[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]Withdrawal [Ratchet]

[Windshield]

Episode 2.5 / Week 3 / Day 2 / Closed

It was late in the evening. Windshield sat lonesomely in his cell, surrounded by datapads containing snippets of human culture. He has been absorbing it like a sponge for the past few days. Currently, he was enjoying the final season of Friends. It was by far not the first form of human media he marathoned during his short stay on Earth, but definitely among his favorites. Silly humans were fun to watch.

Weren't they? To be honest, Windshield couldn't even remember anymore. He stared at the screen beady-eyed non-stop for a long, long time. His optics didn't quite agree with this behavior. His vision started getting a bit blurry, perhaps from the combination of sleep deprivation and extensive watching of television.

However, there was a certain want, a certain need gnawing at the back of Windshield's processor. Whenever he tried to suppress it, it came back much stronger. In fact, he has been doing it for quite a while now. None of the Autobots knew about his little addiction problem yet and to be honest, he didn't want them to know. At least not until he had some modicum of trust.

But this was painful. He felt lethargic and uninterested. Perhaps the cramped space didn't help it, nor the conversation he had with Raf a few hours earlier. Either way, whatever the cause, Windshield hoped there'd be some other form of distraction to get his mind off this unpleasant feeling—the feeling of withdrawal.

[Ratchet]

The sound of heavy peds could be heard coming down the hallway. Neither hurried, nor a casual saunter, they impacted with a good regularity, a sensible rhythm.

A short few minutes later, the shadow of their owner fell across the doorway, and then the owner himself entered the room.

Ratchet stood there, a datapad in one hand, studying it in utter silence for a moment. He didn’t speak, or move an iota, just seemed lost for a moment, staring at the datapad. His white and orange-red coloring seemed unnaturally bright in the severe, stark lighting of the small room. Odd shadows from his own form cast dark places on his frame, a stark contrast to his bright coloring. In the strange light, he almost looked unnatural, as if he didn’t belong there.

A few seconds more, and then he lowered the datapad, looking at the one within the cell.

“What’s the Earth saying?,” he asked, as if he had been already speaking with Windshield for hours, “It never rains but it pours.” Isn’t that the truth?”

Shaking his head, Ratchet took a step towards Windshield, then paused, turning to look around the outside of the small cell, within the portion of the room he was in himself.

Spying a rather folorn-looking old chair, the old doctor turned, and made his way towards it. Grasping it by the back, Ratchet dragged it closer to the cell, and sank into it with a quiet ex-vent.

He leaned back, stretching both legs out before him, in an attempt to get comfortable. The chair creaked somewhat loudly, having seen better days. Although Windshield would not notice, not having known him long, Ratchet’s optics were paler than normal, not the normal intense blue.

He rested the datapad on a thigh, and took Windshield in with a tired gaze.

“So,” he said quietly, “How have you been doing?”

[Windshield]

When Ratchet entered, Windshield was already facing the door as if expecting the arrival of an old friend. Perhaps he had imagined somebody else approaching him in the doctor's stead?

No matter the case, the hacker remained oddly silent. There were no quips made about the situation, nor any witty banter to greet the medic. He waited for Ratchet to put down his datapad, and then let him speak.

It never rains, it pours, huh?

Windshield thought about that for a while and then simply answered.

"So it'd seem."

He waited for Ratchet to make himself comfortable on the sad little chair dragged from a bleak, dark corner of the room. Again, no humor, no attempts to lighten the situation.
It just was the way it was. One cell, one doctor, and one... whatever Windshield was anymore.

The Ex-Decepticon stepped forward, letting the strange light wash over his form. A shade of muted purple and black looked not nearly as glorious as the brick red.

A question came then, breaking the silence. It was probably medical in nature more than anything. However, Windshield was not quite sure how to approach it. If he was unwell, it wasn't the result of anything Ratchet had done.

"Unwell. I'm tired, lethargic, and on edge. It's hard to focus. Not sure if it has anything to do with the operation, though."

Might as well be honest if nothing else. It's the least Windshield could do, locked down here with his datapads.

"I'm sure you did a good job," he said in a bland tone, mostly just trying to reassure Ratchet somewhat. He wasn't stupid, he could see there was more wrong than the Autobots trusted to tell him, and that it burdened everybody here. First Optimus, then the tiny human, now Ratchet.

[Ratchet]

Ratchet frowned faintly when Windshield spoke. He knew the operation shouldn’t be causing those symptoms, still, it was worrisome that he was feeling them. Had rust settled in, regardless of attempting to keep the place sterile?

“Have you eaten?” he asked, “I know the amount of energon you were given wasn’t much, but I assume you ingested it? It’s important for you to take fuel, especially after an operation.”

Looking faintly worried, Ratchet raised the datapad, where he still had Windshield’s file open. It was a small file, of course, since it only contained information from when he first started to check him over.

“Optimus has likely been in contact with the Decepticons by now – I’m certain you’ll be hearing about a decision sometime soon. The damage done to your internals will be fixed, that may help with the symptoms you’re mentioning.”

Not seeing anything on the datapad that could possibly help him, he lowered it again, silently studying the other for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice was oddly different. A little more tired, but less...professional. As if a cover had been removed somehow, a guard lowered.

“How are you feeling about everything that’s happened, Windshield? A lot has happened to you over a short time – that’s not easy to deal with, I imagine.

Has anyone bothered you since you arrived?”

[Windshield]

Windshield met the medic's frown with his own. He placed his right hand on the back of his neck and cracked the corresponding shoulder to loosen up.

"I have," he answered Ratchet's question about sustenance while he stretched the limb.

Then Ratchet spoke about Optimus. Right, Windshield would've almost forgotten. He wasn't off the hook or quite an Autobot yet. Everything hinged on the negotiations. He hoped they'd be short. Uncertainty was not a nice feeling to couple with Windshield's current mental situation.

"Whatever the decision is, I wanted to let you know one thing," he said after a moment of silence.

"I don't compliment people often—don't want it to get in their heads... But, if there is anything like good guys... You're it. The one decent person in this blasted war."

What Windshield said made him feel a little bit awkward. He truly was not used to giving compliments. Honest ones, at least. He was great when it came to fake love and support, but never at the real thing. It felt kinda... strange. The nice kind of strange. Like an unfamiliar pleasant scent.

As Ratchet lowered his datapad and spoke again, Windshield tilted his head a little. He never figured the medic would get so... well, so not Ratchety. If that made any sense at all. Either way, his expression said it all. A little confused, still quite tired, and definitely stilted and awkward.

"You want to know how I'm doing?" He chuckled after he had the time to process that.

"Funny. I don't think I've ever met a medic who'd ever ask that... Well, there was one. But he is gone now."

The hacker paused briefly as if recalling the images and memories of the individual in question.

"Oh, right. I'm rambling. But anyways, I've... actually been thinking about it. And, well, besides being tired and all those things I mentioned earlier, I'm also happy. It's nice to have bots like you around. Bots like Prime."

Another moment of silence.

"Strange that you asked about that, though. Somebody was here before you. A little kid... Raf, I think was the name. He asked questions and struck a nerve. I didn't mean to, but I lashed out. He left then. Such a fragile little thing."

"I suppose that makes two of us."

[Ratchet]

Listening as Windshield spoke, Ratchet felt an odd sense of disconnect when the other mech complimented him.

Ratchet had never had anyone actually say something like that to him, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it. Certainly he had had patients tell him he was a life-saver, having performed some complex operation under severe circumstances or other. He’d been hailed as a savior in that regard. Ratchet brushed that aside. He was one of the oldest doctors still around, and as such, had acquired a lot of skill. There wasn’t much he hadn’t seen before. To him, at this point, his being highly skilled was no more amazing than the fact he had blue optics. It was just a part of him. He was aware of what he was and wasn’t capable of…though to be fair, he did feel a sense of victory and pride if he managed to pull an Autobot back from the brink of death, as if he had fought against the Well of Sparks personally, and won.

But for someone to tell him he was a good person? A decent person?

Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure he agreed. Certainly his tongue was sharper than his scalpel, and his personality could be acidic. He tended to push people away, often preferring his own solitude over having a large gathering of friends. He knew he was sarcastic enough that he put people off. He knew he was demanding of himself, and often demanding of others, fair or not.

Was he a good person?

Snorting the comment away, he focused on the other things Windshield was saying.

The Ex-con was happy. Well, that was something, at least. Ratchet didn’t know if there were many opportunities for a Decepticon to be happy, unless they were gutting someone. But the old doctor had a feeling Windshield wasn’t a Decepticon. Not really.

Windshield’s next words about the human child caused him to frown faintly in worry.

“Rafael is…going through an extremely hard time right now. Human children go through a period in their lives when they’re becoming adults in form, and that can be difficult enough, what with hormone changes and growth spurts. But he’s facing additional stress a human youth his age wouldn’t normally. Give him time. He’s actually a very soft spoken, gentle, shy child. When things improve, I’m certain he’ll go back to his normal ways.”

Ratchet found it interesting that Windshield called him fragile. It was an odd term for one who had spent time in the Decepticon ranks. Fragility was a sign of weakness.

“Why do you think you’re feeling tired, lethargic? Is it something you’ve experienced before? And I hardly think you’re that fragile. You made a decision under fire to completely change your faction in the middle of a war. A war, I might add, the Decepticons appear to be winning, at least for now. That doesn’t strike me as a being who is fragile.”

[Windshield]

It was an odd feeling to have such a strange, almost heartfelt conversation with Ratchet of all people. Windshield never hoped to find a conversation partner ever since The Great War. That he'd find one in an Autobot Medic was, quite frankly, surreal.

He waited for Ratchet to explain Rafael's behavior.

"Such a curious creature," he pondered, tapping his chin with a clawed digit.

Then came the question Windshield had hoped to dodge. Still, perhaps it was a necessary question. Might as well try to be honest with the Autobots. They were, after all, his allies. Uncertain for how long that'd last, Windshield was understandably reluctant to give Ratchet an answer. But he... trusted him.

"I might have some idea," the hacker explained. "And you might wanna hold onto that seat. It's... It's gonna get a bit personal now," he warned Ratchet. As if this situation wasn't personal enough already.

"I spent some time in G1. Most bots did a lot of nasty stuff in that place... But, I just wanted to be free—and there was only one way back then."

He remained awkwardly silent for a moment.

"I'm talking about Syk, if that wasn't obvious," he blurted out in the end with a shy shrug.

It came to the comments on Windshield's fragility then. Had he really admitted that to the doctor? He must've done that by accident. The last thing Windshield wanted was for anybody to see him as even weaker than he already appeared.

"Had you asked a Decepticon, they'd disagree. In fact, I'm pretty sure they'd crush me under the boot just to prove their point."

[Ratchet]

Ratchet continued to listen to Windshield as he spoke. The other mech’s agitation was becoming obvious. The old doctor knew something was coming, but hadn’t actually been expecting what he heard.

Hearing G1. Hearing about the drugs. It almost seemed to pull Ratchet a little lower than he had been previously.

The idea of an entire planet, being used as a prison….Ratchet had thought it was a disaster waiting to happen when he first heard of it. Whoever had decided to take all the worst individuals of a people, and stick them all in one place, at the same time….and think it would work?

Oh he understood the idea behind it. Why put people that dangerous in with other, less violent, prisoners? Why not put them all in the same place, and keep an eye on them?

Because evil breeds evil. Where you once had one evil person, who knew he was the top predator in a prison, and was content to be feared, now you had a lot of them, all wanting to be top dog.

They fed off each other. They emboldened each other. Every depraved act just became a stepping stone, a challenge for another.

Ratchet wasn’t surprised Windshield had taken to drugs to escape.

“You did what you had to,” he said, speaking plainly and simply. He wasn’t coddling, or speaking soothingly. Ratchet spoke plainly and openly, “Not a lot of people survived that place. The fact you did, even with help, speaks volumes about your will.”

Ratchet shifted faintly on the chair, a protesting squeak sounding as he did, and huffed, “The problem with most Decepticons is that they don’t understand what strength is. They think that punching someone into a battered mess makes you strong. That not being able to fight makes you weak. Yet take those same rivetheads that like to throw punches, and have someone larger beat them down, and what happens?”

Ratchet leaned back, “They give up. They collapse in on themselves. They can’t take the fact they lost, and on the first attempt, they surrender. They have no concept how powerful someone’s inner self can be. How crippling self-doubt or outright self hatred can be.”

Raising a large hand, Ratchet pointed a thick finger at the ex-Con, “You are here. You came through Garrus, you survived coming to this planet, and you changed factions in the middle of a war, and you think you’re weak? You’ve overcome things that would have put down larger mecha than the both of us, so that talk ends right now.”

Breathing a heavy huff, Ratchet dropped his hand back to his thigh, pausing for a moment to rub his face, then looking back to Windshield again.

“If you’re still having those symptoms….I assume that means you’re still addicted? When was your last hit, Windshield? And how much are we talking here?”

[Windshield]

Windshield couldn't have replied to Ratchet's passionate speech on morality, weakness, strength, and self-worth in a satisfying way. It was a lot to talk about, a lot to think about, but most importantly, a lot to ask of the freshly-christened Ex-Decepticon. A world where one's strength is not determined by just skill, power, and the ability to keep your mouth shut was very foreign, even as a concept.

"I guess you just have a different concept of strength," he said after a while.

"You see, Cons -do- take the inner you into consideration. Though, really, the qualities -they- are looking for are far-flung from whatever you just mentioned. Garrus, War, Exodus. That's all buzz-words to them. Almost everybody I knew back on Cybertron lived through some horrible tragedy."

"No. What they're looking for are people who -thrived- on those tragedies. Apathetic, cold, calculated, preferably brutal and ruthless. I was honestly lucky to make it as far as I did without half of those."

He waited for Ratchet to pace himself again. Seems that speaking about morality at such a volume and pace did ill on his health. Windshield couldn't blame him. He knew there were events happening outside his own little bubble, and that the Autobots were probably suffering. It showed on Ratchet, as it had on Rafael before... Just in a very different way.

Ratchet immediately switched back to the medical afterward. Windshield had no complaints. The mech had come to assess his physical well-being first and foremost. He was no Rung or Froid—no psychologist. It was very understandable that he'd ask. But the way he put it? Addiction. While it was true, it made Windshield flinch at the sound of that word. He liked to think of it as an unwanted bodily response. Yes.

"It's honestly hard to remember. Time's been really wonky since the Ark incident for me. I think the last hit I had was shortly before your boys found me on the Ark. Then my systems shut down and that was the end of it."

"Standard dosage. Didn't take anything on top of it. Engex and Syk mixed together? Not a good thing."

Windshield shuddered.

[Ratchet]

Leaning back, Ratchet listened as Windshield spoke. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but then again, he hadn’t been on the inside, as it were. Oh, he knew those who had left the Decepticon cause and became Autobots, and from what they told him, any sign of weakness was to be stomped out. But that could still have just been their own personal experiences.

However, he remembered the Megatronus of old. Back before he had gone, in Ratchet’s opinion, utterly insane, and he remembered how he had viewed weakness.

The topic had changed then, to the current trouble with Windshield. Ratchet was quiet for a little while, hand cupping his chin, thumb absently rubbing a cheek, as he went through what he had in his medibay. Actual drugs weren’t common, and not a lot of the small vials had even survived the Ark’s arrival. Ratchet mostly used code – it was pretty much all he could really rely on here on earth, unless new drugs could be formed from substances on this planet (and Ratchet simply hadn’t had the time to experiment). He wasn’t sure what code he could write, and what small amounts of medicines he had, that he could try and combine.

After a moment, he spoke, raising a hand to lightly smooth his palm over the top of his helm, another subconscious gesture.

“We don’t have anything like Syk here, obviously. From what I know of it and other illegal substances from Cybertron, they took general medicines and altered them for the high. The amounts of painkillers, for instance, I would have to give you in an attempt to give you the same experience? The other chemicals would kill you outright.

What I can do, however, is make up a sort of...cocktail, from what I do have, as well as write out code to reduce the feedback from your circuits. They’ll still be hurting, but not as much. They’ll be slightly numb.”

Ratchet’s optics fixed on Windshield, “But I’m not going to lie to you, Windshield. It’s going to be unpleasant.”

[Windshield]

Windshield furrowed a brow.

"You'd do that?" He asked, peering back at Ratchet in curiosity. He didn't believe the doctor would spare medications, which could've been vital to helping those in need, on Windshield's addiction. Yet the offer was made, and Windshield was not one to often decline such generosity. Especially considering that this nasty feeling overruled logic and whatever remnants of compassion Windshield pretended he didn't have.

Then Ratchet warned him, forcing Windshield to rub his chin contemplatively. He wondered if the pain was worth his fix. He was never long enough without Syk to know how true withdrawal feels, and he was mortally afraid that this was just a precursor to much, much stronger negative effects.

"I—I'll risk it," he eventually answered with hesitance, sitting onto the berth behind him. He collected the datapads scattered about and neatly organized them back under his bed. Windshield often resorted to cleaning in stressful situations, or when the decisions he had to make were simply too much to think about.

[Ratchet]

Ratchet lowered his arms, crossing them before him, not in a manner of annoyance but rather for comfort, resting them against his chest.

“I don’t like to see people suffering, Windshield. It goes against my nature, and my training.”

Ratchet fell silent for a moment. While he didn’t like to see people suffering....he could, at times, turn away from it if he was ill taken towards the individual. Were it Megatron, say, suffering before him, Ratchet did not think he would have too much trouble walking away.

He nodded when Windshield agreed to the attempt, then tilted his head slightly when the other mech abruptly began tidying his recharging area.

“You seem to be a tidy individual,” he remarked with a faint sense of amusement, “If only the others here at the base had the same views. I can’t tell you how often I find myself closing doors, or re-latching cupboards behind some of the others.”

There was a pause, then he spoke again, “Is there anything I can get you, Windshield?” He lifted an arm, motioning to the small, dingy room, “It’s not exactly welcoming here. You must be bored sitting there with only those tablets for entertainment. When you had downtime...as rare as it might have been...what would you do? Do you read? Listen to music?”

[Windshield]

Windshield chuckled awkwardly. Ratchet also liked to keep things tidy. That was nice. He could appreciate the sentiment.

"Guess it's our cross to bear, huh?" He shrugged towards Ratchet as he stormed around his cell to clean up even the tiniest of messes. The only thing he couldn't get rid of was an oily, damp spot in the corner. He hated it.

But just as quickly as he snapped into cleaning, he also stopped. Ratchet's questions were interesting. Windshield wasn't used to people trying to talk about interests and hobbies. His expression reflected that quite clearly. He was confused. Very confused. But he wouldn't let that get in his way. At least not today.

"I'd—I'd like if you could bring me some info about human technology. Sounds like it could come handy on this planet. Preferably something advanced," he answered.

"And what would I do? As in back on Cybertron?"

He returned to the front of the forcefield separating himself and Ratchet. His expression was a bit dopey for somebody like Windshield. It was almost as if he didn't know what to say.

"I guess this might come off as a surprise—actually, not really—but I like aliens. I think they're funky. Humans? The funkiest of all. I like to learn about them and stuff. These human history videos I had shipped in are awesome," he passionately explained, moving over to his datapads to pick one up.

He brought it to Ratchet and turned it on.

"Did you know humans—historically speaking—fought against giant monsters ten times our size?"

It was a screening of Godzilla.

"Anyways, what do you like to do? When you aren't Ratchet the Autobot Medic, I mean."

[Ratchet]

The old doctor remained where he was, listening. When Windshield spoke to him about having an interest in aliens, he squinted slightly. That was interesting. Many Cybertronians just took them for advantage. But to actively be interested in them...did he mean their culture? Their history? Their way of life?

An idea was starting to form in his head.

When the other mech suddenly spoke of some old war the humans had been involved in...fighting creatures as large as they were...he scowled in confusion, leaning forward to see what the other had to show him.

“God...zilla...”

Ratchet watched, quietly, as explosions rocked the screen, massive creatures seemed to come crashing together, building toppling and falling.

Although he never actively looked it up, Ratchet couldn’t remember ever hearing Fowler or anyone else ever mention such a time in humanity’s history.

“Ah...that might not be accurate. Humans seem to put a great deal of time and effort into entertainment videos. Stories that are made up, sort of “what if” scenarios. I think this may have been one of those...”

Ratchet remembered watching theatre in his younger days, but such “movies” weren’t common on Cybertron, and he wondered if Windshield would ever have had the chance to see one, not being in one of the more elite areas.

He opened his mouth to speak again, when Windshield’s question caught him off guard. He paused, thinking.

When he wasn’t being the Autobot Medic? Was there a time when he wasn’t? It was pretty much an all consuming job. CMO of the Autobots wasn’t just a fancy title, it held a great deal of responsibility and work. On other planets, where there had been other doctors he had overseen, most of his daily work involved going over reports from the others, making sure nothing was overlooked. Ensuring medical supplies kept flowing to all the various frontlines out there. Reports of injuries, deaths, sicknesses....all had to come across his desk to be signed, copied, filed.

When he travelled to less .... equipped areas, he was forced to go more hands on, dealing with injuries directly, triaging the injured, sometimes literally going out into no man’s land and helping drag them back if there weren’t enough hands to do so. While the work was dirty, Ratchet still relished it. It always felt like that’s what he was sparked for. As he grew older, it was nicer to slow down some, but war was war, and there was always a need, always a demand.

The only job that never changed was his role in supporting the Prime. Where Optimus went, Ratchet went. If the Prime was injured, Ratchet operated. He knew Optimus’ inner components like his small but well maintained room, and at this point could probably operate blindfolded and go entirely by feel.

But here on Earth, there was no down time. There was no relaxation. If someone wasn’t injured, something needed to be built, or repaired, or rewired, or a hybrid of Earth and Cybertronian tech had to be formed.

Ratchet honestly didn’t know what he’d do if he had time with nothing needing to be done.

Speaking slowly for a moment, he studied his hands. Perhaps it was his own fatigue, but Ratchet’s voice was somewhat lessened, a little more unguarded. Few people ever heard his voice with such a tone. Very few.

“When I was younger, much younger, I would go to parties. Theater. Listen to music. I had a few friends who were in the same field as I was, and we would occasionally travel or whatnot.

As I got older, I sort of....lost interest, I suppose. Work started demanding more and more of my time. Dealing with certain people all day, I....suppose I just...found it harder to enjoy frivolous things.”

Giving a suddenly awkward shrug, almost defensively, Ratchet looked up again, voice acidic again, “And there’s no such thing as not working, not here on Earth. I’m constantly wracking my processor trying to make useable technology from the sorely lacking human technology. That alone takes up all my time.”

[Windshield]

Windshield let out a disappointed sigh when he finally figured out that Godzilla wasn't real. Humans suddenly felt a lot less kickass than he originally assumed. Still, though it dulled the enthusiasm, his interest in them was great. If he couldn't enjoy them for being awesome, he could enjoy humans for being interesting. And oh, how interesting they were. He had hours upon hours of sitcoms and dramas hardwired into his processor by now. Sometimes, he even watched two shows at once—something no human with their minuscule attention span could do. But he could. He did. And he remembered all the tiny little details from every single scene. Cybertronian memory was excellent.

"Damn! That's a shame. Oh well, at least they are creative," he chuckled, taking this optic-opening shattering of illusions with good spirit and humor. After all, when everything looked bleak and you had nowhere left to go, humor was one of the more agreeable coping mechanisms. Windshield favored it a great deal. It got him through the war, and it will sure as hell get him through this situation as well.

What followed was unexpected, to say the least. Ratchet admitted that, in the past, he was quite the party animal. Windshield just stood there with a blank expression, not answering, not responding. Almost as if he had gone into a shut-down mode again. However, before the medic could be concerned about the ex-Decepticon's well-being, Windshield's expression turned into a wide, comedic grin.

He took a couple of steps, still silent. His knees felt week, and eventually, they broke. The hacker fell onto his bed again. Then, suddenly, abruptly, and unexpectedly, he started chuckling like a goddamn hyena. Something about the idea that Ratchet, the stoic, serious Autobot medic used to party like there was no tomorrow seemed so insanely funny to him.

Alright, so Windshield had his laugh and settled down eventually. Letting out a last chuckle, he stood up again and approached Ratchet once more. He seemed in a much better mood now, almost forgetting that he was, in fact, feeling like a soggy Energon treat only a few minutes prior.

"I'm so sorry," he beamed at the doctor. "I just can't imagine you drunk, dancing and doing all the other stuff rich mechs do at parties. Must've been fun though, huh?"

Eventually, the idea that Windshield's laughter came off as mockery crossed his mind. He didn't want to make an enemy of the only decent person who at least seemed to care about what happens to him. So, he decided to straighten out his attitude a little bit.

"No, I really mean it. I am sorry. You're probably not very proud of it. I sure as hell know that I've done a lot of stuff I'm not proud of either."

The comments sounded sincere, honest. Windshield was warming up to that concept lately. This would be the third time he had approached a situation from an angle that wasn't purely in his own self-interest.

"It's sad you don't get any alone time anymore," he eventually replied, pondering his possibilities. After a while, quite the idea cooked up in his processor full of human television and "history." Hesitantly, he'd make a proposal to the dour practician.

"Tell you what, Ratchet. If I ever get out of this cage and you have a bit of free time, we can grab a drink or something. Even Medics need to take it slow sometimes. And trust me, nobody can take it slower than me!" Windshield beamed with rekindled excitement. He had completely forgotten about his physical condition by now. And the addiction that nagged at the back of his mind for several long hours? Gone. At least momentarily, while he had somebody to talk to.

This was fun.