[He'd felt better. A lot better. But he'd also felt worse. A lot worse. At least this time he had all his limbs, and Ratchet was there to piece him back together -- and hover. Oh the hovering.

He was just fine. As fine as one could be when their chest was a mass of temporary plating, heavy welds, and more sealant than a leaky boat. Against Ratchet's direct orders, he had himself propped up on his elbows, surveying the damage with a critical optic. This was going to scar nastily.

But he wasn't worried. When he heard the voice, he looked up, almost guiltily flopping back down to pretend he'd been resting the entire time -- all secure and alone in the hastily erected cubicle the hangar had put up for repairs.]

Over here.