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Cybertronians did not have the concept of birthdays nor birthday parties the same way Earthlings celebrated their fleeting mortality each year on the same date that their carrier thrust them upon the world, the moment of their first cries and not their conception. Cybertronians were not birthed, they were created, sparked on hot spot fields or extracted from another's spark and placed inside a frame, and they lived for millions of years. To the point a Cybertronian year felt like the blink of an optic and living another year meant little in the optics of near-immortal beings. They didn’t count each year as religiously as humans nor celebrate birthdays, but certain milestones were worth celebrating, worth acknowledging for them.
One of those milestones was when a transformer hit another million in their lifetime. When a bot reached one million years old, five or even thirteen, it was commendable, especially in the times of war where no guarantee of tomorrow was granted. Now however, the war was over and their species didn’t have to live in fear of extinction. Just yet. There were so many celebrations and toasts and speeches to hold, no-one (except maybe Ultra Magnus) could keep up. So many things to be grateful for, to be happy about. Friends to cheer on and accomplishments to acknowledge.
It was pure luck Rodimus heard the information from Swerve mere days before the actual date: Ratchet's ninth millionth creation day was in three days. As in a nine and six round zeroes at the end. It wasn’t as meaningful as ten million years would have been but nine million was nothing to scoff at. Especially after a civil war that lasted at least three of those millions.
Swerve had heard it from First Aid who in turn had heard it in passing from an absent-minded Ratchet. The information was as accurate as it could get, coming from Swerve, and Rodimus didn’t hesitate procuring a plan. A plan for a surprise party based on those in Earthling movies.
Of course, he had to enlist his right-hand mech's help. Drift knew Ratchet better and could pick out a theme fitting for the grumpy old medic. And help out with the most important part: finding the perfect gift.
Problem was neither of them could come up with the perfect gift. Not even banging their helms together worked.
“Plan B,” Rodimus announced from where he sat on Drift's floor next to a shelf of crystals, “we'll get inspiration from Ratchet.”
“How're we to do that when the party is a secret?” Drift asked from his berth, crosslegged and cleaning his swords with cloth, not looking up from his work.
Rodimus smirked. Drift stopped his ministrations and finally looked at his friend, and captain.
“Who said we had to include Ratchet in the plan?”
Drift agreed to his plan. Though Rodimus never doubted he would, as his friend rarely disagreed with him, he would have understood if Drift had refused. The plan wasn’t his greatest, borderline outrageous even by his standards. He would have wagered Whirl to be the first to suggest it but alas here Rodimus was, standing in front of Ratchet's quarters.
It wasn’t far from the medbay, for convenience's sake the mech had stated as a reason but Rodimus figured it was because the mech was a chronic workaholic. Even now he was in the medbay finagling with Rung's inner workings. In the end they didn’t require Skids’ help to distract the doc bot.
With practiced ease Drift reprogrammed the lock to open and they were in. No-one had ever seen inside Ratchet's quarters, the mech keeping his privacy tightly guarded and locked. Until now.
The room was clean and well organized once they entered, closing the door just in case of lurkers or Ultra Magnus. Not obsessively like a certain enforcer's office but everything had a place on shelves and desk and nothing littered the floor, unlike in Rodimus’ room.
“You check that side,” he pointed to where the berth sat and a few inconspicuous lockers, “I'll look over the desk.”
Divide and conquer.
While Rodimus rumaged through boring datapads full of medical jargon and strangely enough Earth literature – he had no idea who Jane Austin was and he had no interest in reading to find out so he tossed the datapad to the side – Drift looked through Ratchet's berthside drawers. He found bits and odds, trinkets that hadn’t seen the light of day in ages but which the mech hadn’t had the heart to toss out for one reason or another, a tin of rust sticks and rock candy that were discontinued because of the war, a datadisc with photos and holovideos of old friends, and a half full bottle of high grade.
When that drawer didn’t result in any useful findings for present ideas, Drift moved onto the last bottom drawer.
A thin datapad and an odd tool revealed themselves to him. He grabbed the datapad first but when the screen lit up to a page on PortHub, he quickly returned the thing back to its place out of respect.
He sat in silence for a few seconds to calm down. But Rodimus’ commentary behind him urged him to search the rest of the drawer.
Faceplate still humming with mild heat, he grabbed the rod shaped machine next, easily fitting in one of his servos, and it had a strange rubbery texture at one end.
At first he had no idea what it was or what its use was but when he turned it on and a soft whirring sound filled the quarters, his spark skipped a beat.
Oh.
Oh.
Before Rodimus discovered Drift's findings, he shoved the tool back into its drawer, fumbling to turn it off in his panic. A bright pink glow appeared on his faceplate when Rodimus asked what he had found.
“N-Nothing.”
The ship's captain lifted an optic ridge in disbelief but he didn’t get the chance to ask.
The door wooshed open and a figure loomed outside it, imminent danger permeating in the air like static. Rodimus’ and Drift's heads snapped towards the sound, optics wide.
“What the frag do you malfunctioning dolts think you're doing?”
They screamed.
Ratchet's scowl deepened.
Back in Drift's room the duo nursed the many dents and bangs they had suffered in the wake of Ratchet's wrath.
“Ow.” A wrench had hit Rodimus particularly hard near his left audial. The pain wasn’t even worth it because he hadn’t learned anything new about Ratchet from his perusal of the desk and bookcase.
“Did you find anything useful?” he asked Drift.
The white mech was startled by the question, caught up in his own processor. “N-No. Nothing we can use as a birthday gift.”
Drift's flushed complexion went unnoticed by the flaming sports car.
Rodimus sighed. “Guess I'll have to do what I do best: improvise.”
…
They ended up getting Ratchet a bottle of Swerve's finest high grade as an apology.
It wasn’t cheap.