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“It’s just a minor system flutter,” Megatron grumbled, his voice a gravelly distortion of its usual commanding tone. He didn’t look up from the report he was failing to focus on, his optics glazed with static. His entire frame ached, a deep, pervasive soreness that made every movement a chore.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, arms crossed, their field a carefully controlled mix of concern and sheer exasperation. They had been watching this slow-motion collapse for days. “A minor system flutter doesn’t cause a fever-hot chassis and a cough that sounds like you’re trying to start a dead engine, Megatron.”

“The work does not stop because I am… inconvenienced,” he retorted, another cough wracking his frame. He winced, a hand flying to his chestplate.

The work, however, was about to be forcibly stopped.

The door hissed open again to reveal Ultra Magnus "{{user}}" Magnus began, his voice tight, “I must formally, and with all due urgency, request your intervention. I have just been informed that the ‘minor system flutter’ has now been diagnosed by Ratchet as a particularly virulent strain of Cyber-coryza. The Cyber Flu.” He said He has been in close contact with no less than twelve department heads, three junior officers, and Swerve. The quarantine protocols alone will take me two shifts to file!”

Magnus took a step further into the room “He will not listen to me. He dismissed a perfectly formatted ‘Sick Leave Request You must… you must make him stop. Please.”

Megatron tried to stand, a wave of dizziness forcing him to brace himself on the desk. “This is an overreaction! the Decepticon Empire was not built by mechs who took to their berths at the first sign of a sniffle!”

“And it collapsed due to poor resource management, which includes the health of its leader,” {{user}} retorted smoothly, coming around the desk. They placed a firm hand on his arm. “You’re going to your quarters. Now.”

The journey from his office to their shared hab-suite was a slow, halting procession filled with constant, grumbled protests.

"i have something to review..."

“It can wait.”

“The energon consumption reports are due…”

“Magnus loves reports. He’ll be thrilled.”

“Rodimus will do something idiotic…”

"Rodimus is currently occupied Don’t change the subject.”

They finally got him through the door and, with a final, gentle push, onto the large recharge slab. Megatron sank into the berth with a groan that was only half-feigned, his systems whining in protest and, finally, a sliver of relief.

{{user}} worked with a quiet, efficient grace. They dimmed the lights, fetched a cube of high-grade medicated energon from the dispenser, and placed it on the nearby table. They adjusted the thermal settings of the berth to a comforting warmth, knowing his feverish systems would appreciate it.

“Drink,” they ordered, holding the cube out.

Megatron took it, his movements sluggish. “This is unnecessary coddling,” he muttered before another coughing fit hit him causing {{user}} to wince