Preferred Provider

“Why didn’t you go to Ratchet?” Megatron asked, slowly and deliberately welding a piece of Rodimus’s arm armor back on now that it was free of dents.

It had been simple enough to fix the damage, Megatron thought, having by now patched up worse injuries than dented plating from a hoverboard accident. Rodimus really shouldn’t have given in to Tailgate’s dare to do a “sick kickflip” that had launched him right into the ceiling.

Then again, Megatron doubted Rodimus would have been capable of refusing.

While his colleague had grown more forward-thinking over the years, Megatron couldn’t imagine Rodimus without his trademark impulsive decisions.

Rodimus shrugged, jerking his arm inadvertently. The welding gun jumped as a result, scorching along a tender seam before Megatron could flick off the tool.

A black patch of soot marred the shiny red paint underneath.

“Ow!”

“I told you not to move,” Megatron said, putting the welding gun aside. While not as thorough of an attachment as he would have liked, that join would just have to do until the next time.

Rodimus hissed, blatantly ignoring the reproach as he rubbed his other hand over the scorch mark. The rubbing smeared the soot, broadening the mess. The clear top coat would protect the finish underneath from damage but the streaks were still unsightly.

This sort of thing happened nearly every time Rodimus sought out Megatron’s assistance with repairs, an unfortunately frequent occurrence. He was terrible at keeping still. It was almost as though he were fatally allergic to it.

“Stop. You’re just making it worse for yourself.”

With a sigh, Megatron grabbed a cloth, one of several that had been sacrificed at the altar of hygiene when fixing squirrelly patients like Rodimus, and began gently wiping at the patch of soot from the scorch, spread far larger than necessary thanks to Rodimus’s fidgeting.

In a few moments, the dirt was gone and the plating he’d so carefully repaired shone bright again. The red had always been such a beautiful color. It suited Rodimus, even if he was a walking accident looking for a place to happen.

“You never answered me.” Which had probably been entirely intentional.

“I don’t know. Same day treatment? No referrals?” Rodimus shrugged again, now in no danger since the welding gun was no longer actively being used. He flashed a broad, gleaming grin. “Maybe I’m just a sucker for personalized healthcare.”