A/N - take place in the same continuity as Running with Scissors. Not really RoTF compliant, but may have some elements later. I don't own Transformers, which you should probably realize by this point.
Mikaela cleaned her tools meticulously and with a single minded focus. It was a ritual in it's own right, something her father had taught her. There were many fond memories of father and daughter bonding over the kitchen table, tools and cleaning clothes puled between them. Now that she was older, it had become her outlet, a way to unwind once the stress built up too high. It was something she could pour all of her energy into, and forget about everything else.
If she spent enough time at it, maybe she would be too tired to cry.
The stinging in her eyes told her that was false hope.
She had fucked up big time, and it was eating away at her. It wasn't just enough that she and Sam were apparently not as compatible as they had hoped – apparently, in complete indifference to every movie they had ever watched, meeting alien robots, uncovering a secret government organization, almost dying, and saving world from said alien robots was not a solid foundation for a lasting relation ship. No, she had gone and pissed off her friend and mentor as well. It was an honest mistake, but it was one that had harmed a friend. Of course, Ironhide had insisted he would be fine, no harm done, she had simply knocked a sensor wire out of place, once it realigned he'd be good as new, but Miakela couldn't help but feel guilty. A simple slip, and the weapons specialist had lost all all sensation in his hand.
Almost lovingly, she began to place wrenches back in their old leather case, folding it carefully.
She felt horrible.
And she couldn't shake the look of disappointment on Ratchet's face. It was burned into her mind.
Ratchet hadn't gone so far as to ban her from the medbay, but she couldn't help but feel that if she hadn't been human, he would have. He'd apologized for snapping at her later, but he hadn't invited her back to help with anyone's check-ups either.
The old tools now spotless and neatly packed in their box, she ran a hand over the old steel with a smile. They didn't make tools like they used to. She'd never buy a new set. Not with the way newer ones were made, all cheap alloys and plastic. No, they just didn't hold up, no matter how much you paid. Her fathers tools had been bought 30 years ago, and had more than stood the test of time. Good old American steel, no 'made in China' stamps here. She carefully placed the aged toolbox in a gym bag and slung it over her shoulder.
Mikaela was going to make sure that if she ever got another chance to work in that medbay, she would never make another mistake. Ever.
Of course, that meant getting some practice on her own.
She knew just the place.
