Krok (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dadcepticon) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rekindleme2014-10-15 02:22 pm
dadcepticon) wrote in rekindleme2014-10-15 02:22 pm
Entry tags:
How long was I out?
Who: Krok, residents of apartment 2-01, Ratchet, other invitees
Where: Building 4 apartment 2-01
When: Backdated to 01 October, mid-morningish.
Summary: Krok finally wakes up from stasis. He feels like death on toast.
Warnings: None as of posting? Clingy robot.
Wakefulness comes slowly, in little bits and pieces. Krok is mostly aware first of light – dim and soft even on his scoured-raw optical circuits, mostly blotted out by the curtains. It's hard to tell quite where he is for a few moments and the disorientation makes his fuel pump twist in a weird and painful way. Immediately on the heels of this revelation comes the fact that he can't really move much, body not quite back under his control and stiff from too long spent still. It's several agonisingly long moments before he can turn his head even a little, just enough that he can see a bookcase on the far wall.
One of his bookcases. In his room, in their hab suite in the strange alien city of Saeng Seong. Krok sighs and sags back into the bed, relieved and a little light-headed. He can't quite recall just how he got here when the last he remembers, Spinister asked him out on a walk–
Oh. Memory flickers back in distorted snatches of dialogue and pictures, slowly coming together out of order. They'd put him to sleep, hadn't they? Anxious, he looks around again, then to the door. He remembers the nightmare – remembers it feeling different from all the other times, wrong; he doesn't remember much else. Did he really sleep? Krok blinks dully at the ceiling. He's sure his chronometer readings are off, looking at the date and time, but…
No, it's too hard to think that critically about anything.
"…Spinister?" he croaks, voice harsh and low from lack of use, as he tries to sit up.
By the time Krok leaves messages for both Diarmuid and Kit – the only friends he can think of immediately who might be worried by his abrupt absence, given how consistently they'd spoken just before – he's had some energon and two checkups and even been allowed to walk himself to the living room. Spinister hovered the entire time in case he stumbled or collapsed, so he'd stubbornly carried on all the way to the sofa, his chair just a few steps too far.
He's paying for it now with aching hips and weak knees, but seated and reading, he doesn't much care. The book is more to pass the time than anything because all Krok can do is keep glancing up at the door, vaguely anxious. He rather hopes the little ones accept his invitation; he actually misses them.
All he can do in the meanwhile is wait. And try to plan out his responses if Misfire or Fulcrum pops up to poke him.
Where: Building 4 apartment 2-01
When: Backdated to 01 October, mid-morningish.
Summary: Krok finally wakes up from stasis. He feels like death on toast.
Warnings: None as of posting? Clingy robot.
Wakefulness comes slowly, in little bits and pieces. Krok is mostly aware first of light – dim and soft even on his scoured-raw optical circuits, mostly blotted out by the curtains. It's hard to tell quite where he is for a few moments and the disorientation makes his fuel pump twist in a weird and painful way. Immediately on the heels of this revelation comes the fact that he can't really move much, body not quite back under his control and stiff from too long spent still. It's several agonisingly long moments before he can turn his head even a little, just enough that he can see a bookcase on the far wall.
One of his bookcases. In his room, in their hab suite in the strange alien city of Saeng Seong. Krok sighs and sags back into the bed, relieved and a little light-headed. He can't quite recall just how he got here when the last he remembers, Spinister asked him out on a walk–
Oh. Memory flickers back in distorted snatches of dialogue and pictures, slowly coming together out of order. They'd put him to sleep, hadn't they? Anxious, he looks around again, then to the door. He remembers the nightmare – remembers it feeling different from all the other times, wrong; he doesn't remember much else. Did he really sleep? Krok blinks dully at the ceiling. He's sure his chronometer readings are off, looking at the date and time, but…
No, it's too hard to think that critically about anything.
"…Spinister?" he croaks, voice harsh and low from lack of use, as he tries to sit up.
By the time Krok leaves messages for both Diarmuid and Kit – the only friends he can think of immediately who might be worried by his abrupt absence, given how consistently they'd spoken just before – he's had some energon and two checkups and even been allowed to walk himself to the living room. Spinister hovered the entire time in case he stumbled or collapsed, so he'd stubbornly carried on all the way to the sofa, his chair just a few steps too far.
He's paying for it now with aching hips and weak knees, but seated and reading, he doesn't much care. The book is more to pass the time than anything because all Krok can do is keep glancing up at the door, vaguely anxious. He rather hopes the little ones accept his invitation; he actually misses them.
All he can do in the meanwhile is wait. And try to plan out his responses if Misfire or Fulcrum pops up to poke him.
no subject
"I never went to the clinics myself," he says, now looking at the wall to Ratchet's left. "Never needed them. But I heard… knew why they were there." He glances up for a moment, then off to the other side, then back to Ratchet again. "I knew others who got treatment there. Some of us down there only survived because… because of what you did," he murmurs, humbled. Almost shy. His fingers tighten spasmodically around Ratchet's hand as he tries to will himself to work. "It… it meant a lot to us. That you cared."
no subject
Ratchet looks awkward for a moment before he looks away, shaking his helm a little.
"Didn't do it for thanks," he says, and he knows he sounds gruff but he doesn't know what else to say. "It shouldn't have been necessary, but--I don't know. It needed to be done."
He looks down at Krok's hand in his, aching all over and not sure quite how to feel. He settles on one thing he's sure of and raises his optics to Krok's again.
"I'm glad you're all right."
no subject
"You too," he finally says with a rattling sigh, moving on grudgingly. "You did all that for someone like me. Could've killed yourself while you were at it." His laugh is short, bitter, and he looks up at the ceiling. "Do you suppose we'd have come back?" he wonders. Chromedome did, after all.
no subject
"Anyway, regardless, of course I did. You're my patient. Bad professional practice, to just let you short out on my floor." Ratchet doesn't look at Krok, too tired and raw to keep defending himself against questions of why. Krok isn't the first one to ask, and he won't be the last, and Ratchet doesn't know how to explain why he gives a damn, like it's something he could turn on and off at a whim.