Author: Feathered Fiend
Characters: Ratchet, Starscream
Genre: Hurt/comfort, angst.
Status: One Shot, Complete
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, else things would have been a lot different.
Warning: No real plot. This came to me out of the blue, after reading over a few scenes from the comic that went with the movie. I have it set up soon after the end of the Second Movie. Meh, I'm not sure if I like it. Feel free to review.
Blue optics shuttered and turned downward, the medic scowled as the seeker seemed to crawl towards him with sparks flickering from joints and open wounds on his armor. He turned his head when the pathetic creature reached for him, begging and pleading in his native tongue—because he knew that would hit closer to the elder's spark then anything. He offlined his optics and his internal fans kicked on, releasing what humans would declare a sickened sigh. He knew this would happen one day—because it was only a matter of time—but it didn't stop him from feeling guilty for what he was about to do.
His optics came back to life and the medic knelt down on one knee, his giant hand reaching out and fingertips brushing against the dented helm of the wounded flier. He hummed a soft response in Cybertronian, shaking his head gently—because he was uncertain in even where to begin, because he couldn't figure out what to do. The seeker only squawked with static accenting his vocals, causing the medic to cringe at the sound—because it was all too familiar. He ran his thumb along the jaw of the jet and murmured something—an apology really. He was not surprised when claws grasped his arm, not surprised when there was a tug—because he figured the seeker would want to attempt to sit up.
Using his freed hand, the medic grasped the flier's shoulder—gently, because he did not wish to harm the soldier farther—and tried to get him to lay back so that he could bring work. There was a pained gasp and a little struggle, but in such a state, the medic overpowered the pathetically injured creature and laid him back. He tried to ignore the wheezes of pain and agony, and summoned his equipment to begin the long process that needed to be done to save the enemy's life. He was a bit surprised that when he embarked on sealing energron lines, that his patient hadn't even struggled, not even for show—but it wasn't like anyone was coming back for him, because he was just the treacherous second in command.
No words were spoken—because there was nothing to say—and the seeker barely even made a sound at the extremely painful procedure. The medic was not surprised by this—because out of anyone, this jet probably had been through much more agonizing dealings before—but it still unnerved him a bit. Even still he was quick about his work—because he still needed to examine the other damage done—and the growing wetness under the jet was a hint that if he didn't hurry, his patient would most certainly bleed out. However, he idly wondered if that would be the best thing for this once intelligent and noble air commander—because not all of these injuries were from the battle hours ago, because he knew there were more then just verbal jabs coming from the seeker's commander.
Just as he moved to seal a line near upon the seeker's shoulder, a clawed hand reached up and metal talons brushed against a metallic cheek. This startled the medic for a mere moment, his blue optics swept downward and caught the fading red gaze of the flier. There was so much confusion in those crimson orbs, it almost caused the medic to grasp the jet and attempt to comfort him—but there was no time for that, he had to remind himself. He spoke the seeker's name quietly—Commander Starscream—something he hadn't done in so long, which seemed to relax the jet just enough for him to resume working. This didn't last long, a static voice murmured something—first officer Ratchet—and then the form of the flier tensed, soon convulsing with jerky and rough movements.
The medic barely finished sealing the last energron line before he grasped the slender shoulders of the wounded soldier, murmuring comforting words to the flier. It felt too long before the form stilled and the distressed autobot scanned the seeker, confirming that the Decepticon was still alive—thankfully, he was. During his scan, however, the Autobot had picked up on many wires that needed to be repaired, along with heavy damage to both wings—which he didn't really need the scan to notice. It almost hoped that the seeker had slipped into stasis lock—because the following repairs were going to be very painful.
Maybe he should just put the seeker out of his misery.
No, he shook his head and summoned another tool. He carefully lifted the charred armor that—attempted—to hide the destroyed wiring underneath. Beginning to repair a particularly difficult—not to mention, split—wire, the medic was startled by the left claw digging into the sand. He flinched as he realized that the seeker was still fully online, and began to speak gentle apologies and wisdom to his patient—because this was going to be excruciating for the Decepticon and there was nothing the medic could do to ease it. He worked swiftly and tried to ignore the moans of discomfort from his previous enemy—because at this very moment he does not see Megatron's treacherous second in command, because he saw the seeker that had once been so noble.
"Well, it's a good thing that we have soldiers such as you to help us, commander."
"We all have the ability to fight, Ratchet. Regardless of our duties, we all vow to protect the planet and the Allspark."
He finishes his work on the inner wires, just enough to keep the seeker from crashing, then turns his gaze to the twisted wings. Carefully, he reached upward and brushed his digits over the marred metal and frowned. There was no way to repair them without any pain—without the medbay back at base, and taking the seeker there was out of the question. Using his other hand, the medic caressed the helm of the flier and murmured in their native tongue—asking him to force himself into stasis lock. The jet onlined his optics and shuttered them upward, staring at the hummer without replying—he didn't need to, his fiery orbs said it all. The hummer tried to reason with the jet but couldn't, and knew he wouldn't.
Without farther delay, he grasped one of the wings tightly and gave a swift tug. He cringed as the static scream of the seeker echoed, his body curling with agony towards the medic. He didn't stop, he continued to straight it out as its owner grasped his sides and his face leaving a dent in the medic's middle—because he forced himself to hid, because it was painful. The seeker is taking the agony better then the hummer had thought, he realizes as the flier's claw dig into his armor—this lets him know that the wounded soldier is trying not to scream louder, trying not to weep.
And after Primus knows how many earth hours, the medic is finished with all he can do for the injured seeker.
He spoke the news—I am finished here, commander, I have done all I can—and began to stroke the jet's helm once more. His patient trembled and groaned—because the pain was not yet just throbbing. The seeker did not release the medic, only murmured the truth of why he was here—his commander shot him from the skies, because he failed him for the last time. The medic isn't horrified—because it sounds like something the warlord would do—and continued to grip the wounded soldier. He listened to the static filled rambles of the jet, still caressing his helm, and even added a soft hum once in a while to let the other know he was there and willing to listen—because especially in a state like this, that is all the seeker desired, someone to actually listen to him.
All stilled soon, the medic released a sigh through his vents and continued to stroke the seeker's dented head. He knew the soldier's systems forced a recharge, more like a shut down, so it could try to repair the rest of the damage. His blue optics turn down to the jet, who's head was still resting against his middle, and frowned—because there was so much wrong with this situation, because too many times had this scene played out on Cybertron. He would not leave his old friend behind—because anything could come along and find him, because he could be killed without his current protector's watchful eye. He knew by morning the jet would be awake and repaired enough to return to the Decepticon earth base, only giving the medic a look of thanks before doing so.
The old medic knew this all too well, and he also knew that someday, they would be back like this again.
"I'm finished here, commander. Your normal recovery cycle will take care of the rest."