currently making so much pharmaratchet content that appeals to me and me only, hope y'll r ready (edit: PS check out @/jnwiedle for the origin of this pharma design <3)
And this is one of the other functionist universe stories I’m really excited to finally get down on paper. There are one or two other ideas that are really nagging at me, but this is one of the things I was most stoked about writing. I am very much about seeing Pharma’s self-serving, sketchy actions in motion when he’s not just working on behalf of himself, but also for the sake of someone who is His Person. I really want to feel him out more in the regular universe too, but this was a lot of fun.
Ratchet’s day begins before yours, by simple virtue of his insistence on fitting two jobs into a single lifetime. You wake up when he rolls out of the berth, but when you check your chronometer— no. You absolutely refuse to be awake yet.
So you doze while you listen to him quietly moving about the room. It never takes him long to get ready in the mornings. It’s only a few kliks until you hear him step to the side of the berth, and he gently touches your shoulder. “Pharma.”
You let your optics drift online, stretch, and smile up at him.
He smiles back, but he’s all business when he says, “I’m heading out. I’ll be at—”
That’s as far as he gets before you reach up to wrap an arm around his neck and pull him down against you.
He sighs, but doesn’t fight it. He kisses you once, lightly, and begins again. “I’ll be at my clinic for a few cycles before I go up to the council offices.” He goes on, listing surgery times, key appointments, plans for the day. And then a few more cycles down in Dead End in the evening, of course.
You knew most of this, and you’re locking the rest of his schedule into your processor, but you still say, “No,” and put your other arm around his neck.
He indulges you for a few nanokliks more, kisses you again. Then he gently untangles your arms, kisses you one last time, and then he’s gone.
You’d still rather not be awake, but you know you’re not going to get any more recharge at this point. You dawdle with your energon and with the polish, spend a little while reviewing medical records you already know by heart. But there’s only so much time you can waste. Nobody will be expecting you at your offices for a cycle or two, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t things you can be accomplishing.
And when you get to the council building, you don’t even make it to your office before being notified that Senator Skybreaker would like to reschedule his appointment, and requests that you to come to his offices at your earliest convenience. That sort of request barely qualifies as a request at all, so you sigh and turn to go see him.
When you reach his door, you pause to run a slow vent cycle and clear your face, then from the moment you step into his office, you’re all smiles and deference. One look at his face tells you that it’s his joint freeze again. Of course it is. He needs to have all his servos replaced, but he insists that the problem is with his bearings and won’t let you give him the surgery that would actually solve this issue.
You start with his legs. That way he can’t see your face while you take care of this incredibly pointless waste of your time. By the time you move up to his arms, you’ve worked through the worst of the irritation. And the aches have eased up enough for Skybreaker to be pleasant again—or the closest thing to pleasant he can manage.
It starts with pointed questions about where Ratchet is. You’re honest enough; it would be too dangerous to lie about this. He’s at his charity clinic. And of course, the good senator immediately begins asking you whether the council is supposed to be happy that their chief medical officer is wasting his talents on mechs who can’t fulfill a function well enough to afford a doctor, what you think about your conjunx shirking his official duties, whether the people who raised him to this position should tolerate this sort of blatant disrespect.
While the senator rails, you quietly, calmly work your way down his arm. When he finally gives you an opening to respond, you’ve just reached his hand. Your optics are on your work as you slip a delicate tool into the narrow joints of one finger, but all your attention is on Skybreaker.
You sigh, with a deliberate smile.“He does certainly like to spend time at his clinic when he has no official duties to attend to.” Fondness and exasperation, carefully balanced. And Skybreaker—he’s a functionist extremist, you can use that. “It’s always been that way, I’m afraid. He’s just so thankful for the talents he was forged with, it’s impossible to get him to spend his free time on anything else. It’s almost… an act of worship.” If Ratchet could hear you talking that way, the things he said would probably strip your paint. That thought is enough to make your smile soften out into something genuine.
The senator doesn’t look entirely convinced. You add, “And in that part of the city, there’s no shortage of mechs in need of a doctor.”
Ah yes, that gets you an unkind laugh from Skybreaker.
You’ve just finished the last joint of his hand, and you take his hand, turning it delicately, examining it. “If you feel he’s neglecting his duties in any capacity, I’m sure he would be eager to address your concerns.” And your timing is artful as your turn your optics up to his. “Or—if you have any needs that aren’t being met... I’m sure I would be delighted to assist you. In any way.”
Overacted, but that’s the only way you’d be able to get through to Skybreaker. And he does take your meaning. The way he looks at you as you take care of his other arm— Not the way you thought your day would go. You carefully maintain your cloying smile as you finish taking care of his joints. But this is fine. You can use this. It was about time you started cultivating new supporters, and if you can persuade him to let you replace his servos, you can probably hold him for some time.
You make your excuses and go on your way before he can press you too much further. You’ll have to be careful with how you keep him at arm’s length until you can afford to let him slip away, but he’ll be a useful tool.
After that, you don’t have much time before your first planned surgery of the day. It’s a fuel pump replacement, routine, but dealing with Senator Dust Storm never goes as quickly as it ought to. You’re forced to waste half a cycle dodging his advances, and all through that you have to simper and flutter over the honor of his attentions. But although you only have that one little hook in his vanity, he still hasn’t noticed that you’ve barely even let him get a hand on your frame.
Once you finally have him offline, you take your time with the surgery. It’s worth it, just not having to listen to him talk. Ratchet’s in the building now, and you send him a few comms while you work. He scolds you for talking to him during a surgery, and you tease that it’s very unprofessional, what kind of dreadful role models could you have had to teach you such dreadful habits?
Of course, that peace only lasts until Dust Storm is back online and you’re making your last check to be sure all his systems are in order. Trying to get away from him is almost as difficult as getting him into surgery was in the first place. You’re sure to mention that your dear, wonderful conjunx just arrived from his charity clinic, and isn’t that just the most darling hobby for him to have? It doesn’t make Dust Storm any less shameless, and by the time you finally manage to get away, you’re exhausted.
As you make your way back to the office, you wonder if you can afford to cut Dust Storm loose. If you just did it on your own— He’d take offense and hold a grudge. Too dangerous. But if you found a way to take offense at something he did— That has potential. Especially if you can make him believe he has a chance of winning you back. If you handled this right, you might even have someone who would defend the clinic without having to string him along. But you regretfully set that idea aside for the moment. Maybe if you can get a solid hold over Skybreaker. For now, it’s a risk you can’t afford to take.
You have a little while before your next appointment to catch up on your correspondence. It’s less draining to balance all the players against each other like this, but everything is so much less… certain than when you can be there physically to judge their reactions and tailor your performance. When you look at your schedule for the next few days, it looks like you should be seeing everyone critical.
And then a klik later you go back and add in an appointment for Senator Silvershot. Just to be safe. You send him a ping asking if he’s free for a routine checkup in two days, and the message you get back is so suggestive you don’t bother replying. Maybe you can take pretend offense at him. At least you have a surgery scheduled right after that appointment, so you’ll have a ready-made excuse to leave quickly. And you really ought to see about feeling out that new senator from Vos. What was his name? Calamity? Well that sounds like it will be a calm, relaxing time, you’re already looking forward to it. You have a headache.
You can’t help sending a comm to Ratchet that people noticed he was at his charity clinic, and immediately regret it. He doesn’t seem bothered when he replies, he just asks whether there were any problems. No. There aren’t any problems. You’re making sure of that.
He asks if you want to come assist in a surgery he has scheduled in a cycle, and— You wish you could. It isn’t like either of you needs an assistant, but there’s something calming about standing across from each other, optics on your patient, working in perfect sync. But you have a surgery of your own, and one you absolutely cannot reschedule.
The senators are one thing. They have… some power. Just enough to keep them occupied. Enough to have a small little clinic destroyed. For example. But the Council is another thing altogether. It isn’t an issue of keeping the clinic hidden from them, and it absolutely isn’t an issue of persuading them that they should let the clinic stand to make you happy. All you can do is take care of your duties to the best of your abilities, and hope one insignificant charity clinic remains an issue too unimportant for them to address.
And now you need to operate on Six-of-twelve. Not the most dangerous mech on the Council, and not the most unpredictable. But he tends to propose more legislation than the others do. That could either work in your favor or against it.
There’s no simpering here, no preening or flirting. You’re all brisk professionalism, tempered with the respect due to— the respect expected from a member of the Council. Six-of-twelve doesn’t make any casual conversation, only asks a few questions about the planned surgery. It isn’t a major procedure at all, simply the replacement of several servos in his lower legs. You do this every few years, these days, and you’re almost certain this wouldn’t even be a problem if he ever made use of his alt mode. But the last time you made the mistake of suggesting that, you were told in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t your place to dictate how a member of the Council serves their function.
You managed to bite your tongue before telling him that making simple healthy use of your own body isn’t the same as filling your function— Probably better than Ratchet would have done, especially considering his reaction when you’d gotten home that night and told him about it. No, you know when it’s unsafe to push any further. If having an unnecessary surgery every few years is supposed to be more efficient than using your alt mode every once in a while, you aren’t going to risk yourself arguing the point.
It’s been… at least a few hundred years since that happened But you’re still uneasy with how closely Six-of-twelve observes you. It makes you wish you had an excuse to put him offline while you work. Instead, he sits there, silently watching while you work. The surgery isn’t difficult, and you don’t have to say a word until you finish closing up his frame and tell him that you’re done. But it’s still more exhausting than anything you’ve done yet today.
When you’re finally able to leave, you want nothing more than to find an excuse to go dawdle by Ratchet’s offices, see if you can catch him for a klik or two before he has to go to his next appointment. But if you go now, he’ll be able to tell something is wrong. You satisfy yourself with comms instead. First, you bait him conversation with a message that you miss him. And of course he responds to that, even if it’s only to tell you that he knows how to recognize a trap when he sees one. You still spend kliks needling him about how dreadfully unprofessional it is to use his comms during surgery.
By the time Ratchet’s surgery is finished and he’s threatening to come see you in person, you feel like yourself again. But you have to regretfully tell him that you need to go to your next appointment. And given your schedule and his schedule—It looks like you won’t be seeing each other in person until you go home. You try not to be too disappointed. This isn’t at all unusual, but it’s harder when you thought you might have had a chance of seeing him during the day.
At least the next appointment isn’t going to be difficult. It’s only a routine check-up, nothing important. Only an excuse. And with Chief Enforcer Onyx, you don’t have to worry about playing the coy little flirt, or pretending you’re hungry for his attentions. You don’t even have to pretend to like him.
Of course, it’s a balancing game of a different sort. Onyx has an aemula endura already—not that it gives him any pause—and you don’t have one of your own. You can’t dance around Ratchet as an excuse to keep your distance, and you have less excuse to pretend ignorance as to Onyx’s true intentions. You have to hold him at arm’s length on your own, while still making yourself more enticing than his aemula. It’s doable, of course. But it is tiring.
And it’s an old dance. Setting yourself in stable orbit might work for someone as slow on his feet as slow as Silvershot. But Onyx is sharp enough to notice delaying tactics, and he’s pushing harder. You have had him in hand, for some time. It takes you off-guard when out of nowhere he brings up Ratchet’s clinic.
You deflect, but cautiously. Onyx must know by now that threatening Ratchet wouldn’t go over well as a flirtation with you. There has to be another level to this.
But he laughs off your answer and says, “So protective! It’s charming, really it is.” He props his chin up on his hand and smiles at you. “I’ve been hearing so much about him from you, it has me quite intrigued. You ought to bring him along the next time we meet like this. I’d love to get to know him the same way I know… you.”
You don’t react outwardly, you can’t afford to show that upsets you, and it’s even more dangerous to act like, like you want to pull Ratchet into these games. Half your attention is on the verbal sparring with Onyx, and the rest is on figuring out how to fix this. By the time you make your excuses and leave, you haven’t had any luck on finding a situation, short of giving Onyx what he wants. And—no.
If you had to cut him loose, you could. But making enemies is dangerous, especially an enemy who just, just mentioned you ‘protecting’ Ratchet. Your next appointment is routine, boring, and you don’t need to play any games. No, you just spend your time thinking about this other game that Onyx is trying to seize control of.
By the time you’re finally making your way back to your office, you think you may have an answer. You need to extract yourself from this, find an excuse to put more distance between you and Onyx. You think… you need to get closer to Onyx’s aemula.
Onyx might be sharp, but Longclaw isn’t. But what he lacks in basic intelligence, he makes up for in intractable stubbornness and a sense of entitlement the size of Luna I. All you’ll need to do is subtly convince him that you’ve secretly pined for him for years and years, and nothing will change his mind. You can deny it all you want and Onyx can argue that he’s wrong—he knows you well enough to know you have better taste than that—but Longclaw will never admit he might be mistaken.
With any luck, the fallout from that inevitable fight will echo through the whole Senate. You’ll certainly be able to use it as an excuse to pull away from Onyx and make it out to be his fault. And you’ll make it clear that there’s the smallest, slightest possibility he might be able to win you back—but only if he makes you very, very happy, of course. Depending on how far the fight spreads, you might even be able to use it as an excuse to put space between you and Dust Storm. Or Silvershot. Or any number of other officials who are too forward for their own good.
Once you get back to your desk, you’re decided on that course of action. Which means you have an additional mech you have to court, but you have to do it in a way his aemula won’t notice. You sit heavily in your chair, dim your optics, and pinch the bridge of your nose. You need to get this moving. Tomorrow?
No, you immediately put together a message to Senator Longclaw that you’ve been reviewing his records following his surgery—when was it? a lunar cycle ago?—and that you’re worried about the possibility of a rust infection. Can he possibly spare the time for an appointment with you this evening?
You’re ready with plenty of explanations for why this only just now became an issue you were worried about. But you don’t even get an opportunity to use your excuses, he isn’t at all suspicious. The medical part of things is simple enough, you only need to open his frame and poke around while you flirt with him with less and less subtlety. You think— You think he’s beginning to catch on by the time you finally give up for today. But you still schedule an additional appointment for him in two days, just to be sure you’ve drilled this into his head. Hopefully it doesn’t take long for things to explode between him and Onyx.
And by the time you finally, finally finish for the evening, it’s— later than you expected. Much later. Ratchet might even be home from Dead End by now.
You feel just about dead on your feet, and your processor is still swirling with all the game pieces you need to keep in motion. It’s a short flight home, but you’ve still managed to work yourself into a wonderful headache by the time you get back.
At first, you’re only thinking of the berth and recharge, but when you walk through the door and Ratchet’s there, that’s enough to override anything else you were planning. He’s sitting at his console, but he turns to face you as you come in.
He smiles and gets as far as, “Pharma—” before you pour yourself into his lap and take his cheeks in your hands, kissing him deep and hungry.
It’s sloppy, there’s no elegance to it, no seduction. But Ratchet still meets you easily, one of his hands sliding up around your back, warm and secure. His other hand is gentle on your cheek, steadying you, easing you into something less desperate and frantic.
You let him guide you, you dim your optics, surrender yourself, and simply follow where he leads. His hands are on you, placing your knees securely around his hips, caressing your leg, resting soft and careful on your waist. It isn’t a remarkable encounter, it’s over quickly, nothing to tell stories about. But when it’s done and you sit there, kneeling across his lap, draped across his frame, his hands still warm on your plating— You couldn’t have asked for anything better right now.
Ratchet is content to sit there with you. Eventually he asks, “Long day?”
“Mm,” is all you answer, but you press yourself even closer against him.
His hands shift, just enough to wrap tighter around your back. “If you’re waiting to be carried to the berth, I think you’re going to be waiting a very long time.”
You need to pull yourself together. There’s only so long you can do this without making him worry. So you straighten and give him an arch look. “So you’re saying that you want me to carry you to the berth.”
You slide off his lap, get back to your feet, and hover over him, teasing and threatening until he finally nudges you away far enough to stand up on his own. He gives you one sour, affectionate look before he turns for your berth chamber himself. You cut him off, weaving in front of him, loudly asking whether he has any aches that are bothering him, you might know a doctor who could do something about that. You give in and stop when he reaches out to grab your hand and pull you along with him.
You follow meekly enough until you reach your berth, but Ratchet knows you well enough to take that for the teasing it is. He’s smiling as he turns to you, and you can’t help smiling in return. There are so few cycles until it’s morning again, and your jobs occupy your lives again, all the dangers of political games, and a million and one little game pieces to balance. But for tonight, you have Ratchet here, with you, his attention on you and you alone. There’s nothing else here to pull you apart. For tonight, you’re his, he’s yours, and you intend to take full advantage of that for as long as you possibly can.
