[Ratchet's eyes widen, slow and helpless, and he can't stop the brief spill of laughter from his throat before he stops sorting to press a palm over his mouth.]

Sorry. [His voice is a little strangled when he speaks again before he wrests control of himself and lets his hand drop.] Sorry, that's not actually funny, just--damn. I don't suppose you could have developed a more convenient trigger, such as, I don't know, groats. [Ratchet is not yet sold on the whole groats thing.] Or actual allergies. Or breathing, maybe.