Chapter Text
Optimus had been acting… odd. That was in Ratchet’s professional opinion. Though no matter how professional of an opinion it was, he couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly what was off about the mech. It wasn’t unusual for Optimus to enjoy his own company, not in the slightest—but the way he had been going about it lately seemed much too forced and at times almost obnoxious.
Ratchet had tried approaching Optimus to ask if something was wrong, but the prime only seemed to squirm under his gaze, quickly spitting out an excuse before skittering away again. That was definitely not like Optimus.
This continued on for a few days; Optimus would head out on solo patrols and “missions” and Ratchet would be left to delegate tasks among the rest of the team. And on the rare occasion when Optimus was present at Omega One, he was alarmingly good at making himself as scarce as possible.
Eventually Ratchet became fed up with being the de facto leader of the autobots, his anger at being left in the dark on the situation finally peaking when Optimus had arrived back from yet another solo patrol. He drove in through the main entrance, transforming quickly out of his alt-mode before spotting Ratchet standing by the ground bridge.
“You’re back,” Ratchet had announced to the empty room. “I was beginning to think that you weren’t going to return this time, and I’d officially have to take over your position—then again, isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing for the past three days?”
Optimus shifted nervously from pede to pede. “Ratchet, I truly am sorry for my behaviour, it has been less than responsible—”
“Don’t you start with me,” Ratchet all but yelled, stalking towards Optimus with an unbridled rage that the prime hadn’t seen since the war back on Cybertron. “You aren’t going anywhere until I get some answers!” Optimus was slowly edging farther away from Ratchet as the medic neared.
“Y-Yes, I know I owe you an explanation, old friend, but…” Optimus looked away from him nervously. Ratchet almost felt bad enough to drop his anger. Almost.
“You most certainly do! So start talking!” He stopped right in front of Optimus, giving the larger mech nowhere to go as he bumped against the wall behind him.
“Ratchet, please,” Optimus pleaded. For what exactly, Ratchet wasn’t entirely certain. He continued staring up at the prime with narrowed optics when an alert popped up on his HUD suddenly.
Ratchet went to dismiss it without a second thought before becoming disconcerted at what he’d read of it.
[Pheromones Detected: Unresolved Heat]
Ratchet blinked the alert away before scanning over Optimus’s form properly with his medical diagnostics.
[Core Temperature: High]
[Charge Levels: High]
[Pheromone Levels: Suppressed]
“Optimus?” Ratchet tried to meet his optics but Optimus was looking everywhere but at the medic, his finials flicked back in what Ratchet assumed was a mixture of shame and embarrassment.
Ratchet caught a small whiff of the sweet, heady smell that Optimus was giving off despite his apparently suppressed pheromones and reflexively snapped his vents closed. Optimus startled at the sound and had begun inching slowly along the wall and away from the other mech.
“You’re…” Ratchet began, collecting his thoughts. “I don’t understand, why didn’t you tell anyone that you were in heat? Why didn’t you tell me—I’m your doctor, for pit’s sake!”
Optimus seemed to shy away even further at the word—heat—trying desperately to hold himself flush against the wall until he disappeared.
“I know,” he replied guiltily, still looking away. “I’m sorry, Ratchet. I didn’t want to trouble anyone with… this. I thought I could take care of it myself, but it appears I overestimated my ability to do so…”
“No, you underestimated your heat coding. Do you have any idea how demanding the code becomes if it isn’t sated in a timely manner? I mean even the course of a few days can—” Ratchet stopped short, apparently mulling some thoughts over in his processor. “I don’t understand, how have you… evaded suspicion for this long?” Ratchet craned his neck to try and see Optimus’s optics, but the prime only looked more guilty with every passing moment.
“Hold on… then that must mean…” Ratchet turned around, muttering to himself, and Optimus was glad for the reprieve of intensity amid the interrogation. Then the medic just as quickly whipped back around and jabbed a finger into Optimus’s chassis.
“It was you!” He roared. “You raided the medbay! I was about ready to scrap Bumblebee if he didn’t tell me what he’d taken—and it’s no wonder I didn’t realise that the supply of heat suppressants had been tampered with!”
Optimus had begun to cower slightly, looking nervously down at the digit still pressed firmly against his chassis. “R-Ratchet…”
“I can’t believe you stole prescription drugs from my stores! Do you have any idea how stupid that was? How much did you ingest?”
Ratchet ignored the way that his tanks flipped when Optimus whimpered—Primus, give him strength—and waited for a verbal response.
“I-I… Maybe slightly more than I should have…” Optimus whined. “B-But it didn’t do anything… so I… took more…”
Ratchet was positively bristling by this point, fighting every circuit in his frame not to beat the prime over the head with a wrench. Instead, he took a deep breath, focussing for a moment on filtering out the pheromones that were still rolling off of Optimus’s frame in waves.
The only reason why suppressants wouldn’t have helped prevent this heat would be because Optimus had been taking them for too long—eventually, a heat cycle was bound to push through them, no matter how many or what kind he’d taken. Ratchet absently wondered when the last time Optimus had gone into a natural heat was. He himself was guilty of using suppressants during the raging war—it was safe to say that every bot was guilty of such a thing, as desperate times called for desperate measures and minimal distractions. But even before the war, back on Cybertron, Ratchet doubted that the Autobot High Council would have allowed their newly appointed prime to go into heat. Had Optimus ever gone into heat while he’d been a prime?
When Ratchet returned his attention to Optimus the mech was fidgeting uncomfortably, becoming startled again under Ratchet’s stern optics. Ratchet tried his best to maintain a semblance of calm when he spoke again.
“If you’d overdosed on the suppressants we would have known by now, but that doesn’t mean you’re clear of potential damages. That was a slagging stupid thing you did. Without proper medical supervision those drugs could have—” Ratchet could feel himself getting riled up again. He let out a gruff sigh.
“I digress. I can check for any lasting effects at a later time. Right now all I’m worried about is the fact that you’ve been in heat for—what, three days, now?” Optimus nodded weakly. “If your heat isn’t resolved, your systems will fry themselves. Your core temperatures are already alarmingly high.”
Ratchet held one servo up to his faceplate, apparently deep in thought. He supposed that Optimus was going out on so many patrols by himself to try and constructively redirect the charge in his frame. Clearly Optimus had intended to ‘wait out’ his coding. Soon enough, though, he would be too dazed by his heat to think straight, and it would be dangerous for him to remain anywhere that wasn’t the Omega One outpost. To be quite honest, Ratchet was surprised that Optimus hadn’t already been claimed by the stupor of his heat by now. That was probably due to the suppressants, to some degree.
“Ratchet?” Came Optimus’s small voice. Ratchet looked up at the mech.
“Yes? What is it?”
“You can stop it, can’t you?” A quiet settled between them momentarily, and Optimus had turned to look at Ratchet finally. “My heat?” He clarified, as if the medic would have no idea what he was referring to.
Ratchet felt his spark sink. Even if they weren’t stranded on Earth, even if Ratchet did have access to modern Cybertronian medicine and technology… he couldn’t think of a single way he could possibly stop Optimus’s heat now. There certainly were ways to delay them, or to prevent them from having a full effect; but Optimus was already three days deep into his heat and completely unresponsive to the suppressants. Ratchet feared that there might not be a way to resolve this medically, and it seemed like Optimus wasn’t particularly keen on sating his heat the old fashioned way. The medic felt kind of hopeless under Optimus’s nervous stare.
“I’ll… try my best,” Ratchet said finally. “For now, I’m going to confine you to your berthroom. It’ll be easier for me to monitor your condition and will be much more comfortable for you while we… work this out.” He put a comforting servo on Optimus’s arm. Ratchet distractedly noted how warm the metal was before remembering himself, flinching away just as quickly. “S-Sorry, I… didn’t mean to…”
Optimus looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own plating. “It’s alright,” he said as steadily as his vocaliser could manage. “I know you didn’t mean any harm.”
Ratchet had proceeded to send Optimus to his berth, explaining that he had some things to collect from the medbay before meeting back up with him. While that hadn’t been a complete lie, Ratchet desperately needed to distance himself from the prime. He’d accidentally let his vents slip open amongst the commotion, and Optimus’s heat coding only seemed to be sending out stronger pheromones now to combat the ultimately useless effect of the suppressants.
Ratchet shook his helm to clear it. He could not let something as primitive as base-coding overrun his processors at a time where Optimus was all but depending on him, even if he didn’t really know what he was going to do about the situation.
Ratchet tried to shut off his thoughts, instead turning to his cabinet of medicines and subspacing any that he thought might be necessary for treating Optimus.
Meanwhile, Optimus had made it back to his berthroom with little trouble, though all but collapsed onto his berth. He felt absolutely exhausted amid the sensory overload his heat was causing—everything was too loud, too bright, too overwhelming. Having been in the presence of Ratchet after so long of isolating himself had nearly driven Optimus mad, too. He felt helpless when pitted against his own coding.
He curled up on his berth and tried not to let his processors wander. Definitely not to Ratchet, and definitely not to the way his frame had lit up when the medic had touched him. Definitely not deliberating what sort of partner he’d be, wondering if Ratchet was as passionate in the berth as he was when berating Optimus…
The door to Optimus’s quarters slid open suddenly, shocking him out of his thoughts. He desperately tried to tuck the inappropriate ideas away as if Ratchet would be able to hear them, somehow.
“Sorry, I should have knocked,” Ratchet apologised, and Optimus looked up to see the medic’s arms full of blankets and pillows. He walked forward until he was able to dump everything at the end of the berth.
“I gathered everything I could find in the med bay, and I even grabbed some from my own quarters. I hope it’s enough.” Optimus must have had an alarmed expression, because Ratchet quickly continued. “Spare, don’t worry. I still have plenty of blankets and such for myself,” he lied. Really, Ratchet had stripped his berthroom completely of comfort items. He reasoned with himself that Optimus needed them more, and Ratchet could survive a few days without them.
Optimus still appeared uncertain, and Ratchet reminded himself how long it had probably been since the prime had gone into an uninterrupted heat.
“You know. So you can… nest.” Ratchet clarified. “The urge varies from bot to bot, but I know that I always felt quite strongly about it whenever I was in heat.”
At the explanation, Optimus finally realised what had felt so wrong about his berthroom. He did want to nest, it seemed. His finials flicked back instinctively.
“There’s no need to feel embarrassed. Like I said, the urge varies from bot to bot, but it’s generally not uncommon for someone to have the desire to nest when under the influence of their heat coding,” Ratchet reassured him.
The medic had begun mindlessly arranging the cushions around the berth while he continued a separate train of thought. “I’m going to tell everyone that you’ve come down with a virus, and that’s why you have been noticeably absent over the past couple of days. I’ll let them know not to disturb you while you recover and that I will be preoccupied with treating you.”
Optimus tried to steer his processors away from a certain other kind of treating that they could partake in. His whole frame felt hot and uncomfortable suddenly.
“But I’ll leave you be, for the most part. I’ll do routine checks to keep tabs on your condition, but other than that, you’ll have complete privacy. I understand how vulnerable a heat can make you feel.” Ratchet spared a glance at the wall to move his gaze away from Optimus.
Ratchet had stopped fretting over the berthspread finally and everything went quiet, aside from the gentle humming of Optimus’s cooling systems.
“Is there no one you’d wish to spend your heat with?” Ratchet finally asked, as if the question were akin to pulling rivets from his armour.
Optimus shuddered. He was thankful for the distance between them when he finally replied. “I wouldn’t wish for anyone to be burdened with my wellbeing in such a way.”
“Your wellbeing isn’t a burden,” Ratchet snapped before he could stop himself. “I mean… you’re a handsome mech, Optimus. I’m sure anybot would be happy to ‘lend you a hand’, as it were.”
Ratchet could feel his circuits groggily fighting against the heat pheromones. They were much stronger now, and were able to seep slowly past the seams of his closed vents. He noted that he’d need to reroute the ventilation from Optimus’s berthroom, before the heat coding really kicked up the potency of his scent.
“No,” Optimus reiterated. “I’m sure we can just… work something else out.”
Ratchet felt that insistent nagging at the back of his processor again. He had to come clean.
“Look, Optimus…” Ratchet had to look away from the mech again, who was wrapped up in a flurry of soft blankets and pillows, otherwise he was sure that he’d forget the point he was trying to make. “I’m not so sure that there’s… really anything I can do. I can deduce that this heat has been a long time coming, and if even the suppressants aren’t doing anything to dampen the coding… then I…”
Ratchet was trying to find the kindest words possible to exclaim that the prime simply had to suck it up and ask someone to frag him, otherwise the discontented heat cycle would damage his systems so irreparably that it might even become life-threatening. Though it seemed like Optimus knew what he was trying to get at, despite the silence that remained.
“I know.” Optimus curled into the fleeting comfort of his half-made nest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d interfaced with someone, and the thought hung dauntingly over him like a landslide about to give way.
Ratchet sighed, pulling something from his subspace. He offered it to Optimus, a brief respite from the uncomfortable topic. It was a cube of odd-looking energon.
“Here, this will make you feel a little better, hopefully.” Ratchet nestled it upright amongst the blankets when Optimus didn’t take it. “It isn’t quite the high-quality stuff I’d usually give to a mech in heat, but it should at least settle your tanks and take some of the edge off. You should keep your energon levels up, too. Your heat cycle will deplete it more quickly than usual, whether or not you’re fragging your way through it.”
Optimus gingerly picked up the cube and lapped at it. It tasted much like normal energon, though this concoction had a much sweeter aftertaste and the consistency was viscous. It was more like a syrup, he decided.
Ratchet couldn’t help but stare. He’d never seen Optimus so… timid before. It unnerved him slightly, but Ratchet had to remind himself that heat did strange things to even the most stoic of mechs. Optimus had seemed so fragile when Ratchet was chiding him, and he couldn’t shake the sound of the other mech’s whimpering from his thoughts. It did something to Ratchet’s circuits that he would certainly take to his grave.
“I’ll be going, now,” Ratchet said suddenly, tearing his optics away as Optimus drank the last of the medicinal energon. “Comm me if you need anything.”
He turned and began to make his way across the room when Optimus let out a loud whine. Ratchet spun back around, and the prime appeared just as startled from the sound as he was. Optimus’s battle mask snapped closed suddenly and his optics were wide with embarrassment.
“Sorry, I-I’m not sure what came over me,” he stumbled over the apology. Ratchet fought down the feeling that had begun clawing hungrily at his abdomen.
“It’s alright,” Ratchet replied professionally. “You won’t be quite yourself while under the effects of your heat coding. It can make you do bizarre things that you normally wouldn’t. That’s why it’s probably best if you stay here, and I can get you anything you might need.”
Optimus nodded thoughtlessly, trying to regain control of his frame. Even from where Ratchet was standing, he could tell that the prime was slowly slipping further and further into stupor.
Ratchet turned to leave again without another word, the door closing behind him. He hesitated for a moment before deciding to lock it for good measure.
“There you are, Ratch,” came a voice from behind him, and Ratchet jumped. He looked around to see that Arcee was approaching.
“Arcee, what is it?” He asked curtly, glancing nervously back at the door to Optimus’s hab.
“I was going to ask if you’d seen Optimus, but I’m guessing that question has sort of answered itself.”
At the mech’s mention Ratchet flared his plating, jumping forward to stop Arcee from walking any further.
“No! Er—I mean yes, I just spoke with him. But Optimus is not well, and I’ve put him under strict orders of berthrest until he has fully recovered.”
Arcee became visibly worried. “Is it the Cybonic Plague again?” She pressed.
Ratchet had to stop himself from exclaiming ‘Yes, absolutely! Now get away from here before it infects you too!’, because that would have been abhorrently irresponsible of him. Instead he flattened his armour back down and tried to calm his vocaliser.
“I can’t be certain, but there is no need to worry at this stage. Optimus will be fine, as long as he is given plenty of time to rest and absolutely no one disturbs him. I will continue filling in for him until he is able to resume his duties again.” At that last part Arcee seemed to sag somewhat, and Ratchet had to stop himself from cursing.
Do they all think that I enjoy doing Optimus’s job? Ungrateful slag heaps… I’d like to see one of them try and do it!
“Alright. I’ll pass that onto the others, let Optimus know that I hope he has a swift recovery—and if there’s anything I can do to help you, Ratchet, let me know.” Arcee gave him a stern look before transforming into her alt-mode and speeding off down the hallway.
“She knows better than to drive around inside the base,” Ratchet muttered to himself. He sighed. Maybe he had bitten off more than he could chew, with this one.