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

When Drift wakes up, the first thing he recognizes is the pain.

He comes to slowly, in fragmented gasps of consciousness, so slowly that he can't even really be sure he's awake at all. He dimly remembers his last moments, Tarn's terrifying visage, the message burned into his spark -- muddled and confused in his half-conscious mind, but there, a constant background hum. Consciousness comes to him in waves, ebbing and flowing in synaptic tides as his body and mind struggle to reconcile. And then comes the pain, not in waves but a flood, firing through every circuit at once, and Drift doesn't even notice as his pained groan only comes out as static. His optics snap wide open at the burning rush of sensation, not really seeing, not recognizing the room he's in. His spark constricts weakly in his chest and his body stiffens on the slab as he tries to move but finds he can't, every joint and limb sparking with pain and too heavy for him to lift.

"Hell. Kid, calm down, you're all right--"

Ratchet is across the room when he hears Drift stir, earlier than anticipated--earlier than Ratchet would have really liked, honestly. He moves to Drift's bedside as quickly as he can, hand settling on Drift's chest as he leans over him, optics aching and intent.

"You're safe. Drift. Relax. ...I've got you."

Edited 2015-02-03 13:06 (UTC)

Drift doesn't know what it says that his kneejerk reaction to Ratchet's reassurance is only more dread, a sickening certainty that this is as bad as it feels and much, much worse. The pain is overwhelming to begin with but that aching look on Ratchet's face is even worse, somehow. Drift doesn't think Ratchet's ever looked at him like that, not that he can recall. His venting is shallow, and he's too tired, too beaten down to keep the raw, pained terror from showing in his optics, artifacts left behind by Tarn's punishment.

Ratchet, he tries to say, but it only comes out as static. He tries again, trying to engage his vocalizer but it only responds with a muted click before giving way to more static, and light in Drift's optics falters, nauseated frustration spreading over his face. He can't speak, can barely move -- but he still tries to lift his hand to cover Ratchet's, weak and shaking.

"Don't try to talk," Ratchet says firmly. "Tarn did a number on your vocalizer and I'm trying to give your self-repair time to do as much as it can. It'll go faster if you don't strain it. You're on the mend otherwise, even if it doesn't feel like it."

He reaches out immediately, curling his fingers around Drift's and settling into his crutches so he can press Drift's palm between both of his own.

"You're going to be all right."

Drift stares back up at him helplessly, at a loss for what to do with Ratchet's quiet reassurances, the hands clasped warm around his own, and his spark falters in his chest, air hitching in his vents. He doesn't know what it means that Ratchet's looking at him like that and he's not on his deathbed.

He doesn't need to wait for the memories to come back to him, because they're already there -- the sickening tangled mess of shame and defeat and terror and anger on behalf of everyone else that Tarn had left with him is still there, has been all along, hadn't gone anywhere while Drift had been unconscious. It knots low in his tanks, settling in and dragging his spark down with it. Drift can still feel where Tarn had etched the brand into his plating even if he can't see it, a weight pressing down hard on his chest.

Drift shifts his hand in Ratchet's grip, palm-to-palm, tries to thread shaking fingers with Ratchet's, his thumb pressed to Ratchet's wrist. He doesn't know if Ratchet's chirolingual, it's never come up, but he has no voice, no other way to speak. Drift swallows and it burns, but his optics are still fixed on Ratchet's face as he presses in to stimulate the nervecircuits in Ratchet's hand.

How long?

Ratchet's optics widen in surprise as Drift's fingertips shift against his playing, but recognition flares in his face.

"A few days. Three. Not too long, considering." His fingers are still against Drift's, loose, patient. "You're not all the way rebuilt yet--you lost a lot of plating, and some of it I couldn't save, but we're moving as fast as we can with the resources we've got."

Drift lets out a shuddering sigh of air from his vents, a small trickle of relief dripping into his optics when Ratchet understands him. Bedrest has never sat well with Drift, but he knows Ratchet is working with limited resources, and he knows -- he trusts that Ratchet is doing everything he can. Drift's optics flicker slightly, looking Ratchet over for the first time, and he sees the crutches, the way Ratchet is leaning heavily on one side. He can't see below the waist, but dull alarm flickers over his face, his slackened mouth pulling into a frown.

What happened?

"Ah." Ratchet withdraws his hand and takes up his crutches again, taking a step back so Drift can see the lower edge of his pelvic block, where there's just... nothing, where a leg should be. He steps back in after a second, taking Drift's hand again comfortably.

"Same as you," he says, not sounding particularly bothered. "Tarn wanted a t-cog transplant from an Autobot medic, for old times' sake, I'm assuming. I was... not polite in telling him no. Don't look at me like that, kid, I'm fine. I got off easy, apparently."

Drift's optics pale despite Ratchet's insistence, fear for what might have happened to Ratchet glimmering just behind the glass. He looks sick, knowing that even with Ratchet's typically blasé attitude it must have hurt, that it must be hard. Drift can only imagine the state Ratchet's leg must be, if he hasn't just reattached it already.

I'm sorry, he presses into Ratchet's hand anyway. None of it is his fault, but he still feels as though he's failed somehow, to protect them, maybe. That he wasn't there. Drift just looks uncharacteristically defeated right now, his body heavy on the slab.

Edited 2015-02-03 19:24 (UTC)

"Hey," Ratchet says, his voice low and softer than Drift has heard it in... a long time, likely. "No. There was nothing you could have done. Not much anybody could have done, really, after I deliberately pissed Tarn off. Anyway."

Ratchet watches Drift, his expression shifting unreadably.

"I know you don't remember Delphi, but this brings me back," he says, almost quietly. "The base was on Messatine, right in the middle of DJD territory. When we were first attacked, we thought it was them, and you asked me to kill you if they came around, to keep you from getting captured." An expression that's too lopsided and pained to be a grin stretches part of his mouth. "I told you to go to hell."

Drift recalls Ratchet talking about this before, the incident on Delphi -- but it had been mixed in with so much else in the way of things he'd missed that he hadn't had a chance to really dwell on it. Ratchet said Drift caught the virus too, that it nearly killed him -- all of them -- and now Drift has a special appreciation for why his future self would ask Ratchet for something like that. But what strikes him more than anything else is Ratchet's tone, the way he's looking at Drift -- it's jarring, because Ratchet never talks to him like this. It must have been bad at Delphi, much worse than Drift realized.

He wasn't going to kill me. It's awkward, doing this with only one hand, but Drift gets the message across all right. Not this time.

Ratchet looks down at Drift's face, chilled.

"Yeah. He didn't mean to, anyway--it might have, if Rodimus had taken any longer to find you and haul you back here. Your fuel reserves were nearly completely bottomed out, with all the leaks you had. But it was obvious as soon as I started putting you back together that he wanted to keep you alive. He's made a long and thrilling career out of killing people and he's quite good at it--if he wanted you dead, you would be."

He looks down at Drift, then sighs and pulls away for a moment, limping to the edge of the room to a stool so he can kick it over to Drift's bedside and ease himself down onto it, propping his crutches up against the edge of the berth. He reaches out with both hands once he's settled, lacing his fingers comfortably through Drift's and careful to keep Drift's wrists at a comfortable angle, leaning in.

"Better?"

Drift is too tired and achy to move, mostly, but surprise flickers bright in his optics when Ratchet puts both his palms to Drift's, twining their fingers together. Ratchet's never really talked to him like this, not that Drift can recall right now -- Rodion, maybe, but that's different. That was another life entirely, and Ratchet didn't know him then. Not like he knows Drift now. It makes it mean something else, something more.

He nods, just a slight incline of his head, his hands settling loosely against Ratchet's, and his optics brighten slightly in a faint, tired smile, though it fades after a moment. I know. I thought he was going to, at first. But he clarified that about halfway through the fight. His mouth presses into a thin line, air hissing softly from his vents. That's about all he's willing to say on that subject, though. The rest of it he's saving for Megatron.

I'm sorry I don't remember. Everything that happened with you and me, I mean. I wish I did.

Ratchet's optics flicker a little, surprised.

"Not your fault, kid," he says, his face softening a little. "Though... me too." He squeezes Drift's hands, brief and gentle--it doesn't mean anything, except... for all the things it does mean.

"We're friends, now. ...I called you my friend, before you left. I meant it."

Edited 2015-02-06 03:56 (UTC)

Drift feels a small surge of crackling warmth pass from Ratchet's hands to his when Ratchet tightens his fingers around his, but it doesn't compare to the way the bottom drops out of his tanks when Ratchet calls him a friend.

It's really the sort of thing Drift never expected to happen with Ratchet, let alone hear him say it. Drift's optics widen slightly for just a moment and he tightens his grip on Ratchet's hands as much as he can, even with his wrists still healing, his spark flaring unbidden in his chest.

That's enough for me.

"Well, good. Don't hurt yourself."

He pulls his hands gently free of Drift's and takes one of Drift's hands in both of his, starting to rub slowly against his plating. His expression is distant, almost absent, as he very carefully stretches each of Drift's fingers before he digs gentle thumbs into the hinge of Drift's palm. "Just tap me if you want to talk, but this'll be good for you. I can't return the favor with a new set of these, so you'll have to make do."

Drift's optics are still bright and slightly wide on Ratchet's face, still letting the implications of everything he doesn't remember settling in. His hand prickles and tingles where Ratchet's fingers press into the plating, but his spark is humming warmly in his chassis, feeling it spread all the way down to his fingertips. It's jarring, the sudden jump from what Drift was so accustomed to to this, and it somehow doesn't even feel real, but Drift is just trying to lay back and let it wash over him. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and his optics dim slightly, half-shuttering. For the first time, Drift manages to relax against the slab with a faint creak, his hand going a little heavier in Ratchet's grip. He lets his other hand rest on his chest, just watching Ratchet, knowing he doesn't need to say anything at all for Ratchet to know he's grateful.

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

ALSO FOR RATCHET

HES A MIGHTY POPULAR FELLOW THESE DAYS

APPARENTLY SO

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