JatA- Synth-En

_{Part 3 of a TF: Prime fanfiction based after the events of episode 22}


Yes… a direct infusion of untested synthetic energon had definitely not been the brightest of ideas.

Ratchet lay with shuttered optics atop one of the examination tables in the Autobots' sickbay, carefully hooked up to an intravenous feed that was slowly but steadily reintroducing regular energon into his systems. It felt strange for him to be the wounded patient occupying the table, for a change, rather than the one administering treatment. A role reversal, of sorts – one that the medic wasn't particularly interested in acting out again.

He raised a heavy hand from the slab, joints stiff and clumsy, to brush against the splintered panelling of his chestplates. The veins of dark green fluid that trailed between their cracks had long dried from extended exposure to the air, flaking away beneath the metal of his fingertips. The contact stung sharply, succeeded by a dull ache that persisted even after the strength in his arm had ebbed to the point of dropping back onto the table.

Did he always used to feel this… weak? The difference between his current energy levels and those recorded while injected with the supposedly-completed formula certainly felt like an awful lot more than thirty-three percent. Perhaps it was simply because he was still recovering from the ordeal, but…

There was another reason, one that Ratchet was fully – and disgustedly – aware of. Keeping his optics closed, he tried not to picture – to remember – himself throwing Bulkhead through a wall not three megacycles ago. He tried not to remember passively flirting with Arcee, or the argument that had ensued between the two of them and Optimus shortly afterward; the argument he'd ended by tackling Bulkhead and speeding away in vehicle mode. And then, perhaps the most foolish part; attempting to fight Megatron alone. Yes, he'd managed to land a single, solitary punch on the Decepticon leader – but that had only been possible in conjunction with the element of surprise. Nonetheless, the match had quickly gone in Megatron's favour… and the Decepticons' fingertips had been within mere inches of obtaining the formula.

The whole ordeal was highly embarrassing… depressing. Ratchet wished with the whole of his spark that the memories of the day's events had left his systems with the synthetic energon. He felt like such a fool… how could he have been such an idiot – testing the formula on himself?! If nothing else, it was unprofessional to the nth degree. He'd wanted so badly to help the others, and yet…

A faint sound brought Ratchet from his melancholic reverie. Though still muddled with fatigue; his audio processors detected light, quick footfalls approaching the sickbay. He recognised their pace – and groaned. He didn't want to deal with this right now. The noise soon came to an abrupt halt and silence retook its place, though he could sense instead a familiar anxious stare boring into the side of his head. Keeping his optics stubbornly shuttered, he waited for her to say something – but she didn't.

Eventually, Ratchet decided that he might as well get this over with quickly. He cracked open his optics with a sigh, surprised by how much the room's artificial light hurt their sensors, and peered down at the dark-haired human who was standing uneasily on the floor nearby. "Miss Darby," he said; a cautious greeting.

The unconcealed alarm in June's expression lifted somewhat, momentarily replaced by relief until anxiety descended over her features. "Ratchet," she replied, mirroring his tone. She was still dressed in teal from head to foot beneath the yellowish cardigan, most likely having come straight from her shift at the hospital. She then forced a smile, and made a meaningless gesture in the direction of the command centre. "Rafael told me that you weren't feeling so great… so I thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing."

"He told you, did he?" Ratchet muttered thickly. It was difficult to focus his attention on her, or on anything for that matter; Optimus' earlier suggestion that the medic slip into recharge for a while was suddenly very appealing.

June seemed to notice the lethargy in his speech, and her concern promptly doubled. "Did I… wake you, just now?" she asked in panicked tones.

The medic began to shake his head in attempt to calm her, but quickly stopped as the repeated movement made his processor spin. "We don't 'sleep' like you do," he explained, placing one hand on his midriff as though to steady himself. "Occasionally, we power down in recharge cycles… but that's not what I was doing when you arrived. Although… the notion is quite tempting now, I must admit."

June seemed to hesitate for a moment, before a slightly more natural smile warmed her gaze. She stepped forwards, linking both hands together behind her back. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" she asked. The question was a curious mix of professionalism and genuine sympathy; the voice of a nurse consoling her bedridden son. Ratchet wondered vaguely if this was the side of her that Jack was most used to seeing.

"Some peace and quiet might be nice," he replied, involuntarily mimicking her expression. Despite the fact that he hadn't spoken with the intention of insulting her, the medic was rather surprised to hear the congenial undertones of his own comment. June gave a nod of the head, and then softly walked around the examination table to inspect the intravenous pack.

Too tired to move his head and follow her with his optics, Ratchet soon found himself staring vacantly at a nearby wall. From somewhere in the depths of the base, he could hear the distant noises of the other Autobots moving their newfound energon cubes into the supply vault. The sound of their upbeat chattering as they worked would normally soothe his woes, but this time it only invoked a sense of guilt. He knew that they were probably talking about him; how good it was to have him back to normal, and how indebted to him they felt for leading them to a much-needed supply of energy and fuel. Did he really deserve their praise – their appreciation – after exhibiting such inexcusable behaviour?

"Miss Darby," he heard himself say, in much gloomier tones than before.

"Call me June," the human replied, frowning kindly at the back of his head. She'd spent enough time studying arrivals in the emergency ward to know when patients were feeling particularly sorry for themselves – and Ratchet was no different. It was rather amazing when she thought about it; that the dejected body language of a sixteen-plus-foot tall robot from a distant planet could be read in exactly the same way as a human's.

Ratchet hesitated, laboriously rotating his head in place just enough to meet her gaze. "June…" he complied, use of her first name making him feel even more uncomfortable. He had no qualms with speaking the children's first names because they were children – but this one was an adult; and adults, no matter the species, deserved respect. "Doctor to nurse, may I ask for your advice on something?"

"Of course," June stated, sounding slightly surprised through her concern.

"I made… a very terrible mistake today," Ratchet began, lowering his gaze to the panelled flooring. "A foolish one that could have cost us the war… and me, my life. I did what I did only because I wanted to help the others – but it was thoughtless of me to act so impulsively. And in the end… my actions only hurt those whom I was trying to help."

June nodded, taking a step closer to his side. "Go on," she prompted gently.

The medic hitched a sharp breath of air through his vents, clenching both fists in frustration. "I don't know," he admitted in a growl. "I just…"

"…Want some advice," June finished, after watching him struggle for a moment. Ratchet fell to silence, and then expectantly raised his stare to meet her cool blue eyes. She folded her arms as she contemplated a reply, shifting her weight onto one leg with a gentle shrug. "Well… do you believe that you did the right thing?"

Ratchet gawped at her. "Of course not!" he snapped, making to sit up but flinching from the tug of the intravenous cable. He clamped a hand to his wound, irritated. "What I did was reckless and stupid – why, even Bulkhead would have had the sense to not inject himself with synthetic energon! I don't know what could have possibly come over me to act in such a thoughtless-"

"Wait… you did this to yourself?!" she demanded, straightening up.

The medic faltered, shocked by the sudden anger in her voice. "In a way," he said.

Disappointment flared in the human's face as a grave silence fell once again within the Autobots' sickbay. Ratchet dropped his gaze, unable to withstand the fire of her stare. Strangely, somehow – her irritation made him feel a little better. He realised with a start that perhaps a reprimand was what he'd needed all along. Optimus had only made to comfort him when he'd awoken to find himself here, rather than give a lecture like he might have if the medic's injuries hadn't been so severe. He knew that he'd done wrong – but, so far, no one had chastised him for his actions. Maybe that was why he felt so guilty; because he knew full well that harm had been done, despite the others' attempts to continue on as though otherwise.

"You regret it, though, don't you?"

Ratchet blinked, raised his optics. June was wearing a sympathetic smile, having moved close enough to place a hand on the examination table's supports. Had she been several meters taller, she would have rested it instead on his forearm in a tender display of empathy. Her eyes were soft and caring, framed by liner and locks of jet black hair. The medic's fractured chestplates rose and fell in a single, lengthy cycle as he studied her organic features and considered the question.

"I do."

"Then there's nothing to worry about," she said. "Have to admit that I still don't know much about how Cybertronians' minds work, but… I believe Optimus and the others will forgive you, if they haven't already. You don't need to apologise to them… but maybe you should apologise to yourself."

The Autobot medic stared at her for a while, watching as warmth positively radiated from her person. Then, with an awkward sigh, he shuttered his optics and prepared to drift into recharge. Humans, he thought.