Ratchet doesn't argue the point, but he can't keep meeting Megatron's optics like that--he looks away, his jaw tight, the clear, simple trust, the complete conviction in that gaze slamming into him like a weight swung against his belly. He almost opens his mouth to protest that he does his job and no more, but that look, the real belief in his own fundamental decency reflected there, is surprisingly difficult to argue with. He stops trying and just cycles his vents shakily, trying not to look as unnerved as he feels--it would be alarming to have anyone look at him that way, but for it to be Megatron meeting his optics like that is something else entirely.

"He'd be right, to a point," Ratchet manages after a moment, staring at the paint can next to Megatron's elbow. "If it was important enough to him to help you like that, then stopping because you lost him doesn't do him a service. But I don't think you can do the same work to the best of your ability without being attached. That's why your writings meant something--because you cared. Still care." He looks up now, on firmer ground, able to meet Megatron's optics.

"There's middle ground between a dead halt for grief's sake and leaving him behind altogether. You can carry him with you." He shrugs, the look on his face almost naked for a moment, his optics not quite focused on Megatron. "...it's what I do with the ones I've lost. And if I'm any good at what I do, they're why. They're what remind me what I'm doing it for."