Chapter Text
The silence in those woods was so profound, it was almost deafening.
Nothing moved, save for the large snowflakes drifting lazily through the air before settling delicately on the ground.
Ratchet walked with difficulty, lifting one pede after the other through that sea of white -as soft as it was treacherous- leaning heavily on the stick he gripped in one servo. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, though a few flakes still managed to slip beneath the edge of his hood, melting coldly against the tip of his nose.
If someone had asked him to describe a truly hostile environment, he would have spoken without hesitation of these white mountains, not for the risk of losing one's way in the endless, identical woods, nor for the exhausting climbs and descents, but for the constant, unbearable feeling of being soaked and frozen to the core.
Though the young healer deeply disliked the harsh climate he had been exiled to, he had come to appreciate the solitude these mountains offered. With no one around for miles, peace reigned. He could focus on his studies, answer only to himself, and live according to his own pace and needs.
His mentor had sent him away from civilization for that very reason: so he could learn to survive on his own, to forage for ingredients in the wild, and to grow as a healer without the comfort of relying on anyone else.
Slowly, Ratchet pushed the stick into the snow ahead of him, testing the ground for roots or hidden cracks as he made his way along the slope, leaving behind the forest of bare trees.
He stopped for a moment, turning to gaze back at the multitude of dark trunks, their branches heavy with soft mounds of snow. In the distance, the narrow valley came into view, carved by the winding river that ran through it like a silver ribbon. That same river, if followed for a full cycle, would eventually lead to the village Ratchet had left behind for this self-imposed hermitage.
He didn’t miss the village. Aside from a handful of friends, he had left behind no deep attachments. So, when the time came to depart, he had done so with a light spark and a sense of purpose, ready to walk the path between himself and nature.
Ratchet had been confused at first.
“Master Medan, why are you exiling me to the mountains if I’m supposed to learn how to heal others?” he had asked, trying to keep the disappointment from seeping into his voice.
“Because, young Ratchet, the wind whispers its secrets to those who listen. The earth reveals its treasures to those who observe, and the cold of the mountains strengthens both your servos and your spark.”
Sitting among the dusty datapads, Ratchet hadn’t truly understood what his mentor meant.
And even now, out here in the snow, surrounded by a blanket of white silence, the meaning still wasn’t entirely clear.
He could glimpse the wisdom behind the words -like light filtering through dulled optics- but he knew he still had a long road ahead before he could fully grasp them.
Step by step, Ratchet trudged through the snow, leaving behind a trail of footprints that the next snowfall would soon erase. Nothing would remain of his passage.
There was something poetic in that muffled quiet, Ratchet had to admit. Perhaps, on the cycle he died, he wouldn’t mind being here, laid out on that endless white, optics turned toward the leaden sky, toward Primus.
It was ironic for a healer’s apprentice to daydream about his own death, but death, too, was part of life, as Medan had taught him.
Every spark enters the world kicking and screaming; the least one could hope for was to leave it in peace.
Ratchet continued on in silence. The snow-capped mountain and the biting cold were no place for words.
In the green woods, along the hills, beside the rivers, one could speak, hum, even sing, but up here, silence was sacred. It was a pact between the harsh peaks and the young mech.
Even when something pink and glistening caught his optic amidst the snow; he did not make a sound.
He bent down, one servo gripping his staff for balance, the other reaching to examine the strange shimmer. The hue, the viscosity, the faint metallic scent; he recognized it instantly. Energon. Freshly spilled from a wound.
A chill raced up his back struts, sharper than the mountain wind.
Only now did his processor catch up to what his optics had seen. He stumbled back, nearly slipping on the icy ground, clutching the staff to steady himself.
He looked up, following the thin trail of pink as far as his optics allowed, though the slope ahead was steep and jagged, obstructing his view. Still, he could not ignore what he’d found.
His healer’s oath wouldn’t allow it, and neither would his curiosity.
Tightening the strap of the pouch tied around his waist, securing the roots he had gathered earlier, Ratchet took a deep vent and pressed on.
The snow slowed him, but he followed the trail dutifully, guided by streaks the color of a sunset he had almost forgotten since the cycle he had left the valley.
Some splotches were more prominent, splashed across a boulder not yet buried by snow, or smeared across the bark of a fallen tree. Likely places where the injured mech had stopped to rest, just long enough to gather the strength to continue climbing.
Whoever had embarked on that punishing ascent must have been desperate.
Had they been attacked by cyberwolves? Or slipped and torn themselves open on jagged stone?
Whatever had happened, they were clearly in dire condition, and with each new drop of energon, Ratchet's hope of finding them alive dwindled.
But the real question lingered: why continue climbing despite the wound? Why not descend into the valley, where the terrain was safer and the chances of rescue were far greater?
Suddenly, something brushed against Ratchet's audials. He stopped, straining to catch the wind-borne murmur. Faint, barely audible, yet unmistakably there. The sound of life. Of a desperate struggle to escape death.
Ratchet quickened his pace. It was close; he could feel it.
And then, finally, he saw it; a black frame sprawled in that endless white.
Large, imposing. The thick armor spoke of a mech who fought for a living. A guard? A warrior? A soldier?
As he approached, Ratchet saw the stranger's face turned toward the sky. His optics were dim, his dermas parted, revealing long canines that made the healer shiver for a moment.
Before he could fully register the mech’s other features, Ratchet was already kneeling in the snow beside him, his servos pressing against the stranger’s torso, searching for energon leaks. Just the touch of that cold armor, already dusted with snowflakes, was enough to sense the flickering current of still-active circuits.
He was alive, but barely. He needed help, fast.
Ratchet found the wound: a gaping hole in the lower abdomen, likely caused by an energy sword.
Carefully, he slid his servo beneath the mech’s lower back and was relieved to find the blade hadn’t gone all the way through; it had stopped just short, sparing deeper internal systems.
Two main fuel lines had been severed, explaining the heavy energon loss. Ratchet was confident he could repair the damage, but not here. Not on a slope. Not in the snow. Not with a storm looming.
His hut wasn’t far. It was the only chance this mech had. Still, Ratchet hesitated.
Everything about this stranger set him on edge: the fangs, the blackened armor, the obvious signs that someone had tried very hard to kill him. But he couldn’t leave him here to die.
With practiced efficiency, Ratchet tore a strip from his cloak and used it to bind the wound, slowing the flow of energon. Then, straining under the mech’s weight, he hauled him upright, slinging one of the stranger’s arms over his shoulders and gripping his waist.
The stranger was heavy -much heavier than he looked- and Ratchet sank deeper into the snow with every step.
Clutching his staff in one servo, holding the mech with the other, he pushed forward, wading knee-deep into the white, wet resistance, every movement an effort of sheer will.
Nearly slipping several times but never giving in, Ratchet finally saw it; the familiar silhouette of the hut that had been his home for the past few cycles. A modest square structure with a sloping roof, perched steadfastly on the mountainside. For that moment, it was both shelter and salvation.
He pushed the door open, letting a swirl of snow trail in behind him and settle across the entryway floor. Dropping his staff with a clatter, he focused all his remaining strength on the injured mech, carrying him over to the berth. He meant to set him down gently, but exhaustion caught up with him, his arms gave out, and the stranger dropped onto the mattress with a dull thud.
Panting, Ratchet steadied himself. The stranger had remained unconscious the entire trek, and now, lying motionless on the berth, he looked more like someone hovering between life and death than anyone still anchored to this world.
Pushing that grim thought aside, Ratchet peeled away the makeshift bandage from the mech’s side. It was soaked through with energon. Without wasting a moment, he grabbed his tools and set to work.
He moved with practiced precision, cauterizing the fuel lines, sterilizing and sealing the wound, checking carefully that no deeper systems had been compromised. Then he manually transfused energon into the mech’s depleted system.
As he worked, Ratchet thought he saw the stranger’s face grow less pale. Whether it was due to the treatment or the slow warming of his frame, he couldn’t tell, but the signs of life were returning.
By the time he applied the last of the salve, a thick healing ointment meant to speed recovery, night had already fallen. Ratchet had lit candles around the room, their soft glow reflecting off the walls, and set a container of energon to warm over the fire, one portion for himself, and one for the mech, in the quiet hope that he might wake soon.
Outside, the wind howled through the peaks, a mournful wail swallowed by the snow-covered mountains. The snowfall continued, slow and unrelenting, as if trying to bury the rest of the world.
Ratchet sat quietly in the rustic armchair, a steaming cup of energon cradled in his servo, his gaze fixed on the still form lying across the berth. Every so often, he reached out toward the mech’s vents, just to make sure he was still breathing, relieved each time the gentle warmth of expelled air brushed against his digits.
It was a strange, almost surreal feeling, having performed such a delicate operation entirely alone, and with success. Medan would be proud of him. Ratchet was certain of that.
But was he proud of himself?
He kept checking the mech’s wound, his core temperature, his vitals, anything that might hint at an impending awakening. And yet, the stranger remained motionless, adrift in recharge, unaware of the healer’s silent impatience.
So many questions burned behind Ratchet’s optics. Who are you, who did this to you, where do you come from, what’s your story.
But tonight, those questions would go unanswered.
Ratchet told himself he had made the right choice, life must always be preserved, regardless of the bearer’s past. And yet, he couldn’t quite silence the unease that stirred in his spark when he looked at that black, battle-worn armor.
While tending to the mech’s wounds, he had seen the signs, scars, old and new, layered over each other like a map of violence. This stranger had lived a hard life. Of that, Ratchet had no doubt.
He just hoped he hadn’t made his own life harder by bringing him here.
For a long while, Ratchet sat in silence, watching, lost in thought.
And then, slowly, weariness caught up with him, seeping into his limbs. His optics dimmed. The warmth of the fire, the softness of the chair, the hush of snowfall beyond the windows… all of it blurred together.
By the time recharge claimed him, Ratchet hadn’t even noticed.
***
It had been a long time since Deadlock had fallen into a recharge this deep. No nightmares haunted him, as they did every night-cycle during the few joors of rest he usually allowed himself. Only the calm embrace of darkness, the sweet blackness that cradled him, suspended in the middle of nowhere.
His frame was enveloped in an unfamiliar but pleasant warmth, his back relaxed against a soft surface he recognized -slowly- as a berth.
Still with his optics offline, Deadlock moved his clawed digits, testing the mattress beneath him as wakefulness gently crept in.
But then, as if the spell of that peaceful awakening had been broken, his optics snapped online.
Above him: a low ceiling made of rough wooden beams. His vents hitched, his spark stuttered. He didn’t recognize the place.
He tried to sit up, but a searing pain shot through his lower abdomen, pinning him down. He had to bite his derma to keep from crying out.
His claws clenched around the blanket as he slowly turned his helm, searching for any detail that might tell him where the frag he was. If he was safe. Why he was even alive.
A hut. That much was clear. From a small window above the berth, he could see a sky heavy with snow, white, bright, and full of threat. Morning.
The walls were made of stone, the shelves packed with datapads, jars, and boxes of various sizes. A few plants had been left to dry by the fireplace, and the air was thick with the scent of unburnt wax and something else. A strong, earthy smell. Not unpleasant.
Familiar, somehow. Like the old healer’s hut back in his village.
His spark pulsed harder when he realized he wasn’t alone.
Not far from him, slumped in a worn armchair, recharging with arms crossed over his chassis, sat a mech he didn’t recognize. A half-empty cup of energon rested on the table beside him. His features were youthful, serious even in rest. His armor bore the muted, telltale colors of a healer.
Could Deadlock really be that lucky?
He had to confirm it. First, by checking the state of his wound.
He didn’t try to sit up, he already knew he wouldn’t survive the pain. So, with his optics on the ceiling, he slid a servo toward the burning throb in his abdomen.
His digits found a cloth dressing, wrapped securely across the injury. Deadlock grit his denta, struggling not to hiss aloud as he peeled it back slightly. Underneath was something damp, its scent hitting him immediately. Sweet, sharp, herbal. A poultice, homemade, potent, and well-applied. The mech had patched him up.
He brushed the sticky mixture with two trembling digits, then carefully covered it again and let out a shaky sigh.
Suddenly, his attention was caught by a sound, a movement. He turned his helm sharply, just in time to see the optics of the mech who had presumably healed him flicker online. They were bright blue, carrying within them a piece of that clear sky from the valley below, where the hills were green and the snow was a distant memory.
“How do you feel?”
The stranger’s voice broke the silence. It wasn’t soft with concern, but calm and clinical, measured, professional. As if Deadlock were simply another patient, and not someone who could have easily killed him under different circumstances.
How did he feel? Confused. Hurt. Wary… and, strangely, relieved.
Deadlock opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure what to say.
“I stopped the bleeding.” The mech continued, undeterred by the silence. “But it’ll take a few cycles for the wound to close properly.”
He paused, then added, “I need to change the poultice and the bandages.”
With that, he stood and stepped away from the armchair.
Deadlock’s optics widened. He tried to move, instinct urging him to recoil, to avoid the stranger’s approach. Pain shot through him immediately, anchoring him to the berth. A strained groan escaped his vocalizer as he failed even to sit up.
“I know it hurts, but you have to let me help you. I'm a healer.”
The mech didn’t come any closer but turned his servos palm-outward in a quiet show of peace. “My name is Ratchet. I found you passed out in the snow yesterday.”
He took half a step forward.
Deadlock’s processor raced. It didn’t make sense that this healer -Ratchet- would drag him in from the snow, tend to his wounds, stay with him through the night-cycle, only to harm him now. But suspicion clung to him like frostbite. How could he be at ease? After a lifetime spent watching your back from the shadows, trust becomes a language you forget how to speak.
Silence.
Ratchet didn’t move, waiting.
Finally, with a sigh of surrender and a nod, Deadlock gave him permission to approach, never taking his optics off him. Slowly, like approaching a wild animal, Ratchet stepped closer and carefully peeled the cloth away from his wound. Deadlock’s face twisted in pain, but this time, he forced himself not to make a sound. He didn’t trust the mech, he wouldn’t let himself appear any weaker than he already was
The healer bent over the injury, studying it closely. Then, with surprising gentleness, he began to clean away the poultice.
To keep from being overwhelmed by the pain, Deadlock forced his thoughts elsewhere; on Ratchet.
His face was focused, young, pleasant, with that innocent air of someone who hadn’t yet seen the worst of the world.
There was something magnetic about that innocence cloaked in inexperience, as if it stirred something long buried inside him. A faint memory of when he, too, had been unbroken.
The pale light of the snowy sky filtered through the window and touched Ratchet’s red helm, making it glow like a hearth fire. Deadlock’s gaze drifted to the tips of his long, pointed audials, and only then did he realize he’d nearly forgotten the wound, the pain, everything.
“Can I know your designation?”
Ratchet’s voice brought him back to the present. It was firm, professional, but tinged with softness, a tone Deadlock wasn’t used to hearing.
“Why do you want to know?”
He rasped, his voice hoarse from holding in the pain.
“I think it’s fair to know the designation of the mech I’m treating. Last night-cycle my servos were inside your abdominal cavity, I’d say we’re past the small talk.”
Deadlock studied him. The nerve. He’d torn limbs from mechs for less, but right now, he wasn’t in any condition to do anything about it.
“Deadlock.”
He finally said. For a moment, Ratchet’s optics flicked up toward him -but just briefly- before returning to the task of applying fresh ointment.
“You said that like I should recognize you.”
He was right. Deadlock was a criminal, a bandit, wanted in every settlement from the valley to the river’s source. How could this mech not know him? Was he a hermit?
“I said it... like someone who has... ngh... a hole in his stomach.”
He muttered, turning his gaze back toward the ceiling.
Deadlock closed his optics for a moment, willing the pain to subside. The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t hostile, it was… strange. Unfamiliar.
The young healer finished tending to his wound without flinching, without trembling, without even asking who he truly was. That should have bothered Deadlock. It did bother him.
“You really don’t know who I am?” He asked, voice low, testing.
Ratchet didn’t look up right away. He was focused on wrapping the bandage snugly around his waist, digits sure and steady. “I know you’re injured.” He replied finally. “That’s enough.”
Deadlock stared at him again, unsure whether he was a terribly naive mech or a very brave one.
“Anyone else would have left me to rust in the snow.”
That truth had long ceased to be difficult to admit. He had stopped letting the weight of his reputation -and his actions- grind him down.
“I swore an oath. I don't care who you are or what you've done. You needed care, and I gave it to you.”
Ah, little healer, if only you knew who you were caring for.
Deadlock held that thought close, allowing himself to power down his optics for a moment.
It was a strange feeling, not being recognized. Not being feared, threatened, or begged. Inside those stone walls, while the wind howled outside, he felt safe, hidden from the rest of the world. Lost in the mountains, in the care of a mech who had no idea who he truly was.
Maybe he could enjoy this calm, just for a while. Stop running. Pretend, if only briefly, that he was someone else. Someone redeemable.
Deep in his spark, he knew that once he was healed, he’d have to stop playing the helpless patient and disappear again. But for now -surrounded by warmth, tended by gentle, unknowing servos- he allowed himself the rarest of luxuries: rest.
“I'll make you something to eat.”
Ratchet said, a note of satisfaction on his face like someone who knew he’d done a good job. He looked one last time at the bandages, then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, gently tucked the blanket around Deadlock, whose frame shivered under the sudden warmth.
Deadlock watched him move away, his back turned as he placed a pot of energon over the fire.
If Deadlock had been at full strength, he would’ve stood up, probably slit his throat, or restrained him, forced him to give up everything he owned, then disappeared.
Not out of necessity. The healer’s frame was thinner, his build not that of someone used to combat. No, he would have done it simply because he could, because he was stronger, because the young mech had been foolish enough to turn his back on him
And yet… the thought of attacking him and running, like he always did, unsettled him. For the first time, it felt wrong.
This mech had not only saved his life, but tucked him in. And now he was making him energon, as if he genuinely cared. It was foolish, Deadlock knew. But the fantasy of it -pretending, just for a moment, that his life could be something different- didn’t bother him at all.
It was only when he saw Ratchet sit next to him, holding a bowl in one servo and a spoon in the other, that he realized with horror what was about to happen.
He tried to sit up, tried with all his might, but managed only to lift his helm a few centimeters off the pillow before falling back with a painful hiss.
“Stay away from me.”
That was all he could say, through gritted denta, glaring at the healer with enough hatred to incinerate him if he could. His servos were clenched into fists beneath the covers.
“Really?”
Ratchet looked at him, raising an optical ridge. “I'm just trying to help you. I don’t see how else you’re going to-”
“I won't be spoon-fed like a youngling.”
Deadlock growled, something rising in his chassis like lava. Anger, disdain, but also burning shame. The loss of his independence.
He knew this was the only way he was going to get energon, and Primus knew how hungry he was. But not like this. He wouldn't let himself be humiliated.
“It’s not a gesture made out of pity.”
Ratchet said after a long pause.
“You’re injured. You need help. I’m offering it, there’s nothing-”
“I said no.”
Deadlock snapped. For a moment, he saw Ratchet’s servos tremble -whether from anger or frustration, he couldn’t tell- and then the healer set the bowl and spoon on the nightstand beside the berth.
He stood up, and Deadlock didn’t miss a single movement. He watched him put on a thick, dark cloak and head for the door
“I'm going to get some wood.”
He said simply, then stepped outside, letting the door slam shut behind him.
Deadlock lay there, still seething, in his berth. He was fairly certain Ratchet had only gone out to cool off. He might have been a cultured hermit and an excellent healer, but he was still young, and Deadlock knew all too well what it felt like to lose control because of emotions that clawed at your spark
“To the pits.”
he muttered, turning his helm toward the steaming bowl of energon. The scent alone triggered his salivation protocol. He reached out -Primus, even that small movement sent a sharp stab of pain through his wound- and gently took the bowl, resting it on the blanket just below his chassis.
He didn’t need Ratchet.
He didn’t need anyone.
Deadlock struggled to get the spoon to his mouth, but when he did, his circuits screamed with appreciation at the taste of energon. It had been cycles since he’d had a decent meal, and it almost seemed unreal.
He let it melt on his glossa, savoring it as if it were the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, then took another spoonful. And another.
But after the fourth spoonful, the bowl slipped.
Deadlock could do nothing but watch it fall to the floor, as if in slow motion.
He felt his spark contract, and something burn behind his optics.
No. Primus, why.
He just lay there, the taste of energon still on his dermas, staring at the mess on the floor.
A wave of emotions washed over him: frustration, desperation, and hunger, louder now that he’d remembered what food tasted like.
He remained still, clenching his denta until his jaw ached.
He wanted to scream. To destroy everything. He, Deadlock -a feared assassin- bedridden, unable even to feed himself.
Defeated. Humiliated.
He didn’t know how much time had passed since Ratchet had left, but it was long enough for survival instinct to take over.
After a long internal battle, he painfully reached over the edge of the berth toward the energon puddle.
He stretched out his arm, then his digits, driven by hunger and sheer defiance.
He felt something wet spill down his side, but he didn’t care.
Bit by bit, he managed to reach the energon. He dipped his digits into it and brought them to his mouth, unable to suppress a quiet sigh of relief.
Then the door opened.
The wind and scent of snow rushed in, and with them, Ratchet.
The healer froze at the sight: Deadlock hunched forward, desperate, feeding himself with energon off the floor.
“Please. Let me help you.”
It was a plea. Not a command. Not pity. Just need.
What was he supposed to do? Hadn’t he already humiliated himself enough?
Deadlock just nodded, unable to meet Ratchet’s optics.
He didn’t look at him when Ratchet cleaned the floor. He didn’t look at him when the healer realized that Deadlock’s wound had reopened and quietly bandaged it again. He didn’t even look when Ratchet returned with a new bowl and sat beside him.
And yet, each time he opened his mouth to accept a spoonful, it felt like something inside him was breaking.
Was this his punishment? For all the harm he’d done; the total erasure of his pride?
But Ratchet said nothing. He didn’t scold. He didn’t mock.
When Deadlock finally forced himself to glance up, there was no pity in Ratchet’s optics. No judgment.
Only quiet concern. And that -more than the food, more than the bandages- shook something deep in Deadlock.
Something he couldn’t name. Something that made him want to hide or flee.
Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he deserved this kind of kindness.
***
Ratchet sat in his chair, a bowl in one servo and a spoon in the other. If anyone had told him that one day he'd be feeding the most dangerous-looking mech he'd ever seen after finding him half-dead in the snow, he would never have believed it. Yet here he was.
Going out for air had been a good idea. He’d left at the height of his frustration and returned much calmer, only to find the pitiful image of Deadlock trying to scoop energon off the floor with his digits, desperate to feed himself.
His spark had clenched painfully. It didn’t matter what that mech had done in the past, seeing him like that, vulnerable and humiliated, had only made Ratchet want to help him more.
In the effort to reach the energon, he had even reopened his wound.
So, in silence, Ratchet found himself feeding him. He noticed the way Deadlock kept his optics averted, but he couldn’t blame him. In his place, he probably would have done the same.
“Do you want more?”
The healer asked once the bowl was empty, but Deadlock simply shook his helm, and Ratchet didn’t press.
He decided to give him space, retreating to the couch on the other side of the cabin with a datapad, immersing himself in reading. Every now and then, he glanced up to observe his unlikely patient, whose gaze remained fixed on some unspecified spot on the ceiling.
Better this way.
The less Ratchet had to deal with him, the better off his own neural circuits would be.
He was so engrossed in the datapad that at first, he missed what Deadlock had muttered. Lowering it, Ratchet looked over, uncertain he’d heard correctly, only to find two red optics staring directly at him.
“What…?”
“I said thanks.”
Deadlock repeated through gritted denta. The effort it cost him to say the word was obvious.
Ratchet muttered something that sounded like, “You’re welcome,” and returned to his reading, but he could no longer concentrate, not with those burning embers still watching him from the berth.
“Do you need something?”
Ratchet’s words came out sharper than intended, but Deadlock didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked almost relieved that Ratchet’s tone hadn’t softened. Perhaps it was better that way, neither of them wanted pity, and Ratchet had never been the type to melt over someone else's drama. Still, the concern behind the question was genuine.
“How long will the wound take to heal?”
“Cycles. And if you keep tearing it open like today, it’ll take even longer.”
A sigh escaped Deadlock’s vents, long and low.
Ratchet didn’t go back to his datapad. He could tell the question hadn’t come from idle curiosity. It felt more like a distraction. A lead-in to something else. Boredom, maybe. Or loneliness. Either way, Ratchet decided to test the waters.
“So,” he asked casually, “who decided to use you for target practice?”
Deadlock’s optics widened. First indignation, then something more thoughtful. Eventually, he sighed again.
“Is that medically relevant?”
Ratchet nearly snorted. “Not exactly. I’m just curious.”
“If you’re worried that whoever did this to me might come knocking on your door, don’t be. You’re safe. I’m not.”
That wasn’t exactly what Ratchet had asked, but the implication was enough. Someone was after him. He let it lie and reached for his datapad again.
“You should try to rest.”
He didn’t know why he had said it like that, as if a hint of sweetness, of real concern, had managed to sneak past his throat and land right in the middle of those words.
“You’ll heal faster.”
He added, as if to remind himself that these were the concerns of a healer, limited solely to the health of his patient- and nothing more.
Ratchet hadn’t expected an answer, yet a part of him had hoped for one.
How could you rescue a mech like Deadlock -bleeding and unconscious in the snow- and not be at least a little curious?
But his thirst for answers remained unquenched. Deadlock didn’t utter a word. Not a sigh, not a grunt. Nothing.
Fine.
If he didn’t want to talk, that was his choice. Ratchet had extended a servo, given him a chance to speak, maybe to make his stay in the cabin a little less bleak, but if silence was what he wanted, then silence he would get.
And with that thought, Ratchet returned to his datapad and let himself fall back into reading.
*
The previous night-cycle, Ratchet had fallen into recharge in the armchair, but tonight he was spending it on the couch, much to his back’s relief.
Yet if exhaustion had dragged him under the night before, tonight he wouldn't be so lucky.
He lay there with his optics wide open, staring into the dark.
The wind outside, usually a background hum he'd grown used to, sounded more deafening than usual. Even the shadows, rather than comforting him into recharge, seemed only to tighten the tension in his frame.
He felt like the door might swing open at any moment, letting in something unknown.
He knew the reason for his insomnia was lying across the room, stretched out in his berth, silent except for the steady rhythm of his vents.
Part of him was relieved that at least Deadlock was recharging. One less thing to worry about
But just as he tried to shut off his optics and force himself into rest, something made him sit up sharply, wide awake again.
Deadlock was moving restlessly in his berth, limbs jerking as though restrained. The frame creaked under the strain of his struggle. Then came the muttered words: “Don’t… get away…”
Ratchet held his breath. He didn’t move right away.
But then two red optics snapped on in the darkness, and Ratchet saw the exact moment Deadlock woke with a strangled intake, his vents stuttering as if he'd run for miles.
“Ratchet…”
Ratchet wasn’t sure if he was calling for him or simply speaking his designation out of instinct, but he was already standing. He crossed the room and knelt beside the berth.
Deadlock reached out, and Ratchet took his servo without hesitation.
His own servo felt small in the other’s grip, yet even with the sharp claws curling around his digits, Ratchet could feel who the truly frightened one was.
He placed his free servo over Deadlock’s, steadying him with gentle pressure. Neither spoke. For a while, they just sat there, holding on to each other as Deadlock’s vents gradually steadied and the shaking in his frame eased.
“There.” Ratchet murmured into the dark. “Everything’s fine. Power down your optics. I’m here.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the red lights blinked out. Ratchet stayed by the berth, resting his helm lightly against the edge.
Eventually, still holding Deadlock’s servo, he drifted into recharge.