Hi, guys. Sorry for the off update. I got a new job that was pretty rough on my mental health. I quit that job, but my brain didn't get better. I'm doing okay now. But this chapter didn't exactly cooperate. I'm in a bad headspace, which means poor Lizzie is too, since it's first person. I love the first part, though.

Warning. Some f-bombs in this one. Be ye forewarned.

Thanks to Alice Gone Mad and SilverStorm5 for reviewing!

Chapter 4: The one with the nightmare

6900 words

June 1: 2 am

"The nanites will help the healing–" A gentle smile. "–And how fares our little science project–" A malevolent grin. "–He needs you, Texas–" Luminescent eyes, wide with a desperate plea. "–This isn't what I wanted, but I won't give it back–" An unrepentant scowl. "–I'm so sorry–" But he wasn't sorry. I know he wasn't. "–Keep your eyes closed, Miss Campbell – Sleep, youngling. You will feel better when you wake – You'll thank me later –" Warm arms…

The gunshot was so much louder than I ever remember it being.

My eyes wrenched open, and I choked on a desperate gasp as raw panicpanicpanic shot through my brain. Blood flooded my throat, smothering my scream into a strangled whine as I arched away from the mattress. Something was suffocating me! A weight on my chest restricted my lungs, and phantom fingers reached maliciously toward my throat.

'Danger, danger, danger!' my brain screamed, and red flared violently behind my eyes.

I yanked my arms, confused when they broke free from the metal cuffs with no resistance. Escape, get away! Colors blurred together in a nauseating kaleidoscope as I wrenched myself up, and my feet scrabbled against the restraints wrapped around my legs.

Get away, get away, get away! Oh my god I was trapped, and he was going to kill me! No, no, god, please, no! My head hit the wall behind me as I propelled myself away from my attacker, and a whimpering sob balled up in my throat when the movement stretched the fatal wound. Dying, dying! God, nononono! Breathe, breathe, breathe! My stomach cramped fitfully around the foreign hole.

Blood, blood, dyingdyingdying!

"Elizabeth!" I jerked back, yelping when small, cool hands framed my face. Enemy, danger! I skittered back away from the touch, smacking my head again. "No, no, femme, focus!"

I sucked air shallowly, greedily, as my sympathetic nervous system dumped adrenaline through my veins. Every exhale held a strangled whine as the air caught in my closing throat. Suffocating,

can't,

breathe!

I had—Run. I had to run! I rolled to my side, shaking arms collapsing as I attempted to lever myself to my knees.

Escape, had to escape! I can't fight him! He shot me, I'm bleeding out! Dying, dying!

"Elizabeth, look at me!"

The shout cut through my instinctive scramble, and bleary eyes focused on the small robot standing unsteadily yet resolutely on the piled blanket in front of me, hands out like a lion trainer approaching a feral animal. His hands pressed against my face again, soothing cold against the sweaty heat my body produced as muscles contracted spastically in preparation for my flight.

Red and white. Medic. Ratchet. Safe.

Ratchet could fix anything.

Ratchet would take care of me.

Why had I panicked?

A dream. He shot me. It was my gun, and he shot me.

Who shot me? Why would someone shoot me?

He shot me. He was coming. He'd find me.

Who?

"Elizabeth, focus on me. Talk to me." Ratchet's gentle tenor rumbled through my soul, like rain soothing a burn. I scrambled mentally for words, but my brain baulked at the very idea of communicating while it was supposed to be fleeing.

"Talk," I begged on a hitched breath (suffocate, suffocate, breathebreathebreathe). "Distract."

Ratchet, bless him, didn't even hesitate. Small fingers kneaded at my cheeks as his voice flowed over my irrational fear, grounding me in the present even as my focus threatened to fracture again. "The Cybertronian structural system is broken down into two sections: struts and protoform. Struts, as you can imagine, act as your human bones do, and they form the basic framework for each Cybertronian. Protoform functions as the barrier between the Cybertronian internals and the external environment.

"While you might assume the protoform performs the same function as your human skin, it actually functions as a secondary structural support and protection against trauma rather than a semi-permeable barrier. It is more comparable to an exoskeleton. Now—"

I listened as if my life depended on it, focusing on the words, on their meaning, how Ratchet formed them on his glossa — vocalizer? — and how they fit together to form the thought he relayed. The tears blinded me – frustrated me – as my logic began to catch up with the emotions.

I was fine.

Nothing was attacking me.

I most certainly hadn't been shot.

I was safe.

I was fine.

Yet my stomach twisted with sickening dread because he knew where I was. I didn't know who he was. I didn't know how he knew to find me. I just knew he wanted to hurt me. My heart squeezed with panic because he was coming, and more tears pricked my eyes.

No, please, please, not again. My breathing picked up as the realization hit; I was fixing to spiral again, and I still had no idea how to stop it.

"Keep your focus, Elizabeth," Ratchet grumbled. My name on his lips yanked at my attention, bringing me back again from the brink. "There will be a quiz. As an organic, I'm sure you wonder why we need that secondary support that the protoform supplies. Why not a ribcage or something similar? The reasoning behind that is linked to our transformational abilities."

I… had actually been curious about that. During biology classes, I kept myself invested in the boring anatomy sections by translating them into what the Cybertronian equivalent would be. The comics showed what the inside of a Cybertronian's chest looked like, and there were never any ribs.

I pointedly rubbed the wet streams running down my cheeks with the edge of the blanket as I slowly sat back on my knees. Ratchet's hands released my face as I moved out of his reach and began moving in time with his speech, the actions reminiscent of a trained professor. My legs folded under my rear as the flightiness faded, replaced by interest as Ratchet went on to describe how a protoform differed from an organic exoskeleton. The explanation was simple, dumbed down either because he didn't think I could follow a Cybertronian education-level biology lecture, which was incredibly likely, or because he wasn't certain how much I'd actually retain in my mental state.

… My mental state…

How the fuck had this happened? I was taking my pills religiously! Work wasn't overly stressful.

Okay, well, work wasn't… deathly stressful. It certainly wasn't panic-attack-at-the-break-of-dawn stressful! I couldn't even—I didn't know—what even—I just didn't understand.

Why did this keep happening? Was this the price for some past sin, some failure that I was unaware of? Was there some way to—could I even—I had fixed before—I could—

My thoughts meshed in a frustrating jumble as I attempted to work through the post-attack haze that threatened to shred what little focus I had left. The panic faded nearly as abruptly as it appeared, and it left behind that exhaustion that was steadily becoming an unscheduled staple in my weekly routine. Fatigue settled over me like a raincloud, and the world began to blur as my eyes lost their focus.

I needed to retreat to my mind. I was safe there.

I startled when cool hand cupped my face again. "Elizabeth, stay with me," Ratchet directed as my far-away gaze began to sharpen on his white faceplates. "What are the two primary functions of the protoform?"

Protoform. Exoskeleton. "Secondary s'pport and 'tection 'gainst trauma." I stumbled over the words, my tongue filling up my mouth. I remembered about the exoskeleton thing because, "No ribs, cuz of transformation."

"Correct." Ratchet's expression lit with pride, which I felt was a bit stupid, because the question and subsequent answer was the equivalent of an eighth-grader's biology test. Maybe he realized how difficult it was to focus right now? Did he honestly have that much experience with psychological patients? Just what was his previous owner diagnosed with?

"And what happens to the protoform once a T-cog is activated?"

T-cog? Had he mentioned that? Had I missed it? I must have missed it if he was asking a question about it. Fuck, I was going to disappoint him, just like I disappointed everyone else in my life. Then he'd leave like Nikki and Megan, or he'd forget about me like my family, and I'd be alone again, because even if Optimus was my prime, he wasn't competent at dealing with these attacks, and he'd give up on me eventually, and—

"Elizabeth!" The sharp bark elicited a startled squeak from high in my throat, and my vision focused clearly on the red hand currently stretched out in my direction. Or perhaps more specifically, on the rectangular white pill clasped in that hand. A cold bead of sweat slowly worked its way down my spine as some other indecipherable emotion sent a matching shiver after it.

"Ratchet," I began carefully, suddenly coherent as the implications of this moment seated deeply in my psyche, "where did you get that pill?"

"I've been a medic since before this planet even formed, femling, and I've studied human medicine extensively." He sounded offended that I would dare question him. "You don't need to concern yourself with the safety of my prescription."

"That's not what I asked."

"Personals cannot prescribe medications without a doctor's prior approval." Optimus's voice rose steadily from my right, and I abruptly realized he had a hand on my hip. Had he been there during my entire breakdown? "Tex hasn't visited her physician in several months, and she was never prescribed Xanax. How did you get that pill, and how are you overriding medical limitation protocols sufficiently enough to offer it to her?"

I slowly tore my eyes from Ratchet's pensive gaze, only briefly noting the clamped armor and pursed lips as my vision lit on Optimus. Because any time something happened beyond my comprehension, I knew Optimus would have an explanation and battle plan.

And I was definitely out of my league this time. Ratchet had just gone from a lost and traumatized Persobot to a bot that was either capable of overriding his programming, possessing liberties that he shouldn't have. This wasn't helpless kindness anymore; this was a potential threat.

Suddenly, the possibilities of how he came to be without an owner grew lethal.

And judging by the presence of Optimus's facemask and the tense set of his shoulders, he was acutely aware, too.

Maybe I should've listened to him.

"I'm an experimental Personal." It sounded almost hesitant, and Optimus raised a single eye ridge while his optics dimmed to a stormy cobalt.

"Allowing a Personal, medical or not, to have the ability to prescribe medication is a liability that Persobots Incorporated would not dally with." Prime gaze sharpened. "If you plan to lie to me, I advise you put effort into it. I have spent millennia sorting through falsehoods delivered by those far more experienced in deception than you."

"I'm not lying." Ratchet's voice no longer defensive but rather offended. His light bar on his back flashed red briefly in irritation? Worry? I really needed to figure out how those played into his body language. "I've trained with some of the greatest medics on Cybertron before coming to Earth, and I've had time enough to sort through Earth medicine and case studies to claim proficiency in human medicine." His optics narrowed as he leaned forward only the slightest bit his fists on hips. "Additionally, my adaptive programming allows instant download of any pertinent information on the drugs I prescribe, including side effects, reactivity with other drugs, and efficacy."

"Wait, adaptive programming? Like C0d3r's Ironhide?"

Ratchet huffed and spared me a frustrated glare. "I don't know who this coder person is or what they have to do with that aftheaded weapons specialist," his arms crossed over his chest, "but I use my skills as a medical professional to heal and only to heal. I would never prescribe something to my human that would harm her, and I am fit to immediately respond to any negative reactions she might have to any medications I prescribe."

My eyes flicked to Optimus, whose optics found mine at the same moment. I wasn't particularly sure what expression showed on my face, but Optimus's expression went flat before darkening with irritation.

"Lieutenant, no." The negation rumbled like distant thunder, a wordless threat that was once backable by the Autobot army.

"Optimus, he stopped the attack," I whispered. 'And you didn't,' lingered in the air like a shroud, unspoken yet understood. "I'm not backing down on this. It's… he's supposed to be here. I don't know, but he is." The aggravated scoff was a sound I'd never heard from my prime, but…

My body began to rock back and forth at the waist in a self-soothing motion as the memory of blind panic flitted behind my eyes, the phantom feeling of cuffs binding me against a cold table, of a burning pain in my gut. This had been the worst attack to date. Yeah, I had moments in the past where I retreated into my mind and went numb for stretches of time, and I had crying fits when the stress became too much, but this? This was new, and frankly, I was terrified.

God, there were so many possibilities, and none of them ended well. What if I broke down at work like this? Zoning out while walking a dog was one thing, but having a full-on panic attack like this? Curling up and rocking back and forth? And yeah, a nightmare triggered it this time, but what was to say it wouldn't happen somewhere else? Say I accidentally smacked my gut into a table, and it brings back the memory of that… the gunshot…

No. No, no, don't think about it. Hell, even zoning out was reaching potentially dangerous levels. What if I checked out while driving? It was getting harder to control when my mind retreated… And, well… Ratchet was a medical class Personal… Technically, I could take him to work.

Optimus had experienced my more minor episodes in the past, and unfortunately, he just wasn't equipped to deal with them. It wasn't like the little crying spurts I had in high school and earlier in college when I was just so exhausted that my emotions escaped me, and it wasn't like those depressive spells that followed a failed test grade or a negative response for a job application. These went deeper, and platitudes and understanding words didn't go as far. Hell, even Ratchet wouldn't have broken the spiral if he hadn't surprised me so effectively with the Xanax offer.

But it was a start. He had staved off the worst and had even prevented dissociation for a fair while, which was more than Optimus had managed, despite his efforts. As it was, I was lucky Ratchet happened to be programmed with all that random knowledge on Cybertronian biology. I knew from experience that human biology was nowhere near as interesting.

"Elizabeth," Optimus breathed on a sigh, breaking my thoughts and pulling my attention back, "this is unsafe. Surely, you can see that."

"Pitslag," Ratchet spat, hands fisting at his sides as his armor flared. Those red lights flickered with a little blip from an emergency siren. "I'm the safest bot for her! My entire existence revolves around keeping her safe and happy, and I'm not going to let you sweep me out like a naughty turbopup!" Ratchet stomped the three steps to my crossed legs and placed a possessive hand on my knee as he pierced me with his cerulean optics. "Elizabeth, you know I belong here, and you know I'd never hurt you."

And as absolutely crazy and mildly terrifying as it was, I did. The logical part of my mind screamed while my heart pounded to a faster beat than it was used to, almost like a hummingbird's fluttering wings. Almost like a thrumming spark. Tachycardia couldn't be a good sign this soon after a panic attack. Maybe I should bring that up once I visit my doctor next.

"I'm not taking anything prescribed by you," I decided at length. Ratchet's frown drooped as he held my gaze, a weird mixture of grim disappointment. "I trust CMO Ratchet, but I don't trust you yet."

"Fair enough," he grumbled as he slipped the pill back into… his arm? What the fuck? I gripped his hand between my pointer and thumb with a surprised hum, shifting his arm this way and that. "I need that arm," he deadpanned. "I have looser plating for storing medications." But damn if it hadn't looked like he subspaced the thing!

"I have a request, if I may," Ratchet added as he extricated himself from my grasp. I let him go without complaint as he turned his gaze to the scowling autobot commander, taking in his displeased demeanor and the thick arms crossed tightly over his chest. "My prime—"

"I am not your prime." Optimus shoved a finger aggressively in Ratchet's direction, his other hand clamped on the opposing forearm. I resisted the urge to sigh at him. Why was he being so belligerent with this? Why couldn't he just make peace? "I am not your anything. I don't know what slag you're trying to pull, but if you hurt my human, rest assured that I will use every ounce of my acquired military and medical knowledge to destroy you in a fashion that would make Megatron proud."

With that astonishing threat given, Optimus turned his burning gaze on me, and I resisted the urge to scooch away from him as he continued with a firm-but-not-yet-furious tone in my direction. "Elizabeth, you will not take any medications from him, and you will not spend any time alone with him until I trust him not to harm you. My spark tells me something is wrong, something is different, and I will not have you harmed for the sake of a stray Persobot. Do I make myself clear?" It was said in his Commander Voice, 25% firm confidence and 75% you-will-obey-me-or-there-will-be-consequences, and I knew no one had ever disobeyed any orders given in that voice.

"Yes, Commander," I murmured back, properly chastised. Because I did understand the danger I was courting, even if my heart gave a delighted little tumble that was accented by a weird sputter of joy and relief in my very soul. Everything was okay now. Ratchet was staying, we'd be together, and through it all, I'd be safe.

I glanced at my bedside clock, finally realizing that the moon was still out. The blinds seemed to be allowing more light in tonight, or maybe my eyes were just super dilated.

"I'm calling in tomorrow," I murmured absently, one of my hands shifting unconsciously to the left portion of my stomach. "I… I need to shoot my gun. I can't remember how loud it is."

"I'm not sure I agree with going to the range when you're in this headspace," Optimus began, effortlessly following my abrupt shift in thoughts and politely dismissing their inconsistent flow, "but I agree with your decision regarding work. Go back to sleep, Lieutenant. I will message your manager, and we will deal with the rest of this in the morning."

"Yeah." I shifted back into a laying position, noting that the blankets and pillows were dry. Weird. I could've sworn I was soaked in sweat when I woke up. Had we been awake long enough for it to have dried? I couldn't recall. "That sounds like a solid plan."

I settled in haphazardly, and I heard Optimus's engine growl warningly as a familiar weight climbed up onto my chest. Bemusement flitted through my soul along with a small dose of anxiety. I hummed a little and dropped my hand across Ratchet's back as he settled. The anxiety faded, replaced by a loving warmth.

Yeah, everything was going to be fine. It might take a little for Optimus to figure that out, too, but we'd make it out fine.

After all, what was the worst that could happen when I had the commanding officer of an army and his head medic at my side?

Jazz settled back on his axels as the two minibots and his Mark in the room three floors above his alt mode shifted back into recharge. It hadn't been the first time he'd sensed that weird spark signature, but it was definitely the strongest. It had been a steady presence anywhere the Asset went since he first began his observations two weeks ago, and it spiked anytime she seemed to hurt herself. Though that was only guesswork based on what pains she complained about when he drove her – when she drove him – home from work. But tonight…

The initial burst of spark energy meshed violently with a wave of what Jazz could only label as… well, he wasn't really sure what it was. He did know that he had only experienced it one other time. Optimus had been damaged by a piercer round that went through a cable attached to his spark chamber, and Jazz, the only bot available, had been forced to patch the damage while Ratchet instructed him on the procedure over comm. The second he opened Prime's chest and saw the Matrix of Leadership… the wash of energy that rushed over him had felt identical to the miniature starburst that had just originated from his Asset's room.

'Ain't that fascinating?' he hummed to himself as he logged and encoded the signal, along with the other noteworthy spark signals, to send back to base. Ratchet and Perceptor would have better luck puzzling this out than he ever could.

'Well, this changes things.' Not uncommon for unforeseen variables to alter how a mission ran, but he definitely hadn't expected this mission to be skewed by something like this. He had done the groundwork himself, knew everything there was to know about Marie Elizabeth Campbell, her family, her friends, and the city she lived in. She was unremarkable. Her family was unremarkable. So how the frag had she come into contact with Matrix energy, especially when her little Optimus's spark signature was barely strong enough to be considered a symbiote?

Unless… did their symbiotic relationship have something to do with it? Perhaps her weird signature was a result of a smaller version of the Matrix. Perhaps the miniaturized relic had reacted to her memory purge during her recharge cycle. Even that didn't explain the quick formation of that bond between her and the medibot, though, or the reasoning behind that medibot broadcasting the bond's existence so loudly. It was as if he was aggressively warning off any other potential symbiotes from bonding with his host, but that made no sense. He knew from experience with Blaster that symbiotes often encouraged the growth of their family, drawing more strength from more bonds. Maybe that was just a cassette thing? And that wasn't even the crux of the matter. How the frag did a bot form a bond with a fleshy? So many questions.

And the only way he was gonna get any answers was to spend time with the femme and pull a little more history from her. Which was proving difficult enough as it was.

She was avoiding him.

He could tell by the way she hesitantly peeked over the railing of the staircase every morning, peering down to the parking spot his previous alternate mode had taken up, the spot Jasper parked in. The second she noted that it was empty, she heaved a little sigh of relief before padding down the stairs in her tennis shoes and scrubs and striding in the direction of his new form. She walked right past his temporary holoform with a bounce in her steps, nodding toward the elderly white man that looked remarkably like the gentleman living in the apartment above Jazz's new living space. She offered him a hesitant smile, which Jazz's wrinkled lips returned as she trotted past with keys in hand.

Every evening, when he offered her dinner, the response was the same:

"I'm a li'l too tired t' hang t'night. Maybe t'morrow?"

Every. Night.

For the first time in more than a decavorn, a femme was avoiding him, and it was honestly beginning to piss him off. As an ops bot, he took special pride in being able to fashion a personality to mesh well with his mark's and using those interpersonal skills to slide into his target's sphere until his mission was complete.

This femme, though. This human girl was trying his Primus-fragging patience. He had observed her for a week before finally introducing her to his construct. He knew her type before ever officially meeting her. She would've baulked at his normal flirting, and had he approached her as a friend, judging by her useless BumbleBFF, she would've put him on the back burner (like she was doing now, but he refused to admit it). The shy, smitten boy-next-door who wanted to provide for her should've worked – had worked! This wasn't just his pride talking; he knew that femme had been interested in him that night. The extended stares, the banter, leaning towards him.

Or was that all his misunderstanding of human body language? For the first time, Jazz found himself at a conundrum brought about by his lack of understanding of a species culture, and the cultural investigator in him bemoaned the fact that such a failing was coming back to bite him in the aft. He knew—had always known, really—that humans had cultures as diverse and rich as what the different Cybertronian provinces once touted. The bad blood between him and the species, though…

And it was illogical, he knew, to blame the entire species for the actions of a few. There were bad humans, just like there were bad Cybertronians, but the caveat was that he wasn't forced to work with those Cybertronians. Instead, he hunted them in his downtime and made sure they felt every vitrun* of pain they inflicted on those that belonged to him.

But, no, not with humans, because Optimus, for some stupid aft reason, believed these humans deserved mercy. They vivisected Hound, and many – not some, many – worked directly with Decepticons like those shady neutrals back during the start of the war. Yet, Optimus still worked with those shifty governments – protected them even! – while they gave mere scraps in return—and the Autobots had to yank those from their fleshy little fingers.

No, Jazz wanted nothing to do with Earth or its cultures. He wanted to freely hunt the remaining 'Cons off this dirtball, get the frag off this planet, and continue this fight somewhere else, preferably somewhere uninhabited with next to no water. Given another two months, and he wouldn't have to worry about the 'Cons, cuz the fragging humidity would do him in.

Of course, to complete that objective, he'd still have to finish this mission and secure his marks. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. He could recall the severe look the femme gave him when he presented those less-than-stellar cookies to her, and he had seen how she noticed his "nervous" movements. At the same time, he noticed how she got lost in his eyes, how her focus sometimes flicked to his lips, and how her cheeks flushed that pretty pink color sometimes when he grinned at her…

And he had to admit that she had a cute little smirk, too, once she got over her first date jitters. Which he conceded were also a little adorable. Primus, that hissed exchange behind that slammed door was fragging hilarious. Poor femling was completely out of her… element… like another certain bot he knew…

Frag, did the human even realize he was trying to date her? Pit, what if she treated him like she treated all her new/temporary friends because she thought that was what he wanted? And if she was anything like Prowl…

Well, that made things simultaneously easier and far more difficult.

'Well, I know Prowl don't do good with subtlety in relationships, so I guess I gotta take the direct approach with the femling.' Jazz hunkered down against the warm concrete. 'And ain't it lucky that I got a whole day to ask her out?'

And who better to help a stressed femme relax than the Jazz-mech?

June 1: 9 am

"And why do you need to wear that again?"

I sent deadpan glance in Ratchet's direction, not even bothering to straighten from where I was working a pair of denim booty shorts up over my knees. "That" was a pair of boyshort underwear over bikini cuts and a teal sports bra, easily the most revealing thing Ratchet had seen me step outdoors. Admittedly, not something I'd wonder around in, either, but for my plans for the next hour or so, it fit what I needed.

"It makes dancing easier," I informed him primly, and it did. Pole fitness was a hobby I'd taken up a couple of years back in an attempt to gain some self-confidence. The result was the creation of what I honestly considered an alternate personality of sorts, because I was a completely different person the second I entered the studio, the second I stepped up to that pole. I was graceful and sexy, desirable and enviable.

For about an hour after practice, I radiated that same confidence, offering witty sarcasm and wry grins. Then, as night fell and the remnants of endorphins fully faded, the magic disappeared, and reality creeped back in. I was socially awkward, laced heavily with mental baggage that I didn't really understand.

Despite the end result, though, I knew dancing would bring me at least an hour of relief from the stress still skittering around my psyche from last night's nightmare.

"I don't like you wearing that. You're revealing far too much skin, and human males will get ideas," Ratchet announced decidedly, crossing his arms over his large chest as he frowned aggressively in my direction. Should've known he'd say that. Optimus had made a similar huffy statement when I started out. Hopefully Ratchet would figure out just as quickly how unlikely he was to win this battle.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm dancing for myself in front of a mirror, then, ain't it?" I responded lightly as I padded across the room, buttoning my shorts and zipping the fly as I walked. Ratchet trotted after me as I scooped up my deodorant midstride and applied a layer as I exited my bedroom for the openness of the living area.

Optimus barely glanced up from his position over my old iPod touch. He had been reading some philosophy book the last time I had looked, but I was fairly certain he'd finished that one off a couple of days ago. My days had begun to blur together, if I was being honest, and I couldn't really remember much from the past few days other than treating that oxygen dog who hadn't, by the grace of God, kicked the bucket yet. Honestly, I was surprised his owner hadn't cut power yet, seeing as thirty minutes of oxygen cost sixty bucks at my clinic. It felt excessive for a 15-year-old dog.

I digress, though.

I dumped the deodorant on the entry table as I slipped my feet into my Grumpy Cat Bobs, leaning down in the same movement to grab the strap of my pink workout duffle. I grabbed my keys from the hook, and I slid out the door. It had to have been the shortest prep time in my life: 7 minutes from abrupt decision to head to the studio to actually walking out the door.

And yet, the second the door shut, my anxiety hitched up at least by 50 percent. What if Ratchet and Optimus got in a fight? What if Optimus hurt him? How long would it take for me to get back anyways? And—

"Whoa." The deep voice yanked me unpleasantly from my concerns, my head snapped to the right where a familiar dark-skinned god was poised to climb the final staircase to my apartment. Blue eyes ran down my body appreciatively before climbing back up to meet my own with an approving grin. "Didn't realize you looked like that under those baggy scrubs."

Ah, yes. I had forgotten why I dropped out of the dating pool: guys like this that looked at me like I was a piece of meat to be fucked. And Jasper was beginning to realize just how his "compliment" was being taken if the growing look of dread on his face was anything to judge by. Then again, my displeasure wasn't exactly hidden. My scowl was pretty obvious.

"Ain't it a pity that I ain't wearing it for you, either?" I sneered as I snapped the deadbolt on my door into place. I gave an offended huff and pointedly stepped around my loiterer, noting absently his aborted movement to grab my arm.

"Shit, no, Liz, I swear I didn' mean it like tha'! It jus' kinda slipped—"

"Jazz, it's been a shitshow of a mornin'. Can we cut the pleas'ntries and let the irritated girl walk away?" My footsteps were light as I trotted down the stairs, my ponytail bouncing against the back of my neck with every step. Jasper's footsteps were non-existent. I tried really hard not to let my paranoia grab that fact, but I couldn't deny the brief thought of, 'He's a holoform,' that flitted across my mind. I brushed it off just as swiftly.

"Wai', wait, Liz! Can I just—" A warm hand dropped onto my shoulder, and I whirled around on the balcony to scowl at the mech—man. God, I had to stop reading fanfic.

"What?" The growl scared off most lesser men. Jasper only grimaced as he snatched his hand back to rub awkwardly at his upper arm.

"Look, I didn' come up here t' insult ya or nothing like tha'. I jus'…" His gaze slid to the side, and he pursed his lips as he hunted for words. "I haven' seen ya—well, I have seen ya, but you won't come ta dinner with me, and I actually really like ya, so I—"

"Wait, what?" Electric blue eyes widened in panic as they leapt back to mine.

"What what?" Evasion. Had he accidentally babbled that out, or was it intentional to make me think he babbled it out? Could I even trust him? Unbidden, memories of that one date, the only real time we'd spent together rose. He had been a gentleman, I'd admit. No poison or drugs in the food. No pressure about staying over. No pointed comments about my body, until today at least. Now that I thought of it, though, he hadn't mentioned my appearance, even in the many times he'd come to my door since to ask me to try his latest cuisine. Not even a side comment about my "beautiful smile." Probably because every time he came over, I was exhausted as hell.

"Primus," I breathed, turning my eyes upwards to ask God for strength. How did I always end up with the determined ones? And while I'm on the topic, why did I always run them away? Maybe this was the one God wanted in my life. "I'll be home in, like, two hours."

"Wait, really?" Blue eyes widened as a beatific smile split his face. I fought back the small smile that wanted to rise in response. God, he was gorgeous. What the hell did a guy like this want with a chick like me?

"Yeah," I called over my shoulder as I turned away. Was I still supposed to be mad? I felt like I should still be mad. Still, I added, "Make it somethin' int'resting."

I pretended not to hear his whispered, "Yes!" as I trotted down the remaining stairs. I made the short hike to my car, grimacing at the accumulating sweat and with only a small huff of amusement at the black man's antics, motored toward the pole studio two miles away.

*Uhm, a vitrun is a made-up unit of Cybertronian measurement equal to an ounce :D

You know, it's a good thing someone at Persobots put in the time and effort to program all these Cybertronian biology facts into Ratchet, ain't it?