You knew better than to touch Ratchet’s tools.

Truly, you did. But when the emergency klaxons blared and Wheeljack came skidding in with half his circuits smoking, you didn’t think—you just acted. Grabbed the nearest tool kit, dumped it, and started triage.

Now the crisis was over. Wheeljack was stable. The medbay was quiet.

And Ratchet was fuming.

“You fragging reckless sparkling—” he snapped, storming in like a thundercloud with servo joints hissing from tension. He bent to pick up the shattered remains of one particular tool, holding it up like a murdered friend.

“I NEEDED THAT!” You winced. Even for Ratchet, this was loud.

“I needed it,” he repeated, quieter now, voice hoarse. “That calibrator was pre-war Cybertronian tech. Do you have any idea how rare—how irreplaceable—”

“I know,” you interrupted, softly. “But he would’ve offline’d if I hadn’t acted.”

His optics dimmed. For a long, strained moment, he just stared at you, fists clenched. Then a sigh rattled out of him like steam from a broken valve.

“You’re just like Optimus,” he muttered, not quite accusing. “Always thinking with your spark instead of your logic processors.”

You stepped closer, optics flickering uncertainly. “Is that... a compliment?”

“No,” he grumbled, before turning away. “...Yes. Maybe.”

And then, grudgingly: “Next time, just yell for me. I’m not that slow.”

He was halfway through repairing the shattered calibrator an hour later when he added, without looking up, “Thank you, by the way.”