Author's Note (Eowyn77): Sorry about the delay, but this fic (and its companion pieces) will be my focus for a while. Hope you enjoy! :)

A shout-out to RK-Striker-JK5 for recommending this collaborative profile for the TV Tropes & Idioms as part of "the remaining 10% is worth dying for." :) Thanks so much!

Also, since I apparently confused a few people with this...I have the Autobots all bunking together in a barracks. In the movie, they all apparently live in the main hangar with no privacy whatsoever. I'm hoping that by the time Annabelle's 15yo, though, the humans will have learned to trust them enough to give them at least that much 'personal space.' :) So Annabelle catches up with Ratchet in the Autobot barracks, not Ratchet's own private quarters.

Jolt helped Wheeljack limp back up to the surface, and Mom, Dad, and I walked with them to the main hangar. By now, the sun was starting to set. "What about everyone else?" I asked Dad, glancing over my shoulder at the lab. Even though she'd forgiven me, I still had a lot of making up to do with Chromia.

"Prime's going to study the terminated drones," Jolt said, and Wheeljack chuckled through his pain at the joke, "and Chromia's guarding the ones that are still online. Prowl's still there because, well, he's Prowl. He's guarding Prime."

"I bet Optimus just loves that," I muttered.

"Drove him nuts for the first thousand years or so," Wheeljack chuckled. "But he's learned to more or less ignore them – Prowl and Ironhide tag-team him. Optimus assigned Ironhide to Iron Will before Prowl arrived just so he could have a couple years of breathing room."

"Yeah, whatever," Dad amiably grumbled. "They just love my ladies so much that they can't bear the thought of them all alone and unprotected."

"Because your femmes need protecting as much as Optimus does," Jolt sarcastically agreed.

As we neared the med bay, a human in a mechanic's jumpsuit stood in front of the doorway, his arms crossed. I recognized him – this was Johnston again, minus the hazmat suit. He authoritatively pointed at the floor and said in his wonderful British accent, "What did you do this time, 'Jack? Haven't we enough damaged mechs for one day?"

"You should see the 'cons," Wheeljack said, sinking down to lie on the ground. "I single-handedly killed more than forty of them. My lab is a scene of carnage."

"Well, that's nothing new," Johnston dryly answered as he pushed a rolling tool chest toward Wheeljack. I guessed they were going to fix him up out here instead of disturbing Ratchet again. Not that I blamed them. "Although in fourteen years, I've never met a delirious Autobot before. Not unless he was overcharged. What did you have in the mix?"

After fiddling with something in Wheeljack's neck, Johnston rummaged around in one of the tool chest's drawers until he pulled out an unfamiliar tool and a spare Autobot eye. Wheeljack turned his head so that Johnston to could reach his face.

"He's not delirious," Dad explained. "The pellets in Ironhide were micro Insecticon drones. They attacked when he broke one of them open. And you'll want to be careful with that orange stuff – I think it's the same material that was on the outside of the pellets."

"You're correct," Wheeljack said. "It should be hardened enough now that you could remove it with tongs."

Johnston nodded and began removing the damaged eye. "Good thing you waited until they were all out of Ironhide."

I looked away, unable to watch.

Dad caught my eye and winked at me. "Yes, it was."

My heart warmed as I realized that I was the one who had made them wait. I had helped! But not much. Not enough. "How's Ironhide?"

I still couldn't look at Johnston, but I heard him answer, "He'll pull through, but it will be a long recovery. Everything is pretty mucked up. Unfortunately, his repair systems received the most damage. Arcee's working on him now. Ratchet's finishing his energon and then he'll recharge. I wouldn't try visiting Ironhide again, Spitlet, not until Ratchet gives the go-ahead after he wakes up."

Great, even the human NEST members were calling me that. "My name is Annabelle, thank you very much."

Johnston hesitated a moment. "Annabelle," he corrected himself and continued, "He was still grumbling about you going in there when he left to get his ration."

Another 'bot I needed to apologize to. And then I remembered what he'd said. "Arcee's the one working on him?"

"Yeah. She's…before the War, she and Ratchet worked together with Prime. They were both pretty skilled, but when the fighting broke out, Ratchet specialized in repair and she focused more on being a warrior. Arcee's a fairly decent medic in her own right. That's why she always goes stateside with Mrs. Lennox on her annual pilgrimage," he nodded deferentially at Mom, "so she can do a check-up for Bumblebee." (Mom caught a flight once a year to California to check on her ranch. There were some things that only the legal owner could do. And it gave the family friend who ran the ranch for us a chance to have a vacation.)

Fifteen years, and she'd never let on that she was a doctor, too. There was still so much I didn't know about them!

"There," Johnston said, "your optic's as good as new."

"That's because it is new," Wheeljack pointed out.

I wasn't sure if I should laugh or just shake my head in disbelief. Daring to look, I saw that 'Jack was turning his head to stare at the ceiling, both his eyes blue again. Johnston pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and consulted the screen. "Prime says you also have two burned out motor relays and a ruptured hydraulic line." Pocketing the phone again, he retrieved a pair of tongs and began prying the orange splatters off Wheeljack, dropping the stuff into another one of the thermos-looking things. "Any other damage you care to report? And don't try to pull another fast one, because Ratchet promised me I could turn your pain sensors back on for repairs the next time you lied to one of us."

Wheeljack sighed. "You mechanics always overreact. It's nothing that can't wait for Ratchet or Arcee."

Johnston menacingly hefted the tool he'd been using, but Dad stopped him. "Wheeljack, it's for Ratchet and his repair team to decide what can wait and what can't."

"Fine. But it's nothing, really. Just a minor energon line leaking."

"And a hydraulic line?" Johnston sputtered. "Where?!"

"Both in my right shoulder."

"And Murphy's Law dictates that they'll both near some exposed neural wiring." Pointing like he was commanding a dog, Johnston ordered, "Stay." Looking to Jolt, he said, "I might need your help with this for a minute or two. I can walk you through sealing those lines if you need me to, but it's a stop for me, Ratchet's orders."

"Just 'cause you're not covered in almost-indestructible armor?" Jolt lamely joked. "We all know about Quinn's Cocktail. Sure I can help."

"And that's our cue to clear out," Dad said, escorting Mom and me back toward the human side of NEST.

"What's Quinn's Cocktail?" I asked in a low voice.

"Some of the fluids in the Autobots' bodies don't react well together under certain circumstances. Quinn got some bad chemical burns a couple of years back. He's okay now, but only because Ratchet worked on him for several days. Ratchet's had the human repair team take a few more precautions since then. Just to be on the safe side."

"Where is Ratchet?" I abruptly asked, remembering again that he was still mad at me for barging into the med bay. He would be easier to apologize to than Arcee or Ironhide.

"He's had a rough day," Mom began, but Dad interrupted her.

"I think it might be good for him."

Giving me a cautious look, Mom nodded, and we doubled back, headed to the Autobot side again. We turned right this time, once we were through the giant door. The hall was short in this direction, and I was surprised that, instead of using his security key, Dad softly knocked on the door at the end of the hallway. After a moment, it swished open.

It was an enormous, concrete-and-steel barracks. The walls were lined with large platforms about eight feet off the ground, with shelves another twenty feet up that held what looked like personal belongings. Underneath each platform were several metal crates, some locked and some open. In the middle of the room, the floor was sunken by a drop of about four or five feet, marking off an area maybe forty feet in circumference. That space was open, and the floor of the circle was beautifully, abstractly painted. The only light in the room was a set of dim track-lights directly above the circle that pointed straight down. Sitting cross-legged in the circle of light and leaning against the low wall was Ratchet. His head was bowed, and in his hands, he held a…well it looked like a fifty-gallon oil drum, to be honest.

The door swished closed behind me. I gave Dad an uncertain look, and he nodded me forward. Mom gave me a little, encouraging smile, but they both hung back near the door. We all knew this was something I had to do by myself. My big, grown-up self. It was time to own up and start making things right. Squaring my shoulders, I stepped forward, making my way across the huge room toward Ratchet. It was impossible to not feel small here, and I was a lot less brave without Dad by my side or guiding me.

Ratchet didn't move or acknowledge me at all, and I wondered if he was already asleep. Nervously, I glanced again at the platforms, noticing for the first time that we weren't alone. A motionless silver Autobot was laying on one, and a golden robot was on the next platform over. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, I realized. Neither of them showed any signs of life; it was quiet as death in the room, except for the light clop of my sandals on the concrete.

I hopped down into the lit-up circle, landing rather gracelessly on all fours, but I was okay. The room wasn't cold, but my fingertips were, and I realized I was starting to hyperventilate. This was Ron Hatchett, I reminded myself. Same person, different form. That's all. He was still the kind doctor who cured my every ill. Still the man who brought me Christmas presents every year. Still the one who growled at Hyde across the scrimmage line and smacked Skids upside the head when he started fighting with his brother.

Autobot Ratchet was more intimidating up close. I stood at his feet, and even sitting down, he was much taller than me. He still didn't say anything or move, and I glanced back at Mom and Dad, but they were on the other side of the light, and I couldn't see their faces. Taking a deep breath, I rested my shaky hand on a smooth piece of armor, making physical contact with an Autobot for the first time.

Ratchet stirred, lifting his head ever so slightly but not looking at me. His voice was soft and tired. "Do you need something, Spitlet?"

I'd never heard him like this – the exhaustion and grief were quiet but unmistakable. "Can I see your holoform?" I asked in a voice even quieter than his.

"I'm worn out, child. Your curiosity can wait."

"But I don't know how to hug you in this form."

Two points of light on his face flickered to life and he slowly raised his head.

Feeling braver, I added, "And you look like someone who could use a hug."

He wearily chuckled. "I really am too tired to produce a holoform right now."

I nodded once to myself and, trying to not think about what I was really doing, started climbing onto his leg. He set down the barrel and extended one hand so I could climb up on it. Holding me up to eye-level, he smiled ever so slightly. "You are a tenacious little thing, aren't you."

"I'm the daughter of Will and Sarah Lennox. What do you expect? Now are you going to let me hug you or not?"

He shook his head a little, and I worried he was saying no, but then he moved the hand I was kneeling on up to his chest just below his neck. I reached my arms out and embraced the supple cables and the surprisingly-warm metal – as much as I could reach, anyway. "Thank you, Ratchet," I said softly, resting my head against him. "Thank you for saving Sideswipe and for helping Ironhide." I remembered then that he was angry about not being able to do anything for 'Hide. "We mere mortals wouldn't know the first thing about helping him if it weren't for you. And…I'm sorry I upset you earlier."

"You upset all of us," he gruffly reminded me.

My cheeks warmed in embarrassment. "I know. And if Ironhide survives long enough for me to say sorry to him, it'll be thanks to you.

"He will live, Spitlet. I don't know how long it will be before you can talk with him, but he will live."

"Thank you."

He chuckled again. "I didn't do it for you, but you're welcome. Now it's time for you to go. I desperately need to recharge."

I sat back on my heels, and he lifted me away and down to the ground, setting me outside of the circle. I was grateful for that – it would have been really hard to climb out. "You did it every time, didn't you," I said, looking up into the blue light of his eyes. "Every time Ironhide's been hurt, you were the one who patched him up."

"Since arriving on Earth, yes. Except for minor problems my repair team fixes."

And never once had we thanked him. Well, Mom and Dad might have, but I never did. I thought about how Mom and I always gave the truck a good wash after every deployment, and how often there was damage to the pickup somewhere.

Sudden inspiration struck. "When he's feeling better, come out to our place with him, and I'll give you a wash and a wax. It's your turn for a change."

He shifted uncomfortably. "You don't need to do that, Spitlet."

I gritted my teeth at the name but decided it wasn't worth ruining the moment. "I know I don't. And you didn't have to let me in or listen to my apologies or forgive me. So…get some sleep and dream of getting the royal treatment next time you're at our house."

"We'll talk about it."

I planted my hands on my hips. "If I have to hunt you down, I'm going to give you a proper thank you. Deal with it."

He rose to his impressive height and planted his hands on his hips. "Is that so?"

I gulped and then jutted out my chin. "Yes." The word sounded much more confident than I felt.

He slouched, no doubt too tired to put up much of a fight. "Then I'll see you soon. Now get out of here."

Placing my hand against his warm armor one more time, I said, "Sweet dreams."

I turned and was almost to the door when he said, "We don't dream."

Stopping, I looked back at him, but he was climbing onto one of the sleeping platforms. "We process the day's events," he continued, settling in, "but we don't have the nocturnal hallucinations you do. However, I will spend as much time as possible processing your hug. Good night."

Giving him a half-smile, I said, "Good night, Ratchet."