Chapter Text
The way Ratchet had ended up in this situation was tragically stupid.
A mistake -a simple oversight- that had walked him straight into a Decepticon trap. And now here he was; miraculously unharmed, but a prisoner in their outpost on the desolate planet Hiemis, a frozen wasteland buried in a remote corner of the galaxy.
He had tried to establish communication with the nearest Autobot ship, but the Decepticons must have intercepted his signal first, cutting it off before it could reach anyone. Every cry for help had been swallowed by static.
Now he was stuck in their laboratory, unarmed, surrounded by sterile white walls and kept under constant surveillance by a ceiling-mounted camera that watched him like a single, unblinking optic.
But it wasn’t the surveillance, nor the barked orders from whichever Decepticon bothered to check on him, that troubled him most.
It was the subject he was ordered to monitor.
Subject D29, that’s how they had introduced him.
A supposed supersoldier, the pinnacle of their twisted fusion of war and science. Heavy, reinforced black armor, a massive frame, a spark stolen from some unlucky mech who’d never had a chance.
The creature was in stasis now, lying motionless under a web of cables and dim monitors. His expression was deceptively calm, but there was something dangerous coiled beneath that stillness, something predatory.
Ratchet couldn’t shake the prickling at the back of his neck cables; the certainty that if D29 opened his optics, if he woke even for a moment, he would rip Ratchet apart before anyone outside could blink.
And yet…
Ratchet was ordered to stand there and watch him, to monitor his vital signs, to observe a monster as though he were just another patient.
Just the thought sent a shiver crawling through his frame.
In any case, Ratchet far preferred the company of the motionless mech before him to that of the Decepticons who had captured him; Decepticons who delighted in reminding him that the famous Autobot CMO had been very easy prey.
Ratchet, biting his glossa, continued to move around the lab, searching for anything that could help him escape. But there was nothing.
He could have built something himself if only the ever-watchful ceiling camera weren’t tracking his every move.
More than once, he caught himself wondering what would happen if he activated the protocol to bring D29 online. It was a stupid idea, a fatal one. The creature would probably tear him apart before the Decepticons had the chance.
So he didn’t touch the controls, he just watched.
But then, one day, something happened.
Ratchet was monitoring D29’s neural signals when, without him touching a single command or panel, the supersoldier opened his optics.
Bright red, cold, sharp, like they had absorbed every icy lumen in that sterile, white room. And they were looking directly at him.
The datapad slipped from Ratchet’s servos and clattered to the floor, and for a long, suspended moment, neither mech moved; blue optics against red.
Ratchet’s spark hammered as the realization hit him like a blow: D29 had bypassed the activation system, he had woken up on his own.
“Doctor…” D29 rasped, voice a jagged scratch of static. Then he rebooted his vocalizer and tried again, this time the sound was clean, low, deep. A voice that resonated straight through Ratchet’s core.
“Ratchet.”
Ratchet’s spark tightened.
He had no idea how D29 knew his designation; maybe he’d heard it during stasis.
A chill crawled down Ratchet’s back strut as he stared at the mech, unable to form a single word. The way D29 was looking at him, the way he was analyzing every micro-shift of Ratchet’s expression, every breath, every tremor…
Ratchet snapped a glance at the datapad still connected to the subject’s monitoring cables and horror struck him like a jolt.
D29 wasn’t just watching him.
He was imprinting.
His neural activity was spiking in patterns Ratchet recognized all too well; attachment protocol activation, recognition subroutines, target fixation.
D29 wasn’t simply awake.
He was choosing.
Choosing him.
For a long moment, Ratchet said nothing.
He simply watched with wide optics as the mech slowly pushed himself upright on the berth, still anchored to the tangle of cables monitoring his vital signs.
D29 stared back at him, not with suspicion, not with the cold analytical stare Ratchet had expected, but with a genuine curiosity, clear even through those red-optic lights. The intensity alone sent a shiver crawling down Ratchet’s back strut.
“You shouldn’t be online.” Ratchet managed at last.
“Perfect parameters. Systems fully functional. Stasis no longer required.”
Those weren’t the words of some mindless, stitched-together brute the Decepticons had scraped off a battlefield.
That was coherent speech. A self-scan. A comprehension of diagnostics.
Ratchet was momentarily speechless, but fascination was a luxury he didn’t have. A Decepticon could walk through that door at any moment. He had to think, and fast.
His energon pulsed hard through his fuel lines. As if being kidnapped by the faction they’d been at war with for eons wasn’t enough, now their supersoldier -dangerously intelligent, frighteningly aware- had awakened and activated imprinting protocol.
On him.
Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose between two digits, trying to force clarity into his processor, but D29 suddenly rose from the berth, unplugging every cable that tethered him to the machinery.
“What are you-”
Ratchet’s words died in his intake.
D29 was… massive.
The mech towered over him, a dark, imposing silhouette that seemed to swallow the entire lab simply by existing. White diagnostic lights reflected harshly off his black armor, making it gleam like sharpened obsidian as he swept his gaze around the room. His long finials vibrated subtly, picking up every sound with predatory precision.
Impressed wasn’t the right word. Not even close.
Standing before him was a masterpiece of Cybertronian engineering, a weapon forged with terrifying elegance, strength balanced perfectly with lethal grace.
Ratchet knew he should have been terrified. Yet some stubborn, reckless part of him couldn’t help but marvel at the flawless construction, the precision of the plating, the power ticking beneath every movement. A magnificent war machine.
And one that had chosen him as its anchor.
D29 moved, not toward Ratchet -much to his relief- but toward the far corner of the lab. He paused, looking up, and Ratchet felt the realization hit him like a surge of electricity. D29 was staring at the same ceiling camera that had spent entire cycles doing nothing but monitoring Ratchet’s every move.
Ratchet opened his mouth to speak -to tell him to step back, to return to the berth, to do anything but this- but the words never formed.
D29 simply reached up and seized the camera, ripping it straight out of the wall.
The unblinking, apathetic optic that had watched Ratchet without pause since the moment he’d been imprisoned now lay crushed in the mech’s claws. He let the broken pieces fall to the floor, still twitching with stray electricity.
“We are so fragged.” It was all Ratchet managed to say.
D29 turned toward him at the sound of his voice -sharply, immediately, like the activation of a command- and at that moment, alarms erupted throughout the outpost, shrill and vicious.
Ratchet didn’t even have time to fully process what was happening before the newly awakened mech was suddenly beside him as the lab doors slid open.
With a metallic hiss, the lab doors swung open, revealing the imposing silhouettes of two armed Decepticons. Ratchet knew them well; he had seen them enter the lab countless times to deliver energon and taunt him with whatever crude comment they’d thought of that cycle.
For a moment, shock froze all three bots in place.
The guards hesitated, their weapons twitching between D29 and Ratchet, unsure which threat to prioritize. Ratchet shared their stunned expression, but raising their rifles at him, even for a second, was a fatal mistake.
D29 moved before Ratchet even registered the blur of motion.
With a single leap, the supersoldier crashed into the nearest guard. A strangled cry tore from Ratchet’s intake as D29 seized the Decepticon by the helm and slammed him -hard- into his companion, then into the wall. The impact carved a deep gouge into the metal, and the mech slid lifelessly to the floor.
The second guard staggered, trying to bring his weapon up, but D29 was already there. His speed, under any other circumstance, might have impressed Ratchet. Now it only tightened the dread twisting in his tanks.
A clawed servo closed around the guard’s throat. The Decepticon’s visor flickered with pure terror as D29 lifted him off the floor as if he weighed nothing.
“No!” Ratchet shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the sound of metal tearing.
D29’s free servo raked through the guard’s chest plating as if it were soft material, splitting it open in one clean, horrifying movement.
Ratchet watched, paralyzed, as the mech’s offline frame crumpled to the ground, energon pooling beneath it, severed cables sparking weakly.
Without pause, D29 bent down, collected both fallen weapons, and turned to Ratchet. He held out one rifle as if offering him something innocuous rather than a tool of violence. Ratchet took it automatically.
“You’re safe.” D29 said, voice deep and unmistakably gentle, an impossible softness from a mech who had just killed two soldiers without hesitation.
After centuries of war, Ratchet had thought he’d seen everything.
That the sight of spilled energon, broken frames, and bullet-riddled plating no longer shook him, especially not as a medic.
But the way D29 had executed those two mechs and then calmly told him they were safe sent Ratchet’s internal sensors into a full tailspin.
If D29 hadn’t activated the imprinting protocol -if that glitch, that accident, hadn’t happened- would Ratchet have met the same fate?
The answer came too easily.
Ratchet refused to dwell on it, forcing the thought aside before it could take root.
“What do we do?” D29 asked, the words dragging him back into the present.
The question felt absurd the moment it left his vocalizer.
What do we do?
That war machine had just dismantled two Decepticons with surgical efficiency, and now he was asking him for instructions.
“We can’t stay here.” Ratchet said, the weight of the situation crashing down on him all at once. “We have to leave. Let’s find a hangar.”
D29 nodded without hesitation.
They moved together into the corridor, and chaos met them head-on. Alarms screamed, red emergency lights strobing violently against the walls as Decepticons rushed past in disorganized clusters. The outpost was in full panic.
Twice, D29 caught Ratchet by the arm, yanking him back just as patrols thundered by. They stayed silent, pressed into the shadows.
At one point, D29 pushed Ratchet firmly against the wall, his massive frame shielding him completely. Ratchet’s back hit cold metal as D29 planted his servos on either side of his helm, caging him in, not as a threat, but as cover.
Ratchet’s vents stuttered despite himself.
Embarrassment flared -sharp, irrational, entirely unwelcome- as he realized how close they were.
He was pinned against the wall by a mech who had killed two others moments earlier, and was now protecting him with absolute focus.
The farther they advanced, the clearer one thing became to Ratchet: D29 always knew where he was.
It was as if the supersoldier carried some internal sensor attuned exclusively to him, tracking every shift of Ratchet’s frame through the cold, echoing corridors. D29 stopped him before he stepped into hallways already occupied by passing Decepticon soldiers, never needing to turn or look ahead to anticipate their movements. He simply knew.
It felt like moving with a lethal, protective shadow permanently at Ratchet’s side.
When they finally reached the hangar, alarm sirens blared relentlessly through Ratchet’s auditory systems. Relief surged at the sight of several parked ships, only to be crushed an instant later by the crack of gunfire.
They’d been found.
Ratchet didn’t even have time to dive for cover or raise his weapon before D29 was in front of him. The supersoldier fired with ruthless efficiency, not a single shot wasted, his massive frame shielding Ratchet completely.
“That way!” Ratchet shouted, pointing toward the nearest launch bay.
D29 didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t hesitate. It was as if he understood Ratchet’s intent the moment the words left his vocalizer.
They ran. They sprinted toward the closest ship -the fastest one Ratchet could spot- while Decepticon shouts and weapons fire echoed behind them, ricocheting wildly through the hangar.
As soon as they boarded, Ratchet vaulted into the pilot’s seat and immediately initiated takeoff. Behind him, D29 kept the lower hatch open, firing without pause at any Decepticons reckless enough to try to stop them. Only once the ship had gained enough distance from the base did the supersoldier seal the hatch and move -silent and precise- into the co-pilot’s seat beside Ratchet.
Ratchet tightened his grip on the controls as the ship accelerated, massive snowflakes swirling violently around them as they climbed toward the upper atmosphere.
He never would have imagined he’d one day be grateful for the brutal weather of that planet, but as the storm intensified, it became clear that no other ships would be able to pursue them. Desperation, it seemed, had saved his life that day.
Well… desperation, and something else.
Ratchet cast a brief, uneasy glance at his passenger.
D29 sat perfectly composed, red optics fixed straight ahead, the weapon resting in his lap as if it were nothing more than an inert tool. When it became clear that D29 wasn’t watching him, Ratchet allowed himself a moment to study the mech’s profile: the straight line of his nose, the long white finials, the sharp yet elegant contours of his helm.
Whoever had designed him had done so with intention.
They hadn’t just built a weapon. They had made sure it looked magnificent.
Ratchet shook his helm sharply and refocused on the controls. Admiring a creature like D29 was pointless, and potentially dangerous. Still, the questions kept circling his processor, insistent and unwelcome.
When they finally broke free of Hiemis’ icy atmosphere, Ratchet felt his frame loosen for the first time since his capture. The endless darkness of space spread out before them, stars glittering faintly against the void, the steady hum of the ship replacing the chaos of alarms and gunfire.
For the moment, at least, they were safe.
Even though they were now beyond the Decepticons’ immediate reach, Ratchet knew they were far from safe.
There was still too much to do: put as much distance as possible between themselves and the enemy-controlled quadrant, locate an Autobot zone of influence -or at the very least a neutral planet- establish contact with rescue services, and, in the best-case scenario, reach Optimus Prime himself.
And then there was him.
One more glance at his unlikely traveling companion was enough for Ratchet to realize that understanding D29 -and the imprinting protocol embedded within him- was no longer optional. As tempting as the idea of having a perfect war machine utterly dependent on his every word might sound, Ratchet was painfully aware that it could only end badly.
First, he would have to explain the situation to the chain of command.
And then -no matter how difficult- it would be necessary to sever that connection.
Ratchet knew exactly how dangerous D29 could become if the mechs around him even hinted at behavior the supersoldier deemed threatening.
And Ratchet already carried enough deaths on his spark.
Maybe Ratchet could start by asking a few questions.
“So… D29.”
As if Ratchet’s voice alone were enough to summon him, the obsidian-armored mech turned toward him at once, red optics locking onto the medic’s blue ones, waiting -patient, attentive- for direction.
“Do you have another designation I can call you by?” Ratchet asked. “I don’t want it to be just a number.”
D29 lowered his gaze, suddenly still. Ratchet turned back to the controls, entering the coordinates of the nearest non–Decepticon-controlled planet into the ship’s navigation system, giving him space.
The silence stretched.
When D29 still hadn’t answered, Ratchet glanced back at him, and froze. The mech’s faceplate was tense, his expression concentrated to the point of strain, almost angry, as if he resented his inability to immediately provide what Ratchet had asked of him.
As if failing him.
“Hey.” Ratchet said quickly, softening his tone. “If you don’t know, you don’t have to-”
“Deadlock.”
The word came out firm and precise. D29 lifted his helm again, crimson optics fixed on Ratchet with renewed intensity.
“Deadlock?” Ratchet repeated, one optical ridge lifting before he gave a small shake of his helm. Of course, a supersoldier -a killing machine- would choose a designation meant to inspire fear. His reputation, after all, would have been built on it.
But then, catching himself -suddenly worried about offending him, absurd as that thought was- Ratchet adjusted his expression.
“All right.” He said lightly. “Deadlock it is.”
Beside him, the mech let out a low, resonant purr from deep within his engine; quiet, powerful, unmistakably pleased.
Ratchet’s questions were far from over, yet he didn’t quite know where to begin, or how.
“So, Deadlock… where are you from?”
He finally asked, forcing his tone into something casual, almost friendly, as if he were chatting with an old acquaintance and not trying to understand how in Primus’s name a mech like Deadlock had ended up alone with him in a stolen ship.
“Cybertron.”
Of course.
Ratchet glanced at him again, but nothing in the mech’s posture or expression betrayed his thoughts.
“And how did you end up in a Decepticon base on Hiemis?”
Ratchet continued calmly, optics fixed on the stars as the ship followed its plotted course.
“My memory was reset until the moment I woke up.”
Now that was interesting.
“All I know,” Deadlock went on. “Is that I am of Cybertronian lineage, that my designation was D29, and that my mission is to protect Ratchet. To protect you.”
Ratchet let out a slow sigh.
So they were back to square one.
Perhaps someone within the Autobot ranks could help him trace Deadlock’s origin. Perhaps a more thorough examination would reveal something, now that they were finally free from Decepticon surveillance.
Who knew? D29 -Deadlock- would probably even allow himself to be dismantled if Ratchet asked. He would do it without hesitation if it meant helping Ratchet find a way to sever the connection between them.
The thought made Ratchet flinch.
Primus. A short stay in a Decepticon facility, and he was already starting to think like the butchers they called doctors.
No. Even if the creature sitting beside him in that cramped cockpit was more machine than mech, Ratchet still had a moral code. And he wasn’t about to abandon it now.
The journey continued in silence for a while, and Ratchet would have given anything to find comfort in it; to let it be calm rather than suffocating.
Deadlock hadn’t moved an inch from his seat. He didn’t drum his claws against his knees. He didn’t shift, stretch, or turn his helm when they passed an unusual cluster of asteroids.
He just sat there.
Gripping the controls, Ratchet spoke again, more to break the oppressive quiet than because he truly wanted conversation.
“Don’t you have any questions for me?”
He regretted it instantly. Deadlock’s red gaze fixed on him, heavy and unblinking.
Frag.
It wasn’t that Ratchet wanted to talk to him. He just needed to reassure himself that there was a sentient being beside him, and not a disturbingly lifelike statue.
“I don’t.”
The answer was simple enough.
But Deadlock kept staring at him, unwavering, as if Ratchet himself were the question.
“Don’t you want to know where I come from?” Ratchet pressed.
“You are clearly from Vaporex, Cybertron.”
“Clearly.” Ratchet echoed, irritation seeping into his tone.
And with that, he decided they would travel in silence, at least until the next time Deadlock gave an answer he didn’t like. After all, there were plenty of junkyard planets in the galaxy.
*
Ratchet was exhausted.
Despite the autopilot, he couldn’t bring himself to recharge, and he knew exactly why.
Deadlock’s presence allowed him no rest.
It wasn’t that the mech was doing anything wrong. On the contrary: he was the problem. Ratchet didn’t trust Deadlock to take over the controls, but he trusted himself even less to slip into recharge with him so close. In the end, he managed only short, restless recharges, a few joor at a time.
To make matters worse, they were running low on energon. If they wanted to avoid a decidedly unpleasant situation, they would have to land soon.
His interactions with Deadlock hadn’t progressed much, either. He’d asked -carefully- why he’d chosen that designation. Deadlock had replied that he liked the sound of it. Ratchet hadn’t known how to respond, and the conversation had died there.
Every so often, Ratchet found himself clearing his vocalizer, just to make sure he still remembered how to use it.
Then, finally, an icon blinked to life on the ship’s locator.
Solace.
A small, neutral planet. Ratchet scanned through the available data, and relief loosened something tight in his chassis. A refueling yard. Lodging. Communication facilities. Even a bar, one he fully intended to visit, given his increasingly urgent need for a drink.
“Hold on tight.” Ratchet said as he adjusted their descent. “We’re landing soon.”
Deadlock didn’t reply, not that Ratchet expected him to. He simply secured himself in his seat as the ship began its slow descent through the upper layers of Solace’s atmosphere.
When they finally landed in a cloud of dust, Ratchet stepped off the ship and stretched every aching joint. Deadlock paced beside him, optics sweeping the area with relentless focus. Ratchet could almost see his sensors at work; perimeter scans, life-form counts, threat assessment.
“Relax.” Ratchet said dryly. “We’re on a neutral planet. Unless someone wants trouble with the entire Galactic Committee, I doubt we’ll be attacked here.”
His words did nothing to ease the mech at his side.
Inside what passed for a dusty hostel, Ratchet approached the organic behind the counter without hesitation.
“Two rooms for the night-cycle.”
The creature nodded and rummaged beneath the counter for keys.
“And I’ll need a transmitter.” Ratchet added. “Preferably a powerful one.”
“Calling for reinforcements, Cybertronian?”
The alien’s voice creaked through its sharp little teeth.
“Oh, no.” Ratchet replied smoothly. “Just calling home. Letting them know I’m alive. The usual.”
He offered his best approximation of a reassuring smile, keenly aware that he lacked the easy charm -or, frankly, the punchable face- of some of his comrades.
The creature regarded him with its two large pairs of black eyes, unimpressed, then slowly shook its head, long antennae swaying.
“You’ll find one past the fuel station, on the left.”
Ratchet gave a small, victorious nod in Deadlock’s direction. Deadlock stared back, red optics widening a fraction, as if the gesture itself were confusing.
The moment of triumph didn’t last.
“I don’t have two free rooms.” The creature added.
Ratchet sighed. “You’ve got to be- what do you mean?”
“I only have one available.” The alien said calmly. “Single bed.”
From the way its eyes flicked between Ratchet and Deadlock -clearly amused- Ratchet knew this was deliberate.
“Could you please check again?” Ratchet asked, carefully gathering what remained of his patience.
“No.”
For a split second, Ratchet had the irrational urge to grab the insectoid by its collar.
Deadlock moved first.
An obsidian-armored arm snapped out beside him. In an instant, the alien’s head was slammed against the counter, pinned beneath Deadlock’s clawed servo.
Ratchet’s jaw dropped.
Slag.
Perfect. Exactly what they needed: a diplomatic incident on a neutral planet.
“Deadlock! What are you doing?”
Ratchet raised both servos instinctively, taking a careful step toward him while his processor raced, searching for the right words to defuse the situation before it spiraled completely out of control.
“Two rooms.”
Deadlock growled the words, forcing the creature’s soft head harder against the counter until it let out a pained groan.
“Okay- okay! Two rooms! Fine!”
With a final, low growl, Deadlock released the alien and turned toward Ratchet. The shift was immediate and unsettling: from an executioner poised to split skull plating across the lobby, to something softer, almost pleased.
Was he… waiting for approval?
Ratchet didn’t linger on the thought. He snatched the keys, muttering rapid apologies as he ushered Deadlock up the stairs and away from the scene.
Only once they were alone in the long, dim corridor did Ratchet whirl on him.
“What in Primus’s name did you think you were doing?” He hissed.
“Two rooms.” Deadlock repeated calmly, as if the explanation were self-evident.
“You can’t get everything you want by force!” Ratchet snapped, incredulous at himself for scolding a supersoldier -a living war machine- as if he were a reckless youngling.
“This is not what I wanted.” Deadlock stepped closer, his immense frame looming over Ratchet, and for a brief moment Ratchet’s words caught in his intake. “This is what Ratchet wanted.”
The intensity of Deadlock’s optics seemed to spike, burning brighter than usual. Ratchet resisted the instinct to step back, or to push him away. Showing fear now would only make things worse.
“Alright.” Ratchet said carefully. “Then we’re going to do this differently. Unless I ask you, I’ll handle what I want myself. Without your intervention. Understood?”
Deadlock recoiled slightly, as if struck. His mouth tightened, dermas pressing into a thin, controlled line.
“As you wish.”
The words were polite. Compliant.
But beneath them lingered something new, an unfamiliar note in his voice, dangerously close to disappointment.
Ratchet tried to ignore it, dismissing the feeling with the stubborn conviction that he must have imagined it.
He glanced down at the key cards in his servos and passed one to Deadlock. The mech accepted it in silence, studying the small object in his massive palm for a long moment before lifting his optics back to Ratchet.
“It’s the key to your room.” Ratchet explained, briefly wondering whether the war machine in front of him even understood what a hostel was. “That door.” He gestured down the corridor. “Mine’s this one.”
Deadlock didn’t react.
“I need to wash up and recover from the trip.” Ratchet added, already feeling the exhaustion settling into his frame. “Meet me in the lobby in a joor.”
Still, Deadlock didn’t move.
Ratchet offered a tight, polite smile, the kind meant to signal this is where the conversation ends and turned to unlock his door.
He barely had time to reach for the handle before he felt resistance.
The door didn’t move.
Ratchet froze, then turned slowly.
Deadlock’s claws were wrapped around the edge of the door, holding it firmly in place.
“What are you doing?” Ratchet asked, keeping his voice level despite the sudden spike in his spark rate.
“I stay with you.”
The answer was delivered calmly, as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the universe. For a sparkbeat, Ratchet’s vents stuttered.
“No. You won’t stay with me.” Ratchet said sharply, his tone hovering somewhere between authority and disbelief. “We nearly caused a diplomatic incident of cosmic proportions to get two rooms. You’re going to use yours.”
“How can I protect you if I can’t see you?”
Ratchet stared at him, stunned, not just by the question itself, but by the way Deadlock asked it, as though it were the most obvious, self-evident truth in the universe.
“Have you ever heard of the concepts of privacy and personal space?”
Deadlock tilted his helm slightly, optics fixed on him, waiting patiently for further explanation. Ratchet dragged a servo over his faceplate, exhaustion and disbelief warring in equal measure.
“Alright. Let’s do this,” the Autobot CMO sighed at last, already mourning the recharge he wouldn’t be getting anytime soon. “First, we go to the damned transmitter. While we’re there, I’ll explain why it is necessary for me not to see you for at least an entire night-cycle. Then we come back here. I go to my room. You go to yours. And we recharge. Understood?”
Deadlock didn’t look convinced. Still, he nodded, less in agreement than in compliance, as if the gesture itself were meant to placate Ratchet.
Irritated, Ratchet turned and headed down the corridor toward the exit, his circuits buzzing unpleasantly under the strain.
He knew it. He could feel it between the plates of his armor, a weight he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.
He had gotten himself into serious trouble.
Much to Ratchet’s disappointment, he didn’t even get to see the inside of his room before they were already heading back out.
The alien at the front desk widened its large black eyes in fear as they passed again, and Ratchet was fairly sure he saw its antennae relax in relief once they were finally out of the building.
The transmitter site was not far, and they reached it just as the star that warmed the dusty planet dipped below the horizon, giving way to night.
Ratchet manually opened the comm channel and connected the transmitter’s cable to his forearm. If an Autobot ship was within range -even a distant one- he would hear them this way. All it took was patience.
He nearly jumped when Deadlock spoke, unaccustomed to him initiating conversation.
“Why is it necessary that you not see me for at least the entire night-cycle?”
He repeated Ratchet’s words exactly.
The doctor looked up into those red optics, searching for any sign of emotion -anything that might help him understand what Deadlock was feeling- but found nothing. Only two crimson lights, steady and intense.
Frag. How was he supposed to explain that Deadlock’s mere presence made his systems itch with unease? That recharging beside a war machine so flawless it was terrifying ranked somewhere in his personal top ten worst ideas?
“I recharge better when I’m alone.”
Ratchet finally said, offering a half-truth and hoping the signal would reach his comrades soon.
Deadlock studied him, as if weighing the statement carefully.
“How can I protect you if there are walls between us?”
“I survived this long without a bodyguard engineered to be perfect.” Ratchet muttered, tapping the surface of the transmitter with his free servo, as if that might make it work faster. “I think I can manage one more night-cycle without one.”
“Engineered to be perfect…”
Deadlock echoed, his tone shifting for the first time.
Ratchet looked up sharply.
Deadlock wasn’t looking at him anymore.
For a moment, Ratchet’s circuits stalled in surprise. Had that mech -that killing machine- just… blushed?
He almost couldn’t believe it, and yet the faint blue glow spreading along Deadlock’s cheeks was unmistakable: an energon surge triggered by a change in emotional state.
Had Deadlock really reacted like that… because Ratchet had complimented him?
Slag. Deadlock’s imprinting system had to operate on a far deeper level than Ratchet had initially assumed, and that meant that if they didn’t sever that connection, he was well and truly screwed.
Ratchet barely had time to realize he was staring at Deadlock with his mouth slightly open before his own comm system buzzed to life.
His attention snapped instantly to the active channel, hope flaring bright and desperate at the thought of hearing Optimus Prime’s low, steady voice. No one else could help him navigate this mess; no one else would understand.
But the voice that answered wasn’t Optimus’s.
“You have made contact with a unit of the Autobot fleet. Identify yourself.”
Ratchet had to physically restrain himself from sighing at the sound of Prowl’s voice.
“Prowl. It’s Ratchet.”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, and Ratchet’s gaze slid involuntarily toward Deadlock. He noted how intently the mech was staring at the exposed manual comm interface on Ratchet’s forearm, as if any response he disliked might compel him to sever the connection outright. The thought sent a chill through Ratchet’s frame.
“Vocalizer detection successful.”
A soft sigh escaped Ratchet’s vents.
“Where the hell are you?” Prowl demanded. “You’ve practically vanished from our scanners for cycles.”
“I was a prisoner in a Decepticon base on Hiemis.” Ratchet replied dryly. “I’ll be sure to notify you next time that happens.”
He snorted, catching the way Deadlock lowered his helm slightly, as if weighing the literal meaning of his words.
“I was under constant surveillance. I only managed to escape a short time ago.”
“How did you escape a Decepticon installation?” Prowl pressed. “Hiemis is an inhospitable planet with frequent blizzards. Atmospheric departure windows are limited.”
Ratchet could picture Prowl’s expression perfectly; sharp, analytical, already suspicious.
“About that…” Ratchet began, glancing at Deadlock, suddenly unsure where to start. “I had help. From within.”
“Did you receive assistance from a Decepticon?” Prowl asked, disbelief threading his tone.
“No. Not a Decepticon.” Ratchet hesitated. “Another… guest of theirs. An experiment. A weapon. Call him what you will.”
Deadlock’s expression remained unreadable, as always, giving Ratchet no clue as to whether any of those words had registered, or hurt.
“Ratchet.” Prowl said slowly. “What exactly are you traveling with?”
This was why Ratchet had hoped for Optimus instead. Optimus would have seen what Ratchet saw. He wouldn’t have reduced Deadlock to a variable or a liability. Prowl, on the other servo, would never see past the threat.
Ratchet froze, the realization hitting harder than expected: the idea of Deadlock not being recognized as fully sentient bothered him far more than he had anticipated, even as he himself struggled to accept that truth.
“I’ll explain everything when you come pick us up.” Ratchet said finally. “I’ll send you the coordinates.”
He keyed them in quickly, deliberately not looking at Deadlock, even though he could feel his presence looming close.
“We’ll retrieve you tomorrow.” Prowl replied.
The channel cut.
The walk back to the hostel was silent.
Ratchet was lost in thought, and Deadlock… was simply Deadlock. A quiet, unsettling shadow at his side.
Slag. Ratchet knew that no amount of explanation would ever be enough to convince Prowl that Deadlock didn’t belong locked behind reinforced containment, somewhere deep within an Autobot ship.
And yet, more than Deadlock’s safety, Ratchet found himself worrying about the safety of his fellow Autobots.
How would a war machine like that react if he were separated from the object of his imprint?
And how would Prowl react if Ratchet tried to stand between them?
The weight of those questions -layered atop his imprisonment by the Decepticons, the escape, the long cycles spent traveling- finally crashed down on him, leaving him exhausted.
When they reached their rooms and it was time to part for the night-cycle, Ratchet stopped in front of his door and looked at Deadlock.
“Are you going to recharge in your room?”
Silence.
The only answer he received was the steady, unwavering intensity of Deadlock’s gaze.
Just as Ratchet was about to open the door, Deadlock spoke.
“I will make adequate arrangements to intervene in the event of a threat toward you.”
The words did nothing to reassure him. Instead, a shiver of unease ran down his back strut. What the frag did that even mean?
For a moment, Ratchet didn’t know how to respond. Then he simply nodded, slowly.
“All right, then. Have a good rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door slid open at the touch of the key card, but before it could close again, Deadlock spoke once more, his voice lowered.
“Rest well too, Ratchet.”
The door sealed with a faint hiss, separating them for the first time since Ratchet had seen him inside the Decepticon laboratory.
For a long moment, Ratchet didn’t move.
Part of him hoped he had misheard. Deadlock didn’t speak like that. He certainly didn’t whisper.
Yet the more he tried to convince himself otherwise, the more his internal logic systems asserted control, calmly reminding him that his audials were functioning perfectly, and that the recorded words matched reality with no margin for error.
With a heavy sigh, Ratchet finally turned toward the wash rack attached to the room.
Primus. What in the pits had he gotten himself into?