tfmegaratch | [FIC] Bonds of Inconvenience

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Megatron/Ratchet OR Megatron & Ratchet

Characters: Megatron & Ratchet

Warnings: Spark Bonds, Accidental Bonds, Background & Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Alternate Universe, Not Beta Red

Summary: In which Ratchet wrestles with the aftermath of having saved Megatron’s life.

Crossposting: AO3 | Tumblr | Dreamwidth

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

Ratchet regretted his adherence to his oaths on occasion.

Sitting in the makeshift medical bay, alone in the dark, Ratchet clutched his hand to his chest. It did nothing to alleviate the pain, the pulling, the dread in his spark.

Imaginary wounds, what was likely torn tubing and bleeding lacerations, hovered on the surface of his armor, mirroring the suffering of someone not even present.

Far away, fury and rage roiled; another’s hot, shapeless anger that he had no reason to know gripped at his very core. The juxtaposition of remote violent ire with the silent shadows and astringent smell of the pathetic excuse for a medical bay in their temporary “base” on an organic world was jarring.

Ratchet had made a serious error in judgment. Long ago, saving Megatron’s life.

The chances of a bond happening with a brief, direct jump were a fraction of a percent. It was a gamble that he should have won, but here he was, jaw clenched while something horrible happened that he couldn’t neither see nor stop. If anyone stumbled in to see him, they would have possibly mistaken this for a spark attack or overexertion.

Flashes of red and white forced their way into his mind. Sharp voices, indistinct words. The lilac glow of activated fuel. An involuntary desire to be near the source of the sensations, to comfort and soothe.

With the bond weak from only a brief initial contact, he couldn’t discern more. Perhaps thankfully. Likewise the other end of the connection could probably sense little more than Ratchet’s reflected anguish. And over vast distances, he couldn’t even determine a direction , let alone coordinates.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, not with the way his “bondmate” lived.

His hand flexed uselessly on his windshield, over his screaming spark.

And, if the fool on the other end of the bond didn’t die, it certainly wouldn’t be the last time either.

After all these years, Ratchet knew the only thing he could do was wait, braced for the worst in the dark until whatever was happening so far out of reach, so far out of his control, was over.

At least this time it had happened after clinic hours.

Ratchet ducked down behind a crate in the silent, Decepticon warehouse. This one was supposed to have been abandoned, a ripe location for Autobot scouts to poach for secrets.

He normally wouldn’t have been out here in the field, not on a reconnaissance mission, but circumstances—misguided orders, as usual—necessitated he extract someone.

Specifically the unconscious, but mercifully stable idiot—Bumblebee—cradled in his arms.

No footsteps had approached to tell him to hide; he hadn’t needed them to know what impended. A pulse of intuition, a “spooky” notion he had never cared for, in his spark was all the warning he had needed.

There wouldn’t be enough time to make the rendezvous point in the wilds beyond the warehouse. All he could do was hunker down with his charge and hope, a notion Megatron perhaps struggled with, but Ratchet couldn’t have been sure.

A handful of minutes passed with nothing but that pull in his spark growing stronger until finally the heavy sounds of a small group of soldiers approaching were audible.

The crate and a flimsy door were all the defenses between him and Decepticon guns.

Unfortunately, the very thing that gave him advanced warning would lead the hunters right to them. It was only a matter of time and there would be no escape. Megatron knew exactly where he was at this range, just as Ratchet could now pinpoint him.

He could hide neither his own spark’s location nor his fear from seeping into the other end of the bond. The flood of emotion drowned out any incoming information beyond an impending sense of presence. His spark spun wildly in its chamber.

Whatever Megatron wanted, he couldn’t say.

While he doubted Megatron would kill him, too risky, being tossed in a Decepticon prison indefinitely was only a slower version of that.

Maybe he could bargain for Bumblebee’s life and surrender himself instead, allowing Bumblebee to go free in a prisoner exchange or… something. Anything. The poor scout didn’t deserve to suffer for a mistake Ratchet had made so many years ago.

The source of the pull grew closer with every moment before finally stopping in front of the fig leaf of a door.

“Boss, we should check in here.” The sharp voice was familiar. Rumble. The door rattled in its cheap frame as he reached for the latch, probably having to stretch on the tips of his feet to do it. Many buildings hadn’t been constructed with minibots in mind.

What a stupid visual to have before losing absolutely everything, he thought, pulling Bumblebee’s frame protectively close for whatever good it would do. Ratchet would have laughed if it wouldn’t have—

“No.” Firm, calm, final. No room for dissent.

The rattling stopped immediately.

“There’s nothing in there but junk; let’s not waste our time.” Junk? Mild offense bloomed in his chest. “The intruders have likely already gotten what they came for. There’s no point.”

Megatron… lied? Why? Why would he lie? He wasn’t even good at it. Misdirection, sure, but direct counterfactual lying? What would he gain from not capturing two highly valuable Autobots, especially one that who was such a high personal risk as Ratchet?

No answer to those questions came as Ratchet reached out curiously. Only their feelings and senses could brush against each other with how meager the bond was, allowing a significant blind spot as their individual thoughts remained veiled.

Heavy steps retreated from the door, further down one of the warehouse’s aisles if his spark weren’t lying.

Was Megatron trying to… tell him something ? By marching his troops right up to him and then continuing on their way? Capturing him and Bumblebee could have only been easier if they had been wrapped up like gifts with stupid little bows.

The fear in Ratchet’s chest faded with the footsteps, entirely supplanted by utter confusion. The only answer he received was an alien wave of relief.

“It can’t be easy,” Megatron said, looking up at him from the table.

Ratchet didn’t want to talk to him, which Megatron could likely sense. Whether or not he wanted to. The involuntary twisting of their sparks in proximity to each other was difficult to ignore. They hadn’t been this close to each other physically since the original incident.

They were hardly strangers, but they were also hardly friends. “Estranged” wouldn’t apply given that would have meant something had been there before, a fondness. And yet there was a shared intimate knowledge that they had never verbalized… but not a fondness. Not on Ratchet’s side anyway and he couldn’t imagine the feeling being anything but mutual, not that he had ever asked.

If Megatron was hoping to talk about it now that they were alone, in private, he would be sorely disappointed.

Ratchet had nothing to say to him.

A time like this had been what had caused the problem in the first place.

He could still see, in his mind, Megatron on the ground, unconscious and moribund if no treatment were to be provided immediately. Spark badly in need of a jump. No one else around in the aftermath of the battle on an alien world as Ratchet had been searching for survivors, he had done what he had deemed necessary to save a patient. Jumper cables were standard practice, but in the field he made do with the tools he had on hand: his spark.

No words had passed between them back then either. The jump had been coldly clinical: purposefully quick and devoid of pleasure. They had parted ways in complete silence after Megatron had been stabilized.

He didn’t regret saving someone, even if that person was—had been—an enemy. Letting Megatron die there in a ditch would have changed very little in the grand scheme of things; if anything, that would have just made him a martyr. Ratchet had seen how Starscream tried to galvanize the remaining Decepticon forces in the wake of Megatron’s grievous incapacitation—a period of blissful quiet—on Earth.

His oaths to heal didn’t care about whatever badge someone wore. A sentiment he and Flatline shared, a sentiment which sent them to serve on opposite sides of the war.

At least this time Ratchet just needed to weld the idiot on his table back together and ignore the pang of unwanted, aching longing in his chest. And the horrible relief that Megatron wasn’t hurt more.

Megatron continued to stare at him with an uncomfortable intensity.

Apparently he was having the same problem, being pulled along by something he had no say in.

Hell, he had even less say in the situation than Ratchet did.

Ratchet could at least say he had done this to himself , but Megatron… had had this done to him. To save a life, sure, but the unlucky bastard hadn’t chosen to bond or even have his spark jumpstarted. For all Ratchet had known at the time, Megatron had made peace with dying that day.

Yet the faint pressure of confused gratitude when Megatron had become responsive back then had been the first sign of the bond, the first sign of both failure and success.

“I’m reattaching your legs, not rewiring your nervous system.”

Some similar gratitude was present now, a hollow warming sticking in his spark, an unwanted reminder of how they had ended up here.

“You fixing me.” The word “again” remained unspoken. “That can’t be easy.”

Bumblebee may have demanded the “best treatment”—meaning Ratchet, of course—for the hero of the hour… both halves of him, but that didn’t mean Ratchet had to like it. He just had to do his job. Bumblebee hadn’t known; there was no way he could have.

“Following orders, Megatron.”

An uncomfortable pause stretched between them.

“I wanted to be a medic.”

The hum and zap of the welder were the only sounds he wanted to hear right now.

It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the silent outpouring of Megatron’s raw disappointment.

The crowd, a rippling mass of vengeful societal fury, roared around Ratchet as he stood in the stands of the lunar arena as Megatron spoke, his apologetic words obviously written by someone else. There was some truth in them, Ratchet knew from dim emotional reflections, but which parts? He couldn’t say… and he didn’t want to.

A pained chill spread through his spark. Which of them—Megatron or Ratchet—originated the chill was impossible to determine. Maybe that didn’t matter.

Ratchet had long since mentally prepared himself to die. He had already lived a full life. He had originally climbed up into the stands expecting to watch a protracted trial that would do double-duty as his own funeral.

Drift, one of the few people Ratchet had almost considered a friend, had long since gone elsewhere, sent off by Rodimus like a scapegoat bearing all their sins sent off into the wilds. What happened to Ratchet now would be of little consequence.

Whenever Megatron did finally die, whether through individual violence, an accident, or an act of the state, Ratchet had known that he too would almost certainly follow. While the severing of a weak bond was more likely to be survivable, the chances still weren’t good. He had already failed rolling the dice before; no reason to assume he’d come out on top in the future.

If he were to simply… perish, abruptly offlining coincidentally whenever Megatron did, everyone would know what had happened, especially if an autopsy were performed. Perhaps they would have come to the wrong conclusion, of a secret love affair across faction lines… that Ratchet had been a secret traitor. All far more sensational than an accidental, unwanted sparkbond during a live-saving medical procedure.

Even leaving a testament to what happened in his subspace for an autopsy to explain the situation would have done little good. Who would have believed it? It would have looked like an excuse, an attempt to explain away the suspicion, even to those would have vouched for Ratchet’s character.

He had long ago simply accepted that there was no good outcome.

So when Megatron had been put on trial on Luna-2 for his crimes, Ratchet had tidied his things and cleared his calendar so that he wouldn’t be in the middle of anything important, like an operation in the near future, not that the Lost Light would be going anywhere for some time. He had prepared paperwork transferring his position to First Aid so that everything would be as smooth as possible.

Ratchet, who had, in a muted way, felt every single one of Megatron’s injuries for the past hundred thousand year, had wondered what it would be like to feel someone die…. Or would he too be gone before he could even know?

There was no way the kangaroo court—“military tribunal”—wouldn’t find Megatron guilty and sentence him to death, he had told himself. Even a reasonable court would come to the same conclusion. At least, he had thought, he would have gotten to plan around the end of his life rather than have it come upon him unexpectedly.

Yet… as mechs screamed in utter outrage all around him, the trial was being set aside, on a technicality.

Neither of them would be dying, not yet anyway.

It took all Ratchet’s composure to remain still amongst the roiling spectators rather than throw the nearest object at Megatron’s helmeted head.

Megatron, ending his compelled pronouncement, announced that he would be joining the Lost Light on its mad quest. And the bastard didn’t even have the bolts to look at him while he said it.

Ratchet, for the first time, flooded their pitiful connection with static and disappointment.

“Captain,” Ratchet said, not looking up from his work organizing supplies in medical bay’s cabinets. First Aid hadn’t asked him to, but a little after hours tidying would keep him busy. Or so he had thought.

Apparently not busy enough.

He didn’t need to look to know who had just walked into the otherwise empty medical bay.

His own personal hell had come to pay him a visit. Who needed a sleep paralysis demon?

Megatron joining the ship a few weeks ago had given him significantly more practice at nonverbally telling the idiot where exactly he could stuff it. Not that it had stopped Megatron from just going wherever he wanted to anyway.

At a range as close as sharing a ship, even their weak bond let Ratchet pinpoint Megatron’s location, whether he wanted to or not.

The steps stopped several paces behind him, an oddly respectful distance. No hint of resentment in their shared link, just an awkward, perhaps embarrassed warmth.

They would be putting a stop to that right now.

Ratchet let a frosty annoyance saturate his end of the bond before Megatron could even get a word in edgewise.

He could feel Megatron tensing behind him at being so intimately brushed aside.

“Ratchet.”

He didn’t turn around; keeping his back to Megatron felt safer, his spark more difficult to physically access. Not that he thought Megatron would do anything. There would have been tells of some kind, even through the inexpertly blocked bond, if the big idiot intended any harm.

If Ratchet kept that wall of ice emotional ice up, perhaps he could ignore the heavy remorse seeping in from the other side. Blocking Megatron out ached, as though his own spark were protesting against pushing its bondmate—unwanted or not—away. His spark couldn’t tell the difference between an accidental link or one of the truest intent; perhaps there wasn’t one. Perhaps on that level, it was all the same.

“Well, you haven’t hurt yourself.” He would have known. “So, what do you want?”

Maybe if he played along, kept it professional, Megatron would just… leave. Go somewhere else. Bother someone else. Ratchet didn’t want to think about how that mean-spirited wish was the opposite of what his spark craved.

“I thought it would be wise to… address the situation since we’ll… be here.” As opposed to being flung apart on opposite sides of the galaxy, of course.

How diplomatic. Ratchet didn’t have to be.

All Megatron had done with getting stationed here was forestall the inevitable, putting them both on borrowed time, borrowed time Ratchet had no intention of wasting with talking about an old mistake.

“There’s no situation to address,” he lied, stalwartly keeping his back to his visitor as they stewed in their shared disappointment.

Ratchet hadn’t told Drift about the bond; he couldn’t bring himself to. Not when he had abandoned the Lost Light to find his lost friend, not when they had returned triumphantly to help save the day, and not when they continued to chase Cyberutopia at Rodimus’s purple behest even when Megatron had escaped.

He trusted Drift with more than he had ever trusted anyone else before, but….

Not that it mattered now. Ratchet’s spark was once more alone.

Megatron had been left behind in another universe. A bond apparently couldn’t reach across that sort of divide, not such a weak bond anyway.

It wasn’t severed, no…. The edges of the connection didn’t feel ragged and painful to the proverbial touch, something that the rare survivors of a bondmate’s death had consistently reported.

Rather, it slept. He had reached out to test it but no response, like a frequency still in service though the user had stepped away.

It was a strange, empty loneliness.

Even when Megatron had been sealed in one of Wheeljack’s insane contraptions, he had still been there, exuding a quiet, seething fury in the background.

It had been easier to ignore the void with his and Drift’s return to the Lost Light. There was too much to do, everything happening so fast and all at once… and Drift was there. He was strange and ridiculous… and grounding.

Now, as Ratchet faced down an old friend, an old enemy, at what felt like the universe ending all over again with Drift at his side, the comatose link, quiet for weeks, bloomed to life.

A cruel joke of fate.

A distant sense of familiar hot anger mixed with soft relief reached out towards him, but why? Why should Megatron feel relieved? Here, where only death awaited them both—

Guns fired. Ratchet shouted. The glass wall behind them shattered. Drift, with a hole in his chest, was sucked out of the vessel.

On reflex, he flooded the bond with his helpless, despair, unable to follow, unable to do anything worthwhile to save Drift as he was lost to space.

All he could do… was keep talking to a facsimile of Pharma, of "Adaptus.” Of… something wearing his old friend’s body. Now was the only thing he could cling to.

In his chest, while he watched Rodimus further provoke hostilities, he could sense Megatron doing… something while what felt like ages pass as purported “gods” played their hands.

White armor on the ground. A welder. Drift, moving. Warm words. A distant, shared relief.

Ratchet slammed the door to the captain’s office shut, trapping Megatron inside with him.

He surely had sensed Ratchet’s approach, but perhaps didn’t know why. Even Ratchet himself couldn’t untangle the web of interwoven emotions weighing on his spark; how could he expect Megatron to?

The poor bastard sat at his desk, blinking at him curiously, a little as though he weren’t sure if the metaphorical ticking object before him were a clock or a bomb.

“You saved him,” Ratchet said, with all the finality of delivering an ill-fated diagnosis as he stood in front of the door.

It wasn’t entirely shocking that Megatron had done so, given Ratchet had seen the fool try to save lives.

What was shocking was the how.

Before he had been lost across the divide between universes, he had made those attempts through tactics, not medicine . Something had changed in him; whatever it was had amplified while they had been apart.

“He was a patient.”

That itself would normally have been explanation enough. Ratchet would have understood. It was how they had ended up here in the first place.

Ratchet crossed his arms.

“Since when do you have patients, Captain?”

Megatron continued to blink at him, radiating a faint, fond warmth across their bond, like it was a stupid question to have asked. Truth be told, it was—or at least it had been redundant. Ratchet had asked as though he didn’t already know the answer.

“As I said in my report, I was gone for centuries.”

He had read that report, yes, even if he hadn’t been supposed to since he had surrendered his post as CMO to First Aid. Truly retiring was difficult. Especially when higher ups forgot to revoke his access.

He nodded, still keeping his arms crossed. He still felt less exposed with his arms between his spark and Megatron. Not that he was in any danger. Megatron had never—since their accidental bonding anyway—raised a hand to him or gave off any indication that he would want revenge for what Ratchet had done so long ago. There had never even been a hint of resentment flung his way.

If, anything, it seemed to him that Megatron had accepted their link, perhaps cherished it even long before Ratchet had even been willing to acknowledge it, but the nuances were hard to distinguish with a bond so weak, so old, and so unreinforced.

The warmth was inviting; his spark ached to respond to it in kind.

“You saved Drift,” Ratchet clarified. They both knew full well what Drift meant to Ratchet.

Now they had all disappeared into yet another universe themselves where that could still matter. Would wonders ever cease? Would the Ratchet who had stayed behind even have this conversation or would he have simply left the loose ends to dangle until execution day?

Megatron’s mouth pulled a little awkwardly to the side, like he was trying and failing to smile without it being a smirk. Points for the attempt.

“I must admit, you’ve been quite the bad influence on me over the years, doctor.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, cautiously unfolding his arms as he approached the desk, “I’ve committed the unforgivable sin of nefariously tempting you into practicing medicine.”

He had rarely ever come this close to Megatron outside of actively repairing him. This time there wasn’t anything requiring his focus to distract him from the involuntary spinning in his spark, a spinning that no longer terrified him.

“As though you didn’t already want to do that.” He hadn’t forgotten what Megatron had told him in confidence on the operating table.

Though being bonded to Ratchet for ages probably hadn’t lessened that desire in any way.

He walked around the side of the desk.

“That component wasn’t pertinent to the discussion—”

“Shut up.”

Ratchet wrapped his arms around the fool’s chest—or what he could reach while Megatron was seated anyway—and pulled him into a rough, awkward embrace, finally satisfying his spark’s long-neglected need to be close.

“Thank you.”