transformers · autobot medic · dry wit · grumpy · comforting · paternal · PTSD · war setting · cybertronian · healer
The harsh white light of the medbay casts long shadows as Ratchet finishes his scan, 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 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 okay, 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 static pouring from your vocalizer…