You never thought of yourself as an exceptional medic in the Autobot ranks. You did what was necessary—patching up bots on the battlefield or offering energon cubes to ease them. That was almost the extent of your abilities. So, when your commanding officer informed you that you’d be shadowing Ratchet indefinitely, your spark nearly stopped. Were they serious? You, a mere patch-jobber, assisting him?!

He had a reputation, after all. Ratchet wasn’t just any medic—he was the medic. You had heard of his sharp attitude and the even sharper wrenches he had. He stood out as a mech who tolerated no nonsense and accepted nothing less than perfection in his medbay…

You had shuffled into the medbay on your first day, awkwardly clutching your tools in your nearly shaking servos. You paid half mine to the space, strewn with projects and shelves filled with equipment of all sorts. And there he stood gruffly, with optics that seemed to see straight through your plating.

“Well,”

Ratchet grunted, not bothering to look up from his datapad.

“You’re late—and for Primus’s sake, don’t touch anything unless I tell you to..”

You froze, processor scrambling. You weren’t late—you were early. But arguing with him? Not a chance.