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Ratchet was bored. There had been no Decepticon energon raids for nearly two weeks, and he hadn't had anyone to repair in longer than that. In the old days, he would have considered it time to throw a party. But they were on Earth now, just one squad of Autobots versus a veritable army of generic Seekers and most of the rest of Megatron's soldiers, and Optimus refused to give permission for a night of careless frivolity. The Prime's unrelenting decision was justified, of course, Ratchet knew that, but that didn't change the fact that he was slagging bored.
He was just about to start counting his supplies for the thirteenth time that day when something finally happened.
“Uh... Ratch?”
Ratchet looked up to see Wheeljack peering around the corner of the med bay doors, his optics overly bright the way they usually were when the engineer had accidentally blown himself up and come to Ratchet for fixing. Ratchet was fond of that look. He liked spending time with Wheeljack, and what better way to bond than over a soldering iron and blowtorch?
“Wheeljack,” he greeted with what may have been more enthusiasm than was entirely appropriate. “How can I help you?”
Wheeljack stepped fully into the doorway, his headfins flashing sheepishly. It wasn't hard to see why: The engineer was carrying with him one fully detached arm. Wires dangled uselessly from the arm's shoulder joint and the hole in his chassis where it should have been attached. Dark carbon soot was smeared over his upper chassis and mask, and probably his face as well.
Ratchet inspected him for a moment, then snorted. “Well, it's not the worst I've seen. Get in here.”
“Thanks, Ratch. I knew I could count on you.”
“Hmph. I haven't got anything else to do anyway. Up on a berth,” he commanded, unsurprised when Wheeljack hopped onto the medical berth nearest the supply closet, his usual spot. “How did this happen? I hadn't thought you were working on any projects right now.”
“Oh, I am.” Wheeljack chuckled. “I just haven't told anyone about it yet. It's very delicate work, see, and it has to be approached with caution.”
“I wasn't aware you knew the word,” Ratchet grumbled, taking the arm out of Wheeljack's hand and inspecting the detached joint. The edge was surprisingly straight. “And this delicate work has already blown up on you, has it?”
Wheeljack's optics flashed playfully. “Nope, not yet. So far it's all going according to plan.”
Ratchet considered that for a moment while he opened a drawer set into the side of the berth and pulled out a wire splicer. He held the arm up to the hole in Wheeljack's chassis, comparing the damage done to various wires.
“You're going to have to lie down so I can splice these wires.” As Wheeljack followed the instruction, Ratchet continued, “You planned to get your arm blown off, then?”
“Not quite, no.”
Unsure exactly what to make of that, Ratchet hummed with what he hoped sounded like understanding. Wheeljack chuckled again, but didn't say anything more as Ratchet began to work at reconnecting the arm.
It wasn't long before the engineer's optics dimmed and his systems slowed to the gentle rumble of recharge. Ratchet huffed air through his vents, but didn't disturb him. At least, not until he spliced the last pair of wires together and discovered that there was an extra length of copper with red insulation protruding from Wheeljack's chassis, the purpose for which Ratchet was unable to determine.
“Wheeljack,” he snapped. The engineer's optics came back online, and he stared up at Ratchet. “What is this?”
He pulled the wire taut so that he could move it into the engineer's range of vision, and judging by the resulting flinch, it had rubbed against the sensitive motor control panel Ratchet had just reconnected to the detached arm.
“Oh, that.” Wheeljack tried to laugh and failed. “That's the part where my newest project might blow up a little bit.”
Ratchet's core temperature seemed to spike as he struggled to comprehend what he had just heard.
“Are you saying you've jury rigged an explosive device inside your chassis?” he demanded.
“Of course not! When it comes to blowing oneself up, there's a certain instinct for self preservation,” Wheeljack protested. “Could you just tug that wire a bit more? It's only connected loosely, I meant for it to come out easily.”
Ratchet grunted unhappily, but pulled the wire nonetheless. A short burst of static escaped from Wheeljack's vocaliser, and his optics blinked out for just a moment, and then the wire came away in Ratchet's hand. There was a polishing cloth attached.
“Ah, there it is. I thought it should work like that.”
Ratchet stared for several moments before recovering the use of his vocaliser with a sharp click. “Wheeljack? What is this?”
“It's a polishing cloth, Ratch. What do ya say? Want to help me clean this up?” He gestured impishly at his soot-covered chassis, and it was all Ratchet could do not to gape openly. Two clues clicked into place at once – the neat edge of the shoulder joint and the easily spliced wires, as if they had only been cut and stripped, not blasted apart – and suddenly it was obvious.
“You... you cut off your own arm so that I would polish you up?”
Wheeljack flashed his headfins happily. “Sure! It's easily fixed. And then while we're polishing, we may as well 'face and then get bonded and have a sparkling.”
“You're crazy. Glitched in the processor,” Ratchet stated disbelievingly.
“So they say,” Wheeljack affirmed, leaning forward expectantly. “You up for it?”
“I am and you know it,” Ratchet growled.
Wheeljack canted his head to the side, and Ratchet got the impression he was smiling beneath his face mask. “Well, what do you know? It didn't blow up after all.”