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Splorp. Splorp. Splorp.
The oil dripped into a growing pool on the medbay floor. Drift offered his conjux a tremulous smile, as Ratchet’s left optic ridge twitched. Drift’s left shoulder was sparking from a deep gash and his abdominal plating was cracked.
Rodimus on the other servo, looked absolutely unrepentant at the condition the two were in and subsequent mess they were making. He was littered with dozens of sword strikes, none serious, but all oozing a combination of energon and oil.
“What in Primus’ core were you two idiots doing?” Ratchet snapped, throwing mesh clothes over the ever increasing puddles of oil.
“Dueling on MARBs over the oil reserve,” Rodimus answered, grabbing a mesh cloth and wiping some of the oil from himself. He tried to clean Drift’s finales, but the Third in Command jerked away. Fidgeting under Ratchet’s burning glare.
“Of course you were. There isn’t a full functioning processor between the two of you. Decontamination shower now.”
“It’s not dangerous, Ratchet. It’s just oil,” Drift muttered, pulling his field in as tightly as possible.
“And it’s dripping all over my medbay, and the only showers in here are decontamination. NOW. GO.”
The two hurried into the showers. Drift’s head down, his finales drooping in despair.
“Relax, Drift. Ratchet will bluster and yell, but he won’t stay mad. We’re us, how can he stay mad at us,” Rodimus said, turning the shower on.
“Easy for you to say. You’re the shameless, unabashed Rodimus Prime,” Drift snapped, scrubbing his plating much harsher than necessary. Anger, doubt and self loathing creeping their way back to the surface of his processor.
Rodimus opened his mouth to argue, but Drift continued.
“Ever since the Dead End. Nothing but a wasted circuit booster junkie, Ratchet had to put my useless chassis back together more times than I want to admit to. And he always believed in me. Always believed I could be better and each time I’d go right back out and whack myself out of my processor on circuit boosters again, and each time he’d put me back together.
“Then what do I do to repay all he’s done for me, I go and become a Decepticon. I killed because I could, killed for fun. How many mechs did I send to his operating table? How many offlined, taking a little piece of Ratchet with them.” Drift turned off the shower and threw the cloth in the disposal. Unable to contain his field, it whipped around the pair, angry and burning.
“Doesn’t sound like Wing’s teachings to me,” Rodimus said, finishing his own shower. “What’s this really about?”
“I hate disappointing him. It’s all I’ve ever done,” Drift muttered.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Drift. No ‘Bot’s perfect. Not even Optimus. Just ask Prowl.”
“I’d rather eat my own pedes, than speak to Prowl,” Drift snarled.
“Can’t argue with that. He really is a miserable fragger. Anywho, it’s time to face the Medic O’ Doom.” Rodimus wrapped his arm around Drift and dragged his amica back into the main medbay.
“You, there.” Ratchet pointed to Drift and the first berth. “You, that one.” He directed Rodimus to the next one.
Each took their respective places. Ratchet approached Rodimus first, examining the cuts littering the co-captain’s frame. “These aren’t too serious.” He cleaned the wounds and applied static bandages to the worst of them. “You’re done. Out.”
Rodimus hopped off the berth and headed toward the door.
“Oh and Rodimus---”
“Yeah, Ratchet.”
“I know that little duel was your idea. It just screams ‘Rodimus’. And if you ever convince my conjux to do something that stupid again, I’m going to fold you in half, weld your servos to your pedes and carve, ‘Kick Me’ on you aft.”
“Duly noted,” Rodimus said with a chuckle and hurried from medbay.
“Idiot,” Ratchet muttered, turning toward Drift. His conjux was quieter than usual. Sparks still emanated from Drift’s damaged shoulder. “Much pain?” Ratchet asked.
“Not really,” Drift said, optics downcast.
“Hey.” Ratchet lifted Drift’s helm. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate disappointing you.”
“You haven’t disappointed me. Annoyed me, yes, but disappointed me, no,” Ratchet said, blocking the sensors in Drift’s shoulder and beginning the repair.
“Even in the Dead End, and when I became a Decepticon?” Drift asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“No, Drift. Never. You needed to find your own way, yourself. And you have. You have suffered and survived. You have fought, killed and learned a new path. Everything you’ve done has made you, you. And I love you.” Finishing the repair of Drift’s shoulder, he moved to the abdominal wound. It was stopped leaking, and Ratchet cleaned it and applied a static bandage. “Never doubt that, and never doubt yourself,” he said, completing the repair and pressing his helm to Drift’s.
Drift’s spark spun in his chassis. The dark, foreboding thoughts retreated to the back of his processor. He wasn’t who he once was, and he would never be that mech again. He had a reason not to slide down that dark path ever again. He had Ratchet.
“Love you too, Ratch. I always have, even in my darkest days, I loved you. Love you more than you will ever know.” Drift cupped his conjux’s face in his servos and lightly kissed his lip plates. “I will never know what I did to deserve you, but I thank Primus for you every day.”