jesus christ

“You’re berthbound, Cliff.”

Ratchet was always on the more blunt side when it came to dealing with his crew, but slag, even that seemed a bit harsh to the poor, puffing minibot. It was one thing to deliver the news swiftly and painlessly, too, and a whole other thing to throw that in his faceplates. There was only one thing on the tip of Cliffjumper’s tongue, and it was to snap back “who says?”

There were signs, of course, but this was Cliffjumper they were dealing with. A threatening diagnosis wasn’t going to have him trembling with fear for what the future held. If anything, it made him laugh a little harder.

The sound he made as he lifted himself upright to prop his back against the wall was definitely a laugh. It wasn’t the sound of a mech gasping for air as he drowned in his own fat and flab, in case you were mistaken, but he could understand why someone would think so.

“Berthbound?” he wheezed, “yeah, right. And whose bright idea was it to deliver that verdict?”

Ratchet’s, probably. Maybe Wheeljack if the crotchety old medic really needed an extra push to get his opinion in writing. Berthbound, though… him? Berthbound? Cliffjumper may have been on the smaller side some time ago, but he was still capable. Just name your threat and he could take it, extra weight or no.

He wasn’t berthbound, and he sure as slag wasn’t immobilized. Ratchet just didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe he hadn’t gotten enough practice with minibots and their various forms of weight distribution over his years of practice.

His medic of the day had yet to speak, but Cliffjumper could see the incredulous expression tugging at Ratchet’s big, bulky brows. He didn’t believe poor Cliff. He really had convinced himself this silly conclusion was accurate… but what evidence was there to go off of? What golden piece of information had swayed him towards the darker side of diagnosing his minibot patients?

Ratchet sighed long and low as he shifted on his pedes and tapped his digits against the screen of the datapad he held. He hadn’t been in the brightest of moods upon arrival, but he seemed far less peachy now compared to a few minutes ago.

“Would you like for me to recount the many, many instances that have led us to this decision?” he asked, “or better yet, why don’t you try convincing me of all the reasons I should believe otherwise?”

Fine then. If that was what Ratchet wanted…

Cliffjumper didn’t have to do anything, really, but he wanted to now. He’d been pushed for it, so he would follow through. Instead of simply telling, though, he was going to show the old medic some proof. It was his choice, after all.

So maybe he had been slowing down over the past few months. Maybe his trips out to the common areas grew less frequent. Maybe he had settled for exclusively drinking from his own personal fuel dispenser anymore, and maybe he ran through the poor thing’s reserves almost daily, if not more. He was still fit, and he could still move. He could still walk, fight, kick Con afts and make it back in time for evening refueling. He just… he just didn’t want to, that was all.

Just because he didn’t want to doesn’t mean he couldn’t, but if Ratchet was so keen on witnessing it firsthand, who was Cliffjumper to deny him?

Chunky pedes poked out from beneath the mounds of fat and mesh piled into Cliffjumper’s limbs, and though it took him a lot longer than it used to to get himself situated to where the meaty turkey thighs for legs hung over the side of the berth, he got there in time. Not a single slab of metal remained on his fat frame, and to him, that was a blessing. It was starting to chafe in all sorts of different places, anyway.

It took a little shimmying and a lot of grunt work, but after some time, Cliffjumper had managed to scoot his jiggly self over until he was propped up on the very edge of his berth and staring Ratchet in the optics—and he’d even done it without Ratchet’s help.

Take that, grouchy doc.

“Well?” Cliffjumper huffed, his triple-chin of a neck jiggling with every minor movement he made. “Satisfied?”

To his frustration, Ratchet was still unimpressed. “Try again.”

Primus, poor Cliff wanted nothing more than to rip that strict medic a new one. He would have, too, if his spark would stop beating fast enough to leave his vents whirring on high and his chest heaving as he gulped down air like it was energon straight from the mining veins. Ratchet hadn’t moved, hadn’t budged, and he could see the gears turning in his processor.

Slag. This wasn’t enough to convince him.

“What… what next?” Cliffjumper panted, having already begun scooting and swaying towards the floor. He knew what was coming next, even without asking. “Want me to… to stand? To walk? What next, huh?”

Stony demeanor or no, Ratchet was starting to look a little worried. Psh. He hadn’t even proved how long he could stand up for yet.

“Don’t push yourself,” he warned as he stepped back, making room for Cliffjumper to wobble to his pedes. “If you need to sit back down—“

“I’ve got it,” Cliffjumper snapped. “I can stand just fine. In fact, watch me walk all the way from here to the door, all without breaking a single sweat.”

Him and his competitive nature… it really would be his downfall. Still, a deal was a deal, and Cliffjumper really didn’t want to be labeled as immobile.

He could do this. He could stand, he could walk across the room, and then he could go back to lying in his berth for the rest of the day because Primus, if that whole spiel didn’t just drain him to his core.

One shaky pede followed the next, and with a servo holding the edge of his berth in a death grip and his chest already heaving for fresh ventilations, Cliffjumper pushed himself off and began staggering for the center of the room. It was made pretty clear right then and there that he wouldn’t be making it much farther than a few steps away from his slab and back, but even that should be enough to prove himself to Ratchet. He wasn’t anywhere near immobile just yet, even if the plating had been stripped from his frame and replaced by layers of fat that hung in rolls and weighed him down.

Cliffjumper couldn’t even see the floor past his massive belly and the rows of chins accumulated on his neck, but he did his best to keep walking… and walking… and walking. One trembling step followed, then a third, and then—

“Scrap,” he gasped, one chubby arm flailing out as he desperately searched for purchase along the wall, against his berth, even on Ratchet’s frame. “I ca—can’t… can’t move…!”

It was too much. He was just too heavy.

Immediately, Ratchet swooped in to assist. His servos hooked under the fatty folds of Cliffjumper’s shoulder joints and heaved, with some effort, the struggling minibot back up onto the berth. It was difficult, even for him, and by the time his berthbound patient was safely back up into the comfort of his cocoon, even Ratchet was panting for breath.

“I think…” he said between gasping intakes, “I think calling it berthbound was an understatement. Slag, Cliff, you’re… you…”

He knew, he knew. It didn’t have to be reiterated twice, or even thrice. Cliffjumper waited with burning cheeks and a racing spark as Ratchet gathered his composure up and grabbed his datapad from where it had been tossed aside in the panic. He was much more concerned now than he had been before, and his voice was a lot strained as he spoke.

“I’d recommend exercise, but right now…” he paused, his gaze falling onto Cliffjumper’s fat frame. “Well, first things first. That starts with no more extra rations, no sneaking any treats behind my back, and no skipping check-ups or visits anymore.”

The last one was definitely a given. Cliffjumper would have protested, but seeing as this whole in-room visit had come about because he couldn’t walk himself to the medibay anymore…

Point taken.

“We’ll get you back on your pedes,” Ratchet assured him, “er… soon. It’ll take some big effort on your part, but it isn’t impossible.”

“Right,” Cliffjumper wheezed, if only because he was too worn out to say anything further.

Right then. No extra rations, no skipping the in-room exercises provided to him… he could do that. He could shed the extra weight.