Chapter Text
It started with Drift. If Rodimus was stuck in sparkling-mode, he might as well take the time to spoil his amica with all the things Drift himself never got as a sparkling. Rung said he was using it as a way to overcome his childhood and adolescent trauma, but Drift wasn’t willing to look into that quite yet. Not if Rodimus was the sparkling in question, at least.
The Lost Light had docked in the atmosphere of a well-known and trustworthy trading planet, the crew taking time to explore and get fresh air. Roller had finally summed up the courage to ask Nautica on a date, and the pair had long waltzed off for a tour of a nearby waterfall famed for its beauty. Tailgate and Cyclonus had gone to explore the historical district, and Whirl had scampered off into Primus knows where to get into Primus knows what. With Ratchet back on the ship slogging through medical records and watching over the infant captain, Drift was left alone, slowly ambling through the open-air market of the city.
Textiles didn’t mean much to Drift. Aside from the occasional cloak or cape for a disguise, he couldn’t see much of a point. Wearing clothing like organics did just sounded…exhausting. The textures, the layers, the trapped smells, it was far too much hassle. The human sit-coms Swerve showed on the holoscreens at the bar were chock-full of human men in jerseys, women in sundresses, little children in shorts and sandals. Drift just didn't understand the point of all the fuss.
Until his captain and amica was turned into a sparkling. Because those screens also showed babies. Cute, bald, chubby babies wearing cute little onesies and bows and socks and pacifiers. Suddenly, textiles made way more sense. They made even more sense as Drift stared down at the dark green checked onesie covered in pale yellow-green clovers.
It's just… It would look so cute against Rodimus’ magenta protoform, and the green matched his optics. It was stupid, it was a waste of shanix, it was a pointless purchase that would serve no purpose in a few weeks…
He bought it. And the matching energon-colored binkie that the stall owner was also selling. Ratchet was going to kill him.
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“What in the hell is a onesie? Why the hell did you spend money on that nonsense?”
Drift struggled to snatch a hold of Rodimus’ tiny leg where it was waving under the fabric of the onesie. The other three had taken him 20 minutes to catch and pull through the infernally small leg holes, and Rodimus seemed determined to thwart him one last time. Behind him, Ratchet was rifling through drawers, pretending to work so he could judge his conjunx from afar.
“It's an organic custom, Ratchet. They cover their young in clothing to protect them from the elements.” Drift finally pinched that last leg between his digits, sticking his glossa out in concentration as he threaded it into the hole. “And he looks cute.”
“I just wanna remind you that you’re currently wrestling Rodimus Prime, leader of the planet, captain of the Lost Light, chosen by the Light of Primus to wield the Matrix of Leadership, scourge of Ultra Magnus’ sanity,” Ratchet had abandoned all pretense of work to stand behind Drift with his arms crossed. “into organic baby clothes.”
Drift hummed in prideful agreement, fastening the snaps on the buttflap with a triumphant flair. “And he looks adorable while I do it, doesn’t he?” Drift held Rodimus up to show Ratchet his fine work.
The baby-fied captain did make a striking sight. Swaddled from head to toe in soft green cotton, little yellow nubs sticking out from where the fabric bulged against the fat protoform of his legs. He was adorably round, round aft, round belly, round head, round legs, round optics dimmed and tired. To top it all off, a neon teal pacifier was being sleepily sucked on, emitting little squeaking noises as it undulated up and down as Rodiumus suckled. All in all, it was a sight cute enough to melt the coldest of sparks.
“He looks like something, all right.”
Ratchet wasn’t swayed.
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The sight of Rodimus in a onesie had taken the crew by storm. Currently, he was sat in the captain's chair on his aft, a comically small sight against a seat he normally filled. 60% of the crew had packed into the main bridge, some of which Drift knew were supposed to be on duty.
He was marching Rodimus through the halls and up to his bridge shift when Tailgate caught up to Drift, simply melting at the sight of the infant captain all gussied up. Oh, please, please, please, Drift, could he please take just one photo? For Cyclonus? We’re talking about having sparkling for ourselves, you know. Somehow a request for one photo had turned into a full photoshoot, Tailgate parading around Rodimus like an A-list celebrity. Rodimus, ever the diva, basked in the attention.
It was Rewind who had suggested taking him to the bridge, resulting in the current situation. Rodimus, sat like a fat bug in his captain's chair, optics bright and pacifier suckled. Ultra Magnus, growing more stressed by the minute at those who had abandoned their posts. Red Alert, headed for a full meltdown at the security nightmare a sparkling captain proposed. Tailgate, directing bots around as he snapped photo after photo. And Drift, leaning up against the main console, arms and legs crossed, accepting that he had lost control of the situation and awaiting its inevitable finale. It was after Rodimus’ naptime, after all.
The door to the bridge slammed open. Ah, there that finale came now.
The sea of crew members parted Old-Testament style as Ratchet the Hatchet stormed through the bridge. Swinging around the captain's chair, he spotted Drift at the console and squinted his optics in suspicion. Drift simply shrugged.
“Where the hell is my spark-” Ratchet stopped, spotting Rodimus down in the captain's chair. Ratchet paused, looked up at the ceiling, shuttered his optics, and loudly ex-vented. Composing himself, he nailed Tailgate with a glare. “Why do I feel like this is your doing?”
Tailgate shrunk under his gaze, literally, legs buckling as Ratchet stared. “It just seems like this is something that should be remembered, you know? Not every day our captain gets turned into a new-spark.”
Ratchet started. “You think our captain should be remembered like this? A clumsy sparkling who can't even control his own waste tank?”
Drift smirked and looked away, feeling the rising tide of a Ratchet Rant coming on.
“You think he should be remembered as someone who can’t feed himself? You think we should remember the indignity of 24/7 supervision?”
Tailgate was slowly pulling something out of his subspace, a datapad by the looks of it.
"You think we should remember our captain as a man who needs to be burped?”
Tailgate held up the datapad and Ratchet startled like he had seen a ghost. He blinked, then blinked again, a servo coming up to gently grasp the pad.
“Yes, well. Don't let this happen again.” Ratchet’s gaze was transfixed on the pad, barely sparing a glance at Tailgate, who nodded before stepping away.
Ratchet slowly pivoted, still staring at the little rectangle of metal, scooping up Rodimus with one servo, and ambling off of the bridge. His optics never once left the screen.
Suspicious, Drift hauled up off the console and strolled over to Tailgate. “What did you show him on that datapad?”
“Just a photo of you and the captain, sir. I figured he might want to see it.” Tailgate stuttered out, still sore from the injuries Ratchet had inflicted.
A photo wouldn't have stopped Ratchet in his tracks, Drift thought. There must be something about it.
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When Drift ended up back in his shared quarters with Ratchet, the medic was stood by the berth, cradling Rodimus in one servo, a bottle of low-grade in the other. Rodimus was steadily suckling, the binky dangling off of the strap where it connected to his green onesie, swaying each time Rodimus shifted to get more of the bottle in his mouth. Ratchet patiently readjusted each time so Rodimus didn’t eat to fast and purge.
Drift took a second to lean against the doorframe and admire the scene. His conjunx, his grumpy, irritable, conjunx, delicately caring for his amica, murmuring quiet words to lull him to sleep. Drift’s spark swelled, throat closing momentarily. To think, he had once walked into a free clinic high on boosters and prepared to die. Now he had this.
He cleared his throat, standing up from the doorway. Ratchet looked up at him briefly before going back to Rodimus.
“He’s gonna need to be burped again after this.” Ratchet was still staring down at Rodimus, deliberately focusing away from Drift. “That’s your duty, I don't have the flexibility to clean spit-up out of my shoulder actuators again.”
Drift gave a gentle smile, softly padding over to Ratchet. “You know I’d clean it out for you.” He hooked his chin over Ratchet's shoulder, peering down at a sleepy bitlet.
“Yeah well, I still don't want it in there in the first place,” Ratchet grumbled.
“You gonna tell me what was on that datapad, or am I gonna have to get it out of your subspace myself?”
Ratchet froze. Rodimus finished the bottle and began to whine at the lack of food, but Ratchet didn’t move.
Drift unhooked his chin and moved around to Ratchet’s front, gently prying Rodimus out of his servos and popping his binky back in his mouth. He propped him up over his shoulder and began to firmly pat his aft, bouncing him in time with the pats. “I know you, Ratty. I know it must have been something special.” Rodimus wiggled and hiccuped on his shoulder.
“It was just a photo, Drift, nothing special.”
“Can I see this ‘nothing special’ then?” Drift moved into Ratchet's space, tucking his helm against his neck and nuzzling his nose against the cabling there, a move he knew Ratchet had no defenses against.
Ratchet sighed, moving to pull the datapad from his subspace. He handed it to Drift wordlessly.
Dropping his servo from Rodimus’ aft, Drift grabbed the pad and switched it on. On the screen appeared a photo of Drift from behind, standing in front of the huge bay windows in the viewing deck, staring out into a swirling galaxy of blue and purple with the light of stars illuminating his silhouette. Rodimus was perched between his helm fins, only a little green circle between them. His helm horns were just visible if you looked closely.
Drift furrowed his brows, confused. This was only a photo, far from what Drift was expecting. Why had this hit Ratchet so hard?
“Ratty, you want to tell me what's going on?”
Ratchet sighed, again. “It's just. I never expected to survive this long. Between the clinic, and the counsel, then the uprising and the war, and all the other scrap that's happened since then. I never expected to really settle somewhere, never expected to survive long enough to call a place home. My whole life, I’ve been one wrong move away from the afterspark.” Ratchet brought his arms across his chest. “But here I am, here you are. A home, a conjunx, a family. Everything I never thought I would get. That photo, it just…it reminded me how thankful I am. For all of this. For you,” Ratchet smiled. “For him,” he nodded at the still-bouncing Roddy.
Drift smiled with him, optics close to watering. “And I’m thankful for you, Ratty. Everyday.” He leaned close, ducking his helm and shuttering his optics. Soon, Ratchet's lips fell against him, strong and warm and sure. Drift sighed into the kiss as arms came up to encircle him, pulling him into a tight embrace. They broke apart, forehelms pressed against each other, gently swaying from side to side.
Rodimus squeaked, breaking the moment slightly. He burrowed into Drift's shoulder-armor, a sure sign that the captain was worn out for the morning and needed a nap. Drift chuckled.
“Quite the little attention-stealer, aren't you, Sparkers?” Drift cocked his head to gaze at the sleepy bitlet.
Ratchet rolled his eyes. “2 hour nap, minimum. He’s pretty worn out from his photo-shoot earlier.”
“Cute idea though, right?” Drift looked knowingly at Ratchet as he placed Rodimus down into the crib next to the berth.
Ratchet gazed knowingly back. “Yeah, sweetspark. Yeah it was.”
Drift smiled and looked back at the crib.
Ratchet shook his head to clear it and ducked into the washrack to clean out the empty energon bottle, a gentle smile on his lips.
“AW, PRIMUS FRAGGING DAMMIT, RODIMUS!” Drift exclaimed from the berthroom.
Ratchet glanced up from the sink, servos bubbly with soap. “What happened?”
“HE JUST PROJECTILE-PURGED ALL OVER HIS NEW ONESIE! AND ME!”