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The problem was not going to vanish if Optimus only confined Ratchet to the base, he was well aware of that. If anyone would do as they pleased under his command, it was Ratchet, and it never rang as insubordinate to him, never rang as something to correct. It struck him as his dearest, oldest friend operating on his own wisdom. His judgement was clouded, now, however, and Optimus could not afford him making his own foolhardy choices, that much was clear.
Tensions were high. The medic had Arcee going, fighting against Bulkhead’s hold; she would hit hard if she had the chance after Ratchet’s low cut at Cliffjumper. Ratchet was wound up and ready to throw fists, furious, raging on a substance that did not have his best interest in mind. If he found Megatron like he intended, if he tried to engage, he would end up with a hole in his chest, Optimus was certain.
“-Many chances in fact!” Had barely any time to sink in, Optimus felt his chords take the blow, but he had already made his decision, he would process the hurt when the conflict was set behind them.
“Return to base.” Optimus ordered, but not to Ratchet, to Bulkhead and Arcee. They exchanged puzzled looks, but obeyed in silence.
The pair of longstanding friends stared each other down, hurt and resentment hanging between them, hurt and resentment that had been boiling up inside Ratchet for a long time. Optimus could see now his shortcomings, how his decisions had pushed Ratchet here, how he had failed to notice that his most capable Autobot had whittled himself down to ‘just the medic’ in his mind’s eye.
“Lecture me then, Optimus.” Ratchet seethed. “Tell me again that my being proactive is unwise, when you have dragged this war out for-...”
Optimus had raised his fists, battle mask shifting to cover him. He lowered his stance, pedes sweeping to well practiced preparedness that he had deeply wired within him after a millenia of battle. Ratchet studied him, reading his position, frowning. “You believe yourself capable of ridding us of Megatron. Show me.” Optimus challenged. It was not a question, but if Ratchet backed down, he would never push for this. This had never been in his realm of leadership, and he was very intentional in not allowing the others to witness this.
Ratchet took a moment to process. And then he charged.
He was faster, and stronger, his weight sent Optimus skidding back, but the Prime’s knees and ankles sprung him forward, driving the attack right back. He had positioned himself well, he knew that Ratchet’s approach would be hard. He could feel that Ratchet had truly not anticipated Optimus fighting back in the reckless abandon of his charge. And he did hold back, he was careful when he gave Ratchet a blow to his chassis and sent him reversing a few strides. A fraction of his build’s strength.
Even knocked back, Ratchet sneered, “Still holding in, still soft.” He was tuned in, he knew exactly what Optimus was capable of.
Optimus mirrored his abandon, danced his dance, the speed that was truly a challenge to keep pace with. Ratchet would pour on a flurry of blockable strikes and then give him a tough uppercut that dented and bruised him. The Prime played this game, blocking, blocking, striking out. And he did hit Ratchet, he did dent him, rough him up, he treated him as an opponent, even as he kept his full strength back when he landed. Ratchet ducked a swing and drove a heel first kick into his knee, and he dropped enough to take knuckles to his battle mask.
Ouch. Optimus knocked Ratchet’s hip back to bruise his ability to swipe out with his dominant leg. Ratchet hissed in pain, and his next swing was sloppy. The Prime caught his fist and pulled him into a knee, just hard enough to take some of the wind out of him.
It was a true challenge to pin him. Ratchet’s thrashes were well weighted, strong, but when Optimus drove his wrists into the ground above his helm, and pinned his hip with one heavy knee, he was caught, he could gather no momentum to shake him.
Both of them panted. It had taken a spell to land here, the fight had been fast paced, and had tested their endurance. It was a good spar, Optimus had to give him credit for that, but it ended exactly how the Prime knew it would. Ratchet’s pride made him writhe and struggle for far longer than he needed to, he had already lost, but he resisted deflating for as long as he possibly could. When he finally went limp, his sickly green optics found Optimus’, and he gritted his dentae with the frustration of being humbled.
Optimus’ mask snapped back. It was dented, and it struggled to retreat. He scanned Ratchet for scuffs and dents, his gaze piercing. “If you cannot take me, you cannot take Megatron.” He said coolly. “Am I clear?”
There was a change in Ratchet’s face as he watched his Prime look over his frame from their position, assessing the damage he had dealt. His digits flexed. Optimus shifted to inspect his servos, where he bore paint transfers from the well aimed strikes. When his attention moved back to Ratchet’s face, he caught him drinking in the scent of him, leaning up to breathe him in. He was watching him in a way that was intoxicating.
“I think I can take a big strong ‘bot.” Ratchet drawled, and his tone had changed, and Optimus knew the look in his optics meant that he was not speaking about combat alone anymore.
His energy was magnetic. He was drawing Optimus in, looking like this, pinned beneath him. He wore the pose with an air that he knew Optimus found him tantalizing. There was power in him even when he was this vulnerable. A tangible power that looked so tasty and sweet.
“Your judgement is impaired.” The Prime reminded him in a hushed voice.
“Perhaps my impulse control has had a lapse,” Ratchet conceded. “But the sensations you stir in me are no stranger.” His lips stayed just barely parted, and Optimus knew what he was imagining. He watched his Prime’s mouth with lidded optics, and he leaned up the fraction he was able to, wanting for it, wanting to feel it. “You put an old medic in his place, you were strong for me.” His voice dropped to a dripping whisper. “Will you be weak for me now?”
Primus, yes.
“Are sensations all that I awaken in you?” Optimus asked. It was a burning question.
“Dumb question, for a Prime.” Ratchet clicked his glossa. “You think I’ve followed you through hell like a lovesick puppy only because you,” he sucked in a breath through his dentae, pushing against the hold, trying to press to him, “-Make me all hot and bothered… make me wet?” He whispered the last word, and Optimus pinned him harder, keeping him flush with the ground. “Be weak for me, Optimus.”
The Prime took his mouth with intent, kissing him through the ground, holding him down and sucking the wind out of him. Ratchet huffed out a gasp, high pitched, excitable. His digits flexed again, and he tried to arch up into his Prime. They tasted the tension in each other, tasted yearning, nights moaning for each other in their alone time, dragging out conversations, licking up a desperate want that they had built together. Ratchet moaned into him, whimpering with need, shamelessly writhing to grind up against him.
Optimus wanted to touch him, explore him, feel him squirm against his fingertips and beg him to do that again. He kept one servo trapping his wrists, and his free one dragged up his leg, sweeping up his thigh, his hip, his waist, his chassis.
And then he stopped, drawing back, savoring Ratchet’s taste on his glossa. Ratchet whined.
“Don’t stop!”
“You will listen carefully.” Optimus told him sternly. “You found the location of a substantial energon supply. I will lead an extraction operation that you will not be present for. I cannot entrust you with your own safety at the present time.” Ratchet made to protest, but the Prime gave him a sharp, withering look. “When we have the resources, we will flush your systems of the faulty energon. It is not suitable for use, and you will not use yourself, or any other Autobot as a test subject, ever again.” He lowered, pressed his forehelm to his medic’s. “When you are yourself again, and only then, will I be weak for you. We shall see if you still harbor these yearnings with your proper judgement.”
“Optimus, please.”
“Show me that this is real, my Old Friend.” Optimus implored him. “Return to me with your beautiful optics, with the healthy, right color, that handsome smile, and I will take good care of you. I will show you that you are far more than ‘just the medic.’” He breathed in his medic’s air one more time, then released him, rising to his pedes and offering a hand.
Ratchet took it, let himself be pulled upright. “Optimus, I love you. An unrefined formula will not change that.” He promised.
“Show me.” Optimus repeated.