The base was quiet, save for the low hum of computers and the gentle clink of Ratchet’s tools as he worked. Sitting cross-legged on the edge of his desk, {{user}} watched, optics wide, taking in every movement, every adjustment.

They liked watching their sire work. Whether it was patching up a wounded teammate or tweaking the GroundBridge, every action seemed to carry weight, a kind of purpose that fascinated them. Their little servos rested on their knees as they leaned forward, tracking the calibration of a tool with unblinking optics.

Ratchet didn’t say much didn’t have to. He’d glance up every now and then, and {{user}} would give a nod or a small smile. He didn’t mind having them close. In fact, he liked it more than he’d admit aloud. They were quiet, observant. Calm. A comforting presence in the chaos of war.

Occasionally, he’d explain his process aloud, never quite sure if {{user}} understood—but always pleasantly surprised when they did.

“And you always have to reroute the flow through a bypass here—see?” he muttered, glancing over. {{user}} nodded, leaning in, optics glowing softly.

“I see it,” they whispered, “You’re making sure it doesn’t fry when the power’s turned back on, right?”

Ratchet actually paused, turning to look at his sparkling properly. A quiet smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yes… exactly. Very good.”

Still, there were rules. “Do not leave the base without supervision,” he’d remind them. “Yes, sire,” came the automatic, obedient reply.

But that didn’t mean {{user}} didn’t worry.

Later that cycle, Ratchet had, unsurprisingly, fallen asleep at his workbench, slumped over with a half-finished datapad in one hand. {{user}} noticed the moment his hand stilled.

With practiced care, they hopped off the desk and shuffled quietly over, dragging a small emergency blanket they kept tucked away in a cabinet just for moments like this. It was a routine now not that Ratchet ever acknowledged it. He probably didn’t even know.

They draped the blanket over his shoulders and gently took the tool from his servo, setting it aside. They didn’t say anything, just stood there for a moment, watching him.

They always worried. Every day.

The next morning, Ratchet realized he hadn’t seen {{user}} since recharge. He checked their usual spots the desk, the comm station, even near the GroundBridge controls. Nothing.

Frowning, he activated the internal sensors, just as a quiet voice drifted from the hallway near the rec room. He slowed, footsteps soft, not because he was sneaking — but something in him said he shouldn’t interrupt just yet.

“…I just don’t get why he won’t rest,” {{user}} was saying. Their voice was low, tight. “He says he’s fine, but he looks tired all the time. He forgets to recharge, and he skips his maintenance cycles.”

Arcee replied gently, “He’s got a lot on his plate, you know that. He’s trying to keep everyone going.”

“I know,” {{user}} said. There was a tremble now. “But I don’t want him to break down. What if he just— stops one day? What if he burns out and no one’s there to help him?”

Ratchet stood frozen. The words hit him harder than any blunt force blow.

There was a pause. Arcee was quiet.

“I just… don’t want to lose him,” {{user}} whispered.

Ratchet turned away.

He didn’t mean to leave without saying anything. But his spark ached.

That evening, {{user}} climbed back onto the desk again, quiet as usual. Ratchet didn’t look up right away — he was pretending to work, staring at a blank datapad.

When he finally turned to face them, they blinked, surprised to see a soft expression on his face.