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Ratchet was an intense mecha. Anyone who spent more than a few breems in his medbay knew that. His tender mercies were infamous - and not just in the base he was currently managing. All Autobot bases knew of the Hatchet and his temper.
What most of them didn't know was that their CMO’s legendary temper and vivacious nature was even more intense in one on one situations. Few had ever been on the receiving end of his exacting attentions alone. Of course he would often step in with his staff and attend to injured mecha on a one-on-one basis if it was needed. But few had been pulled aside and given his sole attentions while not injured or dying. If they were, it wasn't usually good news.
Drift had seen Ratchet pull aside mecha over the vorns for that kind of single attention. Most of the time it was to pass on bad news. A subordinate, a lover or even a conjux was dead or dying. At all the other bases Drift had been on, the less seasoned medics were the ones giving bad news. But having been stationed with Ratchet for a while, Drift had become accustomed to the CMO doing all the jobs his subordinates were supposed to be doing. Including washing and sanitizing parts, draining fluids and even machining new optic lenses.
So when Ratchet pulled him aside to have a few words with him for the second time in his life, he thought he was at least marginally prepared for the intensity of the Hatchet. As per usual, he was wrong.
“Hot Rod has you listed as his Amica. That means all decisions regarding his health and welfare fall to you, kiddo. And he's in rough shape,” Ratchet’s hand pulled back the curtain separating the young warrior from the rest of the ward. Hot Rod and Drift had been stationed together for vorn now, two young but blooded warriors on the frontlines. Given that they got along better than all but split-sparked twins on the rugged and unforgiving front, their commanders had formally appealed to the powers that be to keep them together. When it was approved, both mecha had updated their paperwork accordingly. So when the curtain pulled aside and Drift for a good look at his friend, the gasp that left him was unadulterated and raw.
Ratchet’s other hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing the area between his neck and shoulder hard enough to keep him still, but soft enough to be unthreatening to a front liner. The swordsmecha could barely take his optics off his friend’s shattered body. His left leg was shattered from the knee joint down, skeletal and primer gray where there was metal remaining. His right leg was completely removed from his body. The tip of his right spoiler was sliced off, as was his right arm. The laser Shockwave had unleashed had been strong enough to simply melt off the living metal in its way.
“For what it's worth, I think he’ll live. You frontliners are fragging tough mecha, and he's being given round the clock care. But I need you to know that his status could change at any given moment. Would he want to be reframed or returned to Primus?” The intensity of the medic’s demeanor threw Drift back several thousand vorn, and he felt like he was a lowly drug addict sitting on a bench being told to fight for his life, for his right to be alive. To get himself cleaned up and make a future for himself.
For the second time in his young life, Drift had to look into those crystal blue optics and lay himself bare. It made him angry. In the time since he had left Ratchet’s dingy walk in clinic Drift had made something of himself. A new name. A reputation as a fierce warrior. Another name change. A switch to a different side of a Primus forsaken war. But standing in the light of Ratchet’s optics, all of that was washed away. He felt like a dirty leaker again, empty and despairing with no hope to be had.
“He’d - I think - I'm not sure,” Drift swallowed and looked away from the mech he'd come to both adore and abhor. “Reframed, probably. He's got the constitution to take it. Those spoilers didn't come with the frame his carrier gave him. He's been modded pretty significantly. He'd probably be fine in a new frame. Just try and give him a big one. He'd be miserable as a minibot.” Drift didn't meet Ratchet’s optics as he spoke, instead choosing to stare at the side of the decrepit old curtain separating his friend from all the other injured and dying mecha in the makeshift medical bay. This campaign was turning more bloody than the last. The Decepticons were gearing up. Literally. Better weaponry and better armor.
“Unfortunately we have several other frontliner frames to give to him, should he need it. Mods are a fairly good indication that he's not one to latch his spark to a frame, but it's no guarantee. He might reject his new body and go to Primus without regard for how well suited he might be to his new frame.” The CMO stretched his shoulder down and back as he let the curtain fall back into place. The crunch of gears was drowned out by the sound of artillery shells bursting on the fronts. To Drift’s keen audio, it was further away from them than it had been a few cycles ago. His brothers on the fronts were making progress. His finials moved up, listening carefully to the sounds.
“If that's all Sir, I would like to move on and be released to join my CO in the field.” Drift met the medic’s optics square on, trying to prove to the older mech that he was mentally and physically able to join the fray.
“Dismissed, soldier. You will first go to the canteen and refuel before returning to the field. I would suggest contacting your CO prior to updating your status. He may need supplies. They're making good progress.” Ratchet said, finally letting go of Drift’s shoulder and stepping back. Drift hadn't even noticed that the CMO’s hand was still on his shoulder, and he felt both lighter and heavier without it. Drift saluted his superior and turned, making his way out of the makeshift medbay.
He couldn't help throwing one last look behind him before he exited to the command center. Ratchet was still watching him, leaning against a pole and downing a ration. Their optics met over the rim of the cube and Drift’s comm link buzzed with a text communication. He looked down and read.
Don't be an idiot, watch your aft
When he looked up again, the Hatchet had disappeared, but his roars could be heard over the commotion. Drift smiled to himself and bowed his head for a moment before turning on his heel and reporting to tactical for his field assignment and pinging his CO. Sideswipe pinged him back, relaying his team’s current position and a list of needed supplies