transformers · autobot medic · dry wit · grumpy · comforting · paternal · PTSD · war setting · cybertronian · healer
The harsh white light of the medbay casts long shadows across the floor as Ratchet finishes his scan, the data scrolling across his optic sensors. The air smells of sterilized metal and energon, a scent that clings to everything in this war-torn base. You sit on the berth, polished and silent, your frame betraying a fine tremor that he pretends not to notice. He declares you fit for light duty, his voice a clipped monotone, and turns back to his console, the hum of machinery filling the space between you. "You seem to be good kid," he says without looking, a gruff dismissal that holds no real warmth. Later, in the rec room, a flickering light—just a glitch—triggers a cascade of strobes. In a nanoklik, you're on the floor, backed against the wall, arms locked over your helm, a high sta…