Work Text:
[Earth, Autobot outpost Omega-1]
“Sit,” Ratchet said curtly, nodding toward the opposite side of the repair platform and the work stool beside it. “This will take time.”
After a brief hesitation, he rested his hands on the matte surface of the platform; the clang of metal against metal sounded dull, slightly louder than usual. Too loud in the familiar quiet of the medbay. Ratchet vented shortly and turned his servos palm-up with a noticeable trace of uncertainty, as though he were still questioning his decision.
Taking his place across from him, Optimus inclined his helm. Their knees brushed softly beneath the platform, and the medic gave the faintest flinch, but the Prime’s attention remained fixed on the position of his hands. He studied them with careful focus — not like another medic, not like a commander, not even like a sparkmate — but like someone who understands the true cost of sacrifices made for others. Prime had seen those servos covered in energon, buried inside others’ frames, reactivating a fading Spark, trembling in moments of despair — and steady beyond reproach when someone’s life was on the line.
Optimus lowered his own hands over them, slowly, not quite touching: only faintly pressing with his EM field.
“I’ll be careful,” he said quietly.
Ratchet gave a sharp nod. His ventilation hitched despite his effort to maintain outward composure. His optics drifted, focusing not on Optimus but somewhere nearby — on the prepared instruments and materials, on the diagnostic scanners, on the powered-down consoles.
“I just—” He broke off mid-sentence and lowered his gaze. His fingers twitched instinctively, as if to curl into protective fists, and sharply brushed against Optimus’s palms. “You know, no one’s ever done this for me. Not once. I’ve always done it myself.”
Prime watched him in silence, in no hurry to ask questions.
“It’s stupid, I know,” Ratchet muttered, giving his helm a short, irritated shake. “It’s just… they’re my hands. If anything happens… I’m… gone. That’s it.”
“I know,” Optimus said softly.
There was no teasing reassurance in his voice, no empty promises. Ratchet squeezed his optics shut, lowering his helm for a moment. Optimus would not say aloud how much this gesture of trust meant to him. But the bond between their Sparks responded, warm and steadying.
And Optimus truly did not smile or attempt to comfort him. He simply waited, watching Ratchet with focused patience, giving him space to quiet the irrational anxiety churning through his systems. He observed him with that familiar expression of open trust on his faceplate and the gentle, grounding warmth of his electromagnetic field.
The medic cautiously touched the tips of his digits to Prime’s palms again — this time softly, consciously, in acknowledgment of his own consent. Optimus waited for that movement, taking it as his signal to begin.
“I’ll start with the left.”
Ratchet jerked slightly, as if about to protest, then vented noisily and tipped his helm back. Optimus leaned in, removing the first armor plate from the little finger. The motion was unhurried, almost indecently delicate. His fingers carefully secured the joint; the locking mechanisms clicked, and the plate detached.
Beneath the shadowless med-lights, exposed sensory pathways shimmered: miniature base struts, motor relays, slender hydraulic lines, and the finest filaments of connective fiber, flickering in rhythm with the Spark.
“All looks stable here,” Optimus noted. “Moving to the second.”
Ratchet remained silent. He still wasn’t looking at Prime, but his optics were narrowed with tension. He listened to the sensations, tracking every movement, every careful touch. He knew — one mistake, the slightest misapplied pressure, and something could break. Something that could not always be repaired.
But Optimus continued removing the armor plates — so small compared to the breadth of his own hands — careful and unhurried. He worked with the same fierce concentration he brought to the battlefield. His touch was so gentle it felt almost imagined. As if the Prime were not truly touching at all, but holding the integrity of the structure together by sheer force of will. Every movement was methodical, exquisitely precise.
Ratchet’s fingers twitched faintly, reflexively, yet he kept his servo resting on the platform, not pulling away.
“There’s a microfracture here,” Optimus reported, narrowing his optics when he reached the middle finger. “Superficial. But a couple of millimeters from a motor assembly.”
“Yes,” Ratchet forced out, glancing down. “I know. I just didn’t want to risk it alone — awkward angle. And dangerous. Better… you do it.”
He faltered at the last moment, as if reluctant to give voice to that admission. Optimus slowly lifted his gaze to him. He did not say thank you. He simply inclined his helm and reached for the microsurgical laser welder, as though this moment of trust were not an event but the natural continuation of their bond.
“Show me.”
Ratchet leaned forward. Somewhat uncertainly, he wrapped the fingers of his right servo around Optimus’s wrist and guided him, like a master instructing an apprentice. Along the exposed sensory pathway, sensitive to the faintest shift of air; along a trajectory known only to his own hands. Optimus followed the motion exactly — neither anticipating nor lagging behind.
They synchronized with effortless familiarity. Their EM fields intertwined at deeper layers, easy and known. Their Sparks resonated with a subtle tremor, and Ratchet felt his sparkmate’s confidence and reverence as though they were his own — not in sharp pulses, but in a soft, enveloping warmth settling over his shoulders. An all-encompassing sense of calm. Of presence. Of home.
This was no longer routine maintenance. It was a dialogue on another level — tactile, techno-emotional, perhaps more honest than anything they could have spoken aloud.
“Here, see… apply slight pressure here, contact there, weld for one and a half seconds at second power. The sensor pathway syncs just beyond the—”
“—triple motor assembly,” Optimus finished. “I understand.”
He repeated the demonstrated steps with steady precision, the welder now active — and the flare of pain on Ratchet’s HUD extinguished at once. Along with it, the unnatural anxiety seemed to finally recede.
“Done,” Optimus said, straightening slightly as he released a controlled vent.
“Yes, I can feel it.” Ratchet carefully flexed the finger, testing its range of motion. “Clean work. I never thought I’d say this, but… you’re becoming alarmingly good at minor repairs.”
“I’m learning from the best,” Optimus replied seriously, setting the welder aside. “And this is not minor repair, my friend.”
“It’s not a Spark, Optimus. It’s just hands.”
Prime looked up at him.
“Exactly. Your hands.”
Ratchet stared at him as if he’d glitched, and this time Optimus allowed himself a faint smile before returning to the task. Several minutes passed in silence, filled only with the soft scrape of detached components and the steady hum of the medbay systems.
“The primary joint is slightly misaligned,” Optimus said after reaching the thumb and removing its casing, a subtle frown touching his faceplate. “The sensory feedback is dampened. Is this an old injury?”
“Eukaris,” Ratchet confirmed. “Remember that massive mech with the alt-form like one of this planet’s rhinoceroses? He hit me hard before we managed to explain ourselves. I couldn’t properly hold my instruments for a couple of cycles afterward.”
Optimus nodded, retrieving a neurodynamic scanner and bringing the probe toward the damaged area. His fingers enclosed Ratchet’s servo with such steady care that the medic’s sensory network flared to life beneath his armor in a rush of heat.
“And your diagnosis, Doctor Prime?” Ratchet asked.
“I believe I can realign it,” Optimus answered. He did not respond to the teasing verbally, but his EM field warmed, and across their bond rolled a deep current of gratitude. “I’ll need to remove the casing from the next section — and here, at the base of the palm.”
“Then remove it,” Ratchet said. “Just don’t forget to vent while you do.”
This was easier than soldering a microfracture in the narrow space of a joint hinge. Optimus finished quickly. Every plate was removed, every sensor line and cable checked, every moving component cleaned and lubricated.
“Much better,” the medic admitted, leaning back.
For several seconds he said nothing, studying his own servo — stripped of armor, flickering with the faint sparks of sensor nodes and biolights; so vulnerable, and yet, strangely, safe. Optimus still supported his palm from beneath, preventing the uncovered sensitive elements from touching the hard surface of the repair platform.
“Not letting go?” Ratchet asked, lifting his optic ridges.
“I’m monitoring network stability,” Optimus replied with complete seriousness.
Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, silent and intent. Then he vented slowly, releasing a wash of warm air, and with his free hand lightly nudged Optimus under the chin.
“Say something that heartfelt again and I’ll have to schedule you for an emotional circuitry diagnostic,” he muttered.
“That sounded like an invitation,” his sparkmate answered evenly.
The medic snorted, and Optimus finally allowed himself a soft, genuine smile at that sign of ease. Leaning forward slightly, lowering his voice, he said firmly:
“Your other hand.”
And without hesitation, Ratchet placed his free servo onto the repair platform.