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"Please, come in, come in! Make yourself comfortable, kids. I've moved the washrack, you can wash your pedes over there."
It has been some time since Cybertron was restored to its former glory. A long time. Old wounds have been healed, mostly, the scar tissue was an everyday sight. The surface of the planet still kept on reformatting and morphing on open plains and flatlands, in crevices and ravines. It was a magnificent sight, the true power of Primus in its purest: from the Hydrax Plateau to the Manganese Mountains – Ratchet traveled it all.
When the first space portal was rebuilt and cybertronians, scattered around the cosmos, started to return home, there were a lot of injured and sick. Thankfully, there were a lot of medics and assistants too. A ton of lubricant was shed upon the arrival of Pharma, First Aid and Red Alert, Ratchet welcomed his fraternity brothers with wide-open servos. Seeing all of them alive was more than he could hope for. Watching them dive helmfirst into work, asking where their help was needed, and reading their tools, he was as grateful as a bot could get.
He started taking breaks often, the millennia of war were finally catching up to him. No veteran was left without some kind of chronic injury, and the CMO wasn't an exception. But he was welcomed at each and every Oil Spa Resort, often offered an obscenely big discount. The Maccadam's didn't lag behind, always having a seat reserved just for him with a plaque on the counter. And as much as Ratchet would grumble and refuse any special treatment, he enjoyed the attention. It was their way of saying, "Thank you", "We are here for you", "All of Cybertron are your friends", "You are never alone".
At some point he actually made his peace with his loneliness. There was something right about it. No one to worry about, no one to sacrifice sleep for. No one to laugh with, no one to hold tightly in embrace, no one to share his deepest secrets, no one to be by his side. Nobody would caress his faceplate with so much love anymore, nobody would wipe his tears away, nobody would whisper sweet nothings into his finials. Simply put, he got used to it. He had no other choice. He had to live.
Ratchet took an early retirement, something that no one expected of him. But no one dared to object. The new High Council, mostly consistent of the old veterans, granted him well enough shanix to rest without worry. He bought himself a small place in Praxis – far enough from the hustle and bustle of Iacon – and spent the first few vorns settling down. Then traveled Cybertron for a while, visiting old friends and meeting new faceplates. He even took the trip to the restored Luna-1 and couldn’t help but participate in a few minicon’s medical conferences. They were amazing scientists despite the way the Cybertronian society ostracized them in the past.
Bee and Smokescreen dried off their pedes and stepped inside, taking in the sight around them. It wasn’t new, they had been there practically every other three vorns. But it was always a little surprising. Ratchet’s home looked nothing like his quarters back at the Autobots Outpost Omega One on Earth or his office at the Iacon Medbay. The pristine white walls were decorated with holophotos, Earth’s musical band’s posters and magazine articles about medicine, some small doodles and big paintings. On every surface there was always a quiet controlled clutter, every time consisting of different things. The furniture itself was a mix between Cybertronian and Earth’s cultures. But it all wasn’t distasteful, no, on the contrary, it was cozy, a piece of the medic’s spark on display. And it always had the same smell, a scent of home as Bee liked to call it: a mix of warm energon, promethium additives, a hint of copper, and a strong aftertaste of the acrylic paint.
“We brought you some fresh datapads from the Archive, there’s something about medicine and geography, some poetry as well. Oh, and Mags asked us to pass you his present for your creation day and said he’s sorry he couldn’t make it!” Smokescreen emptied the contents of his subspace on the table in the kitchen and made himself comfortable on the chair, stretching his joints from the long journey.
“Ahhhh, thank you, thank you, much obliged!” Ratchet sorted through the datapads with a bright smile and shoved them onto the shelf that already threatened to break under all the other datapads on it. Only then he took the small steel box tied with a ribbon made out of the copper wire and carefully opened it to find three vials with different oils inside. “Oh, that looks expensive, tell Magnus he didn’t miss much, and my thanks for the gift.”
“The place looks messy. Do you want us to help you clean up a bit?” Bumblebee wandered around the main room and collected dust from the cabinets with his digits.
“Ah, no need, I like it that way.” The ex-CMO chuckled at his offer and made his way to the energon dispenser by the kitchen window.
He put three cubes with warm energon on the table and sat down himself only after Bee finally took his place on the chair near Smokes.
“How’s your health? Do you want me to check on you while you’re here?” Ratchet took a sip from his portion and watched the youngsters with a warm squint of his optics.
“All good. The police get one of the best insurance coverages there is, and you know it.” Smokescreen waved his servo dismissively, enjoying his energon as well. “How are you yourself, old bot?”
“Hanging in there. Thinking about paying Pharma a visit some time soon.” The former medic didn’t even shoot a disapproving look Smokes’s way about the nickname.
Bee furrowed his brows, taking his optics away from the communicator in his servo and locking them on the owner of the house worriedly.
“Why? Something’s wrong? Are you unwell?” He had to keep himself from reaching over and taking a closer look at the older bot’s frame.
“No, no, all is fine, just for a checkup and to catch up with an old friend, worrywart!” Ratchet laughed warmly into his cube at the Lieutenant’s antics.
Bumblebee grumbled something under his in-vent and returned his gaze back at the communicator’s screen. A soft, small silence followed their exchange, welcomed and comfortable. The faint sounds of tranquil and peaceful Praxis reached their finials, a small tremble of the flooring from the passing nearby monorail they felt with their pedes. All of it familiar and foreign at the same time.
“Babies drew you some new pictures.” Bee reached into his subspace, pulling out a datapad and sliding it over to the medic.
“Oh, it’s lovely. They have such imaginations, bright little sparks!” Ratchet turned the device on and brought it closer to his faceplate, looking over the silly paintings fondly, a smile never leaving his dermas. “How are they? Show me the recordings.”
Bumblebee smiled as well, pulled up some footage on his communicator’s screen, and turned it around for the ex-CMO to see. There were two sparklings, merely protoforms, fighting for the place on their Sire’s shoulders, biting and grabbing each other. And Bee looked completely smitten and blessed, laughing his engine off, holding them tightly in each servo. Ratchet’s spark swelled at the sight, and he reached out, caressing the edge of the communicator.
“I wonder which paths the Universe prepared for them... And I pray for their well-being every night. Y’all are just adorable! They’ve grown so much already, come on, bring them with you the next time!” The medic did grow relatively religious over time. He saw what the Allspark did to the planet, saw the power of sacred relics of the Primes, it was only natural to start believing in Primus altogether. And he grew softer, the edges of his frame became smoother, the edges of his character did too.
The Lieutenant averted his optics, looked at the table, at the walls, anywhere but him. Smokescreen raised a brow at his behavior but kept silent, growing slightly offended.
“I… don’t think it’s a good idea, honestly. You know how it is, they have school, and- And they get very attached to everyone they meet at this age, so they’ll be sad and cry my finials off when we’d have to leave–“ Bee swayed his servos around, trying to excuse himself, raising his vocalizer to the higher pitch, clearly having no faith in his own words.
Ratchet pursed his dermas and sighed barely audibly, giving him a small smile in return and catching his digits with his own ones.
“It’s all right, I understand. They’re still protoforms, and it’s a long drive. You don’t want to overexcite them.” He gave the bot a way out, and everyone at the table knew that. But no one dared to point it out. The silence grew uncomfortable.
“So, uh- what’s with that turntable you were telling us about the last time? Did you manage to make it work?” Smokes came to the rescue, trying to catch the medic’s attention and change the topic.
Bumblebee relaxed gratefully against the spine of his chair. Ratchet smiled playfully and stood up from the table, walking to the small storage room across the main one. It took some kliks of Smokescreen nervously tapping his pede on the floor and Bee shifting and putting his communicator away for good.
And then the faint sounds reached their finials, familiar but forgotten ones. It was a long time since they both last heard any kind of Earth’s music. Miko made it a thing to have the radio connected to speakers in Hangar E and they got used to it too fast, often tuning to different channels even when no human was around. The memories of fighting, whose turn it was, and what they would listen to flooded their HUDs, and two youngsters glanced at each other, smiling fondly.
“Still can’t believe that you made such an ancient piece of Earth’s technology out of cybertronian materials. Who’s that playing anyway?” Smokes shook his helm, returning from his daze.
“My ol’ pal Sinatra. I asked Raf to send me a few recordings. Then it was simple work.” Ratchet walked back into the room, squeaking his knee joints and with the same warm squint of his slightly duller with age but nonetheless vent-taking cyan optics.
“Nothing’s simple in that, you glitch. Wheeljack was damn right when he said you’re an engineer at spark!” Bee chuckled and joined the much lighter conversation.
“Ha! How’s the old slagger anyway? Still riding Maggie’s chassis?” The medic lowered himself on his chair with a bit of effort and finished his cube in one go.
“Yuck!” Smokescreen winced, looking totally grossed out, and shot the older bot a tired look. “But yeah, surprisingly, they’re still sticking. They bicker like an old married couple all the time and then make out in front of all of us. That’s something I would gladly get out of my memory banks!”
Ratchet and Bumblebee laughed in sync at both his words and the grimace of pure disgust. The youngest joined them not so long after. It was nice. To reminisce about old comrades – family members at that point. To just talk as if no war ever happened. And simply exist in that moment of laughter, growling of engines, soft old music, and faint noises of the distant city. Alpha Centauri was setting, coloring everything and everyone with warm, dim orange rays.
Three bots looked at each other and shared the same thought: it would be nice if Optimus was here to witness it. The medic’s spark thumped with affection as he watched them: two halves of something so big, ethereal, two circuits in the enormous mechanism, both carrying on the beliefs and ideals of his oldest friend.
“You both look just like Him now, oh Primus… He would be so proud of you two, I just know that.”
The ex-CMO reached out and took one of their servos in his own, squeezing them tightly and pursing his dermas, and let a single stray lubricant tear slide down his faceplate. Smokes looked slightly taken aback and watched him quietly with worry. Bee forced his optics shut, nervously pulled his digits out of the firm grip, and looked away, frowning, feeling sorrow and anger silencing his vocalizer.
Ratchet bit the inside of his cheek, ex-vented quietly, and put the now-empty servo on top of Smokescreen’s one that he was still holding, forcing a smile back on his faceplate.
“I’m glad you chose to keep your latest color scheme. He was the only mech who sported red and blue with a style. Ultramarine and yellow suits you a lot better.” The medic stroked the side of the youngster’s servo and only then let go.
Smokes put all his strength to not burst out in tears from all of that, he always was a crybot. Ratchet talked about Optimus one way or another every time they met. And it hurt just as much. It was evident: he still grieved, still mourned, still loved as deeply as a bot even can. Spark-twisting sight, that’s what it was.
“Ah, gimme your cubes, might as well take out the trash…” The medic stood up, wiping the wetness from his optics with the back of his servo and leaning on the table for extra support.
Bumblebee’s finials pricked up, and he finally looked up at him. He didn’t recognize his beloved guardian. Someone ancient, small, miserable, almost invisible stood before him, his shoulders sagged, helmet low, knees bent. As if the whole four millennia of war chose him as their carrier. A mere echo, a shadow, a remnant, just a ghost.
“No need! Let- let us do that, I know wh-where the compactor is.” Bee shot up from his chair, grabbing all three empty cubes and the trash can beside a cabinet. He glared at Smokescreen, nodding to the few full-to-the-brim buckets, and watched as the utterly confused youngster picked them up obediently. Ratchet looked at both bots with slight bewilderment and crossed his servos on the chestplate.
“Hey, nuh-uh, you are guests, I am supposed to fuss over you lot!” He raised a brow, making his point.
“Exactly. We’re guests, so we should pay you back in some way for having us! So just let us do that, you stubborn old fool.” The Lieutenant pushed back with matching force and turned on his heel, making his way to the front door. Smokes looked between them, completely lost and worried, and after a few nano-kliks followed after Bumblebee, closing the door quietly on his way out.
“What was that all about?! Dude, you’re acting like an aft since you’ve stepped pede in this house! What scraplet bit you?!” Smokescreen spoke hushedly, tuned to the angry whisper, swaying his servos around while still holding two buckets in them.
A few pieces of scrap metal fell out of the bins. Bee unloaded the first trash can inside the compactor, manually closed the lid, and pulled the lever down. He didn’t answer right away, just watched empty cubes of energon, various vials, and pieces of metal get pressed into the thin sheet and then incinerated.
“I’m so angry at him… Do you see it? Do you see the way he lives?!” He ex-vented loudly and finally spoke up, opening up the chute and sweeping the ashes fiercely. “He doesn’t clean, he spends his time doing stupid things, he doesn’t talk to anyone besides us! Just… rots in his den!”
“So what? The bot is old, cut him some slack!” Smokes locked his optics on the yellow frame, trying to understand the reason behind his rage.
“He’s not that old! He- He can do so much more, you saw it with your own optics, he revived a planet, our planet! When he retired, I thought- I just thought he wanted to take a little time for himself, you know, with all the hustle there was after the war, it was understandable. I thought he would, I don’t know, rest for a bit and then jump right back in. But he- he… gave up! Just quit!” Bumblebee ventilated heavily, straining his whole frame, glared at his companion, and shoved another bucket into the compactor with so much force it dented.
Smokescreen didn’t say anything. He put down the trash he was holding and placed one servo on the Lieutenant’s shoulder, squeezing it firmly. “Well, Bee, he’s not obligated to live by your standards–“
“Yeah, he’s not. But he’s obligated to live. Not this excuse, not just… exist.” Bumblebee cut him off, pulling out of his grip. “I’m so angry at him for just treating himself like he’s replaceable, disposable, like he doesn’t matter. He raised me, he was- is my guardian, forever will be, like Optimus. I can’t- I refuse to watch him wither away like that. Do you remember how many times we had this conversation with him? Just how many times he already told us that we look like Optimus? He’s repeating himself, he forgets about it! And I can’t even bring my sparklings to see him because I’m genuinely terrified: what if he will accidentally hurt them, what if they will accidentally hurt him, what if he would just- well, I don’t know, deactivate in front of them?! And honestly, he looked better, babies will be just scared of him.”
“Now, that’s just rude. You’re too harsh on someone who survived the loss of their mate.” Smokes winced and rubbed his chin plating, really uncomfortable with all this talk.
“It’s been stellar cycles already! I survived the loss of my Sire, I got over it, he didn’t – that’s our difference. He gave up medicine, gave up his family and all because of this stupid, selfish grief. Now, gimme that trash so we can get over it, dammit.” Bee watched his friend pick up one of the bins and took it from his servos, repeating the same disposal process.
For Bumblebee – the warrior, the protector – Ratchet’s lifestyle was outrageous. For Bumblebee – his child, his little spark – Ratchet’s behavior was concerning. And all of it together only fueled his anger. Whenever he wasn’t happy, he was mostly angry.
They haven’t talked anymore, just stood beside each other in silence. The Lieutenant watched the trash burning inside the compactor. Smokescreen watched the magnificent pink and orange of the lingering sunset. Praxis had some good views, maybe that’s why the medic picked it.
When they walked back inside the house, the Cybertronian sun was gone completely, painting the sky somewhat purple-ish. The strong winds picked up and all the street lights lit up. Ratchet turned on the lamps in his house with a single command to the HUD and sat on the couch in the middle of the main room, doing some maintenance on his tools. It always calmed him down, soothed his processor. He knew all the steps by his spark at that point: to assess the working field; to prepare the polisher and the cleaner; to disassemble every piece of equipment down to the smallest details – now he needed glasses to do so; to clean and oil every part and note every minor scratch and abrasion; to put it all together, preferably so it would work after that.
Bumblebee has seen that process countless times since he was a sparkling, even when they were hiding in bunkers from the Decepticons’ gunfire, the medic never changed his habits. Only now was he mesmerized, completely dazed: Ratchet’s servos shook and trembled significantly, his optics under thick glasses were squinted impossibly tight, all the wrinkles and worry lines showing on his faceplate, he chewed on his lower lip and his chin plating twitched occasionally. He was old. And the former scout truly saw it for the first time ever.
“Aishhh!” The medic hissed, dropped one of the tools he was holding, and raised his right servo to the optics, pushing his glasses on the forehelm as he cut himself with a sharp edge. Bee was by his side in an instant, taking his digits carefully.
“What? What is it? What happened? You just couldn’t ask for help, you old idiot!” The Lieutenant grumbled angrily but with so much care, studying his servo diligently and producing a first aid kit from his subspace.
Ratchet didn't look at him, lowered his helmet, and went still. A mix of emotions flared in his spark: guilt, shame, anger, bitterness, love. Oh, he felt so weak, relishing in this rare weightless touch of his grown sparkling. Bumblebee was gentle, his servos were smooth and cool to the touch from the evening’s air. And the way he worked with the medic’s wiring, treating a shallow but painful laceration on his plating, showed just how much of his worry and anger were coming from the place of unconditional love.
Bee sealed the nasty-looking cut and just looked. He slowly, shyly, and ever-so-cautiously twisted Ratchet’s servo in his own, trying to compare it to the image he had in his memory banks. It was rougher to the touch now, with tons of old scars and recently healed cuts, with bumps and bruises, it squeaked and screeched as the joint moved in the socket, it trembled like an earthly leaf in the wind. But it was warm, so warm, the Lieutenant almost forgot how safe and loved he felt in these servos all these stellar cycles ago.
“What do you have?” He barely found enough strength to voice that question.
“Protoarthritis.” The ex-CMO answered just as quietly, afraid to ruin the atmosphere.
“What- What is it, what’re the symptoms?” Bumblebee hadn’t even realized just how much lubricant had pooled inside his intake, and he swallowed it down, wincing.
“That is a sickness of my protoform. It’s something old bots have. When we get too weary and weak to work our joints properly. It starts with the occasional jamming – and you can’t twist your servo or pede into the right position no matter how hard you try. Then the pain comes, at first it’s rough, sharp, but then it dulls, becomes chronic. And, well, the shaking too, of course…” The medic looked over his own servo with bitterness as if it had betrayed him cruelly.
“Is- Can you, uh, cure it? What’s the treatment?” Smokescreen’s worried voice reminded them of his presence as he walked over and sat down on the armchair slowly.
“There are oils, Pharma sends them to me from Iacon. Pain patches, of course, but I try to restrain myself from using them too often. Then there are also… urgh, the stretching and aerobics. And the Praxis’ Central Hospital sent me a walker. That thing is already at the scrapyard, rest assured.” Ratchet grimaced with disgust and offense clear in his voice.
“So this is why you gave up medicine.” Bee stated it more to himself than to anyone else in the room.
“This is why I gave up medicine.” The older bot offered him a small knowing smile.
“Oh… Oh, frag…” The Lieutenant dropped down on the couch beside his guardian, still holding his servo as if his life depended on it. “And… this is why you don’t clean, and you moved to Praxis for its exclusive oil spas because of this… Oh, frag, Sire…”
Bumblebee cried out the last word and leaned his helm onto these old and warm, loving servos. Ratchet waited a klik, his brows shot up in amusement, and then he scooped up his sparkling right to his chassis, radiating waves of comfort, love, reassurance, understanding. Smokescreen watched them with so much adoration in his spark he thought he’d cry yet again. Bee curled up into an impossible ball, too big for it by now. But the medic didn’t push him away, on the contrary, he pulled him even tighter against his frame, caressed his servos, shoulders, his back – everything he could reach.
“You haven’t called me that in a long while, huh.” The older bot’s raspy whisper filled the Lieutenant’s finials as he buried his helm in the crook of the younger’s neck.
“Well, I might just start calling you that every time we meet from now on.” Bumblebee whispered back to him, clinging even tighter.
In the corner of their HUDs, the record on the turntable in the storage room kept producing some old-as-tales sounds. Right there and then they couldn’t hear anything besides each other.
“I’ve been so prejudiced. I spent so much time being angry at you, at myself, for allowing you to become this way. I judged you harshly, not knowing- Not seeing. I was ignorant! And I am so sorry, so-so-“ Bee’s vocalizer short-circuited, static messed with his sparkful apology, ugly lubricant tears filled his optics.
“There-there, sweetspark, it is so okay! I could never hold any grudge against you.” Ratchet rocked him back and forth, nuzzling their helms together, wiping his tears away with his trembling digits. “You acted out of your own grief. That you never allowed yourself to feel fully. But it will always be okay here, with me, nothing could ever harm you, no one could ever be angry with you right here. You’re not gonna lose me, son.”
Their EM fields intertwined together. Acceptance, sorrow, forgiveness, embarrassment, grief – it was a whirlwind of feelings and emotions. The air tasted of shame and longing, with a sour aftertaste. Smokescreen excused himself and left the house, the revving of his engine and screeching of his wheels from the donuts he was doing on the wasteland nearby were heard from a few hiks away. It wasn’t okay. None of it was pleasant. Stars twinkled in the Cybertronian sky, Luna-1 and Luna-2 shone dimly, still not fully in power as the night hadn’t settled yet. Was it always that hard to say goodbye?
♪ And every bright neon sign turned into stars ♪
“You can live with us, with me, you know. I’d like it, no- I’d love it.”
“Nah, that’s a very kind offer, but I’d like to keep some of my pride.”
♪ And the sun and the moon seemed to be ours ♪
“Then I’ll bring the kids with me next time.”
“That’s… all I can wish for, sweetspark. Thank you.”
♪ Each road that we took turned into gold ♪
“Now, what do you need? Make a list or something, anything you want, I’ll get it for you!”
“Your afts on my doorstep, you rascal. If I’ll need anything, I’ll just order it, no big deal, I can still do at least that.”
♪ But the dream was too much for you to hold ♪
“Bee, c’mon, we still might make the monorail!”
“Yeah, just a klik! Wait up!”
♪ Now over and over, I keep going over the world we knew ♪
“Stars are pretty here. I think I’ve never said it before, but I really like your place. Just something about it… feels like you.”
“Well, I put a lot of my spark into it, and I’m glad it seems that way. And don’t even start about the stars!”
♪ Days when you ♪
“It’s gonna be maybe a vorn? Before I can visit again, that is. You just… had to pick a place so fragging far away…”
“Hey, you’re a Sire now, of course you don’t have too much free time. You always had our servos full when you were a sparkling… Optimus bared his spark for you the moment he found you on that battlefield, it wasn’t much longer for me.”
♪ Used to love me ♪
“I miss him all the time.”
“He never left, kid. We carry him with us everywhere we go. I certainly do.”
♪ Over and over, I keep going over the world we knew ♪