Work Text:
“Bugger”, Ratchet spat upon hearing his prognosis. He’d hoped all this time that he’d been wrong but, between the growing weakness within his frame and the pains, it had all pointed to one thing.
“Age-related burnout,” Drift asked incredulously. How could that be when he knew several mechs who were just as old as Ratchet - if not older? Primus, he was nearly as old as Ratchet and he felt fine! “You can’t be serious.”
Ratchet didn’t argue. Drift’s spark fluttered uncomfortably in its chamber, his tank turning to the point of nausea. Ratchet always had some kind of retort; the fact that he didn’t this time spoke volumes.
“Ratchet,” Drift asked, his tone imploring. The best that Ratchet could do was look down, guilt coloring his field.
“Perhaps if we’d caught it sooner we could have done something about it,” the physician said. Ratchet flinched at that and Drift understood.
“You knew,” he rounded on his conjunx accusatorially. “You knew and you said nothing?!”
Ratchet could only shrug as he raised his optics to Drift’s. “There wasn’t time.”
It was as if the walls had closed in around Drift in that moment, caging him in some tight and confining space. Time seemed to dilate, and all he could focus on was the steady tick of his internal chronometer as it stole away his future with Ratchet, the suddenly loud rush of energon through his internal conduits, and the oppressive sensation of suffocation. It was frightening how familiar the feeling was: far back in the beginning of his life when he’d lost Gasket, when Wing was killed, when he was exiled from the Lost Light. Once more something precious was to be taken from him, and Drift could do nothing but watch as the life he and Ratchet built began to slowly unravel.
“Surely there has to be something we can do,” he pleaded. It felt like he and Ratchet had just found one another, so why was he fated to lose him so soon? What was the point of loving so deeply if, in the end, it meant only loss and suffering?
The physician bowed out, leaving the two to themselves. Ratchet lifted a servo out to Drift, beckoning him towards the mediberth where he sat reclined. “There is,” he said, simply.
Drift strode to Ratchet’s side, desperation in his every movement. “Anything. Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” he promised, stopping short of dropping to a knee before his conjunx.
“Be with me. It’s a lingering death. We still have time, it’s just… not as much as I’d hoped.”
That wasn’t the answer that Drift wanted, but there was no arguing with Ratchet. The medic could do anything, face anything, resolve anything, but if he saw no way out of this then there was no hope. All he could do was wait with Ratchet for the end.
“I’ll be here,” he vowed, bringing one of Ratchet’s servos to his lips for a gentle kiss. He’d be there as their world fell apart, he’d stay on the day when everything came crashing down around him, and he’d ultimately still be there after the dust settled and the only thing left was himself. “I’ll be here.”