Ratchet's optics flicker and his mouth twitches up at one corner, letting go of one of the crutch handles to flip a palm out in a releasing gesture.

"Don't have much choice but to be, do I?" he says, his voice dry. "It doesn't hurt or anything, though." From her angle, she probably has a better view than most of the hastily patched and soldered lines, repairs he'd done himself. "You seem to be doing all right for yourself, by comparison."