Chapter Text
Something shifts after Delphi.
Between him and Drift, specifically, not just speaking of Ratchet’s general existence – although something about that changes too, now that his hands aren’t failing him at every turn and reminding him of the fact that no matter how good he is as a medic, he is just as helpless about the slow deterioration of all things in the end, himself included. There is only so much one can save before it is inevitably taken away, too.
(Pharma’s hands feel odd in his frame, no matter that they’ve now been painted red to match the rest of Ratchet’s colors. Physically, they’ve integrated well with the rest of his system, are in tiptop shape, and do not cause any medical issues whatsoever. Ratchet had monitored it himself. First Aid had double-checked and Ambulon had, unnecessarily, triple-checked.
Mentally, Ratchet knows it’s a little more complicated. It’s not easy to forget all the instances his hands have locked up and betrayed him. He keeps startling out of recharge with his entire frame tense and his vents cycling short bursts of air, hands stiff and frozen by his sides until he remembers that they work perfectly fine now.
It’s not the sort of thing he expects himself to subconsciously obsess over and frankly, it’s more than a little embarrassing given that Ratchet has gone into millennia of war and dragged himself back out of it mostly intact, surviving blaster fire, enemy torture, corrosive alien materials, and Primus knows what other horrors with little else but his wits and a fragging wrench.
His hands being uncooperative from old age shouldn’t even make the list of his nightmares.)
But yes.
He and Drift.
Drift and…him.
There’s something there.
Despite their long running, complicated history, Drift has held Ratchet with the same respectful distant regard as he does the rest of the crew for the most part of their expedition on the Lost Light, keeping him at arm’s length. The only one who’d really gotten close enough to him was Rodimus. Ratchet chalks that up to their mutual love of stupid, reckless ideas – riding the same idiot wavelength, if you will.
But after Delphi, it’s like something flicked a switch in Drift.
Or rather, like Drift has decided on something.
There is something softer and lighter in their banters now. Something a little less guarded and a little more personal in the way Drift grins and laughs at Ratchet’s sarcasm. Drift’s optics linger longer on Ratchet these days, meeting his gaze and holding it, and looking at him long after Ratchet has glanced away.
There are – touches, now. Accidental shoulder bumps as they walk side by side and small, fleeting grazes of their elbows and arms when Drift sits too close, and a particular instance last week where Drift put a gentle hand on the curve of Ratchet’s lower back, fingers dancing lightly just above his hip as Drift ushers him inside the room for an officer’s meeting with Rodimus and Ultra Magnus. Ratchet had vented sharply at the touch and held his breath for so long even after Drift pulled away that it made him dizzy.
It doesn’t help that Drift is absolutely, painfully genuine about it. Ratchet had a sneaking suspicion that Drift had been messing with him at first, but there is nothing teasing or malicious radiating in Drift’s field when he does this, nothing to suggest that he’s actively trying to fluster Rachet for kicks or to humiliate him. If anything, Drift’s EM field bathes Ratchet in such constant warmth and comfort every time they so much as stand next to each other within reaching distance that any and all protests Ratchet may have about Drift touching him promptly dies in his throat.
So, this is how it is now. Drift has decided that Ratchet is somehow worth keeping around in his inner bubble, worth spending time with and sharing laughter with, and worth all the fond looks and gentle physical affection that Drift apparently likes to give to people he’s close to.
An insanely gorgeous speedster with a spark of gold and a brilliant smile has decided he’s worth the attention and now Ratchet just has to deal with it. Fragging A.
It's driving Ratchet up the wall and into a bad case of processor malfunction.
I need some proper recharge, Ratchet thinks with a scowl, grunting when the oil stain on the scalpel fights him stubbornly. He runs the cleaning fabric over the spot again with more force. Or maybe a drink or two.
His thoughts echo loudly in the silence of the empty medbay. Usually, there’d be a couple of idiots by now coming in with a deep scratch, or a processor ache from one too many engex shots, or some sort of dislocated joint but Ratchet’s shift has been quiet so far. He’d busied himself with paperwork and filing earlier to pass the boredom and ignore the thoughts haunting him, and has since moved on to deep cleaning the tools. To be fair, Ratchet’s far from bored but the distraction isn’t exactly getting rid of the voice in his head nagging him about Drift.
Drift, with his sudden openness towards Ratchet.
Drift, with his field of warmth and contentment whenever Ratchet comes close.
Drift, with his bright blue optics, and his fanged smile, and his fingers flitting across Ratchet’s lower back—
Ratchet scowls deeper. He ignores the flutter in his chassis, shutting down the thoughts abruptly, and scrubs the scalpel even harder.
“What did the scalpel do to you?”
Ratchet’s head snaps up. The scalpel slides through the fabric and out of his tight grip, jamming its sharp edge in between the seams of a finger. “Son of a glitch—,” Ratchet curses, hissing, and jerks his hand back in reflex. The scalpel drops to the floor with a metallic clink.
“Oh slag, Ratch.” There’s a series of hasty pede-steps coming towards him and because Primus hates Ratchet just as much as Ratchet hates him, he looks up to find none other than Drift crossing the medbay to reach his side. “Are you okay?” Drift asks, all traces of his earlier teasing gone. He reaches for Ratchet’s hand with concerned wide optics. “Can I see?”
“It’s fine, kid, just a scratch,” Ratchet says gruffly before either of them can survey the damage. Nevertheless, he brings his hand in between them and allows Drift to look at his finger as he does. The smallest bead of energon leaks from a cut on the protoform underneath. Ratchet wipes it away at once. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
Drift relaxes visibly. He huffs a short sigh. “We should still put a patch on it,” he says with a determined nod, beelining to get the nearest first aid kit and then coming back to drag Ratchet towards a medberth by the elbow.
“What for?” Ratchet protests. He resolutely doesn’t dig his heels and struggle like a sparkling. “Self-repair will close it in no time!”
Drift raises an optic ridge. He guides Ratchet to sit on the edge of berth like Ratchet is some kind of decrepit fossil, and Ratchet grimaces. He may be older than most mechs on the ship but he’s not that old. “Aren’t you the one always shouting about the dangers of rust infections and inflammations?” Drift reminds and takes a seat next to him.
Ratchet rolls his optics. “That lecture doesn’t apply to me.”
“Oh?” Drift quips. The teasing lilt in his voice is back. He opens the kit to take out an antiseptic mesh, a small patch, and some nanite gel before Ratchet can do it himself. “You got some kind of immunity against infections and inflammations I don’t know about?”
“It’s called handwashing,” Ratchet bites back, and Drift laughs. Ratchet pushes down the flutter of his spark at the sound. He narrows his optics. “And what were you doing sneaking around anyway? You scared the slag out of me.”
Drift has the decency to look contrite at the very least. “Sorry,” he says, reaching for Ratchet’s hand again, and Ratchet lets him do what he wants with minimal grumbling. Drift’s fingers are warm where they curl around his hand. It’s pleasant. Grounding. Not that Ratchet will admit to any of it.
“Thought I’d pay you a visit on my break. I saw you when the medbay doors opened,” Drift continues, carefully cleaning the cut with the antiseptic before applying the nanite gel. “And I stood there by the doorway for a while. I thought you realized I was there even when you were occupied.”
“Damn sword ninja,” Ratchet mutters.
Drift smiles, glancing up at him shyly. It’s fragging cute. Ratchet scowls again. “Sorry,” Drift repeats, and then jokes, “I’ll make sure to stomp my way over next time so you hear me loud and clear.”
“That, or I should put a collar with a bell on you,” Ratchet says.
Drift ducks his head at that, flushing a little, much to Ratchet’s confusion. “I – ah, like the furry pets that humans have?”
“Cats.”
“Hmm.”
Drift clears away the medicine and closes the kit. Then, with the same gentle carefulness, he places the patch over the wound and around Ratchet’s finger. When his fingers slide away from Ratchet’s palm, a creeping coldness takes over in the absence of his warm touch. Ratchet dutifully ignores it.
“Thanks,” Ratchet grunts, moving to get up, but Drift tugs him back down into sitting with a chant of wait, wait, wait around a grin that promises nothing but trouble. Ratchet scowls. “What now?”
“I’m not done.” Drift informs him primly. “There’s this thing I learned that’s supposed to help the healing process.”
Ratchet doesn’t hesitate to glare. “I’m not putting up with any spiritual mumbo jumbo, kid.”
Drift shakes his head. “Nothing like that.”
He pulls Ratchet’s hand in between them again, palm open to reveal the patched finger and then taps lightly near the wound. “Pain, pain, go away, just come back another day,” Drift recites with a ridiculous, silly grin that threatens to pull on Ratchet’s mouth too, and then before Ratchet can process what he’s doing, Drift is lowering his face to hover over Ratchet’s hand.
The soft, warm press of lipplates against his finger makes Ratchet’s vents hitch. It leaves behind a tingling sensation, a phantom bloom of warmth that refuses to be forgotten. Ratchet’s spark aches. He watches as Drift draws back with bright optics and a small, pleased smile, and finds that he can’t look away.
“There,” Drift whispers softly. His words hang between them, floating in the air. Some other emotion enters his EM field, fragile and small – Ratchet can’t focus enough to pinpoint what it is. “Humans kiss wounds to make them better, don’t they? I’ve seen that somewhere. Figured it won’t hurt to try.”
Ratchet nods tightly. “Right,” he says, and leaves it at that.
Silence falls around them as they gaze at each other, Drift open and tender, Ratchet in search for answers to questions he doesn’t quite know how to ask. Their hands remain touching in the space between their frames. Hesitantly, Ratchet moves his thumb in a slow, careful brush over Drift’s palm.
The action makes Drift swallow. Ratchet’s optics dart to his throat.
“Drift—”
“Ratchet—”
“Ratchee~eet, I’m here for my shift!” The medbay doors slide open, and in bursts First Aid with his singsong voice, breaking the stifling quiet. Ratchet and Drift jump apart as Ratchet’s attention jerks toward the other medic. In a flash, Drift stumbles up and away from the berth where Ratchet is, the barest flickers of embarrassment crossing his expression, and effectively takes his warm touch with him.
“Oh!” First Aid stops his happy entrance as he finally notices the ship’s third-in-command. He waves. “Hi, Drift!”
“Hey.” Drift waves back awkwardly, heading for the doors. “I was just leaving.”
“Sure!” First Aid nods. His visor slides to the medical kit next to Ratchet. “Is everything okay?”
It takes a couple of tries before Ratchet’s vocalizer works again. “Everything’s fine,” he says. If his voice comes out hoarser than usual, no one points it out. He stands to meet First Aid in order to officially turn over his shift and give instructions when Drift clears his throat.
Both medics turn to the doorway where the third-in-command is.
“I’ll be going now,” Drift says, shifting his weight from pede to pede, a hopeful look on his face. “I’ll see you at Swerve’s later?”
With a slow blink (and a pointed glance from First Aid), Ratchet realizes Drift is talking to him.
He nods dumbly. “Sure, kid.”
Drift’s expression positively brightens. He smiles, finials perking up, as if Ratchet’s answer is the best thing he’s heard all day. It’s adorable as all slag. Ratchet hates it. “Okay. See you, Ratch.”
Ratchet watches the medbay doors close behind Drift and hears his steps echo lightly in the corridors outside. His hand can still feel ghosts of warm fingers and lips. Next to him, First Aid hums.
“You have a date.”
Ratchet barely snaps out of his daze to scowl down at his apprentice. He can feel heat building on his face. “It’s not a date. And it’s none of your damn business.” He marches towards the filing shelves, intent to teach First Aid a thing or two about the organization system, and shoves any and all thoughts of gorgeous speedsters out of his processor. “Now get your aft over here.”
“Okay, okay.” First Aid follows, but not before he bends to pick something off the ground. “Uh, why is there a scalpel on the floor?”
This time, Ratchet is helpless to the flush that takes over his cheeks. His hand tingles again and his spark clenches at the memory. Ratchet reaches for the stupid knife with a groan. “Give me that.”
It’s going to be a long day.