Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I’m on break.

…

I’m on break.

…

I am on break.

…

I am on a break.

I’m enjoying my break. Loving my break. Enthralled with my break. Enthused with my break. Break. Getting some rest. Lying down. Break. Chilling. Vibing. Snoozing. Unwinding. Break. Settling back. Simmering down. Sitting around. Taking a breather. Taking it easy. 

Break.

I am on a break. 

I…am on…a break.

This is a nice break. This break might even be the nicest break anyone has ever taken in the history of breaks. This break is amazing. Are you enjoying your break? Why yes I am thank you for asking.

Enjoying my break.

Voluntarily on break. 

…

Voluntarily on break. 

Voluntarily…on break.

…Voluntarily. 

…on break.

…I consent to this break. Which is strange because why would I even feel the need to say I consent to a break? Something like that makes it sound like I’m being forced into this break—but really, I’m not, promise.

 This break is good for me. Really good. Breaks are good for me. I am happy on break.

I am very happy to be on this break. 

Ratchet stared blankly at his grey ceiling, brain idly processing the insipid rotations of the ceiling fan. Ears laid flat against his hard pillow, faintly picking up the small whoosh es of the blades. He took a breath, lungs filling with stale air and the faint fusty taste of dust caking his dry tongue. A muscle along his lips twitched, the need to cough out the offending particles rose but he couldn’t find it within himself to really care to do so all that much. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

He smacked his dry lips together, cringing slightly at the bitter taste of his arid mouth as a tongue slid hazily across the top layer of his teeth. Prodding the points of sharp canines and itching at the edges grey gums until they twitched. Breath hot in his mouth, the fur surrounding his lips matted and unkempt. A fine line of grime and crust and whatever else had long formed along his eyelids, the uncomfortable lickings of what felt like miniature flames danced along his cornea itching like hell. An overall sense of filth seemed to permeate from his entire being. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

Untrimmed claws struggled to lay still, awkwardly hovering between a state of restlessness and dormancy. One hand idly twisted a piece of cruddy blanket between the digits, pinching and twisting and pulling at the fabric. Shaking slightly as more and more fragile threads keeping it together gradually came undone under the sharp menstruations of the nails. A second hand laid atop a ratty nest of tangled fur, digits drumming idly against the sternum lying beneath a once strong chest which now felt hollow. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

A head was lolled to the side, unfocused eyes flitting from the blank ceiling to a mirror haphazardly propped up against a wall. He regarded the old thing with unfocused eyes. He had found it in an alleyway during a walk, small cracks near the base of the glass and one side of the wooden frame had been chipped away leaving it lopsided, a new coat of paint was desperately needed and it smelled faintly of rot. An old piece of junk. 

It had been dumped here, that much was obvious, whoever owned it previously had no further need nor want for the thing. Was most likely seen as nothing more than clutter taking up space in what was presumably an already limited amount of living space. A once revolutionary piece of engineering now deemed obsolete following the creation of the Holomirror. 

It essentially does the same thing as a mirror would, only it reflects a person’s likeness in three dimensions through a neat little projector. The image isn’t all that clear and earlier models had a bad flickering problem but who would want a boring and outdated two dimensional mirror when you could have the new and improved three dimensional one? Sweeten the deal even further by making one that could fit right into your pocket and you got people throwing out their old mirrors by the dozen. 

Just like this one, an old piece of junk. Charming, he had thought with a little smile.  A perfect fixer upper to keep his twitchy hands busy, he reasoned upon lugging the thing home.

A small wrench was wedged into the portion of the missing frame, evening the thing out poorly. The cracks had webbed their way towards the middle of the glass, splintering across the surface and slightly warping the reflections produced. More of the frame had rotted away, he could no longer tell if the original color was a light brown or a dark green. 

Tomorrow , he’d tell himself, I’ll fix it tomorrow .

That had been about three months ago. Maybe more.

Through smudges and dim lighting, Ratchet could just barely recognize the figure staring back at him. A small part of him wanted to recoil at the sight, a larger part of him had already come to terms with what laid there.

He blinked. 

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

Another breath of air, another need to cough.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

I’m on break , his mind repeated, I’m on break.

If a random someone had grabbed another random someone at random and had asked that someone randomly to use one word to describe how things had been going as of late, that random someone would then tell that other random someone that the word they’d use would be quiet . 

Quiet.

No panic, no fear, no anarchy, no violence, no wanton destruction, no immorality, no ruination, no wickedness, no foul play, no misfortune, no loss— nothing , no nothing.

It was just quiet. 

Very, very quiet . 

It was as if whoever the poor soul manning the Great Machine in the Sky which dictated all happenings of the universe was suddenly snapped out of whatever gripping daydream they were trapped in. Flailing wildly, frantically wiping away at the thick glop of drool which oozed from their gaping maw. Sitting so rigidly straight—shooting to attention with such panicked fervor that it caused a plume of dust to poof out around them. Scooting forward harshly, wincing at the sharp EEEK! of their chair scraping against the ceramic plates of the floor. 

And they finally, finally decided to reach a shaky hand out to twist the knob counterclockwise on a dial. A yellowed piece of sticker paper hung loosely below that recently turned dial, its surface marred and faded from time, reading: ‘The dial which plummets everything and everyone into a never ending cycle of destruction and violence.’ 

Another piece of sticker paper hung below that one reading: ‘DO NOT LEAVE ON FOR LONG PERIODS OF TIME!’ They winced upon reading it. 

Things were nice, things were slow. The overall pace of life was no longer this neverending high speed race towards a grotesquely violent certain death. Now it was just…normal, people could walk outside their homes for more than thirty minutes without having this constant fear that the very ground before them would suddenly implode from a stray ion bomb. 

Top of the line disaster survival training was no longer a requirement for citizens just wanting to head down to their local supermarket. If someone wanted to pick up some fresh radishes for a nice soup recipe they had come across in their Cooking For Blarg-Headed Frat Monkeys holo-book the night before they could do just that. 

Walk in, find the radishes, try and fail to initiate some form of small talk with the cashier to fill the awkward air, be embarrassed, buy the radishes, go home, cook them, eat them. Simple as that. No giant metal claw violently tearing through the ceiling and ripping it away with one powerful pull, no endless swarm of robots flooding the area incinerating everything in sight, no maniacal cackling in the background, none of it. 

It was confusing, it was bizarre, it was jarring, it was baffling, it was bewildering, it wasn’t normal. What should be perceived as normal life to everyone else was the complete opposite for the denizens of this universe. What should be seen as the everyday humdrum happenings of life is a completely foreign concept to these people. 

Living through so many years of chaos and destruction, worrying about which block is going to be obliterated by the next carpet bombing, fearing the day your ears pick up on that familiar cackling once more, dreading the moment you catch another glimpse of that big green forehead—all of it, its all molded these people into these cynical worrywarts. 

With good reason, Nefarious had the universe stamped under his metal heel for years. Twisting and digging it deeper and deeper into its face absolutely relishing in the pain and misery and fear his conquests inspired. He had them petrified, he had them panicked, he had them on their toes constantly. 

Entire special divisions of hundreds upon hundreds of militaries across the stars had to be scrambled together just to respond to the threat of him . His mere existence breeded dread, his presence alone strangled entire solar systems with a thick cloud of terror. 

Contingency plans were scribbled down, contingency plans for those contingency plans were hotly debated, special weapons were designed, entirely new armies were trained, state of the art machinery was pushed to its absolute limit in a desperate hope that Allied production could ever manage to reach the Nefarious War Engine’s seemingly endless amount of output, espionage ops were conducted, every second of surveillance footage was combed through and combed through again and combed through again in a desperate hope to predict his next move, an entire universe was united together to stand up against him . 

Which should make an onlooker feel hopeful, should fill them with a certain pride and righteous vigor that there’s such an allied front against this Nefarious war engine. United through a desire to stand up to evil, a desire to safeguard a better tomorrow, a desire to stick up for the little guy. One single dream shared by the collective, the great unifying event to bring about peace amongst us all. 

Except it didn’t. 

There was no hope, no pride, no desire to safeguard the future, no unifying event, there was nothing but a feeling of absolute fear. Governments could plaster as many inspiring advertisements on every street corner, every screen, every television channel, every radio station, every soda can, every Blitz Burger bag, every intergalactic and subgalactic and whatever-the-hell-galactic travel brochure—everywhere; No one paid attention, no one cared. Everyone was too busy looking out for themselves to give any of these ad campaigns any time of their day. Why would you care about the heroic story of ‘John Goodguy’ and how he’s doing his part when you just watched an entire planet get hollowed out a week prior. 

Why would somebody care for or believe in this unbreakable strong face their governments were plastering on, this unrelenting resolve to conquer evil—why would they believe in it when the cracks were so easily visible? 

Why would the people care to listen to their government’s endless reassurances that everything was completely under control when things so very clearly weren’t? Who would believe that the trembling hand pointing the knife towards the enemy was brave? 

Who cared about this great collective idea when Nefarious was at your doorstep? He had all of existence cursing his name, all of existence shaking uncontrollably driving themselves mad thinking about what his next evil plan could possibly be. 

No one could have predicted it was disappearing. 

No one could have predicted someone as addicted to the spotlight and the chaos it ensued such as Nefarious to just up and leave without a trace.  Not him, that’s not like him. He wouldn’t just stand up, crack his back, shrug his shoulders, smack his lips, swipe the dust off his knees, pack up his bags and just screw off. Not him.

But he did. 

Nefarious just… left. 

The same Nefarious who had hacked together a weapon capable of imploding the suns, who had created the Hypersonic Brainwave Scrambler, who had flirted with the idea of just ducttaping a hydrogen bomb to the forehead of the machine, who had flirted even more with the idea of duct taping three hydrogen bombs to it, who wanted to create a loofah that melts the skin of any organic foolish enough to use it, who wanted to devise a warship capable of ramming straight through planets three times its size with ease—this same Nefarious who was the living embodiment of insanity. 

This manic amalgamation of hate and metal is one hundred percent, without a doubt, completely and cripplingly addicted to being loud. Which is why no one could even hope to wrap their heads around why he was being quiet . 

Despite all the uncertainty, everyone had slowly come to the realization that things were allowed to be…normal now, whatever that may be. It had been slow at first, no one truly believing this newfound break from the chaos would last very long. Some gave it a month, others gave it a week, it wasn't rare to find those giving it a measly three days. 

A week had passed, nothing horrible happened. 

Another week, still nothing.

A third week, silence. 

A fourth had passed, puzzlingly quiet. 

It wasn’t until the end of the first month of this quietness that the idea of the universe finally giving everyone a break started to become more mainstream. 

People smiled, families laughed, old friends drank, new friends shared stories, new love blossomed, old flames reignited. People went out more, bars filled up, amusement parks had waits, theaters were packed, sidewalks were busy, traffic increased, skies were filled—people began to live, actually live. A sense of normalcy settled over the universe, a newfound calm which lulled the people into a state of utter relaxation. 

This latest quiet, although off putting at first, was quickly becoming the next Big Thing. It was as if all stress in the universe had completely evaporated. Almost everybody was completely in love with this new change. 

Almost everybody. 

It was odd, odd that a complete lack of any stress whatsoever could have such a profoundly adverse effect on a person’s mental state.

Odd that the complete absence of stress would, in turn, make somebody substantially more stressed than whenever the normal amount of stress was milling about. Odd that such a complete sense of contentment surrounding the world felt so much more suffocating than anything else this person had ever experienced in their life. A complete and utter shutdown, a total loss of focus nothing short of a catastrophe, a meltdown, a downward spiral, a maddening, an emotional tantrum—whatever label a spectator watching from the outside in would deem most appropriate to this person’s current state. 

Ratchet felt stuck, he felt trapped. Nothing to do, no one to save, no one to shoot, nothing to fix, everyone too busy with rebuilding their own fractured realities to distract himself with. Life as it were previously, in all of its chaos and insanity, had been therapeutic for Ratchet. Its nonsense had become routine, its violence something he could rely on to never change on him. 

The explosions, the bullets, the blood, the sweat, the bruises, the fractures, the screaming, the snarls, the adrenaline, the thrill, the death—all of it, it was his normal. More importantly, it had become his distraction . Always something to fix, always something to shoot, always someone to help, always something to kill, always somebody else he could set his mind on. Always, always something else lying before him to utterly focus on. 

Anything to keep his thoughts from drifting back to himself . 

His regrets, his fears, his actions, his choices, every time he pulled the trigger, every time he watched a head implode, every time he’d seen a body rip in two, every time their cries pierced his ears, every small glimpse of that brief horrified flash in their eyes before he brought the wrench down, every garbled final breath, every erratic convulsion as the body rapidly processed it was dying, every time he’d let someone down, every time someone stabbed him in the back—all of it. It never left his head, festering in the recesses of his mind eating away at him little by little with each passing day. There was no need to pay attention to it, there was always someone else out there more deserving of his help. 

No need to dwell on who and what Ratchet is.

More importantly, no need to dwell on him . 

The first month following the utter catastrophe that was the multi-dimensional fiasco Ratchet had gotten himself tangled into had gone by alright. A small break after his most recent dance was death wasn’t unwelcome, he had gotten uncomfortably close to biting the bullet one too many times throughout the ordeal. The plethora of bruises and cuts littering his body from head to tail definitely needed some time to heal, just shifting his body even in small increments shot a jolt of magma throughout his system. 

With a huff, Ratchet swallowed past the knot forming in his throat and accepted the small break. Things would get back to normal soon enough. 

The usual celebrations and overall fanfare proceeded as normal, crowds upon crowds chanting his name, colorful confetti, parades clogging up every street corner, reporters of all types shoving themselves so uncomfortably close that the stinging scent of heavy aftershave assaulted his sensitive nostrils, and the seemingly endless numbers of politicians and city officials and government suits thanking him for his service and fawning over just how brave he had been. 

Ratchet found himself constantly wrestling back the urge to parrot their words back to their overly rosy and sweaty faces, hearing the same corporate word-vomit for so long it had practically burned itself into his skull with a plasma cutter. A younger him would have done so without missing a beat, but he just barely held it back. He liked to think he matured somewhat over the years.

Part of him missed mocking these puppets as they practically worshiped the ground he walked, cackling at their shocked faces and the rapid flabbering of their fat jaws as they heaved to choke out a response. It had been funny the first few years of this hero business, but the media fallout and constant gossip online of ‘bad boy Ratchet’ sticking it to the big man in office grew tiresome as his battles grew more and more violent over the years. 

Used to be a clear good vs bad, cartoonishly evil villains with ridiculous master plans vs the green as grass lovably snarky main character. It was nice, made things feel like those old holo-pictures he watched as a kid. 

Lines had blurred since then. He had blurred them. 

Shaking his head, he plastered on a boyish grin he hoped didn’t look as fake as it had felt,  welcoming their words with a laugh and a strong handshake. 

Was it all a bit annoying? Sure. No one really wants to be hounded for hours upon hours after nearly dying in increasingly gruesome ways fifteen different times. Even still, his ego couldn’t help but be stroked just the smallest bit. Not many people around could say they had saved all of reality, this dimension and countless others, with nothing more than a wrench and his brain. Arrogance be damned. 

By the second month, the constant media attention had died down but not enough to warrant him or the topic of him saving the dimension to leave the spotlight completely. Street reporters had buzzed off, politicians had gotten their words in and their greasy phone numbers into his device—those of which hadn’t approached him yet were met with a glare, and the parades had long ceased. Pieces of confetti littered streets and the sides of buildings were still covered in paint and colored dust, specialized crews consisting of bright yellow, clumsy, boxy, and foul mouthed androids had been deployed to begin the long cleanup process. 

Although the reporter/politician phase was a generally unpleasant and grating experience for Ratchet, he’d rather pander to and jerk off fifteen hundred of those slime-ball politicians to get even the slimmest chance of avoiding the next phase altogether. 

The talk show phase.

Clank had always told him it would help build public relations and Ratchet would always  resist the urge to drag his claws up and down his eyelids until he could only see red. Clank had told him people always wanted to hear what he had to say, especially following such a spectacle of an event as his most recent adventure. Ratchet always wanted to argue that he had more than enough ‘public relations’ to make even the most popular of the popular cream their pants in envy. He instead always chose to bite his tongue, begrudgingly asking his friend when and where.

Clank had chortled in response, Ratchet felt a thick pool of dread spread throughout his stomach.

Ratchet always hated just how bright the lights were on these stages, these blinding suns had always somehow been perfectly positioned to where the main focus point of the beams were directly attacking his corneas. The tight black button up Clank had wrestled him into made things worse, not only were these lights so bright they were also so hot . Ratchet could feel the fur stuck beneath this cursed shirt burning away in a great ball of fire. His leg bounced restlessly against the leather of the loveseat, making a soft paf paf paf paf with each fall of the appendage. 

A thin sheen of sweat had formed across his face under the fur, fuck it was hot. 

A startlingly loud wave of laughter had snapped him back to focus, leg halting its repeated bounces with a start. Clank was killing it, buttering up the host and playing the audience perfectly, hitting every unspoken mark and keeping the conversation fresh and engaging. Frequently bringing the audience into the picture and laughing in that goofy chortle of his to every joke directed towards him. 

Ratchet settled deeper into his chair, thanking whatever higher power residing above or below that Clank had been blessed with such perfect people pleasing skills. A knot had formed so thickly in Ratchet’s throat that he genuinely thought he might choke and die on the spot if he had been tasked with responding to a question. 

“So, tell me—HEHA!—tell me-tell me Ratchet, y’know we’re dying to know what’s next for you. So, just what comes next now?” Gimmy Gordon’s nasally voice rang out, cleaving Ratchet out of his musings violently. 

Ratchet’s eyes widened, ears falling flat against his head as claws dogged into the soft leather of his chair. “W-wha?” He squeaked out, unfocused eyes trying desperately to clear up the image of Timmy’s short green face. 

Another harsh bark of laughter ripped its way through Timmy’s throat, yellowish-green eyelids closed so tightly deep lines had formed across his forehead as his nose scrunched up to what seemed like an impossible degree. He leaned back far in his chair, squeaking loudly as his body shook back and forth from his rocking. He clapped a few times as more painful sounding laughs wheezed out from his lungs. The audience joined in his seemingly uncontrollable fit of laughter, cheering and whistling and clapping as the host struggled to regain his composure. 

An uncertain grin slowly spread across Ratchet’s face, eyes slowly scanning his surroundings as he let out a weak chuckle. Coughing into his hand, he sat up a bit more and crossed one leg over the other, resting an arm over the back of his chair as the other smoothed his ears back. Itching idly at the base of his neck, Ratchet chewed the inside of his cheek while he waited for the host to get himself back under control. 

“HEHAHEAHE!”

Ratchet sucked on his lip. 

“HEHEHA—Ok! Ok ok— okay. Whew! Ratchet, ladies and gentlemen!” Timmy bellowed, stretching an arm out towards him presenting him like some sort of grand trophy. The audience’s cheers increased tenfold.

Ratchet sat there, he gave a small wave, utterly confused.

“Great stuff, great stuff really…yea. But come on! Wuh-what’s next for Ratchet? Gotta have something to tell us, right?” Timmy finally stuttered out, heaving great breaths in and out, short green face tinged red. Swinging wildly towards the audience once more, riling them up even further. Ratchet blinked, muscles near the corner of his mouth twitching as he considered his answer. 

God, he did not want to do this. 

He did not want to talk about himself, no. He did not want to even think about himself. He did not even want to think about himself not thinking about himself. There was no part of him that wanted any insignificant morsel of his brain to be burdened with the task of acknowledging himself in any way, shape, or form. 

Talking about himself lead to thinking about himself, thinking about himself lead to thinking about back then, thinking about back then lead to thinking about him , thinking about him lead to thinking about that goddamned dimension where his people had supposedly fucked off—

The sea of eyes lasered in on him, all unblinking, all so eager to witness what it was the great Ratchet had to say. The tip of his red tongue peaked from beneath his lips, wetting them gently as he softly cleared his throat. He opened his mouth slightly, straining against his vocal cords with all his might in a desperate effort to produce any sort of sound other than a strangled mess. 

Calm it, he scolded himself, you’re getting so worked up over nothing. Just don’t think about it, blot it out, get it out of your head already. It’s just a normal question. 

Ratchet sat forward, clearing his throat painfully once more. Mouth opening and closing, no sound coming from him. 

The silence in the studio was deafening. 

His head hurt.

His head throbbed.

These lights were too bright, these people were too loud, this host was too loud, this air conditioning unit was too loud, the ships outside were too loud, the band was too loud, the tapping of Timmy’s pen against his desk was too loud, the blood rushing through his ears was too loud, the heart beat hammering in his chest was too loud, the images in his brain were too loud, his voice was too loud, it was all—

“Well uh…” Ratchet started, forcing a sorry huff of a laugh out. “To be honest with you, got all sorts of—” 

“O-oh man! Wow! That is–that is just FANTASTIC! Clank! Why don’t you–”

God, this host was too fucking loud. 

Hours later, Ratchet stood in his kitchen. Top three buttons of his stiff shirt undone, arms crossed, head tilted upwards, eyes gazing at seemingly nothing in particular along the ceiling. His tail swished back and forth lazily behind him, softly dragging across the chilly tiled floors of the kitchen. A delicate sting tickled its way up along the length of his spine, the sensitive end of his tail twitching slightly at the cold. 

The sharp sound of a series of quick and perfectly calculated cuts disturbed the overall quietness of the kitchen. A stinging sound which would normally make Ratchet’s overly sensitive ears cringe, yet it was oddly soothing. The timing between each interval of cuts was exact, four seconds would pass and six quick cuts would be made. Another four seconds would pass and another six quick cuts would be made. Ratchet felt his eyes droop, his mind quiet for once. 

Ratchet ran a tongue over his canines, “Guess this really is our ‘ big break,’ ” he had said, fingers curling in quotations, “huh, buddy?” 

He slid his eyes over to said buddy, the image of him standing atop a stool so rigidly straight only to just barely see over the counter made him want to chuckle. He did actually allow a chuckle to escape him after taking in Clank’s appearance; a little black apron combined such an over the top precision like focus towards the small hill of vegetables laid out evenly on his cutting board.

“Indeed,” Clank replied, a little distracted. “Would appear as if I finally have more than enough time to perfect this new recipe I acquired some time ago,” he chortled, practically radiating happiness as his hands got back to work chopping up more vegetables. Curiosity piqued, Ratchet leaned forwards a bit, peeking over Clank’s shoulder with a tiny smile. His smile widened, biting down on his lip to stifle the surprised guffaw that nearly barked out of his throat. 

Radishes. Clank had been cutting nothing but radishes for the past twenty-five minutes. 

“You,” Ratchet laughed, stepping forward and flicking the small red orb sitting atop Clank’s head,  “are out of your tiny little metal mind if you think I’m eating anything with radishes in it.” 

Clank batted his hand away with a glare, pinching the orb with a thumb and forefinger to stop it jostling atop his chrome dome. “I assure you I am operating at one-hundred percent peak efficiency, Ratchet. Not only does this soup contain all the required nutrition someone of your build requires, it also—” 

“It also has radishes. Which is an instant, and very hard, no.” 

“While I lack the necessary tools to properly digest radishes or get any real nutritional value from them, research suggest that they are—” 

“The worst vegetable ever created. I know, I was head researcher on that whole case study.” 

Clank slowly squinted his eyes at Ratchet. “Interrupt me one more time,” he warned. 

Ratchet tilted his head down at Clank, pursing his lips slightly. Clank narrowed his eyes further, tiny green slits staring hard at Ratchet. Ratchet stared back.

“...or what?” Ratchet snickered, flicking Clank’s antenna once more.

“I am still in possession of a knife, by the way.” 

The third month of this break had rolled around. Ratchet found it increasingly difficult to continue avoiding the elephant in the room. 

Staring at his reflection through a broken mirror could only hold his attention for so many hours, his hands twitched with the familiar need to fiddle with something—anything to keep his mind busy. 

He later found himself hunched over his workbench, an dismembered blaster laid out before him. The weapon had suddenly stopped firing completely, trigger pulls resulted in nothing more than a harsh click and the sounds of whirring machinery within the barrel. The strong scent of charred durasteel was stuck in his nose, a problem with the blaster's automatic cooling system. An easy fix, most amateurs could get the weapon back to perfect condition in as little as thirty minutes. 

Ratchet had been at the repair for the past four hours. 

He sat there, motionless, staring vacantly down at the little fried red wire between his fingertips. His other hand held an old soldering iron, its surface enveloped in dents and dimples and an assortment of blemishes, all signs of a trusty tool who’d lived a long and busy life. It was a gift, one of his first birthday presents received during his childhood, about six or seven when the tool fell into his possession. 

A gloved thumb idly flicked the device on and off, the electrical buzzing of the instrument piercing through the dead silence of the garage. The nitrile material of the gloves stuck uncomfortably to the fur lying beneath, the already stuffy temperature of the garage was seemingly increased tenfold with each passing minute spent wearing them. 

Ratchet twisted the wire back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Eyes running up and down the length of it, not really seeing nor paying any real attention to the image being shown to him but just using it as something to give his eyes to do. A vain attempt in distracting himself from the maelstrom of thoughts brewing in the recesses of his mind, fighting closer and closer to the focal point of his consciousness by the second. 

His neck was sore, his back even more so. His ass ached, prickling needles ran up and down his legs from the lack of movement, his arms felt heavy, his fingers taught and sweaty. His eyes wanted to look to the door facing his far right, each brief glance toward it was promptly shut down and ignored. 

No, he will not open it. No, he will not open it. No, he will not open it. No, he wi—

He wanted to tell himself to stop thinking that, to shut the hell up and somehow silence that mantra repeatedly screaming itself at him. As much as he wished to tell himself to silence the thought, he wanted just as much for him to completely ignore it and blot it out from reaching his consciousness. No part of him desired to entertain the thought whilst every part of him wanted to kill it. 

Another part of him laughed hysterically, holding its sides as it rolled back and forth on the floor. The part laughed and laughed, pointing mockingly at Ratchet with a skinny finger as more guffaws fired from its wide mouth. Entertain it or not, Ratchet had already acknowledged this thought’s existence before even reaching a conclusion. The thought had already wormed its way into his consciousness, it had already made itself known to him and now no matter what decision he made it would still sit there, rotting away in the corners of his mind until it drew hi—

Ratchet’s jaw hardened, eye twitching as he shot a hole into the third part’s face, taking great joy in the way it's crumpled flesh smoldered from the blast.  He took a breath, resuming the debate within him which he wasn’t paying any attention to at all whatsoever. 

If he entertained it, he would have to acknowledge it, if he had to acknowledge it he had to think about it, if he had to think about it he would have to reach a decision, if he had to reach a decision he had to think about hi—

If he killed it, he would have to acknowledge it, if he had to acknowledge it he had to think about it, if he had to think about it he would have to reach a decision, if he had to reach a decision he had to think about hi—

A fist slammed itself down into the aluminum of the table. He raised it, hovering for a moment before crashing it back down. He raised it once more, tightening his fist and shot it down even harder. He grit his teeth, veins in his neck stressing as his fist pummeled into the table. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat, a vicious sense of satisfaction and fury flowing through him at the sound of every KLUNK! against the table. 

A warm, fatherly laugh. 

KLUNK!

A strong, towering physique. 

KLUNK!

A flash of tired yet welcoming, yellow eyes.

KLUNK!

A flash of white and red.

KLUNK!

Those eyes brimming with anger.

KLUNK!

Desperate gasps for air, blood pool—

KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK!

Ratchet heaved, savage breaths wheezing in and out of his tightly clenched teeth. A chorus manned by thousands of screeching voices bellowing one name over and over and over:

Aliste—

KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK! KLUNK!

KLUNK!

Silence. 

Short wheezing breaths flew from Ratchet as he stumbled over, leaning hard against the table, head hung low as he put a hand to the back of his head. Fingers digging into the fur with a shaking, tightly formed fist. He curled the fist tighter, twisting the strands of fur caught in his grasp and tearing a few pieces out. 

He groaned, coughing coarsely and grimacing at the thick flehm coating his table as he did. He took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out in a slow, shaky exhale. Body deflating as he did, resting his hot forehead against the cool metal of the table’s surface. 

“Ok,” he whispered. He wet his lips, smiling tightly before wetting them again. “Ok,” he repeated. He rapped his knuckles against the table twice, taking a quick breath before wrenching himself upwards. Leaning against his fist still firmly planted into the table for a brief moment before pulling it back. 

He looked down at it, rotating it this way and that, checking for any damage. He hoped it wasn’t as bad as it hurt. He poked at his throbbing knuckles, wincing slightly. He huffed out a breath, shaking his head a little. “Nothing a little ice won’t fix,” he muttered. 

He glanced down towards the dent in the table, sucking on his cheek as he took in the sheer size of the cavity. He cradled his throbbing fist closer to his chest, healthy hand coming up to rub absentmindedly over the bruising knuckles. He huffed, shaking his head as he traced the rim of the dent with two fingers. “Could just…buffer that…buff that out later,” he muttered, “sure I got something round here for that.” 

He didn’t give a shit about the dent. 

He closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head. “You’re ok,” he whispered, “you’re ok man. Just a little bug in your head, that’s all. Just a little bug. Killed plenty of bugs before.” 

He sat slowly eased himself back onto his bench, back resting against the table’s edge as he leaned forward on his knees wearily. His head hung low between his legs, hands rubbing up and down the length of his forehead and the base of his long ears. 

“You’re ok,” he repeated. “Just a little bug. Been a long week, that’s all.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, nodding slightly.

Three months. Three whole months had passed and nothing . Not a single major threat had reared its ugly head, not a single villain had made their grand appearance, not a single cult had risen up, not a single violent rebellion had exploded into action, nothing. 

Absolutely nothing has happened these last few months except for peace . 

He’s tried looking for trouble, done everything in his power to somehow run across someone or something in need of being blown up. Despite his best efforts, everything came up dry. Has the entire city of Metropolis, by some horrible miracle, become absolutely crime free? Has the entire planet itself turned into some Utopia? 

He had spent days, literal days sitting by his phone. Picking it up and slamming it down every other minute when he found no new calls for help. He had spent hours listening intently to each and every radio frequency available, finding nothing but every host talking about just how good things had been. He even widened his search to the entire Solana Galaxy itself and somehow, to Ratchet’s complete and utter bewilderment, there was still nothing to be found. 

He should be happy! He should be overjoyed! He should be ecstatic! Finally, finally there was peace! Finally his years of hard work had paid off! Finally he could rest his head easy at night knowing there was nobody out there being viciously torn apart!

But it didn’t! Not one bit!

He wanted things to go back to the way it had been before. He wanted the fight back. He wanted the blood back. He wanted the explosions back. He wanted the broken bones, the shattered teeth, the scattered brain matter, the scorch marks, the twisted metal, the clashing fists, the meaty stomps—he wanted it all. He needed it all. 

He needed the distraction back. Please, he needed the distraction back.

Was it selfish? Yes. Was it cruel of him? Yes. Would people think he was a psycho if he had told them so? Yes. Was he fucked up? Yes, absolutely, but he’d be even more fucked up without the fucked up shit happening every single day. There just wasn’t a place in existence anymore for this Lombax if things weren’t being blown to smithereens.

 Before he had loved the breaks, loved the downtime between fights, loved the feeling of settling down into his warm bed, loved the way he and Clank would just sit together in silence after a mission well done, loved the peaceful morning after a fight—he loved it all. Hell, he preferred the peaceful downtime over the dramatic fights seven times out of ten. 

Sure, peacetime had bored him in the past, take the adrenaline away from an adrenaline junkie like him and it’s a quick way to knock the wind outta his sails. But it had never sent him into this state of panic before.

Before, a quiet moment alone had never filled him with so much dread as it did now. Before, lying down at night had never instilled such fear within him. Before, tinkering silently with whatever tool at hand had never made him shake so hard. 

Before him, he was normal. 

He couldn’t blink without seeing his face, he couldn’t sit still without hearing his voice, he couldn’t sleep without hearing his laugh, he couldn’t just think without some part of him forcing its way into his mind. 

Ratchet wanted to hate him, wanted to cast him from his mind completely. Ratchet wanted to scorch every inch of his brain until no small part of him remained. Ratchet wanted to purge him from existence. Ratchet wanted to blot every memory of him out with a big black marker. Ratchet wanted to hate him. 

He also wanted to feel his warmth once more. He wanted to listen to him talk for hours and hours about the most mundane of things. He wanted to laugh himself silly at his dry humor. He wanted to make him laugh in return. He wanted to make him proud. He wanted to walk alongside him once more.

Ratchet hated him. He loathed him. He resented him. He disgusted him. He cursed him. He shunned him. He loved him. He cherished him. He adored him. He respected him. He missed him. He scorned him. He despised him. He disregarded him. He ignored him. He admired him. He honored him. He prized him. 

He missed him. 

He hated him. 

He wanted him out. 

He wanted him out . 

He wanted him to get the fuck out of his head.

He hated this, detested it, despised it, desperately wanted to do anything in his power to avoid feeling it entirely. It all made his skin crawl. He itched, he was so itchy. He scratched and scratched and clawed and tore away, blistering and bleeding and splitting his skin as his claws raked through his fur. He hated this feeling.

It was a constant nagging sensation. It tap-danced away inside his skull, stomping his brain to mush. Grey matter and splintered fragments of his skull leaked from his nose, his eyes, his ears. The nagging feeling still danced away, slipping and sliding across the mushy paste now rotting in his skull. The feeling stomped, it danced, it hooted and hollered, and it stamp stamp stamped away at his head. 

His eyes blurred, his ears rang, his lungs heaved, his hands shook, his legs locked, his eyes squeezed shut. Clamping his hands to the sides of his head, he squeezed them together, mushing his face in a desperate attempt to rid himself of this horrible pounding in his head.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Here he was, the great savior of the multiverse, the one who had saved the entire dimension and all of the infinite others from complete eradication. A hero for god’s sake, an unstoppable force of nature who has stared down countless eldritch abominations throughout his lifetime. Someone to rally behind, someone to be inspired by, someone to hold the line against immeasurable odds, someone who was strong . 

That very same hero, that very same unstoppable force of nature, now sitting here like some weak minded fool, sniveling and wheezing to himself like some pissbaby coward. That same hero who had tanked devastating blow after devastating blow now desperately clawing at his head in some vain attempt to rid himself of some meager headache. 

This wasn’t him—this wasn’t Ratchet , this was some poor random fool who wanted to play hero. 

It really was pathetic. Downright shameful. 

It made him sick.  

Ratchet rocked back and forth, ducking even lower between his legs. His hands dug into the nest of fur atop his head, pulling and twisting at the strands in desperation. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his throat tight, his breathing labored. Sweat coated his body. His legs bounced, rapidly shifting up and down and up and down and up and down squeaking against the bench. 

He rocked faster, choking on sobs as he pleaded for his mind to be good to him. He wanted to go back. Send him back a few years, just please send him back to a time where he could distract himself. He’d give anything, he’d do anything, just please send him back. 

Hell he’d even take a few months if years were asking for too much, just anytime that was far far away from right now. Send him back to Nefarious, send him back to that horrible Emperor Nefarious, send him back to a near multiversal collapse, send him back to that thrilling adventure, send him back to that wonderful distraction, send him back to R—

“Ratchet?” Called a worried voice. 

He froze. 

Frigid beads of sweat seared their way down his scorching face. His heartbeat boomed like great vicious drums of war in his ears, head pounding in tune with the heavy rhythm banging out from deep within his skull. It felt as if the air had been sucked right out from him, chest falling still as the clump in his throat grew exponentially. 

He cleared his throat, a garbled excuse of a sentence tumbled out from him. Coughing harshly into his hand, he tried once more. A strangled noise once more erupted from his raw esophagus. He sniffed harshly, rubbing his hands down his face as he took a steadying breath. 

 “...yuh…” He coughed once more, “Y-yeah! Er–what’s up?” He shouted out, turning his head towards the far locked door of his garage. 

A few seconds of silence ticked by. A part of him believed that he had simply imagined the voice during his fit. 

“Are you alright?” The voice, now realized as Clank’s, called out once more. 

Ratchet ducked his head, shame and embarrassment flooding his system. Of course Clank heard his tantrum, how could he not? Wasn’t exactly a shining example of subtlety with him nearly puking his guts out over some damned memory. 

“Yeah I’m–I’m good, buddy,” Ratchet said, “just got lost in thought for a second there.” 

Ratchet could hear Clank’s mouth open slightly, clacking shut in what seemed like hesitance. “Anything I should concern myself with?” He asked through the door. 

Ratchet licked his lips, “Nah man, it’s–it’s nothing really.” Ratchet chuckled, waving his hand casually in a performance he wasn’t sure was for. He scuffed his boot into the ground, itching at the skin beneath his nose. “Everything is a-okay.”

A few more seconds of silence passed between them.

 “...Are you sure?” Clank called once more, “Not wanting to pry but it sounded like—”

“I promise you,” Ratchet butted in, “it's nothing. Really. I’m ok.” His eyes burned, bottom lip starting to wobble once more. 

Ratchet would never be able to repay his gratitude to whoever was concerned that the heavy door of his garage stood between him and Clank. 

“Alright,” Clank finally mumbled, no part of him sounding satisfied with Ratchet’s answer. “I’m going to be gone for a while, I have some matters to attend to…” Ratchet heard the shuttering of his eyelids. “...Are you going to be alright?” 

Ratchet nodded his head, eyes glued to the floor. His hands whiteknuckled against the bench, shaking slightly. 

“Ratc—”

“Yeah! Sorry yea—yeah,” Ratchet’s mouth hung open slightly, “I’ll be ok. Call if you need anything man.” 

“Of course, you know where to call if needed.” 

Ratchet said nothing. He stared at the door, mouth set in a firm line. He heard the whisper of a sigh come from the door, the little footfalls, the faint jingling of keys, and a door further away opening and closing shut. 

Ratchet deflated like a balloon, crumpling down into himself and leaning back on the bench. His back rested against the cold metal of the table, a small shiver ran up his spine at the contact. His head tilted back, letting gravity suspend his neck in a position that was in no way comfortable.

He stared hard at the impossibly bright light above him. Squinting slightly as he felt more and more of his corneas go up in flames. Closed his eyes, waiting a few seconds before opening them again, glaring hard at the light. His eyes burned up, he closed them, he opened them, his eyes burned up, he closed them, he opened them, his eyes burned up, he closed them, he opened them, his eyes burned up. 

His head still pounded, his hands still shook, his breathing was still ragged, but he was…alright; alright as he could be considering everything. His eyes felt charred yet the feeling was not unwelcome. It was something different, something opposite from what he was feeling before. Something he could use to distract himself with. 

If it meant permanent damage to his eye sockets to get rid of that feeling from before, so be it. He could always invest in an Optometrist. 

So he sat there, opening and closing his eyes. Some time had passed, the specifics unknown to him—could have been seconds, minutes, or hours even. He didn’t know nor did he really care. He closed his eyes again, leaving them shut. His head craned back further, the tips of his long ears licking the surface of the table behind him. 

Bzzt!  

His eyelids twitched, eyebrows drawing closer together in confusion. He raised his ears as much as he could, straining the muscles in their attempt to locate this new sound. Nothing was heard besides the gentle transfer of air in and out of his nose. His ears relaxed. 

Bzzt! 

His eyes opened with a glare. Wincing at the bright light above him, he wiggled his way back upright, arms flailing out as he did. Ratchet’s elbows settled onto his knees, still sore hand coming up to itch at his raw nose. He squinted at the ground, ignoring the small droplets of water scattered around his booted feet. ‘ Phone,’ his mind whispered. 

He blinked, sitting upwards with a start. His mouth hung open slightly in thought. His breathing, although still ragged, slowly evened out. He sniffed, grimacing at the wetness of his nose before snorting again. He dragged a hand across his nose, grimacing further at the snot now coating his glove. 

His hands plopped into his lap, his mouth still hung open. 

Phone.

He blinked. 

“Phone,” he muttered, “p-phone…that was—my phone. My phone!”

His head snapped to attention.

He slapped his hands against his thighs, feeling up and down his legs in search of the device. He twisted around, mouth settled into a tight line with eyes wide as dinner plates. His eyes roamed the desk, swinging his legs around the bench clumsily he wildly rummaged around the metal surface. 

He flung scrap aside, looked under tools, shuffled blueprints around, tore open wires, rummaged through drawers, coming up dry. “Come on I know it’s here somewhere,” Ratchet muttered through his teeth. He frantically dug around more, eyes straining and scanning every nook and cranny hoping to catch a glimpse of it. 

He swore under his breath, slapping his hands against the metal upon not finding it among the clutter of the desk. His head snapped forward, blinking a few times before he pursed his lips. He whipped his head towards the right, eyes locking on to a teeny little handmade table sitting besides the storage door.

There, sitting right on the edge of the table, was Ratchet’s phone. 

“Ah ha!” He hollered, a wide grin splitting his face in two. 

He dove from the bench, getting his foot caught on the edge before crashing down, loudly and painfully, in a pile of twisted limbs. He scrambled back to his feet, knocking a bucket clean across the room and spilling even more tools along his clumsy stumble to the table. He crashed into the table, scrambling up on wobbly legs and slapped a hand over his phone. 

He held the device triumphantly over his head, grinning like mad. “Yes!” Ratchet whisper-shouted to himself. 

It had been ages since he last received anything from his phone. The thing had been so dry as of late he genuinely believed he must have accidentally turned off the notifications somehow. He checked and checked and checked the device’s settings countless times every single day. Each check constantly reminding him that no, the notifications were not turned off, you just weren’t needed. 

Finally, finally his phone was giving him something to work with. Maybe it was a new mission? Maybe it was a distress call from a faraway galaxy? Maybe a new tyrant had risen from the shadows and was holding all of existence hostage? Maybe Nefarious launched a surprise air raid on the city’s congress building? Maybe someone just needed someone dead? 

Ratchet’s mind ran wild with the possibilities, each one making him more and more excited than the last. His tail swished happily behind him, he bit down on his lip in an attempt to keep a giddy giggle from bubbling out his throat. 

He held the phone close between his gloved hands, thumb shaking from nerves. It missed the power button multiple times, he growled slightly and pressed it firmly against the button. The screen came to life, the sheer intensity of the light blinding him for a moment. When he came to, he shook his head and practically shoved his face into the device’s display. 

His excitement plummeted. 

His face fell, his tail froze, his eyes widened, his grip slacked, his breath stilled, and his stomach exploded in a dizzying mixture of sensations: Dread, shock, alarm, confusion, and a hint of fear. 

Despite the overwhelming amount of horror mixed in his stomach, slight tendrils of something warm slowly wiggled their way through the edges of his system. Just before his eyes, laid two messages— messages , not alerts or warnings. 

-uyo

-yo****

His eyes slowly peeled themselves away from the messages, settling onto the name displayed near the top of his screen. 

[Rivet]

He blinked, straightening out and leaning against the wall. A thumb pressed down against the screen, idly tapping at the chat bar. He bit at his lip, thumb shifting to drag the display down slightly. His eyes caught a glimpse of the last message shared between them, another message from Rivet.

- of course talk to u later man 

A little emoji of a Reaper giving a toothy smile and a thumbs up sat at the end of her message. He remembered how borderline obsessed she was with using those, going so far as to communicate using nothing more than emojis for an entire day once. 

He smiled slightly at the memory, a ghost of a laugh blew from his lips. He scrolled up a few more inches, smile growing wider and wider by the smallest of margins at each message he read. He stopped once he reached the beginning of the conversation of that day, eyes focusing on the date sitting on the middle of the screen. 

-07/26/5368-

A pit began to form in his stomach. His thumb traveled to the top of his screen, swiping down quickly, reaching a new menu. He read today’s date, the pit in his stomach grew.

- 09/18/5368 -

He frowned. Swiping away the menu and staring down at their old conversation. 

That couldn’t have been right, surely there must have been a mistake. His thumb dashed to refresh the conversation, heart sinking further when the date remained unchanged. He shut the phone off, clicking it back to life and waiting the few seconds required for it to reboot.  The date remained unchanged. 

His frown deepened. 

It really had been that long. 

Just about two entire months had slogged by and neither of the two had shared a single word. Not even a small hello, or how are you doing, or what’s up, or see anything funny on TV—nothing. Absolute radio silence from what Ratchet remembered to be one of the chattiest people he’d ever encountered. The two could be watching paint dry on the side of a cruiser and she’d somehow find a way to transform this mundane act into the most exciting extravaganza ever witnessed. 

She was an absolute riot, the type of person you could always count on to brighten any room they’d step in tenfold. No matter how pessimistic things got during their adventure, she always managed to find some way to drag morale out of the mud and breathe a new whiff of life into it. Pit her up against the most vile, grotesquely amped up, mega-behemoth of an adversary and she’d meet it head on with a laugh. It was one of her many attributes of which he admired. 

Clank had called her their own personal ray of sunshine, Ratchet would be a damned dirty liar if he didn’t agree. 

Ratchet’s eyes drifted through their last conversation again. Paying real attention to the words shared this time—words shared on both sides. His chest felt dull as he read through it. A part of him wanted to smile once more at Rivet’s antics and kind words, the majority of him was numbed by his complete lack of any real response to her. 

Rivet was animated, excitedly retelling the events of her busy day and all the little amusing intricacies which went into each little task, trying her absolute heart out to construct a healthy and steady flow of conversation between the two. Whereas Ratchet was…barely present. Rivet’s attempts at forming conversation would have been more successful with a piece of plywood. 

Her paragraphs were answered with one or two words, her jokes were answered with a stale haha, her detailed explanations of her duties were answered with a dusty ‘oh wow,’ her worried questions regarding his wellbeing were answered with a flat ‘I’m fine,’ her gentle prodding to get him to respond to just about anything she said were answered with a ‘sorry I was busy.’ 

Ratchet only answered her, he realized. He gave no responses, nothing for her to bounce off of and really engage with him. It left a sour taste in his mouth. 

Ratchet stared down at his phone, sharp canines digging into his lip. He had never considered himself to be the greatest texter around but even he knew that this was a whole new level of dry. The pit which had formed in his stomach spread, spidering it’s way up his abdomen and weeding it’s way through his chest. He felt tight, like a fist had closed its way around his heart. 

‘She didn’t deserve that ,’ his mind echoed, ‘ doesn’t deserve any of that.’  

Throughout his entire time of knowing her, she had been nothing but kind to him. She had proven herself time and time again that she was a trusted confidant, someone his soul knew would have his back even if his brain fought against it. She didn’t deserve to be completely disregarded like that, nor did she deserve to be practically ghosted for nearly two whole months. 

Memories of just how…nice it was to have someone like Rivet around floated through his mind. Conversation was never rare between the two before, even during their busiest days doing whatever random crap needed to be completed they still found more than enough time for each other. 

A fact which made Ratchet feel…odd. Not necessarily in a bad way, but not necessarily in a good way either. It was a strange sensation of something just barely warm enough to be considered pleasant mixed with a whirlwind of dread. It was unpleasantly pleasant…pleasantly unpleasant? It was odd. 

Odd that for the first time in a long while, Ratchet had found himself actively and willingly setting aside time for another person. He was taking chunks out of his days and dedicating it entirely to talking and spending time with another person. A person who made his face sore from just how much they made him grin throughout their talks.

The last time he had done something like that was with Talywn, a fact which he shot down and incinerated immediately, chalking it up to mere coincidence. Rivet was a friend, friends set time apart for each other all the time, this was nothing new. 

Friends also build first-of-their-kind interdimensional messaging gateways for each other and each other only…who doesn’t? 

He remembered the day clearly. It had been a day or two after the defeat of the Nefariouses. The city was still mostly ruined, buildings were ravaged, streets were demolished, key infrastructure was on its last legs—the city, hell even the whole planet itself, was a solid gust of wind away from total collapse. 

Despite the calamity, the two Lombaxes sat side by side, about a foot’s worth of space separating the two. They were perched atop an overturned column belonging to a nearby bank, its marble surface cracked and dirtied by soot. The sounds of powertools, indistinct shouting, and the hurried footfalls of Constructo-bots resonated from all around the two. Rivet and Ratchet were in their own little bubble, right smack dab in the middle of it all.

No words were shared between the two, only sound flitting between them were the soft smacks of their mouths as they munched away on sandwiches Clank had prepared earlier with the assistance of Kit. Their eyes were bloodshot, their fur was matted and sticky, their muscles ached, their bones creaked, and the various bandages wrapped around their battered bodies itched painfully. 

The two had spent the entirety of the day prior being hauled off in an emergency caravan and tossed into a hospital for treatment. Ratchet had whined and moaned that he was ok, that all he needed was just a little Aspirin and a pack of ice. Multiple CT scans showing concussions and even more scans showing a multitude of fractured bones finally shut him up. 

The doctors recommended a full day and night of bedrest, Ratched had whined and moaned again. Clank, with the hesitant help of Kit, had stood vigilantly in front of their hospital room, ensuring that neither Ratchet nor Rivet would sneak away from their rehabilitation. Ratchet pouted, Rivet called it a sleepover.

In the end, the two had gotten the worst sleep of their lives. 

Ratchet leaned heavily into his knee, one arm barely supporting his weight while the other shoveled slow bites of sandwich into his maw. The air was warm, the sandwich was warm, the column his butt was planted on was warm, and the body sitting mere inches away from him was impossibly warm. All the perfect conditions for a nap. 

Ratchet peered over towards Rivet, just barely holding back a snicker at just how exhausted she looked. Her ears hung low, her fur was a dull grey opposed to her usual pristine white, her eyes were flat, her lips were set in a scowl, her clothes were filthy, and she stank.

‘A beauty,’ his mind had said. He didn’t have the energy to kill the thought just yet. 

Rivet blinked slowly before sliding her impossibly blue eyes over towards him, catching his gaze. She raised a lazy eyebrow, tilting her head back slightly. A smirk found its way onto Ratchet’s face, his eyes raked up and down her form before meeting her gaze again. He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head towards her. 

‘Gross,’ he mouthed.

She rolled her eyes before parroting his same actions right back at him, making a big song and dance out of the way her eyes roamed around him. Her eyes snapped back to his, she tilted her head towards him while squinting.

‘Disgusting,’ she mouthed. 

A laugh barked from Ratchet, surprising him and catapulting a few pieces of half chewed sandwich onto the floor. Rivet’s nose crinkled at the sight, a metal fist came down to clock him on the shoulder. Ratchet chuckled some more, burying the grossest pieces of chewed food in dirt using the toe of his boot. Rivet shook her head at him, a small huff of a laugh blew from her nostrils. 

Ratchet felt the tip of Rivet’s tail flick over his own, engulfing the tails end with her warmth. His mouth dried considerably at the contact, he coughed softly into his elbow. It suddenly felt thirteen times hotter than it had previously.

“So…” Rivet suddenly drawled, startling Ratchet out of his thoughts with jump. “Looks like you got your work cut out for you over here,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the destruction surrounding them. 

Ratchet blinked, glancing around as if just now taking in the extent of the damage around him. “Wha–oh. Yea, gonna keep us busy over here for sure,” Ratchet chuckled. “Lots of work…lots…” he mumbled, coughing once more into his elbow. 

Her tail was still sitting on the tip of his. 

“Don’t even wanna think about the mess waiting for me back home,” she groaned, head flopping back dramatically. “I mean if those two gear-heads could completely wreck this much just from being here for like what,” she counted off her metal hand, “like—three, four hours? Imagine the hell-pile of garbage I have waiting to sweep up from a thirty-something year long rule.” 

“Ugh I know! Chores! Cleaning! How will you ever make it through this one?” Ratchet moaned, leaning dramatically into her personal space. 

Rivet sneered down at his mocking grin, elbowing him in the stomach. “Y’know damn well what I mean you dolt,” she grunted, “It’s a lot more than just cleaning.” 

Ratchet curled an eyebrow, idly rubbing at his sore stomach. “Not sure I follow…” 

Rivet sighed, a hand pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ok, look. You’re used to this, not your first rodeo by a longshot. Everyone’s gonna be looking for someone to look towards to help fix everything—and seeing that this responsibility usually falls into your lap…” she trailed off, fingers tapping idly against her crossed arms.

“Probably gonna fall into mine back home...y’know, seeing as you’re my dimensional counterpart or whatever the hell,” she muttered, scuffing her boot into the dirt, clearly upset. 

Ratchet chewed on his lip in thought. She wasn’t…wrong. Chances are what usually is his responsibility of damage control, leadership, and overall reassurance that everything was going to be ok would be Rivet’s own responsibilities back home. If everything else about his life was seemingly mirrored in hers, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to believe her post-hero-work duties would align with his. 

Ratchet frowned.

“Awh…hey I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to poke fun,” Ratchet apologized. 

Rivet glanced at him, lips falling into a flat line. “N-no it’s ok—don’t apologize. No need for me to get so butthurt about this after everything we’ve already dealt with.” 

“I mean, I’m still gonna apologize if I upset you,” Ratchet chuckled.

“And I’m here to tell you that there’s no need. So don’t,” Rivet snickered.

“I still will,” he cleared his throat, “I’m sorry.” 

“Well now I’ll look like a dick if I don’t accept it,” Rivet laughed. 

“Wha–but I’m the dick here. I’m the one who upset you,” Ratchet said, waving his sandwich around. 

“Dude,” Rivet groaned, “are you always this difficult?” 

“Apologizing is not ‘being difficult.’” 

Rivet leveled him with a flat look. “I’m gonna put dirt in your sandwich.”

Ratchet squinted at her. “You wouldn’t.”

She met his gaze, a smile slowly inched across her face despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. She leaned down ever so slightly, leaning inch by inch until the tips of her fingers made contact with the red dirt beneath them. Ratchet’s eyes flicked down to her fingers before snapping back to her gaze.

The corners of his mouth twitched, several small breaths and chuckles bubbled from him. Every attempt to speak was thwarted as an army of tiny chuckles continuously barreled out of him, his smile spread wider and wider all the while. 

“Yo—you w-wouldn’t,” he squeezed out between his breathy chuckles. He turned his body from her, shielding his sandwich. 

Her tongue darted out to wet at her lips, her sharp canines found purchase in them after. Her smile narrowed as did her eyes, looking like some feral feline getting ready to pounce. Which in hindsight he should have seen coming, especially after making that simile in his head, but she still managed to catch him off guard with her sudden lunge towards his person, metal fist caked full of dirt. 

He screamed, flailing backwards and bringing his knees up to block her lunge. She redirected quickly, brushing her tight abdomen against his knees for a brief moment before stamping her feet down, sending a red plume of dirt out around her and towering over him. He rocked this way and that, trying desperately to dodge her dirt filled fist and protect his delicious lunch. She laughed hysterically all the while, trying to hold onto her own sandwich as she tried desperately to slip past his defenses. Ratchet’s panicked screams gained more than a few odd looks from the surrounding bots.

Ratchet lunged forward with a laugh, crashing into her and quickly wrapping an arm around Rivet’s waist. He felt her stiffen slightly before he hoisted her in the air with a grunt. He just barely got her lifted up over his shoulder when he felt his knees buckle, his back strained to carry her weight. Good gods above she was nothing but dense muscle. 

She smashed the dirt into the top of his head, noogying it in as she screamed at him to put her down this instant. He laughed, sputtering on the tart dirt particles falling down into his mouth. He spun the two of them in circles, going faster and faster with every rotation. He could feel a dent forming in his skull from Rivet’s attack. 

Her fluffy tail whipped around to smack him across the eyes, causing him to trip over his own feet and send the two of them plummeting down. Rivet landed on her ass back onto the column with Ratchet crumpling into a heap of limbs, half on the ground and the other half in her lap. 

The two struggled to catch their breath, Ratchet much more so than Rivet. She was a lot heavier than she looked, he knew that she had a pretty good amount of muscle on her but not that much. The newly learned fact made a distant part of his brain pop a champagne bottle. He shook his head, grimacing.

‘Shut up ,’  he told himself.

He looked forward, noticing that a bit of Rivet’s shirt had hiked up during their battle. It wasn’t much, a good inch exposed at most. It shouldn’t have been enough.

It was enough.

His head shot upwards, mortified at the prospect of Rivet catching him creeping. Thankfully, she wasn’t paying attention; however, this new viewing angle bestowed upon Ratchet caused several more champagne bottles to pop within his head. 

Her head was craned back, mouth slightly open and eyes closed as she slowly caught her breath. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead, down her nose, down the side of her panting mouth, down her jutted chin, down the thick lines of her neck, and disappeared beneath her collar. Her shirt had dampened under the sweltering heat, crumpling up and slightly sticking to her figure. Faint outlines of hidden curves and strong muscle hid beneath her shirt.

Another bead of sweat dripped down her neck. 

An entire orchestra of champagne bottles were popping in his skull. 

‘Oh.’

He shook his head rapidly, scrambling to his feet and plopping down next to her. He stared at the ground, leg bouncing slightly as his ears refused to stop listening to her catch her breath. A sound which was doing little to put his mind at ease. 

“We… *huff huff* we both lost our sandwiches *huff* you jerk,” Rivet wheezed out, cocking a lazy sharp toothed grin his way. 

Ratchet looked at the scattered sandwich ingredients littering the dirt at their feet. He snorted. “Yeh—your fault,” he muttered. He made a move to scoot a bit further from her after noticing that he had sat a bit closer to her than intended. Just as he began to lean away, Rivet hoisted herself over and flopped down mere inches away from him. Her thigh brushed against his and he felt something in his mind snap. He stared, hard, at his feet.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

He heard Rivet turn her head towards him. “I accept your apology, by the way,” she chuckled.

Ratchet cleared his throat, glancing at her eyes but not quite strong enough to hold contact. “Oh uh…heh wh–what was that about again?” he asked as his brain attempted to rewire itself. 

A small breathy laugh escaped her. Her warmth blossomed across his side as she leaned closer to him. “You being a jerk, as usual,” she said. He felt her breath flit across his throat. 

“Ah,” he said lamely, still staring at his feet. An ant had crawled onto his boot, carrying a tiny piece of salami as it marched on. His eyes followed the little guy’s journey. 

He heard Rivet clear her throat, shifting slightly beside him. “And I guess I’m sorry too,” she muttered. 

He blinked, peeling his eyes away from his foot. “For what?” He asked. 

She rubbed at her neck, a small hint of red peeked through her fur. “I dunno…just–sorry for getting a little snippy with you for a sec there,” she mumbled. 

Ratchet smiled, leaning over to bump her shoulder with his. “Awh what? That? Pssh you’re fine don’t sweat it, been told a lot worse than that,” he laughed. 

“I know, but since we’re already apologizing y’know,” Rivet chuckled. “Oh, sorry too for being so quiet since we sat here, just been thinking about all that for a bit. Been stressing about it since things have settled down honestly,” she explained, looking down at her feet. 

“Again, you’re fine. Little silence isn’t gonna kill me,” he snickered, “don’t stress about all that though, if someone like me could get through that mess then someone like you definitely can,” Ratchet laughed.

“You really think so?” Rivet asked, looking at him uncertainly.

“I know so,” Ratchet smiled.

Rivet beamed back.

She had a nice smile.

Ratchet coughed into his hand “Besides,” he began, “you being all quiet earlier to think about things wasn’t really all that bad. Company is nice so can’t complain too much for lack of conversation,” he mumbled. 

Rivet snorted, he felt her tap a metal fist against his shoulder. “ Awhh ,” she cooed, “look who’s getting all sentimental.” 

“And wow. The moments ruined,” Ratchet mumbled, face blazing. 

She cackled, whipping her head back during her mirth. Ratchet smiled despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t deny she had a cute laugh.

A platonically cute laugh. 

She sighed, leaning heavily into her knees on her elbows. “You’re so easy to tease,” she snickered. 

“Uh huh or have you ever considered that you’re maybe just a complete twerp?” 

“Well! If this isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

Ratchet growled. “One inch,” he seethed, “you have one inch over me.” 

Rivet cackled again.

Ratchet sighed, shaking his head. 

He heard a distant voice in his mind say it could get used to having her around. He heard others shout their agreements. 

“Even still…can’t say you’re wrong though,” he heard her start quietly. Ratchet turned to her, ears turned upwards. She was faced away from him, arms crossed as she stared at something out in the distance. He could just barely make out the edges of a tiny smile on her lips. “The company is really nice,” she finished, glancing at him briefly before looking away. 

Ratchet felt his heart freeze. 

“Really?” He blurted dumbly, teeth clacking shut the moment the words left his mouth. Heat exploded across his face like someone had turned a flamethrower loose on him. 

‘Smooth,’ his mind groaned.

He hadn’t realized she was facing him once more until he felt the soft touch of her breath against his neck. She was close, much, much closer than before. A feather of a touch connected their thighs together, it was enough to send his systems haywire. Her face was inches away from his, her warm breath tickled his jaw and caused muscles in his neck to twitch.  

His eyes met hers, he felt his mouth dry. 

All it would take was one small movement forward. 

He blinked, eyes widening slightly as he processed the thought. All it would take was one small movement forward. Great booming war drums hammered in his ears, his hands shook slightly, his legs felt numb, his chest felt tight, he realized with no small amount of alarm that he felt the need to vomit. 

“Really,” Rivet whispered to him, smiling softly. Ratchet fought with everything he had to somehow muster a smile in return, he could only pray that it didn’t look as shoddy as it felt. She was very close. Very. Very. Close. Had he already realized that? Because she was very close. 

Ratchet tried to stop the wiggling of his nose, fought tooth and claw to stop her scent from flooding his nose to no avail. His mouth went dryer.

He watched her eyes openly roam across his face, taking in his features one by one. Ratchet couldn’t even begin to hope to decipher the complicated swirl of emotions which ran through her eyes. A part of him wanted desperately to find out, the other part—the larger part of him, was scared to death of even stumbling across the first clue. 

He watched her eyes slowly rake down his jaw, sliding down the length of his neck before hitting his collar and beginning their slow ascent. His imagination had him seeing her eyes linger on his lips for a moment, surely the heat was really messing with his head. 

He swallowed thickly, leg bouncing incessantly against the warm marble. Her eyes moved to his leg, squinting at it a bit before smirking softly. She looked back to him, smirk widening before abruptly pulling back, settling a comfortable distance away from him. Taking her warmth and scent with her. 

He blinked, stunned.

Silence fell over the two once more. Ratchet used every bit of power in his brain to try and make any sense of what just happened between them. He came up empty. Just what was that? 

‘I need to…do…something,’ his mind slogged. 

Ratchet opened his mouth, turning his head towards her. She turned to meet him, eyebrow raised slightly. He bit his lip, sucking in his bottom lip before smacking his mouth open again. He sniffed, pushing air up into his top lip before deflating them. 

Rivet stared, a little smile on her face. 

He tapped a fist against his knee, nodding slightly. Rivet nodded along with him, eyebrows raised into her hairline, her little tuft of hair bobbing up and down. He stopped nodding, she stopped nodding. 

“So,” Ratchet started.

“So,” Rivet parroted.

Ratchet’s fist tapped against his knee three times. He pursed his lips, smacking them as a dumb smile formed. 

“So,” Ratchet began again, “since you’re so stressed about not knowing what to do back home, I wish to propose a solution,” he said, arms crossed against his chest, eyes closed sage-like. 

He didn’t elaborate further than that. 

“...And that solution being?” Rivet eventually asked, head tilted. 

“I will…give you my number.” 

‘Smooth.’  

Rivet blinked, ears falling flat against her head before shooting erect. “You’re giving me your number?” She asked, incredulous. A hint of pink now dusted her neck. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Ratchet’s eyes popped open. “Do you not want it?”

Rivet’s eyes widened. “NO!” She blurted, lurching forward. She cringed, gritting her teeth before settling back in her seat. “I mean no—I mean! Yes! I mean yes. Not yes as in I don’t want your number but yes as in uh well yes…I uh…” She sputtered.

“Yea,” Rivet mumbled. 

Ratchet blinked. “So you want—”

“Yes. I want your number.” 

A stiff smile appeared on his face. “Perfect! Er wait—you do have a phone right? Like a phone phone and not a…communicator thingie.” 

“Yes! Yes I uh…yes I have a phone,” her hands pat up and down her legs, “...which I do not. Have on me right now. Kit. Kit got it.” 

“Kit got it?”

“Uh huh.” 

They stared at the ground. 

“So , ” they both said in unison. 

“Oh uh sh—you. You first,” Ratchet babbled. 

“Oh f—no go ahead,” Rivet flabbed.

The two stared. 

Ratchet waved his hands in little circles. “You first.”

“Huh? Right! So…” Rivet clapped her hands together, “What’re we gonna use the uh–the phones for?” She asked with a crooked smile. 

“Oh well just…work stuff. Give you some pointers, tell you what to say to certain people er…yadda yadda yadda,” Ratchet explained lamely. He raised a hand, idly shaking it back and forth between the two. “Like I guess this—this is work stuff. Hero work stuff."

Rivet looked at his hand, eyes widening and head nodding in a way that said she had actually no fucking clue what he possibly could have meant by that.

“Of course, I see,” Rivet ooo’d.  

“Exactly. Normal work stuff between us two,” Ratchet said. 

They were silent again, staring at their feet once more. That ant had returned, this time with three of his friends. The three were trying to carry away a large piece of lettuce together. Ratchet rooted for them. 

“Question,” Rivet suddenly said. 

“Wuzzat?” Ratchet slurred, still watching the ants plan on how they wanted to go about carrying the food. 

“About the phones.”

“Uh huh,” Ratchet hummed. The ants had cut the lettuce into three separate pieces. 

“Are they for like, work use only or can I text you uh outside… of work?” 

Ratchet’s head whipped around. “What was that?” 

“Well I mean—I think our work relationship would…prosper? Yea prosper if I were able to, y’know, text you outside of work,” Rivet blubbered. “Build teamwork and all that good stuff.” 

She wanted to talk to him. Outside of work. She wanted something further than work buddies. 

Ratchet smiled. 

“Well I can’t really see any problems with that,” Ratchet mumbled. 

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” Rivet muttered, tiny smile planted across her lips. 

Ratchet looked at her, smiling at her smile. “Guess we will,” Ratchet muttered. She smiled wider.

The two looked away from each other, smiling at the dirt in front of them. Ratchet felt her tail wrap around the end of his once more. 

It had taken them, with additional help from Clank and Kit, about four hours to successfully figure out a way for their devices to handle interdimensional text messaging. Shortened version, they stole a cell tower, sawed it down, stuffed it into Ratchet’s garage, and rerouted its signal to bounce off their devices and their devices only. It had been a headache. The testing was an even bigger one.

Some messages were completely lost to the void, others managed to send but somehow along the way the message was rebounded to its original phone causing it to reboot, sometimes the messages flat out failed to send in the first place.

Some responses were received from time to time, much to the excitement of the two mammals; however, their excitement quickly gave way to confusion (and slight terror) whenever they realized the response didn’t come from either Lombax. Some foreign messages were eligible, some were in what seemed to be forgotten languages, and others looked like someone had vomited a bunch of shapes and symbols onto their screens. 

Nonetheless, the system was still created and a few test runs solidified their belief that they were all set. 

Now, all that was left to do was for Rivet to go home. Something which made Ratchet feel…something. He didn’t know what that something was, but there was no part of him which wished to investigate the matter any further. It was normal to be down over a friend leaving, nothing more nothing less.

It was normal to not want that person to leave, it was normal to want to convince them to just sit around for a few more hours with you, it was normal to briefly consider tampering with the Dimensionator so you could spend the next couple hours repairing it with her—all normal things. All platonic things. All friendly friend-o friend things. All buddy buddy things.

She had hugged him right before she had left. Not a little side hug, not a one armed pat on the back, not a little squeeze n dip, no. She had hugged him, an honest to god proper hug. It had all left him a little lightheaded by the end of it. 

She had been pressed far too close to him for him to even begin to even hope to think clearly. He was able to feel every inch of her strong frame pressed flush against his. Her head was tucked away into the crook of his neck, her arms wrapped around his back and gripped at his shoulders, her fur was unbearably soft, her warmth was unbelievably so. Goosebumps riddled his skin as his brain desperately tried to reboot itself.

Every single tiny readjustment from Ratchet to try and get even the smallest modicum of space between the two bodies was met with quick and fierce resistance from Rivet. Every time he moved away, she would chase right after his repeating form, flushing her body tight against his once more. Rivet somehow appeared to be getting closer and closer to him at the end of every one of these dances. It was almost as if the very notion of empty space between their bodies was taboo.

His hands shook at his sides, awkwardly hovering in the air. His face steamed, thick droplets of sweat rolled down his forehead. Slowly, ever so slowly, his stiff hands found themselves upon her shoulders. He rested them there for a moment, absorbing as much of her warmth as he could from the feather light touch as he could. 

He felt her shoulders twitch at the contact, twitching more when his hands remained still as a statue. Taking a risk he didn’t quite understand, he slid his hands down her shoulders, stopping just at the middle of her back. He risked a glance towards her, heart almost leaping from his throat when he found one bright blue eye already staring, half-lidded, back at him. 

He held her gaze, knowing just how easily visible his nerves were. Nerves from what he wasn’t quite sure of. He snaked his arms around her back further, not stopping until she was held securely in his arms. Holding her frustratingly unreadable gaze all the while. 

Held. He was holding her. 

Her eye closed, a small breath escaped her, warming his neck. She snuggled deeper into his embrace. He blinked owlishly, looking down at the arms wrapped around her stupidly. He slowly embraced her closer, raising himself up a bit and resting his head on her strong shoulder. 

This was…nice. He didn’t want this to end.

It ended. 

He still remembered the wink she gave him over her shoulder just before she plip’d away in a flash of bright purple. He stared at the empty space before her. 

He missed her already.

Three whole days would pass before he could muster up the courage to actually text her. He tried finding a believable lie to fool himself with to excuse his cowardnes, he found none. It was around two o’clock in the morning when Rivet’s phone received the first ding from Ratchet. It was four o’clock in the morning for Ratchet when he finally mustered up the courage. 

He had been lying in bed, doing nothing but stare at his grey ceiling for the past three hours. By the time he completed counting how many divots he had on his ceiling for the thirty-second time (four hundred and twenty three), he lazily reached out for the phone left charging on his nightstand. As much as he abhorred social media, maybe a few minutes of mindless scrolling would knock him out?

He powered the device to life, tapping in his password and prepared to swipe through his options on the home screen. His eyebrows rose, this…wasn’t his home page. He sat up a bit straighter, bringing the screen closer to his face. The mystery page was a contact page— Rivet’s contact page. Ratchet balked, releasing a tiny yelp as he hastily swiped out of the page.

He held the phone to his chest, chewing on his lip anxiously. He groaned, he did not want to think about her right now. His head burrowed deeper into his pillow with another groan as he mulled over the current predicament. His teeth played with the flesh of his cheek. 

No, he decided, he would not be texting her. 

It was far, far too late to send her a message. Stalling or not no one would appreciate a text at this ridiculously late hour, especially a text from a work acquaintance. He shouldn’t even be thinking about texting or not texting Rivet right now, instead he should be all wrapped up under his comfy blanket and asleep. He should be preparing for the arduous slog of tomorrow, not wasting precious hours of sleep over some coworker. 

So what if her hugs were nice and her laugh was nicer. So what.

His fingers drummed against his phone. 

No.

He will not text her. 

Ratchet put the phone back on his dresser with a huff, grabbing his blanket and turning away from the device.

…

“I’ll just…check my to-do list,” Ratchet muttered, spinning around to pluck the phone away. 

His phone came to life once more, the light momentarily blinding him. A few taps later he found himself on his to-do list. “Now, let’s see what’s on the agen—”

There was only one single task on his list. 

( ) Text Rivet.

A hard breath was blown from his nose. 

…

God damnit.

He blinked and he was back on her contact page. His thumb numbly tapped the ‘Send Message’ icon near the top of the display. Ratchet was greeted by an empty conversion log. A little blinking cursor sat alone in the message bar. He swallowed thickly before typing out a brief greeting.

- Hello, Rivet.

He stared, chewing on his lip. No. Too formal.

- hello rivet

He chewed some more. No. Still too stiff.

- hello riv

…Better. They were on a first name basis at this point right? They did seem a bit closer than your average coworkers. He shook his head, deleting the message before hobbling together a new one. 

- hey riv 

He squinted. Tap tap tap

- hey riv :)

…sure?

His thumb smashed down on the ‘send’ button and immediately tossed the phone to the side. Quickly reaching out and turning it over when it landed right-side-up. Ratchet leaned into his bed, hands covering his eyes. He groaned, pushing his palms into his sockets. “Was the smiley face really necessary?” He moaned to himself. 

He flipped over dramatically, flopping his face into his pillow and letting out another, this time muffled, groan of absolute anguish. He prayed she was asleep, he prayed that she wouldn’t ever see the message, he prayed her phone would spontaneously combust into a cloud of smoke. 

A sharp ding came from his phone, heart dropping as he realized his prayers were ignored. Ratchet lay there for a few moments, completely still. Once his brain finally registered what exactly caused that sharp ding, he rocketed upwards. Ratchet made a strangled noise as he scrambled to sit up straight, arms flailing about getting himself tangled in his blanket. 

He whipped his head towards his phone, face absolutely gobsmacked. No way she already responded. He had just texted her! Not even a full minute passed!

He swiped the phone up, holding it close to his chest in his clammy hands for a few moments before deciding to risk a quick peek at the screen. He hadn’t gotten past the third letter in Rivet’s name before he yelped and sharply angled the screen away from his eyes. 

He held the phone away from him, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes, breathing in deep before slowly letting it out. “It’s just Rivet,” he whispered to himself, “you can do this man come on.”

He raised the phone to his face. “...You can do this,” he whispered. 

His face contorted into a grimace as he turned the phone on, fearing the absolute worst.

- hey hotshot :)

He grinned. 

Ratchet blinked, knocking himself out of what seemed like such a distant memory. His hand still ached, reminding him of his tantrum earlier. Dull waves of pain passed through his fist with every beat of his heart. He looked up, jumping back a bit when he came face to face to the purple chassis of the Dimensionator. 

His eyes widened, whirling around to take in his new surroundings. Miscellaneous tools, old weapons, crates upon crates filled to the brim with random junk, numerous gears and bolts littering the floor, and a little dingy ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. The light of which casted the small grey room in a slightly sickly yellow. 

Storage room. He had wandered into his storage room.

He turned back towards the Dimensionator, squinting his eyes at it in contempt. He stuck a hand out, rubbing two gloved fingers up and down the side of the device. His fingers stilled, trembling slightly before pulling away.  

Ratchet put his hands on his hips, shaking his head slightly at the machine. “Piece of junk,” he muttered, “I outta throw you out already.” 

He walked around it, looking at it from all angles. He pulled flaps back, flicked at loose screws, rubbed away smudge marks—just fiddling with the thing as he regarded it. He laid his hand flat against the top of it, face contorting into a scowl.

“I,” he began, “do not like you.”

He raised his hand, slapping it against the top of the machine once more. “I really do not like you.” 

Ratchet is reminded of too many things he’d much rather not be reminded of just by staring at the infernal device’s chassis. 

“No,” he told himself, “No. Don’t think about that. You were just thinking about such nice things, think of—”

BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZT!

Ratchet’s left hand was vibrating.

His ear flicked, neck cringing at the odd vibrating sensation worming its way up his harm. His eyes peeled away from the Dimensionator, settling onto the phone gripped in his hand. It was still buzzing. 

He raised it, squinting lightly at the screen as he processed just what it was his itchy eyes were seeing. Oh, Rivet was trying to video call him.

He lowered the phone, smacking his lips lazily as he idly glanced around. His eyebrows pinched together.

‘Wait what?’

Ratchet choked on his spit, sputtering in place before yanking the phone back to his eyes. There was a picture of Rivet, despite his manic state he couldn’t help the small smile from reaching him if he tried.

It was a selfie she had sent him some time ago during one of their many phone calls. She was standing on some poor excuse of a ‘beach’ she and Kit had stumbled upon in one of the quieter corners of Sargasso. She wore a loose grey t-shirt and this dumb little black hat sat atop her head. Her stupid little tuft of hair was poking out the front of it, looking a bit disheveled. Her ears were a bit crooked due to the hat, seemed like it was just about a size too small for her head. 

The thing which still took his breath away even today was the big dumb smile stuck on her face. Her big blue eyes were squinted from just how hard she was smiling, her fangs peeked out from just behind her lips. Ratchet had been floored when he first saw the picture, it had floored him even more so now. 

Her metallic hand was raised into frame, giving the camera a peace sign. Kit could be seen somewhat off in the background, excitedly holding up what looked like a shell (it was actually an abnormally shaped rock, bless her heart) for the world to see.

Ratchet stared down at the picture, a whirlwind of emotions tearing through his chest. 

He missed her.

He took a quick glance in front of him, eyes settling onto the form of the Dimensionator. He reached out slowly, resting his hand atop its surface.

Ratchet sucked a breath between his teeth, rapping his hand against the machine.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered. 

His thumb pressed ‘answer.’ 

Chapter Text

The call hadn’t been connected for more than half a second before Ratchet hung up. 

He gawked down at his hand, miniscule fragments of a once competent mind working overtime to conquer the arduous task of figuring out what just happened. That very question of what made his brain throb, the second question of why made it seize even more. 

Frustration reared its head first, its cousins irritation and annoyance not far behind. What even was the point of getting yourself so worked up over something as pathetically microscopic as a phone call if you were just going to kill it before it could even have the chance to begin?

Confusion stumbled its way in next. Just why had he done that? What could have possibly set him off? How did something so tiny evoke such an intense and abrupt reaction from him? 

Fear drained his breath, embarrassment scorched his neck, dread shook him, nausea skewed his vision, hate tore at his skull—

Why was he so scared? How was he so scared? How had he gone from smiling stupidly to himself over treasured memories to hyperventilating like some angsty teenager? He can’t be scared of Rivet. He could not have been scared of her. There was no conceivable alternate reality in an endless string of alternate realities which led to even more realities within those realities where Ratchet was afraid of Rivet. 

Yet here he was, feet planted to the ground, wide unfocused eyes rimmed with unshed tears, tail wrapped so tightly around his leg circulation fought to continue, jaw clenched so tightly veins lining up and down his neck threatened to burst from beneath the skin. A putrid hotness swelled in his stomach. 

The microscopic part of him which was still somewhat cognizant realized he was shaking. No—not shaking, trembling . He was afraid. Why was he so damned afraid of her?

No, a quiet corner of his mind growled, not of her—as in, not afraid of who Rivet is. 

Afraid of what she is. 

A Lombax, snarled something deep within his skull. White fires of resentment licked the edges of his lungs, burning ever so slowly across the surface of his heart. 

A Lombax, just like him.

She was just like him. 

Ratchet’s throat burned, a horrifying gargle burped from him. His vision blurred, tears formed at the corners of his panicked eyes. His stomach lurched, forcing him to a kneel as his hands slammed flat against the cold tile of the storage room. His mouth was forced wide, muscles in his jaw straining as a burning liquid poured from him.

Bile, his brain finally realized, it was bile. 

He struggled for air, thick strands of spit and yellow phlegm hung from his gasping lips. He stared, bloodshot, at the putrid mess inches from his face. The stink forced yet another painful retch from him, more of the fetid liquid poured, splashing into the coarse fur of his arms. 

After what felt like an eternity, the relentless assault staged by Ratchet’s very own body ended. Deep, heaving breaths moved his body up and down. He coughed, gobs of spit flying from his mouth. His hands balled into fists, shaking from the intensity. If it had not been for the insulated gloves covering his claws, they would have pierced the skin of his palms. 

He grit his teeth, closing his eyes tightly. “Hayh...listr,” he slurred. Coughing harshly once more, a shaky hand rose to wipe away the filth coating his lips.

“Hate Alister,” he mumbled, “hate him. Just leave…just leave me alone.” 

He opened his eyes, glaring down at the foul puddle beneath him. He spat, hoping to rid his mouth from the rank taste plaguing it. 

“No,” he growled, “she is not like him.” Wobbly arms pushed him up, sitting back on his feet. His hands rested in his lap, still shaking. “And she never will be.” 

Every corner of his brain snarled.

Thousands upon thousands of voices jeered down at him, cursing him, damning him, condemning him to the worst punishments imaginable for his foolishness. She was to not be trusted—none of them were to ever be trusted, never again. We cannot willingly place ourselves in such a vulnerable position after what happened last time. 

They did not care for you, they will never care for you, they abandoned you and they will abandon you again, you are not one of them, you will never be one of them, they willingly left you behind, everyone else fit on the escape ships except for you—

Ratchet scrubbed at the vomit, lip curling into a grimace at its refusal to wash away.

—you mean less than nothing to them, an outsider, leftover trash, somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s burden, they will kill you, they will reject you, they will never live up to be what you’ve created them to be, they—

Disinfectant stung his nose, always so sensitive to the invasive stench of chemicals. A green stain was leftover, Ratchet hoped it would fade with time. 

He sighed, slumping his back into the wall. He let his head fall back, knocking against the drywall. Ratchet closed his eyes, listening to the mega-chorus of voices still shouting their curses at him, regurgitating words he’d already tormented himself with for years. 

Yes, Rivet was a Lombax. Yes, the Lombaxes abandoned him. Yes, the only person who had ever managed to actually kill Ratchet was a Lombax. Yes, the Lombaxes probably wanted nothing to do with him. Yes, the Lombaxes probably are nothing like the people he’s created in his head. Yes, the Lombaxes would see him as a freak. Yes, the Lombaxes would hate him. Yes, he was afraid of Lombaxes.

Yes, he was a Lombax. No, he was not a Lombax. 

He took a breath.

Yes, he was a Lombax. He was not a Lombax. 

He knew not one modicum of their culture, he knew nothing of their history, he did not know what Lombax society consisted of, he did not know what Lombaxes did for fun, he did not know any Lombax mythology, he knew nothing of Lombax traditions, he did not know how Lombaxes crafted their ideas, he did not know how Lombaxes worked with tools, he did not know how Lombaxes talked, he did not know how Lombaxes walked. He did not know how Lombaxes dressed themselves, he did not know how Lombaxes styled their fur. 

He did not know of Lombax social hierarchy, he did not know of Lombax ethics, he did not know how Lombaxes were supposed to act around other Lombaxes, he did not know how Lombaxes acted in different situations, he did not know how Lombaxes were supposed to behave at another Lombaxes house, he did not know if Lombaxes even lived in traditional houses, he did not know if it was custom for Lombaxes to even visit other Lombaxes homes.

He did not know how Lombaxes fell in love, he did not know how Lombaxes hated each other, he did not know how Lombaxes made friends, he did not know how Lombaxes comforted each other, he did not know how Lombaxes contributed to their community, he did not know how Lombaxes cared for their children, he did not know how Lombaxes courted their mates, he did not know how Lombaxes got sad, he did not know how Lombaxes got happy.

He did not know. He will never know. They might all be fucking dead, and that he might never even know too. 

The only thing which made him Lombax was his DNA. 

The fur on his skin, the curve of his ears, the stripes along his body, the fuzz of his tail—that was all. The only things which made him a Lombax. 

The only things which made Rivet a Lombax. 

She knew nothing of who they were, what their people have accomplished, none of it. Whatever morsels of information Ratchet has regarding just what the fuck a Lombax is Rivet has even less than that. She was no Lombax, she was just a Lombax. 

No, he was not scared of what she is, for she is not truly the thing he fears. 

She was just…Rivet. As much as he was just Ratchet, he realized.

Two lonely Lombaxes, left to fend for themselves against a reality that wanted nothing more than to see their kind die out. An endgame which Ratchet couldn’t decide he opposed or not. 

He bonked his head against the drywall. He sniffed, chewing at his cheek as he opened his eyes. He nodded his head once, feeling a sense of clarity. The newfound epiphany gave a sense of clarity of which he had not felt in who knows how long. It felt strange.

His eyes scanned the floor, wincing slightly at the reminder of the putrid stain now ruining his storage room. Ratchet’s eyes stopped on his phone, face down against the tile. He stared at it for a moment, dizzying tendrils of dread sparking to life in his gut. He shook his head, setting his jaw as he stomped towards the infernal device. 

Snatching it up quickly, he glared down at the screen. Catching a glimpse of his horrid reflection in the darkened screen before it clicked to life. His eyes roamed the screen, squinting slightly. His eyebrows rose upon locating his target.

He glared down at Rivet’s contact page, forcibly replacing the suffocating dread clogging his stomach with fiery determination. It did nothing to actually alleviate the overwhelming pressure in his gut, however the brief mental fortitude it offered more than made up for it. 

His thumb hovered centimeters over the ‘Call’ button, wavering slightly. He took a breath, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He cleared his throat, raking his tongue across his sharp teeth. 

“Come on Ratchet,” he whispered, “Got through a hell of a lot worse than this.” 

Taking one last steadying breath, his thumb brushed against the ‘Call’ button. 

His screen darkened, a dial ringer sang from the phone.

Ratchet leaned back against the wall, hesitantly placing the phone up to his ear. He couldn’t decide which was louder, the ringer blowing his ear out or the pounding of his heart. His hands already felt clammy, she hadn’t even picked up yet for God’s sake. 

She picked up on the fourth ring.

The line was silent. He could just barely pick up on the faint sounds of her breathing.

‘Better than nothing I guess,’ he thought. 

Ratchet opened his mouth, words dying on his tongue. A strangled sound squeaked out his throat, a cough followed next. He cleared his throat, spinning round to rest his forehead against the wall. He closed his eyes.

“...Hey,” he said weakly. 

No response. 

Ratchet pursed his lips, gnawing on them slightly. His head nodded, not all that surprised to find she was upset with him. 

“I uh…I guess I’ll start this off by saying sorry. Because well—I am, so. Y’know. Uhm.” 

He swallowed. ‘Going fantastic so far.’

“I am sorry. I won’t peddle some bullshit excuse to you, I-I know I messed up,” he mumbled, “Wasn’t right of me at all, and you one hundred percent did not deserve any of that.” 

Still nothing.

“I er…apologize profusely and will continue to do so ‘til the day I drop dead,” he chuckled dryly, praying to whatever deity listening that she would chuckle back. Hell, he’d take even a small huff of air—anything to let him know she was actually hearing his words. 

He heard a sigh come from her end, sounding infinitely more tired than he was expecting. The sheer weight behind it made his heart sink.

“About eighty percent of me is screaming it’s head off trying to convince me to just say that it’s fine and forget about it solely from just how nice it is to hear your voice again,” she finally said. 

A weak smile spread across his face. 

“But that other twenty percent is pretty damn hard not to side with,” she huffed, “you…really hurt me man.” 

Ratchet’s face dropped. “I…I know, Rivet. I know,” he muttered. 

“It’s just—you just left! Completely out of the blue! Didn’t even bother with a courtesy call every once in a while just to check in,” she yelled, causing him to wince away from the phone. “I mean, what was I supposed to think?” 

He sighed, pushing his forehead further into the wall. “I wish I had an excuse to give you—I really do. But I don’t,” he choked, “I really…really don’t. I’m sorry.” 

He heard another long sigh come from her end. “It’s just…fuck it’s just nice to finally hear you again,” she whispered, “what happened? I’ve been worried sick.” 

Ratchet sighed. “It’s a lot.”

“How much?”

“Very.” 

He heard her grunt. 

“...Scale of one to ten?”

“Rivet,” he said, exasperated.

“You,” she growled, “have no right to get upset with me right now.” 

He coughed, shrinking slightly under her admonishing tone. “R–right. Sorry.” 

She sighed. “Stop apologizing.” 

“Ok. Sorry—shit sorry–uh sorry—GAH!”

His mouth snapped shut. 

A small chuckle came from his speakers. He smiled. ‘There we go.’

“Good to see you’re still a mess,” she laughed.

“Would never dream of changing.”

She laughed again, his smile widened. 

“But seriously,” she started up again after a beat, “It wasn’t…I didn’t do anything to uh,” she cleared her throat. “I didn’t do anything to make you leave, did I?” she asked quietly. 

Ratchet’s heart plummeted, crashing through the floor and falling to the center of the planet. “Wha—no. No . Riv–you could—,” he stammered, “Rivet, no,” he said firmly. “You could…you could never do anything to drive me away, ever.” 

“Ok,” she said quietly, voice small. She cleared her throat. “Ok,” she said, firmer this time, “y’know, just uh…making sure.” 

Ratchet nodded.

“You wanna talk about it?” She asked after another beat.

Ratchet cringed, hand reaching over to itch at the inside of his wrist. “Not particularly,” he mumbled. “At least not right now,” he glanced over at the stain on his floor, “I uh, made myself throw up over it just before I called you. So yeah.” 

“You what?!” she yelped, the faint sound of a chair screeching against concrete was heard. 

“I er…threw up. Like vomit. You know, puked everywh—”

“Ok! Yes! I know what vomiting is!” she gagged.

“Oh. Great. Yeah I did that.” 

She gagged again, utterly repulsed. “That sounds horrid.” 

“It was. It was also very warm—”

“MUTED! YOU’RE MUTED NOW!” 

Ratchet cackled. ‘I missed this.’  

“I’m unmuting you now,” Rivet huffed, “do not make me regret this.” 

He waited a few moments. 

“There were even some huge chunks of—”

“ALRIGHT!” Rivet yelped. 

Ratchet grinned, shaking his head fondly. He swallowed thickly, throat suddenly feeling immensely constricted. “So uh,” he coughed into his elbow, “we good?” He asked quietly, folding in on himself, praying she'd say yes.

He heard Rivet blow a raspberry through her lips. She was silent for a few moments, those weeds of dread claiming more and more territory in his gut at each passing second.

“I…” he heard Rivet start before falling quiet once more. 

“I don’t really know,” she finally muttered. 

Ratchet nodded, mouth too full of weeds to speak. 

“A part of me is still upset—angry, even. I hate to say it but you ghosted me man,” she said after a beat. “But, ” she said before he could open his mouth, “judging from just how…tired you sound, I can’t help but get the feeling that what’s been bothering you is something a lot more complicated than what I understand.” 

She groaned. “I don’t know man, like—I know you’re hurting and I know something has been really fucking you up but you hurt me too. A lot. But even knowing that I just—” she groaned again, muttering curses under her breath. “I miss you,” she mumbled. “Ok? I miss you. I’ve been missing you. And I’m really mad at you and I want to wring out your stupid neck until your eyes pop from your stupid skull and I just miss your stupid face.” 

The weeds rotted away. “I miss you too,” he whispered, voice pathetically small, “A lot. I mean re—”

“That’s it,” Rivet suddenly butted in, “Nope. Nah ah. Nada. No more.”

Ratchet blinked, momentarily pulling his phone back to stare at it in bewilderment. He faintly heard several more variations of ‘No’ fly from the speaker. 

“Rivet wha—”

“No. Shut up.”

His mouth snapped shut. 

“You’re depressing the hell out of me and me being the endlessly generous soul that I am, I just couldn’t rest my head easily if I left you out to dry so heartlessly,” she huffed, “and ‘cuz I miss you but that’s besides the point.” 

Ratchet’s lips barely opened a millimeter before she cut him off once more.

“So here’s what's gonna happen, alright? You are gonna hang up this call, then you’re gonna try your absolute heart out in making yourself look all pretty, and then you’re gonna drag your furry ass out of your house and meet me at the Gastropub in no more than an hour. Capiche?” 

Ratchet blinked, a wave of heat passed through him at her harsh tone. “Wha—”

“Capiche? ” She repeated, firmly.

Another wave of heat blew through him, harder this time. “Yes ma’am,” he said dumbly. 

“Good boy,” she cheered, he could practically hear her smirk. 

He blinked again, hard. His entire being was on fire. 

The line fell silent, no sounds but their quiet breaths passed between them. Every single nagging voice crammed between his big ears, those of which tried their absolute hardest to get him to never speak another word to her previously, screamed at him to say something— anything to fill this suffocating quiet.

“So…,” they both drawled in unison, immediately falling silent after. 

Ratchet itched at his damp neck, the building’s central heating systems must’ve kicked in. He stared down at his feet, lightly scuffing a toe into the tile below. He sucked his bottom lip in, chewing. 

“Did you just say good boy?” 

Rivet sputtered, a garbled flurry of horribly incoherent sounds flew from her mouth. “You said yes ma’am!” she defended hotly. 

Ratchet’s eyes bugged. “Are you seriously comparing yes ma’am to good boy?” 

“I would argue that yes ma’am is worse?” Rivet said weakly. 

“You sound very confident in yourself there, wowzers.” 

“Ok well,” she sputtered, clearly embarrassed, “you—ah! You liked it!” she suddenly hollered, sounding like she had just struck gold.

It was Ratchet’s turn to be embarrassed now. 

An excruciating heat spread across his chest, licking up his neck and burning at his cheeks. His mouth flabbed open and closed like a fish out of water, throat incredibly tight. No part of him wanted to even slightly entertain the possibility of him even thinking about the reaction her words caused within him. 

“You know I don’t really know what to say to that,” he strained through clenched teeth, endlessly flustered. 

“Alright so—good talk, great! Yep, see you in an hour! BYE!” Rivet's exceptionally, and unexpectedly, loud voice tumbled out. Complete embarrassment triple knotted through every syllable yelped. 

“Yep! It’s a date!” Ratchet blurted out, eyes popping from his skull as the sentence forced its way out of his throat. “I mean—NOT a date! I wouldn’t—I mean not that I’d say no, BUT—I meant you know I’d be—” He stopped suddenly, a plastic smile stretched painfully far across his face. A muscle in his neck twitched. 

“I’m gonna go,” he said. 

“Right. I will too. Go, I mean,” she said. 

“Righty-o, see ya soon.” 

Three small beeps chimed in his ear, signaling the end of their call. A long, low groan growled from his throat, face exploding in red. His head dropped into his hands, pressing his face firmly into his palms. 

‘That,’ his mind said, ‘was pitiful. ’ 

A maelstrom of panicked thoughts began to brew in the back of his mind, the beginning twinges of a headache pinched at the back of his head. Ratchet shook himself, slapping his face lightly to keep his head level. No time for another breakdown, he had a clock to beat. 

Ratchet stumbled out of his garage, speed walking down the dark hall, whipping around the corner and nearly took his bedroom door off its hinges upon swinging it open. His face twisted up in disgust at the state of the room before him: dirty clothes strewn about, empty takeout wrappers littering just about every surface, unmade bed covered in piles of unfolded laundry, multiple piles of what he could only describe as junk were placed sporadically around the carpeted floor—if someone had told him a fusion grenade had gone off in his room he’d believe them without a doubt. 

Somehow, the area had taken on an entirely different humidity than the rest of his house. The sheer stickiness of the heat made him pause, a disgusted shiver ran down his spine. It was almost as if the room had an entirely different ecosystem than the rest of the flat. 

He tossed his phone on the bed, chewing on his cheek in thought. He took a peek down at his attire, face falling flat at the sight of a ratty tank top and black shorts. Rivet would surely skin him alive if he dared to show up looking like this. “Closet,” Ratchet muttered, eyes roaming until they settled on the white door left to his bed. 

Nodding once, he took a step towards his destination, tripping slightly on an old soda can. He glared down at the garbage, sending it whizzing across the room with a swift kick. “Whatever,” Ratchet grumbled to himself as he tripped over more of the endless piles of junk strewn across the floor, “depression rooms are supposed to be dirty anyways.” 

After much more effort than it ever really should have taken, Ratchet reached his closet. He yanked the door open, frown deepening at the extremely limited options presented to him. Ratchet hummed, crossing his arms in thought before reaching out to pull out a basic grey flight suit. 

He gave it a brief glance before tossing it over his shoulder with a small grunt. “Nope.” 

A familiar orange caught his eye, he quickly snatched it out with a delighted smile. Can’t really go wrong with a classic, he decided. The form-fitting garment had barely snaked its way past his head before he stilled. Ratchet stood there, arms raised dumbly above his head, vision completely blocked by the titian fabric. 

‘...in making yourself look all pretty ,’ echoed in the back of his mind, tone just as sharp as it had been before. 

He frowned, quickly yanking the old shirt off him. He pursed his lips in thought, eyes frantically darting around the warzone that was somehow his room. Ratchet blinked, an idea suddenly bursting from his skull. 

He grinned, stumbling quickly and digging through the mountain of clothes on his bed. He snagged his phone, quickly dialing Clank’s number as he hopped around on one foot in an attempt to squeeze his leg through a pair of old jeans. 

“Ratchet?” Came Clank’s hushed voice.

“Hey! Buddy, how you doing?” Ratchet exclaimed, pinching his phone between his shoulder and ear as his hands fumbled around with looping a belt through the jeans. 

“Yes hi Ratchet, I know I said you could call anytime but I’m in the middle of something rather—”

“Sounds great,” Ratchet butted in, hurriedly cuffing the ends of his pants, “hey listen, meet me at the square in like ten, alright?” 

“Ratchet, I’m–” Clank sputtered, a few hushed apologies were heard from him, “what could possibly be so important?” The bot hissed, annoyance biting into his tone. 

Ratchet’s neck flared up, his thumbs faltered in buttoning up his shirt. “Oh, uh, it’s Rivet,” he muttered, “wants to hang. Can’t see why she wouldn’t bring Kit with her. Figured it’d er…give us something to do?” 

Ratchet swallowed, nerves creeping through his stomach. “Well, I guess you’re already doing something but—y’know. Just wanted to see if you wanted to just tag along, or something…” Ratchet’s voice grew quieter and quieter the longer he flabbered. 

‘Tag along ‘cuz I’m too pissed scared to see her alone,’ his mind clarified. Somehow, Ratchet knew Clank knew what he really meant. 

He heard Clank sigh, no sound but the small whirring of his tiny machinery. “See you in ten, Ratchet,” Clank finally said, something sounding like amusement spilling into his tone. 

Ratchet smiled. “Knew I could count on you.” 

His jaw worked, bone shifting in small circular revolutions as molars broke the starch down into small, dry yet swallowable pieces. His lips curled, pursing upwards into his nose. His jaw completed another revolution, eyes squinting down at his basket as his jaw completed another one. He swallowed thickly, tongue traveling across his teeth, prodding gently at the sharp points of his fangs, tasting the leftover residue from his meal. 

He smacked his lips, leaning back in his seat. He tilted his head, nodding slightly.

These fries sucked. 

Ratchet frowned, shrugging lazily before tossing two more between his teeth. He looked away from his basket, eyes roaming the raucous environment of the pub. Zurkie’s had been a rowdy, overwhelming mess of a bar his first handful of experiences with it, an experience which was practically mirrored now. It was dingy, remarkably loud, totally crowded, dirt cheap, and immensely entertaining; a perfect place to forget about any and all responsibilities and get blackout drunk with whatever alien was at your side. 

The eerily familiar yet completely foreign voice of Zurkie rang out, calmly asking two slimy Octopus-like creatures who were getting a bit too rough with each other to either settle down or ‘take it outside.’ Ratchet chuckled, shaking his head, idly wondering how Zurkon was doing back home. Probably blowing a new hole in some unfortunate soul’s head. The picture made Ratchet chuckle again, shoveling three more bland fries down his gullet.

A raucous wave of jeers drove his attention to the right, squinting past the small crowd of what looked like pirates to peer through the bulletproof window overlooking the Battleplex. Some blue-skinned Hoolefoid was fending off what seemed like a small army of marauder bots. Its bulbous body practically danced between its aggressors with a grace typically not seen from the species, genuinely impressing Ratchet. Who knew murky old Merdegraw housed such secret acrobats? 

Just as Ratchet was considering making a bet on the old guy, the Hoolefoid misstepped, falling flat on its round face. Ratchet quickly decided he had gotten his fill of spectating after witnessing the alien get its jaw ripped off, arms flailing wildly as its gargled shrieks boomed from the speakers. Ratchet popped another fry as the group of pirates cheered, laughing uproariously. He caught a glimpse of a taller one begrudgingly tossing a number of bolts towards a shorter, stubbier bot’s laughing face. 

Ratchet briefly toyed with the idea of diving into the arena for a couple rounds, sweat out a few pounds of stress and nerves before his ‘date’ returned. Ultimately deciding against it, coming to the conclusion that Rivet wouldn’t be all too thrilled with him ruining his cleanup by getting covered in oil and blood. Besides, his hands were far too shaky right now to even aim straight. 

Ratchet tugged at his collar, skin on his neck gradually reaching the point of becoming unbearably itchy. The black button-up he wore contributed absolutely nothing to calming his nerves, much too tight on the sleeves and neck. He huffed, wiping his hands on a napkin before swiftly unbuttoning the top button, rolling his neck. Much better. 

He itched at his bare forearm with a claw, foregoing any type of gloves for tonight. A decision which made him feel a whole lot more exposed than he was expecting. He itched at his forearm some more, stopping suddenly and quickly smoothing down the bare fur. 

Clank had nearly snapped his neck in two from how hard he had suddenly tugged him back from the collar, shaking his head disapprovingly at the sleeves. Ratchet had stared down stupidly as Clank’s little metal hands worked fast, rapidly folding back the black sleeves to tuck them just under his elbow, exposing his forearms. 

Ratchet had stared down at his friend, completely bewildered. 

“Trust me,” Clank told him with a little chortle. 

Ratchet had turned his astonished stare to the giggling door-bot of the pub as Clank sauntered through the entrance. 

Ratchet stared down at his forearms, rubbing a hand up and down the muscle. His fur could still be somewhat considered a mess, no amount of thorough washes and brushes were able to fully settle it down from the mess it had been for who knows how long. It looked leagues better than it had before, no longer a sickly sticky yellow, more or less back to his red-orange shine.

He scuffed his boot into the ground, picking idly at the dark jeans which were a tad bit too tightly wrapped around his waist with an old felt belt. He sighed, glancing and grimacing at the still visible bags under his eyes in his warped reflection bouncing off the metal table. 

Clank had said he looked dapper, no big part of him believed his friend.

He reached out for the tall, brown bottle sitting next to his basket, a graphic of a bot with two X’s  where its eyes would be was printed on the front. His claws clicked against the glass as he rose it to his lips. He took a breath, a tart scent invaded his nostrils as he did, quickly tipping back a swig of the bitter liquid down his throat. He winced, sucking a quick breath of air through his teeth, never really been one to enjoy the bitterness of most beers. 

Ratchet’s eyes scanned the pub once more, roaming over an entire Wikipedia page of different alien species, brain not really processing any of the images provided by his lazy gaze. He suddenly stopped, blinking twice as he recognized the signature glow of Clank’s antenna. 

The tiny bot, Ratchet realized with a tiny smile, was currently wholly engrossed in a conversation with Kit. Green eyes spread wide as he leaned forward, little hands wrapped around a tin of petrol, mouth hung open listening to every single word which flew from Kit’s excited mouth with rapt attention. Kit leaned forward, bumping her shoulder against Clank’s before they both exploded into chortles. 

He saw Clank sigh, shaking his head slightly before catching Ratchet’s gaze, doing a little double-take at him. Ratchet smirked, eyes glancing between him and Kit with a knowing glint. Ratchet tipped his head forward, raising his eyebrows. Clank glanced at Kit, who was currently downing her own tin of petrol, before rolling his eyes at Ratchet. 

Ratchet rose his hands placatingly, smirk widening. He grabbed his bottle, raising it in Clank’s direction. Clank stared for a moment, huffing before raising his own drink back at Ratchet, tiny smirk on his face. Kit noticed their little toast, excitedly raising her own can towards Ratchet, completely oblivious. 

Ratchet laughed, knocking back another bitter swig of the dirty water. As awful as it was, the dirt was starting to grow on him. Still, he couldn’t help but wish Rivet had gotten something a bit sweeter for  him to sip on tonight. 

A door suddenly swung open, slapping loudly against the back wall. He jumped slightly, heart lurching into his throat. No one else had noticed, and if someone had, they gave no reaction. Ratchet gulped past the mass rapidly forming in his throat. 

‘Speak of the devil ,’ his mind taunted. 

He glanced back towards Clank, finding him watching something just behind Ratchet. His eyes shifted over towards Ratchet’s, smiling smugly. Clank raised his drink once more, tipping his head behind Ratchet, not breaking eye contact throughout. Ratchet rolled his eyes, scowling.

Ratchet took a breath, clicking his claws against the table before tossing a fry into his fangs. He twisted, placing an arm over the back of his chair as he looked behind him.

The fry immediately became lodged in his throat. Still not used to just how…amazing she looked. 

Gone was the bulky armor and overly high tech space wear he’d grown used to seeing her outfitted with. She followed in his footsteps by wearing something casual, something incredibly casual. It really was something so unbelievably plain, nothing noteworthy at all.  

It really wasn’t anything to lose one’s mind over.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t stop himself from gawking if he tried with all his might. 

His eyes settled on the appealing curve of her long ears first. The tiny little earrings jingled with every step she took—every purposeful and powerful step she took. She carried herself with such sureness, such absolute confidence it made him dizzy. 

His gaze found her eyes next, such impossibly blue eyes he could never get the sneaking suspicion out of the back of his mind that she used contacts of some kind. Always bursting with such an overwhelming amount of emotion it never failed to leave him absolutely floored every time he saw just how animated they could be. 

He looked at her lips, how they curved ever so nicely to form that radiant smile he’s been fighting to not be so easily charmed by. A voice wondered if they were soft, another said they looked soft, another asked if they would fit nicely against his. 

He shot and killed the third voice, throwing its body into the lagoon. 

His eyes roamed down her neck, swallowing thickly at the remembrance of just how tight her black tank top was. It was cut near the bottom, hiking up and stopping just in the middle of her waist, showing off a lethal amount of firm midriff. The faint v-lines of her strong hips dipped far below her dark jeans, dizzyingly low. Those same hips swinging back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, threatening to hypnotize him if he stared any longer. 

His eyes roamed her exposed arms, much much beefier than his own could ever hope to be. A twinge of something threatened to ruin the contents of his stomach, he threatened to kill everyone in his head if a single one even considered bringing the spotlight to the feeling. 

His eyes moved back to her chest, quickly looking away, face burning like magma. Low-cut, tight, and a noticeable bounce in her step, a recipe for total disaster. He shook his head, knocking back an extra large swig of the horrible beer. 

His mouth still felt dry even after the drink.

She had been drying her hands off with a wad of tissue paper, flicking it away and hitting a bot in the face with it. It snarled at her, screeching a large knife through the table in a silent threat. Rivet had turned to face it, walking backwards as she laughed at it, spreading her arms wide. 

Ratchet’s eyes bulged, drinking in every dip and curve of her muscular back as she moved. He felt lightheaded, even more so when his eyes caught a glimpse of her large, bushy tail, swishing side to side lazily with every step. The jeans she wore left very little to the imagination, Ratchet had never really considered himself an ass man before.

That very quickly changed. 

‘Shit,’ his brain balked. 

She had turned around then, visibly brightening at the sight of him. Ratchet felt his face flare up, ears lowering slightly at being caught looking—the knowing glint in her eye deepening his embarrassment. 

She hurried her advance, speed walking towards him with a smile so wide he couldn’t help but smile back. She made a big song and dance out of it, dopily swinging her arms wide like an idiot and bouncing unnecessarily hard with every step. 

He snickered, shaking his head slightly before turning back around, facing the table once more. He stared down at his depressing dinner, rubbing at his forehead. Trying to not melt from just how beautiful that smile had been, that smile that was directed towards him of all people. 

He was fucked, he knew it. 

Rivet passed him by, rubbing a forefinger and thumb along the length of his ear as she did before plopping into her chair, the legs squeaking from the sudden force. A vicious shiver ran down his spine at the contact, having to physically hold onto the edge of the table to stop himself from leaning into the touch. 

He was fucked.

He cleared his throat, coughing into his bare fist lightly. “Look who’s finally back,” he teased, forcibly shoving any and all strange feelings down, “was just about to go check on you. You fall in the toilet or something, Riv?” 

“Oh har har,” she laughed dryly, “not my fault you missed me so much, Ratch.” 

Ratchet recoiled, blinking hard at her. “Hold on,” he raised a hand, “roll it back… Ratch? ” He leaned forward, staring at her with wide eyes. “What on Veldin’s name is a Ratch?” 

“My genius new nickname for you, duh,” she beamed, stealing a fry out of his basket. 

He leaned back, pushing the basket towards her slightly. “Ah ok, of course. That’s repulsive, never call me that ever again.”

Rivet rolled her eyes, taking a deep swig of her own bottle. “Oh come on! That’s a good one! I legit just did exactly what you did to make my nickname,” she huffed. “Look,” she started, grabbing a menu and flipping it over. She nicked a pencil off a passing server-bot, lifting her chair and plopping herself right next to him. Ratchet leaned forward, hunching down low with her to watch her work, head leaned into his fist.

“Ok so you take Ratchet,” she said scribbling down RATCHET, “you following?” She asked him, staring intently. Her breath warmed his neck. 

He chuckled. “Uh huh.”

“Great, now watch closely. You cross out the last two letters,” she made two crosses leaving RATCH . “And boom. See?” She asked, tapping the pencil against the written nickname twice, looking at him with such a proud look in her eyes. 

Ratchet slowly nodded his head, widening his eyes to a ridiculous degree. “Wow ,” he drawled, sarcasm practically dripping from his mouth like drool. 

She huffed. “Ok, so I see you clearly aren’t getting it.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Reall—”

“Shut up. Watch,” she cut in, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Alright look, so you take Rivet,” she scratched RIVET into the paper. 

“So that’s how you spell your name,” he gasped, grabbing her wrist. 

She barked a laugh. “I just said to shut up! You are a horrible listener!” 

She shrugged his hand off. “Ok and then what you did was take away two letters,” she explained, crossing out two letters leaving RIV scratched into the paper. “The exact same thing I did to get Ratch!" she gushed, rapidly bouncing the pencil between RIV and RATCH. 

He slowly nodded, leaning back and rubbing at his chin. “I see…thank you so much for explaining something I already understood. What was it I was supposed to learn again?” 

She groaned, throwing the pencil at his nose. "It’s so well thought out you don't even know,” she complained, crossing her arms sourly. 

“No no, I get it. Very clever. Just have you considered that the name blows?” He asked. “Honestly sounds like a slur.”  

“You’re no fun, really,” she muttered, snagging another fry, dropping it onto her tongue. “Good thing I’ve got more for you,” she said as she chewed.

“Let’s hear ‘em then,” Ratchet sighed, reaching forth for a fry as well. 

“Ratchy.”

“Nope.”

“Stripes.”

“Eh.”

“Chet.”

“...Hm.”

“Rat.”

“Seriously?”

“Ok I really don’t see the issue with Ratch. How is it any different from you saying Riv? It's quite literally the same exact thing.” 

He rolled his eyes, stuffing a handful of fries between his teeth. “Except it's not,” said his muffled voice, “Ratch just sounds gross, like it’s not pleasant to say at all. Even less pleasant to hear for that matter.” He swallowed, coughing into his elbow. He sat upwards, reaching for his bottle. “I may not have a whole lot, but I’ve got enough self respect left in me to refuse being called that. Sounds demeaning” 

She scoffed, picking up her own bottle. “You? Self respect? Sure.” 

Ratchet snickered into the bottle, sipping lightly. “Riv just sounds nice—sounds pretty. Like you.”

Alarm bells blared in his head, what could have possibly made him say that? 

Her eyes widened, back straightening in shock. She stared at him, mouth stuck in a little ‘o’ hovering just above her drink. She seemed to fold in on herself, fingers tapping nervously against the glass of the bottle. “Well—I mean if you, uh, wanna put it that way. I guess uh…” she glanced at him, pink dusting her cheeks, “I mean you—”

'...Interesting reaction,' he heard his brain say as she continued to sputter, 'Roll with it.'

“Besides,” he cut her off, smirking lightly, “you like being called Riv.” 

Her mouth snapped shut. Ratchet could practically see the gears turning working overtime in her head. 

“You don’t know that for sure,” she muttered, a small smile on her face. 

“You’re just smiling for no reason then, huh?” 

Her smile widened. “Smile? You seeing things ok over there?” 

“So that—that right there. That’s not a smile?” He asked, pointing at her face.

“Nope!” She chirped.

“Really?” He deadpanned.

“Really.”

“Yep! Just one large grimace.” She was downright grinning at him now. 

“Lying's a sin, you know,” Ratchet muttered, munching on another fry. 

“You’re the liar, know you like being called Ratch somewhere deep down in that pit you call a heart,” she teased leaning into his arm. Her soft chest brushed against his side, an unbearable heat rocketed through his gut. He crossed his arms tightly, leaning back further into his stiff chair.

‘Too close.’  

He laughed, face burning bright at her proximity. He knew she could see it, even without noticing the teasing glint in her eye he would’ve known. She sighed softly, tilting her head before smiling up at him. She leaned into him once more, her chest pressing up against his fingers laying against his arm. They twitched, an impossible warmth flooding through them. 

Rivet looked at him, Ratchet looked back. 

“How you feeling, hotshot?” She asked suddenly, voice so soft he almost missed it. 

He blinked, tilting his head slightly, he grabbed another fry. “I’m good? Just relaxing wh–”

“No—I meant about earlier, when we called. You doing alright up there?” she asked softly, vaguely gesturing towards his head.  

“Oh.” He frowned, turning to look down at his chest. 

He hadn't thought about…any of that ever since he got here, honestly. No doubts, no worries, no itch for action, no Lombaxes, no Alister—none of it. He felt no paralyzing dread, no overwhelming need to vomit, no horrid sense of panic, no booming voices tearing apart his mind, no debilitating numbness, no melancholy—none of it. 

It was almost as if the past few months and their endless problems, their endless panics, their endless visions, their endless torture—it was almost as if it had all just never happened. All completely slipped from the mind with every second spent with Rivet. 

For the first time in the longest time, he could truly say that he felt at peace—and mean it, truly mean it with every fiber of his being. 

A part of him expected it to be a lot more complicated, that this required thousands upon thousands of more words to explain. That it needed paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing just how complicated the emotions and memories and feelings and thoughts swirling around endlessly in his brain were. A part of him needed it to be complicated, needed it to be an unclear answer, needed it to be a battle within himself to truly find a sense of clarity. That part of him which loved to watch him suffer would not accept any answer coming close to being perceived as simple. 

The reality is, the answer really was just that simple:

Rivet.

He looked within himself, really looked. He dug, and he dug and dug and dug and dug—searching desperately for something, anything inside him that held even the smallest fragment of dread, or the smallest figment of panic, or the smallest morsel of hysteria. He found nothing, hands filled with nothing but dirt.

He blinked.

He was okay. 

A warmth slowly through his chest.

He was okay.

“I’m alright,” he told her, softly. 

She watched him, blue eyes hardening as they flicked between his own rapidly, searching for the slightest sign of deceit. She searched and searched, eyes slowly softening upon finding none. She just stared at him then, unmoving, breathing quietly. Her breaths ghosted across his jaw, warming him. Something in his brain twitched, growing more and more antsy with each breath drifting across him. 

She was close, he realized numbly, so close. 

Four inches forward is all it would take, a voice said.

He knew she saw the thought cross his eyes the moment the voice spoke. He knew she saw the way his eyes tried not to linger on her lips. He knew she saw the way his tongue moved to wet his own. He knows she saw the way he struggled to swallow past the weeds clogging his throat. He knows she saw the way he ever so slightly readjusted his head. He knows she saw the way his eyes roamed her face with such reverence. He knows she saw the way he held his breath as she ever so slightly readjusted her own head. He knows she saw the way his hands shook as she leaned closer to him. He knows she knew he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. He knows she knew he was tired of pretending like he didn’t want to. He knew she knew he didn't care anymore. 

Her hand landed on his thigh, sending a tidal wave of electricity up his body. He twitched, heartbeat drumming in his ears. Every breath he took was filled with her scent, every breath further proving it to be more and more intoxicating than he could have ever imagined. 

His arms slowly, slowly uncrossed themselves, utterly afraid that if he moved too quickly the illusion that she actually wanted to kiss him back would be shattered. One hand gripped the seat of his chair, straining so tightly he felt the veins threaten to burst out from his forearm. The other rested gently against her own thigh in return, shaking slightly. Her breaths stilled at the touch, her stare hardening. 

Four inches forward. 

He knew he was crazy for her, knew it from the very second he first laid eyes on her all those months ago, in this very same building. He resisted it at first, of course, never wanting to admit the truth to himself. It would never work, he’d tell himself over and over. Too many different and bizarre parts at play for something between them ever reaching anything past mere acquaintanceship to ever work—it was impossible. Nothing more than a boyish daydream he could entertain himself with when he got bored, never anything tangible. 

She would never see anything of value in someone like him. He’s not a woman’s dream, not by any means. He’s just a hired gun who knows nothing more than how to work a wrench. He’s rude, abrasive, hard to get a hold of, even harder to keep a hold of, immature, a complete wreck—there is not one shred of any sort of gentlemanly charisma in his body. He’s always been a mess around women and any woman who’s ever wanted to pursue anything more than mere friendship with him have all either grown to hate or be disappointed in him by the end of whatever waste of time came from their brief and succinct entanglement. 

And it's been his fault, every single time. Always the blame, always the cause, always the reason, always the fault—always. 

Ratchet you’re hard to read, they'd tell him. Ratchet why don’t you talk to me? Ratchet you’re too blunt. Ratchet you’re too stubborn. Ratchet get your head out of your ass. Ratchet you’re unbearable. Ratchet this just can’t work anymore. Ratchet I hate you. Ratchet I can’t stand you. Ratchet that, Ratchet this, fuck you, Ratchet. 

If every story you’ve ever tried to become a part of all crashed into the same burning resolution then it’d make sense for you to be a bit wary when the next one came rolling around.

He just doesn’t care about falling into that burning pit anymore.

So what if the flames maim his skin beyond recognition? So what if he crashes just like every other time? Everything she does drives him mad. Every facet of her being drives him absolutely insane, every curve, every dip, every stretch of muscle, every smile, every laugh, every touch, every word, every smell, every sound—everything. 

The crinkle near her eyes when she laughs, her fangs that just barely peek from her lips in her smiles, her crude sense of humor, her insatiable desire for adventure, her indomitable confidence, her endless knowledge of machinery, her strength, her bravery—damnit just her. 

He can’t for the life of him figure out why someone as amazing as her could ever waste even a second of their time ever talking to someone as undeserving of it as he. 

He’s an idiot, goddamned fool he knows. How could he have let himself get this attached to her? How could he have let himself get this obsessed? 

Oh! Oh but things could have been so simple! It could’ve all been so easy! All this drama, all this mess could have been so easily avoided! All Ratchet had to do was get Clank back, defeat Nefarious, save the world, and just leave! But no! He just had to allow her to worm her way deep into his heart. It terrifies him, utterly terrifies him how someone in such a short period of time has managed to completely dominate every molecule of his person. She has completely taken over every aspect of his mind as of late and nothing he's done has even come close to alleviating her dictatorial presence from the hell-scape that is his psyche.

He’s doomed, so completely doomed he doesn't even know where to start and if she keeps staring at him with that dizzying look in her eyes he just might finally grow a pair and kiss her right here and now. In the middle of this dirty bar, filled with its dirty patrons, in its dirty corner of the endlessly dirty multiverse. 

He wants to kiss her. He needs to kiss her. 

Three inches forward.

His hand moved, planting itself firmly atop taught flesh. His hand coiled around the dip of her waist, resting atop her strong hip, fingers flush against her impossibly soft fur. He tightened his hold, claws digging deeper into her flesh, tugging her forward slightly. The heat of her body increased tenfold, threatening to ruin whatever remained of Ratchet’s pathetic composure.

She stared, hard, into his eyes. Pupils dilated so wide he could barely make out the stunning blue of her irises anymore. Her eyes were a whirlwind of emotion, his frazzled mind recognizing the blistering look of want. His other hand moved, softly caressing her collarbone before settling, firmly, onto the back of her neck. She licked her lips, he saw her thighs squeeze together in the corner of his vision. Something deep within him snarled at the sight.

He felt her hand move up his thigh, raising ever so slowly inch by inch. White hot flames were left in it's wake, searing into his flesh, threatening to shatter every coherent thought he had and reduce him to nothing more than an incoherent puddle. Her hand stopped atop his belt buckle, palm resting flat against him. His hips bucked, a movement she noticed, of course. Her other hand rested flat against his chest, slowly balling up more and more of his shirt's collar with each passing second. 

They both swallowed, eyes clashing together once more. 

She smiled at him, he felt his heart explode.

She leaned forward, closing the distance between them with a hunger in her eyes he’d never witnessed before. He felt panic shoot through him. This was really happening, this was seriously about to happen. Rivet was going to kiss him.

Rivet was going to kiss him.

Two inches forward.

Her breath ghosted across his shaking lips, just barely brushing against him, the small contact nearly flooring him. 

An inch forward.

Her eyes fluttered closed, lips so tantalizingly close to his own. He held his breath.

SLRRRRRP!

Their eyes snapped open. Millions of panes of glass shattered simultaneously in Ratchet's skull.

Rivet's pupils shrunk, the small pinpoints boring holes into him. Her gaze had blanked, all messages of want and lust completely drained away like a plug had been pulled. Her face exploded, red splattering across every surface as she leaned back. Her head whipped to her hands, face glowing even brighter upon seeing their suggestive positions. A strange sort of strangled sound wheezed from her throat when she saw his own hands flush against her. 

Rivet leaped backwards, chair screeching against the floor. Her head snapped to the side, breathing heavily. 

Kit now sat at the table, petrol tin in hand. A silly straw stuck out the top of it.

Clank was standing behind her, staring wide eyed, mouth agape.

Ratchet's horrified eyes collided against his. Clank grimaced. 

“Hiya guys!” Kit chirped.  

Chapter Text

The first and only time Ratchet had ever prayed to anything had been twenty three years ago. 

Veldin had been tough and the people stupid enough to call it home had been tougher. Something as ordinary as a smile had been a rarity, the mere act alone caused physical pain to most residents, faces so sunbaked flat-faced expressions quickly became the norm. An air quality so dry it shriveled up just about anything foolish enough to stand under its blistering sun for any longer than a few minutes. The very idea of winter was nonexistent, on Veldin there were three seasons: hot, hotter, and hotter still. 

Perfect for those wanting a tan, damn near inhospitable for just about everyone else.

If the heat didn’t kill someone chances are they’d turn up dead a week later anyways. 

If the wildlife didn’t tear someone to shreds then it was the laughably unstable cliffsides transforming them into a messy red paste which did. If the erratic rock slides didn’t flatten them then it was the poisonous plant life suffocating the life from their lungs. If the vegetation didn’t melt their respiratory system then it was the desperate raiders spilling their guts across the sand for chump change which did them in. If stab-happy raiders didn’t dissect them then it was the volatile dust storms which tore baseball sized holes through their fleshy bits which arranged them an appointment with the Undertaker. 

If something didn’t kill you, you could always count on something else just around the corner to finish the job. 

Veldin was tough, tough as nails.

Ratchet loved it. 

Muscled up brutes snapping each other’s necks for the crime of making passing eye contact, lumbering giants disguised as mere men patrolling the dusty streets, towering buildings made of pure steel scratching against the very stars above, shifty low-lives scuttering along the filthy alleyways with arms stock-full of smuggled goods, hulking law enforcement bots clunking through towns looking more and more like miniature warships with each passing week, and just about every ‘tough guy’ stereotype conceived by rational thinking minds stuffed into just about every single inhabitant of the planet. 

The entire planet itself behaved like some cheesy, ridiculously over the top action-packed holo-film. The type where you could just turn your brain off and enjoy. How could a holo-film addicted five-year-old kid like Ratchet not fall in love with the place. 

A place filled to the brim with so much wanton violence and disturbing characters would sound like an absolute nightmare for any kid to spend their most precious of developmental years. Which, of course, would normally be true if it weren’t for just about everyone in Ratchet’s Hooverville of a town generally completely ignoring his very existence. Any small glances periodically tossed his way were always filled with what seemed like a strange form of pity. A pity which Ratchet never really understood, a pity which annoyed him every time it caught his eye, a pity which wasn’t really deserved.

What was there even to pity? Why were everyone’s looks so sad when directed towards him? Why did everyone talk in such hushed tones when he was around? 

Again, what even was there to pity? 

He had asked an old fart he liked to tease named Ferklot, a cranky Jargonian so ancient his wrinkled green skin felt like the leather on the seat of Grimroth’s old motorbike, why everyone seemed to avoid him like the plague. 

Ratchet had stuttered something vicious over his words, not quite grasping the various intricacies of Galactic Basic Standard just yet—he was still a boy after all. After what seemed like a millennia of broken sentences, Ferklot decided to have some mercy on the poor kid and gently cut him off before he had the chance to somehow hurt himself. 

The Jargonian had told him that it wasn’t pity people looked at him with, it was care. “People ‘uh this town care h’bout you sonny,'' his quiet, breathy voice explained, “ain’t nuthin quite there t’pity h’bout you.”

Ratchet had believed him, of course. As old and cranky as Ferklot was, Ratchet still considered the Jargonian to be a friend. There was no reason for him to be dishonest, friends don’t lie to their friends—a lesson Ferklot himself had taught. 

Even still, Ratchet had found it slightly odd that Ferklot wouldn’t look him in the eye as he said that.

Days passed, weeks passed, months passed, those looks still passed him by every chance they could. Ratchet still could not even hope to understand why. 

There must have been something wrong with him, Ratchet figured. Did he smell funny? Did he talk funny? Did he walk funny? Did he eat funny? Did he sleep funny? Did he breathe funny? Did he write funny?

Did he look funny?

Come to think about it, Ratchet never really had seen another person who looked even remotely similar to him. Sure, there were the occasional stragglers who passed through who had some fuzzy fur covering them like he did, but that was about it. Any and all similarities just about died right there. 

No one had ears like he did, no one had a tail like he did, no one had claws he did, no one had stripes like he did, no one had teeth like he did, no one had eyes like he did, no one had feet like he did, no one had those strange pads on the bottom of his feet like he did, no one had such an orange color as he did—no one looked like he did. Not a single person.

That must have been it, he reasoned, he looked funny. Strange even. 

Ratchet found himself wondering if there even were people out there that looked like him. He’d spend hours sitting by the window, staring unblinkingly out at the dusty street, big eyes tracking each and every person who passed him by. A lizard looking fellow, a wet looking fellow, a stony looking fellow, a metal looking fellow, a soft looking fellow, a hard looking fellow, a tall looking fellow, and even a short looking fellow had wandered past his window.

No Ratchet looking fellow.

It bothered him, more so than anything else.

It shouldn’t have, no one else around seemed to be stressing about finding someone that looked like them. Was he weird for thinking about this? Was he weird for dedicating more and more of his time to find someone who had the same stripes as he? He hoped not. 

Again, no one else around seemed to be focused on finding someone that looked like them. Surely it wasn’t a big deal, surely it was something that didn’t deserve a second of his time. Survival laid at the forefront of everyone’s minds on Veldin, there was no real point in concentrating on anything else.

So what if the other kids down at that old ramshackle of a schoolhouse ostracized him, so what if Ratchet sat alone at lunch, so what if Ratchet played tag by himself during recess, so what if Ratchet worked alone on group projects, so what if the few kids who did actually look his direction called him freak—so what?

It all must have been deserved, unquestionably deserved, Ratchet deduced. No one else received this treatment, no one else was completely and wholly shut out in the same manner as he. He had been the only person around totally obsessing over finding his look-alike, surely that must have been the reason.

Surely, it was deserved. 

Sitting alone atop an aged stone wall, nursing a wicked black eye so generously donated from one of the larger kids on the yard, Ratchet decided that he was done with his search. Whatever small ember of hope smoldering in his chest which kickstarted this entire endeavor in the first place was all but extinguished. 

He returned home later that night with a new hope broiling in his chest, a hope that he’d finally be accepted by the others now with his ridiculous personal mission dropped. 

Ratchet passed the just barely left ajar door of Grimroth’s bedroom, a soft yellow glow spilling into the dark hallway from within. The tiny pitter patter of Ratchet’s small feet stilled, a small debate bursting to life in his little head. One part of him, the reasonable part, argued to mind his business and move on. Another part of him, the mischievous part, argued that there really was no major harm in taking just a little peak. 

Ratchet sided with the mischievous part, a devilish grin snaking its way across his face. 

He tiptoed slowly towards the open door, one foot falling achingly slow after another. His heartbeat boomed in his ears, nerves buzzing around his stomach like mayflies. His tiny ears pressed flat against his head, he hunched down low like the hunters in his movies. Fluffy paws slowly wrapped around the edge of the door, an even fluffier head peaked around even slower. 

Ratchet blinked, head tilted to the side as his developing brain struggled to comprehend just what it was he was seeing. 

Grimroth knelt just at the end of his small bed, large head bowed low with shut eyes. The tree trunks which made up his arms rested against the mattress, bent upwards with calloused hands laying against his forehead, just above thick brows. Six purple fingers were tightly interlocked, twitching slightly every few seconds before falling eerily still. 

His wide mouth was moving rapidly, tusks bobbing up and down as a flurry of hushed words spilled from him. Grimroth’s utters were far too quiet for Ratchet to make any real sense out of, only being able to just barely pick up on the slurred mess of his speech.

Just as Ratchet was starting to feel uncomfortable, Grim suddenly stopped in his muttering. His large head tipped back, eyes opening to stare at the ceiling above. Another whisper slipped from his chapped lips before he nodded once. A stubby thumb wiped at his swollen nose, heaving a sigh which sounded painful before swinging himself onto his feet with a grunt. 

The lights flicked off then, Ratchet just barely caught a glimpse of Grimroth’s tired face before it went dark. He backed away from the door, chewing on his lip, not quite sure how to make any sense of the bizarre scene. 

Ratchet had all but rushed to Ferklot’s garage the following day, tiny feet stamping against the dirt as he bolted, nearly sending the old Jargonian into the grave as he burst through the door. Ratchet had leaped onto the counter, words tumbling from his little mouth at mach speed before Ferklot could even get a single breath in. 

Ratchet clumsily acted out the bizarre scene from the night prior, flailing wildly as he desperately tried to make Ferklot understand just what it was he saw. Ferklot listened, bushy eyebrows raising higher and higher up his bald head as more and more words spilled from Ratchet.

After what seemed like an eon, Ratchet’s frantic babbling ceased. The kit stared wide eyed at the old alien, leaned forward expectantly, waiting with bated breath for Ferklot’s answer. Even to this day, Ratchet still remembered just how gobsmacked the old fart looked. Eyes blown out, wrinkly mouth hung open, great bushy mustache twitching every so often atop his lips. The display would have made the young kit giggle if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with his confusion at the time. 

Ferklot blinked, slowly, before leaning back in his rickety chair, shaky hand raised to itch at his lip. “Sounds somethin’ awful lot like prahyer,” the Jargonian’s warm voice wheezed out. Thick green eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Never took Grim t’be the prahyin’ type,” he muttered, almost as if it were an afterthought.  

“P…pra’er?” Asked Ratchet, the unfamiliar word tumbling clumsily from his mouth. His face scrunched up like he had just devoured an entire lemon, eyes squinting so tightly he could barely make out the shape of the old alien. “Wuzzat?”

"Wha’? No, sonny, prahyer,” Ferklot snorted. 

“...Prayer?” Ratchet tried once more, grinning at Ferklot’s affectionate nod. “Cool! Wuzzat?” He asked again.

“Hm? Oh er…lessee here,” Ferklot mumbled, rocking back in his chair. He tapped his chair’s arm twice, mustache wiggling as his brain worked. “...How t’put this in a way y’could get…” 

Ferklot snapped his fingers suddenly, brows raising happily. “Alrigh’ so, prahyer’s a—well it’sa, a…tool!  Y’know your way ‘round tools don’tchew, sonny?” 

Ratchet’s head bobbed up and down, ears flapping wildly behind him. 

Ferklot grinned. “Atta boy! Righ’ so—it’s a tool people use t’talk to uh, th’ Big Man in th’ sky.” 

“There’s a big man i-in the sky?” Ratchet asked, cutting the old man off. Ferklot hadn’t even begun to respond before the kit scurried out the garage and into the dusty street. Ratchet craned his head upwards, eyes squinting painfully against the horribly bright midday sun of a Veldin summer. “I don’t see nothin!” Ratchet called, squinting his eyes harder in hopes of catching a glimpse of this big man. 

Ferklot sputtered, hands gesturing wildly in front of him. “N-no! We can’t see him, sonny! He’s, uh, how d’you say—invihsible! Yea, invihsible to th’ naked eye!” 

Ratchet’s arms fell to his sides. “Oh,” he said dumbly. He took one more glance towards the orange sky.

“Y’sure?” he asked after a beat.

“Yes, sonny. M‘sure.” 

“Oh,” Ratchet mumbled again, trotting back over to plop himself down next to Ferklot again. “How do we know he’s there if he’s invisible?” asked Ratchet, not even two seconds after settling himself down.

Ferklot chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “Y’askin’ the wrong man, sonny. He works in mysterious ways, last I heard.” 

“Oh. Weird,” Ratchet muttered. 

Ferklot snorted. “Y’said it.”

Ratchet nibbled on his lip, rocking back and forth slightly on his butt. His chewing stilled, head snapping to look at Ferklot. The old fart looked back, brow raised. He made a move to question the kit before Ratchet cut him off.

“So what’s prayer do exactly?” 

Ferklot blinked, scratching at his chin. “What’chew mean, sonny?” 

“L-Like,” Ratchet sputtered, “why do people, uh, do it? Wuzzit do for people?” 

“Oh. Well…” Ferklot trailed off, uncertainty swirling through his tired eyes. 

“S’alright if you don’t know,” Ratchet giggled. 

“Shut it,” Ferklot snapped, “tryin’ t’think here.” 

Ratchet leaned back, settling comfortably onto his elbows. He crossed one leg over another, stamping the heel of his tiny boot into the dirty tile of the garage. Ferklot snorted at the sight of the cocky smirk now planted on Ratchet’s face. 

“Well, t’put things simply,” the Jargonian huffed, “people do it t’get what they want.” 

Ratchet blinked, the smirk sliding off his face just as quickly as it had slid on. Of all the possible answers Ratchet had bouncing around his head, that was not one of them. 

“To get w-what they want?” he asked.

“Yep,” Ferklot said, popping the ‘p.’ 

Ratchet nodded. “Ahh ok ok,” he grinned dopily, leaning towards Ferklot. The old fart nodded too, his own dopey grin molded into his wrinkly face. “Yeaaa—I don’t get it at all,” Ratchet cheesed, still nodding his head. 

Ferklot’s face dropped. “What’s there not t’get?”

Ratchet shrugged, claws clacking together sheepishly. “I’onno…” 

The Jargonian rolled his eyes. “It’s just…” green hands gestured vaguely in front of him, “people like t’do it before somethin’ big happens. Think of it like—like makin’ a wish!” he exclaimed, eyes brightening considerably. 

Ratchet’s eyes widened. “Makin’ a wish?” he parroted, voice quiet. 

“Exactly, sonny. Folks prahy an’ usually whatever it is they been wantin’ comes t’fruition!” Ferklot smiled, resting back into his chair. 

Ratchet’s eyes widened further. “Wait,” Ratchet gasped, “Wait.” 

“I’m waitin—”

“Wait,” he gripped Ferklot’s pant leg, “so all I gotta do is p-pray and I get whatever I wuh-want?” The kit’s eyes threatened to pop from his skull with how far they’d bulged out. 

“Wai—hold on now, sonny, what I meant t’say wa–not everythi—” 

“Ferklot you b-buh-b-brilliant old coot!” Ratchet hollered, leaping to his feet, “this is exactly wh’I been needed!” He threw his tiny arms around the Jargonian’s leg, hugging tightly before zipping away out of the garage. Cackling as Ferklot’s hotly indignant shouts defending his age gradually grew quieter and quieter as he rapidly gained more and more distance from the garage. 

Of course! This—this is what he’s been needing! Prayer! His own personal wish granting technique! Why hadn’t he heard of this absolute miracle sooner? 

He could barely contain his excitement as nightfall came. As temperatures dropped considerably and an irresistible sense of sleepiness engrossed the town, Ratchet was left wide awake as the rest of the population passed out.

He bounced slightly on his feet, face planted firmly against the window as he watched the bright blue moon of Veldin’s lazy ascent higher and higher into the dark sky. Only at its peak did he allow himself to be peeled away from the glass, scrambling back and all but falling into position.

His knees clonked painfully against the wooden floor of his bedroom as he kneeled. His hands fumbled with each other, tiny fingers clumsily knocking against one another as he wracked his memory for the correct positioning. His tail twitched erratically behind him, smile growing larger and larger as he ran the endlessly rehearsed prayer through his mind once more. 

That night, Ratchet prayed. He prayed to the Big Man, he prayed to Him.

Ratchet even prayed to His brother, he prayed to His sister, he prayed to His mother, he prayed to His father, he prayed to His grandfather, he prayed to His grandmother, he prayed to His friends, he prayed to His wife, he prayed to His kids, he prayed to just about anyone who had any sort of connection whatsoever to the Big Man. 

Ratchet prayed, he prayed and prayed and prayed. 

Please, he begged to the Big Man, please send me someone that looks like me.

That night, Ratchet dreamed of white fur and red stripes. 

That morning, Ratchet leaped out of bed, smile bigger than the entire excuse of a planet he was stuck on. 

That day, Ratchet waited by the door.

He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink, he didn’t even blink—he just waited, staring excitedly at the door. Waiting for Them to burst through the door, waiting for Them to finally, finally look like him. 

They never came.

That night, Ratchet sobbed. 

Ratchet’s fingers twitched, throat burning at the memory. He swallowed thickly, now noticing the bile that was festering in the back of his gullet. He cringed, planting his palms firmly against the cool surface of the table in a desperate effort to ground himself. 

His fingers twitched again. More bile threatened to spill into his throat, stomach gurgling uncomfortably. He sucked a shaky breath between his clenched teeth, molars grinding painfully against one another as his hands white-knuckled the table. 

He wanted to pray.

Pray that the rioting crowd would stop their incessant shrieking in his skull, pray that the crippling headache assaulting his brain would subside, pray that the jackhammering of his heart would slow itself indefinitely, pray that the hot blood rushing through his ears would quiet down a few several notches, pray that the adrenaline coursing through his battered veins would end their never-ending frazzling of his nerves. 

He wanted to pray for the image of her being so close to him to stop it’s rapid looping in his mind, pray that any and all traces of her scent be expelled from his nose completely, pray that the skin her hands had come into contact with would stop their scorching, pray that the crippling sense of utter arousal which flooded his very being at just her presence alone would be forever banished from his person, pray that both the tortuous feeling of being away from her and wanting nothing more than to be right by her side at all times would be forever casted aside. 

He wanted to pray for his mind to be good to him. 

Above all else, he wanted to pray for the bot sitting across from him to do anything .

But Clank wouldn’t, Ratchet knew, godly forces be damned.

Clank would not do a single thing. In instances like this, he never did–and he never will. Ratchet knew Clank would wait for him. Ratchet knew Clank would wait for him to make the first move towards acknowledging the problem at hand.

A part of him hated it, it always did. Hated how often the bot wordlessly backed him into this corner. Another part loved Clank endlessly for it, knowing that he would retreat behind his numerous walls if Clank even thought about making the first move towards Ratchet talking about his feelings. 

Ratchet’s fingers twitched again.

He considered waiting, the smallest of morsels wriggling within him hoping that this time Clank would be the one to initiate this uncomfortable conversation. He didn’t need to tell himself once more that it would never happen.

Another voice whispered hopes of Clank dropping the horrible topic altogether, several more chimed in to mutter their approvals of the unlikely scenario. Ratchet lacked the energy to silence them. He knew Clank would never even dream of doing such a thing, he knew that his brother would never leave him to fend for himself when he was so very obviously hurting.

Clank had been there for every bruise, every broken bone, every bloody nose, every gaping wound, every concussion, every coma, every snap, every twist—everything. From the moment he quite literally crashed into his life until the moment his heart finally stills, Ratchet knew Clank would be right there at his side every step of the way. No matter how many times he fell apart, Clank would always be there to help him put himself back together.

The thought brought a small smile to his lips, despite the hurricane tearing him apart from the inside. His gaze rose, settling onto the comforting sight of his brother just across the table. Clank sat there, tiny metal hands folded neatly atop one another. A small smile was on his face, lazy green eyes watching one of the many overhead screens scattered throughout the bar. Some archaic comedy special was playing, the feed far too fuzzy to even hope to decipher what was happening. 

Ratchet stared at Clank, waiting for the bot to turn his head. He knew Clank knew he was watching. He also knew that Clank knew he was stalling. He knew that Clank knew that he knew all of this, and even still, Clank did not turn his head, sleepy gaze pointedly turned away from him. Ratchet’s tail coiled around the leg of his chair.

He took a slow breath, blowing it out even slower after a beat. His mouth hung open, voice dying in his throat. He swallowed, running shaky claws up and down the length of his forearm. 

“I’m fucked, man,” was his brilliant opener. 

Clank chuckled, eyes still locked to the screen. “Please try and tell me something I do not already know, Ratchet.” 

Ratchet snorted, rolling his eyes. “Will do,” he muttered. His hand reached for the tall bottle settled next to his long abandoned basket of mediocrity, grasping it firmly before raising it to his lips. He knocked the glass back, lips curling into a frown as he realized the bottle was empty. 

“And here I was, under the impression that you hated that stuff,” Clank said, now looking at him. 

Ratchet shrugged, the claw of his thumb picked idly at the peeling label. “I do,” he huffed, “she picked this out for us, said it was top notch. Just been sipping on it to give me something to do, nothing more.”

“Nothing more? You completely drained the bottle, Ratchet. That is not just sipping,” Clank chortled.

His thumb stilled, eyes flicking down to the dry glass in his palm. He shrugged again, grinning toothily at Clank. “Drained it with each and every sip still tasting more and more like mud water the further I got.”

Clank shook his head, hand raising to rub at his face. “Just when I thought your taste was finally maturing,” he muttered. 

“Alright—you,” he interjected hotly, “drink literal oil and petrol. You have no say in the conversation of tastes.”

“The fact that I cannot even physically process the taste of alcohol and I still think your choice of drink is bizarre says a lot more than you realize.” Clank teased, a dopey smirk on his face. “Besides, petrol is delectable. You should really try it sometime.”

A harsh laugh launched from Ratchet’s throat. “Totally. You want me to microwave my brain while I’m at it?”

“I want you to grow, Ratchet. To grow.”

Ratchet’s hands tossed up in exasperation, groaning all the while. “ Grow my fu–Ok— So, so very sorry I’m my own person capable of forming my own opinions! Is it illegal for me to enjoy a little sweetness in my drinks?”

“No, not at all,” Clank snickered, “just does irreparable damage to that ‘tough guy’ image you work so hard to maintain, is all.”

“You listen to me, bud,” Ratchet growled, jabbing a claw sharply towards Clank. He bit at his lip in a vain attempt to stop the army of chuckles from bursting out of him. “I’m tough alright? Tough as nails.”

“Very tough, very. You and your peach-raspberry martini are the very epitome of strength.”

Ratchet stood, leaning against the table, mouth opened wide as his jaw swiveled right and left in a desperate strain against the smile threatening to burst across his face. “I’m gonna fuckin hit you with this bottle, man,” he threatened through his chuckles.

Clank raised his hands weakly, laughing softly as Ratchet’s own chuckles gradually died down. Ratchet settled himself back into his seat, sighing quietly. A comfortable silence descended upon the two, Ratchet’s claws resumed their tinkering with the bottle’s decrepit label. He felt Clank’s eyes still on him, reminding him of the true nature of this talk. A small mass of…something unpleasant formed in the pit of his gut.

“For the record," said Clank, breaking the silence, "I did try stopping her.”

Ratchet blinked, head raising to meet Clank’s neutral gaze with his own confused one.

“Back there,” the bot clarified, nodding his head back.

A burst of heavy hands pressed hotly against his skin shot through his mind. He swallowed, face brightening considerably. “Heh–ah. R-right, that,” Ratchet sputtered, head dipped low. The mass in his stomach grew.

“Well,” Clank began, looking away from him, “I…well I kind of tried stopping her, really.”

“...Kind of?”

Clank drummed his metal digits against the table, mouth clacking shut once before his gaze locked onto Ratchet’s once more. “Yes, kind of. I must confess that I didn't really make any actual attempt towards stopping Kit from interrupting you two,” the bot explained. “The truth is, I do not think either one of you is ready.”

Ratchet’s brow furrowed, whatever response he had pre-prepared died in his throat. “...You don’t think we’re ready?” Ratchet asked, slowly. Flashes of Rivet’s eyes filled with so much want flooded his brain, how could she not be ready?

“I’m sorry, what I meant was I don’t think you are ready, Ratchet.”

Ratchet stared, throat tight. He opened his mouth. 

“I just want to ensure that you are ready for that step with her,” Clank interrupted before Ratchet could utter a sound, “however, that is a topic for a different day. There is something else I wish to discuss.”

Dread assaulted his senses.

“You…you haven’t been yourself lately,” Clank muttered.

The mass grew larger at Clank’s words.

“Clank what do y–I’m fine. I’ve been fine, I’m—”

“Ratchet,” came Clank’s firm voice, “stop.”

His mouth flew shut, teeth clacking painfully together.

They were silent.

Clank’s digits drummed against the table once more. “It is not just her, is it?” he asked after a beat.

His heart stilled.

“Something has been bothering you lately, something else,” Clank muttered, “and whatever it is runs a lot deeper than your obviously complicated feelings for her, I know it.”

Deny it, his mind screamed.

“What is it?” the bot asked.

Oppose it, rebuff it, refuse it, refute it, reject it, revoke it, turn it down, steer it away, curb it—

Deny it. Deny it. Deny it. Deny it. Deny it—deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny there’s nothing wrong deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny deny—

“You are…a real piece of work, you know that?” Ratchet grumbled, stomach clenching uncomfortably tight. The horrid mass stretched across his lungs, constricting them. His mind still screamed at him. 

Clank said nothing.

Ratchet looked away, finding the blank surface of the table easier to look at. The questioning yet soft look on Clank’s face made him feel all sorts of things. Things he didn’t want to feel on top of all the other horrible feelings he feels. The back of his head pinched, the beginnings of a searing headache sinking its fangs into his skull.

Ratchet found himself at a fork in the road. One path leads to him spilling his guts out to Clank, letting everything out into the light. Every thought, every doubt, every fear, every worry—everything. Every single thing that has been mercilessly tearing his psyche to shreds over these past few months of peacetime. Everything about Ratchet’s own self, everything about the Lombaxes…

Everything about Alister.

Small droplets of sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

The other path leads to denial, absolute denial. Deny everything, lie, dissuade—any and every manipulation tactic to assure Clank that everything was just peachy and that all he needs is a good night’s rest to get back on his feet. He’s just been tired lately, is all. The perfect excuse to cover up just about any oddities in someone’s behavior.

That second path should’ve looked like the nicer one, it really should’ve. It was a definite way to completely avoid the excruciating conversation about ridiculous feelings that lay ahead. It should’ve been an easy choice, why wouldn’t it be an easy choice?

That path was disgusting, utterly vile. What should have been this pristine walkway was this odious piece of junk.

The pavement was a cracked mess with an assortment of algae and mold covering just about every square inch of it. He took a careful step forwards, cringing at a loud crunch! as weeds and other parasitical flora were squashed beneath the heavy weight of his boot. Every breath he took made this grimace on his face grow larger and larger, the sheer rank of decomposition flooding the area brought water to his eyes. It was pure filth, filth of the dirtiest degree. 

He looked to his left, grimacing further. The same overwhelming sense of grime coated the other path. Both paths disgusting, both paths uncomfortable, both paths revolting, both paths forcing him out of his comfort zone.

Both paths leading to the Lombaxes, both paths leading to him.

A thick wad of saliva was forced down his throat, just barely squeezing past the claustrophobic tightness. Claws picked restlessly at the flimsy label between his hands, the edges of his vision darkened rapidly. He glanced at Clank, quickly looking away upon finding the bot’s stare still trained on him.

He was cornered, his mind finally realized.

If he got up and walked away, Clank would truly know something was up. If he spilled the beans, Clank would truly know something was up, obviously. If he lied and tried to worm his way out of revealing anything, Clank would truly know something was up.

Each and every escape was blocked off, each and every alternate route was destroyed, each and every window to dive out off was boarded up. He was trapped.

He could not run from it any longer. Alister, the Lombaxes, his fears—there was no other option than to finally spill.

…

Unless…?

Ratchet took a step back, head slowly swiveling back and forth between the two decrepit paths. Two very obvious paths, two paths anybody else would be forced to choose from upon stumbling across the clearing.

Ratchet, however, was no mere anybody.

He took a breath, holding it in his chest as he reared himself back. He raised a boot, stamping it down harshly onto the rotten fence, eyes squinting as it splintered violently. He reached forth, gripping the edges of what remained of the putrid wood and pulled . Decade old wood crackled and burst at his tugs, finally giving way at one last final yank.

He shook his arms out, brushing his hands against his thighs. He took a small step back, smirking slightly at his work.

Why spill everything when you could spill…parts of everything?

Why spill your crippling fears regarding the entirety of the Lombaxes when you could condense it down to just one Lombax?

Ratchet’s smirk widened, quickly hopping over what remained of the broken fence. “Ratchet you devilish dog you,” he chuckled to himself, strolling down the newly created third path.

Ratchet shook his head, focusing on the bot sitting across from him. He bit his lip, blinking a few times before nodding his head softly. Clank still silently stared.

“I just,” Ratchet started, quietly, “I just don’t know how she does it, bud.”

Clank’s eyes squinted, tiny arms came to cross against his metal chest. “No, Ratchet. We are not talking about…” his voice slowly trailed off.

Ratchet’s head was bowed low, long ears pressed firmly against the back of his head. His claws clacked against themselves as they fiddled, stopping periodically to itch at his wrists. Ratchet stared at Clank from under his brow, eyes wide. Pleading. Clank stared back.

Ratchet watched the bot sigh, eyes closing as he did. “Alright,” Clank said quietly, “alright.”

Ratchet allowed a small smile to grace his face.

“If this is the conversation you would rather have, so be it,” Clank spoke, uncrossing his tiny arms and settling into his chair.

‘Thank you,’ Ratchet mouthed. Clank waved him off.

Ratchet sucked a breath between his teeth, shaking his head. “Y’know, I just…it's been one day,” he said quietly.

“One day. One day back with her and I can barely think straight e-every time I hear her voice.” He clapped his hands, laughing dryly. “I-Its insane, completely insane. I can’t have one normal fucking conversation with her without some sappy shitbag who’s been festering in the back of my skull come out and hijack my body and turn me into some overly sentimental sap.”

His gaze swiveled to Clank, eyebrows furrowed deeply together. “And I-I—I feel myself just gradually, throughout the whole night stuck here, just…dwindling away from this—this confident, strong willed-person I thought I was and, well, devolving,” he practically spat the word, “into some sweaty handed, sniveling wreck. L-like I’m so–some fucking weak knee’d middle schooler who practically blows their load at the very sight of a girl all over again!”

“I’m supposed to be Ratchet,” he huffed, “the Ratchet. I’ve brought entire armies to their knees, I’ve singlehandedly liberated entire solar systems, I’ve stared the most horrific, mind-melting of eldritch abominations in the eyes and walked away without feeling as much as a damned headache,” he heaved, staring hard at the table.

Ratchet took a breath, slowly filling his lungs before emptying them just as slow. His heart hammered in his chest, pulsing against his sternum in a harsh rhythm. He held his palms flat against the cool metal of the table, letting the cold wash up his wrists. He took another breath, the exhale shuttering as he felt the anger burning in his chest gradually dwindle away.

‘Calm it.’

“...But I can’t look her in the eye without wanting to piss myself,” he laughed. Clank, despite his better judgment, laughed too.

“You cannot say she is not scary,” Clank chortled.

“No, sir I cannot,” Ratchet chuckled. He leaned heavily into the table, crossing his arms across its surface. “She is terrifying,” he sighed, “every single little thing she does has such an unbelievable amount of just…power behind it.”

“Well, to be fair, she does contain a substantial amount of additional muscle over you, Ratchet,” Clank hummed, tiny hand idly rubbing at his chin.

Ratchet blew a harsh breath of air through his lips. “Believe me, pal, I’ve noticed.”

“Ratchet!” Clank admonished, mouth agape.

He rolled his eyes, waving the bot’s shock off with a flick of his wrist. “Y’know, back then—before her, I had some semblance of common sense bouncing around in my head. A, uh, clear sense of direction: what to do next, how to do it—that sort of thing. Y’know?” 

Clank nodded, smiling.

“It all just—pop!” Ratchet popped his lips, raising a hand to his forehead before flicking it away, “straight out the window, just like that, ever since she showed up. Every time we even make the briefest of eye contact my mouth just dries up and my mind totally blanks.” 

He shook his head, looking at his warped reflection on the table. “I can’t help but to ju—to stop, completely. Cease in every single thing and focus on her and only her whenever she speaks. I have no idea how she managed to worm herself so deep into my brain in such a short amount of time. It’s, uh, a bit unnerving, really.”

He looked at Clank. “I can’t help but feel like I’m doomed.”

“Doomed?” Clank asked.

“Y-yea I mean…it’s just, um…” Ratchet reclined back in his seat, one hand coming up to rub at his tricep. “I guess,” he breathed, “...guess the whole gist of it is, uh, y’know–pretty simple.”

He sucked in his lip, looking over to the side, eyes focused on nothing. A muscle in his jaw clenched.

“I’m afraid,” he said, voice wavering.

Not a sound was uttered.

Ratchet looked at his hands.

“...A part of me keeps saying that I’m not," he began after what seemed like an eon of silence, "that I’m just…getting myself all worked up over nothing. Another part has made it its personal mission to remind me every second of every day just how scared I really am,” he muttered.

He looked back at Clank. “I like to tell myself that I don’t really know which part to believe. That somehow, along the way, the lines had been blurred and I’m just some poor soul who can’t tell the difference anymore.”

“Reality is, you have known which part is telling the truth the whole time,” Clank said. 

“Bingo,” laughed Ratchet, the sound hollow.

“Why?” Clank asked after some silence.

“Oh,” Ratchet sighed, “I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Old insecurities, past relationships, endless doubts—the whole nine yards. Just the thought of a possibility of there being something more than...friendship between us fills me with a lot more dread than I'm comfortable with.” He sighed again, claws picking at a hangnail near the base of his thumb. “I dunno...guess it really just boils down to me not being enough for her? Who fucking knows at this point," he grumbled.

Clank huffed. “Ratchet, I have seen how she is around you. It is like you two have known each other your whole lives with how easy it is for you two to seamlessly fall into banter,” Clank shook his head, pointing a digit towards Ratchet, “You are good to her. She is even better to you. You are way more than enough.”

Another sigh escaped Ratchet, longer this time. “That’s just the thing, man—that’s what worries me. She’s good, yea, very good,” he chuckled, “too good. Someone like me doesn’t deserve someone like her. I’m good for hero work, sure, but I’ll never be enough for anything else—much less…well, her—"

“I wish you would see what I do when I look at you.” Clank suddenly said, barely letting Ratchet complete his sentence.

Ratchet blinked, back straightening in his seat. His head, for once, was silent. That internal chorus of voices had been rendered speechless at the tiny bot’s quiet words. That parade’s endless, rabid stomping across his grey matter finally shut up.

He stared at Clank, breath loud in his ears.

“I see someone great,” Clank said simply. “Someone fantastic, someone amazing, someone so pure of heart and so endlessly caring that it's honestly hard to believe at times.”

Ratchet raised a hand, mouth just barely opening before being cut off. “Please, spare me your denial—I will not even think about humoring it this time. I have met thousands upon thousands of people throughout our travels, not a single one comes even close to being the man you are.”

Ratchet’s throat twitched, any and all possible responses dying each and every time they tried to leave him. 

Clank laughed. “If I were somehow ever to come into contact with the Great Clock once more and was then given the opportunity to change my history, I would not. I would not even consider it. Instead I would choose to do it all over again, solely so I could watch you grow into the man you are today once more.”

Ratchet found it increasingly difficult to look his friend in the eye.

Clank hummed. “Where you see awful, I see wonderful. Where you see heartless, I see compassionate. Where you see broken, I see healing. Where you see unworthy, I see worthy…where you see weak, I see Ratchet.”

Ratchet’s eyes stung. The words echoed through his mind, repeating over and over and over. The horrible mass rooted deep in his gut burned away, leaving an overwhelming sense of warmth in its wake.

“You calling me weak?” he barely choked out, voice cracking.

Clank groaned, round head falling into his hands. “Ratchet, no—it was an adjective and then it’s antonym. It was very clever and all very true and I do not want you ruining it.”

Ratchet laughed, sniffing hard. He discovered that his eyes were wet upon blinking. He looked at Clank, smiling softly. “Thanks, bud,” he said quietly. He wiped at his eyes, grimacing at the moisture now seeping into his fur. “I’ve just been stuck in my head for a while,” he muttered.

Clank nodded, understanding. “I know, Ratchet. Whatever it is that has been upsetting you, I know you will overcome it, cannot imagine you would let a little emotion be the end of you,” Clank teased.

Ratchet snorted, shaking his head at the little bot. “Well, I know you’d never let me forget it if I did,” he teased back, flicking a stale fry in Clank’s direction.

Clank chortled, flicking the decrepit fry right back at him. “But of course.” Ratchet let the fry slap against his nose.

“But seriously, Ratchet,” Clank began, ”if your head is not in the right place right now, I am sure Rivet would understand. You do not need to force yourself into something as serious as a relationship if you feel you are not ready,” Clank explained gently, “your health should always come first, after all.”

“Yea I know, bud, I know...” Ratchet muttered.

Ratchet’s gaze dropped to his lap. He knew Clank was right, his brain was a complete and utter mess at the moment and it had been so for the past few months. Hell, it’d been a mess for years, he’d just managed to perfect the art of burying his issues under a mountain of redundant nonsense that he had actually convinced himself that he was in a healthy spot for a while.

His list of problems is extensive and his cuts run deep, he knows this—he’s known this for as long as he can remember. No part of him saw the need in healing, no part of him saw the need to get better. In actuality, no part of him wanted to get better, thinking himself undeserving of living happily.

But even still…

“...She makes me want to do better by myself,” Ratchet whispered, “As much as I believe me to be undeserving of any sort of reprieve from this endless jargon in my head, I still can’t help but to want to be that good man she sees me as.” He rubbed at his forearm. “I’ve never felt so petrified around someone, yet at the same time feel calmer than I’ve ever been.”

Ratchet raised his head, meeting Clank’s soft gaze once more. “Sorry to be a big sap about all this,” he muttered quickly, eyes flicking back to his lap.

He heard Clank chuckle. “It is alright, Ratchet. Like I said, she is good to you.”

Ratchet raised his gaze, slowly locking with Clank’s own. Clank smiled warmly, eyes squinting. “She would be incredibly lucky to have you, the real you,” Clank told him.

Ratchet felt something in him shatter at the words, biting down on his lip to strangle the sob in his throat. He wanted to believe his brother’s words, he truly did. He nodded wordlessly at Clank, hoping that the simple gesture could convey just how much the words meant to him. Ratchet didn’t trust his voice right now, not wanting to sob like a kit in the middle of a bar.

Clank nodded back, eyes twice as warm.

A cacophony of applause erupted from their right, startling the two, snapping them both back to reality. An ensemble of vulgar conversations flooded their ears, a booming garbled mess of music blasted from the speakers, the rank stench of beer and vomit assaulted Ratchet’s nose, and the nauseating flashing colors of the bar’s scenery all came back into focus.

Clank chuckled, craning his neck to peer over the large crowd of people surrounding the shatter-proof glass of the Battleplex. “Seems like a new round has started,” Clank mused, “care to watch?”

Ratchet shook his head, eyes rapidly flitting around in search of a glimpse of white fur. “Nah,” he said, “gonna go look for Rivet, see how she’s doing.”

Clank nodded before hopping out of his chair with a tiny grunt. “Very well, suppose I will go off and locate Kit, then.”

Ratchet smirked, leaning down to slug Clank’s shoulder. “Yea you go find your little girlfriend, bud.”

Clank sputtered, glaring at Ratchet. “Well how about you,” he poked at Ratchet’s leg, “go find yours.”

Ratchet’s face dropped, scowling at the short bot. “Alright, I deserved that one,” he muttered. He raised a fist, lightly bumping it against Clank’s own before spinning around on his heel. He took a breath, head craning back and forth as he readied his search.

He hadn’t made it all but three steps before he heard Clank’s voice calling to him.

He turned, brow raised at his friend.

Clank glanced at the ground, digits fiddling together before he straightened and looked Ratchet in the eye. “I do not mean to pry any further than I already have, but you never did tell me what else it was that has been bothering you.”

Ratchet stared down at Clank, face blank. Clank stared back.

“Alister.”

He didn’t wait for Clank to react, turning away swiftly and disappearing into the crowd.

Chapter Text

The tiny knob squeaked under his grip, decrepit metal shuttering against frail plastic underneath as his hand spun it round. The almost painful sound caused his ears to twitch, a vein in his neck twitched. He stared down at the sink, unfocused eyes staring down at the dented faucet. Nothing happened at first, a fact which made his gaze harden a smidge.

The faucet whined, that high pitched sound ringing out for a few moments before something behind the shoddy mirror before him began rattling. The glass shook a bit with each bump resonating from somewhere deep within the walls. He took a step back, unhanding the knob, hands hovering awkwardly just above his hips.

With a plop, the faucet spat out a stream of white water with such suddenness a few droplets splashed out from the bowl and landed upon the denim covering his legs. He stared down at the scene in front of him for a beat, idly watching the liquid bubble against the surface of the old porcelain before swirling down that black hole in the middle which was so obviously drilled in with a tool three sizes too big for the job.

He shook his head, blinking rapidly, huffing a breath. He stepped, placing his hands upon either side of the sink. His eyes flicked towards his left, catching a glimpse of the long row of sinks built for creatures much, much taller than himself. A grumble, another reminder of his endlessly unimpressive height.

His head shook once more, grimacing as his attempt to swallow the thick wad of saliva building up atop his tongue proved itself to be much more unpleasant than normal. He dipped his hands under the stream, flinching slightly at the sudden chill tearing its way up his forearms. He shivered, doing nothing more than letting his hands hover under the water.

With every second they spent under the stream, he could feel his hands grow heavier and heavier as more and more of his fur became soaked with the freezing liquid. He watched a few small specks of his recent misfortune drip from between the wet fur. He smacked his lips, throat twitching as the horrid taste still assaulted his buds.

His esophagus bobbed, something behind the base of his tongue jumped, rubbing disturbingly against the fleshy punching bag hanging from the top of his mouth. His chest twitched, the sudden desire to heave attacked every inch of his brain as his senses continuously picked up the nauseating taste and smell emanating from his throat.

Something deep in his gut gurgled, the muscles squeezing together awfully. He shut his eyes tight trying, and failing, to ignore the way his abdomen spun round and round and round and round like a rickety washing machine.

He scrubbed his hands together, stomach lurching harsher and harsher each and every time his claws pushed away more squishy pieces of organic matter. He took a shaky breath, wheezing in as the new air fought against the flem coating his lungs. The breath left him slowly, shuddering all the while.

He opened his eyes, now noticing that his hands were shaking. Ignoring this, he cupped them, waiting as the cold water formed a tiny pool within his grasp. He waited until the water began to spill out from his grip before raising his wrists to his chapped lips. His hands closed together slightly, the shape of them forming a diamond as he knocked his head back, bringing his hands with him as the liquid slipped behind his lips.

The stark contrast between the chill of the water and the dizzying warmth of his mouth made his spine shudder. The squishy flesh between his eyebrows stung, that cold sting slowly spider-webbing its way across the expanse of his brain. That vein in his neck twitched again. He dunked his hands back under the stream, breathing heavily. This repeated for some time, that horrible taste clinging to every corner of his teeth rinsing away little by little with each repetition.

Yes, he threw up.

He wants to blame the rancid taste of the beer still stuck to his breath for his heaving despite every part of him knowing what, or who , is really at fault. A huff of breath left him with a harsh noise, head hung low. Droplets of water seeped from his lips, the majority of which ran down both sides of his jaw, slipping between the ruffled fur, and amassing at the point of his chin. He listened to the plops of the droplets as they slipped from his off chin into the sink below before reaching out and cutting off the still running stream with a quick turn of his wrist.

The sudden silence was deafening, the faint thump-thump-thumping of his heart echoed in his ears. He looked up through his brows, staring blankly at the unrecognizable reflection staring back at him. Disheveled fur, visible bags hanging from his eyes, the faintest hints of red veins crackling across the edges of his eyes, his shirt was wrinkled, his collar was uneven, half of the fabric was hanging loose from his hips while the other half remained tucked in–albeit very haphazardly tucked in—-just about every inch of him looked like a mess. The vein twitched.

His right hand reached out, pawing slowly through the air before making contact with something rough. His digits closed, wrapping around the rough material before pulling and pulling until he had a large wad of sandpaper-like paper towels balled up in his grasp. His back straightened, hands blurring together as they worked on drying the now uncomfortably wet fur.

Only his name , his mind told him.

Nothing more than a name was said and you’re emptying your stomach, it laughed, just like that .

He closed his eyes. The vein twitched.

After all this time—after all these fucking years, you still can’t stop yourself from pissing yourself just from the mere mention , it ranted.

His eyes remained closed.

The only man that had ever managed to finally get one over the mighty Ratchet! The only one who had ever managed to finally kill yo—

He opened his eyes, slamming the damp wad of paper into the bin, the harsh bang against the metal reverberating through the tiny washroom.

His mind flashed, brain seizing in his skull. A shout filled with a white hot righteous fury, the violent whirring of a weapon, the deafening stomp of a boot, the sudden whipping of air, the flesh along his spine bubbling, his chest bursting open—

His ears rang, the long appendages quaked against his head in a desperate attempt to blot out the dizzyingly painful chime. A damp hand rose to his chest, claws digging into his skin as the muscles and flesh beneath recoiled from a wound that wasn’t there. A wound that tortured his mind in the dead hours of the night, a wound that stilled his breath the moment anything brushed against the mass of skin it infested, a wound that occupied the very first thought of the morning and the very last of the evening, a wound which decayed the muscles beneath with it’s incessant aching, a wound that made him pause with every look in the mirror.

A wound which could never be there, Clank had made sure of that, but still there nonetheless. Something so nonexistent had no purpose being so real, something so painless couldn’t possibly be so painful. His hands rose to his face, digits pushing harshly against his eyebrows as he forced his palms into his eyes. He squeezed, hands creaking against his skull as he pushed them harder and harder into his forehead in a desperate attempt to silence the roar of the cacophony splitting his mind.

He came to realize that he wasn’t breathing, yet his chest heaved all the same. His eyelids closed against his palms, slowly dragging them away from his face to rub at the top of his head. His fingers dragged through the matted fur, repeatedly catching themselves on knot after knot.

His booted feet slowly planted themselves firmer against the ground. The muscles lining his spine relaxed, eventually the rapid rise and fall of his chest stilled. He allowed his lungs to fully empty themselves for a few moments, the slight squeezing sensation tickling the edges of the organs granting his mind a moment of stillness. He didn’t allow the air surrounding him to pass through his lips until the slight squeeze turned into something unpleasant.

His chest rose, chest tickling with flehm as the air coursed through the narrow passageway of his throat. The organs greedily welcomed the stale oxygen, filling to their capacity before groaning as their gift was taken from them once more.

“Alright,” Ratchet mumbled, eyes still closed with hands still pressed soothingly into his scalp. “Alright.” He cleared his throat, grimacing at just how dry his mouth had gotten. His chin fell down into the small dip between his collarbones, the rest of his body following suit in a deep sag afterwards as he helped his screaming subconscious gradually calm down from its episode. With one final breath, he felt stable once more. 

Shame flushed his neck. Here he was, fully grown and still falling apart like some kid over some ridiculous fear over something that technically didn’t even happen. His hands fell to his sides, dangling limply. “Fuck me.”

Something in front of him whispered.

He twitched, every hair on the back of his neck raised. His brows knit together, tongue pressing hard against the roof of his mouth. He strained his ears, hearing nothing but the distant sounds of muffled laughter and music. His breath was still again, lungs silent.

The vein in his neck pulsed.

Look at me

His head snapped upwards.

The laughter, the music, the arguing, the singing, the clattering of boots against the floor, the scraping of metal against metal, the distant booms of the Battleplex, the bargaining, the complaining, the drunken rambling, the shattering of glass, the banging of fists against a table, the spilling of a drink, the cheery toasts, the incoherent chattering from the dingy holo-screens, the cheers as their home team scored  a point, the jeers as their rival scored against them, the faint humming of the fluorescent bulb hanging above him, the grumbling after Zurkon broke apart the thirtieth fight of the night—everything, everything was sucked away. It was as if he had become deaf.

Ratchet’s heartbeat boomed from his throat.

The purples of the walls surrounding him dimmed out. The whites of the floor he stood on with now unstable legs greyed. The once agonizingly bright white light hanging above him molded into a sickening brown shine. The edges of his vision blurred, every inch of his eyes burned the wider and wider they stretched open.

He felt his very pupils tremble at the sight before him.

Yellow eyes glared back.

Ratchet was cold, colder than he had ever been in his life. Colder than when he had been reduced to nothing more than a worthless heap of torn flesh and broken bones as his lifeless corpse careened into the endless void. His chest twitched wildly, that damned invisible scar pulsing with an indescribable feeling—a feeling which made Ratchet want to vomit until he had nothing left in that worthless pit inside of him to expel.

He felt his jaw unhinge wider and wider the longer he looked, yet no sound dared to slip from his throat. His esophagus twitched and shuddered, painfully retching against his vocal cords in a frantic desire for them to form any sound—hoping endlessly that this horrible burning sensation infesting every crevice of his flesh would dissipate upon doing so. He gurgled, neck pulsing.

His lip trembled, jaw shaking as his mind scrambled to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real, it shouldn’t be real. Yet the crazed eyes staring unblinkingly into his own terrified ones seemed just as real as the day he first encountered them.

Ratchet took a step back, hands raising before him. “W-What the fu–”

The creature in the mirror lunged, snarling. A horrid roar erupted from the monster’s gullet, tearing through Ratchet’s entire being like a hot knife through butter. He felt his very bones tremble from the force alone.

Ratchet screamed, staggering backwards in his desperate attempt to get away from him. His back slammed against the wooden door of the stall behind him, the old screws holding the door together not at all prepared for the full weight of Ratchet’s body being thrown against it.

The wood splintered against his back, slamming open with a loud THWAP as it slapped into the inner wall of the stall. His feet, uncoordinated and dazed, stumbled further backwards, slipping on the wet floor surrounding the toilet. Ratchet was weightless for a few moments, dizzyingly watching as the ceiling above got farther and farther away.

His body felt the dull pain burning at the back of his head colliding against the seat of the toilet before his brain had any time to register what had actually happened, still reeling from the terror of what was still waiting for him back at the mirror. His tailbone smashed into the firm tile, sending a shockwave of agony up the length of his spine.

His feet kicked wildly, stamping his heels into the dirty tile before he slammed his hands on the stall’s walls. Eyes still peeled wide, he hastily stumbled himself back onto his feet, dutifully ignoring the quick pulses of pain traveling through his body.

His chest heaved, his breaths sounding strained and pained. He felt his claws fully extend from his digits, his bruised tail flicked spastically behind him. He hunched, feet spread far in an attempt to look bigger.  Ratchet’s eyes snapped to the mirror, teeth bared with the hair aligning his back sticking up straight.

There was nothing there.

Ratchet’s mad eyes stared into his own.

He saw the way his mouth snarled, the aggressive way his eyes had sharpened, the glint reflecting off his sharp claws, his tail swishing dominantly. He blinked, watching the terrified aggression slowly wash away from his face.

Gradually, his breathing slowed

What was left was someone he wanted to say he couldn’t recognize but someone he has grown to know all too well. Fear, insecurity, and doubt were the only things he could read radiating off his once brave face. Gone was that heroic, fearless Ratchet. Now all that was left in that hero’s wake is the cruel, demoralizing, and downright heartbreaking reality of what Ratchet has been his entire life.

A scared little kid who’s bitten off far more than he can chew.

He stared into the warped reflection of his eyes, his chest felt heavier the longer he looked.

Ratchet sniffed, turning away from the mirror. He took a slow step backwards before crumpling into the toilet seat behind him. The chill of the back wall was welcomed, body infested with a heat which made his clothes stick to his fur uncomfortably. Ratchet’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, the want to vomit once more incessantly tickled at the back of his raw throat. 

He knocked his head against the back wall, shutting his eyes with a low sigh.

If questioned, Ratchet would not have been able to tell just how long he had been sitting there in that dingy bathroom, atop that uncomfortable toilet seat nursing his uncomfortable bruises. He sighed deeply once more, sagging further into his cold porcelain throne.

~bzzt ~

His nose twitched, head tipping slightly towards his pocket with eyes still closed. A part of his brain knew the culprit behind the sudden sound was his phone, every other part of his brain could care less about whatever it was the device was trying to tell him; wanting nothing more than to just be left alone for a good while.

Slowly, his head tipped back upwards, leaning further into the soothing cold behind him.

~ bzzt~ the sound came again.

Ratchet groaned, eyes flying wide into a glare at the ceiling. His tired hands tapped against his thighs twice before he lurched forwards with a grunt, wincing at the new wave of pain shooting from his head and tail. His face was flat, eyebrows drawing a heavy line above his eyes.

A multitude of incomprehensible grumbles flew from his tight lips, hand digging around in a pocket which seemed to never end to find the infernal device which dared to disturb his ‘me time.’ The longer it took for him to fetch the damned device from the chasm in his pants the more the desire to shout his lungs raw grew.

He had long since passed into the great world beyond by the time he finally got a grip on the phone, skeletal hand quickly whisking it from its cotton cell. Ratchet raised his hand to his gaze, idly wondering why it felt so unexpectedly light before having the answer revealed in his empty grasp.

He blinked, glancing to the floor below. There his eyes (now filled with hate) saw his device, now laying face down on the wet tile. Sharp teeth bit down, hard, onto soft flesh, barely keeping the shriek of agony at bay. Ratchet took a breath, waving his hands in a soothing manner before leaning forward to retrieve the phone.

Much like the faulty screws which barely held the stall door together, the screws attaching the toilet’s seat to its body were even more so. His ears heard the crack of the screws before the floor, which was so far away, began rapidly accelerating towards his face at an alarming rate. Ratchet would have screamed but the solid tile mashing the bone’s of his nose deep into his brain matter made things difficult.

He peeled his face from the wet floor—a face which was so contorted into a grimace he physically felt the muscles below his skin creak as his glare grew hotter and hotter.

Slowly, his eyes dragged themselves to his phone, still lying there in that tiny puddle of god knows what.

Mocking him.

Ratchet felt the vein in his neck explode.

Before he knew any better, a fist collided with the wooden wall to his left. The sudden BANG exploding from the impact made the boiling of his blood lessen just a smidgen. Ratchet decided he quite enjoyed the way his knuckles splintered the decayed wood before reeling his arm back once more and ramming it into the wall with even more force.

Primal urges sated, he reached his hand out to retrieve his device. 

He blinked. 

Ratchet’s jaw unhinged in a silent scream, eyes widening to saucers which glared down at his aching hand. He rotated his palm towards his face, fingers tensing painfully as Ratchet realized just how stupid of a decision it was to punch a wall, twice.

He clenched his hand into a tight fist, bringing it to his chest and rubbing the sore muscles against it. His uninjured hand got the hint and quickly shot out, finally swiping the phone from the floor and holding it close. Securely this time.

With a small grunt, he lifted himself into a crouch in the middle of the stall. After a moment of hesitation, he peeked behind his shoulder, grimacing at the sight of the ruined toilet seat he caused.

He shook his head, dutifully avoiding the various puddles of fluids below before settling himself into a relatively dry area of the stall’s floor. His tail wrapped around, the fluffy end of it settling into his lap as his legs propped themselves up.

With a soft click, the screen of his phone came to life. The sudden brightness so close to his face made him squint a bit. He saw two notifications displayed in the middle of the screen, the tiny pit in his stomach grew a tad larger.

Two texts reading:

- wya?

And,

- r u alive D:

Despite the teeny tendrils of nerves messing with his gut, he felt the beginnings of a smile pull at the corners of his lips.

Rivet, his mind sighed dreamily.

A small smile graced his lips, chuckling quietly as he flicked the side of his head in an attempt to shut that fool trapped inside there up. Ratchet already felt that dizzying mixture of overwhelming dread and drunken euphoria mashing around in his gut just from the sight of her name in his phone.

“I’m so fucked.”

His thumbs stumbled across the screen.

- Bathroom. Barely surviving.

Not even a second had passed before a tiny ‘read’ notification popped up under his message. 

- ew 

He snickered, picturing her face.

- tmi

- also

- its been like thirty munutes did u fall in?

Ratchet looked around at the mess of a scene surrounding him.

- Something like that.

- do u need me to come pull u out

- I’d like to have whatever small amount that remains of my dignity to remain intact, so no.

- u have dignity?

- Not washing my hands and rubbing them over everything you own.

- die

- :( 

- yea yea cry some more

- come back to the bar already drinking alone is almost as boring as it is depressing

Ratchet’s lip curled, the nauseating taste of the cheap beer from earlier tickling the back of his throat.

- Ugh. I’m choosing the drinks this time.

- HA no. 

- already ordered :P

- Ugh

- yea yea piss urself while ur moping about it 

- hurry up slowpoke

- still bored still alone getting depressed

- Didn’t know you missed me so much.

- dont get too ahead of yourself now

- see u soon<3

Ratchet chuckled, ignoring the heat flaring up his neck at her message. 

He had gradually traveled back to the sink throughout the conversation. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before raising his head to look at the mirror, body tense. Only Ratchet stared back.

He relaxed.

“You’re alright,” he mumbled, not really believing the words.

“Stop crying, stop moping, stop being an ass. Suck it up, Ratchet. You are going to have fun tonight and nothing, and I mean nothing will ruin this night further than it already has been," he glared at the sink drain.

"Just forget it for now, forget him. Got it?" He stared at his reflection.

It nodded.

“Atta boy,” he huffed.

With another deep breath, he stepped out of the bathroom.

…

…

…

A head peeked out from the other stall, eyes wide. 

“What the fuck.”

She saw him first, excitedly shouting his name above the cacophony of noise surrounding the bar.

His ears found her first, head swiveling afterwards. Their eyes connected and he felt his heart still.

It was strange, he had seen all sorts of downright breathtaking sights throughout his adventures. He had seen the galaxy at its best—hell, he had even seen universes at their most gorgeous. He had come across sights that would make even the toughest amongst us shed a tear in sheer awe at the wonderful sight before them. His eyes have been blessed time and time again, his soul has been invigorated, his mind has been opened.

He has come across the greenest of greens and the bluest of blues, the deepest of purples and the robustest of oranges, the greatest of reds and the shyest of yellows. If an artist had somehow found themselves in the caverns of Ratchet’s mind, with each and every wonderful sight he had seen displayed as far as the eye could see, they would weep. They would sob knowing that they would never be able to replicate the sheer wonder found in each of the landscapes before him.

Yet here she was, sitting there in this dingy bar. Surrounded by noise and filth, by pirates and shifty persons, by spills and cracks and beer and stench and dirt and grime and soot and a great cocktail of just about every single off putting thing you’d find in the dingiest of dingy bars.

Here she was, sitting there wearing plain clothes, hair undone, fur haphazardly brushed, smudges of oil here and there dotting along her fingers, shoelaces untied and drooping low to the floor below, a faint tinge of red peeking from beneath the white fur of her cheeks, the faint smell of alcohol on her breath, a smidge of tipsiness behind her movements.

Here she was, sitting in this dirty bar drinking dirty beer surrounded by dirty creatures.

Here she was.

She was more beautiful than everything before, and everything after.

It was cliché, he knew. So horribly cliché it hurt, but he didn’t care. Because here she was.

His heart beat, once.

He loved her.

The admittance and revelation brought a lot less shock to his person than he expected. Perhaps he had always known, perhaps these feelings were always festering deep within him ever since he had first laid eyes on her, perhaps it was always meant to happen, perhaps this one thought was an act of the greater will.

But he didn’t care, not anymore.

Here she was, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Slowly, his heart began beating normally once more. The soothing thud…thud…thud from deep within his ribcage brought him back to reality. Eyes focusing back onto hers which were still looking into his own. He shook his head slightly, knocking himself out from the whirlwind of emotions and sensations which erupted from his chest moments before. Clearing his mind of the wonderful experience of just looking at her.

She had smiled at him then and it started all over again.

He felt his knees wobble slightly under her gaze, swallowing thickly past the bullfrog lodged in his throat. He tried to smile back, something subtle, something suave—smooth, handsome even. He could tell by the way she snickered into her bottle that the grin splitting his face in two was a little too wide.

But he didn’t care, no longer wanting to pretend he wasn’t over the moon with doing nothing more than being in her presence. He looked like a dope, standing there smiling like a fool. He eventually made his way to the stool next to her, only after being knocked out of his stupor from a teasing remark from her.

He hopped up into the stool too high for one of his species, shuffling around atop the seat. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing his ass had kissed, quite uncomfortable actually. He set his elbows onto the bartop before him, recoiling slightly at just how sticky the surface was. His arms hovered awkwardly for a moment, eyes sliding back and forth alongside the length of the bar before he sighed, settling the limbs back against the syrupy surface.

He took a breath, coughing slightly at the sheer rank of the copious amounts of hard liquor surrounding him.

He felt something warm tap against his bicep. “Not your typical setting, huh?”

Ratchet jumped, head snapping to the right. She was looking at him, casually leaning into the bartop with a smirk. A bottle was between her metallic digits, swirling slightly.

He blinked. “Is it that obvious?” his face flushed.

She punched his arm lightly, snickering. “You look like a fish out of water.”

“Ah…well,” his fingers danced along the sticky surface, “just a bit out of my element here, yea.”

“Seeing how that grimace hasn’t left your face the moment you sat your furry butt down, take it bars aren’t really your cup of tea?”

He straightened, hands falling onto his hips. “Now what could’ve possibly given you that idea?” he gasped. “Not like I haven’t expressed my total hatred for that sorry excuse of a drink you call beer, repeatedly.”  

“Alright,” she rolled her eyes before leaning into his personal space. “Three things: One,” she shoved a finger onto his nose, “You agreed to come here. Two,” another finger was placed onto his nose, “we won’t be here for long, so quit pissing yourself. Three,” a third finger was added, “I refuse to sit here and be lectured by you knowing the pitiful excuse of a drink you enjoy.” She huffed, flicking the three fingers downward, sending his chin into his chest.

His face fell into a glare, slumping into the bartop. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” he started, “beer both tastes—”

“—Tastes and smells like shit, yea yea you’ve drilled it into my skull more than enough.” Her hand opened and closed, mocking him like a tiny sock puppet.

“I’m glad you are such a good listener,” he hissed between a closed-tooth smile, leaning into her side.

She reciprocated, leaning harder into him with an even tighter smile. “And I’m glad you are incapable of maturing your tastes,” eyes hardening into a glare for the man beneath her.

“Well, aren’t you just a peach tonight!” he pushed himself upwards, regaining an even eye level between them.

Rivet rolled her eyes, knocking back a swig of her drink before her gaze fell to his hands still placed awkwardly in his lap. “Your hands,” she said lamely.

Ratchet’s eyebrows knit together. “Uh–yep, that’s what those are?” his eyes flicked down to his lap.

He watched her eyes travel upwards, looking at him blankly from beneath her brow. His stomach felt warm. Ratchet noticed his arm was still pressed against her own, her bare fur warming him considerably. He took a breath, almost choking on her scent.

His hands flexed in his lap, a movement her eyes caught.

Rivet smirked. “Give ‘em,” she said plainly, looking at him with disinterested eyes.

Ratchet looked back down at his hands, holding them above his lap for a moment before looking back towards Rivet. She raised a brow at him, nodding her head towards his waist. He looked at her, unsure before shrugging, raising a single hand towards her.

Her tongue clicked, leaning further into his arm before taking a hold of his hand with her own. He tried not to get too distracted on just how unbelievably soft her hands were as she inspected his. Her eyes narrowed, inspecting every inch of his hand, endlessly confusing him. She turned it over, rubbing her fingers lightly over his raw knuckles. He winced slightly, pulling away. Immediately, her eyes were back to his with a silent question.

He swallowed, glancing away. “...S’nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Just had a fist fight with a wall, nothing serious,” he chuckled. A huff of air left her nose, warming his forearm. He interpreted it as a laugh.

Her strange inspection continued for a few more seconds with Ratchet’s brain drifting further and further from just how odd the whole situation was to just how nice it felt to have her fingers trace little patterns through his fur.

Her grip on his hand suddenly loosened, knocking him from his daydreams. She loosely held on to his wrist, nodding her head, seemingly satisfied with her findings. “Find all you needed?” he asked, chuckling.

She leaned back, that satisfied look on her face grew tenfold. “Just making sure you actually washed them,” she bobbed his hand up and down, the limb flopping around limply at the wrist.

He barked a laugh. “So, I’m guessing I passed?” 

She pulled his arm closer towards her, tapping his pointer finger against her chin as she thought. The tip of his claw grazed her lip.

His eyelid twitched.

She smiled, leaning forward to rest her chin in his palm. “With flying colors,” the purr in her voice vibrated against his hand. His eyelid twitched again. Just as quickly as it happened, it ended. The unbearable warmth was swiftly replaced by a biting cold, face unintentionally dropping at the lack of her heat against his own.

Ratchet looked at his now freezing hand, confusion quickly melting away into frustration as he saw the beer bottle now held between his fingers. 

“And there’s your reward!” she cheered, rubbing her shoulder against his.

“Rivet,” he groaned, “no. I’m not drinking this shi—”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m n—”

“ Yes. You are.”

Ratchet moved to put the bottle down but Rivet’s hand shot out, quickly wrapping around his fingers. He glared at her, she glared back. “This,” she hissed with her unoccupied waving around, “is a night for celebration. What better way to celebrate than a drink with a good friend?”

Ratchet frowned.

Rivet dropped his hand, sagging low against his side. “Fine,” she huffed, “You don’t have to drink it.”

Ratchet was already halfway through a sip before she finished her sentence. He lowered the bottle with a sigh, smirking at her baffled face. “I know,” he cheesed, “I just like being dramatic.” He reached over, snapping her hanging jaw shut with a finger.

She blinked, swatting away his hand. “You are actually twelve years old.”

“I really shouldn’t be drinking this then.” 

Rivet groaned, smiling wide. “You make your own decisions like the big grown boy you are. Took that sip without so much as a whine though, knew it wouldn’t kill you.”

“Only one thing out there that can,” he chuckled into his bottle. His nose hated every second it was subjected to the torture of experiencing the smell of the drink, but the warm body pressed so close to his own more than made up for it.

“Can think of a lot more than just one thing that could do the trick. A bullet to the brain being one. Of many .” She took a swig of her own, grimacing slightly from the taste.

“And here I sat under the guise that we were celebrating,” he nudged against her, “what part of celebration involves fantasizing about my murder?” his gaze reflected her own playful one.

“Parts one through nine,” she nudged back against him.

“Ah of course, how could I have not known?” he bonked a fist against his head, rolling his eyes. “As charming as it is to hear about your morbid daydreams, none of them would actually end up working. Only one thing out there can kill me.”

Rivet propped her chin onto a metal palm, raising a brow at him. “Fine, I’ll bite. What could possibly kill the great Ratchet?”

Ratchet took a drink, a dull throb came from his chest. His face blanked for a moment, unfocused eyes glued to the bartop. Just as quick as it had happened, he snapped himself out of it. He smiled lightly, taking another drink. “Real ancient technique,” he muttered, “hasn’t been around for ages.”

He had to bite his lip to stop the harsh laugh bursting forth upon seeing Rivet’s bored gaze. He raised a fist to clear his throat, snickering behind it. 

Rivet, picking up that he wasn’t going to continue this dumb bit until she played along for a moment, slouched further into her metallic palm. “And that technique is…?”

Ratchet’s face hardened, stooping down low as if he was preparing himself to reveal the greatest secret in the history of this universe’s secrets. He motioned with a quick wave of his hand for her to copy his movement. He heard her a long sigh slowly slip from her lips before she leaned her head down closer to his.

Ratchet took a breath, holding it. He leaned closer, hand cupping the side of his mouth.

“Nunya.”

Ratchet jolted upright, staring wide eyed at Rivet. Rivet remained where she was, looking at him with an expression he’d remember for years to come. She opened her mouth, lips hanging limply for a few moments before she smacked them together. “Remember when I said you were twelve?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” her tone was flat.

Ratchet stared down at her, face sore from how wide his grin had gotten. He nudged her with his shoulder, nudging her again when she gave no reaction. “Come on,” he laughed quietly, “you not gonna give me anything for that?”

Rivet continued to do nothing more than stare.

“Oh come on,” he groaned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “that wasn’t the best but it was alright, yeah?” Rivet was silent, crossing her arms across her chest. “You really gonna give me nothing?” he whined, “not even a tiny little huff through the nose?” He pulled her closer, lowering his head towards her.

Rivet’s shoulders shook slightly, he saw her bite her lip before she turned away from him. “Hey! I saw that!” he laughed. “What’re you tryin’ to hide over there?” he swiveled his body this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Every which way he went, she went the opposite, still looking away from him. Ratchet fully grasped her shoulder, pulling her flush against his side. Rivet shrieked from the sudden pull, laughing wildly against him.

“Ah ha! Knew you were hiding something!” he laughed with her, falling harder and harder for her by the second. He didn’t think he could ever grow tired of hearing that laugh.

Rivet snickered, punching playfully at his side before resting her metallic hand against his leg. Ratchet’s smile wobbled at the contact. He had to fight against hell itself to keep his gaze attached to hers. He didn’t think it was possible for a touch made entirely out of such cold metal to feel this warm—it shouldn’t be possible for one touch to feel this way, its very existence was an affront against god.

Ratchet prayed she didn’t notice just how much of an effect something as simple as a touch from her had on him.

Rivet’s eyes softened. “You are so cheesy it’s unreal.”

Ratchet ducked his head, “I uh…well I do try my best, I guess.”

He felt her press closer into his side. "I missed you, y'know?" she whispered.

Ratchet blinked, face lighting up. "Er-uh wh-I wasn't gone for that long."

He felt her laugh into the fur of his neck, mind blanking at the feeling of her breathing in his scent. "I know," she mumbled into him, "hard not to miss you."

Ratchet stared at the top of her head, a war which rocked the very cosmos raged in his mind before he slowly, slowly set his chin atop it.

He felt her smile into his neck as he did so.

"Missed you too," he mumbled lamely.

He felt her smile widen tenfold.

Ratchet slowly allowed his body to relax, sagging further into Rivet's embrace. She was so warm, so goddamned warm it was unbelievable. He could receive nothing more for the rest of his days and he would still die an extremely happy man, knowing that he was blessed with the opportunity to hold her like this.

He didn't know how much time had passed while the two held each other like a couple of fools, the only thing he did know was that he never wanted it to end.

His brain recognized the indescribable feeling of her hand on his jaw before Ratchet had any time to begin convincing himself that yes, this spectacle of a woman was actually touching him so tenderly. He felt her move his head back towards her, forcing him to look into her melting gaze. There was this tiny smile on her face, barely noticeable but so very much there. Her eyes were squinted ever so slightly, her breath warm and heavy against his jaw. Ratchet heard the pounding of his heart in his ears and he knew from the way her smile widened ever so slightly that she could hear the hammering too. A deep breath, a deep breath was what he needed to get his heartbeat back under control. Only in doing so Ratchet inhaled nothing more than the heavy scent of her, and it was more intoxicating than the shitty beer he had been funneling all night.

Her thumb lightly rubbed against his cheek and he felt his stomach implode on itself. Her hand, still planted firmly on his leg, began to rub itself up and down his thigh as well. Ratchet tried to swallow but decided against it out of fear of choking to death on the unbelievably thick pool of saliva that had formed in his throat.

She suddenly stopped, both hands halting completely in their movements. Ratchet couldn’t stop himself from frowning at the action. The sight made Rivet chuckle, shaking her head slightly.

She leaned forward suddenly, mere centimeters away from his lips before she quickly veered left, grazing against the corner of his mouth and traveling up the expanse of his cheek. A trail of fire was left in her wake, he could feel the very flesh begin to melt away. His eyes were wide, hands gripping the stool so hard he felt the seat tremble.

Rivet stopped just at his ear, breathing heavily into it causing it to flick wildly. He heard her take a slow breath in before releasing it oh so slowly. The hot breath traveled down the back of his neck, warming his spine and making every inch of his skin rise in goosebumps. Ratchet realized he wasn’t breathing, not quite knowing how to decide between panicking at the sudden loss of respiration or his skin melting away at each touch from her.

He heard her laugh again, the sound heavy and hot in his ear.

“Why don’t we take this back to my place? Yeah?” She whispered.

For the third time that night, Ratchet’s heart stilled.

Chapter Text

He found himself wishing he could smell the sordid air permeating through the bar’s varied populace. The thought alone was ridiculous, he knew that well, yet he wished it so nonetheless. He would have chuckled at this sudden outlandish desire if the servos and bolts and wires which made up his mind weren’t already so preoccupied with being lost elsewhere.

He wanted to focus on the slimy, tentacled beings huddled together like sardines in the corner, each stuffing their beaks so full of whatever slop they could get their limbs on that their messiness was starting to earn them a few glares from the other patrons. He wanted to focus on the group of insectoid beings chittering and clicking at one another, their freakishly long mandibles clicking loudly as they conversed with varying volumes. He wanted to focus on the more shadowy figures lurking in the darkest recesses of the bar, their eyes darting around nervously, jumping away from even the smallest of glances thrown their way. 

He wanted to focus on the frantic whirring of the bartenders as their robotic limbs clicked and clacked in a frenzy as they tripled their efforts to serve the countless patrons shambling against the bartop. The drinks even more varied than the dozens of creatures barking their orders at them, both organic and not. From rainbow-colored concoctions to thick, spine shuddering sludges that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy every few seconds. The patrons down them all the same, regardless of appearance, in their shared dreams of getting completely shitfaced.

Again, he found himself wanting to focus on the air surrounding him. The air, which he was still so certain smelled like absolute ass, was thick with dizzying combinations of alien sweat, spices, and smokes from countless beeping and revolving devices shoved between the chapped lips of countless patrons. There was a sign shoddily nailed into the wall near the entrance, its base which had grown battered and faded as the years ticked on barely hanging on by a thread. Despite its broken appearance, two words still shone prominently from it in a bold, bright red text which read: NO SMOKING. Its stern demand all but forgotten, or maybe even ignored by the bar’s patrons, much to the displeasure of its employees.

He wanted to focus on anything else, but he couldn’t.

It was all a symphony of chaos and noise, a chaos he himself was wary of upon first stepping foot into the bar. It was all far too loud, far too dirty, far too unpredictable—too unlike a place he would willingly and happily find himself spending his night in. Yet despite its overall unpleasant atmosphere and even more unpleasant sensations it spurred within his metal chassis he chose to endure it all nonetheless. After all, this was not his night. Everything tonight was for Ratchet, he would remind himself repeatedly. Yes, Clank would put up with it, even if that chaos only seemed to escalate ten fold as the night wore on.

Clank sighed at the thought of his dear friend, the blank stare in Ratchet’s eyes as he muttered Alister’s name was a far worse sight than the tired gazes of the months before. He had never seen him look so empty before.

Alister…

Clank’s lip would have curled with distaste if he had one, deciding to instead tighten his grip on the mug between his digits instead. He stared down at his drink, the murky liquid sludging back and forth as he idly twirled the mug. Try as he might, he could not shake the feeling of unease that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

He raised the mug, taking a swig of the tar and closing his eyes as it slid down the tubing which made up his throat. It went down smoothly, the liquid coating his throat evenly, momentarily distracting him from the numbing sense of dread that hung over him like a dark cloud. He stared back down into the drink, catching sight of the faint reflection of his green eyes staring back up at him. As he stared into the murky depths of his glass, memories flashed through his mind.

He remembered the first time meeting Ratchet, that good for nothing punk who seemed to make it his mission to make the lives of everyone unfortunate enough to be caught around him as miserable as he possibly could. He remembered the times he wished nothing but the absolute worst on the jerk, the times he wanted to do nothing more than beat him over the head till he couldn’t remember his own name. Never in a million years would Clank have predicted that this total opposite of him would ever look at him with any amount of fondness. 

But somehow, despite all odds, he did.

He remembered the first time he made Ratchet laugh— genuinely laugh, not some bullshit little huff of the nose which acted as nothing more than a “I don’t care to really respond to what you said so I’ll just give you the absolute bare minimum instead” type of laugh. A real, hearty laugh which came from a place of genuine joy. A joy Clank never expected the kid to ever share with him.

It was a tentative friendship at first, of course. The trust wasn’t really all there and what little there was could very well be broken with nothing more than a single snide comment. He remembered how Ratchet had slowly begun to open up to him little by little with each passing day they spent together. He remembered the conversations, the stories, the perspectives, the gradual want to build some form of foundation for the two to really begin to understand each other. First as acquaintances, then as coworkers, then friends, then partners, then finally as brothers. 

As they faced more and more obstacles together, as they laughed their way through every victory and pulled themselves back together after every defeat Clank came to the realization that he wouldn’t want anyone besides Ratchet at his side. 

He remembered their life so fondly, forever grateful that this cold and unforgiving universe could be capable of creating someone as genuinely whole as Ratchet.

He remembered watching him die.

Tonk!

Clank blinked, eyelids softly whirring with the motion. 

There was a peanut laying on the table before him.

He blinked again.

Tonk!  

Something small and hard hit him once more, this time colliding against his forehead. Clank reeled back, eyes wide in alarm. Some of his drink spilled out onto the table, splattering both the original peanut and its partner in crime in the thick liquid. Turning to his right, he saw Kit sitting there with a fistful of peanuts in her hands. Her mouth was hanging limply in what he could only interpret as shock, as if the very notion of tossing peanuts at him would actually result in him getting pelted by the legume was completely foreign to her.

Kit dropped her little collection onto the table, a few rouge peanuts rolled off the surface and plummeted to the ground below. “I didn’t think I’d actually hit you.”

“You threw two at me,” Clank said slowly, still trying to process the situation.

Kit nodded her head, “Uh huh.”

“...You hit me both times, Kit.”

“Well!” She started, huffing a little, “ you weren’t listening! Just been staring into your cup with this weird look on your face.”

Clank deflated, shame flooding his senses. He shot her an apologetic look as he flicked the two tainted peanuts away from him. “Apologies, Kit. I’m afraid I’ve been getting a little lost in thought more than I would like to be.” 

Clank made a tiny motion with his free hand towards the rusty napkin dispenser bolted into the table near Kit. “No no it’s fine,” she hastily assured him, rapidly tearing out a messy handful of napkins before passing it to him, “just a little worried is all.” 

He smiled at her, nodding his thanks as he got to work on cleaning his little spill. “While I appreciate your concern, I assure there is nothing to be worried about. As I said I’m just a little distracted is all.”

She squinted his eyes at him, crossing her arms across her chest. “You sure you’re alright, Clank?”

“One hundred percent.” He smiled politely once more, ever the gentleman.

She stared at him in silence for a few moments, eyes squinting even thinner. “...You sure? ”

“Yes, I am sure.”

“You sure you’re sur—”

“ Yes ,” Clank sighed, “I am sure I’m sure that I’m quite alright.”

Her suspicious gaze didn’t budge. Clank idly tapped his fingers against the table, not really sure what to do with himself at the moment.

“I don’t believe you,” she muttered. “Not only has your face been stuck in this weird look, it's also morphed into this really weird look on five different occasions during your staring contest with your drink.”

He tilted his head, “Five times?”

“I counted,” she mumbled, suddenly very interested in the stained surface of the bartop.

Clank sighed, he knew he had been caught. A hand rose to rub against his forehead, thinking on how best to navigate his way through his friend’s interrogation without giving too much away. “...There is something wrong, yes.” He eventually admitted.

He risked a glance towards her, finding her to be unsatisfied with his response. He knew that she knew he was intentionally being vague. Part of him hoped that she would leave it at that, a realization that he didn’t feel comfortable with fully describing his current predicament thus leaving it for another time. He didn’t take her for the overly stubborn type like his dear brother.  

The two were silent, both bots staring down at the table. He opened his mouth to apologize before Kit suddenly hopped down from her stool with a little huff. His jaw snapped shut, the metal clacking together with the action. He blinked before twisting his body to peer down at Kit below, hands holding the armrest of his seat.

She met his confused gaze with a little smile and wave before turning her attention towards her seat. He watched her tiny hands grip its leg and push it against the floor, wincing as it screeched against the stained tile as she moved it closer to his own seat. This continued for a few seconds with the horrendous screeching gaining the attention of more than a few nearby patrons. Clank smiled apologetically at the glares surrounding him.

The horrid sound suddenly stopped, Clank barely had enough time to register the fact before he was face to face with Kit once more, this time with her being mere inches away from his face. His eyes widened, turning quickly to cough into his fist. He felt his cooling systems shift into overdrive, fans whirring faster when he realized that Kit could most definitely hear his reaction to her sudden proximity.

“Alright!” she huffed, throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close, “we’re doing this. You and I, my dear friend, are having a heart to heart.”

“Kit,” he began, “you really don’t need to—”

“Ah ah ah!” she tutted at him, “Normally I wouldn’t, and I hope I’m not overstepping any boundaries or anything but to me,” she placed a palm against her chest, “something about this whole ordeal doesn’t seem right to me.” She tilted her head, looking at him closely. “I wouldn’t put it past Ratchet to be all moody, seems like the type to have his moments . Er, no offense,” she chuckled.

Clank shrugged, a tiny smile on his face. Kit grinned back, shaking him back and forth a bit.

“But,” she started, “you’ve been acting…different tonight, been a lot quieter and uh, more subdued, I guess.”

Clank sighed once more, resigning himself to his fate. “...I suppose I haven’t been myself lately, yes.”

He heard her hum quietly. “Been quiet since you got back from your talk with Ratchet,” his friend mumbled. He looked at her, frowning at the concerned look in her eyes. “Everything alright between you two?” She asked him quietly, barely audible over the boisterous laughter and music of their surroundings.

Clank’s gaze dropped, he turned away to stare at his hands as they lay lip against the sticky bartop. He made a motion to reach for his forgotten drink, halting halfway through before letting the appendage thump against the table once more.

He dipped his head lower, closing his eyes in thought. Before him lay two paths, with him standing dumbly in the middle. One path had him keep his mouth zipped and shut down Kit’s invasive line of questioning. Respecting Ratchet’s privacy and refrain from airing out his dirty laundry to someone Clank himself was sure he wouldn’t appreciate hearing. It was hard enough as is to get Ratchet to open up about his innermost feelings and going behind his back to jabber about it with someone else would no doubt make it all the more difficult. Ratchet trusted him, showed him a side seldom few ever got to see. Having Ratchet second guess on whether or not he could trust Clank caused a lot more turmoil in his circuits than he was comfortable admitting.

The other path was betrayal, clear cut. There really was no other way his mind could explain it. Go behind Ratchet’s back, air out his problems, get another person involved with his most personal issues. Every single logical part of Clank’s brain was practically screeching at him a million different variations of just how utterly fucking stupid it would be to tell Kit what was really going on.

“...Clank?” He heard her soft voice call.

He risked a glance.

He found her frowning at him, eyes filled to the brim with so much concern for his well being that it took every single iota of strength he had in his tiny metal body to not word-vomit everything plaguing his mind tonight. He searched her eyes, desperately looking for any hint of anything— anything to prove the overly cautious and rational side of his mind correct, the side fighting so viciously to keep his mouth shut. Any smidge of ulterior motives, a fraction of ill-intent, a morsel of deceit—anything to tell him that this overwhelming amount of care she was giving him was nothing more than a facade. Please, his mind begged, please give him anything . 

“I’m making that face again, aren’t I?” He asked quietly.

Ratchet would just have to understand.

He heard her giggle, eyes squinting in mirth. “Eight times now actually.”

He would just have to understand.

“What a little detective you’ve turned out to be,” he chuckled.

She puffed her chest out, pride radiating off her like heat waves. She removed her arm from his shoulders, much to his displeasure, and settled into her seat, giving him her full attention.

Clank sighed for the umpteenth time this hour alone, resigning himself once more to the fate he tried so desperately to avoid. “Earlier you asked if Ratchet and I were doing ok, correct?”

She bobbed her head, frowning slightly. “Yes, I’ve been…” she trailed off, eyes darting to the side. He could see the confliction plastered across her face clear as day, as to what that confliction could be, however, he hadn’t the faintest clue. He made a move to assure his friend before her eyes were suddenly on his own again, freezing him in place. “I’ve actually been worried for a while now. Everything's been a bit…tense—especially tonight.”

“A while now?” Clank echoed, this was news to him. She bobbed her head some more, frown deepening. Clank tilted his head, looking at her with his eyes slightly narrowed. “Why’s that?” 

She rapped her fingers against the table, taking a small breath before leaning a tad closer. “I know that the whole fiasco with the Dimensionator was…well it was just a lot —for all parties involved, I get that.”

Clank chortled slightly. “Yes,” he laughed, “was most definitely a lot ,” he raised his right arm, twisting his now yellow wrist and hearing the soft clicks as the newly installed machinery worked, “for all parties involved.”

Kit giggled with him. “I get that it was a lot, I really— really do. But…” she was staring down at her hands now.

Clank’s smile dropped, he stooped his head low in an attempt to get her to look at him. “But…?” he prodded.

He watched her glance at him for a moment before her gaze returned to her hands. “It’s just been a while since we’ve heard from you two, is all,” her hands rung together, the small appendages squeaking together as they moved.

Clank felt the apology bubbling along his throat before she suddenly whipped her head towards him. “I understand that you two live pretty busy lives back in your home dimension, doubt that was the first time you’ve bumped heads with Nefarious,” she chuckled, “Rivet gave me updates from time to time, told me how you two were doing, what you two were doing, where you two were doing things. It was nice to hear that you two were still going so strong even after such a draining event.”

“But then that steady contact…just stopped, correct?” Clank finished for her, already knowing where she was heading with this.

Kit nodded sadly with a sigh. Clank opened his mouth to try and begin the arduous task of explaining just what went wrong before the bot next to him suddenly sprung to life.

“And I thought I was taking the sudden—uh, I think it’s called ghosting ? Anyways—I thought I was taking it badly but Rivet ,” she leaned back, hands gripping the sides of her head, “Whoo! Rivet was two steps away from a full blown meltdown!”

Clank blinked.

“Now, I know that sometimes she can get a little jellyboned from time to time and not really feel the need to…well do anything, but I swear on everything that she did not leave her bed once for nearly a whopping two whole weeks once Ratchet first went radio silent.”

She dropped her head in her hands. “It was just constant ‘Where did Ratchet go?’ and ‘What happened to Ratchet?’ and ‘Did I do something wrong to Ratchet?’ and ju—Ratchet this, Ratchet that, Ratchet! Ratchet! Ratchet! ” Kit raved, hands flapping around wildly.

Clank blinked.

“It was as if her entire world had suddenly crumbled and the sole culprit was that stupid Lo—” she took a glance at him, mouth quickly snapping shut when seeing his incredulous stare.

Clank’s jaw hung wide open, scraping against the bottom of the floor. Kit folded in on herself, the sudden hike in energy seemingly being sucked from her with a straw. He watched her force a chuckle which he guessed she hoped was nonchalant but came out horribly nervous instead.

“Uh…Sorry,” she cringed, “Just–Just a lot of uh, stress lately,” she rubbed a hand across her forehead, “...lot of stress.”

“I see…” was his lame response, not really sure what else to say. The look of embarrassment on her face deepened at his slow response, she folded into herself further. Clank cleared his throat, “W-what I meant was I’ve…never really seen this part of you before,” he tried again, hoping he’d articulated himself well enough for her to understand what it was he was trying to say.

“Yea I know,” she mumbled, still looking sheepish, “Just been a little hard keeping a level head as of late. I don't really have the emotional strength to handle a moping Rivet for a little over two months straight, I guess.”

Clank nodded, knowing all too well how utterly exhausting it could be dealing with a moody Lombax. 

“I care for her a whole lot,” she told him, “been hard seeing her so down in the dumps for so long. I’ve tried my best to be there for her and try and help her where I can, but it feels like I just…hit a wall with her some days and we don’t really make any progress at all.”

“I commend you for both trying and being there for her nonetheless,” he told her gently, “you don’t always need to have a solution ready for someone when they’re struggling, sometimes a comforting presence is more than enough.”

She looked at him then, eyes still screaming uncertainty yet the beginnings of a tiny smile had formed in the corners of her face. “Really?”

“Of course,” Clank chuckled quietly, “sometimes when Ratchet doesn’t feel like telling me what’s wrong or if the conversation goes around and around in circles, I’ll just sit with him and do nothing more than bask in our shared silence.”

Clank leaned back, eyes staring wistfully at the ceiling. “Sometimes he tells me what's troubling him, sometimes he doesn’t. Regardless of the outcome, I was there—and he knows that,” Clank smiled, “sometimes he thanks me, sometimes he doesn’t. But that’s not really important,” he glanced at her, “do you know what is?”

Kit blinked owlishly, she shook her head.

“No matter what happens, regardless of the outcome, Ratchet knows I’ll be there for him. Just as Rivet knows you’ll be there for her,” he placed a hand on her shoulder, “it may not feel like you’re doing much, but to her you’re giving her the world.”

Kit made a strange little noise, face scrunching up as much as the metal allowed. “You’re gonna make me cry,” she whined, “how did this conversation get spun onto me so fast?! You’re the one that’s supposed to be receiving the heart to heart!” Kit huffed, crossing her arms.

Clank laughed, shaking her shoulder a bit before removing his hand. “My deepest apologies for ruining your plans.” Kit rolled her eyes at him, shoving his shoulder lightly. 

“I just want to be there for her,” she sighed, “be a lot easier if she wasn’t so impressively evasive with just being straight up with me so frequently.”

“Sounds a lot like Ratchet, so evasive and so hopelessly stubborn.”

Kit laughed. “ Yes, so very stubborn. Perfect word to describe them both.”

“Stupendous stubbornness that can only be outmatched by just how scared they are of expressing their deepest feelings makes one hell of a cocktail for emotional unavailability,” Clank huffed, “good thing they’ve got us to keep their heads on their shoulders.”

Kit raised her tiny glass towards him. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” she smiled.

Clank raised his mug in return, both bots knocking their heads back as they drank. He lowered his drink, breathing a sound of contentment as he settled against the bar. He rested the side of his head against his shoulder, eyes cast downward in thought.

“Oh!” Clank gasped, “Kit?”

Kit jumped, head whipping to greet him. “Wha—yea?”

“Earlier you said things were tense, and that things were ‘especially’ tense tonight, yes?”

Kit’s eyes narrowed, a hand rose to rub her chin. Clank could hear the faint sounds of something whirring about in her noggin as she thought. “Oh!” she suddenly exclaimed, brightening up considerably, “yes I do remember saying that. Why?”

“What did you mean by things being tense tonight?” he questioned her, “...things aren’t tense…between us? Are they?” a smidge of nervousness entered his tone. It has been a while since they’ve last held an actual conversation.

“Of course not silly!” she laughed, immediately putting his worried mind at ease, “I for one think things are going great between us two, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked him, he thought he heard a bit of… something enter her tone but he ignored it.

He nodded hastily, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Of course, I truly enjoyed your company thus far tonight,” he hoped she couldn’t hear his coolant kicking it up a gear, “even if our surroundings aren’t the cleanest.” His hand brushed against a rather sticky portion of the table, making him shiver slightly.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” her smile was practically audible in her voice, “that tension is coming from…” she waved her hands distractedly in tiny circles before her, “...other avenues, I guess.”

Clank tilted his head, one eye softly shuttering as the eyelid narrowed. “As in other avenues you mean Ratchet and Rivet, correct?”

She winked at him. “Bingo!”

“Those two have been rather…cautious around each other, at least from what little I’ve seen of their interactions tonight,” he nodded idly.

“Cautious is putting things lightly,” she snickered, “those two furheads look a few steps away from combusting every time they look at each other.”

“I take it you’ve noticed just what’s been going on between those two?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“How could I not ?” Kit scoffed, “they’ve only just managed to make it the most obvious thing in the worlds. Feels like the very fabric of the universe is gonna snap every time those two get within three feet of each other. Those two just need to suck each other’s faces off already.”

“Well,” Clank huffed, “they almost were able to before somebody interrupted their little moment.” The sheer intensity of the scene before him had shocked him, never seeing Ratchet look at someone with such a powerful mix of both lust and fear in his gaze. He knew Rivet had the Lombax completely wrapped around her finger, he knew it was only a matter of time before the two actually grew a pair and made a move. 

Kit shrunk, chuckling softly. “Oops?” She suddenly leaned close, dropping her voice to a whisper, “Don’t tell her I told you this, but I overheard Rivet rambling to herself something mad in the restroom earlier after we bumped into them.”

He looked at her, surprised. Kit widened her eyes, bobbing her head.

Clank looked off to the side, he knew he shouldn’t pry. But…

“...Did you happen to catch anything that was said?” He asked her slowly, a smidge of hope wiggling its way into his tone against his wishes.

Her face dropped apologetically. “Not really,” Kit muttered, “she was whisper-screaming so fast it sounded more like she was choking to death on something.” She leaned back, scratching at the side of her head. “Then I saw you two talking, and judging from Ratchet’s face—couldn’t see yours because you don’t have a face on the back of your head,” she rambled, “ BUT Ratchet’s face screamed seriousness and I didn’t think it would be right of me to intrude on that.”

She took a breath.

“You’re ranting again,” Clank interrupted gently.

Kit ducked down, “Heh–sorry,” she cringed.

Clank smiled, shaking his head at her antics. “It’s quite alright,” he assured.

She smiled sweetly at him, nudging her shoulder against his own. “Chatterbox, I know I know,” she sighed, “anyways—back to business,” she snapped upright, looking at him seriously. “That talk seemed pretty intense, you two have a fight?”

“Not quite,” Clank admitted, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling. “Ratchet and I are alright, there are no hard feelings or…” he waved his hands in front of him aimlessly, “...discord between the two of us. It’s just…” Clank glanced at her, quickly looking away from her concerned gaze.

“Just…?” Kit urged, eyes widening.

Clank’s knuckles rapped dully against the table. “...Well… Ratchet is not alright,” he breathed. He felt his body sag considerably into the stiff cushions of his seat. “Not alright in the slightest,” he mumbled.

“What’s wrong with him?” He heard her ask softly.

Clank dropped his chin into his palm with a tired sigh, gaze flattening. “I…don’t really know, to be honest.” He heard Kit make a small confused noise. “He evaded the question, of course. He told me his worries with Rivet, fears of him not being enough—insecurities, doubts, the whole nine yards.”

“Well, I for one think Ratchet is way more than enough for her,” came Kit’s confused voice.

“As do I, I know he’d give her nothing less than the absolute best.”

“...So what’s the problem?”

The million dollar question, a question Clank himself couldn’t answer with a hundred percent certainty. He knew Ratchet was diverting from discussing the real issue at hand whenever he went on his rant about Rivet. He knew his emotional meltdown and heartfelt confessions on the profound effect the woman had on him were nothing more than a diversion, even if they were true.

Their talk earlier was nothing more than a half truth. Yes, Rivet had been plaguing his mind, but Clank was certain her involvement in his deteriorating mental stability was a rather insignificant one. There was something—or someone else who had a much more important role in doing so.

But as Clank has seen time and time again, you can’t force Ratchet to talk about something if he doesn’t want to. Try and do that and you’ll either find yourself in a never-ending loop of a conversation or have a better time getting an audible response from a brick wall. Ratchet’s avoidance of tackling matters of the heart head on was something of an annoyance for Clank, but something that the bot had to accept. He wanted his brother to trust him with matters as delicate as these, and forcing answers out of him would do nothing but damage that trust he’s spent so many years building with him.

Thus, Clank was in the dark just as much as Kit was.

Well…not entirely in the dark.

Clank took a breath.

“As much as Ratchet cares for Rivet, and she for him…I fear he may not be ready for such a serious commitment at the moment.”

Kit blinked, obviously taken aback by Clank’s claim. She tilted her head at him, wordlessly urging him to continue. Clank folded his hands together before bringing them to rest just before his chin. “There’s…something else that’s been bothering Ratchet as of late,” Clank began, circuits working overtime in their effort to phrase this in a way that wouldn’t give away too much, “I’ve watched him battle with this problem for years now.”

“Is it some kind of depression?”

“Not quite, no. It’s a bit,” Clank paused, “further than that.” He leaned back, eyes glossing over. “I had thought we had moved past this by now, he never brought it up or showed any signs of still suffering from it. I had assumed the best and thus never bothered to check in on him about it.”

 His eyes darkened. “I suppose I should have done better.”

He felt a pressure on his shoulder, turning his head revealed it to be Kit’s hand placed firmly against him. “Don’t you be talking like that now,” she tutted, “can’t go blaming yourself for something you thought had been resolved.”

Clank smiled at her, resting a hand atop her own. “Thank you, Kit. I just want to do right by him, is all.”

“And you have , Clank. I doubt he’d be half the Lombax he is today if you weren’t still here by his side,” her voice was soft, so full of warmth, “he really is so lucky to have someone like you watching his back.”

Clank’s throat felt scratchy, wires getting tangled left and right. “I just don’t want to see him get hurt any further than he already is,” his voice hitched, “I don’t want to see Ratchet’s best chance at something good, something so truly good for him get spoiled by old wounds.” 

Kit’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “If they don’t work out, they don’t work out,” she shrugged. “But hey,” she nudged him, “if those two ever run into some speed bumps along their way, guess who’s gonna be waiting right there to pick their tails back up?” she sing-songed, nudging him more.

Clank rolled his eyes, pursing his lips in a vain attempt at subduing the grin slowly spreading across his face. “Who?”

He felt her arm slink around his shoulders pulling him flush against her side. “Why only the two greatest companion bots in the entire multiverse, of course!” She puffed her chest out pointing an outstretched thumb back towards them with a flourish.

Clank laughed, rolling his eyes. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” she laughed, “and besides—I’m sure that despite whatever Ratchet’s got going on in his head, he’ll still try his hardest to make her smile each and every day.”

“Of course he will,” Clank chuckled, voice sounding all the more tight, “I’ve never seen him look at someone with such fondness in his eyes.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “I just can’t help but worry for him, I know he’ll be perfect for her but I don’t know if it all will be too much for him to bear, he’s already stressed enough as is.”

He felt Kit shrug against him. “Only time will tell, I suppose.”

Clank nodded, not knowing what else to say.

The two were silent, both staring ahead but focusing on nothing in particular. Despite his wishes for it to rest, Clank’s mind was insistent on nagging him. Ratchet had Rivet as his dimensional counterpart, Clank had Kit as his dimensional counterpart, Quark had Quantum as his dimensional counterpart—so on and so forth.

Was it possible that…?

“Kit?” came Clank’s nervous voice.

He heard her hum next to him.

Clank’s mouth wobbled, throat bobbing uncomfortably as he tried to rip the question from the wires and circuits that made up his esophagus. He took a breath, shuddering as he did so.

“I know it’s…unlikely,” he began slowly.

He felt Kit’s head turn towards him, her gaze uncomfortably hot against the side of his head. If he were capable, he was sure he would be covered head to two in sweat. Nonetheless, her gaze felt as if it was boiling the very metal it rested upon.

“Have you heard of anyone by the name of…” he felt something in his stomach drop, “Alister Azimuth?” he eventually croaked out. His mouth felt dirty.

Kit hummed again beside him, a small repeated tink! tink! tink! rang out as her index finger bounced against her chin. “Hmm…doesn’t ring a bell, no.” She rested her head in her hand, looking at him funny. “Why? Bit of a sudden question.”

Clank nodded. “Just a random attack of curiosity, is all.”

Kit nodded back, albeit slower. “Who are they?”

“An old wound.”

Chapter Text

Every inch of his body felt as if it had been engulfed in flames.

He felt as if he had been completely submerged from head to toe in a vat of some of the most swelteringly hot magma ever spewed from every planet capable of producing the red sludge.

As if a wicked team of the most brilliant scientists all of reality had to offer had embarked on some sort of grand galaxy-hopping adventure to scoop up a sample of magma from each and every volcano in existence and plopped it all in a container perfectly measured to ensure that each and every inch of Ratchet’s body would be completely engulfed by their torrid concoction of heat.

He took a breath, shuddering.

He could hear the faint sound of their horribly foul laughter as more and more of his skin bubbled and blistered the longer his body was forced to endure this torturous sensation which was so deeply obsessed with making sure every nerve trapped underneath his unworthy flesh felt nothing but pure, unadulterated misery. 

He couldn’t find the strength to release the breath.

Every morsel of his being begged to scream—to rid itself of this horrendous experience of being around her whilst every one of those same grumbling morsels wanted to beg, to throw themselves at her feet and beg for an eternity’s worth more of the intoxicating experience of simply sharing the same air as her.

He forced a swallow, nearly turning blue from the sheer effort required to force what little amount of saliva his dry mouth had produced down an unbelievably tight throat.

A pair of hands worked tirelessly behind his ribcage, bumbling against his bruised bones with a coarse rope as it made several loops around his battered lungs, squeezing the decrepit organs closer and closer together with every revolution. The dizzying pressure against the pink masses of flesh and blood caused them to wheeze and whine, fighting with such enormous effort to even allow the smallest amount of air grace their entrances an outsider would think that they were currently locked into a battle for survival against God himself.

His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, a waterfall of sweat rushed through the tangled mess of fur laid across the skin, practically fusing the fabric against him. He wanted to pick the grating sensation away with restless claws, an indulgence he would have happily given into if his hands weren’t already so preoccupied with white-knuckling the sticky barstool he sat upon. 

A hot pulse of something unpleasant radiated from the knuckles of his injured hand, swirling the contents of his already dizzy stomach further. 

He blinked, eyes focusing further to stare at the nightmare sitting besides him.

The nightmare stared back, wicked eyes looking at him so tauntingly.

His own eyes widened, head thrumming with the dull sound of his molars grinding together. The lake of sweat drenching his back expanded into an entire ocean, the already humid atmosphere of the bar threatened to suffocate him the damper his fur became.

He idly thought of her hands peeling the offending fabric from his skin completely.

His molars threatened to crack.

The bruised knuckles beneath his skin pulsed once more.

There he sat, trapped underneath two gentle hands cradling his person—a person which was so deeply undeserving of such a fantastic, whisper-like hold bestowed from such an absolute god-send of a woman that the startling realization that such a blasphemous thing was actually happening was everything synonymous with agonizing.

There she sat, breaking him with nothing more than her presence. 

He blinked again, strangling himself through another swallow. Nightmare, he told himself.

She was still sitting too close, still holding his jaw so gently, still looking right through him, still smiling at him, still infesting his nose with her intoxicating scent, still sending shockwaves rippling through his entire being with every small stroke of her thumb against his shaking thigh.

Still making him fall for her.

A shaky breath left his nose, hitching slightly when he felt the hand against his thigh readjust itself the smallest bit. She smirked at him then, a soft laugh huffing from her lips after catching sight of the already visible blush spreading further across his face.

His eyes snapped away from her melting gaze, choosing to instead focus hard on the countless stains littering the table before them. He heard another breathy laugh escape from her, his fists shook harder against the stool at the sound.

A shift was felt before the hand cradling his cheek slowly slid down the length of his jaw, shifting slightly on the way down so a single index finger could ride along the last bit of the bone before flicking away off his chin. The skin beneath her horrible touch festered with whatever infection she was spreading through his very cells, some sick part of his brain wanted more. 

The hand pressed firmly against his thigh squeezed the muscle momentarily before sliding down the expanse of the appendage as well. The agonizingly slow pace threatened to drive whatever part of his mind wasn’t already completely mad.

The ropes around his lungs tightened tenfold.

He watched her lean into the bartop, crossing her arms against it before plopping her head into a palm. He watched her eyes aimlessly roam their dingy surroundings before grabbing a hold of her bottle, flipping the now warm glass around to read the laundry list of ingredients printed onto the back. A soft sigh left her nose.

He felt the lazy flick flick flick of her tail against his own rigid one, a cruel reminder that someone so firm could simultaneously be so dizzyingly soft. He sat up, spine straighter than a pole, and stared forwards. 

His fingers slowly peeled themselves from the stool, aching horribly, before he placed them flat against the bartop. His eyes flicked to the cracked glass of the clock haphazardly nailed above the bar’s colorful assortment of bottles. The varied arrangement of a seemingly endless supply of bottles in all sorts of different sizes, shapes, and colors would have impressed him if his heart wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.

Three minutes had gone by and not a single word was shared between them.

He risked a glance towards her from the corner of his eye, finding her to still be wholly engrossed in her mundane examination of the bottle.

He grimaced, fingers idly tapping against the wet surface.

Stop being such a fucking pussy.

Ratchet took a breath, clapping his hands together before turning himself towards Rivet.

He found her already staring at him, small smile on her face.

 He jumped back with a yelp.

She tilted her head slightly, metallic digits bouncing rhythmically against the faded wood.

“...Forget I was here or something?” Came after her soft chuckles died out.

“D–uh wha–no. No .” His face was burning .

She stared. “No?”

“Yes,” he crossed his arms, “just…surprised me, is all.”

Her head bobbed up and down, slowly, “I surprised you…” 

He nodded, once.

“..By sitting here,” she tapped a finger against the table, “In the same spot I’ve been sitting.”

He scratched behind his ear. “Yea,” came his tiny voice.

“For the past two hours.”

He rapped a knuckle against the wood.

“I’m struggling to see how any of this is surprising to you.”

“It’s ju–” he threw his hands up in the empty air before him, “I j–I wasn’t expecting you to be looking at…me.”

She laughed. “ Looking at you is a surprising thing?”

“Wha–no! I don’t—”

 “Do I need to give you a warning before I look at you?”

“ No—”

“Wai–wait shut up,” she cut him off, “allow me to accommodate.” She placed a hand over her eyes, snickering.

He pouted at her, hoping a sudden strike of divine revelation would allow her to see just how displeased he was with her during her moment of self-inflicted blindness.

“Ri—”

“Ratchet,” she cut him off once more.

He said nothing.

He watched her frown, eyebrows falling flat against her hand.

“Ruh…Ratchet?” Her free hand groped the air in what she assumed his general direction was.

Again, he said nothing.

“...Ra..?” a squinted eye peeked at him between her fingers before widening, “ OH! ” She screamed, slamming her fingers back together. “Shit! I didn’t give you a warning!”

“I don’t nee—”

“I am such a nonaccomodating…non..oh!—unaccomodating friend,” she huffed, hand still firmly planted over her eyes. “I’ll do better, cross my heart.”

His frown was beginning to ache. “Gee, than—”

“Ok!” She cut him off for the third time, “Ratchet.”

A long, tired sigh. “...Yes?”

She groped around for a few moments before catching his shoulder. “I am going to look at you,” she told him slowly.

“Uh huh.”

He felt her hand squeeze his shoulder, “Are you ready?”

He wanted to shoot himself for getting so worked up over someone so stupid.

“You gotta give me something to work with here, buddy,” she shook his shoulder, “pal?”

“Yes,” he grumbled.

“Yes what?” her toothy grin practically split her face in two, she made no effort to hide the obvious mirth from her tone.

“Yes,” he sighed, “I’m ready for you to look at me.”

She beamed, throwing her hand off her face with a flourish. “Gah it’s bright in here,” she squinted, eyes slowly refocusing on him. “Woah,” she said after a few moments, “forgot what you looked like.”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, grabbing his drink, “try not to get too starstruck.”

“Nah it’s more like…” she waved a hand, head tilted back in thought, “bit unremarkable really, nothin’ special to really remember.” 

He laughed, “Like you could forget a face like mine.”

She raised a brow, “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on,” he tutted, shifting towards her and waving a hand towards himself, “kind of speaks for itself here.”

She leaned her crossed arms into the bartop, “Don’t really see how you looking good in black has anything to do with me not being able to forget you.”

His face flared up again, “...Y’think I look nice in this?” he mumbled. His claws idly picked at the fabric clinging to his damp stomach.

A warm smile was tossed his way, “Of course,” she chirped, “very handsome.” One of her hands reached over to flick away a piece of lint stuck to the shirt near his chest. He gave her a smile back, albeit a much wobblier one.

“But still unremarkable,” Rivet snickered.

“Ah…alright, I see what’s going on here,” he laughed, a toothy grin on his face.

“Do you now?”

“Yes,” he leaned towards her, “I do.”

She settled further into the bartop, dipping her head towards him. “The floor is all yours, then.”

“This,” he began, waving a hand in idle circles, “all of this..this… coyness —this whole façade of being so nonchalant and indifferent and uh…” he pursed his lips, head tilting back in thought.

“Uncaring?” she tutted, “Impartial? Disinterested? Maybe even a little aloof if you really want to get fancy?”

“Yes, yes,” he rolled his eyes, “you can put away your thesaurus now.” 

She barked a laugh. “Don’t hate me because you can’t articulate your thoughts well.”

“ That ,” he snapped his fingers, pointing at her, “that right there.”

Rivet looked down at herself, hands patting random spots across her body. “What?”

“That! That tone—that teasing! Been doing it all night!”

She blew a gust of air from her lips, “Really? Me teasing you all night is your big revelation of the hour?”

“Don’t forget the acting aloof part,” he huffed.

“Ya caught me,” she ignored him, “really such a bad thing that I like pushing your buttons?”

“No, shush, it goes further than that,” he told her.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Yuh huh…”

She waited for him to continue, staring flatly at his shit-eating grin. At his continued silence she groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose with a hand. “And how does it go further than that, Ratchet?” she asked him, lamely.

“Thank you for asking,” he cheesed, snickering at her glare. “It goes further because I know why you’re doing it.”

“...Because I like doing it?” She guessed.

“No.”

“Because it’s fun?”

“No.”

“Because I enjoy spending time with you?”

“No.” His heart warmed.

“Then please, use your divine wisdom and please reveal the answer to this mystery in a way my poor, feeble mind could comprehend.” She moaned, sagging dramatically against his shoulder.

“You do it as a coverup,” was his simple answer.

She stared at him against his shoulder, blinking slowly. “...A coverup?”

He nodded, smirking.

Her stare turned unimpressed. “Is this the part where you tell me what I’m covering up?”

“You catch on quick.”

She rolled her eyes with a huff, slugging herself off his shoulder. “Go on, please. Would love to see what conclusion your tiny little brain has come to.”

“Loving the enthusiasm, Riv.” 

She gave him no response. A metal fist tightened against the table.

“Right,” he swallowed, “ you in all of your non-chalantness and indifference and disinterest—”

“You forgot aloofness,” she huffed, “Oh, and impartialness.”

He shot a finger gun towards her, “Right, thank you.” Sitting up a bit straighter, Ratchet spun his stool so he was giving her his full attention, facing her head on. He locked gazes with her bored one and took a breath. “You, Rivet, have been doing all this tonight to cover up your nerves.”

The air was silent between the two.

Ratchet watched Rivet’s face slowly fall from the bored stare she was drilling into his head to a wide-eyed, limped-jaw gape as her brain registered his accusation.

“Nerves?” Eventually came her shocked voice.

He bit his lip. “Yes.”

She leaned towards him, face falling further into incredulity. “You cannot be serious. Me? Nerves?”

“I totally am,” came his strained voice. His teeth ground down upon his lip harder, eyebrows squeezing together.

“You!” her voice was nearing hysteria, “wha–I—you don’t even believe that yourself!”

“I am sorry you,” he turned his head away from her, coughing away a laugh, “ ahem —I am… very sorry you’re having such a hard time accepting the truth.”

A metallic finger was suddenly thrust against his nose, making him go cross eyed. “Look at your fucking face right now and tell me you’re telling the truth!”

He pressed his nose into the invading appendage. “This is a face of stone cold stoicism.”

“I can’t believe this,” she mumbled, “I can't believe this!” She took her finger from his nose, placing the hand on top of her head. “You’re unbelievable,” she laughed, grinning madly, “you are—you are unreal. You’re the nervous one here! You’re projecting—you–you’ve been the nervous one!” She suddenly stopped, eyes closing.

“You wanna know how I know you’re bullshitting me?” she asked him, after taking a breath.

Ratchet leaned an elbow against the bartop, plopping his cheek down into his palm. “Enlighten me,” he flicked her side with his tail.

She opened her eyes then, staring into his own. He felt his pulse quicken in his throat. “I can smell the sweat caking your fur, Ratchet,” she told him.

Slowly, his relaxed stare morphed into one of complete mortification. His nose wiggled, taking in his own scent. His eyes widened, face exploding into a deep shade of crimson.

He heard something akin to glass breaking in the recesses of his mind.

I fuckin stink

Every facet of his mind had been so preoccupied with taking in and relishing the absolute wonder that was Rivet’s scent, he had completely ignored the fact that her giving him a heart attack every other minute was doing no favors to his own scent.

“Yousaiwha?” he muttered, heart dropping to his feet.

“You’re practically an ocean over there, Ratch. Especially your back.”

He pursed his lips, squinting his eyes at her. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Rivet’s stare flattened. “Let me touch the back of your shirt then.”

He sucked a breath of air between his teeth. “...No.”

She reeled back, eyes wide. “No?” she chuckled.

“It’s hot in here, come on. You gonna bust my balls over a little heat?”

Rivet’s head dipped low towards him, every feature on her face widened in a colossal display of stupefaction. “You have spent a considerable amount of time in this conversation alone busting my balls about something we both know is total hogwash.”

“I just can’t see why sweating in a humid environment is such a shock to you,” he tutted, “if anything, you should be alarmed if I wasn’t sweating buckets.”

He felt the ridiculously soft fur of her tail flick against his bare forearm. “S’not the heat that’s making you sweat, love.”

He played with the collar of his shirt, ears pressed flat against his head. “...Agree to disagree.”

Called me love

He tried not to grin.

“Ok—then why am I not sweating?” she asked him, “surely with us both being Lombaxes and me having thicker fur than you, I should be a complete mess right now, yes?”

His eyes narrowed. “...Yes?”

She spread her arms wide, twisting them this way and that. She tilted her head at him, smirking. “Then why am I dryer than those fries we had earlier?”

He looked down at his dangling feet. “...Just uh…more accumulated to hot climates than I am, I guess.”

He felt a gentle hand grasp his shoulder, shaking him slightly. He raised his gaze after a few moments, savoring the angelic feeling of being in her hold. Her eyebrows were crushed together, lip wobbling underneath the teeth pressing down against it. “You grew up on Veldin, Ratchet.”

He nodded. He heard her snort.

“I don’t need to tell you how hot Veldin is year round, do I?”

He shook his head.

“...S’not the heat that’s making you sweat,” she squeezed his shoulder, laughing softly.

A deep sigh left him, “No,” his shoulders sagged, “no it’s not.”

He felt her pat his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the smarmy grin stretched across her face before he swung himself back towards the table, resting his increasingly damp forearms against its slimy surface. Ratchet sagged against its surface, looking down at his interlocked fingers marooned in a smelly puddle of lord knows what.

He heard Rivet shift next to him before a pair of arms came into the corner of his view, one white and one yellow, and settled themselves against the sodden wood. He watched her fingers intertwine with one another, listening to the gentle brush of her fur and the quiet clicks as the metal appendages moved, twitching slightly.

He tried not to stare, he really did, but his eyes traced the outline of her replacement arm in spite of his wishes.

He knew it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, just about everyone had some form of cybernetic augmentation nowadays. People were becoming more metal than flesh by the end of every week, it was all both a mixture of it being ‘the new rage’ and a desire for enhancement you couldn’t get by being a pure organic. It was all pretty normalized. Something as mundane as an arm replacement really shouldn’t…capture his attention as much as it does.

Perhaps it was just his endless love for tinkering, or just how fascinating the intricacies of metal and wires and circuits were to him, maybe it was just the fact that the piece of machinery was attached to Rivet that made it all so interesting to him. If it were someone else with a replacement limb would the back of his mind have this little buzz every time he looked at it?

She didn’t talk about it much, never really even acknowledging the fact that it was even there. She stared at it sometimes, face blank, as he droned on and on about whatever random thing caught his interest for the day. It was probably just her zoning out, he hoped it didn’t go any further than that.

Again, she didn’t talk about it much, aside from a few complaints about it ‘acting up’ here and there or if she should get a new color for it. So, he never asked, never pried her for any further details–not wanting to cross some invisible line in the sand between the two.

He couldn’t help but wonder nonetheless. How did she get it? Was she born missing the limb?  Did she willingly seek out an operation? Was she involved in some freak accident and had to get it swapped out? Did she just grow bored of having two identical arms and wanted to spice things up? Maybe she wanted to join an arm wrestling contest and give herself an extra advantage? 

Was it…taken from her? If so, did it hurt? Which was probably a stupid thing to wonder but he wondered nonetheless. Something vile swirled in the pits of his stomach at the thought of someone hurting her—ripping something from her. His heart dropped, was the culprit still out there?

Ratchet wanted to kill them.

He frowned, shaking his head.

Geez

He banished the thoughts from his mind, not wanting to put himself in a dour mood when things were going so well tonight—especially after the teasing conversation the two just had.

Another time , he told himself, feeling nauseous.

He saw her thumb rub against the yellow fist of her augmentation, he raised his eyes to find her already looking at him. He felt his neck grow warm.

She was close.

“You didn’t give me a warning,” he mumbled.

A small, knowing smile was on her face. “Something you want to share with the class?”

He took another glance towards her linked hands before looking back into her gaze. He squinted, just enough to skirt by her radar undetected, and looked into her eyes. He never was one for reading people, always getting confused with the tiny details of conversation and never understanding even the very basics of what social cues were.

It was always an incomprehensible clump of tangled wires to him, never knowing where to start the unraveling process nor did he ever have enough time or care to do so. Machines, he understood. Machines came with rules, with processes to follow, strict guidelines with very little wiggle room or interpretation. Everything was clear, everything was laid straight out.

People were weird. They came with their own set of rules but these rules were never clearly defined, they vary from person to person—sometimes that variation is nothing more than a little change while other times the entire rulebook was different. Not only were these rules mostly undefined whenever they actually were defined they never made any real logical sense to him. He never could understand the whys or the hows that came with understanding people.

With people, there were no processes to follow, no strict guidelines to gently coerce you towards the most profitable route, there was too much wiggle room and far too much interpretation to be made. Everything was muddy, nothing was laid straight out. 

An incomprehensible clump of tangled wires, nine times out ten it wasn’t worth the migraines to even begin to unravel it all.

People were hard for him, always have been and always will be.

But she made him want to try, she made him want to fasten his gloves and really get into that ball of wires. She made him want to understand those convoluted rules—her complicated rules. She made him want to fully grasp the varying variations between people, she made him want to understand those undefined and defined rules, she made him want to find some process to follow, she made him want to build a set of guidelines for himself, she made him want to work on interpretation, she made him want to break out of his shell and actually try to form a real connection with another breathing person for a change.

He saw the way her organic hand slightly overlapped the metallic one as her arms lay rested against the table, how her left shoulder was angled closer towards his own slightly hiding the yellow appendage behind herself, how her eyes had the slightest hint of apprehension swirling around the blue depths. 

He smiled at her, bumping his shoulder against her, taking a note on just how tense she was. “You were right.”

Another time, he told himself.

Rivet blinked, face blanking for a moment. “Huh?” she mumbled.

“About earlier,” he told her simply.

Her brows furrowed, mouth falling open a bit in thought. He watched her blink a few times before brightening up considerably, a wide smile on her face. “I knew it!” she cheered.

He felt her shoulders relax, the odd angle she held them at melted away into a more neutral stance, giving him equal view of both arms. He smiled, biting the inside of his cheek.

People were confusing, but he’d take an eon of not understanding them and continuously taking shots in the dark if it meant he could see that smile one more time.

“Yea yea,” he sighed, “been a nervous wreck, so what?”

“Finally telling the truth now, are we?” She chuckled, shaking her head at him, “What was with all that earlier then?”

He rubbed the knuckles of his hand, laughing softly. “Just wanted to make you laugh, is all,” he told her quietly. “Upon reviewing the results, I’d say my efforts gave resounding results,” he bumped against her shoulder with his own.

She gaped at him. “You did all that,” she began, “just to make more of my braincells commit suicide?”

“And I made you laugh,” he wagged a finger towards her, “don’t forget that part.”

She huffed, grinning, “If you want to call me falling into hysteria ‘making me laugh,’ knock yourself out.”

“I’ll get to that, just let me enjoy a few more moments of being with you,” he muttered.

She was the one to look away this time, gaze turning downwards to her still interlocked hands. He heard a tiny huff come from her nose, he interpreted it as a laugh. She hadn’t made a move to remove her shoulder from its position against his own, he bit down on his lip to stop the grin from spreading too wide.

His chest grew warmer and warmer at the prospect of her possibly feeling the same. He felt his tail flicking happily behind him, neck growing hot at the childish response to his joy.

“I have a confession to make,” she said after some time had passed.

Ratchet blinked, a bead of sweat began to form on his forehead underneath the fur. He swallowed, turning away from her to cough into the crook of his elbow. When he turned back towards her she was looking at him from the corner of her eye, smirking at him.

“You really are nervous tonight, aren’t you?” she teased.

Ratchet’s ears flattened against his head, he sagged his shoulders low. He mumbled something sounding vaguely like ‘shut up’ to her, to which she laughed at. He felt her press her shoulder further against him. “I’ve…been nervous tonight too,” she confessed silently, suddenly laser focused on her twiddling thumbs.

His eyebrows shot up, that was a surprise. “Really?” he asked.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, face scrunching up slightly into a glare. “Wha—of course!” she tutted, “be crazy not to be,” she continued, much quieter.

“I mean…I haven’t seen you in so long— actually seen you outside of some phone screen,” she rubbed at the back of her neck, “and then we finally get to see each other again, and the hours leading up to it all I just can’t stop thinking about if–I dunno, if I’d…if I’d somehow screw things up.”

She took a breath, leaning forwards into her elbows. Her shoulder left his, the spot immediately grew cold. “And then I finally get to see you, and you show up looking like this ,” she gestured vaguely at his getup, a hint of red beginning to shine through the white of her fur, “and my brain just gets all…just—fucked up, you know?” she turned to look at him, frowning slightly.

“I hear ya,” he mumbled, “had about three breakdowns tonight alone,” he threw a weak smile at her, struggling to meet her gaze.

That got her to smile a little. “Your fist fight with the wall?” she asked him, nodding her head towards his still sore hand.

He barked a laugh. “Bingo,” he raised his hand, balling it into a fist, “if you think this looks rough you should see the other guy.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing his fist away from herself. “Judging by how you’ve practically been nursing that hand since I’d say he looks just fine right now.”

He laughed at that, raising his opened palms towards her in offense. She snickered lightly back, corners of her mouth still showing the evidence of a frown. He laid his hands flat against the table, glancing to see that she now had her hands arranged the same.

The pinky of his right hand brushed against the pinky of her left.

“Things have been going really well tonight,” she said after a beat of silence. Her head tilted towards him ever so slightly, a hint of blue stared back at him from the corner of her eye. “It’s been…really nice to see you again.”

He swallowed, heart pounding in his ears, “I’ve…enjoyed myself tonight, too,” he inched his hand closer to hers, slowly —terrified that if he moved too quickly, he’d never get an opportunity like this again. He could feel her fur brushing against his own, a mere centimeter more and his pinky would be settled over her own.

Something so small shouldn’t make his heart beat as loudly as it was, yet it did all the same. He was sure she could hear the heavy thumping in his ribcage.

“But…” she said, quietly.

His hand stilled.

He turned to look at her, trying to keep his voice level. “...But?”

She took a small breath, shoulders crumpling inwards. “...But I can’t help but sit here and just…wait.”

His hand dropped, inching away from her own. “For what?” asked his small voice.

A laugh left her then, devoid of any humor. He saw her eyes dart to his outstretched hand before returning to stare hard at her own. “Just…I ju—I don’t do… friends all that well, never really have,” she sniffed, a hand rose to rub at her eye, “I’m not a big people person and well…” she trailed off, voice getting quieter and quieter.

Ratchet made a move to place a hand on her shoulder but stopped himself short, frowning. She glanced at him again, frowning deeper at the look on his face. She took a shaky breath, spreading her hands flat against the table. “I’m…I’m scared,” came her eventual confession.

His heart sank. “Riv—”

“It’s just—you’re amazing, you know? An–and I don’t want to mess whatever this is we have going on between us up,” said her shaky voice, “and I–I’ve had such a good time tonight with you but I just can’t help but wait for the moment…where, y’know, the rug gets pulled from my feet and the whole big catch is revealed.”

She turned to look at him head on, biting the inside of her cheek. “People like you are hard to come across these days,” she said weakly, “some days I have trouble believing that you’re even real, as fucking insane as that sounds.”

He stared at her, letting her speak.

“But you are real, and it’s insane that even after all the shit that’s happened in my life that the universe finally decided to throw me a bone and have you crash into it,” she laughed that heart-wrenching laugh again, “and then just like that…you left.”

Rivet looked at him, eyes wet. He felt his throat grow raw.

She gave him a tight smile, eyebrows furrowing, “And I mean–you—you’re back now! And I’m really happy about that–but I just,” she looked away from him, hands balled into two fists against the table, “I’m sorry,” she sniffed.

The strangled sound that left his throat was supposed to mean ‘it’s alright.’

“Words can’t even begin to describe just how goddamned happy I am that you’re back,” she squeezed the words out, tone sharp, “but I just can’t help but dread the moment where things start to go wrong,” she rubbed a hand along her tricep, “where I do something wrong and then everything starts to get all…awkward and quiet between us… again .”

He turned away, staring hard at the table before him. A foul taste had worked its way up his gullet and into his mouth, making him cringe. He was angry—no, scratch that, he was pissed . Pissed that he could have the gall to want to kill somebody earlier for hurting Rivet when he had done the very same for months on end.

How many days did she wait by the phone? How many times did she light up at a notification only to deflate moments later? How many times did her heart sink at the thought of him? How many nights did she spend staring at the ceiling? How many could she not find the strength to roll out of bed?

His frown deepened, a pit of something hateful began to brew in his stomach.

“I know it’ll never be enough,” he began, voice tight, “but I really am sorry for what I did to you.”

She looked at him then, face crumpled. She made a move to speak before he sharply raised a hand, cutting her off.

“And please ,” he growled, “don’t say it’s alright, because it’s not.”

She stared at him, giving him his moment to speak now.

“Ever since the very first moment we met, you have been nothing but an absolute god-send,” he told her, “and the fact that I could just…” he made a sharp movement with his hand, “fuck off the way I did…never gonna sit right with me.”

He raised a hand to smooth his ears alongside the back of his head. “I’m not the best with people either. They’ve always been… tough for me to get a crack at—just how to even speak to them like a normal, rational person.”

He looked at her. “Most days I don’t even feel like a normal, rational person.” She snickered at that, wiping at her eyes.

Ratchet smiled lightly, scratching the back of his head. “Can I tell you a secret?” he asked her.

She tilted her head towards him in silent approval.

“I really,” he looked up at the ceiling, “and I mean really don’t like talking to people.”

“Really?” asked her shocked voice, startling him a bit.

“Yes, actually,” he laughed, wiping at his nose, “I used to love it—all the fame, the notoriety and the sea of fans at the end of every one of my old adventures. I was still the same bumbling idiot when it came to conversations, but I sure did love the attention.”

His face turned sour. “And then I got older and I…saw more things, killed more things—got exposed to the real worst this reality has to offer,” he trailed off bitterly. He felt yellow eyes staring straight through the back of his skull.

“It just—I found it all more and more tiring as the years went by, I only talked with who I absolutely needed to and if the need wasn’t drastic I kept things brief— very brief,” he leaned into his elbows heavily, “people…people suck. They really do.”

He glanced at her hands, frowning apologetically. “And I know I suck too, I wasn’t the best person already as things were, no one with this amount of blood on their hands could say they’re not,” he sniffed. Ratchet looked down again, picking at the skin on the back of his hand with a claw.

“But the worst thing I’ve ever done,” he vaguely saw the outline of his lifeless corpse in the corner of his vision, “was hurting you.”

His stare hardened, that pit deep in his stomach grew. “Because I like you. I like talking to you and I’ve loved every second we’ve spent together tonight and I—I don’t want it to end,” he felt his neck growing warmer, “it doesn't feel like I need to…force myself to stay engaged in our conversations or feel this need to—to put on this mask and make an effort to come out of my shell.”

He took a breath, face absolutely on fire. “I have never— never felt this at ease when talking to someone besides Clank, and I’ve known that little guy practically my entire life. You brighten up every single thing with you around and the months I pushed you away were some of the worst of my entire life.”

“I…I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t bathe, I didn’t brush my fur, I didn’t—I didn’t do anything except for mope around in my garage and kill myself little by little with each passing day,” he ranted, eyebrows furrowing closely together, “I just—I’ve had a lot of shit on my mind and I just kind of…shut down, y’know?”

He laughed, eyes turning a little hysterical. “I have felt miserable and so lethargic for so long and just by spending a few hours with you tonight I feel like I can take on the entire universe at once— both of our universes!” he swung his head to her then, mouth clacking shut with a painful sound at her gobsmacked expression.

Her face was practically steaming from how red it had gotten, eyes wide as dinner plates with a mouth hanging ajar. Her ears were completely erect, the little silver earrings reflecting the bright lights of the bar right into his eyes. Her tail had stopped the lazy swishing motions behind her and had completely stilled. Not a single muscle on her moved a centimeter.

The air was dead silent between the two. Ratchet felt his ears completely fuse with the back of his head with how hard they were trying to hide themselves.

He sucked an embarrassed breath through his clenched teeth, grimacing so hard he felt something in his neck pulse. “And I have clearly said way too much,” said his strained voice. He snapped himself forwards, staring unblinkingly at whatever his eyes decided to focus on. As long as it was anything besides her . 

“...Do you really mean all that?” she eventually asked him, so quietly he had to strain to hear her voice over the commotion of the bar.

He risked a glance her way, catching a glimpse of the shy smile she now wore on her face. His hands fiddled with themselves, not quite knowing what exactly to do at the moment. “Of course I do,” he told her, voice earnest, “you really are one of a kind.”

She gave no response to that.

His ears heard her shift for a few moments before he felt something warm press itself against his shoulder. He turned slightly to see her own shoulder pressed back against him once more, he couldn’t stop the grin that exploded onto his face at the sight.

The nauseating pit in his stomach eroded away, being replaced by something much warmer.

He closed his eyes, absorbing every ounce of her presence against him as he possibly could.

“You’re not gonna make fun of me for crying, are you?” she asked him after a while.

He snorted. “Only if you don’t make fun of me for crying in the bathroom earlier.”

She snorted back. “You would be the type to cry in the bathroom,” she nudged her shoulder against him.

His mouth dropped. “I just said to not make fun of me for that!” he huffed, shaking his head.

She turned towards him, smirking. “As if you could tell me what to do,” she blew a gust of air in his face, throwing around the short fur.

He pouted in response, pouting further at her laughter.

“So, you know why I was nervous tonight,” she began, casting a disinterested look at her claws, “what’s your excuse?”

He leveled her with an exasperated look, shoulders sagging. “Have I—did I seriously not make it obvious enough?”

Rivet shrugged, mouth settled into a line. “Not really,” she hummed.

Ratchet’s head drooped, eyes staring down at his hands. He chewed on his lip, a whirlwind of a thousand different explanations tore his mind apart. He eventually shrugged, looking at her with a small smile.

“Just missed you, is all.”

He liked the crimson color he could see poking through the fur of her cheeks.

“Fair enough,” she mumbled, settling back into his shoulder.

He watched her eyes cast themselves downwards. Following the gaze, he saw, with a start, that her left hand was now resting immensely close to his own right one. A pinky and ring finger laid comfortably atop his own, warming his entire arm to such a considerable amount he was shocked he hadn’t felt the dizzying sensation earlier.

He cast a look her way, seeing the faintest hint of blue peeking at him from the corner of her eye once more. Her mouth was set into an unreadable thin line, from what little of her eyes he could see it was clear to him that those too were going to give him no clues. He swallowed, nearly coughing up a storm from the effort required. “Still forgetting to give me a warning,” he muttered. He watched her mouth curl upwards slightly, blue eyes looking away from his own green ones.

He felt her hand move to fully cover the back of his own. He held his breath, watching her white hand with rapt attention. He watched the way her soft fingers slowly curled around to hold the appendage. His hand laid flat, unmoving, against the table for a few beats before it slowly tilted itself  upwards. His own fingers wrapped around the four white ones grasping the back of his hand with no small amount of hesitance.

Just before he fully committed to the action, he glanced towards her once more. She met his unsure gaze with a soft look, the warm smile on the corners of her mouth threatened to melt him on the spot. He felt her give his hand a gentle squeeze.

His fingers fully wrapped themselves around her own, giving her a squeeze in return.

They both sat there, shoulder to shoulder, staring at their locked hands atop an aged and horribly sodden bartop. Some dated pop song was blasting through the staticy speakers of the bar, sounded oddly familiar to something that something Gears singer would make. A party of six a few seats down had begun to sing something which sounded a lot like Happy Birthday in some alien language he had never heard of before. A distant explosion rocked the building slightly, a symphony of cheers and jeers followed shortly after, the large crowd surrounding the window to the Battleplex had seemingly tripled in size as the night wore on.

Everything was much too loud, too sticky, too hot, too smelly and far too crowded for him to even feel somewhat comfortable with spending another moment stuck in this place.

But sitting here, feeling the soft fur of her hand intertwining with his own…

He couldn’t find much to complain about.

He heard a soft sound to his right, ear flicking at the stimuli. He took a peek to see Rivet shaking her hand, smiling to herself. “We’re so stupid,” she muttered, “sitting here being so…careful around each other.”

He looked down with a whisper of a laugh. “Yea…you could definitely say that.”

She turned towards him with a cheeky grin, lightly sucking on the inside of her cheek. “Makes me feel like I’m sixteen again.”

“Speak for yourself,” he sighed, “pretty sure sixteen-year-old Ratchet had his head on a lot straighter than I do now.” She gave him nothing more than a tiny shake of her shoulders as a response, eyes downcast.

“...I’ll be the first to admit that I have… no clue what I’m doing,” she muttered, focused on their hands.

Something sharp scratched up his throat, making something else in his neck pulse. “Neither do I,” he replied quietly, looking at their hands too. His throat bobbed, stomach growing restless.

“But…uh,” he started, voice failing him.

She looked at him, eyes filled with something he couldn’t even begin to decipher.

The rope returned, its grasp a hundred times stronger on his chest.

“I wouldn’t mind…uh–y’know, trying to figure it out…” he hoped his voice wasn’t as wobbly as it felt leaving his throat. His chest threatened to burst, every other sound was drowned out by the thunderous booming of his heart in his ears.

“...together,” he finished, a strained smile splitting his face.

Her eyes widened, eyebrows shooting to a ridiculous height atop her head. The corners of her mouth dipped downwards. He saw her eyes dart to their hands, a voice in the back of his head just now decided to make him aware of the very high chance that his hand felt like a swamp.

Kill me

Every facet of his brain screamed at him to look away from her, to focus on anything— anything else in this shitty bar besides her and her increasingly bewildered face.

Please

She was the first to break contact, choosing to instead look at something off to the side. She slumped into herself, furiously gnawing on her cheek. He caught a glimpse of her tail wrapping around the leg of her stool.  

His smile strained further.

She mumbled something incomprehensible, neck flushing with a bright crimson. His ears flicked before standing erect atop his head. “Wuzzat?”

He saw her eyes snap to him before darting away, her shoulders sunk further down. “I said,” she began after clearing her throat, “that I would…that I…” she bobbed her head side-to-side, “would like that, a lot” she coughed. She looked into his eyes, smiling awkwardly before snapping herself straight ahead.

“Oh,” he said dumbly, “uh, good.” He nodded, chewing on his lip. “Good,” he turned forwards too, staring at nothing in particular.

The two sat there, quietly steaming.

He felt her squeeze his hand, making him jump slightly. He risked a glance from the corner of his eye, finding her to still be staring dead ahead with wide eyes. There was a tiny smile on her face.

He squeezed back.

She sniffed, he coughed.

He turned to look at her as she did the same.

“So,” Rivet began.

“So,” Ratchet replied.

She chewed on her lip idly, squinting at him. “You never answered my question.”

He blinked. “You’ve asked a lot of questions tonight.”

She shrunk down again, looking off to the side. “...y’know the one,” she grumbled.

His eyebrows furrowed together. “Uh…oh,” his eyes widened, “ oh. ”

She shrunk further, “Yea.”

“I mean ye–wh—I mean,” he blew a gust of air through his lips, “why not? Sure..yea,” he nodded, “yea.”

She nodded too, scratching the side of her neck. “Like it’s already so..uh—so late! Like it would just—”

“True, true,” he pointed a finger at her.

“It would just make sense—”

“Also true, very true—”

“An–and we’ve already had, y’know, a couple—couple things to drink at this point—”

“Very much–very..alcohol—”

“And I wouldn’t want you…fuckin, uh— flying ! Flying home so late—”

“Du—very dangerous thing to do, yes—”

“Like if something happened, It’d just–oh! It’d be awful—”

“And your place is already so close—”

“ Yes! Yes, logically this is our best choice—”

“Very sound logic, yes—”

“And—this isn’t a weird thing to ask, is it—”

“Well I–I wouldn’t say so—”

“I-I’m sorry if it’s weird—”

They both stopped, pursing their lips at one another.

“So…I’ll meet you there?” she asked.

“Yes!” he said, a little too loud. Ratchet’s ears flattened against his head. “I mean,” he coughed, “yes. I will see you there,” he mumbled.

“Right! Perfect!” she cringed, popping the ‘p.’

He squeezed her hand, she squeezed back before slipping her hand from his, quickly clasping her own two together.

“I’m gonna,” he pointed behind himself, looking over his shoulder before whipping back around towards her, “I’m gonna go find Clank and Kit.”

She made a choking sound, eyes bulging from her skull. She snapped her fingers, a smile that showed a little too much teeth spread on her face. “ Riiight,” she hissed through gritted teeth, “that is so…right. Yes, Clank and Kit.”

Ratchet nodded, slowly. “Yes…Clank and Kit?”

Her hands rubbed up and down the lengths of her thighs before slapping against her knees. “Rigth-o. Right, right, right, right. Of course those two would be there too, of course,” she nodded her head, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, “of course.”

Ratchet gnawed on his lip. “Uh, should I?” he gestured vaguely behind him with a thumb.

Rivet jumped from her stool, clapping her hands together. “Yes!” she chirped, “you go…go find ‘em!”

He followed suit, hopping down next to her, instinctively taking a step back upon seeing their proximity. “Right. So I’ll see you—” he felt her crash into him, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him securely against her, “...around,” he finished, weakly. Her fur was warm against his cheek.

He hadn’t laid a finger on her for more than a second before she quickly pushed him back, holding him at arm’s length from his shoulders. Her smile was stiff, face a deep shade of red. “Yes! I will uh,” a metallic hand pat his shoulder twice, roughly, jostling him a bit, “see you there.”

“...Ok,” he said lamely.

She gave a stiff nod, patting his shoulder again before spinning the opposite direction on a heel. Her hands slipped deep into the pockets of her jeans, head stooped low between her shoulders. “Wait,” she stopped, looking over her shoulder to peer at him, “I…yea I parked this way,” she said, turning right and disappearing into the crowd.

Ratchet stood there, face numb.

He lifted a hand, waving slightly at the crowd she merged into. “Bye,” he muttered.

Now, where are those two

He shook his head, spinning around on a heel and taking a step, beginning his search for the two bots.

Hopefully they’re not too far

Ratchet was knocked out of his musings from the dull pain of a stool-leg mashing his nose into his skull, jostling the seat considerably. He heard an indignant shout above him, head snapping upwards to find a considerably large creature glaring down at him. He cringed, cringing further at the liquid drenching his shirt and the half full glass in the being’s grasp.

“ Wow! Ok I am… so sorry please, let me get that for you christ—”

He found Clank sitting alone at a table on the far side of the bar in a secluded little spot, away from the noise. He half expected the little bot to hear his approach and look up, brighten up at his sudden appearance and laugh that funny little laugh he does.

Instead, Clank just sat there, nursing a mug between his two tiny hands with his eyes half-lidded. The bot occasionally took a sip from his drink, sighing quietly to himself. Ratchet stood there for a few moments, scratching at the underside of his chin until a minute had passed him by.

He cleared his throat, scuffing the toe of his boot into the floor. Clank jumped, eyes flying open. The bot flailed for a bit, tiny sounds of surprise leaving him, before he grabbed the back of his chair with a hand, steadying himself. Clank turned around, regarding him with wide, alert eyes before he visibly deflated.

“Oh,” he sighed, placing a hand against his chest, “it’s just you.”

“Good to see you too, pal,” Ratchet cocked a brow.

Clank shook his head, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Apologies, Ratchet. I did not intend for that to be rude,” he gestured in front of him with a hand, “please, sit.”

Ratchet approached slowly, placing a hand on the back of an empty chair before settling down into it. “None taken,” he assured his partner, “not like you to let someone sneak up on you like that though, somethin’ on your mind?” he crossed his arms, resting them against the steel of the table. The bite of the metal chilled his bare forearms considerably.

“No, no,” Clank shook his head, “nothing like that, I assure you.”

Ratchet pursed his lips, not buying it. “You sure,” he leaned forward, cocking a brow, “something happen with Kit? That why she not here?” 

Clank tittered softly, leaning back in his seat. “Oh no, things have been swell. She’s merely getting a refill, is all.” 

Ratchet smirked, reclining back into his chair. “Oh really?”

Clank nodded.

Ratchet’s smirk grew, squinting his eyes at the bot. “Take it things have been going well over here for you then tonight, huh?”

“Yes,” Clank smiled, “tonight has been…surprisingly pleasant, despite the surroundings.”

Ratchet laughed, sticking out his tongue. “My man,” he shook his head, laughing harder at Clank’s tired look.

“It’s nothing like that,” Clank huffed, “I mean it,” he added, rolling his eyes at Ratchet’s disbelieving look.

“I dunno,” Ratchet hummed.

“Well I do,” Clank told him.

The Lombax shrugged, idly scratching at a tricep. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, buddy,” he snickered, “even when this place is so disgusting.”

The bot chortled, rocking slightly in his chair. “And how about you,” Clank asked, “you enjoying yourself tonight?”

Ratchet smiled, looking up at the ceiling. “Yea,” he nodded, “yea. It’s been…nice. Me and Rivet have been talking a ton.”

“Ah,” Clank sighed, “yes. Er–please tell me she’s not too upset about…” Clank waved his hands idly, “what happened… earlier .”

Ratchet blushed, coughing into a fist. “Oh what— that? ” he rolled his eyes, “oh yea, totally. Everything’s fine.” Ratchet pursed his lips, tapping a finger against a bicep. “I mean,” he started, “things were awkward, yea. But then they got normal…and then they got awkward again…and then it got more awkward…and…” he trailed off.

Clank stared at him. “...Good awkward? Or?” he asked him after a moment of silence.

Ratchet cringed, shrugging. “Maybe?” he sunk into his chair, “little mix of both—bad and good. But we did hold hands, and uh…she did hug me, for a sec.” He stared at his boots, face turning warm.

He heard Clank take a sip from his drink, somehow slurping loudly. The bot’s green little eyes were squinted. Ratchet felt his ears pin themselves against his head. “What?” he barked, tone a bit hotter than he wanted it to be.

Clank gently placed his mug down. “Nothing,” he said, simply. 

Ratchet's arms folded together tighter. “You got that look on your face.”

Clank tilted his head. “What look?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Ratchet grumbled. 

Clank shrugged. “All I have to say to that is,” he sat up a bit straighter before coughing into a fist, “my man.”

Ratchet stared.

Clank shot little finger guns at him.

“I think I’m gonna throw this chair at you.”

Clank exploded into a fit of chuckles, clutching his stomach.

“Wha–nuh—I’m serious, man! I’m givin’ you three seconds to run,” Ratchet growled, biting his lip to stop the grin from spreading any further.

“Alright, alright,” Clank sighed, “I’m sorry. I’m very happy to hear things have been going well.”

Ratchet rubbed a hand across his chin. “Thanks, man.” He fixed the bot with a strange look, itching his nose. “But uh, you been good?” he asked.

Clank nodded, slowly. “Yes? Forgive me but you’ve already asked this.”

Ratchet propped an elbow against the table, resting his chin atop an open palm. “No no, yea…just, cool,” he nodded, tracing circles into the metal with a claw, “cool.”

“Ratchet,” Clank called. He looked up, meeting the bot’s puzzled stare. “...Is there something you want to ask me?”

“Whaaat?” Ratchet tittered, “psssh nah…” he mumbled incoherently for a few seconds, “I jus—well,” he knocked his knuckles against the table for a few moments. “Uh, just wanted to let you know that…Rivet, uh. Well she invited us to spend the night at her place,” he eventually forced out, neck hot.

“Uh huh,” was Clank’s response.

“...Since it’s so late.”

He heard Clank’s mouth snap shut, eyes squinting at him further. “Ratchet,” he began, “did she invite us? Or did she invite you?”

Ratchet’s mouth dried. “...I dunno.”

Clank rubbed at his chin, humming to himself. “Well, how did she say it?” 

“Say what?”

“The invitation,” Clank tapped his fingers against the table, “how did she say it?”

His face exploded into color, every inch of his brain remembering just how she offered the invitation to him very well.

Clank grinned, leaning back into his seat. “Ah,” he hummed, smugness coating his tone, “she invited you.”

Ratchet looked down, heart in his throat. “Yea,” he said.

“Well?” Clank asked.

He stared at the bot, cocking his head before turning around to look over his shoulder. “W–wha,” he mumbled, turning back to look at his friend, “what?”

Clank threw his hands in the air, confused. “What are you doing here?” he made a shoo’ing with his hands, “go on.”

Ratchet still stared, that stupid expression still stuck on his mug. “Where?”

Clank leaned forward, staring at him like he just grew a second tail. “To Rivet! ” he huffed, exasperated.

“Without you?” Ratchet blurted. 

“Yes, Ratchet. I am perfectly fine with you going off and enjoying yourself,” he smiled at him.

“Wha—no, Clank,” Ratchet began to protest, “no man I couldn’t just leave you—”

“Ratchet,” Clank cut him off, gently, “please. Go, have fun.”

His claw scuffed against the table, tickling his bones. “...You sure?”

“The day you ask me for permission to do anything is the day Hell freezes over.”

Ratchet chuckled at that, nodding his head slightly. He made a move to stand up before stopping himself, hovering awkwardly above the seat. He looked up at Clank, eyebrows furrowed together. Clank looked back, raising a questioning eyelid. Ratchet chewed on his lip, “What if I mess it up?” he asked his brother.

Clank looked down, locking his hands together for a while as he thought. After a few moments, he looked back at Ratchet, smiling softly. “You probably will.”

Ratchet’s face fell.

“...But she likes that about you.”

“She likes that I’m a fuckup?” Ratchet asked, bitterly.

“No,” Clank shook his head, “that you’re real.”

A tiny smile slowly bloomed across Ratchet’s face. He nodded at the bot, standing up fully.

Clank nodded back, grinning.

As Ratchet approached his ship outside, he tried and failed to stop his tail from flicking happily.

Chapter Text

Despite seeing it hundreds upon hundreds of times already, the endless vacuum of space never failed to capture every fiber of his attention. Despite him being the furthest thing from a rookie in regards to space travel, it always felt like the first time everytime he sat in this seat.

He never could get used to the strange weightlessness in his stomach, the cheap taste and smell of the artificial oxygen swirling through his lungs, the way his ears always rung as he slingshotted from the planet’s atmosphere, the way his vision would pulse when staring into the abyss for too long—everything about it was terrifying yet he knew a large part of him would die without it.

He always saw space as the example of freedom, arguing that ‘freedom’ was a space itself; a gap that provided an endless stream of opportunities. You could make whatever you wanted in space because, well, there was nothing there to really stop you. It was a goldmine and it was a real shame that the universe’s greatest minds weren’t utilizing it to its fullest capacity. 

It was so much more than another empty plot of land to simply dump condos and apartment complexes and neighborhoods and cities and bodegas and the usual slop that did nothing more than clog things up and give more and more real estate for advertisers to slap their endless products over every surface. 

He understood it, of course, knowing that money equals power and what better way to earn money than to attract the largest population of consumers to an area where they can both live and waste their time throwing away their hard earned cash? But even then, with this knowledge in mind, he couldn't help but want more .

But that was just the tinkerer part of his brain blabbing, always cramming itself with new ideas.

Ignoring the consumerism and the possibilities and the inventions to be made…space was beautiful.

He had never been much of an arts guy, always finding the whole thing to be a bit pretentious, but even he could find a deep appreciation for the stunning sea of colors laying just before the glass of his ship’s cockpit. He stared into the swirling masses of light purples and blues, the strange yellow clouds fluttering about, the odd disk-like shapes of silvers, the sea of tiny white specks bringing it all together and let his mind wander.

Space was terrifying, yes. It was something that could so easily rip him to shreds with such little effort yet it was so endlessly spectacular. It was a dangerous thing to get close with and even the smallest mistake would result with disastrous consequences. But it was beautiful, and he loved it nonetheless. He knew of the risks, of course, but with every passing day a part of his brain was getting more comfortable with ignoring them. It was all so unknown to him, and he didn’t even know where to start to even begin to understand it…but he wanted to.

Ratchet blinked, squinting his eyes as he ran through everything he just thought once more.

His face dropped with a groan.

He knew he wasn’t thinking about space anymore.

A string of frustrated grumbles and swears flew from between his clenched teeth, sinking into the cushions of his seat. He shook his head, trying to focus on piloting the ship straight and only on piloting.

It was silent for a while, the only sounds around him being the gentle whirring of the ship’s various parts and his soft breathing. His mind was silent, for once, allowing him to focus on staying on course towards Sargasso. He closed his eyes, breathing a long sigh from his nose.

“Ratchet,” a robotic voice suddenly sprung to life, the sound loud in his ears. He yelped, eyes flying open. One of his knees slammed into the dashboard with a nauseating bang, jostling the controls and causing the ship to lurch violently. 

“Oh my god—” Ratchet heaved, clutching his chest, barely registering the ship’s droning voice prattling on in the background.

“—heart rate of one hundred and eighty five beats per minute, a symptom of heart palpitatio—”

“ Don’t do that! ” Ratchet shouted, teeth clacking together, hunching over the dashboard.

“—administering emergency smooth jazz to alleviate stress levels,” the ship ignored his call, immediately the sounds of clarinets and pianos filled his ears. Ratchet’s frown deepened, the beginnings of a headache were beginning to form.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Aphelion,” he called, flatly. The only response he got was the volume of the music increasing. He felt an eyelid twitch. “ Aphelion!” he yelled, slamming a fist against the dash.

Immediately, the music stopped. “Yes?” came Aphelion’s voice.

Ratchet’s hand slowly left his nose, fingers still tensed. “Just,” a slew of half-words and mumbles left his throat, “just shush. Please,” the smile he offered Aphelion was strained.

“Shushing,” came her voice. Ratchet sighed in relief, slumping further into his seat. He mumbled his thanks.

He sat there for a few long minutes in silence, staring hard at the colorful galaxy laying beyond the glass. His teeth found his lip, gnawing slightly. His fingers tapped against the two joysticks extending from the complicated navigation system lying just  before him. His right leg began to bounce against the soft cushion of his chair, ears flicking at each soft paf! emanated from the repeated action.

“Aphelion,” he called, still fidgeting. He heard a soft hum, the several lights surrounding him brightened considerably, signaling the AI’s arrival. “Uh, how much longer until we reach Sargasso?” he asked, fidgeting faster.

Several beeps came from around him before a small screen lit up against the dash. The screen blinked a soft blue light for a few moments before a projection of the current star system was shot out, flickering every few seconds. The projected image wasn’t overly detailed, but if you knew a thing or two about where you were going you’d be able to fill in the blanks. 

There was an orange dot slowly moving forward on the closest edge of the image, blinking softly. The serial number [3371-Alpha] laid underneath the dot, although the text was fuzzy so Ratchet had to squint a bit to get a good read on it. There was a dotted yellow-white line stretching from the orange dot to the other edge of the projection, where a large green ball was slowly rotating. Beneath the green orb read, Sargasso.  

“Given our current speed, acceleration and the remaining distance between us and Sargasso, our journey will be completed in,” Aphelion went quiet, several beeps came from the ship as a few lights sorted through a set of different colors, “approximately fifteen minutes.”

Ratchet groaned, knocking the back of his head into the headrest. “I am sorry this news is causing you further distress,” Aphelion said, “if you’d like, I can resume the smooth ja—”

“No, Aphelion. It’s alright,” he sighed, scratching at his chest. “Just…take over the nav controls, please. And maintain course towards Sargasso.”

Something akin to a chirp played from the ship’s speakers before he felt the joysticks tugging against his hands. He released them, watching the controls adjust their positions slightly every few seconds on their own before turning away.

He watched the stars pass him by, idly counting how many his eyes could catch before a soft ding emanated from his right. The closest ear flicked, perking up towards the noise before the rest of his head swiveled over. He saw his phone sitting atop the cushion of the passenger seat, screen turned on with a little notification prompt in the middle.

He quirked a brow, leaning over the various levers and knobs lining the center console and snatching the device between his claws. A thumb danced across the screen as he quickly entered the phone’s password, there he tapped through his laundry list of notifications.

Email, payment reminder, email, email, another email, subscription reminder, email, and a text. His bored eyes widened slightly, a thumb pressed against the message, opening a new window. The text, now revealed to be from Rivet, was a simple:

- wya 

Ratchet snorted, he never did strike her as a very patient person. His thumb danced across his screen once more.

- 15 minutes out.

A few seconds passed before a gif of a little cartoon robot shooting itself in the head popped up from her end. 

- so slolw

- slow***

He rolled his eyes, fingers tapping.

- Do you ever plan to stop antagonizing me?

Her response was immediate.

- no;)

- also

- u know the way here ya?

He mindlessly sent a thumbs up emoji before tossing his phone aside and settling back into his chair, eyes already shut before his head even made contact with the seat’s headrest.

Just a few minutes of peace

The first realization Ratchet had upon landing on Rivet’s Sargasso was that Rivet’s Sargasso sucked.

Now, that’s not saying that his Sargasso was any better, it definitely wasn’t, but at least he got to blow a few things up while he was stationed there.

He shook his right boot viciously, keeping a palm pressed against his ship's hull for balance. Wet glops of mud, grime, and something that smelled a lot like piss from one of the diverse creatures flying and squawking above flew from his leg. The mud reached up to the middle of his shin, which felt about as miserable as one would expect, he was sure that some of the awful stuff got into his sock.

He took a look around, still shaking his foot, at the wet soil surrounding his landing space with a grimace. That was the last time he hopped out from Aphelion without checking the floor first. 

Even after the shake, most of his boot and pant leg were still caked with the sludge. The hand pressed against the ship balled into a fist, shaking slightly as the urge to scream bubbled in Ratchet’s throat. He put his foot down, ears flicking at the squishy sound as it made contact with the soil.

He reared the fist back, muscles aligning his back and shoulder tensing as he prepared to swing before stopping himself short, remembering just how bad it hurt after punching the stall wall. Something told him that punching reinforced steel would feel a lot worse.

Instead he shut his eyes, taking a deep breath before releasing it through closed teeth. His lips curled downwards, ears falling flat as he began to trudge his way out of the mud. His frown didn’t loosen until his feet finally connected with solid ground, glancing down with a tiny, victorious smile.

He jumped up slightly, placing his hands on his hips before surveying the area with a quirked brow. Trees, trees, rocks, vines, bushes, more trees, some mud, some dirt, a bug, an animal.

He huffed, eyes squinting.

His second realization was that no, he did not know the way to Rivet’s house.

Ratchet sighed, shaking his head as he dug around in his pocket. He glanced up towards the sky overhead, frowning slightly at its gray coloration and the dark clouds beginning to form.

Gonna rain soon

He sucked lightly at his cheek, finally fishing his phone from his pocket before opening it up, navigating to the contacts screen. “Why’d I even say I knew…” he muttered to himself, face twisting in confusion. He quickly found Rivet’s page, tapping on the ‘call’ button before raising the phone to his ear.

He listened to the phone ring a few times before a deep beeping noise sang three short bursts in his ear. His head reeled back a bit, blinking rapidly. He turned towards the screen, face falling at the message displaying CALL FAILED. 

His eyes flicked towards the top right of his screen, groaning loud at the no service icon flashing there. Ratchet tried calling three more times in three separate spots in three separate elevations, all resulting in the same failure. The vein in his neck threatened to burst from beneath the flesh with each failed attempt. Ratchet dragged a hand down his face, eyes threatening to bulge from his head.

His hold tightened around the phone, fingers creaking against its case. He raised his arm over his head with a growl, glaring hard at the floor. He tensed, slamming his arm down with a snarl and throwing the phone against the ground. Any satisfaction gained from the impulsive decision to pile drive his phone into the floor was quickly overridden by the white-hot pain now coursing through his skull caused by his phone’s retaliation by ricocheting itself back up into his nose. 

Both hands flew to grasp at his injured face, slapping against it with a harsh sound. He hissed through clenched teeth, shaking his head back and forth in an attempt to alleviate the pain. Ratchet stumbled a few paces as the world spun around him, the corners of his vision were dark.

One of his feet collided against the heel of the other during his dazed pacing, he felt his knees buckle before a feeling of absolute weightlessness took over him. The slightly relaxing sensation was quickly, and brutally, pushed aside once his back collided against the hard soil. His head snapped back, banging against the ground with a dull thud.

He lay there motionless for a few moments before a quiet, high pitched groan hobbled from him.

His hands left his nose, arms flopping unceremoniously onto the floor beside him. He blew a long breath of air from between his lips, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth.

The sudden roar of thunder was the only warning he got before the skies opened up, a torrential downpour descending upon the land.

Ratchet screamed.

The third realization Ratchet had was he had no idea what Rivet’s house even looked like. The horrible thought of him walking past its entrance as he trudged his way through the sodden landscape made him want to swan dive into a quarry.

He also realized that he hated the way this shirt felt when every inch of its fabric weighed thirteen pounds more due to it being absolutely soaked. He also hated the way his fur was starting to clump together in random places, and the way he could feel each and every freezing drop drip down and into his face without the protection of his cap, and the way both of his socks had now been filled with mud, and the way he had to keep tugging his pants above his hips due to them being waterlogged, and the way—

He hated Sargasso.

“Well, howdy Ratchet!”

But he was with the Morts now, so everything was fine and he could tell Rivet all about how much he hates everything once he gets some fucking directions.

Ratchet towered over them, neck straining in his attempt to look them in the eye. His clothes had gotten even more soaked, if that were even possible, and the fur coating his face was drooping down into his eyes. He raised a slow hand before pushing a majority of the fur out from his eyes.

He offered Mort the best smile he was capable of scrapping together at the moment, which he knew wasn’t anything pleasant to look at, but Mort didn’t show any signs of being affected by it.

 “How you been?” asked the cheery creature.

Ratchet shrugged, sending a wave of trapped water down the length of his back. “Could be better,” he mumbled. His eyes wandered away from Mort to see three more of their friends clambering around behind them, each with a large yellow bucket in their stubby arms. More of the buckets were scattered around their lot, to Ratchet’s confusion.

“What’s with the buckets?” Ratchet asked, not really caring but not wanting to be rude by walking up, flatly asking for directions, and then spinning on a heel and walking away.

It was tempting.

“Oh, that?” Mort asked, face lighting up, “Jus’ collectin’ a little rainwater is all,” they looped a thumb through the strap of their overalls, chuckling. “Sargass’r is sweet but nothin’ is sweeter than the rainwater here!” they hooted, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ratchet blinked, the sound of the rain pelting his clothes echoing throughout the lot. “Love it,” he deadpanned.

“No…wai’ a min,” Mort hummed, ignoring the soaked Lombax, “you Lombacksis’ some typa fe- line right? Cats don’ much like water.”

Ratchet held a sigh in, clasping his hands together. “Right! Yes, uh actually I wanted to—”

“Oh!” Mort cut him off, looking sheepish, “where are my manners? You want some lemonade? Mort just finished a fresh batch,” Mort asked him, throwing a thumb over their shoulder. Ratchet followed her finger to see Mort and Mort lounging in two lawn chairs under an awning, sipping away at two tall glasses of the sweet stuff. 

Ratchet pursed his lips, taking another breath. “Thank you but I really need—”

“Ooo,” Mort hissed, puckering their lips in thought, “can’t drink it inside though, Morts doin’ some electrical work and you’re lookin’ like a used sock.”

Ratchet put a hand against the side of his head, eyes wide. “What?”

Mort looked at him like he was stupid. “...What?”

Ratchet felt like crying.

He was about to get on his knees and beg for them to listen to him for one second before Mort suddenly spun on a heel. “I’ll go get you’s a drink right now,” Mort said as they waddled away, “don’t you wander off now!” they called, not looking back.

He stared at their back as they hobbled away from him, jaw scraping at the floor. His arms fell limp at his sides, swaying slightly like two long overcooked noodles in the wind before he crumpled to a heap at his knees. He rubbed at his face with more force than necessary that by the time he was done there were little stars dancing around in the corners of his vision, taunting him.

Ratchet huffed before falling backwards onto his butt, clothes and fur sloshing with the movement. He placed his elbows atop his knees and pressed his intertwined fingers against the underside of his shivering nose. He leaned into the touch, blowing a gust of air from his lips and watching the large spurt of water that flew from him.

He hoped that Rivet’s place had a heater. Or a portable sun for him to throw himself in, whichever dried him off faster.

He closed his eyes at the thought of her, a small smile gracing the edges of his mouth despite his miserable mood and situation. He opened his eyes to find Mort’s own inquisitive eye much too close to his own. He yelped, arms flailing wildly and losing his balance, crashing once more into the floor below. The cement of the Mort’s workshop was softened somewhat by the puddle covering every inch of the lot.

Ratchet groaned, propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He popped an eye towards Mort, seeing them looking at him funny with a glass of lemonade in their hand.

“Thought you froze to death for a sec there,” they hummed before shrugging. Mort reached out as far as their stubby arm could reach, offering the drink to him with a smile.

Ratchet heaved a sigh, sitting up fully to take the glass from them with a thanks. The frosted exterior of the glass hurt his already freezing hand to hold, so accepting the drink was idiotic, but Ratchet had no reason to make an enemy of Mort.

Mort raised their own glass towards him with a smile, urging him to drink up with their free hand. Ratchet rolled his eyes before raising his own glass towards them, a thin smile plastered onto his face. He rose the glass to his lips, his frozen nose just barely picking up the scent of the lemon. Ratchet took a drink, wincing at its temperature as he felt the cold liquid travel down his throat and slosh into his empty stomach.

It was pretty sweet, albeit diluted from the overwhelming amount of rain splashing into the cup.

Mort seemed to be loving it, however. Their eyes closed as they hummed, the perfect picture of contentment as they sipped on their lemonade in the middle of a Sargassion monsoon. “Ah,” they sighed, “nothin’ like a little lemonade to finish off the day, right?”

Ratchet took another sip, humming quietly. “Will admit it’s pretty good,” he mumbled before looking around at the scenery, “not really the weather for it though.”

Mort wheezed, bending over slightly to slap at their knee. “Ooo-whee don’t be sayin’ that around Mort, lemme tell you.”

Ratchet forced a laugh, eyebrows furrowing together. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he cleared his throat, placing his glass on the floor. “Anyways, uh Mort,” he began, “I need some help.”

Mort raised a brow, scratching at their cheek. “What’re you doin’ talkin’ to me for?” was their puzzled reply, “if you’re wantin’ to see Mort he’s over there!” they threw a thumb over their shoulder.

Ratchet took a breath, holding his clasped hands against his lips. “Ok! So, who are you?”

Mort’s puzzled look grew exponentially. “I’m Mort.”

“Right, Mort—”

“I just told you I’m Mort.”

Ratchet pressed his hands tighter against his lips. “Yes, and I’m calling you Mort.”

“No,” Mort shook their head, “you’re callin’ me Mort.”

His ears flopped up and down against his skull. “Mort, I need you to—”

“They're Mort!” Mort yelled, pointing a finger, “I’m Mort!”

“I KNOW!”

“Rivets a lot smarter than you are,” Mort tutted, placing their hands on their hips. “Speaking of, that little devil has been yappin’ my ear off about you la—”

Ratchet’s arms shot out, fingers tensed. “Yes! Where is she?”

Mort blinked. “Who?”

Ratchet’s lower jaw jutted out, teeth clacking against one another. “Rivet!” he hissed.

Mort tilted their head, huffing a laugh at him. “Well, she’s at her house, o’course.”

He smiled, showing off every single one of his teeth. “I don’t know where that is. I just need directions, please.”

Mort smiled, entire being perking up. “Well why didn’t you jus’ ask?”

He felt something in his neck explode.

Ratchet raised his hand, squinting at the wet piece of paper he held between his digits. Mort’s markings were rough to make out, and more than a little bit of the graphite making up the sketch had melted away. He tilted the sketch to the side, squinting harder at the cliffside before him.

The mountain before him was large, big flat pieces of stone and dirt made up the landscape. A majority of it was covered in thick, green shrubs and moss that was plattered around the multiple cracks and crevices. A wide, green lake surrounded the base of the mountain, several tiny insects and creatures swam around in the murky water. A haze surrounded the area, the humidity threatened to knock him to his knees. 

The bones of something large were peeking at him from the green depths below, a sort of steam wafting from the carcass. His nose scrunched up at the sight, not liking the way the empty husk was looking at him.

A large tree lay to the right of the mountain, its bark old and scarred. The base of the tree was squishy and sodden, a green tint of moss and other various twigs was beginning to form. Several mushrooms jutted out from the base, varying in size and color.

There were multiple steel structures erected above the water, their yellow and grey paints faded from time and rain. There lay a large arched doorway in the middle of the structure, revealing the mountain to be hollowed out from the inside. However, Ratchet could not see what lay beyond the entryway as the rain had thickened considerably during his trek here.

His eyes flicked between Mort’s sketch and the structure before him a few more times, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “Must be the place,” he mumbled, blowing excess water from his nose and tossing the paper aside. Ratchet put his hands on his hips, observing the gap between the platform he was standing on and the platform housing the entrance to Rivet’s house.

He squinted, eyeing the gap with a quirked brow before nodding once, stooping low into a crouch. “I can make it,” he muttered, “just a little gap.” He bounced on the balls of his feet, shaking his hands out in front of him. “Just a jump, you’re good at jumpin,” he shook the excess water out from his boots, “best at jumpin, light work Ratchet light work.”

He took a breath, holding it for a few moments before leaping out from his crouch, muscles in his legs tensing with each stomp of his boot as he got closer and closer to the edge. He leaped from the edge with a small hup! leaving his lips. He soared over the humid swamp, arms reaching out to keep himself somewhat balanced.

Lightwork

He made a move to laugh but every ounce of breath in his lungs was suddenly, and forcibly, stripped from him in one quick, and painful, slam against the edge of the other platform. His chest banged against the slippery, yellow metal of the edge, making him wheeze harshly. He slammed his hands against the floor, claws digging in and scratching against the metal in a desperate attempt to stop himself from sliding further down the ledge. His feet kicked wildly at the wet rock of the cliff, tail flicking sporadically behind him.

He groaned, teeth grinding together as he pulled himself over the ledge, rolling a few feet before stopping on his back. He lay there, chest heaving in and out as he fought to catch his breath, face twitching at the numerous drops of rain pelting it. 

“Easy,” he wheezed, throwing himself up into a seated position with a groan. Ratchet shook his head, buckets of trapped rainwater flying from his fur. He looked into the carved out entrance of the mountain, squinting to see past the darkness of the cave. He saw a few boxes scattered around, thick wires laid across various different ledges, more moss and dirt, and another structure with a bright fluorescent light hanging above it. After getting a closer look he could see that it was a large shut door, its silver color reflecting the light against the yellow walls surrounding it.

Ratchet allowed himself a tiny smile, sagging in relief. “Finally,” he muttered as he forced himself to his feet. He stumbled through the entrance, smile widening at the lack of rain pelting him all over once inside the mountain. He shook himself, hands swiping at his clothes in an effort to swipe off any excess rainwater that hadn’t already seeped itself too deeply into his attire before making his way up the ramp towards the large door.

He looked to the walls of the cave, frowning slightly at the large rib cage protruding from the entire length of one of the walls. The cave was quiet, no sounds but the deep, natural hum of the planet reverberating throughout the walls. Ratchet approached the large steel door, leaning back slightly to look it up and down. His frown deepened, stomach twisting into multiple painful knots deep within his gut.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the metal of the door, knowing that he looked much worse than the warped image being fed back to him. He took his hands to his head in a vain attempt to smooth out the fur, doing the same to each of his exposed forearms and the fur along his neck. He took another look at his distorted reflection, shrugging at what he saw.

He raised his hand, balling it into a fist and left it hanging suspended for a few seconds, ears pressed against his skull. He shook his head lightly, riding his brain of anything negative before it could really start to get going. Tonight will be fun, he told himself.

Fears somewhat squashed, he banged his fist against the metal of the large door three times before leaning to rest against the frame. His ears picked up the faint sound of something crashing in the distance, flicking slightly at the sensation. A string of muffled curses shot out from the door, growing louder in volume as did the sounds of two feet stomping on the floor.

He caught the word ‘shit’ being spat before several tiny ticks rang from the steel, pieces of metal sliding against each other and multiple locks being undone before a tiny peephole was slid, aggressively, to the side. Ratchet jumped, standing up straight as a pole with his arms clasped to his sides.

He watched the angry blue eyes glaring through the peephole blink into a look of shock, then annoyance, then a weird mixture of joy and exasperation before the slide was shut. A few more muffled words rang out from the steel although they were all too fast and disjointed for Ratchet to make any sense of.

The mutters suddenly stopped before the slide was quickly opened again, this time those blue eyes were squinting at him suspiciously.

“What’s the password?” Her suddenly extremely deep voice asked.

Ratchet’s brow furrowed, hands patting restlessly against his thighs. “I dunno, I didn't study.”

“Guess.”

“What?” Ratchet blinked.

“Guess,” her voice urged.

“Wha,” Ratchet frowned, “no!”

“You’re not getting in then.”

He put his hands on his hips. “Since when does your house have a password?”

He heard her voice huff. “Every hideout has a password, that’s like, hideout one-oh-one.”

“Hideout,” he deadpanned, “and you called me twelve.” 

She sighed, muttering under her breath about someone being no fun before the peephole was shut tight. A few more clicks came from the door before it shook slightly, slowly splitting open down the middle with a loud hum. Ratchet took a step back, eyes wide, and watched the machinery work.

The door suddenly stopped, silencing itself completely. He swiveled his head to see Rivet standing to the side, hand rested against a large lever jutting from the wall. There was just enough room for him to slip between the two heavy doors, he did so with a tiny nod of thanks her way. She smiled lightly, hand flicking downwards on the level to seal the door shut behind him.

“The password was Rivet rules, Ratchet drools, by the way,” she huffed.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh har har.”  

Again, he watched the various parts of the machinery click and shift into place as it all worked, eyes wide. Once the show was finished he turned back towards her, heart leaping to his throat.

She was wearing a plain, red t-shirt with a pair of baggy sweatpants hanging from her hips. Her goggles were off and the scarf she always wore around her neck was gone as well, giving him a view of her neck he never knew he wanted to see so badly. Something stirred in his stomach and he couldn’t figure out if it made him want to throw up just yet.

She placed a hand against her hip, cocking it out slightly. Only then did he realize she wasn’t wearing her prosthetic, he tried not to stare.

“Wha?” she mumbled, looking behind herself before turning back to him, head cocked, “is there something on my face?”

His eyes snapped to hers, face flushing under her confused stare. “You look nice,” he blurted, immediately snapping his mouth shut.

Her eyes widened slightly before she took a look down at herself, her hand picking at the hem of her sweats. “Really?” she asked, quirking a brow towards him. He nodded, looking away slightly. “Thanks,” she muttered, flushing. “You look…” she trailed off, face scrunching together, “...wet?”

Ratchet jumped slightly before looking down at himself, grimacing at the large trail of water he was tracking inside all over her floor. A slew of embarrassed chuckles left him, hands trying and failing to smooth out the wrinkles littering his shirt. “I got lost,” he admitted sheepishly.

She snickered behind her hand. “Did you go for a swim or something?” she teased before squinting at him cautiously, “uh…you do know the lakes here are toxic, right?”

“Figured as much,” he mumbled, shuddering at the images of skulls peeking at him from the murky depths. “But no, just wasn’t expecting there to be this much rain,” he told her, shrugging his shoulders a bit with pursed lips. 

She winced, rubbing at her shoulder. “Ah, yea. My bad, we get a ton of rain here—should have warned you.” She turned, speaking to him from over her shoulder as she walked away, “There should be a spare shirt in the bathroom,” she nodded her head towards the right, “feel free to freshen up or whatever.”

He took a glance, seeing a small wooden door over on the far right wall near a desk. He nodded at her back, “Thanks.” She waved a dismissive hand at him over her shoulder, still walking away. He allowed himself one look at her tail, never knowing that sweatpants could make hips look like that.

“I’ll be out here if you need me,” he heard her call. His eyes snapped upwards, finding her own eyes to be watching him from just over her shoulder. He flushed, smiling awkwardly at her. She chuckled at him with a smirk, shaking her head before turning away from him. 

He shook his head, rolling his eyes at his brain before trudging over to the bathroom, wincing harder and harder at every squeak his wet boots made against her floor, he didn’t have the heart to look back at the mess that was no doubt trailing behind him.

“Oh!” he heard her shout suddenly, knocking him from his musings and stopping him in his tracks. He spun, looking at her with wide eyes. Ratchet saw her staring at him with a puzzled expression, head tilted to the side as she regarded him. “Where’s uh, the other two?”

Ratchet squinted for a moment, brain doing cartwheels in his skull before his eyebrows raised, mouth forming into a little ‘o’ shape. “Oh!” he snapped his fingers, “Right, they’re not coming.”

He saw her eyes widen just a smidge. “Oh,” was all she said.

“…Is that ok?” he asked her, scratching at his neck.

“No no! I mean—yes! Yes,” she nodded, “yes that’s…yeah.”

Ratchet gave a thumbs up.

Rivet shot a finger gun at him before spinning around, briskly walking away from him, ears pressed against her head.

Ratchet tapped his hands against the sides of his legs before he waved at her retreating form, mumbling to himself. He spun back around and practically ran into the door before him. Once inside the restroom, he allowed himself to collapse against the wall, closing his eyes.

It’s fine, he told himself. Just spending the night.

At Rivet’s house.

Alone.

All night.

With Rivet.

He moaned, rubbing his hands up and down his damp face, eyelids smashing together tighter. Ratchet held his hands against his head for a while, doing nothing but listening to the sound of his heart in his ears and his soft, steady breathing. Another small huff of a breath left him before his hands began to slowly peel themselves from the sticky fur of his face. 

A flash of her tail swishing lazily from the back of her sweats shot through his mind, his hands stilled, awkwardly hovering in the middle of his face. He shook his head, coughing as another image flashed through his mind, this time of her hips swaying side-to-side as she walked away from him. He felt his claws dig into the skin of his forehead. The third image of her hooded eyes peeking at him from over her shoulder made him tear his hands down the length of his face in one quick, aggressive motion.

His teeth grit together, chest heaving as he panted before he blinked, all tension melting from his shoulder blades. He blinked again, finally realizing that the room he stood in was pitch black. His neck flushed, grumbling a slew of obscenities to himself as a hand shot out towards the darkness.

His fingers pawed at the rough wall of the bathroom for a while before snagging onto something smooth and a bit cold. He flicked the fingers upwards, ears flicking at the small whining noise rumbling from within the walls surrounding him before a single lightbulb flickered to life above him.

A bright, yellow-tinted light sputtered to life against the walls of the room, suddenly coating everything in sight in its warm glow. The sudden change in visibility caused him to wince, hissing quietly to himself as he cringed away from the sudden blinding sensation.

Slowly, he cracked his eyelids open, taking in more and more of the room. His lips smacked together, tongue rolling uncomfortably through his mouth as his eyes wandered, pupils dilating and contracting as they fought to rid themselves of the sudden headache.

The walls were painted a simple cream color, each decorated with multiple sets of thin, black diagonal lines reflected from one another, creating a continuous ‘W’ shape across their four surfaces. Ratchet hummed, taking a step closer to the wall as he squinted his eyes. They widened slightly as he discovered the pattern to be hand painted, with some lines being wobblier than the one next to them and each line had a slight difference in thickness and weight.

Ratchet took a step back, nodding with his hands placed on his hips. He never took Rivet as one to really care about decoration or anything relating to the arts, he found it cute—assuming she was the one who painted the walls, that is. The thought made him frown, not really knowing if calling her cute for having a hidden hobby was patronizing or not. He frowned further, not knowing if that was even the right word to use before he shook his head, dispelling the voices.

He made a mental note to ask her about it later, curiosity piqued. Another piece to figuring out the puzzle that was Rivet.

He explored further, head swiveling this way and that as he took everything in, piece by piece. It was a pretty standard bathroom, a toilet that had several dents in it, a sink who’s paint was beginning to chip away, and a shower-tub tucked away into the corner. It was all a bit cramped, he couldn’t really take more than two steps before the tip of his boot collided into something—but the whole get up was nice nonetheless.

He smiled, yea, he liked it. Just like he liked the way she said his name— “Ok!” Ratchet tensed, smile tightening as he clasped his hands together. “No more of that,” he muttered before beginning the process of peeling his sodden shirt from his body.

A quick rinse of the head under some nice, cold water ought to sort out his perverted mind.

His claws worked to undo the many buttons dotting his chest, slipping and clacking against each other and fumbling with the remaining few whenever a deep part of his brain reminded him that he was undressing with Rivet standing just beyond the other side of the door.

He swallowed, whirling around to check if the door was locked with wide eyes. It was, but it did nothing to stop the uneasy feeling from spreading throughout his gut. He slipped his arms from the sleeves, grimacing at the odd sensation of the wet fabric pulling at each individual strand of fur aligning his arms. The rest of the fabric was removed from his person with a grunt, glancing at it with resentment before he dropped it to the floor, tail flicking away from the wet plop as it hit the cement.

A hand shot out towards the singular knob of the shower, twisting it in a few times and jumping slightly at the sudden stream of water that was spit out from the shower head. The pipes behind the wall creaked and groaned the longer the stream was active, Ratchet hoped nothing would explode.

He twisted the knob in a few directions, holding his other hand underneath the flow of water until he found a temperature that was acceptable to him. He placed his hands against the wall, shivering slightly as the cold water pelted against his bare forearms and licking at the edges of his upper-arms before he stepped forwards, hunching low to place his head beneath the water.

Immediately, every muscle in his back tensed as the cold water of the shower mingled with the fur aligning the back of his head, neck, and shoulders. He felt the thick, goopy rain water get flushed from the strands the longer he held himself under, visibly relaxing as more and more of the gunk was washed from him.

He breathed heavily, watching his chest move with every deep breath that entered his lungs. His mind was clear, for the most part, only focusing on the soothing sounds of the water running down the sides of his head and neck. The thought of Rivet pressing herself against his back and watching as her fingers ran through the wet and tangled fur of his chest and abdomen, whispering sweet nothings right into his ear only crossed his mind once.

Or twice.

“Have I always been this sick-minded?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Hard not to be with her around, he heard something in his mind reply.

He wanted to be annoyed with the voice, but he knew he’d be lying if he said he didn’t agree with it. 

Ratchet eventually shut the water off, holding himself in the same position for a few more moments, watching the droplets of water falling from his fur plop against the surface of the tub before he pushed himself from the wall with a grunt. His hands rose, wiping at his face and neck, riding his pelt from any excess water trapped beneath.

He turned, digging through a white cabinet for a few seconds before pulling out a plain blue towel. He dried himself off, hands moving in a blur as they worked to rid every surface of his body from the annoying sensation of being wet. He hunched down, patting at the legs and crotch of his pants in an effort to dispel any leftover dampness still clinging to the material.

When he was done he placed the towel atop the sink’s surface, taking special care to fold it as neatly as he was capable—not wanting to make more of a mess than he already has in Rivet’s home. His neck flushed at the reminder of the trail of water he left behind during his trek to her bathroom.

Remembering her word’s from earlier, he got to work on locating a spare shirt for him to wear this evening. Praying to whatever deity, both benevolent and malevolent, that he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of the night shirtless. He sifted through more cabinets, face falling further and further as he was met with everything but a shirt.

He scowled, ripping open the last cabinet with a little more force than necessary and scanning the contents with squinted eyes. He brightened, lurching forward and knocking a few things over before pulling his hands out, holding them victoriously above his head.

“Yes!” He whisper-cheered, tail flicking happily behind him. There, held tightly within his grasp, was a simple red t-shirt, a few shades lighter than the one Rivet had on just outside. He laughed to himself, waving the shirt back and forth above his head to prove that yes, it was real and yes, he wouldn’t have to suffer through any more embarrassment tonight.

He saw something thick slip from underneath the shirt, landing against the floor with a soft paf . Ratchet looked down, whatever victorious expression he had plastered across his face was swallowed immediately, every muscle in his neck tensing.

There, laying on the floor, was a sports bra.

His face exploded into a great fireball of heat, hands flying to his mouth as he swallowed the urge to scream. He paced in place for a few moments, looking around wildly before stopping himself suddenly. He straightened up, placing his hands on his hips as he glared at his reflection in the mirror. 

“Really?” He asked himself, eyes wide with exasperation, “you are way too grown to be acting like this,” he tsked. He dropped the spare shirt into the sink, face flat, before stooping into a crouch and scooping the bra into a hand. “It’s a fuckin bra …what am I, sixteen?” He muttered, staring down at the piece of apparel.

He turned it over in his hands, picking at the elastic material with his claws before looping his thumbs through the two straps, holding it out in front of him. He shrugged, ready to ridicule himself further for acting so immature over something so minuscule.

She would look good in this, though his mind snickered. Images of her stooped over, firm muscles littering the length of her arm and shoulders tensing as she curled a weight in her grasp, sweat glistening across her focused brow. 

He nodded absently, lips curling downwards in thought before he blinked, eyes widening. “Shut up,” he grumbled, flicking the bra back into the still opened cabinet and slamming it shut with a quick flap of his wrist.

I’m not wrong

Ratchet sighed, ignoring the voice.

He allowed himself only one thought of Rivet, wearing that sports bra, covered head to toe in soot and grime as she worked tirelessly at a ship’s engine, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as her skilled hands practically danced across the inner workings of the machine.

Maybe two.

When he returned, he found her sifting through the contents of what looked like a refrigerator, brow furrowed in what appeared to be deep thought as her eyes bounced around, never staying focused on one object for more than a second.

The second thing he noticed was that her kitchen was small. A few cabinets were aligned against the wall with a few shelves hanging above them. There were various knick knacks strewn across the various countertops and there was what he guessed to be a microwave shoved into the corner next to the fridge. A small island was in the middle of her kitchen, filling him with a lot more…envy than he was expecting. He wanted an island in his kitchen.

He watched one of her ears flick towards his direction before her hand stilled, peering over her shoulder and regarding him with wide eyes. Rivet looked him up and down for a moment before a wide smile stretched across her face, spinning away from the fridge to face him fully. “Aw look at you!” she laughed, taking a step towards him, “looking much better.”

Ratchet looked down, spreading his arms a bit. “You think?”

She nodded, placing her hand atop her hip. “Any step away from looking like you’re three seconds away from catching hypothermia is a good look in my book,” she told him, smirking.

He nodded, the old ratty thing was a lot warmer than his other shirt. His hands played at the hem, shaking it a little. “Bit big on me though,” he mumbled, eyes glancing to see just how easily Rivet filled out her own shirt.

He heard her laugh again, smiling wide at him. “Well,” she hummed before stepping closer to him. Her hand reached out, toying with the front of his shirt with a thoughtful look before winking at him. “You’ll grow into it,” she said, placing her hand flat against his stomach before pushing him back. He watched her spin on her heel and walk away from him, back towards the fridge, as his hand ghosted over the spot she had touched him.

She seemed a lot more relaxed than she was at the bar, a fact that made his chest light up with something pleasant.

He quirked a brow. “…Are you implying that I’ll wear this shirt often?” he asked, following behind her after a few seconds of hesitation.

“I dunno,” he heard her huff, hand rifling through her fridge once more, “depends.”

He leaned against the countertop of the island behind her, watching her actions from over her shoulder. “Depends on what?”

She was silent for a few moments before she looked at him from over her shoulder, eyes lidded. “If we get ourselves into more situations where you have to wear my clothes,” she looked away, resuming her search.

He blinked.

“…after,” she added in a much lower tone after a few seconds of silence.

“…Oh,” was his weak reply, throat feeling tight. His tongue inched out to wet his lips, holding his breath. “And uh,” he shook his head from side to side, “what…what er— situations would, y’know…” he trailed off. He heard a questioning hum come from her, still turned away from him. She had bent over slightly during her search, drying his mouth further. 

He took a breath, chewing nervously at his cheek. “…what would result in… that happening?” he finally forced out, the words practically croaking from his throat.

He felt her tail flick against his leg, playfully slapping against him. “Only time will tell,” she hummed before spinning around clumsily, an armful of ingredients stuffed against her chest. “Hungry?” she asked him sweetly.

A few bewildered laughs left him at that, smiling dopily at her. A jumbled mess of words tumbled from his mouth, mouth flapping dumbly before he rushed forwards, extending his hands to help and pluck away a few rouge ingredients that looked close to falling loose. She watched him with a tiny smile, flushing gently. 

“Uh, sure!” he chirped, grinning at her tiny smile, “I could eat.”

“Good,” she teased, bumping a hip against his own to get him to stand at her side, overlooking the island’s counter together, “because you’re helping me cook, stupid.”

“Oh! Uh, alright,” he flubbed, holding his hands out awkwardly in front of him, arms bent at the elbows, awaiting further orders.

She tilted her head at him, bumping a shoulder against his. “You do know how to cook, right?” she asked.

“Wha—” he glared, offended, “of course I do!”

“Can never know with you,” she mumbled, pouring her armful of ingredients against the counter.

He rolled his eyes, bumping a shoulder against hers, “I’ve just never, like, cooked with anyone before,” he clarified, “other than Clank, I guess, but he only trusts me with stirring noodles.”

He heard a small laugh leave her, quickly growing obsessed with the look she was giving him. “Well, neither have I, so…wanna figure it out?” she asked before looking down, tracing little circles into the counter with a claw, “…together?” she added, much quieter.

He felt something in his chest explode.

“I’d love that,” he told her, falling in love with the way her eyes lit up as she looked at him.

They stared at each other for a few moments, tiny smiles spreading across both their faces.

Rivet coughed, hastily turning away and shoving three large brown mushrooms into his hands, knocking him over a bit. “Right!” she squawked, “uh, make yourself useful and cut those up.”

Ratchet straightened up, throwing a mushroom filled hand against his forehead in a mock-salute. “Aye aye!” he tutted, taking several tiny steps in place for a few seconds before whirling around, dumping the fungi onto a nearby cutting board. An empty hand hovered above the counter, sweeping this way and that with outstretched fingers as it hunted for a knife. He eventually found her tiny knife rack bolted against the wall, taking a random swipe at the closest one to him.

He looked at the knife for a few seconds before shrugging, not really knowing what the best mushroom-cutting qualities a knife was supposed to have. It was sharp and it was long, years of experience taught him that both of those traits were more than enough to result in many, many clean cuts.

“Sorry this place is a bit of a mess, by the way,” she muttered suddenly, pulling him away from several not so pleasant thoughts. He blinked for a moment, shaking his head before turning to look at her sheepish expression.

“Oh uh, it’s alright,” he reassured, looking around her place with a small smile, “I think it looks pretty nice actually.”

She smiled at that, leaning a hip into the island. “Was using this place as a hideout for a good while now,” she explained, waving a hand around lazily. “It’s remote, quiet—not really an environment you’d think a Lombax would hole up in, y’know.” 

He snickered, just barely hearing the roar of the rain pelting the outside world. “Wouldn’t be the first planet I check, that’s for sure.”

A huff of air left her nose in response. “Now with Nefarious dead, I really shouldn’t have to still use this place, but…” she trailed off, looking up at the ceiling.

“Grown on you, huh,” he smirked, arms crossing against his chest, knowing how she felt all too well.

She smirked back, shrugging. “I’m a sentimental bitch when I want to be.”

He snickered, giving her home one last look before grinning at her. “Well, I think you’ve done a great job on the place, it’s all very charming,” he began to turn back towards his mushrooms before stopping to look at her from over his shoulder, “…very you,” he told her gently, hand gesturing around lazily.

Rivet looked away from him at that, chewing on the inside of her cheek. His chest warmed at the hints of red peeking out from the fur of her neck. “Thanks,” she muttered between firm lips, spinning away from him and focusing on her side of the kitchen. He chuckled to himself before turning to the cutting board.

He looked down at the mushroom awkwardly in his hand before snapping the head from its stem, doing the same for the other two. His ears flicked to the noise of her rapidly cutting something unknown to him from behind, humming softly to herself.

He took a breath, placing the cap against the cutting board and raising the blade towards it, hovering just above it as his tongue shot out to wet his lips. “Oh! Uh, Riv?” he called to her, shifting his shoulders towards her slightly.

Her gentle humming stopped but the sound of her knife rapidly bouncing against something wooden did not. “Yes?” she asked, head angling towards him but keeping the majority of her focus on her task.

“How do you want these cut?” he asked, brows furrowing in thought, “you want it like vertically or…” he began, voice trailing off at the confused look she was shooting him over her shoulder. “…What?” he asked, shrinking slightly. The sound of her cutting had stopped.

“Wh—I’m sorry, did you just ask what direction I want my—our mushrooms to be cut?”

He threw his hands up, tail flicking irritably behind him. “What?” he grumbled, “that is a perfectly legitimate and reasonable question!”

She stuttered for a bit, ears pinned against her head. “I don’t care! It tastes the same either way!” she grumbled back, returning her focus back towards her own cutting.

His jaw dropped, knife clattering against the counter as he gasped.

She turned, recoiling slightly at his bewildered look. “What?”

“…You did not just say that,” he said slowly, absolute mortification taking up every inch of his face.

“I mean it’s true, there’s rea—Alright, stop looking at me like that!” she yelled, kicking at him with a foot as she laughed.

He stepped away from her attack, hands on his hips as his jaw dropped further. “I think that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” he admonished, turning back towards his cutting board. “Everybody knows the way you cut things is the most important factor in how good it’s gonna taste,” he chuckled, knife making slow, vertical cuts into the mushroom’s surface.

“Uh huh,” she hummed, still laughing quietly to herself.

“For example,” he cleared his throat, “everybody knows that if you cut a sandwich vertically, it tastes infinitely better than if you were to just cut it straight down the middle,” he lectured, squinting his eyes to assess the quality of his own cuts. “I mean, this is just food one-oh-one here. The very basics of the culinary world.”

“Oh,” Rivet droned, “you’re one of those people, this all makes a lot more sense.”

“Yes,” Ratchet preened, “I am one of those people, and I will proudly represent the vertically split sandwich lifestyle ‘til the day I drop dead.”

“How mad would you be on a scale of one to ten if the day you dropped dead was today?” she asked, “or tonight, I guess,” she muttered afterwards.

Ratchet’s brow rose, nodding his head from side to side. “About how much time would I have left?”

“Three, maybe four seconds.”

He hm’d quietly, tilting the board up with a hand before sliding his batch of not-so-evenly sliced mushrooms onto the countertop before reaching over to grab the second cap. “…A solid two.”

“Ah, good,” she said, “won’t feel too guilty about putting this knife in the back of your neck now.”

“Pfft!” he blew a harsh breath of air from between his pursed lips, “ok knowing you’re the one putting me under, it’s like a high eight now.”

He heard the sound of something soft being grated through something rough coming from behind as she scoffed. “Really? I have that much of an effect on your rating?”

“Of course,” his hand began the slow process of slicing through the mushroom, this time with more confidence, “I mean—think about it, you putting me down? Let’s be serious here for a moment.”

A harsh laugh shot from her at that. “Ok hotshot, I don’t even need the other arm to break your scrawny ass in half.”

He turned at that, dropping the knife against the board and leaning back from her with a hand pressed against his chest. “I’m sorry—scrawny?”

She turned to face him in return, leaning back against the island with her hand pressed against the edge. “Compared to me,” she gestured towards her arm with a nod of her head, the strong muscle underneath her fur was highlighted nicely by the lights hanging overhead, “you’re like a walking twig.”

He scoffed, trying not to stare at her muscle for too long. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he rolled his eyes, turning away from her.

“I would,” he heard her say to his back, an audible smirk in her tone.

He gave her nothing in response but an annoyed huff, grumbling incoherently to himself as he cut away at the mushroom with a bit more force than necessary. 

He pouted for a while before feeling something soft brush against the tip of his tail, realizing it to be her tail after a few seconds of bewilderment. The touch was apologetic, softly flicking against whatever part of his tail she was capable of reaching with her own much fuzzier appendage. After a few seconds of scowling down at his jaggedly cut batch of mushrooms, he flicked his tail back against her own.

He heard the small sound of her chuckling to herself, feeling her tail bat playfully against him in response.

He smiled, biting at his lip.

The two worked in silence for a while, simply doing nothing more than listening to the sounds of their soft breathing, their various tools clacking and slicing together as they completed their individual tasks for their meal, and the soft brushes and whooshes of their tails playfully bouncing around together.

“…Ok yeah, you could take me down, even without the arm,” he eventually muttered, breaking the silence.

“Glad you’ve finally come to your senses,” she laughed, blowing a raspberry at him from over her shoulder when he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, by the way…saw your work over there in the bathroom,” he said in what he hoped was an offhand tone, examining his claws. She stilled at that, back straightening out with a blush. He smirked, “Never you knew you had such hidden talent.”

A small embarrassed noise left her as she turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. She stammered for a few moments before finally managing to squeeze out, “Well I’ve re-painted the arm so many times now I just—just figured I might as well get into it a bit more.”

He shook his head at her, biting his tongue as he smiled. “I’m not judging!” he teased with his hands raised placatingly, “you’ll be the next Picasso in a few years.”

She gave him nothing in return except for a tiny huff of a laugh but it sounded…weird? 

He frowned, laughs weren’t supposed to sound like that. 

A tiny, repeated clicking sound hit his ears, causing them to shift backwards slightly towards the noise. He risked a peek over his shoulder, finding the sound to be her claws tapping against the wooden surface of the small island.

Her shoulders were tense and her head was hung low, her tail had stopped its gentle swishing against his own and was now hanging still against the ground. He frowned further, brain working overtime to try and figure out what was happening.

He heard her take a shaky breath, swallowing thickly. “…You don’t mind me not having the arm on, do you?” she asked him after what felt like an eternity of silence. Rivet turned towards him, not giving him any time to respond nor fully process the sudden question. “Like, it’s not…weird to you? To see, uh…” she trailed off, waving a hand towards the empty air where her arm should be, “…well, this?” 

“Of course not,” he told her immediately, taking a step towards her. “Why would I?”

“I dunno,” she sighed, scratching at the back of her neck. Her eyes flicked to his before shooting away to stare hard at something behind him. “I know you’re probably not, y’know…used to seeing me like this, I guess.”

“I mean it's…it's new yeah, but it’s not something I’m,” he pursed his lips, rocking side to side, “completely, like, floored by or anything.” He gave her a strained smile, chuckling nervously. “Y—do you get what I’m trying to say?”

Rivet nodded slightly, still not looking at him. “I saw the way you looked at it when you walked in,” she told him, voice small.

His face fell, hands raising slightly before flopping back to his sides. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He wanted to kick himself in the throat ‘til his trachea bruised, absolutely hating the look on her face—the look he caused to be on her face. “I didn’t…” he sighed, looking at her with as much honesty as he could muster, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She finally looked at him then, staring into his eyes with a frown. “You’re not just sayin’ that, are you?” she asked.

“I promise I’m not,” he told her, “I just… do things without really thinking about like, how those things’ll be perceived by someone else,” he scratched at his neck, eyes downcast. “I am very shitty with people,” he laughed quietly.

That got a soft chuckle from her, a tiny smile now sitting on her mug. “I know,” she teased, bumping the back of her hand against his arm, “I guess I just don’t want you to think any less of me for being, y’know,” she nodded towards her missing arm, “less, I guess.” She sighed, sagging against the counter’s edge behind her. “Like me wearing the arm around you all the time made you just… forget? Or just not really put two and two together and be like, wait she’s actually got nothin’ under there!”

He snickered at her awful impersonation of his voice. “You wanna know what I really think about the whole arm thing?” he asked her.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit before nodding once.

“I think it’s fuckin’ badass,” he grinned, flashing his teeth at her.

She rolled her eyes with a groan, putting a hand against his shoulder in an attempt to spin him away from her. 

“Wha—I’m serious!” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders to stop him from spinning away and looping an arm behind the back of her neck. He pulled her close against his side, cheek pressing firmly against her own. “Ok—picture this,” he told her, waving an arm out in a slow arch in front of them, “we have this super ripped and tough Lombax who’s been living under the boot of this horrid authoritarian regime her entire life!”

“Uh huh,” Rivet deadpanned.

“Every day she had to listen to the grating prattlings of an unbearably cocky overlord as he laughed and spat on the poor souls he had complete control over!”

“His speeches were really annoying.”

“But one day she’s like, screw this! And just starts beating the absolute crap out of every single one of that dickhead’s cronies, single-handedly dismantling this entire regime bit by bit with each passing day!”

“Eh…I had some help but, close enough.”

“So this emperor, who is totally pissed now, by the way, dedicates thousands and thousands of dollars into developing the best tech, the best soldiers, the best weapons—dumping an entire fortune into nothing but trying to get rid of one Lombax.”

She snickered. “He did a lot to try and catch me.”

“But nothin’ worked! She was just that good!”

“D’aw…you’re gonna make me blush.”

“And she’s got this sick homemade prosthetic arm that she can just,” he shot a fist forwards with a grunt, “pow! Slam it through the skull of anything that gets in her way with such ease it’s incredible!”

“That is true,” she hummed, “I have gotten pretty good at that.”

He looked at her, grinning like mad. “I mean, how could I not think that someone like that was a total badass?”

Rivet hummed, tilting her head back to rest it against his arm as she thought. “Well…when you put it like that she does sound pretty cool,” she mumbled, looking away from his smirk with one of her own.

“She is the coolest, no doubt in my mind about that.”

“But,” she began, turning her head to look at him, “you did forget a pretty significant part of that little story.” 

His brow furrowed. “I did?” he cocked his head to the side, “I’m pretty sure I got everything.”

He felt her arm snake its way across his back before her hand grasped at his hip, pulling him closer against her side. He jumped at the contact, head whipping to see her smiling warmly at him. “You forgot the part where she got the help from someone who’s equally as badass,” she told him quietly, smiling wider at the hot flush spreading throughout his face.

He swallowed, hand twitching against her shoulder. “Well, that’s awfully kind of you,” he said awkwardly, throat tight.

Ratchet felt the warm hand against his hip pull him closer, trying not to melt as he felt her press herself deeper into his side. She ducked slightly, placing her head underneath his chin and turning to bury her face in the fur of his neck.

If his eyes got any wider they’d surely pop out from his skull.

“…You also forgot the part where she came to realize that she didn’t want to spend another second of her life away from him…that he had easily become the most important person in her life,” she mumbled into his neck, her breath warm against his skin.

Oh

Slowly, his hand left her shoulder to press itself into the dip of her side, resting his palm firmly against her. He knew she could feel the way it shook against her, the way his entire body trembled slightly as she held herself against him. “…I guess I did,” he muttered, slowly resting his chin atop the spot between her ears.

He felt her smile against his neck.

“And,” he swallowed, “I forgot the part where he thought the same. Where he couldn’t imagine a life without her in it,” he looked down at the top of her head, “where he was willing to do whatever it took to make her happy.”

“…He’s doing a pretty damn good job at that,” she whispered.

He bit his lip, swallowing thickly. His eyes stung, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to keep the tears at bay.

“I think that’s the best news he’s heard in a long, long time,” he choked, lip wobbling.

She pressed herself deeper against him. “Well,” she sniffed, “those two sound…really stupid. And cheesy.”

“They are,” he croaked through a watery laugh, “but I’m sure there’s no one else he’d rather be stupid with than her.” He prayed his voice didn’t sound as weak as it did through his ears.

She tensed, pulling herself away from his neck to look at him. Large, fat tears were absolutely pouring from her eyes, her bottom lip was practically smashed underneath her teeth. “He’s gonna make me fucking cry!” she wailed, crashing back into his neck. Her shoulders shook against him, a harsh hic! left her every few moments.

He laughed a terribly watery sound. “Ok!” he heaved, pulling her closer against his chest and wrapping another arm around her, “if you’re crying I can cry now too!” he pressed his chin on the top of her head, tears pouring freely from his red eyes now.

“Do—don’t you cry!” she croaked, claws digging into his shoulder as the wrapped her arm around him in return, “don’t be a—a pussy!”

He laughed, sniffing hard, “You fuckin’ star— hic! started it!”

He felt her head shake against him. “Don’t act like your—your voice didn’t get all,” she sniffed for a couple seconds, “croaky or whatever first, you idiot.”

“Are we—” a sob wracked through him, “we being fu— sniff! sad here or—or what?” he asked her, barely able to squeeze the words out through his shuddering breaths.

“I don’t know!” she wailed, tightening her hold on him. He heard a long slew of warbled curses and incoherent insults spill from her mouth. Her face was warm, shockingly so, and her ears were a bright red from the base all the way to the tips. 

He closed his eyes, smiling like a dumbass, staining the top of her head with his tears. “Can you just let us have one emotional moment?” he asked gently, snickering quietly at her muffled grumbles against his neck.

She sniffed again, sobs growing quieter and quieter. “…Tell anyone I’ve got a soft side and I’ll make it look like an accident,” she mumbled against his fur. He felt her shift, he looked down to a single, red and puffy eye glaring up at him. “…y’hear me?” she grumbled.

Her fur was roughed up beyond recognition, the small tuft of hair atop her head had more than a few knots in it, her ears were pressed flat against her head, the edges of her eyes were lined with hundreds of deep red veins, the skin under her eyes was puffy, the fur along her face was stained with large tear streaks and there was not one single part of him that didn’t think she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

He loved her.

“I hear you,” he mumbled, a few leftover tears slipped from his eyes. She huffed before pressing her face back into the fur of his neck, practically melting against him.

“Good,” came her muffled voice, “now let’s…stay like this for a while, yeah?”

He placed his chin against her head, nuzzling against her slightly. “Yeah,” he mumbled, grinning like mad.

He didn’t know how long he held her against him for, it had felt like hours before he heard her mumble something too quietly for him to hear. He leaned back, regrettably, and pushed against her shoulders a bit. “What was that?”

She leaned back too, eyes downcast. She chewed on her lip for a few beats of silence before looking back towards him, eyes filled to the brim with a tumultuous mix of unease and nerves that he was sure was making her stomach do all sorts of flips. “Uh…” she trailed off before a grimacing, slamming herself back against him, “nevermind,” she squawked.

He raised a brow, looking at her funny. “Wha—Riv?” he poked at her shoulder, “what were you gonna say?” Rivet said nothing, making him frown further. “Riv,” he tried again, still prodding at her shoulder. 

She said nothing, still.

He squinted. “Are you taking a vow of silence?”

“Just drop it already!” she suddenly barked, head whipping towards him with a snarl, “it’s not important!”

Ratchet reeled back, eyes wide before his face fell. “Everything you say is important to me,” he told her, voice gentle.

She scowled at that, hand holding the back of his shoulder tightening against him. “I hate it when you do that,” she mumbled, eyes flicking back and forth between both of his own. Whatever it was she was looking for in his eyes, he did not know, only hoping that whatever she found was satisfactory. 

“When I do what?” he asked through a huff of a laugh, hands still pressed gently against her back.

She looked away, head sinking between her shoulders. “When you make me feel so…” she shrunk further, glaring hard at something off to their side as her ears flushed, “…cared for.”

His face exploded into a wide smile, eyes glistening. A laugh was strangled from his throat at the mortified look on her face upon seeing his expression before she shook her head, glaring hotly straight through him. “Don’t you dare start crying again!” she hissed, scowl deepening tenfold.

“I won’t,” he sniffed, raising a shoulder to wipe at his eyes, “I’m just happy to hear I uh, make you feel that way,” he sniffed again, chest warming considerably the longer he looked at her.

“You make me feel a whole metric fuck ton of things,” she grumbled, “but I guess I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she added on after a beat of silence, voice much softer. She looked away suddenly with a sigh, eyes cast downwards at the floor as she very clearly was in the process of wrestling with something in her mind.

Ratchet let her think, giving her all the time she needed to figure out whatever it was she wanted to say. Clank used the same technique on him, he realized with a little huff, he couldn’t see why it wouldn’t work on her as well.

Rivet looked at him, that same tumultuous mix of emotions from before swirling around in her eyes once again, albeit not as intense as it was before. He told himself the new, unknown emotion now swirling within the mix was something related to care, to continue selling the fantasy that she felt as strongly for him as he did her.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to know…” she looked away, sighing deeply before looking back, “well if you wanted to know what happened—or, how it happened, I guess.”

His eyes widened slightly, breath caught in his throat. “Do you mean…” he trailed off, not wanting to read things incorrectly. His eyes flicked to her right shoulder, despite his efforts to keep his gaze on her own.

She peeled herself from his hold, leaning against the countertop at his side. There was a foot of distance between them for not even a second before she leaned into his shoulder, closing the gap. “Yea, about the arm,” she clarified, hand fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

Ratchet crossed his arms across his chest, leaning against the countertop too with an ankle thrown over the top of the other. His brow furrowed in thought before he turned his head to look at her, “Only if you feel comfortable, it’s not my business to know unless you want it to be.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye at that, frowning slightly. “I mean it,” he told her, voice firm.

“I feel like you deserve to know,” she said in a voice so quiet a part of him was shocked it came from her.

He placed a hand atop her own which was gripping the edge of the counter, squeezing it gently. “Riv,” he called, waiting patiently for her to look at him, “I don’t want you to think of it as a…I don’t want you to focus on me here,” he told her, hand still pressed gently atop her own. “It’s your story, your life…your secret. It’s not a me deserving to know about it kind of deal, it’s a do you want me to know type of thing.” 

He looked down at their hands, gently rubbing his thumb against her fur. “And if you don't, that's fine. We can spend the rest of our lives without you telling me a single thing about what happened and I will be one hundred percent ok with that,” he smiled at her, not really caring if she saw how wet his eyes were getting again. “As long as you’re happy, there’s…not really a whole lot that I wouldn’t be ok with,” he chuckled, nudging her softly. 

She gave him a small smile at that, breathing out a long gust of air from her nose. “It’s been a couple years now, exact dates are…fuzzy, but I’ve had the arm for a long while now,” she told him, slowly. “I still have a lot of memories before having it, but after everything they seem so… fake.”

She looked at him, face blank. “Like somehow that’s not me in those memories, that it’s someone else and I’m just sitting here, watching them go about their business like it’s a fuckin’ movie or something,” she scowled, “it’s weird. Even weirder that some days I can still feel it, even with the arm off I-it—it’s…” her lips pursed, brow furrowing.

“…Sometimes I have to remind myself that it’s not there, that it’s not my arm that’s feeling these things and it’s all those circuits and wires in the arm that is,” she stared ahead, glaring. “Some mornings I wake up and have this whole routine where I go to scratch at my eye or whatever and…nothing happpens,” her stare hardened, “then it comes crashing back that it’s fucking gone , and I don’t know why I can’t seem to remember that fact.”

She looked back at him with a sigh, shoulders tense. “It was such an easy mission—fuckin’ rookie material that I got assigned to—me, fuckin’ me, because everyone else was just too busy to take it on,” she closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I didn’t mind at the time, of course, just happy to help out wherever I could. Any victory against Nefarious, no matter how small, was still a victory nonetheless.”

She barked a laugh, devoid of any humor. “It was so easy—slip in at night, punch a code in, download some worthless data we couldn’t even decipher yet, and hightail it out of there before anyone caught wind of me,” she listed, voice growing darker and darker as she went on.

“I let my guard down, couldn’t have been for more than three seconds…” Rivet went quiet, shoulders shaking slightly. Ratchet tightened his hold on her hand, she made no indication that she felt the touch.

“And then it happened,” she said simply, voice devoid of any emotion.

Ratchet stared, heart aching.

“At first I didn’t feel it, just noticed that my right side got a hell of a lot lighter all of a sudden,” she huffed, fingers tensing against the counter’s edge, “and then I smelled something burning and it was such a visceral, awful stench that it made every survival instinct in my brain shriek with alarm.”

Rivet swallowed, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling. “And I look down and…there it is,” she stared forwards for a long time, unblinking, “my arm—or, what was left of it. Just lying there on the floor, like it was nothing different than the other scraps of garbage littering the streets.”

Her lip curled, jaw clenching. “So I turn around and I see…some fucking bot standing there, staring me down,” her jaw was trembling now, “of all the things to get such a lick on me, it just had to be a bot,” she spat the word.

Ratchet looked down at his feet, feeling sick to his stomach.

“I didn’t trust machines for a long, long time after that,” Rivet told him, “hell, I ruined some of my closest friendships I’ve ever had over nothing more than them being inorganic.” She looked at him, eyes tired, “I just couldn’t stand the look of them any longer—couldn’t even breathe easy with one of them standing near,” her eyes grew exhausted.

“It took a long while for me to get used to having Clank around,” she confessed to him, “still working on that with…Kit, but after that I think I’m done, at least for now.”

“Can’t blame you,” Ratchet mumbled, barely able to meet her eyes, “hell of a thing to happen to someone.”

She chuckled, “Hell of a thing.”

He stared at the ground for a long while, shoulders tense. “I’m gonna kill them,” he said.

Rivet snapped her head to him, eyes wide with alarm. “Wha—”

“I’m gonna kill them,” he repeated, now looking at her, “the bot who did this to you.”

She shook her head, eyes shutting tight. “Ratchet, no— no, you don’t want to do that, trust—“

“I do,” he growled, grinding his teeth together.

“No Ratchet, listen to me you can’t,” she was pleading to him now, shaking her head rapidly, “you can—”

“Rivet, they deserve—”

“Kit was there!” she shouted, shutting him up immediately.

He stared at her, every strand of his fur on edge. 

“…What?”

She put her hand over her mouth, dragging it down her chin before rubbing at the front of her throat. “It was Kit,” she said, voice weak, “Kit was the bot.”

“No,” he muttered, stepping away from the counter and backing away from her, “no…no no no no no no no,” he repeated, breathless, hands interlocked atop his head.

His mind raced, flashes of Kit’s adorable little grin looking up at him during their adventure rocketing through his mind. Her tiny laugh, the way she got excited over the smallest things, how she was practically a little ray of sunshine no matter where she was, the way she was practically incapable of dishing out any unjust harm—it couldn’t have been her.

He then remembered the image of her hulking war-bot form, how ashamed she had been after first transforming in front of him, how afraid she had been that he’d see her as nothing more than a  mindless monster. Something that had horribly confused him at the time—and had confused him still months after the fact, puzzling him each and every time the little bot crossed his mind.

Looking back on it all, he couldn’t understand how he failed to put two and two together.

“Kit?” he asked, still pacing. 

Rivet frowned, nodding once.

“Fuck,” he breathed, rubbing a hand down the back of his head. “I mean…shit!” his heart threatened to explode within his chest, absolutely drumming in his ears.

“I know,” Rivet sighed as she walked over towards him, stopping whenever she was at his side once more. She wrapped her arm around his back, pulling him against her. “Shit is right,” she chuckled, rubbing gently at the back of his neck, whispering incoherent sweet-nothings into his ear.

He sunk into her hold, heart-rate plummeting immediately. He sighed, closing his eyes and absolutely savoring the euphoric feeling of her claws raking through the fur of his neck. He mumbled his thanks into her shoulder, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that…can’t even imagine what that’d be like,” he whispered, mouth turning sour, “losing such a big part of yourself.”

He felt her shrug against him. “What’s done is done,” she sighed, “it’s alright, I guess…can’t change what happened.”

“It’s not alright though,” he spat, “you didn’t des—”

“Christ, I know it’s not alright, Ratchet!” she cut him off, pushing away from him and holding him at an arm’s length against his shoulder, scowling. His arms had slipped from around her waist, holding themselves loosely against her hips. She was glaring at him, ears erect with the fur aligning the back of her neck raised.

His ears fell, the heated look on his face slowly melted away to something much, much smaller. “Riv…” he tried, snapping his mouth shut at her pointed look. Rivet’s intense stare locked him in place for what felt like hours but in reality it was nothing more than a couple seconds before she softened. She sighed, grip loosening against his shoulder before she tugged him back against her with one quick swoop, knocking the air from him as he collided into her.

“I know you mean well, you idiot,” she grumbled, resting her head against the side of his, “It’s hard some days— really hard, but I’ll get better.” Her arm tightened around his shoulders, the tiny smile evident in her voice. “It’s nice to know that I won’t have to fight through it alone anymore,” she whispered, barely audible to him.

His heart shattered, tears stinging at the corner of his eyes.

Ratchet said nothing in return, not trusting his voice. He settled on wrapping his arms around her, securely holding himself against her. He hoped it would be enough for her, and judging by the way she nestled further into his embrace, it was.

“Sorry…again,” he eventually mumbled.

“What is it now?” she hummed, still splitting his fur between her heavenly claws.

He growled, brow furrowing in frustration. “You just finished this whole big emotional story about your arm and now you’re the one calming me down,” his face was hot with embarrassment.

A sharp laugh left her at that, jostling him slightly. “No no, it’s fine…this is helping a lot actually,” she confessed, shrugging.

He turned his head, peering up at her between a cracked eyelid. “Really?”

She shrugged again, face turning a light shade of pink. “Just like feeling you against me, is all. You’re very warm,” she mumbled, “…and I like touching you too, I guess. It’s all very…very uhm—”

“Cathartic?” he suggested, gently rubbing at the small of her strong back. His other arm chose to stay securely wrapped around her waist.

She sighed at his touch, eyes closing happily. “Yes, very whatever it was you just said,” she hummed. He could practically feel the tension melting away from her muscles as his hand continued its soft touch.

Friends don’t do this kind of thing together, y’know that right?

He wanted to feel alarmed at the voice’s words before he felt her claws scratch at just the right spot at the back of his head, forgetting whatever it was that had him so worked up entirely.

He was three seconds away from asking Rivet if she could scratch just a tad bit higher before something odd hit his nose. He cringed, eyes flying open before his nose began to wiggle, sniffing hard. He felt Rivet stiffen against him, hand falling still immediately.

“Ratchet, are you smelling me?” she asked, voice at an incredibly odd pitch.

He put a finger to her mouth, shooting up straight and looking past her enraged gaze. She grabbed at his finger with enough force to crush a supernova a thousand suns before her nose began to wiggle as well. Her head snapped around, following his gaze.

Smoke was rising from the oven.

“Shit!”  they shouted in unison, tripping over themselves as they raced towards the oven. Ratchet was sure she stepped on his tail at least six times by the time they had finally made it to the device, three hands shooting out to slam the oven’s door open.

A plume of smoke erupted from the sudden opening, completely enveloping their heads in the horrid smog, making them cough and gag. Ratchet grabbed a nearby hand-towel, batting rapidly at the smoke while he hacked. Rivet had fallen onto her back, alternating between coughing her lungs out and laughing wildly at Ratchet’s soot covered face.

After what felt like an eon had passed, the thick smoke had finally dissipated from the oven and the surrounding air, finally allowing the two Lombaxes to catch their breaths. Rivet was still vibrating on the floor, a few breathless chuckles coming from her while Ratchet had his hands against his knees, panting.

Ratchet wiped at his face, grimacing at the thick soot being removed from his fur before glaring at Rivet, tossing the towel at her face, sending her into another laughing fit. He rolled his eyes, kicking at her leg with a foot before he crouched down, peering into the oven.

Rivet joined him a few moments later, small patches of black still dotted across the white fur of her face. She raised a brow at his cringing face before turning towards the inside of the oven, face falling at the sight of their completely burnt meal.

The two stared into the oven for a long while, not a word was shared between them.

“Look what we made!” Ratchet suddenly shouted, smiling wide and throwing his hands up into the air, smashing his cheek against Rivet’s.

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

In the end, they had managed to salvage about thirty percent of what they had prepared together. The majority of their meal was far, far beyond saving, looking more akin to a pile of ash and sludge than anything remotely edible. They had laughed about it as he made their plates, with Ratchet putting the majority of the blame on Rivet while Rivet believed they were both equally at fault for the entire fiasco.

The amount of edible food was scarce, and Ratchet really was starving, but he couldn’t stop himself from putting the majority of whatever they had salvaged onto Rivet’s plate. He hoped she wouldn’t be able to notice just how little food he had for himself when compared to her own plate. Something she picked up on the moment Ratchet presented her meal to her, hotly contesting against his decision.

They had gone back and forth on it for a while, with Ratchet insisting for her to take more both out of a genuine desire for her to get a good meal tonight and a more selfish desire to see her smile. Rivet argued that he should be the one deserving of the larger count because he hadn’t eaten much at the bar.

In the end, Rivet plopped half of what he gave her onto his plate, despite his multiple physical and psychological efforts to get her to stop, laughing mad all the while.

“…you cut these things so thick!” he heard her huff, knocking him out of his thoughts. He shook his head, turning to look at her disapproving gaze zeroed in on the cut mushroom cap at the end of her fork.

“What was that?” he muffled through a mouth-full of food.

Rivet made a face. “Firstly, swallow. Secondly, look at this,” she waved the fork in his face, “what kind of person cuts a mushroom this thick?”

“Please,” Ratchet huffed, “it’s not even that bad,” he said, popping a mushroom into his mouth.

Rivet was too busy hyper-analyzing her own mushroom to notice him rolling his eyes at her complaining, squeezing the fungus between two digits. “This is like a solid inch or two of mushroom right here. Thing is massive!”

“If you think two inches is massive maybe there’s hope for me after all,” Ratchet snickered, chewing happily.

Rivet shot him an odd look for a second before she brightened up. “Oh!” her face fell, curling her lip at him, “Oh.”

Ratchet cackled.

“Gross,” Rivet grumbled, flicking her mushroom at him and hitting him square on the nose.

Ratchet wiped at his eye before leaning into the table at his elbows, looking down at his plate as his chuckles slowly died out. Rivet shook her head at him before returning to her meal, chewing angrily.

“This is really good though,” she mumbled once she decided he was worth speaking to again.

Ratchet nodded. “Thanks to you,” he smiled, tilting his head towards her.

“Nah I think it’s your shitty mushrooms that really bring this whole meal together,” she smirked, kicking at him lightly from underneath the table.

“You have a really hard time letting things go, don’t you?” he grumbled, kicking her back, accidentally making the entire table shake and creak in the process. He scowled, stilling the table’s wobbliness with a firm hand against the edge. “You know what’s not good? This table! Did you get this thing in nineteen-eighty-three?”

The table, like most things in Rivet’s home, was extremely aged. It wasn’t the largest thing in the world, only capable of fitting four seats, one seat for each of the four sides, but it got the job done. The black paint covering the thing was chipped and what remained that was still intact had long faded. Several scratches covered the top surface of the table and each of the legs had their fair share of damage as well. The leg closest to Ratchet appeared to be the most worn down of the bunch, causing the table to wobble at the slightest movement he made.

Rivet gasped, placing a hand against her chest. “Hey! Don’t speak to my table like that!”

“It’s a piece of shit!” he laughed, looking at her like she had finally lost it.

“Yeah it's shit but it's my shit!” she snickered, rubbing a hand across its surface lovingly. “Think I picked this hunka-junk off of Mort at least eight years ago now.”

He raised a brow at that, leaning towards her. “Ooo,” he hummed, “sounds like a neat story.”

Rivet leaned back as her eyes squinted at the ceiling. “Eh, not really,” she shrugged, “think we had the wrong address on file for it so it never did get delivered off to the correct place, they kept it around before selling it to me for like twenty bucks.”

“Delivered?” Ratchet tilted his head, “they do deliveries over there?”

“S’not the main thing they do but yea they run things through the system when needed,” she told him, chewing lazily at her food. “Worked for them as a driver for a while actually. Wasn’t the most exciting thing ever but it kept the lights on.”

“Y’know, looking at you I’d never guess you were a delivery driver at some point in your life,” he mumbled, looking her up and down.

“I know right,” Rivet laughed, “it was alright for what it was. Did it for as long as I could until things got really serious with the resistance.”

Ratchet nodded, resting his chin in a palm. “Take it you’ve known the Morts for a while now?”

“My whole life,” she said quietly, a tiny nostalgic smile on her face, “I didn’t really have much of anything growing up besides them. My earliest memories I can remember have them involved one way or another.” She sighed, digging around aimlessly in her food with a fork. “I really can’t remember much from before, didn’t really start retaining things until I was around nine or so,” she looked at him, eyes tired.

Ratchet frowned, reaching out to put his hand over hers with no hesitation. “I really do feel you on that,” he mumbled, “they did a good job raising you though, you’ve turned out to be something amazing. I’m sure they’re proud of you,” he squeezed her hand, “I know I am.”

She smiled at that, squeezing his hand in return. “I can only hope they are. They’re a strange bunch but they’re also my family.”

Ratchet’s heart sunk upon hearing those words, sinking deeper as he recognized the wicked tendrils of jealousy seeping through his gut.

Must be nice, he wanted to say.

“…Strange is putting it lightly,” he said instead, voice tight. Rivet’s eyes squinted at his tone. Ratchet cleared his throat, shooting a reassuring smile her way. “I actually met them a few hours ago now, had to ask them for directions,” he chuckled, “most frustrating conversation of my life.”

Rivet snickered. “You get trapped into the whole name thing?” she asked with a smirk.

“Yes!” Ratchet moaned, “like they’re all named Mort! And they just kept saying,” he put his hands on his hips, “Naur I’m Mort! Morts ov’r there! I jus’ told you I’m Mort!” he ranted, poorly imitating their accent.

Rivet cackled, shaking her head at him fondly. “You’ll learn their names eventually, love.”

Ratchet glowered, crossing his arms and sinking into his seat. “In a thousand years, maybe.”

“Also,” Rivet huffed, “their accents aren’t that prominent.”

“Yeah yeah I know,” Ratchet sighed, waving her off. “They remind me a lot of someone I used to know,” he muttered, lost in thought.

“Oh yeah?” Rivet asked, surprised, “who?”

“Some old hoot named Ferklot. He talked a lot like the Morts do,” he answered without thinking.

“Ferklot?” he heard her repeat slowly, rolling each syllable around her tongue. His eyes widened, realizing his mistake. “Don’t think you’ve ever mentioned a Ferklot before. Who’s that?”

Ratchet looked down, swallowing thickly. “Oh uh, just…just someone from Veldin.”

Rivet hummed lowly, nodding slowly. He risked a glance at her before quickly looking away, finding her squinting at him. “You don’t talk about Veldin much.”

He grimaced, crossing his arms across his chest as his brows furrowed together at the name of his old home. “Why should I?” he grumbled, “It’s nothing worth talking about. It’s just a planet and just some guy, s’not important.”

He felt something soft rest against one of his forearms, making him tilt his head upwards a smidge. He saw her staring at him, eyes wide with such an overwhelming amount of concern. “You ok?” asked her gentle voice.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, looking away from her, “like I said, it’s not important.”

The hand against his arm squeezed gently. “Everything about you is important to me,” she whispered, “and right now there’s something bothering you. And I’d like to help, if you’d let me.”

He glanced at her, mouth opening and closing slightly as his throat struggled to form the words.

“I trust you,” she told him, smiling, “and I want you to trust me too. We’re in this thing together.”

Ratchet took a long, deep breath as he looked at his arms against his chest. It had been… so long since he had someone else he could trust.

Another Lombax he could trust.

“I try not to think about Veldin too much,” he eventually mumbled, “too many years of not knowing who or even what I was…not something I look back on all that fondly.” He took another breath, holding it for a few moments before letting it go in a slow sigh. “Ferklot was the father I never had, even after being taken in by Grim, Ferklot was really the only one who was ever in my corner.”

“Sure,” Ratchet huffed, “Grim taught me everything I know about machines, but that’s all he ever really did. If it wasn’t work or talk about the shop, he was as silent as a mouse. I didn’t mind it for the first couple years, just thankful that I had a roof over my head,” Ratchet's arms tightened against his chest, “but I could only take so many years of not hearing a single ‘how you doing?’ from him before it started to hit me that he didn’t actually care.”

He looked at her, a strained smile on his face. “What Grim lacked, Ferklot made up for in buckets. Taught me how to speak, to write, to run, to climb—hell, everything a kid would need to grow up somewhat normal,” Ratchet chuckled, “Yeah, he was an old, weird bastard but he was all I got.”

Ratchet bit his lip. “And then I left,” he looked at her, “and I didn’t even say goodbye.”

Rivet bit her cheek, her heartbreak visible in her eyes.

“And to this day, I’ve never gone back. I could’ve, many, many times. But I never did.”

He took a breath.

“He’s dead now. They both are.”

“I know he’d be so proud of the man you’ve turned into, Ratchet.” Rivet sniffed, shaking his arm slightly. “Imagine that, him finding out his little guy saved all of reality. That kid he raised turned into one of the greatest—no, the greatest the world has ever known. Hell, I know I’d be pretty damn proud.”

Ratchet chuckled, shaking his head at her. “He’d probably whoop my ass after finding out just how dangerous things have gotten in my life,” he sniffed, “…but I like to think he’d be happy for me.”

The smile Rivet gave him was warm. “I know he is.”

Ratchet bit his lip, blinking rapidly at the sting in his eyes. She reached over, grabbing at his shoulder to pull him into a hug. He felt her head rest against the top of his, nuzzling into his fur gently. Ratchet nuzzled back, a gentle purr rumbling from his throat at her touch. Rivet laughed at that, squeezing him one last time before pulling back with a grin.

Ratchet mouthed a thank you, she waved it off with a wink. The two returned to their meals in a comfortable silence, doing nothing more than simply basking in each other’s presence. At some point, their tails had wrapped around one another against the floor, no Lombax made a move to unravel them once realizing.

He felt her tail tighten its hold on his own, something that made the inferno burning in his heart burn even brighter.

Ratchet couldn’t wipe the grin from his face, no matter how hard he tried. Even while stuck here scrubbing away at the dirty dishes in Rivet’s sink, he couldn’t help but feel as if he was on cloud nine. He hummed a little tune from between his lips as he worked, tail swishing happily behind him as he rocked his shoulders back and forth in a small dance.

He was sure he looked like a complete, lovesick idiot. Which he was, no doubt about it, but anyone seeing him now would instantly know that someone had him wrapped around their finger. Rivet had disappeared to her room, telling him that she needed to piss and to keep himself busy until she got out. He had made a face at her choice of words but saluted nonetheless, promising to not explode while he waited for her return.

She called him an idiot at that, giving him a quick hug before disappearing behind the door to what he assumed was her room.

He placed the last bit of silverware into her little drying rack before wiping his hands against his pants, grimacing as he felt the fur of his hands change from soaked to damp with each swipe. He took a step back and admired his work, nodding once before spinning on his heel and walking out from her kitchen.

He placed his hands on his hips upon reaching the middle of Rivet’s home, head swiveling back and forth as he took in his surroundings. The first thing that jumped out to him that he hadn’t really considered before was just how high her ceiling was. It made sense, knowing that her home was literally carved into a mountain, but it still made his eyes widen a bit upon needing to strain his neck upwards to see the thing.

The second thing he noticed was that there really wasn’t a whole lot to the place. There was a couch, a tiny coffee table, a tiny TV station, a desk near the far side of the room and a large, multi-monitor setup that looked incredibly complex, even for him. It was…cozy, he could see why she’d have such a hard time with finding a new spot, even if the weather here was abysmal.

He walked towards the desk, eyes roaming across the various screens, wires, and buttons with amazement. The computer looked tough, a part of him wanted to boot it up to see just what it could do but even he knew that was a boundary he shouldn’t overstep. As curious as he was, he wouldn’t want to snoop through her things without getting permission first.

He knew what an angry Rivet looked like, there was no part of him that wanted to be on the receiving end of that hammer she lugged around.

His gaze moved to the many tiny decorations dotted across and around the desk, a few pencils strewn about here and there, several crumpled pieces of paper, spare tools cluttered into a corner, what looked like a journal that had clearly seen better days, and a few picture frames along the shelves.

Ratchet’s eyes floated from picture to picture, smiling more and more at each one. He stilled upon reaching the last frame in the row, eyes widening.

She had framed the first picture they had taken together.

Her arm was looped around the back of his neck, practically gluing him to her side with her cheek mashed into the top of his head. The grin she wore on her face was the biggest he had ever seen on her, head tilted into his with a wink towards the camera. Two yellow digits were thrown up in front of her in a peace sign. Ratchet looked like he was three seconds away from passing out, the big wobbly smile spread across his face perfectly matching his unsure squint towards the camera. Even despite his obvious nerves, he had still managed to throw up a peace sign of his own, wrapping his other arm around her waist.

He grabbed the frame, gently, and held it before him. Smiling down at the picture as if it were the most precious thing in the world to him, which wasn’t entirely far from the truth. The picture itself, no, but the girl standing so happily next to him in the frame? One hundred percent.

His thumb rubbed itself against the glass of the frame before he set it back atop the shelf, taking extra care to ensure it was set up just right. Ratchet took a step back with a sigh, shaking his head before turning away. His eyes scanned the surface of the desk once more as he walked away, catching a glimpse of the journal once more.

He stopped, squinting.

Don’t do it

He turned.

Don’t you do it

He raised a hand, biting his lip.

I’m serious

His arm inched forwards before he looked over his shoulder, staring at the door she disappeared behind for ten seconds before turning back towards the tiny book.

Stop

He grabbed the journal, spinning around to rest against the edge of the desk. He held it in his hands, looking down at it as he gnawed on his cheek. Just a quick peek, he told himself. What’s the worst that could happen?

Holding his breath, he opened the journal. He thumbed through the pages, eyes skimming over whatever it was he could find with no real objective in sight. Schematics, long pages of notes, sketches, more notes, grocery lists, more schematics, more notes, more sketches—his face flattened, ears falling.

This was…boring.

He huffed, scowling further at his repeated failure to find anything juicy. He was about to give up and toss the thing over his shoulder until he stumbled across a page with little cartoon sketches of himself and Rivet on the top of the page.

He blinked, tilting his head. Eyes scanning the title of the page.

Questions to Ask the Lombaxes  

His eyes widened, breath caught in his throat, eyes rapidly darting across every inch of the page.

how did you escape?

…kill you now, save you in the past…

what foods do you like?

…a coward, a traitor…

craziest thing youve built

…a good thing your father can’t see you like this…

why do we have stripes?

…abandoning your people…

why did you never come back?

DON'T WALK AWAY FROM ME

do you know ratchet?

I SAID STOP

Something in his chest burned.  

“Uh…what you doin’ there?” he heard a voice.

His head snapped towards the noise, chest heaving.

She looked just like him.

“What is this?”

Chapter Text

The rain was heavy in his ears, the trembling drum-like beats of his heart heavier. 

Pounding, banging, thumping in his skull.

Hammering, drumming, pulsing in his mind. 

Beating, roaring, rumbling in his ribs.

Pound, pound, pounding away in his head. Thump, thump, thump the exhausted muscle strained deep within his chest, the sound ringing in his head, shaking his skull, The putrid flesh of his ragged mind knocking against the contemptible plating of the battered bone. A skull which he craved above all cravings to be split in two solely to cease this incessant thump, thump, thumping deep within the membrane of his ears. 

The air around him was thick and muggy, the humidity of the planet and the still pouring skies came together to birth an undeniably miserable atmosphere, increasing the suffocating pressure in his chest and mind tenfold. With every step of his boot into the sodden mud below the whirlwind surrounding him mirrored the chaos unfolding in his skull more and more. Every step brought more anguish, every stomp brought more hate. His feet sank into the mush, forcing him to take more and more from the rapidly dwindling supply of energy stored in his sore muscles with each exhausted movement. He heaved as he moved, a low growl slipping out into the foggy air from past his tightly bound lips. 

The furious staccato of his heartbeat rapped painfully against his rib cage, matching the rhythm of the millions of raindrops tearing away at the leaves and gnarled branches scattered across the swamp. His breaths left him in a wheezing rasp, shoulders heaving up and down in a harsh motion as  he trudged forwards. 

Hate radiated from his hunched form like a palpable force. Lip curled into a snarl, nostrils flaring with every harsh exhale, the deep lines scattered along the skin of his face were slick with the seemingly never ending supply of heavy raindrops pummeling the land from above. The water clouded his vision, no matter how many times his claws angrily swiped at the aggravating moisture dripping from his brow his vision remained stubbornly obstructed. The horrible pressure squeezing his lungs together growing evermore with each swipe at his face. 

His eyes could only just barely make out the vague outlines of the swamp’s interior as his feet continued their clumsy march through the sludge below him. Every so often the world would brighten up considerably in a great flash as large streaks of electricity danced across the stars littering the sky high above the angry clouds weeping into the planet. A few moments would pass before a deafening boom would rock both his ears and the planet below which shuddered the ground beneath his feet. As if some great voice above was shrieking its displeasure at not being able to keep up with the dazzling streaks of pure radiance turning the stars into their play place.

He was lost, the rational part of his mind realized, as small as it was currently. 

He stopped suddenly, feet nearly tripping over themselves due to the abrupt end of their march. His eyes scanned what little he could make out of the landscape laid out before him.  

Yes, he did not know where he was. 

He pressed a palm into his eye, breath hitching in his throat. Flashes of her shot through his mind, breaking through every shoddily welded barricade he surrounded the grey matter with despite his efforts to keep her away. 

“Fuck.” 

—

He watched her mouth form the words, eyes widening as the familiar sound of her voice failed to reach his ears. Her eyes were narrowed slightly at him, mouth skewed awkwardly towards one side of her face as she kept staring at him with that incredulous look in her eye.

His brow furrowed atop his eyes, hands shaking slightly as he tried and failed to keep his breathing under control. Two separate pairs of wide eyes darted to the increasingly crumpled journal strangled in his grip before looking upwards, one squinting into green while one glared at blue.

He saw her mouth move once more, a slew of muffled words sounding faintly like his name reached his ears once more. She had taken a step towards him with an outstretched hand, eyebrows furrowed together.

“What?” he asked, hands white-knuckling the side of the journal. 

He watched her take a step back, clearly not expecting his tone to sound as harsh as it had. “Woah okay!” she jumped, eyes wide, “you doin’ alright th—”

“What is this?” he asked once more, interrupting her.

No answer.

He watched her continuous bewildered blinking for a few moments before something in his neck twitched. “Rivet,” he breathed, voice shaking, “what is this?” he repeated, words getting caught in his throat. He took a small step towards her, still staring at her with eyes too wide.

Her own eyes widened further, mouth dropping open slightly as she gaped at him. “…That would be my journal?” finally came her voice. She shook her head, blinking hard before settling a flat stare on him, “Which is a private thing by the—”

“No—I know!” he practically wept, hunching into himself slightly on bent knees. “I know it’s a fucking journal,” he barked, taking another step towards her, “this!” he shoved the journal into her face, claws pointing at the word Lombax along the top line of the page.  “What is this?” his eyes bore into her own, flicking rapidly between the two.

Her face snapped from one of complete bewilderment to something more angry, eyelid twitching as she tore the journal from his grasp. She held it in her palm for a few moments, breathing heavily with something akin to a snarl spread across her face, mirroring his own nasty look, before stilling herself. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it for a few seconds before releasing it in one long exhale.

Rivet opened her eyes, staring at him with something a lot less angry but still held the hints of something stern around the edges. “Ratchet,” she began, “I need you to calm do—”

Ratchet made a move to cut her off once more before slamming his jaw shut at the sight of her hot glare suddenly inches away from his own. “Interrupt me one more time in my own damn home,” she growled, “see what happens.”

He stared at her, eyes flicking rapidly between the two pools of blue before him, swallowing thickly at the firmness of her tone. “I…” he began, mouth dry.

Rivet tilted her head to the side, a bit of the heat had left her gaze but it was clear no small part of her wasn’t still upset with him. He heard the soft sound of the tip of her tail flicking wildly against the floor below. He could tell she was upset with him—that much was obvious, just about every inch of her body was as rigid as a statue.

Her expectant look stared unblinkingly at him from under the sharp curve of her brow, awaiting whatever explanation he could cobble together to somehow explain—or excuse the complete one-eighty in emotions from him.

He did nothing but stare in return for a good while, his own body mirroring her rigidness as he held her cold gaze. The mere act of standing so close and looking at her would have sent them both into a flustered tizzy if tensions weren’t as high as they currently were. The inferno brewing in his gut dampened a bit at the realization, the hands which were so tightly clenched into fists loosened at his sides.

He did not want an argument.

Ratchet swallowed again, clearing his throat before standing straight. “I need you to explain just what that was,” he told her, voice tight, nodding his head slightly towards the journal still in her hand.

She huffed before stepping away from him, placing her hand and the crumpled paper against her hip. “I think it’s pretty self explanatory as to what it is.”

The flame flickered in his gut.

“Don’t be difficult.”

She squinted her eyes at him. “I’d reconsider your tone moving forward.”

A warning.

“You can’t see them,” he mumbled.

Another flicker, stronger this time.

He saw the astonishment flare through her eyes before the rest of her face reacted to his words, brows perking upwards ever so slightly. A huff of air flew from her nostrils. “You make decisions for me now?” she asked, mirroring his own quiet tone.

“Things won’t play out the way you think they will,” he muttered through a breath, ignoring her words once more. “With them,” he added after a few more moments of silence, nodding his head slightly towards the paper clutched between her fingers.

Her chin dipped lower, eyes narrowing further to allow just the faintest sliver of blue to peek from under her brow. “With who?” she asked, voice still low.

He narrowed his eyes in return, brows falling flat against the top of his eyes. He felt his ears press against the back of his head, twitching slightly. He knew that she knew what he was talking about, a fact which made the ugly feeling in his chest twist painfully.

Words filled with so much venom—with so much hate bounced around the corners of his mind. Words spewed from the throat of someone who wanted nothing more than to reduce everything that he was to nothing more than a broken lump of flesh and bone amongst the debris and junk littering the floor surrounding them. 

A frustrated huff of air left her in response at his silence. His gaze rose to see her head shaking at him, an incredulous smile on her face. “You’re really still so hung up on this shit?” the exasperation in her voice was borderline palpable, “after all this time?” The frustration he heard from her was familiar, echoes of an argument long thought settled played in his head. 

He felt the molars in his mouth grind painfully together, hands shaking at his sides. “Yes,” he grunted, “I’m still hung up on this shit.” He made a move to continue before she suddenly spun on her heel to turn away from him. The words briefly tangled themselves in his throat before tumbling from him in a painful sounding squawk at the sight of her sudden and quiet departure from their conversation.

He watched her for a few quiet steps before shaking his head, a quiet growl rumbled in the back of his throat as he stomped after her. “Hey!” he shouted, legs moving quick beneath him to close the distance between the two. She gave no response besides tossing the journal to the side, two pairs of striped ears twitching at the harsh sound of the leather bouncing across the floor.

“Rivet!” he shouted again, quickening his pace.

Her silent stride away from him was abruptly brought to an end, a pair of glaring blue eyes were suddenly so close to his own he felt the next round of heated words hitch in his throat. “Enough!” she snarled, voice booming in his ears. He stared back at her with wide eyes and ears standing erect, he felt the fur along his tail bristle with irritation.

“I am not doing this tonight,” she told him in a voice much quieter.

—

The boots on his feet were ruined, the socks beneath them even more so. Ratchet felt more and more of the stinking sludge surrounding himself attach itself to him with every stomp through the horribly humid dump that called itself a swamp. 

His head buzzed, a cacophony of frenzied voices tore themselves apart in every corner of his mind, all competing in a seemingly never ending competition on who could wish the worst kind of death on the other the loudest. The brain beneath his skull pulsed painfully, throbbing against the edges of a bone which was covered in hundreds upon hundreds of old splits and splinters. The old scars beneath his flesh threatened to burst anew with every nauseating pulse.

Why wouldn’t she listen?

The air surrounding him hung like a suffocating shroud, each and every wheeze of air which slipped through his snarling lips was a struggle against its thickness. The humidity clung to every inch of him, the weight of the heavens itself squeezed down on him with a miserable pressure. Everything around him seemed determined to do anything in their power to choke any hope of progress back towards his ship through any means necessary.

The planet was punishing him, but what had he done to deserve punishment? Was trying to defend someone you cared about from an inevitable and horribly crushing defeat something really so awful to do?

—

His throat was raw, vocal cords threatening to rip apart from the endless amount of screaming he’d done in God only knows how long they’ve been fighting for.

He put his hands against the sides of his head, staring at her with wide, incredulous eyes. “What could they possibly offer you that you don’t already have here?”

“A family!” was her immediate answer.

Ratchet scoffed, putting his hands on his hips. “You say that as if you don’t already have one here.”

Rivet closed her eyes with a groan. “That’s different, Ratchet, and you know that.”

“The morts love you like you’re one of their own,” he ignored her, “hell, you’ve got everyone in the resistance at your side whenever you need!” Ratchet took a breath, crossing his arms across his chest. “You’ve got Kit too. She adores you! Always has such a huge grin every time you’re brought up.”

He paused, taking a breath. “And goddamnit you got me,” he hated how his voice cracked, “isn’t that enough?”

“Kit took my arm.” she said, voice cold. “Not quite something I’d consider family yet.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

A beat.

“And you left.”

Another.

He looked away from her.

“Yeah.”

The air between the two was silent for a while, neither Lombax could find the strength to look at the other.

“…The Morts are good n’all,” he heard her softly start up again after what felt like an eon of quiet, “but they’re not…family family.”

“They are your family,” he said, “you’ve said it yourself.”

“I know! It’s just—it’s…” she trailed off, teeth working at her bottom lip. She sighed, hand coming to rub at her forehead. “For my entire life, I’ve known I was different.” Her tongue poked at the top of her gum, sucking slightly. “We live in such a big, massive universe—one that’s even bigger now that I know of all the different dimensions out there,” she laughed to herself quietly, shaking her head.

“Existence is such a…such an incomprehensibly massive thing, with so many different kinds of people all trying to just navigate their way through it all. It all makes my head feel funny if I think about it for too long, the fact that everything even exists the way it does and somehow just…works will forever be insane to me.”

She took a breath, holding it for a few moments before releasing it through her nose slowly. “I have seen so many people throughout the years, seen so many faces pass me by just walking down the streets. Faces that all look so different, so unique in their own ways.” He saw the blue of her eye turn to peek at him from the corner of her vision, blinking once before her soft voice started up again.

“I don’t exactly know when it started to happen, but over time I stopped noticing just how many different faces there are out there in the universe and started noticing similarities,” she sniffed, blue eyes breaking away from his gaze to stare blankly ahead. “Started to see the same eyes over and over, the same ears, the same skin, the same scales, the same teeth, the same gizzards, the same horns, the same—”

Ratchet felt something in his heart stop, an all too familiar feeling crept up from a place long abandoned. He remembered the clumsy prayer hastily whispered between a pair of much younger lips, how those much smaller hands shook with the excitement from wild expectations of a promise fulfilled, how those eyes wept for days until they had no more tears to give at the sight of an empty doorstep.

—

Ratchet’s boot caught on a stray vine, tripping him and falling face first into the muck below. A scream bubbled in his throat.

—

He looked up, blinking hard at the stinging pestering the edges of his eyes. He found Rivet turned towards him, arm wrapped around the front of her body and resting at her hip. A tiny, sad smile was on her face. He knew the heartbreak that was undoubtedly shining through his gaze was undeniably familiar to her.

“But you know what I never saw in all my years of people watching, Ratchet?” She asked him. He knew that she knew he already knew the answer.

“What?” he said dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

Her smile turned a shade more bitter. “Ears like these,” her hand caressed the long curve of one of her ears, the silver piercings clicking against her fingers with a soft jingle as they passed. “Stripes like these,” a finger traveled down the length of a stripe against the white fur of her ear. “Eyes like these,” her hand gestured vaguely at her face, eyes that looked so much like his own stared back at him. “Teeth like these,” she flashed her fangs at him in a wide, awkward grimace. “Fur like this,” her hand rubbed at the brilliantly white fur covering her neck. “A tail like this,” she nodded down at the floor, the soft swish, swish, swishing of her poofy tail against the floor filled his ears.

They stared at one another in silence. Understanding simmered between them—one she embraced and one he tried to ignore.

“Until me,” Ratchet eventually said, voice barely above a whisper.

It was pointless to avoid acknowledging their shared experience when she could see through him so easily.

Rivet nodded, once. “Until you.”

He turned away, figuring that staring at an old crack in the wall would be easier than looking at her.

“For the past twenty seven years of my life I thought the possibility of ever finding someone like me was nothing more than some stupid dream,” her voice was closer, warmth brushed against his front. “That it was just wishful thinking—and just moments before I finally decided that it was hopeless, just before I finally gave up on this dream…” she trailed off.

His head turned just enough to look at her, meeting her expectant gaze. He watched her hand slowly raise itself, hanging in the air for a few hesitant moments before softly resting itself against his cheek. He sighed, just barely fighting against his very soul that yearned with such an unyielding intensity to lean into the soft touch of her against his flesh.

The anger which churned deep within his gut at her aversion to just blindly following his wishes and her stubbornness—a stubbornness which made her incessantly question his aversion to finding them. A stubbornness that drove him mad. A stubbornness that mixed nauseatingly with ardent desire, a desire which has seeped itself so deeply within the marrow of his very bones its absence would be an impossibility. A desire that made him want to abandon everything which made him Ratchet and do nothing more than sit there and bask in the horrifying presence that was her.

“I found you,” a soft voice eventually broke the trepidatious silence, “and…everything was flipped onto its head.” Her hand was so unfeasibly warm against his skin, the fingers’ gentle touch splitting apart the fur of his cheek so perfectly, fingers which cupped his head in such an intoxicating manner that threatened to overtake every atom which made up the hoovertown that was his brain. A takeover he so desperately wanted to allow, anything to ensure his continued being of something that was somehow worthy of a touch so tender from a being so unfathomably perfect.

He opened his eyes, finding a gaze filled with such adoration no part of him could ever hope to come close to discovering what it was someone as vile as him could possibly have done to deserve such a look staring back at him.

“An impossibility I could never even hope of overcoming was so unexpectedly thrown away—a future I never even imagined was just—just so abruptly shown to me…”

He wanted to be angry, oh how badly he wanted to be angry.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first—I mean, I couldn’t believe it at first! How could I?”

He wanted to rage, to rant, to scream, and destroy, and rampage, and break, and snap, and tear, and melt, and crack, and rip and hate—he wanted to hate, to seethe and stew and detest.

“But then I heard you. I saw you.”

Oh, how badly he wanted to hate.

“I felt your presence, your warmth…you were real, not some hallucination my desperate mind had conjured up.”

How bad he wanted to make her hate, to make her feel his anger, his indignation, his aversion, his pain, his suffering. Make her understand, make her know—

“And I can’t help but think that there has to be more of us out there! It’s been on my mind for months. Even if the chances are slim we can’t ignore this.”

Open this old wound up further, split his chest down to the very bone beneath. Bare it all to her. Let her see it all, let her see everything—know everything. Make her understand.

“Ratchet?”

Show her all the pus and grime and filth and make her understand just how ruined he has become, a ruin caused by the hands of those she’s practically begging him to find.

“Hey,” she shook his head slightly, “look at me for a sec.”

His vision slowly refocused on the concerned face inches from his own, he watched as worried eyes rapidly bounced between the two of his. “You’re spiraling out on me,” she whispered, “what’s goin’ on up in that head of yours?”

He made a move to avert his eyes but the slightest increase of pressure in the hand still pressed against his cheek stilled him. He looked at her, despite how impossible the menial task was, and she looked back. He felt her warm breath leave her nose in tiny puffs, brushing across his chin and down the length of his neck.

“Let me in,” was her quiet plea.

—

A fist slammed itself into the muck below, savagely pummeling into the grime and the filth surrounding it with repeated blows. Chunks of it flew into his mouth, his ears, his eyes—

Let me in, her voice repeated in his mind.

Something behind his eyes tightened, ears falling flat against the back of his head. He tried to swallow but he found his mouth to be completely devoid of any moisture, his tongue felt raw behind his clenched teeth.

Let me in

He tried to take a breath, feeling his lungs writhe pathetically between his ribs yet no oxygen passed through his throat. The walls lining his esophagus felt coarse, each attempt at a swallow to somehow alleviate the wretched feeling from his gullet was met with failure time after time.

Let me in

Let her in?

His hands shook.

Let me in

Could he? Should he?

Let me in

Let another one in?

Let me in

Why?

Why should he?

So he could be cut down so easily once more?

So he could feel so secure, so seen, so loved by another thing like her?

Let me in

Fiery wounds inflicted by the allowance of blood-joined camaraderie burned away at the flesh of his chest—a painful testament to the consequences of a trust given to those things. A wound which had made the careful tending to his sleepless nights its sole purpose for existing, never giving him a moment of reprieve, never a moment to catch his breath and somehow make amends with all that has happened.

Why should he have to summon the courage to rebuild what had been so callously dismantled before? Why did he have to be brave, to be strong and unbreakable? Why couldn’t he be weak for once? Why couldn’t he run away for once? Why was he always expected to face the possibility of shedding even more blood for the sake of things time after time?

Because he was Ratchet? Because he was the hero that stood against it all?

Why shouldn’t he be a coward, just this one time?

His fist felt weightless, flailing wildly in a wide arc through the air with every smash against the ground.

Fuck being Ratchet.

Something wet coated the sore knuckles along his hand, mind too filled with an incomprehensible buzzing to even begin to figure out if the increasing wetness was organic or more of the slop covering more and more of his person.

Fuck the heroics.

—

“I…” he tried, jaw hanging loose as whatever sentence he tried to spit out died with a gurgle in his throat. She did nothing more than keep her eyes on him, waiting patiently.

Fuck Lombaxes.

“…We can’t,” he eventually whispered.

He saw the bridge of her brow pinch together, eyes narrowing in her confusion as they flicked rapidly between his own, desperately trying to get a read on him—desperately trying to get a hint or a clue or anything to give her the slightest bit of information on the maelstrom rampaging within his skull. He tried stepping back, wanting to rid himself of the miserable feeling of having her so close to him.

“Wha…” she sputtered, head looking zipping up and down and left and right in a frenzy, “w—what do you mean? We can’t?” The grip against his head was tighter now, stopping his retreat. The horrifying warmth which filled her eyes had dimmed, the inklings of frustration cracked along the edges of her gaze. 

Ratchet felt his own irritation rise, narrowing his eyes at her. His hand rose, grabbing at her wrist before wringing himself out of her hold. He stepped back with a huff, watching her arm hang loosely in the air before it fell to her side. “We can’t,” he spat, turning his back towards her. His hands rose, clasping his fingers around the back of his head as he felt more and more of the nauseating anger from before surge within his stomach.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the exasperated laugh behind him, hands pressing themself tighter together as he fought to get his rapidly escalating heartbeat under control.

“Why?” he heard her growl. His eyes shut themselves tighter in response, claws digging into the backs of his hands. “Why, Ratchet?” she insisted, tone sharp. Again, he did not respond. He heard another scoff before a strong hand gripped his shoulder, jostling him before tugging him back.

“Answer me goddam—”

“It's complicated!” he shouted, whirling towards her with a snarl.

“Then fucking talk to me!” she screamed back, matching his volume. She took a heavy step towards him. “Explain this complicated shitshow to me!” she took another step, “Let. Me. In.” she enunciates each word with a harsh shove into his chest.

He ran his hands down the length of his face, claws digging into the skin as he muttered, “I just need you to trust me on this!”

Her face twisted into a grimace, looking at him like he had just spontaneously grown a second head. “How can you ask me to trust you on this when you don’t even trust me enough to tell me what’s really going on?”

“I do trust you!” he exclaimed, not knowing who he was trying to convince with the claim between the two. Judging by the cross look on her face upon hearing the words, she was wondering the exact same. 

No, something growled, you don’t. 

“Ratchet,” she began after a long sigh, “we finally—finally have a chance to solve this mystery that’s been hanging over our heads our entire lives! And you just want to do nothing but sit there and say next to nothing to explain why you want to just—just run away from it all again!?” She took another step, brows pinched harshly together as she glared at him. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Afraid?” he questioned, eyes widening. “You think I’m afraid?”

“Yes!” she screamed, “Yes! I think you’re scared outta your mind! I know you’re scared!”

“Afraid of what?”

She gaped at him, sputtering for several seconds before throwing her arm in the air. “Everything! I can’t make the smallest reference to finding our people without your eyes going all batshit insane on me—”

“You keep—” his eyelid twitched, hands balling into fists at his sides as he sucked in a harsh breath of air between his teeth. “You keep saying that…our people. Why?”

Her brow rose, head cocking out as she regarded him with an incredulous look. “Because I’m talking about our people? Y’know? The Lomba—”

“They’re not our people.”

Her jaw snapped shut with an audible click. He watched her eyes roam every inch of his face before she straightened up, looking at him from down the length of her nose. “What bullshit are you spouting now?”

“It’s not bullshit if it’s the truth, Rivet.”

“How can they not be our people if we’re Lomba—”

“We’re not Lombaxes,” he muttered with a deep frown. “I’m not a Lombax and neither are you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am a Lombax.”

“Name me one Lombax custom,” was his immediate response.

She stared at him.

“How ‘bout one tradition?” he tilted his head, taking a step, “one little factoid of their history?” a humorless laugh slept from between his firm frown, “Aside from the obvious fact of being rightfully nuked from all existence.”

He stared at her expectantly, brows raised. Her silence remained, as well as the white-hot glare linked unblinkingly with his own. His lips pursed before separating with a smack, “Anything?” She looked away, the scowl on her face deepened further. 

“No?” he questioned further, “Know anything about how they talked to each other? Or maybe how they organized themselves in their towns? Did they even live in towns? You know how they behaved when invited to another’s house? Know what gifts they were supposed to bring? Do you know if they even went over to each other’s homes at all?”

He frowned, looking at her up and down before waving his hands in tiny encouraging circles. “Well?” he said after a few more moments of her continued silence, “the floor is yours.”

“Tell me how they styled their fur, how they fell in love, what jokes they told each other, how they comforted each other, how they contributed to society, what jobs they had, what made them happy—anything,” he took a step towards her, “please tell me anything you know about the Lombaxes.”

Her glare only deepened.

“You can’t,” he mumbled, “and neither can I.”

He heard her swallow.

“You know why?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“…Why?” asked her barely audible voice.

“Because we’re not Lombaxes, we’re just people.”

“We are Lombax, Ratchet,” her voice was quiet.

“Appearance wise, sure,” Ratchet nodded, “but nothing more. Whatever connection lies between us and them is skin deep, nothing more. We are Lombaxes in blood only, nothing fucking more.”

He took a shuddering breath. “So why even bother?” 

The silence that followed felt like it lasted eons before it was broken.

“It’s still worth a try,” she eventually said, “finding them.”

He considered her words, bowing his chin low into his chest. 

“You know what they’ll do if we find them?”

He watched her cross her arm over her chest before leaning to rest against the counter behind her. She stared down at the floor for a moment before looking at him again, an exasperated resignation in her eyes. “What’ll they do when we find them, Ratchet?” she tiredly questioned him.

“They’d be interested for a bit, I’m sure,” he rubbed at the back of his neck while he took slow steps towards her. “They’ll ask us questions, we’ll respond with such excitement and enthusiasm because my god it’s a Lombax! They’ll humor our naivety, take us under their wings for a while,” he smiled wistfully, shaking his head. “They’ll make us feel belonged, cared for—like we’ve truly been one of their own this whole time! And all the worrying and the stressing and the constant questioning of just who the fuck even are we will start to finally gain some clarity.” 

He settled into the counter next to her, crossing his arms low against his chest, letting them hang loosely. “We’ll feel loved, that special kind of love that sits in the pit of your heart and just stays there forever, no matter how long it’s been since that warmth first creeped in.” He smiled again, shaking his head softly. “But then they’ll start to realize that we actually don’t know anything. That’s when the whole endearing charm of us being these bumbling, clueless fools will start to wear off and a sort of…discontent will start to bubble within them.”

He took a breath, holding it deep in his chest before releasing it slowly through his nose. “We’ll start to ask questions—questions they don’t like, questions that make them start to think that maybe we aren’t all what they thought us to be. Then that discontent will slowly turn to a true, deep rooted resentment. We’d be labeled outsiders, outcasts—complete societal rejects and they will grow to hate us.”

He swallowed. “And then they’d get rid of us,” his voice was far away, “Disappointments. Shameful monsters that do nothing more than tarnish the legacies of our fathers.”

Rivet said nothing, her stare remained the same. Ratchet stared back, eyes dim.

“We’re better off without them,” he muttered, turning away from her.

“How do you know that?” was her simple question, tone flat. He blinked, turning his head towards her and meeting her narrowed gaze. He made a move to respond but stilled himself, watching the way her eyes regarded him. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek before her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, mouth opening slightly before closing with a tiny hum.

“I’ve seen the best of what a Lombax could be through you,” she mumbled, “everything I know…everything I’ve experienced, it all links back to you in one way or another,” she leaned back, looking at him with pinched brows.

“Every single memory I’ve made with you has been nothing short of, well, perfect really,” she looked away at that, idly picking at the hem of her pants with a claw. “I know I can’t expect every Lombax out there to be like you, nor would I really want that,” she looked back at him, “you’re special to me—and not because you’re the first Lombax I’ve met but because you’re…you.”

She took a breath, looking at him dully, “We have the same memories and experiences together, but…” She swallowed, turning her body to face him fully. “Where my expectations are centered around a more positive light, yours are…” she frowned, looking back and forth between both of his eyes, “…yours make it seem like they’re the worst kind of people to be around.”

His lip twitched, something uncomfortable creeped around the edges of his stomach.

“And I’m the only Lombax you’ve met,” she mumbled, frowning deep. “…the only experience you have with another Lombax is with me.”

It’s not you, something in his mind urged him to say. Demanding him to reassure her, to pull her away from this dangerous line of thought—to not fuck things up even further than he already had in the past three hours and somehow start the arduous task of salvaging what little of whatever it was which remained in what’s been brewing between them since the very moment he laid eyes on her. Say something, anything! Open your mouth and do something! Stop staring at her with that horrific look on your face and let her in!

He said nothing.

“Do you…” she tried, teeth worrying at her bottom lip, “is the reason you think Lombaxes are so terrible, is it…is it because of me?”

The sound in the back of his head was rampaging now, a slew of what sounded like a hundred different demands and pleas vibrated through his brain but they all sounded like a jumbled mess of noise and muck by the time they reached his ears.

Say something

He stared.

She swallowed, eyes darting across his face. “Sometimes there’s this little…something in the back of your expression when you look at me. Like you’re…put off by something.”

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked after an uncomfortably long period of silence. 

He stared, still.

Her face dropped, hurt evident across every one of her features. She turned away from him to stare ahead, after a few moments of staring dully at her profile he mirrored the movement. Something in his throat bobbed uncomfortably. The skin along his back itched terribly with every uneasy adjustment he made, sweat coating every inch of the matted and tangled fur. He took a glance towards her, frown deepening at her unreadable expression.

“I…” he strained, words dying in his throat for the umpteenth time. He heard her clothes rustling as she shifted next to him, ear flicking at the sound.

I want to let you in, his mind begged him to say. He turned towards her, mouth hanging loose. A small croak left his gullet, grimacing as he tried to find the words to say. “It’s complicated,” was his lame explanation, “all of it.” Her expression dimmed further at his words, every ounce of warmth that was once abundant in her eyes was now long, long gone.

A hand rose to pick at the skin along the front of his throat, eyes averting from her gaze. “They’re not like me, and they’re not like you,” his eyes returned to hers. He straightened himself, leaning towards her slightly. “They’re not like you,” he repeated, voice stronger. “They are nothing like you—they’re deceitful, horrible, and wicked beings that—”

“Ratchet, you don’t know that—” she began, every inch of her tensed.

“Rivet, I do—”

“You DON’T KNOW THAT FOR SURE!” she lurched, making him jump. She threw herself to her feet, screaming “YOU CAN’T!”

“YES!” he launched himself to his feet as well, glowering at her, “I DO—”

“How can you say that with such certainty?!” her eyes were wide, fist so tightly clenched at her side it shook with every heave of her chest, “I’m so SICK of listening to you saying all of this bullSHIT like you have a fucking FRACTION of an idea on what you’re talking about—”

“I’m the ONLY one here that knows what they’re talking about!” his eyes threatened to pop from his skull. “I am the only one,” he repeated in a voice much quieter but no less intense.

“How?” she asked him, voice matching his.

He stood there, shoulders swaying up and down with every ragged breath he took. The grimace on his face deepened.

“How do you know?” she asked again, louder this time. She took a step towards him at his continued silence, “How do you know, Ratchet?”

He turned his back from her with a groan, hands grabbing at his head and digging his claws into the fur. He closed his arms around his head, leaning backwards to stare at the ceiling before closing his eyes tight. He stepped away from her, arms closing tighter around his head at the incessant buzzing in his skull.

“How, Ratchet?” her voice cracked, “HOW?!”

He spun towards her with every muscle spread throughout his body tensed so tightly together the simple act of moving his body proved difficult. He pointed at her with a shaking finger, teeth digging into the soft flesh of his lip with such intensity he swore he tasted copper. The outstretched hand clenched into a fist before it was brought upwards to his forehead, pressing against his skull firmly.

She stared back at him with just as much heat in her gaze, not backing down in the slightest. Her unblinking glare bore into him, lip curled in a vicious snarl before he saw her eyes un-focus. Her brow pinched, head turning away just slightly as her eyes flicked around, tail flicking erratically behind her before she suddenly stopped and fell eerily still.

She blinked again, and again and again—with every blink a new emotion shined through her eyes. First it was surprise, then it was anger, then heartbreak, and finally it was disbelief. He watched her blink one last time before her head slowly turned back towards his. A final harsh breath left her before she rose to her full height, glaring at him from underneath her flattened brow. Her head shook in tiny little swings, the unbelieving look in her eye had grown substantially the longer she looked at him.

“You’ve already met one,” said her astonished voice, “haven’t you?”

His eyes widened, recoiling as if she had struck him. Ratchet scoffed, turning his head away from her. “Don’t be ridicu—”

“You’ve met a Lombax,” she repeated, voice still so astounded, “before me.”

He looked back at her, pursing his lips. An arm rose, finger pointed towards her before it flopped down to his side. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, no sound leaving him besides a slew of tiny croaks before he tipped his chin down into his chest, leveling her with a look that looked as guilty as it felt.

Realization shone in her eyes, “Oh my god…”

He shook his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “You’re reading too far into things.

“You’ve met a Lombax,” she whispered to herself, ignoring him, glaring at nothing in particular with strained eyes.

He stared at her, heart booming in his ears when the wild look in her eye began to look uncomfortably familiar. “Riv—”

Her eyes snapped to him, “When?”

His lips settled into a firm line, “We’re not talking about this.”

“Wha—yes we are! We are absolutely talking about this!”

“Alright!” he barked a humorless laugh, hand rubbing at the back of his head, “Yes! I’ve met a Lombax!” His irritated smile twitched at the corners the longer he looked at the bewildered look on her face, he felt his face twitch again before a “So what?” slipped from between his teeth before he could stop it.

Rivet balked, leaning towards him. “So what?” she sputtered, hand reaching up to push her hair out from her eyes. “What do you—Ratchet, you’ve met another LOMBAX! And you didn’t think this important to bring up?” 

“You never asked!”

“I didn’t even fucking know I could!” She briefly stumbled over her words before shaking her head, snapping her back straight and settling her glower on him. “Who?”

Who

He felt the blood under his skin run cold, the veins which ran through his body with such intense heat of the raging inferno of his fury extinguished themselves in an instant at her question. His whitened knuckles, which were so tightly curled into fists against his chin, unfurled themselves without his permission. The numb digits of his hands twitched before he felt his arms fall to his sides.

Who

He felt the very pupils of his eyes constrict, a sensation so nauseatingly awful the sodden bowels of his filthy stomach lurched with the movement. Something in his skull pulsed, brain trembling against the bone in a way which made the shrieking vocalizations of the orchestra in his mind send shockwaves of agony through his entire system, tearing the repugnant flesh from their bodies in a frenzied brawl as they fought to banish the thought of—

Who

“You didn’t know you could ask? Well, congratulations!” Ratchet proclaimed, puffing his chest out in a jubilation which was so painfully forced, “Now you know you can!” He clapped his hands together before bringing them up to press them against the tight smile spread across his face. Something in his neck spasmed, his leg shook momentarily before he forced the nervous energy into his palms, squeezing his hands tighter together against his mouth. 

She took a step towards him, repeating her question, ignoring his eccentricities. “Who?”

His tongue felt heavy, so impossibly heavy that he had become so hyper-aware of every inch of it as it sagged against his jaw. He felt it twitch as it extended itself far into his throat, causing the tendons and muscles aligning his gullet to twitch painfully. A flash of deep yellow eyes shot through his mind before he felt a retch tear itself through his gut and claw its way through his throat.

“Y’know what?” Ratchet suddenly perked up, eyes wide as he focused his unblinking stare on her, “since you wanna know everything there is to know about Lombaxes, how ‘bout we—how about we hold a survey!” 

Who 

“But let’s only get our information from someone who’s met an actual Lombax!” 

Who 

“Oh wait!” he smacked a hand against his forehead, “I’m the only one who’s met an actual Lombax!”

Tell her

“So doesn’t that make me the only one here that actually knows what the fuck they’re talking about?” he laughed, eyes quivering, “So what’s with the whole you not agreeing with ANYTHING I’ve said so far?” He laughed again, running his claws through the top of his head. “But that’s ok! Let’s have me repeat some facts about the Lombaxes—and this time try to actually listen to what I say!”

“You’re dodging the question, Ratchet.”

“Is this not what you wanted?” he tilted his head, frowning deep, “for me to—what was it you said?” he looked towards the ceiling, scratching at his neck with a shaking hand. “To ‘let me in?’ well,” he snapped his gaze back to her, spreading his arms out wide, “here I am! Let’s just lay everything out in the open, why not?”

“Is it really so hard to be open with me?!” she snapped, making him recoil, “where’s the trust gone? The care? The fucking lov—” she grimaced, mouth curling upwards like she tasted something sour. “What happened? Why can’t you just…talk to me?” she shook her head, puffing an exasperated breath through her nose. 

He stared back at her with short, shaky breaths leaving his lungs. His jaw trembled, tongue vibrating in his throat in an effort to spit out a single word.

Tell her, it repeated, the sound echoing from the deepest pits of his consciousness. He blinked, head twitching slightly as each strand of fur aligning the back of his neck rose. The muscles under the rows of fur tightened, painfully contracting together in a deeply rooted instinctual response to the voice whispering in the back of his head.

Her face fell, ears folding to press against the back of her head. “Just hours ago we cooked together, we laughed and we shot the shit and…” she huffed a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “We…we did nothin’ noteworthy together, nothin’ cinematic or over the top or some daring, fuckin’ adventurous thing—no, we just…talked—actually talked, and enjoyed each other’s company and didn’t waste our time doing whatever this is.”

Tell her, it spoke once more, ignoring each and every wall and obstacle his mind hastily erected in its desperate attempt to keep it away—to shut it up. Shut up, he willed his mind to say, shut up.

“And I loved it. Just you and me—listening to your voice, feeling your presence so close…all the shy, gentle little touches we shared,” she looked away, arm raising to rub at her side. “And my god the way you looked at me,” she laughed a horribly watery sound before weakly repeating, “fuck, the way you looked at me.”

His head itched with a sickening sensation of a small bundle of something fine raking themselves across the sensitive surface of his brain. The scratching started from the squishy tissue connecting his skull to his spine, slowly dragging upwards and across the expanse of his head. The fine points dug themselves further into the flesh before the startling realization of just what exactly it was which danced through his head.

Claws, he realized, claws were pushing themselves through his skull. The pricking sensation failed momentarily at his realization before a heavy, and hauntingly familiar touch pressed itself flat against the curve of his brain. Two hands rubbed absently at the flesh, spurring up hundreds of memories with every pet they made. A deep, guttural growl he hoped to never hear again vibrated through him as the hands worked themselves back and forth.

A new warmth brushed against the entirety of his back as the hands slid themselves down the front of his face, splitting the fragile subcutaneous tissue lying beneath the skin. The claws raked themselves across the muscles of his face, sharp points nicking against the small, raised overlaps of the several folds of organic matter and digging uncomfortably into the squishy structures.

He felt his eyes shake as the hands continued their torturous slog downwards before they suddenly halted at the middle of his neck. The flash of relief which shot through his system at the pause was brief, quickly shattering as the long, boney fingers wrapped themselves tightly around his throat. The hands squeezed and squeezed, bruising his airway and forcing his quick, panicked breaths to freeze.

Heat pressed itself against his ear, the ragged wheezes of something long dead swept along the side of his head. A horrible grind of rusted cogs and gears forcing themselves to life sounded off, a warm moisture skimmed at his side. Parts which laid dormant for decades whined as the low rumble of an old engine firing to life reverberated through his ringing ears.

With a final labored breath, a voice whispered to him. One he knew all too well. 

Tell her about me

“You’re not even listening to me,” he heard her say through a harsh laugh. His eyes snapped at attention to her, staring at her with so much intensity he watched her take a small step backwards. He stepped backwards as well at her movement, arms raising slightly with shaking fists. His eyes snapped from one part of her to another, a haunting feeling tangling itself around his heart and lungs the longer he looked.

She looked so much like him.

Rivet turned back towards him, staring into eyes he couldn’t trust.

“There it is again,” she muttered, “that look.” 

—

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

His fist hammered into the ground below, every frenzied strike hurled against the slimy surface of this accursed planet was enunciated by a feral scream which tore itself from the rawest, most vulnerable corners of Ratchet’s mind and forced itself through his throat to gleefully play its part in the orchestra of chaos and thunder surrounding him.

His arm, jagged and twisted, traveled in a wide arc overhead with every wild strike. Mud and guck and filth and dirt and grime and clay and grit and soil and something wet and warm splashed around him as if the very planet beneath him was exhaling in a fury which matched his own, spattering its viscera and rage across the land and into the air. 

She didn’t listen.

His fist continued its assault, his mind completely blocking out the dizzying pain shooting through every nerve of the appendage—intensifiying tenfold with each relentless blow. 

Why? God, why did she not listen?

A sob wracked through his aggressive frame, tears which burned like fire blurred his vision. His throat lurched in a desperate attempt to keep the following pathetic mewls from escaping him. He was angry, he was enraged, he was furious and pissed and raging and he was not fucking sad.

He was not sad, he told himself, ignoring the tears openly streaming down his enraged expression. He was not fucking sad.

Why couldn’t she just trust his words?

Why did she pry?

Why did she try so goddamned hard?

—

“What is it?” he heard her ask, “What is so…fucking wrong about me that’s stopping you from being honest with me?” 

Ratchet stared at her, eyes wide and expression stuck between an uncomfortable mess of mortified and rage. Rivet stared back, eyes equally as wide but filled with an uncomfortable amount of hurt. A hurt which he caused—which Ratchet caused, no one else to blame. He hated that look, he hated seeing her in pain, he hated seeing the way she was gradually collapsing in on herself. He hated seeing the strongest person he had ever met in his life look so fragile and so small.

But he didn’t hate it enough to be honest. He didn’t hate it enough to spit it out. He didn’t hate it enough to expose his weakest point and let her in. He didn’t hate it enough to squash each and every insecurity rapidly developing within her mind, he didn’t hate it enough to jump to her side and reassure her that every worry she held about him and her was false.

He was hurting her, causing a wound that would not heal over smoothly. He was creating a scar that would last a lifetime, an ugly mark which would mar her perspective of him until her dying breath and long thereafter. His inaction has forever changed things between them, his refusal to speak—to clarify, to fucking talk to the one he just fantasized about spending an eternity with has changed them. Something ugly sat between the two now, something putrid and unavoidable. The toothpaste was out of the tube now, smashed into the countertop and smeared across its surface. 

There was something now, something ugly and terrible. And something it will always remain, something it will always be. This rift which lay between them will forever remain vague. It will always be unexplored, always obscure, always hidden and cryptic and endlessly nameless. It will never be given light, never be given name—never, never explained.

But it will always be there. Germinating within them like a pestilence that won’t die. It will sit in the back of their minds, hovering just behind their words and sitting uncomfortably between them during each and every lull. Things will never go back to as they once were, and how could they? How could she touch him with the same gentleness with the knowledge that something was being kept so viciously from her? How could he look at her with the same fondness knowing that he housed a part of him which she would never see?

How could they ever come together as one, share a bed, a home—a life together knowing that this dark mass will forever tail them until the end?

It will never be the same.

They will never be the same.

And Ratchet was okay with that.

He was fine with it.

He is ready to accept that.

Watching her slowly grow to resent him over time due to his cowardice was infinitesimally better than breathing life into the memory of him. Watching her grow past needing him around—grow past wanting his company and companionship was better than making him real again. He was dead, buried and gone. The only memory of him lived in his mind and no one else would ever know of him. He deserved to rot away alongside Ratchet and be completely erased from history once Ratchet finally drew his last breath.

He would die alongside him, and no one else would carry that memory of him.  

Maybe some part of him hated her. 

Maybe he really did despise her just as much as the rest of them and was only fooling himself this entire time. Maybe he never loved her and just managed to convince himself through his stupor and insanity that the nauseating feelings brewing in his gut when he thought about her was an indication of a growing fondness for her. Maybe that uncomfortable pit in his stomach which made him shiver and caused his hands to go numb in response to every surprisingly light touch from her strong hands was nothing more than just that—uncomfortable. Unwanted. Uninvited. He didn’t want that touch, he didn’t want that attention, he didn’t want that care…that tenderness…that love.

How could he? Despite his desperate, mad ramblings trying to convince both himself and her earlier—despite every point he made the truth was still the truth, she is a Lombax. She is a Lombax, by blood and that was enough. She was the same as him. He hated himself for being part of this accursed species, so why shouldn’t he hate her all the same? 

What else could this be but hate?

What else could these nauseating sensations be? This can’t be love, this isn’t love. Love doesn’t make you sick, it doesn’t make your skin crawl and hackles raise. If this horrible heat spreading through his body was love, the same thing which every destitute soul who experiences it praises as this unbelievable source of comfort, why the hell was he so afraid? 

Why was he so scared?

“Well?” he heard her call out to him again, forcing him from the darkness in his mind. He found her to be staring at him still, arm crossed over her body defensively.

“What?” he mumbled, voice barely audible.

Her eyes narrowed at him, the corners of her lip turning down into a deep frown. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked him again, louder. “What is it? Tell me,” she took a small step towards him, “please.”

Her hand rose to the empty space at her side of what was once whole, trembling. “Am I not whole enough for you?” a bitter laugh left her at that, head shaking slightly, “Am I just damaged goods? Too broken for you to take me seriously?”

“That’s not,” he tried, voice weak, “Rivet—that’s not…”

“Then what, Ratchet? What?” she barked, cutting him off. “You won’t stop fucking looking at me—at it with that goddamn look on your face.”

Her hand was clenching what little remained of her shoulder now, claws digging into the flesh and drawing his eyes to the ugly scar peeking out from between her jagged fingers. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Ratchet tore his gaze away from her wound, barely able to meet her eyes. Her frown deepened at his continued silence.

“Am I really so disgusting?” she spat, “Your eyes tell me all I need to know. Hate, fear, disgust—fuckin’ all of it, every emotion I’d always dread you’d eventually look at me with is clear as day right there on your face.” 

“It’s gotta be the arm, or lack thereof,” she laughed that humorless sound again, “what the fuck else could it be?” her gaze was sharp now, glaring openly at him with enough contempt to make his mouth dry. “I haven’t wronged you in any way, I haven’t been an asshole, I’ve been on my best behavior ever since you decided to stick your ass back into my life.”

Ratchet held his tongue, both not knowing what to say and fearing saying the wrong thing. Instead he continued to stare, wide eyed and silent. 

“I thought…” she looked small again, her anger rapidly diminishing, “I thought…something was happening tonight. That there was a spark in the air, an unspoken tension growing that was gonna…I dunno snap and bring us together.”

Ratchet blinked, throat feeling odd. “You mean like…” he prodded, genuine curiosity and something he refused to acknowledge as hope bubbling through his disgust and hatred.

“Yeah.” she grumbled, “like that.”

Ratchet just stared.

“I felt something between us tonight, something that was maybe always there…just beneath the surface of you and me.” she sighed, rubbing at the eyes harshly. “But maybe I just grossly misread all of this, maybe what I hoped was reciprocation was just you playing along, trying not to hurt my feelings or whatever-the-fuck.”

“That’s not true,” he said, voice small.

Why was he refuting her?

“That’s not true,” he repeated, louder this time.

Why was he jumping to the defense of someone he was supposed to hate?

“Then what is it, Ratchet?” she asked once more, exhausted, “why do you keep looking at me this way? That look in your eye hasn’t shown itself once tonight until we got here, alone and tucked away,” she took a step towards him, moving her arm down to show her scars, “that look has only bubbled up into those goddamn eyes of yours ever since I took the fuckin’ arm off.”

Ratchet’s ears flattened, knowing he was getting cornered.

“So please,” she continued, “tell me how this isn’t about the arm. Tell me how this isn’t about me being an invalid, some disgusting cripple that probably does nothing but stain the reputation of Lombaxes.” 

“It’s not about the fucking arm, Rivet!” he snapped, finally bursting to life.

“Bullshit it’s not,” she shot back just as hotly and quickly. “You said it yourself, you’re the only one here that really knows that it’s like to know a Lombax!” she stopped suddenly, smiling bitterly.

“What?” he glared, “What’s with the look?”

“I think I finally figured it out,” she scoffed, “you’re not afraid of finding the Lombaxes because of whatever shitty personal struggle you’ve got. You’re afraid of finding them with me because I must be an embarrassment." She threw her arm out wide, a grin splitting her face in two yet lacking any warmth or mirth. “I mean could you imagine just how awful that would be? Our great, powerful, and expansive species stumbling across one of their lost and finding out that she’s a cripple? That she’s broken? That she’s a stain on their legacy?”

She laughed some more, scratching at her forehead. “That’s why you can’t even bring yourself to look at me, to really look at me like you did earlier in the night. That’s why the moment I popped that piece of metal off and showed you the raw, real me your entire fuckin’ demeanor changed.”

“Yeah they probably would hate you,” he started, ignoring the way her ears fell at his words.

“...And I know they’d hate me too.” Ratchet huffed, “they aren’t good people. They left us and they haven’t even bothered to find us,” Ratchet looked away at that, staring hard at his balled fists, “we just shook the entire fabric of reality. Every single dimension that exists was pulled into that fight, we literally battled across time and space—we made a shit-ton of noise, and it got the attention of every listening ear across the cosmos.”

Ratchet looked up, desperately trying to reach her. “Everyone and everything got involved…and they still didn’t show. They still didn’t come. They heard us, I know they did, and they still aren’t here.”

Rivet looked away, biting her lip.

“They don’t care about us, Rivet. They never have.”

Ratchet looked down again, “They never have.”

“I don’t care about them right now, Ratchet.” he eventually heard her mumble, barely audible past the pounding in his ears. He looked up to find her back turned towards him, head downturned. He had half a mind to step towards her, his hand rose slightly in a want to rest upon her shoulder. He was supposed to hate her, to revile her and keep her away. He was supposed to keep the Lombax away, keep the enemy away, never to be hurt that deeply once more.

But God, did he want to hold her. To soothe her. To comfort her.

He wanted to hate her almost as much as he wanted to love her. He wanted her to hate him almost as much as she loved him.

“I don’t care about what they think,” her soft voice went on, “they’re strangers to me. Their opinions are their own, so what if they see me as an abomination,” he watched her gaze glide over her shoulder to look back at him, “I only care about what you think.”

“What I think?” he asked, dumbly. 

“The only Lombax’s opinion in which I give any shit about is yours, Ratchet. So please, tell me that I’m wrong. Please tell me that I’m not an abomination.” She turned around fully, the unshed tears pooling in her eyes shining bright under the harsh lighting of her home.

“You’re not an abomination,” Ratchet answered quickly, surprising himself.

Her expression didn’t change. Relief didn’t wash over her, she didn’t smile or look away or gasp or give any indication that his words meant anything to her.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” she questioned, voice breaking slightly.

Because you’re a Lombax.

Ratchet’s mouth twitched at the thought, brow furrowing but not denying its truth.

“I know it’s got something to do with who you’ve met before, don’t try and tell me that it doesn’t. I don’t know what happened between you two…but it’s clear to me that something pretty fuckin’ significant went down,” she sniffed. Silent tears were streaming down her face now, staining the radiant fur of her cheeks.  

“What happened?” she questioned, practically pleading with him. “What happened, Ratchet? What about me and them is making you look at me with so much disgust?”

Ratchet looked down, hands fiddling with the hem of his borrowed shirt. A shirt which made him feel filthy for wearing. He didn’t deserve to wear this, he didn’t deserve to be shown kindness and thoughtfulness from her. He didn’t deserve to stand here in her home and experience her love.

He heard a quiet sob wrack through her, despite her visible efforts to suppress it. “I…” she tried, hiccuping, “I told you…” her words died out once more, “I trusted you with my story. Why can’t you do the same for me?”

He looked away at that, knowing she had a point.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue, his chest tight with anticipation. Every fiber of his being threatened to burst open and lay it all bare for her to see. He wanted to tell her but he also wanted to tear his own throat out to prevent the story from ever getting out. He wanted to let her in yet he also wanted to kill her and himself just to avoid ever breathing life into his name ever again. He wanted to be vulnerable, he wanted to be open, he wanted to be raw and emotional and goddamnit he wanted to trust. He wanted to trust and to love and to care.

But he couldn’t. His tongue sat lamely in his throat. His words stilled in his mouth. His eyes dulled.

“I can’t tell you,” he eventually muttered, “and I don’t think I ever will.”

She just stared back at him, quietly regarding the putrid man standing before her.

“I want to. But I can’t,” he continued, hoping it would soften the blow against her heart. It didn’t and he knew it wouldn’t even before opening his useless mouth and spewing his worthless words. 

She just nodded. Once.

“I think you should go.”

— 

Ratchet laid hunched over, knees and arms trembling against the frigid mud beneath him. His entire body wracked with viscous trembles, bile threatened to spill from his gullet with each desperate gasp of the humid air around him. His lungs shook, his entire nervous system was alight with agony. He felt his veins shaking under his skin, he felt the hot blood rushing through his body at a speed too fast to be comfortable. He was hyper aware of every twitch, every tremble, every spazz and every tremor underneath and across his flesh. 

His right arm trembled the most, the twisted appendage practically blurring with how fast it shook. He took a glance at his wrist, wincing at the bloodied and filthy mess that lay waiting for him. His fingers were bent awkwardly, the skin along his knuckles were bruised and cut open, blood seeped from the open wounds and curdled nauseatingly with the grime of the filth surrounding him, his wrist was twisted awkwardly and the entire appendage looked lame and useless.

Broken, he realized, badly broken.

He looked back down, gasping for air still. The mud beneath him was thick with the planet’s natural filth, rainwater, his thick blood and what looked like a little bile.

He heard something move in front of him, the faint sound of heavy boots hitting the ground in a rhythmic motion rang in his ears. He glanced upwards, barely able to see past his perpetually furrowed brow and the thick rainfall sweeping down his head.

He saw the vague figure of something, or someone, large lumbering towards him. Its stride purposeful, its gait strong and dominant. He tried to pretend like he wasn’t sure what it was that approached him, but every corner of his battered mind already knew what monster wished to torment him.

Ratchet shut his eyes tight, biting into his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Just leave me alone,” he begged.

His head shot up suddenly, entire body shaking with a renewed rage. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” he shrieked, fur standing on edge defensively and fangs gnashing harshly into the air. He felt thick pools of drool spill from the corners of his snarled mouth.

The form still marched forward, completely ignoring his display of aggression. 

Ratchet felt his hackles raise further at being ignored, rage boiling deep in his gut. Ratchet felt another sob threaten to tear through him, wracking his shoulders and making him falter slightly.

Ratchet shut his eyes tight, pressing his forehead into the cold muck below and breathing heavily. The sounds of his boots still marched onwards, a heavy thump thump thump got closer and closer with every moment. 

“You’re not fucking real,” he snarled to himself, “You’re not real!” He shot up to his knees suddenly, snarling once more. “You’re not real! You don’t scare me!” his entire body trembled, the bruised bones of his broken wrist clicking with every movement.

The form faltered slightly, before marching forwards faster.

Ratchet’s eyes widened at the fastened advance, yelping slightly and falling back onto his behind. His chest heaved, cold beads of sweat pouring down his face and mixing with the already freezing temperature of the rainwater. His entire body went numb, ice cold fear shot through every nerve ending hidden under his skin.

The figure moved faster now, jogging towards him now. The figure of him.

Ratchet’s lame arm fumbled with itself, the agonizing pain shooting through his body was ignored. His bones clicked and creaked nauseatingly as what remained of his hand frantically tried to activate the muddied steel band hidden beneath his fur, wrapped around his twisted wrist.

Ratchet heard the familiar sound of gears clicking in place, his twisted arm rose with practiced precision, gnarled fingers spreading out as much as they could to accommodate the form of a small blaster constructing itself from an opening in his wristband. The weapon felt heavy in his hands, unfamiliarly so. He winced as his shattered hand attempted to secure the weapon in place, his bruised index finger fumbling uselessly before it finally secured itself against the weapons trigger.

The weapon finished constructing itself with a hiss, steam billowing from its sides as a small blue light activated on its side. Another small click was heard from the weapon’s internals, signaling to Ratchet that the weapon was live and ready to fire. Ready to kill and maim and destroy anything he pointed it towards. As he had done so countless times in the past and as he will continue to do so countless times in the future. The familiarity of holding a weapon brought the frenzied Lombax some modicum of comfort. It’s weight comfortable in his mangled hand.

Ratchet raised the weapon higher, arm stiffening as much as it could as he looked down the weapon’s sights. “I’m not scared of you,” he whispered to himself repeatedly. He aimed right at the figure’s head, right between those two horribly large and curved ears.

It was closer now, about five feet away from him now. Unmistakably him and unmistakably threatening. 

Ratchet’s finger twitched against the trigger, holding his breath.

Just as he was about to fire the form disappeared. One second it was there and the next…compeltely gone, as if it never existed.

Ratchet, bewildered, blinked. Eyes darting around wildly. 

There was no one there.

His arm dropped to his side, twisting further. The weapon plopped uselessly into the mud beside him, kicking up more of the grime into his face.

The ragged sounds of his desperate breaths filled the air. The rain pelted against his clothes and the swamp around him.

Ratchet heard something shuffle to his left, head snapping to it instantaneously. His teeth were already bared, eyes already glaring.

Mort stood before him, eyes wide. They held what looked like a phone in their hands, Ratchet could just barely make out the chaos of a hundred different voices all shouting at each other over the line.

The two stared at each other, both not believing to have found the other staring back at them.

“...Mort?” Ratchet eventually asked.