Weird Not-Therapy

Ratchet thought he knew when he was in too deep. Thought. He liked to consider himself a reasonable mech, not generally given to emotional decision-making. Never mind the numerous examples that pointed to the opposite conclusion, such as running after Drift to convince him to return to the Lost Light, operating a quasi-legal free clinic in the Dead End out of compassion, or any of the other evidence he'd prefer to not acknowledge.

Now, lying on his back on the floor of a borrowed habsuite, covered in red and blue paint in the dimmed light and being straddled about the waist by a retired walking nightmare, Ratchet was doubting his long-held opinion of himself as rational.

At least, Megatron seemed to be taking care to not crush him with his greater weight. Oddly considerate. Well, maybe not that odd. Rodimus had yet to visit the medical bay for interfacing-related injuries since the captains had decided to "share quarters to save space and resources." Plenty of practice, presumably, at handling smaller frames, not that Ratchet was delicate by any means. Drift could attest to that, though it had taken him some time to stop treating Ratchet like glass. Not even his literal glass windshield was that easy to shatter. It was safety glass, after all.

"Are you comfortable?"

Ratchet blinked up at the words, optical shutters clicking behind the glass. He was unsure what he ought to make of those two red optics burning down at him after all those years of seeing the damage their owner could do on a whim, all those hurt and dead mechs who had crossed his exam table. This should have been dangerous. Despite that, despite knowing all too intimately what could be done to him, Ratchet didn't find himself feeling particularly threatened.

Maybe it was all those years of disregarding his own well-being as a medic. A risk to a patient was worth considering, a risk to himself was negligible, an afterthought at most.

Of course, nowadays Megatron was practically tame, not that Ratchet felt like saying it to his face, not at the moment. Perhaps later. A good insult to keep in his back pocket just in case.

As for comfort, the floor had been cleared of dust and any stray items. A few quilted tarpaulins with thick padding had been laid down, nominally to minimize plating scraping on the floor, but Ratchet knew it was also to support Megatron's aching knees. They just hadn't said so. All in all, Ratchet supposed he was as comfortable as he could be without being in a berth, something which had been out of the question. A berth would have been… too intimate for their goals. It would have broken the illusion.

"Aside from the battle mask, yes." It was awkward to talk through and, outside of the occasional surgical procedure needing such a precaution, Ratchet was unused to covering his face.

"I'll be fine," he added when Megatron reached down with a hand, probably about to say that Ratchet didn't need to wear it.

"If you're sure…."

Their respective partners—not that Megatron would ever call Rodimus anything but a "colleague" and "roommate" even if you put a gun to his head—knew about this, encouraged it, in fact. To get some… Optimus-related "hang ups out of their systems." Silly, Ratchet had thought, when it had been first brought up, but here they were.

"If I weren't sure, I wouldn't have let you get comfortable on my lap."

"You can still back out at any time—" He could still hear the echoes of previously attempted therapy in Megatron's voice. Somehow, even though Ratchet knew there were good intentions somewhere behind it all, there was just something about the rote stock phrases that he found stilted, awkward.

"I'm entirely aware." Ratchet sighed and gently patted the knee-guards nudged against his flanks like he would a large animal, trying to ignore the fake color on his own hands. "I have been made aware of the risks and consent to what we're about to do, what we agreed on. If I decide to back out, I will say so. That's what the safe word is for. Does that help?"

"… Yes, it does."

If Ratchet thought anyone were going to back out, it would be Megatron. The discomfort that had been on his face when Ratchet had emerged from the washracks twenty minutes earlier with his paint to see the purple badge, sprayed on the captain's chest with the aid of an airbrush and stencil, had spoken volumes. There were smears where Megatron had inadvertently thumbed at and worried the wet paint, Autobot red peeking out from underneath like a beacon. Ratchet could still see the red now from his position on the floor, even in the dim light. He wasn't sure what to make of Megatron not being confident about a situation and his own place in it. It was a rare sight.

Maybe they should have just turned the lights off entirely. Maybe turned off their optics even. Maybe they should have just lain quietly on the floor and trash-talked Optimus, whom they had mutually and moronically admired from afar.

"It's strange to say, but I'm more worried about you right now." Ratchet opened up the clip-on battle mask with a snap to reveal his face. No matter how they'd gotten dressed up to make it easier to pretend, it was still him under this admittedly sloppy paint. Ratchet was here and they were safe, not going to hurt each other in any way beyond what they'd agreed to beforehand. "Are you comfortable?"

After a few slow, heavy seconds, Megatron nodded.

"Yes."

Good enough for now.

In a different time, a different place, Ratchet wouldn't have asked that question. Not of someone who had caused so much pain and death—No.

They were beyond that now. Everyone had been making progress to put the War behind them in this new universe. What they were going to do shortly was a part of that broader goal.

They both needed some closure and Optimus wasn't around to provide it, not in this strange universe into which they had all escaped. Optimus would never be around again. Ratchet involuntarily shifted underneath the weight on his hips at the thought, unaware that he'd spooked the nervous wreck on top of him until Megatron tried to stand back. Ratchet hooked his fingers around the edges of retreating hip-guards before they could escape.

"I was just adjusting! Don't get excited, you big ox."

The "ox" settled back down, bringing the warmth of contact with him. For someone who had been a terror to untold billions, Megatron was awfully skittish, almost like a new-build anxious about a first foray into interfacing.

It was probably just the situation. He doubted Megatron got up to much playing pretend. Too earnest, despite everything. It was almost funny given his prior faction's name. His deceptions were predominantly those of omission, and not direct falsehood.

That and, while Ratchet might have dared to call them "friends" now, he wouldn’t have called them close. Intimacy, sexual and otherwise, was often a little awkward with a new partner.

Well, they couldn't just sit here like this, uncomfortably trying to look past each other, for the next hour.

Ratchet closed his mask once more, after having to look for the function for an embarrassingly long moment. These stupid things were more hassle than they were worth.

"Ready?"

"Yes—"

"It'll be fine. We'll both feel better when it's over."

And then they could get this stupid paint off. Megatron would probably be covered in it by the end from unsealed paint transfers.

Why go through the effort of sealant for a short escapade? Besides, sealant was hard to get off and Ratchet wasn't keen on looking like an Optimus fanboy for longer than he absolutely had to.

Megatron was still quiet, unmoving other than one more nod, likely trying to carefully pry up old memories to help get into the act. Ratchet opened his mouth to say something, only to remember the battle mask obscured his mouth, causing him to hesitate.

He needn't have bothered.

"So, Prime." An arrogant, mocking tone of voice Ratchet hadn't heard in quite a while. A shiver went up his spinal strut but he had to stay calm and collected. Optimus never flinched away from Megatron's taunting. Instead, Ratchet silently dug his fingers into the hip-guards he had yet to let go of.

"Your little plan has failed, hasn't it? Oh, yes, it seems this time I've got you right where I want you."

More weight was shifted onto Ratchet's hips, a reminder that he was pinned.

"I—" Ratchet had completely forgotten to get into character. He'd been too worried about soothing frayed nerves to even remember about it. What would Optimus say in this situation?

He coughed, hoping to buy a moment but not break the illusion too much.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Megatron." The words felt odd in his vocalizer. Optimus's taunts always felt self-righteous and… distant, sometimes a little callous. Ratchet's sarcasm was more abrasive, personal. He would have said something about being impressed with neither the accommodations nor the promise of violence.

This would be tricky.

He didn't pretend to struggle. Calm and confident. These were things he'd always admired and found attractive about Optimus. In excess they became icy, stoic detachment and arrogant bravado and had left Ratchet wanting for earlier times with his friend, Orion, all good intentions and ideals. Ratchet now had to superficially emulate these complex traits. For both himself and Megatron.

Instead of wriggling, Ratchet pulled up a knee, bumping it against Megatron's back as he gripped those hip-guards.

"You won't cow me with your empty heckling—"

Hands fell heavy against the floor on either side of his head. Narrowed red optics were mere inches away from his own. The room was little but silence and the heat from Megatron's frame now pressed close to his own. Being rather shorter and narrower than Optimus, Ratchet was… loomed over.

When Megatron next spoke, his voice dropped to a nearly subvocal whisper.

"Heckling? Is that what you think I'm doing?"

Ratchet's circuits sent a bolt of hot charge directly south.

How many times had Optimus been this close, hearing this whisper? Of course, in very different circumstances. Presumably with more of a threat of death rather than overload. They had both attested to never knowing Optimus intimately before finalizing this… excursion.

A whole universe away and carefully pinned underneath a gaze that had given so many of his patients night terrors, Ratchet still found himself wondering what Optimus was up to now.

Would he ever stop wondering? Would he ever stop worrying that his old friend, whom he'd silently carried a torch for for millions of years, wasn't taking care of himself? Probably not, not even with whatever release he had just promised Megatron they would both have from this play-acting.

Ratchet didn't realize until the threat in the optics right in front of him had faded into an unfamiliar, worried softness that he'd been staring blankly back, lost in thought instead of playing along.

"I think," he said, before Megatron's skittishness could return and spoil the whole thing. All of these years, and it wasn't until the bastard got tossed onto the Lost Light that Ratchet realized the renowned Slagmaker was actually an introvert. The loudest introvert Ratchet had ever met. "I think you're overestimating the power of your words."

There. An awkward Optimus comeback. The ruse was maintained.

The threat returned with a low growl and a bared fang. Ratchet reflexively let go of Megatron's hips even as more charge started to build between his legs. No, Optimus wouldn't flinch away. Deescalation was not one of Optimus's strong points and this wasn’t a patient expressing a boundary. This was Megatron reminding him that they were still playing. Ratchet grabbed back on.

"It was the power of my words that helped you stand up to the Senate, Prime."

Yes. That was true, but not what they were here for.

"And don't you dare forget that—"

Unfortunately, this wasn’t exactly arousing and that earlier charge had taken a hike. Nothing killed a mood like political debate.

"Pax."

Megatron immediately sat back up, taking the pleasant warmth of his body with him.

Of course, like fools, the word they'd agreed on had been the secondary designation of a mech they'd both considered long dead, Optimus Prime having taken his place.

Ratchet shook his head.

"No, before you say anything, I just wanted to tell you that political spats are not… titillating."

"Ratchet, I—" Here came an excuse, an attempt to rationalize their way out of not doing this. Better to interrupt.

"It's fine; just don't… bring in the in-depth political and historical discussions. I don't think I can handle that and I really don't want to. It's not exactly a topic that… turns my keys, you understand."

"Very well, I'll avoid it.” No promises though, but Ratchet supposed he couldn’t ask for that given the situation. “Is that all?"

For now, he thought.

"Yes, come on." Ratchet pushed his hips up against the closed, warm panels on his lap, an enticement to get back to the game, interruptions aside. It was the first inherently sexual thing they’d done, something beyond simply sitting on the floor having a vaguely questionable conversation. “You haven’t frightened me yet either. It's fine.”

“Very well.”

The looming returned and Ratchet resisted the urge to try and wrap his arms around the mech on top of him, like he might have done with Drift. Optimus didn’t hug. He certainly didn’t hug his archnemesis, especially not to soothe tension. Optimus didn't soothe, like a trained clinician. He wallowed in his own doubts and drug others along in his immense emotional gravity. Sometimes he would even unintentionally poke at weak points with his disregard, such of the occasional deriding of Ratchet's compassion.

It had been a long war and they had needed that steady detachment from their leader. It hadn't been what Ratchet had wanted or needed, not from Optimus, not from Orion. Neither form of his long-time friend had really understood what Ratchet had been trying to do in the Dead End, beyond a surface level, Ratchet was a "good, caring doctor." Whatever that had meant to Orion.

"You think my threats empty? Toothless?" Megatron tried again, whispering directly into the delicate audio sensors on the side of Ratchet's head. The tone was strange, more artificial than earlier, like he'd never talked to a lover this way. Ratchet always thought Rodimus would have gone for that sort of thing, a touch of danger and all that. Maybe. Maybe not.

It really wasn't his place to speculate on another's relationship, especially when he was the one on his back right now.

Ratchet was overthinking it, which wasn't really helping them get anywhere. It was tempting to throw away the charade and just try to have a nice time as themselves, as who they had become since the end of the War. Perhaps after, to bring them back to the here and now, to what was more natural. Aftercare would be required, even if just gentle words of affirmation and tender stripping of temporary paint.

"I certainly think you're more bark than bite."

Clichés. A trusted fallback. Even if Ratchet couldn't imitate Optimus's deep, steady voice, he could try to imitate the style.

"Prime, would you rather that I bite you then?" The words were still whispered as the painted metal of Megatron's faux badge clicked against Ratchet's windshield. There would undoubtedly be a purple smear there whenever they would pull apart later.

It was warm like this, nestled securely under a powerful frame. He felt safe. Maybe he shouldn't have. The urge to hold and snuggle close was becoming more difficult to fight off.

"I'd like to see you try."

The words "if you insist" came out as a hiss. Shivers of excitement ran down his spine.

A hot palm suddenly rested on the side of his face, a thumb gingerly caressing the battle mask. Apparently being less than tender in a situation like this was difficult for the both of them.

Ratchet reached up, putting his hands on Megatron's shoulders as heated breath blew over his neck cables. Titanium teeth clamped down with little warning. He groaned involuntarily, his modesty panels suddenly feeling much too tight as he bucked upwards.

If only they didn't have to play pretend. If only they didn't need the closure and could just have a pleasant casual time, swinging with no baggage to unpack, while their partners had a movie night elsewhere in the ship. Maybe next time.

"You won't… win," Ratchet breathed, tightening his grip on those broad shoulders. "You'll never win."

Yet with an unintentional click, the panel over his spike housing retracted, the appendage pressurizing into the limited space between them. At least, he hadn't had to paint that. That would have been a bridge too far.

There came a low laugh against Ratchet's throat, a chuckle pretending to be unkind before the teeth on his cables relented. The rumble of Megatron's industrial-class engine vibrated through Ratchet's chassis.

"I rather think I already have." Hips ground down against the exposed spike, pulling another groan from Ratchet's vocalizer. "Is that not an offer of surrender? How else should I interpret this but an offering in deference to my tactical superiority?"

"It's a—"

"No matter, I accept your unconditional surrender."

Another click.

"This time."

Something luxuriously soft, warm, nudged up against the base of his spike. So, they were finally getting somewhere.

"If you think that's a surrender, you've got another—"

"Oh, even if it isn't yet, it will be very soon, Prime." The thumb on the fake battle mask moved in a circle, if the pressure was anything to go by. Hard to tell since it wasn't actually attached to any sensors. "Before long you'll be begging."

"I would never beg for anything you have to offer."

"Not even some—" The external folds of the valve were dragged forward with a subtle but pointed shift of hips, both the temptation and promise of something more making it easier to play along. Ratchet groaned, jaw clenched shut. "—Relief?"

"Never!"

It was a lie.

Before long, he knew he would be buried in that valve. No matter what play-acting they put around it, at least the motions would be familiar.

"Never?" That was practically a purr before the teeth closed over sensitive throat cables again, the points of partially filed-down fangs digging into the woven mesh wrapping.

Ratchet twitched, bucking up against the exposed valve with no regard for the fact that he was supposed to be resisting more.

"Never…." A meager attempt to maintain the pretense. "Never, no matter how seductive evil can appear."

All that got him was a chuckle, mocking without words. Hips moved again, slowly dragging the moistening valve folds back and forth. A low moan escaped above him when Megatron's anterior node must have caught friction against the surface of Ratchet's spike.

"Never," Ratchet repeated, no conviction whatsoever remaining in his voice.

Optimus would have resisted. Maybe. Maybe not. Optimus might have also pretended to fight, but with prior obsessive behavior regarding Megatron. Perhaps he would have taken the opportunity to sheathe himself in his willing enemy and had the audacity to call it a "sacrifice."

But Optimus never did get that opportunity though. Ratchet did. This was something he would get to enjoy that Optimus had missed out with on. He could relish that if nothing else.

All the while, the teasing rubbing continued. Whether or not Megatron was also suffering from spiraling thoughts like Ratchet was, he wasn't faltering in the motions of his hips, not in a way that was obvious. Teeth remained clamped down, the occasional rumbling moan echoed through the room. Ratchet's spike throbbed.

"Never," he mumbled, not thinking very clearly beyond the simmering charge. It was nowhere near enough to start arcing between their frames from buildup, but it would only be a matter of time before they were chasing that and little else.

"So you say, Prime…." The teeth were gone and Ratchet found himself missing the sharp points of the fangs. Megatron sat up, slipping out of Ratchet's grip. Blue painted hands fell back to the tarpaulins, palms upturned and smeared. Streaks of paint marked Megatron's shoulders where the hands had just been. Red from Ratchet's chassis was also left behind, a different shade than his own. "So you say…."

The paint had been a mistake.

"But this tells me otherwise." A hand wrapped around the head of Ratchet's spike before giving the whole thing an experimental pump. Lubricant spread in the hand's wake, charge building in the aching wires.

"That doesn't mean anything!"

Oh, yes, it did.

"And you call me a liar." Yet another smug chuckle. "If this plaything of yours is any indication, before long I'll be able to do anything I want to you and you'll thank me for it."

"All it is is a natural, automatic reaction!" Would Optimus say that? Something so clinical about something so personal? Maybe, though Ratchet felt like he had begun to sound like himself again, the pretense slipping. "Nothing more!"

"How convenient for me then, that you react to my presence with such enthusiasm."

The earlier skittishness was nowhere to be seen. Megatron had really seemed to settle comfortably into his role, but, then again, he had once been that person. Ratchet had thankfully never been, and never wanted to be again, Optimus Prime. Being himself suited him just fine.

One more firm pump of his spike drew out yet another moan, muffled slightly by the phony mask. It was tempting to rip the damn thing off and toss it across the room. Being quiet wasn't the goal.

"If I'd known you'd be this compliant, I would have tried this sooner. Then you would have been surrendering to me every night, but… I suppose there is really no better time to start than the present."

The broad palm on his spike took to stroking with an unhurried pace. While slow, there was nothing lazy about it, every motion purposeful. Or maybe every motion was self-conscious. Hard to tell. Spikes weren't smart.

"I imagine you've been fantasizing about something like this for quite some time, Prime. Hardly surprising, but tell me: how long?"

Ratchet didn't know what to say to that. How was he supposed to—Well, it was pretend. There was no way to truly know. And unlike Megatron, Ratchet was fully capable of lying directly.

"Just do whatever malevolent thing it is you're going to do. It doesn't matter what you torture me with, I won't give you what you want."

Whatever that was supposed to have been.

"Bold of you to assume you know what I want; you've yet to ever guess correctly even when the answer is obvious. You're as oblivious as you are sanctimonious." As though to prove some kind of point, he started grinding his anterior node against the base of the spike. "Answer the question, Prime, and perhaps I'll be generous. How long?"

"You've never been generous; you're selfish and arrogant."

Especially with that teasing pace. It was driving him mad.

"More the fool are you then. I could just as easily leave you like this. There are others who know how to properly appreciate my attention. How long?"

Ratchet groaned, unable to hold the sound in.

"I shan't ask you again."

The hand froze, still holding firm. Primus, Megatron could crush him if he really wanted to, yet Ratchet only felt frustration that the stroking had stopped.

"Since Sherma Bridge!" He picked something random, but old enough to be shameful. Ratchet didn't know much about Optimus's earliest acquaintance with his long-time enemy. Accuracy wasn't the issue.

"See now how easy that was?" The stroking resumed as Megatron rose on his knees to get into a good position to slot together. Presumably. Ratchet didn't doubt the bastard would find some way to drag it out before the main event. There was no way it would be as easy as making up an embarrassing untruth about Optimus to reinforce Megatron's pride. He hardly needed the reinforcement.

"Nothing with you is ever easy—"

As though intent on proving "Optimus" wrong, Megatron centered himself over the spike and seated himself completely in one stuttering motion. Ratchet winced, arms drawing close defensively, at the rough, though not painful treatment. Definitely not the smooth glide of someone fully comfortable. The judder had been distracting enough to interrupt and abort the relieved moan that almost escaped him.

"Are you still so sure?"

It was getting harder to pretend, especially with the wet heat and pressure enveloping him. It was so tempting to just enjoy what he'd been given, to buck up and actively participate, to seek shared pleasure.

Worse, Ratchet had only just remembered he had hands after forgetting about them like an idiot while "arguing." What to even do with them? Instincts, to hold and caress, would most likely have been wrong, probably not what Optimus would have done.

"You won't—" He was running out of empty lines. To Optimus's credit, he'd always truly meant all those detached platitudes, deep down in his spark, but Ratchet couldn't. "You won't break me."

"No need but perhaps by the end of this, you'll wish I had, Ratch—"

Oh, how he wished could save and frame the wide-eyed, flummoxed stare on Megatron's face at the mistake. Embarrassment was a rare look for him. It was a struggle to not laugh at his dumbstruck expression.

Ratchet propped himself up on his elbows.

"It's okay. Why don't you try again?"

"Ratchet, I'm rather beginning to think this isn't going to be workable."

What a thing to say to someone while impaled on their spike. That was more appropriate for a command staff meeting than intercourse, especially for someone who fancied themselves a poet. Amazing.

Rodimus must have more patience than Ratchet had ever given him credit for.

"Workable," he parroted, tapping his fingertips against the tarpaulins, trying not to wiggle. He wouldn't mind getting more familiar with this valve but they had to clear the air first.

"Honestly, you may be right. I'm struggling to think of what Optimus would say and, frankly, I'm not terribly comfortable with being as… frigid as I think he would be."

This alone wouldn't solve their Optimus-related problems. They had been naïve to think so, especially at their ages but for Megatron's part, Ratchet would chalk it up to foolish youth.

Ratchet reached up and unclipped the mask from his face. It was tossed aside like the useless junk it was.

"Now, if that's alright, I wouldn't mind continuing, but without the pretense—" He held up an blue index finger, frowning when he saw the paint all smeared and scratched. "—If you help me get this slag off my plating afterwards."

"… Alright, we can do that."

Surprisingly easy, Ratchet thought. He'd been certain the stubborn aft would push forward regardless of his own personal comfort. It said a lot about how far Megatron had come that he had voiced his discomfort and changed his mind. Both used to be unheard of. Ratchet had seen Megatron ignore his own needs for "greater" goals before. The whole War had been millions of years of proof that he didn't easily change his mind.

"And put those fangs of yours back to work, Captain. Don't be so tame about it; I've had more painful academy exams."