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Splorp. Splorp. Splorp.
Ratchet couldn’t believe what he was looking at. His conjux and conjux’s amica stood just inside the medbay doors; oil dripping into an ever growing pool at their pedes. Drift looked like he’d rather be facing down the DJD on his own, while Rodimus, well Rodimus looked like his usual Unicron-may-care self.
Ratchet felt his left optic ridge twitch, as he fought the laughter bubbling in his vocalizer. Helping to quell the laughter, Drift’s left shoulder was sparking from a deep gash and his abdominal plating was cracked. Rodimus was littered with dozens of sword strikes.
“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 and then tried to clean Drift. Ratchet appreciated Rodimus trying to clean off Drift, but the swordmech shimmied away from the impromptu cleaning.
“Of course you were. There isn’t a full functioning processor between the two of you. Decontamination shower now.” Great, now he’d have to check the MARBs for damage. What was the point of mobile med bays, if they were nonfunctional.
“It’s not dangerous, Ratchet. It’s just oil,” Drift muttered.
“And it’s dripping all over my medbay, and the only showers in here are decontamination. NOW. GO.” Ratchet could feel the withdraw of his mate’s field as he scuttled to the shower. Not a good sign. Despite his spiritual awakening and new found self, Drift’s past self loathing always lurked as a dark shadow.
Ratchet huffed an ex-vent and finished wiping the oil off the floor. The last thing he would need would be someone coming in for one repair and ending up sprawled out and further damaged.
Dueling on MARBs over the oil reserve. How very Rodimus. Drift was too good to his wayward amica. Ratchet just shook his helm. The Overlord incident was proof of that. An involuntary shudder coursed Ratchet’s spinal struts. He had come so close to losing Drift forever that cycle.
Drift had left the Lost Light. Left to protect Rodimus. Left the crew. Left Ratchet. The bitterness of Drift’s departure still burned Ratchet’s intake. No loss in four million years of war, hurt as much as watching Drift leave.
Anything could have happened to Drift. Skilled warrior though he was, the swordmech had been alone. Alone to face whatever dangers crossed his path. And in typical Drift fashion, he charged headlong into that danger to protect those who could not protect themselves.
The relief Ratchet felt when he not only found Drift, but found him alive and in relatively good repair, nearly made the medic’s knee struts give out. That Drift agreed to return with him made Ratchet’s spark flip with a relief bordering on euphoric.
Drift had willingly forgiven Rodimus. Ratchet could ponder how such different mechs could be amica endura, but then why would the young, beautiful, devout spiritualist be his conjux. After all, Ratchet was significantly older, grouchier, and more pragmatic than Drift, yet the speedster chose to bond with the grumpy medic.
Drift would of course give some spiritual rambling about it being preordained, destiny or some other mumbo jumbo. Phht, Ratchet didn’t understand how or why Drift loved him, but he wasn’t going to question such an unexpected and wonderful thing.
Drift had come so far from that young, lost, circuit boost addict, Ratchet had often repaired in the Dead End. His conjux had come even further from when he had been the vicious Decepticon, Deadlock.
Ratchet had seen countless wonders over the millennia. One thing was an absolute certainty. Drift was a bright light among the stars.
The pair of amicas shuffling back in the main medbay caught the medic’s attention. They were clean, and most of the energon leaks had stopped, but Drift’s shoulder was still giving sporadic sparks.
“You, there.” Ratchet pointed his mate to the first berth. “You, that one.” He directed Rodimus to the next one.
Ratchet approached Rodimus first, best get the troublemaker done and out his medbay first. Ratchet wanted Drift to himself.
“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, then focused his attention on his conjux. “Much pain?”
“Not really,” Drift said, optics downcast.
“Hey.” Ratchet lifted his mate’s helm. “What’s wrong?” Ratchet loathed seeing Drift so dejected.
“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?” The question barely made it to Ratchet’s audials, it was so quietly spoken.
“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.” Ratchet could heal Drift’s physical wounds, but the ones the swordmech had inflicted on his own spark were much harder to heal. “Never doubt that, and never doubt yourself,” he pressed his helm to Drift’s.
“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.”
More than one mech had commented about medic’s servos being magic, but for Ratchet, the touch of Drift’s servos were the real magic. As was Drift.