Chapter Text
They'd only gotten a little way down the corridor before Drift had spun and pinned Ratchet to the bulkhead again. Ratchet couldn't complain–first, because his mouth was occupied with one of the most glorious kisses of his entire life, and then because he was too busy venting hot and moaning curses as Drift nipped and mouthed at his throat. The medic had never thought he'd get off on being held down and bitten, but something about feeling Drift's denta working him over while he was helpless to escape was darkly exciting. His fingers flexed and he couldn't help but wonder what that mouth would feel like elsewhere… just the thought made his spike throb and his valve clench, aching for attention.
But that didn't mean that Ratchet would ever ask for that. Drift's feelings about that particular activity were crystal clear and he certainly had enough reasons to hate doing it. However amazing it would undoubtedly feel to have Drift's mouth on his array, no amount of pleasure could ever be worth making Drift suffer through such awful memories. No, Ratchet would far rather live the rest of his functioning without ever receiving that again than put his lover through that.
Besides, if last night was any indication, Ratchet didn't think he'd even miss it. Damn, but Drift was hotter than any mech had a right to be. Ratchet was almost embarrassed at how fast he'd overloaded once he'd spiked him, but he hadn't been able to help it. Drift's valve felt fragging amazing and Ratchet had a suspicion that the swordsmech would be just as incredible with his spike. It was a theory he couldn't wait to test.
But Drift seemed to be in no hurry to move back to the berthroom, and he had Ratchet's hands locked to the wall beside his hips so the medic could do little to hurry him along. "Berth," he demanded, or at least he tried to demand. It really came out as more of a whimper, but at least he could pretend that he sounded commanding and not like he was having trouble remembering how his knees worked.
Drift nuzzled his cheek and then pulled back to smile at him, and that smile of his was the final blow. "Drift, berth," Ratchet repeated, not even trying to pretend he wasn't begging now.
The swordsmech chuckled and kissed him far too briefly. "So impatient," he murmured against Ratchet's lips when he growled with frustration at the too-short kiss. Then Drift pulled back and winked at him. "Let me check the autopilot first. I'm not ready to get to the Lost Light just yet, unless you're feeling eager."
Ratchet used one of Drift's own moves and snaked a leg around the speedster's waist, pulling him in so he could press their panels together. "I'm feeling very eager," he growled as he rocked his hips against his lover's. "But not to get to the ship."
Drift laughed again and his EM field surged with happiness and desire. "Hold that thought. Only take me a minute to reprogram our course," he promised, finally releasing Ratchet and turning toward the low entrance to the cockpit. Ratchet followed, thoroughly taking advantage of this opportunity to admire Drift's exquisite frame from behind. It was indeed a lovely view and his engine revved appreciatively.
Drift grinned back at him and then had to bend to duck through the doorway and twist to the side to keep from catching any of his swords against the frame. The movement caused the armor plates on the swordsmech’s back to shift, exposing the edge of a charred, hastily-patched hole in the metal underlayer over his protoform. Ratchet’s medic protocols kicked on with a vengeance and he was reaching for the swordsmech before he’d even consciously decided to do so. “Drift, what the slag happened?” he demanded, no trace of the wanton tone left in his voice as he grabbed Drift around the waist and pulled him back through the doorway. “What is this?”
Drift jumped at the sudden grab and straightened up too soon, banging the side of his helm on the door frame. "Ow!–what the hell, Ratchet?" he gasped, rubbing his helm and turning around to stare at the medic like he'd lost his mind. "What is what?"
Ratchet automatically scanned his helm, found no dents or damage, and dismissed it in favor of spinning Drift around again and splaying one hand over his low back. "This!" he said, pushing the edge of his armor aside to bare the entire wound. He couldn't hold back the distressed noise at what he found. A perfectly round hole half the size of his palm, jagged edges burned all the way around–this was from a projectile, not an energy weapon, and his worry grew.
Wounds left by energy weapons were much less prone to infection–the heat that created them also instantly sterilized them. They left clean edges that could usually be handled by self-repair systems if the mech couldn't get medical treatment. But projectiles introduced debris into a wound, and that was all kinds of bad news. If the projectile didn't pass straight through, it left shrapnel behind that could shift and exacerbate the injury, hindering self-repair and increasing the risk of rust and infection the longer it was left untreated.
This wound was obviously old, and Ratchet had spent enough time thoroughly exploring Drift's chest and abdomen to know that there was no exit wound. Who knew where the shrapnel had migrated by now?
Drift was speaking but Ratchet ignored him. He pressed one hand over the injury, his sensors probing deep to feed him data. Projectile wound approximately 96.2 days old, evidence of surface burns, subcutaneous void present, substandard wound packing material in use, redundant wiring systems in use, self-repair in progress significantly impaired by compromised energon lines and low fuel status, functionality 41%, likelihood of spontaneous rupture moderate, shrapnel present, and when the swordsmech looked over his shoulder, Ratchet glared back, angry enough to spit nails. "Damn it, Drift, you accused me of hiding a wound, and now I find something like this! What the slag were you thinking?"
Drift stared back, seemingly flabbergasted by Ratchet's quick change of mood. "I was–Ratchet, I wasn't hiding anything, that's been there," he said as though that would somehow placate him. "It happened–"
"–three months ago," Ratchet interrupted, his glare sharpening. "Three. Fragging. Months, Drift! You couldn't take the time in three damn months to find yourself a medic and get it treated? Frag that, a medic came and found you and you still didn't think you should maybe mention that you've got a fragging load of shrapnel in your internals?"
"I had a few other things going on, you might have noticed. Prisoners. Gigatron," Drift replied, but that wasn't an excuse Ratchet was going to accept.
"I offered you medical care within five damn minutes of finding you," he growled. "Before all this other slag. And you said you were fine!"
Drift sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. "Are we really doing this?" he asked, sounding like he was already resigned to it. "Are we really going to fight about this right now? Because if I can have any say in it, I'd really rather go back to the other mood we had going on."
The medic tried to rein in his anger but it was hard, so damn hard. Drift had been carrying this wound this whole slagging time and he hadn't even mentioned it! And a good amount of anger at himself was mixed in, too, because Ratchet had taken his word for it and hadn't scanned him, and he knew how Drift was. The swordsmech would keep going until he collapsed rather than inconvenience anyone and he would push himself further than any sane mech could stand–he'd seen it on Delphi when Drift had dragged himself off his literal deathbed to save Ratchet's life. Ratchet should have checked him over the instant he caught up to him, and he hadn't, and because of that, Drift had been hindered by a major wound the whole time they were fighting for their lives.
If that shrapnel had shifted at the wrong moment, if he'd been hurt worse, if he'd… if he'd died, it would have been Ratchet's fault. His tanks roiled, nausea assaulting him at the thought. "I think we're having this fight," Ratchet said through clenched denta, because he had to make the swordsmech see that this behavior was completely unacceptable.
Drift finally managed to turn around, dislodging the medic's hand from the injury, and he caught the medic's face in his hands. "Ratchet. Calm down," he said softly, and Ratchet realized he was shaking again, shaking hard. He didn't even have time to consider how out-of-character that was for him before Drift went on. "I am fine, all right? You saw my sword form just now. Do you think I could do that properly if I was severely hurt? You know I can take worse than this–you have seen me take worse than this and keep going. This didn't hit anything important and I field-dressed it. Anything more can wait until we get to the Lost Light and a proper med bay. I barely even feel it. I promise you, I'm fine."
That attitude didn't do a damn thing for Ratchet's temper. That sword form could've dislodged a piece of shrapnel and cut a major energon line and Drift could've bled out on the floor while Ratchet slept, blissfully unaware that the mech he'd finally admitted he loved was dying because he hadn't done his job. "This hit something important," he bit out, ignoring Drift's argument and scooping him up. The swordsmech yelped at being snatched off his feet but Ratchet didn't hesitate. "It hit you."
Drift grabbed the medic's shoulders for balance, gaping at him as those words echoed in his audials. He looked up at that familiar scowl, his gyros still spinning from the abrupt change in position and from that whack to his head, but he wasn't disoriented enough not to feel the emotion behind Ratchet's anger. He was… was he actually hurt that Drift hadn't mentioned an old wound to him? Drift could hardly believe that, but what he felt in the medic's field before Ratchet muted it was undeniable. He hadn't wanted to bother the medic for something so minor, that was all. Ratchet's skills were sought after by Primes and Senators. He didn't need Drift annoying him with a wound that wasn't even fresh.
Clearly Ratchet's opinion on the matter significantly differed.
"What about the autopilot?" Drift asked as Ratchet carried him away from the cockpit, hoping that the medic wasn't planning to speed up their trip in order to get him to the Lost Light's med bay faster. Even if Ratchet was angry with him, Drift couldn't let him cut this trip short. He wanted as much time as he could get with just the two of them. He couldn't shake the certainty that once they got back to the ship, someone would talk some sense into the medic and convince him to find a mate who was worthy of him. This shuttle ride was all Drift could be certain he was going to get–was already far more than he deserved–and he wanted it to last as long as possible.
"Frag the fragging autopilot," Ratchet snarled as the berthroom door slid open and he carried Drift through it, and even his field was shutting Drift out now.
This was about to get out of hand. Drift had to do something. "Right destination, wrong attitude," he sighed, and then leaned up and bit Ratchet's shoulder assembly, hard.
It definitely got the medic's attention. Ratchet froze mid-step, arms tightening and body going absolutely still. Pressing his advantage, Drift bit him again, then leaned up and kissed at his throat the way that had been making the medic groan and shiver from head to pedes. He didn't get a groan now, but the medic's vents hitched unevenly, and he'd take it. "Drift," Ratchet said, his voice a little breathless as Drift cupped the nape of his neck in one hand and stroked his fingertips just beneath the edge of his helm, still kissing his throat, "I can't. Not with this."
It was definitely an improvement over being yelled at, but he wasn't going to stop yet. "Wrong answer," Drift said, biting again. That got a gasp and a brief resurgence of Ratchet's EM field, showing him exactly how much he appreciated being bitten, which was a delightful little surprise. Drift followed up with a swirl of his glossa over the area and finally got Ratchet to whimper again. "And clearly you can because you already did, pretty damn spectacularly, too, and I want to do it again."
Ratchet shivered and finally moved again, but instead of laying Drift face-down on the berth to expose his wound like Drift had expected, he sat down and settled the swordsmech on his lap. The Great Sword made that a bit awkward and Drift reached up and removed it, then leaned over to prop it beside the berth instead. "Drift," Ratchet murmured when Drift sat up again, pressing his forehelm against the speedster's before he could restart his nibbling and kissing. "What do you know about medic builds?"
Ratchet's tone was so serious that Drift went still on his lap. "A few things," he said cautiously, not wanting to have to explain exactly what he knew or how he'd come to know it.
Luckily, Ratchet didn't ask for more of an answer than that. "You know we come online with some extra programming, right? Medical protocols, automatic coding that kicks in when we encounter illness and injuries." Drift nodded–everyone knew that–and Ratchet relaxed a little. "I could make love to you last night because I didn't know that you were hurt–and don't think we're done discussing why the frag you didn't tell me–but now that I do, there's no ignoring it. I can manually shut-down the protocols if I absolutely have to, but it's… difficult, and not pleasant, and damn it all, Drift, I love you. That makes it impossible." He held Drift tighter as though afraid he was going to try to run away. "My coding's going crazy with worst-case scenarios and care plans and treatment outcome predictions. I'm not going to be able to think about anything else until you let me do something about this."
Drift might have known the coding existed, but not that it was that insistent. No other medic he'd ever met had seemed that bothered by the protocols–none of them had felt compelled to treat him back in the Dead End, and he'd always been injured to some degree back then. They'd certainly been able to ignore it easily enough to frag him, whether or not it hurt, but it had always seemed to him like they were gentler than his other clients. He'd never minded servicing the medics for that reason, even though he learned to avoid one particular flyer the hard way–that one got off on hurting him even more.
But he'd known from the start that Ratchet was an entirely different class of mech from any of his old clientele in Rodion. Not content with a cushy job catering to the rich and powerful, he'd risked his own safety to open a clinic in the most dangerous part of the city. He treated the worst addicts and buymechs with the same diligent care that he would've shown the Prime himself, offering no judgment, just compassion, and refusing to accept any kind of payment even on the rare occasions when his patients were able to offer it. Drift had never been able to understand why he'd risked his own safety from the Functionists to help gutter trash mechs like him, and he wasn't about to believe it was just some stronger-than-average coding that had made Ratchet go to such lengths to help those who could give him nothing in return.
Ratchet cared so much because he was Ratchet.
And Drift loved him even more for it.
Drift raised his head and met his lover's gaze, guilt surging through him at the distress in those beloved optics. "I'm sorry, Ratchet," he whispered, reaching up and stroking the medic's cheek, kicking himself for fragging this up so badly. He was just so used to putting himself last that… well, he would simply have to change, that was all. He never wanted to put this look on his medic's face again. "I truly did not think this was important enough to mention."
Ratchet pressed his cheek into Drift's palm. "Yeah, well, now you know better," he growled, his optics sharpening again with the anger that Drift had long ago recognized was the armor he wore over his soft spark. "So be a good little pain in my aft and let me treat you, will you?"
Drift snorted and rolled his eyes. "You know, if you're going for a pet name, pain in the aft isn't exactly romantic," he grumbled, but it wasn't like he was going to argue.
"You'll get a better one when you earn it," Ratchet shot right back, and Drift chuckled.
"Got a few plans along those lines," he teased. In fact, he was quite looking forward to it.
Ratchet's optics narrowed. "So you keep saying. Don't think you're going to distract me out of this. You're stupidly gorgeous and disgustingly hot but I'm determined," he said, and this time Drift laughed out loud. Only Ratchet could deliver compliments like they personally offended him, and now was probably not the time to tell him that Drift found it adorable. "Now turn over, let me work on this. Vector Sigma, I can't let you out of my sight for a second without you getting yourself shot up. I swear you're worse than Optimus–no, you're worse than Rodimus. I'm so fragging glad the Matrix is broken. If it chose you, I'd have to offline myself in self-defense."
"Even if it was intact, I think that's the very last thing you have to worry about," Drift said, trying not to grin at the ridiculousness of Ratchet comparing him to two Primes as he began to get up.
Ratchet snorted and clamped an arm around his waist, holding him still right where he was. "No, you're exactly the kind of crazy, brave, reckless, honorable idiot that thing loved, and just where do you think you're going?"
Drift couldn't help but grin at that particular comment–how was he supposed to react to his lover calling him names and suggesting he was Prime material like that was an insult? "Did you not just tell me to turn over?"
"I didn't say to get up to do it," Ratchet replied, and Drift rolled his optics. The medic glared. "Don't give me that look, roll over. Right over my lap."
"You treat all your patients this way?" the swordsmech complained, already doing as he was told. Truth be told, he liked the idea of lying across Ratchet while he worked on him. It wasn't as good as 'facing with him, but he would take any kind of contact with the medic that he could get.
He barely had time to get settled with his chest and abdomen across Ratchet's thighs before Ratchet planted one hand between his shoulders and the other right on his aft. "If you haven't figured out yet that you're special, there's no hope for you," the medic told him flatly. "Now be still. This won't hurt. I'll make sure of it," he added under his breath, and Drift's spark glowed with happiness at the determined caring hidden in that grumpy mutter.
Seconds later, all sensation below mid-chest vanished–it felt exactly like someone had painlessly amputated two thirds of his frame. Drift couldn't stop himself from yelping and jerking violently in shock. There was a screech of metal on metal and the sensation of being pulled hard to the side, like someone had tied him to an anchor and dropped it overboard, and he grabbed the edge of the berth hard. Ratchet swore under his breath and there was a scuffling noise. The feeling of being pulled down abruptly stopped, and Drift wondered if he'd been about to fall off Ratchet's lap onto the floor. It was impossible to tell without being able to feel the rest of his body. In fact, not being able to tell what was happening to most of his frame was nearly enough to panic him, and if it were anyone but Ratchet who'd done this to him, Drift would've already had his swords out, ready to defend himself.
The feeling of movement returned, much more controlled this time. Drift managed to look past Ratchet's knees to see the medic carefully lifting one of Drift's own legs back onto the berth–so he had been about to fall off. He had enough experience of how Ratchet usually responded to patients who wouldn't be still to immediately brace himself for a reprimand, but instead, Ratchet's hand settled on the nape of his neck in a soothing caress. "Sorry, I probably should've warned you a little more specifically than this won't hurt," he said, his tone much gentler and his field sending an apology for startling him. "Pretend I said something like I'm about to disengage your sensation relays."
Drift released the vent he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Oh, thanks, I'm glad you warned me," he replied airily as he uncurled his fingers from their death grip on the berth's edge and wasn't at all surprised to see the dents he'd left behind. "Otherwise that might have been a tiny bit alarming." There was a clang behind him and a slight vibration through his frame, and he propped himself on one elbow to shoot a disbelieving look over his shoulder at Ratchet. "Did you–did you seriously just spank me?"
"Would I do that?" Ratchet replied innocently with a twinkle in his optics. Drift nodded solemnly and the medic grinned. "Ha! Better question is why it took me so long. Now lay down, be still, and let me work."
The swordsmech snorted and did as he was told, surprisingly at ease despite not being able to feel what the medic was doing to him, but he trusted Ratchet absolutely. "Just so long as it's understood that I'm generously doing this for your comfort," he said, and he laughed as another clang met his audials. "Stop spanking me, you dirty old mech!"
"Gonna make you pay for that one later, kid," Ratchet growled back, and then he went quiet. His field sent nothing but a feeling of intense focus and Drift knew he'd gotten started.