Chapter Text
Prelude
“You want me to talk to him?” Megatron stared at the datapad in his hand, “You can’t possibly think that I am the right mech for this.”
“No, no, of course not, ha, hell no.” Rodimus shook his head, “But you wanted to know what needs to be done on my ship, so there it is.”
“It is indeed number one on the ‘To-Do’ list.” Ultra Magnus nodded.
“Our ship, Rodimus.” Megatron mumbled, “And this is the most urgent affair on this ship?”
“Uh, no, you see, the ‘To-Do’ list is arranged in an order of time, not one of importance.” Ultra Magnus explained rather hastily, “I arranged it so we would avoid a build-up of less urgent tasks. And this task has remained while all others are resolved in a timely manner.”
Megatron felt slightly amused. This was bothering Ultra Magnus to a certain degree, which was a sentiment that Rodimus didn’t share.
“Yeah, right, so make sure you get right on that,” Rodimus said.
“If you think sending me on an impossible and pointless errand will stop me from—”
“This is important! Right, Mags?”
“Although that is true, I would strongly suggest that you two start with more productive ship matters. The ‘To-Do’ list is not a timetable, it is merely a list of things one, preferably the captain of the ship, has to do—”
“Like I said, important!”
“If it is so important, then I presume you two have already tried?” Megatron cut in. These mechs didn’t seem capable of shutting up on their own, “What results did you achieve? I see no progress recorded here.”
“You mean other than the shouting and berating that has become a ship-wide sports event? Well, none.” Rodimus crossed his arms before him and huffed like a petulant child. Ultra Magnus pressed his lips together; one would say he was embarrassed.
Megatron studied their body language and came to a conclusion, “Are you two scared to talk to him again? Is that why you passed this to me?”
Rodimus rolled his eyes while Ultra Magnus stiffened. After a few kilks, Ultra Magus spoke quietly, “It’s merely a to-do list. There is no task allocation. It is shared—”
“Have you asked Optimus? They have been friends since before the war.” Megatron interjected again.
“Of course you would know that because suddenly you are all best pals with the prime and all that.” Rodimus mumbled, “But yes, we have tried that too.”
“And it didn’t work?”
“There was so much yelling, I am surprised you haven’t heard it from inside your cell.”
“Then I don’t think I would be of any help, either.”
“Nobody expected you to be. But since you want to have a hand in managing my ship, this can be your problem too.” Rodimus flashed him a grin and turned to leave, “Good luck, co-captain.”
“Our ship.” Megatron gritted out from between his teeth to Rodimus’ back. This maybe-prime and co-captain was already getting on his nerves, and they hadn’t even left Cybertron. No wonder this ship had achieved so little in its journey.
All the more reason to take care of its valuable assets. Megatron looked at the single line of words on the page and heaved a sigh.
“To-Do” list:
#1 Convince Ratchet to replace his hands.
Megatron decided to skip to #2 first.
Ratchet still worked in the medbay, even though he had formally renounced his position as the Chief Medical Officer, and his hands were severely limiting his functions. Something that Megatron couldn’t help but notice every time he went to get his nightmare fuel.
It was always Ratchet who poured him his cup if the doctor was in the medbay, probably because it was the easiest work around the place.
Ratchet almost spilled his fuel, twice, and nobody made a single comment, not a single helm turned their way.
Megatron had never achieved this level of respect from even his most loyal Decepticons. Though he knew that the Autobots were not doing it out of fear, but out of care and protectiveness.
“Are you going to drink it, or do I have to put it in a baby energon bottle like you were a protoform?” Ratchet squinted up at him, giving him the most hateful look Megatron had ever seen since he last saw Starscream.
Ok, maybe out of some fear.
Megatron took the cup, and Ratchet quickly crossed his arms and shoved his hands under his arms. But Megatron could well see his hands, frozen in the gesture of holding the cup. A claw would be more useful right now. He extended his hand towards Ratchet, who just squinted and walked away.
Megatron was staring at those nimble hands, which made Ratchet irritable. Megatron liked riling up Ratchet, but right now he was simply admiring, reminiscing. He got a great deal of things on his processor.
“Following orders, Megatron.” Ratchet told him, brows furrowed together like he was actively trying not to be irritated, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Not like I should even be the one doing this.” He grumbled.
Megatron ignored him; he knew well how short-tempered the medic was. He continued in his own train of thought. He was going to make, probably the biggest change in his life, in Cybertron’s history, you could even say. The thought made him afraid; he was not going to lie, but it also fueled him with power. He was Megatron; he had already proved once that you could be anything, anything you chose to be. Now he could do it all over again.
He could be a medic if given the chance. He might be terrible at it, but that was something he wanted but was never able to be. Now that he had created that chance, was he going to run away from the freedom, freedom to be whatever he deemed right for himself?
Ratchet was scared of him, angry with him, as most Autobots were. There was hardly a time when the medic didn’t snap at him for basically everything he said, anyway. So Megatron didn’t realize there was something else bothering him until a twinge of pain shot up from where his legs were being reattached.
“Now zip it—” Ratchet’s shouting came to a sudden end as Megatron pushed his upper body up on his elbows. He didn’t dare move too much, since Ratchet was still pointing his tools at his body.
He eyed the medic coldly, “I didn’t know it’s Autobot tradition to torture a patient for talking too much.”
“Slag.” Ratchet’s face suddenly lost all of its ire. The tool from his right hand dropped to the ground, and he transformed his left hand back into a servo, plugging it into Megatron’s wires. The pain intensified, but Megatron didn’t have time to react before Ratchet spoke again, “Don’t worry. It was only a small cut to one of your tibulen auxiliary processing lines. I have pinched it so it is not leaking. Now I just need to call another medic to help me patch this up.”
“And the reason you couldn’t fix this right now?” Megatron delayed the request for the fighting programs to come online. Something very strange was going on. Was this some kind of trap? Maybe not even an Autobot trap…
“Because my hand is not fragging working!” Ratchet shouted, panic seeping through his voice. He looked at Megatron, and some of that doctor’s calmness took over again, “Don’t fight me. If you hurt me and I loosen my grip, you are going to lose motor function in your legs instantly.”
“And you accuse me of threatening.”
“This is not a threat. It was a mistake. I made the mistake of repairing you with those fragging non-cooperating hands. This should not happen with any patient.” Ratchet drew a breath, his face fell a little, “All the other medics are having their hands full. We are in for a long wait.”
“At least you can be glad it happened with someone you don’t mind hurting.” Megatron offered.
Ratchet put his face in his other hand and didn’t even talk back.
Megatron looked at Ratchet’s right hand; he couldn’t help it. Ratchet was renowned for his hands. Considering what Megatron was planning to do, it seemed ironic to say that he was shocked by another mech’s mid-life crisis. But the medic had always been so stubborn. Some said that he was true to himself. While others called him predictable. Nevertheless, Megatron had seen few like him, who walked into and out of a four-million-year war almost unchanged. He was still very much the mech Megatron met all the way before the war. What could change a mech like this?
“What exactly is wrong with your hand?” Megaton asked. He could not see anything wrong from here. The digits all rested on Ratchet’s face, steady as ever, didn't fidget or tremble.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ratchet grumbled but it lacked bite. He splayed his hand in front of Megatron, “It freezes up sometimes, like this.” He balled up his hand and spread it again repeatedly until Megatron caught it, the lag in his middle digit. It was just a few nano-kilks behind the others, but it easily disrupted the smooth and delicate dance of the medic’s hand.
And the more Ratchet flexed his digits, the more of them slowed down until all of them were sluggish and Ratchet had to grit his denta to do the simple motion. “So, yeah, it does this.” Ratchet leaves his hand in the shape of a fist, apparently familiar with this predicament. “Usually hitting it with a wrench frees up the range of movement. But it’s getting worse. I thought it would be fine for attaching some legs, but…”
“Hit it with a wrench then.” Megatron frowned, “We don’t have all day.”
“I kind of need another hand to do that.”
Megatron waved his two perfectly fine hands, “Just give me the wrench.”
“Which is on the floor, and we are not moving while my hand is buried in your thigh and risking a burst in your lines just to get it.” Ratchet gave him a hard stare.
“Just tell me what you need to do with the wrench,” Megatron said.
“I smash it into the sole of my palm, not exactly quantum science. A wall I can knock it into does the job too.” Ratchet looked around them and shrugged.
“You don’t need a wall when you have me.” Megatron reached out and took Ratchet’s hesitant hand. He pressed his thumb against the center of Ratchet’s palm. “Here?”
“A bit down.” Ratchet eyes him with uncertainty, “Don’t ruin my hand.”
“Trust me, I know how much force it takes to do damage.” Megatron waved dismissively, then pressed down hard with his thumb.
“Slag it!” Ratchet yelped; his voice cracking at the end. His hand balled up instinctively and whooshed open in the next kilk. Ratchet looked at him, “I told you to be careful!”
“I could crush your helm with one hand, medic.” Megatron said, “This is as light as I can go.”
“Real charming.” Ratchet scoffed. But with his hand back in working order, he focused on repairing the damage he caused.
So, they were all changing, how fitting. Megatron watched the pair of hands finish their work expertly and effortlessly. It was not too late for change, no, not even for Megatron or Optimus Prime. They all needed to change, no matter the consequences.
And one of those consequences came back to bite him in the aft in the form of a bullheaded medic.
He stood in the medbay. This time, there were no other medics or crew members. But Ratchet still glared at him when he held out his hand.
“You can’t even open the fuel cap with that.” Megatron pointed out. Unlike the other Autobots, he cared not for hurting the medic’s pride.
“Do it yourself. I will supervise.” Ratchet said, just to be difficult.
“Surely like you have been supervising all cycle.”
“Say more and you can starve.”
“I see that the Autobots’ tyranny starts with their doctors.”
“Not anyone’s doctor anymore.”
“For most mechs, but you are still mine. I believe I remain your only patient as of this moment.” Ratchet had transferred out all the other crewmembers he was directly responsible for to different medics. All but Megatron, with his classified medical files that even his code as co-captain couldn’t access.
“In name only. And how the hell did you know that?”
“I can see the names on medical files even if I couldn’t open them.”
“Already snooping around for top-secret material in the Autobots’ databases, why am I surprised?”
“It’s my own medical file!” Megatron seethed. Every single mech on this ship was trying his patience. Primus knew just how, how these mechs managed to get anything done. And to think there was a time when they were all highly feared soldiers in war. Optimus was really something.
He went ahead and grabbed Ratchet’s left hand. For all his huffing and puffing, Ratchet didn’t stop him when he held his wrist in one hand and gripped one of the rigid digits with his other, only hissed when the movement tugged at his shoulder.
He didn’t give any warning, just pulled the digit backwards, out of its claw-like shape. The cramp in the servo circuit was no match for his strength (however diminished), and the digit snapped back, releasing all the charge built up in the joints.
Ratchet’s optics dimmed and his lips pressed tightly together. It must be painful; Ratchet was not one to look hurt easily. A blow of force to the palm was no longer enough to loosen the hand as Ratchet’s condition progressively worsened. The interval was getting shorter, too. Right now, Ratchet had to go through the same kind of torture approximately every three cycles, yet the medic would choose this over getting perfectly working new hands.
Megatron snapped all the digits out of its paralyzed state with the same force, then hit the heel of the palm with a closed fist. The moment he was done with this hand, it slipped out of his grip like all the lines in it had been broken. It fell limp to Ratchet’s side, whose optics had offlined completely.
It was almost a full joor before Ratchet lifted his other hand and placed it in Megatron’s open palm. There was a slight tremor, not from the hand, but rather the arms. He moved more swiftly with this one, but Ratchet was still breathless and leaning against the desk when it was over.
He snatched his hand back and began rubbing it with his other one. Then slowly blinked his optics online. And, rather reluctantly, grumbled a quiet “Thank you.”
The Autobot doctor might be a permanent crouch, but at least he seemed to be in possession of some kind of manners, though a rather minuscule amount.
“Nobody asked you to do this, you know,” Ratchet said while rubbing his wrists. Megatron was pouring himself some of that foul-tasting green fuel. He gulped down all its content in one mouthful
“Ah, Yes. You could always ask other mechs for help, like Ultra Magnus,” Megatron said through the bitter taste in his mouth, “But he wouldn’t be so nice, would he? He would get sad and worried and all but begging you to replace your hands.”
“I don’t think we are talking about the same Magnus here.” Ratchet deflected, but Megatron could see guilt dripping from his face, feeling bad for causing his friends distress, but too stubborn in his ways to end it. “Don’t say it like you aren’t trying to do the same. Why else are you always here?”
“If I want to try, then you would be convinced already.” Megatron put the cube down and said with confidence that he used to pull on opponents five times his size.
“Bullshit.” Ratchet rolled his eyes.
“Really,” Megatron stood up and leaned his hand on the desk, towering over Ratchet, “This ship runs well the way it is now. I think we don’t need you that much.”
He fully enjoyed the anger and hurt that rose in Ratchet’s optics before he turned and left.