Ratchet stares down at her with a helpless, unreadable expression expression on his face and for a truly awful moment his optics flare, bright and hot, light barely spilling from the edges--then he shutters them, and warm air hisses from his vents in a long, shivering gust as he relaxes, deliberately releasing the tension in his limbs, his face easing. He shifts slightly, scooping her up in one hand and almost cradling her.

"You shouldn't be on that leg," he says roughly, but all of the thin, ragged tension is bled from his voice, and his optics are clear when he onlines them again. He just holds her for a long moment.

"I still have scalpel cuts on my spark casing," he says, almost thoughtfully. "But I'm not scared of--of Pharma hurting me, or anything stupid like that. If I cared about that, Tarn would have a new t-cog by now and I wouldn't be hobbling around on these damn things. I guess I'm more afraid of failing. Failing the people at home, failing Drift, failing everyone here. Failing you." He smooths down the back of her neck with his thumb, careful of her head injury. "You scared the hell out of me with that seizure garbage, I'm not kidding. Knock it off."

His mouth tilts a little, lopsided, not quite a smile.

"But... sorry, kid. I know it hasn't exactly been one long party for you, the past five years. You don't need my mess on top of it. It's just--a lot has changed. It's hard to describe, otherwise."