Rodimus does as he's told for once in his life without complaint, no attempt to jerk his hands back. The lump in his throat is still there, heavy even as his spark feels so small and compact it might vanish altogether. Drift has to be okay. He has to be, there's not another acceptable option. But Rodimus nods when Ratchet mutters the name, even though he didn't see it.

"I didn't-- he was gone for two days," his voice is high and staticky. "I thought he was just meditating or something."

Because that's what Drift does. Goes off and meditates and talks about energy and auras and stupid things like that. It's not fair, he thinks, to have him back and then to lose him right after.

"Ratchet--" Rodimus finally looks up from where his hands are, from where the Decepticon symbol is carved into Drift's chest where his autobrand should be, staring at the medic's face. "I just got him back."