Chapter Text
Repairing Decepticons was probably Ratchet's least favourite part of the job, knowing full well the murderous fiends would be up and shooting down his friends again in no time. But the alternative was allowing a mech to suffer knowing full well he had the power to alleviate it. Part of him wanted to botch the repairs though, so perhaps next time they'd be a little slower, their aim not so sure.
He glanced at Starscream's face, smooth, youthful, almost handsome in his unconscious state. That infamous sneer of his aged him, and given how vain he was Ratchet found it surprising he'd go around pulling such unflattering expressions.
He certainly wouldn't be happy when he woke and found the paint stripped entirely from his left arm.
"At least you still have an arm," he told the oblivious seeker prematurely, injecting his main fuel line with a boost of self-repair nanites to take care of the superficial scratches marring his back and wings, where the river he'd crashed into had dragged him across the rocks.
If Hound hadn't dived in after him he'd probably have been carried out to sea by now. Might have even made it back to his own base.
Ratchet allowed himself a small snort of amusement, still aware that it wasn't really funny. A life was a life, and Starscream may be a nightmare, but he probably deserved better than his frame turning into one of those barnacle ridden fish habitats at the bottom of the ocean.
Besides, it had been his weapon that had shot the blasted seeker and sent him careening out of the sky in the first place. He couldn't afford to feel guilty, not over Decepticons.
There wasn't much left to do now, so he began slipping Starscream's limp wrists into the restraints. He yanked the straps to tighten them, then glanced at the seeker's dark face and felt awash with guilt. He loosened them a fraction, only because he knew this one was loud and he couldn't tolerate the complaints.
Fuel levels were good enough, sensors were responding well, there was a something not quite right about estimated consumption rate though. Seekers guzzled fuel but the current level of Starscream's tanks should have been able to tide him over till morning, not half that time.
There wasn't a leak in the tank. He'd checked every fuel line with methodical detail, and he didn't make mistakes.
Grumbling to himself about why Starscream had to be such a difficult patient before he'd even regained consciousness, Ratchet dug out his heavy duty scanner and passed it over the Decepticon's frame. The readout flooded the screen, but Ratchet's keen optics caught it as soon as it appeared.
Gestation: 12%
Ratchet looked between the readout and Starscream's limp form, wondering if he'd somehow scanned the wrong patient, or received the wrong readout, or-
He trusted his own servos better than he did any machinery. He tossed the scanner aside and loosened Starscream's restraints further, not wanting any unnessary strain in case... Well...
Twelve percent was still early days, and no self respecting medic would open a spark chamber and expose a new-spark to the harsh conditions of an alien atmosphere. Instead he went for Starscream's abdomen, pressing against the armour either side of Starscream's cockpit swell. Frames as compact as seeker's tended to visually display their condition, but it was still too early. Ratchet was unsure if what he was feeling was really an expanding gestation chamber.
He went to Starscream's groin, manually flicking the panel away. Normally he wouldn't conduct an examination like this on an unconscious patient, but the severity of Starscream's injuries meant his second patient was at risk. If they existed.
"Sorry Screamer," he said gruffly, feeling the need to apologise anyway, settling down between two glossy white thighs and slipping his speculum into place. Through the opening he created he slid a sample collector, a long thin tube designed to slip easily into the tiny opening that separated valve from gestation chamber.
Just as quickly he withdrew his equipment, closing Starscream's panel and restoring his dignity before taking the gestation sample for review. Normally he'd expect to find the usual dormant materials lining the chamber, and perhaps the odd bit of foreign substance (transfluid) from... wherever.
He slipped the sample under the microscope and barely had to squint through the lens to know the inner workings of Starscream's gestation chamber was very busy indeed. Building nanites were buzzing around on the glass slab, as though confused with the sudden lack of materials to tear down and reconstruct as a whole new being.
Ratchet straightened away from the microscope, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Behind him Starscream was still unconscious, oblivious.
Ratchet shook his helm, wondering what Starscream was doing going into battle in such a state, and what that bolt-licking idiot Megatron had been thinking for letting him.