Yandere!Ratchet x GN!Reader
summary: short ficlet of Ratchet freaking out about your human lifespan :p
a/n; CHUNNKEEEYYYY!!!
— 🚑 [cw: prejudicial thoughts]
The thought of you unconditionally, overwhelmingly sparks his spark. An entirely different concept compared to how Ratchet felt about the kids.
A burst of wonderful, adoring emotions fill him to the brink—it almost hinders his ability to function. Not that he realizes that.
"An old man picked up my wallet today."
Legs idly swinging over the edge, you watch as Ratchet taps on his control panel, absentmindedly nodding his head to your words. "Uh-huh."
Despite his lack of interest, you continue, wanting to vent about your day. You're used to this behavior anyway; you know he always listens. "I thought he stole it at first. I mean, I turn around and some guy is holding my wallet. Haha, but we made up quickly. It was just a misunderstanding. He was so sweet."
Ratchet shuffles over to you. He begins to do some tech things that you fear you will never understand. You reach a foot to lightly tap his armplate. He offers no reaction.
You smile. "Wanna know my first thought when we talked?"
"...What would that be?" he murmurs, his words smudged over the whisper.
"I found his voice sounding like you." With your rather cheery words, Ratchet pauses, his gaze lingering over you much more than usual. "Caught me off guard and all. Then, I imagined, what if that old man was you as a human? But nah. Sure, he sounds like you, but his fashion wasn't you. In my most humble opinion, of course."
You're yapping now—you know that. Ratchet even stopped trying to understand you a few kliks ago, returning to his own devices. Not that you mind.
"Ratchet, you're old," you say bluntly, earning a whip of a bewildered expression from him.
He grunts. "I may be rusty but—"
"No, sweetie, I meant—you're a million years old," you grimace, letting your head fall. "I can't even imagine living that long." Especially if a long period of that time was nothing but war.
A few moments of hanging silence. Ratchet lets his optics shift from you back to his work, sighing as the weight of choosing you this time settles on him.
"What is this about?" he softly asks, approaching your side, careful with the volume of his footsteps.
Suddenly, you chuckle, startling him. The mech scrunched his faceplate in confusion. "Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about the kids. To them, I'm so much older—but compared to you Autobots, I'm basically nothing."
"Nothing?" Ratchet repeats with a furrow.
"I don't mean it in a bad way. Just realizing that one day, I'll grow old, like you—but much, much quicker," you say with a weak smile. "We humans only live for about a hundred years, and that's if you're lucky."
Your word and your tone strangely crawl into Ratchet's spark with incomprehensible devastation. Earth years are in a different timezone from Cybertronian standards; that in itself is a tragically distant line.
"Your species is fragile," the medic mutters, his optics glancing slowly over your figure. "Small. Organic. Squishy. One step and you're dead."
Helplessly, you snicker, unable to feel not offended. "And your species... Big. Metal. Tough. You guys probably live long enough to watch a sun die."
"I have, in fact," he murmurs, "twice."
You blink. "Wow, Ratch, I have deep respect for you. Mm. Everyone does. It must have been hard."
He's just staring at you. Tilting your head, you make a look. He returns it with a look of his own. "See, I may not show it, but for your lifespan... I believe my respect runs far deeper than yours."
"Yeah?" you gasp. "Ratchet, you're actually—"
Ratchet stops listening to you after that. It's the usual—albeit annoying—teasing about him being indifferent to humans in general. Halfheartedly, he is listening, with you being the only noise in the headquarters, but his mind wanders somewhere else.
He has witnessed many sparks fall.
Even then, for a long, long time, they stay as his company. Valued memories that are never lost to his repository. Honorable contributions that are still relevant to this day. A mark that has never left both the Autobots and the Decepticons.
But you?
You're a human.
It could so happen that after one recharge, you'd be gone.
As if nothing ever happened. Just like the rest of the others who died.
Blue eyelights start to tremble the longer they stare at you. So full of life. A voice so new and refreshing. Ratchet hates to admit it—he's grown deeply fond of you and the kids.
"Now I guess I have to make you free of humans," you snicker, standing up and brushing off your clothes. "It's getting late anyway. Thanks for having me."
... What? Are you leaving?
The thought weighs on Ratchet, swelling like pressure inside his chassis. Like an hourglass with sand that falls and falls. The farther you are, the less time remains.
He watches blankly as you take a step. And another. Then carefully down the stairs.
Until you're walking straight to the exit. "I think I'll tell Raf tomorrow too—"
CLANG.
A powerful thud from Ratchet's pede slams into the ground, knocking you over with the sudden tremor. You grunt as you set a hand on his ankle for support. "Woah! Ratchet! What the hell?"
As you lift your head, your eyes meet an expression you've never seen Ratchet in before—you can't describe it. Disturbed? Apprehension? Fear? Hysteria? He's not saying anything. Engines are running louder than usual. Not bothering to move the colossal mech foot in front of your body.
"Ratchet?" you frown. "Are you okay?"
"Don't leave."
The words were so quiet. Almost pleading. You wait patiently. But he doesn't say anything else.
"...Is something wrong?" you urge.
Much to your dismay, he doesn't answer immediately. His eyelights shift.
"Mh—A report came in. Decepticons... They're moving. It would be safer for you to stay a little longer."
...
"...Okay. I trust you."
Maybe you imagined it—but for a moment, it looked like he sighed with nothing less than relief.
It's dangerous, anyway. It's dangerous. It's dangerous. It's dangerous.
— "Stay."
— "I'm not going anywhere."
— False.
