Work Text:
The emergency systems had shut off while Ratchet and Drift were on the roof, electrical fires put out, equipment damp but for the most part none the worse for the sudden dousing. Water still lay in sheets on the floor, whirlpooling gently where they met overtaxed drainage grates. The two of them kicked up a spray as they limped in, Ratchet supporting Drift with his broad shoulder, Drift carrying Ratchet's right arm, detached and leaking.
Even after the ordeal of the cycle, Ratchet took charge. Drift found himself impressed; he was forced onto a medical berth, attended with the other infected by First Aid and Ambulon while Ratchet figured out how to jumpstart the reproduction of the nanomachines in the vaccine, ill and one-armed and with his sole hand only half-functional.
Drift watched as long as he could, the medics bustling, the water level sinking slow, the big clear tank Fortress Maximus had hauled in filling up with the diluted liquid energon and mineral additives that the nanomachines would be suspended in. Ratchet worked well, hand steady even when his shoulders shook in pain or weariness. Oily tracks worked their way down his faceplates, eyes to jaw, nose to mouth to chinpiece, pooling for long moments in grooves and dents before spilling out and down again. As Drift watched, his own vision blurring, Ratchet lifted his hand to wipe at his face, the red of the rust sickness dark and angry against the softer tone of his enamel.
And then Drift felt something in his head go, terrifyingly, gloop, and he didn't see anything any more. He must have made a noise, or jerked, because he heard footsteps approaching fast and then felt a cool hand against his crumbling shoulder, urging him back down.
"Don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing untreatable," and that was Ambulon's scratchy voice, low in an attempt to soothe. Drift heard the whine of a medical scanner, Dopplering lightly as it traveled over the length of his body, soles to crest-tip. "—Just a build-up of fluid in the optic cavities, it looks like, and some worn-out transistors. We'll get you sorted out as soon as Ratchet's done with the vaccine."
That didn't ease Drift's humming nerves, support struts tensed and joints flexing at every unidentifiable noise in the room. "And how long will that be," he asked, and even through the static fuzzing out his audio receivers he could tell how badly his voice rasped.
"Five breems," another voice cut in, abrupt: Ratchet's. "Four and a half, if these nanos are of better quality than a hospital like this should've been able to get, officially, which I wouldn't have put past Pharma."
Ratchet's voice sounded bad, and went worse by the last phrase; Drift struggled to sit up again in alarm, and was forced back down by something crumbling, hot and painful, in his hip. He gaped in silent pain, and Ambulon rested a hand against the heavy plating on his shoulder again.
"Ratchet," First Aid said, his voice commendably even. "It looks like the nanos just need a little time to finish their reproductive cycle. You ought to get yourself onto a medical berth so Ambulon and I can take care of you."
"I lie down," said Ratchet, "I'm not getting back up again. –No, calm down, you're not some half-trained Academy dropout, I don't mean that I'm so close to terminal shutdown. My joints are rusted to nothing: if I get on a berth, I won't be able to stand up again till they're replaced, and I want to oversee this."
"All the same, sir, seeing as we aren't half-trained dropouts, I really think Ambulon and I will be able to handle administering the vaccine ourselves, and I would be a lot more comfortable if I weren't worried about you falling and snapping your other arm off your chassis."
Ambulon's hand left Drift's plating, and his footsteps moved away; Drift felt a panic well up in his spark, making it flutter too quickly. His optics were offline. He was touching the berth with the full length of his back but it wasn't enough: he couldn't centre himself in the room, couldn't defend himself if his life depended on it. Couldn't feel the swords strapped to his back and hips any more; his fingers twitched feebly towards his sides to check them in their sheaths, but most of them wouldn't even respond. His audials dipped out past static and into nothing; when they faded slowly back into functionality, he heard footsteps approaching again: three sets, two slow but regular, one shuffling.
"—st a few more steps, sir," and that was First Aid's voice again, coaxing; "a few breems and you'll be on the mend again, no worries."
The steps came to a stop uncomfortably close to Drift; the sounds of metal scraping on metal followed, until they, too, stopped. Drift's gyros were messing with his sense of direction terribly, but he turned his head to where he thought the noise had come from. "Ratchet?" he asked. He could feel his voice, feel how thin and frightened it came out of his mouth, but not hear it very loud any more. "I think – I think I've got the fluid buildup in my audial canals now, too."
"No worries," First Aid said again, booming and brassy like he was saying it loudly, but pale and echoing oddly to Drift. Another voice said something, too faint to be more than a buzz, and then – more metal-scraping noises. Something bumped into Drift's berth: his pressure sensors were evidently in better shape than his audials. Something else bumped into his arm, groped downwards, hit his hand. Another hand, large, flat-plated.
"Solution ready in two point seven three breems," said a voice close to him. Ratchet's. Ratchet's left hand on his right, too hot, rooting him. Keeping him balanced.
"How long until – repairs," Drift said, all he could manage. He gripped at Ratchet's hand with all the digits that would still obey his commands.
His hearing dipped out again, and returned at barely half strength, but he still caught Ambulon at the tail end of his explanation: "—joor. Injection almost ready to go and we can have you all stabilized. Put you together again."
"Tell me when," Ratchet said. Then everything went, for a while, dim. Drift was kept grounded by that hand on his, the hiss and beep of the nonsentient machines in the room, Ambulon and First Aid's quick footsteps and sometimes the inward rush of Fortress Maximus' huge vents cycling. He sensed none of it strongly; not even when someone came over and swabbed at his left anterior medical access port and slipped something carefully into it.
He woke up a little as he felt something cool enter his energon stream, and a breem – or two, or three – after that, his processor picked up a little speed, no longer slowed down by barrages of damage reports. It began to recognize his audials' feed again, however weakly.
There was that pressure on his hand, still. Drift moved his arm, or tried to; it expressed itself as not much more than a twitch, a little quarter-rotation of his wrist. The hand on his clamped down tighter, and something in Drift relaxed at that.
"They've gone to disperse the vaccine throughout the base," Ratchet said. "Make sure nobody else walks in, gets a faceful of rust sickness. Or tries to weaponize it again."
Drift coughed, throat rough. "Fort Max?" he managed; couldn't get more than that out, couldn't get his free hand anywhere near his swordhilt.
"Went with them to help. It's just us in the room, we're stabilized; we can wait. Drift, if your optics are still offline, don't worry. Soon as Aid and Ambulon get back they'll fix them." The pressure on Drift's hand shifted, like Ratchet was pulling himself closer, rolling over, maybe.
"I – Ratchet. If. If the DJD—" the panic wasn't leaving, this time. Wasn't sinking back down, was rising all the time. Drift's spark ached in its casing: exhaustion, the pain of a thousand crumbled circuits, true fear.
A weight against his chassis – Drift thrashed.
"Shhh. Drift. The DJD are nowhere near. It won't come to that." Ratchet's voice so much louder – he had to be resting his head right by Drift's. The heavy bar of Ratchet's only arm lay across his torso, still clutching at Drift's hand.
"But if it does."
Silence.
"I'll do what I have to."
Drift let his head turn blindly towards Ratchet's. "Thank you," he said, quieter now. The panic was still there, he was still on edge, keeping part of his attention fixed on any unfamiliar noises, but... Ratchet's presence helped. His solid weight, the image Drift could still call up of his impassive face, his unbowed shoulders. Ratchet's obvious expertise; the way he'd kept Drift alive back at Rodion.
"Feel a lot better if I could see," Drift said. He didn't know how much made its way out of his vocalizer, but Ratchet tugged his hand out of Drift's in response and lifted it to his face. He let it hover there before bringing it down to rub the side of his thumb across Drift's cheek, wiping away some of the stains.
"That'll have to wait till the others return. There's no surgeon online who could do the repair work your optics need with his only hand barely working." Ratchet's thumb returned, this time brushing oil-suspended rust from Drift's other cheek.
"You could do it," said Drift, even as Ratchet's helm clattered against the berth as he shook it in negation. "...Stay?"
"It'd be negligence to leave," Ratchet said, his voice a rasp. "You're my primary patient right now."
Drift let his head roll back to face the ceiling, far ahead. All Cybertronian medical facilities were built as airy as possible; this base, cut into a mountain, soared higher than most. He thought about mountains; he thought about large mechs. Wing. Megatron. The DJD.
Ratchet tapped him sharply on the breastplate. "Drift. Listen. Drift. You're out of danger. It's safe here."
Drift shuddered, and could not bring himself to stop. Ratchet helped, but not enough. There were too many things there, in the dark, when you couldn't see.
"Hush. Shhh. Drift. Drift. Oh, scrap..." Ratchet's voice disappeared, but his weight shifted heavily, scraping over Drift's chassis. Drift could feel one of Ratchet's legs hitched around his waist, and heard the laboured whining of his as he pulled himself further up. Ratchet's hand landed on the berth by Drift's head, in a greasy puddle of rust; his head came to rest lightly on Drift's, nose to cheek.
"It's okay, you're okay, it's safe here, shhhh." This time the words vibrated into Drift, and he pushed upwards, turning his head till Ratchet's nose bumped up against his forehead.
Ratchet hesitated, vents clicking and half-stuck, blowing cold atmosphere. His hand shifted, thumb stroking awkwardly against one of Drift's sharp antennae. His head dipped, and his mouth, lips thin and unforgiving, set itself near Drift's wrecked ocular receptor. "Don't worry," he said; "you're on the mend. We both are. I'm sure your autonomics have kicked in the self-repairs already."
A thin whine, high and unpleasant, wound its way out of Drift's throat. The pressure near his optics set off sluggish sensors, made him feel like he could almost see – could almost be repaired – almost. Ratchet shushed him, and... licked at the thin metal beneath his optic. It cleared a little patch, better than Ratchet's hand had; the little patch of clean metal felt cold, hollow and aching. Drift wasn't sure how he felt about it, only that it occupied his full attention, and therefore had to be an improvement. Ratchet licked at it again, broadening the patch, and Drift found it within himself to move an arm, hook the elbow joint over the back of Ratchet's neck – to drag him closer.
Ratchet huffed, but didn't stop. His circling thumb stilled, on Drift's other side, but his mouth kept moving, clearing the rust away. Some streaks, the oldest, were dry and flaking; others were newer and still oil-damp. Ratchet's tongue stroked around the cracked optic, not quite touching it, till the area was bright again, pale grey only a step away from white. Then Ratchet moved onto the optic itself, gentle and careful, but not stopping. Drift couldn't think, then, couldn't force his processor to consider anything but the moving pressure, the warmth of Ratchet's tongue. The patches Ratchet had passed over were buzzing, pain sensors tingling uncertainly, oversensitized but unsure of what information to relay.
Drift's shuddering gentled to a shivering as Ratchet stroked the grime away from the long cracks in his optic, whole body caught up in it. The relays tucked under his groin armour pinged hesitant approval, and stiff energon and coolant lines groaned as they tried cycling up to a faster pump rate.
"Shut up," Ratchet said, gruff but not unkind, the sound humming through the conductive material of Drift's optics. His body wasn't moving at all – he was a warm, solid weight, too heavy to be comfortable but comforting nevertheless. He nudged at Drift's jaw with his hand, urging Drift's head to turn; then he began on that optic. Their chest armour dragged as they shifted, friction tugging at them, flaking the bubbling paint off where the corrosion underneath was worst.
A few times Drift tried to move, the panic-shiver building its way back up, but Ratchet kept him down, held him mostly still. His inner lines kept up their pace, first with difficulty and then with increasing smoothness. He didn't know if he wanted Ratchet to open his interface hatch, but Drift enjoyed the warmth building there, finally not something sick and aching, but something healthy, something right. Ratchet's blocky white thigh, pressing down against Drift's torso, was good. The tongue cleaning off his right optic, that was good too. Drift's optics were still offline and didn't respond to the cue for their boot sequence, and yet that didn't make his spark pulse painfully; his facial pressure sensors demanded too much of his diminished processing power to allocate any to fear. Drift sighed, ragged and harsh on the exhale, and felt his shivering stop.
He tilted his chin up, knocking Ratchet in the crest with his nasal ridge. "Thank you," he said. Speaking still tore painfully at his throat, but that would be solved in time.
"Just doing my job," said Ratchet. "A job I wouldn't have to be doing if not for Pharma." Ratchet tucked his head down, into the dark cables at Drift's neck. He swiped at the rust stains there, too; Drift felt something tight in his back struts loosen at the touch. He let his arm fall, to Ratchet's lower back. The gap where Ratchet's right arm had fallen off was disconcerting – sealed off, no longer leaking anything, not a danger, but not... right.
"It may be advisable for you to go into powersave mode till the others return for surgery," Ratchet offered. His voice echoed oddly, muffled; he hadn't bothered lifting his head.
Drift tipped his head to the side. "I'll stay awake with you." His fingers flexed, catching against grooves and edges in Ratchet's back plates.
Ratchet didn't reply, and they lay there in silence for a time, . Drift's vent flaps rattled weakly, but his energon and coolant lines kept pumping smoothly, steadily; the warmth in his codpiece stayed steady, too, and neither he nor Ratchet mentioned it.
Eventually, several pairs of footsteps approached. When Drift tensed, Ratchet levered himself half-up. "Only First Aid and the others," he said. "We'll be back at the Lost Light soon enough."
"That is a very big tick," said Drift, corners of his mouth turning hopefully upwards. Ratchet rolled off him, and he let his arm drop from Ratchet's back. "Thank you," he said again, as quietly as he could.
Ratchet's hand, stiff and curled into half a fist, patted him on the shoulder armour. "Don't mention it," he responded, voice nearly gone, but with something – Drift thought – warm in it, perhaps.
He settled himself back, and let his vents work. His armour cooled quickly, without the pressure of Ratchet's plating against it, and he missed it, a little.
Drift's processor spun itself idle, nearer to powersave, and he thought: maybe he could visit the medbay more, once they were back aboard the Lost Light.