Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He wakes up a bit cold, which is odd, since he is Rodimus Prime.

The sheets around him are tussled, but he doesn't remember the nightmare he probably had, so all's well. Well, not all, he is still a little bit cold, even under the warm solvent shower he loves to take in the morning. It does help though, and he must spend longer than usual scrubbing at his plating because he’s already twenty minutes late when he gets out. Not that he tends to get to work on time, but he usually likes to have some time to go and annoy Drift or Ratchet on their respective shifts, since they start earlier than him, morning birds that they are.

He definitely doesn't have enough time now. Frag it, and he thought he'd managed to make himself a routine!

He skids down the hallways at a reasonable Rodimus pace, meaning he is bordering the line between running full sprint and having to turn into alt mode. He doesn't really care about being late, save for avoiding a lecture from Magnus, but today he has a sort of tingling, intense urgency pulling him from his lonely hab.

He does find Magnus once he enters the command center, and the former enforcer gives him a long sigh (but no comment) before curtly telling him what he needed to do for the cycle. Mainly checking coordinates for the nearby future with the team in charge of that, filling in some confirmation for the recent lower level restauration, and -miracle!- discussing the monthly report for the medbay sector with the medic in charge of inventory.

Which meant Ratchet.

Rodimus keeps a very composed and captainly figure from the outside, but a mini-Rod is pumping his fist Inside his helm. He mock salutes Magnus before booking it to get to his first task of the day.

Now contrary to popular belief, Rodimus is not a slacker, he just has a more chaotic way to work than most. Which means that after roughly planning the coordinates, he gets anxious about the state of the engine room, so he goes there. The engine room is fine. Then, screw paperwork, he goes to the lower levels himself to check the repairs and new stuff with the mechs themselves, which he finds is much more straightforward, but then he also remembers he has to find guys to fix the fragged up plumbing in the habsuites of the fourth floor, so he spends a big part of the day doing that (there is a severe lack of plumbers on the ship) but then Brainstorm called him and Megatron about an "accident" down in the lab, and after all that, he got really, really late for his medbay rendez-vous. By this time Ratchet had finished his shift.

He'd looked forward to the opportunity to talk with Ratchet, maybe accompany him to his and Drift's hab and share a drink with them. The tingling feeling had worsened throughout the day, making him jumpy and making his plating tremble slightly. He just knew being with them would soothe him a bit, calm him down.

They always did that, even if unconsciously. Wether they were with him at Swerve’s, or they were spending some time just the three of them, their presence felt safe by now.

Even after they came back to the ship, Rodimus had thought that his friendships with the both of them had been killed and buried by his own servos. He'd been a terrible, egotistical mess of an amica to Drift, and a very poor support to Ratchet, and now he had to remain lonely because he didn't deserve them.

Drift had snatched him back pretty quickly though. He'd… taken a while to apologize to him, truly apologize. Some part of him thought he didn't deserve to be forgiven, and no excuses would make that better. But it did make Drift feel better, so Rodimus ended up happy to do it. Even if it took more than a few glasses of strong engex and a lot of coolant shed into the wall of a maintenance level closet, chassis to chassis with one of the only spark that had ever felt like home, to get it out. Drift forgave him, because Drift loves him too much for his own good, but from that point the tense atmosphere in their interactions slowly faded away.

And against all odds, things got better with the former CMO too! Turned out that apologising got easier once you got started, so he went to Ratchet spoiler down and optics teary, prepared to get the verbal beating of his life. Ratchet sat him down and declared, firmly, that there would be no extorting time, affection and attention from Drift anymore. That there would be no more jabs about Drift's past, no more reckless endangering of both of them, and overall no more funny business, else Rodimus would be painfully taken apart and given to Brainstorm for experimentation. Rodimus just nodded eagerly through all of that, Ratchet sighed, and they were somewhat good.

Now, several months after all that, he'd gotten to the point that discussions with Ratchet were no longer filled with reproaches but a lot more pleasant. Rodimus was just glad to have his old war buddy back. He'd missed reading the filth out of mechs with the medic, the mech was the best in that domain by far.

But anyway. Right now he was cold, Driftless, Ratchetless, and two seconds away from cuddling up to the reactors in the engine rooms for warmth. In fact, he might go do exactly that after talking with First Aid, ‘cause cuddling did sound pretty good right now.

Entering the medbay (very bright after so long in the lower levels, hurts his optics, ouchie), he comes face to mask with First Aid, who seems preoccupied with a stock of energon samples, or whatever the pink stuff is. Once Rodimus takes a few steps in, the medic lifts his helm and gives him a wave.

"Hey, Captain. Ratchet is waiting in the back, he wanted to do inventory with you." He says, returning his attention to the little pink vials.

"Okay, thanks Aid !" the red speedster beams.

As he goes to get to Ratchet, he feels a hand catch his shoulder plating. "Huh, just so you know, Ratchet is really salty about having to stay after shift. Stay safe!"

Rodimus gulps, gathers himself and peeks behind a wall to the back of the medbay, where First Aid pointed. Ratchet is sat next to a desk, a small pile of datapads messily strewn upon the surface. He spots Rodimus as soon as he appears, glare ready and fixed on the captain, who gives a cocksure smile and puts a hand on his hip. Ratchet groans.

"Sit your aft down before I whoop it! I Don't have time for your slag."

Rodimus drops the smile and goes to sit meekly on the seat in front of Ratchet, who just humphs, but makes no further comments about his time. The inventory goes pretty fast, as both of them are eager to get to their hab and call this a day. The proximity to the medic though, makes Rodimus feel a lot more comfortable than earlier this morning, and as they wrap up the last item update, he feels slightly disappointed that it has to end.

"So that's it. You better give a damn good report to Magnus tomorrow, because I did not stay almost an hour after my shift to explain the same shit to you the next day."

"Yeah, yeah, no worries Ratch. The report's gonna be squeaky clean." Rodimus smiles.

"It better."

Ratchet stands up, and Rodimus goes to do the same, but the medic halts him with an open palm. He suddenly looks a little mischievious, and the captain begins to wonder if he would have prefered to do this with First Aid instead.

"When was your last checkup ?" the ambulance asks, coy.

"Uh-"

"Don't bother, two vorns ago."

Rodimus tries to think back to the last time he'd voluntarily went to medbay, but his mind comes out blank. Ratchet must be correct then, but the truth is that seeing a medic made him anxious after everything he'd put his frame through. He also knew, rationally, that he has unhealthy habits. He drank too much engex, he slept too little and he ate too little. Medics never liked seeing that in their medbay.

Ratchet pulls a few adaptators from one of the compartments of the desk, and pulls his chair over to sit right in front of Rodimus. He can feel the mech's field, this close. Neutral, tired, but warm. Rodimus stays put. He couldn't escape even if he wanted to anyway, he was way too familiar with Ratchet’s wrench throwing skills.

"Already stayed late, might as well do something interesting while I'm at it", he explains. "Wrist port."

Rodimus hands over his arm so that Ratchet can plug in, docile and honestly too tired out by the cold to act bratty like usual. The medic pulls out his own cable from a higher part on his own arm, and begins to roam about in Rodimus' coding, searching for anything out of the norm. Ratchet always likes to begin with the code part of a general checkup, before he goes on to check on vitals, charge, fuel levels and whatnot. Rodimus can feel him fleeting through different parts of his deep wiring, tossing regular coding aside and treading lightly, like fingers barely ghosting along plating, towards the regular anomalies. His sole presence makes Rodimus feel sleepy, the reassuring touch in him almost tangible. He drops his helm, optics closing and venting slowing down. Ratchet lets him with a fond ping to his principal system, continuing his thorough analysis.

Rodimus is halfway on his way to recharge when he feels Ratchet stall against a specific part of his social coding, compartimenting the lines themselves and taking more time to read the specifics. He severs the connection before unplugging, using another warm servo to straighten Rodimus on his chair.

"Feel cold ?" Ratchet asks, seemingly a bit irritated. Rodimus takes a while before realizing he's talking about the cold he's felt since the morning, ebbed away as it is.

"How'd you-" he slurs.

"Because your social protocols are clawing at the wall for physical contact." Ratchet crosses his arms. "Don't think you're the first stubborn speedster I'm dealing with. I'm guessing you've been anxious ? Hypereactive ? Recharging poorly ? Damnit, Rodimus, when that happens, you come to me. Or Drift at least, if you don't trust-"

"Hey, hey, hey !" Rodimus startles and puts a servo on Ratchet's knee. "I trust you, Ratch', I just didn't know that was what was going on !"

"I doubt that. That's the most common social coding syndrome amongst speedsters, and you're not exactly known for you stellar self maintenance skills." Ratchet snarks.

Rodimus lets out a frustrated vent. "Well, I haven't really had a shortage of contact until now, Ratchet."

Not in Nyon when he'd slept around for warmth, not amongst the autobots when Arcee and Springer slept beside him for warmth, and not before Overlord when he had Drift all to himself. Ratchet seems to go through the same thought process, and sighs again, taking Rodimus' hand from his knee, but keeping his hold on him, rubbing circles in the pit of his palm. Rodimus suddenly feels really tired.

Ratchet seems to examine the speedster in front of him with a lot more concern than what was originally present in his expression. "Okay." he says, and hauls Rodimus up to a standing position, making him lean against his pauldron. The contact is divine. "You're coming back to our hab. I've alreadly commed Drift."

"You don't have to."

"I know damn well, that's why I'm doing it. Come on."

The way back to the habsuite is nothing noteworthy, save for the solid touch of Ratchet's frame against him. He knows that Ratchet is strong and, although they're the same height, way more blocky than Rodimus. He's so nice to lean against, Rodimus barely registers the corridors as they pass through them, or the mechs that duck their helms when Ratchet fixes them with his signature glare. He loves Ratchet’s glare though, so powerful. Ratchet’s optics in general are pretty, but that’s a given, because the mech himself is handsome. Sexiest medic on cyberton, yessir, Rodimus hums to himself.

The time they take to get to the front of the couple's habsuite is at the same time too long and barely noticeable.

"Drift, open the hab for us please, I've got a handful."

Rodimus is so, so tired, but the faceplate that greets them when the hab door opens is one he still greets with energy, swaying from Ratchet's arms to Drift's with an appreciative squeak. Drift lets out a surprised laugh as the weight of his amica drops on him, but he holds onto him, strong as ever. He takes the time to kiss Ratchet on the cheek before half carrying Rodimus towards the berth in the corner of the hab, the one Rodimus has admired countless times and that is more than capable of handling three frames, with room to spare. Drift lays Rodimus down in the middle of it, covering him with one of the stray blankets lying around, before pulling away. Rodimus, hazy, tries to reach out for him, but another frame settles at his back, carefully lowering the speedster's arm to a resting position.

"He's just going to get us some energon. Code glitch or not, you won't be skipping it." Ratchet explains.

Rodimus doesn't even have the time to nod off, Drift comes back with a plate carrying three full cubes with shiny additives almost immediately. He settles on the other side of him, and hands the plate to Ratchet while he drags Rodimus up so that he's in a position to drink, back against the wall and thighs laying under the blanket still. He drinks it pretty quickly, bracketed between his two favorite people and truly warm for the first time since this morning. Drift had intently tangled their legs together, and Ratchet’s thick legs are resting on the other side of him. He's a little bit fuller than he's used to after finishing, but it doesn't bring him discomfort like he expected. He notices the energon is heated as well, and the detail makes his spark soar in chest and his field light up with affection. Drift chuckles, always more sensitive than most to the fields of others, before coaxing Rodimus into a horizontal position once more, careful not to jostle his drooping spoiler.

The position is incredibly nice. His back is pressed against Ratchet's middle, and his head is cushioned nicely on Drift's impressive thigh. He lets out a soft little sigh of comfort, nuzzling further against the both of them. Ratchet visibly holds back a little laugh.

"Are my hugs that great Roddy ?" Drift teases, finials relaxed in fondness. "They must be if you become sick when you don't get your daily dose."

"Fragger didn’t know the symptoms of cuddle sickness, apparently." Ratchet supplies.

Rodimus perks up at that. "Is that the real name ? Cuddle sickness ?"

"Unofficial." Drift explains, rubbing at Rodimus shoulder plating, in a nice spot he can’t reach himself. "Though I’m suprised you didn’t know about it. It was pretty common in Rodion."

Rodimus shrugs."Speedsters weren’t exacltly lacking contact in Nyon."

Drift gives and understanding nod while Ratchet hums in thought. "It’s not an exactly well known disease either. Functionism and slag stunted research a lot when we first started getting interested."

Rodimus grumbles out a vague noise of aknowledgement while Ratchet, who'd long since finished his cube, slides back down under the cover and closer to Rodimus, the speedster's back now to his chassis. He wraps his arms around his waist, holding him with just the right amount of firmness. Rodimus just about melts, cheek squashed against Drift's thigh and optics closed in bliss.

Drift takes out a datapad from the nighstand and manually dims the light, before turning to his conjunx. "You're not gonna read before bed, Ratty ?" he asks.

Ratchet shakes his head. "Long shift. Whirl managed to dislocate about every strut in his body today, and then I had to wait for this sick idiot" he lightly slaps Rodimus' thigh under the cover, who mumbles a muffled protest in Drift's plating. "to decide to honor his schedule. And when that was done I had to drag his aft all the way down here."

"Aww, Roddy. So indelicate making Ratchet carry you." Drift scolds, injecting enough humour into his tone that Rodimus wants to get up and pull his finials.

"Didn't carry me. I w'lked." Rodimus replies, petulant.

Ratchet barks out a laugh.

"I did! Y're just old!"

Drift tuts, and Ratchet keeps laughing. Rodimus clearly wants to project annoyance in his field but it falters with undiluted fatigue.

"Well now your punishment is to stay here and warm his old mech struts mmkay ?"

"How terrible." Ratchet comments. "Make sure to warm Drift as well, you know the sneaky bastard is barely younger than me."

Rodimus makes a tiny approval noise before aggressively burrowing himself into the blanket, optics furrowed as he apparently decides he wants to sleep here and now. The former CMO smiles at the display, before looking up expectantly at his conjunx, who leans down to give him a slow, chaste kiss on the lips.

Once the separate, Ratchet slots his face into the back of the red speedsters neck cables, readjusting his hold on Rodimus' waist before relaxing and closing his optics himself. Drift waits a moment to see if they're settled before turning on the datapad and beginning where he left off last time. It's a classic coming of age story, nothing too grand but still an interesting read. While he goes through the page, his servo comes to stroke, absentmindedly, at the space between Rodimus' crown and cheekguard.

A low, happy purr rises up from the depths of his amica's engine. It is a comfortable sound.

Chapter Text

The corridors are dark, dirty, unlike the way he's left them just yesterday night before going to berth.

The hallways of the Lost Light are well lit, usually, and never unoccupied. They're clean, too, most of the time. Those hallways seem to extend forever, and there are large dark stains on the Walls - dried energon. He knows what it looks like, familiar and sick.

He wobbles further down the path. It seems unique, no other ways to his right or left, just one long line to an unknown destination. Almost leading him on, almost pushing him. Drift can't look at himself, his helm won't bend down, but he knows he must be injured, because he hears the tell tale drip-drip-drip sound of energon leaking out of him and crashing against the dented floors beneath.

His spark spins erratically in it's chamber, punching against it's chassis like something wild and dangerous. He doesn't know what happened here. A few hours ago, he was watching a bad holo on the couch with Ratchet, and Rodimus. Then he slept. His conjunx and amica are nowhere near, and he's alone, and something terrible went down. Something he doesn't know about.

He can hear himself vent.

The air is hot, almost suffocating, although the corridors look strangely cold and humid, like they've been forgotten for a long time. His fans battle against the heat with a furious, constant roar, but he can't sit down, can't rest. He knows farther ahead there's something he has to see.

His sluggish steps bring him to a door, eventually. He recognizes it as the door to the command room, where the captain chair sits, where Rodimus sits. He needs to find Rodimus, ask him what's going on. The door opens on it's own, and he despairs at the emptiness of it. It is lifeless, the boards are spitting static, screen glitched out and dysfunctional. Through the large bay at the very front, he doesn't see stars. The sky is pitch black. Empty.

His spark shots up to his throat. He runs up to the captain's chair, empty, but covered in deep, jagged marks and paint transfers that speak of a struggle. The floor under his pedes is sticky and wet. He knows it's energon. He knows it's fresh. Something attacked them.

There is a rattle behind him. As he turns, he is faced with something formless. It's tall, lanky and fluid, gazeous and at the same time not, completely dark, like a gouged part of space. A void. It's not alive, Drift's processor tells him, alarmed as can be.

The thing wastes no time before jumping on him, quicker than any mech he'd ever faced. It doesn't touch him, though, doesn't hurt him, just wraps it's limbs around him and holds him, pushing what must be it's void of a face into Drift's. He doesn't wait to see if it'll pounce again. This thing took the ship, he knows it, it took it's crew, it's at fault. It's speared by both of Drift's swords in an instant, seizing in surprise, but it does not budge.

The thing takes a giant hand to hold the back of Drift's neck cables, claws digging deep into them, short of puncturing major lines but drawing blood still. It looks ravenous. And suddenly, it's not void anymore. It's Ratchet. His face is grey, optics lifeless and staring straight into Drift's. The swordsman chokes on a yell, trying to stagger back, but the thing only laughs. It's Ratchet's laugh.

And then it's not Ratchet, but Rodimus. Dead, but angry. Angry at him. And then Wing. Megatron. The crew, one by one. Forgotten decepticon comrades. Tarn, the insigna, the damn insigna, occupying his entire field of vision.

"Want to see what you did ?" The Cause says, removing Drift's swords from it's abdomen in a gesture that's full of disdain, standing so much taller than him.

It drags his limp frame to another room Drift doesn't recognise. It's well lit. The stench of energon there hits him violently, it makes him want to purge, yet nothing comes out.

There are lifeless bodies strewn across the floor, all of them grey and still leaking bright pink blood. It's all across the room, pooling in sickening swirling patterns and slowly spreading like a fragged up painting, like one of Rodimus' abstract doodles. Rodimus' corpse is laying not two steps from him. His arms are dislocated, looking like they belong to a broken doll, like they've been violently pulled, and pink streams steadily from deep stab wounds  in his core and from his gaping mouth and broken nose ridge. Ratchet is laying next to him. His throat cables are slit in a clean line, and his helm dangles, showcasing exposed sensitive wiring, and rests on the floor. The both of them are colorless, long since killed.

"Look." The Cause pushes him, and Drift falls to his knees. He can't look away.

There are other bodies farther, some he recognises and some he doesn't. But he can't look away from his conjunx, from his amica. The look on Ratchet's face is one of surpise and horror, of betrayal. He looks angry, and he never looks at Drift like that but he can feel those dark optics stare into him. Rodimus' hand is fastened around Ratchet's wrist, he notices as his fuel pump gives another violent lurch. He held onto him while he died. He must have bled out slowly, too.

"Look!" The Cause urges, again, in it's gravely, dead voice, and suddenly Drift can look at himself.

He's not injured. His servos are dripping, full of innermost energon, torn out from the crew laying forth. They don't tremble, they're steady and deliberate, they’re remorseless. Ready to do it all over again.

He imagines, then, what he did. Woke up next to the most important people in his life, silently walked to the corner of the room where he keeps his swords, unsheathed them, and coldly took Ratchet’s life, just like that. Rodimus would have probably woken up, fought back, negociated, and then he’d ended him too.

After that, the rest of the crew would just have been fair game.

As he looks above his hands, to the deep pool of energon that’s coming out of Rodimus’ punctured  middle and Ratchet’s severed neck, he sees the light of his reflection coming right back at him.

Deadlock doesn’t see anything salvageable.

------------------

He springs up from his spot on the berth, vents wide open and cycling air at a furious pace. Coolant is beading down his helm crest to his optics, blurring his already tear field vision. The purring of two powerful engines fills the room, alive.

That’s his habsuite. The walls are decorated with his favorite crystals and the holo they’d put on pause to go recharge is still waiting on the screen in the corner of the room. There is no dried energon on the wall. He tries to unclench his fists and finds he can’t, his processor is still running too fast, blasting him with clear images of corpses and guilt.

Looking down at his right, Rodimus is plastered to his side. He’d been assigned obligatory cuddle time by Ratchet to handle his coding problem, and had taken up to it pretty eagerly despite his token protests. His face is peaceful and he’s letting out a very gentle purr that goes right through Drift’s body, warm and reassuring. His plating, thank Primus, is still bright and healthy, not a single dent in sight.

When he looks to his left, he comes face to face with the squinted optics of his conjunx.

Ratchet grumbles and pulls on Drift’s arm to get him to lay down again.  Drift lets out a little sob and presses himself to his conjunx large chassis, wanting to get as close as possible, spark deep if he could. Ratchet smells like cy-gars and sterile equipment, not like filth or energon, and the speedster feels his joints unlock at the proximity. That's the second part of his being, spark still spinning and vents still cycling.

The former CMO reaches down to grab one of Drift’s hands, still closed into fists, and gently starts to coax his fingers into unlocking.

"Nightmare ?" his conjunx asks groggily, though he probably already knows the answer.

Drift nods against the mech’s chassis, finding himself incapable of using his words for now. Ratchet sends wave after wave of reassurances in the conjunx bound and Drift is so, so grateful for him he struggles to express it.  He hopes his field can say as much, though.

"Want to talk about it ? " Ratchet asks hesitantly. "I can wake the idiot up if you want his field too. He wouldn’t mind."

Drift shakes his head. Roddy’s resting field is reassuring enough, pulsing out sleepy signs of activity to mingle with Drift’s own EMF. He clears his throat to try and speak.

"He needs the rest. You know he- mh – he doesn’t sleep if he can help it. "

Ratchet humpfs. "Like I said, he wouldn’t mind. Now answer my first question, you sneaky mech."

Drift sighs, suddenly feeling the nightmare’s weight settle over him. It’s not unusual for him to have nightmares like that, though they’d decreased in frequency ever since he started sharing a bed with Ratchet. But it was still an unfortunately common occurrence. He just wished Deadlock would stop haunting him.

He knew, rationally, that those nightmares didn’t mean anything. That’d he’d worked enough to get rid of this nagging feeling he’d end up in slaughter again. But it inevitably made him doubt. He knows that he's capable of it, that he'd done it before, the killing. He knows, now, how they would both look like if he went through with this unconscious violence. He does not think he could live through it, if he ever hurt them.

"What if I just- snap ? one day. " He gets out curtly, almost choking on his words. "I don’t wanna wake up with you or Roddy’s blood on my hands-"

"You won’t." Ratchet interrupts, voice determined. His hold on Drift tightens, bringing him even closer than before. His optics are bright in the dim light of the room, attracting all attention like the stars Ratchet so likes to look at. It reminds him of the moment they'd decided to perform the rites, when he felt exalted and invincible. 

"You keep saying that, but I-" he grinds his dentae in frustration. "It feels like a reminder, everytime. That I could."

"You won’t. " Ratchet repeats, with emphasis. His optics are fiery. "Right now, you’re incapable of it. You’d rather slit your own throat out than harm me, or him."

They’re turning in circles. Drift thinks back to the sight of their mangled frames, so easily robbed out of life it could happen in an instant. Right now, yesterday, in a week, in a few months if the beast can wait that long. He trembles.

"You can’t trust that a hound won’t ever bite, Ratty." He mourns.

"Not a hound. St’p sayin’ stupid slag, pissin’ me off. " A voice comes up behind him.

Rodimus, apparently unbothered by Drift’s violent awakening but really bothered by his pillow inching away from him, fixes him a serious glare. He’s obviously still half asleep, else he wouldn’t speak with this strong of a Nyonian drawl, but the hold he has on Drift’s shoulder is secure.

"Never killed like one anyway. " He mutters, slotting his head back into Drift’s struts.

"He’s right. You weren’t Deadlock unconsciously, and you didn’t kill uncontrollably. " Ratchet intervenes, leaning over to pat at Rodimus’ helm in approval."You didn’t change spontaneously either so start giving yourself some credit. "

He looks directly at Drift as he speaks to him.

He has to admit they have a point. Drift wasn’t born with murderous habits and he wasn’t a rabid, unhinged killer either. He was organized. And it took a lot of work for it to change but he’d done it. He’d done it.

"Ratch’ says it better. Now hush hush and sleep." Rodimus, apparently quite satisified, drops his helm on Drift’s shoulder and promptly passes out.

Drift can’t help but giggle at that. "Told you he needed recharge."

Ratchet rolls his optics before repositioning the blankets so they’re all covered up and very nice and warm, and Drift nuzzles into him appreciatively, letting out one of the short purrs he usually keeps to himself. The glass of his conjunx windshield feels blessedly cool against his overheated helm, and like that, he can press his head against the autobot insignia. The one he ended up choosing. He can feel the warmth of Rodimus behind him, as well, soothing his back struts like no heat pack ever could. He is calm now, secure.

He feels Ratchet smile in the bond, but still, the medic has something to say.

"Love. If you don’t trust yourself, remember we do, hm ?" Ratchet jostles him a bit like he does when he means to be reassuring. "So trust our judgement."

Drift smiles as well. He’d never thought he’d be that loved, but he should have known by now he wasn’t great at predicting the future.

Chapter Text

In Nyon, most mechs found it normal to wake up hungry. 

Food was less of a need and more of a luxury, really. A checkpoint in a holo game, that you die if you don't reach. Not, ever, something you have to do to stay healthy, because healthy meant "not dead" back there, and certainly not something meant to take pleasure in either. 

And well, the problem was, after Nyon was… terminated, it never really went away, that approach to fueling. Nobody ever batted an optic either, because it was war, and war meant rations, and rations meant that everybody had, in some capacity, developed some unhealthy habits. He knew it was a problem, though! Theoretically. He'd be concerned if he saw this behavior in other mechs, only downing one cube every day (or every other day) and calling it normal. He knew it was probably the reason he often felt faint at the end of his shifts, or why his joints were as cranky as they were even though his age really didn't warrant it.

He just didn't think about it, and that was all. 

So, this morning when he wakes up with a dull sense of hunger in the pit of his fuel tank, he pays no attention to it. Well, maybe a little attention, he thinks as his knees protest when he rises from his very comfy, very 10/10 berth, that he would rather stay in. Forever. He'd have to fuel midshift, probably, if he wanted to be energized enough to deal with the Christmas craze he alledgedly brought on himself, by telling Swerve about it a few years prior.

Unfortunately, no big event of any kind was ever organized, probably because no one on board knew what an actual Christmas celebration entailed and didn't really care that much, but he knew the barman intended to turn his place into a Holiday rom com theatre, and most mechs had planned little gifts for people they liked. It was very cute, and what was even cuter was how the whole crew rallied as one and petitioned Magnus to make the date an official rest day. Faced with such an uproar, Magnus had no choice but to sigh and accept.

He'd still asked that High Command and medics be exempt from the new measure. Rodimus, of course, protested, but then the first Christmas night happened on board and yeah, he had to admit Mags was right on that. He still wondered how the Scavengers all managed to fuse their plating to one another, but he'd seen faaaaaar too much spike when escorting them to the medbay, and then there was Brainstorm, and mistletoegate, and that was a story he wanted to forget if he could. He, horrifically, was forced to empathize with how Magnus might be feeling on a daily basis. 

So yeah, Rodimus had a shift today. But that wasn't too bad, because despite his co-captain and second's best efforts, his shifts still consisted of him trying to be everywhere on the ship at once. He also knew Megatron would take his shift later than him (mainly to avoid the festivities) so he'd have enough time to pass by Swerve's and watch some good human soap opera. 

And maybe deliver the gifts he'd prepared for Ratchet and Drift, too. 

And coincidentally, the first thing on his planning is checking in with Ratchet for today's preparations. Well, not Ratchet, since he's not supposed to be on shift, but Rodimus knows he is. The old fragger likes his medbay prepared on any day, and even more so on a day like this where there will likely be a lot of injuries. So he's checking in with Ratchet!

"Ratch'" he calls as he passes his helm through the medbay door. "Everything good ?"

Ratchet looks up from a datapad he's consulting before scowling. "Oh no you don't! Do your report properly, you lazy bastard!"

"Come on, Ratchet! My inventory report was great last time!" He whines.

"It was mediocre."

"Mediocre ?!"

Beckonned by Ratchet's sweet words, Rodimus comes in and gets to write an amazing amount of things about the shift roster and the inventory for today's cycle in medbay. It's all relatively boring, but Ratchet considers it important, so he writes it down. He already knows it'll be the most complete report he makes today (the only complete one, in fact). When they're finished, Rodimus goes to leave, as he's received an urgent comm from Minimus to go to Megatron's office, but Ratchet tells him he still has something to say.

"Merry Christmas" he grins, dropping what seems like a gelled energon goody in Rodimus' open palm.

"Oh!" that's very kind. He's… kinda touched, really. He's not gonna say that, but still. "Thanks Ratch', I'll eat it midshift-"

"Nope. You eat it here. I want to know you appreciate my gift."

He looks at Ratchet, stunned, and the medic simply smirks at him before gesturing to get on with it with a tilt of his helm. Rodimus awkwardly takes the treat to his mouth, chomping on it. The thin gel wrapping around the energon bursts and sweet supplements fill his mouth, and he has to admit it tastes pretty good. He hadn't had one of those since forever.

Ratchet looks at him with something akin to affection, seemingly satisfied with the face Rodimus is making. 

"Good mech." He says.

Rodimus almost chokes on the remnants of the treats in his mouth, and has to manually shut his vents so that they don't start loudly blasting air in the otherwise pretty silent medbay. Ratchet pays him no mind and slaps a servo on his pauldron, passing by him to get to a drawer on the other side of the room.

"Go back to your shift, I've gotta prepare for the future idiots in my medbay. Oh, and this doesn't count as a meal either, eat up before you work."

Rodimus straightens and mock salutes to cover his embarassment. 

"Yes sir! Ratchet! Ratch'! See you later!"

It's only when he's far from the medbay and well into his next task that Rodimus is hit with the fact that he forgot to give Ratchet his gift. He's going to have to face Ratchet again today then. He considers spending the rest of his cycle with Brainstorm, to heighten his chances of dying.

Actually, it would be really nice to end it right now, he thinks as he wrangles a mech away from a pot of paint. The entirety of Megatron's office door has been repainted in a mix of color that Rodimus can say, as an amateur, is really fragging hideous. Therefore, after neutralizing the mech in question, he spends the next joor repainting it with a much nicer combo. Megs will thank him later.

Maybe he'd actually consider it, talking to Brainstorm about termination, because the Scavengers are apparently throwing a gender reveal party for a baby turbonarwhal with legs (and no gender to speak of) and he wasn't even invited! He takes sick pleasure in turning the lights out at the crucial moment. That'll teach them.

Frag him, he was really starting to understand where Magnus came from, he realizes, turning to the current problem.

"Why are you on top of a tree ?" He yells at Anode, several meters away in the air.

"Why are you ugly ?" She yells back.

When Minimus comms him to report back to the command center to wrap up the morning, he is relieved. It's so hard having to look at all those incredible initiatives and not participating, at least he trusts The Fun Police to not do anything worthwhile. 

When he arrives, Megatron is looking over the console with an even deeper frown than usual, and Minimus is sitted further away, focusing on some datapads. Once the bigger mech notices his arrival, he straightens up.

"Rodimus, there you are. Do you have the reports ?"

He goes to put the datapad he completed in three minutes prior to coming next to the pile Minimus is currently examining, receiving a curt thanks from the green minibot. When he turns back to Megatron, he seems to be listening to a comm, mouth slowly downturning even more. 

"Whirl is wreaking havoc in the lower levels" he explains once he finishes listening, "we need you to go down there and assess the damage."

"Got it." Rodimus sighs despite himself. The respite was way too short.

Before he gets out of the room tough, he pauses, as Megatron is looking at him, seemingly considering something. To Rodimus' great surprise, he opens his mouth to ask:

"Have you fueled today ?"

Rodimus realizes his mouth is gaping only when he takes the time to close it. It's not often the former warlord shows concern, but now that he mentions it, the cramps in the pit of Rodimus' have gotten way worse. With all of today's shenanigans, he'd forgotten the midshift refuel he'd planned. He flashes a little awkward smile at the mech, shrugging.

"Oops."

The tank sighs, pulling out an energon cube out of his subspace and handing it to Rodimus, looking away as he does. It's awfully considerate. He turns to Mims, who's still sitting in the same place he was occupying previously, only now his attention was focused on them, not on the datapads in his servos. The minibot clears his throat before putting down the datapads. 

"We thought that might be the case, so Megatron took a supplemental cube in the mess hall today." He explains, looking a bit embarassed.

"Oh." Rodimus keeps on getting flabbergasted today. "Thank you guys. I forget about it sometimes."

"We know." they said, at the same time, expressions deadpan. Okay, that was a little offensive. 

"Aaaaanyway" he coughed, "what's with Whirl in the lower sectors ?"

The thing with Whirl in the lower sectors is that a helicopter apparently tried to participate in a race with some random speedsters. In corridors that can get so tight they can barely fit two mechs side by side. Whirl, obviously, is injured, as well as the two race cars who's plating ended up a bit shredded on the top, but he looks fully satisfied with himself.

"You know we're gonna put you on repair duty for all the corridors you just trashed, right ?" Rodimus questions as he hauls the blue mech up, while his opponents get taken by the other crewmates that came to help.

"How come ?" Whirl challenges, words slightly obscured by static. "Never saw you cleaning your tire marks, or I would've taken a picture."

"The walls", Rodimus emphasises, "are dented. Your blades" he points to the mentioned limbs "are bent in half. This ain't tire marks, it's a massacre." He rants as he continues dragging Whirl to the medbay. "If you wanna race, wait until I get Mims to agree to a proper track."

Whirl laughs mockingly at that. "Never gonna happen. He's slow as the Pits."

Rodimus tuts. "Never say never. Last time you did that Tailgate slammed you against Swerve's wall."

"Mmhm. How are Drift and Ratchet by the way ?"

Coy little bastard.

"Oh, look, the medbay! Merry Christmas Whirl, see you later!" he says as he throws him to a disgruntled First Aid as the mech cackles. He'd have to apologize to the CMO later, but right now he's too busy booking it. He thinks he hears him distantly yell to fuel up. Huh. Weird.

As he was about to go back to his hab to quickly fetch Drift and Ratchet's gift and deliver them, he receives an alarmed comm from Megatron. 

::Thunderclash is going berserk near Brainstorm's lab because of an experiment. He and Velocity contained him but they need someone to administer an antidote before he hurts himself, you'll get the details from them, I honestly defon't want to deal with Brainstorm right now. I already commed Drift and he's on the case too.::

Great! Just peachy! Now he had to deal with Thunderclash and Brainstorm at the same time! How wonderful! The only saving grace in this was Drift - and Velocity, one of the only trustworthy people on board.

He gets to the lab to see a disheveled Brainstorm and a panicked Velocity juggling different transparent vials in front of Drift, who look wholly displeased to say the least. He brightens up seeing his amica run up to them, though.

"What's happening ?" Rodimus pants upon arrival.

"Brainstorm created a substance that makes people murder happy" Drift answers, tone blank.

"But I made an antidote !" Brainstorm helpfully supplies.

"We. We made it." Velocity corrects.

Apparently, this a joint project that had gone awry for Brainstorm related reasons. Neither the medic or scientist wanted to explain what the original goal was, but they quickly realised it's potential, and Velocity pressured the jet into creating an antidote in case it got in the wrong servos. 

It happened that, just as they were gearing to get rid of it, Thunderclash passed by and offered to help get the materials to the incinerators. Brainstorm then proceeded to dump everything on him, and a vial shattered, triggering a chain reaction that meant the mech was absolutely drenched in the stuff. They'd managed to lock him in one of the lab's containment room before calling for help, but as they explained, Rodimus could hear loud banging against the door. This was oppressive.

"It's not only an antidote, it's also preventive" Velocity explains as she injects the substance into one of Rodimus' lines. "It should spare you the effect."

Drift, noble and ready as ever, stands still as he's subjected to the same treatment. They wait a few minutes before both scientists give them the green light to go and get the giant blue and yellow disgrace. They quickly open the door and find themsleves locked inside in an instant, face to face with a Thunderclash that's scratching at a wall.

He's absolutely covered in a goo-like, translucid substance, and his optics are staticky, flashing dangerously. He hisses at them when he notices their presence. It's so unlike Thunderclash, Rodimus is momentarily shell shocked before snapping out it when he lunges at them, screaming. 

Drift dodges it with expert skill, and Rodimus slides to the side. Thunderclash, loosing his footing, crashes into the door behind them. Rodimus steps away.

::I distract him, you get him from behind:: 

Drift nods in agreement, and they set out to get the perfect position. It takes a bit of time and slightly more exertion than Rodimus' frame is prepared to take. Thunderclash is huge, but he's also fast, throwing himself at him quickly and violently. The place is too narrow for Drift to make his offensive, but then Rodimus places himself in the far corner, so that the entirety of the room is behind Thunderclash, and Drift has ample opportunity. 

Once the madmech gets up close, he flames out in a short burst, while Drift uses the hilt of his sword to hit the back of his head. Thunderclash drops down, but continues to struggle. Rodimus straddles him with the help of Drift until he eventually passes out. 

After having successfully wrangled Thunderclash to a subdued state, Rodimus huffs and pants, looking at Drift, who looks less spent but just as dirty. He distantly hears Drift pass a comm call to Megatron to arrange for transport of Thunderclash. Both of them are covered in the weird transluscent goo, but thankfully the antidote played it's part, because he doesn't feel the slightest bit aggressive. More tired than anything. Drift returns Rodimus' gaze with an amused little vent, before going up to him and taking him by the arm. The touch is comforting even though it doesn't necessarily have to be.

"That was something." he declares. The red speedster guffaws at the understatement, but is a bit relieved that Drift's not as breathless as he is.

"Yeah" he wheezes, leaning a bit of his weight on his friend. "We need a shower. Our shift's over anyway"

Sensing Rodimus' fatigue, Drift hauls him up so that he can rest better on the swordsmech's pauldron, and the captain flashes him a little smile of recognition. 

"Mind if we use the racks at you place ?" Drift inquires as he keeps supporting his amica as they pass through the lab, giving a thumbs up to Velocity and Brainstorm, and into the corridors. "Ratty would kill me if I got that goo on the floor."

"Yeah" he sighs, "no worries. As long as you help me clean up after though."

Drift replies that he will, of course, help clean up, and so they set to get to Rodimus' hab, which is conveniently situated at a strategic point of the ship, so that he can get anywhere in a relatively short amount of time. It's also pretty big, given his status, and currently very, very messy. Which Drift remarks with an exaggerated gasp once they type in the code and get into the main room, which is nothing short of a battlefield. Empty trinkets, painting and carving supplies, and one turned upside down sofa. 

"Why ?" Drift chuckles, pointing at it.

"Needed place to paint. Or something." Rodimus explains, ducking his helm a little. "I was probably drunk though."

"Never gonna let you paint at our place, got it."

Drift knows the layout of his hab like his own subspace, and so directs them there with ease, before sitting Rodimus under the shower head. He turns on the hot solvent and grabs a buffing cloth and then sits beside him, beginning to rub out the glue on his chassis. Rodimus is not feeling too gassed out that he can't reciprocate, and so begins sluggishly wiping at Drift too, getting rid of most of the substance despite his subpar technique.

"Why are you so tired anyway ?" Drift asks after a bit. "It's not exactly late yet."

Rodimus shudders as Drift gets through a particularly sensitive portion of his spoiler, he hadn't scratched that itch in a while. "Don't know. Guess the fight with Thunderclash really washed me out." he mutters, resting his head on his amica's pauldron. 

Drift hums, but doesn't appear convinced. His field is pulsing out little concerned signals at him, keeping him awake. "Did you fuel today ?" He blurts out. It's the same exact way Megatron asked the question, and that gets Rodimus out of his drowsiness fast.

"What's with everyone and refueling today?" he grouses. "It's like you're staging an intervention."

Drift seems kind of embarassed at that, clearing his throat.

"Drift ?"

"There might have been a... common observation that you're not very regular with your refueling ?" He confesses, focusing on scrubbing out Rodimus' thigh. Rodimus doesn't mind having Drift focused on his thigh, but he doesn't mind having privacy either.

"Common observation ?" he repeats, annoyed.

"Tailgate blurted it at Swerve's yesterday, when you went to berth early." Drift admits. "And well, we've all seen it some way or another. Sorry for not telling you."

Rodimus sighs, burrying his helm in his now clean arm. He'd imagined something was up, but he didn't think the whole crew was suddenly aware of his fueling problems. He hated being vulnerable, and he hated feeling pitied. He hated it even more that he wasn't even avoiding fueling on purpose. It just felt secondary to everything else. Drift sends some sympathy through his field. He's smart, and he knows to connect the dots with Nyon. He doesn't comment on it though, he never does unprompted. He's considerate like that, and it makes it even more shitty that before his exile Rodimus had been ready to throw in as many quips about Drift's past as he could think of. He leans further into the mech, sighing. He wouldn't do that again.

"So." Drift starts again. "Did you fuel ?"

Rodimus lifts his helm from his arm, giving him a smartass grin. "You know what, I did actually! Megatron gave me a cube earlier, of all peo-... wait."

He shakes himself from Drift's comforting hold to open his subspace. The cube still sits there, untouched and perfectly sealed. Completely provocative as well. He turns towards his friend, who's fixing him with an unimpressed look. 

"Oopsie ?"

Drift scoffs before getting up and turning the water off. "Let's dry up and feed you after, okay ?" He prompts, offering a hand for Rodimus to take. 

The red speedster does, but when he tries to get up, he's confronted with another problem entirely. His joints are locked, uncooperative. He doesn't feel any pain from them but they won't budge either. 

"Hum. My knees don't work." He splutters, disbelieving. 

"What ?" Drift fretts, dropping down to his own knees to inspect Rodimus', still gleaming with solvant. They appear completely untouched and functional, but he can't, for the life of him, get up or do anything about them.

"They don't look damaged, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had to do with what we just talked about." Drift mutters, stroking his joints carefully. Before Rodimus can give an answer, he slides one arm under them and the other under the captain's back, and easily lifts him up, sending Rodimus' spark in a fast spin. 

"Woah hey!"

Drift grunts, but not in effort. "Yeah, you're light."

That's. Incredibly hot. Rodimus' vents blast open and energon rushes to his faceplates, but Drift has the clemency to not comment on it while he drops his package to go look for towels. He seems a bit too concerned for teasing right now, in fact. He wipes himself down quickly before doing the same for Rodimus, especially careful around the knees and looking very serious (and very kissable- not going there) while he does it. Once finished, he taps on Rodimus' chassis, above where his subspace sits.

"You drink that before we go to Ratty, for your own good."

Rodimus nods sagely and makes quick work of the cube. He was certainly hungry, but again, that's not a feeling he's used to pay much attention to. Drift at least seems relieved once it's empty, and that's very good. That's worth drinking all the cubes in the world, frankly.

"Great, now we can go to medbay." Drift declares in a mostly clipped voice, preparing to carry Rodimus again.

"Wait!" Rodimus holds up his palm. He just remembered! "Can you go get something for me first ? It's a box in the drawer next to my berth. Please."

Drift sighs for what feels like the hundredth time since they met up, but still walks to Rodimus' berthroom to get the item. He returns pretty quickly, obviously curious about what it may contain but in typical Drift fashion, showing a lot of restraint. He hands it to the other speedster, who shakes his head. "It's for you actually."

"Roddy, you really shouldn't have!" exclaims Drift, but he looks obviously excited, and sits down so Rodimus can see when he opens the box. 

The content inside is haphazardly wrapped, hiding a little tablet. When Drift opens it, he's met with an assorment of colors and a brush. "Is that face paint ?" He lifts his helm up. Rodimus is happy to see that his optics are bright, and he's smiling, hard. "That's like- I was running out!"

"I know it's not that much but-"

"Oh shut up." Drift claps the palet back shut and pulls Rodimus into a hug. The position's awkward, but the hug feels good either way. "It's perfect. I love it."

"I'm glad." And he is. Frankly, Rodimus feels really good for someone with effectively no knees.

Drift tilts his helm into his amica's. "I'm sorry, I don't have a gift for you. You know me and Ratchet don't-"

"You shut up!"

They stay together like this for maybe a minute, and then Drift is the first to remember the situation. He carefully puts his gift back into it's box and then in his chassis. Rodimus is once again lifted up into the air with minimal strain, and Drift handles him to the door and then down the corridors to the medbay. Some of the mechs passing by give him a smartass smile, one particularily bold one even whistles at them, and it takes all he has to not wheeze out a laugh when she cowers under Drift's stare. 

Because Rodimus is particularly unlucky, though, the first medic they find with their servos free is Ratchet. He looks unsuprised, and still disappointed. Drift beams at the medic and gives him a little kiss on the cheek, which is particularly awkward with Rodimus still in his arms, before putting him in a sitting position on a medical slab. 

"So, what did you do this time ?" Ratchet grumbles, eyeing him up and down.

"His knees don't work." Drift explains before he can. "He sat down in the washracks and couldn't get up."

"Actually", he interrupts, as Ratchet starts to focus on his knees, and plugs into a medical port on the side of his thigh, "I think I can wiggle them a bit since I've fueled up."

Ratchet harrumphs, irritated. "No wonder. Your lines have started to close in on themselves, to preserve fuel." He unplugs himself before giving him a mean glare. "Idiot."

"It's not like I do it on purpose!" Rodimus defends himself, gesturing with a bit more energy now that he had a cube in him.

Ratchet doesn't dignify that with a response, just pulls out another one of the small treats he gave him this morning. His and Drift's focused optics makes him swallow it up quickly, and Ratchet stands up and goes to take  some of the equipment that's sitting nearby.

"I'll have to manually reopen your main lines." He explains, approaching his chair. "The problem could solve itself with enough fuel and time, but you clearly don't have the latter. It's gonna hurt a bit, I'll give you some numbing agent after." 

Drift, hearing that, sits closer to Rodimus as a distraction, placing a hand at the small of his back. They both watch as Ratchet removes the knee plating to access the dried up lines beneath. Rodimus lets out a hiss when Ratchet pulls the first one open, but the pain is otherwise manageable.

"So, what were you two doing together in a washrack, hm ?" Ratchet prompts after a moment.

"Ugh, it's all Thunderclash's fault." Rodimus groans.

Drift chimes in. "Actually, it's more Brainstorm's fault."

They both launch into a very detailed and long winded explanation on how Brainstorm's new thing got out of containment and blasted Thunderclash with aggressive glue, and how they took him down to get the antidote. Rodimus spends a particularly long time detailing his heroic role in the fight, and Drift in turn describes how gassed out the captain was at the end, and how he had to be carried to the washracks and cleaned up, much to Ratchet's amusement. They both agreed though, that it was a fragging hassle.

"Why do you hate the mech so much anyways ?" Ratchet asks, pulling the last line. Rodimus cocks his head. "Thunderclash. He likes you enough."

"Oh please" Rodimus huffs, "he wants to suck my spike so bad, it's actually embarrassing" he waves noncomittally, leaning back on the medical slab. 

"Well somebody here has to know how to suck spike." Ratchet ponders as he begins to put numbing solvant on his knee joints. 

Rodimus springs up like he's been shocked, looking down at the medic with wide optics. 

"What ? I'm great at sucking spike !" when the ambulance only laughs, he turns to Drift for support. "Drift, tell him I'm great at sucking spike!"

Drift takes the time to school his face with a little mischievious smile before whispering into Ratchet's audial, like a confession. 

Ratchet cackles. "He says you're mediocre."

"Drift!" 

Ratchet makes quick work of solving his joint problems, and by the end he can stand up without much trouble, but he still gets a stern warning about not letting it happen again. While Ratchet sorts his stuff out to wrap up his shift, Rodimus stays with Drift to talk a bit. Mostly they take pleasure in teasing Ratchet about how hot and professionnal he is. Rodimus doesn't feel super at ease yet with this kind of banter, but Ratchet doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he takes it in stride, responding to every remark with a quip of his own while maintaining every bit of efficiency he has. It is objectively very attractive, but Rodimus can't tell himself that, so he doesn't.

Once the ex-CMO is done, they all get out of the medbay in a much lighter atmosphere that when he and Drift got in. He's about to bid them goodbye to go home and tidy up before the night at Swerve's, but Drift catches his arm in his servo. It's a gentle hold. 

"Wait, do you want to eat back at our hab ?" he asks warmly, laugh still fresh in his voice. As he looks back, both of them study him with intent, likely trying to see if he's about to do what they think he'll do or not. "Before going to Swerve."

"And drinking engex on top of a mostly empty tank." Ratchet adds, not unkindly for once. 

"I'll be the one cooking." Drift coos. 

Drift cooks really, really well. His food might be one of the few things he'd be able to eat when not hungry, and well, why would he say no to some time with them ? 

"Okay." He nods, and Drift beams at him and Ratchet smiles, and that's really too unfair. Primus damn him, why were they both like that ? "I just have to go get a little something at my hab before that. I'll be there in a breem." 

"Sounds good, see you then." Drift replies before taking Ratchet arm and leading him towards their shared habsuite. 

"If you're late I'm coming to get you myself!" the medic calls, looking back. 

Rodimus subsequently races to his own habsuite, where the gift is still resting. 

He's quick to get to his hab. It takes alarmingly little time  with sufficient energon in his tanks, more than he's had in a while. And also with good knees, thank you Ratchet. The gift is placed in the same drawer as Drift's one was, and he stupidly hadn't asked his amica to get it when he had the time. He didn't know why he kept forgetting Ratchet's gift today. Maybe he felt like it wasn't that great of a gift.

It was simple, really, just a box of energon sweets. They were peculiar rolls of creamy energon embedded in a thin layer of copper. He's asked and paid a mech on board that was known to make good pastries for them, because he'd remembered Ratchet mentioning he liked them once when they were still at war. He didn't know if he still liked them, but again Ratchet rarely mentioned his tastes. 

He quickly took the small package in hand, not bothering to put it away as he'd immediately give it to it's future owner, and went back, just as fast, to Drift and Ratchet's hab.

He doesn't even have to ping either of them, as he catches the medic in their doorway, apparently on his way to get him. The medic stands aside and motions inside, where Drift is setting up a table for three. He gets in and then, a bit hesitant holds the package in his hand for Ratchet to take. The medic squints a little, but even then he takes it and quickly unwraps his gift.  Drift cranes his neck from where he's standing to look at what Ratchet's holding.

The medic stays silent when he sees the box full of treats, and his face doesn't betray anything either. Rodimus' anxiety begins to rise, thinking maybe he made a mistake. Maybe it's too little, or not specific enough. 

When Ratchet finally rises his helm to give him a look, it's full of something he doesn't recognize. "I did mention I liked these." He breathes, saying it almost like it was a question. Rodimus must be hallucinating the slight pink on his cheeks, though, because the next moment, Ratchet clears his throat and loudly proclaims. "Well thanks, Rodimus. It's nice. You should still sit you aft down and eat though."

He goes to store the treat box in the kitchen section, leaving him alone with Drift who flashes him a sleazy smile. "You made him fluster." He says in a sing song voice. 

"Right. If he flees everytime he's flustered I wonder how you managed to conjunx him." Rodimus answers, looking at his amica cryptically.

"I guess he just succumbed to my peculiar charm." Drift ponders, face serious. 

"Mmmh" Rodimus takes a sip out of the glass of coolant set in front of him, crossing his legs. "I don't see it."

"Like pit you don't." Ratchet grunts as he plops down in front of them, totally not startling Rodimus into an early grave.

It's a little weird eating so soon after getting a whole cube in his systems, but as always, Drift's cooking tastes really nice. He always puts in the right amount of additives to make the texture pleasant and the taste addictive. Rodimus isn't all that bad at cooking, but he doesn't have any idea of how Drift does it. He's pretty sure the mech just has hidden ancestry of energon wizards, and it manifests in his food. Anyways, Rodimus eats without a complaint, which his hosts seem to appreciate if the sneaky peaks he catches them throwing at him are any indication.

It feels good, being cared for like that.

As they talk, he feels himself relaxing. The day, even if it was really fun, had been stressful and emotional as well, so he was happy to rant about all his adventures while Ratchet bemoaned the new creative injuries he had to face today and Drift listed the name of mechs who'd picked a fight with him. Right now, he's in the middle of explaining exactly how he repainted Megatron's door.

"Purple an' bright yellow just do not get along! Especially all blurry and disgusting like that! It was just ugh." he fake gags, putting a dramatic hand on his chest. "Obviously it needed itself a lotta orange and some nice pinks too. Fragger brought a whole aft palet and used a quarter of it, pff." He finishes his story by taking a bite out of the Jelly dessert in his plate, really sweet and rich.

Ratchet and Drift both look at him when he lifts his optics at the sudden silence. They both look fond, but none of them say anything. 

"Do I have something on my face ?" He drawls, half sarcastic and half sincere (one day he'd spent his entire shift with a giant green paint stain on his right optic, and that had been kind of traumatizing).

Drift shakes his head, still smiling, as he puts the plates away. "I just wish you'd use your accent more often. It's pretty."

Rodimus has to manually shut his vents for the second time that day, looking between Drift, who's already on his way to the kitchen, and Ratchet, who doesn't seem to disagree at all. He mutters a small "okay" before getting up to help them with the dishes. Their respective fields are teasing, but warm on his plating.

When they get to Swerve's, they arrive at the exact moment where the hot headed protagonist shares a slobbering kiss with the gritty and mysterious lead. Rodimus settles himself comfortably next to Ratchet and Drift, and already plans on sentencing the few afts who gave pointed looks at their entrance to clean up duty.

Chapter Text

At this rate, Ratchet just thinks the universe is plotting against him, constantly.

An outbreak on board. It happens, it has happened, and with diseases frankly more severe than this one. Not even a virus, or rust, just a little non-organic parasite that messes with venting and slows processing power by a few percents. Nothing Ratchet would usually concern himself with, given the number of things he's seen. The thing took a few days to disappear at most, and left absolutely no complications, especially if you decided to medicate it (though, again, not necessary, this was as nondescript as the common cold humans dealt with). The only annoying thing about it was that it was highly contagious and hindered work, but the same could be said for many worse ilnesses.

Really, it was so benign than when the first case came through in his medbay, he and the other medics agreed that it didn't warrant a lockdown of any kind. The mech in question had just been quarantined to his quarters, and Ratchet hoped it would be the end of it.

It was not the end of it. The ship was, after all, packed full of slobbering, libidinous idiots who could not keep their intakes off of each other in any circumstances.

Nautica, who'd apparently conversed with patient 0 the day prior, came into medbay with damning symptoms a few joors later. From that they had to send Velocity home, for obvious reasons. Then came in Misfire, then Anode and Lug (together because sure, cuddle up when there's an outbreak anounced, go ahead), and then they had reason to anounce a lockdown for all crewmates that were not stationed in crucial maintenance positions.

He'd also commed Drift, and sternly told him to refrain from socializing, by which he meant refrain from rubbing finials with Rodimus. He didn't want to get back to his hab and be met with a biohazard, if he'd even have the chance to get to his hab at all today. Drift told him that he'd planned on meditating until well into the night anyway, so he didn't have to worry. That slightly eased Ratchet's concerns, but he still extended the same curtesy to Rodimus (with an even more stern choice of words), just to be safe. He wasn't sure he was heard at all, because the fool just answered with a cheery 'okie dokie doc!' and cut the call.

The thing was, he was right about not going to be able to rest at all today. The cases just kept coming, and since they were one medic short, the workload was a lot greater than what he expected this morning.

It seemed everyone on ship went through the medbay, the number of cases to report to command was just phenomenal. Whirl, of course, got infected hastily (Ratchet was pretty sure the mech took it as a challenge). Cyclonus and Tailgate followed quickly after. Chromedome and Rewind had the curtesy to signal their probable infection from their hab, which Ratchet appreciated given the state of the medbay. Of the simpatico duo, only one was down as Perceptor had been wise and quarantined himself when the first case had been anounced. Swerve came in suprisingly late, but with a particularly nasty stuttering of vents that First Aid gave him drugs for.

And then, around midshift, comes the final nail in the coffin. They're one co-captain down, and it's not even Rodimus.

Megatron, to his credit, looks a bit sheepish, even if it doesn't really fit his faceplates. His vents have the telltale rattling, and he isn't an absolute icicle to the touch like he usually is. He's definitely not going to be able to work, though.

"Rodimus seems fine." The former warlord answers when Ratchet asks him, "He'll probably make it to the end of his shift. Even then, I'll try to work from my hab if he gets down with it too."

So apparently command was still roughly holding up, with one captain still active and the second operating from his office to avoid contagion. That's one good news at least. The former CMO thinks about comming Drift to ask him how he's doing, but it's pointless if he just stayed home all day long. He has more urgent things to take care of.

That is until Drift turns out to be one of the urgent things to, supporting Rodimus, and being supported in turn through the wide open doors of the medbay. Ratchet can see they're sick before even approaching them. It's a testament to his self control that he doesn't slag them here and there.

"I warned you!" he barks at them, grabbing them both by their collar plating and sitting them on the same medical slab, one that just freed itself. "I'm guessing you just had to give your amica a visit, even though you're the only captain on board, hm, Rodimus ?"

"Frag y-ugh, krrrr- you, I didn't-" he dissolves into a series of staticky coughing. He looks like he's going to fall forward, so Ratchet stabilizes him with a hand on his chassis, before widening his eyes at the temperature.

"I commed him." Drift admits, breathing with difficulty and helm leaned back, optics in a daze. "I think- might have caught it yesterday- maybe."

Ratchet sighs. "Yeah, that was the case for a lot of people. Stand still, and I'll bring you coolant."

When he returns, both speedsters have reclined against the wall and look like they're about to dose off. Their optics brighten a bit at the sight of coolant though, and they hungrily chug the cubes down. He insists they both drink at least two, because given the heat wafting from their plating, their thermoregulation is going absolutely wack. Their symptoms seem way too advanced for a disease of this caliber, he'd understand Drift being like that after one or two days since infection, but Rodimus...

They drink slowly this time, and Ratchet takes the opportunity to ask some questions.

"Megatron said you were fine barely a joor ago" Ratchet says in a low voice, calmer now than before "how come you're like this ?"

Rodimus hums, optics half lidded and coolant begining to bead on his helm crest as he thinks. It's bad, but despite the circumstances he can't help but find him attractive like that. Makes him think of other situations. That wouldn't happen anytime soon. Or at all, probably. One of Drift's servos slides pearly white over the lean expense of the captain's waist. That does nothing to quell Ratchet's thoughts but it startles Rodimus, who seems to be reminded of the question.

"M'used to the heat I guess. Weakness hit me wh'n I got Drifter" he mumbles.

"So you spent your whole shift infected and spreading the damn thing ?"

"Nah. Stayed 'way from folks, like you told me." He yawns. "I listen sometimes."

"Good." Ratchet nods.

Drift puts his head besides the red speedster's shoulder plating, looking at his conjunx like he's considering something. He eventually seems to give up in favor of whining a bit, which makes Ratchet chuckle. He just knows the swordsmech is going to be embarrassed out of his mind about this later.

"Drift, I need you to take some medicine to make the process easier, you and I both know your immune system's not very impressive." he announces while positionning the both of them so they're lying on the berth.

They immediately cuddle up to each other, burrying their faces into plating like baby turbofoxes. It's awfully cute.

"No injections please ?" Drift shudders as he gets more comfortable.

"Of course not." Ratchet soothes, stroking one of his conjunx's finials and feeling it flutter a bit under his digits. "It's oral. Nothing going through your lines."

Drift gives him a very Rodimus adjacent thumbs up while said mech whines about not getting any medication. He slaps a servo onto this one's spoiler to tell him to zip up (not too hard, Ratchet's aware now of how sensitive that thing is), which gets him a tired yelp. He goes to get the pills for Drift and comes back to Rodimus furiously purring against his amica's chassis, probably trying to comfort him. Drift is purring back, which makes his old mech spark melt a little.

He unfortunately has to put an end to this little show to give Drift his medicine. He takes it as well as he always does, despite his aversion to taking any kind of substances, and Ratchet supplies him with half a cube of coolant for his efforts. He coaxes Rodimus into drinking the other half, and some energon as well. Primus knows this mechs burns through his tanks faster than Ratchet can throw a wrench.

He spends the rest of his shift doing approximately the same thing for the mechs who enter the medbay next (except the fantasizing about pretty waists on pretty speedsters part), and takes a moment from time to time to go check on his two idiots. Well his idiot and the one that's his through marital property, he imagines. They're both soundly asleep now, curled up into each other and the wall, and seemingly very comfortable on this berth sized for one mech.

And well. Ratchet would have rather this day never happened. But he's not that mad about that image capture.