Bulkhead was sympathetic and sweet. Bumblebee would tone softly and probably try to hug. And Optimus always had something meaningful to say.

But Ratchet didn't ask questions.

And when it was his turn, when he reached his limit, Arcee didn't need answers.

Maybe that's why it worked for them.

Maybe that's why she was the only one that could hang around the medbay late at night without bothering the medic. If any other bot walked by while he was deep in data or organizing medical logs, he would tense and lose focus. But with her, he could keep reading, keeping one hand on the keyboard, and reaching back with the other one. His large servo usually just brushed across her as she walked by, but sometimes Arcee would find herself grabbed and held close.

Smaller servos tickled his hand, which was able to wrap fully around her tapered waist. He could use their size difference to his advantage and throw her over his shoulder if he wanted. During one of his green-eyed days, he had.

But he was always careful.

Careful when her aft pressed back and he ground her into the wall. He held back, didn't push hard, bit his lip plates in restrained ventilations as she redlined in quiet spasms.

Careful when hovering over her in the berth as she brought strangled words to his vocalizer simply by compressing his interface cable between her servos.

Careful when tasting the metal of her thighs and making her arch, plating trembling.

"Go recharge," Ratchet said almost every time she loitered in the common room, optics still scanning strings of code on the monitor.

"Not tired," she protested, turning in his grasp, flexible as ever.

Ratchet gave his usual half-afted argument about straining her processor and healthy charge levels, all the while fingers moving across her middle. Eventually she complied and left with a goodnight but the doctor knew she would be waiting in is room with a cube and a soft energy field.

They had a silent understanding of each other and they were on neutral ground. Seduction had never really been necessary. Arcee didn't purposely sway her backstrut nor did Ratchet rev his engine.

That wasn't to say they didn't appreciate each other.

Arcee was strongly forged, agile, smart and with a unique pair of optics. Below him, narrow fingers slipping into gaps, and she always kept eye contact. And Ratchet would grind his dentals and get sucked into the contrasting circles in her irises.

After their more lively sessions, Arcee often lay on her front, plating relaxed and easy. In their tranquil silence, Ratchet kept a hand on her back and stroked slowly. Felt the overlaps, enjoyed the hum of her smaller energy field. Admired the beauty of her finish.

And she was grateful for his maturity. His quiet, his thoughtfulness. Even the grumpy tick to his field. He had a sense of discretion that she found comfort in. And his optics were equally endearing in their own way. They were wide around the team, scrunching in annoyance, cycling in shock. But for her they were slack. Ridges easy. Glow soft.

The absence of enticing energy fields didn't mean flirting was completely nonexistent however.

When Arcee returned to base caked in mud, Ratchet predictably hollered at her to rinse off. She sprayed his shoulder with water and that's all it took for him to charge her. He was quicker than he looked, and held both her dripping servos over her helm. After some banter, he got her squirming with only one servo. Ratchet knew how to treat a two-wheeler.

They kept it from the team, more for their own sake. They knew the other bots wouldn't judge them. It was just... easier this way. Easier to take orders and argue about cleanser fluid in the daytime, and share coolant and listen to each other's problems at night.

The kids were a different story. From what they had learned about humans, Ratchet wasn't entirely sure how they would feel about it. Not that he cared what humans thought, but it certainly would not be uncomplicated to explain that they were teammates and they sometimes shared the berth.

He knew that Jack's father wasn't around and that Agent Fowler wasn't married. But he didn't quite know what that meant for a human. Ratchet didn't like pondering human relationships; it always gave him a processor ache.

The medic was aware of how Arcee had felt about Cliffjumper. He never pressed. He never had to.

And Arcee saw the way Ratchet looked at Optimus before every bridging.

They both had their scrap. They both stayed up late.

Maybe that's why it worked.