Ratchet kept his optics fixed on the screen in front of him, ignoring the itching sensation between his shoulder plates. He didn't care how long that fragging ninja-bot stared at him, he didn't want to talk about it.
He shrugged a little to rid himself of the sensation and continued to study the monitors. A small fire had sprung up near the docks. The local law enforcement could handle it, but he should probably call Prime and…
"Would you quit looking at me like that??" He snapped, whirling around to glare at the bot perched cross-legged on the back of the couch. Prowl gazed back at him, unruffled by his superior's outburst.
"My apologies, Ratchet." The ninja uncurled gracefully and landed lightly on his feet. "I merely thought you would wish to discuss the events of this afternoon,"
Ratchet winced. He'd been afraid of that. He mentally cursed Sari and her repeated urging of the taciturn ninja to 'reach out' to his fellow bots. He'd gotten along with the old Prowl just fine. "And since when do I need a nanny-bot?" he growled.
Prowl looked a little hurt. "Suit yourself," he replied somewhat coldly. He turned to leave. Ratchet shuffled his feet uncomfortably, feeling like the world's biggest aft-head. He sighed. He owed the little glitch.
"Kid, get back here," he called after the retreating ninja. Prowl paused, one servo on the doorframe. He didn't turn.
"Did you need something, Ratchet?"
Ratchet cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Perhaps it would help to… talk about it," He looked steadily at the dark bot partially obscured by shadows. "With a friend."
The ninja-bot regarded him for a long moment. "Perhaps," he said, and returned to the couch.
"But if you breathe a word of this to anyone I'll throw your skinny aft into the nearest trash compactor."
Prowl shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm not Bumblebee, you know. I can keep my mouth shut for more than five minutes,"
"True," the older bot chuckled, "Although if I recall correctly, he won that bet,"
Prowl arched one eyebrow delicately. "A technicality. He was tied up and unconscious the entire time,"
Prowl waited patiently, servos folded in his lap.
"I'm getting there," Ratchet snapped. "I'm just…warming up to it," Ratchet was going to weld that fragging eyebrow down. Cut the kid's repertoire of facial expressions by half.
He knew he was stalling. "It started with Bumblebee…" he began. It always did.
Flashback: Ratchet was in a foul mood. He had fully intended to spend the day parked in front of the Autobot's outrageously large television, sipping on coolant and watching reruns of his favorite human shows. He'd just settled onto the sofa, remote in hand, when Bumblebee burst into the room, vaulted over the armrest, and came skidding to a stop in front of him. Ratchet was not impressed.
"Ratchet! Ratchet! Ratchet!" the yellow bot shouted, even though the object of his attention was less than three feet away. "Come quick! Bulkhead's in trouble!"
His optics widened in alarm and Ratchet sprang from the couch, dropping his coolant to the floor. The container shattered and sent the liquid splattering over the concrete.
"Where is he?" he demanded sharply, already heading for the door. "What happened?"
Bumblebee hurried after him. "In his studio," he replied worriedly. Ratchet took off down the hall at a run. If Bulkhead was playing artist again, Primus only knew what he had done to himself. His last "masterpiece" had exploded rather spectacularly and sent chunks of superheated plaster ricocheting around the base. Prime had nearly lost an earfin in the disaster.
He threw open the door of the large store room that served as Bulkhead's "studio" and froze. Then he blinked and stared again. Bulkhead stared back at him sheepishly. The giant bot was plastered to the wall by a bright red substance, his wrecking ball wrapped tightly around his neck and shoulders, holding him completely immobile. Luckily for him, he was fine. Robots didn't need to breathe. Otherwise, Ratchet would have strangled him megacycles ago.
"How?" Ratchet asked in what he thought was a perfectly reasonable voice, but something in his tone made Bulkhead cringe and sent Bumblebee scurrying for cover.
The green giant squirmed, or tried to. "Well, uh… see I was reading in this book of Sari's about this guy who throws paint at a canvas to make pictures and I thought 'why not try that?'" he paused, embarrassed.
"And?" Ratchet demanded.
"And so we attached the bucket to his wrecking ball and Bulkhead launched it at the wall," Bumblebee chimed in from his hiding place behind the door. He peeked out, caught sight of Ratchet's expression, and hurriedly ducked back down in case the old bot started throwing things.
Bulkhead watched him hopefully. "So…uh…what do you think, doc-bot?"
Ratchet considered. "I think…this is a first for me," he said, surprised.
"You mean you've never seen a bot stuck to the wall with red paint? Wrapped in his own wrecking ball?" Bumblebee piped up, his eyes sparkling. Little fragger was proud.
One patented Ratchet-glare took care of that problem. "No," he said flatly, "I mean I've never seen bots as dumb as you two. Congratulations, kid."
"Gee thanks Ratch—"
"That wasn't a compliment!" Ratchet snarled.
Satisfied that the yellow mini-bot once again cowered in the corner, Ratchet set to work untangling Bulkhead from his own arm.