Chapter 1: How to show endearment to your friend
Notes:
I saw someone post a drawing of ratchet when Optimus called him dearest or dear, and it was absolutely adorable.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There had been worse eras on Cybertron—every mech alive could say so with authority—but this one, this strange, simmering peace, brought its own kind of war.
No guns. No screaming comms. Just long, slow days. Budgeting meetings. Infrastructure rebuilding. Community outreach. The awkward reconciliation of centuries of violence. And paperwork. Mountains of it.
For Ratchet, it was almost worse than war.
Not because of the quiet. He could handle the quiet. It was Optimus he couldn’t handle.
Optimus Prime had always been a looming presence—taller than most, nobler than most, burdened by the Matrix and driven by ideals that left little room for indulgence.
But there was peace now.
Actual, functional peace—the kind that came with paperwork instead of shrapnel, with budgeting meetings instead of tactical strikes, with diplomatic memos replacing war cries. For the first time in millennia, the Autobots weren’t running, bleeding, or burying their own. They were… rebuilding. Negotiating. Hosting peace conferences in half-reconstructed buildings and smiling through the awkwardness of former enemies sharing refreshments.
And it suited Optimus Prime.
Primus, it suited him too well.
He took to the role of peacekeeper like he’d been designed for it—which, perhaps in some ironic twist of fate, he had been. There was something serene, almost unfairly attractive, about how easily he carried himself in those halls now. He moved through the rubble and tension like someone already dreaming of a better world, and worse still, he spoke like one.
Each with that awful sincerity. Each time with Optimus looking right at him, optics soft and unknowing, as if he wasn’t hand-delivering the verbal equivalent of a cardiac event.
Ratchet was not, contrary to popular belief, made of stone. He was made of old wiring and long-repressed feelings and the terminally inconvenient truth that he had been in love with Optimus Prime since Kaon fell.
So yes. Peace was hard.
It began—like many things—with a datapad.
Specifically, one titled, “Building Bonds in Post-War Civilian Networks: Integrative Communication for Leaders.” Optimus had accepted it from one of the newer outreach directors in Iacon, hoping to brush up on civilian soft skills. He’d expected lectures on infrastructure proposals and public council etiquette.
He had not expected a chapter titled “Endearments of Friendship: Strengthening Emotional Trust in Civil Spaces.”
He’d read it twice.
Then bookmarked it.
He mulled it over for a full cycle, sitting quietly on the edge of a half-assembled platform overlooking the new gardens in Kaon. The datapad sat beside him, screen dim, words echoing in his mind.
"Direct verbal affirmations can reinforce bonds strained by war. Familiarity, warmth, and nonverbal affection—such as casual endearments—remind others that they are valued beyond their function."
It made sense. Beautiful sense. He thought of those he’d nearly lost. Of those who were still here.
Dear one. Dearest. Beloved friend. Cherished companion.
What lovely words.
He decided he would try it.
After all—if anyone deserved warmth, affection, and unspoken gratitude—it was those who had carried him through the worst.
Ratchet, for instance.
Ratchet had always been his constant.
Who better to begin with?
Optimus smiled quietly to himself and tapped a note into his private logs.
Project: reinforce friendship.
First subject: Ratchet.
Method: implement endearments. (Begin with “dearest friend.” Perhaps shorten to dearest for efficiency.)
He did not know he had just unleashed a disaster.
A quiet, aching, internal slow-burn disaster.
Poor Ratchet.
It started like any other day.
Which, Ratchet would later reflect bitterly, was the most insulting part.
There was no warning. No dramatic lighting. No ominous music swelling in the background. Just a perfectly ordinary morning in the reconstruction wing, the air thick with the scent of solder and singed wiring, and the soft hum of power relays kicking back online.
He was elbow-deep in a stubborn diagnostic loop when the door opened.
“Ratchet,” came the familiar voice—low, even, always somehow more composed than any mech had a right to be.
Ratchet didn’t turn around. “If you’re here to tell me Wheeljack’s blown something else up, I reserve the right to punt him into the next quadrant.”
“No explosions,” Optimus assured him, the warm lilt of amusement threading subtly through his tone. “Yet.”
Ratchet snorted, finally glancing over his shoulder. “Then what’s the occasion?”
Optimus stepped forward, datapad in hand. “You mentioned needing energy grid schematics for Kaon’s lower district. I thought I’d deliver them personally.”
He held it out. Ratchet blinked, momentarily thrown—he hadn’t expected Optimus himself to ferry schematics. Usually that task fell to a courier, or Prowl when someone wanted it done without feeling.
Ratchet took it, their fingers brushing in the handoff.
Nothing significant.
Absolutely nothing.
Except—Optimus lingered.
Still standing close.
Still watching him with that small, patient smile.
And then—
“Thank you, dearest friend,” Optimus said, smoothly. Warmly. Like it was normal.
Ratchet’s internal systems tripped hard.
“…What,” he said. Flatly. Without blinking.
Optimus, undeterred, tilted his helm with the serene satisfaction of someone who’d just implemented an exciting new protocol.
“I said thank you, dearest,” he repeated, as though this was something they always did. “You’ve taken on a great deal. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
Ratchet stared at him.
His mind had gone completely blank.
He was vaguely aware his fans had kicked on. One of them whined. Loudly.
“R-right,” he said, doing his best impression of functional speech. “Yes. Well. Someone’s got to clean up after you fragging commanders.”
Optimus chuckled. “A task I’ve always appreciated.”
Ratchet turned back to the console with the sharp, stiff grace of someone attempting to hide the fact that his entire spark chamber was currently doing acrobatics.
This was fine.
This was fine.
He doesn’t mean it like that. He doesn’t mean anything. It’s a civilian expression. He probably read it on one of those political integration pads. He probably practiced it in front of the mirror.
“Would you like any assistance?” Optimus asked behind him.
“No,” Ratchet snapped, too fast.
There was a pause.
Then, still utterly composed, Optimus said, “Very well. Let me know if you change your mind, dearest.”
Ratchet dropped the spanner.
It clattered violently to the floor.
He didn’t look down.
He didn’t look up.
He simply stood there for three seconds in complete silence, weighing the fragging audacity of the universe.
“…Optimus where exactly did you get that term from?” he asked, carefully, as if maybe he hadn’t heard it right.
Optimus tilted his head slightly. “Dearest. I thought… well, I’ve read it’s a fitting term for those one holds in high esteem. Is it outdated?”
And there it was.
Ratchet’s spark twisted in his chest.
Of fragging course.
Optimus must’ve pulled the term out of some half-dead communication guide written in the golden age—probably by some functionist scholar who thought hand-holding required a license.
He plastered on the closest thing he could manage to a deadpan look and bent to retrieve the pliers.
“Well. You read it. That explains a lot,” he muttered.
Optimus didn’t respond right away. Perhaps sensing some nuance he couldn’t quite parse.
“I mean it sincerely,” he said finally. “You’ve stood beside me longer than anyone. I don’t say it lightly.”
Ratchet’s hand twitched.
He turned back to the stabilizer. Didn’t say another word.
Optimus, completely unaware of the emotional landmine he’d just skipped across, gently picked the spanner up from the ground and set it beside Ratchet without a word.
“Let me know if Wheeljack causes trouble,” he said at the door, voice gentle. “I’ll talk to him if needed.”
Ratchet muttered something that might have been agreement. It might have also been a binary scream.
This wasn’t a one-time slip. It was now a habit. A well-meaning, affectionate, emotionally ruinous habit.
And then the door hissed shut again.
Ratchet stayed very still.
He felt every micron of his plating.
Every flicker of his spark.
Then, softly, “Primus above, he’s trying to kill me.”
Notes:
Of all the words he could’ve used…
Haha poor ratchet
He's definitely going drinking next chapter
Chapter Text
Ratchet didn’t jump when he heard the door open. He never jumped. Startling was for twitchy green recruits and cassettes with hyper-sensory arrays.
He did, however, straighten slightly. Just a bit.
Because it was him.
“Ratchet,” came that familiar, even voice. Calm as ever. “I brought the recalibration schematics you asked for.”
“Oh.” Ratchet looked over his shoulder. “Right. Just set them on the bench.”
Optimus stepped in, and placed the datapads gently where indicated, then lingered nearby—arms folded loosely over his chassis.
“I reviewed the neural feedback errors from Wheeljack’s last test run,” he offered. “I believe the misfire originated in the secondary relay, not the main processor.”
“Hmph,” Ratchet grunted, picking up one of the pads. “Saves me time if that’s true.”
Optimus smiled faintly, watching him work. “You’re always efficient, dearest.”
Ratchet’s grip slipped just a little.
Not enough for Optimus to notice.
But enough.
“—I… right,” Ratchet muttered, staring down at the pad with burning optics, not taking in a single word of the code.
He’s just being polite, he told himself.
Still…
Still.
“You alright?” Optimus asked, leaning in just slightly.
Too close. Too warm.
Ratchet waved him off. “Fine. Just tired.”
Optimus’s field brushed against his without warning. “Then rest. You’ve done more than enough today, dearest.”
And there it was again.
Ratchet could feel the cooling fans in his back kick on—low, controlled, but treacherously audible.
“Stop treating me like a sparkling,” he blurted, harsher than he meant to.
Optimus blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Ratchet turned around, still clutching the datapad like a shield. “Optimus I'm literally older than you, you don't have to constantly check up on me.”
“…Oh.” Optimus tilted his head slightly. “Does it bother you?”
“I—no,” Ratchet muttered. “Yes. Maybe. It’s just—it’s not professional.”
Optimus raised a brow ridge. “We’re not at war anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to be… pacified.”
Optimus blinked again, slow and gentle, clearly not understanding. “I only meant it fondly.”
“That’s the problem,” Ratchet muttered under his breath.
Optimus stepped forward, field flickering with concern. “You’re upset. I truly didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t,” Ratchet snapped.
Then, softer, quieter, “…You didn’t. That’s the whole fragging issue.”
Optimus looked at him for a long time. Then, “Ratchet… I check on you because I care about you. I'm sorry if it was in some way troubling. I can stop if you truly wish.”
Not the way I care about you, Ratchet thought, but kept his mouth shut before his vocalizer could take action.
Optimus’s field lingered—concerned, still close.
Ratchet kept his optics firmly on the datapad, even as every part of his frame screamed look at him, just say it, he’s right there, you coward.
But he didn’t.
He never did.
“…Forget I said anything,” Ratchet muttered, clearing his vocalizer with a rasp. “I’m just overworked.”
Optimus looked like he wanted to say something else—his helm tilted slightly, optics narrowing in that focused way of his, like he was solving some deeply frustrating political riddle—but he let it go.
“All the more reason to rest,” he said, warm again. Too warm. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow. Elita wants to begin integration with the refugee medstations in Quadrant Six.”
“I’ll be ready,” Ratchet said automatically, still not meeting his optics.
“Alright.” His tone dropped into something softer, more careful. “I’ll leave you to it. But try not to push yourself too hard.”
Ratchet didn’t respond.
And then—because of course—Optimus, that towering, benevolent, glorious walking problem, reached over and gently patted his shoulder.
“Goodnight, dearest.”
And then he left.
The door shut behind him with a hiss.
Ratchet stayed frozen for a solid twelve seconds. Then—
“…I need to reboot my entire existence.”
He set the datapad down like it might explode. With one servo he braced himself on the counter, the other scrubbing down his faceplate with a long, exhausted groan.
“How in the ever-fragging Pit can one mech weaponize a nickname like that and still not notice what it does to people?”
He paced a few steps. Stopped. Turned. Paced again.
“You’re just tired, Ratch. That’s all. Low energon. Prolonged optics exposure. That’s why hearing dearest in that tone makes your core temperature spike.”
He paused. Looked up at the ceiling. Muttered.
“…I hate him. I really, really hate him.”
A beat.
Then, defeated, “Primus, I want him to say it again.”
He groaned louder this time, sinking into the nearest chair like it might absorb him entirely. He let his helm thunk back against the wall behind him, staring at the ceiling with dead optics.
“I can fix internal coolant ruptures, I can splice shattered energon lines with one servo, but I cannot stop falling for a fragging oblivious noble idiot who keeps calling me things that make my spark ache.”
Silence. Then.
“I should start drinking with Wheeljack.”
He stood up again. Began cleaning the bench with far more force than necessary.
“No, wait. That’s how he ends up in trouble. Last thing I need is to spill my embarrassing feelings to a bunch of half-sober Wreckers.”
Pause.
“…Though at least they wouldn’t call me dearest friend every time they walked in a room.”
His optics flicked toward the door, as if half expecting Optimus to return and say it again, just to torment him.
He didn’t.
Ratchet sighed and resumed sorting his tools.
Because of course. Of course he wouldn’t mean it.
Of course it was just Optimus being kind.
He always was.
That was the whole slagging problem.
Ratchet stood outside the medbay as though the walls themselves might cave in on him if he took another step toward his actual duties. His fingers curled around the smooth surface of a cube of high-grade, lukewarm and mostly untouched, the condensation dripping down to match the slow unraveling of his dignity.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he muttered.
Across the hallway, lounging with the ease of someone waiting for his shift to start next week, Jazz tipped his helm curiously.
“You say that every day.”
“I mean it today.”
Ratchet resumed pacing, optics wild, vents wheezing. “He did it again. Used it. Casually. Like he says that to everyone. Like it’s normal.”
“Used what?” Bumblebee asked from his spot beside Jazz, visor tilted in concerned bemusement.
“That word.” Ratchet gestured vaguely, like he was trying to shoo away a ghost. “Dearest.”
“Oooooh,” Jazz said, drawing the word out. “That one.”
“Yes. That one.” Ratchet’s voice cracked under the strain. “And he said it twice. Not once. Not a fluke. A deliberate, conscious effort.”
“I mean,” Bumblebee offered, “maybe he’s flirting?”
“He’s not flirting,” Ratchet snapped. “He’s studying. He probably found an old etiquette guide and thought hmm, you know what my friendship with Ratchet needs? A 7,000-year-old term of affection.”
Jazz leaned back against the wall, sipping from his own cube. “So… what I’m hearing is: you’ve had a crush on Prime since the Pleistocene, and now he’s giving you soft affectionate nicknames, and you’re spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling, I am maintaining an entirely reasonable state of internal panic.”
“Yeah, that’s the spiraling part.”
Ratchet turned, nearly sloshing mid-grade onto the floor. “You weren’t there. He just—he walked in, asked about the energon test results, and said, ‘thank you, dearest, that was insightful.’ Insightful! As if I’m his favorite professor at the academy! As if he didn’t just casually rip open my spark chamber and pour sugar directly into the exposed circuitry!”
Bumblebee looked half-concerned, half-intrigued. “Wait… you actually like it?”
Ratchet sputtered, then drank. “That’s beside the point.”
“Ratch,” Jazz said kindly, “if I may… you are a medical professional. A decorated war medic. A survivor of more campaigns than I can count. And yet here you are, emotionally compromised by the word dearest.”
“Because it means something!” Ratchet snapped. “It should mean something. But to him it’s just a synonym for ‘comrade.’ He probably downloaded the phrase from the Cybertronian Etiquette Codex last night between meetings!”
Jazz blinked. “Wait. You know that’s what he did?”
“Knowing him, I’m sure he did, probably on a chapter titled ‘Endearments for Strengthening Platonic Bonds.’ Platonic!”
Now even Bumblebee looked sympathetic. “Oh, that’s rough, buddy.”
Ratchet took another long sip of mid-grade and nearly choked. “And the worst part? The worst part? He meant it. I thought maybe it was a fluke, a slip of the glossa, a momentary bout of heatstroke. But no. He looked me in the optics and said it like he’d been practicing in the mirror.”
“Primus, he probably was,” Jazz murmured with a grin.
“You shut your intake. I’m living through a tragedy.”
“Why don’t you tell him?” Bumblebee asked, frowning now. “That you like him?”
Ratchet froze like someone had just handed him a grenade.
“Tell him?” he echoed, horrified. “Tell Optimus Prime that I’ve been pining like a malfunctioning youngspark since before the war ended? Tell the noblest, bravest, handsomest glitch on the planet that I would crawl through broken glass for another accidental brush of his hand?”
There was a long pause.
Jazz, “Well, when you say it like that—”
Ratchet waved a servo. “No. No. I’m not doing this. I’m too old. Too bitter. Too fragile for this.”
Jazz raised a brow. “You’re fragile?”
“Emotionally!”
Bumblebee giggled into his energon.
Wheeljack, in a rare moment of self-preservation, managed not to laugh. He set the welder down with deliberate care and straightened. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been secretly, fragging pining over Optimus Prime for what—how long? Decades? Centuries?—and now he finally starts calling you sweet, ridiculous things like dearest, and your reaction is… what? Panic?”
Ratchet spun on him. “Of course I’m panicking! He’s not flirting, he’s updating his fragging lexicon! It’s a term, Wheeljack. A friendly designation. He probably learned it between studying treaties and writing thank-you notes to the Council!”
Wheeljack gave him a look.
Ratchet kept digging. “It’s like watching a tower collapse in slow motion. I see the debris coming. I see it! But it still hits me in the helm!”
“…You realize most bots would kill for their crush to call them dearest, right?”
“It doesn’t count,” Ratchet growled, turning away to pace again. “Not when it’s from a textbook. Not when it’s from Optimus Prime, who probably still signs messages with 'Yours in service.' Next, he’ll be quoting the Covenant and asking if I’d like to 'exchange circuits' like it’s a social dance.”
Wheeljack took a long, slow vent and sat on a crate that had seen better decades. He watched Ratchet for a beat, then finally muttered, “You’re a walking tragedy, Ratch. That’s what you are.”
“I’m a realist,” Ratchet shot back.
“You’re a mech with no game.”
“I’m a professional!”
Wheeljack rubbed his optics. “You’re professionally terrible at feelings.”
“I’m telling you,” Ratchet hissed, slamming down the rest of his cube and tossing the empty vessel into the bin with a clatter, “if he starts calling me another romantic nickname, I’m defecting to the Decepticons.”
“You’d last five minutes,” Jazz said.
“Three, if Starscream was there,” Bee added.
Wheeljack snorted. “Starscream would call you ‘beloved’ just to be petty.”
Ratchet shuddered violently. “Stop.”
He sighed and leaned heavily against the wall. “I’ll just… repress it. Like I always do. Back to business. Cold, clinical professionalism. If he calls me darling next I’m throwing myself off the observation deck.”
“Want me to push you?” Jazz offered helpfully.
“I’ll let you know.”
He drained the rest of his cube, muttering darkly about how Optimus’s voice was too smooth, how no one should be allowed that kind of vocal modulation and still be so emotionally unaware, and how he really needed to requisition another bottle of mid-grade before he went feral.
Bumblebee patted his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Ratchet. You’re just in love.”
Ratchet scowled. “I’ve had chassis rot that hurt less.”
Jazz snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
After a moment, Wheeljack bravely gave some advice. “…You know,” he muttered, “you could just tell him.”
Ratchet glared at him. “And you could perform self-surgery on your vocalizer. Doesn’t mean you should.”
Wheeljack raised his brows. “That bad, huh?”
Ratchet’s voice softened, just a little. “He’s my friend. My dearest friend, apparently. And I’d rather be fragged and melted before I risk losing that.”
There was a long pause. Then—
“…But you’d like to be fragged and melted by him, right?”
Ratchet, without breaking stride, walked over and smacked Wheeljack upside the helm.
“OW. Okay! Point taken. You love him. He’s an idiot. You’re a bigger one.”
“At least we agree on something.”
Wheeljack grinned. “Just keep suffering. That always works.”
Ratchet groaned and stalked back toward his quarters, muttering all the way.
And somewhere, not far away, the Autobot commander was probably flipping earnestly through another chapter titled, How to Show Gratitude Without Making It Weird, a stylus in hand and no idea whatsoever that he was slowly destroying his medic’s sanity with every well-meaning word.
Notes:
Optimus still can't figure out why ratchets so jumpy around him all of a sudden
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