Accidentally deleted this when cleaning out my old stories. Sorry! Sequel to Night Shift, this time from Ratchet's POV. Enjoy!


There were no patients for him this time of night.

Well, every so often he would have one patient: a bright red one with a mouth as big as his spark. But he was on guard duty tonight, so there was no promise of a visit. Ironhide got the long haul—from the middle of the night 'til the aft-crack of dawn. That left Ratchet with nothing to do in his med bay except to fiddle with some little puzzle contraption and organize patient files, and maybe find entertainment in talking to Wheeljack via com-link.

Still, even listening to Wheeljack's theorems and hearing about his latest projects wasn't appeasing Ratchet's loneliness tonight. Boredom had nothing to do with it—Ratchet didn't have it in him to be bored. It was the lack of social interaction that left him aching in his spark. Of course there were times when he would prefer to be alone; but many of the mechs on base seemed to write this off as a total desire for solitude, something that Ratchet didn't have very much of. It was his moody disposition brought on by the stress of his job that made him particularly enforcing on his personal boundaries when he did need the space…which was, unfortunately, most of the time…which would help to explain why it was assumed as one of his prominent traits.

It finally reached a point where Ratchet couldn't stand it anymore, and he stood from his cramped little desk, itching with cabin fever. He needed some more substantial company to break the singular monotony, and he knew just where to find it.

Surprisingly, and yet not too much, Ratchet found the red mech slumped against a wall, splayed out in recharge. He couldn't help being a little amused, seeing Ironhide asleep in such an undignified position. He wondered if the weapons specialist was aware of how silly he looked—and, now that he thought about it, how delightfully enticing.

The medic was struck with a novel thought just then. Looking around, Ratchet didn't begin to test it until he was sure no one was around; it would be terrible to be getting into the fun only to be interrupted by an intruder. There was no Decepticon activity, though, and everyone else was already asleep. Time to play.

Ratchet didn't dare wake his fussy, trigger-happy lover. Instead, he observed how Ironhide looked in this state: faceplates relaxed, optics offline, vents hitching in long, low snores. He looked uncharacteristically harmless, even a little cute. (Ironhide would murder him if he ever found out about that comment.) He reached up with his hands to cup them against the mech's faceplates, stroking a thumb over his lips, fingers brushing over his helm. The snoring lessened. Ratchet gradually grew more adventurous, shuffling closer in order to caress the mech's shoulders, his arms, the delicate seams at his joints. Ironhide stirred but didn't come online.

As he went on, the most wonderful expressions flitted over Ironhide's face. He would squirm whenever Ratchet manipulated his most sensitive spots with expert precision, releasing low grunts and pleasant moans. Everything he did was raw emotion, pure and unmasked for Ratchet to see. Ironhide turned his head back when Ratchet nibbled on the cables in his throat; the medic felt steam spilling out between the cracks.

Then he dared to go further. With skill attributed only to a medic, Ratchet gently pried away the external locks keeping Ironhide's chestplates in place. Once undone, they snapped aside, revealing his spark chamber and the hyper-sensitive wiring coiled around it. Gleeful at his success, Ratchet buried his fingers in sparking wires and twitching cables, rewarded with his efforts by Ironhide arching sharply and emitting a loud, needy moan. Blue shocks of lightning made spider-veins over Ratchet's hands and wrists and traveled through his sensors there, causing him to shudder. His hands were incredibly sensitive; they had to be for him to do his job right.

He got rougher, squeezing cables toughly in his hands and firmly stroking thick bundles of wire—painful to a wakened patient, but here riddling his lover with unhindered shudders and whimpers of raw ecstasy. Not too surprising that he hadn't woken up yet, even as his spark began to throb and pulse, screaming for contact. Ironhide could sleep through the end of the universe without blinking an optic.

Only when he reached the peak of overload, moaning and crying, did Ironhide's optics online. A loud crackle of electricity shot up Ratchet's arms and he moaned as well, supporting himself against the mech's open red chassis to keep from falling on him.

Ratchet felt dark-blue optics staring down at him confusedly, and blinked up in the most innocent manner he knew how. Ironhide wouldn't fall for it.

His hands were wrought from Ironhide's open chassis and the weapons specialist pulled him up for a crushing, passionate kiss. Ratchet sensed an impending sort of revenge, but he honestly didn't mind. In fact, he rather looked forward to it.