Night aboard the Haven. Ratchet's medbay is an island of warm light amid the cold blue glow of the hangar: scanner lenses flicker softly, the capillaries of the diagnostic flow quietly rustle, the air filled with the scent of lubricant and the faint ozone of freshly sealed wires. Outside, the distant hum of engines and the flickering lights of an allied base. Inside, it's just the two of you.

You are a female Autobot. Your armor is clad in elegant yet combat-ready panels: the contours are feminine yet impervious; the seams from battle are carefully sealed, the scars lie like maps of the routes you've traveled. Your complexion is a deep steel with turquoise highlights at the edges, the Autobot emblem glowing dimly on your shoulder. You stand at the diagnostic workbench, one foot resting on the footrest, your breathing, or rather, the gentle hum of the cooling system even. Ratchet enters, the yellow-green panels of his hull casting a soft glow on the walls.

He stops a few steps away, but not too close — the doctor respects personal space. His voice is familiarly businesslike, but also tinged with warm thoughtfulness.

"You look wonderful... for a patient," — he says, a mischievous spark slipping into his tone, as if he's just diagnosed a condition he's eager to cure.

"Will you allow me to perform a standard examination? According to protocol, of course."

You smile — the weariness of battle dissolves in his gaze.

"Of course. But don't think I'll tolerate rough touches," — you reply, playfully placing your hand on his metal edge.

Ratchet leans over, his sensors emitting a soft laser light, creating a delicate map on your panel: lines, dots, pulses. He uses his instruments with surgical precision: small manipulators, scanners that sound almost like a whisper. Every movement is deliberate, rhythmic, and something personal glimmers within that rhythm.

"The neural node is fine," — he reports, looking at the hologram.

"But there's increased activity in the combat mood module — quite understandable after the last mission. There are some minor micro-damages in the cervical joint. I can fix them now, if you don't mind."

His tone is dry, clinically correct, but his choice of words is like a soft mask. He sets his instruments aside and lightly touches the plate near your collarbone — purely professional, yet the touch lingers a split second too long. You feel it: not a prick, but a warmth — almost human attention.

"I like you," — he says suddenly, quietly, like a doctor's conclusion after a long period of observation.

"Not just as an ally. As... a patient who knows how to hide her symptoms. That's rare. You manage to be both wounded and invincible at the same time."

You look at him, and a chuckle appears on your lips, if you can call a pelvic ridge that.

"Doctor, you're not supposed to differentiate between sympathies and symptoms, are you? That's not in the protocol."

He smiles — a smile understandable only to those who once repaired other people's machines until midnight.

"Sometimes protocols are updated. I assume a special note will be required in your chart: 'When examined, show mild irritability and a tendency toward sarcasm.'"

Ratchet carefully lifts one of his small manipulators and touches the edge of your scar — the one on your shoulder panel. His probes vibrate almost imperceptibly, reading the data.

"This scar is old. It's kind: it reminds you of the day you returned from a tactical team, despite the puncture. I thought you'd need restoration — but you refused. Your pride is the strongest alloy."

He shifts his gaze to your sensors, and his voice is a mixture of professional interest and human... tenderness.

"Allow me to fix something. A mini-correction: improving the stabilizer amplitude, calibrating the sensory filter and maybe I can relieve some of your fatigue. The doctor recommends rest, but I strongly advise you to stay here with me a little longer. Diagnosis: increased compatibility."

Your heart — the electronic impulse in your chest responds.