Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ratchet turned in the mirror again, twisting at the waist and lifting a servo to prod the slight swell in his midsection. His plating creaked with the motion, not from age—Primus, no, not this time—but from the extra mass that had accumulated around his waistline.

He sighed. Deeply. Primus, he hated being self-conscious. He wasn’t even sure when that had started. His appearance had never bothered him before. Not back during the war, not during the long, stressful peace afterward, not even when the first gray cables started to show at his joints. But now?

Now it gnawed at him.

Maybe it was the way his chassis didn’t sit quite the same when he leaned over his workbench. Or the fact that his plating clinked together differently when he walked. Or maybe it was because he caught a glimpse of himself earlier that day and flinched—just for a second—thinking who the frag is that?

Before he could finish that thought, strong arms slid around his waist, gently but firmly. Warmth flooded his frame as Drift rested his helm on Ratchet’s shoulder, the soft hum of his systems syncing comfortingly with his own. One of Drift’s hands began tracing lazy, slow circles across his midsection, right over the part Ratchet had just been glaring at.

Ratchet nearly shivered. He hated how easily Drift got to him.

“What’cha thinking about?” Drift murmured, his voice soft and casual, but Ratchet knew better. Drift always asked questions like that when he already knew something was wrong.

Ratchet sighed. “How much I love you.”

That wasn’t the answer Drift expected, judging by the quiet laugh that followed. “I’ll take it,” Drift said, kissing the edge of Ratchet’s neck cables. “But that’s not all of it.”

Ratchet groaned. “You’re the reason for this, you know.”

Drift paused. “The reason for…?”

“All this,” Ratchet gestured vaguely toward his midsection, “bulk.”

Drift’s servo stopped drawing circles. There was a silence. A long, long silence.

“…Do I look fat to you?” Ratchet asked finally, optics refusing to meet Drift’s in the mirror.

Drift blinked. Then blinked again. “What?”

“I asked,” Ratchet said with an edge, “do I look fat to you?”

“Fat?” Drift repeated, as if trying the word on for size. He sounded like Ratchet had just asked if he thought Optimus was secretly a Decepticon.

Ratchet’s frame stiffened. Drift was taking too long to answer.

“No,” Drift said at last, voice low and steady. “Of course not, Ratchet. You look beautiful. Like always.”

Ratchet let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. But still, the lingering insecurity clawed at his spark.

Drift gently turned him around to face him. His blue optics were wide and sincere, his expression utterly unreadable but full of emotion—how he always was when he was trying to say something important.

“You never cared about looks before,” Drift said quietly.

“I know,” Ratchet muttered. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” Drift said, a little more firmly. “It’s not. If something’s bothering you, it matters. But you need to know this: you don’t look ‘fat.’ You look… healthy.”

Ratchet scoffed. “That’s just another way of saying I used to look like a walking corpse.”

“I mean…” Drift shrugged with a teasing grin. “You kind of did. Back before I got you to actually finish a full cube of energon.”

Ratchet snorted. “So it’s your fault.”

“Absolutely,” Drift said, unapologetic. “You were running on fumes half the time. Now you’ve got a little curve here and there. So what? I love it.”

“To be fair,” Ratchet muttered, “you also love when I threaten to throw a wrench at your face.”

Drift grinned. “Exactly. I’m very open-minded.”

Ratchet rolled his optics but smiled despite himself. Drift's servos moved to his waist again, gently pressing against the swell there.

“I like this,” Drift whispered, leaning closer until his voice was brushing against Ratchet’s audio. “You’re all squishy now.”

Ratchet sputtered. “I am not squishy. I’m still mostly plating and frame!”

“You’re squishier than before,” Drift said, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s perfect for cuddling.”

“Do not say that word like it’s an engineering feature.”

Drift leaned in fully now, pressing their chassis together. “Seriously though. I know how hard you’ve worked your whole life. You never took care of yourself. You always put everyone else first. So yeah, maybe you’ve filled out a little now that you’re finally relaxing. Good. About time you were kind to yourself.”

Ratchet’s spark thudded heavily at that. He hadn’t expected to feel… understood. Not like this. He didn’t realize how badly he’d needed it.

“…I still feel ridiculous,” he mumbled. “I catch myself dragging my feet or checking angles in the mirror to see if I’ve gotten worse.”

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Drift asked. He cupped Ratchet’s jaw and guided his gaze up.

Ratchet met his optics reluctantly.

“I see the mech who rebuilt entire squads under fire,” Drift said. “The one who saved my life even when I didn’t think I deserved it. The one who patched every soldier and every spark he could. I see the mech I fell in love with. And none of that changes because your midsection is a little softer now.”

Ratchet’s optics stung.

Drift leaned their helms together gently. “You don’t need to earn love, Ratch. Not by starving yourself. Not by staying thin. You already have it. Every bit of it.”

Primus, Ratchet hated how Drift always knew the right thing to say. Hated how that made his spark ache and melt at the same time.

“…You really don’t mind?” Ratchet asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I really like it,” Drift said simply. “And I love you.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was warm, like curling into a blanket on a cold night. Drift’s servos wandered again, slow and idle, no longer teasing—just touching to reassure.

Ratchet leaned into him, letting his weight rest against Drift’s frame.

“...I still might cut back on the sweets.”

Drift chuckled. “That’s fair.”

“But only some. If I cut them all, I might kill someone.”

Drift laughed harder. “Also fair.”

They stood like that for a long time. The mirror forgotten. The doubts lessened. The room bathed in soft light.

Later that night, Ratchet found himself in their shared recharge berth, laying with his back to Drift, who was spooned tightly against him. One of Drift’s arms was draped around his middle, hand splayed across the same section Ratchet had scrutinized earlier.

Drift nuzzled into the crook of his neck again, murmuring against his cables, “Still squishy.”

Ratchet elbowed him. “Keep talking like that and I’ll prescribe you silence with a side of sedative.”

“Promise?”

Ratchet groaned and buried his face in his pillow. “I regret everything.”

But he didn’t. Not really. Not when Drift was pressed close behind him. Not when he felt loved.

And not when—for the first time in a long, long while—he felt enough just as he was.

Chapter Text

Okay.
This was becoming a problem.

Ratchet sat on the edge of the berth, staring at the half-empty cube of energon in his hand and the sticky energon-pastry Drift had left for him on the tray. It was drizzled with something sweet—something criminal, really—and shaped like a little datapad. It even had frosting glyphs that read “Recharge well, gorgeous.”

Ratchet stared at it like it had personally insulted him.
Which, in a way, it had.

He had said he would cut back. He promised Drift, Primus help him, that he’d take things seriously. That just because they were retired, didn’t mean he could throw discipline out the window. And at the time, Ratchet meant it.

But that had been two weeks, four trays of energon-cakes, six cubes of high-grade, and at least one “experimental dessert stew” ago. And now here he was, midsection pressing just a bit tighter into his plating than it had yesterday. Again.

Primus, he had gone soft.

The mirror confirmed it last night. He wasn’t imagining it anymore. That little bump around his waist had turned into a full-on swell. His jawline had rounded out, his torso had a slight jiggle to it if he moved too quickly, and his frame just felt… heavier.

His spark twisted uncomfortably.

Ratchet groaned and flopped backward onto the berth, energon treat forgotten. He flung his arm over his optics like the universe itself had conspired to expand his midsection the moment he dared to enjoy a peaceful life.

This was not how he imagined retirement.

He wasn't supposed to be waddling around like a cargo hauler in the medbay corridor. He was Ratchet—legendary medic, war hero, miracle worker. But now? Now he was… squishy.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t really his fault.
It was Drift's.

If Drift really wanted him to cut back, he wouldn’t keep making those sweet, delicious, plasma-softened desserts. He wouldn’t keep tucking little notes into Ratchet’s energon cubes. He wouldn’t keep winking and kissing him on the cheek every time Ratchet so much as glanced at a high-calorie treat.

Frankly, Ratchet was convinced Drift was doing this on purpose.

Oh, Drift had said it himself: “I like you squishy.”
And Ratchet had rolled his optics at the time. But deep down, he couldn’t deny—Drift really did like it. He was always touching Ratchet now. Squeezing his waist. Pulling him into hugs. Resting his helm on Ratchet’s shoulder and murmuring sweet things into his audials. And when they curled into berth together?

Drift always reached for him, always held him close, always tangled their limbs together like he was afraid to lose even an inch of contact.

Ratchet sighed again, deeper this time, and rubbed a hand down his now softer belly.
Primus, it was like hugging a full energon drum. How had he let this happen?

And yet…

Even now, lying there in a spiral of self-disappointment and guilt, Ratchet remembered the way Drift looked at him last night. Like he was the most beautiful thing in the galaxy. The way he whispered, “You’re perfect like this,” while tracing gentle kisses along Ratchet’s faceplates. The way he had smiled, completely and utterly content, as he fell into recharge curled against Ratchet’s soft chassis.

It made Ratchet’s spark ache in a way he didn’t quite know how to name.

Okay.
Maybe… maybe there were some upsides to being all squishy.

Being Drift’s squishy.

---

Later that cycle, Ratchet found himself in their shared quarters again. He had the house to himself for a bit—Drift was out at the market, probably hunting down more dangerous sweets in the name of “harmless indulgence.”

The mirror glared at him from across the room.

Ratchet stood slowly, crossing to it with caution, as if it might explode if he looked directly into it for too long. He turned slightly, then turned again, servo on his now much more prominent hip.

Yup. There it was. The squish.

He didn’t hate it. Not exactly.
But he also didn’t know how to feel about it.

He was halfway through poking at his side when the door whooshed open.

“Back!” Drift’s voice rang cheerfully. “And guess who found the last two crates of honeycore syrup! The vendor said it’s banned in three cities now—something about melting energon filters? Sounds like a challenge!”

Ratchet groaned. “Drift—”

He turned to scold him properly but didn’t get the chance.

Drift was already beside him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked Ratchet up and down.

“Caught you,” Drift said.

Ratchet scowled. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were staring at yourself like you just got a diagnostics alert that said 'your self-worth is at critical levels'.”

Ratchet huffed. “You’re not funny.”

“Really? Because the squish says otherwise.” Drift grinned and reached forward, hands slipping around Ratchet’s waist to squeeze gently.

Ratchet smacked at his hand. “Stop that.”

Drift ignored him, resting his head right on Ratchet’s shoulder. “You’re adorable.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” Drift pecked his cheek. “So soft. So warm. So perfectly cuddly.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re perfect.”

Ratchet opened his mouth to argue again, but nothing came out.

He could feel Drift’s spark against his back, pulsing in sync with his. He could feel Drift’s arms hugging him tightly, protectively. He could hear that quiet, unshakable certainty in his voice.

Ratchet stared into the mirror again—but this time, he saw Drift, too. Standing behind him, holding him like treasure, like Ratchet was something precious.

Not just beautiful.
Loved.

“Why?” Ratchet asked quietly, not sure he even meant to say it aloud.

“Why what?” Drift murmured.

“Why do you keep saying those things? I’ve let myself go. I’m not the mech I used to be.”

Drift pulled back just enough to look Ratchet in the optics. His face was calm. Gentle. Fiercely honest.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re not the mech you used to be. You’re not starving yourself for work. You’re not running off minimal energon and denial. You’re not exhausted every minute of the day.”

He cupped Ratchet’s face, thumbs brushing lightly against the edges of his jaw.

“You’re finally safe. Finally happy. Finally loved the way you deserve. That’s who you are now.”

Ratchet swallowed hard, something catching in his throat.

“And yeah,” Drift added with a smirk, “you’re a little squishier. But you’re also sleeping better. You’re laughing more. You smile when you eat something sweet, and you let me hold you without flinching.”

Ratchet blinked, vision blurring slightly.

“You’re finally resting.” Drift whispered. “And I love every version of you. But this one—this one who lets himself be soft? This is the one I’ve waited my whole life for.”

Ratchet turned, arms wrapping around Drift and pulling him close until they were chest-to-chest, helm-to-helm.

“I’m still disappointed in myself sometimes,” he admitted softly.

“That’s okay,” Drift said, holding him tighter. “I’ll remind you how amazing you are. As many times as it takes.”

They stood like that for a long time, the mirror forgotten, the doubts quieted for now.

Later, as they curled up together in their berth, Drift pressed kisses to Ratchet’s faceplates, his arms around his middle, his hands lazily tracing his soft sides.

“You know what I love the most about you being all squishy?” he whispered.

Ratchet hummed, half-asleep. “What?”

“I get more of you to love.”

Ratchet didn’t answer—not out loud. But the quiet, contented sigh he let out as he pressed closer said everything Drift needed to hear.

Yeah.
There were definitely some upsides to being all squishy.
Especially if it meant being Drift’s squishy.