Chapter Text
Ratchet looked up from his datapad when the bundle of blankets nestled next to him wriggled around for the tenth time in as many minutes. Realizing that he had reread the same sentence three times now, he turned his attention to the blankets.
“Drift? Everything alright?” Ratchet whispered. When his question was met with only silence, he gently nudged the restless lump.
“Yeah. Fine. I’m sleeping,” Came the muffled reply.
“No, you’re not!” Ratchet chuckled.
“You don’t know!” The bundle huffed indignantly.
“You mean aside from the fact that you couldn’t answer my questions if you were actually asleep? How about this? When you recharge, you sleep so hard that sometimes I check your vital signs just to make sure that you’re still alive.”
“That’s not true!” Drift disentangled himself from the blankets, throwing them off from over his head. His bright blue optics sparkled with mirth. Ratchet’s own spark spun a little faster in his chest as he contemplated just how lucky he was to finally have a chance for a life together with Drift. Still, he could never resist and opportunity to tease him.
“You don’t know.” Ratchet shrugged in a very poor impression of Drift.
Drift laughed. “That is NOT what I sound like!”
“Close enough! But seriously, if you’re having trouble sleeping, I could give you something to-”
“No, thank you!” Drift waved off his offer. “I got some new goldstones from Anode and Lug. Maybe the crystals need to be realigned to capture more positive energy?”
“Wait!” Ratchet grabbed Drift’s arm before he could jump up and fiddle with the angles of the colorful gemstones that he had placed in various locations around the room. He gently pulled him closer, surprised at how easily Drift melted under his touch.
“What if, instead of...” Ratchet trailed off while he racked his brain for the gentlest way to call all of Drift’s faith in crystals and energies a load of fragging rust wash. Since he couldn’t come up with an agreeable phrase, he just sighed and got to the point. “What if I gave you something new to think about, like when we all told stories to help fix Rung’s brain.”
“Aww! Ratty! Are you gonna tell me a bedtime story?” Drift’s finials canted back. A mischievous grin spread across his face. The tips of his fangs showed, revealing shades of the predatory instincts that made him such a formidable warrior. “Is it about your Party Ambulance phase?”
“WH- WHAT!??” Ratchet sputtered in shock. “How do you know about that!?”
“Did you know,” Drift asked, optics wide with feigned innocence, “That Thunderclash will cheerfully answer ANY question that you ask him? In great detail?”
“That’s because he’s too sweet to tell you to frag off and mind your business.” Ratchet grumbled. “I’m going to have a talk with my old roommate.”
“Why?” A pained look crossed Drift’s face. “You know all about the types of things that I did back in the Dead End because I told you about most of it myself. Are you ashamed to admit to your own... indiscretions?”
“That’s not it at all!” Ratchet felt his face plates heat up under Drift’s intense stare. He focused on the ceiling and squirmed. “It’s just that- I- um- I- don’t really remember much of it.” He quickly ran through the explanation, knowing that Drift heard him but somehow still stupidly hoping that he didn’t.
“Oh, Primus!” Drift snorted. “You can’t be serious!?”
“Please.” Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “If Thunderclash told you even a fraction of the things that we got into, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Besides, this isn’t about what I can’t remember, this is about helping you with things that you can’t forget.”
“Oh, no! This is definitely helping. Believe me!” Drift snickered, dim light playing across his polished white armor and vibrant crimson accents.
“Good. Think you can go back to sleep now while I finish proofreading the first chapter of First Aid’s memoir? I told him that I’d get it back to him for revisions.” Ratchet crossed his arms, calling his bluff.
“Well...” Drift winced.
The slightest hint of discomfort was all Ratchet needed to see. He turned off the datapad and set it aside. Ratchet wrapped an arm around Drift’s shoulders and the speedster nestled into his side with practiced ease. “Although... I don’t think I could read another line about Springer’s dashing good looks or incredible virtues right now.”
“That’s mean.” Drift snickered, tension bleeding out of his struts as Ratchet gathered him in.
“It’s true.”
“If you’re sure it’s not interrupting, there is something that I’ve been wondering about...”
Ratchet raised a brow ridge. He wanted to say that nothing was ever more important than Drift, but he’s still getting used to being more open. Sometimes he just couldn’t find the right words to say the most important things. Instead, he waited patiently, pleased that Drift hadn’t fidgeted around for a few minutes.
“The other night, you mentioned that Hun-Garr and the Terrorcons always watched out for you after we saved him. I never knew about any of that. Since helping them was one of the few good things that I did during that time of my life, I’d like to know more. Could you tell me one of those stories? Please?”
“Of course,” Ratchet nodded. A kind light shone in his optics but his spark twisted a little in his chest. Drift asked so carefully, so tentatively, like he thought Ratchet might say no. If he could go back in time and save Drift from a lifetime of regrets, he would do it in an instant. Unfortunately, their last time adventure created a horrific alternate universe. Since unbalancing the space-time continuum wasn’t really an option, he would gladly do anything in the present to help him move forward. They both had their own issues, but if they could help each other carry their burdens, then maybe it wouldn’t be so hard. “We’ll start at the beginning. I’ll tell you about the very first time they pulled my fender out of the fire.”
“Thank you,” Drift vented a sigh laced with more relief than Ratchet had expected. “I just like hearing your voice.”
“Hmph. If my voice sounds good to you, you probably need your audials recalibrated.” Ratchet smiled at Drift’s laughter as he settled himself more comfortably in their shared berth. He snuggled Drift closer, reveling in the pleasant hum of the speedster's engine. “Let’s see... It was a little while after we parted ways that night...”
_____________________________________________________________________
“RATCHET! INCOMING!!”
Ratchet cast a wary optic up to scan the skies while up to his elbows in the fuel tanks of a wounded jet. The telltale streak of light that heralded an approaching missile sent his energon running cold.
“Frag it all!” He threw himself over his battered patient, hoping his sturdier frame would shield the slight flier. He shut his optics, gritted his teeth, and braced for impact.
A half a second later, the shockwave from the detonating ordinance scrambled his audials. A shower of debris pattered off his back. Shocked, he opened his optics. Instead of being blown into tiny pieces, he found himself in the smoking shadow of a large technicolor armored transport.
“CLASH?! What the HELL did you just do?”
“Oh, nothing,” the big truck coughed and tried to turn his stalled engine over several times before it fired. “Just saved your life. You know, no big deal. Almost didn’t make it in time.”
“In time for WHAT?” Ratchet yelled, turning back to finish patching his original patient. “To get yourself killed?”
“Thunderclash! Thank you so much for shielding me from the latest missile barrage.” The colorful truck muttered in a poor imitation of Ratchet. “No problem, Ratch! I know you’d do the same for me.” He continued carrying on the conversation with himself, while Ratchet did his best to ignore him.
“Knock it off!” Ratchet grumbled. “And what about all the wounded that are riding along in your cargo bed?”
“They’re fine.” Thunderclash answered, uncertainty wavering in his voice. “Right? Everybody okay back there?”
A chorus of affirmative grumbles and moans sounded from battered group lost and wounded autobots they managed to collect.
Ratchet welded the last seam on the jet’s main fuel line and gingerly lifted him to his feet. The poor spark needed a lot more work: one wing was completely crumpled, armor was burnt by laser fire, his overheating vent fans whined constantly, but he was alive and now no longer in danger of leaking to death.
“I think he’ll have to sit up front.” Thunderclash opened his side door. “My cargo bay is pretty full. We should probably head back to base.”
“Right.” Ratchet helped the jet into Thunderclash’s cab then walked around to his other side to examine the missile impact. He grimaced at the blistered paint and scorched armor. This was all his fault. If he had been more careful, Thunderclash would never have caught him sneaking out into the field at night to search for wounded soldiers instead of recharging. Granted, they were able to save many more Autobots once the big transport bot insisted on joining him, but he still felt responsible for his friend’s injuries. “I’m going to have to patch you up too.”
“Me? Don’t worry about it! I’m fine.” Thunderclash bragged as he slowly shifted into first gear, engine rumbling. “I could take like six more of those before I would even feel it.”
Ratchet huffed and poked his blackened armor with one finger.
“OW! Hey! Watch it!” The truck shuddered.
“You could take six more missiles, huh?” Ratchet shook his head and shifted into ambulance mode to lead Thunderclash back through the battlefield. The big bot possessed boundless enthusiasm for their secret rescue missions, but he couldn’t navigate his way out of an energon cube.
“Yeah! Missiles are way gentler than some probing medic’s fingers.”
“Please! I barely touched you.”
“Besides... I think these were ours.”
“Wait!” Ratchet slammed on his brakes. “Are you saying that we almost got killed by friendly fire?!”
“Yeah.” Thunderclash carefully swerved to avoid colliding with Ratchet. “Decepticon missiles usually have an incendiary charge or explosive shrapnel. These were pretty straightforward no frills ordinance, which is what we generally use. No one knows we’re out here so we probably show up on the scanners as ‘suspicious activity.’ Optimus would blow a gasket if he knew we spent our nights creeping across the battlefield instead of resting up for the next day.”
“I can’t believe we’re going through all this trouble just to get murdered by our own army.” Ratchet muttered as he resumed threading their way back to base. As much as he hated to put his friends in harm’s way, he did appreciate the help. Not that he’d ever admit it. “No one asked you to come.”
“You didn’t have to!” came Thunderclash’s cheery reply. “By carrying everyone at once, I’m saving you loads of trips and we get to save as many bots as possible.”
“But you got hurt.”
“And if I wasn’t there, you’d be dead.”
“I’d be fine.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You’re probably too stubborn to die.”
“Oh, come on!” Ratchet chuckled. Maybe having Clash tag along wasn’t so bad. His indefatigable cheeriness tempered Ratchet's stubborn gruffness. They continued trundling along the broken terrain, lights out to avoid any unwanted attention. Ratchet led, carefully picking out the smoothest path to avoid jostling the wounded more than absolutely necessary. As they made their way through mounds of debris kicked up by an intense barrage of explosives, something caught his attention. He could have sworn he heard a voice.
“Please... I’m scared...”
Ratchet abruptly hit his brakes again. Hearing the squeal of large tires trying desperately to stop, he transformed and hopped out of the way before Thunderclash skidded into him.
“Watch it!” Thunderclash huffed. “Call your stops! If I wreck into you, you’ll be in my cargo hold along with every-”
“Shhh!” Ratchet hissed sharply, and Thunderclash instantly fell silent. “I thought I heard something.” He strained his audials, hoping to pick up the sound again.
“I don’t want to die... Not alone...” There it was again. Definitely a voice, barely louder than a whisper.
While Ratchet searched the surrounding rubble for any possible life signs, Thunderclash did his best to suppress the loud rumble of his engine. Just as he was about to give up, Ratchet spotted the telltale shimmer of freshly spilled energon gleaming under the star light around a mound of debris. Narrowing his optics, he made out white and blue armor, energon leaking from a ragged wound next to... a fragging purple badge.
Ratchet clenched his fists. Autobot, Decepticon, it didn’t matter. He had already decided to help the moment those pathetic whimpers first reach his audials, but he couldn’t risk Thunderclash and the battered soldiers that they’ve rescued so far. Although unlikely, the possibility of reinforcements lurking nearby put them all in danger.
“Clash, I need you to take this lot back to base. There’s something that I need to take care of first.”
“That’s okay. I can wait.” Thunderclash shifted into neutral.
“You can wait, but some of them can’t!” Ratchet gestured towards his cargo hold. “Go straight to the medibay and let Pharma get started. He’ll know what to do.”
“But-”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
“That’s all well and good, but I’ll never find the base by myself. I’ll get lost.”
“Oh, for rust’s sake! Now who’s being stubborn?” Ratchet grumbled. He leaned into Thunderclash’s cab to address the wounded jet they rescued from the missile barrage. “You! How’s your navigational skills?”
“Sir?” The jet winced, optics slowly dimming, his one good hand clutched over the hasty welds holding his side together. “I am a member of the reconnaissance team.”
“That’s nice, but it doesn’t answer my fragging question.”
“I can direct you anywhere you need to go.” The jet stated with a cocksure attitude that belied his miserable condition.
“Good. Then direct this lugnut back to base so he doesn’t get lost.”
The jet laughed weakly. “Good one, sir.”
“What’s so funny?” Thunderclash asked. “I get lost all the time.”
“Yeah. Sure you do,” the jet scoffed, like he didn’t believe it for a second.
“It’s why I’m late for everything,” Thunderclash muttered. “Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?”
“They’re all distracted by your extreme hotness.” Ratchet deadpanned. “Why do you think we always got free drinks when we went out?”
“WH- WHAT?! I always thought it was because of how you danced on the tables.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ratchet’s face curled into a wicked grin at the chorus of snickering from the wounded bots in Thunderclash’s cargo bay. “Now haul your handsome bumper out of here!”
“But-”
“GO!”
“Fine! But if you’re not back by the time I get these bots to Pharma, I’m coming looking for you.”
“You sure as hell better not! I don’t need to spend the rest of the night searching for a navigationally-challenged gearstick that doesn’t know how to listen to reason.”
“No promises!” Thunderclash called as he pulled away.
“Right behind you!” Ratchet waved.
As soon as Thunderclash was out of sight, Ratchet turned back towards the wounded Decepticon. He cracked his knuckles, drew himself up, and strode forward, hoping that he wasn’t walking straight into some type of ambush. If he became a prisoner of war again, maybe he’d at least get to see the kid one more time before he died.