Archive of Our Own

Drift's already waiting in berth by the time Ratchet comes home.

It had been a slow day for Drift; a simple bridge shift and some racing with Rodimus, before they had both returned to Drift's habsuite to hang out until Drift kicked Rodimus out. His amica had whined about not lingering longer for a sleep over, but Drift was determined to have a slow night with his conjunx. They don't get them often. With how busy their schedules are, most nights they greet each other with a simple kiss and a quick check in before they're tumbling into berth for recharge. Slow mornings are even less likely to happen, so Drift takes what he can get, when he can get them. Roddy can wait.

Ratchet steps in not long after Rodimus leaves. He looks exhausted, but his optics brighten and his mouth splits into a wide smile when he sees Drift. Despite the exhaustion, it lacks the world-weary and run down look Ratchet had sported for the first few months aboard the Lost Light. And what a treat it is to see this side of Ratchet—softened, but more full of life.

He does get tired more easily now, but it's a natural exhaustion like his frame is catching up on all the lost recharge he deprived himself over the years. It's not uncommon to find Ratchet napping on the couch in their room, or his desk, or the bed, or whatever chair he happened to sit down in for long enough. Exhaustion doesn't cling to him anymore like some leech, pulling on every system until Ratchet's just a shell.

It's good. It's really good. Drift could never get tired of Ratchet's happiness.

"Hey, Ratty," Drift greets, setting his datapad aside. Without a second thought, he's opening his arms to welcome Ratchet's bulk as his conjunx happily slides into the berth to fit into them. "Have a good shift?"

"Urgh," Ratchet grunts, pressing his faceplate right to the center of Drift's chassis. "Better now that I'm here with you."

His own arms come up to wrap around Drift, servos gentle as they hook into the gaps and crevices of Drift's plating. Drift eagerly lets his plating flare, giving Ratchet enough room to wiggle his smallest digit through to brush against cabled protoform.

"Sap," Drift teases, tilting down to brush a kiss to the tip of Ratchet's chevron.

Like always, he gets the urge to give it a little nip. He doesn't though, not now. For now he's content to hold Ratchet and be held in return.

They lay like that, in the quiet of their habsuite, for a while. Drift's incense burns away on the little altar set up on the other side of the room. Some woodsy scent, because Drift had wanted something nice and calming for them both. Placed around the little incense burner are his crystals, shining even in the habsuite's lower lighting. One of Ratchet's datapads hangs half off the edge of the shelf. A bottle of the polish Drift sometimes uses on his servos sits next to it. And there, tucked in the back corner of the shelf, sits the little figure Ratchet had made of him.

Little Drift smiles back at him, and Drift can't help but clutch Ratchet a little tighter.

Seeing their lives come together like this always brings a fresh wave of elation. What a novelty it is to have things. To have a place to put things.

It's more than just the shelf too. It's his swords hung up on the wall beside it, the little cabinet Ratchet keeps stocked of his favourite engex and Drift's snacks, the couch piled with cushions and blankets from alien worlds because Drift gets cold and Ratchet's back struts need extra padding. Even the desk Ratchet has tucked to the side has some of Drift's knives spread across it and a game Rodimus had left here one time. The walls are decorated in soft string lights for when the overhead light is too strong and various other little things they've picked up on their travels.

Eventually, Ratchet shifts and pulls away just enough to look at him. "Sweetspark? Can I plug in for a bit?"

Drift nods and leans down to kiss Ratchet sweetly before he's rolling them over with a leg hooked around Ratchet's hips and his arm still wrapped across Ratchet's back. Then he sits up, letting Ratchet prop himself up and splay his legs perfectly for Drift to fit between. Drift fusses with the pillows behind Ratchet until he's satisfied and finally lays himself in Ratchet's lap.

Hardlining has always been a hard no for Drift, something that hasn't changed with Ratchet, but Ratchet's never made him feel bad for it. He's never pushed, never tried to take what Drift didn't want to give, never made Drift feel lesser for it. When Drift had told him I don't want that, Ratchet had nodded, said okay, and that was that.

But this—Drift watches as the panel on Ratchet's gauntlet slides back to reveal his medical cable—is different. This is safe for them both. It soothes some deep seated itch in Ratchet to make sure his loved ones are safe, and it's a good way for Drift to let himself submit to Ratchet's care. Neither of them are up for spark merging either, but this little intimacy is something close to perfect.

Medical hardlining has always been a little safer, a little more trustworthy. It lacks the burn of charge or invasive data that Drift's never felt the want or need for. Like this, Drift can relax with a brush of Ratchet's presence over his awareness, trust that he's okay and healthy while Ratchet runs a check through his systems. All the while Ratchet holds him and touches him as lovingly as he can.

That's really what it's all about at the end of the day. Love, trust, something they share that's just for them—even if Ratchet does use this for his actual job. There's no two way connection, but Drift holds all the power. If he wanted, he could shove Ratchet out and block him from certain subsystems, but he never does.

He's never felt this comfortable with another medic, but as always, Ratchet is different.

Ratchet loves him. Ratchet respects him. Ratchet wants nothing more than what Drift wants to give, which in turn makes this ten times easier to give.

Settling on his front, Drift offers up his wrist as his own diagnostic port slides open. The inside is clean—a crisp, gleaming silver chrome port and a short white cable—something Drift will never take for granted. There's no more grime or rust in parts left washed in favour of more dire areas. No, here on the Lost Light, he gets to be as clean as he wants.

Ratchet plugs in with ease, his deft white digits slotting his plug into place like it was second nature. He's done this hundreds, thousands, millions of times, but it always feels special when it's just for Drift. With a hum, Drift wraps his other arm around Ratchet's hips, finding a gap in Ratchet's plating to hook his clawed digits in. The connection clicks, tingling a bit as it stabilizes.

Suddenly, Drift can feel Ratchet as he takes a cursory look through his vitals—clinical, detached, but still caring even through the handshake protocols and the medical barriers. Not much really leaks through during a medical hardline, but Drift can still feel the way Ratchet takes his time and care through it all. He doesn't rush in, doesn't press for more, doesn't try to go deep before either of them are ready. It's a testament to how good Ratchet is at his job, and how much he does love Drift.

"You can go deeper," Drift assures once Ratchet settles in. He rests his helm down on Ratchet's abdominal plates, grinning up at Ratchet wide enough to let his fangs show. "Run a full check if you want. We've got all night, and I'm comfortable."

"Yeah, I can see that," Ratchet huffs fondly, dropping his free servo to Drift's back. He pets up, tracing seams and plating as he goes, until he finally stops at the back of Drift's neck. There, he massages tight cables until Drift goes a little more limp, a barely audible purr rising up in the speedster's engine. "Alright, kid, if you're sure. May take a bit."

"I know," Drift vents out, wiggling to get more comfortable. With one of his pedes, he kicks up one of the blankets, letting go of Ratchet only long enough to tug it up over his frame. Then he slots his servo right back into Ratchet's plating and settles down again. "I'm pretty sure it hasn't changed from the other hundreds of times we've done this."

"Smart-aft," Ratchet grunts, flicking his nose. Drift can only laugh a little in response, grinning with one fang poking out up at Ratchet. "Alright. Starting full systems diagnostics now. Let me know if you need me to stop."

"Will do," Drift assures.

With one last kiss to Ratchet's plating, he finally lets his optics close. He searches for Ratchet's servo—the one close to his, connected by the cable—and threads their digits together so they're pressed as close and tight as possible.

Drift settles and watches the roll out of Ratchet's diagnostic code on his HUD. He vents out, slowly shutting down the visual feed of his HUD until he's laying in the dark with nothing but Ratchet's touch on his processor and frame keeping him grounded. Ratchet continues digging through his medical systems with ease and care, non-invasive and familiar.

Like this, he's surrounded by Ratchet in more ways than one. Like this, he can relax and give himself over to Ratchet's attentive care and trust that he's safe. Like this, Drift can feel centered in his own frame in a rare wonderful moment.

Ratchet gives him a little nudge through the connection, a silent ask for permission into the deeper set subsystems. Drift happily opens them for him, giving him access without a second thought.

Ratchet's seen him at every point in his life—what would Drift possibly have to hide from him? There's nothing Ratchet doesn't know, nothing he hasn't seen for himself or heard about from Drift directly. Drift's medical history is a long line of stories about his life, both things he wishes he could forget and others he knows he never will. Yet there's no shame anymore, especially here with Ratchet. Drift's life has been lived, there's nothing he can do to take it back. And there's nothing Ratchet will ever judge him for.

"So far so good, sweetspark," Ratchet rumbles, his voice low and soft and just for Drift. His voice buzzes pleasantly against Drift's audials, rough and grumbly but softened with affection. "Your fuel pump's working as it should, your spark pulse is steady. Fuel levels are a bit low, but for you that's average. Running your internal computer systems checks now, but mechanically all codes have come back fine."

Drift hums, nuzzling closer, "Mhm."

He knows that, and he knows Ratchet knows that too, but that's not the point of this. It's to reassure them both that everything's fine, to bask in each other's presence and to have that little extra boundary broken down between them. Knowing he's in Ratchet's hands is good. If there were to be anything wrong, this is exactly where he'd want to be.

It's odd. For the first time n his life, he's been in perfect condition, healthy, happy, strong, in every way possible. He no longer has to prioritize which parts to patch up first, no longer has to push himself past his limits just to survive. He has more than just Ratchet to thank for that, but Ratchet's been a big part of it. Drift's spent so long running himself into the ground, and now he no longer has to.

He lets out another happy vent, wiggling with the joy that floods him.

Ratchet laughs, a soft quiet little sound, "Feeling good?"

"Very good," Drift murmurs, letting the purr of his engine rise up between them in a low, smooth, rumble.

Pressed this close, he can feel the answering rumble of Ratchet's own rougher engine, can feel the warmth of his frame, can hear the hum of his systems. It he listens hard enough, turns up the sensitivity of his audials just right, he can hear Ratchet's spark under all of that in the low familiar hum-whine of it. Ratchet's EM field mingles with Drift's own, both humming at the same frequency to blend together until it's nearly one field between them.

Ratchet's servo slides up to the back of his helm, a little hum leaving the medic as he strokes the plating there. His deft, skilled digits swipe against the base of his finial, where the sharp plating meets his helm. Drift can't help but shiver and tilt into the touch until—there. Perfect, as those digits pet up the length of his finial. The purr Drift's been vibrating with grows louder, smoother. His finials are sensitive, extremely so, and he loves the way Ratchet touches him like this.

All at once, Drift deflates with a sigh. He goes as limp as he can, knowing Ratchet can take his full weight no problem. The world has narrowed down to just this; this room, this berth, this mech right here under him, those servos, and that presence brushing through his systems with love.

Nothing else matters except this. Nothing else could pull him from this space, no matter how urgent. There's no where else Drift would rather be.

A pop up appears on his dark HUD, but he flicks them away and opens more systems up to Ratchet's perusal. It's so easy to surrender to Ratchet's care like this. He's spent so long taking care of himself, looking out for himself without back up. But not anymore. He never has to be alone anymore.

There's never a question of whether Drift is willing to let Ratchet do this. It's always going to be a yes. It has always been a yes.

"Doing great for me kid," Ratchet praises, tweaking the tip of Drift's finial with a fond little twist of his digits. Their combined fields blanket them like a hug, pleased and sated and overwhelmingly affectionate from both of them. It feels Ratchet's own love is bursting from his spark, aching to meet Drift's own. "You're so pretty, I ever tell you that?"

"Never get tired of hearing it," Drift replies, letting out a happy little hum. He blinks open his optics to smile up at Ratchet. "But trust me, Ratty. I got nothing on a handsome mech like you."

It earns him a slightly harsher, but teasing, little flick to his finial, and a roll of Ratchet's optics, but he doesn't mind. He can see the way Ratchet's trying to hide his fluster, unable to accept the compliments back that he so easily gives away. But it's okay. They have all the time in the world to get him used to it.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ratchet huffs. "So you say. Can't deny I got a pretty damn good sight right here though. One fraggin' beautiful speedster in my lap, and he just happens to be the love of my life? I don't know, sweetspark. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me."

Drift can't help but wiggle again at that, his engine purr rising with a rush of heat through his frame. Elation rolls through him in a soft little wave of joy. Oh, he'll never get over hearing Ratchet say things like that, being referred to like that. It's so different from any other time he's heard it, because it's Ratchet, because it's said with love, because Ratchet doesn't want to take from him any more than Drift's willing to give. Ratchet calls him pretty because he means it, and Drift likes it.

He loves Ratchet so much it hurts like his spark will burst out from the sheer strength of it, like he'll die if he doesn't get Ratchet's servos on him, like a kiss is all he needs to be satisfied in life. To know it's mutual is… more than Drift ever deserves. But he wants it, wants this, wants Ratchet, and that's all that matters.

Though, he does say, "Oh, hush," because he's never really been good at believing the nice things Ratchet says about him.

He offlines his optics and drops his helm to Ratchet's thigh instead, nuzzling into where the leg joint meets his pelvic block.

Here, Ratchet smells like the oil he uses when he takes an oil bath, like the tang of circuitry and energon pulsing through Ratchet's systems, like the antiseptic they use in the medbay. All of it wraps up in a little package of home. Drift wishes he could bottle the scent up or put it on a stick to burn like incense, but it'll never be as good as it is from the source.

Those masterful digits find their way back to his finial, stroking over it in long, loving, sweeping strokes. Drift can't help but go limp again, finding himself lulled further and further into a light doze. His awareness of Ratchet only increases the further he slips towards recharge. Even the rest of the room fades away, until there's nothing but Ratchet's servo, Ratchet's frame, and Ratchet's presence in his mind.

Drift's surrounded entirely, and yet he's never felt safer.

He doesn't know how long they sit like that with him drifting between sleep and wakefulness, but he rouses when he finally feels Ratchet shift.

"All done," Ratchet murmurs, keeping his voice pitched low like he's afraid of waking Drift up. Drift just hums and nuzzles closer. "All systems came back good. Perfect as always, sweetspark."

"Dunno about that," he mumbles. It comes out raspier and lower than usual,sleepiness making it harder to mask the Dead End accent that Drift's never really ever lost. "Perfect as now maybe."

"If I have any say in it? Perfect forever," Ratchet replies warmly, gently stroking down his helm.

Lifting their clasped servos, Ratchet gently pulls his other servo away to pull the plug from Drift's port. He's careful with it, as he is with all things when it comes to Drift, for two mechs who haven't really lived gentle lives. It's sweet, making Drift's spark go all wobbly and bright even with the absence of Ratchet suddenly leaving him feeling a little more alone. But Ratchet's still there, still holding him, still loving him. He's not alone.

Ratchet tucks his cable back in, before picking up Drift's arm by the wrist and bringing it up to his lips. Sweet, soft, and achingly tender, Ratchet presses a little kiss to Drift's medical port before closing the latch for Drift. Then, he leans in and presses a kiss there too, his wonderfully blue optics squinting closed as he does so.

Drift stops venting, spark surging in his chassis with a flare of his EM field, burning with love and affection for this impossibly wonderful mech. Ratchet's love and tenderness with him never ceases to shock him.

That's his conjunx. Ratchet's his conjunx. They get to have this, their room, their berth, this sweet affection between them. Ratchet can settle in his systems while Drift dozes because it's safe for them to, because Drift's safe, because Ratchet loves him—

Drift surges up and kisses Ratchet, biting and a little desperate, unable to contain everything he's feeling. There aren't words to describe how much it hurts, but how good the hurt is. No words to describe how strong it is, filling every inch of Drift's frame until he feels lighter than light, glowing with the twin energies of their sparks. He wishes he was ready for that, ready to peel back his chassis and show his devotion in another way, but he isn't, and he knows Ratchet isn't either.

One day. They'll get there one day. For now Drift can kiss with the power of his whole frame behind it. Ratchet melts under him, dropping his servos to Drift's waist to hold him closer, pull him tighter. Drift clings as tightly as he can manage, trying to fulfill the protoform-deep itch to crawl inside of Ratchet's chassis and never leave.

But this is good. This is more than good, because Ratchet's holding him and there's no where else he'd rather be.

Ratchet kisses him back, meeting his own desperation with a quieter, but no less strong intensity of his own. He kisses back like he has the time to savour it—they both do, really. Something they so rarely get. But here and now, they finally have the time to drink each other in. No where to rush to, no where to run to. Just the two of them, and whatever they want.

"Love you," Drift murmurs, barely pulling away enough to talk. "I love you so much."

"I know," Ratchet hums back. Drift can taste the smile on his lips this close together. "I love you too, sweetspark. It's alright, I'm not going anywhere."

Drift nods and tips their forehelms together. Ratchet's chevron presses against his brow in warm metal against colder metal, and his nose nudges against Ratchet's harsher cut one. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. They meet in the middle with everything they are.

In a way, they were made for each other. They had designed these current frames together, with the other in mind, after all. They both carried a piece of swapped plating so they could have each other no matter where they went. Their colours matched on purpose, a dedication to everything they've been through and everything they've promised each other.

Gentle hands keep rubbing up and down his sides, soothing him back to his frame until he no longer feels like he'll shake out if it. His emotions get the best of him sometimes, overwhelming and strong, but he's always had to hide it. Not here with Ratchet, though. He feels a little less insane with love, but that doesn't mean it's lost strength. He'll always love Ratchet fiercely, with every spin of his spark, and every bolt in his frame.

"There we go," Ratchet rumbles, tilting up to kiss Drift's finial. "You're okay. Grab your datapad, yeah? Watching something with you in my arms sounds like a perfect way to end this night. Unless you had other ideas?"

"Nope," Drift shakes his head, pulling away to search for the datapad he had discarded earlier. "Sounds perfect to me too. I'm just happy to be here with you."

"And you call me the sap," Ratchet teases. Even as Drift shifts and moves away, his servos don't leave Drift's frame. They linger, but they don't restrict. Ratchet never tries to hold him down or keep him in one place, and it's… nice. It's really nice. He touches Drift just for the sake of touching him, but never past what Drift himself wants.

He finds the data pad buried in the pillows by Ratchet's side, rolls over and scoots down until he can comfortably rest his head on Ratchet's shoulder, and props the datapad up on his knees.

"Anything you had in mind, Ratty?" Drift asks, looking up at him.

Ratchet's just smiling, warm and sweet as the richest energon candy. "Whatever you want. I'll probably fall into recharge half way through."

"Mm, you do need your beauty sleep," Drift teases. He opens his folder of movies, trying to find one they've both watched before so they don't have to worry about it. He selects on and settles back against Ratchet's chest, content, and happier than he's ever been.

If this is what the rest of his life looks like, Drift can't deny that he's the happiest mech alive.