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Ratchet had always been the one to patch others up rather than the other way around.
It was part of his nature as a medic; his skills were best utilised in fixing broken circuits and damaged frames.
He wasn’t the sentimental type; he didn’t do warm words or tender looks. Instead, his servo was better suited to wielding a wrench than offering a comforting pat on the shoulder. However, if anyone looked closely enough, they might have noticed a subtle shift in how he moved around Bumblebee, a transformation that was almost imperceptible at first.
In the early days, Ratchet told himself that Bee was nothing more than a noisy, immature rookie who didn’t know when to shut up. The kid made jokes at inopportune times, danced to Earth music during maintenance, and talked faster than Ratchet's processor could keep up with.
For Ratchet, who preferred solitude and efficiency, Bee's exuberance was more of a distraction than a delight.
Ratchet believed wholeheartedly that he didn’t need anyone.
He had weathered countless storms alone and had convinced himself that relying on others was a sign of weakness.
He didn’t need help.
Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. But then Bumblebee burst into his life like a flash of static and light—loud, fast, and utterly absurd—and everything began to shift.
Ratchet never admitted it aloud, not once, but that kid had kept him from falling apart more times than he could count. Bee’s unyielding presence became a steady beacon in Ratchet’s otherwise structured world, a constant reminder that perhaps it was okay to feel something other than the weight of war on his shoulders.
One time, Bumblebee stayed when Ratchet locked himself away in the medbay after a particularly distressing memory spike brought up old war wounds. He didn’t ask questions; he simply dropped off energon and sat silently outside the door, playing some silly human game on Sari’s datapad.
Ratchet finally opened the door, grumbling, “You’re wasting battery.”
Without missing a beat, Bee smiled brightly. “Not really. Just waiting for you.”
That hit harder than it should have. Somewhere behind the sarcastic banter and often combative façade, Ratchet realised how much he had come to rely on Bumblebee. The kid had slipped past his defences without him even noticing, settling in the spaces that were once filled with solitude and regret.
He was simply there—a constant hum of energy and warmth that refused to let the darkness win. A well-timed joke when the memories got too loud. A harmless prank when the day had gone on for far too long. It was about just being present when the silence became too heavy to bear.
The more he tried to distance himself from Bee’s exuberance, the more he recognised that this loud, carefree kid had held him together. Ratchet would never say it aloud, wouldn’t dare to express the depth of his gratitude, but in the recesses of his mind and the echo of his spark, he knew: Bumblebee had been his anchor, grounding him against the currents of despair that threatened to wash him away. And somehow, Ratchet felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as unbreakable as he once thought.
Bumblebee had no idea what he had done for Ratchet. He never realised he was the light to Ratchet’s spark, illuminating the crevices that had long been shrouded in shadow. He was the laughter that sliced through the gloom, the joy that turned duty into something more bearable.
---
It should’ve been Ratchet.
It should have been him. Not Bumblebee
It was supposed to be a simple routine mission
He replayed it again and again—those split kliks before the building came down, when the Decepticon cannon fired straight for him. He’d seen it, braced for it.
But Bumblebee had seen it, too.
And without hesitation—without even thinking—he’d thrown himself in front of Ratchet and pushed him out of the way.
It all happened so quickly, in the blink of an eye, yet it felt as if time had slowed, every detail burned into Ratchet’s memory as if seared by the very blast that would now change everything
The next thing Ratchet knew, they were buried beneath concrete and steel, dust choking his vents, pain flaring in his shoulder. But all of that faded when he heard it—
Bumblebee. Crying out.
Then silence.
“Bee?! Bumblebee!” Ratchet clawed through rubble, ignoring the sparks from his limbs, until he found him.
His voice echoed in the chaos, filled with desperation. He clawed through the rubble, fueled by a surge of fear and determination, ignoring the sparks flying from his limbs. Gritting his dented grates, he focused on finding Bumblebee.
Minutes felt like hours as he finally uncovered Bumblebee,
Pinned.
Crushed.
Bleeding.
His plating was torn open at the side like some shattered piece of artwork. One arm hung limply by his side, the other was barely able to lift. His legs were twisted in a way nobody should be able to endure, the very essence of his being leaking out, pooling in a crimson puddle beneath him.
And his optics—Primus, his optics—were so dim it made Ratchet’s spark seize.
“I got you,” Ratchet choked. “I got you, kid. Stay with me.”
Bee’s voice was barely audible. “R-Ratch…”
“Don’t talk. Don’t move. Just stay awake. You hear me?” Ratchet’s tone was firm, yet the crack in his voice betrayed the whirlwind of emotions raging within him.
Ratchet's servos trembled as he stabilised the worst of it with what little he had on hand. “You are stupid, reckless little—you shouldn’t have—” His voice cracked, but he forced it down. “You don’t do that. Not for me.”
Bee managed a broken laugh—wet, painful. “You’d have done it for me…”
Ratchet couldn’t argue. The truth was undeniable; they both would risk everything for one another without a second thought. It was a bond forged in the fires of battle, tested through every injury and fear they had faced together. He pressed his palm to Bee’s helm, grounding him in the uncertainty that enveloped them.
“Slag it, kid. Just hold on,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He summoned every ounce of courage and healing knowledge he possessed, trying to block out the reality that threatened to pull him into despair.
---
They got out. Eventually. The team found them. Bee was rushed to the medbay. Ratchet never left his side.
It was funny, in a cruel sort of way, how life flipped the script when you least expected it.
Ratchet sat in the medbay, hands trembling despite all his centuries of practice. There was energon staining his fingers—fresh and too bright. Not his. Bumblebee’s.
The younger bot lay unconscious on the repair berth, vents hitching every so often. He looked so small. Too still. Too quiet.
Ratchet’s jaw tightened.
He watched the rise and fall of Bee’s chassis, each breath a silent plea for him to wake up.
Bee was always moving. Always talking. Always laughing at things that weren't even that funny.
Frag, that kid could be irritating. He never listened to orders. Always running into danger with that smug smirk and spark-sized courage. But... he meant well. He always had.
And that was the problem.
“Why’d you go and do something stupid like that, huh?” Ratchet muttered, voice cracking just a little as he reached to stabilise a cable in Bee’s chest
He was light in a world that had so much darkness.
Now that light flickered on the table in front of him, Ratchet felt his spark stutter.
“No,” he said, voice firmer this time, a resolve hardening within him. “You don’t get to check out, Bumblebee. Not after everything. Not after what you’ve done for me—for us.” His tone was fierce, filled with a mix of anger and desperation directed at the unconscious form before him. He wasn’t ready to give up.
He finished the final weld, sealing the worst of the damage. Bee’s frame twitched, just slightly, and a shaky ex-vent escaped him. Still unconscious, but alive.
Ratchet allowed himself a breath.
He reached out with one servo, rough and worn, wrapping it around Bumblebee’s smaller hand. It felt fragile, vulnerable beneath his grip, yet there was warmth there—an undeniable connection.
---
And when Bee finally woke, he gave a tired smile. Said he was fine. Cracked a half-hearted joke about how Ratchet owed him a thank-you now for all the trouble he’d caused.
Everyone believed him.
But Ratchet saw it.
He saw the subtle shifts in Bumblebee's demeanour, the way he hesitated before speaking. He noticed how Bee's optics never stayed on anyone for too long, darting away as though afraid of being caught in a moment of vulnerability. And the way he laughed—it was hollow, like the sound of metal clanging against metal, sharp and unconvincing
He stopped racing down the halls.
Stopped eating with the team.
It was as if the world around him became a blurry backdrop to his struggles.
The others said he needed time. That he was just recovering.
But Ratchet saw the cracks.
Saw how his shoulders curled inward.
How his frame flinched at sudden noise.
How he pretended to be okay—because that’s what everyone expected of him. But not Ratchet.
Of course, he noticed.
And it pissed him off.
Not at Bumblebee for hiding behind laughter and light—he was furious at the silence that loomed over them. At the way the young bot sat alone in the far corner of the base, pretending he was fine, pretending nothing was wrong.
Because Ratchet knew what it looked like when someone was crumbling from the inside out.
---
One night, Ratchet found Bee sitting alone in his quarters. Not working. Not talking. Just staring.
“You should be resting,” Ratchet suggested gently, trying to break the heavy air between them.
Bee didn’t answer.
Ratchet sighed and walked in, his steps slow and deliberate as he approached the younger bot. He sat down beside him.
“You’re not okay,” Ratchet observed, his tone firm but slipping into concern.
Bee flinched. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fooling me, kid.” Ratchet shook his head, frustration simmering just below the surface. “I’ve pulled too many bots out of their fraggin’ wreckage to miss the signs.”
That made Bee tense, lips pressing tight.
Ratchet looked at him—really looked. He could see it clearly—the tremor in Bee’s frame, subtle yet unmistakable. His vents were shallow, and his optics had that dull, glassy sheen that spoke of a deeper pain.
“I wasn’t worth it,” Bee whispered.
Ratchet froze.
“I thought… if I could just protect you, maybe I’d be useful. Maybe I’d matter,” Bee confessed, his tone laced with a deep-seated shame.
“You always mattered.”
“No, I’m just the screw-up. The joke. The expendable one,” Bee continued, each syllable laced with hopelessness.
The words hit harder than any cannon ever could.
Ratchet reached out, gently—more gently than he ever had before—and rested a hand over Bee’s.
“Don’t you dare say that,” he said, voice thick. “You think I didn’t see what you did for me? You think I don’t know what it cost you?”
No reply.
Ratchet kept going anyway. “You annoyed the frag outta me. But you make me laugh, make me smile.”
Bee shifted just slightly.
Ratchet took it as a win.
“You kept doing that. Lightening the load. Making me feel like I wasn’t just a bitter old relic. Never asked for anything back. Just showed up.”
Silence again.
Then, softly—so soft Ratchet almost missed it—Bumblebee whispered, “I don’t feel like me anymore.”
Ratchet stopped cold.
Bee’s optics were dim, unfocused, scanning the room as if searching for something that had been lost. “I was fast, confident... fun. Now I’m just... scared. Slower. Broken.”
Ratchet turned
Ratchet felt a wave of protectiveness surge within him. “You’re not broken, Bumblebee. You’re hurt. You went through something slagging traumatic, and you’re allowed to need time. But don’t—don’t—you dare shut us out.”
Bumblebee’s optics flicked toward him.
“You held me together more times than you’ll ever know. When the memories came back. When the guilt felt like it’d crush me. You were there. You, with your bright spark and that Primus-forsaken smile. You kept me going.”
Bee looked away, tears burning the edges of his optics.
“So now…” Ratchet whispered. “Now I hold you.”
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Bee gave a shaky nod. Small and fragile.
But real.
Ratchet ex-vented slowly. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”
He pulled Bee into a careful embrace, and this time—this time—Bee didn’t pull back. He shook, vents heaving with quiet sobs, arms slowly lifting to cling to Ratchet like he was the last solid thing left.
“You old softie,” Bee whispered with a crooked laugh.
a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. “Don’t push it.”
And in the stillness of the medbay, Bumblebee finally let himself break- every piece of his fragile façade crumbling under the weight of his emotions.
And Ratchet—true to his word—held him through it all.