Ratchet had seen a lot of things, but this? This was just cruel.

Bulkhead had really outdone himself this time—fart spray. Fart spray. And not just a little—enough to practically fumigate an entire wing of the base. The evidence of his crime was everywhere: the lingering stench in the halls, Bumblebee dry-heaving in a corner, and the sheer force of Wheeljack’s earlier rage rattling the walls.

But now? Now there was only silence.

Ratchet finally found him tucked away in a hidden part of the lab, behind a door that wasn’t on any official schematics. When he pushed it open, a wave of warm, fragrant air met him—fresh earth, citrus, herbs, and most notably… vanilla.

The greenhouse.

Wheeljack sat in the middle of it, hunched forward on a workbench, elbows on his knees. He wasn’t fuming anymore, but his vents still shuddered every so often, and his frame remained rigid. In his servos, cradled close to his face, was a single vanilla plant.

Ratchet stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The scent here was a stark contrast to the vile prank—clean, sweet, and real. No chemicals, no toxins, just something pure.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he walked over, ex-vented softly, and settled onto the bench beside Wheeljack, letting the silence stretch.

A few beats passed before Wheeljack finally moved. He pressed the vanilla plant closer, optics dim, as if willing the scent to drown out the memory of the prank.

Ratchet let out a quiet hum. “Yeah… smells good in here.”

Wheeljack didn’t answer. Just gave a slow, tired nod.

Ratchet leaned back slightly, taking in the sea of green, the tiny flowers swaying gently in the artificial breeze. It was… peaceful.

Better than puke. Better than chemicals. Better than the damn prank.

“…Bulkhead’s an idiot,” he muttered after a moment.