In These Hands

Opportunity

". . . no place for shelter."

"Am I to offline in this . . ."

". . . a shell for the garden . . ."

Ratchet stirred, his systems moving at a leisurely pace. It took only a moment for his audial to recognize the sound of a voice, familiar vocals. It was that familiarity—and perhaps the absolute comfort his entire frame exuded whilst wrapped in the strong embrace of a heavier and larger structure—that spurred the medibot to boot all of his systems. His optics onlining in the hopes to take in the visage of the one attached to the voice.

The smile on his lip plates was too natural now, a mirror to the smile facing him. Megatron's scarlet optics were a comfort, their gleaming light a pleasure to bask in. Ratchet was on his side, his helm lain against the larger's chassis. There was a simplistic peace just to listen to such a strong spark pulse inside that chamber.

Silver arms were wrapped around him, and a thigh wedged between Ratchet's legs. He briefly remembers booting down to the feel of a spike nestled within his valve. The embarrassment over the disappointment of the longing for that was kept hidden.

"Mmm, what is that?" Ratchet didn't at all mind the slow recognitions, content to let his systems rise up to proper capacity on their own accord. Right then, he shifted in slight, only to lay a little closer, deeper into that strong embrace.

"A poem." Ratchet could now feel the glide of digits along one of his hands. He looked down, watching as Megatron took his rouge servo in his, raising it so that the gladiator's lips could run along its surface. "It came to me this morning."

"Let me hear the rest of it." Ratchet felt his fans whirl, no need to cool a heated frame, but the feel of it relaxed any previous strain. He was fully settled into his lover's form.

Megatron nodded, lips still so close to Ratchet's hand. "This land; dried up, desolate, riddled in plague and deceit. There is no place for shelter, for nourishment, for companion. I scour the plains to find the things I need, but only fall, failing to acquire these aspirations. And there I lay, bereft of energy, of spark and spirit. Am I to offline in this barren scape, a shell for the garden of rust? My optics search for this impending answer, but lo, do I see a spark, warm and bright, compassion overflowing from its fluctuating rays as the energon from gentle hands. These hands come to me, over me, and there I find my shelter, I find recovery even in my spark. Their touch lays upon the diseased and it is cured, the rust and it is driven away, the lost and they are found. I can see Cybertron, hued in vibrant golds, springs risen up, cities agleam from the tops of their tiers to their roots, and families; lovers, brothers and sisters, hand in hand, home to home. They are smiling, they are laughing, their lives filled with quality and quantity. They are healed. I see it all in these hands."

Ratchet's smile never ceased. His optics were bright, aglow on every feature revealed within Megatron's facial structure. He liked the way the mech held his hand, and he most certainly liked the way those lip plates felt against the plating.

"It's beautiful," Ratchet said. His vocals were at a higher frequency, less static, but the pitch was still soft. Ratchet had always enjoyed Megatron's poetry more than his valiant writings.

Feeling Megatron's digits continue to rub over the held hand, and then that other hand slide along his backside made Ratchet swoon. More so he felt his systems trill when the mech shifted, rolling over him. He was under those red lights again, and Ratchet loved the way it made him feel; as if he were a target, his only focus despite the world around him.

"Yes, you are." And then Megatron was kissing him, and Ratchet was kissing him back.

Primus, why had he gone on for so long without doing this? Ratchet had been in Megatron's company for long enough to regret not going to wrap his arms around his neck cabling sooner, not leaning in to press his mouth against his more, not shifting closer to enjoy the warmth of the other's frame longer. And he could tell that Megatron harbored those same regrets.