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“Can’t even get privacy in my own prison cell,” Ratchet grumbled, turning his head to shoot a dirty look at the Decepticon warlord before returning to the datapads he had scattered across his desk.
Megatron smirked as the door closed behind him.
“If this isn’t up to your standards, I could escort you back to the actual cells.” Megatron took a couple steps towards the desk, glancing over the Autobot’s shoulder to see what he was working on. He was pleased to see it was all about synthetic energon. “I thought you might appreciate having your own quarters instead.”
With a derisive snort, Ratchet replied, “If these were my quarters I’d be able to open my own door.”
Megatron tutted as he straightened. “Perhaps, but here at least your door doesn’t have bars.”
“Well, thank Primus for that then.” Finally, with a slow ex-vent, Ratchet turned his chair to look up at Megatron’s towering frame, his arms crossing over his chest, guarded. “What do you want?”
“To chat,” Megatron said simply with the smallest shrug of his shoulders. Ratchet’s optics narrowed in disbelief. “Is that so shocking?”
Ratchet continued to search his face, and it was clear that the doctor was uneasy.
“Why?”
“We were acquaintances once,” Megatron began with a casual wave of his clawed servo. “And I seem to recall that we’ve had several conversations the previous times I’ve had you in my care.”
Ratchet stiffened and Megatron could feel the hints of shame slipping through his tightly held field. There was no way for the doctor to deny it. While they had never gotten along particularly well before the war, the times that they met again after – be it at ill-fated peace treaty meetings or the couple of times Ratchet’s old position as a frontline medic left him vulnerable to being captured and held hostage – had oddly been more amendable.
Possibly because what they had been fighting over had changed to something less personal.
Still though, Ratchet bristled as he said, “You’ve tried to offline me, and frankly I’m not convinced you won’t try it again once I’ve finished the formula.”
“As if you didn’t call yourself my personal ‘Doctor of Doom’ when you last made an attempt on my life,” Megatron replied easily as he shifted his weight to one hip, his lips curling when the medic’s gaze glanced down long enough to follow the movement. “We’ve been at war, Ratchet. I’m surprised you still take murder attempts personally anymore.”
“The fact that you don’t answers several questions I’ve had about Starscream,” Ratchet muttered sardonically, his plating easing closer to its relaxed position. However, the look in Ratchet’s optics was still hard and his mouth a tight line.
“You destroyed our planet.”
“We destroyed our planet. And then your Prime destroyed the Omega Lock.” Ratchet flinched, expression wavering, and then finally tore his gaze away from the warlord. An unresolved issue, it would seem, and all the easier to use to his advantage.
Megatron reached out slowly, one claw catching under Ratchet’s chin to lift and turn it, bringing his gaze back to his face. “And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? So that together, we can right those wrongs.”
The warlord had expected the servo to be slapped away, to receive harsher words than should be spat at one’s captor. Megatron had a short temper, and even he could admit it had only grown shorter recently, but Ratchet had always impressed him with how quickly he could turn to rage.
However, Ratchet simply turned his head out of the grasp and pushed his chair back a bit to escape his reach.
“You don’t need to remind me why I agreed to this arrangement,” Ratchet said, oddly subdued. When he looked up at Megatron again though, he did wear a scowl. “And I still have no interest in your personal well-being, so give me one good reason why I would want to talk with you beyond what’s necessary.”
Megatron hummed as he dipped his servo into his subspace. “I’m the one who decides if you will ever be trusted to open your own door,” he commented. Out of his subspace came a couple of empty cubes which he placed on the desk. “But since I suspect that won’t catch your attention the way it should, I thought this might.”
Ratchet’s optics cycled wide as he stared at the larger cube Megatron pulled out next, filled with brilliant clear liquid.
“You wasted energon to make high grade?”
“I wouldn’t say it was a waste.” Megatron poured a small amount into one of the cubes. “Do I have your interest now, Doctor?”
Blue optics narrowed on the offered cube.
“You drink it first.”
“I can’t see how it would benefit me to poison you before I have what I want.”
“Humor me then,” Ratchet insisted.
The high grade was smooth on Megatron’s glossa as he sipped it, never once breaking optic contact with Ratchet as he did. He made a show on swishing it around before finally swallowing. One optic ridge rose as he said, mockingly, “Satisfied?”
The medic ex-vented slowly, his expression shifting, until finally he reached out to push the other empty cube towards Megatron. “I suppose you expect gratitude for this?”
Megatron instead added a bit more into his cube before putting the high grade down and leaving Ratchet to pour his own drink. “I expect nothing except what we agreed to,” he replied, casually making his way around Ratchet to take a seat on the edge of his berth. Even sitting, Megatron still had to look down on the medic. “The real reward is in the knowledge that this is likely the first time you’ve been able to have high grade in what, decades?”
Ratchet was not shy as he filled the cube up well over half-way before he finally seemed satisfied. Even then, he took a long, slow mouthful, savoring it before he swallowed. With it, his plating eased. The warlord could not have named a time he had personally seen Ratchet look so pleased.
With a chuckle, Megatron amended, “Centuries then?”
“Try a millennium,” Ratchet finally admitted as he swirled the drink a bit with the motions of his servo, staring at the contents. “Used to be I could nab a cube of it here or there when they were confiscated from soldiers.”
“Until even your soldiers couldn’t spare any energon from their rations to make that swill they called high grade.”
Ratchet’s optics left the glass to meet Megatron’s. Something almost like amusement pulled at his mouth. “Actually, they called it berth-grade, since they let it finalize hidden away under their berths.”
“Seems our armies had that in common,” Megatron mused before taking another small sip. “I don’t know how you managed to drink it though.”
“Desperate times.”
“Clearly.”
Ratchet took another long, hearty swig from his cube. An almost inaudible hum of pleasure escaped him before he finally waved his free servo.
“Alright, get on with it. What did you want to ‘chat’ about?” he asked, emphasizing the term sarcastically.
“What indeed,” Megatron drawled, tilting his helm just so, a mocking impression of innocence. “I would ask about our shared friend, but I don’t suppose you’ll tell me anything about how Optimus is these days.”
Ratchet made an oddly organic noise at that, but it was easy enough to tell it was dismissive.
“There’s nothing shared about Optimus. You gave up that right when you started this war of yours.”
“This war is hardly just mine.” Megatron openly let his gaze search Ratchet’s face, as if looking for what he already knew full well. “But it is comforting to see that even across millennia and galaxies, you at least never really change.”
Ratchet had his cube to his lips but it stalled as his optics cycled down, narrowing.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
The roll of Megatron’s shoulder when he shrugged was overtly exaggerated and he could not keep his lips from curling up. “I mean no offense, Ratchet. Just an observation.” The warlord took a very slow sip as he watched Ratchet attempt to keep from squirming, savoring the taste and the discomfort. “It’s sweet that after all that’s happened, you’re still in love with Prime.”
Ratchet’s plating twitched, instinctually trying to flare while the medic tried to stop it, to hide how the comment affected him.
“If you wanted to mock me, you could have just said so,” he said flatly.
“So he still doesn’t know.” Megatron leaned forward to rest his free forearm against his knee. “How fascinating that he’s always been brilliant, yet when it comes to matters of the spark he’s more than a little blind.”
Instead of responding right away, Ratchet took another drink, although this one was much smaller than the ones before it. When he was finished, the corners of his lips twitched.
“It would explain how he’s never noticed your twisted affections for him either.”
That managed to blindside Megatron long enough that it showed on his face and the twitches become a full smirk on Ratchet’s.
And Megatron remembered why he had sought out the Autobot medic. There were never many bots who were willing to verbally spar with him once the war began, and now with his recent return even those he could rely on had begun to cower instead. He supposed that was in part his own fault. It was difficult to curtail his growing violent tendencies of late, leaving no one left to fight when they knew it could lead to their death at his servos.
But Ratchet had always been reckless with his own life, and he knew his spark was on the line regardless of whether he kowtowed to the Decepticon leader or not.
So of course he would choose to fight back at every opportunity.
“I’m afraid you caught me off guard, for I have not thought about that in quite some time,” Megatron replied with a lazy hand gesture.
Ratchet rolled his optics.
“Liar.” He pointed towards Megatron with his servo that still held his drink. “You had Orion Pax on this ship and honestly want me to believe you weren’t leering at him?”
Megatron tapped a claw against his cube.
“Did it keep you up at night?” Megatron asked before returning the cube to his lips and emptying it. Then he slowly stood to his full height again, towering over the seated medic. Ratchet mouth pressed into a tighter line, but he continued to glower up at the warlord, even as Megatron leaned into his personal space. With a carefully trained expression of concern, Megatron continued, “I certainly hope you weren’t losing valuable recharge time imagining your precious Pax under my claws.”
This time, not a single plate of Ratchet’s armor so much as shifted.
“My only concern was for your bloated ego.” Ratchet lifted his drink, the sip he took purely for show. “Did it hurt to be rejected yet again?”
The medic had caught onto his game.
Excitement started to build along Megatron’s circuits.
“Shall I top you off, Doctor?” Megatron asked, his grin all dentae as he plucked the large cube of high grade from the desk and moved out of Ratchet’s space.
Ratchet held his cube out to be filled. “You could have asked for me to hand it to you.”
“And make my guest do unnecessary work? What kind of host do you take me for?”
“A bored one, clearly,” Ratchet commented. The cube was back at nearly three quarters full before the medic waved subtly for Megatron to stop. “And one who’s avoiding my question.”
Megatron settled back on the berth, one leg crossed over the other, aiming to appear casual, unaffected. “I fear my answer will bore you. His time was spent decoding while I had other duties to attend to, so I had hardly become attached in the little time we had together.” When Ratchet gave him a disbelieving look, Megatron snickered. “This may come as a shock, but some of us have more important things to do than long for Prime.”
“Yet you brought him up first.”
“As if it would have taken you long.”
Ratchet did nothing more than huff and focus on his drink.
Megatron grinned.
“It was satisfying though to convince Orion that you were the Autobot warlord.”
Ratchet stilled.
“Excuse me?”
Megatron’s grin widened.
“Did he never tell you?” he asked conversationally. With a tilt of his helm he continued, “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have, since I doubt even he remembers. But I had to make someone out to be his enemy, and you were the clear choice.” Megatron tipped his cube, watching the liquid swirl and jostle, though never letting Ratchet out of his periphery. The expression on the medic’s face was priceless “Once I explained that you had destroyed our planet and came to this planet to do the same, I didn’t even have to ask before Orion was swearing on his own spark to do all he could to stop you.”
Ratchet looked stricken.
“You’re lying again,” he managed tightly.
“Would I lie to you?”
“What—of course you would! You do nothing but lie!” Ratchet snapped, plating flaring, and yes, there it was – that infamous temper. “Why would I ever believe you?”
Megatron rolled his shoulders slightly and allowed his amusement to light up his face as he replied simply, “Orion did.”
Ratchet’s frame shuddered as his expression twisted, the anger barely masking the devastation. Finally, his optics narrowed further in a glower.
“I’m done with this game of yours,” Ratchet spat.
“Done? Why, we’ve only just started,” Megatron said, gesturing vaguely. “You haven’t even finished your high grade yet.”
The medic lifted his cube to his mouth and threw his head back, downing his drink in three hearty gulps. The cube was slammed down on the desk with a resounding ring.
“I’m done.”
“Allow me to pour you another.” Megatron reached out for the high grade.
Ratchet’s servo was quick as it slapped the cube off the desk to shatter on the floor. The puddle of high grade quickly grew, but neither mech was paying it any mind.
“Oops.” Ratchet’s expression was utterly unapologetic. “Looks like I’m still done.”
Megatron twitched, and there it was – a spike of aggression in his spark. However, the warlord curtailed it. He had broken too many playthings, and he did need Ratchet yet. Instead, Megatron leaned back, all but lounging on the berth, swirling the drink still in his own servo. It wasn’t the immediate catharsis of slamming the medic’s face into the desk, but there was pleasure to be derived from the disgusted look Ratchet gave him. “Yet it looks like I’m not finished with mine.”
That gave the medic pause, glancing at the cube and then back at Megatron. Ratchet’s expression was no longer only heated, but calculating as well, considering.
Careful.
And that was no fun at all.
So Megatron brought his drink to his mouth and took only the smallest of sips before saying, “I understand that Optimus is a sore topic for you, Doctor, so why don’t you tell me about that scout of yours instead?” Ratchet flinched and Megatron sighed wistfully, holding his cube in front of him, tempting. “A shame you were never able to fix that voice box of his.”
The desk chair clattered to the ground behind Ratchet as he jumped to his pedes. His servo swung out, no doubt intending to slap the drink out of Megatron’s hold, but in actuality making it far too easy for the warlord to snatch him by the wrist. Ratchet’s optics flared and Megatron tightened his grip threateningly, plating grinding and yielding under his strength.
Ratchet stilled, though his vents were wide open and dumping heat. His frame was awkwardly curved over Megatron’s, having had to lean over to reach his goal and now unable to pull away.
The excitement in Megatron’s circuits burned hotter.
“Come now, Ratchet,” he purred, his grip loosening enough to no longer cause pain, “I know you can do better than this. Try once more, won’t you?”
Ratchet tried once more to tug his servo back, but Megatron’s grip was unmoved.
“Fine.” The medic’s engine growled in his chassis as he shifted, optics cycling with thought. “I may be pathetic, but at least I’m not sick like you are.”
“Sick?” Megatron repeated flatly, optic ridges raised.
Ratchet outright sneered down at the warlord. “Don’t get me wrong, you weren’t always sick. Bitter and jealous and violent, yes, but at least you once had a cause behind it. I could at least respect your motivations. ” A hollow imitation of a laugh escaped the medic. “Maybe that’s why we used to be able to ‘chat’ before you lost your grip on reality and destroyed all we had left.”
“We destroyed.”
The correction went ignored as Ratchet continued, “And just when I thought you couldn’t sink lower, you went and shoved that dark energon into your systems.” The medic’s optics glanced down to where Megatron’s spark resided in his chest before looking up at the unnatural glow in his optics again. “You’ve made yourself sick, and it’s caused you to push away the few you still had at your side after all these millennia, and now you’ve left yourself so lonely that you had to come and bother a pathetic autobot medic to feel anything at all.”
The dark energon in Megatron’s systems burned.
“Perhaps,” Megatron replied coolly to mask the roiling in his frame, “but can you really say you’re all that different?”
Ratchet’s servo clenched into a fist as he broke their shared gaze, dentae grinding and slowly, surely, shame rolled off him in waves.
He tried once again to free his servo, and when he was denied, Ratchet asked quietly and so bitterly, “What do you want?”
“Who can say?” Megatron mused. His servo pulled at Ratchet’s, dragging him further over his frame until Ratchet had to put a knee on the berth to keep from falling onto the warlord. Ratchet turned his helm away, staring at the wall perhaps, his plating pulled tight to his frame. Megatron leaned his face close to Ratchet’s audial as he continued, “If your diagnosis is correct, Doctor, then perhaps I simply wish to feel something with you.”
Ratchet’s frame tensed as his optics snapped back to Megatron’s, wide with shock.
“Do you even realize what it sounds like you’re suggesting?!”
“I’m fully aware.”
Ratchet looked about ready to go into a fit. His optics were searching Megatron’s face, trying to find any hint to the joke he was making, and the warlord let him look to his spark’s content.
Finally, the medic stared at him in disbelief, optic ridges furrowed, his mouth agape, disgust and a hint of something far from it flitting across his face.
“Your processor must have finally rusted over if you think there’s anything appealing about that to me.”
Megatron hummed as he let his gaze slowly trail down the medic’s frame, noting the hitching of vents and shifting of plates as he did. When he returned to Ratchet’s face, he was pleased by the intensity he saw in the medic’s optics.
“I’m offering you a pleasure that Optimus will never give you.”
Ratchet’s expression wavered.
“You’re despicable.”
“And you’re desperate.”
Ratchet’s captured servo flexed and clenched again.
Megatron’s HUD lit up with a ping from Shockwave. No doubt a similar one was sent to Ratchet as the medic’s optics grew distant for a moment.
“They need me back at the lab,” Ratchet stated, and this time when he pulled his servo, Megatron released him. Finally freed, the medic straightened and rubbed his wrist, though his knee was slower to leave the berth and he continued to linger close to Megatron.
That was enough to soothe the irritation that had started to build in Megatron’s circuits.
“Then allow me to open your door for you.” Megatron sat up straight, the movement finally seeming to snap Ratchet out of whatever thoughts he had been caught up in. He startled and quickly took several steps away, nearly stumbling when his pedes hit the overturned chair.
“Not like I have much of a choice,” Ratchet groused, finally looking at the high grade spilled on his floor, frowning. He shifted on his pedes, still taking another step or two away, putting distance between them.
“I would escort you to the lab, but I have other matters to attend to.” Megatron rose to his pedes. He placed his still half-full cube on the desk before heading towards the door. “I’m sure your assigned vehicon will be ample company in my absence.”
Ratchet made another of those organic dismissive noises as he finally moved to the desk once Megatron was past it, gathering up his datapads. His optics returned to the mess though, his servos stilling, and then he ex-vented. “Just leave the guard at the door while I clean this up.”
“That won’t be necessary.” A quick ping was sent to Soundwave to have someone sent to Ratchet’s quarters. “It will be taken care of, so let’s not delay any longer, shall we?”
Ratchet glowered as the door easily opened when Megatron accessed it. The vehicon outside the door stood straighter once in sight, a dip of their helm indicating acknowledgement of their Lord without interrupting. No doubt their visor hid wandering optics though.
“That desperate to be rid of me?”
Megatron turned on his heel to consider Ratchet. With his servos full of datapads, there was little the medic could do when Megatron reached out, tucking his digits under Ratchet’s chin and tilting it up to face him. His thumb stroked just below Ratchet’s mouth.
“The sooner you return to your lab, the sooner you will be finished.” Megatron smiled at Ratchet with far too many dentae. “And the sooner we can finish our ‘chat’, dear Ratchet.”
With that, Megatron removed his servo and left the medic gawking after him. If the vehicon was confused by the exchange – or perhaps aware enough to put the pieces together – they rightfully said nothing as they escorted Ratchet in the opposite direction.
Heat curled in Megatron’s chest as he planned the next round of their game.