Chapter Text
Megatron woke up with a start.
He hadn't been one for gentle awakenings from recharge for most of his functioning, so that in itself wasn't new; he had grown accustomed to having to keep himself quiet and still when he exited the rest cycle - especially now that he shared space with his one true ally on this flying prison ship.
Gradually onlining his optics, the familiar ceiling greeted his sight, while his chronometer chimed an alarm to him about upcoming shift change.
Quietly, he focused on listening for the sound of Ravage's soft ventilations.
Straining his audials, he managed to detect the faint, but steady whizzing of cycled air from below his berth.
Raising an arm to cover his optics, he resisted the urge to groan.
Again.
It happened again.
He took a few clicks to run a simple diagnostic, but at this point he did it without truly expecting a result to come up with anything.
He ran too many of those already, including the deepest level his maintenance protocols allowed for.
None ever returned with anything out of the ordinary.
The reminder chimed in again, letting him know he needed to slowly get up if he didn't want to come late to the beta shift. He dismissed it, pulling himself up; at this point, and on this ship, the one thing between him and a complete mutiny was his ability to corral this chaotic group of bots into something resembling an actual working crew at a better rate than Rodimus - granted, his co-captain was not a bad mech, but his commanding style did not precisely inspire respect his function required.
As much as Megatron was hated by the others, they couldn't deny that between them two, he at least showed on time, dealt with the admin promptly, and, you know, didn't somersault onto the bridge or pretend to be dead when they talked to him when he didn't feel like it.
The bar was low, true, but as long as he was more useful than despised, he was in a much better position than he could have been in, given his status among the Cybertronian population.
He watched as the diagnostic flashed the usual warning about his fuel composition and state of his internal sensors, before he rose up, slipping his legs off the berth.
Time for another day of insanity.
He took a Fool's Energon portion out of his subspace, looking it over with a frown.
“You have that look on your face again,” he heard coming from the side of the berth, Ravage unfurling from the curled up position he took in his recharge.
The cassette stretched out, the joints creaking softly, and jumped up onto the slab gracefully, looking him over, before he cocked his head to the side.
“Another lapse of memory?”
Earlier, had he been asked about making odd faces, Megatron would have pointed towards the poison he was meant to ingest for the Autobots’ assurance that he wouldn't be able to easily kill them all if he flipped out, but now he only rubbed the bridge of his nose and knocked it back fast.
“I don't remember coming back here,” he replied, wiping the traces of the fluids that he couldn't stop from choking back on, and checking the time again; he gave himself usually a generous head start with his alarms, preferring to have some time to think before he was officially expected to interact with anyone, be it in commanding or social capacity, and in this rotation he still had a bit before he would have to make it a slight jog instead of a measured walk.
Seeing commanders run was never a good sign, after all.
It meant trouble.
And if they saw him do it, instead of Rodimus?
It meant big trouble.
Ravage sat down right at the edge of his reach.
“Don't ask me,” he shrugged, tail twitching a little, “I comm'd you at the end of your shift but you told me you were going to do a discussion session with Magnus and Tailgate about the Autobot Code,” he scoffed, optics narrowing as the glare landed at the symbol on the gray chassis, and shifted a fraction away, legs folding underneath the feline as it settled on the surface more comfortably.
“We agreed that we will meet each other back in your hab,” the cassette added after ceasing the rearranging into the new position, his head the only part not tucked in, tail tightly wrapped around him. “When I got back, though, you were already here, recharging,” he continued, looking down pointedly at the berth, huffing a little, before his optics reset themselves once.
“It was a movie night, so I did return a bit later than expected, but you just kept on recharging so I just laid down myself…” Ravage pointed out with a hint of doubt - and, if Megatron knew his ally well, a blow to his pride; as a capable spy, missing intel due to being possibly late must have felt sloppy.
“I remember that,” the mech muttered, getting up, “I remember seeing Ultra Magnus and Tailgate,” he listed aloud, following the record in his archives playing on his HUD, looking for discrepancies.
Nothing seemed to be out of order.
Again.
He ignored a notification on one of the datapads while he forced his processor to shift some more resources to visual and audio processing.
“I am certain I said my farewells and then…” he grumbled, focused, before sighing and shaking his helm.
“Nothing.”
Ravage cocked his head to the side, watching him for a moment, before he sighed.
“I will check if I can find the surveillance tapes, again,” he promised, “but you know…”
“Yes, I know,” Megatron acknowledged with a shallow bow of his helm, hand raising to the control panel opening the doors, voice at the edge of bitterness, “it might show nothing again.”
Another notification lit up on the datapad, and his internal chronometer sent him another alarm.
Time to go.
“Maybe you caught some weird illness from the Autobots,” the cassette suggested before his digits could swipe the entrance open, making the mech turn to look at his companion again.
“I doubt it,” he replied, having already considered this option, “I don't feel any different, physically, aside from the lovely side-effects of feeding on poison,” he said, servo twitching as the urge to claw it out of his fuel reserves rose up and got squashed by his will, and offered a smile - even though he knew the other bot would recognize as forced.
Ravage knew better than to point it out with more than an unimpressed scowl.
“Your concern is noted,” Megatron announced with an air of finality, closing the conversation before his last, final alarm would come in, and opened the door.
“If it happens again, I will go to the medbay for a check-up,” he vowed, taking a step through the threshold, his processor already shifting into a higher level of alert.
After living with Starscream for millenia, it was quite an affirming kind of familiarity.
“I still think you should go now, but that is your decision,” Ravage grumbled right before the door closed, settling himself for a quick stasis nap.
It wasn't the first time they had this conversation, but getting the mech to take care of himself was hard even when he wasn't surrounded by enemies - having Autobots around, in charge of you, forcing you to drink some strength-sapping concoctions? It would be a wonder if Megatron ever gets inside the medbay if he won't be dragged there by force - least of all out of his own accord while not actively on the edge of termination.
*****
Megatron didn’t go to the medbay during that rotation.
Nor the next one.
And neither in the few that followed after.
It wasn’t that he was forgetting the advice, nor was he dismissing it - it was a rational suggestion, especially with his knowledge of Ratchet’s professionalism; even if the medic hated him, his work ethics would not allow him to cause any harm to him now, not without cause, and he would also not send him away without doing his due diligence.
Despite that, he pushed the visit off, justifying it with the amount of work he had in front of him during - and sometimes between - his shifts on Lost Light.
He didn't know if Optimus knew just how much of a madhouse he had left him in, but if he did, then perhaps he chose to send Megatron away onto this voyage as punishment; it would not be very in character for the mech, a bit too vicious, but at the same time, Prime had come up with some creative solutions in the past - no doubt he justified to himself that driving his former enemy insane was a better fate than confining him forever, as the chances of this ship ever finding Knights of Cybertron were about as high as that of Swerve keeping his dermas shut for more than a few minutes while awake.
That's to say, close to zero.
Nevertheless, he was doing the best he could at the time.
He ignored the unsympathetic looks or attempts at tasteless pranks. He didn't react whenever he was being disrespected casually, as long as his commands were being followed; it didn't matter that it was clear the bot in question was more interested into whatever was showing on their screens than looking at him when he dished out orders, if in the end the response was in line with his words.
Nothing was more pathetic than demanding respect instead of inspiring it.
He held his helm high, kept his optics focused, and made sure his processor was always in the right place when a crisis would strike, prepared for action.
These memory losses hadn't impacted his functioning so far, nor had they occurred during high-stress situations - he could afford to delay the check-up for a bit longer.
He was a paranoid mech - maybe he was overthinking this…
*****
After the first time the lapses repeated for two recharge cycles in a row, he finally accepted that a trip to the medbay was inevitable.
There was paranoia, and there was escalation.
Throughout his shift, he kept on checking his chronometer more often than not, the hours trickling by at an agonizing pace; for once, when he could have used a distraction, the ship was relatively quiet - making him stew in the thoughts running through his processor, the instinctual rejection of vulnerability waging its war with the objective limitation of the available options.
There was no way around getting medical advice without going to a medic, not even if he managed to make his way inside the medbay for long enough to use any of the equipment in there - and even longer to make sense of the readings they would take, given that he could calibrate them properly without tangible practice, just using old technical manuals-
At times like that, he really wished he had been able to learn more than patch-ups.
He was itching in the captain's chair in the last few minutes, almost leaping off it when Rodimus finally stepped inside the bridge, leaving the briefest status update behind as he forced his pedes to make their way to the correct corridors, take the right turns, and to not stop until he got inside the medbay.
He couldn't risk that his hard-learned habits would make him change his mind.
The problem was getting worse.
He needed to get checked.
The problem was getting worse.
He needed to get checked.
Like a mantra, those sentences ran on loop in his processor, keeping him grounded in his decision.
He walked fast through the empty pathways, audials at higher sensitivity to adjust his speed whenever someone was to cross him, but even with a few crewmembers passing him by, he made it to his destination in almost record time.
The door opened, and with a step he was in, hearing them quietly close behind him as the smell of disinfectant hit his olfactory sensors.
The room was quiet, interrupted by mumbled grumbling coming from behind one of the privacy screens; the assistant droid briefly paused to look at him, but at the lack of active signs of distress in the newcomer it turned back, continuing on its path, letting out a gentle thrill as it neared the only visible bot.
“Will be there with you in a moment,” First Aid called out at first with the usual undertone of being busy, waving at the direction of the door, typing up something.
Megatron didn't move from the spot, standing awkwardly as he looked at the empty berths, the machines standing idly, and the assorted shelves with containers with tiny labels on them.
Lack of Ratchet in the room was concerning; his optics settled on the screen, running a quick analysis on the audio data and coming up with a positive match to the bot he wanted to speak to.
Maybe he should come another time-
First Aid sighed as his digits stopped moving, and he turned to look at the newest arrival, stopping the gray mech from making his escape, now that he has been spotted.
“Captain, what a surprise,” the medic greeted with a questioning look on his faceplates, before he gestured towards the privacy screen. “Ratchet is currently with another patient, if you were looking for him,” he confirmed Megatron's analysis, and for a few seconds, they stared at each other - neither precisely thrilled to be in each other's company at the moment, but slowly realising that they had little choice on the matter.
First Aid cocked his helm, gesturing to one of the empty berths, the strict rules of protocol winning. “But still come in, sit,” he invited without any warmth but also without insults, so the gray mech followed the instruction.
The medic looked him up and down. “What is the problem?” he asked, and let out an annoyed click when the answer didn't readily follow. “You wouldn't have come here if there wasn't one, that much is a given,” he pointed out, picking up a datapad and a stylus.
‘So don't waste my time,’ went by unsaid, but very much heard by the former Decepticon leader.
He wondered briefly how the most irritated looks he had ever seen on anyone's faceplates came from mechs with the most limited ways of expression.
But then again, he had a lot of practice with mechs in his command structure - and, well, the Prime too.
It could have been just a skill he gained in the meantime, then…
He smiled briefly to himself.
Maybe he was just that irritating, making them look at him like that so often.
The other kept on looking at him, tapping a digit as he awaited the answer, which made Megatron take a short, quiet in-vent to ground himself, before he looked straight at the medic.
“I've been experiencing random memory losses for a while,” he stated simply, keeping his faceplates neutral.
First Aid's servo stilled for a moment, stylus frozen, before he tapped the datapad twice. “How do these manifest?” he queried back, “Is there any commonality you noticed between them?”
Megatron didn't know how he felt about the clinical tone coming from the medic, but he didn't let his processor split his attention to analyse that.
“I usually wake up in my berth with no recollection as to how I got there,” he admitted, grimacing at the banality of the description of his condition, “there are no other symptoms or signs, as far as I can gather.”
“Hmm…” First Aid sounded sceptical, but to his credit, he didn't let it continue beyond that brief slip. “I can do a check up, but with your internals as they are it might be harder to pinpoint possible causes for such a condition,” he offered, visor lowering to glance at the other's lower torso.
Megatron didn't let his hands move to cover the spot against the attention, fully aware just how much of a mess hid behind the armour.
“That is to be expected,” he confirmed, having no choice but to accept those circumstances, “these have been becoming more frequent, though - I'd like to make sure it isn't something nefarious.”
The smaller mech didn't say anything, but finally pulled a privacy screen from the side, shielding them away from view.
“Lay down, then,” he ordered, shifting away in the meantime to bring over one of the monitors.
Megatron hesitatingly lowered himself on the berth; it wasn't an unfamiliar position, not with how many times he needed repairs - inevitable with the lifestyle he chose - but no matter how many times he would lay down (or be laid down) and got to walk away, there was always this quiet voice in the back of his processor that reminded him of the one time in Messatine, the moment that almost ended him-
The medic returned, plugging into the medical port with a short warning as the scan swept through his systems, distracting him from his thoughts.
There were no restraints.
His outer helm was still on.
There were no needles around him.
There was no need to panic.
He focused on the sounds of the medbay, the proximity to the mech attending him, and kept his optics up, following the short prompts from the medic mechanically.
First Aid looked over the monitors for a while, scrolling through another datapad before he gestured for the other to get up.
“I don't see anything out of the ordinary,” he summarised, tapping at the screen in his servos, “I am comparing it with the prior check up files, though,” he reminded, admitting to the limitation of the results, before rubbing the side of his helm.
“I will think about the tests we could consider,” he proposed, searching Megatron's face for a sign of rejection, it seemed, and nodding to himself when he found none. “But for now please notify me whenever any of those memory loss incidents occur, so we can track them to figure out the cause,” he requested, and pushed the datapads together, putting them under his arm, “for now, though, your systems report clear.”
Megatron sat there, processor torn between the urge to ask for a repeat of the check - he knew there was a problem, something should show on his systems, how could everything be in the clear - through a tentative, anxiety-inducing vision of asking the medic to check his neck for sign of mnemosurgery with greater precision than he managed to get with Ravage's help or the tips of his digits, to the intrinsic sense of shame at being told that whatever the issue is, it is not something that the modern medicine would be able to detect - so, possibly, not really there.
What if it was some sort of a… mental issue? Should he talk to Rung about this?
Had his age finally caught up to him, or had the stress from managing this ship forced him to start blocking out his memories in an attempt to survive the madness with most of his decision making skills intact?
Would this require a mnemosurgeon to detect it, if the issue did not alter the brain module enough for a medical scan to pick up?
Was his issue not advanced enough to be picked up?
For a brief second, he considered fighting for that another check after all, to ask for a second opinion, but his dentae clicked hard as he closed his intake, cutting himself off before he could do something as pathetic as to beg for an alternative diagnosis.
First Aid looked at him again. “Hm? Sorry, did you say something?” he asked, the mild annoyance audible as he clearly wanted Megatron gone.
The gray mech stood up, plating crawling as the embarrassment at his paranoia being proven delusional clogged up his circuits.
“No, no… thank you,” he managed to get out before he turned to the door and left, not looking back.
*****
“Back to the start, eh?” Ravage said straight to his face when the door closed behind his back, coming from below the berth as usual.
Megatron didn't tell him he would go to the medbay, nor share any details about the visit, and yet he wasn't surprised that the cassette knew about it already.
In return, equally direct, he raised an optical ridge.
“I get it you haven't found anything either today as well?” he asked, and hummed when the other looked away.
Thought so.
Shoulders sagging a bit, he sat heavily on the berth, making it rattle under his weight.
“I don't know what is going on, Ravage, but I'll need to figure it out eventually,” he muttered, lowering his elbows to his knees and locking his servos together tightly, he stared at the empty wall.
“This ship…” he rumbled low, “this crew…” he continued, a curse falling from his glossa, the frustration for once getting the better of him, and placed the edge of his helm against his intertwined digits.
“I cannot allow myself even a moment of weakness,” he confessed, optics shielded from view, before a bitter chuckle made its way between his dentae, “at least not more than I already have.”
A quiet clink sounded on his side, and he felt his shoulder get bumped.
“You aren't weak,” Ravage countered, pushing against the arm until the mech shifted, granting him access to his lap, and he stretched himself out on it.
Megatron felt his derma’s quirk up at the edges, and he gently placed his servo on the small frame in front of him, rubbing along the ridges of the black armour, knowing what would be accepted or not. “You overestimate me, old friend.”
The cassette pressed against his servo, arching into his palm with a hum. “On the contrary,” Ravage replied, the claws moving back and forth as the bigger mech obligingly increased the pressure, drawing a pleased purr from the feline, who sprawled himself further.
While he wouldn't let just anyone touch him as if he was some sort of a pet, the respect and understanding he had with his former leader was enough to let him enjoy the moment when these strong servos would move along the spinal strut or rub the few spots along his head that made his legs kick a little in response.
There would be no judgement at those kinds of behaviours, nor any misconceptions about his frame type.
He let his optics shut off as he turned to give the mech more access. “You underestimate yourself,” he picked up again, tail spasming at a particularly satisfying scratch, “I know you for too long to be blinded,” he muttered, twisting further, chasing a specific angle until the digits finally reached those, easing the itch.
The motion continued, but as the speed decreased, Ravage harrumphed as he got up, sitting up on the lap instead, face close to that of the distracted ex-warlord who allowed his servos to fall away as the cassette settled, not restricting his movements nor trying to move him in any way.
A lesson some of the rest of the crew still had to learn…
“You may have your little crisis, but I know you will come out of it stronger,” he stated confidently, keeping the optic contact for a bit before gesturing around with the tip of the tail.
“For now, we are here,” the feline acknowledged with distaste, but after a beat, the look of his face shifted into a softer one.
“You have done more with less.”
Megatron bowed his helm at that. It was true - he still had a high position in the command structure, he wasn't running low on fuel, and nobody made him work tirelessly in the dark or kill others for their enjoyment just so he could survive; he wouldn't have been able to say the same all those millennia ago…
Ravage leaned forward, rubbing against the gray plating. “Do what you do best,” he commanded, as the tone was not that of a suggestion, “don't let them grind you down.”
The mech stared down at him for a few clicks, and nodded, raising his servo and placing it by the smaller bot's head; the cassette ducked a fraction as he invited the touch again, rumbling the engine for a moment before looking up from below the large hand, warningly flexing the claws into the metal of the other's thigh.
“I hope you know that if I need to claw at your face whenever you brood to get you to function normally, I will do it.”
“Oh, I'm certain you will,” Megatron acknowledged with a faint smile, giving the cassette a hard rub behind the audials, making him purr louder.
Honestly, sometimes Ravage acted as if he was a newly built model, needing guidance to not offline themselves by accident - but maybe, in this new life he chose for himself when he abandoned his own Cause, he could use someone doing this to him…
*****
A couple of rotations later, he entered the bridge to begin his shift after another lapse of memory and waking up to a datapad filled with multiple notifications marked as urgent; mood already sour, he grunted back at the low chorus of greetings directed at him with varying degrees of enthusiasm, as he scanned the content of these prioritised messages, sparing only a glance to nod at Ultra Magnus, and making his way to the central chair.
Rodimus looked up at him, and, surprisingly, got up without any of the usual hassle - the usual words of exasperation didn’t have the time to leave his intake yet, which made this development feel… off.
“Hey, Megs,” he said with a grin, letting the other mech pass as he leaned against the armrest, crossing his arms.
Megatron narrowed his optics at the cordiality, suspicion beginning to rise rapidly in the back of his mind.
“Hello, Rodimus,” he replied neutrally, subtly scanning the seat for signs of tampering, keeping tabs on his ‘co-captain’ and those around him in case they revealed any signs of anticipation; while the shorter bot did have an unusually satisfied expression on his faceplates, nobody else seemed to be watching him any more than usual, and so he finally lowered himself onto the seat, servo with the datapad rising as he intended to finish his reading quickly, getting the task done so he could focus on implementing the necessary measures.
Rodimus was still smiling at him, which made him resist the urge to shift away, the crawling sensation of unease spreading along his backstrut the more he looked at these bright face - but, finally, a tiny twitch of the dermas and a short, quiet huff escaped the other’s intake.
“Was surprised to not see you in the morning, I have to admit,” the colorful mech noted, moving so his palms now rested on the chair, locking his elbows as he drew himself higher, their height difference cancelled with the arrangement.
Megatron felt his focus drop from the line of text he was following, and he turned to face the mech again, not bothering to mask his confusion.
“Pardon? Why would you expect to see me before my shift?”
Rodimus smirked. “Oh, you know why,” he said, teasing notes in his voice.
Tired of this exchange that seemed to have no intention to not be going in circles if he entertained it further, the former warlord, now ‘co-captain’ of a ship full of bots that seemed to find a new way to almost deactivate themselves each week, let out a snarl.
“No, Rodimus, I actually don't,” he replied genuinely, if a bit coldly, turning away dismissively, “either explain yourself or drop this foolish behavior,” he chastised, ignoring the way the other’s jaw has dropped at his harsh tone.
“I am the one whose behaviour is foolish?” Rodimus asked, astonished, digits splayed wide on his chassis as he backed off at the offense, which only made the taller bot scoff.
The blue optics flashed in anger. “Okay, you asked for it, you glitch,” the mech grit his dentae, moving to stand right in front of the chair, one servo on his hip as the other rose to poke at one of the swirling decals on Megatron’s front.
“I was expecting to see you because we interfaced last night!”
The loud announcement was followed with a sudden hush falling across the bridge - and a shattering snap.
The datapad in Megatron's hands crumbled into bits as his optics cycled wide.
WHAT?!