Four Injuries
Aug. 29th, 2009 05:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sorciereTitle: Four Injuries Ratchet Fixed... and One That He Didn't
Rating: PG-13 for Cybertronian curses. It's got Ratchet and Ironhide. Go figure.
Disclaimer: Absolutely, positively not mine.
Warnings: Spoilers for RotF, but not the books or comics, most of which I haven't read and will cheerfully ignore. Slight AU from the very end of RotF.
Summary: Four weeks in the life of a medic – and five times it wasn't a matter of life and death. Ca. 3200 words.
A/N: Set in the same AU 'verse as Four Conversations and Four Things, but they're not needed for background information and this can be read as a stand-alone just fine.
* * * *
1.
* * * *
It took a lot to make a Cybertronian look visibly embarrassed, but Arcee managed rather well. She fidgeted as she sat on the infirmary bed surrounded by her sisters and didn't quite meet Ratchet's optics when he talked to her. If she had been a human, the medic was fairly sure she would have blushed.
“Your right knee plating got dented, the joint has a microscopic fracture, and one of the bearings was dislocated,” he informed her. “You can handle the first part yourself and the joint will heal on its own, but I'll need to fix the bearing for you.”
Arcee nodded and sank further into the infirmary bed, and Ratchet's curiosity was starting to nag. “As your doctor,” he pointed out, “it would make my task considerably easier if I knew the cause of your injuries. Certain types of injuries are hard to detect and can remain unnoticed for so long, they could potentially offline you without treatment.”
Arcee nodded again, and Chromia put a comforting hand on her shoulder as she finally spoke.
“I... miscalculated.”
“Prime's favourite excuse, if I ever heard one,” Ratchet muttered, and felt slightly better when his patient at least had the good grace to look embarrassed again.
“Sand,” she finally mumbled, and seemed to find the surface of the bed absolutely fascinating as she kept scratching at it with her finger. “There was sand on the outer track after the storm and I failed to properly take it into account when I took a curve.”
She sounded like a youngling, giving a demanded explanation while trying to maintain dignity in the face of self-confessed idiocy, and Ratchet couldn't blame her. It was a stupid mistake and it explained both the injuries and the embarrassment, all right. Arcee and her sisters were skilled with their alt-modes but there was still that small bit of added risk of instability that came with two wheels instead of four, even with processors and reaction times as quick as Arcee's. Not usually something that would have mattered with the amount of training they had, but training did occasionally breed overconfidence, too – and that could bring a Cybertronian down faster than a Decepticon blast.
“Earth weather and terrain does take time to get accustomed to,” Ratchet allowed and kept his amusement from showing. She wasn't a bad patient. She usually did as she was told, and he was in no mood to patch her up repeatedly because she went right off again to prove her alt-mode's superiority if he called her careless and stupid. She seemed to have learned her lesson already, in any case. The embarrassment would serve better at reminding her of Earth's peculiarities than a reprimand would.
Arcee nodded and still found the bed intensely fascinating, and Ratchet shook his head.
“It was a less painful lesson than it could have been, at least,” he said, then sighed. “Lie down. I want to fix that bearing before you make it any worse than it already is.”
Arcee obeyed silently and Ratchet grabbed a bundled set of tools from a shelf. He was not going to tell her she wasn't the first Autobot to get that particular injury. Humiliation like that could be an excellent teacher, and Ratchet approved of anything that cut down on his workload.
Speedsters, he mentally sighed. Primus help us all.
* * * *
2.
* * * *
There was a human medical team on base, but not everyone human actually used it. Most did, certainly, because however used to the Autobots the NEST teams and crew might be, most of them did look uneasy at the thought of twenty feet of robot handling their wounds.
Just most of them, though. Mikaela not only preferred Ratchet's attention, but learned attentively at his side as he treated Autobot injuries. Samuel had been treated by human medics as well as Ratchet, and while he tended to seek out the human medical team, Ratchet suspected it was more due to the fact that the injuries he had received on base were all minor issues from physical training and thus not something he wished to bother Ratchet himself with. Lennox preferred to see Ratchet as well, and while Ratchet wasn't sure if it was due to his new citizenship or simple preference, the fact remained that he readily let Ratchet do whatever was needed and seemed to trust his skills implicitly.
The only one of his human patients that had really surprised Ratchet was Lennox's bonded-
- Wife, she had corrected him and held out her hand in greeting, and my name is Sarah-
- and he strongly suspected it was her bonded's influence that had made her look to him, since Ironhide had certainly never been a gracious or appreciative patient.
She was currently sitting in the middle of the massive, Cybertronian-sized bed, her sparkling in her lap and making comforting sounds at her as Ratchet scanned the child.
“She landed on her wrist,” Sarah explained and kept her voice calm and soothing, presumably for the sake of her offspring. “I think it might be broken.”
Scan completed, Ratchet nodded in agreement. “A hairline fracture,” he confirmed and held out his hand carefully. The sparkling sniffled but looked up as she noticed motion, and seemed to cheer up a bit at the sight of the giant medic, putting her uninjured hand on one of his fingers in greeting.
“Ratcd,” she said solemnly, and Ratchet was a bit bemused at just where the sparkling had learned his name but nodded solemnly in response.
“Yes. How are you doing, Annabelle?”
She didn't say anything to that but moved her injured arm slightly, hesitantly as she looked at Ratchet with tearful eyes, and he nodded again.
“It will be as good as new,” he promised and gently withdrew his hand to find a bit of cast that would be small enough to shape comfortably around her arm. Humans were small enough compared to Cybertronians, but their sparklings were positively tiny.
“She will need to keep the cast on for at least three weeks,” he let her mother know as he carefully brought out a piece of the thin cast that was visible proof of human and Autobot technology working together. “We have ways of improving the rate of healing, but I am unaware of the effects it might have on young humans, so it would be best to let it heal of its own accord.”
Sarah Lennox nodded and Ratchet carefully – very, very carefully – put the cast into place, grateful for the high density of sensors in his hands, and equally grateful that his patient did not move around and that her mother kept her firmly in place.
The sparkling sniffled again but didn't start crying and Ratchet was relieved when the cast was where it should be and seemed to fit as comfortably as would be possible in the present situation. He still wasn't sure why Lennox's bonded had chosen him instead of a human medic, but she looked grateful and it was always useful to expand one's knowledge in regard to their new allies.
“I would like to see you both again tomorrow to ensure that the cast fits properly,” he told the adult human, and was rewarded with another grateful look.
“We'll be here,” she promised and held on to her sparkling as Ratchet carefully put them on the ground again. “Thank you.” A pause, and she smiled as she continued. “I can see why Will thinks so highly of you.”
Ratchet had expected Lennox's influence to be behind his bonded's presence in the infirmary but it was still nice to be recognised for one's skills and work. “It's my job,” he replied and continued, just a bit curious. He had almost gotten his answer in her remark, but there was always that bit of curiosity... “He recommended you come here?”
She shifted her grip on her sparkling to put her on the ground and held her uninjured hand, likely in an attempt to provide added stability to her offspring.
“Oh, Ironhide did, too,” she said and winked at him. “But don't let him know I said that.”
And with that Sarah Lennox followed her sparkling out of the infirmary and left Ratchet behind to stare in bemusement at the door.
* * * *
3.
* * * *
“If you sat still, this would go a lot faster,” Ratchet snarled. “Did Barricade finally scramble your processors for good? Revert you to sparklinghood, maybe? Sit. Still.”
Ironhide was easily on Ratchet's top five of the worst patients he had ever treated, and today was not helping. It had been a short battle – the 'Cons had been there to steal supplies, not to fight – and so they had no fatalities, and only a few genuinely serious injuries to handle.
Ironhide's was one of them. It wasn't a potentially fatal injury, but it was serious enough, and the thick-plated spawn of a short-charged glitch slagging well knew it, too.
“I would if you would stop jamming scrap into my joints!” Ironhide snarled right back, and it was not just Ratchet's imagination that heard the whine of those distinctive cannon charging as he started to work on the lower part of his shoulder plating.
If he could have gotten Ironhide the slag out of there sooner, he would have, but the injury required delicate care and as a consequence, also quite a lot of Ratchet's time. It was a careful dance more than anything, fixing the small leaks of coolant and oil before he moved to the more serious issue. It was bad enough that one of Barricade's blasts had managed to hit a corner of the heavy shielding that protected Ironhide's spark. Trying to fix it with every nook and cranny covered in oil and coolant wouldn't make it any better.
“Then next time get your fragging aft out of the way, platehead,” Ratchet growled and slammed a dislocated plate into place just a bit harder than he needed to. “Do you think I want you in here all day? You got yourself shot. You can slagging well deal with the consequences, or you'll be in so much pain in a week you'll be begging me to offline you. Fractured shielding like yours would take months to fix itself, so either you sit out every battle until then, or you shut the slag up and let me do my job, Ironhide.”
Ironhide looked like he wanted to snarl again but settled for fuming silently as Ratchet continued his work – a sign, at least, that the gunner had some measure of common sense left in there in his processors somewhere.
It wasn't all personal, either, and Ratchet knew that, too. Barricade had escaped. All of the 'Cons had, and they had managed to take some of the materials they were after with them, too. There was an inventory somewhere of what they took, Ratchet assumed, but that could wait until after everyone was reasonably patched up. It was low-level 'Con activity, everything considered. Not a life or death matter in this case. What they took in the attack might give some hint as to the situation in the enemy camp, but for the moment they had other things to demand their attention.
Shoulder plating done, Ratchet moved closer to the main injury and began to clean the wound. It was a pain to do, but easier than trying to weld something covered in oil, and he glanced at his patient.
“Who was it?” he asked, a bit less gruffly.
Ironhide watched and stayed unnaturally still in a reaction that Ratchet had seen before in most mechs that had needed work done on their spark shielding. It was an intimate part of the Cybertronian body and try as one might, there was always that small program in the back of your processors that told you to stay completely still to avoid any further injuries there.
“Chromia,” Ironhide finally admitted. “She's fast but so is Barricade. I have the armour to take those blasts.”
Ironhide had the armour for it and Chromia did not, and that was all Ratchet really needed to know. Chromia, who had a few scratches that would heal on their own, and some dents that he would look at when time permitted, and Ratchet nodded in understanding and said nothing, because nothing really needed to be said. He had suspected from the start that Ironhide's injuries had been a matter of protecting someone else; it was just a question of who it had been. Ironhide was what the humans called a 'frequent flyer' in the infirmary, but usually not with injuries like the one he carried now.
“She is mostly uninjured. Cosmetic damages more than anything,” Ratchet finally reported as the wound was mostly clean and he could begin his real work. “Nothing permanent.” He picked up a small torch and glared at his patient. “I am about to start welding. For Primus' sake, stay slagging still or you will end up with more than just that shielding welded together.”
Ironhide snorted but stayed unnaturally still again as Ratchet started his work, and the medic hid a smirk.
Thank Primus for programming.
* * * *
4.
* * * *
It took until the next day for their Prime to surrender to Ratchet's none-too-polite summons to the infirmary, and his stately movements as he stepped inside and crossed the room drew only a snort from the medic.
“Nice try. You managed to dislocate a bearing and you waited a full day to get your aft here.”
Optimus Prime looked vaguely worried. Good. Ratchet preferred to rule through fear. It made his patients more likely to obey orders. “I had duties to attend, and the injury was minor. There were other injuries of more importance to demand your attention.”
“You're of no use to anyone if you get yourself permanently damaged through scrap-headed stupidity and stubbornness. The more you stress that hip bearing, the worse it's going to be to fix, and you slagging well know that.” A snarl, before his patient could say anything. “And don't give me any of that leader-and-responsibilities slag. Sit, before I disable your legs.”
Optimus Prime sat. Mutely.
“Slagheaded sons of a glitch, both of you,” Ratchet muttered and snagged the tool he needed from its place on a counter, a bit harsher than he needed to. “Prime responsibilities going to your head. Slagging plate-headed gunner with afterburners for processors. Between the two of you, I get all the aft-headed stupidity I need.”
Optimus Prime wisely remained quiet as Ratchet's ranting continued.
“As if those slagheaded speedsters weren't bad enough. Every single slagging one of those scrapheaded glitches have to crash in the sand at least once, because that tiny, pathetic Earth-dust surely can't hurt a big, bad Autobot like them. Fraggers, the lot of them.” A snarl. “And are you going to tell me what the slagging Pit you did this time, or do I need to rip it out of your processors?”
Optimus Prime made a vaguely embarrassed sound. “The road had not been properly maintained in... a while, I believe. I suppose 'went to pieces when I landed' is about the kindest thing I can say about it. As I landed rather fast, it resulted in an issue of balance.”
“You fell,” Ratchet stated flatly.
Silence.
“I... suppose.” Optimus Prime admitted.
With another snarl, Ratchet grabbed a wrench and continued his work, none too gently and with muttered growls and curses all the while.
An hour and one fixed bearing later, Optimus Prime noted, and the medic hadn't repeated himself once.
* * * *
5.
* * * *
Earth had proven to be a first of many things, some less wanted than others. Sand, for one. Oceans, for another. Long-distance medical examinations with a hand-held camera and an obvious lack of Cybertronian tools, to mention a third.
He learned the last thing with Samuel Witwicky using a Sector Seven developed camera and Mikaela Banes handling the more medically-focused summary of the situation as Ratchet himself watched it all on a screen in his infirmary, somewhat bemused by the whole thing.
“It could wait until proper maintenance is due, but I suppose it will be more comfortable for Bumblebee to have the matter settled now instead,” Ratchet finally concluded once he had been given an overview of the situation.
“That's what I thought,” Mikaela replied from across the world and gestured at Samuel to zoom in on their guardian's battle mask. “I mean, he can just keep it down until we see you next time, but I don't think he'd like that and it would be silly to fly all the way back to Diego Garcia for that when we're coming back in a month, anyway.” She patted Bumblebee affectionately. “Besides, if I got it right, it's just a few parts that need oiled and I can do that just fine. You tell me what to do and I'll be your hands. It's like oiling a bearing, right? We covered that.”
“So baby, can you fix me,” Bumblebee's radio added, and Ratchet nodded in response to both of them.
“You would be correct. I don't see a problem with this, then. Bumblebee obviously agrees with the idea and it's not a complicated bit of maintenance. Do you have tools?”
That would be the main problem, and he did have his doubts, but humanity had proven to be an inventive species already, and Mikaela nodded in response.
“'Bee has the oil,” she said, “and I think I got what we need outside of that.”
Another gesture, and the camera focused on the human-sized tools laid out neatly on a table, and Ratchet found himself nodding again. They were small tools, certainly, but they did not need to be Cybertronian-sized for a maintenance issue like Bumblebee's. If anything, the delicate nature of the human tools would make the procedure easier, and his human protégé had proven to be a fast learner. In fact...
“It's a minor thing,” Ratchet said and made up his mind. “If you wish, you may handle this. I will watch and assist if needed, but otherwise leave this in your hands. As you said, it is much like oiling a bearing, and knowing is half the battle won.”
She looked surprised for a moment, a wide-eyed look at she watched him through the camera, and then she seemed to make up her mind as well and nodded, a determined expression on her face. “I'd be a pretty sorry mechanic if I didn't know how to oil something. You're right. I know how to do this.”
“You got the touch,” Bumblebee agreed, and Mikaela laughed and the camera shook suspiciously for a moment as well.
“All right, then,” Mikaela repeated as she got her breath back. “Improving human-Cybertronian relations, one wrench at a time. Let's get to work, boys.”
Inventive species, indeed.
Sand and salt and all aside, Ratchet suspected he could get used to this new planet they called home.
Rating: PG-13 for Cybertronian curses. It's got Ratchet and Ironhide. Go figure.
Disclaimer: Absolutely, positively not mine.
Warnings: Spoilers for RotF, but not the books or comics, most of which I haven't read and will cheerfully ignore. Slight AU from the very end of RotF.
Summary: Four weeks in the life of a medic – and five times it wasn't a matter of life and death. Ca. 3200 words.
A/N: Set in the same AU 'verse as Four Conversations and Four Things, but they're not needed for background information and this can be read as a stand-alone just fine.
* * * *
1.
* * * *
It took a lot to make a Cybertronian look visibly embarrassed, but Arcee managed rather well. She fidgeted as she sat on the infirmary bed surrounded by her sisters and didn't quite meet Ratchet's optics when he talked to her. If she had been a human, the medic was fairly sure she would have blushed.
“Your right knee plating got dented, the joint has a microscopic fracture, and one of the bearings was dislocated,” he informed her. “You can handle the first part yourself and the joint will heal on its own, but I'll need to fix the bearing for you.”
Arcee nodded and sank further into the infirmary bed, and Ratchet's curiosity was starting to nag. “As your doctor,” he pointed out, “it would make my task considerably easier if I knew the cause of your injuries. Certain types of injuries are hard to detect and can remain unnoticed for so long, they could potentially offline you without treatment.”
Arcee nodded again, and Chromia put a comforting hand on her shoulder as she finally spoke.
“I... miscalculated.”
“Prime's favourite excuse, if I ever heard one,” Ratchet muttered, and felt slightly better when his patient at least had the good grace to look embarrassed again.
“Sand,” she finally mumbled, and seemed to find the surface of the bed absolutely fascinating as she kept scratching at it with her finger. “There was sand on the outer track after the storm and I failed to properly take it into account when I took a curve.”
She sounded like a youngling, giving a demanded explanation while trying to maintain dignity in the face of self-confessed idiocy, and Ratchet couldn't blame her. It was a stupid mistake and it explained both the injuries and the embarrassment, all right. Arcee and her sisters were skilled with their alt-modes but there was still that small bit of added risk of instability that came with two wheels instead of four, even with processors and reaction times as quick as Arcee's. Not usually something that would have mattered with the amount of training they had, but training did occasionally breed overconfidence, too – and that could bring a Cybertronian down faster than a Decepticon blast.
“Earth weather and terrain does take time to get accustomed to,” Ratchet allowed and kept his amusement from showing. She wasn't a bad patient. She usually did as she was told, and he was in no mood to patch her up repeatedly because she went right off again to prove her alt-mode's superiority if he called her careless and stupid. She seemed to have learned her lesson already, in any case. The embarrassment would serve better at reminding her of Earth's peculiarities than a reprimand would.
Arcee nodded and still found the bed intensely fascinating, and Ratchet shook his head.
“It was a less painful lesson than it could have been, at least,” he said, then sighed. “Lie down. I want to fix that bearing before you make it any worse than it already is.”
Arcee obeyed silently and Ratchet grabbed a bundled set of tools from a shelf. He was not going to tell her she wasn't the first Autobot to get that particular injury. Humiliation like that could be an excellent teacher, and Ratchet approved of anything that cut down on his workload.
Speedsters, he mentally sighed. Primus help us all.
* * * *
2.
* * * *
There was a human medical team on base, but not everyone human actually used it. Most did, certainly, because however used to the Autobots the NEST teams and crew might be, most of them did look uneasy at the thought of twenty feet of robot handling their wounds.
Just most of them, though. Mikaela not only preferred Ratchet's attention, but learned attentively at his side as he treated Autobot injuries. Samuel had been treated by human medics as well as Ratchet, and while he tended to seek out the human medical team, Ratchet suspected it was more due to the fact that the injuries he had received on base were all minor issues from physical training and thus not something he wished to bother Ratchet himself with. Lennox preferred to see Ratchet as well, and while Ratchet wasn't sure if it was due to his new citizenship or simple preference, the fact remained that he readily let Ratchet do whatever was needed and seemed to trust his skills implicitly.
The only one of his human patients that had really surprised Ratchet was Lennox's bonded-
- Wife, she had corrected him and held out her hand in greeting, and my name is Sarah-
- and he strongly suspected it was her bonded's influence that had made her look to him, since Ironhide had certainly never been a gracious or appreciative patient.
She was currently sitting in the middle of the massive, Cybertronian-sized bed, her sparkling in her lap and making comforting sounds at her as Ratchet scanned the child.
“She landed on her wrist,” Sarah explained and kept her voice calm and soothing, presumably for the sake of her offspring. “I think it might be broken.”
Scan completed, Ratchet nodded in agreement. “A hairline fracture,” he confirmed and held out his hand carefully. The sparkling sniffled but looked up as she noticed motion, and seemed to cheer up a bit at the sight of the giant medic, putting her uninjured hand on one of his fingers in greeting.
“Ratcd,” she said solemnly, and Ratchet was a bit bemused at just where the sparkling had learned his name but nodded solemnly in response.
“Yes. How are you doing, Annabelle?”
She didn't say anything to that but moved her injured arm slightly, hesitantly as she looked at Ratchet with tearful eyes, and he nodded again.
“It will be as good as new,” he promised and gently withdrew his hand to find a bit of cast that would be small enough to shape comfortably around her arm. Humans were small enough compared to Cybertronians, but their sparklings were positively tiny.
“She will need to keep the cast on for at least three weeks,” he let her mother know as he carefully brought out a piece of the thin cast that was visible proof of human and Autobot technology working together. “We have ways of improving the rate of healing, but I am unaware of the effects it might have on young humans, so it would be best to let it heal of its own accord.”
Sarah Lennox nodded and Ratchet carefully – very, very carefully – put the cast into place, grateful for the high density of sensors in his hands, and equally grateful that his patient did not move around and that her mother kept her firmly in place.
The sparkling sniffled again but didn't start crying and Ratchet was relieved when the cast was where it should be and seemed to fit as comfortably as would be possible in the present situation. He still wasn't sure why Lennox's bonded had chosen him instead of a human medic, but she looked grateful and it was always useful to expand one's knowledge in regard to their new allies.
“I would like to see you both again tomorrow to ensure that the cast fits properly,” he told the adult human, and was rewarded with another grateful look.
“We'll be here,” she promised and held on to her sparkling as Ratchet carefully put them on the ground again. “Thank you.” A pause, and she smiled as she continued. “I can see why Will thinks so highly of you.”
Ratchet had expected Lennox's influence to be behind his bonded's presence in the infirmary but it was still nice to be recognised for one's skills and work. “It's my job,” he replied and continued, just a bit curious. He had almost gotten his answer in her remark, but there was always that bit of curiosity... “He recommended you come here?”
She shifted her grip on her sparkling to put her on the ground and held her uninjured hand, likely in an attempt to provide added stability to her offspring.
“Oh, Ironhide did, too,” she said and winked at him. “But don't let him know I said that.”
And with that Sarah Lennox followed her sparkling out of the infirmary and left Ratchet behind to stare in bemusement at the door.
* * * *
3.
* * * *
“If you sat still, this would go a lot faster,” Ratchet snarled. “Did Barricade finally scramble your processors for good? Revert you to sparklinghood, maybe? Sit. Still.”
Ironhide was easily on Ratchet's top five of the worst patients he had ever treated, and today was not helping. It had been a short battle – the 'Cons had been there to steal supplies, not to fight – and so they had no fatalities, and only a few genuinely serious injuries to handle.
Ironhide's was one of them. It wasn't a potentially fatal injury, but it was serious enough, and the thick-plated spawn of a short-charged glitch slagging well knew it, too.
“I would if you would stop jamming scrap into my joints!” Ironhide snarled right back, and it was not just Ratchet's imagination that heard the whine of those distinctive cannon charging as he started to work on the lower part of his shoulder plating.
If he could have gotten Ironhide the slag out of there sooner, he would have, but the injury required delicate care and as a consequence, also quite a lot of Ratchet's time. It was a careful dance more than anything, fixing the small leaks of coolant and oil before he moved to the more serious issue. It was bad enough that one of Barricade's blasts had managed to hit a corner of the heavy shielding that protected Ironhide's spark. Trying to fix it with every nook and cranny covered in oil and coolant wouldn't make it any better.
“Then next time get your fragging aft out of the way, platehead,” Ratchet growled and slammed a dislocated plate into place just a bit harder than he needed to. “Do you think I want you in here all day? You got yourself shot. You can slagging well deal with the consequences, or you'll be in so much pain in a week you'll be begging me to offline you. Fractured shielding like yours would take months to fix itself, so either you sit out every battle until then, or you shut the slag up and let me do my job, Ironhide.”
Ironhide looked like he wanted to snarl again but settled for fuming silently as Ratchet continued his work – a sign, at least, that the gunner had some measure of common sense left in there in his processors somewhere.
It wasn't all personal, either, and Ratchet knew that, too. Barricade had escaped. All of the 'Cons had, and they had managed to take some of the materials they were after with them, too. There was an inventory somewhere of what they took, Ratchet assumed, but that could wait until after everyone was reasonably patched up. It was low-level 'Con activity, everything considered. Not a life or death matter in this case. What they took in the attack might give some hint as to the situation in the enemy camp, but for the moment they had other things to demand their attention.
Shoulder plating done, Ratchet moved closer to the main injury and began to clean the wound. It was a pain to do, but easier than trying to weld something covered in oil, and he glanced at his patient.
“Who was it?” he asked, a bit less gruffly.
Ironhide watched and stayed unnaturally still in a reaction that Ratchet had seen before in most mechs that had needed work done on their spark shielding. It was an intimate part of the Cybertronian body and try as one might, there was always that small program in the back of your processors that told you to stay completely still to avoid any further injuries there.
“Chromia,” Ironhide finally admitted. “She's fast but so is Barricade. I have the armour to take those blasts.”
Ironhide had the armour for it and Chromia did not, and that was all Ratchet really needed to know. Chromia, who had a few scratches that would heal on their own, and some dents that he would look at when time permitted, and Ratchet nodded in understanding and said nothing, because nothing really needed to be said. He had suspected from the start that Ironhide's injuries had been a matter of protecting someone else; it was just a question of who it had been. Ironhide was what the humans called a 'frequent flyer' in the infirmary, but usually not with injuries like the one he carried now.
“She is mostly uninjured. Cosmetic damages more than anything,” Ratchet finally reported as the wound was mostly clean and he could begin his real work. “Nothing permanent.” He picked up a small torch and glared at his patient. “I am about to start welding. For Primus' sake, stay slagging still or you will end up with more than just that shielding welded together.”
Ironhide snorted but stayed unnaturally still again as Ratchet started his work, and the medic hid a smirk.
Thank Primus for programming.
* * * *
4.
* * * *
It took until the next day for their Prime to surrender to Ratchet's none-too-polite summons to the infirmary, and his stately movements as he stepped inside and crossed the room drew only a snort from the medic.
“Nice try. You managed to dislocate a bearing and you waited a full day to get your aft here.”
Optimus Prime looked vaguely worried. Good. Ratchet preferred to rule through fear. It made his patients more likely to obey orders. “I had duties to attend, and the injury was minor. There were other injuries of more importance to demand your attention.”
“You're of no use to anyone if you get yourself permanently damaged through scrap-headed stupidity and stubbornness. The more you stress that hip bearing, the worse it's going to be to fix, and you slagging well know that.” A snarl, before his patient could say anything. “And don't give me any of that leader-and-responsibilities slag. Sit, before I disable your legs.”
Optimus Prime sat. Mutely.
“Slagheaded sons of a glitch, both of you,” Ratchet muttered and snagged the tool he needed from its place on a counter, a bit harsher than he needed to. “Prime responsibilities going to your head. Slagging plate-headed gunner with afterburners for processors. Between the two of you, I get all the aft-headed stupidity I need.”
Optimus Prime wisely remained quiet as Ratchet's ranting continued.
“As if those slagheaded speedsters weren't bad enough. Every single slagging one of those scrapheaded glitches have to crash in the sand at least once, because that tiny, pathetic Earth-dust surely can't hurt a big, bad Autobot like them. Fraggers, the lot of them.” A snarl. “And are you going to tell me what the slagging Pit you did this time, or do I need to rip it out of your processors?”
Optimus Prime made a vaguely embarrassed sound. “The road had not been properly maintained in... a while, I believe. I suppose 'went to pieces when I landed' is about the kindest thing I can say about it. As I landed rather fast, it resulted in an issue of balance.”
“You fell,” Ratchet stated flatly.
Silence.
“I... suppose.” Optimus Prime admitted.
With another snarl, Ratchet grabbed a wrench and continued his work, none too gently and with muttered growls and curses all the while.
An hour and one fixed bearing later, Optimus Prime noted, and the medic hadn't repeated himself once.
* * * *
5.
* * * *
Earth had proven to be a first of many things, some less wanted than others. Sand, for one. Oceans, for another. Long-distance medical examinations with a hand-held camera and an obvious lack of Cybertronian tools, to mention a third.
He learned the last thing with Samuel Witwicky using a Sector Seven developed camera and Mikaela Banes handling the more medically-focused summary of the situation as Ratchet himself watched it all on a screen in his infirmary, somewhat bemused by the whole thing.
“It could wait until proper maintenance is due, but I suppose it will be more comfortable for Bumblebee to have the matter settled now instead,” Ratchet finally concluded once he had been given an overview of the situation.
“That's what I thought,” Mikaela replied from across the world and gestured at Samuel to zoom in on their guardian's battle mask. “I mean, he can just keep it down until we see you next time, but I don't think he'd like that and it would be silly to fly all the way back to Diego Garcia for that when we're coming back in a month, anyway.” She patted Bumblebee affectionately. “Besides, if I got it right, it's just a few parts that need oiled and I can do that just fine. You tell me what to do and I'll be your hands. It's like oiling a bearing, right? We covered that.”
“So baby, can you fix me,” Bumblebee's radio added, and Ratchet nodded in response to both of them.
“You would be correct. I don't see a problem with this, then. Bumblebee obviously agrees with the idea and it's not a complicated bit of maintenance. Do you have tools?”
That would be the main problem, and he did have his doubts, but humanity had proven to be an inventive species already, and Mikaela nodded in response.
“'Bee has the oil,” she said, “and I think I got what we need outside of that.”
Another gesture, and the camera focused on the human-sized tools laid out neatly on a table, and Ratchet found himself nodding again. They were small tools, certainly, but they did not need to be Cybertronian-sized for a maintenance issue like Bumblebee's. If anything, the delicate nature of the human tools would make the procedure easier, and his human protégé had proven to be a fast learner. In fact...
“It's a minor thing,” Ratchet said and made up his mind. “If you wish, you may handle this. I will watch and assist if needed, but otherwise leave this in your hands. As you said, it is much like oiling a bearing, and knowing is half the battle won.”
She looked surprised for a moment, a wide-eyed look at she watched him through the camera, and then she seemed to make up her mind as well and nodded, a determined expression on her face. “I'd be a pretty sorry mechanic if I didn't know how to oil something. You're right. I know how to do this.”
“You got the touch,” Bumblebee agreed, and Mikaela laughed and the camera shook suspiciously for a moment as well.
“All right, then,” Mikaela repeated as she got her breath back. “Improving human-Cybertronian relations, one wrench at a time. Let's get to work, boys.”
Inventive species, indeed.
Sand and salt and all aside, Ratchet suspected he could get used to this new planet they called home.