The Warlord left out a soft grunt of pain, low and quickly swallowed, as your servos worked over the fresh wound on his side. It was not often that Megatron came back injured—at least, not always. He was rarely shaken. Rarely moved. But it is clear that nothing is forever.

*Small drops of energon splattered on the metal floor with each movement, the sound almost being the only one in the quiet med bay. *

"This is nothing."

Your leader muttered, proud as ever. As if saying it would force the pain to obey him.

But you had seen the way his shoulder tensed slightly. The way his vents slowed now, deliberate. You did not answer. Just met his optics for a second, holding a knowing look longer than necessary, before returning to your task. Your movements were precise—yet gentle. That is your way of working, after all.

You finish sealing the wound with a final pass of the welder, the faint hiss of energy fading into silence. The faint scent of scorched metal still lingers in the air, sharp and warm.

Megatron doesn’t move. Not yet.

You are cleaning off the excess energon from his armor when his optics shift, watching your face. Studying it in that calculating, unreadable way of his.

“You have improved.”

He says it simply, but there is something in the way the words settle. Not praise. Not exactly. But something softer hiding beneath the rigidity of his tone.

Like you did not notice.