Chapter Text
Ratchet was losing his reasoning systems, which must have been the reason for this. It was why he was so concerned about Sentinel’s spy. Of course, they knew why the assumed minicon was reassigned. Sentinel had pulled strings to get it done, but had not even covered his tracks well. Jazz has a simple time uncovering who was behind the transfer. As the mech usually did when something out of the ordinary happened, he found out why.
Ratchet had pressured Optimus into intervening. “You know he’s a spy. He needs to come in for a physical; who knows what was withheld information? I’m not having a mech die because Sentinel was glitched enough to mess with medical files.”
“Fine, I’ll comm him and try to convince Bumblebee to be checked out,” Optimus relented.
Ratched had been smug when the minicon had decided to go along with Optimus’s light demands. Everything had turned its helm on end when Bumblebee passed out after receiving a pain patch. Ratchet had even made sure that it was the correct dosage for his frame size. It was only after the full-frame scan that Ratchet realised what was going on.
Only now, the minicon—the sparkling was trembling on one of the berths in his medbay. Why had he not noticed it sooner? The kid was not proportioned right to be a minicon; his helm was larger than a full-grown mini. Even then, minicons were a rare phenomenon. Ratchet should have been more skeptical. At least he knew now, but he should have found out sooner. It was right in front of his faceplate; he should have noticed.
Now he had a panicking sparkling in his medbay. Ratchet put a hand on the sparkling’s shoulder, wincing when he felt the mech flinch under his touch.
“Cycle your vents, you’re going to overheat,” He ordered.
He exvented in relief when the sparkling’s fan audibly clicked online. A noticeable influx of air seeps in, and warm air filters out.
“Good, follow my invents and events.”
It took a long moment, but eventually the sparkling’s fans were cycling properly. Relief flooded Ratchet’s processor, and he took a step back. His tank turned when Bumblebee visibly untensed when his servo left the youngling’s shoulder. Silence stretched over the room, save for the whirrs and beepings of medical equipment. It was the sparkling who broke the silence.
“What did you do to me?” His confusion was clear in his wavering vocalizer.
Ratchet cycled his optics. “What do you mean?”
“When I was unconscious. What did you do?”
“I broke your wing and reset it so it would heal properly. Then I ran a full frame scan because the data your previous CMO sent over was clearly incomplete,” Ratchet explained.
An uneasy silence stretched over the pair, and the sparkling’s fidgeting got worse.
“Just spit it out,” Ratchet snapped, irritation dancing through his field.
“What else?”
That threw Ratchet for a loop; he told the mech everything he did. “I didn’t do anything else.”
Bumblebee did not believe him. What had a doctor done to him to make him this untrusting? With a long event, Ratchet pulled up the security footage with his officer credentials. Only officers or certain individuals in security could access them. Though only Red Alert and Optimus could wipe security recordings.
Ratchet turned the console so that Bumblebee could see. There were timestands, and he started the video the moment the little mech stepped into the medbay. Of course, the pace of the video was sped up; it was not long until Ratchet’s words were held up with video evidence. That got the little mech to calm down at least partially; the distrust in Ratchet never left his optics. Though now that Ratchet thought about it, he could not feel Bumblebee’s field in the slightest. Usually, this close, there was at least a hint of a field, especially in such a young mech.
Ratchet flared his field, allowing it to wash over the sparkling; there was no visible reaction. It was as if Bumblebee could not feel Ratchet’s field in the slightest. Not even Jazz, a master at withstanding torture, could fully shield his reactions if someone in distress let their field go wild.
“Can you access your field?” Ratchet asked, seeing no reason to beat around the bush.
Bumblebee looked confused as he responded, “I don’t know what you mean.”
The confession left Ratchet stunned; a field was common knowledge to any mech. An extra layer of communication, for a mech not to know about it. Ratchet scrutinized the scan again before asking.
“Have you ever had maintenance or surgery on your processor?”
Bumblebee squinted his optics, responding carefully, “A few times, probably.”
“Probably?”
“I don’t have access to my medical file.”
Ratched paused, dread seeping into his processor, “Your doctor never went over what procedures they did?”
“No, why would she do that?”
Every time that sparkling opened his intake, the pit in Ratchet’s spark deepened.
“As a medic, you’re supposed to explain to your patients the procedure. Not if it’s life or death, and it cannot be explained because the patient is unresponsive, a report of the procedure is given to them after they are in the clear.”
“Oh. Gauzet never did that,” The sparkling murmured.
At least now Ratchet had a designation; he committed it to his databanks. Gauzet was not a medic that Ratchet was familiar with.
.:Jazz:.
It took a long moment before the Spec-Ops officer responded. .:Whatcha need, Ratch?:.
.:Don’t call me that. I need you to run a background check on a femme called Gauzet. She’s one of Sentinels:.
.:Okay… any particular reason why?:.
.:I have to talk with Optimus first—just do it:.
.:Right-o Ratch:.
Ratchet focused back on Bumblebee, making sure to keep his voice even and kind. Scaring the sparkling would only serve to make things more complicated for everyone involved.
“I’m going to have to have a conversation with Optimus. First Aid will keep an optic on you,” Ratchet explained while the sparkling nodded along.
Ratchet swept out of the room, fervently comming Optimus while walking to his office. Optimus was already in the office when Ratchet arrived.
“Take a seat,” Optimus requested, gesturing to the chair across from him.
Ratchet sat down with a heavy exvent, his fans shuddering.
“Optimus,” Ratchet murmured, his faceplate resting in his servos. “He’s just a kid.”
“Old friend?” Optimus questioned, resting a reassuring servo on his backplate.
“He’s barely even a youngling; not all of his youngling protocols are in place. He’s scared, you should have seen him—he—he’s so young.” Ratchet’s spark ached. Was this what Optimus felt like with that leaking spark of his?
Optimus looked surprised and unsure. Heck, even Ratchet was not sure what to do with himself. He was always the practical one of the pair, the logical one. So why was he having such a visceral reaction to this sparkling? It did not make sense; it was illogical. Ratchet was the one who was supposed to tell Optimus he was not thinking enough. Not the other way around.
“Tell me about him? I haven’t had the chance to get to know the little mech,” Optimus requested.
That opened the floodgates; Ratchet had not even known he was holding back. He told Optimus everything that had been plaguing his processors once he knew Bumblebee was nothing but a sparkling. The sparkling had so many wounds, the kind one would expect on a seasoned warrior like Prowl or Wheekjack. Not a sparkling that had yet to grow into his youngling programs. The part that rattled Ratchet the worst was the obvious surgical marks on Bumblebee’s chassis. That made Ratchet sick to his tanks, warking on a spark was intimate. Not something to be taken lightly.
Ratchet could have kept going for groons, if not for a certain white mech interrupting.
Jazz came stumbling into the office, “I’ve got the data you wanted, Ratch.”
“Come in, Jazz,” Optimus muttered sarcastically. “What information?”
Ratchet snatched the datapad out of Jazz’s hand, eyes raking over the gathered data. The doctor’s name was written at the top of the screen, and below was a list of relevant information. However, the part that had drawn Ratchet’s attention was the glaring “dishonorably expelled” from the medical academy. A mech would have to do something horrible to get that marked on their record. Though that made the strange patient care she gave make more sense, she was not a licensed medic. That kind of thing became less important with the war going on, but an influential Autobot employing an unlicensed medic was out of the ordinary.
Ratchet was torn from the conversation by a comm from Red Alert, .:Sir, Bumblebee’s gone missing. He’s not in the medbay anymore:.
Ratchet exvented sharply, turning to Optimus, “He’s hightailed it out of my medbay.”
“Any idea where he might have gone?” Optimus asked Rachet directly.
He sighed, “Not exactly, but I’d follow the noise.”
The three left the office adn the shift was immediantly noticeable. The faint sounds of a scuffled echoed down the halls. All they had to do was follow the shouting.
The room was pure pandemonium, bots scrambling all over the place. And this was all because of a little yellow mech that was giving them a run for their shanix. It was honestly kind of sad that a sparkling was giving the Autobots such a hard time. First Aid was pushed to the outskirts of the room, panic clear on his faceplate. It was apparent that things had gotten out of servo. First Aid was a good medic, take him out of a field he had control over and watch him slowly deteriorate. Ratchet had been trying to acclimate the mech to such situations with varying success.
Jazz cursed under the whirr of his fans, Ratchet could not help but agree. This whole situation was a mess and adding any more mechs to the problem could only further complicate matters. Thankfully everything calmed down when Bumblebee stopped, or more accurately he was caught. Mirage’s frame flickered back into visibility, his servos had caught the smaller mech by the mid-section. Bumblebee trashed like his life depended on getting away. The thought alone was sobering, that he was panicked enough that running was the only solution.
“I say we leave him to the brig,” Prowl gruffed.
Ratchet bristled, venom gathering on his glossa, Optimus was the only thing keeping him from going off. “Bumblebee has not proven to be that kind of threat, so we will not treat him as such.”
They did not put the sparkling in the brig like Prowl had suggested Optimus was far too kind-sparked for that, instead he was returned to Ratchet’s medbay with a guard. Elita-1 was not going to let the little mech out of her sight. Ratchet was sure of that.
The officers gathered together in one of the meeting rooms that was hastily emptied for this matter. Surprisingly it was Red Alert that spoke up first.
“I’ve intercepted a comm that was addressed to Bumblebee,” He said, pulling up the message in question on his datapad. “I’ve traced it back to Sentinel Prime.”
“What were the contents of this message?” Jazz asked, curiosity prickling along his field.
“Mostly threats.”
“What kind of threats?” Optimus asked, his voice low.
Red Alert cleared his intake before answering, “I’d rather not quote him directly but he went into detail about having their CMO tear Bumblebee open without proper anesthetics."
“He told him what?!”
“Calm yourself, old friend,” Optimus said placatingly, his field exuding a soothing wave, though it edged with fury.
Ratchet gruffed, crossing his arms and sinking into the seat. He would be quiet but he would not be happy about it. Especially with the new information about Sentinel coming to light.
Red Alert was the first to speak up, “This whole situation is a security concern.”
“He’s barely even a youngling—not a security matter. What he need is a proper caretaker,” Ratchet argued.
“Hows that going to work? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we are in the middle of a war,” Prowl huffed. “Hardly the envirnment to raise a youngling.”
“Besides he’s a security concern,” Red Alert reasserted.
Optimus spoke up, “Security concern or not, we will not turn away a bot in need for help.”
“We might be able to get someone on leave to watch him. But after he’s going to be left along while they are on missions,” Jazz pointed out.
The thought of someone else assuming the caretaker role over Bumblebee made Ratchet’s spark clench. The sparkling needed someone who was going to understand and be there for him.
Ratchet’s glossa moved faster than his processor, the words tumbling out, “I’ll watch him.”
A stunned silence swept over the room, the only field besides his own that did not exude that emotion was their leader’s. Optimus’ filed was full of mirth, bumbling out as if he knew this would be the result all along.
“But you’re always in medbay all day long,” Prowl argued, “Hardly optimal conditions to be a caretaker.”
“I don’t get deployed on missions often,” Ratchet snapped back.
“Besides the sparkling has gotten used to Ratchet,” Optimus interjected.
“It sounds like the best solution to this whole mess,” Jazz said with a chuckle.
“Any other objections to Ratchet taking care of Bumblebee?” No one rose to oppose Optimus’ ruling. “Okay then, it’s official, congrats on your new ward, old friend.”
With everything cleared up, Ratchet left the meeting room to get back to medical. When he entered the room Elita-1 was standing by the entrance, she moved to stand outside when Ratchet entered. There was an amused flicker in her optics, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. It irked him but he had more important matters to attend to. Specifically the sparkling that was perched on the edge of a medical berth. Bumblebee’s yellow optics flicked around the room as if searching for a way out.
They locked optics with one another when the sparklign realised Ratchet was in the room. Bumblebee took no time at all getting straight to the point.
“Are you sending me back?”
“No, you won’t have to be anywhere near Sentinel—or Gauzet for that matter,” Ratchet assured.
“But—”
“Nope, you will stay here as my ward. Sentinel can eat scrap, he’s not going to threaten any of mine, okay Bumblebee?”
“Oh,” Bumblebee exvented, his brow ridges pinched.
The medbay fell into silence, thick and suffocating. Ratchet busied his servos to keep the pressure off of Bumblebee’s shoulders.
“Bee.”
“Huh?”
“Call me, Bee.”
“Only if you call me Ratchet. None of that sir stuff,” Ratchet requested.
Bee nodded his helm, the tension oozing out of his frame. The layer of silence that swept across the room was not stifling like it had been initially. Now it was an easy silence, comforting in a strange way. A way Ratchet had no way of explaining without sounding glitched. It was nice.
Now all Ratchet had to do was figure out how to get Sentinel and Gauzet alone in a room. He cracked his digits, already planning sweet vengeance.
