“Let’s Put A Smile On That Face!" -Joker

• You’re staring up at him, and he notices the striations and flecks of color in your eyes. And your field shifts like a kaleidoscope as your lips part slightly. Making him painfully aware of his hands on you, your hands on him. That he shouldn’t be touching you like this or allowing you to touch him. That it’s intimate even if it had started out as curiosity. “My field?” You ask sounding puzzled and he hesitates. Do you really not know? That would explain why you’re broadcasting everything instead of carefully controlling it like a Cybertronian would.

• “You have a bio field,” he says, hand lifting and palm ghosting over you without touching you. “When I’m touching you, I can get a sense for your emotions. Cybertronians have something similar, but we’re more guarded about what we share. You can’t feel my field?” Blinking, you shake your head. Is this like auras or something, maybe? You’re not sure if you like the idea that he can tune into your emotional wellbeing through touch, though. It’s a bit weird.

• “Humans can’t sense stuff like that,” you murmur, a hand settling on his arm as your face heats and your sudden embarrassment sinks into him. And it’s fascinating that everything is right there, nothing held back. Understands why some bots are so tactile with their humans now, because this feeling can be addictive. Intimate. An invasion of your privacy, too. As soon as that thought occurs to him, he grimaces and gently grips your waist to lift you off his thigh and sets you onto your feet. “Is that bad?” You ask. “That I can’t feel it?”

• “No,” he rumbles, but he looks uncomfortable as he vents and rubs a hand against his helm. “It’s just, Cybertronians usually don’t share their fields freely except with trusted partners. Their Conjunx typically.” And he looks troubled as he studies you. “It could potentially lead to… misunderstandings. Be seen as an invitation.” Oh. Oh. Snorting as you puzzle that out, because it sounds like touching these guys and accidentally broadcasting your emotions, even though you can’t even control it, might be seen as flirting. Which is scary and hilarious at the same time. ‘Well, I mean, it’s harmless right? Humans and Cybertronians can’t-’ Trailing off when he just grimaces again, your eyes widen. Because you’re learning all kinds of things today apparently. Fighting the urge to ask out of purely scientific curiosity, your face heats. ‘How?’

• “You have a better range of motion than I do. Not by a lot, though,” he murmurs, letting go of your delicate fingers to turn his own hand over. And those soft hands grip his, fingertips smoothing over the back of his hand. The press and slide of your fingers against his making him think of chirolinguistics. Venting as it suddenly shifts, becomes almost an intimacy as he focuses on you and becomes aware of your weak field. “Some Cybertronians use a touch based language to communicate.”

• “Really?” Gripping his big hand, pleased when he lets you lift it up, palm toward you, you line up your hand against his much bigger palm. “Five digits. Same shape. What are the odds?” His hand is warm against yours as his servos splay out and you mimic him, smiling. Because this is new. Fascinating. Most of your day before spent dealing with patients with the flu, sprains, arthritis. A never ending stream of complaints that sometimes makes it hard to remember these are people on the bad days not just tasks to complete. Talking to him, learning about him, reminds you that at one time, you’d loved this.

• “Slim,” he growls, watching you smile. Still mortified at what he’d done, that he’d explored your soft body. And you’d let him. Telling himself it was just to learn, that he has so many humans in his care now, you included, and he needs to know more about you. Everything if he’s going to take care of you. “We have extensive sensory nets in our hands, too.”

• “Those act like your nerves?” You ask, gripping his hand to smooth your thumbs against his palm before flexing his hand at the wrist. Amused that he’s allowing it and you wonder what he thinks of you. If he’s just humoring you or if he’s as curious as you are. And the mesh at the inside of his wrist is metal, but surprisingly soft. Shifting to sit on his thigh, you reach for his face, hands stopping just shy. Flushing when his servos wrap around your wrist, pulling your hand to him. Giving you permission to touch him. And his metal skin is warm under your fingers, has some give to it.

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• Hears you sigh as you turn your back on him, nervously fidgeting with the blanket you’ve got draped around yourself trying to hide parts of yourself from him. And you tense when he slides the rag against your neck and over your back. Fascinated with the way your skin gives and muscle shifts under his servos when he applies a little pressure. You’re so soft, so fragile.

• Why is this so much worse when it’s you? Resisting briefly when he tries to pull one of your arms away from your body, you let him have his way, that rag sliding against you. Know you’re being silly, he’s not human. He likely doesn’t give a damn about your squishy organic self or your nudity. And fighting him is going to just make this take an excruciatingly longer time. Giving up, you let the blanket fall into your lap.

• Knows you’re weirdly sensitive about not having your coverings, so he tries to keep his touch professional. Hesitating when you squirm when he slides the rag over your belly, washing everywhere you’re allowing him. “The blanket?” He asks, dipping the rag and wringing it again. And you make a noise that makes him brace for another protest, before you make a face and toss the blanket out of your lap.

• And his optics dip to look, his neutral expression never changing, confirming that he couldn’t care less about your bits. He’s an alien robot, after all. What would he care about sex or you? Warm servos wrap around your knee, nudging your thighs open and you bite into the inside of your cheek as that rag slides against you. Even if your assets don’t interest him except as a scientific curiosity, you can’t meet his optics as a rag covered servo slides over you like he’s mapping you out.

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• “I know,” you say, your smile strained with pain. And he understands your stubbornness all too well. Wanting to do everything yourself and be self reliant. But it’s also driving him crazy every time you have to stop and lean on the crutch, your skin slick with sweat and your breathing unsteady. Obviously hurting and not complaining about it. Wishes you’d just let him help.

• Getting to the box, you’re tempted to just drop and sit right there beside it and abandon your plan to grab something and hobble back to your blankets. And before you can, warm servos curl around you, lifting you and moving you and your box of food back to your nest. Apparently your weak floundering getting on his nerves or maybe he’d thought you’d fall and hurt yourself worse. “I’m right here. All you have to do is ask,” he mutters and you smile.

• “Sorry. Doctors make the worst patients, I guess,” you say with a little laugh and he hesitates, staring at you. “Well, in my case, nurses,” you add. Remembers trying so hard to find you some help among the humans on the Ark. You’re a medic? Head bowing, he vents tiredly, fighting down a bitter laugh. Even as it’s a relief to have a human exert among the little humans, he feels guilty. Wondering again if he’d made things worse keeping you. If he’d failed you. Do you blame him? Hate him and are just too kind to say it?

• “How badly did I fumble your treatment?” He growls, sounding exhausted and you warm. Is he really going to beat himself up over this? He’d saved you even though you’re not even his species. He’d seen someone in need of help and acted, tried his best for you and still is. ‘You kept me alive,’ you say, chin lifting and tone firm, because he’s not going down that rabbit hole of doubt and what ifs. ‘I’m here because of you.’ And you have no idea how you’re going to repay him, but you need to.

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• You’ve barely hobbled three steps and you’re already shaking, sweat beading on your skin as your body screams at you to stop. The leg won’t take your weight at all, yet. Probably needs a cast. “Yeah. It’s good.” And there’s your stomach, pain sliding into the threat to throw up if you don’t take it easy. “Think I overdid it.” And those gentle hands cup you, easing you carefully down among the nest of blankets he’s made you. “Thanks.”

• “There’s no need to push yourself,” he mutters gruffly as you just slump backwards in your nest and take a deep, shuddering breath. Understands, though. If it was him, he’d be trying to get up and about. There’s always so much to do and he doesn’t have the time to take care of himself and everyone else. Watches your breathing even out as you swallow convulsively, eyes shut. Venting, he reaches to flip your hair away from your face and you catch his servo with your good hand.

• “I’m a terrible patient, huh?” Amused as he just freezes at your touch, you guess you’d be a little freaked out about a teeny, little injured person under your care, too. Someone small enough you could pick them up in one hand. “I know you have other stuff to do besides worry over me,” you add, letting your hand slide off of his servo. You’ve been watching him, the way he’s always in motion like he can’t stop. And the times he does, his servos faintly tremble. He’s told you little bits and pieces. That his people are at war. That they crash landed here and are in hiding now. And that they need to remain secret.

• Rumbling softly, he wets a cloth and pinches it between his servos, dabbing at your forehead as you look up at him. “It’s quiet right now,” he growls. “As long as Wheeljack doesn’t blow himself up, I don’t have anything more pressing to tend to.” And it’s guilt making him dote on you, because he should have entrusted your care to your own kind, but he’d found you. Pulled you broken and bleeding from the wreck and if he took you in, he’d never have known if you’d survived. Your life would have been out of his hands and maybe, the human medics would have fought for you. Saved you and took care of you, but you’d needed him and he hadn’t been able to just give you to someone else and hope for the best.

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• Of course, he’s the owner of that low, reassuring voice that whispered you through the pain. Not human, but it doesn’t really matter. “Name?” Your voice is rougher than you expect, throat aching. Coughing softly as he shifts against you and brings a container to your lips and you don’t hesitate, drinking greedily and trying to hold onto it when he gently pulls it away.

• “Not so much, yet. Let’s see how you do first,” he says, servo swiping your bottom lip dry. So much more fragile than his normal patients. Helpless and soft in his arms. Needing him and those eyes stare up at him, waiting. “I’m Ratchet.” And you’re doing so much better than he expected. Not panicking, but then you’re probably too exhausted. Moving against him, he watches you begin to take stock. Examining your bound arm and leg. “What do you remember?”

• Gingerly making sure you can wiggle your fingers and toes, you glance up at that kind face then away. “I wrecked. A deer- or a dog? Something ran out in front of me.” Something big. It’d been dark, though, and you remember seeing the movement and swerving away, going off the road and down into the ravine. Being trapped and in pain. The sun coming up and the temperature climbing as you struggled to get loose. Then him. His voice.

• “I did what I could for you,” he says, watching you checking that you can feel your extremities. And that guilt slips in again. Guilt that he’d kept you instead of just taking you to a human medic for proper treatment. But he hadn’t been able to trust your care to a stranger. “You’ll need time to heal.” Venting as you lean back against him, the top of your head brushing his chin. Relaxed in his arms like you have no concerns. Like you feel safe there. “Feel like trying some food?”

• Leaning so you can see his face and those optics staring down at you, there’s an impulse to reach up and touch him and the fingers of your good hand brush his jaw before you realize you really shouldn’t. Because he freezes at your touch as if shocked and leans back some to break the contact and your eyes drop. Why had you done that? He’s a stranger no matter how familiar he seems and not only that, alien and possibly dangerous. But you don’t really believe that. No one with such gentle, kind hands could be a threat to you.

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• Your pulse is racing under his servos as he drags himself out of recharge after spending all night watching over you, finally giving up and holding you when you wouldn’t stop shaking from the cold. Hears you make a pained little noise as your feet slide on the surface of the berth, moving that broken leg he’d tried his best to set. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he growls, catching your wrapped arm before you can try to push him away. “You’re okay.” Hating that broken, pained moan that escapes you and the way you begin to tremble. Hurting and scared. Is he a monster to you? Causing you harm by trying to help you?

• Heart racing as adrenaline shakes through you, you push your head back, trying to arch out of the stranger’s embrace. That voice, though. You remember it whispering to you while you’d drifted in and out. That voice and such gentle hands taking care of you. Looking up, you can see a jaw and a serious mouth. Not human, not flesh and blood, though. What is he? He’s restraining you, but carefully as if it matters if you get hurt and that calms the fear, feeling it slip out of you to leave you exhausted. Because that voice saved you, you’re sure of it. He’s just not human.

• Slumping back against him, he’s not sure if you just exhausted yourself or if you understand he’s not going to hurt you. Hopes it’s the latter, but doesn’t really expect it to be. “You’re safe, but I can’t let you thrash around,” he murmurs, gently releasing your bound arm. Relaxing himself when you slowly lower it instead of fighting him again. Freezing as your good hand finds his still draped across you to keep you still. Shaking fingers sliding against the back of his hand in a frightened exploration. Silent, he turns his hand over, spark aching when you interlace your small fingers with his much bigger servos. Accepting his word. Trusting him to take care of you. “You’re going to be okay.”

• And you believe him. Believe that low, gruff voice despite yourself, because that voice gave you something to focus on besides the pain. Telling you what he’s doing as he’d tried to help you even if he wasn’t aware that you could hear him. Keeping you present and aware instead of just drowning in misery. Those strong servos gently squeeze your hand and you lay your head back against him. Studying his profile. His own head turning so those bright blue optics are watching you as exhaustion tugs at you. “Pretty eyes,” you murmur, giving in and letting your stressed body pull you back under.

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• Everything hurts. Your whole body one pulsing ache. But then there’s the feel of your head being lifted and a cup against your lips. Someone allowing you a tiny amount of water when your throat is so dry you want to reach up and tilt it more, drink until you can’t. “Not so much,” the deep voice rolls over you as the cup is lowered. Wanting to protest, but unable to do more than make a ragged noise. Your limbs are leaden and useless when you try to move, unable to even open your eyes as you drift in and out. Fleeting moments of clarity tied to that gentle voice murmuring to you. Giving you something to focus on beside the pain, wanting to cling to that voice as you feel a gentle touch against your temple, then on your wrist.

• “Shh, I know,” he growls, binding your broken bones and trying to shut out the broken sounds you make. Not really awake, but alert enough to register when he gently lines the tiny bones back up. Those noises hurting him as he works. He’d given up and mass shifted to handle your tiny form, because his normal size? You’re just too small. “There.” Brushing your hair back from your face, he vents tiredly and sits beside you. Afraid that if he mass shifts back, he won’t be able to do it again so soon if you need him. And it’s strange to see normal things from this point of view. Feeling uneasy as he watches First Aid putting things away, the bot so much bigger than he is now. This is how the humans must feel all the time around Cybertronians. Helpless.

• That voice is whispering to you, giving you something to keep your mind from drifting. Those hands are so warm and gentle as they find your pulse and monitor it. A doctor? Details are fuzzy, but you remember the wreck, struggling to get free and slowly realizing that you’re pinned. Screaming for help until your throat was raw and you’d realized no one was coming. Someone had, though. Someone had seen you, saving your life. When those kind hands lift from your wrist, you manage to reach out. Fingers brushing his, wanting to beg the owner of that voice not to leave you alone. Your heart racing until that warm hand finds yours and holds it. Telling you that you’re going to be okay and you believe him.

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• Transforming and sliding down next to the car, he lays a hand on the roof feeling the heat of the metal and knowing it’s been there a while. Leaning to look inside anyway, there’s a human slumped forward against the wheel, broken glass glittering in their hair. Unmoving. Too late, then. Spark constricting, he’s turning away, pushing off the car to make the metal groan, when their little fingers flex and you make a low, guttural noise of pain that freezes him.

• It takes time to carefully peel back the roof of the car, snap the seatbelt and pull the door off to remove you. Feeling how hot your skin is against his servos as he lifts your limp form. Your eyes never open but you mumble incoherently, broken fragments he can’t make sense of. That make him wonder just how long you’ve been here, trapped and waiting to die. Because there’s no leaving you now that he has you in his hands. Carefully transforming around you to carry back to the Ark.

• Wheeljack’s in Medbay when he returns, digging through his tools and looking up guiltily, vocal indicators flickering green before he notices the human. “Haven’t seen that one before. Looks rough,” Wheeljack murmurs, moving closer as Ratchet lays you on a berth, your tiny form looking even smaller in the bot sized space. He’s almost absurdly glad Wheeljack’s there. Even though he’s been trying to brush up on human medicine since there’s so many of them now in the Ark, he doesn’t know nearly enough. Doesn’t know how to help you, but Wheeljack has a human. He has to know something.

• Snatching a scanner to run over you, he frowns at the results. Wrist and arm broken, one leg fractured. Body temperature well outside of normal parameters, dehydrated. Blood pressure off from normal, too. And he doesn’t know enough to know which problem is a priority. Which will kill you if he doesn’t fix it first. “Get your human,” he says softly. Temperature? It’s a place to start, cooling you off. “Now, Wheeljack,” he adds without looking up when the other bot doesn’t immediately move. Using a servo to brush your hair from your face, he can see the glass glittering on your skin and in your hair. “You held on this long.”

• Opening the door of his habsuite, he scans for you out of habit and freezes. Because you’ve got your back against the cabinet, legs spread wide as you awkwardly crouch, trying to use a pair of tongs to pick up a spoon while you huff. Venting, he walks over and you look up, obviously flustered. “Don’t laugh,” you warn as he mass shifts and reaches to help you up, your field prickling him with your discomfort even as he senses the barely there hum of his sparkling’s field tangled in yours. “You know, you can be the one pregnant next time,” you mutter as he leans to brush a kiss against your cheek.

• “You should be resting,” he murmurs and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. ‘You try laying around all day,’ you counter as you press your knuckles against the small of your back and he moves around behind you, servos rubbing. Shoulders easing in relief, it seems like everything aches. Feeling his chassis brush against your back, his arms come around you, palms sliding against the swell of your belly. Trying to ignore that whisper of insecurity about how you look right now, you feel his chin brush the top of your head. ‘Admiring your handiwork?’

• “I didn’t know this could happen. I thought you’d just carry a spark,” he reminds you and you huff, but he knows you’re not really upset. You just enjoy telling him that he did this to you in tones of scandalized drama. Servos sliding against you hoping to feel the sparkling move, one of your hands covers the back of his. ‘If I’d have known, I’d have knocked you up,’ you mutter to make him smile. ‘You think we’re up for this?’