ratchet being cuddly (ratchop)

04 December 2018

The datapool for people who had heard Optimus Prime speak was slim these days, certainly, but the unanimous decision was that when he spoke, you listened. He was head of the food chain, so to speak – inasmuch as Cybertronians had a foodchain. Still, everything has exceptions.

“Ratchet,” Prime answered, all calming tones and careful curiosity. He was maybe the only one among them who didn’t flinch when Ratchet called with that kind of bite to his voice. Wheeljack claimed not to, sure, but even he would wince when Ratchet narrowed his optics down and clicked his tongue. Only Optimus could look over and meet his gaze and just sort of smile.

Which infuriated Ratchet to no end.

“That high and mighty act won’t work with me,” Ratchet snapped, and that was true, too, the same thing in the other direction. It was something between them, Optimus and Ratchet, their long histories and the undeniable familiarity they had. Ratchet stomped across the small space of the missile silo, up until he was face-to-face with Prime – face-to-chest, really, what with Optimus being as tall as he was. Ratchet looked no less irritated about that.

He picked up a hand and prodded a single finger against Optimus’ chest. Optimus glanced down at it without real concern.

“Enlighten me,” Ratchet said. “When was the last time you actually sat down for a tune-up? And a real one, not a five-minute once-over just to oil your joints and call it a night.”

“I suppose it was before we landed on Earth and began a multispecies war,” Optimus answered blandly.

“Funny. Very funny.” Ratchet shook a hand out and it transformed with a click into some sort of semi-unidentifiable but suitably-intimidating medical tool. The motor in it whined a high warning pitch. “Now get into my office, brat.”

His ‘office,’ inasmuch as he had an office – inasmuch as any of them had any private spaces on this planet, in this time when Decepticons loomed all too closely – was just a repurposed side room, maybe once storage, now fitted with a berth and the few personal items Ratchet ever cared about, namely datapads and files. It wasn’t actually an office. Optimus followed him to his room and smiled when Ratchet looked back at him, got a tsking disapproving noise in return. The doors didn’t lock the same like they would in any Cybertronian construction, but the handful of them had generally learned privacy (Wheeljack excluded) so they didn’t worry when Ratchet ushered him into the room and closed the door.

“On the bed,” Ratchet insisted, and Optimus carefully put himself down, sat gently on the edge of it, respectful and patient, but Ratchet put a hand on each of his broad shoulders and pushed him back until he was laid flat on the berth. There was a moment of Optimus resisting, looking amused and quizzical until Ratchet rolled his optics and shoved, and Optimus went in one smooth go, back rolling down against the berth.

“Yes,  yes,” Ratchet grumbled as he arranged Optimus to his liking, pushing his feet and his shoulders into place, setting him laying on the berth like a regular mech, “you’re very strong, I’m very impressed. Would you cooperate, please.” Which had Optimus laugh low and apparently agree.

What they ended up with was Optimus laying like he was about to drift off into recharge (and who knew, really, when the last time he’d actually done that was) and watching while Ratchet climbed up onto the berth with him, pushed and shifted against him until there was, approximately, room for the both of them, Ratchet half-draped overtop of Optimus, his stockier frame leaning on Optimus’ slender limbs, his narrow hips. He rested an arm over Optimus’ chest and drew himself in close.

“Does this procedure have a technical name?” Optimus asked him, optics already slitting lazily, peering down at Ratchet resting against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ratchet answered, not even looking up. He adjusted and nestled in closer. “It’s called 'Optimus Prime doesn’t take a single microsecond for his damn self, and I’ll get him to relax if it kills me.’”

“Pot, kettle.” Optimus looped one of his own arms around Ratchet as best he could and that was when it clicked, the closeness, the nearness, being warm and together. He turned his head down against Ratchet’s so that his voice nearly rumbled right against Ratchet’s helm.

“It’s a multipurpose thing,” Ratchet mumbled, and Optimus laughed again before they went quiet and took in as much peace together as the day would afford them.