Summary: Sometimes the smartest people are also the slowest on the uptake…

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. REPEAT. DO. NOT. OWN. So don't sue my happy butt, okay?

Warning: Contains slashy implications. No like-y, no ready.


"You have got to be the dumbest smart person I've ever met!"

- Del Spooner, i, robot



"You're too uptight."

The engineer looked up from the datapad he'd been studying. Okay, not really studying; more like absentmindedly staring at while his CPU meandered around the wonderful world of scientific equations. There was a particularly burly velocity/weight one relating to an upgrade for Sideswipe's jet pack that was giving him trouble. At Ratchet's off-hand – and off-the-wall, too, Wheeljack thought – comment, the equation fled to be replaced by confusion. He arched a brow ridge at the medic.

"I have two questions for ya," he said after a moment. "Why are ya here and where in the Pit did that assessment come from?"

Ratchet gave him a long stare, as if rolling the questions around in his CPU before answering. "Well, now. The first question is difficult to answer in the metaphysical sense, but in the physical, I am here, Wheeljack, because I walked in that door –" He gestured at said door with an expansive wave of one arm. "—and sat down on this berth." The medic patted the cool metal of said berth with one hand. Then he pinned Wheeljack with one of his patented Pre-Flying-Object glares. "And that assessment came from the fact that you tore Swoop a new one for practically nothing this afternoon."

"He dropped the –"


"But –"




To Wheeljack's chagrin he did, in fact, stow it. He knew in his spark that Ratchet was right. He had been irritable lately, Primus knew why. Of course, Primus wasn't going to tell him why, so he'd have to go to the next best source. Namely, the source that was currently sitting on his recharge berth and giving him a smug smirk.

"Thank you," Ratchet said. He gave Wheeljack another stare. The engineer fidgeted slightly, wondering just what was going on in his friend's CPU. They'd known each other for a long, long time, and some would assume that meant that Wheeljack had some sort of insight into how Ratchet's mind worked. That simply wasn't the case; Ratchet was far too complicated to be read, at times.

This was one of them.

Just as Wheeljack was about to speak, headfins flashing dimly, the medic spoke.

"So, how long has it been since you last overloaded?"

Wheeljack stared, optics wide. What the hell kind of question was that? If he hadn't been wearing his customary battleguard his jaw would have dropped; if he'd been human he would've been blushing. As it was, he fidgeted with the datapad on the table, normally dexterous fingers fumbling distractedly.

"Uh. I dunno, Ratch. Why?"

"Because that, my friend, is your problem."

Another incredulous look and Wheeljack leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his red-white-and-green chest. "Okay. Assuming that's the problem, what do ya propose I do about it?"

Ratchet crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, unconsciously mimicking the engineer. "Weell that is a dilemma, isn't it? There aren't any femmes on base, are there?"

"Ya know there aren't."

"Mm-hmm." Ratchet looked at the ceiling.

Wheeljack just gave him a blank look. "…am I missing something here?"

The medic's optics flicked to him, an optic ridge rising. He gave Wheeljack one of his patented If-You-Were-Any-More-Stupid-You'd-Be-Dysfunctional looks, and said nothing.


Ratchet rolled his optics, stood up, and moved to stand next to the thoroughly flummoxed engineer. He patted his shoulder companionably. "Nothing, 'Jack. I was just throwing out an explanation. Really, I think it's more likely lack of proper recharge. Get some sleep," he said.

Wheeljack watched Ratchet leave, completely and utterly confused. He turned back to the datapad on the table as the door hissed shut. What was that all about? Why had Ratchet even brought the matter up, and then dismissed it a moment later? And what in the name of Primus had been with all those Looks?!

He sighed, resting his helm in the palms of his hands. There was an even bigger question here…

…why did he feel like he'd just failed some sort of test?