Chapter Text
The storm began sooner than the weather broadcast had predicted. Businesses rushed to close their doors and windows to prevent their merchandise from dissolving under the sudden torrent. All bots scattered off the streets at the sign of the first raindrops, emptying the usually busy streets of downtown Iacon. Grey clouds blocked the sunset, vanishing any hopes for a nice afternoon. Soon, the rain layered every surface with a thin sheen of glossy green.
It would be easy to find a refugee under the protection of a store and wait it out, but Orion Pax was willing to risk a little acid melt if it meant arriving home sooner. He hopped between overhangs, waiting a few kliks when the sting on his plating became too much to bear. Orion had hoped to clock out before the storm began, relaxing with a warm cup of oil and finishing an old edition about the Primes’ mythology. And it was meant to be like this. But he had been forced to stay overtime. Again.
As an archivist, he was fortunate to spend time between datapads and journals, retrieving ancient records at the request of patrons without having to deliver them directly. Inside the privacy of the Archives, Orion would spend joors lost in the words of great thinkers and revolutionary scientists, with nobody interrupting him.
However, with a virus that took down half of the staff at the Archive of Records, he has been forced to work at the front desk to compensate. Orion wouldn’t mind most of the time, happy to help anyone with their research. It always brought a smile to his faceplate when a bot would rejoice at finding a specific dataset for their study. Or when a youngling shyly asks if they have more information about the wildlife outside Iacon. Those visits made his cycle, a warm feeling spreading through his chassis. It felt like a privilege to have a servo helping curious minds continue on their journey of knowledge.
It was the snobbish merch, the higher caste particularly, that he absolutely loaded. Most of them would turn up their noses at the archivist, believing that talking to Orion was beneath them. Even if they were the ones in need of help. Those days were the worst, when Orion would run around the Hall to gather an endless list of datapads without relation to each other, by the whim of an aristocrat. Instead of a thank you, their shrill voice box would complain about how long it took to do something so simple.
Orion held his glossa to avoid trouble every time. It was easier to keep his head down and suppress his irritation than to talk back. The last thing he wanted was to trouble Alpha Trion with a stupid complaint for a mere archivist daring to speak back against the mighty high caste.
Today was one of those days. A dock merchant, in neon yellow and dirty green, with a greasy voice, demanded a specific Paxus/Vosian record from Orion. No more information given. Not even a time frame or the subject requested. Every time Orion asked for the tiniest detail, the merch grew irritated at Orion for his lack of intelligence in not finding one record.
It would be easier to win a deadmatch in the Pits of Kaon.
It took most of the cycle, and his patience, to find the blasted record. One about a trading contract between two cities for energon and raw materials from 5 millennia ago. After spitting a polite goodbye through gritted teeth, Orion stepped out for his break. It took him four laps through the entire Hall to finally tamper down his annoyance.
He considered talking to Alpha Trion, his grandsire, to put him back into data management. But his spark knew it would be unjust for all his colleagues who had no way to escape the dreadfulness of the help desk. Orion still received dirty looks from some of his coworkers for his position as the grandson of the Head Archivist. Rumours that his spot was a result of nepotism, even if Orion had gone through the same education to become an archivist like everyone else.
He willed for his other colleagues to get better soon, so they could take over again and things could return to normal. And for their health, of course.
Near the end of his shift, his optics burned, servos aching from typing, with peddles throbbing from almost 12 joors straight of standing. He yearned for the privacy of his office, with social interactions kept to a bare minimum. The only voices taking his time were the writings of brilliant minds that didn’t waste his time with foolish requests.
The rain grew stronger in force, a drumming rhythm over the street. Even with his serve shielding his face, Orion was forced to take shelter inside an alley sandwiched by two closed restaurants. Unwilling to risk melting his plating off completely. He shakes off the excess from his frame, whipping one servo across his faceplates. He grits his teeth at the sharp tingling sensation where the rain got under his plating and into his protoform. No matter. A good shower is all he needs to wash away his shift’s stress and the excess rain.
Orion rubbed at his helm, hoping to lessen his growing migraine. He considered forgetting his plans for reading and going straight to recharge after the shower. Exhaustion adding a hundred pounds to his frame, and his core feels heavier with lethargy. So much for catching up with his datapad.
Sighning, Orion glances at the sky, willing for the storm to cease. For one good thing to happen today.
That’s when he hears it. A frightful sob, further down the alley. It sounds too high to belong to a grown bot.
“Hello?” His voice is barely audible above the storm’s intensity. He turned to face the alley’s entrance, narrowing his optics to locate the source of the distress. “Is anyone there?”
A louder cry rang out, high and wailing, pulling at his spark. Definitely a youngling.
Orion stepped further, cranking his audials to the maximum to hear above the storm’s roar. Using his headlights, he slowly assesses his surroundings. A couple of open trash containers on his right, belonging to the closed restaurant. A growing pool of acid to his left. Not a lot of places for a youngling to stay hidden.
Orion wonders if his exhaustion is making him imagine things when he sees movement from an open trash container. He approaches the spot with caution, fearing a scraplet would jump and try to bite his faceplates off. However, his fear melts, spark ceasing to spin for a moment at what lay inside.
Not what. Who.
The tiniest, sparkling Orion has even been seen lying along the pile of trash, wrapped loosely on a half-drenched blanket. Fat tears dribbled down the round little face, vents hitching as the sparkling struggled for breath. The antennas were flat on his head, the paint over his plating a dull yellow with greyish lines in his middle, a poor signal for a sparkling so young. The trashcan’s lid was its only cover from the acid pour down.
A million questions exploded inside his processor. What was a sparkling doing here? Where was its caretaker? How long has it been here? Has it been abandoned? For what reason? Why? Why? Why?
Another hitched sob broke Orion from his shock. He carefully extracted the sparkling from the trash and held it against his chassis. The little bitlet was alarmingly weightless; Orion tightened his hold, fearing the sparkling would fly away at any moment. He was freezing to the touch, his tiny frame shivering at the howling wind, the sparkling sobs coming erratically and frightfully.
“It’s okay, I got you, you’re okay.” Orion hunches over the sparkling, trying to use his frame to shield the little one from the elements. His little helm fits easily into one of Orion’s servos with room to spare. Carefully, he uses the dry parts of its blanket to dab away any damp parts. Thankfully, it was solvent and not acid that drenched the blanket.
He subspace a piece of clothing he usually uses to clean dusty shelves, shaking it to remove the grime.
Ratchet? Are you still at the clinic? His message marked as read.
Orion unwraps the sparkling gently, noting the two tiny doorwings pressed tight to its black. The sparkling squeals, little face scrunching further at the loss of the soft fabric, limbs pressed to his frame in a tight ball. Orion coos at the sparkling, carefully subspacing a piece of clothing he usually used to clean dusty shelves, shaking it to remove the first.
Still not done with my shift. Ratchet replied. What? You dislocated your arm again from carrying too many datapads?
Not this time. Orion doesn’t rise to the teasing, solemnly focused on the sparkling. As if dealing with an antique, Orion gently rewraps it, careful not to add too much pressure on tiny flailing limbs. Big, blue optics stare up at him, still leaking tears, breath hitching slightly. The pure look of innocence takes Orion’s breath away, almost faltering at the sparkling intensity of complete trust from a stranger. The sparkling settles and buries it’s tiny faceplates into Orion’s chassis, whimpering. He holds the bitlet closer, hoping to transfer some of his warmth into the sparkling’s freezing frame.
A gust of wind snaps him out of his daze, a reminder that this is no place for a sparkling to be without protection. The faster he gets to Ratchet, the sooner for the little one.
I found a sparkling on the street. Do you have space to give them a check-up? Orion moves to the mouth of the alley, debating on how to reach the hospital without risking the sparkling coming in contact with the rain. As a grown merch, he can stand the sting of acid just fine. But a sparkling so small, one with a soft plating and exposed protoform, could be fatal.
It takes a moment to get an answer. Orion guesses his friend is doing a double-take on the message because it should be impossible for such a thing to happen.
How I wish for that. Orion though, holding the sparkling tighter when the wind picked up.
Meet me through the back entrance. Hurry before the storm worsens. Orion knows his friend has a million questions about his current situation, but he also knows Ratchet prioritized his duty as a medic and would refrain from doing so. That doesn’t mean Ratchet won’t demand Orion for every bit of information once the sparkling’s out of danger.
Orion surveys the street, devoid of traffic. The storm hasn’t let up, and the rainfall increasing in strength by the minute.
Orion knew the clinic wasn’t far, but going in bipedal mode would be a bad idea. Driving it is. Transforming as slowly as possible, Orion held his intake as the sparkling lay secured in one of his seats. The sparkling protested, little servos grasping as the air, optics frantically looking around his cabin.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. This will be a short ride, I promise.” He reassures the sparkling over his radio in what he hopes is a soothing tone. His voice works to stop the tears, but it won’t settle, it’s vents coming in hiccups as it fusses.
Even if the street is empty, Orion is aware of every whole and uneven section of the road, trying not to jolt the sparkling and further upset him. His spark twists with worry as the sparkling grows agitated. Was the bitlet hurt? Was it dizzy? Was it uncomfortable? Orion speeds up to the hospital, trying to suppress his worry about the sparkling suffering for something Orion was ignorant of.
He brushed aside the sharp tingle of the acid downpour over his plating, pulling all his focus on avoiding as many bumps and breeches as possible for the sake of his little passenger.
His few experiences with younglings were never this young, only students from high caste families visiting the Hall of Records for homework. There’s always a caretaker during their interactions, reminding younglings of their manners and keeping an optic on the unruly ones. At least in those situations, he could count on the caretakers to step in when younglings misbehaved or had trouble asking for what they wished to read. They understood what youngling wanted and how to handle the situation with the least tears involved.
Right now, with a tiny sparkling whining for comfort inside his cab, Orion had never felt so out of his depth in his entire life.
After what felt like an eternity, the hospital came into sight. Instead of heading straight through the emergency entrance, Orion drove to the back where he knew Ratchet would be waiting. Even if Iacon had the best medics to offer, Orion felt a powerful urge of protectiveness rise at the mere thought of a stranger laying a servo on the sparkling. It felt wrong, just handing the sparkling to a stranger’s servos as if it were nothing but a disposable cube of energon. No, Orion swore he’ll oversee the sparkling until it was necessary and someone capable enough could take it to a new home.
Besides, for all the gruffiness, Ratchet had a soft spot for bitlets. And he was probably the only medic Orion could trust with the sparkling.
Slowly decreasing his speed to a crawling stop, the sparkling fussing paused when they stopped moving. Carefully, Orion went through the slowest transformation sequence, the sparkling back into his servos before his wheels left the street. The sparkling squealed, shivering at the change of temperature. Little optics looked around with curiosity at the new surroundings.
“We’re here. Ratchet will make you all right, little spark, don’t worry.” Orion whispered as he pulled the sparkling to his chassis, stepping under the hospital’s cover.
Ratched stood by the only open door, a rectangle of warm light in the deep blues and blacks of the closed-off windows. He stepped back to let Orion enter, sparing one look at the sparkling before he gestured for Orion to follow him, his frown deepening.
The sound of their peddles and the sparkling quiet protests bounced off the walls. By the late joors, Orion doubted anyone would be walking down here. Still, he used his servo to hide as much of the sparkling as possible from any prying optics that might cross their paths. The last thing he needed was an audience that could overwhelm the sparkling.
Ratchet opened a door on the left, motioning for Orion to get in. He hunched slightly to fit through the doorframe, used to being bigger than most infrastructure in Iacon. His optics adjusted to the low lights. Probably to avoid blinding any incoming patient. It was a standard medical room, with a shelf full of medical supplies on the left, a sink and a closet to the right. The back wall had windows looking into the center area, a pretty garden under a shower of green acid. A sterile exam room stood at the center, with silver stools at its side.
The door shut down with a click. Ratchet walked around his frame to the exam table, taking the stool on the right. He pulled a medical bag from under the table, retrieving what we’d need.
“Lay it down here,” Ratchet orders.
Orion does as he’s told, taking the other stool. The sparkling whines, a tiny servo reaching out to Orion, his little face scrunching. Spark twisting, he offers his servos to the sparkling to grasp. Suddenly, he’s reminded how tiny the little bitlet is, when one of its own servos cannot even wrap around Orion’s smallest digits. The contact seems to settle it down, cooing at Orion. Blue optics examining the Archist’s servo, going cross-optics. Cute.
“Where did you find it?” Ratchet pulls a fluffy blanket and a stethoscope from his bag and lays them on the table. And a couple of heating paths, which are activated by pressing a button to start working, before setting them aside.
“Inside a trash can between two buildings in the downtown area,” Orion replies, absently running a finger over the sparkling’s cheeks, fresh tear tracks running down. The sparkling leans into the touch with a soft sigh.
A sharp breath from his friend tears his gaze from the sparkling to Ratchet. The medic had frozen halfway down to close reach for something under the table. Orion feared Ratchet would shatter his denta for how hard he clenched his jaw, optics flashing with barely contained fury.
“No caretaker?” Ratchet hisses.
“I didn’t see anyone,” Orion frowns at the image of someone willingly abandoning their sparkling without remorse. Under such a terrible storm, nonetheless. Anger and indignation battle to take over, but Orion pushes it all down for the sake of the present. Of the little, living bitlet nibbling at his digit.
Ratchet takes a deep breath, straightening onto his seat, faceplates devoid of emotion. His frown deepends, but he doesn’t say anything else. He sets aside a tiny thermometer. Despite the sparkling’s protests, Orion retracts his servos when Ratchet reaches to check on his patient.
“You’ll be back with Orion in no time, I promise,” Ratchet mumbles at the sparkling when the bitlet’s intake hitches, softer than Orion had ever heard his friend. Ratchet runs his servos over the sparkling’s frame, checking for hidden bumps or scratches. “He’s cold.”
Orion nods, rubbing the sparkling helm to transfer some heat during the examination. That seems to stop the tears, but his optics are trained onto Orion’s movement, as if he fears he would vanish with the lack of contact. A gap opens at the bottom of Orion’s tanks, of a bitlet knowing solitude at such a young age.
Ratchet presses the stethoscope to the sparkling chassis to check on his spark and venting. At the sign of Ratchet’s narrowing his optics, Orion’s anxiety grows unmeasurably.
“His spark is weak,” Ratchet mutters, rubbing his own diggit in slow circles over the sparkling’s tiny chassis. The sparkling coos at the notion, turning to stare at Ratchet with wonder.
“What does that mean?” Orion asks.
“A sparkling this young should be in constant contact with an adult spark to encourage frame growth and avoid health problems in the future,” Ratchet replies. “If not, the sparkling can grow too weak for his systems to keep going.” He says grimly. It’s short-lived when the sparkling tries to reach for him with tiny, curious servos. His frown lessened when he rubs the sparkling’s servo between his digits.
That does seem to be the case . Orion thinks about the sparkling’s too thin protoform under his planting, lacking the ordinary chubbiness even he knows all healthy bitlets need. The distressed wailing for safety, almost drown by the roar of the storm. How the sparkling accepted Orion’s hold, a complete stranger, and tried to soak up as much comfort as possible. Orion’s spark threatens to break a million times over at the suffering of one so young. What type of caretaker would neglect a sparkling to the point risking deactivation by a weak spark?
One that abandons a sparkling at the mercy of the storm, it seems.
“What can we do to help with his spark?” Orion asks.
“Just keep him close to yours in the meantime,” Ratchet replies, humming once he checked over the sparkling’s abdomen, satisfied by the sound. “There’s no lasting damage, so constant spark exposure would get him back on track.”
Orion nods, relief flooding through his system at the good news.
“Hold him like this, I need to listen to his back,” Ratchet arranges Orion’s servos to cradle the sparkling upside down. The sparkling squeals at the odd position, legs jerking a little. To keep him distracted, Orion wiggles his other servo in front of the sparklings face. A small smile draws on his lips by the sparkling’s clumsy attempt to grasp it.
Ratchet nudges the little door wings with a swab of cotton, humming when they twitch at the contact. “He has a good structure for a grounder. An extra helping of minerals could help with his growth. It’s stunned right now, but he hasn’t gotten to the danger zone,” Ratchet says.
The doctor motions to Orion to flip him back, satisfied with the examination. Orion let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Glad that there was no other issue with the bitlet’s systems. All problems seemed fixable. Hopefully, whoever takes care of the bitlet would make sure that the bitlet regains what weight he’s missing.
The moment of calm broke when Ratchet brought the sparkling into his arms for a closer examination on his senses. Without warning, the sparkling broke into sobs, the vents hitching as the force of his tears. Tiny arms pushed against Ratchet chassis, as if he wanted to get away.
“What’s wrong with him?” Orion leaned closer to the sparkling, anxiety spiking at the sudden crying feat. At the sound of his voice, the sparkling twisted towards Orion, a tiny servo grasping in his direction.
Ratchet surprises him by snorting, the corners of his lips lifting. “Guess you’ve been adopted,” Racthed said, handing him back the sparkling. “Congratulations.” The sparkling settled down when he was back with Orion, his sobs dissolving into sniffles.
Orion stared at Ratchet, blaming his long day for mishearing what his friend just told him.
“What do you mean? Adopted?” Orion asked, absently rubbing the sparkling’s back. It seemed to settle him down, even with tiny diggits gripping clumsily at his chassis.
“Bend down a little, I still need to check his reflexes,” Ratchet says as he sticks a thermometer inside the sparkling mouth. While he waits for the thermometer to do its job, the medic examines the sparkling’s optics, nose, and auditory system. “It means he recognizes you as a caretaker.” The thermometer beeps, Ratchet extracts it from its mouth, frowning at the numbers.
Orion straightened, taken aback at his friend’s deduction. That should surely be a mistake. All he did was rescue the sparkling from the cruel situation he was placed in and took him to the hospital. Any merch with common sense would have done the same! That doesn’t mean he accepted the responsibility to take care of a sparkling!
Indeed, the idea of forming a family had been something he secretly desired since he was a student at the Academy. A dream born out of loneliness when he saw the other families at the park. His grandsire did a great job of raising him into a decent merch, and he had no doubt Alpha Trion loved Orion like he did. But he was still required to act as the Head of the Hall of Records, excusing himself to keep the place running. Of course, his grandsire always seemed regretful about leaving Orion, making up for it by taking him to wild places where only the beauty of nature surrounded him, and he had a clear view of the night sky without air pollution. Those were the best moments of his merchhood, a tradition he wished to repeat once he had a family of his own.
But not now! He haven’t even found the right merch to conjux with! Sure, he spoke with the handsome gladiator with a glossa as sharp as his sword, but there were only friends, and nothing else!
Besides, he didn’t want to take the sparkling not because they didn’t share coding. But. It’s so sudden! Deciding this without thinking it through! He had what to do with a sparkling, never mind how to care for one!
Orion snapped out of his spiralling when a sharp pain struck him between his optics. He frowned at his friend, unable to rub the spot with his servos full where his friend flickered at. Ratchet rolled his optics, leaning backwards, digits tapping the blanket spread over the table.
“Lay him down again, I need to wrap him to raise his temperature.” Ratchet orders. Orion follows his command, the sparkling protesting at their separation. Careful of the jerky limbs, Ratchet bundles the sparkling while slipping two heating paths. The sparkling’s distress lessened a little, cocooned in warmth and the soft material.
Orion held back to retrieve the sparkling, swallowing the knot of anxiety clogging his intake.
“Why do you think he recognizes me as a caretaker?” Orion asks at Ratchet’s back, the medic shuffling between the cabinets in search of something.
“It’s a little tricky to tell, because of his previous . . . living arrangements.” Ratchet’s voice drops dangerously low, but Orion knows his anger isn’t directed at anyone in the room. “But I think the sparkling is around two or three deca-cycled, based on his reflexes and sensitivity. It’s a little tough given how undeveloped his frame is. Mostly for lack of nutrients. If only I had my servos on his good-for-nothing caretaker…” Ratchet turned, glaring at a bag of medicine clutched on his servos, rage painting his tone. This, Orion comprehended.
Ratchet cleared his intake before continuing, he turned back to the shelf. “He’s around an age where he can form a bond with anyone who gets too close to contact and feels safe to. That’s why it’s rare to see sparkling’s out in public before they reach a joor of age. No one wants their sparkling bonding with a kind stranger and dealing with the psychological problems of separation.”
Ratchet turns to face Orion, arms filled with a handful of small bags of supplement, pink energon and a tiny cube container with an odd-looking plastic lid. He lays them on the table, pouring the energon in the cube before pouring the contents of one bag.
“So, he thinks I’m his caretaker because of his age?” Orion asks, optics following Ratchet’s servos. Even under such overwhelming circumstances, he follows the presicion as his friend prepared the medicine for the sparkling. One string of order in the sudden chaos Orion had been throught into by a tiny sparkling.
“That, and because you probably are the first merch who offered him kindness,” Ratchet grumbled, raising the cube to the light to read its measure. Once satisfied, he begins shaking the bottle, dissolving all its components.
Orion’s sandness threatens to overtake him by such implication, gaze dropping at the fussing sparkling. Dread soon follows because he knows he can’t stay as the sparkling’s caretaker. He has nothing prepared in his apartmentisuit for the bitlet
Having multiple caretakers for a single sparkling is the norm here, his grandsire being the exception, since raising one to merchhood is a challenge for anyone. At least carrying merch had time to plan for the sparkling before emergence.
Orion didn’t know of the sparkling’s existence until a couple of joors ago. Besides, it would be impossible with his job as an archivist. The Archive was no place to raise a child. Sparklings and old records didn’t mix like expensive relics and predacons.
Ratchet smacks his arm with his servo, pulling Orion out of his thoughts. His glare was met with a unimpressed.
“Don’t panic right night, you need to feed the sparkling. He’s malnourished, so I added minerals and supplements to help with that.” Ratchet offers the cube that Orion, who looks at it like it’s a scraplet about to eat his faceplates off.
“Why don’t you feed him? You know more than I on this matter,” backing away from the bottle and the sparkling, as if that could release him from the unwanted responsibility.
Ratchet rolls his optics. “One, the sparkling would probably start screaming his helm off if I try to.” Ratchet stabs the cube at him accusingly. “Two, whether you like it or not, the sparkling trusts you to keep him alive for whatever reason.” Ratchet says, staring down at Orion. Any other merch would have cowered in their place under the medic’s iron glare. The medic was close to smacking some sense into Orion with his wrench.
Orion’s irritation began to rise. For today’s awful day. For the misfortune of an innocent sparkling. For the acid rain still stinging his plating. For Ratchet’s harshness, even if Orion knew he was right. He had to help the sparkling, even if he never intended to end up as a caretaker.
He’s about to snap back at Ratchet when the sparkling’s whimper stops him. Orion’s optics fly down at the sparkling as he begins to cry, soft and hiccuping, faceplates scrunched up. His EMP field reached out for Orion, desperation and fear washing over his plating.
That seemed to evaporate Orion’s desperation, reaching for the sparkling, pulling him close to his chassis. When the cries didn’t die down, Orion swayed the sparking in his arms, extending his own EMP field, sending as much comfort and calmness as he could summon.
The sparkling didn’t ask for this situation either; they haven’t asked for such a glitch of a caretaker. But for some reason that Orion hasn’t deciphered yet, he decided to trust the archivist to keep him safe. Even now, the sparkling’s EMP field clinging to his, his tears running dry.
Even if the bullet wasn’t his responsibility, even if it felt like a thousand pounds felt onto his shoulder, Orion felt he owed it to the sparking. To show him that kindness still existed in this world.
Ratchet deflated, rubbing his nose bridge. A pang of guilt hits him. Orion knows his friend isn’t reprimanding him because he wants to. He knows they both ache for rest and forget about their worries until tomorrow. Ratchet’s optics are dull and he’s quicker to anger than usual. A sign of a long cycle of work, like him. But they can’t leave, now when the tiny life in Orion’s arm depends on their help to keep him alive.
“ . . . I can’t do this by myself.” Orion whispered into the room, the pattering of the rain muffled by the walls.
“I’m not saying you are. I’m here to help you. I’m willing to bet all my shanix Jazz would love to offer a servo, considering how much he loves sparklings. Even that bastard he calls a conjuxs would be willing to step in occasionally.”
“You know, Prowl isn’t so bad,” Orion says, his defence weak against the enforcer’s nature. Prowl might not be nice, but he was kind in his way. A little harsh and sticking to the rules, but Orion knows he means no harm.
“Sure, when he stops acting like a glitch.” Ratchet replies.
Orion gasps. “Ratchet! Language!” He angles the sparkling slightly away from his friend, scandalized by such foul language in front of someone so young.
His outburst gets a snort out of his friend. Orion even feels a smile forming. The tension evaporates between the two, and Orion can breathe a little easier at Ratchet’s suggestions. Suddenly, the tasks he had never asked for seem a little less overwhelming. Possible.
“Whatever. Still, you won’t be facing this completely alone if you want to keep the sparkling.” Ratchet rises, reaching out to lie a servo on his shoulder. Another warm weight, but instead of threatening to pull him under, it grounds him. “I bet you can even get Ironhide to build you a crib for the bitlet. Just talk him out of adding lasers. He’ll tell you they’re necessary, but it’s because he’s crazy.”
It’s Orion’s turn to laugh at the mental image of an adorable crib with deadly weapons on each corner because his friend decided it was an acceptable measure for security. The tightness of his spark lessens, like a knot being undone after so long. Even if he hasn’t decided anything yet, the thought of the sparkling back to health, sleeping inside a crib by his side, doesn’t seem too bad. It would be nice, he supposes, to have someone to fall asleep and wake up with.
Even with the feeling of uncertainty on his tank, Orion is willing to give it a shot. He can’t give up the sparkling too soon, not after being abandoned like that.
“And if you really don’t think you can’t, I will help you find a new home for the bitlet.” Ratchet says. Knowing that Ratchet is a merch of his word, his promise calms his nerves. Still, Orion has a funny feeling that Ratchet would do whatever it takes for him to keep the bitlet.
“All right,” Orion said, his next exhale a little easier. “Thank you Ratchet.”
“You’re welcome. Now, let’s put some weight back into him.” Ratchet places the cube on the table, in favour of repositioning his arms to feed the sparkling. A tiny helm on the crook of his elbow, his other arm supporting his frame. Primus, Orion has held datapats bigger than the bitlet.
It takes a moment to coax the sparkling into drinking from the cube, mostly because the sparkling fusses at being roused from his dozing. But once he accepts the strange plastic cover, he sips mouthful after mouthful. He must have been starving, because Orion had to pull off the bottle at Ratchet’s request on how fast he’s drinking. Even if Orion spark twists when the sparkling whines for more, Ratchet tell him it’s better to pace him or risk upsetting a tiny tank. They settle in a comfortable silence, the sound of the sparkling drinking oddly soothing Orion. He can finally calm down now that the sparkling seems out of the danger zone.
Unfocused blue optics capture Orion’s gaze. The sparkling’s EMP field floods with relief and happiness into Orion’s own.
Once the bottle’s empty, Orion readjusts the sparkling in his arms, bringing him over his shoulder. One servo under his bottom, the other rubbing circles over the sparkling’s back, coaxing bubbles from its tank. Thankfully, nothing liquid came back up. Orion could hear Ratchet moving around the room, but his entire focus was on listening to the sparkling’s breath even as he succumbed to a much-needed rest. His slack little face squished over Orion’s shoulder made Orion forget about his future worries for a moment, wondering what his life would be like now that he has that tiny face to look at.
A face without a name. Orion thought, frowning.
“Did you find his designation?” Orion asks, adjusting the sparkling to lie a little more comfortably over his shoulder. The sparkling stirs at the disturbance, but he doesn’t wake up.
“My scans didn’t find him in the system. His caretakers probably didn’t bother registering him in any hospital.” Ratchet shoves another of those tiny bottles inside a bag with more force than necessary. “So, I guess you can have that honour.”
Orion leans backwards, back struts protesting after the continued abuse of this cycle that hasn’t finished yet. His mind wanders to one specific datapad about organic life on a planet light years away. Of a little insect sharing the same colour as the sparkling, with delicate wings on its back, similar to the sparkling’s doorwings. Even in their small size, the little insects go through extraordinary lengths to find the sweet drink that gives them life. Fighting in a world made for creatures a thousand times their size. Fighter, like this little sparkling.
“Bumblebee.” Orion answers, running digits over the tear tracks, thankfully now dry.
Ratchet pauses, processing the information. “You should really stop reading about those blasted organics. It’s not like we’ll ever see them close.” The medic grumbles, setting a heavy bag on the table.
Orion only hums in acknowledgement.
Ratchet sends him with enough supplies for a cyber-week, making Orion promise to contact him the moment the sparkling begins acting off. He also reassured Orion that the sparkling was fine sleeping beside him until a crib becomes available.
“Knowing Wheeljack, he’ll have it delivered and installed it the same cycle I tell him,” Ratchet says. Orion believes him, having watched firsthand how quickly his friend can work once he sets his mind on a project.
Orion thanks Ratchet at the entrance. Ratchet helps him settle the sparkling into his cabin, watching as Orion drove into the night.
The tall, shiny buildings from this section of Iacon smoothly blend into short, square buildings, the homes of all ordinary citizens. The sparkling doesn’t stir the entire ride, probably exhausted after such a horrible cycle. The road back home is familiar, but Orion keeps an optic out fo any sign of the bitlet’s disturbance. The streets are completely deserted, even after the rain has cleared.
The journey from the entrance to his apartment is a blur to Orion, exhaustion finally catching up to him after the stress of finding the sparkling begins to wear off. Orion knows he got weird looks from the guard with the sparkling in his arms, but he couldn’t care less at this moment.
He makes a nest with his blankets and pillows like Ratchet instructed him, preventing the sparkling from rolling over the edge in his sleep. He sets an alarm to wake up at the sparking’s slightest movement. Setting the supply bag by his side, he finally gives in and drags his frame onto the berth. Carefully, he covers Bumblebee with one arm, enjoying the warmth emitting from his little frame.
Recharge gets a hold of him faster than intended. The clean sheets and soft surface aided his pull into subconsciousness.
Orion shoots a message at Alpha Trion explaining his absence for tomorrow due to a personal matter. Knowing his grandsire, he’ll probably contact him first thing in the morning to make sure Orion’s okay. Still, a late message will worry him less than not showing up for work.
Before recharge claims him completely, Orion moves closer to the sparkling, spreading his EMP field to cover the sparkling like a blanket.
“Sleep well, little Bee,” Orion whispers, giving in to recharge with his sparkling by his side.