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“I don't know why you call rumble and frenzy sweetheart. It's not even kind of true.” Ratbat’s comment comes as a surprise to you because just moments ago you’d been talking about strange looking human tools and the pasta you were now making. He was still poking around at the strainer you had set on the countertop and the second hand spaghetti fork that was missing a few tines.
“Huh?”
“Rumble and Frenzy,” he squeaks, “They aren’t sweet and you know that but you say it anyways.”
You laugh, not a real laugh but the kind of humorous half sigh you make after someone calls out a peculiarity you’d rather not think about. “Yeah, rattie, you’ve definitely got me there.”
“Why?” His tone is a little grumpy, but there’s a layer of genuine curiosity there too and you’re not sure how to handle that. What exactly should you even be explaining here? He stares up at you from the countertop waiting for an answer and you’re still not entirely sure what to say, but you’ve had a similar conversation with other friends about other people so you decide to stick with your stock answer.
“Can’t let people know you’re scared of them or they’ll take advantage of it,” you explain with a shrug, “one way to do that is go overboard with politeness. The petnames just kinda went along with that, I guess. People don't ever think you're afraid of someone you call 'sweetie' or 'honeybunch.' Do it long enough and you can even trick yourself out of being afraid.” You stir the pot of pasta and space out, letting your mind get carried away staring into the bubbling water. The steam rises hot on your hand, but it isn’t uncomfortable yet so you don’t stop. A little water splashes over the side of the pot and sizzles on the stovetop. You turn the heat down. You’re tired and spacing out and when he says your name Ratbat’s voice is so soft you almost don’t notice. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“Are you afraid of me?”
You turn to look at him but can’t seem to make your mind work fast enough to keep up with the sudden turn in the conversation. “Wait, what?”
“You said you’re polite when you’re afraid and you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met,” he’s trying very hard to keep his voice even but you can hear that he’s hurting. There’s an edge of static to it and something that might be the beginning of a feedback screech. “Are you just being nice because you’re afraid of me?”
Your eyes go wide and you panic for a second. This is not a conversation you want to be having right now when you’re exhausted and starving and not really sure how to proceed. “Oh hon-” You cut yourself off halfway through the term of endearment. “Ratbat, I…” Fuck it, you decide that honestly got you into this mess and dammit honestly is gonna have to dig you out as well. “I’m afraid of a lot of things. I am absolutely terrified of decepticons and big robot battles and property damage making me lose my deposit on this place and maybe dying because alien robots don’t know how not to kill small squishy humans. But I am not afraid of you.” You wonder if maybe you should expand on that. Maybe he might take offense to you implying he’s not scary but you’re not sure how to make your explanations make any sense so you follow a different train of thought. “I’m sweet to you because you’re a darling not because I feel like I have to be.”
He stares at you for a long time, light glinting off that eye searing magenta paint job. He nods, apparently satisfied with your answer. “Ok, that’s good.” His voice is back to normal, no hints of static or feedback. You wonder for a moment what that might mean and how alien robots express different emotions. Had he been crying earlier?
You pat him on the head and he chirps and nuzzles into the touch. “Hey, sweetheart, do me a favor and don’t let anyone else in on my secret, alright? It doesn’t really work if everyone knows I’m covering.” Ratbat nods enthusiastically and you rub behind his ears. “Thanks, darling.”