Chapter Text
Word of Ratchet's unofficial removal from his “trine” spread fast– Whirl was a gossip who couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Everyone walked on eggshells around him. No one ever brought it up, but he couldn't feel their curiosity and concern in their hot gazes, the tones of their voices.
He thought that he would feel better if he ended things.
But he was just as miserable as before.
The habsuit was empty, cold. It still smelled like the couple– and he felt sick calling them that– the bed was too wide, the two empty cubes in the sink that Ratchet couldn't bring himself to clean. Parts of a life Ratchet had tried and failed to fit into. He couldn't stand it.
He spent a lot of his time in the med bay. The walls of the were familiar. The rhythm of diagnosis and treatment gave him something to hold onto when his thoughts threatened to drag him under.
The rest of his time was spent at Swerve's.
The high grade numbed his systems in a way that almost made him happy.
This is exactly what he was doing when a familiar presence sat himself in his neighboring stool.
“Ratchet.” the bulky mech greeted him.
“Magnus.” Ratchet returned.
Ultra Magnus nodded at the acknowledgment, “Ratchet, may we converse?"
Ratchet stared down at his drink, he was buzzed but not nearly as overcharged as he'd like to be. He dragged his gaze towards the larger mech, “Of course, Magnus. What is it?”
"I have been," Magnus began, then stopped, his jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, like he was chewing on the words before releasing them, "I have been concerned.”
Ratchet arched a brow ridge.
“Whirl informed me of what happened.” Said Ultra Magnus, and Ratchet caught a glimpse of the rowdy ex-wrecker on the other side of the bar, yellow optic poking out to watch them from inside the booth that he, Cyclonus and Tailgate were no doubt sharing. “And he wanted me to come check on you.”
Whirl's optic flickered, caught, and he ducked back down behind Cyclonus, feigning interest in whatever Tailgate was chattering about.
Ratchet sighed, “That’s… sweet of him. I think.”
“Don't let him hear you say that…”
“Look, Magnus, I'm fine.” Ratchet reassured his friend and commanding officer, “Whatever happened, it'll pass.”
“Will it?”
Ratchet stared at him for a long moment, “It will.” He said, quietly, “It has to.”
Ultra Magnus's jaw tightened. He ordered a cube of high grade, low-grade, actually, Ratchet noticed, because Ultra Magnus had never been one for losing control, and sat with it cradled in his massive servos, not drinking.
“Whirl said you've been sleeping in Megatron's habsuite.”
Ratchet sputtered, “It was ONE time- How does Whirl even know that-”
“Whirl cares about you. In his own... unconventional way.” Ultra Magnus's optics flickered toward the booth where the copter in question was now very obviously not looking at them, his entire frame vibrating with the effort of pretending disinterest, “As do I.”
Ratchet chuckled, “Well, thank you. But really, I'm fine. There's no need to worry about me.”
Ultra Magnus watched him for a moment, before nodding, “I understand. Take care, Ratchet. You may not believe it, but there are many mecha aboard this ship that care for you deeply.”
Ratchet hummed as the larger mech said his farewells, downing another cube of high grade.
The halls were empty on his walk back to his habsuit. The medic swayed on his pedes, too overcharged to feel his limbs beneath him and too sober to numb the pain, it took him 6 tries to key his way into the habsuit, and he stumbled his way to the kitchen, where he is barely able to make it in time to empty his tanks into the sink.
He watched the acid sludge swirl down the drain slowly, the sludge clung to the sides of the drain, thick and acrid, before finally sliding out of sight. Ratchet stood there, one hand braced against the counter, the other still gripping the edge of the sink, vents heaving.
His tanks were empty.
His spark was emptier.
Two cubes still sat in the sink, pushed to the side to make room for him to heav up his dinner, and Ratchet stared at them like they were evidence of a crime he couldn't remember committing. Drift's cube. Rodimus's cube. Left there from the night they'd spent together while Ratchet was busy getting shit faced at Swerve's.
He should clean them.
He should clean a lot of things.
Instead, he turned on the solvent and watched the last traces of his dinner wash down the drain. The sound was loud in the empty habsuite.
He should do something other than stand here in the dark, drowning in memories of a relationship that had been dying long before he'd admitted it.
His comm buzzed.
Ratchet didn't look at it.
It buzzed again. Then again. Then a message appeared in his peripheral vision, and despite every instinct screaming at him to ignore it, he didn't.
Drift: I know you're ignoring me. I don't blame you. I just need to know you're okay.
A burning started deep in Ratchet's chassis. He deleted the comm.
Drift: Please. Just one word. Just tell me you're alive.
Delete.
Drift: I'm outside.
Ratchet gave pause.
He stared at the message, at those two words, at the implications of them. Outside. Outside the habsuite. Standing in the corridor, probably, less than twenty feet away.
He felt sick.
Stabilizers weak, he slid to the floor until he sat knees to chassis against the kitchen counter.
Drift: I can hear you moving around. I know you're awake. Please, Ratchet. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm just asking to see you.
Ratchet's servos trembled.
Megatron paused as the comm came in.
Ratchet: I need you.
The message sat on Megatron's comm for exactly three seconds before he was on his feet.
The corridors were empty at this hour, the late cycle, that strange limbo between the last of the night owls powering down and the earliest of the early risers booting up. Megatron's pedes echoed against the metal flooring, too loud, too fast, but he didn't slow.
The walk to Ratchet's habsuite took less than three kliks. It felt like vorns.
Megatron rounded the corner and stopped.
Drift was there, standing outside the door, one hand pressed against the metal like he could feel Ratchet through it. His frame was drawn in tight, plating clamped down, field pulled so close to his chassis that Megatron could barely feel him from ten feet away.
“Drift.”
The swordsman's helm jerked up, sad blue optics meeting his scarlet. “Megatron-”
“You shouldn't be here.”
Drift's hand fell from the door. His frame seemed to collapse inward, shoulders hunching, field flickering with something that might have been shame or grief or both.
“I know,” he said. His voice was raw, scraped clean of its usual warmth, “I know I shouldn't. I just-” He looked at the door again, at the blank metal that separated him from his conjunx, “He won't answer my comms. He won't let me explain. I don't know what else to do.”
Megatron's optics narrowed, “He asked for space.”
Drift shook his head. “I can't just- I can't leave him alone like this.”
“He's not alone.”
The words landed like a punch.
Drift's optics widened. His field flared, pain, anger, jealousy, all tangled together in a knot so tight Megatron couldn't untangle them.
“Go back to your habsuite, Drift.” Megatron said quietly, “He's not ready to see you. Pushing will only make it worse.”
Drift looked at the door again, at the blank metal, at the mech he couldn't reach on the other side.
“Tell him I'm sorry,” he said. “I know it doesn't matter. I know it doesn't change anything. But tell him I'm sorry.”
Megatron inclined his helm.
Drift turned and walked away, his pedes heavy against the flooring, his frame shrinking with every step until the corridor swallowed him whole.
Megatron watched him go.
Then he turned to the door and keyed in the code Ratchet had given him in place of their captain.