Chapter Text
— Chapter 4 —
“Should we — you know, get him out? Like a — a jailbreak.”
Ratchet stared at Drift. “What? No! Of course not! Drift, you were literally horrified to learn he was desecrating graves, and now you want to — what, flout the law?”
“No, I suppose not, not when you put it that way. Just — as a fellow ex-‘con, I can’t help but feel for him a little, you know?”
With their return visit to Switchback’s showroom very much canceled, the next course of action was to tie up a few loose ends and get the hell off the planet. Ratchet needed on-frame storage, and according to Drift he also needed a new set of pistols, and as luck would have it, Moldavite VI’s capital settlement did, indeed, host a single licensed retailer who dealt both in weapons and subspace containment. It was a bit of a walk, but the weather was cooperating, and in lieu of driving Ratchet was keen to stretch his rebuilt legs.
It was as they traversed the mostly-deserted business district that the topic of Switchback’s detainment had come back up. It wasn’t that Ratchet didn’t like breaking rules — in fact, it was a favorite pastime of his, dating back to his early days at the Academy. Running his charity clinic had been a considerable legal risk, nevermind that whole heist business with the fake Matrix. As much as the itch to break the law lingered, though, now wasn’t the time. The last thing either of them needed was to be recognized, especially not by anyone they would consider unfriendly.
“Here’s the thing,” Ratchet said as he struggled to keep up with Drift’s long strides, “we want to attract as little attention to ourselves as possible. We want to — no perilous adventures, right?”
“Right.”
“I know it’s foolish of me to even think we can have any sort of peace, war or no, but let’s not — let’s not go out of our way to make it harder, yeah?”
Drift vented a sigh. “No, no, I get it. We’ll stay out of it. In any case — surely he can make bail — if they even do that here — and leave the system.”
“And, what? Go on to steal more corpses?”
“To be fair, Ratchet, I paid him enough to never have to work another day in his life.”
–
The good weather held. It was a small miracle, and Drift considered it a sign: they would depart Moldavite VI unscathed, set their course for another outpost or two, and then attempt to make contact with the Lost Light. Ratchet didn’t seem to be in any hurry to reconvene with the rest of the crew, and the more Drift thought about it, the more sense it made: if anything, life onboard the Lost Light had put Ratchet in harm’s way more than he’d ever been before. In a supposedly postwar existence, there seemed to be an awful lot of forces that wanted him dead, and all things considered, the danger Ratchet had experienced since reuniting with Drift had been far more manageable.
Drift couldn’t fault him for wanting to stay marginally safer.
Together they rolled in to the docking yard. Their shuttle was coated in a fine layer of gray-green dust, and beneath one wing was a sizable stack of crates.
Ratchet changed shape first. “What’s all that?”
“Oh, that,” said Drift as he unfolded into his root mode, “is some stuff I had delivered.”
Ratchet eyed him carefully. “Stuff? Care to elaborate?”
Drift inspected one of the crates. “Sure. This is an airbrush and pigment set — you know, so I can paint us.” He pushed the crate aside and scrutinized the label on another. “There’s more fuel in this one. Mostly medical-grade rations in case we end up doing something extremely stupid and getting stuck somewhere.”
“And the third crate?”
Drift smirked. “That one’s fun stuff. We’ll open it later. Let’s load it all up and get out of here.”
–
“We’re out of the planet’s gravitational pull. I’ll take over, Ratchet. Go recharge.”
Ratchet swiveled in the pilot’s chair. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing at all.” Drift set a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder and toyed with the tire set into his armor, then murmured, “Your aura does exhibit signs of exhaustion though.”
Drift expected Ratchet to argue, but instead he stood and relinquished the seat. “Fine . Please don’t crash us into anything.”
“I’ll try not to. Have a good nap.” From the corner of his optic, Drift watched Ratchet trudge to the recharge slab, where he laid down and plugged the power cable into a socket on his waist. Drift felt his mouth curve into a fond smile before he settled into the pilot’s chair and turned his attention to the shuttle’s navicomputer. Moldavite VI was behind them now, a pale, greenish-gray dot shrinking into the blackness of space. It was times like these that Drift was forcefully reminded of just how vast and empty the universe was. The word insignificant almost came to mind, but then he remembered their war, and how it had touched and torched every planet and civilization within its ever-extending reach.
Drift’s thoughts meandered to the previous four million years and the unspeakable things he’d done as Deadlock, both for the Decepticon cause and for his own depraved whims. He wondered how many had died at his hands, or by his command. He wondered if he could ever be forgiven — by Ratchet, by the Autobots, by Primus himself. He wondered, still, if he was trying too hard, and if he was fooling himself now, with the hope that he could ever lead a pleasant postwar existence with the very individual whose actions had given him a second chance — which he had in turn squandered and used to kill for an ideology he’d not fully understood.
He knew Ratchet blamed himself for that, as much as it hurt for Drift to admit. It was a terrible truth that seemed to singe Drift’s circuitry whenever he dwelled upon it for too long: had Ratchet not saved his life in Rodion’s Dead End, Deadlock and all the horrors he’d committed would never have come to be.
But, thought Drift, had Ratchet not saved his life, then they wouldn’t be doing this, whatever this was. He knew what he wanted it to be. And he was pretty sure he knew what Ratchet wanted it to be, as well.
Drift stole a glance in the direction of the recharge slab and was relieved to see that Ratchet’s optics were dark: he was offline in a much-needed sleep cycle. It was a sight that made Drift’s spark feel inexplicably full, and truly, it was what Ratchet deserved: after four million years’ worth of trauma and endless caring for everyone else around him, Ratchet had the right to rest. Drift vowed to protect that right for as long as he lived.
He loved Ratchet. Deeply so.
It was a sentiment that Drift could hardly admit to himself. He couldn’t speak the word aloud, not even to an empty room. It made him feel vulnerable in a way he’d never felt before, and he wondered if he was delusional to think he was worthy of reciprocal love.
Ratchet had yet to use the term, and while Drift was of the belief that actions spoke louder than words, and while he knew that Ratchet cared very deeply for him, he still longed and ached to hear it. He was certain he would — though, with their luck, Ratchet would likely utter it before they were slaughtered in a spectacular fashion by some unknown adversary.
Drift thought of how life had been onboard the Lost Light before he’d been exiled — he remembered the constant, suffocating feeling of impending doom pressing in from all sides, and how precious and fragile their very existence had been. He understood Ratchet’s reluctance. Their war had nearly destroyed the tradition of the conjunx ritus — what was the point of loving another when a guaranteed death was looming just around the corner? Why forge close bonds when the average Cybertronian lifespan was reduced to mere hours, days at best?
Drift wondered, suddenly, how many relationships he’d single-handedly terminated.
He turned his attention back to the flight array. There was nowhere in particular they needed to be, at least not any time soon, so he set the shuttle on autopilot and rose from his chair. Drift wished the sole recharge slab was large enough for them to share, but it could barely accommodate Ratchet’s blocky frame. Drift dragged a few supply crates next to where Ratchet lay, took a seat, and was simply content to be next to him, to bask in his warmth, and to feel Ratchet’s EM field caress his unpainted armor.
–
Ratchet watched Drift work with a focused precision he’d not expected. How the individual he had first met as a convulsing addict — who had then proceeded to become a remarkably violent warrior who killed with little finesse — could now possess the skill, patience, and attention to detail that a new paint job warranted was beyond Ratchet’s comprehension. Perhaps Drift’s acceptance of Spectralist meditation and discipline had its uses, after all.
“You want — you want to match. Seriously?”
“Yeah? I mean, we don’t have to match-match. Just — you know. The motifs, the colors. It’d be — it’d look nice, is all. We’d look nice together.”
“There are some pretty far-reaching implications that concern color coordinating, Drift.”
Drift glanced up from Ratchet’s knee plate and set the airbrush aside. “I know. Both standard implications and Spectralist implications apply.”
Ratchet reset his vocalizer. “Spectralist implications aside, since I don’t know them — we reconvene with the Lost Light. We’re matching. It’ll be — it would be pretty damn obvious.”
“Yes?”
“Drift, we haven’t even —” Ratchet paused, tried again. “People will talk.”
“Let them.” Drift stared at Ratchet. “Unless — are you ashamed? Are you suggesting that a famous Autobot ex-CMO doesn’t belong with a high-profile ex-’con like me?”
Ratchet felt his spark nearly jump into his throat at that accusation. “What? No! Absolutely not, that isn’t it at all, and you know it! It’s just — if two people do the whole — the matching thing. If they do that, that’s, you know, a very symbolic gesture. That’s not just commitment. That’s conjunx endura territory. It’s beyond that, even.”
“Yes, exactly!”
“— which, well. We aren’t there yet, kid. We might never be.”
“Right, and why the hell not? I’m ready to take that step, I know you aren’t, but — Ratchet, please. I get it. I get your — your reluctance. But if we do this — you know, match, whatever — consider it a promise that we’ll make it happen.”
“Right, but what if — Drift, it’s dangerous. If we did go through with it — the conjunx ritus — if one of us were to —”
“Don’t even go there. I won’t let it happen.”
Ratchet studied Drift’s new, pristine, and still off-white armor and finally said, “Drift, I keep thinking about — dammit. What about Rodimus?”
“What about him?”
“That’s what I’m asking you!”
“How many times —?” Drift dragged a hand down his face. “Ratchet, he’s my friend.”
“A friend with benefits,” Ratchet corrected.
“Okay, right, fine, we were screwing — that’s past tense, by the way — but you already knew that, and…” Drift’s voice trailed off. He retrieved the airbrush and went back to work applying medic-red paint to Ratchet’s knee plating. “Anyway, I’m sure he’s moved on.”
“If by moved on, you mean he’s —” Ratchet stopped himself. It was a low road to take. Surely, he shouldn’t. He couldn’t. But the closeness their captain had seemingly forged with Megatron couldn’t be ignored. Ratchet wondered if, in his absence from the Lost Light , their dynamics had evolved. He wondered if, upon Drift’s return, Rodimus’ odd love-hate relationship with Megatron would change. It wasn’t Ratchet’s business, but it would certainly become Drift’s business, and soon.
“What?”
“It’s nothing,” said Ratchet. “I just know he’ll be happy to see you.”
“And? I’ll be happy to see him too, I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess?”
Drift sighed. “Look, to be completely honest, I’m still feeling a little raw that he didn’t turn the Lost Light around to retrieve me, you know? Let alone — let alone try to reach out to me in any way. But — it doesn’t — ugh. Anyway, that’s not the issue at hand, and you know it! We’re not gonna — do you think we’re gonna clang as soon as we lay optics on one another? Because that’s not happening.”
“Drift…”
“You do realize he knows exactly how I feel about you.”
Ratchet felt an odd heat wash over his frame. He desperately wanted to attribute it to his circuitry still syncing with his upgraded armor, but in his spark he knew that wasn’t the case. “You’ve — you’ve spoken to him about me.”
“Of course I have,” said Drift, and his tone was quieter. He kept his gaze leveled on the coat of paint he was applying and murmured, “We’ve talked about you since — since before we left for the quest. He knows more than anyone else how much I care for you.”
Ratchet cringed. His spark cringed. He replayed all of his and Rodimus’ previous interactions in his head, studying them all in a newfound light. Ratchet had put his name on the list against Rodimus’ return to captaincy in the crisis vote. He’d criticized Rodimus following Brainstorm’s trial, and had left the Lost Light shortly thereafter. Ratchet felt his frame sag. “Damn it, Drift. Now I just feel bad about chewing him out as much as I did.”
But Drift smiled. “Don’t. I’m sure some of it was warranted.”
“That may be the case, but…” Ratchet’s voice trailed off, and then he looked at Drift, really looked at him. “Matching paint jobs it is, then.”
–
With a steady hand Drift applied black paint to the plating on his forearm. Just as he had with Ratchet, once this coat was dry, he would seal it with a layer of clear enamel for extra durability and shine. He hazarded a glance toward the pilot’s chair, where Ratchet sat studying a datapad. His new paint job was complete, and just as Ratchet had requested, his helm was now white with a red chevron — the opposite of what it had been, casting away any lingering resemblance to Pharma. Drift felt his engine give a low rev. Ratchet looked good. Drift only hoped he himself would look nearly as good when he was finished. “I’ll need your help soon,” Drift called. “I’ve gotten almost everything I can reach.”
Ratchet didn’t glance up from what he was reading. “Let me guess, most of what you can’t reach is directly between your legs. Nice try.”
“Don’t be silly. Though if you do want to help me paint my panels I won’t stop you.”
“I was impressed you kept it together when you were painting mine, to be honest.”
“I can be professional,” Drift huffed. “I’m usually professional. You have a — a way of making me less professional.”
Ratchet finally climbed out of the pilot’s seat and approached the recharge slab where Drift was set up. “Yeah, well, the same can be said for you, kid.” Drift felt the heat of Ratchet’s stare. “Black thighs. Nice.”
“Thought you’d appreciate it,” Drift purred. “Imagine them wrapped around your —”
“Do you want my help or not?” Ratchet asked. “Because if you keep that up, I will, without hesitation, trash all the work you’ve done.”
–
Space was an endless expanse around them. It didn’t seem to bother Ratchet, but it put Drift on edge more than he was willing to acknowledge. He’d mapped out a course for their next stop, though it would be a while before they arrived, so Drift did whatever he could to occupy himself in the meantime. He read — he polished his already-spotless armor — he recharged.
It was as he awoke from a rather deep and rejuvenating sleep cycle that he felt the prickling charge of another presence close by. Drift immediately recognized the energy signature; he onlined his optics and was greeted with the sight of Ratchet looming over him, his expression showing equal parts arousal and affection. Drift cleared his vocalizer with a cough of static. “Hey there.”
“Hey.”
Drift smirked. “You been staring at me for a while?”
“From afar,” admitted Ratchet. “Heard you booting up. You’re — Drift, I can’t stop looking at you.”
Drift unplugged the charging cable from the socket on his waist and propped himself up on his elbows, letting his legs fall open as he did so. “Yeah? You can touch, too, you know.”
Ratchet drew closer but hesitated. “Don’t want to scratch up that beautiful paint job.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I guess that just means you can’t touch me on the outside.” With those words, Drift heard Ratchet’s cooling system cycle on in a quiet, breathy whirr. He pushed himself up to a seated position, spread his legs wider, then murmured, “Or I can touch myself and you can watch.”
Ratchet’s fans rattled a step higher. “That would be — yeah.”
“You would like that,” Drift purred. He reached between his thighs and gently traced the seams on his pelvic armor, not in any hurry to get his newly-painted plating scuffed up, either. Drift popped the panel that protected his valve and made a show of biting his bottom lip as he circled his opening with a finger. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Ratchet took a seat on the stack of utility crates alongside the recharge slab, his optics not leaving Drift or the activity between his thighs. “Show me how wet you can get.”
There was something about the request that made Drift’s fuel pump race. It was unusually lewd, and Drift wondered what else Ratchet had in mind. He ran two digits up and down the slit of his array, locked his gaze with Ratchet, and asked, “And?”
Ratchet’s engine gave a low rev. “I want —” He reset his vocalizer. “I just want to watch. We’ll see where we go from there.”
Drift leered. “Choose Your Own Adventure, starring Ratchet of Vaporex. Nice.”
“Nope, you’re the star,” Ratchet said, “and I’m just — just an observer who may have a request or two. Lay back down.”
Drift did as he was told. He kept his thighs spread to an obscene degree and slowly worked two fingers in and out of the heat of his valve. He was getting wet, but Drift knew he could do better. He clenched around his fingers, then relaxed his internal mechanisms and added a third. It was a satisfying stretch on the opening of his array and as the inner walls of his valve oozed lubricant, the slide of his digits in and out became easier. Drift rocked his hips upward to meet the shallow thrust of his fingers. From this angle, he couldn’t penetrate himself as deeply as he would have liked, but he could feel the fluid seeping from his valve, displaced every time he sunk his digits into his array. He was making a mess, and judging by the crescendoing hum of Ratchet’s fans, it was an enticing sight.
Beside Drift, Ratchet watched hungrily. “I want to see if you can overload on — just by using your imagination.”
“I can — I can imagine quite a bit, but —”
“Take your fingers out and hold yourself open.”
Drift reluctantly withdrew his lubricant-slicked fingers from his valve, then brought his other hand down to the junction of his thighs. He moved his digits along his messy array, then spread his valve from both sides. The cold air of the shuttle swept over his soaked, stretched opening and Drift heard himself moan. His valve was primed and wet but achingly empty, and Ratchet was so near, near enough for the Drift to feel the heat rolling off his armor.
“How much,” asked Ratchet, his voice hoarse, “did you fantasize about me, as Deadlock?”
Drift bit back a groan as he jerked his hips upward. “Primus, Ratchet. So much.”
“Think about one of those fantasies,” Ratchet murmured. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You look — and I can’t believe I’m using this word, kid — you look divine.”
The praise made Drift dizzy, and his fans kicked up another notch in a desperate attempt to draw cool air into his systems. He switched off his optics, cycled the inner components of his array down on nothing, and felt a trickle of lubricant dribble from his open, empty valve.
As a Decepticon, Drift had fantasized about Ratchet often, and it took him a moment to isolate the precise recollection he wanted to re-live. He found a memory millions of years old, from long before he’d cornered Ratchet in that freezing cell on Mettzann IV. Deadlock had been stuck on a solo stakeout on a rugged and barren alien planet, a world tilted on its axis and cloaked in perpetual twilight. The constant torment of the dark solitude had been too much for him to handle; to distract himself Deadlock had taken to thinking about the past, about Rodion, about Ratchet. He’d set his sniper rifle aside, braced himself against the cover of a rocky edifice, and popped his panels, imagining Ratchet in his Dead End clinic. He’d always meant to pay a return visit to thank him, but life — and the Decepticon calling — had come fast. Still, Deadlock had clung to that fantasy: surely, Ratchet would have said yes to such a proposition. And surely, Ratchet would have guided him to a medical slab, and laid him out on it, and gently coaxed his array open.
Deadlock had never been one for sentimental exchanges, but this particular fantasy was perverse in its stark contrast to his usual fare, all affection and softness, and he’d screwed his fingers, chasing the daydream of Ratchet being kind and caring and compassionate — spiking him slowly, reverently, adoringly. It wasn’t something Deadlock deserved, and he knew that, but it was a tenderness he’d desperately craved.
On the recharge slab, Drift humped at the air, his fingers still holding his valve open, the actuators in his thighs trembling as his hips jerked. He could feel lubricant puddling beneath his aft, felt the walls of his valve start to spasm, and he was close, so close. Ratchet’s EM field scraped over his shivering frame in a possessive, lustful pull, then Ratchet’s mouth was next to Drift’s audial, his lips ghosting over the metal, and he whispered, “Overload.”
With a strangled moan, Drift tipped over the edge, the calipers of his valve clamping down on nothing, pushing forth another gush of lubricant that spattered against his inner thighs. Not a moment later, Ratchet’s hands were gently smoothing over Drift’s breastplate, his ribstruts, his pelvic span, and then three talented fingers thrust into his twitching, sopping valve, plunging deeper and deeper yet, and Drift came again.
Drift rebooted his vision as he settled on the recharge slab, strutless and debauched, his fans wailing. “That was —”
Ratchet leaned down and captured Drift’s lips in a soft kiss, then pulled back and said, “It was delightful.”
“Don’t you want to —?” Drift pulled Ratchet’s hand from his array, and his spark skipped a beat when he saw their white digits intertwined, coated in a sheen of lubricant. “Crank your sensory input all the way up.”
“Already is,” Ratchet murmured, then he gasped as his index finger was enveloped by the wet heat of Drift’s lips. “You’re wicked.”
Drift licked a stripe along the length of Ratchet’s digit, tasting the tang of his own fluids, then sucked the finger into his mouth. ‹‹ You like it. ››
Ratchet’s fans rattled. “Not denying it. You gonna — hhh — tell me what you were thinking about?”
Drift sucked in a second digit and snaked his tongue between them. ‹‹ It was after Garrus-2 fell. I was sent off-world to keep tabs on an Autobot command bunker that was being constructed. I was isolated and lonely and unfulfilled, so instead of doing my job, I’d fantasize about you. ››
“Let me guess,” Ratchet said, his voice laden with static as he pushed a third finger into Drift’s mouth, “you imagined yourself fucking me through the floor.”
‹‹ On the contrary, ›› and Drift smirked around Ratchet’s digits, ‹‹ I just wanted to be loved. ››
–
Drift stared at his reflection. In one hand, he held a pneumatic pigment gun tipped with a needle, and in the other, a small mirror. Tattooing his face had seemed like a simple enough task, but it required a steadier, more focused presence of mind, even more so than what had been necessary for painting his and Ratchet’s retooled armor. Still, it was an undertaking that Drift was determined to complete on his own. The pigment gun buzzed back to life and with a wince, he pressed its needle to his face.
Behind him, Ratchet said, “What exactly happened at Crystal City, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I feel like you’d judge me for it,” Drift confessed, and he was careful not to emote too strongly as he spoke. “Like — like you’d think less of me.”
“At this point, it would take one hell of a heinous act for me to do that.”
“This was pretty heinous, in my opinion.” Drift vented a sigh and continued to apply the slash of red pigment into his dermal plating. “I’ll preface this all by saying — there’s a small handful of people to whom I owe my life. You’re one of them, and of that group, you’re the last one who’s still alive.”
“I don’t like the implications of that.”
“Me neither,” said Drift. “And I guess that’s to say, two of those people were Dai Atlas and Wing.”
“Wing? As in — that was his name. Just — Wing.”
“Yeah. Might’ve been short for something, but I never thought to ask.” Drift peered at his reflection. “He rescued me after I crash-landed on Theophany, because I’d — surely you’ve heard this part before, Ratchet: I’d royally fucked up and I’d hacked off Turmoil. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was my final campaign as a Decepticon.”
“Were you hurt when you crashed? Was that when the Circle of Light’s medics fixed you up and took out the —”
“No,” said Drift, “it was after — after I did something incredibly selfish and was nearly killed as a result. Wing rescued me and brought me in and had me repaired, and in doing so violated the laws of Crystal City. After that I was — well, by Dai Atlas’ decree, I was essentially Wing’s prisoner, to tell you the truth. He was tasked with looking after me and making sure I didn’t do anything treacherous. He also took extreme measures in an attempt to refine my methods of combat.”
Behind his own reflection, Drift saw Ratchet looking rather unimpressed. “How nice of both of them.”
“Wing’s training helped me become who I am today, and Dai Atlas had his reasons. I was a Decepticon with a reputation and he sure as hell didn’t trust me. He had no reason to, and I went on to demonstrate exactly why I wasn’t entitled to his trust: I sold them out — all of them, all of Crystal City — in exchange for the promise of my own freedom. And yet they still stood by me and accepted me as one of their own, and even Dai Atlas fought alongside me when the time came. It was something I didn’t deserve.” Drift examined the red zigzag on his face, tracing over it with his forefinger from beneath his optic to the corner of his mouth, then moved on to his other cheek to begin the somewhat-painful tattoo process all over again. “Among those killed in that battle, Wing was one of them. It was entirely my fault.”
“Your Great Sword, you said that was his.”
“Yeah. Dai Atlas entrusted it to me after Wing died. And now Dai Atlas is dead, and…” Drift set down the pigment gun and turned to look at Ratchet. “There are similarities, you know — between Dai Atlas and you.”
“Right, because a believer of the Guiding Hand — a religious cultist with utopian dreams — has so much in common with me.”
“Belief systems aside,” Drift amended, “he was, like you — stern and resolute. Set in his ways yet willing to see the good in someone who was lost in life. You both saved me when I clearly didn’t deserve it.”
“So these facial markings — and the red chevron on your helm that mimics mine — is that all to say this is a form of self-flagellation to, what, punish yourself for the poor choices you’ve made?”
Drift felt himself smile. With his dermal plating still raw from the pigment he’d injected into it, the movement stung. “I mean, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m certainly not punishing myself. It serves more as a reminder of those who have put their faith and their trust in me, and how far I still have to go.”
–
Time passed.
“I think,” said Drift, “I’m ready to open up for you.”
“Here? On this — this tiny shuttle? In the cargo hold?”
“Can’t think of a better time or place.”
Ratchet stared at Drift, felt his own spark spinning fast within its casing. “I’m not — I can’t show you —” He cleared his vocalizer in a cough of static and tried again. “I can’t do that yet. I hope you understand why.”
A very small smile graced Drift’s dark face. “I know. I understand. Doesn’t make me want to do it any less.”
Sitting cross-legged on the deck, Ratchet beckoned Drift closer until he was settled in his lap, the plating of his chest flush with Ratchet’s own. He’d seen Drift’s spark before, more than once, but those few occasions had been in a medical setting: strictly professional, and certainly not permeated with the context and implications they currently shared in the darkness of their shuttle’s cargo hold.
In their very first meeting, in his Dead End clinic, Ratchet had stabilized Drift’s spark as he’d raced against the clock to save him from the brink of burnout. Over four million years later, that gulf of time filled with endless war and uncountable deaths and incomprehensible suffering, Ratchet watched as Drift’s breastplate shifted, the paneling folding aside, and he squinted into the sheer intensity of the pale-blue light that shone forth. For a moment, Ratchet couldn’t look; it didn’t seem right, or even proper. Instead he tugged Drift into a kiss and turned off his vision, though the afterimage of Drift’s sparklight still dazzled his optical sensors. Drift’s lips melded against his own, and Ratchet opened his mouth, granting Drift entry, and their kiss deepened, and Ratchet felt the searing pull of Drift’s spark as it burned against his plating.
Drift broke away from the kiss and murmured, “Ratchet, I want you to see.”
Hesitantly Ratchet rebooted his vision — again, that otherworldly glow nearly made his optics glitch — but then one of Drift’s hands was guiding his own to the edge of his spark casing, and Ratchet touched the hot, humming metal there, felt the scar where the material had been removed to fabricate Deadlock’s Decepticon badge, and an odd, stifled sob escaped Ratchet’s throat. Drift’s soul was bared to him, beautiful and ugly all at once, still burning bright despite a lifetime of torment, and Ratchet almost, almost said those three words —
But then Drift was kissing him again, with a ferocity that bordered on frantic, and Ratchet clung to him tightly, his only anchor in the close quarters of a tiny shuttle swallowed by the vastness of empty space.
–
“We could try and make contact, or we could take one more detour.”
“I’m not in any hurry to put ourselves in what’s sure to be mortal peril.”
From his place in the pilot’s chair, Drift grinned. “Another diversion it is.”
– THE END –