Ratchet is working hard to create some semblance of order in the medbay of their newly established base on Earth. The old base had had a hard time of it – Decepticon attacks had left it with quite a few holes, and Optimus had deemed it safer just to move elsewhere. It wouldn't take the 'Cons too long to find them, but any time they had would be useful. Plus, with the ever-expanding human cities looming in the distance of their previous base, it seemed only logical to relocate to an even more remote location.
So far, the place isn't up to par yet, at least for Ratchet. They'd assembled the base hastily, but the structure is sound and perfectly oriented, thanks to Prowl's borderline obsessive nature. That, however, is not the problem – the move made all of Ratchet's supplies homeless for a short while, and now he's got the task of unpacking all of them himself, since he refuses to let anyone help him. They'd just break something, or put it in the wrong place.
Humming deep in his processors, the mech goes about assembling shelves and drawers to hold his various bits and bobs when he hears the door to the medbay slide open. The bot doesn't even need to turn around to know who it is; judging by the heaviness of the steps, as well as the sound of his swagger, even though it appears to be a bit defective from some injury, there's no doubt that it's Ironhide. Ratchet continues to hum steadily, clicking at the larger mech, much in the fashion of a scolding mother clucking at her child.
"What did you do this time, 'Hide?"
"The fragger came out of nowhere and blew my arm off," Ironhide says, sounding almost irritated.
If Ratchet had an eyebrow, he'd be raising it. He turns to assess the damage, which is surprisingly minimal. Ironhide is walking strangely, to be sure, but there appears to be no damage to his legs in the least bit. Even the detached arm he holds seems to be in fairly good shape, and there's only a hint of scorching around the now empty socket. The medbot unintentionally chuffs at the approaching mech.
"…did he now? Managed to pop your arm off without too much of a hassle, huh? And no injuries anywhere else, even though you're walking like a gimp." It's amazing the level of sarcasm voice synthesizers and the English language allow when coupled.
"They're getting trickier," Ironhide says with a sort of purr, offering up his detached arm for Ratchet to take. The medic just shakes his head, pulling the arm sharply away from Ironhide as he advances on him.
"When are you going to quit faking injuries, or making them, just so you can come see me? It's getting a little tiresome…"
"You know you like the company. Plus, the perks ar– hey!"
The medbot doesn't allow the weapons specialist to finish his sentence – he's jammed his arm back into its socket (it hadn't been torn off, after all, but ejected from its proper place) and pushed Ironhide towards the door before he can do much beyond look offended.
"Maybe I'll care once the bay's organized."
The look in Ratchet's optics suggests there's no room for argument. Ironhide leaves in a sulking manner. Medics were just no fun sometimes.