, self-appointed one.

“Just don’t deforest the place, alright? We should at least try to be conscientious visitors.” Something they had already failed by barging in and promptly disrupting their environment, but maybe a reminder to be good would be enough to reign in the worst of Megatron’s violent stupidity.

Chapter Text

“We could still put the Jump down on an uninhabited stretch of beach, you know,” Ratchet said, hands on his hips as he watched Megatron haul logs of long dead driftwood across the pebbles. He seemed to be arranging them but the purpose wasn’t yet immediately obvious. Though this did seem to disprove, or at least didn’t support, Ratchet’s earlier theory about Megatron waging a very personal war against carbon-based trees. There was still a chance that this was part of a larger anti-arboreal campaign, but less likely.

“We’re already here, Ratchet,” Megatron answered, not looking up from his task. 

This was what he got for letting Megatron park. That had been a mistake. Of course, Megatron would park the shuttle in the worst possible place on the planet. It was like he was a magnet for trouble, specifically trouble for everyone else. A walking headache, even when he wasn’t actively being a menace.

“Why waste the fuel?"

So now Megatron cared about fuel conservation, but not when he was taking them on this ridiculous detour, all behind Ratchet’s back.

Ratchet should have been paying attention to what Megatron had been doing these past several days. He’d gotten too complacent while pouring over the Derevon data and converting it, too lax and comfortable with the idea that Megatron could be trusted to not do something rash and dangerous.

The bastard pulling something selfish like this was probably a warning from the universe to stay on his toes, a warning Ratchet ought to heed if he hoped to see the end of this journey. Not that he expected Megatron would hurt him personally, no, but he feared it would be… inadvertent, a result of inattention brought on by whatever was wrong with the idiot lately. Whatever it was had the distinct symptom of causing the warlord to frequently stare at him, a laughable expression Ratchet could only describe as somewhere between “hungry” and “dopey.”

It would be difficult to both keep vigilant and convert the virus data to something applicable.

He’d been struggling to make sense of the actual transmission mechanism. At first he had thought it was airborne, but the more Ratchet had dug into the information, there was no way that could have been accurate. The virons would have been rendered inert too quickly outside of a moist environment. A problem for later though.

Ratchet knew his leverage as a medic would only take him so far and he needed another tool to give him an edge, even if it was something he’d normally find reprehensible. Like kissing his long-time enemy in the hidden confines of a cave with reckless desperation and exuberant enthusiasm. It had been a mistake, a dangerous experiment. Nonetheless, that foolish experiment had yielded results. A foolish lie Ratchet could tell himself to soothe his conscience.

Crossing his arms, Ratchet watched as the warlord pulled the logs into three groups. Two groups contained three logs each, lying adjacent to the third group in the middle. The third group contained several logs lying flat next to each other. Seemingly satisfied, Megatron started wedging rocks and boulders into gaps to prevent anything from rolling away.

With that basic structure in place, Megatron walked off to one of the rocky hills connecting the beach to the vast grassland beyond it. Still dripping with seawater from fetching the driftwood, he left a damp trail in his wake on the pebbles underfoot. Just what was he building?

“What are you doing? You’ve been mucking around for over an hour. Is this what I’m supposed to enjoy? Watching you slowly destroy a biome? I usually see you do it faster and I don’t care for it then either.”

“You’ll see.” That was ominous, especially when paired with that sly grin that usually accompanied mischief. Ratchet pitied whoever built Megatron and was, thusly, directly responsible for him being such an incorrigible scamp.

Large slabs of rock, worn smooth by the sea and wind, were hauled over. One was placed on top of each pile of logs.

Before Ratchet could ask, Megatron sat down, heavily, on one of the slabs, making the purpose immediately clear. Benches and a table between. Lingering seawater collected on the surface of Megatron’s handmade bench. He gestured for Ratchet to sit on the other bench.

“What?” He remained standing. “Is this some sort of… picnic?”

“Sit.” Megatron punctuated the command by pointing at the empty bench.

“You don’t get to order me around.”

“Please.”

“Oh, I see you’ve learned a magic word.” Even if it had come through gritted teeth. “Good.”

Might as well reward good behavior. Maybe Megatron would retain the lesson. Besides, his legs were getting tired, so Ratchet flopped down on his stone bench.

It was strange, seeing Megatron relax as soon as Ratchet took his seat. What had he been so tense for?

“I have something for you,” the warlord said, reaching a hand into his subspace.

Oh.

That could be a problem.

Megatron thought Ratchet ought to be grateful for all of the effort he was going to to do something nice for the medic. He located and took him to a beach, just like Ratchet had wanted. He had built a comfortable place to sit and nonviolently cleared the area of threats by frightening away the organic pests.

And now he was finally presenting Ratchet with a present he’d been holding onto, keeping in safe reserve for just the right time.

Not because he kept chickening out about handing it over.

No, no, like a truly skilled strategist, he was biding his time and picking his moment.

A little embellishment was good for the spark, he told himself as he ignored the slow darkening of the overcast sky overhead.

His hand didn’t immediately connect with the wooden board in his subspace. For a brief moment, Megatron experienced a pang of panic that he’d misplaced it somewhere. However, shuffling the contents of his subspace to the side revealed that it had simply gotten buried, just a little mislaid.

He pulled it out and set on the stone table for Ratchet to see.

The medic leaned forward to scrutinize the etched chunk of polished wood.

“What’s that?”

“Is it not obvious?” Autobots were experts on organics and their… things. Surely, Ratchet had seen this sort of item countless times before.

“No.”

Megatron heaved a dramatic sigh before pulling out the bags of metal pieces, horribly pointy triangular prisms. The bags were plopped down next to the board.

“It is clearly a game, Ratchet.”

“You brought me all the way here to play some board game? Didn’t you lift that from the research facility back on Derevon?”

“… Yes.” To both of the questions, but Megatron had no intention of specifying. “Now do you want to play or not?”

“Sure. We might as well.” Ratchet gave a resigned shrug. “What are the rules?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll decide as we play.”

Ratchet scoffed, snatching up one of the bags of polyhedral pieces. Megatron took the remaining one, dumping the little prisms onto the stone surface.

“That would be as good as letting you cheat. I’ll decide the rules.”

“How is that any better?” Megatron barked a laugh despite his own protest. Maybe Ratchet would show him that vaunted Autobots “fair play,” or maybe he’d just as underhanded as everyone else. Truthfully, he hoped the medic would turn out to be the latter. That would have been more fun.

Ratchet hated how fun it was to make up this game as they went along, based on whatever had been scavenged from that lab on Derevon. Even loudly bickering back and forth across the table was comfortable.

The native inhabitants had long since gone elsewhere, probably to wait out their invaders, so at least for now, Ratchet didn’t worry about how much of a ruckus they made.

The triangular pieces didn’t quite fit in the square markings, but if placed hypotenuse to hypotenuse, they fit perfectly, snugly back to back in the space.

The rules he and Megatron did develop made little sense. They functionally became little more than taking turns sticking a piece somewhere on the board and then claiming the other player was cheating as part of an ever more elaborate scheme. He had just accused Megatron of eating Ratchet’s pieces to finally live out his futile dream of destroying enemy Autobots.

Even the gravest accusation came with a grin or a smile. Ratchet could hardly recall laughing so freely before.

Perhaps taking time to goof off had been a good idea after all.

Sure, Megatron’s methods of getting them a break had been incredibly unorthodox and dubiously ethical—if one were being generous—but he had gotten the both of them to sit down… and do something else but forge ahead on their long journey back to known space. It was a bit of a feat, given that both of them tended to be very work-focused individuals, putting up blinders when performing an important task.

A nagging thought in the back of Ratchet’s head tried to remind him that this deviation from the norm was likely a sign that something was wrong, that Megatron was acting on some sort of scheme, that Ratchet was about to fall into some kind of trap. Don’t get too comfortable, it warned him, keep your guard up.

He banished the thought, an automated bit of subroutine with overly cautious parameters, as he put down another piece on the board. The piece was nudged up flush against one of Megatron’s pieces in one of the squares. Ratchet had taken the ones marked with some sort of symbol, etched into the top face of the prisms. Megatron had taken the plain ones. That made it easy to tell their sets apart at a glance.

Who could say what the original purpose of the markings was, but they could at least reasonably assume that the pieces were supposed to sit like this inside the burnt lines. That was honestly one of the only things they could assume about how this game was meant to be played. The data retrieved from Derevon contained little about the culture that originated it. Research reports, a few last words, and that distress beacon.

The more he stared at the pieces, scattered among the square and triangular spaces along the board, the more he noticed something. The symbol on the top of his own pieces reminded him of the glyphs used by the scientists on Derevon. He’d seen it before, probably hidden amongst the data.

Ratchet leaned forward, closer to the board to get a better look. It was harder to seen than when the game began as the sky had continued to darken. It would probably rain within the hour, most likely bringing their visit to an end when Megatron complained about being wet.

No.

He had seen that mark before.

It was the symbol associated with the virus in the raw research data. Ratchet had seen it fly by innumerable times during decryption and translation.

Thoughts raced through his processor, a cascade of connections and calculations falling into place. His optics spiraled wide as he blankly watched Megatron move a piece to a lone triangular space. The spaces seemed now to be clustered like population centers on trade routes. Ratchet couldn’t know this for sure, not without knowing what the target planet of those scientists—certainly not native to Derevon—looked like. Even still, the squares, where the pieces could touch, perhaps meant cities and the triangular pieces, connected by thin lines to each other and the squares could be smaller settlements or some other outpost.

This wasn’t a board game.

This was a model infection simulation.

His pieces were “infected.” Spread by contact, contact with Megatron’s plain, healthy pieces.

Contact.

That was it. That was what he’d been missing.

“Yes!” Ratchet slammed his palms down on his knees… only to look up and notice Megatron staring at him.

“… You wanted me to win?” he asked, as though the game had a victory condition. “That’s a change. While I’ll accept your unconditional surrender, it is an unexpected development.”

Ah. Of course, Ratchet’s sudden outburst must have seemed a complete non sequitur to Megatron, entirely out of the blue.

“No, never, but what you have done is helped me solve a problem.”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t really at liberty to explain in detail why this little diversion of Megatron’s had actually been surprisingly productive. Nothing he could say would dissuade the big goofy grin that spread across the warlord’s face.

“I have?” After voicing that question, it appeared Megatron managed to remember himself, the grin morphing into a smirk. He scoffed. “Of course, I have. It’s more than most Autobots would deserve, Ratchet.”

His red optics widened like a mischievous new-build with a dangerous idea popping into his glitch-prone processor. Ratchet knew deep in his spark that such a look could only be the harbinger of trouble.

“And so about your gratitude…?” Megatron held out his hand towards Ratchet across the ad hoc table, a wordless invitation… and a request all at once. Almost without thinking, Ratchet reached out towards that extended hand.

The sky split open with a white line of lightning streaking overhead, followed by the bellow thunder pealing away from the heat. Rain poured down, drenching the beach and its guests.

Megatron growled in his chest, likely imagining all manner of curses and fantastical violence against this planet’s weather.

“You can have that ‘gratitude’ back on the shuttle.” When his hand closed around Megatron’s palm, the growling conspicuously subsided. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Megatron put his hand over his optic. He hadn’t expected to take a flying bit of rock to the tender glass there when he’d stepped onto the landing ramp, especially not a rock coming from inside the shuttle. He growled his chest, looking up to see one of those fuzzy little creatures menacingly waving a slingshot.

First soaked by the sea, then by the sky, and now assaulted by tiny organic creatures, this wasn’t how he had expected his gift to Ratchet to play out.

Rain still cascaded down from the clouds, blocked from further drenching him by the shuttle overhead where it could be heard pattering against the hull. The occasional bolt of lightning crackled high above but luckily the taller trees further up the banks were of more interest to the storm than the mechs and their pitiful excuse for a ship.

Water dripped down Megatron’s plating. At least the rain would help rinse away some of the sea salt that was starting to aggravate his seams.

“You forgot to lock the Hyperjump.”

Megatron wished Ratchet would stop looking at him like that. It made his spark sink for reasons he didn’t understand.

“Should I be sorry?” It was almost a genuine question.

“You ought to be, but I doubt you’re capable of it.” Ratchet sighed and waved the question off.

Surely Ratchet didn’t mean that. He had apologized before, mostly to Ratchet. Of all people who had known him, the medic would be one of the rare mechs to know personally that he was very capable of humility and regret… on the equally rare occasions where it was merited.

“Just… help me get them out of the shuttle, but don’t hurt any of them. They’re just curious.”

“They just shot me.” With a rock and not a slug or energy bolt, but a shot was a shot! “That is an act of hostility, a declaration of war—“

“Just gently scoop them up and put them outside. You can even use a crate if you don’t want to touch them.” Ratchet sighed at him again before marching off up the ramp, closer to the tiny organics and their slingshots. Was that the only nonverbal noise this medic could make? “Don’t be so hostile just because you’re wet.”

But he hated being wet. He had every reason to be upset about being wet and why not take it out on the inhabitants of this wet planet with its offensively wet weather after they trespassed onto their—his, he simply allowed Ratchet to remain—shuttle.

Megatron huffed but followed the medic, determined to at least ward off any flying rocks that might hit Ratchet should the organics decide to attack again.

It had easily taken more than an hour to shoo all of the organics off of the shuttle. Many had huddled behind crates or under things. A few had hidden themselves away in high corners that were difficult to reach.

The ones armed with slingshots had pelted them with stones until they had run out of ammunition. Unfortunately for the organics, they had really only succeeded in making small scratches and dents and a few near misses of accidentally getting stepped on or kicked as a result of suddenly bolting. The fact that the floor of the shuttle was now damp and slippery in places due to rainwater dripping off of drenched bodies hadn’t helped in the least.

Despite being half of Ratchet’s height, they were surprisingly light. He could only hope that didn’t necessarily equate to “fragile” and that by moving them, the native inhabitants hadn’t been hurt. They screamed and shrieked at being caught, but that seemed to primarily be in fright. They didn’t act in pain, at least not as far as Ratchet could tell, but he wasn’t familiar enough with them to know for sure.

Ratchet stood back, watching as Megatron carried off the last one, fabric coverings between the organic’s shoulders pinched between his fingers like he was holding something positively disgusting. They squeaked and flailed their little arms at their captor. To the organic, Megatron was probably quite frightening or otherwise upsetting to look at, Ratchet found it difficult to take the oaf seriously when he was soaked through and dripping. While Ratchet had nearly dried by now, Megatron had gotten a fresh shower every time he’d taken one of the organics out to their beach.

Megatron paused by the door the landing ramp’s pressure lock, the sound of heavy rain still echoing off the hull. The organic’s feet ineffectually struck Megatron in the midsection with a dull clang. He seemed to take no notice.

“Have you decided on a name for this place?” he asked.

“What?” Ratchet cycled his optics, shuttering them closed for a moment while he processed the question.

“I said ‘have you decided on a name for this place?’”

Megatron shrugged as though that were a run of the mill question.

“You’ve named all of the others we’ve had to stop at.” As though this particular stop had been a mandatory stop and not some diversion Megatron had orchestrated behind Ratchet’s back.

“Well, for one, we didn’t have to stop here.” Ratchet pointed at the squirming organic who was still putting up quite the admirable struggle. Each of their several tiny eyes burned with absolute hatred. If they could have ripped Megatron apart with their bare hands, Ratchet wouldn’t have doubted that the warlord would have already been a pile of scrap and spare parts on the ground. He pointed at the valiant little warrior. “I rather think that they would prefer if we had skipped this one.”

“That doesn’t matter—“

“Sure, it does. We just invaded their village to commandeer their beach. No wonder they’re mad.”

“Never mind that, did you name the planet?”

“They probably have a name for it.” He pointed again, just to underscore the assertion.

Megatron rolled his optics and lifted his arm, bringing the organic up, closer to his face.

“What do you call this place?”

There was more squeaking. Probably the organic couldn’t understand Cybertronian speech, just as they couldn’t understand the organic’s. Their automatic translation software was just not picking up this language for reasons that Ratchet couldn’t begin to guess. One thing that was certain, the organic was probably at least swearing at them. Not even undeservedly.

“I asked you a question. What do you call this place, creature?”

“Megatron, that is a person. An organic person, but a person.” Ratchet stepped closer. This was going nowhere. “They can’t understand you, but I’m sure they’re calling you all manner of colorful things. Let’s just put them back with the others outside.”

Maybe just returning the last local unharmed would suffice as an apology. All they had really done was be disruptive but nothing had been obviously damaged and none of the organics that had made it onto the shuttle had been blatantly injured. As far as they could tell.

Megatron snorted derisively before slapping the button on the pressure lock, the door sliding wide for him to pass through. The echoing of the rainstorm outside was louder now that there was less to block the sound’s path.

“Very well. The automatically generated name the navigation system proposed will have to do, even if it’s an unpronounceable mouthful. It’s not like we’ll be coming back anyway. They can keep this damp little rock.”

They hadn’t been planning to keep it, if Megatron’s original statement that they were merely visiting was still true. Perhaps it was a reflex to comment on the planet’s ownership after millions of years of seeing worlds only as things to conquer, possess, and exploit.

“Don’t whine. We’ll stick you under the heat dryer when you get back inside."

The Hyperjump was now clear of the planet’s atmosphere and their original coordinates had been put back into the navigation console. At least they still had a fair amount of fuel from their stop on Mrozon. It would be awhile before they would need to stop again.

Still, it was a shame they had several months left before they would be in known space.

Several months alone with Megatron. On one hand, Ratchet dreaded it out of instinct, but on the other hand, he had come to feel… oddly comfortable in this maniac’s company, even safe perhaps. Being nearby and bickering warmed his spark in ways that he hadn’t anticipated.

Frowning down at the navigation console, Ratchet tried not to look at the ETA blithely counting down to their destination. He wrestled with the dissonance between being grateful as they got closer and being disappointed that their oddly amiable truce would come to an end.

They would go right back to shooting at each other, probably.

That would be the correct outcome, wouldn’t it? The expected outcome where they ignored how well they functioned as a team, how comfortably they had fit together in that snug little cave.

The door to the washroom at the back of the cockpit was shoved open, the heat dryer clicking loudly as it powered down and dissipated the excess thermal energy.

“Finally dry off and get the salts out of your frame?” Ratchet glanced back over his shoulder to see Megatron approaching the consoles. “I don’t want to have to open you up and take an angle grinder to you because you weren’t thorough.”

He also didn’t want to hear any complaints about itching from corrosion. Ratchet hadn’t made the idiot walk out into the sea to collect fallen logs.

There was no response to either his question or his threat of medical treatment, however. Megatron simply stopped next to Ratchet’s seat, a wide, mischievous grin on his face. He grabbed his left hand with his right, lazily massaging the palm with his thumb like he was stretching.

“So… now that we’re on our way, Ratchet….”  Did Megatron have to lean so close like that? It wasn’t exactly looming but Ratchet felt that it was definitely in the same ballpark, just without the same level of threat underpinning it. The effect was more exaggerated given that he was sitting down and Megatron could better leverage his greater height. “I believe you still owe me a measure of ‘gratitude.’”

Of course.

Ratchet should have expected this would come sooner or later. The expected escalated intimacy. Surely another kiss like back on Mrozon wouldn’t have satisfied someone so notoriously greedy as Megatron.

“Very well, but I would like to remain seated for this,” Ratchet said, flipping open a small panel on his chest to unspool an interfacing cable. If he put up sturdy enough firewalls, perhaps he could limit how much Megatron could roam freely in his systems, rendering this a safer activity. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Megatron, however, said nothing, just staring with his jaw slack like an idiot. Well, he was an idiot all the time, but now he finally looked like one.

“What?”

“Ratchet, what are you doing?”

What a stupid question. That was a new level of stupid, even for Megatron.

“Unspooling my cable. Obviously.” Ratchet rolled his optics. “Have you never seen someone else’s interfacing cable before?”

Not that they looked much different from any other cables. They weren’t obscene. They had multiple uses, such as direct connections for medical purposes, but, recreationally, they were predominantly used for pleasure.

“Surely, you’ve undergone medical procedures that required these—“

“I—Ratchet, I don’t think—“

“Was this not what you wanted?”

The shocked expression remained as Megatron slowly shook his head, very visibly out of his element for once.

Had Ratchet made a mistake?

“What… did you want?” he asked, slowly reeling that cable back in before closing the panel back over it.

“I had anticipated something less… conjugal.” Megatron seemed to be picking his words very carefully. “And a little more….”

Oh no, he was struggling.

Ratchet hated playing this game.

“More?” he prompted.

“More… Hm.” Megatron glared, and despite the fact that he was looking at Ratchet, it was clear the glare wasn’t for him. The trouble the rusty heap’s processor was giving him was the true target of the ire. Was he grappling with identifying his feelings again?

“Romantic?” Ratchet cautiously suggested.

“Yes, that. That one. I had just been about to say ‘romantic.’ Yes.” Megatron coughed. “It had been just on the tip of my tongue. If you hadn’t been so impatient, Ratchet, then I—“

“A kiss then?”

Ratchet couldn’t recall ever seeing Megatron’s optics flare quite like that before. His spark warmed again in spite of himself at the sight.

Chapter Text

Even days later with his hands buried in the ravaged internal components underneath the cockpit’s floor, Megatron was still processing Ratchet’s casual offer to interface with him as a sign of “gratitude.”

It had been so strange and unexpected.

The idea alone had nearly knocked him offline, nearly as effectively as a blow to the head. It hadn’t been since Kiloton was still alive that he had… indulged in that sort of interpersonal intimacy.

Not that he hadn’t wanted to, but… it would have been too casual, too easy. There was no challenge there, no. That was not at all how he had wanted Ratchet’s loyalty and undying affection. He wanted to win it like the shining glory of a valorous battle, not simply be handed the prize like some sort of participation trophy at an obnoxious guardian’s behest.

And he knew now exactly how he was going to win the medic’s lov—attentions. Attentions. Yes. Megatron was not going to let the Autobot confuse him with soft words.

The soldering gun he’d borrowed from Ratchet’s medical kit flashed as he made minute repairs to some of the circuitry connecting to the damaged warp drive underneath the twinned navigation consoles.

Megatron hadn’t really expected the initial damage to extend down this far when he’d first gotten it in his head to make an earnest attempt to repair the Hyperjump. This involved rather more effort than the mere haphazard tinkering he’d tried at the beginning of their journey. Not accounting for damage elsewhere in the supporting systems had probably been instrumental in electrocuting him the last time.

That and not having access to the shuttle’s stupid schematics. He could have avoided a lot of trouble if he’d had these damn files before, but the resulting injuries had at least provided him with ample personalized attention from Ratchet. The medic had even come up with some new insults specifically for the occasion. Megatron had… enjoyed that more than he was willing to admit.

Either way, repairing the shuttle’s internal components would be much easier now that Megatron had figured out how to turn the power off to this section. No more fried fingers.

After months of slowly becoming familiar with the nonsense file organization system the shuttle used, Megatron had managed to locate the schematics. They had been buried deep, but not hidden behind specialized permissions.

Did the Autobots really think that simply making access inconvenient would have been a sufficient security measure?

Or was this a case of “if you need it, it’s assumed you know how to find it”? That was also possible, but ultimately, it didn’t matter now.

Megatron had what he needed, digging about amongst the wires and cables beneath the floor paneling.

He pulled out a handful of ruined copper wires and added them to the slowly building pile of metal debris and shredded synthetic mesh cable insulation. Maybe the scrap could be repurposed. If not, the energon converter would be well fed.

The fact that Megatron could also use these schematics later to improve his own fleet—after forcibly removing Starscream from a stolen throne, of course—was merely a bonus.

Though that was all assuming he would return to his army to retake his place as their leader. If his plan to fix the warp drive for Ratchet panned out, he might not get that opportunity.

A problem for later.

The more immediate problem, staring Megatron right in the face, was the grounding wires. Fried to hell, probably as a result of his damage to the drive back when. The damaged fusion cannon had unloaded excess power into the drive when it backfired which… overloaded the grounding system. The grounding system, however, did its job, sacrificing itself to preserve the shuttle. It was probably all that had prevented the shuttle exploding.

Now to replace… essentially everything.

At least the regular impulse drives and their supporting systems seemed to be isolated from those associated with the warp drive. That was probably the only thing keeping this damned shuttle from being remotely more functional than simply being a floating coffin for two.

Luckily, Ratchet had been busy with something at the armory’s worktable for days now. That afforded Megatron a lot of latitude to simply get to work on his own project without constantly being asked what he was doing.

He wasn’t sure what Ratchet himself was working on and every time he poked his head in, the medic quickly hid whatever it was under his hands like a new-build caught eating plastic.

Suspicious, but convenient for the time being.

Ratchet would probably have complained if he saw Megatron sticking his entire torso into the floor to fiddle around with the shuttle’s inner workings. Ships and mechs weren’t too different from one another, but Megatron was certainly more capable of figuring out the former with enough determination.

He might not have been an engineer, as  Megatron had been regularly reminding Ratchet, but that distinction was literally an academic matter. The necessary education and certification had never been made available to him.

Regardless, he could figure it out with enough effort.

Having to be resourceful to survive taught one certain skills but without providing some fancy, arbitrary certificate to show for it. He certainly hadn’t needed it to build the Stunticons more or less from scratch.

Megatron would fix that blasted warp drive, even if it permanently offlined him in the process.

And Ratchet would be grateful. Truly grateful.

Perhaps even grateful enough to unspool a cable and decide to return to the Nemesis with—Zap!

Megatron threw down the soldering gun with a curse, having accidentally soldered the tip of a finger to a small piece of detached paneling.

So much for no fried fingers. Thinking about Ratchet too much was clearly dangerous.

Gripping the small sheet of metal with his free hand, he yanked it off. It took an act of willpower to bite down on the howl as some of his sensitive dermal plating went with the debris. He swore under his breath, crumpling the paneling before tossing it into the pile of trash.

“What are you breaking out there?” Ratchet’s condescending shout echoed out of the cargo bay. He always acted like Megatron was a petulant new-build, foolish and prone to disaster.

At least he wasn’t leaking fuel or oil this time, just missing a tiny bit of armor. Easy enough for his self-repair to take care of within a week. There would be no evidence of his careless misstep.

“Mind your own damn business, Autobot!” he spat back over his shoulder.

And yet, the war, with its seemingly insurmountable factionalism, that had dominated his every waking thought for millions of years had never been further from his mind than it was now, a vague backdrop to Ratchet’s all-consuming presence in his life.

This had been going on for several days. Ratchet could hear Megatron in the cockpit swearing at something and occasionally yelling like he’d zapped himself again, but there were no other loud noises. He still wasn’t sure what was going on out there.

Whenever Ratchet called out because of dubiously concerning sounds and Megatron swore at him, he decided the idiot wasn’t hurt bad enough to bother getting up and checking. Silence, however, would be what worried him, at least during his waking cycle. The racket stopped whenever it was Ratchet’s turn to recharge. The respect for his need to sleep undisturbed was oddly considerate. When it was Megatron’s turn to recharge, it was simply a different racket… absolutely horrendous snoring.

Presumably Megatron wasn’t hurting himself too badly out there, or at least not blowing anything up.

Good.

That was fine.

Ratchet needed to focus and Megatron was a constant distraction, even if he didn’t mean to be. The last thing Ratchet needed while painstakingly assembling tiny nanites was to think of big warm hands pulling him close and safe.

The risk of dropping the tweezers and unleashing an empty nanite with no orders that he had spent ages assembling out of the random scrap he could find on the Hyperjump was too high. Sure, the nanite was currently harmless, without code telling it what it was and what it was supposed to do, but finding it again would be a scrapshoot.

It wasn’t like he wouldn’t have more than enough time to build another one, but it was resource-intensive and a pain in the aft. Besides, making another resource stop for scrap electronics would look rather… suspicious.

Megatron couldn’t know about this project until it was complete.

Yet, looking at those tiny little mechanical legs under the microscope as it struggled to get away from its creator’s grip, Ratchet couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting back to the strange situation in which he had found himself.

“Safe” still seemed like a word that shouldn’t have applied to Megatron, of all mechs. However, whenever Ratchet thought about being in his presence, the descriptor seemed to just… fit, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

To feel safe in the presence of his faction’s greatest enemy. To be wanted.

Megatron was practically the very definition of the word “danger.” He was a mad idiot who ran around with an overly powerful gun that had to be compensating for something while perpetuating galactic levels of destruction for… for what?

What were they even fighting over anymore? It used to be resources and energy, but now? It felt more like a large-scale, no-holds-barred grudge rather than a real war.

What mattered though… was that Ratchet could end it. He would end the war and he would end it his way.

With a deft motion, he snapped a connector cable into place on the nanite’s back.

Almost finished.

He didn’t look forward to going back to just continue fighting a pointless conflict, but he also didn’t want to just surrender himself to the Decepticons.

Sure, Megatron, with how he’d been acting like a lovestruck buffoon, would probably not let him come to any serious harm. He’d be mostly safe and could make sure the idiot didn’t self-destruct, all while being bathed in whatever affection he could ever think to ask for. There was something to be said for the allure of a powerful threat that would almost certainly not be directed at him, like having tamed a wild animal that would do anything for ear scratches.

Despite that, being a warlord’s “captured” Autobot lover did not sound appealing, at least not like that. And, in a faction known for internal violence, Ratchet would have practically painted a target on his back.

No.

He had a better plan. A much better plan.

With this project, Ratchet would have the power to change it all. He could solve the problem, something neither Optimus Prime nor Megatron had ever managed over the course of millions of years.

The unprogrammed nanite under his microscope tried to skitter away, but Ratchet’s tweezers held the little bastard in place. Nanites were always antsy but stupid before having their orders coded in. The last cable was popped where it belonged.

Done. All it needed was orders.

Maybe when everything was over, he and Megatron could play a fun game of “spoils of war” where the stakes were made up and not… not quite so real.

Ratchet pushed a button on the nanite with another pair of tweezers. It pulled its legs inside with a small flash of light, now an inert slab of metal waiting to be turned back on.

Perfect.

If Megatron didn’t randomly reboot at the thought, like Ratchet thought he might have on the bridge after they pulled away from their most recent pit-stop. He’d never anticipated that such a boisterous windbag would have been such an embarrassed, untried dork about interfacing. Primus, what a surprise that had been.

The finished nanite was transferred to a sealed canister. It was large, a delivery mechanism usually meant for a whole swarm of replacement self-repair nanites rather just one pathogenic one, but it was the only size Ratchet had on hand.

It would be safe in there for later, blank and on standby.

No use adding the viral code to the nanite before he had inoculated both himself and Megatron with the antiviral sequence he had already developed.

He had designed it in parallel to reworking the code those organic scientists had researched into something that would be applicable to mechanical races, or at least… to Cybertronians. The antiviral would be a perfect match for his tweaked viral code.

His virus wasn’t a perfect copy of those scientists had intended, no, but unlike those doomed scientists, Ratchet didn’t intend for anyone to die as a result.

This would end the war.

No bloodshed needed.

The virus wouldn’t be deployed.

It wouldn’t need to be, not if he played his cards exactly right. There was no room for mistakes.

Chapter Text

Ratchet tucked the canister into a cabinet on one of the small cargo bay’s walls. Megatron didn’t tend to root around in the cabinets since they were almost all empty. Occasionally, there had been talk of scrapping some of them for resources, something to sacrifice to the energon converter, but there ultimately hadn’t been a need.

Now… to inoculate both himself and Megatron against the nanite-deployed virus.

Once the nanite was encoded with its orders, it would self-replicate using a mech’s body for the necessary resources, starting with peripheral, unessential wires and cables before spreading outward, a trick borrowed from previous scientific research on scraplets.

However, the nanites would not kill by devouring, like a swarm of scraplets would. The nanites would, instead, kill by altering a mech’s coding, exploiting an open internal routing port first to reduce nociception processing so that resources could be taken without much, if any, notice. Then they would carefully introduce a specific set of “bugs” into essential programs until one finally interfered with spark energy regulation. Then, at last, the mech would just keel over like Primus had flicked their life switch.

No pain, no fear, no suffering.

Simply ceasing to be.

The kindest end Ratchet could imagine under the circumstances.

Unlike the more fast acting organic virus from the abandoned Derevon research facility, Ratchet’s virus would allow a mech to go about their life for a few days before they suddenly deteriorated, letting them come into contact with their fellows before falling apart.

The Derevon virus was initially meant to be more targeted, meant to spread only between a very small group already closely packed together. The nanites, in contrast, would excitedly spread, quickly and silently between mechs, following the shift of electrical capacitance that occurred when plating came into contact. The infection would spread even by so much as brushing against each other accidentally.

The nanites were so small that no one would even notice the transfer, much like other, more minor mechborne diseases, like a lag-inducing catarrh. When one of the scouts aboard the Ark caught something, the entire crew, almost without exception, would contract it within a week or less.

Ratchet was torn between the shame of using his skills to design something so deadly and pride at his own ingenuity. One solace was that the original virus had been… more of a guide rather than something to directly copy.

With a sigh, he looked at the inert, empty nanite in the glass canister for one more moment before closing the cabinet doors.

But the antiviral code would render it all moot.

His work would have been thankfully pointless as soon as he provided the inoculation.

This was by design. He needed a threat that would never have to be put to the test, a bluff that could never be called because it wouldn’t matter.

The antiviral was simple, an elegant two-part setup.

A minor code adjustment with just a few extra tweaks, hardly sophisticated at all. It barely qualified as more than a hotfix patch.

First, the fix closed the exploited access port and forwarded the functions associated with it to another one that the nanite wouldn’t attack. The nanite was programmed to only look for that one particular port and that one alone. Without the first step of blocking pain, the nanite would run into a standby loop, unable to act.

Second, the adjustment included the instructions to target a unique chemical tag on the viral nanite with a mech’s own self-repair systems. The nanite, and any replicas already made if administered post-exposure, would be taken apart and reused by the frame.

Ratchet had included whatever failsafe measures he could. Frankly, that had been the most time-consuming part of his “little project.” He counted himself grateful that, during the whole process, he had only really been interrupted by the occasional offer of fuel from the converter or Megatron bumbling around in the cockpit.

If he could just get Megatron to hold still for the inoculation, then he could move forward. The thought of this nanite being programmed before then turned his tanks. While the veteran Autobot in him reminded him that another way to end the war could start with unleashing the virus on an unsuspecting Megatron, but the pragmatist, medic, and mech in him all disagreed for their own reasons.

The pragmatist knew that Starscream would take up the banner of conflict without hesitation, and probably already had in Megatron’s absence.

The medic knew that it would be unethical to murder someone in his care, no matter the faction, especially one that had seemingly come to trust him.

The mech, both the most foolish and the wisest of Ratchet’s aspects, knew that he did not want to be separated from the rash idiot, whether by death or by imprisonment.

Regardless, as Ratchet pulled a data slug from his subspace, he consciously set aside the factionalism nagging at the back of his processor.

It was a simple matter for Ratchet to simply slot the antiviral program into his own systems via an easy, self-installing data slug but he doubted Megatron would allow that, not without some significant coaxing.

It would look suspicious after all. Megatron might, despite their established rapport, think Ratchet was up to something subversive.

Ratchet shook his head, walking towards the door as he popped the data slug into a socket on his wrist. The command, requesting permission to install, appeared on his HUD. After it was approved, the software immediately began integrating the tiny code.

It was a quick process, under half a minute or so.

Now fully inoculated against a virus that didn’t technically exist quite yet, Ratchet tucked the data slug away.

Megatron would probably reject it as a trick of some kind, a threat. Probably.

If Ratchet were honest with Megatron about what it was, perhaps he’d cooperate, especially if it came with the promise of maybe being allowed to hold Ratchet’s hand again or something. He wondered if he would ever understand just what it was about simple acts of affection that seemed to win the idiot over. It was almost like Megatron had never been treated that way—

That was the most likely answer.

The Decepticons didn’t seem like a very “touchy feely, hug it out” bunch. Probably the closest Megatron had come to regular physical contact with others prior to being stranded with Ratchet was combat… or Starscream’s assassination attempts.

What a depressing thought.

The poor bastard was clinically touch-starved.

With a sigh, Ratchet finally leaned through the door into the short hall that connected the shuttle’s few areas: the cockpit, the cargo bay, the wash racks, and the recharge quarters that he’d been using for an exam room as needed.

“Megatron!” he hollered, “I need—“

There was a clank as Megatron presumably threw down some tool. He better not have broken it, whatever it was, or there would be hell to pay. Ratchet still needed all of his tools, even if he left Megatron borrow them sometimes to do whatever it was he was doing.

There was yet another clank, louder, as though Megatron had smacked his heavily armored head into something. Again.

Megatron was probably fine. A weak worry niggled at the back of Ratchet’s processor.

The damn klutz was going to be the death of him.

And to think such a clumsy, ham-fisted oaf handled dangerous weaponry on a daily basis and could manage to make complex modifications to delicate electronics.

It boggled the mind.

Ratchet couldn’t quite see what Megatron was doing out there in the cockpit, with only the idiot’s feet visible from the hall.

The feet disappeared, only to be replaced by the whole mech charging towards Ratchet’s position. Somehow, he didn’t feel the need to retreat or get out of the way.

Within a moment, the medic was being loomed over by an excited turbopuppy in the shape of a mass murderer. The small worry from earlier about a potential head injury dissolved instantly, overtaken entirely by the overwhelming presence of a big metal moron.

His big metal moron.

Ratchet ought to have felt threatened, but instead, his spark radiated comfort and warmth, like he felt safe in this particular shadow. It was like an ache that he hadn't noticed before had been ameliorated by Megatron's proximity.

“Yes?”

Though the arrogant smirk, no matter how charming it was while the idiot leaned an elbow against the cargo bay’s door frame well above Ratchet’s head, was thoroughly unnecessary.

“You didn’t even let me say what I needed,” he replied.

Ratchet crossed his arms, scowling up at Megatron, intent to keep up the pretense of not really wanting to be in his company. It probably wasn’t working, if only because Megatron was stupid. Stupid in specific ways, stupid when it came to matters of the spark or emotional intelligence.

Poor idiot probably didn’t even understand what he was feeling, probably didn’t have the vocabulary to process it for what it was.

“Clearly it was—“

“’Clearly?’” Ratchet huffed. “Clearly nothing. You just dial it back and let me finish.”

Megatron sighed, but nodded all the same, clearly deciding it would just be easier to indulge Ratchet this time.

Funny, since over the past several months, Megatron had seemed more than willing to regularly “indulge” Ratchet. Yet, every time he acted as though it were some special dispensation to humor the medic, some one-time exception because Megatron was in a generous mood.

The entire display was nonsense, especially since there was no one to perform for, but, in its own bizarre way, Ratchet found the act amusing, almost charming.

“Fine, fine,” Megatron said, relenting. “What is it you need then, Ratchet?”

It was… odd how easily his name came from Megatron’s mouth these days, not even with sarcastic emphasis attached. Just casually, naturally. No titles. No epithets. Just his proper designation spoken as easily as unlabored ventilating.

It was normal.

As Ratchet looked up at him, glaring at the warlord as though this entire conversation were an inconvenience on his busy schedule, he began to doubt his resolve to simply be upfront. Being upfront was the ethical course of action here, he knew, but something about Megatron’s stupid not-quite moon-eyed stare nagged him.

The easiest way to install the antiviral code without a fuss or potential argument would be to sneak it in while Megatron was distracted, too distracted to notice a little patching update.

Perhaps… intimately distracted.

His HUD populated with an indecent task suggestion.

Not a terribly bad idea, but it would definitely have crossed the line into treasonous behavior.

He could absolutely have been arrested for following through on that suggested task if word somehow reached Prime, Jazz, or, worse, Prowl. Though, Ratchet couldn’t really imagine what the consequences could possibly be. It wouldn’t be the sort of thing he could be jailed for, though maybe sternly reprimanded.

Then again, he doubted Megatron would blab about it… if he ever rebooted from the hard system shock an interface would inescapably cause the touch-starved fool.

Ratchet abruptly terminated that thread of processing.

Perhaps, instead of rationalizing why he would be able to get away with it, Ratchet ought to have examined why he was so willing to lend a cable to someone who had perpetuated so much suffering. He knew. He knew he ought to, but the thought had occurred to him that even if he had taken the time to analyze his motivations, he would have just found himself staring at the same nonsensical truth.

He wanted to do this.

After several seconds of awkwardly staring up, straining his neck some at this close of a distance. Their frames weren’t touching, but, at this point, that was little more than a technicality.

"Well… you actually," Ratchet said, leaning in and resting a curious palm on a scarred, gray shoulder. He could feel the plating underneath immediately heat above baseline.

The trick would be overcoming Megatron’s hesitance when it came to intimacy, but he could at least try.

"Well… you actually."

Megatron could hardly believe he was hearing those words. As much as he hated being put on his back foot, he couldn't deny that Ratchet's sudden request had him off guard.

When the words came out of the medic’s mouth, accompanied by the gentle touch of a safe, familiar hand on his shoulder, Megatron’s spark flew into a confusing, excited spin that he didn't know what to do with.

What a strange sensation.

He leaned away from the doorway—from Ratchet and his temptingly warm hand—slightly,

"Me?"

He hadn't meant for that to sound so surprised.

Instead, determined to not look a fool, he leaned forward again, a forced sly grin stretched across his face.

“Of course, you do.”

And Ratchet was lucky that he was both here and willing to oblige most things Ratchet might ask of him. A special indulgence for the only Autobot he hadn’t felt like tossing into the vacuum of space for looking at him funny or giving him backsass, the only Autobot whose existence he would take care to preserve in the war to crush enemies.

This medic was also the only Autobot he didn’t feel the need to be armed to the teeth around.

In fact, his cannon—and along with all their other weaponry—was tucked away, without a concern, into the armory cabinet near where Ratchet had been working all this time. The real danger where Ratchet was concerned was his sharp tongue and welding tools.

“Of course, you do,” he repeated, absently, despite Ratchet’s blank, unimpressed stare. “Yes.”

“Are you finished?”

Megatron nodded and waved his free hand for Ratchet to continue, unable to pry a worthy retort from his processor. Might as well let Ratchet keep going.

“Fantastic, now what I need you for is something… personal.”

Ratchet shifted closer, crossing the already minute space between them.

“Personal—“ Before Megatron could process the implications and articulate a protest, red hands had seized him. One hand firmly gripped his jaw, starting to drag him down, whereas the other arm looped around his back.

That strange spin in his spark from earlier intensified, the burning crystal wildly whirling around in its chamber. Megatron knew now that it wasn’t a sign of illness, but he still wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with the sensation. It certainly didn’t seem healthy for his spark to race like that, to make him lightheaded and uncertain of how to move.

The task bar in his HUD prompted a new, familiar task, one he had gotten used to dismissing whenever the medic entered his visual range: kiss Ratchet?

For once, he would indulge.

They had only done that a few times, with prompting of some kind each time… with the sole exception of the instance that had earned him a slap. Now, this was the first time Ratchet had asked.

Well, he hadn’t verbally asked.

Megatron resisted the tugging just before their mouths could touch. Time for a reminder that he was not entirely at Ratchet’s disposal, that he too could demand a semblance of manners, not that he generally desired manners.

“Shouldn’t you have asked first?”

“Really?”

“You made me ask permission, so, really, I feel it ought to be the same. Is equitable treatment not one of your vaunted Autobot values?”

“You’re ridiculous.” Ratchet kept his hands right where they were, firm but neither pushing nor pulling.

“Am I really—“ He shifted his weight as though he were going to standing back up, a bluff. “—or are you just displeased that I’ve used your own scruples against you?”

“Oh, please, now you’re just splitting wires to be obstinate—”

“I want you to ask me.”

Ratchet sighed in defeat, a sure sign that Megatron was winning this pointless yet all important game.

They both knew that the answer would be an enthusiastic “yes,” but it was always entertaining to force Autobots to play by their own damn rules, even if just for a little bit.

Also, if Ratchet asked, that meant he could know that this wasn’t because Megatron had—inadvertently in this case—managed to somehow cow the medic into it. He doubted, of course, that Ratchet could be persuaded in this manner by intimidation. Intimidation had failed to coerce Ratchet into doing anything of any kind on previous occassions, so why should this have been any different?

It merely eased his nerves to be sure he was wanted.

“May I—“ Ratchet barely got a few words words out before Megatron answered, impatiently defeating his own point.

“Without question.”

Ratchet pulled Megatron just enough off balance to send them both careening to the floor in a pile of limbs and clattering armor. He was rolled onto his back in the “struggle,” if he could even call it one. Megatron didn’t resist. There was no need. He could let Ratchet play at being powerful for the reward of being smothered in affection.

Ratchet’s affection, a resource with an incalculable value.

It was strange though, he thought as Ratchet leaned in close for that kiss that had been all but promised, that the request was out of nowhere.

Had Ratchet simply been back in the cargo bay daydreaming about kissing him all day until he couldn’t handle it and was overcome by the physiological need?

However, just as their lips pressed together, he heard the gentle clicking of a panel opening and the soft grinding hiss of a cable, insulated with a woven mesh, uncoiling.

He’d last heard that exact sound weeks ago in the cockpit, after they’d left that rainy organic world behind.

Tensing as though struck by lightning, Megatron put his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders, pushing him back up to see that chest panel from the other day popped free and the end of a cable in one of Ratchet’s hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Interfacing?” Ratchet shrugged. “I thought that part was obvious.”

“Obvious?” Ridiculous. “I did not agree to—“

“You said, Megatron, and I quote, ‘without question.’”

“You didn’t say ‘interfacing’!”

It wasn’t time!

Megatron hadn’t even finished his gift.

The warp drive wasn’t working yet. Soon, but not yet. Not now. Maybe another day or two. It wasn’t time. It was not time.

“You didn’t let me finish my question and just gave me a blanket agreement.” Ratchet sighed again, sitting back on Megatron’s middle, presumably to avoid overbalancing and falling off as Megatron sat up. He still held the plug end of the cable in his hand, not yet persuaded to put it away. “You’re just absolutely full of assumptions today, jumping to all manner of conclusions about what I want.”

“… I’m not ready.”

A strange admission, he knew, but… accurate. The medic deserved at least that much from him. Besides, perhaps he wouldn’t protest too much if he hid the real reason behind a tiny truth. He wasn’t ready… because he wanted Ratchet’s affection after seeing what Megatron had done for him to be special, because he wanted Ratchet to know.

“Are you afraid? Is that what you’re telling me?”

All the same, despite the questions otherwise, Ratchet slid the cable back into its housing and closed the panel back over it. Megatron didn’t want to acknowledge the sense of relief at the sight, even though he felt confident that Ratchet would not have pressed the matter. The disappointed frown, however, was a little disconcerting.

His hands slid down from Ratchet’s shoulders to rest momentarily on the glass of his windshield.

“No, I’m not afraid.” His hands retreated further, from Ratchet’s windshield to now rest on the medic’s waist. His spark ached at the peremptory denial of intimacy. “I am never afraid.”

Not that he would admit to anyway. Maybe he was just a little afraid, but no one had to know that.

Perhaps he was afraid of the Autobots separating them if Ratchet chose to use the warp drive to return to his faction, but—

“Alright, alright, we won’t do that.” The medic raised his hands in defeat, palms out to show he wouldn’t push the issue.

Something was going on in Ratchet’s head, something that went beyond mere carnal desire.

It was like he was planning something, but what? What could he be up to?

“Give me two days, Ratchet.” Megatron made sure to maintain optic contact. It was easier to ignore the sinking sensation of his spark. “Two days. That’s all.”

And then he would gladly give Ratchet what he wanted.

Chapter Text

Two days.

That’s what Megatron had promised Ratchet.

Two days and now he was finished with his work. Ratchet had the discretion to not ask what the work was. He had even avoided coming into the cockpit while Megatron had been working. It had been appreciated, but that appreciation had gone unsaid beyond the occasional cubes of fuel from the converter brought into the cargo bay for Ratchet.

Megatron had said he was just preventing Ratchet from having a reason to peek at the project, but he knew that was a lie. He had known Ratchet had known it too, especially since the fuel wasn’t even the thick vehicle grade that Megatron preferred to drink for resource conservation purposes.

That was alright.

Two days and that had been all that Megatron had needed.

Now he was seated at one of the twinned navigation consoles, the one that had been unofficially designated as his since they’d started cooperatively piloting this blasted heap of garbage.

Tools had been cleared away from the floor and returned to Ratchet’s medical kit. Debris that couldn’t have been reused in the repairs or set aside in the cargo bay for repurposing had been dumped into the energon converter. The paneling on the floor had been put back into place.

Everything was as it should be when he yelled for the medic to come in from whatever he was doing in the cargo bay.

Megatron kept his back turned as Ratchet entered, only aware of his approach by his voice and and the increasing volume of footsteps on the metal decking.

“Done with all of the secrecy?”

“Yes, Ratchet,” he said, pulling up a screen on the navigation console that they hadn’t used before. It had a field to enter coordinates, but it wasn’t quite like the screen they used for manual piloting with the impulse engines. This one has “EXPERIMENTAL” emblazoned across the top, a warning. There was also a blank field, waiting for data, to calculate energy expenditure. The glyphs for “warp drive” were carefully covered by one of Megatron’s thumbs. “Yes, I am. I am also quite sure you will be more than satisfied with the results.”

The medic leaned over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

A great question, one whose answer would be self-evident shortly. Megatron began plugging in the coordinates, not to their original neutral destination, somewhere between that fateful supply depot and where the Nemesis had last been sighted, but somewhere just out of sight of that Autobot installation where their journey began.

The ion trails of his flagship had probably long since faded in the intervening months. That would make tracking it down difficult, if he even got the chance to do so. However, they would, ideally, be close enough that he ought to be able hail one of the ship’s communication frequencies.

If that was what Ratchet chose.

What happened after he initiated the drive would determine the remaining course of the war, of his life… of both their lives.

"Ratchet, you told me something interesting,” he said, finger hovering over the confirmation button. The coordinates to the supply depot were in place, ready to go through however many “click to confirm” splash screens this Autobot hunk of junk would demand of him. “I thought it was stupid at the time, but… I've come to realize that you were… right."

The last word was hissed, as though it had offended Megatron personally.

"What are you even talking about?" Ratchet leaned closer, first looking at the console but then abruptly turning to blatantly stare Megatron right in the face, like he couldn’t believe the words he was hearing.

Perhaps he couldn’t. That was what the slack jaw told him.

Megatron rarely admitted to being wrong. He considered owning up to mistakes a character flaw, at least when he did it. He quite enjoyed others taking responsibility for failure. That was fine and to be expected. He was rarely wrong, in his opinion. And when he was wrong, it was because the information had to work with was flawed.

However, this time… he had simply been incorrect and Ratchet, handsome Ratchet with his deft hands and sharp wit, had been right.

"You said, 'helping other people is good, even if all you can do is your best, even if that best is to be present.' You said that to me back on Derevon in the woods, those blasted woods. I thought you were so naïve, held back by Autobot altruism."

"What are you—"

Megatron pressed the “confirm” button. The console asked him to confirm again.

"But… you were right." He admitted it like it was vulgar. "So if the best I can do for you is to be present, at the cost of my own freedom, then that is what I will do. There is no alternative. I have fixed the warp drive and I am taking you home."

“No, you don’t have to do that.” Ratchet reached down and put his hand over Megatron’s, not yet pulling it away from the console’s command buttons. The threat was there though.

“Ratchet, don’t try to dissuade me.” Megatron shook his head, assertively poking the new “confirm” button as though it had insulted him personally, despite the medic’s grasp on him. “I’ve made up my mind and that’s all there is to it—“

One more “confirm” screen to make sure he was absolutely certain that this was where they wanted to go. All he had to do was push it—

“No, let me finish. You’re not listening.” Ratchet took a deep breath, finally yanking Megatron’s hand away from the keys. “You don’t have to do that… because I’ve solved the problem.”

“You’ve… solved the problem?” What a strange pronouncement. “Which problem is that exactly?”

Megatron took his free hand from the console, turning to face Ratchet head on. He leaned back in the chair, resting his elbow on top of the backrest as he turned.

“The war,” Ratchet said firmly, still keeping a tight grip on the hand he had captured. “I’m finishing it.”

 As though it were that simple.

“And… just how do you intend to do that?”

They both knew how long the conflict had been going on. They both knew how endless the whole thing seemed. It was all their peoples did anymore: fight and bicker and destroy.

For Megatron, the war had become a necessity of survival. His army needed energon to survive.

Control of their homeplanet, now functionally uninhabited—aside from Shockwave, a few rearguard troops, and some renegade Autobots—and practically derelict, had stopped being a major goal. Destroying the Autobots who had opposed them had since become the new goal… right after having enough fuel to fight another day rather than starving themselves into stasis. They stockpiled what they could in the hopes of rebuilding their homeplanet, but it was, most likely, a pipe dream. Control of their empty home was now a non-issue.

But even fighting the Autobots had become less and less about winning and had become more and more about nursing a grudge. It was a war of diminishing returns. Both sides knew that and it wouldn’t have been the first time they had tried to come to some sort of agreement, an armistice, anything.

Every potential peace negotiation either sabotaged before it could be begin or erupting midway through with more conflict than before. Everyone, himself included, was too angry, too petty, too mistrustful, to see past their own noses.

A lost cause every time.

“What makes you think you’ll be able to make it work? Nothing else has in these millions of years and I don’t see why that should change,” he said.

As much as he had come to respect Rachet’s opinion, he was also more than willing to challenge it.

Ratchet finally released him and wrung his own handsome hands together. An odd gesture. The medic didn’t tend to behave as though he were ill at ease.

Megatron lifted an optical ridge in skepticism.

“Before… I answer you, I need you to trust me with something.”

“Trust” was a heavy concept, especially between two mechs who had stood on opposite sides of a—potentially pointless—conflict that had gone on for millions of years. And yet… the both of them had displayed various levels of trust in one another since this journey began.

Perhaps that wasn’t so far-fetched now.

“I’m listening, Ratchet.”

The console, still waiting for confirmation, beeped behind them.

“Give me your wrist.”

That cable of Ratchet’s that Megatron had seen multiple times now always as a tempting, if unnerving threat of intimacy made yet another appearance. Before he could pull away on reflex, Megatron held still, forcing himself to remain calm. He wouldn’t prove that he was giving Ratchet his trust by backing away now. Just to show he wasn’t a coward, he let the port cover on his wrist pop open.

The connector snapped into place. It was a sterile, pleasureless contact, just a one-way medical connection. It barely counted as their systems linking.

A prompt popped up on his HUD, asking for permission to install a patch. No further description. He granted the permissions.

The cable was disconnected and put away in nanoseconds of the quick installation finalizing, as though Ratchet didn’t want to test Megatron’s trust more than absolutely necessary.

The minimal systems interaction left him both wanting something deeper and silently embarrassed at having feared in the first place.

“Now, I….” Ratchet hesitated, a hand over the panel on his chest he had just closed, concealing away his cable. Megatron couldn’t recall Ratchet stumbling so much for his words. It was as though something deeper was starting to get the best of him. “Wait here.”

Arm still in the air, his wrist port cover open, Megatron was suddenly left alone at the navigation console. Ratchet’s back retreated away from him, back down the short hall into the cargo bay.

A few minutes passed, during which Megatron could hear some rifling around in the allegedly empty cabinets. What in the Ratchet be doing back there?

At least, by the time Ratchet returned to his field of view, Megatron had the sense to close his damn wrist port and put his arm down.

The medic had something… odd in his hands, an apparently empty jar cradled delicately between his palms like it contained something fragile and precious.

“I’ve… You may not believe this. It may, in fact, come as a surprise to you, but I’ve….”

Ratchet paused again, holding the jar up as he stood a few paces away, just out of Megatron’s easy reach if he wanted to swipe at the object.

“I’ve developed a bioweapon.”

“A bioweapon?” Megatron, leaning away in surprise, almost couldn’t believe his audio sensors. Surely no “upstanding” Autobot would create such a thing, something dreamed up only by the likes of Shockwave. Not that Megatron would have said “no” to using one if the circumstances were right.

And yet here… one of the most reputable, notoriously honorable Autobots aside from Optimus Prime himself held a jar in front of him, a jar containing a bioweapon that Ratchet had engineered himself.

“Don’t worry; I’ve already inoculated the both of us against the agent. It’s safe. We’re safe,” Ratchet explained, "I had tried to inoculate you two days ago, but I should have realized you would have put up a fuss.”

Being shy about physical intimacy with a new partner hardly constituted a “fuss.” A “fuss” was what Starscream put up over being ignored at strategy meetings when he suggested his often, but not always, unwarranted opinion.

However, Megatron let the comment go, more interested in the contents of Ratchet’s jar. He narrowed his optics at it, curiously scrutinizing the seemingly empty space inside.

Of course, Ratchet could theoretically have been lying about the inoculation. It could have been a ploy, but then again, so could the bioweapon. It could all have been a clever hoax but none of that seemed likely either.

The jar was brought closer for his inspection.

Another beep from the console.

“It’s a virus, deployed by a nanite, partially code-based but assisted by the nanite’s self-replicating functions.”

Megatron cautiously took the jar in his hands and held it up to optic-level for a better look. The little nanite, fully-programmed, scurried about its glass container, looking hardly more like a speck of dirt or dust than a virulent, deadly pathogen that could very easily be misused….

“Why not simply defect then? You can come back to the Nemesis. With me. You will be safe and I will use this virus to destroy the Autobots. We will win—“

“No. You don’t understand.” Ratchet snatched the jar back, leaving Megatron sitting there, empty-handed and mouth open like a fool.

“What don’t I understand?” The question came out with offense and, despite his attempts to hide it, genuine hurt.

“You’ll… need to trust me. Again.”

And Megatron had already shown so much trust in Ratchet. He supposed he could show a little more. It was the least he could do.

“Please,” Ratchet begged. “I need to talk to Optimus and you fixing the warp drive means that I can end the war sooner, but you’re not turning yourself in, not for me.”

Then, Megatron wondered, what exactly did the medic intend to do? Threaten Optimus into agreeing some semblance of peace?

“Just trust me.”

“Very well, I’ll… trust you.” No small feat for either of them. “Once more. You’ve… earned that at the least.”

Ratchet’s shoulders dropped, visibly relieved at the gift he’d been given. Trust had turned out to be more valuable than even the warp drive.

“Thank you—“ Rare words, but Megatron felt he would hear them again in the future. He cleared his vocalizer with a cough, cutting off the verbal gratitude.

There was one last thing to attend to, a matter most important.

“But before we go….”

The console beeped again, impatient. It could wait.

“Yes?”

“I promised you that in two days’ time, I would give you what you wanted.” This time it was his turn to unspool a cable. “And I think you’ll find me quite willing.”

Chapter Text

This would be the hardest part, Ratchet thought, carefully descending the shuttle’s landing ramp once they had arrived at the base.

The jar with the nanite was nestled safely in his subspace, next to two data slugs with copies of the antiviral patch. One data slug for each faction, to be distributed upon the negotiation of a peace treaty.

Megatron followed behind him, armed only with his canon. The Autobots didn’t need to know that he only had a few shots left. It was the performance of potential threat that Ratchet needed. If the discussion went poorly, plan B would require them to fall back onto the shuttle to escape. A fusion blast or two would be all they would need to cover their retreat, but ideally that wouldn’t be necessary.

Ratchet made sure he stayed in front, a barrier that the Autobots would almost certainly be unwilling to risk accidentally hitting in a bid to take down the enemy leader. It wouldn’t be the first time Ratchet had taken himself hostage but hopefully it would be the last.

His fellows, having evidently detected the shuttle’s warp signature returning, waited in the landing area, optics wide and no doubt confused at the sight.

“Ratchet!” Optimus’s voice called out from the front of the group. “Ratchet, are you alright? Has he injured you?”

“No!” he snapped. That was unnecessarily harsh. Ratchet took a moment to ventilate and collect himself.

“No,” he repeated, more calmly. “No, he hasn’t.”

The heavy steps behind him were reassuring. Before their journey, Ratchet would have felt dread at the sound, but now they provided a confidence to his purpose.

“What’s going on?” Optimus asked. “Why is Megatron here?”

Well, they had disappeared together, but presumably the question was more akin to why Megatron was alive, in clearly good health, armed, and not in stasis cuffs. The wry smirk Ratchet knew was on his face without looking probably didn’t help matters.

“Optimus,” Ratchet began, reaching into his subspace, “it’s high time we discussed peace. I have the solution.”

The jar was pulled out and held in front of his chest. Optimus wouldn’t be able to see the nanite from this distance, but that wouldn’t matter.

Optimus had long trusted Ratchet’s word implicitly. Now Ratchet would collect on that debt.

Megatron wasn’t the real threat here.

“And I suggest you listen to it very closely.” He took another deep ventilation before throwing a thumb over his shoulder at Megatron. “Please. I’m tired, he’s stupid, and this conflict needs to end.”

“Ratchet, was that really called for?”

“Yes,” he said, reaching back with his free hand to pat Megatron’s arm behind him apologetically anyway.

Now to make Optimus listen, but the way his optics were stretched up into his helmet like broken floodlights, Ratchet knew he had his own leader’s undivided attention.

“Before we get to the details, Optimus, I’m going to tell you exactly what I have here and, in agonizingly minute detail, what it will do to a mech.”

Shots, bookended by barking laughter, rang out in one of the hangar bays of the Nemesis, the Hyperjump docked securely while Ratchet practiced his aim with Megatron contently folded up into his small alt-mode in the medic’s palms.

Luckily for Starscream’s pretty wings, Ratchet’s aim was really only skilled with thrown scalpels and not firearms.

Starscream shrieked half-sparked apologies for leaving Megatron behind on the battlefield as he flapped around the ceiling, expertly dodging the amateur assault. He probably knew that the alternative was Megatron taking matters into his own hands.

Ratchet swore, checking the gun in his hands for a jam. It was strange that he paused to do so. Usually whenever there was a jam, Starscream just threw Megatron to the ground and switched to another weapon. Soundwave was the only other one to treat him with care in alt-mode.

However, now, Megatron supposed, Ratchet would have plenty of opportunity to improve.

After getting Optimus to understand the situation, it had been a simple matter to get the Autobots to contact the Nemesis. Autobot High Command always kept a secure frequency on hand, usually for hostage negotiations or to announce a temporary ceasefire. The Hyperjump wouldn’t have been able to reach the Nemesis on that frequency, even if distance hadn’t been an issue.

The ship had been lured in with the promise of just such a ceasefire as part of peace negotiations.

Little had Starscream and Soundwave suspected that the docking shuttle did not contain Optimus Prime and his toadies, but their missing leader, long thought killed in action, and an agitated Autobot medic.

The look of shock on the crew and members of High Command when they had emerged from the ramp were something Megatron would savor for the remainder of his functioning.

Soundwave now stood aside, a few paces behind Ratchet with his arms politely folded together behind his back in a respectful parade rest. No verbal apology from him was necessary. He knew had done wrong by leaving Megatron behind all those months ago. That was sufficient.

“Megatron, do you bring news? New orders?” Soundwave’s synthetic voice was a comfort all on its own, a reminder that he was still in command and safely on his own vessel, rather than careening around in unknown space on an unknown shuttle held together with tape and cheap adhesive. “Now that there is a ceasefire in place, we require direction.”

Sure, they would tell the crew about the impending peace negotiations in more detail, including the threat of Ratchet’s bioweapon, but not yet.

The Autobots would be returning to Cybertron’s orbit first anyway. There was no rush.

“All in good time, Soundwave,” he said, between volleys of energy bolts. “All in good time.”

Megatron wanted to remain in Ratchet’s secure, warm grasp a little longer.

“There remain a few important matters to attend to before we get to that.”

Just a little longer.

Besides, Starscream’s cornering had gotten sloppy in his Megatron’s absence. That was unacceptable.