Ep0.5 - "About The Medic" - Closed

Ironhide was no medic by any stretch of the imagination and had never desired to aspire to that function. He had earned his specialty countless times over, though, one weapon modification system at a time, and the shape and wiring of them was as burned into his hard files and mesh memory as strut structure and hydraulic relays were to medics. He could - and had - rewired weapon mounts by tactile sensor alone, optic blind, his hands as quick and steady by touch as by sight.

Which was a slagging good thing when he had his servos knuckle deep in Optimus' wiring, threading a new line through a strut mount, and the mech chose right then to bring things up out of empty space. His hands stayed firm but he couldn't damp down the little surge that just hearing Cleaver's name gave him and there was no hiding that when they were sitting right up in each other's fields.

It had been a long time and he had started to think maybe they had both changed too far to go back - each too long on their own, too set in their ways, and it was harder than it ever had been in Ironhide's memory to see the mech behind the facade of the Prime. The faint undertone of his words, though - it could have been nothing but professional, but beneath it Ironhide heard something closer to his remembering than the distant, composed face that Optimus gave to the world now. Slanting a glance upwards, he vented shortly, the huff colored in amusement. "Sounds like yeh've heard something, though. Thought Prahms didn't listen t' th' rumor mill?"

Ironhide deftly spliced the newly-threaded line, sealing it, and unspooled a second length to begin the process again on the opposite side of the strut. Clamping off the section he was rethreading, he tugged the old line free and held the empty coolant line up where Optimus could see it. "Eight vorns," he scolded, in the same tone he would have used on a lackluster recruit. "That's when yeh should've had this done. Ah'm blamin' Ratch' an' his fraggin' direct line t' Primus that's saved yeh from blowin' half yer lines before now."

He put the used line carefully aside and picked up the new, hands continuing their systematic work with a light touch before he vented long and slow and let himself turn back to the question at hand. "Ah suppose yeh could say it's business and social. Little bit of both, started one, turned t' th' other." He kept his tone easy, not bothering to hide his humor and unable to disguise the warm flush. "She's a medic. Ah told her if she needed something t' give meh a call, Ah'd see what Ah could do. So she called meh up, asked if Ah could get her some high grade - for cleanin', probably, yeh know how medics use that. An' Ah said as how Ah was sure Ah probably could." He grinned. "Can't imagine why."

Ironhide shrugged slightly, a thread of embarrassment flickering, there and gone. "We got t' talkin'. One thing kinda lead t' another. Ah didn't see her again 'til th' other day." He clicked his vocalizer softly, eyes on his work. "Ah... might've taken some of that leave time Ah've got racked up. Can always file th' request in retroactive, if yeh like."

Another seal, two quick locks, letting the lines re-pressurize with a watchful optic. Satisfied that the rethread was stable, Ironhide began an incremental set of system scans, optics flickering through the data as he tested the power draw response. His response was gruffer, only partially distracted by the work. "She is."

He hesitated slightly, letting the next series of scans run, weighing the words before he spoke them. "Ah won't lie; 'less Jazz gets a glitch in his processor or yeh lay down th' law - and there'd better be a slaggin' good reason for either - Ah'll keep seein' her. She..." he shook his head slightly, at a loss for words, and let a fraction of the feel that had been bubbling up through line and spark since he had returned from seeing Cleaver wash into his field, the almost giddy whirl of amazement and deep emotion. Even filtered through what was appropriate to share between friends it was a warm, uplifting sense, protected and private and shared in trust. "She's really somethin'," he finished quietly. Clicking through the last scans, he flicked off the dampeners, sitting back with a satisfied huff. "Anything feel off?"

Ironhide pushed himself up, grinning ruefully. "Y'all keep tellin' meh that. Ah'm pretty sure Ah ain't made it this far by bein' too reckless."

Circling to Optimus' side, he pressed a hand to the larger mech's shoulder for a moment, optics narrowing with another tight beam scan. Venting sharply, he rapped his knuckles against the underside of the Prime's arm. "Five point eight micron drop - your posture's gone sloppy. Ah'm gonna assume yeh've been compensating yer targeting." Stepping back, he jerked his head towards the targets. "Go on, try it out."

Ironhide's optics narrowed, the weapon specialist's mouth set in a sharp line. "Sit," he barked, barely waiting for the larger mech to comply before joining him, Optimus' arm pulled summarily back into Ironhide's grasp.

"Reads as fine until yeh fire," he grumbled, half to himself as he ran scans, blunt fingertips lightly verifying each point and connector. "Could be an ungrounded charge arcin' t' yer neural line. Might be a loose relay - frag know yeh had most of 'em slagged up." He vented hard, all of the earlier easiness of his field subsumed in a thick wall of sharp focus. "Could be anything foreign between th' mount an yer lines." He snorted, shaking his head. "Organic everythin' around here, could be anythin'. Could be a spot of fraggin' rust, Primus knows Ratch' had t' clean yeh out an' piece yeh back together enough."

He glanced up from under lowered brow ridges, optics spiraling sharply in magnification as he glared. "This is what fraggin' happens when yeh get yerself slagged halfway t' th' Pit and back."

It was reflex to reach up, even as the scan data scrolled back to him, partitioned processor threads dealing effortlessly with the data on a separate level from conscious thought.

There weren't many who made free with the Prime's person, the air of rank and station extending palpably beyond the mech's mesh. Already within his field, however, their energies overlapping, it was no different to Ironhide than reaching for Bluestreak, or Jazz, a hard coded instinct to ease the tired weight that flickered in the other mech's harmonics. He palmed the edge of helm and cheek, not letting the other look away. "Count on it," Ironhide said quietly, pressing reassurance and confidence into touch and voice alike. "Yeh ain't pullin' this all alone. Jazz an meh, Arcee, Ratch' - th' whole slaggin' team, new an' old. Yeh got backup, now. We all do. Yeh trust meh for anything, then yeh trust meh for that. Ah got yer back." He held on for a long moment, steady as the bedrock beneath them, before the scan completion alert came back and pulled his attention inwards, to the data.

Nothing. Ironhide bit back a few gutter phrases that he hadn't used in some time and started a tertiary scan set but knew, in his struts, that it was going to come up empty. Optimus' weapons were as sound and flawless as their current materials and Ironhide's skill could make it; nothing short of that would have been acceptable. The problem, whatever it was, wasn't in the actual weapons systems or its integration, and where weapon circuits edged into actual neural net and body mass was where his specialty ended and he had to concede ground to Ratchet's expertise. Strut mounts, circuit bypass, even code integration - that he could have fixed, but every test and scan came back clean. The pain, whatever it was, was in the Prime's frame, not his mods.

It ground his gears to admit it, but there was nothing else he could do. Venting, he let the last scans finish and reset the system, letting it fold away beneath the plates of Optimus' arm once more as he sat back. "Yer gonna have t' go t' Ratch'," he admitted. "Whatever it is, it's embedded deeper than Ah can get at, and he'll slag meh if Ah try."

Venting, Ironhide shook his head ruefully. "Yeh can thank meh when he's done scrapin' and flushin' out yer systems again, an' then Ah get t' reclaibrate it all." Grinning slightly, he tapped a knuckle against the other mech's forearm. "Ought'a ask around, see if anyone has some of those games yeh like stashed away in an old archive somewhere. Give yeh something t' do while Ratch' has yeh pinned down in medbay."

"Failin' that," he added, note dropping more serious, "get some rest. Doesn't take a medic t' know it's taken this long t' patch up because yeh ain't restin' it when yeh should. Arm an'-" he reached over, flicking a quick finger against the central vent of Optimus' helm, "this. Arcee an' Jazz an' meh, we'll keep th' base runnin'. Take it offline for a bit an' let Ratch' do his work."