Chapter Text
The medbay seems to have a siren call for idiots.
No, no, Ratchet realizes, that’s not quite right. It’s the Lost Light which has a siren call for idiots – with Rodimus being the one at the end of the metaphorical megaphone and hollering into it. That said idiots ended up in the medbay after a couple of bad ideas and dumb stints is just the unfortunate consequence of being part of the Lost Light crew.
None of this train of thought makes Ratchet any less irritated as he glares at each mech who showed up in the last fifteen minutes, all of them looking considerably dented and banged up in one very familiar way. It took both Ambulon and First Aid to convince him to focus on inventory check and let them take over with seeing the patients instead, lest Ratchet offline from a rage-induced spark attack or end up committing multiple homicides. Whichever came first.
“Hold still,” Ambulon tells the young mech he’s currently tending to, gently knocking out the plating dents and avoiding the dark scorch marks on the mech’s legs. When his patient hisses in pained protest, Ambulon only raises an unsympathetic optic ridge. “Remind me – why did you think joining them was a good idea again?”
“Aw, come on, Doc,” the mech – Snapper, Ratchet recalls – complains. “We were just having fun. I wasn’t gonna say no when they were practically handing out the jet packs!”
“Jet packs,” Ambulon echoes with a pointed look at the scorch marks.
Across the room where he’s cleaning up after the last patient he dismissed, First Aid snickers. Ratchet swivels his head to turn his burning glower to his apprentice. First Aid valiantly swallows back his laugh but his damn shoulders quiver and betray him anyway.
“Yeah.” Snapper nods eagerly, unable to read the room. “For the race!”
“Jet packs,” Ambulon deadpans again. “For the race.”
“Cool, right? Apparently Brainstorm himself whipped up the prototypes in his lab. He called for volunteers to take them on a test drive!”
“Brainstorm said—”
“Yeah, and then Whirl got a bet going about who can finish a lap around the ship’s 2nd level the fastest with a jet pack.”
Ambulon looks ready to dissociate from the whole conversation. “Whirl—”
“Skids is keeping the books! Personally, I bet my creds on the Captain.”
“The Captain?” Ambulon croaks.
First Aid’s entire frame rattles, a pathetic wheeze of laughter slipping out of his mask. He looks like he’s about to keel over or bust a gasket. Ratchet kind of hopes he does.
Ambulon clears his throat weakly. “The Captain. As in—as in, Rodimus?”
“Oh yeah.” Snapper grins from audial to audial. He crosses his arms over his chassis and gives a proud nod. Ratchet is sorely tempted to march over and smack him. “He made the race official so anyone who wants to join can join. Last I heard, he was in the lead, but honestly, who knows who’ll win? The race is still going!”
That does it.
“Oh, you fraggers,” Ratchet finally snarls, unable to keep quiet any longer and nearly foaming at the mouth in his irritation just as First Aid collapses into a giggling fit. Ambulon stares up at the ceiling lights for divine help. To think that they’ve been wasting precious time and medical supplies because of an ill-advised, practically illegal, gambling race! “Rodimus is behind this?”
“Ratchet!” Snapper shrinks back with a squeak. He gawks at Ratchet like he’s only now realizing that the infamous CMO is there with them. “Yes? M-Maybe? I mean, to be fair, it was kind of also Whirl and Brainstorm’s idea—”
Ratchet slams both his hands on the nearest desk. As if he needed even bigger idiots than Rodimus behind this whole mess! “And where’s Magnus while this is happening?” he growls. Surely the SIC, who normally walks with a bigger stick up his aft than even Ratchet does on most days, wouldn’t just be observing all the chaos unfold from the sidelines. “Why isn’t he putting a stop to all this?”
Snapper blinks slowly. “They have jetpacks,” he says, as if that explains anything. “He can’t really catch any of them.”
Ratchet throws his arms up. “Oh, for frag’s sake. Who else is in this pit-slagged race?”
“U-Uh.” Snapper glances at Ambulon for help. Ambulon looks back at him flatly. “Um.”
“Well?” Ratchet demands.
“I dunno.” Snapper fidgets. “Probably like, uh. Half the ship?”
Ratchet takes a sharp vent. Calm down, he tells himself, just before he opens his mouth.
“HALF?!” he yells anyway.
Ratchet feels so incredulous, he could almost feel literal steam whistling out of his vents. They’ll have more banged-up idiots hobbling into the medbay soon, apparently. At this rate, their small medical team of three would have to pull extra shifts just to go through all the anticipated number of injured patients.
Surprisingly, neither of the younger medics seem to share Ratchet’s annoyance. By the medberth, First Aid has crumpled into a disgraceful heap, cackling brokenly at the revelations. Ambulon has gone back to his search for Primus up at the ceiling. It doesn’t stop Ratchet from fuming again. “What do you mean, half the fucking—!”
The chime of the medbay doors interrupt them. Ratchet turns around sharply to see Whirl trotting inside with his chassis bashed in, Cyclonus fairly undamaged but carrying a small, scorched white bot in his arms—
“Goddammit,” Ratchet snaps, so loud that the three mechs freeze. “You let the minibot race?!”
“Hey!” Tailgate protests. “I can race if I wanna!”
Cyclonus’ red optics flare in alarm at Ratchet’s accusation just before they narrow dangerously. “No,” he hisses in contrary to Tailgate, in an offended tone that clearly says how dare you. “Of course not. Why would you ever think—”
“It was an accident!” Tailgate speaks up once more, squirming in Cyclonus’ hold to look at Ratchet properly and cutting off whatever argument was building between the purple warrior and the medic. Despite the dark burn marks and soot stains on his white plating, he seems to be just fine. “Cyc and I didn’t know about the race. I heard yelling outside and got curious, so I opened the door and then – bam! Whirlybird caught me before the other racers could bowl me over!”
Ratchet’s gaze narrows in at the inward dent on Whirl’s chassis, just as he snaps his pincers mock-threateningly at Tailgate. Upon closer inspection, one of Whirl’s chest guns does look oddly bent, as if he had a rough tumble and fell on it. The scorch marks on his plating fits perfectly with the ones on Tailgate. “Don’t you go turnin’ me into a hero, Legs!” Whirl snarks. “I got a reputation to maintain.”
“But you are my hero,” Tailgate insists, adorably sincere. “You saved me, Birdy!”
Whirl playfully clacks his claws again. “Stop that!”
“Never!”
Ratchet ignores both of them. “And you?” he grunts at Cyclonus, looking him over for injuries. “Got caught in the collision too?”
The dour mech shakes his helm, his earlier displeasure forgotten. “No, I’m only here to ensure both Tailgate and Whirl receive medical attention,” Cyclonus says with the grimace of someone who’s all too used to the chaos and is resigned to it. Ratchet almost sympathizes with him. “If you would be so kind, Doctor, so we can go on our way.”
Ratchet waves him toward the empty medberths with a huff.
Just as Cyclonus sets the minibot down and First Aid gets over his laughing fit to take a look at Tailgate’s burns, Ratchet turns his full attention on Whirl, who somehow manages to be all but halfway across the room and nearly escaping through the door.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Ratchet barks.
Immediately, Cyclonus is there, clamping a tight claw around Whirl’s shoulder to bodily yank him back from running down the corridor and toward the second medberth instead.
“Oh, you horned motherfragger,” Whirl hisses at Cyclonus, thrashing like a deranged thing. “I saved Tailgate from getting squished! Ain’t that good enough? You promised I wouldn’t get poked at!”
“You need to get fixed.” Cyclonus frowns. He pushes Whirl on the berth. “And I promised no such thing.”
“Didn’t you?” Whirl demands, standing back up. Cyclonus shoves him back down firmly. “Coulda sworn I remember you promisin’ that. Did I imagine it again?”
“You imagine Cyclonus promising things to you?” Tailgate giggles by the side. First Aid chuckles with him.
“Shut up, marshmallow.”
“Whirl,” Ratchet snaps with a glare. “I’m not letting you out of here looking like a crumpled tin can! And don’t think I don’t know that you’re responsible for this entire goddamn race in the first place!”
At that, both Cyclonus and Tailgate turn to stare at Whirl.
“Uh, it’s called having fun, Dr. Grump,” Whirl scoffs. When he attempts to make another break for it, Ratchet pushes Whirl down on the berth himself, growling in his throat.
“Stay down, or I’ll magnetize your aft to the berth.”
“Kinky!”
Whirl doesn’t try to run again, but he squirms on the berth anyway and makes it impossibly frustrating for Ratchet to tend to him properly. Cyclonus gives the helicopter a sour look. Whirl blinks back at him in an approximation of a wink. “Too bad I ain’t into casual BDSM anymore, Doc. That’s reserved for Legs and Cyc now!”
First Aid chokes. Someone else erupts into a strangled sound – it might be Snapper. “Whirl!” Tailgate scolds, voice high, face flushing underneath the mask. Cyclonus ends up hiding his own face behind one of his clawed hands.
Whirl continues to wriggle, threatening to kick Ratchet when he gets too close to holding him down. With a curse, Ratchet takes a step back from the berth before he receives a pede to the face. He takes a calming vent in and plants his hands on his hip joints. “Alright, Whirl,” Ratchet says through clenched denta, forcibly calm. He takes out the hammering tools he needs to get the dents out. “Can’t say I’m much of a BDSM fan myself. How about a reward, then?”
That gets Whirl’s attention. The mech pauses, his single optic narrowing suspiciously at Ratchet, but willing to listen. All the others seem stunned at the development. “What kinda reward?” Whirl asks.
Ratchet points the small hammer at him. “If you cooperate, I’ll let you off your next scheduled maintenance.”
Whirl’s optic brightens in interest, clearly thrilled at the idea. “That a promise?”
“I promise,” Ratchet says. He watches as Whirl’s frame slowly relaxes back against the berth, the helicopter bastard even snuggling down to get comfortable. Ratchet rolls his optics, approaching the berth once more to start banging out the dents. Fragging finally. “Now be a good mech and stay still.”
“Oooh.” Whirl doesn’t have the face nor the mouth to grin with, but somehow, he manages to give Ratchet a leery grin. “Be gentle with me, Daddy.”
“W-Whirl!” Tailgate wails despairingly. Cyclonus’ other hand joins the one glued to his faceplates.
“We’ll see.” Ratchet takes the weird, sexual use of the Earth term in stride – where had Whirl even learned that? – and simply snorts as he hammers out the largest dent. He’s said and heard worse during his Party Ambulance days. Whirl’s attempts to fluster him are laughable in comparison. “If you behave, I might just make it good for you,” he offers back flatly.
This time, it’s First Aid and Ambulon who stutter, mortified as they yell for Ratchet to stop. Snapper tries to disappear into his own berth and out of the room. Both Tailgate and Cyclonus can’t look at them, while Whirl laughs and laughs uproariously. Despite his deep irritation at their circumstances, Ratchet can’t help but duck his helm, fighting off the tired twitch of a smile that escapes him.
…
By the time the idiotic race concludes in the upper levels of the ship, whatever little humor and patience Ratchet has stumbled upon is all but gone, replaced by the familiar feeling of bad-tempered exhaustion and grumpiness from a long day of slag. By the shelves, First Aid and Ambulon are working together to restock the kits in the backroom, chatting amicably about the race results. Ratchet rolls his optics as he passes by the open door.
There aren’t any other patients left in the medbay when Drift comes knocking.
Ratchet knows it’s him before he even glances up to look properly – Drift makes little to no sound when he walks, and the knock was so sudden – but when Ratchet finally sees just why Drift is here, his expression darkens as he scowls.
Drift shoots him a kicked turbo-puppy look. “I can explain—”
“You too?!” Ratchet growls. He has half a mind to grab his largest wrench and throw it at Drift for this—this idiocy! He takes a longer glance, optics sweeping over the racing scratches and scuffs until he sees Drift’s foot. Ratchet swears. “Primus fuck, kid. What the frag did you even do?”
“Hey, language,” Drift protests but the lecture about spirituality and respecting the divine doesn’t come. He hobbles forward instead, walking with an awkward limp with the way his ankle plating is bent inwards and completely busted. It’s probably the worst injury Ratchet has had to deal with today and it doesn’t help that his chassis feels tight all of a sudden at the sight of Drift hurt. Ratchet ignores it and simmers in his annoyance instead. “And I really can explain, if you’d just give me a chance—"
Ratchet stalks towards him thunderously.
Drift almost falls on his aft in his hurry to backpedal away, but Ratchet’s hand shoots out to grab the speedster’s arm before he could hurt himself further. “Don’t even think about running,” Ratchet snaps.
“Wasn’t going to,” Drift denies.
“Sure looked like you were about to.”
“You looked like you were about to murder me!”
“I still might,” Ratchet grouches.
“You can’t.” Drift struggles a little inside Ratchet’s grip but it’s all for show. The way Drift’s shoulder pauldrons relax now that Ratchet’s supporting him betrays how fragile his balance was. “You swore an oath. Also, you’d miss me too much.”
Ratchet glares at him and doesn’t dignify that with a response. He closes the distance between them instead, bends down with a hand across Drift’s back and one on the back of his legs, and then sweeps him up in his arms in one fluid motion.
“Ratchet!” Drift yelps, fingers digging into Ratchet’s armor seams and clinging. “What—?”
“I’m not going to drop you, kid. Don’t make this difficult.” Ratchet adjusts his hold, hefting Drift up in a more comfortable position before he walks them to a medberth to lay Drift on it. He gets Drift to open up his diagnostic ports and plugs in immediately. When he glances down, he finds Drift looking at him with alarmed wide optics, faceplates flushed with energon.
Ratchet frowns. “What?”
“Nothing.” Drift coughs, glancing down as his finials twitch. There’s a weird little smile on his stupid, pretty face that makes Ratchet worry about whether he’s got a concussion too. “You’re really strong.”
“Please,” Ratchet scoffs, arranging the speedster’s legs straight and flat against the berth. “You’re hardly a challenge for forged medic strength, kid. I can carry ten of you.”
Drift’s finials twitch again, the warm flush on his face darkening. It pushes Ratchet into running a full-frame scan. The results come back predictably fine, save for his foot injury and a fuel reading that’s lower than what Ratchet would like, but Ratchet runs it a second time just to be sure.
Then, as if his doctor instincts have been triggered, First Aid comes out of the stock room with a full medical kit. “Oh, Drift!” he greets pleasantly. His visor mimics a friendly smile as he hands the supplies to Ratchet, who wastes no time opening it up and taking what he needs to patch up Drift’s foot. First Aid gives a quick glance at Drift’s injury as the CMO gets to work. “I’d congratulate you on winning first place but that looks painful.”
He won the race? Of course he did. Ratchet looks up from his task just to pin a death glare on the speedster. “Shut the sensors on your left leg,” he orders gruffly.
Drift obeys with a guilty wince, and then says, “Thanks, First Aid. How did you find out?”
“Whirl’s been sending us updates! Isn’t that right, Ambulon?” First Aid turns, beaming as Ambulon walks out of the backroom and throws him a short thumbs up. “Ambulon’s buying me a drink with his winnings tonight, too!”
Ratchet whips his glare on his junior medics. “You bet on him?!”
“You bet on me?” Drift gawks.
First Aid throws his hands up in a placating gesture. “Not me! Ambulon. I originally told him to bet on Rodimus, but he decided otherwise. Lucky guess, though!”
Ratchet and Drift turn to where Ambulon is frowning sullenly at First Aid. Under their attention, he shrugs. “Old habits. Back with the Decepticons,” Ambulon says, casting a wary gaze at Drift. “They had a saying when it comes to wagers and bets like this. They said, ‘Always—"
“—bet on Deadlock,” Drift says. His old name rolls quietly off his glossa. “Right?”
Ambulon nods. “Yeah.”
Drift clears his vocalizer, frame tensing a little under Ratchet’s hands, and Ratchet pauses just enough to check on Drift’s reaction. The past can be a touchy subject for any of them, but it is even more so in Drift’s case – his origins from Dead End and his time as one of the Decepticon’s most dangerous soldiers isn’t exactly something Drift likes to reminisce about. Still, Drift manages a smile for Ambulon, all forced and practiced politeness. “Been a while since I’ve been Deadlock,” he jokes lightly. “You could’ve lost your shanix.”
“But I didn’t.” Ambulon shrugs again, and in a show of self-certainty Ratchet hasn’t seen from him yet, the ex-Decepticon meets Drift’s optics in a meaningful stare. “Betting on you has never let me down before, back when the stakes were higher and winning meant having enough energon rations to get me through the next cycle. Though the situation isn’t as dire anymore, it didn’t let me down today either. It seems like you’re still worth taking a chance on.”
Something vulnerable passes through Drift’s gaze, gone too fast for Ratchet to process. It makes Drift purse his mouth into a thin line, his optics glassy, but the tension within his struts bleeds out in an instant. When he attempts another polite smile, it comes out fragile.
“If you say so.”
“I do,” Ambulon says decisively. Then, he adds, “Although we would have won either way. I made First Aid place a bet on Captain Rodimus just in case.”
That startles a genuine laugh out of Drift. It’s a beautiful sound, low and melodious, and Ratchet’s spark aches with it even as he looks away. He puts his helm down and gruffly goes back to fixing Drift’s ankle, all the better to hide the pitiful softness he knows is in his expression.
“Smart move,” Drift says.
First Aid’s visor brightens. Ambulon offers back a small smile.
The two of them take their leave shortly after that, calling out goodbyes at Drift and Ratchet.
“We’ll get going now. Don’t stay too long, Ratchet!” First Aid reminds.
“And remember to fuel, sir,” Ambulon tacks on.
Ratchet doesn’t look up from Drift’s foot even as he waves his juniors out the door with a grumpy flap of his hand. “Alright, alright! Get lost already.” At his surly growl, First Aid laughs and Ambulon tips his helm in a quick nod before disappearing out the door and leaving Drift alone with him in the medbay.
He hears a quiet chuff of laughter in the silence that settles. “What?” Ratchet demands distractedly.
“They fuss over you.” Drift’s mouth quirks up. “It’s nice.”
“It’s a pain in the aft is what it is,” Ratchet grunts, face flushing with warmth.
As much as he likes to pretend to be gruff, Ratchet does appreciate his subordinates. First Aid and Ambulon are both reliable and competent, with smart helms on their shoulders. Today, they’ve even gone above and beyond their necessary overtime shifts to handle the situation, sticking by Ratchet’s side without so much as a grumble. They’re good medics, he thinks, not for the first time and that makes his worries ease a little. They’ll become great ones soon enough.
“I think it’s sweet,” Drift hums, teasing now. “Besides, someone has to fuss over you.”
“What the frag does that mean?” Ratchet hammers out the last of the dents on Drift’s detached ankle plating. He turns it here and there to make sure he didn’t miss any more damages before setting it aside and looking over the exposed protoform and energon lines around Drift’s ankle. None of them are cut or severed, but some have gotten pinched from the impact. If left alone, they might cause greater damage later on. “You saying I can’t take care of myself?”
“I’m not saying you can’t.” Drift rolls his shoulders in a shrug, and then grins. “I’m saying you don’t.”
Ratchet looks up with narrow optics. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you not to antagonize the medic fixing you up, kid?”
“Is that how it is?” Drift only grins wider, the little shit. The twinkle in his optics highlights the light blue of his gaze and stretches out the fullness of his lips, turns the curve of his jaw softer, more youthful. It drives Ratchet mad with some unnamed urge. “Must have missed that memo.”
Slagger, Ratchet thinks.
“Slagger,” he says anyway, and swallows back the twist of his spark when Drift laughs again. “Besides, that’s rich coming from you,” Ratchet grouches. “You’re the one who limped in here on a leg and a half.”
“Well, if you’d just let me explain,” Drift reiterates drily. A touch of annoyance colors the edges of his EM field. “Then this really wouldn’t seem so irresponsible of me otherwise.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Ratchet huffs, looking back down at his work. He raps his knuckles on Drift’s left leg. “You pinched some lines around your foot. I need you to turn your sensors back on while I fix them, so I’d know if anything hurts too much or if something’s out of place.”
Drift’s face dims a little. “Ratchet—”
“Yes, yes, you wanna explain yourself.” Ratchet rolls his optics. “Turn them on so I can get to work and you can talk,” he says.
Drift gives a short pause. “And you’ll listen?”
“It isn’t as if I’ll tune you out.” Ratchet makes an impatient noise, patting Drift’s leg again. “Are they on yet or not?”
Drift relaxes at that. He smiles cheekily again. “They’ve been on since you told me to do so earlier.”
“Brat,” Ratchet snaps without any real heat and gets back to work. “This might hurt a little, so tell me if you need to take a break. In the meantime, you’re free to talk.”
“Alright,” Drift allows. He takes a calm vent, unaffected by the way Ratchet tweaks the pinched lines on his foot to set them straight, and seems to gather his words. “Roddy challenged me to join the jetpack race.”
Ratchet snorts.
“I’m not done,” Drift protests, the barest hints of a whine tinging his tone. It shouldn’t be as adorable as Ratchet finds it to be. “You said you’d listen.”
“Never said I’d listen quietly.”
“Roddy challenged me to join the jetpack race,” Drift repeats firmly, insistent. “And I said no.” That gets Ratchet’s attention but he quickly clamps down on the flare of surprise in his field as he straightens out the dented cables. Knowing Drift and Rodimus, there’s more to it than just that. “I tried to convince him it wasn’t a good idea to race down the halls while wearing an untested experiment of Brainstorm’s but by that time, they’ve already distributed so many of the prototypes to the crew.”
Ratchet nearly snorts again – that sounds exactly like the type of slag Brainstorm would do.
“It was too late to convince anyone to stop and Magnus was threatening to throw them all in the brig, and no one was being reasonable,” Drift continues, “so I tried to do damage control instead.”
Ratchet picks up his helm just long enough to raise an optic ridge. “Which was?”
Drift hesitates a little. “I made a bet,” he confesses. At Ratchet’s scowl, Drift hastily explains, “I bet Rodimus that I could beat all of them in the race without a jetpack. I said if I couldn’t, I’d buy everyone a round at Swerve’s, they’ll get out of the situation scot-free, and Magnus will sanction me instead as he sees fit. But if I win the race, then Rodimus and everyone involved in Brainstorm’s race will have to personally clean up the mess in the hallways and do an extra shift on rivet duty. Oh, and Brainstorm will need to provide full detailed reports to Magnus regarding the jetpack project or his funding will get cut.”
Stunned, Ratchet narrows his optics. “And Rodimus agreed to this?”
Drift nods. His lips twitch into the smallest smile. “Yes.”
“And you won.”
“Yeah.” Drift’s smile pulls a little wider. “I did.”
Ratchet straightens up slowly from his task, regarding Drift with his own carefully blank look. “And now Rodimus is…?”
“On Level 2,” Drift confirms. His grin turns gleefully smug. “Overseeing the cleanup. Ultra Magnus is making him sort out the paperwork and schedules for everyone’s rivet duty shift before he can hit the washracks. Roddy still has soot stains on his aft from the jetpack.”
It’s the last one that does Ratchet in. His calm façade breaks as he catches Drift’s bright gaze and then Ratchet snorts as he doubles over in laughter, the sound of it bouncing in the walls of the medbay. “Not so irresponsible now, huh?” Drift absolutely beams. His field is alight with joy, warm and infectious, and Ratchet finds himself laughing and laughing. Drift laughs with him. “Like Ambulon said, always bet on Deadlock, Ratch.”
“Slag, kid,” Ratchet vents out, holding his aching sides. “Rodimus must be pissed off at you.”
Drift nods happily. “He said I’m the worst.”
“How did you even manage to win—?”
Drift dissolves into snorting giggles at the question. “I almost didn’t,” he squeaks breathlessly. “But Roddy’s jetpack overheated and exploded near the end of the race while I was next to him and it sent me flying over the finish line.”
Ratchet cracks up at that again, helpless to the laughter. “Is that why—did your foot—?”
Drift shakes his head, too caught up in his giggles to speak properly. “Magnus was after us, he—he hit the brakes late and bowled Roddy over—”
“Stop,” Ratchet wheezes. His vocalizer glitches, coolant starting to build up on the corners of his optics. “Frag, stop, I can’t breathe—”
“And then he,” Drift gasps, red-faced, “he tripped on my foot and fell—”
“Drift!” Ratchet chokes, his sides squeezing as he laughs.
The mental image of Lost Light’s highest-ranking officers in a three-car pile disaster is almost too funny. Ratchet hits his palm down on the berth in an unspoken I yield, I yield, laughing himself into a stomach cramp. Drift is hardly any better, shoulders shaking with the force of his laughs, his face scrunched up and his optics crinkled in glee as he looks over at Ratchet.
Both of them take several deep vents, trying to calm down. Every time Ratchet thinks he’s gotten hold of himself, Drift looks at him again with a barely concealed grin and sends him back into laughing.
“Primus, kid,” Ratchet finally sighs. There’s a pleasant ache in his jaw from the smile that he can’t seem to force down, not that Ratchet really is trying to. Their moment of ridiculous laughter left his frame loose, left a lightness blooming in his chassis. It’s a stark contrast to the heavy exhaustion he’s been feeling all day. Ratchet shakes his head as he goes back to reattach Drift’s foot plating, and scoffs with badly disguised fondness, “Idiots. The lot of you.”
Drift’s grin softens into something dopey and – not cute, Ratchet absolutely denies, not at all. “We’re your idiots,” the swordsmech says.
“Lucky me,” Ratchet shoots back, his sarcastic words betrayed by his warm tone. He unplugs from the speedster’s medical port and gives an affectionate pat to Drift’s newly fixed ankle before he can stop himself. Ratchet clears his vocalizer to hide his embarrassment. “Alright, off your aft and on your pedes, kid. I wanna see you jumping with my own optics before I deem you good enough to let go.”
Drift swings his legs off the berth obediently, bouncing his feet against the floor before he gently puts weight on both his pedes and pushes himself up to stand. At his little wobble, Ratchet surges up on reflex, hands finding purchase on the narrow curves of Drift’s waist to steady him. Drift places his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders automatically.
It leaves them barely a foot apart, close enough to hear the rumble of each other’s engines and feel each other’s warm vents of air.
Ratchet freezes, processor blanking.
Drift’s waist is so small.
It’s so obscenely small that if Ratchet tries, he could probably encircle his hands all the way around the striped plating, stretch out his digits to their widest capacity, and make his middle fingers touch. In direct contrast to this, Drift’s hips flare out wide, leading to the ample curves of his red, strong thighs that are too thick to contain. This close, their slight height difference becomes noticeable – if Ratchet tilts his helm down just so, he could catch Drift’s upper lip in between his own.
Primus.
Drift, seemingly unaware of the thoughts in Ratchet’s mind and unaffected by their closeness, concentrates on shifting his weight from pede to pede, looking down with a determined furrow of his optics and a focused pout. The movement of his legs make his plating shift as well, and each time Drift raises a pede, it makes Ratchet’s fingers glide over his waist and catch on his hip seams. When he does a little hop, like Ratchet requested earlier, Ratchet’s stupid sensitive hands bump against the tops of his thighs.
Ratchet’s next vent stutters, his faceplates on fire. He cancels the request pings of his cooling fans to turn on. Primus fuck me.
“Ratchet?”
Ratchet forces the inappropriate thoughts away, clinging onto what little professionalism he has left, but his voice still comes out a touch too hoarse when he speaks. It’s been too long since he’s felt like this, like some young, overcharged newbuild. “How’s the foot? No pain?”
“Nope.” Drift pops the p, grinning brightly up at him. “I feel good as new. Better, even. You’re a miracle worker, Ratch.”
“No miracles here, kid,” Ratchet huffs, bulldozing past the compliment with practiced ease and taking a safe step back. His hands fall away from Drift, suddenly cold without the warmth of a frame underneath his palms. Drift’s own hands drop from his shoulders. “And none of that woo-woo crap either. Just doing my job.”
“Still,” Drift trails off, looking at him intently. His optics are soft at the edges, EM field almost bashful. His voice drops low and quiet as he adds, “It’s a hard job, Ratchet. I don’t know how you make it look so easy. I think you’re absolutely brilliant.”
The words leave Ratchet speechless, and suddenly, this feels dangerous.
His useless, flustered spark spins wildly at the sincere compliment and Ratchet can feel his clumsy hands grasping at empty air by his sides. He tries to speak, to rebuff Drift gruffly, mouth dropping open and glossa fumbling over words that aren’t there. I think you’re absolutely beautiful, is what his processor comes up with, and Ratchet shuts that down furiously before he can make a bigger fool of himself.
Finally, Ratchet blurts out the next random thought in his mind. “Fuel.”
Drift blinks. “What?”
“Fuel!” Ratchet sputters, insistently angry this time. He turns his back on Drift, face flushed, and marches towards the energon dispenser to fetch a cube. “I saw your fuel reading earlier, Drift. You ran your tanks nearly dry from that race!”
“I’m fine, Ratchet—”
“You shouldn’t keep pushing your frame to its limits, I keep telling you—”
“Can we just—I’ll fuel later—”
“Oh, sure, I’ll take your word for it,” Ratchet bites back sarcastically. “You’re taking this cube with you, kid. Doctor’s orders.”
When he whirls back once more, Ratchet’s vents hitch as he finds himself nearly nose to nose with Drift, the speedster sneaking up on him so closely without making a single sound. The air leaves his frame in a breathless instant. They’re so close that he can feel the thrumming heat off of Drift’s plating, can see the flecks of gold in Drift’s sapphire optics. “What…?”
“Do I have your attention again? Will you let me talk?” Drift quirks a lopsided smile at him, his gaze never losing their softness. “Ratchet,” he whispers. “At least let me say thanks.”
“Drift,” Ratchet begins sternly, just as much a warning as it is a plea, but then Drift is pushing himself up on the tips of his pedes and Ratchet can do nothing else except hold his breath as Drift leans in, pressing plush lipplates against his cheek in a soft kiss. It’s chaste but that doesn’t stop warmth blooming all over his frame, spreading from the curve of his face to the length of his neck down to his shaky knees. This time, there’s no hiding the flustered look on his face as Ratchet swallows heavily.
"There." Drift draws back with a gentle smile. His EM field bathes Ratchet in waves of gratitude / appreciation / wonder. “Thanks for patching me up, doc. I’ll see you later at Swerve’s. My treat.”
Just like that, he turns on his heel and walks away from where Ratchet is still pressed up against the dispenser for support, hips and aft swaying with an easy swagger. Ratchet stares after Drift until the swordsmech exits the medbay and the doors close, leaving him all alone in the clinic space.
Slowly, like a full system reboot, Ratchet takes in a deep in-vent and sets the energon cube down on the nearest surface, just before he lets his shaky legs slide him down to the floor.
He can still see Drift’s smile in his processor.
Can still remember the exact shade of light blue of his optics, looking at Ratchet with something indescribable, can still hear the low drop of his voice around the syllables of Ratchet’s name.
Can still feel his lips on his cheek, warm and unfairly soft.
Even after all of that, his spark squeezes in its chamber with a deep, longing ache that has Ratchet reaching up and pressing the flat of his palm against his chest to soothe it. His field flares, all desperate yearning and greed for more, the way it hadn’t for millennia.
“Frag me.” Ratchet closes his optics shut, helm falling into his hands as he groans in despair. “I think I’m in love with him.”