tap water
transformers ;; dratchet ;; wc: 561 ;; angst with a fluffy end
back to writing! read it on tumblr!
It’s late.
Ratchet isn’t sure how late. He hasn’t checked his chronometer, nor does he want to. He’s far too busy focusing on the rumbling of Drift’s engine, the way his plating softly shakes with each exvent. Ratchet’s arms curl around his torso, keeping him held close and tight. The hab is dark, which Ratchet also certainly doesn’t mind– Drift’s hab isn’t much to look at anyway, but even if it was, the darkness added to the overall calm. This was one of their pleasant moments together where their lives weren’t in immediate peril. He ought to treasure it.
He can’t sleep.
Ratchet’s optics are still online– he can’t manage to shut them off for more than a few seconds or he starts panicking. He glances down at Drift, then back up to the ceiling. Down at Drift, up at the ceiling. Down, ceiling. His plating shaking is vaguely calming, but it’s just as much worrying, should it be shaking that much? Probably shouldn’t be shaking that much. He fell into recharge pretty quickly, too. Is he feeling okay, physically? Is he making that rattling noise again?
Drift stirs in his grasp, and Ratchet rubs his plating slowly, gently, attempting to soothe him. He knows he’s panicking over nothing. He knows Drift is fine. The entirety of command gets checked fairly frequently, so really, Ratchet knows he’s fine.
Still, his subroutines won’t let him sleep.
Again, Drift stirs, and again, Ratchet tries to coax him back into recharge. This attempt is not as successful, though, and Drift wriggles from the medic’s grasp, onto his elbows, onlining his optics. “Ratchet?” He asks, “Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” Ratchet tells him, still rubbing the swordsmech’s arm gently. “Nothing’s wrong. You can go back to recharging.”
Drift squints at him. “Your fuel pump was all sped up, though.”
Ratchet blinks. “How would you know that?”
“I can hear it?”
“You can hear it?” Ratchet grimaces, “It’s that loud?” That’s a problem in-and-of itself, which he’ll need to deal with at some point.
“Is something wrong?” Drift asks again, and Ratchet sighs.
“No, it’s– I’m all worried over nothing. Medic subroutines are acting up, I’ll probably get Aid to look at them tomorrow.”
Drift tilts his helm. “If you’re worried, wouldn’t you wanna see Rung?” He asks, though Ratchet just scoffs in return. He frowns. “What are you even worried about?”
Ratchet resets his vocals, and then resets them again. Truthfully, he’s worried about a lot of things– is Drift feeling okay, is Drift doing alright, does Drift still like me, is Drift okay physically, dear Primus please don’t take him away from me. In the moment, his subroutines hone in on the specifics– shaking plating, fatigue, can’t tell if he’s rattling again or not.
After a period of silence, Drift’s frown deepens, and he wraps his arms around Ratchet’s waist. “Ratch,” he starts, “please talk to me.”
“I’m just worried about you,” Ratchet finds himself admitting, quiet, just above a whisper. “I just want you to be okay.”
A beat passes. “Oh,” Drift vents, and smiles softly. He presses closer, further closing the distance between them. “I’m okay, Ratchet. I promise I’m alright.”
Ratchet buries his helm into Drift’s neck, wrapping his arms around his conjunx in return. “I just want you to be okay.”
“I know,” Drift tells him gently, ever-so-gently. “I know.”