Ratchet opens his mouth, looking steadily more irritated before he meets Megatron's optics and something in them makes him stop dead. His own optics flicker, just faintly, his expression shifting slowly until all of the petty annoyance is drained out of it to leave a kind of icy, sick realization, transparent as smooth crystal. His wrist goes slack in Megatron's grip, and hard of the heels of that nauseated understanding is a hot flare of something sharp and bare and uncomfortably close to rage before he looks quickly away, letting warm air from his vents in a slow, shivering hiss. His voice is quiet and very level when he speaks again.

"All right," he says, his gaze even as he looks up at Megatron again, still not pulling out of his grip. "...all right. They can wait, the extra ones. I can put them somewhere else after the other maintenance is done, if you'll come in for a follow-up."