Parking Garage
This one was fun. Done in @breakdownsbuttlights Humanformers!Dratchet AU because I got sucked in HARD.
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It wasn’t until 2AM that Ratchet left the hospital, trudging from the sliding glass doors into the third floor of the parking garage, abandoned by day-shift workers and patients at that time of night. He seemed to hunch in on himself, thumb flicking insistently at his phone screen, its soft glow illuminating the deep lines of his face.
Four dead. Suspect at large.
The news article refused to reload; there was no service in that damned parking garage and the hospital Wi-Fi didn’t extend that far. Still, two hours after him and every single one of his staff got the emergency alert? There had to be something new.
Possibly injured.
Outside, snow swirled in great gusts, the wind shoving it into drifts that the plows wouldn’t clear away for hours and would put his little station wagon through hell trying to get home. He would’ve been better off sleeping in his office. But none of that occurred to him. His eyes were locked to a photograph at the top of the article, framed in tiny, nearly unreadable text.
That picture. It was blurry and looked as if it were taken by someone’s shitty flip phone, but even a skeptic like Ratchet couldn’t deny it was undoubtedly, unmistakably, him.
Ratchet shoved his phone into his bag and fumbled for his keys, cursing a blue streak when they fell from his hands, clattering to the dirty cement just beside the driver’s side wheel.
Citizens are warned to shelter in place. Secure doors and windows. Suspect is armed and highly dangerous.
A hand seized the back of his collar and yanked, throwing Ratchet onto his back. Instincts formed from decades of being a combat medic kicked in and he tucked his head on impact, throwing his hands up in an I’m unarmed gesture with a grunt. He started to scramble to his feet, but a figure stepped between him and his car. The soft click of a hammer being cocked froze him in his tracks.
“I knew it was you.” His voice came out a startled stammer. He cleared his voice and tried again. “Deadlock.”
Deadlock stepped closer, boots silent over concrete, and leveled a handgun at his head. His hand quaked violently enough to rattle the gun, and even in the musty garage lights Ratchet could see his pupils were dilated, all but consuming the iris. His nose was swollen, and his lips and mouth were coated in thickening, sticky blood. Where he usually wore a black tactical jacket and bullet-proof vest, there was only a white tank-top, smeared dark down the front with more blood. His sniper rifle slung across his back.
Deadlock bared bloody teeth in a vicious snarl. “I called, and you did not answer.”
Ratchet gestured around them, adrenaline thudding in his ears. He fought to keep his tone nonchalant. Calm. “I was here.”
He did not say he lost the burner phone. Did not say he’d given up hope after months of no calls. Did not say he’d thought Deadlock was dead. “Now can you let me up? You need to be looked at.” He lifted an eyebrow. Looked the man up and down. “And there’s no way you’re not cold.”
Deadlock looked uncertain, something Ratchet would’ve poked fun at in any other circumstance. Then, he lowered the gun. Made a gesture with it that Ratchet took as acquiescence.
He got to his feet, ignoring the creaking ache in his joints, and dropped his bag to the ground, stripping off his jacket. “Here, kid,” he said. “Trade you.”
Deadlock stared at the jacket for a moment, like it might explode or come to life and attack him, then mutely handed him the gun, which Ratchet unloaded with the fluid ease of years of practice, pocketing the magazine and leaning down to tuck the gun into his bag. By the time he was finished Deadlock had managed to fold his wiry limbs into the oversized jacket, the muzzle of the rifle poking out the back collar. It was almost cute, the way he immediately shoved his hands into the deep pockets.
Ratchet gave him another once-over, concluding that Deadlock was not in immediate danger of bleeding out, and stepped forward to gather him into his arms, feeling Deadlock stiffen as he did but refusing to let go until he finally relaxed into his grip.
“I could still kill you,” Drift murmured into the crook of his neck.
“I know.” Ratchet settled a hand on the back of his neck and drew back so he could kiss him, tasting the cloying tang of blood on his mouth and giving a soft gasp when Deadlock pressed forward hungrily, one fang catching on his bottom lip and slicing it open, spilling red down Ratchet’s chin.
He chuckled when they broke apart, Deadlock’s tongue darting out to lick the blood on his face. “But then who would patch your sorry ass?”
Deadlock’s answering grin was more grimace. He looked exhausted and jittery. Ratchet squeezed the back of his neck once and bent to retrieve his bag. Then, finally, his keys. “Let’s go home, kid, and get you something to eat.”
