With Perfect Abandonment

Summary: Life for one autodog vet is about to take a drastic change- for better or for worse, even he doesn't know yet. Ratchetxjettwins; multiple pairings included. Kittycon/Autodog verse. Spark-sex,Spike n'Valve,Sticky,Mpreg,Mech/Mech slash,twincest and Angst
Rating: M

Chapter 23

The oil machine dinged once it had boiled; the black mass within its glass pot bubbling and swirling gently as it emitted a most enticing aroma. Glad for the reprieve, Ratchet got up from his desk, grumbling as a joint creaked loudly at the action. He was lost in his own thoughts before he even reached the counter where the machine sat -something he'd been avoiding the entire time he'd been in his office.

"...slaggit... pups...," he mumbled to himself, leaning against the counter for a moment as guilt weighed down on his shoulders, "Should have... fragging..."

Ratchet sighed. He should have done many things, but he hadn't. He'd messed up big. And honestly, he was surprised that Perceptor hadn't come barging in here yet, demanding his vet license. He was a slagging professional for crying out loud! 'Bots in heat was common in the hospital. He could keep it locked down when handling anyone else- why hadn't he been able to remain in control when he'd visited Jetfire and Jetstorm?

"Maybe... cross-breeding..." The labrador continued talking to himself in quiet undertones and half-processed words, as he reached for the pot finally. He was so absorbed in the hypotheses he was making that he didn't even realize he wasn't on target with the cup, until he'd poured scalding hot oil onto his servo. Cursing furiously, Ratchet slapped the pot down, shoving his aching servo under the sink faucet and blasting it with cold water.

"Bad day, sir?"

Jumping at the unexpected question, the vet turned around, venting heavily as his gaze fell on his assistant. "Doesn't matter," Ratchet replied, rubbing tiredly at his optics. "Did you have something for me, First Aid?"

"Mmm, oh, yes," the shorter autodog smiled, holding out some reports for the labrador to take. "The nurses finished updates on a couple post-op patients, our pleasant old femme has been escorted back to the nursing home, fully healthy, and you have another request appointment at the escort company." Ratchet merely nodded his acknowledgement, taking the files and thumbing through them quickly.

The vet was surprised to see First Aid still standing there quietly when he finally tucked the reports under his arm. "...yeeeees?," he asked warily.

"Well, sir, some of the nurses and I were wondering how the house call went at Perceptor's," First Aid replied. "We heard that the poor twins were sick. Are they okay? Were you able to help them?"

"How did you-" Ratchet cut himself off, groaning loudly, uninjured servo wiping down his face in aggravation. Why couldn't there be one slagging orn in this whole hospital that somebody's business wasn't the subject of conversation? Waving the assistant off, the older mech turned for his desk; collapsing in his chair and cursing quietly once he realized he forgot to bring his cup with him.

"They're fine," the labrador grumbled, as First Aid moved to finish preparing his superior's oil, "It was nothing major. Just a... quick dose, and they were doing better when I left." He paused to receive his cup, lifting it to his mouth before he caught the look on the younger autodog's face. "...Why are you looking at me like that?," Ratchet demanded suspiciously.

The australian shepherd waited for the vet to finally take his sip, smiling casually as he quipped, "No reason." That was the sort of answer that 'bots up to no good usually said- and Ratchet should know; he had plenty of experience with young, rambunctious pups and cubs. Optics narrowing, unconvinced, the labrador drank his oil. Wincing, when the rising steam reminded him of the other night.

xxXxXxx

They were hot. Burning up, really. Coolant glistened their helms and dampened their fur; wetting their optics and highlighting the distracted focus of their gaze. Wiggling the thermometer out of Jetfire's tight jaw, the labrador checked the stats, making a sound in the back of his vocalizer before jotting down his findings in his pocket-sized notebook. "Too low to be a fever...," Ratchet mused, walking around the berthside to check on Jetstorm. "Do you have any cuts, punctures? Ingested anything strange recently?"

Two helms hesitantly shook from side to side. Scowling a tad, the vet quickly browsed through his medical satchel, taking tally of his supplies. "Alright, I'm going to need you to pull the sheets back," he said. He'd barely turned around to face the younglings when he heard the frightened meep before it was choked off; optics narrowed, he stared at the hybrids, not buying their weak and sickly, begging facades.

"I-is not...," Jetstorm began.

"Go-good idea," Jetfire continued. "Is s-sick being."

"V-very. N-not... not wanting to be m-making of you sick t-too."

"I'll live," Ratchet retorted, arms crossing over his chestplates. "I'll need you both to sit up please, though standing is preferable." Neither of them moved. "Now."

Whimpering, the twins squirmed and buried themselves deeper beneath the thick comforter, weakly protesting through the material. Getting tired of their shenanigans quickly, the vet stormed forward, grabbing the edge of the sheets and giving them a hard yank. "Listen, it can't possibly be that ba-" The scent hit him before the sight did, stronger than anything he'd ever experienced before in his life- enough to actually send the old autodog stumbling back a couple pedesteps.

Jetfire and Jetstorm scrambled up to the head of the berth, clutching to each other as they shivered hard, lubricant dripping generously from their visible valves. One arm over his olfactory sensor, Ratchet coughed, shaking his helm hard to try and banish the spell coming over him. "Q-quick," he managed to choke out, tossing the comforter back to the hybrids. "C-cover up, be-before..." He didn't have to finish thankfully, for the twins had scrambled for the blanket the moment it was within their reach; coiling it around themselves, sniffling and keening softly.

"S-slag," the labrador cursed to himself, using some scented oils from his satchel to chase away the last of the forbidden scent. "This isn't a cold o-or a fever, you're-"

"Hey, Ratchet?" There was a knock at the door; Wheeljack speaking from the other side. "Is everything okay in there?"

Glancing at the younglings and their frightened, pleading optics, Ratchet sighed, rifling through his bag as he rapidly tried to think of what to do next. "Wait right there," he instructed of the twins, heading for the door and quickly slipping out. Wheeljack stood waiting for him, brow furrowed uncertainly and helm canted an inch upwards as he tried to scent out the strange smell in the air. "Yes?," Ratchet asked, shutting the door immediately.

"Um, I... I was just wondering...," the bulldog started slowly. Pausing, the engineer shook his helm, starting over again. "Uh, yeah, sorry, I was just wondering how it was going in there. Does it look like they have a fever or-?"

"I don't really know," the vet vented, cutting the other autodog off. He was lying through his denta, and he knew it, but what else could he do? Inform the not-sire of the two hybrids and have them even further embarrassed beyond what they already were? "Listen, until I can properly induce what is the cause of their illness, I'm going to need you to run to the nearest pharmacy and pick up a few more supplies," Ratchet hurried to tack on, pulling out his credit card and a list, pushing them into Wheeljack's slack servos, "I'm short a few things and I don't think I'll need them, but if that ends up not being so, I'd prefer to have them handy then and there."

"Well, uh, not that I would disagree with you on that...," Wheeljack mumbled, confused, "But I just don't... I mean, Percy entrusted me with their care. I just don't think I should be running out and leaving them alone, you know? I mean, what if they need me or something?"

"And what will you do?," the labrador countered, scowling. "Can you produce Quinine out of your aft? Or maybe you keep a stash of sulfamethoxazole in the cupboard, right beside the cookie jar? Listen, Wheeljack, they'll be under my supervision the entire time and I won't be going anywhere until you get back. The best thing that you can do for them is run to the pharmacy and pick up the few things I'm missing from my case. Otherwise, what help can you be?"

It was a logical standpoint, if not harsh in its phrasing. Ratchet felt a twinge of guilt once he'd finished his spiel, but remained his outward callousness, in hopes that the engineer did not see past his lie. Wheeljack himself fidgeted minutely in place, picking at the corners of the paper list as he avoided the vet's optics. After almost a klik, he sighed, shoulders slumping as the air was cycled out of his intakes. "You're right," the bulldog admitted. "I certainly don't have the medical experience required to help them like you can, so, um... Yeah, I'll go. Just these things, right?"

The labrador nodded.

"Alright, alright...," Wheeljack mumbled to himself, straightening up. "I'll run down the street then and get these things quickly. Take care of our boys until I get back. Promise, Ratchet?"

"I promise," the older autodog replied, this time in complete honesty. The other mech grinned behind his mask, wishing Ratchet luck in figuring out what afflicted the two hybrids in the other room, as he headed for the front door; grabbing his keys and cell and coat, and disappearing out the door.

After a klik, the vet groaned, running his servos over his face and trying to regain his composure as he turned to re-enter the berthroom.

xxXxXxx

"Are you sure you guys are feeling well?" Wheeljack piled up the breakfast dishes, putting them in the sink to wash later. Despite doing this, his attention was fixed on the two hybrids sitting at the small dining room table. At his inquiry, Jetstorm and Jetfire smiled casually.

"Yes."

"Is good being."

"You sure, sure," the bulldog pressed, "I mean, you had a really bad fever the other day, but you recovered pretty fast, and I-"

"Uncle Wheeljack," the twins whined, patting the table. "Going to late be for schooling. Is missing too already much!"

Chuckling a little, the engineer picked up his pace. "Alright, alright," he acquiesced, putting lunches in the twins' backpacks and zipping them, "If you're not feeling well though, you just tell me and I'll come pick you up and bring you home. I can call Ratchet again... though he's been a little hard to get in contact with since..."

Swallowing hard, the twins glanced each other before smiling again at Wheeljack. They knew that the autodog didn't know what had happened between them and Ratchet the other orn, and though they hoped it would stay that way, they would do anything today to get the chance to meet with the vet again. He'd left before they had come to and the hybrids felt uncertain on where they now stood with Ratchet. He didn't despise them, did he?

It was a question that would have to be answered later, once they were free of the apartment and their sometimes overbearing guardians.

xxXxXxx

"What the frag do we do now?"

The question hung in the air as the door shut behind Ratchet, locking him in with the slow-rising, sweet scent originating from the berth. The twins stared back at the vet with wide, fervent optics, innocent and perplexed by the other mech's statement.

"I-is Wheeljack..."

"...gone?"

The labrador slowly nodded. "I thought it best to get him out of the apartment before he recognized your scent. I'm guessing that you didn't want either him or your carrier to know that you were in heat." Ratchet paused, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor. The scent was getting stronger, making the edges of his vision blur as it worked to compel him to respond to the alluring fragrance. "From the sounds of it, you've been in heat for quite some time. Considering that you're untouched, and the need is great, I suggest a suppressant. I should have enough for both of you-"

"No!," Jetstorm cried, kicking away the blankets. He ran for the medical satchel, guarding it tightly in his arms as his brother wrestled free of their comforter fortress as well.

"P-please," Jetfire practically sobbed. He stood on shaky legs at the edge of the berth, thighs dripping with fresh lubricants and bearing the stains of old ones; the combined scent of two, rich younglings, in the peak of their heat cycle, like a forbidden feast set out before the autodog, waiting just for him.

"P-please...," Ratchet heard as the orange hybrid crawled forward, having lost all use of his legs, "Pl-please...," was said as the scent drove away rationality, chip by large chunk, until the vet was shaking in the knee joints himself, battling with the perfumed spectre trying to break his self-control, "A-already seal b-broken... T-tried, ag-again tried... O-over-overloaded... again... a-again... N-need re... R-release... R-ratchet g-giving us r-release..."

The vet didn't know what was happening anymore. He was backed against the door, felt the handle poking into his spinal struts sharply, yet it was a dull focus. All of his attention, all of his need, was focused ahead; staring with primal lust at the wet mouth wrapped around his engorged spike, swallowing it down with a desperation that was even greater than his own. He watched the tip of that slender glossa flash on either sides of his spike as the hybrid lapped hungrily at every single node and dip, before deep-throating the rod, bobbing fast. Cheekplates coloured in a deep shade of crimson, swollen with their meal, and aft perked high, ears twitching as arousal grew...

It didn't take much for the autodog to snap. Growling loudly, he ripped the youngling off his spike, jumping him before Jetfire even had a chance to make sense of what was happening. Suddenly, the hybrid was full, the sheath to the other mech's fat spike. Crying out -joyfully, painfully, ecstatically- the soaked walls driving the vet all the way through, slamming directly into a cluster of nodes. Pinned, smothered, Jetfire could only scream and cry; babbling unintelligible pleas for more as his valve was pounded with relentless ferocity, his writhing frame held in place by the fangs nearly puncturing his jugular in animalistic possession.

xxXxXxx

"Sir? Are you even listening...?"

"Hm?" Ratchet looked up, surprised to find himself staring into Flare-up's stern face.

"You seem distracted, doctor," the femme stated slowly, "Should I have called on another day? Or could you manage to gather enough focus to give me a little of your expertise?"

The labrador scowled, tucking his datapad under an arm. "You called me for an assessment- not surgery," he retorted snippily. "I'd watch the attitude, pup. As for your escort in question, Tracks is excelling well in his pregnancy. The twins are progressing well; they've got a good weight and development is in par with regular standards. I'd say-"

"Wait a moment," Flare-up interrupted, raising a servo. "Twins? Did you say 'twins'?"

"Yes," Ratchet drawled, still annoyed at the jack russel's call out on his inattentiveness and what was causing it, "Twins. Your 'employee' is blessed with two sparks. Do I need to explain anything else?"

It was a long klik before the red autodog replied. "No. No, thank you," she said, turning and grabbing her phone. "No Mr. Ratchet, further explanation is not necessary. If you'd be so kind as to forward me a copy of Tracks' prenatal files thus far, than I can inform my staff involved."

"And the sire as well, I'm guessing," the vet added. "Don't bother trying to fool me. I know exactly where those files are going to next. What right do you have to demand a patient's private documents?"

"'Right?'," Flare-up replied, one optic ridge raised incredulously. "Those who have the deepest pockets are the ones who eventually call shots for the rest of us, doctor. And right now, my employee's client pays richly to know the health of both the sparklings and my charge. The funds are all transferred into Tracks' account anyhow. He'll have all the money he could wish to choose a different path for his life one he leaves. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Ratchet only grunted as the femme turned away completely, already dialing on her phone's keypad. "All you pups only care about is money," he mumbled, shaking his helm in disbelief. "You think everything can be tagged with a price..."

The jack russel was oblivious though; focused only on her phone and whoever she waited for on the other line as the old mech turned to head for the elevators. Ratchet could only sigh wearily as he went, mumbling quietly to himself still. "You think that it's just sex. But once you put a price on yourself... you're likely to lose more than you thought."

xxXxXxx

Musk hit the air thickly, a wrenching cry erupting from the youngling as he overloaded. Dimming optics flickered on and offline, before blackening entirely as Jetfire slumped, exhausted, on the glistening floor. The vet continued thrusting, hitting his peak kliks later with a ferocious growl. His transfluids squished warmly as he shifted over the hybrid, still smelling the rich, husky scent of heat but unable to tell where it was coming from. Certainly it wasn't emitting from the youngling beneath him.

Already the traces of heat were dissipating from this one as he fell into a deep slumber, sated and full. Growling hungrily, the autodog withdrew from the smaller mechling, turning in his search to find the last, alluring scent. Trembling, the final prey sat across the room, half-hidden behind the berth; squatting on the floor, a pool of lubricants already gathered beneath him and spilling even more.

Wrenching off the coat and shirt covering his frame, the labrador hurried to chase down the final twin, growling deeper as the succulent fragrance grew tenfold. He saw a reflection of his own fangs in the vibrant blue visor, before the second youngling released the satchel he clutched so tightly, rolling over onto his knees and presenting himself to the autodog. A primal howl bubbled in his chestplates, yet he swallowed it in favour of grabbing the hybrid by the back of his neck; hot vents billowing over the twitching ears as the vet slammed into the waiting valve.

The hybrid keened, claws scrambling over the floorboards, desperately searching for purchase as the older mech broke out into another quick pace. The air was heavy with heat and the perfume of fluids and overload, the roaring chorus of need and fulfillment resounding loudly in the tiny room. Like with the orange youngling, his twin was quick to finish; crashing against the floor as the autodog continued to rock inside the slick passage, until the rhythmic clenching of the hybrid's valve brought the vet to his own overload.

Snuffling momentarily in the crook of the mechling's neck, he withdrew, soreness settling uncomfortably in his joints as the heat-induced haze started to lift. "W-wha..." He was starting to come back into the recognition of self, leaving Ratchet with a deep, gut-wrenching guilt as he stepped away from the slumbering Jetstorm; tucking his flaccid and stained spike back into its housing, horrified and disgusted with himself.

"Frag... Should... Frag... Slagging mes... I..." The labrador grumbled to himself in quick, muffled tones, cursing up a storm as he anxiously gathered all of his things and putting his clothes back on. He took a daring step outside after that, grabbed some fresh sheets from the linen closet in the hallway, stripped and remade the berth before throwing the dirty shirts deep into the bottom of the laundry hamper. As he went about things, Ratchet began to shiver with disbelief and further guilt, alarmed that he had lost control like that and what he had done to both of the twins.

Grabbing a bucket, filling it with some warm, soapy water, and grabbing a clean clothe, the vet returned to the berthroom to wipe each of the hybrids' down. He dressed them in clean pyjamas and carried them gently to the berth, tucking them in snugly, followed by one final tidy up of the room. The old mech was surprised that neither Jetstorm or Jetfire had awoken during this entire process, but Ratchet knew (and it made his fuel tanks churn violently in ill) that the strength and length of a heat cycle could bring about a short, comatose-like sleep once finished. Contemplating what he was gonna do next, the autodog literally jumped when he heard the front door close.

"Ratchet?," Wheeljack called. "Hello?"

Quickly, the vet grabbed his satchel and left the berthroom, making sure to close the door softly behind him. The bulldog was already walking down the hall, waving a small, white paper bag around. "I picked up what you needed. Are they-"

"Ssh," Ratchet hushed immediately. He scowled, trying to keep his shame hidden even though it wriggled like a poisonous viper inside of him. "I didn't end up needing them, but thank you," the vet continued, taking the bag, "They're sleeping at the moment. Let them rest and give them some soup when they wake up."

"Oh," Wheeljack shuttered his optics, "Okay. Um, wait! Ratchet, where you going?!" The engineer turned to stare at the labrador as he shoved past in a hurry, heading straight for the front door.

"Sorry Wheeljack," Ratchet called over his shoulder, not even slowing, "But I'm needed back at the hospital. You can take things from here." And then he was out the door, almost running as he rushed to get away. Back in the apartment, Wheeljack locked the door, scratching at the back of his helm in confusion.

"...I wonder what that was all about," he mumbled to himself. Shrugging, the bulldog walked down the hall, peeking into the twins' berthroom quickly. Seeing them sleeping peacefully, he smiled, closing the door again and looking to the front door, brow furrowed in puzzlement once more.

xxXxXxx

It hadn't taken much effort to slip away from City Hall and cross the square for the hospital. They only had half of the usual classes this orn, and even then they were one short for some reason. The explanation was that a possible bug had infected their poor big brother Rodimus. Though it saddened the twins that they were denied less time than per usual with the autodog, it still was a help, in that it allowed them to take an early -and long- lunch. Enough time to easily escape Sentinel's lack of supervision and make their way unhindered to the hospital.

Jetfire and Jetstorm were certain they would make it back in time before their next lesson and before the security guard figured out that they'd left City Hall premises, with plenty of time to spare afterwards too, no doubt!

"W-what...," the orange youngling stuttered for half an astrosecond, "Meaning what you say 'he not in'?"

The nurse smiled apologetically from behind the desk. "I'm sorry, boys, but Dr. Ratchet is not here at the moment. Maybe you'd like to stop by tomorrow or leave a message for him?"

This was... unexpected... and suddenly they were feeling sick to their fuel tanks.

"No...thank you no," Jetstorm hurried to say, taking a polite step back from the nurses' station. "Just, will... be will trying of morrow to."

"Brother...," Jetfire whispered as they turned away and slowly headed for the elevators, "W-what mean this? R-ratchet not never being here... I-is... is upset? I-is mad?"

The blue hybrid tried to refrain from wringing his servos anxiously as his twin was doing, but he could not stop from picking at a loose thread in his sweater with great fervor. "Know...knowing not," he replied, ears flattened against his helm. "R-ratchet... Ratchet enjoy thought. C-claim doing R-ratchet. L-like of him us be, b-but... but be of m-may..."

The words hung in the air between them, unsaid, terrified that they may be true. After all, for all intent and purposes, Ratchet had seemed to like them well enough and he had not resisted much when it came to easing them of their painful cycles. Surely someone who did not care or find them mildly attractive wouldn't respond to their heat scent... right?

The elevator doors opened up on the two, depressed younglings, just as First Aid was about to stroll out. "Oh, hello!," the assistant greeted cheerfully, coming to a pause. "Jetstorm and... Jetfire, right? Are you two feeling better? Oh, you're heading down right? Here, I'll come with you."

First Aid moved out of the way, ushering the twins in, even though they shook their helms and politely tried to refuse. Afraid and confused, at the moment, they just wished to be alone. The australian shepherd was having none of it though; he hurried the younglings into the elevator, blocked their path out and pressed for the ground floor after the doors had closed. "I'm glad to see you're both doing so well," the white mech smiled. "Everyone heard that you had such a dreadfully frightening fever of some sort; some of the nurses thought you weren't going to recover so quickly. But I knew, I knew as soon as Ratchet visited you, you'd be better like that!"

The assistant snapped his fingers to make a point, adjusting his stack of medical files afterwards. "I mean, Ratchet, sir, is the best after all! Plus, with everything you've already been through lately, he was so worried about you two," First Aid continued, "I knew without a doubt that he'd work doubly as hard to make sure you two would get better quickly!"

Orange and blue ears perked immediately. "R-really?," the hybrids stuttered together. "R-ratchet... worry? Us about?"

"But of course!," the autodog beamed. "Every single one of us cares about you, Jetfire and Jetstorm. None more so than Ratchet himself. Honestly, he never stops talking of you two. Ratchet, sir, doesn't usually do that, you see. Not unless he really cares about someone."

This revelation was making their sparks pulse faster and faster. Glancing at each other, the younglings hurried to calm themselves before they jumped to any conclusions. It was hard -especially as worries and hopes whispered vocally across their silent bond. "H-have...," Jetfire began, taking point on this one, "Seeing have you, First Aid, of Ratchet?"

"Came we doing so as to thanksies," his brother quickly added, "But Ratchet here not is being and... and..."

"A-and little worried is being he of may getting sick. From us," Jetfire finished. He tucked his servos behind himself to keep from wringing them again. "H-have you know what Ratchet like and being couple last days?"

First Aid shuttered his optics at the twins' concern, surprised, before he smiled kindly. "Oh, there's no need to worry," he told them. "Ratchet simply had a house appointment to make and then he was done his shift for the rest of the orn. He's probably already clocked out and headed home by now. Though..." The australian shepherd pondered quietly to himself for a moment. "Though," he went on, "Ratchet, sir, did seem a little distracted since then. I've never known him to have been sick before, but it's possible that he could have caught whatever bug you two shared."

Immediately, Jetfire's and Jetstorm's fuel tanks dropped in their frames miserably.

"Tell you what," the assistant suggested, "I'll keep an optic on Ratchet, sir, when he next comes in and if you should miss him again, I promise to inform you explicitly of his situation. I'll even tell him that you two came by to visit him today!" What should have been cheerful news was quite the opposite for the hybrids.

First Aid was seemingly oblivious to their growing depression though and the autodog looked up as the elevator doors chimed open. "Well, we've reached the ground floor," he chirped merrily. "I've got to head back upstairs to finish some reports for Ratchet, but you two take care of yourselves, okay? Have a good day!"

With no other choice, Jetstorm and Jetfire stepped off the elevator and sadly returned to City Hall.

xxXxXxx

"Frag you and your selfishness!"

It was quiet. Exceptionally quiet. There were no walkie-talkies, no sounds of traffic, no elevator chimes, no... nothing. Stirring, Tracks slowly opened his optics, staring uncertainly at a lavender, silk canopy overhead. With some effort, he sat up; one servo cupping his bulging belly, pushing aside the comforter that had been lain over him. He studied his surroundings slowly, confused at the large room and its lavish embellishments.

A large canopy berth, bookshelf, nightstands, dresser, loveseat, chair, gorgeous glass coffee table... The entire room looked and felt like something out of a designer magazine. This couldn't possibly be any room back at the Escorts' apartment. Not even the view outside the large palladian window was familiar.

The autodog didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there.

All he could remember was...

"Maybe it's time you grew up and decided what you really want..."

The sound of a turning latch caught the pomeranian's attention. Alarmed, the mech turned to face the only door, a worm of fear wriggling in his fuel tanks.