An Unintentional Voyage - Part 2

[heliopauseentertainments]

A G1!MegaRatch Novel

Continuity: G1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Ratchet

Characters: Megatron, Ratchet

Warnings: Mild gore. Serious injuries. Suggestive themes/content. Fade to black. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags.

Summary: In which an injured Megatron steals and promptly breaks an experimental Autobot shuttle and in which Ratchet has more adherence to ethical codes than is strictly necessary.

Crossposting: Tumblr (first chapter only) | AO3 | DreamWidth Tag

Each chapter under a cut.

There is also some fanart of this fic. Please go see it and support the artist: @Bubblu on Tumblr | @disriflashlight on Twitter

Chapter 11

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 12

"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 13

"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 14

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 15

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 16

“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 17

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 18

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 19

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 20

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 21 - Epilogue

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.