Ratchet had been prepared for anything.

With allergy season in full swing, he had extra supplies stocked, ventilation running at peak efficiency, and datapads preloaded with medical records for the Autobots most likely to come stumbling in. He had treatments ready for Bulkhead, extra coolant for Bumblebee—he was prepared.

But this?

This, he was not prepared for.

Because standing in his medbay, barely keeping themselves upright, was the one Autobot who never got sick.

His optics locked onto them, and his fuel pump dropped. Their plating was dull, their stance unsteady, but the worst part—the part that sent every single medic alarm in his processor screaming—was their vents. Stuttering, hitching, struggling to cycle air.

Then, they spoke.

Or tried to.

Their voice came out shredded—thin, raw, like metal scraping over rust. And then came the coughs. Deep, wet, shaking them down to their struts. They barely managed to suck in air before another struck, worse than the last.

Ratchet’s optics widened. “Oh, frag—sit down, now!” He was already moving, one servo grabbing their shoulder, guiding—no, forcing—them onto a berth.

“Primus, listen to yourself! You sound like someone ripped out your voice box and ran it over! And you’re wheezing—when were you planning on telling me you couldn’t fragging breathe?!”

They tried to answer, but all that came out was another hoarse rasp before another brutal coughing fit wracked their frame, their vents gasping uselessly for air.

Ratchet’s processor went straight into crisis mode.

“Nope! Absolutely not! You’re on bed rest—no exceptions! You are not leaving this berth until I say so!” He was already hooking up equipment, field sharp and protective, tone firm but steady.

Finally, he pressed a servo against their shoulder, grounding. “…Just focus on breathing, kid. I’ve got you.”