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Medicines heal doubts as well as diseases. ~Karl Marx
It didn't take Ratchet long to learn that with Optimus Prime...it was worst if he was quiet.
Whether the pain was physical or mental, Prime was not one to scream in pain or yell for a medic. With physical wounds, this was bad enough (Prime had once keeled over after slowly bleeding himself nearly dry because "there were others who were more gravely injured.")
With psychological wounds, it was more subtle...but just as potentially devastating.
Ratchet had known leaders who succumbed to stress. To indecision spawned from responsibility and fear of failure. To weariness and lack of proper recharge. To existential crises caused by too much chaos, too much failure, too much death. Before the Great War, officers suffering so stood a good chance of being noticed, of being sent for psych evaluation, of being treated or at least being moved away from the front lines. Now...now they did not have that luxury. They had too few mechs, even fewer trained as leaders or strategists or tacticians. That training, that experience, was too valuable to lose. Sometimes, more valuable than the sanity of the mech who held it.
But there was one mech they could not lose. One mech they could not afford to let break. And so, Ratchet watched carefully. And when Optimus Prime went quiet, when his field went dark and flat and he walked slowly away to stare out at the battlefield, or the rubble of a city, or the windows of a starship, Ratchet went to stand with him. To press his own determination into that shaken EM field. To be a spark, battered and increasingly cynical but alive and THERE.
It was all he could do. And, when Optimus came back to himself, vents shuddering and field flaring, when he turned and laid a hand on Ratchet's pauldron before heading back to work, Ratchet knew that it was enough.
Disease is war with the laws of our being, and all war, as a great general has said, is hell. ~Lewis G. Janes
"Fragging overclocked GLITCH! Had to run into the middle of the fragging fight. HAD to be the FIRST volunteer to try out the new Decepticon weapons--Cycle, where is that unit!"
The unit of energon was hung from the medberth's holder, line dangling and ready for insertion. "Here, sir!"
Ratchet groped for the line and it was the wrong color, fraggit. "Idiot, Grade 9, I said! Primus only knows what cyberbiological scrap those flechettes were-"
Cycle's voice was unperturbed. "We're OUT of Grade 9. It's 8 or 6."
Then it would have to do. Ratchet turned the red arm in front of him, finding a line that hadn't already been perforated. "Fine. Get on his other side. Start pulling out the flechettes. Careful, Primus damn it, I don't want to have to flush out your systems as well."
"Yes, sir."
Ratchet nudged Optimus' shoulder. "And YOU, you rusted piece of slag, I am not DONE with you, yet. Once I'm done plugging your holes and flushing out whatever Megatron's pitspawned weaponized nanites are trying to do THIS time, you and I are going to have WORDS about your lack of self-preservation!"
Optimus started to say something, voice staticky with pain but still there, and then, as things tended to, everything went to the Pit for no discernible reason. The medberth sensors blared, scrolling errors and flashing warnings. "Optimus? Optimus! Stay with me. Don't you offline your optics on me. YOU RUSTING FRAGGER, YOU GET BACK HERE OR I WILL BEAT YOU TO DEATH MYSELF. CLEAR!"
Ratchet's arms transformed slightly, probes extending from his wrists, and he jammed them directly, precisely, into the ruin of Optimus Prime's chest. Cycle heaved himself back from contact with the Prime's frame just in time to not get either electrocuted or dislodged as the voltage slammed through the huge frame, great limbs twitching.
"Optimus! Come on. Don't GIVE UP, you fragger." Another charge, and the frame kept twitching even after the jolt. "Good. Come on. Optimus, stay with me."
A small, lost sound of pain accompanied the onlining--thank Primus-of the Prime's optics. "R-ratchet?"
"Cycle, get your aft back here, holes, plugging, STAT."
"Yes, sir. That's the last flechette."
"Wonderful. Lightweld, take these to the lab for analysis. Tell them whatever's in them is playing merry hell with Prime's power systems and I'd like an antidote yesterday."
"Yes, sir."
"PRIME!"
Optimus' plating was starting to shiver, the minute power fluctuations playing hell with his motor systems. "I'm...I'm here, old friend."
"You'd damn well better be. I'm going to take your motor functions offline. It might slow the infection. I'd love to put you in stasis, but I can't risk it, not knowing what we're up against. I'm giving you a sensor block, though. ...there. Better?"
"Better. Yes."
"Good. Now shut up and concentrate on not dying for five kliks while I put you back together."
Medicine sometimes snatches away health, sometimes gives it. ~Ovid
There was a test, at the Medical Academy, that no one passed. A patient case, snuck in among others, which was played by an actor whose systems were mocked up to demonstrate symptoms of some disease. Something that did not immediately raise alarms. As the young physician worked, the patient's case would worsen. Their systems would shut down, slowly, as the physician tried everything, with more and more desperation.
The patient would die. The physician, usually, would be left baffled, unsure, afraid that they had done something wrong somewhere along the way. Sometimes they had. Sometimes they hadn't.
The role of this test, as the proctors would later explain, was to make the point that every physician that works emergency would lose patients. It was only a matter of time, and it would happen over and over again. Sometimes it would be the physician's fault: a wrong diagnosis, a missed symptom, the wrong drug or treatment administered out of fatigue or carelessness. Sometimes it would be no one's fault: the patient's system would just give up, or would have invisible pathologies no physician could be expected to notice. Sometimes, Ratchet was told by his mentor, an old army medic, you will do everything right, and your patient will still die. Sometimes, you'll frag up, and you'll kill someone. You can't be right all the time. You can't fix everyone. You'll lose patients. Colleagues. Friends. Lovers. It will happen. And if you can't handle that, then you've got no business in this field.
She'd been right. Ratchet had lost people he liked and respected under his hands. Many to lack of resources or quick action. One to a wrong call that had just not gone his way. One to a true frag-up because Ratchet had been too weary and his attention too scattered to notice an energon blockage until it was too late. Those losses had been hard, but he'd moved on. To the next case. To the next patient. Because he'd had to.
It was always there in the back of his thoughts, though. That every case, every time a battle brought another load of wounded and dying mechs to his medbay, was another opportunity for him to kill someone.
Not today, he thought as he reassembled Prime's internals for what felt like the millionth time. Please, Primus, not today.
The doctor is often more to be feared than the disease. ~French Proverb
Go assault the medbay before Autobot reinforcements arrive, they said. The Prime was injured and out for the count, they said. Just a few medics, it'll be easy, they said.
The first shot went straight through the optic and then the processor of the first Decepticon through the medbay door. He had a nanoklik to look confused before he keeled over. As he was a heavyweight warframe, he made a sizable barricade that tripped up the next 'Con attempting to storm the medbay. That second 'Con had time to curse at him roundly before the second shot slid in between the second and third lateral thoracic plates to burn through his primary caudal hydraulic line. The sudden drop in hydraulic pressure made him collapse to the floor as his legs were paralyzed, sprawling him in such a way that set him up for a more immediately fatal shot to his primary energon pump.
The third and fourth 'Cons through the door were left twitching on the floor from expertly-aimed sedative darts meant to take down large, unruly patients. The fifth was hit by blasterfire in just the right way to take advantage of his frametype's fritzy electrical system, the shot hitting him right in a poorly-insulated panel right over his primary dataport and sending cascading energy errors through his entire system.
The sixth 'Con hesitated in the door, looked at the rest of his squad dead or twitching on the floor, looked up at the legendary Hatchet scowling and aiming TWO weapons--including Optimus Prime's heavy sidearm--at him, and wisely ran for his life.
A cheerful frame of mind, reinforced by relaxation... is the medicine that puts all ghosts of fear on the run. ~George Matthew Adams
Ratchet looked at Prime's readouts. Then he pulled up his scans from the last vorn. "Hmph. You've been ignoring my orders to defrag and recharge properly, per usual, I see."
Optimus looked, as always, contrite. "With the Tetrahex offensive and the supply chain issues, there's just not been enough astroseconds in the cycle. I'm sorry, old friend."
Ratchet was not fooled. There would never be enough time, so long as Optimus kept putting the entirety of the Autobot army before himself. "Hmph." He turned back to the readouts to cover his hurried communications with Prowl and Jazz. They sent him back affirmatives (Jazz's in the form of an adminishment to "make sure you get a good capture of his face when you tell him!"), and Ratchet turned back to his patient with a grim smirk on his face.
The Prime had the sense to look nervous.
"Well," Ratchet said, "Your processor is in desperate need of a complete defrag, and it's been so long since you've recharged and refuelled properly that your system is starting to run starvation-stress protocols--that's what all those errors you've been ignoring mean, you big sparkling. Your processor is under so much load dealing with all of this that you're running at about 70% of where you should be." Ratchet tossed up his hands. "All of which could have been avoided if you'd followed my recommendations, but no, evidently fueling and recharging regularly aren't on your SCHEDULE."
"I'm very sorry, old friend. I promise to try my best in the future."
"Oh, you bet your plating you will." Ratchet promised. "You've left me no choice, my Prime, but to relieve you of duty on medical grounds--"
Prime actually recoiled as if Ratchet had turned into an Insecticon. "You...WHAT? Ratchet--"
Ratchet overrode him. "--for the next half a decacycle--"
"HALF A DECACYCLE! Ratchet, I can't--" Oh, now the alarm was truly setting in. Ratchet was going to CHARGE Jazz for this footage.
"--UNLESS you refuse to follow your treatment plan of regular fuellings of 3 units per cycle and regular recharge of 3 decicycles per cycle, in which case it will be an ENTIRE DECACYCLE or LONGER, depending on how long you want to be stubborn about it!"
Optimus twitched, his weight shifting and optics darting in what was probably supposed to be a surreptitious manner toward the door. Ratchet stepped into his escape path, fists on his hip-plates. "And if you get up off that berth and run off on me, so help me Primus, I will send SECURITY after your sorry aft, Optimus Prime and have you confined to quarters! And don't think that I won't have Red Alert and Blaster restrict your commnet access if you insist on working off-duty."
Aaand alarm was sliding into slight panic. "You wouldn't...! Ratchet!"
"Oh, JUST TRY ME."
Optimus pulled himself together. "Ratchet, I appreciate your concern, but I simply can't drop off the face of the planet for half a decaorn! I have responsibilities!"
"Yes, you do, but you can and you will. Prowl and Jazz have already been notified and are probably even now divvying up those responsibilities. That is, in case you've forgotten, why you HAVE a SiC and TiC, as well as many other officers who are quite competent enough to deal with your absence the same as they would if you were on a mission!" Ratchet vented a sigh, laying his hands on Optimus' pauldrons. "Optimus. You are running yourself into the ground. Resting and refuelling regularly are not optional, with your multithreaded processor and the demands that the Matrix places on your frame. This is a REAL, MEDICAL NEED, lest you do yourself REAL, MEDICAL DAMAGE. Now, if I have to, I will do whatever it takes to make sure that you REST. No paperwork. No planning. No strategizing. I prescribe rest, fuel, and that you catch up on your recreational datapad reading. Chat about something other than the war with a friend. Play a game. Try to laugh a few times." He looked at Optimus hard. "Is that clear?"
Optimus vented a sigh. "Yes, Ratchet. I will...follow orders."
"Good. So noted. Dismissed."
Optimus smiled, wearily. "Thank you, my friend."
"Thank me in half a decaorn," Ratchet groused. "Now get out of my medbay."
Doctors make the worst patients. ~Unknown
"Ratchet."
"..."
"Ratchet."
"...hn?"
"Ratchet!"
"WHAT, for Primus'--oh, Prime." Ratchet set down the datapad he'd been working on. "Sorry, I was...distracted."
"So I see," Optimus said.
Ratchet looked at him suspiciously. "Well...what? Something wrong? It's not that rotor cuff again is it?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I have a request, actually, for First Aid."
"For...what?"
"Here, Prime!" First Aid's cheerful voice preceeded him in from the offices. "This will take just a moment...."
Ratchet stared hard at First Aid as medical-grade scans washed over his frame. "Aid, what are you--"
"Prime's orders!" First Aid smiled, and Ratchet narrowed his optics suspiciously. "Aaand...hmm. Hmmm, yes, this is quite troubling."
Ratchet stared even harder as the medbay network lit up with a new case report, linked to his own medical file, now attached with the readings. "Wait, what are you...AID!" He watched as First Aid's perfectly professional notation added in Aid's own observations of Ratchet's recent behavior, increased work hours, and reduced fueling, as well as a diagnosis. "Starvation-stress!? I AM NOT! Don't WRITE that!"
"Your symptoms are a textbook case, I'm afraid," First Aid said, affixing his designation to the case record and sounding not at ALL apologetic to Ratchet's audials. "Now, standard therapy is--"
"OH NO, you little traitor--"
First Aid's voice raised in both volume and cheerfulness. "--half a decaorn of rest and regular refuellings per your frametype's operating specs--you don't need me to look them up for you, do you?"
Ratchet's optics narrowed further, promising oh so much cleaning duty. SO MUCH cleaning duty. The CR tanks were in DIRE NEED of a scrubbing, yes. Ratchet added it to the cleaning schedule and assigned First Aid to it immediately. "No," he gritted out, "I do not."
"Good! So, off-duty as of now--don't worry, Hoist, Medix, and I will cover your shifts--and no work of any kind. Rest. Relaxation."
"Games?" Optimus asked. "I was looking for someone to play Towers with."
Ratchet groaned. Towers, though certainly enjoyable, was so processor-intensive that it took AGES to play properly.
"Yes! Games are perfectly allowed. Encouraged, even!" First Aid's field was happy, his optics smiling behind his visor. "In fact, Prime, you could do with some rest and relaxation yourself. Perhaps you could help Ratchet with his presciption."
"It would be my honor," Optimus said, somberly, before turning to Ratchet. "Shall we go?"
"You...." Ratchet snarled at Optimus, then turned to First Aid, "...and YOU! Aaaargh, whatever. Fine. FINE, you slaggers!"
"Have a good time!" First Aid called after them cheerfully as Ratchet stormed out, a smiling Prime on his heels.
"Go frag yourself!"
::Thank you, First Aid,:: Optimus commed, privately.
::No, thank YOU, Prime. This is just what he needs. Have a pleasant time.::
::We will.::
First Aid, smiling, headed back to work. He had three CR tanks to flush and scrub, after all.