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The ambient sounds of a medbay are as familiar as the spin of his own spark. Ratchet’s frame moves on automatic, drying and sorting tools as they’re handed to him, fingers brushing Pharma’s every time they exchange one. Pharma smiles, and Ratchet can almost believe they’re back in med school, it makes his face look so much younger. His hands move on automatic, motor memory guiding him through sliding scalpels back into their sheaths, slotting wrenches into neatly organised holders, the minutia of keeping a medbay clean and tidy a process he could practically do in his sleep.
Pharma says something, and Ratchet laughs, smiling across the surgery table at his friend as he passes over a clean set of clamps, the fingers of his other hand wrapping around a scalpel. The fuel line parts cleanly under its fine blade, energon flowing over his fingers as he severs one connection after another. The part he lifts out is mangled, split clean up the middle. He sets it aside and goes in for the next, and the next, until the pieces around him are coming out whole and warm, glistening with fluids.
He tries to pull his hands free, to start putting things back in, but his fingers tangle in wires instead, in severed fuel lines still sluggishly pumping energon into the hollow mess that used to be a chassis. He looks down, and the world screeches to a halt, the easy warmth draining out of his spark. Ambulon stares up at him, spark bared and processor cleaved in two, optics shining with reflected light as the halves of his mouth work silently, his vocaliser hissing static from somewhere to Ratchet’s left.
A soft laugh draws his optics back up, his hands- Pharma’s hands- working at removing yet another piece. Across the table, Pharma smiles at him, young and gleaming, his left arm ending in a ragged stump and right tipped with a chainsaw, energon and oil flecking the numerous tiny blades. “What’s wrong, Ratchet?” he asks, and rust coats the inside of his mouth, drips from the edge of his smile, oozes down pristine white faceplates in a mockery of tears. “Not as good as the originals?” Pharma’s tone is light, teasing. He brings the chainsaw up to touch the bottom of Ratchet’s chin, tilting it up slightly.
“We both know this is what I’m good for. Even empties and Decepticons are worth your regard, your friendship, so that makes me scrap metal. Spare parts.” the chainsaw’s blades begin to rotate slowly, brushing his neck in a mockery of a caress. “Why else would you be wearing my hands?”
“I-”
The rust keeps spreading, creeping down Pharma’s plating towards the table, towards Ambulon, whose vocaliser hisses sharply as Ratchet’s gaze drops back to him. Even with his helm split lengthwise, Ratchet knows the words he’s mouthing. Your fault. If he’d just left well enough alone, just let Delphi handle their own problems, if he’d trusted Pharma instead of trying to fix everything himself...
Hands latch onto his shoulders, shaking him where he kneels over Ambulon’s corpse. First Aid screaming at him, begging to help, the words sliding through his processor like oil but the tone of them unmistakable, the desperation of First Aid’s field harsh against his own, impossible to ignore. First Aid pulls, and Ratchet tumbles backwards, Pharma’s hands before him, still snarled in Ambulon’s internals, smeared with energon and creeping rust.
He thinks he screams.
He knows he slams full force into a warm chestplate, a strong and steady field, a pair of arms wrapping tight around him a nano-klik later. He tries to cling back, base code screaming to hang onto the one stable thing he has, but his hands feel like solid blocks, the welds at his wrists a sharp, burning pain. The fingers don’t move as he tries to find a grip on the back of whoever he’s slammed into, heedless of the mess he must be smearing across their plating.
“I’m sorry.” he gasps out, or tries to. The glyphs turn to static and tremor in his vocaliser, slur over his clumsy glossa. He says them again, and again, until his fingers finally catch in seams between armour plates and he registers, belatedly, that he’s not falling. The mech holding him rubs a hand up and down his backstrut, cheek pressed to the side of his helm. Ratchet’s face is tucked in the junction of their neck and shoulder, and when he finally finds the input from his olfactory sensors the tension flees his frame like a cut cable.
Clinging echoes of fragrant smoke, polish faintly scented with some alien flower, high quality oil transferred from careful hands after evening maintenance. Drift murmurs again in his audial, low and soothing, swaying ever so slightly as Ratchet’s systems come back down from the blind panic overclocking which had jarred him from recharge.
“You’re safe.” Drift runs deft, practiced fingers along the back of Ratchet’s helm, encouraging him to keep his face tucked close without pinning him in place. “You’re safe, Ratty. I’m here, I’ve got you.”
Ratchet tries to speak, but all that comes out is a soft static, muffled against Drift’s cables. His conjunx shifts, pressing a gentle, chaste kiss just next to the edge of Ratchet’s chevron. “Don’t worry, Ratty.” he murmurs, settling back as he’d been, supporting Ratchet’s weight with ease of long practice and wartime upgrades he’d chosen to conceal instead of removing. “No one can hurt you, not while I’m here.” his hand on the back of Ratchet’s helm lifts away, then reaches backwards, fingertips tinking softly against crystal. The crystal embedded in the hilt of Drift’s sword.
The sword that severed Pharma’s hands at the wrist before-
Ratchet’s vents hitch abruptly, and Drift goes still. He tries to stifle it. Pharma is centuries dead, Ambulon as well, he knows that so why- his vents hitch again, static spilling from his vocaliser as he begins trembling anew. “It’s alright.” Drift murmurs, bringing both arms around Ratchet again. “It’s alright, it was just-”
“They’re dead.” Ratchet manages to choke out, his face still hidden in Drift’s neck, heated coolant dripping from his optics into the exposed cables. “Pharma, Ambulon, they’re dead.”
Drift says nothing, just holds him a little bit tighter and starts rocking again, humming a tune Ratchet half recognises but can’t quite place. Something from the religious services Drift leads, maybe? Or perhaps it’s an alien song they heard while finding their way back to the Lost Light together. Maybe it’s even older, from during or even before the war. It doesn’t matter, precisely, but he can’t help focusing on it as his systems finally wind down.
He still feels raw, his emotional subsystems back in order but only barely. A good recharge cycle should fix it, but anything he feels before then is going to knock him on his aft. He pulls away easily, Drift’s hands shifting to rest on his shoulders, warm and present without restraining. The look on his face- soft, sympathetic, understanding as only a sparkmate can be- twists a knife in Ratchet’s chassis.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, rubbing gently along Ratchet’s arms. Ratchet shakes his helm, wrapping his arms around himself.
“Not- not now.” he clarifies, before Drift can get it in his processor to schedule needling him about it for later. “Maybe in the morning.” because by the silvery light of Luna 1 outside their berthroom window, it’s still the middle of the damn night. “I’m exhausted.”
As he says the words, Ratchet realises how true they are. Now that the overclocked rush has passed, only being upright and talking is keeping him awake. Drift smiles, small and sweet and perfect, and Ratchet leans into the hand that slides up to cup his cheek. Parts his lips when his conjunx shifts forwards to kiss him gently. Drift eases them both back down to lay horizontal, legs thoroughly entangled in each other, and when they part Ratchet is struck like lightning by how much he loves his conjunx.
“If you can’t get back to recharge by half past, wake me, alright?” Drift whispers, low and gentle, barely disturbing the quiet of their room. “I’ll make you something warm.”
“I can make my own drinks.” Ratchet huffs, more out of habit than any actual objection. Drift smiles and kisses him again, a quick brush of lips that has Ratchet’s spark aching.
“I don’t want you sitting up alone after a flux that bad.” Drift’s fingers skim down his side, his optics dim and field gentle, a plea Ratchet could ignore if he chose. Not that he ever would, with Drift.
“Alright.” Ratchet agrees, and Drift’s answering smile warms him to the core, even touching that cold shard down in his internals left over from the recharge flux. Drift pulls the insulation tarp back over them, and Ratchet does his best to get comfortable, rolling his optics but smiling as Drift snuggles close, doing his best to wrap around Ratchet despite being much leaner than him now they’ve both shed their heavy combat armour.
Drift’s systems drop quickly back to the comforting, familiar idling hum of recharge, and Ratchet relaxes into the embrace with a soft sigh. “What did I ever do to deserve a sparkmate like you?” he whispers, sliding an arm around Drift’s waist.
“I could list it, but then we’d be up ‘til dawn.” Drift mumbles, optics slitting open, barely lit, derma squished up around the edges where it’s been displaced by his smile. “I made a promise, Ratty. I said I’d be there for you, take care of you. I’m gonna keep that promise.”
“Recharge.” Ratchet murmurs, moving his arm up to brush his thumb over Drift’s cheek, feeling the micro-fractures beginning to set in where the derma has creased over and over.
“Love you.” Drift whispers, optics powering off and shutters sliding closed.
“Love you too.” Ratchet whispers back, and cuddles close to his conjunx as he drifts back into recharge.