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The medbay hummed quietly, the familiar vibration of the Lost Light beneath them both a constant, grounding presence. Drift lingered near the doorway, watching Ratchet work. How long he had been standing there, Drift didn’t care to count. The doctor’s fingers moved over the terminal with meticulous precision, adjusting reports and scanning diagnostic readouts as if the hum of the ship itself depended on his focus. He had called it a ‘break’, though both Primus and him knew better than that. That— or he and the medic just had vastly different ideas of what a break looked like.
Drift had been standing there long enough that Ratchet knew he was there– though the doctor tried to pretend otherwise. Just acknowledging him would likely stir his concentrated thought pathway off into a ditch.
“Something I can do for you, Drift?” Ratchet’s voice was even, measured, holding that faint edge of gruff irritation he reserved for persistent annoyances. Sweet, persistent annoyances, such as his dear conjunx endura.
Drift leaned heavily against the doorframe, clearly bothered. His finials twitched back with “You could stop doing that,” he grumbled. “You said you’d ended your shift an hour ago.” His face curled into an incredibly displeased position, and one might even fear his face might freeze in place if he held it any longer.
“I did. This is paperwork,” Ratchet said without looking up. Using that annoyingly flat practitioner tone.
“Paperwork doesn’t need saving,” Drift rolled his optics, voice lighter than his words, “but you do.”
Finally, Ratchet lifted his optics to meet Drift’s. Arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You’re here for a reason. Spit it out.”
Drift stared back at him like it should’ve been obvious before taking a soft breath.
“You’re coming with me. Tonight.”
Ratchet blinked.
“Am I?”
Drift nodded softly, finally stepping into the office and stopping just in front of the doctor’s desk.
“Yes. You’ve been buried in patients and diagnostics for too long. Swerve’s hosting some kind of event— lights, drinks, questionable music— and we’re going. No excuses.”
Ratchet exhaled, a slow, measured sound that Drift knew well.
“You don’t let me do anything. I do it out of habit.”
Drift let a small, satisfied smile creep across his face.
“Good. Then come.”
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋
The couple’s quarters smelled faintly of polish and cleaning solvent, the sharp tang cut by the soft warm hum of the lamps Drift insisted he use. The medic sat in front of Drift, tiny brush in servo, detail paint tray balanced against his hip like a surgeon prepping incisions. The pair sat sprawled on top of the tub deck. Ratchet had once expressed a fondness for Earth’s laudatorial atmosphere, as well as its examinations involving relaxing in a steamy environment. And while Drift had never experienced the wonder himself, he was quick to have a bath installed, just for his medic.
“Hold still,” Ratchet grumbled— not unkindly— as he traced a thin red line along one of Drift’s pauldrons.
Drift obeyed. Mostly. His claws flexed against his thighs, impatient energy coiled tight beneath plating despite the quiet intimacy of the moment. Having Ratchet this close, flushed in front of him, servos scraping delicately across his frame, should have soothed him— normally did— yet tonight he felt wired, primed, unable to shed the restless static under his armor.
“Stop twitching,” Ratchet gruffed, optics narrowing as the brush flicked downward.
“You said you wanted me to do this right.”
“I am still,” Drift growled— but even he could hear the tension in his voice.
“You’re vibrating like a faulty servo mount.”
Drift turned his helm to retort— too fast. He brushed the edge of the detailing tray with his plating.
The paint cup wobbled.
Dropped.
Red paint splattered in a sharp, shocking bloom across Drift’s pristine white plate— like fresh energon spraying against a battlefield casualty. Thick streaks ran downward in ugly lines, staining the air with the sharp smell of pigment.
For a sparkbeat, silence snapped taut. Drift froze, optics widening.
Then—
A low, feral growl rattled through his vocalizer as his dermas curled back to reveal canine-like fangs.
“Frag.”
The sound echoed like a drawn weapon. He dragged a claw across his smeared plating instinctively, spreading the stain further, warping it into streaks. The red looked wrong on him now— violent, ugly, uncontrolled. His plating prickled, vents stuttering.
He hated the mess. Hated the sudden loss of control.
Ratchet didn’t even flinch.
“Oh hush,” the medic muttered, already stepping in. “You’d think someone stabbed you.”
“They might as well have,” Drift snapped, static sharpened around the words. His claws were starting to unsheathe before he could consciously stop them.
“It was supposed to be—”
“Aesthetic,” Ratchet finished dryly. “I know.”
Drift’s jaw worked, fury warring with embarrassment.
“Looks like a crime scene,” he snarled.
“Only because you’re catastrophizing,” Ratchet replied. Then—soft, coaxing, a shift in tone like someone smoothing static away with a fingertip—
“Drift. Hey.”
Ratchet’s servo pressed lightly to Drift’s abdomen, fingers splayed over the worst of the splatter. A grounding gesture. A claim.
“Stop.”
Just that—quiet command wrapped in warmth.
Drift’s systems stuttered. His vents eased unconsciously under that voice, under Ratchet’s touch. Optics lowered, claws retracting with an annoyed click. His whole frame leaned forward before he even registered the motion—seeking the medic like instinct.
“Easy,” Ratchet murmured, thumb sweeping one small clean arc through the paint.
“I’ve got you. Breathe before you shred the room.”
Drift grumbled, low but pliant.
“For someone who used to dismember his problems,” Ratchet teased, “you’re surprisingly fragile about surface blemishes.”
Drift shot him a glare, but there was no heat left in it—not toward Ratchet. Rarely ever towards him.
“I liked it neat,” Drift muttered. “You were doing it beautifully.” He pouted.
Ratchet huffed something close to a laugh as he fetched a solvent cloth.
“You panic like someone dented your spark casing.”
“My spark casing is fine.”
“So is your paint job. Now, hold still.”
Drift obeyed immediately. Ratchet swiped the cloth across his plating in gentle, practiced motions, each stroke smoothing metal and ego alike. The irritability bled out of Drift’s frame exactly where Ratchet’s fingers passed—like Ratchet was rewiring him through contact alone.
“Better,” Ratchet murmured when the last streak vanished. He flicked Drift’s chin lightly.
“See? Crisis averted. Try not to meltdown over aesthetics before we’ve even left the room. You’re too good for that.”
Drift’s vent hitched once—almost a laugh, almost a growl.
“You do know how to speak to me.”
Ratchet’s expression softened—not visibly, but in the way he stood closer, lingering where his hand had been.
“Of course I do.”
Something warm uncoiled under Drift’s plating. He didn’t say thank you—not verbally. He simply leaned down, brushing helm against Ratchet’s briefly. For a moment, things were tender. Ratchet rubbed his cheek back against Drift’s. The whole scene bared a similar resemblance to bonded cyber-cats.
Then, Ratchet huffed, nudging him away.
“Go grab your finish spray and your ridiculous cologne. We’re already late.”
Drift moved, obedient and quietly glowing despite himself. He would follow Ratchet anywhere.
And Ratchet knew it.
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋
The corridor lights dimmed and brightened in slow cycles as they walked, the Lost Light’s artificial evening settling in around them. Drift kept half a step behind Ratchet, close enough that their plating nearly brushed, close enough to feel the medic’s presence like a steady current through his systems. The faint scent of solvent still clung to his chest, layered beneath Ratchet’s cologne—sharp, clean, grounding.
Their footsteps echoed softly, unhurried.
It didn’t last.
Voices slurred ahead of them, loud and uneven, bouncing off the corridor walls before the mechs themselves came into view. Two bots staggered around the corner in a loose orbit around each other, laughter spilling out of them in static-laced bursts. One of them tripped over his own pede and lurched sideways.
Straight into Ratchet.
The impact wasn’t hard, but it was careless. Ratchet rocked back a step, stabilizers flaring reflexively. Drift reacted instantly—body shifting, plating angling, presence snapping sharp and immediate. One of the drunk mechs clipped Drift’s shoulder as well, denting the silence with a clumsy curse.
“Hey—watch it!” the mech slurred, optics unfocused as he tried to piece together what he’d just collided with.
Drift didn’t snarl. Didn’t bare fangs. That alone was restraint.
Instead, he straightened slowly, optics narrowing as he looked down at them. Not angry. Worse. Calm.
“Fascinating,” Drift said, voice smooth and cutting all the same. “I was under the impression that the Lost Light employed gravity for a reason. Apparently that memo didn’t reach you.”
One of the mechs blinked, trying—and failing—to muster indignation.
“You fraggin’—who d’you think—”
Drift leaned in just enough to make the threat implicit. His claws didn’t move. His stance didn’t change. But the air around him tightened, coiled.
“I think,” Drift continued, pleasantly, “that if you stumble into my conjunx again, you’ll spend the rest of your evening rediscovering how many joints you actually have.”
The other mech sobered just a fraction, optics flicking over Drift’s frame, the white chestplate still faintly warm from Ratchet’s touch. He swallowed.
Ratchet cleared his throat.
Drift felt the sound more than he heard it.
“Tone,” Ratchet said quietly, not unkind, but firm enough to cut through the moment like a scalpel.
Drift paused. Just a beat. Then he exhaled slowly, the tension easing out of his shoulders.
“My apologies,” he said flatly, straightening again. “Please continue your… journey.”
The drunk mechs didn’t need encouragement. They muttered something incoherent and staggered past, bumping into the wall on the way out rather than risking Drift again.
The corridor fell quiet once more.
Ratchet glanced up at him, optic ridge raised.
“You were this close,” he said, holding two fingers barely apart.
Drift huffed, something like reluctant amusement flickering across his faceplates.
“I didn’t threaten to maim them.”
“You implied it.”
“Yes,” Drift admitted. “But politely.”
Ratchet snorted, shaking his head as they resumed walking.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Drift replied, falling back into step beside him, voice softer now, “I behaved.”
Ratchet’s mouth twitched.
“You did. I noticed.”
Drift let that settle, the praise quiet but potent. He glanced down at Ratchet, the medic already focused forward again, unbothered, steady as ever.
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋
When they reached Swerve’s Bar, Drift’s optimism took a measurable hit.
The doors slid open and noise spilled out in a hot, living wave—music thrumming through the floor plating, laughter ricocheting off the walls, too many sparks crammed into too little space. Lights pulsed in saturated colors that smeared across white armor and chrome alike. Drift paused just inside the threshold, optics narrowing as he took it in.
He didn’t know why he’d expected anything else. An event night at the most popular bar on the Lost Light was never going to be subtle. Still, some small, foolish part of him had hoped for dim lighting and space enough to breathe.
The Lost Light did not do quiet. It barely tolerated calm.
Drift moved first, out of habit. He detached his swords at the security station, placing them into the bouncer’s waiting servos with practiced efficiency. Ten—tall, broad, and built like a wall—accepted them with a single nod. For a mech with a vocabulary that rarely extended beyond a number, he was oddly charming.
Ratchet, meanwhile, had already vanished into the crowd.
Drift watched him go with a mix of fondness and concern as the medic shoved his way through bodies twice his size, muttering under his breath. By the time Drift finished securing his weapons and turned back, Ratchet had claimed a booth toward the rear—shadowed, slightly elevated, blessedly removed from the worst of the chaos.
Ratchet dropped into the seat with a tired sigh and, out of pure reflex, pulled a medical datapad from his subspace.
Drift slid into the opposite side of the booth and immediately snatched it away.
“Would you knock it off with the work?” he huffed, folding the datapad shut before Ratchet could object.
“I was just—”
“No,” Drift said, firm but not unkind. “You’re off duty.”
Ratchet opened his mouth to argue, then stopped when a waiter-bot appeared beside the table, seamlessly setting down two glowing glasses of engex in front of him. Drift leaned back, clearly pleased with himself.
Ratchet eyed the drinks, then Drift.
“You planned this.”
Drift’s mouth curled into a small, victorious smile.
“Obviously.”
The booth absorbed some of the noise, the bar fading into a distant hum rather than a full assault. For a few precious minutes, everything aligned. Ratchet relaxed into the seat, venting slowing as he cradled the glass in one servo. Drift watched him closely, committing the moment to memory—the way Ratchet’s shoulders finally eased, the faint glow in his optics reflecting the lights overhead.
They talked.
Not about patients or ship damage or emergencies waiting just around the corner. Ratchet admitted, quietly, that he was tired. Bone-deep tired. That every time he tried to stop, something—or someone—needed him again.
Drift listened, really listened, and when he spoke, his voice was steady and sincere.
“I’m here,” he said simply. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
Ratchet looked at him for a long moment, something soft and vulnerable flickering across his expression.
And then—
“Well, frag me.”
A familiar, obnoxiously cheerful voice cut through the moment like a blade.
Drift whipped around sharply.
Whirl stood behind the booth, drink clutched in one claw, posture loose and unrepentant. If the mech had a face, Drift was certain he’d be grinning.
“Wow,” Whirl continued, snickering. “And here I thought you’d never drag that mech outta his office.”
“Whirl,” Drift growled, low and warning.
“Oh, come on,” Whirl said, gesturing vaguely between them. “I’m not the only one thinkin’ it.”
Ratchet laid a servo over Drift’s hand under the table, grounding him. Drift exhaled through his vents, forcing his plating to stay still—but his mood had already soured, irritation crawling under his armor.
Whirl, oblivious or uncaring, kept talking. About Ratchet’s workload. About how the medic never took a break. About how he was probably sneak-checking patient charts even now.
Then he laughed and said, far too casually,
“Honestly? Kinda surprised you two are still together.”
The world narrowed.
Drift was on his feet before he fully registered the movement. His spark flared hot and furious as he lunged—
—and was immediately hauled backward.
Ten had crossed the room in seconds. One massive servo clamped around Drift’s upper arm, restraining him with practiced ease.
Ten rumbled, his brow furrowing with a deep slate growl. His gaze flicked between Drift and Ratchet before flicking his helm towards the door.
Drift bristled, but Ratchet was already standing, hand firm on Drift’s arm.
“We’re leaving,” Ratchet said, calm and final.
They didn’t argue.
‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋
The corridor outside the bar was quiet in comparison, the door sealing behind them with a blessed hush. They stood there for several long moments, the tension slowly bleeding out of the air.
Finally, Ratchet turned on Drift.
“You lost your temper,” he said, not angry—disappointed. “You’ve worked too hard on yourself to let Whirl of all mechs undo that.”
Drift stared at the floor plating, jaw tight. He hated that Ratchet was right.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I ruined the night.”
Ratchet snorted, a tired but genuine sound.
“Everyone on this ship is insane,” he said. “I don’t exactly blame you.”
Drift looked up at him, still unsettled, still wanting—needing—to fix it. He took Ratchet’s hands carefully, thumbs brushing over worn plating.
“Come with me,” Drift said softly. “I can make this better.”
Ratchet hesitated only a second before allowing himself to be pulled along.
Drift led him away from the noise, toward the quiet glow of the observation deck—toward the stars, and a night that might still be theirs.
The observation deck was quiet in a way the Lost Light rarely allowed. With most of the crew crammed into Swerve’s for the event, the wide stretch of glass belonged to them alone—stars scattered beyond it like cold embers, slow and steady, uncaring of the small dramas aboard the ship.
Drift guided Ratchet forward until they stood close to the window. He didn’t rush. Didn’t pull. Just… led. His claws brushed lightly down Ratchet’s forearm as they moved, a deliberate, careful touch, tracing familiar lines in worn plating.
When his claws reached Ratchet’s palms, he let them linger, dragging slowly, almost lazily.
Ratchet shuddered despite himself.
Drift noticed everything.
The way Ratchet’s vents hitched, just barely. The reflexive curl of his fingers, caught between pulling away and leaning into it. The subtle tightening of his shoulders, not from tension now, but from sensation—old servos, overworked and sensitive, responding exactly as Drift knew they would.
A faint, smug curve tugged at Drift’s mouth.
He stepped closer, close enough that Ratchet could feel the warmth of his plating, close enough that the rest of the ship seemed very far away.
“You mean so much to me,” Drift murmured, voice low, meant only for him.
His claws continued their slow exploration, tracing the broad planes of Ratchet’s palms, circling joints worn smooth by centuries of use. Drift pressed just enough to make Ratchet feel it—never sharp, never threatening. Intimate. Knowing.
Ratchet let out a quiet breath, optics dimming slightly. His hands trembled where Drift held them, spark responding before his mouth could find words.
“You know,” Ratchet muttered, trying—and failing—to sound gruff, “most people don’t treat my hands like they’re some kind of—frag—delicate instrument.”
Drift’s claws paused, then shifted, brushing along the base of Ratchet’s fingers.
“Most people don’t see how much you carry in them,” he said softly. “How much you give.”
Ratchet went still at that.
Drift lifted one of Ratchet’s hands, turning it carefully, reverently, as though reading a map he already knew by spark. His thumb traced a line across the center of the palm, slow and deliberate.
“You’re tired,” Drift said quietly. “But you’re still here. Still trying. Still choosing to care, even when it costs you.”
Ratchet swallowed. The sensation was grounding and overwhelming all at once. His servos buzzed faintly where Drift touched him, overstimulated in that uniquely vulnerable way that came from being seen too clearly.
“And you,” Ratchet said after a moment, voice gentler now, “you’re trying too. I see it. Even when you stumble.”
Drift’s smile softened, losing its edge. He leaned his helm lightly against Ratchet’s temple, claws finally stilling, simply holding his hands now—warm, steady, present.
“I want to be better,” Drift admitted. “For you. For us.”
Ratchet squeezed his hands in return, careful but firm.
“Then we’ll keep trying,” he said. “Together.”
Outside the glass, the stars drifted on in silence.
Inside, the tension finally loosened its grip, leaving only quiet warmth and the shared understanding that, even when nights went wrong, they were still finding their way back to each other.
࣭ ⭑ .