Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ratchet was fine.

He was on earth, far away from anything that had hurt him. In fact, everything on the planet was rather harmless when compared with a large, metal alien. Even the few humans who seemed to dislike him and his team were no real threat, at least in his optics.

He was fine. He was safe.

So why was his spark racing out of its casing?

He sat himself on the medbay berth, servo over the windshield on his chassis. He could practically feel his spark whirling out of control, and no matter how hard his vents tried to regulate things, nothing seemed to help.

There had been a smell. That was it. He was trying his best to fix the assembly line the bots trained on, after it had started acting up while they were trying to perfect their movements. He’d found the source of the problem, eventually. It was nothing serious at all, just a bit of rust. A replacement of parts, and they’d be good as new. Yet, as he’d taken the affected parts out, rolling them over in his servos, he'd looked a bit too hard at them. At the way pieces were already chipping off, leaving dark orange marks on the tips of his off-white digits. And then the scent had hit him. A stale, metallic waft being registered in his olfactory sensors.

And, slag, it smelt exactly like the rust that infected living metal.

Cosmic rust.

Ratchet had to put all his willpower into not dropping the parts on the floor out of reflex. He tried to push the thoughts to the back of his processor, to continue working. But the scent stuck with him, and with it came unpleasant, hazy visions of the aftermath of a battlefield, millions of years ago. Piles and piles of corpses, limbs sloughing off, rendered useless by the scourge. Bots he couldn’t save fast enough. He shook his helm furiously, trying to shake off the unwanted memories, looking down at his servos again. The dark orange color spread as he rubbed his digits together, just like rust did.

He remembered when the rust had gotten him. A spray from Oil slick, and his very plating was being eaten away, frame falling apart beneath him, sensory net on fire as foreign bodies coursed through his fuel lines, rust particles spreading far and fast.

He had gotten lucky, stealing the cure from his assailant as he fled, treating the rust before it rotted through his spark casing. He remembered the praise the elite guard and Ultra Magnus had given him for procuring a cure and saving countless bots. But Ratchet knew he could’ve saved more. He always could've saved more.

Ratchet didn’t remember leaving the repair job and retreating to the medbay, but he’d done it many times before. Though he hated them, after so many years, he’d learned to recognize when a flashback was sneaking up on him, and what he could do to stop it.

The medbay was the safest place for him to ride things out, just in case something went wrong. It tended to be quiet, too, as the only bots who ventured in there were those in need of repair. And so, he sat on the berth, trying desperately to calm himself down. But none of his regular strategies were working. He tried naming every tool he saw, but he only got so far before he began associating them with field surgeries he’d had to do. More bots going offline under his servos. More needless death. He tried regulating his cooling fans, mimicking the way he’d seen humans breathe deeply to soothe themselves on TV, but that was useless, given he didn’t have lungs like they did. The more he tried to calm down, the more afraid he became. His spark was going fast. Too fast. Even for a bot in a panic. Despite his age, Ratchet had never experienced any sort of spark problems, but the way his lifeforce now spun within his frame was so violent he was surprised the very casing of it wasn’t rattling within his chassis. The vibration echoing from the depths of his chassis only grew stronger the more he thought about it, leaving him in an awful feedback loop he couldn’t escape.

What a way to go out, he thought. Any medic worth their title knew not to diagnose life-threatening conditions based on singular symptoms, but Ratchet was so consumed by panic at this point his medic coding wasn’t spared a second thought. He was going to go offline from his own lousy spark, in the medbay of all places. Even with the corners of his vision shorting out, he couldn’t help but see the humor of the situation. At least Bumblebee would get a laugh out of his death.

“Yo, Doc-bot, you in here?”

Frag. Speak of the devil.

The small yellow autobot peeked through the doorway, bright blue optics locking with Ratchet’s startled faceplate. 

Bumblebee opened his intake, but before he could get a word in, Ratchet yelled at him. “Fer cryin’ out loud, kid! Are ya trying to scare me offline?!” He pointed an accusatory digit at the much younger bot.

Bee raised his servos in defence, shrinking back. “Yikes! God forbid I look for the medic in the medbay.” He muttered, rolling his optics in that obnoxious way all the young bots seemed to do.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Ratchet huffed.

“I- The door’s wide open! What did you want me to-” Bumblebee stopped mid rant, his defensive position relaxing as he took a closer look at Ratchet. “...You alright?” He asked, changing the subject.

Ratchet tensed up instinctively. “I’m fine when I don’t have rude young bots intrudin’ on me!” He grumbled.

“No. Are you alright, like, right now?” Bee’s tone had changed, and he tilted his helm to one side in curiosity.

“What is with the stupid questions? Is me sayin’ I’m fine not enough?!”

“You’re sure?”

If it weren’t for his spark thrumming so violently, Ratchet would’ve hurled a toolbox at the yellow bug. “Fer the last time…” He began, faceplate twisting into a snarl.

“Because your spark rate is projecting on your windscreen right now.”

Bee pointed at Ratchet’s windshield, causing the older bot to look down. 

Wonderful. Indeed, the screen embedded in his windshield had picked up his own spark rate, and was displaying just how fast it was spinning in his chassis, for the entire world to see.

“I’m no doc-bot, Doc-bot, but even I know it’s not meant to go that fast.” Bee seemed concerned, which only made Ratchet more upset. The last thing he needed was for anyone to know just how much he struggled. “Do you want me to… get Optimus?” 

“Don’t,” Ratchet practically gasped, desperation seeping into his voice. He tried his best to compose himself, but it was a struggle, especially since he couldn’t seem to turn off the display on his windshield. “...Optimus doesn’t need ta know. I’m fine. Don’t bother him for no reason.”

Bumblebee narrowed his optics. Ratchet wished he was a bit less panicked so he could read the expression on the younger bot's faceplate, understand what he was thinking. It was clear Ratchet had told a terrible lie, but he was praying Bee fell for it, or didn’t care enough to push the subject further. The last thing he wanted was to fall into his own memories with someone else present, someone who didn’t know how to help him escape.

To his relief, Bumblebee shrugged, turning around. “Whatever you say, man. I’ll come back when you’re not busy.”

Ratchet couldn’t help but feel a fraction of relief as Bee began to walk away. At least he could ride things out without bothering anybody. However, on his way towards the door, the smaller bot stumbled forwards, knocking over a tray of tools in his way. Ratchet winced at the clatter of metal on the concrete floor, audio receptors ringing.

“Damnit, kid! You’ve been hangin’ around Bulkhead too much!” Some part of him felt bad for continuously yelling at Bee, but he all his systems were fighting off so much panic he didn’t have much time to conjure any other emotions.

“Yeesh! Sorry! Here, I’ll pick it up, see?!” Bee crouched down, sorting through the pile on the floor.

Ratchet supressed a groan. Why couldn’t he just suffer in peace?! He wanted to shove the yellow bot out of the way and clean things himself, but his spark was still racing so aggresively he worried even standing up would offline him. So he just watched as Bumblebee scooped things up willy-nilly.

“Hey, what’s this thingy?” Bee spun around, holding up a tool.

Ratchet furrowed his optical ridges- more in shock than in anger. “...That’s a wrench.” By the allspark, were they teaching the newer generation of autobots anything?!

“Ohh, I know them. That’s what you use to hit your gadgets so they get more powerful, right?”

“What are you- no! That’d break it!” Ratchet managed, flabbergasted.

“Oh. But that’s how it works in the videogames.” Bee shrugged, throwing the wrench in the air and catching it a few times. The third time, he missed, dropping the wrench on his pede. “YEOW!” He squealed, hopping backwards, straight into a shelf, sending several more items to the floor.

He turned around, smiling anxiously at Ratchet, who stared back at him with enough rage to wither one of Prowl’s potted plants. “Sorry! I’ll clean this stuff, too-” he began, picking up the latest pile of mess on the floor. 

As predicted, though, he quickly got sidetracked. “Whoah, doc-bot, how many weapons do you have in this place? This thing looks wicked!!” He whirled back around, wielding a new tool.

“Careful with that! That’s a laser scalpel, they don’t grow on trees!” Ratchet snapped as Bee wielded his latest find, waving around the sword-like tool.

“I bet I could slice up some decepticons with this thing!” Ratchet could only hope Bumblebee didn’t knock everything else over as he danced around the medbay.

“Because it’s not for battle, bolt-brain,” Ratchet grumbled, “it’s fer surgery. That blade is sharp down to the last atom, for precise cuts. If ya slashed a ‘con with it, the wound would be easy to fix back up. You want to leave ‘em with damage that lasts, not somethin’ that can be easily welded up.”

Bee nodded thoughtfully, putting the laser scalpel aside. “So what would be good for decepticon removal?”

“Nothin’ you need to learn about, because if I told ya, you’d go out and get yourself killed immediately trying to take ‘em out!” Ratchet huffed.

“Spoilsport.” Bee mumbled as he returned to cleaning, putting tools back on the shelf.

Once again, he didn’t stay on task for very long. “Awww! I didn’t know you still had this!” He cooed. Before Ratchet could ask, he whirled back around, showing off what he’d found. A small, stuffed animal, which seemed to resemble an earth polar bear. On its head was a nurse’s cap, thoughtfully constructed from a white sheet of foam with a red heart scribbled where a cross would usually be.

“Sari gave you this, right? So you wouldn’t be lonely in the medbay while you worked! She made the hat herself and everything… What was his name again? Icicle?”

“Her name is Nurse Popsicle.” Ratchet corrected him. He’d never admit it, but the fact Sari had given him a plushie to look over the medbay melted his sad old spark a bit, and it didn’t take up too much space, so he’d come to appreciate its presence on the shelf.

“You remembered its name? Aww, that’s so cute! I have to tell Sari!”

“You will not.” Ratchet grumbled. 

Bee sighed, once again returning to cleaning. Almost immediately, though, he had spotted something else. “Hey, what’s-”

“Oh, fer cryin’ out loud! Are you gonna ask me what every single thing is? Can’t you just pick things up quietly?” Ratchet stood up, swiping whatever had taken the smaller bots interest this time out of his servo. “Are you tryin’ to annoy me?”

“...Well, is your spark still racing?” Bee didn’t meet Ratchet’s optics, but his voice became less grating, more like a genuine question.

And Ratchet realized it wasn’t.

Bumblebee had successfully annoyed him out of a flashback. Ratchet couldn’t think of anything to say, his intake hanging open like the earth fish he’d seen on TV. The projection on his windshield has disappeared, too. He’d gotten so caught up in answering Bee’s questions and being grumpy at him that the panic that gripped him earlier had all but subsided, a mild- but much more tolerable- annoyance in its place. He ran a self-diagnosis, and his spark rate had returned to a normal range.

“I- You- How did you-” He gawked.

“I may not be good at much. I’m pretty useless, all things considered. But I’m super good at annoying people. So, sometimes, I can use it to my advantage. You feel better, right?”

Ratchet nodded, a sense of melancholy replacing the annoyance. Panic attack or not, he’d been too harsh. Bumblebee wasn’t only good at annoying people, and Ratchet felt terrible he’d contributed to him feeling that way. He tried his best to think of something to say as Bumblebee began to walk off, having cleaned up the mess he’d purposefully made- but the words got stuck in the back of his intake until Bee was nearly out the door.

“You ain’t useless, kid.” he finally managed. Bee froze in the doorway hearing Ratchet’s voice, all previous venom removed from it. When he wasn’t grumpy- which was a rarity- Ratchet’s voice was quieter, soft and comforting, though it always had a sad tone to it. “In fact… You’re a lot like me, when I was younger.”

It was Bumblebee’s turn to be shocked. He turned back around, optics wide. “Me?”

“...Maybe I wasn’t quite as loud, but yeah. I was optimistic. Curious. Headstrong. I’d do anything to help my team, my friends.” He began. Bumblebee was listening closely, and he didn’t need to say anything to get the old bot to continue. “...But there’s only so much a bot can take, before they lose that optimism. In my case, at least. I started ta go sour. Lost that light. And look where that got me. I used to wonder if, in some far off universe, that young bot I used to be got the chance to stay happy, stay curious. Until I met you.

“I need ya to promise me, kid. Promise me that, no matter what, you won’t wall yourself off. That you won’t become a sad old sack of rust like me. I wouldn’t put my worst enemy through the things I’ve seen, much less you. So, please. Whatever ya do, don’t turn out like I have.”

He lowered his helm, ashamed. Ratchet was no idiot- he was well aware of how cranky he was, and how insufferable the others must have found him. It wasn’t something he could control, not after what he’d been put through, but it didn’t mean it was a good excuse.

A smaller, yellow servo rested gently on his forearm, catching Ratchet’s attention. A sad smile was on Bee’s faceplate as he looked at the old medic, the one he'd come to respect.

“I promise, Ratchet.” He replied, voice steady and surprisingly quiet for the usually loud autobot.

“...But you don’t have to feel awful all the time. You shouldn’t be bottling everything up, either. You can talk to us, if you want. I know I’m not a great listener, but I’ll try my best.”

Ratchet couldn’t help but give a sad smile back at the young bot’s reassuring words, placing his own servo on Bee’s shoulder plate. “Maybe someday, kid. You lot are far too happy, I don’t want to go ruinin’ that with stories of my past. Maybe some day, when you’re all a bit older.”

“Pff, and sadder?” The edges of Bee’s optics crinkled in a mix of humor and confusion. 

“Everyone gets sad when they’re old. Fraggin’ look at me.” Ratchet gestured to himself, earning a snort from Bumblebee, which he tried to hide. “I’m just hopin’ none of ya turn out quite as sad as I am.”

“Like you’d let us.” Bee grinned.

“Exactly. Now shoo, kid. I’ve gotta find the parts to fix up the assembly line for you lot.”

“You’re feeling better?”

“Much better. And I’ll be feelin’ great if I get a moment of peace.” The cheeky smile on his face made it clear his comment was lighthearted, but Bumblebee took the hint nonetheless, dipping back through the door, waving one last goodbye as he did so.

Ratchet continued smiling to himself as he collected up the parts. Damn kid couldn’t even let him wallow in his misery… But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Chapter Text

The base was quiet. Ratchet loved quiet.

Optimus Prime and Bulkhead were taking their turn on patrol, keeping an eye on the city in case trouble arose. Sari and Bumblebee had disappeared before he woke that morning, though checking the base's computer revealed they were headed to the arcade from the movie theatre, which meant they likely wouldn’t be back for a while.

Prowl was nowhere to be found, but that wasn’t alarming. The ninja-bot had an infernal habit of sneaking around everywhere, whether he was being hunted or not. Sure, it came in handy when they were threatened, and Prowl was able to sneak off to disarm their foes, but Ratchet didn’t get the point of… prowling around when there was nobody out to get you. He understood the usefulness of stealth, of course- Memories filling his processor of muffling wounded bot’s cries and silencing his own engines to avoid being detected by decepticons swooping overhead like earth’s vultures. He just didn’t understand the need to be stealthy all the time. Not like it mattered, though. As long as Prowl wasn’t bothering him, Ratchet found he couldn’t care less. 

Yes, Ratchet loved quiet. But he was still cranky that morning, for a different reason.

It had been bothering him for a few days by that point- the ache echoing from his old wounds, slowly getting more noticeable. There weren’t many times Ratchet was pain-free, to be fair- unless he’d used some more recreational substances, but that was hard to get away with in a base full of younger bots- nightmare scenarios popped into his processor of Bumblebee discovering his stash and stealing it all, though he doubted the young bot had touched anything stronger than high grade. That would be a disaster.

Most of the time, though, the pain was manageable. Easy to ignore, after so many years dealing with it. The pain had followed him since the beginning of the war, even before his encounter with Lockdown- the simple stress of the battlefield and lack of maintenance to his own frame in order to save others built up overtime, though the wounds the bounty hunter had left him with tended to be where the worst of the pain congregated. Which was what had been happening recently.

He sighed, optical ridges furrowed as he used the servo of his ‘good’ arm to attempt to massage the tension out of his scarred one. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference, and the wires and pistons of his forearm remained tight and cramped, no matter what he tried. The jagged edge of his broken chevron had no sensors in it, but the surrounding plating of his helm had also been damaged in the attack, leaving it tender and sore as well. Ratchet grumbled to himself as he continued massaging the exposed wires in his forearm- it was something the rest of his team had some kind of morbid curiosity about, the old wound he sported. To be fair, it wasn’t every day one saw a bot with a chunk of their armor plating missing, especially when they never got it fixed. Truth be told, Ratchet had gotten it repaired a few times, but the replacement metal never seemed to take, always eventually rusting away. Hypothesises of his fellow scientists varied- some thought he had sustained trauma from the incident that caused the scar, leaving his processor unable to integrate new repairs into his frame, while others wondered if his exposure to cosmic rust had left some trace of the bioweapon dormant in his system, only waking up to disintegrate any attempts at patching his battered frame up. Ratchet couldn’t say he cared what caused it- either way, he was stuck with a chunk of his frame missing, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

He ground his dentae in frustration as the pain got worse, despite his constant attempts at relieving the tension. The distress ran hot beneath his armor plating as his scowl grew more and more prominent. Why couldn’t he have one nice, quiet morning?!

Beneath the anger and the pain, another sensation caused the energon in his fuel lines to run cold, quenching the heat of frustration in his frame.

A sensation he knew well from lifetimes spent at war.

Someone was watching him.

The lenses in his optics shrunk to pinpricks, frame acting before his processor had a chance to register, still on edge after so many years. He whirled around and clamped a servo over what looked to be empty air. Ratchet knew better, though. Sure enough, under his panicked, feral gaze, the air began to shift and warp- Revealing the black and gold ninja-bot whose neck Ratchet had grasped, dangling in the air, a startled expression on his visor.

Ratchet’s optics refocused as he realized the perceived intruder was only Prowl, but he didn’t release his captive. Instead, his expression of fear shifted into one of anger as he stared Prowl down.

“How many times do I have to tell ya not to go sneakin’ around like that!” Ratchet snarled, pointing an accusatory digit at the slim bot with his free servo. “Next time, you won’t be so lucky, and I’ll crush yer neck before I realize you’re not a decepticon intruder!”

“Apologies. I was merely training in the art of being silent-” Prowl began in his soft, steady voice, a stark contrast to Ratchet’s harsh one.

“I don’t care what hippie teachings you abide by, you leave me outta them! Eventually, you’ll stumble across somethin’ not even an EMP blast will erase from your processor, and you’re gonna regret it!”

Prowl didn’t want to think too long about that scenario, instead narrowing his visor at Ratchet. “You’re more upset than usual today.” He observed.

“More than usual?! What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Irritable. Jumpy. You know… Upset.” He explained, still dangling from Ratchet’s servo.

“I wonder why that would be the case… could it be to do with the fact I’m being stalked by my own teammate?!” Ratchet never understood how the bot stayed so calm, but it tended to get irritating- especially juxtaposed with his own short fuse.

“I’d hardly call it stalking. More like an observation.”

“Whatever it is, it’s creepy, and you should cut it- AGH!”

Ratchet released Prowl suddenly as white-hot sparks flew from the old wound on his forearm as the pistons in it contracted tighter, causing him to shout. Prowl rolled as he hit the ground to save face, remaining in a crouched position as he looked up at the old medic. Ratchet went back to trying to soothe the old wound, wiping the soot from the sparks off of his paint job as he did so, continuing to hiss in pain quietly.

“That’s not meant to happen.” Prowl observed after a while when Ratchet’s faceplate still hadn’t un-grimaced.

“Congratulations, doctor Prowl, where’d ya get your certification?” Ratchet shot back sarcastically.

“I’ve learned that stress can agitate chronic pain.” He added.

“I’m not chronic anything, apart from chronically sick of you lot! And I’m not stressed!” Ratchet barked, turning his back. It was a flimsy lie and they both knew it. Ratchet never liked being open about the pain he was in, not wanting any of his team to pity him. There was nothing he hated more than the pitying looks bots back on cybertron would give him on the rare occasion he ventured outside. It made him feel like even more of a burden.

“So those sparks were completely natural? If any of us came to you with sparking wounds, old or new, you’d chew our audials off for being reckless.” Prowl countered.

“That’s… different.”

“How so? Just because you’re the medic?”

“Y’know, fer a bot who preaches the power of silence, you sure don’t know when to shut up,” Ratchet growled.

“I like to speak out when I’m concerned my teammates aren’t taking proper care of themselves.” Prowl corrected, putting his servos on his hips.

“Well, I’m takin’ care of myself just fine, so you go back to creepin’ around like some… Earth rat.”

Prowl didn’t feel like now would be a good time to tell Ratchet just how resilient and interesting rats were. But he wasn’t about to give up, not when there was pain he had a chance of fixing. He walked towards the door, pausing and gesturing for Ratchet to follow with a jerk of the helm. Ratchet looked at him like he was insane. “I mean, you can stay here until your servo seizes so hard your whole arm drops off, or you can come with me. I have something to show you.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Better be a written apology and some high-grade.” He scoffed, trailing behind Prowl. Out of boredom, not curiosity, he told himself.

The abandoned factory they’d taken as their base was huge. It had to be, to accommodate large metal aliens, but even so, the bots tended to keep to the less destroyed parts of the place, where the power still worked and they didn’t have to worry about leaks causing their joints to rust. There were entire sections of the plot none of them had explored. Or, more accurately, none of them apart from Prowl. It made sense, Ratchet thought to himself, given the amount of times Prowl seemingly vanished into thin air. One of the upsides (if one could even call it that) of being in the great war meant Ratchet was far better at sensing things than his more naive teammates, sensors always checking for dangers or decepticon spies. This meant, even when he was camouflaged, Prowl rarely escaped his keen optics. But there were still times when Prowl seemed to drop off the map entirely, though he still always showed up quickly when he was commed. He must’ve been sneaking off to these overgrown, unused sections of the base to relax. It meant Prowl trusted him enough to let him into his hiding spot… Either that or Prowl was stupider than Ratchet had been led to believe.

Eventually, Prowl paused, putting a servo out to indicate for Ratchet to stop, too.

They had gotten to a room. The surrounding building had collapsed, and had been reclaimed by what little nature thrived in the city, but the room itself seemed relatively intact. Inside it was… Junk. Not trash, but useless things. Human-sized folders full of paperwork, old computer screens which probably hadn’t booted up since they went into emergency stasis when entering the atmosphere 50 odd years ago. Broken brooms and old cups and plates- a quick scan revealing they were lead contaminated and unsafe for humans to consume from- littered old tables and cabinets, as well as all manner of other random bric-a-brac which had remained untouched for a long, long time. 

Ratchet raised an optical ridge, unsure why Prowl had brought him to what appeared to be an old human office room. Maybe he was breaking into Ratchet’s stash.

“Well?” He inquired, tilting his helm.

“Start breaking things.” Prowl instructed.

By the allspark. He had to be smoking Ratchet’s supply. Prowl had lost it. Before Ratchet could open his intake to ask how much he’d ingested, Prowl continued. “Many people, like myself, relieve our stress by calming ourselves. Be it through meditation, or perhaps the human hobby of art or other things they enjoy, they are able to feel better and more at ease. Others, though, find it easier to relieve stress by venting their anger physically. Breaking things, yelling, fighting. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, if controlled.”

“Where are ya goin’ with this?” Ratchet wrinkled his nasal ridge in confusion.

“It’s a human concept, I believe they call it Rage Rooms. Areas full of old or unused objects that humans can destroy to release stress.”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Only organics could come up with something so foolish.” He grunted.

“I believe the humans also say ‘don’t knock it ‘till you try it’.”

“So you really think breakin’ a bunch of garbage and making a mess will help me feel better?”

“It’s a hypothesis. At the very least, it could distract you from the pain for a while. You’ve got nothing to lose by trying it out.”

“I’d look like a fraggin’ moron,” Ratchet countered.

“Part of the experience.” Prowl shrugged.

Ratchet sighed, but wandered into the room regardless, muttering something under his breath about hypothesises and how Prowl wasn’t enough of a scientist to be using such words. He was just doing this to prove the ninja-bot wrong, he told himself. He scooped up an old office chair, observing it in the palm of his servo. 

He didn’t move to destroy it. He couldn’t. Ratchet had spent his whole life fixing things, even before the war. He knew his way around machines, inside and out, sentient or not. In his prime, he’d been one of cybertrons finest medics. There had been talks of promoting him to chief of all medical operations after the end of the war.

Alas, it had fallen through. The war had left him too broken for such things. Ultra Magnus claimed it was for his own health and to keep him safe, but Ratchet was no fool. Having a bot who couldn’t even piece himself back together as the head of medicine wasn’t a good look. Ultra Magnus wanted the autobots to appear as strong as possible, which Ratchet wasn’t. He was old and useless. Just like the junk surrounding him in the abandoned room.

The realization caused him to ball his servo into a fist, crushing the office chair in it. The perished plastic backing splintered and flaked and he heard the distressed creak of the steel pipe making up its singular leg bending. Old, useless and broken. He snarled and hurled it at the wall with all his force.

It was easier to get into things after that. He started crushing more office chairs, throwing them at different things in the room, before grabbing a filing cabinet, crushing the furniture between his servos the way Sari would crinkle her soda cans up, kicking it away. The more he broke, the more invested he became, throwing things around, engines roaring loudly as smoke began to spill from the vents on either side of his helm. Dense, black and angry-looking.

Prowl sat cross-legged in the doorway, observing the destruction. He had to admit, it was incredible, though he felt bad that he hadn’t offered the idea to the medic sooner. Ratchet seemed to have a lot of stress to work through. The thing that intrigued him the most was the sheer strength his teammate exhibited. Sure, he was a beefy bot, but Prowl had never seen him punch a hole through the wall like that. It would take hours of meditation before Prowl gathered enough strength to even think of trying something similar. With the sheer strength Bulkhead possessed, it was easy to overlook how powerful the others were, but as Prowl watched on, he was sure this much fury and raw power could take out a decepticon. 

He realized, though, as Ratchet snapped a table over his helm, splinters of wood flying off his red chevron, that the old medic wasn’t usually so strong. It was the pent-up stress, the cycles of being ashamed of himself, the fact he had nobody to talk to about anything. It must have been burning through his fuel lines like super-charged energon, allowing him to turn the room before him to dust.

Ratchet wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he finally dropped to his knee guards, cooling fans working overtime to bring his frame’s temperature back down. He stared at his servos, unable to think too hard about anything. The smoke spilling from his vents became less intense, being replaced with a mild, almost vapor-like mist. After a while, Prowl walked over, kneeling next to him.

“How are you feeling, Ratchet?” He asked gently. He’d learned his lesson about sneaking up on the veteran.

Ratchet didn’t answer for a while, merely staring at the floor. “...I made a mess.” He eventually muttered, glancing at the room around him.

He was right. The entire room was trashed, and light spilled in from the holes he’d  punched through some of the walls. "That's alright. I’ll clean it up.” Prowl reassured, though he doubted there was any point- every object in the room had been reduced to nothing but shattered remains.

It took a while longer for Ratchet to look up at Prowl. “It doesn’t hurt. My arm. It doesn’t hurt.” He breathed, almost unable to believe it. A small, giddy smile crept onto his faceplate as he rotated it, joints and pistons no longer misfiring and cramping as he did so. “Prowl, you’re a genius.”

“Hardly. I just wanted to help out a friend.” Prowl admitted. Ratchet seemed happier, and it made Prowl feel more relaxed too. He extended a servo, which the old medic took- surprising the both of them. He helped pull Ratchet up from his seated position, and they held each other's servos for a second longer, Ratchet shaking his gently in a gesture of appreciation.

“...Maybe I should learn a bit more about yer ‘hippie teachings’.” Ratchet admitted as he let go, embarrassed he had been so unwilling to try Prowl’s idea at first.

“I doubt it. The team struggles enough with me as it is, another ninja-bot is sure to spell disaster.” Prowl smiled. “Though, if it interests you, there are always human demolition crews who I’m sure would appreciate your volunteer work.”

“I don’t know if it’s… somethin’ I want others to see.” Ratchet admitted, averting his gaze again.

“That’s understandable, too. If you want, I could talk to Fanzone. Figure something out. If it got one machine out of his hair for a while, I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”

“There ain’t much hair left on his head to begin with,” Ratchet grinned. “...Don’t do it right away, though. I’ll let ya know if I ever need it.”

Prowl nodded in understanding. “You know where to find me.”

Ratchet was the first to snort. It wasn’t even a joke, but the fact the one bot who was infamously hard to find had said it… it tickled something in his sour old systems. Prowl was quick to follow suit, giggling at his own foolish statement. Their combined laughter grew, until both bots- usually some of the sternest on the team- were doubled over, howling at something utterly stupid. Between ugly cackles, Ratchet smiled to himself. Despite the hilarity of the statement, he knew now that he could always go to Prowl to talk.

And, hopefully, Prowl would always be there for him to talk with.

Chapter Text

The sun cast a warm light on Bulkhead as he stood in the courtyard of the base. After a while, the heat from it tended to become irritating, but a pleasant spring breeze floated through the air, keeping his plating from growing uncomfortably hot. He found himself coming to enjoy the ‘seasons’ earth had, each one bringing interesting changes to the organic planet. Like Autumn, when all the leaves on the trees had gone gorgeous shades of reds and oranges, before all dropping off, leaving the trees looking barren as the cooler weather rolled in and winter took over, blanketing everything in snow. Bulkhead couldn’t say he understood the exact sciences behind it, but it was a beautiful, soft white when it first hit the ground, and chilled his servos when he’d scoop some of it up.

The earth was so full of constantly shifting colors and emotions that Bulkhead simply had to paint it. The longer he spent on earth, the more he managed to wrap his processor around the whole “art” thing, and the more he enjoyed it. He found that, the less he thought about it and the more he followed his spark, the more fun he had. He dipped his ‘Paintbrush’- an old mop- into a bucket of paint, adding some wandering, spiralling strokes of pink onto his canvas, like the flower petals dancing through the air with the breeze. Sometime, he needed to ask Sari to take him out into the forest, where apparently the nature was far more incredible, but for now he was content to sit in the courtyard, painting colors and patterns, interpreting the life spring brought in his own way. The silence was pleasant, too- he loved his teammates to death, but it was nice to just have a break from time to time. 

His comfortable solitude could only last so long, though. Bulkhead picked up on a familiar sound amidst the birdsong- old, squeaky joints, creaking rhythmically as their owner grew closer. There was only one bot Bulkhead knew whose joints made such a sad sound.

Sure enough, in the corner of his field of view, he caught sight of Ratchet, a mug in one servo, the other rubbing his optics. He looked rough- rougher than usual, at least. Bulkhead knew Ratchet wasn’t too much of a morning person- even before they crash-landed on earth, if they didn’t have any repairs to do, Ratchet often wouldn’t make an appearance on the ship until midday at least. Maybe that was why he was more hunched over than usual, and the bags under his optics seemed even larger- which was saying something.

“Good morning, Doc-bot.” Bulkhead smiled sweetly, waving his free servo.

“Ain’t nothing good about it. One of you used up the last of the iron shavings, I have to drink my morning oil plain.” He grumbled, bringing the steaming mug up to his face. On earth, energon was nowhere near as abundant, but the team quickly found they could fuel with human alternatives, instead. In fact, Bulkhead found oil quite tasty, but Ratchet was very picky about his. If it didn’t have the right minerals dropped into it, it was ‘worse than old battery acid’, in Ratchet’s words. “Was it you?”

“I don’t think so… I like my oil plain.” Bulkhead shrugged. He’d seen Bumblebee munching on some iron shavings the day before, but he wasn’t about to throw his little buddy under the bus- or, more accurately, ambulance.

“Where’s the others, so I can give ‘em a piece of my mind?” Ratchet inquired.

“They’re out with Sari. Doing some safety presentations at a kindergarten, so they won’t be back for a while. I stayed behind, because I’m not exactly the most safe bot.” Bulkhead shrugged. His feelings weren’t at all hurt by being asked to stay behind- He was more than happy to have some painting time to himself.

Ratchet, on the other hand, seemed rather indignant at the fact he’d been excluded, a scowl forming on his faceplate. “They didn’t wanna take me, either? The ambulance? That’s practically the safest vehicle out!” he grumbled.

Bulkhead resisted the urge to roll his optics. Besides Sari, who he still tried to pretend he didn’t care for, Ratchet wasn’t too keen on humans, especially small, extra squishy, loud and messy ones. He probably would complain if he had been invited, too. Not to mention he tended to forget a lot of earth’s driving laws- despite always nagging Bumblebee about the same issue.  “They thought you’d prefer to rest.” He replied.

“Rest? Why on earth would they think that?”

“You mean you don’t like sleeping in? I thought everyone liked that. Even Bumblebee!”

“Just because I like it, doesn’t mean I should be allowed to! If every bot got to recharge for as long as they wanted, we woulda lost the war!” Ratchet huffed. “Prime’s not soft enough to bend the rules for one old rust bucket. Unless I severely overestimated his competence.”

If Bulkhead were human, a trickle of sweat would’ve dripped down his face, like he’d seen in the cartoons. He’d talked himself into a corner- there was another reason the rest of the team wanted to let him recharge for a bit longer. “...Well… We- um- they-... They’ve been hearing screams coming from your quarters at night over the past few days.” Bulkhead admitted, staring very intently at his canvas as to not meet Ratchet’s optics.

“I must be havin’ nightmares about my lousy team.” The old medic mumbled, though it seemed more like a deflection than a statement he believed as his shoulders drooped.

Bulkhead knew he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but he was appalled that Ratchet thought he’d believe that even for a second. It was obvious to any bot with functioning audio receptors that Ratchet’s nightmares weren’t about something so petty. The screams echoing from his quarters were ones of fear, of grief. In his brief time at the academy, Bulkhead had heard stories of old bots who’d fought in the war having nightmares about their experiences. Sentinel had said they were just going mushy in the processor, that surely it wasn’t that big of a deal. But Sentinel had never gotten to know any of those bots. He hadn’t witnessed the nightmares in person like Bulkhead had. Of course, it wasn’t like he’d been right there- but a few times at night, when he’d be sneaking around to grab a midnight snack or go talk to Bee, he’d walked past the hallway where Ratchet’s room was, and he’d heard just how upset the medic sounded. It broke Bulkhead’s spark. He wished there was some way he could reach in and pull the nightmares straight from Ratchet’s processor.

“...Do you wanna talk about it?” Bulkhead asked, voice quiet.

“About what? There’s nothing to say.” Ratchet denied, despite how obvious it was from the way his joints complained twice as loudly from exhaustion as he brought the mug of oil to his intake.

Bulkhead barely stifled a sigh. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy to get the ever-stubborn old bot to open up about his feelings. He wasn’t a quitter, though. He had other ideas. “...Do you wanna paint with me? There’s a spare brush and canvas over there.” He gestured, drops of pink paint landing on his pede as he did so.

Ratchet seemed flabbergasted at the very idea. He made a few attempts at voicing his confusion, before giving up, turning around and storming back inside.

Okay, that was Bulkhead’s last idea. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected Ratchet to agree to painting with him, knowing the medic’s thoughts on the human tradition of ‘art’. It had been worth a shot, though, and while Bulkhead still felt bad he wasn’t able to help Ratchet at all, at least he had peace and quiet to do his painting once more.

It wasn’t too long after, though, that a figure entered his peripheral vision once more. Ratchet hadn’t left- he hung back in the doorway, observing Bulkhead carefully. The bigger bot pretended not to notice he was being watched, turning his attention back to his work. Slowly, ever so slowly, Ratchet crept back out from the base, closer and closer to Bulkhead. The latter watched him from the corner of his optic, but never looked at him fully, not wanting to startle Ratchet back into the base like some kind of skittish earth animal. Ratchet would have been very stealthy, if it wasn’t for the obnoxiously loud creeeeaks his joints would emit as he slowly edged forwards.

Eventually, he reached one of the canvases, staring at it suspiciously as if something was going to leap out and bite him. Bulkhead still pretended to be unaware of Ratchet, but observed as the older bot picked up a spare mop-paintbrush in his servo. He held it in a much more civilized manner, grasped expertly in his five digits compared to Bulkhead’s three. He stared at the canvas some more, as if trying to project an image onto it straight from his own optics. After a while, though, he dipped his brush in some paint and started making strokes on the page. It was hard to see exactly what the painting was, given Bulkhead was trying to focus on his own work at the same time, and also only has a view of Ratchet in his peripheral, but he watched as Ratchet makes harsh strokes of a deep, reddish-pink across the canvas. A color so striking that, for a worrying moment, Bulkhead thought it was spilled energon. He wasn’t sure if that was what Ratchet was going for- or if Ratchet was going for anything- but with how violently he ran the brush across his canvas, stray drops landing everywhere, Bulkhead wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

And so, the two painted, neither saying a word to the other. Bulkhead continued to work in light tones- spring greens, pastel pinks and purples, a few streaks of eggshell blue when he caught sight of a bird’s nest, three dainty eggs sitting inside it. His work was full of life which seemed to radiate off the canvas. It was a stark contrast to Ratchet, who had moved on from the worrying shade of pink, harsh strokes of jet black swiping over them, muddying in places where the previous layer hadn’t quite dried. Bulkhead still couldn’t make out what was on the canvas, but Ratchet seemed to be getting into it, a stern, serious expression set on his faceplate unlike Bulkhead’s relaxed one. The larger bot just hoped Ratchet’s painting was helping him feel better, not worse.

They finished their works at around the same time. Bulkhead took a step back, admiring all the delicate patterns he’d painted into his piece, whorls and dancing lines weaving into one another, pleasant, happy colors soothing his optics. He was quite proud of it. Finally, Bulkhead allowed himself to glance over at Ratchet’s piece as the older bot stared at it, no discernible expression of pride nor disgust on his faceplate. Bulkhead’s optics followed Ratchet’s, landing on his painting.

It was incredible. Raw. Messy, yes, but in a way that made the whole thing feel alive. The whole thing was done in the hot pink energon-adjacent color and plain, empty black. As Bulkhead looked closer, he made more details of the painting out. Crudely-painted servos, reaching out, coated in energon, alongside despaired, screaming faces, melting into one another and the colors they contrasted, turning a muddy, sickly brown in places they overlapped too much. The emotion seeping from the painting was so intense Bulkhead could feel the terror encapsulated in it in his very spark, as if he had been there, seeing what Ratchet had seen. Ratchet hadn’t told Bulkhead about the things he’d seen in the war, of course, but a painting like the one they stood in front of didn’t come from the mind of a happy, trauma-free individual. Splatters of pink and black had landed on ratchet himself, starkly contrasting his old, off-white paint job.

“Whoah.” Bulkhead finally spoke up, causing Ratchet to jump slightly, having been so caught up in his own work he hadn’t noticed the giant figure behind him. “Ratchet, this is… whoah. This is the type of stuff they put in those big museum thingies. This is great.”

Ratchet didn’t reply, simply picking up his painting, looking over it closely. “It’s so good. For your first try, too!” Bulkhead continued. “My first attempt was terrible compared to something like this! We should- call up a gallery, or something. People would love to see th-”

He froze mid-sentence as Ratchet raised the canvas into the air, before bringing it down and breaking it over his knee guard. The bigger bot watched, horrified, as the frame holding the amazing work splintered, Ratchet snapping more pieces of it between his servos, until the piece sat in a sad pile on the concrete floor of the courtyard. Before Bulkhead could get a word in, a blowtorch popped from the seemingly endless menagerie of tools Ratchet kept on him at all times, extending on a wire from his back kibble. Ratchet knelt, setting the corner of the pile alight, watching as the flame slowly grew and engulfed the whole piece.

Before Bulkhead’s jawpiece fell off his faceplate entirely from shock, Ratchet finally spoke up. “It isn’t for human eyes. It isn’t fer anyone’s eyes. It’s just a way to get some rotten feelings outta my frame that’ve been wellin’ up in there for a while.”

The two stood silently for a while, watching as the fire died down until nothing but a pile of smoldering embers remained.

“...I’m sorry.” Bulkhead said quietly after a while. “I didn’t realize the actual meaning of it.”

“There wasn’t a meaning,” Ratchet reassured, “I just needed a way to get those images out of my processor. Hopefully they stay gone for a while.”

Bulkhead wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but Ratchet seemed a bit less worn down than he had when he first appeared in the door to the courtyard that morning. He stood up straighter, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and the disgruntled scowl adorning his faceplate was replaced with a more neutral, peaceful expression. 

“The offer to talk is still open, if you want.” Bulkhead reminded him- not in a pushy way, merely to reassure his friend that he was always there if Ratchet wanted to talk.

“The picture said everything I wanted to say.” Ratchet scuffed the embers of the painting's remains beneath his pede, turning his attention to Bulkhead’s piece. “Your piece is far better than mine, anyway.”

“Really? I- Didn’t you not like this whole ‘art’ thing?” Bulkhead questioned, shocked to receive a compliment from Ratchet of all people.

“Never said I didn’t like it. Just said I didn’t get it- I still don’t. But these colors aren’t too hard on the eye.” He put his servos on his hips, observing the remaining painting the same way Bulkhead had seen him do when he watched the TV- Sari had dubbed it his ‘interested father stance’, saying her dad posed similarly. 

“I like painting colors that make me feel happy.” Bulkhead admitted sheepishly.

“Keep doin’ it if it makes you happy, kid. That’s why it looks so much better than mine, I’d say. You've got no idea how important bein’ happy is.” Even with his back to Bulkhead, the green bot could tell Ratchet was smiling softly. He took Ratchet’s advice seriously, even if it seemed like relatively common knowledge- something about hearing it from Ratchet made it sound even more important.

“Thanks, doc-bot.” Bulkhead smiled as Ratchet turned back around to head inside. “...If you ever wanna paint again, feel free to use my stuff, as long as you don’t use up any of my expensive supplies.” He added, though he doubted Ratchet would consider it.

Sure enough, he heard a scoff. “Fat chance,” Ratchet mumbled as he made his way back. To Bulkhead's surprise, though, he paused in the doorway, turning back around with a genuine smile on his faceplate. “...I appreciate the offer, though. Thanks, kid.” He added, before finally disappearing through the door.

Bulkhead was left in the courtyard, reeling. Ratchet, of all bots, had thanked him? He almost couldn’t believe the series of events that had just unfolded, yet a warmth blossomed in his chassis from knowing he had helped his friend. Bulkhead smiled, leaning down to pick out the colors to use for his next piece- deciding to mix some very familiar shades of red and white. Maybe, if he painted with those, some of his happiness would find its way to Ratchet, too.

Chapter Text

Optimus Prime considered himself patient. It was one of the skills every great leader possessed, the ability to ride out boring tasks for the greater good of his team. He’d had plenty of experience, long flights to spacebridges in need of repair where he’d need to keep watch to make sure the ship didn’t stray off course or run into a field of asteroids. But being on earth, where there was a new foe or some other conundrum every other day, meant he’d gotten used to always having something to do, somewhere to be. Even just being on patrol, he was able to watch the city go by, and see the day-to-day happenings of humans. It was far more interesting than the TV the younger team members found themselves glued to, he thought. 

But every now and then, he was stuck on monitoring duty. Watching over the computer at the base in case any sudden alerts popped up. And, as un-Prime-like as it was, he was bored. It wasn’t like he was stuck in one place- as long as the computer was in range of his audio receptors he could do whatever he pleased. But the rest of his team was out patrolling, and Optimus found he got lost in his thoughts without somebody to talk to. And those thoughts tended to turn bad rather quickly, reminding himself of all the failures he’d accumulated over his life. It was easy to get lost, staring blankly at the computer screen.

His saviour came in the form of one Sari Sumdac, who walked into the room, kicking a pebble as she went. 

“Sari!” Optimus tried to hide the sigh of relief whoosh-ing from his vents, his finials perking up. Usually, Sari would join one of the other bots on patrol, but it seems this time she had decided against it. “How are you?”

“Hmph.” Was all the girl responded with, kicking the rock harder- or at least trying to, her foot missing its target and scuffing against the floor awkwardly, causing the scowl on her tiny face to grow ever darker. It was abundantly clear to the Prime that something was upsetting her.

“Hey, now, what’s the matter?” His voice softened as he knelt down, offering a servo for Sari to climb onto. He’d developed quite a soft spot for the human child- something he was sure Ultra magnus would disapprove of. But Ultra Magnus was lightyears away, and he didn’t know just how sweet humans could be. 

Sari sat in Optimuses servo as she was lifted back into the air, but still crossed her arms and frowned. “It starts with ‘R’ and ends with ‘atchet’.” She grumbled.

Oh dear. Optimus knew the old medic tended to irk the younger team members at times, with his grumpy attitude and seeming dislike of everything. Optimus couldn’t say he blamed Ratchet entirely- if he was a veteran and had to put up with under-trained ‘younguns’ all day, he’d surely blow a fuse too. But he knew the medic could sometimes be needlessly cranky. “What about Ratchet?”

“I was watching my favourite music video on the TV and dancing to it! Y’know, having fun! And in comes Ratchet, going on some rant about how I needed to turn it down and how I was being too loud and kids these days have no respect! And when I tried to tell him I was just dancing, he turned off the tv!” She ranted, gesticulating wildly to add to her story.

Optimus hummed. It sounded like Ratchet was in the wrong this time- He’d seen Sari dancing earlier in the day, and she seemed to just be having harmless fun. “I’ll have a talk with him about being more polite.” Optimus reassured her, but it didn’t seem to do much.

“That never works! How many times have you tried that now? He’s a bit better for a day and then goes right back to being miserable! He’s such a grouch all the time, even compared to you!”

“To me?” Optimus was unaware he was ‘grouchy’.

Sari didn’t pay attention to his query. “I don’t get it! Does he get an excuse to be a big fat meanie just because he’s old? That’s hardly fair! Or do you guys have some coding that makes you nasty and cranky when you get too old? If I act like that when I get older, please tell me you’ll squish me.”

Optimus sighed. He knew this conversation would have to come eventually, but he still wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to explain why Ratchet was the way he was to someone so young. Trauma was a complex topic, one Optimus could never dream of understanding fully, despite having his fair share of it. But Sari deserved to know why Ratchet could come off as mean. He was going to have to explain PTSD to an eight year old.

“It’s not coding. Ratchet shouldn’t be as rude as he is, and I’ll make sure to talk to him about that, but… He’s been through a lot.” Optimus began to explain, sitting Sari on the desk in front of him.

“So what? You’ve all been through a lot, and the rest of you guys are nice to me!” Sari shot back, arms crossed. “That’s a lame excuse.”

“Sari, how much do you know about the Great War?”

That question caught her attention, simply because it was so out of nowhere. “The one your species fought? I only know what you’ve told me, and that Ratchet fought in it, and it’s why the decepticons hate your guts. Why?”

Optimus sighed, finials drooping. “Ratchet… went through a lot in the war. A lot.” It wasn’t his information to divulge, but Optimus didn’t have to go into specifics. Just enough to help Sari understand. “He lost a lot of friends. A lot of family. Imagine if we lost Bee, Bulkhead, and Prowl. Ratchet’s had to deal with that. But he didn’t get time to grieve. He had to keep fighting, keep losing more and more.”

Optimus felt his spark grow heavy, remembering the specifics Ratchet had shared with him. “The wounds he has. His missing chevron and the chunk from his forearm. The war did that to him. It was so bad, he… They just never healed.” Images of Lockdown’s grin flashed through the Prime’s processor from his own encounter with the bounty hunter, and he rubbed his own forearm- his modifications had been returned to him before it was too late. Ratchet hadn’t been so lucky. “He still feels the pain in them sometimes. From other internal damage, too. That’s why he might be extra upset some days.”

Sari’s eyes were wide, brows knitted with concern, a far cry from the anger that had been on her face a moment ago. After a moment to process what she’d been told, she spoke up. “Tutorbot taught me about something like that. From the wars on our planet. Some soldiers went to war and didn’t come back the same. The army doctors called it shellshock because they didn’t know what it was. There was a proper name for it, but it was some series of letters I don’t remember.”

“That’s similar to what happened with our Ratchet,” Optimus explained. He could only hope he had explained it gently enough for such a young organic. He input some commands into the computer, causing an image to flash on the screen, which Sari turned around to look at.

It was Ratchet, but a lot younger. Helm intact, frame fit and healthy. A cheeky smile was on his faceplate, a light in his optics that Sari had never seen. “This is what he looked like before the war. When he was…”

“...More like us.” Sari finished the sentence. She walked closer to the screen, Optimus scooping her up once more so she could get a closer look. Gently, she reached out a single, tiny hand, running it down the side of Ratchet’s helm, as if she could reassure him through the screen.

“If I was hurting all the time, I think I’d be grumpy, too.” She reasoned, never looking away from the old picture. “I hope I never have to hurt that much.”

“You won’t have to, not while he’s around. Ratchet will go offline before he lets anything hurt us.” Optimus closed out of the image, depositing Sari on his shoulder. “It’s not an excuse for him to be nasty all the time, of course. I just want you to know he’s not mad for no reason. He wants to protect us all, even if he’s bad at showing it sometimes.”

A smile finally returned to Sari’s face as she petted Optimus reassuringly. “I get it. I’ll try to remember that when he’s being a sour old fart again.”

That got a snort out of the autobot. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” He warned with a chuckle. “...Don’t tell him I told you any of this, either. The last thing Ratchet wants is pity.”

“I don’t pity him! I think he’s super strong now. Well, maybe not as strong as Bulkhead, but like… In his brain. But I’ll keep my mouth shut, promise!” She made a zip-lipping gesture to reassure the Prime.

Optimus smiled softly back at her. “There’s one last thing… I just don’t want to alarm you with it.”

“C’mon, I can take it! Yesterday Bee and I played a scary game and I only cried once!”

Optimus furrowed his optical ridges, reminding himself to scold Bumblebee at a later date. “...Sometimes, if he’s stressed, or something’s reminded him of the war, Ratchet can get… lost in his own memories.”

“Like the flashbacks in the movies?”

“Similar. I’d say the ones in movies are greatly exaggerated. But, yes, flashbacks. It’s not very often, but if it’s ever just you and him and he seems… off, try to gently remind him where he is, and that he’s safe- or come and find one of us. I doubt it’s going to happen, but I’d like you to know just in case.”

“Wow. The war must’ve been really bad. Next time you see a decepticon, can you punch them really hard on me and Ratchet’s behalf?” She asked.

“Gladly.” Optimus nodded. He didn’t have the spark to tell Sari that part of Ratchet’s trauma had been at the hands of autobots, too. It was something he didn’t like thinking much about, either. “I’m sure Ratchet would appreciate the sentiment.”

“He’s our doc-bot, it’s important he’s happy, because he’s the only one we’ve got. That and he might start putting bombs inside you guys if you treat him nastily.”

Optimus used a singular digit to pet Sari’s hair, smiling once more. "You've got a good heart, Sari. It’s inspiring.”

“C’mon, you guys get a ball of like, magic electricity in your chests, that’s way cooler.” Sari shot back, but she couldn’t help but feel proud of the compliment she’d been given.

~~

It was far past midnight, and Sari was wide awake. It wasn’t her fault- It was rather hard to sleep, with the thunderstorm raging outside. The pounding, relentless rain and claps of lightning had roused her from her sleep, and no matter how many pillows and plushies she layered over her head, the sound couldn’t be drowned out. So, she’d resigned to the fact she wasn’t getting anymore sleep until the giant storm had passed.

It could’ve been worse, of course. When she was smaller, Sari had been scared to death of thunderstorms. When lightning would strike outside Sumdac tower, she would always spring out of bed, running to her father’s room, tears streaking down her face. Of course, it was natural for loud noises to be so frightening to someone so young, but her father would always scoop her into his arms, rocking her and holding her tight, safe from the storms outside. There was no place safer to Sari than her dad’s arms.

To help overcome her fear, Sari’s dad had taught her the science behind thunderstorms, in hopes understanding the phenomenon would help her be less afraid. About how storms were nothing more than air and moisture bundled together, and the flashes of lightning were simply charges generated in the atmosphere. Sari hadn’t understood a lot of it, and she still didn’t- but something about hearing her dad’s soothing voice explain it to her, hands brushing through her hair, helped everything feel so much less scary. He’d also taught her the trick of counting the time between the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder, explaining to her how the difference in the speed of light and sound could help determine when the storm was moving away. Even after the thunder passed, she’d stay cuddled up to her father, safe in his embrace.

But her father was gone now. Somewhere, caught in Megatron’s wicked servos. And Sari was no longer in the bedroom she knew, instead being cuddled up in a spare room in the base, made to be her own. Instead of bringing fear, each rumble of thunder brought something deeper- a pang in her heart, longing to have her father back. Living with the autobots wasn’t bad by any means- they were her family, too. But her dad was her dad, and she wanted him back. She knew the bots were doing all they could to find him, but she still missed him dearly. At least I’m not afraid of storms anymore, she thought as she lay on her back, staring out at the rain battering the windows of her room, a plushie tucked in her arms. The thunderstorm had to be right overhead by that point, as the rain beat down hard on her roof, each flash of lightning followed almost immediately with a loud crack from the discharge of raw electricity. The lightning would illuminate her entire room for a split second like it was broad daylight, before fading back into the inky black of a midnight blotted out by heavy clouds. After one flash, though, Sari noticed some of the light stayed behind after the rest of it had faded. 

Before she realized, in horror, those lights weren’t from the storm outside.

There was something watching her from the doorway with eerie, glowing eyes. 

Terrifying possibilities swirled in her mind. Could it be one of those horrifying barnacle creatures she, Prowl and Bumblebee had fought? Or, even worse, a decepticon breach? Thankfully, she quickly realized the optics were a familiar blue, calming her nerves significantly. It wasn’t uncommon for the autobots to check up on her in the night- Bee tended to wake her to play video games when he was bored, a secret the two hadn’t told the others, while Bulkhead sometimes came to her with questions about earth he simply couldn’t recharge without an answer to. On very rare occasions, Prowl would rouse her gently, inviting her up to the rooftops to see the stars on clear nights, pointing out the constellations he had learned. Heck, she’d even caught Optimus watching her from the doorway a few times, as if making sure she was safe.

But the pair of optics in the doorway weren’t high enough up to belong to Optimus or Bulkhead, nor were they low enough to belong to Bumblebee or pointy enough to resemble Prowl’s visor either. Which left only one bot they could belong to.

“Ratchet…?” She muttered, just loud enough to be heard over the storm outside.

Of all the autobots, Ratchet had never checked up on Sari in the night. It wasn’t out of a lack of care- the exact opposite, actually. Ratchet was very quick to remind the team that humans, especially young ones, required adequate rest each night in order to properly function the next day, and therefore was strongly against waking the girl up in the night, and tended to scold those who did. Which meant if Ratchet was at the door, something had to be very wrong.

“Oh, thank the Allspark you’re alright,” She heard him sigh with relief as the pair of optics grew closer, the silhouette of Ratchet slowly coming into view against the rest of her room, the faint blue glow from his optics illuminating his faceplate. “We need to get outta here, kid. We can regroup with the others later, right now we need to pick the right time and run.” He crouched next to her bed, extending a servo.

Sari climbed onto it, keeping a blanket wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. Fear grew in the pit of her stomach again as she got a closer look at the horror etched on the old medic’s faceplate. “Ratchet, are you-”

“The others can look after themselves, but you’re so small… If anything happened to you… I can’t let them take anythin’ else from me. I won’t. There’s gotta be a way out that’s safe.”

The poor girl was absolutely lost on whatever Ratchet was talking about. “Ratchet, what are you talking about?” She began, but she couldn’t finish her sentence- a loud CRRRACK of lightning spidered across the sky right outside the base, illuminating the room in a blinding white. Ratchet curled over Sari, as if to protect her, as the girl clapped her hands over her ears.

“The decepticons, Sari! They’re bombing the base!” Ratchet cried.

The fear inside Sari swelled even more. How had the decepticons found them? Were the others okay? Were they going to be okay?

But something wasn’t adding up. There was no rumble of engines echoing from the sky- only thunder. And wouldn’t the base have been in shambles if it was being bombed? How on earth were the windows of her room not shattered? It was only then when she got a proper look at Ratchet’s optics. They looked… vacant. As if there was a part of him trapped somewhere else.

Because maybe he was.

The talk she and Optimus had a while ago resurfaced in her mind. “If something’s reminded him of the war, Ratchet can get… lost in his own memories.” The Prime’s voice echoed in Sari’s head as she looked up at Ratchet. She realized it was unlikely the old medic had ever seen a thunderstorm like this up close- if she had woken in the middle of the night to such a racket, she’d probably assume the place was being bombed, too.

The fact that the base wasn’t actually being bombed was relieving, but now Sari had to figure out how to convince Ratchet of that fact. It wasn’t exactly something she had a lot of experience in. But seeing Ratchet so distraught only reaffirmed the fact that, no matter what, she needed to try.

“Tunnels, there has to be tunnels…” The veteran mumbled to himself, and Sari felt his servos trembling as he held her close. “I was sloppy, last time. They caught me. They took her. But it won’t happen again. I’ll get you out, kid. I’ll get you out.”

Sari didn’t have a clue what Ratchet was talking about, but she hated how distressed he sounded. “Ratchet… It’s alright. I’m alright. I promise. It’s only a storm-”

Her tactic seemed to work for a moment, the medic looking at her with a confused expression- before another loud CRASH of lightning sounded out, causing him to curl around her even tighter. Pressed against his windshield, Sari could hear the frantic whirr of his spark beneath it, even over the pouring rain. Clearly, her strategy wasn’t working. Just as she was beginning to lose hope, Sari remembered how her own father had comforted her when she had been so afraid. Ratchet wasn’t a young child like she had been, but he was new to earth nonetheless. It was worth a shot.

“Ratchet, when the next strike of lightning comes, can you count with me?” She asked.

The request seemed to catch Ratchet completely off guard. He tilted his helm at her, but nodded- though the terrified expression remained frozen on his faceplate. When the next flash of lightning appeared, Ratchet flinched again, but Sari tried her best to soothe him, counting upwards with him.

They got to three before the loud boom echoed through the base, but Sari simply reset the count, starting over from one when the next strike came. After a few more lightning strikes, each interval between flash and crash slightly longer than the last, Sari spoke up again.

“It’s lightning.” She explained, still petting Ratchet reassuringly. “Not bombs. The longer between the light and the sound, the further away it’s getting. It’s only a storm. There’s no decepticons. Everyone’s alright.”

They continued to count, the lightning slowly growing further and further away, Sari trying her best to mutter reassuring words to Ratchet as the spinning of his spark began to slow. His optics began to focus properly, gazing down at her. Instead of paralyzing fear, a new emotion came over his faceplate- sorrow. He looked at the little human in his servos, who was running her tiny hand across his palm, a gentle smile on her face. 

“Oh, Sari…” Ratchet’s voicebox crackled with emotion as he shook his helm. “I didn’t mean to scare you, kid… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He struggled to get the words out of his glitching voicebox as he sank to the floor, muttering apologies over and over, even as Sari reached out to pet his helm. All he could do was repeat himself in shame, the rumble of the storm never fully leaving as he shook- not with fear, but with guilt. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

~~

It was even further past midnight. The storm had passed over the base, but rain still pattered on the roof, the distant rumbles of thunder never fully letting up, occasional streaks of lightning dancing in the distance.

Sari sat, blanket still wrapped over her shoulders, a mug of hot chocolate warming her hands. She was perched on Ratchet’s shoulder, the old medic clutching his own can of fresh, hot oil- with plenty of iron shavings, just the way he liked it. The steam rising from both beverages collected in little droplets of condensation on the living metal of Ratchet’s faceplate, a deep look of guilt still written across it as he stared into his drink.

A flash of lightning illuminated the common room, and Ratchet flinched- nowhere near as violently as before, but still enough to jostle Sari’s drink slightly. She could tell Ratchet was counting seconds in his processor- sure enough, when the rumble of now distant thunder echoed through the base, much further away by now, he let out a quiet sigh of relief as he brought his oil can to his intake, the air blowing from his head vents sending steam swirling through the air. 

The two had retreated to the common room after Ratchet had calmed down, and few words had been exchanged, aside from Sari asking Ratchet to grab the marshmallows for her. 

It was Ratchet who made the first attempt at conversation, when the downpour had subsided enough that he didn’t need to shout to be heard over it. “...I’m sorry, kid. I shouldn’ta woken you. You’ve got enough on your plate without some outdated model’s misfiring processor.”

“Ratchet, it’s okay, I promise. As long as you’re feeling better.” She reassured him.

“I just didn’t want to worry ya with all that I’ve been through. I still don’t. I had to make sure you were alright, though…”

“You weren’t expected to know what a thunderstorm is! Honestly, for your first time experiencing one so close, you dealt with it a lot better than I used to.” She admitted. “When I was smaller, I thought the whole city was exploding. It took my dad ages to convince me otherwise.” It was embarrassing to say out loud, but Sari knew Ratchet wouldn’t hold her to it.

Instead, he simply grunted. “What kinda planet has moisture fallin’ from the sky, anyway… and enough to generate that much electricity… Backwards fraggin’ planet…” He mumbled, wiping the condensation off of his dented faceplate.

“There, that sounds more like the doc-bot I know and love.” She was happy to hear Ratchet acting more like himself, even if that did mean he was crankier.

To her surprise, Ratchet guffawed. “No need to flatter yerself, kid.” 

“What do you mean?” She gave Ratchet a confused look.

“Well, c’mon. There ain’t exactly much about me to love.” He admitted as if it was clear as day.

Sari couldn’t keep the horrified look off of her face. “Ratchet…” She began, heartbreak in her voice, “What makes you think I don’t love you?”

The old bot opened his intake as if to answer her, but stopped, seeing the despair on Sari’s face. He drooped again, refusing to meet her eye. Sari hopped from Ratchet’s shoulder to his free servo to get a better reach as she grabbed Ratchet’s faceplate and turned him to face her. She’d never been close enough to touch Ratchet’s faceplate before, and the texture of it surprised her- softer, with less resistance to it than the other, younger bots- while also being rougher to the touch, years of war and disrepair leaving its marks on the old bot. 

“Ratchet, look at me.” She ordered. Reluctantly, those bright blue optics met her deep brown eyes. “I love you just as much as I love all the others. You’re the smartest bot I know. You keep us all from exploding every day. Without you, I doubt the team would’ve made it a week. You tell us super good stories, too. I’m always so excited to hear them- even Bumblebee sits still for them! And you care for us. Don’t try to deny it. You cook me food every day, because all the others can manage is random garbage they found on the side of the road or junk food. And your cooking is really good! You always make sure the others are alright, too, even if they’re trying to hide something.

I never got to have grandparents. Dad says they died long before I was born. But I love you the same way I would’ve loved them. The rest of the team loves you, too. If anything ever happened to our Doc-bot, we’d be heartbroken.” She stopped for a moment, catching her breath, before pointing at him. “You got that?”

Ratchet blinked slowly, a small smile forming on his faceplate as he nodded. “...I think so. Thanks, kid.” He replied, tilting his forehelm towards her.

It was a gesture Sari had seen the others do. Pressing their forehelms together to show affection to each other. Bulkhead and Bumblebee did it often as they laughed over stupid things, and she’d even seen Prowl and Optimus do it to their teammates a couple times in moments of stress and self-doubt. Heck, they even did it to her, and it made her feel special every time. Bee and Bulkhead tended to do it the most, carefully pressing their helms to her forehead as a greeting if they hadn’t seen each other in a while, or if they were particularly excited about something. Prowl did it to soothe her when she was upset, or calm her when she was stressed. She’d even learned to initiate the gesture, reassuring Optimus when he’d been particularly frightened by a family of spiders nesting in the ceiling of the base. 

But she’d never seen Ratchet do it, or receive it. The old bot was always very reserved, even compared to Optimus Prime. Sari thought back on the conversation she and the Prime had shared. Ratchet had lost so many people to the war, it must’ve made forming new bonds with anyone a struggle. Sari had been so distraught after her dad had gone missing, and he was still alive (she hoped. She didn’t want to think too much about it). She imagined how it would’ve felt to lose not only her father, but all the bots, too. Her only friends. Her only family. She’d never want to look at anyone else again, worrying she might get attached, and then they’d be gone. Which made it all the more special. Ratchet, despite all he had lost, cared about her and the team.

Sari pressed her forehead to his helm, neither of them saying a word, the only sound being the steady fall of rain outside. She could hear the soft whirr of his optics shutting peacefully, and the quiet creeak of the smile on his face growing wider. Sari was happy to stay there, feeling the comforting warmth that emanated from Ratchet’s old frame. But the warmth was her undoing, as she let out a small yawn, forgetting just how tired she was- it was still pitch black outside, after all.

“Frag, look at the time!” Ratchet broke the tender moment as he tipped his helm back, squinting the way Sari had seen the other bots do when they checked their internal clocks. “You should be fast asleep right now, kid!”

“Aww…” Sari couldn’t pretend to be upset for too long, putting down her now-empty mug and rubbing her eyes as Ratchet carried her back to her room. The rain had subsided enough to simply be a soothing noise as Ratcher lay her back in her bed, carefully pulling her blankets up around her, the warmth of his servos heating up the bed that had grown cold in Sari’s absence. 

“Now, you go back to sleep, and you’re not to act up in the morning, alright? Sleep in if ya want to, I’ll make sure the others don’t wake you, m’kay?” He instructed, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Alright. Goodnight, Ratchet.” She said with a smile, closing her eyes.

“G’night, kid.” Ratchet replied, heading back to the door. The last thing Sari heard before the sound of rain lulled her to sleep was one last mutter escaping the old bot’s voicebox.

“Need to figure out what the frag a grandparent is…”