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"Is… this a chore list?” Deadlock held it up carefully by one corner, like the list was going to bite him.
“It’s a chore chart, yes.” Ratchet reached over and took it out of his grasp. Then he stuck it back to the wall, where it had been clinging with the scrappiest little magnet he’d ever seen before Deadlock grabbed it. “Sorted for each of us based on knowledge, ability and days off.”
“Really?” Deadlock blinked and looked at it again.
“Yes, really. Percy tends to get forgetful if he doesn’t have a schedule, and I fragging hate to cook but don’t mind the dishes… what?”
“You made a chart for the three of us, like.” Deadlock bit his lip for a moment. “Like this is all permanent and the war ain’t gonna just start back up the klik your Prime gets sick of Megatron’s slag.”
“Well, yeah. Because that’s what I want us to be.”
Ratchet rocked back on his heels as Deadlock barrelled into him, but he hugged the former Decepticon tightly. And pretended he didn’t hear the other mech’s choked-off sobs, soft and small as they were.
After several long groons, Deadlock finally pulled far enough away to look up and meet Ratchet’s optics. “Okay, but I am never eating Perceptor’s cooking. I’ll take care of all of us.”