Chapter Text
So, what do you see in Ratchet?
He remembered the conversation they once had as a Ratchet-shaped Hot Rod returned to their booth and squeezed himself into the seat. His first friend in the Autobots, the only mech alive who knew the ongoing secret.
“You didn’t bring back drinks?”
“Forgot. Sorry.” There were a lot less static in his voice. Must be the gadget finally kicking in properly, Drift thought. Unless Wheeljack made some modification on the spot. “I’ll go and get some?”
“It’s fine.” He flopped down on the table. “Ratty would say that I’ve had too much.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Hey, what did I tell you?” He waved an accusing finger –servo– half a palm, really. “Ratchet caring for people is hot.”
It was hard to imagine that forced scattering caused by war could bring any positive changes. Nonetheless, the habitants of this revived planet were now more willing to try out foreign custom, thus a festival borrowed from Halloween which meant masquerade. Drift donned sparkeater tentacles and wore black face paint in contrast to his usual red. He even put some addition on his fang for the effect.
Tonight was the only time he could act as menacing as possible without really sacring off anyone.
“Please tell me you did not install a mod for that horror in your mouth.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? They are detachable, Roddy.” He took one off and thrust his servo forward. “Here, try it on so you can throw your doubt into the waste bin.”
Hot Rod took the denta addition tentatively. Drift must have been wasted, or that Hot Rod had a random burst of cautiousness and decided to treat Drift’s ‘junk’ seriously for once.
“See?”
Hot Rod pulled off the addition and threw it at him.
Drift caught it with his intake. He couldn’t help it. Hot Rod hadn’t thrown it at full strength, almost as if he was timid. He had wanted to catch the thing with his dentae, but all he succeeded in was not letting himself get choke.
“You processor damaged moron with 100 bytes!”
Hot Rod roared, and Drift coughed and howled, audio receivers ringing, fangs on glorious display. That was why he needed Hot Rod – energetic, brave, and surprisingly accepting. He wouldn’t have dare to act so brazen in front of Ratchet. Although the doctor must be the few of the surviving mechs who had witnessed Deadlock’s atrocity first-hand, Drift tried not to trigger memories from the war. He was only ferocious in front of Ratchet if the doctor was in danger.
“Better than you, you air-head speedster with 89 bytes!”
The bass in the music was so loud, he felt like floating in space. “What?”
He couldn't help but chuckle. “You started first!”
“For fuck’s sake – ” Hot Rod caught himself.
“I thought you would have enjoyed the party more thoroughly.”
“I am feeling good.”
“You’re sad.”
“I’m not sad! Definitely, totally not sad.” There wasn’t a drop left in his cube. He had to put it down. “Though maybe, perhaps, I wish a certain someone was here. That’s not being sad, that’s being – ”
“– in love.”
“ – pathetic.”
Drift stared, or he hoped that he was staring. “It’s cheating.” He accused. “It’s cheating. You, playing Ratchet, putting on white paint, using a gruff voice, and stomping in the way he does when he is angry at his patient and wants to be threatening, while being the only mech I’ve told that I still want him. You talking about being in love. Right here. To me.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because I can’t say that to him! Because I’ve promised to be his friend and he deserves to have that promise kept. Because,” His voice caught. “he never said that I have been forgiven or that he will forget.”
“And what,” Hot Rod asked hesitantly. “does that have to do with anything?”
Drift wished his tentacles could move like his limbs, so that could thrash wildly to accentuate his misery. “It has to do with everything. Haven’t you seen the way he despises Megatron? That mech might have rusted on some distant planet no other Cybertronian could ever reach, but he would still hate him passionately - not just for the war, but with how he treated his best friend. He would never forgive him for treating Orion Pax as a personal possession, so he would never forgive me for using a situation in the war.”
“You didn’t do anything bad though, did you?”
“Lack of physical assault does not make the transgression excusable.” Wasn't forced to smile to the murderer of many of your comrades bad enough?
“I guess you’re right.” He replied at long last. “Despite what most believe, platonic bonds can be as strong as romantic ones, and emotional damage could be as scarring as physical assault.”
Drift turned off his optics. This was what he had been trying to make Hot Rod see, but he found no pleasure in hearing him saying it out loud.
“Perhaps there’s another layer to this.”
Drift onlined his optics, just to see if he’d heard right.
“I’ve been an Autobot longer, haven’t I? I’ve spent more time with Ratchet during the war than you did. Perhaps he has a wish to own and be owned, and cannot tolerate how Megatron twisted the word possession and made it something irredeemable.”
“Okay, funny theory, haha.”
“Would you have wanted to own him if he chose you to?”
“I don’t see why he would want me to, but sure.”
“What if he wanted to own you? Do you find it repulsive?”
He shut off his fans. There was a strange thrill in his numbness.
“I don’t… Is it a revenge? I don’t want to be a property. I don’t want to live in the mercy of anyone ever again, not even his.”
“When I talk about being owned I do not mean being a slave or being abused.” Hot Rod reached across the table and patted his servo. “I’m talking about having an anchor. I’m talking about responsibility, and having someone promise that they will guard you, care for you and respect you. I’m talking about trust, the possibility that you can always return to them and that you will always be safe with them.”
Why didn’t he notice Hot Rod adding weight to his servos? It felt dangerously like the doctor patting him.
“What do you say?”
He had words, but words were caught and not pronounced. He had feelings, but his emotions were wild and conflicting. He could do nothing but staring into his friend’s optics -
“What are you doing? Who are you?”
Another Ratchet – no, Hot Rod came back to the table. He was shouting.
If Drift hadn’t been speaking with his friend, then who was the one who had heard his confession?
He felt a gentle nudge. Someone activated his FIM chip for him. The world suddenly turned sharp and unbearable and, and all this time Ratchet had been the one sitting across from him.
Hot Rod had been glaring at the doctor, but now he had turned his optics to Drift, his expression worried. “You’re alright?”
He nodded, paused, and turned his gaze to Ratchet. “Not really.”
Ratchet’s expression was serious, but he needed to make sure. “Do you mean them.” His voice was hoarse. “Your words, do you mean them?”
“Yes.”
That, had felt like a stone finally dropping to the ground. There was no turning back. He could never escape, yet he found himself content.
“What do I have to do to be able to own you, and be owned by you?”
Lines on Ratchet’s faceplate relaxed.
“Why don’t you start by taking off those abominations in your mouth and give me a kiss?”