Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Get on the berth,” Ratchet said. “Now.”

Drift's finials twitched. He tightened his grip on the shuttle's controls to keep his engine from revving. After several hours of silence, those were not the words he would have expected to come out of his traveling companion’s vocalizer. 

“What?”

Ratchet rolled his optics. “For a checkup. I'm not even going to ask when the last time you did basic maintenance was. Save you the trouble of lying to me. C'mon, this thing can go on autopilot for a few hours.”

It would be a lie to say Drift hadn't thought about receiving those kinds of instructions from the Lost Light's medic. Just under slightly different circumstances. Usually in Drift’s fantasies he wasn't a dusty, dented mess and they weren’t stuck in a small shuttlecraft. And the berths were bigger. Maybe there were some gauzy curtains for ambience.

Ratchet glared at him until Drift moved from the navigator's seat to one of the three berths set up in the back of the craft. Ever the healer, Ratchet had converted one into a makeshift medical slab, complete with scanner, surgeon's station, and a few intra-conduit lines. What exactly Ratchet expected to happen on their way back to the ship, Drift wasn't sure. But he knew better than to question.

Drift settled himself on the edge of the berth while Ratchet approached, his expression business-like. Serious.

Annoyingly attractive.

“Lie down.” Ratchet's fingers danced across the scanner's controls. 

“Aren't you going to buy me a drink first?”

The sharp look he received made his spark dance. Ratchet was fun to tease. Frankly, having anyone to talk to was a pleasant change of pace. But if he could have chosen anyone…

After a few seconds, Drift followed instructions and lay on his back, while Ratchet removed the scanning wand and stared at the console. It didn’t take long for the lines around his optics to deepen.

“Just like I thought,” Ratchet said. The scanner's beeps apparently meant something to him. “Rust infections in your lower left leg, excessive corrosion in the joints. Possibly the worst amateur weld I’ve ever seen under your shoulder plating. And a host of other problems I don’t have the supplies to deal with right now. Once we get back to the ship I want to do a deeper scan.”

Drift released a low exvent. “Back to the ship. It feels strange.”

“You never should have been kicked off.” Ratchet replaced the wand and pulled the rolling surgeon's station over. “Rodimus made a mistake.”

“It wasn't his fault,” Drift replied. “People died, Ratchet. The crew was a mess. Someone needed to take the fall, and I told Roddy it had to be me.”

“He was an idiot for listening to you.”

There was an edge to Ratchet's voice. Drift had long ago learned how to tell the difference between Ratchet's usual gruffness and his genuine anger. To hear it directed at Rodimus—Drift’s best friend…assuming Rodimus would still call him that—made his tank squirm.

The fact the anger was on his behalf only made the roiling worse.

“Don’t blame him,” Drift said. 

“He's the captain,” Ratchet replied, as he picked up a gleaming scraper. “Everything that happens on the Lost Light is his responsibility. So you better believe I’m holding him responsible for this”

Drift shifted uncomfortably. It had hurt, putting back on the mantle of the traitor, the former Decepticon who would inevitably slip back into old habits. He’d worked so hard to prove he could be something else, and all of it had been stripped away when Rodimus removed his badge. Drift had believe it necessary, but now to find out it might not have been…Rodimus had revealed the truth and then hadn’t tried to find Drift to bring him back.

“Will the crew even want me?” Drift finally asked the question that had been weighing on his processor. “The ex-con who lied to them? Got people killed?”

“Trust me, Drift. You are not the ex-Decepticon people are worried about at the moment,” Ratchet said. “And if anyone does give you trouble, I’ll sort them out. Now, hold still. This rust is too thick for a solvent. I’ve gotta remove the buildup. Scrap, how were you even walking? Much less that extraneous flipping you insist on doing when you fight.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Drift’s mouth. He leaned his helm back and let himself focus on the sensation of Ratchet's fingers playing across his plating. Tiny, pleasurable shocks traveled up his lines. Primus, it was so wrong to be feeling this way about his doctor. Especially when Ratchet was just doing his job. A fact Drift was rudely reminded about when the scraper hit his calf.

“Ouch!” Drift gritted his dentae. “Ow!”

Ratchet paused. And Drift saw that he had a tiny grin on his face.

“Is torturing your patients funny?” Drift demanded, half-teasingly. Half.

“No,” he replied. “I'm just amused at the big, bad Deadlock whining about a little infection like a new construct. What must the Decepticon medics have thought?”

Drift shrugged. “I wouldn't have complained if it were one of them.”

“Oh, so I get the tank-aching.” Ratchet rolled his optics. “Lucky me.”

“What can I say, doc?” Drift took on a meditative expression, just because he knew it would get under Ratchet’s plates. “Show weakness to a Decepticon and you’re likely to get a knife in your back. I feel much safer with you.”

Ratchet paused and stared at him. Drift realized that last comment hadn't come across nearly as flippantly as he'd imagined it would.

“How much does it hurt when I scrape at the infection?” Ratchet asked, suddenly serious again. 

A lot. Like someone was putting a welding torch made of razors to his form. Drift was tempted to lie. Rust infections were so common, and while Drift had heard plenty of patients complain, he'd never heard them truly hurt like he did. So whatever was happening to him was unusual, but considering his relationship to pain, it wasn’t exactly unusual for him.

Before he could claim he’d just been exaggerating, Ratchet’s piercing optics caught his. Like he could see straight into Drift’s spark. The falsehood died on his glossa.

“It's worse than the usual,” he said. “It’s sharper, more burning.”

“I'm sorry, the usual what?”

“Pain.”

Ratchet cycled his optics in a slow and deliberate blink.

“There is no such thing as a usual amount of pain, Drift.” He set the scraper down.

Drift chuckled. “There is for me.”

“Elaborate,” Ratchet ordered.

“I haven't exactly been kind to my frame all these years.” Drift pushed himself up. “There’s nothing wrong . You’d have seen it on a scan or in my file if there was. I’m just sore. Most of the time. I don’t know why.”

“Show me where,” Ratchet said.

“Doc, it's fine. I'm used to—”

“Show. Me.”

Ah. The doctor tone. Drift was convinced Ratchet had some sort of outlier ability that forced mechs to obey his instructions whenever he used that tone. And he was no exception, 

It wasn't easy to comply. Aside from old injuries that flared up, Drift had a near constant ache that went down to his protoform. He couldn't remember the last time something hadn’t hurt. His limbs, his back, the cabling of his neck. It was simply a matter of how much. He'd gotten so used to it over time. War had necessitated it

There was something too about accepting pain as his lot in life. While it didn’t relieve the discomfort, acceptance took the resentful edge off of it. For a short time Drift had actually wondered if it was some divine trial, testing his resolve. He’d long since concluded he had simply pushed his frame too far too many times and was reaping the rewards.

Drift indicated the areas that tended to give him the most trouble. He kept waiting for Ratchet to snap at him. Say something disparaging about his intelligence, his spirituality, maybe the war, literally anything. Then Drift could respond with something equally irritating and they wouldn't be stuck with the tension in the air.

Medic’s fingers prodded a few areas gently. Drift winced, but it wasn’t truly enough to exacerbate things. No more than a friendly clap on the back from Rodimus—back when they’d been together.

“How long?” Ratchet finally asked.

Drift paused to think. “A while. Before I left the Decepticons.”

Ratchet nodded and pulled a data pad out of his subspace. He perused it silently, which just made Drift more nervous.

“I’m not dying, am I?” Drift asked, realizing too late that he had forgotten to made the question sound like a joke.

“No faster than the rest of us,” Ratchet replied. “Not that I’d expect such a devout follower of Primus to be concerned about that kind of thing. Don’t you have a paradise waiting for your soul?”

Relief settled in Drift’s chest. “And leave the work of your redemption unfulfilled? I could never return to the Well in peace, knowing your spark was still consumed by blasphemy.”

“If that’s true, you’ll be practically immortal.” Ratchet replaced the data pad in his subspace and met Drift’s optics. “There’s nothing to indicate the core problem on your old scans, and this portable one can’t give me the deeper readings I need. I’ve got some pain relief codes in the meantime, so just let upload those and—“

“No,” Drift snapped. “No pain codes.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “Kid. If this is some ‘healing of Primus’ scrap, I swear—”

“It isn’t. Although I would be completely within my rights to refuse if it was,” Drift said pointedly. 

“Then is this part of your martyr complex?” Ratchet demanded. “Pain as penance? I can see it all over your frame, right now! You’re punishing yourself, you’ve been punishing yourself, and if refusing treatment is just more of that, I will pound in your stupid helm.”

“It has absolutely nothing to do with a martyr complex!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Ratchet,” Drift said slowly. “I spent years addicted to any illicit coding I could get my hands on. Do you have any idea how high you can get off a pain-code? I’m not letting anything like that anywhere near my processor ever again.”

Fighting Ratchet on this was the last thing he wanted to do. The doctor meant well, Drift knew that, but he had no desire to defend his choice. He didn’t want to dwell on the aches that would wrack his systems—more and more rarely but they always came back. He didn’t want to think about the draw of heady numbness and blissed-out oblivion. A dose of pain-relief codes, given without his knowledge in a Decepticons medbay, early in the war had nearly sent him straight back into the worst pits of his addiction. Killing made for a great distraction, but he wanted to fall back into that habit even less. 

Drift was terrified that one day he wouldn’t be strong enough to resist the pull. The shame of failing Ratchet’s expectations already made him feel like scrap. He couldn’t add another failure to the list.

“Okay,” Ratchet said.

Drift waited for him to continue. “Okay…what?”

“Okay, no coding,” Ratchet folded his arms. “Treating addiction may not be my area of expertise, but I know enough not to shove things in someone’s system if it might do more harm than good. You’re the expert on your own processor. I’ll take your word for it.”

Drift stared back, dumbfounded. Then he wondered why he was so surprised. Ratchet was a good doctor. The best. Of course he’d listen. He’d understand.

“Thank you,” Drift said.

Ratchet gave a dismissive wave. “That said, this infection seems to have made it down to the protoform under your plates. I’d recommend pain relief during the removal to any patient at that stage. I have topical patches, but those won’t do much good.”

The scraping on his calf really had hurt. “I can handle it.” Drift tried to sound confident.

“Well I can’t.” 

Ratchet rubbed his chin. Drift liked it when he did that. It made him look…distinguished. Plus there was nobody else around to catch him staring besides Ratchet himself. And now that the doctor had a medical problem to work on, he wouldn’t notice anything, even if Drift started doodling holy symbols on his forehead.

Just as Drift was about to test his hypothesis, Ratchet pulled the cord out of his wrist and gently moved Drift’s head down so he could access the port located at the back of his neck.

“What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory.” Ratchet paused and asked, “Do you mind?”

Drift replied, “Of course not. I’m all yours.”

Oh Primus, that was corny. He hadn’t meant it like that—except he very much had. And Ratchet wasn’t dense. He had to realize, right? Maybe he didn’t know that Drift had been thinking about him every damn day since waking up to his face in the Dead End, when by all rights Drift should never have woken up at all. But Ratchet must have figured out Drift felt something for him, right?

And Ratchet had come so far to get his back. He’d fought beside him. He’d taken his hand when he’d needed it. There was every chance Ratchet felt something too. So why was Drift having so much trouble just coming out and saying what he wanted?

A medical exam certainly wasn’t the time, for one thing. Ratchet’s cord connected with Drift’s port, and Drift felt the gentle presence appear in his processor. Clinical and observant. Thank goodness it couldn’t read his thoughts.

His intakes hitched as Ratchet’s fingers pressed a point where his neck sloped down to his shoulder. He pushed a gentle current through his fingers and into Drift’s lines. Then he found two more spots between the plates on Drift’s upper arms. The pressure and current just on the edge of being uncomfortable, although that was probably more due to Drift’s condition than Ratchet’s abilities. Still, Ratchet seemed to sense his discomfort, and the touch that came just to the right of his spinal strut was gentler.

“I’m stimulating pressure points on your frame,” Ratchet explained as he went. ”Neural clusters. You’re carrying a lot of tension in your frame. Combined with wear and tear and the combat protocols you seem to have been running non stop for four million years , no wonder you’re in pain.”

“Pressure points?” Drift grinned. “That sounds almost like spectralist healing.”

Ratchet grumbled. “Well if your religious types are going to accidentally stumble on something with some actual evidence behind it as a treatment—not a cure, a treatment —far be it from me to complain.”

Steady warmth built in his core, but Drift wasn’t sure it was just the procedure. He suspected it had much more to do with the one administering it. Drift bit back a moan when Ratchet’s hands touched either side of his waist. Those hands and the one who used them were as beautiful and precise as any swordsmech from the Circle of Light.

“Try meditating for me” Ratchet said. “That plus these last few release points should provide some relief while I deal with the rust. If it doesn’t, tell me.”

Drift off lined his optics and lay back down. “Alright.”

“I mean it, Drift.”

A touch on Drift’s shoulder made him online his optics again. Ratchet was standing over him, his face heavy with concern. The harsh light of the medical lamp above cast deep shadows across every line. Each one scar left by age and worry. Concern that was proof that the grumpy medic had a spark.

A spark Drift wanted more desperately than anything. He just wasn’t sure he was worthy of it.

“Remember, I know you’ve got a martyr complex the size of a large moon,” Ratchet said. “And if you pretend not to be in pain when you actually are—”

“You’ll weld my head to my aft or something?”

Ratchet smiled. “You’re learning. Good.”

Primus he was handsome when he did that. 

Falling into a meditative trance was easy. Easier than Drift had expected. His frame felt loose, like he was melting into the berth. As his trance went deeper a floating sensation took him. Pleasent as a warm bath. And…he didn’t hurt. He was usually dimly aware of his pain even when he meditated, but this was different. It was so muted it might as well be gone.

Something like an scraplet bite irritated his leg. But that was it. He felt more at ease than he had in…he couldn’t ever remember feeling this good. He couldn’t remember the last time he had existed free from some minor—or not so minor—agony.

Now the only sting was in his optics.

“Kid? Drift!”

Drift slowly allowed himself to come back to consciousness and his frame. He winced as the bug bite sensation in his leg became a more insistent burn. But the rest of him felt as close to fine as it ever had.

“Dammit, Drift, I told you to stop me if it hurt!”

Drift stared at Ratchet, confused as to why he thought Drift was suffering, until he noticed the wetness on his face. He touched his cheek and his fingers came back stained with coolant. Tears.

“Oh,” he said, realization dawning. “No! No, this isn’t because it hurts. It’s the opposite. I haven’t felt this free in ages. Ratchet.” He grabbed the medic’s hands, wrapping his fingers around them and squeezing. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Ratchet’s brows shot up. He stared at Drift, appraising at first, but then something else overtook his expression. Something like relief. 

“Good.” His fingers intertwined themselves with Drift’s. “I’m glad.”

Seconds dragged on. Neither of them moved to release the other’s hands. Ratchet was standing so close. His EM field was pulled tight as always, but he was still warm. He felt like a hearth. Safe. Home.

Then he pulled away and left Drift cold.

“I’m afraid the relief is temporary,” Ratchet said. “I haven’t found and isolated the root cause or causes, merely treated a symptom and tricked your processor into thinking I accomplished more than I did.”

“I know.” Drift did actually know a thing or two about more spiritual healing practices, and while they had their place, they weren’t miracles. “But still, I don’t think you can understand how good this feels. Just to be, even for a moment. Thank you.”

A rose color dusted Ratchet’s cheeks. He tried to hide it with a fake cough. But Drift caught it.

Maybe he was high, or close to it. The only pain he felt was the scrapes from the rust-removal, and that was easy to isolate and ignore. It wasn’t the spark-deep ache that haunted him constantly. Without that ache he felt taller. And far more bold.

“Why did you come to find me?” Drift asked.

Ratchet cleared his throat again. He removed the data pad again and stared at it, instead of looking Drift in the optics.

“I told you,” he said. “Your exile wasn’t fair. Especially given how a few other offenders have been treated lately.”

“So that’s it?” Drift swung his feet over the edge of the berth. “Righting an injustice? Nothing more?”

Ratchet took a step back. “I…the crew needs you.”

Drift’s feet connected with the floor. He tested his formerly-infected leg and found it held if he didn’t put his full weight on it.

“Just the crew?”

No answer. Drift put his hand on the data pad Ratchet was pretending to read and pushed it down, forcing Ratchet to look at him. For once, Ratchet actually looked flustered. He could stare down a plague, a blaster to the face, and Drift was the one to make him lose composure.

That was an interesting thought.

“Drift, I’m your doctor,” Ratchet said. “I just treated you.”

“You treat everyone.”

“I can’t take advantage of that. Of you. I’d never forgive myself.”

“I know what I want,” Drift said with all the conviction he could muster. “I need to know if you want the same thing.”

Ratchet said nothing. Which in itself was like a knife to the spark. Drift was standing so close. He could feel Ratchet’s emotions wavering. He could see the conflict on his features. Drift wanted there to be something he could do or say to resolve it, but all he could do was wait.

“You need to wash,” Ratchet said. “Thoroughly. You’re just asking for another infection, looking like that.”

And just like that, Drift’s chest shattered. He looked away, feeling the sting in his optics return. He’d pushed it too far. He’d pushed too far and whatever they had or could have had or didn’t have at all had snapped.

“You can just say you don’t want to share a shuttle with a mech who smells like motor oil and dust,” Drift said, forcing light-heartedness into his voice. “I won’t be offended.”

Ratchet remained silent.

“Fine, fine. Doctor’s orders.” Drift winked. “But how will I get my back plates? Might need help.”

The casual flirtation tasted like ash on his glossa. But he limped his way to the washrack, closed the door and, once he was shut in the relative privacy, let himself sag against the wall. He smacked the switch to turn on the cleansing solvent as he fell.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid . Now the ride back to the Lost Light was going to be so awkward. Because he couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. What else could he have expected, really? That Ratchet would throw himself into Drift’s arms? Forget all about Deadlock and the mechs the assassin had killed? Ratchet had never specifically said Deadlock had killed friends of his, but given the number of notches in his gun barrels, Drift could guess there were a few. And even if there hadn’t been, Ratchet was a healer. He deserved better than a killer, even a reformed one. Drift cringed at himself, wondering how he could have been foolish enough to think Ratchet wanted him.

They were both grownup mechs. They could agree not to talk about it, right? Let it pass, just to make the close quarters tolerable until they got back to the ship and could avoid each other properly.

A knock made Drift jump in surprise.

“Can I come in?” Ratchet’s voice was muffled by the door.

Drift nodded before he remembered that Ratchet couldn’t actually see him. Luckily Ratchet seemed to sense Drift’s acquiescence, because the door slid open. Drift looked up at the handsome doctor and realized he was still sitting on his aft, knees drawn up to his chest. Like a spark-broken idiot.

“Drift.” Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I’m a terrible doctor.”

Drift frowned. “That’s literally not true.”

”Doctor’s are supposed to be professional. We’re supposed to maintain distance from our patients for the sake of their care and their agency. And I have completely and utterly failed to do that.”

He offered Drift a hand. One Drift accepted, nearly slipping wet floor as he put too much weight on his injured leg. Ratchet caught him with a hand around his waist. Warm solvent now ran down both their plates.

“You want to know why I came looking for you?” Ratchet said. “Because every time there was even the tiniest alarm on the Lost Light , you came running to the medbay. Always. It annoyed the scrap out of me. And it made me feel safe . I missed it more than I ever could have imagined. I missed you, and your annoying preaching and your stupid, gorgeous face.”

“Was that a compliment or an insult?”

“Yes, and I’m not done.” Ratchet took both of Drift’s hands in his. Drift stopped breathing, which was bad for his systems that required ventilation. “I once said I saw something special in you. When I said it, I didn’t know what it was, and frankly, when you became Deadlock, I thought I had been wrong. But now, this? You fighting every single day to be better? I can see you swimming upstream to stop from sliding backwards, saving lives, and you’re bearing this pain. And you still have the energy to annoy the everloving slag out of me? That’s special, Drift. I can’t keep my distance from it.”

All the air was sucked out of Drift’s chest. 

“But,” Ratchet said. “I’m a doctor. Your doctor. Everyone’s slagging doctor, and if you don’t want me like this I understand—”

Drift leaned forwards to capture Ratchet’s mouth with his own. Shutting him up, tasting his glossa and the few drops of solvent that had gathered on his lips. Ratchet stiffened, then relaxed, wrapping his arm around Drift's back and pulling them even more tightly together.

“Just to be clear,” Drift muttered against Ratchet’s lips. “I do want you like this.”

“Yeah,” Ratchet gasped. “I got that.”

Drift smiled wide enough to expose his sharp canines. He dragged Ratchet from the doorway, deeper into the washrack, until his back hit the wall. Solvent rained down on them as they kissed, hard and needy, Drift wrapping both arms around Ratchet’s neck and holding on as if his life depended on it. Just in case Ratchet tried to slip away again.

He didn’t. He let his EM field expand, and Drift was thrilled to find it thick with happiness and apprehension and raw desire. 

It had been a long time since either of them had been touched. When Drift moved to cup Ratchet’s face in his hands, he felt the other mech moan into his mouth. When Drift drew his foot up Ratchet’s leg, he shuddered.

Drift broke the kiss, but only so he could plant a trail of pecks across Ratchet’s cheeks until he lips were right next to his audial.

“You know,” he said. “For all your protests, you're dangerously close to conjunxing me.”

Ratchet frowned. One of Drift’s favorite frowns, the one that put his brows at a perfectly flattering angle around his blue optics.

“What are you talking about?” He ran a hand across Drift’s raised thigh.

“Taking me someplace familiar,” Drift said.

“This shuttle isn’t familiar.”

“A medical bay is.” Drift freed his own wrist cable and slowly plugged it into Ratchet’s port. Slowly, to give him time to refuse, but Ratchet didn’t. “Followed by an act of intimacy.”

“Was just a medical treatment,” Ratchet murmured, tightening his grip on Drift’s leg.

“I let you touch me while I was meditating. I let you into my head. Not something an ex-Decepticon does lightly.”

To prove his point, Drift let a few sensations and flashes of memory flow through the data connection. Mistrust, betrayal, fear an enemy might use a moment of weakness to interfere with ones’ coding or do some other form of harm. Lessons learned in the Dead End and reinforced as a Decepticons assassin. Drift had never believed he would ever let anyone touch him like Ratchet had just touched him. Much less that he’d do so joyfully.

“I haven’t given you a gift,” Ratchet protested. 

“Yes you have,” Drift ran his hands over Ratchet’s broad, strong shoulders. “Even a few hours without pain is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Ratchet buried his face in the crook of Drift’s neck and kissed him hard, teasing the delicate cables with his glossa. Drift leaned his head back against the slick wall. Frag, he felt good. 

“Act of disclosure,” he moaned, barely able to talk with the static haze overtaking his processor. A haze he could feel Ratchet experiencing as well though the data port connection. “You said you’re a bad doctor.”

Ratchet ex-vented, spraying solvent in a fine mist. He might have tried to say something, but Drift once again silenced him with a deep kiss. Ratchet kept running his hand up and down Drift’s thigh, and his frame was getting so hot he was convinced he'd boil the shower droplets.

“All that’s left is an act of devotion,” Drift muttered against Ratcher’s panting mouth. “Want to see just how devoted I am?”

“ Primus , Drift,” Ratched groaned.

“Not Primus, doc. Just me.” Drift placed a finger under Ratchet’s chin. “I think I know which of us you’d rather have.”

A little casual blasphemy seemed to do the trick. Ratchet’s engines revved loudly, the sound echoing in the small washrack. His panels snapped open, and Drift sighed, sliding one hand down Ratchet’s slick plating until he reached the first node outside his valve. Pressing it earned him a satisfying quiver. His own panel ached to open as well, but he kept himself in control for the moment. He was showing his devotion, after all.

He disconnected his wrist cord, but only so he could move from the port at the back of Ratchet’s neck to one at the base of his spinal strut. As he continued massaging the first node, he pushed a query through the connection. Asking Ratchet to connect to the back of his neck.

“Are you sure?” Ratchet’s voice was already ragged.

Drift kissed his lips more chastely this time—though his fingers did play with the opening of Ratchet’s valve at the same time. “I’m sure.”

It almost surprised him how sure he was. A frag was one thing, but to allow dataport connections—a double connection at that—was something Drift of the Dead End would never have allowed. Deadlock would have killed anyone who even tried. It was vulnerable. There was no hiding when someone was hooked straight into your processor, with access to the most intimate, delicate systems in your frame. If it had been anyone else, Drift might have balked.

Because it was Ratchet, he was desperate for it. He needed Ratchet to know how much he needed him. Had needed him for so fragging long. He even paused his fingering to drag Ratchet’s hand to his hip, where the second access port lay.

The double connection set Drift’s pulse spiking. He could feel the heat of his own arousal, as well as Ratchet’s. The ache of need in his valve, the spike working to pressurize. Systems that hadn’t been used in a long time. Each sensation grew all the more intense for it.

Drift spun them around that Ratchet was now against the soaking wall. He hit the surface with a dull grunt, optics clouded over with pleasure. Ratchet was heavy, built for lifting and holding damaged mechs. The number of nights Drift had spent thinking about those thick arms and strong shoulders…he probably couldn’t have counted them if he’d tried. Drift knelt, kissing a trail down Ratchet’s chest, licking at warm metal as he moved closer and closer to his destination.

“ Frag , Drift,” Ratchet gasped.

“Whatever you say.”

Drift knelt down, hands resting on Ratchet’s hips. Then he pulled Ratchet’s legs apart and nestled his helm between shapely, white thighs. He flicked his glossa forward, tasting lubricant and solvent. The pleasure of the contact created a feedback loop between their processors. Ratchet’s grip on the back of Driftt’s helm tightened as he pushed his glossa deeper. Ratchet sank down against the wall, unable to keep himself upright as Drift tasted his valve and sucked the sensitive nodal arrays.

Molten heat pooled in his tanks. Without conscious effort, his own panel slid open. They were both on the floor now, solvent and grime and their own fluids sliding down the drains. The shower droplets plinked rhythmically against their frames. It was almost too good to be true. As if Drift had fallen into recharge during his meditation and this was all a dream. 

A pulse of reassurance flooded his mind. He paused, looked up at his lover’s face, and felt Ratchet convince him this was real. 

“You’re—” Ratchet inhaled. “A little too good at this. I’m not…gonna last much longer.”

Drift grinned. “And here I was worried I’d be out of practice.”

“Not more than me.” The corner of his mouth curled upwards in a crooked grin. “But I might have a few tricks.”

Ratchet let his cord extend so he could move his hands to Drift’s aft. Powerful arms pulled Drift onto his lap. Which made Drift’s spike partially pressurize, then continue the more Ratchet fondled his rear. Drift pulled Ratchet’s face to his chest, wanting him close, close enough to feel his spark yearning for him.

The seals on his spark chamber started to snap.

Ratchet paused, mouth open to ask a question, but the dual-port connection answered it before he could even voice it.

“I’ve wanted to give my spark to you since the moment I woke up on your table,” Drift said, glow of his soul seeping through the cracks in his armor.

When he opened his chamber completely, his spark shone painfully bright in the box of a washrack. Their EM fields were already so intermingled. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Ratchet guided Drift’s hips forward, until his spike was positioned at the entrance of the doubly slick valve. Thrusting inside brought his spark chamber even closer to Ratchet’s. Cleansing solvent sluiced down and sizzled where it hit the exposed spark. Drift would have expected it to sting, but it didn’t. Or if it did, he was too immersed in euphoria to care.

As his spike slid deeper, Ratcher’s own spark chamber opened. The two embers reached for each other, tendrils of light and shadow tangling along with their EM fields and their arrays. It teetered on the brink of agonizing. Drift wanted to remain on his knife’s edge until the end of time.

Sadly his stamina had taken its own hit. He wasn’t sure which of them overloaded first, but intertwined as they were, it didn’t exactly matter. Drift came, spark chamber open, spike buried deep, and exvents loud and hoarse. He must have screamed, because his vocalizer started to error. Darkness teased the edges of his vision. He worried he was about to pass out.

Ratchet steadied him, holding his arms until he was able to blink away the encroaching black. When he did, he saw Ratchet smiling at him. Crooked, unrestrained, almost goofy.

Drift’s spark nearly melted out of his chest.

A minute later Ratchet sighed. “We’re going to have to dry the chambers carefully. Don’t want moisture getting trapped.”

Drift rolled his optics, though he knew the data connection was giving away his mirth. “Typical. Baring my soul to you, and all your processor is still in a medical book.”

Ratchet yanked him down and locked their lips together. 

“It’s my right,” he said after several open-mouthed kisses. “Someone has to keep my idiot conjunx alive. Might as well be me.”

Drift’s spark flared, fully visible. “You mean it?”

“We did the rites, didn’t we? Unless you want to back out—”

“No!” Drift laughed. “No, you are absolutely stuck with me now.”

Ratchet let out a long suffering sigh, the impact of which was dulled by the giddiness in his EM field and the light emanating from his spark. He pushed Drift off, finally disconnecting the cables, then got the both of them to their feet. Drift was definitely enjoying that strength handling his own lighter frame. Ratchet turned off the solvent and switched to the driers.

“Dry,” he ordered. “Then I’m making sure every inch of you is scrubbed down. We might need to stop and replace some of this dented plating. A few joints. New paint too.”

Drift cocked his hip. “I see you want your new conjunx looking pretty for you.”

”I want my new conjunx to protect the raw metal of his frame from the elements.” Ratchet flicked one of Drift’s finials. “I always think you look pretty.”

Drift’s face warmed, and he did not think he could blame the driers.

True to his word, Ratchet ensured anything internal was dry before gently closing Drift’s chest back up, then reactivating the shower. He scrubbed at Drift’s back in a decidedly less titillating fashion. It still felt good, though. Safe. Right.

Conjunx endura. It had a nice ring to it.

“I never thought I’d do something like this,” Drift admitted.

“Neither did I.”

“I’m glad I’m doing it with you.”

“I can’t promise I’ll be much good at it,” Ratchet mumbled as he attacked a stubborn scuff mark on Drift’s shoulder-plate. “I’ve been told I’m a bit rough around the edges.”

Drift glanced over his shoulder to see Ratchet blushing again. It was possibly the sweetest thing he’d ever seen in his life. So open and lovely. More than he deserved, but if Ratchet had accepted him, who was he to say no? Drift turned and took the brush out of Ratchet’s hand. He grinned.

“I like things a little rough.”

Ratchet’s optics widened. Drift embraced him, kissing and teasing the cables of his throat until he felt Ratchet groaning against him.

“You’re a terrible patient,” Ratchet murmured.

Drift’s pulse rushed. “And apparently you’re a terrible doctor. We make a good pair.”

“Yeah,” Ratchet said. “I guess we do.”

Without warning, Ratchet hoisted Drift off his feet and shoved him against the shower wall, hands on the undersides of his thighs. Drift gasped, choked on a few solvent droplets, then shuddered at the jolt of pleasure running up his spine.

He was never going to get cleaned up at this rate.

He really did not care.