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Starscream was notorious for avoiding medics like the plague. He was the most paranoid mech in the Senate, including Prowl and Red Alert, which was a feat. He didn't let a doctor come near him for anything less than a major injury, and even then he never shuttered his optics for more than a second and preferred bearing the pain to being put under. So when Ratchet saw his designation on the calendar for today, he assumed something was wrong.
Sure, First Aid had only marked it down as a ‘routine checkup,’ but considering Starscream hadn't come by for a regular appointment since the end of the war, that seemed unlikely. Ratchet spent his first six patients that cycle wracking his processor for explanations. He hadn't noticed any sudden changes to Starscream through the scant news he followed. The seeker hadn't undergone any new reframes, or shown any signs of fighting—at least, not since the Solarsky incident. He'd never shown any interest in shady mods, either, so a mechanical problem from something broken or faulty was out of the question. There was a nasty virus going around that specifically targeted flight frames. Perhaps he'd contracted it?
When Starscream showed up, though, he looked relatively normal. Ratchet had half expected him to make his entrance by purging all over the floor.
“Starscream,” he greeted, “here for a checkup?”
“...Yes,” the seeker replied after a long pause. His wings were held high and tense on his back, and his optics kept flicking to the other mechs in the room—First Aid behind the desk and a pair of patients waiting for their turn. Now that Ratchet was looking closer, his armor didn't shine like it usually did, either, like he hadn't gone through his extensive polishing routine that morning. Nothing concerning, but a tad irregular for a mech as proud and vain as Starscream.
“Right this way, you know where the room is,” Ratchet said, beckoning for the seeker to follow him. Starscream did, albeit slower than usual. He made a note of that on his mental checklist, too.
“So are you going to tell me the real reason you're here?” Ratchet asked as he closed the door to the private exam room behind him. “Or are you going to make me guess?”
“How astute, Doctor,” Starscream sneered.
“Yes, well, I doubt you've spontaneously become worried for your everyday health,” Ratchet said, lifting an optical ridge and meeting Starscream's gaze head-on. “And I heard you took two emergency cycles off. So what is it?”
Starscream hesitated where he stood in the middle of the room. His wings twitched back in a familiar pattern for nervousness, yet Ratchet didn't know enough wingspeak to decode any of the nuance underneath that. A servo came up to curl protectively over his chest. “Turn around,” he said.
“No.” A smart mech did not simply turn their back on Starscream. The war might've been over, but Ratchet wasn't going to be stupid because of a little peace.
“Turn around, or I will find someone else to take care of my condition,” Starscream hissed.
That was a bold-faced lie. Starscream could barely stand Ratchet, and he'd been coming to this clinic for vorns. There wasn't a single other medic on the planet he'd let close enough to diagnose him. Still, Ratchet didn't want the aggravating glitch walking out and not seeing a doctor if he had something serious. Rolling his optics, Ratchet threw up his servos and spun around to face the wall.
There was the quiet click of something opening, and the gentle clink of plating against plating. Ratchet resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder as Starscream murmured under his breath, the words too inaudible to make out. There was another click. “Okay,” he said, finally, “you can look.”
Ratchet turned to face the seeker again and nearly stumbled off-balance in shock. Starscream was holding sparklings.
“Primus above, Starscream! You have to warn a mech!” Ratchet exclaimed. He took an automatic step forward to inspect the little bitlets, and Starscream responded with a step back.
“Don't,” he snarled. Denta bared the way Ratchet had seen on the battlefield a million times. His claws flexed dangerously where they were cradling one of the tiny sparklings in his arms. There were three of them, all small enough to be newsparks and bundled close to Starscream's chassis.
“Did you…” Ratchet attempted to connect all the dots, processor stalling. He stilled to keep Starscream from moving any further away. “Are these your sparklings? How old are they?”
“About a cycle,” Starscream replied. “Twenty-seven joors.”
“How did you– newsparks and their carrier require a minimum of two cycles of observation before they are released, Starscream! Why did you take them?” He paused, a horrifying realization dawning on him. “Please tell me you and your trine didn't have the emergence outside a hospital.”
“Of course we did.”
Ratchet let his head fall in his servos despairingly. An ache was making its way through his logic centers into his frontal processing. “I thought you were smarter than this. Which of your trinemates was the carrier? I'll need to check–”
“Me! I was the carrier!” Starscream snapped. “All of you grounders are so stupid, it was obvious I was sparked! Half of Vos has known about it for over a deca-cycle now and I didn't even have to announce it.”
Ratchet gave Starscream's frame another once-over. He looked barely any different. Whereas your typical Cybertronian would swell to accommodate any growing protoforms, Starscream's was still slight. Maybe a little wider around the chassis than usual, distending the sharp lines of his aerodynamic plating, but not enough to remark upon. Certainly not worth mentioning to a seeker's face.
Ratchet had gone over their massive catalogue of sparkling information recently, preparing his staff for the inevitable rise in newsparks as their society settled into peacetime. Information on seekers was hard to come by, though, and mired in pre-war propaganda. He knew for certain they produced smaller protoforms than most frametypes to maintain access to their alt-modes, and that seekerlings were raised within trinemates’ cockpits for the first vorn of their life. That's where the reliable information ended. There was plenty of slag out there about how seekers laid eggs or pushed their newsparks off buildings to encourage flying or ate their sparklings if they were low on fuel, but Ratchet was pretty sure that was all anti-Vosian lies. Probably.
Clearly, the rumors about seekers having over-active carrier protocols was true, though, because Starscream was still clutching his bitlets tight and glaring. Or maybe that was just this seeker. Ratchet sighed.
“Okay, okay, you need to sit down before you blow a fuel line,” Ratchet said, gesturing to the exam table. Starscream didn't stop glaring suspiciously. “You can have the table all to yourself and your sparklings, I'll stay over here to ask my questions and I won't approach without asking. Trust me, I've seen what your claws can do and I'm not keen to try them myself.”
Starscream wavered in place for a moment, but relented eventually, slinking over to the exam table and situating himself on it, his sparklings resting in his lap. He still sort of looked like he'd bite if Ratchet came too close, but at least he was off his pedes.
“Good. Right. Twenty-seven joors ago, you said? For the emergence?” Starscream nodded. “Any complications?”
“No, none,” Starscream said. “It barely lasted two joors.”
“All of them came out crying and aware?”
Starscream snorted, running a digit over one of his sparkling's belly. “Very.”
“They've obviously been cleaned of their immersive fluid, at least. What about fueling so far?”
“Their sires have been fueling them every few hours since they emerged and they've been taking it fine,” Starscream replied. “They're vocalizing fine, they're lifting their heads fine, and they're sleeping just fine in my cockpit. I'm not an amateur, Doctor, I've gone down the checklist.”
Ratchet crossed his arms. “If you're so sure everything's fine, then why are you here?”
Starscream went quiet. His wings curled over his shoulders shieldingly as he lifted one of the bitlets away from their siblings, eliciting a sharp beep of protest. “Mooncrash's wings aren't twitching,” he said, softly.
“Right. You might have to help me out here, I don't know seekerlings too well. Are they supposed to start moving their wings this early?”
“His siblings are,” Starscream said haltingly. Ratchet motioned for him to continue. “I don't know, I was always told their wings should online quickly. The other two started right after their first fueling. But Mooncrash, he's not– I've been rubbing them on and off to try and jumpstart it and nothing's happening. He doesn't even react to touch there. I don't– I think something's wrong and I–” His voice went strained at the end, fighting for his expression to stay neutral, to not show his distress. He was failing.
“Don't worry. There's a million reasons a sparkling could be reluctant to move a limb, and most of them are benign,” Ratchet reassured.
“What if it's not benign?”
“Then we handle it the best we can.” Ratchet held out a servo imploringly. “Can I take a look at him?”
Starscream gritted his denta like the thought pained him, but nodded. Ratchet took a couple slow paces towards the exam table, keeping his arms visible and predictable. “Just set him down on his front, you can keep a servo on him if you want. I'm just gonna plug into his medical port. Okay?”
Starscream nodded again, setting his sparkling down on the table. He kept his digits pressing between the tiny seekerlet's undeveloped wing nubs, stroking back and forth gently. Mooncrash cycled his optics blearily. He was alert, for sure, that was always a good sign. Ratchet fiddled with his diagnostic cable until he could fit the right size adapter on, then reached out and plugged into Mooncrash's tiny medical port, right on the back of his neck. Starscream appeared to be trying to suppress a growl.
All of the baseline diagnostics came back stellar. Mooncrash was in better shape than most newsparks Ratchet had seen in his long, long lifetime. He was well-fed, well-rested, systems already running smoothly in his first cycle. His creators were taking fantastic care of him. Ratchet said as much to Starscream, and the seeker's plating loosened just a fraction around his shoulders.
“I think I see the problem,” Ratchet said after a finer examination of Mooncrash's system. “There's no energon flow through his wings. There's script in here to kickstart that, it just hasn't been activated yet. It's a common glitch, I've seen it in sparklings with finials before. Do you want me to override it?
“That won't hurt him?” Starscream asked.
Ratchet shook his head. “No, it would probably activate on its own eventually. Turning it on now would just ensure he doesn't lag behind his siblings in development.”
Starscream lapsed into silence again for a beat, peering down at his creation. Mooncrash let out a squeak, squirming fruitlessly under his carrier's touch, despite his wings staying stock-still. “Alright,” Starscream acquiesced. “You can override it.”
The block was easy to discard. It took barely a nano-klik, and then Ratchet was removing his diagnostic cable to free the little sparkling. Mooncrash chittered indignantly as it disengaged, like he was offended it had ever been near him at all. Already so much like his carrier.
“Give it a few kliks for the energon to circulate and they should start gaining mobility,” Ratchet said. “Other than that, he's in perfect health.”
“Of course he is. He's my sparkling, he would never be anything but perfect,” Starscream snarked in return. He scooped Mooncrash back into his arms and the bitlet immediately snuggled in with his siblings, optics shuttering once more.
They really were cute, all squishy faces with too-big optics and clumsy, chubby limbs grasping for their carrier's seams instinctively. When one whimpered in their recharge, Starscream soothed them instantly with a single claw brushing over their cheek, his other servo massaging Mooncrash's wings simultaneously. He was a natural. Most bots fumbled with their first sparkling, unsure and overwhelmed about everything. But Starscream handled three easily, even with his overzealous paranoia.
Primus help them all, Starscream of all mechs was a good creator. Those sparklings were going to be terrors when they got older, if he was their main influence. Thundercracker's calm presence could only do so much.
“Now that you've seen I'm not going to terrorize the bitlets,” Ratchet started, “will you let me check the other two? Or am I gonna get talons to the face for daring to ask?”
Shockingly, Starscream lifted one of the little ones with zero fuss, laying them down in the same position he'd put Mooncrash in. “Make it quick,” he said.
“You've already got a designation picked out for this little guy too, I assume?” Ratchet asked as he plugged into the exposed medical port.
“Novaspark.”
“Like the Winglord? From the Golden Age?”
“Obviously. I wasn't aware grounders knew any of the Winglords’ designations.”
“I do read,” Ratchet replied dryly. He disengaged from Novaspark, the sleepy seekerling barely twitching. “Nothing wrong; she's very healthy. The last one, if you would.”
Starscream complied, probably for the first time in his life. “Lightningwind,” he said as he handed the bitlet over and Ratchet repeated the process. This little one stared up at him with wide optics as he ran his diagnostics. His systems came back a little sluggish, but well within a decent range.
“Congratulations, Starscream,” he said, detaching himself from the medical port. “You've got three healthy sparklings. Now any chance I can take a look at you?”
The seeker glanced up from where he'd been admiring Mooncrash's now-fluttering wings, mouth twisting into a frown. “I'm fine. Never better, Doctor.”
“You went through an emergence barely a cycle ago. No mech is ‘fine’ after that.”
“I am.”
“Starscream, so help me Primus, at least let me run a scan or check your valve for tearing–”
Starscream recoiled backwards. “Absolutely not!”
Ratchet heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, I can't make you do anything. But you need to stay off your pedes and rest for the next half an orn at least. No more flying halfway across the city for doctor's appointments.”
“Can't,” Starscream said, “I'm going back to the Senate tomorrow.”
“No. No, you're not. The world will not crumble if you're on leave for a few cycles.”
“I'm a very important Senator.” Starscream had the gall to look almost smug. “We're reintroducing that affordable housing plan and I won't let that soft-sparked bug ruin any of my revisions.”
“Bumblebee can handle that just fine! Your sparklings need you.”
“They have two perfectly adequate sires.”
Ratchet stood there for a moment, struggling not to let his annoyance show too prominently, lest it be mistaken for anger. The last thing he needed was Starscream's carrier instincts deciding he was a threat again. “I'll tell Soundwave, let him nag you about being irresponsible. I'm sure he followed proper recovery procedures when he had his cassettes.”
“That's because he's inferior. I'm better.” Starscream stuck his chin in the air. “You said it yourself, you can't make me do anything.”
Throwing his servos in the air, Ratchet backed off. “Fine. Fine! But if you wake up bleeding from your valve because you put too much pressure on your forge by standing on the Senate floor for ten hours, I'm going to keep you awake while I stitch you up so you can hear every single ‘I told you so.’”
Starscream shot him a withering look, yet didn't argue further. His cockpit slid open, and he half-turned away from Ratchet as he deposited his seekerlings inside. Ratchet busied himself scrolling through the clinic's calendar, looking for an open slot as he gave Starscream a sliver of privacy. The seeker cooed softly, a sound he'd never heard from a Cybertronian before, much less from Starscream. He made a mental note to check the database for information on seeker creators later.
“I've made an appointment for you in two orns,” Ratchet said, as the click of Starscream's cockpit closing reverberated through the room. “I want the sparklings back here for their first deca-cycle checkup then.”
“Desperate to see me again so soon, Doctor?”
“Desperate to see if you burst an energon reserve out of stubbornness by then, mostly,” Ratchet sniped back. “And if anything happens before then, comm my personal line. I'll make a house call.”
“Of course,” Starscream said, sliding off the table. The bitlets in his cockpit were nearly invisible, the transparisteel too heavily tinted to see much of anything. If Ratchet hadn't known he'd gone through a recent emergence, it'd be near-impossible to tell, even with the sparklings on him.
Starscream shuffled in the doorway for a moment, resetting his vocalizer as he lingered. “Thank you,” he managed, after a few nano-kliks where Ratchet nearly thought he was going to purge. “For fixing Mooncrash's wings.”
A thanks. From Starscream. The cosmos must be aligned today or something. Ratchet hesitated in his response for too long, the seeker already fleeing out the door and into the lobby. “Two orns!” he remembered to yell after him. “And take it easy!”
“Whatever!”
The next evening, when Ratchet flipped on the news, a clip from that morning's Senate discussion was playing. Starscream was arguing animatedly as usual when it was his turn, but he was the only mech who remained sitting for his contribution. Not that it impeded his ability to chastise his fellow Senate members in the slightest. The news hosts gossiped about possible mod surgeries that were preventing Starscream from his standard pacing around the room, suggesting that it could've been something scandalous.
All Ratchet felt was a thrill of vindication. At least that infernal seeker knew how to listen when it was important.