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Author's Note: This was originally written a few years back as part of the 28 Smokescreens meme in response to Jealous Smokescreen. Since it was never posted over here I've decided to clean it up a little and put it up.

Smokescreen was not amused. He glared angrily at the data pad in his hands as if he could change its content with his thoughts alone. When the information remained the same he vented his air filters loudly - mimicking a sigh of exasperation - and flung the pad at the wall.

"Hey!" Ratchet protested as he entered, ducking as the pad nearly collided with his head. "Watch it, will you?"

"We're not there!" Smokescreen growled, stabbing a blue finger at the device.

"And?" Ratchet asked as he began to search through Smokescreen's cabinets. "Where's the Khalissian High Grade? And don't you dare tell me you drank it all."

"What do you mean, 'and'?" Smokescreen made no attempt to hide his outrage.

Ratchet paused in his rifling search to look over at the Datsun.

"That's the promotions list, right?" he asked, nodding toward the data pad.

"It is," Smokescreen replied tightly.

"And, in case I've forgotten, remind me: you did turn down the promotion Optimus offered you, right?"

"That's not the point!" the psychologist growled. "And stop messing up my filing system. I have the Khalissian stashed away where Red won't find it."

Ratchet chuckled softly as Smokescreen stalked over to a low cabinet and pulled out two cubes of dark pink energon. The Datsun handed one to the medic then slumped onto his patients' couch.

"Thanks, Smokey," Ratchet said as he settled into the paychologist's chair. "So, if you passing up any and all promotions that come your way isn't the point, care to tell me what is?"

"The point is that we don't get the respect we deserve around here!" Smokescreen railed. "The point is that every time a round of promotions comes up neither of us get any form of mention! Pit! You're the damned CMO! You, of all mechs, shouldn't rank so low. Do you realize that if things keep up like this, you're going to end up reporting to Sunstreaker?"

Ratchet chuckled softly as he took a sip of his energon. "I seriously doubt that Sunny will ever outrank anyone. At least not for long. And you're still … what's the word you use? Deflecting? Nevermind." He brushed the distraction away with a wave of his hand. "My point is that we get no mention is those announcements because every time we get offered a promotion we turn it down. Official officer's status would get in the way of our work."

"Yes, yes, I know that." Smokescreen's irritation was barely contained as he spoke. "I know that, and you know that. And Prime knows that. But they don't know that!" His last words were nearly shouted as he stabbed a finger toward the door and the base beyond.

Ratchet sat quietly drinking his energon as he watched Smokescreen. Finally after a long moment of contemplate he broke the silence.

"All right," he finally said. "Something set this off. The promotions are just the last straw, as the humans say. So are you going to tell me what's wrong or are you going to spend the rest of the day in here fuming?"

Smokescreen shot Ratchet a dark look.

"I am not fuming," Smokescreen growled. "And even if I was, I have every right to! Just today Prowl intimated that I wasn't doing my share. And Jazz! Did you see the acclaims his team got?"

"Yes. And he and his team deserved every one of them. They've been busting their transistors lately. So what's your point?"

"My point?" Smokescreen asked, dumbfounded. He stood and began to pace the room angrily. "My point is that they weren't the only ones out there! I put my aft on the line to give them the cover they needed to get past Devastator. Time and again I help that team out and I never get even so much as a 'thank you'! From any of them!"

Ratchet sat back and watched Smokescreen move about the room like a caged animal. Normally the tactician was calm. Problems generally rolled off of him leaving no signs of stress or strain, but Ratchet knew that sometimes even the staff psychologist needed to talk to someone. So he sat back and listened, sipping his high-grade in silence and occasionally nodding at appropriate intervals.

"I mean," Smokescreen continued, "at least you get a certain amount of respect! Regardless of your rank, they respect you. Not only do they need you to fix them, but they know you can reformat them all into toasters if you really wanted to. The only time they take note of me is when they need a distraction or a performance evaluation! It's. Not. Fair!"

Smokescreen downed his high grade in one huge swallow and threw the cube across the room before falling to the couch again. He groaned loudly and scrubbed his face with his hands, finally calming down.

"You're right," Ratchet said. "It's not fair. You could solve the problem by accepting a promotion next time it comes around … which we both know you won't do. Or you could talk to Prowl. Pit, maybe we should both talk to him. I really don't think he grasps the fundamentals of the problem."

Smokescreen snorted inelegantly but said nothing.

"Or," Ratchet continued with a wicked grin, "you could let me teach you how to toss a spanner. From what I've seen, your job around here would be a whole lot easier of you were allowed to beat your patients about the head a bit. From time to time."

"I don't the Brass will approve of my using radical behaviourism on my patients, Ratch," Smokescreen chuckled. He sat up and stretched slightly, his doors spreading out elegantly behind him. "... I think I just needed to vent. It's not as bad as I make it ..."

"I know," Ratchet replied, nothing but sympathy in his tone. "We all need a wall to scream at sometimes."

"Thanks for being mine, Doc." Smokescreen smiled at the medic.

"Any time, Smokes. Any time." With that Ratchet stood and headed toward the door. "And thanks for the Khalissian."

Just as he palmed open the door, the medic turned back. "And just so you know, I was fully serious about teaching you to toss a spanner. As long as your patients don't end up in my medbay after you're done with them, that is."

"Yeah, I may take you up on that. A little reinforcement therapy might work wonders on one or two of the mechs out there," Smokescreen said with a chuckle as the medic left.