robothell | [ THE "DRIFT GOT HECKED UP BY TARN" CATCH-ALL POST ]

The first night Drift didn’t come back to the place Rodimus picked out, Rodimus is unbothered. They’ve both been in and out - just because he didn’t hear Drift doesn’t mean he didn’t swing by to catch a few hours of recharge. He’s a bit put out that he didn’t even warrant a hello, but he’ll just see him later. Except the hours passed and he didn’t even get one comm; the logical response being to comm him first - from which he went through curious to annoyed that Drift wasn’t picking up.

Could be out of range, he’ll have someone from Team Rodimus look at them later. He does, however, stay up all night waiting for Drift to come back. And when the sun rises and he’s still not back, Rodimus starts to get worried. The logical thing would be to grab Magnus - his Second in Command had recommended teams what with Tarn wandering around—

And then it hits him. He needs to find Drift, just to know he’s okay. Because Drift is fine, right? There’s no way he’d let anything happen to him.

At least that’s what he thinks, but the more he searches the city and comes up with nothing the more fear sets in, digging its claws into his spark until he can’t shake it. It’s going to be fine, he tells himself, Drift’s going to pop around that corner and pick up his great sword and laugh at his uncharacteristic worry and it’s going to be fine.

His great sword. Panic rises in him as he rushes to it, and then the what else he’s seeing registers. Energon, not all that fresh, and oh Primus no. Not Drift. He just got him back, he can’t lose him again. There’s a trail leading away from the city and it takes Rodimus doesn’t think twice before locking the sword to his back before following as fast as he can. Maybe he’s not too late, maybe it’s something else and Drift is fine - just misplaced his prized possession that’s all.

Any hope he has vanishes the moment he sees the light glint off a prone form, white and red and black, covered in energon. He can’t help it, a strangled “No!” escaping him before he even knows for sure it’s Drift. No, no, nononononono—

“Drift,” he says, falling to his knees, hands hovering over Drift’s chest uselessly. “Don’t— you’re not allowed to die, Drift. You can’t.” He feels as if something’s lodged in his throat and he can’t get it out no matter how hard he tries. Helpless, he’s helpless as his friend is— dead? Maybe he’s not too late, maybe Drift will open the one optic he has left and smile at Rodimus through what remains of his jaw and… Rodimus chokes back a sob at the same time he finally realizes he’s hearing something.

Drift. He’s still alive.

Rodimus doesn’t think then, as if he was before. Getting his arms around Drift is hard enough; smearing energon on himself in the process as he tries to swing one of Drift’s arms around his shoulders. Ratchet. Ratchet will know what to do.

He’s not sure how he gets to the clinic. All he can do is focus on the sound of Drift’s systems as proof he’s not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Stumbling at the entrance, and his grip on Drift slipping, it’s all he can do to keep himself upright.

“Ratchet! Ratchet, you have to—” His voice breaks into a sob and he should be ashamed of himself but he can’t find it in himself to be. “It’s Drift.”

Please be there, please come, please save him.

Ratchet might not have recognized the crumpled, leaking form in Rodimus' arms without that clarification--as it is, his optics go wide and pale with shock, but he's already moving, swinging on the rough-hewn crutches he made for himself, hooking one around a slab on wheels and dragging it out from the wall.

"Put him down," he raps out, already starting to gather whatever tools they've managed to scavenge one-handed and depositing them on the berth, knowing Rodimus won't know where they are if he asks. "What the hell happ--"

Ratchet stops, actually stops with a critical patient on a slab, to stare down at the ragged, bleeding cuts gouged deep into Drift's chestplate. "Tarn," he says numbly, but he doesn't have time for anger, not now. He's moving again in a split second, heaving himself back to the edge of the stretcher and leaning hard on his crutches to free up both hands and grab Rodimus'. He doesn't ask.

"Press here," he snaps, pushing them down to one side of Drift's chestplate to shift the crumpled mess of it off a ruined set of tubes and wires, starting to patch leaks as fast as he finds him, his face drawn and and set.

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."

Edited (EHH EDITING AGAIN) 2015-02-03 06:19 (UTC)

Ratchet adjusts Rodimus' hands again, working methodically, mechanically, knowing that he needs to get energon back into Drift's systems as soon as possible and knowing he can't do that until he's sure it's not all going to end up on the floor in five minutes.

"You couldn't have known," Ratchet says, barely paying attention as he starts pulling at Rodimus' wrist to help him lift plating, pressing out deep welts and gouges so they're not pressing against critical lines anymore, then easing them back into place. He heaves in a shaking vent of air as his hands touch the center of Drift's chest plate, almost hesitating, before he forces himself to start sealing over the cuts, burning the shape of the symbol into his plating. His teeth clench and his optics sharpen, voice a raw rasp when he speaks again, though he still doesn't look up into Rodimus' face.

"Yeah, you did. And he's not going anywhere. Not if I can help it."

Ratchet saying it doesn't make it better, even though he knows it should. Drift is still his crew, and more than that, his friend. If Rodimus can't prevent this then what good is he? Guilt curls up in him and he winces as the sigil become sharp against the white. There should be something else there. There always should have been.

He knows that he's not on the best terms with Ratchet. Not... back on the Lost Light, not with what he didn't tell Drift before. But he knows Ratchet, he's known him for years and he's the best there is - if anyone can save Drift, Ratchet can. "I know," Rodimus says. "He can't die." His voice doesn't waver as much when he says it this time, as unsteady as it still is.

If he repeats it over and over again something will happen that's unrelated to the panic and the fear that he feels. Drift can't die, Rodimus won't let him. Ratchet won't let him.

And maybe that will be enough.

Edited 2015-02-03 07:27 (UTC)

Ratchet shivers a little, still focused on his work, unable and unwilling to look up into Rodimus' face. He can't die. The weight of that trust presses down on him for a moment until he aches all over, his optics dimming where they're focused on struggling to straighten and reassemble the delicate, destroyed mechanisms of Drift's wrist so his self-repair can get to work--until he shakes it off, taking a sharp breath and finishing one arm, then straightening up.

"Move. We're switching sides," he says, putting hands slick with energon and oil back on the handles of his crutches so he can limp around the slab, his mouth drawn taut as he jerks his chin at Rodimus. "I know you're not used to assisting, but we haven't got all day, let's go."

"Huh?" Rodimus is shaken out of the thoughts he'd spiraled into to nod, pulling his hands back so he can move, and then he actually looks at Ratchet and his tanks lurch. Crutches. Ratchet's missing a leg and he didn't even know. He stares for a minute before he suddenly remembers what he's here for and moves - stepping around the chief medical officer.

"What happened to you?"

Tactless and crass, but he needs to know. Ratchet is a member of his crew, and as much responsibility he has to Drift, he has the same to Ratchet.

Ratchet snorts, jerking his chin down at Drift as he settles in again so he can keep working, ignoring the ache starting to settle under his arms.

"What do you think? Tarn came by looking for a t-cog and someone to install it and I told him to shove it up his tailpipe. He didn't like that too much." He keeps his optics on Drift's limp, prone form, hands curling carefully around Drift's ruined wrist. "I got off light, seems like."

There's an uncharacteristic silence as Rodimus fights to keep his hands where they are and not curl them into fists as rage slams into him. Tarn.

"He's not going to get the chance to do this again, Ratchet." Rodimus isn't going to let him. And as much as he feels helpless and useless in the face of someone, he's not going to let him touch any other member of his crew. Thinking outside of the box, making hopeless situations work for him is his strength. Something will come up and nothing will happen to his crew from that point on.

"Nobody has the time to worry about that right now," Ratchet snaps, optics flicking up to Rodimus for a moment, anger flaring there. "I have better things to do, and I need you to focus. Hold this."

He grabs Rodimus' hands and fits them against Drift's breastplate, making Rodimus help lever it up to bare Drift's spark chamber. His hands come down, slow and careful as he checks critical systems, smoothing wires and ensuring there's no serious trauma, his face bathed in soft blue light as he leans in.

At least Drift's spark still burns, and while Rodimus' face is set in a frown he does as he's told. But he doesn't need Ratchet yelling at him, not for this. Focusing on that gives him a chance to work that lump in his throat down, shove the the panic and the fear for Drift's life into a part of him that will deal with it.

"Look at him," he says, his voice cracking somewhere partway through the sentence. It's a pointless thing to say when Ratchet's got his face close to Drift's spark chamber (and Rodimus sees that part of the casing is missing - he knew it would be but it's different to see it). "And it's not just Drift, it's you and Trailbreaker and--"

Too many. One is too many, but this is enough. This is too much.

"Rodimus," Ratchet says, his voice almost a snarl. He remembers First Aid bringing Trailcutter in, even less recognizable than Drift, the wet, mangled mess of the thing that used to tip into his medibay at three am, still drunk and laughing and leaking from some superficial wound he'd insist on telling Ratchet how he got, despite Ratchet's protestations that he didn't care as long as Trailcutter was careful next time--Ratchet's hands slam down onto the slab and leave wet palm prints they tremble slightly before he presses them flat and cycles his vents roughly.

"Focus or get the hell out," he says, his voice ragged as he leans on his arms, taking the opportunity to ease some of the weight off his crutches, staring blindly at the flickering light of Drift's spark for a second before he reaches in again. "I can't right now. I need to work. I can't."

Flinching back, Rodimus drops his gaze from Ratchet back to Drift's chest. His hands curl into the metal he's holding and it's only when he comes back to himself does he relax his grip - catching himself before he puts more dents into it.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." But that just means the feelings he wasn't thinking about crawl back, settling deep around his spark. His frown turns more and more hopeless the longer he has to stand in silence. Drift has to be okay, he has to he has to he has to. "What did he do?"

Tarn that is, because while Rodimus know Tarn destroyed Drift, he just wants to know how bad. It's something to talk about, right? And get his mind off of-- of everything else.

"Lot of blunt force trauma. Nothing too deliberate or surgical. He just wanted to do as much damage as possible." Ratchet's fingertips brush the ragged edge of the piece cut from Drift's spark casing, almost absently, before he draws back and helps Rodimus ease the plate down, locking it back into place. "It's going to require a lot of materials to fix, but it's not undoable."

"Guess he succeeded," he says, but his eyes are drawn to the carved symbol on Drift's chest and his tanks churn uncomfortably. He just wanted to as much damage as possible. Rodimus doesn't want to think about it, doesn't even want to look at it. Anyway, if Ratchet's not going to mention it neither will Rodimus. For now at least.

"What do you need?" Because Rodimus will get it, no questions asked.

"Replacement playing, mostly. Paint, eventually. Some of this isn't going to salvageable." Ratchet runs slow, careful fingers down Drift's side, over a horribly rent section of delicate, interlocking plates, as though he could smooth them back into place by will and touch alone.

"I'll need to rig a direct fuel hookup, too--he's not going to be able to swallow properly through that mess, but I have what I need for that."

That's easy to say, and a lot harder to come by. "So we give him some of mine, and then what?" Rodimus would probably offer to try and peel some off of Tarn if it'd help. Rubbing the back of his helm with an energon covered hand, he doesn't pay attention to the fact he's getting it all over.

His optics land on Drift's face, or what's left of it, and he feels as desperate as he did when he was carrying his body with no idea if he could even be saved. Letting out a shuddering vent, Rodimus almost curls in on himself. It'll be fine, he thinks, it has to be fine. Ratchet's the best.

Edited (WORDS MAN, WORDS) 2015-02-04 23:25 (UTC)

"I'm not stripping your plating, Rodimus," Ratchet says, a little irritably, but there's a strange ache in his voice, buried deep. "Don't be dramatic. It's not that dire and I'll--I'll figure something out."

He bends to his work again and moves in silence for a while, his mouth set and his optics focused even as the rest of him slumps slowly and steadily into his crutches, aching everywhere and unwilling to stop.

Edited 2015-02-04 23:34 (UTC)

"If you need to, though," Rodimus says, before falling silent again and watching Ratchet work - doing his best to follow the nonverbal instructions Ratchet gives him. And when that doesn't happen, he picks up Drift's hand - giving it a squeeze before letting it fall to the side.

It's a while later before he says, so quiet that maybe Ratchet will miss it: "I know you will." Figure something out. Save Drift. He mentioned it, earlier, but now he feels like he needs to say it again.

Ratchet's hands slow, just for a second, feeling almost nauseated under the awful weight of that simple trust, pressing hard down on the tops of his fuel tanks. His optics shutter briefly and he draws in a ragged vent of air, his expression refusing to shift before he moves at speed again, his lips pressed thin together.

"Yeah," he says shortly, and he doesn't say anything else for a long time.

The awkward silence is eventually broken by a full tank of energon being hoisted up next to Drift's operating table. A fuel hose is coiled neatly by its side, and next to it is the full array of instruments from the storage room.

Megatron had been at a distance as the orange Autobot brought in another patient - badly injured. At having seen Ratchet's hands flit over the mangled frame, the list of supplies needed for major surgery darted through his memory and he made his way to the back room.

At the surgical table, he begins to screw on a hypodermic attachment to the end of the hose to get a line going in to this Autobot. But there's a sudden, long pause as he gets a closer look and sees an attempt at a Decepticon badge scrawled over the bot's chassis. He finds his hands frozen for a moment, drawing in a slow breath at the gory results of Tarn's idea of punishment, some of his breath escaping through the still untreated exposed jaw structure of his face.

But it was just a moment, and he quickly finds himself able to finish sealing the connection and beginning the flow of energon through the transparent tubing.

"Is his arm line still okay?

Rodimus doesn't spare a glance for the other medic at first, just assuming Ratchet's managed to pull in Flatline or someone else who'd ended up on this Cybertron. Not that he expects Ratchet to lighten his load - that's just not who Ratchet is. There's a betting pool on the Lost Light that Ratchet will die before he actually gives up the title of Chief Medical Officer to First Aid.

But there's no disguising that voice. Rodimus knows that voice. Sure, it's a lot less tired than the last time he heard it, but it's still Megatron. And when he looks up there's nothing but a half melted face looking back at him and that's the last goddamn thing Rodimus wants to see. Panic flashes over his face before it hardens into something unforgiving.

"What are you doing here? What are you doing?" He's tired and covered in energon that isn't his, but that's not going to stop him from not letting this happen. Whatever this is. "Get away from him."

The fact that he could be trying to help completely escapes him, because Megatron doesn't know how to heal anyone. He's just good at destroying and murdering and things that already happened to Drift.

Ratchet doesn't mistake that voice either, and he doesn't look up.

"Good, you're here. I need your hands--he needs to be turned over so I can start on his back. Rodimus, you're relieved, go get some rest. I know you're about to pass out." He finishes up what he's doing and draws back--he's slick with energon to the elbow, some spattered on his face, and he looks only very briefly, flickeringly tired before he straightens in his crutches again--then almost drops them when he catches sight of Megatron's face, his optics paling.

"What the hell happened to you? You were gone for--" Ratchet cuts himself off, swearing, then looks back at Drift. Megatron has already finished prepping an IV--he can obviously still work. He looks almost pained as his optics flick back up to that half-ruined face.

"I genuinely don't have time to fix that right now," he says, an odd kind of strain in his voice. "Help me get him turned over and you can hook that up."

Megatron does look at Rodimus as he grows more and more upset, waiting for Ratchet to talk him down in case the orange Autobot tries to do something stupid (he seemed like the type.). When he's dismissed by Ratchet, Megatron's attention is drawn back to the medic and to the IV in his own hand, setting the needle back on the frame so he can focus on the task at hand.

"I know," is all he says regarding his own injury. He's well aware of triage and what that entails, and he wasn't the one dying on a surgical bed or missing a whole limb.

He looks down at Drift and prepares for the turn, positioning himself to get a stable hold on the bot's shoulders and hips.

Edited 2015-02-08 00:19 (UTC)

"But that's Megatron," he protests as he has no choice but to step backwards. And stumbles as he does so, just proving Ratchet's point about him being exhausted. But that's not the point, the point is that that is Megatron. And Ratchet doesn't care. How can he not care?

Rodimus rubs a hand across his face, leaving a trail of energon as he attempts to focus in on the problem. Or just Drift. Mostly Drift. "Why is he here?"

Please answer him, Ratchet, he's so confused right now.

FOR RATCHET

KEENING WAIL

you were warned in the post warnings

MY BODY WAS NOT READY

WELL NOW YOU KNOW

i am justly punished

we all make mistakes it's okay

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