Cyborg (5)

[quidamling]

Title: Cyborg: Reunion
'Verse: cubicality  's Machine-verse, with warps and reflections.
Characters / Pairings: Ironhide/Ratchet, a nameless tech.
Summary: Once was lost, now am found...
Rating: R, some medical abuse and a mild swear.
Warnings: Crazy technical/medical ramblings on my part.  Angst/comfort.
AN: Based the symptoms on benzodiazapines, actual scary stuffs.

Disclaimer: No, I am poor, don't own anything. I just push them around into situations I find amusing. They belong to Hasbro/Dreamworks/rich people.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door shifted closed and the two cyborgs stared at each other, but each looking lost in their own way.  One pair of almost sleepy-looking blue eyes locked onto a pair colored ever so slightly brighter.

Black mechanics scrabbled and managed to get beneath muscle and bone enough that the cyborg on the floor stood.  He put off rubbing at his chaffed wrists and shifted into a ready stance despite being a little shaky.  The new arrival watched and shifted away from the door, circling the darker figure.

Ironhide was moving on instinct, mirroring motion.  His body was still rebelling from recently coming around, leaving his mind and processors foggy, and his spark was screaming in his chest.  Something about the other being.  Echoes of shapes and a color not found in nature either on Earth or Cybertron.

Ratchet narrowed his eyes at the figure he had been dumped in with, noted the body language, the movements; unsteady, most likely due to the drugs the staff had mentioned, but still surprisingly smooth.  Familiar.  Black armor slinking through the dimmed light in the cell.  Messages about the other scrolled across his HUD, medical subroutines kicking in despite the tension.  A few issues were immediately flagged, dehydration and symptoms of chemical withdrawal.  Then Ratchet realized they were moving slightly closer as they circled each other, and he was panting in time with the ragged breathing of the other. 

Ratchet stopped and cocked a hip.  Black and angry and difficult.  Ironhide froze and started at that pensive expression.  Analysis despite a tense situation, and that stance. 

And a flicker of a presence in their sparkbond that they had each been lacking. 

They both questioningly murmured the other’s designation and stepped to close the gap.  Hands reached for the ache that they had been feeling and knew their mate had been subjected to as well.  The moment fingertips met skin and cloth, the bond surged back to vibrancy.  Rocking them both as much as the moment it was originally forged.

Ironhide gasped.  He’d heard them.  Heard the teamers say that Ratchet hadn’t made it.  But here he had confirmation. 

Because they can’t fake that.  If they had changed or damaged their sparks in any way, they would simply not be Ratchet or Ironhide.  Of course, copied memories could be there, factual information.  Memory chips would hold the content, what occurred, when, whom was present.  But the spark held all that made a mech him.

His spark made the information Ironhide’s; made them his memories, with the reactions, the emotional implications of the events.  Without his spark he would not have the pride of having once been the Head of Optimus Prime’s Guard, feel that deep unabashed loathing for all things Decepticon, or so desperately missed that spiky spitfire love that he shared with Ratchet.

If the sparkbond resonated again, it could not be an imposter.  Hummer and TopKick had been reunited. If not in frame, in mind and spark.

“Ra-Ratch…” he slid his arms up and around Ratchet’s shoulders. 

The medic made a soft hum and brought his hands to Ironhide’s hips, chin tilted up a fraction to look at him. 

“They said, I heard them say… you were deactivated…” ‘Hide choked out.  He stared hard at that unfamiliar face; the form that now held such a familiar essence.  The weapons specialist memorized new angles, set beneath a neat crown of medium length reddish hair.  Learned the lines of the nose and jaw, followed along cheekbones.  Eyes roamed over the planes of the brow, looked into proud, piercing blue eyes that glowed faintly with enhancements.  Ironhide noted fins similar to his own along Ratchet’s temples, but chartreuse instead of black, smaller and two squared off blades.  The human ear still visible.  Metal implants curling up over each side of the medic’s jaw, reminiscent of corresponding pieces that ‘Hide’s lip components knew so well in mech form. 

“Mmm.  It was dark.  Dark and silent for so long.”  Ratchet, always tactile, started to draw a hand away from the weapons specialist’s waist and then paused, sensing something at the small of his back.  Fingers, not so finely tuned as the CMO Hummer’s, but still capable beyond that of even the most sensitive human, traced a nigh imperceptible raised marking.  A brand.  Eyes flicked to Ironhide’s, flashed amusement when he recognized the insignia that his fingertips traced.  ‘Hide was still marked as an Autobot, even in this form.  Pulled his hand away and ghosted fingertips over abdomen, chest, neck, up along a jaw-line decorated with dark stubble.  Along the temple, and through the short military cut of black hair, then down over brow and nose.  Ratchet’s fingers touched lips momentarily; he looked shocked, then pleased by the gasp it drew from ‘Hide.  Then the medic moved his hand on to a round component that obscured any semblance of a human ear.  His fingers traced up the broad, sweeping black fin, finding that the action trailed static.  The heat and charge made Ironhide twitch his head like a skittish horse.  Even in this utterly backwards situation, Ratchet found a bare hint of a cheeky grin to thank his bonded.  “Nevermind.  You know.”

They pulled slowly together, a tender embrace for isolation ended.  With contact their bond was pure and clear.  Each felt whispers of elation from the other, no longer alone, their mate once again at their side. 

Things were entirely wrong.  How had this been done to them?  Why had this been done to them?  A preponderance of questions and not an answer in sight, but at least they were still together.   

“Never been so… Ratch.”  Ironhide rubbed his cheekbone along Ratchet’s temple while drawing a stuttering breath.  Terrified, not in any time in the war had he been so scared.  Not when he had stood outnumbered by Seekers, or stared down Megatron, because Ratchet had always been beside him.  Not when he had lain broken on any number of distant battlefields, feeling his energon draining from shattered systems.  Not while he started to seriously entertain the notion that he was going to deactivate, because each time Ratchet had found him and dragged him back from the brink.  But if he lost Ratchet, that scared him more than his own demise.

“Very endearing,” Ratchet snipped, “I’m stubborn enough to keep up with you, stubborn enough not to be deactivated easily.”  He tucked his head into that spot he knew so well as a mech, just between Ironhide’s shoulder and neck.  It was different; soft flesh and hard muscle and warm, with ‘Hide’s pulse fluttering against his temple.  One thing was the same.  It still felt like the space was made for him.

Ratchet was calmed, curling into the familiar steady presence of Ironhide’s spark.  If he blanked it out, he could almost imagine it was just the two of them in their holoforms.  They were still for a few minutes, the medic’s hand had found its way to one of his favorite spots at the back of ‘Hide’s neck.  The taller man shivered, and Ratch chuckled.  Fingertips trailed up to the hairline at the base of his skull, but then the medic froze. 

The skin beneath his hands felt clammy and chilled.  The redhead snapped his gaze up to his mate, and chemical signals raced through his body when he saw Ironhide’s expression.  Eyes closed, jaw clenched as ‘Hide fought to restrain the shivers quickly turning to quaking.  Ratchet’s HUD screamed to the forefront; Ironhide’s temperature had spiked, but he wasn’t sweating.  The soldier slumped against Ratch, and was slipping into borderline convulsions.

“You misclocked scrapheap!” Ratchet barked.  “Why didn’t you say anything?  You and your damn stoic streak!  Fraggit!”

Ironhide mumbled something mostly incoherent and let Ratchet duck under his arm to guide, eventually drag, him to the bed along the wall.  Normally, the soldier found the soft squishy cushioning preferred by the humans to be awkward, but when he flopped onto the mattress in the throes of muscle spasms, he appreciated it. 

While the weapons specialist curled into a ball, the medic glanced around.  The room was similar enough to the one he used to inhabit.  Which meant that there should be a sink, and once located, Ratch went over, found a glass and returned to the bed.  He sat by Ironhide’s head and put a hand on his back.  Muscles jumped beneath the skin, and he could feel the veteran’s racing heartbeat.  Ratchet pulled his bonded’s head into his lap, and lifted his chest enough to get the glass to his lips without dumping it on him.

“Come on, idiot.  You’re dehydrated.  That body is 60 percent water.  You need it.”

‘Hide choked down about half of the glass without comment or a fight.  Unfortunately, that cooperative streak did little to comfort Ratchet as to Ironhide’s condition.

~~~~~~~~~

Ratchet swiped the tray from the blubbering man in white, secretly glad that even as a humanoid, he could still intimidate the spark out of someone.  He slammed it down onto a tabletop just beside the door and stomped to stand just mere centimeters in front of the teamer.  The quailing human in front of him did little to curb the medic’s tirade.

“What have you been giving him!?” the medic snapped, pointing back at Ironhide curled and panting on the bed.  “How often?  Dosages?  Someone said he had been sedated.  Do you realize that he is exhibiting classic symptoms of chemical dependency and withdrawal?  Whose authority is he under?”

Wide hazel eyes desperately tried to escape the blues glowing furiously at them.  “We, uh, were given authorization to use sedation when he got unruly.”

“Fraggit!  If Ironhide were drugged every time he was belligerent he should be dead!  My optics function, I scanned his arms.  You were damned needle-happy.  How many times did you put him under?  Was it easier to simply put him in stasis… force him unconscious?  Unwilling to get off your collective afts and actually deal with it?  Did you even have a medic- a doctor supervising your little games?” Ratchet hollered, ramming a finger into the man’s chest.  “The idiocy of-”

“Ratch…” the gravelly murmur from the bed paused the incensed rant.  Ratchet turned to meet Ironhide’s eyes; unfocused, tight with pain and blinking against the light.  “A-appre-ciate you com-ming to my… defense,” he panted, “but yell quieter… or shut… the frag up.”

This was all the distraction that the chastised teamer required and he slunk out the door.  Ratch narrowed his eyes at his bonded and spun back just in time to have the door hiss closed in his face.  He made a feral snarl and hissed back.  “Pit-spawned, cowardly little scraplet.”

“You… tell that- door,” the weapons specialist grunted softly.

“Mute it.”  He huffed a final time at the door the other had retreated through, then grabbed the tray of food and went to sit on the bed.  Ratchet pulled at some bread and popped the piece in his mouth.  “Come on, old mech, your blood sugar is low.  Glucose and carbohydrates should help your symptoms.”

 ‘Hide lay on his side with his knees drawn towards his chest.  He buried his face in the nest created by his forearms; the lights in the room were positively intolerable. “Eurgh… Ratch…” his hand twitched while he tried to push the offending food away.  “I ate… ten hours… fine.” 

“Boltbucket,” the medic snipped, with less bite than the word implied.  “You never paid attention to your Captain Lennox or Bee’s Sam?  Try five to six hours.  Maybe ten while sleeping.”

“Always… been sp-ecial.”

“You’ve always been an idiot.”

‘Hide groaned through another round of shakes.  Ratchet adjusted the blanket over the weapons specialist and stroked his back, hating the fact that he was trapped fairly helpless to do anything to ease the soldier’s symptoms.  Ripping off another portion of bread, he nudged and held it to his mate, but Ironhide recoiled.  Huffing, Ratchet just rapped on ‘Hide’s cranium and popped the morsel into his own mouth.  He chewed pensively, then paused and swallowed.

“Alright, ‘Hide.”  Ratchet shifted and scooted himself under the other man’s chest, forcing him almost upright against his own torso.

“Ratch.”  The complaint fell short, the heat from another body felt good and helped regulate his own temperature.  So he let Ratchet hold him to his chest.  His head still hung down and his eyes remained clamped shut, but he was semi-vertical.

‘Hide didn’t notice Ratchet grab some bread and a little bit of meat and slip it in his mouth.  The medic chewed, then tipped up the other cyborg’s chin and kissed him.

The soldier tensed, startled by the sudden gesture from his mate.  He blinked and realized the ruse when Ratchet coaxed his mouth open, and passed him a morsel of food.  Ironhide grunted and tried to break the contact, but the medic wouldn’t let him.  Caught, he swallowed, and only then did Ratchet let him pull away. 

Ratch had a delightfully smug expression all across his face.

“Sneaky fragger.” Ironhide grumbled and his head dropped back to Ratchet’s shoulder.

~~~~~~~~~

“Ratch…” Ironhide woke and curled reflexively, fighting the shudders wracking through his body.

“Easy, ‘Hide.  You’re fine.  And you wouldn’t be in this mess if you could have actually behaved.”  The red-headed cyborg snipped while cradling his bondmate to his chest. 

Ratchet snipped something about human idiocy for the umpteenth time.  He was not used to this.  Ironhide’s symptoms had continued to develop for the better part of two weeks. The concept of ‘Illness’ was decidedly foreign, alien even, to any Cybertronian.  Programming could develop glitches over time or be infected with viruses.  Glitches could be reprogrammed, viruses wiped and coding rewritten.  Then, considering that this was Ironhide, Ratchet was most used to dealing with damage inflicted on him in battle.  Oddly, mechanical injury was sometimes the most straightforward to deal with.  The physical destruction of the frame was rarely the issue of most concern; it was usually secondary problems that were the true dangers.  Energon loss could lead to processor and systems shutdowns; damage to coolant systems would result in overheating and could corrupt memory; processor disconnects robbed the mech of control over his own systems.  Most frightening, was damage to the sparkchamber, associated support circuits or the spark itself; that damage had the capacity to rob a mech of his very essence.  But barring that very small subset of parts, all systems could be repaired or replaced.  What little the medic was unable to fix, self-repair could manage given energon and time, with what an organic would consider astounding speed. 

Their organic bodies had been melded with Cybertronian mechanics and technology.  As much as Ratchet hated the step back from his mechanoid being, back to the wall, the former-Hummer would admit that for a human, reaching their Cyborg state would be an astronomical leap forward.  His and Ironhide’s senses were multiple times more sensitive than a person’s.  Their immune and healing systems were also far advanced beyond anything the average Joe could ever dream of.  The sole glitch that kept Ironhide from the imperviousness that his enhanced body should have been endowed with, was the reckless use of drugs specifically designed to side-step their advanced healing capabilities.  The last that any of the thrice accursed teamers wanted was for an angry, belligerent Ironhide-cyborg to wake up while they were still working.  It was only drugs and restraints that kept their fragile, wholly human, bodies safe from the significantly more capable being that their scientists had created.

Drug withdrawal or not, Ironhide couldn’t stay sick forever, the medic reminded himself.  They lay under the blankets, while Ratchet felt like he was cooking and wished that he still retained his mech coolant systems.  Unfortunately, in his current state the former weapons specialist could not regulate his body temperature, so the medic quietly dealt with the discomfort and in turn comforted the more solid-looking soldier.  He kissed the slightly clammy brow, tucked against his neck in a reversal of their usual positions and ran his hand softly through short dark hair, barely brushing the black fins until Ironhide slipped back into an uneasy sleep.