Chapter Text
A cracked mug was shoved in front of him, no more than a quarter full of energon of such a low grade it barely registered as edible. Drift glanced up to find Ratchet looking down on him, those beloved optics dim at the corners. With a sigh, Drift took the mug.
He was sat on the floor of the shelter they'd built from the remains of the Lost Light, one of many erected by the survivors of the crash, legs crossed as he sought to center himself in an attempt at rest. The shadowy interior was lit by only the sunlight that managed to peek through the open door. They hadn't bothered with building windows into the structure, seeking to keep as many sheets of hull plating as intact as possible—for rebuilding as well as simply keeping out native weather and creatures. Not even their biolights were lit, that minimal output considered a waste of what little fuel they managed to produce. (No one was quite sure when they would be able to produce more and better just yet.)
Mostly ignored hunger gnawing at weary and aching struts, he sipped at the contents of the mug, grimacing at the taste. While not the worst thing he'd consumed, Drift had grown used to a much better grade. Ratchet groaned as he lowered himself to sit beside him, joints creaking in a way that never failed to raise concern in Drift. "Have you had anyone look at that yet?"
His conjunx grunted, stretching out his legs in front of him as he leaned back against the wall. "No," he said, not even bothering to hedge around it this time. "They've got a lot on their hands right now. I help where I can, but it's not enough and I don't want to pull any of them away from someone that needs their attention more than I do."
Drift looked at him, frowning. "Ratty—"
"Don't you Ratty me, kid," Ratchet interrupted, raising a hand to stop Drift's words. "I'm good for now. Maybe a little more creaky than I should be, but compared to Bluestreak? To Thunders? I'll live."
As much as he wanted to argue, Drift knew Ratchet was right. Bluestreak was barely hanging on—Streetwise hardly leaving his new conjunx's side—and Thunderclash hadn't been in the best of health before the critical failure in the ship's engines that landed them all on this alien world. They were only two of far too many that required the continuing attention of their active medics. "Did you eat, at least?" Drift asked, giving his mug a tip in Ratchet's direction. "For whatever definition of eating this stuff is?"
When Ratchet didn't answer, but sat staring at the far wall, idly working his jaw, Drift knew anyway. He reached over and curled his fingers around Ratchet's nearest hand, letting his own gaze focus on that same wall. "Don't do this. Don't make me worry more about you."
"There's others that need it more than I do right now," Ratchet murmured, pulling Drift's hand close and stroking his fingers with his other hand. Drift could feel the shifting of the grit in his own joints, filthy with the lack of a decent cleaning. "I'm built for this kind of thing," Ratchet continued. "I can handle a few spare orns to keep others with the necessary skills functioning well enough to dig us out of this scrap."
"And if we're stuck here for a while?" Drift asked, forcing himself to take another sip before Ratchet made a fuss about it. "This planet is… not Cybertronian friendly. There's been a significant number of cases of rust in the few weeks we've been here, you know."
"I know. I've treated more than a few of them," Ratchet replied with a snort, still tracing the seams and joints of Drift's slim digits. "Earth wasn't particularly friendly to our frames, either, but you still seemed fond enough of it. Some parts, anyway."
Ratchet appeared proud of the wry smile the comment earned him. "The team will be able to figure out how to repair the ship," Drift said, tilting his helm back and scratching the tips of his audial fins against the wall. "I've no doubt about that, but will we be able to actually do it? Or do we start building something more suitable for living here on the assumption getting off the planet might not happen?"
"Let me guess," Ratchet mused, "Rodimus invited you to the command meeting?" He offered Drift an exhausted smirk.
"They didn't toss me out, so I figure Megatron and Minimus weren't entirely against my presence," Drift admitted. "Rodimus is very certain we'll do it, that we'll be back among the stars sooner rather than later, but the others? I kind of think they're right. Who knows how long it might take, if we can do it at all?"
After a moment of quiet, Ratchet asked, "So I take it the decision hasn't been finalized just yet?"
Drift forced down the last of his ration, shuddering afterward, then leaned against Ratchet's side. "Not yet. Rodimus insisted that everyone consider it overnight and we vote on it tomorrow. I think Roddy was hoping I might help him split the vote."
"Sounds like him." Ratchet lifted Drift's hand and simply pressed his lips against Drift's knuckles, venting softly over them. "You don't sound like you're going to, though."
"I hate to disappoint him, but Megatron and Minimus are right this time," Drift said, giving his fingers a small wiggle in Ratchet's hold.