Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It is late by the time Drift shuffles towards Ratchet’s hab suite in the back of the med bay. He had planned on spending the evening with Ratchet, but his shift had run late and then Rodimus called a meeting. Needless to say, he was tired, had a helm ache, and wonders if Ratchet was still awake. Spending evenings together had become a frequent occurrence lately. It was… nice. Surprisingly pleasing in a way he had forgotten spending time with others could be. Drift quietly palms open the door and sees that Ratchet waited for him. He is sitting on what would pass for a couch, were he on Earth, and reading a data pad.
Ratchet scoots over to the side when he notices Drift enter. It’s a wordless invitation that Drift has come to look forward to and he eases himself down on the couch and slides his head under Ratchet’s arm and into his lap when Ratchet lifts it just enough for him to squeeze his head under. His arm drapes over Drifts chest. It’s warm and comforting; soothing because of its weight. They sit in silence for awhile. Drift can’t help the excited shiver when he feels the hand slide off his chest and up to his helm. Blunt red fingers gently trail up and down his audial fin and he presses into the contact. His engine spools up into a purr. Ratchet continues until he finishes the chapter on his data pad, which he considers shutting off until he looks down. A smile works its way to his lips. Drift is sound asleep, curled into his lap and still purring contentedly.

Chapter Text

Some nights nearly the entire crew gathered themselves in Swerve’s bar. They all joined, but, for there wasn’t enough seating for everyone at once. Mechs leaned against the walls and tables or crammed together at the booths. Some of the smaller mechs even sat in other’s laps if they were close enough. They didn’t mind. Spirits were high and on nights like these; everyone tended to get along. Highgrade was shared and there were laughs all around.

The war was finally over, although sometimes it didn’t seem like it, for all the Lost Light’s crew had been through.

Some nights it was nice to gather in hordes and remind themselves they were still alive despite everything. That they could still laugh. That they could forget about their troubles for little while and simply be.

Of course karaoke started once the room got a little buzz going. It was a practice that hadn’t really been perfected until the mechs who spent time on earth shared the humans amusing pastime. Blaster in particular had a field day. Normally only the mechs with talent or were overcharged enough to believe they had talent took the mike. Or the ones who were dared. One couldn’t forget those who were jeered to the stage by their friends.

Which was why Drift was a little surprised when Ratchet nudged him so he could get out of the booth after First Aid murmured something to him when a very overcharged Trailbreaker was booed off the stage. He had originally come to the bar with Rodimus, but his wayward captain had disappeared sometime after their second drink.
Probably heckling Magnus to “come have fun for once in his life.” It was an argument he had yet to win.

Sometime between then and now he had wound up at a table off to the corner of the stage with the resident medics, Rung, and, oddly enough, Fort Max. How they had shoved Fort Max into the booth beside Ambulon and First Aid was something he wasn’t sure, but they’d managed. It was like an adult mech trying to sit at a sparkling’s table. Drift really didn’t know if Fort Max would be able to get out considering that his thighs were scraping the bottom of the table and his armoured belly not quite touched the edge. If anything, Fort Max looked more uncomfortable at being confined near so many overcharged mechs instead of the space he had wedged himself into.
For as much highgrade as Ratchet had consumed, he should have been much more overcharged. Even First Aid, who had drank about half of what Ratchet did, was lounging in a happily inebriated stupor against Ambulon who was only slightly less intoxicated. Fort Max was quietly sipping a large cube of midgrade and Rung was indulging in a cube of highgrade that he would probably nurse the rest of the evening. Drift himself was beginning to feel pleasant charge build up in his circuits as his tanks tried to process the excess energy he consumed.

“This is gonna be good,” First Aid chuckled from Ambulon’s shoulder. His slur caused his s’s to be lisped, so it was really more of a “Thisssss isss gonna be good”. He blearily pointed in Ratchet’s direction, before dissolving into a fit of giggling. He started to slip under the table before Ambulon caught him and hauled him back up. Which started his giggling all over again. By the time he calms himself down, Ratchet has fought his way through the crowd to the stage and is lurking beside it; waiting for Whirl to finish what ever the hell he’s singing. Whatever it is it’s wildly inappropriate and the bar roars with laughter.

First Aid is downright smirking like a turbofox that has caught some noble’s prised stellar-eagle and how “smirk” translates so well with someone wearing a visor and face mask is something that Drift’s mildly overcharged mind can’t comprehend. The room literally goes silent as Ratchet takes the stage. It’s something that’s never happened before and no one is willing to miss what will probably be the grumpy old Chief Medical Officer making a fool of himself. From First Aid’s gleeful smirking he thought Ratchet would be pretty awful. Drift expected he would hear some of the best worst singing he could later tease him about. He wasn’t sure why he liked inciting their little bickering matches, but razzing Ratchet up was something he secretly enjoyed doing. He particularly enjoyed the little glint that would appear in Ratchet’s optics and the faces he would make when he was arguing with Drift passionately about whatever had set him off this time.

What he’s not expecting is for Ratchet to begin to sing an old drinking song. His voice is rough; somewhere between tenor and bass, but it’s not bad. No, certainly not bad. The normal gravelliness in his voice is transformed into something rich. If anything it fits the song.

It reminds Drift of a few warm memories before the war when he had found a brief happiness in the gutters. When he and Gasket and a few other mechs would spend the night either getting overcharged or completely blitzed on circuit boosters. They would sing until the sun came up, Primus knows they sounded awful, but it gave them something. Just a few, brief, shining moments when they were so absorbed in the song and their own camaraderie that they could forget about their situation and be happy. Or the time he heard another guttermech sing his sparkling to sleep.That’s what Ratchet’s voice reminds him of. It’s not particularly beautiful, but it’s homey, he supposes. Comforting like the voice of the creators he never knew.

Drift and the rest of the bar watch entranced as the last notes die and Ratchet moves to put the mic back.

They beg him into another and then a third song. He sings another drinking song, one from the docks of Iacon and then a jaunty little folk song from Polyhex. They badger him into a fourth song, which he promises will be his last. He’s a medic, not an entertainer, but everyone is in such a good mood and he really doesn't mind. It’s more token Ratchet protest than anything.

Swerve brings him a drink and he downs the shot in one go.

His final song is something different the previous. It’s an old ballad no one’s heard since long before the war, but it’s sad and it’s sweet and everyone listens in kind of a stunned silence. The melancholic song is about one of the old wars. About soldiers and death and if they died in vain. It hits a little too close to home for some mechs and they go from silence to anger in a spark pulse. Anger because they are reminded of things they try to forget.

Even Ratchet isn’t untouched by the emotions his song dregs up and for a moment he looks haunted at the mic.

It’s then that Drift stands in his place and adds his voice to the song. He only heard it once, vorns ago, but he knows the lyrics. He and Ratchet sing a duet together for a verse; their voices blending and humming with a harsh kind of life. Then other mechs join in as well until nearly the whole bar is singing together. They sing for their fallen friends and the deeds they regret. They sing for the loss of innocence and the death of a planet. They sing their pain and it’s sweet carthsis.

Ratchet makes his way back to the table when the song ends and slides in next to Drift. He’s quiet, but the bar is not. During the final chorus of the song Drift slips his hand into Ratchet’s under the table and gives it a squeeze. It’s returned and Drift places his hand back in his lap. Everyone is still singing together and like the bygone days when Drift and his friends sang in the gutters. They sing for life. That, yes we are still alive. We are here. It’s haphazard and quite a few are off pitch, but later many mech would say that something happened at Swerve’s that night when they were able to sing their demons to sleep for a little while.

Chapter Text

Drift was warm and content; he was lying snuggled up to Ratchet's chassis, head tucked under the medic's chin. Ratchet was dozing with one arm around Drift's waist and the other pillowing his head. His ventilations were smooth and even. Both were enjoying a few moments respite from the rest of the Lost Light in each other’s company.

Drift tilted his head and brushed a kiss over Ratchet’s neck cables, which caused the medic to shudder. He paused and thought for a moment.

He repeated the action and was rewarded with Ratchet grumbling. He did it again, pressing his lips a little harder to grey cabling, and Ratchet swatted at him.

“Stop,” he groaned sleepily.

“What’s wrong, Ratch?” Drift sing-songed, grinning into Ratchet’s neck, fingers clutching into his armor. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He made sure to exhale as he spoke so his breath would tickle and he felt the body under him shake in concealed laughter. So… the medic had ticklish neck cables. Dangerous knowledge indeed. He licked a slow trail up to Ratchet’s jaw.

Ratchet was fully awake now and retaliated by digging his fingers into Drift’s sides.

“No, no, no, no!” Drift yelped before bursting into giggles. He tried to escape from Ratchet’s grasp, but it was too late. Ratchet concentrated on keeping Drift in his grip as he bucked and writhed in an attempt to get way from his wriggling fingers. Ratchet grinned; he found Drift’s laugh endearing. He snorted if you could make him laugh hard enough.

Drift decided the only option left was to return the attack!

He grabbed Ratchet’s shoulders in an attempt to ground himself and latched onto his neck, kissing and nipping it until he could hear Ratchet’s dry chuckle ring out, despite being in near hysterics himself.

“Stop!” he cried, laughing.

They continued their tickle fight, fully absorbed until they accidentally wrestled each other off the berth, hitting the ground with a thud.

They lay beside each other, fans struggling to cool hot systems, chuckling and giggling slowly dying down. Ratchet wiped oral lubricant off of his neck and looked at Drift.

“Gross.”

It was quiet for a moment as they looked at each other before both dissolved into laughter again.

Chapter Text

Ratchet rummaged through a bin in his habsuite looking for the datapad he was missing. It had some notes for a procedure he needed to do and he wanted to review it since he hadn’t done it in awhile. He vented irritably when he couldn’t find it and stood up, back creaking from the sudden change in position.
He stretched and reached behind him so he could press his servos into his back plating until his spinal strut popped with a satisfying crack. He thought for a moment on where the stupid datapad could have disappeared.
Perhaps the box on his shelf?
He crossed the room and hefted the box into his arms with a grunt; it was heavier than he remembered it. He dropped it to desk and pried the lid of. His optics flared when he saw a wrapped energon goodie on top of the datapads stacked inside it.
He slowly pulled the wrapper off and smoothed it out. It was what he thought it was; a single character in Neocybex was written on the inside of the wrapper in Drift’s scrawling handwriting.
His hands trembled as he rummaged through the bottom drawer on his desk. He pulled out a disposable canister that had once held a bottle of highgrade. He popped the lid off and shook the contents out, giving the bottom a sharp tap when some of the wrappers stuck. They’d been shoved in a dark corner of his desk and forgotten about in the chaos that followed Overlord’s rampage through the ship and Drift’s subsequent banishment. He remembered receiving a ping from Drift telling him he had something to tell him, but he would have to play a game first. The rules Drift sent told him he would have to find the goodies he’d hidden and figure out a message from their wrappers.
The only hint Drift would give him was the treats were only hidden in Ratchet’s office and living quarters and that there were a total of seventeen goodies.
Ratchet had snorted and grudgingly kept the wrappers, even though he thought Drift’s little treasure hunt was foolish; he’d play Drift’s game this time, but he would only put the message together after he’d found all the goodies- mostly to see the look on Drift’s face when he told him yes, he’d found more goodies, but no, he hadn’t put them together.
He counted the ones currently in his possession. The one he’d just found made number seventeen.
It probably wasn’t important anymore, but he was kind of curious as to what Drift wanted to tell him that made him set up such an elaborate scheme. He sifted through the wrappers until he found the three characters that made up his name and placed them in a line together. He also found the two characters for Drift’s name and set them to the side. He switched them around, playing with the order. The newest one was a closing for a letter and coupled with another symbol made the word for a very affectionate salutation, usually only used among individuals who were very close.
He sucked on the energon goodie, using his tongue to clack it around his mouth, and continued to play with the puzzle, sometimes switching out one character for another and sometimes swapping entire words.
When he finally assembled the message he felt his tanks drop and hid his face in his servos for a few minutes. He shoved himself away from the table; he had a trip to prepare for and a mech to find.

Ratchet,
Will you bond with me?
Love,
Drift