(Thanks for playing! 🙂  NB – this anon also contacted me again and requested that I add the prompt “medical care”.  Hope you like the result!  Warning for mild gore in a clinical context.  Pre-war, set around the same time as Megatron Origins.)
The blindfold was whipped off, and Ratchet blinked, trying to get his optics to adjust to the darkness. Â He could make out hulking shapes clustered around him, and here and there, dimly glowing slivers of red, blue, and yellow indicated mecha watching him from the shadows.
“Found ya a medic, just like ya asked for, Boss,” said a voice from somewhere behind him.  Close to floor level, it sounded like.
A shadow shifted in front of him, and resolved into a massive silver bot peering down into Ratchet’s face.  ”You are a doctor?” he rumbled.  Ratchet nodded curtly, biting down on his fear.  He’d been in a few nasty situations in the Dead End, mostly trying to get between the circuit speeder dealers and his strung-out patients, and he’d survived that.  He could survive this.  He could.
The silver mech tilted his head towards the back of the room.  It was an oddly graceful gesture.  ”We have wounded.  Come.”
“Do I get to learn who my patients are?” Ratchet asked, already standing up and taking his medical kit out of subspace.
“They are my followers.  They are of great importance to me.”
“And you are…?”
“The mech who will be removing your spark with his denta if you fail.”  His voice was as even as if he’d been commenting on the weather.  Ratchet didn’t quite manage to suppress his shiver.
There turned out to be three wounded mecha:  a minibot who just needed an injection to stabilise his spark after receiving some kind of massive electric shock (like running afoul of an electrified security system?  Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted to know); a seeker with a near-shredded wing, but who was stable and awake enough to snark at him up until Ratchet put him under; and a yellow grounder whose chest and abdominal plating was mangled horrifically, and who graced Ratchet with a cocky smile and a soft, “Watch the paintjob, eh, Doc?” before passing out.  It took two hours to make certain they wouldn’t lose him, and another four to patch him up to the point where self-repair could take over.  Ratchet was nearly dead on his feet by the time he finished with all three of them.
Turning to his host, who had been watching impassively with his arms folded for the last hour, he snapped, “And now your arm.”
“What?”
“You’re hurt.  I noticed you favouring it as we came in.”
The mech glared for a moment; then, slowly, he extended one arm.  A meagre patch job and a haphazard lick of silver paint hid what was, once Ratchet got them peeled off, a particularly ugly gash.  Clucking, he said, “You’re lucky you don’t have the beginnings of a rust infection.  I get that you don’t want it seen, but next time, bathe it in a nanite solution before you wrap it – I can get you some from the clinic.”
“Your generosity to the mech who kidnapped you borders on suspicious.”
“Yeah, the guy who had his minions grab me in broad daylight and take me to a secret lair to treat battle wounds really has grounds to call me suspicious.”  He knew he should regret saying it, but somewhere around the fifth hour of surgery, the fear had burned off, replaced by exhaustion and worry.  Worry over every patient, from the kid with the torn-open plating to the mystery mech whose arm he was piecing back together.
To Ratchet’s surprise, his current patient said nothing more, until the repair was done.  Then he caught Ratchet’s retreating hand in his larger one, and turned it palm up, examining it minutely.
“You have a gentle touch, Doctor.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why they pay me the big shanix.”  Ratchet’s mouth went dry, watching the mech turn his hand delicately this way and that.
“I did not mean it as a compliment.  I do not require coddling, like a fretful newspark.”  He had a gentleness of his own, though, in the careful way he folded Ratchet’s fingers over his palm and released his hand.  "However, you are skilled.  You have my gratitude.“  For the first time since they’d met, the silver mech smiled, flashing bright, sharp denta.  "You may find that a valuable commodity in the time to come.”
Tag: megaratch
First World War AU, Megatron/Ratchet
When the Great War is consigned to history, Medic Ratchet thinks to himself, they had better tell the story of this night, too – of a night of stillness and frost, gaggles of boys barely more than children playing football in their contrasting uniforms in No Man’s Land, of the night when we all remembered we were human before we went back to turning each other into sausage meat.
He starts a little as the big, grey-haired sergeant in enemy colours settles in next to him, then relaxes and accepts a cigarette, and offers a swig of brandy in return; there’s a little schoolboy French on one side and some scraps of workaday German on the other, enough to bridge the barrier, enough that Ratchet understands when the sergeant sighs and reflects, “The charade seems cruel, does it not – if you would try to kill us, then do it, do not taunt us by playing at friendship.”
Ratchet bristles, but the sergeant’s voice is so unutterably weary that he finds himself softening, and only replies, “Perhaps the rest is the charade, and this is real.”
Cybertronian Database 