Part two. This one's a bit short, but, eh. Takes place a week later than part one (since I figure it'd take a small ship less time than Ratchet's two-week flight from one galaxy to the next).
Ratchet glanced up from his spaceship, his face and arms coated in greasy oil. The engine was in need of a few repairs, but he'd also decided to make a few modifications to it. Unfortunately for him, the engine was not in a modification-receiving mood, and had given him a mouthful of oil courtesy of a loose valve. It had taken several minutes of spitting, cursing, wiping, and finally chewing up and spitting out a slice of bread to rid himself of the taste. However, he had to be careful not to lick his lips, as the oil still coated his fur there.
Shielding his eyes with one oily, gloved hand, he scanned the peaks surrounding Kyzil Plateau, fading from rust to marroon to purple in the twighlight of sunset. It really was a gorgeous place, once you came to appreciate it. Sure, it was a little dusty, a little arid, and the heat made things shimmy a bit around noon, but all in all it wasn't such a bad place to live. He laughed slightly, remembering how much he'd hated the place and wanted to get away not so very long ago. A little more than a year, it was, wasn't it? Oh, how he'd hated the dirt under his feet then, the same dirt he came back to protect when it was threatened. He'd matured quite a bit through that incident, though he still had his moments. So what if his own room was a mess and the only reason he remembered to stock his refridgerator was because Clank reminded him to? At least he no longer fought over every little thing - just most of them.
He sighed and climbed down from the box he was standing on. He'd done as much as could be expected in a day and then some; it was time for a long, relaxing shower. Glacing at his stained pants, he laughed at the thought of what Clank would say to him about them when he did the laundry. He scuffed his feet in the soil to prevent the oil on them from comming off on his floor, then went inside his house. It was a small place, barely larger than his garage, and furnished about as well. He walked to the laundry room and threw his outer garments - or rather, outer garment, as he was only wearing a pair of pants without a shirt - and trapsed back to his bathroom in only his boxers. The two robots, sitting together on the living room couch, shook their heads. Lombaxes were strange creatures.
After his shower, Ratchet sat on the edge of his bed, his long, thin tail curled behind him. He flicked it, quietly, and glanced at his nightstand. A small photograph, taken in celebration just after the defeat of the Protopet by one of his kind-but-very-ancient neighbors with the oldest camera ever, a veritable antique, sat in its frame, all four faces grinning stupidly at him. Well, sort of stupidly grinning. There was Clank, hooked onto his back and turned sideways to the camera, holding up the little female robot who was only using half her power to hover at shoulder height. It was hard to tell if the two robots were genuinely smiling, but they didn't seem upset or angry, at least. Ratchet himself, turned sideways like Clank so both of them could be in the photo, grinned quite stupidly at the camera. Of course, the silliness of his grin wasn't helped by the fact that Angela was leaning on him rather heavily, her head resting on his and her arms around his neck. Sure, the photographer had told her to do it, saying it was the only way she'd be in the picture, and she had fallen over moments later in her characteristically clumsy way, but at that moment in time, frozen forever by the film, he had looked quite silly.
Ratchet picked up the photo and traced his bare fingers over it softly. The fur did not leave any oily smudges as the hands of a hairless species might have. He stared at himself, who seemed unsure whether to look at the camera or the girl leaning on him. His eyes were caught in a wavering glance, his semi-nervous, giddy smile petrified onto his face. Angela, however, looked as calm as she always did. Her bright, clear blue eyes were locked to the camera, her mouth slightly upturned in a miniature smile. He hadn't felt it during the taking of the picture, but it was now clear - as he stared at the picture for the millionth time since it had been developed - that she had been slightly rubbing his cheek with one finger: the fur was unsettled and her thumb was slightly blurred with motion. He wondered why that was, why he had not felt it, and why he had not noticed that little detail before. He dismissed the thought, however, convincing himself that it was merely the age of the equipment that had caused the blur and scuffling that made his fur seem disturbed, and laid down to sleep.