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He didn't recognize him.
The toothy, rotating, sectional throat and sharp fangs were a little too reminiscent of scraplets and also too close to his face. He could feel his spark pounding against the immense pressure on his throat from the tentacle. Yet somehow that wasn't the most terrifying part. The wild, primal look in Wheeljack's optics was the only thing Ratchet could focus on. There wasn't a hint of recognition anywhere on his face. Wheeljack didn't know who he was, and he was going to kill him.
The medic clawed feebly at whatever he could reach on the tentacles pinning his arms to the door, gasping weakly as the limb around his throat coiled tighter, strangling anything he could have said. He stared into the whirling mess of blades that was his comrade's maw, tensing for the inevitable.
And then Wheeljack's optics widened and he let him go, jaw snapping shut.
Ratchet slid to the floor as the tentacles released him, staticky coughs escaping him as his vocoder recalibrated. He touched his sore throat, feeling the long, thin cut the blade had left behind, the slick dribble of energon, and the chafing the rough, constricting metal had caused. He looked up slowly, making out Wheeljack's terrible, writhing silhouette in the dark.
The Wrecker’s optics were wide and filled with the same horror that filled him. He took a few steps back, mouth opened and closing a few times as he struggled for words. “Ratchet- no, listen, I would never- I would never-” He stumbled back even further, striking the back wall, and slid down it. “Primus…” He pressed his hands to his face, and the tentacles wound around him like an impenetrable fortress.
Ratchet stared at him, hand still pressed to his neck, his spark beating so hard it felt like it was clenched in a tightening fist. His plating was still hot with fear, but a different sort of heat flared through it, the kind that came with fury. Shaking slightly, he managed to lift himself off the floor, bracing a hand against the wall. “What are you?”
Wheeljack - or the thing pretending to be Wheeljack - flinched at his words. “I don’t know,” he said in a voice so soft, so cracked and less firm than his usual cocky tone, that a good deal of Ratchet’s defensive anger dissipated like smoke. Against his better judgment, he began to approach, watching the range on the Wrecker’s limbs and gauging how close each tentative pedestep brought him.
He could faintly see his optics between his splayed fingers, pupils constricted unnaturally in a frozen sort of terror. Even from this distance he was beginning to feel the heat emanating off of him, signifying his vents had sealed shut in his panic. Between this and his injuries, his systems needed that cooling desperately, but…
“I didn’t,” Wheeljack whispered raggedly, more to himself than Ratchet. “I didn’t mean-” His throat constricted, cutting him off with a soft buzzing noise that set the medic’s teeth on edge. His plating rattled, and the tentacles slowly curled tighter around him.
Ratchet knelt down very slowly, tilting his head to keep an eye on the Wrecker’s optics. “Wheeljack,” he said, his voice cool and firm but not unkind. Those stilted pupils snapped to his, and he realized he wasn’t quite sure what to do next. He wanted- needed answers, but Wheeljack was in no condition to talk.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” he said carefully. “And I’m not going to hurt you.”
That didn't seem to do very much, which honestly, he had expected. Logic didn't do much against terror. And whether this was Wheeljack or not, he wasn't faking this reaction. No one was that good of an actor. Ratchet slowly moved a hand forward, palm up. “It's my job to help you,” he said quietly. “If you will allow me.”
He didn't touch him - he had learned his lesson when it came to that - but he did move his hand close enough that Wheeljack could take it if he wanted to. After a long enough period that his servo was beginning to cramp, weight dropped into his offered palm.
It was not a hand. It was one of the tentacles, and Ratchet fought back a flinch as it curled around his wrist and forearm. This time, it didn't constrict, merely holding onto him.
Not what he had expected, but this was a good sign. Hopefully.
Another long, silent pause passed between them. “Why are you still here?” Wheeljack finally asked, his voice ragged.
“You’re injured,” Ratchet said.
“I tried to eat your face,” the Wrecker countered flatly.
“Accidentally,” Ratchet replied. “Or so I hope.” He paused awkwardly. “I’d like to take a look at your wounds when you’re ready. It doesn’t have to be now, or even soon. Just…” How did Optimus usually handle this? “...Keep me updated.”
Wheeljack nodded, hands drifting away from his face to settle on his knees, curling inward. His eyes flicked to the thin cut across Ratchet’s throat. “I…” His voice caught slightly. “I didn’t mean to- I’m not one of them, Do- Ratchet, honest.”
____________
The medic’s expression was unreadable. Did he believe him? Ratchet nodded after a moment, but his silence spoke volumes. Wheeljack tightened the grip he had on his arm reflexively as he started to move, desperate. “I’m not. I swear. I’m with you.”
Ratchet tensed, and he immediately loosened up again, allowing him to pull away if he wanted. The medic sighed softly, fingers twitching in his coils. “...I can believe you, I think. But are you…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Are you Wheeljack? Or are you someone - something - else?”
The Wrecker pressed his lips together, eyes flicking away. “...I’m Wheeljack.” He could see the curiosity in the medic’s optics.
But he didn’t ask. “You don’t have to explain,” he said after a pause. “If we’re done here, I should-”
“I’m ready,” Wheeljack interjected. He couldn’t let him leave yet. Not until he knew he wouldn’t tell the others.
Ratchet blinked in surprise, but then nodded. Wheeljack lowered his knees, unsteadily moving all of his limbs out of the way so the medic could get to his wounds. But when he flinched at the sound of the welder, he looked up at him. “Are you sure?”
“I can take it,” Wheeljack hissed through his teeth.
“No, you can’t,” Ratchet said, settling back on his heels. “I told you to wait until you were ready. What-” He paused, softening his tone. “What is it?”
Wheeljack stared at him, weighing whether or not he should answer truthfully. But if he wasn’t buying it… “You can’t tell anyone,” he said helplessly.
“Patient confidentiality,” the medic reminded.
Was he serious? Wheeljack stared at him, and his disbelief must have been visible on his face, because Ratchet sighed and set a tentative, slightly awkward hand on his shoulder. “I take my duties seriously. And besides… I don’t think this would change the team’s opinion of you.” He snorted quietly. “Miko would probably think even more highly of you, if anything.”
It was easy for him to say, but he did know most of the team a lot better than him. Ratchet was searching his eyes again. “If you don’t want me to leave quite yet, may I ask some questions?”
“Shoot.” The Wrecker settled his servos on his knees, a wave of exhaustion crashing over him.
Ratchet pressed a fist over his mouth, trying to decide on a question. “Do these… er, modifications? Do they get damaged often?”
“No,” Wheeljack said, mildly surprised.
“And the compartments they retract into?” Ratchet asked.
How would those even get damaged? “No,” he said again, and then turned to the side to show him. The medic leaned over, and immediately shook his head.
“That’s not ‘not damaged’, Wheeljack,” he practically scolded. He moved closer, and then paused. “May I?”
Wheeljack peered over his shoulder. Ratchet’s servos were hovering at the base of his tentacles, by the panels they protruded from. “...I guess.”
Warm digits curled around the thick limbs, and Wheeljack twitched in surprise. He was the only one who had touched those in a long, long time. Ratchet pressed down lightly and his shoulders loosened subconsciously as a spot of soreness he hadn’t noticed until now vanished. “I’ve rarely seen chafing this bad,” Ratchet muttered, ducking his head to peer at the paneling. “How do they even fit..? How long do you keep these folded in?” He met Wheeljack’s eyes. “...Stupid question, I suppose, if no one else knows.”
His touch was much different from Shockwave’s. His digits weren’t practically talons, for one thing, and he was as gentle as he was precise. Even when handling the blade that had almost slit his throat, he was careful in a way that lacked Shockwave’s apathetic curiosity. “There’s not much I can do at the moment without proper tools, but I’m surprised you never came to me for back pain,” Ratchet said, finally sitting back.
“What would I have said?” Wheeljack asked dryly. “‘Hey, Doc, I got turned into a sadist’s science fair project’- Miko told me about that, nice ion volcano by the way-” The medic turned slightly blue, mouth dropping open in insult and annoyance. “-’and now I have to fit eighty feet of metal spaghetti in my chassis along with the rest of my insides?’”
When he glanced back at Ratchet’s face, he was surprised to see the annoyed look replaced by something a lot more haunted. “Shockwave?” he asked softly.
Wheeljack looked away again, swallowing hard. “...Yup.”
“Arcee…” Ratchet faltered. “If it helps, he’s-”
“No,” he said, more forcefully than he meant. His tentacles coiled around him again. “The fragger lived.”
“Oh,” Ratchet said, optics widening in horror and realization. “Oh, Wheeljack…”
“And now he’s got some new favorite pet,” he said, with a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Sent it after me, of course-” The realization that he hadn’t wanted the others hit him like a blaster shot to the gut, forcing out a gasp. “We can’t go back to Darkmount-”
Ratchet clasped his shoulders. “Wheeljack, breathe. You’re not circulating enough to keep yourself cool. We’re not going anywhere.” The “right now” went unsaid.
Panicking wouldn’t help anyone right now. The Wrecker allowed himself to take the servo offered to him, squeezing it between both of his own. It was easier to slow his spark to something bearable this time. “I’m not gonna be his pet monster again,” he muttered to himself.
Ratchet returned the squeeze. “We won’t let anything happen to you. I know you’re used to working alone, but…” He struggled for words. Not great at the feelings thing, apparently. Wheeljack could relate. “There is safety in numbers. Especially among friends.”
Friends. Wheeljack glanced up at him, at the open cut on his neck. “How do you know you can trust me?”
“You almost died for us,” the medic said. His gaze had gotten a lot more intense. “If you hadn’t been there when the Decepticons attacked the base, we would have lost more than-” He cut himself off with a sharp breath, and briefly closed his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was a lot quieter. “It seems like you have some unusual instincts. If you are ever comfortable with telling me about them, you may. But you have proved to me that you are an Autobot through and through.”
Wheeljack gave him a grateful nod. “...Sorry about the neck.”
“I’ve had worse,” Ratchet said. “From allies as well as enemies.” He straightened, slowly releasing his hands. “Take some time to recuperate. I will repair you when you’re ready.” He walked to the door and eased it open, checking that the hallway was empty, and then stepped out. “We will be alright, Wheeljack.” It sounded like the medic was saying it to himself as much as to him.
“Call me Jackie,” he called after him before he could close the door. “All my friends call me Jackie.”
He could swear he saw Ratchet smile slightly as he closed the door. “We’ll be alright, Jackie.”